 | Dream life |  |
Autumn;
Or,
The Dreams of Manhood.
Autumn.
THERE are those who shudder at the approach
of Autumn; and who feel a light grief stealing
over their spirits, like an October haze, as the evening
shadows slant sooner, and longer, over the face of an
ending August day.
But is not Autumn the Manhood of the year? Is
it not the ripest of the seasons? Do not proud flowers
blossom;—the golden rod, the orchis, the dahlia,
and the bloody cardinal of the swamp-lands?
The fruits too are golden, hanging heavy from the
tasked trees. The fields of maize show weeping
spindles, and broad rustling leaves, and ears, half
glowing with the crowded corn; the September wind
whistles over their thick-set ranks, with whispers of
red with ripeness; and tip their tops with clustering,
tri-cornered kernels.
The cattle loosed from the summer's yoke, grow
strong upon the meadows, new starting from the
scythe. The lambs of April, rounded into fullness
of limb, and gaining day by day their woolly cloak,
bite at the nodding clover-heads; or, with their noses
to the ground, they stand in solemn, circular conclave,
under the pasture oaks, while the noon sun beats with
the lingering passion of July.
The Bob-o'-Lincolns have come back from their
Southern rambles among the rice, all speckled with
gray; and—singing no longer as they did in Spring,—
they quietly feed upon the ripened reeds, that straggle
along the borders of the walls. The larks, with their
black and yellow breast-plates, and lifted heads, stand
tall upon the close-mown meadow; and at your
first motion of approach, spring up, and soar away,
and light again; and with their lifted heads, renew
the watch. The quails, in half-grown coveys, saunter
hidden, through the underbrush that skirts the wood;
and only when you are close upon them, whir away,
and drop scattered under the coverts of the forest.
The robins, long ago deserting the garden neighborhood,
feed at eventide, in flocks, upon the bloody
berries of the sumac; and the soft-eyed pigeons
at sun-rise, and gnaw off the full-grown burs of the
chesnuts. The lazy black-birds skip after the loitering
cow, watchful of the crickets, that her slow steps start
to danger. The crows, in companies, caw aloft;
and hang high over the carcase of some slaughtered
sheep, lying ragged upon the hills.
The ash trees grow crimson in color, and lose their
summer life in great gouts of blood. The birches touch
their frail spray with yellow; the chesnuts drop down
their leaves in brown, twirling showers. The beeches
crimped with the frost, guard their foliage, until each
leaf whistles white, in the November gales. The
bitter-sweet hangs its bare, and leaf-less tendrils from
rock to tree, and sways with the weight of its brazen
berries. The sturdy oaks, unyielding to the winds,
and to the frosts, struggle long against the approaches
of the winter; and in their struggles, wear faces of
orange, of scarlet, of crimson, and of brown; and
finally, yielding to swift winds,—as youth's pride yields
to manly duty,—strew the ground with the scattered
glories of their summer strength; and warm, and feed
the earth, with the debris of their leafy honors.
The maple, in the low-lands, turns suddenly its
silvery greenness into orange scarlet; and in the
coming chilliness of the Autumn eventide, seems to
catch the glories of the sunset; and to wear them—
of cloud, by day,—and of fire, by night.
And when all these are done;—and in the paved,
and noisy aisles of the city, the ailanthus, with all its
greenness gone,—lifts up its skeleton fingers to the
God of Autumn and of storms,—the dog-wood still
guards its crown; and the branches which stretched
their white canvass in April, now bear up a spire of
bloody tongues, that lie against the leafless woods, like
a tree on fire!
Autumn brings to the home, the cheerful glow
of `first fires.' It withdraws the thoughts from the
wide and joyous landscape of summer, and fixes them
upon those objects which bloom, and rejoice within
the household. The old hearth that has rioted the
summer through with boughs and blossoms, gives
up its withered tenantry. The fire-dogs gleam kindly
upon the evening hours; and the blaze wakens those
sweet hopes, and prayers, which cluster around the
fireside of home.
The wanton and the riot of the season gone, are
softened in memory, and supply joys to the season
to come;—just as youth's audacity and pride, give
a glow to the recollections of our manhood.
At mid-day, the air is mild and soft; a warm, blue
smoke lies in the mountain gaps; the tracery of distant
woods upon the upland, hangs in the haze, with
low with August drought; and frets upon the pebbly
bottom, with a soft, low murmur,—as of joyousness
gone by. The hemlocks of the river bank, rise in
tapering sheens, and tell tales of Spring.
As the sun sinks, doubling his disc in the October
smoke, the low, south wind creeps over the withered
tree-tops, and drips the leaves upon the land. The
windows that were wide open at noon, are closed;
and a bright blaze—to drive off the Eastern dampness,
that promises a storm,—flashes lightly, and kindly,
over the book-shelves and busts, upon my wall.
As the sun sinks lower, and lower, his red beams
die in a sea of great, gray clouds. Slowly, and quietly,
they creep up over the night-sky. Venus is shrouded.
The Western stars blink faintly,—then fade in the
mounting vapors. The vane points East of South.
The constellations in the Zenith, struggle to be seen;—
but presently give over, and hide their shining.
By late lamp-light, the sky is all gray and dark: the
vane has turned two points nearer east. The clouds
spit fine rain-drops, that you only feel, with your face
turned to the heavens. But soon, they grow thicker
and heavier; and, as I sit, watching the blaze, and—
dreaming—they patter thick and fast under the
driving wind, upon the window,—like the swift tread
of an army of Men!
I.
Pride of Manliness.
AND has manhood no dreams? Does the soul
wither at that Rubicon, which lies between the
Gallic country of youth, and the Rome of manliness?
Does not fancy still love to cheat the heart, and weave
gorgeous tissues to hang upon that horizon, which lies
along the years that are to come? Is happiness so
exhausted, that no new forms of it lie in the mines of
imagination, for busy hopes to drag up to-day?
Where then would live the motives to an upward
looking of the eye, and of the soul;—where, the
beckonings that bid us ever—onward?
But these later dreams, are not the dreams of fond
boyhood, whose eye sees rarely below the surface of
things; nor yet the delicious hopes of sparkling-blooded
of practical results, of hard-wrought world-success, and
—may be—of Love and of Joy.
Ambitious forays do not rest, where they rested
once: hitherto, the balance of youth has given you, in
all that you have dreamed of accomplishment,—a
strong vantage against age: hitherto, in all your
estimates, you have been able to multiply them by that
access of thought, and of strength, which manhood
would bring to you. Now, this is forever ended.
There is a great meaning in that word—manhood.
It covers all human growth. It supposes no extensions,
or increase; it is integral, fixed, perfect—the whole.
There is no getting beyond manhood; it is much
to live up to it; but once reached, you are all that
a man was made to be, in this world.
It is a strong thought—that a man is perfected,
so far as strength goes;—that he will never be abler
to do his work, than under the very sun which is now
shining on him. There is a seriousness, that few call
to mind, in the reflection, that whatever you do in this
age of manhood, is an unalterable type of your whole
bigness. You may qualify particulars of your character,
by refinements, by special studies, and practice;
but,—once a man,—and there is no more manliness to
be lived for!
This thought kindles your soul to new, and swifter
were toys; these are weapons. They were fancies;
these are motives. The soul begins to struggle with
the dust, the sloth, the circumstance, that beleaguer
humanity, and to stagger into the van of action.
Perception, whose limits lay along a narrow horizon,
now tops that horizon, and spreads, and reaches toward
the heaven of the Infinite. The mind feels its birth,
and struggles toward the great birth-master. The
heart glows: its humanities even, yield and crimple
under the fierce heat of mental pride. Vows leap
upward, and pile rampart upon rampart, to scale
all the degrees of human power.
Are there not times in every man's life when there
flashes on him a feeling—nay, more, an absolute
conviction,—that this soul is but a spark belonging
to some upper fire; and that by as much as we
draw near by effort, by resolve, by intensity of
endeavor, to that upper fire,—by so much, we draw
nearer to our home, and mate ourselves with angels?
Is there not a ringing desire in many minds to seize
hold of what floats above us in the universe of
thought, and drag down what shreds we can, to
scatter to the world? Is it not belonging to greatness,
to catch lightning, from the plains where lightning
lives, and curb it, for the handling of men?
Resolve is what makes a man manliest;—not puny
but that strong, and indefatigable will, which treads
down difficulties and danger, as a boy treads down
the heaving frost-lands of winter;—which kindles his
eye and brain, with a proud pulse-beat toward the
unattainable. Will makes men giants. It made
Napoleon an Emperor of kings,—Bacon a fathomer
of nature,—Byron a tutor of passion, and the martyrs,
masters of Death!
In this age of manhood, you look back upon the
dreams of the years that are past; they glide to the
vision in pompous procession; they seem bloated with
infancy. They are without sinew or bone. They
do not bear the hard touches of the man's hand.
It is not long, to be sure, since the summer of life
ended with that broken hope; but the few years that
lie between have given long steps upward. The little
grief that threw its shadow, and the broken vision
that deluded you, have made the passing years long,
in such feeling as ripens manhood. Nothing lays
the brown of autumn upon the green of summer, so
quick as storms.
There have been changes too in the home scenes;
these graft age upon a man. Nelly—your sweet Nelly
of childhood, your affectionate sister of youth, has
grown out of the old brotherly companionship into the
new dignity of a household.
The fire flames and flashes upon the accustomed
hearth. The father's chair is there in the wonted
corner; he himself—we must call him the old man
now, though his head shows few white honors—wears
a calmness and a trust that light the failing eye.
Nelly is not away; Nelly is a wife; and the husband
yonder, as you may have dreamed,—your old friend
Frank.
Her eye is joyous; her kindness to you is unabated;
her care for you is quicker and wiser. But yet the
old unity of the household seems broken; nor can all
her winning attentions bring back the feeling which
lived in Spring, under the garret roof.
The isolation, the unity, the integrity of manhood,
make a strong prop for the mind; but a weak one for the
heart. Dignity can but poorly fill up that chasm of
the soul, which the home affections once occupied.
Life's duties, and honors press hard upon the bosom,
that once throbbed at a mother's tones, and that
bounded in a mother's smiles.
In such home, the strength you boast of, seems a
weakness; manhood leans into childish memories, and
melts—as Autumn frosts yield to a soft, south wind,
coming from a Tropic spring. You feel in a desert
where you once felt at home—in a bounded landscape,
—that was once—the world!
The tall sycamores have dwindled to paltry trees:
distance to the eye of childhood, are now near by, and
have fallen away to mere rolling waves of upland.
The garden fence that was so gigantic, is now only
a simple paling: its gate that was such a cumbrous
affair—reminding you of Gaza—you might easily lift
from its hinges. The lofty dovecote, which seemed to
rise like a monument of art, before your boyish vision,
is now only a flimsy box upon a tall spar of hemlock.
The garret even, with its lofty beams, its dark stains,
and its obscure corners, where the white hats, and coats
hung ghost-like, is but a low loft, darkened by age,—
hung over with cobwebs, dimly lighted with foul
windows,—its romping Charlie,—its glee,—its swing,—
its joy,—its mystery, all gone forever.
The old gallipots, and retorts are not anywhere to be
seen in the second story window of the brick school.
Dr. Bidlow is no more! The trees that seemed so
large, the gymnastic feats that were so extraordinary,
the boy that made a snapper of his handkerchief,—
have all lost their greatness, and their dread. Even
the springy usher, who dressed his hair with the ferule,
has become the middle-aged father of five curly-headed
boys, and has entered upon what once seemed the
gigantic commerce—of `stationery and account books.'
The marvellous labyrinth of closets, at the old
mansion where you once paid a visit—in a coach—is
cupboards in the wall. Nat, who had travelled, and
seen London, is by no means so surprising a fellow to
your manhood, as he was to the boy. He has grown
spare, and wears spectacles. He is not so famous as he
was. You would hardly think of consulting him now
about your marriage; or even about the price of goats
upon London bridge.
As for Jenny—your first, fond flame!—lively,
romantic, black-eyed Jenny,—the reader of Thaddeus
of Warsaw,—who sighed and wore blue ribbons on her
bonnet,—who wrote love notes,—who talked so tenderly
of broken hearts,—who used a glass seal with a cupid
and a dart,—dear Jenny,—she is now the plump, and
thriving wife of the apothecary of the town! She
sweeps out every morning at seven, the little entry of
the apothecary's house: she buys a `joint' twice a
week from the butcher, and is particular to have the
`knuckle' thrown in, for soups: she wears a sky blue
calico gown, and dresses her hair in three little flat
quirls on either side of her head—each one pierced
through with a two-pronged hair-pin.
She does not read Thaddeus of Warsaw, now.
II.
Man of the World.
FEW persons live through the first periods of
manhood, without strong temptations to be
counted—`men of the world.' The idea looms grandly
among those vanities, that hedge a man's approach to
maturity.
Clarence is in good training for the acceptance of
this idea. The broken hope which clouded his closing
youth, shoots over its influence upon the dawn of
manhood. Mortified pride had taught—as it always
teaches—not caution only, but doubt, distrust, indifference.
A new pride grows up on the ruins of the old,
weak, and vain pride of youth. Then, it was a pride
of learning, or of affection; now, it is a pride of indifference.
Then, the world proved bleak, and cold, as
accepts the proof, and wins from it what he can.
The man of the world puts on the method, and
measure of the world: he studies its humors. He
gives up the boyish notion of a sincerity among men,
like that of youth: he lives, to seem. He conquers
such annoyances as the world may thrust upon him, in
the shape of grief, or losses, like a practised athlete of
the ring. He studies moral sparring.
With somewhat of this strange vanity growing on
you, you do not suffer the heart to wake into life, except
in such fanciful dreams as tempt you back to the sunny
slopes of childhood.
In this mood, you fall in with Dalton, who has just
returned from a year passed in the French Capital.
There is an easy suavity, and graceful indifference in his
manner that chimes admirably with your humor. He
is gracious, without needing to be kind. He is a friend,
without any challenge or proffer of sincerity. He is
just one of those adepts in world tactics, which match
him with all men, but which link him to none. He has
made it his art to be desired, and admired, but rarely to
be trusted. You could not have a better teacher!
Under such instruction, you become disgusted for the
time, with any effort, or pulse of affection, which does
not have immediate and practical bearing upon that
success in life, by which you measure your hopes. The
have all gone out, with the fantastic images, to which
your passionate youth had joined them. The world is
now regarded as a tournament, where the gladiatorship
of life is to be exhibited at your best endeavor.
Its honors and joy, lie in a brilliant pennant, and a
plaudit.
Dalton is learned in those arts which make of action
—not a duty, but a conquest; and sense of duty has
expired in you, with those romantic hopes, to which
you bound it,—not as much through sympathy, as
ignorance. It is a cold, and a bitterly selfish work that
lies before you,—to be covered over with such borrowed
show of smiles, as men call affability. The heart wears
a stout, brazen screen; its inclinations grow to the
habit of your ambitious projects.
In such mood come swift dreams of wealth;—not
of mere accumulation, but of the splendor, and parade,
which in our western world are, alas, its chiefest attractions.
You grow observant of markets, and estimate
per centages. You fondle some speculation in your
thought, until it grows into a gigantic scheme of profit;
and if the venture prove successful, you follow the tide
tremulously, until some sudden reverse throws you
back upon the resources of your professional employ.
But again, as you see this and that one wearing the
blazonry which wealth wins, and which the man of the
with the impassioned desire; and you hunger, with
brute appetite, and bestial eye—for riches. You see
the mania around you; and it is relieved of odium, by
the community of error. You consult some gray old
veteran in the war of gold, scarred with wounds, and
crowned with honors; and watch eagerly for the words
and the ways, which have won him wealth.
Your fingers tingle with mad expectancies; your
eyes roam—lost in estimates. Your note-book shows
long lines of figures. Your reading of the news centres
in the stock list. Your brow grows cramped with the
fever of anxiety. Through whole church hours, your
dreams range over the shadowy transactions of the
week or the month to come.
Even with old religious habit clinging fast to your
soul, you dream now, only of nice conformity, comfortable
faith, high respectability; there lies very little in
you of that noble consciousness of Duty performed,—
of living up to the Life that is in you,—of grasping
boldly, and stoutly, at those chains of Love which the
Infinite Power has lowered to our reach. You do not
dream of being, but of seeming. You spill the real
essence, and clutch at the vial which has only a label
of Truth. Great and holy thoughts of the Future,—
shadowy, yet bold conceptions of the Infinite, float past
you dimly, and your hold is never strong enough to
the sun; and there lies game below, for your vulture
beak to feed upon.
[Great thoughts belong, only and truly, to him
whose mind can hold them. No matter who first puts
them in words; if they come to a soul, and fill it, they
belong to it;—whether they floated on the voice of
others, or on the wings of silence, and the night.]
To be up with the fashion of the time,—to be ignorant
of plain things and people, and to be knowing in
brilliancies, is a kind of Pelhamism, that is very apt to
overtake one in the first blush of manhood. To hold
a fair place in the after-dinner table-talk, to meet distinction
as a familiarity, to wear salon honors with
aplomb, to know affection so far as to wield it into
grace of language, are all splendid achievements with a
man of the world. Instruction is caught, without asking
it; and no ignorance so shames, as ignorance of
those forms, by which natural impulse is subdued to
the tone of civilian habit. You conceal what tells of
the man; and cover it with what smacks of the roué.
Perhaps, under such training, and with a slight
memory of early mortification to point your spirit, you
affect those gallantries of heart and action, which the
world calls flirtation. You may study brilliancies of
speech, to wrap their net around those susceptible
hearts, whose habit is too naïve by nature, to wear the
artful counterfeit of earnestness; and dash away any
naïveté of confidence, with some brave sophism of the
world. A doubt or a distrust, piques your pride, and
makes attentions wear a humility that wins anew. An
indifference piques you more, and throws into your art
a counter indifference,—lit up by bold flashes of feeling,—sparkling
with careless brilliancies, and crowned
with a triumph of neglect.
It is curious how ingeniously a man's vanity will
frame apologies for such action.—It is pleasant to
give pleasure; you like to see a joyous sparkle of the
eye, whether lit up by your presence, or by some buoyant
fancy. It is a beguiling task to weave words into
some soft, melodious flow, that shall keep the ear, and
kindle the eye;—and to strew it over with half-hidden
praises, so deftly couched in double terms, that their
aroma shall only come to the heart hours afterward;
and seem to be the merest accidents of truth. It is
a happy art to make such subdued show of emotion,
as seems to struggle with pride; and to flush the eye
with a moisture, of which you seem ashamed, and yet
are proud. It is a pretty practice, to throw an earnestness
into look and gesture, that shall seem full of pleading,
and yet—ask nothing!
And yet it is hard to admire greatly the reputation
of that man, who builds his triumphs upon womanly
chiefest merit springs out of the delusions of a too
trustful heart. The man who wins it, wins only a
poor sort of womanly distinction. Without power to
cope with men, he triumphs over the weakness of the
other sex, only by hypocrisy. He wears none of the
armor of Romans; and he parleys with Punic faith.
—Yet, even now, — there is a lurking goodness
in you, that traces its beginnings to the old garret
home;—there is an air in the harvest heats, that whispers
of the bloom of spring.
And over your brilliant career as man of the world,—
however lit up by a morbid vanity, or galvanized by a
lascivious passion, there will come at times, the consciousness
of a better heart struggling beneath your
cankered action,—like the low Vesuvian fire, reeking
vainly under rough beds of tufa, and scoriated lava.
And as you smile in loge, or salon, with daring smiles;
or press with villain fondness, the hand of those lady
votaries of the same god you serve, there will gleam
upon you, over the waste of rolling years, a memory
that quickens again the nobler, and bolder instincts of
the heart.
Childish recollections, with their purity, and earnestness,—a
sister's love,—a mother's solicitude, will flood
your soul once more with a gushing sensibility that
yearns for enjoyment. And the consciousness of some
in mating itself with nobility of heart, will sweep off
your puny triumphs, your Platonic friendships, your
dashing coquetries,—like the foul smoke of a city, before
a fresh breeze of the country autumn.
III.
Manly Hope.
YOU are at home again;—not your own home,
that is gone; but at the home of Nelly, and
of Frank. The city heats of summer drive you to the
country. You ramble, with a little kindling of old
desires and memories, over the hill sides that once
bounded your boyish vision. Here, you netted the
wild rabbits, as they came out at dusk, to feed; there,
upon that tall chesnut, you cruelly maimed your first
captive squirrel. The old maples are even now scarred
with the rude cuts you gave them, in sappy March.
You sit down upon some height, overlooking the
valley where you were born; you trace the faint,
silvery line of river; you detect by the leaning elm,
your old bathing place upon the Saturdays of Summer.
which were famous for their nuts. Your rambling,
and saddened vision roams over the houses; it traces
the familiar chimney stacks; it searches out the low-lying
cottages; it dwells upon the gray roof, sleeping
yonder under the sycamores.
Tears swell in your eye, as you gaze; you cannot
tell whence, or why they come. Yet they are tears
eloquent of feeling. They speak of brother children—
of boyish glee,—of the flush of young health,—of a
mother's devotion,—of the home affections,—of the
vanities of life,—of the wasting years, of the Death
that must shroud what friends remain, as it has
shrouded what friends have gone,—and of that Great
Hope, beaming on your sered manhood dimly, from
the upper world!
Your wealth suffices for all the luxuries of life:
there is no fear of coming want; health beats strong
in your veins; you have learned to hold a place in the
world, with a man's strength, and a man's confidence.
And yet in the view of those sweet scenes which
belonged to early days, when neither strength, confidence,
nor wealth were yours, days never to come
again,—a shade of melancholy broods upon your
spirit, and covers with its veil all that fierce pride
which your worldly wisdom has wrought.
You visit again, with Frank, the country homestead
lives; and blind Fanny, now drawing toward womanhood,
wears yet through her darkened life, the same
air of placid content, and of sweet trustfulness in
Heaven. The boys whom you astounded with your
stories of books are gone, building up now with steady
industry the queen cities of our new Western land. The
old clergyman is gone from the desk, and from under
his sounding board; he sleeps beneath a brown stone
slab in the church yard. The stout deacon is dead;
his wig and his wickedness rest together. The tall
chorister sings yet: but they have now a bass-viol—
handled by a new schoolmaster, in place of his tuning
fork; and the years have sown feeble quavers in his
voice.
Once more you meet at the home of Nelly,—the
blue eyed Madge. The sixpence is all forgotten; you
cannot tell where your half of it is gone. Yet she is
beautiful—just budding into the full ripeness of womanhood.
Her eyes have a quiet, still joy, and hope
beaming in them, like angel's looks. Her motions have
a native grace, and freedom, that no culture can
bestow. Her words have a gentle earnestness and
honesty, that could never nature guile.
You had thought, after your gay experiences of the
world, to meet her with a kind condescension, as an
old friend of Nelly's. But there is that in her eye,
that in her air, which tells of a high womanly dignity,
which can only be met on equal ground. Your pride
is piqued. She has known—she must know your
history; but it does not tame her. There is no marked
and submissive appreciation of your gifts, as a man of
the world.
She meets your happiest compliments with a very
easy indifference; she receives your elegant civilities
with a very assured brow. She neither courts your
society, nor avoids it. She does not seek to provoke
any special attention. And only when your old-self
glows in some casual kindness to Nelly, does her look
beam with a flush of sympathy.
This look touches you. It makes you ponder on
the noble heart that lives in Madge. It makes you
wish it were yours. But that is gone. The fervor
and the honesty of a glowing youth, is swallowed up
in the flash and splendor of the world. A half-regret
chases over you at night-fall, when solitude pierces you
with the swift dart of gone-by memories. But at
morning, the regret dies, in the glitter of ambitious
purposes.
The summer months linger; and still you linger
with them. Madge is often with Nelly; and Madge
is never less than Madge. You venture to point your
attentions with a little more fervor; but she meets the
of your life.
Strange feelings come over you;—feelings like half-forgotten
memories—musical—dreamy—doubtful. You
have seen a hundred faces more brilliant than that
of Madge; you have pressed a hundred jewelled hands
that have returned a half-pressure to yours. You do
not exactly admire;—to love, you have forgotten;—
you only—linger!
It is a soft autumn evening, and the harvest moon is
red and round over the eastern skirt of woods. You
are attending Madge to that little cottage home, where
lives that gentle and doting mother, who in the midst
of comparative poverty, cherishes that refined delicacy,
which never comes to a child, but by inheritance.
Madge has been passing the day with Nelly. Something—it
may be the soft autumn air wafting toward
you the freshness of young days,—moves you to speak,
as you have not ventured to speak,—as your vanity
has not allowed you to speak before.
“You remember, Madge, (you have guarded this
sole token of boyish intimacy) our split sixpence?”
“Perfectly:” it is a short word to speak, and there
is no tremor in her tone—not the slightest.
“You have it yet?”
“I dare say, I have it somewhere:” no tremor now:
she is very composed.
“That was a happy time:” very great emphasis on
the word happy.
“Very happy:”—no emphasis anywhere.
“I sometimes wish I might live it over again.”
“Yes?”—inquiringly.
“There are after all no pleasures in the world like
those.”
“No?”—inquiringly again.
You thought you had learned to have language at
command: you never thought, after so many years
schooling of the world, that your pliant tongue would
play you truant. Yet now,—you are silent.
The moon steals silvery into the light flakes of
cloud, and the air is soft as May. The cottage is in
sight. Again you risk utterance:—
“You must live very happily here.”
“I have very kind friends:”—the very, is emphasized.
“I am sure Nelly loves you very much.”
“Oh, I believe it!”—with great earnestness.
You are at the cottage door:—
“Good night, Maggie,”—very feelingly.
“Good night, Clarence,”—very kindly; and she
draws her hand coyly, and half tremulously, from your
somewhat fevered grasp.
You stroll away dreamily,—watching the moon,—
half pleased,—half hopeful.
You come back stealthily, and with a heart throbbing
with a certain wild sense of shame, to watch the light
gleaming in the cottage. You linger in the shadows
of the trees, until you catch a glimpse of her figure,
gliding past the window. You bear the image home
with you. You are silent on your return. You retire
early;—but you do not sleep early.
—If you were only as you were:—if it were not
too late! If Madge could only love you, as you know
she will, and must love one manly heart, there would be
a world of joy opening before you. But it is too late!
You draw out Nelly to speak of Madge: Nelly is
very prudent. “Madge is a dear girl,”—she says.
Does Nelly even distrust you? It is a sad thing to be
too much a man of the world!
You go back again to noisy, ambitious life: you try
to drown old memories in its blaze, and its vanities.
Your lot seems cast, beyond all change; and you task
yourself with its noisy fulfilment. But amid the
silence, and the toil of your office hours, a strange
desire broods over your spirit;—a desire for more of
manliness,—that manliness which feels itself a protector
of loving, and trustful innocence.
You look around upon the faces in which you have
smiled unmeaning smiles:—there is nothing there to
to court you by flattering your vanity—by retailing the
praises of what you may do well,—by odious familiarity,
—by brazen proffer of friendship; but you see in it
only the emptiness, and the vanity, which you have
studied to enjoy.
Sickness comes over you, and binds you for weary
days and nights;—in which life hovers doubtfully, and
the lips babble secrets that you cherish. It is astonishing
how disease clips a man from the artificialities of
the world! Lying lonely upon his bed, moaning,
writhing, suffering, his soul joins on to the universe of
souls by only natural bonds. The factitious ties of
wealth, of place, of reputation, vanish from his bleared
eyes; and the earnest heart, deep under all, craves
only—heartiness!
The old craving of the office silence comes back:—
not with the proud wish only—of being a protector, but
—of being protected. And whatever may be the trust
in that beneficent Power, who `chasteneth whom he
loveth,'—there is yet an earnest, human yearning toward
some one, whose love—most, and whose duty—least,
would call her to your side;—whose soft hands would
cool the fever of yours,—whose step would wake a
throb of joy,—whose voice would tie you to life, and
whose presence would make the worst of Death—an
Adieu!
As you gain strength once more, you go back to
Nelly's home. Her kindness does not falter; every
care and attention belong to you there. Again your
eye rests upon that figure of Madge, and upon her face,
wearing an even gentler expression, as she sees you
sitting pale and feeble by the old hearth-stone. She
brings flowers—for Nelly: you beg Nelly to place
them upon the little table at your side. It is as yet
the only taste of the country that you can enjoy. You
love those flowers.
After a time you grow strong, and walk in the fields.
You linger until nightfall. You pass by the cottage
where Madge lives. It is your pleasantest walk. The
trees are greenest in that direction; the shadows are
softest; the flowers are thickest.
It is strange—this feeling in you. It is not the feeling
you had for Laura Dalton. It does not even
remind of that. That was an impulse; but this is
growth. That was strong; but this is—strength. You
catch sight of her little notes to Nelly; you read them
over and over; you treasure them; you learn them by
heart. There is something in the very writing, that
touches you.
You bid her adieu with tones of kindness that tremble;—and
that meet a half-trembling tone in reply.
She is very good.
—If it were not too late!
IV.
Manly Love.
AND shall pride yield at length!
—Pride!—and what has love to do with
pride? Let us see how it is.
Madge is poor; she is humble. You are rich; you
are a man of the world; you are met respectfully by
the veterans of fashion; you have gained perhaps a
kind of brilliancy of position.
Would it then be a condescension to love Madge?
Dare you ask yourself such a question? Do you not
know,—in spite of your worldliness,—that the man or
the woman who condescends to love, never loves in earnest?
But again, Madge is possessed of a purity, a delicacy,
and a dignity that lift her far above you,—that make you
the deep, and the mortifying sense of this unworthiness,
that makes you bolster yourself upon your pride. You
know that you do yourself honor, in loving such grace
and goodness;—you know that you would be honored
tenfold more than you deserve, in being loved—by so
much grace, and goodness.
It scarce seems to you possible; it is a joy too great
to be hoped for: and in the doubt of its attainment,
your old, worldly-vanity comes in, and tells you to—
beware; and to live on, in the splendor of your dissipation,
and in the lusts of your selfish habit. Yet still,
underneath all, there is a deep, low, heart-voice,—
quickened from above,—which assures you that you
are capable of better things;—that you are not wholly
lost; that a mine of unstarted tenderness still lies
smouldering in your soul.
And with this sense quickening your better nature,
you venture the wealth of your whole heart-life, upon
the hope that now blazes on your path.
—You are seated at your desk, working with such
zeal of labor, as your ambitious projects never could
command. It is a letter to Margaret Boyne, that so
tasks your love, and makes the veins upon your forehead
swell with the earnestness of the employ.
—“Dear Madge,—May I not call you thus, if
I dare to hope that a riper affection which your character
has awakened, may permit me to call you thus,
always?
“If I have not ventured to speak, dear Madge, will
you not believe that the consciousness of my own ill-desert
has tied my tongue;—will you not, at least, give
me credit for a little remaining modesty of heart? You
know my life, and you know my character—what a
sad jumble of errors, and of misfortunes have belonged
to each. You know the careless, and the vain purposes
which have made me recreant to the better nature,
which belonged to that sunny childhood, when we
lived, and grew up—together. And will you not believe
me when I say, that your grace of character, and
kindness of heart, have drawn me back from the follies
in which I lived; and quickened new desires, which I
thought to be wholly dead? Can I indeed hope that
you will overlook all that has gained your secret reproaches;
and confide in a heart, which is made conscious
of better things, by the love—you have inspired?
“Ah, Madge, it is not with a vain show of words,
or with any counterfeit of feeling, that I write now;—
you know it is not;—you know that my heart is
leaning toward you, with the freshness of its noblest
instincts;—you know that—I love you!
“Can I, dare I hope, that it is not spoken in vain?
I had thought in my pride, never to make such avowal,
—never again to sue for affection; but your gentleness,
your modesty, your virtues of life and heart,
have conquered me! I am sure you will treat me
with the generosity of a victor.
“You know my weakness;—I would not conceal
from you a single one,—even to win you. I can offer
nothing to you, which will bear comparison in value,
with what is yours to bestow. I can only offer this
feeble hand of mine—to guard you; and this poor
heart—to love you!
“Am I rash? Am I extravagant, in word, or in
hope? Forgive it then, dear Madge, for the sake
of our old childish affection; and believe me, when I
say, that what is here written,—is written honestly, and
tearfully.
It is with no fervor of boyish passion, that you fold
this letter: it is with the trembling hand of eager,
and earnest manhood. They tell you that man is
not capable of love;—so, the September sun is not
capable of warmth! It may not indeed be so fierce
as that of July; but it is steadier. It does not force
great flaunting leaves into breadth and succulence;
but it matures whole harvests of plenty!
There is a deep and earnest soul pervading the
delicacy, and full of hope. Yet it is not final. Her
heart lies entrenched within the ramparts of Duty
and of Devotion. It is a citadel of strength, in the
middle of the city of her affections. To win the way
to it, there must be not only earnestness of love, but
earnestness of life.
Weeks roll by; and other letters pass and are
answered,—a glow of warmth beaming on either
side.
You are again at the home of Nelly; she is very
joyous; she is the confident of Madge. Nelly feels,
that with all your errors, you have enough inner goodness
of heart to make Madge happy; and she feels—
doubly—that Madge has such excess of goodness as
will cover your heart with joy. Yet she tells you
very little. She will give you no full assurance of the
love of Madge; she leaves that for yourself to win.
She will even tease you in her pleasant way, until
hope almost changes to despair; and your brow grows
pale with the dread—that even now, your unworthiness
may condemn you.
It is summer weather; and you have been walking
over the hills of home with Madge, and Nelly. Nelly
has found some excuse to leave you,—glancing at you
most teazingly, as she hurries away.
You are left sitting with Madge, upon a bank tufted
of childhood, and some word has called up the old
chain of boyish feeling, and joined it to your new
hope.
What you would say, crowds too fast for utterance;
and you abandon it. But you take from your pocket
that little, broken bit of sixpence,—which you have
found after long search,— and without a word, but
with a look that tells your inmost thought, you lay
it in the half-opened hand of Madge.
She looks at you, with a slight suffusion of color,—
seems to hesitate a moment,—raises her other hand,
and draws from her bosom, by a bit of blue ribbon, a
little locket. She touches a spring, and there falls
beside your relique,—another, that had once belonged
to it.
Hope glows now like the sun.
—“And you have worn this, Maggie?”
—“Always!”
“Dear Madge!”
“Dear Clarence!”
—And you pass your arm now, unchecked, around
that yielding, graceful figure; and fold her to your
bosom, with the swift, and blessed assurance, that your
fullest, and noblest dream of love, is won!
V.
Cheer and Children.
WHAT a glow there is to the sun! What
warmth—yet it does not oppress you: what
coolness—yet it is not too cool. The birds sing
sweetly; you catch yourself watching to see what new
songsters they can be:—they are only the old robins
and thrushes;—yet what a new melody is in their
throats!
The clouds hang gorgeous shapes upon the sky,—
shapes they could hardly ever have fashioned before.
The grass was never so green, the butter-cups were
never so plenty; there was never such a life in the
leaves. It seems as if the joyousness in you, gave a
throb to nature, that made every green thing buoyant.
Faces too are changed: men look pleasantly: children
and lovable. The street beggar at your door is
suddenly grown into a Belisarius, and is one of the
most deserving heroes of modern times. Your mind
is in a continued ferment; you glide through your toil
—dashing out sparkles of passion—like a ship in the
sea. No difficulty daunts you: there is a kind of buoyancy
in your soul, that rocks over danger or doubt, as
sea-waves heave calmly and smoothly, over sunken
rocks.
You grow unusually amiable and kind; you are
earnest in your search of friends; you shake hands
with your office boy, as if he were your second cousin.
You joke cheerfully with the stout washerwoman; and
give her a shilling over-change, and insist upon her
keeping it; and grow quite merry at the recollection
of it. You tap your hackman on the shoulder very
familiarly, and tell him he is a capital fellow; and
don't allow him to whip his horses, except when driving
to the post-office. You even ask him to take a
glass of beer with you, upon some chilly evening. You
drink to the health of his wife.—He says he has no
wife:—whereupon you think him a very miserable
man; and give him a dollar, by way of consolation.
You think all the editorials in the morning papers
are remarkably well-written,—whether upon your side,
or upon the other. You think the stock-market has a
a large holder—down to seventy-five. You wonder
why you never admired Mrs. Hemans before, or Stoddard,
or any of the rest.
You give a pleasant twirl to your fingers, as you
saunter along the street; and say—but not so loud as
to be overheard—“She is mine—she is mine!”
You wonder if Frank ever loved Nelly, one half as
well as you love Madge?—You feel quite sure he never
did. You can hardly conceive how it is, that Madge
has not been seized before now, by scores of enamored
men, and borne off, like the Sabine women in Romish
history. You chuckle over your future, like a boy who
has found a guinea, in groping for sixpences. You read
over the marriage service,—thinking of the time when
you will take her hand, and slip the ring upon her finger;
and repeat after the clergyman—`for richer—for
poorer; for better—for worse'! A great deal of
`worse' there will be about it, you think!
Through all, your heart cleaves to that sweet image of
the beloved Madge, as light cleaves to day. The weeks
leap with a bound; and the months only grow long,
when you approach that day which is to make her yours.
There are no flowers rare enough to make bouquets for
her; diamonds are too dim for her to wear; pearls are
tame.
—And after marriage, the weeks are even shorter
in the world, do not rush tumultuously to the Altar; you
look upon them all, as a travelled man will look upon
some conceited Dutch boor, who has never been beyond
the limits of his cabbage-garden. Married men,
on the contrary, you regard as fellow-voyagers; and
look upon their wives—ugly as they may be—as, better
than none.
You blush a little, at first telling your butcher what
`your wife' would like; you bargain with the grocer
for sugars and teas, and wonder if he knows that you
are a married man? You practise your new way of
talk upon your office boy;—you tell him that `your
wife' expects you home to dinner; and are astonished
that he does not stare to hear you say it!
You wonder if the people in the omnibus know,
that Madge and you are just married; and if the driver
knows, that the shilling you hand to him, is for `self
and wife?' You wonder if any body was ever so
happy before, or ever will be so happy again?
You enter your name upon the hotel books as
`Clarence — and Lady'; and come back to look at
it,—wondering if any body else has noticed it,—and
thinking that it looks remarkably well. You cannot
help thinking that every third man you meet in the
hall, wishes he possessed your wife;—nor do you think
it very sinful in him, to wish it. You fear it is placing
little gaiters outside the chamber door, at night.
Your home, when it is entered, is just what it should
be:—quiet, small,—with everything she wishes, and
nothing more than she wishes. The sun strikes it
in the happiest possible way:—the piano is the
sweetest-toned in the world:—the library is stocked to
a charm;—and Madge, that blessed wife, is there,—
adorning, and giving life to it all. To think, even, of
her possible death, is a suffering you class with the
infernal tortures of the Inquisition. You grow twain
of heart, and of purpose. Smiles seem made for
marriage; and you wonder how you ever wore them
before!
So, a year and more wears off, of mingled home-life,
visiting, and travel. A new hope and joy lightens
home:—there is a child there.
—What a joy to be a father! What new
emotions crowd the eye with tears, and make the hand
tremble! What a benevolence radiates from you
toward the nurse,—toward the physician—toward
everybody! What a holiness, and sanctity of love
grows upon your old devotion to that wife of your
bosom,—the mother of your child!
The excess of joy seems almost to blur the stories of
happiness which attach to heaven. You are now
family of man. Your name and blood will live after
you; nor do you once think (what father can?) but
that it will live honorably and well.
With what a new air you walk the streets! With
what a triumph, you speak in your letter to Nelly,—
of `your family!' Who, that has not felt it, knows
what it is—to be `a man of family!'
How weak now, seem all the imaginations of your
single life: what bare, dry skeletons of the reality, they
furnished! You pity the poor fellows who have no
wives or children,—from your soul: you count their
smiles, as empty smiles, put on to cover the lack that is
in them. There is a free-masonry among fathers, that
they know nothing of. You compassionate them
deeply: you think them worthy objects of some
charitable association: you would cheerfully buy tracts
for them, if they would but read them,—tracts on
marriage and children.
—And then `the boy'—such a boy!
There was a time, when you thought all babies very
much alike:—alike? Is your boy like anything,
except the wonderful fellow that he is? Was there
ever a baby seen, or even read of, like that baby!
—Look at him:—pick him up in his long, white
gown: he may have an excess of colour,—but such
a pretty colour! he is a little pouty about the mouth—
he is rather wandering in the eye;—but, Good
Heavens,—what an eye!
There was a time, when you thought it very absurd
for fathers to talk about their children; but it does not
seem at all absurd now. You think, on the contrary,
that your old friends, who used to sup with you at the
club, would be delighted to know how your baby is
getting on, and how much he measures around the calf
of the leg! If they pay you a visit, you are quite sure
they are in an agony to see Frank; and you hold the
little squirming fellow in your arms, half conscience-smitten,
for provoking them to such envy, as they must
be suffering. You make a settlement upon the boy
with a chuckle,—as if you were treating yourself to a
mint-julep,—instead of conveying away a few thousands
of seven per cents.
—Then the boy developes, astonishingly. What
a head—what a foot,—what a voice! And he
is so quiet withal;—never known to cry, except
under such provocation as would draw tears from
a heart of adamant; in short, for the first six
months, he is never anything, but gentle, patient,
earnest, loving, intellectual, and magnanimous. You
are half afraid that some of the physicians will be
reporting the case, as one of the most remarkable
record.
But the years roll on, in the which your extravagant
fancies, die into the earnest maturity of a father's love.
You struggle gaily with the cares that life brings to
your door. You feel the strength of three beings in
your single arm; and feel your heart warming toward
God and man, with the added warmth of two other
loving, and trustful beings.
How eagerly you watch the first tottering step of
that boy: how you riot in the joy and pride, that swell
in that mother's eyes, as they follow his feeble, staggering
motions! Can God bless his creatures, more than
he has blessed that dear Madge, and you? Has Heaven
even richer joys, than live in that home of yours?
By and by, he speaks; and minds tie together by
language, as the hearts have long tied by looks. He
wanders with you, feebly, and with slow, wondering
paces, upon the verge of the great universe of thought.
His little eye sparkles with some vague fancy that
comes upon him first, by language. Madge teaches
him the words of affection, and of thankfulness; and
she teaches him to lisp infant prayer; and by secret
pains, (how could she be so secret?) instructs him
in some little phrase of endearment, that she knows
will touch your heart; and then, she watches your
coming: and the little fellow runs toward you, and
any answer,—save only those brimming eyes,—turned
first on her, and then on him;—and poorly concealed,
by the quick embrace, and the kisses which you shower
in transport!
Still slip on the years, like brimming bowls of
nectar! Another Madge is sister to Frank; and a
little Nelly, is younger sister to this other Madge.
—Three of them!—a charmed, and mystic
number;—which if it be broken in these young
days,—as, alas, it may be!—will only yield a cherub
angel, to float over you, and to float over them—to
wean you, and to wean them, from this world, where all
joys do perish, to that seraph world, where joys do
last forever!
VI.
A Dream of Darkness.
IS our life a sun, that it should radiate light and
heat forever? Do not the calmest, and brightest
days of autumn, show clouds that drift their ragged
edges over the golden disc; and bear down swift, with
their weight of vapors, until the whole sun's surface is
shrouded;—and you can see no shadow of tree, or
flower upon the land, because of the greater, and
gulphing shadow of the cloud?
Will not life bear me out;—will not truth, earnest
and stern, around me, make good the terrible imagination
that now comes swooping heavily, and darkly,
upon my brain?
You are living in a little village, not far away from
the city. It is a graceful, and luxurious home that you
winter; and bowers of blossoms sweeten it through all
the summer. You know, each day of your return from
the town, where first you will catch sight of that
graceful figure, flitting like a shadow of love, beneath
the trees: you know well, where you will meet the
joyous, and noisy welcome of stout Frank, and of
tottling Nelly. Day after day, and week after week,
they fail not.
A friend sometimes attends you; and a friend to
you, is always a friend to Madge. In the city, you fall
in once more with your old acquaintance Dalton;—
the graceful, winning, yet dissolute man that his youth
promised. He wishes to see your cottage home.
Your heart half hesitates: yet it seems folly to cherish
distrust of a boon companion, in so many of your
revels.
Madge receives him with that sweet smile, which
welcomes all your friends. He gains the heart of
Frank, by talking of his toys, and of his pigeons; and
he wins upon the tenderness of the mother, by his
attentions to the child. Even you, repent of your
passing shadow of dislike, and feel your heart warming
toward him, as he takes little Nelly in his arms, and
provokes her joyous prattle.
Madge is unbounded in her admiration of your
friend: he renews, at your solicitation, his visit: he
your distrust.
Madge is not learned in the arts of a city life:
the accomplishments of a man of the world are
almost new to her: she listens with eagerness to
Dalton's graphic stories of foreign fêtes, and luxury:
she is charmed with his clear, bold voice, and with his
manly execution of little operatic airs.
—She is beautiful—that wife who has made your
heart whole, by its division—fearfully beautiful! And
she is not cold, or impassive: her heart though fond,
and earnest, is yet human:—we are all human. The
accomplishments and graces of the world must needs
take hold upon her fancy. And a fear creeps over you,
that you dare not whisper,—that those graces may
cast into the shade, your own yearning, and silent
tenderness.
But this is a selfish fear, that you think you have no
right to cherish. She takes pleasure in the society
of Dalton,—what right have you, to say her—nay?
His character indeed is not altogether such as you could
wish; but will it not be selfish to tell her even this?
Will it not be even worse, and show taint of a lurking
suspicion, which you know would wound her grievously?
You struggle with your distrust, by meeting him more
kindly than ever: yet, at times, there will steal over
you a sadness,—which that dear Madge detects, and
the touching kindness of sympathy. Her look, and
manner kill all your doubt; and you show that it
is gone, and piously conceal the cause, by welcoming in
gayer tones than ever, the man who has fostered it, by
his presence.
Business calls you away to a great distance from
home: it is the first long parting of your real manhood.
And can suspicion, or a fear, lurk amid those
tearful embraces?—Not one,—thank God,—not one!
Your letters, frequent and earnest, bespeak your increased
devotion; and the embraces you bid her give
to the sweet ones of your little flock, tell of the calmness,
and sufficiency of your love. Her letters too, are
running over with affection:—what though she mentions
the frequent visits of Dalton, and tells stories of
his kindness and attachment? You feel safe in her
strength: and yet—yet there is a brooding terror that
rises out of your knowledge of Dalton's character.
And can you tell her this; can you stab her fondness,
now that you are away, with even a hint of what would
crush her delicate nature?
What you know to be love, and what you fancy to
be duty, struggle long: but love conquers. And with
sweet trust in her, and double trust in God, you await
your return. That return will be speedier than you
think.
You receive one day a letter: it is addressed in the
hand of a friend, who is often at the cottage, but who
has rarely written to you. What can have tempted
him now? Has any harm come near your home?
No wonder your hands tremble at the opening of that
sheet;—no wonder that your eyes run like lightning
over the hurried lines. Yet there is little in them—
very little. The hand is stout and fair. It is a calm
letter,—a friendly letter; but it is short—terribly short.
It bids you come home—`at once!'
—And you go. It is a pleasant country you have
to travel through; but you see very little of the country.
It is a dangerous voyage perhaps, you have to make;
but you think very little of the danger. The creaking
of the timbers, and the lashing of the waves, are quieting
music, compared with the storm of your raging
fears. All the while, you associate Dalton with the
terror that seems to hang over you; and yet,—your
trust in Madge, is true as Heaven!
At length you approach that home;—there lies
your cottage lying sweetly upon its hill-side; and the
autumn winds are soft; and the maple-tops sway
gracefully, all clothed in the scarlet of their frost-dress.
Once again, as the sun sinks behind the mountain with
a trail of glory, and the violet haze tints the grey
clouds, like so many robes of angels,—you take heart
and courage; and with firm reliance on the Providence
or in heart,—your fears spread out, and vanish with
the waning twilight.
She is not at the cottage door to meet you; she
does not expect you; and yet your bosom heaves, and
your breathing is quick. Your friend meets you, and
shakes your hand.—“Clarence,” he says, with the
tenderness of an old friend,—“be a man!”
Alas, you are a man;—with a man's heart, and a
man's fear, and a man's agony! Little Frank comes
bounding toward you joyously—yet under traces of
tears:—“Oh, Papa, Mother is gone!”
—“Gone!”—And you turn to the face of your
friend;—it is well he is near by, or you would have
fallen.
He can tell you very little; he has known the
character of Dalton; he has seen with fear his assiduous
attentions—tenfold multiplied since your leave.
He has trembled for the issue: this very morning he
observed a travelling carriage at the door;—they drove
away together. You have no strength to question him.
You see that he fears the worst:—he does not know
Madge, so well as you.
—And can it be? Are you indeed widowed
with that most terrible of widowhoods?—Is your wife
living,—and yet—lost! Talk not to such a man of
laugh at your mimicry of grief.
—All is blackness; whichever way you turn, it is
the same; there is no light; your eye is put out;
your soul is desolate forever! The heart, by which
you had grown up into the full stature of joy, and blessing,
is rooted out of you, and thrown like something
loathsome, at which the carrion dogs of the world
scent, and snuffle!
They will point at you, as the man who has lost all
that he prized; and she has stolen it, whom he prized
more than what was stolen! And he, the accursed
miscreant — But no, it can never be! Madge
is as true as Heaven!
Yet she is not there: whence comes the light that
is to cheer you?
—Your children?
Aye, your children,—your little Nelly,—your noble
Frank,—they are yours;—doubly, trebly, tenfold yours,
now that she, their mother, is a mother no more to
them, forever!
Aye, close your doors; shut out the world;—draw
close your curtains;—fold them to your heart,—your
crushed, bleeding, desolate heart! Lay your forehead
to the soft cheek of your noble boy;—beware, beware
how you dampen that damask cheek with your scalding
tears:—yet you cannot help it;—they fall—great
to your bosom!
“Father, why do you cry so?” says Frank, with the
tears of dreadful sympathy starting from those eyes of
childhood.
—“Why, Papa?”—mimes little Nelly.
—Answer them if you dare! Try it;—what
words—blundering, weak words,—choked with agony,
—leading no where,—ending in new, and convulsive
clasps of your weeping, motherless children!
Had she gone to her grave, there would have been
a holy joy—a great, and swelling grief indeed,—but
your poor heart would have found a rest in the quiet
churchyard; and your feelings rooted in that cherished
grave, would have stretched up toward Heaven their
delicate leaves, and caught the dews of His grace, who
watcheth the lilies. But now,—with your heart cast
under foot, or buffeted on the lips of a lying world,—
finding no shelter, and no abiding place—alas, we
do guess at infinitude, only by suffering!
—Madge, Madge! can this be so? Are you not
still the same, sweet, guileless child of Heaven?
VII.
Peace.
IT is a dream;—fearful to be sure,—but only a
dream! Madge is true. That soul is honest; it
could not be otherwise. God never made it to be
false; He never made the sun for darkness.
And before the evening has waned to midnight,
sweet day has broken on your gloom;—Madge is
folded to your bosom;—sobbing fearfully;—not for
guilt, or any shadow of guilt, but for the agony she
reads upon your brow, and in your low sighs.
The mystery is all cleared by a few lightning words
from her indignant lips; and her whole figure trembles,
as she shrinks within your embrace, with the thought
of that great evil, that seemed to shadow you. The
villain has sought by every art to beguile her into appearance
so wound her delicacy, as to take away the courage for
return: he has even wrought upon her affection for
you, as his master-weapon: a skilfully-contrived story
of some accident that had befallen you, had wrought
upon her—to the sudden, and silent leave of home.
But he has failed. At the first suspicion of his falsity,
her dignity and virtue shivered all his malice. She
shudders at the bare thought of that fiendish scheme,
which has so lately broken on her view.
“Oh, Clarence, Clarence, could you for one moment
believe this of me?”
“Dear Madge, forgive me, if a dreamy horror did
for an instant palsy my better thought;—it is gone
utterly;—it will never—never come again!”
And there she leans, with her head pillowed on
your shoulder, the same sweet angel, that has led
you in the way of light; and who is still your blessing,
and your pride.
He—and you forbear to name his name—is gone;—
flying vainly from the consciousness of guilt, with the
curse of Cain upon him,—hastening toward the day,
when Satan shall clutch his own!
A heavenly peace descends upon you that night;—
all the more sacred and calm, for the fearful agony
that has gone before. A Heaven that seemed lost, is
yours. A love that you had almost doubted, is beyond
frenzy, you had dared to question, you worship now,
with blushes of shame. You thank God, for this great
goodness, as you never thanked him for any earthly
blessing before; and with this twin gratitude lying on
your hearts, and clearing your face to smiles, you live
on together the old life of joy, and of affection.
Again with brimming nectar, the years fill up their
vases. Your children grow into the same earnest
joyousness, and with the same home faith, which
lightened upon your young dreams; and toward which,
you seem to go back, as you riot with them in their
Christmas joys, or upon the velvety lawn of June.
Anxieties indeed overtake you; but they are those
anxieties which only the selfish would avoid—anxieties
that better the heart, with a great weight of tenderness.
It may be, that your mischievous Frank runs wild
with the swift blood of boyhood, and that the hours
are long, which wait his coming. It may be that
your heart echoes in silence, the mother's sobs, as she
watches his fits of waywardness, and showers upon his
very neglect, excess of love.
Danger perhaps creeps upon little, joyous Nelly,
which makes you tremble for her life; the mother's
tears are checked that she may not deepen your grief;
and her care guards the little sufferer, like a Providence.
breathing wakes the chamber with ominous sound;
the mother's eye scarce closes, but rests with fond
sadness upon the little struggling victim of sickness;
her hand rests like an angel touch upon the brow,
all beaded with the heats of fever; the straggling,
gray light of morning breaks through the crevices
of the closed blinds,—bringing stir, and bustle to the
world, but, in your home,—lighting only the darkness.
Hope sinking in the mother's heart, takes hold on
Faith in God; and her prayer, and her placid look
of submission,—more than all your philosophy,—add
strength to your faltering courage.
But little Nelly brightens; her faded features take
on bloom again; she knows you; she presses your
hand; she draws down your cheek to her parched
lip; she kisses you, and smiles. The mother's brow
loses its shadow; day dawns within, as well as without;
and on bended knees, God is thanked!
Perhaps poverty faces you;—your darling schemes
break down. One by one, with failing heart, you
strip the luxuries from life. But the sorrow which
oppresses you, is not the selfish sorrow which the
lone man feels; it is far nobler; its chiefest mourning
is over the despoiled home. Frank must give up his
promised travel; Madge must lose her favorite pony;
The home itself, endeared by so many scenes of
happiness, and by so many of suffering—must be
given up. It is hard—very hard to tear away your
wife, from the flowers, the birds, the luxuries, that she
has made so dear.
Now, she is far stronger than you. She contrives
new joys; she wears a holy calm; she cheers by
a new hopefulness; she buries even the memory of
luxury, in the riches of the humble home, that her
wealth of heart endows. Her soul, catching radiance
from that Heavenly world, where her hope lives,
kindles amid the growing shadows, and sheds balm
upon the little griefs,—like the serene moon, slanting
the dead sun's life, upon the night!
Courage wakes in the presence of those dependent
on your toil. Love arms your hand, and quickens
your brain. Resolutions break large from the swelling
soul. Energy leaps into your action, like light. Gradually
you bring back into your humble home, a
few traces of the luxury that once adorned it. That
wife whom it is your greatest pleasure to win to
smiles,—wears a half sad look, as she meets these
proofs of love; she fears that you are perilling too
much, for her pleasure.
—For the first time in life you deceive her. You
have won wealth again; you now step firmly upon your
her. You contrive a little scheme of surprise, with
Frank alone, in the secret.
You purchase again the old home; you stock it, as
far as may be, with the old luxuries; a new harp is in
the place of that one which beguiled so many hours of
joy; new and cherished flowers bloom again upon the
window; her birds hang, and warble their melody, where
they warbled it before. A pony—like as possible to
the old—is there for Madge; a fête is secretly contrived
upon the lawn. You even place the old, familiar
books, upon the parlor table.
The birth-day of your own Madge, is approaching:
—a fête you never pass by, without home-rejoicings.
You drive over with her, upon that morning, for another
look at the old place; a cloud touches her brow,—
but she yields to your wish. An old servant,—whom
you had known in better days—throws open the gates.
—“It is too—too sad,” says Madge—“let us go
back, Clarence, to our own home;—we are happy
there.”
—“A little farther, Madge.”
The wife steps slowly over what seems the sepulchre
of so many pleasures; the children gambol as of old,
and pick flowers. But the mother checks them.
“They are not ours now, my children!”
You stroll to the very door; the goldfinches are
You feel the hand of Madge trembling upon
your arm; she is struggling with her weakness.
A tidy waiting woman shows you into the old parlor:—there
is a harp; and there too, such books as
we loved to read.
Madge is overcome; now, she entreats:—“Let us
go away, Clarence!” and she hides her face.
—“Never, dear Madge, never! it is yours—all
yours!”
She looks up in your face; she sees your look of
triumph; she catches sight of Frank bursting in at the
old hall-door, all radiant with joy.
—“Frank!—Clarence!”—the tears forbid any
more.
“God bless you, Madge! God bless you!”
And thus, in peace and in joy, Manhood passes on
into the third season of our life—even as golden
Autumn, sinks slowly into the tomb of Winter.
| Dream life | |