Sometimes, when we went out with a merry band of our school companions, to range the hills, or gather flowers by the river’s brink, I have missed her from our company, and on searching around, discovered her seated in some sheltered nook, or on some picturesque eminence, so wrapped in contemplation, that it was with difficulty she could be aroused from her musings. I used to fear that she was laboring in the incipient stage of some mental disease, and to dread that she would become crazy.
As soon as she could read, she seized with avidity upon works of romance, and sentimental poetry, and would talk so much transcendentalism, that I used to doubt whether she understood herself, or knew what she was wishing to express.
Her thoughts of heaven were beautiful as angels, and quite as untangible; and her views of life were as unreal as the view of a landscape when it is shrouded in a silvery mist. But in her eyes every thing was beautiful, and pure, and full of love, just as she was herself. From the every day things of life she seemed to shrink, as from a copse of brambles; or, if she could not escape them, she would cover them with wreaths of artificial flowers.
It was almost amusing to hear her, as she grew toward womanhood, expatiate on the perfect happiness of fervent and mutual affection, friendship, she named it thus, but the friend she had not found. I might have been the one, only I could not understand her spirit, she said, and of a truth I could not, and I much doubted whether she understood it herself. But I frequently assured her that she would go all her life mourning, for that the perfection she sought did not exist on earth.
But it was really distressing to hear her talk of love; “the perfect adaptation, the blissful union of heart and soul, the blissful blending of the whole being, the pure, unselfish devotion; and, finally, the happiness, the certain, the enduring, the all-pervading happiness of mutual and successful love.” She could not see that her parents, though affectionate and devoted, were not always happy; she could not perceive that all the married people of her acquaintance had cause for dissatisfaction, and were more or less unhappy.
Finally, the beautiful imagery of her pure and loving nature began to take form, and portray itself in song. She was a true poet, for she gave voice to the real feelings and convictions of her soul; she was a visionary poet, for all her feelings were of romance, all her convictions were fanciful and extravagant. But time would have made of these a real, as well as true poet, by chastening the romance, dispelling the visions of fancy, and sobering the young spirit with the lessons of experience and the teachings of reality. The seclusion in which she passed her life, while it shielded her purity from the heartless world’s contamination, afforded every facility for the fostering of her constitutional romance of feeling. Shut up within the little circle of her kindred and early friends, she knew nothing of the deceit, the fickleness and selfishness of the human race; and her opinions, formed from high colored novels, were all extravagant and unreal.
Have you ever seen a country Miss appear in a city, dressed and adorned, according to the pattern of the last fashion plate of the city magazine, and presenting a perfect burlesque upon the real fashion of the day? Just in this way was the mind of poor Grace furnished after the exaggerated patterns of the heroines of romance. Well, her “destiny” came at last. Her father was a noted member of one of our innumerable Christian denominations, and his house was a resort of all the traveling preachers of that particular sect. Grace believed them all to be, as indeed they ought to have been, holy and sincere men, and delighted to sit at their feet, as Mary of old sat, at the feet of Him whom they called Master. Finally, a young and handsome man appeared amongst the preachers. Gifted with an abundance of self-esteem, confidence in his own merits, and considerable oratorical talent, Mr. Blane was creating a great excitement wherever he went. He was precisely the man to take captive such a woman as poor Grace. And she did worship him, trembling upon his words, and living upon his smile. And he paid her every flattering attention, induced her to read for him, and went into rapture with the magnificence of her selections, and the pathos and justness of her delivery. He praised her own poetic effusions with expressions of ardent delight; and gave admiring assent to all her romantic dreams of life, death, and heaven.
And she had found the brother of her soul, the kindred spirit after whom she had been yearning ever. In this vision of bliss two whole years rolled away; and then this same perfect Mr. Blane—this idol of her soul—this sun of her existence—this cynosure of all her hopes, aims and aspirations—sat calmly down beside her, and told that before he had seen her, he had plighted his faith to one less excellent, less beautiful than herself, but nevertheless pious, gentle, and pure. That the time had arrived when his vows must be redeemed; but knowing the ethereal loveliness of her nature, that it could harbor no earthly passions, he felt confident his marriage would occasion no jealousy in her angelic soul; and that though another must be his wife—she must remain his familiar spirit; and he hoped the dear communion which had been theirs so long, might continue uninterrupted through life, and through eternity.
And so her heart was broken. She saw life a blank, and death the only refuge from her agony, and in the romance of her broken hopes, she resolved to die—not by any self violence, but by the cankering broodings of a wounded spirit. She contemned all the precious things that God had given her, because the idol that her fancy had made, crumbled down to common dust. She counted as naught the strong, pure love of her parents, her bright-eyed brothers, and gentle sisters; she turned away from the consolations of long-tried and fervent friendship, and wept away her hours in her solitary chamber—wandered alone, by woodland and mountain, or sat in the dewy twilight upon the river bank. Is it strange that consumption found her, that she faded away from the tree of life, and with beautiful visions of heavenly beatitude, went down to the silent house of death?—leaving hearts reft and bleeding, duties unfulfilled, her place on earth vacant, and the honor which she owed to God unpaid, and unredeemable. This was the end of Romance—which is always a beautiful parasite, displaying its tender foliage and fragile blossoms, at the expense of the soul in which its insidious roots find nurture, weighing it down with an unprofitable burden, concealing its symmetry and natural excellence, and wasting out the very sap of its life.