THE WEST SHORE.
10
patted him fondly once more, but now only by the light
of the dying embers.
It is very little pleasure one tnkes in fondling brute
favorites; but it is a pleasure that whou it passes leaves
no void It is only a little alleviating redundance in your
solitary heart-life, which, if lost, another can be supplied.
But if your henrt not solitary, not quieting its humors
with mere love of chnse or dog, not repressing year after
year its earnest yearnings after something better and
more spiritual has fairly linked itself by bonds Btrong
as life to another heart, is the casting off easy, then?
Is it then only a little heart-redundancy cut off, which
the next bright sunset will fill up?
And my fancy, as it had painted doubt under the
smoke, and cheer under Avarmth of the blaze, so now it
began, under the faint light of the smoldering omiiers, to
picture heart-desolntion.
What kind, congratulatory letters, hosts of them,
coming from old and half-forgotten friends, now that your
happiness is a year or two years old!
"Beautiful."
Aye, to be sure beautiful!
"Rich."
Pho, the dawdler! how little he knowB of heart
treasure who Bpeaks of wealth to a man who loves his
wife as a wife only Bhould be loved!
" Young."
Young indeed; guileless as infancy; charming as
the morning.
Ah, these letters beor a sting; they bring to mind, with
new and newer freshness, if it be ixssible, the vulue of
that which you tremble lest you lose.
How anxiously you watch that step, if it lose not its
buoyancy; how you study the color on that cheek, if it
grow not fainter; how you tremble at the lustre in those
eyes, if it be not the lustre of Death; how you totter
under the weight of that muslin sleeve-a phantom
weight! How you fear to do it, and yet prerm forward, to
note if that breathing be quickened, as you ascend the
home heights, to look off on sunset lighting the plain.
Is your sleep quiet Bleep after that she has whisered
to you her fears, and in the same breath soft as a sigh,
sharp as an arrow bid you bear it bravely?
Perhaps the embers were now glowing fresher, a lit
tle kindling, before the ashes she triumphs over disease.
But Poverty, the world's almoner, has come to you
with ready, spare hand
Alone, with your dog living on bones, and you on
hope kindling each morning, dying slowly each night
this could be borne. Philosophy would bring home its
stores to the lone man. Money is not in his hand, but
Knowledge is in his brain! and from that brain he draws
out faster, as he draws slower from his pocket He re
' memlers; and on remembrance he can live for days and
weeks. The garret, if a garret covers him, is rich in
fancies. The rain, if it ielts, pelts only him used to rain
joltings. And his dog crouches not in dread, but in com
panionship. His crust he divides with him and laughs.
He crowns himself with gloriouH memories of Cervantes,
though he begs; if he nights it under the Btnrs, he dreams
heaven-sent dreams of the prisoned and homeless Galileo.
He hums old sonnets and snatches of poor Jonsnn's
plays. He chants Dryden's txlos and dwells on "Otway'B
rhyme. He reasons with Bolinglrroke or Diogenes, as the
humor takes him, and laughs at the world, for the world,
thank Heaven, has loft him alone!
Keep your money, old misers, and your palaces, old
princes the world is mine!
1 (Mire not, Fortune, what you me deny.
You oiinnot rub 1110 of frw nnlurv'n Kmc,
You cannot nlnit the window of (Jib nicy,
Through which Aunirn how her lirinhlvninn fn;
You onnnot Imr my i'ontimt f ii't lit I nut)
Tlia wuotU anil lnwim, hy living ! renin", at rm
Lot health my nrvi anil flnor tilinn brill',
Anil 1 Ihnir toy Ui the ureal children lenvtti
Of Fancy, Hwwon, Virtue, nnuulit mill in herenve!
But if not alone?
If nhe is clinging to you for support, for consolation,
for homo, for life; she, reared in luxury perhaps, is faiut
for bread?
Then the iron enters tho soul; then the nights darken
under any skylight Then the days grow long, even in
the solstice of winter.
She may not complain; what then?
Will your heart grow strong, if the strength of her love
can dam up the fountains of tears and the tied tongue not
tell of bereavement? Will it solace you to find her part
ing the oor treasure of food you have stolen for her with
begging, foodloss children?
But this ill, strong hands and Heaven's help will put
down. Wealth again; ilowers again; patrimonial acres
agaiu; brightness again. But your little Bossy, your
favorite child, is pining.
Would to God! you say in agony, that wealth could
bring fullness again into that blanched cheek or round
those little thin lips once more; but it cannot Thinner
and thinner they grow; plaintive and more plaintive her
sweet voice.
"Dear Bessy" and your tones tremble; you feel that
she is on the edge of the grave? Can you pluck her back?
Can endearments stay her? Business is heavy away from
the loved child; home you go, to foudlo while yut time is
left; but ihi time you aro too late. Kite is gone. Klie
cannot hear you; sho cannot thank yon for the violets you
put within her stiff white hand
And then -the grassy mound -tho cold shadow of the
headstone!
The wind, growing with the night, is rattling at the
window panes and whistles dismally. I wiM a tear and,
in the interval of my Reverie, thank God that I am no
such mourner.
But gayety, snail-footed, crecjm back to the household
All is bright again "
tit rtoM tml't sot awmUir
Than tin dfllcloo breath marrUo mula forth. .
Her lip is rich and full; her cheek delicate as a flower.
Her frailty doubles your love.
And the little one she clasjw frail too too frail; the
boy you had set your hojx'8 and heart on. Yon have
watched him growing, ever prettier, ever winning more