Apropos of Mr. Fowler's "more religion than morality," she said: "Morality is a thing of the will; we may think differently of such matters at different times. What he said may have been true." Then the twinkle came into her eyes: "When Mr. William Astor heard of my engagement, he said, 'Why, Miss Julia, I am surprised! I thought you were too intellectual to marry!'" Another acquaintance of this autumn was the late Arthur Mills, who was through life one of our parents' most valued friends. He came to America with them; in his honor, during the voyage, Julia composed "The Milsiad," scribbling the lines day by day in a little note-book, still carefully preserved in the Mills family. The first and last stanzas give an idea of this poem, which, though never printed, was always a favorite with its author. My heart fills With the bare thought of the illustrious Mills: That man of eyes and nose, Of legs and arms, of fingers and of toes. * * * * * To lands devoid of tax Goeth he not, armed with axe? Trees shall he cut down, And forests ever? Tame cataracts with a frown? Grin all the fish from Mississippi River? (My style is grandiose, Quite in the tone of Mills's nose.) * * * * * Harp of the West, through wind and foggy weather We've sung our passage to our native land, Now I have reached the terminus of tether, And I must lay thee trembling from my hand. That hand must ply the ignominious needle, This mind brood o'er the salutary dish, I must grow sober as a parish beadle, And having fish to fry, must fry my fish. Some happier muse than mine shall wake thy spell, Harp of the West, oh Gemini! farewell! CHAPTER VI SOUTH BOSTON 1844-1851; _aet._ 25-32 THE ROUGH SKETCH A great grieved heart, an iron will, As fearless blood as ever ran; A form elate with nervous strength And fibrous vigor,--all a man. A gallant rein, a restless spur, The hand to wield a biting scourge; Small patience for the tasks of Time, Unmeasured power to speed and urge. He rides the errands of the hour, But sends no herald on his ways; The world would thank the service done, He cannot stay for gold or praise. Not lavishly he casts abroad The glances of an eye intense, And did he smile but once a year, It were a Christmas recompense. I thank a poet for his name, The "Down of Darkness," this should be; A child, who knows no risk it runs, Might stroke its roughness harmlessly. One helpful gift the Gods forgot, Due to the man of lion-mood; A Woman's soul, to match with his In high resolve and hardihood. J. W. H.