Poems (Denver)/In Memoriam
IN MEMORIAM.
IN MEMORIAM.
The twin-sisters, Mary Caroline and Jane Campbell Denver, were born near Winchester, Frederick County, Va., on the 8th of February, 1821. Their parents sprang from that immigration which poured from the north of Ireland into Pennsylvania and Virginia during the latter part of the eighteenth century; and it was a thought which always awakened, in the minds of the subjects of this sketch, a pardonable pride and enthusiasm, that they had an ancestry to whom "Liberty was the breath of life."
The extreme loveliness of the region lying between the Blue Ridge on one side, and a spur of the Alleghanies on the other—the summits of both which could be seen from their home—no doubt had its influence on minds naturally open to impressions and imaginations always strongly excited by the grand and beautiful in nature. When they were about ten years of age, the family removed to a farm near Wilmington, Ohio, but not before these Daughters of Song—as they were destined to prove—had drunk in many an inspiration from the lovely valleys, winding streams, and cloud-capped mountains of the Old Dominion. These memories, united to an ardent love of their Southern home, served as themes for lays of heart-music in after years, and to beguile the solitary hours of life in a comparatively new country. From their father (who had been an officer in the war of 1812—retiring immediately after to an agricultural life—a man of varied information, enlightened judgment, and unblemished honor) they inherited a passion for reading, and although their educational advantages were, in the common acceptation, somewhat limited, yet, perhaps they were of the best; for, among the treasures brought from Virginia was a fine collection of the works of standard authors. History, Politics, Religion, Poetry, Romance, contributed to form these minds and tone them to a far higher intelligence than is usually found,—especially in a home where "no simplest duty was forgot." It was pleasant, indeed, to sit, on a winter's night, round their cheerful family hearthstone, "with blazing logs piled high," and while enjoying the delicious apples and cider, nuts and cakes—true country cheer—listen to the genial flow of conversation! The well-told tale, the merry jest, the ready quotation, the quick repartee, the enlivening song, all lent their charm; and many there are, who will remember with a sigh—so far down time's vista seem these sunny spots in life, and so thickly since have shadows intervened—the hospitality of that old homestead. Indeed, it was proverbial the country round, and often did the walls ring with music and merriment in those happy days, when, with family ties unbroken, sickness infrequent, and death—as all hoped—in the far-off future, life seemed almost a pleasure-chase! During all this time, though leading lives of active usefulness, the sisters, Mary and Jane, found leisure to cultivate the poetic talent with which they were endowed,—the former commencing to write, at the early age of eleven years, a poem commemorative of her regret at leaving the beautiful "Selma," round which clustered her most delightful recollections. From this time until her health failed, she wrote rapidly and without effort, as water flows from the mountain-spring—because it was her nature and delight. Her sister began to write some years later in life, with less of ease but perhaps more vigor of expression, and to both this gift was a source of unspeakable happiness. The trees of the forest, the "voice of waters," and the "delicate indwellings" of their own spirits were their teachers; and many a song of the affections, many a tribute to glorious deeds and scenes of historic interest, from their pens, found way into the literary periodicals of the day, and were always favorably received. There was so great a similarity in character between them, that in thought, feeling, purpose, they were one, and in affection they were twin-souls as well as sisters. With no ostentatious display of this,—seldom even alluding to the peculiar tie which united them—yet so did their every word and act manifest it, that the prediction was often made that one could never survive the other's loss. They were truthful, natural, generous,—intuitively shrinking from all ignoble motives or actions. A happy gayety was theirs, although tempered by a sweet seriousness, as if it were "not all of life to live,"—and of either it might aptly have been said:
And she has a grace in being gay, that even mourners approve,
For the root of some grave earnest thought is understruck so lightly
As to justify the foliage and waving flowers above."
Their personal resemblance was extraordinary. A classic head, dark wavy hair, a pure white brow, where goodness sat enthroned, eyes of changeful hue, from bluish gray almost to hazel, clearly-cut features and sweet smiling mouth, would describe either; and often a "Comedy of Errors" was enacted when both were present at some festive scene. The following is a laughable illustration of this: An admirer of one sister startled the other, by a declaration of affection which she knew was not intended for her. In vain she endeavored to check the ardent wooer. "You are certainly mistaken, sir,—it cannot be I to whom you would say this,—do you not wish to see my sister?" "No," was the easy reply, "I cannot distinguish you, at any rate, and it is no matter." The mistake was reported by the victim himself.
And now changes gradually come to the household,—daughters marry—sons go out to battle with the world, and it is the "Old Home" no longer. The failure of Jane's health at length, following all these changes, produced a saddening effect upon her own and her sister's mind,—an indefinable longing for something they as yet possessed not. They began to realize that "The immortal mind craves objects that endure." Especially did these things weigh upon the mind of Mary, who felt the approaching gloom of a great sorrow, and turned almost unconsciously for strength to a higher power. For, it needed not even love's quick instincts to detect, in the wasting strength, the unnatural brightness of the eye, the hectic cheek and the hollow cough which had fastened upon her loved one, that they must part erewhile. Alas! what sure premonitions! In the early morning of December 7th, 1847, the dreaded messenger came, and in the glory and maturity of womanhood, the pure spirit of Jane C. Denver fled from earth, leaving behind her the stricken one of whose very existence she seemed an essential part. How she bore up under the weight of this affliction is best described in her own words to a friend who arrived just after the sad event. "She has left me," she said, "and I, too, should have died, but Jesus stood by me through all the fearful night!" This from one who was neither visionary nor superstitious,—though from childhood possessing a strongly religious element of character,—but whose soul had, doubtless, during the terrible ordeal of that night, cried out in strong agony, to the Compassionate One, who never yet refused such an appeal, or failed to recognize the incense of true worship,—and thereafter, over her already excellent life, fell a new charm, "the beauty of Holiness." Her grief was intense, though very quiet, "showing itself only in the softer footfall, the added tenderness of voice, the gentler sympathy, the warmer pity with which she bound up the broken-hearted." She could not, for years, speak of the departed, nor did any approach a subject so sacred to her; yet she was, evidently, always uppermost in her thoughts. The old delightful employment of embodying in song the emotions of the heart and experiences of life, ceased to interest her, and was not resumed until towards the close of her own life, when, with sorrow sanctified by religion, she wrote, perhaps, some of the sweetest gems which ever emanated from her pen. Among these are the "River Echo" and the "Ring Doves," the latter written during a final visit to her native place and under a strong conviction that she should see it no more.
Shortly after her sad bereavement it became evident that her own health was rapidly declining, and a long-cherished desire to visit the home of her childhood was carried out. Again she breathed the air of the mountains, and new strength was, for a time, infused into her feeble frame. She greeted each remaining tree and shrub as friends parted from but yesterday, and recollected and described each house in the neighborhood—a proof of her wonderful memory, which was so retentive, that fugitive poems, which had struck her fancy when a child, she could repeat entire, a score of years after, never having seen them in the interval. During this visit she made a public profession of her faith—circumstances having hitherto prevented—by connecting herself with the Presbyterian Church of Winchester, under the pastoral charge of Rev. Dr. A. H. H. Boyd, one of the most eminent ministers of the South, who said, on hearing of her death, "She was one of the most remarkable persons I ever met,—possessed of rare piety." She remained in Virginia eighteen months, passing through a severe illness towards the close of her visit, and returning home a confirmed invalid. The remainder of her life was a period of great suffering, but it was then that the piety, which was the center-jewel of the crowning graces of her character, shone brightest. She strove to make the outer life a counterpart of the inner. Spending much of her time with a married sister who resided a mile from the church, every Sabbath found her, when at all able to go, in her seat in the Sanctuary. It did not hinder her that she was compelled to pause every few minutes on the way, unable to proceed, from a paroxysm of coughing. Suffering for years from this grievous cause, scarce knowing an hour's respite, by day or by night, no murmur ever escaped her. She was accustomed to say, "The disciple must not be above his Lord." She never uttered an impatient word or gave a hasty look. Every-day annoyances—the real trials of life, because unanticipated—the "continual dropping," which is more wearing than the violence of misfortune, were met by her with sweet serenity. She "died to self." "Her heart was a passion-flower, bearing the crown of thorns and the cross of Christ." Next to God, her heart was given to her country, and it is remarkable that her last desire in reference to it was fulfilled so literally. Civil war in the United States was apprehended and in conversation upon the subject, some time before her death, she said, earnestly, with the upward glance so habitual to her—"It is my prayer, always, that I may be in my grave before civil war begins in my country." Her last summer was spent in visiting some of her loved friends—"parting visits" they proved to be, the last and longest being made to a sister living in Harveysburg, Ohio, where she remained until her death. Few who were her companions that summer, can forget the happy expression of her face—her unusual joyousness! She seemed not to be treading on earth, but looking into heaven, watching for the "chariots of Israel and the horsemen thereof!" Their coming was not long delayed. A little past midnight on the 16th of October, 1860, her departure took place. She had retired to rest, feeling better than usual, but being suddenly seized with hemorrhage, had only time to alarm the family, when her
It lapsed in immortality."
