Part 1

LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET.

FROM

SOURCES OLD, NEW, ORIGINAL, AND SELECTED.

LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET.

_From Sources Old and New, Original and Selected._

BY L. MARIA CHILD.

“When the Sun is setting, cool fall its gleams upon the earth, and the shadows lengthen; but they all point toward the Morning.” JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

“I am fully convinced that the Soul is indestructible, and that its activity will continue through eternity. It is like the Sun, which, to our eyes, seems to set in night; but it has in reality only gone to diffuse its light elsewhere.”--GOETHE.

BOSTON: HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. The Riverside Press, Cambridge. 1881.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by

L. MARIA CHILD,

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

TWELFTH EDITION.

TO

MY DEAR AND HONORED FRIENDS

MISS LUCY OSGOOD AND MISS HENRIETTA SARGENT,

_This Volume_

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,

IN TOKEN OF GRATITUDE FOR THEIR EXAMPLE, WHICH CONFERS BEAUTY AND DIGNITY ON DECLINING YEARS, BY ACTIVE USEFULNESS AND KINDLY SYMPATHY WITH THE HUMAN RACE.

PREFACE.

I occasionally meet people who say to me, “I had many a pleasant hour, in my childhood, reading your Juvenile Miscellany; and now I am enjoying it over again, with my own little folks.”

Such remarks remind me that I have been a long time in the world; but if a few acknowledge me as the household friend of two generations, it is a pleasant assurance that I have not lived altogether in vain.

When I was myself near the fairy-land of childhood, I used my pen for the pleasure of children; and now that I am travelling down the hill I was then ascending, I would fain give some words of consolation and cheer to my companions on the way. If the rays of my morning have helped to germinate seeds that ripened into flowers and fruit, I am grateful to Him, from whom all light and warmth proceeds. And now I reverently ask His blessing on this attempt to imitate, in my humble way, the setting rays of that great luminary, which throws cheerful gleams into so many lonely old homes, which kindles golden fires on trees whose foliage is falling, and lights up the silvered heads on which it rests with a glory that reminds one of immortal crowns.

L. MARIA CHILD.

CONTENTS.

PAGE THE FRIENDS _L. M. Child_ 1

THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER _Anonymous_ 37

THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE _Zschokke_ 39

THE OLD MAN DREAMS _O. W. Holmes_ 44

A RUSSIAN LADY 46

THE OLD MAN’S SONG _Anonymous_ 51

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH _W. C. Bryant_ 52

A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR _Charles Dickens_ 53 GRANDFATHER

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO _Robert Burns_ 60

OLD FOLKS AT HOME _L. M. Child_ 61

EVERLASTING YOUTH _Edmund H. Sears_ 62

LIFE _Mrs. Barbauld_ 68

THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE _L. M. Child_ 69

THE HAPPIEST TIME _Eliza Cook_ 81

ODE OF ANACREON 84

CICERO’S ESSAY ON OLD AGE 85

THE FOUNTAIN _W. Wordsworth_ 98

A POET’S BLESSING _Uhland_ 101

BERNARD PALISSY 102

OLD AGE COMING _Elizabeth Hamilton_ 123

UNMARRIED WOMEN _L. M. Child_ 127

THE OLD MAID’S PRAYER _Mrs. Tighe_ 144

GRANDFATHER’S REVERIE _Theodore Parker_ 146

THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW _Louise C. Moulton_ 149

A STORY OF ST. MARK’S EVE _Thomas Hood_ 152

WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID _Anonymous_ 161

THE SPRING JOURNEY _Heber_ 163

MORAL HINTS _L. M. Child_ 164

THE BOYS _O. W. Holmes_ 184

ODE OF ANACREON 185

MYSTERIOUSNESS OF LIFE _Mountford_ 186

THE GRANDMOTHER’S APOLOGY _Alfred Tennyson_ 189

THE ANCIENT MAN _J. P. Richter_ 193

MILTON’S HYMN OF PATIENCE _Elizabeth L. Howell_ 210

LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN _L. M. Child_ 212

BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER _John G. Whittier_ 223

THE CANARY BIRD _John Sterling_ 224

OLD BACHELORS _L. M. Child_ 225

TAKING IT EASY _G. H. Clark_ 238

OLD AUNTY _Anonymous_ 241

RICHARD AND KATE _Robert Bloomfield_ 250

LUDOVICO CORNARO 256

ROBIN AND JEANNIE _Dora Greenwell_ 271

A GOOD OLD AGE _Mountford_ 273

MY PSALM _John G. Whittier_ 276

JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER 279

THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES _W. Wordsworth_ 290

DR. DODDRIDGE’S DREAM 292

THE OLD PSALM-TUNE _Harriet B. Stowe_ 297

THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY 300

TO ONE WHO WISHED ME SIXTEEN _Alice Cary_ 322 YEARS OLD

GROWING OLD _Dinah Muloch_ 324

EQUINOCTIAL _Mrs. A.D.T. Whitney_ 334

EPITAPH ON THE UNMATED _E. S._ 335

A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT _Convers Francis_ 336

AT ANCHOR _Anonymous_ 339

NOVEMBER _H. W. Beecher_ 341

MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY EVE _John Pierpont_ 343

THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES _H. J._ 346

AULD LANG SYNE _Robert Burns_ 362

OLD FOLKS AT HOME _L. M. Child_ 363

OLD UNCLE TOMMY _M. S._ 364

SITTING IN THE SUN _Anonymous_ 377

AUNT KINDLY _Theodore Parker_ 379

CROSSING OVER _Uhland_ 383

A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD _Mrs. Gaskell_ 385

TO MY WIFE _Anonymous_ 408

THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS _J. P. Richter_ 410

OUR SECRET DRAWER _Anonymous_ 414

THE GOLDEN WEDDING _F. A. Bremer_ 416

THE WORN WEDDING RING _W. C. Bennett_ 424

HINTS ABOUT HEALTH _L. M. Child_ 427

THE INVALID’S PRAYER _Wesley_ 440

THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON _J. P. Richter_ 441

REST AT EVENING _Adelaide A. Procter_ 454

THE FRIENDS.

BY L. M. CHILD.

“By some especial care Her temper had been framed, as if to make A being, who, by adding love to peace, Might live on earth a life of happiness.”

_Wordsworth._

In the interior of Maine two girls grew to womanhood in houses so near that they could nod and smile to each other while they were making the beds in the morning, and chat through the open fence that separated their gardens when they went to pick currants for the tea-table. Both were daughters of farmers; but Harriet Brown’s father had money in the bank, while Jane White’s father was struggling hard to pay off a mortgage. Jane was not a beauty, but her fresh, healthy countenance was pleasant to look upon. Her large blue eyes had a very innocent expression, and there was always in them the suggestion of a smile, as if they sung the first note of a merry song for the lips to follow. Harriet was the belle of the county; with rosy cheeks, a well-shaped mouth, and black eyes, that were very bright, without being luminous from within. A close observer of physiognomy could easily determine which of the girls had most of heart and soul. But they were both favorites in the village, and the young men thought it was a pretty sight to see them together. In fact, they were rarely seen apart. Their leisure moments, on bright winter days, were spent in snow-balling each other across the garden-fence; and they kept up the sport hilariously long after their hands were numb and red with cold. In the long evenings, they made wagers which would soonest finish a pair of socks; and merry were the little crowings over the vanquished party. In spring, they hunted anemones and violets together. In autumn, they filled their aprons with brilliant-colored leaves to decorate the mantel-piece; stopping ever and anon to twine the prettiest specimens in each other’s hair. They both sat in the singing-seats at meeting. Harriet’s shrill voice was always heard above Jane’s, but it was defective in modulation, while music flowed through the warbling voice of her companion. They often bought dresses alike, with the agreement that, when the sleeves were worn, the two skirts should be used to make a new dress for the one who first needed it; and shrewd observers remarked that Harriet usually had the benefit of such bargains. Jane waited assiduously upon her mother, while Harriet’s mother waited upon her. One seemed to have come into the world to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. Harriet was prim in company, and some called her rather proud; but Jane was deemed imprudent, because whatever she said or did bubbled out of her heart. Their friendship was not founded on any harmonious accord of character; few friendships are. They were born next door to each other, and no other girls of their own age happened to be near neighbors. The youthful heart runs over so perpetually, that it needs another into which to pour its ever-flowing stream. Impelled by this necessity, they often shared each other’s sleeping apartments, and talked late into the night. They could not have told, the next day, what they had talked about. Their conversation was a continuous movement of hilarious nothings, with a running accompaniment of laughter. It was like the froth of whip-syllabub, of which the rustic took a spoonful into his mouth, and finding it gone without leaving a taste behind, he searched the carpet for it. The girls, however, never looked after the silly bubbles of their bubbling syllables. Harriet thought Jane excessively funny, and such an appreciative audience was stimulus sufficient to keep her friend’s tongue in motion.

“O Hatty, the moon’s up, and it’s as light as a cork!” exclaimed Jane, springing out of bed in the summer’s night, and looking out of the window.

“What a droll creature you are!” replied Hatty; and they laughed more heartily than they would have done over one of Dr. Holmes’s wittiest sayings.

When merriment subsided into a more serious mood, each gave her opinion whether Harry Blake, the young lawyer, or Frank May, the young store-keeper, had the handsomest eyes. Jane said, there was a report that the young lawyer was engaged to somebody before he came to their village; but Harriet said she didn’t believe it, because he pressed her hand when they came home from the County Ball, and he whispered something, too; but she didn’t know whether it would be fair to tell of it. Then came the entreaty, “Do tell”; and she told. And with various similar confidings, they at last fell asleep.

Thus life flowed on, like a sunny, babbling brook, with these girls of sixteen summers. Fond as they were of recreation, they were capable, in the New England sense of the term, and accomplished a great deal of work. It was generally agreed that Harriet made the best butter and Jane the best bread that the village produced. Thrifty fathers said to their sons, that whoever obtained one of those girls for a wife would be a lucky fellow. Harriet refused several offers, and the rejected beaux revenged themselves by saying, she was fishing for the lawyer, in hopes of being the wife of a judge, or a member of Congress. There was less gossip about Jane’s love affairs. Nobody was surprised when the banns were published between her and Frank May. She had always maintained that his eyes were handsomer than the lawyer’s. It was easy enough for anybody to read her heart. Soon after Jane’s marriage with the young store-keeper Harriet went to visit an uncle in New York. There she attracted the attention of a prosperous merchant, nearly as old as her father, and came home to busy herself with preparations for a wedding. Jane expressed surprise, in view of certain confidences with regard to the young lawyer; but Harriet replied: “Mr. Gray is a very good sort of man, and really seems to be very much in love with me. And you know, Jenny, it must be a long time before Harry Blake can earn enough to support a wife handsomely.”

A few weeks afterward, they had their parting interview. They kissed and shed tears, and exchanged lockets with braids of hair. Jane’s voice was choked, as she said: “O Hatty, it seems so hard that we should be separated! I thought to be sure we should always be neighbors.”

And Harriet wiped her eyes, and tried to answer cheerfully: “You must come and see me, dear Jenny. It isn’t such a great way to New York, after all.”

The next day Jane attended the wedding in her own simple bridal dress of white muslin; and the last she saw of Harriet was the waving of her white handkerchief from a genteel carriage, drawn by two shining black horses. It was the first link that had been broken in the chain of her quiet life; and the separation of these first links startles the youthful mind with a sort of painful surprise, such as an infant feels waking from sleep to be frightened by a strange face bending over its cradle. She said to her husband: “I didn’t feel at all as I always imagined I should feel at Hatty’s wedding. It was so unexpected to have her go off with that stranger! But I suppose she is the best judge of what is for her own happiness.”

The void left by this separation was soon filled by new pleasures and duties. A little boy and girl came. Then her husband was seized with a disease of the spine, which totally unfitted him for business. Jane had acquired considerable skill in mantua-making, which now proved a valuable assistance in the support of her family. The neighboring farmers said, “Young Mrs. May has a hard row to hoe.” But her life was a mingled cup, which she had no wish to exchange for any other. Care and fatigue were sweetened by the tenderness and patience of her household mate, and brightened by the gambols of children, who clung to her with confiding love. When people expressed sympathy with her hard lot, she answered, cheerfully: “I am happier than I was when I was a girl. It is a happiness that I feel deeper down in my heart.” This feeling was expressed in her face also. The innocent blue eyes became motherly and thoughtful in their tenderness, but still a smile lay sleeping there. Her husband said she was handsomer than when he first loved her; and so all thought who appreciated beauty of expression above fairness of skin.

During the first year of her residence in New York, Harriet wrote every few weeks; but the intervals between her letters lengthened, and the apology was the necessity of giving dinner-parties, making calls, and attending to mantua-makers. To Jane, who was constantly working to nurse and support her dear ones, they seemed like letters in a foreign language, of which we can study out the meaning, but in which it is impossible for us to think. She felt herself more really separated from the friend of her girlhood than she could have been by visible mountains. They were not only living in different worlds, but the ways of each world did not interest the other. The correspondence finally ceased altogether, and years passed without any communication.

The circle of Jane’s duties enlarged. Her husband’s parents became feeble in health; they needed the presence of children, and could also assist their invalid son by receiving him into their house. So Frank May and his wife removed to their home, in a country village of Massachusetts. Her parents, unwilling to relinquish the light of her presence, removed with them. There was, of course, great increase of care, to which was added the necessity for vigilant economy; but the energy of the young matron grew with the demands upon it. Her husband’s mother was a little unreasonable at times, but it was obvious that she considered her son very fortunate in his wife; and Jane thankfully accepted her somewhat reluctant affection. If a neighbor alluded to her numerous cares, she replied cheerfully: “Yes, it is true that I have a good deal on my shoulders; but somehow it never seems very heavy. The fact is,” she added, smiling, “there’s great satisfaction in feeling one’s self of so much importance. There are my husband, my two children, my two fathers, and my two mothers, all telling me that they couldn’t get along without me; and I think that’s blessing enough for one poor woman. Nobody can tell, until they try it, what a satisfaction there is in making old folks comfortable. They cling so to those that take good care of them, that, I declare, I find it does me about as much good as it did to tend upon my babies.” Blessed woman! she carried sunshine within her, and so external circumstances could not darken her life.

The external pressure increased as years passed on. Her husband, her parents, her son, departed from her, one after another. Still she smiled through her tears, and said: “God has been very merciful to me. It was _such_ a comfort to be able to tend upon them to the last, and to have them die blessing me!” The daughter married and removed to Illinois. The heart of the bereaved mother yearned to follow her; but her husband’s parents were very infirm, and she had become necessary to their comfort. When she gave the farewell kiss to her child, she said: “There is no one to take good care of the old folks if I leave them. I will stay and close their eyes, and then, if it be God’s will, I will come to you.”

Two years afterward, the old father died, but his wife survived him several years. When the estates of both fathers were settled, there remained for the two widowed women a small house, an acre of land, and a thousand dollars in the bank. There they lived alone. The rooms that had been so full of voices were silent now. Only, as Jane moved about, “on household cares intent,” she was often heard singing the tune her dear Frank used to sing under the apple-tree by her window, in their old courting days:--

“The moon was shining silver bright. No cloud the eye could view; Her lover’s step, in silent night, Well pleased, the damsel knew.”

Sometimes the blue eyes moistened as she sang, but, ere the tears fell, tender memories would modulate themselves into the tune of “Auld lang syne.” And sometimes the old mother, who sat knitting in the sunshine, would say: “Sing that again, Jenny. How my old man used to love to hear you sing it! Don’t you remember he used to say you sung like a thrush?” Jenny would smile, and say, “Yes, mother,” and sing it over again. Then, tenderly adapting herself to the old woman’s memories, she would strike into “John Anderson, my Jo,” to which her aged companion would listen with an expression of serene satisfaction. It was indeed a pleasure to listen; for Jenny’s sweet voice remained unbroken by years; its tones were as silvery as her hair. Time, the old crow, had traversed her face and left his footprints there; and the ploughshare of successive sorrows had cut deep lines into the once smooth surface; but the beauty of the soul illumined her faded countenance, as moonlight softens and glorifies ruins. When she carefully arranged the pillows of the easy-chair, the aged mother, ere she settled down for her afternoon’s nap, would often look up gratefully, and say, “Your eyes are just as good as a baby’s.” It was a pleasant sound to the dutiful daughter’s ears, and made her forget the querulous complaints in which her infirm companion sometimes indulged.

The time came when this duty was finished also; and Mrs. Frank May found herself all alone in the house, whither she had carried her sunshine thirty years before. She wrote to her daughter that, as soon as she could sell or let her little homestead, she would start for Illinois. She busied herself to hasten the necessary arrangements; for her lonely heart was longing for her only child, whose face she had not seen for seven years. One afternoon, as she sat by the window adding up accounts, her plans for the journey to meet her daughter gradually melted into loving reminiscences of her childhood, till she seemed to see again the little smiling face that had looked to her the most beautiful in all the world, and to hear again the little pattering feet that once made sweetest music in her ears. As she sat thus in reverie at the open window, the setting sun brightened the broad meadows, crowned the distant hill-tops with glory, and threw a ribbon of gold across the wall of her humble little room. The breath of lilacs floated in, and with it came memories of how her little children used to come in with their arms full of spring-blossoms, filling every mug and pitcher they could find. The current of her thoughts was interrupted by the sound of a wagon. It stopped before her house. A stranger with two little children! Who could it be? She opened the door. The stranger, taking off his hat and bowing respectfully, said, “Are you Mrs. Frank May?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Well, then,” rejoined he, “if you please, I’ll walk in, for I’ve got some news to tell you. But first I’ll bring in the children, for the little things have been riding all day, and are pretty tired.”

“Certainly, sir, bring them in and let them rest, and I will give them a cup of milk,” replied the kindly matron.

A little boy and girl were lifted from the wagon and led in. Mrs. May made an exclamation of joyful surprise. The very vision she had had in her mind a few minutes previous stood before her bodily! She took the little girl in her arms and covered her face with kisses. “Why, bless your little soul!” she exclaimed; “how much you look like my daughter Jenny!”

“My name _ith_ Jenny,” lisped the little one.

“Why, you see, ma’am--” stammered the stranger; he paused, in an embarrassed way, and smoothed the nap of his hat with his sleeve. “You see, ma’am--” he resumed; then, breaking down again, he suddenly seized the boy by the hand, led him up to her, and said, “There, Robin! that’s your good old granny, you’ve heard so much about.”

With a look of astonishment, Mrs. May said to him: “And where is my daughter, sir? Surely these little children wouldn’t come so far without their mother.”

The man again began to say, “You see, ma’am--” but his heart came up and choked his voice with a great sob. The old mother understood its meaning. She encircled the two children with her arms, and drew them closely to her side. After a brief silence, she asked, in a subdued voice, “When did she die?”