And so he kindly led me to the door, and holding a
wax-candle, lighted me up the one flight of stairs.
When I had said my prayers, and when I was undressed
and laid down, I felt that I still had friends.
Friends, not professing vehement attachment, not offering
the tender solace of well-matched and congenial relationship;
on whom, therefore, but moderate demand of affection
was to be made, of whom but moderate expectation formed;
but towards whom my heart softened instinctively,
and yearned with an importunate gratitude, which I
entreated Reason betimes to check.
“Do not let me think of them too often, too
much, too fondly,” I implored: “let
me be content with a temperate draught of this living
stream: let me not run athirst, and apply passionately
to its welcome waters: let me not imagine in
them a sweeter taste than earth’s fountains
know. Oh! would to God I may be enabled to feel
enough sustained by an occasional, amicable intercourse,
rare, brief, unengrossing and tranquil: quite
tranquil!”
Still repeating this word, I turned to my pillow;
and still repeating it, I steeped that pillow
with tears.
LA TERRASSE.
These struggles with the natural character, the strong
native bent of the heart, may seem futile and fruitless,
but in the end they do good. They tend, however
slightly, to give the actions, the conduct, that turn
which Reason approves, and which Feeling, perhaps,
too often opposes: they certainly make a difference
in the general tenour of a life, and enable it to
be better regulated, more equable, quieter on the
surface; and it is on the surface only the common gaze
will fall. As to what lies below, leave that
with God. Man, your equal, weak as you, and not
fit to be your judge, may be shut out thence:
take it to your Maker—show Him the secrets
of the spirit He gave—ask Him how you are
to bear the pains He has appointed—kneel
in His presence, and pray with faith for light in
darkness, for strength in piteous weakness, for patience
in extreme need. Certainly, at some hour, though
perhaps not your hour, the waiting waters will
stir; in some shape, though perhaps not the
shape you dreamed, which your heart loved, and for
which it bled, the healing herald will descend, the
cripple and the blind, and the dumb, and the possessed
will be led to bathe. Herald, come quickly!
Thousands lie round the pool, weeping and despairing,
to see it, through slow years, stagnant. Long
are the “times” of Heaven: the orbits
of angel messengers seem wide to mortal vision; they
may enring ages: the cycle of one departure and
return may clasp unnumbered generations; and dust,
kindling to brief suffering life, and through pain,
passing back to dust, may meanwhile perish out of
memory again, and yet again. To how many maimed
and mourning millions is the first and sole angel
visitant, him easterns call Azrael!
