Part 29 (1/2)

* * * Mr. Keats, Emma's father, is dead. To me this brings unusual sorrow, though I have never yet seen him; but I thought of him as one of the very few persons known to me by reputation, whose acquaintance might enrich me. His character was a sufficient answer to the doubt, whether a merchant can be a man of honor. He was, like your father, a man all whose virtues had stood the test. He was no word-hero.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

_Providence, June 16,1837_.

MY DEAR ------: I pray you, amid all your duties, to keep some hours to yourself. Do not let my example lead you into excessive exertions.

I pay dear for extravagance of this sort; five years ago I had no idea of the languor and want of animal spirits which torment me now. Animal spirits are not to be despised. An earnest mind and seeking heart will not often be troubled by despondency; but unless the blood can dance at proper times, the lighter pa.s.sages of life lose all their refreshment and suggestion.

I wish you and ------- had been here last Sat.u.r.day. Our school-house was dedicated, and Mr. Emerson made the address; it was a n.o.ble appeal in behalf of the best interests of culture, and seemingly here was fit occasion. The building was beautiful, and furnished with an even elegant propriety.

I am at perfect liberty to do what I please, and there are apparently the best dispositions, if not the best preparation, on the part of the hundred and fifty young minds with whom I am to be brought in contact.

I sigh for the country; trees, birds and flowers, a.s.sure me that June is here, but I must walk through streets many and long, to get sight of any expanse of green. I had no fine weather while at home, though the quiet and rest were delightful to me; the sun did not s.h.i.+ne once really warmly, nor did the apple-trees put on their blossoms until the very day I came away.

SONNET.

TO THE SAME.

Although the sweet, still watches of the night Find me all lonely now, yet the delight Hath not quite gone, which from thy presence flows.

The love, the joy that in thy bosom glows, Lingers to cheer thy friend. From thy fresh dawn Some golden exhalations have I drawn To make less dim my dusty noon. Thy tones Are with me still; some plaintive as the moans Of Dryads, when their native groves must fall, Some wildly wailing, like the clarion-call On battle-field, strewn with the n.o.ble dead.

Some in soft romance, like the echoes bred In the most secret groves of Arcady; Yet all, wild, sad, or soft, how steeped in poesy!

_Providence, April_, 1888.

TO THE SAME.

_Providence, Oct_. 21, 1888.

* * * * I am reminded by what you say, of an era in my own existence; it is seven years bygone. For bitter months a heavy weight had been pressing on me,--the weight of deceived friends.h.i.+p. I could not be much alone,--a great burden of family cares pressed upon me; I was in the midst of society, and obliged to act my part there as well as I could. At that time I took up the study of German, and my progress was like the rebound of a string pressed almost to bursting. My mind being then in the highest state of action, heightened, by intellectual appreciation, every pang; and imagination, by prophetic power, gave to the painful present all the weight of as painful a future.

At this time I never had any consolation, except in long solitary walks, and my meditations then were so far aloof from common life, that on my return my fall was like that of the eagle, which the sportsman's hand calls bleeding from his lofty flight, to stain the earth with his blood.

In such hours we feel so n.o.ble, so full of love and bounty, that we cannot conceive how any pain should have been needed to teach us. It then seems we are so born for good, that such means of leading us to it were wholly unnecessary. But I have lived to know that the secret of all things is pain, and that nature travaileth most painfully with her n.o.blest product. I was not without hours of deep spiritual insight, and consciousness of the inheritance of vast powers. I touched the secret of the universe, and by that touch was invested with talismanic power which has never left me, though it sometimes lies dormant for a long time.

One day lives always in my memory; one chastest, heavenliest day of communion with the soul of things. It was Thanksgiving-day. I was free to be alone; in the meditative woods, by the choked-up fountain, I pa.s.sed its hours, each of which contained ages of thought and emotion.

I saw, then, how idle were my griefs; that I had acquired _the thought_ of each object which had been taken from me; that more extended personal relations would only have given me pleasures which then seemed not worth my care, and which would surely have dimmed my sense of the spiritual meaning of all which had pa.s.sed. I felt how true it was that nothing in any being which was fit for me, could long be kept from me; and that, if separation could be, real intimacy had never been. All the films seemed to drop from my existence, and I was sure that I should never starve in this desert world, but that manna would drop from Heaven, if I would but rise with every rising sun to gather it.

In the evening I went to the church-yard; the moon sailed above the rosy clouds,--the crescent moon rose above the heavenward-pointing spire. At that hour a vision came upon my soul, whose final scene last month interpreted. The rosy clouds of illusion are all vanished; the moon has waxed to full. May my life be a church, full of devout thoughts end solemn music. I pray thus, my dearest child! ”Our Father!

let not the heaviest shower be spared; let not the gardener forbear his knife till the fair, hopeful tree of existence be brought to its fullest blossom and fruit!”

TO THE SAME.