Poems and Essays

By

Evaline Amelia DeLano

Transcribed by
Thomas Patrick

Copyright 1994 by
Firelands Corporation

Foreword

What follows are poems and essays written by my great-great grandmother Evaline DeLano in her journal, Wayside Pencilings. She began this journal at age nineteen in the spring of 1861 and continued to make entries for much of her adult life. Her untimely death in 1882, at age forty-two, left her two children orphans because her husband, Oliver Edwards Humphrey of Victor, New York, had previously succumbed to “softening of the brain,” the effects of an aneurysm or stroke. Her infant son, Julian Louis Humphrey, was raised by his aunt Emma DeLano Whitney. Eva’s eleven-year old son, Charles Vernon Humphrey, my great-grandfather, lived for a short time at the Ebenezer Baptist Orphanage in Flat Rock, Ohio, and by age fifteen was supporting himself on the farm of his future mother-in-law, Amanda Harpster. In addition to these poems and essays, Eva DeLano’s journal also contains recipes, notes and a description of a trip to Colorado Territory she took with her father to sell supplies to miners in Clear Creek County, during the Colorado Gold Rush. Her entries give us a better understanding of the hopes, dreams and aspirations of a young woman living during one of the most dynamic eras of American history.

Poems & Essays

By
Evaline Amelia DeLano

W

e talk of life as a journey, but how variously is that journey performed? There are those who come forth girt and shod and mantled to walk on velvet lawns and smooth terraces where every goal is arrested and every storm is tempered. There are others who walk in the Alpine paths of life against driving misery and through stormy sorrows, over sharp afflictions walk with bare feet and naked breast, jaded mangled and chilled. In the life of the most unfortunate person, there are some occasions when by prompt and vigorous action he may win the things he has most at heart. There is nobody whom Fortune does not visit once in his life, but when she finds he is not ready to receive her, she goes in at the door and out through the window.

We must not be content with waiting for “something to turn up,” we must try to make something turn up. We must not only strike the iron while it’s hot, but strike it ‘till it is made hot.

“. . .Be the day many or be the day long,
At length it sinketh to evening. . .”

HOME — A FRAGMENT

(Note: Part of the last stanzas of this verse are missing
because the page has been torn)

Farewell my house, gray home no longer now
Witness of many a calm and quiet day;
And thou fair eminence upon whose brow
Dwells the sunshine of the evening’s rays
Farewell mine eyes no longer shall pursue
The western sun beyond the utmost heights
When slowly he forsakes the fields of light,
No more the freshness of the morning dew
____ and delightful here shall bathe my head
____ in this western window, dear I learn
____ ____ ____ the while I watch the placid scene
____ ____ ____ the martins ‘neath the shed.

Prayer

God of the Universe before thy matchless throne
We humbly bend the knee and bow the contrite heart.

And kneeling pray for strength, the strength that thou
From out thy boundless love can well impart.

There was a time when love and faith
Dwelt in my heart and beautiful my life,

But o’er me surged the simoom’s scorching breath;
With cold distrust and devastation rife,

We pray for strength when in the hush of night.
We clasp the loving hand with death-damp chill.

And watch the light go out from dearest eyes,
And freed the very soul from every ill,

We rain our kisses on the pallid brow,
And fold the hands, then turn away and weep.

We pray, oh God, for strength to bear the cross,
Then lay them down to their last long sleep.

Call From The Summer Land

In the hush of evening with the zephyrs bland,
Round me softly stealing comes a shadow hand,
Comes with distant footsteps from the spirit land.

Come to cheer me onward in my gloomy way,
Lighting up the darkness where I blindly stray,
While they softly whisper sister, come away.

Sister come, Earth’s pleasures are not worth your stay,
All below is fleeting, doomed to swift decay,
Life’s most valued blessings melt like dew away.

Sister come, the shadows of a saddened heart
On thy brow have fallen; sorrow’s poisoned dart
In thy bosom rankles, death will hide its smart.

Death is but an angel merciful and kind
Who will rend the fetters that thy spirit bind,
Opening life’s portals to a ransomed mind.

Clear Creek, Colorado: July 8^th, 1861

Not as Bad as We Seem

T

his is doubtless, a very wicked world and we all take a terrible delight in magnifying its wickedness. We talk of it day and night. We dwell upon it constantly. “We really rejoice over” it while pretending to deplore it. But to be unusually candid, we don’t believe in the prevalence of half the iniquity we all dwell upon with so much of moral eloquence.

We don’t believe that all the men in public office are rascalswe don’t believe all women are capricious, we don’t believe that every pious man is a hypocrite, every thoughtless one a thief, and that all whose opinions differ from ours are consigned, perforce, to the tender mercies of the evil one.

We believe in nothing of the kind. We feel much better in our charitable heresy, in this respect, than we could possibly feel if we believed the Earth was a whole urcedama of sin and everybody in it a corporal mass of corruption. In good sooth we are vividly impressed with the idea that the world is a pretty good one, as worlds go, and that the people in it at large are about as honest and correct as poor human nature consistently can be under the temptations to which it is perpetually subjected.

Friendship

A slighting shadow on the grass;
A sun gleam on the sea;
All things that quickly come and pass,
Are typical of thee.

To Sister Fannie

The grass is on thy grave
And weary years have flown,
Since first thy spirit took its flight
To worlds of joy unknown.
But go where’er I may Fannie,
I seem to see thee yet.
And though I know that thou art dead,
I cannot thee forget.

When all around is gay Fannie,
And many a voice is light.
My heart sees but thy grave
And in the silent night,
I long to steal away Sister
And on the grass grown sod,
To throw myself and clasp it close
And rest alone with God.

They tell me it is wrong Fannie
To weep so long for thee.
They say that thou art happy now
And from earth’s sorrows free.
But my poor heart is sad sister
That thou from me art riven.
And clouds of grief hang heavily
Across the way of heaven.

To A Friend

To pleasure and her giddy troop,
Farewell without a sigh or tear;
But heart gives way and spirits droop
To think that love must leave us here.

Spirit Love

W

e all feel, at some time during our life, the influence of Spirit Love. It may come indirectly and we may be unconscious of its source, but at such times, we feel a happiness that Earth cannot give. It gives us a feeling of purity and holiness, and Earth and its associations fade away and we are indeed lifted up among the angels.

Yes, under the influence of Spirit Love, we become beautiful and lovable. Our inner being becomes developed. We throw the grossness of the external world aside and we see things as they really are. The true view of life is not void of beauty or goodness. No, when we throw off false education and narrow creeds and come out from the cloud that superstition and ignorance have thrown over us like a veil for ages past, then we shall see this world as it truly is. Then shall we become worthy and be conscious of the loves of the Spirits.

True, sometimes the casting off of the external form is the first awakening of the spirit to the knowledge of its higher and more ethereal nature. Our spirit learns for the first time that many of the fine feelings and higher aspirations that it had experienced emanated from a higher and more developed sphere than its own.

Again, I know there are those now occupying the Earth-form who accept and return the pure Spirit-Love. They finally realized the presence of congenial friends from the Summer Land. They have a view of human nature as it should be. They accept and appropriate for themselves the bright gems of wisdom and knowledge that fall in their pathway.

I believe we can be almost anything if we will live for it. But if we do not sacrifice our personal feelings and bodily comforts for the spiritual, we will not seek anything beyond the gratifications of Earthly desires.....

At this point in her entries, four pages were torn from Eva DeLano’s journal. We don’t know who or why or when they were removed, however the remaining text begins in mid entry at the top of the 73^rd manuscript page:

.... from the heart. I have heard it often remarked “that the Halcyon days of a fun-loving child were the happiest,” for we know nothing then of the trials we shall face after in our lives. Our childish sorrows are soon forgotten in some new pleasure and we are constantly building beautiful air castles that make us very happy for the time.

As children, we look into the future, and in anticipation, we enjoy what perhaps never becomes a reality. I do not think our happiest days are always those of our childhood. I can look back not very far and see days bright and glorious, when all clouds were rose-tinted, so happy. Such perfect happiness as I enjoyed can never be forgotten, tho dark clouds hang over me and grief such as I never thought I should have to experience has fallen upon me.

Yet, I know this world is not all an urcedama of sin. The skies are not always lead-colored or grey. No, the sunshine of happiness envelops all of God’s children at some time during this life, and after all, lets the cloudy and the sunny days, the happy and the sorrowful days, be equally divided. I think we will find that each one gets his share of all that he deserves of either.

Do we not, to a great extent, make our lives what they are? Or are we indeed children of circumstances, not responsible for our acts?

I think we might make ourselves and others much happier than we do, save many a dreary heart ache and throbbing brow, and why don’t we? Because we are so selfish, so careless of the way our fingers come in contact with the tender cords of feeling that bind heart to heart.

Let us look within. Perhaps we will not find ourselves as perfect as we have imagined. We may, if we can only search out the cause, find a remedy for many of the lesser evils.

To be sure, we cannot always make others do right if we do not ourselves. We cannot always impart knowledge to others after we acquire it. They won’t always listen to reason, if we take that for an argument, which we don’t always. But we can pick the stones from our own path, and then there will be little time to waste over the affairs of others.

Our lives might be made much happier than they are if we would have a thought for others as well as ourselves. If we could only put that great “I” out of the way and substitute “we,” how much better we would get along. I do think that selfishness is the cause of nine-tenths of the unhappiness of our lives.

Our social as well as our moral natures need a thorough cleansing. If we will take these old stubborn plants such as selfishness, carelessness and a few others too well known for me to mention them, and dig them out by the roots and kill them entirely, we will find ourselves and others enriched ten-fold. There would be little doubt but we could always see the bright sunshine of happiness somewhere about us, feel its warm love-inspiring rays and we would find ourselves at peace with all mankind. Learn first to know thyself.

Evaline Amelia DeLano
Adrian, December 31, 1861

A Thought on the Lost

Such things were, such things were;
False but precious, brief but fair;
The eagle with the bat may wed,
The hare may like the tortoise tread;
The finny tribes may cleave the air,
Ere I forget that such things were.

Can I forget the mountain glen,
Far from the sordid haunts of men;
The cedar tree before the door,
The flower crowned porch, the humble floor;
Pomp came not nigh, but peace dwelt there;
Can I forget that such things were?

Can I forget that fair wan face,
Smiling with such a mournful grace;
That hand whose thrilling touch met mine?
Those eyes did but too brightly shine,
And that low grave, so sad, yet fair;
Can I forget that such things were?

Watertown
March 13, 1863

Farewell

Fare-thee well we’ve sadly parted,
By these chilling words of change;
Though I wander weary-hearted,
Still I bless thy cherished name.
Fare-thee well beloved forever;
Broken is the magic tie.
Hearts that beat as one must sever,
Both may break but one must die.

O’er this dark abyss of anguish;
O’er this gulf of bitter pain;
Thou hast said in chilling accents:
I shall never pass again.
Thou hast doomed me, unforgiven,
To this drear and gloomy shore,
Far from thee, from hope and heaven,
I am exiled evermore.

When thy heart with joy beats lightest;
Do not give one thought to me.
But when joys the best and brightest
From thy eager grasp shall flee.
Then, perchance, thy heart relenting;
My atonement will accept.
Then perchance too late repenting;
Thou’ll forgive and not forget.

In thy hours of hope and pleasure,
Thou the past will soon forget;
But in sadder moments treasure
Thought of one who loves thee yet.
And when shadows gather round thee,
When thy summer friends go by;
Think how thou didst coldly doom me;
Unforgiven thus to die.

To A Discarded Lover

I’m weary of your flattering words,
And never wish to hear
Again those silly compliments
You’ve poured into my ear.

I’ve often told you in plain terms:
Love you I never could.
If such a thing were possible
I’m sure I never would.

Had you not loved yourself so much,
And me a little more,
You might have won my heart perhaps
A long, long time before.

So let me now a lesson teach
Which you may need again;
And when you’ve learned it well yourself,
Teach self-conceited men.

That girls are not in love with them
As men oft think they are;
But are really laughing slyly,
At their self-conceited airs.

Think not I pray you, that we girls;
Give our true love unsought.
We are willing to exchange it well,
But hearts cannot be bought.

Eva
Richmond, Virginia 1866

Rapture

We watched the sunset at the close of day;
As hand in hand we sat together there
While blown against my cheek, her falling hair
Thrilled me like music and my heart was May.

The blushing clover blossoms kissed her feet,
While to my heart I pressed her willing hand;
More fair I thought her, than in all the land,
Could any flower be, however sweet.

Then sinking sunshine lay across her breast
As if it clasped her in its arms of gold
And to itself her fairy form would fold
And dying so would be more sweetly blest;
Not jealous of the flowers or sin am I;
But oh my darling, love me or I die.

A Quoted Fragment

“. . . Those who hope for no other life are dead even
to this. . . “

Waiting

Waiting! For what? Shall I ever know?
Or shall the new years creep drowsily by
’Till my death-day comes. Shall I never know why
I was born and must live out my life of woe?

Is the whole of my life-time merely a pause;
Twixt my birth that was and my death to be?
Must I always follow, and never be free?
Am I only effect, can I never be cause?

Or am I but a link of the weariful chain
Of life, and the sequence of things gone by?
I am forced to live, for I cannot die,
But my life is empty and all in vain.

Yet sometimes I hear my spirit elate,
At the thought of the glorious deeds to be done,
Cry strike, ‘Tis the time! But in answer one,
Shall I ever know who whispers “Silence! Wait!”

It cannot be hope, for her voice is sweet;
It is not despair, for I know her well,
’Tis like the ceaseless drone of a knell,
And wearies the heart with monotonous beat.

Shall another voice ever whisper to me?
“Awake,” ‘Tis the hour! Go forward and fight!
The probation is ended, and impotent night,
Has burst into day!” So shall set me free?

I know not, I know not; this only I dread,
That ere that voice shall proclaim that hour,
Not only the will may be lost, but the power.
I may be cold with the nameless dead.

Truths

T

he harsh heart holds in its wires the possibilities of noblest chords. Yet if they be not struck they hang dull and useless. So the mind is visited with a hundred powers that must be smitten with a heavy hand to prove them the offspring of Divinity.

God hides his secrets from us only to allure us graciously unto the unfolding of them.

Alas!

To sigh for pleasures flown,
To weep for withered flowers;
To count the blessings we have known,
Lost with the vanished hours.
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! Dear child ne’er to have known them all.

To dream of love and rest,
To know the dream has passed,
To bear within an aching heart
Only a void at last,
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! Dear child ne’er to have known them all.

To trust an unknown good,
To hope but all in vain;
Over a far-off bliss to brood,
Only to find it pain.
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! Dear child ne’er to have known them all.

Visit To Summer Land

On the evergreen shores I stand
Waiting for that bright band
Calling from Summer Land.
The waters are deep, the night is dark,
But I have no fear as I wait for the bark
That is coming, but hark!
Do you hear that sweet voice
That calls me from over the wave?
Now in gladness I love
In the waters which over me close,
And I swiftly glide
With the rapid tide,
Home to the Summer Land.

On the shining shores I stand
With a happy spirit band,
And their greeting is still of love,
A soft light shines from above,
Warm and pleasant to see.

Now up the hill we rove.
And through a beautiful grove,
In shady dells and sunny vales
We take our pleasant way.
We pause beside a floral bower,
And ‘bout us come a shining band,
With robes of light and crowns of flowers
They bade me don the robes they gave,
Then led us from the bowers.

And then there passed before my eyes,
Glories that on earthly vision never lies,
I meekly lowered my head for well I knew
That all unfit was I to view.
Such scenes so filled with Seraph light
That to have had a glimpse will make my life more bright.

My sister guide then whispered: “come,”
And on through scenes too bright
For pen so rude and fingers all unskilled
As these of mine the truth to write.
The air was sweet from flowers, on every side
Whose perfumes met and kissed your lips then died;
And dying gave new life to flowers
Far sweeter than the ones that hide
From earthly touch in Fairy bowers.

But now we pause before a door,
A door that is so stately and grand.
And fairer in all the land,
I am sure could not be found.
Before us gleams the mansion walls
Not white, but as the moonlight falls,
Fair and soft o’er the distant sea,
O’er marble floors, colored in brighter shade
Than famous Turkey’s looms have made.
Through many rooms we passed,
And each seemed fairer than the last.
Harmonious beauty met the eye,
On walls, and ceilings furniture and floors,
And taken gave of taste refined;
A heart all pure, by lavish hands designed.

The many doorways opening on every side
Were draperied with curtains fine
As lace—yet strong like silk,
Tinted in fairest hues
That told t’was made for beauty well as me.
Pictures were scattered. Everywhere
They hung, and seemed to fill the air
With gleams of brightness tints of light,
And color gave to hueless walls.

Couches of velvet, soft and yielding
Wooed you with divans and bric-a-brac
The eye has failed to take in half
The beauties that it saw.

But now we reach an alcove,
That leads to a bower of repose,
All draperied with softest lace,
And silks of rosy hue.
And we will rest and while we linger,
There in this retreat my guide, the fair Louise,
Bright Aurelle flower of light.
Aye! It shows in thy eyes of heavenly blue;
On thy rose-tinted cheek;
On dainty lip and dimpled chin,
All help to show the light within.
Beauties of spirit cannot be hid.

But I was going to tell you
Of whispers sweet Louise did me give.
As in her dainty bower we lingered,
Resting her white fingers in my hair.
The eyes uplooking, the cheek so fair,
On my bosom rested our thoughts we gave
In language unknown to any save
The dwellers in Summer Land.
She spoke of that beautiful home,
Which was her own and Julian’s.
The heart’s first choice, the spirit one
Who was all in all and like the sun
That drowns out treasures hid within.

There we rest and call it our own,
Sometimes alone, but often these rooms
Are filled with kind congenial ones,
Who love us for ourselves.
Strife comes not here but gentle peace
And purest happiness forever reigns,
And bye and bye two more will come
To rest within us; and by our side
Will linger and call it home.
They do need rest for they are weary.

But come with me, and rising,
She throws aside the draperies
And we enter rooms which are waiting
The coming of those dear ones,
Who still remain weighted down
By earthly forms but soon the crown
Will come, the cross will fade away.
New life begins and darkness turns to day.

Going to the window we see the brightest bowers
All filled with fairest flowers,
The daintiest vines that cling
With loving arms ‘round everything.
On columns, up the walls bowing
And shaking ‘neath the gentle breeze,
That softly, shyly, kiss their leaves.

I take these rooms upon the southern side
Which opens out on paradise so wide
Because I know ‘twill please the ones I love.
“And now I see,” said my companion,
”That you would ask a question.
And I will answer, ere you ask,
What’s waiting to be told.”
Gliding within the precincts of her bower,
And here hidden by draperies of love,
We find another doorway.

This is the entrance to my Mother’s rooms
When she, with us, may dwell.
But another, the love of her heart,
Will take her to a home that I know well.
And she with him will start
A heaven of their own.
And so, we talked awhile.

In feeling that rest and peace
Not known in earthly hearts.
But well I knew that I must leave
And I return to mortal parts.
Even as the unwelcome thought was born
There came a gentle drawing on the cord
That bound me, charmed me, when I would be free.

The saddest of sad words “adieu” was spoken.
One fond embrace the only taken,
That I could bear to Earth.
My guide says “come,” and it vanished;
The Summer Land, Louise, her home
was banished
From my eyes. I live on Earth once more.

Jewels

She hath jewels she has many,
But from out the hoarded store,
You will look in vain for any
That can heal her heart so sore.

Though the diamonds glitter brightly,
On her fingers, in her hair;
On her bosom resting lightly,
Do they make the spirit fair?

Ah! I fear me that the casket;
Filled with gems so rich and rare,
Would not ever, should she ask it,
Give her rest, or buy a share

In that world of joy and beauty,
Where her spirit soon must come;
To those realms of love and duty,
When her life on Earth is done.

Ah! The jewels that she prays for,
Melt like morning dew away,
On the shimmering shores that wait her,
Jewels vanish but the spirit there must stay.

Souls Awaken

You know it says that in Our Father’s home,
There’s many mansions and where’er we roam,
Where’er we take our rest;
If we will our Master follow we’ll be blessed.
But how can we in his footsteps enter,
If the way’s not plain,
And if we make our hearts the center;
Of good thoughts and deeds how vain;
Are these to save us, if the soul is still unborn.

Oh! how little dwarfed and stunted,
As they come from out the form.
And how long a time ere wanted
To that home so bright and warm.
I have wished for tongue of fire,
Pen of flame and golden lyre;
That I might your souls awake,
Ere the flight from Earth they take.
But in vain I cannot reach;
Sordid, chained in bonds you preach
Of a heaven so pure and bright
Realm of bliss and true delight,
Where the wicked cannot go,
But be damned in pits of woe.
Oh my sisters and my brothers,
We are each and all another.
Let us help the weak and erring
Souls that languish sad and dreary
In their homes of mortal clay.

For Somebody

Somebody’s darling is buried today,
Somebody’s spirit is sailing away
Out from Earth shadows to eternal day.

Lay the clay casket down in its bed,
Hearts beating over it, heavy as lead,
Above them the warm light of glory is shed,

By one who has taken their darling, their dead,
Gone to the home of the seraphs so, so bright,
Who will care for and love those
Who are gone from our sight.

Somebody’s life to the onward has shed,
Somebody’s life with the spirit is wed,
One we have loved is counted as dead,
Somebody’s life mystery ere this has been read.

Weary

I am lonely, I am weary
And would lay me down to rest.
All my life has been so dreary,
Place no flowers upon by breast.
For all flowers that there have lain
Withered, died and turned to ashes;
Ashes bitter and no more will bloom again,
From this world of care and sorrow
Trial’s dark and thorny pathway,
I am going on the morrow,
For I cannot longer stay,
In that land of joy and beauty,
Where I hope so soon to dwell.
May I ever do my duty,
And my Master say t’is well!

Every Day

Every day there comes within our hearts
Tints of light and golden threads,
While if we catch the sparks,
Tiny though they be, and in tangled webs;
Yet in time they grow and weave,
Forms of beauty, robes of light,
When comes the time to gather sheaves
From Earthly fields will show in power and might.

Every day we feel a stir of inner life,
Give it room to breathe freed from every strife
And the golden leaves
Gather while you may,
For the hour will come
When you cannot stay,
And the time of Earth is done.

Every day there’s work to do,
Seek it, find it, do it well,
Hours are precious gems to you,
Make everyone hereafter tell.
Every day do some good deed,
And think some noble thought.
For you will find the need
Of both to feed the spirit, for unsought
These treasures will not come.

What gold can never buy they bring:
Incense from the altar;
Pure thoughts and words, the thing
Above all else, to feed the soul,
Never falter,
In the work when once begun.

Every day look up for something higher,
Better than before has come.
Never let the flame grow less, keep the fire,
Ever bright and the sun
Of everlasting light
Will keep thee warm and bright.

An Example of Eva DeLano’s Handwriting For the Following Poem

NOT IN VAIN
(A Word From Louise)

Not in vain dear Mother, is the labor,
And the pain, the anguish,
That has filled your heart, do not waver;
It will vanquish
All the scorn and the derision,
That a jealous world can bring.
There shall come within thy vision
Sights and scenes which heal the sting
That the serpent gives.
And the soul that lives,
Must from earthly slums
Arise.
Live thy life as best it seems,
And the light doth shine, do right,
All will not end in dreams,
But in time will come so bright
The recompense, the life,
And freed from mortal strife
Thy soul will upward rise,
And dwell beyond the skies.
Not in vain has been thy life,
For nothing comes in vain.
All the battles all the strife
That swept thy life in fiery ruin;
Was not in vain, they’ll bring forth flowers and
That in Sephernal bowers,
Will join with ours,
And sweet incense
Bring.

Whiskers
Caught in Passing — Oakwood Cemetery

Not there within the dark and silent shade
That art and nature both have made,
Not there we sleep, the silent dead
The mouldering clay, and with it wed
The dry cold bones, they lie there still
Beneath the rich dark loam, and will
Return to nature all she gave.
But we sleep not within the silent grave.

Not there we rest but work and live
Just as the flower has bloomed and sweetness gave;
So blooms it now far far beyond the grave.
Not down we go dear friends
But upward life ascends.
And nothing lives to die; ‘tis only change
That time’s dark cycle brings, and in its range
We all must come; but not to die.

Not there do spirits dwell; they rest
‘Neath soft warm sunlight from the west.
And to the East, from darkness into light.

To land and seas more bright,
Than stars, or moons, or earthly sun
Have powers to give. And One
Gives dew drops of bright glory from life’s stream.
And reaching out we catch the gleam
Of light and strength that wings the soul
Through endless ages that beyond us roll.
And where you ask can this bright land be found?
Ah, seek dear ones, but look above the ground.

Untitled

Ah my friend and mortal woman,
Cast all doubt and distrust from thee;
From thy heart forever more.
It is I indeed that cometh,
Come to beg and to implore;
Let me bow this contrite spirit
That I should an arrow bring thee,
And its pointed dart should sting me,
Though I’m all I claim to be.

When I caught the hand of Eva
Moments few she gave to me,
Though my thoughts were burning lava
Could I claim or ask for more?
So through all her inmost being,
While her spirit eyes were seeing,
In I cast my poet fire,
Though I gave it fully, freely
Not to others did I shed them
For I gave them

Just to cheer a heart so weary.
That in all the world so dreary
No more dreary can I find,
So I murmured in my hurry
In my pity for a heart so burdened o’er
And I gave, I know I gave her,
What I’ve often said before.
Well I ask you now forgive me,
Just once more
Oh let not the sordid, craven,
Cold distrust, the vampyre raven,
E’er come tapping at your door.
It is me and nothing more.

Ah I see it grieves you o’er
Makes your heart and spirit sore,
And you feel like saying to me,
Never more, have I faith, to see or to implore
But o’er my heart, distrust an amulet
Will bind,
And seek in other fields to find
Treasures to improve the mind.
Not from thee do I implore.
Sister Abby, do but hear me,
While my head I turn to thee,

I am coming to thy chamber,
There if need be to implore,
That thy doubts be gathered ever more,
And my friend old Charon row them o’er,
To that far off Stygian Shore.
From the golden harps let music
Enter in thy heart once more.
And from out the shining portals
We may come forever more.

Bye And Bye

I shall steer my bark where the waves roll dark,
I shall cross a strange sea;
But I know I shall land on that bright strand
Where my loved ones are waiting for me.

There are faces there divinely fair;
The Earth lost long ago;
And foreheads light where curls lay bright;
Like sunbeams over snow.

There are sunny eyes, like their own blue skies
Eyes that I’ve seen before,
That will grow as bright as the start of night;
When I near the welcome shore.

There are little feet I loved to meet,
When the world was sweet to me;
I know they will bound when the rippling sound
Of my boat comes o’er the sea.

I shall see them stand on the gleaming land,
Their white arms o’er the tide,
Waiting to twine their hands in mine,
When I reach the farther side.

CLIPPINGS

N

othing is more ancient than God, for he was never created; nothing more beautiful than the world; it is the work of that same God; nothing more active than thought for it flies over the whole universe; nothing stronger than necessity, for all must submit to it.

— Thales

People make a great mistake about heaven. They think it begins up yonder, but it begins down here. If you can be happy in the basement story, you are fitted to enjoy the happiness of the upper stories. But if you whine and moan here, heaven itself cannot change your mood.

Give work to the able-bodied, give food and shelter to the sick; give sympathy to the distressed and consolation; but beware how you give alms to the lazy.

It is to be feared that they who marry where they do not love will love where they do not marry.

From a Boy’s Composition on Hens

I cut my Uncle William’s hen’s neck off with a hatchet
and it scared her to death.

Untitled Essay

H

appiness does not depend upon great wealth, so much as it does upon independence and intellectual and moral culture.

Let us turn all abject possessions out. Let us admit the divine philosophy and the divine religion; that philosophy which encompasses the universe, gives a reason for everything and a law for everything. That philosophy which binds matter with its tempests and its calms, with its sunshine and shadow, with its winter and summer, into the glorious zone of life. It causes flowers to bloom out of winter snows, and out of the great tempests’ storms, causes verdure and forests to grow.

So in the moral world, let us bind all together by the divine philosophy of that theology which believes in good and evil, in wrong and right. A philosophy that recognizes a portion of the infinite economy which encompasses the world and includes the whole (soul?). It is an economy which the soul must reach out to understand, by having overcome and vanquished it.

Let us exalt ourselves beyond the paltry fear of anything that God can do to man by the consciousness that man is elevated coequal with God in degree, and that by that very responsibility which is given to his moral nature, he can almost defy the law by triumphing over it.

Who fears the penalty of murder? Who cares for that of theft? Who dreads the jail or prison here? When we advance beyond the crime, the penalty does not seem cruel to us. It is only those who need the lash and scourge that feel it. Let us remember that these things must be and that the needful scourgings are only to be superceded by the loftier smile and the more beneficent wisdom that gives the lash into the hands of the individual, and the scourgings into our own consciences. It is a wisdom that leaves the sunlight and the love of God undimmed forever out in the darkness that men call sin, and out on the sea that men call evil. Human beings must be placed against a shadow to create the background for the picture of life. If there spins into being a bright light of the soul like the bright figures in the dark shadows of Rembrandt’s pictures, while they are almost immersed in the shadow, they are all the more distinct due to the contrast of light and shade.

Shall we find fault with the Divine Artist who has shaped it thus? Shall we find fault that the soul may come forth against the darkened ground of life as a strong picture of holiness, faith and trust? The lesson of sin is to overcome it. The degradation of sin is to fall and feel that it cannot be overcome. Seeing evil as wrong-doing that brings despair to the mind is the last form of moral disease. But seeing evil as wrong-doing that always leaves a chance for succor and hope becomes the strength upon which the soul rises.

People never commit sin with the volition of their mind; they do it in spite of it, they do it ignorantly, because of some weakness. The spirit is not strong enough to take them up to the point they wish to reach. They try, they fail, they try and fail again many times. And always, the moral person’s strength is trying for a last, final effort that shall ultimately succeed.

Untitled Essay

I

find this life has no tomorrow, or rather this condition of life, for life has so many changes, conditions and planes that the earthly part is but the beginning. It is but a day whose evening fades into the night of death. And awakening with the morning on the heights of the spiritual plane, it finds itself surrounded by the warmth, the love and the eternal light that develops and strengthens its newly clothed life, feeding and preparing it for the ever-changing phases of its existence.

I have been greatly disappointed to find that angels did not have wings, or we even sure of being angels—especially when reading (Holland’s) beautiful poem “The Wings.” I often wish for a pair and think I would keep them in motion most of the time. But I think that when we lay aside our present condition and rise to a higher plane of life, our power of locomotion is much increased, and with the wish and the will there will come the power. But now it is all wish.

Sometimes I get so tired of waiting for the sweet bye and bye, and long to go right home away from cold distrust, away from all the ills that surround me to find rest, peace and harmony. I do try to be content with what comes. I try to find some good and beautiful things from day to day. But there is so little. I famish, and starve, and keep reaching out for more, and for that which is beyond my reach.

Untitled Essay

There is no fault or folly of my life that does not rise up against me and take away my joy and shorten my power of possession, of sight, of understanding. And every past effort of my life, every gleam of rightness or good in it is with me now, to help me in my grasp of this art and its vision:

For of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are these: “It might have been ...”

The well known, worn-out topics of consolation and encouragement have become trite because they are reasonable. Let every man be occupied, and occupied in the highest employment of which his nature is capable. And let him die in the consciousness that he has done his best. The talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well, without a thought of fame.

A Fragment

Over the deep dark river,
Beyond the shining shores;
The dear ones call. And hither
We all will go once more,
When our natural life is done,
And our earthly mission ended.
When the bright crown be won,
And all joys for us are blended.

When the golden gates we enter
And plain is made the way,
Where our hearts shall be the center
Of our line, and like the May;
All things will smile in gladness;
Bright sunshine guild our way.
No trials, no more sadness,
Rest and peace will fill our day.

October 2^nd, 1863
(Location Not Legible)

“There’s such a charm in melancholy I would not, if I could, be gay.”

O

f course I wouldn’t. Besides, gaiety isn’t the fashion now days. All the young ladies of my acquaintance are dying of blasted hopes and broken hearts and I don’t see why I should be as forlorn and miserable as the best of my lovely and unfortunate sex, and I am just going to be! So there.

Heretofore, it has been against my principles to indulge in sorrow of any kind. I have laughed at care and worn a cheerful countenance on all occasions. It shocks me to think how gay and light-hearted I have been during all the years of my sojourn in this vale of tears, when I might have been so delightfully wretched and sorrow-stricken. But it’s not too late to mend. And yet, I rather reckon, if I take a notion, I can wade through as many calamities and disasters and misfortunes and vicissitudes and woes and trails and troubles and tribulations, through as much affliction and misery and anguish and distress and weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth and things generally as any other young female of my size in existence. Anyhow, I mean to try it.

Reveries and Musings

T

he great purpose of creation is to exercise and develop independent and individual thought. And through that, a will in harmony with the supreme wisdom. Men are subjected to the earth sphere, not to be happy then, but to qualify themselves for happiness; to deserve happiness.

What would all created wonders be without human thought to appreciate and admire them? Study is worship. Admiration is worship. Of what account would be the starry heavens if there was not a mind to study and to wonder at the creation, and thus to fit itself for adoration of the creator?

The sheets of evening have fallen over the grassy vales, and are slowly creeping up the woody hillsides—down into my heart with a feeling of sadness undefined. Deep shades too are stealing. These are times when we can no more throw off the gloom that envelops us with its dismal folds, than we can cause the sun to shine at midnight, or the stars to sparkle at noon day times when we cry in vain for light.

We look up but darkness covereth us; we grope with .....

Editor’s Note

Eva DeLano’s journal ends on this ambiguous note as the remaining pages of her journal are missing. Many of the book’s pages have separated from their bindings and may have simply been lost. Or they may have been purposely removed to hide what was written there. Some of the lost pages show evidence of having been torn from the book. Perhaps innocently enough—she simply may have had a need for a sheet of paper to give a friend a recipe. Or was it something more sinister? Had she written things others did not want posterity to know? Had she written things in anger or haste, then had second thoughts? It is an enigma we will never solve.

On the inside back cover, Eva has written the following name and address in pencil:

L.H. Potts
910 Pine Street
St. Louis

It is not known at this time who L.H. Potts may be. Another short entry had also been written on the inside back cover, but it has been erased vigorously. Erased so totally, in fact, that a hole is nearly worn in the inner cover’s paper.

Although her journals invoke as many mysteries as they explain about her mystical and elegiac philosophies, much is known about the woman who was my great-great grandmother. She was born on 26 January 1842, the daughter of Thomas Nelson DeLano of Watertown, New York, and his first wife Mary Ann Slater, also of the Black River area. Soon after Eva was born, probably in Virginia, the DeLano family moved to Adrian, Michigan, where young Evaline grew up. Based in Adrian, a trading center serving the northern and western frontier in mid-nineteenth century America, her father, “Nelson” DeLano, was engaged in mercantile trade. In the spring of 1861, at the age of only nineteen, Eva joined her father and a group of Adrian business associates on a trek by wagon train across the Overland Trail to sell supplies to miners in the Colorado Gold Rush near Pike’s Peak.

Three years later, she married Oliver E. Humphrey, a member of a New York family who trace their ancestors to the 1620s in Connecticut and beyond to their roots in England. Oliver Humphrey was a technician and salesman for the Howe Sewing Machine Company, a very sophisticated technology for the times. Their two surviving children are Charles Vernon and Julian Lewis Humphrey. Eva DeLano died in 1882 at Toledo, Ohio, shortly after losing her husband to “softening of the brain,” the effects of a stroke or aneurysm.

Thomas Patrick
New York, 1994