Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 6, December 1852

When I look back, as down a charnel-vault,
Into the retrospect, and see it all; —
See every should-be that was never done,
And every would-be that has died its death,
And my hot dreams, and my distempered hopes,
Pictured in light and dark as on a wall.”
Then in the dusk I ceased, and so we sat,
With hearthward faces, but with upward thought.
I saw my words drop, pebble-like, down deep
Into his inmost mind, and there they lay,
While he, with careful quiet, shaped response,
And then, abstract, as to himself, replied: —
“’Tis speaking well, and yet not speaking well!
For in the web of life are golden threads —
And in the sky of life are brilliant stars —
And on the sea of life are favoring gales —
Or we should wither all as flowers in drought.
He who doth pilot the great universe,
Doth mete and parcel out the light and dark,
Strange, varicolored, like a wanderer’s dream; —
And He that made the man hath made his work.
And in the bark of life hath given the oar
At which to tug and toil until the death;
Nor yet all toil; for oft the summer sea
Ripples on bloomy shores, whence balmy winds
Bring a rich, spicy life to make one glad.
We thrid wild mazes not without a clue —
We sink again to soar as eagles do —
We deeply quaff at the rare desert founts,
And so plod on to fair oases green,
Where rustling palms nod to the welcome wind —
While with the sun of our own minds we shine
On planetary minds, and light, and cheer,
And lead then to a loftier, brighter end.
All this is well: So let the creature’s wish
Circle its scanty orbit round and round
With borrowed light from the Creator’s will.”
Then I again: – “We are but merest drops
That swell a deathward torrent, or as grains
Of sand, which make up a conglobéd sphere,
And he that is fore’er undoes the work
Of him that has been, through the whirl of time.
What profits it to weave a golden web
Which all our heirs may rend above our grave!
To pile our treasuries with yellow dust
That every reckless future wind may blow!
To think to be unthought in coming years!
To write to be the jest of fresher times!
All this is emptiness! I wish the end.”

What he had said I know not, for the wind,
Which had blown fitful since the red sun sunk,
Came in fierce gusts against the window now —
Bringing large drops that pattered chill and loud.
Then our talk changed to what might be afar —
To the rude ocean, and the mariners
Driven by windy war on unknown coasts,
To sin and sorrow in this poor, poor world,
And all those dreary themes akin to tears.

So mused we in the dusk a gentle space,
A cloudy dreamer I – my friend, that trod
The green hills of his own complacency
Like any king.

MONDE HEDELQUIVER

A TALE OF WINTER-LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND

—

BY THE AUTHOR OF “SUSY L – ’S DIARY.”

—

CHAPTER I

ROSAMONDE HEDELQUIVER TO EDITH MANNERS

    Danville, December 2, 1851.

At last, I have found a spot where, for myself, there can be no want; where I can sit and write in peace letters to you, my friend, and stories for the magazines. By the last, I shall win money, and, perhaps, laurels; although, I confess, I care little now for them – that is, for the laurels – if I can earn money. If I have genius, this may truly seem a poor aim; but, if I have genius, so have I along with it such a dread of what is heavy, and sordid, and perpetually toilsome – of extreme poverty; in short, so have I a longing for beauty, for ease, for a still home of plenty, so that sometimes I could stretch out my hands and cry, with an imploring voice – not as good Agar did, but – “Give me riches, oh! give me riches.” Yet, Heaven knows that it is not to be greatly rich that I desire; but to be so far supplied, that there need be no forebodings whenever it is seen that my parents’ steps begin already to be slow, and their eyes dull; so that there may be beautiful things in our home, and land about it which is ours, on which we may tread with independence, on which we may see the trees and the plants growing, on which God’s sunshine shall fall, and His rain, and His dews, so that we may feel him near, and know that our mother Earth is to us a good mother.

This is what I long for, when shut up in our close rooms in the city, morning, noon, and night. In the night, tears of yearning – mingled with the fear that it is never to be satisfied – go drop, drop on my pillow, until my head is ready to burst. Then I brush them away, and say – “God forgive me, his poor child, if, in my longing for what I have not, I forget the gratitude due for what I have.” Then come penitential feelings and, again weeping, I say – “Father, do with me as seemeth good in thy sight!” I would be able to say this at all seasons, working still with cheerfulness and trust in God’s ways: but He knows I cannot; that often when I would praise Him I can only pray, and beg Him to do that for me which I feel to be my great need.

But hear! I complain, I sigh. I sit here, buried in my own egotism, while the bright sunshine lies on the pure white fields, hills, and mountains, and the troops of merriest birds play with the new-fallen snow. I shall go and see them, and feed them with crumbs, as once a brown-haired boy, who now is gray-headed – my father – used to do.

    Evening.

Uncle Hedelquiver said this morning, as he folded his paper, after breakfast was over —

“You had better ride this morning, Monde. Take Kate, she is hard on the bit; but all the better. I like this grappling with tough-bitted circumstances. It is exactly what you need to do. You have the name your old grandmother Hedelquiver had in her day. You can see yourself that you are like that portrait up there; and I want you to get hold of her energy – her kind of life. You have been an idle child compared with her, I fancy.”

“No doubt of it, uncle,” said I, with tears choking me. “But, because I have been so penned up there in the city, and by our bad circumstances, I could not do any thing but fold my hands and sigh, and long for better things to come to me.”

“Well, well, there is room here you see,” tossing his hand a little toward the window, through which we see the pine-covered Green Mountains that are near, and the snowy White Hills that are far, but gigantic and splendid to see. “You had better go the road we went yesterday,” preparing to leave the room, “over the hills. It is stinging cold up there, but all the better for that.”

Aunt dreaded the hills —

“I would let her go down the other way,” begged she.