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diff --git a/old/62823-0.txt b/old/62823-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cc95c70..0000000 --- a/old/62823-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7330 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Reveries of a Bachelor, by Donald Grant -Mitchell, Illustrated by E. M. Ashe - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Reveries of a Bachelor - or, A Book of the Heart - - -Author: Donald Grant Mitchell - - - -Release Date: August 2, 2020 [eBook #62823] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REVERIES OF A BACHELOR*** - - -E-text prepared by Tim Lindell, Barry Abrahamsen, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images -generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this - file which includes the original illustrations, - some of which are in color. - See 62823-h.htm or 62823-h.zip: - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62823/62823-h/62823-h.htm) - or - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62823/62823-h.zip) - - - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/reveriesofbachel00mitciala - - -Transcriber’s note: - - Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores - (_italics_). - - - - - -REVERIES OF A BACHELOR - - -[Illustration] - - -REVERIES OF A BACHELOR - -Or - -A Book of the Heart - -by - -IK MARVEL - -With Illustrations & Decorations by E. M. Ashe - - - - - - -Indianapolis -The Bobbs-Merrill Company -Publishers - -Copyright 1906 -The Bobbs-Merrill Company -————— -October - -Press of -Braunworth & Co. -Bookbinders and Printers -Brooklyn. N.Y. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - To - Mrs. E. L. Dixon - of Hartford, Connecticut - This book is respectfully inscribed; - by her friend - - THE AUTHOR - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - CONTENTS - - - FIRST REVERIE - - PAGE - Over a Wood Fire 3 - I Smoke, Signifying Doubt 9 - II Blaze, Signifying Cheer 21 - III Ashes, Signifying Desolation 29 - - - SECOND REVERIE - - By a City Grate 47 - I Sea-Coal 57 - II Anthracite 77 - - - THIRD REVERIE - - Over His Cigar 99 - I Lighted With a Coal 105 - II With a Wisp of Paper 121 - III Lighted With a Match 137 - - FOURTH REVERIE - - Morning, Noon and Evening 155 - I Morning—Which Is the Past 165 - School Days 177 - The Sea 191 - The Father-Lan 201 - A Roman Girl 213 - The Appenines 225 - Enrica 235 - - II Noon—Which Is the Present 245 - Early Friends 249 - School Revisited 259 - College 267 - The Packet of Bella 275 - - III Evening—Which Is the Future 287 - Carry 293 - The Letter 303 - New Travel 311 - Home 327 - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration] - - - - - PREFACE - - -This book is neither more nor less than it pretends to be; it is a -collection of those floating reveries which have, from time to time, -drifted across my brain. I never yet met with a bachelor who had not his -share of just such floating visions; and the only difference between us -lies in the fact that I have tossed them from me in the shape of a book. - -If they had been worked over with more unity of design I dare say I -might have made a respectable novel; as it is, I have chosen the -honester way of setting them down as they came seething from my thought, -with all their crudities and contrasts, uncovered. - -As for the truth that is in them, the world may believe what it likes; -for, having written to humor the world, it would be hard if I should -curtail any of its privileges of judgment. I should think there was as -much truth in them as in most Reveries. - -The first story of the book has already had some publicity; and the -criticisms upon it have amused and pleased me. One honest journalist -avows that it could never have been written by a bachelor. I thank him -for thinking so well of me, and heartily wish that his thought were as -true as it is kind. - -Yet I am inclined to think that bachelors are the only safe and secure -observers of all the phases of married life. The rest of the world have -their hobbies; and by law, as well as by immemorial custom, are reckoned -unfair witnesses in everything relating to their matrimonial affairs. - -Perhaps I ought, however, to make an exception in favor of spinsters, -who, like us, are independent spectators, and possess just that kind of -indifference to the marital state, which makes them intrepid in their -observations, and very desirable for—authorities. - -As for the style of the book I have nothing to say for it except to -refer to my title. These are not sermons, nor essays, nor criticisms; -they are only Reveries. And if the reader should stumble upon occasional -magniloquence, or be worried with a little too much of sentiment, pray -let him remember—that I am dreaming. - -But while I say this, in the hope of nicking off the wiry edge of my -reader’s judgment, I shall yet stand up boldly for the general tone and -character of the book. If there is bad feeling in it, or insincerity, or -shallow sentiment, or any foolish depth of affection betrayed—I am -responsible; and the critics may expose it to their hearts’ content. - -I have, moreover, a kindly feeling for these Reveries, from their very -private character; they consist mainly of just such whimseys and -reflections as a great many brother bachelors are apt to indulge in, but -which they are too cautious, or too prudent to lay before the world. As -I have in this matter shown a frankness and _naïveté_ which are unusual, -I shall ask a corresponding frankness in my reader; and I can assure him -safely that this is eminently one of those books which were “never -intended for publication.” - -In the hope that this plain avowal may quicken the reader’s charity, and -screen me from cruel judgment, - -I remain, with sincere good wishes, - - IK MARVEL. - -NEW YORK, November, 1850. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - OVER A WOOD FIRE - - -I HAVE got a quiet farmhouse in the country, a very humble place to be -sure, tenanted by a worthy enough man, of the old New England stamp, -where I sometimes go for a day or two in the winter, to look over the -farm accounts, and to see how the stock is thriving on the winter’s -keep. - -One side the door, as you enter from the porch, is a little parlor, -scarce twelve feet by ten, with a cozy-looking fireplace—a heavy oak -floor—a couple of armchairs and a brown table with carved lions’ feet. -Out of this room opens a little cabinet, only big enough for a broad -bachelor bedstead, where I sleep upon feathers, and wake in the morning, -with my eye upon a saucy colored, lithographic print of some fancy -“Bessy.” - -It happens to be the only house in the world, of which I am _bona fide_ -owner; and I take a vast deal of comfort in treating it just as I -choose. I manage to break some article of furniture almost every time I -pay it a visit; and if I can not open the window readily of a morning, -to breathe the fresh air, I knock out a pane or two of glass with my -boot. I lean against the walls in a very old armchair there is on the -premises, and scarce ever fail to worry such a hole in the plastering as -would set me down for a round charge for damages in town, or make a prim -housewife fret herself into a raging fever. I laugh out loud with -myself, in my big armchair, when I think that I am neither afraid of one -nor the other. - -As for the fire, I keep the little hearth so hot as to warm half the -cellar below, and the whole space between the jambs roars for hours -together with white flame. To be sure the windows are not very tight, -between broken panes and bad joints, so that the fire, large as it is, -is by no means an extravagant comfort. - - -[Illustration] - - -As night approaches, I have a huge pile of oak and hickory placed beside -the hearth; I put out the tallow candle on the mantel (using the family -snuffers, with one leg broken) then, drawing my chair directly in front -of the blazing wood, and setting one foot on each of the old iron -fire-dogs (until they grow too warm), I dispose myself for an evening of -such sober and thoughtful quietude, as I believe, on my soul, that very -few of my fellow men have the good fortune to enjoy. - -My tenant, meantime, in the other room I can hear now and then—though -there is a thick stone chimney and broad entry between—multiplying -contrivances with his wife to put two babies to sleep. This occupies -them, I should say, usually an hour; though my only measure of time (for -I never carry a watch into the country), is the blaze of my fire. By -ten, or thereabouts, my stock of wood is nearly exhausted; I pile upon -the hot coals what remains, and sit watching how it kindles, and blazes, -and goes out—even like our joys! and then slip by the light of the -embers into my bed, where I luxuriate in such sound and healthful -slumber as only such rattling window frames and country air can supply. - -But to return: the other evening—it happened to be on my last visit to -my farmhouse—when I had exhausted all the ordinary rural topics of -thought, had formed all sorts of conjectures as to the income of the -year; had planned a new wall around one lot, and the clearing up of -another, now covered with patriarchal wood, and wondered if the little -rickety house would not be, after all, a snug enough box to live and to -die in—I fell on a sudden into such an unprecedented line of thought, -which took such a deep hold of my sympathies—sometimes even starting -tears—that I determined, the next day, to set as much of it as I could -recall on paper. - -Something—it may have been the home-looking blaze (I am a bachelor -of—say six and twenty), or possibly a plaintive cry of the baby in my -tenant’s room had suggested to me the thought of—Marriage. - -I piled upon the heated fire-dogs, the last armful of my wood; and now, -said I, bracing myself courageously between the arms of my chair—I’ll -not flinch; I’ll pursue the thought wherever it leads, though it lead me -to the d—— (I am apt to be hasty) at least—continued I, softening—until -my fire is out. - -The wood was green, and at first showed no disposition to blaze. It -smoked furiously. Smoke, thought I, always goes before blaze; and so -does doubt go before decision: and my reverie, from that very starting -point, slipped into this shape: - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - SMOKE—SIGNIFYING DOUBT - - -A WIFE? thought I; yes, a wife! And why? - -And pray, my dear sir, why not—why? Why not doubt; why not hesitate; why -not tremble? - -Does a man buy a ticket in a lottery—a poor man, whose whole earnings go -in to secure the ticket—without trembling, hesitating, and doubting? - -Can a man stake his bachelor respectability, his independence, and -comfort, upon the die of absorbing, unchanging, relentless marriage, -without trembling at the venture? - -Shall a man who has been free to chase his fancies over the wide world, -without let or hindrance, shut himself up to marriageship, within four -walls called home, that are to claim him, his time, his trouble, and his -tears, thenceforward forever more, without doubts thick and thick-coming -as smoke? - -Shall he who has been hitherto a mere observer of other men’s cares and -business, moving off where they made him sick of heart, approaching -whenever and wherever they made him gleeful—shall he now undertake -administration of just such cares and business without qualms? Shall he, -whose whole life has been but a nimble succession of escapes from -trifling difficulties, now broach, without doubtings, that matrimony, -where if difficulty beset him there is no escape? Shall this brain of -mine, careless-working, never tired with idleness, feeding on long -vagaries, and high, gigantic castles, dreaming out beatitudes hour by -hour—turn itself at length to such dull task-work, as thinking out a -livelihood for wife and children? - -Where thenceforward will be those sunny dreams, in which I have warmed -my fancies, and my heart, and lighted my eye with crystal? This very -marriage, which a brilliant working imagination has invested time and -again with brightness and delight, can serve no longer as a mine for -teeming fancy: all, alas, will be gone—reduced to the dull standard of -the actual! No more room for intrepid forays of imagination—no more -gorgeous realm-making—all will be over! - -Why not, I thought, go on dreaming? - -Can any wife be prettier than an after-dinner fancy, idle and yet vivid, -can paint for you? Can any children make less noise than the little -rosy-cheeked ones, who have no existence, except in the _omnium -gatherum_ of your own brain? Can any housewife be more unexceptionable -than she who goes sweeping daintily the cobwebs that gather in your -dreams? Can any domestic larder be better stocked than the private -larder of your head dozing on a cushioned chair-back at Delmonico’s? Can -any family purse be better filled than the exceeding plump one you dream -of after reading such pleasant books as _Münchausen_ or _Typee_? - -But if, after all, it must be—duty, or what-not, making provocation—what -then? And I clapped my feet hard against the fire-dogs, and leaned back, -and turned my face to the ceiling, as much as to say: And where on -earth, then, shall a poor devil look for a wife? - -Somebody says, Lyttleton or Shaftesbury, I think, that, “marriages would -be happier if they were all arranged by the lord chancellor.” -Unfortunately, we have no lord chancellor to make this commutation of -our misery. - -Shall a man, then, scour the country on a mule’s back, like Honest Gil -Blas, of Santillane; or shall he make application to some such -intervening providence as Madame St. Marc, who, as I see by the -_Presse_, manages these matters to one’s hand, for some five per cent. -on the fortunes of the parties? - -I have trouted when the brook was so low and the sky so hot that I might -as well have thrown my fly upon the turnpike; and I have hunted hare at -noon, and woodcock in snow-time—never despairing, scarce doubting; but -for a poor hunter of his kind, without traps or snares, or any aid of -police or constabulary, to traverse the world, where are swarming, on a -moderate computation, some three hundred and odd millions of unmarried -women, for a single capture—irremediable, unchangeable—and yet a captive -which, by strange metonymy not laid down in the books, is very apt to -turn captor into captive, and make game of hunter—all this, surely, -surely may make a man shrug with doubt! - -Then—again—there are the plaguy wife’s relations. Who knows how many -third, fourth, or fifth cousins will appear at careless, complimentary -intervals long after you had settled into the placid belief that all -congratulatory visits were at an end? How many twisted-headed brothers -will be putting in their advice, as a friend to Peggy? - -How many maiden aunts will come to spend a month or two with their “dear -Peggy,” and want to know every tea-time “if she isn’t a dear love of a -wife?” Then dear father-in-law will beg (taking dear Peggy’s hand in -his) to give a little wholesome counsel; and will be very sure to advise -just the contrary of what you had determined to undertake. And dear -mamma-in-law must set her nose into Peggy’s cupboard, and insist upon -having the key to your own private locker in the wainscot. - -Then, perhaps, there is a little bevy of dirty-nosed nephews, who come -to spend the holidays, and eat up your East India sweetmeats, and who -are forever tramping over your head or raising the old Harry below, -while you are busy with your clients. Last, and worst, is some fidgety -old uncle, forever too cold or too hot, who vexes you with his -patronizing airs, and impudently kisses his little Peggy! - -—That could be borne, however, for perhaps he has promised his fortune -to Peggy. Peggy, then, will be rich (and the thought made me rub my -shins, which were now getting comfortably warm upon the fire-dogs). -Then, she will be forever talking of _her_ fortune; and pleasantly -reminding you on occasion of a favorite purchase—how lucky that _she_ -had the means; and dropping hints about economy; and buying very -extravagant Paisleys. - -She will annoy you by looking over the stock list at breakfast time; and -mention quite carelessly to your clients, that she is interested in -_such_, or such a speculation. - -She will be provokingly silent when you hint to a tradesman that you -have not the money by you for his small bill—in short, she will tear the -life out of you, making you pay in righteous retribution of annoyance, -grief, vexation, shame and sickness of heart, for the superlative folly -of “marrying rich.” - -—But if not rich, then poor. Bah! the thought made me stir the coals; -but there was still no blaze. The paltry earnings you are able to wring -out of clients by the sweat of your brow, will now be all _our_ income; -you will be pestered for pin-money, and pestered with your poor wife’s -relations. Ten to one she will stickle about taste—“Sir Visto’s”—and -want to make this so pretty, and that so charming, if she _only_ had the -means; and is sure Paul (a kiss) can’t deny his little Peggy such a -trifling sum, and all for the common benefit. - -Then she, for one, means that _her_ children shan’t go a-begging for -clothes—and another pull at the purse. Trust a poor mother to dress her -children in finery! - -Perhaps she is ugly—not noticeable at first, but growing on her, and -(what is worse) growing faster on you. You wonder why you didn’t see -that vulgar nose long ago: and that lip—it is very strange, you think, -that you ever thought it pretty. And then—to come to breakfast, with her -hair looking as it does, and you not so much as daring to say—“Peggy, -_do_ brush your hair!” Her foot, too—not very bad when decently -_chaussée_—but now, since she’s married, she does wear such infernal -slippers! And yet, for all this, to be prigging up for an hour, when any -of my old chums come to dine with me! - -“Bless your kind hearts! my dear fellows,” said I, thrusting the tongs -into the coals, and speaking out loud, as if my voice could reach from -Virginia to Paris—“not married yet!” - -Perhaps Peggy is pretty enough—only shrewish. - -—No matter for cold coffee; you should have been up before. - -What sad, thin, poorly-cooked chops, to eat with your rolls! - -—She thinks they are very good, and wonders how you can set such an -example to your children. - -The butter is nauseating. - -—She has no other, and hopes you’ll not raise a storm about butter a -little turned. I think I see myself—ruminated I—sitting meekly at table, -scarce daring to lift up my eyes, utterly fagged out with some quarrel -of yesterday, choking down detestably sour muffins that my wife thinks -are “delicious”—slipping in dried mouthfuls of burned ham off the side -of my fork tines—slipping off my chair sideways at the end, and slipping -out with my hat between my knees, to business, and never feeling myself -a competent, sound-minded man till the oak door is between me and Peggy! - -—“Ha, ha—not yet!” said I; and in so earnest a tone that my dog started -to his feet—cocked his eye to have a good look into my face—met my smile -of triumph with an amiable wag of the tail, and curled up again in the -corner. - -Again, Peggy is rich enough, well enough, mild enough, only she doesn’t -care a fig for you. She has married you because father, or grandfather -thought the match eligible, and because she didn’t wish to disoblige -them. Besides, she didn’t positively hate you, and thought you were a -respectable enough young person; she has told you so repeatedly at -dinner. She wonders you like to read poetry; she wishes you would buy -her a good cookbook; and insists upon you making your will at the birth -of the first baby. - -She thinks Captain So-and-So a splendid-looking fellow, and wishes you -would trim up a little, were it only for appearance’s sake. - -You need not hurry up from the office so early at night: she, bless her -dear heart! does not feel lonely. You read to her a love tale; she -interrupts the pathetic parts with directions to her seamstress. You -read of marriages: she sighs, and asks if Captain So-and-So has left -town! She hates to be mewed up in a cottage, or between brick walls; she -does _so_ love the Springs! - -But, again, Peggy loves you; at least she swears it, with her hand on -the _Sorrows of Werther_. She has pin-money which she spends for the -_Literary World_ and the _Friends in Council_. She is not bad looking, -save a bit too much of forehead; nor is she sluttish, unless a _négligé_ -till three o’clock, and an ink stain on the forefinger be sluttish; but -then she is such a sad blue! - -You never fancied, when you saw her buried in a three-volumed novel, -that it was anything more than a girlish vagary; and when she quoted -Latin you thought, innocently, that she had a capital memory for her -samplers. - - -[Illustration] - - -But to be bored eternally about Divine Dante and funny Goldoni, is too -bad. Your copy of Tasso, a treasure print of 1680, is all bethumbed and -dog’s-eared, and spotted with baby gruel. Even your Seneca—an Elzevir—is -all sweaty with handling. She adores La Fontaine, reads Balzac with a -kind of artist-scowl, and will not let Greek alone. - -You hint at broken rest and an aching head at breakfast, and she will -fling you a scrap of anthology—in lieu of the camphor bottle—or chant -the aἰaĩ aἰaĩ, of tragic chorus. - -—The nurse is getting dinner; you are holding the baby; Peggy is reading -Bruyère. - -The fire smoked thick as pitch, and puffed out little clouds over the -chimney place. I gave the fore-stick a kick, at the thought of Peggy, -baby and Bruyère. - -—Suddenly the flame flickered bluely athwart the smoke—caught at a twig -below—rolled round the mossy oak-stick—twined among the crackling -tree-limbs—mounted—lit up the whole body of smoke, and blazed out -cheerily and bright. Doubt vanished with Smoke, and Hope began with -Flame. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - II - BLAZE—SIGNIFYING CHEER - - -I PUSHED my chair back, drew up another, stretched out my feet cozily -upon it, rested my elbows on the chair arms, leaned my head on one hand, -and looked straight into the leaping and dancing flame. - -—Love is a flame—ruminated I; and (glancing round the room) how a flame -brightens up a man’s habitation. - -“Carlo,” said I, calling up my dog into the light, “good fellow, Carlo!” -and I patted him kindly, and he wagged his tail, and laid his nose -across my knee, and looked wistfully up in my face; then strode -away—turned to look again, and lay down to sleep. - -“Pho, the brute!” said I, “it is not enough, after all, to like a dog.” - -—If now in that chair yonder, not the one your feet lie upon, but the -other, beside you—closer yet—were seated a sweet-faced girl, with a -pretty little foot lying out upon the hearth—a bit of lace running round -the swelling throat—the hair parted to a charm over a forehead fair as -any of your dreams; and if you could reach an arm around that chair -back, without fear of giving offense, and suffer your fingers to play -idly with those curls that escape down the neck; and if you could clasp -with your other hand those little white, taper fingers of hers, which -lie so temptingly within reach—and so, talk softly and low in presence -of the blaze, while the hours slip without knowledge, and the winter -winds whistle uncared for; if, in short, you were no bachelor, but the -husband of some such sweet image (dream, call it rather), would it not -be far pleasanter than this cold single night-sitting—counting the -sticks—reckoning the length of the blaze, and the height of the falling -snow? - -And if, some or all of those wild vagaries that grow on your fancy at -such an hour, you could whisper into listening, because loving ears—ears -not tired with listening, because it is you who whisper—ears ever -indulgent because eager to praise; and if your darkest fancies were lit -up, not merely with bright wood fire, but with a ringing laugh of that -sweet face turned up in fond rebuke—how far better than to be waxing -black and sour over pestilential humors—alone—your very dog asleep. - -And if, when a glowing thought comes into your brain, quick and sudden, -you could tell it over as to a second self, to that sweet creature, who -is not away, because she loves to be there; and if you could watch the -thought catching that girlish mind, illuming that fair brow, sparkling -in those pleasantest of eyes—how far better than to feel it slumbering, -and going out, heavy, lifeless, and dead, in your own selfish fancy. And -if a generous emotion steals over you—coming, you know not whither, -would there not be a richer charm in lavishing it in caress, or -endearing word, upon that fondest, and most dear one, than in patting -your glossy-coated dog, or sinking lonely to smiling slumbers? - -How would not benevolence ripen with such monitor to task it! How would -not selfishness grow faint and dull, leaning ever to that second self, -which is the loved one! How would not guile shiver, and grow weak, -before that girl-brow and eye of innocence! How would not all that -boyhood prized of enthusiasm, and quick blood, and life, renew itself in -such presence! - -The fire was getting hotter, and I moved into the middle of the room. -The shadows the flames made were playing like fairy forms over floor, -and wall, and ceiling. - -My fancy would surely quicken, thought I, if such being were in -attendance. Surely imagination would be stronger and purer if it could -have the playful fancies of dawning womanhood to delight it. All toil -would be torn from mind-labor, if but another heart grew into this -present soul, quickening it, warming it, cheering it, bidding it -ever—God speed! - -_Her_ face would make a halo, rich as a rainbow, atop of all such -noisome things, as we lonely souls call trouble. Her smile would -illumine the blackest of crowding cares; and darkness that now seats you -despondent, in your solitary chair for days together, weaving bitter -fancies, dreaming bitter dreams, would grow light and thin, and spread, -and float away—chased by that beloved smile. - -Your friend—poor fellow! dies: never mind, that gentle clasp of _her_ -fingers, as she steals behind you, telling you not to weep—it is worth -ten friends! - -Your sister, sweet one, is dead—buried. The worms are busy with all her -fairness. How it makes you think earth nothing but a spot to dig graves -upon! - -—It is more: _she_, she says, will be a sister; and the waving curls as -she leans upon your shoulder, touch your cheek, and your wet eyes turn -to meet those other eyes—God has sent his angel, surely! - -Your mother, alas for it, she is gone! Is there any bitterness to a -youth, alone, and homeless, like this! - -But you are not homeless; you are not alone; _she_ is there—her tears -softening yours, her smile lighting yours, her grief killing yours; and -you live again, to assuage that kind sorrow of hers. - -Then—those children, rosy, fair-haired; no, they do not disturb you with -their prattle now—they are yours! Toss away there on the -greensward—never mind the hyacinths, the snowdrops, the violets, if so -be any are there; the perfume of their healthful lips is worth all the -flowers of the world. No need now to gather wild bouquets to love and -cherish: flower, tree, gun, are all dead things; things livelier hold -your soul. - -And she, the mother, sweetest and fairest of all, watching, tending, -caressing, loving, till your own heart grows pained with tenderest -jealousy, and cures itself with loving. - -You have no need now of any cold lecture to teach thankfulness; your -heart is full of it. No need now, as once, of bursting blossoms of trees -taking leaf and greenness, to turn thought kindly and thankfully; for, -ever beside you, there is bloom, and ever beside you there is fruit—for -which eye, heart and soul are full of unknown, and unspoken, because -unspeakable thank-offering. - -And if sickness catches you, binds you, lays you down—no lonely moanings -and wicked curses at careless-stepping nurses. _The_ step is noiseless, -and yet distinct beside you. The white curtains are drawn, or withdrawn -by the magic of that other presence; and the soft, cool hand is upon -your brow. - -No cold comfortings of friend-watchers, merely come in to steal a word -away from that outer world, which is pulling at their skirts; but, ever -the sad, shaded brow of her, whose lightest sorrow for your sake is your -greatest grief—if it were not a greater joy. - -The blaze was leaping light and high, and the wood falling under the -growing heat. - -—So, continued I, this heart would be at length itself—striving with -everything gross, even now as it clings to grossness. Love would make -its strength native and progressive. Earth’s cares would fly. Joys would -double. Susceptibilities be quickened; love master self; and having made -the mastery, stretch onward, and upward toward infinitude. - -And if the end came, and sickness brought that follower—Great -Follower—which sooner or later is sure to come after, then the heart, -and the hand of love, ever near, are giving to your tired soul, daily -and hourly, lessons of that love which consoles, which triumphs, which -circleth all and centereth in all—love infinite and divine! - -Kind hands—none but _hers_—will smooth the hair upon your brow as the -chill grows damp and heavy on it; and her fingers—none but hers—will lie -in yours as the wasted flesh stiffens and hardens for the ground. _Her_ -tears—you could feel no others, if oceans fell—will warm your drooping -features once more to life; once more your eye, lighted in joyous -triumph, kindles in her smile, and then— - -The fire fell upon the hearth; the blaze gave a last leap—a flicker—then -another—caught a little remaining twig—blazed up—wavered—went out. - -There was nothing but a bed of glowing embers, over which the white -ashes gathered fast. I was alone, with only my dog for company. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - III - ASHES—SIGNIFYING DESOLATION - - -AFTER all, thought I, ashes follow blaze inevitably as death follows -life. Misery treads on the heels of joy; anguish rides swift after -pleasure. - -“Come to me again, Carlo,” said I to my dog; and I patted him fondly -once more, but now only by the light of the dying embers. - -It is very little pleasure one takes in fondling brute favorites; but it -is a pleasure that when it passes, leaves no void. It is only a little -alleviating redundance in your solitary heart-life which, if lost, -another can be supplied. - -But if your heart, not solitary—not quieting its humors with mere love -of chase, or dog—not repressing, year after year, its earnest yearnings -after something better and more spiritual—has fairly linked itself by -bonds strong as life, to another heart—is the casting off easy then? - -Is it then only a little heart-redundancy cut off, which the next bright -sunset will fill up? - -And my fancy, as it had painted doubt under the smoke, and cheer under -warmth of the blaze, so now it began under the faint light of the -smoldering embers, to picture heart-desolation. - -What kind, congratulatory letters, hosts of them, coming from old and -half-forgotten friends, now that your happiness is a year, or two years -old! - -“Beautiful.” - -—Ay, to be sure, beautiful! - -“Rich.” - -—Pho, the dawdler! how little he knows of heart-treasure, who speaks of -wealth to a man who loves his wife as a wife only should be loved! - -“Young.” - -—Young indeed; guileless as infancy; charming as the morning. - -Ah, these letters bear a sting: they bring to mind, with new and newer -freshness, if it be possible, the value of that which you tremble lest -you lose. - -How anxiously you watch that step—if it lose not its buoyancy. How you -study the color on that cheek, if it grow not fainter. How you tremble -at the luster in those eyes, if it be not the luster of death. How you -totter under the weight of that muslin sleeve—a phantom weight! How you -fear to do it, and yet press forward, to note if that breathing be -quickened, as you ascend the home-heights, to look off on the sunset -lighting the plain. - -Is your sleep, quiet sleep, after that she has whispered to you her -fears, and in the same breath—soft as a sigh, sharp as an arrow—bid you -bear it bravely? - -Perhaps—the embers were now glowing fresher, a little kindling, before -the ashes—she triumphs over disease. - -But Poverty, the world’s almoner, has come to you with ready, spare -hand. - -Alone, with your dog living on bones, and you on hope—kindling each -morning, dying slowly each night—this could be borne. Philosophy would -bring home its stores to the lone man. Money is not in his hand, but -knowledge is in his brain! and from that brain he draws out faster, as -he draws slower from his pocket. He remembers; and on remembrance he can -live for days and weeks. The garret, if a garret covers him, is rich in -fancies. The rain, if it pelts, pelts only him used to rain-peltings. -And his dog crouches not in dread, but in companionship. His crust he -divides with him, and laughs. He crowns himself with glorious memories -of Cervantes, though he begs; if he nights it under the stars, he dreams -heaven-sent dreams of the prisoned and homeless Galileo. - -He hums old sonnets, and snatches of poor Jonson’s plays. He chants -Dryden’s odes, and dwells on Otway’s rhyme. He reasons with Bolingbroke -or Diogenes as the humor takes him, and laughs at the world, for the -world, thank Heaven, has left him alone! - -Keep your money, old misers, and your palaces, old princes—the world is -mine! - - I care not, fortune, what you me deny. - You cannot rob me of free nature’s grace, - You cannot shut the windows of the sky; - You cannot bar my constant feet to trace - The woods and lawns, by living streams, at eve, - Let health, my nerves and finer fibers brace, - And I, their toys, to the great children, leave. - Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can we bereave! - -But—if not alone? - -If _she_ is clinging to you for support, for consolation, for home, for -life—she, reared in luxury, perhaps, is faint for bread? - -Then the iron enters the soul; then the nights darken under any -skylight. Then the days grow long, even in the solstice of winter. - -She may not complain; what then? - -Will your heart grow strong, if the strength of her love can dam up the -fountains of tears, and the tied tongue not tell of bereavement? Will it -solace you to find her parting the poor treasure of food you have stolen -for her, with begging, foodless children? - -But this ill, strong hands and Heaven’s help will put down. Wealth -again; flowers again; patrimonial acres again; brightness again. But -your little Bessie, your favorite child, is pining. - -Would to God! you say in agony, that wealth could bring fullness again -into that blanched cheek, or round those little thin lips once more; but -it can not. Thinner and thinner they grow; plaintive and more plaintive -her sweet voice. - -“Dear Bessie”—and your tones tremble; you feel that she is on the edge -of the grave? Can you pluck her back? Can endearments stay her? Business -is heavy, away from the loved child; home, you go, to fondle while yet -time is left—but _this_ time you are too late. She is gone. She can not -hear you; she can not thank you for the violets you put within her stiff -white hand. - -And then—the grassy mound—the cold shadow of head-stone! - -The wind, growing with the night, is rattling at the window panes, and -whistles dismally. I wipe a tear, and in the interval of my reverie, -thank God, that I am no such mourner. - -But gaiety, snail-footed, creeps back to the household. All is bright -again: - - The violet bed’s not sweeter - Than the delicious breath marriage sends forth. - -_Her_ lip is rich and full; her cheek delicate as a flower. Her frailty -doubles your love. - -And the little one she clasps—frail too—too frail: the boy you had set -your hopes and heart on. You have watched him growing, ever prettier, -ever winning more and more upon your soul. The love you bore to him when -he first lisped names—your name and hers—has doubled in strength now -that he asks innocently to be taught of this, of that, and promises you -by that quick curiosity that flashes in his eye, a mind full of -intelligence. - -And some hair-breadth escape by sea, or flood, that he perhaps may have -had—which unstrung your soul to such tears as you pray God may be spared -you again—has endeared the little fellow to your heart a thousandfold. - -And, now with his pale sister in the grave, all _that_ love has come -away from the mound, where worms feast, and centers on the boy. - -How you watch the storms lest they harm him! How often you steal to his -bed late at night and lay your hand lightly upon the brow, where the -curls cluster thick, rising and falling with the throbbing temples, and -watch, for minutes together, the little lips half-parted, and -listen—your ear close to them—if the breathing be regular and sweet! - -But the day comes—the night rather—when you can catch no breathing. - -Aye, put your hair away—compose yourself—listen again. - -No, there is nothing! - -Put your hand now to his brow—damp indeed—but not with healthful night -sleep: it is not your hand, no, do not deceive yourself—it is your loved -boy’s forehead that is so cold; and your loved boy will never speak to -you again—never play again—he is dead! - -Oh, the tears—the tears: what blessed things are tears! Never fear now -to let them fall on his forehead, or his lip, lest you waken him! Clasp -him—clasp him harder—you can not hurt, you can not waken him! Lay him -down, gently or not, it is the same; he is stiff; he is stark and cold. - - * * * * * - -But courage and patience, faith and hope recovers itself easier, thought -I, than these embers will get into blaze again. - -But courage, and patience, faith, and hope have their limit. Blessed be -the man who escapes such trial as will determine limit! - -To a lone man it comes not near; for how can trial take hold where there -is nothing by which to try? - -A funeral? You reason with philosophy. A graveyard? You read Hervey and -muse upon the wall. A friend dies? You sigh, you pat your dog—it is -over. Losses? You retrench—you light your pipe—it is forgotten. Calumny? -You laugh—you sleep. - -But with that childless wife clinging to you in love and sorrow—what -then? - -Can you take down Seneca now, and coolly blow the dust from the -leaf-tops? Can you crimp your lip with Voltaire? Can you smoke idly, -your feet dangling with the ivies, your thoughts all waving fancies upon -a church-yard wall—a wall that borders the grave of your boy? - -Can you amuse yourself by turning stinging Martial into rhyme? Can you -pat your dog, and seeing him wakeful and kind, say, “It is enough?” Can -you sneer at calumny, and sit by your fire dozing? - -Blessed, thought I again, is the man who escapes such trial as will -measure the limit of patience and the limit of courage! - -But the trial comes—colder and colder were growing the embers. - -That wife, over whom your love broods, is fading. Not beauty -fading—that, now that your heart is wrapped in her being, would be -nothing. - -She sees with quick eye your dawning apprehension, and she tries hard to -make that step of hers elastic. - -Your trials and your loves together have centered your affections. They -are not now as when you were a lone man, wide-spread and superficial. -They have caught from domestic attachments a finer tone and touch. They -cannot shoot out tendrils into barren world-soil and suck up thence -strengthening nutriment. They have grown under the forcing-glass of -home-roof, they will not now bear exposure. - -You do not now look men in the face as if a heart-bond was linking -you—as if a community of feeling lay between. There is a heart-bond that -absorbs all others; there is a community that monopolizes your feeling. -When the heart lay wide open, before it had grown upon, and closed -around particular objects, it could take strength and cheer from a -hundred connections that now seem colder than ice. - -And now those particular objects—alas for you!—are failing. - -What anxiety pursues you! How you struggle to fancy—there is no danger; -how she struggles to persuade you—there is no danger! - -How it grates now on your ear—the toil and turmoil of the city! It was -music when you were alone; it was pleasant even, when from the din you -were elaborating comforts for the cherished objects—when you had such -sweet escape as evening drew on. - -Now it maddens you to see the world careless while you are steeped in -care. They hustle you in the street; they smile at you across the table; -they bow carelessly over the way; they do not know what canker is at -your heart. - -The undertaker comes with his bill for the dead boy’s funeral. He knows -your grief; he is respectful. You bless him in your soul. You wish the -laughing street-goers were all undertakers. - -Your eye follows the physician as he leaves your house: is he wise, you -ask yourself; is he prudent? Is he the best? Did he never fail—is he -never forgetful? - -And now the hand that touches yours, is it no thinner—no whiter than -yesterday? Sunny days come when she revives; color comes back; she -breathes freer; she picks flowers; she meets you with a smile. Hope -lives again. - -But the next day of storm she is fallen. She cannot talk even; she -presses your hand. - -You hurry away from business before your time. What matter for -clients—who is to reap the rewards? What matter for fame—whose eye will -it brighten? What matter for riches—whose is the inheritance? - -You find her propped with pillows; she is looking over a little -picture-book be-thumbed by the dear boy she has lost. She hides it in -her chair; she has pity on you. - -—Another day of revival, when the spring sun shines, and flowers open -out of doors; she leans on your arm, and strolls into the garden where -the first birds are singing. Listen to them with her—what memories are -in bird-songs! You need not shudder at her tears—they are tears of -thanksgiving. Press the hand that lies light upon your arm, and you, -too, thank God, while yet you may! - - * * * * * - -You are early home—mid-afternoon. Your step is not light; it is heavy, -terrible. - -They have sent for you. - -She is lying down; her eyes half closed; her breathing long and -interrupted. - -She hears you; her eye opens; you put your hand in hers; yours -trembles—hers does not. Her lips move; it is your name. - - -[Illustration] - - -“Be strong,” she says, “God will help you!” - -She presses harder your hand: “Adieu!” - -A long breath—another; you are alone again. No tears now; poor man! You -cannot find them! - - * * * * * - -—Again home early. There is a smell of varnish in your house. A coffin -is there; they have clothed the body in decent grave clothes, and the -undertaker is screwing down the lid, slipping round on tip-toe. Does he -fear to waken her? - -He asks you a simple question about the inscription upon the plate, -rubbing it with his coat cuff. You look him straight in the eye; you -motion to the door; you dare not speak. - -He takes up his hat and glides out stealthful as a cat. - -The man has done his work well for all. It is a nice coffin—a very nice -coffin! Pass your hand over it—how smooth! - -Some sprigs of mignonette are lying carelessly in a little gilt-edged -saucer. She loved mignonette. - -It is a good stanch table the coffin rests on; it is your table; you are -a housekeeper—a man of family! - -Ay, of family! keep down outcry, or the nurse will be in. Look over at -the pinched features; is this all that is left of her? And where is your -heart now? No, don’t thrust your nails into your hands, nor mangle your -lip, nor grate your teeth together. If you could only weep! - -—Another day. The coffin is gone out. The stupid mourners have wept—what -idle tears! She with your crushed heart, has gone out! - -Will you have pleasant evenings at your home now? - -Go into your parlor that your prim housekeeper has made comfortable with -clean hearth and blaze of sticks. - -Sit down in your chair; there is another velvet cushioned one, over -against yours—empty. You press your fingers on your eye-balls, as if you -would press out something that hurt the brain; but you cannot. Your head -leans upon your hand; your eye rests upon the flashing blaze. - -Ashes always come after blaze. - -Go now into the room where she was sick—softly, lest the prim -housekeeper come after. - -They have put new dimity upon her chair; they have hung new curtains -over the bed. They have removed from the stand its vials, and silver -bell; they have put a little vase of flowers in their place; the perfume -will not offend the sick sense now. They have half opened the window, -that the room so long closed may have air. It will not be too cold. - -She is not there. - -—Oh, God! thou who dost temper the wind to the shorn lamb—be kind! - -The embers were dark; I stirred them; there was no sign of life. My dog -was asleep. The clock in my tenant’s chamber had struck one. - -I dashed a tear or two from my eyes; how they came there I know not. I -half ejaculated a prayer of thanks, that such desolation had not yet -come nigh me; and a prayer of hope—that it might never come. - -In a half hour more, I was sleeping soundly. My reverie was ended. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - BY A CITY GRATE - - -BLESSED be letters—they are the monitors, they are also the comforters, -and they are the only true heart-talkers! Your speech, and their -speeches, are conventional; they are molded by circumstance; they are -suggested by the observation, remark, and influence of the parties to -whom the speaking is addressed, or by whom it may be overheard. - -Your truest thought is modified half through its utterance by a look, a -sign, a smile, or a sneer. It is not individual; it is not integral: it -is social and mixed—half of you, and half of others. It bends, it sways, -it multiplies, it retires, and it advances, as the talk of others -presses, relaxes, or quickens. - -But it is not so of letters—there you are, with only the soulless pen, -and the snow-white, virgin paper. Your soul is measuring itself by -itself, and saying its own sayings; there are no sneers to modify its -utterance—no scowl to scare—nothing is present but you, and your -thought. - -Utter it then freely—write it down—stamp it—burn it in the ink!—There it -is, a true soul-print! - -Oh, the glory, the freedom, the passion of a letter! It is worth all the -lip-talk in the world. Do you say, it is studied, made up, acted, -rehearsed, contrived, artistic? - -Let me see it, then; let me run it over; tell me age, sex, circumstance, -and I will tell you if it be studied or real—if it be the merest -lip-slang put into words, or heart-talk blazing on the paper. - - -[Illustration] - - -I have a little packet, not very large, tied up with narrow, crimson -ribbon, now soiled with frequent handling, which far into some winter’s -night, I take down from its nook upon my shelf, and untie, and open, and -run over, with such sorrow, and such joy—such tears and such smiles, as -I am sure make me for weeks after, a kinder and holier man. - -There are in this little packet, letters in the familiar hand of a -mother—what gentle admonition—what tender affection!—God have mercy on -him who outlives the tears that such admonitions, and such affection -call up to the eye! There are others in the budget, in the delicate, and -unformed hand of a loved, and lost sister—written when she, and you were -full of glee, and the best mirth of youthfulness; does it harm you to -recall that mirthfulness? or to trace again, for the hundredth time, -that scrawling postscript at the bottom, with its _i’s_ so carefully -dotted, and its gigantic _t’s_ so carefully crossed, by the childish -hand of a little brother? - -I have added latterly to that packet of letters; I almost need a new and -longer ribbon; the old one is getting too short. Not a few of these new -and cherished letters, a former reverie[1] has brought to me; not -letters of cold praise, saying it was well done, artfully executed, -prettily imagined—no such thing: but letters of sympathy—of sympathy -which means sympathy—the παθημί and the συν. - -Footnote 1: - - The first reverie—_Smoke, Flame and Ashes_—was published some months - previous to this, in the _Southern Literary Messenger_. - -It would be cold and dastardly work to copy them; I am too selfish for -that. It is enough to say that they, the kind writers, have seen a heart -in the reverie—have felt that it was real, true. They know it; a secret -influence has told it. What matters it, pray, if, literally, there was -no wife, and no dead child, and no coffin in the house? Is not feeling, -feeling; and heart, heart? Are not these fancies thronging on my brain, -bringing tears to my eyes, bringing joy to my soul, as living, as -anything human can be living? What if they have no material type—no -objective form? All that is crude—a mere reduction of ideality to -sense—a transformation of the spiritual to the earthy—a leveling of soul -to matter. - -Are we not creatures of thought and passion? Is anything about us more -earnest than that same thought and passion? Is there anything more -real—more characteristic of that great and dim destiny to which we are -born, and which may be written down in that terrible word—Forever? - -Let those who will then, sneer at what in their wisdom they call -untruth—at what is false, because it has no material presence: this does -not create falsity; would to Heaven that it did! - -And yet if there was actual, material truth, superadded to reverie, -would such objectors sympathize the more? No! a thousand times, no; the -heart that has no sympathy with thoughts and feelings that scorch the -soul, is dead also—whatever its mocking tears, and gestures may say—to a -coffin or a grave! - -Let them pass, and we will come back to these cherished letters. - -A mother, who has lost a child, has, she says, shed a tear—not one, but -many—over the dead boy’s coldness. And another, who has not lost, but -who trembles lest she lose, has found the words failing as she read, and -a dim, sorrow-borne mist spreading over the page. - -Another, yet rejoicing in all those family ties, that make life a charm, -has listened nervously to careful reading, until the husband is called -home, and the coffin is in the house—“Stop!”—she says; and a gush of -tears tells the rest. - -Yet the cold critic will say—“It was artfully done.” A curse on him!—it -was not art: it was nature. - -Another, a young, fresh, healthful girl-mind, has seen something in the -love-picture—albeit so weak—of truth; and has kindly believed that it -must be earnest. Ay, indeed is it, fair, and generous one—earnest as -life and hope! Who, indeed, with a heart at all, that has not yet -slipped away irreparably and forever from the shores of youth—from that -fairyland which young enthusiasm creates, and over which bright dreams -hover—but knows it to be real? And so such things will be read, till -hopes are dashed, and death is come. - -Another, a father, has laid down the book in tears. - -—God bless them all! How far better this, than the cold praise of -newspaper paragraphs, or the critically contrived approval of colder -friends! - -Let me gather up these letters, carefully—to be read when the heart is -faint, and sick of all that there is unreal, and selfish in the world. -Let me tie them together, with a new and longer bit of ribbon—not by a -love-knot, that is too hard—but by an easy-slipping knot, that so I may -get at them the better. And now, they are all together, a snug packet, -and we will label them, not sentimentally (I pity the one who thinks -it!), but earnestly, and in the best meaning of the term—SOUVENIRS DU -COEUR. - -Thanks to my first reverie, which has added to such a treasure! - -And now to my SECOND REVERIE. - -I am no longer in the country. The fields, the trees, the brooks are far -away from me, and yet they are very present. A letter from my tenant—how -different from those other letters!—lies upon my table, telling me what -fields he has broken up for the autumn grain, and how many beeves he is -fattening, and how the potatoes are turning out. - -But I am in a garret of the city. From my window I look over a mass of -crowded house-tops—moralizing often upon the scene, but in a strain too -long and somber to be set down here. In place of the wide country -chimney, with its iron fire-dogs, is a snug grate, where the maid makes -me a fire in the morning, and rekindles it in the afternoon. - -I am usually fairly seated in my chair—a cozily stuffed office chair—by -five or six o’clock of the evening. The fire has been newly made, -perhaps an hour before: first, the maid drops a withe of paper in the -bottom of the grate, then a stick or two of pine-wood, and after it a -hod of Liverpool coal; so that by the time I am seated for the evening, -the sea-coal is fairly in a blaze. - -When this has sunk to a level with the second bar of the grate, the maid -replenishes it with a hod of anthracite; and I sit musing and reading, -while the new coal warms and kindles—not leaving my place, until it has -sunk to the third bar of the grate, which marks my bedtime. - -I love these accidental measures of the hours, which belong to you, and -your life, and not to the world. A watch is no more the measure of your -time, than of the time of your neighbors; a church clock is as public -and vulgar as a church-warden. I would as soon think of hiring the -parish sexton to make my bed, as to regulate my time by the parish -clock. - -A shadow that the sun casts upon your carpet, or a streak of light on -the slated roof yonder, or the burning of your fire, are pleasant -time-keepers full of presence, full of companionship, and full of the -warning—time is passing! - -In the summer season I have even measured my reading, and my -night-watch, by the burning of a taper; and I have scratched upon the -handle to the little bronze taper-holder, that meaning passage of the -New Testament—Νυξ γαρ ερχεται—the night cometh! - -But I must get upon my reverie; it was a drizzly evening; I had worked -hard during the day, and had drawn my boots—thrust my feet into -slippers—thrown on a Turkish loose dress, and Greek cap—souvenirs to me -of other times, and other places, and sat watching the lively, uncertain -yellow play of the bituminous flame. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - I - SEA-COAL - - -IT is like a flirt—mused I; lively, uncertain, bright-colored, waving -here and there, melting the coal into black shapeless mass, making foul, -sooty smoke, and pasty, trashy residuum! Yet withal—pleasantly -sparkling, dancing, prettily waving, and leaping like a roebuck from -point to point. - -How like a flirt! And yet is not this tossing caprice of girlhood, to -which I liken my sea-coal flame, a native play of life, and belonging by -nature to the playtime of life? Is it not a sort of essential -fire-kindling to the weightier and truer passions—even as Jenny puts the -soft coal first, the better to kindle the anthracite? Is it not a sort -of necessary consumption of young vapors, which float in the soul, and -which is left thereafter the purer? Is there not a stage somewhere in -every man’s youth, for just such waving, idle, heart-blaze, which means -nothing, yet which must be got over? - -Lamartine says, somewhere, very prettily, that there is more of quick -running sap, and floating shade in a young tree; but more of fire in the -heart of a sturdy oak—_Il y a plus de sève folle et d’ombre flottante -dans les jeunes plants de la forêt; il y a plus de feu dans le vieux -cœur du chêne_. - -Is Lamartine playing off his prettiness of expression, dressing up with -his poetry—making a good conscience against the ghost of some accusing -Graziella, or is there truth in the matter? - -A man who has seen sixty years, whether widower or bachelor, may well -put such sentiment into words: it feeds his wasted heart with hope; it -renews the exultation of youth by the pleasantest of equivocation, and -the most charming of self-confidence. But after all, is it not true? Is -not the heart like new blossoming field-plants, whose first flowers are -half-formed, one-sided perhaps, but by and by, in maturity of season, -putting out wholesome, well-formed blossoms that will hold their leaves -long and bravely? - -Bulwer in his story of _The Caxtons_, has counted first heart-flights -mere fancy-passages—a dalliance with the breezes of love, which pass, -and leave healthful heart appetite. Half the reading world has read the -story of Trevanion and Pisistratus. But Bulwer is—past; his heart-life -is used up—_épuisé_. Such a man can very safely rant about the cool -judgment of after years. - -Where does Shakespeare put the unripe heart-age? All of it before the -ambition, that alone makes the hero-soul. The Shakespeare man “sighs -like a furnace,” before he stretches his arm to achieve the “bauble, -reputation.” - -Yet Shakespeare has meted a soul-love, mature and ripe, without any -young furnace sighs to Desdemona and Othello. Cordelia, the sweetest of -his play creations, loves without any of the mawkish matter, which makes -the whining love of a Juliet. And Florizel in the _Winter’s Tale_, says -to Perdita in the true spirit of a most sound heart: - - My desires - Run not before mine honor, nor my wishes - Burn hotter than my faith. - -How is it with Hector and Andromache? no sea-coal blaze, but one that is -constant, enduring, pervading: a pair of hearts full of esteem, and best -love—good, honest, and sound. - -Look now at Adam and Eve, in God’s presence, with Milton for showman. -Shall we quote by this sparkling blaze, a gem from the _Paradise Lost_? -We will hum it to ourselves—what Raphael sings to Adam—a classic song. - - ——Him, serve and fear! - Of other creatures, as Him pleases best - Wherever placed, let Him dispose; joy thou - In what he gives to thee, this Paradise - And thy fair Eve! - -And again: - - ——Love refines - The thoughts, and heart enlarges; hath his seat - In reason, and is judicious: is the scale - By which to Heavenly love thou may’st ascend! - -None of the playing sparkle in this love, which belongs to the flame of -my sea-coal fire that is now dancing, lively as a cricket. But on -looking about my garret chamber, I can see nothing that resembles the -archangel Raphael, or “thy fair Eve.” - -There is a degree of moisture about the sea-coal flame, which with the -most earnest of my musing, I find it impossible to attach to that idea -of a waving sparkling heart which my fire suggests. A damp heart must be -a foul thing to be sure. But whoever heard of one? - -Wordsworth somewhere in the _Excursion_ says: - - The good die first, - And they whose hearts are _dry_ as summer dust - Burn to the socket! - -What, in the name of Rydal Mount, is a dry heart? A dusty one, I can -conceive of: a bachelor’s heart must be somewhat dusty, as he nears the -sixtieth summer of his pilgrimage—and hung over with cobwebs, in which -sit such watchful gray old spiders as avarice, and selfishness, forever -on the lookout for such bottle-green flies as lust. - -“I will never”—said I—gripping at the elbows of my chair—“live a -bachelor till sixty—never, so surely as there is hope in man, or charity -in woman, or faith in both!” - -And with that thought my heart leaped about in playful coruscations, -even like the flame of the sea-coal—rising, and wrapping round old and -tender memories and images that were present to me—trying to cling, and -yet no sooner fastened than off—dancing again, riotous in its -exultation—a succession of heart-sparkles, blazing, and going out! - -—And is there not—mused I—a portion of this world forever blazing in -just such lively sparkles, waving here and there as the air-currents fan -them? - -Take, for instance, your heart of sentiment, and quick sensibility, a -weak, warm-working heart, flying off in tangents of unhappy influence, -unguided by prudence, and perhaps virtue. There is a paper by Mackenzie, -in the _Mirror_ for April, 1780, which sets this untoward sensibility in -a strong light. - -And the more it is indulged, the more strong and binding such a habit of -sensibility becomes. Poor Mackenzie himself must have suffered thus; you -can not read his books without feeling it; your eye, in spite of you, -runs over with his sensitive griefs, while you are half-ashamed of his -success at picture-making. It is a terrible inheritance; and one that a -strong man or woman will study to subdue: it is a vain sea-coal -sparkling, which will count no good. The world is made of much hard, -flinty substance, against which your better and holier thoughts will be -striking fire—see to it that the sparks do not burn you! - -But what a happy, careless life belongs to this bachelorhood in which -you may strike out boldly right and left! Your heart is not bound to -another which may be full of only sickly vapors of feeling; nor is it -frozen to a cold, man’s heart under a silk bodice—knowing nothing of -tenderness but the name, to prate of; and nothing of soul-confidence but -clumsy confession. And if in your careless outgoings of feeling you get -here only a little lip vapidity in return, be sure that you will find, -elsewhere, a true heart utterance. This last you will cherish in your -inner soul—a nucleus for a new group of affections; and the other will -pass with a whiff of your cigar. - -Or if your feelings are touched, struck, hurt, who is the wiser, or the -worse, but you only? And have you not the whole skein of your heart-life -in your own fingers to wind, or unwind, in what shape you please? Shake -it, or twine it, or tangle it, by the light of your fire, as you fancy -best. He is a weak man who can not twist and weave the threads of his -feeling—however fine, however tangled, however strained, or however -strong—into the great cable of purpose, by which he lies moored to his -life of action. - -Reading is a great and happy disentangler of all those knotted -snarls—those extravagant vagaries, which belong to a heart sparkling -with sensibility; but the reading must be cautiously directed. There is -old, placid Burton, when your soul is weak, and its digestion of life’s -humors is bad; there is Cowper, when your spirit runs into kindly, -half-sad, religious musing; there is Crabbe, when you would shake off -vagary, by a little handling of sharp actualities. There is Voltaire, a -homeopathic doctor, whom you can read when you want to make a play of -life, and crack jokes at nature, and be witty with destiny; there is -Rousseau, when you want to lose yourself in a mental dreamland, and be -beguiled by the harmony of soul-music and soul-culture. - -And when you would shake off this, and be sturdiest among the battlers -for hard, world-success, and be forewarned of rocks against which you -must surely smite—read Bolingbroke—run over the letters of Lyttleton; -read, and think of what you read, in the cracking lines of -Rochefoucauld. How he sums us up in his stinging words!—how he puts the -scalpel between the nerves—yet he never hurts; for he is dissecting dead -matter. - -If you are in a genial, careless mood, who is better than such -extemporizers of feeling and nature—good-hearted fellows—as Sterne and -Fielding? - -And then, again, there are Milton and Isaiah, to lift up one’s soul -until it touches cloud-land, and you wander with their guidance, on -swift feet, to the very gates of heaven. - -But this sparkling sensibility to one struggling under infirmity, or -with grief or poverty, is very dreadful. The soul is too nicely and -keenly hinged to be wrenched without mischief. How it shrinks, like a -hurt child, from all that is vulgar, harsh and crude! Alas, for such a -man!—he will be buffeted, from beginning to end; his life will be a sea -of troubles. The poor victim of his own quick spirit he wanders with a -great shield of doubt hung before him, so that none, not even friends, -can see the goodness of such kindly qualities as belong to him. Poverty, -if it comes upon him, he wrestles with in secret, with strong, frenzied -struggles. He wraps his scant clothes about him to keep him from the -cold; and eyes the world, as if every creature in it was breathing chill -blasts at him, from every opened mouth. He threads the crowded ways of -the city, proud in his griefs, vain in his weakness, not stopping to do -good. Bulwer, in the _New Timon_, has painted in a pair of stinging -Pope-like lines, this feeling in a woman: - - Her vengeful pride, a kind of madness grown, - She hugged her wrongs, her sorrow was her throne! - -Cold picture! yet the heart was sparkling under it, like my sea-coal -fire; lifting and blazing, and lighting and falling—but with no object; -and only such little heat as begins and ends within. - -Those fine sensibilities, ever active, are chasing and observing all; -they catch a hue from what the dull and callous pass by -unnoticed—because unknown. They blunder at the great variety of the -world’s opinions; they see tokens of belief where others see none. That -delicate organization is a curse to a man: and yet, poor fool, he does -not see where his cure lies; he wonders at his griefs, and has never -reckoned with himself their source. He studies others, without studying -himself. He eats the leaves that sicken, and never plucks up the root -that will cure. - -With a woman it is worse; with her, this delicate susceptibility is like -a frail flower, that quivers at every rough blast of heaven; her own -delicacy wounds her; her highest charm is perverted to a curse. - -She listens with fear; she reads with trembling; she looks with dread. -Her sympathies give a tone, like the harp of Æolus, to the slightest -breath. Her sensibility lights up, and quivers and falls like the flame -of a sea-coal fire. - -If she loves (and may not a bachelor reason on this daintiest of -topics), her love is a gushing, wavy flame, lit up with hope that has -only a little kindling matter to light it; and this soon burns out. Yet -intense sensibility will persuade her that the flame still scorches. She -will mistake the annoyance of affection unrequited for the sting of a -passion that she fancies still burns. She does not look deep enough to -see that the passion is gone, and the shocked sensitiveness emits only -faint, yellowish sparkles in its place; her high-wrought organization -makes those sparks seem a veritable flame. - -With her, judgment, prudence and discretion are cold measured terms, -which have no meaning, except as they attach to the actions of others. -Of her own acts she never predicates them; feeling is much too high to -allow her to submit to any such obtrusive guides of conduct. She needs -disappointment to teach her truth; to teach that all is not gold that -glitters—to teach that all warmth does not blaze. But let her beware how -she sinks under any fancied disappointments: she who sinks under real -disappointment, lacks philosophy; but she who sinks under a fancied one, -lacks purpose. Let her flee as the plague such brooding thoughts as she -will love to cherish; let her spurn dark fancies as visitants of hell; -let the soul rise with the blaze of new-kindled, active and world-wide -emotions, and so brighten into steady and constant flame. Let her abjure -such poets as Cowper, or Byron, or even Wordsworth; and if she must -poetize, let her lay her mind to such manly verse as Pope’s, or to such -sound and ringing organry as _Comus_. - -My fire was getting dull, and I thrust in the poker: it started up on -the instant into a hundred little angry tongues of flame. - - -[Illustration] - - -—Just so—thought I—the oversensitive heart once cruelly disturbed, will -fling out a score of flaming passions, darting here and darting -there—half-smoke, half-flame—love and hate—canker and joy—wild in its -madness, not knowing whither its sparks are flying. Once break roughly -upon the affections, or even the fancied affections of such a soul, and -you breed a tornado of maddened action—a whirlwind of fire that hisses -and sends out jets of wild, impulsive combustion that make the -bystanders—even those most friendly—stand aloof until the storm is past. - -But this is not all the dashing flame of my sea-coal suggests. - -—How like a flirt! mused I again, recurring to my first thought—so -lively, yet uncertain; so bright yet so flickering! Your true flirt -plays with sparkles; her heart, much as there is of it, spends itself in -sparkles; she measures it to sparkle, and habit grows into nature, so -that anon, it can only sparkle. How carefully she cramps it, if the -flames show too great a heat; how dexterously she flings its blaze here -and there; how coyly she subdues it; how winningly she lights it! - -All this is the entire reverse of the unpremeditated dartings of the -soul at which I have been looking; sensibility scorns heart-curbings and -heart-teachings; sensibility inquires not—how much! but only—where? - -Your true flirt has a coarse-grained soul; well modulated and well -tutored, but there is no fineness in it. All its native fineness is made -coarse by coarse efforts of the will. True feeling is a rustic -vulgarity, the flirt does not tolerate; she counts its healthiest and -most honest manifestation, all sentiment. Yet she will play you off a -pretty string of sentiment, which she has gathered from the poets; she -adjusts it prettily as a Gobelin weaver adjusts the colors in his -_tapis_. She shades it off delightfully; there are no bold contrasts, -but a most artistic mellowing of _nuances_. - -She smiles like a wizard, and jingles it with a laugh, such as tolled -the poor home-bound Ulysses to the Circean bower. She has a cast of the -head, apt and artful as the most dexterous cast of the best -trout-killing rod. Her words sparkle and flow hurriedly, and with the -prettiest doubleness of meaning. Naturalness she copies and she scorns. -She accuses herself of a single expression or regard, which nature -prompts. She prides herself on her schooling. She measures her wit by -the triumphs of her art; she chuckles over her own falsity to herself. -And if by chance her soul—such germ as is left of it—betrays her into -untoward confidence, she condemns herself, as if she had committed -crime. - -She is always gay, because she has no depth of feeling to be stirred. -The brook that runs shallow over hard pebbly bottom always rustles. She -is light-hearted, because her heart floats in sparkles—like my sea-coal -fire. She counts on marriage, not as the great absorbent of a heart’s -love and life, but as a happy, feasible, and orderly conventionality, to -be played with, and kept at distance, and finally to be accepted as a -cover for the faint and tawdry sparkles of an old and cherished -heartlessness. - -She will not pine under any regrets, because she has no appreciation of -any loss: she will not chafe at indifference, because it is her art; she -will not be worried with jealousies, because she is ignorant of love. -With no conception of the soul in its strength and fullness, she sees no -lack of its demands. A thrill, she does not know; a passion, she can not -imagine; joy is a name; grief is another; and life, with its crowding -scenes of love and bitterness, is a play upon the stage. - -I think it is Madame Dudevant who says, in something like the same -connection: _Les hiboux ne connaissent pas le chemin par où les aigles -vont au soleil_. - -—Poor Ned! mused I, looking at the play of the fire—was a victim and a -conqueror. He was a man of a full, strong nature—not a little -impulsive—with action too full of earnestness for most of men to see its -drift. He had known little of what is called the world; he was fresh in -feeling and high of hope; he had been encircled always by friends who -loved him, and who, maybe, flattered him. Scarce had he entered upon the -tangled life of the city before he met with a sparkling face and an airy -step that stirred something in poor Ned that he had never felt before. -With him, to feel was to act. He was not one to be despised; for, -notwithstanding he wore a country air, and the awkwardness of a man who -has yet the _bienséance_ of social life before him, he had the soul, the -courage, and the talent of a strong man. Little gifted in the knowledge -of face-play, he easily mistook those coy manœuvers of a sparkling heart -for something kindred to his own true emotions. - -She was proud of the attentions of a man who carried a mind in his -brain; and flattered poor Ned almost into servility. Ned had no friends -to counsel him; or, if he had them, his impulses would have blinded him. -Never was dodger more artful at the Olympic Games than the Peggy of -Ned’s heart-affection. He was charmed, beguiled, entranced. - -When Ned spoke of love, she staved it off with the prettiest of sly -looks that only bewildered him the more. A charming creature to be sure; -coy as a dove! - -So he went on, poor fool, until one day—he told me of it with the blood -mounting to his temples, and his eye shooting flame—he suffered his -feelings to run out in passionate avowal—entreaty—everything. She gave a -pleasant, noisy laugh, and manifested—such pretty surprise! - -He was looking for the intense glow of passion; and lo, there was -nothing but the shifting sparkle of a sea-coal flame. - -I wrote him a letter of condolence—for I was his senior by a year; “My -dear fellow,” said I, “diet yourself; you can find greens at the uptown -market; eat a little fish with your dinner; abstain from heating drinks; -don’t put too much butter to your cauliflower; read one of Jeremy -Taylor’s sermons, and translate all the quotations at sight; run -carefully over that exquisite picture of George Dandin in your Molière, -and my word for it, in a week you will be a sound man.” - -He was too angry to reply; but eighteen months thereafter I got a thick, -three-sheeted letter, with a dove upon the seal, telling me that he was -as happy as a king: he said he had married a good-hearted, domestic, -loving wife, who was as lovely as a June day, and that their baby, not -three months old, was as bright as a spot of June day sunshine on the -grass. - -—What a tender, delicate, loving wife—mused I—such flashing, flaming -flirt must in the end make; the prostitute of fashion; the bauble of -fifty hearts idle as hers; the shifting make-piece of a stage scene; the -actress, now in peasant, and now in princely petticoats! How it would -cheer an honest soul to call her—his! What a culmination of his -heart-life; what a rich dreamland to be realized! - -—Bah! and I thrust the poker into the clotted mass of fading coal—just -such, and so worthless is the used heart of a city flirt; just so the -incessant sparkle of her life, and frittering passions, fuses all that -is sound and combustible into black, sooty, shapeless residuum. - -When I marry a flirt, I will buy second-hand clothes of the Jews. - -—Still—mused I—as the flame danced again—there is a distinction between -coquetry and flirtation. - -A coquette sparkles, but it is more the sparkle of a harmless and pretty -vanity than of calculation. It is the play of humors in the blood, and -not the play of purpose at the heart. It will flicker around a true soul -like the blaze around an _omelette au rhum_, leaving the kernel sounder -and warmer. - -Coquetry, with all its pranks and teasings, makes the spice to your -dinner—the mulled wine to your supper. It will drive you to desperation, -only to bring you back hotter to the fray. Who would boast a victory -that cost no strategy, and no careful disposition of the forces? Who -would bulletin such success as my Uncle Toby’s, in the back garden, with -only the Corporal Trim for assailant? But let a man be very sure that -the city is worth the siege! - -Coquetry whets the appetite; flirtation depraves it. Coquetry is the -thorn that guards the rose—easily trimmed off when once plucked. -Flirtation is like the slime on water plants, making them hard to -handle, and when caught, only to be cherished in slimy waters. - -And so, with my eye clinging to the flickering blaze, I see in my -reverie, a bright one dancing before me, with sparkling, coquettish -smile, teasing me with the prettiest graces in the world—and I grow -maddened between hope and fear, and still watch with my whole soul in my -eyes; and see her features by and by relax to pity, as a gleam of -sensibility comes stealing over her spirit—and then to a kindly, feeling -regard: presently she approaches—a coy and doubtful approach—and throws -back the ringlets that lie over her cheek, and lays her hand—a little -bit of white hand—timidly upon my strong fingers—and turns her head -daintily to one side—and looks up in my eyes as they rest on the playing -blaze; and my fingers close fast and passionately over that little hand -like a swift night-cloud shrouding the pale tips of Dian—and my eyes -draw nearer and nearer to those blue, laughing, pitying, teasing eyes, -and my arm clasps round that shadowy form—and my lips feel a warm -breath—growing warmer and warmer— - -Just here the maid comes in, throws upon the fire a panful of -anthracite, and my sparkling sea-coal reverie is ended. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - II - ANTHRACITE - - -IT DOES not burn freely, so I put on the blower. Quaint and good-natured -Xavier de Maistre[2] would have made, I dare say, a pretty epilogue -about a sheet-iron blower; but I can not. - -Footnote 2: - - _Voyage autour de Ma Chambre._ - -I try to bring back the image that belonged to the lingering bituminous -flame, but with my eyes on that dark blower—how can I? - -It is the black curtain of destiny which drops down before our brightest -dreams. How often the phantoms of joy regale us, and dance before -us—golden-winged, angel-faced, heart-warming, and make an Elysium in -which the dreaming soul bathes and feels translated to another -existence; and then—sudden as night, or a cloud—a word, a step, a -thought, a memory will chase them away like scared deer vanishing over a -gray horizon of moor-land! - -I know not justly, if it be a weakness or a sin to create these phantoms -that we love, and to group them into a paradise—soul-created. But if it -is a sin, it is a sweet and enchanting sin; and if it is a weakness, it -is a strong and stirring weakness. If this heart is sick of the -falsities that meet it at every hand, and is eager to spend that power -which nature has ribbed it with, on some object worthy of its fullness -and depth—shall it not feel a rich relief—nay more, an exercise in -keeping with its end, if it flow out—strong as a tempest, wild as a -rushing river, upon those ideal creations, which imagination invents, -and which are tempered by our best sense of beauty, purity and grace? - -—Useless, do you say? Ay, it is as useless as the pleasure of looking, -hour upon hour, over bright landscapes; it is as useless as the rapt -enjoyment of listening with heart full and eyes brimming, to such music -as the Miserere, at Rome; it is as useless as the ecstasy of kindling -your soul into fervor and love, and madness, over pages that reek with -genius. - -There are, indeed, base-molded souls who know nothing of this; they -laugh; they sneer; they even affect to pity. Just so the Huns, under the -avenging Attila, who had been used to foul cookery and steaks stewed -under their saddles, laughed brutally at the spiced banquets of an -Apicius! - -—No, this phantom-making is no sin; or if it be, it is sinning with a -soul so full, so earnest, that it can cry to Heaven cheerily, and sure -of a gracious hearing—_peccavi_—_misericorde_! - -But my fire is in a glow, a pleasant glow, throwing a tranquil, steady -light to the farthest corner of my garret. How unlike it is to the -flashing play of the sea-coal!—unlike as an unsteady, uncertain-working -heart to the true and earnest constancy of one cheerful and right. - -After all, thought I, give me such a heart; not bent on vanities, not -blazing too sharp with sensibilities, not throwing out coquettish jets -of flame, not wavering, and meaningless with pretended warmth, but open, -glowing and strong. Its dark shades and angles it may have; for what is -a soul worth that does not take a slaty tinge from those griefs that -chill the blood. Yet still the fire is gleaming; you see it in the -crevices; and anon it will give radiance to the whole mass. - -—It hurts the eyes, this fire; and I draw up a screen painted over with -rough but graceful figures. - -The true heart wears always the veil of modesty (not of prudery, which -is a dingy, iron, repulsive screen). It will not allow itself to be -looked on too near—it might scorch; but through the veil you feel the -warmth; and through the pretty figures that modesty will robe itself in, -you can see all the while the golden outlines, and by that token, you -_know_ that it is glowing and burning with a pure and steady flame. - -With such a heart the mind fuses naturally—a holy and heated fusion; -they work together like twins-born. With such a heart, as Raphael says -to Adam: - - Love hath his seat - In reason, and is judicious. - -But let me distinguish this heart from your clay-cold, lukewarm, -half-hearted soul; considerate, because ignorant; judicious, because -possessed of no latent fires that need a curb; prudish, because with no -warm blood to tempt. This sort of soul may pass scatheless through the -fiery furnace of life; strong, only in its weakness; pure, because of -its failings; and good, only by negation. It may triumph over love, and -sin, and death; but it will be a triumph of the beast, which has neither -passions to subdue, or energy to attack, or hope to quench. - -Let us come back to the steady and earnest heart, glowing like my -anthracite coal. - -I fancy I see such a one now; the eye is deep and reaches back to the -spirit; it is not the trading eye, weighing your purse; it is not the -worldly eye, weighing position; it is not the beastly eye, weighing your -appearance; it is the heart’s eye weighing your soul! - -It is full of deep, tender, and earnest feeling. It is an eye, which -looked on once, you long to look on again; it is an eye which will haunt -your dreams—an eye which will give a color, in spite of you, to all your -reveries. It is an eye which lies before you in your future, like a star -in the mariner’s heaven; by it, unconsciously, and from force of deep -soul habit, you take all your observations. It is meek and quiet; but it -is full as a spring that gushes in flood; an Aphrodite and a Mercury—a -Vaucluse and a Clitumnus. - -The face is an angel face; no matter for curious lines of beauty; no -matter for popular talk of prettiness; no matter for its angles, or its -proportions; no matter for its color or its form—the soul is there, -illuminating every feature, burnishing every point, hallowing every -surface. It tells of honesty, sincerity and worth; it tells of truth and -virtue—and you clasp the image to your heart as the received ideal of -your fondest dreams. - -The figure may be this or that, it may be tall or short, it matters -nothing—the heart is there. The talk may be soft or low, serious or -piquant—a free and honest soul is warming and softening it all. As you -speak, it speaks back again; as you think, it thinks again (not in -conjunction, but in the same sign of the Zodiac); as you love, it loves -in return. - -—It is the heart for a sister, and happy is the man who can claim such! -The warmth that lies in it is not only generous, but religious, genial, -devotional, tender, self-sacrificing, and looking heavenward. - -A man without some sort of religion is, at best, a poor reprobate, the -football of destiny, with no tie linking him to infinity, and the -wondrous eternity that is begun with him; but a woman without it is even -worse—a flame without heat, a rainbow without color, a flower without -perfume! - -A man may, in some sort, tie his frail hopes and honors with weak, -shifting ground-tackle to business, or to the world; but a woman without -that anchor which they call faith is adrift and a-wreck! A man may -clumsily contrive a kind of moral responsibility out of his relations to -mankind, but a woman in her comparatively isolated sphere, where -affection and not purpose is the controlling motive, can find no basis -for any system of right action, but that of spiritual faith. - -A man may craze his thought and his brain, to trustfulness in such poor -harborage as fame and reputation may stretch before him; but a -woman—where can she put her hope in storms, if not in Heaven? - -And that sweet trustfulness—that abiding love—that enduring hope, -mellowing every page and scene of life, lighting them with pleasantest -radiance, when the world-storms break like an army with smoking -cannon—what can bestow it all, but a holy soul-tie to what is above the -storms, and to what is stronger than an army with cannon? Who that has -enjoyed the counsel and the love of a Christian mother, but will echo -the thought with energy, and hallow it with a tear?—_et moi, je pleurs!_ - -My fire is now a mass of red-hot coal. The whole atmosphere of my room -is warm. The heat that with its glow can light up, and warm a garret -with loose casements and shattered roof, is capable of the best -love—domestic love. I draw farther off, and the images upon the screen -change. The warmth, the hour, the quiet, create a home feeling; and that -feeling, quick as lightning, has stolen from the world of fancy (a -Promethean theft), a home object, about which my musings go on to drape -themselves in luxurious reverie. - - -[Illustration] - - -—There she sits, by the corner of the fire, in a neat home dress, of -sober, yet most adorning color. A little bit of lace ruffle is gathered -about the neck, by a blue ribbon; and the ends of the ribbon are crossed -under the dimpling chin, and are fastened neatly by a simple, -unpretending brooch—your gift. The arm, a pretty taper arm, lies over -the carved elbow of the oaken chair; the hand, white and delicate, -sustains a little home volume that hangs from her fingers. The -forefinger is between the leaves, and the others lie in relief upon the -dark embossed cover. She repeats in a silver voice a line that has -attracted her fancy; and you listen—or, at any rate, you seem to -listen—with your eyes now on the lips, now on the forehead, and now on -the finger, where glitters like a star, the marriage ring—little gold -band, at which she does not chafe, that tells you—she is yours! - -—Weak testimonial, if that were all that told it! The eye, the voice, -the look, the heart, tells you stronger and better, that she is yours. -And a feeling within, where it lies you know not, and whence it comes -you know not, but sweeping over heart and brain, like a fire-flood, -tells you, too, that you are hers! Irremediably bound as Massinger’s -Hortensio: - - I am subject to another’s will and can - Nor speak, nor do, without permission from her! - -The fire is warm as ever; what length of heat in this hard burning -anthracite! It has scarce sunk yet to the second bar of the grate, -though the clock upon the churchtower has tolled eleven. - -—Aye—mused I, gayly—such a heart does not grow faint, it does not spend -itself in idle puffs of blaze, it does not become chilly with the -passing years; but it gains and grows in strength and heat until the -fire of life is covered over with the ashes of death. Strong or hot as -it may be at the first, it loses nothing. It may not, indeed, as time -advances, throw out, like the coal fire, when new-lit, jets of blue -sparkling flame; it may not continue to bubble and gush like a fountain -at its source, but it will become a strong river of flowing charities. - -Clitumnus breaks from under the Tuscan mountains, almost a flood; on a -glorious spring day I leaned down and tasted the water, as it boiled -from its sources; the little temple of white marble—the mountain sides -gray with olive orchards—the white streak of road—the tall poplars of -the river margin were glistening in the bright Italian sunlight around -me. Later, I saw it when it had become a river—still clear and strong, -flowing serenely between its prairie banks, on which the white cattle of -the valley browsed; and still farther down I welcomed it, where it joins -the Arno—flowing slowly under wooded shores, skirting the fair Florence -and the bounteous fields of the bright Cascino; gathering strength and -volume, till between Pisa and Leghorn—in sight of the wondrous Leaning -Tower and the ship-masts of the Tuscan port—it gave its waters to its -life’s grave—the sea. - -The recollection blended sweetly now with my musings, over my garret -grate, and offered a flowing image to bear along upon its bosom the -affections that were grouping in my reverie. - -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 toward 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 an 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 -center, 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 day-dream, 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 good die first, - And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust - Burn to the socket! - -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 farther -back, and dimmer; it is but retreating toward the pure sky-depths, an -usher to the land where you will follow after. - -It is quite cold, and I take away the screen altogether; there is a -little glow yet, but presently the coal slips down below the third bar, -with a rumbling sound—like that of coarse gravel falling into a new-dug -grave. - -—She is gone! - -Well, the heart has burned fairly, evenly, generously, while there was -mortality to kindle it; eternity will surely kindle it better. - -—Tears indeed; but they are tears of thanksgiving, of resignation, and -of hope! - -And the eyes, full of those tears which ministering angels bestow, climb -with quick vision upon the angelic ladder, and open upon the futurity -where she has entered, and upon the country which she enjoys. - -It is midnight, and the sounds of life are dead. - -You are in the death chamber of life; but you are also in the death -chamber of care. The world seems sliding backward; and hope and you are -sliding forward. The clouds, the agonies, the vain expectancies, the -braggart noise, and fears, now vanish behind the curtain of the past, -and of the night. They roll from your soul like a load. - -In the dimness of what seems the ending present, you reach out your -prayerful hands toward that boundless future, where God’s eye lifts over -the horizon, like sunrise on the ocean. Do you recognize it as an -earnest of something better? Aye, if the heart has been pure and -steady—burning like my fire—it has learned it without seeming to learn. -Faith has grown upon it, as the blossom grows upon the bud, or the -flower upon the slow-lifting stalk. - -Cares can not come into the dreamland where I live. They sink with the -dying street noise, and vanish with the embers of my fire. Even -ambition, with its hot and shifting flame, is all gone out. The heart in -the dimness of the fading fire-glow is all itself. The memory of what -good things have come over it in the troubled youthlife, bear it up; and -hope and faith bear it on. There is no extravagant pulse-glow; there is -no mad fever of the brain; but only the soul, forgetting—for once—all, -save its destinies and its capacities for good. And it mounts higher and -higher on these wings of thought; and hope burns stronger and stronger -out of the ashes of decaying life, until the sharp edge of the grave -seems but a foot-scraper at the wicket of Elysium! - -But what is paper; and what are words? Vain things! The soul leaves them -behind; the pen staggers like a starveling cripple; and your heart is -leaving it, a whole length of the life-course behind. The soul’s mortal -longings—its poor baffled hopes, are dim now in the light of those -infinite longings, which spread over it soft and holy as daydawn. -Eternity has stretched a corner of its mantle toward you, and the breath -of its waving fringe is like a gale of Araby. - -A little rumbling, and a last plunge of the cinders within my grate, -startled me, and dragged back my fancy from my flower chase, beyond the -Phlegethon, to the white ashes that were now thick all over the darkened -coals. - -—And this—mused I—is only a bachelor-dream about a pure and loving -heart! And to-morrow comes cankerous life again—is it wished for? Or if -not wished for, is the not wishing wicked? - -Will dreams satisfy, reach high as they can? Are we not, after all, poor -groveling mortals, tied to earth, and to each other; are there not -sympathies, and hopes, and affections which can only find their issue -and blessing in fellow absorption? Does not the heart, steady and pure, -as it may be, and mounting on soul flights often as it dare, want a -human sympathy, perfectly indulged, to make it healthful? Is there not a -fount of love for this world as there is a fount of love for the other? -Is there not a certain store of tenderness cooped in this heart, which -must, and _will_ be lavished, before the end comes? Does it not plead -with the judgment, and make issue with prudence, year after year? Does -it not dog your steps all through your social pilgrimage, setting up its -claims in forms fresh and odorous as new-blown heath bells, saying—come -away from the heartless, the factitious, the vain, and measure your -heart not by its constraints, but by its fullness, and by its depth! Let -it run, and be joyous! - -Is there no demon that comes to your harsh night-dreams, like a taunting -fiend, whispering—be satisfied; keep your heart from running over; -bridle those affections; there is nothing worth loving? - -Does not some sweet being hover over your spirit of reverie like a -beckoning angel, crowned with halo, saying—hope on, hope ever; the heart -and I are kindred; our mission will be fulfilled; nature shall -accomplish its purpose; the soul shall have its paradise? - -—I threw myself upon my bed: and as my thoughts ran over the definite, -sharp business of the morrow, my reverie, and its glowing images, that -made my heart bound, swept away like those fleecy rain clouds of August, -on which the sun paints rainbows-—driving southward, by the cool, rising -wind from the north. - -—I wonder—thought I, as I dropped asleep—if a married man with his -sentiment made actual is, after all, as happy as we poor fellows, in our -dreams? - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - OVER HIS CIGAR - - -I DO not believe that there was ever an Aunt Tabithy who could abide -cigars. My Aunt Tabithy hated them with a peculiar hatred. She was not -only insensible to the rich flavor of a fresh rolling volume of smoke, -but she could not so much as tolerate the sight of the rich russet color -of an Havana-labeled box. It put her out of all conceit with Guava -jelly, to find it advertised in the same tongue, and with the same Cuban -coarseness of design. - -She could see no good in a cigar. - -“But by your leave, my aunt,” said I to her the other morning—“there is -very much that is good in a cigar.” - -My aunt, who was sweeping, tossed her head, and with it, her curls—done -up in paper. - -“It is a very excellent matter,” continued I, puffing. - -“It is dirty,” said my aunt. - -“It is clean and sweet,” said I; “and a most pleasant soother of -disturbed feelings; and a capital companion; and a comforter—” and I -stopped to puff. - -“You know it is a filthy abomination,” said my aunt—“and you ought to -be—” and she stopped to put up one of her curls, which, with the energy -of her gesticulation, had fallen out of its place. - -“It suggests quiet thoughts”—continued I—“and makes a man meditative; -and gives a current to his habits of contemplation—as I can show you,” -said I, warming with the theme. - -My aunt, still fingering her papers—with the pin in her mouth—gave a -most incredulous shrug. - -“Aunt Tabithy”—said I, and gave two or three violent, consecutive -puffs—“Aunt Tabithy, I can make up such a series of reflections out of -my cigar as would do your heart good to listen to!” - - -[Illustration] - - -“About what, pray?” said my aunt, contemptuously. - -“About love,” said I, “which is easy enough lighted, but wants constancy -to keep it in a glow—or about matrimony, which has a great deal of fire -in the beginning, but it is a fire that consumes all that feeds the -blaze—or about life,” continued I, earnestly—“which at the first is -fresh and odorous, but ends shortly in a withered cinder that is fit -only for the ground.” - -My aunt, who was forty and unmarried, finished her curl with a flip of -the fingers—resumed her hold of the broom, and leaned her chin upon one -end of it with an expression of some wonder, some curiosity, and a great -deal of expectation. - -I could have wished my aunt had been a little less curious, or that I -had been a little less communicative; for, though it was all honestly -said on my part, yet my contemplations bore that vague, shadowy, and -delicious sweetness that it seemed impossible to put them into -words—least of all, at the bidding of an old lady leaning on a -broomhandle. - -“Give me time, Aunt Tabithy,” said I—“a good dinner, and after it a good -cigar, and I will serve you such a sunshiny sheet of reverie, all -twisted out of the smoke, as will make your kind old heart ache!” - -Aunt Tabithy, in utter contempt, either of my mention of the dinner, or -of the smoke, or of the old heart, commenced sweeping furiously. - -“If I do not,”—continued I, anxious to appease her—“if I do not, Aunt -Tabithy, it shall be my last cigar (Aunt Tabithy stopped sweeping); and -all my tobacco money (Aunt Tabithy drew near me), shall go to buy -ribbons for my most respectable and worthy Aunt Tabithy; and a kinder -person could not have them; or one,” continued I, with a generous puff, -“whom they would more adorn.” - -My Aunt Tabithy gave me a half-playful—half-thankful nudge. - -It was in this way that our bargain was struck; my part of it is already -stated. On her part, Aunt Tabithy was to allow me, in case of my -success, an evening cigar unmolested, upon the front porch, underneath -her favorite rose-tree. It was concluded, I say, as I sat; the smoke of -my cigar rising gracefully around my Aunt Tabithy’s curls; our right -hands joined; my left was holding my cigar, while in hers, was tightly -grasped—her broom-stick. - -And this reverie, to make the matter short, is what came of the -contract. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - I - LIGHTED WITH A COAL - - -I TAKE up a coal with the tongs, and setting the end of my cigar against -it, puff—and puff again; but there is no smoke. There is very little -hope of lighting from a dead coal—no more hope, thought I, than of -kindling one’s heart into flame by contact with a dead heart. - -To kindle, there must be warmth and life; and I sat for a moment, -thinking—even before I lit my cigar—on the vanity and folly of those -poor, purblind fellows, who go on puffing for half a lifetime, against -dead coals. It is to be hoped that Heaven, in its mercy, has made their -senses so obtuse that they know not when their souls are in a flame, or -when they are dead. I can imagine none but the most moderate -satisfaction, in continuing to love what has got no ember of love within -it. The Italians have a very sensible sort of proverb—_amare, e non -essere amato, é tempo perduto_—to love, and not be loved, is time lost. - -I take a kind of rude pleasure in flinging down a coal that has no life -in it. And it seemed to me—and may Heaven pardon the ill-nature that -belongs to the thought—that there would be much of the same kind of -satisfaction in dashing from you a lukewarm creature covered over with -the yellow ashes of old combustion that, with ever so much attention, -and the nearest approach of the lips, never shows signs of fire. May -Heaven forgive me again, but I should long to break away, though the -marriage bonds held me, and see what liveliness was to be found -elsewhere. - -I have seen before now a creeping vine try to grow up against a marble -wall; it shoots out its tendrils in all directions, seeking for some -crevice by which to fasten and to climb—looking now above and now -below—twining upon itself—reaching farther up, but, after all, finding -no good foothold, and falling away as if in despair. But nature is not -unkind; twining things were made to twine. The longing tendrils take new -strength in the sunshine, and in the showers, and shoot out toward some -hospitable trunk. They fasten easily to the kindly roughness of the -bark, and stretch up, dragging after them the vine, which, by and by, -from the topmost bough, will nod its blossoms over at the marble wall, -that refused it succor, as if it said—stand there in your pride, cold, -white wall! we, the tree and I, are kindred, it the helper, and I the -helped! and bound fast together, we riot in the sunshine and in -gladness. - -The thought of this image made me search for a new coal that should have -some brightness in it. There may be a white ash over it indeed; as you -will find tender feelings covered with the mask of courtesy, or with the -veil of fear; but with a breath it all flies off, and exposes the heat -and the glow that you are seeking. - -At the first touch the delicate edges of the cigar crimple, a thin line -of smoke rises—doubtfully for a while, and with a coy delay; but after a -hearty respiration or two it grows strong, and my cigar is fairly -lighted. - -That first taste of the new smoke, and of the fragrant leaf is very -grateful; it has a bloom about it that you wish might last. It is like -your first love—fresh, genial and rapturous. Like that, it fills up all -the craving of your soul; and the light, blue wreaths of smoke, like the -roseate clouds that hang around the morning of your heart-life, cut you -off from the chill atmosphere of mere worldly companionship, and make a -gorgeous firmament for your fancy to riot in. - -I do not speak now of those later and manlier passions, into which -judgment must be thrusting its cold tones, and when all the sweet tumult -of your heart has mellowed into the sober ripeness of affection. But I -mean that boyish burning, which belongs to every poor mortal’s lifetime, -and which bewilders him with the thought that he has reached the highest -point of human joy before he has tasted any of that bitterness from -which alone our highest human joys have sprung. I mean the time when you -cut initials with your jack-knife on the smooth bark of beech trees; and -went moping under the long shadows at sunset; and thought Louise the -prettiest name in the wide world; and picked flowers to leave at her -door; and stole out at night to watch the light in her window; and read -such novels as those about Helen Mar, or Charlotte, to give some -adequate expression to your agonized feelings. - -At such a stage you are quite certain that you are deeply and madly in -love; you persist in the face of heaven and earth. You would like to -meet the individual who dared to doubt it. - -You think she has got the tidiest and jauntiest little figure that ever -was seen. You think back upon some time when, in your games of forfeit, -you gained a kiss from those lips; and it seems as if the kiss was -hanging on you yet and warming you all over. And then, again, it seems -so strange that your lips did really touch hers! You half question if it -could have been actually so—and how you could have dared—and you wonder -if you would have courage to do the same thing again?—and upon second -thought are quite sure you would—and snap your fingers at the thought of -it. - -What sweet little hats she does wear; and in the schoolroom, when the -hat is hung up—what curls—golden curls, worth a hundred Golcondas! How -bravely you study the top lines of the spelling-book that your eyes may -run over the edge of the cover, without the schoolmaster’s notice, and -feast upon her! - -You half wish that somebody would run away with her, as they did with -Amanda, in the _Children of the Abbey_—and then you might ride up on a -splendid black horse and draw a pistol, or blunderbuss, and shoot the -villains, and carry her back, all in tears, fainting and languishing -upon your shoulder—and have her father (who is judge of the county -court) take your hand in both of his and make some eloquent remarks. A -great many such recaptures you run over in your mind and think how -delightful it would be to peril your life, either by flood, or fire—to -cut off your arm, or your head, or any such trifle—for your dear Louise. - -You can hardly think of anything more joyous in life than to live with -her in some old castle, very far away from steamboats and post-offices, -and pick wild geraniums for her hair, and read poetry with her under the -shade of very dark ivy vines. And you would have such a charming boudoir -in some corner of the old ruin, with a harp in it, and books bound in -gilt, with Cupids on the cover, and such a fairy couch, with curtains -hung—as you have seen them hung in some illustrated Arabian stories—upon -a pair of carved doves. - -And when they laugh at you about it, you turn it off, perhaps, with -saying—“It isn’t so;” but afterward, in your chamber, or under the tree -where you have cut her name, you take Heaven to witness that it is so; -and think—what a cold world it is, to be so careless about such holy -emotions! You perfectly hate a certain stout boy in a green jacket, who -is forever twitting you, and calling her names; but when some old maiden -aunt teases you in her kind, gentle way, you bear it very proudly; and -with a feeling as if you could bear a great deal more for _her_ sake. -And when the minister reads off marriage announcements in the church, -you think how it will sound one of these days, to have your name, and -hers, read from the pulpit—and how the people will look at you, and how -prettily she will blush; and how poor little Dick, who you know loves -her, but is afraid to say so, will squirm upon his bench. - -—Heigho! mused I—as the blue smoke rolled up around my head—these first -kindlings of the love that is in one, are very pleasant! but will they -last? - -You love to listen to the rustle of her dress, as she stirs about the -room. It is better music than grown-up ladies will make upon all their -harpischords in the years that are to come. But this, thank Heaven, you -do not know. - -You think you can trace her foot-mark, on your way to the school; and -what a dear little foot-mark it is! And from that single point, if she -be out of your sight for days, you conjure up the whole image—the -elastic lithe little figure—the springy step—the dotted muslin so light -and flowing—the silk kerchief, with its most tempting fringe playing -upon the clear white of her throat—how you envy that fringe! And her -chin is as round as a peach—and the lips—such lips! and you sigh, and -hang your head, and wonder when you _shall_ see her again! - -You would like to write her a letter; but then people would talk so -coldly about it; and besides you are not quite sure you could write such -billets as Thaddeus of Warsaw used to write; and anything less warm or -elegant would not do at all. You talk about this one, or that one, whom -they call pretty, in the coolest way in the world; you see very little -of their prettiness; they are good girls to be sure; and you hope they -will get good husbands some day or other; but it is not a matter that -concerns you very much. They do not live in your world of romance; they -are not the angels of that sky which your heart makes rosy, and to which -I have likened the blue waves of this rolling smoke. - -You can even joke as you talk of others; you can smile—as you think—very -graciously; you can say laughingly that you are deeply in love with -them, and think it a most capital joke; you can touch their hands, or -steal a kiss from them in your games, most imperturbably—they are very -dead coals. - -But the live one is very lively. When you take the name on your lip, it -seems somehow, to be made of different materials from the rest; you -cannot half so easily separate it into letters; write it, indeed you -can; for you have had practice—very much private practice—on odd scraps -of paper, and on the fly-leaves of geographies, and of your natural -philosophy. You know perfectly well how it looks; it seems to be -written, indeed, somewhere behind your eyes; and in such happy position -with respect to the optic nerve, that you see it all the time, though -you are looking in an opposite direction; and so distinctly, that you -have great fears lest people looking into your eyes should see it too! - -For all this, it is a far more delicate name to handle than most that -you know of. Though it is very cool, and pleasant on the brain, it is -very hot, and difficult to manage on the lip. It is not, as your -schoolmaster would say—a name, so much as it is an idea—not a noun, but -a verb—an active, and transitive verb; and yet a most irregular verb, -wanting the passive voice. - -It is something against your schoolmaster’s doctrine, to find warmth in -the moonlight; but with that soft hand—it is very soft—lying within your -arm, there is a great deal of warmth, whatever the philosophers may say, -even in pale moonlight. The beams, too, breed sympathies, very -close-running sympathies—not talked about in the chapters on optics, and -altogether too fine for language. And under their influence, you retain -the little hand, that you had not dared retain so long before; and her -struggle to recover it—if indeed it be a struggle—is infinitely less -than it was—nay, it is a kind of struggle, not so much against you, as -between gladness and modesty. It makes you as bold as a lion; and the -feeble hand, like a poor lamb in the lion’s clutch, is powerless, and -very meek—and failing of escape, it will sue for gentle treatment; and -will meet your warm promise, with a kind of grateful pressure, that is -but half acknowledged, by the hand that makes it. - -My cigar is burning with wondrous freeness; and from the smoke flash -forth images bright and quick as lightning—with no thunder, but the -thunder of the pulse. But will it all last? Damp will deaden the fire of -a cigar; and there are hellish damps—alas, too many—that will deaden the -early blazing of the heart. - -She is pretty—growing prettier to your eye, the more you look upon her, -and prettier to your ear, the more you listen to her. But you wonder who -the tall boy was, whom you saw walking with her, two days ago? He was -not a bad-looking boy; on the contrary you think (with a grit of your -teeth) that he was infernally handsome! You look at him very shyly, and -very closely, when you pass him; and turn to see how he walks, and how -to measure his shoulders, and are quite disgusted with the very modest -and gentlemanly way, with which he carries himself. You think you would -like to have a fisticuff with him, if you were only sure of having the -best of it. You sound the neighborhood coyly, to find out who the -strange boy is: and are half ashamed of yourself for doing it. - -You gather a magnificent bouquet to send her and tie it with a green -ribbon, and love knot—and get a little rose-bud in acknowledgment. -_That_ day, you pass the tall boy with a very patronizing look; and -wonder if he would not like to have a sail in _your_ boat? - -But by and by you find the tall boy walking with her again; and she -looks sideways at him, and with a kind of grown-up air, that makes you -feel very boylike, and humble and furious. And you look daggers at him -when you pass; and touch your cap to her, with quite uncommon dignity; -and wonder if he is not sorry, and does not feel very badly, to have got -such a look from you? - - -[Illustration] - - -On some other day, however, you meet her alone; and the sight of her -makes your face wear a genial, sunny air; and you talk a little sadly -about your fears and your jealousies; she seems a little sad, and a -little glad, together; and is sorry she has made you feel badly—and you -are sorry too. And with this pleasant twin sorrow, you are knit together -again—closer than ever. That one little tear of hers has been worth more -to you than a thousand smiles. Now you love her madly; you could swear -it—swear it to her, or swear it to the universe. You even say as much to -some kind old friend at nightfall; but your mention of her is tremulous -and joyful—with a kind of bound in your speech, as if the heart worked -too quick for the tongue; and as if the lips were ashamed to be passing -over such secrets of the soul, to the mere sense of hearing. At this -stage you can not trust yourself to speak her praises or if you venture, -the expletives fly away with your thought before you can chain it into -language; and your speech, at your best endeavor, is but a succession of -broken superlatives that you are ashamed of. You strain for language -that will scald the thought of her; but hot as you can make it, it falls -back upon your heated fancy like a cold shower. - -Heat so intense as this consumes very fast; and the matter it feeds -fastest on is—judgment; and with judgment gone, there is room for -jealousy to creep in. You grow petulant at another sight of that tall -boy; and the one tear, which cured your first petulance, will not cure -it now. You let a little of your fever break out in speech—a speech -which you go home to mourn over. But she knows nothing of the mourning, -while she knows very much of the anger. Vain tears are very apt to breed -pride; and when you go again with your petulance, you will find your -rosy-lipped girl taking her first studies in dignity. - -You will stay away, you say—poor fool, you are feeding on what your -disease loves best! You wonder if she is not sighing for your return—and -if your name is not running in her thought—and if tears of regret are -not moistening those sweet eyes. - -—And wondering thus, you stroll moodily and hopefully toward her -father’s home; you pass the door once—twice; you loiter under the shade -of an old tree, where you have sometimes bid her adieu; your old -fondness is struggling with your pride, and has almost made the mastery; -but in the very moment of victory, you see yonder your hated rival, and -beside him, looking very gleeful and happy—your perfidious Louise. - -How quickly you throw off the marks of your struggle, and put on the -boldest air of boyhood; and what a dextrous handling to your knife, and -what a wonderful keenness to the edge, as you cut away from the bark of -the beech tree all trace of her name! Still there is a little silent -relenting, and a few tears at night, and a little tremor of the hand, as -you tear out—the next day—every fly-leaf that bears her name. But at -sight of your rival—looking so jaunty, and in such capital spirits—you -put on the proud man again. You may meet her, but you say nothing of -your struggles—oh, no, not one word of that!—but you talk with amazing -rapidity about your games, or what not; and you never—never give her -another peep into your boyish heart! - -For a week you do not see her—nor for a month—nor two months—nor three. - -—Puff—puff once more; there is only a little nauseous smoke; and now—my -cigar is gone out altogether. I must light again. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - II - WITH A WISP OF PAPER - - -THERE are those who throw away a cigar, when once gone out; they must -needs have plenty more. But nobody that I ever heard of keeps a cedar -box of hearts, labeled at Havana. Alas, there is but one to light! - -But can a heart once lit be lighted again? Authority on this point is -worth something; yet it should be impartial authority. I should be loth -to take in evidence, for the fact—however it might tally with my -hope—the affidavit of some rakish old widower, who had cast his weeds -before the grass had started on the mound of his affliction; and I -should be as slow to take, in way of rebutting testimony, the oath of -any sweet young girl, just becoming conscious of her heart’s -existence—by its loss. - -Very much, it seems to me, depends upon the quality of the fire: and I -can easily conceive of one so pure, so constant, so exhausting, that if -it were once gone out, whether in the chills of death or under the -blasts of pitiless fortune, there would be no rekindling, simply because -there would be nothing left to kindle. And I can imagine, too, a fire so -earnest and so true that, whatever malice might urge, or a devilish -ingenuity devise, there could be no other found, high or low, far or -near, which should not so contrast with the first as to make it seem -cold as ice. - -I remember in an old play of Davenport’s, the hero is led to doubt his -mistress; he is worked upon by slanders to quit her altogether—though he -has loved and does still love passionately. She bids him adieu, with -large tears dropping from her eyes (and I lay down my cigar to recite it -aloud, fancying all the while, with a varlet impudence, that some -Abstemia is repeating it to me): - - —Farewell, Lorenzo, - Whom my soul doth love; if you ever marry - May you meet a good wife; so good, that you - May not suspect her, nor may she be worthy - Of your suspicion; and if you hear hereafter - That I am dead, inquire but my last words, - And you shall know that to the last I loved you. - And when you walk forth with your second choice, - Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me - Imagine that you see me thin, and pale, - Strewing your path with flowers! - -—Poor Abstemia! Lorenzo never could find such another—there never could -be such another, for such Lorenzo. - -To blaze anew, it is essential that the old fire be utterly gone; and -can any truly-lighted soul ever grow cold, except the grave cover it? -The poets all say no: Othello, had he lived a thousand years, would not -have loved again—nor Desdemona—nor Andromache—nor Medea—nor Ulysses—nor -Hamlet. But in the cool wreaths of the pleasant smoke let us see what -truth is in the poets. - -—What is love—mused I—at the first, but a mere fancy? There is a -prettiness that your soul cleaves to, as your eye to a pleasant flower, -or your ear to a soft melody. Presently admiration comes in, as a sort -of balance wheel for the eccentric revolutions of your fancy; and your -admiration is touched off with such neat quality as respect. Too much of -this, indeed, they say, deadens the fancy, and so retards the action of -the heart machinery. But with a proper modicum to serve as a stock, -devotion is grafted in; and then, by an agreeable and confused mingling, -all these qualities, and affections of the soul, become transfused into -that vital feeling called love. - -Your heart seems to have gone over to another and better counterpart of -your humanity; what is left of you seems the mere husk of some kernel -that has been stolen. It is not an emotion of yours, which is making -very easy voyages toward another soul—that may be shortened or -lengthened at will, but it is a passion that is only yours, because it -is _there_; the more it lodges there the more keenly you feel it to be -yours. - -The qualities that feed this passion may indeed belong to you; but they -never gave birth to such an one before, simply because there was no -place in which it could grow. Nature is very provident in these matters. -The chrysalis does not burst until there is a wing to help the gauze-fly -upward. The shell does not break until the bird can breathe; nor does -the swallow quit its nest until its wings are tipped with the airy oars. - -This passion of love is strong just in proportion as the atmosphere it -finds is tender of its life. Let that atmosphere change into too great -coldness, and the passion becomes a wreck—not yours, because it is not -worth your having—nor vital, because it has lost the soil where it grew. -But is it not laying the reproach in a high quarter to say that those -qualities of the heart which begot this passion are exhausted and will -not thenceforth germinate through all of your lifetime? - -—Take away the worm-eaten frame from your arbor plant, and the wrenched -arms of the despoiled climber will not at the first touch any new -trellis; they can not in a day change the habit of a year. But let the -new support stand firmly, and the needy tendrils will presently lay hold -upon the stranger! and your plant will regain its pride and pomp, -cherishing, perhaps, in its bent figure, a memento of the old, but in -its more earnest and abounding life mindful only of its sweet dependence -on the new. - -Let the poets say what they will; these affections of ours are not -blind, stupid creatures, to starve under polar snows when the very -breezes of heaven are the appointed messengers to guide them toward -warmth and sunshine! - -—And with a little suddenness of manner I tear off a wisp of paper, and, -holding it in the blaze of my lamp, relight my cigar. It does not burn -so easily, perhaps, as at first: it wants warming before it will catch; -but presently it is in a broad, full glow that throws light into the -corners of my room. - -—Just so—thought I—the love of youth, which succeeds the crackling blaze -of boyhood, makes a broader flame, though it may not be so easily -kindled. A mere dainty step, or a curling lock, or a soft blue eye are -not enough; but in her, who has quickened the new blaze, there is a -blending of all these, with a certain sweetness of soul that finds -expression in whatever feature or motion you look upon. Her charms steal -over you gently and almost imperceptibly. You think that she is a -pleasant companion—nothing more: and you find the opinion strongly -confirmed, day by day; so well confirmed, indeed, that you begin to -wonder why it is that she is such a delightful companion? It can not be -her eye, for you have seen eyes almost as pretty as Nelly’s; nor can it -be her mouth, though Nelly’s mouth is certainly very sweet. And you keep -studying what on earth it can be that makes you so earnest to be near -her, or to listen to her voice. The study is pleasant. You do not know -any study that is more so, or which you accomplish with less mental -fatigue. - -Upon a sudden, some fine day, when the air is balmy, and the -recollection of Nelly’s voice and manner more balmy still, you wonder—if -you are in love? When a man has such a wonder, he is either very near -love or he is very far away from it; it is a wonder that is either -suggested by his hope or by that entanglement of feeling which blunts -all his perceptions. - -But if not in love, you have at least a strong fancy—so strong that you -tell your friends carelessly that she is a nice girl—nay, a beautiful -girl; and if your education has been bad, you strengthen the epithet on -your own tongue with a very wicked expletive, of which the mildest form -would be “deuced fine girl!” Presently, however, you get beyond this, -and your companionship and your wonder relapse into a constant, quiet -habit of unmistakable love—not impulsive, quick and fiery, like the -first, but mature and calm. It is as if it were born with your soul, and -the recognition of it was rather an old remembrance than a fresh -passion. It does not seek to gratify its exuberance and force with such -relief as night serenades, or any Jacques-like meditations in the -forest; but it is a quiet, still joy, that floats on your hope into the -years to come—making the prospect all sunny and joyful. - -It is a kind of oil and balm for whatever was stormy or harmful: it -gives a permanence to the smile of existence. It does not make the sea -of your life turbulent with high emotions, as if a strong wind were -blowing, but it is as if an Aphrodite had broken on the surface, and the -ripples were spreading with a sweet, low sound, and widening far out to -the very shores of time. - -There is no need now, as with the boy, to bolster up your feelings with -extravagant vows; even should you try this in her presence, the words -are lacking to put such vows in. So soon as you reach them they fail -you, and the oath only quivers on the lip, or tells its story by a -pressure of the fingers. You wear a brusque, pleasant air with your -acquaintances, and hint—with a sly look—at possible changes in your -circumstances. Of an evening you are kind to the most unattractive of -the wall-flowers—if only your Nelly is away; and you have a sudden -charity for street beggars with pale children. You catch yourself taking -a step in one of the new polkas upon a country walk, and wonder -immensely at the number of bright days which succeed each other, without -leaving a single stormy gap for your old melancholy moods. Even the -chambermaids at your hotel never did their duty one-half so well; and as -for your man Tom, he is become a perfect pattern of a fellow. - -My cigar is in a fine glow; but it has gone out once, and it may go out -again. - -—You begin to talk of marriage; but some obstinate papa or guardian -uncle thinks that it will never do—that it is quite too soon, or that -Nelly is a mere girl. Or some of your wild oats—quite forgotten by -yourself—shoot up on the vision of a staid mamma and throw a very damp -shadow on your character. Or the old lady has an ambition of another -sort, which you, a simple, earnest, plodding bachelor, can never -gratify—being of only passable appearance, and unschooled in the -fashions of the world, you will be eternally rubbing the elbows of the -old lady’s pride. - -All this will be strangely afflicting to one who has been living for -quite a number of weeks, or months, in a pleasant dreamland, where there -were no five per cents. or reputations, but only a very full and -delirious flow of feeling. What care you for any position except a -position near the being that you love? What wealth do you prize, except -a wealth of heart that shall never know diminution; or for reputation, -except that of truth and of honor? How hard it would break upon these -pleasant idealities to have a weazen-faced old guardian set his arm in -yours and tell you how tenderly he has at heart the happiness of his -niece, and reason with you about your very small and sparse dividends -and your limited business, and caution you—for he has a lively regard -for your interests—about continuing your addresses? - -—The kind old curmudgeon! - -Your man Tom has grown suddenly a very stupid fellow, and all your -charity for withered wall-flowers is gone. Perhaps in your wrath the -suspicion comes over you that she too wishes you were something higher, -or more famous, or richer, or anything but what you are!—a very -dangerous suspicion: for no man with any true nobility of soul can ever -make his heart the slave of another’s condescension. - -But no—you will not, you can not believe this of Nelly; that face of -hers is too mild and gracious; and her manner, as she takes your hand, -after your heart is made sad, and turns away those rich blue -eyes—shadowed more deeply than ever by the long and moistened fringe; -and the exquisite softness and meaning of the pressure of those little -fingers; and the low, half sob, and the heaving of that bosom in its -struggles between love and duty—all forbid. Nelly, you could swear, is -tenderly indulgent, like the fond creature that she is, toward all your -short-comings, and would not barter your strong love and your honest -heart for the greatest magnate in the land. - -What a spur to effort is the confiding love of a true-hearted woman! -That last fond look of hers, hopeful and encouraging, has more power -within it to nerve your soul to high deeds than all the admonitions of -all your tutors. Your heart, beating large with hope, quickens the flow -upon the brain, and you make wild vows to win greatness. But alas, this -is a great world—very full, and very rough: - - ——all up-hill work when we would do; - All down-hill, when we suffer.[3] - -Footnote 3: - - _Festus._ - -Hard, withering toil only can achieve a name; and long days, and months, -and years, must be passed in the chase of that bubble—reputation, which, -when once grasped, breaks in your eager clutch into a hundred lesser -bubbles that soar above you still! - -A clandestine meeting from time to time, and a note or two tenderly -written, keep up the blaze in your heart. But presently the lynx-eyed -old guardian—so tender of your interests and hers—forbids even this -irregular and unsatisfying correspondence. Now you can feed yourself -only on stray glimpses of her figure—as full of sprightliness and grace -as ever; and that beaming face, you are half sorry to see from time to -time—still beautiful. You struggle with your moods of melancholy, and -wear bright looks yourself—bright to her, and very bright to the eye of -the old curmudgeon who has snatched your heart away. It will never do to -show your weakness to a man. - -At length, on some pleasant morning, you learn that she is gone—too far -away to be seen, too closely guarded to be reached. For awhile you throw -down your books and abandon your toil in despair—thinking very bitter -thoughts, and making very helpless resolves. - -My cigar is still burning, but it will require constant and strong -respiration to keep it in a glow. - -A letter or two dispatched at random relieve the excess of your fever, -until, with practice, these random letters have even less heat in them -than the heat of your study or of your business. Grief—thank God!—is not -so progressive or so cumulative as joy. For a time there is a pleasure -in the mood with which you recall your broken hopes, and with which you -selfishly link hers to the shattered wreck; but absence and ignorance -tame the point of your woe. You call up the image of Nelly adorning -other and distant scenes. You see the tearful smile give place to a -blithesome cheer, and the thought of you that shaded her fair face so -long fades under the sunshine of gayety, or, at best, it only seems to -cross that white forehead like a playful shadow that a fleecy -cloud-remnant will fling upon a sunny lawn. - -As for you, the world, with its whirl and roar, is deafening the sweet, -distant notes that come up through old choked channels of the -affections. Life is calling for earnestness, and not for regrets. So the -months and the years slip by; your bachelor habit grows easy and light -with wearing; you have mourned enough to smile at the violent mourning -of others, and you have enjoyed enough to sigh over their little eddies -of delight. Dark shades and delicious streaks of crimson and gold color -lie upon your life. Your heart, with all its weight of ashes, can yet -sparkle at the sound of a fairy step, and your face can yet open into a -round of joyous smiles that are almost hopes—in the presence of some -bright-eyed girl. - -But amid this there will float over you from time to time a midnight -trance, in which you will hear again with a thirsty ear the witching -melody of the days that are gone, and you will wake from it with a -shudder into the cold resolves of your lonely and manly life. But the -shudder passes as easy as night from morning. Tearful regrets and -memories that touch to the quick are dull weapons to break through the -panoply of your seared, eager and ambitious manhood. They only venture -out like timid, white-winged flies when night is come, and at the first -glimpse of the dawn they shrivel up and lie without a flutter in some -corner of your soul. - - -[Illustration] - - -And when, years after, you learn that she has returned—a woman—there is -a slight glow, but no tumultuous bound of the heart. Life and time have -worried you down like a spent hound. The world has given you a habit of -easy and unmeaning smiles. You half accuse yourself of ingratitude and -forgetfulness; but the accusation does not oppress you. It does not even -distract your attention from the morning journal. You can not work -yourself into a respectable degree of indignation against the old -gentleman—her guardian. - -You sigh—poor thing! and in a very flashy waistcoat you venture a -morning call. - -She meets you kindly—a comely, matronly dame in gingham, with her curls -all gathered under a high-topped comb; and she presents to you two -little boys in smart crimson jackets dressed up with braid. And you dine -with madam—a family party; and the weazen-faced old gentleman meets you -with a most pleasant shake of the hand—hints that you were among his -niece’s earliest friends, and hopes that you are getting on well? - -—Capitally well! - -And the boys toddle in at dessert—Dick to get a plum from your own dish, -Tom to be kissed by his rosy-faced papa. In short, you are made -perfectly at home; and you sit over your wine for an hour, in a cozy -smoke with the gentlemanly uncle and with the very courteous husband of -your second flame. - -It is all very jovial at the table, for good wine is, I find, a great -strengthener of the bachelor heart. But afterward, when night has fairly -set in and the blaze of your fire goes flickering over your lonely -quarters, you heave a deep sigh. And as your thought runs back to the -perfidious Louise, and calls up the married and matronly Nelly, you sob -over that poor dumb heart within you, which craves so madly a free and -joyous utterance! And as you lean over with your forehead in your hands, -and your eyes fall upon the old hound slumbering on the rug—the tears -start, and you wish—that you had married years ago, and that you too had -your pair of prattling boys to drive away the loneliness of your -solitary hearthstone. - -—My cigar would not go; it was fairly out. But, with true bachelor -obstinacy, I vowed that I would light again. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - III - LIGHTED - WITH A - MATCH - - -I HATE a match. I feel sure that brimstone matches were never made in -heaven; and it is sad to think that, with few exceptions, matches are -all of them tipped with brimstone. - -But my taper having burned out, and the coals being all dead upon the -hearth, a match is all that is left to me. - -All matches will not blaze on the first trial, and there are those that -with the most indefatigable coaxings never show a spark. They may indeed -leave in their trail phosphorescent streaks; but you can no more light -your cigar at them than you can kindle your heart at the covered -wife-trails which the infernal gossiping old match-makers will lay in -your path. - -Was there ever a bachelor of seven and twenty, I wonder, who has not -been haunted by pleasant old ladies and trim, excellent, good-natured -married friends, who talk to him about nice matches—“very nice matches,” -matches which never go off? And who, pray, has not had some kind old -uncle to fill two sheets for him (perhaps in the time of heavy postages) -about some most eligible connection—“of highly respectable parentage!” - -What a delightful thing, surely, for a withered bachelor to bloom forth -in the dignity of an ancestral tree! What a precious surprise for him, -who has all his life worshiped the wing-heeled Mercury, to find on a -sudden a great stock of preserved and most respectable Penates! - -—In God’s name—thought I, puffing vehemently—what is a man’s heart given -him for, if not to choose, where his heart’s blood, every drop of it is -flowing? Who is going to dam these billowy tides of the soul, whose roll -is ordered by a planet greater than the moon—and that planet—Venus? Who -is going to shift this vane of my desires, when every breeze that passes -in my heaven is keeping it all the more strongly, to its fixed bearings? - -Besides this, there are the money matches, urged upon you by -disinterested bachelor friends, who would be very proud to see you at -the head of an establishment. And I must confess that this kind of talk -has a pleasant jingle about it; and is one of the cleverest aids to a -bachelor’s day-dreams, that can well be imagined. And let not the -pouting lady condemn me, without a hearing. - -It is certainly cheerful to think—for a contemplative bachelor—that the -pretty ermine which so sets off the transparent hue of your imaginary -wife, or the lace which lies so bewitchingly upon the superb roundness -of her form—or the graceful bodice, trimmed to a line, which is of such -exquisite adaptation to her lithe figure, will be always at her -command—nay, that these are only units among the chameleon hues, under -which you shall feed upon her beauty! I want to know if it is not a -pretty cabinet picture for fancy to luxuriate upon—that of a sweet wife, -who is cheating hosts of friends into love, sympathy and admiration, by -the modest munificence of her wealth? Is it not rather agreeable, to -feed your hopeful soul upon that abundance which, while it supplies her -need, will give a range to her loving charities—which will keep from her -brow the shadows of anxiety, and will sublime her gentle nature by -adding to it the grace of an angel of mercy? - -Is it not rich, in those days when the pestilent humors of bachelorhood -hang heavy on you, to foresee in that shadowy realm, where hope is a -native, the quiet of a home, made splendid with attractions; and made -real by the presence of her who bestows them? Upon my word—thought I, as -I continued puffing—such a match must make a very grateful lighting of -one’s inner sympathies; nor am I prepared to say that such associations -would not add force to the most abstract love imaginable. - -Think of it for a moment—what is it that we poor fellows love? We love, -if one may judge for himself, over his cigar—gentleness, beauty, -refinement, generosity and intelligence—and far above these, a returning -love, made up of all these qualities, and gaining upon your love, day by -day, and month by month, like a sunny morning gaining upon the frosts of -night. - -But wealth is a great means of refinement; and it is a security for -gentleness, since it removes disturbing anxieties; and it is a pretty -promoter of intelligence, since it multiplies the avenues for its -reception; and it is a good basis for a generous habit of life; it even -equips beauty, neither hardening its hand with toil, nor tempting the -wrinkles to come early. But whether it provokes greatly that returning -passion—that abnegation of soul—that sweet trustfulness, and abiding -affection, which are to clothe your heart with joy, is far more -doubtful. Wealth, while it gives so much, asks much in return; and the -soul that is grateful to mammon, is not over ready to be grateful for -intensity of love. It is hard to gratify those who have nothing left to -gratify. - -Heaven help the man who having wearied his soul with delays and doubts, -or exhausted the freshness and exuberance of his youth—by a hundred -little dallyings with love—consigns himself at length to the issues of -what people call a nice match—whether of money, or of a family! - -Heaven help you (I brush the ashes from my cigar) when you begin to -regard marriage as only a respectable institution, and under the advices -of staid old friends, begin to look about you for some very respectable -wife. You may admire her figure, and her family; and bear pleasantly in -mind the very casual mention which has been made by some of your -penetrating friends—that she has large expectations. You think that she -would make a very capital appearance at the head of your table; nor, in -the event of your coming to any public honor, would she make you blush -for her breeding. She talks well, exceedingly well; and her face has its -charms; especially under a little excitement. Her dress is elegant, and -tasteful, and she is constantly remarked upon by all your friends, as a -“nice person.” Some good old lady, in whose pew she occasionally sits on -a Sunday, or to whom she has sometime sent a papier maché card-case, for -the show-box of some Dorcas benevolent society, thinks—with a sly -wink—that she would make a fine wife for—somebody. - -She certainly _has_ an elegant figure; and the marriage of some half -dozen of your old flames warns you that time is slipping and your -chances failing. And in the pleasant warmth of some after-dinner mood, -you resolve—with her image in her prettiest pelisses drifting across -your brain—that you will marry. Now comes the pleasant excitement of the -chase; and whatever family dignity may surround her only adds to the -pleasurable glow of the pursuit. You give an hour more to your toilette, -and a hundred or two more, a year, to your tailor. All is orderly, -dignified, and gracious. Charlotte is a sensible woman, everybody says; -and you believe it yourself. You agree in your talk about books, and -churches, and flowers. Of course she has good taste—for she accepts you. -The acceptance is dignified, elegant, and even courteous. - -You receive numerous congratulations; and your old friend Tom writes -you—that he hears you are going to marry a splendid woman; and all the -old ladies say—what a capital match! And your business partner, who is a -married man, and something of a wag—“sympathizes sincerely.” Upon the -whole, you feel a little proud of your arrangement. You write to an old -friend in the country, that you are to marry presently Miss Charlotte of -such a street, whose father was something very fine, in his way; and -whose father before him was very distinguished; you add, in a -postscript, that she is easily situated, and has “expectations.” Your -friend, who has a wife that he loves, and that loves him, writes back -kindly—“hoping you may be happy;” and hoping so yourself, you light your -cigar—one of your last bachelor cigars—with the margin of his letter. - -The match goes off with a brilliant marriage; at which you receive a -very elegant welcome from your wife’s spinster cousins—and drink a great -deal of champagne with her bachelor uncles. And as you take the dainty -hand of your bride—very magnificent under that bridal wreath, and with -her face lit up by a brilliant glow—your eye, and your soul, for the -first time, grow full. And as your arm circles that elegant figure, and -you draw her toward you, feeling that she is yours—there is a bound at -your heart, that makes you think your soul-life is now whole, and -earnest. All your early dreams, and imaginations, come flowing on your -thought, like bewildering music; and as you gaze upon her—the admiration -of that crowd—it seems to you, that all that your heart prizes is made -good by the accident of marriage. - -—Ah—thought I, brushing off the ashes again—bridal pictures are not home -pictures; and the hour at the altar is but a poor type of the waste of -years! - -Your household is elegantly ordered; Charlotte has secured the best of -housekeepers, and she meets the compliments of your old friends who come -to dine with you with a suavity that is never at fault. And they tell -you—after the cloth is removed, and you sit quietly smoking in memory of -the olden times—that she is a splendid woman. Even the old ladies who -come for occasional charities, think madame a pattern of a lady; and so -think her old admirers, whom she receives still with an easy grace, that -half puzzles you. And as you stand by the ball-room door, at two of the -morning, with your Charlotte’s shawl upon your arm, some little panting -fellow will confirm the general opinion, by telling you that madame is a -magnificent dancer; and Monsieur le Comte will praise extravagantly her -French. You are grateful for all this; but you have an uncommonly -serious way of expressing your gratitude. - -You think you ought to be a very happy fellow; and yet long shadows do -steal over your thought; and you wonder that the sight of your Charlotte -in the dress you used to admire so much, does not scatter them to the -winds; but it does not. You feel coy about putting your arm around that -delicately-robed figure—you might derange the plaiting of her dress. She -is civil toward you; and tender toward your bachelor friends. She talks -with dignity—adjusts her lace cap—and hopes you will make a figure in -the world, for the sake of the family. Her cheek is never soiled with a -tear; and her smiles are frequent, especially when you have some spruce -young fellows at your table. - -You catch sight of occasional notes, perhaps, whose superscription you -do not know; and some of her admirers’ attentions become so pointed, and -constant, that your pride is stirred. It would be silly to show -jealousy; but you suggest to your “dear”—as you sip your tea—the slight -impropriety of her action. - -Perhaps you fondly long for some little scene, as a proof of wounded -confidence; but no—nothing of that; she trusts (calling you “my dear”), -that she knows how to sustain the dignity of her position. - -You are too sick at heart for comment, or for reply. - - -[Illustration] - - -—And is this the intertwining of soul of which you had dreamed in the -days that are gone? Is this the blending of sympathies that was to steal -from life its bitterness; and spread over care and suffering, the sweet, -ministering hand of kindness, and of love? Ay, you may well wander back -to your bachelor club, and make the hours long at the journals, or at -play—killing the flagging lapse of your life! Talk sprightly with your -old friends—and mimic the joy you have not; or you will wear a bad name -upon your hearth and head. Never suffer your Charlotte to catch sight of -the tears which in bitter hours may start from your eye; or to hear the -sighs which in your times of solitary musings may break forth sudden and -heavy. Go on counterfeiting your life, as you have begun. It was a nice -match; and you are a nice husband! - -But you have a little boy, thank God, toward whom your heart runs out -freely; and you love to catch him in his respite from your well-ordered -nursery, and the tasks of his teachers—alone; and to spend upon him a -little of that depth of feeling, which through so many years has scarce -been stirred. You play with him at his games; you fondle him; you take -him to your bosom. - -But papa—he says—see how you have tumbled my collar. What shall I tell -mamma? - -—Tell her, my boy, that I love you! - -Ah, thought I—my cigar was getting dull, and nauseous—is there not a -spot in your heart that the gloved hand of your elegant wife has never -reached: that you wish it might reach? - -You go to see a far-away friend: his was not a “nice match;” he was -married years before you; and yet the beaming looks of his wife and his -lively smile are as fresh and honest as they were years ago; and they -make you ashamed of your disconsolate humor. Your stay is lengthened, -but the home letters are not urgent for your return; yet they are -marvelously proper letters, and rounded with a French _adieu_. You could -have wished a little scrawl from your boy at the bottom, in the place of -the postscript, which gives you the names of a new opera troupe; and you -hint as much—a very bold stroke for you. - -Ben—she says—writes too shamefully. - -And at your return there is no great anticipation of delight; in -contrast with the old dreams, that a pleasant summer’s journey has -called up, your parlor as you enter it—so elegant, so still—so -modish—seems the charnel-house of your heart. - -By and by you fall into weary days of sickness; you have capital -nurses—nurses highly recommended—nurses who never make mistakes—nurses -who have served long in the family. But alas for that heart of sympathy, -and for that sweet face, shaded with your pain—like a soft landscape -with flying clouds—you have none of them! Your pattern wife may come in, -from time to time, to look after your nurse, or to ask after your sleep, -and glide out—her silk dress rustling upon the door—like dead leaves in -the cool night breezes of winter. Or, perhaps, after putting this chair -in its place, and adjusting to a more tasteful fold that curtain—she -will ask you, with a tone that might mean sympathy, if it were not a -stranger to you—if she can do anything more. - -Thank her—as kindly as you can, and close your eyes, and dream—or rouse -up, to lay your hand upon the head of your little boy—to drink in health -and happiness from his earnest look as he gazes strangely upon your pale -and shrunken forehead. Your smile even, ghastly with long suffering, -disturbs him; there is no interpreter, save the heart, between you. - -Your parched lips feel strangely to his flushed, healthful face; and he -steps about on tip-toe, at a motion from the nurse, to look at all those -rosy-colored medicines upon the table—and he takes your cane from the -corner, and passes his hand over the smooth ivory head; and he runs his -eye along the wall from picture to picture, till it rests on one he -knows—a figure in bridal dress—beautiful, almost fond—and he forgets -himself, and says aloud—“There’s mamma!” - -The nurse puts her finger to her lip; you waken from your doze to see -where your eager boy is looking; and your eyes, too, take in much as -they can of that figure—now shadowy to your fainting vision—doubly -shadowy to your fainting heart! - -From day to day you sink from life: the physician says the end is not -far off; why should it be? There is very little elastic force within you -to keep the end away. Madame is called, and your little boy. Your sight -is dim, but they whisper that she is beside your bed; and you reach out -your hand—both hands. You fancy you hear a sob—a strange sound! It seems -as if it came from distant years—a confused, broken, sigh, sweeping over -the long stretch of your life: and a sigh from your heart—not -audible—answers it. - -Your trembling fingers clutch the hand of your little boy, and you drag -him toward you, and move your lips, as if you would speak to him; and -they place his head near you, so that you feel his fine hair brushing -your cheek—“My boy, you must love—your mother!” - -Your other hand feels a quick, convulsive grasp, and something like a -tear drops upon your face. Good God! Can it be indeed a tear? - -You strain your vision, and a feeble smile flits over your features as -you seem to see her figure—the figure of the painting—bending over you; -and you feel a bound at your heart—the same bound that you felt on your -bridal morning; the same bound which you used to feel in the springtime -of your life. - -—Only one—rich, full bound of the heart—that is all! - -—My cigar is out. I could not have lit it again if I would. It was -wholly burned. - -“Aunt Tabithy”—said I, as I finished reading—“may I smoke now under your -rose tree?” - -Aunt Tabithy, who had laid down her knitting to hear me—smiled—brushed a -tear from her old eyes, said—“Yes—Isaac,” and having scratched the back -of her head with the disengaged needle, resumed her knitting. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - FOURTH REVERIE - MORNING, NOON AND EVENING - - -IT is a spring day under the oaks—the loved oaks of a once cherished -home—now, alas, mine no longer! - -I had sold the old farmhouse, and the groves, and the cool springs, -where I had bathed my head in the heats of summer; and with the first -warm days of May, they were to pass from me forever. Seventy years they -had been in the possession of my mother’s family; for seventy years they -had borne the same name of proprietorship; for seventy years, the Lares -of our country home, often neglected, almost forgotten—yet brightened -from time to time by gleams of heart-worship, had held their place in -the sweet valley of Elmgrove. - -And in this changeful, bustling, American life of ours seventy years is -no child’s holiday. The hurry of action, and progress may pass over it -with quick step; but the footprints are many and deep. You surely will -not wonder that it made me sad and thoughtful to break the chain of -years that bound to my heart the oaks, the hills, the springs, the -valley—and such a valley! - -A wild stream runs through it—large enough to make a river for English -landscape—winding between rich banks where, in summer time, the swallows -build their nests and brood by myriads. - -Tall elms rise here and there along the margin, and with their uplifted -arms and leafy spray throw great patches of shade upon the meadow. Old -lion-like oaks, too, where the meadow-soil hardens into rolling upland, -fasten to the ground with their ridgy roots; and with their gray, -scraggy limbs make delicious shelter for the panting workers, or for the -herds of August. - - -[Illustration] - - -Westward of the stream, where I am lying, the banks roll up swiftly into -sloping hills, covered with groves of oaks and green pasture lands -dotted with mossy rocks. And farther on, where some wood has been swept -down, some ten years gone, by the ax, the new growth, heavy with the -luxuriant foliage of spring, covers wide spots of the slanting land; -while some dead tree in the midst still stretches out its bare arms to -the blast—a solitary mourner over the wreck of its forest brothers. - -Eastward the ridgy bank passes into wavy meadows, upon whose farther -edge you see the roofs of an old mansion, with tall chimneys and taller -elm-trees shading it. Beyond, the hills rise gently, and sweep away into -wood-crowned heights that are blue with distance. At the upper end of -the valley the stream is lost to the eye in a wide swamp-wood, which in -the autumn time is covered with a scarlet sheet, blotched here and there -by the dark crimson stains of the ash-tops. Farther on the hills crowd -close to the brook, and come down with granite boulders, and scattered -birch-trees, and beeches—under which, upon the smoky mornings of May, I -have time and again loitered, and thrown my line into the pools which -curl dark and still under their tangled roots. - -Below, and looking southward, through the openings of the oaks that -shade me, I see a broad stretch of meadow, with glimpses of the silver -surface of the stream, and of the giant solitary elms, and of some old -maple that has yielded to the spring tides, and now dips its lower -boughs in the insidious current—and of clumps of alders, and willow -tufts—above which, even now, the black-and-white coated Bob-o’-Lincoln -is wheeling his musical flight, while his quieter mate sits swaying on -the topmost twigs. - -A quiet road passes within a short distance of me, and crosses the brook -by a rude timber bridge; beside the bridge is a broad glassy pool, -shaded by old maples and hickories, where the cattle drink each morning -on their way to the hill pastures. A step or two beyond the stream a -lane branches across the meadows to the mansion with the tall chimneys. -I can just remember now, the stout, broad-shouldered old gentleman, with -his white hat, his long white hair, and his white-headed cane, who built -the house, and who farmed the whole valley around me. He is gone, long -since; and lies in a graveyard looking upon the sea! The elms that he -planted shake their weird arms over the mouldering roofs; and his fruit -garden shows only a battered phalanx of mossy limbs, which will scarce -tempt the July marauders. - -In the other direction, upon this side the brook, the road is lost to -view among the trees; but if I were to follow the windings upon the -hillside, it would bring me shortly upon the old home of my grandfather; -there is no pleasure in wandering there now. The woods that sheltered it -from the northern winds are cut down; the tall cherries that made the -yard one leafy bower are dead. The cornice is straggling from the eaves; -the porch has fallen; the stone chimney is yawning with wide gaps. -Within, it is even worse; the floors sway upon the mouldering beams; the -doors all sag from their hinges; the rude frescos upon the parlor wall -are peeling off; all is going to decay—And my grandfather sleeps in a -little graveyard by the garden wall. - -A lane branches from the country road, within a few yards of me, and -leads back, along the edge of the meadow, to the homely cottage, which -has been my special care. Its gray porch and chimney are thrown into -rich relief by a grove of oaks that skirts the hill behind it; and the -doves are flying uneasily about the open doors of the granary and barns. -The morning sun shines pleasantly on the gray group of buildings; and -the lowing of the cows, not yet driven afield, adds to the charming -homeliness of the scene. But alas for the poor azaleas, and laurels, and -vines that I had put out upon the little knoll before the cottage -door—they are all of them trodden down: only one poor creeper hangs its -loose tresses to the lattice, all disheveled and forlorn! - -This by-lane which opens upon my farmhouse, leaves the road in the -middle of a grove of oaks; the brown gate swings upon an oak tree—the -brown gate closes upon an oak tree. There is a rustic seat, built -between two veteran trees that rise from a little hillock near by. Half -a century ago there was a rustic seat on the same hillock—between the -same veteran trees. I can trace marks of the old blotches upon the bark, -and the scars of the nails upon the scathed trunks. Time and time again -it has been renewed. This, the last, was built by my own hands—a -cheerful and a holy duty. - -Sixty years ago, they tell me, my grandfather used to loiter here with -his gun, while his hounds lay around under the scattered oaks. Now he -sleeps, as I said, in the little graveyard yonder, where I can see one -or two white tablets glimmering through the foliage. I never knew him; -he died, as the brown stone table says, aged twenty-six. Yesterday I -climbed the wall that skirts the yard, and plucked a flower from his -tomb. I take out now from my pocket-book that flower—a frail, -first-blooming violet—and write upon the slip of paper, into which I -have thrust its delicate stem—“From my grandfather’s tomb—1850.” - -But other feet have trod upon this knoll—far more dear to me. The old -neighbors have sometimes told me how they have seen, forty years ago, -two rosy-faced girls idling on this spot, under the shade, and gathering -acorns, and making oak-leaved garlands for their foreheads—Alas, alas, -the garlands they wear now are not earthly garlands! - -Upon that spot, and upon that rustic seat, I am lying this May morning. -I have placed my gun against a tree; my shot-pouch I have hung upon a -broken limb. I have thrown my feet upon the bench, and lean against one -of the gnarled oaks, between which the seat is built. My hat is off; my -book and paper are beside me; and my pencil trembles in my fingers as I -catch sight of those white marble tablets gleaming through the trees, -from the height above me, like beckoning angel faces. If they were -alive! two more near and dear friends, in a world where we count friends -by units. - -It is morning—a bright spring morning under the oaks—these loved oaks of -a once cherished home. Last night I slept in yonder mansion, under the -elms. The cattle going to the pasture are drinking in the pool by the -bridge; the boy who drives them is making his shrill halloo echo against -the hills. The sun has risen fairly over the eastern heights, and shines -brightly upon the meadow-land and brightly upon a bend of the brook -below me. The birds—the blue-birds sweetest and noisiest of all—are -singing over me in the branches. A woodpecker is hammering at a dry limb -aloft; and Carlo pricks up his ears, and looks at me—then stretches out -his head upon his paws in a warm bit of the sunshine—and sleeps. - -Morning brings back to me the past; and the past brings up not only its -actualities, not only its events and memories, but—stranger still—what -might have been. Every little circumstance which dawns on the awakened -memory is traced not only to its actual, but to its possible issues. - -What a wide world that makes of the past! a great and gorgeous—a rich -and holy world! Your fancy fills it up artist-like; the darkness is -mellowed off into soft shades; the bright spots are veiled in the sweet -atmosphere of distance; and fancy and memory together make up a rich -dreamland of the past. - -And now, as I go on to trace upon paper some of the visions that float -across that dreamland of the morning—I will not—I can not say how much -comes fancywise, and how much from this vaulting memory. Of this, the -kind reader shall himself be judge. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - I - THE MORNING - - -ISABEL AND I—she is my cousin, and is seven years old, and I am ten—are -sitting together on the bank of the stream, under an oak tree that leans -half way over to the water. I am much stronger than she, and taller by a -head. I hold in my hands a little alder rod, with which I am fishing for -the roach and minnows that play in the pool below us. - -She is watching the cork tossing on the water, or playing with the -captured fish that lie upon the bank. She has auburn ringlets that fall -down upon her shoulders; and her straw hat lies back upon them, held -only by the strip of ribbon that passes under her chin. But the sun does -not shine upon her head; for the oak tree above us is full of leaves; -and only here and there a dimple of the sunlight plays upon the pool, -where I am fishing. - -Her eye is hazel and bright; and now and then she turns it on me with a -look of girlish curiosity, as I lift up my rod—and again in playful -menace, as she grasps in her little fingers one of the dead fish and -threatens to throw it back upon the stream. Her little feet hang over -the edge of the bank; and from time to time she reaches down to dip her -toe in the water; and laughs a girlish laugh of defiance, as I scold her -for frightening away the fishes. - -“Bella,” I say, “what if you should tumble in the river?” - -“But I won’t.” - -“Yes, but if you should?” - -“Why then you would pull me out.” - -“But if I wouldn’t pull you out?” - -“But I know you would; wouldn’t you, Paul?” - -“What makes you think so, Bella?” - -“Because you love Bella.” - -“How do you know I love Bella?” - -“Because once you told me so; and because you pick flowers for me that I -can not reach; and because you let me take your rod, when you have a -fish upon it.” - -“But that’s no reason, Bella.” - -“Then what is, Paul?” - -“I’m sure I don’t know, Bella.” - -A little fish has been nibbling for a long time at the bait; the cork -has been bobbing up and down—and now he is fairly hooked, and pulls away -toward the bank, and you can not see the cork. - -—“Here, Bella, quick!”—and she springs eagerly to clasp her little hands -around the rod. But the fish has dragged it away on the other side of -me; and as she reaches farther, and farther, she slips, cries—“Oh, -Paul!” and falls into the water. - -The stream they told us, when we came, was over a man’s head—it is -surely over little Isabel’s. I fling down the rod, and thrusting one -hand into the roots that support the overhanging bank, I grasp at her -hat, as she comes up; but the ribbons give way, and I see the terribly -earnest look upon her face as she goes down again. Oh, my mother—thought -I—if you were only here! - -But she rises again; this time I thrust my hand into her dress, and -struggling hard, keep her at the top until I can place my foot down upon -a projecting root; and, so bracing myself, I drag her to the bank, and -having climbed up, take hold of her belt firmly with both hands, and -drag her out; and poor Isabel, choked, chilled, and wet, is lying upon -the grass. - -I commence crying aloud. The workmen in the fields hear me, and come -down. One takes Isabel in his arms, and I follow on foot to our uncle’s -home upon the hill. - -—“Oh, my dear children!” says my mother; and she takes Isabel in her -arms; and presently, with dry clothes and blazing wood fire, little -Bella smiles again. I am at my mother’s knee. - -“I told you so, Paul,” says Isabel—“aunty, doesn’t Paul love me?” - -“I hope so, Bella,” said my mother. - -“I know so,” said I; and kissed her cheek. - -And how did I know it? The boy does not ask; the man does. Oh, the -freshness, the honesty, the vigor of a boy’s heart! how the memory of it -refreshes like the first gush of spring, or the break of an April -shower! - -But boyhood has its PRIDE as well as its LOVES. - -My uncle is a tall, hard-faced man; I fear him when he calls me—“child;” -I love him when he calls me—“Paul.” He is almost always busy with his -books; and when I steal into the library door, as I sometimes do, with a -string of fish, or a heaping basket of nuts to show him—he looks for a -moment curiously at them, sometimes takes them in his fingers—gives them -back to me, and turns over the leaves of his book. You are afraid to ask -him if you have not worked bravely; yet you want to do so. - -You sidle out softly, and go to your mother; she scarce looks at your -little stores; but she draws you to her with her arm, and prints a kiss -upon your forehead. Now your tongue is unloosened; that kiss and that -action have done it; you will tell what capital luck you have had; and -you hold up your tempting trophies; “are they not great, mother?” But -she is looking in your face, and not at your prize. - -“Take them, mother,” and you lay the basket upon her lap. - -“Thank you Paul, I do not wish them: but you must give some to Bella.” - -And away you go to find laughing, playful, cousin Isabel. And we sit -down together on the grass, and I pour out my stores between us. “You -shall take, Bella, what you wish in your apron, and then when study -hours are over, we will have such a time down by the big rock in the -meadow!” - -“But I do not know if papa will let me,” says Isabel. - -“Bella,” I say, “do you love your papa?” - -“Yes,” says Bella, “why not?” - -“Because he is so cold; he does not kiss you, Bella, so often as my -mother does; and, besides, when he forbids your going away, he does not -say, as mother does—my little girl will be tired, she had better not -go—but he says only—Isabel must not go. I wonder what makes him talk -so?” - -“Why, Paul, he is a man, and doesn’t—at any rate, I love him, Paul. -Besides, my mother is sick, you know.” - -“But Isabel, my mother will be your mother, too. Come, Bella, we will go -ask her if we may go.” - -And there I am, the happiest of boys, pleading with the kindest of -mothers. And the young heart leans into that mother’s heart—none of the -void now that will overtake it like an opening Korah gulf, in the years -that are to come. It is joyous, full, and running over! - -“You may go,” she says, “if your uncle is willing.” - -“But mamma, I am afraid to ask him, I do not believe he loves me.” - -“Don’t say so, Paul,” and she draws you to her side, as if she would -supply by her own love the lacking love of a universe. - -“Go, with your cousin Isabel, and ask him kindly; and if he says no—make -no reply.” - -And with courage, we go hand in hand, and steal in at the library door. -There he sits—I seem to see him now—in the old wainscoted room, covered -over with books and pictures; and he wears his heavy-rimmed spectacles, -and is poring over some big volume, full of hard words, that are not in -any spelling-book. We step up softly; and Isabel lays her little hand -upon his arm; and he turns, and says—“Well, my little daughter?” - -I ask if we may go down to the big rock in the meadow? - -He looks at Isabel, and says he is afraid—“we can not go.” - -“But why, uncle? It is only a little way, and we will be very careful.” - -“I am afraid, my children; do not say any more: you can have the pony, -and Tray, and play at home.” - -“But, uncle—” - -“You need say no more, my child.” - -I pinch the hand of little Isabel, and look in her eye—my own -half-filling with tears. I feel that my forehead is flushed, and I hide -it behind Bella’s tresses—whispering to her at the same time—“Let us -go.” - -“What, sir,” says my uncle, mistaking my meaning—“do you persuade her to -disobey?” - -Now I am angry, and say blindly—“No, sir, I didn’t!” And then my rising -pride will not let me say that I wished only Isabel should go out with -me. - -Bella cries; and I shrink out; and am not easy until I have run to bury -my head in my mother’s bosom. Alas! pride can not always find such -covert! There will be times when it will harass you strangely; when it -will peril friendships—will sever old, standing intimacy; and then—no -resource but to feed on its own bitterness. Hateful pride!—to be -conquered, as a man would conquer an enemy, or it will make whirlpools -in the current of your affections—nay, turn the whole tide of the heart -into rough, and unaccustomed channels. - -But boyhood has its GRIEF, too, apart from PRIDE. - -You love the old dog, Tray; and Bella loves him as well as you. He is a -noble old fellow, with shaggy hair, and long ears, and big paws, that he -will put up into your hand, if you ask him. And he never gets angry when -you play with him, and tumble him over in the long grass, and pull his -silken ears. Sometimes, to be sure, he will open his mouth, as if he -would bite, but when he gets your hand fairly in his jaws he will scarce -leave the print of his teeth upon it. He will swim, too, bravely, and -bring ashore all the sticks you throw upon the water; and when you fling -a stone to tease him, he swims round and round, and whines, and looks -sorry that he can not find it. - -He will carry a heaping basket full of nuts, too, in his mouth, and -never spill one of them; and when you come out to your uncle’s home in -the spring, after staying a whole winter in the town, he knows you—old -Tray does! And he leaps upon you, and lays his paws on your shoulder, -and licks your face; and is almost as glad to see you as cousin Bella -herself. And when you put Bella on his back for a ride, he only pretends -to bite her little feet—but he wouldn’t do it for the world. Ay, Tray is -a noble old dog! - -But one summer, the farmers say that some of their sheep are killed, and -that the dogs have worried them; and one of them comes to talk with my -uncle about it. - -But Tray never worried sheep; you know he never did; and so does nurse; -and so does Bella; for in the spring, she had a pet lamb, and Tray never -worried little Fidele. - -And one or two of the dogs that belong to the neighbors are shot; though -nobody knows who shot them; and you have great fears about poor Tray; -and try to keep him at home, and fondle him more than ever. But Tray -will sometimes wander off; till finally, one afternoon, he comes back -whining piteously, and with his shoulder all bloody. - -Little Bella cries loud; and you almost cry, as nurse dresses the wound; -and poor old Tray whines very sadly. You pat his head, and Bella pats -him; and you sit down together by him on the floor of the porch, and -bring a rug for him to lie upon; and try and tempt him with a little -milk, and Bella brings a piece of cake for him—but he will eat nothing. -You sit up till very late, long after Bella has gone to bed, patting his -head, and wishing you could do something for poor Tray; but he only -licks your hand, and whines more piteously than ever. - -In the morning you dress early and hurry downstairs; but Tray is not -lying on the rug; and you run through the house to find him, and -whistle, and call—Tray—Tray! At length you see him lying in his old -place, out by the cherry tree, and you run to him; but he does not -start; and you lean down to pat him—but he is cold, and the dew is wet -upon him—poor Tray is dead! - -You take his head upon your knees, and pat again those glossy ears, and -cry; but you can not bring him to life. And Bella comes, and cries with -you. You can hardly bear to have him put in the ground; but uncle says -he must be buried. So one of the workmen digs a grave under the cherry -tree, where he died—a deep grave, and they round it over with earth, and -smooth the sods upon it—even now I can trace Tray’s grave. - -You and Bella together put up a little slab for a tombstone; and she -hangs flowers upon it, and ties them there with a bit of ribbon. You can -scarce play all that day; and afterward, many weeks later, when you are -rambling over the fields, or lingering by the brook, throwing off sticks -into the eddies, you think of old Tray’s shaggy coat, and of his big -paw, and of his honest eye; and the memory of your boyish grief comes -upon you; and you say with tears, “Poor Tray!” And Bella, too, in her -sad sweet tones, says—“Poor old Tray—he is dead!” - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - SCHOOL DAYS - - -THE morning was cloudy and threatened rain; besides, it was autumn -weather, and the winds were getting harsh, and rustling among the -tree-tops that shaded the house most dismally. I did not dare to listen. -If, indeed, I were to stay by the bright fires of home, and gather the -nuts as they fell, and pile up the falling leaves to make great -bonfires, with Ben and the rest of the boys, I should have liked to -listen, and would have braved the dismal morning with the cheerfullest -of them all. For it would have been a capital time to light a fire in -the little oven we had built under the wall; it would have been so -pleasant to warm our fingers at it, and to roast the great russets on -the flat stones that made the top. - -But this was not in store for me. I had bid the town boys good-by the -day before; my trunk was all packed; I was to go away—to school. The -little oven would go to ruin—I knew it would. I was to leave my home. I -was to bid my mother good-by, and Lilly, and Isabel, and all the rest; -and was to go away from them so far that I should only know what they -were all doing—in letters. It _was_ sad. And then to have the clouds -come over on that morning, and the winds sigh so dismally; oh, it was -too bad, I thought! - -It comes back to me as I lie here this bright spring morning as if it -were only yesterday. I remember that the pigeons skulked under the eaves -of the carriage-house, and did not sit, as they used to do in summer, -upon the ridge; and the chickens huddled together about the stable -doors, as if they were afraid of the cold autumn. And in the garden the -white hollyhocks stood shivering, and bowed to the wind, as if their -time had come. The yellow musk-melons showed plain among the -frost-bitten vines, and looked cold and uncomfortable. - -—Then they were all so kind, indoors! The cook made such nice things for -my breakfast, because little master was going; Lilly _would_ give me her -seat by the fire, and would put her lump of sugar in my cup; and my -mother looked so smiling, and so tenderly, that I thought I loved her -more than I ever did before. Little Ben was so gay, too; and wanted me -to take his jackknife, if I wished it—though he knew that I had a brand -new one in my trunk. The old nurse slipped a little purse into my hand, -tied up with a green ribbon—with money in it—and told me not to show it -to Ben or Lilly. - -And cousin Isabel, who was there on a visit, would come to stand by my -chair, when my mother was talking to me; and put her hand in mine, and -look up into my face; but she did not say a word. I thought it was very -odd; and yet it did not seem odd to me that I could say nothing to her. -I dare say we felt alike. - -At length Ben came running in, and said the coach had come; and there, -sure enough, out of the window, we saw it—a bright yellow coach, with -four white horses, and band-boxes all over the top, with a great pile of -trunks behind. Ben said it was a grand coach, and that he should like a -ride in it; and the old nurse came to the door, and said I should have a -capital time; but, somehow, I doubted if the nurse was talking honestly. -I believe she gave me an honest kiss though—and such a hug! - -But it was nothing to my mother’s. Tom told me to be a man, and study -like a Trojan; but I was not thinking about study then. There was a tall -boy in the coach, and I was ashamed to have him see me cry; so I didn’t, -at first. But I remember, as I looked back and saw little Isabel run out -into the middle of the street to see the coach go off, and the curls -floating behind her, as the wind freshened, I felt my heart leaping into -my throat, and the water coming into my eyes, and how just then I caught -sight of the tall boy glancing at me—and how I tried to turn it off by -looking to see if I could button up my greatcoat a great deal lower down -than the buttonholes went. - -But it was of no use; I put my head out of the coach window, and looked -back, as the little figure of Isabel faded, and then the house, and the -trees; and the tears did come; and I smuggled my handkerchief outside -without turning; so that I could wipe my eyes before the tall boy should -see me. They say that these shadows of morning fade, as the sun -brightens into noonday; but they are very dark shadows for all that! - -Let the father or the mother think long before they send away their -boy—before they break the home-ties that make a web of infinite fineness -and soft silken meshes around his heart, and toss him aloof into the -boy-world, where he must struggle up amid bickerings and quarrels, into -his age of youth! There are boys, indeed, with little fineness in the -texture of their hearts, and with little delicacy of soul; to whom the -school in a distant village is but a vacation from home; and with whom a -return revives all those grosser affections which alone existed before; -just as there are plants which will bear all exposure without the -wilting of a leaf, and will return to the hot-house life as strong and -as hopeful as ever. But there are others to whom the severance from the -prattle of sisters, the indulgent fondness of a mother, and the unseen -influences of the home altar, gives a shock that lasts forever; it is -wrenching with cruel hand what will bear but little roughness; and the -sobs with which the adieux are said are sobs that may come back in the -after years, strong, and steady, and terrible. - -God have mercy on the boy who learns to sob early! Condemn it as -sentiment, if you will; talk as you will of the fearlessness, and -strength of the boy’s heart—yet there belong to many, tenderly strung -chords of affection which give forth low and gentle music that consoles -and ripens the ear for all the harmonies of life. These chords a little -rude and unnatural tension will break, and break forever. Watch your boy -then, if so be he will bear the strain; try his nature, if it be rude or -delicate; and, if delicate, in God’s name, do not, as you value your -peace and his, breed a harsh youth spirit in him that shall take pride -in subjugating and forgetting the delicacy and richness of his finer -affections! - -—I see now, looking into the past, the troops of boys who were scattered -in the great play-ground, as the coach drove up at night. The school was -in a tall, stately building, with a high cupola on the top, where I -thought I would like to go up. The schoolmaster, they told me at home, -was kind; he said he hoped I would be a good boy, and patted me on the -head; but he did not pat me as my mother used to do. Then there was a -woman, whom they called the matron; who had a great many ribbons in her -cap, and who shook my hand—but so stiffly that I didn’t dare to look up -in her face. - -One boy took me down to see the school-room, which was in the basement, -and the walls were all moldly, I remember; and when we passed a certain -door, he said: there was the dungeon; how I felt! I hated that boy; but -I believe he is dead now. Then the matron took me up to my room—a little -corner room, with two beds, and two windows, and a red table, and -closet; and my chum was about my size, and wore a queer roundabout -jacket with big bell buttons; and he called the schoolmaster “Old -Crikey”—and kept me awake half the night, telling me how he whipped the -scholars, and how they played tricks upon him. I thought my chum was a -very uncommon boy. - -For a day or two, the lessons were easy, and it was sport to play with -so many “fellows.” But soon I began to feel lonely at night after I had -gone to bed. I used to wish I could have my mother come and kiss me; -after school, too, I wished I could step in and tell Isabel how bravely -I had got my lessons. When I told my chum this, he laughed at me, and -said that was no place for “homesick, white-livered chaps.” I wondered -if my chum had any mother. - -We had spending money once a week, with which we used to go down to the -village store, and club our funds together, to make great pitchers of -lemonade. Some boys would have money besides; though it was against the -rules; and one, I recollect, showed us a five-dollar bill in his -wallet—and we all thought he must be very rich. - -We marched in procession to the village church on Sundays. There were -two long benches in the galleries, reaching down the sides of the -meeting-house; and on these we sat. At the first, I was among the -smallest boys, and took a place close to the wall, against the pulpit; -but afterward, as I grew bigger, I was promoted to the lower end of the -first bench. This I never liked, because it was close by one of the -ushers, and because it brought me next to some country women, who wore -stiff bonnets, and eat fennel, and sung with the choir. But there was a -little black-eyed girl, who sat over behind the choir, that I thought -handsome; I used to look at her very often; but was careful she should -never catch my eye. - -There was another down below, in a corner pew, who was pretty; and who -wore a hat in the winter trimmed with fur. Half the boys in the school -said they would marry her some day or other. One’s name was Jane, and -that of the other, Sophia; which we thought pretty names, and cut them -on the ice, in skating time. But I didn’t think either of them so pretty -as Isabel. - -Once a teacher whipped me: I bore it bravely in the school: but -afterward, at night, when my chum was asleep, I sobbed bitterly as I -thought of Isabel, and Ben, and my mother, and how much they loved me: -and laying my face in my hands, I sobbed myself to sleep. In the morning -I was calm enough: it was another of the heart-ties broken, though I did -not know it then. It lessened the old attachment to home, because that -home could neither protect me nor soothe me with its sympathies. Memory, -indeed, freshened and grew strong; but strong in bitterness, and in -regrets. The boy whose love you can not feed by daily nourishment will -find pride, self-indulgence, and an iron purpose coming in to furnish -other supply for the soul that is in him. If he can not shoot his -branches into the sunshine, he will become acclimated to the shadow, and -indifferent to such stray gleams of sunshine as his fortune may -vouchsafe. - -Hostilities would sometimes threaten between the school and the village -boys; but they usually passed off with such loud and harmless explosions -as belong to the wars of our small politicians. The village champions -were a hatter’s apprentice, and a thickset fellow who worked in a -tannery. We prided ourselves especially on one stout boy, who wore a -sailor’s monkey jacket. I can not but think how jaunty that stout boy -looked in that jacket; and what an Ajax cast there was to his -countenance! It certainly did occur to me to compare him with William -Wallace (Miss Porter’s William Wallace) and I thought how I would have -liked to have seen a tussle between them. Of course, we who were small -boys, limited ourselves to indignant remark, and thought “we should like -to see them do it;” and prepared clubs from the wood-shed, after a model -suggested by a New York boy, who had seen the clubs of the policemen. - -There was one scholar, poor Leslie, who had friends in some foreign -country, and who occasionally received letters bearing a foreign -post-mark: what an extraordinary boy that was—what astonishing letters, -what extraordinary parents! I wondered if I should ever receive a letter -from “foreign parts?” I wondered if I should ever write one; but this -was too much—too absurd! As if I, Paul, wearing a blue jacket with gilt -buttons, and number four boots, should ever visit those countries spoken -of in the geographies, and by learned travelers! No, no; this was too -extravagant; but I knew what I would do, if I lived to come of age; and -I vowed that I would—I would go to New York! - -Number seven was the hospital, and forbidden ground; we had all of us a -sort of horror of number seven. A boy died there once, and oh, how he -moaned; and what a time there was when the father came! - -A scholar by the name of Tom Belton, who wore linsey gray, made a dam -across a little brook by the school, and whittled out a saw-mill that -actually sawed; he had genius. I expected to see him before now at the -head of American mechanics; but I learn with pain that he is keeping a -grocery store. - -At the close of all the terms we had exhibitions, to which all the -townspeople came, and among them the black-eyed Jane, and the pretty -Sophia with fur around her hat. My great triumph was when I had the part -of one of Pizarro’s chieftains, the evening before I left the school. -How I did look! - -I had a mustache put on with burned cork, and whiskers very bushy -indeed; and I had the militia coat of an ensign in the town company, -with the skirts pinned up, and a short sword very dull, and crooked, -which belonged to an old gentleman who was said to have got it from some -privateer, who was said to have taken it from some great British admiral -in the old wars; and the way I carried that sword upon the platform and -the way I jerked it out when it came to my turn to say—“Battle! battle! -then death to the armed, and chains for the defenseless!”—was -tremendous! - -The morning after, in our dramatic hats—black felt, with turkey -feathers—we took our place upon the top of the coach to leave the -school. The head master, in green spectacles, came out to shake hands -with us—a very awful shaking of hands. - -Poor gentleman!—he is in his grave now. - -We gave three loud hurrahs “for the old school,” as the coach started; -and upon the top of the hill that overlooks the village, we gave another -round—and still another for the crabbed old fellow whose apples we had -so often stolen. I wonder if old Bulkeley is living yet? - -As we got on under the pine trees, I recalled the image of the -black-eyed Jane, and of the other little girl in the corner pew—and -thought how I would come back after the college days were over—a man, -with a beaver hat, and a cane, and with a splendid barouche, and how I -would take the best chamber at the inn, and astonish the old -schoolmaster by giving him a familiar tap on the shoulder; and how I -would be the admiration, and the wonder of the pretty girl in the -fur-trimmed hat! Alas, how our thoughts outrun our deeds! - -For long—long years, I saw no more of my old school; and when at length -the view came, great changes—crashing tornadoes—had swept over my path! -I thought no more of startling the villagers, or astonishing the -black-eyed girl. No, no! I was content to slip quietly through the -little town, with only a tear or two, as I recalled the dead ones, and -mused upon the emptiness of life! - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE SEA - - -AS I look back, boyhood with its griefs and cares vanishes into the -proud stateliness of youth. The ambition and the rivalries of the -college life—its first boastful importance as knowledge begins to dawn -on the wakened mind, and the ripe, and enviable complacency of its -senior dignity—all scud over my memory like this morning breeze along -the meadows; and like that, too, bear upon their wing a chillness—as of -distant ice-banks. - -Ben has grown almost to manhood; Lilly is living in a distant home; and -Isabel is just blooming into that sweet age where womanly dignity waits -her beauty; an age that sorely puzzles one who has grown up beside -her—making him slow of tongue, but very quick of heart. - -As for the rest—let us pass on. - -The sea is around me. The last head-lands have gone down under the -horizon, like the city steeples, as you lose yourself in the calm of the -country, or like the great thoughts of genius, as you slip from the -pages of poets into your own quiet reverie. - -The waters skirt me right and left; there is nothing but water before, -and only water behind. Above me are sailing clouds, or the blue vault, -which we call, with childish license—heaven. The sails, white and full, -like helping friends are pushing me on: and night and day are distant -with the winds which come and go—none know whence, and none know -whither. A land bird flutters aloft, weary with long flying; and lost in -a world where are no forests but the careening masts, and no foliage but -the drifts of spray. It cleaves awhile to the smooth spars, till urged -by some homeward yearning, it bears off in the face of the wind, and -sinks, and rises over the angry waters, until its strength is gone, and -the blue waves gather the poor flutterer to their cold and glassy bosom. - -All the morning I see nothing beyond me but the waters, or a tossing -company of dolphins; all the noon, unless some white sail—like a ghost, -stalks the horizon, there is still nothing but the rolling seas; all the -evening, after the sun has grown big and sunk under the water line, and -the moon risen, white and cold, to glimmer across the tops of the -surging ocean—there is nothing but the sea and the sky to lead off -thought, or to crush it with their greatness. - -Hour after hour, as I sit in the moonlight upon the taffrail, the great -waves gather far back, and break—and gather nearer, and break louder—and -gather again, and roll down swift and terrible under the creaking ship, -and heave it up lightly upon their swelling surge, and drop it gently to -their seething and yeasty cradle—like an infant in the swaying arms of a -mother—or like a shadowy memory upon the billows of manly thought. - -Conscience wakes in the silent nights of ocean; life lies open like a -book, and spreads out as level as the sea. Regrets and broken -resolutions chase over the soul like swift-winged night-birds, and all -the unsteady heights and the wastes of action lift up distinct and clear -from the uneasy but limpid depths of memory. - -Yet within this floating world I am upon, sympathies are narrowed down; -they can not range, as upon the land, over a thousand objects. You are -strangely attracted toward some frail girl, whose pallor has now given -place to the rich bloom of the sea life. You listen eagerly to the -chance snatches of a song from below, in the long morning watch. You -love to see her small feet tottering on the unsteady deck; and you love -greatly to aid her steps, and feel her weight upon your arm, as the ship -lurches to a heavy sea. - -Hopes and fears knit together pleasantly upon the ocean. Each day seems -to revive them; your morning salutation is like a welcome, after -absence, upon the shore; and each “good-night” has the depth and -fullness of a land “farewell.” And beauty grows upon the ocean; you can -not certainly say that the face of the fair girl-voyager is prettier -than that of Isabel; oh, no! but you are certain that you cast innocent -and honest glances upon her as you steady her walk upon the deck, far -oftener than at the first; and ocean life and sympathy makes her kind; -she does not resent your rudeness one-half so stoutly as she might upon -the shore. - -She will even linger of an evening—pleading first with the mother, and -standing beside you—her white hand not very far from yours upon the -rail—look down where the black ship flings off with each plunge whole -garlands of emeralds; or she will look up (thinking perhaps you are -looking the same way) into the skies, in search of some stars—which were -her neighbors at home. And bits of old tales will come up, as if they -rode upon the ocean quietude; and fragments of half-forgotten poems, -tremulously uttered—either by reason of the rolling of the ship, or some -accidental touch of that white hand. - -But ocean has its storms when fear will make strange and holy -companionship; and even here my memory shifts swiftly and suddenly. - -—It is a dreadful night. The passengers are clustered, trembling, below. -Every plank shakes; and the oak ribs groan as if they suffered with -their toil. The hands are all aloft; the captain is forward shouting to -the mate in the cross-trees, and I am clinging to one of the stanchions -by the binnacle. The ship is pitching madly, and the waves are toppling -up, sometimes as high as the yard-arm, and then dipping away with a -whirl under our keel that makes every timber in the vessel quiver. The -thunder is roaring like a thousand cannons; and at the moment the sky is -cleft with a stream of fire that glares over the tops of the waves, and -glistens on the wet decks and the spars—lighting up all so plain that I -can see the men’s faces in the main-top, and catch glimpses of the -reefers on the yard-arm, clinging like death; then all is horrible -darkness. - -The spray spits angrily against the canvas; the waves crash against the -weather-bow like mountains, the wind howls through the rigging; or, as a -gasket gives way, the sail bellying to leeward, splits like the crack of -a musket. I hear the captain in the lulls, screaming out orders; and the -mate in the rigging, screaming them over, until the lightning comes, and -the thunder, deadening their voices, as if they were chirping sparrows. - -In one of the flashes I see a hand upon the yard-arm lose his foothold, -as the ship gives a plunge, but his arms are clinched around the spar. -Before I can see any more, the blackness comes, and the thunder, with a -crash that half-deafens me. I think I hear a low cry, as the mutterings -die away in the distance; and the next flash of lightning, which comes -in an instant, I see upon the top of one of the waves alongside, the -poor reefer who has fallen. The lightning glares upon his face. - -But he has caught at a loose bit of running rigging as he fell, and I -see it slipping off the coil upon the deck. I shout madly—man -overboard!—and—catch the rope, when I can see nothing again. The sea is -too high, and the man too heavy for me. I shout, and shout, and shout, -and feel the perspiration starting in great beads from my forehead as -the line slips through my fingers. - -Presently the captain feels his way aft, and takes hold with me; and the -cook comes, as the coil is nearly spent, and we pull together upon him. -It is desperate work for the sailor, for the ship is drifting at a -prodigious rate, but he clings like a dying man. - -By and by at a flash, we see him on a crest, two oars’ length away from -the vessel. - -“Hold on, my man!” shouts the captain. - -“For God’s sake, be quick!” says the poor fellow; and he goes down in a -trough of the sea. We pull the harder, and the captain keeps calling to -him to keep up courage, and hold strong. But in the hush we hear him -say—“I can’t hold out much longer—I’m most gone!” - -Presently we have brought the man where we can lay hold of him, and are -only waiting for a good lift of the sea to bring him up, when the poor -fellow groans out—“It’s of no use—I can’t—good-by!” And a wave tosses -the end of the rope, clean upon the bulwarks. - -At the next flash I see him going down under the water. - -I grope my way below, sick and faint at heart; and wedging myself into -my narrow berth, I try to sleep. But the thunder and the tossing of the -ship, and the face of the drowning man, as he said good-by—peering at me -from every corner will not let me sleep. - -Afterward, come quiet seas, over which we boom along, leaving in our -track, at night, a broad path of phosphorescent splendor. The sailors -bustle around the decks as if they had lost no comrade; and the voyagers -losing the pallor of fear, look out earnestly for the land. - -At length my eyes rest upon the coveted fields of Britain; and in a day -more, the bright face, looking out beside me, sparkles at sight of the -sweet cottages, which lie along the green Essex shores. Broad-sailed -yachts, looking strangely, yet beautifully, glide upon the waters of the -Thames, like swans; black, square-rigged colliers from the Tyne, lie -grouped in sooty cohorts; and heavy, three-decked Indiamen—of which I -had read in story books—drift slowly down with the tide. Dingy steamers, -with white pipes, and with red pipes, whiz past us to the sea, and now -my eye rests on the great palace of Greenwich; I see the wooden-legged -pensioners smoking under the palace walls; and above them upon the -hill—as Heaven is true—that old, fabulous Greenwich, the great center of -schoolboy longitude. - -Presently, from under a cloud of murky smoke heaves up the vast dome of -St. Paul’s, and the tall column of the fire, and the white turrets of -London Tower. Our ship glides through the massive dock gates, and is -moored, amid the forest of masts which bears golden fruit for Britons. - -That night, I sleep far away from “the old school,” and far away from -the valley of Hillfarm; long, and late, I toss upon my bed, with sweet -visions in my mind, of London Bridge, and Temple Bar, and Jane Shore, -and Falstaff, and Prince Hal, and King Jamie. And when at length I fall -asleep my dreams are very pleasant, but they carry me across the ocean, -away from the ship—away from London—away even from the fair voyager—to -the old oaks, and to the brooks, and—to thy side—sweet Isabel! - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE FATHERLAND - - -THERE is a great contrast between the easy deshabille of the ocean life, -and the prim attire, and conventional spirit of the land. In the first, -there are but few to please, and these few are known, and they know us; -upon the shore, there is a world to humor, and a world of strangers. In -a brilliant drawing-room looking out upon the site of old Charing-Cross, -and upon the one-armed Nelson, standing aloft at his coil of rope, I -take leave of the fair voyager of the sea. Her white negligé has given -place to silks; and the simple careless coiffe of the ocean, is replaced -by the rich dressing of a modiste. Yet her face has the same bloom upon -it; and her eye sparkles, as it seems to me, with a higher pride; and -her little hand has I think a tremulous quiver in it (I am sure my own -has)—as I bid her adieu, and take up the trail of my wanderings into the -heart of England. - -Abuse her, as we will—pity her starving peasantry, as we may—smile at -her court pageantry, as much as we like—old England is dear old England -still. Her cottage homes, her green fields, her castles, her blazing -firesides, her church spires are as old as songs; and by song and story, -we inherit them in our hearts. This joyous boast, was, I remember, upon -my lip, as I first trod upon the rich meadow of Runnymede; and recalled -that GREAT CHARTER: wrested from the king, which made the first stepping -stone toward the bounties of our western freedom. - - -[Illustration] - - -It is a strange feeling that comes over the Western Saxon, as he strolls -first along the green by-lanes of England, and scents the hawthorn in -its April bloom, and lingers at some quaint stile to watch the rooks -wheeling and cawing around some lofty elm-tops, and traces the carved -gables of some old country mansion that lies in their shadow, and hums -some fragment of charming English poesy, that seems made for the scene. -This is not sight-seeing, nor travel; it is dreaming sweet dreams, that -are fed with the old life of Books. - -I wander on, fearing to break the dream, by a swift step; and winding -and rising between the blooming hedgerows, I come presently to the sight -of some sweet valley below me, where a thatched hamlet lies sleeping in -the April sun, as quietly as the dead lie in history; no sound reaches -me save the occasional clink of the smith’s hammer, or the hedgeman’s -bill-hook, or the plowman’s “ho-tup,” from the hills. At evening, -listening to the nightingale, I stroll wearily into some close-nestled -village, that I had seen long ago from a rolling height. It is far away -from the great lines of travel—and the children stop their play to have -a look at me, and the rosy-faced girls peep from behind half opened -doors. - -Standing apart, and with a bench on either side of the entrance, is the -inn of the Eagle and the Falcon—which guardian birds, some native Dick -Tinto has pictured upon the swinging signboard at the corner. The -hostess is half ready to embrace me, and treats me like a prince in -disguise. She shows me through the tap-room into a little parlor, with -white curtains, and with neatly framed prints of the old patriarchs. -Here, alone beside a brisk fire, kindled with furze, I watch the white -flame leaping playfully through the black lumps of coal, and enjoy the -best fare of the Eagle and the Falcon. If too late, or too early for her -garden stock, the hostess bethinks herself of some small pot of jelly in -an out-of-the-way cupboard of the house, and setting it temptingly in -her prettiest dish, she coyly slips it upon the white cloth, with a -modest regret that it is no better; and a little evident -satisfaction—that it is so good. - -I muse for an hour before the glowing fire, as quiet as the cat that has -come in, to bear me company; and at bedtime, I find sheets, as fresh as -the air of the mountains. - -At another time, and many months later, I am walking under a wood of -Scottish firs. It is near nightfall, and the fir tops are swaying, and -sighing hoarsely, in the cool wind of the Northern Highlands. There is -none of the smiling landscape of England about me; and the crags of -Edinburgh and Castle Stirling, and sweet Perth, in its silver valley, -are far to the southward. The larches of Athol and Bruar Water, and that -highland gem—Dunkeld, are passed. I am tired with a morning’s tramp over -Culloden Moor; and from the edge of the wood there stretches before me, -in the cool gray twilight, broad fields of heather. In the middle, there -rise against the night-sky, the turrets of a castle; it is Castle -Cawdor, where King Duncan was murdered by Macbeth. - -The sight of it lends a spur to my weary step; and emerging from the -wood, I bound over the springy heather. In an hour, I clamber a broken -wall, and come under the frowning shadows of the castle. The ivy -clambers up here and there, and shakes its uncropped branches, and its -dried berries over the heavy portal. I cross the moat, and my step makes -the chains of the drawbridge rattle. All is kept in the old state; only -in lieu of the warder’s horn, I pull at the warder’s bell. The echoes -ring, and die in the stone courts; but there is no one astir, nor is -there a light at any of the castle windows. I ring again, and the echoes -come, and blend with the rising night wind that sighs around the -turrets, as they sighed that night of murder. I fancy—it must be a -fancy—that I hear an owl scream; I am sure that I hear the crickets cry. - -I sit down upon the green bank of the moat; a little dark water lies in -the bottom. The walls rise from it gray and stern in the deepening -shadows. I hum chance passages of Macbeth, listening for the -echoes—echoes from the wall; and echoes from that far-away time, when I -stole the first reading of the tragic story. - - “Did’st thou not hear a noise? - I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. - Did you not speak? - When? - Now. - As I descended? - Ay. - ——Hark!” - -And the sharp echo comes back—“Hark!” And at dead of night, in the -thatched cottage under the castle walls, where a dark-faced, Gaelic -woman, in plaid turban, is my hostess, I wake, startled by the wind, and -my trembling lips say involuntarily—“hark!” - -Again, three months later, I am in the sweet county of Devon. Its -valleys are like emerald; its threads of waters stretched over the -fields, by their provident husbandry, glisten in the broad glow of -summer, like skeins of silk. A bland old farmer, of the true British -stamp, is my host. On market days he rides over to the old town of -Totness, in a trim, black farmer’s cart; and he wears glossy-topped -boots, and a broad-brimmed white hat. I take a vast deal of pleasure in -listening to his honest, straight-forward talk about the improvements of -the day and the state of the nation. I sometimes get upon one of his -nags, and ride off with him over his fields, or visit the homes of the -laborers, which show their gray roofs, in every charming nook of the -landscape. At the parish church I doze against the high pew backs, as I -listen to the see-saw tones of the drawling curate; and in my half -wakeful moments, the withered holly sprigs (not removed since Easter) -grow upon my vision, into Christmas boughs, and preach sermons to me—of -the days of old. - -Sometimes, I wander far over the hills into a neighboring park; and -spend hours on hours under the sturdy oaks, watching the sleek fallow -deer gazing at me with their soft liquid eyes. The squirrels, too, play -above me, with their daring leaps, utterly careless of my presence, and -the pheasants whir away from my very feet. - -On one of these random strolls—I remember it very well—when I was idling -along, thinking of the broad reach of water that lay between me and that -old forest home—and beating off the daisy heads with my cane—I heard the -tramp of horses coming up one of the forest avenues. The sound was -unusual, for the family, I had been told, was still in town, and no -right of way lay through the park. There they were, however: I was sure -it must be the family, from the careless way in which they came -sauntering up. - -First, there was a noble hound that came bounding toward me—gazed a -moment, and turned to watch the approach of the little cavalcade. Next -was an elderly gentleman mounted upon a spirited hunter, attended by a -boy of some dozen years, who managed his pony with a grace, that is a -part of the English boy’s education. Then followed two older lads, and a -traveling phaëton in which sat a couple of elderly ladies. But what most -drew my attention was a girlish figure, that rode beyond the carriage, -upon a sleek-limbed gray. There was something in the easy grace of her -attitude, and the rich glow that lit up her face—heightened as it was, -by the little black riding cap, relieved with a single flowing -plume—that kept my eye. It was strange, but I thought that I had seen -such a figure before, and such a face, and such an eye; and as I made -the ordinary salutation of a stranger, and caught her smile, I could -have sworn that it was she—my fair companion of the ocean. The truth -flashed upon me in a moment. She was to visit, she had told me, a friend -in the south of England; and this was the friend’s home; and one of the -ladies of the carriage was her mother; and one of the lads, the -schoolboy brother, who had teased her on the sea. - -I recall now perfectly her frank manner, as she ungloved her hand to bid -me welcome. I strolled beside them to the steps. Old Devon had suddenly -renewed its beauties for me. I had much to tell her, of the little -outlying nooks, which my wayward feet had led me to: and she—as much to -ask. My stay with the bland old farmer lengthened; and two days’ -hospitalities at the Park ran over into three, and four. There was hard -galloping down those avenues; and new strolls, not at all lonely, under -the sturdy oaks. The long summer twilight of England used to find a very -happy fellow lingering on the garden terrace—looking, now at the -rookery, where the belated birds quarreled for a resting place, and now -down the long forest vista, gray with distance, and closed with the -white spire of Madbury church. - -English country life gains fast upon one—very fast; and it is not so -easy, as in the drawing-room of Charing Cross, to say—adieu! But it is -said—very sadly said; for God only knows how long it is to last. And as -I rode slowly down toward the lodge after my leave-taking, I turned back -again, and again, and again. I thought I saw her standing still upon the -terrace, though it was almost dark; and I thought—it could hardly have -been an illusion—that I saw something white waving from her hand. - -Her name—as if I could forget it—was Caroline; her mother called -her—Carry. I wondered how it would seem for me to call her—Carry! I -tried it—it sounded well. I tried it—over and over—until I came too near -the lodge. There I threw a half crown to the woman who opened the gate -for me. She courtesied low, and said—“God bless you, sir!” - -I liked her for it; I would have given a guinea for it: and that -night—whether it was the old woman’s benediction, or the waving scarf -upon the terrace, I do not know—but there was a charm upon my thought, -and my hope, as if an angel had been near me. - -It passed away though in my dreams; for I dreamed that I saw the sweet -face of Bella in an English park, and that she wore a black-velvet -riding cap, with a plume; and I came up to her and murmured, very -sweetly, I thought—“Carry, dear Carry!” and she started, looked sadly at -me, and turned away. I ran after her, to kiss her as I did when she sat -upon my mother’s lap, on the day when she came near drowning: I longed -to tell her, as I did then—I _do_ love you. But she turned her tearful -face upon me, I dreamed; and then—I saw no more. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - A - ROMAN - GIRL - - -—I REMEMBER the very words—“_non parlo Francese, Signore_—I do not speak -French, Signor”—said the stout lady—“but my daughter, perhaps, will -understand you.” - -And she called out—“_Enrica!—Enrica! venite, subito! c’ è un -forestiere._” - -And the daughter came, her light-brown hair falling carelessly over her -shoulders, her rich, hazel eye twinkling and full of life, the color -coming and going upon her transparent cheek, and her bosom heaving with -her quick step. With one hand she put back the scattered locks that had -fallen over her forehead, while she laid the other gently upon the arm -of her mother, and asked in that sweet music of the south—“_cosa volete, -mamma?_” - -It was the prettiest picture I had seen in many a day; and this, -notwithstanding I was in Rome, and had come that very morning from the -Palace of Borghese. - -The stout lady was my hostess, and Enrica—so fair, so young, so unlike -in her beauty, to other Italian beauties, was my landlady’s daughter. -The house was one of those tall houses—very, very old which stand along -the eastern side of the Corso, looking out upon the Piazzo di Colonna. -The staircases were very tall and dirty, and they were narrow and dark. -Four flights of stone steps led up to the corridor where they lived. A -little trap was in the door; and there was a bell-rope, at the least -touch of which, I was almost sure to hear tripping feet run along the -stone floor within, and then to see the trap thrown slyly back, and -those deep hazel eyes looking out upon me; and then the door would open, -and along the corridor, under the daughter’s guidance (until I had -learned the way), I passed to my Roman home. I was a long time learning -the way. - -My chamber looked out upon the Corso, and I could catch from it a -glimpse of the top of the tall column of Antoninus, and of a fragment of -the palace of the governor. My parlor, which was separated from the -apartments of the family by a narrow corridor, looked upon a small -court, hung around with balconies. From the upper one a couple of -black-eyed girls are occasionally looking out, and they can almost read -the title of my book, when I sit by the window. Below are three or four -blooming _ragazze_, who are dark-eyed, and have Roman luxuriance of -hair. The youngest is a friend of our Enrica, and is of course -frequently looking up with all the innocence in the world, to see if -Enrica may be looking out. - -Night after night a bright blaze glows upon my hearth, of the alder -faggots which they bring from the Albanian hills. Night after night, -too, the family come in to aid my blundering speech and to enjoy the -rich sparkling of my faggot fire. Little Cesare, a dark-faced Italian -boy, takes up his position with pencil and slate, and draws by the light -of the blaze genii and castles. The old one-eyed teacher of Enrica lays -his snuff box upon the table, and his handkerchief across his lap, and -with his spectacles upon his nose, and his big fingers on the lesson, -runs through the French tenses of the verb _amare_. The father, a -sallow-faced, keen-eyed man, with true Italian visage, sits with his -arms upon the elbows of his chair, and talks of the pope, or of the -weather. A spruce count from the Marches of Ancona, wears a heavy watch -seal, and reads Dante with _furore_. The mother, with arms akimbo, looks -proudly upon her daughter, and counts her, as well she may, a gem among -the Roman beauties. - -The table was round, with the fire blazing on one side; there was scarce -room for but three upon the other. Signor _il maestro_ was one—then -Enrica, and next—how well I remember it—came myself. For I could -sometimes help Enrica to a word of French; and far oftener she could -help me to a word of Italian. Her face was rich, and full of feeling; I -used greatly to love to watch the puzzled expressions that passed over -her forehead, as the sense of some hard phrase escaped her; and better -still, to see the happy smile, as she caught at a glance, the thought of -some old scholastic Frenchman, and transferred it into the liquid melody -of her speech. - -She had seen just sixteen summers, and only that very autumn was escaped -from the thraldom of a convent, upon the skirts of Rome. She knew -nothing of life, but the life of feeling; and all thoughts of happiness -lay as yet in her childish hopes. It was pleasant to look upon her face; -and it was still more pleasant to listen to that sweet Roman voice. What -a rich flow of superlatives, and endearing diminutives, from those -vermilion lips! Who would not have loved the study, and who would not -have loved—without meaning it—the teacher? - -In those days I did not linger long at the tables of lame Pietro in the -Via Condotti: but would hurry back to my little Roman parlor—the fire -was so pleasant! And it was so pleasant to greet Enrica with her mother, -even before the one-eyed _maestro_ had come in; and it was pleasant to -unfold the book between us, and to lay my hand upon the page—a small -page—where hers lay already. And when she pointed wrong, it was pleasant -to correct her—over and over; insisting that her hand should be here, -and not there, and lifting those little fingers from one page, and -putting them down upon the other. And sometimes, half provoked with my -fault-finding she would pat my hand smartly with hers; but when I looked -in her face to know what _that_ could mean, she would meet my eye with -such a kind submission, and half earnest regret, as made me not only -pardon the offense—but tempt me to provoke it again. - -Through all the days of Carnival, when I rode pelted with _confetti_, -and pelting back, my eyes used to wander up, from a long way off, to -that tall house upon the Corso, where I was sure to meet, again and -again, those forgiving eyes and that soft brown hair, all gathered under -the little brown sombrero, set off with one pure white plume. And her -hand full of bon-bons, she would shake at me threateningly; and laugh—a -musical laugh—as I bowed my head to the assault, and recovering from the -shower of missiles, would turn to throw my stoutest bouquet at her -balcony. At night I would bear home to the Roman parlor my best trophy -of the day, as a guerdon for Enrica; and Enrica would be sure to render -in acknowledgment, some carefully hidden flowers, the prettiest that her -beauty had won. - - -[Illustration] - - -Sometimes upon those Carnival nights, she arrays herself in the costume -of the Albanian water-carriers; and nothing, one would think, could be -prettier than the laced crimson jacket, and the strange headgear with -its trinkets, and the short skirts leaving to view as delicate an ankle -as could be found in Rome. Upon another night, she glides into my little -parlor, as we sit by the blaze, in a close velvet bodice, and with a -Swiss hat caught up by a looplet of silver, and adorned with a -full-blown rose—nothing you think could be prettier than this. Again, in -one of her girlish freaks, she robes herself like a nun; and with the -heavy black serge, for dress, and the funereal veil—relieved only by the -plain white ruffle of her cap—you wish she were always a nun. But the -wish vanishes, when you see her in a pure white muslin, with a wreath of -orange blossoms about her forehead, and a single white rose-bud in her -bosom. - -Upon the little balcony Enrica keeps a pot or two of flowers, which -bloom all winter long; and each morning I find upon my table a fresh -rosebud; each night, I bear back for thank-offering the prettiest -bouquet that can be found in the Via Conditti. The quiet fireside -evenings come back; in which my hand seeks its wonted place upon her -book; and my other _will_ creep around upon the back of Enrica’s chair, -and Enrica _will_ look indignant—and then all forgiveness. - -One day I received a large packet of letters—ah, what luxury to lie back -in my big armchair, there before the crackling faggots, with the -pleasant rustle of that silken dress beside me, and run over a second, -and a third time, those mute paper missives, which bore to me over so -many miles of water, the words of greeting, and of love. It would be -worth traveling to the shores of the Ægean, to find one’s heart -quickened into such life as the ocean letters will make. Enrica threw -down her book, and wondered what could be in them—and snatched one from -my hand, and looked with sad, but vain intensity over that strange -scrawl. What can it be? said she; and she laid her finger upon the -little half line—“Dear Paul.” - -I told her it was—“_Caro mio_.” - -Enrica laid it upon her lap and looked in my face; “It is from your -mother?” said she. - -“No,” said I. - -“From your sister?” said she. - -“Alas, no!” - -“_Il vostro fratello, dunque?_” - -“_Nemmeno_”—said I, “not from a brother either.” - -She handed me the letter, and took up her book; and presently she laid -the book down again; and looked at the letter, and then at me—and went -out. - -She did not come in again that evening; in the morning, there was no -rose-bud on my table. And when I came at night, with a bouquet from -Pietro’s at the corner, she asked me—“who had written my letter?” - -“A very dear friend,” said I. - -“A lady?” continued she. - -“A lady,” said I. - -“Keep this bouquet for her,” said she, and put it in my hands. - -“But, Enrica, she has plenty of flowers; she lives among them, and each -morning her children gather them by scores to make garlands of.” - -Enrica put her fingers within my hand to take again the bouquet; and for -a moment I held both fingers and flowers. - -The flowers slipped out first. - -I had a friend at Rome in that time, who afterward died between Ancona -and Corinth; we were sitting one day upon a block of tufa in the middle -of the Coliseum, looking up at the shadows which the waving shrubs upon -the southern wall cast upon the ruined arcades within, and listening to -the chirping sparrows that lived upon the wreck—when he said to me -suddenly—“Paul, you love the Italian girl.” - -“She is very beautiful,” said I. - -“I think she is beginning to love you,” said he soberly. - -“She has a very warm heart, I believe,” said I. - -“Ay,” said he. - -“But her feelings are those of a girl,” continued I. - -“They are not,” said my friend; and he laid his hand upon my knee, and -left off drawing diagrams with his cane; “I have seen, Paul, more than -you of this southern nature. The Italian girl of fifteen is a woman; an -impassioned, sensitive, tender creature—yet still a woman; you are -loving—if you love—a full-grown heart; she is loving—if she loves—as a -ripe heart should.” - -“But I do not think that either is wholly true,” said I. - -“Try it,” said he, setting his cane down firmly, and looking in my face. - -“How?” returned I. - -“I have three weeks upon my hands,” continued he. “Go with me into the -Appenines; leave your home in the Corso, and see if you can forget in -the air of the mountains, your bright-eyed Roman girl.” - -I was pondering for an answer, when he went on: “It is better so; love -as you might, that southern nature with all its passion, is not the -material to build domestic happiness upon; nor is your northern -habit—whatever you may think at your time of life, the one to cherish -always those passionate sympathies which are bred by this atmosphere, -and their scenes.” - -One moment my thought ran to my little parlor, and to that fairy figure, -and to that sweet angel face; and then, like lightning it traversed -oceans, and fed upon the old ideal of home, and brought images to my eye -of lost—dead ones, who seemed to be stirring on heavenly wings, in that -soft Roman atmosphere, with greeting, and with beckoning. - -—“I will go with you,” said I. - -The father shrugged his shoulders, when I told him I was going to the -mountains, and wanted a guide. His wife said it would be cold upon the -hills, for the winter was not ended. Enrica said it would be warm in the -valleys, for the spring was coming. The old man drummed with his fingers -on the table, and shrugged his shoulders again, but said nothing. - -My landlady said I could not ride. Cesare said it would be hard walking. -Enrica asked papa, if there would be any danger. And again the old man -shrugged his shoulders. Again I asked him, if he knew a man who would -serve us as a guide among the Appenines; and finding me determined, he -shrugged his shoulders, and said he would find one the next day. - -As I passed out at evening, on my way to the Piazzo near the Monte -Citorio, where stand the carriages that go out to Tivoli, Enrica glided -up to me, and whispered—“_Ah, mi dispiace tanto—tanto, Signor!_” - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE APPENINES - - -I SHOOK her hand, and in an hour afterward was passing, with my friend, -by the Trajan forum, toward the deep shadow of San Maggiore, which lay -in our way to the mountains. At sunset we were wandering over the ruin -of Adrian’s villa, which lies upon the first step of the Appenines. -Behind us, the vesper bells of Tivoli were sounding, and their echoes -floating sweetly under the broken arches; before us, stretching all the -way to the horizon, lay the broad Campagna; while in the middle of its -great waves, turned violet-colored by the hues of twilight, rose the -grouped towers of the Eternal City; and lording it among them all, like -a giant, stood the black dome of St. Peter’s. - -Day after day we stretched on over the mountains, leaving the Campagna -far behind us. Rocks and stones, huge and ragged, lie strewn over the -surface right and left; deep yawning valleys lie in the shadows of -mountains, that loom up thousands of feet, bearing, perhaps, upon their -tops old castellated towns, perched like birds’ nests. But mountain and -valley are blasted and scarred; the forests even are not continuous, but -struggle for a livelihood; as if the brimstone fire that consumed -Nineveh, had withered their energies. Sometimes our eyes rest on a great -white scar of the broken calcareous rock, on which the moss cannot grow, -and the lizards dare not creep. Then we see a cliff beetling far aloft, -with the shining walls of some monastery of holy men glistening at its -base. The wayside brooks do not seem to be the gentle offspring of -bountiful hills, but the remnants of something greater, whose greatness -has expired—they are turbid rills, rolling in the bottom of yawning -chasms. Even the shrubs have a look, as if the Volscian war-horse had -trampled them down to death; and the primroses and the violets by the -mountain path alone look modestly beautiful amid the ruin. - -Sometimes we loiter in a valley, above which the goats are browsing on -the cliffs, and listen to the sweet pastoral pipes of the Appenines. We -see the shepherds in their rough skin coats, high over our heads. Their -herds are feeding, as it seems, on ledges of a hand’s breadth. The sweet -sound floats and lingers in the soft atmosphere, without a breath of -wind to bear it away, or a noise to disturb its melody. The shadows -slant more and more as we linger; and the kids begin to group together. -And as we wander on, through the stunted vineyard in the bottom of the -valley, the sweet sound flows after us, like a river of song—nor leaves -us, till the kids have vanished in the distance, and the cliffs -themselves, become one dark wall of shadow. - -At night, in some little meager mountain town, we stroll about in the -narrow passways, or wander under the heavy arches of the mountain -churches. Shuffling old women grope in and out; dim lamps glimmer -faintly at the side altars, shedding horrid light upon painted images of -the dying Christ. Or, perhaps, to make the old pile more solemn, there -stands some bier in the middle, with a figure or two kneeling at the -foot, and ragged boys move stealthily under the shadows of the columns. -Presently comes a young priest, in black robes, and lights a taper at -the foot, and another at the head—for there is a dead man on the bier; -and the parched, thin features look awfully under the yellow light of -the tapers, in the gloom of the great building. It is very, very damp in -the church, and the body of the dead man seems to make the air heavy, so -we go out into the starlight again. - -In the morning, the western slopes wear broad shadows, and the frosts -crumple, on the herbage, to our tread: across the valley, it is like -summer; and the birds—for there are songsters in the Appenines—make -summer music. Their notes blend softly with the faint sounds of some -far-off convent bell, tolling for morning mass, and strike the frosted -and shaded mountain side, with a sweet echo. As we toil on, and the -shaded hills begin to glow in the sunshine, we pass a train of mules, -loaded with wine. We have seen them an hour before—little black dots -twining along the white streak of footway upon the mountain above us. We -lost them as we began to ascend, until a wild snatch of an Appenine song -turned our eyes up, and there, straggling through the brush, they -appeared again; a foot slip would have brought the mules and wine casks -rolling upon us. We keep still, holding by the brushwood, to let them -pass. An hour more, and we see them toiling slowly—mule and muleteer—big -dots and little dots—far down where we have been before. The sun is hot -and smoking on them in the bare valleys; the sun is hot and smoking on -the hill side, where we are toiling over the broken stones. I thought of -little Enrica, when she said: “the spring was coming!” - -Time and again we sit down together—my friend and I—upon some fragment -of rock, under the broad-armed chestnuts, that fringe the lower skirts -of the mountains, and talk through the hottest of the noon, of the -warriors of Sylla, and of the Sabine woman—but oftener—of the pretty -peasantry, and of the sweet-faced Roman girl. He, too, tells me of his -life and loves, and of the hopes that lie misty and grand before him: -little did we think that in so few years, his hopes would be gone, and -his body lying low in the Adriatic, or tossed with the drift upon the -Dalmatian shores! Little did I think that here under the ancestral -wood—still a wishful and blundering mortal, I should be gathering up the -shreds that memory can catch of our Appenine wandering, and be weaving -them into my bachelor dreams. - -Away again upon the quick wing of thought, I follow our steps, as after -weeks of wandering, we gained once more a height that overlooked the -Campagna—and saw the sun setting on its edge, throwing into relief the -dome of St. Peter’s, and blazing in a red stripe upon the waters of the -Tiber. - -Below us was Palestrina—the Præneste of the poets and philosophers; the -dwelling place of—I know not how many—emperors. We went straggling -through the dirty streets, searching for some tidy-looking osteria. At -length we found an old lady who could give us a bed, but no dinner. My -friend dropped in a chair disheartened. A snub-looking priest came out -to condole with us. - -And could Palestrina—the _frigidum Præneste_ of Horace, which had -entertained over and over, the noblest of the Colonna, and the most -noble Adrian—could Palestrina not furnish a dinner to a tired traveler? - -“_Si, Signore_,” said the snub-looking priest. - -“_Si, Signorino_,” said the neat old lady; and away we went upon a new -search. And we found bright and happy faces; especially the little girl -of twelve years, who came close by me as I ate, and afterward strung a -garland of marigolds, and put it on my head. Then there was a -bright-eyed boy of fourteen, who wrote his name, and those of the whole -family, upon a fly-leaf of my book; and a pretty, saucy-looking girl of -sixteen, who peeped a long time from behind the kitchen door, but before -the evening was gone, she was in the chair beside me, and had written -her name—Carlotta—upon the first leaf of my journal. - -When I woke, the sun was up. From my bed I could see over the town, the -thin, lazy mists lying on the old camp-ground of Pyrrhus; beyond it were -the mountains, which hide Frascati, and Monte-Cavi. There was old -Colonna, too, that— - - Like an eagle’s nest, hangs on the crest - Of purple Appenine. - -As the mist lifted, and the sun brightened the plain, I could see the -road, along which Sylla came fuming and maddened after the Mithridaten -war. I could see, as I half dreamed and half slept, the frightened -peasantry whooping to their long-horned cattle, as they drove them on -tumultuously up through the gateways of the town; and women with babies -in their arms, and children scowling with fear and hate—all trooping -fast and madly, to escape the hand of the Avenger; alas! ineffectually, -for Sylla murdered them, and pulled down the walls of their town—the -proud Palestrina. - -I had a queer fancy of seeing the nobles of Rome, led on by Stefano -Colonna, grouping along the plain, their corslets flashing out of the -mists—their pennants dashing above it—coming up fast, and still as the -wind, to make the Mural Præneste, their stronghold against the Last of -the Tribunes. And strangely mingling fiction with fact, I saw the -brother of Walter de Montreal, with his noisy and bristling army, crowd -over the Campagna, and put up his white tents, and hang out his showy -banners, on the grassy knolls that lay nearest my eye. - -—But the knolls were all quiet; there was not so much as a strolling -_contadino_ on them, to whistle a mimic fife-note. A little boy from the -inn went with me upon the hill, to look out upon the town and the wide -sea of land below; and whether it was the soft, warm April sun, or the -gray ruins below me, or whether the wonderful silence of the scene, or -some wild gush of memory, I do not know, but something made me sad. - -“_Perché cosi penseroso!_—why so sad” said the quick-eyed boy. “The air -is beautiful, the scene is beautiful; Signore is young, why is he sad?” - -“And is Giovanni never sad?” said I. - -“_Quasi mai_,” said the boy, “and if I could travel as Signore, and see -other countries, I would be always gay.” - -“May you be always that!” said I. - -The good wish touched him; he took me by the arms, and said—“Go home -with me, Signore; you were happy at the inn last night; go back, and we -will make you gay again!” - -—If we could be always boys! - -I thanked him in a way that saddened him. We passed out shortly after -from the city gates, and strode on over the rolling plain. Once or twice -we turned back to look at the rocky heights beneath which lay the ruined -town of Palestrina—a city that defied Rome—that had a king before a -plowshare had touched the Capitoline, or the Janiculan hill! The ivy was -covering up richly the Etruscan foundations, and there was a quiet over -the whole place. The smoke was rising straight into the sky from the -chimney tops; a peasant or two were going along the road with donkeys; -beside this, the city was, to all appearance, a dead city. And it seemed -to me that an old monk, whom I could see with my glass, near the little -chapel above the town, might be going to say mass for the soul of the -dead city. - -And afterward, when we came near to Rome, and passed under the temple -tomb of Metella—my friend said—“And will you go back now to your home? -or will you set off with me to-morrow for Ancona?” - -“At least, I must say adieu,” returned I. - -“God speed you!” said he, and we parted upon the Piazza di Venezia—he -for his last mass at St. Peter’s, and I for the tall house upon the -Corso. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - ENRICA - - -I HEAR her glancing feet the moment I have tinkled the bell; and there -she is, with her brown hair gathered into braids, and her eyes full of -joy and greeting. And as I walk with the mother to the window to look at -some pageant that is passing, she steals up behind and passes her arm -around me, with a quick electric motion and a gentle pressure of welcome -that tells more than a thousand words. - -It is a pageant of death that is passing below. Far down the street we -see heads thrust out of the windows and standing in bold relief against -the red torchlight of the moving train. Below dim figures are gathering -on the narrow side ways to look at the solemn spectacle. A hoarse chant -rises louder and louder, and half dies in the night air, and breaks out -again with new and deep bitterness. - -Now the first torchlight under us shines plainly on faces in the windows -and on the kneeling women in the street. First come old retainers of the -dead one, bearing long blazing flambeaux. Then comes a company of -priests, two by two, bareheaded, and every second one with a lighted -torch, and all are chanting. - -Next is a brotherhood of friars in brown cloaks, with sandaled feet, and -the red light streams full upon their grizzled heads. They add their -heavy guttural voices to the chant and pass slowly on. - -Then comes a company of priests in white muslin capes and black robes -and black caps, bearing books in their hands, wide open, and lit up -plainly by the torches of churchly servitors, who march beside them; and -from the books the priests chant loud and solemnly. Now the music is -loudest, and the friars take up the dismal notes from the white-capped -priests, and the priests before catch them from the brown-robed friars, -and mournfully the sound rises up between the tall buildings, into the -blue night sky that lies between Heaven and Rome. - -—“_Vede—Vede!_” says Cesare; and in a blaze of the red torch fire comes -the bier, borne on the necks of stout friars; and on the bier is the -body of a dead man, habited like a priest. Heavy plumes of black wave at -each corner. - -—“Hist,” says my landlady. - -The body is just under us. Enrica crosses herself; her smile is for the -moment gone. Cesare’s boy-face is grown suddenly earnest. We could see -the pale youthful features of the dead man. The glaring flambeaux sent -their flaunting streams of unearthly light over the wan visage of the -sleeper. A thousand eyes were looking on him, but his face, careless of -them all, was turned up, straight toward the stars. - -Still the chant rises, and companies of priests follow the bier, like -those who had gone before. Friars, in brown cloaks, and prelates and -Carmelites come after—all with torches. Two by two—their voices growing -hoarse—they tramp and chant. - -For a while the voices cease, and you can hear the rustling of their -robes, and their footfalls, as if your ear was to the earth. Then the -chant rises again, as they glide on in a wavy shining line, and rolls -back over the death-train, like the howling of a wind in winter. - -As they pass the faces vanish from the windows. The kneeling women upon -the pavement rise up, mindful of the paroxysm of Life once more. The -groups in the door-ways scatter. But their low voices do not drown the -voices of the host of mourners and their ghost-like music. - -I look long upon the blazing bier, trailing under the deep shadows of -the Roman palaces, and at the stream of torches, winding like a -glittering, scaled serpent. It is a priest—say I to my landlady as she -closes the window. - -“No, signor—a young man never married, and so, by virtue of his -condition, they put on him the priest-robes.” - -“So I,” says the pretty Enrica—“if I should die, would be robed in -white, as you saw me on a carnival night, and be followed by nuns for -sisters.” - -“A long way off may it be, Enrica.” - -She took my hand in hers and pressed it. An Italian girl does not fear -to talk of death, and we were talking of it still as we walked back to -my little parlor—my hand all the time in hers—and sat down by the blaze -of my fire. - -It was holy week; never had Enrica looked more sweetly than in that -black dress—under that long, dark veil of the days of Lent. Upon the -broad pavement of St. Peter’s—where the people, flocking by thousands, -made only side groups about the altars of the vast temple—I have watched -her kneeling beside her mother, her eyes bent down, her lips moving -earnestly, and her whole figure tremulous with deep emotion. Wandering -around among the halberdiers of the pope, and the court coats of -Austria, and the barefooted pilgrims with sandal, shell and staff, I -would sidle back again to look upon that kneeling figure, and, leaning -against the huge columns of the church, would dream—even as I am -dreaming now. - -At nightfall I urged my way into the Sistine Chapel; Enrica is beside -me—looking with me upon the gaunt figures of the Judgment of Angelo. -They are chanting the _Miserere_. The twelve candlesticks by the altar -are put out one by one as the service continues. The sun has gone down, -and only the red glow of twilight steals through the dusky windows. -There is a pause, and a brief reading from a red-cloaked cardinal, and -all kneel down. _She_ kneels beside me, and the sweet, mournful flow of -the _Miserere_ begins again, growing in force and depth, till the whole -chapel rings and the balcony of the choir trembles; then it subsides -again into the low, soft wail of a single voice, so prolonged, so -tremulous and so real that the heart aches and the tears start—for -Christ is dead! - -—Lingering yet, the wail dies not wholly, but just as it seemed expiring -it is caught up by another and stronger voice that carries it on, -plaintive as ever; nor does it stop with this, for just as you looked -for silence three voices more begin the lament—sweet, touching, mournful -voices—and bear it up to a full cry, when the whole choir catch its -burden and make the lament change into the wailing of a multitude—wild, -shrill, hoarse—with swift chants intervening, as if agony had given -force to anguish. Then, sweetly, slowly, voice by voice, note by note, -the wailings sink into the low, tender moan of a single -singer—faltering, tremulous, as if tears checked the utterance, and -swelling out, as if despair sustained it. - -It was dark in the chapel when we went out; voices were low. Enrica said -nothing—I could say nothing. - -I was to leave Rome after Easter; I did not love to speak of it—nor to -think of it. Rome—that old city, with all its misery, and its fallen -state, and its broken palaces of the empire—grows upon one’s heart. The -fringing shrubs of the coliseum, flaunting their blossoms at the tall -beggar-men in cloaks who grub below—the sun glimmering over the mossy -pile of the House of Nero—the sweet sunsets from the Pincian, that make -the broad pine-tops of the Janiculan stand sharp and dark against a sky -of gold, can not easily be left behind. And Enrica, with her -silver-brown hair, and the silken fillet that bound it, and her deep -hazel eyes, and her white, delicate fingers, and the blue veins chasing -over her fair temples—ah, Easter is too near! - -But it comes, and passes with the glory of St. Peter’s—lighted from top -to bottom. With Enrica, I saw it from the Ripetta, as it loomed up in -the distance, like a city on fire. - -The next day I bring home my last bunch of flowers, and with it a little -richly-chased Roman ring. No fire blazes on the hearth, but they are all -there. Warm days have come, and the summer air, even now, hangs heavy -with fever in the hollows of the plain. - -I heard them stirring early on the morning of which I was to go away. I -do not think I slept very well myself—nor very late. Never did Enrica -look more beautiful—never. All her carnival robes and the sad drapery of -the FRIDAY OF CRUCIFIXION could not so adorn her beauty as that neat -morning dress and that simple rosebud she wore upon her bosom. She gave -it to me—the last—with a trembling hand. I did not, for I could not, -thank her. She knew it; and her eyes were full. - -The old man kissed my cheek—it was the Roman custom, but the custom did -not extend to the Roman girls; at least not often. As I passed down the -Corso I looked back at the balcony, where she stood in the time of -Carnival in the brown sombrero with the white plume. I knew she would be -there now; and there she was. My eyes dwelt upon the vision, very loth -to leave it; and after my eyes had lost it, my heart clung to it—there, -where my memory clings now. - -At noon the carriage stopped upon the hills, toward Soracte, that -overlooked Rome. There was a stunted pine tree grew a little way from -the road, and I sat down under it—for I wished no dinner—and I looked -back with strange tumult of feeling upon the sleeping city, with the -gray, billowy sea of the Campagna lying around it. - -I seemed to see Enrica, the Roman girl, in that morning dress, with her -brown hair in its silken fillet; but the rosebud that was in her bosom -was now in mine. Her silvery voice, too, seemed to float past me, -bearing snatches of Roman songs; but the songs were sad and broken. - -—After all, this is sad vanity! thought I; and yet if I had espied then -some returning carriage going down toward Rome, I will not say—but that -I should have hailed it, and taken a place, and gone back, and to this -day, perhaps, have lived at Rome. - -But the vetturino called me; the coach was ready; I gave one more look -toward the dome that guarded the sleeping city, and then we galloped -down the mountain, on the road that lay toward Perugia and Lake -Thrasimene. - -—Sweet Enrica! art thou living yet? Or hast thou passed away to that -Silent Land where the good sleep, and the beautiful? - -The visions of the past fade. The morning breeze has died upon the -meadow; the Bob-o’-Lincoln sits swaying on the willow tufts—singing no -longer. The trees lean to the brook; but the shadows fall straight and -dense upon the silver stream. - -NOON has broken into the middle sky, and MORNING is gone. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - II - NOON - - -THE noon is short; the sun never loiters on the meridian, nor does the -shadow on the old dial by the garden stay long at XII. The present, like -the noon, is only a point, and a point so fine that it is not measurable -by the grossness of action. Thought alone is delicate enough to tell the -breadth of the present. - -The past belongs to God; the present only is ours. And, short as it is, -there is more in it, and of it, than we can well manage. That man who -can grapple it, and measure it, and fill it with his purpose, is doing a -man’s work; none can do more; but there are thousands who do less. - -Short as it is, the present is great and strong—as much stronger than -the past as fire than ashes, or as death than the grave. The noon sun -will quicken vegetable life that in the morning was dead. It is hot and -scorching; I feel it now upon my head; but it does not scorch and heat -like the bewildering present. There are no oak leaves to interrupt the -rays of the burning now. Its shadows do not fall east or west—like the -noon, the shade it makes falls straight from sky to earth—straight from -heaven to hell! - -Memory presides over the past; Action presides over the present. The -first lives in a rich temple hung with glorious trophies and lined with -tombs; the other has no shrine but Duty, and it walks the earth like a -spirit. - -—I called my dog to me, and we shared together the meal that I had -brought away at sunrise from the mansion under the elms; and now Carlo -is gnawing at the bone that I have thrown to him, and I stroll dreamily -in the quiet noon atmosphere upon that grassy knoll under the oaks. - -Noon in the country is very still; the birds do not sing; the workmen -are not in the field; the sheep lay their noses to the ground, and the -herds stand in pools under shady trees, lashing their sides, but -otherwise motionless. The mills upon the brook, far above, have ceased -for an hour their labor; and the stream softens its rustle and sinks -away from the sedgy banks. The heat plays upon the meadow in noiseless -waves, and the beech leaves do not stir. - -Thought, I said, was the only measure of the present; and the stillness -of noon breeds thought; and my thought brings up the old companions and -stations them in the domain of now. Thought ranges over the world, and -brings up hopes, and fears, and resolves, to measure the burning now. -Joy, and grief, and purpose, blending in my thought, give breadth to the -Present. - -—Where—thought I—is little Isabel now? Where is Lilly—where is Ben? -Where is Leslie—where is my old teacher? Where is my chum, who played -such rare tricks—where is the black-eyed Jane? Where is that sweet-faced -girl whom I parted with upon that terrace looking down upon the old -spire of Modbury church? Where are my hopes—where my purposes—where my -sorrows? - -I care not who you are—but if you bring such thought to measure the -present, the present will seem broad; and it will be sultry at noon—and -make a fever of Now. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - EARLY FRIENDS - Where are they? - - -WHERE are they? I can not sit now, as once, upon the edge of the brook -hour after hour, flinging off my line and hook to the nibbling roach, -and reckon it great sport. There is no girl with auburn ringlets to sit -beside me and to play upon the bank. The hours are shorter than they -were then; and the little joys that furnished boyhood till the heart was -full can fill it no longer. Poor Tray is dead long ago, and he can not -swim into the pools for the floating sticks; nor can I sport with him -hour after hour and think it happiness. The mound that covers his grave -is sunken, and the trees that shaded it are broken and mossy. - -Little Lilly is grown into a woman, and is married; and she has another -little Lilly, with flaxen hair, she says—looking as _she_ used to look. -I dare say the child is pretty; but it is not my Lilly. She has a little -boy, too, that she calls Paul—a chubby rogue, she writes, and as -mischievous as ever I was. God bless the boy! - -Ben—who would have liked to ride in the coach that carried me away to -school—has had a great many rides since then—rough rides, and hard ones, -over the road of life. He does not rake up the falling leaves for -bonfires, as he did once; he is grown a man, and is fighting his way -somewhere in our western world, to the short-lived honors of time. He -was married not long ago; his wife I remembered as one of my playmates -at my first school; she was beautiful, but fragile as a leaf. She died -within a year of their marriage. Ben was but four years my senior; but -this grief has made him ten years older. He does not say it, but his eye -and his figure tell it. - -The nurse who put the purse in my hand that dismal morning is grown a -feeble old woman. She was over fifty then; she may well be seventy now. -She did not know my voice when I went to see her the other day, nor did -she know my face at all. She repeated the name when I told it to -her—Paul, Paul—she did not remember any Paul, except a little boy, a -long while ago. - -—“To whom you gave a purse when he went away, and told him to say -nothing to Lilly or to Ben?” - -—“Yes, that Paul”—says the old woman exultingly—“do you know him?” - -And when I told her—“She would not have believed it!” But she did, and -took hold of my hand again (for she was blind), and then smoothed down -the plaits of her apron, and jogged her cap strings, to look tidy in the -presence of “the gentleman.” And she told me long stories about the old -house and how other people came in afterward; and she called me “sir” -sometimes, and sometimes “Paul.” But I asked her to say only Paul; she -seemed glad for this, and talked easier, and went on to tell of my old -playmates, and how we used to ride the pony—poor Jacko!—and how we -gathered nuts—such heaping piles; and how we used to play at fox and -geese through the long winter evenings; and how my poor mother would -smile—but here I asked her to stop. She could not have gone on much -longer, for I believe she loved our house and people better than she -loved her own. - -As for my uncle, the cold, silent man, who lived with his books in the -house upon the hill, and who used to frighten me sometimes with his -look, he grew very feeble after I had left, and almost crazed. The -country people said that he was mad; and Isabel, with her sweet heart, -clung to him, and would lead him out, when his step tottered, to the -seat in the garden, and read to him out of the books he loved to hear. -And sometimes, they told me, she would read to him some letters that I -had written to Lilly or to Ben, and ask him if he remembered Paul, who -saved her from drowning under the tree in the meadow? But he could only -shake his head and mutter something about how old and feeble he had -grown. - -They wrote me afterward that he died, and was buried in a far-away -place, where his wife once lived, and where he now sleeps beside her. -Isabel was sick with grief, and came to live for a time with Lilly; but -when they wrote me last she had gone back to her old home—where Tray was -buried—where we had played together so often through the long days of -summer. - -I was glad I should find her there when I came back. Lilly and Ben were -both living nearer to the city when I landed from my long journey over -the seas; but still I went to find Isabel first. Perhaps I had heard so -much oftener from the others that I felt less eager to see them; or -perhaps I wanted to save my best visits to the last; or perhaps (I did -think it), perhaps I loved Isabel better than them all. - -So I went into the country, thinking all the way how she must have -changed since I left. She must be now nineteen or twenty; and then her -grief must have saddened her face somewhat; but I thought I should like -her all the better for that. Then perhaps she would not laugh and tease -me, but would be quieter, and wear a sweet smile—so calm and beautiful, -I thought. Her figure, too, must have grown more elegant, and she would -have more dignity in her air. - -I shuddered a little at this, for, I thought, she will hardly think so -much of me then; perhaps she will have seen those whom she likes a great -deal better. Perhaps she will not like me at all; yet I knew very well -that I should like her. - -I had gone up almost to the house; I had passed the stream where we -fished on that day, many years before; and I thought that now, since she -was grown to womanhood, I should never sit with her there again, and -surely never drag her as I did out of the water, and never chafe her -little hands, and never, perhaps, kiss her, as I did when she sat upon -my mother’s lap—oh, no—no—no! - -I saw where we buried Tray, but the old slab was gone; there was no -ribbon there now. I thought that at least Isabel would have replaced the -slab, but it was a wrong thought. I trembled when I went up to the door, -for it flashed upon me that perhaps Isabel was married. I could not tell -why she should not; but I knew it would make me uncomfortable to hear -that she had. - -There was a tall woman who opened the door; she did not know me, but I -recognized her as one of the old servants. I asked after the housekeeper -first, thinking I would surprise Isabel. My heart fluttered somewhat, -thinking that she might step in suddenly herself—or perhaps that she -might have seen me coming up the hill. But even then I thought she would -hardly know me. - -Presently the housekeeper came in, looking very grave; she asked if the -gentleman wished to see her. - -The gentleman did wish it, and she sat down on one side of the fire—for -it was autumn, and the leaves were falling, and the November winds were -very chilly. - -—Shall I tell her—thought I—who I am, or ask at once for Isabel? I tried -to ask, but it was hard for me to call her name; it was very strange, -but I could not pronounce it at all. - -“Who, sir?” said the housekeeper, in a tone so earnest that I rose at -once and crossed over and took her hand. “You know me,” said I—“you -surely remember Paul?” - -She started with surprise, but recovered herself and resumed the same -grave manner. I thought I had committed some mistake, or been in some -way cause of offense. I called her madame, and asked for—Isabel. - -She turned pale, terribly pale. “Bella?” said she. - -“Yes. Bella.” - -“Sir—Bella is dead!” - -I dropped into my chair. I said nothing. The housekeeper—bless her kind -heart!—slipped noiselessly out. My hands were over my eyes. The winds -were sighing outside, and the clock ticking mournfully within. - -I did not sob, nor weep, nor utter any cry. - -The clock ticked mournfully, and the winds were sighing; but I did not -hear them any longer; there was a tempest raging within me that would -have drowned the voice of thunder. - -It broke at length in a long, deep sigh—“Oh, God!”—said I. It may have -been a prayer—it was not an imprecation. - -Bella—sweet Bella, was dead! It seemed as if with her half the world -were dead—every bright face darkened—every sunshine blotted out—every -flower withered—every hope extinguished! - -I walked out into the air and stood under the trees where we had played -together with poor Tray—where Tray lay buried. But it was not Tray I -thought of, as I stood there, with the cold wind playing through my hair -and my eyes filling with tears. How could she die? Why _was_ she gone? -Was it really true? Was Isabel indeed dead—in her coffin—buried? Then -why should anybody live? What was there to live for, now that Bella was -gone? - -Ah, what a gap in the world is made by the death of those we love! It is -no longer whole, but a poor half-world, that swings uneasy on its axis -and makes you dizzy with the clatter of its wreck! - -The housekeeper told me all—little by little, as I found calmness to -listen. She had been dead a month; Lilly was with her through it all; -she died sweetly, without pain, and without fear—what can angels fear? -She had spoken often of “Cousin Paul;” she had left a little packet for -him, but it was not there; she had given it into Lilly’s keeping. - -Her grave, the housekeeper told me, was only a little way off from her -home—beside the grave of a brother who died long years before. I went -there that evening. The mound was high and fresh. The sods had not -closed together, and the dry leaves caught in the crevices and gave a -ragged and a terrible look to the grave. The next day I laid them all -smooth—as we had once laid them on the grave of Tray; I clipped the long -grass, and set a tuft of blue violets at the foot, and watered it all -with—tears. The homestead, the trees, the fields, the meadows, in the -windy November, looked dismally. I could not like them again—I liked -nothing but the little mound that I had dressed over Bella’s grave. -There she sleeps now—the sleep of death! - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - SCHOOL REVISITED - - -THE old school was there still—with the high cupola upon it, and the -long galleries, with the sleeping rooms opening out on either side, and -the corner one, where I slept. But the boys are not there, nor the old -teachers. They have plowed up the play-ground to plant corn, and the -apple tree with the low limb, that made our gymnasium, is cut down. - -I was there only a little time ago. It was on a Sunday. One of the old -houses of the village had been fashioned into a tavern, and it was there -I stopped. But I strolled by the old one, and looked into the bar-room, -where I used to gaze with wonder upon the enormous pictures of wild -animals which heralded some coming menagerie. There was just such a -picture hanging still, and two or three advertisements of sheriffs, and -a little bill of a “horse stolen,” and—as I thought—the same brown -pitcher on the edge of the bar. I was sure it was the same great -wood-box that stood by the fireplace, and the same whip and greatcoat -hung in the corner. - -I was not in so gay costume as I once thought I would be wearing when a -man; I had nothing better than a rusty shooting jacket; but even with -this I was determined to have a look about the church, and see if I -could trace any of the faces of the old times. They had sadly altered -the building; they had cut out its long galleries and its old-fashioned -square pews, and filled it with narrow boxes, as they do in the city. -The pulpit was not so high or grand, and it was covered over with the -work of the cabinet-makers. - -I missed, too, the old preacher, whom we all feared so much, and in -place of him was a jaunty-looking man, whom I thought I would not be at -all afraid to speak to, or, if need be, to slap on the shoulder. And -when I did meet him after church, I looked him in the eye as boldly as a -lion—what a change was that from the school days! - -Here and there I could detect about the church some old farmer by the -stoop in his shoulders, or by a particular twist in his nose, and one or -two young fellows who used to storm into the gallery in my school days -in very gay jackets, dressed off with ribbons—which we thought was -astonishing heroism, and admired accordingly—were now settled away into -fathers of families, and looked as demure and peaceable at the head of -their pews, with a white-headed boy or two between them and their wives, -as if they had been married all their days. - -There was a stout man, too, with a slight limp in his gait, who used to -work on harnesses, and strap our skates, and who I always thought would -have made a capital Vulcan—he stalked up the aisle past me, as if I had -my skates strapped at his shop only yesterday. - -The bald-pated shoemaker, who never kept his word, and who worked in the -brick shop, and who had a son called Theodore—which we all thought a -very pretty name for a shoemaker’s son—I could not find. I feared he -might be dead. I hoped, if he was, that his broken promises about -patching boots would not come up against him. - -The old factor of tamarinds and sugar crackers who used to drive his -covered wagon every Saturday evening into the play-ground, I observed, -still holding his place in the village choir, and singing—though with a -tooth or two gone—as serenely and obstreperously as ever. - -I looked around the church to find the black-eyed girl who always sat -behind the choir—the one I loved to look at so much. I knew she must be -grown up; but I could fix upon no face positively; once, as a stout -woman with a pair of boys, and who wore a big red shawl, turned half -around, I thought I recognized her nose. If it was she, it had grown red -though, and I felt cured of my old fondness. As for the other, who wore -the hat trimmed with fur—she was nowhere to be seen, among either maids -or matrons; and when I asked the tavern-keeper, and described her, and -her father, as they were in my school days, he told me that she had -married, too, and lived some five miles from the village; and, said -he—“I guess she leads her husband a devil of a life!” - -I felt cured of her, too, but I pitied the husband. - -One of my old teachers was in the church; I could have sworn to his -face; he was a precise man; and now I thought he looked rather roughly -at my old shooting jacket. But I let him look, and scowled at him a -little, for I remembered that he had feruled me once. I thought it was -not probable that he would ever do it again. - -There was a bustling little lawyer in the village who lived in a large -house, and who was the great man of that town and country—he had scarce -changed at all; and he stepped into the church as briskly and promptly -as he did ten years ago. But what struck me most was the change in a -couple of pretty little white-haired girls that at the time I left were -of that uncertain age when the mother lifts them on a Sunday and pounces -them down one after the other upon the seat of the pew; these were now -grown into blooming young ladies. And they swept by me in the vestibule -of the church, with a flutter of robes and a grace of motion that fairly -made my heart twitter in my bosom. I know nothing that brings home upon -a man so quick the consciousness of increasing years as to find the -little prattling girls, that were almost babies in his boyhood, become -dashing ladies, and to find those whom he used to look on patronizingly -and compassionately, thinking they were little girls, grown to such -maturity that the mere rustle of their silk dresses will give him a -twinge, and their eyes, if he looks at them, make him unaccountably shy. - -After service I strolled up by the school buildings; I traced the names -that we had cut upon the fence; but the fence had grown brown with age, -and was nearly rotted away. Upon the beech tree in the hollow behind the -school the carvings were all overgrown. It must have been vacation, if -indeed there was any school at all; for I could see only one old woman -about the premises, and she was hanging out a dishcloth to dry in the -sun. I passed on up the hill, beyond the buildings, where in the -boy-days we built stone forts with bastions and turrets; but the farmers -had put the bastions and turrets into their cobblestone walls. At the -orchard fence I stopped and looked—from force, I believe, of old -habit—to see if any one were watching—and then leaped over, and found my -way to the early-apple tree; but the fruit had gone by. It seemed very -daring in me, even then, to walk so boldly in the forbidden ground. - -But the old head-master who forbade it was dead, and Russell and -Burgess, and I know not how many others, who in other times were -culprits with me, were dead, too. When I passed back by the school I -lingered to look up at the windows of that corner room, where I had -slept the sound, healthful sleep of boyhood—and where, too, I had passed -many, many wakeful hours, thinking of the absent Bella, and of my home. - -—How small, seemed now, the great griefs of boyhood! Light floating -clouds will obscure the sun that is but half risen; but let him be -up—mid-heaven, and the cloud that then darkens the land must be thick -and heavy indeed. - -—The tears started from my eyes—was not such a cloud over me now? - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - COLLEGE - - -SCHOOLMATES slip out of sight and knowledge, and are forgotten; or if -you meet them they bear another character; the boy is not there. It is a -new acquaintance that you make, with nothing of your fellow upon the -benches but the name. Though the eye and face cleave to your memory, and -you meet them afterward, and think you have met a friend—the voice or -the action will break down the charm, and you find only—another man. - -But with your classmates in that later school, where form and character -were both nearer ripeness, and where knowledge, labored for together, -bred the first manly sympathies—it is different. And as you meet them, -or hear of them, the thought of their advance makes a measure of your -own—it makes a measure of the NOW. - -You judge of your happiness by theirs—of your progress by theirs, and of -your prospects by theirs. If one is happy, you seek to trace out the way -by which he has wrought his happiness; you consider how it differs from -your own; and you think with sighs how you might possibly have wrought -the same; but _now_ it has escaped. If another has won some honorable -distinction, you fall to thinking how the man—your old equal, as you -thought, upon the college benches—has outrun you. It pricks to effort, -and teaches the difference between now and then. Life, with all its -duties and hopes, gathers upon your present like a great weight, or like -a storm ready to burst. It is met anew; it pleads more strongly; and -action that has been neglected rises before you—a giant of remorse. - -Stop not, loiter not, look not backward, if you would be among the -foremost! The great Now, so quick, so broad, so fleeting, is yours—in an -hour it will belong to the eternity of the past. The temper of life is -to be made good by big, honest blows; stop striking, and you will do -nothing; strike feebly, and you will do almost as little. Success rides -on every hour; grapple it, and you may win; but without a grapple it -will never go with you. Work is the weapon of honor, and who lacks the -weapon will never triumph. - -There were some seventy of us—all scattered now. I meet one here and -there at wide distances apart; and we talk together of old days, and of -our present work and life—and separate. Just so ships at sea, in murky -weather, will shift their course to come within hailing distance, and -compare their longitude, and—part. One I have met wandering in southern -Italy, dreaming—as I was dreaming—over the tomb of Virgil, by the dark -grotto of Pausilippo. It seemed strange to talk of our old readings in -Tacitus there upon classic ground; but we did; and ran on to talk of our -lives; and, sitting down upon the promontory of Baie, looking off upon -that blue sea, as clear as the classics, we told each other our -respective stories. And two nights after, upon the quay, in sight of -Vesuvius, which shed a lurid glow upon the sky that was reflected from -the white walls of the Hotel de Russie, and from the broad lava -pavements, we parted—he to wander among the isles of the Ægean, and I to -turn northward. - -Another time, as I was wandering among those mysterious figures that -crowd the foyer of the French opera upon a night of the Masked Ball, I -saw a familiar face; I followed it with my eye until I became convinced. -He did not know me until I named his old seat upon the bench of the -division rooms, and the hard-faced Tutor G——. Then we talked of the old -rivalries, and Christmas jollities, and of this and that one, whom we -had come upon in our wayward tracks; while the black-robed grisettes -stared through their velvet masks; nor did we tire of comparing the old -memories with the unearthly gayety of the scene about us until daylight -broke. - -In a quiet mountain town of New England I came not long since upon -another; he was hale and hearty, and pushing his lawyer work with just -the same nervous energy with which he used to recite a theorem of -Euclid. He was father, too, of a couple of stout, curly-pated boys; and -his good woman, as he called her, appeared a sensible, honest, -good-natured lady. I must say that I envied him his wife much more than -I had envied my companion of the opera his Domine. - -I happened only a little while ago to drop into the college chapel of a -Sunday. There were the same hard oak benches below, and the lucky -fellows who enjoyed a corner seat were leaning back upon the rail, after -the old fashion. The tutors were perched up in their side boxes, looking -as prim and serious and important as ever. The same stout doctor read -the hymn in the same rhythmical way; and he prayed the same prayer for -(I thought) the same old sort of sinners. As I shut my eyes to listen, -it seemed as if the intermediate years had all gone out, and that I was -on my own pew bench, and thinking out those little schemes for excuses, -or for effort, which were to relieve me, or to advance me, in my college -world. - -There was a pleasure, like the pleasure of dreaming about forgotten -joys, in listening to the doctor’s sermon; he began in the same half -embarrassed, half awkward way, and fumbled at his Bible leaves, and the -poor pinched cushion, as he did long before. But as he went on with his -rusty and polemic vigor, the poetry within him would now and then warm -his soul into a burst of fervid eloquence, and his face would glow and -his hand tremble, and the cushion and the Bible leaves be all forgot, in -the glow of his thought, until, with a half cough and a pinch at the -cushion, he fell back into his strong but tread-mill argumentation. - -In the corner above was the stately, white-haired professor, wearing the -old dignity of carriage, and a smile as bland as if the years had all -been playthings; and had I seen him in his lecture-room, I daresay I -should have found the same suavity of address, the same marvelous -currency of talk, and the same infinite composure over the exploding -retorts. - -Near him was the silver-haired old gentleman—with a very astute -expression—who used to have an odd habit of tightening his cloak about -his nether limbs. I could not see that his eye was any the less bright; -nor did he seem less eager to catch at the handle of some witticism or -bit of satire—to the poor student’s cost. I remembered my old awe of -him, I must say, with something of a grudge; but I had got fairly over -it now. There are sharper griefs in life than a professor’s talk. - -Farther on, I saw the long-faced, dark-haired man who looked as if he -were always near some explosive, electric battery, or upon an insulated -stool. He was, I believe, a man of fine feelings; but he had a way of -reducing all action to dry, hard, mathematical system, with very little -poetry about it. I know there was not much poetry in his problems in -physics, and still less in his half-yearly examinations. But I do not -dread them now. - -Over opposite, I was glad to see still the aged head of the kind and -generous old man who in my day presided over the college, and who -carried with him the affections of each succeeding class—added to their -respect for his learning. This seems a higher triumph to me now than it -seemed then. A strong mind, or a cultivated mind, may challenge respect; -but there is needed a noble one to win affection. - -A new man now filled his place in the president’s seat, but he was one -whom I had known and been proud to know. His figure was bent and -thin—the very figure that an old Flemish master would have chosen for a -scholar. His eye had a kind of piercing luster, as if it had long been -fixed on books; and his expression—when unrelieved by his affable -smile—was that of hard midnight toil. With all his polish of mind, he -was a gentleman at heart, and treated us always with a manly courtesy -that is not forgotten. - -But of all the faces that used to be ranged below—four hundred men and -boys—there was not one with whom to join hands and live back again. -Their griefs, joy and toil were chaining them to their labor of life. -Each one in his thought coursing over a world as wide as my own—how many -thousand worlds of thought upon this one world of ours! - -I stepped dreamily through the corridors of the old Atheneum, thinking -of that first fearful step, when the faces were new and the stern tutor -was strange, and the prolix Livy _so_ hard. I went up at night, and -skulked around the buildings when the lights were blazing from all the -windows, and they were busy with their tasks—plain tasks, and easy -tasks—because they are certain tasks. Happy fellows—thought I—who have -only to do what is set before you to be done. But the time is coming, -and very fast, when you must not only do, but know what to do. The time -is coming when, in place of your one master, you will have a thousand -masters—masters of duty, of business, of pleasure, and of grief—giving -you harder lessons, each one of them, than any of your Fluxions. - -MORNING will pass, and the NOON will come—hot and scorching. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE PACKET OF BELLA - - -I HAVE not forgotten that packet of Bella; I did not once forget it. And -when I saw Lilly—now the grown-up Lilly, happy in her household, and -blithe as when she was a maiden—she gave it to me. She told me, too, of -Bella’s illness, and of her suffering, and of her manner when she put -the little packet in her hand “for Cousin Paul.” But this I will not -repeat—I can not. - -I know not why it was, but I shuddered at the mention of her name. There -are some who will talk, at table and in their gossip, of dead friends; I -wonder how they do it? For myself, when the grave has closed its gates -on the faces of those I love—however busy my mournful thought may be—the -tongue is silent. I can not name their names; it shocks me to hear them -named. It seems like tearing open half-healed wounds, and disturbing -with harsh, worldly noise the sweet sleep of death. - -I loved Bella. I know not how I loved her—whether as a lover, or as a -husband loves a wife; I only know this—I always loved her. She was so -gentle—so beautiful—so confiding, that I never once thought but that the -whole world loved her as well as I. There was only one thing I never -told to Bella; I would tell her of all my grief, and of all my joys; I -would tell her my hopes, my ambitious dreams, my disappointments, my -anger, and my dislikes; but I never told her how much I loved her. - -I do not know why, unless I knew that it was needless. But I should as -soon have thought of telling Bella on some winter’s day—Bella, it is -winter—or of whispering to her on some balmy day of August—Bella, it is -summer—as of telling her, after she had grown to girlhood—Bella, I love -you! - -I had received one letter from her in the old countries; it was a sweet -letter, in which she told me all that she had been doing, and how she -had thought of me, when she rambled over the woods where we had rambled -together. She had written two or three other letters, Lilly told me, but -they had never reached me. I had told her, too, of all that made my -happiness; I wrote her about the sweet girl I had seen on shipboard, and -how I met her afterward, and what a happy time we passed down in Devon. -I even told her of the strange dream I had, in which Isabel seemed to be -in England, and to turn away from me sadly because I called—Carry. - -I also told her of all I saw in that great world of Paris—writing as I -would write to a sister; and I told her, too, of the sweet Roman girl, -Enrica—of her brown hair, and of her rich eyes, and of her pretty -Carnival dresses. And when I missed letter after letter I told her that -she must still write her letters, or some little journal, and read it to -me when I came back. I thought how pleasant it would be to sit under the -trees by her father’s house and listen to her tender voice going through -that record of her thoughts and fears. Alas, how our hopes betray us! - -It began almost like a diary, about the time her father fell sick. “It -is”—said she to Lilly, when she gave it to her, “what I would have said -to Cousin Paul if he had been here.” - -It begins:“—I have come back now to father’s house; I could not leave -him alone, for they told me he was sick. I found him not well; he was -very glad to see me, and kissed me so tenderly that I am sure, Cousin -Paul, you would not have said, as you used to say, that he was a cold -man! I sometimes read to him, sitting in the deep library window (you -remember it), where we used to nestle out of his sight at dusk. He can -not read any more. - -“I would give anything to see the little Carry you speak of; but do you -know you did not describe her to me at all; will you not tell me if she -has dark hair, or light, or if her eyes are blue, or dark, like mine? Is -she good; did she not make ugly speeches, or grow peevish, in those long -days upon the ocean? How I would have liked to have been with you, on -those clear starlit nights, looking off upon the water! But then I think -that you would not have wished me there, and that you did not once think -of me even. This makes me sad; yet I know not why it should; for I -always liked you best, when you were happy; and I am sure you must have -been happy then. You say you shall never see her after you have left the -ship; you must not think so, cousin Paul; if she is so beautiful, and -fond, as you tell me, your own heart will lead you in her way some time -again; I feel almost sure of it. - -* * * “Father is getting more and more feeble, and wandering in his -mind; this is very dreadful; he calls me sometimes by my mother’s name; -and when I say—it is Isabel—he says—what Isabel! and treats me as if I -was a stranger. The physician shakes his head when I ask him of father; -oh, Paul, if he should die—what could I do? I should die, too—I know I -should. Who would there be to care for me? Lilly is married, and Ben is -far off, and you, Paul, whom I love better than either, are a long way -from me. But God is good, and He will spare my father. - -* * * “So you have seen again your little Carry. I told you it would be -so. You tell me how accidental it was; ah, Paul, Paul, you rogue, honest -as you are, I half doubt you there! I like your description of her, -too—dark eyes like mine, you say—’almost as pretty;’ well, Paul, I will -forgive you that; it is only a white lie. You know they must be a great -deal prettier than mine, or you would never have stayed a whole -fortnight in an old farmer’s house far down in Devon! I wish I could see -her; I wish she was here with you now; for it is midsummer, and the -trees and flowers were never prettier. But I am all alone; father is too -ill to go out at all. I fear now very much that he will never go out -again. Lilly was here yesterday, but he did not know her. She read me -your last letter; it was not so long as mine. You are very—very good to -me, Paul. - -* * * “For a long time I have written nothing; my father has been very -ill, and the old housekeeper has been sick, too, and father would have -no one but me near him. He can not live long. I feel sadly—miserably; -you will not know me when you come home; your ‘pretty Bella’—as you used -to call me—will have lost all her beauty. But perhaps you will not care -for that, for you tell me you have found one prettier than ever. I do -not know, Cousin Paul, but it is because I am so sad and selfish—for -sorrow is selfish—but I do not like your raptures about the Roman girl. -Be careful, Paul; I know your heart; it is quick and sensitive; and I -dare say she is pretty and has beautiful eyes; for they tell me all the -Italian girls have soft eyes. - -“But Italy is far away, Paul; I can never see Enrica; she will never -come here. No—no, remember Devon. I feel as if Carry was a sister now. I -can not feel so of the Roman girl; I do not want to feel so. You will -say this is harsh, and I am afraid you will not like me so well for it; -but I can not help saying it. I love you too well, Cousin Paul, not to -say it. - -* * * “It is all over! Indeed, Paul, I am very desolate! ‘The golden -bowl is broken’—my poor father has gone to his last home. I was -expecting it; but how can we expect that fearful comer—death? He had -been for a long time so feeble that he could scarce speak at all; he sat -for hours in his chair, looking upon the fire or looking out at the -window. He would hardly notice me when I came to change his pillows or -to smooth them for his head. But before he died he knew me as well as -ever. ‘Isabel,’ he said, ‘you have been a good daughter. God will reward -you!’ and he kissed me so tenderly, and looked after me so anxiously, -with such intelligence in his look that I thought perhaps he would -revive again. In the evening he asked me for one of his books that he -loved very much. ‘Father,’ said I, ‘you can not read; it is almost -dark.’ - -“‘Oh, yes,’ said he, ‘Isabel, I can read now.’ And I brought it; he kept -my hand a long while; then he opened the book—it was a book about death. - -“I brought a candle, for I knew he could not read without. - -“‘Isabel, dear,’ said he, ‘put the candle a little nearer.’ But it was -close beside him even then. - -“‘A little nearer, Isabel,’ repeated he, and his voice was very faint, -and he grasped my hand hard. - -—“‘Nearer, Isabel!—nearer!’ - -“There was no need to do it, for my poor father was dead! Oh! Paul, -Paul!—pity me. I do not know but I am crazed. It does not seem the same -world it was. And the house, and the trees, oh, they are very dismal! - -“I wish you would come home, Cousin Paul; life would not be so very, -very blank as it is now. Lilly is kind—I thank her from my heart. But it -is not _her_ father who is dead! - -* * * “I am calmer now; I am staying with Lilly. The world seems smaller -than it did; but heaven seems a great deal larger; there is a place for -us all there, Paul—if we only seek it! They tell me you are coming home. -I am glad. You will not like, perhaps, to come away from that pretty -Enrica you speak of; but do so, Paul. It seems to me that I see clearer -than I did, and I talk bolder. The girlish Isabel you will not find, for -I am much older, and my air is more grave, and this suffering has made -me feeble—very feeble. - -* * * “It is not easy for me to write, but I must tell you that I have -just found out who your Carry is. Years ago, when you were away from -home, I was at school with her. We were always together. I wonder I -could not have found her out from your description; but I did not even -suspect it. She is a dear girl, and is worthy of all your love. I have -seen her once since you have met her; we talked of you. She spoke -kindly—very kindly; more than this I can not tell you, for I do not know -more. Ah, Paul, may you be happy! I feel as if I had but a little while -to live. - -* * * “It is even so, my dear Cousin Paul—I shall write but little more; -my hand trembles now. But I am ready. It is a glorious world beyond -this—I know it is! And there we shall meet. I did hope to see you once -again, and to hear your voice speaking to me as you used to speak. But I -shall not. Life is too frail with me. I seem to live wholly now in the -world where I am going—_there_ is my mother, and my father, and my -little brother—we shall meet—I know we shall meet! - -* * * “The last—Paul. Never again in this world! I am happy—very happy. -You will come to me. I can write no more. May good angels guard you, and -bring you to Heaven!” - -—Shall I go on? - -But the toils of life are upon me. Private griefs do not break the force -and the weight of the great—present. A life—at best the half of it, is -before me. It is to be wrought out with nerve and work. And—blessed be -God! there are gleams of sunlight upon it. That sweet Carry, doubly dear -to me now that she is joined with my sorrow for the lost Isabel—shall be -sought for! - -And with her sweet image floating before me, the NOON wanes, and the -shadows of EVENING lengthen upon the land. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - III - EVENING - - -THE future is a great land; how the lights and the shadows throng over -it—bright and dark, slow and swift! Pride and ambition build up great -castles on its plains—great monuments on the mountains, that reach -heavenward, and dip their tops in the blue of Eternity! Then comes an -earthquake—the earthquake of disappointment, of distrust, or of -inaction, and lays them low. Gaping desolation widens its breaches -everywhere; the eye is full of them, and can see nothing beside. By and -by the sun peeps forth—as now from behind yonder cloud—and reanimates -the soul. - -Fame beckons, sitting high in the heavens; and joy lends a halo to the -vision. A thousand resolves stir your heart; your hand is hot and -feverish for action; your brain works madly, and you snatch here and you -snatch there, in the convulsive throes of your delirium. Perhaps you see -some earnest, careful plodder, once far behind you, now toiling slowly -but surely over the plain of life, until he seems near to grasping those -brilliant phantoms which dance along the horizon of the future; and the -sight stirs your soul to frenzy, and you bound on after him with the -madness of a fever in your veins. But it was by no such action that the -fortunate toiler has won his progress. His hand is steady, his brain is -cool; his eye is fixed and sure. - -The Future is a great land; a man can not go round it in a day; he can -not measure it with a bound; he can not bind its harvests into a single -sheaf. It is wider than the vision, and has no end. - -Yet always, day by day, hour by hour, second by second, the hard present -is elbowing us off into that great land of the future. Our souls, -indeed, wander to it, as to a home-land; they run beyond time and space, -beyond planets and suns, beyond far-off suns and comets, until, like -blind flies, they are lost in the blaze of immensity, and can only grope -their way back to our earth, and our time, by the cunning of instinct. - -Cut out the future—even that little future which is the EVENING of our -life—and what a fall into vacuity. Forbid those earnest forays over the -borders of Now, and on what spoils would the soul live? - -For myself, I delight to wander there, and to weave every day the -passing life into the coming life—so closely that I may be unconscious -of the joining. And if so be that I am able, I would make the whole -piece bear fair proportions and just figures—like those tapestries on -which nuns work by inches and finish with their lives, or like those -grand frescos which poet artists have wrought on the vaults of old -cathedrals, gaunt and colossal—appearing mere daubs of carmine and -azure, as they lay upon their backs, working out a hand’s breadth at a -time—but when complete, showing symmetrical and glorious. - -But not alone does the soul wander to those glittering heights where -fame sits, with plumes waving in zephyrs of applause; there belong to it -other appetities, which range wide and constantly over the broad -future-land. We are not merely working, intellectual machines, but -social puzzles, whose solution is the work of a life. Much as hope may -mean toward the intoxicating joy of distinction, there is another -leaning in the soul, deeper and stronger, toward those pleasures which -the heart pants for, and in whose atmosphere the affections bloom and -ripen. - -The first may indeed be uppermost; it may be noisiest; it may drown with -the clamor of midday the nicer sympathies. But all our day is not -midday, and all our life is not noise. Silence is as strong as the soul; -and there is no tempest so wild with blasts but has a wilder lull. There -lies in the depth of every man’s soul a mine of affection, which from -time to time will burn with the seething heat of a volcano and heave up -lava-like monuments, through all the cold strata of his commoner nature. - -One may hide his warmer feelings—he may paint them dimly—he may crowd -them out of his sailing chart, where he only sets down the harbors for -traffic; yet in his secret heart he will map out upon the great country -of the Future fairy islands of love and of joy. There he will be sure to -wander when his soul is lost in those quiet and hallowed hopes which -take hold on heaven. - -Love, only, unlocks the door upon that futurity where the isles of the -blessed lie like stars. Affection is the stepping-stone to God. The -heart is our only measure of infinitude. The mind tires with greatness; -the heart—never. Thought is worried and weakened in its flight through -the immensity of space; but love soars around the throne of the Highest, -with added blessing and strength. - -I know not how it may be with others, but with me the heart is a readier -and quicker builder of those fabrics which strew the great country of -the Future than the mind. They may not indeed rise so high as the dizzy -pinnacles that ambition loves to rear; but they lie like fragrant -islands in a sea whose ripple is a continuous melody. - -And as I muse now, looking toward the EVENING, which is already -begun—tossed as I am with the toils of the past, and bewildered with the -vexations of the present, my affections are the architect that build up -the future refuge. And, in fancy at least, I will build it -boldly—saddened, it may be, by the chance shadows of evening; but -through all I will hope for a sunset, when the day ends, glorious with -crimson and gold. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - CARRY - - -I SAID that harsh and hot as was the present, there were joyous gleams -of light playing over the future. How else could it be, when that fair -being whom I met first upon the wastes of ocean, and whose name, even, -is hallowed by the dying words of Isabel, is living in the same world -with me? Amid all the perplexities that haunt me, as I wander from the -present to the future, the thought of her image, of her smile, of her -last kind adieu, throws a dash of sunlight upon my path. - -And yet why? Is it not very idle? Years have passed since I have seen -her; I do not even know where she may be. What is she to me? - -My heart whispers—very much! but I do not listen to that in my prouder -moods. She is a woman, a beautiful woman indeed, whom I have known -once—pleasantly known: she is living, but she will die, or she will -marry; I shall hear of it by and by, and sigh, perhaps—nothing more. -Life is earnest around me; there is no time to delve in the past for -bright things to shed radiance on the future. - -I will forget the sweet girl who was with me upon the ocean, and think -she is dead. This manly soul is strong, if we would but think so; it can -make a puppet of griefs, and take down and set up at will the symbols of -its hope. - -—But no, I can not; the more I think thus, the less I really think thus. -A single smile of that frail girl, when I recall it, mocks all my proud -purposes, as if, without her, my purposes were nothing. - -—Pshaw! I say—it is idle! and I bury my thought in books, and in long -hours of toil; but as the hours lengthen, and my head sinks with -fatigue, and the shadows of evening play around me, there comes again -that sweet vision, saying with tender mockery—is it idle? And I am -helpless, and am led away hopefully and joyfully toward the golden gates -which open on the Future. - -But this is only in those silent hours when the man is alone and away -from his working thoughts. At midday, or in the rush of the world, he -puts hard armor on that reflects all the light of such joyous fancies. -He is cold and careless, and ready for suffering, and for fight. - -One day I am traveling; I am absorbed in some present cares—thinking out -some plan which is to make easier or more successful the voyage of life. -I glance upon the passing scenery, and upon new faces, with that -careless indifference which grows upon a man with years, and, above all, -with travel. There is no wife to enlist your sympathies—no children to -sport with; my friends are few and scattered, and are working out fairly -what is before them to do. Lilly is living here, and Ben is living -there; their letters are cheerful, contented letters; and they wish me -well. Griefs even have grown light with wearing, and I am just in that -careless humor—as if I said—jog on, old world—jog on! And the end will -come along soon, and we shall get—poor devils that we are—just what we -deserve! - -But on a sudden my eyes rest on a figure that I think I know. Now the -indifference flies like mist, and my heart throbs, and the old visions -come up. I watch her, as if there were nothing else to be seen. The form -is hers; the grace is hers; the simple dress—so neat, so tasteful—that -is hers, too. She half turns her head—it is the face that I saw under -the velvet cap in the park of Devon. - -I do not rush forward; I sit as if I were in a trance. I watch her every -action—the kind attentions to her mother who sits beside her—her naïve -exclamations as we pass some point of surpassing beauty. It seems as if -a new world were opening to me; yet I can not tell why. I keep my place, -and think, and gaze. I tear the paper I hold in my hand into shreds. I -play with my watch chain, and twist the seal until it is near breaking. -I take out my watch, look at it, and put it back—yet I can not tell the -hour. - -—It is she—I murmur—I know it is Carry! - -But when they rise to leave, my lethargy is broken; yet it is with a -trembling hesitation—a faltering, as it were, between the present life -and the future—that I approach. She knows me on the instant, and greets -me kindly—as Bella wrote—very kindly, yet she shows a slight -embarrassment, a sweet embarrassment, that I treasure in my heart more -closely even than the greeting. I change my course and travel with them; -now we talk of the old scenes, and two hours seem to have made with me -the difference of half a lifetime. - -It is five years since I parted with her, never hoping to meet again. -She was then a frail girl; she is now just rounding into womanhood. Her -eyes are as dark and deep as ever; the lashes that fringe them seem to -me even longer than they were. Her color is as rich, her forehead as -fair, her smile as sweet as they were before—only a little tinge of -sadness floats upon her eye, like the haze upon a summer landscape. I -grow bold to look upon her, and timid with looking. We talk of Bella; -she speaks in a soft, low voice, and the shade of sadness on her face -gathers—as when a summer mist obscures the sun. I talk in monosyllables; -I can command no other. And there is a look of sympathy in her eye when -I speak thus that binds my soul to her as no smiles could do. What can -draw the heart into the fulness of love so quick as sympathy? - -But this passes; we must part, she for her home, and I for that broad -home that has been mine so long—the world. It seems broader to me than -ever, and colder than ever, and less to be wished for than ever. A new -book of hope is sprung wide open in my life: a hope of home! - -We are to meet at some time not far off in the city where I am living. I -look forward to that time as at school I used to look for vacation; it -is a _point d’appui_ for hope, for thought, and for countless -journeyings into the opening future. Never did I keep the dates better, -never count the days more carefully, whether for bonds to be paid or for -dividends to fall due. - -I welcome the time, and it passes like a dream. I am near her, often as -I dare; the hours are very short with her, and very long away. She -receives me kindly—always very kindly; she could not be otherwise than -kind. But is it anything more? This is a greedy nature of ours, and when -sweet kindness flows upon us we want more. I know she is kind; and yet, -in place of being grateful, I am only covetous of an excess of kindness. - -She does not mistake my feelings, surely; ah, no—trust a woman for that! -But what have I or what am I to ask a return? She is pure and gentle as -an angel, and I—alas—only a poor soldier in our world-fight against the -devil! Sometimes, in moods of vanity, I call up what I fondly reckon my -excellencies or deserts—a sorry, pitiful array that makes me shame-faced -when I meet her. And in an instant I banish them all. And I think that -if I were called upon in some high court of justice to say why I should -claim her indulgence or her love, I would say nothing of my sturdy -effort to beat down the roughness of toil—nothing of such manliness as -wears a calm front amid the frowns of the world—nothing of little -triumphs in the every-day fight of life, but only I would enter the -simple plea—this heart is hers! - -She leaves; and I have said nothing of what was seething within me; how -I curse my folly! She is gone, and never perhaps will return. I recall -in despair her last kind glance. The world seems blank to me. She does -not know; perhaps she does not care if I love her. Well, I will bear it. -But I can not bear it. Business is broken; books are blurred; something -remains undone that fate declares must be done. Not a place can I find -but her sweet smile gives to it either a tinge of gladness or a black -shade of desolation. - -I sit down at my table with pleasant books; the fire is burning -cheerfully; my dog looks up earnestly when I speak to him; but it will -never do! Her image sweeps away all these comforts in a flood. I fling -down my book; I turn my back upon my dog; the fire hisses and sparkles -in mockery of me. - -Suddenly a thought flashes on my brain—I will write to her—I say. And a -smile floats over my face—a smile of hope, ending in doubt. I catch up -my pen—my trusty pen, and the clean sheet lies before me. The paper -could not be better, nor the pen. I have written hundreds of letters; it -is easy to write letters. But now, it is not easy. - -I begin, and cross it out. I begin again, and get on a little -farther—then cross it out. I try again, but can write nothing. I fling -down my pen in despair, and burn the sheet, and go to my library for -some old sour treatise of Shaftesbury or Lyttleton, and say—talking to -myself all the while—let her go! She is beautiful, but I am strong; the -world is short; we—I and my dog, and my books, and my pen, will battle -it through bravely, and leave enough for a tombstone. - -But even as I say it the tears start—it is all false saying! And I throw -Shaftesbury across the room, and take up my pen again. It glides on and -on as my hope glows, and I tell her of our first meeting, and of our -hours in the ocean twilight, and of our unsteady stepping on the heaving -deck, and of that parting in the noise of London, and of my joy at -seeing her in the pleasant country, and of my grief afterward. And then -I mention Bella—her friend and mine—and the tears flow; and then I speak -of our last meeting, and of my doubts, and of this very evening—and how -I could not write, and abandoned it—and then felt something within me -that made me write and tell her—all!—“That my heart was not my own, but -was wholly hers; and that if she would be mine—I would cherish her and -love her always!” - -Then I feel a kind of happiness—a strange, tumultuous happiness, into -which doubt is creeping from time to time, bringing with it a cold -shudder. I seal the letter, and carry it—a great weight—for the mail. It -seemed as if there could be no other letter that day, and as if all the -coaches and horses and cars and boats were specially detailed to bear -that single sheet. It is a great letter for me; my destiny lies in it. - -I do not sleep well that night—it is a tossing sleep; one time joy—sweet -and holy joy, comes to my dreams, and an angel is by me; another time -the angel fades—the brightness fades, and I wake, struggling with fear. -For many nights it is so, until the day comes on which I am looking for -a reply. - -The postman has little suspicion that the letter which he gives -me—although it contains no promissory notes, nor money, nor deeds, nor -articles of trade—is yet to have a greater influence upon my life and -upon my future, than all the letters he has ever brought to me before. -But I do not show him this; nor do I let him see the clutch with which I -grasp it. I bear it as if it were a great and fearful burden to my room. -I lock the door, and, having broken the seal with a quivering hand—read: - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE LETTER - - - “Paul—for I think I may call you so now—I know not how to answer - you. Your letter gave me great joy; but it gave me pain, too. I - can not—will not doubt what you say; I believe that you love me - better than I deserve to be loved, and I know that I am not - worthy of all your kind praises. But it is not this that pains - me; for I know that you have a generous heart, and would - forgive, as you always have forgiven, any weakness of mine. I am - proud, too, very proud, to have won your love; but it pains - me—more, perhaps, than you will believe—to think that I can not - write back to you as I would wish to write—alas, never.” - -Here I dash the letter upon the floor, and with my hand upon my forehead -sit gazing upon the glowing coals, and breathing quick and loud. The -dream, then, is broken! - -Presently I read again: - - —“You know that my father died before we had ever met. He had an - old friend, who had come from England, and who in early life had - done him some great service which made him seem like a brother. - This old gentleman was my god-father, and called me daughter. - When my father died he drew me to his side and said: ‘Carry, I - shall leave you, but my old friend will be your father,’ and he - put my hand in his and said: ‘I give you my daughter.’ - - “This old gentleman had a son, older than myself; but we were - much together, and grew up as brother and sister. I was proud of - him, for he was tall and strong, and every one called him - handsome. He was as kind, too, as a brother could be, and his - father was like my own father. Every one said, and believed, - that we would one day be married, and my mother and my new - father spoke of it openly. So did Laurence, for that is my - friend’s name. - - “I do not need to tell you any more, Paul; for when I was still - a girl we had promised that we would one day be man and wife. - Laurence has been much in England, and I believe he is there - now. The old gentleman treats me still as a daughter, and talks - of the time when I shall come and live with him. The letters of - Laurence are very kind, and though he does not talk so much of - our marriage as he did, it is only, I think, because he regards - it as so certain. - - “I have wished to tell you all this before, but I have feared to - tell you; I am afraid I have been too selfish to tell you. And - now, what can I say? Laurence seems most to me like a - brother—and you, Paul—but I must not go on. For if I marry - Laurence, as fate seems to have decided, I will try and love him - better than all the world. - - “But will you not be a brother, and love me, as you once loved - Bella—you say my eyes are like hers, and that my forehead is - like hers—will you not believe that my heart is like hers, too? - - “Paul, if you shed tears over this letter—I have shed them as - well as you. I can write no more now. - - “Adieu.” - -I sit long, looking upon the blaze, and when I rouse myself it is to say -wicked things against destiny. Again all the future seems very blank. I -can not love Carry as I loved Bella; she can not be a sister to me; she -must be more or nothing! Again I seem to float singly on the tide of -life, and see all around me in cheerful groups. Everywhere the sun -shines, except upon my own cold forehead. There seems no mercy in -heaven, and no goodness for me upon earth. - -I write, after some days, an answer to the letter. But it is a bitter -answer, in which I forget myself, in the whirl of my misfortunes—to the -utterance of reproaches. - -Her reply, which comes speedily, is sweet and gentle. She is hurt by my -reproaches, deeply hurt. But with a touching kindness, of which I am not -worthy, she credits all my petulance to my wounded feeling; she soothes -me, but in soothing only wounds the more. I try to believe her when she -speaks of her unworthiness—but I can not. - -Business, and the pursuits of ambition or of interest, pass on like -dull, grating machinery. Tasks are met, and performed with strength -indeed, but with no cheer. Courage is high, as I meet the shocks and -trials of the world; but it is a brute, careless courage, that glories -in opposition. I laugh at any dangers, or any insidious pitfalls; what -are they to me? What do I possess, which it will be hard to lose? My dog -keeps by me; my toils are present; my food is ready; my limbs are -strong; what need for more? - -The months slip by; and the cloud that floated over my evening sun -passes. - -Laurence wandering abroad, and writing to Caroline, as to a -sister—writes more than his father could have wished. He has met new -faces, very sweet faces; and one which shows through the ink of his -later letters, very gorgeously. The old gentleman does not like to lose -thus his little Carry! and he writes back rebuke. But Laurence, with the -letters of Caroline before him for data, throws himself upon his -sister’s kindness and charity. It astonishes not a little the old -gentleman, to find his daughter pleading in such strange way for the -son. “And what will you do then, my Carry?”—the old man says. - -—“Wear weeds, if you wish, sir; and love you and Laurence more than -ever!” - -And he takes her to his bosom, and says—“Carry—Carry, you are too good -for that wild fellow Laurence!” - -Now, the letters are different! Now they are full of hope—dawning all -over the future sky. Business, and care, and toil glide, as if a spirit -animated them all; it is no longer cold machine work, but intelligent -and hopeful activity. The sky hangs upon you lovingly, and the birds -make music that startles you with its fineness. Men wear cheerful faces; -the storms have a kind pity, gleaming through all their wrath. - -The days approach, when you can call her yours. For she has said it, and -her mother has said it; and the kind old gentleman, who says he will -still be her father, has said it, too; and they have all welcomed -you—won by her story—with a cordiality that has made your cup full to -running over. Only one thought comes up to obscure your joy—is it real? -or if real, are you worthy to enjoy? Will you cherish and love always, -as you have promised, that angel who accepts your word and rests her -happiness on your faith? Are there not harsh qualities in your nature -which you fear may sometime make her regret that she gave herself to -your love and charity? And those friends who watch over her, as the -apple of their eye, can you always meet their tenderness and approval, -for your guardianship of their treasure? Is it not a treasure that makes -you fearful, as well as joyful. - -But you forget this in her smile; her kindness, her goodness, her -modesty, will not let you remember it. She _forbids_ such thoughts; and -you yield such obedience as you never yielded even to the commands of a -mother. And if your business and your labor slip by, partially -neglected—what matters it? What is interest or what is reputation -compared with that fullness of your heart, which is now ripe with joy? - -The day for your marriage comes; and you live as if you were in a dream. -You think well, and hope well, for all the world. A flood of charity -seems to radiate from all around you. And as you sit beside her in the -twilight, on the evening before the day when you will call her yours, -and talk of the coming hopes, and of the soft shadows of the past, and -whisper of Bella’s love, and of that sweet sister’s death, and of -Laurence, a new brother, coming home joyful with his bride—and lay your -cheek to hers—life seems as if it were all day, and as if there could be -no night! - -The marriage passes; and she is yours—yours forever. - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - NEW TRAVEL - - -AGAIN I am upon the sea; but not alone. She whom I first met upon the -wastes of ocean is there beside me. Again I steady her tottering step -upon the deck; once it was a drifting, careless pleasure; now the -pleasure is holy. - -Once the fear I felt, as the storms gathered, and night came, and the -ship tossed madly, and great waves gathering swift and high, came down -like slipping mountains, and spent their force upon the quivering -vessel, was a selfish fear. But it is so no longer. Indeed, I hardly -know fear; for how can the tempests harm _her_? Is she not too good to -suffer any of the wrath of heaven? - -And in nights of calm—holy nights, we lean over the ship’s side, looking -down, as once before, into the dark depths, and murmur again snatches of -ocean song, and talk of those we love; and we peer among the stars, -which seem neighborly, and as if they were the homes of friends. And as -the great ocean swells come rocking under us, and carry us up and down -along the valleys and the hills of water, they seem like deep pulsations -of the great heart of nature, heaving us forward toward the goal of -life, and to the gates of heaven. - -We watch the ships as they come upon the horizon, and sweep toward us, -like false friends, with the sun glittering on their sails; and then -shift their course, and bear away—with their bright sails, turned to -spots of shadow. We watch the long-winged birds skimming the waves hour -after hour—like pleasant thoughts—now dashing before our bows, and then -sweeping behind, until they are lost in the hollows of the water. - -Again life lies open, as it did once before; but the regrets, -disappointments, and fruitless resolves do not come to trouble me now. -It is the future, which has become as level as the sea; and _she_ is -beside me—the sharer in that future—to look out with me upon the joyous -sparkle of water, and to count with me the dazzling ripples that lie -between us and the shore. A thousand pleasant plans come up, and are -abandoned, like the waves we leave behind us; a thousand other joyous -plans dawn upon our fancy, like the waves that glitter before us. We -talk of Laurence and his bride, whom we are to meet; we talk of her -mother, who is even now watching the winds that waft her child over the -ocean; we talk of the kindly old man, her god-father, who gave her a -father’s blessing; we talk low, and in the twilight hours, of Isabel—who -sleeps. - -At length, as the sun goes down upon a fair night, over the western -waters which we have passed, we see before us the low blue line of the -shores of Cornwall and Devon. In the night shadowy ships glide past us -with gleaming lanterns; and in the morning we see the yellow cliffs of -the Isle of Wight; and standing out from the land is the dingy sail of -our pilot. London with its fog, roar, and crowds, has not the same -charms that it once had; that roar and crowd is good to make a man -forget his griefs—forget himself, and stupefy him with amazement. We are -in no need of such forgetfulness. - -We roll along the banks of the sylvan river that glides by Hampton -Court; and we toil up Richmond Hill, to look together upon that scene of -water and meadow—of leafy copses and glistening villas, of brown -cottages and clustered hamlets—of solitary oaks and loitering herds—all -spread like a veil of beauty upon the bosom of the Thames. But we can -not linger here, nor even under the glorious old boles of Windsor -Forest; but we hurry on to that sweet county of Devon, made green with -its white skeins of water. - -Again we loiter under the oaks, where we have loitered before; and the -sleek deer gaze on us with their liquid eyes as they gazed before. The -squirrels sport among the boughs as fearless as ever; and some wandering -puss pricks her long ears at our steps and bounds off along the -hedgerows to her burrow. Again I see Carry in her velvet riding-cap, -with the white plume; and I meet, as I met her before, under the -princely trees that skirt the northern avenue. I recall the evening when -I sauntered out at the park gates, and gained a blessing from the -porter’s wife, and dreamed that strange dream—now, the dream seems more -real than my life. “God bless you!” said the woman again. - -—“Ay, old lady, God has blessed me!”—and I fling her a guinea, not as a -gift, but as a debt. - -The bland farmer lives yet; he scarce knows me, until I tell him of my -bout around his oat field at the tail of his long stilted plow. I find -the old pew in the parish church. Other holly sprigs are hung now; and I -do not doze, for Carry is beside me. The curate drawls the service; but -it is pleasant to listen; and I make the responses with an emphasis that -tells more, I fear, for my joy than for my religion. The old groom at -the mansion in the park has not forgotten the hard riding of other days, -and tells long stories (to which I love to listen) of the old visit of -Mistress Carry, when she followed the hounds with the best of the -English lasses. - -—“Yer honor may well be proud; for not a prettier face, or a kinder -heart, has been in Devon since Mistress Carry left us.” - -But pleasant as are the old woods, full of memories, and pleasant as are -the twilight evenings upon the terrace—we must pass over to the -mountains of Switzerland. There we are to meet Laurence. - -Carry has never seen the magnificence of the Juras; and as we journey -over the hills between Dole and the border line, looking upon the -rolling heights shrouded with pine trees, and down thousands of feet, at -the very roadside, upon the cottage roofs and emerald valleys, where the -dun herds are feeding quietly, she is lost in admiration. At length we -come to that point above the little town of Gex, from which you see -spread out before you the meadows that skirt Geneva, the placid surface -of Lake Leman, and the rough, shaggy mountains of Savoy—and far behind -them, breaking the horizon with snowy cap, and with dark pinnacles—Mont -Blanc, and the Needles of Chamouni. - -I point out to her in the valley below the little town of Ferney, where -stands the deserted château of Voltaire; and beyond, upon the shores of -the lake, the old home of De Staël; and across, with its white walls -reflected upon the bosom of the water, the house where Byron wrote _The -Prisoner of Chillon_. Among the grouping roofs of Geneva we trace the -dark cathedral and the tall hotels shining on the edge of the lake. And -I tell of the time when I tramped down through yonder valley, with my -future all visionary and broken, and drank the splendor of the scene, -only as a quick relief to the monotony of my solitary life. - -—“And now, Carry, with your hand locked in mine, and your heart -mine—yonder lake sleeping in the sun, and the snowy mountains with their -rosy hue seem like the smile of nature, bidding us be glad!” - -Laurence is at Geneva; he welcomes Carry, as he would welcome a sister. -He is a noble fellow, and tells me much of his sweet Italian wife; and -presents me to the smiling, blushing—Enrica! She has learned English -now; she has found, she says, a better teacher, than ever I was. Yet she -welcomes me warmly, as a sister might; and we talk of those old evenings -by the blazing fire, and of the one-eyed _maestro_, as children long -separated might talk of their school tasks and of their teachers. She -can not tell me enough of her praises of Laurence, and of his noble -heart. “You were good,” she says, “but Laurence is better.” - -Carry admires her soft brown hair, and her deep liquid eye, and wonders -how I could ever have left Rome? - -—Do you indeed wonder—Carry? - -And together we go down into Savoy, to that marvelous valley, which lies -under the shoulder of Mont Blanc; and we wander over the _Mer De Glace_, -and pick alpine roses from the edge of the frowning glacier. We toil at -nightfall up to the monastery of the Great St. Bernard, where the new -forming ice crackles in the narrow foot-way, and the cold moon glistens -over wastes of snow, and upon the windows of the dark Hospice. Again, we -are among the granite heights, whose ledges are filled with ice, upon -the Grimsel. The pond is dark and cold; the paths are slippery; the -great glacier of the Aar sends down icy breezes, and the echoes ring -from rock to rock, as if the ice-god answered. And yet we neither suffer -nor fear. - -In the sweet valley of Meyringen, we part from Laurence: he goes -northward, by Grindenwald, and Thun—thence to journey westward, and to -make for the Roman girl a home beyond the ocean. Enrica bids me go on to -Rome: she knows that Carry will love its soft warm air, its ruins, its -pictures and temples, better than these cold valleys of Switzerland. And -she gives me kind messages for her mother, and for Cesare; and should we -be in Rome at the Easter season, she bids us remember her, when we -listen to the _Miserere_, and when we see the great _Chiesa_ on fire, -and when we saunter upon the Pincian hill—and remember, that it is her -home. - -We follow them with our eyes, as they go up the steep height over which -falls the white foam of the clattering Reichenbach; and they wave their -hands toward us and disappear upon the little plateau which stretches -toward the crystal Rosenlaui and the tall, still Engel-Horner. - -May the mountain angels guard them. - -As we journey on toward that wonderful pass of Splugen I recall, by the -way, upon the heights and in the valleys, the spots where I lingered -years before—here, I plucked a flower; there, I drank from that cold, -yellow, glacier water; and here, upon some rock overlooking a stretch of -broken mountains, hoary with their eternal frosts, I sat musing upon -that very Future, which is with me now. But never, even when the -ice-genii were most prodigal of their fancies to the wanderer, did I -look for more joy, or a better angel. - -Afterward, when all our trembling upon the Alpine paths has gone by, we -are rolling along under the chestnuts and lindens that skirt the banks -of Como. We recall that sweet story of Manzoni, and I point out, as well -as I may, the loitering place of the _bravi_, and the track of poor Don -Abbondio. We follow in the path of the discomfited Rienzi, to where the -dainty spire, and pinnacles of the Duomo of Milan, glisten against the -violet sky. - -Carry longs to see Venice; its water-streets, and palaces have long -floated in her visions. In the bustling activity of our own country, and -in the quiet fields of England, that strange, half-deserted capital -lying in the Adriatic, has taken the strongest hold upon her fancy. - -So we leave Padua and Verona behind us, and find ourselves, upon a soft -spring noon, upon the end of the iron road which stretches across the -lagoon toward Venice. With the hissing of steam in the ear it is hard to -think of the wonderful city we are approaching. But as we escape from -the carriage, and set our feet down into one of those strange, -hearse-like, ancient boats, with its sharp iron prow, and listen to the -melodious rolling tongue of the Venetian gondolier; as we see rising -over the watery plain before us, all glittering in the sun, tall square -towers with pyramidal tops, and clustered domes, and minarets; and -sparkling roofs lifting from marble walls—all so like the old -paintings—and as we glide nearer and nearer to the floating wonder, -under the silent working oar of our now silent gondolier—as we ride up -swiftly under the deep, broad shadows of palaces and see plainly the -play of the sea water in the crevices of the masonry—and turn into -narrow rivers shaded darkly by overhanging walls, hearing no sound, but -of voices, or the swaying of the water against the houses—we feel the -presence of the place. And the mistic fingers of the Past, grappling our -spirits, lead them away—willing and rejoicing captives, through the long -vista of the ages that are gone. - -Carry is in a trance—rapt by the witchery of the scene, into dream. This -is her Venice, nor have all the visions that played upon her fancy been -equal to the enchanting presence of this hour of approach. - -Afterward it becomes a living thing—stealing upon the affections, and -upon the imagination by a thousand coy advances. We wander under the -warm Italian sunlight to the steps from which rolled the white head of -poor Marino Faliero. The gentle Carry can now thrust her ungloved hand -into the terrible lion’s mouth. We enter the salon of the fearful Ten, -and peep through the half-opened door into the cabinet of the more -fearful Three. We go through the deep dungeons of Carmagnola and of -Carrara; and we instruct the willing gondolier to push his dark boat -under the Bridge of Sighs; and with Rogers’ poem in our hand, glide up -to the prison door and read of— - - ——that fearful closet at the foot - Lurking for prey, which, when a victim came, - Grew less and less; contracting to a span - An iron door, urged onward by a screw, - Forcing out life! - - -[Illustration] - - -I sail, listening to nothing but the dip of the gondolier’s oar, or to -_her_ gentle words, fast under the palace door, which closed that -fearful morning on the guilt and shame of Bianca Capello. Or, with souls -lit up by the scene, into a buoyancy that can scarce distinguish between -what is real and what is merely written—we chase the anxious step of the -forsaken Corinna; or seek among the veteran palaces the casement of the -old Brabantio—the chamber of Desdemona—the house of Jessica, and trace -among the strange Jew money-changers, who yet haunt the Rialto, the -likeness of the bearded Shylock. We wander into stately churches, -brushing over grass, or tell-tale flowers that grow in the court, and -find them damp and cheerless; the incense rises murkily and rests in a -thick cloud over the altars, and over the paintings; the music, if so be -that the organ notes are swelling under the roof, is mournfully -plaintive. - -Of an afternoon we sail over to the Lido, to gladden our eyes with a -sight of land and green things, and we pass none upon the way, save -silent oarsmen, with barges piled high with the produce of their -gardens—pushing their way down toward the floating city. And upon the -narrow island, we find Jewish graves, half covered by drifted sand; and -from among them, watch the sunset glimmering over a desolate level of -water. As we glide back, lights lift over the lagoon, and double along -the Guideca and the Grand Canal. The little neighbor isles will have -their company of lights dancing in the water; and from among them will -rise up against the mellow evening sky of Italy gaunt, unlighted houses. - -After the nightfall, which brings no harmful dew with it, I stroll, with -her hand within my arm—as once upon the sea, and in the English park, -and in the home-land—over that great square which lies before the palace -of St. Marks. The white moon is riding in the middle heaven, like a -globe of silver; the gondoliers stride over the echoing stones; and -their long black shadows, stretching over the pavement, or shaking upon -the moving water, seem like great funereal plumes, waving over the bier -of Venice. - -Carrying thence whole treasures of thought and fancy, to feed upon in -the after years, we wander to Rome. - -I find the old one-eyed _maestro_, and am met with cordial welcome by -the mother of the pretty Enrica. The count has gone to the marshes of -Ancona. Lame Pietro still shuffles around the boards at the Leprè, and -the flower sellers at the corner bind me a more brilliant bouquet than -ever for a new beauty at Rome. As we ramble under the broken arches of -the great aqueduct stretching toward Frascati, I tell Carry the story of -my trip in the Appenines, and we search for the pretty Carlotta. But she -is married, they tell us, to a Neapolitan guardsman. In the spring -twilight we wander upon those heights which lie between Frascati and -Albano, and looking westward, see that glorious view of the Campagna, -which can never be forgotten. But beyond the Campagna, and beyond the -huge hulk of St. Peter’s, heaving into the sky from the middle waste, we -see, or fancy we see, a glimpse of the sea, which stretches out and on -to the land we love, better than Rome. And in fancy we build up that -home, which shall belong to us on the return—a home that has slumbered -long in the future, and which, now that the future has come, lies fairly -before me. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -[Illustration] - - - - - HOME - - -YEARS seem to have passed. They have mellowed life into ripeness. The -start, and change, and hot ambition of youth seem to have gone by. A -calm and joyful quietude has succeeded. That future which still lies -before me seems like a roseate twilight, sinking into a peaceful and -silent night. - -My home is a cottage, near that where Isabel once lived. The same valley -is around me; the same brook rustles and loiters under the gnarled roots -of the overhanging trees. The cottage is no mock cottage, but a -substantial, wide-spreading cottage, with clustering gables and ample -shade, such a cottage as they build upon the slopes of Devon. Vines -clamber over it, and the stones show mossy through the interlacing -climbers. There are low porches, with cozy armchairs, and generous -oriels, fragrant with mignonette, and the blue blossoming violets. - -The chimney stacks rise high and show clear against the heavy pine -trees, that ward off the blasts of winter. The dovecote is a habited -dovecote, and the purple-necked pigeons swoop around the roofs in great -companies. The hawthorn is budding into its June fragrance along all the -lines of fence, and the paths are trim and clean. The shrubs—our -neglected azaleas and rhododendrons chiefest among them—stand in -picturesque groups upon the close-shaven lawn. - -The gateway in the thicket below is between two mossy old posts of -stone; and there is a tall hemlock flanked by a sturdy pine for -sentinel. Within the cottage the library is wainscoted with native oak, -and my trusty gun hangs upon a branching pair of antlers. My rod and -nets are disposed above the generous bookshelves; and a stout eagle, -once a tenant of the native woods, sits perched over the central alcove. -An old-fashioned mantel is above the brown stone jambs of the country -fireplace, and along it are distributed records of travel, little bronze -temples from Rome, the _pietro duro_ of Florence, the porcelain busts of -Dresden, the rich iron of Berlin, and a cup fashioned from a stag’s -horn, from the Black Forest by the Rhine. - -Massive chairs stand here and there, in tempting attitude; strewed over -an oaken table in the middle are the uncut papers and volumes of the -day, and upon a lion’s skin, stretched before the hearth, is lying -another Tray. - -But this is not all. There are children in the cottage. There is -Jamie—we think him handsome—for he has the dark hair of his mother—and -the same black eye, with its long, heavy fringe. There is Carry—little -Carry I must call her now—with a face full of glee and rosy with health; -then there is a little rogue some two years old, whom we call Paul—a -very bad boy—as we tell him. - -The mother is as beautiful as ever, and far more dear to me, for -gratitude has been adding, year by year, to love. There have been times -when a harsh word of mine, uttered in the fatigues of business, has -touched her, and I have seen that soft eye fill with tears, and I have -upbraided myself for causing her one pang. But such things she does not -remember, or remembers only to cover with her gentle forgiveness. - -Laurence and Enrica are living near us. And the old gentleman, who was -Carry’s god-father, sits with me, on sunny days upon the porch, and -takes little Paul upon his knee, and wonders if two such daughters as -Enrica and Carry are to be found in the world. At twilight we ride over -to see Laurence; Jamie mounts with the coachman, little Carry puts on -her wide-rimmed Leghorn for the evening visit, and the old gentleman’s -plea for Paul can not be denied. The mother, too, is with us, and old -Tray comes whisking along, now frolicking before the horses’ heads, and -then bounding off after the flight of some belated bird. - -Away from that cottage home I seem away from life. Within it, that broad -and shadowy future, which lay before me in boyhood and in youth, is -garnered—like a fine mist, gathered into drops of crystal. - -And when away—those long letters, dating from the cottage home, are what -tie me to life. That cherished wife, far dearer to me now than when she -wrote that first letter, which seemed a dark veil between me and the -future—writes me now as tenderly as then. She narrates in her delicate -way all the incidents of the home life; she tells me of their rides, and -of their games, and of the new planted trees—of all their sunny days, -and of their frolics on the lawn; she tells me how Jamie is studying, -and of little Carry’s beauty growing every day, and of roguish Paul—so -like his father. And she sends such a kiss from each of them, and bids -me such adieu and such “God’s blessing” that it seems as if an angel -guarded me. - -But this is not all; for Jamie has written a postscript: - - ——“Dear father,” he says, “mother wishes me to tell you how I am - studying. What would you think, father, to have me talk in - French to you, when you come back? I wish you would come back, - though; the hawthorns are coming out, and the apricot under my - window is all full of blossoms. If you should bring me a - present, as you almost always do, I would like a fishing rod. - Your affectionate son, - - JAMIE.” - -And little Carry has her fine, rambling characters running into a second -postscript: - - “Why don’t you come, papa; you stay too long; I have ridden the - pony twice; once he most threw me off. This is all from - - CARRY.” - -And Paul has taken the pen, too, and in his extraordinary effort to make -a big P, has made a very big blot. And Jamie writes under it—“This is -Paul’s work, pa; but he says it’s a love blot, only he loves you ten -hundred times more.” - -And after your return Jamie will insist that you should go with him to -the brook, and sit down with him upon a tuft of the brake, to fling off -a line into the eddies, though only the nibbling roach are sporting -below. You have instructed the workmen to spare the clumps of -bank-willows, that the wood-duck may have a covert in winter, and that -the Bob-o’-Lincolns may have a quiet nesting place in the spring. - -Sometimes your wife—too kind to deny such favor—will stroll with you -along the meadow banks, and you pick meadow daisies in memory of the old -time. Little Carry weaves them into rude chaplets, to dress the forehead -of Paul, and they dance along the greensward, and switch off the -daffodils, and blow away the dandelion seeds, to see if their wishes are -to come true. Jamie holds a buttercup under Carry’s chin, to find if she -loves gold; and Paul, the rogue, teases them by sticking a thistle into -sister’s curls. - -The pony has hard work to do under Carry’s swift riding—but he is fed by -her own hand, with the cold breakfast rolls. The nuts are gathered in -time, and stored for long winter evenings, when the fire is burning -bright and cheerily—a true, hickory blaze—which sends its waving gleams -over eager, smiling faces, and over well-stored book shelves, and -portraits of dear, lost ones. While from time to time, that wife, who is -the soul of the scene, will break upon the children’s prattle, with the -silver melody of her voice, running softly and sweetly through the -couplets of Crabbe’s stories, or the witchery of the Flodden tale. - -Then the boys will guess conundrums, and play at fox and geese; and -Tray, cherished in his age, and old Milo petted in his dotage, lie side -by side upon the lion’s skin before the blazing hearth. Little Tomtit -the goldfinch sits sleeping on his perch, or cocks his eye at a sudden -crackling of the fire for a familiar squint upon our family group. - -But there is no future without its straggling clouds. Even now a shadow -is trailing along the landscape. - -It is a soft and mild day of summer. The leaves are at their fullest. A -southern breeze has been blowing up the valley all the morning, and the -light, smoky haze hangs in the distant mountain gaps, like a veil on -beauty. Jamie has been busy with his lessons, and afterward playing with -Milo upon the lawn. Little Carry has come in from a long ride—her face -blooming, and her eyes all smiles and joy. The mother has busied herself -with those flowers she loves so well. Little Paul, they say, has been -playing in the meadow, and old Tray has gone with him. - -But at dinner time Paul has not come back. - -“Paul ought not to ramble off so far,” I say. - -The mother says nothing, but there is a look of anxiety upon her face -that disturbs me. Jamie wonders where Paul can be, and he saves for him -whatever he knows Paul will like—a heaping plateful. But the dinner hour -passes and Paul does not come. Old Tray lies in the sunshine by the -porch. - -Now the mother is indeed anxious. And I, though I conceal this from her, -find my fears strangely active. Something like instinct guides me to the -meadow; I wander down the brook-side, calling—Paul—Paul! But there is no -answer. - -All the afternoon we search, and the neighbors search; but it is a -fruitless toil. There is no joy that evening; the meal passes in -silence; only little Carry, with tears in her eyes, asks—if Paul will -soon come back? All the night we search and call—the mother even braving -the night air, and running here and there, until the morning finds us -sad and despairing. - -That day—the next—cleared up the mystery, but cleared it up with -darkness. Poor little Paul!—he has sunk under the murderous eddies of -the brook! His boyish prattle, his rosy smiles, his artless talk, are -lost to us forever! - -I will not tell how nor when we found him, nor will I tell of our -desolate home, and of _her_ grief—the first crushing grief of her life. - - * * * * * - -The cottage is still. The servants glide noiseless, as if they might -startle the poor little sleeper. The house seems cold—very cold. Yet it -is summer weather; and the south breeze plays softly along the meadow -and softly over the murderous eddies of the brook. - - * * * * * - -Then comes the hush of burial. The kind mourners are there; it is easy -for them to mourn! The good clergyman prays by the bier: “Oh, Thou, who -didst take upon Thyself human woe, and drank deep of every pang in life, -let Thy spirit come and heal this grief, and guide toward that better -Land, where justice and love shall reign, and hearts laden with anguish -shall rest for evermore!” - -Weeks roll on, and a smile of resignation lights up the saddened -features of the mother. Those dark mourning robes speak to the heart -deeper and more tenderly than ever the bridal costume. She lightens the -weight of your grief by her sweet words of resignation: “Paul,” she -says, “God has taken our boy!” - -Other weeks roll on. Joys are still left—great and ripe joys. The -cottage smiling in the autumn sunshine is there; the birds are in the -forest boughs; Jamie and little Carry are there; and she, who is more -than them all, is cheerful and content. Heaven has taught us that the -brightest future has its clouds—that this life is a motley of lights and -shadows. And as we look upon the world around us, and upon the thousand -forms of human misery, there is a gladness in our deep thanksgiving. - -A year goes by, but it leaves no added shadow on our hearthstone. The -vines clamber and flourish; the oaks are winning age and grandeur; -little Carry is blooming into the pretty coyness of girlhood, and Jamie, -with his dark hair and flashing eyes, is the pride of his mother. - -There is no alloy to pleasure, but the remembrance of poor little Paul. -And even that, chastened as it is with years, is rather a grateful -memorial that our life is not all here than a grief that weighs upon our -hearts. - -Sometimes, leaving little Carrie and Jamie to their play, we wander at -twilight to the willow tree beneath which our drowned boy sleeps calmly -for the great Awaking. It is a Sunday, in the week-day of our life, to -linger by the little grave—to hang flowers upon the head-stone, and to -breathe a prayer that our little Paul may sleep well in the arms of Him -who loveth children. - -And her heart, and my heart, knit together by sorrow, as they had been -knit by joy—a silver thread mingled with the gold—follow the dead one to -the land that is before us, until at last we come to reckon the boy as -living in the new home which, when this is old, shall be ours also. And -my spirit, speaking to his spirit, in the evening watches, seems to say -joyfully—so joyfully that the tears half choke the utterance—“Paul, my -boy, we will be _there_!” - -And the mother, turning her face to mine, so that I see the moisture in -her eye, and catch its heavenly look, whispers softly—so softly that an -angel might have said it—“Yes, dear, we will be THERE!” - - * * * * * - -The night had now come, and my day under the oaks was ended. But a -crimson belt yet lingered over the horizon, though the stars were out. - -A line of shaggy mist lay along the surface of the brook. I took my gun -from beside the tree, and my shot-pouch from its limb, and, whistling -for Carlo—as if it had been Tray—I strolled over the bridge, and down -the lane, to the old house under the elms. - -I dreamed pleasant dreams that night—for I dreamed that my reverie was -real. - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -Transcriber’s note: - - ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. - - ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. - - ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only - when a predominant form was found in this book. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REVERIES OF A BACHELOR*** - - -******* This file should be named 62823-0.txt or 62823-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/2/8/2/62823 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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