You and I have often watched the unfolding of that beautiful zoophyte, the sea anemone, when, after having been left exposed, by the retreat of the waves from its rocky asylum, to the chilling influence of a northern blast, it expanded its delicate fibres to the soft returning tide; and from a shrunk and shapeless thing, opened into a star of glowing and transparent brilliancy. Just in such manner has the noble mind of our precious invalid been blighted by the pitiless storms which rage along the coasts of avarice and self-interest. In such manner also has he unlocked his soul in this little sheltered bay, to the gentle flow of affection. How thankful do I feel for the blessing of being permitted to see this hour, and bear a part in the scene which Glenalta now exhibits!
The process of change too has been as quick as it is gratifying; a cautious and alternating advance and recession would have been the history of an ordinary mind, but the impulses of a generous character are instinctive and uncalculating. They yielded at once in my brother to the force of truth; and that reserve which is still occasionally observable in his manner, expresses nothing like the coldness of doubt, but seems only to say, “alas! why has this native element of kindness, this congenial sympathy, been so long withheld, and why am I only learning, for the first time, to bask in the warm sunshine, when the orb of day is descending from his meridian, and hastening to hide his radiant beams in the deep?” So powerfully do I feel impressed with a belief that this is the secret language of his heart, that my eyes too often betray me, and I am obliged to hurry from his presence, that I may avoid discovering my emotion.
One little incident alone proclaimed the slightest vacillation in his mind since he came here, and as it ended happily, and bore evidence to the delicacy of my dear Frederick’s feeling, I have pleasure in recording it.
A letter from Arthur, in which he expressed a wish that his uncle had returned poor, in order to enjoy the luxury of being loved, with freedom from the base insinuations that restrain the manifestation of affection, and also speaking the pleasure which he experienced in the certainty that his cousin is more highly considered than himself, was received, and shewn to me some time ago, by my dear boy. Some allusion being made to news from Arthur, my brother asked one or two questions about him, which Frederick’s first unguarded movement led him to answer, by putting his friend’s letter into his uncle’s hands; but instantly recollecting the passage which I have mentioned, he altered his purpose, and blushed so violently while he made an awkward reply, that a brow for the first time overcast by clouds of suspicion, met my poor fellow’s eye, and occasioned an unspeakable agony in his mind, which he saw no means of relieving; for the same nice feeling that had stayed his first impulse, forbade him to explain the subsequent embarrassment; yet he saw that an unfavourable surmise, perhaps detracting from Arthur’s honorable motives, was the alternative. Mr. Otway was in the room when this incident occurred, and mentioned it to me in private. I immediately unravelled the mystery, produced the letter for this dear friend, who shewed it without Frederick’s knowledge, or mine, to his uncle; and the result has been the most perfect understanding on all sides, and the completest re-establishment of confidence on the part of my amiable guest.
My brother speaks with joy of never parting from me, and as every consideration must give place to the hope of protracting his existence, I shall not oppose his wishes, though I augur a removal from my cell, which I never before contemplated, in fulfilling them. My poor invalid talks of the Continent for next spring, and has heard so much of Turin, that thither he has set his heart on going in quest of that which he will never find. What is so far distant, may never come to pass; but I must prepare for it, and you know how painful to me is change of place; yet the bitterest potion is mercifully diluted for us, if we attempt to perform a duty with cheerfulness; and He who “tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” will sustain me through whatever trials may be in prospect.
Winter has been for many years a heavy season with me. Long nights of watchfulness, and sad musing, impede the progress of our daily task; and the summer has been my comforter—its warm sunshine tempts abroad; its bowery shades invite to rest; its long days furnish occupation, and its short nights are often sweetly passed in gazing on the starry host, and pondering on those mansions of eternal blessedness that lie beyond the firmament. But this is mere indulgence, selfish indulgence, and my present cares have taught me a lesson, which I ought to have learned before. Engaged now from morning till night in trying to assuage the sufferings of another, I have not time to dwell on sorrow of my own; and winter glides away unperceived, except by the rapidity of its flight.
It will rejoice you to learn that our great concern prospers; and the earnest desire to infuse “that peace which passeth all understanding” into the sinking spirit, has been blessed with success beyond our hopes. No formal siege, no angry attack, no querulous disputation has been opened here upon error and scepticism. We read, we converse, but we patiently wait for the troubling of the waters ere assistance is offered. The forcing system surely deters many from entering the lists of proselytism from the evil of their ways. You have often heard me say that there is nothing like Butler’s Analogy for minds of a certain calibre, which must have strong food. Here is a new instance in proof of its excellence. Our invalid is charmed with this masterly work, and pores over it incessantly. We have got Tremaine too, of which so many various opinions are in circulation: but as we have not yet finished it, I do not say more at present.
Adieu, dearest friend,
All, to all, with true affection, ever yours is
C. Douglas.