University of Virginia Library

LETTER FROM MARGARET TO ANNA JONES.

My dear Anna:—You told me to write you everything; but
how shall I utter myself? How can I give shape or definition to
what I am? Easy were it for me to tell you what I am not. Has
a volcano burst within me; has a tornado prostrated me? If you
were to excavate the Herculaneum that I seem to myself to be,
would you find only the charred semblance of life, the skeletons
of old emotions, the very slaves of my hopes stricken down in
the act of running away? With Rose, I would forget myself,
that to which this writing recalls. She says I can endure the
prospect better than she. If this be so, it must be attributed
to its possessing the merit of novelty. I am in ruins, and so
are all things about me. Yet in the windfall some trees are
new-sprouting; invisible hands are rebuilding the shattered
edifice. View me as you will, I think I am somewhat improving.
Do I begin existence wholly anew, or rise I up from the
fragments of an earlier condition? What is the transition—
from myself to myself, or from myself to another? What is
the link between Molly Hart and Margaret Brückmann, can
you tell? In which of the climacterics do I now exist? I am
witheringly afflicted. Chilion is not!

The vision of those days distracts me, the remembrance of my
brother turns the voices of the birds into wailing, and the sun
is pale at mid-day. In Scotland are deep caverns, where invisible
streams of water make subterranean melodies. They are
called Caves of Music. I am such a Cave. Chilion flows
through me, a nethernmost, mournfulest dirge. Then, too, Ma
is so silent, her features are so rigidly distressed. She smokes
and weaves, hour by hour—I fear she will never smile again.
Pa has lost the glow of his countenance; he has grown absolutely
pale; and where he sits working, I see tears drip on his
leather apron. Hash is so sober, so soft, it frightens me.
Nimrod comes down from the Ledge, and does his best to
enliven us, but his gayety has fled, and he knows not how to
be mournful. Bull had one leg broke at the time of Chilion's
trial, and hopples out to Chilion's boat, where he sits by the
hour. Rose is soothing and active, but she has a load at her
own heart, which in truth I need help her bear. Isabel comes
up almost every day, full of sympathy and generous love. Deacon
Ramsdill, Master Elliman, Mrs. Bowker and others have
made us some kind visits. Sibyl Radney comes down, and milks
the cow, and does some of my other little chores. Yesterday,
Rose and Isabel went with me to the Burying Ground. Good
old Philip Davis, the Sexton, came one night, so I have been
told, and neatly covered Chilion's grave with green sod. It is
by itself apart, in one corner of the grounds. Few persons
have gone near it, and the tall yellow grass has grown rank
about it. I threw myself upon it and dissolved in weeping.
Murmur I could not, an inarticulate, ungovernable anguish
was all I could feel. O my brother! I knew not I had such
a brother, I knew not I loved such a brother! We found a
dandelion budding on it—when I was little he taught me to
love dandelions! Rose folded me in her arms, Isabel prayed
for me. I thought of the blood-sweating agony of Him, the
Divine Sufferer; it penetrated and subdued mine. Mrs.
Bowker gave me a lady's slipper taken from the plant Chilion
sent her. There is a fancy that flowers die, when those who
have tended them do. Will Chilion's flowers live? there are
many of us who will fulfil his love towards them.

We live at home as we were wont to do, only Rose is ever
with me. I share with her my bed in the garret. I love the
old house, more than all places, and what matters it? I seem
to myself to be deep as our own bottomless Pond. The Indian
and his child lie there; in me the last of many ages and
races of hope and life seem to have perished. Clamavi de
profundis. Yet, yet, the sun swims through me, and I hear
Jesus walking on the troubled waters above. “Peace, be
still;” yes, be still. How sadly does suffering make us conscious
of ourselves. I knew not that I had any depth. Now
shaft opens into shaft, and the miners are still at work.—I
hear my chickens peeping, and I must go feed them. Rose
comes in from a sail on the water with Bull. Her beautiful

smile greets me afar. Thanks, dear Anna, for yourself,
thanks for your flowing hair, your blue, brimming eyes, for
your royal spirit that daily visits me. Your brother Frank
was immeasurably good to us. He has written Rose, who
blesses him in her own soul, if she can in no other way. She
will write him.

I had a melancholy commission to execute at No. 4, on behalf
of Chilion. Since the death of Solomon, Mr. Smith's
affairs have gone on disorderly. The Still took fire one night
and was consumed. He himself drinks to intoxication every
day, and I did not see him. Mrs. Smith and Damaris were
taken wholly unprepared by my errand. The idea of forgiving
Chilion had never entered their heads. And indeed it
would not restore Solomon to life! I showed them the willow
basket Chilion wished me to give them. Damaris cried, and
we all cried. At length she said she would forgive Chilion,
if I would forgive her for striking me when they were digging
in the Pines. How complicate is our life! When I came
away I made them a present, small for me, but large perhaps
for them. I offered also to put up a monument for Solomon.
But, ah's me! I have since been told, Mr. Smith declares it
shall recite the fact that he was murdered by Chilion, or he
will have it done himself. Can it not be avoided? Yet I will
submit.

In the town the greatest excitement prevails. They cannot
decide about rebuilding the Church. Then, Isabel says, there
is a preliminary and deeper question. Some are anxious that
Parson Welles should have a colleague, and they also stipulate
that he shall be a very different man from their old minister.
On the one side are Judge Morgridge, Deacon Ramsdill,
Esq. Bowker, Esq. Beach, Esq. Weeks, Mr. Whiston, Mr.
Pottle; and on the other, Deacon Hadlock, Mr. Adolphus
Hadlock, Deacon Penrose, Dr. Spoor, Mr. Gisborne, Mr.
Shooks; among the more prominent ones. All these persons
I believe I spoke to you about, in answer to your world-wide
inquiries, a point in which you excel any one I ever knew. I
have not been to the Green, or Desert, as Isabel says it is.