THEY THICKEN ON our path,
These silent witness years;
A solemn tenantry, that still land hath
Wherein were spent our bygone smiles and tears;
Graven on their secret tablets silently,
Stand deed, and thought, and word,
Beyond the touch of change or soft decay,
‘Stablished perpetually before the Lord!
* * * * *
Season of labour, time of hope and fear, Kind to our households let thy varyings be; With thee we give a sigh to the Old year, And do rejoice us in the New with thee. — Y.S.P.
TEN years have passed away, and again it is a fireside scene that we have to depict, and a fireside conversation we have to chronicle. The room we now stand in is large and pleasant, and bright with the radiance of merry faces — faces of every age and size, but all marvellously alike in features, as in happiness, from the grave seniors down to the crowing baby, through all the gradations of stature and sobriety that crowd around that well-spread table. The assembly is too large, and the children too near each other in age to allow you to think them all members of one household; and two fathers half checked, half encouraged the merry crowd, and two mothers took sweet counsel together, praising each other’s little ones, and exchanging domestic experiences with each other. We must try and find in these merry faces the traits of those we have known before. Let us see whom we have before us. A man of goodly presence is the elder; grave, it seems, habitually, but with a smile that is like a sunbeam, and which has an electrical effect in the saddest house it beams in; and many, many houses of sorrow does it see, and many mourners are cheered by the words of hope and comfort that flow from these sympathising lips; for you will see, if you look at his apparel, and mark his manner, that he holds a high vocation, no less than a labourer about that glorious vine which has the Eternal Father for its husbandman; a labourer, one who, like the bee, seeks honey from every flower, and from his pulpit, and standing by beds of suffering, and in the dark, close, and foetid haunts of sin, seeks to have souls for his hire as the labour of his life and the joy of his existence. No mere Sabbath day worker in his pulpit, but one that never tires, that is always ready, and almost always with his harness on his back; like a good knight of the olden time, prompt to succour the distressed. The lady too, who sits beside him, has about her a gentle dignity that is akin to his; but with her blooming cheek and bright eye we can boast no old acquaintance, though when she lays her white hand on his arm and calls him “Halbert,” we are half ashamed to say so much of Halbert Melville’s wife.
But on the other side of the fire sits a younger lady, with a calm air of matronly self-possession, which almost sets our memory at defiance; it is true that her face looks so youthful in its eloquent expressiveness that, but for that copy of it that shines at her knee, through the fair straggling locks of a little merry girl, you might fancy her still the Mary of ten years ago; but in the silent depths of her dark eyes sits such serene and assured happiness, at once so calm, and deep, and full, as makes one sure this cannot be the disconsolate inhabitant of you dim chamber, weeping in her sleep in the first agony of womanly woe. Yet so it is, and lightly have these ten swift years — long, oh, how long and dreary to many — flown over her, effacing so entirely everything but the remembrance of those passages in her history from her mind, that when she looks back now upon that troubled time, she half smiles, half blushes for her old self, and reckons of her brief but agonising trial, as sick men recall to their memories the terrible dreams of some delirious fever fit. For Mary Melville has found entire and perfect kindred in the heart of one whom then she little recked of and cared not for, and she wonders now how she, ever the object of Charles Hamilton’s warm and full affection, could have overlooked his nobler qualities, and preferred instead Forsyth’s deceptive and hollow brilliancy, and the glitter of well-displayed accomplishments, which threw the blushing youth into the shade. And the blushing youth of our last chapter blushes no longer when he speaks to Mary, nor has his bashfulness been seen, Halbert says, for nine long years and more; never since one bright autumn evening, when Mary and he surprised Christian in her solitude by the whispered communication of an important agreement come to between them, and which was carried into effect, ratified and sealed, on the following new year’s day, fulfilling, in the most joyous manner, old Ailie’s dream. At this transaction Halbert’s presence was indispensable, albeit he was again, after Christian’s kind persuasions and James’s spirited remonstrances had shamed their father into liberality, finishing the long forsaken studies so disastrously interrupted of old, with a vigour and ardour that was unquenchable. True, he did not come to James’s wedding when it took place; but Christian, and Mary, and Charles Hamilton were each and all immovable in their demands; they could not do without Halbert, and so he was present at the ceremony, exciting Charles’s wrathful contradiction, and Christian and Mary’s curiosity, by hinting merrily of another Mary, whose presence would throw the bride of to-day into the shade, though no one at that blithe bridal looked on Mary Melville with more affectionate admiration than her brother Halbert. And lo! when the time of Halbert’s study and probations was over, and Providence had so ordered that the place of his ministry should be the same as that of his birth, and the dwelling-place still of his nearest and dearest kindred, then came about another bridal, and the name of Mary Melville was resuscitated, though Mrs. Charles Hamilton’s proud husband would never allow that the old bearer of the name was equalled by the new.
But there is no rivalship between the sisters — sisters in affection as much as in name — and the children, whose fair heads have sprung up like flowers beside and about them, are like one family in their cordial intercourse. But where is Christian? Our enquiry is echoed by half-a-dozen merry voices. “Where can Aunt Christian be?” There will be no need to ask the question a moment hence, if indeed we can discern our old friend through the pyramid of children that are clustering about her; the little girl that stood by Mary’s knee has left for Aunt Christian, and now stands on a chair beside her, with her round arms about her neck, and her rosy face beaming on her shoulders; the sturdy boy who leant on Halbert’s chair has left that place of honour for Aunt Christian, and he stands proudly at her right hand as prime minister, helping at the distribution of the great basketful of new year’s dainties — for this is again the first night of another year — which she has brought to gladden these youthful hearts. The whole host of her nephews and nieces, absorbed a moment since in their various amusements, have left them all for Aunt Christian, and are gathered about her, one clinging round her waist and one hanging at either arm, greatly impeding the action of her gift-dispensing hand. Sure enough here is Christian, how blithe! how happy! Time has dealt gently with her, and though he has drawn a thread of silver through the rich dark abundance of her plainly braided hair, there is not one in this room that would not start up in indignant surprise, if you said that Christian was either looking or growing old.
“Nay, nay,” said Halbert, not long ago, when some indifferent friend of the family suggested this, “Christian will never grow old. When years come upon her, she will glide away like a streamlet into a river, but she will not fade. Christian’s spirit will always be young.”
And so it is; her soft clear voice stills all that little childish hubbub in a moment. The very baby stays its scream of joy, as if it too would listen to Aunt Christian, and little Mary on her shoulder, and strong Halbert at her right hand, and every separate individual of their respective hosts of brothers and sisters would dare in single-handed valour any full-grown Goliath that would presume to interrupt the expression of Aunt Christian’s pleasure, pleasant as it always is. It is a great day this, with these two united families. A day of childish jubilee to the younger members, and of joyful commemoration to the older, for Halbert looks back with glistening eyes, and rejoices in the union of ten years ago, a beginning of happy, laborious years to him; and Mary remembers her early trial, and thanks God most earnestly for deliverance, and participates with her husband in the happier recollections of their marriage day; and the other Mary, with generous affection, sympathises with each and all; and Christian? Christian’s heart, open at all times to generous impulses, seems to have its sluices of overpouring and constant love thrown wide open for the free passage of its swelling tides, each new year’s night, and if you heard her fervent thanksgiving when she kneels before God alone, you would think that flood of blessings had been all poured out upon her, not that its fulness had flowed upon her friends, but that she herself was the individual recipient of every separate gift. For Christian identifies herself with those dear ones so entirely, that she looks upon their happiness as a peculiar blessing bestowed upon herself. Christian has, however, now seated herself in the empty chair waiting for her — jealously kept for her, indeed — at the brightest corner of the cheerful fireside, and taking a little namesake of her own, a grave, serious, thoughtful child, who has begun to lisp wisdom already with her infant tongue, upon her knee, she joins in the conversation which her entrance, and still more her equitable distribution of the basket of good things had interrupted, “Father,” questioned Halbert Melville, second bearer of the name, “do you keep new years day because it is new year’s day?”
“Why do you ask, Halbert?” said his mother, smiling, as she drew the boy towards her.
“Because, Mamma, nobody else cares about it here; and I’ve heard Aunt Christian say how foolish it was for people to keep their birthdays, as if they were glad that time was going away from them, people that don’t use their time well either,” moralised Halbert, looking earnestly in his mother’s face, “and isn’t new years day just the same as a birthday and—” the boy hesitated and seemed unwilling or unable to say more.
“And what, Halbert,” said Christian, as the boy paused and looked down, “and what — what was it you were going to say?”
“I don’t know, Aunt Christian,” hesitated Halbert, “I don’t know whether it’s right or not, but shouldn’t we be rather sorry when the new year comes, than glad that the old year has ended?”
“And why sorry, Halbert?” said his father, who had hitherto been listening in silence, “why do you think we should be sorry?”
“Because, father,” said Halbert, quickly, raising his eyes, “because you said in your sermon last Sabbath, that when once a year was gone, if we had not spent it well, it was entirely lost for ever, for we could never bring a minute back again.”
“And therefore you think we should be sorry, do you, Halbert?” rejoined his father.
“Yes, father,” was the answer, and again young Halbert’s face was cast down, “for you say often that nobody spends their time well, or as right as they should do.”
The elder Halbert did not answer, but he took little Christian, who had been gazing with her large eloquent eyes at every one that spoke in turn, and had attended diligently and earnestly to the unusual conversation, upon her aunt’s knees. “Well, little one, do you think we should be sorry when the new year comes?”
“I think we should be both sorry and glad, papa,” was the prompt answer.
“Well, Christian, Halbert has told us why we should be sorry; now do you tell us what it is we should be glad for.”
There was a murmur among a little knot at a corner of the table, and a half-suppressed laugh before Christian had time to answer her father’s question.
“Who is that? what is it that makes you so merry?” said Halbert, smiling and shaking his head at the merry urchins, who were congregated in a group.
“It’s only our Halbert, uncle, it’s only our Halbert,” whispered little Mary Hamilton, deprecatingly.
“Well, Mary, we are impartial to-night, so we must hear what our Halbert has to say; come here, sir.”
And Halbert Hamilton, the wildest little rogue that ever kept nursery in an uproar, or overcame nurse’s patience, or conquered her heart by his feats of merry mischief, half hid himself below the table in pretended fear and dismay at his uncle’s summons, and did not stir.
“Come, Halbert,” said Mary, his mother, as Charles drew his incorrigible son into the middle of the little circle, “what did you say over there?”
Halbert the third looked down and blushed, and then laughed outright.
“He only said we should be glad when the new year comes, because we have plenty of fun.” interposed Mary Melville, her wild cousin’s constant defender and apologist.
“Quite right, my boy,” said the elder Halbert, laying his hand kindly on the boy’s head, “the coming of plenty of fun is a very good and proper thing to be glad for; but sit you down now, and let us hear what little Christian has to say.” And Halbert sat down at his uncle’s feet to listen.
“Well now, Christian, what should we be glad for? Is it because there is plenty of fun, as Halbert says?”
“No, papa,” said the little, grave girl, seriously, shaking her head solemnly, “no, it is not that. I think it’s because we have another to be good and do right in. Isn’t that it, Aunt Christian?”
And the little girl looked over to her aunt inquiringly, to see if her childish conclusion was a correct one.
“Just so, my dear,” was Aunt Christian’s answer, as Halbert patted the child’s soft cheek, and then permitted her to make her way over to her accustomed seat.
The children were gathered now about their parents’ knees, and even wild Halbert Hamilton was silent and attentive. “Yes, children,” said the kind father and uncle, as he looked round upon them, “yes, children, there is a better reason for being glad than even having plenty of fun. There is a new year to be good in, as little Christian says, a new year to live and learn in. It is true that, perhaps, you may not see its end; but, nevertheless, it is the beginning of a new year with many opportunities, both of doing and receiving good, and therefore we should be glad, and we should ask God to make us His faithful servants, loving Him and keeping His commandments all through this year, and if God does that you may be sure this will be a very happy new year to us all. Well, Halbert,” he continued, turning to his son, who was back again by Aunt Christian’s side, “has little Christian satisfied you?”
Halberts face and conscience were both quite cleared; it was right to be glad on a new year’s day, and he got a promise that that night he should hear some of the many things which had happened on former new years’ days, and had made that day a special anniversary in the family; and besides, the relation of these things was to be committed to Aunt Christian, therefore Halbert was quite satisfied. And then the seniors closed round the fireside, and all the children — with the exception of Halbert Melville and Mary Hamilton, the eldest of the two families, who hang by Aunt Christian still — sought more active amusement in the farther corners of the room, and recollections of those bygone years became the long lingered on subject with Halbert, Charles, Christian, and the two Marys; and they looked back with half-wondering gaze upon the past, as men look through the wondrous glass of science on the clear outline of some far distant shore, of which the human dwellers, the fears and hopes, the loves and sorrows, which people the farther sides of the blue slopes that yet linger in their view, have all faded from their retiring vision.
But then comes a distant shout from the lobby into which some of the children have strayed in their play, of “Uncle James! Uncle James!” and here he is. Older, of course, yet looking much as he looked in the old times; though we must whisper that the bridegroom whom we saw some fourteen or fifteen years ago at the commencement of this story, has now, at its conclusion, become a portly gentleman; in good sooth, most unsentimentally stout, and with a look of comfort and competence about him, which speaks in tones most audibly, of worldly success and prosperity. A good man, too, and a pleasant, he is, with the milk of human kindness abounding in his heart; as such Mr. James Melville is universally considered and honoured, though with scarcely so large a heart as his brother the minister, nor so well mated. It is true, Mrs. James, since she found out who her friend of ten years ago was; and Mary’s reasons for rejecting what seemed so good a match, and the failure, the utter failure of her party on that new year’s night in consequence; has grown wonderfully careful, and begins to discover that there are pleasanter things in life, than the collecting together a dozen or two of people to be entertained or wearied according to their respective inclinations, and her fireside has grown a much more cheerful one always, though for a few nights in the year less brilliant than heretofore; and her husband’s quotations of “Christian” have grown less disagreeable to her ears, though still she sometimes resents the superiority which everybody accords to her. James is always welcomed in his brother Halbert’s house, and never more warmly than on New Year’s night; for Elizabeth does not accompany him on these annual occasions; and even that loving circle feel relieved by her absence at such a time, for the conversation generally runs upon certain remembrances which she would not like to hear; and which none of them would like to mention in her presence. So James sits down and joins them for awhile in their recalling of the past; and little Halbert Melville gazes at his father in open-mouthed astonishment, as he hears him speak of being the cause of unhappiness and sorrow to Aunt Christian and Aunt Mary, and to Uncles James and Robert, and his grave old grandfather who died two years ago. His father — and Halbert would have defied anybody but that father’s self. Yes! even Aunt Christian, if she had said such words as these — his father cause unhappiness and sorrow to anybody! — his father, whom old Ailie, still a hale and vigorous old woman, and chief of Christian’s household, and prima donna in Mary Melville’s nursery, had told him was always as kind and good to everybody all through his life as he was now! Halbert could not believe it possible. And little Mary Hamilton’s eyes waxed larger and larger, in amazement, as Aunt Christian spoke of her mother — her mother whom she had never seen without a smile on her face, being at that infinitely remote period before any of them were born, most unhappy herself; yes, very unhappy! Mary would have denied it aloud, but that she had too much faith in Aunt Christian’s infallibility, to doubt for an instant even her word. This night was a night of wonders to these two listening children.
But the time passed on, and Uncle James — while yet the other little ones were engaged in a merry game, chasing each other throughout all the house, from the glowing kitchen, clean and bright, up to the nursery where old Ailie presided in full state and glory — must go. Elizabeth was unwell; and he felt it was not seemly to be from home, loth and reluctant as he was to leave that fireside and its loving circle. So Uncle James prepared to go home; and down rushed again the whole merry band, deserted Ailie, even in the midst of one of her old-world stories, to bid him good-night; and thus environed by the little host with shouts as loud as had welcomed his arrival, Uncle James went away home.