Sometimes old letters have the strangest things Recorded on the worn and sallow page: The writing, too, has neither head nor wings, But one would think that insects for an age Had wip'd their tiny feet where black ink clings, Regardless of the ancient scribbling sage, Whose quill, one pointed and one feather'd end, Had trail'd away his thoughts to absent friend.
But who can be sure, they're any more queer Than those we moderns hast'ly pen to-day; E'en tho' their marks so odd and strange appear, That as we read the mind doth halt and stay Until the brain hath got a little clear, In order, as we let its powers play, We well can solve what all the scribblings mean, 'Tis so at six, or sev'n, or at sixteen.
The language, too, is no more queer and strange, As thought doth spring and file along on thought, And spirits meet in pleasant interchange Of fancies told, or fancies only caught; And scarcely caught at that in his small range, As some poor scribbler has his fabric wrought, And in the wretched scraping swiftly tells What feeling urges--what his bosom swells.
Those who would have this sweetest priv'lege cease, Must ingrate be in senses more than one; Nor dwell at home, or anywhere in peace, Though parent, friend, daughter, or absent son, Such name 'twere well enough they should release; Indeed, 'twere well it never had begun, If cold neglect in writing they do show, No matter if the mails go swift or slow.
But some there are who never can be made To answer letters until ages roll Almost away, or letters are mislaid, Or till an absent, good, and loving soul, Full well may think the friendly hand has stay'd, Or that the troubled fates may have control, Or illness may--or even worse, one's doubts-- Our friend is gone away, or else in pouts.
And yet, most happy one and all should be, If but allow'd to bring our distant friends So near that, they may feel and truly see Each impulse of the heart, and as it blends, Feel truly certain that we have the key Which opens friendship's valve, and makes amends For many sad, unkind, and ugly things, That daily life with all its worry brings.
One friend I've had for many steady years. Who, though she lives a thousand miles away, Comes ever with her joys, her hopes and fears; Before me every feeling doth she lay, Which stirs my own to mingle with her tears, And ev'ry throbbing of my heart doth stay For her, till all she feels, or thinks, or knows, Takes root in my own breast, and there it grows.