It was whis-
pered that all four cows were domiciled in the house.
pered that all four cows were domiciled in the house.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v27 - Wat to Zor
”
“We might have the wedding in the new barn,” said Nanny
with gentle pettishness. "Why, mother, what makes you look
so ? »
-
## p. 15993 (#339) ##########################################
MARY E. WILKINS
15993
Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with a curious
expression. She turned again to her work and spread out a pat-
tern carefully on the cloth. “Nothin',” said she.
Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his two-
wheeled dump-cart, standing as proudly upright as a Roman
charioteer. Mrs. Penn opened the door and stood there a minute
looking out; the halloos of the men sounded louder.
It seemed to her all through the spring months that she
heard nothing but the halloos, and the noises of saws and ham-
mers. The new barn grew fast. It was a fine edifice for this
little village. Men came on pleasant Sundays, in their meeting
suits and clean shirt-bosoms, and stood around it admiringly.
Mrs. Penn did not speak of it, and Adoniram did not mention it
to her; although sometimes, upon a return from inspecting it,
he bore himself with injured dignity.
“It's a strange thing how your mother feels about the new
barn,” he said confidentially to Sammy one day.
Sammy only grunted, after an odd fashion for a boy: he had
learned it from his father.
The barn was all completed ready for use by the third week
in July. Adoniram had planned to move his stock in on Wednes-
day; on Tuesday he received a letter which changed his plans.
He came in with it early in the morning. «Sammy's been to
the post-office,” said he, “an' I've got a letter from Hiram. ”
Hiram was Mrs. Penn's brother, who lived in Vermont.
"Well,” said Mrs. Penn, “what does he say about the folks ? ”
guess they're all right. He says he thinks if I come
up country right off, there's a chance to buy jest the kind of a
horse I want. ” He stared reflectively out of the window at the
new barn.
Mrs. Penn was making pies. She went on clapping the
rolling-pin into the crust, although she was very pale, and her
heart beat loudly.
"I dun' know but what I'd better go,” said Adoniram. “I
hate to go off jest now, right in the midst of hayin'; but the
ten-acre lot's cut, an' I guess Rufus an' the others can git along
without me three or four days. I can't get a horse round here
to suit me, nohow; an' I've got to have another for all that
wood-haulin' in the fall. I told Hiram to watch out, an' if he
got wind of a good horse to let me know. I guess I'd better go. ”
(
>
## p. 15994 (#340) ##########################################
15994
MARY E. WILKINS
C
“I'll get out your clean shirt an' collar,” said Mrs. Penn calmly.
She laid out Adoniram's Sunday suit and his clean clothes, on
the bed in the little bedroom. She got his shaving-water and
razor ready. At last she buttoned on his collar and fastened his
black cravat.
Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on extra
occasions. He held his head high, with a rasped dignity. When
he was all ready, with his coat and hat brushed, and a lunch of
pie and cheese in a paper bag, he hesitated on the threshold of
the door. He looked at his wife, and his manner was defiantly
apologetic. "If them cows come to-day, Sammy can drive 'em
into the new barn,” said he; "an' when they bring the hay up,
they can pitch it in there. "
“Well,” replied Mrs. Penn.
Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started. When he
had cleared the door-step, he turned and looked back with a kind
of nervous solemnity. “I shall be back by Saturday if nothin'
happens,” said he.
"Do be careful, father,” returned his wife.
She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and watched
him out of sight. Her eyes had a strange, doubtful expression
in them; her peaceful forehead was contracted. She went in, and
about her baking again. Nanny sat sewing. Her wedding-day
was drawing nearer, and she was getting pale and thin with
her steady sewing. Her mother kept glancing at her.
«Have you got that pain in your side this mornin'? ” she
asked.
"A little. ”
Mrs. Penn's face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed fore-
head smoothed, her eyes were steady, her lips firmly set. She
formed a maxim for herself, although incoherently with her unlet-
tered thoughts. "Unsolicited opportunities are the guide-posts
of the Lord to the new roads of life,” she repeated in effect, and
she made up her mind to her course of action.
S'posin' I had wrote to Hiram,” she muttered once, when
she was in the pantry,-s'posin' I had wrote, an' asked him
if he knew of any horse? But I didn't, an' father's goin' wa'n't
none of my doin'. It looks like a providence. " Her voice rang
out quite loud at the last.
“What you talkin' about, mother ? ” called Nanny.
(
## p. 15995 (#341) ##########################################
MARY E. WILKINS
15995
»
Nothin'. »
Mrs. Penn hurried her baking; at eleven o'clock it was all
done. The load of hay from the west field came slowly down
the cart track, and drew up at the new barn. Mrs. Penn ran
out. “Stop! ” she screamed — stop! ”
The men stopped and looked; Sammy upreared from the top
of the load, and stared at his mother.
ag
“Stop! ” she cried out again. “Don't you put the hay in that
barn: put it in the old one. ”
«Why, he said to put it in here,” returned one of the hay-
makers wonderingly. He was a young man, a neighbor's son,
whom Adoniram hired by the year to help on the farm.
"Don't you put the hay in the new barn: there's room enough
in the old one, ain't there? ” said Mrs. Penn.
“Room enough,” returned the hired man, in his thick, rustic
tones. “Didn't need the new barn, nohow, far as room's con-
cerned. Well, I s'pose he changed his mind. ” He took hold of
the horses' bridles.
Mrs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen win
dows were darkened, and a fragrance like warm honey came into
the room.
Nanny laid down her work. "I thought father wanted them
to put the hay into the new barn ? ” she said wonderingly.
It's all right," replied her mother.
Sammy slid down from the load of hay, and came in to see
if dinner was ready.
"I ain't goin' to get a regular dinner to-day, as long as
father's gone,” said his mother. “I've let the fire go out.
You
can have some bread-an'-milk an' pie I thought we could get
along. ” She set out some bowls of milk, some bread, and a pie
on the kitchen table. “You'd better eat your dinner now,” said
she. “You might jest as well get through with it. I want you
to help me afterward. ”
Nanny and Sammy stared at each other. There was some-
thing strange in their mother's manner. Mrs. Penn did not eat
anything herself. She went into the pantry, and they heard
her moving dishes while they ate. Presently she came out with
a pile of plates. She got the clothes-basket out of the shed, and
packed them in it. Nanny and Sammy watched. She brought
out cups and saucers, and put them in with the plates.
## p. 15996 (#342) ##########################################
15996
MARY E. WILKINS
.
(
« If
»
»
“What you goin' to do, mother? ” inquired Nanny in a timid
voice. A sense of something unusual made her tremble, as if it
were a ghost. Sammy rolled his eyes over his pie.
“You'll see what I'm goin' to do,” replied Mrs. Penn.
you're through, Nanny, I want you to go up-stairs an' pack up
your things; an' I want you, Sammy, to help me take down the
bed in the bedroom. ”
“O mother, what for? ” gasped Nanny.
« You'll see. ”
During the next few hours a feat was performed by this
simple, pious New England mother, which was equal in its way
to Wolfe's storming of the Heights of Abraham. It took no
more genius and audacity of bravery for Wolfe to cheer his
wondering soldiers up those steep precipices, under the sleeping
eyes of the enemy, than for Sarah Penn, at the head of her child-
ren, to move all their little household goods into the new barn
while her husband was away.
Nanny and Sammy followed their mother's instructions with-
out a murmur; indeed, they were overawed. There is a certain
uncanny and superhuman quality about all such purely original
undertakings as their mother's was to them. Nanny went back
and forth with her light loads, and Sammy tugged with sober
energy.
At five o'clock in the afternoon the little house in which the
Penns had lived for forty years had emptied itself into the new
barn.
Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes, and is
in a
a prophet. The architect of Adoniram Penn's
barn, while he designed it for the comfort of four-footed animals,
had planned better than he knew for the comfort of humans.
Sarah Penn saw at a glance its possibilities. Those great box
stalls, with quilts hung before them, would make better bedrooms
than the one she had occupied for forty years; and there was a
tight carriage-room. The harness-room, with its chimney and
shelves, would make a kitchen of her dreams. The great middle
space would make a parlor, by-and-by, fit for a palace. Up-stairs
there was as much room as down. With partitions and windows,
what a house would there be! Sarah looked at the row of stan-
chions before the allotted space for cows, and reflected that she
would have her front entry there.
measure
## p. 15997 (#343) ##########################################
MARY E. WILKINS
15997
At six o'clock the stove was up in the harness-room, the ket-
tle was boiling, and the table set for tea. It looked almost as
home-like as the abandoned house across the yard had ever done.
The young hired man milked, and Sarah directed him calmly to
bring the milk to the new barn. He came gaping, dropping lit-
tle blots of foam from the brimming pails on the grass. Before
the next morning he had spread the story of Adoniram Penn's
wife moving into the new barn, all over the little village. Men
assembled in the store and talked it over; women with shawls
over their heads scuttled into each other's houses before their
work was done. Any deviation from the ordinary course of life
in this quiet town was enough to stop all progress in it. Every-
body paused to look at the staid, independent figure on the side
track. There was a difference of opinion with regard to her.
Some held her to be insane; some, of a lawless and rebellious
spirit.
Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the forenoon,
and she was at the barn door shelling peas for dinner. She
looked up and returned his salutation with dignity, then she went
on with her work. She did not invite him in. The saintly ex-
pression of her face remained fixed, but there was an angry flush
over it.
The minister stood awkwardly before her, and talked. She
handled the peas as if they were bullets. At last she looked up,
and her eyes showed the spirit that her meek front had covered
for a lifetime.
« There ain't no use talkin', Mr. Hersey,” said she. “I've
thought it all over an' over, an' I believe I'm doin' what's right.
I've made it the subject of prayer, an' it's betwixt me an' the
Lord an' Adoniram. There ain't no call for nobody else to worry
about it. ”
“Well, of course, if you have brought it to the Lord in prayer,
and feel satisfied that you are doing right, Mrs. Penn," said the
minister, helplessly. His thin gray-bearded face was pathetic.
He was a sickly man; his youthful confidence had cooled: he
had to scourge himself up to some of his pastoral duties as relent.
lessly as a Catholic ascetic, and then he was prostrated by the
smart.
"I think it's right jest as much as I think it was right for
our forefathers to come over from the old country, 'cause they
didn't have what belonged to 'em,” said Mrs. Penn.
She arose.
(
## p. 15998 (#344) ##########################################
15998
MARY E. WILKINS
I've got
Won't you
The barn threshold might have been Plymouth Rock from her
bearing. “I don't doubt you mean well, Mr. Hersey,” said she,
« but there are things people hadn't ought to interfere with. I've
been a member of the church for over forty year.
my own mind an' my own feet, an' I'm goin' to think my own
thoughts an' go my own ways; an' nobody but the Lord is goin'
to dictate to me unless I've a mind to have him.
come in an' set down ? How is Mis' Hersey ? ”
"She is well, I thank you,” replied the minister. He added
some more perplexed apologetic remarks; then he retreated.
He could expound the intricacies of every character study in
the Scriptures, he was competent to grasp the Pilgrim Fathers
and all historical innovators; but Sarah Penn was beyond him.
He could deal with primal cases, but parallel ones worsted him.
But after all, although it was aside from his province, he won-
dered more how Adoniram Penn would deal with his wife than
how the Lord would. Everybody shared the wonder. When
Adoniram's four new cows arrived, Sarah ordered three to be put
in the old barn, the other in the house shed where the cooking-
stove had stood. That added to the excitement.
It was whis-
pered that all four cows were domiciled in the house.
Towards sunset on Saturday, when Adoniram was expected
home, there was a knot of men in the road
the new
barn. The hired man had milked, but he still hung around the
premises. Sarah Penn had supper all ready. There were brown
bread and baked beans and a custard pie; it was the supper
that Adoniram loved on a Saturday night. She had on a clean
calico, and she bore herself imperturbably. Nanny and Sammy
kept close at her heels. Their eyes were large, and Nanny was
full of nervous tremors. Still there was to them more pleasant
excitement than anything else. An inborn confidence in their
mother over their father asserted itself.
Sammy looked out of the harness-room window. « There he
is,” he announced in an awed whisper. He and Nanny peeped
around the casing. Mrs. Penn kept on about her work. The
children watched Adoniram leave the new horse standing in the
drive while he went to the house door. It was fastened. Then
he went around to the shed. That door was seldom locked, even
when the family was away. The thought how her father would
be confronted by the cow flashed upon Nanny. There was
hysterical sob in her throat. Adoniram emerged from the shed,
near
a
## p. 15999 (#345) ##########################################
MARY E. WILKINS
15999
»
and stood looking about in a dazed fashion. His lips moved;
he was saying something, but they could not hear what it was.
The hired man was peeping around a corner of the old barn, but
nobody saw him.
Adoniram took the new horse by the bridle and led him
across the yard to the new barn. Nanny and Sammy slunk close
to their mother. The barn doors rolled back, and there stood
Adoniram, with the long mild face of the great Canadian farm
horse looking over his shoulder.
Nanny kept behind her mother, but Sammy stepped suddenly
forward, and stood in front of her.
Adoniram stared at the group. “What on airth you all down
here for ? ” said he. “What's the matter over to the house ? »
“We've come here to live, father,” said Sammy.
voice quavered out bravely.
« What” Adoniram sniffed “what is it smells like cookin'? )
said he. He stepped forward and looked in the open door of
the harness-room. Then he turned to his wife. His old bristling
face was pale and frightened. « What on airth does this mean,
mother ? ” he gasped.
“You come in here, father,” said Sarah. She led the way
into the harness-room and shut the door. "Now, father,” said
she, “you needn't be scared. I ain't crazy. There ain't nothin'
to be upset over. But we've come here to live, an' we're goin'
to live here. We've got jest as good a right here as new horses
an' cows.
The house wa’n't fit for us to live in any longer,
an' I made up my mind I wa’n’t goin' to stay there. I've done
my duty by you forty year, an' I'm goin' to do it now; but I'm
goin' to live here. You've got to put in some windows and par-
titions; an' you'll have to buy some furniture. ”
Why, mother! ” the old man gasped.
“You'd better take your coat off an' get washed,- there's the
wash-basin,- an' then we'll have supper. ”
"Why, mother! »
Sammy went past the window, leading the new horse to the
old barn. The old man saw him, and shook his head speech-
lessly. He tried to take off his coat, but his arms seemed to
lack the power.
His wife helped him. She poured some water
into the tin basin, and put in a piece of soap. She got the comb
and brush, and smoothed his thin gray hair after he had washed.
Then she put the beans, hot bread, and tea on the table.
>
(
## p. 16000 (#346) ##########################################
16000
MARY E. WILKINS
Sammy came in, and the family drew up. Adoniram sat looking
dazedly at his plate, and they waited.
"Ain't you goin' to ask a blessin', father? ” said Sarah.
And the old man bent his head and mumbled.
All through the meal he stopped eating at intervals, and
stared furtively at his wife; but he ate well. The home food
tasted good to him, and his old frame was too sturdily healthy
to be affected by his mind. But after supper he went out, and
sat down on the step of the smaller door at the right of the
barn, through which he had meant his Jerseys to pass in stately
file, but which Sarah designed for her front house door; and he
leaned his head on his hands.
After the supper dishes were cleared away and the milk-pans
washed, Sarah went out to him. The twilight was deepening.
There was a clear green glow in the sky. Before them stretched
the smooth level of field; in the distance was a cluster of hay-
stacks like the huts of a village; the air was very cool and calm
and sweet. The landscape might have been an ideal one of
peace.
Sarah bent over and touched her husband on one of his thin,
sinewy shoulders. « Father! "
The old man's shoulders heaved: he was weeping.
“Why, don't do so, father,” said Sarah.
"I'll — put up the — partitions, an'— everything you — want,
mother. ”
Sarah put her apron up to her face; she was overcome by
her own triumph.
Adoniram was like a fortress whose walls had no active resist.
ance, and went down the instant the right besieging tools were
used. “Why, mother,” he said hoarsely, “I hadn't no idee you
was so set on 't as all this comes to. ”
(C
## p. 16001 (#347) ##########################################
16001
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
(1806-1867)
M
SILLIS was an American who in tentative literary days, when
the native author had to appeal mostly to British readers,
lent dignity and attraction to the profession of literature in
his land. A man of social gifts and graces, important as editor and
critic, a graceful, pleasing writer of both prose and verse, he was in
his time a power in the native development of letters. One feels
now, in reading his works, that in his rôle
of man of the world he sacrificed still
higher possibilities of accomplishment.
Nathaniel Parker Willis was
a Maine
boy; born in Portland, also Longfellow's
birthplace, January 20th, 1806. He was the
.
son of an editor who founded the Boston
Recorder, and the Youth's Companion of
the same city; and studied at the Boston
Latin School, and at Phillips Academy (An-
dover) preparatory to Yale, where he was
graduated in 1827. Willis gave evidence of
marked literary gift in college, winning the
$50 prize offered for the best poem. Some NATHANIEL P. Willis
of his most popular Biblical pieces were
composed while he was a student. A brilliant future was predicted
for the handsome, winning young collegian. He contributed verse to
his father's newspaper, the Boston Recorder, edited two annuals for
S. G. Goodrich (Peter Parley), and by 1829 had founded and begun to
edit the American Monthly, afterwards the New York Mirror, which
in association with George P. Morris he also edited. These were the
first of many newspaper and editorial connections, among which may
be noted his editorship of the New York Home Journal, a position
held until his death.
Willis's life was a busy and varied one: he made numerous Euro-
pean trips, moved in polite circles, and saw the people worth see-
ing. Many of his pleasant travel books and tourist chronicles sprang
from these experiences. The majority of them partake somewhat of
the character of high-class journalism. In the case of those which
describe, with Willis's characteristic sprightly, picturesque touch, his
XXVII-1001
## p. 16002 (#348) ##########################################
16002
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
meetings with persons of interest in the foreign world of thought,
letters, and society, the writer performs a real service; for these pen
portraits of celebrities now bygone are both enjoyable and valuable
to the social historian. Other writings — like the very charming Let-
ters From Under a Bridge,' describing his summer home Glenmary,
at Owego, N. Y. - mingle humor, wisdom, and literary grace, and
reveal the deeper, more subjective side of the man: they have high
value as
felicitous essay-writing. The following additional prose
books may be mentioned: Pencillings by the Way,' Inklings of
Adventure (1836), Loiterings of Travel (1840), People I Have Met'
(1850), Hurry-graphs) (1851), A Health Trip to the Tropics (1854),
(Famous Persons and Places (1854), “The Convalescent, His Rambles
and Adventures? (1859).
As a poet, Willis makes the impression of a skilled verse-maker,
who wrote agreeable poetry, and now and then did a thing showing
him capable of finer work than the body of his production contains.
His poem to the departing Seniors at Yale had a command of tech-
nique, a seriousness and ideality, remarkable for so young a writer.
In his subsequent career he paid the inevitable penalty of a worldly
life: he failed of his potential highest. But a few of his lyrics, here-
with printed, have a grace, a purity of sentiment, and effectiveness of
diction, which keep them deservedly in the American anthology of
song. Willis's talent too for the narrative and dramatic was decided :
his range was wider than the lyric. In the sacred poems there is
an eloquence of expression, an imaginative sweep. that have given
this work of an immature hand popularity in the poet's own day and
since. Willis in his youth was reared in a most religious atmosphere,
and his poems reflect the influence. They are sincere utterances,
flushed with youth, and not seldom beautiful. Whether as poet or
essayist, Willis had popular qualities that brought him ample recogni-
tion, and that, judged more critically at this present time, are seen to
possess some of the main requisites of good literature.
There was a
good deal below his literary dandyism.
In 1853, Willis purchased the estate of Idlewild, near Newburg on
the Hudson, and here he lived during his final years, dying there in
1867, -- his death, by a coincidence, falling upon his birthday, Jan-
uary 20th.
## p. 16003 (#349) ##########################################
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
16003
WHEN TOM MOORE SANG
From Pencillings by the Way)
“
*M*
(
case.
one.
R. MOORE! » cried the footman at the bottom of the stair.
“Mr. Moore ! ” cried the footman at the top. And
with his glass at his eye, stumbling over an ottoman be-
tween his near-sightedness and the darkness of the room, enter
the poet. Half a glance tells you that he is at home on a carpet.
Sliding his little feet up to Lady Blessington (of whom he was
a lover when she was sixteen, and to whom some of the sweet-
est of his songs were written), he made his compliments with a
gayety and an ease, combined with a kind of worshiping defer-
ence, that was worthy of a prime minister at the court of love.
With the gentlemen, all of whom he knew, he had the frank,
merry manner of a confident favorite; and he was greeted like
He went from one to the other, straining back his head to
look up at them (for, singularly enough, every gentleman in the
room was six feet high and upward); and to every one he said
something which from anyone else would have seemed pecul-
iarly felicitous, but which fell from his lips as if his breath was
not more spontaneous.
Dinner was announced; the Russian handed down «miladi”;
and I found myself seated opposite Moore, with a blaze of light
on his Bacchus head, and the mirrors with which the superb
octagonal room is paneled reflecting every motion. To see him
only at table, you would think him not a small man. His
principal length is in his body, and his head and shoulders are
those of a much larger person. Consequently, he sits tall; and
with the peculiar erectness of head and neck, his diminutiveness
disappears.
Nothing but a short-hand report could retain the delicacy
and elegance of Moore's language; and memory itself cannot em-
body again the kind of frost-work imagery which was formed
and melted on his lips. His voice is soft or firm as the subject
requires, but perhaps the word “gentlemanly” describes it better
than any other. It is upon a natural key; but if I may so phrase
it, it is fused with a high-bred affectation, expressing deference
and courtesy at the same time that its pauses are constructed
peculiarly to catch the ear. It would be difficult not to attend
him while he is talking, though the subject were but the shape
of a wine-glass.
## p. 16004 (#350) ##########################################
16004
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
Moore's head is distinctly before me while I write, but I shall
find it difficult to describe. His hair, which curled once all over
it in long tendrils, unlike anybody else's in the world, and which
probably suggested his sobriquet of “Bacchus,” is diminished now
to a few curls sprinkled with gray, and scattered in a single ring
above his ears. His forehead is wrinkled, with the exception of
a most prominent development of the organ of gayety; which,
singularly enough, shines with the lustre and smooth polish of a
pearl, and is surrounded by a semicircle of lines drawn close
about it, like intrenchments against Time. His eyes still sparkle
like a champagne bubble, though the invader has drawn his pen-
cilings about the corners; and there is a kind of wintry red, of
the tinge of an October leaf, that seems enameled on his cheek,
- the eloquent record of the claret his wit has brightened. His
mouth is the most characteristic feature of all. The lips are
delicately cut, slight and changeable as an aspen; but there is a
set-up look about the upper lip, a determination of the muscle to
a particular expression, and you fancy that you can almost see wit
astride upon it. It is written legibly with the imprint of habitual
success. It is arch, confident, and half diffident, as if he were
disguising his pleasure at applause while another bright gleam
of fancy was breaking on him. The slightly tossed nose
firms the fun of the expression; and altogether it is a face that
sparkles, beams, radiates,- everything but feels. Fascinating
beyond all men as he is, Moore looks like a worldling.
This description may be supposed to have occupied the hour
after Lady Blessington retired from the table; for with her van-
ished Moore's excitement, and everybody else seemed to feel that
light had gone out of the room. Her excessive beauty is less an
inspiration than the wondrous talent with which she draws from
every person around her his peculiar excellence. Talking better
than anybody else, and narrating, particularly, with a graphic
power that I never saw excelled, this distinguished woman seems
striving only to make others unfold themselves; and never had
diffidence a more apprehensive and encouraging listener. But
this is a subject with which I should never be done.
We went up to coffee: and Moore brightened again over his
chasse-café, and went glittering on with criticisms on Grisi, the
delicious songstress now ravishing the world, whom he placed
above all but Pasta; and whom he thought, with the exception
that her legs were too short, an incomparable creature. This
con-
## p. 16005 (#351) ##########################################
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
16005
introduced music very naturally; and with a great deal of diffi-
culty he was taken to the piano. My letter is getting long, and
I have no time to describe his singing. It is well known, how-
ever, that its effect is only equaled by the beauty of his own
words; and for one, I could have taken him into my heart with
delight. He makes no attempt at music. It is a kind of admira-
ble recitative, in which every shade of thought is syllabled and
dwelt upon; and the sentiment of the song goes through your
blood, warming you to the very eyelids, and starting your tears,
if you have soul or sense in you. I have heard of women's
fainting at a song of Moore's; and if the burden of it answered,
by chance, to a secret in the bosom of the listener, I should
think, from its comparative effect upon so old a stager as myself,
that the heart would break with it.
We all sat round the piano; and after two or three songs of
Lady Blessington's choice, he rambled over the keys awhile, and
sang When First I Met Thee,' with a pathos that beggars de-
scription. When the last word had faltered out, he rose and took
Lady Blessington's hand, said good-night, and was gone before a
word was uttered. For a full minute after he had closed the
door, no one spoke. I could have wished, for myself, to drop
silently asleep where I sat, with the tears in my eyes and the
softness upon my heart
« Here's a health to thee, Tom Moore! )
DAVID AND ABSALOM
T"
HE pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds
Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air; as glossy now,
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's girls.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid
Reversed beside him; and the jeweled hilt,
## p. 16006 (#352) ##########################################
16006
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir. -
A slow step startled him! He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, - and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,
Who left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:-
"Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom !
“Cold is thy brow, my son; and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee.
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, -
Like a rich harpstring, — yearning to caress thee;
And hear thy sweet my father) from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
(
“The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life shall pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung:
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come
To meet me, Absalom !
“And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
## p. 16007 (#353) ##########################################
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
16007
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death, so like a gentle slumber, on thee;
And thy dark sin! --Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home
My lost boy, Absalom ! »
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hand convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently — and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
“We might have the wedding in the new barn,” said Nanny
with gentle pettishness. "Why, mother, what makes you look
so ? »
-
## p. 15993 (#339) ##########################################
MARY E. WILKINS
15993
Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with a curious
expression. She turned again to her work and spread out a pat-
tern carefully on the cloth. “Nothin',” said she.
Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his two-
wheeled dump-cart, standing as proudly upright as a Roman
charioteer. Mrs. Penn opened the door and stood there a minute
looking out; the halloos of the men sounded louder.
It seemed to her all through the spring months that she
heard nothing but the halloos, and the noises of saws and ham-
mers. The new barn grew fast. It was a fine edifice for this
little village. Men came on pleasant Sundays, in their meeting
suits and clean shirt-bosoms, and stood around it admiringly.
Mrs. Penn did not speak of it, and Adoniram did not mention it
to her; although sometimes, upon a return from inspecting it,
he bore himself with injured dignity.
“It's a strange thing how your mother feels about the new
barn,” he said confidentially to Sammy one day.
Sammy only grunted, after an odd fashion for a boy: he had
learned it from his father.
The barn was all completed ready for use by the third week
in July. Adoniram had planned to move his stock in on Wednes-
day; on Tuesday he received a letter which changed his plans.
He came in with it early in the morning. «Sammy's been to
the post-office,” said he, “an' I've got a letter from Hiram. ”
Hiram was Mrs. Penn's brother, who lived in Vermont.
"Well,” said Mrs. Penn, “what does he say about the folks ? ”
guess they're all right. He says he thinks if I come
up country right off, there's a chance to buy jest the kind of a
horse I want. ” He stared reflectively out of the window at the
new barn.
Mrs. Penn was making pies. She went on clapping the
rolling-pin into the crust, although she was very pale, and her
heart beat loudly.
"I dun' know but what I'd better go,” said Adoniram. “I
hate to go off jest now, right in the midst of hayin'; but the
ten-acre lot's cut, an' I guess Rufus an' the others can git along
without me three or four days. I can't get a horse round here
to suit me, nohow; an' I've got to have another for all that
wood-haulin' in the fall. I told Hiram to watch out, an' if he
got wind of a good horse to let me know. I guess I'd better go. ”
(
>
## p. 15994 (#340) ##########################################
15994
MARY E. WILKINS
C
“I'll get out your clean shirt an' collar,” said Mrs. Penn calmly.
She laid out Adoniram's Sunday suit and his clean clothes, on
the bed in the little bedroom. She got his shaving-water and
razor ready. At last she buttoned on his collar and fastened his
black cravat.
Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on extra
occasions. He held his head high, with a rasped dignity. When
he was all ready, with his coat and hat brushed, and a lunch of
pie and cheese in a paper bag, he hesitated on the threshold of
the door. He looked at his wife, and his manner was defiantly
apologetic. "If them cows come to-day, Sammy can drive 'em
into the new barn,” said he; "an' when they bring the hay up,
they can pitch it in there. "
“Well,” replied Mrs. Penn.
Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started. When he
had cleared the door-step, he turned and looked back with a kind
of nervous solemnity. “I shall be back by Saturday if nothin'
happens,” said he.
"Do be careful, father,” returned his wife.
She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and watched
him out of sight. Her eyes had a strange, doubtful expression
in them; her peaceful forehead was contracted. She went in, and
about her baking again. Nanny sat sewing. Her wedding-day
was drawing nearer, and she was getting pale and thin with
her steady sewing. Her mother kept glancing at her.
«Have you got that pain in your side this mornin'? ” she
asked.
"A little. ”
Mrs. Penn's face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed fore-
head smoothed, her eyes were steady, her lips firmly set. She
formed a maxim for herself, although incoherently with her unlet-
tered thoughts. "Unsolicited opportunities are the guide-posts
of the Lord to the new roads of life,” she repeated in effect, and
she made up her mind to her course of action.
S'posin' I had wrote to Hiram,” she muttered once, when
she was in the pantry,-s'posin' I had wrote, an' asked him
if he knew of any horse? But I didn't, an' father's goin' wa'n't
none of my doin'. It looks like a providence. " Her voice rang
out quite loud at the last.
“What you talkin' about, mother ? ” called Nanny.
(
## p. 15995 (#341) ##########################################
MARY E. WILKINS
15995
»
Nothin'. »
Mrs. Penn hurried her baking; at eleven o'clock it was all
done. The load of hay from the west field came slowly down
the cart track, and drew up at the new barn. Mrs. Penn ran
out. “Stop! ” she screamed — stop! ”
The men stopped and looked; Sammy upreared from the top
of the load, and stared at his mother.
ag
“Stop! ” she cried out again. “Don't you put the hay in that
barn: put it in the old one. ”
«Why, he said to put it in here,” returned one of the hay-
makers wonderingly. He was a young man, a neighbor's son,
whom Adoniram hired by the year to help on the farm.
"Don't you put the hay in the new barn: there's room enough
in the old one, ain't there? ” said Mrs. Penn.
“Room enough,” returned the hired man, in his thick, rustic
tones. “Didn't need the new barn, nohow, far as room's con-
cerned. Well, I s'pose he changed his mind. ” He took hold of
the horses' bridles.
Mrs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen win
dows were darkened, and a fragrance like warm honey came into
the room.
Nanny laid down her work. "I thought father wanted them
to put the hay into the new barn ? ” she said wonderingly.
It's all right," replied her mother.
Sammy slid down from the load of hay, and came in to see
if dinner was ready.
"I ain't goin' to get a regular dinner to-day, as long as
father's gone,” said his mother. “I've let the fire go out.
You
can have some bread-an'-milk an' pie I thought we could get
along. ” She set out some bowls of milk, some bread, and a pie
on the kitchen table. “You'd better eat your dinner now,” said
she. “You might jest as well get through with it. I want you
to help me afterward. ”
Nanny and Sammy stared at each other. There was some-
thing strange in their mother's manner. Mrs. Penn did not eat
anything herself. She went into the pantry, and they heard
her moving dishes while they ate. Presently she came out with
a pile of plates. She got the clothes-basket out of the shed, and
packed them in it. Nanny and Sammy watched. She brought
out cups and saucers, and put them in with the plates.
## p. 15996 (#342) ##########################################
15996
MARY E. WILKINS
.
(
« If
»
»
“What you goin' to do, mother? ” inquired Nanny in a timid
voice. A sense of something unusual made her tremble, as if it
were a ghost. Sammy rolled his eyes over his pie.
“You'll see what I'm goin' to do,” replied Mrs. Penn.
you're through, Nanny, I want you to go up-stairs an' pack up
your things; an' I want you, Sammy, to help me take down the
bed in the bedroom. ”
“O mother, what for? ” gasped Nanny.
« You'll see. ”
During the next few hours a feat was performed by this
simple, pious New England mother, which was equal in its way
to Wolfe's storming of the Heights of Abraham. It took no
more genius and audacity of bravery for Wolfe to cheer his
wondering soldiers up those steep precipices, under the sleeping
eyes of the enemy, than for Sarah Penn, at the head of her child-
ren, to move all their little household goods into the new barn
while her husband was away.
Nanny and Sammy followed their mother's instructions with-
out a murmur; indeed, they were overawed. There is a certain
uncanny and superhuman quality about all such purely original
undertakings as their mother's was to them. Nanny went back
and forth with her light loads, and Sammy tugged with sober
energy.
At five o'clock in the afternoon the little house in which the
Penns had lived for forty years had emptied itself into the new
barn.
Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes, and is
in a
a prophet. The architect of Adoniram Penn's
barn, while he designed it for the comfort of four-footed animals,
had planned better than he knew for the comfort of humans.
Sarah Penn saw at a glance its possibilities. Those great box
stalls, with quilts hung before them, would make better bedrooms
than the one she had occupied for forty years; and there was a
tight carriage-room. The harness-room, with its chimney and
shelves, would make a kitchen of her dreams. The great middle
space would make a parlor, by-and-by, fit for a palace. Up-stairs
there was as much room as down. With partitions and windows,
what a house would there be! Sarah looked at the row of stan-
chions before the allotted space for cows, and reflected that she
would have her front entry there.
measure
## p. 15997 (#343) ##########################################
MARY E. WILKINS
15997
At six o'clock the stove was up in the harness-room, the ket-
tle was boiling, and the table set for tea. It looked almost as
home-like as the abandoned house across the yard had ever done.
The young hired man milked, and Sarah directed him calmly to
bring the milk to the new barn. He came gaping, dropping lit-
tle blots of foam from the brimming pails on the grass. Before
the next morning he had spread the story of Adoniram Penn's
wife moving into the new barn, all over the little village. Men
assembled in the store and talked it over; women with shawls
over their heads scuttled into each other's houses before their
work was done. Any deviation from the ordinary course of life
in this quiet town was enough to stop all progress in it. Every-
body paused to look at the staid, independent figure on the side
track. There was a difference of opinion with regard to her.
Some held her to be insane; some, of a lawless and rebellious
spirit.
Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the forenoon,
and she was at the barn door shelling peas for dinner. She
looked up and returned his salutation with dignity, then she went
on with her work. She did not invite him in. The saintly ex-
pression of her face remained fixed, but there was an angry flush
over it.
The minister stood awkwardly before her, and talked. She
handled the peas as if they were bullets. At last she looked up,
and her eyes showed the spirit that her meek front had covered
for a lifetime.
« There ain't no use talkin', Mr. Hersey,” said she. “I've
thought it all over an' over, an' I believe I'm doin' what's right.
I've made it the subject of prayer, an' it's betwixt me an' the
Lord an' Adoniram. There ain't no call for nobody else to worry
about it. ”
“Well, of course, if you have brought it to the Lord in prayer,
and feel satisfied that you are doing right, Mrs. Penn," said the
minister, helplessly. His thin gray-bearded face was pathetic.
He was a sickly man; his youthful confidence had cooled: he
had to scourge himself up to some of his pastoral duties as relent.
lessly as a Catholic ascetic, and then he was prostrated by the
smart.
"I think it's right jest as much as I think it was right for
our forefathers to come over from the old country, 'cause they
didn't have what belonged to 'em,” said Mrs. Penn.
She arose.
(
## p. 15998 (#344) ##########################################
15998
MARY E. WILKINS
I've got
Won't you
The barn threshold might have been Plymouth Rock from her
bearing. “I don't doubt you mean well, Mr. Hersey,” said she,
« but there are things people hadn't ought to interfere with. I've
been a member of the church for over forty year.
my own mind an' my own feet, an' I'm goin' to think my own
thoughts an' go my own ways; an' nobody but the Lord is goin'
to dictate to me unless I've a mind to have him.
come in an' set down ? How is Mis' Hersey ? ”
"She is well, I thank you,” replied the minister. He added
some more perplexed apologetic remarks; then he retreated.
He could expound the intricacies of every character study in
the Scriptures, he was competent to grasp the Pilgrim Fathers
and all historical innovators; but Sarah Penn was beyond him.
He could deal with primal cases, but parallel ones worsted him.
But after all, although it was aside from his province, he won-
dered more how Adoniram Penn would deal with his wife than
how the Lord would. Everybody shared the wonder. When
Adoniram's four new cows arrived, Sarah ordered three to be put
in the old barn, the other in the house shed where the cooking-
stove had stood. That added to the excitement.
It was whis-
pered that all four cows were domiciled in the house.
Towards sunset on Saturday, when Adoniram was expected
home, there was a knot of men in the road
the new
barn. The hired man had milked, but he still hung around the
premises. Sarah Penn had supper all ready. There were brown
bread and baked beans and a custard pie; it was the supper
that Adoniram loved on a Saturday night. She had on a clean
calico, and she bore herself imperturbably. Nanny and Sammy
kept close at her heels. Their eyes were large, and Nanny was
full of nervous tremors. Still there was to them more pleasant
excitement than anything else. An inborn confidence in their
mother over their father asserted itself.
Sammy looked out of the harness-room window. « There he
is,” he announced in an awed whisper. He and Nanny peeped
around the casing. Mrs. Penn kept on about her work. The
children watched Adoniram leave the new horse standing in the
drive while he went to the house door. It was fastened. Then
he went around to the shed. That door was seldom locked, even
when the family was away. The thought how her father would
be confronted by the cow flashed upon Nanny. There was
hysterical sob in her throat. Adoniram emerged from the shed,
near
a
## p. 15999 (#345) ##########################################
MARY E. WILKINS
15999
»
and stood looking about in a dazed fashion. His lips moved;
he was saying something, but they could not hear what it was.
The hired man was peeping around a corner of the old barn, but
nobody saw him.
Adoniram took the new horse by the bridle and led him
across the yard to the new barn. Nanny and Sammy slunk close
to their mother. The barn doors rolled back, and there stood
Adoniram, with the long mild face of the great Canadian farm
horse looking over his shoulder.
Nanny kept behind her mother, but Sammy stepped suddenly
forward, and stood in front of her.
Adoniram stared at the group. “What on airth you all down
here for ? ” said he. “What's the matter over to the house ? »
“We've come here to live, father,” said Sammy.
voice quavered out bravely.
« What” Adoniram sniffed “what is it smells like cookin'? )
said he. He stepped forward and looked in the open door of
the harness-room. Then he turned to his wife. His old bristling
face was pale and frightened. « What on airth does this mean,
mother ? ” he gasped.
“You come in here, father,” said Sarah. She led the way
into the harness-room and shut the door. "Now, father,” said
she, “you needn't be scared. I ain't crazy. There ain't nothin'
to be upset over. But we've come here to live, an' we're goin'
to live here. We've got jest as good a right here as new horses
an' cows.
The house wa’n't fit for us to live in any longer,
an' I made up my mind I wa’n’t goin' to stay there. I've done
my duty by you forty year, an' I'm goin' to do it now; but I'm
goin' to live here. You've got to put in some windows and par-
titions; an' you'll have to buy some furniture. ”
Why, mother! ” the old man gasped.
“You'd better take your coat off an' get washed,- there's the
wash-basin,- an' then we'll have supper. ”
"Why, mother! »
Sammy went past the window, leading the new horse to the
old barn. The old man saw him, and shook his head speech-
lessly. He tried to take off his coat, but his arms seemed to
lack the power.
His wife helped him. She poured some water
into the tin basin, and put in a piece of soap. She got the comb
and brush, and smoothed his thin gray hair after he had washed.
Then she put the beans, hot bread, and tea on the table.
>
(
## p. 16000 (#346) ##########################################
16000
MARY E. WILKINS
Sammy came in, and the family drew up. Adoniram sat looking
dazedly at his plate, and they waited.
"Ain't you goin' to ask a blessin', father? ” said Sarah.
And the old man bent his head and mumbled.
All through the meal he stopped eating at intervals, and
stared furtively at his wife; but he ate well. The home food
tasted good to him, and his old frame was too sturdily healthy
to be affected by his mind. But after supper he went out, and
sat down on the step of the smaller door at the right of the
barn, through which he had meant his Jerseys to pass in stately
file, but which Sarah designed for her front house door; and he
leaned his head on his hands.
After the supper dishes were cleared away and the milk-pans
washed, Sarah went out to him. The twilight was deepening.
There was a clear green glow in the sky. Before them stretched
the smooth level of field; in the distance was a cluster of hay-
stacks like the huts of a village; the air was very cool and calm
and sweet. The landscape might have been an ideal one of
peace.
Sarah bent over and touched her husband on one of his thin,
sinewy shoulders. « Father! "
The old man's shoulders heaved: he was weeping.
“Why, don't do so, father,” said Sarah.
"I'll — put up the — partitions, an'— everything you — want,
mother. ”
Sarah put her apron up to her face; she was overcome by
her own triumph.
Adoniram was like a fortress whose walls had no active resist.
ance, and went down the instant the right besieging tools were
used. “Why, mother,” he said hoarsely, “I hadn't no idee you
was so set on 't as all this comes to. ”
(C
## p. 16001 (#347) ##########################################
16001
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
(1806-1867)
M
SILLIS was an American who in tentative literary days, when
the native author had to appeal mostly to British readers,
lent dignity and attraction to the profession of literature in
his land. A man of social gifts and graces, important as editor and
critic, a graceful, pleasing writer of both prose and verse, he was in
his time a power in the native development of letters. One feels
now, in reading his works, that in his rôle
of man of the world he sacrificed still
higher possibilities of accomplishment.
Nathaniel Parker Willis was
a Maine
boy; born in Portland, also Longfellow's
birthplace, January 20th, 1806. He was the
.
son of an editor who founded the Boston
Recorder, and the Youth's Companion of
the same city; and studied at the Boston
Latin School, and at Phillips Academy (An-
dover) preparatory to Yale, where he was
graduated in 1827. Willis gave evidence of
marked literary gift in college, winning the
$50 prize offered for the best poem. Some NATHANIEL P. Willis
of his most popular Biblical pieces were
composed while he was a student. A brilliant future was predicted
for the handsome, winning young collegian. He contributed verse to
his father's newspaper, the Boston Recorder, edited two annuals for
S. G. Goodrich (Peter Parley), and by 1829 had founded and begun to
edit the American Monthly, afterwards the New York Mirror, which
in association with George P. Morris he also edited. These were the
first of many newspaper and editorial connections, among which may
be noted his editorship of the New York Home Journal, a position
held until his death.
Willis's life was a busy and varied one: he made numerous Euro-
pean trips, moved in polite circles, and saw the people worth see-
ing. Many of his pleasant travel books and tourist chronicles sprang
from these experiences. The majority of them partake somewhat of
the character of high-class journalism. In the case of those which
describe, with Willis's characteristic sprightly, picturesque touch, his
XXVII-1001
## p. 16002 (#348) ##########################################
16002
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
meetings with persons of interest in the foreign world of thought,
letters, and society, the writer performs a real service; for these pen
portraits of celebrities now bygone are both enjoyable and valuable
to the social historian. Other writings — like the very charming Let-
ters From Under a Bridge,' describing his summer home Glenmary,
at Owego, N. Y. - mingle humor, wisdom, and literary grace, and
reveal the deeper, more subjective side of the man: they have high
value as
felicitous essay-writing. The following additional prose
books may be mentioned: Pencillings by the Way,' Inklings of
Adventure (1836), Loiterings of Travel (1840), People I Have Met'
(1850), Hurry-graphs) (1851), A Health Trip to the Tropics (1854),
(Famous Persons and Places (1854), “The Convalescent, His Rambles
and Adventures? (1859).
As a poet, Willis makes the impression of a skilled verse-maker,
who wrote agreeable poetry, and now and then did a thing showing
him capable of finer work than the body of his production contains.
His poem to the departing Seniors at Yale had a command of tech-
nique, a seriousness and ideality, remarkable for so young a writer.
In his subsequent career he paid the inevitable penalty of a worldly
life: he failed of his potential highest. But a few of his lyrics, here-
with printed, have a grace, a purity of sentiment, and effectiveness of
diction, which keep them deservedly in the American anthology of
song. Willis's talent too for the narrative and dramatic was decided :
his range was wider than the lyric. In the sacred poems there is
an eloquence of expression, an imaginative sweep. that have given
this work of an immature hand popularity in the poet's own day and
since. Willis in his youth was reared in a most religious atmosphere,
and his poems reflect the influence. They are sincere utterances,
flushed with youth, and not seldom beautiful. Whether as poet or
essayist, Willis had popular qualities that brought him ample recogni-
tion, and that, judged more critically at this present time, are seen to
possess some of the main requisites of good literature.
There was a
good deal below his literary dandyism.
In 1853, Willis purchased the estate of Idlewild, near Newburg on
the Hudson, and here he lived during his final years, dying there in
1867, -- his death, by a coincidence, falling upon his birthday, Jan-
uary 20th.
## p. 16003 (#349) ##########################################
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
16003
WHEN TOM MOORE SANG
From Pencillings by the Way)
“
*M*
(
case.
one.
R. MOORE! » cried the footman at the bottom of the stair.
“Mr. Moore ! ” cried the footman at the top. And
with his glass at his eye, stumbling over an ottoman be-
tween his near-sightedness and the darkness of the room, enter
the poet. Half a glance tells you that he is at home on a carpet.
Sliding his little feet up to Lady Blessington (of whom he was
a lover when she was sixteen, and to whom some of the sweet-
est of his songs were written), he made his compliments with a
gayety and an ease, combined with a kind of worshiping defer-
ence, that was worthy of a prime minister at the court of love.
With the gentlemen, all of whom he knew, he had the frank,
merry manner of a confident favorite; and he was greeted like
He went from one to the other, straining back his head to
look up at them (for, singularly enough, every gentleman in the
room was six feet high and upward); and to every one he said
something which from anyone else would have seemed pecul-
iarly felicitous, but which fell from his lips as if his breath was
not more spontaneous.
Dinner was announced; the Russian handed down «miladi”;
and I found myself seated opposite Moore, with a blaze of light
on his Bacchus head, and the mirrors with which the superb
octagonal room is paneled reflecting every motion. To see him
only at table, you would think him not a small man. His
principal length is in his body, and his head and shoulders are
those of a much larger person. Consequently, he sits tall; and
with the peculiar erectness of head and neck, his diminutiveness
disappears.
Nothing but a short-hand report could retain the delicacy
and elegance of Moore's language; and memory itself cannot em-
body again the kind of frost-work imagery which was formed
and melted on his lips. His voice is soft or firm as the subject
requires, but perhaps the word “gentlemanly” describes it better
than any other. It is upon a natural key; but if I may so phrase
it, it is fused with a high-bred affectation, expressing deference
and courtesy at the same time that its pauses are constructed
peculiarly to catch the ear. It would be difficult not to attend
him while he is talking, though the subject were but the shape
of a wine-glass.
## p. 16004 (#350) ##########################################
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NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
Moore's head is distinctly before me while I write, but I shall
find it difficult to describe. His hair, which curled once all over
it in long tendrils, unlike anybody else's in the world, and which
probably suggested his sobriquet of “Bacchus,” is diminished now
to a few curls sprinkled with gray, and scattered in a single ring
above his ears. His forehead is wrinkled, with the exception of
a most prominent development of the organ of gayety; which,
singularly enough, shines with the lustre and smooth polish of a
pearl, and is surrounded by a semicircle of lines drawn close
about it, like intrenchments against Time. His eyes still sparkle
like a champagne bubble, though the invader has drawn his pen-
cilings about the corners; and there is a kind of wintry red, of
the tinge of an October leaf, that seems enameled on his cheek,
- the eloquent record of the claret his wit has brightened. His
mouth is the most characteristic feature of all. The lips are
delicately cut, slight and changeable as an aspen; but there is a
set-up look about the upper lip, a determination of the muscle to
a particular expression, and you fancy that you can almost see wit
astride upon it. It is written legibly with the imprint of habitual
success. It is arch, confident, and half diffident, as if he were
disguising his pleasure at applause while another bright gleam
of fancy was breaking on him. The slightly tossed nose
firms the fun of the expression; and altogether it is a face that
sparkles, beams, radiates,- everything but feels. Fascinating
beyond all men as he is, Moore looks like a worldling.
This description may be supposed to have occupied the hour
after Lady Blessington retired from the table; for with her van-
ished Moore's excitement, and everybody else seemed to feel that
light had gone out of the room. Her excessive beauty is less an
inspiration than the wondrous talent with which she draws from
every person around her his peculiar excellence. Talking better
than anybody else, and narrating, particularly, with a graphic
power that I never saw excelled, this distinguished woman seems
striving only to make others unfold themselves; and never had
diffidence a more apprehensive and encouraging listener. But
this is a subject with which I should never be done.
We went up to coffee: and Moore brightened again over his
chasse-café, and went glittering on with criticisms on Grisi, the
delicious songstress now ravishing the world, whom he placed
above all but Pasta; and whom he thought, with the exception
that her legs were too short, an incomparable creature. This
con-
## p. 16005 (#351) ##########################################
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
16005
introduced music very naturally; and with a great deal of diffi-
culty he was taken to the piano. My letter is getting long, and
I have no time to describe his singing. It is well known, how-
ever, that its effect is only equaled by the beauty of his own
words; and for one, I could have taken him into my heart with
delight. He makes no attempt at music. It is a kind of admira-
ble recitative, in which every shade of thought is syllabled and
dwelt upon; and the sentiment of the song goes through your
blood, warming you to the very eyelids, and starting your tears,
if you have soul or sense in you. I have heard of women's
fainting at a song of Moore's; and if the burden of it answered,
by chance, to a secret in the bosom of the listener, I should
think, from its comparative effect upon so old a stager as myself,
that the heart would break with it.
We all sat round the piano; and after two or three songs of
Lady Blessington's choice, he rambled over the keys awhile, and
sang When First I Met Thee,' with a pathos that beggars de-
scription. When the last word had faltered out, he rose and took
Lady Blessington's hand, said good-night, and was gone before a
word was uttered. For a full minute after he had closed the
door, no one spoke. I could have wished, for myself, to drop
silently asleep where I sat, with the tears in my eyes and the
softness upon my heart
« Here's a health to thee, Tom Moore! )
DAVID AND ABSALOM
T"
HE pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds
Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air; as glossy now,
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's girls.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid
Reversed beside him; and the jeweled hilt,
## p. 16006 (#352) ##########################################
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NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir. -
A slow step startled him! He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, - and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,
Who left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:-
"Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom !
“Cold is thy brow, my son; and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee.
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, -
Like a rich harpstring, — yearning to caress thee;
And hear thy sweet my father) from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
(
“The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life shall pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung:
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come
To meet me, Absalom !
“And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
## p. 16007 (#353) ##########################################
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS
16007
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death, so like a gentle slumber, on thee;
And thy dark sin! --Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home
My lost boy, Absalom ! »
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hand convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently — and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
