Part 16

One summer, some four or five years after my husband’s death, I ventured to visit the mountain region where my dear cousins had resided. They were dead—kind creatures—but their youngest child, a married daughter, of whom I was fond, resided there with a lovely family of children. They were such romping, blessed little ones, I envied her the possession of these darlings. One lovely child, which bore the name of my mother and hers—Mary—I quietly resolved to adopt and coax away from her parents, when she should become sufficiently fond of me. The days passed delightfully to me, although that lovely place was connected with the most bitter recollections of my past life. Again I roamed through the deep forests—along the mountain paths, and traced the course of the stream as it dashed over its rocky bed as I had in girlish days with Walter, and at last found myself recalling his beautiful face to my memory. One day, on my return from my ramblings, I was told that he—Walter—the long parted one—had arrived. He was, like myself, alone in life—a childless widower. Clara was dead. How my heart sprung—and then sunk; recollections of bitter agony came with his presence—and I was chilled. We met—and days did we spend together. I knew that the meeting and intercourse had been planned by my kindly meaning friends; they thought we would renew our love—how little they knew of woman’s heart. Again we visited our old haunts; again Walter addressed words of passionate love to me, and for a while I fancied the influence of the old dream hung over me. I returned abruptly to my home, and spent weeks in its quiet, calm seclusion; severely and earnestly questioning my heart, my first conclusion remained; the recollection of past love was mingled too deeply with the remembrance of those bitter moments of heart-breaking agony, when I had dared, in my sufficiency, to question the justice of Providence. Walter’s desertion had taught me to still and calm my feelings—to coldly reason on heart-throbbings; now he was the sufferer by the lesson—and again we parted, never more to meet. I was firm—he said, heartless—and it may be I was; if so, his early faithlessness had caused that heartlessness.

Life passed quietly around. I succeeded in persuading the little Mary to love me as she loved her mother—and her merry voice and light footstep cheered my residence. I saw her married to one she loved; and my former quiet, solitary home has rung with the joyous laughter of her children, who troop around me daily. I have known great sorrow, but also much happiness, and have contributed to lighten the griefs of many. I am now old, but I am surrounded with dear, loving friends; and when I would sigh over the past, I look on these happy faces around me, and raise my heart in grateful thoughts to the Power that guided me through a painful childhood—a bitter womanhood—and led me at last to the quiet waters of peaceful prosperity, where I may lay down my spirit to rest.

* * * * *

DO I LOVE THEE?

BY RICHARD COE, JR.

Do I love thee? Ask the flower If it love the pearly tear That, at evening’s quiet hour, Falleth soft and clear, Its gentle form to bless? If, perchance, it answer “yes!” Answer thee sincerely— Then I love with earnestness, Then I love thee dearly!

Do I love thee? Ask the child, If it love its mother dear? If it love her accents mild? Love her fond, sincere, Tender and warm caress? If, perchance, it answer “yes!” Answer thee sincerely— Then I love with earnestness, Then I love thee dearly!

Do I love thee? Ay! I love thee Better far than words can tell; All around and all above me Lives a charméd spell, My spirit sad to bless! Then I fondly answer “yes!” Answer thee sincerely— That I love with earnestness, That I love thee dearly!

* * * * *

ODE TO SHELLEY.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

Why art thou dead? Upon the hills once more The golden mist of waning Autumn lies; The slow-pulsed billows wash along the shore, And phantom isles are floating in the skies. They wait for thee: a spirit in the sand Hushes, expectant, for thy lingering tread; The light wind pants to lift thy trembling hair; Inward, the silent land Lies with its mournful woods—why art thou dead, When Earth demands that thou shalt call her fair?

Why art thou dead? O, glorious Child of Song, Whose brother-spirit ever dwells with mine, Feeling, twin-doomed, the burning hate of Wrong, And Beauty’s worship, deathless and divine! Thou art afar—wilt thou not soon return, To tell me that which thou hast never told? To grasp my throbbing hand, and by the shore Or dewy mountain-fern, Pour out thy heart as to a friend of old, Tearful with twilight sorrow? Nevermore.

Why art thou dead? My years are full of pain— The pain sublime of thought that has no word; And Truth and Beauty sing within my brain Diviner songs than men have ever heard. Wert thou but here, thine eye might read the strife— The solemn burthen of immortal song— And hear the music, that can find no lyre; For thou hast known a life, Lonely, amid the Poets’ mountain-throng— Whose cloudy snows concealed eternal fire!

I could have told thee all the sylvan joy Of trackless woods; the meadows, far apart, Within whose fragrant grass, a lonely boy, I thought of God; the trumpet at my heart, When on bleak mountains roared the midnight storm And I was bathed in lightning, broad and grand:— Oh, more than all, with low and sacred breath And forehead flushing warm, I would have led thee through the summer land Of my young love, and past my dreams of Death!

In thee, immortal Brother! had I found That voice of Earth for which my spirit pines; The awful speech of Rome’s sepulchral ground, The dusky hymn of Vallambrosa’s pines! From thee the noise of ocean would have taken A grand defiance round the moveless shores, And vocal grown the mountain’s silent head. Canst thou not still awaken Beneath the funeral cypress? Earth implores Thy presence for her son—why art thou dead?

I do but rave—for it is better thus: Were once thy starry heart revealed to mine, In the twin-life which would encircle us, My soul would melt, my voice be lost in thine! Better to mask the agony of thought Which through weak human lips would make its way, ’Neath lone endurance, such as men must learn: The Poet’s soul is fraught With mightiest speech, when loneliest the day; And fires are brightest, that in midnight burn.

* * * * *

MARION’S SONG IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM.

BY FRANCIS S. OSGOOD.

Away with you, ye musty tomes! I’ll read no more this morning! The wildwood rose unlessoned grows— I’m off—your sermons scorning!

I found a problem, yester eve, In wondering where the brook led, More pleasant far for me to solve Than any one in Euclid.

I heard a bird sing, sweet and low, A truer lay than Tasso— A lay of love—ah! let me go, And fly from Learning’s lasso!

I saw a golden missal, too, ’Twas writ in ancient ages, And stars—immortal words of light— Illumined all its pages!

The hand of God unclasped the book, And oped its leaves of glory; I read, with awed and reverent look, Creation’s wondrous story.

I will not waste these summer hours, The gift that He has given; I’ll find philosophy in flowers, Astronomy in heaven!

Yon morning-glory shuts its leaves, A worm creeps out from under; Ye volumes, take the hint she gives, And let the book-worm wander!

I’ll scan no more old Virgil’s verse, I’d rather scan the heavens; I’ll leave the puzzling Rule-of-Three At sixes and at sevens;

The only sum I’ll cipher out Shall be the “_summum bonum_;” My only _lines_—shall fish for trout, Till Virgil wouldn’t own ’em!

A costly cover has my book, Rich blue, where light is winding; How poor, beside its beauty, look Your calf and cotton binding.

Away! the balmy air—the birds— Can teach me music better Than all your hard, high-sounding words, That still my fancy fetter.

The waves will tell me how to play That waltz of Weber’s rightly; And I shall learn, from every spray, To dance, with grace and lightly.

Hush! hark! I heard a far-off bird, I’ll read no more this morning; The jasmine glows—the woodbine blows! I’m off—your sermons scorning!

* * * * *

ALL ABOUT “WHAT’S IN A NAME.”

BY CAROLINE C——.

’Tis folly to think of life’s troubles, yet they have the most inconvenient faculty of forcing themselves on the minds of men! _An. Phi._

Proprietor of the visual organs now scanning this page, which the publisher, with the still but potent voice of print, proclaimeth henceforth and forever mine, _do_ you love music? rejoice you in the melody of singing voices? If you reply in the affirmative, then most heartily do I wish that you occupied my place at this present moment; for over the way—oh, most uncomfortable proximity!—there is a “Hall,” where regularly meet a number of _vocalists_, whose chief object in life, for all I can discover, seems to be to ascertain to a certainty the exact power of their individual lungs—perhaps a secondary intent may be to edify this usually calm neighborhood; in case this latter should be at all an influential motive, I hereby proclaim that I, being the neighbor most concerned, am fully satisfied, and far from following the pernicious example of the world-renowned Oliver, I will not cry for “more,” on the contrary, I would much rather stoop to compromise; and if they will but cessate, I will henceforth and forever maintain a most unbreakable silence on all musical subjects, though in doing so, you can hardly conceive what a _sacrifice_ I would be making.

Oh, could you but hear them shout “I _will_ praise the Lord!” perhaps if you are a good Christian you might put up with the nuisance, after having given utterance to only a _partial_ sigh; but possessing as _I_ do so small a share of the Christian graces, I can only say in answer, though with all reverence, “if you call _this_ praise, beseech you, expedite your glorifyings, and have done.”

Perhaps I owe an apology, at least a reason, for opening this chapter in such an exceedingly unamiable style: here it is then. I came into my “_sanctum_” with the express purpose of thinking of one I would fain tell you all about, but with thoughts so distracted as mine are at present, I fear I shall hardly do justice to any body in giving them utterance to night, and yet I feel constrained so to do; remember, in mercy, how I have been outraged by the explosion in yonder “Hall,” and so proceed.

My heroine lived and _lives_ in this most beautiful of all villages in the Empire State, which, as perhaps you know, is _footed_ by the most charming of lakes imaginable, and is, though a “sleeping beauty,” (the village I mean,) when taken all together quite perfect in its way.

To avoid being convicted of speaking of _any body in particular_, I shall treat of this lady as though she were one of the has beens; perhaps afterward I may tell you what she _is_.

Well, then, in her _young_ days she _was_ a maiden very much like other maidens, (American, of course,) pretty, graceful, intelligent, and interesting. No one ever thought her a great beauty, but the expression of her countenance was decidedly good. She was very fair, indeed, _so_ fair that her face seemed pale, in contrast with the glossy black hair which was not usually arranged with very great regard for effect. Her eyes also were black—not the detestable, twinkling, beady, black orb, nor the very opposite, dull, heavy black; but a soft, spiritual eye, filled with mild, cheerful light, quite pleasing to behold; and yet I have seen them glowing actually with what might be called the _fire of determination_, which was quite astonishing to see in one most every body took to be the most placid, and amiable, and soft-hearted creature in the world.

In a crowd of brilliants, or of ordinary fashionable people even, this little lady would have been in her earlier days hopelessly lost to all observation. It was amid the fire-side circle she was calculated pre-eminently to shine. In her own home, among familiar friends, what an affectionate child she was; the arms of her spirit seemed to be continually out-stretched, seeking and asking for love and kindness and sympathy; it was a craving of her nature, a necessity to her happiness, that all should love and esteem her.

A pale-faced, quiet girl, whom, because of her goodness and gentleness, every body liked—there, you have her. You have seen hundreds such, but in all your promiscuous travels, I will guaranty, not many of you have met with one of whom you have such a tale to tell as I am going to unfold.

In order that I may continue this story with any degree of satisfaction to you, patient(?) bearer with my many digressions, or with any comfort or propriety to myself, it is absolutely necessary that I should give this amiable and loveable maiden “a name,” as I have already given her a “local habitation.” I have not delayed doing this for so long without reason, so far from that, it is with inexpressible reluctance that I proclaim to you the cognomen of _this_ friend of mine. I have tried to get up a little interest in her on your part before mentioning her title, the world is so cold-hearted, and possesses so little power of _appreciation_, that I fear me it will imagine no manner of interest could attach itself to the owner of _such_ a name.

Poor dear, (do not look at me so earnestly, my tongue falters while I speak,) poor, dear Delleparetta Hogg, all honor to thee for bearing the burden of _such_ a nomenclature so meekly and so well! Let me tell you all about her, (for really I am coming to the point,) and you will see what other burdens she bore nobly, beside that odious appendage to her identity.

Her childhood passed much in the manner of the childhood of other people. From the time when she was a little wee thing till she was twelve years old, Delleparetta, or Delle, as we used to call her, went with all the rest of the village children to the village-school; she played with us, and rode, and walked, and went nutting with us, and was in all respects as we, only a great deal better, and more obliging, till, as I have said, she approached _’teen hood_. Then “trouble came down upon” the young child.

One day the sun, which had always shone so cheerfully upon her, went behind a dark and hateful cloud, and an evil genius passing by her home, stamped upon the door the cross of poverty. From that day there was a sad change in little Delle; her voice became more hushed than ever in its tone, she rarely came to join us in our merry-makings—and there spread a thoughtful, sad expression over the face of the gentle child, which told she had heard unpleasant changes in the aforetime harmony of her life.

The father of Delle had started in life with a purse alarmingly full of nothingness, but by slow and patient toil and care, he had worked himself into the possession of a comfortable living. Not content with this, one ever-to-be-lamented day he entered into a wild speculation, which, instead of at once doubling his fortune, left him in a far worse predicament than he was placed in at the beginning of life forty years before, when he had played a bare-footed boy in the streets, with scarcely a home to boast of. Yes, he was a great deal worse off than he was _then_, despite his present respectability, and his fine noble wife, and five children; because _then_ he was but a boy, brimful of hope, eager to enter into the contest of life, fearful of no failure, feeling he had “little to lose, and all to win.” Now his habits of ease and quiet had been so long fastening upon him, it really required no little strength of mind and purpose to rouse and labor as he had done in the days of his youth; his eagerness and hopefulness of spirit were gone—his ambition was departed; and when he looked on his five helpless little ones, the eldest but twelve years old, he felt as though the weight of a mountain were on his hands.

Temptation comes well armed to such a mind, and not with unheard footsteps, or disregarded smile drew she nigh to him. She held the wine-cup to his lips—his eyes grew red with looking on the burning poison, and he tasted, and was lost! Not a hand lifted he to avert the dread calamity which he alone _could_ avert; not an effort did he make to re-establish once more the happiness of that household, when smiles and kind words were all the little group cared to have. About this time Sickness passed on heavy wing by this home of our little friend; she saw the cross her sister Poverty had marked upon the lintel, and she knew where she might rest. The _poor_ have no power to shut out the dark angel, when she pauseth before their open door.

The mother, who, during one of the longest and hardest of winters had exerted herself daily and nightly far beyond her strength to provide for the wants of her children, who had in reality no other support but her, drooped when the “life-inspiring” spring came round again. The health which was so shattered by the struggles and heart-sorrows of the winter, was not restored again when the sunlight streamed so richly through her cheerless home. With the blossoming trees, and the violets, her hope did not strongly revive. The voices of the returning birds did not bring to her the lightness and happiness of spirit she had known in other days—for every day the brand of drunkenness was graven deeper and deeper on the forehead of the lover of her youth. Long, long after all her natural strength had failed, the mother’s love, and the wife’s devotion sustained, supported her. Long after her voice was faltering with weakness, did she supplicate that husband to rouse him to his former manliness, to exert himself once more. Long after her hands were trembling with disease, did she continue to ply the needle, whose labor was to bring them their daily food.

And heavy debts hung over them. Then the creditors, who saw no probability of these being ever satisfied, determined to liquidate them by selling off the little farm and residence of Mr. Hogg. And so they were sold. With the miserable remnant of their household goods which was left them, they removed to a smaller and less comfortable home. Then, as if evil days had not dawned on them already, one morning found the toiling mother laid on the bed of sickness and of death. To leave those helpless children _thus!_ oh, it had been hard to part with those little ones, when around each one her heart-strings clung, even had their future been very bright, but to leave them when darkness and dreariness of life was before them, when a path so beset with sorrow and trial was all that she could see in store for them! bitter, bitter it was, indeed! Pass we over the sacredness of that hour, when the dying mother breathing the few faint parting words in the ear of her eldest child, left them to struggle on in their hard road alone. Words fail me to tell her anguish, who, in the last moments of her life, was racked by the thought of _all_ that _they_ might be called on to endure. No living voice _should_ essay to speak of all that was in her heart, when she clasped the youngest, a bright-eyed boy, to her bosom, while his gay voice broke forth in laughter, and he flung his arms about her neck, and hid his face, all radiant with smiles, in her bosom. I am powerless when I attempt to tell you of the girl who stood shuddering with agony beside that bed, while the shadows of the coming night were fast filling the little room, when, after a long, and to her terrible silence, with trembling hands she lifted the boy from his mother’s arms, and felt as her fingers loosened the parent’s grasp, that the thin hands were icy cold, when she fell almost lifeless to the floor with the little one in her arms, feeling that those children had no mother or protector but her. _I_ cannot tell you as should be told, if told, indeed, at all, of the terrible sorrow that filled her soul, when the little one said to her, “put me back with mamma, she is sleeping!”

From that day Delle went with us no more to the village school, neither joined us in our hours of gayety. While she was so young, the cares and anxieties of a woman had overtaken her, and trials which older heads and hearts find it hard to bear, were thick in her path, all that delights the young and excitable, did she most cheerfully forego; I never heard a murmur from her lips. The living witnesses of her mother’s love and life-devotion surrounded her; they forbade every expression, every feeling of impatience, or envious regard of the happiness of others, no worthier than herself.

It was a heart-cheering sight, the firmness and perseverance of that strong-minded girl, when the first wildness of her sorrow was passed, and she stood amid that family group, a support, and a counsellor, and guide, plying her little hands on the coarse work with which the neighbors had supplied her. All the counsel and advice of the dead mother she kept most religiously. Never for a moment did she falter in her duty, but no one knows how much of sadness there was in her heart.

At the time of his wife’s death, the father seemed to pause for a little in his downward course, for he had loved her once, and remembered well that happy time, and perhaps, but no, I cannot dignify the affection with which still, in his sober hours, he thought of her, with the name of _love_. No, he did not _love_ her in her better days, because love would have prompted him to deeds commensurate with so ennobling and exalting a faculty. Yet when she died, the husband sorrowed for her, and conscience reproached him, too, when he looked for the last time on the care-worn, faded countenance of his departed wife, who had always been his good angel. Still it was not with such sorrow as he should have sorrowed for her, that he followed her to the grave, and then led his little ones back to his home; had it been, he would have sought then, in a better life, to pay a fitting homage to her memory.