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Town and Country, or, Life at Home and Abroad

J >> John S. Adams >> Town and Country, or, Life at Home and Abroad




"The next morning I was delirious, with a fever. My anxiety for my
wife, and the exposure I had suffered, brought my body and mind into
a very critical state. For several days I talked wildly. At the
close of the fifth, I became sane in mind. I was yet quite ill. That
night the ship entered Boston harbor. It anchored in the stream, and
the next morning it hauled up to a wharf."





CHAPTER IV.




"I was a perfect stranger. The captain was attentive to my wants,
and made me as comfortable as he could. You will remember how neat
and quiet all appeared when, with my friend Jenks, you called on me.
All of the passengers took an interest in my welfare, and made up a
purse for me; but they could not remain long with me. They had been
long absent from home, and were desirous of seeing their families
and friends, or else they had business in this or some other place.
One of them introduced my friend Jenks to me; and, O, sir, he has
been, indeed, a good friend to one having so few claims on his
attention. He told me one night of you, and, agreeable to his
promise, he brought you to the cabin of the vessel. The rest you
know."

Egbert had regained his strength to a great degree, and gave me the
close of his narrative while we were having a pleasant drive through
the country. A month had passed since we first met, and though many
of the passengers had been heard from, the names of Evelina and her
father had not been reported.

When we reached our home, from our afternoon's drive, I took up an
evening paper, and the first paragraph I read was the following:

"MORE FROM THE WHITE WING.-The Orion, which arrived at this port
this morning, brought fifteen passengers, rescued from the boats of
the 'White Wing.' Among the names mentioned in the above notice were
these: "Mrs. Evelina Lawrence and her father, of England;" and, at
the conclusion, was the following item:

"The case of Mrs. Lawrence and her father is one of those that
loudly call for a bestowal of public sympathy and aid in her behalf.
She has lost a beloved husband,--one who, judging from the heavy
sorrow that oppresses her, and the sighs and tears that break her
recital of the events of their last hours together, was bound with
the closest bonds of soul affinity to her own spirit. They must have
been one, and are, indeed, one now, though to mortal eyes separated.
We commend her to the kind charities of those who would follow the
golden rule of doing unto others as they, in like circumstances,
would have others do unto them."

Egbert noticed my interest in that which I was reading; indeed, it
would have been strange if he had not; for I could not suppress my
joy, and it found expression in an occasional exclamation.

At length, I handed him the paper.

"My God! my wife!" he exclaimed, and he actually danced with joy and
thankfulness. He would have rushed into the street, and by sudden
exposure have caused a relapse of disease, had not I taken him by
the hand, and forcibly, for a few moments, restrained him. So
excessive was his happiness that, for a short time, he was delirious
with joy. He laughed and wept by turns: at one moment extending
his arms, and folding them as if clasping a beloved form; the next,
trembling as if in some fearful danger. But this did not long
continue. He soon became calm and rational, and we called a carriage
for the purpose of going to the vessel on board of which he expected
to greet his wife and her father.

My neighbor Jenks accompanied us, and, as we rode hastily along, my
mind reverted to the night when first I met Egbert. That eventful
evening came more vividly to mind as we found ourselves on the same
wharf, and the carriage door was opened, and we alighted on nearly
the same spot that we did at that time.

Egbert leaped from the carriage, and at one bound was on the
vessel's deck. He flew to the cabin, and in a moment I heard the
loud exclamations on either side, "My Evelina!" "My Egbert!" Mr.
Jenks and myself followed below. An old gentleman met us, and,
though a stranger, he grasped a hand of ours in each of his, and
wept with joy as he bade us welcome. The cabin was witness of a
scene which a painter well might covet for a study. In close embrace
Egbert and Evelina mingled joys that seldom are known on earth. The
old man held our hands, his face raised, eyes turned upward, while
tears of happiness, such as he had never before known, coursed down
his features. The officers of the ship came hurrying in, and the
crew darkened the gangway with their presence. What a joyous time
was that! The evening was passed in recounting the adventures of
each; and even I had something to add to the general recital. It
appeared that the boat in which Egbert had placed his charge was
safely cleared of the wreck; and, after being floated about two
days, was met by an English ship bound to London. They, together
with about twenty others who were in the boat, were soon comfortably
cared for. At the expiration of a few weeks, they reached London,
and were there placed on board a vessel bound to Boston, at which
place they in due season arrived. The grief of Mrs. L. during all
this time I will not attempt to describe. The mind of my reader can
better depict it than I can with pen. Hope buoyed her up. And,
though she had seen him swept from her side into the waters where
waves towered up to the skies and sank again many fathoms below, yet
she did hope she might see him again on earth.

In the silent hour of night, as she lay and mused of those things,
she thought she could hear a sweet voice whispering in her ear,
"Berty lives, and you will meet him once again." And, as if in
response to the voice, she said in her own mind, "I know he lives;
but it may be in that bright world where, unencumbered with these
mortal frames, we roam amid ever-enduring scenes." The voice again
said, "On earth, on earth."

But now they had met. It was no mere vision now, and the truth
flashed upon her mind that that voice she had heard and thought a
dream was not all a dream. And then she mused on as she was wont to
do, and, after relating to us the incident, she said, "May it not be
that much of our life that we have thought passed in dreamland, and
therefore among unreal things, has been spent with actual
existences? For what is an 'unreal thing'? It would not be a 'thing'
had it no existence; and what is the 'it' that we speak of? Can we
not then conclude that there is nothing but what is and must have an
existence, though not so tangible to our senses as to enable us to
handle it or see it? What we call 'imagination' may be, after all,
more real than the hard stones beneath our feet-less indestructible
than they."

Thus she spake, and her theory seemed very plausible to me, though
my friend Jenks, who was an exceedingly precise, matter-of-fact man,
could not see any foundation for the theory.

It was a late hour when Mr. Jenks and myself passed to our homes.
The next day Evelina and her father were coseyly quartered at the
house in which Egbert had boarded.

In the course of a a few weeks they arranged to go to the west, and
locate in a flourishing town on the banks of the Ohio, not many
miles above Cincinnati.

Mr. Jenks and myself accompanied them to the cars; and, amid our
best wishes for their success, and their countless expressions of
gratitude to us, the train started, and in a few moments the
Disinherited was going to an inheritance which God had provided, and
which lay in rich profusion awaiting their possession.

Our hearts went with them. We could truly say they were worthy God's
blessing; yet we had not need ask him to bestow it upon them; for
their very existence was a proof that he gave it to them.






THE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFUL.





THE seasons all are beautiful,
There is not one that's sad,--
Not one that does not give to thee
A thought to make thee glad.
I have heard a mournful cadence
Fall on my listening ear,--
'T was some one whispering, mournfully,
"The Autumn days are here."
But Autumn is not sorrowful,--
O, full of joy is it;
I love at twilight hour to watch
The shadows as they flit,--
The shadows of the falling leaves,
Upon their forest bed,
And hear the rustling music tones
Beneath the maiden's tread.
The falling leaf! Say, what has it
To sadden human thought?
For are not all its hours of life
With dancing beauty fraught?
And, having danced and sang its joy,
It seeketh now its rest,--
Is there a better place for it
Than on its parent's breast?
Ye think it dies. So they of old
Thought of the soul of man.
But, ah, ye know not all its course
Since first its life began,
And ye know not what future waits,
Or what essential part
That fallen leaf has yet to fill,
In God's great work of art.
Count years and years, then multiply
The whole till ages crowd
Upon your mind, and even then
Ye shall not see its shroud.
But ye may see,--if look you can
Upon that fallen leaf,--
A higher life for it than now
The life you deem so brief.
And so shall we to higher life
And purer joys ascend;
And, passing on, and on, and on,
Be further from our end.
This is the truth that Autumn brings,--
Is aught of sorrow here?
If not, then deem it beautiful,
Keep back the intrusive tear.
Spring surely you'll call beautiful,
With its early buds and flowers,
Its bubbling brooks, its gushing streams,
And gentle twilight hours.
And Summer, that is beautiful,
With fragrance on each breeze,
And myriad warblers that give
Free concerts 'mong the trees.
I've told you of the Autumn days,
Ye cannot call them sad,
With such a lesson as they teach,
To make the spirit glad.
And Winter comes; how clear and cold,
In dazzling brilliance drest!-
Say, is not Winter beautiful,
With jewels on his crest?
Thus are all seasons beautiful;
They all have joy for thee,
And gladness for each living soul
Comes from them full and free.






SPRING.





IT is early spring-time. The winter has passed with reluctant step,
and even now the traces of its footsteps are discernible on every
side. At noon of these bright days the sun looks down smilingly upon
the soil it seeks to bless with its cheerful, cheering rays. The
tiny grass-blades peep out, and stretch forth their graceful forms,
as if to thank the unknown source from which their enjoyments
spring. "Unknown," I said. Is it "fancy" that makes my soul withdraw
that word, and suggest that it may be that even that blade of grass
recognizes the hand that ministers to all its wants? I think not. I
think that what we term "fancy" and "imagination" are the most real
and enduring portions of existence. They are of that immortal part
that will live after crumbling column and the adamantine foundations
of earth have passed away, and lost their present identity in
countless forms of a higher existence. Are not all the forces of
nature unseen, yet are they not real? Most assuredly they are. But I
am talking of spring. I hinted at winter's tardy withdrawal. Look
you how that little pile of snow hides itself in yonder shady
nook,--right there where the sun's rays never come; right there, as
if ashamed, like a man out of place,--pity that it lingers. Here and
there, at the side of the brook, a little ice is waiting to be
dissolved, that it may bound away, bright and sparkling, over the
glistening pebbles.

The farmer opens his barn doors that the warm, fresh breeze may
ramble amid its rafters. The cattle snuff the refreshing winds, that
bear tidings of green fields. The housewife opens door and windows,
and begins to live more without than within.

Let us to the woods. How the old leaves rustle beneath our tread!
Winter bides his cold, wet hand underneath these leaves and
occasionally we feel his chilling touch as we pass along. But from
above the pleasant sunshine comes trickling down between the
branches, and the warm south wind blows cheeringly among the trees.
Didst thou not hear yon swallow sing, Chirp, chirp?--In every note he
seemed to say, "'T is spring, 't is spring."

Yes, 't is spring; bright, glorious season, when nature awakes to
new life and forest-concerts begin.

Up with the window, throw open the closed shutter, let the fresh air
in, and let the housed captive breathe the invigorating elixir of
life; better by far than all your pills and cordials, and more
strengthening than all the poor-man's plasters that have been or
ever will be spread.

The bale and hearty youth, whose clear and boisterous laugh did the
old man good, as he heard it ring forth on the clear air of a
winter's night, has become satiated with the pleasures of
sleigh-rides and merry frolics, and welcomes the spring-time of year
as a man greeteth the return of an old friend from a long journey.
How his bright eye flashes with the joyous soul within him, as he
treads the earth, and beholds the trees put forth their buds, and
hears the warblings of the birds once again, where a few weeks since
winter brooded in silence!

In town and country, the coming of spring changes the general
appearance of affairs. Not early nature, but men change. There is no
longer the cold and frigid countenance. Men do not walk with quick
and measured tread, but pass carelessly, easily along, as though it
was a luxury and not a task to walk. Children are seen in little
companies, plucking the flowers and forcing the buds from their
stems, as though to punish them for their tardiness.

The very beasts of burden and of the field partake of the general
joy; as Thomson says, "Nor undelighted by the boundless spring Are
the broad monsters of the foaming deep From the deep ooze and, gelid
cavern roused, They flounce and tumble in unwieldy joy."

In the town storekeepers obtain fresh supplies of goods; the
mechanic contracts new jobs; the merchant repairs his vessel, and
sends it forth, deeply freighted with the productions of our own
clime, to far distant, lands; and the people generally brush up, and
have the appearance of being a number of years younger than they
were a month since.

In the country, the farmer is full of work. The ploughs are brought
forth from their winter quarters, the earth is opened, that the warm
sun and refreshing rains may prepare it for use; old fences are
repaired, and new ones made; the housewife brushes up inside and
out, and with the aid of the whitewash every old fence and shed is
made clean and pleasing to the eye.

Welcome spring, a hearty welcome to thee! Touch the cheek of the
maiden, and make it as bright as the rose; with thy fresh air give
health to the sick and joy to the downcast. Thou bringest with thee
sweet-smelling flowers, and the birds of the woods carol forth thy
welcome.






A TEXT FOR A LIFETIME.





ONE word for humanity. One word for those who dwell in want around
us. O, ye who know not what it is to hunger, and have naught to meet
your desire; ye who never are cold, with naught to warm your chilled
blood, forget not those who endure all these things. They are your
brethren. They are of the same family as yourself, and have a claim'
upon your love, your sympathy, your kindness.

Live not for yourselves. The world needs to learn this lesson.
Mankind have to learn that only as they bless others are they
themselves blest. It was the fine thought of the good Indian,
Wah-pan-nah, that man should not pile up his dollars,--they may fall
down and crush him,--but spread them out.

"There be dark spot on you brother's path,--go lay dollar there and
make it bright," said he.

And since that suggestion came we have thought it over and over, and
have found it a text for a lifetime of goodness. Go place the bright
dollar in the poor man's hand, and the good you do will be reflected
in rays of gratitude from a smiling face, and fall on you like the
warm sunshine, to cheer and refresh and strengthen your own soul.

There are in this world too many dollars "piled up," and on the
surface we see but the brightness of one. Were these all spread out,
what a wide field of radiant beauty would greet our vision! Instead
of being a useless encumbrance, a care, a constant source of
perplexity to one man, this wealth would make every man comfortable
and happy. It would perform its legitimate work, were it not chained
by avarice,--that canker-worm that destroys the fairest portions of
our social system.

And there is a joy in doing good, and in dispensing the bounties
with which we are blest, that hath no equal in the household of man.
To know that we have fed the hungry, clothed the naked, wiped away
one tear, bathed in the sunlight of hope one desponding spirit,
gives to us a happiness that hoarded wealth, though broad as earth
and high as heaven, cannot impart.

This is the true wealth. This the wealth that rust cannot corrupt.
There is no other real wealth in the universe. Gold and silver,
houses and lands, are not wealth to the longing, aspiring soul of
man. The joy of the spirit, which is the reward of a good deed,
comes a gift from God, a treasure worthy of being garnered into the
storehouse of an immortal being.

There was one spot on earth where joy reigned. It was not in marble
palace; but in a low cot, beneath a roof of thatch.

There was an indwelling sense of duty done; a feeling somewhat akin
to that which we might suppose angels to feel, when a poor,
earth-wearied traveller is relieved by them.

That was a subject fit for a Raphael's pencil, as she, of form and
feature more angelic than human, sat beside that cottage door, and
her mild blue eye gazed steadfastly up to heaven, and the light of
the moon disclosed to mortal view her calm and beautiful features.

Two hours previous, over a sick and languishing child a mother bowed
with maternal fondness. She pressed her lips to his chilled
forehead, and wiped the cold sweat from his aching brow.

"Be patient, my child," said she; "God will provide." And why did
she bid him "be patient"? None could have been more so; for through
the long hours of that long summer day he had lain there, suffered
and endured all; yet not one sigh had arisen from his breast, not
one complaint had passed his parched lips.

"I know it," said he. And the mother kissed him again, and again
said,

"God will provide."

Mother and son! the one sick, the other crushed down with poverty
and sorrow. Yet in this her hour of adversity her trust in the God
of her fathers wavered not; she firmly relied on Him for support,
whom she had never found forgetful of her. The widow and the
fatherless were in that low tenement, and above was the God who had
promised to protect them.

Again she whispered in the lad's ear, "God will provide."

The light of that day's sun had not rested upon food in that
dwelling. Heavily the hours passed by. Each seemed longer than that
which had preceded it.

A rap at the door was heard. She arose and hastened to it. No person
was in sight; but in the moon's bright rays stood a basket, on which
lay a card, stating that it and its contents were for her and her
child, and that on the morrow a nurse and every comfort they might
want would be provided.

She bowed herself beside it, and thanked God for the gift. Then with
a joyful heart she carried it within, and her child's eye sparkled
as he heard the glad news, that He who watcheth the sparrows had not
forgotten them.

Let us return now to that thatched cottage. She, whose mild eye
gazeth up to heaven, whilst passing the door of the famishing mother
and child an hour previous, had heard the words with which that
mother had encouraged her dying son.

With speed the maiden hastened to her home, and from her own limited
store carried forth that basket, and heaven-like bestowed the gift
unseen and unknown, save by Him who seeth and who rewardeth. The
deed of mercy accomplished, she hastened to her home; and now, as
she looks upward, how her eye beams with joy, and her heart breaks
forth in songs of gratitude to Him who made her the instrument of so
much good!

Gold, with all its power, cannot bring joy unless dealt forth with a
willing heart like hers. The king in his palace, whose sceptre's
sway extends over vast dominions, hath no pleasures capable of
rivalling that which, by an act of charity, was brought to the soul
of that young cottage girl.

Reader, whatever your condition, you can possess a joy like hers. If
you have not what men call wealth, with which to help the weak and
desponding, you have a smile of sympathy, a look of kindness, a word
of love. Give those, and you shall know what a blessed thing is
Charity.






NOW CLOSE THE BOOK.





NOW close the book. Each page hath done its part,
Each thought hath left its impress on the heart.
O, may it be that naught hath here been traced
That after years may wish to have effaced!
O, may it be Humanity hath won
Some slight bestowment by the task now done!
If struggling Right hath found one cheering word,
If Hope hath in desponding heart been stirred,
If Sorrow hath from one lone soul been driven
By one kind word of Sympathy here given,
Then in my soul a living joy shall dwell,
Brighter than art can paint or language tell.
Yes, close the book: the story and the song
Have each been said, and sung. I see the throng
Of gentle ministrants who've led my pen
Withdraw their aid. I hear the word, Amen.
And now to you, who have been with me through
The "Town and Country," I must bid adieu.

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