Chapter 5
Where can we find a more transparent medium through which we may "look through nature up to nature's God," than a veil interwoven with flowers? When fatigued in body, where can we find a more pleasant resting place than beneath the cool shade of an arbor, in the flower garden? When our spirits are depressed or our minds perplexed with distracting care, thither let us repair: it will prove a more effectual remedy than on hour spent in gossipping, or an evening in the ball room. It can but exert a healthful influence over the mind, to inhale such exquisite odors, and gaze upon such beautiful colors and delicate tints, combined with gracefulness and elegance of form. The art of man has long been striving to imitate them, but the simplest flower that blooms still eclipses their best performances. And yet the gorgeous canopy that decks the monarch's throne owes half its splendor to the imperfect miniature of the inhabitants of the flower garden.
And strange as it appears, how often do we see persons, who would blush were they seen contemplating the simple beauties of a delicate flower, pride themselves in embellishing their dwellings and equipage with its coarsely wrought picture. But while they are pleasing themselves with the shadow, we will feast ourselves on the substance.
"I am weary of this lecture upon flowers," the stoical reader exclaims: If so, my friend, you are at liberty to retire to any place of entertainment which your better judgment may suggest; but I will lay aside my pen to walk among the flowers; and see if some of those silent, though eloquent preachers, will not furnish the mind with some new idea, which may serve as a foundation for another discourse.
MUSIC OF THE MIND.
What is music of the mind? Is it the soft harmonious strains of the little minstrel which often steals into some secret nook within the heart, and there tunes her silent harp to notes of sweetest melody? Though we never hear her melting lays, yet persons in every station, from the king upon his throne to the beggar by the wayside, and the rude untutored savage roaming through his native forest, often experience that exquisite pleasure produced by her magic spell.
We are continually surrounded by scenes calculated to produce this music. The variegated scenery of different landscapes; the changing seasons of the year; Spring with her balmy air, soft refreshing showers, green fields, fragrant flowers, and merry cheerful birds; Summer, with her sultry days, her cool inviting shades, her waving fields, and delicious fruits; and Autumn, with his rich golden harvest, bright pensive dreamy days, and clear moonlight evenings, have power to rouse the minstrel from her slumbers; and even rude old Winter, clothed in clouds and storms and drifting snows, can with his icy fingers sweep her silent harp strings and wake their wildest melody.
We retire beneath the sacred shade of some ancient forest, and look upon nature as she stands forth arrayed in all the charms of her primeval beauty; where art has never plucked her native bloom, and tinged her cheek with carmine. We there gaze upon the tall old trees, which have for centuries been towering higher and higher, till they seem ambitious to wave their lofty tops among the very clouds of heaven. We quench our thirst with the sparkling waters of the pure spring, which bubbles up cool and clear from its crystal fountain, washing the roots of the trees, and trickling over the ground in bright streams, like threads of molten silver, till they unite in one of those beautiful streamlets which lend such enchantment to the woodland bowers; here, murmuring melodiously among smooth rocks and bright pebbles, while the dimpling eddies upon its surface reflect the rays of laughing sunshine which quiver through the leafy canopy above; there, dashing over a projecting rock forming a little cascade, and then flowing smoothly along, bearing upon its tranquil bosom the fair images of the flowers which spring up along its banks, upon the sloping hill-side and in every shady nook and dell, smiling in strange beauty among the stern features of the woodland scene. Sweet flowers, so fair and fragile, that they flourish only when sheltered from the rude blast and pelting storm by some friendly shade, and so modest and retiring in their habits, that they shun the open field, where they must encounter the scrutinizing gaze of the noonday sun, and choose this sweet seclusion for their home.
We stand upon the shores of the ocean, while the sun emerges from its bed, lifting his broad shining disk above the blue waters, and tinging the sparkling waves with every hue that decks the rainbow's form. We gaze with rapture upon the scene, till, dazzled by its brilliancy, we turn our eyes upon the white sails, gliding over the bosom of the deep, like some noble bird winging its way through the air, or watch the swelling waves, as they roll in grand procession towards us, and break in thunder on the shore. We sit in a calm summer evening and watch the shadows as they lengthen o'er the ground, till they lose themselves in the deep rich green of the vales from winch the sun has disappeared, to gild the tops of the forest trees and far off hills with more than noonday splendor. The balmy zephyrs hold their breath, nor dare to whisper in the softest tone, while the little forest birds, in sweetly pensive strains, are chanting forth their evening hymn of praise and homage to the sun, who, now all bright with parting smiles, sinks down behind the western hills, tinging the clouds at first with light faint orange streaks, which soon turn to crimson, and touched again by sunset's magic wand, they glow in purple of the richest dyes, then slowly fade to grey, while twilight draws around us her dewy curtains and shuts the scene from our admiring gaze.
We walk abroad in the calm stillness of a moonlight evening, when night, cheered by the presence of her fair queen, withholds her dusky pall and contents herself by drawing a thin silvery veil over the fair-face of nature, which only serves to cast a shade of pensive beauty upon her lovely features. The rocks, the fields, the lakes and streams, the distant hills and mountains, whose lofty peaks are crowned with the white fleecy clouds which skirt the horizon, appear far more lovely when viewed by the pure dreamy light now stealing around us, than when displayed to our sight by the clear light of day. The trees and shrubs lie pictured on the dewy earth, their fair images reposing in motionless beauty, save when the cool breath of evening plays among the verdant branches, disturbing their shadowy outlines. No sound breaks upon the stillness of the scene, except the gentle murmur of the winding stream or the roar of some far off waterfall, softened and subdued by distance, till it mingles in harmony with the clear shrill notes of the whippowils, who never close their waking eyes, but serenade the moon till morning light, while every object upon which we turn our eyes reminds us of the fancy sketch of some fairy land.
We gaze upon the grand array, when Aurora Borealis plays her antic freaks, fights her mimic battles, waves her flaming banner along the northern skies. We look out upon the blue expanse above, when the bright and beautiful stars, with their sparkling eyes, are looking from their distant homes upon our little earth like angels commissioned to watch over its slumbering inhabitants, till the clear light of day arouses them to life and consciousness. In view of objects and scenes like these, a pleasing sensation steals over the mind, till no language can express the emotions which struggle for vent within our bosoms and the full heart flutters like an imprisoned bird against the walls of its cage.
This is what we call music of the mind. Yet when no love to the Creator mingles with our contemplations, it is music of an inferior order. But when an individual is brought to realize and "believe with all his heart" that the author of all the scenes of beauty, grandeur and sublimity, which nature presents to the eye, has condescended to drop the sceptre from his hand, lay by his dazzling crown and leave his throne of glory, while he descended to our earth, and gave his life to ransom guilty rebels against his righteous government, pouring out his blood on Calvary till the fountain is sufficient to cleanse the foulest stains of sin, even from the most polluted soul; then it is that his mind is filled with music, and that too, which is as much superior to any ever experienced by an unregenerate soul, as the full blaze of the noonday sun is to the faint light which glimmers from the burning taper. For every fibre of the heart, now touched by the finger of God, wakes in harmony, and vibrates with the richest music of which earth or heaven can boast. It is the very same which animates the spirits of just men made perfect, and none but blood washed sinners can ever learn the song.
No music, borne from Eden's bowers, On heaven's own balmy wings, No song, that angels ever sang. Could roach these lofty strings;
For Gabriel with his golden harp, Tuned by the heavenly dove, Could never touch the thrilling notes Of God's redeeming love.
APPENDIX.
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The Pastoral was published in one of the papers of the day. As it gave rise to a little mirth, we insert it with the poems annexed.
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PRAISES OF RURAL LIFE.
Though city ladies treat with scorn The humble farmer's wife, And call his daughters rude and coarse, I'll live a country life.
I'd rather spin, and weave, and knit, And wholesome meals prepare, Than, dressed in silk, with servants throng'd, Lounge in my cushioned chair.
I love to see my chickens grow, My turkies, ducks, and geese; I love to tend my flowering plants, And make the new milk cheese.
I love to wash, I love to sew, All needful work I like to do; I like to keep my kitchen neat, And humble parlor, too.
And when the grateful task is done, And pleasure claims a share, With some dear friend I'll walk abroad And take the balmy air.
Not through the dusty, crowded streets, Amid the bustling throng, But in some pleasant cool retreat, We'll hear the woodland song.
Or trace the winding silver stream, And linger on its banks, While all the birds in concert sweet, Present their evening thanks.
We'll seek the ancient forest shade, And see its branches wave, Which have, perchance, a requiem sang Above the red man's grave.
We'll breathe the pure untainted air, Fresh from the verdant hills; And pluck wild blossoms from their beds Beside the laughing rills.
I love the country in the spring, With all its waving trees; When songs of joy from every grove Are wafted on the breeze.
The smiling pastures robed in green, How beautiful, and gay; With bleating flocks, and lowing herds, And little lambs at play.
I love midst rural scenes to dwell, In summer's pleasant hours; And pluck her sweet delicious fruits, And smell her fragrant flowers.
I love to see the growing corn, And fields of waving grain; I love the sunshine, and the shade. And gentle showers of rain.
I love to see the glitt'ring dew, Like pendant diamonds, hung On ev'ry plant, and flower, and tree, Their glossy leaves among.
I love the joyful harvest months; When smiling on the plain, We see rich golden ears of corn, And bending sheaves of grain.
I love to see the cellar filled With sauce of various kinds, Potatoes, beets and onions too, And squashes from the vines.
I love to see the well filled barn, And smell the fragrant hay; I'll milk while brother feeds the lambs, And see them skip and play.
I love to rise before the sun, And see his rosy beams Shine glim'ring through the waving trees, In quiv'ring fitful gleams.
I love, when nothing intervenes. The setting sun to spy, Tinging the clouds with every hue, Which charms the gazing eye.
I love the country every where, Here let me spend my life; No higher shall my thoughts aspire-- I'd be a farmer's wife.[6]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 6: "Good, Sarah, that's right! If we can find one that worthy of you, we will send him along."--_Editor_.]
ODE TO SARAH.[7]
Rural maid, who, o'er glade, Forest, plain, and mountain, roam In joy and peace, and made Happy by the brook's gay foam; Who art content to live In the farmer's domicil; A listening ear give To a stranger, who, with quill In hand, sits down to write An epistle, or letter, To one, of whom it might Be said, she's far his better.
Fair maiden, thou hast said, And I doubt not truly too, A farmer thou would wed, If he would sincerely woo Thy heart's best affection, And at the holy altar Vow, that kind protection He'd give thee, and never falter, But sacred keep the vow Thus solemn made, and never, So long as life lasts, bow Down, and let this bond sever.
Lady fair, wouldst thou dare A mechanic's wife to be, And with him toil, and share All the ills of life's rough sea? Wouldst thou trust thy frail bark In his hands, and if perchance Ills should come, thick and dark, Stand firmly, and thus enhance His happiness, and not, At disappointment's first dart, Complain of thy sad lot, And sink under a faint heart?
What sayest thou, fair one? Dost thou view the mechanic, As some _fair_ ones have done, With disgust, who grow frantic At the sight of his dress, Just because it does not fit So smooth as they confess That they should like to see it? Dost thou, in honesty Of heart, think him good and wise. And in sincerity Believe him not otherwise?
Dear lady, wouldst not thou, To flee "single blessedness," Accept an offer now From a mechanic, and bless Him, throughout a long life, With thy good fairy presence, And ne'er the cry of strife Raise, but yield obedience? If _him_ thou wilt many, Give him soon thy residence, That he may not tarry, But, with lightning speed, fly hence.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 7: Authoress of "Praises of Rural Life."]
JERE.
AN EPISTLE TO JERE, IN ANSWER TO HIS ODE.
Worthy and much respected friend, Accept the thanks I freely send; Your generous offer, all will say, Mere grateful thanks but ill repay. An answer you request of me, But prudence calls for some delay; This weighty subject claims my care, To answer now I must forbear. Could you admire a homely face, Devoid of beauty, charms, or grace? Would you not blush, should friends deride The rustic manners of your bride? Say, would you build a cottage near Some pleasant grove, where we might hear The blithesome wild birds' pleasing song, From morn till eve, all summer long? And would you plant some tall elm trees, Around your house, your bride to please; And have a little garden, too, Where fruit, and herbs, and flowers might grow? And would you rear a mulberry grove, That I might thus a helpmeet prove? Although I suffer no distress From fears of "single blessedness," I'd not disdain your rustic dress, If generous feelings fill your breast; That would not bar you from my door, For costly clothing makes us poor. Although you do not till the soil, You say you're not afraid to toil: By prudence, industry, and care, A man may prosper any where. You ask, if I would you obey, Nor have contentious words to say? I should not scold without a cause, Nor would I reverence rigorous laws. But let our correspondence end, 'Twill much oblige your humble friend; As I've no gift for writing letters, A friendly call would suit much better. Appoint a day, and I'll prepare, I'll sweep my hearth, and comb my hair; I'll make the best of humble means, Bake pies and puddings, pork and beans; I'll dress in neat, but coarse attire, And in my parlor build a fire. Sir, I reside in Ruralville, Southeast of Bluff, a craggy hill; A broad majestic stream rolls by, Whose crystal surface charms the eye. If you still wish to win a bride, Come where the farmers' girls reside; Henceforth I write no more to you, My much respected friend, adieu!
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NOTE. If Jere isn't "done brown" now, we are no judge of _human nater_. Cheer up, Jere, "a faint heart never won a fair lady." "Pull up your dicky up," and try again; and if you get "sacked," remember and practice the advice of the old Poet:--
"Chase your shadow, it will fly you; Fly yourself, it will pursue; Court a girl, if she deny you, Drop your suit, and she'll court you."--_Editor_.
NEIGHBORS' ADVICE TO INVALIDS.
Why sit you here, pining in languor and gloom? Except you do something, you'll sink to the tomb; Ah, where's the red roses that bloomed on your brow, Where nothing but white ones are languishing now?
Go, learn of the red men, they certainly know, They find healing plants, and will tell where they grow; God gave them this knowledge; their skill is the best; Make use of such means, they will surely be blest.
No poisonous minerals fill up his chest, But herbs that will heal you when sick and distressed, Designed by our Maker all pain to subdue, Which tortures the frame where these antidotes grew.
O, shun the rude savage who roams through the wood, With knowledge too scanty to choose wholesome food; Thomsonians will help you, they'll heal your disease; Emetics and numbers will soon give you ease.
The brave number one all disease can expel, And make you exclaim, I am perfectly well; All poisonous drugs in your system will die, Each pain will take wings, and the calomel fly.
These hot-crops will kill you with pepper and steam, Pork, mince pies and pancakes, hot puddings and cream; They'll double your fever, dyspepsia and pain; I beg you take warning; by thousands they've slain.
On boasting pretenders I'd now turn my back, No longer I'd deal with that ignorant quack; He cannot distinguish the heart from the brain, King's evil or dropsy from pleurisy pain.
Apply to the man who is bred in our schools, His drugs are examined by chemical rules; Whatever he uses is put to the test; I like to take analyzed medicine best.
His science trained eye your whole system will scan, From him naught is hidden which preys upon man; He'll find ev'ry pain, with its cause and effect, Plain reason might teach you that he's most correct.
Oh, shun this deceiver, his motives are gain, He oftener augments, than alleviates, pain; His boasted attainments are nothing but show, Put him with the rest, they'll just make a row.
He'll steal the warm crimson, that flows through your heart, He'll haunt you with blisters and plasters that smart, Torment you with setons, with leaches and cups, His calomel poisons, the blood it corrupts.
Emetics reduce you, and tonics distress, While morphine distracts you and seldom gives rest. Now leave him, Oh, leave him! your life he'll not save; Except you obey me, you'll sink to the grave.
Come, leave all the doctors; resort to the shops Which peddle pills, balsams, elixirs and drops; Each cures ev'ry malady whenever used, Altho' by base slander they're greatly abus'd.
I hate these vile patents; they often make worse; Hear my good advice, let your mother be nurse; Ten thousand rare medical plants grow around. Their ne'er failing virtues old women have found.
There's catfoot and mugwort, archangel and balm, Possessing great virtues, and never do harm; While spleenwort, and whiteweed, and hyssop, and sage, Have cured the consumption in every stage.
Take saffron and goldthread, white poplar and rue, They've cured the dyspepsia wherever they grew; Use clover and nightshade, and drink wintergreen, They'll cure the worst cancer that ever was seen.
But I have no faith in these simple herb teas They never can lessen or cure a disease; And do not take pills, nasty powders and drops, Till you are filled up like the medical shops.
Still, something is needful, of that I am sure, But I've the most faith in the cold water cure; 'Twill strengthen, invigorate, open the pores, 'Tis curing sick people by dozens and scores.
Don't wrap yourself up in that cold dripping sheet, I always take cold, only wetting my feet; Yet there is an agent which I would apply, The red forked lightning which darts through the sky.
Old Franklin has tamed it and brought it to earth, And men are now learning how much it is worth; 'Twill dart through the stomach, the heart, and the brain, Each pore it will open and drive out the pain.
Come, quit all this fussing, take rich hearty food, And soon, I assure you, your health will be good; Leave your warm stifling beds, your soft cushioned chair, Run ten miles a day in the cool healthful air.
If I went thus, moping and lounging about, 'Twould bring on dyspepsia, consumption, or gout; Now here is good counsel, why will you be shy, You'd much better take it than lie down and die.
CONTENTS.
The Snow-drop My Birth-place The Oak and the Rill Hymn for a Donation Gathering The Marriage Vows Lines on the death of Ellen N---- An Epitaph Lines on the death of R., P.B., C., S., and M.A. Wing The Rose and Lilac Tree Lines on the death of Mrs. West Thoughts on the sudden death of J.W.N. Reflections on the death of Mr. White The Sister's Lament Lines on a Lock of Hair Lines on the last hours of Mrs. Judson Judson's Grave Lines on a Baptismal Occasion The Inquiry There is joy in heaven, &c. Jephthah's Vow Like a lost sheep, &c. And the vail of the temple was rent in twain Lines to an absent relative Lines to the wife of the above Come home to New England A Sister's Departure A Sister's Counsel Lines to a Friend on parting Farewell to a Brother To W.H.D, an adopted Brother Lines to a Friend in affliction Lines to a Sister To my Brother My Brother in the Tempest Lines to an absent Sister A Scene on a Sister's Wedding day To the Whippowil My harp is on the willows hung, &c. To a Sister, while dangerously ill The Invalid's Dream To a Butterfly in my Chamber To the "Wild Flower" The Minister at the Family Altar An Appeal for Ireland The Little Cloud Lewiston, as it was, and as it is Twilight Musings. By Amelia To Amelia Moonlight Musings Thoughts on a Petunia To a White Hollyhock Lines on the Miniature of a pair of twin boys The Cultivation of Flowers Music of the Mind
APPENDIX.
Praises of Rural Life Ode to Sarah An Epistle to Jere Neighbors' Advice to Invalids