WE found my sister Harriet in a new home in Clinton Place (Eighth Street)， New York city， then considered so far up town that Mr. Eaton's friends were continually asking him why he went so far away from the social center， though in a few months they followed him. Here we passed a week. I especially enjoyed seeing my little niece and nephew， the only grandchildren in the family. The girl was the most beautiful child I ever saw， and the boy the most intelligent and amusing. He was very fond of hearing me recite the poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes entitled "The Height of the Ridiculous，" which I did many times， but he always wanted to see the lines that almost killed the man with laughing. He went around to a number of the bookstores one day and inquired for them. I told him afterward they were never published； that when Mr. Holmes saw the effect on his servant he suppressed them， lest they should produce the same effect on the typesetters， editors， and the readers of the Boston newspapers. My explanation never satisfied him.
I told him he might write to Mr. Holmes， and ask the privilege of reading the original manuscript， if it still was or ever had been in existence.
As one of my grandnephews was troubled in exactly the same way， I decided to appeal myself to Dr. Holmes for the enlightenment of this second generation.
So I wrote him the following letter， which he kindly answered， telling us that his "wretched man" was a myth like the heroes in Mother Goose's Melodies"：
"DEAR DR. HOLMES：
"I have a little nephew to whom I often recite 'The Height of the Ridiculous，' and he invariably asks for the lines that produced the fatal effect on your servant. He visited most of the bookstores in New York city to find them， and nothing but your own word， I am sure， will ever convince him that the 'wretched man' is but a figment of your imagination. I tried to satisfy him by saying you did not dare to publish the lines lest they should produce a similar effect on the typesetters， editors， and the readers of the Boston journals.
"However， he wishes me to ask you whether you kept a copy of the original manuscript， or could reproduce the lines with equal power. If not too much trouble， please send me a few lines on this point， and greatly oblige， "Yours sincerely， "ELIZABETH CADY STANTON."
"MY DEAR MRS. STANTON：
"I wish you would explain to your little nephew that the story of the poor fellow who almost died laughing was a kind of a dream of mine， and not a real thing that happened， any more than that an old woman 'lived in a shoe and had so many children she didn't know what to do，' or that Jack climbed the bean stalk and found the giant who lived at the top of it. You can explain to him what is meant by imagination， and thus turn my youthful rhymes into a text for a discourse worthy of the Concord School of Philosophy. I have not my poems by me here， but I remember that 'The Height of the Ridiculous' ended with this verse： "Ten days and nights， with sleepless eye， I watched that wretched man， And since， I never dare to write As funny as I can." "But tell your nephew he mustn't cry about it any more than because geese go barefoot and bald eagles have no nightcaps. The verses are in all the editions of my poems.
"Believe me， dear Mrs. Stanton， "Very Truly and Respectfully Yours， "OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES."
After spending the holidays in New York city， we started for Johnstown in a "stage sleigh， conveying the United States mail，" drawn by spanking teams of four horses， up the Hudson River valley. We were three days going to Albany， stopping over night at various points； a journey now performed in three hours. The weather was clear and cold， the sleighing fine， the scenery grand， and our traveling companions most entertaining， so the trip was very enjoyable. From Albany to Schenectady we went in the railway cars； then another sleighride of thirty miles brought us to Johnstown. My native hills， buried under two feet of snow， tinted with the last rays of the setting sun， were a beautiful and familiar sight. Though I had been absent but ten months， it seemed like years， and I was surprised to find how few changes had occurred since I left. My father and mother， sisters Madge and Kate， the old house and furniture， the neighbors， all looked precisely the same as when I left them. I had seen so much and been so constantly on the wing that I wondered that all things here should have stood still.
I expected to hear of many births， marriages， deaths， and social upheavals， but the village news was remarkably meager. This hunger for home news on returning is common， I suppose， to all travelers.
Our trunks unpacked， wardrobes arranged in closets and drawers， the excitement of seeing friends over， we spent some time in making plans for the future.
My husband， after some consultation with my father， decided to enter his office and commence the study of the law. As this arrangement kept me under the parental roof， I had two added years of pleasure， walking， driving， and riding on horseback with my sisters. Madge and Kate were dearer to me than ever， as I saw the inevitable separation awaiting us in the near future. In due time they were married and commenced housekeeping朚adge in her husband's house near by， and Kate in Buffalo. All my sisters were peculiarly fortunate in their marriages； their husbands being men of fine presence， liberal education， high moral character， and marked ability.
These were pleasant and profitable years. I devoted them to reading law， history， and political economy， with occasional interruptions to take part in some temperance or anti-slavery excitement.
Eliza Murray and I had classes of colored children in the Sunday school.
