LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET. From Sources Old and New, Original and Selected. BY L. MARIA CHILD. , "When the Sun is setting, cool fall its gleams upon the earth, and shadows lengthen ; but they all point toward the Morning." JEAN PAUL RICHTER. '? I am fully convinced that the Soul is indestructible, and that its \ activity will continue through eternity. It is like the Sun, which, to our eyes, seems to set in night ; but it has in reality only gone to diffuse its light elsewhere. " GOETHE. BOSTON : TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 1865. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by I, . MARIA CHILD, the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of MavSsachusetts U N i v F. K s i T Y PRESS: WELCH, BTGEI. o\v, AND COMPANY, CAMBRIDGE. MY DEAR AND HONORED FRIENDS. Miss LUCY O S G O O D AND Miss HENRIETTA SARGENT, This Volume IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, IN TOKEN OF GRATITUDE FOR THEIR EXAMPLE. WHICH CONFERS BEAUTY AND DIGNITY ON DECLINING YEAK- BY ACTIVE USEFULNESS AND KINDLY SYMPATHY WITH THK HUMAN RACE. PREFACE. OCCASIONALLY meet people who say to me, " I had many a pleasant hour, in my childhood, reading your Juvenile Miscellany ; and now I am enjoying it over again, with my own little folks." Such remarks remind me that I have been a long time in the world ; but if a few acknowl- edge me as the household friend of two genera- tions, it is a pleasant assurance that I have not lived altogether in vain. When I was myself near the fairy-land of childhood, I used my pen for the pleasure of children ; and now that I am travelling down the hill I was then ascending, I would fain give some words of consolation and cheer to my companions on the way. If the rays of my morning have helped to germinate seeds that ripened into flowers and fruit, I am grateful to vi PREFACE. Him, from whom all light and warmth proceeds. And now I reverently ask His blessing on this attempt to imitate, in my humble way, the set- ting rays of that great luminary, which throws cheerful gleams into so many lonely old homes, which kindles golden fires on trees whose foliage is falling, and lights up the silvered heads on which it rests with a glory that reminds one of immortal crowns. L. MARIA CHILD. CON TE NTS. PAGE THE FRIENDS L. M. Child . . i THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER . Anonymous ... 37 THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE . . Zschokke .... 39 THE OLD MAN DREAMS . . . . O. IV. Holmes . . 44 A RUSSIAN LADY 46 THE OLD MAN'S SONG .... Anonymous ... 51 THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH l-l . C. Bryant . . 52 A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR GRAND- FATHER Charles Dickens . 53 JOHN ANDERSON, MY Jo. . . . Robert Burns . . 60 OLD FOLKS AT HOME . . . . L. M. Child . . 61 EVERLASTING YOUTH Edmund H. Sears . 62 LIFE Mrs. Barbauld . . 68 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE . . L. M. Child . . 69 THE HAPPIEST TIME Eliza Cook ... 81 ODE OF ANACREON 84 CICERO'S ESSAY ON OLD AGE 85 THE FOUNTAIN W. Wordsworth . 98 A POET'S BLESSING Uhland . . . . 101 BERNARD PALISSY 102 OLD AGE COMING Elizabeth Hamilton 123 UNMARRIED WOMEN Z. M. Child. . . 127 viii CONTENTS. THE OLD MAID'S PRAYER . . . Mrs Tighe ... 144 GRANDFATHER'S REVERIE . . . Theodore Parker . 146 THE OLD COUPLE Anonymous . . . 149 A STORY OF ST. MARK'S EVE . . Thomas Hood . . 152 WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID . Anonymous . . . 161 THE SPRING JOURNEY .... Heber 163 MORAL HINTS L. M. Child . . . 164 THE BOYS 0. W. Holmes . . 184 ODE OF ANACREON 185 MYSTERIOUSNESS OF LIFE . . . Mountford . . . 186 THE GRANDMOTHER'S APOLOGY . Alfred Tennyson . 189 THE ANCIENT MAN J. P. Richter . . 193 MILTON ON HIS Loss OF SIGHT 210 LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN . L. M. Child . . 212 BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER . . . John G. Whittier . 223 THE CANARY BIRD John Sterling . . 224 OLD BACHELORS L. M. Child . . 225 TAKING IT EASY G. H. Clark . . 238 OLD AUNTY Anonymous . . . 241 RICHARD AND KATE Robert Bloomfidd . 250 LUDOVICO CORNARO 256 ROBIN AND JEANNIE Dora Greenwell . . 271 A GOOD OLD AGE Mountford . . . 273 MY PSALM John G. Whiltier . 276 JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER 279 THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES W. Wordsworth . 290 DR. DODDRIDGE'S DREAM 292 THE OLD PSALM-TUNE .... Harriet B. Stowe . 297 THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY 300 To ONE WHO WISHED ME SIXTEEN YEARS OLD Alice Gary . . . 322 CONTENTS. ix GROWING OLD ....... EQUINOCTIAL EPITAPH ON THE UNMATED . . A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT . . . AT ANCHOR NOVEMBER MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY EVE THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES . AULD LANG SYNE OLD FOLKS AT HOME .... OLD UNCLE TOMMY SITTING IN THE SUN AUNT KINDLY CROSSING OVER A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD . To MY WIFE THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS OUR SECRET DRAWER .... THE GOLDEN WEDDING .... THE WORN WEDDING RING . . HINTS ABOUT HEALTH .... THE INVALID'S PRAYER .... THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON . REST AT EVENING Dinah Miiloch . . 324 Mrs.A.D. T. Whitney 334 E- S. 335 Confers Francis . . 336 Anonymous . . . 339 H. W. Beecher . .341 John Pierpont . , 343 H.J. 346 Robert Burns . . 362 L. M. Child ... 363 M. S. 364 Anonymous , . . 377 Theodore Parker , 379 Uhland .... 383 Mrs. Gaskell . . 385 Anonymous . . . 408 y. P. Richter . . 410 Anonymous , . . 414 F. A. B renter . . 416 W. C. Bennett . . 424 L. M. Child. . . 427 Samuel Johnson . 440 J. P. Richter . . 441 Adelaide A. Procter 454 LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET. SOURCES OLD, NEW, ORIGINAL, AND SELECTED. THE FRIENDS. BY L. M. CHILD. " By some especial care Her temper had been framed, as if to make A being, who, by adding love to peace, Might live on earth a life of happiness." Wordsworth. 'N the interior of Maine two girls grew to womanhood in houses so near that they could nod and smile to each other while they were making the beds in the morning, and chat through the open fence that separated their gardens when they went to pick currants for the tea-table. Both were daugh- ters of farmers ; but Harriet Brown's father had 2 THE FRIENDS. money in the bank, while Jane White's father was struggling hard to pay off a mortgage. Jane was not a beauty, but her fresh, healthy counte- nance was pleasant to look upon. Her large blue eyes had a very innocent expression, and there was always in them the suggestion of a smile, as if they sung the first note of a merry song for the lips to follow. Harriet was the belle of the county ; with rosy cheeks, a well-shaped mouth, and black eyes, that were very bright, without being luminous from within. A close observer of physiognomy could easily determine which of the girls had most of heart and soul. But they were both favorites in the village, and the young men thought it was a pretty sight to see them together. In fact, they were rarely seen apart. Their leisure moments, on bright winter days, were spent in snow-balling each other across the garden-fence ; and they kept up the sport hilariously long after their hands were numb and red with cold. In the long evenings, they made wagers which would soonest finish a pair of socks ; and merry were the little Growings over the vanquished party. In spring, they hunt- ed anemones and violets together. In autumn, they filled their aprons with brilliant-colored leaves to decorate the mantel-piece ; stopping ever and anon to twine the prettiest specimens in each other's hair. They both sat in the singing-seats at meeting. Harriet's shrill voice was always heard above Jane's, but it was defective in mod- THE FRIENDS. 3 ulation, while music flowed through the warb- liug voice of her companion. They often bought dresses alike, with the agreement that, when the sleeves were worn, the two skirts should be used to make a new dress for the one who first needed it ; and shrewd observers remarked that Harriet usually had the benefit of such bargains. Jane waited assiduously upon her mother, while Har- riet's mother waited upon her. One seemed to have come into the world to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. Harriet was prim in company, and some called her rather proud ; but Jane was deemed imprudent, because whatever she said or did bubbled out of her heart. Their friendship was not founded on any harmonious accord of character ; few friendships are. They were born next door to each other, and no other girls of their own age happened to be near neigh- bors. The youthful heart runs over so perpetu- ally, that it needs another into which to pour its ever-flowing stream. Impelled by this necessity, they often shared each other's sleeping apartments, and talked late into the night. They could not have told, the next day, what they had talked about. Their conversation was a continuous movement of hilarious nothings, with a running accompani- ment of laughter. It was like the froth of whip- syllabub, of which the rustic took a spoonful into his mouth, and finding it gone without leaving a taste behind, he searched the carpet for it. The 4 THE FRIENDS. girls, however, never looked after the silly bubbles of their bubbling syllables. Harriet thought Jane excessively funny, and such an appreciative audi- ence was stimulus sufficient to keep her friend's tongue in motion. " O Hatty, the moon 's up, and it 's as light as a cork ! " exclaimed Jane, springing out of bed in the summer's night, and looking out of the win- dow. " What a droll creature you are ! " replied Hat- ty ; and they laughed more heartily than they would have done over one of Dr. Holmes's wit- tiest sayings. When merriment subsided into a more serious mood, each gave her opinion whether Harry Blake, the young lawyer, or Frank May, the young store- keeper, had the handsomest eyes. Jane said, there was a report that the young lawyer was engaged to somebody before he came to their vil- lage ; but Harriet said she did n't believe it, be- cause he pressed her hand when they came home from the County Ball, and he whispered some- thing, too; but she did n't know whether it would be fair to tell of it. Then came the entreaty, " Do tell"; and she told. And with various similar confidings, they at last fell asleep. Thus life flowed on, like a sunny, babbling brook, with these girls of sixteen summers. Fond as they were of recreation, they were capable, in the New England sense of the term, and accomplished a THE FRIENDS. 5 great deal of work. It was generally agreed that Harriet made the best butter and Jane the best bread that the village produced. Thrifty fathers said to their sons, that whoever obtained one of those girls for a wife would be a lucky fellow. Harriet refused several offers, and the rejected beaux revenged themselves by saying, she was fishing for the lawyer, in hopes of being the wife of a judge, or a member of Congress. There was less gossip about Jane's love affairs. Nobody was surprised when the banns were published between her and Frank May. She had always maintained that his eyes were handsomer than the lawyer's. It was easy enough for anybody to read her heart. Soon after Jane's marriage with the young store- keeper Harriet went to visit an uncle in New York. There she attracted the attention of a prosperous merchant, nearly as old as her father, and came home to busy herself with preparations for a wed- ding. Jane expressed surprise, in view of certain confidences with regard to the young lawyer ; but Harriet replied : " Mr. Gray is a very good sort of man, and really seems to be very much in love with me. And you know, Jenny, it must be a lono- time before Harry Blake can earn enough O */ to support a wife handsomely." A few weeks afterward, they had their parting interview. They kissed and shed tears, and ex- changed lockets with braids of hair. Jane's voice was choked, as she said : " O Hatty, it seems so 6 THE FRIENDS. hard that we should be separated ! I thought to be sure we should always be neighbors." And Harriet wiped her eyes, and tried to an- swer cheerfully : " You must come and see me, dear Jenny. It is n't such a great way to New York, after all." The next day Jane attended the wedding in her own simple bridal dress of white muslin ; and the last she saw of Harriet was the waving of her white handkerchief from a genteel carriage, drawn by two shining black horses. It was the first link that had been broken in the chain of her quiet life ; and the separation of these first links startles the youthful mind with a sort of painful surprise, such as an infant feels waking from sleep to be frightened by a strange face bending over its cra- dle. She said to her husband : " I did n't feel at all as I always imagined I should feel at Hatty's wedding. It was so unexpected to have her go off with that stranger ! But I suppose she is the best judge of what is for her own happiness." The void left by this separation was soon filled by new pleasures and duties. A little boy and girl came. Then her husband was seized with o a disease of the spine, which totally unfitted him for business. Jane had acquired considerable skill in mantua-making, which now proved a valuable assistance in the support of her family. The neigh- boring farmers said, " Young Mrs. May has a hard row to hoe." But her life was a mingled cup, THE FRIENDS. 7 which she had no wish to exchange for any other. Care and fatigue were sweetened by the tenderness and patience of her household mate, and bright- ened by the gambols of children, who clung to her with confiding love. When people expressed sym- pathy with her hard lot, she answered, cheerfully : " I am happier than I was when I was a girl. It is a happiness that I feel deeper down in my heart." This feeling was expressed in her face also. The innocent blue eyes became motherly and thoughtful in their tenderness, but still a smile lay sleeping there. Her husband said she was handsomer than when he first loved her ; and so all thought who appreciated beauty of expres- sion above fairness of skin. During the first year of her residence in New York, Harriet wrote every few weeks ; but the intervals between her letters lengthened, and the apology was the necessity of giving dinner-parties, making calls, and attending to mantua-makers. To Jane, who was constantly working to nurse and support her dear ones, they seemed like letters in a foreign language, of which we can study out the meaning, but in which it is impossible for us to think. She felt herself more really separated from the friend of her girlhood than she could have been by visible mountains. They were not only living in different worlds, but the ways of each world did not interest the other. The correspondence finally ceased altogether, and years passed without any communication. 8 THE FRIENDS. The circle of Jane's duties enlarged. Her hus- band's parents became feeble in health ; they need- ed the presence of children, and could also assist their invalid son by receiving him into their house. So Frank May and his wife removed to their home, in a country village of Massachusetts. Her parents, unwilling to relinquish the light of her presence, removed with them. There was, of course, great increase of care, to which was added the necessity for vigilant economy ; but the energy of the young matron grew with the demands upon it. Her husband's mother was a little unreason- able at times, but it was obvious that sli consid- ered her son very fortunate in his wife ; and Jane thankfully accepted her somewhat reluctant affec- tion. If a neighbor alluded to her numerous cares, she replied cheerfully : " Yes, it is true that I have a good deal on my shoulders ; but somehow it never seems very heavy. The fact is," she added, smiling, " there 's great satisfaction in feel- ing one's self of so much importance. There are my husband, my two children, my two fathers, and my two mothers, all telling me that they could n't get along without me ; and I think O ~ that 's blessing enough for one poor woman. No- body can tell, until they try it, what a satisfaction there is in making old folks comfortable. They cling so to those that take good care of them, that, I declare, I find it does me about as much good as it did to tend upon my babies." Blessed woman ! THE FRIENDS. 9 she carried sunshine within her, and so external circumstances could not darken her life. The external pressure increased as years passed on. Her husband, her parents, her son, departed from her, one after another. Still she smiled through her tears, and said : " God has been very merciful to me. It was such a comfort to be able to tend upon them to the last, and to have them die blessing me ! " The daughter married and removed to Illinois. The heart of the bereaved mother yearned to follow her ; but her husband's parents were very infirm, and she had become necessary to their comfort. When she gave the farewell kiss to her child, she said : " There is no one to take good care of the old folks if I leave them. I will stay and close their eyes, and then, if it be God's will, I will come' to you." Two years afterward, the old father died, but his wife survived him several years. When the estates of both fathers were settled, there remained for the two widowed women a small house, an acre of land, and a thousand dollars in the bank. There they lived alone. The rooms that had been so full of voices were silent now. Only, as Jane moved about, " on household cares intent," she was often heard singing the tune her dear Frank used to sing under the apple-tree bv her window, in their old courting days : "The moon was shining silver bright, No cloud the eye could view; 1* 10 THE FRIENDS. Her lover's step, in silent night, Well pleased, the damsel knew." Sometimes the blue eyes moistened as she sang ; but, ere the tears fell, tender memories would modulate themselves into the tune of " Auld lang syne." And sometimes the old mother, who sat knitting in the sunshine, would say : " Sing that again, Jenny. How my old man used to love to hear you sing it ! Don't you remember he used to say you sung like a thrush ? " Jenny would smile, and say, " Yes, mother," and sing it over again. Then, tenderly adapting herself to the old woman's memories, she would strike into " John Anderson, my Jo," to which her aged companion would listen with an expression of serene satisfac- tion. It was indeed a pleasure to listen ; for Jenny's sweet voice remained unbroken by years ; its tones were as silvery as her hair. Time, the old crow, had traversed her face and left his foot- prints there ; and the ploughshare of successive sorrows had cut deep lines into the once smooth surface ; but the beauty of the soul illumined her faded countenance, as moonlight softens and glori- fies ruins. When she carefully arranged the pil- lows of the easy-chair, the aged mother, ere she settled down for her afternoon's nap, would often look up gratefully, and say, " Your eyes are just as good as a baby's." It was a pleasant sound to the dutiful daughter's ears, and made her forget the querulous complaints in which her infirm com- panion sometimes indulged. THE FRIENDS. H The time came when this duty was finished also ; and Mrs. Frank May found herself all alone in the house, whither she had carried her sunshine thirty years before. She wrote to her daughter that, as soon as she could sell or let her little homestead, she would start for Illinois. She busied herself to hasten the necessary arrange- ments* ; for her lonely heart was longing for her only child, whose face she had not seen for seven years. One afternoon, as she sat by the window adding up accounts, her plans for the journey to meet her daughter gradually melted into loving reminiscences of her childhood, till she seemed to see again the little smiling face that had looked to her the most beautiful in all the world, and to hear again the little pattering feet that once made sweetest music in her ears. As she sat thus in reverie at the open window, the setting sun bright- ened the broad meadows, crowned the distant hill-tops with glory, and threw a ribbon of gold across the wall of her humble little room. The breath of lilacs floated in, and with it came memo- ries of how her little children used to come in with their arms full of spring-blossoms, filling every mug and pitcher they could find. The current of her thoughts was interrupted by the sound of a wagon. It stopped before her house. A stranger with two little children ! Who could it be ? She opened the door. The stranger, taking off his hat and bowing respectfully, said, " Are you Mrs. Frank May?" 12 THE FRIENDS. " Yes, sir," she replied. " Well, then," rejoined he, " if you please, I '11 walk in, for I 've got some news to tell you. But first I '11 bring in the children, for the little things have been riding all day, and are pretty tired." " Certainly, sir, bring them in and let them rest, and I will give them a cup of milk," replied the kindly matron. A little boy and girl were lifted from the wagon and led in. Mrs. May made an exclamation of joyful surprise. The very vision she had had in her mind a few minutes previous stood before her bodily ! She took the little girl in her arms and covered her face with kisses. " Why, bless your little soul ! " she exclaimed ; " how much you look like my daughter Jenny ! " " My name ith Jenny," lisped the little one. "Why, you see, ma'am " stammered the stranger ; he paused, in an embarrassed way, and smoothed the nap of his hat with his sleeve. " You see, ma'am " he resumed ; then, breaking down again, he suddenly seized the boy by the hand, led him up to her, and said, " There, Robin ! that 's your good old granny, you 've heard so much about." With a look of astonishment, Mrs. May said to him : " And where is my daughter, sir ? Surely these little children would n't come so far without their mother." The man again began to say, " You see, THE FRIENDS. 13 ma'am " but his heart came up and choked his, voice with a great sob. The old mother understood its meaning. She encircled the two children with her arms, and drew them closely to her side. After a brief silence, she asked, in a subdued voice, " When did she die ? " Her calmness reassured the stranger, and with a steady voice he replied : " You see, ma'am, your daughter and her husband have been neighbors of mine ever since they went to Illinois. There 's been an epidemic fever raging among us, and they both died of it. The last words your daughter said were, ' Carry the children to my good mother.' I 've been wanting to come and see my old father, who lives about three miles from here, so I brought them along with me. It 's sorrowful news for you, ma'am, and I meant to have sort of prepared you for it ; but somehow I lost my presence of mind, and forgot what I was going to say. But I 'm glad to see you so sustained under it, ma'am." " I thank God that these are left," she replied ; and she kissed the little faces that were upturned to hers with an expression that seemed to say they thought they should like their grandmother. u I 'm so glad you 're helped to take it so," re- joined the stranger. " Your daughter always told me you was a woman that went straight ahead and did your duty, trusting the Lord to bring you through." 14 THE FRIENDS. " I am forgetting my duty now," she replied. " You must be hungry and tired. If you '11 drive to Neighbor Harrington's barn, he will take good care of your horse, and I will prepare your sup- per." " Thank you kindly, ma'am ; but I must jog on to my old father's, to take supper with him." Some boxes containing the clothing of the chil- dren and their mother were brought in ; and, hav- ing deposited them, the stranger departed amid thanks and benedictions. Mrs. Harrington had seen the wagon stop at Mrs. May's door, and go off without the children. Being of an inquiring mind, she straightway put on her cape-bonnet, and went to see about it. She found her worthy neighbor pinning towels round the children's necks, preparatory to their supper of brown bread and molasses, which they were in a great hurry to eat. " Why who on earth have you got here ! " ex- claimed Neighbor Harrington. " They are my daughter's children," replied Mrs. May. " Bless their little souls ! if I 'd have known they were coming, I 'd have had some turnovers ready for them." " I guess you '11 find they '11 make turnovers enough," replied Mrs. Harrington smiling. " That boy looks to me like a born rogue. But where 's your daughter ? I did n't see any woman in the wagon." THE TRIENDS. 15 " The Lord has taken her to himself," replied Mrs May, in quivering tones. " You don't say so ! " exclaimed Neighbor Har- rington, raising both hands. " Bless me ! if I 'd known that, I would n't have come right in upon you so sudden." They sat down and began to talk over the par- ticulars which the stranger had related. Mean- while, the children, in hungry haste, were daubing their chins and fingers with molasses. The little four-year-old Jenny was the first to pause. Draw- ing a long breath, expressive of great satisfaction, she lisped out, " O Bubby ! larthiz top on bread ! what can be dooder ? " Robin, who was two years her senior, and felt as if he were as much as ten, gave a great shout of laughter, and called out, " O Granny ! you don't know how funny Sissy talks." Grandmother went with a wet towel to wipe their hands and faces, and when she heard what the little Tot had said, she could not help smiling, notwithstanding the heaviness of her heart. As for Neighbor Harrington, she laughed outright. " You see they are just as well satisfied as they would have been with a dozen turnovers," said she. " But this is a sad blow for you, Neighbor May ; coming, too, just at the time when you were taking so much comfort in the thoughts of going to see your daughter ; and it will be a pretty heavy load for a woman of your years to bring up these orphans." 16 THE FRIENDS. " O, it 's wonderful how the dispensations of Providence are softened for us poor weak mortals," replied Mrs. May. " Only think what a mercy it is that I have these treasures left ? Why, she looks so much like her dear mother, that I seem to have my own little Jenny right over again ; and I can't seem to realize that it- is n't so. You see, Neighbor Harrington, that softens the blow won- derfully. As for bringing up the children, I have faith that the Lord will strengthen those who trust in him." " That 's just like you," rejoined Neighbor Har- rington. " You always talk in that way. You always seem to think that what happens is the best that could happen. You 're pretty much like this little one here. If you don't get tarts and turnovers, you smack your lips and say, ' Lasses top on bread ! what can be gooder ? ' The neighbors bade each other a smiling good- night. When Mrs. Harrington returned home, she told her husband the mournful news, and added, " Mrs. May don't seem to feel it so much as I should think she would." Yet the good grandmother dropped manv tears on the pillow where those little orphans slept ; and kneeling by their bedside, she prayed long and fervently for support and guidance in rearing the precious souls thus committed to her charge. She had long been unused to children ; and they did, as Neighbor Harrington had predicted, make THE FRIENDS. 17 plenty of turnovers in the house. Rojbin had remarkable gifts in that line. Endless were his variations of mischief. Sometimes the stillness of the premises was suddenly disturbed by a tremen- dous fluttering and cackling, caused by his efforts to catch the cockerel. The next thing, there was the cat squalling and hissing, because he was pulling her backward by the tail. Then he was seized with a desire to explore the pig's sleeping apartment, and by that process let him out into the garden, and had the capital fun of chasing him over flowers and vegetables. Once when the pig upset little Sissy in his rounds, he had to lie down and roll in the mud himself, with loud explosions of laughter. Quiet little Jenny liked to make gardens by sticking flowers in the sand, but it particularly pleased him to send them all flying into the air, at the point of his boot. When the leaves were gay with autumn tints, she would bring her apron full and sit at grandmother's feet weaving garlands for the mantel-piece ; and it was Master Robin's delight to pull them to pieces, and toss them hither and yon. It was wonderful how patiently the good grandmother put up with his roguish pranks. " O Robin, dear, don't be- have so," she would say. " Be a good boy. Come ! I want to see how fast you gro\v. Take off your boots, and Jenny will take off hers, and stand even, and then we '11 see which is the tallest." 18 THE FRIENDS. " O, I 'm ever so much taller. I 'm almost a man," responded Robin, kicking off his boots. Honest little Jenny stood squarely and demurely while grandmother compared their heights. But roguish Robin raised himself as much as possible. To hide his mirth, he darted out of doors as soon as it was over, calling Jenny after him. Then he gave her a poke, that toppled her half over, and said, with a chuckle, " Sissy, I cheated grand- mother. I stood tiptoe. But don't you tell! " But wild as Robin was, he dearlv loved his grandmother, and she loved him better than any- thing else, excepting little Jenny. When Neigh- bor Harrington said, " I should think that boy would wear your life out," she answered, with a smile : " I don't know what I should do with- out the dear little creatures. I always liked to be called by my Christian name, because it sounds more hearty. There 's nobody to call me Jenny now. The little ones call me granny, and the neighbors call me old Mrs. Frank May. But I have a little Jenny, and every time I hear her name called, it makes me feel as if I was young again. But what I like best is to hear her tuning up her little songs. The little darling sings like a robin." " Then she sings like me" exclaimed her ubiq- uitous brother, who had climbed up to the open window, holding on by the sill. " I can whistle most any tune ; cant I ? " THE FRIENDS. 19 " Yes, dear, you whistle like a quail," replied his grandmother. Satisfied with this share of praise, down he dropped, and the next minute they saw him rushing down the road, in full chase after a pass- ing dog. Mrs. May laughed, as she said : " It seems as if he was in twenty places at once. But he 's a good boy. There 's nothing the mat- ter with him, only he 's so full of fun that it will run over all the time. He '11 grow steadier, by and by. He brought in a basket of chips to- day without upsetting them ; and he never made out to do that before. He 's as jbright as a steel button ; and if I am only enabled to guide him right, he will make such a man as my dear hus- band would have been proud to own for a grand- son. I used to think it was impossible to love anything better than I loved my little ones ; but I declare I think a grandmother takes more comfort in her grandchildren than she did in her own children." " Well, you do beat all," replied Mrs. Har- rington. " You 've had about as much affliction as any woman I know ; but you never seem to think you 've had any trouble. I told my hus- band I reckoned you would admit it was a tough job to bring up that boy, at your age ; but it seems you don't." " Why the fact is," rejoined Mrs. May, " the troubles of this life come so mixed up with bless- 20 THE FRIENDS. ings, that we are willing to endure one for the sake of having the other ; and then our afflic- tions do us so much good, that I reckon they are blessings, too." O ' " I suppose they are," replied Mrs. Harring- ton, " though they don't always seem so. But I came in to tell you that we are' going to Mount Nobscot for huckleberries to-morrow ; and if you and the children would like to go, there 's room enough in our big wagon." " Thank you heartily," replied Mrs. May. " It will be a charming frolic for the little folks. ~ But pray don't tell them anything about it to- night ; if you do, Robin won't sleep a wink, or let anybody else sleep." The sun rose clear, and the landscape, re- cently washed by copious showers, looked clean and fresh. The children were in ecstasies at the idea of going to the hill behind which they had so often seen the sun go down. But so confused were their ideas of space, that, while Jenny inquired whether Nobscot Avas as far off as Illinois, Robin asked, every five minutes, whether they had got there. When they were lifted from the wagon, thev eagerly ran forward, and Robin's voice was soon heard shouting, " O Granny! here's lots o' berries!" They went to picking green, red, and black ones with all zeal, while grandmother proceeded to fill her basket. When Mrs. Harrington came, she said, THE FRIENDS. 1 " O, don't stop to pick here. We shall find them twice as thick farther up the hill." " I '11 make sure of these," replied Mrs. May. " I 'm of the old woman's mind, who said she always took her comfort in this world as she went along, for fear it would n't be here when she came back." " You 're a funny old soul," rejoined Neighbor Harrington. " How young you look to-day ! " In fact, the morning air, the pleasant drive, the joyous little ones, and the novelty of going from home, so renovated the old lady, that her spirits rose to the temperature of youth, her color heightened, and her step was more elastic than usual. When they had filled their baskets, they sat under the trees, and opened the boxes of lun- cheon. The children did their full share toward makino; them emptv. When Robin could eat no O 1 / more, he followed Joe Harrington into a neigh- boring field to examine some cows that were grazing. The women took out their knitting, and little Jenny sat at their feet, making hills of moss, while she sang about A kitty with soft white fur, Whose only talk was a pleasant purr. The grandmother hummed the same tune, but in tones too low to drown the voice of her dar- ling. Looking round on the broad panorama of hills, meadows, and cornfields, dotted with farm- 22 THE FRIENDS. houses, her soul was filled with the spirit of summer, and she began to sing, in tones wonder- fully clear and strong for her years, " Among the trees, when humming-bees At buds and flowers were hanging," when Robin scrambled up the hill, calling out, " Sing something funny, Granny ! Sing that song about me!" He made a motion to scatter Jen- ny's mosses with his foot ; but his grandmother said, " If you want me to sing to you, you must keep quiet." He stretched himself full length before her, and throwing his feet up, gazed in her face while she sang : C3 " Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin. " He '11 have misfortunes great and sma', But ay a heart aboon them a' ; He '11 be a credit till us a' ; We '11 a' be proud o' Robin." "That means me!" he said, with an exultant air ; and, turning a somerset, he rolled down the hill, from the bottom of which they heard him whistling the tune. Altogether, they had a very pleasant day among the trees and bushes. It brought back very viv- idly to Mrs. May's mind similar ramblings with Hatty Brown in the fields of Maine. As they walked slowly toward, their wagon, she was look- ing dreamily down the long vista of her life, at the THE FRIENDS. 23 entrance of which she seemed to see a vision of her handsome friend Hatty pelting her with flowers in girlish glee. The children ran on, while older members of the party lingered to arrange the bas- kets. Presently Jenny came running back, and said, " Granny, there 's a carriage down there ; and a lady asked me my name, and said I was a pretty little girl." " Pretty is that pretty does" replied the grand- mother. " That means it is pretty to be good." Then, turning to Mrs. Harrington, she asked. " Whose carriage is that ? " She answered, " It passed us last Sunday, when we were going to meeting, and husband said it belonged to Mr. Jones, that New York gentleman who bought the Simmes estate, you know. I guess that old lady is Mrs. Gray, his wife's mother." " Mrs. who ? " exclaimed her companion, in a very excited tone. " They say her name is Gray," replied Mrs. Harrington ; " but what is the matter with you ? You 're all of a tremble." Without answering, Mrs. May hurried forward with a degree of agility that surprised them all. She paused in front of an old lady very hand- somely dressed in silver-gray silk. She looked at the thin, sharp features, the dull black eyes, and the wrinkled forehead. It was so unlike the charming vision she had seen throwing flowers in the far-off vista of memorv ! She asked herself, 24 THE FRIENDS. " Can it be she ? " Then, with a suppressed, half- embarrassed eagerness, she asked, " Are you the Mrs. Gray who used to be Hatty Brown ? " " That was formerly my name," replied the lady, with dignified politeness. She threw her arms round her neck, nothing * O doubting, and exclaimed : " O Hatty ! dear Hatty ! How glad I am to see you ! I 've been thinking of you a deal to-day." The old lady received the embrace passively, and, readjusting her tumbled cape, replied, " I think I 've seen your face somewhere, ma'am, but I don't remember where." " What ! don't you know me ? Your old friend, Jenny White, who married Frank May ? " " O yes, I remember. But you 've changed a good deal since I used to know you. Has your health been good since I saw you, Mrs. May ? " This response chilled her friend's heart like an east wind upon spring flowers. In a confused way, she stammered out, " I 've been very well, thank you ; and I hope you have enjoyed the same bless- ing. But I must go and see to the children now. I thought to be sure you 'd know me. Good by." " Good by, ma'am," responded the old lady in gray. The carriage was gone when Mrs. Harrington and her party entered the big wagon to return home. Mrs. May, having made a brief explana- tion of her proceedings, became unusually silent. THE FRIENDS. 25 It was a lovely afternoon, but she did not comment on the beauty of the landscape, as she had done in the morning. She was kind and pleasant, but her gayety had vanished. The thought revolved through her mind : " Could it be my shabby gown ? Hatty always thought a deal of dress." But the suspicion seemed to her mean, and she strove to drive it away. " Meeting that old acquaintance seems to make you down-hearted," remarked Mrs. Harrington ; " and that 's something new for you." " I ivas disappointed that she did n't know me," replied Mrs. May ; " but when I reflect, it seems very natural. I doubt whether I should have known her, if you had n't tokl me her name. I 'm glad it did n't happen in the morning ; for it might have clouded my day a little. I 've had a beautiful time." " Whatever comes, you are always thankful it was n't something worse," rejoined Mrs. Harring- ton. " Little Jenny is going to be just like you. She '11 never be pining after other people's pies and cakes. Whatever she has, she '11 call it ' Lasses top on bread ! What can be gooder ?' Won't you, Sissy?" " Bless the dear little soul ! she 's fast asleep ! " said her grandmother. She placed the pretty little head in her lap, and tenderly stroked back the silky curls. The slight cloud soon floated away from her serene soul, and she began to sing, 2 26 THE FRIENDS. " Away with melancholy," and " Life let us cher- ish." As the wagon rolled toward home, people who happened to be at their doors or windows said : " That is old Mrs. Frank May. What a clear, sweet voice she has for a woman of her years ! " Mrs. May looked in her glass that night longer than she had done for years. " I am changed," said she to herself. " No wonder Hatty did n't know me ! " She took from the till of her trunk a locket containing a braid of glossy black hair. She gazed at it awhile, and then took off her spec- tacles, to wipe from them the moisture of her tears. " And this is my first meeting with Hatty since we exchanged lockets ! " murmured she. " If we had foreseen it then, could we have be- lieved it ? " The question whether or not it was a duty to call on Mrs. Gray disturbed her mind considera- bly. Mrs. Harrington settled it for her off-hand. " She did not ask you to come," said she ; " and if she 's a mind to set herself up, let her take the comfort of it. Folks say she 's a dreadful stiff, prim old body ; rigid Orthodox ; sure that every- body who don't think just as she does will go to the bad place." These words were not uttered with evil inten- tion, but their effect was to increase the sense of separation. On the other hand, influences were not wanting to prejudice Mrs. Gray against her THE FRIENDS. 27 former friend, whose sudden appearance and en- thusiastic proceedings had disconcerted her precise habits. When the Sewing-Society met at her son- in-law's house, she happened to be seated next to an austere woman, of whom she inquired, " What sort of person is Mrs. Frank May ? " " I don't know her," was the reply. " She goes to the Unitarian meeting, and I have no acquaintance with people of that society. I should judge she was rather light-minded. When I 've passed by her house, I 've often heard her singing songs ; and I should think psalms and hymns would be more suitable to her time of life. I rode by there once on Sunday, when I was com- ing home from a funeral, and she was singing something that sounded too lively for a psalm- tune. Miss Crosby told me she heard her say that heathens were just as likely to be saved as Christians." " O, I am sorry to hear that," replied Mrs. Gray. " She and I were brought up under the Rev. Mr. Peat's preaching, and he was sound Orthodox." " I did n't know she w r as an acquaintance of yours," rejoined the austere lady, " or I would n't have called her light-minded. I never heard any- thing against her, only what she said about the heathen." Mrs. May, having revolved the subject in her straightforward mind, came to the conclusion that 28 THE FRIENDS. Neighbor Harrington's advice was not in con- formity with the spirit of kindness. " Since Mrs. Gray is a stranger in town, it is my place to call first," said she. " I will perform my duty, and then she can do as she pleases about returning the visit." So she arrayed herself in the best she had, placed the children in the care of Mrs. Har- rington, and went forth on her mission of polite- ness. The large mirror, the chairs covered with green damask, and the paper touched here and there with gold, that shimmered in the rays of the setting sun, formed a striking contrast to her own humble home. Perhaps this unaccustomed feeling imparted a degree of constraint to her manner when her old friend entered the room, in ample folds of shining gray silk, and a rich lace cap with pearl-colored ribbons. Mrs. Gray remarked to her that she bore her age remarkably well ; to which Mrs. May replied that folks told her so, and she supposed it was because she generally had pretty good health. It did not occur to her to return the compliment, for it would not have been true. Jenny was now better-looking than Hatty. Much of this difference miojit be attributed to her ~ more perfect health, but still more it was owing to the fact that, all their lives long, one had lived to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. The interview was necessarily a formal one. Mrs. Gray inquired about old acquaintances in Maine, but her visitor had been so long absent THE FRIENDS. 29 from that part of the country that she had little or nothing to tell, and all she had struggled through meanwhile would have been difficult for the New York lady to realize. The remark about her light-mindedness was constantly present in Mrs. Gray's mind, and at parting she thus ex- pressed the anxiety it occasioned : " You say you have a great deal to do, Mrs. May, and indeed you must have, with all the care of those little children ; but I hope you find time to think about the salvation of your soul." Her visitor replied, with characteristic simpli- city : " I don't know whether I do, in the sense I suppose you mean. I have thought a great deal about what is right and what is wrong, and I have prayed for light to see what was my duty, and for strength to perform it. But the fact is, I have had so much to do for others, that I have n't had much -time to think about myself, in any way." Then, with some passing remark about the vines at the door, the old ladies bade each other good- by. When Mrs. Harrington was informed of the conversation, she said, in her blunt way : " It was a great piece of impertinence in her. She 'd bet- ter take care of her own soul than trouble herself about yours." " I don't think so," replied Mrs. May. " I be- lieve she meant it kindly. She don't seem to me to be stern or proud. But we 've been doing and 80 THE FRIENDS. thinking such very different things, for a great many years, that she don't know what to say to me, and I am just as much puzzled how to get at her. I reckon all these things will come right in another world." During the summer she often saw Mr. Jones's carriage pass her house, and many a time, when the weather was fine, she placed fresh flowers on the mantel-piece, in a pretty vase which Hatty had given her for a bridal present, thinking to herself that Mrs. Gray would be likely to ride out, and might give her a call. When autumn came, she filled the vase with grasses and bright berries, which she gathered in her ramblings with the children. Once, the carriage passed her as she was walking home, with a little one in either hand, and Mrs. Gray looked out and bowed. At last a man came with a barrel of apples and a message. The purport of it was, that she had gone with her daughter's family to New York for the winter ; that she intended to have called on Mrs. May, but had been poorly and made no visits. Winter passed rapidly. The children attended school constantly ; it was grandmother's business to help them about their lessons, to knit them warm socks and mittens, to mend their clothes, and fill their little dinner-kettle with provisions. The minister, the deacon, and the neighbors in general felt interested to help the worthy woman THE FRIENDS. 31 along in the task she had undertaken. Many times a week she repeated, " How my path is strewn with blessings ! " With the lilacs the New York family came back to their summer residence. The tidings soon spread abroad that Mrs. Gray was failing fast, and was seldom strong enough to ride out. Mrs. May recalled to mind certain goodies, of which Hatty used to be particularly fond in their old girlish times. The next day she started from home with a basket nicely covered with a white damask napkin, on the top of which lay a large- bunch of Lilies of the Valley, imbedded in one of their broad green leaves. She found Mrs. Gray bolstered up in her easy-chair, looking quite thin and pale. " I know you have everything you want, and better than I can bring," said she ; " but I remembered you used to like these goodies when we were girls, and I wanted to bring you something, so I brought these." She laid the flowers in the thin hand, and uncovered her basket. The invalid looked up in her face with a smile, and said, " Thank you, Jenny ; this is very kind of you." " God bless you for calling me Jenny ! " ex- claimed her warm-hearted old friend, with a gush of tears. " There is nobody left to call me Jenny now. The children call me Granny, and the neighbors call me old Mrs. Frank May. O, it sounds like old times, Hatty." 32 THE FRIENDS. The ice gave way under the touch of that one sunbeam. Mrs. Gray and Mrs. May vanished from their conversation, and only Hatty and Jenny re- mained. For several months they met every day, and warmed their old hearts with youthful mem- ories. Once only, a little of the former restraint returned for a few minutes. Mrs. Gray betrayed what was in her mind, by saying : " I suppose, Jenny, you know I have n't any property. My husband failed before he died, and I am dependent on my daughter." " I never inquired about your property, and I don't care anything about it," replied Mrs. May, rather bruskly, and with a slight flush on her cheeks ; but, immediately subsiding into a gentler tone, she added, " I 'm very glad, Hatty, that you have a daughter who is able to make you so com- fortable." Thenceforth the invalid accepted her disinter- ested services without question or doubt. True to her old habits of being ministered unto, she made large demands on her friend's time and strength, apparently unconscious how much incon- venience it must occasion to an old person charged with the whole care of two orphan children. Mrs. May carefully concealed any impediments in the way, and, by help of Mrs. Harrington, was always ready to attend upon her old friend. She was often called upon to sing " Auld Lang Syne " ; and sometimes, when the invalid felt stronger than THE FRIENDS: 33 common, she would join in with her feeble, cracked voice. Jenny sat looking at Hatty's withered face, and dim black eyes, and she often felt a choking in her throat, while they sang together : " We twa hae ran about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine." More frequently they sang the psalm-tunes they used to sing when both sat in the singing-seats with Frank May and Harry Blake. They seldom parted without Jenny's reading a chapter of the New Testament in a soft, serious tone. One day Mrs. Gray said : " I have a confession to make, Jenny. I was a little prejudiced against you, and thought I should n't care to renew our acquaint- ance. Somebody told me you was light-minded, and that you told Miss Crosby the heathen were just as likely to be saved as Christians. But you seem to put your trust in God, Jenny ; and it is a great comfort to me to hear you read and sing." " I have a confession to make, too," replied Mrs. May. " They told me you was a very stern and bigoted Orthodox ; and you know, when we were girls, Hatty, I never took much to folks that were too strict to brew a Saturday, for fear the beer would work a Sunday." ' Ah, we were giddy young things in those days," replied her friend, with much solemnity in her manner. " Well, Hatty dear, I 'm a sort of an old girl now," replied Mrs. May. "I am disposed to 2* C 34 THE FRIENDS. be merciful toward the short-comings of my fel- low-creatures, and I cannot believe our Heavenly Father will be less so. I remember Miss Cros- by talked to me about the heathen one day, and I thought she talked hard. I don't recollect what I said to her ; but after I arrived at years of reflection I came to some conclusions differ- ent from the views we were brought up in. You know my dear Frank was an invalid many years. He was always in the house, and we read to each other, and talked over what we read. In that way, I got the best part of the education I have after I was married. Amono- o other things he read to me some translations from what the Hindoos believe in as their Bible; and some of the writings of Rammolmn Roy ; and we both came to the conclusion that some who were called heathens might be nearer to God than many professing Christians. You know, Hatty, that Jesus walked and talked with his disciples, and their hearts were stirred, but they did n't know him. Now it seems to me that the spirit of Jesus may walk and talk with good pious Hindoos and Mahometans, and may stir their hearts, though they don't know him." O / " You may be right," rejoined the invalid. " God's ways are above our ways. It 's a pity friends should be set against one another on ac- count of what they believe, or don't believe. Pray for me, Jenny, and I will pray for you.'''' THE FRIENDS. 35 It was the latter part of October, when Mrs. May carried a garland of bright autumn leaves to pin up opposite her friend's bed. " It is beau- tiful," said the invalid ; " but the colors are not so brilliant as those you and I used to gather in Maine. O, how the woods glowed there, at. this season ! I wish I could see them again." Mrs. May smiled, and answered, " Perhaps you will, dear." Her friend looked in her face, with an earnest, questioning glance ; but she only said, " Sing our old favorite tune of St. Martin's, Jenny." She seated herself by the bedside and sang : " The Lord my shepherd is, I shall be well supplied; Since he is mine, and I am his, What can I want beside? " Perceiving that the invalid grew drowsy, she con- tinued to hum in a low, lulling tone. When she was fast asleep, she rose up, and, after gazing tenderly upon her, crept softly out of the room. She never looked in those old dim eves again. The next morning they told her the spirit had departed from its frail tenement. Some clothing and a few keepsakes were trans- mitted to Mrs. May soon after, in compliance with the expressed wish of her departed friend. Among them was the locket containing a braid of her own youthful hair. It was the very color of little Jenny's, only the glossy brown was a 36 THE FRIENDS. shade darker. She placed the two lockets side by side, and wiped the moisture from her spec- tacles as she gazed upon them. Then she wrapped them together, and wrote on them, with a trem- bling hand, " The hair of Grandmother and her old friend Hatty ; for my darling little Jenny." When Neighbor Harrington came in to ex- amine the articles that had been sent, the old lady said to her : " There is nobody left now to call me Jenny. But here is my precious little Jenny. She '11 never forsake her old granny ; will she, darling ? " The child snuggled fondly to her side, and stood on tiptoe to kiss the wrin- kled face, which was to her the dearest face in the whole world. She never did desert her good old friend. She declined marrying during Mrs. May's lifetime, and waited upon her tenderly to the last. Robin, who proved a bright scholar, went to the West to teach school, with the view of earning money to buy a farm, where grandmother should be the queen. He wrote her many loving letters, and sent portions of his earnings to her and Sissy ; but she departed this life before his earthly paradise was made ready for her. The last tune she sang was St. Martin's ; and the last words she spoke were : " How many blessings I have received ! Thank the Lord for all his mercies ! " THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER, WHO DIED AGED EIGHTY. O SOFTLY wave the silver hair From off that aged brow ! That crown of glory, worn so long, A fitting crown is now. Fold reverently the weary hands, That toiled so long and well ; And, while your tears of sorrow fall, Let sweet thanksgivings swell. That life-work, stretching o'er long years, A varied web has been ; With silver strands by sorrow wrought, And sunny gleams between. These silver hairs stole softly on, Like flakes of falling snow, That wrap the green earth lovingly, When autumn breezes blow. Each silver hair, each wrinkle there, Records some good deed done ; 38 THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER. Some flower she cast along the way, Some spark from love's bright sun. How bright she always made her home ! It seemed as if the floor Was always flecked with spots of sun, And barred with brightness o'er. The very falling of her step Made music as she went ; A loving song was on her lip, The song of full content. . And now, in later years, her word Has been a blessed thing In many a home, where glad she saw Her children's children spring. Her widowed life has happy been, With brightness born of heaven ; So pearl and gold in drapery fold The sunset couch at even. gently fold the weary hands That toiled so long and well ; The spirit rose to angel bands, When off earth's mantle fell. She 's safe within her Father's house, Where many mansions be ; pray that thus such rest may come, Dear heart, to thee and me ! ANONYMOUS. THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE. TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF ZSCHOKKfi'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. f'f RO~hl all I have narrated concerning my good and evil days, some may infer that I have been on the whole a favor- ite of fortune; that I may very well be philosophic, and maintain a rosy good-humor, since, with the exception of a few self-torments of the fancy, I have seldom or never experienced a misfortune. But indeed I have met with what men usually style great misfortunes, or evils, though I never so named them. Like every mortal, I have had my share of what is called human misery. The weight of a sudden load has sometimes, for a moment, staggered me and pressed me down, as is the case with others. But, with renewed buoy- ancy of spirit, I have soon risen again, and borne the burden allotted to me, without discontent. Nay, more than this, though some may shake their heads incredulously, it is a fact that worldly suffering has often not been disagreeable to me. 40 THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE. It has weaned me from placing my trust in tran- sitory things. It lias shown me the degree of strength and self-reliance I could retain, even at that period of life when the passions reign. I am fully convinced that there is no evil in the world but sin. Nothing but consciousness of guilt spins a dark thread, which reaches through the web of all our days, even unto the grave. God is not the author of calamity, but only man, by his weakness, his over-estimate of pompous vanities, and the selfish nurture of his appetites. He weeps like a child because he cannot have his own way, and even at seventy years of age is not yet a man. He bewails himself, because God does not mind him. Yet every outward misfortune is in truth as worthy a gift of God as outward success. In common with others, I have met with ingrat- itude from many ; but it did not disquiet me ; because what I had done for them was not done for thanks. Friends have deceived me, but it did not make me angry with them ; for I saw that I had only deceived myself with regard to them. I have endured misapprehension and persecution with composure, being aware of the unavoidable diversity of opinions, and of the passions thereby excited. I have borne the crosses of povertv with- out a murmur ; for experience had taught me that outward poverty often brings inward wealth. I have lost a moderate property, which I had ac- quired by toil, but such losses did not imbitter me THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE. 41 for a single day ; they only taught me to work and spare. I have been the happy father of happy children. Twelve sons and one daughter I have counted ; and I have had to sit, with a bleeding heart, at the death-bed of four of those sons. As they drew their last breath, I felt that divine sorrow which transforms the inner man. My spirit rested on the Father of the universe, and it was well with me. My dead ones were not parted from me. Those who remained behind drew the more closely to one another, while eager- ly looking toward those who had gone before them to other mansions of' the Great Father. It was our custom to think of the deceased as still living in the midst of us. We were wont to talk about their little adventures, their amusing sallies, and the noble traits of their characters. Every- thing noteworthy concerning them, as well as what related to the living members of the family, was recorded by the children in a chronicle they kept in the form of a newspaper, and was thus preserved from oblivion. Death is something fes- tal, great, like all the manifestations of God here below. The death of my children hallowed me ; it lifted me more and more out of the shows of earth, into the divine. It purified my thoughts and feelings. I wept, as a child of the dust must do ; but in spirit I was calm and cheerful, because I knew to whom I and mine belonged. At the beginning of old age, I could indeed 42 THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE. call myself a happy man. On my seventieth birthday, I felt as if I were standing on a moun- tain height, at whose foot the ocean of eternity was audibly rushing ; while behind me, life, with its deserts and flower-gardens, its sunny days and its stormy days, spread out green, wild, and beau- tiful. Formerly, when I read or heard of the joylessness of age, I was filled with sadness ; but I now wondered that it presented so much that was agreeable. The more the world diminished and grew dark, the less I felt the loss of it ; for the dawn of the next world grew ever clearer and clearer. Thus rejoicing in God, and with him, I ad- vance into the winter of life, beyond which no spring awaits me on this planet. The twilight of my existence on earth is shining round me ; but the world floats therein in a rosy light, more beautiful than the dawn of life. Others may look back with homesickness to the lost paradise of childhood. That paradise was never mine. I wandered about, an orphan, unloved, and for- saken of all but God. I thank him for this allotment ; for it taught me to build my paradise within. The solemn evening is at hand, and it is welcome. I repent not that I have lived. Others, in their autumn, can survey and count up their collected harvests. This I cannot. I have scattered seed, but whither the wind has carried it I know not. The good-will alone was THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE. 43 mine. God's hand decided concerning the suc- cess of my labor. Many an unproductive seed I have sown ; but I do not, on that account, complain either of myself or of Heaven. For- tune has lavished on me no golden treasures ; but contented with what my industry has acquired, and my economy has preserved, I enjoy that noble independence at which I have always aimed ; and out of the little I possess I have been some- times able to afford assist- ance to others who were less for- tunate. AN healthy old fellow, that is not a fool, is the happiest creature living. It is at that time of life only men enjoy their faculties with pleasure and satisfaction. It is then we have nothing to manage, as the phrase is ; we speak the downright truth ; and whether the rest of the world will give us the privilege, or not, we have so little to ask of them, that we can take it. STEELE. THE OLD MAN DREAMS BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. OFOR one hour of youthful joy ! Give back my twentieth spring ! I 'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy, Than reign a gray-beard king ! Off with the wrinkled spoils of age ! Away with learning's crown ! Tear out life's wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down ! One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of fame ! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and flame ! My listening angel heard the prayer, And, calmly smiling, said, " If I but touch thy silvered hair, Thy hasty wish hath sped. " But is there nothing in thy track To bid thee fondly stay, THE OLD MAN DREAMS. 45 While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day ? " Ah, truest soul of womankind ! Without thee, what were life ? One bliss I cannot leave behind : I '11 take my precious wife ! The angel took a sapphire pen And wrote in rainbow dew, " The man would be a boy again, And be a husband too ! " " And is there nothing yet unsaid, Before the change appears ? Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years ! " Why, yes ; for memory would recall My fond paternal joys ; I could not bear to leave them all : I '11 take my girl and boys ! The smiling angel dropped his pen, '' Why, this will never do ; The man would be a boy again, And be a father too ! " And so I laughed, my laughter woke The household with its noise, And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys. A RUSSIAN LADY OF THE OLD SCHOOL.* ^jf IVE me your hand, dear reader, and accompany me on a visit to one of my neighbors. The day is fine, the blue sky of the month of May is a beauti- ful object ; the smooth young leaves of the white hazel-trees are as brilliant as if they had been newly washed. The large, smooth fields are cov- ered with that fine young grass which the sheep love so much to crop ; on the right and left, on the long slopes of the hills, the rye-grass is wav- ing, and over its smooth swell glide the shadows of the little flying clouds. In the distance, the woods are resplendent with the brilliant light ; the ponds glitter, and the villages are bathed in yellow rays. Innumerable larks fly about, singing and beating their wings in unison ; making their ap- pearance first in one spot, then in another, they rise lightly from the fields, and again are as quick- * IYom Life in the Interior of Russia. A RUSSIAN LADY. 47 ly lost in them. The rooks station themselves on the highway, looking up fixedly at the sun ; they move aside to let you pass, or foolishly fly forward ten paces on the edge of the road. On the slopes beyond a ravine a laborer is at his plough, and a piebald foal, with its miserable little tail, dishev- elled mane, and long, frail legs, runs after its mother, and we may just hear its plaintive neigh. We enter a birch wood, and a fresh and strong odor fills the air ; we reach the gate of an enclo- sure ; the coachman descends, and, while the horses snort, and the right wheeler plays with his tail, and rubs his jaw against the pole, he opens the creaking gate, and, reseating himself, we roll on. A village now presents itself, and, after passing five or six farm-yards, we turn to the right, and descending rapidly, are soon driving along an em- bankment. Beyond a pond of moderate extent, and behind apple-trees and clustering lilacs, an old wooden house is now visible, painted red, and pos- sessing two chimneys. We drive along a paling on the left, and pass through' a large open carriage entrance, saluted by the huskv barkino-s of three / tJ O old worn-out dogs. My groom gallantly salutes an old housekeeper, who is peeping out of the pantry through a foot and a half window. We draw up before the door near the veranda of a gloomy little house. It is the abode of Tatiana Borissovna. But there she is herself, saluting us 48 A RUSSIAN LADY from the window. " Good morning, good morn- ing, Madame." Tatiana Borissovna is a woman of about fifty ; she has large bluish-gray eyes, slightly prominent, a nose inclined to flatness, cherry cheeks, and a double chin. Her face beams with sweetness and goodness. She once had a husband, but so long ago that no one has any recollection of it. She scarcely ever leaves her little property, keeps up but a slight connection with her neighbors, seldom invites them to her house, and likes none but young people. Her father was a poor gentleman, and she consequently received a very imperfect education ; in other words, she does not speak French, and has never seen even Moscow, not to speak of St. Petersburg. But, spite of these little defects, she manages all her affairs in her country life so simply and wisely ; she has so large a way of thinking, of feeling, and comprehending things ; she is so little accessible to the thousand weaknesses which are generally found in our good provincial ladies, poor things, that, in truth, one cannot help admiring her. Only consider that she lives all the year round within the pre- cincts of her own village and estate, quite isolated, and that she remains a stranger to all the tittle- tattle of the locality ; does not rail, slander, take offence, or choke and fret with curiosity ; that envy, jealousy, aversion, and restlessness of body and mind, are all unknown to her; only consider OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 49 this, and grant that she is a marvel. Every day after eleven o'clock she is dressed in a gown of iron-gray taffeta, and a white cap with long pure ribbons ; she likes to eat, and make others do the same ; but she eats moderately, and lets others fol- low her example. Preserves, fruits, pickled meats, are all intrusted to the housekeeper. With what, then, does she occupy herself, and how does she fill up her day ? She reads, perhaps, you will say. No, she does not read ; and, to speak the truth, people must think of others than Tatiana Borissovna when they print a book. In winter, if she is alone, our Tatiana Borissovna sits near a window, and quietly knits a stocking ; in summer she goes and comes in her garden, where she plants and waters flowers, picks the caterpillars from her shrubs, puts props under her bushes, and sprinkles sand over the garden paths ; then she can amuse herself for hours with the feathered race in her court-yard, with her kittens and pigeons, all of which she feeds herself. She occupies her- self very little with housekeeping. If, unexpect- edly, any good young neighbor chances to look in, she is then as happy as possible ; she establishes herself upon her divan, regales her visitor with tea, hears all he has to say, sometimes gives him little friendly pats on the cheek, laughs heartily at his sallies, and speaks little herself. Are you annoyed, or the victim of some misfortune ? She consoles you with the most sympathizing words, 3 i> 50 A RUSSIAN LADY. and opens up various means of relief, all full of good sense. How many there are, who, after confiding to her their family secrets and their private griefs, have found themselves so relieved by unburdening their minds, that they have bathed her hands with their tears. In general, she sits right before her guest, her head leaning lightly o o o o / on her left hand, looking in his face with so much kindly interest, smiling with such friendly good- nature, that one can scarcely keep himself from saying, " Ah ! what an excellent woman you are, Tatiana Borissovna. Come, I will conceal from you nothing that weighs upon my heart. " In her delightful, nice little rooms, one is so pleased with himself and every- body, that he is unwilling to leave them ; in this little heaven, the weather is always at "set fair." r THE happiness of life may be greatly increased by small courtesies in which there is no parade, whose voice is too still to tease, and which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks, and little kind acts of attention, giving others the pref- erence in every little enjoyment at the table, in the field, walking, sitting, or standing. STERNE. THE OLD MAN'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. OH, don't be sorrowful, darling ! Now don't be sorrowful, pray ! For, taking the year together, my dear, There is n't more night than day. 'T is rainy weather, my darling ; Time's waves they heavily run ; But, taking the year together, my dear, There is n't more cloud than sun. We are old folks now, my darling ; Our heads they are growing gray ; But, taking the year all round, my dear, You will always find the May. We Ve had our May, my darling, And our roses, long ago ; And the time of the year is coming, my dear, For the Ions, dark nijrhts and the snow. 52 THE OLD MAN'S SONG. But God is God, my darling, Of night, as well as of day ; And we feel and know that we can go Wherever He leads the way. Ay, God of the night, my darling ; Of the night of death so grim. The gate that from life leads out, good wife, Is the gate that leads to Him. ANONYMOUS. THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH. THE BIRTHDAY OF . Now be the hours that yet remain to thee Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love, That inextinguishably dwell within Thy heart, shall give d beauty and a light To the most desolate moments, like the glow Of a bright fireside in the wildest day ; And kindly words and offices of good Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on, Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates Of a more genial season, and thy path Be lost to human eye among the bowers And living fountains of a brighter land. WM. C. BRYANT. A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR GRANDFATHER. BY CHARLES DICKENS. NCE upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very long when he began it, and very short when he got half-way through. He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the child, " What do you here ? " And the child said, " Iain always at play. Come and play with me ! " So, he played with that child the whole day long, and they were very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovelv, and they heard such singing-birds, and saw so many butterflies, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it 54 A CHRISTMAS STORY rained, they loved to watch the falling drops and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from its home where was that, they wondered ! whistling and howl- ing, and driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury. But when it snowed, that was the best of all ; for they liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds ; and to see how smooth and deep the drift was, and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads. They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most astonishing picture-books, all about scimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and giants, and genii and fairies, and blue-beards and bean-stalks, and riches, and caverns and forests, and Valentines and Orsons : and all new and all true. But one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon his road, and went on for a little while without meeting any- thing, until at last he came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy, " What do you here ? " And the boy said, " I am always learning. Come and learn with me." So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and FOR GRANDFATHER. 55 Juno, and the Greeks and the Romans, and I don't know what, and learned more than I could tell, or he either ; for he soon forgot a great deal of it. But they were not always learning ; they had the merriest games that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter ; they were active afoot, and active on horseback ; at cricket, and all games at ball ; at prisoners' base, hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can think of; nobody could beat them. They had holidavs, too, and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced all night till midnight, and real theatres, where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at once. As to friends, they had such dear friends, and so many of them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young, like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another all their lives through. Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller lost the boy, as he had lost the child, and, after calling on him in vain, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. So, he said to the young man, "What do you here?" And the young man said, " I am always in love. Come and love with me." So, he went away with that young man, and 56 ^ CHRISTMAS STORY presently they came to one of the prettiest girls that ever was seen, just like Fanny in the corner there, and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny's, and she laughed and colored just as Fanny does while I am talking about her. So, the young man fell in love directly, just as Somebody I won't mention, the first time he came here, did with Fannv. Well ! He was teased sometimes, just as Some- body used to be by Fanny ; and they quarrelled sometimes, just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel ; and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every day, and never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for one another, and pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas time, and sat close to one another by the fire, and were going to be married very soon, all exactly like Somebody I won't mention and Fanny ! But the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his friends, and, after callincr to ' ' ~ them to come back, which they never did, went on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So, he said to the gentleman, "What are you doing here?" And his answer was, " I am always busy. Come and be busy with me ! " So, then he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they went on through the wood FOR GRANDFATHER. 57 together. The whole journey was through a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring ; and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer ; some of the little trees that had come out earliest were even turning brown. The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about the same age with him, who was his wife : and they had children, who were with them too. So, they all went on to- gether through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a path through the branches and the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working hard. Sometimes they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper woods. Then they would hear a very little distant voice crying, " Father, father, I am another child ! Stop for me ! " And presently they would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and kissed and welcomed it ; and then they all went on together. Sometimes they came to several avenues at once ; and then they all stood still, and one of the children said, " Father, I am going to sea " ; and another said, " Father, I am going to India " ; and another, " Father, I am going to seek my fortune where I can " : and another, " Father, I am o;oincr * ' * O O to heaven ! '' So, with many tears at parting, they went, solitary, down those avenues, each 3* " 58 A CHRISTMAS STORY child upon its way; and the child who went to heaven, rose into the golden air and vanished. Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where the day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He saw, too, that his hair was turning gray. But they never could rest long, for they had their jour- ney to perform, and it was necessary for them to be always busy. At last, there had been so many partings that there were no children left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady went upon their way in company. And now the wood was yellow ; and now brown ; and the leaves, even of the forest-trees, began to fall. So they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were pressing forward on their journey without looking down it, when the lady stopped. " My husband," said the lady, " I am called." They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue say, " Mother, mother ! " It was the voice of the first child who had said, " I am going to heaven ! " and the father said, " I pray not yet. The sunset is very near. I pray not yet." But the voice cried, " Mother, mother ! " with- out minding him, though his hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face. Then, the mother, who was already drawn into FOR GRANDFATHER. 59 the sb,ade of the dark avenue, and moving away with her arms still around his neck, kissed him and said, " My dearest, I am summoned, and I go ! " And she was gone. And the traveller and he O were left alone together. And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the end of the wood ; so near, that they could see the sunset shining red before them through the trees. Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the traveller lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no reply, and when he passed out of the wood and saw the peaceful sun going down upon a wide purple pros- pect, he came to an old man sitting upon a fallen tree. So, he said to the old man, " What do you here ? " And the old man said, with a calm smile, " I am always remembering. Come and remember with me." So, the traveller sat down by the side of the old man, face to face with the serene sunset ; and all his friends came softly back and stood around him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the young man in love, the father, mother, and children : every one of them was there, and he had lost nothing. So, he loved them all, and was kind and forbearing with them all, and was always pleased to watch them all, and they all honored and loved him. And I think the traveller must be yourself, dear grandfather, because it is what you do to us, and what we do to you. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. BY ROBERT BURNS. JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent * ; But now your head 's turned bald, John, Your locks are like the snow ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, ray jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty f day, John, We 've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we '11 go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. When thoughtful people sing these admirable verses, they are apt to long to hear of something beyond the foot of the hill. This want has been extremely well supplied by Mr. Charles Gould, of New York, in the following verse : * Smooth. t Merry. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 61 & John Anderson, my jo, John, When we have slept thegither The sleep that a' maun sleep, John, We '11 wake wi' ane anither : And in that better warld, John, Nae sorrow shall we know ; Nor fear we e'er shall part again, John Anderson, my jo. OLD FOLKS AT HOME. MORE pleasant seem their own surroundings, Though quaint and old, Than newer homes, with their aboundings Of marble, silk, and gold. For 't is the heart inspires home-feelings, In hut or hall, Where memory, with its fond revealings, Sheds a tender light o'er all. They love the wonted call to meeting, By their old bell ; They love the old familiar greeting From friends who know them well. Their homesick hearts are always yearning, When they 're away ; And ever is their memory turning To scenes where they used to stay. L. M. C. EVERLASTING YOUTH BY REV. EDMUND H. SEARS.* ;?LD age, in some of its aspects, is a most interesting and solemn mystery, though to the outward eye it is mere- ly the gradual waning and extinction of existence. All the faculties fold themselves up to a long, last sleep. First, the senses begin to close, and lock in the soul from the outward world. The hearing is generally the first to fail, shutting off the mind from the tones of affection and of melody. The sight fails next ; and the pictures of beauty, on the canvas spread round us morn- ing and evening, become blurred. The doors and windows are shut toward the street. The invasion keeps on steadily toward the seat of life. The images of the memory lose their outline, run together, and at last melt away into darkness. Now and then, by a special effort, rents are made in the clouds, and we see a vista opening through * From Foreglcams of Immortality. EVERLASTING YOUTH. 63 the green glades of other years. But the edges of the cloud soon close again. It settles down more densely than ever, and all the past is blotted out. Then the reason fails, and the truths it had elaborated flicker and are extinguished. Only the affections remain. Happy for us, if these also have not become soured or chilled. It is our be- lief, however, that these may be preserved in their primitive freshness and glow ; and that in the old age where the work of regeneration is consum- mating, the affections are always preserved bright and sweet, like roses of Eden, occupying a charmed spot in the midst of snows. In old age, men gen- erally seem to have grown either better or worse. The reason is, that the internal life is then more revealed, and its spontaneous workings are more fully manifested. The intellectual powers are no longer vigilant to control the expression of the in- ternal feelings, and so the heart is generally laid open. What we call the moroseness and peevish- ness of ao-e is none other than the real disposition, O 4. ' no longer hedged in, and kept in decency, by the intellect, but coming forth without disguise. So again, that beautiful simplicity and infantile meek- ness, sometimes apparent in old age, beaming forth, like the dawn of the coming heaven, through all the relics of natural decay, are the spontaneous effusions of sanctified affections. There is, there- fore, a good and a bad sense, in which we speak of the second childhood. Childhood is the state 64 EVERLASTING YOUTH. of spontaneity. In the first childhood, before the intellect is formed, the heart answers truly to all impressions from without ; as the ^Eolian harp answers to every touch of the breeze. In the second childhood, after the intellect is broken down, the same phenomenon comes round again ; and in it you read the history of all the interven- ing years. What those years have done for the regeneration of the soul will appear, now that its inmost state is translucent, no longer concealed by the expediencies learned of intellectual prudence. When the second childhood is true and genial, the work of regeneration approaches its consum- mation : and the lio;ht of heaven is reflected from * O silver hairs, as if one stood nearer to Paradise, and caught reflections of the resurrection glories. But alas ! is this all that is left of us, amid the memorials of natural decay ? Senses, memory, reason, all blotted out, in succession, and instinc- tive affection left alone to its spontaneous workings, like a solitary flower breathing its fragrance upon snows ? And how do we know but this, too, will close up its leaves, and fall before the touch of the invader ? Then the last remnant of the man is no more. Or, if otherwise, must so many souls enter upon their immortality denuded of everything but the heart's inmost and ruling love ? How specious and deceptive are natural appear- ances ! What seemed to the outward eye the wan- ing of existence, and the loss of faculties, is only EVERLASTING YOUTH. 65 locking them up successively, in order to keep them more secure. Old age, rather than death, answers strictly to the analogies of sleep. It is the gradual folding in and closing up of all the volun- tary powers, after they have become worn and tired, that they may wake again refreshed and renovated for the higher work that awaits them. The psychological evidence is pretty full and deci- sive, that old age is sleep, but not decay. The reason lives, though its eye is temporarily closed ; and some future day it will give a more perfect and pliant form to the affections. Memory re- mains, though its functions are suspended for a while. All its chambers may be exhumed here- after, and their frescoes, like those of the buried temples at Meroe, will be found preserved in un- fading colors. The whole record of our life is laid up within us ; and only the overlayings of the physical man prevent the record from being alwavs visible. The years leave their debris successivelv upon the spiritual nature, till it seems buried and lost beneath the layers. On the old man's memory every period seems to have obliterated a former one ; but the life which he has lived can no more be lost to him, or destroyed, than the rock-strata can be destroyed by being buried under layers of sand. In those hours when the bondage of the O senses is less firm, and the life within has freer motion ; or, in those hours of self-revelation, which are sometimes experienced under a clearer and 66 EVERLASTING YOUTH. more pervading light from above, the past with- draws its veil ; and we see, rank beyond rank, as along the rows of an expanding amphitheatre, the images of successive years, called out as by some wand of enchantment. There are abundant facts, which go to prove that the decline and forgetful- ness of years are nothing more than the hardening of the mere envelopment of the man, shutting in the inmost life, which merely waits the hour to break away from its bondage. De Quincey says : " I am assured that there is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind. A thousand circumstances may and will interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscriptions of the mind ; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains forever ; just as the stars seem to withdraw from the com- mon light of day ; whereas, we all know that it is the light which is drawn over them, as a veil, and that they are waiting to be revealed, when the obscuring daylight shall have withdrawn." The resurrection is the exact inverse of natural decay ; and the former is preparing ere the latter has ended. The affections, being the inmost life, ' O are the nucleus of the whole man. They are the creative and organific centre, whence are formed the reason and the memory, and thence their em- bodiment in the more outward form of members and organs. The whole interior mechanism is complete in the chrysalis, ere the wings, spotted EVERLASTING YOUTH. 67 with light, are fluttering in the zephyrs of morn- ing. St. Paul, who, in this connection, is speak- ing specially of the resurrection of the just, pre- sents three distinct points of contrast between the natural body and the spiritual. One is weak, the other is strong. One is corruptible, the other is incorruptible. One is without honor, the other is glorious. By saying that one is natural, and the other spiritual, he certainly implies that one is better adapted than the other to do the functions of spirit, and more perfectly to organize and man- ifest its powers. How clearly conceivable then is it that when man becomes free of the coverings of o mere natural decay, he comes into complete pos- session of all that he is, and all that he has ever lived ; that leaf after leaf in our whole book of life is opened backward, and all its words and letters come out in more vivid colors ! In the other life, therefore, appears the won- derful paradox that the oldest people are the youngest. To grow in age is to come into ever- lasting youth. To become old in years is to put on the freshness of perpetual prime. We drop from us the de- bris of the past, we breathe the ether of immortality, and our cheeks mantle with eternal bloom. LIFE. THE following lines were by Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld, an English writer of great merit, extensively known as the author of excellent Hymns, and Early Lessons for Children. She was bom in 1743, and lived to be nearly eighty-two years old. She employed the latter part of her life in editing a series of the best English novels and essays, accompanied with biographical sketches of the authors ; and compositions in prose and verse continued to be her favorite occupation to the last. LIFE ! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part ; And when, or how, or where we met, I own to me 's a secret yet. Life ! we have been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather. 'T is hard to part when friends are dear ; Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear. Then steal away ; give little warning ; Choose thine own time ; Say not Good Night ; but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning ! THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. BY L. MARIA CHILD. HERE was a traveller who set out, upon a new road, not knowing whith- er it would lead him, nor whence he came, for he had been conveyed thither blindfold, and the bandage had been removed in his sleep. When he woke up he found himself among alt sorts of pretty novelties, and he ran about hither and thither, eagerly asking, " What is this?" "What is that?" His activity was untiring. He tried to catch everything he saw, and hold it fast in his hand. But humming-birds c? whirred in his ears, and as soon as he tried to grasp them they soared up out of his reach, and left him gazing at their burnished throats glisten- ing in the sunshine. Daintily painted butterflies poised themselves on such lowly flowers, that he thought he had but to stoop and take them ; but they also floated away as soon as he approached. He walked through stately groves, where the 70 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. sunshine was waltzing with leaf-shadows, and he tried to pick up the airy little dancers. " They won't let me catch 'em ! " he exclaimed, petulantly. But on he hurried in pursuit of a squirrel, which ran nimbly away from him up into a tree, and there he sat on the high boughs, flourishing his pretty tail in the air. And so the traveller went along the wondrous road, always trying for some- thinf he could n't catch, not knowing that the O ' O pleasure was in the pursuit. As he went on, the path widened and grew more attractive. Birds of radiant colors flitted about, and filled the air with charming variations of melody. Trees threw down showers of blos- soms as he passed, and beneath his feet was a car- pet of emerald-colored velvet, embroidered with a profusion of golden stars. Better than all, troops of handsome young men and lovely maidens joined him, all put blindfolded into the road, and travel- ling they knew not whither. And now they all set out upon a race after something higher up than squirrels or butterflies could go. " Look there ! Look there ! See what is before us ! " they ex- claimed. And lo ! they all saw, away beyond, on hills of fleecy cloud, the most beautiful castles ! The walls were of pearl, and rainbow pennons waved from the gold-pointed turrets. " We will take possession of those beautiful castles ! That is where we are going to live ! " they shouted to each other ; and on they ran in pursuit of the THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 71 rainbows. But they often paused in the chase, to frolic together. They laughed, and sang merry songs, and pelted each other with flowers, and danced within a ring of roses. It was a beautiful sight to see their silky ringlets tossed about by the breeze, and shining in the sunlight. But the game they liked best was looking into each other's eyes. They said they could see a blind boy there, with a bow and arrow ; and always they were playing bo-peep with that blind boy, who was n't so blind as he seemed ; for whenever he aimed his arrow at one of them, he was almost sure to hit. But they said the arrow was wreathed with flowers, and carried honey on its point ; and there was nothing they liked quite so well as being shot at by the blind boy. Sometimes their sport was interrupted by some stern-looking traveller, who said to them, in solemn tones, " Why do you make such fools of your- selves ? Do you know whither this road leads ? " Then they looked at each other bewildered, and said they did not. " I have been on this road much longer than you have," he replied ; " and I think it is my duty to turn back sometimes and warn those who are coming after me. I tell you this road, where you go dancing so care- lessly, abounds with pitfalls, generally concealed by flowers ; and it ends in an awful, deep, dark hole. You are all running, like crazy fools, af- ter rainbow castles in the air. You will never 72 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. come up with them. They will vanish and leave nothing but a great black cloud. But what you have most to fear is a cruel giant, who is sure to meet you somewhere on the road. Nobody ever knows where ; for he is invisible. Whatever he touches with his dart turns first to marble and then to ashes. You ought to be thinking of him and his dreadful arrow, instead of the foolish archer that you call the blind boy. Instead of chattering about roses and rainbows, you ought to be thinking of the awful black pit at the end of the road." His words chilled the young men and maidens, like wind from a cavern. They looked at each other thoughtfully, and said, " Why does he try to spoil our sport with stones of pitfalls and invisi- ble giants ? We don't know where the pitfalls c? 1 are ; and if we go poking on the ground for them, how can we see the sunshine and the birds ? " Some of the more merry began to laugh at the solemn traveller, and soon they were all dancing again, or hurrying after the rainbow castles. They threw roses at each other by the way ; and often the little blind archer was in the heart of the roses, and played them mischievous tricks. They laughed merrily, and said to each other, " This is a beautiful 'road. It is a pity old Howlit don't know how to enjoy it." But as our traveller passed on his way, he found that the words of the lugubrious prophet THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 73 were sometimes verified. Now and then some of his companions danced into pitfalls covered with flowers. He himself slipped several times, but recovered his balance, and said it would teach him to walk more carefully. Others were bruised and faint in consequence of falls, and made no effort to rise up. In the kindness of his heart, he would not leave them thus ; but always he tried to cheer them, saying, " Up, and try again, my brother ! You won't make the same mistake again." Cheer- ful and courageous as he was, however, he saw the rainbow castles gradually fading from his vision ; but they did not leave a great black cloud, as the solemn traveller had foretold ; they melted into mild and steady sunlight. The young men and maidens, who had frolicked with him, went off in pairs, some into one bypath, some into another. Hand in hand with our traveller went a gentle O companion, named Mary, in whose eyes he had long been playing at bo-peep with the blind boy. When they talked of this, they said they could still see him in each other's eye-mirrors, but now he had put his arrows into the quiver, and was stringing pearls. Mary brought little children to her companion, and they were more charming than all the playthings of their former time. They gazed fondly into the eyes of the little strangers, and said, " We see angels in these azure depths, and they are lovelier than the blind boy ever was." They played no more with roses now, but 4 74 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. gathered ripe fruits, glowing like red and purple jewels, and planted grain which grew golden in the sunshine. Companions with whom they had parted by the way occasionally came into their path again, as they journeyed on. Their moods were various, according to their experiences. Some still talked joyfully of the ever- varying beau- ty of the road. Others sighed deeply, and said they had found nothing to console them for withered roses, and rainbows vanished. Some- times, when inquiries were made about former acquaintances, the answer was that the invisible giant had touched them, and they had changed to marble. Then a shadow seemed to darken the pleasant road, and they spoke to each other in low tones. Some of those who sighed over withered roses, told of frightful things done by this invisible giant, and of horrid places whither they had heard he conveyed his victims. To children who were chasing butterflies, and to young men and maidens who were twining rose-wreaths, they said, " You ought not to be wasting your time with such friv- olous pastimes ; you ought to be thinking of the awful invisible one, who is near us when we least think of it." They spoke in lugubrious tones, as the solemn traveller had aforetime spoken to them. But our traveller, who was cheerful of heart, said : " It is not kind to throw a shadow across their sunshine. Let them enjoy themselves." And his Mary asked whether HE who made the beautiful THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 75 road had wasted time when HE made the roses and the butterflies ? And why had HE made them, if they were not to be enjoyed ? But clouds sometimes came over this sunshine of their souls. One of the little cherub boys whom Mary had brought to her companion re- ceived the invisible touch, and became as marble. Then a shadow fell across their path, and went with them as they walked. They pressed each other's hands in silence, but the thought was ever in their hearts, " Whom will he touch next ? " The little cherub was not in the marble form ; he was still with them, though they knew it not. Gradually their pain was softened, and they found comfort in remembering his winning ways. Mary said to her companion : " As we have travelled along this mysterious road, the scenery has been continually changing, even as we have changed. But one form of beauty has melted into another, so gently, so imperceptibly, that we have been unconscious of the change, until it had passed. Where all is so full of blessing, dearest, it cannot be that this invisible touch is an exception." The traveller sighed, and merely answered, " It is a great mystery " ; but her words fell on his heart like summer dew on thirsty flowers. They thought of the cherub boy, who had disappeared from their vision, and the tears dropped slowly ; but as they fell, a ray of light. from heaven kissed them and illumined them with rainbows. They 76 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. clasped each other's hands more closely, and trav- elled on. Sometimes they smiled at each other, as they looked on their remaining little ones, running hither and thither chasing the bright but- terflies. And Mary, who was filled with gentle wisdom, said, " The butterfly was once a crawling worm ; but when it became stiff and cold, there emerged from it this winge'd creature, clothed with beauty." He pressed her hand tenderly ; for again her soothing words fell upon his heart like dew on thirsty flowers. Thus lovingly they passed on together, and many a blessing followed them ; for whenever a traveller came along who was burdened and weary, they cheered him with hopeful words and helped to carry his load ; and ever as they did so a softer light shone upon the landscape^ and bathed all things with a luminous glory. And still the scene was changing, ever changing. The glowing fruit had disappeared, and the golden grain was gath- ered. But now the forest-trees were all aglow, and looked like great pyramids of gorgeous flow- ers. The fallen foliage of the pines formed a soft carpet under their feet, ornamented with the shad- ed brown of cones and acorns, and sprinkled with gold-tinted leaves from the trees. As they looked on the mellowed beauty of the scenery, Mary said : u The Being who fashioned us, and created this marvellous road for us to travel in, must be wondrously wise and loving. How THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 11 gradually and gently all things grow, and pass through magical changes. When we had had enough of chasing butterflies, the roses came to bind us together in fragrant wreaths. When the roses withered, the grain-fields waved beautifully in the wind, and purple and yellow grapes hung from the vines, like great clusters of jewels. And now, when, fruit and grain are gathei'ed, the forests are gorgeous in the sunlight, like immense beds of tulips. A friendly ' Good morning ' to something new, mingles ever with the ' Good night, beloved,' to something that is passing away. Surely, dear- est, this road, so full of magical transformations, must lead us to something more beautiful than itself." The traveller uncovered his head, raised his eyes reverently toward heaven, and said : " It is a great mystery. O Father, give us faith ! " Before the glowing tints departed from the trees, Mary's cheek grew pale, and the light of her eyes began to fade. Then the traveller shuddered and shivered ; for a great shadow came between him and the sunshine ; he felt the approach of the in- visible. More and more closely he pressed the beloved companion, to warm her with his heart. But her mild eyes closed, and the graceful form became as marble. No more could he look into those serene depths, where he had first seen the blind boy shooting his arrows, afterward stringing pearls, and then as an angel twining amaranthine crowns. In the anguish of his desolation, he 78 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. groaned aloud, and exclaimed : " O thou Dread Destroyer ! take me, too ! I cannot live alone ! I cannot ! " A gentle voice whispered, " Thou art not alone, dearest. I am still with thee ! " but in the tumult of his grief he heard it not. The children Mary had given him twined their soft v ~ arms about his neck, and said : " Do not leave us alone ! We cannot find our way, without thee to guide us." For their sakes, he stifled his groans, and knelt down and prayed, " O Father, give me strength and faith ! " Patiently he travelled on, leading the children. By degrees they joined themselves to companions, and went off in pairs into new paths, as he and his Mary had done. The scenery around him grew more dreary. The black branches of the trees stood in gloomy relief against a cold gray sky. The beautiful fields of grain ripening in the sun- shine had changed to dry stubble fluttering mourn- fully in the wind. But Nature, loath to part with Beauty, still wore a few red berries, as a necklace among her rags, and trimmed her scanty garments with evergreen. But the wonderful transforma- tions had not ceased. The fluttering brown rags suddenly changed to the softest ermine robe, flash- ing with diamonds, and surmounted by a resplen- dent silver crown. The magical change reminded our traveller that his lost companion had said, " Surely a road so full of beautiful changes must lead to something more beautiful than itself." Again he knelt in reverence, and said, " All THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 79 things around me are miraculous. O Father, O ' give me faith ! " The road descended into a deep valley, ever more narrow and dark. The nights grew longer. The ground was rugged and frozen, and the rough places hurt the pilgrim's stiff and weary feet. But when he was joined by pilgrims more exhausted than himself, he spoke to them in words of good cheer, and tried to help them over the rough places. The sunshine was no longer warm and golden, hut its silvery light was still beautiful, and through the leafless boughs of the trees the moon and the stars looked down serenely on him. The children whom he had guided sometimes came and sang sweetly to him ; and sometimes, when he was listening in the stillness, he seemed to hear myste- rious echoes within himself, as if from a musical chime of bells on the other side of a river. The shudderino-s and shiverino-s he had felt in o o presence of the cold shadow became more frequent ; and he said to himself, " The Dread Destroyer is approaching more and more near." With trem- bling hands he uncovered his snow-white head, and looking upward, he said, " It is a fearful mystery. O Father, give me faith ! " Praying thus, he sank on the cold ground, and sleepiness came over him. He felt something gently raising him, and slowly opening his eyes, he said, " Who art thou ? " The stranger answered, " I am that Dread Destroyer, whose shadow always made thee shudder." 80 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. " Thou ! " exclaimed the tired pilgrim, in tones of joyful 1 surprise ; u why tliou art an angel ! " " Yes, I am an angel," he replied ; " and none but I can lead thee to thy loved ones. Thy Heavenly Father has sent me to take thee home." Gratefully the weary one sank into the arms of the giant he had so much dreaded. " All things are ordered in love," he said. " Thy touch is friendly, and thy voice like music." They passed a narrow bridge over a dark river. On the other side was a flowery arch, bearing the motto, "The Gate of Life." Within it stood Mary and her cherub-boy, shining in transfigured lio-ht. The child stretched out his hands for an C5 embrace, and Mary's welcoming smile was more beautiful than it had ever been in the happy old time of roses and rainbows. " This is only one more of the magical transformations, my beloved," she said. " It is as I told thee. The beautiful, mysterious road leads to something far more beau- tiful than itself. Come and see ! " With tender joy he kissed her and the angel child. There was a sound of harps and voices above him, singing, " The shadow has departed ! " And a cheerful re- sponse came from well-remembered voices he had left behind him on the road : " We are coming ! We are coming ! " Through all the chambers of his soul went ringing the triumphant chorus, u The shadow has departed ! " with the cheerful response, " We are coming ! We are coming ! " THE HAPPIEST TIME BY ELIZA COOK. AN old man sat in his chimney-seat, As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet ; And he watched the Spring light as it came With wider ray on his window frame. He looked right on to the Eastern sky, But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh, And those who heard it wondered much What Spirit hand made him feel its touch. For the old man was not one of the fair And sensitive plants in earth's parterre ; His heart was among the senseless things, That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee's wings ; It bore no film of delicate pride, No dew of emotion gathered inside ; O, that old man's heart was of hardy kind, That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind. He had lived in the world as millions live, Ever more ready to take than give ; 4* F 82 THE HAPPIEST TIME. He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed, And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed ; He had driven his bargains and counted his gold, Till upwards of threescore years were told ; And his keen blue eye held nothing to show That feeling had ever been busy below. The old man sighed again, and hid His keen blue eye beneath its lid ; And his wrinkled forehead, bending down, "Was knitting itself in a painful frown. " I 've been looking back," the old man said, On every spot where my path has laid, Over every year my brain can trace, To find the happiest time and place." ' And where and when," cried one by his side, '* Have you found the brightest wave in your tide ? Come tell me freely, and let me learn, How the spark was struck that yet can burn. Was it when you stood in stalwart strength, With the blood of youth, and felt that at length Your stout right arm could win its bread ? " The old man quietly shook his head. " Then it must have been when love had come, With a faithful bride to glad your home ; Or when the first-born cooed and smiled, And your bosom cradled its own sweet child ; Or was it when that first-born joy, Grew up to your hope, a brave, strong boy, And promised to fill the world in your stead ? " The old man quietly shook his head. THE HAPPIEST TIME. 83 " Say, was it then when fortune brought The round sum you had frugally sought ? Was the year the happiest that beheld The vision of poverty all dispelled ? Or was it when you still had more, And found you could boast a goodly store With labor finished and plenty spread ? " The old man quietly shook his head. " Ah, no ! ah, no ! it was longer ago," The old man muttered, sadly and low ! " It was when I took my lonely way To the lonely woods in the month of May. When the Spring light fell as it falleth now, With the bloom on the sod and the leaf on the bough ; When I tossed up my cap at the nest in the tree ; 0, that was the happiest time for me. " When I used to leap and laugh and shout, Though I never knew what my joy was about ; And something seemed to warm my breast, As I sat on a mossy bank to rest. That was the time ; when I used to roll On the blue-bells that covered the upland knoll, And I never could tell why the thought should be, But I fancied the flowers talked to me. " Well I remember climbing to reach A squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech ; Well I remember the lilies so sweet, That I toiled with back to the city street ; Yes, tliat was the time, the happiest time, When I went to the woods in their May-day prime." 84 THE HAPPIEST TIME. And the old man breathed with a longer sigh, And the lid fell closer over his eye. O, who would have thought this hard old man Had room in his heart for such rainbow span ? Who would have deemed that wild copse flowers Were tenderly haunting his latest hours ? But what did the old man's spirit tell, In confessing it loved the woods so well ? What do we learn from the old man's sigh, But that Nature and Poetry cannot die ? ODE OF ANACREON. TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK. THE women tell me, every day, That all my bloom has passed away. " Behold ! " the lively lasses cry, Behold this mirror with a sigh ! Old wintry Time has shed his snows, And bald and bare your forehead shows; I will not either think or care Whether old Time has thinned my hair ; But this I know and this I feel, As years advancing on me steal, And ever bring the end more near, The joys of life become more dear ; And had I but one hour to live, That hour to cheerfulness I 'd erive. CICERO'S ESSAY ON OLD AGE. THE following extracts are from a discourse " De Senectute," by Cicero, the world-renowned Roman orator, who was born one hundred and six years before Christ. - He is one among many pleasant proofs that God never leaves himself without a witness in the hearts of men, in any age or country. Cicero says : " I have represented these reflections as delivered by the venerable Cato ; but in delivering his sentiments, I desire to be understood as fully declaring my own." HOSE who have no internal resources ' of happiness will find themselves un- easy in every stage of human life; but to him who is accustomed to derive happiness from within himself, no state will appear as a real evil into which he is conducted by the common and regular course of Nature ; and this is peculiarly the case with respect to old age. I follow Nature, as the surest guide, and resign myself with implicit obedience to her sacred ordi- nances. After having wisely distributed peculiar and proper enjoyments to all the preceding periods of life, it cannot be supposed that she would neg- 86 ESSAY ON OLD AGE. lect the last, and leave it destitute of suitable advantages. After a certain point of maturity is attained, marks of decay must necessarily ap- pear ; but to this unavoidable condition of his present being every wise and good man will sub- mit with contented and cheerful acquiescence. Nothing can be more void of foundation than the assertion that old age necessarily disquali- fies a man for taking part in the great affairs of the world. If an old man cannot perform in busi- ness a part which requires the bodily strength and energy of more vigorous years, he can act in a nobler and more important character. Moment- ous affairs of state are not conducted by corporeal strength and activity ; they require cool delibera- tion, prudent counsel, and authoritative influence ; qualifications which are strengthened and improved by increase of years. Few among mankind arrive at old age ; and this suggests a reason why the affairs of the world are not better conducted ; for age brings experience, discretion, and judgment, without which no well-formed government could have been established, or can be maintained. Ap- pius Claudius was not only old but blind, when he remonstrated in the Senate, with so much force and spirit, against concluding a peace with Pyr- rhus. The celebrated General Quintus Maximus led our troops to battle in his old age, with as much spirit as if he had been in the prime and vigor of life. It was by his advice and eloquence, ESSAY ON OLD AGE. 87 when he was extremely old, that the Cincian law concerning donatives was enacted. And it was not merely in the conspicuous paths of the world that this excellent man was truly great. He ap- peai'ed still greater in the private and domestic scenes of life. There was a dignity in his deport- ment, tempered with singular politeness and affa- bility ; and time wrought no alteration in his amiable qualities. How pleasing and instructive was his conversation ! How profound his knowl- edge of antiquity and the laws ! His memory was so retentive, that there was no event of any note, connected with our public affairs, with which he was not well acquainted. I eagerly embraced every opportunity to enjoy his society, feeling that after his death I should never again meet with so wise and improving a companion. But it is not necessary to be a hero or a states- man, in order to lead an easy and agreeable old age. That season of life may prove equally serene and pleasant to him who has passed his days in the retired paths of learning. It is urged that old age impairs the memory. It may have that effect on those in whom memory was originally infirm, or who have not preserved its native vigor by exer- cising it properly. But the faculties of the mind will preserve their power in old age, unless they are suffered to become languid for want of due cultivation. Caius Gallus employed himself to the very last moments of his long life in measuring the 88 ESSAY ON OLD AGE. distances of the heavenly orbs, and determining the dimensions of this our earth. How often has the sun risen on his astronomical calculations ! How frequently has night overtaken him in the same elevated studies ! With what delight did c5 he amuse himself in predicting to us, long before they happened, the several lunar and solar eclipses ! Other ingenious applications of the mind there are, though of a lighter nature, which may greatly contribute to enliven and amuse the decline of life. Thus Nocvius, in composing his poem on the Car- thaginian war, and Plautus in writing his two last comedies, filled up the leisure of their latter days with wonderful complacency and satisfaction. I can affirm the same of our dramatic poet Livius, whom I remember to have seen in his old age ; O * and let me not forget Marcus Cethegus, justly styled the soul of eloquence, whom I likewise saw in his old age exercising even his oratorical talents with uncommon force and vivacity. All these old men I saw pursuing their respective studies with the utmost ardor and alacrity. Solon, in one of his poems, written when he was advanced in years, glories that he learned something every day he lived. Plato occupied himself with philo- sophical studies, till they were interrupted by death at eighty-one years of age. Isocrates com- posed his famous discourse when he was ninety- four years old, and he lived five years afterward. Sophocles continued to write tragedies when he ESSAY ON OLD AGE. 89 was extremely old. Gray hair proved no obstacle to the philosophic pursuits of Pythagoras, Zeno, Cleanthes, or the venerable Diogenes. These eminent persons persevered in their studies with undiminished earnestness to the last moment of their extended lives. Leontinus Gorgias, who lived to be one hundred and seven years old, pur- sued his studies with unremitting assiduity to the last. When asked if he did not wish to rid him- self of the burden of such prolonged years, he replied, " I find no reason to complain of old age." The statement that age impairs our strength is not without foundation. But, after all, imbecility of body is more frequently caused by youthful irregularities than by the natui'al and unavoidable consequences of long life. By temperance and exercise, a man may secure to his old age no inconsiderable degree of his former spirit and activity. The venerable Lucius Metellus pre- served such a florid old age to his last moments, as to have no reason to lament the depredations of time. If it must be acknowledged that time in- evitably undermines physical strength, it is equally true that great bodily vigor is not required in the decline of life. A moderate degree of force is sufficient for all rational purposes. I no more regret the absence of youthful vigor, than when young I lamented because I was not endowed with the strength of a bull or an elephant. Old age has, at least, sufficient strength remaining to train 90 ESSAY ON OLD AGE. the rising generation, and instruct them in the duties to which they may hereafter be called ; and certainly there cannot be a more important or a more honorable occupation. There is satisfaction in communicating every kind of useful knowledge ; and it must render a man happy to employ the faculties of his mind to so noble and beneficial a purpose, how much soever time may have impaired his bodily powers. Men of good sense, in the evening of life, are generally fond of associating with the younger part of the world, and, when they discover amiable qualities in them, they find it an alleviation of their infirmities to gain their affection and esteem ; and well-inclined young men think themselves equally happy to be guided into the paths of knowledge and virtue by the in- structions of experienced elders. I love to see the fire of youth somewhat tempered by the sobriety of age, and it is also pleasant to see the gravity of age enlivened by the vivacity of youth. Whoever combines these two qualities in his character will never exhibit traces of senility in his mind, though his body may bear the marks of years. As for the natural and necessary inconveniences attendant upon length of years, we ought to coun- teract their progress by constant and resolute opposition. The infirmities of age should be re- sisted like the approaches of disease. To this end we should use regular and moderate exercise, and merely eat and drink as much as is necessary to ESSAY ON OLD AGE. 91 repair our strength, without oppressing the organs of digestion . And the intellectual faculties, as O * well as the physical, should be carefully assisted. Mind and body thrive equally by suitable exercise of their powers ; with this difference, however, that bodily exertion ends in fatigue, whereas the mind is never wearied by its activity. Another charge against old age is that it de- prives us of sensual gratifications. Happy effect, indeed, to be delivered from those snares which allure youth into some of the worst vices ! " Rea- son, " said Archytas, " is the 'noblest gift which God or Nature has bestowed on men. Now nothing is so great an enemy to that divine en- dowment as the pleasures of sense ; for neither temperance, nor any of the more exalted virtues, can find a place in that breast which is under the dominion of voluptuous passions. Imagine to yourself a man in the actual enjoyment of the highest gratifications mere animal nature is capable of receiving ; there can be no doubt that during his continuance in that state it would be utterly impossible for him to exert any one power of his rational faculties." The inference I draw from this is, that if the principles of reason and virtue have not proved sufficient to inspire us with proper contempt for mere sensual pleasures, we have cause to feel grateful to old age for at least weaning us from appetites it would ill become us to gratify ; for voluptuous passions are utter en- 92 ESSAY ON OLD AGE. emies to all the nobler faculties of the soul ; they hold no communion with the manly virtues ; and they cast a mist before the eye of reason. The little relish which old age leaves us for enjoy- ments merely sensual, instead of being a disparage- ment to that period of life, considerably enhances its value. If age renders us incapable of taking an equal share in the flowing cups and luxurious dishes of wealthy tables, it thereby secures us from painful indigestion, restless nights, and dis- ordered reason. But though his years will guard an old man from excess, they by no means exclude him from enjoying convivial gratifications in a moderate degree. I always took singular satisfaction in the anniversaries of those little societies called Con- fraternities. But the gratification I received from their entertainments arose much less from the pleasures of the palate than from the opportuni- ties they afforded for enjoying the company and conversation of friends. I derive so much pluas- iire from hours devoted to cheerful discourse, that I love to prolong my meals, not only when the company is composed of men of mv own years, few of whom indeed are now remaining;, but also O' when it chiefly consists of young persons. And I acknowledge my obligations to old age for having increased my passion for the pleasures of conver- sation, while it has abated it for those which depend solely on the palate ; though I do not find ESSAY OX OLD AGE. 93 myself disqualified for that species of gratification, also. The advantages of age are inestimable, if we .consider it as delivering us from the tyranny of lust and ambition, from angry and contentious passions, from inordinate and irrational desires ; in a word, as teaching us to retire within ourselves, and look for happiness in our own souls. If to these moral benefits, which naturally result from length of davs, be added the sweet food of the o ~ 7 mind, gathered in the fields of science, I know of no season of life that is passed more agreeably than the learned leisure of a virtuous old age. Can the luxuries of the table, or the amusements of the theatre, supply their votaries with enjoyments worthy to be compared with the calm delights of intellectual employments ? And, in minds rightly formed and properly cultivated, these exalted de- lights never fail to improve and gather strength with years. From the pleasures which attend a studious old age, let us turn to those derived from rural occupa- tions, of which I am a warm admirer. Pleasures of this class are perfectly consistent with every degree of advanced years, as they approach more nearly than any others to those of a purely philo- sophical kind. They are derived from observing the nature and properties of our earth, which yields ready obedience to the cultivator's industry, and returns, with interest, whatever he places in her 94 ESSAY ON OLD AGE. charge. But the profit arising from this fertility is by no means the most desirable circumstance of the farmer's labors. I am principally delighted with observing the powers of Nature, and tracing her processes in vegetable productions. How wonder- ful it is that each species is endowed with power to continue itself; and that minute seeds should de- velop so amazingly into large trunks and branches ! The orchard, the vegetable garden, and the par- terre diversify the pleasures cf farming ; not to mention the feeding of cattle and the rearing of bees. . Among my friends and neighbors in the country are several men far advanced in life, who employ themselves with so much activity and in- dustry in agricultural business, that nothing impor- tant is carried on without their supervision. And these rural veterans do not confine their energies to those sorts of crops which are sown and reaped in one year. They occupy themselves in branches of husbandry from which they know they cannot live to derive any advantage. If asked why they thus expend their labor, they might well reply : " We do it in obedience to the immortal gods. By their bountiful providence we received these fields from our ancestors, and it is their will that we should transmit them to posterity with improve- ments." In my opinion there is no happier occu- pation than agriculture ; not only on account of its oreat utilitv to mankind, but also as the source O */ of peculiar pleasures. I might expatiate on the ESSAY ON OLD AGE. 95 beauties of verdant groves and meadows, on the charming landscape of olive-trees and vineyards ; but to say all in one word, there cannot be a more pleasing, or a more profitable scene than that of a well-cultivated farm. And where else can a man in the last stages of life more easily find warm sunshine, or a good fire in winter, or the pleasure of cooling shades and refreshing streams in summer ? It is often argued that old age must necessarily be a state of much anxiety and disquietude, on account of the near approach of death. That the hour of dissolution cannot be far distant from an aged man is undoubtedly true. But every event that is agreeable to the course of nature ought to be regarded as a real good ; and surely nothing can be more natural than for the old to die. It is true that youth also is exposed to dissolution ; but it is a dissolution obviously contrary to Nature's intentions, and in opposition to her strongest efforts. Fruit, before it is ripe, cannot be sepa- rated from the stalk without some degree of force ; but when it is perfectly mature, it drops of itself: so the disunion of the soul and body is effected in the young by violence, but in the old it takes place by mere fulness and completion of years. This ripeness for death I perceive in myself with much satisfaction ; and I look forward to my dissolution as to a secure haven, where I shall at length find a happy repose from the fatigues of a long voyage. 96 ESSAY ON OLD AGE. With regard to the consequences of our final dissolution, I will venture to say that the nearer death approaches the more clearly do I seem to discern irs real nature. When I consider the faculties with which the human mind is endowed, its amazing celerity, its wonderful power in recol- lecting past events, and its sagacity in discerning the future, together with its numberless discover- ies in arts and sciences, I feel a conscious convic- tion that this active, comprehensive principle can- not possibly be of a mortal nature. And as this unceasing activity of the soul derives its energy from its own intrinsic and essential powers, with- out receiving it from any foreign or external im- pulse, it necessarily follows that its activity must continue forever. I am induced to embrace this opinion, not only as agreeable to the best deduc- tions of reason, but also in deference to the authority of the noblest and most distinguished philosophers. I am well convinced that my dear departed friends are so far from havino- ceased to live, that ~ 7 the state they now enjoy can alone with propriety be called life. I feel myself transported with im- patience to rejoin those whose characters I have greatly respected and whose persons I have loved. Nor is this earnest desire confined alone to those excellent persons with whom I have been connect- ed. I ardently wish also to visit those celebrated worthies of whom I have heard or read much. To ESSAY ON OLD AGE. 97 this glorious assembly I am speedily advancing ; and I would not be turned back on my journey, even on the assured condition that my youth should be again restored. The sincere truth is, if some divinity would confer on me a new grant of life, I would reject the offer without the least hesitation. I have wellnigh finished the race, and have no disposition to return to the starting- point. I do not mean to imitate those philoso- phers who represent the condition of human nature as a subject of just lamentation. The satisfactions of this life are many ; but there comes a time when we have had a sufficient measure of its enjoyments, and may well depart contented with our share of the feast. I am far from regretting that this life was bestowed on me ; and I have the satisfaction of thinking that I have employed it in such a manner as not to have lived in vain. In short, I consider this world as a place which Nature never in- tended for my permanent abode ; and I look on my departure from it, not as being driven from my habitation, but simply as leaving an inn. THE FOUNTAIN. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. WE talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two. A village schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering gray ; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass And by the steaming rills, We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills. We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat ; And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet. THE FOUNTAIN. 99 " Now, Matthew," said I, " let us match This water's, pleasant tune With some old Border-Song, or Catch, That suite a summer's noon. " Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made." In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree ; And thus the dear old man replied, The gray -haired man of glee : " Down to the vale this water steers ; How merrily it goes ! 'T will murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. " And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink. ' ; My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. " Thus fares it still in our decay ; And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes awav, Than what it leaves behind. 100 THE FOUNTAIN. " The blackbird in the summer trees, The lark upon the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. '" With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife ; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free. " But we are pressed by heavy laws ; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. ' If there is one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth. " My days, my friend, are almost gone ; My life has been approved, And many love me ; but by none Am I enough beloved." " Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains ! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains ; " And, Matthew, for thy children dead, I '11 be a son to thee ! " At this, he grasped my hand, and said, " Alas ! that cannot be ! " THE FOUNTAIN. 1Q1 We rose up from the fountain-side ; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide, And through the wood we went. i And ere we came to Leonard's Rock, He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church-clock, And the bewildered chimes. A POET'S BLESSING. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. As I wandered the fields along, Listening to the lark's sweet song, I saw an old man working there, A laborer with hoary hair. " Blessings upon this field ! " I said ; " Fruitful by faithful labor made. And blessings on thy wrinkled hand, Thus scattering seed along the land ! " He answered me, with earnest face, "A poet's blessing 's out of place ; Likely enough that Heaven, in scorn. Will send us flowers instead of corn." " Nay, friend," said I, " my tuneful powers Wake not to life too many flowers ; Only enough to grace the land, And fill thy little grandson's hand." BERNARD PALISSY.* ( Call him not old, whose visionary brain Holds o'er the past its undivided reign. For him in vain the envious seasons roll, Who bears eternal summer in his soul. If yet the minstrel's song, the poet's lay, Spring with her birds, or children with their play, Or maiden's smile, or heavenly dream of Art, Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart, Turn to the record where his years are told, Count his gray hairs, they cannot make him old ! " , ERNARD PALISSY was born in one of the southwestern districts of France, in 1509 ; more than three hundred and fifty years ago, and more than a cen- tury before our forefathers landed on Plymouth Rock. The art of making colored glass, and of painting on glass, had been for centuries in great requisition, for the windows of castles and cathe- drals. It was considered an occupation so honor- able, that poor nobles sometimes resorted to it witk- * These facts are gleaned from Moiiey's Life of Palissy the Potter. BERNARD PALISSY. 103 out losing caste ; though the prejudices concerning rank were at that time very strong. The manu- facture was generally carried on in the depths of forests, partly for the convenience of gathering fuel for the furnaces, and partly to avoid the danger of fire in towns. Around these manufactories the workmen erected their cabins, and night and day the red flames of the furnaces lighted up trees and shrubbery with a lurid glow. It is supposed that Bernard was born and reared in one of these ham- lets, secluded from the world. The immense for- ests furnished a vast amount of chestnuts, which constituted the principal food of the peasantry. Constant labor in the open air, combined with this extreme simplicity of diet, formed healthy, vigor- ous men, free-hearted, simple, and brave. Whether Bernard's father, who is supposed to have been a modeller of glass, was a decayed gentleman, or simply a peasant, is not known. Bernard, by some means, learned to read and write, which was not an ordinary accomplishment at that period. He also had a great talent for drawing, which he improved, either by practice or instruction. In other respects his education was simply that of the peasantry around him. In his own account of his earlv days he says, " I had no other books than heaven and earth, which are open to all." These volumes, however, he studied with lively interest and the closest observation. He took notice of the growth of plants and the habits of animals. O J- 104 BERNARD PALISS7. He soon began to paint on paper the likenesses of birds, lizards, and trees. As his skill increased, he made portraits of his mother and the neighbors, and landscapes containing the houses they lived in. The preparation of colors for glass early awakened an interest in chemical combinations ; but there were then no books on the subject, and he could only increase his stock of knowledge by / o / repeated experiments. His skill in drawing en- abled him to produce a variety of new patterns for glass-work, and this, combined with his knowl- edge of colors, rendered his services much more important than those of a common workman. But the once profitable business was now in its decline. People began to find out that the exclusion of sunshine was unwholesome, and that the obstruc- tion of light rendered their dwellings gloomy. Moreover, windows in those days, being opened on hinges, were much more exposed to be shat- tered by storms. To repair stained or painted glass was an expensive process ; and in order to avoid the frequent necessity of it, people fastened their windows into the wall, so that they could not be opened. This excluded air, as well as light and sun-warmth ; and gradually colored windows fell into disuse. Bernard's father was poor, and the profits of his business were too scanty to yield a comfortable support for his family. Therefore, the young man, when he was eighteen years old, strapped BERNARD PALISSY. 105 a scantily filled wallet upon his shoulders, and marched forth into the world to seek his fortune. Francis I. and Charles V. were then devastating half Europe by their Avars, and the highways were filled with military adventurers and crip- pled soldiers. From these the young traveller 1. / O obtained his first glimpses of the violence and in- trigues going on in the world beyond his native forests. He was also overtaken by a travelling cloth-mer- chant, who told him of many new things. In order to dignify his own calling, he enumerated many great men who had been employed in trade. Among others, he mentioned a renowned Athe- nian, called " the divine Plato," by reason of the excellence of his wisdom, who had sold olive-oil in Egypt, to defray the expenses of travelling there. " I never heard of Plato," said Bernard. " O, you are a wild bird from the forest," replied the trader ; " you can only pipe as you have been taught by nature. But I advise you to make acquaintance with books. Our King Francis is now doing so much to encourage the arts and sciences, that every artisan can become wise, if he makes good use of his leisure. Our shops may now be our schools." " Then I should wish the whole world to be my shop," rejoined Bernard. " I feel that earth and air are full of mysteries and wonders ; full of the sublime wisdom of God." So he wandered on, reading, as he had done 5* 106 BERNARD PALISSY. from childhood, in " the book of earth and heaven, which is open to all." " For Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying, ' Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thoe.' " ' Come, wander with me,' she said, ' Into regions yet untrod ; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God.' " And he wandered away and away, With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe." If lizards were basking in the sunshine, he stopped to admire their gliding motions, and prismatic changes of color. If he found a half-covered snail among the wet mosses, he lingered till he ascer- tained that it was gradually making a new shell from its own saliva. If a stone was curious in form or shape, he picked it up and put it in his wallet ; and oftentimes he would crack them, to discover their interior structure. Every new / flower and seed attracted his attention, and excited wonder at the marvellous varieties of Nature. These things are hinted at all through his writings. He says : " In walking under the fruit-trees, I received a great contentment and many joyous pleasures : for I saw the squirrels gathering the fruits, and leaping from branch to branch, with BERNARD PALISSY. 107 many pretty looks and gestures. I saw nuts gath- ered by the rooks, who rejoiced in taking their repast, dining on the said nuts. Under the apple- trees, I found hedgehogs, that rolled themselves into a round form, and, thrusting out their sharp quills, they rolled over the apples, which stuck on the points, and so they went burdened. These things have made me such a lover of the fields, that it seems to me there are no treasures in the world so precious as the little branches of trees and plants. I hold them in more esteem than mines of gold and silver." This loving communion with Nature was not mere idle dreaming. Always he was drawing inferences from what he saw, and curiously inquiring into the causes of things. He supported himself by painting glass, and sketching portraits. He says, in his modest way, " They thought me a better painter than I was." If he arrived in a town where a cathedral or an abbey was being built, he sometimes tarried long to make a variety of rich patterns for the windows. In other places, he would find only a few repairs required in the windows of castles or churches, and so Avould quickly pass on. To arrange mosaic pat- terns of different-colored glass required constant use of rule and compass, and this suggested the study of geometry, which he pursued with charac- teristic eagerness. The knowledge thus acquired made him a skilful surveyor, and he was much employed in mapping out boundaries, and making 108 BERNARD PALLSSY. plans for houses and gardens, a business which he found more profitable than glass-work or portraits. These various occupations brought him occasion- ally into contact with men who were learned in the arts and sciences, according to the standard of learning at that time, and his active mind never failed to glean something from such interviews. A French translation of the Scriptures had been pub- lished in 1498. He seems to have had a copy with him during his travels, and to have studied it with reverential attention. Thus constantly observing and acquiring, the young man trav- ersed France, from Spain to the Netherlands, and roamed through a portion of Germany. Ten years were spent in this way, during which he obtained the best portion of that education which he after- ward turned to good account. He is supposed to have been about twenty-nine years old, when he married, and settled in the town of Salutes, in the western part of France. He supported his family by glass-work, portraits, and surveying. A few years after his marriage, some one showed him an enamelled cup, brought from Italy. It seemed a slight incident ; but it woke the artistic spirit slumbering in his soul, and was destined to effect a complete revolution in his life. He says : " It was an earthen cup, turned and enamelled with so much beauty, that from that time I entered into controversy with my own thoughts. I began to think that if I should dis- BERNARD PALISSY. 109 cover how to make enamels, I could make earthen vessels very pi'ettily ; because God had gifted me with some knowledge of drawing. So, regardless of the fact that I had no knowledge of clays, I began to seek for the enamel, as a man gropes in the dark." In order to begin to comprehend the difficulties he had to encounter, we must know that only the rudest kind of common pottery had then been made in France, and even with the manufacture of that he was entirely unacquainted. If he had been unmarried, he might have travelled among the potters of Europe, as he had among the glass- makers, and have obtained useful hints from them ; but his family increased fast, and needed his pro- tection and support. Tea was not introduced into Europe till a hundred years later ; and there were no specimens of porcelain from China, except here and there a costly article imported by the rich. He was obliged to test the qualities of various kinds of clays ; what chemical agents would pro- duce enamel ; what other agents would produce colors ; and the action of heat on all of them. He bought quantities of earthen jars, broke them into fragments, applied to each piece some particular chemical substance, and tried them all in a furnace. He says : " I pounded all the substances I could suppose likely to make anything. Having blun- dered several times, at great expense, and through much labor, I was every day pounding and grind- 110 BERNARD PALISSY. ing new materials, and constructing new furnaces, which cost much money and consumed my wood and my time." While these expenses were going on, his former occupations were necessarily sus- pended ; thus " the candle was burning out at both ends." His wife began to complain. Still he went on, trying new compounds, as he says, " always with great cost, loss of time, confusion and sorrow." The privations of his family and the anxiety of his wife gave him so much pain, that he relinquished his experiments for a while. He says : " Seeing I could not in this way come at my intention, I occupied myself in my art of painting and glass-working, and comported myself as if I were not zealous to dive any more into the secret of enamels." The king ordered extensive surveys, and he found that employment so profita- ble, that his family were soon at ease again. But that Italian cup was always in his mind. He says : " When I found myself with a little money, I re- sumed my affection for pursuing in the track of the enamels." For two years he kept up a series of experiments, under all manner of difficulties, and always without success. His wife scolded, and even his own courage began to fail. At last he applied more than three hundred kinds of mixtures to more than three hundred fragments, and put them all in the furnace ; resolved that if this ex- periment proved a failure, he would try no more. He tells us : " One of the pieces came out white BERNARD PALISSY. HI and polished, in a way that caused me such joy, as made me think I was become a new creature." He was then thirty-seven years old. He was merely at the beginning of what he aimed to accomplish. He had discovered how to make the enamel, but he still knew nothing of pottery, or of the effect which various degrees of heat would produce on colors. A new furnace was necessary, and he proceeded to build it, with prodigious labor. Being too poor to hire help, he brought bricks on his own back from a distant kiln ; he made his own mortar, and drew the wa- ter with which it was tempered. He fashioned vessels of clay, to which his enamel could be ap- plied. For more than a month he kept up an incessant fire night and day, and was continually grinding materials in a hand-mill, which it usually required two men to turn. He believed himself to be very near complete success, and everything depended upon not letting the heat of the furnaces go down. In the desperation of his poverty and the excitement of his sanguine hopes, he burned the garden-fence, and even some of the tables, doors, and floors of his house. His wife became frantic, and gave him no peace. She was to be pitied, poor woman ! Not being acquainted with chemical experiments, she did not know, as Tie did, that he was really on the point of making a great and lucrative discovery. She had heard it so long that she did n't believe it. They had a large fam- 112 BERNARD PALISSY. ily of children, and while their father was trying expensive experiments, several of them were dying of a disease prevalent at that time. It was a gloomy and trying period for all of them. He says : " I suffered an anguish that I cannot speak. I was quite exhausted and dried up by the heat of the furnace. It was more than a month since my shirt had been dry upon me. I was the object of mockery. Even those from whom solace was due ran crying through the town that I was burning my floors. In this way I came to be regarded as a madman. I was in debt in several places. I had two children at nurse, and was unable to pay the nurses. Men jested at me as I passed through the streets, and said it was right for me to die of hunger, since I had left following my trade. Some hope still remained to sustain me, for my last experiments had turned out tolerably well, and I thought I knew enough to get my living ; but I found I was far enough from that yet. The want of means to build sheds to cover his clay vessels was another great difficulty. After working all day, and late into the night, sometimes a heavy rain would spoil all his work, just as he had it ready to bake. He describes himself, on such occasions, as utterly weak and exhausted, so that walking home he " reeled like a man drunk with wine." He says : " Filled with a great sor- row, inasmuch as having labored long I saw my labor wasted, I would retire soiled and drenched, BERNARD PALISSY. H3 to find in my chamber a second persecution worse than the first ; which now causes me to marvel that I was not consumed by suffering." In the midst of all this tribulation,, the strug- gling artist had one source of consolation. Jean Cauvin, better known to us as John Calvin, had been preaching Protestant doctrines in France, and had given rise to the sect called Huguenots. The extravagance and licentiousness of society at that period, and the abuses practised by a powerful and wealthy priesthood, naturally inclined this pure and simple-minded man to the doctrines of the Reformers. He became acquainted with an artisan of the same turn of mind, whom he describes as " simple, unlearned, and marvellously poor." His delight was to hear Palissy read the Scriptures. Gradually his listeners increased to ten, and they formed a little society, which took turns in exhor- tation and prayer. One of them is supposed to have been an innkeeper, who, from religious sym- pathy, allowed poor Palissy to take meals at his house on credit. He still continued his experiments, and met with successive disappointments of one kind or another. At last, he thought he had learned how to adjust everything just right ; and confi- dent of success, he one day put into the oven a batch of vessels, beautifully formed and painted. But a new misfortune awaited him. The mate- rials of his furnace contained flints. These ex- 114 BERNARD PALISSY. paneled and burst with the great heat, and struck into the vessels while they were soft, injuring the enamel, and covering the surface with irregular sharp points. This blow almost prostrated him; for he had expected this beautiful batch would bring a considerable sum of money for the support of his family, and put to silence those that jeered at him. But he was a man of wonderful endur- ance. He says : " Having remained some time upon the bed, I reflected that if a man should fall into a pit, it would be his duty to try to get out again." So the brave soul roused himself, and set to work diligently to earn money, by his old trades of painting and surveying. Having supplied the necessities of his family, he again returned to his pottery ; fully believing that his losses and hazards were over, and that he could now make articles that would bring good prices. But new disappointments awaited him. The green with which he painted his lizards burnt before the brown of the serpents melted ; a strong current of air in the furnace blew ashes all over his beautiful vessels and spoiled the enamel. He says : " Be- fore I could render my different enamels fusible at the same degree of heat, I thought I should be at the door of my sepulchre. I was so wasted in my person that there was no form nor prominence in the muscles of my arms or legs ; also the said legs were throughout of one size ; so that when I walked, garters and stockings were at once down BERNARD PALISSY. H5 upon my heels. I often roamed about the fields, considering my miseries and weariness, and above all things, that in my own house I could have no peace, nor do anything that was considered good. I was despised and mocked by all. Nevertheless, I had a hope, which caused rne to work so like a man, that I often did mv best to lau^h and amuse / people who came to see me, though within me all was very sad." At the end of ten years from the commence- ment of his experiments, he succeeded in making a kind of ware, of mixed enamels, resembling jas- per. It was not what he had been aiming to accomplish, but it was considered pretty, and sold well enough to support his family comfortably. While he was making continual improvements in his pottery, the Huguenots were increasing to a degree that provoked persecution. A schoolmas- ter in a neighboring town, who " preached on Sundays, and was much beloved by the people," was brought to Saintes and publicly burnt. But Palissy and his little band were not intimidat- ed. They continued to meet for exhortation and prayer. At first it was done mostly at midnight ; but the pure and pious lives of these men and women formed such a contrast to the licentious- ness and blasphemy prevailing round them, that they gradually gained respect ; insomuch that they influenced the magistrates of the town to pass laws restraining gambling and dissipation. So 116 BERNARD PALISSY. great a change was produced, that, when Palissy was fifty-one years old, he says : " On Sundays you might see tradesmen rambling through the fields, groves, and other places, in bands, singing psalms, canticles, and spiritual songs, or reading and instructing each other. You might see young women seated in gardens and other places, who in like way delighted themselves with singing all holy things. The very children were so well in- structed that they had no longer a puerility of manner, but a look of 'manly fortitude. These things had so well prospered that people had changed their old manners, even to their very countenances." After six years more of successive improve- ments, making sixteen years in the whole, this persevering man at last accomplished the object for which he had toiled and suffered so much. He produced a very beautiful kind of china, which became celebrated under the name of Palissy Ware. These articles were elaborately adorned with vines, flowers, butterflies, lizards, serpents, and other animals. He had always been such a loving observer of nature that we cannot wonder at being told " he copied these, in form and color, with the minute exactness of a naturalist, so that the species of each could be determined accu- rately." These beautiful articles sold at high prices. Orders flowed in from kings and nobles. The Constable Montmorenci, a nobleman of im- BERNARD PALISSY. H7 mense wealth, employed Palissy to decorate his magnificent Chateau d'Ecouen, about twelve miles from Paris. There he made richly painted win- dows, covered with Scripture scenes, some of his own designing, others copied from Raphael and Albert Durer. Vases and statuettes of his beau- tiful china were deposited in various places ; and the floors of chapel and galleries were inlaid with china tiles of his painting. Among the groves he formed a very curious grotto of china. He mod- elled rugged rocks, " sloping, tortuous, and lumpy," which he painted with imitations of such herbs and mosses as grow in moist places. Brilliant liz- ards appeared to glide over its surface, " in many pleasant gestures and agreeable contortions." In the trenches of water were some living frogs and fishes, and other china ones, which so closely resembled them as not to be easily distinguished. At the foot of the rocks, branches of coral, of his manufacture, appeared to grow in the water. A poet of that period, praising this work, says : " The real lizard on the moss has not more lustre than the lizards in that house made famous by your new work. The plants look not sweeter in the fields, and green meadows are not more pre- ciously enamelled, than those which grow under your hand." The Constable Montmorenci built a convenient shop for him, where he worked with two of his sons. A large china dog at the door was so natural, that the dogs often barked at it and challenged it to fight. 118 BERNARD PALISSY. Meanwhile, a terrible storm was gathering over the heads of the Huguenots. Civil war broke out between the Catholics and Protestants. Old men were burnt for quoting Scripture, and young girls stabbed for singing psalms. But worldly prosper- ity and the flattery of the great could not tempt Palissy to renounce or conceal his faith. He pur- sued his artistic labors, though he says, " For two months I was greatly terrified, hearing nothing every day but reports of horrible murders." He would have fallen among the first victims, had it not been for written protections from powerful nobles, who wanted ornamental work done which no other man could do. The horrible massacre of St. Bartholomew occurred when he was sixty- three years old, but he escaped by aid of his powerful patrons. The officers appointed to hunt out Huguenots longed to arrest him, but did not dare to do it in the daytime. At last they came tramping about his house at midnight, and carried him off to a prison in Bordeaux. The judges would gladly have put him to death, but their proceedings were stopped by orders from the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medicis. Montmo- renci, Montpensier, and other influential Catholic nobles, who had works uncompleted, and who doubtless felt kindly toward the old artist, inter- ceded with her, and she protected him ; not be- cause he was a good man, but because the art he practised was unique and valuable. The enam- BERNARD PALISSY. H9 elled Italian cup, which had troubled so many- years of his life, proved the cause of its being saved. The last ten years of Palissy's mortal existence were spent in Paris. He had an establishment in the grounds of the Tuileries, where he manufac- tured vases, cups, plates, and curious garden-basins and baskets, ornamented with figures in relief. His high reputation drew toward him many men of taste and learning, who, knowing his interest in all the productions of Nature, presented him with many curious specimens of shells, minerals, fos- sils, &c. He formed these into a Museum, where scholars met to discuss the laws and operations of Nature. This is said to have been the first society established in Paris for the pure advancement of science. When he was sixty-six years old, he be- gan a course of public lectures, which he continued to deliver annually for ten years. These were the first lectures on Natural History ever delivered in Paris. The best men of the Capital went there to discuss with him, and to hear him state, in his sim- ple, earnest fashion, the variety of curious things he had observed in travels by mountain and sea- shore, through field and forest, and in his exper- iments on glass and china. Some pedants were disposed to undervalue his teachings, because he had never learned Greek or Latin. Undisturbed by this, he cordially invited them to come and dis- prove his statements if they could, saying : "I want 120 BERNARD PALISSY. to ascertain whether the Latins know more upon these subjects than I do. I am indeed a simple artisan, poorly enough trained in letters ; but the things themselves have not less value than if they were uttered by a man more eloquent. I had rather speak truth in my rustic tongue, than lie in rhetoric." He published several books on Agriculture, Volcanoes, the Formation of Rocks, the Laws of Water, &c. His last book was written when he was seventy-one years old. Scientific knowledge ,was then in its infancy, but adequate judges con- sider his ideas far in advance of his time. A mod- ern French scholar calls him, " So great a natu- ralist as only Nature could produce." There is a refreshing simplicity about his style of writing, and his communications with the world were obviously not the result of vanity, but of general benevo- lence and religious reverence. He felt that all he had was from God, and that it was a duty to im- part it freely. He says : " I had employed much time in the study of earths, stones, waters, and metals ; and old age pressed me to multiply the talents God had given me. For that reason, I thought it would be good to bring to the light those excellent secrets, in order to bequeath them to posterity." He continued vigorous in mind and body, and was remarked for acuteness and ready wit. He abstained from theological discussions in his teach- BERNARD PALISSY. 121 ings, but made no secret of the fact that his opin- ions remained unchanged. Amid the frivolity, dissipation, and horrid scenes of violence that were going on in Paris, he quietly busied himself mak- ing artistic designs, and imparting his knowledge of natural history ; recreating himself frequently with the old pleasure of rambling in field and forest, taking loving observation of all God's little creatures. He was seventy-six years old, when the king, Henry III., issued a decree forbidding Protes- tants to exercise their worship, on pain of death, and banishing all who had previously practised it. Angry bigots clamored for the death of the brave old potter. The powerful patrons of his art again prevented his execution ; but the tide was so strong against the Reformers, that he was sent to the Bastile. Two Huguenot girls were in prison with him, and they mutually sustained each other with prayer and psalms. The king, in his fashion- able frills and curls, occasionally visited the prisons, and he naturally felt a great desire that the dis- tinguished old Bernard Palissy should make a recantation of his faith. One day he said to him : " My good man, you have been forty-five years in the service of the queen, my mother, or in mine ; and in the midst of all the executions and mas- sacres, we have allowed you to live in your religion. But now I am so hardly pressed by the Guise party, and by my people, that I am compelled, in spite of 6 122 BERNARD PALISSY. myself, to order the execution of these two poor young women, and of yourself also, unless you recant." " Sire," replied the old man, " that is not spoken like a king. You have often said you pitied me ; but now I pity you ; because you have said, ' I am compelled.' These girls and I, who have our part in the kingdom of Heaven, will teach you to talk more royally. Neither the Guises, nor all your people, nor yourself, can compel the old potter to bow down to your images of clay. I can die." The two girls were burnt a few months after- ward. Palissy remained in prison four years, and there he died at eighty years of age. The secrets of the Bastile were well kept, and we have no record of those years. We only know that, like John Bunyan, he wrote a good deal in prison. The thick, dark walls must have been dismal to one who so loved the free air, and who val- ued trees and shrubs " beyond silver and gold." But the martyr was not alone. He had with him the God whom he trusted, and the memories of an honest, useful, and religious life. OLD AGE COMING. By Elizabeth Hamilton, a Scotch writer, author of " The Cottagers of Glenburnie," aiid several other sensible and inter- esting works. She died, unmarried, about fifty years ago, nearly sixty years old. These lines were written in such very broad Scotch, that I have taken the liberty to render them in English, making no changes, except a few slight variations, which the necessities of rhyme required. IS that Old Age, who 's knocking at the gate ? I trow it is. He sha'n't be asked to wait. You 're kindly welcome, friend ! Nay, do not fear . To show yourself ! You '11 cause no trouble here. I know there 're some who tremble at your name, As though you brought with you reproach or shame ; And who of thousand lies would bear the sin, Rather than own you for their kith and kin. But far from shirking you as a disgrace, Thankful I am to live to see your face. Nor will I e'er disown you, or take pride To think how long I might your visit hide. I '11 do my best to make you well respected, And fear not for your sake to be neglected. 124 OLD AGE COMING. Now you have come, and, through all kinds of weather. We 're doomed from this time forth to jog together, I 'd fain make compact with you, firm and strong, On terms of give and take, to hold out long. If you '11 be civil, I will liberal be ; "Witness the list of what I '11 give to thee. First then, I here make o'er, for good and aye, All youthful fancies, whether bright or gay. Beauties and graces, too, might be resigned, But much I fear they would be hard to find ; For 'gainst your daddy Time they could not stand, Nor bear the grip of his relentless hand. But there 's my skin, which you may further crinkle, And write your name, at length, on ev'ry wrinkle. On my brown locks your powder you may throw, And bleach them to your fancy, white as snow. But look not, Age, so Avistful at my mouth, As if you longed to pull out ev'ry tooth ! Let them, I do beseech you, keep their places ! Though, if you like, you 're free to paint their faces. My limbs I yield you ; and if you see meet To clap your icy shackles on my feet, I '11 not refuse ; but if you drive out gout, Will bless you for 't, and offer thanks devout. So much I give to you with free good- will ; But, 0, I fear that more you look for still. I know, by your stern look and meaning leers, You want to clap your fingers on my ears. Right willing, too, you are, as I surmise, To cast your misty powder in my eyes. But, 0, in mercy spare my little twinklers ! And I will always wear your crystal blinkers. OLD AGE COMING. 125 Then 'bout my ears I 'd fain a bargain strike, And give my hand upon it, if you like. Well then would you consent their use to share ? 'T would serve us both, and be a bargain rare. I 'd have it thus, When babbling fools intrude, Gabbling their noisy nonsense for no good ; Or when ill-nature, well brushed up with wit, With sneer sarcastic, takes its aim to hit ; Or when detraction, meanest sort of pride, Spies out small faults, and seeks great worth to hide ; Then make me deaf as ever deaf can be ! At all such times, my ears I lend to thee. But when, in social hours, you see combined Genius and wisdom, fruits of heart and mind, Good sense, good nature, wit in playful mood, And candor, e'en from ill extracting good ; 0, then, old friend, I must have back my hearing ! To want it then would be an ill past bearing. I 'd rather sit alone, in wakeful dreaming, Than catch the sound of words without their meaning. You will not promise ? O, you 're very glum ! Right hard to manage, you 're so cold and dumb ! No matter. Whole and sound I '11 keep my heart. Not from one crumb on 't will I ever part. Its kindly warmth shall ne'er be chilled by all The coldest breath that from your lips can fall. You need n't vex yourself, old churl, nor fret ! My kindly feelings you shall never get. And though to take my hearing you rejoice, In spite of you, I '11 still hear friendship's voice. And though you take the rest, it shall not grieve me ; For gleams of cheerful spirits you must leave me. 126 OLD AGE COMING. But let me whisper in your ear, Old Age, I 'm bound to travel with you but one stage. Be 't long or short, you cannot keep me back ; And when we reach the end on 't, you must pack ! Be 't soon or late, we part forever there ! Other companionship I then shall share. This blessed change to me you 're bound to bring. You need not think I shall be loath to spring From your poor feeble side, you churl uncouth ! Into the arms of Everlasting Youth. All that your thieving hands have stolen away He will, with interest, to me repay. Fresh gifts and graces freely he '11 bestow, More than the heart has wished, or mind can know. You need not wonder then, nor swell with pride, That I so kindly welcomed you as guide Tb one who 's far your better. Now all 's told. Let us set out upon our journey cold. With no vain boasts, no vain regrets tormented, We '11 quietly jog on our way, contented. " ON he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way ; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world is past." GOLDSMITH. UNMARRIED WOMEN. BY L. MARIA CHILD. OCIETY moves slowly toward civiliza- tion, but when we compare epochs half a century, or even a quarter of a cen- tury apart, we perceive many signs that progress is made. Among these pleasant indica- tions is the fact that the phrase " old maid " has gone wellnigh out of fashion ; that jests on the subject are no longer considered witty, and are never uttered by gentlemen. In my youth, I not unfrequently heard women of thirty addressed something in this style : " What, not married yet ? If you don't take care, you will outstand your market." Such words could never be otherwise than disagreeable, nay, positively offensive, to any woman of sensibility and natural refinement ; and that not merely. on account of wounded vanity, or disappointed affection, or youthful visions receding in the distance, but because the idea of being in 128 UNMARRIED WOMEN. the market, of being a commodity, rather than an individual, is odious to every human being. I believe a large proportion of unmarried women are so simply because they have too much con- science and delicacy of feeling to form marriages of interest or convenience, without the concur- rence of their affections and their taste. A wo- man who is determined to be married, and who " plays her cards well," as the phrase is, usually succeeds. But how much more estimable and honorable is she who regards a life-union as too important and sacred to be entered into from mo- tives of vanity or selfishness. To rear families is the ordination of Nature, and where it is done conscientiously it is doubtless the best education that men or women can receive. But I doubt the truth of the common remark that the discharge of these duties makes married peo- ple less selfish than unmarried ones. The selfish- ness of single women doubtless shows itself in more petty forms ; such as being disturbed by crumbs on the carpet, and a litter of toys about the house. But fathers and mothers are often self- ish on a large scale, for the sake of advancing the worldly prosperity or social condition of their chil- dren. Not only is spiritual growth frequently sacrificed in pursuit of these objects, but princi- ples are trampled on, which involve the welfare of the whole human race. Within the sphere of my own observation, I must confess that there UNMARRIED WOMEN. 129 is a larger proportion of unmarried than of mar- ried women whose sympathies are active and extensive. I have before my mind two learned sisters, familiar with Greek, Latin, and French, and who, late in life, acquired a knowledge of German also. They spent more than sixty years together, qui- etly digging out gold, silver, or iron from the rich mines of ancient and modern literature, and free- ly imparting their treasures wherever they were called for. No married couple could have been more careful of each other in illness, or more accommodating toward each other's peculiarities ; yet they were decided individuals ; and their talk never wanted " An animated No, To brush its surface, and to make it flow." Cultivated people enjoyed their conversation, which was both wise and racy ; a steady light of good sense and large information, with an occa- sional flashing rocket of not ill-natured satire. Yet their intellectual acquisitions produced no con- tempt for the customary occupations of women. All their friends received tasteful keepsakes of their knitting, netting, or crocheting, and all the poor of the town had garments of their handi- work. Neither their sympathies nor their views were narrowed by celibacy. Early education had taught them to reverence everything that was established ; but with this reverence they mingled 6* I 130 UNMARRIED WOMEN. a lively interest in all the great progressive ques- tions of the day. Their ears were open to the recital of everybody's troubles and everybody's joys. On New Year's day, children thronged round them for books and toys, and every poor person's face lighted up as they approached ; for they were sure of kindly inquiries and sympathiz- ing words from them, and their cloaks usually opened to distribute comfortable slippers, or warm stockings of their own manufacture. When this sisterly bond, rendered so beautiful by usefulness and culture, was dissolved by death, the survivor said of her who had departed : " During all her illness she leaned upon me as a child upon its mother ; and O, how blessed is now the con- sciousness that I never disappointed her ! " This great bereavement was borne with calmness, for loneliness was cheered by hope of reunion. On the anniversary of her loss the survivor wrote to me : " I find a growing sense of familiarity with the unseen world. It is as if the door were invitingly left ajar, and the distance were hourly diminishing. I never think of her as alone. The unusual num- ber of departed friends for whom we had recently mourned seem now but an increase to her happi- ness." I had two other unmarried friends, as devoted to each other, and as tender of each other's pe- culiarities as any wedded couple I ever knew. Without being learned, they had a love of general UNMARRIED WOMEN. 131 reading, which, with active charities, made their days pass profitably and pleasantly. They had the orderly, systematic habits common to single ladies, but their sympathies and their views were larger and more liberal than those of their married sisters. Their fingers were busy for the poor, whom they were always ready to aid and comfort, irrespective of nation or color. Their family affections were remarkably strong, yet they had the moral courage to espouse the unpopular cause of the slave, in quiet opposition to the /prejudices of beloved relatives. Death sundered this tie when both were advanced in years. The de- parted one, though not distinguished for beauty during her mortal life, had, after her decease, a wonderful loveliness, like that of an angelic child. It was the outward impress of her interior life. Few marriages are more beautiful or more hap- py than these sisterly unions ; and the same may be said of a brother and sister, whose lives are bound together. All lovers of English literature know how charmingly united in mind and heart were Charles Lamb and his gifted sister ; and our own poet, Whittier, so clear to the people's heart, has a home made lovely by the same fraternal relation of mutual love and dependence. A dear friend of mine, whom it was some good man's loss not to have for a life-mate, adopted the orphan sons of her brother, and reared them with more than parental wisdom and tenderness, caring 132 UNMARRIED WOMEN. for all their physical wants, guiding them in pre- cept and example by the most elevated moral standard, bestowing on them the highest intellec- tual culture, and studying all branches with them, that she might in all things be their companion. Nor is it merely in such connections, which somewhat resemble wedded life, that single wo- men make themselves useful and respected. Many remember the store kept for so long a time in Bos- ton by Miss Ann Bent. Her parents being poor, she early began to sup- port herself by teaching. A relative subsequently furnished her with goods to sell on commission ; and in this new employment she manifested such good judgment, integrity, and general business ca- pacity, that merchants were willing to trust her to any extent. She acquired a handsome property, which she used liberally to assist a large family of sisters and nieces, some of whom she established in business similar to her own. No mother or grandmother was ever more useful or beloved. One of her nieces said : " I know the beauty and purity of my aunt's character, for I lived with her forty years, and I never knew her to say or do anything which might not have been said or done before the whole world." I am ignorant of the particulars of Miss Bent's private history ; but doubtless a woman of her comely looks, agreeable manners, and excellent character, might have found opportunities to mar- UNMARRIED WOMEN, 133 ry, if that had been a paramount object with her. She lived to be more than eighty-eight years old, universally respected and beloved ; and the numer- ous relatives, toward whom she had performed a mother's part, cheered her old age with grateful affection. There have also been many instances of single women who have enlivened and illustrated their lives by devotion to the beautiful arts. Of these none are perhaps more celebrated than the Italian Sofonisba Angusciola and her two accomplished sisters. These three " virtuous gentlewomen," as Vasari calls them, spent their lives together in most charming union. All of them had uncom- mon talent for painting, but Sofonisba was the most gifted. One of her most beautiful pictures represents her two sisters playing at chess, attend- ed by the faithful old duenna, who accompanied them everywhere. This admirable artist lived to be old and blind ; and the celebrated Vandyke said of her, in her later years : " I have learned more from one blind old woman in Italy, than from all the masters of the art." Many single women have also employed their lives usefully and agreeably as authors. There is the charming Miss Mitford, "whose writings cheer the soul like a meadow of cowslips in the spring- time. There is Frederica Bremer, whose writings have blessed so many souls. There is Joanna Baillie, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth Hamilton, 134 UNMARRIED WOMEN. and our own honored Catherine M. Sedgwick, whose books have made the world wiser and bet- ter than they found it. I am glad to be sustained in my opinions on this subject by a friend whose own character invests single life with peculiar dignity. In a letter to me, she says : " I object to having single women called a class. They are individuals, differing in the qualities of their characters, like other human beings. Their isolation, as a general thing, is the result of unavoidable circumstances. The Author of Nature doubtless intended that men and women should live together. But, in the present state of the world's progress, society has, in many re- spects, become artificial in proportion to its civili- zation ; and consequently the number of single women must constantly increase. If humanity were in a state of natural, healthy development, this would not be so; for young people would then be willing to begin married life with simplicity and frugality, and real happiness would increase in proportion to the diminution of artificial wants. This prospect, however, lies in the future, and many generations of single women must come and go before it will be realized. " But the achievement of character is the highest end that can be proposed to any human being, and there is nothing in single life to prevent a woman from attaining this great object ; on the contrary, it is in many respects peculiarly favorable to it. UNMARRIED WOMEN. 135 The measure of strength in character is the power to conquer circumstances when they refuse to co- operate with us. The temptations peculiarly inci- dent to single life are petty selfishness, despondency under the suspicion of neglect, and ennui from the want of interesting occupation. If an ordinary, feeble-minded woman is exposed to these tempta- tions, she will be very likely to yield to them. But she would not be greatly different in charac- ter, if protected by a husband and flanked with children ; her feebleness would remain the same, and would only manifest itself under new forms. " Marriage, under favorable circumstances, is unquestionably a promoter of human happiness. But mistakes are so frequently made by entering thoughtlessly into this indissoluble connection, and so much wretchedness ensues from want of suffi- cient mental discipline to make the best of what cannot be remedied, that most people can discover among their acquaintance as large a proportion of happy single women as they can of happy wives. Moreover, the happiness of unmarried women is as independent of mere gifts of fortune, as that of other individuals. Indeed, all solid happiness must spring from inward sources. Some of the most truly contented and respectable women I have ever known have been domestics, who grew old in one family, and were carefully looked after, in their declining days, by the children of those whom they faithfully served in youth. 136 UNMARRIED WOMEN. " Most single women might have married, had they seized upon the first opportunity that offered ; but some unrevealed attachment, too high an ideal, or an innate fastidiousness, have left them solitary ; therefore, it is fair to assume that many of them have more sensibility and true tenderness than some of their married sisters. Those who remain single in consequence of too much worldly ambi- tion, or from the gratification of coquettish vanity, naturally swell the ranks of those peevish, discon- tented ones, who bring discredit on single life in the abstract. But when a delicate gentlewoman deliberately prefers passing through life alone, to linking her fate with that of a man toward whom she feels no attraction, why should she ever repent of so high an exercise of her reason ? This class of women are often the brightest ornaments of society. Men find in them calm, thoughtful friends, and safe confidants, on whose sympathy they can rely without danger. In the nursery, their labors, being voluntary, are less exhausting than a parent's. When the weary, fretted mother turns a deaf ear to the twenty-times-repeated ques- tion, the baffled urchins retreat to the indulgent aunt, or dear old familiar friend, sure of obtaining a patient hearing and a kind response. Almost everybody can remember some samples of such Penates, whose hearts seem to be too large to be confined to any one set of children. " Some of my fairest patterns of feminine excel- UNMARRIED WOMEN. 137 lence have been of the single sisterhood. Of those unfortunate ones who are beacons, rather than models, I cannot recall an individual whose character I think would have been materially im- proved by marriage. The faults which make a single woman disagreeable would probably exist to the same degree if she were a wife ; and the vir- tues which adorn her in a state of celibacy would make her equally beloved and honored if she were married. The human soul is placed here for de- velopment and progress ; and it is capable of con- verting all circumstances into means of growth and advancement. " Among my early recollections is that of a lady of stately presence, who died while I was still young, but not till she had done much to remove from my mind the idea that the name of ' old maid ' was a term of reproach. She was the daughter of Judge Russell, and aunt to the late Reverend and beloved Dr. Lowell. She had been one of a numerous family of brothers and sisters, but in my childhood was sole possessor of the old family mansion, where she received her friends and practised those virtues which gained for her the respect of the whole community. Sixty years ago, it was customary to speak of single women with far less deference than it now is ; and I re- member being puzzled by the extremely respectful manner in which she was always mentioned. If there were difficulties in the parish, or if any doubt- 138 UNMARRIED WOMEN. ful matters were under discussion, the usual ques- tion was ' What is Miss Russell's opinion ? ' I used to think to myself, ' She is an old maid, after all, yet people always speak of her as if she were some great person.' " Miss Burleigh was another person of whom I used to hear much through the medium of mutual friends. She resided with a married sister in Sa- lem, and was the ' dear Aunt Susan,' not only of the large circle of her own nephews and nieces, but of all their friends and favorites. Having ample means, she surrounded herself with choice books and pictures, and such objects of Art or Nature as would entertain and instruct young minds. Her stores of knowledge were prodigious, and she had such a happy way of imparting it, that lively boys were glad to leave their play, to spend an hour with Aunt Susan. She read to her young friends at stated times, and made herself perfectly familiar with them ; and as they grew older she became their chosen confidant. She was, in fact, such a centre of light and warmth, that no one could approach her sphere without being con- scious of its vivifying influence. " ' Aunt Sarah Stetson, 'another single lady, wa.s a dear and honored friend of my own. She was of masculine size and stature, gaunt and ungainly in the extreme. -But before she had uttered three sentences, her hearers said to themselves, ' Here is a wise woman ! She was the oldest of thirteen UNMARRIED WOMEN. 139 children, early deprived of their father, and she bore the brunt of life from youth upward. She received only such education as was afforded by the public school of an obscure town seventy years ago. To add to their scanty means of subsistence, she learned the tailor's trade. In process of time, the other children swarmed off from the parental hive, the little farm was sold, and she lived alone with her mother. She built a small cottage out of her own earnings, and had the sacred pleasure of taking her aged parent to her own home, and min- istering with her own hands to all her wants. For sixteen years, she never spent a night from home, but assiduously devoted herself to the discharge of this filial duty, and to the pursuance of her trade. Yet in the midst of this busy life, she managed to become respectably familiar with English literature, especially with history. Whatever she read, she derived from it healthful aliment for the growth of her mental powers. She was full of wise maxims and rules of life ; not doled out with see-saw prosi- ness, but with strong common sense, rich and racy, and frequently flavored with the keenest satire. She had a flashing wit, and wonderful power of detecting shams of all sorts. Her religious opin- ions were orthodox, and she was an embodiment of the Puritan character. She was kindly in her feelings, and alive to every demonstration of affec- tion, but she had a granite firmness of principle, which rendered her awful toward deceivers and 140 UNMARRIED WOMEN. transgressors. All the intellectual people of the town sought her company with avidity. The Uni- tarian minister and his family, a wealthy man, who happened to be also the chief scholar in the place, and the young people generally, took pleasure in resorting to Aunt Sarah's humble home, to minis- ter to her simple wants, and gather up her words of wisdom. Her spirit was bright and cheerful to the last. One of her sisters, who had been laboring sixteen years as a missionary among the south- western Indians, came to New England to visit the scattered members of her family. After see- ing them in their respective homes, she declared : 4 Sarah is the most light-hearted of them all ; and it is only by her fireside that I have been able to forget past hardships in merry peals of laughter.' " During my last interview with Aunt Sarah, when she was past seventy years of age, she said, ' I have lived very agreeably single ; but if I be- come infirm, I suppose I shall feel the want of life's nearest ties.' In her case, however, the need was of short duration, and an affectionate niece sup- plied the place of a daughter. " Undoubtedly, the arms of children and grand- children form the most natural and beautiful cradle for old age. But loneliness is often the widow's portion, as well as that of the single woman ; and parents are often left solitary by the death or emi- gration of their children. " I am tempted to speak also of a living friend, UNMARRIED WOMEN. 141 now past her sixtieth year. She is different from the others, but this difference only confirms my theory that the mind can subdue all things to itself. This lady is strictly feminine in all her habits and pursuits, and regards the needle as the chief im- plement of woman's usefulness. If the Dorcas labors performed by her one pair of hands could be collected into a mass, out of the wear and waste of half a century, they would form an amazing pile. In former years, when her health allowed her to circulate among numerous family connec- tions, her visits were always welcomed as a jubilee ; for every dilapidated wardrobe was sure to be renovated by Aunt Mary's nimble fingers. She had also a magic power of drawing the little ones to herself. Next to their fathers and mothers, she was the best beloved. The influence which her loving heart gained over them in childhood in- creased with advancing years. She is now the best and dearest friend of twenty or thirty nephews and nieces, some of whom have families of fheir own. " A large amount of what is termed mother-wit, a readiness at repartee, and quickness in seizing un- expected associations of words or ideas, rendered her generally popular in company ; but the deep cravings of her heart could never be satisfied with what is termed success in society. The intimate love of a few valued friends was what she always coveted, and never failed to win. For several years she has been compelled by ill health to live entirely 142 UNMARRIED WOMEN. at home. There she now is, fulfilling the most important mission of her whole beneficent life, training to virtue and usefulness five mothei'less children of her brother. Feeble and emaciated, she lives in her chamber surrounded by these orphans, who now constitute her chief hold on life. She shares all their pleasures, is the depositary of their little griefs, and unites in herself the relations of aunt, mother, and grandmother. She has faith to believe that her frail thread of existence will be prolonged for the sake of these little ones. The world still comes to her, in her seclusion, through a swarm of humble friends and dependants, who find themselves comforted and ennobled by the benignant patience with which she listens to their various experiences, and gives them kindly, sym- pathizing counsel, more valuable to them than mere pecuniary aid. Her spirit of self-abnegation is carried almost to asceticism ; but she reserves her severity wholly for herself; toward others she is prodigal of indulgence. This goodly temple of a human soul was reared in these fair proportions upon a foundation of struggles, disappointments, and bereavements. A friend described her serene exterior as a ' placid, ocean-deep manner ' ; under it lies a silent history of trouble and trial, con- verted into spiritual blessings. " The conclusion of the matter in my mind is, that a woman may make a respectable appearance as a wife, with a character far less noble than UNMARRIED WOMEN. 143 is necessary to enable her to lead a single life with usefulness and dignity. She is sheltered and concealed behind her husband ; but the unmarried woman must rely upon herself; and she lives in a glass house, open to the gaze of every passer-by. To the feeble-minded, marriage is almost a necessity, and if wisely formed it doubtless renders the life of any woman more happy. But happiness is not the sole end and aim of this life. We are sent here to build up a character ; and sensible women may easily reconcile themselves to a single life, since even its disadvantages may be con- verted into means of develop- ment of all the faculties with which God has endowed them." You are " getting into years." Yes, but the years are getting into you ; the ripe, mellow years. One by one, the crudities of your youth are falling off from you ; the vanity, the egotism, the bewil- derment, the uncertainty. Every wrong road into which you have wandered has brought you, by the knowledge of that mistake, nearer to the truth. Nearer and nearer you are approaching your- self. GAIL HAMILTON. THE OLD MAID'S PRAYER TO DIANA. By Mrs. Tiglie, an Irish author, who wrote more than fifty years ago, when single women had not attained to the honorable position which they now occupy. SINCE thou and the stars, my dear goddess, decree That, old maid as I am, an old maid I must be, O, hear the petition I offer to thee ! For to bear it must be my endeavor : From the grief of my friendships all drooping around, Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be found ; From the legacy-hunters, that near us abound, Diana, thy servant deliver ! From the scorn of the young, and the flaunts of the gay, From all the trite ridicule rattled away By the pert ones, who .know nothing wiser to say, Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her ! From repining at fancied neglected desert; Or, vain of a civil speech, bridling alert ; From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt ; Diana, thy servant deliver ! THE OLD MAID'S PRAYER TO DIANA. 145 From over solicitous guarding of pelf; From humor unchecked, that most obstinate elf; From every unsocial attention to self, Or ridiculous whim whatsoever ; From the vaporish freaks, or methodical airs, Apt to sprout in a brain that 's exempted from cares ; From impertinent meddling in others' affairs ; Diana, thy servant deliver ! From the erring attachments of desolate souls ; From the love of spadille, and of matadore voles ; * Or of lap-dogs, and parrots, and monkeys, and owls, Be they ne'er so uncommon and clever ; But chief from the love, with all loveliness flown, Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown ; Diana, thy servant deliver ! From spleen at beholding the young more caressed ; From pettish asperity, tartly expressed ; From scandal, detraction, and every such pest; From all, thy true servant deliver ! Nor let satisfaction depart from her cot ; Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient if not ; Be pleased when regarded, content when forgot, Till the Fates her slight thread shall dissever. * Terms used in Ombre, a game at cards. GRANDFATHER'S REVERIE. By THEODORE PARKER. 'RANDFATHER is old. His back is bent. In the street he sees crowds of men looking dreadfully young, and walking fearfully swift. He wonders where all the old folks are. Once, when a boy, he could not find people young enough for him, and sidled up to any young stranger he met on Sun- days, wondering why God made the world so old. Now he goes to Commencement to see his grand- son take his degree, and is astonished at the youth of the audience. " This is new," he says ; " it did not use to be so fifty years ago." At meeting, the minister seems surprisingly young, and the au- dience young. He looks round, and is astonished that there are so few venerable heads. The audi- ence seem not decorous. They come in late, and hurry off early, clapping the doors after them with irreverent bang. But grandfather is decorous, well mannered, early in his seat ; if jostled, he GRANDFATHER'S REVERIE. 147 jostles not again ; elbowed, he returns it not ; crowded, he thinks no evil. He is gentlemanly to the rude, obliging to the insolent and vulgar ; for grandfather is a gentleman ; not puffed up with mere money, but edified with well-grown manli- ness. Time has dignified his good manners. It is night. The family are all abed. Grand- father sits by. his old-fashioned fire. He draws his old-fashioned chair nearer to the hearth. On the stand which his mother gave him are the can- dlesticks, also of old time. The candles are three quarters burnt down ; the fire on the hearth also is low. He has been thoughtful all day, talking half to himself, chanting a bit of verse, humming a snatch of an old tune. He kissed his pet grand- daughter more tenderly than common, before she went to bed. He takes out of his bosom a little locket ; nobody ever sees it. Therein are two little twists of hair. As Grandfather looks at them, the outer twist of hair becomes a whole head of ambrosial curls. He remembers stolen interviews, meetings by moonlight. He remembers how sweet the evening star looked, and how he laid his hand on another's shoulder, and said, " You are my evening star." The church-clock strikes the midnight hour. He looks in his locket again. The other twist is the hair of his first-born son. At this same hour of midnight, once, many years ago, he knelt and prayed, when the long agony was over, " Mv 148 GRANDFATHERS REVERIE. God, I thank thee that, though I am a father, I am still a husband, too ! What am I, that unto me a life should be given and another spared ! " Now he has children, and children's children, the joy of his old age. But for many a year his wife has looked to him from beyond the evening star. She is still the evening star herself, yet more beau- tiful ; a star that never sets ; not mortal wife now, but angel. The last stick on his andirons snaps asunder, and falls outward. Two faintly smoking brands stand there. Grandfather lays them to- gether, and they flame up ; the two smokes are united in one flame. " Even so let it be in heaven," says Grandfather. r USELESS, do you say you are ? You are of great use. You really are. How are you useful ? By being a man that is old. Your old age is a public good. It is indeed. No child ever listens to your talk without havino- a cood done it that no school- w O ing could do. When you are walking, no one ever opens a gate for you to pass through, and no one ever honors you with any kind of help, without being himself the better for what he does ; for fellow-feeling with you ripens his soul for him. MOUNTFORD. THE OLD COUPLE. IT stands in a sunny meadow, The house so mossy and brown, With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, And the gray roof sloping down. The trees fold their green arms round it, The trees a century old, And the winds go chanting through them, And the sunbeams drop their gold. The cowslips spring in the marshes, And the roses bloom on the hill, And beside the brook in the pastures The herds go feeding at will. The children have gone and left them ; They sit in the sun alone ; And the old wife's tears are falling, * As she harks to the well-known tone That won her heart in girlhood, That has soothed her in many a care, And praises her now for the brightness Her old face used to wear. 150 THE OLD COUPLE. She thinks again of her bridal, How, dressed in her robe of white, She stood by her gay young lover In the morning's rosy light. O, the morning is rosy as ever, But the rose from her cheek is fled ; And the sunshine still is golden, But it falls on a silvery head. And the spring-like dreams, once vanished, Come back in her winter-time, Till her feeble pulses tremble With the thrill of girlhood's prime. And, looking forth from the window, She thinks how the trees have grown. Since, clad in her bridal whiteness, She crossed the old door-stone. Though dimmed her eyes' bright azure, And dimmed her hair's young gold, The love in her girlhood plighted Has never grown dim nor old. They sat in peace in the sunshine, Till the day was almost done ; And then at its close an angel Stole over the threshold stone He folded their hands together ; He touched their eyes with balm ; And their last breath floated upward, Like the close of a solemn psalm. THE OLD COUPLE. 151 Like a bridal pair they traversed The unseen mystical road, That leads to the beautiful city, " Whose Builder and Maker is God." Perhaps, in that miracle country, They will give her lost youth back, And the flowers of a vanished spring-time "Will bloom in the spirit's track. One draught of the living waters Shall call back his manhood's prime, And eternal years shall measure The love that outlived time. But the forms that they left behind them, The wrinkles and silver hair, Made holy to us by the kisses The angel had printed there, We will hide away 'neath the willows When the day is low in the west, Where the sunshine gleams upon them, And no winds disturb their rest. And we '11 suffer no telltale tombstone, With its age and date, to rise O'er the two who are old no longer, In their Father's house in the skies. HOME JOURNAL. A STORY OF ST. MARK'S EVE. BY THOMAS HOOD. St. Mark's Day is a festival which has been observed on the 25th of April, in Catholic countries, from time immemorial. The superstition alluded to in the following story was formerly very generally believed, and vigils in the church-porch at mid- night were common. HOPE it'll choke thee ! " said Master Giles, the yeoman ; and, as he said it, he banged his big red fist on the old &l oak table. " I do say I hope it '11 choke thee ! " The dame made no reply. She was choking with passion and a fowl's liver, which was the cause of the dispute. Much has been said and sung concerning the advantage of congenial tastes amongst married people ; but the quarrels of this Kentish couple arose from too great coincidence in their tastes. They were both fond of the little delicacy in question, but the dame had managed to secure the morsel to herself. This was sufficient to cause a storm of high words, which, properly understood, signifies very low language. Their A STORY OF ST. MARKS EVE. 153 meal times seldom passed over without some con- tention of this sort. As sure as the knives and forks clashed, so did they ; being in fact equally greedy and disagreedy ; and when they did pick a quarrel, they picked it to the bone. It was reported that, on some occasions, they had not even contented themselves with hard speeches, but had come to scuffling ; he taking to boxing and she to pinching, though in a far less amicable manner than is practised by the taker of snuff. On the present difference, however, they were satisfied with " wishing each other dead with all their hearts "; and there seemed little doubt of the sincerity of the aspiration, on looking at their malignant faces ; for they made a horrible picture in this frame of mind. Now it happened that this quarrel took place on the morning of St. Mark ; a saint who was sup- posed on that festival to favor his votaries with a peep into the book of fate. For it was the popu- lar belief in those days, that, if a person should keep watch at midnight beside the church, the ap- paritions of all those of the parish who were to be taken by death before the next anniversary would be seen entering the porch. The yeoman, like his neighbors, believed most devoutly in this supersti- tion ; and in the very moment that he breathed the unseemly aspiration aforesaid, it occurred to him that the eve was at hand, when, by observing the rite of St. Mark, he might know to a certainty 7* 154 A STORY OF ST. MARK'S EVE. whether this unchristian wish was to be one of those that bear fruit. Accordingly, a little before midnight, he stole quietly out of the house, and set forth on his way to the church. In the mean time, the dame called to mind the same ceremonial ; and, having the like motive for curiosity with her husband, she also put on her cloak and calash, and set out, though by a different path, on the same errand. The night of the Saint was as dark and chill as the mysteries he was supposed to reveal ; the moon throwing but a short occasional glance, as sluggish masses of cloud were driven slowly from her face. Thus it fell out that our two adventurers were quite unconscious of being in company, till a sud- den glimpse of moonlight showed them to each other, only a few yards apart. Both, through a natural panic, became pale as ghosts ; and both made eagerly toward the church porch. Much as they had wished for this vision, they could not help quaking and stopping on the spot, as if turned to stones ; and in this position the dark again threw a sudden curtain over them, and they disappeared from each other. The two came to one conclusion ; each conceiv- ing that St. Mark had marked the other to himself. With this comfortable knowledge, the widow and widower elect hied home again by the roads they came ; and as their custom was to sit apart after a quarrel, they repaired to separate chambers, each ignorant of the other's excursion. A STORY OF ST. MARK'S EVE. 155 By and by, being called to supper, instead of sulking as aforetime, they came down together, each being secretly in the best humor, though mutually suspected of the worst. Amongst other things on the table, there was a calf's sweetbread, being one of those very dainties that had often set them together by the ears. The dame looked and longed, but she refrained from its appropriation, thinking within herself that she could give up sweetbreads for one year ; and the farmer made a similar reflection. After pushing the dish to and fro several times, by a common impulse they di- vided the treat ; and then, having supped, they retired amicably to rest, whereas until then they had seldom gone to bed without falling out. The truth was, each looked upon the other as being already in the churchyard. On the morrow, which happened to be the dame's birthday, the farmer was the first to wake ; and knowing tvhat he kneiv, and having, besides, but just roused himself out of a dream strictly confirmatory of the late vigil, he did not scruple to salute his wife, and wish her many happy returns of the day. The wife, who knew as much as he, very readily wished him the same ; having, in truth, but just rubbed out of her eyes the pattern of a widow's bonnet that had been submitted to her in her sleep. She took care, however, at din- ner to give the fowl's liver to the doomed man ; considering; that when he was dead and ook ; and all I now need to complete it is the account of his death." The old man smiled, and made a low bow. I continued, u No one is more THE ANCIENT MAN. 199 likely to know the particulars of his decease than yourself; and you are the only person who can enrich me with the rare traits of his childhood ; because every incident inscribed on a child's brain grows deeper with years, like names cut into a gourd, while later inscriptions disappear. Tell me, I pray you, all that you know concerning the departed man ; for I am to publish his Life at the Michaelmas Fair." He murmured, " Excellent genius ; scholar ; man of letters ; author most famous ; these and other fine titles I learned by heart and applied to myself, while I was that vain, blinded Fibel, who wrote and published the ordinary Spelling-Book in question." So then, this old man was the blessed Fibel himself! A hundred and twenty-five notes of admiration, ay, eighteen hundred and eleven notes in a row, would but feebly express my as- tonishment. [Here follows a long conversation concerning Fibel, after which the narrative continues as fol- lows : ] The old man went into his little garden-house, and I followed him. He whistled, and instantly his black squirrel came down from a tree, whither it had gone more for pleasure than for food. Nightingales, thrushes, starlings, and other birds, flew back into the open window from the tops of the trees. A bulfinch, whose color had been 200 THE ANCIENT MAN. changed by age from red to black, strutted about the room, uttering droll sounds, which it could not make distinct. The hare pattered about in the twilight, sometimes on his hind feet, sometimes on all fours. Every dog in the house bounded for- ward in glad, loving, human glee. But the most joyful of all was the poodle ; for he knew he was to have a box with compartments fastened to his neck, containing a list of the articles wanted for supper, which it was his business to bring from the inn in Bienenroda. He was Fibel's victualler, or provision-wagon. Children, who ran back and forth, were the only other ones who ministered to his wants. In allusion to his pets, he said : " We ought to assist the circumscribed faculties of animals, by educating them, as far as we can, since we stand toward them, in a certain degree, as their Lord God ; and we ought to train them to good morals, too ; for very possibly they may continue to live after death. God and the animals are always good ; but not so with man.'' Aged men impart spiritual things, as they give material things, with a shaking hand, which drops half. In the effort to gather up his recollections, he permitted me to quicken his memory with my own ; and thus I obtained a connected account of some particulars in his experience. He said he might have been about a hundred years old, when he cut a new set of teeth, the pain of which dis- THE ANCIENT MAN. 201 turbed him with wild dreams. One night he "seemed to be holding in his hands a large sieve, and it was his task to pull the meshes apart, one by one. The close net-work, and the fastening to the wooden rim, gave him indescribable trouble. But as his dream went on, he seemed to hold in his hand the great bright sun, which flamed up into his face. Pie woke with a new-born feeling, and slumbered again, as if on waving tulips. He dreamed again that he was a hundred years old, and that he died as an innocent yearling child, without any of the sin or woe of earth ; that he found his parents on high, who brought before him a long procession of his children, who had re- mained invisible to him while he was in this world, because they were transparent, like the angels. He rose from his bed with new teeth and new ideas. The old Fibel was consumed, and a true Phoenix stood in his place, sunning its colored wings. He had risen glorified out of no other grave than his own body. The world retreated ; heaven came down. When he had related these things, he at once ~ ' bade me good night. Without waiting for the return of his ministering poodle, and with hands folded for prayer, he showed me the road. I with- drew, but I rambled a long time round the orchard, which had sprung entirely from seed of his own planting. Indeed he seldom ate a cherry without smuggling the stone and burying it in the ground 9* 202 THE ANCIENT MAN. for a resurrection. This habit often annoyed the neighboring peasants, who did not want high" things growing on their boundaries. " But," said he, " I cannot destroy a fruit-stone. If the peas- ants pull up the tree it produces, it will still have lived a little while, and die as a child dies." While loitering in the orchard, I heard an even- ing hymn played and sung. I returned near Kibel's window, and saw him slowly turning a hand-organ, and accompanying the tune by softly singing an evening hymn. This organ, aided by his fragment of a voice, sufficed, in its monotonous uniformity, for his domestic devotion. I went away repeating the song. Beautiful was the orchard when I returned the next morning. And the hoar-frost of age seemed thawed and fluid, and to glisten only as morning dew on Fibel's after-blossom. The affection of his animals toward him rendered the morning still more beautiful, in an orchard every tree of which had for its mother the stone of some fruit that he had enjoyed. His animals were an inheritance from his parents ; though, of course they were the great, great, great grandchildren of those which had belonged to them. The trees were full of brooding birds, and by a slight whistle he could lure down to his shoulders this tame posterity of his father's singing-school. It was refreshing to the heart to see how quickly the tender flutterers surrounded him. THE ANCIENT MAN. 203 With the infantine satisfaction of a gray-headed child, he was accustomed to hang up on sticks, or in the trees, wherever the rays of the sun could best shine upon them, little balls of colored glass ; and he took indescribable delight in this accordion of silver, gold, and jewel hues. These parti- colored sun-balls, varying the green with many flaming tints, were like crystal tulip-beds. Some of the red ones seemed like ripe apples among the branches. But what charmed the old man most were reflections of the landscape from these little world-spheres. They resembled the moving pros- pects shadowed forth in a diminishing mirror. " Ah," said he, u when I contemplate the colors produced by the sunshine, which God gives to this dark world, it seems to me as if I had departed, and were already with God. And yet, since HE is in us, we are always with God." I asked him how it happened that, at bis age, he spoke German almost purer than that used even by our best writers. Counting his birth from the end of his century [the new birth described in his dream], he replied : wi I was somewhere about two years old, when I happened to hear a holy, spir- itual minister, who spoke German with such an angel tongue, that he would not have needed a better in heaven. I heard him every Sabbath durino- several years." He could not tell me the O ^ preacher's name, but he vividly described his man- ner in the pulpit. He told how he spoke with no 204 THE ANCIENT MAN. superfluity of words, airs, or gestures ; how he uttered, in mild tones, things the most beautiful and forcible ; how, like the Apostle John, with his resting-place close to heaven, this man spoke to the world, laying his hands calmly on the pulpit- desk, as an arm-case ; how his every tone was a heart, and his every look a blessing ; how the energy of this disciple of Christ was embedded in love, as the firm diamond is encased in ductile gold ; how the pulpit was to him a Mount Tabor, whereon he transfigured both himself and his hearers ; and how, of all clergymen, he best per- formed that which is the most difficult, the praying worthily. My feelings grew constantly warmer toward this time-worn man, while I did not require a full return of affection from him any more than I should from a little child. But I remembered that I ought not to disturb the evening of his days with things of the world, and that I ought to depart. I would have him preserve undisturbed that sub- lime position of old age, where man lives, as it were, at the pole ; where no star rises or sets ; where the whole firmament is motionless and clear, while the Pole-Star of another world shines fixedly overhead. I therefore said to him, that I would return in the evening, and take my leave. To my surprise, he replied, that perhaps he should himself take leave of the whole world at evening, and that he wished not to be disturbed when dvino;. He THE ANCIENT MAN. 205 said that he should that evening read to the end of the Revelation of St. John, and perhaps it might be the end with him also. I ought to have O o mentioned previously that he read continually, and read nothing but the Bible, regularly through from the beginning to the end ; and he had a fixed im- pression that he should depart on concluding the twentieth and twenty-first verses of the twenty- second chapter of the Revelation of John : " He which testifieth of these things saith, Surely I come quickly : Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen." In consequence of this belief, he was in the habit of reading the last books of the Bible faster. Little as I believed in so sudden a withering of his protracted after-blossom, I obeyed his latest- formed wish. Whenever a right wish is expressed by any man, we should do well to remember that it may be his last. I took my leave, requesting him to intrust me with his testamentary commis- sions for the village. He said they had been taken charge of long ago, and the children knew them. He cut a twig from a Christmas-tree, coeval with his childhood, and presented me with it as a keep- sake. In the beautiful summer evening, I could not re- O * frain from stealthily approaching the house, through the orchard, to ascertain whether the good old man had ended his Bible and his life together. On the 206 THE ANCIENT MAN. way, I found the torn envelope of a letter sealed with a black seal, and over me the white storks were speeding their way to a warmer country. I was not much encouraged when I heard all the birds singing in his orchard ; for their ancestors had done the same when his father died. A tow- ering cloud, full of the latest twilight, spread itself before my short-sighted vision, like a far-off, bloom- ing, foreign landscape ; and I could not compre- hend how it was that I had never before noticed this strange-looking, reddish land ; so much the more easily did it occur to me that this might be his Orient, whither God was leading the weary one. I had become so confused, as actually to mistake red bean-blossoms for a bit of fallen sunset. Presently, I heard a man singing to the accompa- niment of an organ. It was the aged man singing his evening hymn : " Lord of my life, another day Once more hath sped away." The birds in the room, and those on the distant branches also, chimed in with his song. The bees, too, joined in with their humming, as in the warm summer evening they dived into the cups of the linden-blossoms. My joy kindled into a flame. He was alive ! But I would not disturb his holy evening. I would let him remain with Him who had surrounded him with gifts and with years, and not call upon him to think of any man here below. I listened to the last verse of his hymn, that I THE ANCIENT MAN. 207 might be still more certain of the actual continu- ance of his life, and then tardily I slipped away. To my joy, I still found, in the eternal youth of Nature, beautiful references to his lengthened age ; from the everlasting rippling of the brook in the meadow, to a late swarm of bees, which had settled themselves on a linden-tree, probably in the fore- noon, before two o'clock, as if, by taking their lodging with him, he was to be their bee-father, and continue to live. Every star twinkled to me a hope. I went to the orchard very early in the morn- ing, wishing to look upon the aged man in sleep ; death's ancient prelude, the warm dream of cold death. But he was reading, and had read, in his large-printed Bible, far beyond the Deluge, as I could see by the engravings. I held it to be a duty not to interrupt his solitude long. I told him I was going away, and gave him a little farewell billet, instead of farewell words. I was much moved, though silent. It was not the kind of emotion with which we take leave of a friend, or a youth, or an old man ; it was like parting from a remote stranger-being, who scarcely glances at us from the high, cold clouds wjiich hold him between the earth and the sun. There is a stillness of soul which resembles the stillness of bodies on a frozen sea, or on high mountains ; every loud tone is an interruption too prosaically harsh, as in the softest adagio. Even those words, ' for the last time,"' 208 THE ANCIENT MAN. the old man had long since left behind him. Yet he hastily presented to me my favorite flower, a blue Spanish vetch, in an earthen pot. This but- terfly-flower is the sweeter, inasmuch as it so easily exhales its perfume and dies. He said he had not yet sung the usual morning-hymn, which followed the survival of his death-evening ; and he begged me not to take it amiss that he did not accompany me, or even once look after me, especially as he could not see very well. He then added, almost with emotion, " O friend, may you live virtu- ously ! We shall meet again, where my departed relatives will be present, and also that great preacher, whose name I have forgotten. We meet again." He turned immediately, quite tranquilly, to his organ. I parted from him, as from a life. He played on his organ beneath the trees, and his face was turned toward me ; but to his dim eyes I knew that I should soon become as a motionless cloud. So I remained until he began his morning hymn, from old Neander : " The Lord still leaves me living, I hasten Him to praise ; My joyful spirit giving, He hears my early lays." While he was singing, the birds flew round him ; the dogs accustomed to the music, were silent ; and it even wafted the swarm of bees into their hive. Bowed down as he was by age, his figure THE ANCIENT MAN. 209 was so tall, that from the distance where I stood he looked sufficiently erect. I remained until the old man had sung the twelfth and last verse of his morning hymn : " Ready my course to finish, And come, God, to Thee ; A conscience pure I cherish, Till death shall summon me." NOTHING of God's making can a man love rightly, without heing the surer of God's loving himself; neither the moon, nor the stars, nor a rock, nor a tree, nor a flower, nor a hird. Not the least grateful of my thanksgivings have been hymns that have come to my lips while I have been listening to the birds of an evening. Only let us love what God loves, and then His love of our- selves will feel certain, and the sight of his face we shall be sure of; and immortality, and heaven, and the freedom of the universe, will be as easy for us to believe in, as a father's giving good gifts to his children. MOUNTFORD. MILTON ON HIS LOSS OF SIGHT. I AM old and blind ! Men point at me as smitten by God's frown ; Afflicted, and deserted of my kind, Yet I am not cast down. I am weak, yet strong ; I murmur not, that I no longer see ; Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, Father supreme ! to thee. merciful One ! When men are farthest, then thou art most near When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear. Thy glorious face Is leaning towards me, and its holy light Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place ; And there is no more night. On my bended knees, I recognize thy purpose, clearly shown ; My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see Thyself, thyself alone. MILTON ON HIS LOSS OF SIGHT. 211 I have naught to fear ; This darkness is the shadow of thy wing ; Beneath it I am almost sacred ; here Can come no evil thing. O, I seem to stand Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been ; Wrapped in the radiance from the sinless land, Which eye hath never seen. Visions come and go ; Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng ; From angel lips I seem to hear the flow Of soft and holy song. It is nothing now, When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes, When airs from paradise refresh my brow, That earth in darkness lies. In a purer clime, My being fills with rapture ! waves of thought Roll in upon my spirit ! strains sublime Break over me unsought. Give me now my lyre ! - I feel the stirrings of a gift divine ; Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, Lit by no skill of mine. LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN, ON HER BIRTHDAY. BY L. MARIA CHILD. ask me, dear friend, whether it does not make me sad to grow old. I tell you frankly it did make me sad for a while ; but that time has long since past. The name of being old I never dreaded. I am not aware that there ever was a time when I should have made the slightest objection to hav- ing my age proclaimed by the town-crier, if people had had any curiosity to know it. But I suppose every human being sympathizes with the senti- ment expressed bv Wordsworth : " Life's Autumn past, I stand on Winter's verge, And daily lose what I desire to keep." The first white streaks in my hair, and the spectre of a small black spider floating before my eyes, foreboding diminished clearness of vision, certainly did induce melancholy reflections. At LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN. 213 that period, it made me nervous to think about the approaches of old age ; and when young people thoughtlessly reminded me of it, they cast a shadow over the remainder of the day. It was mournful as the monotonous rasping of crickets, which tells that " the year is wearing from its prime." I dreaded age in the same way that I always dread the coming of winter ; because I want to keep the light, the warmth, the flowers, and the growth of summer. But, after all, when winter comes, I soon get used to him, and am obliged to acknowl- edge that he is a handsome old fellow, and by no means destitute of pleasant qualities. And just so it has proved with old age. Now that it has come upon me, I find it full of friendly compensa- tions for all that it takes away. The period of sadness and nervous dread on this subject, which I suppose to be a very general experience, is of longer or shorter duration, ac- cording to habits previously formed. From ob- servation, I judge that those whose happiness has mainly depended on balls, parties, fashionable intercourse, and attentions flattering to vanity, usually experience a prolonged and querulous sad- ness, as years advance upon them ; because, in the nature of things, such enjoyments pass out of the reach of the old, when it is too late to form a taste for less transient pleasures. The temporary depression to which I have alluded soon passed from my spirit, and I attribute it largely to the 214 LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN, fact that I have always been pleased with very simple and accessible tiling?. I always shudder a little at the approach of winter; yet, when it comes, the trees, dressed in feathery snow, or pris- matic icicles, give me far more enjoyment, than I could find in a ball-room full of duchesses, decor- ated with marabout-feathers, opals, and diamonds. No costly bridal-veil sold in Broadway would in- terest me so much as the fairy lace-work which frost leaves upon the windows, in an unceasing variety of patterns. The air, filled with minute snow-stars, falling softly, ever falling, to beautify the earth, is to me a far lovelier sight, than would have been Prince Esterhazy, who dropped seed- pearls from his embroidered coat, as he moved in the measured mazes of the dance. Speaking of the beautiful phenomenon of snow, reminds me how often the question has been asked what snow z's, and what makes it. I have never seen a satisfactory answer ; but I happen to know what snow is, because I once saw the process of its formation. I was at the house of a Quaker, whose neat wife washed in an unfinished back- room all winter, that the kitchen might be kept in good order. I passed through the wash-room on the 16th of December, 1835, a day still remem- bered by manv for its remarkable intensity of cold. Clouds of steam, rising from the tubs and boiling kettle, ascended to the ceiling, and fell from thence in the form of a miniature snow-storm. Here ON HER BIRTHDAY. 215 was an answer to the question, What is snow ? This plainly proved it to be frozen vapor, as ice is frozen water. The particles of water, expanded by heat, and floating in the air, were arrested in their separated state, and congealed in particles. It does not snow when the weather is intensely cold ; for the lower part of the atmosphere must have some degree of warmth, if vapor is floating in it. When this vapor ascends, and meets a colder stratum of air, it is congealed, and falls downward in the form of snow. " The snow ! The snow ! The beautiful snow ! " How handsome do meadows and fields look in their pure, sparkling robe ! I do not deny that the winter of the year and the winter of life both have intervals of dreariness. The miserere howled by stormy winds is not pleasing to the ear, nor are the cold gray river and the dark brown hills re- freshing to the eye. But the reading of Whittier's Psalnl drowns the howling of the winds, as " the clear tones of a bell are heard above the carts and drays of a city." Even simple voices of mutual affection, by the fireside, have such musical and pervasive power, that the outside storm often passes by unheard. The absence of colors in the landscape is rather dismal, especially in the latter part of the winter. Shall I tell you what I do when I feel a longing for bright hues ? I suspend glass prisms in the windows, and they make the lisht blossom into rainbows all over the room. 216 LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN, Childish ! you will say. I grant it. But is child- ishness the greatest folly ? I told you I was satisfied with very simple pleasures ; and whether it be wise or not, I consider it great good fortune. It is more fortunate certainly to have home-made rainbows within, especially when one is old ; but even outward home-made rainbows are not to be despised, when flowers have hidden themselves, and the sun cannot manifest his prismatic glories, for want of mediums appropriate for their trans- mission. But Nature does not leave us long to pine for variety. Before the snow-lustre quite passes away, March comes, sombre in dress, but with a cheerful voice of promise : " The beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird's warble know." Here and there a Lady's Delight peeps forth, smil- ing at me "right peert^" as Westerners say ; and the first sight of the bright little thing gladdens my heart, like the crowing of a babe. The phenomena of spring have never yet failed to replenish the fountains of my inward life : " Spring still makes spring in the mind, When sixty years are told ; Love wakes anew this throbbing heart, And we are never old." As the season of Nature's renovation advances, it multiplies within me spiritual photographs, never to be destroyed. Last year I saw a striped squirrel ON HER BIRTHDAY. 217 hopping along with a green apple in his paws, hugged up to his pretty little white breast. My mind daguerrotyped him instantaneously. It is there now ; and I expect to find a more vivid copy when my soul opens its portfolio of pictures in the other world. The wonders which summer brings are more and more suggestive of thought as I grow older. What mysterious vitality, what provident care, what lavishness of ornament, does Nature mani- fest, even in her most common productions ! Look at a dry bean-pod, and observe what a delicate lit- tle strip of silver tissue is tenderly placed above and below the seed ! Examine the clusters of Sweet- Williams, and you will find an endless vari- ety of minute embroidery-patterns, prettily dotted into the petals with diverse shades of colors. The shining black seed they produce look all alike ; but scatter them in the ground, and there will spring forth new combinations of form and color, exceeding the multiform changes of a kaleidoscope. I never can be sufficiently thankful that I early formed the habit of working in the garden with loving good-will. It has contributed more than anything else to promote healthiness of mind and body. Before one has time to observe a thousandth part of the miracles of summer, winter appears again, in ermine and diamonds, lavishly scattering his pearls. My birthday comes at this season, 10 218 LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN, and so I accept his jewels as a princely largess peculiarly bestowed upon myself. The day is kept as a festival. That is such a high-sounding expres- sion, that it may perhaps suggest to you recep- tion-parties, complimentary verses, and quantities of presents. Very far from it. Not more than half a dozen people in the world know when the day occurs, and they do not all remember it. As I arrive at the new milestone on my pilgrimage, I generally find that a few friends have placed gar- lands upon it. My last anniversary was distin- guished by a beautiful novelty. An offering came from people who never knew me personally, but who were gracious enough to say thev took an O O t/ i> interest in me on account of my writings. That was a kindness that carried me over into my new year on fairy wings ! I always know that the flowers in such garlands are genuine ; for those who deal in artificial roses are not in the habit of presenting them to secluded old people, without wealth or power. I have heard of a Parisian lady, who preferred Nattier's manufactured roses to those produced by Nature, because they were, as she said, " more like what a rose ought to be." But I never prefer artificial things to natural, even if they are more like what they ought to be. So I rejoice over the genuineness of the offerings which I find on the milestone, and often give preference to the simplest of them all. I thankfully add them to my decorations for the annual festival, which is ON HER BIRTHDAY. 219 kept in the private apartments of my own soul, where six angel-guests present themselves unbid- den, Use and Beauty, Love and Memory, Humil- ity and Gratitude. The first suggests to me to consecrate the advent of a new year in my life by some acts of kindness toward the sad, the op- pressed, or the needy. Another tells me to collect all the books, engravings, vases, &c., bestowed by friendly hands on the preceding birthdays of my life. Their beauties of thought, of form, and of color, excite my imagination, and fill me with con- templations of the scenes they represent, or the genius that produced them. Other angels bring back the looks and tones of the givers, and pleas- ant incidents, and happy meetings, in bygone years. Sometimes, Memory looks into rny eyes too- sadlv. and I answer the look with tears. But I say to her, Xay, my friend, do not fix upon me that melancholy gaze ! Give me some of thy flowers ! Then, with a tender, moonlight smile, she brings me a handful of fragrant roses, pale, but beautiful. The other angels bid me remember who bestowed the innumerable blessings of Nature and Art, of friendship, and capacity for culture, and how un- worthy I am of all His goodness. Thev move mv heart to earnest prayer that former faults may be forgiven, and that I may be enabled to live more worthily during the year on which I am entering. But I do not try to recall the faults of the past, lest such meditations should tend to make me weak 220 LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN, for the future. I have learned that self-conscious- ness is not a healthy state of mind, on whatever theme it employs itself. Therefore, I pray the all-loving Father to enable me to forget myself ; not to occupy my thoughts with my own merits, or my own defects, my successes, or my disap- pointments ; but to devote my energies to the benefit of others, as a humble instrument of his goodness, in whatever way He may see fit to point out. On this particular birthday, I have been think- ing more than ever of the many compensations which a