Victorian Women Writers Project

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BOOK IV.

• THE trees that flourished round the farmer's home
• Were bright with verdure, and the gales that come
• Laden with summer perfume, softly blew
• And woke the early flowers 'mid summer dew.
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• Green was the grassy plot before that door,
• The sloping border richly spangled o'er;
• For nice the eye that watched that garden now,
• And choice the flowers her care had brought to blow.
• While all within the rural dwelling too
• Assumed a look less rustic, and more new.
• For there were carpets wrought by foreign looms,
• And costly curtains to the ancient rooms,
• Save to one window, narrow-paned, and low,
• Whose verdant screen was still allowed to grow.
• There rose the cherry-tree with blossoms white,
• Spreading its page of promise to the sight,
• While on each side there grew a rosy bower.
• With sweetbriar wakening to the balmy shower,
• And darker jessamine its stars displayed,
• Gleaming and twinkling through the leafy shade,
• Like fairy moonlight; and above them all,
• The ambitious ivy climbed along the wall.
• Within that lattice low, a clustering vine
• Was trained, and taught its tendrils green to twine
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• Into a leafy canopy, and throw
• Its soft cool shadow on the room below,
• Tempering the noontide radiance of the sun,
• When o'er that rustic roof his light was thrown.
• It was a wide bow-window, never now
• Hath modern taste a scene like that to show;
• But such a scene for moonlight! There would come
• Pale glancing beams into that ancient room,
• With deepest shade from venerable trees
• That slowly waved their branches in the breeze,
• While over the green turf and silvery dew
• Each stately stem a line of darkness threw.
• And then the stillness! Not a sound was there,
• But the low whisper of the evening air,
• And shivering poplar, with its trembling leaves,
• That oft a tale of midnight mystery weaves.

• Who could have lingered long mid such a scene
• Nor yet imagination's slave have been?
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• Alas! there dwelt, within that charmed bower,
• Hearts all too capable to feel her power.

• Nor was it in this lovely room alone
• That comfort reigned, or taste; for there was thrown
• An air of beauty over every one:
• Something that bade you welcome—woo'd your stay,
• And seemed your lingering footsteps to delay;
• Something that new-built rooms can never bring
• With all their pomp of modern furnishing
• To bear upon the feelings, or to pay
• For half the pains it costs to make them gay.

• Yet looked the aunt with discontented brow
• Upon these pleasant rooms, they were so low.
• It was no use to paper or to paint,
• The walls were old, the mantel-pieces quaint,
• The entrance mean; she never saw a door
• That looked so like the master's being poor.
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• Entrance was every thing. There was no space
• To meet a guest with courtesy or grace,
• No drawing-room! She really never knew
• A house where comforts were so small and few.

• “Comforts!” the farmer thought, “with all this stir
• I see them not so plenteous as they were.
• Yet be it so. These trifles touch not me,
• So that the children and their aunt agree.”
• For they would sometimes break from her control,
• And tell him tales that vexed his very soul,
• Of idle strife, in which they scarce were brought
• At last to yield, and rarely deemed they ought.
• Yet was each cause of contest so minute,
• No sapient judge might settle the dispute.
• Thus would they teaze the parent's spirit more,
• Until, in hope some quiet to restore,
• He sent his daughters to a distant school,
• To learn submission to a wiser rule.

• But ere they went, a most important cause
• For consultation, made the parties pause.
• Where should they send them to? The aunt believed
• Her brother oft in his sage views deceived.
• Thus would she guide his judgment by her own,
• That bright results her happier hopes might crown.
• Good schools were all her theme. The farmer, too,
• Sought a good school to send his daughters to.

• But never yet was word less understood,
• Than that plain word of simple meaning—good.
• Good is to many what they most desire,
• To others, only what will raise them higher.
• And thus the aunt believed those schools were good,
• Where vulgar persons never might intrude,
• Where terms were high, and ladies all were taught
• To sit, and stand, and curtsy as they ought,
• To sing with skill, to touch the harp with grace,
• To paint a landscape, or a human face,
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• To speak Italian, French, and sometimes Greek,
• To write in angles sharp, and lines oblique.
• These were the schools Matilda Herbert meant
• By good, and here the wondering girls were sent.
• For she was one who brought her ends about,
• By talking long, and wearing patience out;
• And little knew her brother of the skill
• To win or wind a woman to his will.
• Thus inly wishing that her words would cease,
• He oft resigned, for very love of peace.

• And now, the girlish band of idlers gone,
• The farmer turned for pleasure to his son.
• He saw him grown a tall and comely youth,
• His eye intelligent, and full of truth,
• His step erect and bold, his noble face
• And forehead high, adorned with manly grace;
• And he would fondly call him to his side,
• To give him counsel, with a secret pride,
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• Even in the very faults he seemed to blame.
• Labouring the young aspirant to reclaim
• From love of vanities, and useless books,
• But most from love of gentlemanly looks.
• Then would he talk to him of fields of corn,
• What hay must soon be mown, what sheep be shorn,
• Bid him bestir himself amongst the men,
• Their admiration and respect to gain,
• Showing what farmers should be proud to show,
• How much the master's abler hand can do.

• Thus would he counsel, and the youth appeared
• At times attentive to the truths he heard,
• But oftener pleased with visions of his own,
• While far away his wandering thoughts had flown.
• He knew his father had an upright heart,
• Wise, and well-meaning, in the humble part
• He acted as a farmer, and a friend,
• And sage advice in common things could lend;
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• But did the parent e'er presume to say
• The youthful dreamer idly spent his day,
• Did he presume his pleasures to direct,
• Call them expensive, or appear to expect
• More actual service from his agile hand,
• Then did the insulted boy indignant stand,
• Demanding if his father wished to have
• His son to be his servant, or his slave.

• Yet was it youth's quick fire alone that woke
• In Henry's breast, when thus his father spoke.
• One moment, and the impetuous flame expired,
• And he was all a parent's love desired,
• Prompt to assist, and willing to obey,
• Where'er affection pointed out the way;
• But where he deemed the elder judgment erred,
• Leaning to notions ignorant or absurd,
• 'Twas there he stood his ground, as striplings can,
• In all the incipient majesty of man.

• Oh, worst attendant on advancing mind
• When children fail to speak in accents kind;
• Fail to respect old age, or hoary hair,
• Spurning the precepts of parental care,
• Because the light of modern lore has shed
• A fancied halo round the youthful head!
• Could the fond mother, when she soothes her child
• With patient brow, and voice so soft and mild,
• Answering in gentle tones its fretful cry,
• Singing, through midnight hours, its lullaby—
• Or could the father, his strong heart subdued
• To woman's weakness by its playful mood,
• Yielding to love the time of needful rest,
• That he may lull the prattler on his breast,
• Watching the feverish tint upon its cheek,
• With fears too anxious, heart too faint, to speak—
• Feeling that this wide world, with all its wealth,
• Has not one blessing like the hope of health
• To that beloved child, that suffering lies
• Lovelier than all earth's beauty to their eyes—
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• Could they believe that child would ever live
• The scornful look, the harsh reply to give,
• Would they not love, and watch, and serve it less?
• No, for a parent's love was sent to bless
• Beyond all calculation—all reward—
• The feeble steps of infancy to guard.
• It is the only love to mortals given
• That asks no recompense on this side heaven!

• One year elapsed before the girls returned
• To tell their wondering father what they learned.
• And Martha hailed with joy the promised day,
• Her smile than all the rest more bright and gay.
• For she who never loved that city-school,
• Had broken half its laws, and spurned its rule.
• Twelve months she knew her bondage was to last,
• Nor cared she how the stated time was passed,
• So that the moments flew, the day arose
• Quickly, and hastened to a speedy close.
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• No deep-stained character she bore away,
• Her faults were heedlessness, and love of play.
• She was incapable, her teachers said,
• Sadly deficient, both in hand and head,
• She had no intellect, at least not much;
• Perchance they found not which the key to touch.
• For she had been, with all her follies wild,
• At home the shrewdest and the quickest child,—
• Quick to perceive, and pertinent of speech,
• Teaching herself what no one else could teach.
• And now she runs through all her favourite haunts,
• Setting her will against her lady-aunt's,
• When checked in frolic fun, or sagely told
• She must not gambol now, she is too old.
• Yet, spite of boarding-school, and spite of age,
• And spite of maxims both refined and sage,
• With Henry's dog she scours the garden round,
• And clears the border at a single bound,
• Breaking the last rare plant her aunt has bought,
• Raising it up again as quick as thought,
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• Courting her bantams with their snow-white brood,
• Casting them down a perfect pile of food,
• Chasing the pony round the paddock green,
• Where oft her infant steps at play were seen.
• It was the very fulness of her joy
• That sent her forth, more like some untamed boy,
• Than school-bred lady just returned from town,
• With well-dressed hair, and fashionable gown.

• Yet was not Martha always light and gay,
• No real idler, though so fond of play.
• Her heart had its warm gushes of delight,
• Which passed away, like beams of morning light,
• Leaving a day, not cloudy, but serene,
• Whose softened splendour mellowed every scene.
• She was no idler, and her willing hand
• In household duty she would oft command,
• Provoking from her aunt a scornful smile,
• Yet by her father loved, and praised the while.

• “It was thy mother's custom,” he would say,
• “Walk, Martha dear, in all the lovely way
• She chose on earth, for pattern is there none
• More pure, or bright, for thee to make thine own.”

• Thus Martha learned, though none was near to ask,
• Each servant's character, and separate task,
• Spoke kindly to the feeble, while she strove
• To make them early rise, and quickly move.
• Nor was the cottage of the poor forgot,
• Well had her mother taught each lowly spot,
• Where dwelt the aged, or where mourned the sad,
• And she too sought them out, with looks so glad,
• It cheered their very hearts, they often said,
• And often prayed for blessings on her head,
• That one so young and beautiful should come
• To soothe the widow in her silent home,
• That one so blest, so happy, should endure
• To sit and talk so kindly to the poor

• And with such occupations came at last
• A graver tone o'er her young spirit cast.
• Watching the sorrows of the indigent,
• This searching query through her bosom went—
• “Why am I favoured more than these? am I
• More fit to live, or more prepared to die?
• Yet let me learn this lesson from their grief,
• Those who enjoy, should ever yield relief;
• And those, who most abundantly possess,
• Should use their blessings, only more to bless.”

• Henry observed his sister's opening mind
• Grow more enlightened, serious, and refined;
• And while her busy hand the needle plied,
• He read some favourite volume by her side;
• Choosing, to please her, what possessed a tone
• Of healthy feeling so much like her own,
• Reserving for the silent hours of night
• What moved his soul with more intense delight—
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• Plays—poetry—deep passion's burning page,
• That Martha called, fit only for the stage,
• Peeping askance, with laughter-loving eye,
• When reached her brother's voice the climax high;
• Till with a dubious look, half smile, half frown,
• He closed the page, and laid the volume down.
• Then would he touch, with happier skill, the flute,
• Well tuned his sister's silvery voice to suit,
• And she would follow him in tones as clear,
• Led by her quick, but yet untutored ear.
• While far away, along the shadowy grove,
• Sent the sweet melody its tale of love.
• Thus passed the evening hours, and day's sweet close
• Woo'd not two kindlier spirits to repose,
• Found not two hearts more free from earthly care,
• Than theirs, who tuned their “nativewood-notes” there.

• Years passed away, and from the town there came
• The younger girls, still fair, but not the same.
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• Helen, more changed than Lucy, looked around
• As if she scarcely knew her native ground.
• All was so rustic, some things were so mean,
• She never thought her father's home had been
• So little like a gentleman's abode,
• “And then again that stupid line of road!
• Why not a sweep?”

• The farmer looked, and saw
• 'Twas easy there a gentler line to draw.

• “Why not an avenue? Those trees cut down
• Would leave a road for every passing clown;
• Here we might come, between these elms so dark,
• That stand so well, and make the field a park.”

• “So have I thought,” the echoing aunt exclaimed,
• “A thousand times. And now the thing is named,
• Why not a new front door? It really is
• A bar to entrance, having one like this.”

• The farmer gave not, nor refused assent,
• While round his grounds the innovators went;
• But when they touched that once-loved scene of peace—
• The ancient house—he found his patience cease.
• That door! oh, blessed portal! once had been
• Her favourite seat, whose steps had crossed that green
• When to his home she came a willing bride,
• His household comforts all to her untried.

• “Touch not that door,” he said, “yon trees may fall,
• Yon fence may vanish, or yon garden-wall,
• But come not near the house—I charge you not,
• It is from all your schemes, a sacred spot.
• Enough, and more, has surely now been done
• To make it look more like a modern one,
• And if one single stone be moved away,
• The whole shall fall. Remember what I say.”

• “The very thing we want,” the aunt replied,
• And whispering drew more near to Helen's side.
• “Move but that stone, how happy should we be
• The end of all these wretched rooms to see;
• These passages—so narrow, dark, and small,
• Instead of one good spacious entrance-hall.
• I know the landlord never would object,
• When houses fall, what else can they expect?
• And ours is falling fast, do as we may,
• The old damp walls will crumble to decay.
• A house has just been built for farmer Bell,
• And why not build a house for us as well?”

• Thus spoke the aunt, but in an under tone,
• Not daring quite to make her wishes known
• In all their force, exuberance, and extent,
• Yet shrewd conjecture gathered what she meant.

• It was the first idea of the kind
• That ever reached the farmer's niusing mind.
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• It seemed worth cherishing, so strange, and new,
• As thus it rose upon his mental view.
• For he was quickly pained by outward things
• That rudely touched his bosom's inmost springs,
• And while they talked, it vexed his soul to find
• They knew no beauty in that house enshrined.

• “Then be it so,” he thought, “that ancient wall,
• With its sweet roses and green leaves, may fall.
• They heed it not, and I can bear the blow;
• I have borne heavier strokes than that ere now.
• True, I have been within that home of rest,
• Beyond all human calculation, blest.
• But there I've known calamity as well,
• Deeper than ever human tongue could tell.
• And while that window with its vine, appears
• To tell me of the bliss of early years,
• It tells me also of my nightly tears;
• Till the remembrance, with its sting of pain,
• Will sometimes force those tears to flow again.
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• And shall I cancel all that scene of joy,
• This ceaseless pang of memory to destroy?”

• Vain thought! But still it lingered in his brain,
• And came, and went, and still returned again.
• And there were many voices, quick, and clear,
• That in their various tones assailed his ear
• All on one side—“That ancient house must fall!”
• So he gave way, at last, before them all.

• The farmer's landlord was a liberal man,
• Who listened kindly to his tenant's plan,
• He knew the low-roofed tenement was old,
• And heard, believing, what the farmer told,
• Of crumbling wall, dilapidated roof,
• Of casement neither wind nor water proof;
• And pitying much the occupants within,
• He gave his word—the builders should begin.
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• All that would make the house substantial, large,
• Good, and respectable, should be his charge;
• But if the farmer's thoughts were raised more high,
• His own resources must the rest supply.

• Then came the architect, with curious look
• Scanning that ancient building like a book,
• Reading the worth of every inch of wall,
• Lintels, and door-posts, windows, beams, and all.
• Yes, every pane of that low window made
• Part of his calculation—'twas his trade.
• And followed soon the unrelenting band
• Of sturdy workmen, each with able hand,
• And murderous weapon, eager to destroy
• That lovely scene of well-remembered joy.
• Who struck the first, the farmer never knew,
• He saw them all prepared, and then withdrew,
• Wending through fields of tufted corn and hay,
• With his old dog, their oft-accustomed way;
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• Till heightening day the hour of noon had told,
• And he the work of ruin must behold.

• 'Tis a sad sight, though often seen on earth,
• The ruin of the place that gave us birth—
• Total destruction of that actual scene—
• Razed from the ground, as if it ne'er had been.
• 'Tis not alone the old protecting wall
• That sinks before us, as the fragments fall;
• But even the space we used to call our own
• Is mixed with common air—dissolved, and gone.
• We know the flowers of spring will bloom again,
• The woodland warblers will renew their strain,
• The stately tree that falls will leave behind
• Some seed, or stem, or sapling of its kind;
• All things that e'er on earth's fair bosom grew,
• Time, in some form or likeness, will renew:
• Even dearest friends, whose early troth was given,
• Severed below, may live to meet in heaven.
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• But never more around our native hearth,
• When once destroyed, can life restore its mirth.
• All—all is gone—that well-remembered door,
• The sound of welcome feet along that floor,
• The window where we sat in musing hour,
• Watching the moonbeams, listening to the shower,
• The twilight shade of that sequestered spot,
• The Sabbath evening worship, ne'er forgot;
• The chamber of our childhood where we slept,
• And, still more sacred, where we oft have wept
• Tears by the nearest friend unseen—unknown—
• Hoarding the treasure of our grief alone—
• All—all have vanished, by one stroke of fate:
• Man may destroy, but cannot recreate.