I have been whiling away a little time this morning in recording a queer
medley of thoughts, which occupied my mind during the tedious hours of
the past night. Their cause and import I will leave you to guess.
It is well. My long, long dream of two years,—my dream of heart-gladness
is at an end. I saw her, and was a lover, which is but another name for
slave. She became my promised bride, and I was happy,—thoughtlessly
happy. She proved herself to be a faithless and unworthy creature, and
the link which bound us together was broken. And so, my dream is ended,
and I am free.
A child, with a basket on his arm, was gathering flowers in a meadow on
a bright spring morning. There was no end to the number that he plucked,
and none, as he thought, in the world, could be compared to them in
loveliness. And thus was it with my hopes,—but the flowers withered, and
my hopes are gone.
Softly!—was not that a footstep, and did I not see the gleaming of a
silken kirtle? No; it was only an echo and a reflection from the past. I
know it, for I am alone, utterly alone.
O how truly hath it been written by the poet, that Art is long and time
is fleeting! What a cheerless thought is this to the ambitious Painter!
Was I wrong to set my life upon _that_ cast! At any rate, I will stand
the hazard of the die. I sometimes think that the cup which others
drink, the cup of fame, will never be quaffed by me. Well, what matter?
Was I born, merely to create a name? No, no, no! I was brought into the
wilderness of life to be tried by pain, sickness, and sorrow, and to
leave it as becomes a Christian is my chief ambition. Fame, which I had
hoped to win, I panted after, that another’s happiness might be
promoted. But she has frowned upon me, and an impassable ocean is
forever spread between our hearts. Be it so.
Once, a serpent secreted itself within the petals of a flower. I pressed
that flower to my bosom, and the serpent stung me. But I rejoice that
the agony of the pain is over and gone.
A strange excitement is upon me,—with all my wooing sleep will not come
to my relief. O how painful it is to count the slowly lagging hours,
throughout the silent watches of this summer night! Restless am I as a
wave of the sea, and, may be, as useless and insignificant. The
pulsations of my mind are as fitful as the breeze which breathes upon me
through my open window, but like that breeze they hasten to one point,
which is the heart of a poor dreamer.
I cannot, with Othello, feel that _I_ have thrown away a _pearl_. It was
the shell of a pearl only, whose heart was a living worm.
Little things! Of these is the world composed, and that man is a fool
who looks upon them with contempt. Yes, it is a little thing to say, “I
love you with all my heart, and will follow you to the end.” But when
believed, if this proves to be the mockery of a hypocritical heart, who
can describe the consequences that may result to the believer? Fatal
they may be to the soul, as the bite of Tarantula to the body, unless
our thoughts are attracted by a strain of melody emanating from the
throne of Deity. And to that great Being am I deeply thankful, for
having upheld me in my trying hour.
It hath been whispered in my ear, that the being whom I lately cherished
as my life-blood, now mentions my name with a scornful smile. And why?
not because of my inferior wealth, or family, or education, for with
respect to these I am her superior,—but because I loved her as an angel.
How little did I think of this, when her head has been pillowed on my
bosom, and I have seen and felt the throbbings of her own! Yet, even
then she nourished the spirit that would “damn” a queen. She tried to
break my heart,—she failed,—but what matter? She must answer for the
_deed_. When she comes to die, if not till then, when she come to “tread
the wine-press alone,” then must she repent her folly and ingratitude,
and it is my prayer that she may be among the redeemed in heaven. Then
will she be purified from the corruptions which cling to her here, and
become a worthy subject of heavenly solicitude and love.
Where, O where are all the blissful dreams upon which my heart has so
long existed? Vanished, like the shadow of a cloud, and I am a
companionless pilgrim through the world. Who can comprehend the misery
of a desolate human heart? I thought she loved me with a spotless
passion, and yet, while anguish rends my brow to-night, she is sweetly
sleeping and dreaming on her couch of down. Surely, surely it must be a
sin to love. What have I done, that my heart-strings should be snapt
asunder,—that I must kiss the dust and be unhappy?
If you give a beggar a loaf of bread to save his life, and he spurns you
with an oath, you cannot but exclaim, “O horrible ingratitude?” But what
should be thought of those to whom you had given away your _heart_, if
they should reciprocate with the damnable _lie_? “Begone, thou art a
villain,—touch not the hem of our garments,—we are pure, but thou art
polluted.”
It was the noontide hour, and as I was passing along a lonely and
unfrequented road, I discovered a pair of turtle doves quietly cooing to
each other on a sandy hillock in the sunshine. It was a picture of
exquisite happiness, and yet the longer I gazed, the more deeply did it
affect my heart, so that when I left the spot, I found that my eyes were
filled with tears. The last time that I had wept before, was when I
beheld the wreck of my _greatest hope_. When, I wonder, shall I be
compelled to weep again?
O how my heart clings to the hour of our first acknowledgment of love!
aye, and to all the blissful hours that have been mine since then in her
society! Like a wealthy prince I gloried in my rare possession, and
could not believe that aught on earth would ever make me a beggar.
But,—the treasure that I doted on took unto itself wings, and like a
beautiful but unclean bird has flown away, to delight and to deceive
some other unsatisfied mortal. I _am_ a beggar now. O will not some of
the poor and forsaken, that I have cheered with a kind word when I was
happy, come forth now and welcome me with a smile of pure affection?
I loved her, and fondly anticipated that she would one day become the
star of my _home_. Home! what place upon the earth is dearer to the
heart of man? How pleasing is the anticipation of the absent school-boy
as he looks forward to the close of the term, when he shall be welcomed
to the fireside of home! The poor farmer toils unceasingly through the
long days of summer, cheered by the comforts of home, which he fondly
hopes will be the crown of his coming winter evenings! How fortunate is
that man who can say—“mine is a happy home!” How thankful should he be!
But is there no consolation for those who are homeless and friendless in
the world? Ah yes, there is, and it is as sweet as it is invaluable. Our
elder Brother, the meek and lowly Saviour, when upon the earth, was
compelled to exclaim,—“The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air
have nests, but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.” Homeless
and unhappy Christian, cheer up! cheer up! A few more days, and you will
be an inhabitant of that blessed world beyond the skies, “where the
wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” Yonder, is the
home which I pant for _now_.
Friendship is one of the most beautiful and delicate plants that
flourish in the garden of human passions, and to my mind is a holier
emotion than love. What though I am no more a Lover! have I not a few
well-tried friends, whom I “grapple to my soul with looks of steel?” Why
then should there be a weight upon my spirit? Long enough have I played
the fool. O that I may be wise enough to renounce my folly!
How prone are we, who know not what it is to want, to forget that the
world is full of suffering! We do not sympathize with those who suffer,
and are contented to think only of ourselves. If, to be hungry, and
naked, and friendless, is to suffer, what must be his condition, whose
heart craves for the sympathy of love, and is destitute of those
endearing attentions, which refine and elevate the soul?
There is a river, in a much-loved mountain and, whose waters are
sometimes brackish and sometimes clear, and which sometimes hastens to
the sea singing a plaintive under-song of loveliness. I know not why it
is, but it seems to me, that such is the river of my life.
The smiles of woman! Sweet words. How many and beautiful beyond compare
are the scenes which they recall to mind, whose charms are heightened by
the smiles of a mother, a sister, a companion, or friend! All these, is
it my privilege to claim, but yet the _whole_ of my heart is not
occupied. Who would wish to live in a world, where the lovely form and
tender sympathies of woman were not known? It would be more desolate
than the flowerless wilderness. Once, I thought to have toiled for a
distinguished name, that I might be able to return a worthy recompense,
for the smiles of the maiden whom I loved. I hoped to become affluent,
that I might in future years make my wife and children happy, and
nourish the light which illumines the fireside circle, which light is
the smile of woman. But,—who can tell what shall be on the morrow?
Welcome, thrice welcome, thou blessed night-wind that fannest my
feverish brow, and banishes from my heart that pang of agony. Oh! I am a
child again,—and bitter, bitter, bitter tears are the only witnesses,
that my blood is cold and clotted. Can I endure this suffering? Is it
possible, that these are the consequences of unrequited affection? Is
it,—there that breeze again! it is a messenger from the bosom of God,
and this is the burthen of its mission. “Child of sin and sorrow, thy
days of darkness upon the earth are now commencing, and the period
arrived, for thy nobler nature to assert its rightful supremacy.
Terrible indeed will be the conflict, but fail not to struggle with all
thy might for the mastery. If thou yieldest to this world, thy perfect
happiness will be lost forever; but if thou conquerest on behalf of
eternity, thy bliss will be as endless as its cycle, and more glorious
than thy fondest dream.”
_Once_, I was dreaming only of manhood, and knew not what it was to
love. _Now_, that I _can_ love, there is not a being in the wide world
whom I am privileged to love. Love! what is it but another name for
jealousy, selfishness, and lust? Aye, this is the conclusion of the
whole matter, if one woman that I know is a representative of her sex.
But I rejoice in the conviction that here is a Love, which is as pure as
the diamond, and lasting as the soul, which but blossoms in this world,
bearing its fruit throughout the untold years of the great hereafter.
She, who merits and enjoys that love, is the daughter of Heaven, and the
hope of the world. If we but prove faithful to her, she will never
abandon us in our pilgrimage to Jerusalem.
Look! the drapery of my couch is flooded with moonlight,—affording my
bodily and mortal vision a most exquisite pleasure. And why? Because I
_feel_ that I am not utterly unloved. Surely, the blessed Queen of Night
would not thus make my heart glad, if I were doomed to be forever a
brother to the desolate and unknown!
Dear, dear girl, a thousand blessings rest upon thee for that pressure
of thy soft hand upon my throbbing temples! It has soothed my pain, and
hushed the wild tumult of my heart. Come near, come near, thou heavenly
messenger, and let me press thy lips with a holy kiss, and then I will
lie down again and be at peace. There!—’twas but a vision, and again my
agony returns. O, my brain is on fire—see! see! the moon is veiled in
blood, all the stars are falling, the air is beginning to simmer, the
earth is swelling, and yet,—I am calmly going to pillow my head on a
soft brown clod in the silent city of forgetfulness, the same which men
call a grave-yard. Where can the body find a more _untroubled_ home?
Love! It is not _this_ that weighs my spirit down. I never loved a
_woman_, and wherefore should I repine? I loved, but it was an ideal
creature, a being of the mind. Such, we know, are never _false_,—I am
once more happy. A light from heaven is beaming upon my soul, and,
thanks to the breaking day, my sleepless night is ended.