Charles H. Evanswas born in Philadelphia, March 17, 1851, and was educated in the public schools of that city. In 1866 his father David Z. Evans, purchased a farm at Town Point in Cecil county, and removed to that place taking his son with him.
Shortly after coming to Town Point Mr. Evans began to write poetry, much of which was published in one of the local newspapers under the signature ofAgricola. In 1873 Mr. Evans married Isabell R. Southgate, since deceased, of Christiana, Delaware.
For some years Mr. Evans has been engaged in business in Philadelphia, but occasionally finds time to cultivate his acquaintance with the Muses.
Drop follows drop and swells,With rain, the sweeping river;Word follows word, and tellsA truth that lasts forever.
Flake follows flake, like sprites,Whose wings the winds dissever;Thought follows thought, and lightsThe realms of mind forever.
Beam follows beam, to cheerThe cloud a bolt would shiver;Dream follows dream, and fearGives way to joy forever.
The drop, the flake, the beam,Teach us a lesson ever;The word, the thought, the dream,Impress the heart forever.
Few the joys—oh! few and scattered—That from fleeting life we borrow;And we’re paying, ever paying,With an usury of sorrow!
If a bright emotion, passing,Casts a sun-ray o’er our faces,Plodding Time—the envious plowman—Soon a shadowy furrow traces!
If a hope—ambition-nurtured—Gilds our future, ere we’ve won it,Vaunting Time—the hoary jailor—Shuts his somber gates upon it!
If a heart our bosom seeking,With a fond affection woos it,Heartless Time—remorseless reaper—Sweeps his ruthless sickle through it!
Things of earth, all, all, are shadows!And while we in vain pursue them,Time unclasps his withered fingers—And our wasted life slips through them.
Thou gray old cliff, like turret raised on high,With light-house mingling with the summer sky,How long in lonely grandeur hast thou stood,Braving alike the wild winds and the flood?What howling gales have swept those shores along,What tempests dire have piped their dismal song.And lightnings glared those towering trees among?
And oft, as now, the summer sun has shedHis golden glories round thy mountain head,And tarried there with late and lingering hues,While all below was steeped in twilight dews,And night’s proud queen, in ages past, as now,Hung her pale crescent o’er thy beetling brow.Soft lamp—that lights the happy to their rest,But wakes fresh anguish in the hapless breast,And calls it forth a restless ghost, to glideIn lonely sadness up the mountain side;And couldst not thou, oh! giant of the past,Some far off knowledge o’er my senses cast,Sigh in the hollow moanings of the gale,And of past ages tell mysterious tale—Speak of those ages of primeval worth,And all the hidden wonders of thy birth—Convulsions strange that heaved thy mighty breast,And raised the stately masses of thy crest?
Perchance the Indian climbed thy rugged side,Ere the pale face subdued his warlike pride,And bent him down to kneel, to serve, to toil,To alien shrines upon his native soil.It needs not thee, O mount! to tell the storyThat stained the wreath of many a hero’s glory;But Nature’s mysteries must ever restWithin the gloomy confines of thy breast,Where wealth, uncounted, hapless lies concealed,Locked in thine inmost temple unrevealed.
Mrs. Sarah Hallwas born in Philadelphia October 30th, 1761, and died in that city April 8th, 1830. She was the daughter of the Rev. John Ewing, D.D., a member of the Ewing family of the Eighth district of this county, and one of the most distinguished scholars and divines of his time, and who was for many years Provost of the University of Pennsylvania and pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Philadelphia.
Miss Ewing’s early education was confined to learning to read and write, and in acquiring a thorough knowledge of housewifery. In 1782 she married John Hall, a member of the Hall family of the Eighth district, and the newly wedded pair came to reside in the house near Rowlandville, formerly owned by the late Commodore Conner, and now occupied by his son P.S.P. Conner.
It was while residing in this old mansion, surrounded by the picturesque scenery of the Octoraro hills, that she wrote the poem entitled “Sketch of a Landscape,” which no doubt was inspired by the beauty of the surrounding scenery and the fine view of the “Modest Octoraro,” which may be had from the porch of the old historic mansion in which she resided.
After a residence of about eight years in Cecil county the family removed to Philadelphia, where Mr. Hall successively filled the offices of Secretary of the Land Office, and United States Marshal for the District of Pennsylvania. The family returned to Maryland in 1805, and resided on Mr. Hall’s paternal estate for about six years.
Mrs. Hall’s literary career commenced with the publication of her writings in thePort Folio, a literary magazine published in Philadelphia about the beginning of this century, and of which her son, John E. Hall, subsequently became the editor. She soon attained high rank as a magazine writer, and, until the time of her death, occupied a position second to none of the female writers of this country.
Mrs. Hall is best known in the literary world by her book entitled “Conversations on the Bible.” It was written after she was fifty years of age and the mother of eleven children, and was so popular as to astonish its author by the rapidity of its sale.
In Cecil county, Maryland, at the junction of the Octoraro creek with the Susquehanna, suggested by hearing the birds sing during the remarkably warm weather in February, 1806.
In Cecil county, Maryland, at the junction of the Octoraro creek with the Susquehanna, suggested by hearing the birds sing during the remarkably warm weather in February, 1806.
What joyous notes are those, so soft, so sweet,That unexpected, strike my charmed ear!They are the Robin’s song! This genial mornDeceives the feathered tribe: for yet the sunIn Pisces holds his course; nor yet has SpringAdvanc’d one legal claim; but though obliqueSo mild, so warm, descend his cheering rays,Impris’ning winter seems subdued. No dreadOf change retards their wing; but off they soarTriumphing in the fancied dawn of Spring.Advent’rous birds, and rash! ye little think,Though lilacs bud, and early willows burst.How soon the blasts of March—the snowy sleets,May turn your hasty flight, to seek againYour wonted warm abodes. Thus prone is youth,Thus easily allured, to put his trustIn fair appearance; and with hope elate,And naught suspecting, thus he sallies forth,To earn experience in the storms of life!But why thus chide—why not with gratitudeReceive and cherish ev’ry gleam of joy?For many an hour can witness, that not oft,My solitude is cheered by feelings such,So blithe—so pleasurable as thy songSweet Robin, gives. Yet on thy graceful banks,Majestic Susquehanna—joy might dwell!For whether bounteous Summer sport her stores,Or niggard Winter bind them—still the formsMost grand, most elegant, that Nature wearsBeneath Columbia’s skies, are here combin’d.The wide extended landscape glows with moreThan common beauty. Hills rise on hills—An amphitheater, whose lofty top,The spreading oak, or stately poplar crowns—Whose ever-varying sides present such scenesSmooth or precipitous—harmonious still—Mild or sublime,—as wake the poet’s lay;Nor aught is wanting to delight the sense;The gifts of Ceres, or Diana’s shades.The eye enraptur’d roves o’er woods and dells,Or dwells complacent on the numerous signsOf cultivated life. The laborer’s decent cot,Marks the clear spring, or bubbling rill.The lowlier hut hard by the river’s edge,The boat, the seine suspended, tell the placeWhere in his season hardy fishers toil.More elevated on the grassy slope,The farmer’s mansion rises mid his trees;Thence, o’er his fields the master’s watchful eyeSurveys the whole. He sees his flocks, his herdsExcluded from the grain-built cone; all else,While rigid winter reigns, their free domain!Range through the pastures, crop the tender root,Or climbing heights abrupt, search careful out,The welcome herb,—now prematurely sprungThrough half-thawed earth. Beside him spreading elms,His friendly barrier from th’ invading north,Contrast their shields defensive with the willowWhose flexile drapery sweeps his rustic lawn.Before him lie his vegetable stores,His garden, orchards, meadows—all his hopes—Now bound in icy chains: but ripening sunsShall bring their treasures to his plenteous board.Soon too, the hum of busy man shall wakeTh’ adjacent shores. The baited hook, the net,Drawn skilful round the wat’ry cove, shall bringTheir prize delicious to the rural feast.Here blooms the laurel on the rugged breaks,Umbrageous, verdant, through the circling yearHis bushy mantle scorning winds or snows—While there—two ample streams confluent grace—Complete the picture—animate the whole!Broad o’er the plain the Susquehanna rolls,His rapid waves far sounding as he comes.Through many a distant clime and verdant vale,A thousand springy caverns yield their rills,Augmenting still his force. The torrent grows,Spreads deep and wide, till braving all restraintEv’n mountain ridges feel the imperious press;Forced from their ancient rock-bound base—they leaveTheir monumental sides, erect, to guardThe pass—and tell to future days, and years,The wond’rous tale! Meanwhile,The conqueror flood holds on his course,Resistless ever—sinuous, or direct.Unconscious tribes beneath his surface play,Nor heed the laden barques, his surface bear;Now gliding swiftly by the threat’ning rocks,Now swimming smoothly to the distant bay.To meet and bring his liberal tribute too,The modest Octoraro winds his way—Not ostentatious like a boasting worldTheir little charities proclaiming loud—But silent through the glade retir’d and wild,Between the shaded banks on either hand,Till circling yonder meed—he yields his name.Nor proudly, Susquehanna! boast thy gain,For thence, not far, thou too, like him shall giveThy congregated waters, title—all,To swell the nobler name of Chesapeake!And is not such a scene as this the spell,That lulls the restless passions into peace?Yes. Cold must be the sordid heart, unmov’dBy Nature’s bounties: but they cannot fill,That ardent craving in the mind of man,For social intercourse,—the healthful play—The moral gem—the light of intellect—Communion sweet with those we love!
Will you accept this bud my dear,Fit emblem of the coming year:The bud expands, the flower blooms,And gives awhile its rich perfumes:Its strength decays, its leaf descends,Its sweets are gone—its beauty ends,Such is the year.—The morning bringsThe bud of pleasure in its wings:Hope, health, and fortune, smile their day,And charm each threat’ning cloud away:But gathering ills increase their force,And though concealed—make sure their course.They come—they press—they stand confest,And disappointment tells the rest.
’Tis early eve—the sun’s last trembling glance,Still hovers o’er and gilds the western wild,And slowly leaves the haunts of solitude.Venus, bright mistress of the musing hour,Above the horizon lifts her beck’ning torch;Stars, in their order, follow one by oneThe graceful movement of their brilliant queen,Obedient to the hand that fix’d them all,And said to each—Be this thy place.Refreshing airs revive man’s sinking strength,And hallowed thoughts come rushing to the heart!Now from her eastern clime the golden Moon,Set in a frame of azure, lifts her shield,And all creation wakes to life renewed!Not long she holds supreme her joyous course;Her foes in sullen vapors fitful rise,And envious, hovering over her splendid path,Now thin—now dense, impede her kindly ray.In hasty, partial gleams, of light and shade,She holds her purposed way.—Now darker cloudsCollect, combine, advance—she falls—’twould seemTo rise no more—sudden they break—they pass,Once more she shines—bright sovereign of the skies!Thus ’tis with life—it is not dubious hopeIn early youth—’tis joy—joy unalloy’d;Joy blooms within, all objects take the tint,And glowing colors paint the vista’s length.Not long, life dances on the plastic scene,Care’s haggard form invades each flow’ry path;Disease, with pallid hue, leads on her train,And Sorrow sheds her tears in wasting showers!But Pain and Grief pass on, and harrowing CareAwhile put on some pleasing, treacherous shape;Then hope revives, health blooms! love smiles—And wealth and honors crown the distant day.How long? Envenom’d ills collect all ’round,And while short-sighted man his fragile schemesPursues—not grasps—blow after blow fall swift,Fall reckless—and he sinks beneath their weight!To rise no more? Like yon triumphant Moon,That “walks in brightness” now, beyond the clouds,Through patient suffering, man shall surely riseTo dwell above that orb, in light ineffable,Where pain—where sin—where sorrows, never come!
Mrs. Hardcastle’smaiden name was Sallie Williams Minter. She was born in Bedford county, Virginia, June 19, 1841.
Reared in the shadow of the Peaks of Otter, whose lofty summits tower in magnificent grandeur far above the wooded heights and billowy green hills of the surrounding country, it is little wonder that the subject of this sketch should have been early imbued with the spirit of poesy, and led to the cultivation of tastes and the selection of themes which the grand and picturesque in nature are apt to suggest. But in addition to these favorable surroundings, a literary and thoughtful turn of mind was inherited from her father and grandfather—the latter having been eminent in his day as the author of a religious work, replete with keen arguments and logical conclusions.
The former also was a writer of ability, and having a thorough knowledge of the politics of his State, frequently discussed them in the local journals with a ready and trenchant pen.
Mrs. Hardcastle was educated at Bedford Female College, but is indebted to her father for her best and earliest tuition. At the age of fourteen her first verses, written on the death of a little friend of her own age, were published in theVirginia Sentinel. She was an occasional contributor to theLiteracy Companion,Magnolia Weekly, and other Southern periodicals.
Mrs. Hardcastle was married in 1863 to Dr. Jerome H. Hardcastle, then a surgeon in the hospital at Liberty, Va. After the war they came to Maryland, and subsequently, in 1876, to Cecilton, in this county, where they have since resided. They are the parents of five daughters and one son.
Like many other persons, Mrs. Hardcastle neglected to carefully preserve her poetical writings. And was so unfortunate as to lose most of the few in her possession at the time of the evacuation of Richmond, in consequence of which the following poems are all it has been practicable to obtain, which is a matter of regret, inasmuch as they are by no means the best of her writings.
I thank thee, my friend, for thy delicate gift,These fair and beautiful flowers,They come to me now, like a boon from above,To gladden my pensive hours.
All the brilliant bloom, of the summer days,These lovely flowers restore;And my childhood’s home, with its fields and flowers,Comes back to me once more.
How fragile and fair!—some pale, some blushing,All breathing rarest perfume—But brighter and fairer they seem, my friend,Because from thee they come.
I know that this beauty is frail and brief—That their fragrance and bloom must depart,But like the mem’ry of thee, these flowers will liveForever enshrined in my heart.
Oh, days of the lovely October,How dear thou art to me;Words are weak, when my soul would speak,In language taught by thee.
Not alone do thy glorious sunsets,Nor thy trees of a thousand dyes,But all touch my heart with thy sweet spell,Oh, earth, and air, and skies.
In the gardens that shone with beauty,The flowers have faded, I know,And here, by my favorite pathway,The roses no longer may blow.
But the leaves are burning with splendor,And I’ll weave them in garlands bright,As I did in the sweet days of childhood,When my heart was aglow with delight.
I’ve ruby and sapphire, blended with gold,And here’s an emerald green,A parting gift, for my coronet,From summer’s dying queen.
Oh, loveliest month of the year,Too soon will thy glories depart,But not the sweet faith thou’st wakened,Within this worshiping heart.
For though, like all beauty of earth,Thou’rt trammeled by earthly decay,Yet my soul is lifted by thine,To glories that fade not away.
“Burn my old letters”—ah! for youThese words are easy to say,For you, who know not the light they broughtTo many a darksome day.
And, then, old letters to me are linksTo those days forever gone;For we cling to the past as age would clingTo youth, in its rosy dawn.
But the wintry air is chill without,And the fire is faint and low,So I’ll gather them up—the page of to-dayWith the date of long ago.
Gather them up and cast them inLike trash, to the greedy flame;And I marvel not that the world hath said,“Friendship is only a name!”
For the human heart’s a changeful thing,And sometime we would borrowThe light, that other days have given,To cheer us on the morrow.
And so, as I sit in the merry lightOf the blaze that upward flashes,I think, like these, our dearest hopesMay come to dust and ashes.
What marvelous new-born gloryIs flushing the garden and lawn!Hath the queen of all blossoming beautyCome forth with the early dawn?
Like the first faint flush of morn,To the watchers, aweary with night,—Like treasures long hidden away,Ye burst on my joyous sight.
Not e’en the “first rose of Summer,”Could yesterday be seen—Only a tint like the sea-shell,Deep in a prison of green.
Did the lover-like kiss of the south wind,While wand’ring o’er forest and lake,Bid thee start in thy slumbering beauty,And crimson with blushes awake?
’Tis long since the fragrant lilacFlourished and drooped at thy side,While many a frail young flow’ret sinceHath quietly blossomed and died.
And for days the pale, proud lilyIn regal beauty hath shown,Catching the sun’s warm glancesEre the young roses had blown.
But perfumed breezes are whispering:“To-day the roses have come,”And the cottage will rival the palace,Decked in thy radiant bloom.
The spirit is often enrapturedWith sweet tokens of love divine,But seldom in language so plainAs spoken through music, to mine.
Then my soul flings wide her portals,And visions of Paradise throng,While I bow, in silent devotion,To the Author of genius and song.
The pleasures of earth are but few,And scarce for our sorrows repay,But we catch, in sweet moments like this,A glimpse of the perfect day.
When I reach the Celestial CityAnd gaze from her golden tower,Methinks my freed spirit would turnFar back, to this rapturous hour.
And as angels are harping their songs—Sweet songs of a heavenly birth—I’ll listen to hear the same touchThat played us this prelude on earth.
We loved thee—yes, we loved thee,But the angels loved thee too;And so thou now art sleeping’Neath the sky so bright and blue.
Sleeping now thy last long slumber,In the low and quiet tomb,Where life’s ills can ne’er disturb thee—Where sorrow ne’er can come.
What tho’ our hearts are bleeding,And our lonely spirits mourn,That thou with Spring’s sweet flow’retsWilt never more return,
We would not call thee back, dear friend,To life’s dull path again;Where thorns amid the flowers,Would often give thee pain;
But sweetly rest thee, dear one,In thy long and dreamless sleep,Nor heed the sighs above thee,And the blinding tears we weep.
Mrs. Mary Eliza Ireland, the daughter of Joseph Haines and Harriet (Kirk) Haines, was born in the village of Brick Meeting House, now called Calvert, January 9, 1834. In early life she married John M. Ireland, son of Colonel Joseph Ireland, of Kent county, Md. They are the parents of three children, one of whom died in infancy. They now reside in Baltimore, where Mr. Ireland holds the position of United States storekeeper in the Internal Revenue Department.
Until the past few years Mrs. Ireland has always lived in the old homestead where she was born and married, and from whence her parents were removed by death.
Her first literary effort was a short story written when quite a young girl, entitled “Ellen Linwood,” and published in theCecil Whig, then edited by the late Palmer C. Ricketts, under thenom de plumeof “Marie Norman.” For several years after the publication of “Ellen Linwood” Mrs. Ireland occasionally contributed to theCecil Whigand OxfordPress.
Some years ago she wrote a story forArthur’s Magazine, and being in Philadelphia soon after it was written, she took it to the publishing house, and there met for the first time T.S. Arthur, whom she had known from childhood through his books. He received her kindly, promised to read her story, and to let her know his decision the next day. That decision was, that though entertaining and well written, it was scarcely suited to his magazine. He suggested another periodical where it would likely meet with favor. He also asked for another story, and presented her with a set of the magazines that she might see the style of writing that he desired.
Her next story forArthur’swas a success, and from that time until his death he remained the candid critic of all she sent him for publication, as well as of some stories published elsewhere, and the kind literary adviser and friend. She retained her first story (which he had declined) for three years, made some changes in it, and he accepted and published it.
Since then she has been an acceptable contributor toCottage Hearth,Household, and other domestic magazines, besides theLiterary World,Ladies’ Cabinet,Woman’s Journal, and several church papers; and has written two prize stories, which took first prizes.
In 1882 her short stories were collected and connected into a continued story, which was accepted and published by J.B. Lippincott & Co., under the title of “Timothy; His Neighbors and His Friends.”
Many letters of appreciation from distant parts of the Union testified to the merit of the book, and she was encouraged to accede to the request of the Presbyterian Observer Company of Baltimore to write a serial for their paper. It was entitled “Ivandale,” and was warmly commended by judges of literary work.
Wishing to read German literature in the original, she undertook the study of German, and as she had no time which she was willing to devote to regular lessons, she obtained a German pronouncing reader, and without instruction from any one she succeeded in learning to read and translate, pronouncing correctly enough to be understood by any German. This knowledge of the language has been a well-spring of pleasure to her, and well repays her for the few moments’ attention she daily bestowed upon it. She has translated several books, two of which were published as serials in theOxford Press, and the Lutheran Board of Publication have published one of her translations, entitled “Betty’s Decision.” Many beautiful short stories have found their way into our language and periodicals through the medium of her pen.
Her time is well filled with her household duties, her missionary and church work, and in reviewing new books for the press. She has no specified time for writing, nor does she neglect her household or social duties for the sake of it, always having looked upon her literary work as a recreation. She leads a busy life, yet is rarely hurried; and, although she enjoys the companionship of many people noted in literature, it is powerless to weaken her attachment for friends who have no inclination in that way. All have a warm place in her heart, and a cordial welcome to her cheerful and happy home.
Mrs. Ireland, contrary to the experience of most writers, never wrote any poetry until she had attained distinction as a writer of prose.
I gave her a rose, so sweet, so fair;She picked it to pieces while standing there.
I praised the deep blue of her starry eyes;She turned them upon me in cold surprise.
Her white hand I kissed in a transport of love;My kiss she effaced with her snowy glove.
I touched a soft ringlet of golden brown;She rebuked my daring with a haughty frown.
I asked her to dance in most penitent tone;On the arm of a rival she left me alone.
This gave me a hint; I veered from my track,And waltzed with an heiress, to win my love back.
I carried her fan, and indulged in a sigh,And whispered sweet nothings when my loved one was nigh.
It worked like a charm; oh, joy of my life!This stratagem wins me a sweet little wife.
Postman, good postman, halt I pray,And leave a letter for me to-day;If it’s only a line from over the seaTo say that my Sandy remembers me.
I have waited and hoped by day and by night;I’ll watch—if spared—till my locks grow white;Have prayed—yet repent that my faith waxed dim,When passing, you left no message from him.
My proud arms cradled his infant head,My prayers arose by his boyhood’s bed;To better our fortunes, he traversed the main;God guard him, and bring him to me again.
The postman has passed midst the beating rain,And my heart is bowed with its weight of pain;This dark, dark day, I am tortured with dreadThat Sandy, my boy, may be ill or dead.
But hark! there’s a step! my heart be still!A step at the gate, in the path, on the sill;Did the postman return? my letter forget?Oh ’tis Sandy! Thank God, he loves me yet!
Hard were her hands, and brown;Coarsest of stuff her gown:Sod hut her home.Pale was her care-worn face,Beauty and youth and graceLong since have flown.
Stern was her lot in life;She was a drunkard’s wife;And forests drearShut not temptation out;Strong drink was sold and bought;Poor pioneer!
Slave he to demon rum;Houses and lands all gone;Want came by stealth.Yet her scant fare she sharedWith me, who worse have faredIn homes of wealth.
Stranger was I to herSave as Christ’s messenger;And for His sakeShe, all her little storeWishing it were but more,—Bade me to take.
Oh like the widow’s mite,Given for love of right,May it be blest.When her last hour has come,May angels bear her home,Ever to rest.
She is lying in state, this fair June day,While the bee from the rose its sweetness sips;Her heart thrills not at the lark’s clear lay,Though a smile illumines her pallid lips.
What glorified form did the Angel of DeathAssume to her view, that it left the bright traceOf a jubilant welcome, whose icy breathFroze the sunny smile on her fair young face?
Did angels with snow-white wings come downAnd hover about her dying bed?Did they bear a white robe, and a starry crownTo place on their sainted comrade’s head?
Did her gaze rest on valleys and pastures green,Where roses in beauty supernal, bloom?Where lilies in snowy and golden sheenFill the air with their heavenly, rare perfume?
Did strains of sweet music her senses entranceWhile Earth, with her loved ones, receded in air?Did friends who had left it, to greet her, advanceAnd joyfully lead her to dwell with them, there?
Did she cross the deep Jordan without any fearsFor all were now calmed on her dear Saviour’s breast?On pinions of light did she mount to the spheresWhere all is contentment, and pleasure, and rest?
All this we may humbly and truly believe,For Christ to the Bethany sisters did giveThe comforting promise, which all may receive:“He that believeth, though dead, yet shall live.”
A bachelor gray, was Valentine Brown;He lived in a mansion just out of the town,A mansion spacious and grand;He was wealthy as Vanderbilt, Astor or Tome,Had money invested abroad and at home,And thousands of acres of land.
A friend of his boyhood was Archibald Gray;And to prove what queer antics Dame Fortune will playWhen she sets about trying to plan,She heaped all her favors on Valentine, bold,And always left Archibald out of her fold,The harmless, and weak-minded man.
So, while Valentine reigned like a king on his throne,Poor Archibald ne’er had a home of his own,Yet never was known to complain;Year in and year out, he wandered around,In mansion and farmhouse a welcome he foundAs long as he chose to remain.
The lilacs and snowballs which guarded the doorOf the ivy-decked cottage of good Parson Moore,Were waking from out their long sleep;For the last month of winter was hastening by,The last hours of Valentine’s day had drawn nigh,When Archibald’s travel-worn feet
Were heard on the door-step; he entered and smiled,Then sat down and slept like a play-weary child,Woke, and told them how long he would stay;Then slumbered again, while sweet Dorothy Moore,The motherless daughter, who loved all God’s poor,Made him welcome around the tea-tray.
And archly she said as she gave him his tea,“Where’s the valentine Archy, you promised to me?All maidens expect one to-day;”Then forgot it; nor noticed when supper was done,And her father had gone to his study alone,That Archie had stolen away.
But, drawing the curtains on darkness and night!She sat down to spin by the cheery fire-light,While before it, so cozy and warm,Slept the kitten,—a snowy white ball of content—And her wheel, with its humming activity, lentTo the hour, a picturesque charm.
No scene more enchanting could artist dream know,Than this peaceful, calm spot, in the ruby-red glowOf the pine knots aflame on the hearth;But Dorothy thought, “Were he but there with meAnd loved me as I love, a desert would beThe happiest place upon earth.”
“Oh were he but poor, and forsaken;” she sighed,“He then a poor maiden might seek for his bride,But his love will some great lady crown;Since all is so hopeless, dear Father aboveOh help me to cast out my unreturned love!And forget the proud Valentine Brown.”
In his elegant library, sat Valentine Brown,The argand burned brightly, the rich curtains down,Luxurious home of repose;—Yet his handsome face saddened, his heart was oppressed;He sighed, and his spirit was full of unrest,For his love he should never disclose.
He had roamed over Europe, and Countesses fairHad graciously smiled on the great millionaire.Yet his heart had turned coldly away;“From her childhood, I’ve loved her, sweet Dorothy Moore,”Just then the latch clicked—through the half opened doorCrept humbly, poor Archibald Gray.
“I want you!” he whispered; “I promised her, come!”And Valentine followed, till reaching the homeWhere Dorothy spun by the hearth;And when he had entered with Archibald GrayAnd courteously waited, commands to obey,Knew no lovelier picture on earth.
But the tact which had piloted Valentine thereDeserted poor Archie; then Dorothy fair,Blushing deeply, yet smilingly said:“Why, Archibald, why did you leave us I pray?You said till to-morrow at noon, you would stay,And in less than an hour you had fled.”
The memory of Archibald took up the clewThus kindly supplied, and eager he grew;“Yes, yes; Archie promised he would;I have brought you a valentine, Valentine Brown,”(Here he smoothed his gray beard, and looked helplessly down),“He’s so good to poor Archie, so good!”
The three stood in silence, two wondering no doubtHow this intricate problem would ever turn out,And Valentine, thoughtful and kind,—Felt pity for Archie, who meant for the best;And for Dorothy—flushing like clouds in the westAnd fearing he thought it designed.
He looked at the maiden—modest and sweet;At her lovely blue eyes, her peach-blossom cheekAnd sighed for his youth which had fled;“She never could love me, good Archibald Gray,Her beauty and youthfulness stand in the way,Just look at my frost-covered head.”
“Please tell him, good Archie,” said Dorothy fair,“That I love nothing better than silvery hairWhen it crowns one so noble and true;His heart all men say is exalted and grand,He is known for his good deeds all over the land,Loved by every one, equalled by few.”
“That heart, my good Archie, I lay at her feetTo spurn or to thrill with an ecstasy sweet;”(And he reverently took her white hand,)“That hand is his, Archie, and so is my heartTo have and to keep until death do us partTo meet in the Heavenly land.”
Good friends new and old, should you journey that wayAnd should anything happen, to cause a delay,And you call upon Valentine Brown:In the coziest nook, you’ll see Archibald Gray,Awaiting with patience the dallying day,Till the sickle of Time mows him down.
And Fortune still favors her Valentine dear,She winters and summers there year after year;To thank her he never forgets;With his rosy-cheeked children and beautiful wifeThe heart of his heart, and the life of his life,The sun of his peace never sets.
We grow in grace if day by dayWe keep in mind to watch and pray,Thus walking in the Heavenward way.
But, drifting from the guiding handOf Him who rules the sea and land,We wreck ourselves on barren strand,
In name of Him who for us died,We cry for help, when deeply tried,Receive it, whatso’er betide.
Of good we sow some scattered seed,We help to shield the bruised reed,Supply to want, the urgent need.
Then once more hope to reach the goal,For faith with works will save a soul,Though hostile billows round it roll.
Thus tempest-tost, we struggle on;Now sad, now cheered, till life is gone,And trust to hear the bless’d, well done!
[The editor is indebted to his friend, George A. Blake, Esq., of the Elkton Bar, for the following sketch of his life.]
George Johnston, the editor and compiler of this book, was born in Philadelphia, May 15, 1829, the place of his birth being on Penn street, one door south of the southeast corner of Penn and Lombard streets. He is the oldest son of Isaac Johnston, and was named for his grandfather, George Johnston, the youngest son of Isaac Johnson, who lived on his farm, one mile west of the east end of Mason and Dixon’s line, as early as 1755. There is reason to believe that the earliest member of the family who lived in that neighborhood was Samuel Johnston, who resided there as early as 1708.
Mr. Johnston’s mother, Susan Curry, was a cousin of his father, she being the daughter of Ann Spear, the grandmother of Emma Alice Browne, a sketch of whose life appears in this Volume.
When about two years of age, the subject of this sketch was placed in charge of his paternal grandmother and his uncle, George Johnston, who resided on the homestead, in Cecil county. Here he was carefully nurtured and trained, and here were planted the seeds which have since sprung up and brought forth fruit in his intellectual and moral life. The family being Presbyterian in training, and of the type from which sprang those who in earlier years drafted the Mecklenberg Declaration, the lad was early imbued with those religious principles which ever serve as the true basis of mental growth and moral purpose.
The educational advantages of a half century ago were not such as are enjoyed by the youth of to-day; but such as the neighborhood provided and his uncle’s means afforded, were placed at the disposal of the boy, who soon manifested an aptitude to learn. When but five years of age he was sent to what was then called a “Subscription School,” kept in the neighborhood. This he attended during the next seven years, and in the Winter time until the year 1849, when he took charge as teacher of a school, in the Center School House, situated near Fair Hill, in Cecil county.
In the Spring of 1847 Mr. Johnston spent three months in Chesapeake City (in this county) as an apprentice to the carpenter business. He completed his trade in the neighborhood in which he had been raised, and from the year 1851 to 1864 spent his time about equally in teaching school and working at his trade.
When the war of the rebellion broke out in 1861, Mr. Johnston, without hesitation, took the side of the Union, and was, during all those dark days, an ardent supporter of the Government, the intensity of his convictions being no doubt increased by the result of his observations during a business trip to Texas and through the South in the Winter of eighteen hundred and sixty and sixty-one.
In the Constitutional Convention of this State in 1864 he served with ability as committee clerk, having accepted the position at the solicitation of the late David Scott (of John), who was a member of that body. While acting as committee clerk, Mr. Johnston had the honor of engrossing that section of the Constitution which abolished slavery in the State of Maryland. Many years afterwards he presented the pen used on that occasion to Frederick Douglass, then United States Marshal of the District of Columbia.
Mr. Johnston’s health, which had always been precarious, became so bad in 1875 that he was obliged to abandon his trade and turn his attention to another occupation. Accordingly, two years later he became connected withThe Cecil Whig, and for about three years had charge of its local columns. While associated with that journal, his attention was attracted to the mine of wealth offered to the investigator by the early history of Cecil county. Prompted by a love of historical investigation, he was led to make researches into this mine—a task hitherto largely unattempted or ineffectually prosecuted. The results of these studies enriched the columns ofThe Cecil Whigduring a period of three years, and attracted wide attention. In 1881 he published the “History of Cecil County, Md., and the Early Settlements Around the Head of the Chesapeake Bay and on the Delaware River, with Sketches of Some of the Old Families of Cecil County.” This work, which embodied the results of the author’s investigations during a period of some years, is one of rare value. To those who have given but little thought to the subject, it is ever a matter of surprise to learn how closely the history of Cecil and the surrounding counties is interwoven with that of our common country, and how valuable as data of the past are the materials which invited the lover of truth to their discovery. One can scarcely estimate the laborious research involved in the task of gathering the component parts of a history which stretched over a period of nearly two hundred and seventy-five years. Old volumes, musty records, masses of court documents, correspondence (official and otherwise), previous historical attempts, personal knowledge, tradition and personal interviews, were all laid under contribution by the author, and served as sources of his authority. These he has woven together with such judgment in selection, skill in arrangement and force of style and diction, that just as “Gray’s Elegy” alone has placed him in the front rank of poets, so this one work has given the author a high and permanent place among the historians of our country. The work attempted is so well done, and withal so accurate and reliable as one of reference and authority, that in recognition of its merits Mr. Johnston has been elected a member of the Historical Societies of Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland and Wisconsin.
On January 1, 1883, he became local editor ofThe Cecil Democrat, and was in such capacity connected with that newspaper for three years and a half.
Early in life Mr. Johnston was a pupil of David Scott (of James), who then taught a school in the Fourth district of Cecil county, and whose sister, Miss Hannah F. Scott, he subsequently married. The scholar being advanced in studies beyond the other pupils of the school, naturally a close intimacy was formed between him and his teacher. This afterwards deepened into a friendship which continued without interruption until Mr. Scott’s death, and was the means of creating in Mr. Johnston an ardent love of poetry. Since 1851 he has written a number of poems, some of which have appeared in print. These have been so well received by the public that the author, in deference to the wishes of some of his friends, has ventured to include the following rhymes in this work:
Sad echoes of unequal strife,Go sighing through the aftermath,That skirts the dark uncertain path,That leads me to the close of life;—And years ago dark shadows fellAthwart the amber sky of youth,Blighting the bloom of hope and truth,That erst had blossom’d all too well.
The world’s great heart beats wild and high,With wealth of bliss and love untold—While I with unblanch’d eye beholdIts fading phantoms wane and die.Without a sigh I mark their flight;A stranger to the world unknown,Amid its mazes all alone,I wander in Egyptian night.
I worship not at its cold shrine,Nor fear the terror of its frown,It cannot chain my spirit down,The soaring of my soul confine.For ah! we parted at the tomb,Where buried hopes of youthful years,Embalm’d in sorrow’s bitter tears,Lie mouldering within the gloom.
Ah! few and dim the lights that gleamAround me in life’s dismal maze,Scarce seen amid the somber hazeThat shrouds me in life’s dismal dream.I never drank the wine of bliss,Made sweeter by the wealth of joy;My cup is mix’d with griefs alloy,And I have tasted only this.
Life’s problem oft to solve, I try,And hope I have not lived in vain,And borne this galling fetter chainThrough all its years without a sigh.Some tears, perhaps, I may have dried—My own in sympathy I shedO’er joys and hopes of others dead,By sorrow’s legions crucified.
Earthly joys, alas! are fleeting,Shadowy and evanescent,Scarce full orb’d before the crescentTells us of their final setting.And soon our starry dreams are wreck’d,And all our earthly hopes sublimeLie stranded on the shores of Time,In drapery of woe bedeck’d,
Yet I know ’tis vain repining;—Though to-day the sky with sorrowMay be overcast, to-morrowAll the love-lights may be shining,Made brighter by the long eclipse;And shadows of earth’s dreary night,That shrouded from my spirit’s sight,Life’s glorious Apocalypse.
To tread this weary round of ToilIs not the whole of mortal life;—There is an unseen inner strife,Where battling for the victor’s spoil,The wrong contendeth with the right,—Passion and pride with gentlenessPity with sorrow and distress—And faith with sin’s deep with’ring blight.
And truth my spirit oft beguiles,While her dear face is wreath’d in smiles,By whisp’ring sweetly unto me;As thou hast measured, it shall beIn justice meted out to thee,When thou hast reached the blissful islesBeyond the misty veil of Time;Thou’lt find a rest from earthly wars,And healing for thy earthly scars,Within that sweet supernal clime.
An old and crafty terrapin,Who lately found his speech,Like many another simple lout,Concluded he could preach.
And so he waddled to the shore,And thus address’d his friends—The bullfrogs and the snappers bold,About their latter ends.
And told them all how they must beMade into soup at last;And how the serpent sharp can seeWhen last year’s hide is cast.
And how the wary pickerelEnjoys the minnow sweet,Which he doth never fail to catch,When it goes out to skate;
And how the beaver builds his houseWithin his winter dam;And how the oyster lays its egg,And hatches out a clam;
And how the busy bumble bee,Doth blow his little horn,Whene’er he goes in quest of food,Amid the standin’ corn:
And how the gentle butterflySings many a merry tuneBecause he’s glad he has escapedFrom out the old cocoon;
And how the rabbit flies his kite,When he can find a string;And how the owl sits up all night,To hear the squirrel sing;
And many other curious thingsThat did his hearers good,—Of cats that did a swimmin’ goAnd eels that chew’d the cud;
And toads that dance upon their earsWhen they a courtin’ go;And moles that stand upon their heads,That they may see the show.
His sermon, as you see, was queer,And muchly out of joint;—And ’cause the preacher took no text,He failed to make his point.
And soon his hearers all grew tired,And mortified and vex’d,Because he chose to play the fool,And preach without a text.
And so they left him there alone—And this is what befel—He grew so mad it broke his heart,And almost burst his shell.
If you successfully would preach,Be sure a text to take,And stick unto it like a leechUntil your point you make.
Someone has written a song about “Tray,”But no one has courage to write about Skye;So methinks I will rhyme, in my own rugged way,Of the queer little dog with the beautiful eye.
The land that he came from is said to be cold,And nature has dress’d him its storms to defy—In the ugliest coat that ever was seen—But giv’n him a charming and beautiful eye.
His coat is so ugly it makes him look oldAnd scrawny and poor and most ready to die;But you’d change your opinion, I think, if you sawThe life and the beauty that beams from his eye.
’Twere hard to conceive of an uglier thingThan this queer little dog from the island of Skye—Grotesque and uncouth, and ugly as sin—Yet bless’d with a mild and a beautiful eye.
Among dogs, like the heathen Chinee among men,His civilization is not very high;But then his dark ways we can always excuseOn account of his lovely and charming bright eye.
He is sad and forlorn, yet so gentle and kind,You could not but love him I’m sure it you’d try—This dog so demure and so kindly inclined—This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye.
Sometimes he will follow his master to church;Tho’ his piety’s weak, I must say with a sigh,Perhaps he’s as good as some other ones thereWhose piety seems to be all in their eye.
He’s full of strange antics—most little dogs are—And tho’ he’s forlorn, he can mischief descry;Indeed—I’m strongly impress’d with the fact—It eternally lurks in his beautiful eye.
His hair is the queerest that dog ever wore;Tho’ kind to his master, of strangers he’s shy;He is wise in his way; deeply learned in dog lore;Intelligence beams from his beautiful eye.
He’s patient and faithful, affectionate too;My love for his virtues time’s lapse will defy;I’m sure, if you knew him, you’d love him, like me,This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye.
’Tis better far to wear awayIn honest strong endeavor,Than idly rust in slow decayAnd work and labor never;By honest toil to earn your bread,Or wherewithal to buy it;’Tis very well, and truly said—If you don’t believe it, try it.
Ye idle loafers in the streets,The honest workman spurning,Know this—a living to be sweetIs better for the earning.To loaf and lounge and lie about,On others’ toil to riot,Is only practiced by a lout;No honest man will try it.
Oh! him that earns his daily bread!Despise and spurn him never,A thousand blessings on his head’Tis he that feeds you ever.Should others work no more than youQuite spare would be your diet,Your gills would turn a livid hueIf they would stop and try it.
Then go to work with hands or head,You’ll surely profit by it;And strive to earn some honest bread—You can, if you will try it.
Ye sweeter ones of gentler sex,Who tread the pavement hourly,I do not wish your hearts to vex,Then pray don’t take it sourly—Methinks sometimes ’tis no disgraceTho’ seldom you are nigh it,To be at home, your proper place,—If you don’t believe it, try it.Are there no duties there to do?If so “be up and doing!”No clothes to mend, that you could sew,No beer that’s worth the brewing?Then stay at home, sometimes, at least,My counsel, don’t defy it,A little rest’s as good’s a feast,If you don’t believe it, try it.
’Tis easy quite to do the right,And in it there is beauty,What e’er you do, do with your might,But always do your duty.Be true unto yourself, and then—Wise counsel—don’t decry it,You can’t be false to other men—If you don’t believe it, try it.
Shadowy, dreamy phantoms ever risingUp before wild Fancy’s eyes,With their untold and beauteous splendor,Make us present things despise.
And procrastination whispers softly,Wait a little longer yet;Rashness will defeat your purpose, mortal,And be cause of deep regret.
Wait with patience just a moment longer,Then with safety clutch them fast—Thus the spirit of delay beguiles us,Till the lucky time is past.
Moments freighted deep with joy ecstaticAll unheeded pass away;While we musing scan the misty future,Hoping they will ever stay.
Bye and bye! may gaily point us forward,Unto scenes with joy o’ercast—Only mirage of Life’s barren desert,They are found to be at last.
Bye and bye! with all its artful scheming,Though it may seem most sublime,Wisdom horror-stricken spurneth from her,Knowing only present time.
Reason tells us now’s the time for action,And this truth will ever last,Written as it is throughout all nature,On the pages of the Past.