Mrs. Mary Eliza Ireland.
Reading edition
Mrs. Mary Eliza Ireland, the daughter of Joseph Haines and Harriet (Kirk) Haines, was born in the village of Brick Meeting House, now called Calvert, January 9, 1834. In early life she married John M. Ireland, son of Colonel Joseph Ireland, of Kent county, Md. They are the parents of three children, one of whom died in infancy. They now reside in Baltimore, where Mr. Ireland holds the position of United States storekeeper in the Internal Revenue Department.
Until the past few years Mrs. Ireland has always lived in the old homestead where she was born and married, and from whence her parents were removed by death.
Her first literary effort was a short story written when quite a young girl, entitled “Ellen Linwood,” and published in the Cecil Whig, then edited by the late Palmer C. Ricketts, under the nom de plume of “Marie Norman.” For several years after the publication of “Ellen Linwood” Mrs. Ireland occasionally contributed to the Cecil Whig and Oxford Press.
Some years ago she wrote a story for Arthur’s Magazine, and being in Philadelphia soon after it was written, she took it to the publishing house, and there met for the first time T.S. Arthur, whom she had known from childhood through his books. He received her kindly, promised to read her story, and to let her know his decision the next day. That decision was, that though entertaining and well written, it was scarcely suited to his magazine. He suggested another periodical where it would likely meet with favor. He also asked for another story, and presented her with a set of the magazines that she might see the style of writing that he desired.
Her next story for Arthur’s was a success, and from that time until his death he remained the candid critic of all she sent him for publication, as well as of some stories published elsewhere, and the kind literary adviser and friend. She retained her first story (which he had declined) for three years, made some changes in it, and he accepted and published it.
Since then she has been an acceptable contributor to Cottage Hearth, Household, and other domestic magazines, besides the Literary World, Ladies’ Cabinet, Woman’s Journal, and several church papers; and has written two prize stories, which took first prizes.
In 1882 her short stories were collected and connected into a continued story, which was accepted and published by J.B. Lippincott & Co., under the title of “Timothy; His Neighbors and His Friends.”
Many letters of appreciation from distant parts of the Union testified to the merit of the book, and she was encouraged to accede to the request of the Presbyterian Observer Company of Baltimore to write a serial for their paper. It was entitled “Ivandale,” and was warmly commended by judges of literary work.
Wishing to read German literature in the original, she undertook the study of German, and as she had no time which she was willing to devote to regular lessons, she obtained a German pronouncing reader, and without instruction from any one she succeeded in learning to read and translate, pronouncing correctly enough to be understood by any German. This knowledge of the language has been a well-spring of pleasure to her, and well repays her for the few moments’ attention she daily bestowed upon it. She has translated several books, two of which were published as serials in the Oxford Press, and the Lutheran Board of Publication have published one of her translations, entitled “Betty’s Decision.” Many beautiful short stories have found their way into our language and periodicals through the medium of her pen.
Her time is well filled with her household duties, her missionary and church work, and in reviewing new books for the press. She has no specified time for writing, nor does she neglect her household or social duties for the sake of it, always having looked upon her literary work as a recreation. She leads a busy life, yet is rarely hurried; and, although she enjoys the companionship of many people noted in literature, it is powerless to weaken her attachment for friends who have no inclination in that way. All have a warm place in her heart, and a cordial welcome to her cheerful and happy home.
Mrs. Ireland, contrary to the experience of most writers, never wrote any poetry until she had attained distinction as a writer of prose.
At the Party.
I gave her a rose, so sweet, so fair; She picked it to pieces while standing there.
I praised the deep blue of her starry eyes; She turned them upon me in cold surprise.
Her white hand I kissed in a transport of love; My kiss she effaced with her snowy glove.
I touched a soft ringlet of golden brown; She rebuked my daring with a haughty frown.
I asked her to dance in most penitent tone; On the arm of a rival she left me alone.
This gave me a hint; I veered from my track, And waltzed with an heiress, to win my love back.
I carried her fan, and indulged in a sigh, And whispered sweet nothings when my loved one was nigh.
It worked like a charm; oh, joy of my life! This stratagem wins me a sweet little wife.
Mother and Son.
Postman, good postman, halt I pray, And leave a letter for me to-day; If it’s only a line from over the sea To say that my Sandy remembers me.
I have waited and hoped by day and by night; I’ll watch—if spared—till my locks grow white; Have prayed—yet repent that my faith waxed dim, When passing, you left no message from him.
My proud arms cradled his infant head, My prayers arose by his boyhood’s bed; To better our fortunes, he traversed the main; God guard him, and bring him to me again.
The postman has passed midst the beating rain, And my heart is bowed with its weight of pain; This dark, dark day, I am tortured with dread That Sandy, my boy, may be ill or dead.
But hark! there’s a step! my heart be still! A step at the gate, in the path, on the sill; Did the postman return? my letter forget? Oh ’tis Sandy! Thank God, he loves me yet!
The Missionary’s Story.
Hard were her hands, and brown; Coarsest of stuff her gown: Sod hut her home. Pale was her care-worn face, Beauty and youth and grace Long since have flown.
Stern was her lot in life; She was a drunkard’s wife; And forests drear Shut not temptation out; Strong drink was sold and bought; Poor pioneer!
Slave he to demon rum; Houses and lands all gone; Want came by stealth. Yet her scant fare she shared With me, who worse have fared In homes of wealth.
Stranger was I to her Save as Christ’s messenger; And for His sake She, all her little store Wishing it were but more,— Bade me to take.
Oh like the widow’s mite, Given for love of right, May it be blest. When her last hour has come, May angels bear her home, Ever to rest.
Transition.
She is lying in state, this fair June day, While the bee from the rose its sweetness sips; Her heart thrills not at the lark’s clear lay, Though a smile illumines her pallid lips.
What glorified form did the Angel of Death Assume to her view, that it left the bright trace Of a jubilant welcome, whose icy breath Froze the sunny smile on her fair young face?
Did angels with snow-white wings come down And hover about her dying bed? Did they bear a white robe, and a starry crown To place on their sainted comrade’s head?
Did her gaze rest on valleys and pastures green, Where roses in beauty supernal, bloom? Where lilies in snowy and golden sheen Fill the air with their heavenly, rare perfume?
Did strains of sweet music her senses entrance While Earth, with her loved ones, receded in air? Did friends who had left it, to greet her, advance And joyfully lead her to dwell with them, there?
Did she cross the deep Jordan without any fears For all were now calmed on her dear Saviour’s breast? On pinions of light did she mount to the spheres Where all is contentment, and pleasure, and rest?
All this we may humbly and truly believe, For Christ to the Bethany sisters did give The comforting promise, which all may receive: “He that believeth, though dead, yet shall live.”
Dorothy Moore.
A bachelor gray, was Valentine Brown; He lived in a mansion just out of the town, A mansion spacious and grand; He was wealthy as Vanderbilt, Astor or Tome, Had money invested abroad and at home, And thousands of acres of land.
A friend of his boyhood was Archibald Gray; And to prove what queer antics Dame Fortune will play When she sets about trying to plan, She heaped all her favors on Valentine, bold, And always left Archibald out of her fold, The harmless, and weak-minded man.
So, while Valentine reigned like a king on his throne, Poor Archibald ne’er had a home of his own, Yet never was known to complain; Year in and year out, he wandered around, In mansion and farmhouse a welcome he found As long as he chose to remain.
The lilacs and snowballs which guarded the door Of the ivy-decked cottage of good Parson Moore, Were waking from out their long sleep; For the last month of winter was hastening by, The last hours of Valentine’s day had drawn nigh, When Archibald’s travel-worn feet
Were heard on the door-step; he entered and smiled, Then sat down and slept like a play-weary child, Woke, and told them how long he would stay; Then slumbered again, while sweet Dorothy Moore, The motherless daughter, who loved all God’s poor, Made him welcome around the tea-tray.
And archly she said as she gave him his tea, “Where’s the valentine Archy, you promised to me? All maidens expect one to-day;” Then forgot it; nor noticed when supper was done, And her father had gone to his study alone, That Archie had stolen away.
But, drawing the curtains on darkness and night! She sat down to spin by the cheery fire-light, While before it, so cozy and warm, Slept the kitten,—a snowy white ball of content— And her wheel, with its humming activity, lent To the hour, a picturesque charm.
No scene more enchanting could artist dream know, Than this peaceful, calm spot, in the ruby-red glow Of the pine knots aflame on the hearth; But Dorothy thought, “Were he but there with me And loved me as I love, a desert would be The happiest place upon earth.”
“Oh were he but poor, and forsaken;” she sighed, “He then a poor maiden might seek for his bride, But his love will some great lady crown; Since all is so hopeless, dear Father above Oh help me to cast out my unreturned love! And forget the proud Valentine Brown.”
In his elegant library, sat Valentine Brown, The argand burned brightly, the rich curtains down, Luxurious home of repose;— Yet his handsome face saddened, his heart was oppressed; He sighed, and his spirit was full of unrest, For his love he should never disclose.
He had roamed over Europe, and Countesses fair Had graciously smiled on the great millionaire. Yet his heart had turned coldly away; “From her childhood, I’ve loved her, sweet Dorothy Moore,” Just then the latch clicked—through the half opened door Crept humbly, poor Archibald Gray.
“I want you!” he whispered; “I promised her, come!” And Valentine followed, till reaching the home Where Dorothy spun by the hearth; And when he had entered with Archibald Gray And courteously waited, commands to obey, Knew no lovelier picture on earth.
But the tact which had piloted Valentine there Deserted poor Archie; then Dorothy fair, Blushing deeply, yet smilingly said: “Why, Archibald, why did you leave us I pray? You said till to-morrow at noon, you would stay, And in less than an hour you had fled.”
The memory of Archibald took up the clew Thus kindly supplied, and eager he grew; “Yes, yes; Archie promised he would; I have brought you a valentine, Valentine Brown,” (Here he smoothed his gray beard, and looked helplessly down), “He’s so good to poor Archie, so good!”
The three stood in silence, two wondering no doubt How this intricate problem would ever turn out, And Valentine, thoughtful and kind,— Felt pity for Archie, who meant for the best; And for Dorothy—flushing like clouds in the west And fearing he thought it designed.
He looked at the maiden—modest and sweet; At her lovely blue eyes, her peach-blossom cheek And sighed for his youth which had fled; “She never could love me, good Archibald Gray, Her beauty and youthfulness stand in the way, Just look at my frost-covered head.”
“Please tell him, good Archie,” said Dorothy fair, “That I love nothing better than silvery hair When it crowns one so noble and true; His heart all men say is exalted and grand, He is known for his good deeds all over the land, Loved by every one, equalled by few.”
“That heart, my good Archie, I lay at her feet To spurn or to thrill with an ecstasy sweet;” (And he reverently took her white hand,) “That hand is his, Archie, and so is my heart To have and to keep until death do us part To meet in the Heavenly land.”
Good friends new and old, should you journey that way And should anything happen, to cause a delay, And you call upon Valentine Brown: In the coziest nook, you’ll see Archibald Gray, Awaiting with patience the dallying day, Till the sickle of Time mows him down.
And Fortune still favors her Valentine dear, She winters and summers there year after year; To thank her he never forgets; With his rosy-cheeked children and beautiful wife The heart of his heart, and the life of his life, The sun of his peace never sets.
Homeward Bound.
We grow in grace if day by day We keep in mind to watch and pray, Thus walking in the Heavenward way.
But, drifting from the guiding hand Of Him who rules the sea and land, We wreck ourselves on barren strand,
In name of Him who for us died, We cry for help, when deeply tried, Receive it, whatso’er betide.
Of good we sow some scattered seed, We help to shield the bruised reed, Supply to want, the urgent need.
Then once more hope to reach the goal, For faith with works will save a soul, Though hostile billows round it roll.
Thus tempest-tost, we struggle on; Now sad, now cheered, till life is gone, And trust to hear the bless’d, well done!