A winter in retirement

by Hannah Blaney Washburn

Chapter XVI

’Midst the thorns are fragrant roses,

Sunbeams ’midst the shifting clouds.

Many days of open weather now intervened, when winter appeared to meditate resigning his sovereignty. The snow disappeared from the hills which surrounded their pleasant retreat, little sunny nooks were visible where the early violet might shelter, and the sands on the seashore were becoming bright and sparkling. Delightful as were these indications of spring, the inmates of Mrs. Wilson’s abode were not inclined to wish for its rapid approach. The winter had not only been pleasantly, but they all felt, profitably, spent, that seed had been sown which might, by careful culture, produce an abundant harvest. The joyous and lively spirits of Susan still retained all their buoyancy and she joined them on the sands where they were watching the white sails of the vessels as they were leaving the harbor, as the sun shone full upon them.

“They are leaving their homes,” said Elizabeth, “to cross that ocean, which, though now so serene, we have seen under such different aspects.” “And,” said Herbert, “they are, no doubt, elated with the pleasant auspices under which they commence their voyage. Sailors are a superstitious race; they dread to leave their port under a lowering sky; and it is almost impossible to induce them to embark on Friday. You will frequently see them on a land-cruise, as they call it, to overhaul the log-book of the redoubtable Moll Pitcher, or some old fortune teller, relative to the success of their voyage, the constancy of their sweethearts, etc., and the wise old lady prognosticates so much to their satisfaction that they return in great glee, after leaving with her a goodly portion of their well-filled purses.” “It is surely a kind Providence,” said Mary, “which hides from us the events of futurity. How wretched would be every intervening moment were we certain of the time of some great calamity!”

“True, Mary,” said Herbert, “and there are many who, without this knowledge, suffer a thousand deaths in fearing one. I refer to those who are ever anticipating evil, who prophesy destroying frost in every cold wind and blight or blasting mildew in the warm sun or refreshing rain.” “I am decidedly of the opinion,” said Susan, “that such persons are worse in society than drones in a hive, for the idle person generally injures himself more than any one else, but the discontented one makes others wretched by imparting to them a portion of his bitterness. It gives me the fidgets to hear poor Mrs. Flagg complain of this wicked world, protesting that everybody is governed by selfish motives and, shaking her head, declare that there is no such thing as happiness on earth, and yet she enjoys, or seems to enjoy, to perfection a good cup of tea and a warm cake.”

“We are too young, as yet, my cousin,” said Herbert, “and have seen too few of the trials of life to controvert, positively, the good woman’s assertion, but, when we look around us and see so much beauty, so much to love and admire, we may be sure that our Creator did not place us here to be miserable.”

“Now for a race, Charles,” said Susan; “I shall be at the gate first.”

They met Mrs. Wilson at the door and she greeted them with joyful news; a letter had arrived from their parents. The health of their father had so much improved that he wrote of speedy return and rejoiced in the happiness so apparent in the letters of his children. There was but one shadow to this pleasant news, the breaking up of their winter enjoyments, but Herbert reminded them that at any rate his vacation was nearly at an end; that they could look back upon this Winter in Retirement with almost unalloyed pleasure and forward with the cheering hope of future joyous meetings; also with the certainty that, by the help of Providence, the treasures stored in their minds through this, at first, dreaded season, would prove precious and available in all the varying events of their lives. “We will improve the time yet left us and I will read you this evening some lines written by a lady born in this town.”

THE OLD HOME

Speed onward, Time! thy dark wings leave

Deep traces on the path they cleave!

Speed onward! for the goal is near,

Backward I mark thy swift career,

And through the hazy past mine eye

Dwells on the scenes of infancy;

For, bright and clear its visions seem,

And sweet, in Memory’s glowing dream,

The broad Atlantic’s waves are bright

Where first my eyes beheld the light;

The broad Atlantic’s shores are fair

Where first I breathed my native air;

They boast of clear Italian skies;

I’ve seen the glorious sun arise

From out his sparkling ocean-bed,

And, o’er my home, his splendors shed,

His beams illumined the swelling sails

That caught the scented morning gales;

Ne’er were Italian skies more fair

Than rested o’er my old Home there.

Thy rocky cliffs, Nahant, gleamed bright

As morning poured her golden light;

And silvery streams of whiteness broke

From the rough seams of old Egg Rock;

Inland arose, ’midst foliage gay,

The Lover’s Leap, with forehead grey;

With haughty front, High Rock would seek

To court the sun’s first rising beam,

And sheltered homes, and meadows rare,

Soon caught the glittering radiance there.

The early sunlight never shone

On brighter than my own old Home.

And romance spread her witching dream

O’er shore and wood and rippling stream,

For here, ’twas said, the pirate Kidd

His ill-got store of treasure hid;

Amidst a wild and craggy waste,

Where straggling pines their shadows cast,

A rocky Cavern, dark and deep,

Stretched inward from its opening steep;

And there, ’twas told, foul deeds were wrought

And gold concealed, by murder bought,

Till, at the Dungeon’s gloomy name

The blood in quicker currents came.

Weird Superstition spread her wing

Of sombre shade, o’er dell and spring;

Once, powers of ill seemed leagued, to bind

In clouds of mist, the human mind;

Dread scenes ensued, and but the name

Of Witchcraft roused the smouldering flame,

The whirlwind spent its mightiest force

On Salem’s heights, but in its course

Its withering breath defiled the scene

Which else would more like Eden seem,

The haze of long past years alone

Casts shadows o’er my own old Home.

We boast, too, of a Sybil’s fame,

Though graced with but a homely name,

But never Sybil had more power,

And Sybil ne’er more honors bore;

No horrid rites she tried to show

A prophet’s skill, no charms to know,

No Sybil of old Rome was she

To give the Books of Destiny;

She knew no Book; but could enthrall

With magic skill the minds of all,

And some may live who once have known

The Sybil of my own old Home.

Here patriot hearts and patriot hands

Were joined to break Oppression’s bands;

Our pleasant homes sent forth their best

To fight, at Freedom’s high behest;

We claim the Puritan’s high birth;

Our fathers left their native hearth,

Their sons on Freedom’s land to rear,

Who, tyrant despots need not fear;

Where they might truly worship God

Without a Bishop’s mitred rod;

And tyrant power has ne’er been known

To hover round my own old Home.

Speed onward, Time! while life remains

And Memory her power retains,

My own old Home! I’ll cherish thee

Amidst the dreams of infancy;

The mists of age may gather round;

The silver cord may be unbound;

Speed onward, Time! for death alone

Can dim the thought of my old Home.

“Though the local scenery of Lynn,” said Mrs. Wilson, “is not essentially changed since this was written, many of its manners and customs are. The good old Puritan days have somewhat gone by; but it is pleasant to read something which refers to the time when they were reverenced and appreciated.”

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.