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A winter in retirement

Chapter 19: Chapter XVII Peaceful and calm as Sabbath’s holy eve.
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About This Book

Two young sisters are sent to winter with a widowed aunt at a New England seaside home and move from initial disappointment to warm domestic belonging. The text blends vivid coastal description with gentle household scenes, introducing cheerful cousins, a studious brother, and loyal retainers whose stories and company lift spirits. Recurring social evenings, seasonal pastimes, and moral reflection illustrate how simple comforts and familial kindness turn bleak weather into pleasant sociability. Presented as a string of intimate sketches and episodes, the work emphasizes family bonds, resilience, and the quiet rewards of home life rather than a single dramatic plot.

Chapter XVII
Peaceful and calm as Sabbath’s holy eve.

On the ensuing Sabbath evening the conversation turned upon the public services of the day, which were rendered interesting to Charles, as well as the others, by their reference to the ancient history of Palestine. “There is now left,” said Herbert, “but the dust and ruins of these celebrated countries of antiquity. Were it not for these, even yet, splendid mementoes of the former greatness of ancient Syria, we should be lost in wonder and credulity when we contrast the history of its past grandeur with the accounts of modern travelers. How puny do the works of our days of boasted superiority appear, compared with the colossal ruins of Balbec and Palmyra, where the stones of which their mighty edifices were composed would seem to require the strength of giants, or such machinery as the mechanism of these times can hardly imagine, to place them in their appointed situation. The plains of Syria, from the earliest records of time, have been the theatre on which the most interesting scenes have been performed. Embattled legions have here fought to the death, and the footsteps of the messengers of peace on earth, preceded by those of their Divine Master, have pressed the favored soil. Here, too, the wild fanaticism of the Crusades rose to its climax, here the brave, but imprudent and improvident Richard of England, and the generous, noble-hearted Saladin figured in their brief careers. These scenes possess an indescribable charm for the Christian, while they present inexhaustible themes for poetry and romance.” “Your enthusiasm, dear Herbert,” said Elizabeth, “would lead us to suppose that you, too, had taken them for a theme; do not deny us the pleasure of profiting by the inspiration.” “I will not,” said he, “though I have only attempted a paraphrase of an incident related in the Scriptures.”

’Twas noon; on Syria’s sandy plains
The scorching sun pours down his beams:
Where shall the weary traveler rest?
Where shall he slake his burning thirst?
Far in the hazy distance seen,
Rises a grove of palm trees green,
And, to the near approach displays
To the enraptured wanderer’s gaze
A sweet retreat, whose verdure bright
And fountains cool and shaded light
Would seem to promise that no care
Or sorrowing heart could linger there.
Vain thought! for earth contains no spot
Where sin or sorrow enters not.
Mistaken dream! a heaven of bliss
Alone bestows a gift like this.
Amidst these shades a palace rose;
A proud and stately front it shows;
Around, ’tis graced with gardens fair,
Delightful perfumes fill the air;
Sweet music cheers the passing day,
Delicious waters cast their spray;
And, when the soft and gentle breeze
Of peaceful twilight stirs the trees,
The bird of night, with plaintive strains
Soothes to repose and pleasant dreams.
But in this spot, so calm and sweet,
There dwelt sad hearts and sorrows deep;
The Syrian Captain there abode,
Naaman, favorite of his lord;
Riches surround the mighty Chief;
Do they avert a dreaded grief?
Slaves bow before his slightest word,
And splendor decks his plenteous board;
Ah! sad relief for anxious care.
Ah! poor resort against despair.
With saddened brow the warrior stalks
Through stately halls and sheltered walks,
The leper’s curse is on him fixed;
With his best blood the plague is mixed,
And fleeting Time, he knows, full sure,
Will bring fresh misery to endure.
No hope for him; each rising morn
Still sees his heart with anguish torn,
While each returning hour for sleep
But marks his hour for torture deep.
Still, one there is to share his grief
If sympathy could bring relief;
Behind those latticed windows dwells
A form whose heart with sorrow swells;
The wife; whose best affections twine
Around his love; as twines the vine
Round some supporting prop or power
That shields it in the dangerous hour.
Oh! not for them the trusting prayer,
That sure resource against despair;
Thine idol gods are powerless now,
In vain to them, the knee they bow.
But, as the pious man of old
Obtained, by intercession bold,
A promise, that, if ten were found
Within the fated city’s bound,
Who worshiped God with zeal and truth,
They should avert the dreaded wrath.
So, now, the faith of one restored
To health and strength the Syrian Lord,
Amidst the slaves, a Hebrew maid,
Obedience to her mistress paid,
And, sympathizing with her woe,
Sought means to save the dreaded blow;
A holy prophet dwelt, she told,
Where rose Samaria’s turrets bold;
That God, to him, had given the power
This fatal leprosy to cure.
Beneath an Olive’s spreading shade,
The holy prophet knelt and prayed;
The leper, with his pompous train,
Assistance asks, nor asks in vain;
“Go wash in Jordan’s sacred stream,”
The prophet said, “Wash and be clean.”
With proud disdain, the Syrian turned;
Such simple means his nature spurned;
Some mighty deed, he proudly thought.
Was needful, when his cure was wrought,
“Are not our Syrian streams,” he said,
“Better than Jordan’s vaunted tide?
“Is not Arbana’s silver wave,
“Or Pharphar’s flood, fit place to lave?”
But, yielding to affection’s prayer
The haughty leper sought the shore;
Where Jordan’s swelling waters flowed,
And bathed him in the healing flood;
Then, rising from the holy stream,
No loathsome leprosy is seen;
No tainted blood his system knows,
But, pure the healthful current flows;
No sickly scales his flesh deform,
Like the fair child’s, now soft and warm,
With joyful heart, and thankful praise
To Israel’s God, he lifts his eyes;
“There is no God, but Israel’s God;”
The wondering train repeat the word.
’Twas eve; on Syria’s sandy plains
The scorching sun no longer beams;
Athwart the weary traveler’s brow
The chilling night-wind passes now;
The prowling thief, with murderous steel
Each sandy hillock may conceal;
Where shall the wanderer find repose?
How shall he ’scape his secret foes?
On; pilgrim, on; yon glimmering light
That, through the distance, greets thy sight,
Is the bright beacon-ray to guide
Thy toiling footsteps to its side;
Not now does sorrow’s gloomy cloud
That lovely spot in darkness shroud;
No rites, unholy, now are there;
No tainted incense fills the air;
On; pilgrim, on; for Israel’s God
Is worshiped there, by Syria’s lord;
And the rich mercies he receives
With bounteous hand he freely gives.

And now that our “Winter in Retirement” has drawn to a close, let us hope that the lesson we have tried to inculcate, that a life of excitement, and scenes of continued gayety are not necessary for the happiness of the young, may not be unheeded by those for whose benefit it is written. Life is too precious, too priceless a gift from our Father in heaven for part of its hours to be spent in trifling amusements, part in resting after their fatigue, and part in sad reflections upon their inutility. May this little volume, through His blessing, carry an antidote for these evils, and lead our youth to try its efficacy.

Autumn drew near; and, with her magic brush
Had touched the landscape; on the mountain’s slope,
Bright tints were mingling with the evergreens
Crowning its heights; and, as the freshening breeze
Swept onward, in its joyous course it bore
The many colored leaves, the forest’s pride,
Some few were green, and to the thoughtful mind
Recalled the youthful spring, in verdure rich;
Others appeared, touched with bright summer’s ray,
And mingled with the glowing heaps, bring back,
The sunny days of bright July; but more
Displayed deep crimson hues, or, orange, gay,
Or golden yellow; or, perchance, laid clothed
In sombre garb—
I sought, long time,
A title for my Book; Leaves there are here
Of Thought and Memory; some fresh like youth,
And many tinged with Autumn’s varying shades;
While, over all, a brightening light is cast,
The light of Hope.