“It is the sting of such a woe as mine
To feel I am a man!”
Again, my best remedy is to force the mind backward into familiar incidents which clearly show that these fierce lions of the imagination are at best mere scarecrows. There is one favorite adventure which usually serves to lift the spell.
Many years ago a certain young man met a certain young woman, and the young man was soon completely certain that here was “the only girl”. Ever since the world began young men have singled out young women by a process of selection, not usually scientific or always safe or sane; yet life has continued for many centuries with upward tendencies as a result. This young man’s ancestor, the cave man, would doubtlessly have taken a club (if he had been big enough), knocked down the male members of the family, and dragged the young woman off to his own hole in the rocks. The race has progressed since then, and the family must be approached in a more gentle manner. This young woman had a wide choice. She was bright and lively and pretty, with a long string of attendants. The man was serious-minded and poor, with prospects far from the best. His hearing was failing, and he knew that deafness was inevitable. He had reasoned out the whole situation with the greatest care. Here was the “only girl,” but the cold future lay on ahead. Have the deaf a right to marry? Is it fair to ask anyone to share the results of such an affliction? What he did was to go straight to the “only girl” with the truth. Probably the imps of depression had begun to talk to him even then. No doubt he made his future chances seem harder than he might have done. It is said that John G. Whittier made the same blunder of exaggerated honesty when he offered marriage to another “only girl.” The girl rejected him and Whittier never married. But in our case the “only girl” said that she would “think it over.”
Then came the lawn party. The young man was a little late, and dancing had begun when he came and looked through the window. Those were the good old Southern days when we swung about in the old-fashioned waltz; the happy days before the war were still in mind, and we danced to such plaintive tunes as “Old Kentucky Home,” and “Nellie Was a Lady.” The young man outside saw the “only girl” dancing with Henry. Henry was a good fellow, bright and clean; his mother was the richest woman in town. When the music stopped the couple came out onto the lawn. The waiting young man saw them find seats under a tree, back from the lights, where they sat down to talk earnestly. The watcher could think of but one probable topic for conversation. Once as he walked down a path under a lamp they looked at him and he saw the “only girl” smile. He lost all interest in the party. He walked on out along the lonely country road, and like Philip Ray of Enoch Arden, “had his dark hour alone.”
The imps came to him in the dark, but he mastered them and reasoned it out to a great peace. “It is better so. Henry can give her an easier life. She will be happier here in her old home town. I must fight for a place in the world, and she is not a fighter. I am handicapped. In the years to come, as a deaf man I shall be worse off than a man with one leg. I really have no right to ask her to share an uncertainty with me. Henry is the better man—and yet, she is the ‘only girl.’ I cannot stay here. I’ll go back North!”
The deaf spend less time on regrets after the struggle than do those who can hear. So the young man walked back to the house with a great peace in his heart. The “only girl” was sitting on the steps, one of a group of happy young people. And Henry came walking across the lawn straight to the deaf man. The latter braced himself and held out his hand to the rival—for what did it matter after all if the “only girl” could be satisfied? But Henry got in ahead. He put out his hand impulsively and said:
“Old man, I congratulate you! She has told me all about it. She’s not for me. She says she admires a self-made man, and that’s more than I can ever be. Mother took the job off my hands too early!”
This is undoubtedly the best antidote for my fears and imaginary vagaries, and I like to pass it in mental review. And this lady who sits at the other side of the fire! I wonder how much of it she remembers? Does it have the effect of an antidote for her? She is writing something for me now. No doubt she is remembering that night long ago—the music and the moonlight and all the rest of it. Here is proof of the power of mental communication. The good lady passes the message over to me. Let me rub my glasses a moment in pleasant anticipation. I read:
“You went away this morning without leaving me any money. I must have ten dollars to pay a few little bills!”