John Milton Binckley, June 1859 Travel Diary, Pages 5-6

[Many thanks to William Myers, Mary Davy, Sally Young and Sue Davis for their ongoing research collaboration; specifically to William for providing scans of the original document, and in turn many thanks to Peter Johnston Binckley and Patricia D'Arcy "Trish" Binckley (1951-2007), at the source.

The handwriting is difficult to translate and transcribe. Sally Young and William Myers helpfully made additional suggestions. Corrections and clarifications will be ongoing.]

5

If he is contented, why don’t he enjoy his content and keep his mouth shut . . . or anything else – likely, rather by good potatoes.

All the way, the travel(ing) is cut in glad bloom, 

Here we pass more dams on the Patapsco. A saucy & rather fast young lady from Balt[imor]e was my companion down once, & here she remarked with irresistible drollery in the hearing of a pious and sober old couple by our side, “Look at that damned water.” The worshipped horror of said venerable couple almost impelled me to . . . explanation or outburst of laughter in their faces.

Woodbine station [Maryland]. Here we used to stop to go to Poplar Springs. “Spiplar Prongs.” If only Mrs. Mitchel knew this. Passed without . . . saw no one I knew.

Little beyond Woodbine . . . sun out again promised a lovely sunset. There stands a country lass with a pink dress. Her hands white as snow and face like a story of glad tidings. Thatched buildings. Here at a hillside, winds off a shady little road. Great plain, then hid in the foliage, then where the

6

Sunset glimpse strikes, peeping thro’ then turning out into a field, masked only by a row of undergrowth, looking in the light like a fringe I drew of gold round the dais of the throne of Daniel, and at last back behind the hill in the shadows.

But still mother behind, peeps up formlessly hopeless and a house top. There it Ends. Well what of it? I don’t know, yet why does such a thing look like an invitation? There seems to me a shrine up behind that hill and those poplars, & this wood seems hallowed by pilgrim footsteps – pilgrims? – yes – to the only holy of holies, the fireside.

Say not that is only parting inhere, but in fact is otherwise, not so. The bond that unites the worldliest or the rudest, like that which binds the guiltiest and noblest, is golden with heavenly gold. Such thoughts bring up – what? What or who could it be that comes on the wings of every gentle thought! [Side note:] Ah Milton, my beloved, may I be able to make your fireside the holiest and happiest spot on earth to you – Your heart’s peaceful refuge.

Here the Nataprew[?] is near the infancy of her course. Pretty and . . . it toys with the night, which ever trying

[John Milton Binckley (1831-1878).
Mother = Charlotte Stocker Binckley (1788-1877).]