A guest should be permitted to graze, as it were, in the pastures of his host's kindness, left even to his own devices, like a rational being, and handsomely neglected. Our merry friend, T., has been known to beat his breast and groan while passing a certain suburban house, whose inmates consider themselves his devoted friends. It seems that on his last visit he found only the ladies of the establishment at home,—ardent, solicitous creatures, whose good manners were nearly the death of him. He had a mind to await their brother's return, and while the fair Araminta was gathering roses on the terrace, and her sister had momentarily vanished in-doors, our tender innocent, pleased with the landscape, and not averse to bodily comfort, incontinently got into the hammock. He had barely begun to sway to and fro, in his idle fashion, when delicate expostulations smote his incredulous ear. He learned, with respectful awe, that he was liable to headache, to sea-sickness, to certain and sudden thuds on the floor of the piazza, and, lastly, to influenza and kindred ills, by facing the formidable summer atmosphere, in a recumbent position, without wrap or shawl. The climax was capped by the wheeling forward of a portly arm-chair, and the persuasive order to "take that," and be "comfortable." T. was too dazed, or too shy, to protest. When he sought a cool seat in the bay-window, down came the sash, "for fear of a draught;" he made bold to caress the dog, and Nero was led away and chained to his kennel, because he was "apt to bite;" he fell in, to his infinite diversion, with the junior member of the household, and master was marched off to bed, with the stern bidding to "be a good boy," and not "trouble the gentleman." Like sorrows hovered over him till the blessed hour of release. B. was back at seven, and wondered why his old classmate had gone.
Who does not envy them that knew Henry Wotton, "a very great lover of his neighbors, a bountiful entertainer of them very often at his table, where his meat was choice, and his discourse better;" or the Bohemian spirits of 4 Inner Temple Lane, with "the card-tables drawn out, the fire crackling, the long-sixes lit, the snuff-boxes ready for any one's handling, the kettle singing on the hob, glasses and bottles and cold viands within reach, books lying about, familiar guests doing what they pleased, chatting, reading, coming, going,—veritable At Homes, with a sense of slippered, almost of slip-shod ease"? But hold! are we to indite a disquisition on the Decay of Hospitality? Are there no open hearts above ground, nor any houses where the elected comer may still hold the key to every room, with no direful Blue-beard exclusions? Leaving Dives to the practice or omission of a virtue eminently appropriate to his coffers, what of the very poor? For there is a paradoxical extravagance in their way of life; a glorious communism between one that is needy and one whom he discovers, day on day, to be needier than himself. Where have they learned that sweet readiness of succor? The churl, with them, is he who withholds his little superfluity from a more miserable brother. In the close kinship of suffering, their souls grow mutually pitying, mutually helpful, clinging each to the rest, as a coral atom is moored to the patient island, built from the incalculable depths of the sea. If the wealth that is gracious and thoughtful should vanish to-morrow from the earth, generous giving should find its home in the thin, kind hands of poverty; and then, as now, should some bright-eyed student arise to deny the asseveration of history that the noble old Hospitallers are no more.
[THE TWO VOICES.]
DOWN a tranquil country road, I walked in a reverie, one April Sabbath afternoon. I seemed to be in a strange land, and pictures and fancies of Maiano and the Tyrol were floating in my brain; yet I was unconsciously moving, like a drowsy star, in the old, old orbit, whence I had never strayed, within brief distance of the spot where I was born, and where for years my life had worked itself into so dear a bondage, that the desire of journeying gladly elsewhere, save in the spirit, had become a sort of treason. The air was laden with the moist delicious fragrance of early spring, which comes as yet from nothing but the ground, as if the persuasive showers had stirred and awakened the very clods and roots and buried fragments of leaves into something like hope and aspiration. This is the advent-time of Nature, far more touching and suggestive than the imminent beauty whereof it is the fore-runner. As I ventured onward, wrapped in solitary thought, and resolved, as it were, into the sweet indolent joy of living, I stooped to pick up a branch, silvered with thick buds, which the wind had blown across my path. At that moment, distracted from the invisible world, and in the transition-state between dreaming and alert attention, I was saluted with a strain of exquisite music, such as one can conceive of as floating ever in Jeremy Taylor's "blessed country, where an enemy never entered, and whence a friend never went away." I raised my head to listen, and immediately perceived ahead of me, back from the highway, and embowered in trees, a gray church porch, out of which were ushered the interlacing harmonies which had charmed my wandering ear. The door stood open, and no idlers were in sight; no late wheel-marks were betrayed on the soft, fine dust of the road. Yet by the many-colored sunlight, filtered through the costly windows of the nave, I saw that a number of people were gathered together in the cool and quiet edifice. A single glance showed me that the interior was of extreme beauty, and of precisely that delicacy and airiness of design most unlikely to be coupled with massive granite walls. Yet there it was, impregnably grim without, peaceful and assuring within, like a kindly heroic heart beating under armor. From it, and about it, and through it, floated the siren voices of my search. In an illusion-loving mood, I sought not to pluck out the heart of my mystery, nor to rob it of its soft promise by vain questionings. I slipped into a deserted seat in the shadow of the choir-stairs, and gave myself up to this sole delight: as to prayers and sermons, either they were already over, or else they went past in the lapses of melody, as the swallows by the window above me, beating their shining way upward, utterly without my knowledge or furtherance.
I heard, above the rest, and sometimes intertwined only with each other, a brave, jubilant voice, and a voice steadfast and tender. Neither know I which was the fairer, so ministrant were both, so helpful and unfailing. The soft, starlit voice might touch an over-eager soul with calm; to the soul distressed, the strong voice would come like a great noon-tide wind, impelling it towards the height where the sun dwelt, and all the fountains of the day. Clear as thought was the bright voice, striving, surmounting, and instinct with truth; but like the first sigh of passion was the sad voice, thrilling, too, with memories of yesterdays that cannot return forever; fond, sensitive, dedicated to the deep recesses of the heart, where there is search after hidden meanings, and mourning over the inscrutable laws through which not even Love's anointed eyes can see. I recognized the battle-call, the rush of the wings of the morning, the pæan of young ambition in the victor-voice, whose very petition was a conquest, in the irresistible faith and strength of its asking; but the lowly voice sang with unspeakable pathos, in whose every plea the greater grief of rejection was already apprehended. A grateful spirit would fain bestow on the glorious voice an ardent welcome, and on the gentle voice a lingering caress. Both I loved, and unto both my soul hearkened; for they were the voices of angels, and one was Joy, and one was Peace.