A touching scene arises before the writer, as he reaches this theme, and the tears will come to the eye and cheek! Away in that German land sleeps the son and brother. The romantic home at Kennett, stands cosy, yet stately, among the winter-stricken trees. Inside are the dear ones whom neither years, nor honors, nor wanderings have induced him to forget—the father and the mother in the mansion of their son. There is the sister, whose feet, after years of absence, tread again the paths of home. There the visitor feels the gloom of a distant death. Windows that flashed with light; drawing-rooms that were made charming by the cheerful faces of the great and good, are now suggestive of sadness and disaster. The cold winds shake the dry vines, and cry around its cornices. The loved ones are there,—waiting, waiting for him to come home! He never disappointed them before. Why comes he not? Why do not his letters come with the mail? “Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane, And fall thou drear December rain!” Ah, we know the meaning now of those sad words. For we have lived them too! Ever looking forward to the time when he could give his parents a more luxurious home, feeling most keenly the rapid strides of time, as he looked upon their whitening locks, unwilling to prosper alone, and promoting ever the welfare of those he loved, he strove with an unchangeable determination to accumulate sufficient money to build a house near the old farm, that should be a home for all, and a resting-place for himself. To this, in part, was due his incessant work through the years of 1854 and 1855. His books brought him a considerable return; he received a reasonable compensation as editor and lecturer, and he had lifted the load of debt which the “Phœnixville Pioneer” had bequeathed to him, but which no one believed he was able to pay; and could look forward to a competency and, perhaps, to wealth. Yet, in all his work, there was a cheerfulness that seemed to give rest while the work went on. He often indulged in fun, was ever joking with his friends, and indulging in playful pranks with his acquaintances. Usually, however, his facetiousness was itself a method of self-discipline,—a different kind of work. He used to visit his friends whenever an evening could be spared from necessary labor, and spend the hours in writing and exchanging humorous burlesques, acrostics, sonnets, and parodies. Sometimes he would “race” with his literary friends in writing lines of poetry on a given subject, and although, as he afterward acknowledged, he often came in second best, yet he enjoyed the sport and the satisfaction of the victor none the less. The same fun-loving, mischievous, kind-hearted boy, who enjoyed writing extravagant verses, and sending them to his schoolmates, walked the streets of New York in 1855. Time had given discretion, sorrow had given reserve; but the fun bubbled out whenever the waters were moved. His mirth was less ostentatious, but not less hearty.