We meet upon the Level and we part upon the Square: What words of precious meaning those words Masonic are!
Come let us contemplate them, they are worthy of our thought-- With the highest and the lowest, and the rarest they are fraught.
We meet upon the Level, though from every station come-- The King from out his palace and the poor man from his home; For the one must leave his diadem without the Mason's door, And the other finds his true respect upon the checkered floor.
We part upon the Square for the world must have its due; We mingle with its multitude, a cold, unfriendly crew; But the influence of our gatherings in memory is green, And we long, upon the Level, to renew the happy scene.
There's a world where all are equal--we are hurrying towards it fast-- We shall meet upon the Level there when the gates of death are passed; We shall stand before the Orient, and our Master will be there To try the blocks we offer His unerring square.
We shall meet upon the Level there, but never thence depart: There's a mansion--'tis all ready for each zealous, faithful heart:-- There's a Mansion and a welcome, and a multitude is there, Who have met upon the Level and been tried upon the Square.
Let us meet upon the Level, then, while laboring patient here-- Let us meet and let us labor tho' the labor seem severe; Already in the western sky the signs bid us prepare, To gather up our working tools and part upon the square.
Hands around, ye faithful Ghiblimites, the bright, fraternal chain, We part upon the Square below to meet in heaven again;-- Oh, what words of precious meaning those words Masonic are-- We meet upon the Level and we part upon the Square.
AMELIA B. WELBY
Mrs. Amelia B. Welby, Kentucky's most famous female poet of the mid-century, was born at St. Michael's, Maryland, February 3, 1819.
When she was fifteen years old her family removed to Louisville, Kentucky, the city of her fame. In 1837, George D. Prentice, with his wonderful nose for finding female verse-makers, added Amelia to his already long and ever-increasing list. He printed her first poem in his _Journal_, and crowned her as the finest branch of his poetical tree. His declaration that she possessed the divine afflatus meant nothing, as he had said the same thing about many another sentimental single lady, pining upon the peaks of poesy. But Edgar Allan Poe and Rufus W. Griswold soon separated her from the versifiers and placed her among the poets, and thus her fame has come down to us with fragrance. In June, 1838, Amelia was married to George Welby, a Louisville merchant, who also held her to be a poet born in the purple. Mrs. Welby's verse became well-known and greatly admired in many parts of the country, and, in response to numerous requests for a volume of her work, she collected her _Journal_ verse and published it under the title of _Poems by Amelia_ (Boston, 1845). A second edition was published the following year, and by 1860 the volume was said to be in its seventeenth edition! Robert W. Weir's illustrated edition of her poems was issued in 1850, and this is the most desirable form in which her work has been preserved. These various editions will at once convey some idea of her great popularity. With Poe, Prentice, and Griswold singing her praises, and the public purchasing her poems as rapidly as they could be made into books, Amelia's fame seemed secure.
To-day, however, no one has read any of her verse save _The Rainbow_, which has been set down as her best poem, and she has become essentially an historical personage, the keepsake of Kentucky letters.
While the greater number of her poems are quite unreadable, her elegy for Miss Laura M. Thurston, a sister versifier, is well done and her finest piece of work. Mrs. Welby died at Louisville, May 3, 1852, when but thirty-three years of age. Had she lived longer, and the poetic appreciation of the American people suffered no change, the heights to which she would have attained can be but vaguely guessed at.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Female Poets of America_, by R. W. Griswold (Philadelphia, 1856); _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, by W. T.
Coggeshall (Columbus, 1860).
THE RAINBOW
[From _Poems by Amelia_ (Boston, 1845)]
I sometimes have thoughts, in my loneliest hours, That lie on my heart like the dew on the flowers, Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon When my heart was as light as a blossom in June; The green earth was moist with the late fallen showers, The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers, While a single white cloud, to its haven of rest On the white-wing of peace, floated off in the west.
As I threw back my tresses to catch the cool breeze, That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled the seas, Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold.
'Twas born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth, And, fair, as an angel, it floated as free, With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea.
How calm was the ocean! how gentle its swell!
Like a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fell; While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly o'er, When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the shore.
No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there, And bent my young head, in devotion and love, 'Neath the form of the angel, that floated above.
How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings!
How boundless its circle! how radiant its rings!
If I looked on the sky, 'twas suspended in air; If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there; Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole As the thoughts of the rainbow, that circled my soul.
Like the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled, It bent from the cloud and encircled the world.
There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves, When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose.
And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky, The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by; It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove, All fluttering with pleasure, and fluttering with love.
I know that each moment of rapture or pain But shortens the links in life's mystical chain; I know that my form, like that bow from the wave, Must pass from the earth, and lie cold in the grave; Yet O! when death's shadows my bosom encloud, When I shrink at the thought of the coffin and shroud, May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit enfold In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold.
ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER POET
[From _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, edited by W. T.
Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860)]
She has passed, like a bird, from the minstrel throng, She has gone to the land where the lovely belong!
Her place is hush'd by her lover's side, Yet his heart is full of his fair young bride; The hopes of his spirit are crushed and bowed As he thinks of his love in her long white shroud; For the fragrant sighs of her perfumed breath Were kissed from her lips by his rival--Death.
Cold is her bosom, her thin white arms All mutely crossed o'er its icy charms, As she lies, like a statue of Grecian art, With a marbled brow and a cold hushed heart; Her locks are bright, but their gloss is hid; Her eye is sunken 'neath its waxen lid: And thus she lies in her narrow hall-- Our fair young minstrel--the loved of all.
Light as a bird's were her springing feet, Her heart as joyous, her song as sweet; Yet never again shall that heart be stirred With its glad wild songs like a singing bird: Ne'er again shall the strains be sung, That in sweetness dropped from her silver tongue; The music is o'er, and Death's cold dart Hath broken the spell of that free, glad heart.
Often at eve, when the breeze is still, And the moon floats up by the distant hill, As I wander alone 'mid the summer bowers, And wreathe my locks with the sweet wild flowers, I will think of the time when she lingered there, With her mild blue eyes and her long fair hair; I will treasure her name in my bosom-core; But my heart is sad--I can sing no more.
CHARLES W. WEBBER
Charles Wilkins Webber, the foremost Kentucky writer of prose fiction and adventure of the old school, was born at Russellville, Kentucky, May 29, 1819, the son of Dr. Augustine Webber, a noted Kentucky physician. In 1838 young Webber went to Texas where he was with the Rangers for several years. He later returned to Kentucky and studied medicine at Transylvania University, Lexington, which he soon abandoned for a brief course at Princeton Theological Seminary, with the idea of entering the Presbyterian ministry. A short time afterwards, however, he settled at New York as a literary man. Webber was connected with several newspapers and periodicals, being associate editor of _The Whig Review_ for about two years. His first book, called _Old Hicks, the Guide_ (New York, 1848) was followed by _The Gold Mines of the_ _Gila_ (New York, 1849, two vols.). In 1849 Webber organized an expedition to the Colorado country, but it utterly failed. Several of his other books were now published: _The Hunter-Naturalist_ (Philadelphia, 1851); _Tales of the Southern Border_ (1852; 1853); _Texas Virago_ (1852); _Wild Girl of Nebraska_ (1852); _Spiritual Vampirism_ (Philadelphia, 1853); _Jack Long, or the Shot in the Eye_ (London, 1853), his masterpiece; _Adventures with Texas Rifle Rangers_ (London, 1853); _Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prairie_ (London, 1854); and his last book, _History of Mystery_ (Philadelphia, 1855). In 1855 Webber joined William Walker's expedition to Central America, and in the battle of Rivas, he was mortally wounded. He died at Nicaragua, April 11, 1856, in the thirty-seventh year of his age. Webber's career is almost as interesting as his stories. In fact, he put so much of his life into his works that all of them may be said to be largely autobiographical.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cyclopaedia of American Literature_, by E. A. and G. L. Duyckinck (New York, 1856); Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. vi).
TROUTING ON JESSUP'S RIVER
[From _Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prairie, or the Romance of Natural History_ (London, 1854)]
"The Bridge" at Jessup's River is well known to sportsmen; and to this point we made our first flyfishing expedition. The eyes of Piscator glistened at the thought, and early was he busied with hasty fingers through an hour of ardent preparation amongst his varied and complicated tackle. Now was his time for triumph. In all the ruder sports in which we had heretofore been engaged, I, assisted by mere chance, had been most successful; but now the infallible certainty of skill and science were to be demonstrated in himself, and the orthodoxy of flies vindicated to my unsophisticated sense.
The simple preparations were early completed; the cooking apparatus, which was primitive enough to suit the taste of an ascetic, consisted in a single frying-pan. The blankets, with the guns, ammunition, rods, etc., were all disposed in the wagon of our host, which stood ready at the door. It was a rough affair, with stiff wooden springs, like all those of the country, and suited to the mountainous roads they are intended to traverse, rather than for civilized ideas of comfort. We, however, bounded into the low-backed seat; and if it had been cushioned to suit royalty, we could not have been more secure than we were of such comfort as a backwood sportsman looks for. We soon found ourselves rumbling, pitching, and jolting, over a road even worse than that which brought us first to the lake. It seemed to me that nothing but the surprising docility of the ponies which drew us, could have saved us, strong wagon and all, from being jolted to atoms. I soon got tired of this, and sprang out with my gun, determined to foot it ahead, in the hope of seeing a partridge or red squirrel.
We arrived at the "bridge" about the middle of the afternoon. There we found an old field called Wilcox's clearing, and, like all places I had seen in this fine grazing region, it was still well sodded down in blue grass and clover. Our luggage having been deposited in the shantee, consisting almost entirely of boards torn from the old house, which were leaned against the sides of two forks placed a few feet apart, we set off at once for the falls, a short distance above. This was merely an initial trial, to obtain enough for dinner, and find the prognostics of the next day's sport in feeling the manner of the fish.
At the falls the river is only about fifteen feet wide, though its average width is from twenty-five to thirty. The water tumbles over a ledge of about ten feet, at the bottom of which is a fine hole, while on the surface sheets of foam are whirled round and round upon the tormented eddies, for the stream has considerable volume and power.
We stepped cautiously along the ledge, Piscator ahead, and holding his flies ready for a cast, which was most artistically made, not without a glance of triumph at me, then preparing to do the same with the humble angle-worm. The "flies" fall--I see the glance of half a dozen golden sides darting at them; but by this time my own cast is made, and I am fully occupied with the struggles of a fine trout.
My companion's success was again far short of mine, and seeing him looking at my trout lying beside me, I said: "Try the worms, good Piscator--here they are. This is not the right time of day for them to take the flies in this river, I judge."
Improving the door of escape thus opened to him, he took off the flies and used worms with immediate and brilliant success, which brought back the smile to his face; and he would now and then as calmly brush away the distracting swarm of flies from his face, as if they had been mere innocent motes. But later that evening came a temporary triumph for Piscator. The hole at the falls was soon exhausted, and we moved down to glean the ripples. It was nearly sunset, and here the pertinacious Piscator determined to try the flies again. He cast with three, and instantly struck two half-pound trout, which, after a spirited play, he safely landed. Rarely have I seen a prouder look of triumph than that which glowed on his face as he bade me "look there!"
when he landed them.
"Very fine, Piscator--a capital feat! but I fear it was an accident.