  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 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 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 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 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 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 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. |
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