Papers from Overlook-House

by Frederic W. Beasley

And what was a cause of surprise, he who saw all in the vision, and witnessed the transformation, had now no other sentiment toward the transformed and glorious, but love. No association existed in his mind, to recall, with any disgust, what it once had been. His thoughts ever rested on the dove and its pure rays, on the indescribable beauty of the creature as he now beheld it, new-created in excellence. The deepest darkness of oblivion, spreading as far as the east is from the west, interposed between what it had been, and was now, could not have blotted out the disgust of the former unsightly appearance more thoroughly from his impressions. He could gladly have placed it in his bosom. Its beauty, he felt sure, would be perpetual memories, each ever being a new joy like a star rushing on into its place of brightness in the evening, gladdening all on which its beams can rest.

Then there came to him a voice which said, Thou too must be changed from evil to a glorious state. At first he bitterly opposed the suggestion. Change! What then would life be to him? Thoughts would be his, and views, and desires forever, whose very shadow touched him, to cause pain, and to assure him of their contrariety to his nature. He who had made slaves of all, to be the loving servant of all!

Then the influence that abode in the mystic cell began to exert its power over him. It was as if a fever had passed away, and a sweet quiet, as of an infant going to its rest had pervaded his frame. Resistance to the good desires passed from him. He began to wish for a glorious transformation.

And now the dream was changed. It was late at night. He drew near his home. The lumbering stage, full of drowsy passengers, had left him at his gate.

He was not compelled to linger long upon his porch. The door was quickly opened by one, whose form glided swiftly along through the hall, summoned by the sounds of the stage. It was his pale and weary wife, a gentle, uncomplaining woman, bearing all his oppressions as void of resistance, and as submissively as the stem, the overgrown bulb, the work of insects deforming the bud or flower, whose weight bends as if it would break it. He entered the dwelling and saluted her, as if her watching was the least service she could render.

And then, though he perceived that she was pale and faint, he imposed on her tasks for his present comfort. The servants were at rest, and she must arrange for his evening meal, and go from room to room to procure the least trifle he might desire.

And again there came over him the spell of the Indian dream-seat.

Just as he was about to pour upon his serving wife the vials of his wrath, because she had misunderstood some one of his multitude of directions, there suddenly was exerted over him a power which gave all his thoughts a bias, and ruled his words and manner as the wind sways the frail reed.

He began to speak to her words of tender commiseration. He insisted that she was in need of his assiduous aid for her present comfort. For her the wine and viands must be procured. She never again should keep these watches for his sake—watches after midnight. Nay, more; with a torrent of glowing words, he promised that all his future conduct should undergo a perfect transformation.

In his struggle, our hero acquired an almost preturnatural quickening of the memory. All thought, however, ran in one single course—in the demonstration of his selfishness. He uttered confessions of his deep and sincere repentance. He enumerated a long series of petty annoyances of which he had been guilty towards his wife, and which had made up the sum of much misery. One confession of a wrong deed revived the remembrance of another. If the chain seemed at an end, as link after link was drawn into light, there was no such termination.