The Days of a Man 1837 



faith, she had a distinctly original mind, a broad 

 outlook on attairs, considerable native literary skill, 

 and (for her time) a good English education. At 

 writing she was rather clever. Of her verses, which 

 he copied neatly in an elaborately ornate hand, my 

 father was very proud. 1 Mother, too, had been a 

 successful teacher, and for some time after their 

 marriage my parents maintained on the farm a 

 private school with a few resident pupils. 



Of David Hawley, my mother's father, a man of 

 large build and generous mind, with a personal 

 influence unusual for a frontier farmer, I had little 

 direct knowledge, as for some years before his death 

 he suffered from ill health which confined him to 

 the house. His father was the Reverend Sylvanus 



1 One of my mother's poems, still preserved, reads as follows: 



WHAT is OUR HOPE? 



When we shall sink in drooping age, 

 When friends depart, when sorrows rage, 

 And earth's frail joys all fleeting go, 

 What balm remains for mortal woe? 



Is this our hope that we shall reign 

 With God, our Saviour, free from pain, 

 While millions of his children dwell 

 Mid ceaseless flames in endless hell? 



Though tender offspring there we see 

 Wailing in hopeless agony, 

 Yet we with heartfelt pleasure hear 

 Their groans and sighs, nor drop a tear? 



Ah no, we hope that one and all 

 Shall rise at their Creator's call, 

 From sorrows, sin, and death made free, 

 And all in Christ new creatures be. 



This precious hope can give us peace 

 When all our earthly comforts cease 

 And make us with our dying breath 

 Shout, Where's thy victory, boasting Death? 



HULDAH JORDAN 



Gainesville, N. Y. 

 January 22, 1837 



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