“It was not so easily done,” was her answer, whilst a pleasant smile lighted up her countenance, “yet I made every effort to maintain my spirits, and with the kind assistance of all around me, I happily succeeded.” After speaking of the many kindnesses of her friends, and the constant devotion of her husband, in so animating a manner that I could not help fully sharing in her feelings, she continued: “If I cannot move with the busy world, I constantly hear of it, and often think of it. To appreciate and feel its pleasures, it is not always necessary that we should actively participate in them. The heart and mind are the seats of true enjoyment, and the occurrences and events of busy life can only be pleasing as they harmonize with the one or the other, whatever may be your condition. There is no joy, unless you reach them by the right direction, and no pain, unless you approach them wrongly. The measure of happiness depends more upon the manner in which they are made to move, than upon external causes. They are likewise mighty sources of comfort and amusement within themselves. I had lived happily for a number of years, partaking of all the enjoyments my tastes suggested, or opportunity presented; and since confined in this room, I have again and again lived over my former life. Every incident has been reviewed, even from my infancy to the present hour. This retrospective life, if I may so denominate it, is very singular, and withal, very pleasing. The pure pleasure of a good action is often little experienced whilst you are performing it, but felt most keenly after it has been done. At times an occurrence makes you tremble with affright whilst beholding it, and when your momentary terror has subsided, its ridiculous nature convulses you with laughter. I have known men to fret, and scold, and swear, for entire days at the inconveniences that beset them, and when safely over their difficulties, sit down and detail them again and again with the most heartfelt merriment. I remember having once encountered a traveller, who was so provoked at the miserable condition of the road, and the cold winter weather, as very audibly to wish the company in a much warmer locality more than fifty times during the slow journey; yet, a few days after, I met him comfortably seated before a cheerful fire with a friend, whilst tears of unrestrained laughter rolled down his cheeks, as he rehearsed this part of his rough experience. Such are the effects of a combination of the past and the present upon the mind, and so is it with this retrospective life. That which caused pleasure once, or made you joyful and merry, will always renew the like emotions whenever you think of it; that which truly enlisted the feelings of the heart at one time, will never fail to do so again whenever you ponder upon it; that which in any way seriously affected you once, will continue to do so as often as it may be brought to your remembrance; and the recollection even of many of those things which you would fain have averted or avoided, may prove objects of gratification. Think of this, if you please, and by directing your attention more studiously and carefully upon the past, experiment for yourself, and you will find that the soul’s impressions are not perishable. Examine the hours gone by, and you will discover for your future old age beauties which your present youth cannot fully comprehend or justly appreciate, and sources of enjoyment scarcely known to you now. Nature has so ordained, and most charitably and wisely, that each day passed in active, vigorous youth, should provide for the quiet amusements of age—that the pleasures of one period of life should happily be productive of delights for the other, instead of being felt but for the moment and then forgotten forever.”
“No doubt, madam,” remarked I, “you are very correct in what you have said; but to be compelled by necessity, at an age like yours, just properly adapted for active participation in the affairs and pleasures of life, to resort to such means of enjoyment, can scarcely be supposed to place you in so happy a condition as that which you have assigned to old age.”
“You may, perhaps,” continued she, “be partly right, but you are much more wrong. Short, comparatively, as has been my life, it has furnished material enough for an age of thought, and by using it I have again and again felt the pleasures of the soul. Then, too, this was not a dream life, the idle vapors of which could be dispelled by a sudden transition to reality, for there was nothing in it that had not, at one time, been really seen and felt. It was rather a life of quiet and happy reflection. It is not a dream nor delusion to wander back, by the marvellous power of thought, and take your accustomed place once more at the social board of a loved and peaceful home, and have again renewed within you the feelings of youth. It so resembles the substantial truth that we can scarcely discern a difference, and revives sympathies so pleasing that we involuntarily desire their constant presence. The spirit ever retains its hold upon the past, and the delightful hours of childhood, when we drank in the many joys of our young and unruffled life, come back again to awaken the same emotions that animated us then. The affections once more leap into young and untainted existence, and we feel as guilelessly happy and buoyant as in youth. No occurrence fails to re-enlist our attention, but each trifling incident contributes its just portion to our pleasure. How much we doat upon these things, and how fondly we cherish them! There,” directing my attention to a neat little article, “lies a trifling relic of one with whom I had spent many of my days in girlish companionship. She no more walks the earth, for she sank quietly and peacefully into the grave, just as she was budding into beautiful womanhood. She had done the work appointed unto her, and Death gathered her to himself; but, though she is buried, I never gaze upon that small trinket without calling up again her sweet image from its solemn resting place to experience once more, perhaps more vigorously than ever, the many pleasures we had enjoyed together. Here,” lifting up her hand, “is a token of friendship which I need but gaze upon to revive a variety of remembrances so pleasing that I would not exchange them for the most valuable treasure. How well do I remember the day, the very hour, though sad it may have been, when this tiny ring first encircled my finger! It was an hour of parting between loving friends, yet not an hour in which they forgot each other. Though far away, she still remembers me as ardently as I retain my recollections of her, and the many happy moments we spent together. Happily, however, it needs not these material trifles to wrest from oblivion the incidents of our lives. One after another we can breathe them into existence as often as we will, through the powers upon which they have made an enduring impression, and as they re-appear before us, the hallowed shadows of substances once enjoyed, we become enchanted with their loveliness. There is a beauty in this review of life, in thus living over again the years gone by, that affords the richest comfort to the soul.”
“Is it then,” queried I, “by thus asking pleasures of an active and happy past, that you have maintained your freshness of mind and brilliancy of spirits? In another, the same things would have caused melancholy and desponding regrets, by exhibiting in contrast a hopeless and pleasureless future.”
“My future,” she pleasantly replied, “is not hopeless, but were it even so, the consequences could not be so sad; neither will it ever be more void of amusement than the present, which is full of enjoyment. It is an old Spanish maxim, well suited to the temper of the Spaniard, that ‘he who loseth wealth, loseth much; he who loseth a friend, loseth more; but he who loseth his spirits, loseth all.’ With so fatal a loss, the mind sinks deep into despair, and the heart finds nothing to cheer it. Our natural organization, however, is happily provided with guards and barriers against it, and to those who are not permitted to mingle in society, this retrospective life is the best and noblest of them all. There is no reliable middle course in affliction, and if you guard against the pressure of unfavorable circumstances, you not merely avoid the dangers of despondency, but also increase your capacities for enjoyment. Your heart will mellow and expand by sickness, and whatever coldness or indifference characterized it, will yield before the power of sympathy. The ill in your nature will be imperceptibly destroyed, and the good remain standing alone. Where before you were quick to censure, you will manifest generous forbearance, and even positive injuries will be forgotten and forgiven. How well is this state and condition adapted for a review of the past! Whilst it causes you to extend friendship to those whom you hated, it attaches you so closely to those whom you loved that your very being seems to become blended with theirs. In your adoration of them, their lives are made part of your own, and though they may not always claim an interest so intense, they afford equal enjoyment. You ponder upon their adventures, contrasting them with your own, and each separate incident affords new matter for the employment of your thoughts. If, then, I have my own life spread out before me, and the lives of those who are nearest and dearest to me, have I not sources of enjoyment sufficient to do much more than maintain my present spirits and buoyancy.”
Thus she continued ever finding something to interest her mind, and bring pleasure to her lively affections; whilst I felt pleased with this happy manifestation of her well-trained disposition, and found in it much to instruct. Here was one whom I had regarded as a fit object for compassion, enjoying herself more than the vast mass of humanity much better situated for enjoyment. All this, too, by properly guarding and guiding her thoughts. Here was a commentary on human happiness, showing how well we are adapted for pleasure, and what sources of comfort we may be of ourselves. The deep and unseen springs of sensibility and joy within us, thus made to gush forth at our will, augur a higher and sublimer destiny. The crude philosopher, or the still cruder sceptic, may doubt and deny, but still they will continue to direct him to the imperishable testimonies of immortality. It is not within us to believe, that the power which dictates and controls our thoughts and our impulses, so tender that every impression made upon it even in infancy retains its hold until the grave closes over us, is destined to be forever obliterated. Even in life, it gives us evidences of eternity. Should we live for countless ages, though the particles composing our bodies might continually yield to decay and be replaced by others, its own identity would be maintained, nor could we erase from it the impressions of our childhood. No change in life can destroy it, or move it from its directing and controlling sphere. Is it, then, merely the unsatisfying mystery of an invisible element, endowed with the capacity of preserving and summoning before us the shadows of past beauties, though doomed itself to perish? Is it only a fleeting, flickering ray, simply given to illumine our physical existence, whose last flash shall be forever extinguished when the nature to which it was joined sinks before the rough contacts of earth, or slowly dies out of its own infirmities? Happily, it awakens sweeter thoughts, and inspires higher hopes. Its brightness is not like the passing lustre of the moonbeam, receding behind the first murky cloud that floats across its path, but may be made to shine only the more brilliantly through the surrounding darkness. With her, whose afflictions and pleasures I have faintly described, it was not a mere visionary creature, conjured up by powerful imagery, and clothed with the devices of a fine fancy, yet compelled to fall before the first truthful reality it encountered. Following out its mission in truth, it is our faithful companion and guide through life; and who shall deny it another sphere of nobler existence, where it may never cease to feast upon the untold loveliness of creation, and forever dwell upon the past, reviewing its own good deeds with unabating gratitude to its author, and unending happiness to itself.
AN ANONYMOUS WRITING,
WHICH HAD SERVED AS AN ENVELOPE TO THE FOLLOWING PAPER.
The manuscript enclosed was found upon the desk of the Secretary and read by permission. The author, perhaps to his own credit, cautiously withheld his name. Though many inquiries were made without success, I could not avoid ascribing its paternity to a young rogue near me, who appeared greatly pleased with it; and after the reading, desired the Junto to take the labor of reducing the practice of lying to a science under its immediate supervision and protection. This imprudent expression of his wish at once involved him in numerous difficulties. It was looked upon as a very slanderous reflection, and the poor fellow was so roughly handled that he not only gladly withdrew it, but himself also, perhaps a little wiser than he had been before. His difficulties no doubt impressed him with a proper idea of the value of discretion, and certainly taught him that no matter how much men may be given to evil habits, they are averse to having their faults paraded before their own eyes as well as to seeing them exposed to the gaze of others. They may be addicted to a disgraceful practice, yet ask them to avow and openly protect it, and they will raise such a terrible clatter about your ears that you are fain to withdraw as speedily as possible.