 | Dream life |  |
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!
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