An Academic Courtship: Letters Of Alice Freeman And George Herbert Palmer, 1886-1887 [Reprint 2014 ed.] 9780674491830, 9780674186187

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An Academic Courtship

LONDON : HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD U N I V E R S I T Y PRESS

An Academic Courtship LETTERS OF^ALICC FREEMÄJ{ _4ND QEORGE ßERBERT "PALMER^ 1886-1887 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

CAROLINE HAZARD

CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

H A R V A R D U N I V E R S I T Y PRESS 1940

COPYRIGHT, I 9 4 O BY THB PRESIDENT AND FELLOWS OP HARVARD COLLEGE

PRINTED AT THE HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U. S. A.

CONTENTS Foreword, by Ella Freeman Talmage Introduction, by Caroline Hazard Letters Index

vii ix ι 251

FOREWORD IN the introduction to his life o f m y sister, Alice Freeman Palmer, her husband, George Herbert Palmer, said in reference to her poems that they were "too intimate" to be published during his lifetime. A few years later, however, he published a small volume o f these poems entitled A Marriage Cycle. He tells us in the preface to this volume that "time and circumstance change judgments" and that he had come to feel with a number o f other literary critics o f note to w h o m he had submitted the verses that there was "too much beauty . . . , too just and important an understanding of wedded love, too profound an exhibit o f a woman already a kind o f national figure, to permit the book to be treated as a private possession." Seven years after the death of this beloved philosopher, and impelled by reasons similar to those responsible for his change o f judgment in regard to the poems, I have come to believe that the letters n o w in m y possession written by him to m y sister while she was president o f Wellesley College, those written by her in return, and especially the letters written by them after marriage, contain too much of general interest and rare spiritual beauty to remain longer a "private possession." Their correspondence, beginning in M a y 1886 and ending with Alice Freeman Palmer's death in December 1902, covers an important period in the history of the higher education o f women, one which included the making o f Wellesley C o l [vü]

lege and the birth of the University of Chicago. In addition, the letters are so filled with great and worth-while convictions, so delicately and often so humorously expressed, as to be both a stimulus and a delight to the reader. So numerous are they, however, that no attempt has been made here to cover the entire period of sixteen years. This book contains a selection from the letters written by the Palmers during the years 1886-1887, before their marriage — sufficient, it is hoped, to trace the history of their courtship and to give some impression of the character and personality of both these rare people. ELLA FREEMAN TALMAGE

Maple Villa Marlboro, New Hampshire

INTRODUCTION ι A few years ago the door of 50 Wimpole Street, London, was presented to Wellesley College. It is a massive door with brass fittings — the great knocker and doorknob, and, what one sees instantly, the yawning brass gap through which the letters from Browning to Elizabeth Barrett were delivered. Wellesley College has the original of those letters, both Browning's, which knew the slit in that door, and Elizabeth Barrett's, which came from the house it guarded. In unveiling the door it fell to my happy lot to make the address explaining its significance, and outlining the romance which has placed the Brownings among the great lovers of all time, and I reminded my hearers, all closely associated with Wellesley, that we ourselves possessed a comparable romance in the union of the second president of the College and George Herbert Palmer of Harvard University. Then I had only the recollection of happy years when I knew them both, and the record so far as then published, Professor Palmer's life of his wife and, even more revealing, her Marriage Cycle.

N o w the whole story is available in these letters, written from Stoughton and Norumbega. Like all beautiful things they have neither beginning nor end, and for their full enjoyment a background is necessary. [ix]

President Angell of the University of Michigan used to tell the story of one beginning with great delight. A little dark-haired girl, with wonderful eyes, he said, was sent to his office in the opening term of 1872 with her father, Dr. Freeman. He found she had been studying at the small academy of Windsor, and both she and her father were doubtful if she could pass the examinations — doubts which were justified, President Angell writes, for "the examiners, on inspecting her papers, were inclined to decide that she ought to do more preparatory work before they could accept her. Meantime I had had not a little conversation with her and her father, and had been impressed with her high intelligence. At my request the examiners decided to allow her to enter on a trial of six weeks. I was confident she would demonstrate her capacity to go on with her class." President Angell, with his keen insight into character, was amply justified, for "she speedily gained and constantly held an excellent position as a scholar." He never lost sight of her, and like so many people became her lifelong friend. She graduated from Michigan in 1876, one of eleven women students in her class. While still at Windsor Academy she had had the experience of being beloved by her teacher, a young man studying for the ministry. At fourteen she became engaged to him — an affair which ran its course and ended in mutual esteem and parting. And at the University she writes her mother of another man: "such a passionate letter, and I know he must be terribly in earnest to talk so. . . . And here is Mr. S. walking home from class with me every evening. . . . I am getting suspicious of everybody who Μ

looks at me, unless I have been introduced to his wife." Miss Freeman was a country doctor's daughter and, as she says of another, "came close in childhood to his good and high influence, close to sickness, to sorrow, to hardship, to loss." These are firm foundations of character to build on, and Alice Freeman had a passionate devotion to the strong silent man from whom she learned to love humankind in all degrees of trouble and poverty. She was always a country girl, loving natural beauty, fostered by her drives with him, and in later life could not bear to have any reservations from her father. In Massachusetts the year 1875 was marked by the opening of two colleges for women, Smith and Wellesley. Wellesley had been the estate of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Fowle Durant, some three hundred acres on the north shore of Lake Waban, opposite the beautiful Hunnewell houses and gardens on the south. Like that of so many New England families who loved the land, this was to be a heritage for the founding of a family. Mrs. Durant, a very beautiful young woman, was of the Cazenove family, French Huguenots whose name is recorded in Cazenovia in New York. Mr. Durant was a successful Boston lawyer, who built the fine colonial house still standing on the lake shore. But their hopes were blasted by the death of their little son. Life had entirely changed for them. Mr. Durant turned his forensic talents to preaching. He became an ardent seeker of souls; his one purpose was to glorify God. He was a Harvard man, a man of more than ordinary ability, with a real love of knowledge and of books, of [xi]

which he had a fine collection, including some precious manuscripts. Wellesley Female Seminary, incorporated in 1870, was later changed to Wellesley College, with power to grant degrees in 1877, and the Founders conceived a new thing. Vassar was the only woman's college at that time, and had a man as president. Mount Holyoke was still a "female seminary " but had Mary Lyon. The Durants conceived of a college for women and directed by women, which would give not only scholastic training, as then accepted, but training in art and music, fostering the love of beauty on the hills of the beautiful campus in every possible way. That way for Mr. Durant with his convert's enthusiasm included religion as the foundation of it all. His own sense of personal responsibility was enormous, and that can easily be confused with the desire to fulfill one's own will. I never knew him, for he died before I knew the College, but his tradition remained, and dear Mrs. Durant was faithful to it, a grievous task, often, for her in the changing times. In the opening days the great difficulty lay in securing properly trained women, since there were to be no men on the faculty. Mr. Durant early came into connection with President Angell of Michigan, who sent him some of his early graduates: Professor Chapin, for many years head of the Greek department; Professor Case, for philosophy. Soon after Miss Freeman's graduation, she went to teach in a girls' seminary at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, and the next year taught in the Saginaw high school in northern Michigan.

[xii]

Dr. Freeman moved to Saginaw in 1878 and established a good practice. Mrs. Freeman had been a teacher herself, and the Saginaw appointment of the daughter of the house united the family. But President Angell writes again to Mr. Durant after a visit to Saginaw where he attended one of Miss Freeman's classes, and assures him he must secure this young woman. So in the autumn of 1879 she came as Professor of History, only twenty-four years old, a delicate high-strung girl, with an eager love for all things beautiful, and an immense capacity of devotion. Charm never can be analyzed. Ruskin speaks of the power of right thoughts to mold the face and the whole person in lines of beauty, so that there is an unconscious radiance and grace which permeates every posture and act. So it was with Miss Freeman; people were won at once and prepared to admire. She was not strictly beautiful. Of average height and wellproportioned, she carried herself well — and moved easily in her crowd of girls. Artists had difficulty with her face, for her noble brow crowned with abundant dark waving hair was too dominant for the lower face, overshadowing the sweetness and strength of mouth and chin. Abbott Thayer's portrait is quite inadequate, for he has given her an appealing, questing beauty. The bust from the Hall of Fame by Beatrice Longman Batchelder is worse, for the features, translated into marble and showing only the structure, miss the loveliness of her coloring and the glory of her eyes. There lay her great beauty. Set under the noble brow, they were soft and gentle, fawnlike in repose — capable of intensity, of dominance, of righteous scorn; [xiü]

masterful and subduing. What color were they? Professor Palmer speaks of violets in connection with them; I should say a golden brown. But of her eyes the poet might well have written I see no color; in its place Is splendor, beauty, glory, grace, And if I knew I would decline To name the hue of eyes divine.

She was entirely unself-conscious. Her great power lay in individual attention to the person she spoke to. It was not an assumed interest; she had a real love of her kind. One of her best memorials is in a southern school named for her, founded by a young colored girl who was pushing a perambulator on a Cambridge street and nearly ran into her. From that moment she was the girl's friend. The same direct simplicity attached Whittier to her, and countless distinguished men and women. Her command of an audience was as remarkable as her personal contacts. Her voice was good, rich and full, with carrying power. From her early teaching days she had dominated a classroom, and later made innumerable public addresses. Apparently she never wrote out an address. She seemed to take quite literally the Biblical injunction, "Take no thought before hand what ye shall speak," and very often "a mouth and wisdom" were given her. She looked at her audience. She was not afraid; she was their friend; she knew her theme; from her own experience she had countless illustrations, and the words came from a living fountain, inspiring, correcting, fortifying, a vivid expression of the inarticulate assembly before her. [xiv]

The first years at Wellesley were hard. The College lacked organization. Miss Howard, a sweet and gentle woman, was the president, not young, and leaning entirely on Mr. Durant, who was wearing himself out with his enthusiastic labors at what proved a difficult task, for he was treasurer and superintendent of grounds, and attended to the endless details of the new establishment both physically and morally. (Professor Palmer speaks of the "MoodyMcKenzie atmosphere," — Moody the evangelist, and Dr. McKenzie, the famous Cambridge minister who was on the Board of Trustees.) I have been told by an early student of their terror of meeting Mr. Durant. She herself was waylaid one day. "My child, are you saved?" he demanded. "I don't know, Sir," was the timid reply. In all the early appointments both to the Board of Trustees and to the faculty, church membership was required. Miss Freeman was a church member and a very devout person, with a beautiful and abiding sense of the Presence of God, but she rebelled against what she told Mr. Durant were assaults on the individual. She refused to speak on such subjects to a student he requested her to, braving his displeasure and the possibility of losing her position, for he was the autocrat of the College. He must have admired her spirit, for nothing followed, except his increased trust in her. He died in 1881; Miss Howard was prostrated and had to leave, and Miss Freeman was appointed acting president for the remainder of the year, to be followed by full appointment later. She was only twenty-six, perhaps the youngest college president ever appointed. The whole College, faculty and students, were housed in [xv]

the great College Hall, which also had the library and chapel, one over the other, in a beautiful wing, and there recitation rooms also were provided. The brick building was very fine of its kind — Hammett Billings was the architect — with its brick towers and gables, crowning the hill. It had a fine entrance, and a central hall with the stairs leading up to open galleries for four floors. When those galleries were crowded with eager young faces looking down on a visitor, it was a truly lovely and inspiring sight. The building was rococo, perhaps bad American, but it had a distinction of its own, and when it burned down in 1914, though more beautiful buildings took its place, Wellesley suffered a loss. It was there that Alice Freeman lived till 1885, when Norumbega Cottage with special rooms for her was built on the hill. It was called Norumbega in deference to Professor Horsford, a valued trustee and friend of the College who believed the Norsemen had come to New England and called it Norumbegue or Norumbega. This is the place from which Miss Freeman dates her letters. I lived in her rooms myself for two years, and know their charm, a long sitting-room with east and south windows, with a bedroom and bath opening on the west, and a lovely piazza on the south. This was a change for the better, for Miss Freeman had been ill, very ill, and was fighting her way back to health, but it was not exactly a quiet place. In College Hall there were about three hundred students beside the faculty. Here there were only eighty girls, her own quarters, and Mrs. Newman, the head of the house, who at Wellesley at that time combined the duties of warden and house mistress. [xvi ]

II

When Alice Freeman was born in 1855, George Herbert Palmer was already a boy of thirteen, who according to his own account had been on his own feet for a year. The first immigrant of his family came to Little Compton in 1636, joining that company of individualists who formed the colony of Rhode Island. A few years later John Peabody, his mother's ancestor, settled at Boxford in the Massachusetts Bay, on a farm which the boy of the seventh generation inherited and lived on a part of each year. An uncle of his, a professor of Latin in Amherst College, suggested his name, ''so that he might always have a friend." With this inheritance and with this noble association, George Herbert Palmer grew, in the same house in which his seven brothers and sisters were born, in Boston, where his father was in business. All four boys went to Phillips Academy, Andover, two of them going on to Harvard. Professor Palmer has described the Puritanism in which he grew up, not the narrow repressive atmosphere of which it has been falsely accused, but a philosophy of life which made much of the individual, stressing the individual responsibility of the soul, with its accountability not to a God of Vengeance but to a righteous Father. "The puritan stood face to face with God, and owned responsibility to no one else. N o church or state could bind him. In his conscience and his Bible, and between the two he felt no divergence, he heard the authentic voice of God." Four of his uncles were orthodox ministers, and his [ xvii ]

father was a deacon in an orthodox church. In this liberal atmosphere the question o f Darwinism, which upset the sensitive soul o f Gamaliel Bradford so that for years he could not look into a N e w Testament, was just an interesting suggestion o f growth. W i t h this strong intellectual background, his physical inheritance was poor. Trouble with the eyes developed at Phillips Academy, necessitating a delay in preparation for college and a sea voyage which he regretted then as a waste o f time.

But a voyage to E g y p t on a bark o f five hun-

dred tons gave him a background for his whole

life.

That mare nostrum casts a spell as its blue waters break on classic shores, and the Homeric voyages which he was to bring home to his students in after days became a permanent enrichment.

T h e Nile fertilizes more than its

deltas. He came back, took a tutor, and, as he says, "crawled into Harvard with six conditions, and feeble eyesight, in i860." Alice Freeman was then five years old. Mill, Spencer, and D a r w i n were the great men in philosophy, w h i c h was what young Palmer had set his heart on pursuing. For Mill he had a great, almost a romantic, admiration.

His book on Liberty had lately been published

and for the first time y o u n g

Palmer experienced

"the

luxury o f loyalty." Darwin he admired for his "admirable restraint." The critical faculty was early developed in the y o u n g man, and o f Herbert Spencer he writes, "his technical knowledge o f Philosophy was slight, and his personality inferior." Spencer came to this country in 1882 and spent a day or t w o at m y grandfather's house in Peace Dale. [ xviii ]

He

looked like a back-country N e w England minister, tall and ungainly, with a round mild face. After graduation at Harvard, Mr. Palmer took a position as sub-master at the Salem high school, where, he writes, the entire year was devoted to the study of teaching. Courage to appear unabashed before a class and tact were his own lessons learned. He had voluntary classes in the State Reform School and in a Boston mission also, and in 1865 went to Andover Seminary to study for the ministry. But soon he was in Germany at Stuttgart, and at the University of Tübingen spent two years, beginning his thesis at the end, and also had a winter holiday in Rome. " A scholar is hardly grown up till he makes another language and another national outlook his own," he writes. All this time his health was delicate. His eyes troubled him, and he had constant headaches. A severe illness in Paris brought him under the care of Mme. Hahnemann, after which he improved. On his return to America he had to go to Boxford to recuperate instead of finishing his theological studies in Andover, and in 1869 accepted an appointment as tutor in Greek at Harvard. Those readings from the Odyssey which became famous and his translation of the poem began to take shape. This was followed in 1872 by an appointment in philosophy leading to a full professorship in 1880. It could hardly be expected that a brilliant and sensitive young fellow should have remained heart-whole. For ten years, he says, he had been devoted to a very lovely girl, full of grace and charm, a tiny creature weighing less than a hundred pounds and somewhat older than himself, Ellen [xix]

Margaret Wellman o f Brookline, w h o allowed him her friendship, but no more. She was an ardent Swedenborgian and a pillar o f her church. A deep sorrow united them, for she nursed a favorite brother through tuberculosis to the end, being constantly with him, as was the usage o f the time, and contracting the disease herself. Mr. Palmer came back from his sojourn in Europe broken in health and she was almost an invalid, but they came together in spite o f the opposition o f friends and were married June 15, 1871, while Mr. Palmer was still in the department o f Greek in Harvard. They had nearly eight happy years together.

He says it was her encouragement which

led him to the translation o f the Odyssey, and her charm brought students and scholars to their home.

W h e n she

died in 1879, she had planned for him to go to the College to live, and for the next eight years he lived at 27 Stoughton Hall, among his boys, from which the first letters to Miss Freeman are dated. Ill Professor Palmer and Miss Freeman met at the house o f Professor Eben Ν . Horsford in Cambridge, that pleasant house with its four charming daughters — Lilian, the eldest, w h o became her warm friend, a little older than herself. Professor Horsford, a distinguished chemist w h o was largely interested in the Rumford Chemical Works, was a friend o f Mr. Durant, and a trustee o f the new college.

As its

president, Miss Freeman was introduced to Cambridge society. Longfellow came to Wellesley and read his poems to the students on the shores o f the charming pool, near the [xx]

blossoming rhododendrons, called from that day Longfellow Pond. Mr. Edwin Abbot, an earnest Swedenborgian, represented that denomination on the Board of Trustees. President Eliot she met, who became a close friend in after years. President Eliot had voted against allowing a woman's college such as Wellesley to confer degrees at its incorporation, views which he so far modified as to allow at a later date the formation of Radcliffe as a woman's college associated with Harvard, with Mrs. Agassiz as its head. All these contacts were to the distinct advantage of the new college, and as a result of her meeting Professor Palmer a new era began for Miss Freeman herself. Mr. Palmer gave a course of lectures at Wellesley, and the correspondence begins in May 1886 with Professor Palmer seeking advice about a girl whose studies he was interested in. Then came a Harvard Class Day and a visit to Boxford in summer with Mrs. Claflin as chaperone. Governor Claflin was governor of Massachusetts at the time of the incorporation of Wellesley in 1870 and became one of the first trustees. His wife was a large-hearted fme woman, full of good sense and kindliness, to whom Miss Freeman could turn in the many perplexities of the early years. After the Boxford visit the friendship quickly developed. Of Boxford, Alice Freeman wrote: Ah, how good Is the heart of the wood! Here to lie, Great clouds sailing by! From, the world's restless mood

Free at last in the deep solitude! [xxi]

The letters begin their story of fears and hesitations. The conflicting demands of duty, always paramount with her, and the personal longing are expressed in her poem called "Forbidden": I told him not to come To meet and bring me home. But yet, as the long day Wore empty, dull, away, Though I had sternly said him Nay, I feared, half hoped, that he would disobey. "He will not come," I said it o'er and o'er; He knows I do not wish it. Nay, even more, I shall be angry if he comes tonight. He is not here; how glad I am! How right! But who stands smiling in that sudden light? Or do my happy tears make dim my sight» She faced the issue squarely. " I will never run the risk of spoiling your dear life and my own work at the same time," she writes, until the Lord "and you and my own heart make it clear that taking that risk is greater service than anything else He has for you and me." "All your obligations are mine," Professor Palmer replies. They must have reached an understanding before Christmas, as their letters prove, and February 2 1 , 1887, on her thirty-second birthday, Professor Palmer brought her an engagement ring, which she immediately put on and wore. When it was noticed by her girls she said it was a birthday present, and inquired about their ages. But the formal engagement was only the beginning of their troubles. T o understand their perplexities and the contending loyalties, [ xxii ]

to the College, and to themselves, we must remember the unique situation in which Alice Freeman found herself. Her admiration for Mr. Durant was great. She had written to her mother some years earlier, "Mr. Durant preached today. If only you could have heard him, all of you! It seems as if some strange thing had happened, and we must speak and walk softly, as when someone has died. There was an atmosphere of sacredness about it all. It is enough to break one's heart to see his grand white head among these hundreds of girls, and to hear him plead with them for 'Noble, white unselfish womanhood' to hear him tell of his hope and happiness in them, and his longing that the blood of Jesus Christ should cleanse them from all sin. That was his text. I never heard, and never shall hear anything quite like it for clear logic and tender appeal." Her feeling of admiration, almost veneration, is evident, and her sense of responsibility no less strong. The fact that Mr. Durant was no longer living strengthened her loyalty. With her engagement, happy as that was, she entered on a stage of conflicting duties, which caused the heart-searchings and hesitations of the letters. Her heart had surrendered. Could her brain also; For Browning that was a simple question: Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. That was a tribute to the lady he loved, and he assured her, as he had so often, that he admired her poetry. Miss Freeman was engaged in a "lively experiment." It was really a new thing. Women had been founders of colleges for years. Lady Margaret Beaufort in 1505 founded Christ's in Cam[ xxiii ]

bridge, from which both Harvard and Wellesley trace their academic descent. But she had no share in the government of her scholars. Her little wicket window is shown high up, behind which she sat and joined in their morning prayers. Six colleges of Cambridge are on women's foundations. There had been learned women; Lady Jane Grey is the typical example of a lovely girl who was also a great student. There had been seminaries in America with women principals, but there was no college for women, presided over by a woman, till Wellesley was opened. Alice Freeman was practically the first president, for though Miss Howard preceded her, Mr. Durant was the moving force. Now he was gone, and Miss Freeman felt the full responsibility for carrying out his ideals. Dr. Edward H. Clarke's book, Sex in Education, published in 1873 still was dominant. He expressed fears for the health of women if they undertook higher education and seemed quite confident that it would unfit them for marriage and motherhood, notions which now have been exploded by the succession of three generations of college graduates in the great women's colleges. Vassar led the way for women, but Matthew Vassar, with his prescription of bloomers for his college girls and a faculty presided over by a man, was not closely followed. Smith opened the same year as Wellesley and had a man president. Of the great universities for men, Columbia under Dr. Barnard as president was the first to grant honorary degrees to women, and in 1887 conferred a doctor's degree upon Miss Freeman, as it did in 1936 upon Miss Pendleton. That honor had not yet come to her. She stood alone; [ xxiv ]

as she rose, or fell, so she felt did the cause of women's education. Again and again Professor Palmer writes, "Wellesley must not suffer." His chivalrous love was strongly tested also. He was sure they must come together, but how; His going to Wellesley was considered. Miss Freeman's salary was greater than his, for she had $4,000 and he only $3,500 at that time. But he was too strong and brilliant a man to take the place of consort. Her health had begun to suffer seriously, and his chivalrous heart longed to protect her. His friends had to be considered also. The first Mrs. Palmer (Miss Wellman) had been a strong Swedenborgian, who believed not only in immortality but in the immortality of marriage. Their creed on this point is summed up in Uhland's lovely poem when the lover addresses his beloved lying still in death: Dich liebt' ich immer, dich lieb' ich noch heut' Und werde dich lieben in Ewigkeit. How were her family going to receive the news of his second marriage? Miss Freeman also had her family to consider, and would not allow any announcement of their engagement till her father and mother were informed. This she could not do by letter, she felt, but must wait till she could see them. Both she and Professor Palmer stood in awe of Mrs. Durant, who was dedicated to the fulfillment of her husband's plans. Would she consider this a desertion, a real breaking of faith? And would she be justified in thinking it was? That was the real question for Miss Freeman to [ xxv ]

decide. Was her honor pledged to continue in the unique position in which she had proved successful? A woman's honor for ages had been a definite and personal loyalty. In this larger life in which a man's responsibilities to his employers and associates had been thrust upon her, could she with honor resign? At first she thought it impossible, and, had her health continued, she might conceivably have maintained that position. But illness is a stern instructor; with the purifying fever externals are consumed, ultimate truth becomes clear, and where her heart lay her brain had to find its rest. The letters of this transition time are full of the petty conflicts of every day as well as the internal struggle. "Division of authority between the President and Treasurer is the cause of all difficulty in the organization of the College," she writes. Mrs. Durant was the Treasurer. It was her husband's money which had founded the College, now growing so great that more money than she had was needed. "Wellesley should be placed on an independent basis, and become gradually unsectarian," Professor Palmer writes. This was a point of view Mrs. Durant was not ready to accept. Poor Miss Freeman finds her "cantankerous" — there was evidently severe tension. "Tell Mrs. Durant," Professor Palmer writes. "Of course there will be a row however the case is managed. . . . There has been nothing heedless or blind hitherto, my darling, there shall not be hereafter." Spring had come with the "tender beauty of half-formation, promises are thrown about broadcast, and they are prettier than performances." It was then that he wrote to her, some time after her hemorrhage when she was struggling [ xxvi ]

back toward health, " I am totally unwilling to have you go on at Wellesley." So after various frustrations Miss Freeman had two good talks with Mrs. Durant and found her most loving and sympathetic, for she was a wise and generous-hearted woman, "cumbered with much serving" and the full weight of a responsibility which she had joyfully shared with her husband. Professor Palmer found her "a person by no means impossible to get along with," and she entered most heartily into their plans, or rather hers for them, for she at once suggested a cottage should be built and that Professor Palmer should come to Wellesley. She was anxious about the Committee of Trustees, too, and insisted Miss Freeman should tell them personally. "It is I who broke through Wellesley, and on me should fall the blame," Professor Palmer writes. "Will you tear Harvard to pieces, or tear Wellesley?" his friend, President Tucker of Dartmouth, inquired, almost aghast at his news. B y this time it was June 1887. Miss Freeman had a plan all ready to propose immediately after Commencement. Professor Helen A. Shafer, the distinguished head of the department of mathematics, would take over the presidency, and other changes were suggested. But the Trustees were not ready to consent to Miss Freeman's withdrawal. Dr. Lyman Abbott was spoken of as a possible president. Professor Palmer was approached. " I refuse to accept the Presidency on any terms," he writes. A combination of the two was suggested, and finally Miss Freeman consented to begin the autumn term and stay till the Christmas vacation. Professor Palmer has elsewhere bitterly regretted his [ xxvii ]

consent to this, carried out, he felt, at great cost to Miss Freeman's health. Six months later Miss Freeman's original plan was adopted. Finally, on the twenty-third of December, at Mrs. Claflin's house in Boston, the wedding-day arrived. The letters of this last period are among the most beautiful, though Miss Freeman must have had her hesitations too. There is a revealing line in her Marriage Cycle: . . . and bidding me abandon power, Called me to take the quiet name of wife. It was real power she had to abandon. No wonder she was called a Princess, after Tennyson's poem, a beautiful young woman surrounded by her five hundred adoring girls, and in her little city set on a hill. What streams of influence flowed from those heights, whose "bright threads of beauty" were put in and out of her life. One can grow self-centered and complacent in such surroundings, and it is part of her greatness that she could surrender it gladly. "At a crisis hour of strength and struggle on the heights of life," she found her way to Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. If any surviving friends question the propriety of publishing these intimate letters, let them read Professor Palmer's own Apologia, written to me in 1915 when he published his wife's beautiful Marriage Cycle. " I am sure you will understand how distasteful it is to me to turn Alice loose on the street, and yet how impossible to feel justified in shutting [ xxviii ]

up such beauty to myself. These poems are more herself than anything that has survived. They surely must bless all who are capable either of passion or delicacy." What he wrote of her verse is profoundly true of them both in these love letters. CAROLINE HAZARD

Peace Dale, Rhode Island July 1940

LETTERS

G. Η. P. to A. F. 27 Stoughton Hall Cambridge, May 17, 1886 M y dear Miss Freeman — Do you ever have such a thing as leisure; M y farmer's daughter is giving me perplexity. She finishes her country school this summer and must now decide whether to fit herself for teaching or for manual work. I incline to the latter; but the girl has some peculiarities which do not leave me at ease in urging this course. I should like to discuss her with an expert. T o my boy-trained eye she appears a puzzle; to yours no doubt she would fall into a class. If within the next weeks you should discover an unoccupied half hour, might I ask the privilege of depriving you of it; Tuesday afternoons I am busy here. On almost any other afternoon or evening, if I had notice a day or two before, I could go to Wellesley. Very truly yours, G. H. PALMER

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley College, May 26, 1886 M y dear Mr. Palmer: I am sorry to have delayed my answer to your letter so long. I have been in Northfield, and have had many ap[3]

pointments with people from a distance and thus have been late in considering the claims that are nearer. I shall be at home, and quite at leisure to see you Friday either in the day or evening, or Monday at any time. If these days are not convenient Wednesday next week will be quite as agreeable to me. I shall be very glad to talk with you of the young lady in whom you have already interested me. I hope that we shall surely see you at our festival, June 4th, in honor of Professor Horsford. I am, Very sincerely yours, ALICE E. FREEMAN

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Thursday Evening [June 3]

My dear Miss Freeman — I ran away so hastily, to catch the train, that I did not say good bye nor even express the thanks which I, like all your happy guests, felt. Let this note repair the omission. I am afraid I was rude this afternoon in trying to steer you. I did not mean to be. What I was born for was to set the crooked straight, and sometimes I find myself attempting to straighten what is already much straighter than I could ever make it. I know you care for health. Your life is the life of so many. I was distressed to see you look so worn, and to find you were having little appetite and sleep, when the world has so large a stake in you. [4]

I wish y o u could play more, and do fewer things that you ought. W i l l y o u not become a girl again and come like a child to our Class Day? It would be a real delight to me to show you our meagre beauties in return for the splendors o f today. Mrs. Lane, Mrs. Claflin's friend, and others will be at m y rooms: but you shall speak to nobody — not to me — if you can rest best so. The day is June 25. If you would enjoy Commencement more, come then, on the 30th, instead. D o not let this invitation be one more burden. Be altogether easy in saying to yourself "I should like better to be at home." And do not answer this note, unless the proposed play-day attracts you. If you do not write, I shall k n o w you are better off elsewhere. A n d that you may be well off, and many others through you, is m y strong desire. Sincerely yours, G. H. PALMER

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley College, June 7, 1886 M y dear Mr. Palmer, Y o u are very kind indeed and I should like the play-day at Harvard. I think I can take the 25th, for with Alumnae Day, the 23 rd, our year is ended, and a little break before taking up the summer's w o r k is more grateful than at any other time. W h a t a delight to sit in the midst o f a class day [5]

for whose arrangements I made no plans, and could have no responsibility! Perhaps if this "becoming a girl again" should succeed, it would be just as effective as a longer vacation, for I am sure I should not lose the blessing of such a rolling-away of the years in a day. You are so considerate that I may venture to come even if I am tired when our work is done. Otherwise I might not attempt it. You see that I am preparing the way for taking you at your word. But that I think you like. I am glad that you enjoyed our happy time with us. Such a June day is in itself a benediction, and the presence of so many good men and women in our halls has added an inspiration to many a young life. I wish you might have seen these students yesterday in Chapel, as they listened to Dr. Abbott. The beauty of the place, among their reverent, responsive faces, never seemed so wonderful before. When one feels the power centering there, nothing but the endless years will give time and strength enough. And it is good that we have them. But we will make the most of these as they go. Yes, I do "care for health," and you were very good Friday, to assist me. If I did not respond to your wise counsels as gracefully as I should, it must be because I am used to giving advice rather than taking it; but you will find a most docile child in my place on Class Day. Very sincerely yours, ALICE E. FREEMAN

[6]

G. Η. P. to A. F. Cambridge, June ρ

M y dear Miss Freeman — Then as a little girl you will read carefully the following directions: — To leave Wellesley at 10 A.M. on Friday, June 25, and to find me and a carriage at Allston on the arrival of the train. At 11 the exercises at the theatre begin. Festivities of a youthful sort fill the afternoon, spreads, dancing, merrymaking round the tree. In the evening fairy-land appears, with its illuminations, fireworks, promenades, and student songs. In all this you shall have as large or as small a share as I see refreshes you: and you shall be sent home on the latest train which I judge wise to permit. From the time you leave the Allston platform till you touch it again at night, you will have but one duty — to enjoy. You are quite to forget that there are needy people in the world. Y o u are not to form a decision all day long: are to know nobody, and to talk not more often nor more wisely than the whim of the minute prompts. For twelve hours you will be fed on infants' food-likings. As the fancy strikes, you will be alone or in company. One of my half dozen rooms will be known that day as "the President's room," and into it no foot of lower degree will pass. You are to sit or to stroll, to see or to sing or to talk nonsense: judgment alone is forbidden, and everything that bears marks of an adult estate. For this brief period the rose will shut and be a bud again. [7]

I shall let you alone a good deal, and oblige others to do so. Should anybody see you running by my side and say, "That looks like the President of Wellesley College": I shall answer, "The resemblance is striking, but this is little Pippa from the country, passing our yard on her holiday from silk-winding at the farm. Do not frighten her." Such simple rules well obeyed will probably suit us both. You acknowledge your need of being docile. I should not be I, if I were not domineering. Faithfully yours, G. H. PALMER

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley College, Friday Evening [June 25] Dear Mr. Palmer: I feel a sorry sense of my inhospitality in allowing you to wait in that forlorn station while I sit among roses and laurel and water lilies in my own room — and when you have been so very kind to me too! I hope that you will get safely, and not too wearily back to Cambridge, somewhat repaid for all your trouble by the quiet of the blessed night. I cannot be entirely sorry for anyone out under the stars with jasmine flowers about him on such summer nights. Believe me, though I may not have made you understand it, I thank you very much for your thoughtfulness, and for the pleasant suggestion of some days at Boxford; and [8]

whether this working world gives me that happy experience or not, it is a vacation to talk about the woods. Very sincerely yours, ALICE E. FREEMAN

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford, Tuesday [ June 29] Dear Miss Freeman: The mail last night brought me your kind note, written when you should have been asleep. You are right in thinking me well off on Friday. I walked along the fragrant roads into the starlighted darkness till I found myself opposite your gates. Then, turning back, I had but ten minutes on the station platform before the swift train bore me to Allston for another pleasant walk across the Charles to my own cloister. The jasmine was fresh the next day, and so was I. The walks and you and Mrs. Claflin's lawns and her wise and gracious self all united to give a happy and invigorating evening. A friend has been staying with me over Sunday and Monday. Others come on Saturday. The interval is filled with silence and cheerful work. These sweet fields make me feel my ancestry and know my kinship with Mother Earth. I become a thing of Nature, like the cucumbers and ducklings. Perplexities disappear. Communing with my own heart I am still, and in the stillness a vantage seems to be gained for intellectual struggle. And this is, after all, the [9]

joy of life — its struggle. To combat one's self, to cut off for others the escapes from righteousness, to compel circumstances to be intelligent and. holy — these things give buoyancy to present days and link them with the future. And peace is a part of the contest. We need to learn not to be voracious of doing. Hurry is an evil thing, and hasty work if not bad is still work in the unknown. We should often breathe and look about us and talk with a friend. To me Boxford stands for such breaths and looks and talks. I hope it may furnish a week of them to you. Sincerely yours, G. H. PALMER

A. F. to G. H. P. Thursday Noon [July 1886] Mrs. C. is doing just what we feared, but everybody is very happy in the results of her sacrifice. It is proving a very busy ending of the "week of peace" for both of us. Can you not come next Wednesday morning? I think you can get the 9:15 train from Boston — or the 10 o'clock certainly. And bring Barnes?* I must have more of him! We reached home without encountering rain and as happy as we could be. A. E. F.

P.S. If Wednesday is not convenient, any following day will find me. * A reference to the poems of William Barnes (1801-1886) of Dorset.

[10]

G. Η. P. to A. F. Boxford, Friday Evening [July 1886] M y dear friend: The card has just come, and the sight of your hand gladdens eyes that are still missing something from the piazza. Barnes and I will take the 10 o'clock train on Thursday. A note from my brother last night says he is to arrive, with his family, dog and servant on Tuesday evening, and I reluctantly perceive it will be civil to offer my guests the hospitalities of a day before I run away myself to College. There is a small chance that Fred may turn aside to Nantucket, where his wife is at present staying; in which case I should of course be able to take the earlier day. But as a professional letter-writer like yourself should know definitely on what interruptions to reckon, I will fix Thursday. as the date of my invasion, unless I learn from you in the meantime that Wednesday or some other time is preferable. I do hope you are not going to make this delightful holiday for my sake merely. If I can help it, you shall never give me anything that leaves you poorer. Friendship invigorates and gives to powers a freer working. It cannot steal for itself and be careless of the other. I think you understand this, and will not tempt me. Use me for strength, and it will be my delight, but not for weakness. Better be rude than that — only I don't see how your gracious self could ever be rude. I should always wish what you did.

This afternoon I had a long walk through the solemn pines — the great ones, I mean, whose saw-like line of tops is seen from my front windows. That is one of the things you did not do, take the three-mile cart path through the woods. The trees on each side of the way crowd the carpeted ground, and up among them the thrushes were playing their pipes, each sending out his little cluster of notes and the next minute remembering some other key that was sweeter. Now and then I came to fussy clearings, where the wood cutters seem to have imagined that by carrying off a few thousand cords they could break up the great greenhaired army that stands and possesses the land. From time to time a wood creature ran past me to its hole. The squirrels scolded at my intrusion. Ferns that do not grow about our pasture leaned over to be admired. At last I came out on the hard green turf which encircled the old cellar, where we and the moon looked at one another a few nights ago; and then the steppingstones, the path along the brookside, and Mr. Pierson's meadow and hill brought me to a piazza still in festal dress and to a pot of roses in the middle of a solitary supper table. Work is going well, though a little interrupted yesterday by reminiscential sounds. Your voice does not wear out of my ear. Another fortnight will finish my article and the outline of my Homer. I have written my proposed companions that I will not start on the tramp till a week later, when the ending of these tasks will bring an elated conscience. . . . I tried to improve your mind last night, if not your character, by sending you Jones Very. Don't bother yourself to acknowledge him. But read a sonnet from him [12]

occasionally, and refresh your busy spirit. thanks for the Northfield pamphlet.

Katie sends G. H. P.

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley College, Wellesley, Mass. \July 1886] It is as you said! When I walked into the office at 7 o'clock Mrs. McCoy cried "Why, doesn't she look well!" or words to that effect. They are sorry for me — "that I must go to Boston two days in succession," and I accept all their sympathy, knowing that if I don't need it now, I may before another day is ended; for — pray give me close attention! — Mrs. Claflin has been here much of the afternoon waiting to see me, and "evidently upon important matters." She drove up alone, and returned about 5 o'clock! In the note which she left she says " I could weep for disappointment that I cannot see you today. I have something upon which I must talk with you before you go away. I shall go to Boston tomorrow, and you must meet me if possible." What can this portend? My startled conscience may not let me sleep until I can take the 10 o'clock train tomorrow, and rush to my fate. But I will obey and try to be good — "early." It is 10 o'clock. Three whole hours of College life in the new world where "The Present is grandly transfigured," and I know no future. Good night, good night! Tuesday Evening.

[13]

A. F. to G. Η. P. [July 1886] I have come out here and put my face down in the soft Boxford moss, and let it comfort me with its tender fingers. It has been a stormy time, and a long night, but now the thunder is dying away, and the passion is spent in the rain. The light is growing over the fresh-washed world, and she will smile again, the braver it may be. The crows have filled the air with their cries since the first dawn, and they speak to me with every turn among the trees where you walked in the rain. I cannot let you think that I do not know how good you have been to me, how gentle and considerate. I can never tell you how I bless you for your strength and patience in this day that does not go away. The sound of your quiet voice has helped me when self-control seemed impossible, and you have not asked for coherent words. If I had only been as good to you! But now I have had time to think and to take possession of my will again. And if the work is not completely done, at least I can be more considerate of you in the future: and keep the pain where it belongs. Forgive me for your part of it. I have prayed it a thousand times since you went away. If I could but bear it all! I am bitterly to blame. I have walked along the peaceful ways of this dear new friendship, feeling so rich and safe and sure. I was so selfishly glad to have you for my friend. I never thought I might do you wrong, and bring this unrest into your life. And society makes no room for such a friendship.

[Η]

It is too sacred and sweet to bear her suspicious questioning. It is late for me to find this out, do you say; Yes, I know, but I have found out much more than that since the last sunrise, and I shall not forget again. Whatever you may think when you think this day over, you certainly will know this, that from the beginning you have seen my heart, and I have concealed nothing from you. I have never thought to hide my gladness at seeing you, or my pleasure in being with you. You will, I know, believe me easily, for I have not been afraid to trust you entirely. And you will help me to be firm and strong, and I turn in the very beginning of this new day, to my own work again, from which your compelling voice so shook me yesterday. Some things are clearer in the night watches than under such dazzling light as yesterday's. And I am sure! Perhaps you will agree with me, I do not know; but I trust you perfectly to need no argument in behalf of convictions of duty, whether you agree with them or not. You and I know that "happiness" has nothing to do with it, for we are both His first who came not to please Himself, but to finish the work that was given Him to do. I pray the good God, here where you sat today, to bless you, my dear dear friend, as only His great loving knows how to bless His most obedient children. I cannot help the longing that you may be happy and satisfied — I am sure that He will hear me for you. "The chamber facing the sun-rising — and the name of the chamber was Peace." Let us sit quietly together here, and listen to words that are better than our own. You wrote me, "Use me for strength — and not for weakness, and that will be my delight." I take you at your brave [15]

word. Take me at mine, though you heard it with strange faltering and felt the hand I gave you tremble, I promise you to be hereafter your friend in truth — and calmness. God bless you — A. E. F.

Friday Morning

G. H. P. to A. F. 27 Stoughton Hall Thursday Morning [July 1886] Dear Alice: One day more I am spending in your neighborhood, though still cut off from sight of you. Mary, my brother Fred's wife, and a dear sister to me, wanted me to remain and dine last night with her and her friends in Watertown. With a head and heart so full of you I did not want to meet other people, and still less did I want to lose possible notes of yours which might be awaiting me in Boxford. There is but one thought now — Alice, Alice, Alice — no matter what the lips are saying. And so last night, when the western professor who had been asked to meet me wanted explanations of the elective system and of Homeric renderings, he supposed me to be telling him about these trifles while in reality I was watching your face and wondering whether the perplexities I have left you to bear alone were making your grave eyes sadder. The evening passed pleasantly enough and brought me this gain — that I could write you one more note this morn[16]

ing. Perhaps from Boxford it would not have reached you. Now it will once more tell my good bye to Norumbega. I think if I knew where you were this morning, I should go to you and brave your frowns. The hunger is extreme. Why are you not in the chair beside me busy with your work while I go on with mine, looking up now and then for a glance of kindness, pausing occasionally to discuss some troublesome matter, and taking our love as a happy thing of course that mingles with and glorifies all common labors and does not stand by itself to be looked at detached? That is the union I seek, a oneness of living, so that I may see all my thoughts through the mind of another and have my drudgeries and successes transfigured and purified by making them yours. In this way "the self is not the same." The passionate longings we now have for the presence of one another are nature's blind way of hinting at this large life: but taken by themselves and left there, such hints are but sentimentalities that cheapen. They make no fibre of man or woman firm and real. We need to be mixed up together, not to stand apart and admiringly gaze. This is what I have sought from the beginning. At the first I seemed to see in you one who could be a part of my very self. I did not decide that I was in love with you and lay a plan to win you. That is child's play. I merely resolved to multiply occasions for coming close to you, and see whether then the nearness showed a natural bond or a detachment. You know what it showed, a bond so close that it seemed nothing strange. But if it had not been so, if there had been constraints and forcings, I would have acknowledged that you were not mine, and glad of the beautiful being I had dis[i7]

covered I would still have turned away. There should be an honorable sternness here. I must often say to myself "do I love just you? or am I merely loving love?" Everybody loves that, but nothing comes of it but flabbiness and disintegration. So I could not say to you in the woods, what seemed to offer at the moment escape from our perplexities, "let us know we love and let us see no more of one another." I did not mean to be hard or to seem insistent when you have so much more to bear than I; but I do not believe there is peace of power for us in that direction, no, nor for the many others who are dependent on us. We should be refusing the only kind of strength that is any longer open to us and we should carry away a beautiful feeling which in the long run would prove a weakening poison. I don't want a beautiful feeling. I want you. My dear one, I will not be impatient. There is no simple solution. We must not think our own thoughts here. We are aching for others as well as ourselves. Time is necessary and the most unselfish care. Only when you are considering our problem this summer, keep both elements of it clearly before you — (i) Wellesley must not suffer. (2) We must come together. We cannot neglect one of these and expect to preserve the other. And one thing more. Is it not possible you may find some harmless way of our being together this summer? I mean for even a little time. You know what four days in Boxford meant, what knowledge we gained, what power of walking firmly. If you should ever see that I might come to the same place where you are to be, I know you would send me

[18]

word, Alice. Out there you are not so well known as here. I am not known at all. If you were going into the wilderness along the lake shore, should I be very sinful if I were travelling in the same direction? Would it be wrong for me to visit the university at Ann Arbor and then to see some other parts of that interesting state — Saginaw Bay, for example, and the northern counties? If you should think fit to talk with your father about me, could not some meeting of this sort become possible? I only ask and suggest, not urge. I have perfect trust and rest in you, perfect confidence that you will never yield me a desire merely to give me pleasure. What a rambling note! and how little it says. Darling, is there any way to say it? — to tell you that you are the hourly interest and peace and newfound honor and close heart's delight of your friend and lover GEORGE

G. H. P. to A. F. Sunset Rock, Friday Morning [ J u l y 1886\ The top of the morning to you, my hardworked charmer! Here am I once more in the midst of luxurious peace, lying on the piney floor where we read Barnes and Heine and Shenstone. The crows and the thrushes and the many little wood warblers are making their customary remarks, and in the pond below a bull-frog from time to time abruptly breaks the silence. And there you are pursuing printers and [i9]

cutting off girls' heads, pestered all the time by my insistent presence; or perhaps steering your way to another state, tired out with work and anxieties, and still accompanied by the cheerful stenographer. I really believe we must combine them. At present I am like the German peasant who stands and smokes his pipe while his wife mows the field and digs the potatoes. Only not having the satisfaction of the wife, I can't draw the full comfort out of the pipe. Aren't you going to pamper me some day with this added luxury, little one? What a rich man I was last night! am today! Three letters and the book and — best of all — that face that has been peeping at me and disappearing, playing in and out of distorting darkness every instant since Holy Tuesday. It is very you, dearest. Not so worn and thin as the face I bent over, but more like what I mean that face to become when it learns to take me as a happy matter of course. I am obliged to make it more beautiful in parts by supplying fragments from the original, and I know subtle individual lines of expression which the smoothing out photographer has obliterated. But after all, it is great, grave, solid, loving, awe-inspiring you, mysterious to the last, however well known, and never approached without bringing an inward holiness. Do you remember the beautiful phrase which Edmund Spenser, that prince of gentlemen and of poets, applies to his lady in the Hymn in honor of Beauty? He calls her "my dear dread." That you will always be to me, Alice. With you, reverence grows side by side with familiarity. I honor you while I pet. This picture shows the honorable lady whom I esteem. But it does not hide my [20]

little Pippa either. I can see my Class Day companion through all the Presidentiality, and shouldn't be a bit abashed at telling her to do anything that came into my willful head. Oh, there hops a great grey squirrel on to the bough over my head, and sits and scolds, making the bushy tail over his back jerk with every grunt. He seems to think he owns this spot. But it is consecrated to you. I should think he might understand that from the picture leaning against my hat. However, this is fooling, and I am writing a business letter. Before long I suppose I shall receive orders forbidding me to talk with you so often. But this morning I have an excuse. It is pure duty. I must relieve you of a misapprehension. I know what Mrs. Claflin meant. It was I who set her on to plague you — as if I were not bother enough myself. When I talked with her after tea at Wellesley she at once began to bemoan your labors of letter-writing and feared you would be broken down by them. I fully agreed with her and said that ought to be stopped. She suggested the employment of more secretaries. I said that was of small use. She had only begun to question me for some more efficient plan when the clock said I must go. Last Sunday therefore I sat down and stated to her briefly my views in writing. I said if she saw any force in them, she would naturally wish to discuss them with other Trustees. But that I must ask her on no account to use my name, as it would rightly be thought an interference if I should try to manage Wellesley. I said, too, that I had never discussed my plan with you. It seemed to me you would be less embarrassed if I acted independently. But now that she has talked with

[21]

you, there is no reason why I should not state to you the outline of my plan, and you can tell her in the Autumn that I sent a written statement after you had left Wellesley. I divide the letters you must answer into two classes, the letters of routine and the letters of judgment. The former class can be managed by secretaries; and even if written by yourself, would cost nothing but time. The second class call for sympathy, discretion, commanding power. They are the ones which exhaust a writer, and the writing of them cannot be separated from personal responsibility. Parents and friends of the College may fairly demand that letters of this class shall receive the careful attention of a dignitary. And as this dignitary cannot in my judgment any longer wisely be you, a new dignitary must be appointed. I propose that she be called the Dean, and be announced in the Catalogue as the one who has charge of the correspondence of the College. My notion would be that she should be one who understood your policy fully and had your confidence. She might spend an hour or two a day discussing with you difficult cases and making report of what had been done on the day before. You would oversee everything. But you would not dictate. The Dean's letters would be her own and she would be thrown as largely as possible on her own judgment, running of course along lines which you had marked out. So long as the responsibility is yours, the performance of the outward work of writing by someone else will bring you little relief. It is ease of mind you want, thoughts set free from burdensome care seeking their own proper nutriment. I did not say to Mrs. Claflin what is, however, true, that such a Dean would be in training for a future President. [22]

Some changes that I am contemplating at Wellesley might well begin in this way. Probably enough this plan of appointing a Dean may not commend itself to you. Possibly you may have some better scheme in mind. I hope at any rate your notions will look in the same direction as mine, toward training some strong young woman to be your lieutenant, and to throwing off upon her not merely the manual labor but the mental and affectional consideration which now dissipates so large a part of your own personal life. I shall never be tired of preaching to you that for the sake of others you must look more to your own growth. . . . Must I own to a certain inconsistency in thus attempting in public to cut off your letter-writing and then exulting in private over every note I receive? These three delights of yesterday evening are so full of sportive, tender, brainy you. Only I seem to detect sometimes a tired accent, as if when wishing for rest you saw me standing by, expecting "to hear something." Dearie, do rest. Let the decisions wait. Feel your way rather than force it. W e have one another surely now, and what more can we want; A little greater definition of the meaning of our love perhaps, a little larger entrance into the life of each of its now recognized strength, a little more opportunity to guard the other from troubles and fatigue, an occasional pressure of the hand and a sound of the thrilling voice — but all these things are secondary, and we know what the first things are. I am afraid my recent letters have not always kept this clear and may have troubled you by a seeming impatience. But the impatience is only a seeming one; and if you remember what a hermit

[*3]

I am and think how a solitary and frequently afflicted life suffers and rots in loneliness, you will not be so much disturbed at my joy in you. I do believe — I have thought of the matter too long and carefully easily to give up the belief— that in my home you will be stronger for Wellesley, for yourself, for every good purpose for which the Lord made you, than you can possibly be by continuing longer a public functionary. I believe you will ultimately see this too. But this belief brings rest, not resdessness, and I could never consent to your conceding to my beliefs what was not your independent judgment. Permit me then to allude to your belonging to me without prejudicing in the least your right to call yourself a self-sufficient spinster. You will concede that you do sometimes cast half an eye in my direction. I promise not to write you tomorrow and so take the larger privilege today. In Cambridge I found two more abominable pictures of myself which I will send as soon as I can contrive some unsuspicious conveyance — some newspaper perhaps, or magazine. The Deutsche Liebe looks attractive. I shall turn to it on Sunday, and value it the more because it is your copy. Consider my proposal to visit Michigan and try to allow me to do so. How blessed to be in your neighborhood for a week or two! How quietly we should grow into an understanding of one another and of what duty bade us do. I would be very decorous, and would put on my prettiest manners to all your people. May I? GEORGE

I can't make this pen write like me yet, but I assure you this letter is from myself.

[^4]

A . F. t o G . Η . P . Sunday Evening [August i\

I want to send you, my dear friend, this spray of jasmine flower, which has blossomed on the mantel where you saw it. I know you like it as much as I; and you may miss the fragrance which the long imprisonment in the darkened room has stolen. But it is my last flower in Norumbega this summer. Tomorrow morning we close the cottage, and I remain in the College until I go to the farm. These good people will get away Tuesday. Unless I hear from you again, I shall expect you Wednesday morning. And unless something detains me, I will meet you at the station: if I am not there, I shall see you a little later at the College. I hope you have had a good day in the blessed woods of Boxford. I have shut my eyes more than once to imagine myself beside the amber water for a quiet hour. I have your letter of Thursday night — and you have mine. If you think me "arbitrary and irrational" — but I hope you will not! Too tired, it may be, to be very clear, — but very sure about duty, both to you and to work. It rests my very heart to know that you are willing to be made content with the good friendship that has been so dear. W e will be happy to know and do the truth exactly, in spite of everything else. I cannot say whether it would be "easier for me not to see you at all again": but I want to see you once more before the summer is ended. There are some things I want to say to you, rather than to write [*S]

them. And so you will come, unless, for your sake, you had better not. Then, I know you will tell me so. Good night. A. E. F.

G. H. P. to A. F. At Hatties House, Sunday, August 8

. . . But enough of these personal matters. There are better things to think about. If you were beside me on this bright Sunday afternoon, shut in here at the great boulder by the leafy nut tree screened from the long field and the tree-traced track of the run, I think I should talk with you about the will of God, and what we mean when we speak of loving that will better than our own. Every year I find I learn something more about this. I would like to learn from you. So far as I understand, the fundamental principles of that divine way of living are like this. When I go to build a house, there are laws lying in wait for me; and in proportion as I discern and accept them, my house becomes the one that God would build. I cannot say to my stone "stay there!" because that would be only my fancy and God has said He wishes it to stay there only under such and such conditions. To track these conditions is the divine art of house building and it requires a continual giving up of one's own will and accepting a higher that includes it. The artist sees these divine conditions more finely than I, and he is more convinced than dull I that only through following [26]

them can he come to anything. The artist is therefore the preeminently obedient man, more removed from caprices and roughness than the rest of us. Often indeed he serves a Master whom he does not know and often through that blindness becomes vain or overbearing or disappointed. But even then, though saying "I will not do my Lord's will," it is he who does it, and not I who say "the Lord's will be done" and take no pains to listen finely to any but my own fancies. In my view therefore God is an ever-present guide. He is not a God of the dead, but of the living. His voice is just as truly to be heard in my study where I am trying to find out His thoughts, or in my lecture room where I try to find out how to approach and clarify boys' minds, as it is when I am giving to the poor and leading his people in prayer. There are not two sets of interests, a secular set — practical life, enjoyments, arts, sciences — and a religious set — duties, unselfishnesses, care of others, considerations of heaven. This second set is but a different way of looking at the first, looking at them as God looks. Jesus has revealed a kingdom of heaven as present everywhere. His life, where the human will and the will of the Father were one, can be formed in me and redeem me out of isolating sin into the wholeness of righteousness. This is but a rough sketch. The filling in occupies the lifetime. I find myself sluggish here. Continually instead of trying to cooperate with God I try to force Him in my direction. It is here that I need aid. To do His will is the easiest thing in the world when I am quite sure what it is. But I dodge and knowing how troublesome this obedient

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business of discovery is, I lay hold of anything that comes readiest to hand. I call that His will and try to carry it out, only to find that the stars in their courses are fighting against me. What I want therefore is a daily discipline in thinking my thoughts in terms of a holy being beside me. Together we can study out the righteous ways, and the bond of our union can be not the will of either of us but the will which is superior to us both and which both are seeking. These are the thoughts which have drawn me to you, Alice. I seemed to see in you at first that spiritual way of treating ordinary things in which I looked for aid. I moved as close to you as possible to see if you aided me here. And because I believe you do and can and that I can also aid you as nobody else can I call you my love and find in every outward touch of you a strengthening delight. If this should ever cease to be so and either should ever substitute his own wayward pleasure for the divine aims, love would be at an end. I do not know what it could mean. I want you with me so that I may get away from myself into a higher region, not to double my selfishness. Dear, this is where we rest; not in each other merely but in God through one another. And how secure this makes us. How petty is absence itself, and how delicious presence. I was close to you on Wednesday it seems. I passed French's twice and wherever I went that day — as indeed on every day since Tuesday, the beginning of the Christian era — I felt you beside me. How tender your notes are. How true and kind. These last lines especially. They are like a touch of the hand, the lips rather. Dearest, I am always with you. [28]

G. Η. P. to A. F. In the Woods, Thursday, August 12

I have come out here this morning to write about the group system, and my head is so full of you that I can think of no group larger than two. Oh Alice, will you not go away, you naughty girl with the shining eyes and the alluring voice? If you will not, I will bring you out into plain sight upon this paper and send you off to the West, where articles do not wait to be written. You shall not stay any longer hid away deep in my heart, where you delude me into imagining I may do anything I please, while really it is you who direct every act and thought. No note from you for two days. So I know you are busy with people rather than pens —just as I would have you be — that you are not troubled about me and are at peace in yourself. If it were not so, you would tell me. I too am feeling a deep content. The soreness of the early hunger is a little gone by. I rest in you and in the assurance of what we always must be to one another. Donne writes to his wife, when sailing, how W e by a love so far refined That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care less eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Perhaps it is "less." I think it is. But it is a good deal still. Today is your wedding day. I am sorry to have it celebrated by proxy. Gladly would I take part in person. How does it seem? It is a good institution — Marriage — is it b9]

not? The only way two who have discovered their lives to be really one can quite express themselves. I am sure the occasion will be a glad one. These lovers, you say, have waited long. They will come together with a certainty of joy which all will share. . . . For the last two days my friend, Rev. Theodore Williams of N e w York, has been with me, a man full of jollity, fine culture and intelligent talk. I have examined my article carefully with him and have consolidated some of its points. In the evenings we four, with my sister, Mrs Lane — who is now here — and Miss Dalton, have gone down to the moon-lighted pines. The smooth hard ground of the Round Point has been very dry: and there, near our stump, we have formed a circle on the piney floor and have watched the moon and the meteors, the swaying pine tops and the dark shadows. Sometimes we told many stories, sometimes we were silent, according as we would commune with those we loved. Somebody remarked that the woodland circle should be called the Fairy Ring and that it would be a good place for lovers to saunter in and to dream. I thought how stern you would frown on its use for such a purpose. In my charming German story I find the Theologia Germanica mentioned. I wonder if you are familiar with it. I have long kept here a little copy of the quaint German, which I ventured to send you two days ago, on our first anniversary. Next week Mr. Bachelder sets out for California. I told him last night I had half a mind to accompany him as far as Canandaigua, where my friend James Lee lives. He urged me to do so. As I did not go to the mountains, all think it de[30]

sirable for me to travel a little before long. Over at Canandaigua, how convenient it would be to have another look at Niagara, and at the great University of the West, and even at one of the Great Lakes. No doubt I should now and then cross an eastern acquaintance. You had better reconcile yourself to the thought of seeing me a week from next Sunday. I shall come gently, with claims invisible to the outside world; but I shall come, and the many things I would say shall wait until then. This sprig of cardinal is from the run close by.

A. F. to G. H. P. Monday Morning, at Home* [August 16]

I hardly know whether to venture a letter to you today or not, my young rover. You may be already rambling about the lovely nooks of my own state and wishing Boxford had her treasures of lake and mountain and glen. But we like Boxford even in the Empire State, don't we? and how shall we feel in Michigan; Evidently I am to have nothing to say on the subject of seeing "the brilliant Harvard professor" &, &, in this young city of the marshes. Well, I submit as gracefully as — usual. Come then if you will. Doubtless the salt will be good for your health, as you have not been to the seashore, and these levels will remind you of the mountains by contrast. You will like the pines of your native land the better after a ride through the treeless * Saginaw, Michigan. [31]

stretches about the city built on sawdust and bayous.

If

this picture is not sufficiently fascinating, you may help advise about the finishing o f this new house which Father has been building. W e will decide on the colors of paper for the walls, and a thousand details, and I will discover if your genius for old houses will conquer a new one's bareness. If you are very good, Fred* shall take you to see the largest lumber mills in the country — doesn't that sound "western"? — and give you a ride after Don and Madge. And w e will manage to find time for a little talk about the opinions o f Mrs. Claflin and her philosophical friend, and, possibly, some other opinions.

Yet you may be

obliged to write letters four hours a day for me, as I did not bring the cheerful stenographer, and I did find bushels o f letters when at 10 o'clock Saturday night Fred and a college friend and I stepped out into the moonlight, and found my blessed Father waiting. It is good to be here with them and share their daily life. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. On the Piazza, Tues. Morning, August 17 Tuesday is a good day, love. Even at a fortnight's distance from itself, it carries a fragrant memory. And this one is beset all round with blessings; for in front is the great visit to you, and out of the days behind come these precious things, your notes. Each one is full of you, and through them * Her brother. [32]

all I seem to see a constantly enlarging influence of this new joint life of ours. I hope my eyesight — heartsight rather — is correct and that you are learning how to take me to you in an undisturbing and enriching way. The absence, hard as it has been, has been good. Parted from one another in these early days, we could better familiarize ourselves with the great strange formative power that has come into our lives. W e learn not to dread and not to become excited. We become accustomed to the thought of one another. Passion does not become less — may it never be! — but it is deepened and connected with life. Today, Alice, I know I love you as I could not know it when I held you in my arms on the river bank. Every day you become more a part of myself. I hope the time will come when no part of me will shut you out, when all that is mine will be yours and yours mine. I had not thought of writing you again before seeing you. But your letter of last night — the last from Osborne Hollow — made me so glad I cannot be silent. What a good scholar in love you are! I shall mark you 100 per cent and award the prize of a kiss to one who is perfect. Tomorrow I leave here in the first train and it will require a railroad accident or an earthquake in E. Saginaw to keep me out of that town on Saturday night. If you do not want to see me, the only resource that I can see left for you is to leave the town and give no sign of the place to which you flee. For I am now upon your track and I shall hunt you down as General Crook does Geronimo. Perhaps I may get a letter tonight forbidding my campaign, and that I would respect. But your last two letters must have been [33]

written after you had heard of my plans; and as these contain no mention of them, I think you are cut off from further consideration. Ah, sweet one, our meeting is a necessity. The time for silence is gone by. W e must face the facts now, before our duties meet us, and we must face them together — as we cannot here. M y own impression is that you will simplify matters and protect us against ugly talk if you tell your father why I am coming. You need not commit yourself. You need only say that I have told you I loved you and you wish to know me more. To those who are closest to us we can speak half thoughts. W e are not confined to whole ones, as with outsiders. I hate concealments, with their almost inevitable falsehoods and cowardice. For a good cause I would lie as boldly as anybody, and I know how much else is involved here besides our individual convenience. You can see better than I, and will do what is wisest. I trust you entirely. With my own judgment I should not be satisfied, but I shall be with yours. Tell me only when I see you what story I am to swear to, and I will know no other. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cars between Ann Arbor and Detroit, Thursday Morning, August 26 So far I have travelled away from you, dear Alice. The train last night was belated, and I got into my doubtful bed in the slatternly hotel about 12 o'clock. This morning I had a stroll through the pleasant University grounds and along [34]

the shady streets of the town, and as I was nearing my hotel again noticed a familiar face, which proved to belong to Professor Morris. We spent over an hour together in the streets and at his house, talking philosophy and education, and before I left him I had a shake of the hand from Professor Frieze. So the morning has been enjoyed. The visit to Ann Arbor becomes useful in accounting for my mysterious journey. To talk of these gentlemen will be less compromising than to speak of a dear little girl who lives to the north of them. I found that by taking the 10:25 train from Ann Arbor and the Michigan Central from Detroit I might reach Boston at 2:45 tomorrow afternoon. So I resisted Morris' attractive proposal to spend the day with him and may perhaps go to Boxford tomorrow night. Whether to do so I am uncertain. There is my dread, Mrs. Claflin, in Newtonville. Shall I spend the night in Cambridge and leave my card on her in the morning? or shall I come down again from Boxford and encounter her on Monday? or send her a note saying I hoped to see her before now, but have been absent from home and shall call before the term begins? I naturally incline to this last course. I am so afraid she will ask how lately I have seen you and I shall be obliged to deceive her. When you have once returned and I have seen you I can meet her with unabashed front. How you will worry over this writing. The cars this morning are joltier than usual and I have only my brokendown pen. Will you look on your table and see if when I sat beside you, writing Fred, I laid my pen there. If you find it, perhaps you will put it in a Saginaw newspaper and [35]

mail to Boxford. Without it I feel that I have lost a finger. The letters you will get at Saginaw City and leave my Boxford address there. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. The Cars, near Wellesley, Friday Noon [August 27] Y o u will scarcely be able to receive another note from me in Saginaw. Before this reaches there, you will have flown. Yet if there is but half a chance of finding you in the little chamber on the sunny corner, I shall climb the stair. How satisfying the time there seemed, yet how much remained unsaid. Ever since I left you matters have been rising in my mind which I wish I had talked about with you — not new matters, but new phases of the one great matter which has absorbed into itself all else. But another Friday better than today is coming. The journey has been tedious and disagreeable. How could it be otherwise with you behind it instead of before? But Ziegler has had many acute things to say about Aristotle: the Pall Mall Budget has entertained me with bright London talk: Niagara was weirdly impressive in last night's twilight: these Berkshire hills have shown me today their perpetual beauty: stone walls and appletrees are always welcome to the returning New Englander: and underneath these outward employments of eye or mind runs the continual thought of you, caressing, perplexing, resting, making proud and anxious and uncertain and tender and [36]

daring. W h o can tell whether love is a pain or a pleasure» I shall go to Boxford tonight. I am very tired. The piazza and the pines in front will be very welcome. Oh that I were to meet you there! and to lead you through the silent woods tonight! But it will be good to get hold of work tomorrow after this long dream. Work certainly makes lovering better. Does lovering work? It should, and shall. . . . I forgot to speak about the Deutsche Liebe which charmed me on Sunday before I left home. It brought back my old Tübingen days. The character of the countess is unique. I never met her in fiction before — thoroughly charming too and genuinely German. And of course the style is very dainty. Do you remember Shenstone's dainty verse — I prized every hour that went by Beyond all that had pleased me before, But now they are gone and I sigh And I grieve that I prized them no more. W e understand that now, darling. I miss you terribly. You should be with me, going to my home.

A. F. to G. H. P. East Saginaw, Michigan, Friday Morning [August 27] Good morning! I wish I could make the day all good! You have gone far away, and are hurrying toward Boxford, to find coolness and rest. It is a weary journey, and far too [37]

warm again today. I wish I could do some thing for your comfort. H o w I wanted to be in Ann Arbor with you! How long since you went away! Your pen was left here on my desk. I discovered it last night, and sent it on. But you will miss it everywhere, and I am very sorry. And what if I get no letters; That was one disadvantage of having you with me, that I had no letters from you. I don't remember now that I missed them very much until Wednesday night. Then I felt quite deserted, and wondered how a letter would seem. As I was going out to mail one to you yesterday morning, I met Miss Cook, University of Michigan '75, coming in for a visit. A friend of Mother's came on the next train and Miss Peabody comes at 4 o'clock today. Callers drop in and out continually. How strange that we were so uninterrupted all through your visit. That was partly because of bad weather; and I can't be too thankful that these friends from out of town did not arrive a day earlier. And now I have the letter I longed to see. I fear you had a wretched night. H o w fortunate that you saw Prof. Morris! Isn't Dr. Frieze a beautiful old man? I suppose you failed to give them my regards, as you do not mention it. It would be natural for such messages to escape your memory in so hurried a visit. Y o u do not report the conversation which you foretold. I long to hear how well you can prophesy and how heroically you can bear references to a disagreeable subject. Do you know what will happen a week from today? If it rains, may I hope to have a bold call from you at the College, or will you go to see Mrs. Claflin instead? But if it is sunshiny — at this hour I will tie my [38]

horse to a greenwood tree, and wander down to the river to find Robin Hood, and make him forget his merry men for a long afternoon. W e will have one day of peace before the two worlds roll in between us with all their weary noises, and press their plans and hopes and fears upon us again. Callers interrupted me there, and now it is time for the mail. I hope you will find all well in Boxford.

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford, Monday Evening [August 30] Tomorrow, you will come home to Wellesley. I must be there to welcome you. How tired you will be! and how perplexed this home coming! Formerly you were a Princess here. Everybody obeyed you, and you looked up to no one. Has somebody broken in and stolen your crown and made a common person of you, one like all the rest of the world, so that you are hkely now to lose kingdom and authority and even your power of largess; Or does it on the contrary seem that a pair of entwining arms are better than the hard crown's metal, and that supported by these you are to have such opportunities of blessing and being blessed that the former sovereignty looks poor and barren when set beside this unexpected and mysterious power of love? Which is it, dear? Which is the dream, the old life or the new? On Friday I am coming to learn, after you have lived a little in the places which once were so familiar and now are so strange. If it should be a genuine storm on Friday, I should come on Saturday instead — unless, that is, you in the mean[39]

time write me some other wish. If it is only cloudy, I will come, but not to stay. I will look at you, shake hands, if courageous I may kiss, and then I will go away and leave my card at Mrs. Claflin's door and see you again the next day. But we will not insult the weather by suspecting it could scowl on us. It has never done so yet. I will bring our modest lunch. Do you see that the horse is fed well and that immediately before starting he has a drink of water, which he will not get again until night. And have wraps enough for yourself; and if Mrs. McCoy's curiositypresses, tell her you are going to Wellesley Hills or Auburndale or anywhere else that you are willing to drive me to when you have lent me all of yourself you are willing to spare in the wood. I should rather walk to the station than be seen in such company. But if I am needed for an excuse, I submit. Tonight came the pen and your glorious note of Friday, and Saturday evening Thursday's note. Does Professor Hodgkins have a class for instruction in love-letters, or where did you learn to write such veracious ones; Have you practised as long as 15 It must be more natural to you than to me. At any rate, my Alice, your words teach a lover how to love. I am alone tonight. Fred and Mary* have left me permanently and gone to visit my sister. I have been reading Courtney's Constructive Ethics all day, a rotten book with clever sentences, the work of a litterateur. The house is silent now and seems to cry for its mistress Alice with whom I should be discussing Mr. Courtney's fancies. But I sometimes doubt whether these things would ever be to your taste. . . . * His brother and sister-in-law. [40]

A. F. to G. Η. P. The Cars, 8:30 Wednesday Morning [September 1] Greetings for all the autumn days at the beginning of this first fair September morning. One thing I specially grieve at having missed in your visit — the letters you were to show me. If I had but kept well or been discreet enough to hide from your deep eyes my illness I might have had this sweet acquaintance with the dear heart I already love. Perhaps you will feel like telling me about them Friday. I want to know her, and so you, all I may before we go back to our work. That knowledge, and the happiness it brings, must furnish heart-food for many a hungry, silent hour out beyond. I wrote you a long letter Sunday night — and said nothing, except that nothing can be said — and we must stop here, — and the letter is in my bag, and I am writing on it. It seemed a pity that you should read so much to get one thing, and more helpful writing than the midnight thoughts of troubled hearts is all around you. I think I won't begin now to pour out mine upon your patient soul. But I had a strong desire to say — before Friday — that upon the closest thought which I can give the subject from all sides, no other course seems open to me. I believe I have not omitted a possible consideration. I do not think I magnify the difficulties in the way of the natural expression of our hearts. But always and always this is just about the conclusion of the matter: we must allow ourselves to continue no longer in any unannounced relationship. I doubt the wisdom — the righteousness — of taking that step at present; and we can make no plans for a remoter future. [41]

You see I would be brief, but these cars will not allow me to be clear. I don't know why I try to write on the train, for you can hardly make it out, — except that I long for a quiet restful hour with you once more. I don't want to talk so much about myself. I sorely need something else, and so do you. I decide against any announcement of our feeling for each other, quite as much for your sake as for any other consideration. You may not understand me. I hope you will. I know you must feel that there is, at least, a considerable doubt whether we could do what we would for each other. George, your life and work are too rich — too full of splendid possibilities of yet larger greatness and goodness to admit of such doubtful experiments. I am not sure that I could supplement you as you have hoped. Perhaps we are too unlike. How different we are, you or I could not know until we came very close together. It has been so unspeakably blessed to come so near; in heart and spirit to stand beside each other one whole month; all this sweet strange summer to be drawing softly soul to soul. The wealth of a life lies between the first Friday ofJune, and of September! And though as I write and you read, the summer is over, I am infinitely glad of all. Let us be unashamed of soul, As earth lies bare to heaven above! How is it under our control To love or not to love? But all the rest is under control, His and ours, and while He gives me grace, I will never run the risk of spoiling your dear life and my work at the same time until both He and [42]

you and my own heart make it clear that taking that risk is greater service than anything else He has for you and me. W h y do they say love is blind? Every hour since his strong, gentle hand was laid upon me, and I walked out of the dear past with him, I have seen what only his anointing can show mortal eyes. Faber speaks of being "borne down the rapids of speechless love." There is nothing to say, beloved, which does not seem to conceal more of my heart than it reveals, and I wish I might lay it all in your safe hands and let your eyes read what is written there. You would find nothing else so clear as the desire to know and do His will, and everywhere, your own name and face held tenderly and loved sacredly; but why do I write on and on? I can never say enough — yet nothing is made clear. How can you be made glad and satisfied? B y what power can this deepened loneliness be lifted out of your life? — Here are people whom I know — Goodbye —

A. F. to G. H. P. Norumhega, Sept. 5, 1886 The little package from Cambridge reached me safely last night, and I cannot forbear thanking you for all it contains. The little book is a rich mine, and its hid treasure will add new value to many days that would have been the poorer having lost its pages. It has been a companion at Church today, and talked to me again in the still woods this afternoon; and whether the words have been of affliction or of praise, they have been like a strong arm, and a warm hand [43]

and a true heart. It is an old friend today; and the face is a new one, whose acquaintance is a keen delight, with a regret running all through that I did not know this boy with the gentle, strong, sad, dreamy face. The subtle resemblances and differences between this young, unmarked face, with the soul looking so steadily out on the world, and that of one twice his years whom I know, make an interesting study. You like character studies, and relish so much a chance at the dissection of a new type that I think I will venture to mail you a volume that happens to lie on my table today. It has so much of my writing in it that you will wish to return it sometime — but a time of no consequence to me, as I have Rutherford's letters in another form. I have never met, among mediaeval mystics, or modern enthusiasts, any expression of religious fervor, and perpetual exaltation of feeling similar to this. I have thought you might like to glance at it here and there, some day when your studies lead you among the saints of the Kirk of Scotland, and I remember that you said you do not know this one, of whom his day was not worthy. I hope you found your brother and sister better and that I shall see them here.

A. F. to G. H. P. Norumbega, Friday Evening [September 24] Your brother Fred has come and gone, and I have been most glad to see him. He put me into a tumult with his voice and manner so much like you, and I can't remember that I succeeded in getting through a rational remark. I [44]

longed to talk about you, but could not venture an enquiry; neither could I to Mary. How much I like them both! What very good friends we could be! I intend to see them when I go to Philadelphia in October. It is so long since I have visited Ogontz that I feel a duty in that direction. They both surprised me so much that I had nothing but shyness. Your brother walked in at the "East Door," and looking up I saw his handsome face and heard him quietly say, "I am Mr. Palmer of Jenkintown." How did he know me? for he called me "Miss Freeman" as he spoke. I like these dearest ones of yours as much as you could wish. If we four, with Eric,* could sit on the Boxford piazza in its peace and freedom for one little hour tonight! I am sure the quiet would come, and heartaches would heal in a night. I am most busy, and all is going well. The term has never opened so finely and with such large hopes, — or with so much work — and I am glad of that. I have thrown my whole life and time into it, and feel the compensation of the effort. When I had taken Fred to the station, I drove quickly back and opened the parcel he brought. I longed for the word I found and here it is with me, in the heart of this silence so hard and long. And I write out of it, with your voice in the room, George, I long to come to Boxford. When Fred asked me if I liked Boxford, he got only a cold reply, I fear, for it seemed I should cry out with home-sickness. For a walk in those pine woods again! But I cannot come. October 3rd is the first Communion Sunday of the year, and a strange minister is to be here. I always assist in the service; * Son of Frederick Palmer.

[45]

it is an important day. I ought to be in the College, as you can see, and I must let the girls come to me. I know Mrs. Claflin wishes to go. I saw her the day after your call, and she told me I must go with her, but I assured her that it would be quite impossible so early in the term to get away. So I write at once, that if you can make any plans to have a visit from Mrs. Claflin, you may not depend on me, in your arrangements. I hope you can. No, Wellesley is not a very good place for a meeting compared with the blessed Boxford. Yet come Friday or Saturday, the ist or 2nd if you can. We want a long talk — a quiet time. A thousand things hunger for it, and Sunday I shall be constantly interrupted unless I conspicuously absent myself from people. The Claflins always come to that service, and it is the Horsfords' first Sunday after their return. B y the way, two letters were written me the Sunday morning you were in Shelter Island, both mentioning you — Mrs. Horsford, after this fashion — " A friend of yours, Prof. Palmer, is a delightful guest today," and so forth. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley College, Sept. 27th, 1886

I know you quite disapprove of so voluminous a correspondence, but I assure you I am driven to write this letter by considerations of mercy. So I pray your patience. The maidens of Norumbega have thought to make me happy by arranging an "at home" with music next Saturday [46]

evening. When they unfolded their pretty plan tonight, I found my imagination unequal to the situation. It will be an easy matter to excuse myself from their merry-making. " A n important consultation" will silence if it does not content; but to attempt any calm or connected conversation in their vicinity — croquet on one's lawn would be a boon in comparison! However, it may not suit you to call Friday evening instead. I know you will be constantly occupied, and this change of plan comes late. If it is more convenient come Saturday night, and I promise to find some retreat from the music in the air of Norumbega. I send this note to dear Boxford, though you may go to Cambridge tomorrow; yet I hope it may find you among the pines and bring you my blessing again.

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford, Tuesday Evening [September 28]

It is no hardship, Alice, to be obliged to see you an evening earlier than I anticipated. I will come on Friday, and will take the earlier of the two trains, reaching Norumbega about 6:45. But if you are to be busy with these girls on Saturday evening, you may not care to give up the preceding evening too. In that case I could come on the following Monday, or on the previous Thursday — day after tomorrow. If you find either of these evenings better, telegraph or write to 27 Stoughton. Thither I go tomorrow. The little blue room here is lit[47]

tered with half-packed books, and a trunk and a box — ominous portents of change — are sitting in the habitation of people. I always hate to leave the dear nest and this year it seems worse than usual. You are strangely knitted into the place. I feel as if I were going away from, not toward you. So many anxious thoughts about you have visited me here this summer and here in your all too short stay you consecrated my home. But I hope I may soon have you here again. The ioth is a good Sunday. And we will get Mrs. Claflin, and the trees will put on their gay colors for us, and it will be cool enough to plant Mrs. C. before an open fire while we — beings of hardier blood — wander off into the woods. You have been very good to me lately. I have had two letters and a picture of a very little girl. How pretty she is, and how much of you she contains. Older of course and more weighted with the riddle of this painful world. Like most people who are good for anything, you have steadily grown younger as your years have increased. I am glad I have so many pictures of you. The best are the one first given and the proof. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Saturday Morning [October 2] When you are turned out of Wellesley, Alice, you can set up as a physician i f — b u t how improbable! — your effect on everybody is the same as on me. This morning I am entirely well. I felt the new health coming last night. [48]

Your charming rooms, the adventurous character of our meeting, the sound of that voice again, and the glorious burden I held in my arms — how could illness stand against such things' I had a happy walk home across the river and a sleepful night. Lectures today will be easy matters. Let me know as soon as you and Mrs. Claflin decide about Boxford. I want to write Katie early Thursday morning. Our last weekly, butcher appears on Friday. To Mrs. Claflin I write today and no doubt she will see you at once. If you on reflection see too many dangers in that meeting under the pine trees, you will freely say so. I cannot tell. I do not know the Wellesley circumstances sufficiently and I do know my own longing heart. Here, as in so many other cases, I am obliged to throw the burden of decision on you. But you know I shall fully rest in your judgment. You alone command the means to judge. What a happy time we had! But think of the falsehoods of such a time. In the first place, the declaration of watches that it lasted over three hours. Then the definite purposing to speak of matters that never came to hearing. How many of them there are! So much of your life during the long month I know nothing about, and I had a dozen interests boiling in my brain that I wanted to pour out to you. When I think of these things before one of our meetings, I imagine the time will be sufficient because until I see you I take for granted and unsaid the one great time-filling topic — my delight in you, in your glorious eyes, every turn of your head, every motion of your body and pressure of your hand. Some day these delights will twine in and about our common affairs and not stand off in isolation, as now. . . . [49]

A. F. to G. H.P. Montreal, Ρ P.M. Wednesday [October 1886]

Do you want to hear that we are safely at our journey's end? How many times during this long day I have smiled to remember your suggestion concerning Mrs. Durant's ticket, and have wished some good fairy could have carried it out. It has been a day of marvellous glory. We have come through the White Mountains and return Saturday by the Green Mountain route. Maples, birches, oaks and pines, — with gorgeous reds and yellows against the solemn background of rock and pines — we have exclaimed all day at a new panorama, or the sudden mists on the violet heads of the hills, or a jewel of a lake, or the fascinating windings of the river. And all day, as steadily as the wheels have turned, or the watch has ticked away the minutes, under the talk of business or of pleasure, the thought of you has run on and on, like the finest harmony. You have come with me, though Mrs. Durant never spoke to you all the way. But do not feel neglected; I did little else, and you must have been busy. Every burning bush has been holy ground, with Sunday's radiance upon it, and every bright tree has shed a glow upon two lovers walking alone, God give them blessedjourneyings! Mrs. Durant has been most cheery, generally, and we have had a valuable day. A few clouds have risen above the horizon — but none so large as a man's hand. Mrs. Hunt, the temperance lecturer, was with us to St. Johnsbury, and we had much talk of social reforms, the south and the west. . . . The beginning of our Montreal experience has been very happy — though I am anxious — " T w o addresses tomor[50]

row and one Friday" has an alarming sound, but we will discuss that in the morning. Meanwhile, do say one word to me out of these ages since I saw you, and say it just now.

A. F. to G.H.P. Montreal, Friday noon [October 1886]

Mrs. Durant is getting a little sleep, and you and I will talk very softly! Indeed if you will come in a moment we need not speak at all. We left the meeting at 1 1 o'clock, after I had told them what we are doing to bring the preparatory schools and the colleges together and had heard very much of the difficulties in the way of college preparation here. I never realized the meaning of the word "provincial" until I listened to these discussions and talked with these teachers and watched their faces. I am forcibly reminded of the old stories my father's uncles used to tell in my childhood of their experiences in teaching district schools. The masters of these academies, which are expected to fit for the provincial universities, do all the teaching of the three grades unless the school is very large, they furnish the fuel, and the "care-taker," keep the building in order, and repair any damages — and then have the fees "if they can collect them" and "the Gov. grant if there is one." They have no common course, or organization, and as I look at these men and women, I do not venture to explain the details of our system, for I know they would not be understood. But there are some very bright men in the convention. Dr. Ross, the Minister of Education in Ontario, is very able,

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and has given an address outlining his entire system. I am delighted to get so much information. I can write to applicants from these provinces far more intelligently hereafter. Last night Sir William Dawson gave us a state dinner, and immediately afterward we went to the opening reception at which I spoke. It was a brilliant gathering, most of the ladies in full dress, and the gentlemen very courteous, although in their finest attentions evidently regarding me with curiosity. The city is just now split into two parties on the question of admitting women to McGill University — and it soon became clear that I was in Montreal to grind axes by the hundred. They insist upon my speaking again this evening at the "educational gathering" — but I think they are quite overdoing the matter; I have already spoken three times. Last night at 10 o'clock a reporter called, and Mrs. Durant thought he should be admitted. This is how he greeted us, with note-book already open — "I have called to ask your opinion in regard to the progress of the higher education of women, and to know the history of Wellesley College."

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Tuesday [October 1886]

Y o u must have been amused, Alice, unless perplexity swallowed all other feelings, at my muddle about Thursday. I thought I was going to get you this week. O f course I knew that it was the last day of October that your meeting was to be held. But you had said I might have a Thursday evening

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with you, and the nearest Thursday at hand at once became a sacred day. N o w I must wait that age which non-lovers call "only a week." Still, when at Boxford we were glad we had not gone before. W e found " n o w " was the best time. It may be so in this case. Beyond that journey together there stretches an undiscovered country which I am afraid may prove a desert with few opportunities of meeting. T o cut off a week of that is a gain. I want to hear of your Canada speeches and whether you were questioned beyond what you cared to say in public. I dare say the most profitable part of the journey would be the seclusion with Mrs. Durant. And I hope refreshment came in absence from the letter files of Wellesley. Only now in your return these will overcome you like a flood. D o not add to the pile any duty toward me. Hyde of Bowdoin spent last night with me, full of grave and weighty talk. The Aliens too, where I am dining, are most kind and intelligent. But my thoughts turn backward and will not stay in the present. I recall the Monday dinner table, which looked across a piazza and a lawn, and by my side sat you, in our own house, and we knew we were alone, and that we belonged together, and were happiest with all others away. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Norumbega, Tuesday, 10.30 P.M. [October 1886] W e have had a long faculty meeting and have discussed carefully some important questions of domestic life and social opportunities for our students. N o w I would like you [53]

to sit in front of this glowing fire while I talk or listen of other things. First you may share my letter from Mary. I have written her that I will spend Sunday with her. I hope they will come to the Association at Bryn Mawr — Saturday. It is a pity that you cannot have the Sunday she begs for. I feel like a thief, stealing your own time. You may wish to have her letter, so I return it. Thank you. I supposed you had some reason which I did not know for wishing to secure the tickets now. Certainly there has been enough time since I left Boxford for this meeting to have arrived, if my heart tells the story. I am glad Pres. Hyde has been to see you, and you have pleasant people about you. I had some hours of good talk from Pres. Buckham of Vermont University. W e were often together in Montreal, and he made a handsome speech for "Wellesley when he seconded the motion of Principal Adams for a "vote of thanks of the Convention to the eloquent and learned President of "Wellesley for the wise address" and so forth, and so forth. Y o u have heard it all. No, they did not question me in public. They listened while I spoke of the advantages of better and broader education, and roundly applauded at intervals, but they need illustrations of what we mean. The college-bred woman is an unknown species, full of difficulties now. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Thursday Evening [October 1886] How good your mother's letter is. She means something distinct in every sentence, and she says it plainly. It is a better [54]

letter than Mr. Adams', kind as that also is. I was glad to get the reports of the Montreal doings and would gladly have taken another journey to "Canandaigua" if I could have crept into a corner of the hall where you made your speeches. Some time when we are together you must get up into a chair, play I am a body of schoolteachers, and let me hear how it sounds. Mary won't care a pin about my absence if you are there. She and Fred are much drawn to you, and I think they really want to have you near them for a little time in a familiar way. I am glad you are going to them on Saturday and that you will be at church in the morning. A week from this hour will be a great time, will it not, dearie? A few hundred seats are to be reserved in our balcony for ladies at the Festival,* so few that they must be drawn for by lot. Tomorrow I am going to put down my name for one for you. There is little chance of drawing it, but if I succeed I do not see why you should not come. Of course I could not be with you, nor indeed have anything to do with you. I must march solemnly in the procession in cap and gown. But there will be a great pageant, forty or fifty notables will receive degrees, and Lowell and Holmes will speak. Then we two shall be in the same room, even if a multitude is between us. I have asked Egbert Smyth and Pres. Seelye to be my guests during the celebration, and in a few days I shall hear from them. If we had our own house here what fun it would be to entertain these guests. But then I should be entertained by you all the time. . . . * The celebration of the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the founding of Harvard College. [55]

A. F. to G. Η. P. Friday, 3 P.M. [October 1886] M y darling, can you come tomorrow night? I want to see you. In fact, I think I must see you. This has been a destructive week. I feel as if I have been in prison from the day of my return. For the second time in my life I have had to dismiss a student publicly, and the whole experience has been of the heart-breaking kind. Y o u know how, sometimes, every possible complication arises. So this is the time when another student manifests most peculiar symptoms of mania, and must be guarded every moment until she can be gotten home where she should have always been, as this is an old trouble. So the days go! And every one brings interesting guests of Harvard's great Festival. Come early, dear, and come directly to the College and in at the East Door, and knock at No. 4, opposite the gas, — my office, on your left as you enter. I go now to the Fitting School at Natick. If you were here, you should have a drive.

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford, Sunday, $ P.M. [October 1886] I have just come in from the woods, the long walk across the logs, past the cellar and along the shaded cart path where we sauntered hand in hand three weeks ago. The country is not now what it was then, when the maples lent their crimson and the nut trees their gold and the oaks their purple [56]

splendor to the making all over the land of "one smile more." N o w this is all gone and the face of nature has settled into that grim starved expression so familiar to the dweller in New England, that seems to imply an alienation from all the joys of earth and only a speculative interest in those which shall be hereafter. On my way home I went into the old house where we lay in the moonlighted great room, and up to the chamber where we frolicked before the sunshiny parting. All things here speak of you and so bring me a double pleasure. In spite of your intimation that no more letters from me would be acceptable, you see I write. I want to meet you when you come back to Norumbega and to tell you how you have filled me with health and joy. It stays this time — the cure — I have had no touch of headache since we parted. God grant it may be so with you, that you may have received great rest on this journey and not additional fatigue and anxiety. What a blessed time it was. How the perfume of it lingers. I find myself gay without knowing why, and when I ask myself why; I see a little room just big enough to hold two happy lovers. You seem to belong to me as you never did before. Your daily life is unknown to me, as mine to you. Yet while I know that this is not as it should be, I am no longer restless. I took up today the Deutsche Liebe you sent me, so very long ago. It is an exquisite story, with great worth in itself. But to me the volume did not bring this worth but something more valuable still. It epitomized these early halfformed days when love and you were still strange and I was reaching out to find one who was far away. How different [57]

you are now, Alice. Have you changed» or have I? or has God made a new world for us in which we both have a worth we never knew before? I honor you today as I could not then. Y o u suit me so. In our growing familiarity, as I come to take my rights in you as quietly natural and matters of course, the romance does not wear away. You are greater, finer, more the woman I admire than ever before. I had a pleasant ride home. The hours went fast. I caught the 9 o'clock train and full of thoughts of you settled down to read the great package of theses with which my bag was filled. If I had been at home I should not have done more work. And there was the diversion of pausing after some intricate criticism of Hobbes to pick off from my coat a long brown hair that glinted with gold in the light. When I took the horse car to Cambridge Professor Cohn entered and sat beside me, just come from the concert . . . a man of force, who fights for good causes and has a wholesome human quality in him. W e had pleasant talk all the way home. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Thursday [November i886>] Darling, if this budget reaches you when you are busy, lay it away until by your own quiet fireside you can amuse yourself with its many documents. Nothing of importance is here. Nothing but that which is always with you and which words are powerless to tell — my love. . . . [58]

Do you know what happened a week ago tonight? or three months ago yesterday? or tomorrow, when this letter will be received? Their meetings made December June. Their every parting was to die. But our partings, however painful, are to new peace, to deeper assurance of one another, and to ever fresh honor. Only you shame me in some ways. I never know how selfish I am until I have been with you. The sight of your great generous soul makes me see my own pettiness. Do not be disquieted, darling, that we cannot come together. I am not. W e can wait when we have each other so fully. I shall be always casting about for means to save Wellesley and to bring us to our new duties. But I shall not accept unsuitable means — none but God's own — nor shall I be petulant nor regretful nor decayed. Full vigor we will keep and full cheer, the peace that comes from a mind stayed on Him and on that image of Him which we now know and love in the dear one. . . . I do not want our approaches to one another to have anything feverish, anything disturbing, about them. W e are man and woman, not children. W e mean to be strong. My desire would be to hear from you every day — every hour. I never get enough. But then I know I cannot, and I sanction the impossibility. It is better so. W e are to consider not temporary arrangements, but a permänent policy which shall bring satisfaction and growth, steady and deep going. How would it do to have times for writing, tolerably fixed? Nothing rigid, you know. If either had anything to say at [59]

any unusual time, he would not hesitate to write. But in general, for the ordinary expression of ourselves, would it not bring less hastiness and more comfort if we knew that each Sunday — say — you would write to me, and that I each Wednesday should be allowed a letter to you? Perhaps once a week is too near to starvation diet. M y time is easily arrangeable. I should have no difficulty in writing twice a week. But I do not want you to feel pressed. I want you to be able to dismiss me from your conscious mind in seasons of business and only to keep me as an under fragrance, sweetening, gladdening, strengthening. I suspect if the times of the coming of letters were known, something of unwholesome longing might be removed. But you see how halfhearted is my suggestion of any diminution of my sweets. I am not clear about the matter at all. I want to bring you ease and to keep our love wholly natural, fine, and brightening. The greatest endearments now are sweet matters of course, though still mysteries and blessings. So we gain in naturalness by every meeting. We keep the romance and give up the strangeness. So it should be. But I wish we might meet oftener. A few words are better than reams of paper. Perhaps when you are going to Boston some afternoon, you can send me word. The Art Museum is quiet enough and somewhat on your way — getting off at Huntington Avenue. Perhaps you know of better places. A public meeting is not the same as ä deux, but is something. And whenever you think it permissible I will spend an evening at the College — not Norumbega. Possibly business may take you to New York again. I suppose nothing can be made of Thanksgiving! [60]

Well, there is an item or two of business. I failed — like three-quarters of the applicants — to get a ladies' ticket. So I cannot bring you here on Monday. From now till Wednesday I shall be like Barnes's wife "tied up like a dog."

A. F. to G. H. P. Sunday Afternoon, Norumbega [November 7] M y dear boy, do come in just a minute, I want you so! It has been a hard week with you too, I am afraid. I was most sorry for the rain yesterday, and all the pleasant plans spoiled. I had to be in Boston in the morning at a meeting of our Aid Society and came home by way of Cambridge, and met a large number of people whom I wished to see at Professor and Mrs. Gray's reception — but not the one I longed to find. I dined at the Horsford's and came home early, because I have a very heavy cold. I began to feel it Friday, and it is most troublesome today with a constant cough. I must have added to it in the rain yesterday. I have so much waiting to tell you of all this crowded week. There has been no break since I stepped off the train Tuesday morning at half past six. . . . If my cold is better I shall be in Sanders Theatre tomorrow morning. Last night Mrs. Pearmaine brought me a ticket begging me to go with her. She and her husband were with me in Memorial Hall when you returned to me, the evening of Class Day. Do you remember» He is a Harvard man, and drew ladies' tickets, and she is one of my girls. I have not time, and yet I know I shall be sorry if I miss it. I shall sit quietly in the same room [61]

with you, dear, and enjoy it all. Y o u have had a grand day in Cambridge, with a great sermon tonight from Dr. Brooks, of course. And we have had a magnificent sermon from Professor Tucker, and good talk with him between times. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Tuesday [November p] Why, my dear little girl, there we were near, and I did not see you, and you went back disappointed. And so little more would have brought us face to face! . . . And yet even disappointments like these cannot shake me into discontent. Since we were last together it has seemed as if nothing could harm me. The separateness of us passed away then. It is difficult to describe it. Hitherto I have been engaged in vanquishing you, in making you mine. N o w you are mine. Being so, I cannot treat you selfishly any more, I cannot take from you or make demands or have wishes. M y own is gone. W e have a common life, and I cannot regret the circumstances of yours any more than I allow myself to those of my own. M y interest now is in guarding you, in giving to you. All that you have I see is mine, and I want to pour it back upon you and enrich you as you are all the time enriching me. Had you opposed me when I came to your breast I should still have gone on. That is my place, I know. But that you knew it too, and felt the action to be altogether simple, almost too slight to be worth blushing at, disclosed to me as I had not seen it before the [62]

nearness in which we now stand. W e cannot have a divided mind or heart. Fifteen miles of country cannot part us. You must not think, then, my bounteous one, that in staying at Wellesley you are keeping from me something that I want. I am afraid you fret yourself about this and wish you could give yourself into my home here. You feel yourself drawn in two directions, and the tie of duty galls you because while it is binding you down you think I am believing it ought to be snapped. It is not so. I do want you. There is no day when I do not need as well as want. But all your obligations are mine. I feel them so now. And until they are wisely treated I could not welcome you. I shall move persistently, and I think with steady advance, in the direction of meeting these obligations. But I am not disquieted any more. It is you, in the fullness of your character, I want. That I have. I will not throw away a part of it for the dear sight of you moving about my rooms. Be easy about me, therefore. Be glad in yourself. Do not let any frictions of anxiety roughen your hard daily life. . . . My guests are gone. The Festival is over — counted a success by all, and certainly full of interest. Lowell's address* of course went against all I count holy and naturally appeared to me foolish in information and reprehensible in aim. Full of brilliant sentences, with phrases that tickled one's very marrow, it still viewed education as essentially the affair of a clique, and valued life for the charm which it might possess. Of the world as a place where the commonest has something to do, and of colleges as good places to help * The address appears in Lowell's collected prose works under the title "Harvard Anniversary."

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him do it, we heard nothing. The piece in its graceful slouch and masses of heterogeneous learning, its airy way of turning off hard problems, its allusions to families of name, and its heedlessness of what might become of the ordinary ones, smelt strongly of the British Isles. There is malaria in those water-encompassed regions which few escape who breathe their airs long. It is melancholy to hear one who was once a young radical become a Jeremiah. The experience of being bored by Holmes is so unique that it was almost pleasurable.* In his comparative failure there was nothing to blame. A man must become old some time. But we need not become old like Lowell. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Midnight, Saturday, Nov. 13

Yes, I will go in just a minute, my dearest heart. But I am so happy that I cannot go to sleep now. And it is so pleasant here, so much brighter than in the offices where I have had to receive you this blessed night. I wish I might have had you here. And yet it is pleasant to have had you in the midst of all my daily work, and my present cares. Since I watched you down the hill, I have been at the large desk, filing the papers and reducing the chaos of the week's papers to order, and sitting there I heard your train come and go. I hope you are safely home without taking cold. It was hard to let you go out into the storm. But it * Holmes read a poem which is printed in his collected poems under a title descriptive of the occasion.

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was a great quiet which you brought. Dear, you rest me so! Your voice rests me, and the touch of your hand. . . . Sunday Night

You will not mind if I write, lying here quietly? I am trying to rest today, in body, as last night I rested in mind and heart. If I succeed, I can begin a fresh life with the new week, and a better and stronger one. Dear, there are so many things to be done for this College, from without and from within, and to be done at once. Help me to be worthy to do them, and wise to know them. The last fortnight has been a time of purification. If now we can rise "above all low delay," and go on with a strong steady life! W e must prevent these lives from downward tendencies, whether they are conscious of their dangers or not. I wonder what Wellesley will be when she celebrates her two hundred fiftieth anniversary! It is such good work to do! Aren't you glad to have so large a share in it? For you are in it day and night. George dear, be patient with me as you always are. Your strength and tenderness and quietness save me from hourly restlessness for your sake. I can't tell you how good it has been to read your letters since the journey, over and over. For you understand, and are true to my life — which is yours — as to your own life, — in all its manifold duties and obligations. You know, you must know? how I hunger to help you in your daily life. That is my great hardship — that I can do nothing for you as your life flows on day by day in its routine duties and constant demands. And yet, we must be true! — and I feel that I am giving you the largest possible gift in my power in doing as perfectly as I may the duties waiting [65]

upon me here just now. For I trust that the thought of me brings more comfort than perplexity in your dear rooms in Stoughton Hall. Let us be glad every minute, George, for we have now the very heart of all we long for, and nothing can take that away, or change the blessedness of it; and anything added must be just so much extra. Sometimes now, I feel that I have all the happiness I can possibly bear. But what capacities for bliss one discovers, like new powers of loving ! . . . I wish you had this red sweet rose standing here beside me. I have been reading George Herbert, and Latin hymns, and thinking ah! sweet thoughts, here alone with the wind howling around the house. I hope you are no worse for the exposure of last night, nor will be for the reading of this lazily written letter. I shall be better tomorrow, be sure. N o w I shall read Mr. Brooks' sermon of last Sunday night. Thank you for sending it. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Sunday Evening [November 14] Dear Alice, the roses are shining on my shelf. They kept their freshness in my dark pocket, just as the thought of you remains vivid and refreshing in this silent world to which I am come back. The walk home was beautiful. The clouds had thinned so as to be like gauze through which the moon shimmered over the fields of snow. The air was invigorating, and when I dropped into bed about 12 o'clock I knew I was a better man than when I left Cambridge. All night you attended my dreams as you do my waking thoughts. Today [66]

I am as well as I always am when fresh come from your lifegiving influence. No touch of headache, and down underneath there is a bubbling joyousness. . . . I had an amusing time this morning. After church I went to Mr. Norton's to read him the proof which has just been sent me of my first article. Lowell was there. I told him I doubted if he would care to hear what I had written, if he disapproved its sentiments as much as I did those of his Oration. He laughed and said he did perhaps make some mistakes, but the fact was he didn't know what to say and had to say something. He said he wrote up in the country and had nobody to refer to who knew anything about Harvard. When he had gone, at the close of my paper, I denounced his escapade to Mr. Norton as a most ignorant affair. Norton said that was its only justification, that Lowell had been out of the country so long he was in dead ignorance of what had been taking place here and that he had not even knowledge enough to be aware of his own ignorance. To me who believe that Harvard is helping forward the kingdom of the Lord as few colleges are, these things are a grief. Piety we have not. But that, though valuable, is in my judgment the part of religion which may be dropped with least damage. Some day I hope we may have that too. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Monday Evening [November 15]

My dear girl, your letter has just come and tells me of your illness. I knew you were not well on Saturday night, [67]

but how ill you were I did not know. Of course I am pained. I cannot fail to be that when you must bear suffering and I cannot take it away. And how often this is the case, that the hardships fall on you and the comforts on me. Yet I do not let myself be disturbed over your sicknesses. Much of our righteousness must consist in finding out the wisest ways to pass through ill health and to press on to the largest work that is open to us under conditions not in themselves favorable. W e must be cheerful, indisposed to make a fuss over ourselves, ready to attend to our ill feelings only so far as they may need judicious steering. And this being the case in our treatment of ourselves, now that we have taken on a larger self we must be willing to extend a similar treatment to the new part also. That I find a hard business — for your sake to be quiet while you are justly perplexed. The strain on you rightly adds to my determination to end as soon as possible the obligations you are under. You are risking the future of Wellesley by staking it on your own increasing feebleness. But so long as these obligations continue — and at present we cannot snap them — I will stand contentedly and bear my part of the burden, the awful burden of seeing my dearest one spent in body and mind in carrying on a work which both of us would gladly see laid down. So long as you must carry it, my darling, I will be at your side in no fretful spirit, and the sense that I am there, and that the perplexities are no longer merely your own, may make things easier. I will try not to worry over your illnesses. W e will meet them bravely. And remember the message when my letters must be excluded — " W e cannot take any more pupils at present." . . . [68]

Tonight Moody has been preaching in Sanders Theatre and I was there — a plain talk about the fundamentals of righteousness or rather of sin. I never heard him before. His strength is in his directness. We ordinarily wrap the thoughts we think most important in so much flummery that their plain veritableness is hardly seen. There is no literary power so great as speaking exactly the truth one means. It will carry off a great deal of bad taste, bad grammar, bad reasoning, and leave the hearer ennobled. Religious speakers ordinarily carry about with them a great stock of nonsense. I don't always think his meaning wise, but at least he never seems false, and of how many can this be said? It is a strange tribute to the ideal, this falsetto tone we put on, this shame we have of the natural and the simple. People who had no temptation to the falsetto would be poor creatures. But perhaps those who indulge it are poorer. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Tuesday Morning [November 16] My dear boy, I am gloriously well today, and must say so before I turn to the day's duties. This life-giving air and sunshine would put heart into anybody, — but I should be well now in any case. My Sunday's rest was just all I needed to put my cough into submission. Don't be in the least troubled. It is the literal truth that I was never better in my life than I am this year. And you know that I have good reason to be well, and so can easily believe me, if you needed proof in addition to sight. I am rather glad to have felt ill, [69]

if by that means I get this sweet letter to brighten all my day. Only, dear, do not suppose that I am suffering, for I am not — indeed I am rejoicing! But I am in perplexity with you. I have not had a word from Mrs. Claflin and greatly need to know definitely if I am to be in Boston tomorrow. I hope you have heard. It would be such a pity to miss the dinner with Miss Longfellow and Mr. Brooks, unless a "positive engagement" should prevent that good fortune. If Mrs. Claflin knew how much depended upon her royal nod — but I am glad she doesn't. Dinners, sans ceretnonie, would then overwhelm us. It would not do to have any other engagements. I hope that she isn't ill. She should have been here last night to hear Mr. Cable, who gave us the rarest delights in reading his Grande Pointe. It would give you the brightest kind of an evening, full of subtle fun and refinement, and tenderness. I longed for you twenty times as the dainty story of Creole life unrolled. He is spending the day, and we are enjoying him off the platform, even more than on i t . . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Sunday Afternoon [November 21] . . . The paper went off well. The men gathered round the fireplace smoked and listened, and when it was over discussed it for an hour and a half. T o my surprise all agreed with me. One of them I knew to be disposed to prescribed courses and another to group systems, but when w e came to understand one another we agreed. They think the paper [70]

will make something of a rumpus when it appears a fortnight hence. We broke up at eleven. Just as dinner was going on the express man brought Ellen's ear-drop, altered to a pin. It looks very well and will be in time for Mary's birthday. To me as well as you it was a pleasure that you should have a finger in this loving matter. That you are fond of Ellen I know, because you are fond of me, and I am so saturated with her that anybody who found her distasteful would find me so. But I am glad too to have her separated life to you a matter of tender regard, just as it is to me. You have been very sweet about it, darling. There are many mysteries connected with such a relation, and I don't see through them all. I know that my love for her is as strong as ever it was, and that in nothing does it part me from you but rather forms a bridge on which I cross. I do not seek you because marriage for me has been before a failure, but because being a full success under most difficult circumstances it has shown me what a sacrament true marriage is, what an aid to unselfishness, what a guide to divine living. Nobody who did not care for it in this way could be dear to me; nobody who did could I marry unless just in herself I passionately cared for her and dreaded and admired her great character and felt coming out from her a personal charm. That is the way I loved Ellen and so I love you, my own Alice. You are not loved as a reproduction of her but in your own right. She was my High School, you shall be my College. During the eight years since she went away I have been trying to work out some of the lessons which she taught me and I hope I may bring you a less imperfect boy than used to worry her. . . . [7i]

Moody preached this morning in the same artless veritable way. His power is that of John Bunyan. He explains nothing. He assumes that we know it all. But are we making it real? Are we living what we know? God has shown him a few things that perhaps may help us. I dine tonight with Mrs. Scudder, where I meet Emily, newly come from Boxford. I wish you were to be there. But where do I not wish for you? Here most of all, here in my study, as I move about the table and talk with the many callers, here among my books that express my life and my hopes and the powers that I mean shall go forth from me before I die — here is your place, Alice. W h y are you not in it?

A. F. to G. H. P. Sunday Morning [November 1886] I have just come in from the west woods, where you and I went on our first Sunday together, that fair day in June. They are silent this morning, and yet filled with dear sounds and sights. It's a glorious day! full of freshness and brilliant light, and even the stripped trees after the storms "rejoice before the Lord" — such a Sunday as should follow Thursday's rainbow, and evening light. It would be a j o y to ramble about country places, and open woods, together all the afternoon — to climb Sunset Rock and look abroad, and find the new summer's treasures swept into the cave where I shut you in last summer. Do you realize how nearly you were made a life-long prisoner? Give me thanks for allowing the narrow escape. The lake is laughing all over today. It's a [72]

blessed world. "Dear are the hills of God." On such Sundays I am so glad for life, pure and simple. I want to shout and sing for very joy in living under the sky and trees, and having eyes to see the sun and all his children on the earth. You ought to be out in it all today. But, perhaps, you are tired, and worn after the dissipation of last night. I am sure the dinner and the paper were a great success. I longed to peep in and see you in the midst of the festivities. You must tell me about it when I see you Wednesday night. . . . Sunday Night, ll o'clock

The President of the University of New Mexico was to have spoken in the chapel tonight, on Indian affairs. At the last moment he failed to appear, and almost the entire College had gathered to hear him. They had to have something said, so I said it or tried to, as no one else could come to the rescue. It has been a strange day. Yesterday I heard that Dr. Clark — today's preacher, was still ill at Clifton, and I had to supply his place, fearful all the while that he might come — indeed hoping he might. But we heard nothing and I was fortunate in being ready. A lady who proposes to write the history of the College is here, talking to me at every odd minute. I hope she may grow too discouraged to proceed. Don't you wish to write an article on Wellesley; It requires a great many interviews with the President. Or is that no inducement; I assure you she would be gracious and give you statistics by the hour. She can be patient, on occasion. Professor Bowne is coming to give a course on Theism, and Dr. Duryea on Christian Evidences. George, you will read the Odyssey, won't you? [73]

"It would do good"; you know it would! And "you want to do good?" I expect that you will agree to a perfect plan of mine when we meet. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Dec. 3

A day of so sacred a date as this must not slip away, dear, without a greeting to you. I hoped to write you a long letter this afternoon, but I was called away by a psychical society's spiritualistic seance in Boston. The poor spirits seemed frozen up. Perhaps the chilling presence of a dozen scientific men was too much for them. They would not appear nor tell their names correctly. The medium wasn't a fraud, I think, but one of the many poor creatures who fancy that any notion that comes into their minds is inspired in proportion as its origin is untraceable and as it is disconnected from any rational ties. A pious man he was, I judge, but looking for God's will in regions of chaos instead of order. All day the thought "Alice is going away" has been following me about the streets.* A good many lonely days are in store for me in the future, I see. But I am sure you had better go, and I rejoice that the opportunity comes to you just at this time. Y o u have not had a vacation for more than a year. The one which last Summer should have brought you, the wedding and I destroyed. In this country it is impossible that you should have a vacation — at least until your present ties are snapped. And yet I do not believe you * She planned a trip abroad in company with a friend but later decided against it.

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can prudently go longer without it. You are spending yourself at a monstrous rate now, spending much more than physical soundness. You know Herbert's verse: By all means use some times to be alone: Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear. Dare to look in thy chest — for 'tis thy own — And tumble up and down what thou findst there. You can never be alone. You can never be truly quiet. You must always be in a hurry. That is demoralizing. Fullness of your own life cannot keep pace with official activities under such circumstances. Those large interests of your personal own which feed and fatten character, and ultimately enrich all who come near, will not form in such an atmosphere. Your private life will tend more and more to shrivel, to be hidden, to be unsubstantially sentimental, while your public life goes its way more and more as a matter of business. The two cannot keep together, and as they part the fineness of sincerity will be blunted. I am sure you see these dangers. I see them more plainly than you, for I love you — that is, I worship a glorious woman in you and believe that she is the one whom you were meant to be. You cannot love yourself as I love you. So these things do not frighten you as they do me. You think they are sacrifices which you are justified in making to a great institution. To me they look like suicide. A few months of travel will not repair this waste. But even that short freedom from immediate tasks will strengthen you bodily and should give you leisure to see deliberately what you mean to do. It is possible I am mistaken. It may be [75]

such a life as you are now living is the proper one for you. You may be "like the dyer's hand, subdued to that you work in." Removed from this, you might not know what to do with yourself. The aspirations you have had for scholarship may by this time have become fictitious, the old interests of history, political economy, law, be now in your eyes important only when somebody is likely soon to ask a question about them. Administration may be now your genuine life. If it is so, do find it out and tell me, and do not let me spoil a life — two lives — that I want to enlarge. Would you not be happier, and in your judgment more useful, darling, as president of Wellesley than as my wife? Have you any such desire to be always by my side that studying how to help me could ever seem to you the greatest of duties, for which all others might wait? Sometimes I think not. Sometimes I think it would not make you glad to see the obstacles to our life together removed. I doubt if that joined life of ours plays much part in your thoughts. I am a shadowy being who has lent a romance to your life. In my presence you like to forget all realities and live in the rapturous moment. But the feeling gone, hard facts are waiting and these do not include me. How much of this is true? Dearie, it is hard for you to tell. You want to be sincere, and is it not cruel that in love it is so hard to be sincere? And you are not used to self-knowledge. I pity you, my little one. Sometimes I want to give up perplexing you and to say, "Let me go away and do you plunge into your duties. Write your letters, meet your hordes of second-class people, inspirit your teachers, manage your difficult guardians, help your girls to be devout; and if ever [76]

in the future it should occur to you that you had lost something in losing me, call and I will come." Will not this distant journey effect the same purpose; Will you not be willing to be thoroughly free of me and to judge whether in that way you are a better woman or a worse? And you will not think such questionings are disloyal, dearest, however they are decided. They are the only loyalty, much more loyal than giving a feeling which goes no deeper than itself. In all such questionings I shall be with you. W e shall be searching together. W e shall be trying to find God's own truth, and only by it do we care to be supported. His ways will be plainer to you when I am not near and when the clamor of those girls is a little stilled. How happy to feel your presence in the same room last night, even when I could not see you. I have never spoken before when you were by, and that was a pleasure. God has been very good to us in leaving us near one another so often of late. And He has varied the circumstances and permitted us to know new phases of each other. The first love, that comes to us on such days as the shining one four months ago, always perishes, and the important question is shall we recognize and love our love in her who comes after? I do, but I can take nothing else but herself, her own great full self, undamaged in any part, and given to me as the only righteous act she could do. Dear heart, these are not things to perplex you now. They will keep. There is some more time after this is gone by. I only write of them so that if they visit your mind — as I know they must sometimes — you will not let them vex. You will know that we are both having a part in them. [77]

I am glad you did not need to go back to the College on windy last night — though today you will be busy enough to pay for it. Had it occurred to me in time, I should have made Mrs. Claflin ask me to go home with her too, and then we could have breakfasted together. But perhaps even her impenetrable mind may take a suspicion if it is pressed too far. So it is as well as it is. We will communicate only across that sympathetic line which perpetually connects Stoughton and Norumbega.

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley — Office, Friday Morning [December 3] Mrs. McCoy informs me upon my arrival that the professors announced this morning that "Professor Palmer was the most interesting person in the Round Table last night, and what he said quite repaid them for going in town, if they had heard nothing else." Col. Higginson says that your readings form an epoch in one's experience with Homer, that you give one an entirely new life in his atmosphere, and much more that makes me feel more eager to have you come. When other people constantly advise it, how can I be blamed for being interested in you, and what you do and say? General Walker came out on the train with me this morning and will spend several hours in the lectures and laboratories. We had the most talk of the art school and plans for it, and discussion of foreign schools. I fear they have not solved our problems. I find a gift of $5000.00 from a strange lady in Wisconsin to whom I once had a chance to [78]

show some courtesy. It will found a scholarship. Two works of Henry Dexter have been given the College this week. So we go on — I tell you too much of the affairs? But you always listen kindly to the echoes from my life. I have had rare hours with Mr. Whittier this week. This morning he talked of death, holding my hand, and saying, "I have written always thinking only of the friends I love." "I have not been ambitious that my rhymes should live after them." "I don't want anything said about me — I hope there will be no fuss made." And when I came away he took my hands and kissed me repeatedly. Oh! my dear George, I am afraid I shall not see him again — I wish I could see you soon.

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Saturday Morning [December 4]

Dear love, I wrote you a letter last night that made my heart bleed — for I can't think of those months of separation without a lump in my throat. And now this morning come your glad warm words to brighten all my day. I am afraid I shall have chilled yours. Even to ask ourselves to consider whether we are made for one another seems a deed of cruelty. Yet ask we must, ask over and over again. That is the way of love, scrupulously to guard against damaging the loved thing. I would far rather you never came to me than that you should come and find your great powers in any respect lessened. For I do not seek to get you, not for myself. Only that by joining, we two may together make up [79]

one more righteous person than either could be alone. I ask you merely To help me and shear all my lot And in faithvulness keep all your life by my zide Tho the way mid be happy or not. Think over it candidly and clear-sightedly — not pitifully, hardly even longingly — in the painful months that are to come. Let us make this otherwise barren season a precious opportunity of fruitage, in this respect at least, and then we may celebrate its autumn — its time of harvest — with merriment and wealth. But I did not mean to renew my thoughts of last night. Like so many other love letters of mine, this is a business note. You allude again to my reading some Homer at Wellesley. Well, I will do it if you want it. Whatever your deliberate wish is, is always ultimately mine. You would not care to have me reading there after you had gone. That would really cut me too much. I should break down and say "Where is Penelope?" But if you care to arrange anything before you go, I am ready at any time. Evenings are easiest for me, but afternoons — particularly Monday, Wednesday, or Friday — are endurable, and I suppose I could manage the mornings of those days. I will read once or twice or possibly three times, as you wish, reading first the 19th Book. W e are so near the Christmas recess now, and after that your departure comes so soon, and through all this period your time will be so busy that I doubt the expediency of undertaking anything. But do what you will, sweet love. It is to you I give these readings, not to Wellesley College, [80]

though it is so inwrought in you that I am willing it should stand by and listen. D o not accept them unless they can be used wisely. Only employ me as you please. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Sunday Afternoon, College, No. 4 [December 5] This wealthy gift of snow shuts me into the office where we spent the evening when the first snow-storm came and you went out into it after three sacred hours. I like to be here with you, though this paper cannot take the place of last Sunday's and your presence. I hope my telegram yesterday did not disturb you. When I found at noon that I must go in town, my heart got the better of judgment, and I said, "There is one chance in ten thousand that he may be at 27 Stoughton, having just sent the paper to the Andover Review, and having no engagement to take dinner with specially interesting people — that is (may Mrs. Lane and the family forgive me!) more interesting than he could find in Boston," so I sent the telegram, and how amazed and happy I should have been had you put your hand to my door in the Vendome.* If you were still blue over the paper I should have given you some gay and sweet flowers — I probably should have given them anyway, for am I not celebrating four months of life? Thank you, dear, for the kind "love letters" which comforted me when I came home. I was a good deal troubled yesterday. Friday had been full of feeling, of hunger for a deeper, better life, of home-sickness, * The hotel which Miss Freeman used as her headquarters in Boston.

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and dissatisfaction with the round of mere duty — doing all this with a longing to speak to you of it, running under large interests all day. Early in the evening I went to Norumbega, and had a happy time with all the treasures these months have scattered from their dear days — all the dear letters, and books that your hands have touched, all the gifts that my hands never touch without growing stronger for nobler work. It was a rich, glad time, and sad enough too. The tears are very near my eyes since I saw you Thursday night and we stood among the "fremde Mencken," and said quietly that it is better that a long separation should come. It is better and I am planning for it — but! — Well, dear, you see, all this and more I couldn't help talking out to you too fully Friday night. — I saw Saturday morning that it was best not to say it all, so you haven't the letter. Y o u would decide it "unsubstantial sentimentality"; you might be troubled again. I wish I need not trouble you so often with the hard constant perplexities of my life and its cares. I intend to spare you in the future. I will be more unselfish about it, dear. I will not press the burdens and joys of College life upon you so. N o wonder that all this has troubled you, and made you question and doubt. But know this, George, that in all my questionings as to the ways of God for me, I do not question you, or the life that might be with you. That radiant day when you took me in your arms for the first time and opened my eyes, I did not see you as I see you now. Y o u are a braver, finer, truer man than I knew. D o you know what it means when a woman learns to say " I love you"? Well, dear, it means a good deal more than to be "glad at seeing obstacles to our coming together removed." It means all the [82]

"fruits of the spirit," a larger justice, a deeper righteousness, a fuller obedience; it means paying one's debts and discharging one's obligations, doesn't it? I must see you this week. I am to be in Cambridge at Mrs. Gilman's (Arthur) Wednesday afternoon. If possible I shall hear Mr. Lanciani in the evening, but that is doubtful. I will write you. You are so good to plan the Greek readings. When can you begin? Do you go to the lectures Wednesday evening? If not would you come home with me?

A. F. to G. H. P. Norumbega, Monday Evening, 10 o'clock [December 1886] I was so interrupted in finishing my letter to you that I did not say half that was on my heart. I am so happy, Beloved, in the prospect of having you here for the Greek readings. To have you in Wellesley, and instructing our students, do you know how much it means to me? You come into my daily life then; you stand beside me in my beautiful work here and have a part in it. It seems as if you belong to me in a new way. I know I am yours in new bonds. And how we shall see each other! We must plan for evenings if we can, though the gymnasium somewhat interferes. Mondays are shut out of consideration, as they are recreation, reception, visiting days unless I can manage an early evening hour. But we will talk of it and choose between the possibilities, before I go. That cannot be until after the first Thursday in February, I think. That day the Trustees have their winter meeting. The annual appointments will be made and a Dean [83]

can be appointed! and other important work be done. Immediately afterward I can sail. I have had no opportunity as yet to discuss the plan with Mrs. Durant. I fear she will object to the whole thing, and that will make the getting away harder. Tomorrow I can talk with her. If you can come out Wednesday or Thursday evening this week, I can see you at Norumbega. We must talk it all over. Please choose the night more agreeable to you! If you come out Wednesday night I may be on the same train, if Thursday night I will meet you here. Your letter of last evening brightened all my day, and it has been pleasant. Horace Scudder spoke this evening on "Domestic Life in Shakespeare." Mrs. Scudder, Miss Cushman and Miss Vida Scudder came with him at three o'clock, and we have had a thoroughly good talk together. I like them. Miss Vida and I spoke of Boxford enthusiastically and both wished we might go again! How can we get an invitation? Could you use your influence for us with the hard-hearted host of last summer? Then do, tonight, and tell him about one who is always his Alice.

A. F. to G. H. P. President's Office

Wellesley College

Wellesley, Mass., Dec. 21st, 1886

My dear Professor Palmer, I cannot let the morning pass without an expression of the pleasure which you gave us last evening. I am sure that you must have seen and felt the enjoyment of your audience, as [84]

you passed — quite too quickly indeed! — through the ever-new old story. Much is said about your reading today, by professors and students, and I am sorry to add that two grievances are emphasized — that you left when you did, and where you did, the sweet story of the home-coming. That we must have the end of that night's planning in the royal halls of Odysseus is unanimously agreed, and not too long hence. Perhaps as early as the middle of January you will consent to pick up the broken threads. Your translation is much more spirited than any other I know. You do restore the clear atmosphere which Homer breathed, and at last we can move about among the wise, free children of Greece, with a new delight in their fresh lives. I trust you will not refuse to continue the happy instruction of the Greek Department next term. Believe me, Very sincerely yours, ALICE E. FREEMAN

A. F. to G. H. P. President's Οffice

Wellesley College

Wellesley, Mass., Dec. 21,

1886

There! If Mrs. Lane wishes to know how we liked it you can tell her of a note which you just had, and can give her a glimpse of a sentence or two, and add that I "urge you to add readings next term"; in fact you might confess that you

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feel yourself under some pressure to continue. Perhaps she will give you some good advice on the subject. Everybody is talking with satisfaction about last evening only that "it was too bad to stop there!" " W e could have gone on an hour longer!" and so forth. I am glad you talked about Homer, even a little. When you come again, you must say more about him. Mrs. Newman came in after you went. She enjoyed the reading enthusiastically though not a Greek scholar. She remarked — "Prof. Palmer has a wonderful voice and it seems to me he looks much younger than last summer." Miss Bates comes in to say that she is very sorry not to have met you. "Next time" she is to have a chance to talk with you. And Miss Case, an instructor in philosophy, wishes to see you when you "come again." I am afraid, my young friend, as the moralists say, — that you are entered upon a long road. I could easily try your own logic now and advise you that Greek readings mean more than Greek or readings, and that when a man accepts Monday he generally has to take Tuesday, and all the days that follow. But I will not boast! Though I feel so vain — Mr. Willcox knocked and is waiting for me to "sign my letter." But I shall write to Fred, and confess that I know how he feels when Mary reads her novel.

G. H. P. to A. F. Steamer Bristol, Friday Morning [December 24] Alice dear, if I write you before we reach N e w York you will have a greeting from me on Christmas day — a day [86]

which if lovers had their rights we should be spending together. Next year we will not be parted, and even now perhaps we may spend our Sunday a week from the next together. Write to the mountains, to Crawfords, or perhaps the Pemigewassett House at Plymouth would be more likely to be open, and see if we can not have a few days of solitary communion with one another, with our books, and the hills. I will take my work and you shall take yours, and we could start whenever you found yourself able to leave Wellesley. The following Tuesday, at n , I have lectures. That is my earliest engagement — except a standing one with a school-mistress. So you can arrange my times of going and coming pretty much by your own convenience. And if on thinking of the matter you should conclude you did not care to take such a journey, you would not set aside your feeling and go for my sake. I want to do a great many things with you, audacious and safe, but they must always be done from a double desire, not from a single separated one. We will not have any more separations. While our arms were twined about one another we talked of the time when we should own our new life to others. If you go abroad — and, by the way, you did not tell me how your thoughts on that grave subject were inclining — I suspect you will need to confess yourself to Miss Horsford. Living with her as intimately as you must, I think you will find something inhuman in such a concealment. And then the letters that will be going and coming will be sure to provoke suspicion. She has seen my hand and may recognize it. Some letter of mine to you will be sure to turn up in an inappropriate spot. There are a thousand contin[87]

gencies. They cannot all be guarded. To my mind suspicion is worse than acknowledgment. Much of the value of your journey will be conditioned on the degree of your trust in one another, your comradeship and ease. A litde suspicion will destroy all this. I don't care about your telling her. It will not advance our joint affairs. But it is another example of how increasingly difficult it will be to perpetuate our secret. I do not approve of its remaining a secret a day after it is not necessitated by Wellesley's interests. It is no matter for shame or fear, but a thing to be proud of, and I am sorry we have not been able already to tell all men that we were about to organize our lives on a new and better plan. Of course we shall not escape damage from the concealment thus far. If Mrs. Durant's temporary irritation should pass by a little before you sail, I hope you will give those in charge of Wellesley that time of absence for thinking the matter over. Till we were quite sure ourselves that our coming together was righteous public announcement would have been out of place. But how the last weeks have brought this assurance! Desire of course they have brought, passionate longing to be together always. But what calm confidence too. How much easier it is now to picture our studious, serviceable days in that home of ours which shall be a place of blessing for many. Wellesley shall still have you largely, but Harvard shall have you too. And just as you did not know till I came that you had any such power of affection, so through our studies together you will find great truth-loving powers spring up which will make it no selfish matter to know and to submit your own beliefs to God's thoughts. I do not know [88]

any greater service we can do for others than that — to live plainly and to think highly, and being pure within to let our simple lives shine out without pretence on any who come near. Direct efforts to benefit others are shallow compared with this. I am sure we see in our own case that the greatest blessings we have received have come from these casual influences of great souls. These are Christmas thoughts — thoughts appropriate to the time when God was set forth as veritable man. May the day be to you a brighter one than any of its predecessors, because of the great human gift God has given to each of us. The merriment of our Christmas we had yesterday. Its thanksgiving is always with us. You were very sweet about the rings, darling. I do not see how you are able to understand so fully my feeling for you as no superseder of Ellen. I do not understand it myself. I only know that my honor for her and gratitude are not as a fact interfered with as you take possession of me. I used to tell her I should marry again if I could ever love anybody again as I loved her, but I did not see how this could ever be possible. It has not been possible during these eight years, but now great you have made it so. I thank you and I believe in heaven Ellen herself does. The little stud I shall be glad to wear in my neck — as your rings on my chain. And it will not be difficult, I think, to make the bar of it a little longer. I did not give you the diamond ring because you seemed to find the thought of it painful. But you will let me give it before long, will you not? Certainly, if you go abroad. A ring keeps the personality of the giver as nothing else does. It lasts throughout a life, and is seen at unintended times, its heart of light flashing [89]

when you are engaged with humdrum matters that seem a long way removed from love affairs. I will not press you to take one from me, nor would I like to have it on your hand beside another more indifferent one. But whenever you can give it a place without finding it unpleasant you will tell Y o u r lover GEORGE

A. F. to G. H. P. Christmas Day, 1886 M y dear, "the rubber-boots" have come! They quite take my breath away! For daintiness they were never equalled! For beauty of texture, and soft grace no boots on human feet ever surpassed them. I speak with assurance. And if they manufactured such soft coverings on Mt. Olympus, it was only for the lightfooted messenger of the gods. If Hermes' sandals were like this, some mysteries are cleared away! When next you give a Homeric address here, please discuss the question. However, be the origin of my own what it may, I feel like one of the immortals in the possession of this gift. I wrap myself in its clinging softness, and shut out all the world-chill, and feel the warm lover's clasping arms. Dear, you make December May literally. Warm love melts the winter of my heart, and I feel all good and sweet things springing up and growing there. . . . When next I come to Boxford, I can go through the meadows and streams and woods at midnight with entire safety. . . . [90]

A. F. to G. Η. P. Norumbega, Sunday Night [December 26] I have a delicious sense of repose, Beloved, as I sit here in my warm still rooms, with the firelight playing on rugs, and pictures and hangings, and listen to the summer sounds in the flames, and think and think, and dream and plan and hope and love! I have been in my rooms all day and have seen no one but the cook and the maid. I slept late, and awoke with a glow at my heart, as if you were near. Then I reached the letter lying close to my pillow, and read my Christmas word over again, and added my other George Herbert's wise words on Love. So I rose strong and glad to my last Sunday in this year of our Lord, and of His grace. Dear George, He is so good and so indulgent to me! I do not understand. I am not worthy of all this! I know I am not. Sometimes I sit and tremble all alone, and say "He never will do all this for me. I am not fit to enter in!" But tonight I am so glad and safe in Him and in my lover. I have been talking with you much and earnestly through lectures all the morning. I can hear your voice as I read on, they are so full of you, and I constandy wish you were here to answer a question or defend some point where I want to attack you. So many discussions do we postpone! I had not opened the lectures until today. I longed to but I knew I must not. The time was not mine, and I looked forward to this Christmas Sunday with you! It has been so satisfying to shut my doors after breakfast, and read on and on, stopping to reflect and reread, and enjoy. You see I have been with you more really than you knew. But I have been in spirit often in the Rectory [91]

since you said goodbye, and I feel quite at home. My heart gives a leap to think how you are all sitting about together just now. I can almost feel Eric's arm around my neck and see Wat's contented face. I have Fred's and Mary's picture here, with yours, — my trio! The divine air of the little vestry is about me, and I can join in all the prayers and praises, with the touch of your hand in mine. Ah! my dear, how sacred and sweet that day was! And is, I should say. And we will have others as tender and glad. I have been full of many things since you went away. The Sup't. of Stone Hall has been lying at the point of death and we have all been full of anxiety and care. She is better today. The college nurse has suddenly resigned, in order to spend the winter with her sick mother, and I have gotten another for the present only. About thirty are spending the vacation here, and are having a merry time. We had a "jollification" in the parlor last night, with some amusing acting. It takes my time to live here in vacations. I shall be away a part of next week. But I fear the mountain plan will hardly do, George. We can see as much of each other here or in Boston, with fewer risks. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley College, Sunday Night [January p, 1887] It is so pleasant here by the fire alone, or would be, if the memory of my last Sunday were not so bright and sweet that these flames are pale beside it. I always want you most [92]

in this hour "between the dark and the daylight," Sundays. A n d I turn to y o u n o w with the greater longing in the first minute o f silence today. O n e o f the Freshmen has just left me after an hour o f eager talk about God's will. She is a wonderfully bright, attractive mind, sensitive but timid, afraid lest her "sins are too stultifying to leave enough soullife to be w o r t h saving." H o w I like to talk o f these things w i t h such girls, so honest and simple, so unwilling to run any risk o f shirking duty or failing o f the truth. If w e could only take G o d at His word, and lead natural simple lives! This child's mind is full o f what men — Presbyterians o f Albany — say about God's ways, and therefore o f much that is both unreasonable and hopeless. B u t w e have had a g o o d hour, and she sees that the religious life does not consist in feeling either great sorrow for sin or great exaltation and rapture at forgiveness. H o w patient G o d is with us all! I wonder at it more and more — when He has so much to tell us, and w e so slow to understand and believe. It grew so dark that I stopped and thought o f it all, and o f you, m y love, a little while, and h o w g o o d He has been, and is to us; and n o w the lamps are lighted that I may talk w i t h y o u again. W e meet tomorrow night! That is so good. I've not seen Mrs. Claflin since the beginning o f the vacation except at the Vendome. I am sorry y o u are not to be at the Round Table Thursday night. I see Prof. Laughlin is to speak. I don't k n o w that I will go. I must g o to N e w Haven for Wednesday afternoon. . . .

I speak at 3 o'clock and

will return that night probably. . . .

[93]

G. Η. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Wednesday Morning [January 12]

I wonder if I did well. All day I hesitated and finally in the afternoon telegraphed you. Now I am ill at ease, considering how I might at this time be by your side. When I came to look over my work, I found it more considerable than I had supposed. The past was a little in arrears and I did not fully understand about some neo-platonist matters on which I must lecture tomorrow. Still I might have gone. Probably nobody but myself would have felt the difference. Then I considered the risks to which we were exposing ourselves and the unsatisfactory nature of this public and guarded intercourse, and concluded it was not worth while to strain a point for anything so poor. Now that the opportunity is passed, it seems to me not poor but rich. I try to think you will value the solitary hours in the cars for getting up your afternoon's speech. May it go off well, my dear and brave girl, and may you not be so disappointed as I. But what is to be done about these enforced separations? It appears now that we are not to see one another for a fortnight. Every day our lives are joining. The affairs of one are becoming the affairs of the other. Plans must be undertaken which jointly concern us both. An honorable tie is between us, the most creditable thing in the life of either, and here we sit apart or meet and whisper by stealth in some crowded supper room. It is intolerable — not the absence of hands and lips. That is bad enough, but the loss is pure hardship, that is all. It does not block affairs and hold us from that joint living which we now see to be our appointed means of [94]

growth. Such days as Sunday show what might be done in this way, could w e but meet. I am sure such an abnormal state o f things as the present cannot righteously last long. W e must prepare for the inevitable change. I wish you would allow me to tell Julius* how I am situated. Then w e could have a perfectly proper and safe place in which to meet any afternoon when you were in the city. Jule is the soul o f honor, as silent as the grave. He is accustomed to carrying the many secrets of his clients and he loves me intensely. His office on busy State St. is out o f the way o f society eyes. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. [January 1887] I turn to you, dear, in this five minutes between t w o appointments. D o you k n o w w h o R. T. in the London World is? I send you what he says. Send it back, please, when you have smiled over it. In Mother's forlorn condition it may divert her attention from her swollen knee. A beautiful plan for the Art Building has come this morning from C o b b and Frost, architects in Chicago. I think Mrs. Durant will like it, and that will help matters forward rapidly. W e can get the Committee well at work, and early in March I will go west! Mr. Furness has established a "Shakespeare fund," through the commendation o f Mr. Rolfe, and I am writing about the final arrangements this morning. I wish you were here today to discuss this plan with me, and talk over halfa dozen matters. * His brother.

[95]

I need to discuss these philosophy department questions with you now. If you get this letter in time and have no engagements, come out on the train as you did once before — Saturday night, and find me at the College, in my office. Come in at the East Door, and we can have a happy evening quite apart. I do need your advice before next Saturday night. If you are busy, we will try to meet early in the week. Meantime, dear heart, we have all things to be glad of — and are rich beyond the telling. Let's be gay, and most thankful. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Monday Afternoon, Wellesley College [January 17] I have a letter from Dr. Lyman Abbott today saying that he and Mrs. Abbott will come Feb. 3rd for a few days' visit. He preaches here the 5 th. Perhaps he can help in some of the College problems. At Mrs. D's last visit, I opened the Trustee question, hoping to make some progress toward other changes in the government. "She did not wish new Trustees. The Board is now too large, and interferes too much!" W e got a little beyond this, but, dear, there are discouraging days whenever I get a glimpse into the depths of her feeling concerning the management. Of all the names I could mention, strangely enough she seemed to be most interested in Judge Bradley. Can you tell me positively whether he is a member of an evangelical church, and if so, of what church? I want to learn at once whether he is eligi[96]

ble, and then whether he would come on the Board. Mrs. D . showed the greatest repugnance to anyone whose "soundness" could be questioned. . . . Clearly, I cannot avoid more careful preparation in her mind for a change. You see all these perplexities are just as fresh this minute as if w e had never mentioned them. George, I long to see your anxieties lessened — ended, but it gives me such a heartache as can't be talked about, to foresee the results of any rash word or movement just n o w when she is so sensitive, and the College is so much endangered. Happily Dr. Abbott knows Miss Evans and I am going to talk of her as Dean, with him. But we will not worry, sweet heart, you and I. D o you want to tell your brother Julius? D o you think that is wise, just yete It rather frightens me to think h o w "cross" you must be, by this time, if a week's absence has such an effect on you. Don't you think that when Fred and Mary are here we can all go off somewhere, and have a day to ourselves? W i t h them it would be so proper! Tuesday Morning — and a good morning, George! I have been thinking constantly of your wish to tell your brother. You may tell him, dear, if you are perfectly certain of the safety of doing it. You k n o w we cannot endanger these interests, no matter what pain of separation we endure for a time. There would be no peace or honor in that course for either of us. And I cannot too much emphasize the present difficulties here. I believe them to be largely temporary. I see progress during the last month. Before many months pass, I think I can talk my plans over with Mrs. Durant. I hope I can do this as soon as I have seen Miss Evans, if any thing can be done with her. But, m y darling, [97]

of this I am sure, that you and I must wait in silence this winter. W e must pass this time of fright and nervousness in Mrs. D and her advisers. (I wish Dr. Webb were in South Africa, with all connections broken!) You have helped me always, George, to be strong and wise, and we will help each other every day in all the days to come. It would be so easy to be weak just now, when the ache of these long partings is so sharp, and the need cries out day and night. But think what it is to me as a woman that this work, which is the sweetest fruit of all my past life, should be unmarred as far as patience and prudence and wisdom can accomplish it — and how much it means that there should be just as little comment or criticism made upon me or this College as possible, by the wisest planning for the changes in outward life. Darling, if it will be safer and easier and better for us to retreat to your brother's protection for the rest of this year, you shall judge. I must confess, I see nothing ahead for us except the occasional meetings that can be arranged at the College, on occasions which are generally known. W e both feel how meagre the comfort of public meetings is, and we cannot go on the old plan which serves well for a time at the hotels, we are so well known. I see and feel it all as much as you. Alas! that we should need to be sorry to have the whole world seem to be full of eyes! The love that crowns our lives, and fills our hearts with gladness ought to be cause for rejoicing to all who love either of us. Someday, George, it shall be, and for that blessed time I am working every hour, and the thought of the end cheers me in all the planning. Be cheered also, dear love, and know that I do realize that this is much harder for you than [98]

for me, in many ways — I doubt if in all — and I am not unmindful of an hour of your need. My own heart tells me this moment all about it and it is not a new story. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Wednesday Morning [January

ιp]

I wrote you, my dear girl, a weary note last night and now come your loving words, filled with trouble and trust, this morning. I have not time to discuss their main theme. Unhappily there is no haste about that. Mrs. D. will probably be no better woman on Saturday than she is today. Only do not worry, darling — least of all on my account. You and I are rich enough in the possession of each other. From the first my anxiety has been how to adjust this wealth — which is a palpable fact and one on which a joined life is now to be built — to other interests. But this adjustment has grown clearer to me each month. W e need to keep our heads clear, to see precisely what can and what cannot be done, and then to be courageous, knowing that God is on our side and all his forces are working for us. Hitherto our business has been to apprehend. It has been necessary to think out and feel out what the facts are. This we have done together and we must do it still more. Our wishes to have facts one way or another must not make us blind. When we have gained our facts then will come the time for action, and then audacity will be our righteousness. We shall be equal to it, little one. We shall know ourselves called then to courage as now to [99]

quietness. W e will not shirk either, darling, but will walk right straight along hand in hand toward the end that now is distinctly set for us. Every hardship will be for us an opportunity of loving plan. But I must leave these things till they can be made more distinct in talk. Your letter asks certain questions. These must be answered at once. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Monday Night [January 24] Dearest. People have been besetting me since yesterday morning. People calling on me and people on whom I have been obliged to call. If it had not been so, I should have written. Never has my heart been so full of a satisfied glow at what you are and what we are to one another. Every hour I am rejoicing in you. Never did you seem so truly the wife I want as in the little Saturday meeting. I have often been more intoxicated in your presence, I have often admired you as much; but the dear seasons of discussion and planning which the recess brought us revealed our oneness so clearly that now to come to you is to go home; it is to have all longings cease, and parted from you torn but half myself. Until Saturday night I did not realize that we had come so far. Coming home that happy night I devoted myself to thinking up possible trustees, and on the enclosed sheet you have my results. I have placed after the names brief hints of the reasons for taking them, underscoring the considerations likely to weigh with you but not with Mrs. D. All these [100]

persons are such as you can trust to back you when the crisis comes. If Mrs. D. happened to prefer any given three, I should at once concede them to her though there were in my judgment others better. All other considerations must for the present be set aside in behalf of getting these persons on the Board who will follow you in voting down the nomination of a goody-goody President. If you wish me to go on, I will do so; only I must be nominated by somebody other than you. The very best three I should say would be Andrews, Horace Scudder, and John White. Every one of them is a leader and capable of carrying conviction to others. White's case is peculiar. I am not sure that you could get him elected. He was formerly a Methodist. His father was a circuit preacher and he himself preached at first on leaving college. His wife is an Episcopalian and it is with that church that he has always connected himself here. I was not sure that he had joined it. Yesterday I called and asked him. He said that he had withdrawn from the Methodist Church with a view to joining the Episcopal but had not yet done so. He intended to do it. Whether therefore he will be an Episcopalian in time, I cannot say. . . . Mrs. David Scudder, Vida's mother, has many excellences. She has had a large experience of life, has excellent judgment and will not be caught with religious chaff. She is very devout but she sees that lack of intelligence is no fit companion to piety. Miss Warren is another of the same sort.

[ΙΟΙ]

A. F. to G. Η. P. Wellesley College, Tuesday Afternoon [January 25] Before me seventy-five students are writing their examinations on Church History, and I am much more agreeably engaged, though I doubt if any of them find the questions weighing so heavily as those in my afternoon's program. H o w much I have had to talk with you about since the old week went out with your retreating footsteps! And I have been too busy to get a word on paper! I had three services Sunday, and yesterday was full of arrangements for the Council Meeting tonight, Executive Committee meeting tomorrow, Day of Prayer Thursday, reception Monday, etc., etc. . . . Y o u help me so much in m y Trustee work, as in every item of all my affairs. Thank you for this letter so full of your heart and head! I had been thinking of Horace Scudder all day yesterday as a very good candidate. Mrs. David Scudder would not be a good nominee owing to some old dislike of Mrs. Durant's for her. I mentioned Vida Scudder as a possible instructor and Mrs. D. has not yet acceded to that invitation. And Dr. Eliot cannot be mentioned. Our Trustees hate him for having appeared before the Legislature to oppose them when they asked for the "right to confer degrees." Mrs. D. is particularly bitter about it. Pres. Seelye of Smith did the same thing, and that is one reason why Mrs. D. objects to Vida Scudder's having any connection with us. As we can not have more than one Congregationalism either Lilian Horsford or you must come on the Board, to the exclusion of these other good people of this faith. . . . [102]

G. Η. P. to A. F. 27 Stoughton Hall, Sunday [January 30] Monday is to be a busy day with you. I cannot show my face among your guests. But a letter may come where I cannot and a sheet of paper with a few words from me may be an amulet to keep off the harms of worry from my girl. The rooms were pretty silent after you left. I still listened for the bubbling voice. But the chairs where you had sat seemed better than before and your sweet generous words left something behind when their sounds had ceased. It was a day of affection, a happy bringing to light of what was implicit in Class Day and the tremendous hours on the Thursday hillside. As at Boxford in October I had you in my own home and we both knew it was ours jointly. Some day all this may be confessed and with the knowledge of everybody we will sit down together in our common Cambridge study. . . . I am afraid I did not tell you how pleased I am with the proposed degree from Columbia. Such a thing is altogether unique. I know of no other case where an honorary degree has been given by a great eastern college to a woman. And a woman I know is unique too. So she and the degree will match. I shall be delighted too to have the thing announced at just about the time of our engagement. You know I don't agree with you there. I welcome a racket. We can't become engaged every day, sweetheart, and I don't object to getting all the fun out of it that is possible. I hate to be eulogized falsely. Nothing brings keener shame. But a wide name fairly earned is a thing to be thankful for. It represents a [103 ]

broadened power. I rejoice that you are so broadly known. The universal honor in which you are held will make both our lives wealthier and more productive too, I think. That you are just you, is the precious matter to me. But I like to observe the efforts of the world to gild my refined gold and to paint my dainty lily. I can't match your honors, but did I tell you that a month ago the American Academy of Arts and Sciences asked me to become a member and that I declined e . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Sunday Evening [February 6\ John White refuses. I called this afternoon, and after an hour's talk on other matters enticed him to tell me of your proposal. He felt the honor immensely. To his mind you were no less powerful a woman than Eliot is a man. The work done at Wellesley was admirable, and its quality was due to you. The way in which Wellesley should turn was a matter of momentous importance to girls' education in this country. But he must be firm in adhering to his plan. For the sake of becoming a scholar he had arranged with Eliot plans which revolutionized his work here. He had given up income which he could ill afford to lose. He had decided against making any more books. He had even abandoned his office in connection with the American School at Athens, and it would now be grossly inconsistent to accept another office. I urged that there was much difference in the two offices as [104]

regards the time required. He said he could not confine himself to the regulation four meetings a year. That it was probable enough he might be wanted on the Executive Council, and in any case appearing as the one man informed on College matters he must take time to consider questions which might arise. I was a very suitable person for such service. W h y did not I go on the Board if I thought it so important? . . . Of course I was embarrassed throughout the talk by the necessity not to speak so urgently as to imply any personal interest. Mrs. Claflin, Professor Horsford, my niece, and indefinite "persons who had spoken to me about Wellesley" were worked for all they severally were worth. I am sure he had no suspicion of collusion between you and me, and I contrived to have the conversation glide off to other things before I rose. But I am afraid he is firm. The outlook is black. He had received your papers, but said nothing about the church membership. As his decision seemed to rest on other grounds, I thought it unwise to raise that question. I did not wish to complicate, and I feared to show too plainly what I was aiming at. What shall you do now? Lilian Horsford is the only one of the new trustees whom you can trust. It is very desirable to secure John White or somebody equally strong in his place. If only you had nominated Horace Scudder, the matter would not be so ugly. This I believe is certain. Y o u cannot move White by attempting to impress more deeply the consideration already adduced. Y o u must find some fresh motive power if he is to be captured. It might be wise to take the bull by the horns. Await his [105]

letter saying that he cannot serve; then come over and tell him plainly that you need his help extremely for one year, at the end of which time he may resign. Make a personal appeal to him. Tell him (a) that there is a peculiar crisis coming in W's affairs this summer, whose nature you cannot explain nor must he allude to. Or (b) that you are about to try to establish a Deanship and need for that time his counsel and vote in securing a good one. Or (c) that domestic circumstances of your own, which he must never mention or inquire into, oblige you to resign next summer, and he must come to your help to secure the continuance of your work in the hands of a proper successor, (c) would undoubtedly force him to join you. (a) or (b) might induce him. I doubt them. I think you would eventually bring up against (c) or even at the farther statement that I was involved. If you are willing to take so bold a step, I see no objection. Personally I approve bold courses and think them much the safest. White can be trusted absolutely. He is a loyal man, closetongued and accustomed to important trusts. He has curiosity, and I should fear that half-disclosures might lead him into dangerous investigation. Openness with him is safest. If you are not prepared for anything so daring, this remains. Write to Mr. and Mrs. Munroe and force them to withdraw. If possible do the same with Gray's candidates. A possible means of accomplishing this would be to write an identical letter to all the persons nominated, saying in it that Wellesley was considering asking them to become Trustees and before definite action was taken you wished authoritative statement from them that the position would [106]

be agreeable to them and that they would be able to find time for its duties and to attend all meetings. Mr. Ford and Miss Horsford you could easily see personally and reassure their fears. But you could easily draw your letter so as civilly to frighten off undesirable candidates. Whether this particular method were used or not, after the unsuitable persons have declined to stand, you might call a special meeting (that is, within a month of the last) and nominate two or three new candidates who, as you had assured yourself, would stand. Prevent other nominations by saying that there was no more time for proper investigations of them. B y such means, though with difficulty, I think you might gain a properly organized Board. The only other course is to let the present nominations stand, to force the election of Lilian Horsford and Mr. Ford, to let some other haphazard two come in, to whip McKenzie into dutiful ways, to summon the Claflins and inspirit Dr. Hovey, and then bring the name of your candidate before the Board so organized. Undesirable as it is, I am inclined to think trusting White is the least risky course now open to you. Yet we must keep in mind the chance that he may refuse to qualify by joining the church. This is a long story. I wish its issue were more satisfactory. I have tried to think out the paths still possible. This we must do. We must bring ourselves to face clearly what we can do and what we can't, and must not confuse ourselves with hopes and wishes. No one of the three methods indicated is intolerable. Wellesley's interests and ours may fairly well be secured by either. . . . [107]

A. F. to G. Η. P. President's Office, Feh. 18th, 1887 "Is this to be a very solemn official letter?" Not at all, but I must have a little word, my love, with anything under my hand to carry its burden to you. It is so very nice to have you like the way I look at a party, and then send me a dear little note to tell me so. It breathes the fragrance of roses and lilies all through this day of snow and sleet, and makes me very glad. Y o u are so easily pleased, my dear boy. How pleasant it is! How different a party is, if loving eyes are tenderer for your presence, and if the beloved voice your heart has ached to hear is lowered to admire flowers and gown! Yet there are meeting-places even better than such a brilliant reception as Wednesday's, and we can prove it Monday. I have not heard from the Vendome. I suppose, therefore, I can have room Ε which is just beside the ladies' side entrance, on the first floor at the left. If I hear that this room is not at my disposal, I will send you word. I intend to go in town early, — to be there by 9 o'clock. Won't you come early? And we can have a long morning together? W e can read and talk and plan — how good it will be!

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Wednesday Afternoon [February 23] Alice, the devil has begun to break loose. Today as we walked from dinner Will Lane said he had a disagreeable matter which he thought he ought to tell me of. The story [108]

was about College that I was engaged. It had come to him from two different students who reported it to be in general circulation. In the few minutes we were together I merelyexpressed my annoyance, but I have just written him a note which I enclose. This will stop farther inquiry from the immediate family, and I care nothing for floating rumors. The real danger lies in persons coming to me with direct questions. I can put them off of course, but that is practically equivalent to confession. When such stories start about a lady, she is not called on to do anything. She can maintain a dignified or a playful reserve. But no honorable gentleman can allow a lady's name to be coupled with his own wrongfully while he remains silent. That is understood. From my note to Will you will see I asked for no name. But from the rumors which you said had reached Wellesley there can be no doubt who the naughty girl is. The thing we should like to know is how the report started. My surmise is a gossiping postman. Our "Billy" is on intimate terms with every student in the yard. On an average twice a week for more than three months he has brought letters to my door postmarked with peculiar plainness "Wellesley." Often I have inwardly growled, like Ulysses, at that Wellesley stamper. This fact could easily be compared with the letters sent from the office every other day to "Miss Alice E. Freeman" in a hand not unrecognizable as mine. When afterwards some student remarked in Billy's hearing that "Palmer was reading Greek to those Wellesley girls," Billy's retort "and writing English to their President" would probably be thought neat. It is known too that Wellesley girls and Harvard students do sometimes get their heads together; at [109]

such times Fred's stay would furnish a decorative feature to suspicions already aroused. At any rate this postal starting point is the only one I can conceive. No human being in Cambridge has ever received from me the slenderest hint of the great fact, and no action of ours or of mine here or in Boston could possibly have given rise to such notions. I see no occasion therefore for regret. There is nothing in which we could wisely have acted differently. W e knew from the start that with the thousand chances for disclosure which the fact of our love involved, it was scarcely possible that all should turn in our favor throughout the year. Yet Wellesley's interests seemed to ask us to take that risk. It would certainly have been wrong to have no connection with one another, and I do not see how less frequent or less dangerous meetings were possible. So we will cheerfully accept the case as it stands. We have done all we could do. What shall we do now? You know best. All I can do is to remain silent or noncommittal. But as soon as the rumors are widespread, you will be directly questioned by Trustees and they will not accept evasion. I should think too it would make subsequent settlements more difficult if Mrs. Durant, Mrs. Claflin and the others should get their first intimation of this from others. You will do what you judge best. The matter primarily concerns you rather than me. But if I were in your place I should go immediately to Mrs. Durant to tell her that on your birthday you become engaged to me, that we are both determined to protect Wellesley's interests in every way, and that for the present we keep all our plans uncertain. Do not allow her or anybody else under any pretext whatever to entice you into a promise about going [no]

or staying or the appointment of a successor or the acceptance of a professorship. All these are matters which the actual needs of the occasion must decide after it is investigated. Premature vows will be totally unrighteous, and involving me too as they must they would also be highly disloyal. No doubt you would see all this yourself, but be on your guard that they do not get from you some form of words which may afterwards be construed in such a way as to block the wisest courses. The only truth about the future is we do not yet know what the best plans for Wellesley and ourselves will be. We mean to find out, and in the meantime refuse to be tied. If you should decide that the least of evil would be to allow the engagement to come out now, I think you had better leave for the west as soon afterwards as possible. In the month of your absence the rampant talk would have died down. While this is going on you must not be here. I don't mind. I am too proud of you to be disturbed at being identified with you, and the removal of secrecy will be the taking away of a great burden. If you decide to speak, and wish me to tell Mrs. Claflin or any others, I shall gladly do so. To me the great danger to Wellesley now appears to be that the story may creep about and come to the ears of the Trustees as a scandal. Fortunately your nominations are already made. Unless between now and June the Board comes to distrust you, the names you urge are sure to be accepted. On Saturday I go to Boxford with Emily. It is hard at such a time to be parted from my own love. . . . [in]

A. F. to G. Η. P. Thursday, ι ο A.M. [February 24] I have just read your letter, George, and I am very sorry, but not surprised. This is just what I told you that I had heard here. "Harvard boys say that Miss Freeman and Prof. Palmer are engaged." T w o or three people have reported that to me. Miss Wenckebach with a good deal of feeling. "The girls" have been told by your students and the word has been repeated generally in the College. Mrs. Newman spoke of it to me last night — saying, "The girls are dreadfully unhappy lest you go away." W e talked quietly enough. I asking why they had been alarmed, and found there was no reason except what they had heard from Cambridge. It is odd that your students started it all. I laughed at the rumor, was "annoyed that such gossip should be repeated here," "was sorry that a Professor could not give us readings without" — "oh! no that's not it at all" — "Well, that discussion would better be stopped." I do not see that anything new has occurred! Y o u have heard from Will Lane only what I have been told in the closer intimacies here three weeks ago, and I think you have done very wisely. I do not think, George, that I have a right to say one word now — and why? In this hurry it is hard to write but first I do not think it right to deliberately announce an engagement (if it can be avoided) until I have seen my mother and father. They are so ill and weak, and troubled about the future, dear. Think how gently all this should come, for their sakes, just now. Fred is not improving as I had hoped. I am full of trouble at every new word from

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them! More anxious every day! Then you know h o w much depends on wise planning before the final word is spoken. I don't believe you are the kind of a man to w h o m people will be likely to come with tales that float about the College touching your more personal life. I should think they would find it rather difficult to jest with you, or mention a lady's name to you in such a way, unless you care to hear it, and until m y name is mentioned, what do you k n o w ; George, we must ignore this talk for the present — there is every unselfish reason for it, and let me get through this hard year with no more interruptions than are absolutely essential. I can't stand people's talk when I have so much to do, with all these home worries added. It is so unjust to the College to give m y time to it when pressing duties are waiting! W e had an Executive Committee meeting yesterday and any new perplexity just now would add too much to poor Mrs. Durant. She is entering upon another family law suit, and is very much worn and excited. I wonder if it would not have been much wiser if I had gone to Europe. I sometimes think it would have been, yet it did not seem best. This would have been avoided which threatens to be so disastrous. The mere prospect of the letters, the talk, the calls, the looks, the newspaper articles, which are involved in an announcement before the summer vacation simply discourages me as I cannot describe. It is not, you must know, that I am not as willing to have m y name connected with yours as you are to have yours connected with me, George; it is a question of time and physical endurance. In that case, I should certainly not go to C o lumbia in April, and I fear I have n o w committed myself to the taking of the degree. Dear, don't allow people to question [

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you! If an intimate friend does, beg him to stop gossip about your affairs; if he congratulates you, beg him to wait until you can give him an important occasion. Cannot we be given a quiet time to solve these problems? We must have it! I owe it to Father and Mother to go home and talk over definite plans with them. They are depending upon me too much to make anything else kind, or just, especially in their present disheartened and sensitive condition. I am sure I am right in feeling this course is a security, though a hard one. Let us be very careful, dear, and very patient and quiet. We can wait when there is so much to wait for. Would it be better for me to mail your letters from some other office» That can sometimes easily be done, and in another hand? Oh! me, perhaps I won't write so often until I go away. Have a blessed Boxford Sunday, Geordie, and know that I am under the pines and in the quiet house with you and let us rest from this naughty world with its prying eyes through a long, happy day.

G . H . P . to A . F . Cambridge, Friday evening [February 25] Dear perplexed Alice, I agree with you perfectly that for all private reasons and for most public ones we should desire to have no announcement made at present. Nor do I care a pin for flying rumors. But in this respect we must consider them. It is now absolutely certain that within two months suspicions of the truth will come to the minds of some of those in authority at Wellesley. We wish this might not be

so. But do not let us confuse wishes with probabilities. A story now widely circulated here and at Wellesley cannot fail to come to the ears of some of those who have a right to know about its truth. And it will come soon. I have no more question that within six weeks Mrs. Durant will question you about this than I have that I shall eat my dinner tomorrow. On this as a settled fact we must take action in Wellesley's behalf. Will her suspicions, now sure to be aroused, be more damaging than present disclosure? That is the question and I believe the only one, now worth considering. I cannot answer it. It is a question for you, dearest, and I shall accept and contentedly carry out whatever decision you reach. Perhaps you are willing that Mrs. D. and the rest should guess before they are informed. Very well. If you think that would breed no difficulties in the ultimate settlement, it is all I am seeking. I should fear it might. When one receives a confidence one always feels honored: if one discovers a secret there is a sense of being cheated, and the secreter is afterwards distrusted. Against these dangers we must guard Wellesley at any cost to ourselves. That is all I wish to urge. Let us act now with a clear consciousness that we are henceforward to be surrounded with continually deepening suspicion. W e can refuse to acknowledge that the suspicions are well grounded, and we will do so if you think such a course will most help Wellesley. But we will not weakly deceive ourselves. We know that very soon all our friends will be thinking about just that which we do not want them to think about at all. Forgive me, darling, that I let a phrase slip into my letter which must have wounded you and seemed distrustful.

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Precisely what it was I do not recall. I was thinking how little difference it could make to me what people might say — to me so rich a man possessing you — and I must have spoken this out in some way that implied that I had no such feeling. That would be cruel. I know you love me as genuinely as I you, though I can never see that you have the same cause for exultation. I did not mean to hint a deficiency. Perhaps I was too much filled with a sense of my own abundance. Yet I think there is so great a difference in our outward circumstances that the talk about our engagement which would be a proud delight to me would be something which you ought not to meet. You live in a great family, I in a cloister. Everybody is at liberty to call on you, a lady, and to steal as much of your time as they please. My congratulators can merely give me a warm grasp on the street. For these and similar reasons I want you to be absent when the news comes out. Convinced as I now am that it is certain to come out before the end of the term, I regard this intended absence — in most respects how gloomy! — as a precious opportunity for protecting you against the first maddening gossip. If we let it slip, what similar one can we find when the now inevitable crash comes? Consider it, dear, and see if bold avowal is not as merciful to yourself as it certainly is to the Wellesley guardians. The case seems similar when we consider your sick home. Your parents are in no condition to consult with you and to feel that they must help you to form a decision which must color the rest of your life. They need to be relieved of responsibility. If when you go to them you can say that you are openly engaged to me and that the Wellesley authori[ii6]

ties have the matter under consideration, then the subject becomes one which your parents need not think about and their own affairs can claim your attention. Far away as they are, they fortunately cannot be disturbed by hubbub here. And whatever we decide about our marriage we are of one mind in this — that your parents' needs must be thought of first. How I wish I could throw my arms about you and protect you from all these troubles. My heart yearns over you. I ache for you as I urge the hard course which seems to me the only unselfish and righteous one. This distance between us never seemed more cruel. When I received your note tonight, if I could have caught a train I should have gone straight to Wellesley and said the things which seem cold and unfeeling on paper. But do not regret, dearie. You could not have gone to Europe with your parents in this case. Perhaps Miss Evans might have been seen at Christmas; but you were not well, and it seemed unwise to go. Surely in nothing could we have properly acted differently. Let us be light of heart then. Let us take cheerily the facts as they now are as exactly those which God appoints us. Let us see them as He sees them and bring out of them the best they are capable of yielding. We knew when we pledged ourselves to his service and to one another on sacred Monday that we had passed the play-stage of our love and that for the future it was to be connected with workaday facts where we were to be strong for one another's sake. This is the test God gives us of those vows. We will welcome it, and not fret and imagine it is only an ugly accident. I am sure there is a blessing here, if we are ready with clear-

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sightedness, patience, and unselfish daring to draw it out. W e must be brave now for others' sakes than our own. I cannot consent to write you less frequently or to have you write me less. On the contrary, needs — not mere feelings — make me desire more. But this I will do if you wish. I will tell my brother Julius and ask him to receive m y letters to you and to remail them, and similarly yours to me. This will delay everything at least half a day, but otherwise it will be effective. Our duties to one another are just as distinct as those to other people. "We can no more righteously neglect them. I do not seek you for amusement. Y o u are my very life. It is one of the worst features of this secrecy that our love is apt to appear as a private indulgence instead of the new honorable foundation of every other duty. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Sunday Night, Wellesley [February 27] O f all times in our joint history this is the one when we need to see each other, and talk frankly together. It is quite impossible to say on paper all I want to say. George, I have thought constantly since Monday, intently since your letter of Wednesday afternoon, upon m y present duty. Your letter of Friday is very hard to answer, dear. It does not change m y conviction, however, about present responsibility to keep silence. I have a very strong feeling against announcing an engagement while far from home, without a personal interview with my father and mother. Y o u know, dear, how very uncertain we were in East Saginaw last summer, how G«8 ]

indefinite all our plans were — indeed that we had none. You remember that all our talks with them were only blind questionings. Now — I have not had a word directly from Mother since October, and only a few of the briefest notes from Father, and they cannot write. Though they were so kind and considerate, I had reason to know that they felt most deeply. Before I came away Father said to me, "I am not losing my little girl, am I? You will not make any change until I see you again?" And I assured him that, as always, he should be first to discuss with me any new plans. George dear, I should not forgive myself if I, by any act of mine, directly or indirectly, should seem to fail in tender regard to my blessed father. I know he would feel keenly hurt, if I should go home to say that this public announcement had been made. I never have intended any such action. I could not justify myself in it. Too many of their plans hang upon mine, their future is too closely bound up in my present action to make it right for me to plunge into this public discussion independently. If I thought it best and necessary to announce anything next week, I should throw everything aside, to the College interests or not, and go home tomorrow. George, I have no doubt about this. Any other idea is personally very distressing. It surprises me too, to see how the home-interests will crowd out the first consideration of the College when I am facing an immediate change in public discussion. Then about the College, I have not a shadow of a doubt that an announcement of my engagement at any time before Commencement would be a distinct evil, and I believe every member of the Executive Committee would feel it so, if they knew tonight the exact situation. It would

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introduce surmises of every sort in the Faculty which no one is prepared to meet — heartburning ambitions would show themselves, restlessness would appear among the students, and all my work following would be made ten-fold harder by premature questions and discussions. Y o u and I have agreed upon this a hundred times, and we know that the next year will be hard enough, in any case. Suppose "the crash" of which you speak comes now, and I go home at once. The news will reach Saginaw before I do — and letters of every sort from everybody will follow me on every mail. Trustees, teachers, friends will suppose of course that I take this leisure to discuss plans, to answer letters. The month I spend away from the College will give me no rest, will leave me no leisure for the home, or time for business. I shall return early in April, tired and excited — to what? A shower of invitations, a deluge of calls, a volley of exclamations and protests, my days consumed by talk and letters which must be personally answered — and my nights spent in a nervous endeavor to handle the business of the far heaviest, most burdensome, trying, public term of the year. The simple thought is maddening, George. I do not see how it is possible to get through the spring term without doing the College shameful injustice, or breaking down for mere lack of sleep. I don't like to emphasize my burdens here, but the unvarnished truth is that I have more than I can do well now without taking half my nights, and I am doing you no kindness by putting myself in the position which I cannot fill without injuring my health. And this plan does not seem to me feasible, from the health and time [120]

standpoint. Your case is different from mine as you say. Six hundred people meet me in close relations every day, and my time is largely at their mercy. Y o u talk about the " n o w inevitable crash," George. I do not see w h y ! If you are right about it, then I am seriously to blame, and must find some way to retrieve so grave a mistake. I had no right whatever during this year upon which I entered in entire good faith, to plan and execute any change disturbing the year's work. If I have given so much occasion for discussion and suspicion, I owe it to the College to be more careful in the future. I don't think we have done this. These flying rumors are no new thing. I have often heard them before with absolutely no foundation. People are used to them about me. I hope they will pay less heed, therefore, to another. But in any case, dear, an announcement would be made now simply to avoid raising the suspicions of the Trustees within the coming few weeks. If that is an immediate danger I think the better way for me to avoid that trouble is to remain at home for some weeks. I can there accomplish a larger amount of work for the College, than in the other alternative, here, and I can be a great comfort to them all there. If I have made speaking out now a necessity, that will be the only course to follow. B y remaining at home through the greater part of the term I can get time for more correspondence and serious work. But the College would suffer, with its present organization, in so long an absence. I am writing in a tired, incoherent fashion, I know, for it is very late, and the week has been too full. But one word more. I want to go home quietly, and talk this matter over. I want to see Miss Evans, and then I want to come back [121]

and have a frank, absolutely confidential talk w i t h Mrs. Durant, to tell her that she is the first one to w h o m I have mentioned the subject o f m y engagement except m y parents, that I take her into all m y plans, and want her advice and cooperation. If she wishes me to talk with others, then it is time to consider speaking. Prof. Horsford will be back then also. D o y o u suppose he w o u l d ever forgive me if this should come out during his absence? I stop to read over your letter again. Y o u say it is absolutely certain that within t w o months this matter must come to public notice, and so forth. Then, m y darling, don't y o u think I w o u l d do well to go west at once; That stops everything where it is. I will send y o u all m y letters through M a r y , w h i c h is nearly as direct. Y o u r s w i l l make n o question at the other end. This seems to me an admirable place. T h e illness in the family has been a ceaseless anxiety all winter. I am very tired, and many have been urging me to g o for weeks. I can then return early in April, w i t h much, I trust, accomplished for us both. D o n ' t say this is not wise until y o u think h o w much help I may at once secure in the solution o f the problem. O h , m y darling, I wish w e had talked this over on Monday, and I could tell y o u face to face h o w m y heart aches to do instantly the thing y o u seem to wish to have done. This, and the fact that in that case w e could see each other oftener, and this heavy burden o f secrecy w o u l d be removed are terribly strong reasons w h y m y heart leaps up to your solution o f the present perplexity. B u t I cannot find it a righteous or unselfish step to take in this impulsive, unprepared w a y . Y o u k n o w w h a t I mean — on the College side. I am too tired to write, and mustn't try. [122]

I didn't begin until 2 o'clock — let that account for my absurd expression of ideas — the one fact is now and always — I love you — and it cuts my heart open to have you miserable, fettered, desiring action which I cannot see how to enter upon. Ah! dear heart, I shut my eyes and wish we could put our arms about one another and pray together for God's good guidance and great wisdom, and be comforted with His love and our own. Be patient, Beloved, and help me to be wise and brave. It is gloomy enough to face an absence, but that does seem best. Agnes Goodell can go on with me, and help me with my work and I will return with a clearer head in every sense. Geordie, Geordie, I want you this minute, right here, and when you get this, I shall be in the midst of a reception with my heart full of you.

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford, Sunday Afternoon [February 27]

I have just come in from a walk through our sacred places. Crossing the meadow where the farmer was getting in hay while we searched for flowers, I crossed the little bridge over the brook and went up through the bars and the wood pathway to the old cellar, where the moon looked down one night on a tremulously happy pair. The little ring of cedars stood around the mysterious hollow and the smooth sheet of snow sloped from the greensward where we stood down to the trees that border the brook. Finding you had gone from there, I turned back and attempted to cross the

[»3]

stepping stones. The water was too high, covering them completely. I must go round, by Plymouth Rock. So back across the bridge once more, and under the piney walk along the brookside, until I came to the pond lily pool and to the great pine where the waters divide and gurgle down over the stones. There we stole away from Mrs. Claflin and went — as I did this afternoon — to the sheltered stream above, sitting down there side by side and watching the brandycolored water. I came up by the long path that runs through the fairy ring, where our stump looked very conscious of having nearly heard some epoch-making words, and after that I felt your hand in mine till I came out into the open field once more and to the lane and the well, out of which I knew you would want to draw some water. The path behind the garden fence and over the run brought me home. All is so beautiful here, darling, so glad, and so instinct with you. You have been here only twice, but everything bears your mark and has been rechristened in terms of you. How happy for me that you find Boxford dear! Had you found it but common earth, I can conceive that I might have loved you, but it is better not to have put me to so severe a test. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Monday Night [February 28] I have jiist reached home — after mailing you a brief note in Boston — and find your long letter of Sunday night awaiting me. It makes me bleed for you — poor tired faith[124]

ful loving distracted girl. If I could only get at you, I know I could take the perplexities away and leave you at rest. If tomorrow were not Tuesday, I should go over. But you have a lecture in the afternoon and Faculty Meeting in the evening. My coming would only perplex you more and by taking your time load you down still more deeply. Perhaps this would be the case if I should come on Wednesday. . . . Your plan of going home at once seems to me admirable. I am afraid you will break down if you do not, and your departure will more effectually stop questions and even suspicions than anything else could. And the longer you stay at home, the better for you and Wellesley. The first week in April — our Spring recess — I will come out, that is if you will allow me to stay at the hotel. So much time together as that we could not have if you were here. Your College writing could be done better there than here. And it does seem only a matter of decency to be with your parents in this time of their weakness, when they must be so longing for you. If you decide to go immediately, I see no need of disclosing anything before you start. And your plan of taking Mrs. D. into confidence on your return I cordially approve. I am afraid I have not made plain in my recent letters how entirely I trust you, and how heartily I wish your judgment to direct a decision which primarily concerns you, not me. My own life would be much less disturbed by allowing the matter to remain secret until summer. In urging you to disclose it I have had no thought of gains of my own. Whether there would be any I am uncertain. Our sole thought must be Wellesley's interests. These, I have held, could best be

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preserved by leaving matters quiet until June. But I believed we must judge coolly whether they could remain quiet. That some of your girls were gossiping did not alarm me. I knew they had done this before: Will Lane's report of Tuesday convinced me that the matter was serious. I think so still. If you remain here, I am confident we shall be soon forced to a degree of prevarication which will be justly resented when we ultimately disclose the facts. But of all this I am more than willing that you should be the judge. The hardship of either course must, alas! — as always — fall on your tender shoulders. However much people here might be suspecting me, only the most intimate friend — like John White — or a person in authority — like Mr. McKen2ie — would venture to question me. If this should be done, I should not be embarrassed in the least in refusing in some civil way to answer. All I meant to point out was that anything short of a flat denial would be perfectly understood. Do not therefore give yourself one bit of uneasiness about me in the matter. It is you primarily in my mind, but you and Wellesley in our joint mind, whom we must consider. But surely for the present, if you are thinking of going away, the whole subject may be dismissed. Do not write any more midnight letters — able and clear and tender as they are — nor have any midnight thoughts about the ugly business. Only remember that you are loved deeply with all the mind and heart, by me, and that whatever you do I shall know is considerately and worthily done. . . .

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A. F. to G. H . P . [March ii] If you could have come bodily, heart's dearest! I should now be saying goodbye. We are now in Albany but a little behind time. You might have missed the Boston train. Now I turn westward, but not from you, Geordie. Along the Hudson the day is glorious. Brilliant light, and a glory on the white world. No one I know is on the train, except one whom conductor and porter do not seem to notice. So we are undisturbed as we watch the hills and river, and take long breaths of rest. Friday, 7:30 P.M. I have walked up and down the platform while the train stood at Syracuse, and now we are moving toward Rochester, where I can drop you a note if this unsteady train will permit it. I have not written at stations, when I could get the only relief from the long sitting in these overheated cars. I have finished Joes Boys but shall not tell its good author that it is far inferior to Little Women. Your advice about letter-writing is already effective, you see; I have slept a little now and then, and shall make a long night's rest before I see Detroit. If all goes well, I see the dear ones early tomorrow afternoon. We are on time and I hope to catch the morning train for Saginaw. M y heart has been going back to Cambridge and now finds you getting back to the precious rooms of dear memories. You have been with the Platonists, and have found your Oxford scholar [ »7 ]

good company. But I prefer a Cambridge scholar's lectures when I go on a long journey. You were so thoughtful to bring them, George, and I have them here beside me. This pen has failed me, a sign from you to stop writing in this bad light, with bad results. But I must have my good nights! Tomorrow you will go to the College. Do tell me all about it, that's a dear. I shall be so eager to hear the story. I hope they will take you into my rooms when you go to Norumbega, George, I must tell you that the readings have been a great treat to more than the President, and we all thank you. Beloved, have a good Sunday, and get rested. Do you know you look very pale sometimes, and frighten me? W h y do you? I have been thinking about it today. I know you are not well. Sometime you shall be, dear, and I shall be your caretaker and your Alice.

G. H. P. to A. F. 27 Stoughton Hall, Sunday, March 13 Dear Alice: Yesterday I felt my first soreness over your absence. Miss X brought me over from College to Norumbega — a guide how different! and turning me into your little sitting-room bade me wait while she prepared for dinner. The dear place had that mechanical aspect of adjusted vacuity, openly confessing that its mistress was away. The chairs were squarely placed. Yellow flowers were fading in a vase. A lot of potted plants absorbed the alcoved window where I have often sat. Deep red nasturtiums in Fred's pitcher seemed alone to hint that you were still here. I pleased my[128]

self with fancying you had had them placed there for my eyes. The piles of books on the table were in regular threes. N o papers or handkerchief mingled with them. (I saw m y Imitation among them and to my horror found m y name written in it.) The whole scene came over me like that of a home the morning after the funeral. I sat down on the sofa where I have so often had m y arms about you and could have cried. That state of longing ran through me which gets its poignancy f r o m neglected opportunities n o w remembered. W h y could I not have given you more while you were here? W h y should I ever have added to your cares? Had I let you k n o w h o w much I admired you and with what deep respect I received all the bounty you gave? I wondered if the familiar sweetness of your presence had not sometimes bred dullness in me, and I had a strange gladness that you were n o w set away f r o m me at a distance when I could know you more as you are and perceive your large proportions. But my guardian's footsteps approached. I rose from the sofa and did not sit there again during the evening. But I must be orderly. You will want to know the events of the afternoon. O n reaching the college at 3, Miss Tuttle met me and dispatched me to my room. I had not sat there long, reading m y Nation, when Miss Whiting entered and said that as a member of a committee on marking systems she had been charged to learn f r o m me the Harvard methods. W e talked till reading time. She has a lucid head and can keep the sequences in a piece of business. She understood h o w one influence bore on another, and easily took in our conception of non-mechanical grading of rank. W e got on very well together, had our little differences and our large [129]

agreements, and privately understood that in every great institution there were obstructionists whom we of the advance must tactfully brush aside. But the gong sounded, and I was summoned . . . The company was as large as on any previous day. I began by thanking them for their attendance and expressed the great pleasure which the course of readings had given me. I said I had begun it with misgivings. Indeed when it was first proposed I had refused, and subsequently only agreed to give one or two by way of trial. Such faraway beauty I could hardly expect would be quickly seen. But the trial had been successful and I regretted that today we were to part. I then discussed some peculiarities of translation. . . . The book was a long one and by no means one of the best. But they listened as attentively as always and were generous of applause at the close. As I came from the platform, Miss Coman met me and said my letters had given her what she wished. Mile. See pulled out a few of her smiles and compliments and presented them. Miss Chapin wished Homer had written 30 books instead of 24, and then Miss Hodgkins swept me away. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Sunday Afternoon [March 13] M y dearest boy, this paper of Ella's reminds me so of you that I have made an exchange, and have retired to my little upper chamber, with sweet thoughts of you for company. It is half past five in Cambridge, and this is my first time [130]

alone today. I slept until nearly nine this morning when Ella * came up with a glass of milk. I have begun with all your thoughts of me clearly in my mind, sweetheart. Last night I was in bed at n o'clock, and I intend to go earlier than later. Mother has a very competent nurse whom I saw a good deal of last evening, when I showed her the sort of rubbing which I wish her to try on the stiff knees and wrists. Mother found it very grateful, and I spent the evening over her — for a severe storm was coming on, and she had a wretched night with no sleep. It is a bleak, wild day, with snow-flakes cutting like knives, and I have not been out. From breakfast until dinner I have read to Mother. Happily her eyes are growing stronger, and she can use them a little. So she is following the fortunes of Joes Boys, while Ella and I write to ours. For Mr. Talmage is not well, and has not yet come. Poor Ella! The separation of the winter has been hard for her as for him, and her face shows it. They do not think I look well, and are full of plans for resting me. Fred brushed my hair last night, and banished my headache. Never fear lest I am uncared-for, dearly beloved. If now I could sit down beside this lounge, and find you on it, and we could read and softly talk together, George, while the night comes on, and the fire glows in the grate! You would tell me all that has happened to you in Cambridge and Wellesley. It was hard to be away when you were there! — and we would plan together for these poor dear ones. I have had only one little talk with Father yet. Mother can not be moved at present, surely not before warm, settled weather. The least jar or wrench puts her in agony. She amazed every * Her sister, Mrs. Talmage.

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one by letting me rub her bad knee and fingers today — and I hope to help her get the use of them again. Yet Father and Fred do not think she can hope for this. They are of the opinion that the cords of the leg are so much shortened she can never walk without crutches, if she recovers her strength. I am inexpressibly thankful that they had built this perfectly comfortable house. The old one was hastily constructed and full of drafts. With the furnace, and open fires, and high walls, the air is pure and warm day and night and I have comfort for them even in this wild March weather. I intend to paper the rooms below which they use, this week. They can be more easily heated then, and Mother fancies that she would be better. Perhaps living in a new house may have had a part in this trouble. I am delighted to find that she keeps all her eager interest in public affairs, and in reform measures. She suffers most in the night, and in her respite from pain in the morning, she dictates large numbers of letters to Ella, and so keeps up her old work. She remarked today, however, that she saw she must sell her bees. "I can never trust your father or Fred to give them proper care, Alice, do you think I could?" pathetically, and I laughed to recall the picture of the family council last summer, when Fred made Don prance, and the little boys stood ready for war while Mother expostulated and explained the mysteries to us in the same breath. Though I have a tender regard for the bees, I had to advise the disposal of them, unless Father would take the responsibility. I have not mentioned going to Minnesota, or any disturbing matters. I hope to go a week from tomorrow, at the latest. I must make them as comfortable as I can, before leaving, it has been so hard, [ 132]

expensive a winter. I am talking out my day to you, dear one, as if you were on the lounge. What a dear comforter you are, even at this distance! I wonder if you caught the train, Friday morning. It was a hard thing to see you go away, George, and to feel the miles increase. Still I feel strangely close to you in it all. In taking this journey, I am working so definitely to open up the way to you, that I am conscious most of nearness, and not separation. The clasping of your arms still holds me. I consciously rested all the way home, and now I feel your presence all through the house. Here I rested while you read to me; across the hall you slept; in Mother's room we gaily opened the absurd portrait; in the sitting room, and dining room we all sat together; in the hall we met and parted; up these streets we drove and walked. I am thankful to have had you in it all, my best treasure, before the heavy shadows settled over it all. It makes me glad, and gives me a strange sense of companionship which is an hourly comfort and strength. And I must confess to having a keen hunger for you, right in my home. All this home love and care do not take the place of your presence any more. Away from my work and in the midst of domestic duties, I must have expected to be quite relieved and happy, for I find a certain surprise in myself that every hour of my own home-life without you increases my need of you, and the sense of incompleteness in every place which does not hold you. We know this, and still we find it out anew at every turn. And this home-coming gives me an untried opportunity to realize the strength of the new life which has so largely grown up since I left Saginaw last Summer. Then I was determined to change love into friend[133]

ship and to carry on the work of the past; now we are more determined to change love into life, and transform and perfect the life and work of the past by our own life in the great future. Geordie, I like to think and hope away offhere of what that good time will bring us — what we will bring out of it to enrich ourselves and others. God is so good — so good. We will be grateful and earnest, and unselfish. It will be so easy to be selfish, and just shut ourselves up together. We always have capital times when we get off on a frisk. Wasn't it fun Friday morning? By the way, George, the more I think of it, the more I feel that you must not refuse Mr. Abbott's plans for the California journey now. Please leave the matter open. It would be a grand change for you, and you will need it very much. I have quite worn you out this year, with all my obstreperous ways, and you ought to have a good vacation. Think awhile of it. Yes, I will stop right here, if you will say our own good night.

A. F. to G. H. P. Monday Night [March 14, 1887] In the sitting room, before the fire

Mother is talking to me now and then, and Ella is practicing church music in the dining-room. My talk with you will be scrappy, I am afraid, but you must submit, my poor boy. I had a sweet surprise this morning. All through the breakfast-table talk, I was convincing myself that I could not expect to hear from you today, and at 9 o'clock your precious message from the journey delighted me. I was just sending [134]

for the paper-hanger, and how I have wanted you all day, George! Wouldn't it be good practice for us to go shopping together? And I know nothing about fitting up houses, and need your wise experience in every room. Come and tell me which of all these papers to put on the hall, and what to do with the dining-room, and how to make these parlors quiet and hospitable. It delights me to see Mother so pleased and interested. This is the one thing she has specially wished to have done; this, and a new bookcase, and we talk about it today, instead of the pain. You send a great throb through my heart with your plans for August 3rd.* I look over toward Mother, and wonder if she can be moved half so far before another winter. It looks most unlikely, dear, my love — yet she may gain rapidly in warm weather. But I dare not hope, George, that she can sit in the blessed room where we were so gay and hopeful; and otherwise, we could not stand in the bay window with Fred, could we, dearest? Mother needed me so much I stopped there, and now it is so late you want to say Good night, my dearest boy.

A. F. to G. H. P. Wednesday Afternoon, March 16th

What wealth I have! Each day drops eastern treasure into my lap. The Sunday's and Monday's letters are rich feasts. It is, after all, very nice to get far enough away to taste the keen j o y of these treats in absence. Your letters have always been next to your very presence a deep delight to me. * For their marriage. [135]

What should I do if no more came, if — Well, dear, I like you better than the letters, and I have had enough of these separations. I never was so sure ofthat as since we said good bye. It is not a week — and yet it is an age! I think constantly whether you cannot come out here for your vacation. You know we cannot see each other so much after my return — indeed very, very seldom, I fear, and what it would be to have a blessed quiet week together! . . . I have had a talk with Mother about going east, have told her about your house at Boxford, and what you had said, and that I should be most happy if we could all be there together. She has no idea that she can be moved so far, but I dare to hope a little. I shall soon get an opportunity to talk with Father about it. I see that she enjoys the thought of the summer there. She is certainly better today. We have gotten her about on crutches, to the dining-room, and have had a merry time for more than an hour together with her on the lounge. If you were here with me, how much good you would do her! She sends her love and thanks for your offer of the house, and is full of questioning about you. She will grow very fond and proud of you if she sees you a little more. Just now she is very much afraid of losing a daughter. She does not expect to live more than a year, she often says, and wants me, of course. Ella is full of desire to take her east early in the summer. I doubt if I can get to Minnesota* so soon as I had hoped. Guests come the latter part of the week, friends of Mother's whom she wishes to see. She sees too many people, and yet * To see Miss Evans (whom she hoped to persuade to come to Wellesley) at Carleton College, Northfield, Minn.

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she must have her mind occupied continually. But send my letters here, as usual. Every place is too uncertain to allow anything else. Since you are to be in Cambridge until Saturday night, I send this note to find you there. I want to come on your birthday, and go with you on your journey, dear. . . . If the little vase is broken or injured on the journey be sure to tell me. I can then have another from Mr. Brown, who is responsible for its safety. He said as I ordered it packed and gave the address — "You want your card in, of course." In a freak I gave it to him. "I suppose it is a wedding present, and I will tie it on with white ribbon;" "Thank you." If you will come to see me, I will show you from dozens of letters how much Wellesley likes you and the Odyssey \ You surely want to hear what Miss X says. Don't worry about your name in the Imitation. I "did it on purpose." I did leave the nasturtiums for you, dear. I am glad they k e p t . . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. 27 Stoughton Hall, Wednesday, March 16 Oh here is your great letter of Sunday just come, my dear, dear girl! It sends a glow all through me. Whatever you might write would make me happy, even sad words, for they would still be yours. You remember how Cory don thought of his mistress, Let her speak, and whatever she say Methinks I should love her the more. [137]

I confess much the same feeling in regard to these written sayings of my faraway Alice. All are welcome, even stories of your mother's pains. But doubly sweet it is to find that when you feel the contrast between the old life and the new, you choose the new. I know you are right — we are right. W e cannot be worth as much alone. Here, hand in hand, our strength lies, and we will take it, darling, with all the merriment and hardship it brings. Lately you have seen this more, that our love is no mere sweetmeat but a real new way of living by which we must now shape everything else. When you last left your home you doubted about this. I remember the letter you wrote and how for the moment — and unfairly — it lowered you in my thoughts. In the previous one you had written with glee of our expected meeting by the river, on Sept. 3. Then, the night before I was to join you, came this one, all altered. We were to be good friends. There were many obstacles to anything else. We had our separate works which might be disturbed by trying to pull ourselves together. I knew it was largely said for my sake. It did not seem to me selfish. But I agreed with it all. I thought, "Then let her go. She will shape our love to other things, not other things to our love. We could not walk together even if we were married. She is smaller than I supposed." So I met you the next morning and found you outwardly cold. A school marm sat beside me. But soon I saw I was unjust, that you were unjust to yourself. Underneath all that flummery was great palpitating you, the very woman I loved, who belonged, I believed, to me. To find you again made me almost childishly merry. I had not been deceived; it was indeed you. I went off into such sport and [138]

nonsense as puzzled you, and I have never doubted you since, never for a moment wondered whether you might not one day turn to other things than me. There always stood the plain fact — you were mine and I yours. How much to take possession, was a mere question of convenience. But by the great fact all else was to be measured. And now in your own home you have come face to face with this, and we are finding one another though a thousand miles away. The absence will bring us gains and do for us more swiftly much that must in any case be done. I called on Mrs. Claflin, but did not find her, and last night received a note wondering when I could call again. She had a matter on which she wished to consult me. I replied that I go to Philadelphia on Saturday and might not return till Thursday following. So I feared I should not see her till week after next. I must say I hope she will take your life before we meet.* I do not want to sanction it, nor even to have a finger in the pie. When I get ready to give the world an account of you, the result will probably be quite different from hers. Her estimate and mine could not coincide. I should feel cleaner to escape all responsibility for what she writes. As to Mr. Abbott's Pacific plans, I shall not think of going away if I can be with you. You know my strong hope is we may be allowed to marry in August. In any case our engagement will be out in June and July and I will not leave you. I do not want to embarrass him with my fictions, so before long I shall tell him you are my very dear friend, that I have made up my mind to see as much as possible of you this * A reference to a biographical article by Mrs. Claflin. [ !39]

summer, and that as he will be competing against you he may as well retire from the contest. You will not be compromised, and as for my share — he is as silent as the grave. But I do not want him to suppose I treat this generous offer lightly, as a mere affair of my personal convenience. And as for health, the gnawing hunger for you I feel now will by that time render any separation simply a period of grim endurance. The green spray you gave me when we were last together at Wellesley — when I came out from your lips and fireside into the snow — still is green and shines from Ellen's vase on the mantel.

G. H. P. to A. F. 27 Stoughton Hall, March 18 . . . I am glad your mother takes kindly to the Boxford plan, and I really think that air would invigorate her if she can be moved so far. If she comes, we will certainly stand in the bay window. I think by this time you must see how impossible it will be for us to live apart a year more. W e cannot do efficient work. So, even though our engagement should be announced this summer and I should be allowed to visit you once a week, your health could not stand that strain of parted busy days, full of pushing ambitions and questionings among teachers, followed on my Saturday nights by the watchful eyes that knew we were together. The whole thing would be intolerable to us both and its abominations would soon appear in our feverish healths. W e are too far [ 140]

along for any such separated lives. W e had better accept the joined one and make the best of it. I am willing to submit to that hard fate. And if it must come, when better than August 3? I have finished the 18th Odyssey, and when I come home will begin the 17th. If I could get these books off before the term ends I might perhaps finish the remainder this summer. But my work grows steadily heavier from now till June. W e begin Kant tomorrow in Ethics, and several of the authors I must discuss in the History of Philosophy are not very familiar to me. M y first "Reading" in Homer here occurred today, and was very successful. There is a new spirit in your letters, sweetheart, dear as they have always been. They thrill me as you yourself do. I seem to perceive our great nearness spreading throughout you. The bitter absence is perhaps opening your eyes to facts that were not known facts before. I believe you see that you are but partially yourself when alone. I have long known this through finding something similar in myself. In your letters there are turns of phrase that never were there before. Perhaps they could not come till we had found each other out so fully. The Post Office is very good to us. Your letters have reached me in two days. This will find you in Saginaw on Monday morning. I cannot write again before Sunday in the Rectory, and that will perhaps find you gone in search of Miss Evans. I am impatient for you to see her. Naturally she must consider your proposals for some time before she answers them, and I want you to bring back definite knowledge about her. [Hi]

G. Η. P. to A. F. New York Steamboat, March 19 . . . Col. Higginson has just written to get my formal promise to be present on April 14. Ladd's paper is announced as having for its subject "The Development of the University in America." I wrote Higginson that I was afraid Ladd and I really agreed too well to get up anything pretty in the way of a fight, that I must not be expected to make a speech, but of course I should be glad to join in the talk. Higginson was also disturbed over the exclusion of the Annex* from my Greek readings. White wanted the announcement to read "These readings are open to all members of the University," and so it stands. Readings in connection with the regular work in Greek have never been tried before; and White wanted them to look more serious than he thought would be the case if bonnets were present. I have told Higginson that if he cannot persuade White to change and the Annex feels aggrieved, I will read all 6 books over to them at some other place. . . . A few nights ago Mr. Abbott began to press me still more strongly about the summer journey and to show me that his plans largely hinged on mine. I did not feel justified in humbugging him any longer and told him plainly. Both he and Mrs. Abbott were perfectly rejoiced. They said it was as if I had made them a personal gift. . . . I shall hardly write you tomorrow from the Rectory. The little time there I must give to Fred and Mary. But you * The "Society for the Collegiate Instruction of W o m e n , " later Radcliffe College.

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shall hear from the speech making as soon as possible. W h y are you not to be there! Is it not amusing that the only speech you ever heard me make was on the subject of love and the chances of its permanence. Suum cuique! I have made so many speeches to you on that subject that there must have been a sense of relief in hearing me talk to others. You would not escape tonight if you were here. To absent wished-for you I am sorry to send so rough a letter. There is practically no light — none whatever in the state-rooms. M y pen is working badly, and the boat jars in an abominable manner, while overhead the squeaking fiddles and illpitched brass distract ear and mind. How different from the gentle sounds to which I have often listened here. Good night my darling girl.

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, March 22, Tuesday Dear Alice, I have just come in from New York, which I left at 1 1 this morning, and am a little disappointed to find nothing from you. I have not heard from you since last Friday and silent days are long things. Probably it is the fault of the mails. Letters may be following me from place to place, and tomorrow it can always be hoped will bring your words. But I am afraid I shall be too busy then to write you, and I know you will want an account of the meeting. So that you shall have tonight. . . . Dr. Ecob's paper was to my thinking quite charming, ex[143]

plaining with much humor the nature of Culture and of Religion and the essential unity of the two. It was devoted entirely to a discussion of principles and avoided, on account of his inexperience, examination of the modes of embodying his principles. The thesis was that the distinction between sacred and secular was an artificial one, that any attempt to separate off portions of instruction as religious would be ineffective and that the only religion worth teaching was a living religious man. Of course I agreed with it fully and was rejoiced, except for the thought that he was stealing my thunder. Then I was called on. Perhaps I can sketch you an outline of my remarks. At Bradford's request I began by pointing out what was at present being done here. After a description of the new voluntary arrangements of prayers, church and vespers, I said that all would see that our situation was peculiar. Having declared that the elective principle added a new worth to secular study, we could not consistently hold that in that department of life where the adhesion of the personal spirit was far more consequential prescription should hold. To do so would be to offer disrespect to religion. But the change had been made cautiously and through successive steps. We had merely reached the conclusion of a process in which all colleges were in some degree involved. In the beginning every college had started in close connection with a single sect, usually requiring attendance twice on Sunday at its own services, with two exercises of prayers each day, and ordinarily some week-day lesson in the Bible or other religious manual. Today this was all changed. Some colleges had advanced far, others less far; but all [ 144]

moved in the same direction. What did the movement mean? That religion was now thought a matter of little consequence? It might mean that, but I did not believe it. Harvard was never more serious than today, and so far as I could learn the same was true of the other colleges. My own explanation was the colleges had come to distrust the artificializing of religion. They wished it to be real. They thought they ought not to adopt methods different from those that had been proved efficient elsewhere. Perhaps it was not always remembered that this change in the colleges simply assimilated their methods to those of the world at large. The average age of entrance at Harvard today was 18 years 10 months. Let any parent in the audience ask himself what he would do if having 4 boys of 18 he should send two into business and 2 to college. He would naturally wish them all to be under Christian influence. But one sort of influence had hitherto been judged best for a college boy and an altogether different one for the boy of business. Yet I could not see that business men grew up to be less religious than college men. I should rather guess the contrary. What influences then would the parent demand for his two boys sent into business in Chicago? (1) He would demand that the firm to which they went should be an honest one, making no advertisements which it did not fulfil, turning out goods of a substantial character. Then demand the same from colleges. Distrust those which did not issue sober and truthspeaking catalogues, see that the education given was sound and unshowy. (2) The employer would not be allowed to send the young men to church, to oblige them to come to daily prayers at his house, or to spend his spare hours in the [145]

counting room compelling them to listen to his ideas of the Bible. Yet if he were in any respect to stand to the boys in the place of a parent, his ordering of them should be such as would deepen and discipline their characters. I saw no objection that those colleges which still retained prescription in study should oblige all to study the more serious sides of philosophy and even to have daily devotional exercises. But (3) the one thing the parent would insist on as the only influence worth trusting would be that the members of the firm should themselves be men of character who in all their dealings with the boys might present a standard of what it was well to be. And that too was the only influence of a religious sort that ever amounted to anything in colleges. A boy's sense of religion was largely associated with his sense of hatred of humbug. Men who would lead him must be straightforward, without affectation. Methods of college gov't, which relied on espionage, or which exposed the students to opportunities of lying, struck severe blows at religion. On the other hand where a religious genius by happy accident became associated with a college — a Mark Hopkins, a Dr. Wayland, a President Seelye — the safest way was to let him do what he liked. Prescribed or elective mattered .little. The work of such men was immortal. But we could not reckon on catching geniuses. Our problem was concerned with common men. We wanted such whose influence would be wholesome and upbuilding, scientific men who were in search of a truth they would be too reverent to distort according to their own likings, men in every department who knew their own limitations and reverenced a greater personality than themselves continually being re[146]

vealed. How should such be got? The old sectarian college had an easy rule of thumb. Take only a church member. Fortunately we had abolished that. Every strong college now admitted officers of all sects and of no sects. But in breaking down the mechanical test we had not abolished the need of more spiritual testing. The colleges were only just awakening to the fact that ennobling influences could only proceed from men of weight of seriousness and of original quickening power. . . . The best speaker of the evening seemed to me to be Dr. Kincaid, a graduate of Oberlin, and for many years minister of a church there. He described the Oberlin plan of making religious experience the matter of first consequence and study secondary. He showed the hopes with which Oberlin was founded and the unique character of President Finney. He depicted the atmosphere of piety which had now been made to pervade the town, the college, the very rooms of the students. Under such conditions he said the problem of compulsory religious instruction does not arise. Nobody comes to Oberlin who has not chosen just this. He insisted therefore that the place was sui generis, and that therefore its results were but little instructive for colleges necessarily founded with different aims. The sobriety of the man, his rigid honesty, his precision of word, and indisposition to praise or blame that which he described so distinctly, took hold on us all. We saw the place was a complete thing, and I had the same desire to have experienced it as I have to have lived with the Vicar of Wakefield or with Robinson Crusoe. Of course I do not count either one of the three a good pattern of human habitation. I would as soon put my 18 [i47l

year old boy under the tuition of atheists as to expose him to such unreal influences as those described. But the picture had a distinct charm, and for him who drew it everybody had admiration. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Friday, March 25 Don't do it again, Alice. I may go crazy. From Friday of last week till Thursday of this I had not a syllable from you. It is true yesterday I reaped a large reward. T w o great splendid letters tumbled into my lap at once. But a double dinner is not equal to two single ones. Meditate the problem of a letter's arrival. Remember that while they he on your desk I do not get them. Mailing helps the matter. One of these was written last Friday and Saturday, but the two had the same postmark. N o w I am letting out all the bile that has gathered in my sore spot during the past week! The longings of Jenkintown and N e w Y o r k ! It is as if the breath stopped. But probably enough I puzzled you with the uncertainties of my movements! and then too who will mourn over the pains of a tooth once pulled! Here you are now, at any rate, just my own Alice, and this is our glad day of parting. W e have got rid of a fortnight of it, and perhaps another fortnight will end the ugly business. The letters give hopes of your coming to Jenkintown. Y o u will find out about this and let me know at once, will you not? T w o or three days we must have together before our terms begin. I say must. I do not count the matter a convenience or a private delight that can come in at the end [ I48J

after all other claims are satisfied. It is the only proper thing to do. If you find you cannot come, then I go to you. And if you feel, darling, any strong inclination to this solution, do tell me so. The journey is not fatiguing to me. I like it. You speak of cold and chills. I never feel them. It would be a prodigious delight to be with you in Saginaw again and to take the journey back with you. M y only reasons for hesitation are the ones I mentioned, especially the fact that my presence must disturb those who are ill able to bear disturbance, and that we can consequently have no uninterrupted access to one another, as we could have at Jenkintown. . . . B y this time I suppose you have seen Miss Evans. It would be hard for your mother I know to have you break away from home. This I hoped to save by your going to Miss E. on your way out. But I am sure all at home would see the importance of the errand and I trust it is safely dispatched by this time. May she have been of a coming-on disposition! Our problems will be immensely eased if she is all we hope and moveable. I wish you could bring her to Wellesley this year, if only for a visit. Better still if she could undertake the work of the closing term and the admission of new members. These are matters in which a little experience now would stand her in good stead. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Sunday Afternoon, March 27th, 1887 Oh! my dear, this soft white shawl is good in this bitter weather, but not so good as lover's arms, or so warm as my [149]

boy's kisses! I have been reading all the afternoon to Mother, until at five o'clock I have begged an hour for you. Now the doors of my little room are shut, and I reach out both hands to you, George. Where and how shall I begin? It has been a hard week which I have just ended. Ella and I have attended to all "spring work" necessary in the house this year, and a good deal has been needed. Tomorrow's work will finish, and then Mother will feel very happy in her "new house." She is so tired of everything about her, and so glad of the changes. Only two pleasant days since I came! I have not seen a fiercer snow storm this winter than today's. We shall have fine sleighing tomorrow. Ella has been sick, but is better, though really far from well, and, my dear, I am afraid she will not be strong in years, if she ever is again. W e have decided that Mother shall be taken to the sanitarium about fifty miles from here where many cases of rheumatism have been cured by hot baths in the mineral waters, which have gained high reputation in this section. We cannot move her while the weather is so changeable, but the moment it is safe, Father will take her there, and try the effect in her case. In many ways she is not improving. If these baths do not help her as we hope, we will try to take her to the sanitarium at Battle Creek, or to the Hot Springs in Arkansas. Father and Fred think there is hardly a chance, my Beloved, that she can go east this summer. They feel that she ought to be having the most careful medical treatment continually, and to be in some place where such cases can be treated to the greatest advantage. They also feel that they ought not to abandon the office during the summer, unless it is a positive necessity. The sum[150]

mer is the time when there is much more sickness in this city than at any other season, and the chances are strong that one or both will be obliged to take a whole or a part of next winter in a milder climate, and be spending, not earning money. This, of course, gives them increasing anxiety, as Mother's expenses will be heavy, and as we, I find, are about six thousand dollars in debt. Of course, this Saginaw property could be sold for much more. It is valued now at twice the sum, but, of course, they must not be compelled at Father's time of life to part with their home, and leave this good practice, if by any effort it can be avoided. You know, my dear one, that it is only about nine years since Father lost absolutely everything he had, and we all gathered together here, where I was teaching, with just enough money to get the family into the house which I had rented. Father's losses were so entirely honorable to his own manliness and goodness that I have always been proud that he gave up even his household goods to make reparation for the meanness of others, but just the same the future has to be met. Since then, Stella's* long illness and death, Ella's marriage, Fred's college course, and the making of a home here — and a part of the old indebtedness paid off, though there was no legal claim on Father — indeed no moral claim; yet Fred and I have always said — and said to them that suffered in the failure — that if they were not paid in full, we would do so. So I write out to you, my love, the full situation which we have thought over and talked over so much the last few days. I, too, hoped that much more had been accomplished this year in freeing the family from debt than * A sister. [151]

has been done. The year has been very expensive in every way with no woman in charge of servants, and sometimes three extra women in the house. I had really no idea of the situation until I came here, and even then not all at once. Perhaps you see, George, that we shall have to resign the plan of bringing these sick ones to Boxford for even a part of the summer. I suppose Mother could not have there just the care she most needs, and that Father and Fred could not feel it right to take the summer out of their practice. Mr. Talmage and Ella will be here a month or six weeks after I leave; then, I hope, Ella can still take charge of the house while Mother is at the sanitarium or at the Springs. Possibly she may be there, with Mother, and be benefited herself. In case she is not better, I shall urge her trying the change. So we talk on and on, my dearest heart. You must agree with me that we cannot postpone any effort in behalf of the health of these so largely relying upon me. I know you go into all this anxiety and effort with me, and so I go with fourfold courage and cheerfulness. I have had a long talk with Father and Fred this morning. They beg me over and over to make no definite plans for this summer. They feel it is very soon. They fear Mother may not live into the winter again. They are oppressed with care, and full of foreboding. They are both able to be out now, and Fred is doing very well, indeed. So you and I must talk it all over when we meet. But so much is growing clear to me — that we cannot count on this summer in Boxford. Before writing again I hope to have heard from Miss Evans, and during this week to have seen her and then we shall talk of all that hangs on that interview. I know now [152]

of two other women whom I shall interview on my travels before they bring me to the Rectory. May something hopeful come to pass! . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford, Monday morning [March 28]

My dear girl, I have just come down to Boxford from Byfield in a heavy rainstorm. The day is dark, the roads all afloat, the woods full of snow which also lies in shining patches along the stone walls. The bare fields look as if the life that perished in them long ago could never return. The brook has overflowed the meadow, and from my chamber window — the one where we used to look for Mrs. Claflin's light when returning from our guilty escapades — I can see that the two logs of the bridge are under water. I hoped for a sunny day here, like yesterday and Saturday. But it doesn't matter much. I came for work, to get away from the continual interruptions of Cambridge, and see if I can straighten out Spinoza and in the intervals get this load of examination books off my back. It is only 9 o'clock, so a pile of work can be done before I take the 6 o'clock train home again tonight. You know the old lady who when very busy used to say, " I guess I'll take a nap and get that out of the way." So in this press of study it seems well to kiss Alice, say good morning to her, and get that out of the way. The only hindrance to coming here was that I should postpone receiving a letter from you. Probably one will be waiting for me in Cambridge tonight. To meet this difficulty [153]

I put your last two in my pocket and allowed myself to read one of them yesterday and the other this morning. In them I find some things I did not speak of when I wrote last. . . . I see too I did not express that which my heart was full of, sympathy with your home anxieties. I know what stabs it brings to sit and see dear ones suffer and be unable to relieve them. For months I have borne it. How one clings to them! How slight other interests seem! Often I rejoice that my coming to you was before you had this trial. The desolation would have seemed then so hopeless. The few fragments of personal life you had would then have been mangled and nothing would have been at hand to replace them. You would have been driven back solitary and bruised to public functions. But now I am with you, sweet heart. Perhaps sometimes you think yourself cold and selfish because in the thought of me you find joy when all about you points to sorrow. But that is not evil. In all-wise eyes it must look well. It is no perversion of the purpose of grief that through it lovers creep closer together and build their homes out of decaying homes. That is a beautiful mystery of life, the weaving of the dark and bright threads. Each holds its own character and is not proved false by its neighbor. Grief is true grief when joy is by its side; and in the midst of all these pains and perplexities I hope you rest in me and in the assurance that every day, no matter what obstacles it contains, is bringing us nearer to living side by side in our home. . . . I wish I could send you this red rose which Katie has set on my blue table. All things here seem to belong to you and your use of them to be only delayed. What refreshment it will be to us in the years to come to run away from our busy [154]

Cambridge home to these piney solitudes where we did our first shy courting. W e have learned boldness since, to be sure. But there will always be about this place an atmosphere of wild rose buds, fresh muslin dresses, scent of new mown hay, Dorset syllables and moonlighted paths. However straight we learn to speak and however practically energetic we become, these delicate airs shall never depart from our home so long as I am your Geordie.

A. F. to G. H. P. East Saginaw, Friday Morning, Apr. ι

I go to Chicago tonight to meet Miss Evans tomorrow. At last after much writing we have this appointment, from which I hope so much. She comes to Chicago, to meet me, very cordially. How I hope she will be disposed to join hands with me in Wellesley's work! I write only a note this morning, because this day is so full of last things, though I go to Chicago only for two days. I hope to be here again Monday night, and intend to start for New York Thursday morning, at the latest, Wednesday if Mother is no worse. She is just now suffering much more than usual. Yesterday was a very trying day. She fainted twice, and showed some other alarming symptoms. M y address in New York will be care of Melvil Dewey, 48 West 59th St. I must stop there on my way to the Rectory, because of the dress problem. If I only could be a bird of paradise for two weeks, you and I could have more time together, and what a brilliant creature you would be! . . . I want a letter from you painfully!

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One must come this afternoon, in time for me to have a last word for my journey! How long the time has been, Beloved, since the Friday morning in New York! One week more, and the strain will be over. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. East Saginaw, Monday Morning [April 4] M y dearest: You will be anxious to hear from my interview with Miss Evans, and I am eager for a long talk with you. I could not write yesterday to say how much I like her. She is a very fine woman. I want her for the leader of Wellesley, and she wants to come. But can she? That question can not be settled without thought and plan. She goes home to think and investigate. I shall hear from her soon after my return to Wellesley. I am so satisfied that she is the woman we need, that, even in the uncertainty of her getting away from Carleton, I feel a large relief. But we will talk at length of this when we meet. That day is blissfully near! I shall be as busy as possible until I leave. I hope now to get away Wednesday night. I will write you at Jenkintown when to expect me. I suppose you go down there tomorrow night, don't you? Give them all my love in advance of my coming. How good the ending of the week will be!

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Thursday Evening [April 21] . . . I did not mean to refuse to help you today in your philosophical perplexities. My view is simply this. You

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cannot pay salary enough to obtain anybody who has now a name in the subject. And even if you had the money, your doctrinal requirements would frighten away a first class man. As then on both grounds you must put up with something of second rank, you had better not be too critical about your present teachers. If you can give them textbooks and so make them get along decently, why, let them alone. You are not likely to get others who will on the whole be better. New ones will undoubtedly omit some of the faults of these; but not being persons of individual force, they will have other troubles quite as hard. . . . Your notion of writing Mrs. D. is excellent. The more I think of it, the better it pleases me. Of course there will be a row. That is inevitable, however the case is managed. But it will be less distressing to you and to her if she can think of it a while before she must speak. If she wishes to see me, of course I will call on her. But I hope I may be spared. Nothing may be done looking toward my leaving Harvard. I would do it if it were necessary for your health, or even if I believed your powers were to be paralyzed by change of duty. But I have been long in building up an influence here which I must not lightly abandon. I am sure you would feel it somewhat humiliating to see me marry into a position. You would like to have me stand on my own feet. I do that here, and you will stand by my side, my strong support. But I will not insist. Do with me as you think fit. I am yours. If Wellesley College can be placed on an independent basis and can become genuinely unsectarian, I will join you — most reluctantly — in taking it. Less than this, neither my conscience nor my judgement will permit. [157]

G. Η. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Friday Evening [April 22] Before beginning work, sweet Alice, I want to throw a kiss across to Wellesley, not one of the close enrapturing kind, found in attics and on lounges; but one of gentler greeting, to wish the day may be well with you and full of remembrance of the absent friend. After we have been so close together the silences seem particularly rude. I wanted to hear more details yesterday about the coming home to Wellesley, what you found amiss and how the delegation of powers had worked. And also to know whether Mrs. Claflin's attempt on your life* was actually to be made. I didn't tell you either that I have begun to think about publishing my second volume of the Odyssey next year. John White has made me promise to read Books 1 3 - 1 8 next March; so I must work them up this Summer. Because you asked for these I have already begun them, have finished the 18 th and am half through the long and beautiful 17th. My books he open on the side desk, and in whatever fragments of time I can find I sit down before them. I wish I could have a year with nothing else to do. I think I could produce a rendering then that would hold the field for a generation. But it is slow work. I can seldom reach the average of 20 lines an hour. . . . I believe I abused to you Royce's novel f after reading the first third of it. That part deserves whatever ill I said. But a change begins there, and though throughout its merit is unequal, at its best, in * Mrs. Claflin's article on A . E. F. f The Feud of Oakfield Creek (Boston, 1887).

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chapters, it is very great indeed. It deals with the forces which actually sway men, and does not prettify, cover up or moralize. The Dr. Hoveys of the world will look askance upon it — a great compliment. I must not stay writing. Work waits. Be merry, little girl. Remembering your lover see how gladly and widely you can make reason and the will of God prevail.

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley, Sunday Afternoon [April 24] This last picture is a continual pleasure, my dear George, a daily delight to me since one happy Thursday. It is full of you, and full of the day, — and I am still full of both! I dreamed of you last night — a rich dream, and woke with such an assurance of your presence as nothing all day has been able to dispel. I never saw and felt you so deeply before, except on rare occasions with you, and it was a great pain to wake into a rude world. But after the first shock, the day has been a glad one. The spring was never so welcome before, and never brought so much new life to me. Every soft wind brings a thankful thought for Mother. M y letter yesterday was, at last, a hopeful one. The symptoms were better, and Ella spoke with large relief. The weather there is milder, and we may soon be able to get her away. Your Friday's greeting was like a voice from our heavenly place above the world of business. Thank you, sweetheart. I have wanted to write constantly, — but, of course, I could not — so much was left over from Thursday. "About the coming home to Wellesley, and how the delegation of

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powers had worked?" Miss Tuttle, sick and at home for six weeks — Miss Shafer, sick, and Miss Whiting in a quarrel with Mrs. Durant; Mrs. McCoy needing a vacation so much that I send her off next week, and Mrs. Newman and she trespassing on each other's prerogatives; on the whole things have gone very comfortably. The machinery is all here — the organization inside the College is all complete, the departments are all officered well; — my absence brings this out more clearly; and also shows where the defects are more sharply, — and this fact becomes more and more plain — that the division of authority between the President and Treasurer is the cause of all the difficulty which now exists in the organization of the College. The others — Trustees — see this as clearly as I do, but how to remedy it is the most serious problem we have had to consider. We owe her so much — so much of our resources she controls, that we cannot afford for every reason to break with her, if the College can be saved in any other way, and that is not yet proved. I have had a long talk about it all, and much beside, with Prof. Horsford, who has just gone. He feels it all too keenly for his comfort. I hope he is the one to help us. He has a plan in mind, and his work and place give him power to control and dictate which no other one man possesses. I wish I could talk it all over with you now! I am afraid that Miss Evans cannot come for a year, if then. Oh! for the woman created unto this work! I do believe that I shall find her soon. Yes, Mrs. Claflin is going to publish her article about me. She told me yesterday that she had the final word with Mrs. Pratt — that Mrs. Bolton had waived her claim, and the way was clear. But Mrs. Pratt has not yet seen the article, [160]

and may not accept it. I fancy that Mrs. Bolton's style — her anecdotes and so forth, may be as agreeable as Mrs. Claflin's way of putting things. But it will doubtless go in, and I shall feel like going out of the world for the time being. Prof. Horsford is urging my going abroad for the summer, if Mother continues to improve. I might hide in Scotland for a little if I could only find my laddie under some green tree. What a frisk that would be! "This is a disgracefully long letter!" To be sure, but you should have given me a chance to talk when I was with you. At this distance, you can't stop my mouth, or hold my hand, and I have the advantage. Still, I wouldn't object if you would just come in through this window. Then, unless I should lose both my wits and my powers of speech, as in the past, I would properly congratulate you on the little George Palmer. I do think that I might be consulted when your boys are named. Yet I won't complain if the names are so good as this one. When I see Mr. Hyde next, I may suggest that my consent must hereafter be sought in such matters. I am having some very pleasant letters about the degree.* That is the pleasant thing, if others like it. I wonder if I ought to care more about it. I am afraid I am too indifferent. I am going to try to be more interested, to feel that it is an honor, but somehow I can't remember it. I hate to see people who are not sensitive to the courtesy and kindnesses of others, public or private. I must not be one of them. Friday the Visitors meet. Their chief discussion will be upon the Philosophy difficulties. I wish I might talk with you first. I meant to Thursday. * From Columbia University. [161]

G. Η. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Sunday Evening [April 24] I have nothing to write you about tonight, dear heart, and several things are waiting. But on Sundays I always feel particularly near you; and when you are so near, it relieves my mind to speak. Are you dreaming as longingly as I of the time when these Sundays will be our own special days of home communion, rest, church-going and fresh equipment through one another for the busy weeks beyond? Sunday is emphatically the home day, when husbands and •wives can come face to face. My day has been a quiet one. The Dean preached one of his noisy sermons this morning, and like George Herbert I allowed God to take a text and preach me patience. But the service was quieting and uplifting, a very old man reading it and carrying over into our hearts some of the long experienced holiness with which he seemed filled. I dined with Will James, at whose table was Hodgson, secretary of the English Psychical Society. Royce was there. W e had some good talk. This afternoon I read my last Andover Review. The first article, on cities, is strong. There is a laborious editorial trying to defend the absurd Andover view of "second probation," and a very proper onslaught on the American Board.* I have revised my Preface somewhat. The printing begins tomorrow, and the book is promised for the middle of May. f * The American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. f Possibly The New Education, published by Little, Brown and C o m pany.

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I wonder if we meet this week? You know I always want to; but I must not let our attic* become a new burden to you, stealing so much time that you will need to overwork to make it up. You know you have agreed with me that there is no other duty now for you comparable in importance to that of building up your bodily vigor. I do not mean merely coming to feel very well this week, but adding something each week to your permanent stock and avoiding expensive strains. I know, dear, you will do so much as this for me, for you too wish we may be together many years. Are you taking regular exercises for the lungs? the half-circle especially? and not occasionally but every day? and little at a time? Do do it, and sleep long and early. But about the rendezvous — if we are to be so blessed, let it fall on some day when on other accounts you are to be in town, avoiding only this week Tuesday and Friday afternoons. Do you know on Thursday it is nine months since the crows cawed? A long time, isn't it? Enough to mature the child Love into an independent existence, and set him on two feet where he can bear to be looked at by all the world. If that should be the time when you are to be in Boston, I should gladly draw your head to my shoulder once more. But do not strain anything for it. After the dearness of last week we can live through a week without sight or touch. Only I would like a time of quiet talk when, the heart-hunger being a little appeased, we could treat one another a little like rational beings. I am proud and thankful for all we have had. Save the photographs till I see you. Sent through the mail * A t 97 State Street, Boston. [163]

they will be suspicious objects, with their Wellesley postmark. And do not fail to tell me the home news, about which I am steadily anxious. Oh if we could save your mother's pains! Why is there no contrivance, when two have more happiness than they can use, to enable them to give the overflowing of the cup to others? Your flowers are on the table beside me. I have seldom had a gift touch me so nearly.

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Thursday [May 5]

I write you, my dear one, very briefly today because of my crowded time, and because I foresee that in the Sunday which I have now decided to spend at Boxford there will be leisure for talking at length about that subject which is never absent from my mind — the possibility of our marrying soon. What I have to say about it can wait well enough. Indeed if we had learned nothing else in this annus mirabilis we should owe it a large debt of gratitude for its lessons in waiting. I only want to say now that since I left you yesterday I have been full of self-reproaches and resolves. I shall not come so near you any more, for I am sure that instead of calming you with assurance of our immense present wealth, I am only stirring longings for the greater blessings which we neither of us believe to be honorably ours at present. Our lives are at best hard, parted and fragmentary as they must be — yours harder than mine, so much more filled with drudgery and perplexities. Forgive me, dear, if I have [164]

made it harder. You are everything to me. These approaches I should be ashamed not to desire. They lend depth and dignity to us both. I do not regret them. Only now that I know how entirely at one we are, I mean to try to mitigate some of the sharp pangs of separated living by turning away from paths where these pangs will be met. As usual I mean to speak out plainly to you the grounds of my action. There has been nothing heedless and blind hitherto, my darling. There shall not be hereafter. I neglected to tell you of an investigation I am just undertaking into the expense of four years at Harvard. Today I am preparing a circular of questions to send each member of the graduating class, and I hope to gather statistics which may be of importance in encouraging the poor to come to us. Because of an erroneous belief that the poor are not always with us, the public justly distrusts us. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Friday Afternoon [May 6] The hours have flown so fast since our happy meeting that I only this moment realized I must write you at once if I would have words of mine greet you before Sunday. I have been working this morning on Homer's 13 th Book, with double pleasure, because my old manuscript of this book is in Ellen's hand. I have just begun it, having already finished the 16th, 17th and 18th. Those I did first, thinking if I were interrupted this summer I could then read next year Books 1 6 - 2 1 , half of them new. N o w I go back to 13, [165]

so that in case of printing I may have at once copy for the harpies of the press. All these books will require subsequent revisal. But two days apiece will be sufficient, and that can even be found after the term begins. Did I tell you my little book appears next week? You shall have an early copy. It is a twin brother of yours, having the same birthday. How satisfactory you are! These days when we talk quietly curiously reveal our inner accord. Each has decided opinions of his own, but they always turn out to be the same as those of the other. Independence is not at issue with harmony. In our structure the blessing seems to be incorporated which Ulysses wishes for Nausicaa and her husband — likemindedness. Similarity of taste and aims, with diversity of powers, makes a wealthy concord. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford Piazza, Sunday [May 8] When I left Cambridge in the rain yesterday, I was afraid I should not find Boxford our Boxford. The season here is always later than in the neighborhood of Boston, and a spring storm, shutting visitors into my little room, does not contribute to the expansive sense of summer. But the filtered sunshine of today shows me that the fields are our own fields. As I sit here in your place at the table, with the thermometer at 78,1 can expect the sound of your foot on the stairs and imagine that you are soon to join me and the red pillows in a stroll across this green grass and under the [166]

grey mist that hangs around the apple trees, the willows, and poplars. The birds today are keeping the air busy, spreading their notes abroad, and the brook and the run demand its service too, as they scurry along fearful apparently that they may not reach their destination in time. Everything has the tender beauty of half formation. Promises are thrown about broadcast, and they are prettier than performances. To be in so beautiful a world is very good. One only is lacking. Ach, war sie da! If you are busy, I advise you to lay my letter aside at this point and await an idle half hour. I foresee a long affair. I have nothing of consequence to write about, but the exuberance of the spring is in my blood today, and I shall talk for the sake of talking and not for the conveyance of ideas. The rush of Cambridge does not visit this peaceful spot. Here I can rest with you. Still, as I told you, there is one little business matter I wish to call your attention to. I want you to marry me this summer. I am sure you will agree that so far as the progress of our love is concerned, it is about time for the clergyman to intervene. For us there can be no more gain in separation, only present hardship, and delay in the modes of growth by which we are to become strong hereafter. And this inward preparation cannot without danger be parted from outward expression. I doubt if the health of either of us can safely stand the strain of another solitary year. I feel almost sure that yours cannot. Indeed if you had never seen me, you ought in the interest of future power to break off all work this summer and begin at once a great recuperative change. If you do not, the value of your work will grow less [167]

each year. No human being can endure the continuous strains you have met the last dozen years and not require a long period of rest. And you besides are face to face with threatened disease. We know that this is still manageable. If we attack it wisely now, we may have many years together; and how many lives we will fertilize! But a little recklessness — what will it not defeat! Let this trouble advance as much another year as it has in this last, and we shall know you cannot be to me the helper we have hoped. Do not say you are going to make arrangements next year to diminish the pressure of affairs. I do not doubt you will try to. But what will be that pressure, nobody can foresee. The head of Wellesley College cannot say, "Here I am to do so much, but no more." Whatever is needed she must do. If there comes a sudden call for entertaining guests at a time when she needs rest, she cannot thrust forward her personal requirements. She must meet the demand. Professors will quarrel, girls will need to be expelled. Trustees will be idiotic, and Mrs. D. cantankerous without the slightest reference to the bearing of these events on what you have calculated or what your health may be. Each year too has its catastrophe. This year it has been sickness at home; next it will be something else. The unexpected must be taken as a regular constituent factor in our plans, and my point is that you are in no condition to meet the wear and tear of another year of such work as you can foresee at Wellesley, plus the mass of sudden and unexpected demands that will surely arise. You know as well as I that the first of duties is to keep powers unimpaired. Probably you will agree to all this, and own that an es[168]

cape at once from Wellesley would mean years of upwardtending health in place of the downward tendency which will be fixed by another year's campaign. Until within a month I have believed, reluctantly enough, that our marriage could wait; and perhaps still it might. But how can we ever buy back again what we shall spend by so doing? And how we shall long to buy it back when some years hence the parting draws near! Do not let us risk such things. We have no right to gamble with such weighty stakes. Nobody who understands the situation can doubt what the prudent course is. Let us take it and meet together the honorable and cheerful economies which then lie before us. I have not spoken of Wellesley's interest in this matter. I do not care to. If, as I believe, your health is put in peril by continuing there, still to stay in order to make it easier for the Trustees to find a suitable President would be crazy. No good cause goes to pieces because a single person drops out. God loves his own more than that. If Wellesley can be wrecked by such an incident, it had better be. No doubt it will be shaken. In my judgment it will in any event pass through a perilous transition period when you leave. Your duplicate does not exist in the country, and your work cannot be passed over to another without a jolt. But such jolts are means of ultimately reaching greater strength. In many respects there must be a revolution at Wellesley, and it is just as well the Trustees should be obliged to face it squarely. Of course if Miss Evans will come, matters will be eased. But as I told you six months ago, when we decided to pin our hopes on her, if she fails us I have no idea of standing about and letting all other interests languish until somebody [169]

else can be picked up. So far as I can see the only righteous thing to do is to hand in your resignation the last of June. If then you will go abroad for the summer, and come home to marriage in September, I will call you ever afterwards my darling wife. These are matters of which we must talk in the next weeks. They have been growing plainer to me since our Jenkintown meeting. I want you to consider them seriously — unselfishly, I mean, just as you would if they concerned your sister instead of yourself. I think you have seldom looked at them in any such spirit. You always discuss the case as if, because your own wishes and interests were involved, it must be settled in some different way from that required by ordinary good sense and prudence. And even though in this you throw the doubt against your own wishes, you still are prejudiced by them. Let yourself alone. Judge here as you would think it right to judge for A. or B. or C. When I have leisure my letters to you exceed all bounds. I must sign this at once. I could wish to make a confession to you, to parallel the one you made on Wednesday. But confessions are generally made more to ease the maker than the hearer. I will retain mine a little longer. With your Hawaiian cares we shall hardly meet this week. But in the strength of the meat we have had lately we can go many days. Your dear note of Thursday night refreshed me just before I left home. Emily cannot accompany me on Monday, and alone I will not risk myself near Lake Waban. In the morning I hope to gather some cowslips to send with this document. A stock of kisses and tender thoughts is always at hand to breathe into my words to you. [170]

G. Η. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Friday Morning [May if[ It was exasperating! To be headed off by both Prof. Horsford and Mrs. Agassiz! And to have my mouth so effectually closed that I could not claim my rights! Yet somehow I fail to feel the full disgust which the occasion might justify. For the rights were mine after all. And here you were ingratiating yourself among my Cambridge friends and making just those conquests which I feared could not begin till next year. And I thought you looked a little better than the week before; and the least gleam of health in you gladdens me as nothing else can. And then you thought in another week we might be together in Boxford. Write Mrs. Durant officially from me to come; and Thursday you say. Only be sure to leave matters at Wellesley in such condition that you will not be brought down till late on Saturday afternoon. Do be good about this. T w o days is a very little bit. And perhaps you will go at 12:25, so reach there at dinner, and have the afternoon in the woods. Could you send me word here as early as Tuesday? W e have but one mail a day and on Wednesday I must write to Boxford to ask them to meet us at the station. I hope it may be managed. The great loss last night was that I could not learn what you had done at the meeting. If I could be sure of catching you for an hour, I believe I should go over to Wellesley for an hour today. N o w all my time is my own and I can afford to spend it largely for the sake of only a few minutes with you. If when you get this note you see any prospect of an "examination" at 97, of half an hour or so, tomorrow or [171]

Monday, will you not telegraph immediately, "She goes home on Sat. at 3 " or whatever day or hour you find possible? But do not go to Boston unless you otherwise would. There is no demand but the gratification of my curiosity and my love. Both will be just as strong next Thursday. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Sunday [May 15] My dearest girl, how glad I am on this May morning! and what it is that makes me so gay I can hardly distinguish. Is it that the grass is green and sky blue? Is it that the lilacs and the horse chestnut buds are now unwrapping their formal layers? Is it that the air is soft and God's kindness seems to fill the world and to encompass me on every side? Is it that I daily find new powers in myself, and to live seems full of promise? Is it that you love me, darling, and we have met more closely than others can ever think of? I do not know. I cannot disentangle these things. Thinking of one of them I find it turns into another. All blend, and wherever I turn your face is shining. I hope it is so with you, that for you too the world is daily glorified and full of hopes. And right ahead stands the one great reality — the home that is to hold us both. What time I can snatch in these days I am putting on the remaining six books of my Homer, so that the summer may be less confined and that as you wished I may begin the sooner to look towards publication. Already I have done two books and a half. Last week I had a talk with Horace Scudder about modes of publication. He will consult with

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Houghton; but he was inclined to think we had better bring out at once a single volume of the full Odyssey without Greek text and so try to secure literary currency and to drive out Butcher and Lang's rendering. M y preference would be to issue next year a second volume in the same fashion as my first, and then later — say two years hence — revise and publish singly. But this is asking a good deal of a publisher, for as soon as the small book appeared it would undoubtedly supersede the large ones. M y Greek readings ended on Friday and appear to have been successful. I have agreed to continue them next year. The Annex too have again asked me to give my course on Ethics there, and I have given a conditional promise. They are always intelligent pupils, and for the two hours a week with them they pay $300. Hitherto I have not been willing to spare the time. Speaking of Greek reminds me that you have said nothing lately about John White. (Indeed what have you talked about? One subject has swallowed all. This is to be all changed!) But is it not about time to stir him up about the Trusteeship? He really can not join you till he has first joined the Church. Queer that it is not understood that the two are the same thing! But you need to make some fuss over White to get him to move. Wouldn't it be well to send him a note saying you hope his thoughts are turning toward you? . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. [May 15, 1887] . . . Sunday, a week later, and I am again alone with you, dear, so I begin with this unfinished sheet in my portfolio. [173]

All I felt a week ago of desire for you here is just as eager now, as I sit on the lounge alone, where there is room for two. These are busy days, dear, and sad ones. Yesterday came the word that Mr. DufField died Friday. . . . He was one of my very dearest friends, and the circle narrows fast. "But I hold the years in my heart" — the dear Ann Arbor days. It is so strange and sweet, George, I love them all more since you and I found one another, but in all the losses "my house is not left unto me desolate." I am sad and glad at once and thorough the valley of the shadow I am in the blessed light of a heart entirely at home. I long to tell him all about my "rich, deep experience." The Trustees' meeting at Newton yesterday decided to recall Miss Morgan to a part of the work, and to secure independent instruction for the Logic and Psychology, as well as the History of Philosophy courses. I did not in the least like the spirit of Dr. Hovey or Dr. Peirce in regard to the entire discussion but the end they sought is postponed. They wished to ask her to resign peremptorily, at this late day, in her absence, with no one in view to fill her place. The fact is, they are anxious to see some one like Prof. Bowne put in charge, which in my opinion would be disastrous. I did feel last night strongly inclined to say that "this place was too narrow for me" but a good sleep heartens me up a little. However, Dr. Hovey has been up here today, and again, as always, is afraid Wellesley is too popular. I think the good old man is in constant expectation that we shall be so vain that God will visit us with some terrible calamity. The Queen's visit* is disturbing him now. He quotes "Woe to * The visit of the Queen of Hawaii. [174]

you when all men speak well of you," and shakes his head. With everything I have to disturb my peace, his attitude is somewhat amusing. Well, dear, in your scholar's retreat, you need not be troubled by the buzzing of these discords. I intended to go on but was interrupted. And now it is Monday and nearly mail time. I am coming in town Wednesday and Thursday, the first day to prepare for the meeting on the next — and our retreat will be conducive to thought, to "high thinking," let us hope. I think it would be highly suitable for you to come out Friday to the meeting of the "Classical School at Athens" Directors. I shall invite several people to dine with them at 5 o'clock. Think of it, dear, I am really in earnest about it.

G. H. P. to A. F. On the Piazza, Sunday Noon [Boxford, May 22]

Ο Alice, the country is like fairy land! There is something unearthly in this beauty that has not yet become accustomed to itself, so pale, immature, and still increasing. Everything that can bear a blossom has one. Each apple tree is a gigantic bouquet, and the flowers are crowded so thick that they interfere with one another and tumble about at different angles. I cannot think I have ever seen such banks of vegetable snow. The sights and smells are intoxicating. I want to run and shout. Is there no way of bringing you here; Do you not think after you have talked with Mrs. Durant, and she has proved amiable, I might ask her and you to spend a Sunday here together? I should like an opportunity for con[175]

quest. And if she could once enjoy herself in our company, soreness over our coming together would cease. It strikes me as an excellent idea! Consider it. I should be the more glad to see her because I wish her to understand at once what I have lately told you so plainly, that I am totally unwilling to have you go on at Wellesley another year. On this point I shall be so inexorable that I want you to see that I can be nothing else if I am still to be frank and true. Discussing what we like and what we don't like, the one fact which must condition all others is that it will be imprudent for your health to manage the College any longer. I think it is the part of honesty to state this. Probably no member of the Board of Trustees would wish you to continue there another year if he knew what we know; and probably also every member would think it your duty to remain if he supposed you would not be injured. You and I would think so too. We would not take our private good if it were a deduction from that of the public. We must not let the Trustees act on a fictitious set of circumstances. We know the truth. Let us plant ourselves upon it, cheerful and unfrightened, knowing that what we are doing is best for the whole. You need rest. You have given generously for many years. When the means are gone, why not say quietly, "I have no more to give. There are duties of recuperation now." I know the repugnance you always feel to letting people think about you. You want to be treated as if your own conditions could be left out of account. You have an instinctive shrinking from anything like pity or consideration of yourself. But there may be as much moral cowardice in indulging this feeling indiscriminately as in giving way [176]

to any other. We cannot make facts what they are not. There seems to me now but one righteous course. So long as I thought your holding office another year was only a diminution of our delight, I disliked it, I dreamed of other things, but I did not fight. The doctor's report, that your disease is on the increase, puts another face on the matter. I shall fight stoutly. And I shall not be put off with makeshifts — those pretty plans which demonstrate that while you are still to continue President you will have nothing at all to do. A growing college is a place where work is increasing, sudden, full of crises. That is the kind of work you must be prepared to meet, or else stop altogether. Marrying me is a secondary matter — though you may do it if you like — but go to Europe, spend the winter in the South, or adopt any form of loafing you please, and I will not object. Only I give you fair notice that when anybody hears of our engagement and asks me what our plans are, I shall answer, "They are not settled yet except in one point, that Miss Freeman leaves Wellesley." And I do want you, darling, to go with me in this. You know the money obligations I can meet. But I will not scold. Indeed there is no occasion to do so. Probably your own inner judgment does not differ much from mine, if you would only speak it out. I feel that the time is near when we must speak, and I want you to know what I shall say. But for the present there are other matters to talk about. I was afterwards afraid I had advised you badly in saying you had better bring to an issue Dr. Alden's inclination to boycott Wellesley. I doubt if you had better do anything of the sort. In doing so the hope would be that you [J77]

might frighten him into stopping. But that is not likely. He is one of the unterrifiable. And if he refuses to be frightened, what can you do? He has all the power. Of course it is wicked that he should have. But he has. If you force him to say squarely, "As a rule we shall not accept Wellesley graduates," you can of course publish the fact in the newspapers, but you will hurt yourself, not him. People who will think badly of him at all think as badly as possible now. But I do not suppose you are prepared to give notice to all his sympathizers that they had better stay away from Wellesley. Wellesley should remain outside faction fights and not bear the badge of either conservatives or radicals. If I were you I would rather seek to find a decent modus vivendi with the wicked Doctor. I should treat him exactly as I should treat a Superintendent of Education in New Jersey whom I suspected of unwillingness to appoint Wellesley girls as teachers. I should say it was a matter which did not concern the College. Superintendents have a right to appoint whom they please. I should try not to notice any such unwillingness and to be careful that the man himself did not become any more completely conscious of it. Only when the question arose of that man's reelection I should publicly state that I had evidence of his unfitness. Your relation to the American Board is very different from that of Andover. You do not exist to make missionaries. It is only incidentally that one of your girls becomes one. If after taking your excellent general training your girl decides on the profession of missionary or of shoemaker, you will of course give her any friendly assistance in finding a place. If then the shoemakers' unions or the missionary boards have seen fit to adopt some fan[178]

tastic rules which make her entrance difficult, you may be sorry both for her and for them, but you have more important work to attend to than undertaking a conflict with a trades union. I should advise the girls to turn to some other profession. If they don't want to do that, they may fill the newspapers with clamors for justice. But these shrieks must be uttered by them as individuals. The throat of the College must not be borrowed for any such purpose.

A. F. to G. H. P. Monday Morning [May 23]

M y heart rested in the peace of Boxford yesterday, but my hands found no time for the pen. Mr. Moody has been here since Saturday afternoon, and made my Sunday full. He did us all good. He is absolutely true, and such a hater of shams that to have him in the building clears the atmosphere, and gives one a soul-bath. He has gone, and soon the Historians and Economists come. Saturday night I went in to meet them, and do my duty as "today's" hostess, though I knew by that time that you would not be there. Your letter had come, telling me of the closed windows in Stoughton Hall. B y the way, I overheard Mrs. Claflin and Prof. White talking about Boxford and the visit there, Friday night, and he told her that you always went down early — you were there now — and she turned to me with, "Aren't we going to have another invitation to Boxford this spring? I thought Prof. Palmer promised it!" "But I think I said that I should be too busy!" Then Prof. White — "He is very hospitable to his friends. I am sure he would like it!" succeeded by a [i79]

full description by Mrs. Claflin of your virtues as a host. I did not seem interested in the conversation, as she didn't mention that he was in the habit of calling his guests by their first names, and taking their hands in the front door. I want you to come out for Friday, George, if you possibly can. I don't know when I shall get in town again, and, in any case, we must keep our first anniversary. Saturday I have a lecture at 4 o'clock, and a reception in the evening. Come on the last Friday in May as you did last year. Arrive at half past two, just as you did then. The whole College will be in Bible class, and I will be in the reception room, as then, and possibly we will walk out on the hill, and see the sweet spring world — as then, but different. Different people will meet you, and you will be induced to stay to dinner, and possibly after dinner, we will call on Mrs. Durant, and then —!

A. F. to G. H. P. May 23rd, 1887, Monday Afternoon Today is the anniversary of Mr. and Mrs. Durant's marriage, and today Mrs. Durant has spoken. What she says is yours, dear, as well as mine. Keep the letter till you come. If you feel like writing her, pray do, I have assured her that our common interest in the College must deepen as we join our lives. I have told her that in bringing you into closer knowledge and sympathy with the College, I shall give more than I can take away. She is so sad that I find my heart crying out to help her as I can not even try to say. Oh my dear. [180]

A. F. to G. Η. P. Wellesley, Tuesday Afternoon [May 24] The fragrant Boxford letter filled the morning with good cheer. How I want to come! If it can be managed! I can never tell you how I have found time since yesterday noon for two talks with Mrs. Durant, but two good talks we have had. And now that the silence is broken she is most loving and sympathetic and eager to make plans. She begs me to say nothing to the Trustees; "they could not help talking about it." And "she wishes to make definite plans with us, before they are brought into the discussion"; "they will be helpless and distracted, and throw the future of the College back upon me," etc. She is impressed greatly with you and your enormous importance to Harvard, which she often mentions; but last night about 10 o'clock, she came in after the concert, and asked me what kind of a house I would like, saying — " W e must build a fine cottage right away." "Professor Palmer must come out here." I assured her that Harvard could not afford to let you leave, whereupon she recounted Professor White's plans, of which he had told her at dinner Friday, and wondered if you could not arrange something like it, for a little while. I write you all this to let you see how she is turning all possibilities in her mind. I shall see her again tomorrow or tonight, to talk with her of definite arrangements for next year. She listens very favorably to my plans for putting Miss Whiting in charge of the College building, and making Miss Shafer Dean of the Faculty, thus throwing the burden of much correspondence upon her. That would change the whole condition of things [ 1 8 1 ]

in the President's office, whoever is President, and all the routine would be ably managed too! The President's hands would then be freed from all that is drudgery — the rest is continual delight. Now, my dear boy, we must not insist upon such sudden and complete changes that I shall be under more strain than less, and make a harder year than one at the College will be! But I cannot write all I want to say about this. You must come out to talk o f it all, and much more I long to see you! Talking about you is simply delicious. T o have the silence broken is blessed in its relief.

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Friday Evening [May 27] . . . I went to Boston this afternoon and called on Mrs. Claflin. But she was not there. The house was closed. She is already in the beautiful lawns where one sunny afternoon I walked with you and her. But I felt myself rewarded for the time taken in seeking her by hitting on an exquisite bit o f snobbery. I was not sure o f her house, and ringing a bell at random asked i f Mrs. Claflin was at home. A magnificent being in white cravat and swallow tail answered, "Mrs. Claflin does not live here." " O h doesn't she? Can you tell me where she does live?" " I do not know. This is Mrs. Lodge's." I subsequently discovered that Mrs. Claflin's was the very next door! Isn't that a delightful ignoring o f the existence o f a person who isn't in the same social set with you J I sent Mrs. Durant a copy o f my book. The more I reflect [182]

on her, the more she seems to me a person b y n o means impossible to get on with if y o u take her right at first. If a person is only able, I can easily forgive them their sins. The weaklings exasperate me. There is no possibility o f managing them, for they are so mushy and indistinct y o u can get no hold on them. W h a t y o u say today is tomorrow as i f it had never been spoken. A n d then too they have so many susceptibilities and points that mustn't be touched that y o u can never speak right bang out and discuss a subject as i f there were no persons concerned in it. T h e g o o d y - g o o d , the ha2y, the timid, the well-meaning, those without will, those w h o reason according to their o w n desires — these are the people w h o keep a steady friction on the w o r l d and hold it back f r o m righteousness and peace. He w h o made them has some use for them, I dare say. I never could discover it. I suspect that the pleasure y o u are taking in uncorking the bottle o f your close-stopped love and letting it fizz in Mrs. Durant's parlor is but the beginning o f the picnic y o u are to have. I have little doubt that most o f the others w h o k n o w us well will sympathize w i t h us as deeply as she, however much — like her — they may have a touch o f sorrow for the college. A n d sympathy is good. Probably I am as little dependent on it as most persons. Until I met w i t h grief I always thought I should not want people to talk with me about afflictions which only I could understand. But in our great experiences, whether o f j o y or sorrow, the feeling for the kind, the sense that w e are surrounded with others like ourselves, is supporting. A t such times the beauty o f human nature comes out in persons w h o m w e have not previously admired, and it is mellowing to put ourselves on their plane [183]

and to talk with them just as if they could feel what we are feeling. Oftentimes they can. I expect an acclamation of delight to break out all over the land when it is known that two persons so obviously fitted to one another as you and I have discovered and confessed the fact. And we shall have a new gladness in other people's gladness. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Sunday [May 2p] I was at Mr. Norton's this morning and as we stood on the steps at parting he asked, " D o you decline all invitations for evenings now?" " N o t all," I said. "Because on Thursday we have the last of our musicals" — I had written that I could not come to one of these when Miss Norton asked me two months ago. " A n d I especially wished you to be here. W e are hoping to have Miss Freeman with us. She is a remarkable person and is doing a great work under difficult circumstances. She must be very lonely. I want to bring her into connection with more of our people. Can you not come to see her?" I managed to keep a sober face and answered, " I know Miss Freeman and agree with what you say of her and her work. Perhaps I will come. But I have an engagement in Boston that afternoon and cannot promise." Was that not delicious? An offer to introduce me to you, and a resolve to bring you into more intimate relations with Cambridge society! That Norton recognized you pleased me, because he more quickly than anybody here would be likely to be blinded by the Moody and McKenzie character [184]

of your surroundings. That he had been candid enough to fix his attention on you as an individual was creditable to him. Unfortunately I could not tell him so, but was busy computing the chances of your coming and our meeting. I did not think them large. . . . I was thinking of Dr. Willcox's proposed gift. Should you not think another cottage would be more useful to you than a gymnasium? It seems to me facilities for increasing numbers are now your greatest need. If as I hope, Wellesley is in time to stand in girls' education for what Harvard does in boys', you want to be capable of something like iooo students, not immediately, of course. You must grow toward it slowly, and only so fast as you can keep up your quality. But influence in the country, as well as moneyed income, is partly dependent on numbers. You ought not to be sending away several hundred every year, who might be shaped according to Wellesley standards: and I should say no girl or lady ought ever to be turned away who proposed to engage in advanced study. Is there no way of increasing the number of good village houses where boarders can be taken? Still, it is important not to increase numbers too rapidly. I hope you and Mrs. D. will conclude to do as little as possible with the philosophical department this year. Whoever follows you in the presidency may have ideas on that subject. It seems only fair that a new head should have some professor about her of her own appointing. At least it is hardly wise to lock up a department like this on the eve of a great change. Some temporary arrangement can surely be made which will be decently workable. . . .

I wish you were feeling my great sense of relief. Lectures are over, only a little bibliographical talk on Tuesday. To know that one has accomplished a year not disgracefully, exhilarates. All that dulls the elation is the knowledge that much might have been better done. The sense of that hangs about every ending. Opportunities unused, memories of pretensions, cheapness, self-indulgencies, these are the things that cast a shadow when the day is done. "The sting of death is sin." . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Sunday, May 29th, 1887 I was full of talk by the time you had disappeared down the avenue and fuller of misery a few minutes later when the rain began to fall. I went to see if you took the umbrella which I laid on the lounge beside your hat earlier in the evening and stupidly left unmentioned, then, and at the parting. I am confident it rained all the way from Allston to Stoughton and you may have been ill Friday. Yet your fat letter which I have carried around since yesterday morning charitably leaves my neglect and its consequences unmentioned. Sometime I will take better care of you. . . . Mr. Mabie is here of the Christian Union. He was in my rooms an hour after dinner and was talking of the religious atmosphere of literary circles. Soon he reached Cambridge, quoted Prof. Norton at length, and presently said, "In Harvard chairs there are today only two deep religious influences, Dr. Peabody and Prof. Palmer, and the Dr's. powers [186]

are fast passing away. Much of Harvard's hope for a pure strong religious life is in Prof. Palmer." Then he proceeded to tell me how much they enjoyed you and all you said at the Congregational Club last March, and to wish there were more men like you. I joined him in most he said, though I could not candidly wish Wellesley were surrounded by your duplicates. What a state my heart would be in! But I am so glad, Beloved, that good men look to you for so much powerful influence in Harvard's future. If God will, it shall be a long, strong, glad one! In one little month, and rest will begin, and rest with you will be good, even though that land seems "very far off." These last Sundays are full of girls' confidences. I hardly see how one of the three remaining can be spared. But perhaps sometime next week I could run away with Mrs. Durant to Boxford, after these meetings are over, and arrangements for Commencement are made. That would be a taste of heaven, George. Aren't you glad? Glad about everything?

A. F. to G. H. P. Friday, June 3rd, 1887 Will you come and have some coffee with me in memory of one little year ago today? Let's have a great bumper to wash away last night's misery! Mrs. Agassiz found me very bad company all the long way to Allston, where I alighted, fifty-eight minutes before my train left. If I had been a child, I should have stamped and screamed, if a young woman, I should have wept — but

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as it was I did neither, but took a pretty restless hour's walk up and down that forlorn platform after her carriage rolled away. I'll stay at home from Europe before she shall chaperone me! I'll — I think — marry you — within five years, before this villainous condition of things shall continue. Prof. Horsford is out here today, and I can barely be civil to the good man, for cheating us out of our bliss at the beginning. Dear George, how I wish I had talked to you more when I had a chance in the music room. Yet I was so sure of the afterward! If I could go to Boxford with you! But that will come, probably Thursday! Ah! my dear, if we could walk up and down this evening under the lights, as these young people will do! Not one of them knows half as much as we do of how sweet love is and will be. Perhaps that knowing is our share! May their walk be full of gladness. I want you and want you! I cannot tell you how I want you —.

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Wednesday Night [June 15] Dearest, I have just come home from Andover and, late as is now the wedding day, I cannot go to bed without a few words with the bride. I got some red roses this morning in honor of dear Nell and carried some to Mrs. Lane. A sacred day it must always be to me, and to you too, I think, for whatever good you find in me was for the most part born on this day. When we live together you will become better acquainted with Ellen. You will continually meet her em[188]

bodied in me, and in her letters you may even hear her very voice. She first taught me to take life as a festival. My Puritanism had before contemplated only duties. These she never banished but she showed me how to look at them from the point of view of joy and merriment. God, who was always her intimate friend, was essentially a God of gladness, never a task master. To know his nearness made her lighthearted. It makes most moderns sad. All excellence being instinct with God, she found Him as much on week-days as on Sundays, as much in shops and ball rooms as in churches. All her ladyhood — and it shone from every part of her refined little person — was a sweet exhibit of that nature higher than her own to which she was forever aspiring. Virtue went out from her on every side — a centre of life, a quickening influence to every one who was even temporarily in her neighborhood. This is the heritage that I hope to bring to you. If I have not squandered too much of it in these self-regarding years, there will be enough to enrich our home. And you come bringing just as much gathered from other sources still, and we pour it all in together. What wealth we shall have, Alice! We know it now, and more clearly every week. What growth has come in the last month! and how as we begin to open our joint life and let others enter, it grows deeper and surer. I love you, darling, all over again every day. You are my pride, and the one I am afraid of, and the little girl that I protect, and the dear wife that I fondle, and the strong fellow worker always by my side. Nothing is wanting now but a roof over our heads and perhaps a new pair of lungs for you. [189]

My fast and feast yesterday did not harm but rather invigorated me. I grieved afterwards that I had not made your carriage wait until I had brought you some fruit from the market, which you might then have eaten as you rode to the dressmaker. I do hope she gave you something more than the fatigues of "trying on." . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Springfield, "Massasoit" Thursday Evening [June 23] It is aggravating, dearest, to know that you are at so interesting a wedding only an hour's distance from me, while I wait for the Western Express. A great crowd of people whom I know, of course, but I stop the talk in the midst to send back a word to you, for our anniversary. I hope you will have a fair Class Day. George, as my train hurries me on to Michigan all my heart will be with you, in the pleasant places where we wandered up and down a year ago. And I shall be coming, not going away! I found a few moments for talk with Mrs. Durant about our plans. She begs me to tell the Committee, and so prevent them from making an outcry, and saying "the College will be ruined." She is very nervous but they injure the College by predicting loss of power, and by being "at their wits' end." So she begs me to either tell them, or write them when they can get at me at once to talk it over with me. It seems that Commencement week has intensified her fear of "the consequences" and she [190]

urges me to see her through "the Announcement." The poor woman is very tired and nervous today — and full of fears. She prefers me to stay in Cambridge rather than to go abroad, etc., etc.! I shall return at the earliest possible moment, and go to see Dr. Knight! But first I shall talk the future over at home, and within a fortnight try to have some definite plan settled upon. I will write you, Beloved, as soon as I can find opportunity to send off my letters to the Com. (I may say a word to you before!) Saturday at noon I shall be at home. Ah! my Geordie, how hard — inexpressibly — it was to part yesterday — but "God's in His Heaven, All's Well with the world." Tell me all about the wedding — everything Prof. Tucker says when you tell him the great truth.

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Friday Morning [June 24] Ο my dear Alice, I am so happy! The sun has been hidden for two days and the falling rain has made the world seem very gloomy. And now the sun has peeped out and great lakes of blushing, fresh and shining as if there had never been darkness, appear and send delight into every heart in the College Yard, because the greatest day of the year will be fair. And I am as glad as these boys, though for a different reason. For my sun has broken out too. Your precious letter from Springfield has come. Since you left, an unexplainable gloom has been upon me. I could not shake it off. I saw your

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worn face. I felt your feverish hand. And I worried myself with thinking that when you were so exhausted with fatigues I did not devote our last meeting to resting you, but had let myself go mad with the intoxication of your presence and the grief of parting. And now come your sweet calm words, full of the same tender thoughtfulness for me that never is absent, and in my honor and delight in you I forget my own selfishness. I think if I were not forced to love you by what you are, I should still love you almost as much for your love of me. What a great generous abounding soul you have! So full of right perception in every instinct. I have to trace out proprieties and to understand them. You come to them for the first time as if you had always known. I am glad you have arranged with Mrs. Durant the plan of announcement. Only don't hasten with it, especially not on my account. You know it makes absolutely no difference to me whether this month or the next the world knows how much you are to me. Attend first to those who first need your care, these sick ones, and do not worry about other things. He who has led us so far will still lead. But the drums are beating and in a few minutes I must go to the theatre and after that people will overrun me all day and cut me off from you. I went to Worcester yesterday, saw the great wedding in the church, performed by Dr. Merriman and Pres. Seelye of Smith: then rode with the Merrimans to the house, where in the little rooms the guests were packed tight and there was no chance for conversation with anybody. The bride was stately and winning. I had hardly one clear sight of her and should not know her [192]

again. Churchill and Taylor of Andover were there and Miss Hersey of Boston. I stayed but 15 minutes. My train was waiting. But as I went I shook Tucker's hand and said in his ear, "Can you keep a secret?" "Yes." "I am engaged to Alice Freeman of Wellesley." He could hardly speak with amazement. "Gracious! But what are you going to do? Will you tear Harvard to pieces or tear Wellesley?" "I don't know. We have no plans yet: Nothing must be said about it at present." "May I tell my wife?" "Certainly." "Oh how glad I am for you, my dear fellow." "You ought to be." "And how I shall wait for the explosion!" We gripped hands and parted. He will be a strong friend to us and an able defender. To the Lanes I have said nothing yet. They are full of company this week and I do not want to add to their cares. I will write them tomorrow when I go to Boxford. My room is full of roses today and you will not see them, or let me give you one for your own inner room when you go away. And you will not come here for a little supper with Mrs. Claflin and let me lead that guileless lady into proposing a visit to Boxford. But today parted is better than last year together. For then we were only looking out at one another and wondering, and now we know. But that was a sweet tremulous time, a fit preparation for gathering roses by the banks of the sun. I will not abuse the old days. Only it is the future I love. When I look forward to see you beside me in our home, everything else seems cheap. But I must not write another word except to say that I am your friend, lover, and husband to be.

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G. Η. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Friday [July J]

My dear Girl, since your last sweet letter commanded my pen to be still I have stopped its motions for two days, though with some reluctance and with fears that after all you might be detained and I be leaving you untalked to. But I will at any rate await you at the College and welcome you home, if you should be able to come as early as tomorrow night. Even to know you so near, when I cannot see or speak, is a comfort. I want so much to know how you left your mother and the rest, and what are the plans you have been forming and whether you have written to people and how soon you want me to write or to call on anybody. If you have come back without writing — as I supposed would be almost inevitable — then do not feel flustered and too much in haste now. Take a day or two of rest first, and then write some quiet brief notes and leave the longest explanations to me. It is a man's part to justify such deeds. To say "he tempted me" is an adequate excuse for a woman, though a man is no longer permitted to urge "the woman enticed me." It is I who have broken through Wellesley walls and on me must fall the blame, if there is any. Tell people how you have had your home invaded and all your precious treasures stolen and put them on the track of me the culprit. I promise to use all the cunning I own in compounding the soothing syrup of letters, and the mixture shall be prepared with nice adjustment to the several constitutions. The letter to Prof. Horsford shall have in it nothing in common with that to Dr. [ 194]

Willcox, and that to McKenzie shall be according to a different receipt still. Yet all shall be purgative and warranted to effect a cure. Let me only have my patients early enough. The disease once seated is hard to remove. If, when you write, people call on you and begin to lament, remember yourself, and make them see that you are a human being and not without rights. They have the habit of thinking of you as a simple appurtenance of the College, a doorpost, a foundation stone. Let them understand that this is not a complete account of the matter, but that if they were ever justifiable in possessing an individual life, if they ever righteously looked to a wife or husband, then they must think of this step as an advance for you. A pungent appeal of this kind will clear away the cloudy selfishness of the surface. Imagination in most people is sluggish, but if called for loud enough, it comes. I sent you my Commencement speech in the only accurate report. The other papers made mince-meat of me. The thing has made some stir. It seems to have been a success. Several graduates came to me after the dinner and asked for a copy which they might print and scatter broadcast. Ayes, my reporter, was to take it down and in the next few days at Boxford I shall write it out in full and let it be published. May it increase the number of sober-minded youths h e r e ! . . . Today I pack a couple of boxes of books and take them and myself to a permanent home on the piazza. Boxford will be my address hereafter. If you want to be sure to reach me at any time, remember the mails. Our only one closes in Boston about i. Probably nothing leaving Wellesley after n would reach me that day. And we have no tele[W]

graph. I shall have no work that could not at any time be interrupted by a day's absence. Whenever you want me to come down, either to Wellesley or 97, I can easily do so. But I suppose your early days at home will be so crowded that a lover cannot be squeezed in among the rest of the lumber. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Le Roy, New York, Saturday, July 2nd, 1887 Dearest, I am laid aside in this little New York town, much to my disappointment. I hoped to be at the College tonight and started out bravely enough but I was so utterly ill and miserable all day long yesterday that I simply could not go on, so I took refuge here at Miss Whiting's home until I could safely finish the journey. I reached this hospitable house at 1 o'clock this morning, and was put into a comfortable bed instantly, and a cup of hot milk poured down my throat; I was too wretched and exhausted to protest or agree. And there I have been, sleeping and waking and taking a little milk sometimes, until ten minutes ago, and now it is more than 6 o'clock of this sultry day. I think much of my exhaustion is due to the extreme heat we have suffered from more than a week. I shall sit up now until I can go to sleep for the night, and shall rest every possible moment until I take the train. Monday the 4th will be so unpleasant for the journey that I shall wait until Tuesday, and reach the College Wednesday morning in time for breakfast, unless I hear from Mrs. McCoy in answer to my telegram tonight, and start Monday instead. But, dear, I am hungry [196]

for the letter which will be at the College for me tonight, and I am sick and sore to see you. There is more to say than I have strength to write, so much to talk to you of, I must see you soon. I shall write the letters here — if I am strong enough, to mail them when I reach Boston. I long to speak to you. If I could only send you a telegram tonight, I should have a better Sunday. It has been very hard to be shut off from talking to you, as I have been this week. Y o u will get this letter in time to come in town Thursday, George, and meet me at 97 State Street, won't you? I cannot tell what I shall find at the College, so I do not venture to plan for Wednesday's absence, and I am not sure tonight of being able to write of our hopes to the Trustees before my return. So I can plan nothing. Only there is every reason why we should have a talk as soon as we can. Dear, dear George. I cannot write more to you now. How glad I am for your letter — to know that you are in happy Boxford, to think of you and dream of you — but I long to know that you are well, and glad at heart. Y o u know that I am your own little girl. I intend to go in town Thursday morning at xo o'clock on business. If you can come I suppose you will reach the city by noon.

A. F. to G. H. P. Le Roy, Sunday, sunset [July 3] Ο my dear boy, all my thoughts are in Boxford. They will stay with you on the piazza, or wander with you across the fields and under the pines by the brook, or linger in any

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one of all the pleasant places where we have been together. But not here, where I feel like a prisoner, will my mind or heart wait. I am better today but I feel very tired still. This heat is very wearing. Boxford is certainly cooler and fresher. Certainly my room would be a better place to rest in tonight than any other in all the world, and I wish I could hear your voice, George, and then go quietly to sleep. These good people find me amazingly stupid. They are wonderfully kind, but kindness is just now troublesome. I am not in the mood to be entertained. I want to go off alone and think and hope, and plan. I sometimes feel troubled at being so much with Miss Whiting now, and keeping utter silence about the one thing of most consequence to me. Yet I do not feel at liberty to speak to her, until the Trustees have been told. So I have decided to say nothing whatever, until I can allow her to mention it to others. I will not impose a burden upon her now, she would find it so hard to write her next letter to Miss Hodgkins. My heart is sore over Mother. She is not at all like herself. She nervously insists upon my going abroad for a little while, as early as possible. Father feels it would be the safest course for me, but I confess I don't care for it as much as I should. Perhaps Mrs. Goodwin is right. She amuses me, however, when she turns to you with the convictions which I have spent an hour in giving her, arguing that I must have time for study, that it would be better for the College, and so forth, and so forth. I am delighted to see the result of my labors. She will have left Boston before I return, I suppose, and you will not be able to invite her to chaperone me to see you. Would I might have seen Prof. Tucker's face when you [198]

told him our secret. When I meet him again I shall inform him that this is our wedding gift to him and his charming bride. Happiness is the best thing to share, isn't it?

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford, Sunday [July 3] . . . I have fled to the country you see, and am getting on favorably with work. The speech* has stirred up a great rumpus, just what I hoped but far more than I expected. Most of the Boston papers have had editorials on it. The Herald has requested an interview and been refused. And now I suppose the weeklies will soon take up the wondrous tale. All are astonished to find that the Harvard student is after all a human being with no more money than the rest of us have. That I should have suspected this and taken pains to find out about it, appears to them a sort of happy stroke of genius. But one of the best results of it all to me is that the noise now raised will discharge me from doing anything further. I supposed I had got to get up an article for the Christian Union or one of the monthlies in order to turn people's attention in this direction. But now I am free. I shall merely send my speech to the Committee of Graduates to print and circulate as I told you, and then I can enjoy an otium cum dignitate, or, translating into English, can loaf half days with my girl. My other work too is well along — examination marks all handed in and reading in psychology and Plato well begun. I shall soon attack George Herbert. * A commencement address at Harvard, published under the title Expenses at Harvard (Cambridge, 1887).

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Mary's novel * is accepted! Did I tell you? Lothrop takes it, and is even willing to pay. I should not be more pleased if you told me Prof. Horsford was satisfied with our conduct. Mrs. Lane and Will are very sore. I knew they would be. As Swedenborgians and lovers of Nell I knew they would think my marriage wrong. When I returned to Cambridge last Tuesday after they had received my letter, Will told me in a few words that it grieved them not to be able to congratulate me and that he was afraid his mother could not easily talk about it. I told him they must not be disturbed. I did not wonder at their feeling. He must know how small a matter it always was to me whether people agreed with me or differed. It could not shake our friendship. I tried to keep a clean conscience and a clear judgment and left other people to do the same. But he was not to be comforted. He said that for themselves they could not bear to differ from me so. They had much company all the time I was there, and Mrs. Lane did not mention the subject — though she was steadily full of kindness and merriment — until as I left she followed me to the door and said, "I cannot let you go without a word. You think there is to be a great gain to you. I know. But it is all a strange land to me and I do not know the language." "Yes," I said, "I know. And why try to speak. Your silence does not hurt me." She said, "And I have known about it all the year as far as you were concerned." "Well," said I, "nothing but the future can show whether I am doing right, carefully as I have considered it all. So there we must quietly leave it." And I came away. How she will admire you, I know, and you her too. . . . * The Doctor of Deane, published in 1888.

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A. F. to G. Η. P. Wellesley College, Saturday Morning On train for Boston [July p] I have told the Executive Committee the great fact, and have had a glorious time all day yesterday — Mrs. Claflin did not come — I told Miss Morgan and how we enjoyed it. So much have I to report to you. The Committee meets Monday afternoon. Do come by the earliest train Tuesday, just as you did last year, and we will drive in the woods. I saw Dr. Peirce personally. He is very glad and full of plans for me, at the same time in terror for the College, and determined that I shall still be the controlling spirit. And he knows about you, and is proud and glad with me, — and then in despair! It is so comfortable, darling, to find at last some people who know that I have a right to a personal life and love. I didn't know until now how hard this silence had been and how it has hampered me. The luxury of telling good tidings, of publishing salvation, is glorious, and yesterday's experience showed me too how bitter had been my disappointment at Mrs. Claflin's failing me after all our long friendship. But we will win her and rejoice over her also. If ever we fail, George, to love Miss Morgan, I shall have forgotten the sweetest and saddest experiences of my new life. She must leave, Monday, but later on in the summer we three will have a beautiful day together. She is so glad that "it is you." So am I! Are you sick, I wonder, after the great heat and weariness? I hope Mr. Howe will get your article out. I want some copies to send to several people. Miss Morgan is reading your book today while I am away — since [201 ]

I would not allow her to "go in town with me, and buy my dress." She is already making plans for me. She offers to spend the entire summer helping me, if only I will be married "right away." I told her that I must consult you about that little matter, as it would be convenient to me to have you present — but I am having a very good time dear. So I scrawl this gossip to you for Sunday meditation — if you think wedding gowns suitable subjects for Sunday — and tell you that you may say anything you please to the Committee, and that I am your Alice.

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford, Sunday [July ι o]

Soon as I shall see you, I still incline to write you a note. That will be the chief disadvantage of marriage — that love letters will stop. I shall send you away some times, I think, so as to send them after you. They have become a kind of daily food, and shall we require some skill to adjust the appetite that has fed upon them to the plain home diet? I think this last is much the more nutritious, but we will try to keep in it something of the flavor of the fields and the charm which distance lends. I see many people who act as if they thought there was no need of delicacy, tact, and romance in dealing with people whom they know very well; that these sweeteners and dignifiers of life are to be kept for company occasions. But we know better. In proportion as we love, we will give fine things. My dear one [ 202 ]

shall always claim from me my best, my intentionally best, I mean. She shall not have merely what happens to come, and strangers get the care and thoughtfulness; but for her I will rouse myself to be wiser, more alive, more dutiful, more entertaining even, than I am to anybody else. The very paradox of love sometimes misleads us here. Identified with you as I am, I incline to feel neglect of you to be almost like neglect of myself and so permissible more than neglect of others. But the horrible heresy of this fancy desolates households. The loved one must be first, and all else subsidiary. Perhaps I have fallen into philosophy over love through reading Plato. Like Jesus, he understands it to be the explanation of all things. I have always supposed I could not read Plato in the Greek, my Homeric studies touching Greek at the earlier end of the line. A month ago I took up the Apology and Krito — with which I was tolerably familiar — and easily read them through without translation, and so discovered that all I needed was a little practice. Tired with writing as I was on Saturday I turned to the Phaedo, which I did not know well and which has some tough thought. At first it went slowly but reading aloud I have now got it to running pretty smoothly. Much of the Platonic study I meant to do this Summer I now think I can do in the original. After a little more practice, I think it will move as easily as German. I half hope I may have a note tomorrow night bidding me to Wellesley, for Norumbega is better than even Attica, and now especially in the summer days I should like to come up the side pathway and find you at the window. But to meet anywhere is good, and I dare say it is well not to [203 ]

appear at the College till all is told; and even then we are liable to more interruption there. As soon as your notes go out, you will be besieged. I hope you may be able to come away to this quiet piazza and join one whose love shall be more than all you abandon.

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley College, Sunday afternoon At my study window [July 10] Here you came and found me, on the Tuesday morning, and here I sit to tell you that I am glad you came, George! Glad that we rode away into the woods together never to come back alone. I have put on the dress I wore the Sunday afternoon when you came, and we read in the woods together, and I feel as if it were a wedding day! The crows are as noisy as of old, in the oak woods, and the world — our world — is sweet with Sunday showers and sunshine after rain. I have a fresh strong j o y in my heart, for I have been reading your letter to Mrs. Lane. Dear love, I want this letter, every word, always. So I have copied it. Y o u will not mind? — and tomorrow morning Mrs. Lane shall have hers mailed in Boston. I am so thankful for both our sakes that you have had Ellen. If you had not, we could not have the great marriage we will make; she has taught us both so much. I have thought about her all day. She would have been sorry through all eternity if you had not found that this love of yours and mine was possible, and we had failed to take the [204]

large life it brings. For then we should have failed to complete her life as well as our own, and she quite as much as we would have been poorer forever. I want to talk this over with you, and I have a picture to show you when you come. Let that be to Norumbega as early as you can Tuesday morning. The day cannot be half long enough. Perhaps you will stay all night! I have told the sweet story to Mrs. N e w man, and she is glad with her sweet eyes running over with tears, "if only we will stay here this year." She will give you a hearty welcome Tuesday morning. I have had to tell her, as I will explain, and I am so glad to have her know. But I must tell you of my long interview with Dr. Knight yesterday. I was with him more than an hour. I told him, as his record will show you — all there is to tell — all the tendencies of my ancestors — all my difficulties. He gave my lungs and throat a perfect examination. I frankly asked an entirely true statement, which he professed to give. He told me that I had no local disease in my lungs — that if I would take care of myself, I need have no trouble with them whatever. Think of it, dearest! He said I could go on with my work with entire safety, if I would take a good vacation this summer. Then I told him of two or three different courses of action before me — to go abroad for the winter — to marry and live in Cambridge and still teach, or guide affairs, here. He told me he thought it entirely safe to choose the latter course, if I took a good vacation now. Upon that point, he was strenuous. W e had a very good talk. Unless he is an absolutely untruthful man, or an ignorant one, there is a great cloud lifted off our future, my dearest George. I can't wait [205 ]

to see you to talk it over with you! If the Trustees were not coming tomorrow, I should take the first train for Boxford. For, Geordie, whatever we decide to do, here is this great new assurance for our future together. God is so good to me now, I can't quite take it in. I know how the disciples could not "believe it for j o y " and wonder — and how they used to "stagger at the promises." I am going to take such care of myself with this new hope that I shall be the strongest woman in the country. And what won't we do together? George, George, I am so full of hope and cheer, and great thankfulness that I feel like a different woman. And I can't half enjoy it until I have you to look into your contented eyes. And now the long waiting-time is so nearly over! Before I see you, or write again, I shall have met the Trustees and shall have formally transferred my allegiance to you. And then we can be together, and work together, and outwardly rejoice in our new life. I spent all yesterday afternoon in your service. After my call upon the doctor, I went to the dress reform rooms, and ordered the waists of which I told you. Wednesday I go in to have them fitted. Then I shall readjust all my clothing, and faithfully try their value. . . . Doubtless your ten pages will inspire Mrs. Claflin with enthusiasm for us, and our future. I hope she will go to Boxford, for I want to be chaperoned there wonderfully. And I am sure if we could have a few days together, she would see life for us from a new and higher standpoint, and I shall urge her earnestly to accept this invitation. It may, however, be impossible as she is so much occupied at So. Framingham just now. I think she has been there since I saw her. [206 ]

Beloved, good bye, for a little. I must write to Prof. Horsford today and send it upon his going to the Island.

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford, Wednesday Night [July lj] . . . The whole farm is in jubilation tonight. I believe they would light a bonfire if I and the heat would permit. When I told William — our farmer — he remarked, " I hoped it was so. You've done a very good thing, Mr. Palmer. Y o u ought to be pretty proud of yourself." " I am, William." "Since I saw her first I've watched in the papers for her name, and we all think she's a very nice lady." Katie was sick abed with a violent headache, so I could not tell her, but somebody else told her and she jumped up and dressed and hurried to my rooms and said she was all well and almost beside herself with delight. She and the children have greatly admired you, it seems, when you have been here and they are correspondingly elated. Professor Allen, to whom I told it as I rode from the station, could not rest at home and has been here this evening, full of joy, and eaten away much of my precious writingtime. Still there are several more letters which must go in the morning, and it is already late. I must not talk any more with my newfound love, my publicly acknowledged bride, to whom I want to talk so as to make myself believe. Em and all the household are delighted that you are coming on Sunday, and she tries to resist my scheme of bringing you over here for the daytime: but she will not succeed. [207]

G. Η. P. to A. F. Boxford, Tuesday Night [July ig\ Here are today's letters. They are all answered, so you need not return them. How hearty they are! If you had come to me in the objurgations of an enraged world, I should still have taken you in with delight. But this universal rejoicing does somehow quicken our own pulse. The singular fitness of the thing seems to strike everybody. In the years to come we will make that fitness more apparent. But what a responsibility for success is thrown upon us! . . . A quiet day today on the piazza, spent with Plato and the scholars who talk about him. But I have missed one voice which brings me more wisdom than they all. Boxford, and even this beautiful Greek world, seems a little flat, stale and unprofitable. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley, July 20th, 1887 M y dearest, will you have a sheet of our engagement paper; I feel so specially loving today that nothing else is good enough to entrust with the messages. But how shall I begin them? I never had so much to say! Y o u may be sorry you are not here for it's actually very interesting! Such delicious letters as I am getting! I ponder, at every mail, over sending you a bundle of them, but I can't decide to forego the pleasure of sitting beside you while you read them. And so I wait, but waiting is impossible this week. [208 ]

A noble letter from Lilian Horsford — an entirely satisfied one from her father, a cordial note from Arthur Gilman, w h o doesn't say how he heard the news, and very interesting ones from teachers and students. Yes, I will resist, and keep them till y o u come even though I enjoyed so much these enclosures in the dear w o r d Monday night. H o w hearty Joseph Wellman is! and I never knew Dr. Porter to write so long a letter before. Mr. Lee and Mr. Hyde must come to see us as soon as w e have a house over our heads. Have you heard o f any Cambridge houses yet? D o you still think, George, that, after the coming year, w e could go abroad together and have a year to ourselves? If y o u do, it seems to me more and more clear that we should make our plans for this year with that in view. For it would mean stores o f wealth to both o f us. Y o u could get up your new course, and do other work which you specially have in mind; and I — it would mean everything to me to have a year there with you. I have come back into the midst o f m y old life to think constantly o f plans for the future — especially the next few months o f it. I am full o f eagerness to talk with y o u o f a plan which has occurred to me today for the first time, and grows upon me more and more. It, o f course, rests upon our decision to go abroad for 1888-9. And that is to take this pretty new cottage near the station in Wellesley — j u s t finished, and entrancingly convenient for perfect housekeeping with everything so pretty and fresh and clean! There are not many rooms, it's a little cottage you k n o w ! — but down stairs one large sunshiny room for our study, and a litde bright dining-room — and up stairs a large airy chamber, and some smaller rooms. [ 209 ]

We could have it for $400.00, and I could take my Norumbega-rooms-furniture down into it, and have these rooms furnished for students or teachers. I know that would please Professor Horsford wonderfully, and it would make me very happy; and it would all make an inexpensive year for us, and we should certainly then have money enough to go to Europe and buy you all the books you want and — Beloved, do think about it, if you don't hear ofjust the right house in Cambridge. I want you to understand how I feel about it, — though I haven't said much — I think you would be even more unwilling than I should be to go on living at Norumbega after we are married. I don't think that would be good for either of us or our home. But I don't think the same objections would hold to a home entirely by ourselves a mile from the College, and there would be some marked advantages. We could live much more economically, we could have more time together, for I should need to be at the College much less than the Cambridge plan would involve. I would do as Mrs. Durant does — absenting herself for days, unless she is needed, as I could reach her at any time. So I could quietly watch the machinery move from our blessed study windows, and never catch a train from one week to another, except the days I would go with you to Cambridge to hear your lectures to the Annex girls. Here I am, writing like a race horse, my heart thumping up in my mouth — to think of the shut-in-together life we would have, and feeling as if we had already begun it, when I am suddenly struck with a pang at my selfishness. You would have to go into Cambridge three days while I should cozily sit at home reading [210]

your books, and getting up a fine dinner against the hour of your return, and leisurely walking down to the station to meet you when the whistle blew at the crossing below the library. I should have all the ease in this plan, and all the rest, and you all the hardship, and that does not please me. But I am sure Harvard authorities could not complain if you should live out of Cambridge for a part of one year. You have devoted yourself exclusively to her interests as no other man has done all these years, as every one knows, and you would still do more for the boys than any one else. Here I am pouring out all my thoughts and half-thoughts to you and who knows what is wisest and best? I am sure I do not, but if you will come very close I will tell you a great secret,— I want a home all my own, and I feel now as if I wanted it very soon, and then would like to stay in it every minute! There, I am actually out of breath saying it, and dreadfully scared, but — I can't help it! I don't know what's the matter with me. I think it may be this paper; — or perhaps just going through this clean new house in which nobody has ever lived, and where some happy people ought to make a new start in life — and peeping into all the closets and cupboards, and fireplaces and feeling my heart all aglow with thinking about — Boxford, and how good it would be to begin sooner than New Year's. It's disgraceful to pour all this talk upon Plato and you, and break up your dialogues, but it's hard to stop, Geordie. Do come out Saturday morning. If by that time I want to live in Cambridge more than anywhere else in the world, or you cling to Stoughton, and want me to go to Europe for awhile this winter — why, in any case, we shall have so [211]

much to talk about that I cannot wait for Sunday. Unless you give me Saturday, you can't go back Monday, because we can't get through the letters and all the rest. You will come early Saturday, darling, won't you? And I am full of glee because Charlie and Ella write that they can come the first week in August, if Mother continues to improve. How soon do you suppose she will be able to attend a wedding in "Wellesleye How long would you be willing to wait for such a journey to be made? Or would you prefer to go to Michigan rather than to find a wife in the midst of so many girls? So I hereby announce that I propose to go to housekeeping in Β oxford the first week in August! And I invite you to dinner with me before that memorable month is over. You may reply to the invitation in person Saturday morning. Do come in, just for a good night!

A. F. to G. H. P. Norumbega, Wednesday Night [July 27]

You cannot have received my letter last night, or I should have heard from you this morning. And so you must have gone to the station for me tonight, before getting the note I sent to you this morning. And here I lie in this tired bed, and long to hear your voice on the cool piazza, and wonder what you are saying as you sit together, and talk of the happenings in your long absence from the dear people in the Rectory. Dear one! I am afraid you will say something before I get there and I can't hear it all! What shall I do if you forget to tell me every word? I can hardly wait to hear the [212]

result of your inquiries in Cambridge. Do tell me, dearest, all about the house and what you wish to do, for I do not know when I can come to you. I have not been up today. Last night I had an unhappy time and I have been weak and sleepy all day. Yet I have gotten off three circulars to the printer, and a few letters. Some peculiarly interesting epistles have come in this age since Monday noon. When were there such slow days before since the world began? Dear George, I am afraid I am homesick tonight. Perhaps I don't know, I am so little used to the sensation, but I am filled with longings and fears and forebodings ever since you went away. It does not seem possible that our plans can come true, they are so wonderfully great and good. In your absence I cannot persuade myself. I shut my eyes and pray hard that this beautiful life may be mine. "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." It seems too great a thing that my hands should hold it, and my life should be crowned by His goodness, more than any other woman in all the world. I wish tonight that I could leave the College this week, and go away with you into some great wilderness, and get acquainted with you more and more, not only in days but months and years. Something Joseph Wellman said about you Tuesday night when he called with Martha and the children — a very pleasant call! — touched me so! "You are going to marry the most patient man in all the world." My dear love, that is what you have always been to me; I hope I shall not try your patience too sorely, but ah! me, I wish I were more trained to home helpfulness. Alice Vant, one of our recent graduates, was here yesterday. She told Mrs. Newman that her cousin, a Boston doctor in

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whom she has great confidence, a Harvard man to whom she applied for detailed information about you, told her, "If Miss Freeman had gone around the world, she could not have found a wiser or a better man." As if I needed them to come to tell me this, but it makes my heart grow big to hear you so praised, and by your boys! You are their hero, Beloved. They encourage me to worship you. Ought I to feel and write like this I wonder? I am frightened tonight at the power of this love of a year. If now it can take such possession of my whole life, what will happen by and by? Does God really mean to let us live together or will He take you away from me to make me more unselfish and true to Him? If any thing happens, that it must be, because you don't need any more discipline and I do, but oh! I wish I could choose the way: I am confident that life with you would develop me into nobler, larger character and life than any possible experiences alone. George, I wish you were here, I want to hear you talk about all this. I am so foolish tonight. Some how I can't trust God to have in store for me such a great life as I have seen in your eyes. Our last visits, George, have changed the whole aspect of things. And yet I loved you before! But it is so much greater and better than I thought or dreamed! It all seems so strange! Another paper came to me today with a Greenfield editorial about us — at some length — in which I saw myself called "Mrs. Palmer" for the first time. And I have pinched myself to get awake and realize that this is I, and I don't think it is. . . .

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G. Η . P. to A. R Cambridge, Wednesday Morning [August 17]

Alice, I promised to rest quietly in you and go to bed early last night. Otherwise I should have written. It seemed impossible the beautiful dream could last another day. But here in this glittering light I still know it real. I have my arms around you and feel your burning kisses. This little hand is mine, and with it the mind and soul of this glorious woman. You fortify my sins, darling. I have always been proud of you and now that I am the owner of your love, I am almost in danger of perdition. But you shall save me. A great life is before us, in which we will escape from all our pettiness and become what we have tried to make others. When Robert Browning married Elizabeth Barrett all the world saw the fitness and consequent wealth of the new life, and was glad. To one another we each bring a life no less suitable and supplemental. It will be felt so. The pride we feel will be felt by the world as approval. I have too much confidence in the generosity of people, and in their ability to see what is fitting, to believe that we shall be thought censurable. At any rate, how much better it is to have our obstacles so entirely outside ourselves. Even if, as in Portia's day, "these naughty times put bars between the owners and their rights." Still now that we know ourselves owners, what does it matter; I rejoice in you, Alice. I reverence you, you swift and bounteous lover. You make shame impossible. How large you are. I should not care for you if you were niggardly. God himself, you know, loves a cheerful giver. i«s]

The lines of Herbert which I tried to recall are these: I translate them out of divine love into human — hardly a change though: Dear, thou art mine, and I am thine, If mine I am: and thine much more Then I or ought or can be mine. Yet to be thine doth me restore: So that again I now am mine, And with advantage mine the more. Since this being mine brings with it thine. And thou with me dost thee restore. If I without thee would be mine, I neither should be mine nor thine. Isn't that pretty play? and like all good play, too, minutely accurate. I cut off the outskirts of the photograph in order to fit it to an unsuspicious envelope. It was taken some years ago, but Fred thinks it still the best I have. The two others that are extant in the picture shops you can have whenever you like. If it ever is permitted us to appear in public together, we will go to the photographer's, seat one another, and have special pictures taken for ourselves alone. I hope the same peace fills your heart this morning that fills mine. Much of the future is dark, and does not trouble me. A few things are so clear, and they are clues that conduct to everything else.

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A. F. to G. Η. P. Thursday Night [August 1

Dear Heart, I say my good night again, and yet again. Ella has been here just a week, and it is only a very little more since I came out from your constant presence, into more separate life. That seemed hard, and now it is a hardship to go back into the city world. The healing airs of Boxford have been a blessing to me day and night, and I am stronger, and gladder for all this very strange new life has to bring; so I am not entirely sad though rather silent in the presence of it all. It has been an invigorating vacation, in more ways than can be stated. The walks, and talks, the readings and sittings together, the friends we have met, all these dear relatives of yours who are coming so close to my heart, the working and the resting, all have been life-giving. I want to say how much I value my Boxford maiden days now that they draw to a close, and yet their value cannot be assessed tonight. It is pleasant to think them all over, and to live again in this little absence the month since we came and stood together before all the world, the month of our public betrothal. If the next month is as fruitful of plan and future power, it will be a rare time, indeed — and blessed, though so different in its gift. I ought to go now — and I linger. It has been so before — it may be again. But hereafter we shall learn to love each other in the daily college life of Cambridge and Wellesley, and in living among and for others, instead of lingering in these green pastures, and by these still waters. God give me grace to be wise and righteous, and very tender in our loving and very strong in our

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duty, from the beginning. It is an increasingly serious gladness, George, full of wonder and joy, and doubt and fear. Some days I do not wish to be left to myself at all, and others, I don't want the long thinking interrupted. But you know — that is the comfort, and what a comfort it is proving to be. In Boston at 12:15 P.M. While I wait for my lunch, I say good afternoon to George. We have had a full morning and have seen much and bought little. Socrates felt as I do when he said, "How many things there are in the world which I do not want!" I wish you were here. Let's come together, someday, when the college claims no attentions. The soup has come — dear Love — good bye.

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford Piazza, Sept. 5th — 10 P.M. So, my dear girl, this quiet, sunny, solitary day is gone. I put on my flannel shirt and rough suit as soon as I came home from parting with you, laid out my dozen open books which help forward my Odyssey, and settled down to work, which with the interruption of dinner lasted till five o'clock. Mary's melancholy over Fred's departure seemed to be deepened by mine over yours, and we swallowed our cold chicken thanking Eric for being light-hearted. Still, this afternoon I made a fair run on Homer, and at five, instead of walking to the office with you, took Eric in bathing and [218]

then sawed the remaining wood for the great fireplace fire. This evening Mary and I have been reading, beginning Browning's Ring and the Book and purposing to press forward during the next weeks clear through its jungle of bursting life. Both of us have before read most of it, but we have never gone through it at one straight push. To me it has always seemed Browning's masterpiece, containing all his peculiarities, but more supremely than anything else his mastery also — his living insight and his power of surveying a spiritual situation from many points of view. This doctrine of "the point of view" is the gospel of our time and Browning is its preacher. W e have given up the expectation of finding a fact fixedly thus or thus. W e see it cannot be known in itself but only has meaning in relations, and so varies from this to that according to the "point of view," this latter being the spiritual contribution of the beholder. One who observes creates as well as apprehends, and discloses himself in the act. These are matters I want to discuss with you more at length some day. I doubt if you have felt this modern spirit much yet, and I think it would help you greatly to supplement the rich experience you have already gained. Browning's Ring and the Book — pardy by reason of its toughness — is a capital handbook for acquiring this species of culture. . . . What do you think of my calling on Lyman Abbott on my way to Poughkeepsie? Even if you go with me as far as his town — Cornwall — you could go on from there and reach Poughkeepsie earlier than I on Tuesday — an added decency, I suppose, that we should not enter the College at the same time. I could previously make an appointment [219]

with him and so could get several hours, and still reach Drennan on Tuesday evening. The more I think of it, the more decided seems to me the gain of Wellesley in securing him for the President. There is no woman comparable. He is very popular with students and teachers, understands fully the directions of your policy, and would of himself wish to carry it farther. Then too you already have that intimacy with him that would enable you hereafter to talk with him of delicate matters, to save him from errors, and to keep your ideas still working in the College. He more than anybody else would be truly a successor to you, and make no jar on the incoming of a new regime. Before other names are much agitated, we had better learn how he is disposed, and I could discover this with fewer pledges and implications of authority than anyone else. That I might catch him on my way to the wedding did not occur to me till this afternoon. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Norumbega, Tuesday, 8 A.M. [September 6\ M y darling, I am just ready for breakfast, and while waiting begin the letter I could not write before ten last night. At 9 o'clock I left the office, but could get no time to write, and at ten went to bed — with the sweet thought of you, and the moonlight on the meadow, warm in my heart. . . . Mr. Willcox came at 3 o'clock, and we had a long talk. He sees nothing ahead but disaster unless you will come and [ 220 ]

accept the Presidency, and I had to talk him into our position, in which I fear he won't stay. He astonished me by telling me how determined Dr. Hovey and Dr. Peirce were to have you, and that Dr. Clark said it must be. I tried to make him see that this is not a good time, but he argues that it is the time given by God to the College to save it, and win a great victory for intelligent life. Y o u will hear from him, I presume, for he assured me that it couldn't drop here. He begged to know if there were any chance that we would come sometime if not now, and I said that this would depend on circumstances which no one could foresee in the College, that you did not wish to come here, and that you certainly never would, unless you felt it to be an imperative duty, with a larger opportunity than could be found elsewhere. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Tuesday Night [September 6] It is nearly ten, and time for good night. When you come I will show you a vase which Miss Coman's mother sent me "with love and congratulations," a pretty thing for our home. What words they are, George! Mr. Towne, Edward C., has written me saying that he hears we wish a house in Cambridge, and he would be glad to have us take his house partly furnished. Y o u may like to investigate his place. I know nothing of his situation. . . . Just there I stopped, and now it is Wednesday night. I [221 ]

was about to say that I talked with Dr. W i l l c o x at some length about Dr. Abbott, w h o m he believes in thoroughly, and sympathizes with. He told me that there isn't a shadow o f a chance o f his being elected n o w . He knew that a strong majority would oppose it — for different reasons. Some w h o agree with him would not commit the College to so pronounced a position. They feel that it would be outraging everything that the Durants have tried to do, and could not be justified. If he is right w e should not raise the question. I am afraid he is right. Dr. Abbott has been so frank and firm for years that he is n o w suffering from bitter misunderstandings, and prejudice is strong among the very people w h o have influence. This is Dr. Willcox's position. It would not be expedient to mention his name now. W e should lose our candidate and lose our influence in selecting a successor. O f course he may change this opinion upon more thought. N e x t week the Executive Committee has a meeting. Mrs. Angell is here for t w o days. I have had only a f e w minutes to give her, but she lunches with me tomorrow. She told me that when President Angell heard o f our engagement, he said " I am perfectly satisfied!" Y o u will k n o w h o w happy that sentence made me and h o w proud. . . . The looked-for letter came last night, to begin a new package. Y o u poor boy, w h y haven't y o u been luxuriating in flannel shirt and rough suit before? Y o u touch m y heart by submitting to civilized stiffness for m y sake. I like your looks in anything, y o u know. . . . The students are coming in very rapidly. 179 Freshmen — and 612 total tonight on the books, and the girls look well. Y o u will like their faces, when y o u go in and out among them. [ 222 ]

Mrs. Newman and the rest are getting reconciled, but they find our decision hard to accept. Good night — dear love, our own good night.

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford, Wednesday Night [September 7] Tonight for the first time I visited the old pine as I walked from the office and there read your Tuesday's letter. It was good to find that things looked so bright on your coming back to Wellesley. What else in life is so exhilarating as the bustle of an opening term, full as it is of new faces, new hopes, and powers that seem equal to anything? . . . Dr. Willcox's talk is most interesting, but talk ofthat kind must be stopped. It can only damage Wellesley. I shall be entirely firm. Pressure of people will have no influence. It must be by reasons that we guide ourselves, and none of those who desire my coming can in the slightest show my reasons to be unsound. If anybody speaks to me, I shall simply say I do not wish to discuss the matter. I have other work to do and know better than others that I am not fitted for Wellesley. It is very important the Trustees should understand that they are only hindering the prosperity of Wellesley by talking of me. If they would use anything like the same earnestness to secure Dr. Abbott, they could probably get him and Wellesley would enter on a career of new prosperity. At any rate let everybody understand that there is no question whatever about getting me. I have considered the subject for months, at first with inclinations not averse, [223 ]

and my decision is unalterable. The kindest thing to all concerned is to make this plain. . . . Since I wrote you I have hardly moved from my chair and Homer has been pushed bravely onward. I am continually pleased to think how the hours which might have been spent on him this summer were passed with you and the woods. In these barren days I have no such agreeable alternative. And the labored work suits well with my present stupor — "the sad mechanic exercise, like dull narcotics numbing pain." Yesterday afternoon, though, I had an interesting interruption. My pupil MacDonald, the Baptist minister from Georgetown, came over to see me about his plans for further study. I was asking him what turned him first toward learning. He said he was a poor clerk in Ward and Gay's store in Boston; that Pres. Eliot trading there one day began to talk to him about making more of himself: that he asked him to come to Cambridge to see him: that he did not go, and when Eliot was in the store some months after he inquired of another clerk if MacDonald was still there: this clerk reporting to M. the conversation M. said he should not call on Eliot, that E. was too busy a man; Eliot again returning and seeing the same clerk was told by him M's. statement and immediately said roundly, "Tell him to come. That's just what I'm President for." Afterwards he wrote the President of Acadia College about MacDonald, although he had seen M. but this once on his first visit to the store. This sort of action on Eliot's part I am continually unearthing. He is a man who detests making a fuss over his good deeds, but nobody who comes close to him can fail to feel his noble purposes. . . . [ 224 ]

G. Η. P. to A. F. Boxford, 3 P.M. Thursday [September

What Dr. Willcox says of the chance of Dr. Abbott's election is, I am afraid, true. It certainly is instructive. My distance from the old Evangelicism, i.e. from the Durant view of holiness, is enormously greater than Dr. Abbott's. The changes which I should be obliged to effect at Wellesley in order to be loyal to what I understand by learning and righteousness would be at least double what would seem necessary to Dr. Abbott. Dr. Abbott is a power wherever Orthodox people assemble: I should be looked upon by them askance, as doubtfully a brother. When Wellesley Trustees therefore reject him and entreat me for their President, it must be that they don't know what they are doing; or else they hope that, balanced by you and hemmed in by themselves, I can be kept from mischief. But I can't. And I will not go where I cannot honorably make mischief, for the call to make it is not my own "Schadenfreude," but the voice of the Socratic Daimon. What God has revealed to me I shall speak out, and what the Orthodox say, or what the Unitarians, will be a very secondary affair. Only if the Orthodox fire-engine asks me to become its captain, I must frankly tell them, "I could not work with you nor you with me. And the evidence is that you reject a man who, when you come to know me, you will think immensely better than I." . . .

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A. F. to G. Η. P. Friday Night, 8 o'clock, Norumbega [September p] Aren't you surprised to see me taking so much time? I have come over to write you a note, and then go to bed and take a long night. I slept this morning and have taken my "Boxford hour." Even yesterday, the first day of the organization, I was over here from 12:30 until 2:30 and let the crowd wait, and I felt fresh and gay all the afternoon. I had a good talk with Mrs. Angell yesterday. She heartily rejoices in our plans, and warmed my heart by her interest. She left this afternoon, and begged me to present her cordial regards to you, and that she must see us together in her home. I wish you might meet them. At last Flower Sunday is a fact. Dr. Edward Judson of Ν . Y . comes, for a morning service, and goes to Boston immediately afterward. A great relief it is, too, for when I first saw Mrs. Durant she said Mr. Moody was coming, but I objected to a revival service on this occasion, and she amiably made this arrangement. W e have had delightful people here this week. It has been a pleasure to talk with them, fathers and mothers full of dignity and intelligence and fine feeling. There is no complaining or demanding, but one would suppose that each was a guest by special favor in a private home. It has been the most harmonious and interesting opening we have ever had. And today a happy surprise came — a letter asking "in what manner a bequest of $15000 or so would be most acceptable." It is a hard question to answer. I want it for so many things, but it must go into the general fund. Oh if I could see it wisely invested, and controlled! I want you constantly [226 ]

to talk things over with! There is a glow at my heart all the time to see my own gladness reflected in so many faces. It has all been pleasanter and more cordial than I had dared to hope. Not a jar so far, but rather a high and sympathetic purpose everywhere to do and know the best and to be the noblest. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Boxford, September 14, Wednesday

I reached home last night earlier than I expected. B y postponing a dentist's appointment I was able to accomplish every errand and still to catch the 4:45 train. In Cambridge I had too little time to explore Mr. Towne or to look up any of our other house prospects. I saw nobody there, only the College Yard, which always stirs my love and longing, and I came into my pleasant rooms for the first time after months. At Hovey's I found a good Chudah shawl, and sent it with our cards. It can hardly fail to please and be useful. As I passed down the store, some pretty green cloth caught my eye and I asked for a sample. It is probably not strong enough for your main cloth dress, but at 68 cents I thought it uncommonly handsome. Before long we will have the fun of shopping together. Selection, minute choice, and judgment, are fun to me in every department of life, and here they will express calculation for the home. Brief and fragmentary as was our time together the other day, it makes me realize more distinctly what our next [227]

months will be, and so seems to help us on. Until we marry and break from it altogether, our time and thought must be given to "Wellesley. Into your life I can now enter, study what has formed it in the past, and see what are the methods by which you have taken hold of people. The interests which make up my life it is plain you can do little toward understanding before marriage. You will have to marry me, dear, on the general impression that I am a good fellow; but this impression can't have much understanding for its basis till you can honorably obtain quiet and a mind to enter gradually and with patience into what I am thinking about. Sometimes I am frightened when I see how little you know me. The road seems so long before we can clear-sightedly be pulling together. At present persons who have come only a tenth as near could give a more accurate account of me than you. But when we have said all this is inevitable, we have largely justified it. It only gives us a little more to do in future. Our early married months will be stranger to you than to me: but if you can throw yourself as heartily into the conditions then as you do now, there will be a great deal of happy discovery. Today I believe you are having your meeting with the Executive Committee and probably something will be said about the interview with me. I grow more inclined to that as I think about it. Only I should like to have you also present. I should take pains to say at starting that I had not consulted you about what I should say and I was well aware that much of my thought would not be yours: but I would freely speak my own mind and they might estimate its worth. If they wished Mrs. Durant to be present, I should not [228]

object and I should not muzzle myself, though I doubt if it would be good policy on the part of the Trustees to set before her the issues so distinctly as I must put them. I do not believe my words would make her dislike me, but certainly afterwards she would be obliged to oppose. Still it is for the Trustees to decide how large a battle they want to begin. They may ask anybody to the meeting: I shall say the same things. And I shall refuse to accept the Presidency on any terms whatever. Mary is delighted at the prospect of seeing you on Sunday. The very fields seem to call for you. W e will wander in them and find out our rock in the woods, and you shall rest, and we will read and lazily talk, and in a happy two days bring up all the arrears of information about this long fortnight

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley College, Thursday Night [September J5] M y dear, your letter waited an hour for me tonight. I went into Boston on the same train that you took Tuesday, and came out at 5 o'clock. The result of the afternoon in town was good. I matched my green and dark red dresses, with very pretty cashmere and satin. T w o new dresses will be the outcome at small expense. Tomorrow a woman comes to my rooms, where I have a machine. She must give me two days this week, and if she is good, much more in October. I wished for you constandy this afternoon, in the linen stores most of all, where I looked about. W e must go to Whitney's when we can get a shopping day. You enjoy [ 229 ]

it, and your judgment is so accurate that shopping with you, and for our home, would be exhilarating! I couldn't look forward with so much assurance if you were not full of wisdom where I am so ignorant. Thank you for the sample. It is beautiful. I will look it up when I go in again. If Lily enjoys her shawl half as much as I do, you have made her comfortable. . . . We had a good full meeting of the Committee yesterday. Dr. Peirce resigned from the Committee, on the plea that he is now retiring from many of his duties, but will remain on the Board. We elected no one to fill his place. Indeed, who is there fitted for such work? We decided as a Committee to call a meeting of the full board the last Friday of this month, to hear my resignation, and appoint a special committee to take the subject in charge. It seemed best to have the entire Board act in appointing so important a committee. So the question goes over for a fortnight. . . . Scores of candidates are being pushed by friends, and the Trustees take no interest in them. I am glad you incline toward a personal interview. It will be of service to the College in this crisis, and we need every educating force that can push the Trustees on to intelligent action. . . . Be patient, dear. It is not long before I change all my energy from college to home life, and I dare to marry you even in the depths of ignorance which you describe, for I know by my heart that all my surprises will be pleasant ones as I come to know you more and more. It is not hard to understand the love and admiration that fill your friends' letters, though more years than we have left will be needed to sound depths they talk about. That we shall each have large surprises is [230]

manifest. That I know enough for intelligent confidence and devotion, my quiet heart assures me. An ample trust and an eager interest wait the time when my life can follow my love to you. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. After Dinner, September 21 . . . The little house is very still today, my first solitary day, and really my first formal notice that the glorious summer is ended. Tomorrow comes my nephew Frank and the young-man-interest begins. I have been busying myself with Hemer, Plato, and Dewey. The latter grows steadily better — or is it only better to me? I doubt sometimes whether the parts of him which interest me most, the metaphysical parts — will not confuse the young student. One needs to have passed through a good deal of untruth to feel the worth of truth. Knowing the difficulties of these later subjects his ingenious if complex statements please me by their width of suggestion. Will one who does not know the rocky soil that lies beneath grumble because the roads are not better; When I try to make my eyes young, much of his talk looks pretty dark. I have been looking over, too, the book of one of my old boys — one who lived with us on Garden St. for a time. Η. T . Finch's Romantic Love. It professes to be a physical, sociological and ethical study of an entirely worthy theme. But the writer cannot keep his dignity and drops repeatedly into a smart and vulgar tone. He has a mass of heterogeneous material, important much of it, and his own [231

]

insights are often acute and always clever. The writing is good, in the newspaper man's mode of goodness. But the book is planless and continually depreciates its own scientific worth in order to catch the popular taste. It will sell at a great rate and be on the whole nutritious. But I should like to see a sober study of its great theme — the greatest of the passions that our age understands, and one that was hardly known 500 years ago. Where else could be studied so well that progressive revelation of God to man which we know as social evolution? Saul, it is said, went to find asses and gained a kingdom: I, to make a spectacle of myself to a lot of young girls and gained new nearness to you. That on-going and transforming life which Vida Scudder rightly says our time prizes beyond everything else certainly characterizes our love. It is never the same from week to week, but each day transforms the old dearness into new forms of trust and beauty. Your stay here was more than delightful, darling. . . . Probably I see more clearly than you how far away is the time when we can really be of one mind and heart. But you fill me with determination to press on, and the search is as good as the arrival. Your nasturtiums still bloom on my study table. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Thursday Night [September 22] M y darling, now that you are sick you will not forbid my writing a little oftener and disregarding regularity of days. Your dear note tonight tells me. If this sign of weak[ 232 ]

ness could ever be welcome, it would be so now, assuring us as it does that you will be in good condition to travel on Monday. Last night the calendars came, which as I had no other bundle to bring, I did not mean to remember. But I am very glad to get them. When you are sick do you like a sweetmeat? I have one for you. It really seems likely that we can have the Aliens' house. I called there last night and discussed the plan with them fully. Neither wishes Mrs. Allen to keep house all the year. Mr. Allen is also dreaming of the possibility of persuading his faculty to let him off from work the last half year and allow him to finish his book. Even if this is not accomplished, they are not indisposed to board in Cambridge, and allow us the house. They say it is in poor order, greatly needing new furniture, and they doubt if you would like it. But they exaggerate its badness. I know it fairly well and think it entirely comfortable. They also say that we can bring in whatever furniture of our own we like and that if we then go abroad their attic will probably be suitable for storage. In short they say every thing that is kind, and I really believe half their disposition to move out is desire to accommodate us. Before seeing them I turned over in my own mind again the subject of rent and concluded that much more than a $100 a month would not be worth while. So as we talked I told them we had both better be definite; that I would be willing to pay, and they must be equally free to say what they desired. I would pay about $600. Mr. Allen at once said that if they gave it up we could have it for $400. This I refused and said they must take something between my [ 2 33 ]

offer and their own. We left the matter unsettled, as indeed the whole subject. They will throughout consider rather our interest than theirs, and I shall try to estimate what would be fair and force it on them. But is not the prospect charming? A house more accessible, dignified, on the whole convenient, and quite within our means, would be hard to find. And to get one furnished, leaves us free to go to Europe next June. Only think of it, Alice girl! We may perhaps within a year be free beings, roving at our will together through fields of study and beauty and renewed health! And in the meantime our Cambridge life would be rendered as easy as possible. Mrs. Allen said she thought we had better get another second girl, as her own was dull and poor. I told her that was just what we should like to do. W e should need a sempstress. They will consider the matter for a week or two and see what arrangements they can make for themselves. And as soon as we return from the wedding I will take you to examine the house. W e are in no way committed. We need not take it if you find it on any ground distasteful. I told them I could give no promise till you had thoroughly inspected. And I have many fears that when they come to plan definitely for going elsewhere themselves they may decide against us. But let us have the comfort of the dream. At least while you are sick imagine I have already a perfect home secured, to which three months hence you are going to fly with me and be at rest.

l 2 34 ]

G. Η. P. to A. F. Friday Night, September 24 This morning's note will not take the place of an evening letter, especially as this will be the last which I can put into your hands until we meet on Monday, and have as acknowledged lovers one of the steamboat rides which in the old courting days were so romantic. Whichever route you tell me tomorrow you will take, I will buy tickets for. . . . How do you think I took my exercise this afternoon? I laid in the first stores for our house! On our little farm, between my house and yours, stand several Baldwin trees. I have gathered the apples and am going to put away a barrel in my cellar, in the hope that it will keep until January, and then we will have some Boxford flavors in our meals. I think I will also try some sweet apples, but it is more doubtful if these keep. Frank Ayres begins on Monday to paint my house and barn, a color somewhat lighter than the present. Augustus has been intending this for several years and now undertakes it, I suspect, in order to look spruce for Lily. He wants us to fit up the old house — yours — and make that our home. I would gladly do so, but do not see how it could be done under $1000 which we have not. And the interest on this and on the $3000 mortgage would probably make a more expensive rental than we could afford for our country home. M y study today has been on Dewey and I have almost finished him. This last part on the Will is pretty strong, and to me doubly interesting because it so largely agrees with the ideas of my printed lectures. There is of course much from

[235]

which I dissent, and yet I see that in arranging my course on dogmatic ethics I can in parts usefully follow his divisions. He is often shady, on points too when I suspect I am myself. Evidently his master is the same as mine, Hegel; and the more obviously so as he never mentions the unpopular name. I shall read over the last third of his book several times this year, and see how much of it I can profitably steal. I am afraid there will be limits to the plunder. With the last part of what I read today I was in full quarrel. But tomorrow I finish, and he may pull himself up. . . .

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Sept. 30 M y work today has moved on more successfully and rapidly than I anticipated, and now allows me this evening to spend a litde time with you, my dearest. The two lectures this morning went off well. The men's faces are intelligent and many of my best men from Philosophy I of last year reappear in Philosophy IV. I have been waylaid at every corner by friends who smilingly congratulate, and there is much heartiness in their words. Philip is here and Robert, and the number of those who wish to consult about one matter and another seems endless. But for a moment there is a lull. The Boxford books now put back in their places look down familiarly. The fire glows, and the great homelike room calls for the wife. In thinking today about John White as a Trustee, it [236]

seemed to me you ought not to elect him unless he would accept. So I called on him this afternoon and endeavored to persuade. But he was very obstinate. He said nothing would induce him to depart from the plan of study he had formed for the year. However little time outside duties might be said to take, he must avoid them all. He did not know that he had been nominated already but said that either he or I must communicate with you immediately and withdraw his name. I promised to do so tonight. There is no reason to doubt that my letter will reach you in the morning early enough to anticipate the meeting. I am sorry for his decision, but glad to save you from the blunder of a useless election. . . .

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley College, Tuesday 5 P.M. [October 4]

Your letter this morning gave me a shock of joy. When I opened it, I was cast down by my thoughtlessness in burdening you with one thing more to remember. My consolation is that so I have this true note, to mark another blissful anniversary. My heart has been full of it all this busy d a y . . . . The little dressmaker is here, and the green gown is attacked vigorously. She shall change the red satin until you approve. Indeed, what does not wait upon that approving smile in your eyes? . . . Your news from Worcester* is interesting. I imagine even * Palmer had been told of a rumor that he was being considered for the presidency of Clark University, Worcester, Mass.

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Wellesley would be more to your taste. Fancy you a "rival to Harvard"! And Mr. Clark wouldn't allow us co-education! But that would save Wellesley's feelings, now torn with jealousy over the Annex. A cousin of Nisba Breckinridge has been here today to consult me about her choice. She is about deciding between Wellesley and the Annex, and asked me where I am to teach! . . . 9 P.M. Faculty meeting, two hours long, well ended. Our proposed classification of the undergraduates unanimously voted, and a good discussion on the students' work, taken up heartily. W e had some enlivening moments, as when Miss Wenckebach asked, " W h y the fog horn howls in the laundry?" and the doctor thought she was referring to the noise in the hospitals where she has two students with sprained ankles. Miss Lord solemnly asked if the students should not be warned against poison ivy, whereupon I asked the Botany Dept. to send a large mounted specimen to the general office as on previous years — and here the doctor came forward with alacrity and offered to exhibit specimens of poisoning far more effective than the leaves....

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley College, Monday Evening [October l o]

Dear, there is a lull just now. The Philadelphia school is talked up thoroughly, and Dr. Miller has gone. Professor Tucker came this morning to talk over the results of the Springfield meeting as they affect the young men and [238]

women in our New England colleges. He was sorry to miss you, and I wanted you here for advice. He thinks it is now clear that the present policy will hold for five years, and that meanwhile the missionary zeal of the young will be chilled, or permanently diverted. He is anxious to avert this result, and is trying to work out some plan by which quietly these rejected candidates can be sent to Japan and supported in work there. . . . Tuesday Night I am simply swamped with all there is to tell. Yesterday was so full of people I liked to see, and important matters, that I must wait for real Boxford hours. (I had a good nap today!) But the main excitement yesterday and today you will understand when I tell you that the girls at Waban Cottage, Nisba Breckinridge and Bertha Bailey the leading spirits, called a mass meeting of all the College (students only) tonight, and proposed that the girls raise the money for a College chapel! Of course they talked with me at length about it, after they had proposed it and found how the idea excited everybody, and wanted me to come and talk with them. This I refused to do, and told them they must manage it themselves. So we planned an organization, and got together the "reasons why," and they have had a great meeting—Heaven bless them! and have got $3000.00 with many plans for immediate attacks on all the rich men of the country. And do you know, my dear, they will succeed? . . .

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G. Η. P. to A. F. [October u,

1887]

These two have been interesting days, with three experiences at least where I have specially wanted you. Mrs. Allen wrote me yesterday morning of another house to let on upper Garden Street, and in the afternoon I visited the pretty little box. It is decidedly modern, but on the whole sensibly and conveniently so, with a pleasing and ingenious compactness, the rooms smaller than we should wish but of good shapes and attractive. If we could obtain it, I would take it in preference to anything except 3 Garden. But unhappily it has already been offered to another lady who is pretty likely to accept it. I am sorry. Small as it is, and in some respects whimsical, it somehow looks like us. I can see you crossing its floors. And I could not quite picture you at Mr. Sibley's. The evening brought me a delightful surprise in Edwin Abbot. He was in his usual haste, was to go back to New York tomorrow, probably not to return until after Christmas. But his brief visit was delightful and of value. He was full of interest in you, wished he might go to Wellesley and call, and on parting charged me to tell you you were better known to him than you could suppose. . . . My third interest was Drummond. He is still here and will hold one more meeting tomorrow night. I have wanted you to talk him over with me. He puzzles me. I called on him this morning and had 15 minutes of quiet talk, in which he appeared most attractive, full of good sense, refinement and sweetness. His is a face of much beauty, and the tense fine [240 ]

lines about the mouth and in the hands show a character that has been guiding itself and studying how to guide. But this night I went to hear him speak, and his talk was simply ordinary. There were in it few living touches of reality and he did not appear to have thought out the grave problems on which he rather jauntily touched. Of course there was no sloppiness or "eloquence." He is too genuine a man for that. There was nothing to make your skin creep as when you listened to that tawdry prettiness of Dr. M. It was noble, in the same sense as Mr. Moody is noble in his straightforward talk. There was never a suspicion that he was trying to impose on us with fine words though aware himself that there was nothing under them. He was perfectly ingenuous — and it is a rare virtue. But in spite of all, the fact remained that he had nothing particular to say, that he was talking commonplace, that is, matter which might mean anything or nothing but was never brought up sharp and pinned to one precise significance which he knew he could stand to, though all the world opposed. Very little of his talk bore any personal mark whatever. Except for a certain generous spirit running thinly through it all, it was precisely the stuff any revivalist could reel you off by the hour. I try to believe he was tired. Certainly now and again there came a turn of phrase which bespoke a first-hand vision of what he was talking about. But in general it was dreary, nothing that one could approve or condemn, being really too impalpable for either. "Be a follower of Christ," he was always saying, but what this meant — how it was related to the fear of God, for example, how it connected itself, as he said it did, with work and study and play, — there [241 ]

was no more finding out than when Mr. Moody rolls off the same inspiring phrases. H o w these men hate definition, and how much more readily they turn to a glow than to find out in their own minds precisely what they mean. But I shall still hold that I have heard him under unfavorable conditions, personally he attracts me so much, and his book — though loose in texture — is so much more sensible than this. . . .

A. F. to G.H. P. Wellesley College, October 14th, 1887 M y blessing, I can't help one word more, and I send some things to read before I come. At three tomorrow we meet where we have so often met before on the way to happy hours. But none were ever so full of j o y as this will be. Yes, I mean it! What is the matter? M y heart won't keep still and though we are having a beautiful time at the College this week, the hours drag. It will be a glorious time. If only this fine weather continues! Yet even if it does not, we can be just as gay. Your letters this week are better than ever before. They taste so sweet. Dear, I must have fallen in love over again. This time it is a deeper happiness. And everything is going so well here. Prof. Drummond came yesterday afternoon, and spoke an hour last evening on the friendship of Christ. He was certainly wonderfully fresh and helpful. The entire College seemed to be there, and a great group remained to ask him questions afterward. This morning he has appointments with students and speaks again this after[ 242 ]

noon. His genuine nobility and sincerity appeals to everyone, and he understands different minds remarkably. . . . I must write to other, less dear, people. I am eager to hear of all the talks and places you have to tell. "Fly swiftly, time!"

G. H. P. to A. F. Wednesday Evening [November 2] I have found a house! a pretty nearly perfect one, near the College Yard, of good size, and full of sunshine. It is exquisitely furnished, and we can have it at no enormous price until next summer, and then if we wish can continue a year more. You shall see it after the concert. Don't you wish I would tell you where it is?*

A. F. to G. H. P. Norumbega, Thursday [November 17] M y dearest, I am wretched today in body, but no worse for my little journey last night, indeed less miserable than often before, and far happier in my mind. These days of rest which I have taken when I needed them, since last summer, are showing their effects already in my health. I have been in bed all day, but much of the time fairly comfortable, and always so glad of our little time together yesterday. How good it was to see you! But how hard to lose so much time with you so near. I am so glad to have had you see Miss McDonald. The blue velvet is the choice, I suppose. Nothing * The house was at 479 Broadway, Cambridge. t 243 ]

else comes forward to take its place, — I found Mrs. Claflin dressing for a wedding, and went up to her room. She is delighted at our decision, and talks of the details with enthusiasm. She gave me the names of the ushers, and talked of lists of guests, of dresses, and wedding breakfasts, and a bewildering variety of delicious topics. I feel as if I had just promised to be married. I am astonished that I take this so quietly, and "Not a wave of trouble rolls across my peaceful breast." N o w you confess to me, George, whether you are not somewhat "disturbed in your mind" as the time draws near. I ought to be! I am not ready to leave the College. I am not ready to be married, I have made no proper preparation. I have taken no training and my work here is not done. But I walk as happily as a child to a holiday — or any happy girl to meet her lover. I didn't know that people felt like this when they are to be married! I don't believe anyone does unless she is to marry George Palmer, and only Ellen and I are so blessed! Dear Ellen! How much I think of her in all these days. So many things I should talk with her of. She should teach me to be more wifely, and helpful to our boy, and I would love her so too! Geordie, dear, I wouldn't give up yesterday, but I wish you were here an hour today. And then I might not let you go.

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Monday evening [December 12] . . . Mrs. Claflin was very cordial this morning and delightfully full of importance. Every item of the arrange[244]

ments she rolls as a sweet morsel under her tongue. She takes the same delight a mother would in getting up dainty dishes for a ten-year-old child. I made it easy for her to detail the plans for ribbons, kneeling-stools, adjustments of the train, etc. One point I must say lingered unpleasantly in my mind afterwards — the proposal to have her daughter perform a wedding march on the piano while we are coming downstairs. I can't quite make piano-playing go with a wedding. But if it is thought necessary by the directing powers it shall be had — it, or a tambourine, or a pair of clappers. . . . I was at 479 this afternoon, took the measurements of the study, and decided where my bookcases could go. I also requested Mrs. Smith to remove some of the family portraits, and she was mild and concessive. She really wants to make us comfortable, and there is little doubt that we shall be. These pretended items of business are but excuses for a few words with my dear and busy girl. I want her here this evening, and as my arms are not long enough to reach her I use a pen to say I am her own.

G. H. P. to A. F. Monday Night, 10:30

[December 19]

Dearest, such peace is with me tonight, such new delight in you, and such trust in our future, that I must just say the words on paper. W e understand one another, and no troubles can come near the heart of us. Perplexities do not bite, but exultation is here and gladness at the near day. [245 ]

I hope you were not worried with the dressmaker and with my criticising praises. They will be all right, dear — the dresses — because you will be inside them, and I do not doubt either their own attractiveness. I cannot say, you know, the word that people want to hear, but have to think what the thing before me means and utter its truth. But when the dresses come home, I shall just as willingly see their charms and I have no doubt that in time we shall tame them down to real fireside pleasures. I wish it were not necessary for you to be fitted with them now. When I reached home I found Jacob's clock here — a square, solid, black, gold-faced thing, more than a foot high and a little less broad, extremely dignified and handsome. It strikes the quarter hours with a ruffled soft reverberation. Perhaps among all our clocks we can save a prettier one for our Boxford room. If you are wanting something to fill your trunk with, put in the little brass one — but there is no need of it: we have a good enough one there.

A. F. to G. H. P. Wellesley, Wednesday Night [December 21] M y dearest, your sweet Boxford note is right. I have not been out of my bed today. It was as I thought it might be. Tuesday morning Mr. Cable led prayers, and this morning I dared not go into the Chapel. I sent my good bye to the girls, and gave them Christmas greetings by Miss Whiting. And — I have been too miserable to write today, though I have escaped better than I feared, at the end of these weary [246]

straining days. Oh! George, I just want you so now. The College life is all over! and I feel like an empty-handed lonely creature. But I have you, dearest! I say it over and over to quiet my heart. Last night the Faculty had a social and I came away from it with this wonderful vase — which you must think a rarely beautiful thing, — and a "testimonial" from them which is far more precious to me than gold and gems and Algerian onyx. These blessed women have put $200 — so Ella has learned — into this gift for us, and wish they could find something more precious to give us. The Specials have sent me a resolution and submit to my wishes not to have presents from the Classes, but your '88 breaks bounds, and gives us a handsome fish knife and fork, with a violet engraved on the back of each. Christabel has gone, leaving you a present, a lovely little cushion, one of these in her room which you noticed. It seems she had one for her father and another for you. And she doesn't want you to suppose she got it after the umbrella, which, by the way, she declares she shall use before her face reversed. Charlie and Ella have given us a dozen dear little old-fashioned coffee spoons, to go with our cups and saucers. Kate Coman has left me a lovely silver bell for the table, and I am so proud of the roses her sister Hattie has painted, for Hattie has been a sort of protege of mine, and her exquisite work is a keen pleasure to me to see. Thursday Morning Y o u are again in Cambridge, Beloved, and have said goodbye to Boxford's bachelor life, but not to all the sweet memories there. W e will keep them all, dearer and sacreder [ 2 47 ]

than ever, darling, in the new life. How much I think of Ellen in these strange last days, and I seem to know her better, and understand her as I could not before. Dear little woman! I hope her heaven is sweeter knowing how glad we are, and how close we hold her. Edwin Abbot has sent me a check for $500.00!! and such a noble letter. I long to see you. And Mr. Houghton, a Trustee, has sent me a pin — a great pearl, set with diamonds. You will think it beautiful. I feel much more comfortable today, but shall stay in bed. M y love and love to you, sweetheart.

G. H. P. to A. F. Cambridge, Thursday Morning [December 22] Well, my precious Alice, I have got it at last, and the newspapers have got us, as you see by these two clippings — one from the Post and the other from our Harvard Daily Crimson. We shall have to endure a little public chatter for a week now, and then the world will be willing to forget us. When I reached here yesterday afternoon I found the City Clerk's office closed and so went again this morning and finally obtained the paper. I believe I am now possessed of all the "things that do endless matrimony make," and I want you to leave your marriage license with Adams Claflin, to whom I will also hand mine. Mr. Herrick must have them before the service, and I ought to have reminded you yesterday to bring yours with you to Boston and to secure its transit into Mr. Herrick's hands. How deliciously near it is, sweetest! This is the last love [248]

letter I shall ever write you — at least while you are still you. I have often, wondered whether as the day came pressing up close, delight would increase or dread. And it is so happy to find this quiet assurance displacing anxieties, and a great proud exultation swelling underneath. You are a very princess to me. I will try to be a genuine king for your sake. We will rule ourselves so rightly that others will inevitably be included in our reign. And I want here to record the promise that whenever we have difficulties — and they are certain to arise between us, few as we have thus far had — I will always turn toward you and seek you anew, and not go off with my solitary sense of wrong and slight. There is no other path of life now than together, and that path does not he through my will or through your will but through a common all-wise will which hand in hand we are to be always seeking. W e have trusted that we might help each other seek it and so might gain and give a new strength. And now through the years — and especially through the first years, while our marriage habits are forming — we are to make good that trust. I will help you, darling, in this joint labor, and promise to keep myself accessible and sweet. Be at peace now, at peace in my love. Don't let College affairs or the newspapers or any other disturbers vex you. In less than two days you will be in Boxford where, we may say, "the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest." And there beside you I shall be, never to leave you again, for now I am always your Geordie.

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INDEX

INDEX Abbot, Edwin, xxi, 134, 139, 142, 248 Abbott, Lyman, xxvii, 6, 96, 97, 134» I39> 142, 219, 222, 223, 225 Ability, in people, 183 Acadia College, 224 Accomplishment, 186 Adams, Principal, 54, 55 Agassiz, Mrs. Alexander, xxi, 1 7 1 , 187 Alden, Dr., 1 7 7 - 1 7 8 Allen, Mr. and Mrs. F. D., 53, 207, 233-234, 240 American Academy of Arts and Sciences, 104 American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, 162, 178 American School of Classical Studies (Athens), 104, 175 Andover Review, 81, 162 Andover Seminary, xix, 178, 193 Andrews, Mr., 101 Angell, James Burrill, x, xii, xiii, 222 Angell, Sarah Caswell (Mrs. James B.), 222, 226 Ann Arbor, Mich., 19, 34-35, 175 "Annex," the, see Radcliffe College Apology, see Plato Aristotle, 36 Artist, nature of, 27 "Attica" (97 State St., Boston), 203 Ayes, Mr., 195 Ayres, Frank, 235 Bachelder, Augustus, 30, 235 Bailey, Bertha, 239

Barnard, Frederick A . P., xxiv Barnes, William, 10, 1 1 , 19, 6 1 ; quoted, 80 Batchelder, Beatrice L., xiii Bates, Katharine Lee, 86 Beaufort, Lady Margaret, xxiiixxiv Berkshires, the, 36 Billings, Hammett, xvi Billy, 109 Bold courses, 106 Bolton, Sarah K., 1 6 0 - 1 6 1 Boston Herald, 199 Bowne, Borden B., 73, 174 Boxford, Mass., xvii, xxi, 10, 1 2 , 14. 19, 3°. 37. 45. 47-48, 56-57, 72, 1 2 3 - 1 2 4 , 136, 140, 153, 154. 166-167, 175, 179. 197-198, 217. 235; mentioned, passim Bradford, Emery L., 144 Bradford, Gamaliel, xviii Bradley, Judge, 96 Breckinridge, Sophonisba, 238, 239 Brooks, Phillips, 62, 66, 70 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, i x , 215 Browning, Robert, ix, xxiii, 2 1 5 ; The Ring and the Book, 219 Bryn Mawr College, 54 Buckham, Μ. H., 54 Bunyan, John, 72 Butcher, Samuel, 173 Cable, George W . , 70 Cable, Mr., 246 Cambridge, England, xxiv; Christ's College, xxiii Carleton College, 136, 156 [ 253 ]

Case, Mary S., xii, 86 Cazenove family, xi Chapin, Angie C., xii, 130 Charles River, 9 Chicago, 155 Chicago, University of, viii Christian Union, 186, 199 Christmas, 89 Churchill, John W., 193 Claflin, Adams, 248 Claflin, Mary B. (Mrs. William), xxi, xxviii, 9, 10, 13, 21-22, 32, 35. 38, 46, 48, 49, 70, 78, 93,105, 107, n o , H I , 124, 139, 153, 158, 160-161, 179, 182, 193, 201, 206, 244-245 Claflin,William, xxi Clark, Jonas G., 238 Clark, Nathaniel G., 73, 221 Clark University, 237-238 Clarke, Edward H., xxiv Cobb and Frost, 95 Cohn, Adolphe, 58 College, administration, 22-23,157, 185

Darwinism, xviii Dawson, Sir William, 52 Deutsche Liebe, see Müller, Max Dewey, John, 231, 235-236 Dewey, Melvil, 155 Dexter, Henry, 79 Dishonesty, 34 Doctor of Deane, The, see Palmer, Mary Donne, John, quoted, 29 Drennan, M. J., 220 Drummond, Henry, 240-243 Duffield, Samuel A. W., 174 Durant, Henry Fowle, xi-xiii, xv, xx, xxiii-xxiv, 180, 222 Durant, Pauline Fowle (Mrs. H. F.), xi-xii, xxv-xxvii, 50, 51, 52, 53, 84, 88, 95, 96-102, n o , 113, 1 1 5 , 122, 125, 157, 160, 171, 175-176, 180, 181,182-183, 185,187, 190192, 210, 222, 226, 228-229 Duryea, Joseph T., 73 Duty, 15, 18, 24, 41, 63, 68, 168, 176-177

Colleges, women's, xxiv Columbia University, xxiv, 103, 113, 161 Coman, Harriet, 247 Coman, Katherine, 130, 221, 247 Companionship, 133, 154 Cook, Miss, 38 Courage, 99-100 Courtney, W . L., Constructive Ethics, 40 Cowardice, moral, 176-177 Crook, George, 33 Crusoe, Robinson, 147

Ecob, Dr., 143-144 Education, nature of, 27, 63-64; for women, 52, 54, 104, 178-179, 185; and religion, 67, 144-147; in Canada, 51 Elective system, 16 Eliot, Charles W., xxi, 102, 104, 224 English Psychical Society, 162 Evans, Margaret J., 97, 117, 121, 136, 141, 149, 152, 155-156, 160, 170

Dalton, Miss, 30 Dartmouth College, xxvii Darwin, Charles, xviii

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Faber, 43 Finch, Η. T., 231-232 Finney, Charles G., 147 Ford, Mr., 107

Freeman, Elizabeth Higley (Mrs. James W.), xiii, 38, 54, 95, 112, 114, 1 1 6 - 1 1 7 , 1 1 8 - 1 1 9 , 1 3 1 - 1 3 6 , 138, 149-152, 155. 159. 161, 198, 212 Freeman, Fred W., 32, 112, 131, 132, 150-152 Freeman, James Warren, x, xi, xiii, 19, 32, 34, 112, 114, 1 1 6 - 1 1 7 , 1 1 8 - 1 1 9 , Ϊ3 1 » 150-152, 198 Freeman, Stella, 151 Friendship, 1 1 Frieze, Henry S., 35, 38 Furness, Horace H., 95

Hawaii, Queen of, 174-175 Hazard, Caroline, xxix Health, 68 Hegel, 236 Heine, Heinrich, 19 Herbert, George, 66, 91, 162, 199; quoted, 75, 216 Herrick, Mr., 248 Herrick, Robert, 236 Hersey, Heloise E., 193 Higginson, Thomas Wentworth, 78, 142 Hobbes, Thomas, 58 Hodgkins, Louise M., 40, 130, 198 Hodgson, S. Η., 162 Holmes, Oliver Wendell (1809Geronimo, 33 Gilman, Arthur, 209 1894). 55. 64 Gilman, Mrs. Arthur, 83 Homer, translation of, xix, xx, 12, God, will of, 26-28, 42-43, 74, 77, 86, 141, 158, 165-166, 172-173, 93, 117, 249; nature of, 189 218, 224, 231; readings from, xix, Goodell, Agnes, 123 73, 78, 80-81, 83, 84-86, 128, Goodwin, Mrs. Η. B., 198 130, 137, 141, 173 Grande Pointe, see Cable, George W. Hopkins, Mark, 146 Gray, George Z., 61, 106 Horsford, Eben Μ., xvi, xx, 4, 46, Great Lakes, 31 61, 105, 122, 160, 161, 171, 188, Green Mountains, 50 194, 200, 207, 209-210 Grey, Lady Jane, xxiv Horsford, Lilian, xx, 87, 102, 107, Grief, 154, 183 209 Group system, 29 Houghton, William S., 248 Hovey, Alvah, 107, 159, 174, 221 Happiness, 66, 164 Howard, Ada L., xv, xxiv Harrison, Caroline P., 92 Howe, Mr., 20X Harvard College, ix, xvii, xviii, Hudson River, 127 xix, xxi, xxvii, 88, 181; Class Hunt, Mary H., 50 Day, 7, 190; two hundred and Hyde, William D., 53, 54, 161, 209 fiftieth anniversary, 55, 61, 63, 67; religion at, 144-147, 186- Imagination, 195 187; expenses at, 165, 195, 199; Imitation of Christ, 129, 137 the Yard, 227, 243; Daily Crimson, 248; Memorial Hall, 61; James, William, 162 Sanders Theatre, 7, 61, 69, 192; Jenkintown, Pa., 148, 149, 156 Stoughton Hall, ix, xx, 180 Jesus, 27, 203 I'SS]

Jo's Boys, 127, 1 3 1 J o y of life, 73 Judson, Edward, 226 Kant, Immanuel, 141 Katie, 13, 49, IS4, 207 Kincaid, John, 147 Knight, Dr., 1 9 1 , 205 Krito, see Plato Ladd, George T., 142 Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, xii Lake Waban, Mass., xi, 170 Lanciani, Rodolfo, 83 Lane, Caroline M. Coolidge (Mrs. W . H.), 5, 30, 81, 85, 188, 193, 200, 204 Lane, William Coolidge, 108, 109, 1 1 2 , 126, 193, 200 Lang, Andrew, 173 Laughlin, J . L., 93 Lee, Christabel, 247 Lee, James, 30, 209 Letter-writing, 22, 59-60, 202 Life, unity of, 27 Lily, 235 Little Compton, R. I., xvii Little Women, 127 Lodge, Mrs., 182 London World, 95 Loneliness, 24 Longfellow, Alice, 70 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, xx-xxi Lord, Frances E., 238 Love, 37, 39. 43. 77. 88, 98, 138, 143, 163, 172; ideal, 1 7 - 1 8 , 23, 28, 59-60, 79-80, 82-83, 1 3 3 134, 202-203 Lowell, James Russell, 55, 63-64, 67 Loyalty, 77 Lyon, Mary, xii [256]

Mabie, Hamilton Wright, 186-187 M c C o y , Anna M., 13, 40, 78, 160, 196 McDonald, Miss, 243 MacDonald, Mr., 224 McGill University, 52 McKenzie, Alexander, xv, 107, 126, 184, 195 Marriage, 94-95, 189, 202-203, 215, 228, 249; nature of, 28, 2 9 30, 7 1 ; plans for, 135, 139, 1 4 0 141, 164, 1 6 7 - 1 7 0 Marriage Cycle, A, vii, xxviii-xxix Matthews, William, 207 Mediums, spiritualistic, 74 Meetings, 60 Memorial Hall, see Harvard College Merriman, William E., 192 Michigan, 24, 190 Michigan, University of, x, xii, 19, 31, 34-35 Mill, John Stuart, xviii Miller, J . R., 238 Minnesota, 132, 136 Montreal, 50-52, 55 Moody, Dwight L., xv, 69, 72, 179, 184-185, 226, 241, 242 Morgan, Anne E., 174, 201-202 Morris, George S., 35, 38 Mount Holyoke College, xii Miiller, Max, Deutsche Liebe, 24, 37. 57 Munroe, Mr. and Mrs., 106 Nature, charm of, 9, 12, 19, 56-57, 123-124, 167, 175 N e w England, fall, 56-57 N e w Mexico, University of, 73 N e w York (state), 31 Newman, Anna S., xvi, 86, 1 1 2 , 160, 205, 213, 223

Niagara Falls, 31, 36 Norton, Charles Eliot, 67, 184-185, 186 Norton, Grace, 184 Norumbega Cottage, ix, xvi, 4647, 82, 91,128; mentioned, passim Oberlin College, 147 Odyssey, see Homer Ogontz School, 45 Pall Mall Gazette, 36 Palmer, Alice Freeman (Mrs. George Herbert), vii-viii; birth, xvii; University of Michigan, x; teaching, xii, xiii; professor of history, Wellesley, xiii; as president of Wellesley, xv-xvi, xxivxxviii; personal qualities, xiii, xiv, xv; appearance, xiii-xiv; relation to Mrs. Durant, xxvixxvii; early friendship with G. H. Palmer, xxi; engagement, xxii; report of engagement, 108-123, 139; health, xxvixxvii, 177, 205-206; sense of duty to Wellesley, xxiii-xxviii; in Montreal, 50-52; in Saginaw, 3143, 127-157, 190-199; honorary degree from Columbia, xxiv, 103-104, 113; marriage, xxviii, 244-245; death, vii; quoted, xxi, xxii, xxviii Palmer, Ellen M. Wellman (Mrs. George Herbert), xix-xx, xxv, 71, 89, 140, 165, 188-189, 200, 204-205, 244, 248 Palmer, Eric, 45, 92, 218 Palmer, Frank, 231 Palmer, Frederick, 11, 35, 40,44-45, 55, 86, 92, 97, no, 142, 216, 218 Palmer, George Herbert, vii-viii; ancestry, xvii; education, xvii-

xix; family influences, xvii-xviii; delicacy of health, xix, xx; teaching at Harvard, xix-xx; Odyssey, readings and translation, xix, xx (see also Homer); first marriage, xix, xx, 71, 188; visit in Saginaw, 34; engagement to Alice Freeman, xxii, 193; second marriage, xxviii, 244-245; suggested as president of Wellesley, xxvii, 220-221, 223-224, 225; affection for Harvard, 157; New Education, 162, 166; Expenses at Harvard, I95> 199; edition of Herbert, 199; religious views, 225; Life of Alice Freeman Palmer, vii, ix Palmer, Jacob, 246 Palmer, Julius, 95, 97, 98, 118 Palmer, Mary (Mrs. Frederick), 11, 16, 40, 45, 54, 55, 71, 86, 92, 97, 122, 142, 200, 218-219, 229 Peabody, John, xvii Peabody, Andrew P., 186 Peabody, Miss, 38 Peace Dale, R. I., xviii, xxix Pearmaine, Mrs., 61 Peirce, Bradford, 174, 201, 221, 230 Pendleton, Ellen Fitz, xxiv Phaedo, see Plato Philadelphia, 45 Philip, 236 Phillips Academy, Andover, Mass., xvii, xviii Pierson, Mr., 12 Plain living, 89 Plato, 199, 203, 208, 211, 231 Porter, Dr., 209 Pratt, Mrs., 160-161 Puritanism, xvii, 189 Quiet, value of, 75

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Radcliffe College, xxi, 142, 173, 210, 238 Religion, 93; and culture, 144; in colleges, 144-148 Religious fervor, 44, 241-242 Ring and the Book, The, see Browning, Robert Rings, engagement, 89-90 Rolfe, W . J., 95 Ross, Dr., 51 Royce, Josiah, 158-159, 162 Rubber boots, 90 Ruskin, John, xiii Rutherford, Samuel, 44

Socrates, quoted, 218 Solitude, 75 Spencer, Herbert, xviii Spenser, Edmund, 20 Spinoza, 153 Spiritualism, 74 Stone Hall, superintendent of, see Harrison, Caroline P. Stoughton Hall, .seeHarvard College Stuttgart, Germany, xix Suspicion, 88 Swedenborgianism, xx, xxi, xxiv, 200 Sympathy, 183-184

Saginaw, Mich., xii, xiii, 19, 3 1 - 3 2 , 33, 36, 1 1 9 , 120, 149 Sanders Theatre, see Harvard College Scudder, Mrs. David, 72, 84, 1 0 1 , 102 Scudder, Emily Palmer (Mrs. Horace), 72, 1 1 1 , 170, 207 Scudder, Horace, 84, xoi, 102, 105, 173 Scudder, Vida, 84, 101, 102, 232 "Second probation," 162 See, Rosalie, 130 Seelye, L. Clark, 55, 102, 146, 192 Sentimentality, 82 Separation, 53, 94, 97-98, 122, 136; value of, 33, 59, 62-63, 80, 129, 139. H i Serenity, 9 - 1 0 , 59-60, 63 Sex in Education, xxiv Shafer, Helen Α., xxvii, 160, 181 Shakespeare fund, 95 Shenstone, William, 19; quoted, 37 Sibley, Mr., 240 Sincerity, in love, 76 Smith College, xi, 192 Smyth, Egbert, 55

Talmage, Charles, 1 3 1 , 152, 212, 247 Talmage, Ella Freeman (Mrs. Charles), viii, 1 3 0 - 1 3 2 , 134, 136, 1 5 0 - 1 5 2 , 159, 212, 217, 247 Taylor, Mr., 193 Teaching, 94 Tennyson, Alfred, xxviii Thayer, Abbott, xiii Theologia Germanica, 30 Towne, Edward C., 221, 227 Truth, 2 3 1 ; and literary power, 69 Tucker, William J., xxvii, 62, 1 9 1 ,

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193. 198-199, 238-239 Tiibingen, University of, xix, 37 Tuttle, Harriette W . , 129, 160 Uhland, Johann Ludwig, quoted, xxv Vant, Alice, 213 Vassar, Matthew, xxiv Vassar College, xii, xxiv Vendome, Hotel, 81, 93, 108 Vermont, University of, 54 Very, Jones, 1 2 - 1 3 Vicar of Wakefield, 147

Walker, Francis Amasa, 78 Warren, Cornelia, 101 Wat (a dog), 92 Wayland, Francis, 146 Webb, Dr., 98 Wellesley College, vii, ix, xx-xxi, xxvii, 65, 68, 73, 88, 92, 98, 104; early history, xi-xiii, xv-xvi, xxiv; difficulties of administration, xxvi, 160,181-182; sectarian influences, xxv, xxvi, 96-97,100102, 107, 157, 173, 184-185, 225; Board of Trustees, xxi, 83, 9697, 100-102, 104-107, I I I , 121, 225, 228-229, 230; dean for, 2 1 23, 83-84, 97; Board of Visitors, 161; effect of A. F.'s leaving, 169170; new president for, 220-224, 228-229, 230; educational influence, 185; art building, 78, 95;

chapel for, 239; courses, 73, 103; College Hall, xvi Wellman, Joseph, 209, 213 Wenckebach, Carla, 112, 238 White, John Williams, 101, 104106, 107, 126, 142, 158, 173, 179, 181, 236-237 White Mountains, 50 Whiting, Sarah F., 129-130, 160, 181, 196, 198, 246 Willcox, William H., 86, 185, 19s, 220-222, 223, 22s Williams, Theodore, 30 Windsor Academy, χ Women, educational influence, xxiii-xxiv Work, 98

Ziegler, Christoph, 36

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