University of Virginia Library

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

are all charming children: even babies look tender
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

very cheerful look,—even with Erie—of which you are
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

than before: you wonder why on earth all the single men
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

temptation in the way of covetous men, to put Madge's
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

joined, as you were never joined before, to the great
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—

but such a mouth! His hair is a little scant, and
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

instances of perfect moral and physical development, on
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

warbles out his lesson of love, in tones that forbid you
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!