University of Virginia Library

37. LOST HOPES.

The deep love that settles on an only child, is peculiar,
and may be perilous. Spread over a wider surface, it
respires freely, and inhales health; but, thus concentrated,
becomes absorbing,—perhaps morbid, or idolatrous.

If the faults of its object pierce through the folds and
mazes of blinding partiality, they cause paternal affection
unutterable anguish. But more frequently they are perceived
in part, or not at all. The desire that others should
be equally blinded, or inspired with a similar admiration,
sometimes becomes a demand, and ends in disappointment.
Dread of losing its sole treasure, magnifies the
slightest exposure, and sees in trivial indispositions the
symptoms of fatal disease.

How touchingly is the utter desolation of such affectionate
hope depicted in the epitaph upon an only daughter,
in Ashbourne Church, England, whose little effigy
upon its marble mattress, mingling the restlessness of

pain, with the meek smile of patience, has drawn tears
from many a traveller.

I was not in safety; neither had I rest; neither was I quiet:

Still, to the excess or perversion of this heaven-implanted
affection, there are beautiful exceptions, reflecting
honor both on the self-denial of the parent, and the
well-balanced nature of the child. Gentle, shrinking
spirits there are, needing to be soothed and fortified by
an unwavering, exclusive tenderness:—grateful, generous
ones also, that do not abuse it. The indulgence that
hardens others into selfishness, renders them more amiable,
and disposed to show the same kindness with which
they have themselves been nurtured. The deprivation
of fraternal and sisterly intercourse, often creates in the
earlier periods of life a loneliness, which, acting like a
perpetual discipline, leads to humility and piety. So
that the position of an only child,—in itself a severe
ordeal,—may either ripen superior excellence, or stifle its
indications in selfishness, disappointment, and sorrow.

In a small and neatly-furnished parlor, might be seen
a group of three persons,—the central one being a child,
who occupied the hazardous situation which we have
contemplated. Through his thick curls, the mother's
fingers often moved with delight, arranging them in the

most becoming attitudes around the neck, or the well-formed
forehead. The father, though what is called a
matter-of-fact man, found a new and growing affection
mingling with the cares of the day, and was never better
pleased at returning from his business at night, than to
be entertained with the smart sayings of his boy, which
were treasured up for that purpose.

Still, these parents were more judicious in the training
of their child than many in similar situations, and though
very indulgent, it would appear that this indulgence had
not been especially injurious. Frank Edwards was affectionate,
and not disposed to take an undue advantage
of kindness. He was cheerful in his attendance at
school, and regular in returning home, where something
to give him pleasure was sedulously prepared. He was
generally satisfied to do what his parents desired, and
this good conduct gave to his naturally handsome features,
an agreeable expression; so that the neighbors
remarked they had seldom seen an only child so obedient,
and with such good manners.

Among those who took a deep interest in the boy,
was an unmarried uncle, from whom he was named. As
he resided near, scarcely an evening passed without a
visit from him. He interested himself in all that concerned
Frank, and the most expensive gifts at birth-days,
and New-Year, were always from his uncle. On holiday
afternoons, when the weather was favorable, his uncle
usually came, with his fine pair of ponies, on which they

took equestrian exercise together. Such was his absorbing
interest in his namesake, that the parents informed
him of all their movements respecting him, and observed
that he was always pleased to give advice respecting his
education.

One of his favorite propositions was, that he should
be sent away from home. This, the parents steadily
resisted; arguing, that their own schools bore so high a
reputation, that many children from distant towns were
sent to be recipients of their privileges.

“All this may be very true,” he replied; “and yet
he ought to go from home, to make him manly. He is
brought up too much like a girl. Here, I see him putting
his arm around his mother's neck, or sitting with his
hand in hers, perfectly childish, you know. How can be
ever be fit to bear his part among men, cossetted up in
this way?”

These opinions being communicated to Frank, made
him constrained in the presence of his uncle. He learned
to repress the expression of his affectionate feelings, from
fear of ridicule; and lest he should not be considered
manly, by one whose good opinion he valued.

“My dear,” said Mr. Edwards, one evening, “my
brother has made a distinct proposal, that Frank should
be sent to a celebrated scholastic institution in a distant
city, for two years, before he enters college; all the
expenses of which he engages to defray.”

“I pray you not to listen to him. Our boy is doing

well here. We cannot tell how it will be with him,
when he is far away,—perhaps exposed to bad example.”

“I think as you do, with regard to that. Besides, I
should be lost without him, when I come from the store,
in the evening. But brother gives me no peace. If we
do not cross him in this matter, he will be very likely to
make Frank his heir. You know he is rich, and my
possessions are very moderate. I think we ought to
make a sacrifice of our feelings, for the sake of his
future good.”

“There are other kinds of good, besides the gain of
money, that I covet for our child,” said the mother, her
eyes filling with tears; “and losses, for which all the
wealth in the world cannot pay.”

But she was not slow in perceiving that her husband
had already consented to this arrangement,—and the
brother entering soon after, confirmed it. She felt that
longer opposition was fruitless, yet was still moved to
say, with an unwonted warmth and emphasis,—

“My heart is full of misgivings. While my son is by
this fireside, I know that he is not in bad company.
When he is removed from my sight and influence, how
can I know this? I have reason to think that he does
not neglect his studies, and he is always happy with
me.”

“That is the trouble, sister; you make him altogether
too happy. Remember, he is an only child,—everybody
can see that. He has got to live in the world, as

well as the rest of us. Yet what does he know of the
world? Your husband is much away, occupied with his
business, and it is almost a proverb, that boys brought
up by women, are good for nothing.”

“Brother, if he is an only child, I think he has not
been indulged to his hurt. Is not his home a safe one?
Is not his school a good one? Is he not making respectable
progress? Is he not in good habits? Can you give
assurance that a change will not be for the worse? Do
you know certainly, that his principles will be strong to
resist evil?”

The mother argued in vain. She was alternately
argued with and soothed. All her objections were resolved
into natural reluctance to resign the solace of her
son's company; and as the father had consented, she was
enforced to consent also.

Frank had arrived at an age when the desire of
seeing new places, and making new acquaintances, was
alluring. So he did not heighten the pain of his mother,
by any unwillingness to depart. In the preparations for
his wardrobe, and supply of books, which were on an
unusually liberal scale, he took much interest, and could
not avoid boasting a little to his old companions of his
brilliant prospects.

But when the last trunk was locked, his spirits quailed.
Seated between his father and mother, and expecting
every moment the arrival of the stage-coach, the tears
rushed so fast to his eyes, and he felt such a suffocating

sensation in his throat, that he could scarcely heed their
parting counsel.

At the sound of the wheels, stopping at the door, he
would fain have thrown himself upon his mother's neck
and wept. But his uncle, who was to accompany him,
leaped from the vehicle, and came in. So he busied
himself in arranging his parcels, and after shaking hands
courageously with his parents, said, as he rushed from
the house,—

“Good by!—good by!—You shall hear from me, as
soon as I get there.”

He dared not look back, until the roof of his home, and
the trees that shaded it, were entirely out of sight. For
he knew that if he trusted himself with another glimpse,
he should burst into tears,—and feared that his uncle
would shame him by the appellation of “Miss Fanny,”
before strangers.

In the large school that he entered, everything seemed
new and strange. He found more trials of temper, and
privations of comfort, than he had anticipated. He went
with an intention to make himself distinguished by scholarship.
But there were many older and more advanced
than himself, and he did not exhibit the perseverance
necessary, in such circumstances, to insure success.

He also suffered from that sinking loneliness of heart,
which an indulged child feels, when first exiled from the
sympathies of home. In the headaches, to which, from
childhood, he had been occasionally subject, he sadly

missed maternal nursing and tenderness. But he would
not acknowledge home-sickness, or complain of indisposition,
lest it should not be manly; and having a good
temper, became gradually a favorite with his new associates.

Everything went on well, until his room-mate was
changed, and a careless, immoral boy, placed in this
intimate connection. At length, it was proved that he
had not the moral courage to say no, when tempted to
evil,—and a sad change in his deportment became evident.
He had not firmness enough to reprove his companion
for what he knew to be wicked,—or steadfastly to
resist what his conscience disapproved.

It was not long ere he began to waste his time, and
neglect the appointed lessons. Fortified by bad example,
he scorned the censure that followed, and learned to
ridicule, in secret, the instructors whom he should have
loved. Foolish and hurtful books, engrossed and corrupted
the minds of those thoughtless comrades,—and
there they were, making themselves merry with what
they should have shunned, while their distant relatives
supposed them diligent in the acquisition of knowledge.

Months passed on, and the vacation approached.
Every day was counted by the anxious mother. His
room was put in perfect order, and some articles of furniture
added, which it was thought would please him.
His little library was arranged to make the best appearance,
and his minerals newly labelled, and placed in their

respective compartments. Some of his toys she removed
to her own cabinet, for she said, “They will be too childish
for him now;—but I love to keep them, for they
remind me of him, when he just began to walk and to
speak, and was always so happy.” His favorite articles
of food were not forgotten, and as the time of his arrival
drew near, she busied herself in their preparation, with
that delight in which only the fond maternal heart can
partake.

When the loved one came, his uncle exclaimed with
exultation, “How improved!—how manly!” He had,
indeed, gained much in stature, and promised to possess
a graceful, well-proportioned form. But those who scrutinized
his countenance and manner, might be led to
doubt whether every change had been for the better, or
whether the added manliness might not have been purchased
at too great a cost. Simple gratifications no
longer contented him. He seemed to require for himself
a lavish expenditure. He ceased to ask pleasantly
for the things that he desired, or to express gratitude for
them; but said churlishly through his shut teeth, with
half-averted face,—

“I want this, or that. Other boys have all they wish.
I see no reason why I should not.”

His mother was still more alarmed at the habits of
reserve and concealment which he had contracted. Formerly,
he was accustomed to impart freely to her, all
that concerned him. Now, she could not but feel that

she was shut out from his confidence, and fear that
her influence over him was irrecoverably lost.

Still, she remitted no effort or device, in which the
maternal heart is so fruitful, to reinstate herself in his
affections. Sometimes, she was flattered by a brightening
hope; then he started aside, like a deceitful bow.
His first vacation was, in these respects, a model of
those that followed;—and the two last years at school
passed away, with little intellectual gain, and great moral
loss.

At his entrance into college he was exposed to greater
temptations, and still less inclined to repel them. Let
no parent flatter himself, that it will be well with a son
thus situated, unless he possesses firm principles, and is
willing diligently to labor in the acquisition of knowledge.
Good talents, and good temper alone, will not save him.
The first, without industry, are unfruitful; and the sunshine
of the latter may be clouded by immediate self-reproach.

We will not follow Frank Edwards, through the haunts
of folly and intemperance where his ruin was consummated.
His letters to his affectionate parents were few, and brief.
Those to his uncle were more frequent, because on him
the supply of his purse depended. That gentleman was
heard to say, with a smile of somewhat indefinite character,
that “truly, he spent money like a man.” It was
supposed, however, that in the course of a year or two,
he might have become dissatisfied with the manly expenses

of his nephew, as he ceased to boast of this proof of his
virility.

Though Frank was ignobly contented with the lowest
grade in scholarship, he had still a latent ambition to be
distinguished in some way or other. So he was fond of
speaking of his “rich, old-bachelor uncle,” and saying
that, without doubt, he should be his heir. His mad
expenditure was praised as liberality; and he called a
fine, noble-hearted fellow, by the gay companions who
walked with him in the way to destruction.

Early in the third year of his collegiate course, he
came home in ill health. He found fault with the laws
of the Institution, and ridiculed its officers. He said it
was impossible to gain a good education there, if one
applied himself ever so closely to his studies. In short,
he blamed every person, but himself. He had left
college in disgrace, and debt, with neither the disposition
or ability to return. His uncle, who had certainly great
reason to be offended, told him that he need have no
further expectations from him; for unless the whole
course of his life was changed, he should choose some
more worthy recipient of his bounty, and find some heir
to his estate, who would not dishonor his name.

The sad, and mortified father, took the youth to his
own counting-house. He enforced on him the necessity
of doing something for his support. But he had no
habits of application, and despised the routine of business,
and the confinement that it imposed. His red, and bloated

face revealed, but too truly, the vice to which he was
enslaved. As he passed in the street, he was pointed out,
as the ruined young man.

Alas! for the poor mother. Long did she labor to
hide the fearful truth from her own heart. Her love,
ingenious in its excuses, strove to palliate his conduct in
the view of others, hoping that he might yet retrieve his
reputation. Patiently, and with woman's tact, she
waited for glimpses of good feeling,—for moments of
reflection, to give force to her tender appeals,—her
earnest remonstrances. But her husband said to her,—

“It is in vain that we would blind ourselves to what
is known to all the people. Our son is a sot! I have
tried with, and for him, every means of reformation. But
they are all like water spilt upon the ground, which no
man gathereth up again.”

That disgusting vice which breaks down grace of
form, and beauty of countenance, and debases intellect to
a level with the brute creation, has seldom been more
painfully displayed than in the case of this miserable
youth. The pleasant chamber, so carefully decorated by
maternal taste,—the very pictures on whose walls seemed
to look reproachfully at him,—where his happy boyhood
had dreamed away nights of innocence, and woke to the
exuberance of health and joy,—was now the scene of his
frequent sickness, senseless laughter, or awful imprecations.

But his career was short, and his sudden death horrible.

Those who most loved him, were unable to witness
it With eyeballs starting from their sockets, he raved
of hideous monsters, and fiery shapes, that surrounded
him. One furious struggle,—one unearthly shriek of wild
and weak contention,—and in the agonies of delirium
tremens, died this miserable victim of intemperance, ere
time had impaired his vigor, or ripened the blossom of
his manly prime.

In the suburbs of the city where Frank Edwards was
born and died, was a cluster of humble dwellings, in one of
which resided a widow, with her only son. She was poor,
and inured to labor, but freely expended on him, the
little gains of her industry, as well as the overflowing
fulness of her affections. She denied herself every
superfluity, that he might enjoy the advantages of education,
and the indulgences that boyhood covets. Silently
she sate, working at her small fire, by a single lamp, often
regarding with intense delight her boy, as he amused
himself with his books, or sought out his lessons for the
following day. The expenses of his education were defrayed
by her unresting toil, and glad and proud was she
to bestow on him privileges which she had never been so
happy as to share. She believed him to be faithfully
acquiring that knowledge which she respected, without
being able fully to comprehend. But his teachers, and
his idle playmates, better knew how he was employed.
He learned to astonish his simple admiring parent with
high-sounding epithets, and technical terms, and to despise

her for not understanding them. When she saw him
sometimes dejected, at comparing his situation with those
who were above him in rank, she deepened her own self-denial,
that she might add a luxury to his table, or a
garment to his wardrobe.

How happy was her affectionate heart in such sacrifices.
Yet she erred in judgment, for they fell like good
seed upon stony ground. Indulgence ministered to his
selfishness, and rendered him incapable of warm gratitude,
or just appreciation. As his boyhood advanced, there
was little reciprocity of kindness, and every year seemed
to diminish even that little. At length, his manners
assumed a cast of defiance. She was grieved at the
alteration, but solaced herself with the sentiment, that it
“was just the nature of boys.”

He grew boisterous and disobedient. His returns to
their humble cottage, became irregular. She sate up
late for him, and when she heard his approaching footsteps,
forgot her weariness, and welcomed him kindly.
But he might have seen reproach written on the paleness
of her loving brow, if he would have read its language.
During those long and lonely evenings, she sometimes
wept as she remembered him in his early years, when he
was so gentle, and to her eye, so beautiful. “But this
is the nature of young men,” said her lame philosophy.
So she armed herself to bear.

At length, it was evident that darker vices were making
him their victim. The habit of intemperance could

no longer be concealed, even from a love that blinded
itself. The widowed mother remonstrated with unwonted
energy. She was answered in the dialect of insolence
and brutality.

He disappeared from her cottage. What she dreaded,
had come upon her. In his anger, he had gone to sea.
And now, every night when the tempest howled, and the
wind was high, she lay sleepless, thinking of him. She
saw him in her imagination climbing the slippery shrouds,
or doing the bidding of rough, unfeeling men. Again,
she fancied that he was sick and suffering, with none to
watch over him, and have patience with his waywardness;
and her head, which silver hairs had begun to sprinkle,
throbbed in agony, till her eyes gushed out like fountains
of waters.

But hopes of his return began to cheer her. When
the new moon, with its slender crescent looked in at her
window, she said in her lonely heart, “My boy will be
here, before that moon is old.” And when it waned,
and went away, she sighed, “My boy will remember
me.”

Years fled, and there was no letter,—no message.
Sometimes, she gathered floating tidings that he was on
some far sea, or in some foreign clime. When he touched
at any port of his native land, it was not to seek the
cottage of his mother, but to waste his wages in revelry,
and re-embark on a new voyage.

Weary years, and no recognition, no letter.—And yet

she had abridged her comforts that he might be taught to
write, and was wont to exhibit his penmanship with such
pride. Alas! her indulgence had been lost on an ignoble
nature. But she checked the reproachful thought and
sighed,—“It was the way with sailors.”

Amid all these years of neglect and cruelty, still Love
lived on. When Hope withheld nutriment, it begged
food of Memory. It was satisfied with the crumbs from
a table, that must never be spread more. So Memory
brought the fragments that she had gathered into her
basket, when infancy and childish innocence held their
simple festivals, and Love as a mendicant received that
broken bread, and fed upon it, and gave thanks. It fed
upon the cradle-smile, upon the first lisping words, when
with its cheek laid upon the mother's, the babe slumbered
the live-long night, or when essaying the first uncertain
footsteps, he tottered with outstretched arms to her
bosom, as a bird newly-fledged, to its nest.

But Religion found this forsaken widow, and communed
with her at the deep midnight, while the storm
was raging without. It told her of a “name better than
of sons or of daughters,” and she was comforted. It
bade her resign herself to the will of her Father in Heaven,
and she found peace.

It was a cold evening in the winter, and the snow lay
deep upon the earth. The widow sate alone, by her little
fireside. The marks of early age had settled upon her.

There was meekness on her brow, and in her hand, a book
from whence that meekness came.

A heavy knock shook her door, and ere she could open
it, a man entered. He moved with pain, like one crippled,
and his red and downcast visage, was partially concealed
by a torn hat. Among those who had been
familiar with his youthful countenance, only one, save the
Being who made him, could have recognized him through
his disguise and misery. The mother, looking deep into
his eye, saw a faint tinge of that fair blue, which had
charmed her, when it unclosed from the cradle-dream.

“My son! My son!”

Had the prodigal returned, by a late repentance, to
atone for years of ingratitude and sin? I will not speak
of the revels that shook the lowly roof of his widowed
parent, or the profanity that disturbed her repose.

The remainder of his history is brief. The effects of
vice had debilitated his constitution, and once, as he was
apparently recovering from a long paroxysm of intemperance,
apoplexy struck his heated brain, and he lay,—
a bloated and hideous corse!

The poor mother faded away, and followed him.