“Thalatta! Thalatta!” the cry of the wearied Greeks on first catching sight of the sea, after wandering for years in the interior of the Persian empire. No event in history is quite so real to me as Hannibal’s crossing the Alps. Day by day she took us with that valiant Carthaginian general on his long journey across Hispania, over the Pyrenees, through Gaul, along the Rhone, and over the Graian Alps. The day Hannibal finally got his elephants over the Little Saint Bernard Pass, and down into Italy, was one of positive rejoicing for us little ones. Her imagination was so keen that when she repeated to us what she had been studying, it always seemed as if she had seen these things with her own eyes, not merely read about them. The effort of studying Greek whetted her mind to its keenest edge. Aristotle and Plato, with her Greek Testament, she read to the last. She talked with us less about the philosophers than the dramatists and historians. I remember how much we heard about the Birds of Aristophanes, one of her favorite classics. Reading Greek was, I think, the greatest pleasure of her later life. One afternoon last summer, when a pretty girl of a studious turn came to see her, I chanced to hear her parting words, said with a fervor and solemnity that impressed the young visitor: “Study Greek, my dear, it’s better than a diamond necklace!” After the morning plunge into Greek or German philosophy “to tone up her mind,” she took up whatever literary task she was at work upon, “put the iron on the anvil,” as her phrase was, “and hammered” at it till luncheon. She was a most careful and conscientious writer, writing, rewriting, and “polishing” her work with inexhaustible patience. Occasionally she got a poem all whole, in one piece, like The Battle Hymn. This was rare though; as a rule she toiled and moiled over her manuscripts. In the afternoon she was at her desk again, unless there was some outside engagement--answering letters, reading books in a lighter vein, Italian poetry, a Spanish play, a book of travels or, best of all, a good French novel. Each day opened with the stern drill of the Greek or German philosophy, by which her mind was exercised and at the same time stored with the thoughts of the wise, the labors of the good, the prayers of the devout. That was the first process, the taking in, receiving the wisdom of the ages. Then came the second or creative process, when she gave out even as she had received. This regular mental exercise was like a series of gymnastics, by widen the receptive and creative functions of the brain were kept in perfect working order. If you are to _pour out_, you must first _pour in_. If your lamp is to serve as a beacon light, it must be well trimmed and filled with oil every day.