IT was a golden sunset, which was fondly gazed upon by an old man onwhose broad brow the history of seventy winters had been written. Hesat in the wide porch of a large old-fashioned house: his look wascalm and clear, though years had quelled the fire of his eagleglance; his silver hair was borne mildly back, by the south wind ofAugust, and a smile of sweetness played over his features, breathingthe music of contentment. His heart was still fresh, and his mindopen to receive an impress of the loveliness of earth. The dew oflove for his fellow-creatures fell upon his aged soul, and pureadoration went up to the Giver of every good from its altar. Helifted his gaze to the cerulean blue above him, and dwelt upon hisfuture, with a glow of hope upon his heart--then he turned to thepast, and his beaming expression gradually mellowed intopensiveness: in thought, he travelled through the long vista ofyears which he had left behind him, and his mental exclamation was,
"There has not been a year of my life since manhood, that I mightnot have lived to a better purpose. I might have been more usefuland devoted to my race. I might more fully have sacrificed the idolself, which so often I have knelt to, in worship more heartfelt thanI offered the Divinity. Yet have I laboured to become pure in thysight, oh, my God! build thy kingdom in my breast!"
A tear trembled in the aged suppliant's eye, and the calm of holyhumility stole over him; the gentle look was again upon hiscountenance, when a young man of about twenty years, swung open thegate leading to the house, and, approaching, saluted the old manwith a cordial grasp of the hand; flinging his cap carelessly down,he took a seat in a rustic chair, and exclaimed with a smile ofmingled affection and reverence, which broke over his thoughtfulfeatures, making him extremely handsome,
"Well, grandfather, I believe you complete seventy years to-day!"
"Yes, my son, and I have been looking back upon them. I do notusually dwell upon the past with repining, yet I see much that mighthave been better. My years have not always been improved."
The young man listened respectfully; presently he asked, with suddeninterest, "Pray tell me, if there ever was a whole year of yourlife, so perfectly happy that you would wish to live it all overagain?"
"I have been perfectly happy at brief intervals," was the reply,"yet there is not a year of my long life, that I would choose tohave return. I have been surrounded by many warm friends now gone totheir homes in the spirit-world,--I have loved, and have been loved,and the recollection yet thrills me; still I thank God that I am notto live over those years upon earth. I have struggled much for truthand goodness, and there has not been one struggle which I wouldrenew, though each has been followed by a deep satisfaction."
"To me, your life appears to have been dreary, grandfather," repliedhis companion. "I ask for happiness!" After a pause, he added withimpetuosity, "If I am not to meet with the ardent happiness I dreamof, and desire, I do not care to live. What is the life whichthousands lead, worth? Nothing! I cannot sail monotonously down thestream--the more I think, and thought devours me, the morediscontented do I become with everything I see. Why is anoverpowering desire for happiness planted within the human breast,if it is so very rarely to be gratified? My childhood was sometimesgay, but as often, it was clouded by disappointments which are greatto children. I have never seen even the moment, since I have beenold enough to reflect, when I could say that I was as happy as I wascapable of being. I have even felt the consciousness that my soul'sdepths were not filled to the brim with joy. I could always ask formore. In my happiest hours, the eager question rushes upon me,involuntarily, 'Am I entirely content?' And the response that risesup, is ever 'No.' I am young, and this soft air steals over a browof health--I can appreciate the beautiful and exquisite. I can drinkin the deep poetry of noble minds--I can idly revel in voluptuousmusic, and dream away my soul, but with that bewitching dream, thereis still a yearning for its realization. I cannot abate therestlessness that presses upon me--I look around, and young facesare bright and smiling with cheerful gayety. I endeavour to catchthe buoyant spirit, but I succeed rarely,--if I do, it floats on thesurface, leaving the under-current unbroken in its flow. Yet after Ihave endeavoured to lighten the oppressive cares of some un-fortunate creature, a sort of peace has for a time descended uponme, which has been infinitely soothing. It soon departs, and myusual bitterness again sways me. I sought for friendship, and forawhile I was relieved, but I cannot forbear glancing down into themotives of my fellow men, and that involuntarily-searching spirithas proved unfortunate to me. I met with selfishness in the form ofattachment, and then I turned to look upon the hollow heart ofsociety, and it was there."
"Alfred, you make me sad," said the old man, in a solemn and deeplypained voice. "This is the first time I knew that your heart wassuch a temple of bitterness."
"If I have saddened you, I wish I had not spoken: but the thoughtsrushed over me, your kind heart is always open, and I gave themexpression. You have lived long, and there is more sympathy in yourexperience, than in the laughing jest of those near my own age.Pardon me, grandfather, I will not pain you again!" Alfred turnedhis eyes upon his aged friend; he caught the look of kindness uponthat honoured face, and it fell warmly, upon his soul.
"It is right to think deeply," said the revered adviser, "but onemust think rightly, also. You must not look out upon the world, fromthe darkened corners of your soul, or the hue is transferred to allthings which your glance falls upon. Take the torch of truth andheavenly charity to chase away the dimness within you, then powerfulchanges will be wrought in your vision. You will begin to regardyour fellow man with new feelings of interest. I am a plain andblunt old man, Alfred, but you know that my only desire is for yourgood; so bear with my remarks if they be unpalatable."
"Certainly, sir, I value frankness before flattery."
"You may say that you have never been perfectly happy continuedthe old gentleman; "that is neither strange nor uncommon, for I havemet with few thoughtful persons of your years, who, upon closereflection, could say that their souls could desire no more than hadbeen granted to them. You must seek for resignation, not entirebliss upon earth, although it is possible that you may enjoy it fora season."
"Why is joy so transitory and unquiet so lasting?" demanded theyoung man impatiently.
"The fault is not in the transitoriness of the joy, but in the verysoul itself,--it is in a state of disorder; its nature must bechanged before it can receive for ever only the image of gladness.In a chaos of the elements, can a smiling sky be always seen? Layasleep all unruly elements in the spirit, and a pure heaven ofbrightness will then greet the uplifted glance."
"But how can all this be done, grandfather? hath unruly elements doyou speak of? What can I do; for instance? I certainly am willingand glad to see my kind happy--if my soul be in disorder, I do notknow in what it consists, or how to bring it to order. I am weary ofits unsatisfied desires; it is, continually in search of somethingwhich it has never caught sight of,--and the fear, that thatunknown, yet powerfully desired something may never come to quenchmy thirst, falls with the coldness of death upon my bosom."
"That something may be found by every human being, if sought for inthe right way. Those yearnings are not given us, that they may fallback and wither the fountain from which they spring. But thequestion is, do we seek for happiness in the right way? Do we notrather ask for an impossibility, when we ask for permanent bliss,before we have laid a foundation in our souls for it? You wish totake this life too easy by far, my son; rouse up all your strength,look around you with the keenness of a resolved spirit, and seek toregenerate your whole being,--let that be your object, and let thedesire for happiness be subservient to it. You will clasp joy toyour, breast, as an everlasting gift, at the end of the race. Whatare your aims and objects? You hardly know; you are in pursuit ofthat which flees, before you as a shadow, and your restless spiritsinks and murmurs,--you have no grand object in view, to buoy you upsteadily and trustfully through every ill which life has power tobestow. Those very ills are seized upon, and become instruments ofglory to the devoted and heaven-strengthened spirit,--they preparefor a deeper draught of all things dear and desired, and though thesoul droop beneath the weight of human suffering, yet the rod thatsmites is kissed with a prayer. Turn away from your individual self,as far as you can, and regard the broad world with a philanthropiceye--"
"Impossible--impossible!" interrupted Alfred, hastily, "I defy anyperson to turn from himself, and look upon the world with a moreinterested gaze than he casts upon his own heart. One may bephilanthropic in his feelings and devoted to alleviating thedistresses of less fortunate beings, but I hold it to be impossiblethat our individual selves will not always be first in interest. Asudden and powerful impulse may carry us away for a time, but afterthat rushing influence leaves us, we see yourselves again, and, findthat we had only lost our equilibrium briefly. I say only what Isincerely think, and what thousands secretly know to be the case,even while advocating views quite opposite. There is no candour inthe world!"
"Softly, my good friend," said the grandfather, mildly smiling. "Ialso hold it to be impossible that we can lose either ourindividuality or our interest in ourselves, but I believe itpossible that we may love others just as well, if not better thanourselves. I do not refer to one or two particular persons whom wemay admire, but I speak of the mass of our fellow-creatures."
"I cannot even conceive of such a love!" returned the young man,shaking his head. "I cannot see how I could love a person whopossesses no attractive qualities whatever;--I always feelindifference, if not dislike. I think I could sacrifice my life toone I loved, if thrown into sudden and imminent danger; still, Ithink I might give pain to that same person many times, bygratifying myself. For instance, grandfather,--suppose you were tobe led to the stake, to be burned to-morrow,--I would take yourplace to save you; yet I do not now do all I possible can, to add toyour happiness. I gratify whims of my own; I idle away hours in thewoods, or by some stream, when I fully know that it would be morepleasing to you, to see me bending patiently over my Greek andLatin."
"Very true!" sighed the old man. "You prove your own position, whichis that your ruling love is self-love."
Alfred lifted up his eyebrows, as if he had heard an unwelcome fact.We are often willing to confess things, which we do not like to haveold us. He fell into deep thought. Finally he said, "It isuniversally allowed that virtue is lovely; those who practise it,appear calm and resigned, and often happy--but, to tell the truth,such enjoyment seems rather tame and flat. I wish to be in freedom,to let my burning impulses rush on as they will, without a yoke. Ilove, and I hate, as my heart bids me, and I scorn control of anykind."
"Yet you submit to a yoke, my son; one which is not of your ownimposing either."
"What kind of a yoke?"
"The yoke of society,--you bow to public opinion in a measure. Youavoid a glaring act, often, more because it will not be approved,than because you have a real disinclination for it. Is not that thecase sometimes?"
Alfred did not exceedingly relish this probing, but he was toocandid to cover up his motives from himself. He answered a decided"yes!" but it was spoken, because he could not elbow himself out ofthe self-evident conviction forced upon him.
"Do you think it degrading for a man to conquer and govern thestrongest, as well as the weakest impulses of his soul?" pursued hisgrandfather.
"Certainly not degrading,--it is in the highest degree worthy ofpraise. It is truly noble! I acknowledge it."
"And yet you deem such enjoyment as would result from thisgovernment, tame and flat."
"I beg pardon; when I spoke of virtue, I referred to that smoothkind which is current, and seems more passive than active,--thatsoft amiability which appears to deaden enthusiasm, and to shut upthe soul in a set of opinions, instead of expanding it widely toeverything noble and generous, wherever it may be found."
"It was not genuine virtue, you referred to, then,--it was only itsresemblance."
"It was what passes for virtue. But to come at the main point,grandfather;--where is happiness to be found, if we are to bewarring with ourselves during a lifetime, checking every naturalspring in the soul?"
"Stop there, Alfred! We only quench the streams, which prevent thespirit's purest wells of noble and happy feelings from gushing forthin freedom. We must wage a warfare, it is true; why conceal it? Butit does not last for ever, and intervals of gladness come to refreshus, which the worn and blunted spirit of the man of pleasure in vainpants for. An exquisite joy, innocent as that of childhood, pervadesthe bosom of truth's soldier in his hours of peace and rest, and helifts an eye of rapture to heaven--to God."
Alfred dwelt earnestly upon the noble countenance of the speaker,and his bosom filled with unwonted emotion, as the heavenlysweetness of the old man's smile penetrated into his inward soul.Goodness stood before him in its wonderful power, and he bowed downhis soul in worship. How insignificant then seemed his individualyearnings after present enjoyment, instead of that celestial lovewhich can fill a human soul with so strong a power from on high. Hereflected upon that venerable being's life--so strong and upright;he dwelt upon his large and noble heart, which could clasp the worldin its embrace. He remembered months of acute suffering, bothphysical and mental, which had been endured with the stillness of amartyr's inward strength; and then, too, he recalled times when thataged heart was more truly and deeply joyful than his own youngspirit had even been. Both relapsed into the eloquent silence ofabsorbing thought. It was evident from the softened and meditativecast of Alfred's features, that his bitterness had given way to thetrue tenderness of feeling it so often quelled; he revolved in hismind all that had been advanced by his grandfather, and he dweltupon every point with candour and serious reflection. A strongimpression was made upon him, but he was entirely silent in regardto it,--he waited to try his strength, before he spoke of the betterresolutions that were formed, not without effort, in his mind. Hefelt a conviction that a change from selfishness to angelic charitymight be accomplished, if he were but willing to co-operate with hisMaker,--the conception of universal love slowly dawned upon hissoul, now turned heavenward for light,--his duties as a responsiblebeing came before him, and a sigh of reproach was given to the past.Then golden visions of delight thronged up to his gaze, and it waswith a severe pang he thought of losing his, hold upon the deardomains of idle fancy,--he had so revelled for hours and hours, inintoxicating dreams, which shut out the world and stern duty. Hefelt his weakness, but he resolutely turned from dwelling upon it.The evening air was refreshing after the warm sunset, but old Mr.Monmouth would not trust himself to bear it. Alfred went into thehouse with him, and made a brief call, then left, and wended his waya short distance to his own home, which was a very elegant mansion,surrounded by every mark of luxury and taste. He immediately soughthis chamber, and took up a neglected Bible which his mother hadgiven him when a child,--he turned over its leaves, and his eyesfell upon the one hundred and nineteenth psalm, "Thy word is a lampunto my feet, and a light upon my path. I have sworn, and I willperform it, that I will keep thy righteous judgments." He read on,and the exceeding beauty and touching power of the Holy Word hadnever so deeply affected him,--he wept, and all that was harsh inhis nature melted,--he prayed, and the angels of God approached,filling his uplifted soul with heavenly strength. Sweet was thethrill of thanksgiving, that arose from that hitherto restlessspirit--quiet and blest the peace that hushed him to deep,invigorating slumber. Persons of an enthusiastic temperament are aptto fall into extremes; such was the case with Alfred Monmouth. He sofeared that he would fall back into his former states of feeling,that he guarded himself like an anchorite. For three months heabstained from going into company, and even reasonable enjoyment hedeprived himself of. He threw aside all books but scientific andreligious ones; even poetry he shut his ears against, lest it mightbeguile him again to his dreamy, but selfish musings. No doubt thissevere discipline was very useful to him at the time, instrengthening him against the besetting faults of his character; butit could not last long, without originating other errors. Duringthis time he had been, perhaps, as happy as ever in his life; hismind had been fixed upon an object, and a wealth of new thoughts hadcrowded upon him--he rejoiced with a kind of proud humility in hiscapability for self-government. He thought he was rapidly vergingtowards perfection. But "a change came o'er the spirit of his dream"at last, and an unwonted melancholy grew upon him, until it settledlike a pall over his heart. An apathy in regard to what had solately interested him, stole over him, and indeed a cold glance fellupon almost every pursuit he had once prized. Plunged in deep gloom,he one evening sought his grandfather's dwelling, hoping, by aconversation with the cheerful old man, to regain a more healthystate of mind; to his great satisfaction, Alfred found him alonereading.
"Well, my boy, I am glad you have come in!" was the salutation, witha most cordial smile, for Mr. Monmouth had silently remarked thelate alteration in his somewhat reckless grandson. He also detectedthe present gloom upon his fine countenance, and the earnest hope ofdispelling it, added an affectionate heartiness to his manner.Alfred made several common-place remarks, then, with his usualimpatience, he flung aside all preamble, and said,
"I am gloomy, grandfather, even more so than I have ever been, and Icannot explain it. The last serious conversation I had with you,produced a strong effect upon me, and for a long time after I wasunusually cheerful and vigorous in mind. I seemed to have imbibedsomething of your spirit--I delighted in the hope of regeneratingmyself, through the aid of Heaven; it seemed as if angels hushed myrestless spirit to repose, and I tried in humility to draw near myGod. Yet I feared for myself, and I withdrew from temptation, fromall society which was uncongenial to my state of mind. I wascontent for a long time, but now the sadness of apathy overwhelmsme."
"Endeavour, without murmuring, to bear this state of mind, and itwill soon pass off," remarked Mr. Monmouth. "We must not always flyfrom temptation in every form, my boy, but we must arm ourselvesagainst its attacks, otherwise our usefulness will be greatlylessened. If those who are endeavouring to make themselves better,do so by shunning society, they are rather examples of selfishnessthan benevolent goodness,--the selfishness is unconscious, and sucha course may be followed from a sense of duty. But the glance whichdiscovered this to be duty was not wide enough; it took in only theclaims of self, yet I would not convey the idea, that we have anyone's evils to take care of but our own. We need society, and,however humble we may be, society needs us. We need to be refreshedby the strength of good beings, and we must also contribute ourslight share to those whom Providence wills that we may benefit. Thelife of heaven may thus circulate freely, and increase in poweramong many hearts. Go forward, Alfred, unmindful of your feelings,and pray only to trust in Providence, and to gain a deep desire forusefulness."
"Ah! yes," returned the young man, earnestly. Light broke in uponhis darkness. "I am glad that I have spoken with you, grandfather,for your words give me strength to persevere. I never knew that Iwas weak until lately."
"Such knowledge is precious, my dear son. We are indeed strongestwhen the hand of humility removes the veil that hides us fromourselves."
"Probably such is, the case, but I cannot realize it. It is witheffort that I drag through the day; I am continually looking towardsthe future, and beholding a thousand perplexing situations where mybesetting sins will be called into action. I see myself incapable ofalways following out the noble principles I have lately adopted."
"As thy day is, so shall thy strength be!" said Mr. Monmouth. "Becareful only to guard yourself against each little stumbling-blockas it presents itself, and your mountains will be changed tomole-hills. Never fear for the future, do as well as you can in thepresent."
"But it is so singular that I should feel thus, when I have beentrying as hard as a mortal could to change my erroneous views, andto regard all the dispensations of Providence with a resigned heart.I have cast the selfish thought of my own earthly happiness from mymind as much as possible."
"And yet there is a repining in your gloominess. You are notsatisfied to bear it."
"Well, perhaps not. I am wrong,--I think that I could submit withtrue fortitude to an outward trial, but there seems so little reasonin my low spirits. Have you ever felt so, grandfather?"
"Often; and at such times, I devote myself more earnestly than everto anything which will take my thoughts from myself."
"I will do so!" replied Alfred, firmly. "If my purposes are right inthe sight of Heaven, I will be supported."
"True, my son."
Alfred left the home of his grandsire, more at rest with himself andall the world. Fresh peaceful hopes again sprang up within him, andhe began to see his way clear. He reasoned himself into resignation,and, as day after day went on, he grew grateful for the privilegeand opportunity offered to school his rebellious spirit to order.
Four years passed; Alfred was engaged in the busy world, and heshrunk not from it, but rather sought to do his duty in it. Onesummer evening, he was called to enter the large, old-fashionedhouse of his grandfather. His brow was thoughtful, but calm andresigned--he sought a quiet room; it was the chamber of death,--yetwas its stillness beautiful and peaceful; he knelt by a dying couch,and clasped the hand of his aged grandsire--then he wept, but theunbidden tears were those of gratitude. The serenity of heaven wasupon the countenance of the noble old man.
"My hour has come, Alfred," he said, placing one hand upon thebeloved head bowed before him, "and I go hence with thankfulness.Ah! even now, there is a heavenly content in my bosom. The angelsare bending over me, and wait to take my spirit to its home: thereis no mist before my sight, all is clear. The Father of love liftsup my soul in this hour--our parting will be short, my son--" theold man's voice trembled, an infinite tenderness dwelt in his eyes,and Alfred felt that there was a reality in the peace of the dyingone. All the good that he had done him rushed before him, and heexclaimed with humility,
"How can I ever repay you, dear grandfather! for all your noblelessons to me?"
"I am repaid," was the low reply; "they have brought forthfruit, and I have lived to see it. I trust that you will leave theworld with all the peace that I do, and with deeper goodness in yourspirit. My blessing be upon you, my son!"
"Amen!" came low from Alfred's fervent lips.
The eyes of the aged one closed in death, and his young disciplewent forth again into the world, made better by the scene he hadwitnessed.
THE END.
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