I cannot close these memoirs without a simple tribute to this remarkable
woman, who has probably done more to mould the destinies of this
Republic than any other man put together. She was an eminently pious
woman, devoted body and soul to Foreign Missions, and to the great work
of sending the gospel to New Jersey.
But it was as a composer that her brilliant talents stand preeminent.
MOZART, BEETHOVEN, and a host of others excelled in this respect, but
they all lack that exquisite pathos and graceful rhetoric which so
distinguished this queen of literature. The beautiful creations of that
fruitful brain are as a passing panorama of constant delight. Her style
is singularly free from affectation, and, while we are at one moment
rapt in wonder at her chaste and vigorous description of the annoyances
of a female in the autumn of life, training up a large family in the
limited accommodations afforded by a common shoe, we cannot but feel a
twinge of compassion for the singular Mrs. HUBBARD and her lovely dog,
who "had none," only to have those tears chased away by the arch and
guileless portrayal of the eccentric JOHN HORNER.
That we cannot to-day gaze upon the classic lineaments of her who welded
such a facile pen, is a source of the most poignant regret. It is a
crying shame, for I think I am correct when I say that there does not
exist on the civilized globe a statue of this peerless woman, but she
will always live as long as there are infant minds to form, or tender
recollections of childhood to remember.
P.S.--I forgot to say that I hold a copyright of old GRANNY GOOSE'S
works. I have just got it renewed, and it is as vigorous as a
kicking-mule. Send in your orders. Contributions to the old gal's statue
will be duly acknowledged, and deposited with my tailor.
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