Morley Ernstein; or, the Tenants of the Heart

by G. P. R. James

"The climate, not the heart, he changes who flies across the wave." So said the old Roman, some thousand years ago, and doubtless what he said was true, both in his own day, when men cultivated a firm, fixed spirit within them, and also in the present, in the case of some individuals, to whom has descended the gem-like hardness of the antique mind, on which lines, once engraved, are never to be effaced. Nevertheless, in the rapid change of scene, in the running from land to land, in new sights and new excitements, in the companionship of fresh acquaintances, and even in the every-hour collision with our fellow-creatures which takes place only in travelling, one wears away the sharpness of some sorrows, as the gem which has rolled for ages in the waters of the Tiber, or which is cast up by the waves of the Ægean Sea, though it retains the figures which were cut into it ages ago, loses the sharp outline that it received from the graver's tool.

As there is scarcely a plant on earth from which the bee cannot extract honey, so there is scarcely a scene in the wide world from which the mind that seeks real wisdom cannot draw a moral; and every moral has its consolation. The very aspect of strange cities, whatever be the grief in our heart at the time, brings its comfort, derived we seldom examine how, and often mistake when we do examine, but wrought out justly and reasonably, by the silent working of that spirit within us, which, if we would let it, would always deduce its homily from every object of the senses. We wander through the streets of a great town, we gaze up at the tall houses, we mingle with the busy crowd, we see the sunshine streaming upon some mansions, and the deep shade resting upon others; at one window we behold a group of merry faces, at another the close-drawn curtain, indicative of sickness, anguish, and death. From the one door, with tabor, and pipe, and garlands, and scattered flowers, goes forth the bride to the altar; from another, streams out the dark procession of the grave. On each countenance that we meet is written some tale of joy or sorrow; each street has its history, each dwelling presents an episode in the great poem of human life. We return to our own chamber with a calmness in our sorrows, with a resignation in our melancholy that we have not before felt--and why?

Is it the universality of human misery that gives us a false support? Is it, as the most misanthropical of philosophers has declared, that there is comfort for each man in the sorrows of his fellow-creatures? Is this the process by which we derive consolation from mingling in the busy haunts of unknown races of beings like ourselves, and discovering the same cares, pursuits, and joys, and griefs throughout the world?

Oh, no!--it is, that we are taught our own littleness, as one individual ant in a whole ant-hill; and from the sense of our own littleness we gain humility, and from humility resignation, and from resignation love and admiration for that great God who made the wondrous universe, of which we are an atom--some knowledge of his power--some trust in his wisdom--confidence in his goodness, and some hope in his protecting arm.

Who is there that has ever stood amongst the multitudes of a strange city, that has not asked himself--"What am I in the midst of all these? what are all these to the God that made them? and is not that God mine?" There may be such, but those who seek it will ever find, in the contemplation of any scene where the workings of Almighty will are displayed, some balm for those wounds which almost every man, in the great warfare of the world, carries about beneath his armour; for--to end as we have begun--there is a drop of honey in every flower.

Morley Ernstein had executed his purpose; he had quitted England to search--not for happiness, but for forgetfulness--not forgetfulness of her he loved, but forgetfulness of himself and of his situation. But alas, reader, it must be acknowledged, he sought not the drop of honey in the way that it might most easily be found! The same impatient spirit was upon him, which rebelled against the share of human sorrow that was allotted to him; and, full of its suggestions he struggled to drown thought and reflection, rather than to find comfort by their aid. Pride, too, as we have shewn, had its share in his feelings; he was angry with himself that his heart had bent before any blow. He accused himself of weakness, not knowing where he was really weak; he strove to steel his bosom, and, in fact, only hardened his external demeanour.

A fit of illness which overtook him at Calais, of no very serious character or long duration, only served to increase his irritation and impatience. He had been angry before with the weakness of his mind, as he called it; he now felt a degree of scorn at himself and at human nature, for that weakness of body which yields to any of the trifling accidents of air and climate; and the very irritation which he felt, increased and prolonged the sickness under which he laboured.

At length, however, he was convalescent, and being permitted to go out for an hour or two, walked forth into the town, thinking that in its streets he might find something to call his mind away from himself. But little indeed can the good town, whose name was written upon Mary's heart, display, even to the eyes of an Englishman, to occupy or interest him for a moment. It is a sad, dull place, but in those days the communication between France and England having been interrupted for many years, and only opened for a few, there was a kind of local colouring about Calais which supplied the want of other attractions. There one saw a great many things that one had never beheld before. Postilions were to be found with enormous pigtails, and as much wood as leather in their boots; ropes served for harness, and peasant women came to market covered with great ornaments of gold. The contrast, indeed, was strong between the two sides of the water, and Morley Ernstein's eye soon became occupied, even when he believed his mind was taking no part in any of the objects around him.

The dull lethargy which comes upon the spirit of man under the influence of any bitter disappointment, is never so easily thrown off as when fancy is awakened by some of the magic tones of association. There are few places in this good world that are not linked on to some interesting event in history, and even the small, dull town of Calais itself figures in the records of the past on more than one important occasion. Nothing, however, presented itself, in the aspect of the place, or in anything on which his eye rested, that could carry the mind of Morley Ernstein away to other days, till he paused for a moment, after a ramble round the market-place, before a bronze bust, which is not easily to be passed unnoticed.

There are some heads, as the reader must often have remarked, which are very beautiful in painting, but which lose all their interest when sculptured; there are others, however, which seem to demand the marble or the bronze; and if we compare accurately the busts that have come down to us from ancient times with the history of the persons whom they represent, we shall find that the man of fixed and powerful thoughts, of stern and rigid determination, affords almost always the best subject for the statuary, as if the character of his mind required something analogous to receive the expression which it gave to his features. Of all the heads in modern times, perhaps that of the Cardinal de Richelieu was the one which afforded the finest subject for the sculptor. All the paintings of him are weak when compared to his character; it is in bronze that his image ought to go down to posterity.