"Oh! if the soul immortal be,
Is not its love immortal too?"
Partially sheltered from observation, in a recess in one of the most elegant and luxuriously furnished apartments a New England city could boast, recently enriched by some of the highest productions of literature and art that a refined taste cultured by a few years residence in Europe could select, sat a gentleman and lady engaged in earnest conversation. A brilliant assemblage bad gathered there, wealth and beauty dazzled the eye with their gorgeous splendor, and uninterrupted festivity ruled the hour. These two guests heeded not the airy formsflitting by, the voluptuous swell of the music, or the fascinating mazes of the dance. Subjects of graver and deeper importance, and of surpassing interest to them engrossed their thoughts.
It was a time when theological strife ran at its greatest height, and every man, woman and child enlisted as combatants. So perverted and distorted had become every opinion upon the subject that the individual who stood outside the conflict, in closer communion with nature's teachings than with the scholastic essays of the divines, might have been welcomed, if not as a harbinger of salvation, at least as a panacea that would help to allay the fierce contention.
Society was composed then, as now, of every grade and shade of opinion,—from the outspoken tenets of Calvinism to the milder and more poetic sway of that unconscious religious fervor, which captivates and moulds by the consistency of its own life rather than by the profession of creeds. Men there were whose austerity, in morals shut out every ray of social warmth; women whose more secluded lives led to greater concentration of thought and purpose, but whose greater depth of feeling counteracted the stoicism of the philosopher, and led them to crucify their affections upon the alter of a life-long martyrdom.
There were others whose dogmas were laid on the shelf for particular occasions, from whom unconsciously flowed that spirit of charity and tolerance which saw in every man a friend and brother, ready lo recognize him as a co-worker in any noble cause that had for its aim the elevation of humanity. Sometimes maternal fondness overpowed every other emotion, and the joyous laugh and festive dance assumed quite another character when mothers saw their own children among the merry participants. But oftener, under the overshadowing wings of a Puritan ancestry all the tender amenities of life were hidden beneath the rigid crust of doctrine and belief whence, only occasionally, they flowerd out like some rare, exotic plant, the richer for its culture.
To such influences, doubtless, is mainly owing the strength of New England character. While other nations, corrupted by a profligate ancestry, or prostituted by their own inherent vicfes have been wrecked on the shoals of national decay, the spirit of Plymouth Rock, misguided, but conscientious, will outlive the errors of a few generations, and land us safely in the haven of universal toleration without regard to clime, color, sex or condition, recognizing only the brotherhood of the human race.
Alfred Claremont and Marianne Beaufort might have been called the representatives of the two antipodes of theology and religion. She was emphatically a child of nature. Her parents died when she was very young, leaving her to the care of a maiden sister of her father, who, if she did not enter so readily as some into the sports of children, or understand so well the thousand little wants of their minds, certainly possessed one eminent quality, that of caring for their physical education.
She allowed her free exercise in the open air, and never interfered with her own choice of enjoyment. There was not a hill or valley, wood or stream, for miles around that she had not explored. Possessing a healthy, happy temperament, and a contemplative mind, she grew and expanded into luxurious bloom under the joyous, cloudless sky of nature, through which she looked up to God as a tender, loving Father, who had made this earth so rich in beauty and so lavish in its gifts to man.
Her spiritual organization was such that it was safer to trust her to her own instincts than to attempt to control it, and she had never met with those conflicting influences that sometimes warp and harm a child's nature more than positive neglect would do. Having no young companions at home she was perhaps more reserved and thoughtful than she would otherwise have been, but this circumstance did not cast a shadow over her happiness, which she diffused wherever she moved by the magic influence of her presence, the radiance of her inner self.
During one of those lingering twilights that grace the early autumn she had retreated to a favorite grove, where, under the blue canopy of heaven, earth, air and the deep blue river blended in one sweet accord, to swell the rapturous emotion of her own soul and breathe their soothing influences over another, whose stern mental conflicts had of late dimmed for him the brightness of the material as well as the spiritual world. Unconscious of each other's presence, although but a few rods apart, until they accidently exchanged glances as both turned to leave, the momentary impression made upon him was not exactly that of a Puritan maiden, for she was not rigid enough in thought and feeling for that, but of one whose purity of thought and feeling shone through every feature so strikingly as to arrest his attention. Her image remained vivid in his mind, not from any expectation of seeing her again, but for its association with his own peaceful feelings that evening, which contrasted so happily with his previous hours of skepticism and despair. No romance had ever tortured him with its idle dreams, for life had been too stern a reality.
Ho was an Englishman by birth, the youngest son of a wealthy merchant, and had been attracted to our shores pattly from a love of novelty, but more from sympathy with our democratic institutions. His attention was first arrested by a consideration of the laws of primogeniture which seemed to him so absolutely absurd and unjust, that in seeking to trace their origin for some show of reason upon which they could rest, he was led to a general review of all governments, both human and divine, which could end only with a reconstruction of his former views and opinions. Educated into the most rigid tenets of the church of England, which he repudiated as his mind expanded, he was now passing through that dark period when the soul, relinquishing the dead letter which it has been taught to regard as the life-giving source of religious inspiration, is loosed from its moorings, and drifts about on the fathomless ocean of its own conjectures and reasonings ere it reaches in safety the other shore.
The spiritual element must be felt, it cannot be demonstrated. Vain is the most glowing rhetoric to him whose intuitions have not unlocked those sublime realities of the unseen world which the human intellect alone can never grasp or unfold. An influence more subtle than mere words can diffuse conveys the higher knowledge of the soul, which she selects according to the laws of affinity, making the meat for one poison for another, from the inability of the one to comprehend the language of the other.
In rejecting a rigid code of belief there is often a tendency to materialism and skepticism. Reason is a safe guide when it has a stand-point; otherwise it is like a ship without a rudder. When a doctrine has been enforced upon it as an essential article of religious faith which it could never reconcile with itself, it begins to question whether there is any such principle as religious faith, and what its value to the soul when it involves such absurdities. Its proper function is to search out and eradicate those errors of opinion that conflict with the spiritual perceptions, by which we recognize certain truths independent of the intellect, but harmonizing with it, being the highest development of the innate consciousness we call faith, which is the natural endowment of every living soul. It is manifest in the child when he runs to his mother for protection before he has learned to lisp her name; in man, in the confidence with which he looks forward to the fulfilment of every relation of the material universe towards him as a dependent on its bounty. In its highest manifestation forming the basis of the religious sentiments, it is no more to be confounded with belief than theology with religion. One pertains to the intellect and is as diversified as the human mind, the other is the divine illumination By which alone we ascend to a knowledge of things divine, and feel the glow of the ineffable love that gilds life's saddest hours with a foretaste of the blessedness of immortality. Belief is the mental result of the effort to reduce it to a system, and varies with the progressive stages of civilization. It can no more change its essential nature than the different modes of training a child can affect the nature of parental love.
"Man's extremity is God's opportunity."
The loveliness of this autumn sunset sentMts ray of light and cheer to herald the dawn of morning twilight upon his dreary night of doubt and uncertainty. He drank in its beauty and felt its inspiration. An impression made at such times is as ineffaceable from the memory as it is grand and elevating in character. Years of sorrow and suffering may succeed, but the recollection of it will spring up like an oasis in the desert to revive and strengthen the fainting hopes of the weary traveller as he takes up the burden of life, it may be, forever alone.
And if over all we feel the sympathy of a kindred spirit, what matter if the lips be silent? Do we not feel the responsive echoes of the eternal harmony of nature, as soul speaks to soul in a language no tongue can express; and the law of affinity running through all human intelligences which makes the eye the heart's best interpreter and most eloquent logician? The consciousness of this fact ought to make the humblest and most barren life rejoice that it has this power to confer happiness which no outward circumstance can take away; sometimes proving more precious to the friendless one than gifts or gold, because freighted with the richer sympathy of the human heart.
Not many months afterwards both these individuals met at the house of a mutual friend, who, on his return from Europe had prepared an entertainment for the reception of his numerous acquaintances, which rivalled in splendor any previous event of the kind in that city. At a table which literally bloomed with the rarest and most beautiful flowers it was possible to obtain in mid-winter, a casual remark attracted Mr. Claremont's attention; which immediately revealed to him his unknown companion in the grove. The recognition was mutual, needing not the formality of an introduction, and thus commenced a friendship of equal benefit to both parties. It was a fortunate thing for him at this time to come in contact with la, person resting so calmly in the bosom of God's love as did Marianne Beaufort. She needed not to be told that God is,—she felt his presence in every breeze that fanned her brow, in the murmur of the forest, in the sparkling rivulet at her feet. It was the all pervading element of her nature, the focus in which concentrated every other emotion, whether in solitude, or surrounded by the votaries of the world.
If she could not always meet his arguments, her faith and trust were never for a moment shaken, and the confiding assurance with which she looked forward to the solution of all his problems forced him to acknowledge the supremacy of that instinct which trusts before it can understand, over all the deductions of logic.
This was just what he needed. The fervent, longing aspiration of his soul could not be met by argument. He had had enough of that. The religious sentiment was strong within him, and required only to be allowed to follow its own dictates in rising to the highest standard of which he was capable, instead of being forced into a given channel.
A student of human nature might have been interested in the physiognomy of the two. In connection with a well developed physical organization, though of rather irregular features, which, however, did not detract from the general air of refinement he inspired, he had a high, full forehead, eyes so varying in their expression as to reveal every emotion of his soul, a firm set mouth indicating decision of character, about which there played a tender smile, not the evanescent passion of the moment, but habitual,—the index of a highly sensitive nature.
She had a finely moulded, graceful form, symmetrical features, large, lustrous hazel eyes, full of meaning and earnestness; long, silken eyelashes, and eyebrows of the same shade, as delicately curved as if drawn by a pencil; soft brown hair that shaded a well developed brow; an exquisitely formed mouth which, when at rest, bore the faintest image of a smile as if giving utterance to her own happy thoughts.
Though beautiful she was not brilliant. Possessing a mind of uncommon cultivation, she made no display of it for the admiration of others. To be admired she must be drawn out, not by a mere casual observation, but by some real, earnest thought striking the chord of sympathy within, when it would vibrate to the slightest touch. Mr. Claremont was fortunate enough to touch this chord and it responded.
Fortunately or unfortunately, an acquaintance of this kind, a friendship founded on the most serious and disinterested principles it may be, very often gives rise to emotions of quite another nature from those which were at first of engrossing interest.
Many a reverend divine, shaking his head over the romantic follies of his young parishioners whence he draws his text for a Sunday sermon upon the bad tendencies of novel reading, finds himself the unconscious hero of some unwritten tale, trenching somewhat on the sanctity of his profession. When we can banish love from the world, it will be possible to write a story for the faithful delineation of human nature which shall leave out this interlacing of the emotions.
On a bright May morning the following spring, Marianne returned from her accustomed walk with a basket full of her favorite flower, that modest spring beauty, the trailing arbutus. Having arranged it for her table the loose. Careless manner she liked best to see it, she collected the finest, largest specimens which she had reserved, in a boquet. The morning passed away before it was completed, and one might perceive by the unusual care manifested in its arrangement that something more than fancy was nerving her fingers to the task.
First she gave it a cone-shaped appearance, but that looked too stiff, and they were all speedily separated and arranged in an umbel form, which struck her as being as far the other way, and it is uncertain how many more attempts she would have made had not the door bell rung just as she had completed it for the third time, ushering in the intended recipient of her gift. Her time and care were lost, for either would have been equally acceptable to him.
There was such a child-like simplicity in her manner as she glided across the room, such a sparkling animation in her countenance as she asked him to accept the boquet, that ere he was aware, he gave expression to the thought that rose instinctively and unpremeditatedly to his lips, saying, "No, unless I can have the hand that holds it."
Love's golden hours flew quickly by, and the next May day witnessed the consummation of their plighted vows. Ere three summers passed away, a fairer Rose than ever graced their favorite bower bloomed in their household, and the months glided peacefully on, as day by day added new charms to their treasure, and blessed them with the precious influences of childhood.