Compensation. A study of experience

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Dedication

TO

H. H.

JS'riend of my heart 1 I've shut within these leaves Many a thought which Memory still weaves

I

" The world is wide ; but oh how sad It fteems when I remembej 1"

Night in the mountains ! Silent, dewy night; Sweet with the breath of pine, and blooming grape, And the aroma of a thousand flowers ; And peaceful as the far Acadian glades, Ere voice of man disturbed those primal shades.

Night in the mountains ! Tier on tier they rise,

Up-reaching eager and ambitious hands

To touch the smiling heavens, that seem to bend

With tender pity tow'rd the swaying earth.

Wrapped in a filmy vail of evening mist,

Their proud, majestic forms seem scarce more near,

And not so real as yon swift-sailing cloud

Flying before the fast pursuing moon.

And, gazing on their outlines, dim and faint,

I marvel if indeed 'twere true that I

On this same morn stood on yon lofty peak,

And gazed with rapture on the broad expanse

Of mountain, valley, plain, and hilly slope,

Which spread before, beneath me. Where are now

The trees which shook their tender leaflets then

In th' morning breeze, whose cool and balmy breath

Was laden with the scent of res'nous pine,

Caught with the kisses which it, passing, gave

To that dark wood a hundred feet below ?

Where are the giant oaks, that towered high ;

The wide-spread maples, beech, and weeping elms ;

The budding chestnuts, and the blooming limes —

All wearing that luxuriant robe of green

With which sweet Summer loves to deck the woods-

And stretching kindly arms above our heads,

To shield us from the rays of June's warm sun ?

Where are the rocks, moss-covered, lichen-grown,

Shielding, in many a cleft, from boisterous wind.

The frail, yet hardy tufts of feathery fern,

And piled so high, in massive, rough-hewn blocks —

A grander throne than monarch ever owned ?

Where is the silver stream, which pensively

Flowed through the dim and silent wood, anon

Broad'ning to placid pool, or limpid lake,

Then dashing madly down the mountain-side,

Foaming and roaring, in its stress of wrath,

At each wild leap from beetling cliff to cliff ?

Are they all there, behind the floating vail

Of pale blue mist, in which the modest mounts

Have v/rapped themselves for sleep ? or has some foe,

With sudden onslaught, laid the fair trees low,

Powdered the rocks, and drunk the streamlet up,

And left the mighty mountains bald and bare.

As in this dim, pale light they now appear?

In morning's glow the truth will stand revealed.

And show what now is by the mist concealed.

Night in the mountains ! Still, and pure, and sweet, The evening breezes steal about us here,

And in a dewy mantle wrap us cloae. We sit in silence in the broad, deep porch Of this most modest dwelling-place, which crests One lofty mount, and nestles at the feet Of others loftier still, and list the sounds Which, through the hush of night, float hitherward The whisp'ring leaves, coquetting with the breeze, Disturbing with their talk the weary birds, Which, cradled on the rocking boughs, protest. In sharp, shrill chirps, against their broken rest ; The roses, sighing forth their soft complaints, That night should hide their lovely faces thus From an admiring world ; the cheerful chirp Of cricket from some fav'rite nook ; the hoarse. Discordant croak of solemn frogs ; the song Of flowing brooklet, telling merry tales Of all the loveliness of spreading lake — Garnished with lilies, edged with bracken fine. Overshadowed by the bending forest trees, And mirroring the sweet-faced briai'-rose, Far up the mountain whence it babbling flows.

We are in shade; but full two hundred feet Beneath us, bathed in moonlight, silver-pale,

TIME: PLAGE: PEMSONS. 19

A smiling valley like a picture sleejjs : With fertile fields and meadows ; groves of pine And hemlock, casting shadows black and weird Upon the moon-lit plains ; with here and there Huge clumps of lighter, tend'rer-foliaged trees, And tow'ring hills, which from this altitude Seem but as swelling mounds on meadow breast ; And homesteads fair, engirdled 'round with trees, And gleaming white, touched by the moonbeam's glint ; And uplands, sloping high and higher still. Until at last they reach the feet of mounts. Which, tall and grim, like faithful sentries stand And shut the valley in on every hand.

The scene is lovelier ihan pen can jjaint ! The play of light and shade, as silently The moon pursues her way, and shifts her place, Or hides a moment 'neath light-sailing clouds, No artist could transfix. And we who sit In this deep j^orch — with roses clustered o'er. And all the night air fragrant with their breath- Listen and gaze in silence.

We are three: A man of business, snatching from the toil

And turmoil of his busy daily round,

A few sweet hours of perfect change and rest;

Made sweeter by the dear companionship

Of her who nestles closely at his side,

Her sunny head upon his shoulder broad ;

Of her with whom he wanders hand in hand

Through forest aisles, or climbs the rugged mounts,

Or sits content beside some woodland fount.

And dreams away the golden summer days —

His lovely, orphaned daughter. Rare, indeed,

To hira, the busy man, are days like these.

And nights on which God seems to set the seal

And charm of perfect loveliness. These two,

And I, a wearied author, seeking here

Rest for an o'er- tasked frame, an o'er- wrought brain.

Among the cool and dewy solitudes

Of these fair mountain wilds.

Aye, rest indeed I stand in need of finding ; for the year Has brought me only pain, and grief, and tears. Such as I suffered in the days long past, And hoped I thrust behind me evermore. And now again my life is passing sad ; W^arv mv heart ; my dizzy brain perplexed }

TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS. %i

For life's deep, complex problems vex me sore, And fill with deep unrest a soul once calm With quiet won from struggle and from pain. Many the lessons I have learned by heart ; Many the problems I have solved with toil ; Until from labor I had gained repose, And fancied it were lasting. Vain the thought I For now again, in Life's arithmetic, I find a problem I had once worked out To my full satisfaction. Puzzling then It was ; long were the hours I, wearied, bent Above the vexing sum ; but ah, at last The answer was obtained — I satisfied. And now once more the question intricate I've found upon life's open page, and want The pow'r to gain the answer. All in vain I add, subtract, divide, and multiply. Work out the sum by every process known To reas'ning mind — wrong is the answer still, And fails to satisfy mind, heart, or will.

So, wearied with the constant strife of thought, The torturing question I could not resolve; The longings unfulfilled — unconquered, too j n TIMS!: PLACE!: PEMSOI^S.

Associations keeping fresh, unhealed,

The wound ray heart had suffered, here I came

In hope of solace for sick heart and brain.

Ah, vain, vain hope ! Not from myself can I,

E'en here, one hour escape. Not from the thoughts.

The pain, the strife, that make my life so sore,

Can I shut out my heart, e'en in the wilds

I love so well. And Memory, sometimes

A friend, sometimes one's bitt'rest enemy,

Hath hither followed ; keeping at my side

With most unwelcome zeal ; and to my heart

Repeating o'er and o'er tales of the past

Which I would fain forget ; and whispering

Those saddest of all words, " It might have been /"

So, restless still, and still unsatisfied, Still sorrowful and sad, and sick at heart — At times rebellious too, that I again Must suffer pain once conquered to relief; And tired and listless for the want of hope, Which, on her bier, within my heart lies dead, I pass in idleness the long, sweet days — Bitter to me they are, and full of pain — And long for night, that I perchance may find

TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS. U

In sleep's oblivion rest for tortured mind, And aching heart ; for Night to lay her hand Upon the lips of garr'lous Memory, And bid her hush her oft-repeated tales. But even Night too often proves unkind ; And sweet, coy sleep deserts my lowly bed ; And Mem'ry, in the silence and the hush, Speaks yet more loudly of the checkered past ; Till from my burning eyes the tears fall fast, And in the bitter anguish of the hour I long in turn for morning, from the pow'r Of my unwelcome friend to be set free. And for a space, if brief, from her to flee

To-day I climbed yon lofty mountain peak, And in the rapture of the glorious view With which my eye was greeted, when I stood Upon the highest point, and turned to gaze Around, before, beneath me, I forgot For one brief hour the pain that wrecks my life. For strong within me is the artist still. Though hushed to silence by the might of pain, And death of hope, without which hearts grow sore. Returning, wearied by the toilsome climb.

a TIME: PLACE: PEMSOM,

And steep and rough descent, Sleep graciously My heavy eyelids touched with fingers soft, And gave me one more hour of respite sweet From strife of thought and sorrow's restless surge. And sitting hereto-night in evening's hush. Some of her calm has stolen in ray heart, And stilled its throbbing pulse to even beat. And life seems good, though sadder far than sweet.

But now the hush is broken by the roll Of wheels, the tramp of iron hoofs upon The toilsome road that winds through forest glooms And open spaces — whence the vale below. And proud, engirdling mountains, pale with mist, Illumined with the mystic moonlight's sheen. Is pictured sweetly to the gazer's eye — But ever upward, upward, to the top Of this steep mount, whose rugged, aged face Wears on its brow our lowly dwelling-place.

It is not difficult to guess who comes At this late hour along th' upwinding road. We know the lumb'ring roll of those great wheels, The steady tramp of those iron shodden feet,

TIME: PLAGE: PEMSOM.

And list to hear the notes of merry horn Float hitherward upon the sweet night air, With which, as in old days, the daily coach Importantly still heralds its approach.

Waiting, I wonder idly what it brings. New guests, whose lives may for a little space Ruffle the surface of our idle days, And then, departing, lightly be forgot ? Kind messages from dear ones, now afar ? Tidings of him, for loving whom too well Self-exiled here I tarry ? Nay, ah, nay ! For this I cannot hope — I dream indeed ! However sweet were words penned by his hand, To me they must not come ; howe'er my heart May hunger for the kindly thought of his, It still must be denied ; between us two A " wall of bitter-sweet " its lofty height Doth rear, a barrier strong and stern as fate, The which we may not, must not, cannot cross. And 80 two lives are sore with sense of loss.

Upon the clear and fragrant evening air. The horn's harsh notes are borne unto our ears, 3

U flME: PLAG^: PERSON^.

Silvered by distance, caught up as in play

By saucy echoes, and repeated o'er

And o'er again, each time in softer tone^

Until they die at last, as dies the faint

Vibrations of the deep-toned, res'nant bell,

Which from its outlook in some tall church tower,

Tolls slowly, faithfully, each passing hour.

And now we hear the crack of long-lashed whip ;

The driver's jolly tones, as words of cheei

He utters to his half-exhausted steeds ;

And now, with sweep and flourish, learned by years

Of constant practice, 'round yon bend of road

Sweeps up before the door.

All now is life !

Lights gleam from hall and parlor, chasing fast The still, dusk shadows from the open porch Wherein we sit ; and in the doorway near, Good Mrs. Brown, with hands upon her hips. Stands smilingly, and waits what is to come. Sweet Sylvie Mayne, aroused from happy dreams^ Which, waking or asleep, come sweet to her. Raises her head from off the shoulder broad Where it of late has rested, and with yawns

Half forced, half stifled, wonders who has come

To join our party in these distant woods ;

And hopes, whoe'er they may be, they may prove

As nice as those already here ; then laughs

At the conceit her careless words display,

And crossing o'er to me, leans on my chair,

And, curious, awaits the answer there.

And soon the vehicle before the door Yields up its living freight, and in our midst Three strangers for a welcome waiting stand. Foremost, a man of scarcely middle age. Tall, dark, and proud, but with a pleasant face, And easy air that speaks of culture broad. Beside, and clinging wearily to him, A blue-eyed woman, drooping with fatigue, And in the rear, a fair-faced, slender girl. I only note her eyes are dark as night. And that her cheek is round with youth and health. And then, with words of welcome on her lips, Good Mrs. Brown has led the strangers in. And we are left again, sole occupants Of this broad porch, and all its dusky gloom. Scarce reached, as yet, by yon slo.v-creeping moon.

«8 TIM:^: PLAGE: PMM8ONS.

The lumb'ring coach, already on its way, Throws back the sound of its departing wheels. Each moment growing fainter to the ear ; The frogs croak hoarsely from some distant pool In one unvarying note of dreary sound ; O'erhead, the roses in the rising wind Toss restlessly, and shake their fragrant robes. Wet with the dews of night, till all the air Is breathed anew with sweetness ; and the brook, Scarce fifty feet away, still murmurs soft The story of its journey through the meads. Its daring leaps adown the mountain side, Its run through spicy woods and by the mill — And makes the night and silence seem more still.

Back to the past my thoughts are drifting fast, When from yon lighted room a sweet, low laugh Falls on my ear, and to my sense conveys A pleasure vague ; so eloquent it is Of care-free youth, and of a heart untouched By sad experience of grief and pain ; So plainly speaks a nature sweet and sound. Healthful in tone, and merry in its mood. And as, a second time, its cadence sweet

Blends with the outer sounds, I feel my heart Grow strangely warm and tender to the girl Whose fair, sweet face I scarcely yet have seen ; To her who, in her merry innocence, Contrasts so strongly wilh my weary self, And brings again the days — oh, how long past ! When I was young, and gay, and glad like her ; Ere life's experience had taught my heart Life's deeper meanings ; and that happiness, Although so coveted, so mourned its loss, Is, as an educator of the soul In what is highest, truest, noblest, best. In what shall fit us for life's sternest tests, Of far less pow'r than sorrow's dreaded fire. Which, while it teaches, lifts the spirit higher.

And yet, one envies careless youth, which gives To every day the color of the rose — Its odor too — and knows not, or forgets, That all the bloom which makes life's June so fair. Hides many a thorn which autumn winds shall bare. Yet who forbears to pluck the roses sweet Bepai|s§ of hidden thoras which one majr meet ?

Who will not say their fragrance compensates For all the pain the piercing thorn creates ?

" Well, shall we like them ?" Sylvie's low-toned

voice From where she careless stands my_ chair behind, Brings back from thoughts like these my wand'ring

mind.

" How can I tell, my child ?" I, smiling, ask. "Can one brief glance suffice to demonstrate Whom we shall like, and whom perhaps shall hate ?"

"Ah, yes — sometimes — have you ne'er proved it true ? Some at first sight send all my being through A thrill of pleasure, and I then can tell That I shall love them tenderly and well ; Yet others — ugh ! their faces strike a chill Straight to my heart; and so I turn away, And — well, detest them, to my dying day."

" Which yet is distant far, I trust, my child ! So how can you be sure dislikes you build Ou such foujjdation shall so long endure ?

Are you so wise that you with certainty

Can say what shall be in the years to come ?

You yield to impulse like the child you are.

Think, Sylvie ! is it right, or just, or fair.

To judge with such unkindness one of whom

You nothing know, and who perchance you've seen

In an unhappy moment ? to conclude.

With youth's most hasty judgment, that because

A face at first repels, it has no pow'r

You to attract seen in a happier hour?"

"Not just, not kind perhaps, and yet — ah, well, I cannot help it. Some I dearly love. And others have no pleasantness to me. It may be wrong, but so I'm made, you see."

" Ah, child, that is indeed a poor, poor plea. I'm made with temper that strikes sudden fire As lightest touch of flint to tempered steel. Shall I then make no effort to control This weakness of my nature ? will the plea That I like this was made, avail for me If I in yielding to it take a life ? t look within my heart, and there I find

S2 TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS.

Envy and pride, two monsters we should hate, Have come to dwell, and now predominate O'er all the virtues which therein abide ; Shall I to these pay court, and these obey, Because they fain within ray heart would stay ? Because by me unbidden they are there ? And if to their dictation I shall yield, And wrong and wound my friend, will he forgive, Because, forsooth, the monsters are inborn ? Our faults are given to us to overcome. The greater be the fault, the richer, too. The victory will prove when once attained ; The sharper be the strife, the more complete And sweeter will the conquest be when gained. We all have those we love, and, as you say. Those who to us no pleasantness can have. Nor would I say, my dear, that this is wrong. By sympathy, or contrast, some attract ; And some repel by want of harmony Between their souls and ours ; and thus it is Their presence is to us like jarring notes Upon an untuned instrument, to ears Refined by culture ; some by force of strong Magnetic power draw our hearts to theire.

TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS.

And we are glad and happy in their love ; And others yet, by that mysterious sense Of physical repulsion, most have felt. And none, T think, has ever quite explained, Seem so repugnant to us, that we find, However much we may respect, esteem. And honor them — however true, and good, And worthy of affection they may be. Our hearts can hold no fellowship with theirs. But ere we shut out any from our love. Or any all unknown, unheard, condemn To bear our detestation, let us prove That they are all unworthy, or their hearts Have not been tuned to harmony with ours. Believe me, Sylvie, not to you alone I give this counsel, but myself as well ; For I, like you, am all too quick to judge, Too quick to blame, no less than to approve. And readier to dislike, I fear, than love. Not many can I take within my heart, But once inside the portals, they are held As something dearer than all else on earth ; And though 'tis true that faces index oft The mind and character ; that practiced ones 2*

U TIME: PLACE: PEMSONS.

May read tliem as one reads an open book,

Still you, I think, dear girl, are yet too young

In that lore to be skilled ; and should not trust

Blindly to impulse in your choice of friends,

But study such as you vvould love, and base

Your confidence on sterling qualities

Of mind and heart — and prove that you are wise.

See what a long and tiresome homily

Your question has evoked ! But now, my dear,

Since you at sight have pow'r to demonstrate

Whom you shall like, and whom for life shall hate,

I leave your query open, and suggest

You answer it yourself — you must know best."

She laughed, and stooping, lightly kissed my cheek-. " Nay, since my hasty judgment you have shamed, I will not say, but test them by their acts ; And let them win my liking if they can *By sterling qualities of mind and heart.' Thanks for your counsel," — and her voice dropped low. " That I am ruled by impulse well I know. And far too often have it to regret. What you have said I shall not soon forget. Thanks, and good-night ! Those folks are eating yet,

TIME: PLAGE: PEBS0N8. 35

Let's hope they've good digestion. Papa there Is fast asleep in that old crazy chair, I do believe ! he'll take his death of cold In this chill air. Now see how I can scold."

With this the merry maiden left my side, And bending o'er her father, loved so well. Slipped one white arm beneath his drooping head, And wakened him with kisses. " Papa, dear, 'Tis growing late !" she said. " The air is damp ; You must not slumber here, or I shall learn Too soon the art of nursing, I'm afraid. Upstairs I saw to-day a downy bed. Stuffed full with feathers. Find it, sleepy-head !**

" Is that the way you scold ?" I smiling asked. " I doubt not that your father will declare 'Tis rather pleasant to be scolded thus ; To be awakened from so brief repose By lips that have the freshness of the rose, By arms that rival winter's purest snows, And words more tender than they are unkind. It 'minds me of yon brooklet's silver tones, Fx'etting its way in music o'er the stones

Which do so little to obstruct its flow. I find it pleasant, 'tis so soft and low."

" Oh, I can scold — you do not know as yet. You'll see sometime how I can fume and fret."

" Indeed she will !" this from her father's lips, Silenced by press of saucy finger tips.

" Now, papa, hush !" she said. " Or you, in turn, My pow'rs in that direction soon may learn."

" I do not need to, child, I know them well, As my submission to your whims may tell."

" Ah, papa, hush !" she pouted. " Don't you see I wish to keep my credit good with her For sweetness ? That I would not have her know The brook that ripples softly o'er the stones. And feigns to scold in voice so sweet and low Out yonder, speaks in loud and angry tones Where high-piled rocks obstruct its gentle flow ? You're shiv'ring, papa ] Come ! 't^s time, indeed

TIME: PLACE: PEBS0N8. 37

You to my bidding paid a little heed. I wish to get him safely off, you see, Ere he reveal too much !" this last to me.

With playful force she dragged him from his seat, And slipped her arm in his to lead him in, And so make sure her mandate was obeyed. "What would he do," the sweet witch laughing said. As by my chair they paused to say good-night. " What would he do without his daughter's care ? He would have slept in that old straight-backed chair. The careless man ! here in the chill and dew. Had I not wakened him, the whole night through, Nor once have guessed he was not safe at rest On that huge heap of feathers overhead, Which our good hostess designates a bed. And then the consequence no doubt had been To us the spoiling of these lovely days. And lovelier nights ; so, papa, give me praise That I have saved you from a horrid cold, Though I to do it almost proved a scold."

He laughed, and stroked her head with tender pride, Then either said good-night and went inside.

d» TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS.

I followed soon ; the night bad grown more chill ; The dew lay heavy on the grass and flowers ; The rising wind began to sigh and moan Around the porch where now I sat alone, A gloomy cadence in its softest tone, Which struck within my heart an answ'ring chord, And made my pulse beat painfully and hard. So gath'ring up the book whose glowing words Had held my thought till Twilight laid her hand Upon the page, I sought my room, to find Perchance a brief repose for heart and mind. And Sleep, sweet Sleep, drew kindly near to me, And as a mother soothes her babe to rest. Hushed all my pain upon her gentle breast.