Margaret meets Margaret

It was a gray and threatening day up in the attic, but I went up with a mug of tea and a mission. Who was Margaret Elizabeth Sangster?
On the previous evening I was searching for springtime quotes to write in cards I had made to celebrate May Day. A floral card was as close to a May basket as I could fashion for far away family and friends.
I came across this:
'Never yet in springtime have the buds forgotten to bloom.'
Now, I will not suggest that I chose it based on the word 'forgotten' because a lot of us are ageing, albeit with style. It rang true as I thought about all of the blustery weather we have endured this past winter and perhaps secretly thought that spring would never arrive.
The quote was attributed to Margaret Elizabeth Sangster, an American writer born in 1838 in Brooklyn, New York and died in 1912 in Glen Ridge, New Jersey. She wrote novels, short stories, poetry and hymns. She was the editor for Harper's Bazaar for a time as well as contributing to many varied women's and Christian periodicals: Ladies Home Journal, Hearth and Home , Christian Intelligencer, Harper's For Young People.
There are a few online sites that offer her biography and many of her works are available as free online books, one or two even available on Kindle.
So I spent the afternoon reading her Victorian musings on everything from God and Nature to Mothers and Brides. Most was expectantly sappy and I was constantly referred to as Dear Reader. Interestingly, however, I find that so much of the sappy-ness was not only expected to be sound advice, but still is sound advice.
I discovered the poem from which my May Day quote was taken, "Awakening."
Online sites I scoured were poemhunter.com and hathitrust.org and cyberhymnal.org. On the hymnal site are the words she wrote for the hymn 'The Ships Glide in At The Harbor's Mouth' and they are printed for you to sing along with as an organ meters out the melody.
As I was assuming that my quote was from a poem I began reading over the available poem titles. Some intrigued me, like "A Haunted House." It does not sound like a topic for a sappy Victorian poem, let alone an inspirational Christian poem. Perhaps she did not have an editor, or she was the editor. But, I enjoyed the poem at its conclusion.

A Haunted House

It stands neglected, silent, far from the ways of men,
A lonely little cottage beside a lonely glen;
And, dreaming there, I saw it when sunset's golden
rays
Had touched it with the glory of other, sweeter days.

They say the house is haunted, and - well, it is, I
guess,
For every empty window just aches with loneliness;
With loneliness that tortures and memory that flays;
Ah, yes, the house is haunted with ghosts of other
days.

The ghost of childish laughter rings on the narrow
stair,
And, from a silent corner, the murmur of a prayer
Steals out, and then a love song, and then a bugle
call,
And steps that do not falter along the quiet hall.

The story of the old house that stands beside the
glen?
That story is forgotten by every one; but when
The house is touched and softened by sunset's golden
rays,
I know that ghosts must haunt it, the ghosts of
sweeter days.

Yes? Some of her works were quite idyllic featuring the countryside and pastures. Others painted grimy scenes of city sidewalks, but brightened by window boxes of "Scarlet Flowers."

Most anything mentioning the sea attracts my attention:

 

 

The Old Sailor

I've crossed the bar at last, mates,
My longest voyage is done;
And I can sit here, peaceful,
And watch th' setting sun
A-smilin' kind of glad like
Upon the waves so free.
My longest voyage is done, mates,
But oh, the heart of me,
Is out where sea meets skyline!
My longest voyage is done. . . .
But - can I sit, in peace, mates,
And watch the settin' sun?

For what's a peaceful life, mates,
When every breeze so free,
When every gale a-blowin',
Brings messages to me?
And is the sky so shinin',
For all it's golden sun,
To one who loves the sea, mates,
And knows his voyage is done?
And, can a year on land, mates,
Match with one day - at sea?
Ah, every wind a-singin'
Brings memory to me!

I've crossed the bar at last, mates,
My longest voyage is past,
And I must watch the sunset,
Must see it fade, at last.
My steps are not so light, mates,
As they were, years ago;
And sometimes, when I'm tired,
My head droops kind of low -
Yet, though I'm old and - weary,
The waves that dance so free,
Keep callin' to my soul, mates,
And thrill the heart of me!

 

And now Gentle Reader, advice from her practical manual, revised and republished in 1921 after her death, Good Manners for all Occasions: including etiquette of cards, wedding announcements and invitations : December Courts May.

An excerpt:

What is there in common between persons whose age is very far removed from equality? A tiny handful of years makes not much difference. A wife looks up to and adores a husband a few years her senior.

Ten, fifteen, eighteen, or twenty years of priority on the husband's side are no bar to a perfect marriage.

Bur thirty years or forty years are, of course, inadmissible, and when December with money bags weighing him down, courts May, with roses and lilies and never a cent, or she would not look at the old fossil, the proprieties are hopelessly violated.

... To be happy in marriage people must have many common interests, must be congenial through and through. Therefore, ye who are wise, eschew as you would the adversary himself with his panoply of hoofs and horns, that abominable contract know as THE MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE.

Well, I believe I have a great new wealth of information and resources for the fall Friday morning series 'Everything I know I learned over a cup of tea" ...

It was, a delightful afternoon.