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"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar."

After the visit to Dr. Valentine Mott my life went on as before until I was eight years old, when we moved to Ridgefield, Connecticut; and there we remained until I was fourteen. During these years my greatest anxiety centered itself in the constant thought that I would not be able to get an education; but, in the meantime, I was determined to be as content as circumstances would allow, and to hope for any good fortune that the future might have in store. To express my trust that all would be well, when I was eight or nine years old, I composed the following lines:

"Oh, what a happy soul I am,
Although I cannot see,
I am resolved that in this world
Contented I will be.

"How many blessings I enjoy
That other people don't!
To weep and sigh because I'm blind
I cannot nor I won't."

I am sure that my sentiment in these verses is more worthy than the poetic form. My dear mother at times became very sad because I was blind; and then grand--mother would quote the lines of the grand old hymn of Christian faith:

"Though troubles assail and dangers affright,
Though friends should all fail and foes all unite;
Yet one thing assures us, whatever betide,
The Scripture assures us the Lord will provide."

When I used to hear our Presbyterian Church choir sing some of the beautiful old hymns my heart was deeply moved. Seventy-five years ago there were few hymn-books; and my earliest knowledge of sacred songs came from a tailor, who belonged to the Methodist Church. All of my own friends were Presbyterians of the primitive stock; and it was not until I was twelve years old that I attended a service in the Methodist meeting-house in Ridgefield. For the services in our own church it was the custom for one of the deacons to compose a hymn to be sung to some standard tune; frequently two deacons were required for a single hymn, and that not a very good one. Yet many of these homely productions possessed some genuine poetic merit. One of them I remember contained the following stanzas:

"Kind Father, condescend to bless
Thy sacred word to me,
That, aided by Thy heavenly grace,
I may remember Thee.

"And when life's journey shall be o'er,
Thy glory may we see;
Dear Saviour, I will ask no more
Than this, Remember me."

Mrs. Hawley, a kind Christian lady, in whose house we resided, and who had no children of her own, became deeply interested in me, and under her supervision I acquired a thorough knowledge of the Bible. She gave me a number of chapters each week to learn, sometimes as many as five, if they were short ones, and so at the end of the first twelve months I could repeat a large portion of the first four books of the Old Testament and the four Gospels. At Sunday-school the children would stand in the aisles and repeat some of the passages that they had committed during the previous week; and there was considerable rivalry in trying to recite the largest number. I often hunted among the records of my memory for the longest and most involved verses with the idea of showing my elders what a little blind girl could do and they, in turn, flattered me with compliments and presented me with a fine Bible for reciting more verses than any other scholar. Had my growing pride been unchecked by my friends at home, it might have proven a stumbling block in after years; and yet the habit of thoroughly learning my lessons helped me many times when I was obliged to commit long passages as a pupil, and afterwards as a teacher, in the New York Institution for the Blind.

As I have said before, our people were Calvinistic Presbyterians, and yet the most of my friends appre-ciated all of the pleasures and joys of life. The good Mrs. Hawley was kind in every respect and sought to teach me many practical lessons that I now remember with gratitude and affection. Of course, the story of George Washington and his little hatchet was not for-gotten, for it was new in those days and was emphasized even more than at present; and it was one of the mys-teries of my young life how he could have been so very good while the rest of us tried so hard and often failed to attain the standard of truthfulness that the Father of Our Country had set for us.

But I had occasion to learn my own lesson from positive experience. It happened that Mrs. Hawley had several beautiful rose-bushes in her front garden; and it was understood that I might pick from any of them whenever I chose, excepting one from which grew a choice white variety. One afternoon a playmate was determined to have one of the forbidden flowers. I said, "Mrs. Hawley doesn't wish us to pick them." But my companion would not be satisfied with such a reason, and I eventually yielded and gave him one of the coveted roses. At the time Mrs. Hawley was sitting by the window and, therefore, saw the whole affair; and during the afternoon she called me to her and said, "Fanny, do you know who picked the pretty white rose from the bush yonder?" "No, madam," I answered meekly. She said no more and I thought she had forgotten the incident, when she called me to her side and read the story of Ananias and Sapphira; and, from that hour, I told no more falsehoods to my good friend.