My five-years’ darling on my knee, Chattered and toyed and laughed with me; “Now tell me, mother mine,” quoth she, “Where you went i’ the afternoon?” “Alas! my pretty little life, I went to see a sorrowing wife, Who will be widowed soon.” “Now, Mother, what is that?” she said, With wondering eyes and restless head. “He lies upon a prison bed With sabre gashes on his head;” “But, Mother, say what has he done? Has he not robbed or murdered one?” “My darling, he has injured none. To free the wretched slaves He led a band of chosen men,” “O, Mother! let us go this day To that sad prison, far away; Some comfort we can bring him, sure: And is he locked up so secure, We could not get him out?” “No, darling, he is closely kept.” Then nearer to my heart she crept, And, hiding there her beauty, wept For human misery. So it is something to be thankful for, that at the age of five I volunteered for active service, in the forlorn hope of rescuing John Brown. Charles Sumner, dear as a brother to my father, is a very distinct figure in the Twilight of the Gods, towering in mind, character, and stature above other men. Some ancestral trait of worldliness must have “got by” my parents (the most unworldly people I have ever known) and down to me, for I was rather a mundane youngster. I was much impressed by a certain dignified splendor in Mr. Sumner’s bearing and clothing, which, together with his single eyeglass, like those of “swells” in _Punch_, made me regard him as the social superior of most of our intimates. What a contrast to Charles Sumner was John Albion Andrew, the great war governor of Massachusetts and one of Mr. Lincoln’s firm supporters in the darkest days of the Civil War! To me, he was “Edith Andrew’s father”, the cherubic, adorable parent of my intimate friend. The mention of his name evokes memories of the Andrew house at 110 Charles Street. The living room, with its worn leathern sofa where the children were always welcome, was on the ground floor next the dining room. The drawing-room was up one flight; it contained some fine old pieces of colonial furniture, some good pictures, a strong charcoal drawing by William Hunt, a brilliant painting of a troubadour by Babcock, a genre by Elihu Vedder, a number of Japanese cabinets and bibelots.