Part 2

From the London Magazine for October 1821.

From the October 1821 issue of the London Magazine.

So then, Oxford Street, stony-hearted step-mother! thou that listenest to the sighs of orphans and drinkest the tears of children, at length I was dismissed from thee; the time was come at last that I no more should pace in anguish thy never-ending terraces, no more should dream and wake in captivity to the pangs of hunger. Successors too many, to myself and Ann, have doubtless since then trodden in our footsteps, inheritors of our calamities; other orphans than Ann have sighed; tears have been shed by other children; and thou, Oxford Street, hast since doubtless echoed to the groans of innumerable hearts. For myself, however, the storm which I had outlived seemed to have been the pledge of a long fair-weather—the premature sufferings which I had paid down to have been accepted as a ransom for many years to come, as a price of long immunity from sorrow; and if again I walked in London a solitary and contemplative man (as oftentimes I did), I walked for the most part in serenity and peace of mind. And although it is true that the calamities of my noviciate in London had struck root so deeply in my bodily constitution, that afterwards they shot up and flourished afresh, and grew into a noxious umbrage that has overshadowed and darkened my latter years, yet these second assaults of suffering were met with a fortitude more confirmed, with the resources of a maturer intellect, and with alleviations from sympathising affection—how deep and tender!

And so, Oxford Street, you stone-hearted stepmother! You who listen to the sighs of orphans and drink the tears of children, you finally released me. At last, I would no longer pace your endless rows of buildings in anguish. I would no longer dream and wake as a prisoner of hunger. Since then, doubtless too many others have followed in the footsteps of Ann and me, inheriting our suffering. Other orphans besides Ann have sighed, and other children have shed tears. And you, Oxford Street, have doubtless echoed with the groans of countless hearts. For me, however, the storm I had survived seemed to promise a long spell of fair weather. The suffering I had paid in advance, so early in life, seemed to have bought me many years free from sorrow. And if I walked again in London as a solitary, thoughtful man, as I often did, I walked mostly in calm and peace of mind. Yet the suffering of my early days in London had taken deep root in my body. Later, it sprang up and flourished again, growing into a poisonous shade that has darkened my later years. Even so, when suffering attacked me again, I faced it with greater courage and the resources of a more mature mind. I also had the comfort of sympathetic affection, so deep and tender!

Thus, however, with whatsoever alleviations, years that were far asunder were bound together by subtle links of suffering derived from a common root. And herein I notice an instance of the short-sightedness of human desires, that oftentimes on moonlight nights, during my first mournful abode in London, my consolation was (if such it could be thought) to gaze from Oxford Street up every avenue in succession which pierces through the heart of Marylebone to the fields and the woods; for that, said I, travelling with my eyes up the long vistas which lay part in light and part in shade, “that is the road to the North, and therefore to, and if I had the wings of a dove, that way I would fly for comfort.” Thus I said, and thus I wished, in my blindness. Yet even in that very northern region it was, even in that very valley, nay, in that very house to which my erroneous wishes pointed, that this second birth of my sufferings began, and that they again threatened to besiege the citadel of life and hope. There it was that for years I was persecuted by visions as ugly, and as ghastly phantoms as ever haunted the couch of an Orestes; and in this unhappier than he, that sleep, which comes to all as a respite and a restoration, and to him especially as a blessed [^7] balm for his wounded heart and his haunted brain, visited me as my bitterest scourge. Thus blind was I in my desires; yet if a veil interposes between the dim-sightedness of man and his future calamities, the same veil hides from him their alleviations, and a grief which had not been feared is met by consolations which had not been hoped. I therefore, who participated, as it were, in the troubles of Orestes (excepting only in his agitated conscience), participated no less in all his supports. My Eumenides, like his, were at my bed-feet, and stared in upon me through the curtains; but watching by my pillow, or defrauding herself of sleep to bear me company through the heavy watches of the night, sate my Electra; for thou, beloved M., dear companion of my later years, thou wast my Electra! and neither in nobility of mind nor in long-suffering affection wouldst permit that a Grecian sister should excel an English wife. For thou thoughtest not much to stoop to humble offices of kindness and to servile [^8] ministrations of tenderest affection—to wipe away for years the unwholesome dews upon the forehead, or to refresh the lips when parched and baked with fever; nor even when thy own peaceful slumbers had by long sympathy become infected with the spectacle of my dread contest with phantoms and shadowy enemies that oftentimes bade me “sleep no more!”—not even then didst thou utter a complaint or any murmur, nor withdraw thy angelic smiles, nor shrink from thy service of love, more than Electra did of old. For she too, though she was a Grecian woman, and the daughter of the king [^9] of men, yet wept sometimes, and hid her face [^10] in her robe.

Thus, despite whatever relief I found, years far apart were bound together by subtle threads of suffering from a common source. Here I see an example of how shortsighted human desires can be. During my first sorrowful stay in London, I often found consolation on moonlit nights, if it could be called consolation. From Oxford Street, I would gaze in turn up each avenue that runs through the heart of Marylebone to the fields and woods. My eyes traveled along the long avenues, partly lit and partly in shadow. “That,” I said, “that is the road to the North, and therefore to, and if I had the wings of a dove, I would fly that way for comfort.” In my blindness, I spoke and wished this way. Yet it was in that very northern region, in that very valley, indeed in that very house toward which my mistaken wishes pointed, that my suffering began a second time. There it again threatened to besiege the citadel of life and hope. For years, visions and phantoms haunted me there, as ugly and ghastly as any that haunted Orestes in his bed. And I was unhappier than he was in one respect. Sleep comes to all as a respite and a restoration. For him especially, it was a blessed [^7] balm for his wounded heart and haunted mind. But for me, sleep was the harshest punishment. So blind were my desires. Yet a veil stands between our dim human sight and our future calamities. That same veil also hides the relief we will find from those calamities. So we meet an unexpected grief with consolations we had not hoped for. I shared, as it were, in the troubles of Orestes, except for his troubled conscience. But I also shared equally in all the support he received. My Eumenides, like his, stood at the foot of my bed and stared in through the curtains. But my Electra sat watching by my pillow. She gave up sleep to keep me company through the long, difficult hours of the night. For you, beloved M., dear companion of my later years, were my Electra! In nobility of mind and patient affection, you would not let a Greek sister surpass an English wife. You did not consider it too much to perform humble acts of kindness and servant-like [^8] duties of the tenderest affection. For years, you wiped the unhealthy sweat from my forehead and refreshed my lips when they were dry and feverish. Your own peaceful sleep became disturbed through long sympathy with my terrible struggle against phantoms and shadowy enemies. Those enemies often told me to “sleep no more!” Yet even then, you never complained or murmured. You never withdrew your angelic smiles or drew back from your loving service, any more than Electra did long ago. For she too sometimes wept and hid her face [^10] in her robe, though she was a Greek woman and the daughter of the king [^9] of men.

But these troubles are past; and thou wilt read records of a period so dolorous to us both as the legend of some hideous dream that can return no more. Meantime, I am again in London, and again I pace the terraces of Oxford Street by night; and oftentimes, when I am oppressed by anxieties that demand all my philosophy and the comfort of thy presence to support, and yet remember that I am separated from thee by three hundred miles and the length of three dreary months, I look up the streets that run northwards from Oxford Street, upon moonlight nights, and recollect my youthful ejaculation of anguish; and remembering that thou art sitting alone in that same valley, and mistress of that very house to which my heart turned in its blindness nineteen years ago, I think that, though blind indeed, and scattered to the winds of late, the promptings of my heart may yet have had reference to a remoter time, and may be justified if read in another meaning; and if I could allow myself to descend again to the impotent wishes of childhood, I should again say to myself, as I look to the North, “Oh, that I had the wings of a dove—” and with how just a confidence in thy good and gracious nature might I add the other half of my early ejaculation—“And that way I would fly for comfort!”

But these troubles are past. You will read about that period, so painful to us both, as the story of a hideous dream that can never return. Meanwhile, I am in London again, and once more I walk the sidewalks of Oxford Street at night. I am often weighed down by anxieties that require all my philosophy and the comfort of your presence to bear. Yet I remember that I am separated from you by three hundred miles and three dreary months. On moonlit nights, I look up the streets running north from Oxford Street and recall my youthful cry of anguish. I remember that you are sitting alone in that same valley, as mistress of the very house my heart blindly turned toward nineteen years ago. Though the promptings of my heart were indeed blind, and have lately been scattered to the winds, I think they may yet have pointed to a more distant time. They may be justified if understood in another way. If I could let myself return to the helpless wishes of childhood, I would again say to myself, looking north, “Oh, if only I had the wings of a dove!” And how confidently, knowing your good and gracious nature, I could add the other half of my early cry: “And I would fly that way for comfort!”