My love shall cheer thine earthly way,
And in the blessed light of heaven,
Shine on, an ever-constant ray!
M. E. L.
WILSON CONWORTH.
NUMBER SIX.
'WEAK and irresolute is man.' I record a fault of human nature, as
well as my own. I resolved and re-resolved, and am the same. Do I
not blush while recording this weakness? Alas! I am dead to feeling,
as it regards my fellows. I have no communion with the world, now. I
pass by, unnoticed and unknown. Still, I have a love for mankind; and
I make these confessions, hoping they may prove of use to others. I
daily see others in the same predicament as myself, or, if not so far
advanced, yet pursuing a course which will inevitably lead them where
I now am. Yes! where I am; and what is that state? Solitariness,
apathy, disgust, fretfulness, heart-ache; the absence of all the
gentle sympathies of life; the death of all domestic affection; the
familiarity of the vulgar and low-bred; the sneer of the foolish
prosperous man; the contempt of the small thriving gleaner; the
neglect of the busy, and the pity of the good. Oh! yes! one comfort
yet remains; the prayers of the pious and truly religious.
But to my story. As hope began to fade from the heart of my dear
Alice; as she saw I was beyond the influence of her prayers and
entreaties; as she began to be acquainted with the real state of my
habits; as she began to see, that not even my love for her availed
any thing she began to despair. She had involved herself too deeply
to retract. Her feelings had acquired the habit of loving me; and
indeed, though an idle young man, I do not think it strange that such
devotion and tenderness as I sometimes really felt and bestowed upon
her, should have awakened some return.
I was well-bred, had a good person, could sing passably well,
by myself, write good poetry, and was passionate and hot in my
evidences of affection. I was an enthusiast, and women like decided
tastes. They feel an assurance, a confidence in your good, quiet,
smooth-faced, unexcitable, sensible man, if he be young, especially;
but they love life and animation, even though it lead to slight
errors. Women know the difficulty of restraining the feelings within
the bounds of propriety; they are most open to impressions; the
real creatures of feeling, they love feeling in others. They have
many struggles with what they wish, and what they ought to do. They
estimate in men the ardor of the temptation, as an offset to the
fault. Hence they are forgiving.
Women are obliged to keep a constant guard over themselves. They know
their own weakness, and self-protection arms them to the task. Many
a high-souled woman knows this. When you do find a well-disciplined
character in the female form, what a noble one it is! The labor of
the undertaking, the education of self-control, has made her great.
She is a whole host. Look at her influence in society; see the
majesty of her deportment, the easy assurance of her countenance. How
common men quail before her! What respect and attention she exacts
from the titled profligate, and the talented vicious! She is all
that is exalted on earth. There is no beauty to compare with such
beauty; no wealth with such charms. She is the nicest workmanship of
God; and in her dwells a soul that scatters blessings around her.
'The heart of her husband delighteth in her, and he has no need of
spoil.'
Reader, if you are a father, and have seen the son of your hopes,
the inheritor of your name, the bearer of your form and features,
gradually falling a victim to low vices; if you are a mother, and can
trace, in those features now bloated with excess, and in that eye
now dimmed with sensuality, the semblance to the babe that drew its
earliest food from your pure bosom, and remember that eye upturned
to your face as the innocent lay cradled in your arms; if you are
a sister, and mourn the ruin of your bed-fellow; or a brother, and
seen your playmate in prison, you may form some notion of what the
emotions of a fond heart are, when it beholds its stay gone, its
prospects blighted, and its love thrown away upon an unworthy object.
No! not altogether unworthy, but with just enough of good to keep
alive the love, while it mocks all efforts to draw consolation, to
answer the chord in her own bosom.
Love wishes its object to be perfect. None can or must compare
with its choice. How fondly does woman cheat herself, if she
can, into the belief that her choice is fortunate beyond human
fortune! I weep--even I, who have not wept for years for my own
misfortunes--I weep, as I recall the memory of the tears she shed
over my irrevocable ruin. She did know my character, at last, and she
predicted, even in spite of her love, all that has happened.
Shall I record that these tears were not a source of pain to me then?
They satisfied my vanity. I always reserved reformation to myself,
and thought she was mistaken; and these scalding tears, as they
coursed down her cheeks, told me that I was beloved. Not even the
misery of the object of my affection could prevent a triumph that I
had over her--_her_, the sought-for by many--that I was preferred
among a multitude. Is this nature? Was I hard-hearted? Would not any
one feel the same? Let the reader examine his own heart, and answer.
CHAPTER XIII.
AT this time, and in this very village, there lived a gentleman, in
the truest sense of the term, by the name of Edward Lang. He was a
man of high family, of aristocratic notions, and thought literature
the chief object worthy of pursuit. At the time I saw him, he bore
the ills of poverty, the burden of a broken heart, and disappointed
hopes. He possessed a well-stored mind, unwearied benevolence, and
a Tremaine-like refinement. He had, in the early part of his life,
encumbered a large fortune with debts of extravagance, idleness,
and folly; and at a subsequent period, lost the remainder in
scheming; for he thought that his prëeminence in literature gave him
prëeminence in every thing.
Every body applauded his plans; they were upon a large scale; they
redounded to the good of the place, and ruined him.
Bred a lawyer, the unfairness of country practice, the low and
degraded crowd it brought him in contact with, caused him to throw up
his profession. He took to farming; but he only tried experiments, to
the advantage of other people, and his own loss. He got up all sorts
of useful societies, which cost him his time, and paid him nothing.
He bought all the new works for other people to read; subscribed
liberally to reading-rooms and schools. He fatted cattle for the
agricultural society, at six times their worth in corn and care.
Every body in the village improved their own stock by his; but then
all this took money from his pocket.
He did not know the state of his affairs, because he hated
settlements. He could not bring himself down to the drudgery of life,
but did his farming scientifically, in his study, and left the work
to hired hands. He failed, and nobody pitied him. He began to be
called a 'poor good-for-nothing fellow,' whose chimeras had brought
him down. All his neighbors sued him, and he suffered all who owed
him to go undunned. He gave up all for lost; sat himself down in
wretchedness, disgusted with the world, and tired of himself.
I was quite intimate with this gentleman. Being much my senior,
for he was about fifty, and a bachelor, he took it upon himself to
give me a word of advice. He had been in love himself, and that
desperately; though unfortunate in his love affairs, as well as all
others. The father of the lady objected to him, on the score of his
being unfit to make money. He possessed hordes of wealth, himself,
and could have made two hearts happy. But no; this would not do.
His ideas of excellence consisted in the faculty of making money
and keeping it. 'As for literature and refinement, he did not care
for them. _He_ was not a literary man,' he said, 'and yet he was
rich, and respected; a president of a bank; had been an unsuccessful
candidate for congress, which was _some_ honor, and had it in
his power to fill any office in the town he would accept. No; he
preferred a man of business for a son-in-law.'
He found one; a coarse, rough, unlettered country-merchant, whose
ideas were bounded by the length and breadth of his counter; whose
whole soul was given to traffic. A sloven, except on Sundays and
courting-days, and then only clean on the outside. This fair,
delicate, daughter of wealth, possessed of a mind and education much
beyond her family's comprehension, was wedded to this '_respectable_'
man. Her heart was broken by this savage act of parental authority.
She died during the first year of her wedlock, and Edward Lang was
for two years deranged, and woke from this sleep of reason, to find
himself without hope, without motive, without sympathy.
He took to his books; he shut out the world, and dwelt upon the
beautiful and good in theory; lived in a love for the generous, the
exalted, and happy scenes of his imagination. When forced abroad by
his friends, he seemed lost and unhappy; he was disturbed from this
resting which an unfortunate mind derives from picturing for others
what he knows can never be for him.
By the world at large he was said to nourish false views of things,
because he had a higher standard than the world generally live by.
By these means he unfitted himself for society, and was voted dull,
eccentric, and love-sick. Time, however, softened his regrets, and
he came out in the scheming life I have referred to, in which, by
acting by principle and science, even in the work of agriculture, he
lost his all.
When I was introduced to him, he was living with an old aunt, upon
his paternal estate. Though poor, they had about them those marks of
refinement, which well-educated people will contrive to weave out of
common materials. Whether on the farm, in the garden, at his table,
in church, or in the street, no one could see Mr. Lang, and not say
with certainty that he was a gentleman. The aunt belonged to the old
school of ladies, rather prim and stiff; and yet her benevolent face,
her self-possession, and quiet dignity, gave her great influence in
society. Her reading and good sense, her piety and patience, were
proverbial. Every body called her 'madam,' and treated her with
marked respect. I was on the most familiar terms at their house; for
I believe they felt that I appreciated them. It was the sympathy of
people educated in the same way.
This gentleman was of great service to me. From the examination of
his own feelings, he had learned much of the nature of passion; from
severe suffering, he had become acquainted with misfortune. I used to
confide to him all my sorrows, and I told him my struggles. He saw my
remorse, and pitied my irresolution.
Alice, too, had confidence in him. They often rode together; and
his age and purity of life, and the nice delicacy of his feelings,
induced her to open her heart to him. He felt flattered, as well he
might, by the trust this noble girl reposed in him. But, beside, he
had read so much of love, thought so much of it, and suffered so much
for it, that he engaged in the contemplation of our affairs with
the _goût_ of an epicure over a favorite dish. He lived over again
hours of past endearment of his own. He felt young and ardent, as he
listened to the recital of conversations and difficulties which I,
with the greenness of a boy, always told him.
Things had arrived at a pass dangerous for both of us; and as yet her
parents knew nothing. One of our conversations happened to be heard
by the lady's mamma, and papa was informed of all. He was surprised,
but affected to treat the matter quite coldly; told me I was too
young, too unsettled, to think of matrimony, and very politely
forbade me his house; 'as,' he said, 'the sooner we forgot each other
the better.'
I ought to confess, here, that my habits had got to be quite
irregular. I attended horse-races, tavern-suppers, balls, and
sometimes drinking-parties, when the society was by no means the most
select; and to drown the mortification, and get to the level of my
companions, I ran into excesses that shattered my nerves, and made me
unfit, for days, for any calm reflection.
I have always felt the consequences of this mode of life. Even
the best minds will become tainted by contact with vulgarity and
coarseness. The purest taste will get degraded, in a measure, by
constant intercourse with low persons, such as young men who have
nothing to do usually meet about taverns, stage-houses, and strolling
theatres. We even acquire habits of speaking and pronunciation, and
of cant terms, which are beneath a gentleman.
When low-bred men engage in pleasure, 'plenty of stuff to drink' is
deemed the first essential. We are getting rid, to be sure, of the
character of 'a nation of drunkards;' but when I was a boy, liquors
were set out upon all occasions; at weddings, at funerals, dinners,
calls, paying money, or dunning-visits. People in the country, of
respectability, used to drink at eleven o'clock in the forenoon,
and at four in the afternoon. That was genteel. The class who drank
before breakfast then, now drink only at eleven; and those who drank
only at eleven, drink not at all.
It was the custom, too, to drink before meals for an appetite; for
appetite was considered a mark of health, however produced. Among
very good sort of people, this was a common notion, that a man could
work in proportion to the food he took into his stomach; so workmen
were swilled with drams for an appetite.
It is certainly true, that temperance societies cannot hope for any
permanent results in their exertions, unless there is a corresponding
movement in other societies. Education societies, peace societies,
temperance societies, and religious societies, they all have a common
object and common cause, to ameliorate the state of man. They point
to a common centre. People will not become temperate, and remain
irreligious, and quarrelsome, and ignorant. I have often thought it
would be well to turn all our efforts to educating mankind; and I
believe all other objects would be protected by the course of events.
But it is very questionable whether any benefit can result from
taking down names to pledges not to drink spirits, in places where
schools are not supported, nor the house of God attended.
In this village, every body drank at times, at parties and balls;
and to be a little boosy, was by no means disreputable. Judges,
members of congress, lawyers, doctors, mingled in these frolics, for
popularity's sake; and the people at large thought, of course, they
might go, upon the strength of such examples, to any extent.
If I had, by retirement, escaped the contamination of what are called
'glossed vices' in the city, in the country I contracted habits of a
grosser nature. I do not mean to be understood as being a drunkard;
but I had frequent 'scrapes;' my selection of associates was less
nice; my delicacy less; my sense of honor less accurately defined. I
lost, in refinement of feeling, immeasurably.
Taking all these things into view, it is no wonder that my intended
father-in-law looked upon me with suspicious eyes. He was a man
who had seen the ruin of many a likely young farmer and mechanic,
from the same beginnings; and he was by no means pleased with my
prospects. So I was forbidden to think of his daughter. She was sent
out of town, I could not tell where, and I immediately left the
village of N---- for a wider sphere of dissipation.
I returned to the city, coarse in my manners, rough in my
appearance--thanks to the country tailor!--with large whiskers,
and a swaggering bar-room air. I found, upon comparing myself with
city appearances, that I was at least ten years behind the age. I
blushed, looked ashamed, and avoided former acquaintances, who would
greet me with, 'Well, Conworth, where the devil have you been?' or,
'Where the devil did you get those whiskers?' Mind, reader, I had
been sentimental for a year, and when I was with gentlemen, was as
stiff as country gentlemen usually are. Think, then, how my feelings
must have been shocked at such familiarity, when I was looking as
grave as an owl, dressed up in my long-tailed coat, large pantaloons,
nicely polished thick boots, and long-napped, broad-brimmed hat, with
whiskers covering the sides of my face, and my complexion the color
of a coal-heaver.
Tailors and time work wonders; and in a short time my country friends
would hardly have known me. I soon settled down into courses of
dissolute life. I had no restraints. I imagined myself a martyr to
love, and was, indeed, unhappy; persuaded myself that I had no hope,
and particularly when about half drunk, I sighed like a furnace.
I spent one year, one precious year, of my youth in this manner. I
was desperate; lived away from home, and only visited my friends when
I was in want of money.
Sometimes, when my stomach was deranged, and my brain flighty, I
meditated self-destruction. I was only at ease when rioting in
excitement. I kept all sorts of company, and indulged in all sorts
of vices. I cannot imagine a more dissolute young man than I was in
conduct, who keeps himself this side of penal crime; though it is
worthy of remark, that I never recollect having indulged in any vice,
unless under artificial stimulus.
I believe my father thought himself a little in the wrong, by
suffering such desertion as I met with from all my friends. He pitied
me, and in the most affectionate manner persuaded me to return to his
house. A word of kindness was to me like manna in the wilderness.
I eagerly acceded to his proposal. He paid me every attention, and
actually left his business, and travelled with me for two months, and
endeavoured to bring my mind back to pleasant reflections; for I was
indeed almost a maniac. This was the balm in Gilead to my sick mind.
I came to myself, and with my father's permission I went to spend the
remainder of my clerkship at the celebrated law-school at L----.
I have always had the strongest inducements to do well. After all my
errors, before I left home, the friends of our family vied in showing
me kindness. I was in a constant round of the most refined society.
To be sure, I had the _éclat_ of having been disappointed in love
with the finest girl in the country; and any thing about love is
interesting; and to be crazy or drunk for love, is not so bad as to
be so for any other cause.
I was grateful for these favors and attentions; and when I left
home for the law lectures, I really believe all my friends were
firmly persuaded that I was an instance of wonderful reformation. So
credulous and forgiving are our friends for the sake of what they
know we can and ought to be!
CHAPTER XIV.
I WISH my reader could sympathize with me, upon coming thus far in my
history. I am aware that I have written nothing of much importance,
so far as incident may be looked for. But, to my view, life is rather
a succession of feelings and sentiments, than of actions. It fills
me with inexpressible satisfaction, to find that I have mastered my
adversaries, idleness and irresolution, in this instance, and have
come to this point. It is the longest and most arduous task I have
ever performed, for it is a work of continued exertion. I have never
flagged from it; and the idea that some good inferences may be drawn
from these pages, by the young among my own countrymen, so that my
life may not pass away without one useful act, one deed of positive
good, has supported me.
Let every idler, if he wishes to enjoy one happy hour, set about
doing something, no matter what. Let him undertake to commit a
chapter in the Bible to memory, or copy some piece of writing, or to
make any intellectual exertion; but let it be definite; not take a
walk, or a journey, or any thing that requires movement of the body,
but still, continued, uninterrupted study and attention. Idlers are
the veriest busy-bodies we know, and always flying about in some
shape or other. They are idle with the appearance of industry, and
deceive every body but themselves. While the world looks on, and
wonders at their diligence, they are passing hours, days, years,
of the most insupportable care, the care of finding something to
do. I know something of the tedium of this life, and confess, that
the hours spent in these records have been the happiest of my life,
because I have had an end, an object, constantly in view.
My debts all paid once more, my character again rëinstated, my purse
well supplied, my wardrobe in the newest fashion, and abundant as I
could pack, behold the rustic of a year's standing, the lover, whose
heart was broken, getting into the stage for L----, the place of the
celebrated law-school; while Thomas, dressed in the self-same suit
in which I had arrived some year before, is packing the trunks on
behind. Alas! the association of that event and those pantaloons!
Reader, they did put me in mind of the romantic hills and valley of
N----, and then of Alice Clair; though to get to these affecting
thoughts, I had to pass through the tailor's shop where they were
made. There is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and so
backward from the ridiculous to the sublime.
But in the height of my satisfaction in being permitted to take
a new start in the world, under such favorable auspices, my
love-disappointment did not weigh very heavily upon my heart. I had
already, as I thought, performed all my promises of being a good
student, etc., for I wished to, and I took the will for the deed.
I wished it so much, that not a doubt or misgiving disturbed the
serenity of my mind. I esteemed it a settled matter, that I was, in
the first place, to make myself remarkable as a student; and then,
without any trouble, to walk directly to the top of the profession. I
was a sanguine----fool!
This confidence inspired my father with golden hopes; and when we
parted, he told me he was the happiest man in the city. 'Now, my
son,' said he, 'you are old enough (I was twenty) to begin to form a
character; all your wild oats are sown; the past is forgotten; you
have your destiny in your own hands. Write to me often; tell me all
your wishes; and (here the devil jogged his elbow) draw upon me, if
you want more money. God bless you, my dear boy!' The tears started
in his eyes; mine were wet, too. As I got into the stage, (mark the
baseness of my heart!) I dwelt mostly upon the words, 'Draw upon me,
if you want more money.' My eyes ceased their weeping. I addressed
some gay make-acquaintance remarks to a fellow passenger, and as we
rattled over the bridge in the velocipede line of coaches, forgot
every thing but the beauty of the morning, and only wondered how long
it would be before breakfast.
So contemptible is the _spirit_ of youth, in its blind passion for
pleasure. All the higher, nobler feelings sink into insignificance,
compared with its own selfish enjoyments. Pleasure, love of pleasure,
tramples upon the holy influences of home; it steels the heart
to filial affection; it saps the juices of youth; and leaves the
young body prematurely cold, and lifeless, and insensible, to the
natural action of all those relations and sentiments, that reason is
intended to draw its moral food from. The mother 'who watched o'er
our childhood' is forgotten; the father disregarded, and the sister's
face is crimsoned with shame for us, and we ourselves are lost. And
for what? For an hour's amusement; a short-lived enjoyment; an empty
sound of revelry, and unmeaning mirth.
What inconsistency! Hardly had I got a step from my father's door;
hardly had my fingers lost the affectionate pressure of his hand,
when the evil genius stepped in, to scatter the impressions which a
moment before seemed so fixed.
Since the time of my mother's death, I never had passed the door of
the chamber where she died, without thinking of the evening when
I visited her corpse, alone--a pure boy, free from all vice, all
contamination--and then drawing the comparison between the present
and the past. Such reflections always gave me pain, and summoned up
all the resolution I was master of. I am convinced, that, if I had
had a mother until my mind had acquired strength and firmness, I
should have been a better and a happier man.