desire life after death, but if it is not granted me, I have yet a part in the eternal glory of this tabernacle.”
. Dear H. M. H. left us this morning, after a short but very pleasant visit.
He brought here his decorations of his Russian
order to show us; they are quite splendid.
He is the same dear old simple music-and mischief-loving fellow, very sensitive for others, very modest for himself, and very dear.”
.... Prayed hard
this morning that my strength fail not.”
During this summer, an electric elevator had been put into the Boston house
, and life was made much easier for her. From this time we became familiar with the vision of her that still abides, flitting up or down in her gilded car. Watching her ascent, clad in white, a smile on her lips, her hand waving farewell, one could only think of “The chariot of Israel and the horsemen thereof.”
Another good gift was a Victor machine.
When the after-dinner reading was over, she would say, “Now bring my opera-box!”
The white armchair was wheeled into the passage between the two parlors.
Here she sat in state, while the great singers poured out their treasures before her, while violinist and pianist gave her their best.
She listened with keen and critical enjoyment, recalling how Malibran
gave this note, how Grisi
sang that duet.
Then she would go to the piano and play from memory airs from “Tancredi,” “I1 Pirata,” “Richard Coeur
de lion,” and other operas known to us only through her. Or she would — always without