Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1877-02-13
An Old House and the New.

There is something in an old house
that can never be in new one. The
new one may be handsomer, it may have
higher ceilings and broader panes OF
glass, medieval mantelpiece and
French paper on the walls and Persian
rugs. You may be proud of it, but you
loved the old hOuse-the dear old place,
almost as old as the great trees at the
door. A tall man could touch the cell
ings with his palm, and the great man
telpieces were stiff and ugly but there,
in the fire Light, used to sit once upon q
time, the old grandmother with her
knitting, while the children climbed on
her knee and she told them stories of her
youth.
Out of that window-the little win
dow with the diamond panes-she had
looked to see her young husband coming
home after long days hunt, flushed
with exercise, bright and handsome
There lay the great red deer he had shot; !;
yonder the dogs were ksnnelled-the
great brown eyed dogs.
One of their race then unborn, some
times stands beside her as she tells these
tales, old and blind and toothless, and
there are no deer now. Yes, up that
road she had ridden herself, q gay young
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husbands house full of hope and Joy
There her babes had been born, grown
to be men and women and gone forth.
Out Of the door went at last her hus-
hands long funeral train, and nothing
was left her of her life but its memories.
There she sat thinking and knitting,
telling the old stories. How could she
be so content, the young people often
thought.
The tall clock stood in the hall and
licked as it had done for seventy years.
In the glass cupboard stored sacr-
ed tea service with gilt edges and silver
teapot that had been wedding present.
"Fox's Martyrs and the "Pilgrim's
Progress" were in the bookcase and the
big Bible on the stand, and there were
black profiles of chOked-loolzing gentle
man and ladies, with wondrous puffs on
their heads, on the walls; up in the bed
rooms were rag carpets and high post
beds and chests of drawers and long
presses. How many heads had rested
on those pillows? What happy dreams
had been dreamed, what bitter tears
shed!
And down in the parlor, with its hard,
upright sofa, guests, with strange dull
ness of which no one dreamed, had been
entertained, and lovers had wooed and
won, and doubtless there had been little
tragedies, such as go on between lovers
through all the generations. Story after
story has told itself in the old house.
They are not all happy ones, but they
make the old house different from new
one. Memories lurk in the very walls;
and who shall say that the spirits of those
who lie at rest in the old churchyard
yonder, under tombstones on which
moss has grown, do not sometimes fit
through it-unseen but felt-bringing
softened emotions and tender recollec-
tions as they pass?
The very trees In the garden are not
as other trees. They have their stories.
Under this first kiss was taken under
that hands met in an eternal parting.
Down in the orchard is baby's grave
tho baby would be fifty years old if he
lived to-day-but only little while ago
his mother sat there and shed a tear over
it.
The new house is fine and costly and
modern, but there is no poetry in it, and
there will not be until at least two gen.
erations have made it an old house and
haunted it with sweet ghosts, as they
did the old one.