A great white cap almost conceals her hair, A collar broad falls o'er her shoulders slender; The fashion of a bygone age an air Of quaintness to her simple garb doth render.
Those hazel eyes pursue me as I move And seem to watch my busy toiling pen; They hold me with an anxious yearning love, As if she dwelt upon the earth again.
My mother's portrait! fifty years ago, When I was but a heedless happy boy, The influence of her being ceased to flow, And she laid down life's burden and its joy.
And now as I sit pondering o'er my books, So vainly seeking a receding rest, I read the wonder in her steadfast looks: "Is this my son who lay upon my breast?"
And when for me there is an end of time, And this unsatisfying work is done, If I shall meet thee in thy peaceful clime, Young mother, wilt thou know thy gray-haired son?
There is one other work of art which adorns my library--a medallion by a dear friend of mine, an eminent sculptor, the story of which I will put into his mouth. He calls the face
MY SCHOOLMATE.
The snows have settled on my head But not upon my heart, And incidents of years long fled From out my memory start.
My hand is cunning to contrive The shapes my brain invents, And keep in marble forms alive That which my soul contents; And I have wife, and children tall, Grandchildren cluster near, And sweet the applause of men doth fall On my undeafened ear.
But still my mind will backward turn For half a century, And without reasoning will yearn For sight or news of thee, Thou playmate of my boyhood days, When life was all aglow, When the sweetest thing was thy girlish praise, As I drew thee o'er the snow To the old red school-house by the road, Where we learned to spell and read, When thou wert all my fairy load And I was thy prancing steed.
Oh! thou wert simple then and fair.
Artless and unconstrained, With quaintly knotted auburn hair From which the wind refrained, And from thine earnest steady eyes Shone out a nature pure, Formed by kind Heaven, a man's best prize, To love and to endure.
Oh! art thou still in life and time, Or hast thou gone before?
And hath thy lot been like to mine, Or pinched and bare and sore?
And didst thou marry, or art thou Still of the spinster tribe?
Perchance thou art a widow now, Steeled against second bribe?
Do grandsons round thy hearthstone play, Or dost thou end thy race?
And could that auburn hair grow gray, And wrinkles line thy face?
I cannot make thee old and plain-- I would not if I could-- And I recall thee without stain, Simply and sweetly good; And I have carved thy pretty head And hung it on my wall, And to all men let it be said, I like it best of all; For on a far-off snowy road, Before I had learned to read, Thou wert all my fairy load And I was thy prancing steed!
I have reserved my queerest library companion till the last. It is not a book, although it is good for nothing but to read. It is not an autograph, although it is simply the name of an individual. It is my office sign which I have cherished, as a memento of busier days. Some singular reflections are roused when I gaze at
MY SHINGLE.
My shingle is battered and old, No longer deciphered with ease, So I've taken it in from the cold, And fastened it up on a frieze.
A long generation ago, With feelings of singular pride I regarded its glittering show, And pointed it out to my bride.
Companions of youth have grown few, Its loves and aversions are faint; No spirit to make friends anew-- An old enemy seems like a saint.
My clients have paid the last fee For passage in Charon's sad boat, Imposing no duty on me Save to utter this querelous note;
And still as I toil in life's mills, In loneliness growing profound, To attend on the proof of their wills And swear that their wits were quite sound!
So I work with the scissors and pen, And to show of old courage a spark, I must utter a jest now and then, Like whistling of boys in the dark.
I tack my old friend on the wall, So that infantile grandson of mine May not think, if my life he recall, That I died without making a sign.
When at court on the great judgment day With penitent suitors I mingle, May my guilt be washed cleanly away, Like that on my faded old shingle!
Of course my chief occupation in my library is reading and writing. To be sure, I do a good deal of thinking there. But there is another occupation which I practice to a great extent, which does not involve reading or writing at all, nor thinking to any considerable degree. That is playing solitaire. I play only one kind of this and that I have played for many years. It requires two packs of cards, and requires building on the aces and kings, and so I have them tacked down on a lap-board to save picking out and laying down every time. This particular game is called "St.
Elba," probably because Napoleon did not play it, and it can be "won" once in about sixty trials. I do not care for card-playing with others, but I have certain reasons for liking
SOLITAIRE.
I like to play cards with a man of sense, And allow him to play with me, And so it has grown a delight intense To play solitaire on my knee.
I love the quaint form of the sceptered king, The simplicity of the ace, The stolid knave like a wooden thing, And her majesty's smirking face.
Diamonds, aces, and clubs and spades-- Their garb of respectable black A moiety brilliant of red invades, As they mingle in motley pack.
Independent of anyone's signal or leave, Relieved from the bluffing of poker, I've no apprehension of ace up a sleeve, And fear no superfluous joker.
I build up and down; all the cards I hold, And the game is always fair, For I am honest, and so is my old Companion at solitaire.
Let kings condescend to the lower grades, Queens glitter with diamonds rare, Knaves flourish their clubs, and peasants wield spades, But give me my solitaire.
XIX.
THE FRIENDSHIP OF BOOKS.
To many peaceful men of the legal robe the companionship of books is inexpressibly dear. What a privilege it is to summon the greatest and most charming spirits of the past from their graves, and find them always willing to talk to us! How delightful to go to our well-known book-shelves, lay hands on our favorite authors--even in the dark, so well do we know them--take any volume, open it at any page, and in a few minutes lose all sense and remembrance of the real world, with its strife, its bitterness, its disappointments, its hollowness, its unfaithfulness, its selfishness, in the pictures of an ideal world! The real world, do we say? Which is the real world, that of history or that of fiction? In this age of historic doubt and iconoclasm, are not the heroes of our favorite romances much more real than those of history? Captain Ed'ard Cuttle, mariner, is much more real to us than Captain Joseph Cook; Cooper's Two Admirals than the great Nelson; Leather-Stocking than the yellow-haired Custer; Henry Esmond than any of the Pretenders; Hester Prynne and Becky Sharp than Catherine of Russia or Aspasia or Lucrezia; Sidney Carton than Philip Sidney. Even the kings and heroes who have lived in history live more vividly for us in romance. We know the crooked Richard and the crafty Louis XI. most familiarly, if not most accurately, through Shakespeare and Scott; and where in history do we get so haunting a picture of the great Napoleon and Waterloo as in Victor Hugo's wondrous but inaccurate chapter? Happy is the man who has for his associates David, Solomon, Job, Paul, and John, in spite of the assaults of modern criticism upon the Scriptures! No one can shake our faith in Don Quixote, although the accounts of the Knight "without fear and without reproach" are so short and vague. There is no doubt about the travels of Christian, although those of Stanley may be questioned. The Vicar of Wakefield is a much more actual personage than Peter who preached the Crusades. Sir Roger de Coverley and his squire life are much more probable to us than Sir William Temple in his gardens. There is no character in romance who has not or might not have lived, but we are thrown into grave doubts of the saintly Washington and the devilish Napoleon depicted three quarters of a century ago. We cast history aside in scepticism and disgust; we cling to romance with faith and delight. "The things that are seen are temporal; the things that are not seen are eternal." So let the writer hereof sing a song in praise of
MY FRIENDS THE BOOKS.
Friends of my youth and of my age Within my chamber wait, Until I fondly turn the page And prove them wise and great.
At me they do not rudely glare With eye that luster lacks, But knowing how I hate a stare, Politely turn their backs.
They never split my head with din, Nor snuffle through their noses, Nor admiration seek to win By inartistic poses.
If I should chance to fall asleep, They do not scowl or snap, But prudently their counsel keep Till I have had my nap.
And if I choose to rout them out Unseasonably at night, They do not chafe nor curse nor pout, But rise all clothed and bright.
They ne'er intrude with silly say, They never scold nor worry; They ne'er suspect and ne'er betray, They're never in a hurry.
Anacreon never gets quite full, Nor Horace too flirtatious; Swift makes due fun of Johnny Bull, And Addison is gracious.
Saint-Simon and Grammont rehearse Their tales of court with glee; For all their scandal I'm no worse,-- They never peach on me.
For what I owe Montaigne, no dread To meet him on the morrow; And better still, it must be said, He never wants to borrow.
Paul never asks, though sure to preach, Why I don't come to church; Though Dr. Johnson strives to teach, I do not fear his birch.
My Dickens never is away Whene'er I choose to call; I need not wait for Thackeray In chill palatial hall.