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COLLEGE PRODUCTIONS.
It is next in order to examine some of the literary
productions of Angeline Stickney while at college. Like the literary
remains of Oliver Cromwell, they are of a strange and uncertain
character. It would be easy to make fun of them; and yet sincerity is
perhaps their chief characteristic. They are Puritanism brought down to
the nineteenth century—solemn, absurd, almost maudlin in their religious
sentimentality, and yet deeply earnest and at times noble. The
manuscripts upon which these literary productions are recorded are worn,
creased, stained, torn and covered with writing—bearing witness to the
rigid economy practiced by the writer. The penmanship is careful, every
letter clearly formed, for Angeline Stickney was not one of those vain
persons who imagine that slovenly handwriting is a mark of genius.
First, I will quote a passage illustrating the intense loyalty of our
young Puritan to her Alma Mater:
About a year since, I bade adieu to my fellow students here, and
took the farewell look of the loved Alma Mater, Central College. It
was a “longing, lingering look” for I thought it had never seemed so
beautiful as on that morning. The rising sun cast a flood of golden
light upon it making it glow as if it were itself a sun; and so I
thought indeed it was, a sun of truth just risen, a sun that would
send forth such floods of light that Error would flee before it and
never dare to come again with its dark wing to brood over our
land.—And every time I have thought of Central College during my
absence, it has come up before me with that halo of golden light
upon it, and then I have had such longings to come and enjoy that
light; and now I have come, and I am glad that I am here. Yes, I am
glad, though I have left my home with all its clear scenes and
loving hearts; I am glad though I know the world will frown upon me,
because I am a student of this unpopular institution, and I expect
to get the name that I have heard applied to all who come here,
“fanatic.” I am glad that I am here because I love this institution.
I love the spirit that welcomes all to its halls, those of every
tongue, and of every hue, which admits of “no rights exclusive,”
which holds out the cup of knowledge in it’s crystal brightness for
all to quaff; and if this is fanaticism, I will glory in the name
“fanatic.” Let me live, let me die a fanatic. I will not seal up in
my heart the fountain of love that gushes forth for all the human
race. And I am glad I am here because there are none here to say,
“thus far thou mayst ascend the hill of Science and no farther,”
when I have just learned how sweet are the fruits of knowledge, and
when I can see them hanging in such rich clusters, far up the
heights, looking so bright and golden, as if they were inviting me
to partake. And all the while I can see my brother gathering those
golden fruits, and I mark how his eye brightens, as he speeds up the
shining track, laden with thousands of sparkling gems and crowned
with bright garlands of laurel, gathered from beside his path. No,
there are none here to whisper, “_that_ is beyond _thy_ sphere, thou
couldst never scale those dizzy heights”; but, on the contrary, here
are kind voices cheering me onward. I have long yearned for such
words of cheer, and now to hear them makes my way bright and my
heart strong.
C. A. STICKNEY.
Next, behold what a fire-eater this modest young woman could be:
Yes, let the union be dissolved rather than bow in submission to
such a detestable, abominable, infamous law, a law in derogation of
the genius of our free institutions, an exhibition of tyranny and
injustice which might well put to the blush a nation of barbarians.
Ours is called a glorious union. Then is a union of robbers, of
pirates, a glorious union; for to rob a man of liberty is the worst
of robberies, the foulest of piracies. Let us just glance at one of
the terrible features of this law, at the provision which allows to
the commissioner who is appointed to decide upon the future freedom
or slavery of the fugitive the sum of ten dollars if he decides in
favor of his slavery and but five if in favor of freedom.
Legislative bribery striking of hands with the basest iniquity!...
What are the evils that can accrue to the nation from a dissolution
of the union? Would such a dissolution harm the North? No. It would
be but a separation from a parasite that is sapping from us our very
life. Would it harm the South? No. Let them stand alone and be
abhorred of all nations, that they may the sooner learn the lesson
of repentance! Would it harm the slave? No. Such a dissolution would
strike the death blow to slavery. Let us look: Deut. 23, 15 & 16:
“Thou shalt not deliver over unto his master the servant which is
escaped from his master unto thee. He shall dwell with thee, even
among you, in that place which he shall choose.”—The law of God
against the fugitive slave law. Which shall we obey?
The passages quoted are more fraught with feeling than any of the rest
of the prose selections before me; and I will pass over most of them,
barely mentioning the subjects. There is a silly and sentimental piece
entitled “Mrs. Emily Judson,” in which the demise of the third wife of
the famous missionary is noticed. There is a short piece of
argumentation in behalf of a regulation requiring attendance on public
worship. There is a sophomoric bit of prose entitled “The Spirit Of
Song,” wherein we have a glimpse of the Garden of Eden and its happy
lovers. There is a piece, without title, in honor of earth’s angels, the
noble souls who give their lives to perishing and oppressed humanity.
The following, in regard to modern poetry, is both true and well
expressed:
The superficial unchristian doctrine of our day is that poetry
flourishes most in an uncultivated soil, that the imagination shapes
her choicest images from the mists of a superstitious age. The
materials of poetry must ever remain the same and inexhaustible.
Poetry has its origin in the nature of man, in the deep and
mysterious recesses of the human soul. It is not the external only,
but the inner life, the mysterious workmanship of man’s heart and
the slumbering elements of passion which furnish the materials of
poetry.
Finally, because of the subject, I quote the following:
The study of Astronomy gives us the most exalted views of the
Creator, and it exalts ourselves also, and binds our souls more
closely to the soul of the Infinite. What wonders does it reveal! It
teaches that the earth, though it seem so immovable, not only turns
on its axis, but goes sweeping round a great circle whose miles are
counted by millions; and though it seem so huge, with its wide
continents and vast oceans, it is but a speck when compared with the
manifold works of God. It teaches the form, weight, and motion of
the earth, and then it bids us go up and weigh and measure the sun
and planets and solve the mighty problems of their motion. But it
stops not here. It bids us press upward beyond the boundary of our
little system of worlds up to where the star-gems lie glowing in the
great deep of heaven. And then we find that these glittering specks
are vast suns, pressing on in their shining courses, sun around sun,
and system around system, in harmony, in beauty, in grandeur; and as
we view them spread out in their splendour and infinity, we pause to
think of Him who has formed them, and we feel his greatness and
excellence and majesty, and in contemplating Him, the most sublime
object in the universe, our own souls are expanded, and filled with
awe and reverence and love. And they long to break through their
earthly prison-house that they may go forth on their great mission
of knowledge, and rising higher and higher into the heavens they may
at last bow in adoration and worship before the throne of the
Eternal.
To complete this study of Angeline Stickney’s college writings, it is
necessary, though somewhat painful, to quote specimens of her poetry.
For example:
There was worship in Heaven. An angel choir,
On many and many a golden lyre
Was hymning its praise. To the strain sublime
With the beat of their wings that choir kept time.
etc., etc., etc.
One is tempted to ask maliciously, “Moulting time?”
Here is another specimen, of which no manuscript copy is in existence,
its preservation being due to the loving admiration of Ruth Stickney,
who memorized it:
Clouds, ye are beautiful! I love to gaze
Upon your gorgeous hues and varying forms,
When lighted with the sun of noon-day’s blaze,
Or when ye are darkened with the blackest storms.
etc., etc., etc.
Next, consider this rather morbidly religious effusion in blank verse:
I see thee reaching forth thy hand to take
The laurel wreath that Fame has twined and now
Offers to thee, if thou wilt but bow down
And worship at her feet and bring to her
The goodly offerings of thy soul. I see
Thee grasp the iron pen to write thy name
In everlasting characters upon
The gate of Fame’s fair dome. But stay thy hand!
Ah, take not yet the wreath of Fame, lest thou
Be satisfied with its false glittering
And fail to win a brighter, fairer crown,—
Such crown as Fame’s skilled fingers ne’er have learned
To fashion, e’en a crown of Life. And bring
Thy offerings, the first, the best, and place
Them on God’s altar, and for incense sweet
Give Him the freshness of thy youth. And thus
Thou mayest gain a never fading crown.
And wait not now to trace thy name upon
The catalogue of Fame’s immortal ones, but haste thee first
To have it writ in Heaven in the Lamb’s Book of Life.
Pardon this seeming betrayal of a rustic poetess. For it seems like
betrayal to quote such lines, when she produced much better ones. For
example, the following verses are, to my mind, true and rather good
poetry:
I have not known thee long friend,
Yet I remember thee;
Aye deep within my heart of hearts
Shall live thy memory.
And I would ask of thee friend
That thou wouldst think of me.
Likewise:
I love to live. There are ten thousand cords
Which bind my soul to life, ten thousand sweets
Mixed with the bitter of existence’ cup
Which make me love to quaff its mingled wine.
There are sweet looks and tones through all the earth
That win my heart. Love-looks are in the lily’s bell
And violet’s eye, and love-tones on the winds
And waters. There are forms of grace which all
The while are gliding by, enrapturing
My vision. O, I can not guess how one
Can weary of the earth, when ev’ry year
To me it seems more and more beautiful;
When each succeeding spring the flowers wear
A fairer hue, and ev’ry autumn on
The forest top are richer tints. When each
Succeeding day the sunlight brighter seems,
And ev’ry night a fairer beauty shines
From all the stars....
Likewise, this rather melancholy effusion, entitled “Waiting”:
Love, sweet Love, I’m waiting for thee,
And my heart is wildly beating
At the joyous thought of meeting
With its kindred heart so dear.
Love, I’m waiting for thee here.
Love, _now_ I am waiting for thee.
_Soon_ I shall not wait thee more,
Neither by the open casement,
Nor beside the open door
Shall I sit and wait thee more.
Love, I shall not wait long for thee,
Not upon Time’s barren shore,
For I see my cheek is paling,
And I feel my strength is failing.
Love, I shall not wait here for thee.
Yet in Heaven I will await thee.
When I ope the golden door
I will ask to wait there for thee,
Close beside Heaven’s open door.
There I’ll stand and watch and listen
Till I see thy white plumes glisten,
Hear thy angel-pinions sweeping
Upward through the ether clear;
Then, beloved, at Heaven’s gate meeting,
This shall be my joyous greeting,
“Love, I’m waiting for thee here.”
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