CHAPTER VIII.  THE UNHAPPY MARRIAGE.

 

 

Oh! how yon spirit quivers at his fate,

As trembling aspen in the wind-swept grove! I to his rescue fly before too late, And by my virtue will his vice reprove.

 

AS the Society were thus engaged, a stranger approached and paused near the Portico. Feeling the current of invitation, he drew near and mated himself with the members.

 

"Welcome," mid the Sage. "Welcome, even if you come with grief darkening your heart. You am free now, earth and its sorrows have passed away in part; and you ought not to allow recollections of the past to disturb your peace."

 

"I am sad when I think of what a paradise earth might have been for me, had it not been for one false step, which made me forever miserable."

 

"Not forever! If you are not stained by a great crime it will yet be well for you."

 

"I am not a criminal fearing justice. Justice—that is what I want. I am a victim of false marriage."

 

"Then as you are released from its bonds you ought to be happy.",

 

"Yes, I might be happy, for I am free, if I could forget my brothers, and their ignorance and misery."

 

"Then it is your manifest duty to go to the earth and instruct them, and you cannot advance until you have fulfilled the demands thus made upon you."

 

"But, ah! great Sage, what shall I teach? I cannot approve the doctrines of free love as commonly understood, and yet I feel that there should be freedom in love. As soon as, love is confined, it is love no more. But if freedom is given, I fear the consequences."

 

"Earth is not yet prepared for the doctrine of which you speak. It will be true for them when they become as the angels in purity. In the abstract, it is true; in the practical application of to-day it is false. It is not the doctrine you should teach. Rather go to earth and teach man the laws which govern the mind, that they may know each other's character, and not be deceived by appearances. Teach them that purity is worth all else."

 

"Ah! it is a great task—one I shrink from with fear and trembling. Something must be done to relieve me, for my mind is lacerated with a dreadful lash; I cannot bear it long. Great God, give me strength to perform the task before me with energy and success! Give me patience and perseverance to grapple with the work successfully."

 

"If you act as earnestly as you pray, you will be successful. But why so troubled? Does it all result from your philanthropy and the love you bear your race? If so, that alone will place you above us all."

 

"I am selfish, I fear. Perhaps regret for what I might have enjoyed causes my sorrow. I was a happy youth. Educated at college, and enjoying all the facilities the latter afforded, I climbed rapidly up Wisdom's mountain. As I arose higher and higher, the prospect sped further and further away, lost in the dim distance. The far off objects came forward to meet me as I advanced, until beneath me spread a glorious view to ennoble my life, and give me a position of honor among men. The rose­bud, half-expanded, when just about to bloom in fragrant beauty, may be crushed forever. A rude blast may freeze its delicate petals, or change to disgusting odor its fragrant beauty. I was, like the bud, just opening to the beauties around mew My heart yearned for congeniality—for sympathy of a kind I could not express. I could only catch a glimpse now and then, go bashfully it approached me. The cold selfishness of the world galled me. I shrank from its rude breath. I wanted a cottage in the wild woods, far, far from the haunts of man, that there I might employ the learning I possessed in diving into the depths of mysterious nature—exploring her laws, and journeying through her labyrinths with the torch of reason to light my path. I desired a kindred mind to journey with me—to become one with my thoughts—whom. I might love with unsurpassed affection, and who would love me with a love that would never die. This was a rude effort of dawning love to picture the ideal of my dreams an effort of mind to reach out into the undefined future, and make fancy a prophecy of my destiny.

 

While in this state of mind, I saw one who appeared to be the ideal of my dream. In her I saw all my fancy had adored. Ah! how beautiful she appeared! Poets might strive in vain; the pencil would be a useless instrument; the pen of the novelist, in its wildest flights, is inadequate to convey the dimmest shadow of her beauty. So long had I dreamed over my ideal, that the object which represented it was mine. Shall I give a particular description? No, I will not—I cannot, for they are only for the lover! Ah, why did not the angels who weep in heaven for the ignorance of main, come down, and by some means make me sensible of the gulf on whose fearful brink I stood? With all my learning I was ignorant. My knowledge was theoretical, and not in the least; adapted to the demands of life. It was useless to me when most needed—rather worse than useless, for it gave me a confidence in myself which it did not support. I knew nothing of the laws of life, or how I might arrive at the knowledge of another's character. Why I loved I knew not; I only recognized the fact. I was led on by the blind instinct of a misdirected love, or rather an instinct wholly undirected. I had heard of affinity and attraction of spirit, but it served only to involve me more inextricably, for I supposed, if attracted, I should follow that attraction, and that it was an instinct pointing out my proper companion.

 

"She loved me, or so pretended; and, when I was near, to all appearances was an angel in goodness and love. How philanthropic was she! How she desired seclusion from the wide, wide world! How she hated selfishness, and how disgusted was she with the passions! She made herself the ideal I sought. I loved that ideal, for it was, the offspring of my childish dreams of my youthful heart, my dawning manhood's thoughts. I will not say I loved her, but I did love the attributes I supposed she possessed—her apparent beauty, goodness, and gentle affectionate spirit. How fancy flew then! What would I not have done to gain her applause? I strove for a name for her sake!

 

"Shall I tell you that we united our destinies? Nay, you know that already. Oh, how the bright vision faded away! How feels the famished traveller on the desert, when groves of palm, and lakes of clear blue water, spread out in all lovliness on the brim of the horizon. He urges on his camel with renewed pace, that by nightfall he may slake his feverish thirst. The sun sets in the western sky, and, with its last crimson blush, the glorious palms and blue waters all vanish away, and are seen no more. So I felt when that glorious vision of happiness seemed just within my grasp; but the moment I reached forth my hand, it vanished away.

 

"We put on smiles and politeness and are ever so communicative, benevolent, and unselfish in company, just as we would a garment, to be packed in the closet when at home. It was her exterior garment I loved; and when we soul revealed itself joy fled forever!

 

"I had never seen—I was totally unacquainted with the being who now revealed herself to me. I loved her not, but hated her for her selfishness and affectation, and for the deception she had played me. My angel was not an angel. My ideal had faded into a low actual. How, then, our minds antagonized! She feared the wide, wide world no more, but wished for show and popularity, and she told me plainly that she sold herself for my wealth. May the great God blot from my memory the years—long ages they seemed—during which I suffered the penalties for my ignorance of the laws of the relations of mind. Let me pass them by; I am there no more. I am transported from misery to regret. I would live longer on earth to plant a little monument in the minds of men, to tell them I have existed. The desire for the wide influence I wished to exert has vanished. I have lived so far to no purpose but misery in the end. Is there no balm in Gilead? Shall the weary find no rest?"

 

"Be calm and reason," said the Sage. "Misfortunes are necessary to undeveloped beings. If you were ignorant then, you can inform yourself now. If a few years are lost, remedy the fault by intenser application. You are only one in millions who have suffered in a similar manner. In fact, you have given a perfect description of earthly marriage, where each deceives the other into a belief that they are what they are not; and after union, the two unhappy beings find each other not the ones they loved, but strangers, who have by some jugglery slipped into the places of the lovers."

 

"This is the cause of my grief—because so many are going to the banquet of woe with garlands of roses on their brows, all unconscious of the suffering in store. And is there no remedy?"