Читать книгу Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland - Abigail Stanley Hanna - Страница 11

We have crossed the threshold and entered the dear old house. Back, back, these tumultuous throbbings of the heart, and these tears which vainly rising to the eyelids, fall back upon the heart as wanting power to flow. Who, after an absence of many years, on entering the house where they first inhaled the breath of life, but has been overpowered by conflicting emotions, as the tide of Memory rolled in, like a flood, bearing so much upon its bosom, and where so many associations crowd upon the mind, it is difficult to lend expression to the ideas.

The interior of the house has not been materially changed, except the additional ell, which contains a kitchen, pantry, and such like conveniences for progressing household labor; the kitchen being transformed into a sitting room, with no change, excepting a new coat of paint, large windows instead of small, paper instead of bare walls, and a place for a stove pipe instead of the ample fire place, that used to shed its cheering light and warmth over the whole room. And we might almost fancy ourselves at home, were it not that the eyes of strangers are upon us, and we miss the dear familiar faces that first taught the infant heart to love.

Here, have we clustered around the knees of a mother and drank rich instruction from her pious lips, and offered up the morning and the evening prayer, and lisped our hymn of praise, while she ever strove to impress the golden rule upon the young and tender minds committed to her care; and her example was ever that of a consistent Christian.

How vividly comes up before the eye of Memory, the forms of the aged members of the family; for there were an uncle and two aunts of my father who were never married, that took him at the early age of two years, educated him and gave him the homestead for his patrimony; and at the time of my birth the snow of many winters rested upon their heads, and the infirmities of age were upon them.

It was their delight to watch our childish sports, listen to our innocent prattle, and strive to direct our young footsteps in the paths of virtue. They have passed away like the shadows of a passing cloud. Almost my first recollections of death are associated with that of the aged man. He had been sick about four days when we were called to stand by his bedside and witness his departure. He smiled upon the dear little brother, mother held in her arms, shook him by the hand, gave us all a parting glance; the film of death then gathered upon his eyes, a convulsive shudder ran over his frame, and a deathly paleness rested upon his countenance, filling our young hearts with wonder and dismay. As we felt the marble coldness of his stiffened limbs, and saw him borne away to the silent grave, we learned the first lesson from the pale messenger, and felt the awful void that his presence creates in the family circle, and which we have since been called so often to experience. He died in the very room where we first opened our eyes upon the light.

It is a large gloomy looking room. The two windows looking out upon the north, and a door opening out upon the level field, covered with its carpet of green, intersected by neither shrub nor trees. The coating of paint is changed, and the walls neatly papered, which is the only change it has undergone.

Adjacent to this is the east bedroom, one window looking out upon the north, and one upon the little garden at the east end of the house. This room, for many years, was our lodging room, where we sought--

"Tired nature's sweet restorer balmy sleep,"

and lost ourselves in the world of dreams. Many, very many, were the waking dreams that filled the imagination as the map of life lay spread out before fancy's witching gaze, and hope illuminated it with her brilliant rainbow dyes. No waves of passion or disappointment moved its surface. But, oh, how different has been the reality!

Crossing the small entry opposite the kitchen is a large room, formerly occupied by the old people. The same change is visible in this as in the other rooms. Here, day after day, sat our aged aunt, reading the word of God or her favorite hymns, and seeking preparation for death (for she was fourscore and ten years old), and had been a member of the church of Christ from her nineteenth year, spending a long life to his honor and glory. It was the winter of the year, but a mild day, when on returning from school we were summoned to her bedside. The feeble lamp of life was flickering in the socket, and the pulses of the aged woman stood still. Her spirit passed quietly from earth, to enter into the presence of God who gave it. She fell like a shock of corn fully ripe, at the age of ninety-four years. There was no struggle; wearied nature resigned her burden without resistance, and the countenance was pleasant in death. She was borne to the graveyard and laid by the side of her dear brother, and thus they were again united in the place of graves; and again there were vacant places in our family circle, for many had been the attentions we were obliged to bestow upon our aged relative, for she had been unable to walk for several years.

In this apartment two windows opened to the south, and one at the west end of the house, looking out upon the woods; on the north side three doors opened, one into a bedroom with one west window, one into a pantry or dairy room, where stood long rows of pans of milk covered with golden cream, and tempting cheeses arrayed, the shelves. Here there is slight alteration, excepting the shelves and ceiling have changed their snowy whiteness for a coating of blue paint, and instead of a dairy room, it is converted into a common pantry. The other door led into the winter cellar, where we used to go for the nice apples, which formed the usual accompaniment of a winter evening. Oh, those pleasant evenings! what heeded we that the wintry storm raged without? Our evening meal was always dispatched, and the household duties all performed before the evening shadows fell around us. The fire burned brightly upon the clean swept hearth, shedding a cheerful glow over the room, while warming by its blaze stood a large dish of red and golden apples, temptingly arranged. Before the fire stood a small round table, round which the younger members of the family were seated, braiding straw, while some one read aloud from some useful or entertaining book; or we pursued our favorite studies, and prepared the school lesson for the coming day (for we could braid and study at the same time).

How profitable and how pleasant were those evenings! As I look back upon them, through the long lapse of years that have passed away, and recall each familiar' face and tone, I feel that those hours were among the happiest of my life. Many of those dear forms have passed away from earth forever. The dear mother, who presided over us with so much affection, mingling in our pleasures and soothing our pains, has finished her course upon earth and gone to her reward; but may the good seed sown in the hearts of her children spring up and bear fruit to eternal life. Although her lips are now silent in death, she still speaks to us, she still lives embalmed in the hearts of her children. Two dear brothers that enlivened those cheerful evenings, by acting their part in the drama of life, have passed away, to

"That bourne from which no traveller e'er returns,"

and their voices are heard no more upon earth.

But, usually, ere the family clock that ticked in the corner of the room struck nine, all had retired to rest and all was silent, save the ticking of the clock or the howling of the wintry storm.

Deaths in our neighborhood were not of very common occurrence, and used to fill our young hearts with dismay; and for many long weeks I used to count the number of nights the new occupant of a grave had slept in it, and shudder as I thought of all the gloom, the darkness and the silence of the narrow house; and felt sad when I reflected that all men must die. Faith then had not lifted her trusting eye beyond the portals of the tomb, or illuminated its confines by the glorious light of the gospel. And when in the winter of 1816 a fatal fever raged, and the angel of death flapped his broad wings over our little village, and one after another was cut suddenly down by his stealthy darts, we could hardly realize that it was directed by the hand of a merciful God, and, collected together in a little group, wondered, in our childish innocence, "who would go next?"

Here, upon this door-step, have we sat for hours, in all suitable seasons of the year, looking out upon the prospect, and contemplating the changing seasons, or the alternate sun and shade that rested upon the face of nature. Often have we wandered forth, while the dew was yet upon the grass, to gather a basket of the large red cheeked peaches that had fallen from the trees during the night. Near by stood a noble pear tree, laden with rich orange pears, covering the ground beneath with its golden treasures, while a contiguous apple tree mingled its store of bright red apples in rich profusion. O, it was a delicious blending of autumn's garnered store, showered upon the lap of Mother Nature, spread out temptingly to the eyes of her weary children. But the trees have departed with the "dark brown years," that have flung their dim shadows over them--nor root, nor branch remains.

A few years passed, and by one of the unforeseen changes that occur in the lives of business men, we were obliged to relinquish our childhood home, and go forth to try the rougher usage of the world in a land of strangers. Sad were the feelings that filled our young hearts, as we went forth from the dear place, with which was associated all the earliest recollections of life, and the endearing ideas of home. The evening before our departure, we ascended the top of the highest hill that over-looked our little villa, accompanied by our young schoolmates, to watch the declining rays of the setting sun, and promised eternal friendship to each other. It was Sabbath day--a calm, delightful Sabbath day--that was now closing upon us; and as the sun finished his journey across the horizon, and sank behind the far-off western hills, methinks the sacred tranquility that reigned around seemed to be whispering to the troubled spirit, "Peace, be still." But could we, with our youthful hearts weighed down by this great grief, could we heed the gentle whispers? surely not; and we felt that like our first parents, we were about to be driven from Paradise. We sat conversing upon the past, and forming plans for the future,

"Till twilight grey had in her sober livery all things clad."

Descending the hill we sought our homes, and early the following morning found us pursuing our way to a land of strangers, leaving behind us home, friends, and the burying place of our fathers, which we had ever looked upon as our last resting place.

While the waves of time have borne year after year away, each one replete with change, we have been tossing upon the stream till we again stand in the same place from which we then departed, and while the grief of that hour is fresh in the memory, we will again turn sadly away from the spot teeming with so many remembrances, and where were instilled the first principles of virtue and religion. O, may these remain and grow "brighter and brighter unto the perfect day," while all mutable things decay. Dear old house, farewell; these eyes may never again behold you; these feet never again cross your threshold; but while reason remains, the memory of these haunts will be tenderly cherished. And so we pass again from the spot with an aching heart, and leave it to the possession of strangers.