Heretofore, I have spoken of the blind hearts of others--of Mr.

Clifford and his wilful wife--I have yet said little to show the

blindness of my own. This task is now before me, and, with whatever

reluctance, the exhibition shall resolutely be made. I have

described a couple newly wed--eminently happy--blessed with tolerable

independence--resources from without and within--dwelling in the

smiles of Heaven, and not uncheered by the friendly countenance of

man. I am to display the cloud, which hangs small at first, a mere

speck, but which is to grow to a gloomy tempest that is to swallow

up the loveliness of the sky, and blacken with gloom and sorrow

the fairest aspects of the earth. I am to show the worm in the

bud which is to bring blight--the serpent in the garden which is

to spoil the Eden. Wo, beyond all other woes, that this serpent

should be engendered in one's own heart, producing its blindness,

and finally working its bane! Yet, so it is! The story is a painful

one to tell; the task is one of self-humiliation. But the truth

may inform others--may warn, may strengthen, may save--before their

hearts shall be utterly given up to that blindness which must end

in utter desperation and irretrievable overthrow.

If the reader has not been utterly unmindful of certain moral

suggestions which have been thrown out passingly in my previous

narrative, he will have seen that, constitutionally, I am of an

ardent, impetuous temper--an active mind, ready, earnest, impatient

of control--seeking the difficult for its own sake, and delighting

in the conquest which is unexpected by others.

Such a nature is usually frank and generous. It believes in the

affections--it depends upon them. It freely gives its own, but

challenges the equally free and spontaneous gift of yours in return.

It has little faith in the things which fill the hearts of the mere

worldlings. Worldly honors may delight it, but not worldly toys. It

has no veneration for gewgaws. The shows of furniture and of dress

it despises. The gorgeous equipage is an encumbrance to it; the

imposing jewel it would not wear, lest it might subtract something

from that homage which it prefers should be paid to the wearer.

It is all selfish--thoroughly selfish--but not after the world's

fashion of selfishness. It hoards nothing, and gives quite as much

as it asks. What does it ask? What? It asks for love--devoted

attachment; the homage of the loved one and the friends; the

implicit confidence of all around it! Ah! can anything be more

exacting? Cruelly exacting, if it be not worthy of that it asks!

Imagine such a nature, denied from the beginning! The parents of

its youth are gone!--the brother and the sister--the father and the

friend! It is destitute, utterly, of these! It is also destitute

of those resources of fortune which are supposed to be sufficient

to command them. It is thrown upon the protection, the charge of

strangers. Not strangers--no! From strangers, perhaps, but little

could be expected. It is thrown upon the care of relatives--a

father's brother! Could the tie be nearer? Not well! But it had

been better if strangers had been its guardians. Then it might

have learned to endure more patiently. At least, it would have felt

less keenly the pangs inflicted by neglect, contumely, injustice.

In this situation it grows up, like some sapling torn from its parent

forest, its branches hacked off, its limbs lacerated! It grows up

in a stranger soil. The sharp winds assail it from every quarter.

But still it lives--it grows. It grows wildly, rudely, ungracefully;

but it is strong and tough, in consequence of its exposure and its

trials. Its vitality increases with every collision which shakes

and rends it; until, in the pathetic language of relatives unhappily

burdened with such encumbrances, "it seems impossible to kill it!"




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024