Chapter 4

The speakers now were trotted out Their sides to choose and take a bout Upon the question, which I stated As having been so well debated, Namely, "Can christians go to war," The very devil might abhor To contemplate this proposition Offspring of pride and superstition That brothers by a second birth, Should make a very hell of earth. The war of words waxed loud and long, Each side was right, the other wrong; The speakers eager for the fray, Wished their ten minutes half a day; But time and tide will wait for none, So glibly did the gabble run, That nine o'clock soon spoiled the fun, And all that rising tide of words, Was smothered never to be heard. The fight is o'er, the race is run, And soon we'll know which side has won, But this is not so easy done; Indeed I have a world of pity For the executive committee Who hear in silence all this clatter And then decide upon the matter; To give each speaker justice due, And sift the error from the true, Is not an easy thing to do. To decide what facts have any bearing Upon the question they are hearing, And generally keep in hand The arguments, so strong and grand, And draw from them a just conclusion Without a mixture of confusion; The negative got the decision Unanimous, without division. The speakers then took their position, Upon the doubtful proposition Of the repeal of gold resumption, Upon the plausible presumption, That those who pay must have the money, That laws of Congress, (that seems funny,) Are not above the laws of trade, And therefore cannot be obeyed. Here now my muse, poor worthless jade, Deserted, as I was afraid From the beginning she would do; So I must say good-night to you, And these long rambling minutes close, In just the dullest kind of prose.

RETROSPECTION.

The phantoms have flown which I cherished; The dreams which delighted have passed; My castles in air have all perished-- I grieved o'er the fall of the last.

'Twas bright, but as frail as a shadow; It passed like a vapor away-- As the mist which hangs over the meadow Dissolves in the sun's burning ray.

The joys of my youth are all shattered; My hopes lie in wrecks on the shore; The friends of my childhood are scattered; Their faces I'll see never more.

Some are estranged, some have gone under; The battle of life is severe. When I stand by their graves, the wonder, The mystery, seems to be clear:

They were vet'rans more noble than I; And placed in the van of the fight, They fell where the hero would die, When he bleeds for truth and the right.

The battle of life is proceeding-- The rear will advance to the van; I'll follow where duty is leading, And fall at my post like a man.

ACROSTIC

TO MISS FLORENCE WILSON M'NAMEE.

Maiden, lovely, young and gay, In the bloom of life's young May! Sweet perfumes are in the air; Songs of gladness ev'rywhere!

Flowers are springing round thy way, Lovely flowers, bright and gay: Over head and all about Rings one constant joyous shout! Earth is carpeted with green, Nature greets you as her queen. Call the trees and flow'rs your own, Each will bow before your throne. While in youth's enchanting maze, Incline thy steps to wisdom's ways! Lead a quiet peaceful life; Swiftly fly from noise and strife; Own thy Lord before mankind; 'Neath his banner you will find More than all this world can give; Contentment while on earth you live, Nearer to your journey's end, All your aspirations tend: May you end your days in peace; Earthly ties in joy release; Eternally thy joys increase; That this may be thy joyous lot Ever prays thy friend D. Scott.

THE BOOK OF BOOKS.

Written on a blank leaf of a Bible presented to Martha Cowan, June 1st, 1868.

Esteemed young friend This book I send, I know full well thou wilt receive; For thou canst read Its shining creed, And understand it and believe.

Oh could I say As much to-day, What joys would thrill this heart of grief,-- I do believe. Oh Lord, receive My prayer--help THOU mine unbelief!

This book though small, Is more than all The wealth of India to thee; Oh priceless treasure! Rich beyond measure Are all who build their hopes on thee.

THE LESSON OF THE SEASONS.

Written for a little girl on her eleventh birthday.

Fleeting time is on the wing-- Surely Winter, joyous Spring, Glowing Summer, Autumn sere, Mark the changes of the year.

Late the earth was green and fair, Flowers were blooming everywhere; Birds were singing in the trees, While the balmy healthful breeze, Laden with perfume and song, Health and beauty flowed along.

But a change comes o'er the scene; Still the fields and trees are green, And the birds keep singing on, Though the early flowers are gone; And the melting noon-day heat, Strips the shoes from little feet, And the coats from little backs; While the paddling bare-foot tracks, In the brooklet which I see, Tell of youthful sports and glee. Hay is rip'ning on the plain, Fields are rich in golden grain, Mowers rattle sharp and shrill, Reapers echo from the hill, Farmer, dark and brown with heat, Push your labor--it is sweet, For the hope, in which you plow, And sow, you are reaping now. Corn, which late, was scarcely seen, Struggling slowly into green, 'Neath the Summer's torrid glow-- How like magic it does grow; Rising to majestic height, Drinks the sunbeams with delight, Sends its rootlets through the soil, Foraging for hidden spoil; Riches more than golden ore, Silent workers they explore: With their apparatus small, Noiselessly they gather all. When their work is done, behold Treasures, richer far than gold, Fill the farmers store-house wide-- And his grateful soul beside.

But the scene must change again, Hill and dell and spreading plain, Speak so all can comprehend Summer's reign is at an end. Forests, gorgeously arrayed, (Queens such dresses ne'er displayed) Grace the coronation scene Of the lovely Autumn queen. Birds, with multifarious notes, Ringing from ten thousand throats, Shout aloud that Summer's dead, And Autumn reigns in her stead. Now another change behold-- All the varied tints of gold, Purple, crimson, orange, green-- Every hue and shade between, That bedecked the forest trees, Now lie scattered by the breeze. The birds have flown. Faithless friends Love the most when they're best fed; And when they have gained their ends, Shamefully have turned and fled. Winter claims his wide domain, And begins his frigid reign. Thus the seasons come and go: Spring gives place to Summer's glow; Then comes mellow Autumn's sway, Rip'ning fruits and short'ning day; Gorgeous woods in crimson dress, Surpassing queens in loveliness. Then the Frost King mounts the throne, Claims the empire for his own; Hail and rain and sleet and snow Are his ministers that go On the swift wings of the blast, At his bidding, fierce and fast.

Like the seasons of the year, Your young life will change, my dear. Now you're in your early Spring, Hope and joy are on the wing; Flow'rets blooming fresh and gay, Shed their fragrance round your way. Summer's heat is coming fast, And your Spring will soon be past; For, where you are, I have been; All that you see, I have seen. Hopes that beamed around my way, Cast their light on yours to-day. All that you do, I have done; All your childish ways I've run, All your joys and pangs I've had-- All that make you gay or sad; I have sported in the brook, Truant from my work or book; Chased the butterfly and bee, Robb'd the bird's nest on the tree; Damm'd the brook and built my mill; Flew my kite from hill to hill; Sported with my top and ball-- Childish joys, I know them all. Childish sorrows, too I've felt-- Anguish that my heart would melt; Tears have wet my burning cheek, Caused by thoughts I could not speak. Mysteries then confused my brain, Which have since become more plain; Much that then seemed plain and clear Has grown darker year by year; When my artless prayers I said, Skies were near--just over head; And the angels seemed so near, I could whisper in their ear. All that I have learned since then, I would give, if once again, Those bright visions would return. For I find, the more I learn, Further off the skies appear, And the angels come not near. Though in better words I pray, Heaven seems so far away, That I wish, but wish in vain, That the skies were near again; That no other words I knew, But those simple ones and few, That the angels used to hear, When I whispered in their ear. I would barter all the fame, Wealth and learning that I claim, Which a life of toil have cost, For those priceless seasons lost.

JOHN A. CALHOUN, MY JOE JOHN.

A PARODY.

This poem was the outgrowth of a newspaper controversy between John A. Calhoun, a school teacher of this county, and one of the trustees of Jackson Hall, who wrote above the signature of "Turkey," in which Mr. Calhoun said some rather hard things about the school trustees of the county. The poem was written at the request of the trustee, who was the other party engaged in the controversy.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, "I wonder what you mean?" You're always getting in some scrape and getting off your spleen; Keep cooler, John, and do not fret, however things may go; You'll longer last and have more friends, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, don't pout about your name; It never will disgrace you, John, but you may it defame By doing silly things, John, and things, you ought to know, Will but recoil upon yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the "Turkey" let alone; My name is very humble, John, but then it is my own. "There's nothing in a name," John, and this you ought to know, That actions are the cards that win, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John; your temper must be sour; Your scholars pester you, John; you flog them every hour. But leave the rod behind you, John, when from the school you go, Or else you may get flogged yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the terror of your name Does not extend beyond the walls which for your own you claim; So drop your haughty airs, John, and lay your wattle low, And people will esteem you more, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, just take a friend's advice; And drop your pedagogic ways (you know they are not nice;) And treat grown people with respect, and they the same will show, And use those "open eyes" of yours, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the trustees of our schools Are not so smart as you, John, but then they're not all fools; And you have made yourself, John, appear a little low, By your abuse of these poor men, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, now let us part in peace, And may your honest name, John, so mightily increase, That half a score of sons, John, may like their father grow-- But just a little modester, John A. Calhoun, my Joe.

EMMA ALICE BROWNE.

Emma Alice Browne was born about forty-five years ago, in an unpretentious cottage, which is still standing near the northeast corner of the cross-roads, on the top of Mount Pleasant, or Vinegar Hill, as it was then called, about a mile west of Colora. She is the oldest child of William A. Browne and Hester A. Touchstone, sister of the late James Touchstone. Her father was the youngest son of William Brown, who married Ann Spear, of Chester county, and settled a few yards north of the State Line, in what is now Lewisville, Chester county, Pennsylvania, where his son William was born, early in the present century. He was a stonemason by trade, and though comparatively uneducated, was possessed of a brilliant imagination, and so highly endowed by nature with poetic ability that he frequently amused and delighted his fellow-workmen by singing songs which he extemporized while at his work. There is no doubt that his granddaughter, the subject of this sketch, inherited much of her poetic talent from him; though her family is connected with that of Mrs. Felicia Hemans, the English poetess, whom though in some respects she resembles, we hesitate not to say she greatly surpasses in grandeur of conception and beauty of expression.

William Brown was a half-brother of the mother of the editor of this book; consequently Emma and he are cousins. If, therefore, this sketch should seem to exceed or fall short of the truth, the reader must attribute its imperfections to the inability of the writer to do justice to the subject, or to the great, but he hopes pardonable, admiration which he has long entertained for his relative's literary productions.

The Brown family are of Scotch-Irish extraction, and trace their lineage away back through a long line of ancestors to the time when the name was spelled Brawn, because of the great muscular development of the rugged old Scotch Highlander who founded it.

William Brown's early education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood where he was born. He was endowed by nature with a logical mind, a vivid imagination and great practical common sense; and a memory so tenacious as to enable him to repeat a sermon almost, if not quite, verbatim, a year after he had heard it delivered. Early in life he became an exemplary member of the Methodist Church, and was ordained as a Local Preacher in the Methodist Protestant persuasion, by the Rev. John G. Wilson, very early in the history of that denomination, in the old Harmony Church, not far south of Rowlandville. Subsequently he was admitted to the Conference as a traveling minister and sent to southeastern Pennsylvania, where he continued to preach the gospel with much success until his death, which occurred when his daughter Emma was a child about eight years of age.

Emma's education began on her father's knee, when she was little if any more than three years old. Before she was four years old she could repeat Anacreon's Ode to a Grasshopper, which her father had learned from a quaint old volume of heathen mythology, and taught his little daughter to repeat, by reciting it aloud to her, as she sat upon his knee. Subsequently, and before she had learned to read, he taught her in the same manner "Byron's Apostrophe to the Ocean," Campbell's "Battle of Hohenlinden," and Byron's "Destruction of Sennacherib," all of which seem to have made a deep impression upon her infantile mind, particularly the latter, in speaking of which she characterizes it as "a poem whose barbaric glitter and splendor captivated my imagination even at that early period, and fired my fancy with wild visions of Oriental magnificence and sublimity, so that I believe all my after life caught color and warmth and form from those early impressions of the gorgeous word-painting of the East." Emma's subsequent education was limited to a few weeks' attendance at a young ladies' seminary at West Chester, Pennsylvania, and a like experience of a few weeks in Wilmington, Delaware, when she was about sixteen years old. But her mind was so full of poesy that there was no room in it for ordinary matters and things, and the duties of a student soon became so irksome that she left both the institutions in disgust. Of her it may be truly said, "she lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came," for she composed verses at four years of age, and published poems at ten. Her first effusions appeared in a local paper at Reading, Pa. Being a born poetess, her success as a writer was assured from the first, and her warmth of expression and richness of imagery, combined with a curious quaintness, the outgrowth of the deep vein of mysticism that pervades her nature, soon attracted the attention of the _literati_ of this country, one of the most distinguished of whom, the late George D. Prentice, did not hesitate to pronounce her the most extraordinary woman of America; "for," said he, "if she can't find a word to suit her purpose, she makes one." While some of her earlier poems may have lacked the artistic finish and depth of meaning of those of mature years, they had a beauty and freshness peculiar to themselves, which captivated the minds and rarely failed to make a deep impression upon the hearts of those who read them.

In 1855, the family came to Port Deposit, where they remained about two years, and then went West, Emma having secured a good paying position on the _Missouri Republican_, for which she wrote her only continued story, "Not Wanted." For the last twenty years she has been a regular contributor to the _New York Ledger_.

In 1864, Emma came East and was married to Captain J. Lewis Beaver, of Carroll county, Maryland, whose acquaintance she made while he was a wounded invalid in the Naval School Hospital at Annapolis. After her marriage, she continued to write under her maiden name, and has always been known in the literary world as Emma Alice Browne, though all the rest of the family spell the name without the final vowel. Her marriage was not a fortunate one, and the writer in deference to the wishes of his relative, will only say she is now a widow, with three sons, the youngest of whom seems to have inherited much of his mother's poetic talent, and who, though only about ten years of age, has written some very creditable verses, which have been published.

Within a year or two, Emma has developed a talent for painting, which seems to have been overshadowed and dwarfed by her poetic faculty, but which now bids fair to make her as famous as an artist as she has long been as a poetess. She resides in Danville, Illinois, and is about publishing a volume of poems, which will be the first book from her pen.

The following selections have been made with the view of showing the versatility, rather than the poetic beauty and power of their author. Most, if not all, of those designated as earlier poems were written more than thirty years ago.

EARLIER POEMS.

MY BROTHER.

Oh, brier rose clamber; And cover the chamber-- The chamber, so dreary and lone-- Where with meekly-closed lips, And eyes in eclipse, My brother lies under the stone.

Oh, violets, cover, The narrow roof over, Oh, cover the window and door! For never the lights, Through the long days and nights, Make shadows across the floor!

The lilies are blooming, The lilies are white, Where his play haunts used to be; And the sweet cherry blossoms Blow over the bosoms Of birds in the old roof tree.

When I hear on the hills The shout of the storm, In the valley the roar of the river; I shiver and shake, On the hearth stone warm, As I think of his cold "forever."

His white hands are folded, And never again, With the song of the robin or plover, When the Summer has come, With her bees and her grain, Will he play in the meadow clover.

Oh, dear little brother, My sweet little brother, In the palace above the sun, Oh, pray the good angels, The glorious evangels, To take me--when life is done.

MY FATHER.

IN MEMORIAM, 1857.

The late George D. Prentice in speaking of this poem used the following language: "To our minds there is nothing in all the In Memoriam of Tennyson more beautiful than the following holy tribute to a dead father from our young correspondent at Pleasant Grove." The poem was first published in the "Louisville Journal" of which Mr. Prentice was the editor.

[Transcriber's note: The original text referred to the "Louirville Journal" (clearly an erratum).]

My Father! Orphan lips unknown To love's sweet uses sob the word My father! dim with anguish, heard In Heaven between a storm of moan And the white calm that faith hath fixed For solace, far beyond the world, Where, all our starry dreams unfurled, We drink the wine of peace unmixed.

Mine! folded in the awful trust That draws the world's face down in awe, Holding her breath, as if she saw God's secret written in the dust-- My father! oh, the dreary years The dreary winds have wailed across Since his path, from the hills of loss, Wound, shining, o'er the golden spheres.

What time the Angel at our door Said soft, between our orphan-moan-- Arise! oh, soul! the night is done And day hath bloomed forevermore! I locked my icy hand across My sobbing heart and sadly cried-- I lose thee in the glorified-- The world is darkened with my loss!

Oh, Angel! cried I--wrath complete! With awful brows and eyes intense! (For faith's white robe of reverence Slid noiseless to my sorrow's feet) Oh, Angel, help me out of strife! I could have borne all mortal pain-- I could have lived my life in vain-- But this hath touched my inner life!

And eighteen hundred fifty-seven Hath filled a decade of slow years Since first my orphan cries and tears Broke wild across the walls of Heaven. This eve his grave is winter-white! And 'twixt the snow-wind's stormy thrills I hear across the Northern hills The solemn footsteps of the night!

Blow wind! Oh, wind, blow wild and high! Blow o'er the dismal space of woods-- Blow down the roaring Northern floods And let the dreary day go by! Blow, wind, from out the shining West, And wrap the hazy world in glow-- Blow wind and drift about my snow The summer of his endless rest!

For he has fallen fast asleep And cannot give me moan for moan-- My heart is heavy as a stone And there is no one left to weep! My _soul_ is heavy and doth lie Reaching up from my wretchedness-- Reaching up blindly for redress The stern gray walls of entity!

Once in the golden spring-time hours, In the sweet garden of my youth, There fell a seed of bitter truth That sprang and shadowed all the flowers-- Alone! The roses died apace And pale the mournful violet blew-- Only the royal lily grew And glorified the lonesome place!

In me the growth of human ills Than human love had reached no higher, But Seraphim with lips of fire Have won me to the shining hills-- I cannot hide my soul in art-- I cannot mend my life's defect-- This thunderous space of intellect God gave me for a peaceful heart!

Hush! oh, my mournful heart, be still, The heavy night is coming on, But heavier lie the shadows drawn About his grave so low and chill-- From out the awful sphere of God, Oh, deathly wind, blow soft and low! My soul is weary and would go Where never foot of mortal trod!

AT THE NIGHTFALL.

I muse alone in the fading light, Where the mournful winds forever Sweep down from the dim old hills of night, Like the wail of a haunted river.

Alone! by the grave of a buried love, The ghostly mist is parted, Where the stars shine faint in the blue above, Like the smile of the broken-hearted.

The living turn from my fond embrace, As if no love were needed; The tears I wept on thy young dead face Were never more unheeded

Than my wild prayer for peace unwon-- One pure affection only, One faithful heart to lean upon, When life is sad and lonely.

The low grassy roof, my glorious dead, Is bright with the buttercup's blossom, And the night-blooming roses burn dimly and red On the green sod that covers thy bosom.

Thy pale hands are folded, oh beautiful saint, Like lily-buds chilly and dew-wet, And the smile on thy lip is as solemn and faint As the beams of a norland sunset.

The angel that won thee a long time ago To the shore of the glorious immortals, In the sphere of the starland shall wed us, I know, When I pass through the beautiful portals.

THE MIDNIGHT CHIME.

Suggested by the tolling of the bell on the sash factory in Port Deposit on a stormy night in January, 1856.

The rain is the loudest and wildest Of rains that ever fell; And the winds like an army of chanters Through the desolate pine-woods swell, And hark! through the shout of the tempest, The sound of the midnight bell.