Long before Iris had reached that age, she was the wife of a young Maryland engineer, directing some of the vast constructions of his native State,--where he was growing rich fast enough to be able to decline that famous Russian offer which would have made him a kind of nabob in a few years.Iris does not write verse often, nowadays, but she sometimes draws.The last sketch of hers I have seen in my Southern visits was of two children, a boy and girl, the youngest holding a silver goblet, like the one she held that evening when I--I was so struck with her statue-like beauty.If in the later, summer months you find the grass marked with footsteps around that grave on Copp's Hill I told you of, and flowers scattered over it, you may be sure that Iris is here on her annual visit to the home of her childhood and that excellent lady whose only fault was, that Nature had written out her list of virtues an ruled paper, and forgotten to rub out the lines.
One thing more I must mention.Being on the Common, last Sunday, Iwas attracted by the cheerful spectacle of a well-dressed and somewhat youthful papa wheeling a very elegant little carriage containing a stout baby.A buxom young lady watched them from one of the stone seats, with an interest which could be nothing less than maternal.I at once recognized my old friend, the young fellow whom we called John.He was delighted to see me, introduced me to "Madam," and would have the lusty infant out of the carriage, and hold him up for me to look at.
Now, then,--he said to the two-year-old,--show the gentleman how you hit from the shoulder.Whereupon the little imp pushed his fat fist straight into my eye, to his father's intense satisfaction.
Fust-rate little chap,--said the papa.--Chip of the old block.
Regl'r little Johnny, you know.
I was so much pleased to find the young fellow settled in life, and pushing about one of "them little articles" he had seemed to want so much, that I took my "punishment" at the hands of the infant pugilist with great equanimity.--And how is the old boarding-house?--I asked.
A 1,--he answered.--Painted and papered as good as new.Gabs in all the rooms up to the skyparlors.Old woman's layin' up money, they say.Means to send Ben Franklin to college.Just then the first bell rang for church, and my friend, who, I understand, has become a most exemplary member of society, said he must be off to get ready for meetin', and told the young one to "shake dada," which he did with his closed fist, in a somewhat menacing manner.And so the young man John, as we used to call him, took the pole of the miniature carriage, and pushed the small pugilist before him homewards, followed, in a somewhat leisurely way, by his pleasant-looking lady-companion, and I sent a sigh and a smile after him.
That evening, as soon as it was dark, I could not help going round by the old boarding-house.The "gahs" was lighted, but the curtains, or more properly, the painted shades; were not down.And so I stood there and looked in along the table where the boarders sat at the evening meal,--our old breakfast-table, which some of us feel as if we knew so well.There were new faces at it, but also old and familiar ones.--The landlady, in a wonderfully smart cap, looking young, comparatively speaking, and as if half the wrinkles had been ironed out of her forehead.--Her daughter, in rather dressy half-mourning, with a vast brooch of jet, got up, apparently, to match the gentleman next her, who was in black costume and sandy hair,--the last rising straight from his forehead, like the marble flame one sometimes sees at the top of a funeral urn.--The Poor Relation, not in absolute black, but in a stuff with specks of white; as much as to say, that, if there were any more Hirams left to sigh for her, there were pin-holes in the night of her despair, through which a ray of hope might find its way to an adorer.
--Master Benjamin Franklin, grown taller of late, was in the act of splitting his face open with a wedge of pie, so that his features were seen to disadvantage for the moment.--The good old gentleman was sitting still and thoughtful.All at once he turned his face toward the window where I stood, and, just as if he had seen me, smiled his benignant smile.It was a recollection of some past pleasant moment; but it fell upon me like the blessing of a father.
I kissed my hand to them all, unseen as I stood in the outer darkness; and as I turned and went my way, the table and all around it faded into the realm of twilight shadows and of midnight dreams.
And so my year's record is finished.The Professor has talked less than his predecessor, but he has heard and seen more.Thanks to all those friends who from time to time have sent their messages of kindly recognition and fellow-feeling! Peace to all such as may have been vexed in spirit by any utterance these pages have repeated! They will, doubtless, forget for the moment the difference in the hues of truth we look at through our human prisms, and join in singing (inwardly) this hymn to the Source of the light we all need to lead us, and the warmth which alone can make us all brothers.
A SUN-DAY HYMN.
Lord of all being! throned afar, Thy glory flames from sun and star, Centre and soul of every sphere, Yet to each loving heart how near!
Sun of our life, thy quickening ray Sheds on our path the glow of day;Star of our hope, thy softened light Cheers the long watches of the night.
Our midnight is thy smile withdrawn;
Our noontide is thy gracious dawn;
Our rainbow arch thy mercy's sign;
All, save the clouds of sin, are thine!
Lord of all life, below, above, Whose light is truth, whose warmth is love, Before thy ever-blazing throne We ask no lustre of our own.
Grant us thy truth to make us free, And kindling hearts that burn for thee, Till all thy living altars claim One holy light, one heavenly flame.
End
