Ah! There is no use in repining, unless one mends matters by deeds, not words. Repentance is worth little if it be not followed up by reformation. But, how many of us rush madly, headlong to destruction, without a thought of what they are doing; never mindful of their course, till that dreadful refrain, "Too late!" rings in their ears.
As the poetical author of the ode to the "Plump Head Waiter at The c.o.c.k," has philosophically sung,--and, as many a weather-beaten sufferer has cruelly proven,--
"So fares it since the years began, Till they be gather"d up; The truth, that flies the flowing can, Will haunt the empty cup: And others" follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches!"
I remembered now having come across a pa.s.sage in Ma.s.sillon"s _Pet.i.t Careme_, some two or three years before, during a varied course of French reading at the library of the British Museum,--an old haunt of mine long previously to my ever knowing Min; and this pa.s.sage occurred to me in my present condition, expressing a want I had long felt, and which I was now all the more bitterly conscious of. It is in one of the sermons which the seventeenth century divine probably preached in the presence of the Grand Monarque. It is ent.i.tled "Sur la Destinee de l"Homme;" and might, for its practical point and thorough insightedness into human nature, be expounded to-morrow by any of our large-hearted, Broad Church ministers. In its truth, I"m sure, it is catholic enough to suit any creed:--
"Si tout doit finir avec nous, si l"homme ne doit rien attendre apres cette vie, et que ce soit ici notre patrie, notre origine, et la seul felicite que nous pouvons nous promettre, pourquoi n"y sommes-nous pas heureux? Si nous ne naissons que pour les plaisirs des sens, pourquoi ne peuvent-ils nous satisfaire, et laissent-ils toujours un fond d"ennui et de tristesse dans notre coeur? Si l"homme n"a rien au- dessus de la bete, que ne coule-t-il ses jours comme elle, sans souci, sans inquietude, sans degout, sans tristesse, dans la felicite des sens et de la chair?"
Because he can not!
The pleasures of life, however varied, and grateful though they may be at the time, soon wither on the palate; and then, when we appreciate at last the knowledge of their dust and ashes, their Dead Sea-apple const.i.tuency, we _must_ turn to something better, something higher--the joys of which are more lasting and whose flavour proceeds from some less evanescent substance.
Such were my reflections now; and, in my abas.e.m.e.nt and craving for "the one good thing," I thought of the kind vicar.
During all the time of my rioting and sin, I had never been near either him or Miss Pimpernell. I would not have profaned the sanctuary of their dwelling with my presence!
Both had tried to see me--in vain; for, I had separated myself entirely from all my former friends and acquaintances, burying the early a.s.sociations of my previous life in the slough of the Bohemian-boon- companionship, into which I had thrown myself in London.
The kind vicar had written to me a long, earnest, touching letter, which did not reproach me in the least but invited me to confide in him all my troubles; and, the dear old lady, also, had sent me many an appeal that she might be allowed to cheer me. But, I had not taken notice of their pleadings, persevering still in evil and shutting my ears to friendly counsels--as I likewise did to the voice of reason speaking in my inner heart.
Now, however, in my misery, I bethought me of these friends. I went shame-faced and mentally-naked, like the prodigal son, once more to the vicarage.
And how did they receive me?
With the pharisaical philosophy of Miss Spight"s school, looking on me as a "goat," with whom they had nothing to do:--"a lost soul," without the pale of their pity and almost below the par of their contempt?
Not so!
Dear little Miss Pimpernell got up from her arm-chair in the corner, and kissed me--the first time she had done such a thing since I was a little fellow and had sat upon her knee; while, the vicar shook me as cordially by the hand as he had ever done.
"Dear Frank!" exclaimed the former. "Here you are at last. I thought you were never coming to us again!"
That was all the allusion _she_ made to the past.
"My boy," said the vicar, "I am glad to see you."
That was all _he_ said; but, his speech was not mere empty verbiage. He meant it!
I shall not tell you how they both talked to me: so tenderly, so kindly.
It would not interest you. It only concerned myself.
By-and-by, after a long interview, in which I laid all my troubles before these comforters, the vicar asked me what I thought of doing.
"I shall go away,"--I said.--"I have exhausted London.--"I have lived and loved," as Theckla says; and there is no hope of my getting on here!
I would think that everybody would recall my past life, whenever they saw me, and throw it all back in my teeth."
"But, you can live all that down, my boy," said the vicar.--"The world is not half so censorious as you think now, in your awakening; and, remember, Frank, what Shakspeare says, "There is no time so miserable, but a man may be true!""
"Besides," I went on,--"I want change of scene. All these old places would recall the past. I could never be happy here again."
"Well, well, my boy!" he answered sadly. "But, we shall be sorry to lose you, Frank, all the same, although it may be for your good."
I had thought of America already, and told him that I intended going there. Not from any wide-seated admiration of the Great Republic and its citizens; but, from its being a place within easy reach--where I might separate myself entirely from all that would recall home thoughts and home a.s.sociations:--so I then believed.
"I shall go there," I said, bitterly.--"At all events, I shall be unknown; and, can bury myself and my misery--a fitting end to a bad life!"
"My boy, my boy!"--said the vicar, with emotion.--"It grieves me to the heart to hear you speak so. Know, that repentance brings us always once more beneath the shelter of divine love! You will think of this by-and- by, Frank:--you may carve out a new life for yourself in the new world, and return to us successful. Be comforted, my boy! Do not forget David"s spirit-stirring words of promise,--"They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy; and he that now goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed, shall doubtless come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him!""
CHAPTER EIGHT.
"GOOD-BYE!"
So, upon the verge of sorrow Stood we blindly hand in hand, Whispering of a happy morrow In the undiscovered land!
The world is not half so bad a place as some discontented people make out.
Our fellow-mortals are not _always_ striving after their own interests, to the neglect of their duty towards their neighbour:--the ma.s.s of humanity not entirely selfish at heart--no, nor yet the larger portion of it, by a good way!
Of course, there are some ill-natured people. Blisters, are these; moral cataplasms imposed on us, probably, to produce that very feeling we admire, acting as they do by contrast--one of the most vivifying principles of mental action.
But, when we come to calculate their percentage, how very few they are in comparison with the better-disposed numbers of G.o.d"s creatures that live and breathe, and sicken and die in our midst, and whose kindly ministrations on behalf of their suffering brethren and sisters around them, remain generally unknown, until they are far beyond any praise that the world can give.
Yes, humanity is not so debased, but that its good points still excel its bad! Just as you see but one real miser in a fixed proportion of men; so, are there, I believe, quite as small a representative set of absolutely heartless persons. I am certain that the "good Samaritans"
outvie the "Levites" in our daily existence--opposed, though my theory may be, to the ruling of the old doggerel, which cautions us that--
""Tis a very good world to live in, To spend and to lend, and to give in; But, To beg, or to borrow, and to get a man"s own, "Tis the very worst world that ever was known!"
Look at my present case, for instance. Of course, personal instances are, as a general rule, wrong; but, one cannot very well argue without them--especially when telling a story, and when they come up so opportunely in front of one"s nose, so to speak.
No sooner was it generally known in Saint Canon"s that I was going away, than I met with offers of sympathy and a.s.sistance from many that I did not expect. I did not require their aid, yet, the proffer of it could not help being grateful to one"s feelings, all the same.
There was Horner now. You know that I was always in the habit of "chaffing" him, taking a malicious pleasure in so doing, from the reason that he could not "chaff" me back again in return. Well, you wouldn"t have supposed that he bore me any great love or friendship, or felt kindly disposed towards me? But, he did!
About a week after I left the Obstructor General"s Office, he came to me--I a.s.sure you, much to my astonishment--offering me his a.s.sistance.
"Bai-ey _Je-ove_! Lorton," said he, "sawy to he-ah you have left us, you know--ah. Thawght you might be in a hole, you know--ah? And, Bai- ey Je-ove! I say, old fellah,"--he added, almost dropping his drawl in his earnestness,--"if I can help you in any way at all--ah, I should weally be vewy glad--ah!"
The "us," whom I had "left--ah," referred, of course, to officialdom; but, it was kind, wasn"t it?
There was old Shuffler, too.
"You ain"t a goin" to Amerikey, sir, is you?" he asked me just before my departure, meeting me in the street.
"Yes, I am, Shuffler," I replied, "and pretty soon, too!"