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!"