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[322] of Death to pluck. During the night preceding the morning on which she left us, she slept like a child; and within a short time of her death, when asked if she were in pain, she said: ‘No: angels are taking care of me!’

You, my dear George, do not know the beauty and loveliness of the dear sister you have lost; for she was a child when you left home. Her features were regular and classical. I have often thought that she resembled the heads of Minerva; but she was truly feminine in her expression and manner. In mien and bearing there was a rare blending of dignity and modesty. But better far than beauty of person was the character which shone transparent in the countenance, and the conscience which sat ruler of all thoughts and acts. . . .

Ever affectionately thine,

C. S.

To Charlemagne Tower.

Boston, Dec. 4, 1844.
my dear Tower,—Your kind, very kind letter, of Aug. 19, did not reach me till last Saturday,—only three days since,—when I saw your brother Marion1 for the first time after the lapse of several months. A huge cantle has been cut from the period of my active life. As long ago as last June, I was unexpectedly prostrated by illness,—probably arising from habits of late hours, little exercise, and much work. For some time my physicians deemed my case hopeless; but, contrary to their prognostications, I have advanced gradually in strength, so that I now find myself with abundant energies. I returned to my labors three weeks ago; when I undertook, as the first and crucial trial of my recovery, the conduct of a patent cause, which occupied eleven days before the jury,—in closing which I spoke ten hours! Mr. Dexter was my opponent.

You please me, more than I can tell, in attributing to any word of mine the possibility of influencing the progress of a youth like your brother. Tell him to come and see me freely. I shall always be frank with him, and if occupied shall not hesitate to let him know it; but, if at leisure, I shall have true pleasure in conversing with him. I am particularly fond of the young, and believe much in the importance of arousing their interest in what is good and true and useful. To render their labors effective, their aims should be high. I remember that Macchiavelli, in the ‘Prince,’ illustrates this by a piquant comparison. ‘The good archer,’ he says, ‘anxious to hit the mark, always aims his arrow much above it; if only directed at the mark, the arrow will certainly fall below it.’ I do not forget your high and honorable aims while we were together in college; and I cannot doubt that your shafts will yet quiver in the desired point. Your brother cannot do better than follow your example.

For five months I have done nothing, beyond some reading in literature, and toying with Italian poetry; though I may confess to forming some acquaintance with so substantial a work as the great history of ‘Thuanus;’

1 Then in college at Cambridge.

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