On the whole we may rather wonder at the high average value of the
literary work by which she lived, especially when we follow the hints
given in her letters of her interrupted and crowded existence.
In June, 1863, she says: "I wrote my piece in a sea of troubles. I
had, as you see, to write by amanuensis, and yet my little senate of
girls say they like it better than anything I have written yet." It
was a touching characteristic to see how the "senate of girls," or of
such household friends as she could muster wherever she might be, were
always called in to keep up her courage and to give her a sympathetic
stimulus. During the days when she was writing, it was never safe to
be far away, for she was rapid as light itself, and before a brief
hour was ended we were pretty sure to hear her voice calling "Do come,
come and hear, and tell me how you like it."
Her June letter continues: "Can I begin to tell you what it is to
begin to keep house in an unfinished home and place, dependent on a
carpenter, a plumber, a mason, a bell-hanger, who come and go at their
own sweet will, breaking in, making all sorts of chips, dust, dirt,
going off in the midst leaving all standing,--reappearing at uncertain
intervals and making more dust, chips, and dirt. One parlor and my
library have thus risen piecemeal by disturbance and convulsions. They
are now almost done, and the last box of books is almost unpacked, but
my head aches so with the past confusion that I cannot get up any
feeling of rest.
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