USA > Maryland > Biographical sketches of distinguished Marylanders > Part 24
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Wreaths and garlands of rare flowers, together with the suggestive laurel-leaves, were sent as a last tribute from friends even so far away as Italy. The casket in which his body was placed, was borne by S. Teackle Wallis, A. J. H. Way, W. T. Walters, Arthur Quartley, John W. McCoy, Frank B. Mayer, B. F. Newcomer, Edwin F. Abel, Edward G. McDowell, Hugh Sisson, John R. Cox and G. II. Hunt.
The funeral services were performed at the West- minster Presbyterian Church. A memorial address was made by the pastor, the Reverend D. C. Marquis. Here is a portion of it :
" There is much to always be learned from the record of an earnest, laborious, honorable life. It is both
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pleasant and profitable to dwell upon the history of one who has achieved greatness, eminence and an honorable fame by the force of natural genius, directed by patient, persevering, untiring labor:
" Lives of great men all remind us We may make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints in the sands of time."
I could wish that some one better qualified than my- self had undertaken the task of paying a worthy tribute to the memory of Rinehart. For his is a name that belongs not to Baltimore alone, nor to Maryland, nor to America, but to the world. I shall not attempt to assign his niche in the Temple of Fame, or to give him his true place or rank among the devotees of art. I know too little of such matters to presume to speak concerning them with understanding or authority. Neither do I feel called upon to describe his personal character, to extol his virtues or to excuse his faults; for, not having had the honor and the pleasure of his acquaintance during life, I could not speak from personal knowledge, and therefore would prefer to lay all personality aside.
There are some things of a more general character, however, which I can with propriety say on this occasion. I shall say them for the benefit of the living as well as in honor of the dead.
The brief but brilliant career of Rinehart is a proof that excellence is the result of labor. The old Latin proverb "Nulla excellentia sine lalore" is a lesson that needs to be impressed upon the young men of this gen- eration. Some whom God has blessed with native talent rely upon their genius, and failure tells them of their error when too late to apply the remedy. Others sup- posing that excellence is altogether due to the casy
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flights of genius, and acknowledging their own defi- ciency in this regard, settle down content with medi- ocrity, omitting all earnestness of effort, never rousing their energies to the struggle.
But here was a man who carved his way to the front rank in his profession by earnest, patient, unremitting labor. His native talent was undoubtedly of the highest order. His genius pointed the way and gave form and shape to the bright ideal that became the goal to which he struggled to attain. But after all, the secret of suc- cess, the subtle charm that lifted him above discourage- ment and made him superior to defects, was simply hard work. The man who has a genius for faithful, honest work will make his name known and his influence felt by his generation. It is patient, persevering, enduring labor that makes men great.
The beautiful creations of the sculptor's chisel are the monuments that perpetuate his fame. But you and I, no less truly than he, are rearing monuments that shall live as specimens of our handiwork after we are gone. The influence we exert, the power we wield for good or ill, the impress we leave upon the character, and the touch that gives direction to the lives of those around us or those who are coming after us-all these are monuments that will speak for us or against us when we ourselves are cold in death. Let us see to it, then, that every influence of ours shall tend to the creation of shapes of moral beauty that shall minister pleasure to all beholders. No matter what may be our position or profession, the influence we exert will live after us. We can make it appear in form more beautiful than the most perfect figures of marble or of bronze, for we can be the instruments in reproducing the likeness of Christ, and of fitting immortal souls for the companionship of heaven.
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The busiest life, the life that seems most important and that has most work before it, is no security against the approach of death. Here was a man who, by long years of patient labor, had just attained that position where he could accomplish most in his profession. In the prime of life and with the period of most effective work before him, he must lie down and die. The world feels the loss, especially in that higher realm of art where the few are privileged to walk. But here are scores of busy men from all the walks of professional and commercial life-some just struggling up to a posi- tion of effective usefulness, and others with standing fairly won are prepared to accomplish more in the years to come than has been achieved in all the past. But are you prepared for all the possible contingencies of the journey ? Have you counted on the probability of death ? Man of thirty, forty, fifty years, have you met this ques- tion and settled it for yourself? Don't imagine your life to be so important that it must last until you think your work is done. Get ready for death and you are ready for anything. Get ready for death and you are already more thoroughly equipped for life's work. For that man only is prepared to live who is well prepared to die.
" Life is real, life is earnest, And the grave is not its goal, ' Dust thou art, to dust returnest' . Was not spoken of the soul."
Until an appropriate resting-place should be chosen, Rinehart's remains were placed in the family vault of Mr. W. T. Walters; one of his earliest friends and bene- factors. Here in the "shadow of his own beautiful art creations," they left him in the chill of a winter's day. Here, " Love reconciled with Death," keeps silent and unbroken vigilance over the dead. The flowers which
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we drop upon a grave are testimonies of love or respect due to the doer of good deeds, and faithful work on earth. Many who are hurrying onward towards the final goal, seeing these flowers, may stop and ponder- and a few will learn.
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THE DYING GIRL TO HER LOVER. A SONG.
rNoo late, ah! dearest one, too late, Thou comest to thine own again ; Alas! to die is my sad fate, Why, why must bliss thus end in pain ? They parted us-ah ! doom too sure To leave me thus in grief to pine ! Thy fondness now can ne'er restore This pale and wasted form of mine.
But better thus at life's last hour, To know that thou dost love me still, Than linger on, a fa led flower, Touched by a blight that could not kill. Fast fade those features, dear, of thine, No more I mark thy anxious eye, Then press thy warm sweet lips to mine, And let me thus in rapture die.
GEORGE HAY RINGGOLD,
United States Army.
THE AUTHOR OF "EMILY CHESTER."
NNE MONCURE CRANE was born in the City of Baltimore, January 7th, 1838. She was the daughter of William Crane, au emi- nent merchant of that city. The great-great- great-grandfather of William Crane was Jasper Crane, who settled in Newark, New Jersey, in 1666. He was afterward made first Magistrate of the City of Newark. His only son was Azariah Crane, who married Mary Treat, the daughter of Governor Robert Treat, who, in the well-known Charter Oak affair, withstood Sir Ed- mund Androas. The mother of Anne Moncure Crane was a member of the Stone family. The founder of this family in Maryland was the Honorable William Stone, the third Governor of the Province, and a supporter of the policy of Lord Baltimore during the usurpation of Cromwell. Thomas Stone, the grandson of Governor William Stone, and the youngest of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, was the grandfather of Mrs. Crane and the great-grandfather of Anne Moncure Crane. Miss Crane was a woman of strong features, luxuriant hair, and dark eyes. Her mouth, though large, wore a pleasant and intelligent expression. Her face indicated by its force somewhat of the capability as well as the intensity of her nature. Under the
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guidance of the Reverend N. A. Morrison her education was mainly directed.
She graduated in the year 1855. When about twenty years of age, in 1858, she began the story of Emily Ches- ter. Urged on and sustained by a certain inspiration, she completed the work that won her first reputation as an author. When finished, the novel was put quietly away, nor was the manuscript produced for publication until five years had gone by. The story of "Emily Chester " was published by Messrs. Ticknor & Fields, without other greater recommendation than its own words, the representatives of an intellectual vigor only half revealed. "In a short space of time ten editions were required. In addition to these, four rival editions were brought out in England-while a translation, pub- lished at Leipzic, met with a most appreciative reception from the countrymen of Goethe."
Of this work Mrs. Forrester says : " It was published without a word of preface to give the least hint of the whereabouts of the author, and was not covered with the pall of 'Great Southern Novel,' as is usually the mode in which novels by Southern writers are an- nounced."
The opening scenes of this book, and some that are most interesting, are placed in Maryland. It has been said that the characters are drawn from life. Whether they be drawn from individual lives or otherwise, they are delineated with a bold and masterly hand, equal to the task. In "Emily Chester," the author is said to have idealized herself. "Certainly," exclaimed a friend of that writer, " the glorious hair that crowned the head of Emily Chester belonged to Anne Crane." The Hon. George II. Hilliard concludes a review of the book in these words :
"From the first chapter the author seizes the atten-
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tion with the strong grasp of Genius, and holds it unbroken to the last. And when the end comes we lay the book down with a sort of sigh of relief at the relaxation of fibers stretched to a painful degree of tension."
Gail Hamilton tells us that she does not know that American novel-literature has produced any other work of the kind.
When the author of this book was discovered to be Miss Crane, her companionship was sought and culti- vated by many who, owing to her student-life of seclu- sion, had scarcely known of her existance before. So does talent raise its possessor above the level of less gifted mortals.
In November of 1867, "Opportunity-A Novel by the Author of Emily Chester," was given to the world. This, too, is a Maryland story. The added experience of several years, a profounder thought and wider knowl- edge gained thereby, marks this book more as a child of the brain than of the heart.
The freshness of a first strong effort wins and holds the attention in the story of Emily Chester that speaks to and of the heart rather than the brain. When Paul Hayne, the poet, tells us of the heroine of " Oppor- tunity," that "she is little more than a girl in years, but her heart and intellect are strangely precocious," we are strongly reminded of the author of " Emily Chester," of whom the same words might have been written.
On the 23d of September, 1869, Miss Crane became the wife of Mr. Agustus Seemüller, a wealthy merchant of New York, a gentleman of intelligence and culture. For three years after her marriage Mrs. Seemüller re- sided in' the city of New York. In April, of the year 1871, her third book saw the light. It was entitled " Reginald Archer." It was written in New York
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while the great sad life of that wonderful city surged about her lesser life then near to its goal. In reply to a friend who asked: "What could have induced you to write such a book?" She answered, "Since I have lived in New York, I have learned of such fearful things, that had I not written this book, the very stones would have cried out against me !" This book has met with much censure, and in some cases has been wholly condemned as in.moral. It must be admitted that the general tone of this book would seem to be rather demoralizing than elevating in its tendencies. Yet it was, doubtless, the purpose of the writer to give only " the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." The faithful writer is as a missioner to the world. Those darker sins that blast the hope and peace- fulness of life, and damn souls for eternity, we should be taught to hate and fear. Yet the beantiful things that God has given should be more frequently and brightly portrayed, to lead us from the lower paths upwards. " Reginald Archer" contains some sweet truths as well as bitter ones. It would have been better, perhaps, had the bitterer ones been left more to the imagination-some pure minds and hearts might thus be saved from a hateful knowledge not otherwise learned.
Here are a few extracts from "Reginald Archer;" they are selected by one who, turning the leaves, takes from this and that what " seemeth to me the best."
"There is another aspect of the subject, which Christ glorified forever when he took little children in his arms and blessed them : and it seems, at times, that we would do well to take our own childhood in our arms, and let it bless us; going back to those innocent early days when we were both good and glad."-Page 1.
" It is not David, poet and singer of Israel, not Solo-
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mon, wisest of men, not Moses, prince, hero and law- giver, but it is Jacob, who loved one woman, and served for her fourteen years, which 'were but as a single day for the love that he bore her ;' whose tenderness and devotion increased down to old age; who cherished her children after her as he did nothing else in existence ; and who, as his own end drew near, passed over the events of his life to talk of Rachel, and her death and burial. His love for her seems the one flower and bloom of his nature, gaining a strange beauty and strength from the very barrenness of the remainder of his being. His faults were many; but recalling that rare example of faithful devotion, which still lives fair and lovely in the world's heart and recollection, verily, women, at least, should judge him leniently and tenderly."- Page 7.
These words of Annie Crane's are assuredly drawn from a depth of pure inspiration. Could the writer of them have purposed aught, save what is good! "He was not a romantic man ; he had no idea of passing for a hero; not the least intention of doing or saying fine things, or putting them into well-sounding sentences ; but as he walked doggedly up the street, with his head down and his hat half over his eyes, bitterly arguing the case with himself, he was fighting upon the most terri- ble of battle-grounds-and that on which we contend with invisible forces, that on which souls, not bodies, are slain. This conflict comes to the noblest and truest as surely as to the feeble and degenerate ; and we learn from it that virtue means literally manhood-the power to fight; to struggle, and even to die, rather than weakly and basely surrender our natures to foes without or within. According to the measures of our defeat or victory, we stand before our consciences and our God : we know that we are cowards and weaklings, or brave,
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true men and women. There is no reversing this deci- sion to ourselves or to others. It stands fatally recorded against us."-Page 71.
" I sometimes wonder that women ever cease praying. To me there is no truer touch of genius in that inimi- table story of 'The Newcomes,' than where the author speaks of Laura Pendennis as 'engaged where pious women ever betake themselves in moments of doubt, of grief, of pain, of separation, of joy even, or whatsoever other trial. They have but to will, and, as it were, an invisible temple rises around them; their hearts can kneel down there, and they can have an audience with the great, the merciful, the untiring Counsellor and Consoler."-Page 98.
A few months after the publication of this work the author departed with her husband to Europe. Her perfect knowledge of the languages and literature of Germany, France and Italy, doubly endeared to her those far-off lands. Her health having become enfee- bled she was taken to the baths of Ems and Baden, and finally to the city of Stuttgart, Wurtemberg. This quaint capital of "old romance," with its lordly castle, its grim walls, its vineyards and gardens lies in the valley of the Neckar. We can imagine the soothing influence of such a scene upon the heart of the weary invalid ; the breeze, that to others was only a breeze, may have been laden for her with strange whispers from those shadowy old ruins, that looking down on the men of to-day are as the silent monitors of a past time; and the Neckar, that Suabian stream that, with a heart full of stories, hurries on to the Rhine, may it not have sent to her mur- murs of its own that her watchers could not under- stand ? Although the genial climate and the waters of the Kaunstadt are noted for their curative properties the fatal disease could not be arrested. Vain were the
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efforts of mortals against the power of Death, which is only subservient to that greatest Power-the Omnipo- tent God.
Anne Crane Seemüller died on the 10th day of De- cember, 1873. Mr. Augustus Seemüller, the husband of the novelist, died of heart disease at Paris, France, September the 25th, 1875.
One who is near to her in ties of kinship and love thus writes of Anne Crane Seemüller :
" Her life was a quiet domestic one, with very little of change or incident in it; but her vivid imagination, extended reading, intense love of music, and above all, the deep religious feeling which pervaded her whole life are shown in the books upon which she lavished so much of her short earthly existence."
If we would have the work of our life judged by justest judges and critics, let us choose rather those who look at the intention before the result. The action is the motive-power to the intention, both combining towards the result, which does not, alas! always achieve the purpose desired by the worker. For the want of per- fection, perhaps, in all its parts, the union is incomplete, and so the work does not move onward in the tri- umphant manner dreamed of by the doer of the work, whatever it may be. Another comes who remodels and makes more nearly perfect the whole, fulfilling the design of the original architect-following the inten- tion and accomplishing the result, and this one gains the applause due to the designer of the masterpiece.
Moulded, perhaps, by a depth of love not perceptible nor comprehensible to the less heroic nature, this gifted woman may have thought to render crime odious by telling of it in her own plain fashion rather than adorn- ing it in that seductive language used by many who have escaped so harsh a lashing from the pen of the critic.
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There are some passages in the books of Anne See- müller that wear the undefiled beauty of pure-hearted- ness. If she failed in her noble purpose while portray- ing the darker sins of life, for which the men and women of "good society" are more answerable than those of a lower grade, she at least may not have been altogether untruthful in her bold attempt. It is bet- ter to be brave than stealthy. Though the help of the coast-guard may not be needed in mid-ocean, there are often dangerous rocks and eddies near to the most beau- tiful land. These common-place words admit of an easy translation. Let those who read wisely look to the wiser portion of the story, banish from memory that which is unpalatable to the fastidious taste, take to their hearts those holier precepts of Truth, and acting as coast-guards shield with the strength of their life those who cannot see the dangerous rocks and eddies.
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POEMS
SELECTED FROM THE MANUSCRIPT OF
THE LATE FREDERICK PINKNEY.
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NOT AS THE TRAVELER.
Not as the traveler with imploring eyes, Within the streamless deserts' burning sand, Beholds the rain-cloud rushing through the skies To nourish with its freight some distant land ;
Rather like those their devious way who lose Amidst a wilderness of starry flowers, And make glad pause uncertain what to choose, While lightly pass away uncounted hours,
I linger with thee, dearest, and my gaze Upon thee dwells, the gentle and the fair, With whom the May of life as yet delays, And pure from earthly stain as upper air ;
And as I gaze with mingled love and pride, Feeling at length I have not hoped in vain, And clasp the hand for which so many sighed, I know that I have done with grief and pain.
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WHEN TIME MALIGNANTLY SHALL BRING.
When time malignantly shall bring Sorrows to menace or o'ershade, Think not thine year has lost its spring, And Death a promised boon delayed ; Unwise dejection will prolong The very empire that we hate, Our terrors make a tyrant strong That else would fail or abdicate.
'Tis seldom that such hurt can be From suffering, accident, or crime, That mind becomes but memory . Of one event, one point of time, A voice that mourns a single blow, Unheeding comfort, threats, alarm, A clock whose stirless fingers shew The very moment of its harm.
Life is the evergreen whose birth Is in a land of. summer skies, A leaf, a bough may fall to earth But younger verdure will arise, Pleasures may perish or may wane, Be cast away like childhood's toys, But others of great price remain, And all but yield to purer joys.
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LOVE ALONE.
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In Eastern climes a gift of flowers, With mystic eloquence arrayed, By blended tints, holds different powers, To taunt, to threaten, to upbraid.
To me, though it interprets thought, Such dreary fancies are unknown, And with a single meaning fraught It speaks of love, and love alone.
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SING ME NOT THAT STRAIN.
Oh, sing me not that strain, Its wild and mournful numbers Will rouse the grief again That for a moment slumbers; When first 'twas sung by one I fain would not remember, Hope was a summer's sun Where now is bleak December.
'Tis long since first I strove All vain regret to smother, Forgetting her whose love Is given to another ; - And oft there is an hour, Like this which now I treasure,
When memory loses power And life again has pleasure,
The heart oppressed with ill Is not by joy forsaken, In ruined gardens still In spring some flowers awaken ; But sing me not that strain, Its wild and mournful numbers Will rouse the grief again That for a moment slumbers.
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THE FAREWELL WORD.
The farewell word is breathed, and now Adieu to happy home, Our gallant barque with rapid prow Casts 'round the flashing foam, Away, we seek the gem-like isles That stud the Eastern main, Yet while my comrades know but smiles My thoughts are thoughts of pain.
There's one who for my sake will note With tearful, anxious eye, The sunlit clouds that stirless float Within the placid sky ; Shall tremble when the fragile flower Scarce shivers in the breeze, And deem remorseless winds have power Upon the glooming seas.
Yet absence has not much of ill, Unless 'tis joined by fear, For hope remains unfaltering still To promise and to cheer ; Away, upon the heaving deep, Our foamy track we cleave, When others have forgot to weep "Tis feebleness to grieve.
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FAIN WOULD I MY GRIEF DISSEMBLE.
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In my eyes the tear-drops tremble Which I study to repress, Fain would I my grief dissemble That thine own may be the less.
Heeding nought that may befall me, Sick in heart, in spirit tame, I must go where chance shall call me, Casting from me choice and aim.
I have wrecked my bark, swift-faring To the spot where I would guide, And upon a raft despairing Drift, the sport of wind and tide.
Henceforth lonely and forsaken, Hope and pleasure at an end, Joy no more I strive to waken, Nor with evil dare contend.
Why with thankless toil re-kindle The cold fragments of a fire, But to view its splendor dwindle, And with quick decay expire ?
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A VANISHED JOY.
The leafless tree again may bear Its mellow stores of fruit, Some skillful hand may yet repair The warped and stringless lute ; But fortunes that are once o'erthrown We seldom can restore, And if our happiness be flown, It visits us no more.
By some old tree we yet may trace Where forests cast their shade, By broken shaft and crumbling base The stately colonnade ; But not a token shall appear Of joys that once depart, And bootless is the task to cheer The crushed and gloomy heart.
The Pagan might his idols hide Beneath the ravaged fane, And hope in victory and pride To bring them forth again ; Still might he view in faith and prayer Where once they stood enshrined ; But vain our dream, and vain our care, A vanished joy to find.
AUGUST 25, 1854.
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ABIDE WITH ME.
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Abide with me ; the night is round me falling, The way, the light, the life deign Thou to be, Still in Thy pity hear the suppliant calling, Save or I perish; Lord, abide with me !
Within the broken heart make Thou Thy dwelling, Rescue the lost one, set the captive free, . To hope and faith by unbought grace compelling, Stay in Thy mercy; Lord, abide with me !
Trust I in self ? Thy saving cross forsaken, And my own strength shall like a shadow flee, The slumbering tempter shall again awaken, Leave not the feeble, Lord, abide with me!
Guilty and sin-stained, yet thine aid imploring, Thou in my weakness wilt my succor be, Trembling, unworthy, hoping and adoring, Let me still cry, Oh, Lord, abide with me. MONDAY, JULY 21, 1872.
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IN DARKNESS.
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In darkness I the strife prolong, The dust with Him who gave it breath, By evil passions rendered strong, Although my victory is death.
Rejecting when I should adore, And struggling while I wish defeat, My stubborn efforts I deplore, And fain would worship at Thy feet.
For me I know that Thou hast died, For me the atoning blood was spilt, Repentance has not vanquished pride, Though loathing, still I cling to guilt.
The rocks were rent, light rushed away, The grieving earth was veiled in gloom, The dead resumed their mortal clay, All nature trembled at Thy doom.
Yet I, its object and its cause, With beating heart and faltering will, Although Thy pity towards Thee draws, Reject the proffered mercy still.
I yield at length-Creator, Lord, And crucified Redeemer thou, God-head and Man, Incarnate Word, All-suppliant I before Thee bow.
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From all delusion I am free, None can oppress when Thou art nigh, And he who shall believe in Thee Thy word has said shall never die.
By faith instructed, let me found My mansion firmly on the rock, The swollen floods may rage around, Unshaken it abides the shock.
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