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Fuller, S. M. (Sarah Margaret), 1810-1850

"Summer on the Lakes, in 1843"


In this transition state we found one of these homes. As we approached
it seemed the very Eden which earth might still afford to a pair willing
to give up the hackneyed pleasures of the world, for a better and more
intimate communion with one another and with beauty: the wild road led
through wide beautiful woods, to the wilder and more beautiful shores of
the finest lake we saw. On its waters, glittering in the morning sun, a
few Indians were paddling to and fro in their light canoes. On one of
those fair knolls I have so often mentioned, stood the cottage, beneath
trees which stooped as if they yet felt brotherhood with its roof tree.
Flowers waved, birds fluttered round, all had the sweetness of a happy
seclusion; all invited on entrance to cry, All hail ye happy ones! to
those who inhabited it.
But on entrance to those evidently rich in personal beauty, talents,
love, and courage, the aspect of things was rather sad. Sickness had
been with them, death, care, and labor; these had not yet blighted them,
but had turned their gay smiles grave. It seemed that hope and joy had
given place to resolution. How much, too, was there in them, worthless
in this place, which would have been so valuable elsewhere. Refined
graces, cultivated powers, shine in vain before field laborers, as
laborers are in this present world; you might as well cultivate
heliotropes to present to an ox. Oxen and heliotropes are both good, but
not for one another.
With them were some of the old means of enjoyment, the books, the
pencil, the guitar; but where the wash-tub and the axe are so constantly
in requisition, there is not much time and pliancy of hand for these.


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