A winter in retirement

Chapter VIII

I know not if it were so, but to my mind it seems

As if the grass were greener then, and brighter the sun beams.

“My dear mother,” said Herbert, as Mrs. Wilson took her usual place the next evening, “we desire your opinion. Does the fact that we read this story at intervals lessen its interest?” “It would not in my opinion,” said Mrs. Wilson. “I think a story, read in this manner, affords more real pleasure and instruction than the common practice, when the faculties become tired by the continued strain. It is a species of intoxication which, after the excitement is ended, leaves the mind tired and exhausted by over-exertion.” “I dare say you are right, dear aunt,” said Susan, “but I confess that I was disposed to quarrel with such a truth when Herbert told us he must be absent this evening, and I do not like to have Charles disappointed.” “Charles must learn to bear disappointments,” said his mother, smiling at his earnest and sober look. “I have found the lines you wished to have read, my son, and we will spend the evening in reading them.” “But,” said Charles, “I wish the good young Christian was released from his dreary dungeon.” “Never mind, dear Charles,” said Herbert, “the anticipation of happiness is very pleasant, you know.” “Yes,” said Elizabeth, “but you remember we have the very best authority for saying that ‘hope deferred maketh the heart sick.’” “There seems to be no alternative,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and we will endeavor to evade this heart-sickness by diverting your attention to other objects, even the pleasant scenes of our own home.”

So soon as they were all in readiness, Elizabeth read the following

REMINISCENCES OF LYNN

The remembrance of our youth

Is as a summer day, and brighter gleams

As the dark shadow of our life grows deep,

There is no home so dear to us as that

Which reared our childhood, and its pleasant scenes

Rise, dear to memory’s eye. Those old trees

Under whose shade our merry sports went on

Are dear as ancient friends. My early home!

While memory lives, thy peaceful, happy scenes

Will never be forgot. From that green lane

Extends a pathway, bordered with wild shrubs,

Ascending to the summit of a Rock,

That Rock of fame, surnamed the “Lover’s Leap.”

Not this, the Rock of old, whence Sappho sprang,

And, plunging in the cold and pitiless flood,

Ended, at once, her love, and her sad life;

For no deep water, flowing at the base

Of this steep Rock, offers so quick a cure

For hopeless love, nor do I know, in truth,

That hapless lover ever tried this leap;

But, so much have I heard, that an old cow,

Moved by some cause which never can be known,

Approached too near the brink, perhaps to graze

Upon the scanty grass, or the wild box

Which grew among its fissures, and, sad fate!

By a misstep, losing her balance, fell,

And lost her precious life; precious, no doubt

To some good, thrifty farmer’s wife, whose store

Of wholesome milk was thus diminished quite.

But nought have I to do with these sad tales

Of death; I love to think of those bright, happy days,

When, with a gay and happy troop of friends,

All happy, we patrolled the pleasant path

And rested on that Rock, and sang sweet songs

And laughed and talked, and wove gay wreaths of flowers.

How pleasant ’twas to watch the different shades

In the green foliage of the large, thick trees

Encircling the gray Rock, and mark the view

Of the rich landscape, stretching far and wide,

While, in the distance, rolled the vast expanse

Of ocean, mingling with the dark blue sky.

There is another Rock, not like this one,

Surrounded by green shade, but smooth and bare,

And High Rock is its name; a beacon this,

Seen from afar, and, from its highest point,

A lovely prospect opens to the sight.

On the declivity a Building stood,

An object of much awe to children’s eyes,

The Powder House, a magazine of wrath,

Which, when a child, I almost feared to touch,

Lest all its hidden terrors would explode;

And, lower yet, an Aqueduct, whose spring

Of clear, cold water, was a welcome treat

On a warm summer day; years bring great change,

Yet much I hope that spot is still unchanged.

One strong remembrance of that pleasant spot

Now presses on my mind, for, at its foot,

Upon the eastern side, stood a lone house,

Deserted, too, it looked, but ’twas not so;

For, though no pleasant signs of busy life

Were there, yet its patched windows showed

Some one had there sought shelter from the cold.

’Twas the far-famed Moll Pitcher’s house, the scene

Of many an hour of mirth, and some of pain,

The would-be prophetess, in sullen mood,

Would sometimes vex her votaries, boding ill

Of future times. I well remember once

Standing upon that Rock, with a gay group

Of young companions, and in merry play,

Joining with them in rolling down the steep

A shower of stones toward Moll Pitcher’s house;

But, as we played, the wind began to rise,

And some faint hearts among our little clan

Said the old witch had raised the wind in spite.

Our hearts beat quick with childish fear. At once

We left our sport and, running down the hill,

In the dread fear that the weird woman’s rage

Would yet o’ertake us, slackened not our speed

Until the friendly shelter of a house

Received our weary little frames at last.

Let not the wise deride our infant fear.

Where is the heart that has not beat sometime

At some dark, superstitious thought of ill

Impending; or the cheek that has not blanched

At some dread mystery yet unexplained?

Where are those gay and loved companions now?

Do they yet cluster round the same bright hearth

That blessed their childhood? Do they linger still

Among those lovely scenes of early youth

So fresh in my remembrance? Ah! how few

Are left to cherish the old memories!

Some, the dear playmates of my youthful days,

Rest in that sacred spot where the tall trees

Wave a kind requiem o’er the loved remains

Of many a cherished one, and others roam

To the far western land or sunny south

Where other friends, or other loves, are theirs.

A changing world is this, and if our hearts

Are here, how frail our tenure holds.

’Twould seem, in those young, happy days

There dwelt no sin or sorrow; simple joys

Were ours; the summer morning walk,

When the fresh air was perfumed with sweet flowers,

The wild Rose and the Sweetbrier, the sweet Fern,

The Bayberry and Box; all lent their aid.

There was an ancient wall whose mossy stones

Were almost hid by the luxuriant growth

Of the wild Grape; and the green spreading leaf

Of the low blackberry, climbing o’er its top;

While, interspersed among its kindred sweets,

The rich, black thimbleberry found a place.

There have I strayed, what time the glorious sun

Rose from the ocean, and his splendid hues

Crimsoned the wide horizon, and supplied

My morning bowl of milk with a rich treat

Of juicy berries, breathing the fresh air,

Inhaling health with every passing breeze.

And even when winter, with its freezing breath,

Chilled the whole atmosphere, when the green shade

And the sweet flowers were gone, new pleasures came.

The smooth and polished ice, the hard, white snow,

Sparkling in the bright beams of the clear sun,

Afforded sport for many a winter day.

But when, at evening, the gay, cheerful fire

Called us around it by its kindly warmth,

When dear relations and loved friends were met,

Encircling its clear blaze, then was the hour

Most coveted, the hour when harmless mirth,

Improving converse and the merry glee

Of happy childhood joined in sweet accord.

How often have I listened at that hour

To the sweet song, the lively jest, and oft

To the sad tale of shipwreck, or some tale

Of other times, when our forefathers came

From distant lands, where wicked rulers sought

Their overthrow, and came to worship God

In these, then, dreary wilds, in their own way.

How the dark, stealthy Indian sought their lives;

Sickness and famine preyed upon their health,

And death removed their loved and dearest ones;

But how their God sustained them thro’ their grief

And made them a great people, and that now,

When we behold their populous towns, their lands

Of rich fertility, and happy homes,

We know the Lord had led them here for good,

And prospered all their hands had sought to do.

’Tis the sweet morn of early youth that fits

Our hearts for useful life; let but our home

Be the resort of love and peace, of trust

In the wise providence of God, and years

Will not efface the deep, strong memory,

Though we may wander from the rightful way

We never shall forget the well taught way,

And conscience, like a trusty friend, will point

To the abode of peace and lead us there.

Land of our birth! our own America!

May thy fair sons, as plants of goodly growth,

Arise; and as the polished corner-stones,

Thy lovely daughters be thy pride and boast.

“You shall select poetry for me, Charles,” said Susan, “since you so justly appreciate my taste. In the summer we will retrace these pleasant scenes.” “I know them all,” said Charles, “and many more I will show you, Susan.” “There are many lovely spots around us,” said Elizabeth, “and the history of some of them connected with the early settlement of the town.” “Do you remember, Charles, that in our ride last summer I pointed out to you a delightful situation situated upon a point of land projecting into the ocean?” “Yes, mother, and Elizabeth said it would not be so pleasant in the winter on account of its exposure to the sea.” “I will relate a circumstance connected with that situation, which must conclude our evening’s entertainment. An English gentleman, the younger son of a noble family, determined to leave his native land and settle in America. His fortune, which was not sufficient to support him in England in that style and opulence which he thought consistent with the dignity of his family, would be ample in America for all the luxuries of life. He had married a young and lovely wife and did not find much difficulty in persuading her to follow his fortunes; but she overestimated her strength when she bade farewell to the home of her birth, the friends of her childhood. She suffered much from sickness during her voyage and, weakened both in body and mind, landed upon this, to her, a home of strangers. That sickness of the heart, which we emphatically term homesickness, seized her; she became melancholy and unhappy and even the soothing affection of her husband failed to disperse the deep gloom of her mind. With the hope that change of scene would benefit and amuse her, he made frequent excursions in the country around Salem, where they then resided, and one of these was in the neighborhood of the situation I showed you. She immediately recognized a resemblance to the scenes of her youth, her first home. The mansion of her birth stood upon the seashore, the sound of the rushing waters was like the lullaby of her infancy, and the rugged rocks were associated in her ideas with those around her own loved home in England. Delighted that she had found a spot congenial to her feelings, her husband caused the building which you saw to be erected, and, adopting it as another home, she became tranquil and happy, lived beloved and respected and reared a family of children, some of whose descendants still reside upon the same spot.” “It is not always local situation which causes this deep attachment to home,” said Mary. “It is wisely ordered that it should not be so,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Mother,” said Charles, “may I repeat those lines upon our native land?” “Do so,” said his mother.

“There is no passion in the human breast

So deep implanted as the love of home,

’Midst the rude mountains, where eternal snows

Rest on their towering height, or, hanging o’er.

Threaten each passing traveler with death.

In the secluded valleys dwell a race

Of hardy mountaineers, whose lowly huts

Are to them dearer than the whole world’s wealth.

And, on Arabia’s sandy desert soil,

Where no rich verdure greets the passing eye,

Where no cool, murmuring stream salutes the ear,

The wild Bedouin wanders, bold and free,

Boasting his home, the happiest and the best,

And claiming for himself Heaven’s richest gift,

The gift of Freedom. The fierce Indian tribes,

Panting for war, gaining their daily food

By the precarious chase, their hardy frames

Inured to hunger; yet, with strongest ties

Cling to their native land; it is their Home.

Far in the frozen regions of the North,

The dwarfish native of those dreary plains

Turns, with disdain, from him whose kindly zeal

Would lure him from his cold and gloomy land.

While, under burning skies, in torrid climes,

The dull inhabitant, in calm content,

Dreams through his life in sluggish indolence.

Nor cares, nor wishes for a happier home.”

A winter in retirement

About This Book

Chapter VIII