I was recalling to memory, the other day, all the friends and
acquaintance of my boyhood and youth, that I could recollect; and I
mustered a goodly list. My mind wandered from their _names_ to their
hopes and plans; I recalled the schemes and enterprizes, which I knew
they had meditated. The train once started, visions of bygone days and
circumstances poured in upon me. Again, I sauntered, arm in arm, with
a friend, through the moon-lit streets, on a summer’s evening--again,
I wandered listlessly along the beach--again, I stood upon the summits
of the hills which surrounded the abode of my youth--again, I heard
the confiding strain of youthful friendship--I saw the face lit with
the joy of anticipated triumph--the step, unnaturally firm, proud and
elastic. Alas! where now were those friends? Some were dead--some
were in obscurity--many were in mediocrity of life--few, how few,
had _approached_ the goal of their youthful wishes. And what was the
cause of all this? Was the fault in the men, or their plans? Upon the
_plans_ I fixed it; for I could not, and I would not, lay aught to the
charge of the loved ones of my youth. And where was the fault in the
plans? Was it not _here_--that the _plans_ were founded on the _hopes_,
while the _hopes_ should have been founded on the _plans_? _Hope_ is
the _etherial_--_plan_ the _material_ part of an expectation. A plan,
founded on a hope, is like a house founded on the sand--it cannot
endure. As verdant forests and luxuriant vegetation adorn and beautify
the sides, and white fleecy clouds cap the summits, of a rock-based
mountain, softening the rugged cliffs, filling up the chasms, smoothing
the precipices, and concealing the roughness of the path which winds
up the ascent; so should _Hope_, with its varied hues, tinge and adorn
the ever-during frame-work reared by _Reason_. So _should_ it be--but,
is it so? Do not men strive rather to throw a semblance of reason over
their hopes? Do they not build castles in the air, and then exert all
their ingenuity to give an appearance of probability, or at least of
_possibility_, to their baseless fabrics?
O Hope! thou art a blessing, and thou art a _curse_. Thou art an
intrusive, impudent, officious, treacherous _imp_--thou art a lying
varlet--a cheating knave--thou hast no conscience--thou wilt gull, over
and over again, prince and peasant, rich and poor, the unjust judge
and the oppressed widow. Men kick thee out of doors, and again thou
comest. Thou art a very Proteus--deny thee entrance in _one_ shape, and
instantly thou takest another. Sometimes thou servest the devil, and
sometimes thou doest business on thine own account. Again, I say, hang
thee for an intermeddling imp!
Men talk of the pleasures of hope! have they never felt the misery
of hope deferred--the pang of hope crushed? Have they ever estimated
the amount of misery chargeable to this self-same hope? Who fathers
Ambition, with all its woes, attendant and consequent? Hope. How many
dream away their lives in listless vacuity, _hoping_ all the while,
that _something will turn up_! What injuries has Hope not done to
youth? Then, when men ought to be training themselves for the stern
realities of life--when they should prepare their provisions for its
stormy voyage, Hope whispers that the course is clear--the ocean
calm--the wind favorable. How many commence enterprizes, which can end
in nothing but disappointment, and undertake duties, to the performance
of which their abilities are inadequate, spirited on the while by Hope,
the traitor, who stimulates his unconscious victims to mount round
after round of the ladder, until, with a whoop and a laugh, he tears
the veil from their eyes, and permits them to see and to _feel_ that
they are high, not on the temple, but on the _pillory_ of Fame! ‘Hope
sweetens labor’--does he? ‘Thank you, madam, I prefer it without sugar.’
Hold! I revoke--I take back somewhat that I have said. Hope--thou art
an imp, but still a _playful_ imp--full of mischief, but such a lively,
laughing, little, curly-headed rogue, with such a comical look in the
corner of thine eye, that for my life I cannot lose thee. I am inclined
to say to thee, as one said to his dog--‘Ah! Tray! thou little knowest
the mischief thou hast done.’