The din of the great world is hushed, and the vexatious cares, which
have occupied my mind during the day, are all dispelled; and again, for
a little while, I am left alone. The evening lamps are not yet lighted,
but the fire in the grate burns brightly, so that the shadows on the
wall are distinct and clear, but continually changing, even as my own
wayward thoughts. Wayward they are at all times, I confess, but most
strangely so when my spirit forgets the present, and the hereafter, and
holds communion with the realities of by-gone years. Time has not yet
set his signet on my brow, for it was but yesterday that my timid
footsteps crossed the threshold of manhood; so that the years gone by,
with me, are comprised in the budding and the blossoming seasons of
childhood and youth. But with these, what a world of joys and griefs, of
smiles and tears, are entwined, which the fond memory strangely delights
to recall. I know not how it is with others, but to me the voice of
memory is sometimes plaintive as the evening breeze, when sporting with
the flowers in the garden of the dead. I am even now listening to that
voice; and the burden of its song, I shall trace upon this page.
It were not wise to “look mournfully into the past,” for we know that
“it comes not back again.” But it were well to ponder, deeply ponder,
the history of our past lives, and analyze the motives which have ever
influenced our conduct. How little can we remember, which will be of
service to us, when we are called to die. But how many things there are,
the remembrance of which inclines us to shed penitent tears, and heave
the sigh of regret. Ours is a frail and sinful nature; not a day passes
away, that does not take with it the record of many sins, which we have
committed in word, thought, and deed.
How many unkind words have we spoken to our parents, who have chided us
for unworthy conduct; to a sister or brother, who have thwarted
us—unconsciously, perhaps, or for our own good, in our thoughtless and
head-strong desires; to some squalid beggar, whose misfortune it was to
solicit our aid, when we were perplexed with the cares of business, or
absorbed with some dream of opulence and renown; to a party of innocent
children, who have chanced to disturb our moroseness by a natural and
heartfelt shout of happiness and a laugh of joy; and even to our Maker,
in the form of an oath, when we have been disappointed in some of our
ambitious designs. Lightly spoken, it may be, were many of these words,
but they are not lightly considered by our Creator, as we shall know at
the judgment day.
How many selfish thoughts have we cherished in our bosoms, which we knew
were desperately wicked, and which we would have blushed to proclaim;
thought of hate and revenge, of hypocrisy and pride, of envy and
sensuality. Do not the nature of these, and their great number, make us
ashamed to own ourselves the lords of the brute creation, creatures made
in the image of God?
How many wicked and debasing deeds have we committed which we would fain
recall, or annihilate, but for which we must at last render a reasonably
excuse, or suffer, unless the recording angel in heaven should drop a
tear upon the page, where they are written down, and blot them out
forever. In a fit of anger we may have rudely struck a friend or
brother; we have flattered the unsuspecting only to deceive and make
them wretched; we have trifled with the misfortunes of the poverty
stricken, the deformed, and the ignorant; in a thousand ways we have
broken the commandments of our Lord and Saviour, and instead of God, we
have worshipped Baal; we have not loved our Bible, the holy sanctuary,
and the duty of prayer; we have misimproved our time, neglected many
opportunities for doing good, and instead of giving a portion of our
money to the poor heathen, who are perishing for the want of the bread
of life all over the world, we have spent it all in administering to our
own sensual gratifications.
Yes, it is too true, and the recollection of it should make us humble
ourselves in the dust, that the words, thoughts, and deeds of our past
lives, which we have reason deeply to regret, are more in number than
the sands upon the sea-shore. But because they cannot be numbered, we
must not omit to remember and meditate upon them. We should use them as
a medicine, not in too great abundance, lest they make us sick, and not
too sparingly, less they produce not their desired effect.
Unenviable indeed is the condition of that man, who can dwell upon his
moral character for a series of years, or even for a single week, and
not find much to mourn over and regret. Sin and sorrow are our
inheritance, and it is natural, therefore, and good for us, to have our
cheeks occasionally moistened by regretful tears. Sometimes, too, there
is a luxury in tears, which the breaking heart alone can know; and that
proud man who is ashamed to weep, deserves to have pointed at him the
finger of scorn.
At the mention of that word regret, memory calls up a long array of
beings whom I once loved most tenderly, but who are gone away to a
country whence they can never return. Some had just pushed their little
bark upon the stream of time, which flowed onward with a murmur “soft,
gentle, and low,” and whose banks were covered with flowers. Some were
in the strength and buoyancy of youth; others in the full vigor of
manhood; and a few were tottering along, “wrinkled and bent, and white
with hoary hairs.” I knew them, I loved them, and they died. I regret
that they are gone, because they were the friends and counsellors of my
early days. Deeply, indeed, do I mourn their absence, but I would not,
even if I could, call them back again, for they have been transformed,
as I trust, into the glorious image of their Creator, and his bosom is
their home. In my hours of loneliness I am always strengthened by the
hope, that when I too shall have passed the troubled waves of Jordan, I
shall meet them again, and remain with them forever. O! yes, it is a
nameless feeling of regret that oppresses me when I think, that upon the
earth never more shall I listen to their voices, who once charmed my
ear, and look upon their smiles, who once gladdened my heart. But often
in my dreams do I behold them in their angelic robes, hovering in the
ethereal atmosphere of heaven, and they are always beckoning to me, and
pointing to a great white throne, whose foundations are everlasting.
They are calling me away, but I cannot go, for my earthly pilgrimage is
not yet ended. To secure the crown of Immortality, with which they
endeavor to allure me, is my chief ambition; and though a thousand
regrets are the burden of the song of Memory, yet I feel and hope that I
shall at last obtain it, through the mercy and love of my Redeemer.
Lo! the voice of Memory is speaking to me in another tone, mournfully
pleasing to the soul. It is telling me of the morning of life, which was
cheerful as the singing of birds, and loving as the opening of spring,
when not a cloud arose to mar its beauty, or obscure the bright sun of
innocence and youth; when every sense was gratified, every flower was
sweet, and every rose without a thorn; when every kiss was a pledge of
affection, and every friend was true; and when my cheeks were blooming
with health, and my eyes beaming with joy. True, the sun has not yet
reached the meridian, but far different from those of the morning are
the associations of the early noon. Alas! it is with regret I remember
the truth, that “I am not now that which I have been.” Weary and heavy
laden as I am, my course is onward, and my heart is strong.
Memory is telling me of my childhood’s home, the dearest and most lovely
spot on the face of the earth, and I regret that I can visit it only in
my dreams. It is telling me the thrilling legends which fascinated my
boyish imagination, when, with my bow and arrows, and clad in my hunting
garb, I used to visit the Indian villages of Michigan. The better I have
ever become acquainted with the red man of the wilderness, the more
deeply have I loved him, and the more highly have I honored his
character; and I regret that I cannot now, as of yore, chase with him
the bounding deer, and paddle the light canoe. I regret that he is an
exile and a stranger in the very land which gave him birth, and which,
by the laws of nations and of God, is rightfully his own. Memory is
telling me of those matchless lakes, Superior, Michigan, Huron, and
Erie, whose every inlet almost I have explored, and from many of whose
cliffs I have watched the most glorious of sunsets—those lakes with
whose waves in summer it was my delight to sport, and over whose
icy-plains in winter I took the lead in skating, and used to drive the
swift Canadian pacer in the swan-like carriole. Of those rivers, too,
the Detroit, the St. Clair, the St. Joseph, the Huron, and the Raisin,
in whose transparent waters I have often caught the sturgeon, the
pickerel, and the bass, and along whose borders I have hunted the plover
and the duck. Of those glorious forests, the homes of solitude and
silence, where I was wont to be so happy alone with my God. Of those
prairies, “boundless and beautiful, for which the speech of England has
no name,” where I used to wander in dreamy mood, gathering the richest
of flowers, with which to adorn the neck and forelock of my favorite
steed. These are but the beginnings of the innumerable scenes, which are
the themes of my memory. I regret that it is my lot to live so far
removed from all these things, which are fast passing away, and that my
pursuits compel me to live in a world of art, of business, and fashion.
And now come the recollections of the past summer, which I have
attempted to commemorate in the foregoing letters. I know not with what
feelings you may have perused them, but to me they are very dear, on
account of the feelings and conceptions with which they are associated,
and these are a kind of treasure, that my heart cherishes as the miser
does his gold. Much of the time, during my various journeyings have I
been alone, and I have held a blessed communion with my mother
nature,—not only in the morning and at noon, but in the calm evening and
in the most holy night. Thou hast, O Nature, instructed me in the “magic
of thy mysteries,” and given my spirit an idea of its immortal destiny.
I thank thee for having, even in my infancy, consecrated my affections
to thy rational worship. Next to those of revealed religion are thy
consolations. Thou art the Empress of a world of poetry, and yet the
great human world is familiar only with thy name. Next to my Creator,
thou hast proven thyself my most faithful friend, and when I cease to
love thee as I now do, may my right hand forget its cunning, and the
silver cord of my life be forever loosened. In all my mortal pilgrimage
may I be influenced by thy teachings, so that when I come to be an
immortal, I may be fitted for a station at the footstool of God.
JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY
ARE PUBLISHERS OF
NOTES ON CUBA.
Containing an account of its Discovery and Early History; a description
of the face of the country, its population, resources
and wealth, its institutions, and the manners and
customs of its inhabitants; with directions to
travellers visiting the Island.
By A PHYSICIAN.
12mo. pp. 359.
“The main purposes of this volume is to serve as a guide and a companion
to invalids, travellers, and others who may visit Cuba. There is no
other work of this character in the English language, nor in any
language is there a book which embraces the information which is
contained in this. The directions to travellers for their guidance,
comfort and conduct, are very full, and we may add, very necessary. Then
we have a methodical arrangement of matter which presents us with a
complete and exceedingly interesting narrative, seeming to anticipate
every question, and to draw a full picture of the country, of its
inhabitants, their employments and characteristics. The towns upon the
island, with its general scenery, curiosities and striking objects, are
described in full. The history, the geology, the government and commerce
of the island, are noticed at length, and present the results of an
evidently laborious investigation, and a faithful use of the eyes. The
resources which a traveller or visitor will find for occupying his time,
or for amusing himself, have their full share of space. The whole
volume, coming from a source which stamps it with a high authority, is a
valuable addition to our libraries, and will be much prized by those who
read it.”—_Christian Register._
“A well written, carefully printed, and instructive book, by a
Physician. No invalid who seeks the blissful climate of Cuba, should
leave home without this best of all guides and counsellors. We are
delighted with the valuable contribution which he has made to history,
as well as with the intelligence and good judgment he evinces as a
physician. In recommending the Notes on Cuba to medical readers and
voyagers, it would be unjust not to recommend it also to the whole
reading community.”—_Boston Medical Journal._
“Notes on Cuba, by an American Physician. This is a truly valuable and
interesting book, both to the invalid intending to visit Cuba in search
of health, and to the general reader, and supplies a gap in literature
which it is surprising has not long ago been filled. The work is well
written, and affords very pleasant reading. The author is known to us,
and we can assure the readers of the work that it is entirely authentic,
and entitled to the most entire confidence.”—_New Bedford Bulletin._
JAMES MUNROE AND CO.’S PUBLICATIONS.
TWICE TOLD TALES.
By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
FIRST AND SECOND SERIES.
2 vols. 12mo., elegantly printed on clear type and fine paper, and
neatly bound in cloth, gilt.
“To this little work we would say, ‘Live ever, sweet, sweet book.’ It
comes from the hand of a man of genius. Every thing about it has the
freshness of morning and of May. * * * * The book, though in prose, was
written by a poet. * * * A calm, thoughtful face seems to be looking at
you from every page. * * One of the most prominent characteristics of
these tales is, that they are national in their character. The author
has wisely chosen his themes among the traditions of New England. * *
Another characteristic of this writer is the exceeding beauty of his
style. It is as clear as running waters are. Indeed he uses words as
mere stepping-stones, upon which, with a free and youthful bound, his
spirit crosses and recrosses the bright and rushing stream of thought. *
* In speaking in terms of such high praise as we have done, we have
given utterance not alone to our own feelings, but we trust to those of
all gentle readers of the Twice Told Tales. Like children we say, ‘Tell
us more.’”—_North American Review._
“The Tales are worth _twice telling_ and a dozen readings.”—_Boston
Courier._
“A book like this, evincing a mind of such peculiar organization, may,
or may not become popular; but whether they read it or not, the public
may be assured, that in this unpretending volume by a countryman and
neighbor, they will find more of that which indicates thought in the
writer, and begets thought in the reader, than in nine-tenths of the
English reprints, which are so eagerly devoured.”—_Boston Daily
Advertiser._
“Mr. Hawthorne’s style is rich, refined, and graceful, and the present
volume is an ornament to the literature of our country.”—_Boston Atlas._
“This modest volume, which comes before us without preface, or any sort
of an appeal to the public regard, is well calculated to stand on its
own merits, and to acquire enduring popularity. The author possesses the
power of winning immediate attention, and of sustaining it, by a certain
ingenuous sincerity, and by the force of a style at once simple and
graceful. In all his descriptions, whether of scenes or emotions, nature
is his only guide. In short, in quiet humor, in genuine pathos, and deep
feeling, and in a style equally unstudied and pure, the author of ‘Twice
Told Tales’ has few equals, and with perhaps one or two eminent
exceptions, no superior in our country. We confidently and cordially,
therefore, commend the beautiful volume to the attention of our
readers.”—_Knickerbocker._
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
--Added author's name on the title page.
--Silently corrected a few obvious typographical errors.