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 which 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,” 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 butterfly-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 virtuously! 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 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, O God, to Thee;
A conscience pure I cherish,
Till death shall summon me.”
* * * * *
Nothing of God’s making can a man love rightly, without being
the surer of God’s loving himself; neither the moon, nor the
stars, nor a rock, nor a tree, nor a flower, nor a bird. 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 ourselves 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.
[Illustration]
MILTON’S HYMN OF PATIENCE.
BY ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL.
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.
O 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.
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.
[Illustration]
LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN, ON HER BIRTHDAY.
BY L. MARIA CHILD.
You 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 having 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 sentiment expressed
by 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 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 acknowledge 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 compensations 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, according to habits previously formed. From observation,
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 sadness, 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 fact that I have always been pleased with very
simple and accessible things. I always shudder a little at the
approach of winter; yet, when it comes, the trees, dressed in
feathery snow, or prismatic icicles, give me far more enjoyment,
than I could find in a ball-room full of duchesses, decorated with
marabout-feathers, opals, and diamonds. No costly bridal-veil sold
in Broadway would interest 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 _is_, 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 remembered by many 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 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 refreshing to the eye. But the reading of Whittier’s
Psalm 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 light blossom into rainbows all over
the room. Childish! you will say. I grant it. But is childishness
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 transmission.
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, smiling 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 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 manifest, even in
her most common productions! Look at a dry bean-pod, and observe
what a delicate little strip of silver tissue is tenderly placed
above and below the seed! Examine the clusters of Sweet-Williams,
and you will find an endless variety 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, 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
expression, that it may perhaps suggest to you reception-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 garlands upon it. My last anniversary was distinguished
by a beautiful novelty. An offering came from people who never
knew me personally, but who were gracious enough to say they took
an 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 kept in the private apartments of my own soul, where
six angel-guests present themselves unbidden,--Use and Beauty,
Love and Memory, Humility 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 oppressed, 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 contemplations of the scenes they represent,
or the genius that produced them. Other angels bring back the
looks and tones of the givers, and pleasant incidents, and happy
meetings, in bygone years. Sometimes, Memory looks into my eyes too
sadly, and I answer the look with tears. But I say to her, Nay, 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 unworthy
I am of all His goodness. They move my 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 for the future. I have learned that
self-consciousness 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 disappointments;
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 thinking more than ever of
the many compensations which age brings for its undeniable losses.
I count it something to know, that, though the flowers offered
me are _few_, they are undoubtedly _genuine_. I never conformed
much to the world’s ways, but, now that I am an old woman, I
feel more free to ignore its conventional forms, and neglect its
fleeting fashions. That also is a privilege. Another compensation
of years is, that, having outlived expectations, I am free from
disappointments. I deem it a great blessing, also, that the desire
for knowledge grows more active, as the time for acquiring it
diminishes, and as, I realize more fully how much there is to be
learned. It is true that in this pursuit one is always coming up
against walls of limitation. All sorts of flying and creeping
things excite questions in my mind to which I obtain no answers.
I want to know what every bird and insect is doing, and what it
is done for; but I do not understand their language, and no
interpreter between us is to be found. They go on, busily managing
their own little affairs, far more skilfully than we humans could
teach them, with all our boasted superiority of intellect. I peep
and pry into their operations with more and more interest, the
older I grow; but they keep their own secrets so well, that I
discover very little. What I do find out, however, confirms my
belief, that “the hand which made them is divine”; and that is
better than any acquisitions of science. Looking upon the world as
a mere spectacle of beauty, I find its attractions increasing. I
notice more than I ever did the gorgeous phantasmagoria of sunsets,
the magical changes of clouds, the endless varieties of form and
color in the flowers of garden and field, and the shell-flowers
of the sea. Something of tenderness mingles with the admiration
excited by all this fair array of earth, like the lingering,
farewell gaze we bestow on scenes from which we are soon to part.
But the most valuable compensations of age are those of a spiritual
character. I have committed so many faults myself, that I have
become more tolerant of the faults of others than I was when I was
young. My own strength has so often failed me when I trusted to
it, that I have learned to look more humbly for aid from on high.
I have formerly been too apt to murmur that I was not endowed with
gifts and opportunities, which it appeared to me would have been
highly advantageous. But I now see the wisdom and goodness of our
Heavenly Father, even more in what He has denied, than in what He
has bestowed. The rugged paths through which I have passed, the
sharp regrets I have experienced, seem smoother and softer in the
distance behind me. Even my wrong-doings and short-comings have
often been mercifully transmuted into blessings. They have helped
me to descend into the Valley of Humility, through which it is
necessary to pass on our way to the Beautiful City. My restless
aspirations are quieted. They are now all concentrated in this one
prayer:
“Help me, this and every day,
To live more nearly as I pray.”
Having arrived at this state of peacefulness and submission, I find
the last few years the happiest of my life.
To you, my dear friend, who are so much younger, I would say,
Travel cheerfully toward the sunset! It will pass gently into a
twilight,
which has its own peculiar beauties, though
differing from the morning; and you
will find that the night also
is cheered by friendly
glances of the
stars.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER.
BY J. G. WHITTIER.
Bland as the morning’s breath of June,
The southwest breezes play,
And through its haze, the winter noon
Seems warm as summer’s day.
The snow-plumed Angel of the North
Has dropped his icy spear;
Again the mossy earth looks forth,
Again the streams gush clear.
The fox his hillside den forsakes;
The muskrat leaves his nook;
The blue-bird, in the meadow-brakes,
Is singing with the brook.
“Bear up, O Mother Nature!” cry
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free;
“Our winter voices prophesy
Of summer days to thee.”
So in these winters of the _soul_,
By wintry blasts and drear
O’erswept from Memory’s frozen pole,
Will summer days appear.
Reviving hope and faith, they show
The soul its living powers,
And how, beneath the winter’s snow,
Lie germs of summer flowers.
The Night is mother of the Day;
The Winter of the Spring;
And ever upon old decay
The greenest mosses cling.
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks;
Through showers the sunbeams fall;
For God, who loveth all his works,
Has left his Hope with all.
THE CANARY BIRD.
Yellow, small Canary bird,
Sweetly singing all day long,
Still in winter you are heard,
Carolling a summer song.
Thus when days are drear and dim,
And the _heart_ is caged, as you,
May it still, with hopeful hymn,
Sing of joy and find it true.
JOHN STERLING
[Illustration]
OLD BACHELORS.
BY L. MARIA CHILD.
The use of the term old bachelor might be objected to, with as
much reason as that of old maid, were it not for the fact that
it has been regarded less contemptuously. Until within the last
half-century, books have been written almost entirely by men.
Looking at the subject from _their_ point of view, they have
generally represented that, if a woman remained single, it was
because she could not avoid it; and that her unfortunate condition
was the consequence of her being repulsive in person or manners.
The dramas and general literature of all countries abound with
jokes on this subject. Women are described as jumping with
ridiculous haste at the first chance to marry, and as being greatly
annoyed if no chance presents itself. To speak of women as in
the market, and of men as purchasers, has so long been a general
habit, that it is done unconsciously; and the habit doubtless
embodies a truth, though few people reflect why it is so. Nearly
all the trades, professions, and offices are engrossed by men;
hence marriage is almost the only honorable means of support for
women, and almost the only avenue open to those who are ambitious
of position in society. This state of things gives an unhealthy
stimulus to match-making, and does much to degrade the true
dignity and purity of marriage. But I allude to it here merely as
explanatory why old maid is considered a more reproachful term than
old bachelor; one being supposed to be incurred voluntarily, and
the other by compulsion.
There is a germ of vanity, more or less expanded in human nature,
under all circumstances. Slaves are often very vain of bringing an
unusually high price in the market; because it implies that they
are handsome, vigorous, or intelligent. It is the same feeling,
manifested under a different aspect, that makes many women vain of
the number of offers they have received, and mortified if they have
had none. Men, on the contrary, being masters of the field, are
troubled with no sense of shame, if they continue in an isolated
position through life, though they may experience regret. The
kind of jokes to which _they_ are subjected generally imply that
they have been less magnanimous than they should have been, in
not taking to themselves somebody to protect and support. Such a
“railing accusation” is rather gratifying to the pride of human
nature. Instead of hanging their heads, they sometimes smile,
and say, with an air of gracious condescension: “Perhaps I _may_
some day. I have not decided yet. I want to examine the market
further.” Now it is ten chances to one, that the individual thus
speaking _has_ been examining the market, as he calls it, for a
long time; that he has been to the Fair, and tried to appropriate
various pretty articles, but has been told that they were reserved
for a previous purchaser. He may have been disappointed on such
occasions; and if they occurred when youth was passing away, he may
have been prompted to look in the mirror, to pull out gray hairs,
and ascertain whether crows have been walking over his face. But if
he perceives traces of their feet, he says to himself, “Pshaw! What
consequence is it, so long as I have a full purse and a handsome
house to offer? I shall have better luck next time. There are as
good fish in the sea as ever were caught. One only needs to have
bait on the hook.” And so when a married acquaintance reminds him
that he ought to take a wife, he answers, complacently, “Perhaps
I _shall_. I want to examine the market.” He is the one to confer
support; he need not wait to be asked. There is a dignified
independence in such a position. Hence the term old bachelor is not
so opprobrious as old maid, and no apology is necessary for using
it.
It is true, the single brotherhood are not without their
annoyances. A meddlesome woman will sometimes remark to a bachelor
friend, in a significant sort of way, that the back of his coat
has a one-eyed look, by reason of the deficiency of a button;
and she will add, in a compassionate tone, “But what else can be
expected, when a man has no wife to look after him?” Another,
still more mischievous, who happens to know of his attending the
Fair, and trying to buy various articles otherwise appropriated,
will sometimes offer impertinent consolation; saying, “Don’t be
discouraged. Try again. Perhaps you’ll have better luck next time.
You know the proverb says, There never was so silly a Jack but
there’s _as_ silly a Gill.” Then again, the French phrase for old
bachelor, _Vieux Garçon_, translates itself into right impudent
English. Why on earth should a man be called the Old Boy, merely
because he has not seen fit to marry? when it is either because he
don’t like the market, or wants to look further, in order to make
sure of getting his money’s worth in the article.