Come back in her winter time,
Till her feeble pulses tremble
With the thrill of spring-time’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 or 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 eyelids with balm,
And their last breath floated outward,
Like the close of a solemn psalm!
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 the vanished spring-time
Will bloom in the spirit’s track.
One draught from the living waters
Shall call back his manhood’s prime;
And eternal years shall measure
The love that outlasted time.
But the shapes 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 sunbeams cannot find them,
Nor the winds disturb their rest.
And we’ll suffer no telltale tombstone,
With its age and date, to rise
O’er the two who are old no longer,
In the Father’s house in the skies.
[Illustration]
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
midnight were common.
“I hope it’ll choke thee!” said Master Giles, the yeoman; and, as
he said it, he banged his big red fist on the old oak table. “I do
say I hope it’ll 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 meal times seldom passed over without some contention 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 supposed on that festival to favor his
votaries with a peep into the book of fate. For it was the popular
belief in those days, that, if a person should keep watch at
midnight beside the church, the apparitions 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 superstition; 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 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 sudden 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 conceiving 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.
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 divided
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 what he knew_, 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 dinner to give the fowl’s liver to the doomed man;
considering that when he was dead and gone she could have them, if
she pleased, seven days in the week; and the farmer, on his part,
took care to help her to many tidbits. Their feeling toward each
other was that of an impatient host with regard to an unwelcome
guest, showing scarcely a bare civility while in expectation of his
stay, but overloading him with hospitality when made certain of his
departure.
In this manner they went on for some six months, without any
addition of love between them, and as much selfishness as ever, yet
living in a subservience to the comforts and inclinations of each
other, sometimes not to be found even amongst couples of sincerer
affections. There were as many causes for quarrel as ever, but
every day it became less worth while to quarrel; so letting bygones
be bygones, they were indifferent to the present, and thought only
of the future, considering each other (to adopt a common phrase)
“as _good_ as dead.”
Ten months wore away, and the farmer’s birthday arrived in its
turn. The dame, who had passed an uncomfortable night, having
dreamed, in truth, that she did not much like herself in mourning,
saluted him as soon as the day dawned, and, with a sigh, wished
him many years to come. The farmer repaid her in kind, the sigh
included; his own visions having been of the painful sort; for he
dreamed of having a headache from wearing a black hat-band, and
the malady still clung to him when awake. The whole morning was
spent in silent meditation and melancholy, on both sides; and when
dinner came, although the most favorite dishes were upon the table,
they could not eat. The farmer, resting his elbows upon the board,
with his face between his hands, gazed wistfully on his wife. The
dame, leaning back in her high arm-chair, regarded the yeoman quite
as ruefully. Their minds, travelling in the same direction, and at
an equal rate, arrived together at the same reflection; but the
farmer was the first to give it utterance:
“Thee’d be _missed_, dame, if thee were to die!”
The dame started. Although she had nothing but death at that
moment before her eyes, she was far from dreaming of her own exit.
Recovering, however, from the shock, her thoughts flowed into their
old channel, and she rejoined in the same spirit:
“I wish, master, thee may live so long as I!”
The farmer, in his own mind, wished to live rather longer; for, at
the utmost, he considered that his wife’s bill of mortality had but
two months to run; the calculation made him sorrowful; during the
last few months she had consulted his appetite, bent to his humor,
and conformed her own inclinations to his, in a manner that could
never be supplied.
His wife, from being at first useful to him, had become agreeable,
and at last dear; and as he contemplated her approaching fate,
he could not help thinking out audibly, “that he should be a
lonesome man when she was gone.” The dame, this time, heard the
survivorship foreboded without starting; but she marvelled much
at what she thought the infatuation of a doomed man. So perfect
was her faith in the infallibility of St. Mark, that she had even
seen the symptoms of mortal disease, as palpable as plague-spots,
on the devoted yeoman. Giving his body up, therefore, for lost, a
strong sense of duty persuaded her that it was imperative on her,
as a Christian, to warn the unsuspecting farmer of his dissolution.
Accordingly, with a solemnity adapted to the subject, a tenderness
of recent growth, and a _memento mori_ face, she broached the
matter in the following question:
“Master, how bee’st thee?”
“As hearty as a buck, dame; and I wish thee the like.”
A dead silence ensued; the farmer was as unprepared as ever. There
is a great fancy for breaking the truth by dropping it gently; an
experiment which has never answered, any more than with iron-stone
china. The dame felt this; and, thinking it better to throw the
news at her husband at once, she told him, in as many words, that
he was a dead man.
It was now the yeoman’s turn to be staggered. By a parallel
course of reasoning, he had just wrought himself up to a similar
disclosure, and the dame’s death-warrant was just ready upon his
tongue, when he met with his own despatch, signed, sealed, and
delivered. Conscience instantly pointed out the oracle from which
she had derived the omen.
“Thee hast watched, dame, at the church porch, then?”
“Ay, master.”
“And thee didst see me spirituously?”
“In the brown wrap, with the boot hose. Thee were coming to the
church, by Fairthorn Gap; in the while I were coming by the Holly
Hedge.”
For a minute the farmer paused; but the next he burst into a fit
of uncontrollable laughter; peal after peal, each higher than the
last. The poor woman had but one explanation for this phenomenon.
She thought it a delirium; a lightening before death; and was
beginning to wring her hands, and lament, when she was checked by
the merry yeoman:
“Dame, thee bee’st a fool. It was I myself thee seed at the church
porch. I seed thee, too; with a notice to quit upon thy face; but,
thanks to God, thee bee’st a living; and that is more than I cared
to say of thee this day ten-month!”
The dame made no answer. Her heart was too full to speak; but,
throwing her arms round her husband, she showed that she shared
in his sentiment. And from that hour, by practising a careful
abstinence from offence, or a temperate sufferance of its
appearance, they became the most united couple in the county. But
it must be said, that their comfort was not complete till they had
seen each other, in safety, over the perilous anniversary of St.
Mark’s Eve.
* * * * *
The moral this story conveys is one which might prove a useful
monitor to us all, if we could keep it in daily remembrance. Few,
indeed, are so coarse in their manifestations of ill-temper as this
Kentish couple are described; but we all indulge, more or less, in
unreasonable fretfulness, and petty acts of selfishness, in the
relations of husband and wife, parents and children, brothers and
sisters,--in fact, in all the relations of life. It would help
us greatly to be kind, forbearing, and self-sacrificing toward
neighbors, friends, and relatives, if it were always present to our
minds that death may speedily close our intercourse with them in
this world.--L. M. C.
[Illustration]
WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID.
One summer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the cottage gate,
An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate.
The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her eye,
And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously.
The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her tongue,
As she compared the “_doings now_,” with those when _she_ was young.
“When _I_ was young, young gals were meek, and looked round kind of shy;
And when they were compelled to speak, they did so modestly.
They stayed at home, and did the work; made Indian bread and wheaten;
And only went to singing-school, and _sometimes_ to night meetin’.
And _children_ were obedient _then_; they had no saucy airs;
And minded what their mothers said, and learned their hymns and prayers.
But _now-a-days_ they know enough, before they know their letters;
And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict their betters.
Young women _now_ go kiting round, and looking out for beaux;
And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends her clothes!
But then, I tell my daughter,
Folks don’t do as they’d ought’-ter.
When _I_ was young, if a man had failed, he shut up house and hall,
And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at all;
And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons came home from
college;
And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake, and such like
knowledge;
They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the plainest eatin’;
And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went to meetin’.
The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind’er shunned by men,
And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town folks _then_.
But _now-a-days_, when a merchant fails, they say he makes a penny;
The wife don’t have a gown the less, and his daughters just as many;
His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their costly wine;
And _she_ goes to the opera, and _he_ has folks to dine!
He walks the streets, he drives his gig; men show him all civilities;
And what in _my_ day we called _debts_, are now his _lie_-abilities!
They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city,--
In my day ’twas his _creditors_ to whom we gave our pity.
But then, I tell my daughter,
Folks don’t do as they’d ough’-ter.”
FROM THE OLIVE BRANCH.
THE SPRING JOURNEY.
O, green was the corn as I rode on my way,
And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,
And dark was the sycamore’s shade to behold,
And the oak’s tender leaf was of emerald and gold.
The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud,
Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud;
From the soft vernal sky to the soft grassy ground,
There was beauty above me, beneath, and around.
The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill,
And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill,
I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped,
To gaze where the rainbow gleamed broad overhead.
O such be _life’s_ journey! and such be our skill
To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill;
Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,
And our tears add a charm to the prospect of heaven.
BISHOP HEBER
[Illustration]
MORAL HINTS.
BY L. MARIA CHILD.
Probably there are no two things that tend so much to make human
beings unhappy in themselves and unpleasant to others, as habits
of fretfulness and despondency; two faults peculiarly apt to
grow upon people after they have passed their youth. Both these
ought to be resisted with constant vigilance, as we would resist
a disease. This we should do for our own sakes, and as a duty we
owe to others. Life is made utterly disagreeable when we are daily
obliged to listen to a complaining house-mate. How annoying and
disheartening are such remarks as these: “I was not invited to the
party last night. I suppose I am getting to be of no consequence
to anybody now.” “Yes, that is a beautiful present you have had
sent you. Nobody sends _me_ presents.” “I am a useless encumbrance
now. I can see that people want me out of their way.” Yet such
observations are not unfrequently heard from persons surrounded
by external comforts, and who are consequently envied by others of
similar disposition in less favorable circumstances.
No virtue has been so much recommended to the old as cheerfulness.
Colton says: “Cheerfulness ought to be the viaticum of their life
to the old. Age without cheerfulness is a Lapland winter without a
sun.”
Montaigne says: “The most manifest sign of wisdom is continued
cheerfulness.”
Dr. Johnson says: “The habit of looking on the best side of every
event is worth more than a thousand pounds a year.”
Tucker says: “The point of aim for our vigilance to hold in view is
to dwell upon the brightest parts in every prospect; to call off
the thoughts when running upon disagreeable objects, and strive to
be pleased with the present circumstances surrounding us.”
Southey says, in one of his letters: “I have told you of the
Spaniard, who always put on his spectacles when about to eat
cherries, that they might look bigger and more tempting. In like
manner, I make the most of my enjoyments; and though I do not cast
my eyes away from my troubles, I pack them in as little compass as
I can for myself, and never let them annoy others.”
Perhaps you will say: “All this is very fine talk for people who
are naturally cheerful. But I am low-spirited by temperament; and
how is that to be helped?” In the first place, it would be well to
ascertain whether what you call being naturally low-spirited does
not arise from the infringement of some physical law; something
wrong in what you eat or drink, or something unhealthy in other
personal habits. But if you inherit a tendency to look on the
dark side of things, resolutely call in the aid of your reason to
counteract it. Leigh Hunt says: “If you are melancholy for the
first time, you will find, upon a little inquiry, that others have
been melancholy many times, and yet are cheerful now. If you have
been melancholy many times, recollect that you have got over all
those times; and try if you cannot find means of getting over them
better.”
If reason will not afford sufficient help, call in the aid of
conscience. In this world of sorrow and disappointment, every human
being has trouble enough of his own. It is unkind to add the weight
of your despondency to the burdens of another, who, if you knew all
his secrets, you might find had a heavier load than yours to carry.
You find yourself refreshed by the presence of cheerful people. Why
not make earnest efforts to confer that pleasure on others? You
will find half the battle is gained, if you never allow yourself to
_say_ anything gloomy. If you habitually try to pack your troubles
away out of other people’s sight, you will be in a fair way to
forget them yourself; first, because evils become exaggerated to
the imagination by repetition; and, secondly, because an effort
made for the happiness of others lifts us above ourselves.
Those who are conscious of a tendency to dejection should also
increase as much as possible the circle of simple and healthy
enjoyments. They should cultivate music and flowers, take walks
to look at beautiful sunsets, read entertaining books, and avail
themselves of any agreeable social intercourse within their reach.
They should also endeavor to surround themselves with pleasant
external objects.
Our states of feeling, and even our characters, are influenced by
the things we habitually look upon or listen to. A sweet singer in
a household, or a musical instrument played with feeling, do more
than afford us mere sensuous pleasure; they help us morally, by
their tendency to harmonize discordant moods. Pictures of pleasant
scenes, or innocent objects, are, for similar reasons, desirable
in the rooms we inhabit. Even the paper on the walls may help
somewhat to drive away “blue devils,” if ornamented with graceful
patterns, that light up cheerfully. The paper on the parlor of
Linnæus represented beautiful flowering plants from the East and
West Indies; and on the walls of his bedroom were delineated a
great variety of butterflies, dragon-flies, and other brilliant
insects. Doubtless it contributed not a little to the happiness
of the great naturalist thus to live in the midst of his pictured
thoughts. To cultivate flowers, to arrange them in pretty vases,
to observe their beauties of form and color, has a healthy effect,
both on mind and body. Some temperaments are more susceptible than
others to these fine influences, but they are not entirely without
effect on any human soul; and forms of beauty can now be obtained
with so little expenditure of money, that few need to be entirely
destitute of them.
Perhaps you will say, “If I feel low-spirited, even if I do not
speak of it, I cannot help showing it.” The best way to avoid
the intrusion of sad feelings is to immerse yourself in some
occupation. Adam Clarke said: “I have lived to know that the secret
of happiness is never to allow your energies to stagnate.” If you
are so unfortunate as to have nothing to do at home, then, the
moment you begin to feel a tendency to depression, start forth for
the homes of others. Tidy up the room of some helpless person, who
has nobody to wait upon her; carry flowers to some invalid, or read
to some lonely old body. If you are a man, saw and split wood for
some poor widow, or lone woman, in the neighborhood. If you are a
woman, knit stockings for poor children, or mend caps for those
whose eyesight is failing; and when you have done them, don’t send
them home, but take them yourself. Merely to have every hour of
life fully occupied is a great blessing; but the full benefit of
constant employment cannot be experienced unless we are occupied
in a way that promotes the good of others, while it exercises our
own bodies and employs our own minds. Plato went so far as to call
exercise a cure for a wounded conscience; and, provided usefulness
is combined with it, there is certainly a good deal of truth in the
assertion; inasmuch as constant helpful activity leaves the mind
no leisure to brood over useless regrets, and by thus covering the
wound from the corrosion of thought, helps it to become a scar.
Against that listless indifference, which the French call _ennui_,
industry is even a better preservative than it is against vain
regrets. Therefore, it seems to me unwise for people in the decline
of life to quit entirely their customary occupations and pursuits.
The happiest specimens of old age are those men and women who have
been busy to the last; and there can be no doubt that the decay
of our powers, both bodily and mental, is much hindered by their
constant exercise, provided it be not excessive.