Letters of Lydia Maria Child, with a biographical introduction by John G. Whittier and an appendix by Wendell Phillips.

LETTERS. 169
him and go to sleep, within reach of my arm. All
innocent and peaceful things seem peculiarly attractive in these times of bloodshed and hatred, and I
cannot help mourning some for my little-squirrel.
TO MISS LUCY OSGOOD.
WAYLAND, December, 1862.
Your letter did me an "unco deal o' gude," as
your letters always do. I agree with you entirely
about the "buss fuss" of metaphysics. It has always been my aversion. More than thirty years ago,
when Mrs. R. was intimate at my brother's, I used
to hear her discuss Kant's philosophy with collegian
visitors, until I went to bed without knowing whether
or not I had "' hung myself over the chair and put
my clothes into bed." I met Mrs. R. in the cars
several days ago, after an interval of twenty years,
and what do you think? In ten minutes she had
plunged into the depths of Kant's philosophy, and
was trying to pull me after her. But I resisted
stoutly. I do sometimes like a bank of fog to look
at, if there are plenty of rainbows on it; but I have
no fancy for sailing through it. Circumstances afterward made me acquainted with the transcendentallists, and I attended some of their meetings, where I
saw plenty of fog with rainbows flitting over it. I
remember once after a long silence, when everybody
was looking in the fire expecting something great to
come by and by, Mr. - turned toward us, with
that serene glance of his, and said slowly: " Why do
we rummage about with memory in the Past, to ascertain our whereabouts and our whatabouts? " He
paused for a reply, and receiving none, he continued:
" Why do we rummage about in the Past to ascertain
it? I am it; and it is I; is it not?"