At length, there was a glimpse of dawn amid all this darkness. The
world was not altogether evil. All hearts were not shut against me;
and in the sweet smiles of Julia Clifford, in her kind attentions,
soothing assurances, and fond entreaties, there was opportunity,
at last, for my feelings to overflow. Like a mountain-stream
long pent up, which at length breaks through its confinements, my
affections rushed into the grateful channel which her pliant heart
afforded me. They were wild, and strong, and, devoted, in proportion
to their long denial and restraint. Was it not natural enough that
I should love with no ordinary attachment--that my love should be
an impetuous torrent--all-devoted--struggling, striving--rushing
only in the one direction--believing, in truth, that there was none
other in the world in which to run?
This was a natural consequence of the long sophistication of my
feelings. I knew nothing of the world--of society. I had shared
in none of its trusts; I had only felt its exactions. Like some
country-boy, or country-girl, for the first time brought into the
great world, I surrendered myself wholly to the first gratified
impulse. I made no conditions, no qualifications. I set all my
hopes of heart upon a single cast of the die, and did not ask what
might be the consequences if the throw was unfortunate.
One of the good effects of a free communication of the young with
society is, to lessen the exacting nature of the affections. People
who live too much to themselves--in their own centre, and for their
own single objects--become fastidious to disease. They ask too
much from their neighbors. Willing to surrender their OWN affections
at a glance, they fancy the world wanting in sensibility when
they find that their readiness in this respect fails to produce a
corresponding readiness in others. This is the natural history of
that enthusiasm which is thrown back upon itself and is chilled
by denial. The complaint of coldness and selfishness against the
world is very common among very young or very inexperienced men.
The world gets a bad character, simply because it refuses to lavish
its affections along the highways--simply because it is cautious
in giving its trusts, and expects proofs of service and actual
sympathy rather than professions. Men like myself, of a warm,
impetuous nature, complain of the heartlessness of mankind. They
fancy themselves peculiarly the victims of an unkind destiny in
this respect; and finally cut their throats in a moment of frenzy,
or degenerate into a cynicism that delights in contradictions, in
sarcasms, in self-torture, and the bitterest hostility to their
neighbors.
Society itself is the only and best corrective of this unhappy
disposition. The first gift to the young, therefore, should be
the gift of society. By this word society, however, I do not mean
a set, a clique, a pitiable little circle. Let the sphere of movement
be sufficiently extended--as large as possible--that the means of
observation and thought may be sufficiently comprehensive, and no
influences from one man or one family shall be suffered to give the
bias to the immature mind and inexperienced judgment. In society
like this, the errors, prejudices, weaknesses, of one man, are
corrected by a totally opposite form of character in another. The
mind of the youth hesitates. Hesitation brings circumspection,
watchfulness; watchfulness, discrimination; discrimination, choice;
and a capacity to choose implies the attainment of a certain
degree of deliberateness and judgment with which the youth may be
permitted to go upon his way, supposed to be provided for in the
difficult respect of being able henceforward to take care of himself.