IT was a golden sunset, which was fondly gazed upon by an old man on
whose broad brow the history of seventy winters had been written. He
sat in the wide porch of a large old-fashioned house: his look was
calm and clear, though years had quelled the fire of his eagle
glance; his silver hair was borne mildly back, by the south wind of
August, and a smile of sweetness played over his features, breathing
the music of contentment. His heart was still fresh, and his mind
open to receive an impress of the loveliness of earth. The dew of
love for his fellow-creatures fell upon his aged soul, and pure
adoration went up to the Giver of every good from its altar. He
lifted his gaze to the cerulean blue above him, and dwelt upon his
future, with a glow of hope upon his heart--then he turned to the
past, and his beaming expression gradually mellowed into
pensiveness: in thought, he travelled through the long vista of
years which he had left behind him, and his mental exclamation was,
"There has not been a year of my life since manhood, that I might
not have lived to a better purpose. I might have been more useful
and devoted to my race. I might more fully have sacrificed the idol
self, which so often I have knelt to, in worship more heartfelt than
I offered the Divinity. Yet have I laboured to become pure in thy
sight, oh, my God! build thy kingdom in my breast!"
A tear trembled in the aged suppliant's eye, and the calm of holy
humility stole over him; the gentle look was again upon his
countenance, when a young man of about twenty years, swung open the
gate leading to the house, and, approaching, saluted the old man
with a cordial grasp of the hand; flinging his cap carelessly down,
he took a seat in a rustic chair, and exclaimed with a smile of
mingled affection and reverence, which broke over his thoughtful
features, making him extremely handsome,
"Well, grandfather, I believe you complete seventy years to-day!"
"Yes, my son, and I have been looking back upon them. I do not
usually dwell upon the past with repining, yet I see much that might
have been better. My years have not always been improved."
The young man listened respectfully; presently he asked, with sudden
interest, "Pray tell me, if there ever was a whole year of your
life, so perfectly happy that you would wish to live it all over
again?"
"I have been perfectly happy at brief intervals," was the reply,
"yet there is not a year of my long life, that I would choose to
have return. I have been surrounded by many warm friends now gone to
their homes in the spirit-world,--I have loved, and have been loved,
and the recollection yet thrills me; still I thank God that I am not
to live over those years upon earth. I have struggled much for truth
and goodness, and there has not been one struggle which I would
renew, though each has been followed by a deep satisfaction."
"To me, your life appears to have been dreary, grandfather," replied
his companion. "I ask for happiness!" After a pause, he added with
impetuosity, "If I am not to meet with the ardent happiness I dream
of, and desire, I do not care to live. What is the life which
thousands lead, worth? Nothing! I cannot sail monotonously down the
stream--the more I _think_, and thought devours me, the more
discontented do I become with everything I see. Why is an
overpowering desire for happiness planted within the human breast,
if it is so very rarely to be gratified? My childhood was sometimes
gay, but as often, it was clouded by disappointments which are great
to children. I have never seen even the moment, since I have been
old enough to reflect, when I could say that I was as happy as I was
capable of being. I have even felt the consciousness that my soul's
depths were not filled to the brim with joy. I could always ask for
more. In my happiest hours, the eager question rushes upon me,
involuntarily, 'Am I entirely content?' And the response that rises
up, is ever 'No.' I am young, and this soft air steals over a brow
of health--I can appreciate the beautiful and exquisite. I can drink
in the deep poetry of noble minds--I can idly revel in voluptuous
music, and dream away my soul, but with that bewitching dream, there
is still a yearning for its realization. I cannot abate the
restlessness that presses upon me--I look around, and young faces
are bright and smiling with cheerful gayety. I endeavour to catch
the buoyant spirit, but I succeed rarely,--if I do, it floats on the
surface, leaving the under-current unbroken in its flow. Yet after I
have endeavoured to lighten the oppressive cares of some
unfortunate creature, a sort of peace has for a time descended upon
me, which has been infinitely soothing. It soon departs, and my
usual bitterness again sways me. I sought for friendship, and for
awhile I was relieved, but I cannot forbear glancing down into the
motives of my fellow men, and that involuntarily-searching spirit
has proved unfortunate to me. I met with selfishness in the form of
attachment, and then I turned to look upon the hollow heart of
society, and it was there."
"Alfred, you make me sad," said the old man, in a solemn and deeply
pained voice. "This is the first time I knew that your heart was
such a temple of bitterness."
"If I have saddened you, I wish I had not spoken: but the thoughts
rushed over me, your kind heart is always open, and I gave them
expression. You have lived long, and there is more sympathy in your
experience, than in the laughing jest of those near my own age.
Pardon me, grandfather, I will not pain you again!" Alfred turned
his eyes upon his aged friend; he caught the look of kindness upon
that honoured face, and it fell warmly, upon his soul.
"It is right to think deeply," said the revered adviser, "but one
must think rightly, also. You must not look out upon the world, from
the darkened corners of your soul, or the hue is transferred to all
things which your glance falls upon. Take the torch of truth and
heavenly charity to chase away the dimness within you, then powerful
changes will be wrought in your vision. You will begin to regard
your fellow man with new feelings of interest. I am a plain and
blunt old man, Alfred, but you know that my only desire is for your
good; so bear with my remarks if they be unpalatable."
"Certainly, sir, I value frankness before flattery."
"You may say that you have never been _perfectly_ happy," continued
the old gentleman; "that is neither strange nor uncommon, for I have
met with few thoughtful persons of your years, who, upon close
reflection, could say that their souls could desire no more than had
been granted to them. You must seek for resignation, not entire
bliss upon earth, although it is possible that you may enjoy it for
a season."
"Why is joy so transitory and unquiet so lasting?" demanded the
young man impatiently.
"The fault is not in the transitoriness of the joy, but in the very
soul itself,--it is in a state of disorder; its nature must be
changed before it can receive for ever only the image of gladness.
In a chaos of the elements, can a smiling sky be always seen? Lay
asleep all unruly elements in the spirit, and a pure heaven of
brightness will then greet the uplifted glance."
"But how can all this be done, grandfather? hath unruly elements do
you speak of? What can I do; for instance? I certainly am willing
and glad to see my kind happy--if my soul be in disorder, I do not
know in what it consists, or how to bring it to order. I am weary of
its unsatisfied desires; it is, continually in search of something
which it has never caught sight of,--and the fear, that that
unknown, yet powerfully desired something may never come to quench
my thirst, falls with the coldness of death upon my bosom."
"That something may be found by every human being, if sought for in
the right way. Those yearnings are not given us, that they may fall
back and wither the fountain from which they spring. But the
question is, do we seek for happiness in the right way? Do we not
rather ask for an impossibility, when we ask for permanent bliss,
before we have laid a foundation in our souls for it? You wish to
take this life too easy by far, my son; rouse up all your strength,
look around you with the keenness of a resolved spirit, and seek to
regenerate your whole being,--let that be your object, and let the
desire for happiness be subservient to it. You will clasp joy to
your breast, as an everlasting gift, at the end of the race. What
are your aims and objects? You hardly know; you are in pursuit of
that which flees, before you as a shadow, and your restless spirit
sinks and murmurs,--you have no grand object in view, to buoy you up
steadily and trustfully through every ill which life has power to
bestow. Those very ills are seized upon, and become instruments of
glory to the devoted and heaven-strengthened spirit,--they prepare
for a deeper draught of all things dear and desired, and though the
soul droop beneath the weight of human suffering, yet the rod that
smites is kissed with a prayer. Turn away from your individual self,
as far as you can, and regard the broad world with a philanthropic
eye--"
"Impossible--impossible!" interrupted Alfred, hastily, "I defy any
person to turn from himself, and look upon the world with a more
interested gaze than he casts upon his own heart. One may be
philanthropic in his feelings and devoted to alleviating the
distresses of less fortunate beings, but I hold it to be impossible
that our individual selves will not always be first in interest. A
sudden and powerful impulse may carry us away for a time, but after
that rushing influence leaves us, we see yourselves again, and, find
that we had only lost our equilibrium briefly. I say only what I
sincerely think, and what thousands secretly know to be the case,
even while advocating views quite opposite. There is no candour in
the world!"
"Softly, my good friend," said the grandfather, mildly smiling. "I
also hold it to be impossible that we can lose either our
individuality or our interest in ourselves, but I believe it
possible that we may love others just as well, if not better than
ourselves. I do not refer to one or two particular persons whom we
may admire, but I speak of the mass of our fellow-creatures."
"I cannot even conceive of such a love!" returned the young man,
shaking his head. "I cannot see how I could love a person who
possesses no attractive qualities whatever;--I always feel
indifference, if not dislike. I think I could sacrifice my life to
one I loved, if thrown into sudden and imminent danger; still, I
think I might give pain to that same person many times, by
gratifying myself. For instance, grandfather,--suppose you were to
be led to the stake, to be burned to-morrow,--I would take your
place to save you; yet I do not now do all I possible can, to add to
your happiness. I gratify whims of my own; I idle away hours in the
woods, or by some stream, when I fully know that it would be more
pleasing to you, to see me bending patiently over my Greek and
Latin."
"Very true!" sighed the old man. "You prove your own position, which
is that your ruling love is self-love."
Alfred lifted up his eyebrows, as if he had heard an unwelcome fact.
We are often willing to confess things, which we do not like to have
old us. He fell into deep thought. Finally he said, "It is
universally allowed that virtue is lovely; those who practise it,
appear calm and resigned, and often happy--but, to tell the truth,
such enjoyment seems rather tame and flat. I wish to be in freedom,
to let my burning impulses rush on as they will, without a yoke. I
love, and I hate, as my heart bids me, and I scorn control of any
kind."
"Yet you submit to a yoke, my son; one which is not of your own
imposing either."
"What kind of a yoke?"
"The yoke of society,--you bow to public opinion in a measure. You
avoid a glaring act, often, more because it will not be _approved_,
than because you have a real disinclination for it. Is not that the
case sometimes?"
Alfred did not exceedingly relish this probing, but he was too
candid to cover up his motives from himself. He answered a decided
"yes!" but it was spoken, because he could not elbow himself out of
the self-evident conviction forced upon him.
"Do you think it degrading for a man to conquer and govern the
strongest, as well as the weakest impulses of his soul?" pursued his
grandfather.
"Certainly not degrading,--it is in the highest degree worthy of
praise. It is truly noble! I acknowledge it."
"And yet you deem such enjoyment as would result from this
government, tame and flat."
"I beg pardon; when I spoke of virtue, I referred to that smooth
kind which is current, and seems more passive than active,--that
soft amiability which appears to deaden enthusiasm, and to shut up
the soul in a set of opinions, instead of expanding it widely to
everything noble and generous, wherever it may be found."
"It was not genuine virtue, you referred to, then,--it was only its
resemblance."
"It was what passes for virtue. But to come at the main point,
grandfather;--where is happiness to be found, if we are to be
warring with ourselves during a lifetime, checking every natural
spring in the soul?"
"Stop there, Alfred! We only quench the streams, which prevent the
spirit's purest wells of noble and happy feelings from gushing forth
in freedom. We must wage a warfare, it is true; why conceal it? But
it does not last for ever, and intervals of gladness come to refresh
us, which the worn and blunted spirit of the man of pleasure in vain
pants for. An exquisite joy, innocent as that of childhood, pervades
the bosom of truth's soldier in his hours of peace and rest, and he
lifts an eye of rapture to heaven--to God."
Alfred dwelt earnestly upon the noble countenance of the speaker,
and his bosom filled with unwonted emotion, as the heavenly
sweetness of the old man's smile penetrated into his inward soul.
Goodness stood before him in its wonderful power, and he bowed down
his soul in worship. How insignificant then seemed his individual
yearnings after present enjoyment, instead of that celestial love
which can fill a human soul with so strong a power from on high. He
reflected upon that venerable being's life--so strong and upright;
he dwelt upon his large and noble heart, which could clasp the world
in its embrace. He remembered months of acute suffering, both
physical and mental, which had been endured with the stillness of a
martyr's inward strength; and then, too, he recalled times when that
aged heart was more truly and deeply joyful than his own young
spirit had even been. Both relapsed into the eloquent silence of
absorbing thought. It was evident from the softened and meditative
cast of Alfred's features, that his bitterness had given way to the
true tenderness of feeling it so often quelled; he revolved in his
mind all that had been advanced by his grandfather, and he dwelt
upon every point with candour and serious reflection. A strong
impression was made upon him, but he was entirely silent in regard
to it,--he waited to try his strength, before he spoke of the better
resolutions that were formed, not without effort, in his mind. He
felt a conviction that a change from selfishness to angelic charity
might be accomplished, if he were but willing to co-operate with his
Maker,--the conception of universal love slowly dawned upon his
soul, now turned heavenward for light,--his duties as a responsible
being came before him, and a sigh of reproach was given to the past.
Then golden visions of delight thronged up to his gaze, and it was
with a severe pang he thought of losing his, hold upon the dear
domains of idle fancy,--he had so revelled for hours and hours, in
intoxicating dreams, which shut out the world and stern duty. He
felt his weakness, but he resolutely turned from dwelling upon it.
The evening air was refreshing after the warm sunset, but old Mr.
Monmouth would not trust himself to bear it. Alfred went into the
house with him, and made a brief call, then left, and wended his way
a short distance to his own home, which was a very elegant mansion,
surrounded by every mark of luxury and taste. He immediately sought
his chamber, and took up a neglected Bible which his mother had
given him when a child,--he turned over its leaves, and his eyes
fell upon the one hundred and nineteenth psalm, "Thy word is a lamp
unto my feet, and a light upon my path. I have sworn, and I will
perform it, that I will keep thy righteous judgments." He read on,
and the exceeding beauty and touching power of the Holy Word had
never so deeply affected him,--he wept, and all that was harsh in
his nature melted,--he prayed, and the angels of God approached,
filling his uplifted soul with heavenly strength. Sweet was the
thrill of thanksgiving, that arose from that hitherto restless
spirit--quiet and blest the peace that hushed him to deep,
invigorating slumber. Persons of an enthusiastic temperament are apt
to fall into extremes; such was the case with Alfred Monmouth. He so
feared that he would fall back into his former states of feeling,
that he guarded himself like an anchorite. For three months he
abstained from going into company, and even reasonable enjoyment he
deprived himself of. He threw aside all books but scientific and
religious ones; even poetry he shut his ears against, lest it might
beguile him again to his dreamy, but selfish musings. No doubt this
severe discipline was very useful to him at the time, in
strengthening him against the besetting faults of his character; but
it could not last long, without originating other errors. During
this time he had been, perhaps, as happy as ever in his life; his
mind had been fixed upon an object, and a wealth of new thoughts had
crowded upon him--he rejoiced with a kind of proud humility in his
capability for self-government. He thought he was rapidly verging
towards perfection. But "a change came o'er the spirit of his dream"
at last, and an unwonted melancholy grew upon him, until it settled
like a pall over his heart. An apathy in regard to what had so
lately interested him, stole over him, and indeed a cold glance fell
upon almost every pursuit he had once prized. Plunged in deep gloom,
he one evening sought his grandfather's dwelling, hoping, by a
conversation with the cheerful old man, to regain a more healthy
state of mind; to his great satisfaction, Alfred found him alone
reading.
"Well, my boy, I am glad you have come in!" was the salutation, with
a most cordial smile, for Mr. Monmouth had silently remarked the
late alteration in his somewhat reckless grandson. He also detected
the present gloom upon his fine countenance, and the earnest hope of
dispelling it, added an affectionate heartiness to his manner.
Alfred made several common-place remarks, then, with his usual
impatience, he flung aside all preamble, and said,
"I am gloomy, grandfather, even more so than I have ever been, and I
cannot explain it. The last serious conversation I had with you,
produced a strong effect upon me, and for a long time after I was
unusually cheerful and vigorous in mind. I seemed to have imbibed
something of your spirit--I delighted in the hope of regenerating
myself, through the aid of Heaven; it seemed as if angels hushed my
restless spirit to repose, and I tried in humility to draw near my
God. Yet I feared for myself, and I withdrew from temptation, from
all society which was uncongenial to my state of mind. I was
_content_ for a long time, but now the sadness of apathy overwhelms
me."
"Endeavour, without murmuring, to bear this state of mind, and it
will soon pass off," remarked Mr. Monmouth. "We must not always fly
from temptation in every form, my boy, but we must arm ourselves
against its attacks, otherwise our usefulness will be greatly
lessened. If those who are endeavouring to make themselves better,
do so by shunning society, they are rather examples of selfishness
than benevolent goodness,--the selfishness is unconscious, and such
a course may be followed from a sense of duty. But the glance which
discovered this to be duty was not wide enough; it took in only the
claims of self, yet I would not convey the idea, that we have any
one's evils to take care of but our own. We need society, and,
however humble we may be, society needs us. We need to be refreshed
by the strength of good beings, and we must also contribute our
slight share to those whom Providence wills that we may benefit. The
life of heaven may thus circulate freely, and increase in power
among many hearts. Go forward, Alfred, unmindful of your feelings,
and pray only to trust in Providence, and to gain a deep desire for
usefulness."
"Ah! yes," returned the young man, earnestly. Light broke in upon
his darkness. "I am glad that I have spoken with you, grandfather,
for your words give me strength to persevere. I never knew that I
was weak until lately."
"Such knowledge is precious, my dear son. We are indeed strongest
when the hand of humility removes the veil that hides us from
ourselves."
"Probably such is, the case, but I cannot realize it. It is with
effort that I drag through the day; I am continually looking towards
the future, and beholding a thousand perplexing situations where my
besetting sins will be called into action. I see myself incapable of
always following out the noble principles I have lately adopted."
"As thy day is, so shall thy strength be!" said Mr. Monmouth. "Be
careful only to guard yourself against each little stumbling-block
as it presents itself, and your mountains will be changed to
mole-hills. Never fear for the future, do as well as you can in the
present."
"But it is so singular that I should feel thus, when I have been
trying as hard as a mortal could to change my erroneous views, and
to regard all the dispensations of Providence with a resigned heart.
I have cast the selfish thought of my own earthly happiness from my
mind as much as possible."
"And yet there is a repining in your gloominess. You are not
satisfied to bear it."
"Well, perhaps not. I am wrong,--I think that I could submit with
true fortitude to an outward trial, but there seems so little reason
in my low spirits. Have you ever felt so, grandfather?"
"Often; and at such times, I devote myself more earnestly than ever
to anything which will take my thoughts from myself."
"I will do so!" replied Alfred, firmly. "If my purposes are right in
the sight of Heaven, I will be supported."
"True, my son."
Alfred left the home of his grandsire, more at rest with himself and
all the world. Fresh peaceful hopes again sprang up within him, and
he began to see his way clear. He reasoned himself into resignation,
and, as day after day went on, he grew grateful for the privilege
and opportunity offered to school his rebellious spirit to order.
Four years passed; Alfred was engaged in the busy world, and he
shrunk not from it, but rather sought to do his duty in it. One
summer evening, he was called to enter the large, old-fashioned
house of his grandfather. His brow was thoughtful, but calm and
resigned--he sought a quiet room; it was the chamber of death,--yet
was its stillness beautiful and peaceful; he knelt by a dying couch,
and clasped the hand of his aged grandsire--then he wept, but the
unbidden tears were those of gratitude. The serenity of heaven was
upon the countenance of the noble old man.
"My hour has come, Alfred," he said, placing one hand upon the
beloved head bowed before him, "and I go hence with thankfulness.
Ah! even now, there is a heavenly content in my bosom. The angels
are bending over me, and wait to take my spirit to its home: there
is no mist before my sight, all is clear. The Father of love lifts
up my soul in this hour--our parting will be short, my son--" the
old man's voice trembled, an infinite tenderness dwelt in his eyes,
and Alfred felt that there was a reality in the peace of the dying
one. All the good that he had done him rushed before him, and he
exclaimed with humility,
"How can I ever repay you, dear grandfather! for all your noble
lessons to me?"
"I am repaid," was (sic) the the low reply; "they have brought forth
fruit, and I have lived to see it. I trust that you will leave the
world with all the peace that I do, and with deeper goodness in your
spirit. My blessing be upon you, my son!"
"Amen!" came low from Alfred's fervent lips.
The eyes of the aged one closed in death, and his young disciple
went forth again into the world, made better by the scene he had
witnessed.