Chapter 16

Only a woman's heart, strong to have and to keep; Patient when children cry, Soft to lull them to sleep; Glad when another delving hand Finds a gem to wear on the breast, While hers found only sand; Good bye, but as oft as the blossoms come, The peach with its waxen pink, The waving snow of the plum; I shall think how I used to wait And watch--so happy to see you pass, I could almost kiss your shadow As it fell on the dewy grass. A love is but half a love, That contents itself with less Than love's utmost faith and truth And love's unwavering tenderness.

Only this walk to the stile-- This parting word by the river; It seems to me whatever shall go or come-- Memory shall hold forever! Sweetheart, good bye, good bye, After all--drear poverty and toil For the rich, red flower of love to grow, Were but a cold and barren soil: And so, good bye, good bye!

THE MYSTIC CLOCK.

A NEW YEAR'S POEM.

"Warden, wind the clock again! Mighty years are going on Through the shadows, joy and pain, And the happy hearted dawn."

High within Time's temple hoar Doth this mystic timepiece stand, And when'er twelve moons have vanished The clock is wound by unseen hand; But we hear the pinions rushing Through the storied air o'erhead, And our hearts grow sick and silent With throbs of fear and dread; For the temple seemeth crowded With still forms all white and shrouded, Like the pale, uncoffined dead; Stirs the startled soul within With a grief too deep for tears, Bowing with a mighty anguish-- O'er our dead and wasted years.

* * * * *

"Warden, wind the clock again!" O'er the horologe's mystic dial, Watch the sweep of shadowy ages Ere the pens of seers and sages Wrote men's deeds on fadeless pages. But lo! the warden winds again-- And see yon radiant star arise Flaming in the Orient skies; Hear the grand, glad, chorus ringing, Which the joyous hosts are singing, To the humble shepherds, keeping Patient watch, while kings are sleeping! See the wise men in the manger, Bow before the Heavenly stranger! Lowliest born beneath the sun! Yet He the jeweled throne shall banish, And the sword and sceptre vanish, Ere His given work be done!

* * * * *

"Warden, wind the clock again!" But in vain the charge is given, For see the mighty Angel stand, One foot on sea, and one on land, Swearing with uplifted hand, Nevermore in earth or heaven Shall the mystic key be found Or the mighty clock be wound!

"RUBE" AND "WILL."

AN EPISODE RELATED BY AUNT SHEBA.

He'ah dat ole gray sinna H's jes brimful o' gas, Singin' dat tomfool ditty As he goes hobblin' pas'! He betta be prayin' and mebbe H'll git in de fold at las'! Yes, he's gwine to de grabe up yonder By de trees dar on de hill, Where all alone by hisself one day He buried po' massa Will! You see dey war boys togedder; To-day dey'd cuss an' fight; But dey'd make it up to-morrow And hunt fur coons at night.

It wasn't much ob a massa, Ole missus made you see! Folks sed, "dem Walden niggas Mought about as well be free." Once dey went fur de turkeys, Dat's Rube and Massa Will, Wid roastin' ears fur stuffin', Made a barbecue behind de mill! But dey couln'd keep it secret, Ole missus found 'm out, An' she vow'd to sell dat nigga-- He was a thievin' lazy lout, He was a ruinin' Massa Willum; Dat fac', she said, was plain; She'd sell him! On her plantation He'd never set his foot again.

An' suah befo' de sun next day went down. To take dat nigga Reuben A trader had cum from town. I guess she was glad to sell 'm Fur she needed de money bad, An' meant to spen' it mos'ly In de schoolin' ob her lad! But jes as dat ole trader Had slipt de han'cuffs on, We sees young massa cumin' Ridin' cross de lawn; He stopped right dar afore 'm, His face was pale as death, With all his might he shouted, Soon as he got his bref: "Take dem right off dat nigga! (and jerkin' his pistol out) Take 'em off I tell you! An' min' what you're about; Or I'll send you to de debil Faster dan you 'spec to go." Den massa trader dusted And he didn't trabbel slow.

* * * * *

Ah me! dem times seems like a dream, It was so long ago! Ole missus died next year, De war cum'd on at last And all de Souf lan' echoed With de joyful freedom blast. We lef' de ole plantation, We trabbled de Norf lan' thro; Chilled by de winds in Winter, In Summer drenched wid dew; But we neber cum to Canaan, Nor found de promised lan', And back to de ole plantation We cum a broken ban'. But Rube had stayed heah faithful, Stayed by his massa's side, And nussed him in de fever Till in his arms he died; But de freedum star in Hebben, It brightens year by year, An' our chillun has foun' de Canaan, Oh yes! des foun' it here; So I don't care what you call us, De tribes ob Sham or Hem, Dat blessed lan' o' promise, Has come right home to dem.

THE LEGEND OF ST. BAVON!

Shaded lights were burning low-- Muffled bells swung to and fro-- Solemn monks were chanting slow-- Chanting of the Crucified; When the good St. Bavon died.

Oft had he trod the jeering street, With bare and bleeding feet; Leaving crimson-flecked the snow In memory of his Master's woe;

With grief closed lips, sat he apart, The comrade of the dead man's heart; At last the chanting throng were gone And he was with th' dead alone;

When the bare uncurtained room Grew still and ghastly like a tomb, On the icy neck he fell And begged the death-sealed lips to tell

If one deed were left undone,-- That in that radiance like the sun Didst shade with grief the spirit flown, Or dim the brightness of his crown!

Then heard his spirit's inmost ear A voice that he alone could hear, "A shadow walks with me akin to pain, I seek to shun it, but in vain,

"For as I left the life of time, And journeyed toward th' blessed clime, I passed along that darkened shore. Where wail the lost forevermore.

"As on that awful gulf I walked, A black-robed demon with me talked: 'Behold yon spirit lost!' I heard him cry, ''Tis one we strove o'er, thou and I.

"'I, with the tempter's gilded snare, Thou, with the pleading voice of prayer; Hadst thou but prayed till set of sun, My power had vanished; thou hadst won.'

"Above the harps and angel's songs I hear, The demon's laugh, and taunting jeer; Oh, comrade! brother! saint! Pray for the tempted; oh, pray and do not faint!"

DAVID SCOTT (of James.)

DAVID SCOTT (of James,) so called to distinguish him from his first cousin, David Scott (of John)--to a sketch of whose life the reader is referred for other information respecting the family--was born on his father's farm, called "Scott's Adventure," on the road leading from Cowantown to Newark and about two miles from the former place, on January 7, 1824 and died at Elkton, May 13, 1879.

His early life was spent on the farm, and in learning the trade of auger making, at which his father was an expert workman. His education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood, except that which he obtained by attending Newark Academy for a few months in early manhood.

In early life he became enamoured of learning, and commenced teaching a private school in the family mansion in the winter of 1840, when only seventeen years old, and continued to teach in the neighborhood until 1851, when he was appointed Clerk to the County Commissioners and removed to Elkton. Mr. Scott was a Democrat, and from early life took an active part in the politics of his native country. After serving as Clerk to the Commissioners for one term of two years, Mr. Scott started a general warehouse business at the Elkton depot, in which he continued as head of the firm of D. Scott & Bro. until the time of his death.

In 1867 he was elected Clerk of the Circuit Court for Cecil county, and served six years with great acceptability.

In 1876 Mr. Scott was appointed Chief Weigher, and continued to have charge of the State Cattle Scales in the city of Baltimore, until the time of his death.

In 1852 Mr. Scott was married to Miss Mary Jane Wilson, of Newark. They were the parents of three children, two of whom are now living. His first wife died in 1858, and he subsequently married Miss Annie Elizabeth Craig, who, with their four children, still survives him.

In early life Mr. Scott began to write poetry, and continued to write for the local newspapers under the nom de plume of "Anselmo," and the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_ during the time he was engaged in teaching school, and occasionally for the county papers until the close of his life.

For many years Mr. Scott enjoyed the friendship of the literati of Newark, Delaware, and was one of a large number of poetical writers who contributed to the columns of the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_, with several of whom he enjoyed a personal acquaintance, and with several others of whom he carried on a literary correspondence for several years.

Mr. Scott, though not a voluminous writer, was the author of a considerable number of poems, all of which were of a highly intellectual character.

THE FORCED ALLIANCE.

Can earthly commerce hush the music of the heart, and shut the door of memory on a friend?

--Miss Whittlesey.

Ah, that our natural wants and best affections Should thus in fierce, unnatural conflict struggle! Ah, that the spirit and its dear connections, Whose derelictions merit such corrections, Must bear the illicit smuggle!

We would it were not so. This compromising, Which cold, severe necessity hath bidden, Of higher natures, with the wants arising From poor humanity--'tis a sympathizing That may not all be hidden.

We both have learned there is a high soul feeling, That lifts the heart towards the stars and Heaven; And one of us, there is a sad congealing Of sweet affection!--a veil the rock concealing, Where hearts are rent and riven.

Ah, sorrow, change and death hold sad dominion; And arbitrary fate is earth's arbiter; The adverse elements of a marvelous union, With counter-currents vex the spirit's pinion, When high intents invite her.

It is a truth, the sad, unwelcome hearing May wring the spirit with a quivering pain; Our hearts are half of earth, and the careering Of highest thoughts in its divinest daring, Is but a momentary, blissful sharing, That flutters back again.

It may be ours to tread the vale of sorrow, Or wander withering in the maze of doubt, Anticipating scarce a joy to-morrow, Save what from the pale lamp of Song we borrow-- That will not all go out.

Yes! there are bosom-chords--thanks to the Giver! The sad, low whisperings of which can never Be all subdued, though they may shake and shiver With death and coldness, if we brave the river With wise and strong endeavor.

O Song! O fount of sweetest nectar welling! Of thy refreshings let my sad heart drink; 'Tis past!--too late--too late, vain trump, your swelling; My spirit ear hath heard a surer knelling-- 'Tis passing sweet, what these mule wires are telling-- O what a joy to think!

MY COTTAGE HOME.

A VESPER HYMN.

Awake, my harp! a song for thee, While the mellow tinge of sunset lingers; 'Tis an eve of June! and the sweets are free-- Wilt thou trill to the touch of outwearied fingers? For the day's well spent, And I'm content, Tho' weary and worn, and worn and weary; 'Tis a heaven below, The joys to know-- The joys of a Cottage Home so cheery.

The world's all beauteous now and bright, And calm as a cradled infant sleeping, And the chords of love are attuned aright, Far joyous thoughts in the heart are leaping As free and sweet As a brother's greet In a foreign land all strange and dreary; And halls more bright Have less delight, I ween, than my Cottage Home so cheery.

My Cottage Home! My Cottage Home! With its trellised vines around the casement clinging, And the happy strain of that sweet refrain, The gentle tones of loved ones ringing, When the day's well spent, And all content. What though the o'er-labored limbs are weary? Our hearts are free And merry, and we Rejoice in a Cottage Home so cheery.

With wants so few, while hearts so true, With a fond concern, are beating near us; We'll cheerfully toil while we meet the smile. The approving smile of Him to cheer us, Who makes us to know The poor and the low. Tho' weary and worn, and worn and weary, At last will rest With the truly blest-- O! this makes a Cottage Home so cheery.

THE MIGHTY ONE.

You have felt his power--you have felt his power-- For a mighty one is he: He is found in the field and is known in the bower And hid in the cup of the tenderest flower, He lurks where you may not see.

He's a sleepless sprite, and at dead of night He'll come with his feathery tread, And dally with fancy, and play with your dreams, And light up your vision with silver beams, Though he leaves you an aching head.

Away, and away, like a thought, he flies, His home in the air and sea; Of all that is earth he claims a birth, And he speaks in the wind, and his voice goes forth On the breeze's back, unceasingly.

In the sea's great deeps, where the mermaid sleeps, In chambers of coral and gold-- Where the Sirocco sweeps and Loneliness weeps O'er temples all silent, where dark ivy creeps, And places that never were told--

He is everywhere, and very well known In palace, in court, and cot; Though ages have crumbled, and centuries flown, He is youthful and strong, and is still on his throne, And his chains are spells of thought.

The maiden has murmured in 'plaint so low, While the tear trickled over a smile, That scarcely a wo could be uttered, till "no," Was the heart's quick response, "I would not have him go-- The 'Annoyer' may linger awhile."

He shadows the pages of classic lore In the student's loneliest hour, And wakes up a thought that had slept before-- An image is born that can die no more-- The student feels his power.

A voice on the hill-top, a voice in the river, A voice in the song of birds; It hangs on the zephyr, it comes from the quiver Of oak, beech and fir-leaf--it speaketh forever In thrilling, mysterious words;

'Tis the voice of the strong one! Know ye well, His presence you may not shun; For he thrones in the heart, and he rules with a spell, And poets may sing us and sages may tell That Love is a mighty one!

THE SURVIVING THOUGHT.

How long, ah me! this weary heart hath striven With vanity, and with a wild desire! How long, and yet how long, must this frail bark be driven, While these unsteady, fitful hope-lights given, One after one expire?

These earthly visions prove, alas! unstable; And we are all too prone to clutch them fast, Though false, aye, falser than the veriest fable, To which a "thread of gossamer is cable--" They cannot--cannot last!

Our eye must soon behold the appalling writing-- The settlement of proud Belshazzar's doom! These timely buds must early feel a blighting-- This earthly strife--ah, 'tis a sorry fighting! The victory--the Tomb!

The dreams fond youth in years agone had cherished; The hopes that wove a rainbow tissue bright-- Are they all gone--forever gone, and perished-- Ev'n the last bud my silent tears had nourished-- Have all been Death's delight?

And will he come and mock me with his booty, And twirl my visions round his bony finger? And will he tell my heart no other beauty Upon the earth is mine--no other duty, Than for his mandate linger?

Up, rise, thou vital spark! not yet extinguished, Assert thy heritage--exert thy might; Though in the sloughs of sorrow thou hast languished, And pain and wrong's envenomed part out-anguished, One ray breaks through the night.

There is, there is one blessed thought surviving; The heart's sure fulcrum in the saddest strait-- An overture to this unequal striving-- A hope, a home, a last and blest arriving! Bear up, my heart, and wait.

Bear up, poor heart! be patient, and be meekful; A calm must follow each untoward blast; With steady eye look forward to the sequel; The common road will then seem less unequal, That brings us home "at last."

Come trial, pain, and disappointment's shiver, Ye are my kindsmen--brothers of this clay; We must abide and I must bear the quiver A little while, and we shall part forever-- Beyond the surges of that shoreless river Ye cannot "come away."

THE WORKING MAN'S SONG.

Toil, toil, toil, Ever, unceasingly; The sun gets up, and the sun goes down, Alike in the city, in field or town, He brings fresh toil to me, And I ply my hard, rough hands With a heart as light and free As the birds that greet my early plow, Or the wind that fans my sunburnt brow In gusts of song and glee.

Toil, toil, toil, Early, and on, and late: They may call it mean and of low degree, But I smile to know that I'm strong and free, And the good alone are great. 'Tis nature's great command, And a pleasing task to me, For true life is action and usefulness; And I know an approving God will bless The toiler abundantly.

Toil, toil, toil-- Glory awaits that word; My arm is strong and my heart is whole, And exult as I toil with manly soul That the voice of Truth is heard. On, Comrades! faint not now-- Ours is a manly part! Toil, for a glorious meed is ours-- The fulcrum of all earthly powers Is in our hands and heart.

Toil, toil, toil-- Life is labor and love: Live, love and labor is then our song, Till we lay down our toils for the resting throng, With our Architect above. Then monuments will stand That need no polish'd rhyme-- Firm as the everlasting hills, High as the clarion note that swells The "praises of all time."

ODE TO DEATH.

I do not fear thee, Death! I have a bantering thought!--though I am told Thou art inflexible, and stern, and bold; And that thy upas breath Rides on the vital air; Monarch and Prince of universal clime, Executor of the decrees of Time-- Sin's dark, eternal heir.

Over the land and sea Is felt the swooping of thy ebon wings, And on my ear thy demon-chuckle rings, Over the feast the panting summer brings, "For me--'tis all for me!" All seasons and all climes-- In city crowded, and in solitude, Ye gather your unsatisfying food; Ev'n through the rosy gates of joy intrude Thy deep, sepulchral chimes.

I know thee well, though young; Thrice, ruthlessly, this little circle broke Hast thou. A brother, sister--then the Oak, (Ah, hadst thou spared that last and hardest stroke,) Round which our young hopes clung! Ye wantonly have crush'd, By your untimely and avenging frost, The buds of hope which bid to promise most; Oh! had ye known the heart-consuming cost, Could ye, O! Death have hush'd

The music that endears, And makes this chill'd existence tolerable? Yet will I not such selfishness--'tis well; I hear, I hear a happier, holier swell From out the eternal spheres! I do defy thee, Death! Why flee me, like a debtor in arrears? To weary out the agony of years, With nothing but the bitter brine of tears, And scarcer existing breath.

My soul is growing strong, And somewhat fretful with its house of clay, And waiting quite impatiently to lay It off, and soar in light away, To hymn th' "eternal song." This is a cowardice Perhaps--a deep, mean selfishness withal. That whets our longings in the spirit's thrall To lay aside these trials, and forestall The hours of Paradise.

Thou wise, Eternal God! Oh, let me not offend Thy great design! Teach thou thy erring mortal to resign, Make me be patient, let me not repine Beneath this chast'ning rod; Though storm and tempest whelm, And beat upon this naked barque, 'tis well; And I shall smile upon their heaviest swell-- Hush, rebel thoughts!--my heart be calm and still, The Master's at the helm!

HENRY VANDERFORD.

Henry Vanderford, editor and journalist, was born at Hillsborough, Caroline county, Md., December 23, 1811. His maternal ancestors were from Wales, his paternal from Holland. He was educated at Hillsborough Academy, a celebrated institution at that time, having pupils from the adjoining counties of Queen Anne's and Talbot. He acquired a knowledge of the art of printing in the office of the _Easton Star_, Thomas Perrin Smith, proprietor. From 1835 to 1837 he published the _Caroline Advocate_, Denton, Md., the only paper in the county, and neutral in politics, though the editor was always a decided Democrat, and took an active part in the reform movement of 1836, which resulted in the election of the "Glorious Nineteen" and the Twenty-one Electors. The press and type of the _Advocate_ were transferred in 1837 to Centreville, Queen Anne's county, where he founded the _Sentinel_, the first Democratic paper published in that county, in January, 1838. He was appointed for three successive years by Governor Grason chief judge of the Magistrate's Court, but declined the office. In 1840 he was appointed Deputy Marshal for Queen Anne's, and took the census of that county in that year. In 1842 he sold the _Sentinel_ and removed to Baltimore, where, three years later, he resumed his profession and founded _The Ray_, a weekly literary and educational journal, and the subsequent year published the _Baltimore Daily News_, and the _Weekly Statesman_, in company with Messrs. Adams and Brown, under the firm of Adams, Vanderford & Brown. The _News_ and _Statesman_ were Democratic papers. In February, 1848, he bought _The Cecil Democrat_ of Thomas M. Coleman, enlarged the paper, quadrupled its circulation, and refitted it with new material. In 1865 he sold out the _Democrat_ to Albert Constable and Judge Frederick Stump, and bought a farm in St. Mary's county, Md., and engaged in agriculture. Three years later, failing health of himself and family, induced him to sell his farm and remove to Middletown, Del., where he founded the _Transcript_, and resumed the business of a printer and publisher. The _Transcript_ was the first paper published in that town, and was a success from the start. It was transferred in 1870 to his youngest son, Charles H. Vanderford. From 1870 to 1878 he was associated with his eldest son, William H. Vanderford, in the publication of _The Democratic Advocate_, Westminster, Md. In 1873 he was elected to the House of Delegates from Carroll county, and in 1879 to the Senate, in which body he held the important position of Chairman of the Committee on Finance, and was a member of the Committee on Engrossed Bills and the Committee on Printing.

On the 6th of June, 1839, he married Angelina, the daughter of Henry Vanderford, of Queen Anne's county, a distant relative of his father. Mr. Vanderford is a member of the Masonic Order, and he and his wife are both communicants of the Protestant Episcopal Church, the Church of their ancestors, as far back as the history of the Church can be traced in the Eastern part of Maryland. Charles Vanderford, great grandfather of the subject of this sketch, was a vestryman of St. Paul's Parish, Centreville, Md., in 1719. Charles Wrench Vanderford was his grandfather, and a member of the Old Maryland Line, in the Revolutionary war. William Vanderford, his father, was a native of Queen Anne's county, where the family held a grant of land of one thousand acres from the crown, located between Wye Mills and Hall's Cross Roads, on which the old mansion was built of brick imported from England.

Mr. Vanderford is now in retiracy, in the 76th year of his age, but still active, and in the possession of good health and as genial and cheerful as in the days of his prime.

ON THE MOUNTAINS.

Written after a visit to Rawley Springs, in the mountains of Virginia.