"If man's general unworthiness be a trial of our faith and of our patience, the most poignant anguish of the torture is perhaps the keen conviction of his ingratitude and his injustice--not alone the ingratitude and injustice of individuals, but those of every great body--of every group--of so-called friends, of governments, of countries, of people. Vainly do we follow the course of honour and uprightness; vainly do we strive to benefit, to elevate, to ennoble our fellow-men; vainly do we labour to serve our party, or our cause, or our country. Neither honour, nor distinction, nor reward, follows our best efforts, even when successful, unless we possess the mean and contemptible adjuncts of personal interest, pushing impudence, crooked policy, vile subserviency, or the smile of fortune.
"Here am I, who for many arduous years laboured with zeal, such as few have felt, at sacrifices such as few have made, and with industry such as few have exerted, to benefit my kind and my country. That I did so, and with success, was admitted by all; even while others, starting in the career of life at the same time with myself, turned their course in the most opposite direction, pandered to vice, to folly, and even to crime, and trod a flowery and an easy way, with few of the difficulties and impediments that beset my path.
"And what has been the result? Even success has brought to me neither reward, nor honour, nor gratitude. On those who have neither so laboured, nor so striven, whose objects have been less worthy, whose efforts have been less great, recompenses and distinctions have fallen thick and fast--a government's patronage--a sovereign's favour--a people's applause. And I am an exile on a distant shore; unthought of, unrecompensed, unremembered."
He paused with the pen in his hand, and the bitter and corroding thoughts of the neglect he had endured still busy in his mind, spreading into a thousand new channels, and poisoning all the sources of happiness within him. An old newspaper lay on the table. Newspapers were scarce in those days, and it had reached him tardily. Some accidental traveller through the wilderness had brought it to him lately, and he had found therein fresh proofs of the forgetfulness of friends--fresh evidence of the truth of the old axiom, "out of sight out of mind."
The perusal of this journal had given rise to the dark view of his own fate, and of human nature which he had just put upon record. His was not, in truth, a complaining spirit. It was not his nature to repine or to murmur. He had a heart to endure much, and to struggle on against obstacles: to take even bright and happy views: to rely upon friendship, and trust in God. It was only when some fresh burden was cast upon the load of ingratitude and falsehood he had met with, that a momentary burst of indignation broke from him--that the roused and irritated spirit spoke aloud. He had been a good friend, faithful, and true, and zealous. He had been a kind master, looking upon all around him as brethren, seeking their welfare and their happiness often more than his own. He had been a good subject, honouring and loving his sovereign, and obedient to the laws. He had been a good patriot, advocating by pen and voice (without fear, and without favour) all those measures which, from his very inmost heart, he believed were for his country's welfare, and grudging neither time, nor exertion, nor labour, nor money, to support that party which he knew to be actuated by the same principles as himself.
But, with all this, no one had ever sought to serve him; no one had ever thought of recompensing him. Many a friend had proved false, and neglected the best opportunity of promoting his interests: many, who had fed upon his bounty, or shared his purse, had back-bitten him in private, or maligned him in the public prints; and, though there were a few noble and generous exceptions, was it wonderful that there should be some bitterness in his heart, as he sat there in a lowly dwelling, in the midst of the woods of America, striving to carve a fortune from the wilderness for himself and his two children?
Yet it was but for a moment that the gloom was suffered to remain--that the repining spirit held possession of him. Though his hair was very gray--rather with care than with age--body and mind were both active, and his heart was quite young. Sometimes he could hardly fancy himself anything but a boy; such was still his delight in the things which had delighted his early youth. Neither were trifles--matters of mere material comfort or discomfort--capable of annoying him in any shape. He trod upon all petty annoyances; trampled them beneath his feet. He had lived at ease, moved in refined society, enjoyed the conversation of the wise, the high, and the noble; had servants to whom he said, "Do this," and they did it. But the absence of all these things, in his present solitude, affected him very little; sometimes provoked a smile, yet rarely called forth a sigh. Not even solitude oppressed him; though his was that kind of solitude which is the most oppressive,--the want of congenial minds and congenial spirits. Notwithstanding he had no near neighbours, the presence of man was not altogether wanting, though it was not of that kind which makes society for a mind like his. There was the shrewd, keen trader with the Indians, the rough, uncultivated pioneer of man's advance into the wilds, and an occasional wanderer like himself, seeking some place of settlement upon the very verge of civilization; but even this last kind of adventurer had none of those refinements which, at first sight, seemed to render the recluse, who recorded the foregoing reflections, as unfit for his position as man could be. Thus, there were scarcely any whose thoughts could be linked with his thoughts by associations either in the past or the present; none in habits or manners upon a par with himself; none who in cultivation of mind or general education could pretend to be his companion. The forest shut him and his little household in from all the accessories which custom, intellect, and taste had rendered precious.
Still, this privation had not affected him so much as might have been expected. He had resources in himself. He had some books, some musical instruments, and materials for drawing. He had his children too. It was only the decay of hopes, the frustration of bright aspirations, a bitter sense of the world's ingratitude, unmerited neglect, and the vanity of confidence, that ever clouded his heart as we have seen it clouded in the words he wrote. Those words were written in a record kept of each day's thoughts and actions, a record most useful to every man, in all circumstances; but, above all, to the disappointed, and to the solitary. There, day by day, he can trace the progress he has made against fate and his own heart--how far he has enlisted spirits of thought upon his side against the desolating warfare of silent hours--how far he has triumphed over circumstances, and conquered repining. He can detect, too, how often he has weakly yielded, how far he has fallen back before the enemy--what the ground gained, what the ground lost--and can strengthen himself to better endeavour.
Strong resolution is a mighty thing, and he who sat there had come with many a determination which remained unshaken, but yet to be fulfilled. Part of every resolution is a dream; for no man can ever say, "I will do thus or thus," with certainty; and the things which frustrate purposes, and retard and deny fruition, are generally petty obstacles and small impediments. The pebbles in our path weary us, and make us foot-sore, more than the rocks, which only require a bold effort to surmount. He trod firmly and strongly, however, undiscouraged by all minor difficulties; and it was only the grievance and oppression of spirit that ever caused him to sit down in sadness, and pause in the struggle onward.
The house was a neat, though a lowly one. It bore traces of newness; for the bark on the trunks which supported the little veranda, had not yet mouldered away. Nevertheless, it was not built by his own hands; for when he came there, he had much to learn in the rougher arts of life. But with a carpenter, from a village some nine miles off, he had aided to raise the building, and directed the construction by his own taste. The result was satisfactory to him; and, what was more in his eyes, was satisfactory to the two whom he loved best--at least, so it seemed; although those who knew them, even not so well as he did, might have doubted, and yet loved them all the better.
There is one sort of hypocrisy, and only one, which is lovable, which is noble, and perhaps they practised it: certainly if they saw a defect in anything that had been done, they would not have admitted it even to their own hearts; for their father had done it: if they ever felt a want, they never confessed it in their inmost thoughts; for their father had provided all that his means allowed.
Love, even earthly love, has a saving