Absent from home; and there was
no person present to see fair play. They sold what apples and
potatoes they pleased, and fed their hogs ad libitum. But even their
roguery was more tolerable than the irksome restraint which their
near vicinity, and constantly having to come in contact with them,
imposed. We had no longer any privacy, our servants were
cross-questioned, and our family affairs canvassed by these
gossiping people, who spread about a thousand falsehoods regarding
us. I was so much disgusted with this shareship, that I would gladly
have given them all the proceeds of the farm to get rid of them, but
the bargain was for twelve months, and bad as it was, we could not
break our engagement.
One little trick of this woman's will serve to illustrate her
general conduct. A neighbouring farmer's wife had presented me with
some very pretty hens, who followed to the call of old Betty Fye's
handsome game-cock. I was always fond of fowls, and the innocent
Katie delighted in her chicks, and would call them round her to the
sill of the door to feed from her hand. Mrs. O - - had the same
number as I had, and I often admired them when marshalled forth by
her splendid black rooster. One morning I saw her eldest son chop
off the head of the fine bird; and I asked his mother why she had
allowed him to kill the beautiful creature. She laughed, and merely
replied that she wanted it for the pot. The next day my sultan
walked over to the widowed hens, and took all his seraglio with him.
From that hour I never gathered a single egg; the hens deposited all
their eggs in Mrs. O - -'s hen-house. She used to boast of this as an
excellent joke among her neighbours.
On the 9th of June, my dear little Agnes was born. A few days after
this joyful event, I heard a great bustle in the room adjoining to
mine, and old Dolly Rowe, my Cornish nurse, informed me that it was
occasioned by the people who came to attend the funeral of Phoebe
R - -. She only survived the removal of the family a week; and at her
own request had been brought all the way from the - - lake plains to
be interred in the burying ground on the hill which overlooked the
stream.
As I lay upon my pillow I could distinctly see the spot, and mark
the long funeral procession, as it wound along the banks of the
brook. It was a solemn and imposing spectacle, that humble funeral.
When the waggons reached the rude enclosure, the coffin was
carefully lifted to the ground, the door in the lid opened, and
old and young approached, one after another, to take a last look
at the dead, before consigning her to the oblivion of the grave.
Poor Phoebe! Gentle child, of coarse, unfeeling parents, few shed
more sincerely a tear for thy early fate than the stranger whom they
hated and despised. Often have I stood beside that humble mound,
when the song of the lark was above me, and the bee murmuring at my
feet, and thought that it was well for thee that God opened the eyes
of thy soul, and called thee out of the darkness of ignorance and
sin to glory in His marvellous light. Sixteen years have passed away
since I heard anything of the family, or what had become of them,
when I was told by a neighbour of theirs, whom I accidentally met
last winter, that the old woman, who now nearly numbers a hundred
years, is still living, and inhabits a corner of her son's barn, as
she still quarrels too much with his wife to reside with Joe; that
the girls are all married and gone; and that Joe himself, although
he does not know a letter, has commenced travelling preacher. After
this, who can doubt the existence of miracles in the nineteenth
century?
THE FAITHFUL HEART THAT LOVES THEE STILL
I kneel beside the cold grey stone
That tells me, dearest, thou art gone
To realms more bless'd - and left me still
To struggle with this world of ill.
But oft from out the silent mound
Delusive fancy breathes a sound;
My pent-up heart within me burns,
And all the blessed past returns.
Thy form is present to mine eye,
Thy voice is whispering in mine ear,
The love that spake in days gone by;
And rapture checks the starting tear.
Thy deathless spirit wakes to fill
The faithful heart that loves thee still.
For thee the day's bright glow is o'er,
And summer's roses bloom no more;
The song of birds in twilight bowers,
The breath of spring's delicious flowers,
The towering wood and mountain height,
The glorious pageantry of night;
Which fill'd thy soul with musings high,
And lighted up thy speaking eye;
The mournful music of the wave
Can never reach thy lonely grave.
Thou dost but sleep! It cannot be
That ardent heart is silent now -
That death's dark door has closed on thee;
And made thee cold to all below.
Ah, no! the flame death could not chill,
Thy tender love survives thee still.
That love within my breast enshrined,
In death alone shall be resign'd;
And when the eve, thou lovest so well,
Pours on my soul its soothing spell,
I leave the city's busy scene
To seek thy dwelling, cold and green, -
In quiet sadness here to shed
Love's sacred tribute o'er the dead -
To dream again of days gone by,
And hold sweet converse here with thee;
In the soft air to feel thy sigh,
Whilst winds and waters answer me.
Yes! - though resign'd to Heaven's high will,
My joy shall be to love thee still!
