From “Reveries of a Bachelor.”

IT is a strange force of the mind and of the fancy that can set the objects which are closest to the heart far down the lapse of time. Even now, as the fire fades slightly, and sinks slowly towards the bar, which is the dial of my hours, I seem to see that image of love which has played about the fire-glow of my grate—years hence. It still covers the same warm, trustful, religious heart. Trials have tried it; afflictions have weighed upon it; danger has scared it; and death is coming near to subdue it; but still it is the same.

  The fingers are thinner; the face has lines of care and sorrow crossing each other in a web work that makes the golden tissue of humanity. But the heart is fond and steady; it is the same dear heart, the same self-sacrificing heart, warming, like a fire, all around it. Affliction has tempered joy; and joy adorned affliction. Life and all its troubles have become distilled into a holy incense, rising ever from your fireside,—an offering to your household gods.

  Your dreams of reputation, your swift determination, your impulsive pride, your deep-uttered vows to win a name, have all sobered into affection—have all blended into that glow of feeling, which finds its centre, and hope, and joy in Home. From my soul I pity him whose soul does not leap at the mere utterance of that name.

  A home!—it is the bright, blessed, adorable phantom which sits highest on the sunny horizon that girdeth Life! When shall it be reached? When shall it cease to be a glittering daydream, and become fully and fairly yours?

  It is not the house, though that may have its charms; nor the fields carefully tilled, and streaked with your own footpaths;—nor the trees, though their shadow be to you like that of a great rock in a weary land;—nor yet is it the fireside, with its sweet blaze play;—nor the pictures which tell of loved ones, nor the cherished books,—but more far than all these—it is the Presence. The Lares of your worship are there; the altar of your confidence there; the end of your worldly faith is there; and adorning it all, and sending your blood in passionate flow, is the ecstasy of the conviction, that there at least you are beloved; that there you are understood; that there your errors will meet ever with gentlest forgiveness; that there your troubles will be smiled away; that there you may unburden your soul, fearless of harsh, unsympathizing ears; and that there you may be entirely and joyfully—yourself!

  There may be those of coarse mold—and I have seen such even in the disguise of women—who will reckon these feelings puling sentiment. God pity them!—as they have need of pity.

  That image by the fireside, calm, loving, joyful, is there still; it goes not, however my spirit tosses, because my wish, and every will, keep it there, unerring.

  The fire shows through the screen, yellow and warm, as a harvest sun. It is in its best age, and that age is ripeness.

  A ripe heart!—now I know what Wordsworth meant, when he said:—

  The town clock is striking midnight. The cold of the night wind is urging its way in at the door and window-crevice; the fire has sunk almost to the third bar of the grate. Still my dream tires not, but wraps fondly round that image,—now in the far-off, chilling mists of age, growing sainted. Love has blended into reverence; passion has subsided into joyous content.

  And what if age comes, said I, in a new flush of excitation,—what else proves the wine? What else gives inner strength, and knowledge, and a steady pilot-hand, to steer your boat out boldly upon that shoreless sea, where the river of life is running? Let the white ashes gather; let the silver hair lie, where lay the auburn; let the eye gleam further back, and dimmer; it is but retreating toward the pure sky-depths, an usher to the land where you will follow after.