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A PLACE IN THY MEMORY.

With the year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks; or herds, or human face divine. MILTON

By S. H. DEKROYFT.

NEW-YORK;
JOHN F. TROW, PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER
49 & 51 Ann-street.
1854.

TO MRS. DOCTOR NOTT.
OF UNION COLLEGE, SHENECTADY,
WHO FIRST SUGGESTED ITS PUBLICATION,
THIS VOLUME
IS VERY AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,
By its Author.

PREFACE.

THESE Letters are simply copies of my own thoughts and feelings, written with no expectation of their ever being read by others than the persons to whom they were addressed. But as the author of the "Memoirs of my Youth" laid bare his "palpitating heart" to the world for the sake of dollars, so I have been induced to gather from my friends these fragments, and bind them into a book.

Three summers ago, I had perfect sight. I was in one short month a bride, a widow, and blind; yet Providence has made it needful for me to do something to provide for myself food and raiment.

Upon the loss of my sight, I was, through the influence of Senator Backus, of Rochester, allowed to spend one year at the New-York Institution for the Blind, which time expired last May; and I had not where to go, or a friend whose kindness my three years of dependence had not wearied. There was no alternative, and with many fears of success, I embarked in the little enterprise of publishing this volume, by soliciting subscribers who would give their names, and pay me in advance.

Accordingly, with my prospectus in my hand, I first waited upon the Board of Managers of the Institution, who lent me their influence, and sanctioned my efforts by subscribing for several copies each. The next day, I waited upon the gentlemen of the City Hall, and encouraged by their kindness, thence passed on through Broadway, Wall, South, and most of the principal streets of the city; and now that my task is ended, and my little book is about going to the publishers, I have not an unpleasant memory associated with the whole affair. In the hurry of business, in the intricacies of law, and amidst problems half solved, gentlemen have laid down their pens, read my prospectus, written their names, and paid their money; and often escorted me to the door, and saw me safely down the stairs, perchance, directing my gentle guide where to find others as kind as themselves.

Gratitude is the purest of the heart's memories, and I can only offer to my friends, subscribers, purchasers, and all, my warmest thanks. I cannot compliment my own work; I shall leave it with an indulgent public. In perusing its pages, however, the reader must remember that they were either written with the sense of feeling, by means of a grooved card, and pencil, or prompted to a friend, from an overburdened heart.

S. H. DEKROYFT.
New-York Institution for the Blind,
September 25, 1849.

A PLACE IN THY MEMORY.

Rochester, April, 1848.

MY PRECIOUS MOTHER, -- My whole heart is drawn out to you. When William was with me, I loved him more than all the world beside, but he is in the grave now, and my purest affections, mother, evermore are yours. If this frail body could move with the fleetness of thought, I would come to you now, and pillow my weary head on your bosom, and your soft hands would dry these tears from my poor eyes. Oh that I could open them once more, mother, and see your smiling face, and feel my spirit grow warm and gentle in the light of your eyes, and your looks of love. Tell me, dear mother, have you changed at all? Do you look as when I saw you last? Oh, had I known that ere we should meet again, the light would leave me, how would I have gazed on your form, until on my spirit were engraved your every look and feature! You often come to me now, when dreams possess my thoughts, and then I tell you how sad it is to be blind, and how melancholy the long days and nights are, and how I sometimes almost pray to go into the spirit world, and mount the wings of light for ever. But mother, I bless God for a cheerful faith, and a heart all resigned. Whatever his hand orders is for the best. You taught me early to know, and try to do, the will of God; but, mother, to suffer it is another thing. I could climb the Rocky Mountains to teach the Indians, cross the seas, and live for ever with the Hindoos, and the task would seem light, and my burdens easily borne; but when I look along the current, of perhaps fifty years, of darkness, dear mother, my heart fails, and like the doubting Hebrew, I begin to sink. Then an unseen arm lifts me, and whispers, "Be still, and know that I am God." Yes, dear mother, what we do not know now, we shall know hereafter. In a few days, new hills and valleys will intervene, and your anxious cares for your child will be kindled anew. But be comforted; the widow's God will take care of me, the friend of the ravens will not leave nor forsake me, and ere long, I shall come to you again. My heart coaxes me to come to you now, but duty points another way. Things are not always what they seem. When Moses looked around, for the last time, upon the white tents pitched at the foot of the mountain, and pressed the hands of the sires who had grown gray in his friendship, and embraced the little ones whose hearts had budded into life in the light of his heavenly face; when he bade adieu to all that was dear, and began his journey up the weary side of Pisgah, he little knew that the clouds which overhung him would so soon break away, and the glories of the promised land burst upon his enraptured vision. Mother, so good may yet come to me; there may be in reserve a morning whose dawn is not yet begun. Faith is the blossom of the soul; it makes the doctrine of a future life a bright reality, keeps heaven near, and brings departed ones in speaking distance; it chases away the shades of grief, and puts fear to flight.