His garden was another source of great satisfaction to him.  It was not bigger than a very small bed-room, and only half of it received the sunshine.  But he called the minnikin grass-plot his meadow, and talked very largely about mowing his hay.  He covered the walls and fences with flowering vines, and suspended them between the pillars of his little piazza.  Even in this employment he revealed the tendencies of his character.  One day, when I was helping him train a woodbine, he said, “Fasten it in that direction, Maria; for I want it to go over into our neighbor’s yard, that it may make their wall look pleasant.”

In the summer of 1848, when I was staying in the country, not far from New-York, I received the following letter from him:  “Dear Friend, the days have not yet come, in which I can say I have no pleasure in them.  Notwithstanding the stubs against which I hit my toes, the briars and thorns that sometimes annoy me, and the muddy sloughs I am sometimes obliged to wade through, yet, after all, the days have not come in which I have no enjoyment.  In the course of my journey, I find here and there a green spot, by which I can sit down and rest, and pleasant streams, where I sometimes drink, mostly in secret, and am refreshed.  I often remember the saying of a beloved friend, long since translated from this scene of mutation to a state of eternal beatitude:  ’I wear my sackcloth on my loins; I don’t wish to afflict others by carrying a sorrowful countenance.’  A wise conclusion.  I love to diffuse happiness over all with whom I come in contact.  But all this is a kind of accident.  I took up my pen to tell thee about our garden.  I never saw it half so handsome as it is now.  Morning Glories are on both sides of the yard, extending nearly to the second story windows; and they exhibit their glories every morning, in beautiful style.  There are Cypress vines, twelve feet high, running up on the pillar before the kitchen window, and spreading out each way.  They blossom most profusely.  The wooden wall is entirely covered with Madeira vines, and the stone wall with Woodbine.  The grass-plot is very thrifty, and our borders are beautified with a variety of flowers.  How thou wouldst like to look at them!”

I replied as follows:  “My dear and honored friend:  Your kind, cheerful epistle came into my room as pleasantly as would the vines and flowers you describe.  I am very glad the spirit moved you to write; for, to use the words of the apostle, I thank my God for every remembrance of you.’  I do not make many professions of friendship, because neither you nor I are much given to professions; but there is no one in the world for whom I have a higher respect than yourself, and very few for whom I cherish a more cordial affection.  You say the time has not yet come when you have no pleasure.  I think, my friend, that it will never come.  To an evergreen heart, like yours, so full of kindly sympathies, the little children will always prattle, the birds will always sing, and the flowers will always offer incense. This reward of the honest and kindly heart is one of those, which ’the world can neither give nor take away.’