 | Dream life |  |
Winter;
Or
The Dreams of Age.
Winter.
SLOWLY, thickly, fastly, fall the snow flakes,—like
the seasons upon the life of man. At the first,
they lose themselves in the brown mat of herbage, or
gently melt, as they fall upon the broad stepping stone
at the door. But as hour after hour passes, the
feathery flakes stretch their white cloak plainly on the
meadow, and chilling the doorstep with their multitude,
cover it with a mat of pearl.
The dried grass tips pierce the mantle of white, like
so many serried spears; but as the storm goes softly
on, they sink one by one to their snowy tomb; and
presently show nothing of all their army, save one or
two straggling banners of blackened and shrunken
daisies.
Across the wide meadow that stretches from my
window, I can see nothing of those hills which were so
green in summer: between me and them, lie only the
soft, slow moving masses, filling the air with whiteness.
I catch only a glimpse of one gaunt, and bare-armed
oak, looming through the feathery multitude, like a tall
ship's spars breaking through fog.
The roof of the barn is covered; and the leaking
eaves show dark stains of water, that trickle down the
weather-beaten boards. The pear-trees that wore such
weight of greenness in the leafy June, now stretch their
bare arms to the snowy blast, and carry upon each tiny
bough, a narrow burden of winter.
The old house dog marches stately through the
strange covering of earth, and seems to ponder on the
welcome he will show,—and shakes the flakes from his
long ears, and with a vain snap at a floating feather, he
stalks again to his dry covert in the shed. The lambs
that belonged to the meadow flock, with their feeding
ground all covered, seem to wonder at their losses; but
take courage from the quiet air of the veteran sheep,
and gambol after them, as they move sedately toward
the shelter of the barn.
The cat, driven from the kitchen door, beats a coy
retreat, with long reaches of her foot, upon the yielding
surface. The matronly hens saunter out, at a little
lifting of the storm; and eye curiously, with heads
a quiet cluck of satisfaction, to the wholesome gravel by
the stable door.
By and by, the snow flakes pile more leisurely: they
grow large and scattered, and come more slowly than
before. The hills that were brown, heave into sight—
great, rounded billows of white. The gray woods
look shrunken to half their height, and stand waving
in the storm. The wind freshens, and scatters the
light flakes that crown the burden of the snow; and
as the day droops, a clear, bright sky of steel color,
cleaves the land, and clouds, and sends down a chilling
wind to bank the walls, and to freeze the storm. The
moon rises full and round, and plays with a joyous
chill, over the glistening raiment of the land.
I pile my fire with the clean cleft hickory; and musing
over some sweet story of the olden time, I wander
into a rich realm of thought, until my eyes grow dim,
and dreaming of battle and of prince, I fall to sleep in
my old farm chamber.
At morning, I find my dreams all written on the
window, in crystals of fairy shape. The cattle, one by
one, with ears frost-tipped, and with frosted noses, wend
their way to the watering-place in the meadow. One
by one they drink, and crop at the stunted herbage,
which the warm spring keeps green and bare.
A hound bays in the distance; the smoke of cottages
sleigh-bells wakens the quiet of the high-road; and
upon the hills, the leafless woods stand low, like
crouching armies, with guns and spears in rest; and
among them, the scattered spiral pines rise like bannermen,
uttering with their thousand tongues of green,
the proud war-cry—`God is with us!'
But, the sky of winter is as capricious as the sky of
spring—even as the old wander in thought, like the
vagaries of a boy.
Before noon, the heavens are mantled with a leaden
gray; the eaves that leaked in the glow of the sun,
now tell their tale of morning's warmth, in crystal
ranks of icicles. The cattle seek their shelter; the
few, lingering leaves of the white oaks, rustle dismally;
the pines breathe sighs of mourning. As the night
darkens, and deepens the storm, the house dog bays;
the children crouch in the wide chimney corners; the
sleety rain comes in sharp gusts. And, as I sit by the
light leaping blaze in my chamber, the scattered hail-drops
beat upon my window, like the tappings of an
Old Man's cane.
I.
What is Gone.
GONE! Did it ever strike you, my reader, how much
meaning lies in that little monosyllable—gone?
Say it to yourself at nightfall, when the sun has
sunk under the hills, and the crickets chirp—`gone.
Say it to yourself, when the night is far over, and you
wake with some sudden start, from pleasant dreams,—
`gone.' Say it to yourself in some country churchyard,
where your father, or your mother, sleeps under
the blooming violets of spring—`gone.' Say it, in
your sobbing prayer to Heaven, as you cling lovingly,
but oh, how vainly, to the hand of your sweet wife—
`gone!'
Aye, is there not meaning in it? And now, what is
gone:—or rather, what is not gone? Childhood is
health and wanton,—with all its smiles, like glimpses
of heaven; and all its tears, which were but the suffusion
of joy.
Youth is gone;—bright, hopeful youth, when you
counted the years with jewelled numbers, and hung
lamps of ambition at your path, which lighted the
palace of renown;—when the days were woven into
weeks of blithe labor, and the weeks were rolled into
harvest months of triumph, and the months were
bound into golden sheaves of years—all, gone!
The strength and pride of manhood is gone; your
heart and soul have stamped their deepest dye; the
time of power is past; your manliness has told its
tale; henceforth your career is down;—hitherto,
you have journeyed up. You look back upon a
decade, as you once looked upon a half score of
months; a year has become to your slackened memory,
and to your dull perceptions, like a week of childhood.
Suddenly and swiftly, come past you, great whirls of
gone-by thought, and wrecks of vain labor, eddying
upon the stream that rushes to the grave. The sweeping
outlines of life, that lay once before the vision—
rolling into wide billows of years, like easy lifts of a
broad mountain-range,—now seem close-packed together,
as with a Titan hand; and you see only
with glaciers of grief, and leaking abundant tears!
Your friends are gone;—they who counselled and
advised you, and who protected your weakness, will
guard it no more forever. One by one, they have
dropped away as you have journeyed on; and yet your
journey does not seem a long one. Life, at the longest,
is but a bubble that bursts, so soon as it is rounded.
Nelly, your sweet sister, to whom your heart clung
so fondly in the young days, and to whom it has clung
ever since, in the strongest bonds of companionship,—
is gone,—with the rest!
Your thought,—wayward now, and flickering,—runs
over the old days with quick, and fevered step; it
brings back, faintly as it may, the noisy joys, and the
safety, that belonged to the old garret roof; it figures
again the image of that calm-faced father,—long since
sleeping beside your mother; it rests like a shadow,
upon the night when Charlie died; it grasps the old
figures of the school-room, and kindles again (how
strange is memory), the fire that shed its lustre upon
the curtains, and the ceiling, as you lay groaning with
your first hours of sickness.
Your flitting recollection brings back with gushes of
exultation, the figure of that little, blue-eyed hoyden,—
Madge,—as she came with her work, to pass the long
evenings with Nelly; it calls again the shy glances that
little counter-play, that might well have passed between
Frank and Nelly. Your mother's form too, clear and
distinct, comes upon the wave of your rocking thought;
her smile touches you now in age, as it never touched
you in boyhood.
The image of that fair Miss Dalton, who led your
fancy into such mad captivity, glides across your vision
like the fragment of a crazy dream—long gone by.
The country-home, where lived the grandfather of
Frank, gleams kindly in the sunlight of your memory;
and still,—poor, blind Fanny,—long since gathered to
that rest, where her closed eyes will open upon visions
of joy,—draws forth a sigh of pity.
Then, comes up that sweetest, and brightest vision
of love, and the doubt and care which ran before it,—
when your hope groped eagerly through your pride,
and worldliness, toward the sainted purity of her,
whom you know to be—all too good;—when you
trembled at the thought of your own vices, and blackness,
in the presence of her, who seemed—virtue's self.
And even now, your old heart bounds with joy, as you
recal the first timid assurance,—that you were blessed
in the possession of her love, and that you might live
in her smiles.
Your thought runs like floating melody, over the calm
joy that followed you through so many years;—to the
How poor, seem now your transports, as you met their
childish embraces, and mingled in their childish employ;—how
utterly weak, the actual, when compared
with that glow of affection, which memory lends to the
scene!
Yet all this is gone; and the anxieties are gone,
which knit your heart so strongly to those children,
and to her—the mother;—anxieties which distressed
you,—which you would eagerly have shunned; yet,
whose memory you would not now bargain away, for a
king's ransom! What were the sunlight worth, if
clouds did not sometimes hide its brightness; what
were the spring, or the summer, if the lessons of the
chilling winter did not teach us the story of their
warmth?
The days are gone too, in which you may have
lingered under the sweet suns of Italy,—with the
cherished one beside you, and the eager children, learning
new prattle, in the soft language of those Eastern
lands. The evenings are gone, in which you loitered
under the trees, with those dear ones under the light
of a harvest moon, and talked of your blooming hopes,
and of the stirring plans of your manhood. There are
no more ambitious hopes—no more sturdy plans!
Life's work has rounded into the evening that shortens
labor.
And as you loiter in dreams over the wide waste of
what is gone,—a mingled array of griefs and of joys—
of failures, and of triumphs,—you bless God, that there
has been so much of joy, belonging to your shattered
life; and you pray God, with the vain fondness that
belongs to a parent's heart,—that more of joy, and less
of toil, may come near to the cherished ones, who bear
up your hope and name.
And with your silent prayer, comes back the old
teachings, and vagaries of the boyish heart, in its
reaches toward Heaven. You recal the old church-reckoning
of your goodness: is there much more of it
now, than then? Is not Heaven just as high, and the
world as sadly—broad?
Alas, for the poor tale of goodness, which age brings
to the memory! There may be crowning acts of
benevolence, shining here and there; but the margin
of what has not been done, is very broad. How weak
and insignificant, seems the story of life's goodness, and
profit, when Death begins to slant his shadow upon our
souls! How infinite, in the comparison, seems that
Eternal goodness, which is crowned with mercy. How
self vanishes, like a blasted thing; and only lives—
if it lives at all,—in the glow of that redeeming light,
which radiates from the Cross, and the Throne!
II.
What is Left.
BUT much as there is gone of life, and of its
joys,—very much remains;—very much in
earnest, and very much more in hope. Still, you see
visions, and you dream dreams, of the times that are
to come.
Your home, and heart are left; within that home,
the old Bible holds its wonted place, which was the
monitor of your boyhood; and now, more than ever,
it prompts those reverent reaches of the spirit, which
go beyond even the track of dreams.
That cherished Madge, the partner of your life and
joy, still lingers, though her step is feeble, and her eyes
are dimmed;—not, as once, attracting you by any
outward show of beauty; your heart glowing through
to the affections. Your hearts are knit together by a
habit of growth, and a unanimity of desire. There
is less to remind of the vanities of earth, and more to
quicken the hopes of a time, when body yields to
spirit.
Your own poor, battered hulk, wants no jaunty-trimmed
craft for consort; but twin of heart, and soul,
as you are twin of years, you float tranquilly toward
that haven, which lies before us all.
Your children, now almost verging on maturity,
bless your hearth, and home. Not one is gone.
Frank indeed, that wild fellow of a youth, who has
wrought your heart into perplexing anxieties again and
again, as you have seen the wayward dashes of his
young blood,—is often away. But his heart yet
centres, where yours centres; and his absence is only
a nearer, and bolder strife, with that fierce world,
whose circumstances, every man of force, and energy,
is born to conquer.
His return, from time to time, with that proud
figure of opening manliness, and that full flush of health,
speaks to your affections, as you could never have
believed it would. It is not for a man, who is the
father of a man, to show any weakness of the heart,
or any over-sensitiveness, in those ties which bind him
to his kin. And yet—yet, as you sit by your fire-side,
that proud figure of a man,—who calls you—`father,'
—and as you see his fond, and loving attentions to
that one, who has been your partner in all anxieties,
and joys,—there is a throbbing within your bosom
that makes you almost wish him young again:—
that you might embrace him now, as when he warbled
in your rejoicing ear, those first words of love!—Ah,
how little does a son know the secret and craving
tenderness of a parent;—how little conception has he,
of those silent bursts of fondness, and of joy, which
attend his coming, and which crown his parting!
There is young Madge too,—dark-eyed, tall, with a
pensive shadow resting on her face,—the very image
of refinement, and of delicacy. She is thoughtful;
—not breaking out, like the hoyden, flax-haired Nelly,
into bursts of joy, and singing,—but stealing upon
your heart, with a gentle and quiet tenderness, that
diffuses itself throughout the household, like a soft
zephyr of summer.
There are friends too yet left, who come in upon
your evening hours; and light up the loitering time
with dreamy story of the years that are gone. How
eagerly you listen to some gossipping veteran friend,
who with his deft words, calls up the thread of some
bye-gone years of life; and with what a careless, yet
grateful recognition, you lapse, as it were, into the
hospitable blaze, the stir, the joy, and the pride of your
lost manhood.
The children of friends too, have grown upon your
march; and come to welcome you with that reverent
deference, which always touches the heart of age.
That wild boy Will.,—the son of a dear friend—who
but a little while ago, was worrying you with his
boyish pranks, has now shot up into tall, and graceful
youth; and evening after evening, finds him making
part of your little household group.
—Does the fond old man think that he is all the
attraction!
It may be that in your dreamy speculations, about
the future of your children (for still you dream) you
think that Will., may possibly become the husband
of the sedate and kindly Madge. It worries you to
find Nelly teasing him as she does; that mad hoyden
will never be quiet; she provokes you excessively;
—and yet, she is a dear creature; there is no meeting
those laughing blue eyes of hers, without a smile, and
an embrace!
It pleases you however to see the winning frankness,
with which Madge always receives Will. And with a
little of your old vanity of observation, you trace out
the growth of their dawning attachment. It provokes
you, to find Nelly breaking up their quiet tête-à-têtes
to some saunter in the garden, or to some mad gallop
over the hills.
At length, upon a certain summer's day, Will. asks
to see you. He approaches with a doubtful, and disturbed
look; you fear that wild Nell has been teasing
him with her pranks. Yet he wears, not so much an
offended look, as one of fear. You wonder if it ever
happened to you, to carry your hat in just that timid
manner, and to wear such a shifting expression of the
eye, as poor Will. wears just now? You wonder if it
ever happened to you, to begin to talk with an old
friend of your father's, in just that abashed way? Will.
must have fallen into some sad scrape.—Well, he is
a good fellow, and you will help him out of it!
You look up as he goes on with his story;—you
grow perplexed yourself;—you scarce believe your own
ears.
—“Nelly?”—Is Will. talking of Nelly?
“Yes, sir,—Nelly.”
—“What!—and you have told all this to Nelly
—that you love her?”
“I have, sir.”
“And she says—”
“That I must speak with you, sir.”
“Bless my soul!—But she's a good girl;”—and the
old man wipes his eyes.
—“Nell!—are you there?”
And she comes,—blushing, lingering, yet smiling
through it all.
—“And you could deceive your old father, Nell
—” (very fondly.)
Nelly only clasps your hand in both of hers.
“And so you loved Will., all the while?”
—Nelly only stoops, to drop a little kiss of pleading
on your forehead.
—“Well, Nelly” (it is hard to speak roundly),
“give me your hand;—here Will.,—take it:—she's a
wild girl;—be kind to her, Will.?”
“God bless you, sir!”
And Nelly throws herself, sobbing, upon your bosom.
—“Not here,—not here, now, Nell!—Will. is
yonder!”
—Sobbing, sobbing still! Nelly, Nelly,—who
would have thought that your merry face, covered such
heart of tenderness!
III.
Grief and Joy of Age.
THE winter has its piercing storms,—even as
Autumn hath. Hoary age, crowned with honor,
and with years, bears no immunity from suffering. It
is the common heritage of us all: if it come not in the
spring, or in the summer of our day, it will surely find
us in the autumn, or amid the frosts of winter. It is
the penalty humanity pays for pleasure; human joys
will have their balance. Nature never makes false
weight. The east wind is followed by a wind from the
west; and every smile, will have its equivalent—in a
tear!
You have lived long, and joyously, with that dear
one, who has made your life—a holy pilgrimage. She
has seemed to lead you into ways of pleasantness, and
near to extinguish them,—those hopes and aspirations,
which rest not in life, but soar to the realm of spirits.
You have sometimes shuddered with the thought of
parting; you have trembled even at the leave-taking
of a year, or—of months; and have suffered bitterly,
as some danger threatened a parting—forever. That
danger threatens now. Nor is it a sudden fear, to
startle you into a paroxysm of dread—nothing of this.
Nature is kinder,—or, she is less kind.
It is a slow, and certain approach of danger, which
you read in the feeble step,—in the wan eye, lighting
up from time to time, into a brightness that seems no
longer of this world. You read it in the new, and
ceaseless attentions of the fond child who yet blesses
your home; and who conceals from you the bitterness
of the coming grief.
Frank is away—over seas; and as the mother mentions
that name with a tremor of love, and of regret,
that he is not now with you all,—you recal that other
death, when you too,—were not there. Then you
knew little of a parent's feeling;—now, its intensity is
present!
Day after day, as summer passes, she is ripening for
that world where her faith, and her hope, have so long
lived. Her pressure of your hand at some casual parting
said—prepare for a longer adieu!
Her language too, without direct mention, steeps
your thought in the bitter certainty that she foresees
her approaching doom; and that she dreads it, only so
far as she dreads the grief, that will be left in her
broken home. Madge—the daughter,—glides through
the duties of that household, like an angel of mercy:
she lingers at the sick bed—blessing, and taking blessings.
The sun shines warmly without; and through the
open casement, beats warmly upon the floor within.
The birds sing in the joyousness of full-robed summer;
the drowsy hum of the bees, stealing sweets from the
honeysuckle that bowers the window, lulls the air to a
gentle quiet. Her breathing scarce breaks the summer
stillness. Yet, she knows it is nearly over. Madge,
too,—with features saddened, yet struggling against
grief,—feels—that it is nearly over.
It is very hard to think it;—how much harder to
know it! But there is no mistaking her look now—so
placid, so gentle, so resigned! And her grasp of your
hand—so warm—so full of meaning!
—“Madge, Madge, must it be?” And a pleasant
smile lights her eye; and her grasp is warmer; and
her look is—upward!
—“Must it,—must it be, dear Madge?”—A
holier smile,—loftier,—lit up of angels, beams on her
faded features. The hand relaxes its clasp; and you
cling to it faster—harder;—joined close to the frail
wreck of your love;—joined tightly—but oh, how far
apart!
She is in Heaven;—and you, struggling against the
grief of a lorn, old man!
But sorrow, however great it be, must be subdued in
the presence of a child. Its fevered outbursts must be
kept for those silent hours, when no young eyes are
watching, and no young hearts will “catch the trick of
grief.”
When the household is quiet, and darkened;—when
Madge is away from you, and your boy Frank slumbering—as
youth slumbers upon sorrow;—when you are
alone with God, and the night,—in that room so long
hallowed by her presence, but now—deserted—silent;
—then you may yield yourself to such frenzy of tears,
as your strength will let you! And in your solitary
rambles through the churchyard, you can loiter of a
summer's noon, over her fresh-made grave, and let your
pent heart speak, and your spirit lean toward the Rest,
where her love has led you!
Thornton—the clergyman, whose prayer over the
dead, has dwelt with you, comes from time to time, to
for all men. He is young, but his earnest, and gentle
speech, win their way to your heart, and to your understanding.
You love his counsels; you make of him a
friend, whose visits are long, and often repeated.
Frank only lingers for a while; and you bid him
again—adieu. It seems to you that it may well be
the last; and your blessing trembles on your lip. Yet
you look not with dread, but rather, with a firm trustfulness
toward the day of the end. For your darling
Madge, it is true, you have anxieties; you fear to leave
her lonely in the world, with no protector save the
wayward Frank.
It is later August, when you call to Madge one day, to
bring you the little escritoire, in which are your cherished
papers;—among them is your last will and testament.
Thornton has just left you; and it seems to you that
his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial
mark of your regard.
“Maggie”—you say, “Mr. Thornton has been very
kind to me.”
“Very kind, father.”
“I mean to leave him here, some little legacy, Maggie.”
“I would not, father.”
“But Madge, my daughter!”
“He is not looking for such return, father.”
“But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show
him some strong token of my regard. What shall it
be, Maggie?”
Madge hesitates;—Madge blushes;—Madge stoops
to her father's ear, as if the very walls might catch the
secret of her heart;—“Would you give me to him,
father?”
“But—my dear Madge—has he asked this?”
“Eight months ago, papa.”
“And you told him—”
“That I would never leave you, so long as you
lived!”
—“My own dear Madge,—come to me,—kiss
me! And you love him, Maggie?”
“With all my heart, sir.”
—“So like your mother,—the same figure,—the
same true honest heart! It shall be as you wish, dear
Madge. Only, you will not leave me in my old age;
—Eh, Maggie?”
—“Never, father, never.”
—And there she leans upon his chair;—her
arm around the old man's neck,—her other hand
clasped in his; and her eyes melting with tenderness,
as she gazes upon his aged face,—all radiant with joy,
and with hope!
IV.
The End of Dreams.
A FEEBLE old man, and a young lady, who is just
now blooming into the maturity of womanhood,
are toiling up a gentle slope, where the spring sun lies
warmly. The old man totters, though he leans heavily
upon his cane; and he pants, as he seats himself upon
a mossy rock, that crowns the summit of the slope.
As he recovers breath, he draws the hand of the lady in
his, and with a trembling eagerness he points out an
old mansion that lies below under the shadow of tall
sycamores; and he says—feebly and brokenly,—
“That is it, Maggie,—the old home,—the sycamores,—
the garret,—Charlie,—Nelly”—
The old man wipes his eyes. Then his hand shifts:
little cottage below, heavily overshadowed:—
“That was it, Maggie:—Madge lived there—sweet
Madge,—your mother,”—
Again the old man wipes his eyes, and the lady
turns away.
Presently they walk down the hill together. They
cross a little valley, with slow, faltering steps. The lady
guides him carefully, until they reach a little grave-yard.
“This must be it, Maggie, but the fence is new.
There it is Maggie, under the willow,—my poor
mother's grave!”
The lady weeps.
“Thank you, Madge: you did not know her, but
you weep for me:—God bless you!”
The old man is in the midst of his household. It is
some festive day. He holds feebly his place, at the
head of the board. He utters in feeble tones—a
Thanksgiving.
His married Nelly is there, with two blooming
children. Frank is there, with his bride. Madge—
dearest of all,—is seated beside the old man, watchful
of his comfort, and assisting him, as, with a shadowy
dignity, he essays to do the honors of the board.
The children prattle merrily: the elder ones talk of the
with floating glimpses of glee,—into the cheer, and the
rejoicings.
—Poor old man, he is near his tomb! Yet his
calm eye, looking upward, seems to show no fear.
The same old man is in his chamber: he cannot
leave his chair now. Madge is beside him: Nelly
is there too, with her eldest-born. Madge has been
reading to the old man:—it was a passage of promise
—of the Bible promise.
“A glorious promise,”—says the old man feebly.
“—A promise to me,—a promise to her—poor
Madge!”
—“Is her picture there, Maggie?”
Madge brings it to him: he turns his head; but the
light is not strong. They wheel his chair to the
window. The sun is shining brightly:—still the old
man cannot see.
“It is getting dark, Maggie.”
Madge looks at Nelly—wistfully—sadly.
The old man murmurs something; and Madge
stoops:—“Coming,” he says—“coming!”
Nelly brings the little child to take his hand.
Perhaps it will revive him. She lifts her boy to kiss
his cheek.
The old man does not stir: his eyes do not move:—
they seem fixed above. The child cries as his lips
touch the cold cheek:—It is a tender Spring
flower, upon the bosom of the dying Winter!
—The old man is gone: his dream life is
ended.
| Dream life | |