the earth. Poor Aunt Abby! she used to shock the women of her time by talking of women’s rights, and was guilty once of the enormity of wishing to be Pope of Rome, in order to carry out some scheme for the advancement of woman’s social position. She talked of _freedom_ until some pious prudes really suspected she meant _license_, and she predicted that the time would come when the genius of woman would rise superior to the imposed trammels of sex. She should have lived in the present age, when she would have seen woman’s struggles for emancipation, as exhibited in the French female clubs, and the German free associations, to say nothing of the free inquirers and declaimers against female slavery in this country. She should have lived till now to exhibit a rare and peculiar instance of masculine power submitting itself cheerfully to feminine duties; and perhaps the knowledge that Aunt Abby, with all her mental, moral, and physical perfections, lived and died unloving and unloved, might go far toward settling the question of _woman’s rights_, and make her quite satisfied with her easily accorded _privileges_. * * * * * PARTING. INSCRIBED TO MY SISTER ADELA M. WADSWORTH. BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. Parting! Oh, is it not the bitterness Of life, and death? It were small agony If we and those we love—heart pressed to heart— With loving words, and blended prayers, could die. ’Tis not the rending of the strings of life That makes death terrible. The mental pain Is parting from our dear and beautiful, Who weep, and pray—and bid us live in vain. It is not that we fear to close our eyes, And rest from life’s long labor, that we cling To pain and weakness. ’Tis fond human love Which binds our soul with many a quivering string. To know that we shall never look again Into those loving eyes—shall never hear Again those sweet-toned voices—never clasp Again those forms, so tender, and so dear. Yes—parting is the bitterness of death— And life is full of parting. Day by day We see the cherished of our homes depart, As fledglings from the bird-nests flit away. The cherished ones, whom we have called our own, And loved so many years, that they have grown Into our hearts, and so become a part Of all that we have felt, or done, or known. The ever-present with us, who were wont To greet us every morning, with a smile,— To answer to our voices all day long,— And cheer us with love’s sunlight all the while.