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.”