John Jones, a man who said he hated strife,Had from the altar led an able wife.No lines told scandal on a wrinkled brow;Temper and Time are rivals with their plow.Some said that she was gentle as the May;That Jones, the dog, was now to have his day.Your pardon, men, I pray you now dispense,If I proclaim you void of common sense,When you would have your wives to know no will,To have no thought but such as you instill;To be your shadows, never to suggest,Each judgment crossing yours at once represt;And to suppose, that every chiding wordShall from your bearded lips alone be heard.If no resistance met us in our home,What petty tyrants would all men become?The little wits that most of men possess,For want of sharp'ning would become far less;The selfish streams that flow from out our will,So far corrupted be more stagnant still:And restless, we should wage an inward war,But for the soothing rays of home's true star.Oh, let this wrong abuse of women end,In me, at least, they'll find a sturdy friend.I give my witness, I who have been thrown,Widely with all in Country and in Town,Women are best of all our fallen race,Richer in heart, than e'en in outward grace,And if our homes are not the abodes of peace,The fault is ours; and the complaint should cease.In that small dwelling there—from morn to night,A woman toils, withdrawn from human sight;A plain poor woman, in a common dress,Of kindly tones, and of uncouth address.Just wend thy way unto the little brook,Day after day upon its waters look,See every day the self-same ripples there,On those same stones, for ages smooth and bare.So she from day to day the course of life,Finds one recurring call of labor's strife,Save when God's blessed day of rest hath come,And its sun shines, as in the church, at home.Unlike the stream she has no murmuring tone,She has God's will to do, and it is done.With tender care she trains her youthful band,And never wearies in her heart or hand;Is ready, when the music in her ear,From one loved step, proclaims her husband near,To spread the frugal board, the welcome give,In each act say, for self I do not live.Oh man, o'erlook thy wife's unceasing careHow her dear love doth follow everywhere,Forget her, as she stood beside thy bed,When the long sickness bowed thy weary head,Watching,—to her all sacrifice as light,As 'tis to stars to watch o'er earth at night.Ah 'tis most noble, manly, not to knowHow light o'er all doth from her presence flow,And when a quicker word in haste doth fall,To speak of her, as if strife was her all.What could she say, if she replied to thee,Told to the world her secret misery,Showed the sad wounds that thy neglect had wrought,Where but a look the healing balm had brought.One, at this hour, lies on the bed of death,A neighbor lovely as the morning's breath.Slowly she dies,—and with prophetic eyeTracing the course of human destiny,I see a home she brightened, hence so lone,Its calm day darkened, and its music gone;The young, the old with anxious cares opprest,Their hearts, like shadows feeling for their restOn the green sward, where flickering sunbeams glide,My tears can fall, and standing by thy side,I know a woman's place, a woman's worth,—I know the gift of God in her to earth.Thou will not let thy wife become to thee,That which her nature claims that she should be.Thou hast a cold dead life from her apart,Thou art not moulded by her gentler heart,Else by her sweet, pure thoughts thou wert more trueMore wise, more bold each noble deed to do.Of woman's weakness dost thou speak? Thou'lt findHer strength indeed, by this just bond of mind.You are the weak one, cannot grasp her might,Forever boasting that thy wrong is right.Without her soul to thine, the page is dullOf all life's work,—and with this it is fullOf all illumined splendors, as of old,The precious writings were adorned with Gold.Ah view that cell so dark!—the felon there,With glaring eye that speaks his vast despair.He once in princely splendor lived his day,Lord of the street, a monarch in his way.His costly revels gained an envied fame,Where shallow fops, and women like them came.Oh man! how couldst thou thus thy God defy?Could riches pay thee for thy long-told lie?If thou hadst said thy secret to thy wife,Made known to her the secret guilty strife,Told of the awful chance, the business dice,The gambling sales, the shameful, well-named vice,Asked what to risk, asked what a man should do,Would that shame-darkened cell have been for you?She would have said, in woman's faith so strong,"We may be poor,—we never will do wrong.Take all this splendor; let it fade away,But stand thou honest as the open day."Would she have been to thee a feeble stay?We make the woman weak where she is weak;We school her feeble; feebleness we seek.We make believe that life is pompous pride,That she is blest, by gold when gratified,This my conclusion, as the world we scan,What's wrong in woman tells of wrong in man.But where is Jones? While I have thus digressed,Why Jones, poor fellow, is by care oppressed.He draws his trail of briars round life's ring,And wonders he is caught by everything.Jones snaps at every woman, man, and child,Just as a turtle by hot coals made wild.Jones had a daughter, and her name was Kate,As like her sire as pewter plate to plate.And they together almost vexed to death,The wife, the target of their arrowed breath.Sometimes the patient creature's anger roseTheir petty wrongs, and malice to oppose.And tempers such as hers, men do not tryBy single deeds that cause some misery;Stirred at the last by injuries borne so long,Their anger speaks accumulated wrong.Kate had her beauty, and her household skill,And in due time her Jack had found his Gill,He was a man as meek as man could be,And could not dream of woman's tyranny.He was a pleasant man to smile "good day,"And had the art to say what others say;Thought his old saws came from a welling-springIn his own mind—not knowing he did bringAll that so softly from his lips e'er fell,As vapid water from his neighbor's well—The poor dog never stole a good-sized bone,And so the world of curs let him alone.Not to an infant could Kate gentle be,As to a creature, meek and kind as he.How could she tear the vine that round her grew,Ready to fall with every wind that blew.The wife made battle for him with his friends;And fighting them, she thus made good amendsFor all her patience with him. Thus with careShe spread her shield, and said, attack, who dare.Strange, how 'mid peace we make the show of war,And shout unto the battle from afar,And her defense at last such habit wroughtHad she assailed him, she herself had fought.In time, ill-temper wrought upon her mind,And illness, too, its miseries combined.Oh! sad to read of intellect o'erthrown!Sometimes all blank. Sometimes one train aloneOf thought, declares that reason is denied.We hear of one who said, I must abideBehind the door, because I am a clock.And there he stood, and ticked. And one was shockedTo feel a rat within his stomach run.The doctor heard: the story being done,He wisely smiled, and said, "I soon can cure.You need not be a rat-trap long I'm sure.""Why how, O doctor, can you reach the rat?""'Tis easy: down your throat I'll send a cat."The man at such a pill must need rebel.And with good sense he quietly got well.Kate had her fancies—said she soon would die,And wasting seemed to prove her prophecy."Poor Will," she said, "you soon my loss will mourn,The wife who shielded you from many a thorn;I'm glad the pigs are killed, the sweet-meats made,Our turnips gathered, and our butcher paid.I'm glad I sent away to Jericho,That lazy Bess, that tried my temper so.I'm glad I told my mind to Jane Agree,About that scandal that she said of me:That I was jealous, to my apron stringTied you—distrustful of my marriage ring.I'm glad I told her that it was a lie,And somewhat sorry, since it made her cry."And, Oh! poor Will—so helpless when alone,What wilt thou do, dear one, when I am gone?How would I love, a spirit round thy way,To move, and be thy blessing every day!To fan thy forehead, and to dry thy tears,To nerve thy soul, and banish all thy fears.All I can do for thee, thou patient one,So gentle, tender, loving, all is done.I feel so lonely, in thy loneliness.This is, in death, my very great distress.Some one will fill my place, ere long, I trow,Your clothes are whole—in perfect order now.Be sure you get a wife that is like me,In gentle temper, and sweet sympathy.For you, so long to gentleness allied,Could not a bristling woman, sure, abide."Poor Will! At first his tears fell down like rainMost at the time when she inflicted pain,By her unkind surmise, that he would takeAnother wife—did she the world forsake."You are a wife," he said, "so fond, so true,I cannot have another—none but you.You made me what I am the people say;Another wife might make me; what I pray?An eight-day clock, they say, I am most like,Wound up by you, and by you taught to strike.Another wife might keep the time too late,Take out the wheels, and snatch away each weight:And I, neglected, come to a dead stop,Like some old time-piece in a lumber shop.But if you think, dear wife, that I must wed,When you, at last, are numbered with the dead,As I depend upon your good advice,Choose you the bride. Shall it be Susan Price?"Never had Bill so great a blunder made;Never had demon so his cause betrayed.Changed in her view—a villain lost to shame—She scarced believed that he could bear his name.She saw the future. Susan Price was there.With hazel eyes, and curls of Auburn hair.The rooms she swept would that vile Susan sweep?The cup-board key would that bad Susan keep?With those same pans would Susan cook their food,For that fool Bill, and for some foolish brood?Would Susan drink the wine that she had made?Would all those pickles be to her betrayed?"Shall that vain thing sit there,—a pretty pass!Neglecting work, to simper in that glass?Will she cut down that silk frock, good, though old,And puff it out with pride in every fold?And of all other insults, this the worst,—My beating heart is ready here to burst—She'll use my blue-edged china,—yes she will—Oh! I could throw it piece by piece at Bill."I see her, proud to occupy my chair,To pour out tea, to smile around her there,While my false friends will praise her half-baked cake,And Bill will chuckle o'er each piece they take.And while his grief is lettered o'er my grave,He'll laugh, and eat, and show himself a knave."Hast thou on some huge cliff, with oaks around,Heard the full terror of the thunder sound?Hast thou at sea, all breathless heard the blastRolling vast waves on high whene'er it past?Then mayst thou form some thought of her dread irePoured on the man to burn his soul like fire.But soon the burst of anger all was o'er,—And softened, she could speak of death once more."And Susan Price can marry whom she will,And,"—so she argued, "will not marry Bill."One day she said,—"It is revealed to meThat ere I die, a warning there shall be."Will looked, and saw her mind now wandered more,As thus she spake, than it had done before."Yes," she exclaimed, "before I leave this scene,Death will appear,—the warning intervene.Death will appear in this our quiet home—A chicken without feathers will he come."Fame spreads the great, and fame will spread the small,Fame gives us tears,—for laughter it will call.Fame spreads this whim,—this foolish crazy fear,—The neighbors laughed, and told it far and near.There dwelt close by, a restless heedless wight—Mischief to him was ever a delight.—He heard the story, and his scheme prepared,And what his brain had purposed, that he dared.He from a rooster all his feathers tore,—Had he been learned in the Grecian loreHeard of the Cynic, old Diogenes,Who, lying in his tub, in dreamy ease,Said to the hard-brained conqueror of old time,With heedlessness to human wants sublime,When he inquired, "What shall for you be done?""All that I ask, hide not from me the sun."He might have thought of him; and Plato's scowl,When in the school he hurled the unfeathered fowl,And said, ere murmuring lips reproof began,"There, Plato, is, as you defined, a man."But of the Greeks our wight had not a thought.Under his arm the fowl, all plucked, was brought,And forced to enter into Katy's door:Who spied him wandering o'er her sanded floor.She looked upon him, and began to weep.Bill sat not far off on a chair asleep."And so," she said, "Oh death! and thou art comeTo take my spirit far away from home."Then as inspired a sudden hope to trace,She waved the unfeathered monster from its place.Would drive far off from her the coming ill,—"Shoo shoo, thou death, now leave me, go to Bill."'Twas overheard—and wide the story spread.It reached John Jones, and to his wife he said,In precious wrath,—"They slander thus our Kate;Some foe devised this in malicious hate;And you, perhaps, were one to make the lie."Thus deeply stung, she made a fierce reply."She did it, I am sure," replied the wife,"She did it, sure as I have breath and life.""No—Katy didn't," said the man in rage."Yes, Katy did," she said. And so they wageA war of words, like these upon my page.The Indian Fairy spirit heard the din,And first to patience strove them both to win,Sent the cool breeze to fan the burning brow,Volcanic fires to die by flakes of snow.In war incessant, still the clamor rose,Still Katy did, and didn't, and fierce blows.At last the spirit took their souls away,And in their cottage lay their lifeless clay;Their bodies changed—and insects they became—Green as the grass—but still their cry the same.Hence in all trees, we hear in starry night,The contradiction, and the wordy fight.We hear John Jones, and his unhappy wife,And all their brood forever in a strife:And Katy did, and Katy didn't stillAre sounds incessant as a murmuring rill.
John Jones, a man who said he hated strife,Had from the altar led an able wife.No lines told scandal on a wrinkled brow;Temper and Time are rivals with their plow.Some said that she was gentle as the May;That Jones, the dog, was now to have his day.
Your pardon, men, I pray you now dispense,If I proclaim you void of common sense,When you would have your wives to know no will,To have no thought but such as you instill;To be your shadows, never to suggest,Each judgment crossing yours at once represt;And to suppose, that every chiding wordShall from your bearded lips alone be heard.
If no resistance met us in our home,What petty tyrants would all men become?The little wits that most of men possess,For want of sharp'ning would become far less;The selfish streams that flow from out our will,So far corrupted be more stagnant still:And restless, we should wage an inward war,But for the soothing rays of home's true star.Oh, let this wrong abuse of women end,In me, at least, they'll find a sturdy friend.I give my witness, I who have been thrown,Widely with all in Country and in Town,Women are best of all our fallen race,Richer in heart, than e'en in outward grace,And if our homes are not the abodes of peace,The fault is ours; and the complaint should cease.
In that small dwelling there—from morn to night,A woman toils, withdrawn from human sight;A plain poor woman, in a common dress,Of kindly tones, and of uncouth address.
Just wend thy way unto the little brook,Day after day upon its waters look,See every day the self-same ripples there,On those same stones, for ages smooth and bare.
So she from day to day the course of life,Finds one recurring call of labor's strife,Save when God's blessed day of rest hath come,And its sun shines, as in the church, at home.Unlike the stream she has no murmuring tone,She has God's will to do, and it is done.
With tender care she trains her youthful band,And never wearies in her heart or hand;Is ready, when the music in her ear,From one loved step, proclaims her husband near,To spread the frugal board, the welcome give,In each act say, for self I do not live.Oh man, o'erlook thy wife's unceasing careHow her dear love doth follow everywhere,Forget her, as she stood beside thy bed,When the long sickness bowed thy weary head,Watching,—to her all sacrifice as light,As 'tis to stars to watch o'er earth at night.
Ah 'tis most noble, manly, not to knowHow light o'er all doth from her presence flow,And when a quicker word in haste doth fall,To speak of her, as if strife was her all.What could she say, if she replied to thee,Told to the world her secret misery,Showed the sad wounds that thy neglect had wrought,Where but a look the healing balm had brought.
One, at this hour, lies on the bed of death,A neighbor lovely as the morning's breath.Slowly she dies,—and with prophetic eyeTracing the course of human destiny,I see a home she brightened, hence so lone,Its calm day darkened, and its music gone;
The young, the old with anxious cares opprest,Their hearts, like shadows feeling for their restOn the green sward, where flickering sunbeams glide,My tears can fall, and standing by thy side,I know a woman's place, a woman's worth,—I know the gift of God in her to earth.
Thou will not let thy wife become to thee,That which her nature claims that she should be.Thou hast a cold dead life from her apart,Thou art not moulded by her gentler heart,Else by her sweet, pure thoughts thou wert more trueMore wise, more bold each noble deed to do.
Of woman's weakness dost thou speak? Thou'lt findHer strength indeed, by this just bond of mind.You are the weak one, cannot grasp her might,Forever boasting that thy wrong is right.
Without her soul to thine, the page is dullOf all life's work,—and with this it is fullOf all illumined splendors, as of old,The precious writings were adorned with Gold.
Ah view that cell so dark!—the felon there,With glaring eye that speaks his vast despair.He once in princely splendor lived his day,Lord of the street, a monarch in his way.His costly revels gained an envied fame,Where shallow fops, and women like them came.Oh man! how couldst thou thus thy God defy?Could riches pay thee for thy long-told lie?
If thou hadst said thy secret to thy wife,Made known to her the secret guilty strife,Told of the awful chance, the business dice,The gambling sales, the shameful, well-named vice,Asked what to risk, asked what a man should do,Would that shame-darkened cell have been for you?
She would have said, in woman's faith so strong,"We may be poor,—we never will do wrong.Take all this splendor; let it fade away,But stand thou honest as the open day."Would she have been to thee a feeble stay?
We make the woman weak where she is weak;We school her feeble; feebleness we seek.We make believe that life is pompous pride,That she is blest, by gold when gratified,This my conclusion, as the world we scan,What's wrong in woman tells of wrong in man.
But where is Jones? While I have thus digressed,Why Jones, poor fellow, is by care oppressed.He draws his trail of briars round life's ring,And wonders he is caught by everything.Jones snaps at every woman, man, and child,Just as a turtle by hot coals made wild.
Jones had a daughter, and her name was Kate,As like her sire as pewter plate to plate.And they together almost vexed to death,The wife, the target of their arrowed breath.
Sometimes the patient creature's anger roseTheir petty wrongs, and malice to oppose.And tempers such as hers, men do not tryBy single deeds that cause some misery;Stirred at the last by injuries borne so long,Their anger speaks accumulated wrong.
Kate had her beauty, and her household skill,And in due time her Jack had found his Gill,He was a man as meek as man could be,And could not dream of woman's tyranny.He was a pleasant man to smile "good day,"And had the art to say what others say;Thought his old saws came from a welling-springIn his own mind—not knowing he did bringAll that so softly from his lips e'er fell,As vapid water from his neighbor's well—The poor dog never stole a good-sized bone,And so the world of curs let him alone.
Not to an infant could Kate gentle be,As to a creature, meek and kind as he.How could she tear the vine that round her grew,Ready to fall with every wind that blew.The wife made battle for him with his friends;And fighting them, she thus made good amendsFor all her patience with him. Thus with careShe spread her shield, and said, attack, who dare.Strange, how 'mid peace we make the show of war,And shout unto the battle from afar,And her defense at last such habit wroughtHad she assailed him, she herself had fought.
In time, ill-temper wrought upon her mind,And illness, too, its miseries combined.Oh! sad to read of intellect o'erthrown!Sometimes all blank. Sometimes one train aloneOf thought, declares that reason is denied.We hear of one who said, I must abideBehind the door, because I am a clock.And there he stood, and ticked. And one was shockedTo feel a rat within his stomach run.The doctor heard: the story being done,He wisely smiled, and said, "I soon can cure.You need not be a rat-trap long I'm sure.""Why how, O doctor, can you reach the rat?""'Tis easy: down your throat I'll send a cat."The man at such a pill must need rebel.And with good sense he quietly got well.
Kate had her fancies—said she soon would die,And wasting seemed to prove her prophecy."Poor Will," she said, "you soon my loss will mourn,The wife who shielded you from many a thorn;I'm glad the pigs are killed, the sweet-meats made,Our turnips gathered, and our butcher paid.I'm glad I sent away to Jericho,That lazy Bess, that tried my temper so.I'm glad I told my mind to Jane Agree,About that scandal that she said of me:That I was jealous, to my apron stringTied you—distrustful of my marriage ring.I'm glad I told her that it was a lie,And somewhat sorry, since it made her cry.
"And, Oh! poor Will—so helpless when alone,What wilt thou do, dear one, when I am gone?How would I love, a spirit round thy way,To move, and be thy blessing every day!To fan thy forehead, and to dry thy tears,To nerve thy soul, and banish all thy fears.All I can do for thee, thou patient one,So gentle, tender, loving, all is done.I feel so lonely, in thy loneliness.This is, in death, my very great distress.Some one will fill my place, ere long, I trow,Your clothes are whole—in perfect order now.Be sure you get a wife that is like me,In gentle temper, and sweet sympathy.For you, so long to gentleness allied,Could not a bristling woman, sure, abide."
Poor Will! At first his tears fell down like rainMost at the time when she inflicted pain,By her unkind surmise, that he would takeAnother wife—did she the world forsake.
"You are a wife," he said, "so fond, so true,I cannot have another—none but you.You made me what I am the people say;Another wife might make me; what I pray?An eight-day clock, they say, I am most like,Wound up by you, and by you taught to strike.Another wife might keep the time too late,Take out the wheels, and snatch away each weight:And I, neglected, come to a dead stop,Like some old time-piece in a lumber shop.But if you think, dear wife, that I must wed,When you, at last, are numbered with the dead,As I depend upon your good advice,Choose you the bride. Shall it be Susan Price?"
Never had Bill so great a blunder made;Never had demon so his cause betrayed.Changed in her view—a villain lost to shame—She scarced believed that he could bear his name.
She saw the future. Susan Price was there.With hazel eyes, and curls of Auburn hair.The rooms she swept would that vile Susan sweep?The cup-board key would that bad Susan keep?With those same pans would Susan cook their food,For that fool Bill, and for some foolish brood?Would Susan drink the wine that she had made?Would all those pickles be to her betrayed?"Shall that vain thing sit there,—a pretty pass!Neglecting work, to simper in that glass?Will she cut down that silk frock, good, though old,And puff it out with pride in every fold?And of all other insults, this the worst,—My beating heart is ready here to burst—She'll use my blue-edged china,—yes she will—Oh! I could throw it piece by piece at Bill.
"I see her, proud to occupy my chair,To pour out tea, to smile around her there,While my false friends will praise her half-baked cake,And Bill will chuckle o'er each piece they take.And while his grief is lettered o'er my grave,He'll laugh, and eat, and show himself a knave."
Hast thou on some huge cliff, with oaks around,Heard the full terror of the thunder sound?Hast thou at sea, all breathless heard the blastRolling vast waves on high whene'er it past?Then mayst thou form some thought of her dread irePoured on the man to burn his soul like fire.
But soon the burst of anger all was o'er,—And softened, she could speak of death once more."And Susan Price can marry whom she will,And,"—so she argued, "will not marry Bill."One day she said,—"It is revealed to meThat ere I die, a warning there shall be."Will looked, and saw her mind now wandered more,As thus she spake, than it had done before.
"Yes," she exclaimed, "before I leave this scene,Death will appear,—the warning intervene.Death will appear in this our quiet home—A chicken without feathers will he come."
Fame spreads the great, and fame will spread the small,Fame gives us tears,—for laughter it will call.Fame spreads this whim,—this foolish crazy fear,—The neighbors laughed, and told it far and near.
There dwelt close by, a restless heedless wight—Mischief to him was ever a delight.—He heard the story, and his scheme prepared,And what his brain had purposed, that he dared.
He from a rooster all his feathers tore,—Had he been learned in the Grecian loreHeard of the Cynic, old Diogenes,Who, lying in his tub, in dreamy ease,Said to the hard-brained conqueror of old time,With heedlessness to human wants sublime,When he inquired, "What shall for you be done?""All that I ask, hide not from me the sun."He might have thought of him; and Plato's scowl,When in the school he hurled the unfeathered fowl,And said, ere murmuring lips reproof began,"There, Plato, is, as you defined, a man."But of the Greeks our wight had not a thought.Under his arm the fowl, all plucked, was brought,And forced to enter into Katy's door:Who spied him wandering o'er her sanded floor.
She looked upon him, and began to weep.Bill sat not far off on a chair asleep.
"And so," she said, "Oh death! and thou art comeTo take my spirit far away from home."Then as inspired a sudden hope to trace,She waved the unfeathered monster from its place.Would drive far off from her the coming ill,—"Shoo shoo, thou death, now leave me, go to Bill."
'Twas overheard—and wide the story spread.It reached John Jones, and to his wife he said,In precious wrath,—"They slander thus our Kate;Some foe devised this in malicious hate;And you, perhaps, were one to make the lie."Thus deeply stung, she made a fierce reply.
"She did it, I am sure," replied the wife,"She did it, sure as I have breath and life.""No—Katy didn't," said the man in rage."Yes, Katy did," she said. And so they wageA war of words, like these upon my page.
The Indian Fairy spirit heard the din,And first to patience strove them both to win,Sent the cool breeze to fan the burning brow,Volcanic fires to die by flakes of snow.In war incessant, still the clamor rose,Still Katy did, and didn't, and fierce blows.
At last the spirit took their souls away,And in their cottage lay their lifeless clay;Their bodies changed—and insects they became—Green as the grass—but still their cry the same.
Hence in all trees, we hear in starry night,The contradiction, and the wordy fight.We hear John Jones, and his unhappy wife,And all their brood forever in a strife:And Katy did, and Katy didn't stillAre sounds incessant as a murmuring rill.
DWELLER ON EARTH.Thou dwellest here, beneath this dome,A Pilgrim, far from thine own home.Where is thine heart, and where thy land?Thou longest for some distant strand.We have thy love and gentle care,Thou bearest blessings every where.Yet day and night, and light and shadeShall with less labor one be made,Than thou in sympathy be oneWith us, who through our course will run,Laden with cares, with pleasures worn,Children of hope to sorrow born.Thou hast our speech, our garb, our toil,Well known, yet stranger on our soil.Some deeper hidden life is thine,As if we saw the tortuous vine'Mid veiling branches intertwine;Swinging in air its precious fruit,While the deep mould has hid its root;From view its highest honors lost,'Mid the oak leaves in murmurs tost,A secret work thy endless task,Thy endless care, of that we ask.
DWELLER ON EARTH.
Thou dwellest here, beneath this dome,A Pilgrim, far from thine own home.Where is thine heart, and where thy land?Thou longest for some distant strand.
We have thy love and gentle care,Thou bearest blessings every where.Yet day and night, and light and shadeShall with less labor one be made,
Than thou in sympathy be oneWith us, who through our course will run,Laden with cares, with pleasures worn,Children of hope to sorrow born.
Thou hast our speech, our garb, our toil,Well known, yet stranger on our soil.Some deeper hidden life is thine,As if we saw the tortuous vine
'Mid veiling branches intertwine;Swinging in air its precious fruit,While the deep mould has hid its root;From view its highest honors lost,
'Mid the oak leaves in murmurs tost,A secret work thy endless task,Thy endless care, of that we ask.
PILGRIM.I seek to form an Image here.
PILGRIM.
I seek to form an Image here.
DWELLER ON EARTH.Thou art a Sculptor! Yet our earDoth catch no sound of chisel stroke,No hammer clang—no marble broke.
DWELLER ON EARTH.
Thou art a Sculptor! Yet our earDoth catch no sound of chisel stroke,No hammer clang—no marble broke.
PILGRIM.The silence of EternityAround my work doth ever lie.When marbles into dust shall fall,And human art no fame befall,The sun no more its beams shall giveTo statues seeming half to live,Beauty no more on genius wait,Which copying seemeth to create;When heaven and earth shall pass away,When breaketh everlasting day,Then shall the Image that I form,Appear 'mid nature's dying storm.The Image that no human skillCould fashion, or Archangel's will;No angel mind the model giveOf that which shall forever live.At that great day it shall be known,The Image of the Eternal One.
PILGRIM.
The silence of EternityAround my work doth ever lie.When marbles into dust shall fall,And human art no fame befall,
The sun no more its beams shall giveTo statues seeming half to live,Beauty no more on genius wait,Which copying seemeth to create;
When heaven and earth shall pass away,When breaketh everlasting day,Then shall the Image that I form,Appear 'mid nature's dying storm.
The Image that no human skillCould fashion, or Archangel's will;No angel mind the model giveOf that which shall forever live.
At that great day it shall be known,The Image of the Eternal One.
The clouds that drift, are slowly drawnTo that glorious sun at dawn.Darkened mists, and now so bright,Resplendent in the morning light;In borrowed glory,—spreading flame,God's fiery pillar still they frame.So I,—in dark night once astrayThrough boundless grace have found my way,To thee,—the Sun of Righteousness,Whose wings are healing in distress.From thee I trust, the dawning gleamHath made me more than I can seem;Hath made me thine, in joy, in tears,Thy pardoned one,—one all whose fearsAre silenced in thy cross-wrung groan,Buried beneath thy tomb's vast stone,Which angels' hands alone can move.Earth has this pure work for their love.Oh let thy glory shine on me,Armed in thy purest panoply.My shield, the Lamb, the cross it bears,Let me not weep its stain with tears!The gathering waters fill each cloud;The mountain's burnished tops they shroud.They spread o'er valley, over plain,Rich with God's blessings in the rain;On good and evil both they fall,In the vast care of God for all.So Lord, thy servant thus prepare,To bear thy mercies everywhere.When in the grave mine ashes sleep,When o'er it, sad a friend may weep,Thou wilt not suffer it be said,—His life was scarce accreditedBy Him who sits upon the throne,—By Him who bore our sins alone,Who wills our holy walk on earth,As sons of God, of heavenly birth,Who will have none disciples hereUnless their cross with zeal they bear.Life without Christ! That is but death.Prayer without Christ!—but idle breath:And love for man, but vanitySave at the cross 'tis learnt by me.Oh help thy branch, thou heavenly Vine.Union with thee is life divine,And clustered fruits are ever mine,If from beneath alone we gaze,Thy providence a darkened maze.Rise on wings of faith and prayer,And then what love and wisdom there!So brightness of unbroken dayUpon those clouds doth heavenward layThough we can trace no single ray,Who look from earth. Yet angels seeThe glory as a silver sea.
The clouds that drift, are slowly drawnTo that glorious sun at dawn.Darkened mists, and now so bright,Resplendent in the morning light;In borrowed glory,—spreading flame,God's fiery pillar still they frame.
So I,—in dark night once astrayThrough boundless grace have found my way,To thee,—the Sun of Righteousness,Whose wings are healing in distress.
From thee I trust, the dawning gleamHath made me more than I can seem;Hath made me thine, in joy, in tears,Thy pardoned one,—one all whose fears
Are silenced in thy cross-wrung groan,Buried beneath thy tomb's vast stone,Which angels' hands alone can move.Earth has this pure work for their love.
Oh let thy glory shine on me,Armed in thy purest panoply.My shield, the Lamb, the cross it bears,Let me not weep its stain with tears!The gathering waters fill each cloud;The mountain's burnished tops they shroud.They spread o'er valley, over plain,Rich with God's blessings in the rain;On good and evil both they fall,In the vast care of God for all.
So Lord, thy servant thus prepare,To bear thy mercies everywhere.When in the grave mine ashes sleep,When o'er it, sad a friend may weep,
Thou wilt not suffer it be said,—His life was scarce accreditedBy Him who sits upon the throne,—By Him who bore our sins alone,Who wills our holy walk on earth,As sons of God, of heavenly birth,Who will have none disciples hereUnless their cross with zeal they bear.
Life without Christ! That is but death.Prayer without Christ!—but idle breath:And love for man, but vanitySave at the cross 'tis learnt by me.Oh help thy branch, thou heavenly Vine.Union with thee is life divine,And clustered fruits are ever mine,
If from beneath alone we gaze,Thy providence a darkened maze.Rise on wings of faith and prayer,And then what love and wisdom there!So brightness of unbroken dayUpon those clouds doth heavenward layThough we can trace no single ray,Who look from earth. Yet angels seeThe glory as a silver sea.
Dread hour! nearing, nearing fast.Yet I cannot wish thee past.Death! Oh! but a dream till nigh,With night cold from eternity.That cold night doth around me creepIn which immortals never sleep.The cloud its mighty shade doth fling,Like a mantle for a king,On the mountain's awful form,Scarred through battles with the storm.So thy darkness falls on me,Darkness, such as cannot be,But to those whose soul is life,To a nation in its strife,That its wrongs for ever crushed,The cries of slaves forever hushed,And every chain forever gone,Man tremble before God alone;That man's true right, so long betrayed,On truth and justice shall be laid;That Freedom's martyr's work begunIn blood, and fire, and hidden sun,Shall culminate in triumphs won;And the world's changing channels traceA course of hope for all our race.Oh! how they as the humblest die,Who part from kingly majestyTo stand before Him!—nothing thereBut as His image we may bear;The image by the humblest borne;The kings of the eternal morn.The lowliest man, most void of power,To stand the trial of that hour!To come from life in quiet shade,From humble duties well obeyed.Ah! if this be a solemn thing,What then for one in might a king!To meet the trial of that dayFrom gorgeous wrongs in false array,Where false praise gilds the every deed,Where few warn one that will not heed;The man whom Weird-like hands have shownThe weary pathway to the throne.Oh! thou gory-crowned headHaunting here my dying bed!Was it not necessity?Moulding deed that was to be!Oh! king so false—away—away—Leave me at least my dying day.Is there no refuge? Hated face!Come with the looks of thy cold race.Look thou as when thy soiled hand gaveThe Earl, thy vassal to the grave.Gaze thou on me in that worst prideAs kingly honor was defied.Look thus on me—but not as now,That patient sorrow on thy brow.I can but gaze. Forever nearThy dreaded form is my one fear.A boy, I sit by running stream,The humble life my daily dream:Some lowly good—some wrongs redrest,A noiseless life, its peaceful rest.As that stream calm my life shall be;As placid in its purity.The humble stone shall tell the taleWhen life began—when strength did fail.An humble race shall bear my nameBlest by a few not rich in fame.Oh! king, thine eye! It says, but thenThy hand had not the guilty stain.Hark! how the marriage-bells are ringing!Voices fill the air with singing.Waves of light are now the beatingOf my heart, and the repeatingSeems no weariness of pleasure,Only increase of its treasure.Ah! dear wife! thy look hath spedMany a sorrow. But this head!E'en at the hearth, and by thy sideThis kingly blood-stained form doth glide.The quiet house of God,—the prayerRising as incense in the air.I breathe the still and mighty power,I catch the glory of the hour.Am I not pure, and armed for strifeWith England for her better life?Thou gory head! my prophecy,In that loved church told not of thee.Look as if heaven changed thy face,Let pardon there at last have place:Before me, on this awful sea,Some gleam of heaven reflected be.
Dread hour! nearing, nearing fast.Yet I cannot wish thee past.Death! Oh! but a dream till nigh,With night cold from eternity.
That cold night doth around me creepIn which immortals never sleep.
The cloud its mighty shade doth fling,Like a mantle for a king,On the mountain's awful form,Scarred through battles with the storm.
So thy darkness falls on me,Darkness, such as cannot be,But to those whose soul is life,To a nation in its strife,That its wrongs for ever crushed,The cries of slaves forever hushed,And every chain forever gone,Man tremble before God alone;That man's true right, so long betrayed,On truth and justice shall be laid;That Freedom's martyr's work begunIn blood, and fire, and hidden sun,Shall culminate in triumphs won;And the world's changing channels traceA course of hope for all our race.
Oh! how they as the humblest die,Who part from kingly majestyTo stand before Him!—nothing thereBut as His image we may bear;The image by the humblest borne;The kings of the eternal morn.
The lowliest man, most void of power,To stand the trial of that hour!To come from life in quiet shade,From humble duties well obeyed.
Ah! if this be a solemn thing,What then for one in might a king!To meet the trial of that dayFrom gorgeous wrongs in false array,Where false praise gilds the every deed,Where few warn one that will not heed;The man whom Weird-like hands have shownThe weary pathway to the throne.
Oh! thou gory-crowned headHaunting here my dying bed!Was it not necessity?Moulding deed that was to be!Oh! king so false—away—away—Leave me at least my dying day.
Is there no refuge? Hated face!Come with the looks of thy cold race.Look thou as when thy soiled hand gaveThe Earl, thy vassal to the grave.Gaze thou on me in that worst prideAs kingly honor was defied.Look thus on me—but not as now,That patient sorrow on thy brow.
I can but gaze. Forever nearThy dreaded form is my one fear.
A boy, I sit by running stream,The humble life my daily dream:Some lowly good—some wrongs redrest,A noiseless life, its peaceful rest.As that stream calm my life shall be;As placid in its purity.The humble stone shall tell the taleWhen life began—when strength did fail.An humble race shall bear my nameBlest by a few not rich in fame.Oh! king, thine eye! It says, but thenThy hand had not the guilty stain.
Hark! how the marriage-bells are ringing!Voices fill the air with singing.Waves of light are now the beatingOf my heart, and the repeatingSeems no weariness of pleasure,Only increase of its treasure.Ah! dear wife! thy look hath spedMany a sorrow. But this head!E'en at the hearth, and by thy sideThis kingly blood-stained form doth glide.The quiet house of God,—the prayerRising as incense in the air.I breathe the still and mighty power,I catch the glory of the hour.Am I not pure, and armed for strifeWith England for her better life?Thou gory head! my prophecy,In that loved church told not of thee.
Look as if heaven changed thy face,Let pardon there at last have place:Before me, on this awful sea,Some gleam of heaven reflected be.
In Pearl-run valley, not far from the noise and crowded streets of our great Metropolis, the original forests, and a few unsightly rural dwellings, have given place to a large number of those pleasant homes, which citizens of wealth or of comfortable means, have erected for their summer abodes. Hence the hills around are dotted with costly mansions, and unpretending cottages.
It is a sight inspiring happiness to look on these dwellings in the spring. You have evidence that so many families, released from the city are rejoicing in the pure invigorating air, in the sunshine and shadows, in the rooms associated with so much ease and tranquility.
Can it be that any one can be found who is void of all sympathy with the natural world? All who seek these rural homes, at the established season, are supposed—if we are the correct exponents of common opinion,—to take wings from the city, for those cooland shady nests, under the influence of love for the country?
Of course, when the spring arrives, all who have led a fashionable career for the winter, have a sudden and marvellous restoration to their senses. Like those whom some friendly magician has freed from the enchantments of an evil genius, they are restored to a healthy judgment. They then perceive the folly of the life which they have led. The absurdity of denominating as society, crowded assemblies, where conversation bears the relation to interchange of thought, such as becomes intelligent creatures, which wilted and fallen leaves sustain to those of the beautiful and nutritious plant from which they have been torn,—where trifles and external polish are accepted in the place of the best qualities which can commend others to our esteem,—where friendships are formed, not links of human creatures with affectionate qualities to one another, but to fashion, whose representatives they are,—friendships to be dissolved, as easily as the melting of the Pyramids of frozen cream, all these facts become, as soon as the air is heated in spring, some of the most clear of all possible demonstrations. Then they long for a more reasonable life. All that true poets or wise moralists have taught of the rural home, asserts its power over the memory. All vulgar glare becomes utterly distasteful. Simplicity of life, amid anature that summons man to cast off artificial follies, has a powerful fascination. They have been poor city puppets too long. Let them now be true men and women, where all things are so true and real. Hence they hasten to the country.
Let us be thankful that any influences, even those of fashion, draw so many of our citizens from the towns to the country-places. Let us be thankful, that the great river of city-life,—hurrying on so madly, and tossing its stained waves crowned with bubbles that pain the eye, has its side eddies, and throws off great branches for far away shades, where the waters are at rest, and where innumerable small streams unite their efforts to purify that which has so long been so turbid.
Minds and hearts will touch one another in the rural scene. The limited number of associates will foster some more depths of mutual interest. The Sunday in the country, the rural church, the gathering of the congregation from green lanes, and winding roads, and not from streets sacred to pomp and vanity, to business, and to glaring sin, God so visible in all his glorious works, perhaps a Pastor trained by his labors among plain people during the winter, to speak the Word with greater simplicity, these are not influences which exist only in appearance. Men ask why make life such a vain and foolish dream? I trust the day will come, when many families of cultivated minds, willreside all the year in our country-places. From such social circles influences must go forth, to transform no inconsiderable portion of what is called the society of the town. The necessary association of the two classes, will prove of inestimable benefit to each.
If you passed along Pearl-run valley, and left the more cultivated region, which we have described, the scene changed, and you found yourself in wild places.
There were steep cliffs, with endless masses of broken stone beneath, as if a Giant McAdam, ages ago had been meditating the formation of a great road, like that we pigmies build on a smaller scale, in these degenerate days. And there were mountains where you could scarcely detect any proof that the hand of man had disturbed the primeval forests.
These you could ascend by winding paths, and attain elevations, where half the world seemed to lie beneath your feet. Well do I remember such an ascent with a sister, who had been a few hours before, with me in the crowded city.
Our time was limited. What we could see of the glorious scenes around us, must be accomplished late in the afternoon. The sun had gone down while we were climbing up the side of the mountain. We had never been in such deep shadows. For the first time in our lives, we knew what was the awful grandeur ofsolitude. Our existence seemed more sublime for the solemn awe.
As we hastened on to reach a vast rock, from whose summit we were assured, the view was one of surpassing beauty, we met some children, wild in appearance, barefooted, seeking cattle that found pasturage in an open space, scarcely perceptible to the eye, that, at a distance, could take in the whole aspect of the mountain. But one of these little creatures in her kindness added, with surpassing power the effect of the wilderness.
"Take care," she said, "you may be lost." We, in the vast mountain where we could be lost!
What a sound for ears so lately filled with the noise of the crowded city! Oh child! what human study could have taught the greatest genius in our land, to speak and add to the solemn power, of that most memorable time, of two awed and enthusiastic wanderers!
How strange it is that the intense excitement of the soul, among such scenes, is such a healthy peace—never the over-wrought exertion of the mind! The intense activity within us does notsubsideinto tranquility. It is elevated to a peace. If you would have true enjoyment there, God,—the Infinite Father,—our immortality—the world our Redeemer has promised us, must be placed side by side with every impression.
Our forests are strangely primeval solitudes, when you reflect what tribes of Indians have resided in them. That wild people have left there no traces of their existence. You often seem to be one of a few, who alone have ever disturbed the Sabbath rest of very holy places.
Why did not the aboriginal inhabitants leave us in letters carved on the rocks, traditions, which our learned and ingenious men could interpret? We know not what we have lost in our deprivation of wonderful mysteries. We wander by great oaks, and stony places unconscious of powers that linger there. The lore of demons and of spirits that plagued or comforted the Indians is lost to us.
Yet, let us not be unjust as though the civilization which has superseded the rude Indian life, had given us no romantic substitutes for these powers which agitated the barbarian. And especially let us be just to the genius of those who came over from the wilds of Germany, as well as those who had their intellect brightened by the illumination of Plymouth Rock. The imaginations of the two, were, indeed, very diverse in their nature. They differed as the stiff gowns and ample pantaloons, all so quaintly made, from the paint and skins which made the array of the savage.
I am by no means insensible to the poetry which speaks to us in the horse-shoe, nailed to the door tokeep away witches, whose fears were the more suggestive, because no one ever described the full power of the mischief they were able to accomplish; and to the mysterious art medicinal, rivalling in wisdom many of the celebrated systems of the schools, whereby the muttering of strange words could cure a fever and ague,—and where a nail that had pierced the foot was safely wrapped up and laid up the chimney as a preventive of lock-jaw. The world is not so prosaic as some would imagine.
I am happy, however, in being able to rescue one important tradition from oblivion.
In one of the mountains of which I have spoken, which has been courteous enough to retain its place, and ancient habits, notwithstanding the airs and encroachments of the adjoining settlements, was a spot—well known to some favored few of the Indian tribes. It was a mysterious place.
At the side of a large rock was a small cell. It was hollowed on its stony side almost as if it had been a work of art. A little ledge that stood across it, afforded a rude seat.
Tradition goes back to the wife of an Indian king, centuries ago, who first acquired a knowledge of the virtues of the place, and availed herself of the acquisition in a very happy manner.
It is a comfort and a sorrow to know how humannature has been the same in all ages. Wives and husbands have had many virtues and failings in common, whether they dwelt in primeval days in the Alleghany Mountains or in Broadway in New York.
The Indian Queen had, it appears, great difficulty in preserving a salutary discipline in the wigwam. Her lord—yet not her master—she had never assented to that peculiar precedence in the marriage contract, had been inclined to low company—that is to company that might be good enough in itself, but was entirely too low for the royalty of the realm. These fellows, white traders, who would prowl about to waylay his Majesty, keeping respectfully out of sight of the Queen, were by no means school-masters abroad for the benefit of the red man.
Even the queen, for some reason which it is difficult to conjecture, did not object to the introduction of large quantities of fire-water into the palace. She always took charge of it, however, and for that reason, no doubt, felt that it would be used in a judicious manner.
But at last the king was unwise enough to set up as a reformer; not under the instigation of the white men,—but indirectly, through their influence. There is nothing new under the sun. We now abound in men and women, who are in advance of their age. A man of mere genius, in these days, is a helpless creature;sure to be laid up like old lumber in a house, in some out of the way place of deposit. But if he should only have a moderate disorder of the brain,—have circumstances to occur, which would produce the effect which according to Bishop Warburton was the result of the earthquake in his day, "widening the crack in old Will Winston's noddle,"—then particularly if he can be mad after a method, he is sure to form a society, and to be well fed and famous.
There was also in our kingly Indian reformer, one disagreeable quality,—by no means unknown in an enlightened philosophical head of associations. In all his projects, he was himself a central object. He differed from some of our reformers in one respect. He was not crazy for notoriety.
Among other things which he learnt from these good-for-nothing white scamps, who were in such disfavor with the queen, fellows who had traveled all around the world to little purpose,—sifting with wonderful skill all useless and bad knowledge from the good, and casting away the good as chaff, was a piece of information concerning the social relations of some of his royal cousins in distant lands.
They gave him a glowing picture of a great chief who had a great host of wives. Our king had informed one of his friends, that he thought that the introduction of this custom on our American strand,would be a most desirable improvement. And one day, under the influence of fire-water, which in opening his heart, proved how good a fellow he was, he suggested the theory to the queen.
It is said, that the wary queen, in her distress and perplexity at this theory, sought for one of the wonder-workers of her tribe, and learnt from him the secret powers of this cell. There she placed her royal spouse, who slept until he was sober enough to dream a wise dream. The consequence was his reformation. After this, it is also said, that the queen attained such domestic power, that a warrior who slept under their roof one night, was heard to inquire of one of his tribe, whether in case the people should go out on the war-path, the woman would be the great warrior.
It is also reported, that the spirit of the Indian queen often haunts the cell, and has some secret power to allure chosen way-farers there to rest, and have the dreams which belong to the place. The great peculiarity of the mysterious power here exerted on the dreamer, was this,—that he was compelled in his dreams, to follow a course contrary to his habits and nature, and to learn some of the results of a new course of conduct.
Over the cell were jutting rocks, which threw down as the sun was over them, strange shadows, making the most mysterious letters. Curious wild vines, withgrotesque leaves, grew above it, having a fragrance like that of poppies, but of greater intensity. Some fir trees near, blended their murmurs with the hum of the wild-bees, and with a rill whose waters passed over a rock, covered with green weeds, and fell into a small dead pool, whose issues crept silently away amid innumerable roots. Opposite, on a mountain, was a circle composed of various objects, which, as you gazed seemed to move round with ever increasing rapidity, and to exercise a mesmeric power in causing tranquility, and a state of repose in which you were prepared for a control, extraneous to your own mind. The sides of the cell receded slightly inwards, in gentle curves, in such a way that you were tempted to recline, and lean your head for rest on the moss-covered hollows of the rock.
One of the inhabitants of our valley, whose name was Eugene Cranmer, had left the hill-side where he had a luxurious mansion, and had wandered into the wild region, that contained this mysterious cell.
He was well pleased to see the general air of comfort, as he strolled along; for it disquieted him to look on men who were very poor, inasmuch as he had a vague sense that he was called on for some exertion in their behalf. The poor seemed to him to mar the general aspect of the world, as some unfortunate error in the taste of an artist, will mar the general beautyof his picture. He wished all to be at peace, and have enough to eat and put on; for the world, in such a state, seemed to be a suitable place for a man who had attained great prosperity; and who had the undefined impression that his life would be extended a few hundred years, before he would be under the unhappy alternative of passing to a good place in a better country. He provided well in his house for himself; and of course he felt that such a care was all that was essential for the comfort of his family.
His mother in his early life had indulged him to excess, and acted on the principle, that all who came near him, would regard it as the most reasonable thing in the world, that it must be their study and highest happiness to gratify his inclination.
Our hero,—for it is pleasant thus to designate him, and to recognize the superiority of such a man,—had climbed the ascent of the mountain, and reached the place of the mystic cell. A peculiar agitation of the vines above it, and sounds as of a bird complaining of an intruder near its rest, drew his attention to the recess. He determined to seat himself and rest awhile, before he returned to his home. No sooner had this been attempted, than he wondered at the luxury of the sheltered nook. He had an undefined feeling, that after all, the natural world, providing on such an occasion such a place for his rest, was perhaps, not soinattentive to human wants, as he had frequently imagined. The walk he had enjoyed, the exhilarating air of the mountain, and the composing influences around him, had thrown him into a state of more than common good humor. He had fewer thoughts about himself; some dreamy recollections, and he went rapidly to sleep.
Then he dreamed dreams. First he saw a strange reptile crawl along the paths by which he had ascended to the cell. An odious object, deformed, it looked as if it bore deadly venom in its fang. It was also obvious that the creature had faculties to be developed. At one moment it seemed ready to put forth its strength to attain the new gifts,—to call into exercise powers that slumbered in its frame.
Its indolence, and anger at the stirring of inward strife by nature, caused it to assume a torpid indifference.
Suddenly a stream of quivering light fell upon it. A bright dove descended, and the radiance increased as it drew nigh, with silver wings; and part of the lustre of its plumage was as of wrought gold. It hovered over the creature, whom all its resplendent rays could not render even less repulsive.
Then came a strange transformation. On a sudden all that repelled the eye was gone. The creatureglorified, assumed a place amid the objects of beauty that adorn the world.
And what was a cause of surprise, he who saw all in the vision, and witnessed the transformation, had now no other sentiment toward the transformed and glorious, but love. No association existed in his mind, to recall, with any disgust, what it once had been. His thoughts ever rested on the dove and its pure rays, on the indescribable beauty of the creature as he now beheld it, new-created in excellence. The deepest darkness of oblivion, spreading as far as the east is from the west, interposed between what it had been, and was now, could not have blotted out the disgust of the former unsightly appearance more thoroughly from his impressions. He could gladly have placed it in his bosom. Its beauty, he felt sure, would be perpetual memories, each ever being a new joy like a star rushing on into its place of brightness in the evening, gladdening all on which its beams can rest.
Then there came to him a voice which said, Thou too must be changed from evil to a glorious state. At first he bitterly opposed the suggestion. Change! What then would life be to him? Thoughts would be his, and views, and desires forever, whose very shadow touched him, to cause pain, and to assure him of their contrariety to his nature. He who had made slaves of all, to be the loving servant of all!
Then the influence that abode in the mystic cell began to exert its power over him. It was as if a fever had passed away, and a sweet quiet, as of an infant going to its rest had pervaded his frame. Resistance to the good desires passed from him. He began to wish for a glorious transformation.
And now the dream was changed. It was late at night. He drew near his home. The lumbering stage, full of drowsy passengers, had left him at his gate.
He was not compelled to linger long upon his porch. The door was quickly opened by one, whose form glided swiftly along through the hall, summoned by the sounds of the stage. It was his pale and weary wife, a gentle, uncomplaining woman, bearing all his oppressions as void of resistance, and as submissively as the stem, the overgrown bulb, the work of insects deforming the bud or flower, whose weight bends as if it would break it. He entered the dwelling and saluted her, as if her watching was the least service she could render.
And then, though he perceived that she was pale and faint, he imposed on her tasks for his present comfort. The servants were at rest, and she must arrange for his evening meal, and go from room to room to procure the least trifle he might desire.
And again there came over him the spell of the Indian dream-seat.
Just as he was about to pour upon his serving wife the vials of his wrath, because she had misunderstood some one of his multitude of directions, there suddenly was exerted over him a power which gave all his thoughts a bias, and ruled his words and manner as the wind sways the frail reed.
He began to speak to her words of tender commiseration. He insisted that she was in need of his assiduous aid for her present comfort. For her the wine and viands must be procured. She never again should keep these watches for his sake—watches after midnight. Nay, more; with a torrent of glowing words, he promised that all his future conduct should undergo a perfect transformation.
In his struggle, our hero acquired an almost preturnatural quickening of the memory. All thought, however, ran in one single course—in the demonstration of his selfishness. He uttered confessions of his deep and sincere repentance. He enumerated a long series of petty annoyances of which he had been guilty towards his wife, and which had made up the sum of much misery. One confession of a wrong deed revived the remembrance of another. If the chain seemed at an end, as link after link was drawn into light, there was no such termination.
He had no time to observe the effect of this his sorrow and confession.
His internal wrath at this departure from his ordinary habits, from all the course which he, as a reasonable being could pursue, from all the rules he had ever prescribed for his family,—from all that could make the time to come consistent with the comfortable care he had taken of himself in the past, caused such an agitation, that he thought for a moment he must die. His golden age in the past to be supplanted with this coming age of iron! Would he die? A great earthquake had crowded all its might into a mole-hill. It was as if a storm-cloud was just on the eve of being rent asunder, to tear the hills below with its awful bolts, and some angelic messenger was sent to give it the aspect of a quiet summer-cloud, and cause it to send down a gentle rain on all the plants.
He knew well from experience the sense of suffocation. His throat had seemed incapable of allowing a breath to pass to the lungs. But now he had, as it were, a sense of suffocation in every limb. His whole frame had sensations as if pressed to its utmost tension by some expanding power, as by some great hydraulic press.
What was to be the result? Was he to undergo some external transformation like the reptile which he had seen in the plain?
To his horror, he began, in his rhapsody of the dream to recall a huge frog, which he had watched as a boy—swelling—swelling—and about to burst through its old skin, and come out in the sunshine in a new and fashionable coat and a pair of elastic pantaloons, with water-proof boots to match. Then his imagination recalled a snake which he had seen when he sat once by the brook with a fishing-rod in his hand, the hook in the sluggish stream, and the fish, no one could tell where. Thus was it passing through a similar process with the frog—preparing to present itself in the court of the queenly season, making his new toilette as if he had been fattening off the spoils of office, and had ordered his new garb from the tailor without regard to cost.
In his heart there came again a tenderness for his wife and children. And with that deep emotion came peace—for suddenly a golden cup was at his lips, and cooling water, such as he had never tasted. An angel's hand—oh how like the hand of his wife in its gentle touch—was laid upon his head, and all its throbbing misery was gone. The same Being waved his wings, and a cool air, with waves murmuring in some music from a far off, blessed space, and with fragrance that lulled the disturbed senses to repose, passed over him,—and he felt that all his fever and distress had departed from him.
Then he appeared to be surrounded by his wife and children, who were wrapped in a deep sleep. He gazed on them, meditating offices of love in time to come. One and another, in dreams, uttered his name with unspeakable tenderness. His tears fell freely. The great night around him—that used to seem so unsympathizing—and to throw him off far from all its glory, as a poor worthless atom, now entered into accordance with the new found life within. The gleaming stars said to him, we take your purpose into one great mission of reflecting light. All spoke of hope. He was used to the feeling of loneliness and painful humiliation, when in the darkness under the great unchanging canopy. Now was he lowly; but he felt that man was great, as one who bore the relation of a spirit to the Maker of all things. He had never thought, that as great peace dwelt among all the human family, as now pervaded his own heart.
Again the dream was changed. He was in the city. He was seated in the old dusty counting-room. He was the former selfish man. The men in the place, were to him a sea of a multitude of living waves. All that he had to do was to count all created for him, and he for himself; and in that sea he was to seek to gain the pearls which he coveted. As men passed by, he had no blessing in his heart for those tried in life, and to meet death, or be tried still more. That Godcared for them was no thought that made an impress on his nature.
As he sat before his table covered with his papers, witnesses of his gains, there was a sound of approaching feet. Then men entered and bore along with them a mummy,—the dead form in its manifold wrappings, as the mourners had left it in the days when Abraham dwelt in the land of promise.
They placed the form on which it was borne in the centre of the room, and then with grave deliberation proceeded to unroll its many integuments.
In a short time they had spread out all the folds of the cloth, and there lay the form which it was difficult to imagine had once been a living man—a being of thoughts, emotions, hope, with ties to life, such as are ours at the present day.
Our hero looked upon the extended covering of the dead. One of those men, of a far distant clime and age, who had belonged to the silent procession that thus presented the mortal remains to the eye, drew from the folds of his dress a stone of exquisite beauty.
He held it before the cloth, and rays of an unearthly light fell upon it, emitted from that precious gem. In a moment, that which had been so dark, became a piece of exquisite tapestry. On it were a series of representations, an endless variety of hieroglyphics.
As the rich merchant gazed on these, he read a history of a life, that strangely condemned his own.
And then the Egyptian Priest came forth from the midst of his associates.
He held in his hand an immense concave mirror in a frame of gold. Taking his position between the window and the dead form, he first gazed upon the sky. A cloud had obscured the sun.
As soon as it had been swept away, and the noon-day beams streamed forth, he held up the mirror, and concentrating the rays of light, threw all the blinding radiance on the dead form.
In a little while it began, under the power of that wonderful glory, to assume the appearance of a living man. Breath came. It moved. It rose. The one thus revived from the power of death gazed on the cloth, and traced out for himself a plan of a beneficent life. He was to live to do good. Tears were to be dried, the hungry to be fed, the heart was to have its perpetual glow of good will, to speak words of blessing, and of peace, of hope to all.
As our rich man gazed on all this scene,—mysterious hands seemed to be unwinding countless wrappings from the soul within, dead to the Creator, dead to the love of man.
A light was poured upon him. A new life was given him. He was preparing to unlock his treasures,to share his possessions with the poor. The home of sorrow became a place of attraction. He was to seek all means of lessening the sin and misery of the human family.
Thus far had his discipline proceeded. The dreams had given activity to the mind. They had bent the spirit of the man in glad submission to a yoke of obedience; and in this submission to all that was pure, he found how the great service was perfect freedom. Holy truths, which had never been great realities, but certainties that were among his deepest convictions, many of them like seeds still capable of life, but floating on the sea in masses of ice, perhaps to be dropped on some island forming in the deep, and there to germinate, now began to be living truth, and to struggle with the soul that it might live. He bowed before the august presence,—now that the great veil that had concealed the kingly visitants was torn away. Now they were not like the magnetic power, affecting dubiously, and without a steady control, the needle of the seaman as he drew near to the coast. They had become the all-pervading power in the needle itself, affecting each particle, and turning all in attraction towards the one star, that is before every bark freighted with the precious trusts, which he now felt to be so grand a responsibility. Are not these sealed with a seal that no enemy can cause to be forged or broken?
A slight change in his dream, and the temptations began to reappear, crowding as the gay tares wind among the eddying wheat heads, and are tossed by the wind and arrest the eye. There was a sense of slight fear and doubt.
Then was he borne onward, and placed on the green sward beneath great overhanging rocks. Their awful majesty was tempered by the endless vines, laden with fruits and flowers that crept along their sides, and waved, as crowns upon their summits.
A lake spread its waters before him. As he looked far off upon its unruffled surface, he saw clouds, now dark, now radiant, floating rapidly in the sky. The wind that impelled them came in great gushes of its power, as their changing shapes, and rapid motion gave full evidence. And when the winds thus swept on, they gave not the slightest ripple to the great blue expanse of the waters. Yet they were no dead sea, but pure and living, from streams on innumerable fertile hill-sides, whose threads of fountain-issues glittered in the sun.
And the great shadows that fell from these floating masses in the air, did not reach to the surface of the lake. They wasted themselves between the clouds and the atmosphere of tranquil light, that rested on the placid, sky-like depths of the blue expanse.
Even at his very feet, these waters seemed in depthocean-like. His eye was never weary as he gazed into their abyss, and the sight never appeared to have looked down into them, and to have found the limit of its power to penetrate their immeasurable profundity.
Great peace again took possession of his mind! Then he felt the mysterious hand upon him, and he was lifted up from the borders of this lake, for other scenes. He could not but feel regret. He was however convinced, that any new prospect opened before him, would be one that he might earnestly desire to look upon.
The motion of the wings of the angel, as he transported him through the air, was as silent as the calm of the great lake.
They entered into a cave, so vast, that its roofs and sides were at such distance from them, that no object could be distinguished in the evening twilight. But soon he saw before him a high archway, lofty as the summit of the highest mountain, by which they were to emerge into the light. They passed it, and found that it opened into a deep valley.
A plain was here the prospect, and near to him the side of a precipitous hill. It had great sepulchral inscriptions on the surface of the rocks. There was a slight earthquake. Its power caused the sides of thehill to tremble, and revealed the bones of men buried in the sands and crevices.
He proceeded—and soon he saw grave-stones on the plain. Drawing near, he attempted to read the names inscribed upon them. Soon he discovered that they recorded those of his wife and children. Foes, as he imagined, as his eyes rested on objects around, moving to and fro, lurked in the shadows.
And now his sorrow assumed a form, different from all the former remorse of his dream. A vague idea that all was a dream came to his relief. Tears fell, bitter regret for the past continued, but he had a joyous and undefined conviction, that his family were not beyond the reach of his awakened love.
A gentle hand was then laid upon his eyelids. It pointed to the mountain near—on whose summit an eternal light rested. Such light, he thought, must have been seen on the mount of the transfiguration.
He discovered that he had the power to look into the depths of the great mountain. As his eye penetrated those great hidden ways, he found that all was revealed there, as if the earth and rocks were only air more dense than that which he breathed.