University of Virginia Library

2. II.
Blaze—Signifying Cheer.

I PUSHED my chair back; drew up another;
stretched out my feet cosily upon it, rested my
elbows on the chair arms, leaned my head on one hand
and looked straight into the leaping, and dancing
flame.

—Love is a flame—ruminated I; and (glancing
round the room) how a flame brightens up a man's
habitation.

“Carlo,” said I, calling up my dog into the light,
“good fellow, Carlo!” and I patted him kindly, and
he wagged his tail, and laid his nose across my knee,
and looked wistfully up in my face; then strode
away,—turned to look again, and lay down to sleep.

“Pho, the brute!” said I, “it is not enough after
all, to like a dog.”

—If now in that chair yonder, not the one your
feet lie upon, but the other, beside you—closer yet—
were seated a sweet-faced girl, with a pretty little
foot lying out upon the hearth—a bit of lace running
round the swelling throat—the hair parted to a charm
over a forehead fair as any of your dreams;—and if
you could reach an arm around that chair back,
without fear of giving offence, and suffer your fingers
to play idly with those curls that escape down the
neck; and if you could clasp with your other hand
those little white, taper fingers of hers, which lie so
temptingly within reach,—and so, talk softly and low
in presence of the blaze, while the hours slip without
knowledge, and the winter winds whistle uncared
for;—if, in short, you were no bachelor, but the
husband of some such sweet image—(dream, call it
rather,) would it not be far pleasanter than this cold
single night-sitting—counting the sticks—reckoning
the length of the blaze, and the height of the falling
snow?

And if, some or all of those wild vagaries that
grow on your fancy at such an hour, you could whisper
into listening, because loving ears—ears not tired with
listening, because it is you who whisper—ears ever
indulgent because eager to praise;—and if your

darkest fancies were lit up, not merely with bright
wood fire, but with a ringing laugh of that sweet face
turned up in fond rebuke—how far better, than to be
waxing black, and sour, over pestilential humors—
alone—your very dog asleep!

And if when a glowing thought comes into your
brain, quick and sudden, you could tell it over as to
a second self, to that sweet creature, who is not
away, because she loves to be there; and if you could
watch the thought catching that girlish mind, illuming
that fair brow, sparkling in those pleasantest of eyes—
how far better than to feel it slumbering, and going
out, heavy, lifeless, and dead, in your own selfish
fancy. And if a generous emotion steals over you—
coming, you know not whither, would there not be a
richer charm in lavishing it in caress, or endearing
word, upon that fondest, and most dear one, than in
patting your glossy coated dog, or sinking lonely to
smiling slumbers?

How would not benevolence ripen with such monitor
to task it! How would not selfishness grow faint and
dull, leaning ever to that second self, which is the
loved one! How would not guile shiver, and grow
weak, before that girl-brow, and eye of innocence!
How would not all that boyhood prized of enthusiasm,
and quick blood, and life, renew itself in such
presence!

The fire was getting hotter, and I moved into the
middle of the room. The shadows the flames made,
were playing like fairy forms over floor, and wall,
and ceiling.

My fancy would surely quicken, thought I, if such
being were in attendance. Surely, imagination would
be stronger, and purer, if it could have the playful
fancies of dawning womanhood to delight it. All toil
would be torn from mind-labor, if but another heart
grew into this present soul, quickening it, warming it,
cheering it, bidding it ever,—God speed!

Her face would make a halo, rich as a rainbow,
atop of all such noisome things, as we lonely souls
call trouble. Her smile would illumine the blackest
of erowding cares; and darkness that now seats you
despondent, in your solitary chair for days together,
weaving bitter fancies, dreaming bitter dreams, would
grow light and thin, and spread, and float away,—
chased by that beloved smile.

Your friend—poor fellow!—dies:—never mind,
that gentle clasp of her fingers, as she steals behind
you, telling you not to weep—it is worth ten friends!

Your sister, sweet one, is dead—buried. The
worms are busy with all her fairness. How it makes
you think earth nothing but a spot to dig graves
upon!

—It is more: she, she says, will be a sister; and

the waving curls as she leans upon your shoulder,
touch your cheek, and your wet eye turns to meet
those other eyes—God has sent his angel, surely!

Your mother, alas for it, she is gone! Is there any
bitterness to a youth, alone, and homeless, like this?

But you are not homeless; you are not alone: she
is there;—her tears softening yours, her smile lighting
yours, her grief killing yours; and you live again, to
assuage that kind sorrow of hers.

Then—those children, rosy, fair-haired; no, they
do not disturb you with their prattle now—they are
yours! Toss away there on the green-sward—never
mind the hyacinths, the snowdrops, the violets, if so
be any are there; the perfume of their healthful lips
is worth all the flowers of the world. No need now
to gather wild bouquets to love, and cherish: flower,
tree, gun, are all dead things; things livelier hold
your soul.

And she, the mother, sweetest and fairest of all,
watching, tending, caressing, loving, till your own heart
grows pained with tenderest jealousy, and cures itself
with loving.

You have no need now of any cold lecture to teach
thankfulness: your heart is full of it. No need now,
as once, of bursting blossoms, of trees taking leaf, and
greenness, to turn thought kindly, and thankfully;
for ever, beside you, there is bloom, and ever beside

you there is fruit,—for which eye, heart, and soul are
full of unknown, and unspoken, because unspeakable,
thank-offering.

And if sickness catches you, binds you, lays you
down—no lonely moanings, and wicked curses at
careless stepping nurses. The step is noiseless, and
yet distinct beside you. The white curtains are
drawn, or withdrawn by the magic of that other presence;
and the soft, cool hand is upon your brow.

No cold comfortings of friend-watchers, merely
come in to steal a word away from that outer world
which is pulling at their skirts; but, ever, the sad,
shaded brow of her, whose lightest sorrow for your
sake is your greatest griof,—if it were not a greater
joy.

The blaze was leaping light and high, and the wood
falling under the growing heat.

—So, continued I, this heart would be at length
itself;—striving with every thing gross, even now as
it clings to grossness. Love would make its strength
native and progressive. Earth's cares would fly.
Joys would double. Susceptibilities be quickened;
Love master self; and having made the mastery,
stretch onward, and upward toward Infinitude.

And, if the end came, and sickness brought that
follower—Great Follower—which sooner or later is
sure to come after, then the heart, and the hand of

Love, ever near, are giving to your tired soul, daily
and hourly, lessons of that love which consoles, which
triumphs, which circleth all, and centereth in all—
Love Infinite, and Divine!

Kind hands—none but hers—will smooth the hair
upon your brow as the chill grows damp, and heavy
on it; and her fingers—none but hers—will lie in
yours as the wasted flesh stiffens, and hardens for the
ground. Her tears,—you could feel no others, if
oceans fell—will warm your drooping features once
more to life; once more your eye lighted in joyous
triumph, kindle in her smile, and then—

The fire fell upon the hearth; the blaze gave a last
leap—a flicker—then another—caught a little remaining
twig—blazed up—wavered—went out.

There was nothing but a bed of glowing embers,
over which the white ashes gathered fast. I was
alone, with only my dog for company.