Brent Weeks Kindle

[Reggie Lamborn]

Suchremarks remind me that I have been along time in the world; but if a few acknowledgeme as the household friend of two generations,it is a pleasant assurance that I have notlived altogether in vain.

When I was myself near the fairy-land ofchildhood, I used my pen for the pleasure ofchildren; and now that I am travelling downthe hill I was then ascending, I would fain givesome words of consolation and cheer to mycompanions on the way. If the rays of mymorning have helped to germinate seeds thatripened into flowers and fruit, I am grateful toviHim, from whom all light and warmth proceeds.And now I reverently ask His blessing on thisattempt to imitate, in my humble way, the settingrays of that great luminary, which throwscheerful gleams into so many lonely old homes,which kindles golden fires on trees whose foliageis falling, and lights up the silvered heads onwhich it rests with a glory that reminds one ofimmortal crowns.

During the first year of her residence in NewYork, Harriet wrote every few weeks; but theintervals between her letters lengthened, and theapology was the necessity of giving dinner-parties,making calls, and attending to mantua-makers.To Jane, who was constantly working to nurseand support her dear ones, they seemed like lettersin a foreign language, of which we can study outthe meaning, but in which it is impossible for us tothink. She felt herself more really separated fromthe friend of her girlhood than she could have beenby visible mountains. They were not only livingin different worlds, but the ways of each world didnot interest the other. The correspondence finallyceased altogether, and years passed without anycommunication.

Grandmother went with a wet towel to wipetheir hands and faces, and when she heard whatthe little Tot had said, she could not help smiling,notwithstanding the heaviness of her heart. Asfor Neighbor Harrington, she laughed outright.

In fact, the morning air, the pleasant drive,the joyous little ones, and the novelty of goingfrom home, so renovated the old lady, that herspirits rose to the temperature of youth, her colorheightened, and her step was more elastic thanusual.

When they had filled their baskets, they satunder the trees, and opened the boxes of luncheon.The children did their full share towardmaking them empty. When Robin could eat nomore, he followed Joe Harrington into a neighboringfield to examine some cows that weregrazing. The women took out their knitting,and little Jenny sat at their feet, making hillsof moss, while she sang about

From all I have narrated concerningmy good and evil days, some may inferthat I have been on the whole a favoriteof fortune; that I may very wellbe philosophic, and maintain a rosy good-humor,since, with the exception of a few self-torments ofthe fancy, I have seldom or never experienceda misfortune. But indeed I have met with whatmen usually style great misfortunes, or evils, thoughI never so named them. Like every mortal, Ihave had my share of what is called human misery.The weight of a sudden load has sometimes, for amoment, staggered me and pressed me down, asis the case with others. But, with renewed buoyancyof spirit, I have soon risen again, and bornethe burden allotted to me, without discontent.Nay, more than this, though some may shaketheir heads incredulously, it is a fact that worldlysuffering has often not been disagreeable to me.40It has weaned me from placing my trust in transitorythings. It has shown me the degree ofstrength and self-reliance I could retain, even atthat period of life when the passions reign. I amfully convinced that there is no evil in the worldbut sin. Nothing but consciousness of guilt spins adark thread, which reaches through the web of allour days, even unto the grave. God is not theauthor of calamity, but only man, by his weakness,his over-estimate of pompous vanities, and theselfish nurture of his appetites. He weeps like achild because he cannot have his own way, andeven at seventy years of age is not yet a man.He bewails himself, because God does not mindhim. Yet every outward misfortune is in truthas worthy a gift of God as outward success.

In common with others, I have met with ingratitudefrom many; but it did not disquiet me;because what I had done for them was not donefor thanks. Friends have deceived me, but it didnot make me angry with them; for I saw that Ihad only deceived myself with regard to them.I have endured misapprehension and persecutionwith composure, being aware of the unavoidablediversity of opinions, and of the passions therebyexcited. I have borne the crosses of poverty withouta murmur; for experience had taught me thatoutward poverty often brings inward wealth. Ihave lost a moderate property, which I had acquiredby toil, but such losses did not imbitter me41for a single day; they only taught me to workand spare. I have been the happy father of happychildren. Twelve sons and one daughter I havecounted; and I have had to sit, with a bleedingheart, at the death-bed of four of those sons. Asthey drew their last breath, I felt that divinesorrow which transforms the inner man. Myspirit rested on the Father of the universe, andit was well with me. My dead ones were notparted from me. Those who remained behinddrew the more closely to one another, while eagerlylooking toward those who had gone beforethem to other mansions of the Great Father. Itwas our custom to think of the deceased as stillliving in the midst of us. We were wont to talkabout their little adventures, their amusing sallies,and the noble traits of their characters. Everythingnoteworthy concerning them, as well aswhat related to the living members of the family,was recorded by the children in a chronicle theykept in the form of a newspaper, and was thuspreserved from oblivion. Death is something festal,great, like all the manifestations of God herebelow. The death of my children hallowed me;it lifted me more and more out of the shows ofearth, into the divine. It purified my thoughtsand feelings. I wept, as a child of the dust mustdo; but in spirit I was calm and cheerful, becauseI knew to whom I and mine belonged.

At the beginning of old age, I could indeed42call myself a happy man. On my seventiethbirthday, I felt as if I were standing on a mountainheight, at whose foot the ocean of eternitywas audibly rushing; while behind me, life, withits deserts and flower-gardens, its sunny days andits stormy days, spread out green, wild, and beautiful.Formerly, when I read or heard of thejoylessness of age, I was filled with sadness; butI now wondered that it presented so much thatwas agreeable. The more the world diminishedand grew dark, the less I felt the loss of it; forthe dawn of the next world grew ever clearerand clearer.

Give me your hand, dear reader, andaccompany me on a visit to one of myneighbors. The day is fine, the bluesky of the month of May is a beautifulobject; the smooth young leaves of the whitehazel-trees are as brilliant as if they had beennewly washed. The large, smooth fields are coveredwith that fine young grass which the sheeplove so much to crop; on the right and left, onthe long slopes of the hills, the rye-grass is waving,and over its smooth swell glide the shadowsof the little flying clouds. In the distance, thewoods are resplendent with the brilliant light; theponds glitter, and the villages are bathed in yellowrays. Innumerable larks fly about, singing andbeating their wings in unison; making their appearancefirst in one spot, then in another, theyrise lightly from the fields, and again are as quickly47lost in them. The rooks station themselves onthe highway, looking up fixedly at the sun; theymove aside to let you pass, or foolishly fly forwardten paces on the edge of the road. On the slopesbeyond a ravine a laborer is at his plough, and apiebald foal, with its miserable little tail, dishevelledmane, and long, frail legs, runs after itsmother, and we may just hear its plaintive neigh.We enter a birch wood, and a fresh and strongodor fills the air; we reach the gate of an enclosure;the coachman descends, and, while thehorses snort, and the right wheeler plays withhis tail, and rubs his jaw against the pole, heopens the creaking gate, and, reseating himself,we roll on.

Once upon a time, a good many yearsago, there was a traveller, and he setout upon a journey. It was a magicjourney, and was to seem very longwhen he began it, and very short when he gothalf-way through.

They had plenty of the finest toys in the world,and the most astonishing picture-books, all aboutscimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs andgiants, and genii and fairies, and blue-beards andbean-stalks, and riches, and caverns and forests,and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and alltrue.

So, then he began to be very busy with thatgentleman, and they went on through the wood57together. The whole journey was through awood, only it had been open and green at first,like a wood in spring; and now began to be thickand dark, like a wood in summer; some of thelittle trees that had come out earliest were eventurning brown. The gentleman was not alone,but had a lady of about the same age with him,who was his wife: and they had children, whowere with them too. So, they all went on togetherthrough the wood, cutting down the trees,and making a path through the branches and thefallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and workinghard.

Whenever these partings happened, the travellerlooked at the gentleman, and saw him glance upat the sky above the trees, where the day wasbeginning to decline, and the sunset to come on.He saw, too, that his hair was turning gray. Butthey never could rest long, for they had their journeyto perform, and it was necessary for them tobe always busy.

At last, there had been so many partings thatthere were no children left, and only the traveller,the gentleman, and the lady went upon their wayin company. And now the wood was yellow;and now brown; and the leaves, even of theforest-trees, began to fall.

So, the traveller sat down by the side of the oldman, face to face with the serene sunset; and allhis friends came softly back and stood around him.The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the youngman in love, the father, mother, and children:every one of them was there, and he had lostnothing. So, he loved them all, and was kind andforbearing with them all, and was always pleasedto watch them all, and they all honored and lovedhim. And I think the traveller must be yourself,dear grandfather, because it is what you do to us,and what we do to you.

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