University of Virginia Library

VIII.
A Home Scene.

AND now I shall not leave this realm of boyhood,
or suffer my hero to slip away from this gala
time of his life, without a fair look at that Home where
his present pleasures lie, and where all his dreams begin
and end.

Little does the boy know, as the tide of years drifts
by, floating him out insensibly from the harbor of his
home, upon the great sea of life,—what joys, what
opportunities, what affections, are slipping from him
into the shades of that inexorable Past, where no man
can go, save on the wings of his dreams. Little does
he think—and God be praised, that the thought does
not sink deep lines in his young forehead!—as he leans
upon the lap of his mother, with his eye turned to her,

in some earnest pleading for a fancied pleasure of the
hour, or in some important story of his griefs, that such
sharing of his sorrows, and such sympathy with his
wishes, he will find no where again.

Little does he imagine, that the fond Nelly, ever
thoughtful of his pleasure, ever smiling away his griefs
—will soon be beyond the reach of either; and that the
waves of the years which come rocking so gently under
him, will soon toss her far away, upon the great swell
of life.

But now, you are there. The fire-light glimmers
upon the walls of your cherished home, like the Vestal
fire of old upon the figures of adoring virgins, or
like the flame of Hebrew sacrifice, whose incense bore
hearts to Heaven. The big chair of your father is
drawn to its wonted corner by the chimney side;
his head, just touched with gray, lies back upon its
oaken top. Little Nelly leans upon his knee, looking
up for some reply to her girlish questionings. Opposite,
sits your mother; her figure is thin, her look
cheerful, yet subdued;—her arm perhaps resting on
your shoulder, as she talks to you in tones of tender
admonition, of the days that are to come.

The cat is purring on the hearth; the clock that
ticked so plainly when Charlie died, is ticking on
the mantel still. The great table in the middle of the
room, with its books and work, waits only for the

lighting of the evening lamp, to see a return to its
stores of embroidery, and of story.

Upon a little stand under the mirror, which catches
now and then a flicker of the fire-light, and makes
it play, as if in wanton, upon the ceiling, lies that big
book, reverenced of your New England parents—the
Family Bible. It is a ponderous square volume, with
heavy silver clasps, that you have often pressed open
for a look at its quaint old pictures, or for a study of
those prettily bordered pages, which lie between the
Testaments, and which hold the Family Record.

There are the Births;—your father's, and your
mother's; it seems as if they were born a long time
ago; and even your own date of birth appears an almost
incredible distance back. Then, there are the
marriages;—only one as yet; and your mother's maiden
name looks oddly to you: it is hard to think of her as
any one else than your doting parent. You wonder if
your name will ever come under that paging; and
wonder, though you scarce whisper the wonder to yourself,
how another name would look, just below yours
—such a name for instance, as Fanny,—or as Miss
Margaret Boyne!

Last of all, come the Deaths—only one. Poor
Charlie! How it looks?—`Died 12 September 18—
Charles Henry, aged four years.' You know just how
it looks. You have turned to it often; there, you seem

to be joined to him, though only by the turning of a
leaf. And over your thoughts, as you look at that
page of the record, there sometimes wanders a vague
shadowy fear, which will come,—that your own name
may soon be there. You try to drop the notion, as if
it were not fairly your own; you affect to slight it, as
you would slight a boy who presumed on your acquaintance,
but whom you have no desire to know. It is a
common thing, you will find, with our world, to decline
familiarity with those ideas that fright us.

Yet your mother—how strange it is!—has no fears
of such dark fancies. Even now, as you stand beside
her, and as the twilight deepens in the room, her
low, silvery voice is stealing upon your ear, telling you
that she cannot be long with you;—that the time is
coming, when you must be guided by your own judgment,
and struggle with the world, unaided by the
friends of your boyhood. There is a little pride, and a
great deal more of anxiety in your thoughts now,—as
you look steadfastly into the home blaze, while those
delicate fingers, so tender of your happiness, play with
the locks upon your brow.

—To struggle with the world,—that is a proud
thing; to struggle alone,—there lies the doubt! Then,
crowds in swift, upon the calm of boyhood, the first
anxious thought of youth;—then chases over the sky of
Spring, the first heated, and wrathful cloud of Summer!

But the lamps are now lit in the little parlor, and
they shed a soft haze to the farthest corner of the
room; while the fire light streams over the floor where
puss lies purring. Little Madge is there; she has
dropped in softly with her mother, and Nelly has
welcomed her with a bound, and with a kiss. Jenny
has not so rosy a cheek as Madge. But Jenny with
her love notes, and her languishing dark eye, you think
of, as a lady; and the thought of her is a constant drain
upon your sentiment. As for Madge—that girl Madge,
whom you know so well,—you think of her as a sister;
and yet—it is very odd,—you look at her far oftener
than you do at Nelly!

Frank too has come in to have a game with you at
draughts; and he is in capital spirits, all brisk and
glowing with his evening's walk. He,—bless his honest
heart!—never observes that you arrange the board
very adroitly, so that you may keep half an eye upon
Madge, as she sits yonder beside Nelly. Nor does he
once notice your blush, as you catch her eye, when she
raises her head to fling back the ringlets; and then,
with a sly look at you, bends a most earnest gaze upon
the board, as if she were especially interested in the disposition
of the men.

You catch a little of the spirit of coquetry yourself—
(what a native growth it is!) and if she lift her eyes,
when you are gazing at her, you very suddenly divert

your look to the cat at her feet; and remark to your
friend Frank, in an easy, off-hand way—how still the
cat is lying!

And Frank turns—thinking probably, if he thinks at
all about it, that cats are very apt to lie still, when they
sleep.

As for Nelly, half neglected by your thought, as
well as by your eye, while mischievous looking Madge
is sitting by her, you little know as yet, what kindness—what
gentleness, you are careless of. Few loves
in life, and you will learn it before life is done, can
balance the lost love of a sister.

As for your parents, in the intervals of the game, you
listen dreamily to their talk with the mother of Madge
—good Mrs. Boyne. It floats over your mind, as you
rest your chin upon your clenched hand, like a strain
of old familiar music,—a household strain, that seems
to belong to the habit of your ear,—a strain that will
linger about it melodiously for many years to come,—
a strain that will be recalled long time hence, when
life is earnest and its cares heavy, with tears of regret,
and with sighs of bitterness.

By and by your game is done; and other games, in
which join Nelly (the tears come when you write her
name, now!) and Madge (the smiles come when you
look on her then.) stretch out that sweet eventide of
Home, until the lamp flickers, and you speak your friends

—adieu. To Madge, it is said boldly—a boldness put
on to conceal a little lurking tremor;—but there is
no tremor in the home good-night.

—Aye, my boy, kiss your mother—kiss her
again;—fondle your sweet Nelly;—pass your little
hand through the gray locks of your father;—love
them dearly, while you can! Make your good-nights
linger; and make your adieus long, and sweet, and
often repeated. Love with your whole soul,—Father,
Mother, and Sister;—for these loves shall die!

—Not indeed in thought:—God be thanked!—
Nor yet in tears,—for He is merciful! But they shall
die as the leaves die,—die as Spring dies into the heat,
and ripeness of Summer, and as boy-hood dies into the
elasticity and ambition of youth. Death, distance, and
time, shall each one of them dig graves for your affections;
but this you do not know, nor can know, until
the story of your life is ended.

The dreams of riches, of love, of voyage, of learning,
that light up the boy-age with splendor, will pass on
and over into the hotter dreams of youth. Spring buds
and blossoms under the glowing sun of April, nurture
at their heart those firstlings of fruit, which the heat
of summer shall ripen.

You little know,—and for this you may well thank
Heaven—that you are leaving the Spring of life, and
that you are floating fast from the shady sources of

your years, into heat, bustle, and storm. Your dreams
are now faint, flickering shadows, that play like fire-flies
in the coppices of leafy June. They have no rule, but
the rule of infantile desire. They have no joys to
promise, greater than the joys that belong to your
passing life; they have no terrors, but such terrors as
the darkness of a Spring night makes. They do not
take hold on your soul, as the dreams of youth and
manhood will do.

Your highest hope is shadowed in a cheerful, boyish
home. You wish no friends but the friends of boy-hood;—no
sister but your fond Nelly;—none to love
better than the playful Madge.

You forget, Clarence, that the Spring with you, is
the Spring with them; and that the storms of Summer
may chace wide shadows over your path, and over
their's. And you forget, that Summer is even now,
lowering with its mist, and with its scorching rays, upon
the hem of your flowery May!

—The hands of the old clock upon the mantel,
that ticked off the hours when Charlie sighed, and
when Charlie died, draw on toward midnight. The
shadows that the fire-flame makes, grow dimmer
and dimmer. And thus it is, that Home, boy-home,
passes away forever,—like the swaying of a pendulum,
—like the fading of a shadow on the floor!