To bright and beautiful hope?
If the world brings not fruition,
Must we in darkness grope?
O no! There is expectation
Which the grave can not control;
There is boundless infinite promise
For the living and deathless soul.
And the darling who left us early
May yonder grow a man;
In deeds of the great hereafter
He may take his place in the van.
O, if thine is the bitterest mourning,
Mourning for an only son,
Believe that in God, the Giver,
Our darling his course begun;
Believe that in God, the Taker,
His course forever will be;
For this is the blessed comfort,
The comfort for thee and me.
Yea, this is the blessed comfort
In sorrow like that of yore,
When the beautiful "flowers of the martyrs"
Went to bloom on another shore.
* * * * *
LII.
LA FAYETTE.
(BORN 1757--DIED 1834.)
THE FRIEND AND DEFENDER OF LIBERTY ON TWO CONTINENTS.
In the year 1730 there appeared in Paris a little volume entitled
"Philosophic Letters," which proved to be one of the most influential
books produced in modern times.
It was written by Voltaire, who was then thirty-six years of age, and
contained the results of his observations upon the English nation, in
which he had resided for two years. Paris was then as far from London,
for all practical purposes, as New York now is from Calcutta, so that
when Voltaire told his countrymen of the freedom that prevailed in
England, of the tolerance given to religious sects, of the honors paid
to untitled merit, of Newton, buried in Westminster Abbey with almost
regal pomp, of Addison, secretary of state, and Swift, familiar with
prime ministers, and of the general liberty, happiness, and abundance of
the kingdom, France listened in wonder, as to a new revelation The work
was, of course, immediately placed under the ban by the French
Government, and the author exiled, which only gave it increased currency
and deeper influence.
This was the beginning of the movement which produced at length, the
French Revolution of 1787, and which has continued until France is now
blessed with a free and constitutional government. It began among the
higher classes of the people, for, at that day, not more than one-third
of the French could read at all, and a much smaller fraction could read
such a book as the "Philosophic Letters" and the books which it called
forth. Republicanism was fashionable in the drawing-rooms of Paris for
many years before the mass of the people knew what the word meant.
Among the young noblemen who were early smitten in the midst of
despotism with the love of liberty, was the Marquis de La Fayette, born
in 1757. Few families in Europe could boast a greater antiquity than
his. A century before the discovery of America we find the La Fayettes
spoken of as an "ancient house," and in every generation at least one
member of the family had distinguished himself by his services to his
king. This young man, coming upon the stage of life when republican
ideas were teeming in every cultivated mind, embraced them with all the
ardor of youth and intelligence. At sixteen he refused a high post in
the household of one of the princes of the blood and accepted a
commission in the army. At the age of seventeen he was married to the
daughter of a duke, whose dowry added a considerable fortune to his own
ample possessions. She was an exceedingly lovely woman, and tenderly
attached to her husband, and he was as fond of her as such a boy could
be.
The American Revolution broke out. In common with all the high-born
republicans of his time, his heart warmly espoused the cause of the
revolted colonies, and he immediately conceived the project of going to
America and fighting under her banner. He was scarcely nineteen years of
age when he sought an interview with Silas Deane, the American envoy,
and offered his services to the Congress. Mr, Deane, it appears,
objected to his youth.
"When," says he, "I presented to the envoy my boyish face, I spoke more
of my ardor in the cause than of my experience; but I dwelt much upon
the effect my departure would have in France, and he signed our mutual
agreement."
His intention was concealed from all his family and from all his
friends, except two or three confidants. While he was making preparation
for his departure, most distressing and alarming news came from
America--the retreat from Long Island, the loss of New York, the battle
of White Plains, and the retreat through New Jersey. The American
forces, it was said, reduced to a disheartened band of three thousand
militia, were pursued by a triumphant army of thirty-three thousand
English and Hessians. The credit of the colonies at Paris sank to the
lowest ebb, and some of the Americans themselves confessed to La Fayette
that they were discouraged, and tried to persuade him to abandon his
project. He said to Mr. Deane:
"Until now, sir, you have only seen my ardor in your cause, and that may
not at present prove wholly useless. I shall purchase a ship to carry
out your officers. We must feel confidence in the future, and it is
especially in the hour of danger that I wish to share your fortune."
He proceeded at once with all possible secrecy to raise the money and to
purchase and arm a ship. While the ship was getting ready, in order the
better to conceal his intention, he made a journey to England, which had
previously been arranged by his family. He was presented to the British
king, against whom he was going to fight; he dined at the house of the
minister who had the department of the colonies; he visited Lord Rawdon,
afterwards distinguished in the Revolutionary struggle; he saw at the
opera Sir Henry Clinton, whom he next saw on the battlefield of
Monmouth, and he breakfasted with Lord Shelburne, a friend of the
colonies.
"While I concealed my intentions," he tells us, "I openly avowed my
sentiments. I often defended the Americans. I rejoiced at their success
at Trenton, and it was my spirit of opposition that obtained for me an
invitation to breakfast with Lord Shelburne."
On his return to France his project was discovered, and his departure
forbidden by the king. He sailed, however, in May, 1777, cheered by his
countrymen, and secretly approved by the government itself. On arriving
at Philadelphia, he sent to Congress a remarkably brief epistle to the
following effect: "After my sacrifices, I have the right to ask two
favors. One is, to serve at my own expense; the other, to begin to serve
as a volunteer."
Congress immediately named him a major-general of the American army, and
he at once reported himself to General Washington. His services at the
Brandywine, where he was badly wounded; in Virginia, where he held an
important command; at Monmouth, where he led the attack--are
sufficiently well known. When he had been in America about fifteen
months, the news came of the impending declaration of war between France
and England. He then wrote to Congress that, as long as he had believed
himself free, he had gladly fought under the American flag; but that his
own country being at war, he owed it the homage of his service, and he
desired their permission to return home. He hoped, however, to come back
to America; and asserted then that, wherever he went, he should be a
zealous friend of the United States. Congress gave him leave of absence,
voted him a sword, and wrote a letter on his behalf to the king of
France. "We recommend this noble young man," said the letter of
Congress, "to the favor of your majesty, because we have seen him wise
in council, brave in battle, and patient under the fatigues of war." He
was received in France with great distinction, which he amusingly
describes:
"When I went to court, which had hitherto only written for me orders for
my arrest, I was presented to the ministers. I was interrogated,
complimented, and exiled--to the hotel where my wife was residing: Some
days after, I wrote to the king to acknowledge _my fault_. I received in
reply a light reprimand and the colonelcy of the Royal Dragoons.
Consulted by all the ministers, and, what was much better, embraced by
all the women, I had at Versailles the favor of the king and celebrity
of Paris."
In the midst of his popularity he thought always of America, and often
wished that the cost of the banquets bestowed upon him could be poured
into the treasury of Congress. His favorite project at that time was the
invasion of England--Paul Jones to command the fleet, and he himself the
army. When this scheme was given up, he joined all his influence with
that of Franklin to induce the French Government to send to America a
powerful fleet and a considerable army. When he had secured the promise
of this valuable aid, he returned to America and served again in the
armies of the young republic.
The success of the United States so confirmed him in his attachment to
republican institutions, that he remained their devoted adherent and
advocate as long as he lived.
"May this revolution," said he once to Congress, "serve as a lesson to
oppressors, and as an example to the oppressed."
And, in one of his letters from the United States occurs this sentence:
"I have always thought that a king was at least a useless being; viewed
from this side of the ocean, a king cuts a poor figure indeed."
By the time he had left America, at the close of the war, he had
expended in the service of Congress seven hundred thousand francs--a
free gift to the cause of liberty.
One of the most pleasing circumstances of La Fayette's residence in
America was the affectionate friendship which existed between himself
and General Washington. He looked up to Washington as to a father as
well as a chief; and Washington regarded him with a tenderness truly
paternal. La Fayette named his eldest son George Washington, and never
omitted any opportunity to testify his love and admiration for the
illustrious American. Franklin, too, was much attached to the youthful
enthusiast, and privately wrote to General Washington, asking him, for
the sake of the young and anxious wife of the marquis, not to expose his
life except in an important and decisive engagement.
In the diary of the celebrated William Wilberforce, who visited Paris
soon after the peace, there is an interesting passage descriptive of La
Fayette's demeanor at the French court:
"He seemed to be the representative of the democracy in the very
presence of the monarch--the tribune intruding with his veto within the
chamber of the patrician order. His own establishment was formed upon
the English model, and amidst the gayety and ease of Fontainebleau he
assumed an air of republican austerity. When the fine ladies of the
court would attempt to drag him to the card-table, he shrugged his
shoulders with an air of affected contempt for the customs and
amusements of the old _regime_. Meanwhile, the deference which this
champion of the new state of things received, above all from the ladies
of the court, intimated clearly the disturbance of the social
atmosphere, and presaged the coming tempest."
From the close of the American war for independence to the beginning of
the French Revolution a period of six years elapsed, during which France
suffered much from the exhaustion of her resources in aiding the
Americans. La Fayette lived at Paris, openly professing republicanism,
which was then the surest passport to the favor both of the people and
the court. The queen of France herself favored the republican party,
though without understanding its object or tendencies. La Fayette
naturally became the organ and spokesman of those who desired a reform
in the government. He recommended, even in the palace of the king, a
restoration of civil rights to the Protestants; the suppression of the
heavy and odious tax on salt; the reform of the criminal courts; and he
denounced the waste of public money on princes and court favorites.
The Assembly of the Notables convened in 1787 to consider the state of
the kingdom. La Fayette was its most distinguished and trusted member,
and it was he who demanded a convocation of the representatives of all
the departments of France, for the purpose of devising a permanent
remedy for the evils under which France was suffering.
"What, sir," said one of the royal princes to La Fayette, "do you really
demand the assembling of a general congress of France?"
"Yes, my Lord," replied La Fayette, "and _more than that_."
Despite the opposition of the court, this memorable congress met in
Paris in 1789, and La Fayette represented in it the nobility of his
province. It was he who presented the "Declaration of Rights," drawn
upon the model of those with which he had been familiar in America, and
it was finally adopted. It was he, also, who made the ministers of the
crown responsible for their acts, and for the consequences of their
acts.
When this National Assembly was declared permanent, La Fayette was
elected its vice-president, and it was in that character that, after the
taking of the Bastile, he went to the scene, at the head of a deputation
of sixty members, to congratulate the people upon their triumph. The
next day, a city guard was organized to preserve the peace of Paris, and
the question arose in the assembly who should command it. The president
arose and pointed to the bust of La Fayette, presented by the State of
Virginia to the city of Paris. The hint was sufficient, and La Fayette
was elected to the post by acclamation. He called his citizen soldiers
by the name of National Guards, and he distinguished them by a
tri-colored cockade, and all Paris immediately fluttered with
tri-colored ribbons and badges.
"This cockade," said La Fayette, as he presented one to the National
Assembly, "will make the tour of the world." From the time of his
acceptance of the command of the National Guard, the course of La
Fayette changed its character, and the change became more and more
marked as the revolution proceded. Hitherto he had been chiefly employed
in rousing the sentiment of liberty in the minds of his countrymen; but
now that the flame threatened to become a dangerous conflagration, it
devolved upon him to stay its ravages. It was a task beyond human
strength, but he most gallantly attempted it. On some occasions he
rescued with his own hands the victims of the popular fury, and arrested
the cockaded assassins who would have destroyed them. But even his great
popularity was ineffectual to prevent the massacre of innocent citizens,
and more than once, overwhelmed with grief and disgust, he threatened to
throw up his command.
On that celebrated day when sixty thousand of the people of Paris poured
in a tumultuous flood into the park of Versailles, and surrounded the
palace of the king, La Fayette was compelled to join the throng, in
order, if possible, to control its movements. He arrived in the evening,
and spent the whole night in posting the National Guard about the
palace, and taking measures to secure the safety of the royal family. At
the dawn of day he threw himself upon the bed for a few minutes' repose.
Suddenly, the alarm was sounded. Some infuriated men had broken into the
palace, killed two of the king's body-guard, and rushed into the
bed-chamber of the queen, a minute or two after she had escaped from it.
La Fayette ran to the scene, followed by some of the National Guard, and
found all the royal family assembled in the king's chamber, trembling
for their lives. Beneath the window of the apartment was a roaring sea
of upturned faces, scarcely kept back by a thin line of National Guards.
La Fayette stepped out upon the balcony, and tried to address the crowd,
but could not make himself heard. He then led out upon the balcony the
beautiful queen, Marie Antoinette, and kissed her hand; then seizing one
of the body-guard embraced him, and placed his own cockade on the
soldier's hat. At once the temper of the multitude was changed, and the
cry burst forth:
"Long live the general! Long live the queen! Long live the body-guard!"
It was immediately announced that the king would go with the people to
Paris; which had the effect of completely allaying their passions.
During the long march of ten miles, La Fayette rode close to the door of
the king's carriage, and thus conducted him, in the midst of the
tramping crowd, in safety to the Tuilleries. When the royal family was
once more secure within its walls, one of the ladies, the daughter of
the late king, threw herself in the arms of La Fayette, exclaiming:
"General, you have saved us."
From this moment dates the decline of La Fayette's popularity; and his
actions, moderate and wise, continually lessened it. He demanded, as a
member of the National Assembly, that persons accused of treason should
be fairly tried by a jury, and he exerted all his power, while giving a
constitution to his country, to preserve the monarchy.
To appease the suspicions of the people that the king meditated a flight
from Paris, he declared that he would answer with his head for the
king's remaining. When, therefore, in June, 1791, the king and queen
made their blundering attempt to escape, La Fayette was immediately
suspected of having secretly aided it. Danton cried out at the Jacobin
club:
"We must have the person of the king, or the head of the commanding
general!"
It was in vain that, after the king's return, he ceased to pay him royal
honors; nothing could remove the suspicions of the people. Indeed, he
still openly advised the preservation of the monarchy, and, when a mob
demanded the suppression of the royal power, and threatened violence to
the National Guard, the general, after warning them to disperse, ordered
the troops to fire--an action which totally destroyed his popularity and
influence. Soon after, he resigned his commission and his seat in the
Assembly, and withdrew to one of his country seats.
He was not long allowed to remain in seclusion. The allied dynasties of
Europe, justly alarmed at the course of events in Paris, threatened the
new republic with war. La Fayette was appointed to command one of the
three armies gathered to defend the frontiers. While he was disciplining
his troops, and preparing to defend the country, he kept an anxious eye
upon Paris, and saw with ever-increasing alarm the prevalence of the
savage element in the national politics. In 1792 he had the boldness to
write a letter to the National Assembly, demanding the suppression of
the clubs, and the restoration of the king to the place and power
assigned him by the constitution.
Learning, soon after, the new outrages put upon the king, he suddenly
left his army and appeared before the bar of the Assembly, accompanied
by a single aide-de-camp; there he renewed his demands, amid the
applause of the moderate members; but a member of the opposite party
adroitly asked:
"Is the enemy conquered? Is the country delivered, since General La
Fayette is in Paris?"
"No," replied he, "the country is not delivered; the situation is
unchanged; and, nevertheless, the general of one of our armies is in
Paris."
After a stormy debate, the Assembly declared that he had violated the
constitution in making himself the organ of an army legally incapable of
deliberating, and had rendered himself amenable to the minister of war
for leaving his post without permission. Repulsed thus by the Assembly,
coldly received at court, and rejected by the National Guard, he
returned to his army despairing of the country. There he made one more
attempt to save the king by inducing him to come to his camp and fight
for his throne. This project being rejected, and the author of it
denounced by Robespierre, his bust publicly burned in Paris, and the
medal formerly voted him broken by the hand of the executioner, he
deemed it necessary to seek an asylum in a neutral country. Having
provided for the safety of his army, he crossed the frontiers in August,
1792, accompanied by twenty-one persons, all of whom, on passing an
Austrian post, were taken prisoners, and La Fayette was thrown into a
dungeon. The friend of liberty and order was looked upon as a common
enemy. His noble wife, who had been for fifteen months a prisoner in
Paris, hastened, after her release, to share her husband's captivity.
For five years, in spite of the remonstrances of England, America, and
the friends of liberty everywhere, La Fayette remained a prisoner. To
every demand for his liberation the Austrian Government replied, with
its usual stupidity, that the liberty of La Fayette was incompatible
with the safety of the governments of Europe. He owed his liberation, at
length, to General Bonaparte, and it required all _his_ great authority
to procure it. When La Fayette was presented to Napoleon to thank him
for his interference, the first consul said to him:
"I don't know what the devil you have done to the Austrians; but it cost
them a mighty struggle to let you go."
La Fayette voted publicly against making Napoleon consul for life,
against the establishment of the empire. Notwithstanding this, Napoleon
and he remained very good friends. The emperor said of him one day:
"Everybody in France is corrected of his extreme ideas of liberty except
one man, and that man is La Fayette. You see him now tranquil: very
well; if he had an opportunity to serve his chimeras, he would reappear
on the scene more ardent than ever."
Upon his return to France, he was granted the pension belonging to the
military rank he had held under the republic, and he recovered a
competent estate from the property of his wife. Napoleon also gave a
military commission to his son, George Washington; and, when the
Bourbons were restored, La Fayette received an indemnity of four hundred
and fifty thousand francs.
Napoleon's remark proved correct. La Fayette, though he spent most of
the evening of his life in directing the cultivation of his estate, was
always present at every crisis in the affairs of France to plead the
cause of constitutional liberty. He made a fine remark once in its
defense, when taunted with the horrors of the French Revolution: "The
tyranny of 1793," he said, "was no more a republic than the massacre of
St. Bartholomew was a religion."
His visit to America in 1824 is well remembered. He was the guest of the
nation; and Congress, in recompense of his expenditures during the
Revolutionary War, made him a grant of two hundred thousand dollars and
an extensive tract of land. It was La Fayette who, in 1830, was chiefly
instrumental in placing a constitutional monarch on the throne of
France. The last words, he ever spoke in public were uttered in behalf
of the French refugees who had fled from France for offenses merely
political; and the last words he ever wrote recommended the abolition of
slavery. He died May 19, 1834, aged seventy-seven. His son, George
Washington, always the friend of liberty, like his father, died in 1849,
leaving two sons--inheritors of a name so full of inspiration to the
world.
* * * * *
LIII.
LYDIA SIGOURNEY
(BORN 1791--DIED 1865.)
THE LESSON OF A USEFUL AND BEAUTIFUL LIFE.
"A beautiful life I have had. Not more trial than was for my good.
Countless blessings beyond expectation or desert.... Behind me stretch
the green pastures and still waters by which I have been led all my
days. Around is the lingering of hardy flowers and fruits that bide the
Winter. Before stretches the shining shore."
These are the words of Mrs. Sigourney, written near the close of a life
of seventy-four years. All who have much observed human life will agree
that the rarest achievement of man or woman on this earth is a solid and
continuous happiness. There are very few persons past seventy who can
look back upon their lives, and sincerely say that they would willingly
live their lives over again. Mrs. Sigourney, however, was one of the
happy few.
Lydia Huntley, for that was her maiden name, was born at Norwich,
Connecticut, on the first of September, 1791. Her father was Ezekiel
Huntley, an exceedingly gentle, affectionate man, of Scotch parentage,
who had as little of a Yankee in him as any man in Connecticut. Unlike a
Yankee, he never attempted to set up in business for himself, but spent
the whole of the active part of his life in the service of the man to
whom he was apprenticed in his youth. His employer was a druggist of
great note in his day, who made a large fortune in his business, and
built one of the most elegant houses in the State. On his retirement
from business his old clerk continued to reside under his roof, and to
assist in the management of his estate; and, even when he died, Mr.
Huntley did not change his abode, but remained to conduct the affairs of
the widow. In the service of this family he saved a competence for his
old age, and he lived to eighty-seven, a most happy, serene old man,
delighting chiefly in his garden and his only child. He survived as late
as 1839.
Owing to the peculiar relations sustained by her father to a wealthy
family--living, too, in a wing of their stately mansion, and having the
free range of its extensive gardens--Lydia Huntley enjoyed in her youth
all the substantial advantages of wealth, without encountering its
perils. She was surrounded by objects pleasing or beautiful, but no
menial pampered her pride or robbed her of her rightful share of
household labor. As soon as she was old enough to toddle about the
grounds, her father delighted to have her hold the trees which he was
planting, and drop the seed into the little furrows prepared for it, and
never was she better pleased than when giving him the aid of her tiny
fingers. Her parents never kept a servant, and she was brought up to do
her part in the house. Living on plain, substantial fare, inured to
labor, and dressed so as to allow free play to every limb and muscle,
she laid in a stock of health, strength, and good temper that lasted her
down to the last year of her life. She never knew what dyspepsia was.
She never possessed a costly toy, nor a doll that was not made at home,
but she passed a childhood that was scarcely anything but joy. She was
an only child, and she was the pet of two families, yet she was not
spoiled.
She was one of those children who take naturally to all kinds of
culture. Without ever having had a child's book, she sought out, in the
old-fashioned library of the house, everything which a child could
understand. Chance threw a novel in her way ("Mysteries of Udolpho"),
which she devoured with rapture, and soon after, when she was but eight
years of age, she began to write a novel. Poetry, too, she read with
singular pleasure, never weary of repeating her favorite pieces. But the
passion of her childhood was painting pictures. Almost in her infancy
she began to draw with a pin and lilac-leaf, and advanced from that to
slate and pencil, and, by and by, to a lead-pencil and backs of letters.
When she had learned to draw pretty well, she was on fire to paint her
pictures, but was long puzzled to procure the colors. Having obtained in
some way a cake of gamboge, she begged of a washerwoman a piece of
indigo, and by combining these two ingredients she could make different
shades of yellow, blue, and green. The trunks of her trees she painted
with coffee-grounds, and a mixture of India ink and indigo answered
tolerably well for sky and water. She afterwards discovered that the
pink juice of chokeberry did very well for lips, cheeks, and gay
dresses. Mixed with a little indigo it made a very bad purple, which the
young artist, for the want of a better, was obliged to use for her royal
robes. In sore distress for a better purple she squeezed the purple
flowers of the garden and the field for the desired tint, but nothing
answered the purpose, until, at dinner, one day, she found the very hue
for which she longed in the juice of a currant and whortleberry tart.
She hastened to try it, and it made a truly gorgeous purple, but the
sugar in it caused it to come off in flakes from her kings and emperors,
leaving them in a sorry plight. At length, to her boundless,
inexpressible, and lasting joy, all her difficulties were removed by her
father giving her a complete box of colors.
At school she was fortunate in her teachers. One of them was the late
Pelatiah Perit, who afterward won high distinction as a New York
merchant and universal philanthropist. Her first serious attempts at
practical composition were translations from Virgil, when she was
fourteen years of age. After leaving school she studied Latin with much
zeal under an aged tutor, and, later in life, she advanced far enough in
Hebrew to read the Old Testament, with the aid of grammar and
dictionary. To these grave studies her parents added a thorough drill in
dancing. Often, when her excellent mother observed that she had sat too
long over her books, she would get her out upon the floor of their large
kitchen, and then, striking up a lively song, set her dancing until her
cheeks were all aglow.
This studious and happy girl, like other young people, had her day-dream
of the future. _It was to keep a school_. This strange ambition, she
tells us in her autobiography, she feared to impart to her companions,
lest they should laugh at her; and she thought even her parents would
think her _arrogant_ if she mentioned it to them. The long-cherished
secret was revealed to her parents at length. Her mother had guessed it
before, but her father was exceedingly surprised. Neither of them,
however, made any objection, and one of the pleasantest apartments of
their house was fitted up for the reception of pupils. She was then a
delicate-looking girl of about eighteen, and rather undersized. As soon
as her desks were brought home by the carpenter, the ambitious little
lady went around to the families of the place, informed them of her
intention, and solicited their patronage at the established rate of
three dollars a quarter for each pupil. She was puzzled and disappointed
at the coolness with which her project was received. Day after day she
tramped the streets of Norwich, only to return at night without a name
upon her catalogue. She surmised, after a time, that parents hesitated
to intrust their children to her because of her extreme youth, which was
the fact. At length, however, she began her school with two children,
nine and eleven years of age, and not only did she go through all the
formalities of school with them, working six hours a day for five days,
and three hours on Saturday, but at the end of the term she held an
examination in the presence of a large circle of her pupils' admiring
relations.
Afterwards, associating herself with another young lady, to whom she was
tenderly attached, she succeeded better. A large and populous school
gathered about these zealous and admirable girls, several of their
pupils being older than themselves. Compelled to hold the school in a
larger room, Lydia Huntley walked two miles every morning, and two more
every night, besides working hard all day; and she was as happy as the
weeks were long. Her experience confirms that of every genuine
teacher--from Dr. Arnold downward--that, of all employments of man or
woman on this earth, the one that is capable of giving the most constant
and intense happiness is teaching in a rationally conducted school. So
fond was she of teaching, that when the severity of the Winter obliged
her to suspend the school for many weeks, she opened a free school for
poor children, one of her favorite classes in which was composed of
colored girls. In the course of time, the well-known Daniel Wadsworth,
the great man of Hartford sixty or seventy years ago, lured her away to
that city, where he personally organized a school of thirty young
ladies, the daughters of his friends, and gave her a home in his own
house. There she spent five happy years, cherished as a daughter by her
venerable patron and his wife, and held in high honor by her pupils and
their parents.
It was in 1815, while residing in Hartford, that her fame was born. Good
old Mrs. Wadsworth, having obtained sight of her journals and
manuscripts in prose and verse, the secret accumulation of many years,
inflamed her husband's curiosity so that he, too, asked to see them. The
blushing poetess consented. Mr. Wadsworth pronounced some of them worthy
of publication, and, under his auspices, a volume was printed in
Hartford, entitled "Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse." The public gave it
a generous welcome, and its success led to a career of authorship which
lasted forty-nine years, and gave to the world fifty-six volumes of
poetry, tales, travels, biography, and letters.
So passed her life till she was past twenty-eight. She had received many
offers of marriage from clergymen and others, but none of her suitors
tempted her to forsake her pupils, and she supposed herself destined to
spend her days as an old maid. But another destiny was in store for her.
On her way to and from her school, "a pair of deep-set and most
expressive black eyes" sometimes encountered hers and spoke "unutterable
things." Those eyes belonged to a widower, with three children, named
Charles Sigourney, a thriving hardware merchant, of French descent, and
those "unutterable things" were uttered at length through the unromantic
medium of a letter. The marriage occurred a few months after, in the
year 1819.
For the next fifteen years she resided in the most elegant mansion in
Hartford, surrounded by delightful grounds, after Mr. Sigourney's own
design; and even now, though the Sigourney place is eclipsed in splendor
and costliness by many of more recent date, there is no abode in the
beautiful city of Hartford more attractive than this. Mr. Sigourney was
a man of considerable learning, and exceedingly interested in the study
of languages. When he was past fifty he began the study of modern Greek.
Mrs. Sigourney became the mother of several children, all of whom, but
two, died in infancy. One son lived to enter college, but died at the
age of nineteen, of consumption. A daughter grew to womanhood, and
became the wife of a clergyman.
After many years of very great prosperity in business, Mr. Sigourney
experienced heavy losses, which compelled them to leave their pleasant
residence, and gave a new activity to her pen. He died at the age of
seventy-six. During the last seven years of Mrs. Sigourney's life, her
chief literary employment was contributing to the columns of the _New
York Ledger_. Mr. Bonner, having while an apprentice in the _Hartford
Current_ office "set up" some of her poems, had particular pleasure in
being the medium of her last communications with the public, and she
must have rejoiced in the vast audience to which he gave her access--the
largest she ever addressed.
Mrs. Sigourney enjoyed excellent health to within a few weeks of her
death. After a short illness, which she bore with much patience, she
died in June, 1865, with her daughter at her side, and affectionate
friends around her. Nothing could exceed her tranquility and resignation
at the approach of death. Her long life had been spent in honorable
labor for the good of her species, and she died in the fullest certainty
that death would but introduce her to a larger and better sphere.
* * * * *
LIV.
OLD AGE AND USEFULNESS
THE GLORY OF BRAVE MEN AND WOMEN.
Dear Lord! I thank thee for a life of use;
Dear Lord! I do not pine for any truce.
Peace, peace has always come from duty done;
Peace, peace will so until the end be won.
Thanks, thanks! a thankful heart is my reward;
Thanks, thanks befit the children of the Lord.
Wind, wind! the peaceful reel must still go round;
Wind, wind! the thread of life will soon be wound.
The worker has no dread of growing old;
First, years of toil, and then the age of gold!
For lo! he hopes to bear his flag unfurled
Beyond the threshold of another world.
John Foster, he who sprang into celebrity from one essay, _Popular
Ignorance_, had a diseased feeling against growing old, which seems to
us to be very prevalent. He was sorry to lose every parting hour. "I
have seen a fearful sight to-day," he would say--"I have seen a
buttercup." To others the sight would only give visions of the coming
Spring and future Summer; to him it told of the past year, the last
Christmas, the days which would never come again--the so many days
nearer the grave. Thackeray continually expressed the same feeling. He
reverts to the merry old time when George the Third was king. He looks
back with a regretful mind to his own youth. The black Care constantly
rides, behind his chariot. "Ah, my friends," he says, "how beautiful was
youth! We are growing old. Spring-time and Summer are past. We near the
Winter of our days. We shall never feel as we have felt. We approach the
inevitable grave." Few men, indeed, know how to grow old gracefully, as
Madame de Stael very truly observed. There is an unmanly sadness at
leaving off the old follies and the old games. We all hate fogyism. Dr.
Johnson, great and good as he was, had a touch of this regret, and we
may pardon him for the feeling. A youth spent in poverty and neglect, a
manhood consumed in unceasing struggle, are not preparatives to growing
old in peace. We fancy that, after a stormy morning and a lowering day,
the evening should have a sunset glow, and, when the night sets in, look
back with regret at the "gusty, babbling, and remorseless day;" but, if
we do so, we miss the supporting faith of the Christian and the manly
cheerfulness of the heathen. To grow old is quite natural; being
natural, it is beautiful; and if we grumble at it, we miss the lesson,
and lose all the beauty.
Half of our life is spent in vain regrets. When we are boys we ardently
wish to be men; when men we wish as ardently to be boys. We sing sad
songs of the lapse of time. We talk of "auld lang syne," of the days
when we were young, of gathering shells on the sea-shore and throwing
them carelessly away. We never cease to be sentimental upon past youth
and lost manhood and beauty. Yet there are no regrets so false, and few
half so silly. Perhaps the saddest sight in the world is to see an old
lady, wrinkled and withered, dressing, talking, and acting like a very
young one, and forgetting all the time, as she clings to the feeble
remnant of the past, that there is no sham so transparent as her own,
and that people, instead of feeling with her, are laughing at her. Old
boys disguise their foibles a little better; but they are equally
ridiculous. The feeble protests which they make against the flying
chariot of Time are equally futile. The great Mower enters the field,
and all must come down. To stay him would be impossible; We might as
well try with a finger to stop Ixion's wheel, or to dam up the current
of the Thames with a child's foot.
Since the matter is inevitable, we may as well sit down and reason it
out. Is it so dreadful to grow old? Does old age need its apologies and
its defenders? Is it a benefit or a calamity? Why should it be odious
and ridiculous? An old tree is picturesque, an old castle venerable, an
old cathedral inspires awe--why should man be worse than his works?
Let us, in the first place, see what youth is. Is it so blessed and
happy and flourishing as it seems to us? Schoolboys do not think so.
They always wish to be older. You cannot insult one of them more than by
telling him that he is a year or two younger than he is. He fires up at
once: "Twelve, did you say, sir? No, I'm fourteen." But men and women
who have reached twenty-eight do not thus add to their years. Amongst
schoolboys, notwithstanding the general tenor of those romancists who
see that every thing young bears a rose-colored blush, misery is
prevalent enough. Emerson, Coleridge, Wordsworth, were each and all
unhappy boys. They all had their rebuffs, and bitter, bitter troubles;
all the more bitter because their sensitiveness was so acute. Suicide is
not unknown amongst the young; fears prey upon them and terrify them;
ignorances and follies surround them. Arriving at manhood, we are little
better off. If we are poor, we mark the difference between the rich and
us; we see position gains all the day. If we are as clever as Hamlet, we
grow just as philosophically disappointed. If we love, we can only be
sure of a brief pleasure--an April day. Love has its bitterness. "It
is," says Ovid, an adept in the matter, "full of anxious fear." We fret
and fume at the authority of the wise heads; we have an intense idea of
our own talent. We believe calves of our own age to be as big and as
valuable as full-grown bulls; we envy whilst we jest at the old. We cry,
with the puffed-up hero of the _Patrician's Daughter_:
"It may be by the calendar of years
You are the elder man; but 'tis the sun
Of knowledge on the mind's dial shining bright,
And chronicling deeds and thoughts, that makes true time."
And yet withal life is very unhappy, whether we live amongst the
grumbling captains of the clubs, who are ever seeking and not finding
promotion; amongst the struggling authors and rising artists who never
rise; or among the young men who are full of riches, titles, places, and
honor, who have every wish fulfilled, and are miserable because they
have nothing to wish for. Thus the young Romans killed themselves after
the death of their emperor, not for grief, not for affection, not even
for the fashion of suicide, which grew afterwards prevalent enough, but
from the simple weariness of doing every thing over and over again. Old
age has passed such stages as these, landed on a safer shore, and
matriculated in a higher college, in a purer air. We sigh not for
impossibilities; we cry not:
"Bring these anew, and set me once again
In the delusion of life's infancy;
I was not happy, but I knew not then
That happy I was never doom'd to be."
We know that we are not happy. We know that life, perhaps, was not given
us to be continuously comfortable and happy. We have been behind the
scenes, and know all the illusions; but when we are old we are far too
wise to throw life away for mere _ennui_. With Dandolo, refusing a crown
at ninety-six, winning battles at ninety-four; with Wellington, planning
and superintending fortifications at eighty; with Bacon and Humboldt,
students to the last gasp; with wise old Montaigne, shrewd in his
grey-beard wisdom and loving life, even in the midst of his fits of gout
and colic--Age knows far too much to act like a sulky child. It knows
too well the results and the value of things to care about them; that
the ache will subside, the pain be lulled, the estate we coveted be
worth little; the titles, ribbons, gewgaws, honors, be all more or less
worthless. "Who has honor? He that died o' Wednesday!" Such a one passed
us in the race, and gained it but to fall. We are still up and doing; we
may be frosty and shrewd, but kindly. We can wish all men well; like
them, too, so far as they may be liked, and smile at the fuss, bother,
hurry, and turmoil, which they make about matters which to us are
worthless dross. The greatest prize in the whole market--in any and in
every market--success, is to the old man nothing. He little cares who is
up and who is down; the present he lives in and delights in. Thus, in
one of those admirable comedies in which Robson acted, we find the son a
wanderer, the mother's heart nearly broken, the father torn and broken
by a suspicion of his son's dishonesty, but the grandfather all the
while concerned only about his gruel and his handkerchief. Even the
pains and troubles incident to his state visit the old man lightly.
Because Southey sat for months in his library, unable to read or touch
the books he loved, we are not to infer that he was unhappy. If the
stage darkens as the curtain falls, certain it also is that the senses
grow duller and more blunted. "Don't cry for me, my dear," said an old
lady undergoing an operation; "I do not feel it."
It seems to us, therefore, that a great deal of unnecessary pity has
been thrown away upon old age. We begin at school reading Cicero's
treatise, hearing Cato talk with Scipio and Lælius; we hear much about
poor old men; we are taught to admire the vigor, quickness, and capacity
of youth and manhood. We lose sight of the wisdom which age brings even
to the most foolish. We think that a circumscribed sphere must
necessarily be an unhappy one. It is not always so. What one abandons in
growing old is, perhaps, after all not worth having. The chief part of
youth is but excitement; often both unwise and unhealthy. The same pen
which has written, with a morbid feeling, that "there is a class of
beings who do not grow old in their youth and die ere middle age," tells
us also that "the best of life is but intoxication." That passes away.
The man who has grown old does not care about it. The author at that
period has no feverish excitement about seeing himself in print; he does
not hunt newspapers for reviews and notices. He is content to wait; he
knows what fame is worth. The obscure man of science, who has been
wishing to make the world better and wiser; the struggling curate, the
poor and hard-tried man of God; the enthusiastic reformer, who has
watched the sadly slow dawning of progress and liberty; the artist,
whose dream of beauty slowly fades before his dim eyes--all lay down
their feverish wishes as they advance in life, forget the bright ideal
which they can not reach, and embrace the more imperfect real. We speak
not here of the assured Christian. He, from the noblest pinnacle of
faith, beholds a promised land, and is eager to reach it; he prays "to
be delivered from the body of this death;" but we write of those
humbler, perhaps more human souls, with whom increasing age each day
treads down an illusion. All feverish wishes, raw and inconclusive
desires, have died down, and a calm beauty and peace survive; passions
are dead, temptations weakened or conquered; experience has been won;
selfish interests are widened into universal ones; vain, idle hopes,
have merged into a firmer faith or a complete knowledge; and more light
has broken in upon the soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
"through chinks which Time has made."
Again, old men are valuable, not only as relics of the past, but as
guides and prophets for the future. They know the pattern of every turn
of life's kaleidoscope. The colors merely fall into new shapes; the
ground-work is just the same. The good which a calm, kind, and cheerful
old man can do is incalculable. And whilst he does good to others, he
enjoys himself. He looks not unnaturally to that which should accompany
old age--honor, love, obedience, troops of friends; and he plays his
part in the comedy or tragedy of life with as much gusto as any one
else. Old Montague, or Capulet, and old Polonius, that wise maxim-man,
enjoy themselves quite as well as the moody Hamlet, the perturbed
Laertes, or even gallant Mercutio or love-sick Romeo. Friar Lawrence,
who is a good old man, is perhaps the happiest of all in the _dramatis
personae_--unless we take the gossiping, garrulous old nurse, with her
sunny recollections of maturity and youth. The great thing is to have
the mind well employed, to work whilst it is yet day. The precise Duke
of Wellington, answering every letter with "F.M. presents his
compliments;" the wondrous worker Humboldt with his orders of
knighthood, stars, and ribbons, lying dusty in his drawer, still
contemplating _Cosmos_, and answering his thirty letters a day--were
both men in exceedingly enviable, happy positions; they had reached the
top of the hill, and could look back quietly over the rough road which
they had traveled. We are not all Humboldts or Wellingtons; but we can
all be busy and good. Experience must teach us all a great deal; and if
it only teaches us not to fear the future, not to cast a maundering
regret over the past, we can be as happy in old age--ay, and far more
so--than we were in youth. We are no longer the fools of time and error.
We are leaving by slow degrees the old world; we stand upon the
threshold of the new; not without hope, but without fear, in an
exceedingly natural position, with nothing strange or dreadful about it;
with our domain drawn within a narrow circle, but equal to our power.
Muscular strength, organic instincts, are all gone; but what then? We do
not want them; we are getting ready for the great change, one which is
just as necessary as it was to be born; and to a little child perhaps
one is not a whit more painful--perhaps not so painful as the other. The
wheels of Time have brought us to the goal; we are about to rest while
others labor, to stay at home while others wander. We touch at last the
mysterious door--are we to be pitied or to be envied?
The desert of the life behind,
Has almost faded from my mind,
It has so many fair oases
Which unto me are holy places.
It seems like consecrated ground,
Where silence counts for more than sound,
That way of all my past endeavor
Which I shall tread no more forever.
And God I was too blind to see,
I now, somewhat from blindness free,
Discern as ever-present glory,
Who holds all past and future story.
Eternity is all in all;
Time, birth and death, ephemeral--
Point where a little bird alighted,
Then fled lest it should be benighted.
* * * * *
LV.
RHYMES AND CHIMES
(ALL BRAND NEW)
SUITABLE FOR AUTOGRAPH ALBUMS.
As free as fancy and reason,
And writ for many a season;
In neither spirit nor letter
To aught but beauty a debtor.
INTRODUCTORY.
The reader knows
His woes.
How oft "someone has blundered!"
How oft a thought
Is caught,
And rhyme and reason sundered!
With line and hook,
Just look!
And see a swimming hundred--
A school of rhymes
And chimes
As free as summer air.
So, if you wish
To fish,
Please angle anywhere.
I.
Thou pet of modern art,
Since I the spell have broken,
Now on thy journey start,
And gather many a token
From many an honest heart,
The best or thought or spoken.
II.
Go forth, thou little book,
And seek that wondrous treasure,
Affection's word and look,
Which only heaven can measure.
III.
This Album comes a-tapping
At many a friendly door;
Yea, gently, gently rapping--
"Hast aught for me in store?
Dear Love and Truth I show,
To point a life's endeavor--
Thanks for thy heart! I go
And bear it on forever."
IV.
"Whose name was writ in water!"
It was not so of Keats.
How many a son and daughter
His gentle name repeats!
And Friendship and Affection
Will keep thy name as bright,
If Beauty give protection
And wed thee to the Right.
V.
So you desire my heart!
Well, take it--and depart.
It is not cold and heavy,
It is not light,
Seeks to be right,
And answers Beauty's levy.
VI.
Be it a fable or rumor,
Or an old device,
'Tis true; gentle wit and humor
Are as good as cold advice.
VII.
This dainty little Album thine
Is of a quality so fine
That happy Laughter here may write,
And all the pages still be white.
VIII.
There is no open mart
In which to sell a heart,
For none the price can pay;
So mine I give away,
Since I with it must part--
'Tis thine, my friend, for aye.
"Do I not feel the lack.
And want to get it back?"
No, no! for kindly Heaven
A better one has given.
IX.
There is a cup, I know,
Which, full to overflow,
Has yet the space to hold
Its measure many fold;
And when from it I drink,
It is so sweet to think--
_What it retains is more
Than all it held before_.
If you my riddle guess,
You surely will confess
The greater in the less,
Which is our blessedness.
X.
Dost give away thy heart,
With all its sweet perfume?
Angels dwell where thou art,
The more, the greater room.
XI.
A life lost in a life--
True husband or true wife--
A life come back again
As with a shining train.
XII.
A cheery maiden's love
As large as heaven and earth--
That were a gift to prove
How much this life is worth.
XIII.
Fast by Eternal Truth,
And on a sunny mountain,
Springs that perennial fountain
Which gives immortal youth;
And all who bathe therein
Are washed from every sin.
XIV.
It is to _do_ the best,
Unmindful of reward,
Which brings the sweetest rest
And nearness to the Lord;
And this has been thy aim,
And will be to the end,
Knows she who writes her name
As thy unchanging friend.
XV.
Words--words--and pen and ink,
But not a thought to think!
And yet, perhaps, perchance,
Who knows his ignorance
Is not the greatest fool,
Although long out of school.
XVI.
Our greatest glory, friend,
Is chiefly found herein--
That when we fall, offend,
We quickly rise from sin,
And make the very shame,
Which gathered round our name
Like many scorpion rings,
The stairs to better things
In that high citadel
Which has a warning bell.
XVII.
Whence honor, wealth, or fame,
Which God delights to see?
Out of a blameless name,
Born of Eternity.
And these are prizes
At God's assizes,
Reported day by day,
Which no man takes away.
XVIII.
Life is movement, action,
Joy, and benefaction.
Rest is bravely doing,
While the past reviewing,
Still the years forecasting
With the Everlasting.
Such be days of thine,
Such thy rest divine.
XIX.
The brook's joy
Does not cloy.
Too much sun,
Too much rain;
Work is done
Not in vain.
Sun receives
And cloud leaves
Just enough.
Skies are black
And winds rough,
Yet no lack
Of good will;
For 'tis still
Understood
God is good.
XX.
The brook's rest
Is rest indeed;
The brook's quest
Is daily need.
Thoughts of to-morrow
They bring no sorrow;
And so it babbles away,
And does the work of to-day.
XXI.
The brook knows the joy
Down in the heart of a boy,
And the swallow kens the whirl
Up in the head of a girl.
XXII.
How many a psalm is heard
From yon rejoicing bird,
That finds its daily food
And feels that God is good!
That little life's employ
Is toil and song and joy.
Hast music in thy heart,
O toiler day by day,
Along life's rugged way?
Then what thou hast thou art.
XXIII.
True, Good, and Beautiful!
A perfect line
Of love and sainthood full--
And it is thine.
XXIV.
Thou doest well, dear friend,
Thy labor is not lost.
As notes in music blend,
So here Affection's host.
Their names thy book within,
Their thoughts of love and truth,
Are worth the cost to win--
First trophies of thy youth.
This little Album thine
Suggests to Book Divine--
The Book of Life, God's own.
What names are written there!
What names are there unknown!
Hast thou no thought or care?
I do thee wrong to ask--
God speed the nobler task
Until thy labor prove
Indeed a work of love!
XXV.
True friends
Are through friends
To the next world--
That unvexed world.
What will friends be good for
When the witness is needless they stood for?
XXVI.
Wouldst have another gem
In Friendship's diadem?
Then take this name of mine;
Thy light will make it shine.
XXVII.
Thou comest beauty-laden,
Thou sprightly little maiden,
And dancing everywhere
Like sunbeams in the air;
And for thy cheery laugh
Here is my autograph.
XXVIII.
Something for nothing? No!
A false device.
For all things here below
We pay the price.
For even grace we pay,
Which is so free;
And I have earned to-day
A smile from thee.
XXIX.
Friend, make good use of time!
Eternity sublime
Is cradled in its use,
And Time allows no truce.
The past, with shadowy pall,
Is gone beyond recall;
To-morrow is not thine;
'To-day is all thou hast,
Which will not always last:
Make thou to-day divine!
XXX.
Every hour a duty
Brings thee from the courts on high.
Every hour a beauty
Waits her transit to the sky;
Waits till thou adorn her
With the glory of thy heart,
Or until thou scorn her--
Shall she with thy sin depart?
XXXI.
If you seek in life success,
Own yourself the instrument
Which the Lord alone can bless,
And the world as helper meant;
Perseverance as your friend
And experience your eyes,
Onward press to reach your end,
Resting not with any prize;
Counting it a joy to lend
Unto Him who sanctifies.
XXXII.
That day is lost forever,
Whose golden sun
Beholds through thine endeavor
No goodness done.
XXXIII.
Count not thy life by heart-throbs;
He thinks and lives the most
Who with the noblest actions
Adorns his chosen post.
XXXIV.
The secret of the world,
Although in light impearled,
No one can e'er discover,
No one--except a lover.
To him are given new eyes
In self's true sacrifice.
XXXV.
If Love is blind
And overlooks small things,
He has a mind
To apprehend all things.
XXXVI.
As Love sails down life's river
He from his gleaming quiver
Shoots into every heart
A strange and nameless smart.
How is thy heart protected?
The wound is unsuspected!
XXXVII.
Dost thou truly love?
Nothing hard can prove,
All the stress and rigor
Doth thy heart transfigure.
XXXVIII.
Love is the key of joy
Which keeps the man a boy
When outward things decay
And all his locks are gray.
XXXIX.
Of Heaven below
Which is so sweet to know,
And Heaven above,
The title-deed is love.
XL.
Who is bravest
Of my four friends?
Thou that slavest,
And self all spends;
Thou that savest,
And usest never;
Thou that cravest,
With no endeav-or,
Thou that gavest,
And hast forever?
XLI.
_Numen
Lumen,_
I can do without praise,
I can do without money:
I have found other honey
To sweeten my days;
And the Kaiser may wear his gold crown
While I on his splendor look down.
XLII.
God thy Light!
Then is Right
Life's own polar star;
All thy fortunes are
Gifts that come from Him,
Filling to the brim
Life's great golden cup,
And thy heart looks up!
XLIII.
A debtor to hate,
A debtor to money,
Forever may wait
And never have honey.
A debtor to love
And sweet benefaction,
Hath treasures above,
A heart's satisfaction.
XLIV.
God is a liberal lender
To those who use,
But not abuse,
And daily statements render;
And here's the beauty of it--
He lends again the profit!
XLV.
Days of heroic will
Which God and duty fill,
Are evermore sublime
Memorials of Time.
That such thy days may be
Is my best wish for thee.
XLVI.
Self-sacrifice
Finds Paradise;
Hearts that rebel
Are gates of Hell.
Goals of all races
Are these two places.
XLVII.
The blushes of roses
And all that reposes
Sublime in a hero
Affixed by his zero--
Ah, _you_ will complete him,
As soon as you meet him.
XLVIII.
Maidens passing into naught,
What a work by them is wrought!
Not prefixes,
But affixes
On the better side of men--
See! they multiply by ten.
XLIX.
The golden key of life,
True maiden crowned a wife.
What then are toil and trouble,
With strength to meet them, double?
L.
True Heaven begins on earth
Around a common hearth,
Or in a humble heart--
Thy faith means what thou art,
And that which thou wouldst be;
Thou makest it, it thee.
LI.
No Heaven in Truth and Love?
Then do not look above.
Yet Truth and Love have wings,
Although the highest things;
Therewith to mount, dear friend,
Is life that has no end.
LII.
Art thou a mourner here?
But One can give thee cheer:
Affliction turns to grace
Before the Master's face.
LIII.
My friend, my troubled friend,
If true, Love has not found you,
Then I can comprehend
That Duty has not bound you.
LIV.
Love is the source of duty,
The parent of all life,
Which Heaven pronounces beauty,
The crown of man and wife,
Beginning and the end
To hero, saint, and friend;
An inspiration which
Is so abundant, rich,
That from the finger-tips
And from the blooming lips,
Yea, from the voiceful eyes,
In questions and replies--
From every simple action
And hourly benefaction
It pours itself away,
A gladness day by day,
Exhaustless as the sun,
Work done and never done.
And I have painted _you_,
O maiden fair and true!
LV.
The voice of God is love,
As all who listen prove.
Be thou assured of this,
Or life's chief comfort miss.
LVI.
"O is not love a marvel
Which one can not unravel?
Behold its _bitter_ fruit!
Ah, _that_ kind does not suit."
My friend, I'm not uncivil--
_Self_ makes of love a _devil_,
And it is love no more;
_His_ guise love never wore,
But Satan steals the guise
Of love for foolish eyes--
Therein the danger lies,
But do not be too wise.
Dost wait for perfect good
In man or womanhood?
Then thou must onward press
In single blessedness,
And find, perhaps too late,
_Love dies without a mate_--
Perhaps this better fate
When love a banquet makes
Which all the world partakes,
Proved never out of date.
LVII.
Prove all things--even love
Thou must needs prove.
But let the touch be fine
That tests a thing divine.
Yea, let the touch be tender;
True love will answer render.
LVIII.
'Tis Give-and-take,
Not Take-and-give,
That seeks to make
Folk blessed live.
Where is he now?
Invisible.
Yet on thy brow
His name I spell.
LIX.
Bear-and-forbear,
To make folk blest,
Seeks everywhere
To be a guest.
Angelic one,
Who art so near,
Thy will be done,
Both now and here.
LX.
Comes knowledge
At college;
Wisdom comes later,
And is the greater.
Art thou of both possessed?
Then art thou richly blest.
LXI.
What can I wish thee better
Than that through all thy days,
_The spirit, not the letter_,
Invite thy blame or praise?
Seek ever to unroll
The substance or the soul;
If that be fair and pure,
It will, and must endure;
And lo! the homely dress
Grows into loveliness.
LXII.
Into the heart of man
The things that bless or ban;
Out of the life he lives,
The boon or curse he gives.
Guard well thy open heart,
What enters must depart.
LXIII.
Is this--is _this_ thine album?
'Tis nothing but a sign
Of something more divine.
_Thou_ art the real album,
And on its wondrous pages
Is writ thy daily wages.
Thou canst not blot a word,
Much less tear out a leaf.
But all thy prayers are heard,
And every pain and grief
May be to thee as stairs
To better things, until
Thou reachest, unawares,
The Master's mind and will.
LXIV.
Seek thou for true friends,
Aim thou at true ends,
With God above them all;
Then, as the shadows lengthen,
Will thy endurance strengthen,
With heaven thy coronal.
LXV.
Ten thousand eyes of night,
One Sovereign Eye above;
Ten thousand rays of light,
One central fire of Love.
No eyes of night appear,
God's Eye is never closed;
No rays of light to cheer,
For _self_ hath interposed.
Yet Love's great fire is bright
By day as well as night.
LXVI.
O we remember
In leafy June,
And white December
Love's gentle tune;
For nevermore,
On any shore,
Is life the same
As ere love came.
LXVII.
And this is the day
My child came down from heaven,
And this is the way
The sweetest kiss is given.
LXVIII.
Thy natal day, my dear!
Good heart, good words for cheer,
And kisses now and here,
With love through many a year!
LXIX.
Earthly duty,
Heavenly beauty.
LXX.
Truth! her story
Is God's glory;
Her triumph on the earth,
Man's heavenly birth.
LXXI.
What's in a name?
A symbol of reality,
All human fame,
And God's originality.
LXXII.
Thou art so neat and trim,
So modest and so wise,
Such gladness in thine eyes,
Thou art a prize--for him,
And for the world, I think;
So here thy health I drink,
O mother Eve's fair daughter,
In this good cup of water.
LXXIII.
All, all thou art
Is in thy heart;
Thy mind is but a feeder,
Thy heart alone the leader,
LXXIV.
If you want a fellow.
Not too ripe and mellow,
Just a little green,
Courteous, never mean,
One who has a will
For the steepest hill,
And can rule a wife,
Love her as his life,
And from fortune's frown
Weave a blessed crown,
Then you want the best;
Win him, and be blest.
LXXV.
If you wish a dandy,
Moustache curled and sandy,
Just the thing for parties,
Who, so trim and handy,
Knows not where his heart is,
Whether with your banker,
Or for you it hanker,
Why, then take the dude;
Naught is void of good.
LXXVI.
His faults are many--
Hast thou not any?
But how will the bundles mix?
Is a question for Doctor Dix,
For both were picked up at Ann Arbor.
LXXVII.
I can not wish thee better
In a world of many a sorrow,
Than that thou be a debtor
To only love and to-morrow.
Then pain has little anguish,
And life no time to languish,
When debts are paid to Heaven,
And grace sufficient for thee
Thy daily strength has given;
For all is bright before thee.
LXXVIII.
Seek not for happiness,
But just to do thy duty;
And then will blessedness
Impart her heavenly beauty.
LXXIX.
Indulge no selfish ease,
Each golden hour employ,
Seek only God to please,
And thou shalt life enjoy;
Yea, thou shalt then please all,
And blessings on thee fall.
LXXX.
To use thy time discreetly,
To show forbearance sweetly,
To do thy duty neatly,
To trust in God completely,
Is good advice to give,
And best of all to live.
LXXXI.
If words are light as cloud foam,
So too is mountain air;
If in the air is beauty,
So too may words be fair.
If in the air contagion,
Distemper words may bear.
Our words are real things,
And full of good or ill;
The tongue that heals or stings,
So needs the Master's will!
LXXXII.
The world has many a fool,
The schemer many a tool;
A mirror shows them,
The wise man knows them.
Ten thousand disguises,
Ten thousand surprises.
In wisdom is detection,
In righteousness protection.
LXXXIII.
To do good to another
Is thy self to well serve;
And to succor thy brother
For thyself is fresh nerve
And new strength for the battle,
In the dash and the rattle,
When thy foes press thee hard,
And thy all thou must guard.
LXXXIV.
Canst show a finer touch,
A grain of purer lore--
"I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more?"
LXXXV.
Frittered away,
Grace to begin
Duty to-day--
Wages of sin!
Truth out of sight,
Falsehood crept in,
Wrong put for right--
Wages of sin.
Self become god,
Eager to win
All at its nod--
Wages of sin.
Scorn of the seer,
Vanity's grin,
Darkness grown dear--
Wages of sin.
Trouble without,
Canker within,
Fear, hate, and doubt--
Wages of sin.
What is to be,
All that has been,
Shadows that flee--
Wages of sin.
Loss of the soul,
Wrangle and din,
Tragedy's dole--
Wages of sin.
Warning enough!
(Mortals are kin)
Ragged and rough
Wages of sin!
LXXXVI.
Words great to express Him,
Revealer
And Healer,
By these ye confess Him.
Enough, this beginning?
Before ye
The glory
Known only in winning.
In deed-bearing Duty
Behold Him,
Enfold Him,
The King in his Beauty;
Until ye discover
How meetly,
How sweetly
He rules as a Lover!
And then will confession,
O new men,
Now true men,
Be one with possession.
LXXXVII.
O wouldst thou know
The rarity
Of Charity?
Thyself forego!
Then will the field,
To God inviting,
To man requiting,
Sweet harvest yield.
LXXXVIII.
In consecration
To single-hearted toil
Is animation,
Yea, life's true wine and oil;
And that vocation
Which heart and mind secures
Hath consolation
That verily endures.
LXXXIX.
To fast and pray
The live-long day
Is preparation--
O doubt it not!
For some high lot,
But in thy deed,
Not in thy creed,
Is consummation.
XC.
It is the cheerful heart
That finds the key of gold,
The bravely-acted part
Which gets the grip and hold.
And opens wide the door
Where treasures are unrolled
Thine eager eyes before.
Then life is evermore
A strife for wealth untold.
God keep thee true and bold!
XCI.
Sometimes our failures here
Are God's successes;
And things that seemed so drear
His sweet caresses.
It is our Father's hand
That gives our wages,
Before us many a land
And all the ages.
And shall we forfeit hope
Because the fountains
Are up the mighty slope
Of yonder mountains?
XCII.
The storm is raging.
The sun is shining,
And both presaging
Some true refining;
Through them are passing
The hosts forever,
All wealth amassing
Through brave endeavor.
XCIII.
O trees, rejoicing trees,
Along my path to-day
I hear your quiet melodies,
And care all charmed away,
I catch your mood,
Dear forest brotherhood.
O trees, rejoicing trees,
Arrayed in springtide dress,
How full ye are of prophecies
Of everlastingness!
I find a balm
In your rejoicing psalm.
O trees, rejoicing trees,
In living green so grand,
Like saints with grateful memories,
Ye bless the Father's hand;
Which stripped you bare
To make you now so fair.
O trees, rejoicing trees,
Who have another birth,
Through you my bounding spirit sees
The day beyond the earth,
Eternity
So calm, so fair, so free.
O trees, rejoicing trees,
Dear children of the Lord,
I thank you for the ministries
Which ye to me accord;
New life and light
Burst from my wintry night!
O friend, rejoicing friend,
A better poem thou
To hint the joys that have no end
Through gladness here and now.
Be thou to me
Perpetual prophecy!
XCIV.
The battle is set,
The field to be won;
What foes have you met,
What work have you done?
To courage alone
Does victory come;
To coward and drone
Nor country nor home!
XCV.
For thee, of blessed name,
I ask not wealth or fame,
Nor that thy path may be
From toil and trouble free;
For toil is everywhere,
Some trouble all must bear,
And wealth and fame are naught,
With better stuff unwrought--
I crave for thy dear heart
Eternal Duty's part.
For then indeed I know
Thy pathway here below
Will bloom with roses fair,
And beauty everywhere;
And this will be enough
When winds are wild and rough,
To keep thy heart in peace.
XCVI
All things to-day have voices,
To tell the joy of heaven,
Which unto earth is given;
This Winter flower rejoices,
This snowy hellebore
Which blooms for evermore
On merry Christmas Day,
Reminding us of One
Here born a Virgin's Son,
To take our sins away.
The death its leaves within
Is but the death of sin;
Which death to die was born
The pure and guiltless Child
Who Justice reconciled
And oped the gates of morn,
What time a crimson flame
Throughout a word of shame
Did purge away the dross,
And leave the blood-red gold,
Whose worth can not be told,
He purchased on the cross!
And thus a prophecy
Of Him on Calvary,
Who takes our sins away,
Is this fair snow-white flower
Which has of death the power,
And blooms on Christmas Day.
XCVII.
True friendship writes thee here
A birthday souvenir:
All blessings on thee, dear,
For this and many a year!
XCVIII.
A myth that grew within the brain
Relates that Eden's bowers
Did not, 'mid all their wealth, contain
The glory of the flowers;
Because there were no opened eyes
To take that glory in,
The sweet and innocent surprise
Which looks rebuke to sin;
For Love, and Innocence, and Truth
There made their dwelling-place,
Than which fair three immortal Youth
Required no other grace.
But when through sin the happy seat
Was lost to wretched man,
Our Lord, redeeming love to meet,
Redeeming work began:
The flowers, which have a language now,
Shall deck the weary earth,
And, while men 'neath their burdens bow,
Remind them of their birth;
And, with their vernal beauty rife,
To all the Gospel preach,
The Resurrection and the Life,
In sweet, persuasive speech.
XCIX.
Reader! if thou hast found
Thy life to reach and sound,
Some thought among these rhymes,
My school of rhymes and chimes,
_Then this, I pray thee, con:_
Somewhat to feed upon
It has--a kind of lunch,
Served with Olympian punch,
To brace thee every night,
And make thy mornings bright--
Complines at even-song
To make thee brave and strong:
SUNDAY NIGHT.
Thou, Father, givest sleep
So calm, so sweet, so deep;
And all Thy children share
Thy goodness everywhere,
And to Thy likeness grow
Who love to others show.
Grant me more love, I pray,
Than I have shown to-day.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
MONDAY NIGHT.
Before I go to sleep,
That I in joy may reap,
Lord, take the tares away
Which I have sown to-day,
Productive make the wheat,
For Thine own garner meet,
And give me grace to-morrow
To sow no seeds of sorrow.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
TUESDAY NIGHT.
While I am wrapped in sleep,
And others watch and weep,
Dear Lord, remember them,
Their flood of sorrow stem,
Take all their grief away,
Turn Thou their night to day,
Until in Thee they rest
Who art of friends the best.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
WEDNESDAY NIGHT.
Night is for prayer and sleep!
Behind the western steep
Now has the sun gone down
With his great golden crown.
O Sun of Righteousness,
Arise! Thy children bless;
With healing in thy wings
Cure all our evil things.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
THURSDAY NIGHT.
While I am safe asleep,
Good Shepherd of the sheep,
If some poor lamb of Thine
Stray from the Fold Divine
Into the desert night,
In the sweet morning light,
Choose me to bring it thence
Through Thy dear providence.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
FRIDAY NIGHT.
That I may sweetly sleep,
Thy child, O Father, keep
To wake and love thee more
Than I have done before.
And do Thou prosper all
Who on Thy goodness call,
And take their sins away
Who have not learned to pray.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
SATURDAY NIGHT.
If death upon me creep
While I in darkness sleep,
Dear Lord! whose time is best,
Be Thou my bed and rest!
Then at Thy smile of light
Will my dark cell grow bright,
And angel-sentinels
Ring the sweet morning bells.
O Father, Son, and Dove,
Dear Trinity of Love,
Hear Thou my even-song
And keep me brave and strong.
C.
There is no bitterness
Without some lump of sweet;
Without some blessedness
There is no sad defeat.
And there is no confusion
Without some order fair,
No infinite diffusion
But unity is there.
The goodness of the Lord
Is round about us here;
Beholding it reward
To fill the heart with cheer.
All things are ever tending
To some divine event,
The sweet and bitter blending
With some divine intent.
All things are ever tending
To some divine event,
The sweet to have no ending--
Avaunt! O Discontent.
Brave men and women all,
How are we comforted
With honey out of gall,
Served with our daily bread!
FINIS.
* * * * *
Footnote 1: The way of the cross the way of light.
Footnote 2: O Liberty! how they have counterfeited thee!
It is generally understood, however, that her last words were: _O
Liberté! que de crimes on commet en ton nom!_ (O Liberty! what crimes
are committed in thy name!)