Part 23
Not at all, I thought; but I did not say anything. I felt almost guilty of having spied too curiously into that tender heart; and I was not going to speak of its secrets,--hidden, Miss Matey believed, from all the world. I ushered Miss Pole into Miss Matilda’s drawing-room; and then left them alone. But I was not surprised when Martha came to my bed-room door, to ask me to go down to dinner alone, for that missus had one of her bad headaches. She came into the drawing-room at tea-time; but it was evidently an effort for her. As if to make up for some reproachful feeling against her late sister, Miss Jenkyns, which had been troubling her all the afternoon, and for which she now felt penitent, she kept telling me how good and how clever Deborah was in her youth, how she used to settle what gowns they were to wear at all the parties; (faint, ghostly ideas of dim parties far away in the distance, when Miss Matey and Miss Pole were young!) and how Deborah and her mother had started the benefit society for the poor, and taught girls cooking and plain sewing; and how Deborah had danced with a lord; and how she used to visit at Sir Peter Arley’s, and try to remodel the quiet rectory establishment on the plans of Arley Hall, where they kept thirty servants; and how she had nursed Miss Matey through a long, long illness, of which I had never heard before, but which I now dated, in my own mind, as following the dismissal of the suit of Mr. Holbrook. So we talked softly and quietly of old times, through the long November evening.
The next day, Miss Pole brought us word that Mr. Holbrook was dead. Miss Matey heard the news in silence. In fact, from the account on the previous day, it was only what we had to expect. Miss Pole kept calling upon us for some expressions of regret, by asking if it was not sad that he was gone, and saying,--
“To think of that pleasant day last June, when he seemed so well! And he might have lived this dozen years, if he had not gone to that wicked Paris, where they are always having Revolutions.”
She paused for some demonstration on our part. I saw Miss Matey could not speak, she was trembling so nervously, so I said what I really felt; and after a call of some duration,--all the time of which I have no doubt Miss Pole thought Miss Matey received the news very calmly,--our visitor took her leave. But the effort at self-control Miss Matey had made to conceal her feelings,--a concealment she practised even with me; for she has never alluded to Mr. Holbrook again, although the book he gave her lies with her Bible on the little table by her bedside. She did not think I heard her when she asked the little milliner of Cranford to make her caps something like the Hon. Mrs. Jamieson’s; or that I noticed the reply,--
“But she wears widows’ caps, ma’am?”
“O, I only meant something in that style; not widows’, of course, but rather like Mrs. Jamieson’s.”
This effort at concealment was the beginning of the tremulous motion of head and hands, which I have seen ever since in Miss Matey.
The evening of the day on which we heard of Mr. Holbrook’s death, Miss Matilda was very silent and thoughtful; after prayers, she called Martha back, and then she stood uncertain what to say.
“Martha!” she said at last; “you are young,”--and then she made so long a pause, that Martha, to remind her of her half-finished sentence, dropped a courtesy, and said: “Yes, please, ma’am; two-and-twenty last third October, please, ma’am.”
“And perhaps, Martha, you may some time meet with a young man you like, and who likes you. I did say you were not to have followers; but if you meet with such a young man, and tell me, and I find he is respectable, I have no objection to his coming to see you once a week. God forbid!” said she, in a low voice, “that I should grieve any young hearts.”
She spoke as if she were providing for some distant contingency, and was rather startled when Martha made her ready, eager answer: “Please, ma’am, there’s Jem Hearn, and he’s a joiner, making three-and-sixpence a day, and six foot one in his stocking-feet, please, ma’am; and if you’ll ask about him to-morrow morning, every one will give him a character for steadiness; and he’ll be glad enough to come to-morrow night, I’ll be bound.”
Though Miss Matey was startled, she submitted to Fate and Love.
* * * * *
God is our Father. Heaven is his high throne, and this earth is his footstool; and while we sit around and meditate, or pray, one by one, as we fall asleep, He lifts us into his bosom, and our awaking is inside the gates of an everlasting world.--MOUNTFORD.
TO MY WIFE.
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING.
Now, Time and I, near fifty years, Have managed kindly to agree; Pleased with the friendship he appears, And means that all the world shall see.
For, with soft touch about my eyes, The frosty, kindly, jealous friend His drawing-pencil deftly plies, And mars the face he thinks to mend.
Nor am I called _alone_ to wear Old Time, “His mark,” in deepening trace; That “twain are one,” this limner sere Will print in lines on either face.
’Tis not, perhaps, a gallant thing On such a morning to be told, But Time doth yearly witness bring, That--Bless you! _we_ are growing old.
Together we have lived and loved, Together passed through smiles and tears, And life’s all-varying lessons proved Through many constant married years.
And there is joy Time cannot reach, A youth o’er which no power he hath, If we cling closer, each to each, And each to God, in hope and faith.
ANONYMOUS.
* * * * *
In the summer evenings, when the wind blew low, And the skies were radiant with the sunset glow, Thou and I were happy, long, long years ago! Love, the young and hopeful, hovered o’er us twain, Filled us with sad pleasure and delicious pain, In the summer evenings, wandering in the lane.
In the winter evenings, when the wild winds roar, Blustering in the chimney, piping at the door, Thou and I are happy, as in days of yore. Love still hovers o’er us, robed in white attire, Drawing heavenly music from an earthly lyre, In the winter evenings, sitting by the fire.
ANONYMOUS.
THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS.
EXTRACTS FROM THE GERMAN OF J. P. RICHTER.
I oppose, as I would every useless fear in men, the lamentation that our feelings grow old with the lapse of years. It is the narrow heart alone which does not grow; the wide one becomes larger. Years shrivel the one, but they expand the other. Man often mistakes concerning the glowing depths of his feelings; forgetting that they may be present in all their energy, though in a state of repose. In the wear and tear of daily life, amid the care of providing support, perchance under misdemeanors, in comparing one child with another, or in daily absences, thou mayest not be conscious of the fervent affection smouldering under the ashes of every-day life, which would at once blaze forth into a flame, if thy child were suffering innocently, or condemned to die. Thy love was already there, prior to the suffering of thy child and thyself. It is the same in wedlock and friendship. In the familiarity of daily presence, the heart beats and glows silently; but in the hours of meeting and parting, the beautiful radiance of a long-nurtured flame reveals itself. It is on such occasions that man always most pleases me. I am then reminded of the glaciers, which beam forth in rosy-red transparency only at the rising and setting of the sun, while throughout the day they look gray and dark.
A golden mine of affection, of which the smallest glimmer is scarcely visible, lies buried in the breast until some magic word reveals it, and then man discovers his ancient treasure. To me, it is a delightful thought that, during the familiarity of constant proximity, the heart gathers up in silence the nutriment of love, as the diamond, even beneath water, imbibes the light it emits. Time, which deadens hatred, secretly strengthens love; and in the hour of threatened separation its growth is manifested at once in radiant brightness.
Another reason why man fancies himself chilled by old age, is that he can then feel interested only in higher objects than those which once excited him. The lover of nature, the preacher, the poet, the actor, or the musician, may, in declining years, find themselves slightly affected by what delighted them in youth; but this need produce no fear that time will mar their sensibility to nature, art, and love. Thou, as well as I, may indeed weep less frequently than formerly, at the theatre or at concerts; but give us a truly excellent piece, and we cannot suppress the emotion it excites. Youth is like unbleached wax, which melts under feeble sun-beams, while that which has been whitened is scarcely warmed by them. The mature or aged man avoids those tears which youth invites; because in him they flow too hot, and dry too slowly.
Select a man of my age, and of my heart, with my life-long want of highland scenery, and conduct him to the valley of the Rhine! Bring him to that long, attractive, sea-like river, flowing between vine-clad hills on either side, as between two regions of enchantment, reflecting only scenes of pleasure, creating islands for the sake of clasping them in its arms; let also a reflection of the setting sun glow upon its waters; and surely youth would again be mirrored in the old man, and that still ocean of infinity, which in the true and highest heaven permits us to look down.
Memory, wit, fancy, acuteness, cannot grow young again in old age; but the _heart_ can. In order to be convinced of this, we need only remember how the hearts of poets have glowed in the autumn and winter seasons of life. He who in old age can do without love, never in his youth possessed the right sort, over which years have no power. During winter, it is the withered branches, not the living germs, that become encrusted with ice. The loving heart will indeed often bashfully conceal a portion of its warmth behind children and grandchildren; so that last love is perhaps as coy as the first. But if an aged eye, full of soul, is upraised, gleaming with memories of its spring-time, is there anything in that to excite ridicule? Even if it were silently moistened, partly through gladness, and partly through a feeling of the past, would it not be excusable? Might not an aged hand presume to press a young hand, merely to signify thereby, I, too, was once in Arcadia, and within me Arcadia still remains? In the better sort of men love is an interior sentiment, born in the soul; why should it not continue with the soul to the end? It is a part of the attraction of tender and elevated love that its consecrated hours leave in the heart a gentle, continuous, distinct influence; just as, sometimes, upon a heavenly spring-evening, fragrance, exhaled from warm blossoms in the surrounding country penetrates every street of a city that has no gardens.
I would exhort men to spare every true affection, and not to ridicule the overflowings of a happy heart with more license than they would the effusions of a sorrowing one. For the youth of the soul is everlasting, and eternity is youth.
OUR SECRET DRAWER.
There is a secret drawer in every heart, Wherein we lay our treasures, one by one; Each dear remembrance of the buried past, Each cherished relic of the time that’s gone.
The old delights of childhood, long ago; The things we loved because we knew them best; The first discovered primrose in our path; The cuckoo’s earliest note; the robin’s nest;
The merry haymakings around our home; Our rambles in the summer woods and lanes; The story told beside the winter fire, While the wind moaned across the window panes;
The golden dreams we dreamt in after years, Those magic visions of our young romance; The sunny nooks, the fountains and the flowers, Gilding the fairy landscape of our trance;
The link which bound us, later still, to one Who fills a corner in our life to-day, Without whose love we dare not dream how dark The rest would seem, if it were gone away;
The song that thrilled our souls with very joy; The gentle word that unexpected came; The gift we prized because the thought was kind; The thousand, thousand things that have no name;
All these, in some far hidden corner lie, Within the mystery of that secret drawer, Whose magic springs though stranger hands may touch, Yet none may gaze upon its guarded store.
ANONYMOUS.
* * * * *
“How seldom, friend, a great, good man inherits Honor, or wealth, with all his worth and pains.” “For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain _What_ wouldst thou that the great, good man obtain? Place, title, salary,--a gilded chain? Or throne on corpses which his sword has slain? Goodness and greatness are not _means_, but _ends_. Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The great, good man? Three treasures, love, and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infant’s breath; And three true friends, more sure than day and night,-- Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.”
COLERIDGE.
THE GOLDEN WEDDING.
The German custom of observing a festival called the Silver Wedding, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of marriage, and a Golden Wedding on the fiftieth anniversary, have now become familiar to us by their frequent observance in this country. The following description of such an anniversary in Sweden is from the graceful pen of Fredrika Bremer, in her work entitled “The Neighbors.”
There was a patriarch and wife, and only to see that ancient, venerable couple made the heart rejoice. Tranquillity was upon their brows, cheerful wisdom on their lips, and in their glance one read love and peace. For above half a century this ancient couple have inhabited the same house and the same rooms. There they were married, and there they are soon to celebrate their golden nuptials. The rooms are unchanged, the furniture the same it has been for fifty years; but everything is clean, comfortable, and friendly, as in a one-year-old dwelling, though much more simple than the houses of our time. I know not what spirit of peace and grace it is which breathes upon me in this house! Ah! in this house fifty years have passed as a beautiful day. Here a virtuous couple have lived, loved, and worked together. Many a pure joy has blossomed here; and when sorrow came, it was not bitter, for the fear of God and mutual love illuminated the dark clouds. Hence has emanated many a noble deed, and many a beneficent influence. Happy children grew up. They gathered strength from the example of their parents, went out into the world, built for themselves houses, and were good and fortunate. Often do they return to the parental home, to bless and to be blessed.
A long life of integrity, industry, and beneficence has impressed itself on the father’s expansive forehead, and on his frank, benevolent deportment. His figure is yet firm, and his gait steady. The lofty crown is bald, but the venerable head is surrounded by silver-white locks, like a garland. No one in the city sees this head without bowing in friendly and reverential greeting. The whole country, as well as the city, loves him as their benefactor, and venerates him as their patriarch. He has created his own fortune, and sacrificed much for the public good; and notwithstanding much adversity and loss, he has never let his spirit sink. In mind and conversation he is still cheerful, full of jest and sprightliness. But for several years his sight has failed him greatly; and at times the gout troubles his temper. But an angel moves round the couch to which suffering confines him; his feet are moved and enwrapped by soft white hands; the sick-chamber and the countenance of the old man grow bright before his orphan grandchild, Serena.
In the aged countenance and bowed form of the mother you see an old woman. But show her something beautiful, speak to her of something worthy of love, and her mien, her smile, beams from the eternal youth which dwells immortal in her sensitive spirit. Then you involuntarily exclaim, “What beautiful age!” If you sit near her, and look into her mild, pious eyes, you feel as if you could open your whole soul, and believe in every word she speaks, as in the Gospel. She has lived through much and experienced much; yet she still says she will live in order to learn. Truly we must all learn from _her_. Her tone and manner betoken true politeness, and much knowledge of life. She alone has educated her children, and she still thinks and acts both for children and children’s children.
Will you see in one little circumstance a miniature picture of the whole? Every evening the old man himself roasts two apples; every evening, when they are done, he gives one of them to his “handsome old wife,” as he calls her. Thus for fifty years have they divided everything with each other.
* * * * *
And now the day for their Golden Wedding has arrived. The whole city and country take an interest in it. It is as if all the people in the place were related to the old Dahls. The young people come from east and west,--Dahls here, Dahls there, brave men and handsome children. A swarm of cousins encounter one another at every step. Brotherships and friendships are concluded.
If you wish to learn the true value of marriage,--if you wish to see what this union may be for two human hearts, and for life,--then observe, not the wedded ones in their honeymoon, nor by the cradle of their first child; not at a time when novelty and hope yet throw a morning glory over the young and new-born world of home; but survey them, rather, in the more remote years of manhood, when they have proved the world and each other; when they have conquered many an error, and many a temptation, in order to become only the more united to each other; when labors and cares are theirs; when, under the burden of the day, as well as in hours of repose, they support one another, and find that they are sufficient for each other. Or survey them still farther in life. See them arrived at that period when the world, with all its changes and agitations, rolls far away from them; when every object around becomes more dim to them; when their house is still; when they are solitary, yet they stand there hand in hand, and each reads in the other’s eyes only love; when they, with the same memories and the same hopes, stand on the boundaries of another life, into which they are prepared to enter, of all desires retaining only the one that they may die on the same day. Yes, then behold them! And, on that account, turn now to the patriarchs, and to their Golden Wedding.
There is, indeed, something worth celebrating, thought I, when I awoke in the morning. The sun seemed to be of the same opinion, for it shone brightly on the snow-covered roof of the aged pair. I wrapped myself in my cloak, and went forth to carry my congratulations to the old people, and to see if I could be helpful to Serena. The aged couple sat in the anteroom, clad in festal attire, each in their own easy-chair. A large bouquet of fresh flowers and a hymn-book were on the table. The sun shone in through snow-white curtains. It was peaceful and cheerful in the room. The patriarch appeared, in the sunny light, as if surrounded by a glory. I offered my congratulations with emotion, and was embraced by them, as by a father and mother. “A lovely day, Madame Werner,” said the old gentleman, as he looked toward the window. “Yes, beautiful indeed,” I answered. “It is the feast of love and truth on the earth.” The two old people smiled, and clasped each other’s hands.
There was great commotion in the hall, caused by the arrival of troops of children and grandchildren, who all, in holiday garb, and with joyous looks, poured in to bring their wishes of happiness to the venerable parents. It was charming to see these groups of lovely children cling round the old people, like young saplings round aged stems. It was charming to see the little rosy mouths turned up to kiss, the little arms stretching to embrace them, and to hear the clamor of loving words and exulting voices.
I found Serena in the kitchen, surrounded by people, and dealing out viands; for to-day the Dahls made a great distribution of food and money to the poor. Serena accompanied the gifts with friendly looks and words, and won blessings for her grandparents.
* * * * *
At eight in the evening, the wedding guests began to assemble. In the street where they lived the houses were illuminated in honor of the patriarchs, and lamps burned at the corners. A great number of people, with glad countenances, wandered up and down the street, in the still, mild winter evening. The house of the Dahls was thrown into the shade by the brilliancy of those in the neighborhood; but there was light within.
Serena met me at the door of the saloon. She wore a white garland in her light-brown hair. How charming she was in her white dress, with her kindly blue eyes, her pure brow, and the heavenly smile on her lips! She was so friendly, so amiable, to everybody! Friends and relatives arrived; the rooms became filled. They drank tea, ate ices, and so on; and then there fell at once a great silence. The two old people seated themselves in two easy-chairs, which stood near each other in the middle of the saloon, on a richly embroidered mat. Their children and their children’s children gathered in a half-circle round them. A clergyman of noble presence stepped forward, and pronounced an oration on the beauty and holiness of marriage. He concluded with a reference to the life of the venerable pair, which was in itself a better sermon on the excellence of marriage, for the human heart, and for life, than was his speech, though what he said was true and touching. There was not a dry eye in the whole company. All were in a solemn, affectionate mood.
Meantime, preparations for the festival were completed in the second story, to which the guests ascended. Here _tableaux_ were presented, whose beauty and grace exceeded everything I had anticipated. The last one consisted of a well-arranged group of all the descendants of the Dahls, during the exhibition of which a chorus was sung. The whole exhibition gave great and general pleasure. When the chorus ceased, and the curtain fell, the doors of the dance-saloon flew open; a dazzling light streamed thence, and lively music set all the hearts and feet of the young people in lively motion.
We sat talking pleasantly together, till supper was served, on various little tables, in three rooms. Lagman Hok raised his glass, and begged permission to drink a toast. All were attentive. Then, fixing a mild, confident gaze on the patriarchs, he said, in a low voice: “Flowers and Harps were woven into the mat on which our honored friends this evening heard the words of blessing pronounced over them. They are the symbols of Happiness and Harmony; and these are the Penates of this house. That they surround you in this festive hour, venerable friends, we cannot regard as an accident. I seemed to hear them say, ‘During your union you have so welcomed and cherished us, that we are at home here, and can never forsake you. Your age shall be like your youth!’”
The wisest man may be wiser to-day than he was yesterday, and to-morrow than he is to-day.
COLTON.
THE WORN WEDDING RING.
BY W. C. BENNETT.