MORE CONCERNING LOVE AND THE DREAM OF LIFE.
Happy the bonds that hold ye;
Sure they be sweeter far than liberty.
There is no blessedness but in such bondage;
Happy that happy chain; such links are heavenly.
BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.
I will not describe the subsequent interviews between Leonard and his
cousin, short and broken but precious as they were; nor that parting
one in which hands were plighted, with the sure and certain knowledge
that hearts had been interchanged. Remembrance will enable some of my
readers to pourtray the scene, and then perhaps a sigh may be heaved
for the days that are gone: Hope will picture it to others,—and with
them the sigh will be for the days that are to come.
There was not that indefinite deferment of hope in this case at which
the heart sickens. Leonard had been bred up in poverty from his
childhood: a parsimonious allowance, grudgingly bestowed, had
contributed to keep him frugal at College, by calling forth a
pardonable if not a commendable sense of pride in aid of a worthier
principle. He knew that he could rely upon himself for frugality,
industry and a cheerful as well as a contented mind. He had seen the
miserable state of bondage in which Margaret existed with her Aunt,
and his resolution was made to deliver her from that bondage as soon
as he could obtain the smallest benefice on which it was possible for
them to subsist. They agreed to live rigorously within their means
however poor, and put their trust in Providence. They could not be
deceived in each other, for they had grown up together; and they knew
that they were not deceived in themselves. Their love had the
freshness of youth, but prudence and forethought were not wanting; the
resolution which they had taken brought with it peace of mind, and no
misgiving was felt in either heart when they prayed for a blessing
upon their purpose. In reality it had already brought a blessing with
it; and this they felt; for love when it deserves that name produces
in us what may be called a regeneration of its own,—a second
birth,—dimly but yet in some degree resembling that which is effected
by Divine Love when its redeeming work is accomplished in the soul.
Leonard returned to Oxford happier than all this world's wealth or
this world's honours could have made him. He had now a definite and
attainable hope,—an object in life which gave to life itself a value.
For Margaret, the world no longer seemed to her like the same earth
which she had till then inhabited. Hitherto she had felt herself a
forlorn and solitary creature, without a friend; and the sweet sounds
and pleasant objects of nature had imparted as little cheerfulness to
her as to the debtor who sees green fields in sunshine from his
prison, and hears the lark singing at liberty. Her heart was open now
to all the exhilarating and all the softening influences, of birds,
fields, flowers, vernal suns and melodious streams. She was subject to
the same daily and hourly exercise of meekness, patience, and
humility; but the trial was no longer painful; with love in her heart,
and hope and sunshine in her prospect, she found even a pleasure in
contrasting her present condition with that which was in store for
her.
In these our days every young lady holds the pen of a ready writer,
and words flow from it as fast as it can indent its zigzag lines,
according to the reformed system of writing,—which said system
improves handwritings by making them all alike and all illegible. At
that time women wrote better and spelt worse: but letter writing was
not one of their accomplishments. It had not yet become one of the
general pleasures and luxuries of life,—perhaps the greatest
gratification which the progress of civilization has given us. There
was then no mail coach to waft a sigh across the country at the rate
of eight miles an hour. Letters came slowly and with long intervals
between; but when they came, the happiness which they imparted to
Leonard and Margaret lasted during the interval,—however long. To
Leonard it was as an exhilarant and a cordial which rejoiced and
strengthened him. He trod the earth with a lighter and more elated
movement on the day when he received a letter from Margaret, as if he
felt himself invested with an importance which he had never possessed
till the happiness of another human being was inseparably associated
with his own;
So proud a thing it was for him to wear
Love's golden chain,
With which it is best freedom to be bound.[1]
[Footnote 1: DRUMMOND.]
Happy indeed if there be happiness on earth, as that same sweet poet
says, is he,
Who love enjoys, and placed hath his mind
Where fairest virtues fairest beauties grace,
Then in himself such store of worth doth find
That he deserves to find so good a place.[2]
[Footnote 2: DRUMMOND.]
This was Leonard's case; and when he kissed the paper which her hand
had pressed it was with a consciousness of the strength and sincerity
of his affection, which at once rejoiced and fortified his heart. To
Margaret his letters were like summer dew upon the herb that thirsts
for such refreshment. Whenever they arrived, a head-ache became the
cause or pretext for retiring earlier than usual to her chamber, that
she might weep and dream over the precious lines.
True gentle love is like the summer dew,
Which falls around when all is still and hush;
And falls unseen until its bright drops strew
With odours, herb and flower and bank and bush.
O love—when womanhood is in the flush,
And man's a young and an unspotted thing,
His first-breathed word, and her half-conscious blush,
Are fair as light in heaven, or flowers in spring.[3]
[Footnote 3: ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.]
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY W. NICOL, CLEVELAND-ROW, ST. JAMES'S.