University of Virginia Library

3. III.
Ashes—Signifying Desolation.

AFTER all, thought I, ashes follow blaze,
inevitably as Death follows Life. Misery
treads on the heels of Joy; Anguish rides swift after
Pleasure.

“Come to me again, Carlo,” said I, to my dog;
and I patted him fondly once more, but now only by
the light of the dying embers.

It is very little pleasure one takes in fondling brute
favorites; but it is a pleasure that when it passes,
leaves no void. It is only a little alleviating redundance
in your solitary heart-life, which if lost, another
can be supplied.

But if your heart, not solitary—not quieting its

humors with mere love of chase, or dog—not repressing
year after year, its earnest yearnings after something
better, and more spiritual,—has fairly linked
itself by bonds strong as life, to another heart—is the
casting off easy, then?

Is it then only a little heart-redundancy cut off,
which the next bright sunset will fill up?

And my fancy, as it had painted doubt under the
smoke, and cheer under warmth of the blaze, so now
it began under the faint light of the smouldering
embers, to picture heart-desolation.

—What kind congratulatory letters, hosts of
them, coming from old and half-forgotten friends, now
that your happiness is a year, or two years old!

“Beautiful.”

—Aye, to be sure beautiful!

“Rich.”

—Pho, the dawdler! how little he knows of heart-treasure,
who speaks of wealth to a man who loves
his wife, as a wife should only be loved!

“Young.”

—Young indeed; guileless as infancy; charming
as the morning.

Ah, these letters bear a sting: they bring to mind,
with new, and newer freshness, if it be possible, the
value of that, which you tremble lest you lose.

How anxiously you watch that step—if it lose not

its buoyancy; How you study the colour on that
check, if it grow not fainter; How you tremble at
the lustre in those eyes, if it be not the lustre of
Death; How you totter under the weight of that
muslin sleeve—a phantom weight! How you fear to
do it, and yet press forward, to note if that breathing
be quickened, as you ascend the home-heights, to look
off on sunset lighting the plain.

Is your sleep, quiet sleep, after that she has
whispered to you her fears, and in the same breath—
soft as a sigh, sharp as an arrow—bid you bear it
bravely?

Perhaps,—the embers were now glowing fresher,
a little kindling, before the ashes—she triumphs over
disease.

But, Poverty, the world's almoner, has come to
you with ready, spare hand.

Alone, with your dog living on bones, and you, on
hope—kindling each morning, dying slowly each
night,—this could be borne. Philosophy would bring
home its stores to the lone-man. Money is not in his
hand, but Knowledge is in his brain! and from that
brain he draws out faster, as he draws slower from his
pocket. He remembers: and on remembrance he
can live for days, and weeks. The garret, if a garret
covers him, is rich in fancies. The rain if it pelts,
pelts only him used to rain-peltings. And his dog

crouches not in dread, but in companionship. His
crust he divides with him, and laughs. He crowns
himself with glorious memories of Cervantes, though
he begs: if he nights it under the stars, he dreams
heaven-sent dreams of the prisoned, and homeless
Gallileo.

He hums old sonnets, and snatches of poor Jonson's
plays. He chants Dryden's odes, and dwells on
Otway's rhyme. He reasons with Bolingbroke or
Diogenes, as the humor takes him; and laughs at the
world: for the world, thank Heaven, has left him
alone!

Keep your money, old misers, and your palaces,
old princes,—the world is mine!

But—if not alone?

If she is clinging to you for support, for consolation,
for home, for life—she, reared in luxury perhaps, is
faint for bread?

Then, the iron enters the soul; then the nights

darken under any sky light. Then the days grow
long, even in the solstice of winter.

She may not complain; what then?

Will your heart grow strong, if the strength of her
love can dam up the fountains of tears, and the tied
tongue not tell of bereavement? Will it solace you
to find her parting the poor treasure of food you have
stolen for her, with begging, foodless children?

But this ill, strong hands, and Heaven's help, will
put down. Wealth again; Flowers again; Patrimonial
acres again; Brightness again. But your little Bessy,
your favorite child is pining.

Would to God! you say in agony, that wealth
could bring fulness again into that blanched cheek,
or round those little thin lips once more; but it
cannot. Thinner and thinner they grow; plaintive
and more plaintive her sweet voice.

“Dear Bessy”—and your tones tremble; you feel
that she is on the edge of the grave. Can you pluck
her back? Can endearments stay her? Business is
heavy, away from the loved child; home, you go, to
fondle while yet time is left—but this time you are
too late. She is gone. She cannot hear you: she
cannot thank you for the violets you put within her
stiff white hand.

And then—the grassy mound—the cold shadow of
head-stone!

The wind, growing with the night, is rattling at the
window panes, and whistles dismally. I wipe a tear,
and in the interval of my Reverie, thank God, that
I am no such mourner.

But gaiety, snail-footed, creeps back to the household.
All is bright again;—

Her lip is rich and full; her cheek delicate as a
flower. Her frailty doubles your love.

And the little one she clasps—frail too—too frail;
the boy you had set your hopes and heart on. You
have watched him growing, ever prettier, ever winning
more and more upon your soul. The love you
bore to him when he first lisped names—your name
and hers—has doubled in strength now that he asks
innocently to be taught of this, or that, and promises
you by that quick curiosity that flashes in his eye, a
mind full of intelligence.

And some hair-breadth escape by sea, or flood,
that he perhaps may have had—which unstrung your
soul to such tears, as you pray God may be spared
you again—has endeared the little fellow to your
heart, a thousand fold.

And, now, with his pale sister in the grave, all

that love has come away from the mound, where
worms feast, and centers on the boy.

How you watch the storms lest they harm him!
How often you steal to his bed late at night, and lay
your hand lightly upon the brow, where the curls
cluster thick, rising and falling with the throbbing
temples, and watch, for minutes together, the little
lips half parted, and listen—your ear close to them
—if the breathing be regular and sweet!

But the day comes—the night rather—when you
can catch no breathing.

Aye, put your hair away,—compose yourself—listen
again.

No, there is nothing!

Put your hand now to his brow,—damp indeed—
but not with healthful night-sleep; it is not your
hand, no, do not deceive yourself—it is your loved
boy's forehead that is so cold; and your loved boy
will never speak to you again—never play again—he
is dead!

Oh, the tears—the tears; what blessed things are
tears! Never fear now to let them fall on his forehead,
or his lip, lest you waken him!—Clasp him—
clasp him harder—you cannot hurt, you cannot waken
him! Lay him down, gently or not, it is the
same; he is stiff; he is stark and cold.

But courage is elastic; it is our pride. It recovers

itself easier, thought I, than these embers will
get into blaze again.

But courage, and patience, and faith, and hope
have their limit. Blessed be the man who escapes
such trial as will determine limit!

To a lone man it comes not near; for how can
trial take hold where there is nothing by which to
try?

A funeral? You reason with philosophy. A
grave yard? You read Hervey and muse upon the
wall. A friend dies? You sigh, you pat your dog,
—it is over. Losses? You retrench—you light
your pipe—it is forgotten. Calumny? You laugh
—you sleep.

But with that childless wife clinging to you in love
and sorrow—what then?

Can you take down Seneca now, and coolly blow
the dust from the leaf-tops? Can you crimp your
lip with Voltaire? Can you smoke idly, your feet
dangling with the ivies, your thoughts all waving
fancies upon a church-yard wall—a wall that borders
the grave of your boy?

Can you amuse yourself by turning stinging Martial
into rhyme? Can you pat your dog, and seeing
him wakeful and kind, say, “it is enough?” Can
you sneer at calumny, and sit by your fire dozing?

Blessed, thought I again, is the man who escapes

such trial as will measure the limit of patience and
the limit of courage!

But the trial comes:—colder and colder were
growing the embers.

That wife, over whom your love broods, is fading.
Not beauty fading;—that, now that your heart is
wrapped in her being, would be nothing.

She sees with quick eye your dawning apprehension,
and she tries hard to make that step of hers
elastic.

Your trials and your loves together have centered
your affections. They are not now as when you
were a lone man, wide spread and superficial. They
have caught from domestic attachments a finer tone
and touch. They cannot shoot out tendrils into barren
world-soil and suck up thence strengthening nutriment.
They have grown under the forcing-glass
of home-roof, they will not now bear exposure.

You do not now look men in the face as if a heart-bond
was linking you—as if a community of feeling
lay between. There is a heart-bond that absorbs all
others; there is a community that monopolizes your
feeling. When the heart lay wide open, before it
had grown upon, and closed around particular objects,
it could take strength and cheer, from a hundred
connections that now seem colder than ice.

And now those particular objects—alas for you!—
are failing.

What anxiety pursues you! How you struggle to
fancy—there is no danger; how she struggles to persuade
you—there is no danger!

How it grates now on your ear—the toil and turmoil
of the city! It was music when you were
alone; it was pleasant even, when from the din you
were elaborating comforts for the cherished objects;
—when you had such sweet escape as evening drew
on.

Now it maddens you to see the world careless
while you are steeped in care. They hustle you in
the street; they smile at you across the table; they
bow carelessly over the way; they do not know what
canker is at your heart.

The undertaker comes with his bill for the dead
boy's funeral. He knows your grief; he is respectful.
You bless him in your soul. You wish the
laughing street-goers were all undertakers.

Your eye follows the physician as he leaves your
house: is he wise, you ask yourself; is he prudent?
is he the best? Did he never fail—is he never forgetful?

And now the hand that touches yours, is it no
thinner—no whiter than yesterday? Sunny days
come when she revives; colour comes back; she

breathes freer; she picks flowers; she meets you
with a smile: hope lives again.

But the next day of storm she is fallen. She
cannot talk even; she presses your hand.

You hurry away from business before your
time. What matter for clients—who is to reap the
rewards? What matter for fame—whose eye will it
brighten? What matter for riches—whose is the
inheritance?

You find her propped with pillows; she is looking
over a little picture-book bethumbed by the dear boy
she has lost. She hides it in her chair; she has pity
on you.

— Another day of revival, when the spring sun
shines, and flowers open out of doors; she leans on
your arm, and strolls into the garden where the first
birds are singing. Listen to them with her;—what
memories are in bird-songs! You need not shudder
at her tears—they are tears of Thanksgiving. Press
the hand that lies light upon your arm, and you, too,
thank God, while yet you may!

You are early home—mid-afternoon. Your step
is not light; it is heavy, terrible.

They have sent for you.

She is lying down; her eyes half closed; her
breathing long and interrupted.

She hears you; her eye opens; you put your
hand in hers; yours trembles;—hers does not. Her
lips move; it is your name.

“Be strong”, she says, “God will help you!'

She presses harder your hand:—“Adieu!”

A long breath—another;—you are alone again.
No tears now; poor man! You cannot find them!

— Again home early. There is a smell of varnish
in your house. A coffin is there; they have
clothed the body in decent grave clothes, and the
undertaker is screwing down the lid, slipping round
on tip-toe. Does he fear to waken her?

He asks you a simple question about the inseription
upon the plate, rubbing it with his coat cuff.
You look him straight in the eye; you motion to the
door; you dare not speak.

He takes up his hat and glides out stealthful as a
cat.

The man has done his work well for all. It is a
nice coffin—a very nice coffin! Pass your hand over
it—how smooth!

Some sprigs of mignionette are lying carelessly in
a little gilt-edged saucer. She loved mignionette.

It is a good staunch table the coffin rests on;—
it is your table; you are a housekeeper—a man of
family!

Aye, of family!—keep down outery, or the nurse
will be in. Look over at the pinched features; is
this all that is left of her? And where is your heart
now? No, don't thrust your nails into your hands,
nor mangle your lip, nor grate your teeth together.
If you could only weep!

— Another day. The coffin is gone out. The
stupid mourners have wept—what idle tears! She,
with your crushed heart, has gone out!

Will you have pleasant evenings at your home
now.

Go into your parlor that your prim housekeeper
has made comfortable with clean hearth and blaze of
sticks.

Sit down in your chair; there is another velvet-cushioned
one, over against yours—empty. You
press your fingers on your eye-balls, as if you
would press out something that hurt the brain; but
you cannot. Your head leans upon your hand; your
eyes rest upon the flashing blaze.

Ashes always come after blaze.

Go now into the room where she was sick—softly,
lest the prim housekeeper come after.

They have put new dimity upon her chair; they
have hung new curtains over the bed. They have
removed from the stand its phials, and silver bell;
they have put a little vase of flowers in their place;

the perfume will not offend the sick sense now.
They have half opened the window, that the room so
long closed may have air. It will not be too cold.

She is not there.

— Oh, God!—thou who dost temper the wind to
the shorn lamb—be kind!

The embers were dark; I stirred them; there
was no sign of life. My dog was asleep. The clock
in my tenant's chamber had struck one.

I dashed a tear or two from my eyes;—how they
came there I know not. I half ejaculated a prayer
of thanks, that such desolation had not yet come nigh
me; and a prayer of hope—that it might never come.

In a half hour more, I was sleeping soundly. My
reverie was ended.