Papers from Overlook-House

by Frederic W. Beasley

He had no time to observe the effect of this his sorrow and confession.

His internal wrath at this departure from his ordinary habits, from all the course which he, as a reasonable being could pursue, from all the rules he had ever prescribed for his family,—from all that could make the time to come consistent with the comfortable care he had taken of himself in the past, caused such an agitation, that he thought for a moment he must die. His golden age in the past to be supplanted with this coming age of iron! Would he die? A great earthquake had crowded all its might into a mole-hill. It was as if a storm-cloud was just on the eve of being rent asunder, to tear the hills below with its awful bolts, and some angelic messenger was sent to give it the aspect of a quiet summer-cloud, and cause it to send down a gentle rain on all the plants.

He knew well from experience the sense of suffocation. His throat had seemed incapable of allowing a breath to pass to the lungs. But now he had, as it were, a sense of suffocation in every limb. His whole frame had sensations as if pressed to its utmost tension by some expanding power, as by some great hydraulic press.

What was to be the result? Was he to undergo some external transformation like the reptile which he had seen in the plain?

To his horror, he began, in his rhapsody of the dream to recall a huge frog, which he had watched as a boy—swelling—swelling—and about to burst through its old skin, and come out in the sunshine in a new and fashionable coat and a pair of elastic pantaloons, with water-proof boots to match. Then his imagination recalled a snake which he had seen when he sat once by the brook with a fishing-rod in his hand, the hook in the sluggish stream, and the fish, no one could tell where. Thus was it passing through a similar process with the frog—preparing to present itself in the court of the queenly season, making his new toilette as if he had been fattening off the spoils of office, and had ordered his new garb from the tailor without regard to cost.

In his heart there came again a tenderness for his wife and children. And with that deep emotion came peace—for suddenly a golden cup was at his lips, and cooling water, such as he had never tasted. An angel's hand—oh how like the hand of his wife in its gentle touch—was laid upon his head, and all its throbbing misery was gone. The same Being waved his wings, and a cool air, with waves murmuring in some music from a far off, blessed space, and with fragrance that lulled the disturbed senses to repose, passed over him,—and he felt that all his fever and distress had departed from him.

Then he appeared to be surrounded by his wife and children, who were wrapped in a deep sleep. He gazed on them, meditating offices of love in time to come. One and another, in dreams, uttered his name with unspeakable tenderness. His tears fell freely. The great night around him—that used to seem so unsympathizing—and to throw him off far from all its glory, as a poor worthless atom, now entered into accordance with the new found life within. The gleaming stars said to him, we take your purpose into one great mission of reflecting light. All spoke of hope. He was used to the feeling of loneliness and painful humiliation, when in the darkness under the great unchanging canopy. Now was he lowly; but he felt that man was great, as one who bore the relation of a spirit to the Maker of all things. He had never thought, that as great peace dwelt among all the human family, as now pervaded his own heart.

Again the dream was changed. He was in the city. He was seated in the old dusty counting-room. He was the former selfish man. The men in the place, were to him a sea of a multitude of living waves. All that he had to do was to count all created for him, and he for himself; and in that sea he was to seek to gain the pearls which he coveted. As men passed by, he had no blessing in his heart for those tried in life, and to meet death, or be tried still more. That God cared for them was no thought that made an impress on his nature.

As he sat before his table covered with his papers, witnesses of his gains, there was a sound of approaching feet. Then men entered and bore along with them a mummy,—the dead form in its manifold wrappings, as the mourners had left it in the days when Abraham dwelt in the land of promise.

They placed the form on which it was borne in the centre of the room, and then with grave deliberation proceeded to unroll its many integuments.