The Rake Reformed in the House of Mourning

Florino was young and idle; he gave himself up to all the diversions of the town, and roved wild among the pleasures of sense; nor did he confine himself within the limits of virtue, or withhold his heart from any forbidden joy. Often hath he been heard to ridicule marriage, and affirm that no man can mourn heartily for a dead wife, for then he hath leave by the law to choose a new companion, to riot in all the gayer scenes of a new courtship, and perhaps to advance his fortune too.

When he heard of the death of Serena “Well,” said he, “I will go visit my friend Lucius, and rally him a little on this occasion.” He went the next day in all the .wantonness of his heart to fulfil his design, inhuman and barbarous as it was, and to sport with solemn sorrow. But when Lucius appeared, the man of gaiety was strangely surprised, he saw such a sincere and inimitable distress sitting on his countenance, and discovering itself in every air and action, that he dropt his cruel purpose, his soul began to melt and he assumed the comforter.

Florino’ s methods of consolation were all drawn from two topics: Some from fate and necessity, advising an heroic indolence about unavoidable events which ai’e past and cannot be reversed; and some were derived from the various amusements of life which call the soul abroad, and divide and scatter the thoughts, and suffer not the mind to attend to its inward anguish. “Come, Lucius’’ said he, “come, smooth your brows a little and brighten up for an hour or two: Come along with me to a concert this evening where you shall hear some of the best pieces of music that ever were composed, and performed by some of the best hands that ever touched an instrument. To-morrow I will wait on you to the play, or, if you please, to the new opera, where the scenes are so surprising and so gay, that they would almost tempt an old hermit from his beloved cell, and call back his years to three-and-twenty. Come, my friend, what have the living to do with the dead? Do but forget your grievances a little and they will die too: Come, shake off the spleen, divert your heart with the entertainments of wit and melody, and call away your fancy from these gloomy and useless contemplations.” Thus he ran on in his own way of talking, and opened to his mourning friend the best springs of comfort that he was acquainted with.

Lucius endured this prattle as long as he was able to endure it, but it had no manner of influence to stanch the bleeding wound or to abate his smarting sorrows. His pain waxed more intense by such sort of applications, and the grief soon grew too unruly to contain itself.

Lucius then asked leave to retire a litte; Florino followed him softly at a distance to the door of his closet, where indeed he observed not any of the rules of civility or just decency, but placed himself near enough to listen how the passion took its vent: And there he heard the distressed Lucius mourning over Serena’s death in such language as this:

What did Florino talk about? Necessity and fate? Alas, this is ray misery, that so painful an event cannot be reversed, that the divine will has made it fate, and there is a necessity of my enduring it.

Plays and music and operas! What poor trifles are these to give ease to a wounded heart! To a heart that has lost its choicest half! A heart that lies bleeding in deep anguish under such a keen parting stroke, and the long, long absence of my Serena / She is gone. The desire of my eyes and the delight of my soul is gone. — The first of earthly comforts and the best of mortal blessings. — She is gone, and she has taken with her all that was pleasant, all that could brighten the gloomy hours of life, that could soften the cares and relieve the burdens of it. She is gone, and the best portion and joy of my life is departed. Will she never return, never come back and bless my eyes again? No; never, never. — She will no more come back to visit this wretched world and to dry these weeping eyes. That best portion of my life, that dearest blessing is gone, and will return no more. Sorrows in long succession await me while I live; all ray future days are marked out for grief and darkness.

Let the man who feels no inward pain at the loss of such a pra-tner, dress his dwelling in black shades and dismal formalities: Let him draw the curtains of darkness around him and teach his chambers a fashiouable mourninsf: But real anmiish of heart needs none of these modish and dissembled sorrows. My soul is hung round with dark images in all her apartments, and every scene is sincere lamentation and death.

I thought once I had some pretences to the courage of a man: But this is a season of untried distress: I now shudder at the thought, I start at shadows, my spirits are sunk, and horror has taken hold of me. I feel passions in me that were unknown before; love has its own proper grief and its peculiar anguish. Mourning love has those agonies and those sinkings of spirit which are known only to bereaved and virtuous lovers.

I stalk about like a ghost in musing silence, till the gathering sorrow grows too big for the heart and bursts out into weak and unmanly wailings. Strange and overwhelming stroke indeed! It has melted all the man within me down to softness. My nature is gone back to childhood again: I would maintain the dignity of my age and my sex, but these eyes rebel and betray me; the eyelids are full, they overflow; the drops of love and grief trickle down my cheeks, and plow the furrows of age there before their time.

How often in a day are these sluices opened afresh? The sight of every friend that knew her calls up my weakness and betrays my frailty. I am quite ashamed of myself. What shall I do? Is there nothing of manhood left about my heart? I will resist the passion, I will struggle with nature, I will grow indolent and forbid my tears. Alas, poor feeble wretch that I am! In vain I struggle; in vain I resist: The assumed indolence vanishes; the real passion works within, it swells and bears down all before it: The torrent rises and prevails hourly, and nature will have its way. Even the Son of God when he became Man, was found weeping at the tomb of a darling friend. Lazarus died and Jesus wept.

O my soul, what shall I do to reheve this heart-ache? IIow shall I cure this painful sensibility? Is there no opiate will reach it? Whither shall I go to leave my sorrows behind me? I wander from one room to another, and wherever I go I still seem to seek her, but I miss her still. My imagination flatters me with her lovely image, and tempts me to doubt, is she dead indeed? My fond imagination would fain forget her death-bed, and impofe upon my hope that T shall find her somewhere. I visit her apartment, I steal into her closet: in days past when I have missed her in the parlor, how often have 1 found the dear creature in that beloved corner of the house, that sweet place of divine retirement and converse with heaven? But even that closet is empty now. I go thither, and I retire in disappointment and confusion.

Methinks I should meet her in some of her walks, in some of her family cares or innocent amusements: I should seeherface, methinks,

I should hear her voice and exchange a tender word or two Ah.

foolish rovings of a distressed and disquieted fancy! Every room is empty and silent; closet, parlors, chambers, all empty, all silent; and that very silence and emptiness proclaim my sorrows: even emptiness and deep silence join to confess the painful loss.

Shall I try then to put her quite out of my thought, since she will come no more within the reach of my senses? Shall I loosen the fair picture and drop it from my heart, since the fairer original is for ever gone? Go, then, fair picture, go from my bosom, and appear to my soul no more. Hard word! But it must be done: Go, depart thou dearest form; thou most lovely of images, go from my heart: thy presence is now too painful in that tender part of me. O unhappy word! Thy presence painful? A dismal change indeed! When thou wert wont to arise and shew thyself there, graces and joys were wont to arise and shew themselves: Graces and joys went always with her, nor did her image ever appear without them, till that dark and bitter day that spread the veil of death over her: But her image drest in that gloomy veil hath lost all the attendant joys and graces. Let her picture vanish from my soul then, since it has lost those endearing attendants: Let it vanish away into forgetfulness, for death has robbed it of every grace and every joy.

Yet stay a little there, tempting image, let me once more survey thee: Stay a little moment, and let me take one last glance, one solemn farewell. Is there not something in the resemblance of her too lovely still to have it quite banished from my heart? Can I set my soul at work to try to forget her? Can I deal so unkindly with one who would never have forgotten me? Can my soul live without her image on it? Is it not stamped there too deep ever to be effaced?

Methinks I feel all my heart-strings wrap around her, and grow

SO fast to that dear picture in my fency, they seem to be rooted there. To be divided from it is to die. Why should I then pursue so vain and fruitless an attempt? What! forget myself? foro;et my life? No; it cannot be; nor can I bear to think of such a rude and cruel treatment of an image so much deserving and so much beloved. Neither passion nor reason permits me to forget her, nor is it within my power. She is present almost to all my thoughts: She is with me in all my motions! grief has arrows with her name upon them, that stick as fast and as deep as those of love; they cleave to my vitals wheresoever I go, but with a quicker sensation and a keener pain. Alas it is love and grief together that have shot all their arrows into my heart, and filled every vein with acute anguish and long distress.

Whither then shall I fly to find solace and ease? I cannot depart from myself: I cannot abandon these tender and smarting sensations. Shall I quit the house and all the apartments of it which renew her dear memory? Shall I rove in these open fields which lie near my dwelling, and spread wide their pleasing verdure? Shall I give my soul a loose to all nature that smiles around me, or shall I confine my daily walk to this shady and delightful garden? Oh, no! neither of these will relieve my anguish. Serena has too often blessed me with her company both in this garden and in these fields. Her very name seems written on every tree: I shall think of her and fancy I see her in every step I take. Here she pressed the grass with her feet, here she gathered violets and roses and refreshing herbs, and gave the lovely collection of sweetness into my hand. But alas! the sweetest violet and the fsiirest rose is fallen, is withered, and is no more. Farewell then, ye fields and gardens, wnth all your varieties of green and flowery joys! Ye are all a desert, a barren wilderness, since Serena has for ever left you and will be seen there no more.

But can friends do nothing to comfort a mourner? Come, my wise ft-iends, surround me and divert my cares with your agreeable conversation. Can books aff”ord no relief? Come, my books, ye volumes of knowledge, ye labors of the learned dead; come, fill up my hours vnth some soothing amusement. I call my better friends about me, I fly to the heroes and the philosophers of ancient ages to employ my soul among them. But alas! neither learning nor books amuse me, nor green and smihng prospects of nature delight me, nor conversation with my wisest and best friends can entertain me in these dark and melancholy hours. Solitude, solitude in some unseen corner, some lonely grotto, overgrown with shades! This is my dearest choice; let me dwell in my beloved solitude where none shall come near me; midnight and solitude are the most pleasing things to a man who is weary of day-light and of all the scenes of this visible and busy world. I would eat and drink and dwell alone, though this lonesome humor sooths and gratifies the painful passion, and gives me up to the tyranny of my sharpest sorrows. Strange mixture that I am made of! I mourn and grieve even to death, and yet I seem fond of nothing but grief and mourning.

Woe is me! Is there nothing on earth can divert, nothing relieve me? Then let my thoughts ascend to paradise and heaven, there I shall find her better part, and grief must not enter there. From this hour take a new turn, O my soul, and never think of Serena but as shining and rejoicing among the spirits of the blest, and in the presence of her God. Rise often in holy meditation to the celestial world, and betake thyself to more intense piety. Devotion has wings that will bear thee high above the tumults and passions of lower life: Devotion will direct and speed thy flight to a country of brighter scenes.

Shake ofi” this earthhness of mind, this dust of mortality that hangs about thee; rise upward often in an hour, and dwell much in those regions whither thy devout partner is gone: Thy better half is safely arrived there, and that world knows nothing but joy and love.

She is gone; the prophets and the apostles and the best of departed souls have marked out her way to heaven: Bear witness ye apostles and holy prophets, the best of departed souls bear witness, that I am seeking to follow her in the appointed moment. Let the wheels of nature and time roll on apace in their destined way. Let suns and moons arise and set apace, and light a lonesome traveller onward to his home. Blessed Jesus, be thou my living leader! Virtue, and the track of Serena’s feet be my daily and delightful path. The track leads upwards to the regions of love and joy. How can I dare to wander from the path of virtue lest I lose that beloved track? Remember, O my soul, her footsteps are found in no other road.

If my love to virtue should ever fail me, the steps of my Serena would mark out my way, and help to secure me from wandering. O may the kind inliuences of heaven descend from above and establish and guard my pious resolutions! May the divine powers of religion be my continual strength, and the hope of eternal things my never-failing suppoi-t, till I am dismissed from this prison of the flesh and called to ascend to the spirits of the just made perfect, till I bid adieu to all that is not immortal, and go dwell with my

God and my adored Saviour; there shall I find my lost Serena again, and share with her the unutterable joys of paradise.

Here Lucius threw himself on the couch and lay silent in profound meditation.

When Florino had heard all this mournful rhapsody, he retired and stole away in secret, for he was now ashamed of his first barbarous design: He felt a sort of strange sympathy of sorrow such as he never knew before, and with it some sparks of virtue began to kindle in his bosom. As he mused, the fire burnt within, and at last it marie its way to his lips and vented itself. “AVell,” said he,” I have learnt two excellent lessons to-day, and I hope I shall never forget them. There must be some vast and unknown pleasure in a virtuous love beyond all the madness of wild and transient amours; otherwise the loss of the object would never have wrought such deep and unfeigned woe in a soul so firm and manly as that of Lucius. I beo-in now to believe what Milton sun<?, thouo-h I always read the lines before as mere poesy and fable.

Hail wedded love, mysterious law, true source

Of human oflFspring, sole propriety

In paradise, of all things common else:

By thee adulterous lust was diiv’n from men

Among the bestial herds to range; by thee

Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure.

Relations dear, and all the charities

Of father, son and brother, first were known:

Perpetual fountain of domestic sweets.

Here love his golden shafts employs, hero lights

His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings,

Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile

Of harlots, loveless, joyless, unindear’d.

Casual amours, mixt dance, or wanton mask

Or midnight ball,’ etc.

“Blessed poet, that could so happily unite love and virtue, and draw so beautiful a scene of real felicity, which till this day I always thought was merely romantic and visionary! Lucius has taught me to understand these lines, for he has felt them; and methiuks while I repeat them now, I feel a strange new sensation. I am convinced the blind poet saw deeper into nature and truth than I could have imagined. There is, there is such a thing as a union of virtuous souls, where happiness is only found. I find some glimmerings of sacred light rising upon me, some unknown pautings within after such a partner and such a life.

“Nor is the other lesson which I have learnt at all inferior to this, but in truth it is of higher and more durable importance. I confess since I was nineteen years old, I never thought virtue and religion had been good for any thing but to tie up children from mischief and frighten fools: But now I find by the conduct of my friend Lucius, that as the sweetest and sincerest joys of life are derived from virtue, so the most distressing sorrows may find a just relief in religion and sincere piety. Hear me, thou almighty Maker of my frame, pity and assist a returning wanderer, and 0 may thy hand stamp these lessons upon my soul in everlasting characters.”