Horace could be brought out under the apple-trees; even Kant and Spinoza sometimes came there, though I doubt whether they enjoyed the fresh air. But our mother had other work besides study, and many of her most precious hours were spent each day at the little black table in her own room, where papers lay heaped like snowdrifts. Here she wrote the beautiful poems, the brilliant essays, the earnest and thoughtful addresses, which have given pleasure and help and comfort to so many people throughout the length and breadth of the land. Many of her words have become household sayings which we could not spare; but there is one poem which every child knows, at whose opening line every heart, from youth to age, must thrill,--“The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Thirty years have passed since this noble poem was written. It came in that first year of the war, like the sound of a silver trumpet, like the flash of a lifted sword; and all men felt that this was the word for which they had been waiting. You shall hear, in our mother’s own words, how it came to be written:-- “In the late autumn of the year 1861 I visited the national capital in company with my husband Dr. Howe, and a party of friends, among whom were Governor and Mrs. Andrew, Mr. and Mrs. E. P. Whipple, and my dear pastor Rev. James Freeman Clarke. “The journey was one of vivid, even romantic interest. We were about to see the grim Demon of War face to face; and long before we reached the city his presence made itself felt in the blaze of fires along the road where sat or stood our pickets, guarding the road on which we travelled. “One day we drove out to attend a review of troops, appointed to take place some distance from the city. In the carriage with me were James Freeman Clarke and Mr. and Mrs. Whipple. The day was fine, and everything promised well; but a sudden surprise on the part of the enemy interrupted the proceedings before they were well begun. A small body of our men had been surrounded and cut off from their companions; reinforcements were sent to their assistance, and the expected pageant was necessarily given up. The troops who were to have taken part in it were ordered back to their quarters, and we also turned our horses’ heads homeward. “For a long distance the foot-soldiers nearly filled the road. They were before and behind, and we were obliged to drive very slowly. We presently began to sing some of the well-known songs of the war, and among them-- ‘John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave.’ This seemed to please the soldiers, who cried, ‘Good for you!’ and themselves took up the strain. Mr. Clarke said to me, ‘You ought to write some new words to that tune.’ I replied that I had often wished to do so.