"IS IT PEACE, JEHU?"
The evanescent sorrows of infancy have faded from the recollection, the
flowery scenes of childhood are passed, the thraldom of pupilage is
over, the fetters of minority are dissevered, and Youth steps boldly on
the threshold of life, proud of the superiority, and conscious of the
attributes of MAN.
"The world is all before him where to choose."
Society courts him to the enjoyment of rational and of sensual
pleasure. The anticipation of evil finds no place in his imagination.
All of friendship is faithful, and love pure as attractive. A short
career in the busy round of existence, while it proves the fallacy
of some of his crude conceptions, only affords a confirmation of
others. If trusted friendship discover its instability, or cherished
love its inconstancy, still Fancy promises, in other fountains, the
unadulterated source of happiness. He looks not to the mind to supply
the vacuum they have left. Youth is not the season for reflection. Fame
has not yet animated the daring spirit of enterprise, and the social
circle and the midnight revel display all their attractions. Lost in
the whirl of inebriating delights, Reason maintains but a divided
empire. But let her "still small voice" be heard in the intervals of
passion, and will it not whisper to his heart, _Is it peace?_
The bowl has ceased to exhilarate; this species of excitement is
happily relinquished, and, in the active scenes of business, he finds
a stimulant to exertion and enjoyment. The acquisition of wealth will
enable him to astonish the world with his magnificence; or, if a more
worthy motive prevail, will furnish the means to relieve indigence,
extricate virtuous misfortune from the fetters that chain it to the
earth, and wipe the tear of want from the eye of the widow and the
orphan. Glorious reward for days of toilsome industry. How soon may
he find some more sordid spirit grasping the object that eludes his
pursuit, and the anguish of disappointment displace the glowing visions
of his fancy. While the strife of hopes and fears drive repose from his
pillow, when the howling of the wind reminds him of the instability of
that element on which he has adventured many a _rich argosie_, it would
be mockery for him to ask of Care, _Is it peace?_
Fortune, however, while she laughed to scorn his dreams of princely
splendour, has deigned to crown his days of anxiety with competence,
and Philosophy bids him be content. He chooses a partner of his joys
and sorrows, and sees a hopeful progeny around him. Once more Fancy
spreads the glowing landscape of the future to his eye. Through those
dear ones, whose infantine pleasures now amuse his paternal mind, he
will attain the object of his hopes. His daughters shall wed with the
first families that now tower above him; his sons--
"Visions of glory spare his aking sight;"--
he eagerly anticipates the moment of their matured existence, when he
shall exultingly exclaim, in the fulness of his heart, after the detail
of their unrivalled achievements, I AM THEIR FATHER. A few years roll
away; the fiat of Omniscience is gone forth, and all, but one, of those
that but now cheered his domestic board, are gathered into the garner
of eternity. That one, the first--the last--remains his only comfort.
On that loved one, he, and the beloved partner of his afflictions,
bowed down with sorrow rather than with years, now place their only
hopes. He will support their tottering footsteps; he sooth the sorrows
and smooth the pillow of their waning age. Alas! the haunts of
dissipation receive him; premature infirmities, racking pains, palsied
limbs, hasten him, with rapid and unerring steps, to the grave--and all
beyond it. It were in vain to ask of his agonized bosom,--agonized by
the conviction of his fatal paternal indulgence,--_Is it peace!_
Is not the quiver of affliction exhausted? One shaft is left. That
dear mourner, that has partaken so largely of the cup of his sorrows,
cannot sustain the recollection
"That such things were, and were most dear to her."
Silent and uncomplaining, she bows before the storm. Her ashes rest
with those of her children. Where is now that eager spirit, grasping at
phantoms, and soaring into the regions of uncreated imagination. Hope
is extinguished in his bosom; his soul is black with the very midnight
of despair. Frail man! Didst thou ever ask, _Of whom did I receive
these precious gifts?_ Bow before the throne of Omnipotence; bless that
Power who gave and who took away; pray to him for resignation; and,
when the spirit of vital religion pours its holy influence into thy
heart, thou needest not ask of thyself or the world, _Is it peace?_