The Manchester journal. [volume] (Manchester, Vt.) 1861-current, 1868-11-10

ing those oi Philip whitney, aud Ian
eiod that She picture might have
connection with the poet, and said, by
way oi saying something.
Il see you got time for some read
ing. Miss Conness. Is Whltney your
iavorite poet =
She did not answer me at once, but
after a little said. softly. Yes, he is my
fayorite poet indeed, to me there isno
other You would not dream that thro'
all these hard. working years. in which
have grown OLD amidst suffering and
care, and become harsh and apparent
ly unfeeling. that in my heart blooms a
garden Of perpetual beauty and light
and love tnat no circumstances Of fate
can disturb, and to whose fragrance and
freshness ] am never weary Of turning !
/ rarely talk Of il, but tonight It will
do me good 10 talk it all over and to
dream Of IT. II may be difficult for you
TO believe that l was once called beau
tifnL Ny iriends--you know Of them,
at least are wealthy and aristocrauc,
and even 50 long ago as when i was
young, girls were educated and accom-
plished, and had every advantage that
could be desired had suitors from
the best and most influential families.
But the only one l ever loved or cared
for beyond common friendship, was
Philip Whitney. To me he was the
embodiment OF all manliness, tender
ness, and gentleness. But he was pen
niless, and my father forbade my throw
ing myself away upon poor, shiftless,
lazy writer of rhymes >"
Having been trained in the rigid
Puntanic manner, | had no courage to
violate my fathers will, and to be O
dowerlees wife to my penniless lover
would only be like clipping the wings
Of my song-bird. But how loved him
loved him not jealously or selfshly,
for | would have given him my souls s
salvation for inspiration to his song, or
my body as stepping-stone to his ad-
yancement. ANY thing, everything, for
Phillips sake, was the one anthem and
refrain Of my whole being.
"But he was as poor as he was proud,
and sensitive as he was gifted My
fathers rejection OF his advances, and
positive contemptuous treatment, unit
ed with my own determination not to
burden him with myself, unless by mar
riage | could materially aid him, touch
ed his pride, and he left me, bitterly
say ng the time would come when the
namo Of Whitney would be prouder
one than ever that OF Conness had been
aud the poor, shiftless writer Of rhym es
would win the name Of Poet.
HE went away, and / have never
seen him since The silence that came
Of his absence became unsupportable,
Fortune deserted my fathers Golfers,
and he, dying soon after, left me free
to work for my living or accept the
proifered support Of wealthy friendse
/ chose the former, and placed myself
where ths demands of duty and neces-
city would drown with their whirr and
ACTIVITY the regret and sorrow thai
would otherwise have room to grow.
"Phihp-that was the name / called
him in those beautiful days--is grea
poet now. gathered his poems as
they appeared in papers and magazines
as so many pulsations of his heart tha
| could feel. / learned them and coun
them over in my speech as a nun fling.
ers the beads Of rosary, Every wore
and line and stanza have a meaning
that none other sees as | do. | see The
light ofhis eyes and the glow of his face
hear the sound Of his voice, feel tn
clasp Of his hand, as / saw, heard anC
felt them in those beautiful days--oh
those beautiful days. He must hav,
gray hairs now-not SO gray ar mine
fancy and he has wife, and children
and home, and fame, and friends
while l am poor, and lone, AM
old. Yet, l would not give the memo
ry of that short, brief splendor anC
passion Of his love for me for all tha
the world giveth;" and burying be
face in the printed poems she gave wa
to quiet weeping. 1t was no time fo
words, aud, rising, ! passed noislessl
from the room, leaving the faded an,
worn creature TO dream of the lov
whose glow still animated her heart.
Since then l never hear the name q
Whitney or his poems mentioned, bu
there instantly arises the image Of tina
woman IN whose heart is distilled th
sweetness aud beauty Of every SOM
the great poet has sung ng-the womal
whose love IS greater, more noble, NOR
ine1haustible than the poems the worlr
applauds--the woman fallhfld eUea un
u death.