I have never sat by the sick-bed of a mother without finding gradually stealing over me a deeply melancholy and impressive feeling. Nature has so constituted the human mind as to render it susceptible of an infinite variety of emotions, and made it so expansive in its grasp as to enable it to contemplate everything within the boundless universe. However finite it may be, there is nothing of which it cannot think; and although there are many things which it fails to understand, they all inspire some feeling or awaken some emotion within the invisible recesses of our nature. The many truths of which we know, and the countless beauties mirrored before our eyes by the imagination dwelling upon uncertainties and doubtful probabilities, often give rise to a variety of sensations so powerful as to hold us spell-bound. The deep springs of the heart, frequently hidden to our comprehension, are ever flowing for our enjoyment. Of this I was recently reminded, in a very impressive manner, by being ushered into the presence of a mother, who had, for three successive years, been confined to a sick-bed. The information of her sore affliction suggested a train of thought, and prompted a number of reflections, the recollection of which will forever abide fresh in my memory. She was yet young, and notwithstanding her many trials, exhibited a vigor of mind and a freshness of heart seldom discovered in the most healthy and buoyant. The knowledge of her prostration for years, in the prime of her life, and when possessed of all the impulsive desires and sanguine expectations common to those of her age, saddened me to sickness as I first entered her apartment; but upon discovering her genuine animation, her beauty of heart and sprightliness of mind, my feelings alternately changed from sadness to surprise, from surprise to veneration. How many pleasures, thought I, had I enjoyed during the past three years! How had I, watching the changing seasons, relished the many delightful things each of them had brought forth! In the mellow sunlight of the morning, I had drank in the beauties of the earth; and in the sweet twilight of the evening, I had reaped the richest bounties it afforded. I had daily sported with my friends, many of whom had never felt a wish unanswered, yet still remained unsatisfied; I had played alike with the young and old with an intensity of interest that touched every chord of the heart; and I had felt the ecstacy of a variety of joys, whilst the vigor of uninterrupted health but spread out before me all that heart could wish, or soul desire. There were our glorious winter parties, where kindness, friendship, and love, ministered to our wishes; gleeful rides over the silvery snow, cozily muffled in furs, and almost buried in robes, our exuberant hilarity rising high above the jingling music of the bells; summer meetings beneath the shady branches of the willow, in the downy meadow; and moonlight strolls with cherished companions all around us, and loved ones leaning tenderly on our arms. We had our social enjoyments in all their diversified characters; our many exhibitions of the noblest intellect fraught with the golden treasures of study; our seasonable round of vivifying concerts by the highest talent in the wide world; our splendid and attractive operas, with all the more and less refined amusements which the age required to make up the sum total of this never satisfied and insatiable human life. Whether in door or out, we found all that could be desired to make existence pleasing, and attach us the more firmly to it; yet here was one who had none, or few of these things. Chained down within the narrow compass of her bed, her ill destiny had denied to her the pleasures of the world without. How could she endure it? Would not her heart wither for want of food, and her mind perish for lack of stimulants? Nothing in the least approaching to this was perceptible. She ever seemed the happy spirit that could rise above the afflictions of fate, and over which no misfortune could cast a cloud of despair.
In conversation, she spoke of the world with a knowledge and a heart that would have persuaded you she constantly moved with the busiest portion of it. She was fully aware of the condition and employments of her friends, enjoying their sports and amusements as much, apparently, as though she was participating in them; and often, with her own delicate hands, she had prepared some trifling and expressive thing, which told how much she wished their happiness. There was no complaint in her, nor could you force repining regrets upon her. Her answers to your queries were always the same in sweetness and resignation, and such as might almost have led you to think she preferred her condition to one of health, and its attendant pleasures. It is true, she did not conceal that, at first, her situation seemed indeed terrible to herself, yet principally from one cause, which never ceased more or less to trouble her. She had a young and devoted husband, and she regretted more for his sake than her own, her incapacity to mingle in the social spheres of life, and thus afford him enjoyments which were denied him in her condition. Her selfishness, if she ever had any, was changed from herself and directed towards him, upon whom she would have conferred every merit or good quality she possessed, had she had the power, and many more, if possible, and regarded the task the most delightful she had ever performed. His very desires and aims of life had become her’s, and I believe she would have suffered any personal inconvenience or sacrifice to have gratified him in them all; his troubles and vexations, by some strange and inexplicable influence of sympathy, she had invariably succeeded in removing from his mind, and placing in their stead a new and more exalted vigor: in truth, he had never felt a regret, a pang, a trial, however trifling, in which she had not participated, and which, by some mysterious balm distilled by her own sympathetic heart, she had not contributed to remove or obliterate. If, however, she shared so much in his sorrows, she partook none the less of his joys. His happiness was her own; his successes and his triumphs were her’s; and the just rewards of his ceaseless labors, deservedly elevating him in public esteem, were even more gratifying to her than to himself. In his honorable elevation, she beheld her personal advancement, and in the brightness of his reputation, she felt additions to her own. When his aspirations had been realized, she had experienced a gratification superior to his, and when he had attained a point through assiduous effort, the acquisition afforded mutual pleasure. Thus entering into his very existence, she deplored her affliction more from a desire to promote his happiness than from any wish or anxiety for personal gratification and enjoyment.
The apartment occupied by her was neatly fitted up and arranged with a view of making her situation as comfortable as possible, and evidences were not wanting of the generous sympathies of her friends. Whatever was supposed capable of affording her a moment’s cheerful amusement, or of lessening the tedium of her constant confinement, was supplied; and the innumerable attentions bestowed upon her bore ample testimony of the esteem in which she was held. Her acquaintances seemed really to be vieing with each other who could do most to attest the good wishes entertained in her behalf, and the many expedients invented to gratify her, well exhibited the magnanimous ingenuity and skill of their authors. How highly did she appreciate this kindness, and how enthusiastically did she speak of it! To hear her, was to forget her afflictions, and partake of her grateful and joyous feelings. She had often exclaimed, in the fullness of her heart, that she could wish for no more; and indeed, turn where you would, you could see nothing but tokens of sympathy and love, which the stricken soul alone can fully know how to cherish. Then, too, she had a little bright-eyed, prattling boy, the best and happiest in the world, she would say. With him she would play for hours together, and pet him with tender caresses, attesting the power of her motherly affections, and evincing how much she treasured him. In his gleeful gambols, she would watch him with ineffable fondness, and his infantile freaks elicited emotions which she would not have bartered for the world. Next to her husband, her boy was her greatest earthly idol, and a stay which, though tender, made life, however afflicted, a boon that filled her heart with gratitude.
Whilst seated in her apartment, in conversation with her, her husband, with whom I had spent many of my youthful days, and once taken a long excursion through several provinces, entered, without observing me, and, walking to the bedside of his wife, he tenderly embraced her, and then sat silently down before her. I fancied I saw a tear glistening in his eye, and I never was more moved to pity. How much I had been mistaken, and how misdirected had been my compassion, I was pleased to ascertain soon after. As I was upon the point of addressing him, she cast a look upon him so sweetly soft and gentle, that, once seen, it could never be forgotten, and smilingly said,
“Come, Charles, be more cheerful and communicative. Let me know what has been astir within the past few hours since your return. You certainly do not appear to be displeased, and yet you are not disposed to be talkative.”
“Nothing has in the least ruffled my temper, I assure you. I am as well contented with myself and the world now as ever, and would not so belie the home of my friend as to cause a supposition that my visit to him had rendered me dull and gloomy.”
“What, then, makes you so silent? I have noticed your quiet moments, at times, heretofore, without being able to divine their cause, and you have never been pleased to make it known.”
“That was because I thought your own heart knew it, and felt it: but as I am in the mood, I shall endeavor to tell you. You are well aware that there are periods when the heart speaks more in silence than the tongue could possibly express—when a momentary pause reveals more than the talk of a day could unfold. I know you have sometimes found your feelings too powerful for utterance, and in silent thought permitted them partially to subside before you ventured to speak and break the spell that enchained you. Nature has so constituted those capable of genuine love, that, whilst feeling the influence of so sacred an affection, their ecstacy should not be disturbed even by the pleasures of conversation. The strength of this passion, at times, overpowers every other impulse; and though it may then enforce silence, it only does so to enable us to enjoy the more the rich treasures of our own hearts. Depend upon it, such moments wear the touches of angels, and furnish us with the sublimest idea of the enjoyments of heaven that can be realized in the present life. Their recurrence cannot come too often, nor can they be retained too long, when present, for they are our choicest blessings.”
If ever, thought I, a wife had been answered to her heart’s full satisfaction, this sick and helpless one was in the present instance. It was now her turn to become silent, and changing her position, I obtained a full view of her animated countenance, from which I inferred that the words of her husband had penetrated into her soul to be secretly treasured there. My position had already become too embarrassing to allow me to remain silent any longer; so, rising from my seat, I advanced towards him, and was about offering an apology, but he overwhelmed me with joyful greetings. Upon his pressing invitation, I was prevailed upon to remain with him and his family until the succeeding day, and thus I was favored with ample opportunities to witness the disposition of the sick mother, and enjoy her conversations. For this, though I never much liked a sick room, I afterwards became thankful; for I felt that I had, in rehearsing the many exploits I had had with her husband, opened new sources for her enjoyment, whilst I likewise learnt a lesson of the human heart which I can never fail to hold in remembrance. Upon one occasion, in entering her apartment, I found her affectionately playing with her boy, and remarked upon the pleasure she must experience in the possession of so fine a plaything.
“Indeed, sir,” said she, “I have my amusement with him. Day after day I thus while away many an hour, which might otherwise be rendered dull and tedious, so pleasantly that I scarcely note its passage.”
“Without him,” remarked I, desirous of ascertaining how so long a period of confinement could be endured, “time would, no doubt, hang heavily upon you, and your sources of comfort and pleasure be much diminished?”
“Since I have become accustomed to the many gratifications he has brought me, I can scarcely endure his absence for a single day. Though he is not my only source of comfort and amusement, to lose him would be a most terrible affliction.”
“How,” continued I, putting the question direct, “could you tolerate this long confinement, and yet retain your youthful glee? I should long since have perished from utter despondency.”
“It was not so easily done,” was her answer, whilst a pleasant smile lighted up her countenance, “yet I made every effort to maintain my spirits, and with the kind assistance of all around me, I happily succeeded.” After speaking of the many kindnesses of her friends, and the constant devotion of her husband, in so animating a manner that I could not help fully sharing in her feelings, she continued: “If I cannot move with the busy world, I constantly hear of it, and often think of it. To appreciate and feel its pleasures, it is not always necessary that we should actively participate in them. The heart and mind are the seats of true enjoyment, and the occurrences and events of busy life can only be pleasing as they harmonize with the one or the other, whatever may be your condition. There is no joy, unless you reach them by the right direction, and no pain, unless you approach them wrongly. The measure of happiness depends more upon the manner in which they are made to move, than upon external causes. They are likewise mighty sources of comfort and amusement within themselves. I had lived happily for a number of years, partaking of all the enjoyments my tastes suggested, or opportunity presented; and since confined in this room, I have again and again lived over my former life. Every incident has been reviewed, even from my infancy to the present hour. This retrospective life, if I may so denominate it, is very singular, and withal, very pleasing. The pure pleasure of a good action is often little experienced whilst you are performing it, but felt most keenly after it has been done. At times an occurrence makes you tremble with affright whilst beholding it, and when your momentary terror has subsided, its ridiculous nature convulses you with laughter. I have known men to fret, and scold, and swear, for entire days at the inconveniences that beset them, and when safely over their difficulties, sit down and detail them again and again with the most heartfelt merriment. I remember having once encountered a traveller, who was so provoked at the miserable condition of the road, and the cold winter weather, as very audibly to wish the company in a much warmer locality more than fifty times during the slow journey; yet, a few days after, I met him comfortably seated before a cheerful fire with a friend, whilst tears of unrestrained laughter rolled down his cheeks, as he rehearsed this part of his rough experience. Such are the effects of a combination of the past and the present upon the mind, and so is it with this retrospective life. That which caused pleasure once, or made you joyful and merry, will always renew the like emotions whenever you think of it; that which truly enlisted the feelings of the heart at one time, will never fail to do so again whenever you ponder upon it; that which in any way seriously affected you once, will continue to do so as often as it may be brought to your remembrance; and the recollection even of many of those things which you would fain have averted or avoided, may prove objects of gratification. Think of this, if you please, and by directing your attention more studiously and carefully upon the past, experiment for yourself, and you will find that the soul’s impressions are not perishable. Examine the hours gone by, and you will discover for your future old age beauties which your present youth cannot fully comprehend or justly appreciate, and sources of enjoyment scarcely known to you now. Nature has so ordained, and most charitably and wisely, that each day passed in active, vigorous youth, should provide for the quiet amusements of age—that the pleasures of one period of life should happily be productive of delights for the other, instead of being felt but for the moment and then forgotten forever.”
“No doubt, madam,” remarked I, “you are very correct in what you have said; but to be compelled by necessity, at an age like yours, just properly adapted for active participation in the affairs and pleasures of life, to resort to such means of enjoyment, can scarcely be supposed to place you in so happy a condition as that which you have assigned to old age.”
“You may, perhaps,” continued she, “be partly right, but you are much more wrong. Short, comparatively, as has been my life, it has furnished material enough for an age of thought, and by using it I have again and again felt the pleasures of the soul. Then, too, this was not a dream life, the idle vapors of which could be dispelled by a sudden transition to reality, for there was nothing in it that had not, at one time, been really seen and felt. It was rather a life of quiet and happy reflection. It is not a dream nor delusion to wander back, by the marvellous power of thought, and take your accustomed place once more at the social board of a loved and peaceful home, and have again renewed within you the feelings of youth. It so resembles the substantial truth that we can scarcely discern a difference, and revives sympathies so pleasing that we involuntarily desire their constant presence. The spirit ever retains its hold upon the past, and the delightful hours of childhood, when we drank in the many joys of our young and unruffled life, come back again to awaken the same emotions that animated us then. The affections once more leap into young and untainted existence, and we feel as guilelessly happy and buoyant as in youth. No occurrence fails to re-enlist our attention, but each trifling incident contributes its just portion to our pleasure. How much we doat upon these things, and how fondly we cherish them! There,” directing my attention to a neat little article, “lies a trifling relic of one with whom I had spent many of my days in girlish companionship. She no more walks the earth, for she sank quietly and peacefully into the grave, just as she was budding into beautiful womanhood. She had done the work appointed unto her, and Death gathered her to himself; but, though she is buried, I never gaze upon that small trinket without calling up again her sweet image from its solemn resting place to experience once more, perhaps more vigorously than ever, the many pleasures we had enjoyed together. Here,” lifting up her hand, “is a token of friendship which I need but gaze upon to revive a variety of remembrances so pleasing that I would not exchange them for the most valuable treasure. How well do I remember the day, the very hour, though sad it may have been, when this tiny ring first encircled my finger! It was an hour of parting between loving friends, yet not an hour in which they forgot each other. Though far away, she still remembers me as ardently as I retain my recollections of her, and the many happy moments we spent together. Happily, however, it needs not these material trifles to wrest from oblivion the incidents of our lives. One after another we can breathe them into existence as often as we will, through the powers upon which they have made an enduring impression, and as they re-appear before us, the hallowed shadows of substances once enjoyed, we become enchanted with their loveliness. There is a beauty in this review of life, in thus living over again the years gone by, that affords the richest comfort to the soul.”
“Is it then,” queried I, “by thus asking pleasures of an active and happy past, that you have maintained your freshness of mind and brilliancy of spirits? In another, the same things would have caused melancholy and desponding regrets, by exhibiting in contrast a hopeless and pleasureless future.”
“My future,” she pleasantly replied, “is not hopeless, but were it even so, the consequences could not be so sad; neither will it ever be more void of amusement than the present, which is full of enjoyment. It is an old Spanish maxim, well suited to the temper of the Spaniard, that ‘he who loseth wealth, loseth much; he who loseth a friend, loseth more; but he who loseth his spirits, loseth all.’ With so fatal a loss, the mind sinks deep into despair, and the heart finds nothing to cheer it. Our natural organization, however, is happily provided with guards and barriers against it, and to those who are not permitted to mingle in society, this retrospective life is the best and noblest of them all. There is no reliable middle course in affliction, and if you guard against the pressure of unfavorable circumstances, you not merely avoid the dangers of despondency, but also increase your capacities for enjoyment. Your heart will mellow and expand by sickness, and whatever coldness or indifference characterized it, will yield before the power of sympathy. The ill in your nature will be imperceptibly destroyed, and the good remain standing alone. Where before you were quick to censure, you will manifest generous forbearance, and even positive injuries will be forgotten and forgiven. How well is this state and condition adapted for a review of the past! Whilst it causes you to extend friendship to those whom you hated, it attaches you so closely to those whom you loved that your very being seems to become blended with theirs. In your adoration of them, their lives are made part of your own, and though they may not always claim an interest so intense, they afford equal enjoyment. You ponder upon their adventures, contrasting them with your own, and each separate incident affords new matter for the employment of your thoughts. If, then, I have my own life spread out before me, and the lives of those who are nearest and dearest to me, have I not sources of enjoyment sufficient to do much more than maintain my present spirits and buoyancy.”
Thus she continued ever finding something to interest her mind, and bring pleasure to her lively affections; whilst I felt pleased with this happy manifestation of her well-trained disposition, and found in it much to instruct. Here was one whom I had regarded as a fit object for compassion, enjoying herself more than the vast mass of humanity much better situated for enjoyment. All this, too, by properly guarding and guiding her thoughts. Here was a commentary on human happiness, showing how well we are adapted for pleasure, and what sources of comfort we may be of ourselves. The deep and unseen springs of sensibility and joy within us, thus made to gush forth at our will, augur a higher and sublimer destiny. The crude philosopher, or the still cruder sceptic, may doubt and deny, but still they will continue to direct him to the imperishable testimonies of immortality. It is not within us to believe, that the power which dictates and controls our thoughts and our impulses, so tender that every impression made upon it even in infancy retains its hold until the grave closes over us, is destined to be forever obliterated. Even in life, it gives us evidences of eternity. Should we live for countless ages, though the particles composing our bodies might continually yield to decay and be replaced by others, its own identity would be maintained, nor could we erase from it the impressions of our childhood. No change in life can destroy it, or move it from its directing and controlling sphere. Is it, then, merely the unsatisfying mystery of an invisible element, endowed with the capacity of preserving and summoning before us the shadows of past beauties, though doomed itself to perish? Is it only a fleeting, flickering ray, simply given to illumine our physical existence, whose last flash shall be forever extinguished when the nature to which it was joined sinks before the rough contacts of earth, or slowly dies out of its own infirmities? Happily, it awakens sweeter thoughts, and inspires higher hopes. Its brightness is not like the passing lustre of the moonbeam, receding behind the first murky cloud that floats across its path, but may be made to shine only the more brilliantly through the surrounding darkness. With her, whose afflictions and pleasures I have faintly described, it was not a mere visionary creature, conjured up by powerful imagery, and clothed with the devices of a fine fancy, yet compelled to fall before the first truthful reality it encountered. Following out its mission in truth, it is our faithful companion and guide through life; and who shall deny it another sphere of nobler existence, where it may never cease to feast upon the untold loveliness of creation, and forever dwell upon the past, reviewing its own good deeds with unabating gratitude to its author, and unending happiness to itself.