 | Reveries of a bachelor, or, A book of the heart |  |
First Reverie.
Smoke, Flame and Ashes.
OVER A WOOD FIRE.
I have got a quiet farmhouse in the country, a
very humble place to be sure, tenanted by a
worthy enough man, of the old New-England stamp,
where I sometimes go for a day or two in the winter,
to look over the farm-accounts, and to see how the
stock is thriving on the winter's keep.
One side the door, as you enter from the porch, is
a little parlor, scarce twelve feet by ten, with a cosy
looking fire-place—a heavy oak floor—a couple of
arm chairs and a brown table with carved lions' feet.
Out of this room opens a little cabinet, only big
enough for a broad bachelor bedstead, where I sleep
upon feathers, and wake in the morning, with my eye
upon a saucy colored, lithographic print of some
fancy “Bessy.”
It happens to be the only house in the world, of
which I am bona-fide owner; and I take a vast deal
of comfort in treating it just as I choose. I manage
to break some article of furniture, almost every time
I pay it a visit; and if I cannot open the window
readily of a morning, to breathe the fresh air, I knock
out a pane or two of glass with my boot. I lean
against the walls in a very old arm-chair there is on
the premises, and scaree ever fail to worry such a
hole in the plastering, as would set me down for a
round charge for damages in town, or make a prim
housewife fret herself into a raging fever. I laugh
out loud with myself, in my big arm-chair, when I
think that I am neither afraid of one, nor the other.
As for the fire, I keep the little hearth so hot, as to
warm half the cellar below, and the whole space between
the jams, roars for hours together, with white
flame. To be sure; the windows are not very tight,
between broken panes, and bad joints, so that the
fire, large as it is, is by no means an extravagant
comfort.
As night approaches, I have a huge pile of oak
and hickory placed beside the hearth; I put out the
tallow candle on the mantel, (using the family snuffers,
with one log broke,)—then, drawing my chair
directly in front of the blazing wood, and setting one
foot on each of the old iron fire-dogs, (until they
such sober, and thoughtful quietude, as I believe, on
my soul, that very few of my fellow-men have the
good fortune to enjoy.
My tenant meantime, in the other room, I can
hear now and then,—though there is a thick stone
chimney, and broad entry between,—multiplying contrivances
with his wife, to put two babies to sleep.
This occupies them, I should say, usually an hour;
though my only measure of time, (for I never carry
a watch into the country,) is the blaze of my fire.
By ten, or thereabouts, my stock of wood is nearly
exhausted; I pile upon the hot coals what remains,
and sit watching how it kindles, and blazes, and goes
out,—even like our joys!—and then, slip by the light
of the embers into my bed, where I luxuriate in such
sound, and healthful slumber, as only such rattling
window frames, and country air, can supply.
But to return: the other evening—it happened to
be on my last visit to my farm-house—when I had
exhausted all the ordinary rural topics of thought,
had formed all sorts of conjectures as to the income
of the year; had planned a new wall around one lot,
and the clearing up of another, now covered with
patriarchal wood; and wondered if the little ricketty
house would not be after all a snug enough box, to
live and to die in—I fell on a sudden into such an
hold of my sympathies—sometimes even starting
tears—that I determined, the next day, to set as
much of it as I could recal, on paper.
Something—it may have been the home-looking
blaze, (I am a bachelor of—say six and twenty,) or
possibly a plaintive cry of the baby in my tenant's
room, had suggested to me the thought of—Marriage.
I piled upon the heated fire-dogs, the last arm-full
of my wood; and now, said I, bracing myself courageously
between the arms of my chair,—I'll not
flinch,—I'll pursue the thought wherever it leads,
though it lead me to the d—(I am apt to be hasty,)
—at least—continued I, softening,—until my fire is
out.
The wood was green, and at first showed no disposition
to blaze. It smoked furiously. Smoke,
thought I, always goes before blaze; and so does
doubt go before decision: and my Reverie, from that
very starting point, slipped into this shape:—
1. I.
Smoke—Signifying Doubt.
A wife?—thought I;—yes, a wife!
And why?
And pray, my dear sir, why not—why? Why not
doubt; why not hesitate; why not tremble?
Does a man buy a ticket in a lottery—a poor man,
whose whole earnings go in to secure the ticket,—
without trembling, hesitating, and doubting?
Can a man stake his bachelor respectability, his
independence, and comfort, upon the die of absorbing,
unchanging, relentless marriage, without trembling at
the venture?
Shall a man who has been free to chase his fancies
over the wide-world, without lett or hindrance, shut
Home, that are to claim him, his time, his trouble,
and his tears, thenceforward forever more, without
doubts thick, and thick-coming as Smoke?
Shall he who has been hitherto a mere observer of
other men's cares, and business—moving off where
they made him sick of heart, approaching whenever
and wherever they made him gleeful—shall he now
undertake administration of just such cares and business,
without qualms? Shall he, whose whole life has
been but a nimble succession of escapes from trifling
difficulties, now broach without doubtings—that Matrimony,
where if difficulty beset him, there is no
escape? Shall this brain of mine, careless-working,
never tired with idleness, feeding on long vagaries,
and high, gigantic castles, dreaming out beatitudes
hour by hour—turn itself at length to such dull task-work,
as thinking out a livelihood for wife and
children?
Where thenceforward will be those sunny dreams,
in which I have warmed my fancies, and my heart,
and lighted my eye with crystal? This very marriage,
which a brilliant working imagination has invested
time and again with brightness, and delight,
can serve no longer as a mine for teeming fancy: all,
alas, will be gone—reduced to the dull standard of
the actual! No more room for intrepid forays of
will be over!
Why not, I thought, go on dreaming?
Can any wife be prettier than an after dinner
fancy, idle and yet vivid, can paint for you? Can
any children make less noise, than the little rosy-cheeked
ones, who have no existence, except in the
omnium gatherum of your own brain? Can any
housewife be more unexceptionable, than she who
goes sweeping daintily the cobwebs that gather in
your dreams? Can any domestic larder be better
stocked, than the private larder of your head dozing
on a cushioned chair-back at Delmonico's? Can any
family purse be better filled than the exceeding
plump one, you dream of, after reading such pleasant
books as Munchausen, or Typee?
But if, after all, it must be—duty, or what-not,
making provocation—what then? And I clapped
my feet hard against the fire-dogs, and leaned back,
and turned my face to the ceiling, as much as to say;
—And where on earth, then, shall a poor devil look
for a wife?
Somebody says, Lyttleton or Shaftesbury I think,
that “marriages would be happier if they were all
arranged by the Lord Chancellor.” Unfortunately,
we have no Lord Chancellor to make this commutation
of our misery
Shall a man then scour the country on a mule's
back, like Honest Gil Blas of Santillane; or shall he
make application to some such intervening providence
as Madame St. Marc, who, as I see by the
Presse, manages these matters to one's hand, for some
five per cent on the fortunes of the parties?
I have trouted, when the brook was so low, and
the sky so hot, that I might as well have thrown my
fly upon the turnpike; and I have hunted hare at
noon, and wood-cock in snow-time,—never despairing,
scarce doubting; but for a poor hunter of his
kind, without traps or snares, or any aid of police or
constabulary, to traverse the world, where are swarming,
on a moderate computation, some three hundred
and odd millions of unmarried women, for a single
capture—irremediable, unchangeable—and yet a capture
which by strange metonymy, not laid down in
the books, is very apt to turn captor into captive,
and make game of hunter—all this, surely, surely
may make a man shrug with doubt!
Then—again,—there are the plaguey wife's-relations.
Who knows how many third, fourth, or fifth
cousins, will appear at careless complimentary intervals,
long after you had settled into the placid belief
that all congratulatory visits were at an end? How
many twisted headed brothers will be putting in heir
advice, as a friend to Peggy?
How many maiden aunts will come to spend a
month or two with their “dear Peggy,” and want to
know every tea-time, “if she isn't a dear love of a
wife?” Then, dear father-in-law, will beg, (taking
dear Peggy's hand in his,) to give a little wholesome
counsel; and will be very sure to advise just the contrary
of what you had determined to undertake. And
dear mamma-in-law, must set her nose into Peggy's
cupboard, and insist upon having the key to your
own private locker in the wainscot.
Then, perhaps, there is a little bevy of dirty-nosed
nephews who come to spend the holydays, and eat up
your East India sweetmeats; and who are forever
tramping over your head, or raising the Old Harry
below, while you are busy with your clients. Last,
and worst, is some fidgety old uncle, forever too cold
or too hot, who vexes you with his patronizing airs,
and impudently kisses his little Peggy!
—That could be borne, however: for perhaps
he has promised his fortune to Peggy. Peggy, then,
will be rich:—(and the thought made me rub my
shins, which were now getting comfortably warm upon
the fire-dogs.) Then, she will be forever talking of
her fortune; and pleasantly reminding you on occasion
of a favorite purchase,—how lucky that she had
the means; and dropping hints about economy; and
buying very extravagant Paisleys.
She will annoy you by looking over the stock-list
at breakfast time; and mention quite carelessly to
your clients, that she is interested in such, or such a
speculation.
She will be provokingly silent when you hint to a
tradesman, that you have not the money by you, for
his small bill;—in short, she will tear the life out of
you, making you pay in righteous retribution of
annoyance, grief, vexation, shame, and sickness of
heart, for the superlative folly of “marrying rich.”
—But if not rich, then poor. Bah! the thought
made me stir the coals; but there was still no blaze.
The paltry earnings you are able to wring out of
clients by the sweat of your brow, will now be all our
income; you will be pestered for pin-money, and
pestered with your poor wife's-relations. Ten to one,
she will stickle about taste—“Sir Visto's”—and
want to make this so pretty, and that so charming, if
she only had the means; and is sure Paul (a kiss)
can't deny his little Peggy such a trifling sum, and
all for the common benefit.
Then she, for one, means that her children shan't
go a begging for clothes,—and another pull at the
purse. Trust a poor mother to dress her children in
finery!
Perhaps she is ugly;—not noticeable at first; but
growing on her, and (what is worse) growing faster
nose long ago: and that lip—it is very strange, you
think, that you ever thought it pretty. And then,—
to come to breakfast, with her hair looking as it does,
and you, not so much as daring to say—“Peggy, do
brush your hair!” Her foot too—not very bad when
decently chaussée—but now since she's married, she
does wear such infernal slippers! And yet for all
this, to be prigging up for an hour, when any of my
old chums come to dine with me!
“Bless your kind hearts! my dear fellows,” said I,
thrusting the tongs into the coals, and speaking out
loud, as if my voice could reach from Virginia to
Paris—“not married yet!”
Perhaps Peggy is pretty enough—only shrewish.
—No matter for cold coffee;—you should have
been up before.
What sad, thin, poorly cooked chops, to eat with
your rolls!
—She thinks they are very good, and wonders
how you can set such an example to your children.
The butter is nauseating.
—She has no other, and hopes you'll not raise a
storm about butter a little turned.—I think I see
myself—ruminated I—sitting meekly at table, scarce
daring to lift up my eyes, utterly fagged out with
some quarrel of yesterday, choking down detestably
slipping in dried mouthfuls of burnt ham off the side
of my fork tines,—slipping off my chair side-ways at
the end, and slipping out with my hat between my
knees, to business, and never feeling myself a competent,
sound-minded man, till the oak door is between
me and Peggy!
—“Ha, ha,—not yet!” said I; and in so earnest a
tone, that my dog started to his feet—cocked his eye
to have a good look into my face—met my smile of
triumph with an amiable wag of the tail, and curled
up again in the corner.
Again, Peggy is rich enough, well enough, mild
enough, only she doesn't care a fig for you. She has
married you because father, or grandfather thought
the match eligible, and because she didn't wish to
disoblige them. Besides, she didn't positively hate
you, and thought you were a respectable enough
person;—she has told you so repeatedly at dinner.
She wonders you like to read poetry; she wishes, you
would buy her a good cook-book; and insists upon
your making your will at the birth of the first baby.
She thinks Captain So-and-So a splendid looking
fellow, and wishes you would trim up a little, were
it only for appearance' sake.
You need not hurry up from the office so early at
night:—she, bless her dear heart!—does not feel
the pathetic parts with directions to her seamstress.
You read of marriages: she sighs, and asks if Captain
So and So has left town? She hates to be mewed up
in a cottage, or between brick walls; she does so love
the Springs!
But, again, Peggy loves you;—at least she swears
it, with her hand on the Sorrows of Werter. She
has pin-money which she spends for the Literary
World, and the Friends in Council. She is not bad-looking,
save a bit too much of forehead; nor is she
sluttish, unless a negligé till three o'clock, and an ink
stain on the fore finger be sluttish;—but then she is
such a sad blue!
You never fancied when you saw her buried in a
three volume novel, that it was anything more than a
girlish vagary; and when she quoted Latin, you
thought innocently, that she had a capital memory
for her samplers.
But to be bored eternally about Divine Danté and
funny Goldoni, is too bad. Your copy of Tasso, a
treasure print of 1680, is all bethumbed and dogs-eared,
and spotted with baby gruel. Even your
Seneca—an Elzevir—is all sweaty with handling.
She adores La Fontaine, reads Balzac with a kind of
artist-scowl, and will not let Greek alone.
You hint at broken rest and an aching head at
—in lieu of the camphor bottle—or chant the aiai
aiai, of tragic chorus.
—The nurse is getting dinner; you are holding
the baby; Peggy is reading Bruyere.
The fire smoked thick as pitch, and puffed out
little clouds over the chimney piece. I gave the
fore-stick a kick, at thought of Peggy, baby, and
Bruyére.
—Suddenly the flame flickered bluely athwart
the smoke—caught at a twig below—rolled round the
mossy oak-stick—twined among the crackling tree-limbs—mounted—lit
up the whole body of smoke,
and blazed out cheerily and bright. Doubt vanished
with Smoke, and Hope began with Flame.
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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!
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace,
You cannot shut the windows of the sky;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living streams, at eve,
Let health, my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I, their toys, to the great children, leave,
Of Fancy, Reason, Virtue, naught can me bereave!
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
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;—
—the violet bed 's not sweeter
Than the delicious breath marriage sends forth.
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
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
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
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
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;
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.
| Reveries of a bachelor, or, A book of the heart | |