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Title: To A Friend In The City, From Her Friend In The Country
Author: Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow [
More Titles by Bigelow]
By especial request I take up my pen,
To write a few lines to my dear Mrs. N.;
And though nothing of depth she has right to expect;
Yet the will for the deed she will not reject
The task, on reflection, is a heavy one quite,
As here in the country we've no news to write;
For what is to us very new, rich, and rare,
To you in the city is stale and thread bare.
Should I write of Hungary, Kossuth, or the Swede,
They are all out of date, antiquated indeed.
I might ask you with me the New Forest to roam,
But it's stript of its foliage, quite leafless become;
N.P. Willis and rival have each had their day,
And of rappings and knockings there's nought new to say.
Yet do not mistake me, or think I would choose,
A home in the city, the country to lose;
The music of birds, with rich fruits and sweet flowers,
We all in the country lay claim to as ours.
A bird that's imprisoned, I hate to hear sing,
Let me catch its glad note as it soars on the wing;
Its carol so sweet as it's floating along,
It seems the Creator to praise in its song.
With the sweetest of poets I often exclaim,
"God made the country,"--let the pride of man claim
The town with its buildings, its spires, and its domes,
But leave us in the country our sweet quiet homes.
The scenery around us is lovely to view,
It charmed when a child, and at three-score charms too.
Then leave me the country with its birds, fruits, and flowers,
And the town, with its pleasures and crowds, may be yours.
E'en in winter the country has right to the claim
Of charms equal to summer; to be sure, not the same.
See winter, stern monarch, as borne on the gale,
He comes armed cap-a-pie in his white coat of mail;
Behold what a change he hath wrought in one night,
He has robed the whole country in pure spotless white.
He fails not to visit us once every year,
But finds us prepared for him--meets with good cheer,
And a most cordial welcome from all of us here.
When with us he's quite civil and very polite,
In manners most courtly, and dignified quite;
But I'm told were he goes unexpected he's rough,
Chills all by his presence, and savage enough.
Hark, hear how it storms! blowing high and yet higher;
But then we've books, music, and a brilliant wood fire,
Where logs piled on logs give one warmth e'en to see;
Oh! these evenings in winter are charming to me.
In good keeping these logs are with wind and the hail,
Everything in the country is on a grand scale.
You have nought in the city I think can compare,
To the bright glowing hearth from a good country fire.
To be sure, now and then, one is cheered by the sight
Of wood fire in the city, but when at its height
Compared to our fires, Lilliputianal quite.
But here I will stop, for I think it quite time
To have done with my boasting, and finish my rhyme.
M.A.H.T. BIGELOW.
Weston, April 6, 1852.
P.S. And now, my dear friend, it is certainly fair,
Your city advantages you should compare
With ours in the country, let me know what they are.
REPLY: WHICH I AM GRATEFUL FOR PERMISSION TO INSERT
Dear Madam,
Many thanks for your missive so charming in verse,
So kind and descriptive, so friendly and terse;
It came opportune on a cold stormy day,
And scattered ennui and "blue devils" away;
For though in the city, where "all's on the go,"
We often aver we feel only "so so,"
And sigh for a change--then here comes a letter!
What could I desire more welcome and better?
But how to reply? I'm lost in dismay,
I cannot in rhyme my feelings portray.
The nine they discard me, I'm not of their train,
They entreatingly beg, "I'll ne'er woo them again;"
But I'll brave their displeasure, and e'en write to you
A few lines of doggrel, then rhyming adieu.
My errors do "wink at," for hosts you'll descry,
And spare all rebuff, and the keen critic's eye.
I appreciate all of your calm country life,
And feel you are happy as mother and wife;
Surrounded by taste, and the friend so refined,
Who with sterling good sense, loves the delicate mind;
Who with you can admire the "bird on the wing,"
With you welcome back the return of the spring;
Enjoying the promise of fruits and sweet flowers,
With music to cheer and beguile evening hours;
Then long, very long, may such hours be given--
They whisper content, and the foretaste of heaven.
I was born in the city, the city's my home,
Yet oft in the country with pleasure I roam;
For there, I confess, the heart finds repose
In its pleasures and sorrows, which here it ne'er knows.
There no fashion, no nonsense, intrude on your walk,
But rational moments of rational talk,
Asserting that soiries, with jewels and dress,
Make a very small part of life's happiness.
Ah! this I believe, most sincerely I do,
And sympathize freely, most truly with you.
Now Kossuth is coming, pray what's to be done?
No pageant to welcome, to children no fun?
Some "turn a cold shoulder," and look with disdain,
Yet many there'll be who will follow his train.
He's "sure missed a figure," and "bit his own nose,"
Ah, many the thorn he'll find 'mid life's rose.
Then we've concerts, fine readings, museum and halls,
With disputes, and debates, in legislative halls,
Ethiopian Minstrels, Shakesperian plays;
And yet, my dear friend, I'm told in these days,
Religion's blessed joys are most faithfully felt,
With devotion's pure prayers the proud heart to melt;
That many have turned to the straight narrow road,
Which leadeth to peace and communion with God.
To you this assurance a welcome will find,
A subject of vital concern to the mind.
When hither you come, do enter our door,
I'll give you my hand, perhaps something more.
Let me urge, if inclined, to this you'll reply,
I'll again do my best, yes, surely I'll try;
The fair one who brings it ought sure to inspire
Some poetical lay from Genius' sweet lyre.
But Genius repels me, she "turns a deaf ear,"
And frowns on me scornful, the year after year;
Perhaps if I sue, in the "sere yellow leaf,"
She'll open her heart, and yield me relief.
But wayward my pen, I must now bid adieu,
My friendship, dear madam, I offer to you,
And beg with your friends, you'll please place my name,
The privilege grant me of doing the same.
S. NICHOLSON.
Boston, April 16, 1862.
REJOINDER TO THE FOREGOING REPLY
Many, many thanks my friend,
For those sweet verses thou didst send,
So good they were and witty;
And now I will confess to thee,
Mixed up with bad, much good I see
Within the crowded city.
Boston, "with all thy faults I love
Thee still," though much I disapprove--
See much in thee to blame;
Yet to be candid, I'll allow
Thy equal no one can me show
From Mexico to Maine.
It is my boast, perhaps my pride,
To be to English blood allied,
Warm in my veins it's flowing;
And when I see the homage given
To foreign men and foreign women,[1]
That blood with shame is glowing.
I hope when Kossuth fever's cool
And we have put our wits to school,
And sober senses found;
When the Hungarian's out of sight
And shattered brains collected quite,
We may be safe and sound.
But what simpletons, should we choose,
With nought to gain and much to loose,
'Gainst Austria to war;
What greater folly, when we know
By doing this, we'll get a blow
From the ambitious Czar.
But you may not with me agree,
And I am getting warm I see,
So here I bid adieu
To Kossuth and to Hungary,
To Russia and to Germany,
And the great Emperor too.
And now my friend a word I'd say
Before I throw my pen away,
On subject most important;
In doing this I need not fear
I shall offend the nicest ear,
Or strike a note discordant.
Oh! had I true poetic fire,
With boldness would I strike the lyre
So loud that all might hear;
But ah! my harp is tuned so low,
Its feeble strains I full well know
Can reach no distant ear.
Yet I rejoice that harps on high,
And voices of sweet harmony,
Are raised to bless the name
Of Him who sits upon the throne,
Rejoicing over souls new born,
Who soon will join with them,
Eternally His name to adore
Who died, yet lives forevermore.
Weston, May 8, 1852.
[1] By this I do not mean to include all foreigners, for some of them I consider among the very best of our population, but dancers, &c., &c.
[The end]
Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow's poem: To A Friend In The City, From Her Friend In The Country
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