Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland
by Abigail Stanley Hanna · English · Gutenberg #11599 · 483,374 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland
Author: Abigail Stanley Hanna
Release date: March 1, 2004 [eBook #11599]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11599
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITHERED LEAVES FROM MEMORY'S GARLAND ***
Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland
By Abigail Stanley Hanna.
"There comes a voice that awakes my soul;
It is the voice of years that are gone,--
They roll before me with all their deeds."
1857.
Preface
These pages were not written for public inspection; but to beguile the
weary hours of indisposition, and present a record of thoughts and
sentiments to the eyes of my children, after my lips are sealed in
death.
By the recommendation of friends, I have decided to submit them to the
public.
From a criticising public I should shrink; but to a sympathizing
public I would appeal, trusting the holy mantle of charity will be
flung over my errors, and my motives appreciated.
I would take this opportunity to tender my hearty and sincere thanks
to my patrons, who have aided me in this enterprise, not only by their
subscriptions, but by their words of sympathy and encouragement, which
have fallen like sunshine upon my gloomy pathway, warming my desolate
heart, and leaving a sweet fragrance upon the memory, which shall live
on and on, through the long ages of eternity; for beautifully and
emphatically has Mrs. Childs said,
"Goodness and beauty live forever,"
Perhaps I should apologise for the pensive strain in which I have
written, but it has been in shady places, when the body was suffering
from disease, and I felt almost too weak to breathe. Dear reader, did
you ever feel that you were dying? that there was but a step between
you and death? How natural, at such a time, and in such a place, to
contemplate the circumstances connected with the deaths of dear,
departed friends.
Hoping this may lead some thoughtless one to reflection, I submit it
to the investigation of a generous public.
But if I fail in this, shall I have written in vain? O, no; it is but
a fulfilment in part of the great mission, "do with all thy might
what thy hand findeth to do." If we have but one small talent we are
commanded to put it upon usury, "that the Lord may receive his own
when he cometh."
Some pieces were contributions from the pen of a loved sister, whose
sentiments and principles are in unison with my own, and so they flow
on together, in one common channel. Those designated by a star (*) in
the Index, are from her pen.
On page 141, near the bottom, the paragraph which now reads, "You did
not expect me to be found alone now, did you?" should read, "You did
not expect to find me _alive_ now," &c.
On page 272, in the 11th line from the top, in the word "rugg'd," the
letter _e_ should be substituted for the apostrophe.
These errors escaped attention in reading the proof, before it went to
press.
When autumn winds are round us sighing,--
When pale flowers are 'round us dying,
It pain and pleasure to us gives,
To gather up the wither'd leaves.
The year so tasteful flung her flow'rs
In garlands gay, o'er sylvan bow'rs;
But where they hung:--so brief--
Now only hangs the wither'd leaf.
Dear reader, thus to thee I come,
With tresses blossom'd for the tomb;
And offer what the season gives,--
My faded flow'rs--my WITHERED LEAVES.
A. S. H.
Index
Shadows of the Past
Reminiscences; The Old Homestead
The Old House
The Old School House
The Grave Yard
Midnight Scenes, or, Pictures of Human Life
Picture No. 2
Picture No. 3
Picture No. 4
The History of a Household
Lines written during convalescence from Brain Fever
The Angel Cousin
Lines written at the close of the year 1842
Lines written on the New Year 1843
The Unhappy Marriage
On the year 1852
Consumption
To Mrs. A.B.
An Evening in our Village
Contemplations in a Grave Yard
A Scene on the Kennebec River
To Miss H. B----
Lines written in an Album
A Long Night in the Eighteenth Century
On Hearing a Bird Sing, Dec. 19, 1826
Variety
Henriette Clinton
The Child
On the Death of Ellen A. B----
The Order of Nature
The Seasons
Dedication of an Album
To Mrs. S. on the Death of her infant
To Mrs. S. on the Death of her Son
The first and last Voyage of the Atlantic
The Fatal Feast
To the Maiden
To Mrs. B. on the Death of her Son
O Come Back, my Brother
The Twins
On the Frailty of Earthly Things
To a Friend
The Mother and her Child
A Mother's Prayer
Lines in an Album
On the Death of a Mother
The Music of Earth
On the Death of Mrs. C.P. Baldwin
Lines written in a Sick Room, April 15th, 1855
Lines written in a Sick Room, July 20th, 1855
To a Friend
The Mother's Watch
Why should I Smile *
The Youth's Return *
To A---- *
The Beauties of Nature *
On the Death of Willie T. White *
The Human Heart *
On the Death of a Friend *
To a Friend *
Happiness *
A Picture of Human Life
Flowers *
The Old Castle *
The Myrtle *
Death
The Home of Childhood *
The Happy Land *
Devotion *
To a Friend *
Lines written upon the Death of Two Sisters
To I----
Lines for a Friend upon the 20th Anniversary of her
Birthday
Human Thought
Lines written upon the Departure of a Brother
Lines on the Death of a Friend
The Power of Custom
Annie Howard
We all do Perish like the Leaf
Life Compared to the Seasons
Writing Composition
Lines written in Answer to the Question "Where is
our Poet?"
My Husband's Grave
Lines written upon the Young who have recently died
in our Village
Conscience
Lines written in an Album
Lines from the pen of my Husband, who is Deceased
Hope
Visit to Mount Auburn
Lines from Mary to her Father in California, with her
Daguerreotype
A Reminiscence
Letter of Resignation from Mrs. Hanna to the Maternal
Association
Improvement of Time
Lines written on the Death of Frank
The Pleasures of Memory
The Song of the Weary One
Lines inscribed to a Brother
Changes
Lines to Mrs. S---- on the Death of an Infant
The Spirits of the Dead
To Mrs. J.C. Bucklin, by her Father
The Widow's Home
To the Reader
WITHERED LEAVES.
Shadows of the Past
Sister, the solemn midnight hour
Is meet, to weave the web of thought,
To trace the shadowy imagery,
From fancy's secret chambers brought.
To enter Memory's hidden cell,
And bid the sentinel appear;
Her strange, mysterious tales to tell,
And wipe the dust from by-gone years.
To wander back down time's dark stream,
And from its margin pluck the flowers,
To twine them with the moon's pale beams,
Then fling them over Memory's bow'rs.
To gather all the fragments up,
The phantoms chase of other years;
Their blighted joys, their withered hopes,
Their clouds, their sunshine, and their tears.
We'll wander forth while others sleep,
Fanned gently by the night wind's sigh
And thus our midnight vigils keep,
While night's fair lamps burn bright on high.
We'll wander in the realms of thought,
That boundless space, who may define?
From which more dazzling gems are brought
Than sparkle in Golconda's mine.
Then, sister, let us linger not,
The conscious moon her lamp holds high,
And with her smiling, placid face,
Beams from the chambers of the sky.
Touched by fancy's magic spell,
We'll conjure up the things of yore;
From their cold chambers bring the dead,
And friends of former years restore.
But oh, the shadows will not stay,--
The dreamy shadows of the past;
Before the sun they'll fade away--
Their mystic visions cannot last.
Then let us leave the world of dreams
Where shapes and shadows melt away;
Bathe in salvation's cooling streams,
And soar to realms of endless day.
Reminiscences.
Chapter I.
The Old Homestead.
Come gentle reader, let us entwine arms with Memory, and wander back
through the avenues of life to childhood's sunny dell, and as we
return more leisurely pluck the wild flowers that grow beside the
pathway, and entwine them for Memory's garland, and inhale the
fragrance of by-gone years. O, there are rich treasures garnered up
in Memory's secret chambers, enclosed in the recesses of the soul, to
spring into life at the touch of her magic wand. Here let us sit on
this mossy stone, beneath this wide spread elm, and as its waving
branches fan our feverish cheeks, fold back the dim, misty curtains of
the past, the silent past, and hold communings with the years that are
gone. Listen to the murmur of yonder rippling stream, that breaks like
far off music upon the ear, and although half a century of years
have passed since I first stood upon its margin, and listened to its
dirge-like hum, no trace of age is left upon it. The silent years that
have swept over its surface, bearing away the generations of men, have
left this stream sporting and dancing on in all the freshness of youth
and beauty.
Here is the grassy knoll where we have stood tiptoe and reached our
tiny hands a little higher to catch the gorgeous butterfly that
floated through summer air on silken wings, and then clapped them with
joyous glee at our own disappointment, as it sailed higher up into the
blue air.
Then came the song of the warbling bird, the hum of the mountain bee,
and the rustling of the leaves as they were stirred by the gentle
summer breeze,--all making sweet melody in Nature's many voiced
harmonies.
Here we have sat for hours, wrapt in dreamy reverie, wondering why the
long, fleecy clouds that chased each other over the sun, should cast
such deep, broad shadows over so fair a landscape; little heeding that
they were emblematical of the shadows that coming years would cast
upon our pathway as we passed on in the journey of human life; but
oh, how often has the sun of hope been dimmed by the shadows of
disappointment.
But let us leave this sequestered spot and wander over other scenes
familiar to childhood's years.
Beneath yon large reservoir of water that flashes in the sun beams as
the summer winds heave its troubled bosom, formerly stretched out an
extensive meadow, where we used to stroll for amusement; or to gather
the rich, ripe strawberries that lay concealed beneath the thick,
tall grass that sighed before the breeze like the bosom of the ocean,
fanned by the winds of heaven. Here, too, we gathered sweet blue
violets, yellow buttercups, Ladies' traces and London pride, with all
the beautiful variety of simple meadow flowers, and entwined them into
pretty wreaths, or fragrant boquets. But the touch of time has rested
upon this spot, and his finger has left a deep impress upon it. The
sloping hills that surround it remain the same. The trees bear some
traces of decay, but here stand the thorn bushes that used to scatter
their showers of white blossoms around us like descending snow-flakes,
still filled with green leaves and small red apples, surrounded by the
prickly thorns that to all appearances are the same that we grasped
fifty years ago.
The sand-hills where the juvenile part of the neighborhood used to
congregate to celebrate the happy twilight hour in merry sports, have
literally passed away; having been shovelled up and transported to
the various places for many miles around, where the multiplicity of
chimnies mark the increasing population of the village, that passing
years have added to it.
As we pass the antiquated moss-covered bars that admit us into the
dear old orchard, and cross the little brook that bubbles on forever
in the same monotonous sound, requiring but one smooth round stepping
stone for a bridge, we sigh and feel that the change of years is upon
us, for here almost every thing speaks of decay. True the hills, the
ponds, the rocks (and I had almost said the speckled tortoise that has
crawled up to sun itself on their summit), remain the same.
Sit down on this dilapidated trunk, for the burden of years is upon
us; and as I glance upon this frame, I can scarcely realize it is the
same form that used to impress this spot with childish footprints.
This trunk was then a beautiful, stately tree, bearing its leafy
honors thick upon it, and laden with delicious golden fruit. But the
glory of the orchard has departed, and why should we linger any longer
in its confines, as it only awakens sad memories, and says in an
audible voice,
"Chance and change are busy ever."
The carriage road that passes through it, almost blinding us with
dust, was formerly a well beaten foot-path for the accommodation of
the neighborhood as they walked from one part of it to the other.
Let us follow the road up this steep aclivity, and enter the large
capacious door-yard which contained several rods of land, and was
surrounded by an old fashioned stone wall, which has been beaten by at
least seventy-five winters' storms; and the thick covering of green
moss upon it bespeaks its age.
The west end was crossed by a fence containing a small strip of land
for the purpose of raising early summer vegetables. Here now is
erected the splendid dwelling house of one of the wealthiest citizens
of the village, and the garden is converted into front yard, building
spot and back yard, containing all the usual necessary appendages to
a dwelling place, so that here all traces of former days have passed
from the spot, and only live inscribed upon the retentive tablet of
Memory. On the east end was another small enclosure where we used to
spend our leisure hours in the cultivation of flowers and medicinal
plants. Here the tall lilac waved its graceful head beneath our
bed-room window, and the morning sun, as he parted the rosy curtains
of the eastern sky and came forth rejoicing to run his glad race, and
pour a flood of golden light upon the earth, shot his first crimson
rays upon the thick curtains of morning glories that hung clustering
over our window, fragrant with their verdant leaves, and rich purple
blossoms, and causing the dew-drops to glisten like sparkling
diamonds, while the sweet odors of many scented flowers were borne
upon every passing breeze. But could we now recognize this spot? oh
no! the destroyer has been there, and there remains no trace of herb
or flower; an ell has been built on to that end of the house, and the
barn has been moved, so that our beautiful garden has been transformed
into a door yard, and all traces of beauty are obliterated. Crossing
the garden you next entered upon a large level lot covered with the
richest grass that annually used to fall before the sythe of the
mower, and descended by sloping hills to the above mentioned luxuriant
meadow; through which ran a quiet winding stream that used to afford
us an abundance of speckled trout and shining pickerel, to say nothing
about the many play hours spent upon its margin; but now the stream
is lost beneath the vast reservoir, and has washed away all traces
of flowers, strawberries and verdant grass that used to mark its
serpentine wanderings, by assuming a deeper green.
The west end of this enclosure was intersected by what used to be
called Virginia fence, then crossed into two separate places dividing
one into a sheep-pasture, the other into a large garden for the
cultivation of winter vegetables. In the pasture used to graze a large
flock of sheep, and the snowy lambs sported over the rocks and ran
down the hillside; does this remain the same?
The rocks have been removed out of their places, and in their stead
dwelling houses have been erected, and the busy hum of active life
there resounds, and the prattling of children is heard instead of the
bleating of lambs.
Crossing the stream upon the remains of an old dam, and passing the
extent of meadow, we entered upon a rich clover field, adjoining which
was the corn field, that in autumn used to be laden with yellow
corn and golden pumpkins. Contiguous to this was a delightful grove
composed of thrifty walnut trees, carefully cleared from under brush
and covered with verdant grass, and ornamented here and there with a
grassy hillock, that rendered it a pleasant retreat from the scorching
rays of the summer sun. The air was filled with the notes of the
feathered songsters that built their nests and warbled in their
branches, mingling their music with the rustling leaves and the murmur
of the distant spring that rippled near, for a gradual descent brought
us down to the spring lot, which, with the grove and the swamp that
lay below, was used for pasturage. But let us pause and take a survey
of its present appearances. The beautiful trees have all fallen
before the woodman's axe, not one remaining as a link with their past
history; the old fence has been removed that divided it from the
cornfield, and surrounded by a new and beautiful one, it now forms a
part of a commodious Cemetery, is laid out into tasteful lots as the
last resting place of the dead.
Sweet spot; methinks it is meet for the weary children of earth to
slumber in this quiet place.
At its foot gurgles the quiet winding stream, and far away comes
the din and hum of active life, thronged with the busy crowd whose
restless feet are bearing them swiftly on to the end of life's
journey, where they must resign the cumbrous load and "join the pale
caravan in the realms of shade."
Descending from the grove on the western side, was a low, swampy piece
of ground, that had never yielded to cultivation, where we sometimes
used to jump from one hillock to another in search of swamp pinks and
cheeses which were to be found there in great abundance.
It was ever covered with low brush, of natural growth, and apparently
no change had passed over it from its creation, save the natural
springing up and decaying of its productions. And so, almost fifty
years ago, we left it, but how does it meet us upon our return? Art
has touched it with her handy work. It has been drained; the brush cut
from its surface, rich loam carted upon it, and now it presents the
appearance of a well cultivated garden, is covered with luxuriant
grass, and staked out into yards for the accommodation of families who
wish to lie down side by side, in the sleep of death. Many, already,
are beautified with flowers and shrubbery; and in some, already arises
the marble slab, pointing to the place where some weary pilgrim
reposes, free from all the earth calls good or great; for this, too,
is enclosed in the Cemetery.
But passing the entrance into the Cemetery, we will pass back by a
circuitous route, to the dear old home. The road, the hills, the
rocks, the trees, and many of the buildings are the same; but, oh, how
many and varied are the changes that strike the eye, and awaken in
the breast ten thousand bewildering remembrances. Truly has the human
heart been compared to a many stringed instrument, giving diversity of
sound as it is swept by different winds.
One of the most conspicuous changes, is the withdrawal of a large pond
of water that had been pent up by a high dam, over which the water
fell, over the bridge we are now crossing, roaring, casting up spray,
and then foaming and dancing off, into the meadow below.
Many of the buildings have changed their old fashioned coats of red
for the more modern one of white, which is the case with our own old
homestead. Opposite the house, or across the way, as we used to call
it (for the road was between), stood, what was ever called, the woods.
Here, in their season, we gathered the largest whortleberries, the
best walnuts, and the nicest black birch that were to be found all
the country round. And when we had wearied our limbs, and filled our
baskets, how often have we pulled over the tops of the smaller trees,
and seating ourselves upon some slender branch, enjoyed a real
juvenile ride upon horseback, each one having a particular tree
designated by the name of a horse.
Immediately opposite the house, stood a high hill, composed of jagged
rocks, behind which the sun ever sank to his cosy bed in the west, and
where I have watched the forked lightning play as the blackened cloud
gathered together, ominous of a portending storm, while the distant
thunder murmured behind their eternal summit. This stands the same,
and as you glance down the other side, you see the broad, black
river, still rolling at its base. But the woods--the bright green
woods--where are they? Echo answers, "where?" Supplanting the place
is a young thrifty orchard, and at the base of the hill is a finely
cultivated piece of land, and there is nothing but the everlasting
hills to tell us of the dear spot where we wandered in the halcyon
days of childhood; we cannot even exclaim with Cowper--
"I sat on the trees under which I had played."
Dear old trees! methinks, even now, I can hear your music, when fanned
by the summer breeze, or see you toss your surging branches, when
rocked by the autumnal gale. Well do I remember your cooling shade as
I walked beneath it to the district school house, which was situated
in one corner of the dear old orchard. There, too, has been a change;
the rocks upon which we used to play have been blown to atoms, and the
habitations of men occupy their places. Truly, all things are passing
away!
Chapter II.
The Old House.
We have crossed the threshold and entered the dear old house. Back,
back, these tumultuous throbbings of the heart, and these tears which
vainly rising to the eyelids, fall back upon the heart as wanting
power to flow. Who, after an absence of many years, on entering the
house where they first inhaled the breath of life, but has been
overpowered by conflicting emotions, as the tide of Memory rolled
in, like a flood, bearing so much upon its bosom, and where so many
associations crowd upon the mind, it is difficult to lend expression
to the ideas.
The interior of the house has not been materially changed, except
the additional ell, which contains a kitchen, pantry, and such like
conveniences for progressing household labor; the kitchen being
transformed into a sitting room, with no change, excepting a new coat
of paint, large windows instead of small, paper instead of bare walls,
and a place for a stove pipe instead of the ample fire place, that
used to shed its cheering light and warmth over the whole room. And
we might almost fancy ourselves at home, were it not that the eyes of
strangers are upon us, and we miss the dear familiar faces that first
taught the infant heart to love.
Here, have we clustered around the knees of a mother and drank rich
instruction from her pious lips, and offered up the morning and the
evening prayer, and lisped our hymn of praise, while she ever strove
to impress the golden rule upon the young and tender minds committed
to her care; and her example was ever that of a consistent Christian.
How vividly comes up before the eye of Memory, the forms of the aged
members of the family; for there were an uncle and two aunts of my
father who were never married, that took him at the early age of two
years, educated him and gave him the homestead for his patrimony; and
at the time of my birth the snow of many winters rested upon their
heads, and the infirmities of age were upon them.
It was their delight to watch our childish sports, listen to our
innocent prattle, and strive to direct our young footsteps in the
paths of virtue. They have passed away like the shadows of a passing
cloud. Almost my first recollections of death are associated with that
of the aged man. He had been sick about four days when we were called
to stand by his bedside and witness his departure. He smiled upon the
dear little brother, mother held in her arms, shook him by the hand,
gave us all a parting glance; the film of death then gathered upon his
eyes, a convulsive shudder ran over his frame, and a deathly paleness
rested upon his countenance, filling our young hearts with wonder and
dismay. As we felt the marble coldness of his stiffened limbs, and saw
him borne away to the silent grave, we learned the first lesson from
the pale messenger, and felt the awful void that his presence creates
in the family circle, and which we have since been called so often to
experience. He died in the very room where we first opened our eyes
upon the light.
It is a large gloomy looking room. The two windows looking out upon
the north, and a door opening out upon the level field, covered with
its carpet of green, intersected by neither shrub nor trees. The
coating of paint is changed, and the walls neatly papered, which is
the only change it has undergone.
Adjacent to this is the east bedroom, one window looking out upon the
north, and one upon the little garden at the east end of the house.
This room, for many years, was our lodging room, where we sought--
"Tired nature's sweet restorer balmy sleep,"
and lost ourselves in the world of dreams. Many, very many, were the
waking dreams that filled the imagination as the map of life lay
spread out before fancy's witching gaze, and hope illuminated it with
her brilliant rainbow dyes. No waves of passion or disappointment
moved its surface. But, oh, how different has been the reality!
Crossing the small entry opposite the kitchen is a large room,
formerly occupied by the old people. The same change is visible in
this as in the other rooms. Here, day after day, sat our aged aunt,
reading the word of God or her favorite hymns, and seeking preparation
for death (for she was fourscore and ten years old), and had been a
member of the church of Christ from her nineteenth year, spending a
long life to his honor and glory. It was the winter of the year, but
a mild day, when on returning from school we were summoned to her
bedside. The feeble lamp of life was flickering in the socket, and the
pulses of the aged woman stood still. Her spirit passed quietly from
earth, to enter into the presence of God who gave it. She fell like a
shock of corn fully ripe, at the age of ninety-four years. There was
no struggle; wearied nature resigned her burden without resistance,
and the countenance was pleasant in death. She was borne to the
graveyard and laid by the side of her dear brother, and thus they
were again united in the place of graves; and again there were vacant
places in our family circle, for many had been the attentions we were
obliged to bestow upon our aged relative, for she had been unable to
walk for several years.
In this apartment two windows opened to the south, and one at the west
end of the house, looking out upon the woods; on the north side three
doors opened, one into a bedroom with one west window, one into a
pantry or dairy room, where stood long rows of pans of milk covered
with golden cream, and tempting cheeses arrayed, the shelves. Here
there is slight alteration, excepting the shelves and ceiling have
changed their snowy whiteness for a coating of blue paint, and instead
of a dairy room, it is converted into a common pantry. The other door
led into the winter cellar, where we used to go for the nice apples,
which formed the usual accompaniment of a winter evening. Oh, those
pleasant evenings! what heeded we that the wintry storm raged without?
Our evening meal was always dispatched, and the household duties all
performed before the evening shadows fell around us. The fire burned
brightly upon the clean swept hearth, shedding a cheerful glow over
the room, while warming by its blaze stood a large dish of red and
golden apples, temptingly arranged. Before the fire stood a small
round table, round which the younger members of the family were
seated, braiding straw, while some one read aloud from some useful or
entertaining book; or we pursued our favorite studies, and prepared
the school lesson for the coming day (for we could braid and study at
the same time).
How profitable and how pleasant were those evenings! As I look back
upon them, through the long lapse of years that have passed away, and
recall each familiar' face and tone, I feel that those hours were
among the happiest of my life. Many of those dear forms have passed
away from earth forever. The dear mother, who presided over us with so
much affection, mingling in our pleasures and soothing our pains, has
finished her course upon earth and gone to her reward; but may the
good seed sown in the hearts of her children spring up and bear fruit
to eternal life. Although her lips are now silent in death, she still
speaks to us, she still lives embalmed in the hearts of her children.
Two dear brothers that enlivened those cheerful evenings, by acting
their part in the drama of life, have passed away, to
"That bourne from which no traveller e'er returns,"
and their voices are heard no more upon earth.
But, usually, ere the family clock that ticked in the corner of the
room struck nine, all had retired to rest and all was silent, save the
ticking of the clock or the howling of the wintry storm.
Deaths in our neighborhood were not of very common occurrence, and
used to fill our young hearts with dismay; and for many long weeks I
used to count the number of nights the new occupant of a grave had
slept in it, and shudder as I thought of all the gloom, the darkness
and the silence of the narrow house; and felt sad when I reflected
that all men must die. Faith then had not lifted her trusting eye
beyond the portals of the tomb, or illuminated its confines by the
glorious light of the gospel. And when in the winter of 1816 a fatal
fever raged, and the angel of death flapped his broad wings over our
little village, and one after another was cut suddenly down by his
stealthy darts, we could hardly realize that it was directed by the
hand of a merciful God, and, collected together in a little group,
wondered, in our childish innocence, "who would go next?"
Here, upon this door-step, have we sat for hours, in all suitable
seasons of the year, looking out upon the prospect, and contemplating
the changing seasons, or the alternate sun and shade that rested upon
the face of nature. Often have we wandered forth, while the dew was
yet upon the grass, to gather a basket of the large red cheeked
peaches that had fallen from the trees during the night. Near by stood
a noble pear tree, laden with rich orange pears, covering the ground
beneath with its golden treasures, while a contiguous apple tree
mingled its store of bright red apples in rich profusion. O, it was a
delicious blending of autumn's garnered store, showered upon the lap
of Mother Nature, spread out temptingly to the eyes of her weary
children. But the trees have departed with the "dark brown years,"
that have flung their dim shadows over them--nor root, nor branch
remains.
A few years passed, and by one of the unforeseen changes that occur in
the lives of business men, we were obliged to relinquish our childhood
home, and go forth to try the rougher usage of the world in a land of
strangers. Sad were the feelings that filled our young hearts, as we
went forth from the dear place, with which was associated all the
earliest recollections of life, and the endearing ideas of home. The
evening before our departure, we ascended the top of the highest
hill that over-looked our little villa, accompanied by our young
schoolmates, to watch the declining rays of the setting sun, and
promised eternal friendship to each other. It was Sabbath day--a calm,
delightful Sabbath day--that was now closing upon us; and as the sun
finished his journey across the horizon, and sank behind the far-off
western hills, methinks the sacred tranquility that reigned around
seemed to be whispering to the troubled spirit, "Peace, be still." But
could we, with our youthful hearts weighed down by this great grief,
could we heed the gentle whispers? surely not; and we felt that like
our first parents, we were about to be driven from Paradise. We sat
conversing upon the past, and forming plans for the future,
"Till twilight grey had in her sober livery all things clad."
Descending the hill we sought our homes, and early the following
morning found us pursuing our way to a land of strangers, leaving
behind us home, friends, and the burying place of our fathers, which
we had ever looked upon as our last resting place.
While the waves of time have borne year after year away, each one
replete with change, we have been tossing upon the stream till we
again stand in the same place from which we then departed, and while
the grief of that hour is fresh in the memory, we will again turn
sadly away from the spot teeming with so many remembrances, and where
were instilled the first principles of virtue and religion. O, may
these remain and grow "brighter and brighter unto the perfect day,"
while all mutable things decay. Dear old house, farewell; these
eyes may never again behold you; these feet never again cross your
threshold; but while reason remains, the memory of these haunts will
be tenderly cherished. And so we pass again from the spot with an
aching heart, and leave it to the possession of strangers.
Chapter III.
The Old School House.
But while we yet linger on this sacred spot, will enter into the
school house where our young footsteps first attempted to climb the
hill of Science. The outward appearance is the same. A pretty one
story and a half building, painted yellow with white trimmings, and a
chocolate colored door, which is reached by two stone steps.
You are then admitted into a large hall, accommodated with shelves for
the convenience of the scholars, and as we pass through this and enter
the school-room, we feel almost a child again. But we see at a glance
that our dear old teacher does not occupy the desk, and it is a
stranger's voice that strikes upon the ear. As we glance at the
well-filled seats, we readily perceive there is not one of all the
group, no, not one, that occupied those seats when we were scholars
there. But we will sit calmly down upon the teacher's desk and recall
the dim shadowy forms of the past, the by-gone past. The breeze that
passes through the open window and fans the brow, might be mistaken
for the same playful zephyr that sported with our own silken locks in
childhood, as we stood before this same open window. The monotonous
hum of the school-room seems the same and the drowsy buzz of the
summer fly as it floats on azure wings brings to the ear a well
remembered sound, and we press our hand tightly upon our eyes and try
to think we are living over again years that are passed. It will not
do, there is a change--we must acknowledge that change. The teacher
who so long presided in this place, was a stern man, of commanding
figure, with a high, broad forehead and piercing black eyes, coal
black hair and beard, with rather a handsome countenance, although
nothing could ever provoke a smile upon it in school hours, and he
governed his pupils more by fear than love. But the lesson must be
perfectly committed and correctly recited, or the offending culprit
must fall under his severe displeasure, and this was a situation that
few in the school were willing to be placed in. I have heard of this
man's death, but in what manner or where I know not; but many are
the lessons I have heard fall from his lips which still live in my
heart--have had their impress upon the life, and will continue to
exist through the boundless ages of eternity. And now that the
thoughtlessness of youth has passed away, here, upon this spot, would
I offer a grateful tribute to his memory. Many others, too, occupied
this place, of whose destiny I am entirely ignorant, but yet remember
them with much affection.
One female teacher in particular, under whose instruction I sat six
summers in succession. Then she was young and healthful, and happy in
the bosom of her family; but now all have passed away save this one
surviving branch. She alone remains of her family, in feeble health,
and with that depression of spirits incident upon her situation.
On the low seat next to the desk, used to sit rather a fragile child,
with bright red hair and deep blue eyes that had a depth of meaning in
their earnest gaze. Her seat was vacant, and we heard, that Elizabeth
Ann was sick with typhus fever. We visited her in her chamber. She lay
tossing from side to side, upon her bed, even gnawing her fingers for
very pain. I gazed upon her with pity, and they told me she must die.
I had seen the aged pass away, but never the young. And musing long
and sadly upon this event, I sought my home, and spent a restless
night, repeating often the childish hymn, commencing,
"I in the burying place may see
Graves shorter there than I."
But the long night passed away with its sad presages, and the rising
sun peeped between the thick clustering leaves and flowers of the
morning glories that shaded the window, and diffused light and
radiance upon the joyous landscape. The birds awoke to new melody, and
in the gladness that surrounded me I almost forgot the impressions of
the previous evening. I arose, though slightly refreshed, repeating as
I did so,
"So like the sun may I fulfil
The duties of the day."
Almost the first intelligence that greeted my ear was the death of
Elizabeth Ann Prince. While the shadows of that night still lingered,
her pure spirit had passed away, and for the first time I realized
more fully than I had ever done before, that youth is no protection
from death. I saw her in her small coffin, and felt the marble
coldness of her pale brow, and as I saw the coffin descend into the
narrow grave, I turned sadly away with a grief-stricken, and perchance
a better heart. But for many months I could tell the exact number of
nights she had lain buried in the silent grave.
The next morning as I took my seat with a favorite companion, in
the one behind that formerly occupied by her, I almost started as I
fancied that her face was upturned to mine, and those blue orbs rested
upon me.
The dear friend that sat with me, has too, passed away, "and the
places that knew her once upon earth, now know her no more forever."
Rosa was an orphan, having lost both parents; she was the youngest
of four sisters, had an amiable disposition, and was an affectionate
friend. She was married to a wealthy man, and became the mother of
several children; but the destroyer came and bore her from her dear
family to the silent church-yard, and placed her beneath a grassy
mound beside her father and her mother. Sweet is thy memory, friend of
my early days, and very pleasant were the hours we spent together: but
they have passed away with the things that were, and like the rose
leaves that falling fill the air with their perfume, so the fragrance
of those hours still lives.
Next to Rosa Whittier sat Julia Balcolm, with saddened expression of
countenance and large deep blue eyes that gazed upon you with a deeper
expression of melancholly in their glances than is usual to the merry
age of childhood, and elicited your sympathy ere you knew her history.
Julia was a cripple. She was drawn to school by an older sister with
rosy cheeks, bright flashing black eyes, and a sprightly animated
countenance, and carried into the school-room in the arms of her
teacher, or some of the older scholars. And so she came, year after
year, mingling with the merry group. But where is she now? yon little
mound of heaped up earth covers her remains, and a narrow marble slab
tells the place of her repose, and we can but hope she who was denied
the privilege of walking on earth may now soar on angel's wings.
As we contemplate the deprivations of one situated as she was, we can
but realize the blessing of having "the common use of our own limbs."
This dear child was obliged to crawl from place to place after her
more favored companions, dragging her useless perished limbs behind
her. But he who careth for us knew what was best for her, and we
cannot doubt his infinite wisdom.
It were vain to endeavor to trace the destinies of all who used to sit
with us, in this favorite, place. Many have gone down to death--many
still live on the same premises where they first inhaled the breath
of life, and some have gone forth into the world to fulfil a darker
destiny on the broad ocean of human life, that is ever tossing its
tumultuous waves before the tempestuous winds of fortune, and have
been ship-wrecked upon the quick-sands of vice and dissipation. The
shady side of the picture has been presented; but those were bright
and joyous days, and our school-yard resounded with the merry laugh
and frolicsome mirth of childhood; yet they leave not that abiding
impression upon the mind that characterizes incidents of a more
sombre hue. But we will leave the dear old school house with all its
treasured memories that link it with the past, and pursue our way in
some other direction. It is hard to stop where so many images crowd
upon the mind, and come stealing upon us in the shape of old familiar
friends with whom we have walked side by side, day after day; but dear
familiar scenes, adieu.
Chapter IV.
The Grave Yard.
Let us wander by this winding road to the place of graves, the great
charnel house where so many, who were formerly actors on life's busy
stage, have laid them down in the sleep of death. Many are the changes
that meet the eye as we pass along, but there are many traces left
that awaken memories of past friends and past years. Here are the dear
old trees under which we have played; the rocks upon which we have
sat, and the stream on which we have sailed; but which now is greatly
augmented in size, as it is now an outlet to the large reservoir of
water, into which the meadow above has been converted.
Crossing the bridge and ascending the hill, let us enter the grave
yard, and contemplate the change that rolling years have made in this
spot;
"Our fathers, where are they?"
Methinks the stones at our feet cry out--"All flesh is grass."
This is an ancient burial place; and as we look upon the dates of the
headstones, how forcibly do we feel "one generation passeth away and
another generation cometh." Many of the monuments have ceased to be a
memorial; having crumbled away, and the inscriptions become entirely
obliterated by the thick covering of green moss that has gathered upon
them. Is not this a lesson that is calculated to humble the pride of
man? But we will pause by the graves of the dear uncle and aunt, whose
remains we saw deposited here many years ago, when our young footsteps
bounded with all the elasticity of childhood. But though sweeping
years have borne away the halcyon days of childhood, the golden days
of youth, and the sobered and subdued period of middle life, and
our sun has passed its meridian and is verging rapidly towards
its setting, still this grief comes back again with all its first
freshness. Here for the first time these eyes looked into an
untenanted grave; for the first time saw the coffin let down into the
"dark and narrow house," and heard the hollow sound as the earth fell
upon it--and deep was the impression that was made upon the childish
memory, and so faithful is she to her trust that at this moment, when
standing upon this spot, she brings it back again, untarnished by the
long years that have passed away. The little heaped up mound that
covered their remains has sunk to a level with its kindred dust,
and the inscriptions upon the headstones, though legible, are much
defaced. Can it be that here are the dear forms whose voices I heard,
upon whose knees I sat, and who led me by the hand, day after day?
Even so. Were it not for revelation, "that light and immortality are
brought to light" by the gospel, how dark would be the grave; who
could fathom its mysterious confines, or penetrate its darkness? But
the Saviour has shed a radiance around it, and assured us "the graves
shall give up their dead; that we shall all come forth and be judged
according to the deeds done in the body." Happy they, who learn
this most important lesson, and live up to the great principles it
inculcates.
Methinks the murmur of the summer breeze, as it sighs through the
waving branches of the weeping willow, as it stands drooping over an
adjoining grave, seems the gentle whisper of departed spirits, wooing
us to the skies. As we glance far off in the distance from this
elevated spot, we see the toil and turmoil of life--its struggles,
cares and disappointments, and then contemplating the scene around us,
we feel that, this must be the end of all who live. Here lie those for
whom we sought in vain in the places where we formerly knew them. Here
repose the remains of our family physician, who, for many years, was
called in all cases of sickness, and was like a brother in the family.
By his side sleeps his amiable wife; as we look upon their graves for
the first time, we remember them as they were in life, and heave a
sigh to their memory.
Here lies a school companion who died at a very early age; we had
won prizes and received our little books from the hands of our dear
teacher, and that is my only recollection of him. His seat was vacant,
and they told me he was dead; but then I knew nothing of death.
Here, too, are the graves of Elizabeth Ann Prince, Julia Balcolm, the
poor cripple, and many others, who have sat with me in the dear
old school house. One in particular strikes the mind with peculiar
solemnity. It is the grave of Edward Davis; he was a young man of
superior talents, uncommon beauty and prepossessing manners. He was
rich in this world's goods, and married an amiable young lady, in all
respects his equal; they lived happily together several years, and had
several children, but sickness came like a blight upon him, and he was
soon conveyed to the silent tomb, leaving his wife and children to
mourn his loss.
Here, side by side, are the graves of an entire household, consisting
of the maternal grandmother, two sisters of the father, the father
and mother, and seven children, with the wife of one of the sons. Not
twelve rods from their own door they sleep side by side--that many
voiced household, in the silence of death. No voice breaks the
stillness; no words of love are interchanged; but their dust shall
mingle together till the morning of the resurrection, teaching an
impressive lesson to those that stand by their graves and read the
inscriptions upon their tombstones.
Here is buried the dear old deacon and his wife, by whose bedside we
stood when his forehead was wet with the damp dews of death, and his
eye lighted up by faith, seemed to scan the glories of the upper
world, and he felt it was "far better to depart and be with Christ."
And even then came, "let me die the death of the righteous, and let my
last end be like his." His devoted, pious wife soon followed him, and
we feel, as we look upon their graves, there is rest in Heaven. At
their feet lie children, grand-children and great-grand-children.
Clara Everett was a promising young girl, cut down at the early age of
nineteen. She was left an orphan at the age of nine months, her father
dying suddenly, and her mother a few weeks after, with consumption.
She was tenderly cared for by her maternal grand-parents and a maiden
aunt, well educated and had commenced teaching, when she was seized
suddenly with an alarming fever, which in a few short days, was
terminated by death. They bore her to the resting place with many
tears, and placed her beside those dear parents from whom she was so
early separated. Many here, that lived a life of dissipation, have
gone down to fill a drunkard's grave;
"But we'll tread lightly on the ashes of the dead."
Why should we uncover the frailties of poor mortality, unless to
hold them up as beacon lights to the rising generation? and for this
purpose we would take the living example.
Here is buried an aged woman, who lived in poverty. She had the
shaking palsy, and it was with great difficulty she could perform
any labor; she was assisted by the town and the charities of the
neighborhood. She had one daughter, who was an invalid many years,
and dependant upon the care of the feeble mother. The children of
the village were the willing bearers of many comforts to these poor
people; and even now seems to come the well remembered "tell your
mother I am much obliged to her," from the pale lips that lie buried
beneath the sod. The daughter is buried by her side, and methinks they
sleep as sweetly as the more wealthy citizen, beneath a more splendid
monument. All here meet upon a common level--the old, the young,
the rich, the poor, the bond and free, for death is no respecter of
persons.
Here, too, rests a young physician, who supplied the place of the old
one. His career was like the meteor flash, emitting its brilliant rays
for a season, and then was shrouded in death's dark night.
As we stand upon this spot and contemplate it as it was when we last
stood upon it, we feel that here has been the greatest change of any
place yet visited. Here we meet many a name familiar to the ear, and a
form familiar to the eye starts into life, and treads again its mazy
scenes. Many monuments are erected to entire strangers, and this
is our first meeting with them. Here the infant of a few days lies
buried, just tasting the cup of life, he turned sickening away, and
yielding it up, soared away with the angel band to the realms of
bliss.
But ere we leave the yard, let us visit the resting place of the
beautiful Clarinda Robinson, who died at the early age of nineteen.
She had ever enjoyed undiminished health. But soon, oh, how soon,
the rose of health faded upon her cheek; her sparkling eye lost its
lustre, and the animated form, stiffened in death, was laid away in
its silent chamber. At her feet lie two beautiful nieces, called, too,
in the morning of their days to go and make their beds with her. Sadly
did the bereaved mother mourn their loss; but the pale messenger came
for her too, in a few weary years, and she joined them in the pale
realms of shade.
Here, too, sleeps the young wife, called soon away from the husband of
her youth. Consumption, like a worm in the bud, preyed upon the
damask of her cheek, dried up the fountain of her life, and bore her
triumphantly, another victim of his power. The old sexton, too, who
from time immemorial, had been
"The maker of the dead man's bed,"
has laid down his mattock and his spade, and filled a grave prepared
by other hands. At his feet lies a lovely daughter, snatched suddenly
away, ere the bloom of youth had passed, and almost without a moment's
warning, leaving a husband and a dear little child, too young to feel
its loss.
But while we have yet lingered, the sun has finished his journey, and
hid his bright beams behind the curtain of the west, and already have
the shadows of coming twilight gathered around us, and the white
marble slabs, dimly seen in its shadows, assume strange, mysterious
shapes, and seem almost like moving things of life, while the darker
slate are lost to view.
We will sit a moment on the grave of our dear old aunt. This was the
spot designated for our family burying place; but it is now filled
with strangers. We will now leave this spot, to toss again upon the
waves of time; but may the lesson here learned go with us, and prepare
us for the day when the heart and flesh shall fail, and we must change
this for another life, ever remembering,
"That life is long that answers life's great end."
Midnight Scenes
Or, Pictures of Human Life.
Picture No. I.
The midnight moon shone drear and cold,
Upon a stately tow'r;
Whose ramparts high and turrets bold
Bespoke a lordly pow'r.
The dancing waters flash'd and gleam'd
Beneath her silver ray;
And gently fell her placid beam,
On tower and turret gray.
And softly came the silent dew,
And fell with gentle pow'r,
Sparkling like gems, or diamonds fair,
On trembling leaf and flow'r.
Fair night hung out her golden lamps,
In her blue chambers high;
And earth, all gemmed, in their pure light,
Lay lovely to the eye.
But look within those costly halls,
Where waxen tapers gleam,
And crimson curtains' silken folds
Exclude the moon's bright beams.
A queenly matron mournful sits,
In all her jewelled pride;
The costly diamond on her breast,
Its anguish cannot hide.
The angel of the raven wing
His sable plume waves there,
And writhing on his silken couch,
Lies stretch'd the only heir.
She feels how vain a thing is wealth,
To ease that lab'ring breath,--
Or bribe, in his resistless course,
The tyrant monster, death.
The hours of night passed slow away,
When brightly rose the sun;
The boy in quiet beauty lay--
The fearful work was done.
The angel had performed his part,
And back to heav'n had flown;
The mother with a bursting heart,
Sat weeping now, alone.
She rising, smoothed his golden hair,
One ringlet gently shred;
And then, within a costly shroud,
She wrapped her silent dead.
And folded light the snowy screen,
That hid from every eye
Those features, beautiful in death,
And marble forehead high.
But hark! she hears a prancing hoof,
And sees a horseman come;
Soon the proud charger reached her side,
Cover'd with dust and foam.
Her husband from the saddle springs,
And clasps her to his breast;
And on her icy lip and brow
The kiss of love was pressed.
"How is our son?" the father cried;
In his, her hand she placed,
And through their gorgeous, darkened halls,
Their silent way they traced.
Nor stopped, until they reached his side,
Who yesterday, in health,--
The mother's joy, the father's pride,--
Was heir to all their wealth.
The mother folded back the screen,
And said, "There lays our child;"
Then overcome with bursting grief,
They wept in accents wild.
They laid him in a marble tomb,
With all that wealth could show;
But deeply in their castled home
Dark rolled the tide of woe.
Picture No. II.
The midnight moon, with pallid beams,
From eastern sky again
Look'd forth, and shed her fitful gleams
On mountain, hill and plain.
And far upon the moaning sea,
She threw her mellow light;
And tossing waves, and heaving spray,
Were gemm'd with diamonds bright.
But oft a fitful shadow came,
And rested like a shroud;
For, o'er her bright and tranquil face;
Stole many a passing cloud.
The night winds moan'd, and plaintive sigh'd,
O'er mountain, sea and vale,
And whistled round a lowly cot,
Where sat a mother, pale.
Her raven hair was parted smooth
Upon her forehead high;
And though her face was pale with care,
Yet mildly beamed her eye.
And beauty left a ling'ring trace,
Upon each feature there;
Which, with sweet dignity and grace,
Blended with ev'ry air.
A feeble taper dimly burn'd,
As swift her task she plied,
And oft her anxious gaze was turn'd
Where, nestled by her side,--
On a low pallet, sleeping lay
A darling, cherub boy,
With curling hair and azure eyes,
His mother's only joy.
Calm was his sleep; but starting once,
Half springing from his bed,
He spake, in accents faint and low,
"O, mother, give me bread."
And then her task she quicker plied,--
The starting tear repressed,
And, "Oh, my God!" she meekly cried,
"Protect the fatherless."
And so she toil'd, till morning spread
Her earliest tints of gray
Across the distant, eastern sky,
Then kneeling down to pray
Beside the little, lowly cot,
Her soul in trust was giv'n,
Unto that kindly Father's care,
Who look'd and heard from Heaven.
And angels came, with silent dew,
Her throbbing brow to lave;
And gentle sleep her spirits steep'd,
Within the Lethean wave.
But with the sun's first golden beams,
She left her lowly bed;
And with her gentle boy, went forth
To seek their daily bread.
Small was the pittance that was giv'n,
By cringing, sordid wealth;
But, with firm confidence in Heav'n,
And thankful for her health,
She took again her weary task,
Through all the lonely day,
Nor sought again her lowly bed,
Till morning dawn'd with gray.
So years pass'd by, the boy grew on
In beauty, day by day;
The mother felt her faithful son
Would all her care repay.
And manhood came, with daring high,
And brought a sweet relief;
Plenty for want, and ease for toil,
And joy for all her grief.
Picture No. III.
Again it was the Noon of Night,
The full orb'd moon her car rolled high,
And fringed with gems of silver light
The azure curtains of the sky.
And all the glittering host of stars,
Stood marshall'd in their bright array,
While, far across the concave blue,
Lay stretched the spangled milky way.
And earth all beautiful and fair,
Lay tranquil as a sleeping child
Beneath a watchful parent's care;
While guardian Heav'n looked down and smiled.
The trees all bathed in tears of Night,
Seemed deck'd with gems of Ophir's gold,
And lilies, in pure vestal white
Their spotless fragrant leaves unfold.
In gentlest breath the night-winds sigh,
While fleecy clouds like Angel's wings,
Light sailing o'er the azure sky,
Their shadows cast o'er earthly things.
O who could deem that aught so fair,
So filled with beauty and perfume:
Was but a mighty sepulchre,
A vast, capacious mould'ring tomb?
Or who could deem that mis'ry dwelt
Within a paradise so fair,
That want and pain and woe and guilt
Mingled as sad companions there?
But see where yonder moonbeams creep
In that lone crevice, low and small,
And throws a struggling, sickly beam
Upon the cold, damp dungeon's wall.
See by that feeble, glimm'ring ray,
Low seated on the damp chill ground
A mother sits, whose tearful eye
Is cast in gloomy sadness round.
Beside her lies her only son:
Her lap the pillow for his head.
That son must meet the convict's doom,
When the brief hours of night have fled.
The mother speaks: "Oh see, my son,
Light breaks upon your dungeon wall!
It is a messenger to thee;
Methinks it is thy Saviour's call.
"Dost thou not feel it on thy soul?
And wilt thou not His call obey?
His blood alone can cleanse from sin,
And wash thy guilty stains away."
"Oh, Mother, yes, I feel His power,
E'en as I see yon gentle ray;
His blessed voice now says 'Thoul't be
In Paradise with me this day.'"
Joy filled this waiting mother's heart;
"Let us to God the glory give."
They knelt in humble, grateful prayer,
For Jesus bade that sinner live.
And Angels hov'ring o'er the scene,
Clapped their glad wings and flew to Heav'n
To strike anew their golden harps,
For peace on earth and sin forgiv'n.
And the rapt seraphs round the throne,
Loud anthems to the Saviour raise;
While cherubims with transport burn,
And Heav'ns high dome resounds with praise.
And when the hangman's task was done,
Joy filled the stricken mother's breast.
She felt her dear misguided son,
Through Jesus' blood, had sunk to rest.
And while she linger'd on the earth,
Glory to God was hourly given,
For that mysterious spirit's birth,
That makes the soul an heir of Heav'n.
Picture No. IV.
In agony a mother knelt
Beside her wasted pulseless child;
"Give, oh, give him back to me,"
She cried, in accents stern and wild.
That prayer was heard, the answer came:
The feeble pulse revived again;
And quick the crimson tide of life
Flowed warmly back through every vein.
Yet, though the mother saw the change,
No praise unto her God was given;
No grateful incense from that heart
Ascended up to pitying heaven.
'Twas midnight's deep and silent hour,
When nature folds her hands to sleep,
And Angels come to bathe the flowers,
With dewy tears they only weep.
She heeded not the pulse of time
That throbb'd the moments of the night,
Nor yet the early morning's dawn,
That ting'd the east with rosy light.
But with a mother's earnest eye,
Watch'd o'er her infant's peaceful rest:
Until his gentle slumber passed,
Then clasp'd him fondly to her breast.
Childhood's brief years in sin were spent;
The stubborn knee ne'er bent in prayer;
Those lips ne'er spake a Saviour's name,
"Our Father" never lingered there.
Youth's golden season, too, was passed
In wanton sports and misspent time;
And soon he stood on manhood's verge,
A hardened wretch, prepared for crime.
Though so forbidding in his mein,
He woo'd and won a gentle bride,
Who but the closer to him clung,
As darker rolled life's heaving tide.
But though an Angel shar'd the place,
There were for him no joys at home;
He left his mother and his wife,
Reckless o'er earth or sea to roar.
He stood upon a sanded deck,
With blood-red pennon floating free,
And with a daring bloody band,
Rode madly o'er the foaming sea.
The waves that lashed the coal-black hull
Were parted oft their dead to hide;
For ocean's surging, billowy foam,
Drank deeply of life's crimson tide.
He tossed a pointed dagger high,
And wore a sabre by his side;
And many a gen'rous noble one,
Beneath his powerful arm had died.
For bloody deeds of daring high,
He had won a deathless fame;
And o'er that reckless, bloody crew,
Had gained a pirate-captain's name.
And though their coffers teem'd with gold,
Their sordid souls still sighed for more:
And to procure the paltry trash
They scour'd the seas from shore to shore.
But Retribution's hour must come;
Vengeance cannot always sleep;
Justice, with her glittering sword,
Pursues them swiftly o'er the deep.
At midnight, in a dungeon lone,
An aged female knelt in prayer;
But oh, her low, sepulchral tone
Seemed fraught with anguish and despair.
"My son," she cried, "to morrow's sun
Must witness your disgraceful death;
O, seek a dying Saviour's love,
E'en with your expiring breath.
The sun of Righteousness has risen,
And o'er my path shed golden light,
And shone upon the narrow way,
That ever followed leads aright.
And I have followed to the cross,
On which a dying Saviour hung,
Bemoaned my sins with weeping eyes,
Besought his grace with suppliant tongue.
He witness'd all my sorrowing tears,
And heard my suppliant prayer in Heaven;
Then sweetly spake with cheering voice,
"Daughter, thy sins are all forgiven."
Prostrate in dust before His throne,
My heart's pure worship then I gave;
Sweetly my ransomed spirit sang,
Jesus Christ has power to save."
Then spake the son:--"Talk not to me,
I heeded not weak woman's tears;
But when I sail'd upon the sea,
I quickly silenc'd all their fears.
Free was my trade, my arm was free,
And human blood I freely spilt;
And many an aged breast like thine,
Has sheath'd my dagger to its hilt.
Our blood-red pennon floated free,
Our blood-stained deck its witness gave;
Blood, human blood, was on our hands,
And mingled oft with ocean's wave."
Shudd'ring, the mother cried: "My son,
Though you are steeped in human gore,
There is a fountain filled with blood,
That can your purity restore.
Your Angel wife bath'd in that flood,
And proved a Saviour's promise true,
And when she gently pass'd from earth
She left her dying love for you;
And bade you seek a Saviour's face,
And by His mercy be forgiven,
And by that new and living way,
Seek an inheritance in Heaven."
"Then she is dead," he mournful cried,
"'Tis better thus, for see the sun
With rosy light now streaks the east:
And ere it sets my race is run.
Firm would I stand upon the drop,
Meet firmly my approaching doom;
But death is not an endless sleep,
And justice lives beyond the tomb.
Yet this conviction comes too late;
My soul is lost,--I cannot pray;
Forget your son--forget my fate,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way."
In agony the mother pressed
To her sad heart her guilty son;
But yet, like incense from that heart,
Sweetly arose, "thy will be done."
No hands were folded on his breast.
They laid him not within the tomb;
The surgeon took him from the drop,
To meet a more disgraceful doom.
And such is life, whose ebb and flow
Heaves the deep sea of human mind;
True happiness they only know,
Whose every wish's to Heaven resigned.
The History of a Household.
Early in the winter of 18--, there was a heavy rain, accompanied by
high winds, which swelled the waters of the Sandy river to an amazing
height, and every moving thing upon its surface was borne away with
the rapidity of lightning. Standing upon its margin was Frank Somers,
his eyes fixed with intense interest upon a frail raft that was
plunging and heaving among the boiling waves. Upon it stood a man
about the middle of life, with an athletic form and a determined
expression of countenance, his eyes fixed fiercely upon a brace of
logs that had been left reposing on the quiet bosom of the waters,
waiting their turn to be sawed into boards. It was a valuable lot,
and would bring considerable of an income to the owner, therefore he
pursued it over the rapid current, hoping to arrest its course ere
it reached the falls. Beside him stood a young boy on the raft,
his cheeks blanched to marble whiteness, and his dark eyes fixed
imploringly upon his father as they danced along over the furious
wave, every bound conveying them so much nearer the falls that
thundered on like a mighty cataract, heaving up a cloud of spray, then
foaming and dashing off to join the mad waters below. O, it was a
fearful sight. On, on went the logs, and on, on went the raft, the
reckless man exerting himself to his utmost to stop their progress by
endeavoring to reach them with a long pole he held in his hand.
Willie Somers raised his pleading eyes to his face (and many long
years after did their expression haunt him), "O Mr. Lambert, please
don't go any farther, we shall be over the falls."
"Pshaw, child," answered Mr. Lambert, rather sternly, "I must save my
logs at any risk."
The frantic father screamed from the shore,--"Mr. Lambert, save
yourselves and let the logs go.
"You are lost, you are lost!" cried many voices, as a log bounded upon
a giant wave, leaping over the cataract hurrying on through the waters
below. The strong man made a desperate effort and reached the land,
but the poor boy upon the raft was precipitated over the falls into
the gulf below. As the agonized father stood gazing with breathless
horror upon the sight, the form of his dear son arose once more,
standing erect upon the bounding billows, with his arms widely
extended, and his eyes glaring from their sockets. But in, a moment he
was hid from view, beneath the heaving mass of waters. All effort to
find him proved unavailing.
The next spring his body was found thirty miles distant down the
river, having laid in the water over three months. He was sent to his
friends. The father was almost beside himself, although a man slow
to anger; but he turned when his son sank from his sight groaning in
spirit, and shut himself up in his chamber, not daring to see Mr.
Lambert till his wrath was in some degree abated. He secluded himself
in his room four days, suffering intensely, and then went forth among
men an altered man, for the fearful death of his son had made an
impression upon his mind never to be obliterated by time.
He was a man of sorrow, having separated from his family on account of
domestic troubles, and this, his only son, was his greatest comfort.
His eldest daughter Matilda, was married to a man in the same
neighborhood, and had been a witness of her brother's sudden death.
She was young in years, but insidious consumption was sapping the
secret springs of life, and that awful sight gave her a shock from
which she never recovered. The wretched father soon left that part of
the country and journeyed to a far distant southern city, and far, far
away in a land of strangers, they made his grave. No dear child was
near to wipe the dew of death from his noble brow, or to minister to
his necessities, or to close his weary eyes as they cast their sad
glances upon a world that had been to him a world of trial.
Matilda gradually failed. She had given her heart with her hand in
early youth, to a young man of moderate circumstances, but prudent and
industrious; and by these means they procured a comfortable living,
and with this they were contented. She united her industry with that
of her husband, and her good management gave a neat and almost an
elegant appearance to their little cottage home, which peeped out like
a bird's nest from the trees that surrounded it. Charles Abbot was a
happy man, happy in the consciousness of well doing, happy in the love
of his wife, and in the caresses of two little boys, the pledges of
their united love.
They had been married six years when the death of the dear brother
cast so deep a shadow over their hitherto happy home. Matilda's
failing health scarce attracted attention, it was so gradual.
A slight cough, a deeper rose upon the cheek, and a brighter fire in
the eye, were almost its only indications. It was a calm evening in
the early part of June, as Charles and Matilda sauntered forth to
inhale the sweet fragrance of the evening breeze that fanned the
leaves of the trees, and wafted the odors of many flowers upon its
downy pinions, and rippling the now quiet waters of the Sandy river
that lay in peaceful repose, its glassy surface reflecting the mild
radiance of the setting sun.
Before them ran their little children in all their sportive gaiety,
clapping their hands with joyous glee, as they watched the progress of
a little boat that was plying its way across the river, and listening
to the boatman's whistle, and the splashing of the oar as it dipped
the silver waves. The towering mountains rose high above their heads,
and "Father Abraham" looked as though it were about to fall and crush
them as they seated themselves at its base, to gaze upon the prospect
before them. Charles adjusted Matilda's shawl as she seated herself by
his side, with a sharp cough.
He glanced anxiously toward her, but became reassured as the deep
crimson upon her cheek and the bright sparkle of her eye met his gaze.
She sat looking pensively towards the river for some time, with her
cheek resting upon her husband's shoulder, and occasionally watching
the many gambols of her children as they sported at their feet. At
length she said: "Charles, how deceitful to me looks the placid bosom
of yonder rippling stream, as it reposes in quiet beauty, reminding me
of the stream of time, on the ocean of human life when unmoved by the
tumultuous storms of passion that so often agitate the human breast,
and cause the waves to rise and the billows to swell before the
surging storm. Scarce six months have passed since that stream swept
by in giant fury, and poor Willie was buried in its angry bosom. O,
Charles, do you know I cannot look upon that river without hearing
again his last agonizing shriek, and seeing again his pale fearful
gaze as he looked death in the face, for well must the dear boy have
known that his doom was sealed; and oh, what agony must have filled
his breast as he cast his last gaze upon us, imploring our assistance,
and yet feeling it would be vain."
"We will leave this place, as it awakens unpleasant memories."
"It is best so," continued she; "Even now the spirit of my dear
brother seems hovering over me, whispering of the spirit land. But
Charles, I have something to say to you of importance."
The husband looked earnestly and tenderly into the face of his wife,
and she continued,
"Perhaps, my dear husband, you are not aware of my failing health, but
I feel the necessity of having assistance in my household duties, and
have thought perhaps it would be better to send for sister Ellen to
come and stay with me a while."
"Certainly, my dear, certainly; I will go after her to-morrow; forgive
me, Matilda, that I have not thought of this before, but I think if
you are relieved of part of your labor for a while, your health will
improve."
The poor wife smiled sadly, and pulling down a stalk laden with buds
from an adjacent rose bush that stood waving on a flowery bank beside
them, and pointing to a crimson bud enclosed in its casing of green,
she said, "Charles, is not that a beautiful bud?"
He looked at it and answered in the affirmative.
"Do you think it will ever bloom?"
"I see no reason why it should not, it looks as promising as any one
upon the stem."
"But look a little closer, do you see that little worm gnawing at the
very heart and sapping the secret springs of its life?"
Her husband gazed tearfully upon her, and she felt she was understood;
and then pressed her to his heart in a passionate, fond embrace, and
spoke words of comfort, and of hope and of life.
The wife smiled faintly upon him, and replied:
"Even now there is such a weariness in my limbs that I do not feel as
though I scarcely can reach our little cottage home, where we have
spent so many happy hours together."
They called their little Frank, who bore his grandfather's name, and
Willie, for the youngest was named for her dear brother, and
pursued their way silently to the house, each wrapped in their own
meditations.
That night, when Mr. Abbot closed his family Bible, and they all knelt
together to implore God's mercy, fervent was the supplication that
arose from the lips of the husband and father, as he besought grace
for every time of need. The heart of the husband was full as he
prayed our Father to stay the disease of his dear wife, and earnestly
repeated, "if it be possible let this cup pass from me;" but after
wrestling long, that peace came that passeth understanding--that peace
that the God that heareth prayer bestows upon his children when they
bow themselves before Him, and cast their burden upon Him who careth
for us, and ere he arose from his knees he was made to say, "Thy will,
not mine be done;" and they retired to rest beneath the shadow of the
Almighty, and felt that his watchful eye was upon them during the
silent hours of the night.
Early the following morning Mr. Abbot started, to go down the river
(as was the usual phrase) to Matilda's grandfather's, where Annie and
Ellen, the two younger sisters resided, having both left the residence
of their mother some time previous. Annie, then eighteen, had the sole
management of the family, as her grandmother was very feeble, and
unable to assist her at all. She was rather surprised at Mr. Abbot's
arrival, and quite alarmed when she heard the import of it. It was
immediately settled that Ellen should go with him, and preparation
was accordingly made for their departure early the following morning,
every thing being attended to by the careful Annie, who supplied the
place of mother to the younger sister, who was now about sixteen.
Suffice it to say, the assistance was not productive of the
anticipated good; Matilda's health declined rapidly, and it became
evident to all who looked upon her, that she was passing away to the
spirit land. The struggle in her husband's mind was over, and he felt
a pious resignation to the will of God.
Frequently did they converse together upon the joys of the heavenly
world, and select such passages of Scripture as are calculated to
prepare the soul for its upward flight.
"O Charles," said Matilda, one beautiful autumn day, as the yellow sun
shed his mild radiance over the decaying face of nature, "support me
by your strong arm while we pass through the garden to the river by
the nearest way. I feel quite refreshed to-day, and would look once
more upon that restless stream that is ever hurrying on 'to meet old
Ocean.'"
He placed his arm lovingly round her waist, and almost bore her to the
spot, scarcely feeling her weight, so fragile had she become. Frank
and Willie accompanied them with their happy countenances and glad
voices, and plucking a bunch of fading flowers, presented them to
their mother.
She watched them with a tranquil smile, and rewarded them with a kiss
as she took the proffered boquet from the uplifted hands of her dear
children. Frank was a noble boy, with dark brown hair and coal black
eyes, inheriting his mother's beauty. Willie was a feeble child, with
hair of lighter brown and eyes of azure blue, that betrayed a noble
soul in their very depths.
The mother called him to her, and taking his little hand in hers,
pressed them lightly to her forehead and then to her lips: looked
earnestly into his eyes as though she would penetrate their very
depths, then tenderly said:
"Willie, we are very near to heaven here; it is the music of angels
that whispers through the waving trees, and it is the motion of their
wings that sways their branches so gently. O Willie, will you meet me
in heaven?"
"Frank, come and kiss me; we are very near heaven; will you too meet
your mother there? Charles, it does not make me sad now to see the
place where dear brother Willie passed over the falls. It looks
pleasant now, so near heaven, and his gentle spirit says, 'sweet
sister, come;' surely the things of earth are passing away. Charles,
the dear boys will comfort you when I am gone, and perchance my spirit
may meet with yours in sweet communings, and soon we shall meet in
heaven to spend an eternity together. Charles, pray in this beautiful
place. O, those towering mountains apeak the majesty of their Creator."
"Ellen, dear, 'remember your Creator in the days of your youth;' and
oh Charles, pray that we all may meet in heaven."
He knelt and offered up the prayer of faith, but while he concluded,
there was a pressure of the hand he held in his, the white lips
parted, the head fell heavily upon his shoulder; there was a faint
whisper "Jesus, receive my spirit," and the mother was an Angel.
The boys were overcome with grief. Charles and Ellen too, were
awestruck.
He bore his lovely burden back to the house and wrapped her in the
habiliments of the grave.
It was a mournful day in autumn, when a sad procession bore her to her
last resting place, and laid her down by the side of her much lamented
brother. The appropriate text, "He that believeth on me shall never
die," comforted the grief-stricken mourners. She passed away early in
life, ere the sun of twenty-four summers had shone upon her pathway.
Charles mourned his loss, but not as one without hope. And as he
turned from the grave to his home and crushed the blighted leaves
of autumn beneath his feet, he felt that he too, was passing over
withered hopes back to the battle field of human life.
He cast one long, lingering glance upon Matilda's grave, then looked
fervently to heaven, and pressed on to "life and to duty with
undismayed heart."
Ellen soon returned to her grand-parents, and a sister of Mr. Abbot,
losing her husband about the same time his wife died, came to reside
with him, and thus the husband and children were provided for; and
although the shadow of a great grief rested upon them, and there was
a vacancy in their household, they learned to be happy in the present
good, and by living so as to join the dear departed ones in a happier
world.
It was again June--mild, lovely June. The air was filled with the
sweet music of the birds that carolled their evening lay, and seemed
pouring forth a sweet song of gratitude to Heaven, for that delightful
day. Gentle breezes sighed through the leafy trees soft as the first
whispering of young love, giving them a trembling motion, like a
bashful maiden as she blushingly listens to it. Beautiful looked the
little village of W----, as the setting sun cast his slanting rays
upon it, tinging the leaves with deeper green, and burnishing the
little stream with gems of sparkling gold. The tall lilac bushes were
filled with large red and white blossoms, and as they slightly nodded
their graceful heads before the passing zephyr, might have been
fancied to be giving a cold greeting to some humbler flower that grew
by their side.
In a large, square, old fashioned house, encircled by a neat white
fence, which separated it from the street, might be seen a young girl,
occupied in what New England housewives would call setting the house
in order, and very carefully are all things arranged, the crockery
being nicely washed and wiped to a shining brightness, stands neatly
arranged in their proper places, on shelves scoured to a snowy
whiteness. The floor is nicely swept, every chair carefully dusted,
and set back in its proper place, and the broom and the brush hung
back upon their accustomed nail. The young mistress stood looking
round the apartment with the air of one who feels they have
accomplished well the designated task, when she started upon hearing
her own name called, and in a moment Edward Merton stood by her side.
"Annie, come, Annie, just don your sun-bonnet, and walk with us to the
Island."
Suiting the action to the word, he placed her bonnet upon her head,
and drew her willing arm in his, and they soon joined the group of gay
companions that stood chatting and laughing at the door. Well did the
sable dress that Annie wore become her fine complexion, for the rose
blended with the lily upon her cheek, and beauty sat triumphant upon
her ruby lips and sparkled in her dark flashing eyes. But recent
events had cast an expression of melancholy over her countenance,
which for a moment had a sobering influence over her young companions
when she joined them.
Edward and Annie lingered a little behind the rest, talking of their
future prospects, and of the coming separation, as Edward was soon to
leave for Boston, where a more desirable situation was offered him
than could be obtained in the village.
"My increased income, my dear Annie, will enable me the sooner to
claim you for my bride; true, the separation will be painful, but I
am determined never to marry till I can commence house-keeping
genteelly."
She looked earnestly in his face and said, "Edward, it is home where
the heart is, and it seems to me we should not spurn a present for a
future good. This life is short and uncertain, and I feel a gloomy
foreboding when I think of your departure, I have been so accustomed
to seeing you every day, to leaning on your arm in every walk, and
going so constantly with you everywhere, that I shall miss you sadly
when you are away; but," she continued, smiling through her tears, "I
suppose I must turn nun" and live in seclusion during your absence?"
"O, do not do that," he replied, smiling; "It will be but for a short
time, and it is said, 'absence lends enchantment to the view.'"
"O, dear," cried Melinda, a blue eyed beauty, leaning confidently upon
the arm of Theodore Stanley, "I should think Ed and Ann were saying
their parting adieus, they look so sad."
Upon this the eyes of the whole group were turned upon them, and
affecting a gaiety they did not feel, they soon hastened forward and
joined in the general conversation till they came to the place of
their destination.
What was called the Island, was a point of land in the edge of a large
pond, or lake it might be called, as it was six miles long and three
or four wide. It was separated from the main land in low water, by a
small stream that was crossed by a large stone placed in the centre,
for a stepping stone; but in high water it could be reached only with
boats.
The little party crossed this stream, and seated themselves upon the
grassy knolls, beneath the giant oaks that spread their huge branches
around them, for they were the growth of centuries. Loud came the
chorus of the feathered tribe, as they sang their evening hymns before
retiring to their nests, which were very abundant in that shady
retreat, which afforded them protection from the truant school boys.
Annie reclined against the trunk of one of the largest trees, seated
by Edward's side, when suddenly looking up, she said,
"O, Edward, let me have your knife."
He reached it to her, and she immediately commenced carving his name
in the tough bark of the tree, against which she was leaning.
Many followed her example, and many fairy fingers were busy carving
the names of their favorite friend upon the trunks of the aged trees
that surrounded them.
"I shall cut it deep," said Annie, "so that it will live forever; and
I hope there will be neither mould nor moss upon it, to hide it from
view, as I shall love to come and look upon when you are far away."
"Ann," said one, "we will come here in the long summer days, and weave
chaplets of the bright leaves of the old oak, and twine them round our
lord's name."
This occupied their time till the shadows of evening fell around them,
and it was dark when they reached their homes.
It was midnight--dark, dreary midnight. Black clouds hung in huge,
portentous masses over, the vault of heaven. The forky lightning
flashed, and the deep toned thunder reverberated peal on peal, while
the shrieking winds rocked the tree tops, and poured their wild melody
upon the ear. It was nature arrayed in awful sublimity, displaying the
majesty of God.
Seated on a low chair, in the simple little parlor of Annie, sat
Edward, with a pillow upon his breast, supporting the head of the poor
girl, whose breathing was laborious, and her cheeks flushed with an
unusual glow, as she leaned against him for support. This was the only
situation in which she could breathe, as there was an abscess forming
in her throat. Her physician said she must sit bending forward, as
there was great danger of its producing strangulation, should it break
when she was in any other position, which he thought probably it might
do before morning. Edward, therefore, could not think of leaving her;
but kept his patient watch by her side during the night, alleviating
her sufferings by every means in his power, speaking tender words of
constancy and love, and picturing long years of connubial felicity
after he had won a fortune in the distant city.
Suddenly there came a brighter flash, a deeper crash, and it seemed
for the moment that the house was immersed in a lurid glare of light.
Annie, screaming, started to her feet, then fell back, fainting, and
black in the face with suffocation.
Edward thought, as he caught her falling form, that all was over; but
after a short struggle she recovered, and the crisis of her disease
had past, and she could now breathe easier than she done for several
days.
She had taken cold during their stay on the Island, and had been sick
from that time. The storm had spent its fury, and the clouds had
passed away, leaving the blue canopy of heaven studded with golden
stars, and all nature was refreshed by the rain that had fallen during
the shower.
Annie dropped into a sweet slumber, the first that had visited her
eyes for several nights; and Edward revolved many things in his mind,
as he held her to his heart. Would she remain constant during his
absence, and meet him with the same affectionate greeting? What would
be the changes that would take place in that time? for he felt there
must be changes. And, last of all, would his feelings be the same
towards her? truly, of this there was no doubt--was she not his own
sweet Annie, who for three years had been his affianced bride, and,
surely, there could be no change in him. But Edward Merton had not
then explored all the secret chambers of his own heart, and realized
not that it was an unwarranted ambition that, even then, was urging
him to leave the object of his affection, postpone his projected
marriage, and leave the friends of his youth where competence rewarded
his toil, for the purpose of acquiring wealth in a land of strangers.
The golden sun gemmed the drops of the previous night with the
diamond's lustre, and the voice of active life awoke in the village,
ere Annie awoke from her slumber, exclaiming,
"Why, Edward, is it possible I have slept so late? but wearied nature
was quite exhausted."
"You look finely refreshed," said he, giving her the parting kiss;
"but I must away to my shop."
Annie recovered rapidly, and soon the time came for Edward's
departure.
He could only speak of the future, seeming to think little of the past
or present.
"I shall write to you often, Annie, and you are mine till death do us
part, just as much as though Parson Bates had told us so."
A faint smile rested for a moment upon the lip of Annie--then faded
away, leaving a sadder expression than before. There was a melancholy
foreboding at her heart, and she at least did not feel willing to
sacrifice present happiness for future wealth; and she feared the
ambition of Edward would not be easily satisfied. But she strove to
subdue the feeling, and when their lips united in the parting kiss,
a pang shot though her heart, and "it is his last kiss," passed
involuntarily through her thoughts.
She turned hastily away to wipe the tears from her eyes, and bury her
grief in her own bosom.
Edward, after a prosperous journey, arrived safely at his place of
destination, was settled in a lucrative business, even exceeding his
most sanguine expectations, and was constant in his promise of writing
to Annie.
When winter returned with his winds, the aged grandfather was stricken
down by death. He fell like a sturdy oak before the stroke of the
destroyer, for he too had buffetted many a winter's storm, having
lived beyond the age of man. They bore him to his grave, when the
winds of winter blew fiercely round, and the drifting snow almost
obstructed their passage to the grave yard. He was deposited in the
place alotted him, and left to his repose, with the bleak winds of
winter pelting fiercely upon his grave. He heeded them not--that weary
sleeper, tired of looking upon the world, with all its changes.
Capt. Somers settled in that country before the woodman's axe had
felled the forest trees; and when they must pursue their way to
Gardiner by spotted trees, and frequently did herds of Indians wrapped
in their blankets, call at their door and exchange the moose meat
which they had dried, for beef, bread and other eatables.
These were times that tried men's souls, for during the war they were
frequently alarmed by hearing that unfriendly Indians were coming upon
them, which would fill the early settlers with dismay. So it might
well be said, as they laid the aged man to rest, he had seen changes,
for truly, had he seen "the wilderness made to bud and blossom like
the rose," and the temple of the living God supplying the place of the
Indian's wigwam.
The grandson, who had come in possession of the property, decided to
break up house-keeping, and placing his grandmother in the family of
a son, soon accomplished his purpose, leaving Annie and Ellen to look
out for themselves. Ellen went to reside with her mother, who had
erected a little cottage in a distant village.
This was a severe trial to Annie; she scarcely knew what course to
pursue; but, procuring board with an intimate friend, she entered a
cotton factory with a number of her young friends, thinking that would
be a respectable, and an easy way of obtaining her livelihood.
She wrote an affectionate letter to Edward, informing him of the
change in her circumstances and her present occupation, saying she did
not think the occupation would diminish her worth, or tarnish her good
name.
He answered it by requesting her to leave her employment, and
offering to pay her board if she would do so; but she preferred being
independent, and thought she would remain and earn what she could to
help herself; and there the matter dropped, she working on two weary
years. Often did she visit the Island, gaze upon the name of Edward,
and recall the scenes of that and many other evenings.
Many of the companions of that evening had united their destinies
for life--many had left the village, and some had closed their eyes
forever upon the things of earth, and entered upon the untried scenes
of eternity.
It was the close of a dreary autumn day, when the withered leaves
rustled before the cold chilly winds, and the dust was hurried on in
eddying torrents, that there came a whispered report to the ear of
Annie that Edward had returned from Boston. Her heart beat violently,
and she could scarcely stand upon her feet, as she contemplated the
pleasure of seeing him again, after so long an absence. Many were the
cordial greetings she received from her merry companions, upon the
occasion. She hurried home, eager with expectation, wondering, as she
judged him by the tumultuous beatings of her own heart, he did not
seek her sooner. As she passed on to her boarding place, she saw him
standing at a distance, in conversation with his brother, and although
his back was towards her, she mentally exclaimed,
"It is indeed my own Edward."
She made her toilet with great care, and dressed herself in such
colors as were pleasing to him, arranging her hair in the way that
he had so often praised. The fire diffused a cheerful glow round the
comfortable apartment. Annie seated herself by the window, momentarily
expecting his arrival. She took up a book and tried to read. Hour
passed after hour, and still she listened in vain for his well known
footsteps. The clock struck nine; the fire had gone out upon the
hearth, and the autumnal gale whistled mournfully round and swayed the
branches of a leafless tree that stood beneath her window.
Annie arose, extinguished her light, and again seated herself by the
window, leaning her cheek upon her hand, with her elbow resting upon
the window stool, she sat looking back into the silent chambers of the
past.
The wan, declining moon looked coldly down upon her, as it peeped out
behind
--"the broken parted clouds,
Brightening their dark brown sides."
She sat, pale and motionless, till the stars faded from the sky, and
the golden king of day announced his coming, by streaking the east
with his herald beams. She was accosted by her companions, with many
compliments upon her looks, as they joked her upon the return of her
lover, and concluded by sympathising with her in his early departure
for L., the residence of his father. Little thought these careless
ones how deep a wound they were inflicting upon the heart of the
sensitive Annie. She never told her grief, but strove to hide her
feelings in her own bosom. She could not think he had forsaken her,
but often would she think it was indeed his last kiss.
About this time the owners of the factory concluded their profits did
not amount to what they anticipated, and therefore, dismissed their
help and shut up their factory.
The circumstances of Edward and Annie had now become generally known.
She said little, only affirming he should have all the honor there was
to be had, for she had much rather have the name of being deceived,
than keeping company with a man so long she did not love; but every
one, of course, would express their opinion, and so the village talk
went on.
Perhaps it was with less regret upon this account, that Annie prepared
to leave the place, to live with an aunt that resided a few miles
distant. She collected together her little stock of goods, which she
had prepared for house-keeping, consisting of table linen, bedding
and such like things that the careful housewife knows so well how to
appreciate.
Among the many and beautiful bed quilts pieced by her industrious
fingers, was one set together in what is called Job's trouble, with
many a grave warning ringing in her ears, accompanied by an ominous
shake of the head, and an assurance she never would marry Edward if
she pieced her quilt together so. She sighed now as she unfolded it,
and stood for a moment gazing upon its beauty. Then smoothly replacing
the folds, and laying it in a large chest, she sighed as she said,
"Indeed, I shall never marry him."
Years had passed, and many suitors had sighed for the hand of Annie,
and she had consented to become the wife of Alfred Lombard, after
succeeding years should more fully obliterate the remembrance of
past disappointment. He was a young man of good family, and handsome
exterior, and though Annie did not love him with the ardor of a first
love, still she respected his character, and admired his virtues.
His estimable mother too, had shown much affection for the fatherless
Annie, and she had spent many months beneath their hospitable roof,
supplying to them the place of a daughter, while they conferred upon
her all the affection of parents, and looking wishfully forward to the
time when their marriage should take place.
Annie was schooling her heart to forget the past; but some remembered
word, or dearly loved token would awaken the old grief in her bosom,
and bring the scalding tear drops to her eye lids.
It was a bright afternoon in early autumn, that Annie sat sewing by
a window in the luxuriously furnished parlor of Colonel Stuart, her
uncle, who was the practicing physician of the village, that she was
started by a loud ringing of the door bell. Supposing it was some one
after her uncle, she paid little heed till she heard her own name
called, and in a moment after Edward Merton stood before her. He
extended his hand, exclaiming, "My Annie." There was a marble paleness
upon her cheek, and with a trembling voice she saluted him. He said
as he was returning from Augusta he thought he would take that
opportunity to return her letters, and take his, at the same time
drawing a small package from his pocket. She took them with a
trembling hand, but strove to appear calm, for she saw he was watching
her with Argus eyes to fathom the secret recesses of her soul.
She entered her chamber and took from a small box, which was a gift
from Edward, those dear old letters, over which she had wept so often,
and which breathed tender tones of love and affection, and spoke of
happy wedded days in the perspective.
But now she must part with these too. She pressed them once more to
her heart, and entering the room, presented them to him. He glanced at
her earnestly as he took them from her, saying as he did so,
"You do not look well, Miss Somers."
She colored slightly, and replied,
"O yes sir, I am quite well."
"I suppose," continued he, "you have heard that I was about being
married."
"I have," was her brief answer.
"It is a mistake, I have no idea of it," and wishing her a hasty good
afternoon he took his leave without any reference to or explanation of
past events.
Annie sat like a statue after his departure, crushing the letters in
her hands, gazing upon vacancy. A marble paleness overspread her face,
and she felt now that her cup of misery was indeed full. She laid
aside her work, and locking herself in her chamber gave vent to her
feelings in a passionate flood of tears. She tried to conquer her
feelings and summon her woman's pride to her aid, but it would not
do. "Cruel Edward," she mentally exclaimed, "you might have spared me
this, or told me the cause of this neglect and coldness." And as she
reflected upon the trapping of wealth with which he was surrounded,
and the splendor of his equipage, she asked herself, "can it be that
love of gold is the cause?" Echo answered "can it be?"
As the weary night drew to a close, the tempest in the poor girl's
bosom began to subside. But as the heaving ocean bears upon its waves
plank after plank of the ship-wrecked vessel that has been stranded
upon its tempest tossed bosom, so did the surging waves of memory
bring back one incident after another in her past life, and picture
the tender looks and the tender tones of the unfaithful Edward, during
the many long years she had regarded him as her future husband. To him
she had yielded up her heart's best affections. For his sake she had
rejected many an advantageous offer of marriage.
She met the family in the morning with quite a composed countenance,
but with a sad heart.
In the afternoon she went to her uncle's to visit her grandmother,
thinking, perhaps, change of place might produce some change in her
feelings. It was a delightful afternoon. The sun shed that soft
subdued light so peculiar to the season, over the face of nature,
which seemed rather approximating to maturity than verging to decay.
The trees were robed in their deepest green, while the early ripe
fruit hung temptingly upon their branches, or lay scattered upon the
ground beneath. Scarce a breeze agitated the trembling leaf or cooled
the fever upon her cheek. "O," thought she, as she passed along, "the
howling of the wintry storms would better correspond with my feelings
than this holy calm." She, in her agony, had not yet learned to bathe
her restless spirit in the fountain of Jiving waters, or to listen
to that voice that said, "Peace, be still," and the winds and waves
obeyed; therefore she had no "shelter from the windy storm and
tempest."
She was startled by hearing some one near her repeating in a low,
musical voice,
"Little Hannah Pease, little Hannah Pease; old Ben Thornton, old
Ben Thornton," and looking up, perceived near her a female, loosely
wrapped in a large white woolen blanket, which was her only clothing.
Her head and feet were entirely bare. Her black hair was cut short,
and her weather beaten countenance retained traces of great beauty.
She stood courtesying and smiling to a rock. As Annie reached her
side, she muttered, "Old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton, you deceived
poor Betsey Lotrop--you deceived poor Betsey Lotrop."
Annie gazed upon her with pity, saying mentally,
"A poor victim of unfaithful love; I hope the fire that is feeding
upon the springs of my life may never destroy my reason," and at that
moment she seemed to feel the need of seeking aid from a higher power,
and for the first time the prayer for guidance and direction went
up to God, in earnest supplication, and our Father, who pitieth his
children and seeth the returning prodigal afar off, breathed peace
into her troubled spirit, and thus commenced the first dawnings of a
new and better life in the heart of this poor lonely one.
Poor Betsy stood curtesying and talking to the rock, till Annie walked
some distance from her, when gathering her blanket a little more
closely about her, and walking rapidly forward, soon overtook her,
and looking earnestly in her face, with a low, gurgling laugh, she
continued,
"Poor little Hannah Pease, poor little Hannah Pease--perhaps, if you
had married him, you wouldn't been any better off. This face was a
beautiful face once; it was the handsomest face that ever was seen;
look at it now--how would you find it out? Old Ben Thornton, old Ben
Thornton," and fetching another laugh, she sprang over the fence, and
was soon lost from sight among the trees.
Annie soon reached her uncle's, where she met with a cordial
reception, and she felt that she had learned a salutary lesson from
the poor lunatic. The next afternoon, she and her cousin Edith
wandered forth into an adjoining field, to enjoy a stroll beneath the
cloudless sky, and inhale the sweet breath of autumn, which was borne
upon the gentle gales. Nature was at rest. No stormy wind ruffled her
bosom or agitated its surface. Her rich store of fruits lay spread
out in great abundance, and the whitened fields stood ready for the
harvest.
They conversed upon indifferent subjects till they came to a little
silver stream, threading its silent way through the silken grass. They
crossed and seating themselves beneath the shade of a thrifty apple
tree, picked up some of the delicious fruit that lay scattered in rich
profusion around them.
"O, Annie, I forgot to tell you I received a visit from Dora,
yesterday; she is very unhappy on account of Charles Stanley's
conduct. She did not wish to go to the ball, on account of her
father's death, and he waited upon Eveline Houghton--then left for
Turner without calling to see Dora."
"Indeed, I thought they were to be married this fall?"
"Such has been the report; but as she has not seen or heard from him
since, she does not know how to construe his conduct towards her."
"When Orville was returning from his eastern tour, he came across
Charles, in Portland, and rode with him a short distance. He sent Dora
a present by him, but told him nothing of the transaction. She came to
me in hopes of hearing something more definite from him."
"How does the poor girl bear it?"
"She is very unhappy, and says she is not ashamed to have people know
she had been deceived; but many tell her they wouldn't mind anything
about it."
"They may say so," said Annie, raising her dark eyes to Edith, while a
deeper flush suffused her cheek; "but, Edith, I tell you, it will wear
and wear upon the secret springs of life, till it bears its victim to
the grave."
Edith gazed upon her with such an anxious, pitying expression, that
she felt she had betrayed her own secret, and bending her head to hide
her blushes, she picked up the mellow, golden colored fruit that lay
around her, and commenced rolling them down into the stream that
flowed at their feet. At that moment poor crazy Betsey Thornton came
bounding over the stone wall that separated that from an adjoining
enclosure, and gathering her blanket about her, stood curtesying and
laughing before them, repeating as she did so,
"Poor little Hannah Pease, poor little Hannah Pease--old Ben Thornton,
old Ben Thornton."
"Take some apples, Mrs. Thornton," said Edith, as she regarded her
with a sad expression of countenance.
She took them, curtesied, and with her low, gurgling laugh, leaped
over the wall, and went muttering on to rock or tree, or any other
object that came in her way.
"Edith," said Annie, "what poor Blanche is that, for a poor love sick
maiden, I am sure she must be? As she came with her large blanket
fluttering over the wall, it reminded me of Sir Walter Scott's poor
Blanche, that
"Stood hovering o'er the hollow way,
And fluttered wide her mantle gray."
Edith smiled as she replied,
"You are right--and yet you are wrong in your surmises; she is not the
victim of a faithless lover, but the victim of a faithless husband."
"But," replied Annie, "a victim to man's inconstancy, at any rate?"
"Oh, yes, Annie, that is what all the poets sing."
"And with all this before you, Edith, are you not afraid to unite your
destiny with Orville Somerset?"
"I sometimes fear to; but oh, if he is ever to prove untrue, may it be
before we are united by the solemn covenant of marriage."
"Perhaps it would be better, but I think it will never come to you,
Edith."
This conversation led to a full disclosure of Edward's conduct, and
Annie unbosomed herself more fully to her cousin than she had ever
done before. She sympathised with her in her feelings, saying,
"O, Annie, should Orville serve me so, I do not think I could bear it
as well as you do."
Annie, smiling faintly, said,
"But the end is not yet, Edith."
The sun had finished his journey in the sky, and twilight was
gathering around them, when, with arms entwined round each other, they
pursued their way back, conversing upon the disappointments of life,
and the misery that is produced by inconstancy and faithlessness.
"Mrs. Thornton," continued Edith, "was a beauty, as you may even now
perceive by its traces upon her weather beaten countenance, and
her position in society was far above Mr. Thornton; but won by his
addresses, she consented to become his wife. They came to this
country, among strangers, to an humble home, where she suffered many
privations, which she bore with woman's fortitude. But when her
husband became an inebriate, and treated her with moroseness and
brutality, reason forsook its throne, and she became a maniac. Hannah
Pease was an intimate friend of hers, who seems to be ever in her
mind, perhaps because she used her influence to prevent the unhappy
union."
"O," said Annie, "when I reflect upon the misery that sometimes exists
in the married state, I almost feel it is well to be situated as I
am now, as to be united, even to Edward. But then, the cruel
disappointment rankles deep."
"And how many men," said Edith, "make the indifference, the ill
temper, or the untidiness of a wife an excuse for their intemperance,
tavern-haunting, and all their neglect of home. But it does seem to me
that it devolves as much upon a man, to contribute to home happiness
as upon a woman. But many men of my acquaintance seem ever to cast a
shadow upon the sunlight of home, and their wives and children shrink
from their presence. Is this the wife's fault?"
"I think not. If so, I think the stronger yield very readily to the
weaker, and certainly should receive our sympathy."
"But, Annie, how much there is in this little world of ours, that is
mysterious and beyond our comprehension, and nothing so much so as
the want of union in the marriage relation. For there the greatest
fondness is often turned to the greatest inattention. But, oh, may
Heaven save me from such a lot!"
By this time the cousins reached the house, and soon retiring to rest,
Edith was wandering in the land of dreams, while Annie lay busied in
thought, counting the hours of night, and seeking to look "beyond the
narrow bounds of time, and fix her hopes of happiness on heaven."
The rougher blasts of autumn blew more fiercely round, and the dry
and withered leaves fell from the trees, and drifted along before the
chilly winds, while the black passing clouds cast a deep shadow over
the face of decaying nature. Everything bespeaking the return of
dreary, desolating winter.
Annie had faded with the leaves of autumn--she had heard of Edward's
union with a young lady of great wealth and beauty soon after his
visit to her, and she felt grieved, when she reflected upon the
unmanly manner in which he had conducted towards her. She had
conversed freely with Alfred, and laying all the circumstances of the
case before him, told him she should respect him while she lived, but
was fully sensible her blighted heart never could know another earthly
love.
"And while the lamp of life continues to burn," she added, "I wish
to direct my thoughts to Heaven, and prepare for that change that is
before me. Death, Alfred, will soon claim me for his bride; he, at
least, will not prove recreant to his trust."
Alfred kissed her pale cheek, and looked tenderly upon her, feeling
that her presages were indeed too true.
She was soon removed to the home of her mother, whose heart yearned
towards her dying child with the affection of a true mother. As
Annie's health declined rapidly, and the things of earth became more
dim and shadowy, the heavenly became more distinct and glorious.
"O, Ellen," she would say, "how precious at such a time as this, is
the presence of the Saviour, who condescends to minister to us in our
necessities. O, Ellen, do seek an interest in his dying love. You will
be the only remaining one, soon. Father, Matilda, and Willie have long
since passed from earth, and soon--very soon, I must join them in the
spirit land. Oh, mother, do try by repentance and faith, to meet us
there, so that we may be a united family in heaven, though we have
been divided upon earth. As I now stand upon the brink of the grave,
looking back upon life, and forward to the future life, I feel like
the shipwrecked mariner, who has entered the haven of peace, after the
winds and the storms have subsided, and the tumultuous tossings of
the waves have ceased. For, oh, this poor heart has been wrung by
disappointments, but I see now it was all for the best; my Heavenly
Father would have all my heart, and so he, in his infinite wisdom,
separated me from my idol, and now my affections, separated from
earthly love, are fixed upon him, he is my rock, and my stay. No
earthly friend could go with me 'through the valley and shadow of
death,' but Christ can go with me, and open wide the gates of heaven,
and usher my willing spirit into the presence of the happy throng that
worship before the throne of God."
It was a dreary day in mid-winter. The wind howled in fitful gusts,
and the falling snow was piled in huge drifts before it. Annie, pale
and laboring for breath, was bolstered up, in bed, for the angel
of death was visiting the poor girl. His icy fingers were upon her
fluttering pulses, and the feeble current of life stood still.
"O," said she, "the winds, in their wild fury, seem singing praises to
God. My heart is so attuned to praise, that all things seem to unite
in the universal hymn of thanksgiving to our Saviour and our God. O,
Ellen, is there no music in those words, to your young heart? And,
mother, does it not come to you, in your declining age, and bid your
wearied spirit seek that rest that remains for the people of God?"
She ceased to speak: the breath became shorter and shorter, till it
only came with convulsive gasps. She once again opened her weary eyes,
looked earnestly upon the face of her mother and her sister, then
glancing round the apartment, seemed as though she were bidding a last
adieu to all it contained--then closing them forever upon earthly
things, without a struggle or a groan, the spirit of Annie Somers
passed gently away.
The storm continued its violence, and desolate indeed, was the cottage
home of the mother and the sister, where lay the lifeless form of
Annie, reposing in the long deep sleep of death.
It was Sabbath day--a stormy Sabbath day, when the coffin of Annie was
borne upon the shoulders of four men to its last resting place.
It was covered with a neat black velvet pall, at each corner of which
hung suspended a heavy black silk tassel, which waved in the wind as
it came careering on, in fitful gusts, one blast scattering a shower
of snow upon the velvet pall, and the next, sweeping it away, and so
they laid her in her grave, amid the howling of the wintry storm; but
it disturbed not her repose.
Willie and Matilda sleep upon the banks of the Sandy river. The
father's grave was made upon the banks of the far off Mississippi, and
Annie rests by the side of the winding Androscoggin; her mother, too,
is by her side; for she soon followed to the land of shadows.
Ellen has entered upon the responsible duties of wife and mother, and
is acting well her part in the drama of life. Her usually volatile
spirit is chastened and subdued by the sorrows that have passed
over it, and it is her earnest endeavor so to live, as to meet the
approbation of God, and her own conscience and train her dear children
for that better life that is promised to the pure in heart.
Were I weaving a tale of fiction, the reason of Edward's conduct would
be required to complete the work; but it has been said
"Truth is stranger than fiction,"
and Annie died without ever receiving any explanation. Thus we will
leave them, with the assurance that they shall again be united,
although their remains are now so widely separated.
Lines, Written during Convalescence from Brain Fever
Sing on, sweet bird, thy gentle strain
"Can't cool my brow, or cool my brain;"
But yet, thou hast a magic pow'r
To lull me in a fev'rish hour;
Thy pleasant notes, so sweet and clear,
Come soft and mellow'd to my ear.
And when my head is rack'd with pain,
Burning my brow, throbbing my brain,--
When all's tumultuous, toss'd, and wild,
And frantic as a wayward child;
Roaring as if old ocean's waves
Were bursting from their coral caves;
Tossing as if old ocean's foam
Were rocking to its highest home;
Moaning as if the sea bird's wail
Were screaming o'er the tattered sail;
And ev'ry ship were tempest toss'd,--
Its rudder gone,--its pilot lost;
And no kind ray of light were giv'n,
To cheer them, from the vault of heav'n,
Save the vivid lightning's flash,--
Pealing the deep ton'd thunder crash,
Glancing upon the tow'ring wave,
Above the seaman's yawning grave;--
Glaring into that dark abyss,
Where hideous monsters dart and hiss,
And ship wreck'd seamen, far from home.
Toss amid the briny foam;
Till the proud wave, with one stern sweep,
Buries the secrets of the deep;
Revealing far, on upper land,
A lawless bandits' wand'ring band,
With sword and rapier, stain'd with blood,
Still thirsting for the crimson flood;
They show no mercy on their kind,
But kill or plunder all they find.
Then dies the flash, as ocean's moan
Sends back a low, sepulchral groan,
Leaving all nature dark and still,
As midnight sleeping on the hill,
While all around unearthly seems,
As frightened Hecate's spectral dreams;
Till bubbling, gushing through each vein,
The frenzied current turns again,--
My hurrying pulses faster play,
And conjure up the dread array,--
Glaring spectres, side by side,
In mould'ring shrouds around me glide;
Death's damp wreaths are round their hair,
And coffin worms hold revel there.
Gibb'ring, they come from ancient tombs,
Stealing from low sepulchral glooms,
From vault and charnel house they rise,
With bloodless cheek, and hollow eyes,
They point the finger,--shake the head,
And hold strange converse round my bed;
Together there, in council meet,
With coffin, pall and winding sheet,--
Seem waiting, with their dread array,
To bear my lifeless form away.
They stand with mattock, and with spade,--
On me their icy hands are laid,
While noisome vapors round me spread,
Bespeak the precincts of the dead.
E'en then, sweet bird, at such an hour,
When reason almost resigns her power;
Thy pleasant notes have magic art,
To soothe my palpitating heart;
They come as wild, as free, as clear,
As though no pain or woe were near.
'Tis true, that friendship's hand is kind,
My aching brow and heart to bind;
Beside my bed a husband stands,
And anxious children press my hands;
A gentle mother acts her part,
And sisters, with each winning art;
Father and brothers waiting still,
The slightest mandate of my will;
Each anxious, who shall earliest prove,
The tender gushings of their love.
Sometimes there comes a vision fair,
Of waving groves, and balmy air,
Of placid skies, serene and mild,
As slumber stealing o'er a child;
Where breezes hushed to deep repose,
Sleep in the bosom of the rose,
And scarcely lift their fragile wing,
One dew-drop from the flower to fling;
But leave it for the sun's warm ray,
To kiss the pearly tear away.
Pleasant sounds the gushing rill,
That bubbles down the verdant hill,
Murmuring along ifs native glen,
Far from the fev'rish haunts of men,--
Till kissing soft its pebbly shore,
It dies, nor ever murmurs more.
And fairy forms around me dance,--
Now they retreat, and now advance;
Bright wreaths around their heads they wear,
And lutes in their fair hands they bear,
Each warbling forth, in cadence low,
Their pleasant number, as they go,
And music floats high in mid air,
As bands of angels hover'd there;
Four massive chains of purest gold,
A chrystal island seem to hold,
Gently waving it in air,
As angel spirits lingered there.
Like ocean, in a summer day,
When gentlest zephyrs with him play.--
Just curl the ripples on his breast,
Then sighing, sink with him to rest.
Beside the streams are pleasant bowers
Adorned with ever-greens and flowers,
Where insects float with gayest wing,
And birds with sweetest voices sing,
And happy spirits, free from care,
Pluck the wild flowers that blossom there;
Their forms are beauteous to behold,
White silken wings, spangled with gold,
Help them with easy grace to rise
From this fair world to yonder skies.
They come and go at even tide,
And sometimes on the sunbeams ride;
And when they wish for railroad cars.
They ride upon the shooting stars:
Firmly unite them in a train,
And skim along the aerial plain;
No locomotive do they need,
For their own will propels their speed.
The Aeolian harp, with plaintive wail,
Sighs responsive to each gale;
Its chords are strung 'mid branching trees,
And echo to ev'ry passing breeze;
Gently they vibrate through the grove,
Touching the chords of life and love,
Mixed with the sounds that round me float.
I hear, sweet bird, thy mellow note;
For as in sunshine, as in rain,
Thou comest to cheer me with thy strain.
Few friends so kind to come each day,
To sing the tedious hours away.
But pleasant visions vanish soon,
And the bright sun grows dim at noon.
The pleasant gales forget to play,
And dark and fearful grows the day.
The waving island takes its flight,
Far from the stretch of human sight;
High in 'mid air it seems to rise,
Dissolving, mixing with the skies.
But ah, it leaves no vacant place,
For grisly phantoms take its place.
Thus ever varying all things seem
"Fickle as a changeful dream;"
And naught is left of that gay train,
My gentle bird, but thy sweet strain.
O who can tell in hours of ease,
Of fancies wild, and strange as these?
When health gushes through each vein,
Who paint the fever of the brain?
Who picture half the grief and pain
That follows pale sickness in her train?
With bitterest dregs she fills her cup,
And makes her victims drink them up:
Binds them to thorny pillows down,
And frightens sleep with her stern frown;
Or if perchance the eyelids close,
She gives her victim no repose,
But hurries round and madly screams,
And conjures up her wildest dreams,
Binds reason in her iron chains,
To fancy gives her longest reins,
And whips and spurs it, through the brain,
Till startling nature wakes again.
She flings the rose from beauty's cheek,
And on it paints her hectic streak;
Takes rosy childhood from his play,
And gives grim death the beauteous prey;
For ever round her footsteps steal
To pick for him his glutton meal;
And still she keeps her promise good.
To pamper him with hourly food;
But yet they stand there, side by side,
Death and the grave, unsatisfied.
For should a million hourly die,
Twould not their appetites supply.
But what seem curses to our eyes
Are nought but blessings in disguise;
And sickness is in mercy given
To wean the soul from earth to heaven;
For were all bright and joyous here.
Who would think on yon, bright sphere?
But pleasure pinioned to this sod,
Our thoughts would never rise to God.
And death's the passage to the skies,
Through which our ransom'd souls must rise,
To yonder blissful, bright abode,
Where dwells our Father and our God.
But now, sweet bird, I miss thy tone,
And feel at least one pleasure gone;
A prowling cat, foe to thy kind,
Thus wrought the evil she designed.
Thy life and songs forever o'er,
Thou wilt charm my ear no more.
Thus in life's uncertain day,
The singing birds oft snatch'd away:
And they who linger long in pain
Suffered to linger and remain.
But God is just in his decrees,
And wisely orders things like these.
The Angel Cousin.
Our little Mary was dying. The film had gathered over those deep blue
orbs, and her emaciated form lay white as polished marble stretched
out on her little cradle, around which were gathered sympathizing
friends, watching the feeble lamp of life as it burned flickering
in its socket. The grandmother and aunt had been summoned from an
adjoining village, where they had gone upon a visit the previous
morning; and Emma, a sweet cousin not two years old, stood wondering
why little Mary did not smile upon her, as she usually did, for she
had never looked upon death.
Mary had ever been a fragile child. But her mother had clung to her
with all the devotion of a mother's love. Anxiously did she watch that
little pale form, pressing it to her heart, and gazing upon it with
fond maternal pride, day by day, and night after night, unmindful of
food or sleep, so that she might relieve the suffering of her precious
babe; and ever would she say it will soon be better. One week
succeeded another, and still there was no change for the better. But
oh, how deep was the fountain of that mother's love, and the feeble
wailing of that dear infant moved all its secret springs.
A physician was consulted, who spoke hopefully, but nothing seemed to
help her.
Through the summer months, the salubrity of the air revived her some,
and the mother would wander with her round the garden, placing the
sweetest flowers in her hand, or sitting beneath the shade of trees,
she would listen for hours to the murmur of the summer breeze that
sighed among the branches, or the humming of the bee as it sipped the
sweets from surrounding flowers, delighted that her darling Mary might
thus inhale the pure breath of heaven. And when those large, soul lit
orbs were closed in sweet slumber, and the little fragile form could
rest for a short time, the mother would lift her heart to God in
gratitude and thanksgiving.
Summer passed with its weary watching, and her disease assumed a more
deffinite appearance, and the mother felt that Mary must die.
'Twas early autumn; the mother purchased some flannel and prepared a
robe for her darling, with a mother's pride, believing that that would
be beneficial to her. It was late in the evening when the task was
completed, and a neat white apron was hung upon the nail over it, and
the impatient mother waited the approach of day that she might place
it upon her little form. O how strongly did the bright red robe
contrast with the lily whiteness of that lovely babe. The tiny hands,
as they peeped from beneath their long sleeves, looked like two white
lilies intermingled with the thick clustering blossoms of the running
rose. The mother looked upon her with pleasure as she saw her so
comfortably clad, and hoped the increased warmth would improve her
health, but when she bore her to her father, saying, "here is our
doll;" he turned away his dewy eyes, for he saw that she was fading
away from earth.
"O Albert," said Carrie, "does she not look now as though she might
live?"
He could not bear to crush the last hope in the heart of his young
wife, and remained silent.
She continued,
"No one gives me any encouragement, but I do feel more hopeful about
her this morning, for she rested better through the night than she has
done for several nights."
While she was yet speaking, a piercing shriek broke from the lips of
the child, every feature expressed extreme agony, and the last ray of
hope in the heart of that young mother went out forever.
From that time, her precious one failed fast. Vomiting succeeded, and
the little fountain of strength was ebbing fast away. Little did
the poor mother think, when she arrayed her little infant in her
comfortable flannel robe, it would be the last time she would be
dressed till she was wrapped in her shroud for the silent grave.
During the night her feeble frame was attacked by severe spasms, and
shriek after shriek filled the heart of the mother with unutterable
anguish. When that subsided she lay cold and pulseless, with the damp
dews of death upon her marble forehead. Little hope was entertained of
her surviving till morning. But the grim messenger delayed his work,
and morning again awoke all nature to life and beauty.
It was a cool day, and the running rose bush that clambered over the
door, was laden with withered flowers that had lived their little day
and faded before the early autumn winds. Many a hardier flower was
blooming brightly, and lifting their heads seemingly in proud defiance
of the chilling winds that were blowing round them. One little bud
enveloped in its casing of green that hung waving over the door, was
perishing in its beauty, even like the little cradled innocent, that
even then was passing away before the icy breath of the dark plumed
angel. A hasty despatch was sent for the maternal grandmother and
aunt, and the grandmother upon the father's side was present, and
together we watched the failing breath of the dying child. Six brief
months only had she lingered upon earth, and now she was to depart
forever. Many, as they sat in that chamber of death, felt how
mysterious are the Providences of God. The dried and the withered
leaf, the full blown flower, and the opening bud were there, and all
were spared, while the youngest one of the group was passing away and
teaching the one great lesson, "All flesh is grass, and the goodliness
thereof as the flower of the field."
Little Emma stood gazing upon her with an expression of wonder, and
when told little Mary would soon be an angel, she raised her blue eyes
and smilingly said, "O Emma will have an angel cousin;" thus teaching
a lesson of faith and trust.
When the shadows of evening gathered around us, the doctor came in
and was surprised to find her still living. As she had not swallowed
during the day, he was surprised upon applying a sponge wet in water
to her lips to find that she swallowed rather eagerly and without any
difficulty until she had taken several drops. He told the mother she
had better prepare some warm milk and water, and drop a little of it
into her mouth as long as she continued to swallow. Hope sprung up
in her heart, perhaps she might yet live, and quick as lightning the
recollection of many children who had been snatched from the very jaws
of death, passed through her memory. But while she was making the
preparation, the little bosom heaved one gentle sigh, and we felt that
Mary was an angel. One glance, one wild scream, and the mother fell
almost fainting into the arms of her husband.
The crimson robe that was placed upon her with so many hopes by the
fond hands of a mother, was removed by other hands, and the little
body was prepared for the tomb. The mother gazed upon her with tearful
eyes and an aching heart.
It was a mild, peaceful Sabbath day when they bore her to the tomb.
The mother placed a robe of white flannel upon her, imprinting as she
did so, many kisses on the lily arms she had kissed so many times in
all their warmth of living loveliness, when, with a smile upon her
lips, and gladness in her eye, she raised them to her mother's lips to
receive the proffered tokens of affection.
And so they placed her in her coffin, with a tiny rosebud in either
hand (for she would ever hold flowers longer than any thing else), to
wither in their beauty with her, the pale perishing one. And the holy
man read from the word of God the impressive lesson, "Behold thou hast
made my days as a hand's breadth, and my age is as nothing before
thee;" and offered up fervent prayer in behalf of the afflicted
mourners, and little Mary was borne to the silent tomb.
O, who that listened to that gentle autumn breeze that so softly
sighed among the trees, and fanned the flower that bent slightly
before it, but must feel that there is a God that orders the winds and
the sea, and rules over the destinies of men.
Sad were the hearts of the stricken parents as they returned to their
little cottage, where everything reminded them of their dear lost
child.
Emma stood beside the vacant cradle, and asked many questions about
the departed cousin.
"Why did they take her from her cradle and put her in that little
box?" But was ever comforted by calling her her angel cousin.
But time passed on, and other changes came. They left their cottage
home where this great grief had rested upon them. Another darling
Mary was given them, and found a warm place in their affections. The
husband soon left his wife and child, and sought to build up his
fortune in a distant land, while the wife and mother dedicates her
time to the care of the dearly loved treasure her heavenly Father has
committed to her trust.
One brief year sped rapidly away, and winter again returned with his
winds. It was a wild night, the wintry winds howled fiercely round
the dwelling, and pelted the snow and sleet furiously against the
casement, when Mrs. Barlow, after attending to those duties that make
a New England home so comfortable, dropped her crimson curtains, and
seating herself by a comfortable coal fire, commenced preparing her
little Emma for bed.
"Oh," said she, "how the wind blows, mamma; what do poor little
children do that have no home?"
Said her mother, "God tempers the wind, my dear, to the shorn lamb."
"Mamma, do you know I am going to have a party and go to heaven and
invite my angel cousin?"
"Are you, indeed."
"But mamma, it is time to say our Father now," and the happy mother
listened to her dear child as she clasped her hands and lisped the
Lord's prayer, and the appropriate "now I lay me," after which she
soon dropped into a peaceful slumber.
Thus evening was spent after evening with the mother and her dear
child, happy in each other's love.
Winter passed, and genial spring came forth in infantile beauty,
unbending the streamlets from their icy fetters, and swelling the buds
upon the trees, thus making her early preparation for future beauty
and usefulness.
Emma awoke early one Sabbath morning, and leaving her little crib,
nestled down beside her mother. After laying quiet some time, she
asked suddenly,
"Is it Sunday, mamma?"
Being answered in the affirmative, she said,
"It would be a beautiful day to die. Less die to-day, papa, mamma, and
Emma, and go to heaven, and get our golden harps; you have a great
one, you and papa, and Emma will have a little one like my little
angel cousin."
A shade of sadness passed over the mother's face, but rested not upon
it. The form of her darling child was in her arms, her downy cheek
resting against her own, and the bright blue eyes gazing earnestly
into hers with a volume of meaning in their azure depths.
"But you must get up now, for it is a beautiful Sabbath day, and we
shall go to meeting to-day, and the minister will pray for us to God.
O how glad I am," and the dear child clapped her dimpled hands with
delight.
And so they went to church Sabbath after Sabbath, while Emma ever
seemed to enjoy the services, often making observations upon what
she heard. She inquired every day if it were Sunday; and Saturday
evenings her play things were all carefully laid aside, and she
expressed great sympathy for poor little children that played upon
that day.
The story of the cross would affect her to tears, and yet she loved
to dwell upon it, and it was with great effort her attention could be
withdrawn from it.
One rosy twilight hour, when the departed beams of the sun still
lingered, tinging the curtains of the west with those bright and
gorgeous hues that so frequently surround him at his setting. Emma and
her mother sat down to spend that happy hour together, and gaze upon
the scene.
Spring was rapidly advancing, and the face of nature was lovely to the
eye. The half open buds upon the trees shed sweet perfume, and birds
carolled their evening songs on every spray.
But the things of earth, beautiful though they were, could not satisfy
the mind of the child, and when the golden stars spangled the blue
canopy above, she talked of golden harps, of her angel cousin, and the
mysteries of that unseen world,
"Beyond planets, suns, and adamantine spheres."
Suddenly assuming a more thoughtful expression, she said,
"O mamma, what would you do if Emma should die? You would have to
carry away my crib and little chair, and put all my play things away,
and you would have no little Emma. O mamma, how lonesome you would
be;" and bursting into a convulsive fit of sobbing she flung her arms
around her mother's neck and wept upon her bosom. Tears too, dimmed
the mother's eyes as she pressed her fondly to her heart, and kissed
away her tears, while a painful thought went through her heart, "can
it be her conversation is prophetic?"
She soothed her troubled spirit, spoke of the joys of heaven, and
after listening to her childish prayer, laid her in her little crib
with a sweet good night murmured in her ear. Returning to her sitting
room, long and sadly she reflected upon the words of her darling
child, and tried to fathom their import, and earnestly did she pray
that night, "Our Father, prepare me for whatsoever thou art preparing
for me, and enable me ever to say, 'thy will be done;'" and she
retired to rest with a subdued spirit, feeling an indefinable
presentiment of coming sorrow.
The glad light of morning in a measure dissipated the shadows of the
previous evening, and the mother and daughter met with a pleasant
greeting,--the little girl busied about her play, while her mother
attended to her domestic duties. They frequently interchanged cheerful
words. Emma would sometimes personate a house-maid, and assist her
mother in dusting and arranging the furniture. But suddenly dropping
all, she stood by her side, and looking earnestly up into her face,
said,
"O mamma, you may have all my clothes next summer."
"Why, Emma," replied her mother, "you will want them yourself."
"O no, mamma, I shall not want them; you may have my little brella,
and all."
The mother's cheek blanched, and a fearful pang again shot through her
heart.
"O Emma, don't talk so, you will wear them all yourself."
"O no, mamma, you may have them;" and seating herself in her little
chair, she sat long, looking thoughtful and serious.
It was morning, bright beautiful morning. The swelling buds had burst
their confines, and the apple, pear, peach, cherry, and plum trees
that surrounded the house, were thickly covered with sweet scented,
many colored blossoms, that gave promise of a rich harvest of
delicious fruit. The birds warbled their matin songs in sweet melody;
the honey bees with drowsy hum, were sipping sweets to horde their
winter's store; and every thing seemed rejoicing in the light of that
glad morning. Even Crib, the great house dog, lay sunning himself on
the door step with a satisfied look, snapping at the flies that buzzed
around him.
But Emma could not arise to look out upon the joyful face of nature.
She lay pale and languid upon the bed, telling her mother she was too
sick to get up, that she could stay alone while she ironed her clothes
which she had starched the night before: but wished her to shut the
door to keep out the light and noise.
The mother pursued her task with a sad heart, but often would she
unclose the door and look in upon the pale child, and show her some
article of dress she had been preparing for her. She would look up
with a smile and say,
"O good mamma, how nice they look;" then closing her eyes drop into a
deep, heavy sleep.
She grew rapidly worse, and the doctor who was called to visit her,
pronounced it scarlet fever, that fearful malady among children, but
thought her symptoms favorable.
Every attention was bestowed upon her that affection could give; but
the disease rapidly increased.
The fire of a terrible fever was raging in her veins, and drying up
the fountain of her young life. In the wildness of delirium she would
start suddenly from the arms of her mother, and pierce her heart by
begging to be carried to her own dear mother.
The fifth day of her disease it assumed a more alarming appearance,
her extremities becoming cold, and a deathlike palor overspreading her
countenance, accompanied by a stupid, dozing state. While laying thus,
she started up, exclaiming,
"Mamma, if I die, shall I go heaven?"
"O, yes, my dear," said her mother.
"Papa said. I should."
Then falling into a deep stupor, she noticed nothing for about two
hours, when looking up bright and wishfully, turning her body towards
her mother, she said, earnestly,
"Pray."
Her mother commenced the sweet prayer, so familiar to her,
"Now, I lay me."
She joined her trembling voice with hers, and lisped again the words
she had loved so well. She appeared exhausted with the effort,
and turning away her little head, and closing her weary eyes, lay
apparently asleep about five minutes, when arousing herself, with a
sweet expression of countenance, she gently murmured,
"Amen."
"O," said the mother, "perhaps that is Emma's last prayer."
"It may be," said the grandmother; "and how vividly we should remember
it, if it should be."
Even so--that was the last note of praise that fell from those infant
lips upon earth. But often does it start upon memory's ear, during the
silence of the midnight hour, and seem like gentle whisperings from
the spirit land, and bring back recollections at once painful and
pleasant to the soul.
She slept till the twilight hour, when she wished her mother to carry
her to the window. Oh, happily were those hours usually spent, when
the duties of the day had all been performed, and the quiet shades of
evening gathered round their dwelling. Often was their talk of heaven.
O, they were happy hours! but they flew by upon golden wings, leaving
their deep impress on that fond mother's heart.
As she sat with her that evening, looking upon the varied prospect
that was spread out before them, no word passed her lips. Her mother
pointed to the green grass, the trees covered with clustering
blossoms, the river, hurrying on to join old Ocean, reflecting the
mild radiance of the setting sun on its placid surface; and to the
busy hum of life, as people hurried to and fro in the village that lay
distinctly spread out before them; but nothing could elicit a word
from her, till turning her head wearily, and closing her eyes for the
last time upon the beautiful world, with its deep blue sky, and its
rich sunset dyes, she said,
"O, mamma, lay me in my little bed;" and after noticing apparently
every object in the room, she closed her eyes and lay in a deep stupor
for four successive days and nights. Her face was pale as marble, and
incoherent words escaped her lips. Sometimes she would murmur,
"Oh, carry me home--carry me home." When she revived from the stupor,
at times it was agonizing to witness her suffering. But no word
escaped her lips.
Everything that medical aid could do was done, and every attention
was paid to the suffering child by her parents and friends, and every
effort used to stay the disease. But "he who seeth not as man seeth,"
willed it otherwise, and all proved unavailing. On the fifteenth day
the rash came on again; the throat swelled badly, and the sufferings
of the dear little one were extreme. Even then, it was evident she
knew her friends, and many were the tokens of affection bestowed
upon them as they watched beside her couch, and ministered to her
necessities.
Often would she reach up her little emaciated hands, and placing them
upon her mother's cheeks, press them tenderly. It seemed to soothe
her, when her mother would lay her head upon her pillow beside her,
and take her little wasted hand in hers. And when she sang to her, in
a low, trembling voice, her little favorite hymn,
"There is a happy land, far; far away,"
she lay quiet, and seemed listening with much attention, raising one
little hand three times, then laying it fondly round her mother's
neck. Long, during that day, did the grief-stricken mother breathe
sad, melancholy music into the ears of her dying child.
Towards evening that restless state, so common in cholera infantum,
came on, accompanied at every breath by a groan, which the doctor said
must soon wear her out.
He gave her an opiate, hoping to relieve the distress.
Towards midnight she dropped into a little slumber, and the mother,
weary with watching, retired, leaving the father and a sister, to take
care of her.
It was Sabbath morning; the gray dawn was just streaking the east with
the earliest beams of day, when the father, who sat a little distance
from his child, thought he saw her gasp for breath. He sprang to her
side, and saw too truly, that that pale visitant from the spirit land,
that comes to us but once, was dealing with his child. The mother and
grandmother, who had watched over her so unweariedly, soon reached the
bed; but the brittle thread of life was snapped, and the pure spirit
had passed away, with the pale messenger, to the spirit land. There
were no loud lamentations. The mother pressed her cheeks between her
hands, exclaiming,
"Oh, Emma."
Then taking her little pulseless hand in her own, seated herself
beside her on the bed, calm and tearless.
The father, with his face buried in his hands, sat motionless; but no
murmur escaped his lips. He had learned submission to the divine will,
and was comforted in his hour of need.
And brighter, and brighter grew the beams of that holy Sabbath day.
That day the dear child had loved so well. She had loved to enter the
earthly temple, and join in the hymns of thanksgiving and praise that
arose, like sweet incense, upon their sacred altars. And now, with the
early dawning of that sacred day, she had passed forever from earth,
to join the pure throng of worshippers before the throne of God. The
smile of heaven was upon her face, as though the light of the happy
spirit still irradiated it.
Loving hands placed her gently in the shroud and prepared her for the
tomb.
As that quiet twilight hour came on, who can picture the agony of the
bereaved mother's heart? She stole softly into the chamber of death,
and taking the little cold waxen hand in hers, bent fondly over, and
kissed the marble forehead. It was their favorite hour--the one they
ever spent together, and those blue eyes were ever then fixed upon
her, as she read the word of God, repeated infantile hymns, or
murmured the evening prayer. But now those dear eyes were forever shut
on earth, but open to the more exalted beauties of heaven.
As she recalled the past, in that solemn place, she weighed well her
conduct towards her child, and asked herself if there had been aught
to tarnish the purity of that spirit that had just entered the portals
of heaven; and earnestly did she beseech her Heavenly Father to
forgive all that was amiss, and cleanse her from all sin, that she
might be prepared for a reunion in a better world.
It was autumn, when little Mary was placed in the tomb, and all things
spoke of death and decay. It was now the last days of spring, when the
trees had put on their robes of deeper green, and all nature spoke of
a resurrection from the dead, when her little coffin was taken from
the tomb and placed in the hearse, to be buried in the same grave with
her cousin Emma. Emma lay beautiful in death, looking almost like a
thing of life, with a smile still lingering upon her lips, while fresh
half-blown flowers were placed in her icy fingers, and strewed around
the coffin, soon to wither and fade, with that frail child of clay.
Mary had decayed with the pure buds she held in her hands, and "dust
thou art and unto dust thou must return," was legibly written on both.
The same mourning circle convened, and bore their loved ones to the
place of graves. The sisters stood side by side, as the coffins were
let down into the earth, and mingled their tears together. It was a
melancholy sight, and spoke loudly of the uncertainty of human life.
The man of hoary hairs stood over the graves of the tender infant, and
felt sensibly, that while the "young may die, the old must die."
The parents cast a long lingering look into the greedy grave that was
forever to hide their treasure from their sight, then turned sadly
away to walk again the pathway of human life, and receive the portion
their heavenly Father may see fit to meet out to them.
Sweet is their place of rest. A weeping willow droops over their
grave, and the flowers of summer shed their perfume and scatter their
leaves around. Night winds sigh a mournful requiem, and gentle zephyrs
fan the leaves of the weeping willow, and murmur among its branches..
Two white marble slabs stand at the head of the little heaped up
mound, and point to the traveller's eye the place where rest the
remains of the angel cousins.
Lines, Written at the Close of 1842.
Hark! I hear the midnight bell,
Pealing forth its funeral knell;
Now its tones sound loud and clear--
Now low and dirge-like, strike the ear,
Solemn and slow, they seem to fall,
Upon the listening ear of all.
And lo! extended on the 'bier,
The form of the departed year
Closely wrapt, in snowy shroud,
Hastening to join the sable crowd
Of years--that passed before the flood,
And left their pathway stained with blood;
For oh, what horrors must appear,
Written on each departed year?
The fearful tales each will disclose,
The God of Heaven only knows.
Ardent and bright this year arose,--
Pictured its joys and hid its woes,
Painted gay paths bestrown with flowers,
And balmy skies, and sunny hours,
Promised some pleasures, ever new,
If pleasures' path we would pursue.
But soon the path became uptorn,
Instead of flowers we find the thorn:
And yonder sky, so blue and deep,
Where golden stars their vigils keep,--
Was soon by frowning clouds concealed;
And lightnings flash'd, and thunders peal'd
The golden sun soon sank to rest,
Behind the curtains of the west,
And left to darkness his domain,
With midnight howling o'er the plain;
And those who followed her gay train,
Found pleasure's path to end in pain.
For who e'er drank without alloy,
From the painted cup of joy?
Just as we seize some radiant prize,
That long has danc'd before our eyes,
And raise the goblet to our lip,
Its honied promises to sip.
Some lurking scorpion's venom'd dart
Sends poison rankling to the heart.
But now the year its race has run,
Its promises and labors done;
The grave has closed o'er its remains,
'Till the last trumpet breaks its chains;
Then must its mysteries be unroll'd,
And all its hidden deeds be told.
How many hail'd last New Year's day,
That slumber now in fellow clay.
This too, perhaps, may be our doom
Before another year shall come.
The things of earth may fade away,
And we be turned to lifeless clay;
The roving eye forget the light,
And dreamless sleep in death's dark night.
The pallid lips may cease to speak:
The coffin worm feed on the cheek;
The grassy turf o'er us be spread,
While earth's cold lap supports the head:
And heav'ns own dews the hillock lave,
And night winds sigh around our grave.
That narrow house may be our home,
Whose only mark is one grey stone.
But Christ by entering in the tomb,
Has dissipated all its gloom,
And shed a bright, benignant ray,
That opens on eternal day;
And those that sleep in His embrace,
Among the just shall find a place.
Lines, on the New Year, 1853.
Hark! I hear the clarion shrill
Winding up the icy hill,
And aloud the bugle horn
Proclaims another year is born.
Merry voices in the train,
Loudly sound it o'er the plain,
And the joyful notes I hear,
Are wishes for a happy year.
All come with faces bright and gay.
None seem to think of yesterday;
None seem to hear the passing bell,
That bade the dying year farewell.
None seem to think this infant year,
Which now so gay and bright appears,
Will soon by dark oblivion's wave
Be chas'd into the silent grave.
But all seem forming airy dreams
On future hopes and future schemes,
Though other years have prov'd untrue:
It will not be so with the new.
Joy beams upon the face of all;
Some meet within the festive hall,
Where music trills her gayest note;
And fairy forms in circles float,
And all seem feasting with delight
Upon the pleasures of the night,
None thinks upon the grief or pain,
That soon must follow in their train,--
The coffin shroud, and death's cold pall,
That must so soon be flung o'er all;
But yet, in that gay circle there,
We can detect corroding care,
Can plainly see, in sparkling eyes,
Sorrow, clad in gay disguise,--
Trying happy to appear,
To usher in another year.
Tis ever thus, the heedless throng,
That meet in revelry and song,--
Must ever feel within the breast
An aching void; while those possessed
Of pure Religion, may enjoy
Joys nothing earthly can destroy
The Unhappy Marriage.
"Hannah, it will not do," said Captain Currier to his eldest daughter,
a neat, quiet looking girl about eighteen, who sat sewing by a window.
"I say Hannah," continued he sternly, as her eyes met his, "it will
never do for you to throw yourself away upon that miserable scapegrace
that has visited you so often of late."
The blood mounted in torrents to her cheeks as she replied,
"Why, father, you surely cannot mean William Lawrence?"
"And who else should I mean? He is not worth a single iota, and what
is more, he is never like to be."
"True, he is not rich, but he is industrious, and with his excellent
habits I have no fears on that account."
"Oh, you have not, have you," said her father, almost fiercely, "but I
tell you Miss, it will never do, so you may think the matter over
at your leisure, and settle the affair, I hope, without any farther
interference on my part."
She raised her eyes timidly to her father's and said,
"I think, sir, you will be obliged to finish the work if it is ever
done; my faith is plighted to William, and you know, father, I cannot
break my word."
This candid avowal but added "fuel to the flame" of the enraged
father, and he sternly said,
"My commands are upon you, and I expect you to obey me."
"But father," began the trembling girl,
"There is no but in the case. But I will leave you now, for I see your
milk and water looking gentleman is coming, and I expect, Hannah, it
will be the last time his shadow will ever darken my doors."
As he passed out at one door the young man entered at the opposite,
and fixed his handsome eyes, with a searching glance, upon Hannah, as
he gave her his cordial greeting, saying,
"Are you ill?"
"O no, William, I am not ill, but let us walk out into the garden;
perhaps the cool winds of heaven will cool the fever upon my brow."
And so they wandered forth among the flowers, to breathe the air that
comes alike to the children of affluence and pinching want. They
reached a seat where they had spent many happy hours, over which
climbing honeysuckles shed their perfume, and many bright flowers
danced in the wind, or drank the pure dews of night as the pitying
angel wept upon their bosoms. Hannah was upon her accustomed seat, and
the eyes of her lover were fixed upon her with that fond expression
she so well understood, and which found a ready response in her
youthful heart. Now that heart was almost bursting with its agony of
grief; but William was beside her, whispered words of tenderness and
hope were murmured in her ear, and how could she break the spell? how
could she speak of the gathering storm? The commands of a stern father
were upon her, and she knew his indomitable spirit would never swerve
one inch from his determination.
They sat till the family clock struck nine ere Hannah could
muster courage to announce her father's decision, and related the
conversation that had just occurred. William was perfectly astonished,
as he replied,
"You certainly cannot yield to his commands? Hannah, the happiness of
my life depends upon our union."
"Well, we will keep quiet a while and see what further light we can
get upon the subject. I have a fearful foreboding that the haughty,
stern looking stranger who has been here so much of late, has
something to do with it. He has been officious in his attention to me,
and I have trembled when I have seen his savage eyes fixed upon, me
with such a peculiar expression. And so we will be quiet and wait the
moving of the waters."
The following afternoon Captain Currier called his daughter into the
parlor, and closing the door, said abruptly,
"Well, Hannah, I 'spose you have squared up accounts with William, and
are now ready to enter a new firm. There is a noble chance for you my
gal. The rich Mr. Benson has offered his hand to you in marriage."
"Impossible! Why, father, is not he an Indian?"
"No more of an Indian than you are; to be sure he is not quite as
white as your milk and water Billy."
"I should think he was milk and molasses, at least, and the largest
part molasses, but without its sweetness."
"Well, be that as it may, I'm thinking his thousands will make the
dose quite palatable at any rate. You must know, Miss, my affairs at
present are in an embarrassed state, and he proposes taking that large
tract of land adjoining mine, and giving me a generous price upon it,
provided you will become his wife. He is going to lay out the ground
like a garden, build a princely mansion, and you are to be its
mistress."
"O father, would you have me fall down and worship the golden calf?"
"But you must obey me; I cannot, I must not be frustrated in this
arrangement."
"But why, father, cannot you and he complete your bargain without
sacrificing my happiness on the shrine of Mammon?"
"No, he will leave the country immediately unless you consent to marry
him, and this, with my other property, is mortgaged, and cannot be
redeemed, and beggary stares me in the face. This step, and this
only, can save me. I told William the arrangement as he was marching
hurriedly away this morning with Colonel Somer's regiment, who were
ordered to reach the eastern border of the State as quick as possible,
as they fear an attack from the French and Indians in that quarter.
Mr. Benson is eager to have the marriage take place as soon as
possible."
Hannah sat like one in a dream for a moment, when she said,
"Father, has nature no voice to plead for me?"
"Child, it is your good I am seeking. How can you ever expect
happiness with William? It takes all he can earn to support his sick
mother, and let me tell you your chance will be a small one. Mr.
Benson's pockets are lined with gold, and he rides the best horse that
the country can produce; and let me tell you, your love, as you call
it, never yet put anything into the pot or kept it boiling, and it is
well said, 'when poverty stalks in at the door love creeps out at the
key hole.'"
"Well, father," said Hannah, rising up at her full height, "if I am
any judge in the case, that man is unprincipled, remorseless, and a
villian."
"I think you are no judge. What can you know about it?
"Well, you chose to put the business in my hands, and I have arranged
it to my own liking. Now you must be prepared by one week from this
day to become Mrs. Benson."
So saying he left the room, to bluster about Capulet like, to hurry
the coming event.
It was soon known by every member of the family, that great
preparations were expected for the coming wedding. Deeds were
drawn up, the land transferred into the hands of Mr. Benson at an
extravagant price, a large house erected upon it, and many carpenters
employed to finish one room, and a bed-room, so that they could occupy
it till the rest could be completed.
And so the shuttle was played to weave the woof into the meshy warp
that had thus been spread.
Hannah wept long after her father left her. She felt convinced it was
through his means William was pressed to go with Colonel Somers, and
her heart rebelled against his tyranny; and nothing would have induced
her to yield but her father's assurance that that alone could save
him from beggary. And she felt she would make the sacrifice for her
father's sake.
As she entered the kitchen, Sarah, the black slave, met her with,
"Why, Miss Hanner, 'pears to me I should not like to swap Mr. Lawrence
for Mr. Benson; 'pears he aint haff so perticler like."
"It is my father's wish, and I suppose it must be complied with," and
she passed out of the room to bury her feelings in her own bosom, and
nerve herself for the coming trial.
"Massa is doing good business, Sambo," said Sarah to a black man that
sat preparing some peas to plant, "he selling tu gals at once."
"Yes, yes; but I guess Miss Hanner hab no choice," and he rolled up
the whites of his eyes, and fetched a pompous nod of the head, as he
glanced at his sable companion.
"That does make some differ; now tree year don't seem bery long when
we bese so much wid one tother."
"The tree year most out now, white man buy his gal wid gold; but poor
nigger hab to work hard for his'n. Well, we be free then."
The conversation was closed by Capt. Currier's sharp voice calling
Sambo to bring the peas. He hastily obeyed the summons, as he did so
displaying by his open smile his ivory teeth to Sarah, who returned
the compliment in a very satisfactory manner.
All was bustle, stir, and preparation during the week. Dress makers,
milliners, and almost all classes of people were called into
requisition.
Mr. Benson strove hard to play the agreeable; but Hannah could
scarcely endure him. And the week passed away, as all weeks will pass,
whether laden with joy or sorrow; and the pale bride stood trembling
by the altar of Hymen, and the solemn words were passed that united
the destinies of two immortal spirits, and the recording angel
registered them in heaven.
After partaking of a sumptuous dinner, according to the custom of
those days, they entered a splendid carriage Mr. Benson had purchased
for the occasion, and with Sambo for a driver and Sarah for a waiting
maid, set out upon their wedding tour. But we will not accompany them.
Suffice it to say, it was productive of little happiness to the new
married pair. Sambo and Sarah enjoyed it very well, as she often rode
with him upon the driver's box, and they thus had a delightful view of
the country.
On their return, their house was ready for their reception, or at
least so that they could live in it while the other part was finished.
Hannah had frequently been surprised by her husband's frequent
potations of brandy during their journey, and his whole bearing had
been haughty and reserved.
They had been at home but a short time, when, after being absent one
night and day, Mr. Benson returned home with a dark frown resting upon
his countenance; he slammed the door, kicked every chair that came in
his way, and stamping about, went and dismissed all his hands, took
another dram from his brandy bottle, and sat moodily down by the fire,
grumbling because supper was not on the table.
Poor Hannah pressed her hand upon her throbbing heart, and struggled
with the tears that rose to her eyes and seemed scalding her very eye
balls with their burning heat. There was a choking sensation in her
throat, but she swallowed it back, and prepared supper in the best
manner she was capable. Her husband seated himself at the table, took
a biscuit, looked at it, flung it back upon the plate, called his tea
dish water, and throwing back his chair hastily, left the table.
But why dwell upon the sorrowful years they spent together? He ever
came like a dark shadow upon the sunlight of home. Children gathered
around their fire side, but there was no gentle corner for them in his
heart.
His only son was ever with him like his shadow, drinking in his
precepts, practising his examples, breathing his oaths, domineering
over his mother and sisters, and a terror to the neighborhood.
His father telling him, he was in hopes to see the time he would dance
on Dr. Somers' grave, as he hated him with a perfect hatred, because
he had been his wife's attending physician, when she had been sick
during the years they had lived together.
James, for such was the name of the son, was instructed to hate
everybody that came in his way, and, of course, was hated by every
one.
The money that came by gambling, went in the same way, and
poverty--abject poverty--was now an inmate of their dwelling.
The house remained unfinished; the frame, which had never been
clap-boarded, had gone to decay in a great measure; and when one meal
was obtained, they scarcely knew where another would come from.
Discord reigned among them. Hannah was a wreck of her former self. She
had strung up her patience to its utmost tension, and would often bear
the scorn and abuse of her husband in sorrowful silence.
But this state of things passed away, and when her children shared
in her sufferings, the bitter waters were stirred in their deep
fountains, and she became a worn woman, with a hasty spirit. The
biting retort was now often upon her lips, and she became in a true
sense of the word, what might well be called a scold.
One gloomy fall day, when the sighing winds shook the mellow apples
from the trees in the large thrifty orchard, that stood before the
house, casting so deep a shade that the rays of the sun could scarcely
penetrate it, and the old house looked blacker for the rain that had
fallen upon it, Mr. Benson was seized for debt, and, conveyed to jail.
During his absence Mrs. Benson purchased some apples of the man that
then owned the orchard, and dried them, hoping to obtain some
needful clothing for herself and children. She cleaned her ceiling,
whitewashed the plastering, and made everything about the house look
as comfortable as possible, and enjoyed the privilege, at least, of
doing as she pleased, without being found fault with, which was to her
a great luxury, as her expressed wishes were generally vetoed at once.
She was a true mother, and strove to bring her children up in the
paths of truth and honesty. But there was such an opposing current,
and such frequent bickerings between herself and husband, that they
caught the infection, and seemed to live only to torment each other.
"O," said Mrs. Benson one day, to her sister Sarah, who was spending
a, day with her, "this is the princely mansion father promised me, as
a reward for giving up all my cherished hopes. Poor William has lost
his dear mother, I hear."
"Yes, she died one day last week; she liked much where they lived, and
after William came into possession of his uncle's princely fortune,
her life was spent in ease and affluence. He is likely to become one
of the richest men in the country, and he is loved for his kindness
and respected for his virtues. Your marriage doomed him to celibacy."
A shade rested for a moment upon Mrs. Benson's brow, as she said,
"O, these dark brown years have brought no joy to me in their course.
How I have lived I scarcely know. How dim-sighted is human reason? The
poor William is now the rich man, and the rich Benson is the poor one.
Could father know the misery I have undergone, he would think his
comforts dearly purchased; but he is gone from earth, and I will not
reproache his memory; but, oh, it has been hard--very hard."
"But come, Sarah, come into this old room with me, and help me pack my
dried apple for market. Is'nt it nice? I took great pains with it, as
I wished it to fetch the first price in the market. I am going to get
me a new cheap calico dress. This old patched faded thing is the only
one I have.
"I have wove a great deal this fall, and I think what I shall get for
that and the apple, will fix the children and me up quite comfortably.
The children paid for these apples, by picking up apples for Mr.
Lambert, and he says he shall want them again. I don't know as I care
much how long Benson stays in jail, for I enjoy myself much better
than I did when he was at home, scolding round all the time. And it
has made a perfect vixen of me, and I scold almost as bad as he does;
and the children catch it, and we have a little bedlam here all the
time; O, I wish it were not so, I cannot lie down quietly and sleep at
night, and I know something fearful will come of it."
"O, sister, I hope nothing worse than has come. I am glad to hear your
prospects look more favorable, and wish it were in my power to help
you. If you get a dress I will help you make it, and the children's
clothing. But I forgot to tell you Sarah is dead, and Sambo has got a
cancer, and it is thought he will survive her but a short time."
"Indeed; well, she was a faithful servant, and has gone to her reward;
and poor Sambo, how patiently he toiled, early and late, to purchase
her freedom, and they were very happy."
"O, yes, because they loved each other, and there was no one to
interfere with them."
They were now startled by hearing Mr. Benson chiding the children in
a loud, angry voice, with many oaths, for leaving the gate open,
and letting a cow into a small yard of shrivelled, stinted looking
cabbages.
The children scampered for the house, with terrified looks,
whispering, "father has come," and crouching down in a heap in one
corner of the room, remained very quiet; the old cow ran for the
street, with Mr. Benson at her heels, storming furiously, and plying a
large stick across her back, which he had picked up in his rage.
The sisters placed the large bundle of dried apple in as secure a
place as possible, and returned to the kitchen.
The door was burst violently open, and Mr. Benson entered the room,
exclaiming, as he did so,
"What in thunder is going on here?"
And he proceeded to disarrange chairs, tables and everything that
came in his way, till the house was all in confusion. He went to the
cupboard, that stood in the corner of the room, to get a large jug he
used to keep brandy in, in his better days, but which now was often
filled with New England rum. Not finding it, he almost screamed,
"Hannah, you Jezebel, where is my jug?"
"I thought I would sell it, as you were boarding out."
"Woman," shouted he, "that shall be a dear jug to you."
"It has been that already."
The enraged husband cast at her the look of a fiend, and passed on to
the adjoining room, which was calculated to be an elegant parlor when
the house was raised, but which was now converted into a store room,
for old barrels, old baskets, old hats and bonnets, and, in fine,
a great variety of old things. In one corner stood a little old
bedstead, with an old flock bed, covered with patched sheets and a
ragged quilt, where James slept. The loom was in that room and the
spinning wheels; an old churn and many other things, too numerous to
mention.
Mr. Benson reached up his hand, to take down a large bunch of woolen
yarn that hung suspended on a nail. His wife sprang forward, saying,
"Do not touch that--it is not mine."
"I don't care whose it is. I must and will have something that will
sell."
At that moment, seeing the package of dried apple, he pounced upon
it, like a tiger upon its prey, and bore it rapidly away, with the
remonstrances of a weeping wife ringing in his ears.
And the traffickers in human souls bought it at a price, paid him in
liquid fire, and he returned to his home, more fiend than when he left
it. The wife's dress was gone; the comfortable things she hoped to
procure for the children were gone. She sat up and toiled late at
night--and all for what? To procure that poison for her husband that
was contaminating his and her own soul, and cast such a blight upon
her home. Was it not enough that their house and land were mortgaged,
their horse and carriage gone? but must she toil with her own hands,
to satisfy that appetite that cries, "give, give?" As these thoughts
passed through Mrs. Benson's mind, she mentally exclaimed,
"O, it is a sad thing to be a drunkard's wife."
A few weeks after she went to an old chest that stood in one corner of
the room, to get a piece of woolen goods she had carefully prepared
for the market, which would bring her several dollars. She had placed
an old band box, quill wheel and some other rubbish upon the chest,
to conceal it from view as much as possible. Upon opening it, she
discovered her treasure was gone, and she knew too well, for what
purpose. The son, too, drank with his father, and got so much the
start of him in brutality, that even he cowered before him, thus
realizing that "He that soweth the wind shall reap the whirlwind." But
those years passed on; the children grew up in their perverseness, a
family that feared neither God or man.
No prayer ever ascended, like sweet incense, from those hearts; no
hymns of praise fell from those lips; but they daily invoked curses
upon each other--and who shall say that the curse causeless came?
The eldest daughter married a miserable drunkard, contrary to the
wishes of her father, threatening to fire the house over their heads,
if they opposed her in the least. The second daughter lived in
disgrace, with a man equally miserable, till the house was demolished
over their heads.
The poor heart-broken wife died, and was borne away to the grave.
The son became of age, took the homestead from his father by making
arrangements to redeem it, and threw his father into the poor house,
where he wore out the remainder of his days in wretchedness and
misery.
The son, by perseverence, won the hand of an amiable young lady, of
an excellent family, and contrary to the expectations of every one,
treated her with the greatest kindness the two years he lived with
her, attending church with her every Sabbath, and evincing a great
change in many other ways.
But the desire of riches urged him, with hundreds of our fellow
citizens, to seek the land of gold, and like many of them too, fell a
prey to his ambition. He died on shipboard, never reaching the place
of his destination.
Dr. Somers died about the same time, and was buried in his own quiet
yard, in the little village that had been the theatre of his life.
That young form that had been educated for the express purpose of
dancing on his grave, was tossing beneath the tumultuous waves of the
briny ocean, never to be at rest.
William Lawrence lived, loved and respected and transferred his
earthly love to God, giving him his supreme affections, thus living to
his honor and his glory while on earth, and meeting death with a calm
resignation, sank peacefully down to slumber in the quiet grave.
All the actors in the little drama have sunk beneath the waves of
death, (but three daughters and the son's wife,) and the dust of ages
is gathering upon them; but their influence still lives and speaks to
the generations of men.
The master and the slave are there. The father and the daughter, the
husband and the wife, and the parents and the son are there, each one
"to answer for himself for the deeds done in the body." Surely, "it is
a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God."
Lines, Written on the Year 1852.
Weary and sad I sit alone,
The storm-god whistles shrill and high,
And piles of sombre clouds are thrown
O'er the blue curtains of the sky.
Mournful I sit, for one by one
Time's golden sands are ebbing fast;
Whispering in low sepulchral tones,
The next, perchance, may be the last.
'Tis midnight's deep and solemn hour,
When visionary forms appear,
And shed their strange, mysterious power
O'er the departure of the year.
The charnel house is opened wide,
And thither's borne with brief adieu,
And slumbering eyes laid beside
Eighteen hundred fifty-two.
Now memory wakes her silent string,
And holds her umpire in the brain;
And brings as she alone can bring,
The image of the past again.
Her golden key, with using bright,
Unlocks the chambers of the soul,
And holds to reason's steady light
The secret records of her scroll.
Back, back she sails, down time's dark stream,
To childhood's bright and sunny hours;
And paints again her fairy dream,
Her sports, her fancies, and her flowers.
Touched by her wand, the sleeping dead
Spring up to active life again:
And in the busy pathway tread,
Mingling in our joy and pain.
She points where many a hope sprang bright,
And plum'd a while her pinions gay:
Then sank in disappointment's night,
And each fair promise died away.
And as I scan her records of the past,
And in succession all their deeds appear,
There's none o'er which so deep a shade is cast
As thine, thou just expiring year.
Thy spring was green, and bright, and gay,
And bloom'd as fair as Eden's bow'rs.
But mil-dew in her sunbeams lay,
And scorpions lurk'd among the flowers.
For when all perfumed seemed thy breath,
And all thy aspect sweet and mild,
It brought contagion, blight and death,
And from us bore a lovely child,
Then Summer came, with ardent glow,--
With burning guns and sultry skies,
Her mantle over Spring to throw,--
Of richer tints and deeper dyes.
Then often, with her fairy train,
Came gnawing Grief and wasting Care,
Sickness, Anxiety and Pain,
Mingling in sad confusion there,
Then Autumn came, with sober mien,
For summer days are always brief;--
And in her pathway soon were seen
The wither'd flow'r, the yellow leaf.
But ere her hollow, chilly breeze,
Scarce spake of nature's sad decay,
Or ting'd the foliage pa the trees,
A gentle brother pass'd away.
Sweet was his passage to the tomb,
Reclining on a Saviour's breast;
He heard the welcome--"Child, come home,"
And enter'd on the promis'd rest.
Then Winter came, with icy breath,
His hoarse winds whistling shrill and loud,
And quickly o'er the frozen earth,
He lightly spread his snowy shroud.
And sorrow, like that snowy pall,
Seemed spread o'er all my prospects bright,
And Health, and Hope, and Joy, and Peace,
Seem verging all to death's dark night.
But hark! I hear a cheering voice,--
And see--those pale, cold lips still move.
Mortal, shrink not; in God rejoice!
He is Wisdom, Power and Love.
'Tis he ordains the rolling year;--
Seasons and changes are his own;
Then, mortal, live in God's own fear;--
One struggle, and the year was gone,
But Peace had stolen o'er my breast;
And as I gazed I shed a tear,--
And grateful for the last behest,
I bless'd the just departed year.
Consumption.
The whirlwind in its fury depopulates a district, or a small tract of
land over which it passes perhaps once in a century--the earthquake
rumbles through the hidden recesses of the earth, and here and there
the yawning cavern swallows the ill-fated inhabitants that dwell upon
its surface; the lightning's stroke blasts in a moment, and cuts the
threads of life without any warning; and the steam engine destroy
their thousands in a year; and the winds and the waves conspire to
people the dark caves of ocean with the dead. These, and a thousand
other avenues, lead to death, bearing terror in their course, and
heralding their approach by terrific sounds.
But there is an insiduous foe, silent in its progress, sapping first
the secret springs of life, but yet diffusing hopefulness, ever
whispering in syren voice, of coming health and happiness, often
adding a deeper crimson to the cheek and a brighter lustre to the eye.
It feeds alike on all; the infant in its innocence; childhood in its
playfulness; youth in its beauty; manhood in his usefulness, and old
age in its decrepitude. All, all fall alike before the withering
breath of consumption.
Glancing back through the long avenue of past years, many a green
mound rises by the pathway over the wasted victims of this fearful
disease.
First upon memory's list, comes up a smiling infant, of rare beauty
and patient mien, that won our love by those little winning ways that
are the prerogatives of that tender age. A slight cough and extreme
weakness, were the only indications of the fearful work that was
progressing within. A bright flush rested upon the lily cheek, and
none who looked upon the unwonted brilliancy of those eyes ever could
forget their lustre. The pure spirit seemed to look forth from their
azure depths. A moan seldom escaped her lips, but she would lay quiet
in her little cradle, looking out unmoved upon the business and stir
of that life, upon which she had so briefly entered, but where she was
to bear so small a part in its fluctuations and concerns.
Anxiously did the fond mother watch over her precious one, and
endeavor by a thousand attentions, to strengthen the feeble tenure
that held her to life. She was the darling, the youngest one of a
numerous family, and all the purest affections of many fond hearts
were offered at her shrine.
But could this bribe death? O no, the destroyer stayed not in his
course, but drew stealthily along, and aimed his dart secretly but
surely, at his victim.
It was a chilly day in early spring; vegetation was just arousing from
winter's sleep, and the spring blossoms were just beginning to peep
from their casing of green, when this little bud of beauty perished
from earth. She lay in the cradle usually, because it wearied her to
be held in the lap.
It was noon, when the mother bent over her to administer some
nourishment, and thought she perceived a change upon her countenance.
The same glad smile rested upon her features, but it was more heavenly
in its expression. She seated herself by the cradle, and raised her
affectionately in her arms, saying as she did so,
"My dear child, I shall not lay you down again till you look better."
She looked at her a few moments, her blue orbs were turned to heaven,
and by their earnest gaze seemed penetrating the glories of the upper
world.
There was soon an effort to vomit, succeeded by the fearful death
rattle that comes but once in human life. It was the struggle that
must come to all, sooner or later. The angel of death was leading this
feeble infant through the valley of the shadow of death, by a gentle
hand; one little struggle, one gentle sigh, one little quiver of the
lip, and the sinless spirit had departed ere the father and brothers,
who had been hastily summoned, reached her side.
Beautiful beyond description was the touch of death as it lingered
upon that marble brow, and rested upon the beautifully chiselled
features of the dear babe.
She was arrayed in a simple white robe, and laid into her cradle,
while a sorrowing angel hovered over the household. An absent son
returned who had been teaching several miles distant, and among other
gifts were some for the little one, but those little eyes were closed,
and those little hands that used to be raised with so much fondness,
were now stiff and cold in death; but how lovely! Her grave was made
in the headland of the garden; a tall lilac stood upon one side of
it, and a fragrant rose bush stood upon the other No stone marked the
spot, but will she be forgotten on the morning of the resurrection?
Years passed on, many silent years, for we heard no sounds to tell us
that time was threading the mazy thoroughfares of human life, stealing
noiselessly through our dwellings, and pressing his way with us to the
ocean of eternity, hastening on to the period when he shall come to an
end, and the great angel shall swear there shall be time no longer.
But so it was; years had been borne away by his rapid flight, and laid
side by side with those that passed before the flood, and change had
come.
Many voices that lisped their matin and their vesper hymns by one
hearth stone, were now scattered far and wide, and other homes had
sprung up, and the children had become parents, and new duties
devolved upon them. Some had passed the meridian of life, the sun of
some had reached their noon, while others were climbing up the eastern
summit. But as yet death had spared that numerous, household; but now
he was watching for his prey. A son who had reached the meridian of
life, with fair prospects and an unblemished reputation, was selected.
He had consecrated himself to God, had put on Christ by baptism, and
well did he adorn his profession, living a consistent Christian life.
But death marked him for his victim.
It were needless now to tell of all the secret underminings of life's
hidden springs. He was cheerfully, hopefully looking forward to a long
life of usefulness, and striving to attain to greater proficiency in
his profession, for he was a physician. But the strength of manhood,
integrity of principle, nor Christian virtue could shield him from the
stealthy foe that was infusing its poison through the secret avenues
of life.
Strength declined, the cough increased, night sweats came on, and
one occupation after another had to be relinquished, till he was a
confirmed invalid, and when he became next convinced that he must die,
the business of his remaining time upon earth was to make preparation
for that event.
His countenance ever wore a smile, and he conversed cheerfully with
his friends.
He sold his place, which was one he had desired for many years,
and which he had recently purchased, anticipating a long life of
usefulness in the bosom of his family, which consisted of his wife and
one son. But he cheerfully resigned it, and settled all his business
as far as was in his power, made the best possible provision for his
wife and son, and retired with them to her paternal home to prepare
the inner man for the great change that was before him.
His mind was relieved from earthly cares, every thing being arranged
as he desired, and he used to say,
"I have 'set my house in order,' and have nothing to do but die."
The things of eternity occupied his entire thoughts; he seldom spoke
of his sufferings as being great, but expressed thankfulness that he
was passing so easily away. But it appeared different to his friends
that looked upon him. He could lay only upon one side for several
months before he died, and he had painful ulcers upon several parts of
the body, and a constant cough, with laborious breathing and profuse
night sweats, accompanied by great emaciation. These were the most
prominent features in the fearful disease.
But he would allow no one to remain with him during the night,
affirming it was unnecessary for any one to be disturbed, thus
spending his restless, weary nights in communion with his Saviour and
his God.
He made all the arrangements for his funeral, telling his friends not
to weep for him. He hoped as his usefulness on earth was so soon to
end, his death might be sanctified so as to be the means of inducing
his unconverted friends to seek that preparation of heart that is
necessary for entrance into a better life.
He told his wife the manner in which he should probably die, and
endeavored to prepare her mind for it. He had distressing turns of
suffocation, so that they were obliged to open all the windows and
doors for the benefit of the air, and he long expected every turn
would be the last.
A few days before his death, his aged mother and a sister visited
him. He conversed with them cheerfully upon the arrangements of his
funeral; told them he was ready to be offered, and should meet the
appointment as cheerfully as ever he met any in his life. He consulted
them about the propriety of the hour of the funeral, and some other
things in connection with the coming event, as he would were he making
preparations for a journey. When the aged mother pressed the hand of
her son for the last time on earth, she said with a smile,
"I can only wish the presence of your Saviour, to go with you, and
lighten the 'dark valley of the shadow of death.'"
He looked fondly in her face, while a smile of ineffable sweetness
beamed upon his countenance. "You could not wish me a better wish,
mother."
"I shall soon follow you, my son; I do not think I shall live the winter
out," said the mother, as she unclasped her hand from the son's, that
she had taken, for the last time.
That mother's hand had been extended, to guide him through the wayward
paths of childhood and youth, to strengthen and comfort him, and
smooth many rough places in the pathway of manhood; but now it was
withdrawn upon the brink of the grave--it could not assist, could not
support him; but she committed him to that arm that is mighty to save.
It was a mild day in early autumn, when the pale messenger came to
beckon him away. He had tasted of the early autumnal fruits, had drank
the delicious juice from her purple grape, and watched the early
symptoms of decay that were visible in some withering flower or fading
leaf, and felt that "passing away" was legibly written on all earthly
things. Once, and once only, he had prayed, "O, my Father, if it be
possible, let this cup pass from me, but thy will be done."
He failed fast the last few hours of his life, losing all appetite
for nourishment, and having more frequent turns of suffocation, and a
sister was sent for. Scarcely had she arrived, when he remarked to his
wife that he felt very easy; but as it was time, he would take his
medicine. He took out the quantity upon the point of his knife, and
after taking it, lay back upon his pillow, apparently asleep. He
started suddenly, looked wildly up, and told them he was choking
to death. They raised his head, and used their accustomed means to
relieve him, but all to no avail. The death dew stood in large drops
upon his forehead, and the film gathered over the sparkling eye and
shut out the light of earth forever. He stretched out one hand and
placed it upon the head of his son, who came hurriedly to his bedside,
crying out, in piteous accents,
"O, father, father," and stood sobbing beside him.
This was his only recognition of any one. But the struggle was soon
over, and the spirit had burst the barriers that held it to its clay
tenement and passed away to a brighter world.
His sun set at noon; but his memory has left a sweet fragrance behind
it, grateful to the surviving friends, who are called upon to follow
his pious example.
He was borne to the Cemetery, and buried in a spot, which he had
selected a few weeks before, in company with his aged mother, by a
long train of weeping friends, for he had been very dear to us, and
nature would have her tribute, and it filled our hearts with sadness,
when we realized that we should see that loved form on earth no more.
Yet we rejoiced that he had died in the glorious hope of a blessed
immortality, and that we could say, in the impressive language of
the text that was chosen for his funeral sermon, "Our friend Lazarus
sleepeth." Sweet be thy sleep, dear brother, during the night of
death; but the morning will come--the glorious morning of the
resurrection--and unlock the portals of the tomb, and the dead shall
come forth, the righteous clothed in eternal youth, shall never die,
the wicked sinking into the second death that has no end.
Sober autumn perfected his work of decay, and dreary winter spread his
snowy shroud over the barren globe, when the aged mother laid down
upon the bed of death. Her infant had passed away, in the very dawn
of its existence. Her son had sunk down, while his meridian sun was
shining in its noonday splendor; but she had lived till the winter of
life had scattered its snows upon her head, and was now falling, like
a shock of corn, fully ripe. She was ready to be bidden suddenly
away, for she was ever watching for the coming of the bridegroom.
Consumption had long been preying upon her form, and paving her way to
the tomb; but she could look calmly upon the prospect, and contemplate
the struggle of death without shrinking from it.
She had long been an humble follower of the meek and lowly Jesus,
and his religion diffused its divine light over the most trifling
incidents of her life. She ever looked upon the fashions of this world
as passing away, and never conformed to them, or the manners of the
world; but taking the holy word of God for her example, endeavored to
imbibe its precepts, and practice its requirements. In profession of
her faith, she united with the Congregational Church, at the early age
of nineteen, and at the age of seventy-six years, could look back upon
a life spent to the honor and glory of him who had redeemed her with
his precious blood. She offered up her children upon the altar of her
heart's purest affections, consecrating them to God, by having them
publicly dedicated, thus performing what she felt to be an important
duty of a Christian mother.
Many an adverse wind had she encountered--that weary voyager on life's
troubled sea; but Christ had long been her pilot, and now he was about
to moor her frail bark into the haven of peace, and the tumultuous
waves were hushed, while the loving Saviour whispered, "Peace, be
still."
She could converse but little, and was with difficulty understood; but
every word breathed of faith and hope. On the afternoon before her
death, she repeated these beautiful lines, and, apparently, felt their
import:
"Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are,
While on his breast I lean my head,
And breathe my life out sweetly there."
She wished to have her robe and cap prepared so that she might see
them before her death. She expressed anxiety for her aged companion,
to whom she had been united fifty-five years, and who was dangerously
sick at the time, and thought he would never recover; but would soon
drop into a deep stupor, occasioned by ossification of the brain.
During the night her feet and hands grew cold, and the worn spirit
seemed struggling to depart.
She would frequently arouse from her stupor, and speak a word or two
to her attendants, saying to one,
"You did not expect me to be found alone now, did you?"
She repeated, "In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not
so I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you."
She lingered till about ten o'clock in the fore-noon, then calling for
the absent members of the family, she desired to be raised up. Her son
supported her in his arms, the feeble lamp of life flickered a moment
in its socket, there was a little struggle, and that pure breast lay
free from the care or burden of life. Those loving eyes had looked
their last upon her dear children, that stood weeping by her bedside,
and the toil worn hands were laid cold and pulseless upon her peaceful
bosom, and she was now at rest with her Saviour, "in the house of many
mansions." Those dear hands that had been so active, administering to
the necessities of her family, had now ceased their labor, and lay
inactive, in their marble whiteness.
How many thoughts come surging up, from the wellspring of memory, as
we looked upon her in her last repose, and glanced retrospectively
upon her useful and exemplary life. Again we heard the rich
instruction that had fallen from those pale lips, and a new-purpose
sprung up in the heart--a new desire to be more entirely consecrated
to God, that our path might be the path of the just, that "grows
brighter and brighter to the perfect day."
Her coffin was carried to the bedside of her husband, who was unable
to rise, and too sick to realize the extent of his sorrow, and so he
looked for the last time upon the countenance of that dear wife, who
had been the partaker in his joys and sorrows, through their long
journey together. It was fifty-five years since their union, and now
the bond was broken. One was an angel of light, the other was left to
drift awhile upon the ocean of life, ere his frail bark sails over
death's sluggish stream.
She, too, was conveyed to the Cemetery, and laid beside her dear son,
who had been deposited there a few month's previous. And they followed
her, slowly and sadly, along the same road she had passed over half a
century before, when she was borne into the neighborhood, a young
and joyous bride, and passed the house that was then built for the
reception of the young mistress.
Here she commenced her first experience in the trials and duties of
house-keeping; and here were opened the deep fountains of a mother's
love. This had been for many years the theatre of her life, where she
had acted a conspicuous part in its changeful drama, and where still
linger many footprints time will never efface, for true it is,
the influence still lives, and will be transmitted to succeeding
generations. The scenes that were so familiar to her eyes, were now
hid from her sight, and she rested in the Cemetery, within a few feet
of the land that was once contained in their own farm.
One son, the eldest of the family, after being absent from home many
years, died in a land of strangers, and little was ever known of his
death or burial. The dear babe was left, far away, and the mother and
son slept side by side, in the Cemetery, waiting the time when other
dear friends shall come and, lay down by their sides in that quiet
resting place.
The tall trees stand waving in the wind, and seem beckoning the weary
ones of earth, to lay down beneath their cooling shades.
The silvery stream dances on, making sweet music in its winding
course, ever murmuring a sweet requiem to the dead. Birds warble their
matin songs in the branches, and the night dew water the graves with
their tears, while the winds sigh over the grassy mounds; and all on
earth must make their bed with them, and every step we take in the
journey of life, is a step towards the tomb, whatever other duty may
be performed. Solemn is the reflection that there is an open grave
before every one that lives, and were we so situated that we could
define our progress, and notice each day's approach to its confines,
we should feel sensibly that we were hastening on to join the pale
nations of the dead, and fill our respective places in the land of
darkness and shadow of death.
But we will leave the dear infant, the brother, and the mother, to
that rest that remains for the people of God; they have fallen victims
to consumption, with the vast multitudes that have fallen a prey to
the ruthless destroyer.
Memory brings up, upon her retentive tablet, the recollection of a
family that fell before its withering blight, ere the elasticity of
youth had passed away.
The first that died was a young wife and mother. She faded like the
early spring flowers, and soon her brothers and sisters younger than
she were laid by her side in the silent chambers of death, all in the
vigor and beauty of youth. The rose faded suddenly upon their cheeks,
and they fell before thee, thou ruthless destroyer of the generations
of men.
The infant of a few days laid down its young life, and joined the
multitude in the place of graves.
One young man just verging upon manhood, was cut suddenly down with
but little warning. He apparently had a slow fever, and had been
confined a few days at the house of a friend, but had so far recovered
as to anticipate a visit to his family on horseback, as the distance
was short, and the doctor had recommended that exercise. But on the
appointed day, while his horse stood saddled at the door, he came in
from a short walk, and asked a niece to help him off with his coat,
as he wished to lay down. As she did so she perceived the blood was
settled under his nails. He flung himself on the bed; concealing his
hands under his back; his breathing became difficult, and death soon
claimed him for his own.
Sorrow filled the afflicted household when the intelligence reached
them. The father saw the messenger approaching, and informed the
family the son was coming.
A younger sister and brother were lingering in the last stages of
consumption. They were now filled with eager expectancy. The father
soon discovered the horse, but not the rider they were expecting, and
waited the issue with fearful forebodings.
Loud was the burst of grief that rung the air when the stricken family
heard of the death of the absent one in so unexpected a moment; thus
crushing out forever the hope that had sprung up in so many hearts of
retu
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