Chapter L: M. C (5)

Before one has time to observe a thousandth part of the miracles of summer, winter appears again, in ermine and diamonds, lavishly scattering his pearls. My birthday comes at this season, and so I accept his jewels as a princely largess peculiarly bestowed upon myself. The day is kept as a festival. That is such a high-sounding expression, that it may perhaps suggest to you reception-parties, complimentary verses, and quantities of presents. Very far from it. Not more than half a dozen people in the world know when the day occurs, and they do not all remember it. As I arrive at the new milestone on my pilgrimage, I generally find that a few friends have placed garlands upon it. My last anniversary was distinguished by a beautiful novelty. An offering came from people who never knew me personally, but who were gracious enough to say they took an interest in me on account of my writings. That was a kindness that carried me over into my new year on fairy wings! I always know that the flowers in such garlands are genuine; for those who deal in artificial roses are not in the habit of presenting them to secluded old people, without wealth or power. I have heard of a Parisian lady, who preferred Nattier’s manufactured roses to those produced by Nature, because they were, as she said, “more like what a rose _ought_ to be.” But I never prefer artificial things to natural, even if they _are_ more like what they _ought_ to be. So I rejoice over the genuineness of the offerings which I find on the milestone, and often give preference to the simplest of them all. I thankfully add them to my decorations for the annual festival, which is kept in the private apartments of my own soul, where six angel-guests present themselves unbidden,--Use and Beauty, Love and Memory, Humility and Gratitude. The first suggests to me to consecrate the advent of a new year in my life by some acts of kindness toward the sad, the oppressed, or the needy. Another tells me to collect all the books, engravings, vases, &c., bestowed by friendly hands on the preceding birthdays of my life. Their beauties of thought, of form, and of color, excite my imagination, and fill me with contemplations of the scenes they represent, or the genius that produced them. Other angels bring back the looks and tones of the givers, and pleasant incidents, and happy meetings, in bygone years. Sometimes, Memory looks into my eyes too sadly, and I answer the look with tears. But I say to her, Nay, my friend, do not fix upon me that melancholy gaze! Give me some of thy flowers! Then, with a tender, moonlight smile, she brings me a handful of fragrant roses, pale, but beautiful. The other angels bid me remember who bestowed the innumerable blessings of Nature and Art, of friendship, and capacity for culture, and how unworthy I am of all His goodness. They move my heart to earnest prayer that former faults may be forgiven, and that I may be enabled to live more worthily during the year on which I am entering. But I do not try to recall the faults of the past, lest such meditations should tend to make me weak for the future. I have learned that self-consciousness is not a healthy state of mind, on whatever theme it employs itself. Therefore, I pray the all-loving Father to enable me to forget _myself_; not to occupy my thoughts with my own merits, or my own defects, my successes, or my disappointments; but to devote my energies to the benefit of others, as a humble instrument of his goodness, in whatever way He may see fit to point out.

On this particular birthday, I have been thinking more than ever of the many compensations which age brings for its undeniable losses. I count it something to know, that, though the flowers offered me are _few_, they are undoubtedly _genuine_. I never conformed much to the world’s ways, but, now that I am an old woman, I feel more free to ignore its conventional forms, and neglect its fleeting fashions. That also is a privilege. Another compensation of years is, that, having outlived expectations, I am free from disappointments. I deem it a great blessing, also, that the desire for knowledge grows more active, as the time for acquiring it diminishes, and as, I realize more fully how much there is to be learned. It is true that in this pursuit one is always coming up against walls of limitation. All sorts of flying and creeping things excite questions in my mind to which I obtain no answers. I want to know what every bird and insect is doing, and what it is done for; but I do not understand their language, and no interpreter between us is to be found. They go on, busily managing their own little affairs, far more skilfully than we humans could teach them, with all our boasted superiority of intellect. I peep and pry into their operations with more and more interest, the older I grow; but they keep their own secrets so well, that I discover very little. What I do find out, however, confirms my belief, that “the hand which made them is divine”; and that is better than any acquisitions of science. Looking upon the world as a mere spectacle of beauty, I find its attractions increasing. I notice more than I ever did the gorgeous phantasmagoria of sunsets, the magical changes of clouds, the endless varieties of form and color in the flowers of garden and field, and the shell-flowers of the sea. Something of tenderness mingles with the admiration excited by all this fair array of earth, like the lingering, farewell gaze we bestow on scenes from which we are soon to part.

But the most valuable compensations of age are those of a spiritual character. I have committed so many faults myself, that I have become more tolerant of the faults of others than I was when I was young. My own strength has so often failed me when I trusted to it, that I have learned to look more humbly for aid from on high. I have formerly been too apt to murmur that I was not endowed with gifts and opportunities, which it appeared to me would have been highly advantageous. But I now see the wisdom and goodness of our Heavenly Father, even more in what He has denied, than in what He has bestowed. The rugged paths through which I have passed, the sharp regrets I have experienced, seem smoother and softer in the distance behind me. Even my wrong-doings and short-comings have often been mercifully transmuted into blessings. They have helped me to descend into the Valley of Humility, through which it is necessary to pass on our way to the Beautiful City. My restless aspirations are quieted. They are now all concentrated in this one prayer:

“Help me, this and every day,
To live more nearly as I pray.”

Having arrived at this state of peacefulness and submission, I find the last few years the happiest of my life.

To you, my dear friend, who are so much younger, I would say,
Travel cheerfully toward the sunset! It will pass gently into a
twilight,
which has its own peculiar beauties, though
differing from the morning; and you
will find that the night also
is cheered by friendly
glances of the
stars.

BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

Bland as the morning’s breath of June,
The southwest breezes play,
And through its haze, the winter noon
Seems warm as summer’s day.

The snow-plumed Angel of the North
Has dropped his icy spear;
Again the mossy earth looks forth,
Again the streams gush clear.

The fox his hillside den forsakes;
The muskrat leaves his nook;
The blue-bird, in the meadow-brakes,
Is singing with the brook.

“Bear up, O Mother Nature!” cry
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free;
“Our winter voices prophesy
Of summer days to thee.”

So in these winters of the _soul_,
By wintry blasts and drear
O’erswept from Memory’s frozen pole,
Will summer days appear.

Reviving hope and faith, they show
The soul its living powers,
And how, beneath the winter’s snow,
Lie germs of summer flowers.

The Night is mother of the Day;
The Winter of the Spring;
And ever upon old decay
The greenest mosses cling.

Behind the cloud the starlight lurks;
Through showers the sunbeams fall;
For God, who loveth all his works,
Has left his Hope with all.

THE CANARY BIRD.

Yellow, small Canary bird,
Sweetly singing all day long,
Still in winter you are heard,
Carolling a summer song.

Thus when days are drear and dim,
And the _heart_ is caged, as you,
May it still, with hopeful hymn,
Sing of joy and find it true.

JOHN STERLING

OLD BACHELORS.

BY L. MARIA CHILD.

The use of the term old bachelor might be objected to, with as much reason as that of old maid, were it not for the fact that it has been regarded less contemptuously. Until within the last half-century, books have been written almost entirely by men. Looking at the subject from _their_ point of view, they have generally represented that, if a woman remained single, it was because she could not avoid it; and that her unfortunate condition was the consequence of her being repulsive in person or manners. The dramas and general literature of all countries abound with jokes on this subject. Women are described as jumping with ridiculous haste at the first chance to marry, and as being greatly annoyed if no chance presents itself. To speak of women as in the market, and of men as purchasers, has so long been a general habit, that it is done unconsciously; and the habit doubtless embodies a truth, though few people reflect why it is so. Nearly all the trades, professions, and offices are engrossed by men; hence marriage is almost the only honorable means of support for women, and almost the only avenue open to those who are ambitious of position in society. This state of things gives an unhealthy stimulus to match-making, and does much to degrade the true dignity and purity of marriage. But I allude to it here merely as explanatory why old maid is considered a more reproachful term than old bachelor; one being supposed to be incurred voluntarily, and the other by compulsion.

There is a germ of vanity, more or less expanded in human nature, under all circumstances. Slaves are often very vain of bringing an unusually high price in the market; because it implies that they are handsome, vigorous, or intelligent. It is the same feeling, manifested under a different aspect, that makes many women vain of the number of offers they have received, and mortified if they have had none. Men, on the contrary, being masters of the field, are troubled with no sense of shame, if they continue in an isolated position through life, though they may experience regret. The kind of jokes to which _they_ are subjected generally imply that they have been less magnanimous than they should have been, in not taking to themselves somebody to protect and support. Such a “railing accusation” is rather gratifying to the pride of human nature. Instead of hanging their heads, they sometimes smile, and say, with an air of gracious condescension: “Perhaps I _may_ some day. I have not decided yet. I want to examine the market further.” Now it is ten chances to one, that the individual thus speaking _has_ been examining the market, as he calls it, for a long time; that he has been to the Fair, and tried to appropriate various pretty articles, but has been told that they were reserved for a previous purchaser. He may have been disappointed on such occasions; and if they occurred when youth was passing away, he may have been prompted to look in the mirror, to pull out gray hairs, and ascertain whether crows have been walking over his face. But if he perceives traces of their feet, he says to himself, “Pshaw! What consequence is it, so long as I have a full purse and a handsome house to offer? I shall have better luck next time. There are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught. One only needs to have bait on the hook.” And so when a married acquaintance reminds him that he ought to take a wife, he answers, complacently, “Perhaps I _shall_. I want to examine the market.” He is the one to confer support; he need not wait to be asked. There is a dignified independence in such a position. Hence the term old bachelor is not so opprobrious as old maid, and no apology is necessary for using it.

It is true, the single brotherhood are not without their annoyances. A meddlesome woman will sometimes remark to a bachelor friend, in a significant sort of way, that the back of his coat has a one-eyed look, by reason of the deficiency of a button; and she will add, in a compassionate tone, “But what else can be expected, when a man has no wife to look after him?” Another, still more mischievous, who happens to know of his attending the Fair, and trying to buy various articles otherwise appropriated, will sometimes offer impertinent consolation; saying, “Don’t be discouraged. Try again. Perhaps you’ll have better luck next time. You know the proverb says, There never was so silly a Jack but there’s _as_ silly a Gill.” Then again, the French phrase for old bachelor, _Vieux Garçon_, translates itself into right impudent English. Why on earth should a man be called the Old Boy, merely because he has not seen fit to marry? when it is either because he don’t like the market, or wants to look further, in order to make sure of getting his money’s worth in the article.

I have spoken facetiously, but it may well be excused. Women have for so many generations been the subject of pitiless jokes, rung through all manner of changes, and not always in the best taste, that it is pardonable to throw back a few jests, provided it be done in sport, rather than in malice. The simple fact is, however, that what I have said of unmarried women is also true of unmarried men; their being single is often the result of superior delicacy and refinement of feeling. Those who are determined to marry, will usually accomplish their object, sooner or later, while those who shrink from making wedlock a mere convenience, unsanctified by affection, will prefer isolation, though they sometimes find it sad. I am now thinking of one, who, for many reasons would probably be accepted by ninety-nine women out of a hundred. I once said to him, “How is it, that a man of your domestic tastes and affectionate disposition has never married?” He hesitated a moment, then drew from under his vest the miniature of a very lovely woman, and placed it in my hand. I looked up with an inquiring glance, to which he replied: “Yes, perhaps it might have been; perhaps it _ought_ to have been. But I had duties to perform toward my widowed mother, which made me doubt whether it were justifiable to declare my feelings to the young lady. Meanwhile, another offered himself. She married him, and is, I believe, happy. I have never seen another woman who awakened in me the same feelings, and so I have remained unmarried.”

I knew twin brothers, who became attached to the same lady. One was silent, for his brother’s sake; but he never married; and through life he loved and assisted his brother’s children, as if they had been his own. There are many such facts to prove that self-sacrifice and constancy are far from being exclusively feminine virtues.

But my impression is, that there is a larger proportion of unmarried women than of unmarried men, who lead unselfish, useful lives. I, at least, have happened to know of more “Aunt Kindlys,” than Uncle Kindlys. Women, by the nature of their in-door habits and occupations, can nestle themselves into the inmost of other people’s families, much more readily than men. The household inmate, who cuts paper-dolls to amuse fretful children, or soothes them with lullabies when they are tired,--who sews on buttons for the father, when he is in a hurry, or makes goodies for the invalid mother,--becomes part and parcel of the household; whereas a bachelor is apt to be a sort of appendage; beloved and agreeable, perhaps, but still something on the outside. He is like moss on the tree, very pretty and ornamental, especially when lighted up by sunshine; but no inherent part of the tree, essential to its growth. Sometimes, indeed, one meets with a genial old bachelor, who cannot enter the house of a married friend, or relative, without having the children climb into his lap, pull out his watch, and search his pocket for sugar-plums. But generally, it must be confessed that a _Vieux Garçon_ acts like an Old Boy when he attempts to make himself useful in the house. His efforts to quiet crying babies are laughable, and invariably result in making the babies cry more emphatically. A dignified, scholastic bachelor, who had been spending the night with a married friend, was leaving his house after breakfast, when a lovely little girl of four or five summers peeped from the shrubbery, and called out, “Good morning!” “Good morning, child!” replied he, with the greatest solemnity of manner, and passed on. A single _woman_ would have said, “Good morning, dear!” or “Good morning, little one!” But the bachelor was as dignified as if he had been making an apostrophe to the stars. Yet he had a great, kind heart, and was a bachelor because that heart was too refined to easily forget a first impression.

Bachelors do not become an outside appendage, if they are fortunate enough to have an unmarried sister, with whom they can form one household. There is such a couple in my neighborhood, as cozy and comfortable as any wedded pair, and quite as unlikely to separate, as if the law bound them together. The sister is a notable body, who does well whatever her hands find to do; and the brother adopts wise precautions against tedious hours. He was a teacher in his youth, but is a miller now. An old mill is always a picturesque object, standing as it must in the midst of running water, whose drops sparkle and gleam in sunlight and moonlight. And our bachelor’s mill is hidden in a wood, where birds love to build their nests, and innumerable insects are busy among ferns and mosses. The miller is busy, too, with a lathe to fill up the moments unoccupied by the work of the mill. He has made a powerful telescope for himself, and returns to his home in the evening to watch the changing phases of the planets, or to entertain his neighbors with a vision of Saturn sailing through boundless fields of ether in his beautiful luminous ring. He can also discourse sweet music to his sister, by means of a parlor seraphine.

I know another bachelor, who finds time to be a benefactor to his neighborhood, though his life is full of labors and cares. In addition to the perpetual work of a farm, he devotes himself with filial tenderness to a widowed mother and invalid aunts, and yet he is always ready wherever help or sympathy is needed. If a poor widow needs wood cut, he promptly supplies the want, and few men with a carriage and four are so ready to furnish a horse for any kindly service. The children all know his sleigh, and call after him for a ride. None of his animals have the forlorn, melancholy look which indicates a hard master. The expression of his countenance would never suggest to any one the condition of an old bachelor; on the contrary, you would suppose he had long been accustomed to look into the eyes of little ones clambering upon his knees for a kiss. This is because he adopts all little humans into his heart.

I presume it will generally be admitted that bachelors are more apt to be epicures, than are unmarried women. In the first place, they have fewer details of employment to occupy their thoughts perpetually; and secondly, they generally have greater pecuniary means for self-indulgence. The gourmand, who makes himself unhappy, and disturbs everybody around him, if his venison is cooked the fortieth part of a minute too long, is less agreeable, and not less ridiculous than the old fop, who wears false whiskers, and cripples his feet with tight boots.

There is a remedy for this, and for all other selfishness and vanity; it is to go out of ourselves, and be busy with helping others. Petty annoyances slip away and are forgotten when the mind is thus occupied. The wealthy merchant would find it an agreeable variation to the routine of business to interest himself in the welfare and improvement of the sailors he employs. The prosperous farmer would find mind and heart enlarged by helping to bring into general use new and improved varieties of fruits and vegetables; not for mere money-making, but for the common good. And all would be happier for taking an active interest in the welfare of their country, and the progress of the world.

Nothing can be more charming than Dickens’s description of the Cheeryble Brothers, “whose goodness was so constantly a diffusing of itself over everywhere.”

“‘Brother Ned,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, tapping with his knuckles, and stooping to listen, ‘are you busy, my dear brother? or can you spare time for a word or two with me?’

“‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow,’ replied a voice from within, ‘don’t ask me such a question, but come in directly.’ Its tones were so exactly like that which had just spoken, that Nicholas started, and almost thought it was the same.

“They went in without further parley. What was the amazement of Nicholas, when his conductor advanced and exchanged a warm greeting with another old gentleman, the very type and model of himself; the same face, the same figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, the same breeches and gaiters; nay, there was the very same white hat hanging against the wall. Nobody could have doubted their being twin brothers. As they shook each other by the hand, the face of each lighted up with beaming looks of affection, which would have been most delightful to behold in infants, and which in men so old was inexpressibly touching.

“‘Brother Ned,’ said Charles, ‘here is a young friend that we must assist. We must make proper inquiries into his statements, and if they are confirmed, as they will be, we must assist him.’

“‘It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should. When you say that, no further inquiries are needed. He _shall_ be assisted.’

“‘I’ve a plan, my dear brother, I’ve a plan,’ said Charles. ‘Tim Linkinwater is getting old; and Tim has been a faithful servant, brother Ned; and I don’t think pensioning Tim’s mother and sister, and buying a little tomb for the family when his poor brother died, was a sufficient recompense for his faithful services.’

“‘No, no,’ replied the other, ‘not half enough; not half.’

“‘If we could lighten Tim’s duties,’ said the old gentleman, ‘and prevail upon him to go into the country now and then, and sleep in the fresh air two or three times a week, Tim Linkinwater would grow young again in time; and he’s three good years our senior now. Old Tim Linkinwater young again! Eh, brother Ned, eh? Why, I recollect old Tim Linkinwater quite a little boy; don’t you? Ha, ha, ha! Poor Tim! Poor Tim!’ and the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly together; each with a tear of regard for old Tim Linkinwater standing in his eye.

“‘But you must hear this young gentleman’s story,’ said Charles; ‘you’ll be very much affected, brother Ned, remembering the time when _we_ were two friendless lads, and earned our first shilling in this great city.’

“The twins pressed each other’s hands in silence, and, in his own homely manner, Charles related the particulars he had just heard from Nicholas. It is no disparagement to the young man to say that, at every fresh expression of their kindness and sympathy, he could only wave his hand and sob like a child.

“‘But we are keeping our young friend too long, my dear brother,’ said Charles. ‘His poor mother and sister will be anxious for his return. So good by for the present. Good by. No, not a word now. Good by.’ And the brothers hurried him out, shaking hands with him all the way, and affecting, very unsuccessfully (for they were poor hands at deception), to be wholly unconscious of the feelings that mastered him.

“The next day, he was appointed to the vacant stool in the counting-house of Cheeryble Brothers, with a salary of one hundred and twenty pounds a year. ‘And I think, my dear brother,’ said Charles, ‘that if we were to let them that little cottage at Bow, something under the usual rent--Eh, brother Ned?’

“‘For nothing at all,’ said his brother, ‘We are rich, and should be ashamed to touch the rent under such circumstances as these. For nothing at all, my dear brother.’

“‘Perhaps it would be better to say something,’ suggested the other, mildly. ‘We might say fifteen or twenty pound; and if it was punctually paid, make it up to them in some other way. It would help to preserve habits of frugality, you know, and remove any painful sense of overwhelming obligation. And I might secretly advance a small loan toward a little furniture; and you might secretly advance another small loan, brother Ned. And if we find them doing well we can change the loans into gifts; carefully, and by degrees, without pressing upon them too much. What do you say now, brother?’

“Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it should be done, but had it done. And in one short week, Nicholas took possession of his stool, and his mother and sister took possession of the house; and all was hope, bustle, and lightheartedness.”

There are Cheeryble old bachelors in real life; genial souls, and
genuine benefactors to mankind.
When they are so, I think they deserve more credit
than married men of similar characters; for
the genial virtues are fostered by
kindly domestic influences, as
fruit is matured and
sweetened by the
sunshine.

The dog in the kennel growls at his fleas; the dog that is busy
hunting does not feel them.

CHINESE PROVERB.

TAKING IT EASY.

BY GEORGE H. CLARK.

Admit that I am slightly bald,--
Pray, who’s to blame for that?
And who is wiser for the fact,
Until I lift my hat?
Beneath the brim my barbered locks
Fall in a careless way,
Wherein my watchful wife can spy
No lurking threads of gray.

What though, to read compactest print,
I’m forced to hold my book
A little farther off than when
Life’s first degree I took?
A yoke of slightly convex lens
The needful aid bestows,
And you should see how wise I look
With it astride my nose.

Don’t talk of the infernal pangs
That rheumatism brings!
I’m getting used to pains and aches,
And all those sort of things.
And when the imp Sciatica
Makes his malicious call,
I do not need an almanac
To tell me it is fall.

Besides, it gives one quite an air
To travel with a cane,
And makes folk think you “well to do,”
Although you are in pain.
A fashionable hat may crown
Genteelest coat and vest,
But ah! the sturdy stick redeems
And sobers all the rest.

A man deprived of natural sleep
Becomes a stupid elf,
And only steals from Father Time
To stultify himself.
So, if you’d be a jovial soul,
And laugh at life’s decline,
Take my advice,--turn off the gas,
And go to bed at nine!

An easy-cushioned rocking-chair
Suits me uncommon well;
And so do liberal shoes,--like these,--
With room for corns to swell;
I cotton to the soft lamb’s-wool
That lines my gloves of kid,
And love elastic home-made socks,--
Indeed, I always did.

But what disturbs me more than all
Is, that sarcastic boys
Prefer to have me somewhere else,
When they are at their noise;
That while I try to look and act
As like them as I can,
They will persist in _mister_-ing me,
And calling me a man!

* * * * *

True--Time will seam and blanch my brow.
Well, I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
A grisly beard becomes me then.

And should no foul dishonor lie
Upon my head, when I am gray,
Love yet shall watch my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.

Then haste thee, Time,--’tis kindness all
That speeds thy wingèd feet so fast;
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.

Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes,
And, as thy shadowy train depart,
The memory of sorrow grows
A lighter burden on the heart.

W. C. BRYANT.

OLD AUNTY.

The following is a true story. I well remember the worthy old
woman, who sat in Washington Park, behind a table covered with
apples and nuts. I also know the family of the little Joanna,
who used to carry her a cup of hot tea and warm rolls from one
of the big houses in the adjoining Square, and who got up a
petition to the Mayor in her behalf. It is a humble picture;
but a soft, warm light falls on it from poor Old Aunty’s
self-sacrificing devotion to her orphans, and from the mutual
love between her and the children of the neighborhood.