Part 38

NOVEMBER.

BY REV. HENRY WARD BEECHER.

We often hear people say, “O, the dreary days of November!” The days of November are never dreary, though men sometimes are. There are things in November that make us sad. There are suggestions in it that lead us to serious thoughts. At that season of the year, we are apt to feel that life is passing away. After the days in summer begin to grow short, I cannot help sighing often; and, as they still grow shorter and shorter, I look upon things, not with pain, but with a melancholy eye. And when autumn comes, and the leaves of the trees drop down through the air and find their resting-places, I cannot help thinking, that life is short, that our work is almost ended. It makes me sad; but there is a sadness that is wholesome, and even pleasurable. There are sorrows that are not painful, but are of the nature of some acids, and give piquancy and flavor to life. Such is the sorrow which November brings. That month, which sees the year disrobed, is not a dreary month. I like to see the trees go to bed, as much as I like to see little children go to their sleep; and I think there is nothing prettier in this world than to see a mother disrobe her child and prepare its couch, and sing and talk to it, and finally lay it to rest. I like to see the birds get ready for their repose at night. Did you ever sit at twilight and hear the birds talk of their domestic matters,--apparently going over with each other the troubles and joys of the day? There is an immense deal to be learned from birds, if a person has an ear to hear. Even so I like to see the year prepare for its sleep. I like to see the trees with their clothes taken off. I like to see the lines of a tree; to see its anatomy. I like to see the preparation God makes for winter. How everything is snugged and packed! How all nature gets ready for the cold season! How the leaves heap themselves upon the roots to protect them from the frosts! How all things tender are taken out of the way, and only things tough are left to stand the buffetings of winter! And how do hardy vines and roots bravely sport their bannered leaves, which the frost cannot kill, holding them up clear into the coldest days! November is a dreary month to some, but to me it is only sad; and it is a sweet sadness that it brings to my mind.

MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY EVE.

BY REV. JOHN PIERPONT.

Day, with its labors, has withdrawn. The stars look down from heaven, And whisper, “Of thy life are gone Full seventy years and seven!”

While those bright worlds, by angels trod, Thus whispering round me roll, Let me commune with thee, my God! Commune with thee, my soul!

Thou, Father, canst not change thy place, Nor change thy time to be. What are the boundless fields of space, Or what are years to Thee?

But unto me, revolving years Bring change, bring feebler breath; Bring age,--and, though they bring no fears, Bring slower steps, pain, death.

This earthly house thy wisdom plann’d, And leased me for a term, The house I live in, seems to stand On its foundation firm.

I hardly see that it is old; But younger eyes find proof Of its long standing, who behold The gray moss on its roof.

Spirit! thou knowest this house, erelong, To kindred dust must fall. Hast thou, while in it, grown more strong, More ready for the call

To meet thy Judge, amid “the cloud Of witnesses,” who’ve run Their heavenward race, and joined the crowd, Who wreaths and crowns have won?

Hast thou, in search of Truth, been true? True to thyself and her? And been, with many or with few, Her honest worshipper?

E’en truths, wherein the Past hath stood, Wouldst thou inherit blind? They’re good; but there’s a better good,-- The power more truths to find.

And hast thou occupied that power, And made one talent five? If so, then peaceful be this hour! Thou’st saved thy soul alive.

Hast thou e’er given the world a page, A line that thou wouldst blot, As adverse to an upward age? God knoweth thou hast not!

Giver of life and all my powers, To thee my soul I lift! And in these lone and thoughtful hours, I thank thee for the gift.

Day, with its toil and care withdrawn, Night’s shadows o’er me thrown, Another of my years is gone, And here I sit alone.

No, not alone! for with me sit My judges,--God and I; And the large record we have writ, Is lying open by.

And as I hope, erelong, to swell The song of seraphim, And as that song the truth will tell, My judgment is with Him.

Spirit! thy race is nearly run. Say, hast thou run it well? Thy work on earth is almost done; How done, no man can tell.

Spirit, toil on! thy house, that stands Seventy years old and seven, Will fall; but one, “not made with hands” Awaiteth thee in heaven.

THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES.

BY HER GRANDDAUGHTER.

I had a great treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a remarkable woman in many respects. She was the daughter of a planter in South Carolina, who, at his death, left her and her mother free, with money to go to St. Augustine, where they had relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War, and they were captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to different purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother used to tell me. She was sold to the keeper of a large hotel, and I have often heard her tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as she grew older, she evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful, that her master and mistress could not help seeing it was for their interest to take care of such a valuable piece of property. She became an indispensable person in the household, officiating in all capacities, from cook and wet-nurse to seamstress She was much praised for her cooking; and her nice crackers became so famous in the neighborhood that many people were desirous of obtaining them. In consequence of numerous requests of this kind, she asked permission of her mistress to bake crackers at night, after all the household work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided she would clothe herself and the children from the profits. Upon these terms, after working hard all day for her mistress, she began her midnight bakings, assisted by her two oldest children. The business proved profitable; and each year she laid by a little, to create a fund for the purchase of her children. Her master died, and his property was divided among the heirs. My grandmother remained in the service of his widow, as a slave. Her children were divided among her master’s children; but, as she had five, Benjamin, the youngest, was sold, in order that the heirs might have an equal portion of dollars and cents. There was so little difference in our ages, that he always seemed to me more like a brother than an uncle. He was a bright, handsome lad, nearly white; for he inherited the complexion my grandmother had derived from Anglo-Saxon ancestors. His sale was a terrible blow to his mother; but she was naturally hopeful, and she went to work with redoubled energy, trusting in time to be able to purchase her children. One day, her mistress begged the loan of three hundred dollars from the little fund she had laid up from the proceeds of her baking. She promised to pay her soon; but as no promise, or writing, given to a slave is legally binding, she was obliged to trust solely to her honor.

In my master’s house very little attention was paid to the slaves’ meals. If they could catch a bit of food while it was going, well and good. But I gave myself no trouble on that score; for on my various errands I passed my grandmother’s house, and she always had something to spare for me. I was frequently threatened with punishment if I stopped there; and my grandmother, to avoid detaining me, often stood at the gate with something for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to her for all my comforts, spiritual or temporal. It was her labor that supplied my scanty wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress given me every winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one of the badges of slavery. While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard earnings, the three hundred dollars she lent her mistress was never repaid. When her mistress died, my master, who was her son-in-law, was appointed executor. When grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate was insolvent, and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however, prohibit him from retaining the silver candelabra, which had been purchased with that money. I presume they will be handed down in the family, from generation to generation.

My grandmother’s mistress had always promised that, at her death, she should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good the promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the faithful old servant that, under existing circumstances, it was necessary she should be sold.