_Thursday, July 13th._--Two small Canadian boys came to our house

yesterday, with strawberries to sell. It sounds strange to hear children

bargaining in French on the borders of Yankee-land. Among other

languages spoken hereabouts must be reckoned the wild Irish. Some of the

laborers on the mill-dam can speak nothing else. The intermixture of

foreigners sometimes gives rise to quarrels between them and the

natives. As we were going to the village yesterday afternoon, we

witnessed the beginning of a quarrel between a Canadian and a

Yankee,--the latter accusing the former of striking his oxen. B----

thrust himself between and parted them; but they afterwards renewed

their fray, and the Canadian, I believe, thrashed the Yankee

soundly,--for which he had to pay twelve dollars. Yet he was but a

little fellow.

Coming to the Mansion-House about supper-time, we found somewhat of a

concourse of people, the Governor and Council being in session on the

subject of the disputed territory. The British have lately imprisoned a

man who was sent to take the census; and the Mainiacs are much excited

on the subject. They wish the Governor to order out the militia at once,

and take possession of the territory with the strong hand. There was a

British army-captain at the Mansion-House; and an idea was thrown out

that it would be as well to seize upon him as a hostage. I would, for

the joke's sake, that it had been done. Personages at the tavern: the

Governor, somewhat stared after as he walked through the bar-room;

Councillors seated about, sitting on benches near the bar, or on the

stoop along the front of the house; the Adjutant-General of the State;

two young Blue-Noses, from Canada or the Provinces; a gentleman

"thumbing his hat" for liquor, or perhaps playing off the trick of the

"honest landlord" on some stranger. The decanters and wine-bottles on

the move, and the beer and soda-founts pouring out continual streams,

with a whiz. Stage-drivers, etc., asked to drink with the aristocracy,

and mine host treating and being treated. Rubicund faces; breaths

odorous of brandy and water. Occasionally the pop of a champagne cork.

Returned home, and took a lesson in French of Mons. S----. I like him

very much, and have seldom met with a more honest, simple, and

apparently so well-principled a man; which good qualities I impute to

his being, by the father's side, of German blood. He looks more like a

German--or, as he says, like a Swiss--than a Frenchman, having very

light hair and a light complexion, and not a French expression. He is a

vivacious little fellow, and wonderfully excitable to mirth; and it is

truly a sight to see him laugh;--every feature partakes of his movement,

and even his whole body shares in it, as he rises and dances about the

room. He has great variety of conversation, commensurate with his

experiences in life, and sometimes will talk Spanish, _ore

rotundo_,--sometimes imitate the Catholic priests, chanting Latin songs

for the dead, in deep, gruff, awful tones, producing really a very

strong impression,--then he will break out into a light, French song,

perhaps of love, perhaps of war, acting it out, as if on the stage of a

theatre: all this intermingled with continual fun, excited by the

incidents of the passing moment. He has Frenchified all our names,

calling B---- Monsieur Du Pont, myself M. de L'Aubépine, and himself M.

le Berger, and all, Knights of the Round-Table. And we live in great

harmony and brotherhood, as queer a life as anybody leads, and as queer

a set as may be found anywhere. In his more serious intervals, he talks

philosophy and deism, and preaches obedience to the law of reason and

morality; which law he says (and I believe him) he has so well observed,

that, notwithstanding his residence in dissolute countries, he has never

yet been sinful. He wishes me, eight or nine weeks hence, to accompany

him on foot to Quebec, and then to Niagara and New York. I should like

it well, if my circumstances and other considerations would permit. What

pleases much in Mons. S---- is the simple and childlike enjoyment he

finds in trifles, and the joy with which he speaks of going back to his

own country, away from the dull Yankees, who here misunderstand and

despise him. Yet I have never heard him speak harshly of them. I rather

think that B---- and I will be remembered by him with more pleasure than

anybody else in the country; for we have sympathized with him, and

treated him kindly, and like a gentleman and an equal; and he comes to

us at night as to home and friends.

I went down to the river to-day to see B---- fish for salmon with a

fly,--a hopeless business; for he says that only one instance has been

known in the United States of salmon being taken otherwise than with a

net. A few chubs were all the fruit of his piscatory efforts. But while

looking at the rushing and rippling stream, I saw a great fish, some six

feet long and thick in proportion, suddenly emerge at whole length, turn

a somerset, and then vanish again beneath the water. It was of a

glistening, yellowish brown, with its fins all spread, and looking very

strange and startling, darting out so lifelike from the black water,

throwing itself fully into the bright sunshine, and then lost to sight

and to pursuit. I saw also a long, flat-bottomed boat go up the river,

with a brisk wind, and against a strong stream. Its sails were of

curious construction: a long mast, with two sails below, one on each

side of the boat, and a broader one surmounting them. The sails were

colored brown, and appeared like leather or skins, but were really

cloth. At a distance, the vessel looked like, or at least I compared it

to, a monstrous water-insect, skimming along the river. If the sails had

been crimson or yellow, the resemblance would have been much closer.

There was a pretty spacious raised cabin in the after part of the boat.

It moved along lightly, and disappeared between the woody banks. These

boats have the two parallel sails attached to the same yard, and some

have two sails, one surmounting the other. They trade to Waterville and

thereabouts,--names, as "Paul Pry," on their sails.

* * * * *

_Saturday, July 15th._--Went with B---- yesterday to visit several Irish

shanties, endeavoring to find out who had stolen some rails of a fence.

At the first door where we knocked, (a shanty with an earthen mound

heaped against the wall, two or three feet thick,) the inmates were not

up, though it was past eight o'clock. At last a middle-aged woman showed

herself, half-dressed, and completing her toilet. Threats were made of

tearing down her house; for she is a lady of very indifferent morals,

and sells rum. Few of these people are connected with the mill-dam,--or,

at least, many are not so, but have intruded themselves into the vacant

huts which were occupied by the mill-dam people last year. In two or

three places hereabouts there is quite a village of these dwellings,

with a clay and board chimney, or oftener an old barrel smoked and

charred with the fire. Some of their roofs are covered with sods, and

appear almost subterranean. One of the little hamlets stands on both

sides of a deep dell, wooded and bush-grown, with a vista, as it were,

into the heart of a wood in one direction, and to the broad, sunny river

in the other: there was a little rivulet, crossed by a plank, at the

bottom of the dell. At two doors we saw very pretty and modest-looking

young women,--one with a child in her arms. Indeed, they all have

innumerable little children; and they are invariably in good health,

though always dirty of face. They come to the door while their mothers

are talking with the visitors, standing straight up on their bare legs,

with their little plump bodies protruding, in one hand a small tin

saucepan and in the other an iron spoon, with unwashed mouths, looking

as independent as any child or grown person in the land. They stare

unabashed, but make no answer when spoken to. "I've no call to your

fence, Misser B----." It seems strange that a man should have the right,

unarmed with any legal instrument, of tearing down the dwelling-houses

of a score of families, and driving the inmates forth without a shelter.

Yet B---- undoubtedly has this right; and it is not a little striking to

see how quietly these people contemplate the probability of his

exercising it,--resolving, indeed, to burrow in their holes as long as

may be, yet caring about as little for an ejectment as those who could

find a tenement anywhere, and less. Yet the women, amid all the trials

of their situation, appear to have kept up the distinction between

virtue and vice: those who can claim the former will not associate with

the latter. When the women travel with young children, they carry the

baby slung at their backs, and sleeping quietly. The dresses of the

new-comers are old-fashioned, making them look aged before their time.

Monsieur S---- shaving himself yesterday morning. He was in excellent

spirits, and could not keep his tongue or body still more than long

enough to make two or three consecutive strokes at his beard. Then he

would turn, flourishing his razor and grimacing joyously, enacting droll

antics, breaking out into scraps and verses of drinking-songs, "_A

boire! à boire!_"--then laughing heartily, and crying, "_Vive la

gaîté!_"--then resuming his task, looking into the glass with grave

face, on which, however, a grin would soon break out anew, and all his

pranks would be repeated with variations. He turned this foolery to

philosophy, by observing that mirth contributed to goodness of heart,

and to make us love our fellow-creatures. Conversing with him in the

evening, he affirmed, with evident belief in the truth of what he said,

that he would have no objection, except that it would be a very foolish

thing, to expose his whole heart, his whole inner man, to the view of

the world. Not that there would not be much evil discovered there; but,

as he was conscious of being in a state of mental and moral improvement,

working out his progress onward, he would not shrink from such a

scrutiny. This talk was introduced by his mentioning the "Minister's

Black Veil," which he said he had seen translated into French, as an

exercise, by a Miss Appleton of Bangor.

Saw by the river-side, late in the afternoon, one of the above-described

boats going into the stream, with the water rippling at the prow, from

the strength of the current and of the boat's motion. By-and-by comes

down a raft, perhaps twenty yards long, guided by two men, one at each

end,--the raft itself of boards sawed at Waterville, and laden with

square bundles of shingles and round bundles of clapboards. "Friend,"

says one man, "how is the tide now?"--this being important to the onward

progress. They make fast to a tree, in order to wait for the tide to

rise a little higher. It would be pleasant enough to float down the

Kennebec on one of these rafts, letting the river conduct you onward at

its own pace, leisurely displaying to you all the wild or ordered

beauties along its banks, and perhaps running you aground in some

peculiarly picturesque spot, for your longer enjoyment of it. Another

object, perhaps, is a solitary man paddling himself down the river in a

small canoe, the light, lonely touch of his paddle in the water making

the silence seem deeper. Every few minutes a sturgeon leaps forth,

sometimes behind you, so that you merely hear the splash, and, turning

hastily around, see nothing but the disturbed water. Sometimes he darts

straight on end out of a quiet black spot on which your eyes happen to

be fixed, and, when even his tail is clear of the surface, he falls down

on his side, and disappears.

On the river-bank, an Irishwoman washing some clothes, surrounded by her

children, whose babbling sounds pleasantly along the edge of the shore;

and she also answers in a sweet, kindly, and cheerful voice, though an

immoral woman, and without the certainty of bread or shelter from day to

day. An Irishman sitting angling on the brink with an alder pole and a

clothes-line. At frequent intervals, the scene is suddenly broken by a

loud report like thunder, rolling along the banks, echoing and

reverberating afar. It is a blast of rocks. Along the margin, sometimes

sticks of timber made fast, either separately or several together;

stones of some size, varying the pebbles and sand; a clayey spot, where

a shallow brook runs into the river, not with a deep outlet, but finding

its way across the bank in two or three single runlets. Looking upward

into the deep glen whence it issues, you see its shady current.

Elsewhere, a high acclivity, with the beach between it and the river,

the ridge broken and caved away, so that the earth looks fresh and

yellow, and is penetrated by the nests of birds. An old, shining

tree-trunk, half in and half out of the water. An island of gravel, long

and narrow, in the centre of the river. Chips, blocks of wood, slabs,

and other scraps of lumber, strewed along the beach; logs drifting down.

The high bank covered with various trees and shrubbery, and, in one

place, two or three Irish shanties.

COURT-CARDS.

What a hand the Major has dealt me! Do look over my shoulder, Madam, and

see these cards! What quaint, odd, old-time figures they are! I wonder

if the kings and queens of by-gone centuries were such grotesque-looking

objects as these. Look at that Queen of Spades! Why, Dr. Slop's

abdominal sesquipedality was sylph-like grace to the Lambertian girth

she displays. And note the pattern of her dress, if dress it can be

called,--that rotund expanse of heraldic, bar-sinistered, Chinese

embroidery. Look at that Jack of Diamonds! What a pair of collar-bones

he must have! That little feat of Atlas would be child's-play to him;

for he could step off with a whole orrery on those shoulders. And his

hands! what Liliputian phalanges, which Beau Brummel, or D'Orsay, or any

other professional dandy might die envying! As for the King of Hearts,

he looks as much like a pet of the fair sex as Boanerges or Bung the

Beadle. And what strange anatomical proportions they exhibit, with their

gigantic heads, abortive necks, and the calves of their legs protuberant

around their tibias and fibulas, alike before and behind! And then they

are all left-handed! Were these the gay gallants and fair dames of the

golden age of chivalry? Were these shapeless things the forms and

costumes of the princes and princesses of ancient France? Why, the

dark-skinned old-clo' men, who hang their cast-off raiment in Brattle

Street, would be mobbed, if they paraded such vestments at their doors;

and Papanti would break his fiddle-bow over the head of any awkward lout

who should unfortunately assume such an ungainly position.

But the power they wield! Ah, my dear Madam, kings and queens may be

backed like a whale or humped like a camel, but down goes the world on

its marrow-bones, and worships them for Venuses and Adonises. And as for

this particular reigning family, these four great branches of the

Hearts, Spades, Diamonds, and Clubs, Diana, fresh from the bath, never

looked so enticing to the eager eyes of a losing player as their

Brobdignagian dames, nor Apollo himself so beautiful as the ugly mugs of

their lumbering kings. The Baroness Bernstein would bend her old back

over the table to greet their wall-eyed monarchs, and forget young Harry

was by; and little Nell's grandfather would bow beneath the midnight

candle to caress those greasy Gorgons, while she, sweet little girl, was

waiting his return in loneliness. All the other crowned heads of

Christendom are titled nobodies beside these mighty potentates. The

General of the Jesuits wields, they say, wonderful power; but his

sceptre is a bulrush beside the truncheon which these kings of the earth

hold in their grasp. And here, yes, here in Republican America, the

thousands who scout Napoleon, frown on Victoria, and pity the Pope, do

nightly homage to this mighty dynasty, and find grace and loveliness in

their bottle noses and crooked legs. And--must I confess it, Madam?--do

not I, democratic Asmodeus, when I play my quiet rubber at so much a

corner, look chopfallen at the deuces and treys which I despondently

arrange in numerical order, and welcome, with beating heart, those same

crowned heads, as they lift themselves before me? Oh, it is not

gambling, Madam. Only something to make it interesting, so that the

Major and I shall keep our minds on the game.

And do we not all play our little game in the world,--sometimes with all

that makes it bright to us at stake? What is the paltry sum beside me to

that which we all of us hold in our hands, to be decided by the deal of

Fortune? You don't play whist. And yet, Madam, I have seen you at a game

of chance, in which you have risked your peace, your happiness, your

future, upon what another should deal out to you. You don't understand

me? In the great game of life, Frank offered you his hand, and you took

it. I hope it held court-cards. We are all players. The lean and

sanctified bigot, who looks in holy horror on this printed pasteboard,

as though it were the legitimate offspring of the Devil and Dr. Faustus,

plays his own pious game at winning souls, and risks--charity. The

griping money-catcher, who shudders at the thought of losing gold in

spendthrift play, takes his own close and cunning game at winning

wealth, and risks--esteem. The ambitious aspirant, who scorns such empty

things as cards, plays boldly at his daring game at winning position,

and risks--honor. The bright-eyed girl throws heart and soul into the

enchanting game of love, and risks--virtue. Charity, esteem, honor,

virtue,--are not these great stakes to offer, beside which my modest

risk sinks into very insignificance? Ah, we all play, and with what

varied success! How many poor, unlucky wights turn up deuces all their

life, while others, born under luckier stars, hold a fistful of kings

and queens! How many eyes grow dim over the faint chances of small

digits, while others sparkle in the reflected light of those regal

robes! Ah, my dear Madam, not only in dank forecastles, in foul taverns,

in luxurious club-houses, or elegant saloons, does Fortune deal out her

winning or losing cards. She spreads them before us on the green cloth

of life's table, in that game which counts up its gains or losses in

another world.

Did you ever see an aëronaut, when he has risen high above the earth,

scatter, with lavish hand, a host of little cards, which flutter down

upon us, twisting and turning, in showers of glittering colors? He but

typifies the hand of Fate, which deals to us, brilliant with the hopes

that tint them in rainbow beauty, the cards of life's eager game. We

gather them up joyfully; but, alas! how rapidly their fictitious beauty

fades, and what miserable pasteboard affairs they become to us, as, one

by one, we lay them down, and see our treasures dwindling away from us

with them, as they go!

Somebody must win? Yes, Madam, somebody gets the court-cards. We all get

them sometimes; and we too often play them very wrongly. We throw away

our kings and our queens. We pass by the opportunities to score, while

some happier child of fortune bears off all the honors. But not always.

Fortune rarely pursues any of us with unremitting ill-will. She sends us

all court-cards, and we have only to trust on and wait for the change

that is to bring, at last, success. Let us never throw up our hands in

despair. Somebody--he must have been a tailor, or with sartorial

proclivities--has said that there is a silver lining to every cloud. And

so we all of us hold hands, which, among deuces and treys, have some

court-cards. Let us not then inveigh against the goddess who blindly

distributes them. Be it our aim to play those well which fall to our

share, and not recklessly cast them away, because we find fewer of those

broad-shouldered, goggle-eyed, party-colored gentry than we hoped for.

No! let us tuck them carefully away under our thumbs, and make the most

of them.

Perhaps Asmodeus may have pined in grief, playing his little deuces and

never winning the great stake of fame;--but who shall tell? May not his

hopeful heart break forth some day with regnant power which shall bear

away the prize? Frank, you know, has toiled day and night for wealth to

buy comfort and ease for his modest home. He has made his little

ventures, and has seen his dreams of grand results fade from him, day by

day. Let him venture on. By-and-by his vessels shall come home laden

with noble freights; and his name shall be favorably known on 'Change,

and be printed in the lists of men who pay heavy taxes on swelling

fortunes; and you shall have your jewels and trinkets with the best.

Pinxit, who has been starving in his garret, and whose walls are lined

with dusty canvas, shall lay on colors which shall charm the world; his

old, neglected frames shall be brought out, and the world shall find

Apollos in his men, and Venuses in his women, which before were only

meaner beauties; Vanitas shall loiter round his easel and command his

pencil with ready gold; and Art-Journals shall rehearse his praises in

strange, cabalistic words. Scripsit, who has digested his paltry rasher

in moody silence, shall touch the hearts of men with new-born words of

flame; and the poor epic, which once had served a clownish huckster's

vulgar need, shall travel far and wide, in blue and gold, and lie on

tables weighed with words familiar in all mouths. Patrista, who,

thirsting for his country's good, has been, perforce, content to see all

others rise and sway the crowd, while he has toiled in vain, shall shake

the nation with his eloquence, and from his chair of state, whence go

abroad the statutes he has framed, shall read again his earlier works,

now rescued from the past to teach the young. Reporters on his words

shall hang, from every window shall his sapient visage smile, and even

the London Times shall think it worth the while to underrate him.

And then, my dear Madam, we rarely play alone. The melancholy

unfortunates reduced to solitaire are few indeed. We have partners,

Madam, to share our losses and our gains,--partners to mourn over our

poor little lost deuces, and rejoice when royalty holds its court under

our thumbs. Have not I beloved Mrs. Asmodeus, the lovely, kind, clever

partner of my varied fortune? Did she not deal to me, one summer eve,

the best bower in the pack, who reigns over all the kings and queens in

or out of Christendom, and whose sway remains supreme through all the

changing suits of time and fortune? He does not sport the garb of those

elder knaves, it is true, though he is knavish enough when occasion

offers,--he is at this moment inspecting a new jack-knife, and will, I

fear, whittle off one of his dear, chubby fingers,--but he outranks all

the crowned monarchs in the world. Whom do I mean? Whom, but Thomas the

First, Thomas the Only, my first-born, royal son? When that king of your

own heart was taken from you,--when the little frocks, richer than

ermine robes, were hid away in sacred recesses,--when the little toys,

mightier than jewelled sceptres, were garnered up and kept as holy

relics,--when the house no longer echoed to the tones of the sweet

childish voice, and the silence of the grave settled over earth,--when

the glare of day was hateful and the darkness of night fearful, and

life, without the darling one, was living death,--had you not then a

partner, a kind, tender, sympathizing partner, who took you to his

heart, and bowed his head with you, and knit you closer to him by a bond

the strongest life can weave, the bond of sorrow shared? And look

farther back into the past, before sorrow came, and when light-hearted,

beaming, hoping joy dwelt within you. When you used to catch Frank's eye

with those tiny boots and flowing skirts, as you gracefully swept by

him, had you not a partner to share those throbbing emotions? Were not

all the hopes, dreams, and doubts, which then awoke, new-born within

you, reëchoed and fondly shared? Did he not bear away, for days and

nights, the brightness of your smile, the bend of your angelic head, and

the trip of the tiny boots? And when the Heaven-sent moment came for the

tongue to tell what the heart had so long cherished in silence, was

there not a partner before you who dealt out words which filled your

soul with rapture, and helped you to win the dearest prize that earth

affords,--a mutual love? And look farther on into the distant future,

when the tiny boots shall have long been cast aside, and the flowing

silks shall have sunken into inexpansive, sober gray,--when the early

joys and the early sorrows shall fade into the dim, half-remembered

past,--when time shall have blanched the curly locks which first caught

your girlish fancy, and lined the fair brow you once kissed in its manly

beauty,--when the bloom of your own youth shall have passed away, and,

in its stead, you see the faded remnants of your queenly prime,--when

round you gather the fair youths and maidens who are living over the

joys and sorrows which once moved your tired heart, and which you then

shall look upon with that sad philosophy which tells you that the day

has come when earthly interests can never sway you more,--will you not

then have a partner who will share the memories of the past, and, heart

to heart, will tread with you the slow decline, and win the prize

outranking all,--eternal peace?

Yes, Madam, Jack has his messmate in the tarry bunk; Dick has his pal in

the hidden haunt; the Major winks to the Colonel in the luxurious club;

and Madame smiles on Monsieur in the brilliant drawing-room. Castor and

Pollux pitched their quoits, Damon and Pythias ran their races, Strephon

and Chloë ogled and blushed, and Darby and Joan tottered hand in hand

along, in olden times; and all over the world, to-day, the never-ending

game of human passion is played and shared by eager, restless, trembling

hearts.

I declare, while I have been chatting aside with you, I have trumped the

Major's ace, and lost the odd trick and the game! What a thunder-cloud

he looks like! Ah, Madam, let us hope that we may all play the cards

which Fortune shall deal to us, so as never to lose the prize we covet!

And when they are at last thrown by, and the game of life is over, may

we have won those riches which neither moth nor rust will corrupt! May

kingly honor and queenly virtue guide us on, and lead us to those courts

above, where they forever reign in sublime power!

A LANDSCAPE PAINTER.

Do you remember how, a dozen years ago, a number of our friends were

startled by the report of the rupture of young Locksley's engagement

with Miss Leary? This event made some noise in its day. Both parties

possessed certain claims to distinction: Locksley in his wealth, which

was believed to be enormous, and the young lady in her beauty, which was

in truth very great. I used to hear that her lover was fond of comparing

her to the Venus of Milo; and, indeed, if you can imagine the mutilated

goddess with her full complement of limbs, dressed out by Madame de

Crinoline, and engaged in small talk beneath the drawing-room

chandelier, you may obtain a vague notion of Miss Josephine Leary.

Locksley, you remember, was rather a short man, dark, and not

particularly good-looking; and when he walked about with his betrothed,

it was half a matter of surprise that he should have ventured to propose

to a young lady of such heroic proportions. Miss Leary had the gray eyes

and auburn hair which I have always assigned to the famous statue. The

one defect in her face, in spite of an expression of great candor and

sweetness, was a certain lack of animation. What it was besides her

beauty that attracted Locksley I never discovered: perhaps, since his

attachment was so short-lived, it was her beauty alone. I say that his

attachment was of brief duration, because the rupture was understood to

have come from him. Both he and Miss Leary very wisely held their

tongues on the matter; but among their friends and enemies it of course

received a hundred explanations. That most popular with Locksley's

well-wishers was, that he had backed out (these events are discussed,

you know, in fashionable circles very much as an expected prize-fight

which has miscarried is canvassed in reunions of another kind) only on

flagrant evidence of the lady's--what, faithlessness?--on overwhelming

proof of the most _mercenary_ spirit on the part of Miss Leary. You see,

our friend was held capable of doing battle for an "idea." It must be

owned that this was a novel charge; but, for myself, having long known

Mrs. Leary, the mother, who was a widow with four daughters, to be an

inveterate old screw, I took the liberty of accrediting the existence of

a similar propensity in her eldest born. I suppose that the young lady's

family had, on their own side, a very plausible version of their

disappointment. It was, however, soon made up to them by Josephine's

marriage with a gentleman of expectations very nearly as brilliant as

those of her old suitor. And what was _his_ compensation? That is

precisely my story.

Locksley disappeared, as you will remember from public view. The events

above alluded to happened in March. On calling at his lodgings in April,

I was told he had gone to the "country." But towards the last of May I

met him. He told me that he was on the look-out for a quiet,

unfrequented place on the sea-shore, where he might rusticate and

sketch. He was looking very poorly. I suggested Newport, and I remember

he hardly had the energy to smile at the simple joke. We parted without

my having been able to satisfy him, and for a very long time I quite

lost sight of him. He died seven years ago, at the age of thirty-five.

For five years, accordingly, he managed to shield his life from the eyes

of men. Through circumstances which I need not detail, a large portion

of his personal property has come into my hands. You will remember that

he was a man of what are called elegant tastes: that is, he was

seriously interested in arts and letters. He wrote some very bad poetry,

but he produced a number of remarkable paintings. He left a mass of

papers on all subjects, few of which are adapted to be generally

interesting. A portion of them, however, I highly prize,--that which

constitutes his private diary. It extends from his twenty-fifth to his

thirtieth year, at which period it breaks off suddenly. If you will come

to my house, I will show you such of his pictures and sketches as I

possess, and, I trust, convert you to my opinion that he had in him the

stuff of a great painter. Meanwhile I will place before you the last

hundred pages of his diary, as an answer to your inquiry regarding the

ultimate view taken by the great Nemesis of his treatment of Miss

Leary,--his scorn of the magnificent Venus Victrix. The recent decease

of the one person who had a voice paramount to mine in the disposal of

Locksley's effects enables me to act without reserve.

* * * * *

_Cragthorpe, June 9th._--I have been sitting some minutes, pen in hand,

pondering whether on this new earth, beneath this new sky, I had better

resume these occasional records of my idleness. I think I will at all

events make the experiment. If we fail, as Lady Macbeth remarks, we

fail. I find my entries have been longest when my life has been dullest.

I doubt not, therefore, that, once launched into the monotony of village

life, I shall sit scribbling from morning till night. If nothing

happens--But my prophetic soul tells me that something _will_ happen. I

am determined that something shall,--if it be nothing else than that I

paint a picture.

When I came up to bed half an hour ago, I was deadly sleepy. Now, after

looking out of the window a little while, my brain is strong and clear,

and I feel as if I could write till morning. But, unfortunately, I have

nothing to write about. And then, if I expect to rise early, I must turn

in betimes. The whole village is asleep, godless metropolitan that I am!

The lamps on the square without flicker in the wind; there is nothing

abroad but the blue darkness and the smell of the rising tide. I have

spent the whole day on my legs, trudging from one side of the peninsula

to the other. What a trump is old Mrs. M----, to have thought of this

place! I must write her a letter of passionate thanks. Never before, it

seems to me, have I known pure coast-scenery. Never before have I

relished the beauties of wave, rock, and cloud. I am filled with a

sensuous ecstasy at the unparalleled life, light, and transparency of

the air. I am stricken mute with reverent admiration at the stupendous

resources possessed by the ocean in the way of color and sound; and as

yet, I suppose, I have not seen half of them. I came in to supper

hungry, weary, footsore, sunburnt, dirty,--happier, in short, than I

have been for a twelvemonth. And now for the victories of the brush!

* * * * *

_June 11th._--Another day afoot and also afloat. I resolved this morning

to leave this abominable little tavern. I can't stand my feather-bed

another night. I determined to find some other prospect than the

town-pump and the "drug-store." I questioned my host, after breakfast,

as to the possibility of getting lodgings in any of the outlying farms

and cottages. But my host either did not or would not know anything

about the matter. So I resolved to wander forth and seek my fortune,--to

roam inquisitive through the neighborhood, and appeal to the indigenous

sentiment of hospitality. But never did I see a folk so devoid of this

amiable quality. By dinner-time I had given up in despair. After dinner

I strolled down to the harbor, which is close at hand. The brightness

and breeziness of the water tempted me to hire a boat and resume my

explorations. I procured an old tub, with a short stump of a mast,

which, being planted quite in the centre, gave the craft much the

appearance of an inverted mushroom. I made for what I took to be, and

what is, an island, lying long and low, some three or four miles, over

against the town. I sailed for half an hour directly before the wind,

and at last found myself aground on the shelving beach of a quiet little

cove. _Such_ a little cove! So bright, so still, so warm, so remote

from the town, which lay off in the distance, white and semicircular! I

leaped ashore, and dropped my anchor. Before me rose a steep cliff,

crowned with an old ruined fort or tower. I made my way up, and about to

the landward entrance. The fort is a hollow old shell. Looking upward

from the beach, you see the harmless blue sky through the gaping

loopholes. Its interior is choked with rocks and brambles, and masses of

fallen masonry. I scrambled up to the parapet, and obtained a noble

sea-view. Beyond the broad bay I saw miniature town and country mapped

out before me; and on the other hand, I saw the infinite Atlantic,--over

which, by the by, all the pretty things are brought from Paris. I spent

the whole afternoon in wandering hither and thither over the hills that

encircle the little cove in which I had landed, heedless of the minutes

and my steps, watching the sailing clouds and the cloudy sails on the

horizon, listening to the musical attrition of the tidal pebbles,

killing innocuous suckers. The only particular sensation I remember was

that of being ten years old again, together with a general impression of

Saturday afternoon, of the liberty to go in wading or even swimming, and

of the prospect of limping home in the dusk with a wondrous story of

having _almost_ caught a turtle. When I returned, I found--but I know

very well what I found, and I need hardly repeat it here for my

mortification. Heaven knows I never was a practical character. What

thought I about the tide? There lay the old tub, high and dry, with the

rusty anchor protruding from the flat green stones and the shallow

puddles left by the receding wave. Moving the boat an inch, much more a

dozen yards, was quite beyond my strength. I slowly reascended the

cliff, to see if from its summit any help was discernible. None was

within sight; and I was about to go down again in profound dejection,

when I saw a trim little sail-boat shoot out from behind a neighboring

bluff, and advance along the shore. I quickened pace. On reaching the

beach, I found the new-comer standing out about a hundred yards. The man

at the helm appeared to regard me with some interest. With a mute prayer

that his feeling might be akin to compassion, I invited him by voice and

gesture to make for a little point of rocks a short distance above us,

where I proceeded to join him. I told him my story, and he readily took

me aboard. He was a civil old gentleman, of the seafaring sort, who

appeared to be cruising about in the evening breeze for his pleasure. On

landing, I visited the proprietor of my old tub, related my

misadventure, and offered to pay damages, if the boat shall turn out in

the morning to have sustained any. Meanwhile, I suppose, it is held

secure against the next tidal revolution, however insidious.--But for my

old gentleman. I have decidedly picked up an acquaintance, if not made a

friend. I gave him a very good cigar; and before we reached home, we had

become thoroughly intimate. In exchange for my cigar, he gave me his

name; and there was that in his tone which seemed to imply that I had by

no means the worst of the bargain. His name is Richard Blunt, "though

most people," he added, "call me Captain, for short." He then proceeded

to inquire my own titles and pretensions. I told him no lies, but I told

him only half the truth; and if he chooses to indulge mentally in any

romantic understatements, why, he is welcome, and bless his simple

heart! The fact is, that I have broken with the past. I have decided,

coolly and calmly, as I believe, that it is necessary to my success, or,

at any rate, to my happiness, to abjure for a while my conventional

self, and to assume a simple, natural character. How can a man be simple

and natural who is known to have a hundred thousand a year? That is the

supreme curse. It's bad enough to have it: to be known to have it, to be

known only because you have it, is most damnable. I suppose I am too

proud to be successfully rich. Let me see how poverty will serve my

turn. I have taken a fresh start. I have determined to stand upon my

own merits. If they fail me, I shall fall back upon my millions; but

with God's help I will test them, and see what kind of stuff I am made

of. To be young, to be strong, to be poor,--such, in this blessed

nineteenth century, is the great basis of solid success. I have resolved

to take at least one brief draught from the pure founts of inspiration

of my time. I replied to the Captain with such reservations as a brief

survey of these principles dictated. What a luxury to pass in a poor

man's mind for his brother! I begin to respect myself. Thus much the

Captain knows: that I am an educated man, with a taste for painting;

that I have come hither for the purpose of cultivating this taste by the

study of coast scenery, and for my health. I have reason to believe,

moreover, that he suspects me of limited means and of being a good deal

of an economist Amen! _Vogue la galère!_ But the point of my story is in

his very hospitable offer of lodgings. I had been telling him of my ill

success of the morning in the pursuit of the same. He is an odd union of

the gentleman of the old school and the old-fashioned, hot-headed

merchant-captain. I suppose that certain traits in these characters are

readily convertible.

"Young man," said he, after taking several meditative puffs of his

cigar, "I don't see the point of your living in a tavern, when there are

folks about you with more house-room than they know what to do with. A

tavern is only half a house, just as one of these new-fashioned

screw-propellers is only half a ship. Suppose you walk round and take a

look at my place. I own quite a respectable house over yonder to the

left of the town. Do you see that old wharf with the tumble-down

warehouses, and the long row of elms behind it? I live right in the

midst of the elms. We have the dearest little garden in the world,

stretching down to the water's edge. It's all as quiet as anything can

be, short of a graveyard. The back windows, you know, overlook the

harbor; and you can see twenty miles up the bay, and fifty miles out to

sea. You can paint to yourself there the livelong day, with no more fear

of intrusion than if you were out yonder at the light-ship. There's no

one but myself and my daughter, who's a perfect lady, Sir. She teaches

music in a young ladies' school. You see, money's an object, as they

say. We have never taken boarders yet, because none ever came in our

track; but I guess we can learn the ways. I suppose you've boarded

before; you can put us up to a thing or two."

There was something so kindly and honest in the old man's weather-beaten

face, something so friendly in his address, that I forthwith struck a

bargain with him, subject to his daughter's approval, I am to have her

answer to-morrow. This same daughter strikes me as rather a dark spot in

the picture. Teacher in a young ladies' school,--probably the

establishment of which Mrs. M---- spoke to me. I suppose she's over

thirty. I think I know the species.

* * * * *

_June 12th_, A. M.--I have really nothing to do but to scribble. "Barkis

is willing." Captain Blunt brought me word this morning that his

daughter smiles propitious. I am to report this evening; but I shall

send my slender baggage in an hour or two.

P. M.--Here I am, housed. The house is less than a mile from the inn,

and reached by a very pleasant road, skirting the harbor. At about six

o'clock I presented myself. Captain Blunt had described the place. A

very civil old negress admitted me, and ushered me into the garden,

where I found my friends watering their flowers. The old man was in his

house-coat and slippers. He gave me a cordial welcome. There is

something delightfully easy in his manners,--and in Miss Blunt's, too,

for that matter. She received me very nicely. The late Mrs. Blunt was

probably a well-bred woman. As for Miss Blunt's being thirty, she is

about twenty-four; She wore a fresh white dress, with a violet ribbon at

her neck, and a rosebud in her button-hole,--or whatever corresponds

thereto on the feminine bosom. I thought I discerned in this costume a

vague intention of courtesy, of deference, of celebrating my arrival. I

don't believe Miss Blunt wears white muslin every day. She shook hands

with me, and made me a very frank little speech about her hospitality.

"We have never had any inmates before," said she; "and we are

consequently new to the business. I don't know what you expect. I hope

you don't expect a great deal. You must ask for anything you want. If we

can give it, we shall be very glad to do so; if we can't, I give you

warning that we shall refuse outright." Bravo, Miss Blunt! The best of

it is, that she is decidedly beautiful,--and in the grand manner: tall,

and rather plump. What is the orthodox description of a pretty

girl?--white and red? Miss Blunt is not a pretty girl, she is a handsome

woman. She leaves an impression of black and red; that is, she is a

florid brunette. She has a great deal of wavy black hair, which

encircles her head like a dusky glory, a smoky halo. Her eyebrows, too,

are black, but her eyes themselves are of a rich blue gray, the color of

those slate-cliffs which I saw yesterday, weltering under the tide. Her

mouth, however, is her strong point. It is very large, and contains the

finest row of teeth in all this weary world. Her smile is eminently

intelligent. Her chin is full, and somewhat heavy. All this is a

tolerable catalogue, but no picture. I have been tormenting my brain to

discover whether it was her coloring or her form that impressed me most.

Fruitless speculation! Seriously, I think it was neither; it was her

movement. She walks a queen. It was the conscious poise of her head, the

unconscious "hang" of her arms, the careless grace and dignity with

which she lingered along the garden-path, smelling a red red rose! She

has very little to say, apparently; but when she speaks, it is to the

point, and if the point suggests it, with a very sweet smile. Indeed, if

she is not talkative, it is not from timidity. Is it from indifference?

Time will elucidate this, as well as other matters. I cling to the

hypothesis that she is amiable. She is, moreover, intelligent; she is

probably quite reserved; and she is possibly very proud. She is, in

short, a woman of character. There you are, Miss Blunt, at full

length,--emphatically the portrait of a lady. After tea, she gave us

some music in the parlor. I confess that I was more taken with the

picture of the dusky little room, lighted by the single candle on the

piano, and by the _effect_ of Miss Blunt's performance, than with its

meaning. She appears to possess a very brilliant touch.

* * * * *

_June 18th._--I have now been here almost a week. I occupy two very

pleasant rooms. My painting-room is a vast and rather bare apartment,

with a very good southern light. I have decked it out with a few old

prints and sketches, and have already grown very fond of it. When I had

disposed my artistic odds and ends in as picturesque a fashion as

possible, I called in my hosts. The Captain looked about silently for

some moments, and then inquired hopefully if I had ever tried my hand at

a ship. On learning that I had not yet got to ships, he relapsed into a

deferential silence. His daughter smiled and questioned very graciously,

and called everything beautiful and delightful; which rather

disappointed me, as I had taken her to be a woman of some originality.

She is rather a puzzle;--or is she, indeed, a very commonplace person,

and the fault in me, who am forever taking women to mean a great deal

more than their Maker intended? Regarding Miss Blunt I have collected a

few facts. She is not twenty-four, but twenty-seven years old. She has

taught music ever since she was twenty, in a large boarding-school just

out of the town, where she originally got her education. Her salary in

this establishment, which is, I believe, a tolerably flourishing one,

and the proceeds of a few additional lessons, constitute the chief

revenues of the household. But Blunt fortunately owns his house, and his

needs and habits are of the simplest kind. What does he or his daughter

know of the great worldly theory of necessities, the great worldly scale

of pleasures? Miss Blunt's only luxuries are a subscription to the

circulating library, and an occasional walk on the beach, which, like

one of Miss Bronté's heroines, she paces in company with an old

Newfoundland dog. I am afraid she is sadly ignorant. She reads nothing

but novels. I am bound to believe, however, that she has derived from

the perusal of these works a certain practical science of her own. "I

read all the novels I can get," she said yesterday; "but I only like the

good ones. I do so like Zanoni, which I have just finished." I must set

her to work at some of the masters. I should like some of those fretful

New-York heiresses to see how this woman lives. I wish, too, that half a

dozen of _ces messieurs_ of the clubs might take a peep at the present

way of life of their humble servant. We breakfast at eight o'clock.

Immediately afterwards, Miss Blunt, in a shabby old bonnet and shawl,

starts off to school. If the weather is fine, the Captain goes out

a-fishing, and I am left to my own devices. Twice I have accompanied the

old man. The second time I was lucky enough to catch a big blue-fish,

which we had for dinner. The Captain is an excellent specimen of the

sturdy navigator, with his loose blue clothes, his ultra-divergent legs,

his crisp white hair, and his jolly thick-skinned visage. He comes of a

seafaring English race. There is more or less of the ship's cabin in the

general aspect of this antiquated house. I have heard the winds whistle

about its walls, on two or three occasions, in true mid-ocean style. And

then the illusion is heightened, somehow or other, by the extraordinary

intensity of the light. My painting-room is a grand observatory of the

clouds. I sit by the half-hour, watching them sail past my high,

uncurtained windows. At the back part of the room, something tells you

that they belong to an ocean sky; and there, in truth, as you draw

nearer, you behold the vast, gray complement of sea. This quarter of the

town is perfectly quiet. Human activity seems to have passed over it,

never again to return, and to have left a kind of deposit of melancholy

resignation. The streets are clean, bright, and airy; but this fact

seems only to add to the intense sobriety. It implies that the

unobstructed heavens are in the secret of their decline. There is

something ghostly in the perpetual stillness. We frequently hear the

rattling of the yards and the issuing of orders on the barks and

schooners anchored out in the harbor.

* * * * *

_June 28th._--My experiment works far better than I had hoped. I am

thoroughly at my ease; my peace of mind quite passeth understanding. I

work diligently; I have none but pleasant thoughts. The past has almost

lost its terrors. For a week now I have been out sketching daily. The

Captain carries me to a certain point on the shore of the harbor, I

disembark and strike across the fields to a spot where I have

established a kind of _rendezvous_ with a particular effect of rock and

shadow, which has been tolerably faithful to its appointment. Here I set

up my easel, and paint till sunset. Then I retrace my steps and meet the

boat. I am in every way much encouraged. The horizon of my work grows

perceptibly wider. And then I am inexpressibly happy in the conviction

that I am not wholly unfit for a life of (moderate) labor and

(comparative) privation. I am quite in love with my poverty, if I may

call it so. As why should I not? At this rate I don't spend eight

hundred a year.

* * * * *

_July 12th._--We have been having a week of bad weather: constant rain,

night and day. This is certainly at once the brightest and the blackest

spot in New England. The skies can smile, assuredly; but how they can

frown! I have been painting rather languidly, and at a great

disadvantage, at my window.... Through all this pouring and pattering,

Miss Blunt sallies forth to her pupils. She envelops her beautiful head

in a great woollen hood, her beautiful figure in a kind of feminine

Mackintosh; her feet she puts into heavy clogs, and over the whole she

balances a cotton umbrella. When she comes home, with the rain-drops

glistening on her red cheeks and her dark lashes, her cloak bespattered

with mud, and her hands red with the cool damp, she is a profoundly

wholesome spectacle. I never fail to make her a very low bow, for which

she repays me with an extraordinary smile. This working-day side of her

character is what especially pleases me in Miss Blunt. This holy

working-dress of loveliness and dignity sits upon her with the

simplicity of an antique drapery. Little use has she for whalebones and

furbelows. What a poetry there is, after all, in red hands! I kiss

yours, Mademoiselle. I do so because you are self-helpful; because you

earn your living; because you are honest, simple, and ignorant (for a

sensible woman, that is); because you speak and act to the point;

because, in short, you are so unlike--certain of your sisters.

* * * * *

_July 16th._--On Monday it cleared up generously. When I went to my

window, on rising, I found sky and sea looking, for their brightness and

freshness, like a clever English water-color. The ocean is of a deep

purple blue; above it, the pure, bright sky looks pale, though it bends

with an infinite depth over the inland horizon. Here and there on the

dark breezy water gleams the white cap of a wave, or flaps the white

cloak of a fishing-boat. I have been sketching sedulously; I have

discovered, within a couple of miles' walk, a large, lonely pond, set in

quite a grand landscape of barren rocks and grassy slopes. At one

extremity is a broad outlook on the open sea; at the other, deep buried

in the foliage of an apple-orchard, stands an old haunted-looking

farm-house. To the west of the pond is a wide expanse of rock and grass,

of beach and marsh. The sheep browse over it as upon a Highland moor.

Except a few stunted firs and cedars, there is not a tree in sight. When

I want shade, I seek it in the shelter of one of the great mossy

boulders which upheave their scintillating shoulders to the sun, or of

the long shallow dells where a tangle of blackberry-bushes hedges about

a sky-reflecting pool. I have encamped over against a plain, brown

hillside, which, with laborious patience, I am transferring to canvas;

and as we have now had the same clear sky for several days, I have

almost finished quite a satisfactory little study. I go forth

immediately after breakfast. Miss Blunt furnishes me with a napkin full

of bread and cold meat, which at the noonday hours, in my sunny

solitude, within sight of the slumbering ocean, I voraciously convey to

my lips with my discolored fingers. At seven o'clock I return to tea, at

which repast we each tell the story of our day's work. For poor Miss

Blunt, it is day after day the same story: a wearisome round of visits

to the school, and to the houses of the mayor, the parson, the butcher,

the baker, whose young ladies, of course, all receive instruction on the

piano. But she doesn't complain, nor, indeed, does she look very weary.

When she has put on a fresh calico dress for tea, and arranged her hair

anew, and with these improvements flits about with that quiet hither and

thither of her gentle footsteps, preparing our evening meal, peeping

into the teapot, cutting the solid loaf,--or when, sitting down on the

low door-step, she reads out select scraps from the evening paper,--or

else, when, tea being over, she folds her arms, (an attitude which

becomes her mightily,) and, still sitting on the door-step, gossips away

the evening in comfortable idleness, while her father and I indulge in

the fragrant pipe, and watch the lights shining out, one by one, in

different quarters of the darkling bay: at these moments she is as

pretty, as cheerful, as careless as it becomes a sensible woman to be.

What a pride the Captain takes in his daughter! And she, in return, how

perfect is her devotion to the old man! He is proud of her grace, of

her tact, of her good sense, of her wit, such as it is. He thinks her to

be the most accomplished of women. He waits upon her as if, instead of

his old familiar Esther, she were a newly inducted daughter-in-law. And

indeed, if I were his own son, he could not be kinder to me. They are

certainly--nay, why should I not say it?--_we_ are certainly a very

happy little household. Will it last forever? I say _we_, because both

father and daughter have given me a hundred assurances--he direct, and

she, if I don't flatter myself, after the manner of her sex,

indirect--that I am already a valued friend. It is natural enough that I

should have gained their good-will. They have received at my hands

inveterate courtesy. The way to the old man's heart is through a studied

consideration of his daughter. He knows, I imagine, that I admire Miss

Blunt. But if I should at any time fall below the mark of ceremony, I

should have an account to settle with him. All this is as it should be.

When people have to economize with the dollars and cents, they have a

right to be splendid in their feelings. I have prided myself not a

little on my good manners towards my hostess. That my bearing has been

without reproach is, however, a fact which I do not, in any degree, set

down here to my credit; for I would defy the most impertinent of men

(whoever he is) to forget himself with this young lady, without leave

unmistakably given. Those deep, dark eyes have a strong prohibitory

force. I record the circumstance simply because in future years, when my

charming friend shall have become a distant shadow, it will be pleasant,

in turning over these pages, to find written testimony to a number of

points which I shall be apt to charge solely upon my imagination. I

wonder whether Miss Blunt, in days to come, referring to the tables of

her memory for some trivial matter-of-fact, some prosaic date or

half-buried landmark, will also encounter this little secret of ours, as

I may call it,--will decipher an old faint note to this effect, overlaid

with the memoranda of intervening years. Of course she will. Sentiment

aside, she is a woman of an excellent memory. Whether she forgives or

not I know not; but she certainly doesn't forget. Doubtless, virtue is

its own reward; but there is a double satisfaction in being polite to a

person on whom it _tells_. Another reason for my pleasant relations with

the Captain is, that I afford him a chance to rub up his rusty old

cosmopolitanism, and trot out his little scraps of old-fashioned

reading, some of which are very curious. It is a great treat for him to

spin his threadbare yarns over again to a sympathetic listener. These

warm July evenings, in the sweet-smelling garden, are just the proper

setting for his amiable garrulities. An odd enough relation subsists

between us on this point. Like many gentlemen of his calling, the

Captain is harassed by an irresistible desire to romance, even on the

least promising themes; and it is vastly amusing to observe how he will

auscultate, as it were, his auditor's inmost mood, to ascertain whether

it is prepared for the absorption of his insidious fibs. Sometimes they

perish utterly in the transition: they are very pretty, I conceive, in

the deep and briny well of the Captain's fancy; but they won't bear

being transplanted into the shallow inland lakes of my land-bred

apprehension. At other times, the auditor being in a dreamy,

sentimental, and altogether unprincipled mood, he will drink the old

man's salt-water by the bucketful and feel none the worse for it. Which

is the worse, wilfully to tell, or wilfully to believe, a pretty little

falsehood which will not hurt any one? I suppose you can't believe

wilfully; you only pretend to believe. My part of the game, therefore,

is certainly as bad as the Captain's. Perhaps I take kindly to his

beautiful perversions of fact, because I am myself engaged in one,

because I am sailing under false colors of the deepest dye. I wonder

whether my friends have any suspicion of the real state of the case. How

should they? I fancy, that, on the whole, I play my part pretty well. I

am delighted to find it come so easy. I do not mean that I experience

little difficulty in foregoing my hundred petty elegancies and

luxuries,--for to these, thank Heaven, I was not so indissolubly wedded

that one wholesome shock could not loosen my bonds,--but that I manage

more cleverly than I expected to stifle those innumerable tacit

allusions which might serve effectually to belie my character.

* * * * *

_Sunday, July 20th._--This has been a very pleasant day for me; although

in it, of course, I have done no manner of work. I had this morning a

delightful _tête-à-tête_ with my hostess. She had sprained her ankle,

coming down stairs; and so, instead of going forth to Sunday school and

to meeting, she was obliged to remain at home on the sofa. The Captain,

who is of a very punctilious piety, went off alone. When I came into the

parlor, as the church-bells were ringing, Miss Blunt asked me if I never

went to meeting.

"Never when there is anything better to do at home," said I.

"What is better than going to church?" she asked, with charming

simplicity.

She was reclining on the sofa, with her foot on a pillow, and her Bible

in her lap. She looked by no means afflicted at having to be absent from

divine service; and, instead of answering her question, I took the

liberty of telling her so.

"I _am_ sorry to be absent," said she. "You know it's my only festival

in the week."

"So you look upon it as a festival," said I.

"Isn't it a pleasure to meet one's acquaintance? I confess I am never

deeply interested in the sermon, and I very much dislike teaching the

children; but I like wearing my best bonnet, and singing in the choir,

and walking part of the way home with"----

"With whom?"

"With any one who offers to walk with me."

"With Mr. Johnson, for instance," said I.

Mr. Johnson is a young lawyer in the village, who calls here once a

week, and whose attentions to Miss Blunt have been remarked.

"Yes," she answered, "Mr. Johnson will do as an instance."

"How he will miss you!"

"I suppose he will. We sing off the same book. What are you laughing at?

He kindly permits me to hold the book, while he stands with his hands in

his pockets. Last Sunday I quite lost patience. 'Mr. Johnson,' said I,

'do hold the book! Where are your manners?' He burst out laughing in the

midst of the reading. He will certainly have to hold the book to-day."

"What a 'masterful soul' he is! I suppose he will call after meeting."

"Perhaps he will. I hope so."

"I hope he won't," said I, roundly, "I am going to sit down here and

talk to you, and I wish our _tête-à-tête_ not to be interrupted."

"Have you anything particular to say?"

"Nothing so particular as Mr. Johnson, perhaps."

Miss Blunt has a very pretty affectation of being more matter-of-fact

than she really is.

"His rights, then," said she, "are paramount to yours."

"Ah, you admit that he has rights?"

"Not at all. I simply assert that you have none."

"I beg your pardon. I have claims which I mean to enforce. I have a

claim upon your undivided attention, when I pay you a morning call."

"Your claim is certainly answered. Have I been uncivil, pray?"

"Not uncivil, perhaps, but inconsiderate. You have been sighing for the

company of a third person, which you can't expect me to relish."

"Why not, pray? If I, a lady, can put up with Mr. Johnson's society, why

shouldn't you, one of his own sex?"

"Because he is so outrageously conceited. You, as a lady, or at any rate

as a woman, like conceited men."

"Ah, yes; I have no doubt that I, as a woman, have all kinds of improper

tastes. That's an old story."

"Admit, at any rate, that our friend is conceited."

"Admit it? Why, I have said so a hundred times. I have told him so."

"Indeed! It has come to that, then?"

"To what, pray?"

"To that critical point in the friendship of a lady and gentleman, when

they bring against each other all kinds of delightful charges of moral

obliquity. Take care, Miss Blunt! A couple of intelligent

New-Englanders, of opposite sex, young, unmarried, are pretty far gone,

when they begin morally to reprobate each other. So you told Mr. Johnson

that he is conceited? And I suppose you added, that he was also

dreadfully satirical and skeptical? What was his rejoinder? Let me see.

Did he ever tell you that you were a little bit affected?"

"No: he left that for you to say, in this very ingenious manner. Thank

you, Sir."

"He left it for me to deny, which is a great deal prettier. Do you think

the manner ingenious?"

"I think the matter, considering the day and hour, very profane, Mr.

Locksley. Suppose you go away and let me read my Bible."

"Meanwhile," I asked, "what shall I do?"

"Go and read yours, if you have one."

"I haven't."

I was nevertheless compelled to retire, with the promise of a second

audience in half an hour. Poor Miss Blunt owes it to her conscience to

read a certain number of chapters. What a pure and upright soul she is!

And what an edifying spectacle is much of our feminine piety! Women find

a place for everything in their commodious little minds, just as they do

in their wonderfully subdivided trunks, when they go on a journey. I

have no doubt that this young lady stows away her religion in a corner,

just as she does her Sunday bonnet,--and, when the proper moment comes,

draws it forth, and reflects while she assumes it before the glass, and

blows away the strictly imaginary dust; for what worldly impurity can

penetrate through half a dozen layers of cambric and tissue-paper? Dear

me, what a comfort it is to have a nice, fresh, holiday faith!--When I

returned to the parlor, Miss Blunt was still sitting with her Bible in

her lap. Somehow or other, I no longer felt in the mood for jesting. So

I asked her soberly what she had been reading. Soberly she answered me.

She inquired how I had spent my half-hour.

"In thinking good Sabbath thoughts," I said. "I have been walking in the

garden." And then I spoke my mind. "I have been thanking Heaven that it

has led me, a poor, friendless wanderer, into so peaceful an anchorage."

"Are you, then, so poor and friendless?" asked Miss Blunt, quite

abruptly.

"Did you ever hear of an art-student under thirty who wasn't poor?" I

answered. "Upon my word, I have yet to sell my first picture. Then, as

for being friendless, there are not five people in the world who really

care for me."

"_Really_ care? I am afraid you look too close. And then I think five

good friends is a very large number. I think myself very well off with a

couple. But if you are friendless, it's probably your own fault."

"Perhaps it is," said I, sitting down in the rocking-chair; "and yet,

perhaps, it isn't. Have you found me so very repulsive? Haven't you, on

the contrary, found me rather sociable?"

She folded her arms, and quietly looked at me for a moment, before

answering. I shouldn't wonder if I blushed a little.

"You want a compliment, Mr. Locksley; that's the long and short of it. I

have not paid you a compliment since you have been here. How you must

have suffered! But it's a pity you couldn't have waited awhile longer,

instead of beginning to angle with that very clumsy bait. For an artist,

you are very inartistic. Men never know how to wait. 'Have I found you

repulsive? haven't I found you sociable?' Perhaps, after all,

considering what I have in my mind, it is as well that you asked for

your compliment. I have found you charming. I say it freely; and yet I

say, with equal sincerity, that I fancy very few others would find you

so. I can say decidedly that you are not sociable. You are entirely too

particular. You are considerate of me, because you know that I know that

you are so. There's the rub, you see: I know that you know that I know

it. Don't interrupt me; I am going to be eloquent. I want you to

understand why I don't consider you sociable. You call Mr. Johnson

conceited; but, really, I don't believe he's nearly as conceited as

yourself. You are too conceited to be sociable; he is not. I am an

obscure, weak-minded woman,--weak-minded, you know, compared with men. I

can be patronized,--yes, that's the word. Would you be equally amiable

with a person as strong, as clear-sighted as yourself, with a person

equally averse with yourself to being under an obligation? I think not.

Of course it's delightful to charm people. Who wouldn't? There is no

harm in it, as long as the charmer does not sit up for a public

benefactor. If I were a man, a clever man like yourself, who had seen

the world, who was not to be charmed and encouraged, but to be convinced

and refuted, would you be equally amiable? It will perhaps seem absurd

to you, and it will certainly seem egotistical, but I consider myself

sociable, for all that I have only a couple of friends,--my father and

the principal of the school. That is, I mingle with women without any

second thought. Not that I wish you to do so: on the contrary, if the

contrary is natural to you. But I don't believe you mingle in the same

way with men. You may ask me what I know about it. Of course I know

nothing: I simply guess. When I have done, indeed, I mean to beg your

pardon for all I have said; but until then, give me a chance. You are

incapable of listening deferentially to stupid, bigoted persons. I am

not. I do it every day. Ah, you have no idea of what nice manners I have

in the exercise of my profession! Every day I have occasion to pocket my

pride and to stifle my precious sense of the ridiculous,--of which, of

course, you think I haven't a bit. It is, for instance, a constant

vexation to me to be poor. It makes me frequently hate rich women; it

makes me despise poor ones. I don't know whether you suffer acutely from

the narrowness of your own means; but if you do, I dare say you shun

rich men. I don't. I like to go into rich people's houses, and to be

very polite to the ladies of the house, especially if they are very

well-dressed and ignorant and vulgar. All women are like me in this

respect; and all men more or less like you. That is, after all, the text

of my sermon. Compared with us, it has always seemed to me that you are

arrant cowards,--that we alone are brave. To be sociable, you must have

a great deal of pluck. You are too fine a gentleman. Go and teach

school, or open a corner grocery, or sit in a law-office all day,

waiting for clients: _then_ you will be sociable. As yet, you are only

agreeable. It _is_ your own fault, if people don't care for you. You

don't care for them. That you should be indifferent to their applause is

all very well; but you don't care for their indifference. You are

amiable, you are very kind, and you are also very lazy. You consider

that you are working now, don't you? Many persons would not call it

work."

It was now certainly my turn to fold my arms.

"And now," added my companion, as I did so, "I beg your pardon."

"This was certainly worth waiting for," said I. "I don't know what

answer to make. My head swims. I don't know whether you have been

attacking me or praising me. So you advise me to open a corner grocery,

do you?"

"I advise you to do something that will make you a little less

satirical. You had better marry, for instance."

"_Je ne demande pas mieux._ Will you have me? I can't afford it."

"Marry a rich woman."

I shook my head.

"Why not?" asked Miss Blunt. "Because people would accuse you of being

mercenary? What of that? I mean to marry the first rich man who offers.

Do you know that I am tired of living alone in this weary old way,

teaching little girls their gamut, and turning and patching my dresses?

I mean to marry the first man who offers."

"Even if he is poor?"

"Even if he is poor, ugly, and stupid."

"I am your man, then. Would you take me, if I were to offer?"

"Try and see."

"Must I get upon my knees?"

"No, you need not even do that. Am I not on mine? It would be too fine

an irony. Remain as you are, lounging back in your chair, with your

thumbs in your waistcoat."

If I were writing a romance now, instead of transcribing facts, I would

say that I knew not what might have happened at this juncture, had not

the door opened and admitted the Captain and Mr. Johnson. The latter was

in the highest spirits.

"How are you, Miss Esther? So you have been breaking your leg, eh? How

are you, Mr. Locksley? I wish I were a doctor now. Which is it, right or

left?"

In this simple fashion he made himself agreeable to Miss Blunt. He

stopped to dinner and talked without ceasing. Whether our hostess had

talked herself out in her very animated address to myself an hour

before, or whether she preferred to oppose no obstacle to Mr. Johnson's

fluency, or whether she was indifferent to him, I know not; but she held

her tongue with that easy grace, that charming tacit intimation of "We

could, an we would," of which she is so perfect a mistress. This very

interesting woman has a number of pretty traits in common with her

town-bred sisters; only, whereas in these they are laboriously acquired,

in her they are severely natural. I am sure, that, if I were to plant

her in Madison Square to-morrow, she would, after one quick,

all-compassing glance, assume the _nil admirari_ in a manner to drive

the greatest lady of them all to despair. Johnson is a man of excellent

intentions, but no taste. Two or three times I looked at Miss Blunt to

see what impression his sallies were making upon her. They seemed to

produce none whatever. But I know better, _moi_. Not one of them escaped

her. But I suppose she said to herself that her impressions on this

point were no business of mine. Perhaps she was right. It is a

disagreeable word to use of a woman you admire; but I can't help

fancying that she has been a little _soured_. By what? Who shall say? By

some old love affair, perhaps.

* * * * *

_July 24th._--This evening the Captain and I took a half-hour's turn

about the harbor. I asked him frankly, as a friend, whether Johnson

wants to marry his daughter.

"I guess he does," said the old man; "and yet I hope he don't. You know

what he is: he's smart, promising, and already sufficiently well off.

But somehow he isn't for a man what my Esther is for a woman."

"That he isn't!" said I; "and honestly, Captain Blunt, I don't know who

is"----

"Unless it's yourself," said the Captain.

"Thank you. I know a great many ways in which Mr. Johnson is more worthy

of her than I."

"And I know, one in which you are more worthy of her than he,--that is,

in being what we used to call a gentleman."

"Miss Esther made him sufficiently welcome in her quiet way, on Sunday,"

I rejoined.

"Oh, she respects him," said Blunt. "As she's situated, she might marry

him on that. You see, she's weary of hearing little girls drum on the

piano. With her ear for music," added the Captain, "I wonder she has

borne it so long."

"She is certainly meant for better things," said I.

"Well," answered the Captain, who has an honest habit of deprecating

your agreement, when it occurs to him that he has obtained it for

sentiments which fall somewhat short of the stoical,--"well," said he,

with a very dry expression of mouth, "she's born to do her duty. We are

all of us born for that."

"Sometimes our duty is rather dreary," said I.

"So it be; but what's the help for it? I don't want to die without

seeing my daughter provided for. What she makes by teaching is a pretty

slim subsistence. There was a time when I thought she was going to be

fixed for life, but it all blew over. There was a young fellow here from

down Boston way, who came about as near to it as you can come, when you

actually don't. He and Esther were excellent friends. One day Esther

came up to me, and looked me in the face, and told me she was engaged.

"'Who to?' says I, though of course I knew, and Esther told me as much.

'When do you expect to marry?' I asked.

"'When John grows rich enough,' says she.

"'When will that be?'

"'It may not be for years,' said poor Esther.

"A whole year passed, and, as far as I could see, the young man came no

nearer to his fortune. He was forever running to and fro between this

place and Boston. I asked no questions, because I knew that my poor girl

wished it so. But at last, one day, I began to think it was time to take

an observation, and see whereabouts we stood.

"'Has John made his fortune yet?' I asked.

"'I don't know, father,' said Esther.

"'When are you to be married?'

"'Never!' said my poor little girl, and burst into tears. 'Please ask me

no questions,' said she. 'Our engagement is over. Ask me no questions.'

"'Tell me one thing,' said I: 'where is that d----d scoundrel who has

broken my daughter's heart?'

"You should have seen the look she gave me.

"'Broken my heart, Sir? You are very much mistaken. I don't know who you

mean.'

"'I mean John Banister,' said I. That was his name.

"'I believe Mr. Banister is in China,' says Esther, as grand as the

Queen of Sheba. And there was an end of it. I never learnt the ins and

outs of it. I have been told that Banister is accumulating money very

fast in the China trade."

* * * * *

_August 7th._--I have made no entry for more than a fortnight. They tell

me I have been very ill; and I find no difficulty in believing them. I

suppose I took cold, sitting out so late, sketching. At all events, I

have had a mild intermittent fever. I have slept so much, however, that

the time has seemed rather short. I have been tenderly nursed by this

kind old gentleman, his daughter, and his maid-servant. God bless them,

one and all! I say his daughter, because old Dorothy informs me that for

half an hour one morning, at dawn, after a night during which I had been

very feeble, Miss Blunt relieved guard at my bedside, while I lay wrapt

in brutal slumber. It is very jolly to see sky and ocean once again. I

have got myself into my easy-chair by the open window, with my shutters

closed and the lattice open; and here I sit with my book on my knee,

scratching away feebly enough. Now and then I peep from my cool, dark

sick-chamber out into the world of light. High noon at midsummer! What a

spectacle! There are no clouds in the sky, no waves on the ocean. The

sun has it all to himself. To look long at the garden makes the eyes

water. And we--"Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes, and Nokes"--propose to paint that

kingdom of light. _Allons, donc!_

The loveliest of women has just tapped, and come in with a plate of

early peaches. The peaches are of a gorgeous color and plumpness; but

Miss Blunt looks pale and thin. The hot weather doesn't agree with her.

She is overworked. Confound it! Of course I thanked her warmly for her

attentions during my illness. She disclaims all gratitude, and refers me

to her father and Mrs. Dorothy.

"I allude more especially," said I, "to that little hour at the end of a

weary night, when you stole in like a kind of moral Aurora, and drove

away the shadows from my brain. That morning, you know, I began to get

better."

"It was indeed a very little hour," said Miss Blunt. "It was about ten

minutes." And then she began to scold me for presuming to touch a pen

during my convalescence. She laughs at me, indeed, for keeping a diary

at all. "Of all things," cried she, "a sentimental man is the most

despicable."

I confess I was somewhat nettled. The thrust seemed gratuitous.

"Of all things," I answered, "a woman without sentiment is the most

unlovely."

"Sentiment and loveliness are all very well, when you have time for

them," said Miss Blunt. "I haven't. I'm not rich enough. Good morning."

Speaking of another woman, I would say that she flounced out of the

room. But such was the gait of Juno, when she moved stiffly over the

grass from where Paris stood with Venus holding the apple, gathering up

her divine vestment, and leaving the others to guess at her face----

Juno has just come back to say that she forgot what she came for half an

hour ago. What will I be pleased to like for dinner?

"I have just been writing in my diary that you flounced out of the

room," said I.

"Have you, indeed? Now you can write that I have bounced in. There's a

nice cold chicken down-stairs," etc., etc.

* * * * *

_August 14th._--This afternoon I sent for a light wagon, and treated

Miss Blunt to a drive. We went successively over the three beaches. What

a time we had, coming home! I shall never forget that hard trot over

Weston's Beach. The tide was very low; and we had the whole glittering,

weltering strand to ourselves. There was a heavy blow yesterday, which

had not yet subsided; and the waves had been lashed into a magnificent

fury. Trot, trot, trot, trot, we trundled over the hard sand. The sound

of the horse's hoofs rang out sharp against the monotone of the

thunderous surf, as we drew nearer and nearer to the long line of the

cliffs. At our left, almost from the lofty zenith of the pale evening

sky to the high western horizon of the tumultuous dark-green sea, was

suspended, so to speak, one of those gorgeous vertical sunsets that

Turner loved so well. It was a splendid confusion of purple and green

and gold,--the clouds flying and flowing in the wind like the folds of a

mighty banner borne by some triumphal fleet whose prows were not visible

above the long chain of mountainous waves. As we reached the point where

the cliffs plunge down upon the beach, I pulled up, and we remained for

some moments looking out along the low, brown, obstinate barrier at

whose feet the impetuous waters were rolling themselves into powder.

* * * * *

_August 17th._--This evening, as I lighted my bedroom candle, I saw that

the Captain had something to say to me. So I waited below until the old

man and his daughter had performed their usual picturesque embrace, and

the latter had given me that hand-shake and that smile which I never

failed to exact.

"Johnson has got his discharge," said the old man, when he had heard,

his daughter's door close up-stairs.

"What do you mean?"

He pointed with his thumbs to the room above, where we heard, through

the thin partition, the movement of Miss Blunt's light step.

"You mean that he has proposed to Miss Esther?"

The Captain nodded.

"And has been refused?"

"Flat."

"Poor fellow!" said I, very honestly. "Did he tell you himself?"

"Yes, with tears in his eyes. He wanted me to speak for him. I told him

it was no use. Then he began to say hard things of my poor girl."

"What kind of things?"

"A pack of falsehoods. He says she has no heart. She has promised always

to regard him as a friend: it's more than I will, hang him!"

"Poor fellow!" said I; and now, as I write, I can only repeat,

considering what a hope was here broken, Poor fellow!

* * * * *

_August 23d._--I have been lounging about all day, thinking of it,

dreaming of it, spooning over it, as they say. This is a decided waste

of time. I think, accordingly, the best thing for me to do is, to sit

down and lay the ghost by writing out my story.

On Thursday evening Miss Blunt happened to intimate that she had a

holiday on the morrow, it being the birthday of the lady in whose

establishment she teaches.

"There is to be a tea-party at four o'clock in the afternoon for the

resident pupils and teachers," said Miss Esther. "Tea at four! what do

you think of that? And then there is to be a speech-making by the

smartest young lady. As my services are not required, I propose to be

absent. Suppose, father, you take us out in your boat. Will you come,

Mr. Locksley? We shall have a nice little picnic. Let us go over to old

Fort Pudding, across the bay. We will take our dinner with us, and send

Dorothy to spend the day with her sister, and put the house-key in our

pocket, and not come home till we please."

I warmly espoused the project, and it was accordingly carried into

execution the next morning, when, at about ten o'clock, we pushed off

from our little wharf at the garden-foot. It was a perfect summer's day:

I can say no more for it. We made a quiet run over to the point of our

destination. I shall never forget the wondrous stillness which brooded

over earth and water, as we weighed anchor in the lee of my old

friend,--or old enemy,--the ruined fort. The deep, translucent water

reposed at the base of the warm sunlit cliff like a great basin of

glass, which I half expected to hear shiver and crack as our keel

ploughed through it. And how color and sound stood out in the

transparent air! How audibly the little ripples on the beach whispered

to the open sky! How our irreverent voices seemed to jar upon the

privacy of the little cove! The mossy rocks doubled themselves without a

flaw in the clear, dark water. The gleaming white beach lay fringed with

its deep deposits of odorous sea-weed, gleaming black. The steep,

straggling sides of the cliffs raised aloft their rugged angles against

the burning blue of the sky. I remember, when Miss Blunt stepped ashore

and stood upon the beach, relieved against the heavy shadow of a recess

in the cliff, while her father and I busied ourselves with gathering up

our baskets and fastening the anchor--I remember, I say, what a figure

she made. There is a certain purity in this Cragthorpe air which I have

never seen approached,--a lightness, a brilliancy, a _crudity_, which

allows perfect liberty of self-assertion to each individual object in

the landscape. The prospect is ever more or less like a picture which

lacks its final process, its reduction to unity. Miss Blunt's figure, as

she stood there on the beach, was almost _criarde_; but how lovely it

was! Her light muslin dress, gathered up over her short white skirt, her

little black mantilla, the blue veil which she had knotted about her

neck, the crimson shawl which she had thrown over her arm, the little

silken dome which she poised over her head in one gloved hand, while the

other retained her crisp draperies, and which cast down upon her face a

sharp circle of shade, out of which her cheerful eyes shone darkly and

her happy mouth smiled whitely,--these are some of the hastily noted

points of the picture.

"Young woman," I cried out, over the water, "I do wish you might know

how pretty you look!"

"How do you know I don't?" she answered. "I should think I might. You

don't look so badly, yourself. But it's not I; it's the accessories."

"Hang it! I am going to become profane," I called out again.

"Swear ahead," said the Captain.

"I am going to say you are devilish pretty."

"Dear me! is that all?" cried Miss Blunt, with a little light laugh,

which must have made the tutelar sirens of the cove ready to die with

jealousy down in their submarine bowers.

By the time the Captain and I had landed our effects, our companion had

tripped lightly up the forehead of the cliff--in one place it is very

retreating--and disappeared over its crown. She soon reappeared with an

intensely white handkerchief added to her other provocations, which she

waved to us, as we trudged upward, carrying our baskets. When we stopped

to take breath on the summit, and wipe our foreheads, we of course

rebuked her who was roaming about idly with her parasol and gloves.

"Do you think I am going to take any trouble or do any work?" cried Miss

Esther, in the greatest good-humor. "Is not this my holiday? I am not

going to raise a finger, nor soil these beautiful gloves, for which I

paid a dollar at Mr. Dawson's in Cragthorpe. After you have found a

shady place for your provisions, I would like you to look for a spring.

I am very thirsty."

"Find the spring yourself, Miss," said her father. "Mr. Locksley and I

have a spring in this basket. Take a pull, Sir."

And the Captain drew forth a stout black bottle.

"Give me a cup, and I will look for some water," said Miss Blunt "Only

I'm so afraid of the snakes! If you hear a scream, you may know it's a

snake."

"Screaming snakes!" said I; "that's a new species."

What nonsense it all sounds like now! As we looked about us, shade

seemed scarce, as it generally is, in this region. But Miss Blunt, like

the very adroit and practical young person she is, for all that she

would have me believe the contrary, soon discovered a capital cool

spring in the shelter of a pleasant little dell, beneath a clump of

firs. Hither, as one of the young gentlemen who imitate Tennyson would

say, we brought our basket, Blunt and I; while Esther dipped the cup,

and held it dripping to our thirsty lips, and laid the cloth, and on the

grass disposed the platters round. I should have to be a poet, indeed,

to describe half the happiness and the silly poetry and purity and

beauty of this bright long summer's day. We ate, drank, and talked; we

ate occasionally with our fingers, we drank out of the necks of our

bottles, and we talked with our mouths full, as befits (and excuses)

those who talk wild nonsense. We told stories without the least point.

Blunt and I made atrocious puns. I believe, indeed, that Miss Blunt

herself made one little punkin, as I called it. If there had been any

superfluous representative of humanity present, to register the fact, I

should say that we made fools of ourselves. But as there was no fool on

hand, I need say nothing about it. I am conscious myself of having said

several witty things, which Miss Blunt understood: _in vino veritas_.

The dear old Captain twanged the long bow indefatigably. The bright high

sun lingered above us the livelong day, and drowned the prospect with

light and warmth. One of these days I mean to paint a picture which in

future ages, when my dear native land shall boast a national school of

art, will hang in the _Salon Carré_ of the great central museum,

(located, let us say, in Chicago,) and remind folks--or rather make them

forget--Giorgione, Bordone, and Veronese; A Rural Festival; three

persons feasting under some trees; scene, nowhere in particular; time

and hour, problematical. Female figure, a big _brune_; young man

reclining on his elbow; old man drinking. An empty sky, with no end of

expression. The whole stupendous in color, drawing, feeling. Artist

uncertain; supposed to be Robinson, 1900. That's about the programme.

After dinner the Captain began to look out across the bay, and, noticing

the uprising of a little breeze, expressed a wish to cruise about for an

hour or two. He proposed to us to walk along the shore to a point a

couple of miles northward, and there meet the boat. His daughter having

agreed to this proposition, he set off with the lightened pannier, and

in less than half an hour we saw him standing out from shore. Miss Blunt

and I did not begin our walk for a long, long time. We sat and talked

beneath the trees. At our feet, a wide cleft in the hills--almost a

glen--stretched down to the silent beach. Beyond lay the familiar

ocean-line. But, as many philosophers have observed, there is an end to

all things. At last we got up. Miss Blunt said, that, as the air was

freshening, she believed she would put on her shawl. I helped her to

fold it into the proper shape, and then I placed it on her shoulders,

her crimson shawl over her black silk sack. And then she tied her veil

once more about her neck, and gave me her hat to hold, while she

effected a partial redistribution of her hair-pins. By way of being

humorous, I placed her hat on my own head; at which she was kind enough

to smile, as with downcast face and uplifted elbows she fumbled among

her braids. And then she shook out the creases of her dress, and drew on

her gloves; and finally she said, "Well!"--that inevitable tribute to

time and morality which follows upon even the mildest forms of

dissipation. Very slowly it was that we wandered down the little glen.

Slowly, too, we followed the course of the narrow and sinuous beach, as

it keeps to the foot of the low cliffs. We encountered no sign of human

life. Our conversation I need hardly repeat. I think I may trust it to

the keeping of my memory: I think I shall be likely to remember it. It

was all very sober and sensible,--such talk as it is both easy and

pleasant to remember; it was even prosaic,--or, at least, if there was a

vein of poetry in it, I should have defied a listener to put his finger

on it. There was no exaltation of feeling or utterance on either side;

on one side, indeed, there was very little utterance. Am I wrong in

conjecturing, however, that there was considerable feeling of a certain

quiet kind? Miss Blunt maintained a rich, golden silence. I, on the

other hand, was very voluble. What a sweet, womanly listener she is!

* * * * *

_September 1st._--I have been working steadily for a week. This is the

first day of autumn. Read aloud to Miss Blunt a little Wordsworth.

* * * * *

_September 10th. Midnight._--Worked without interruption,--until

yesterday, inclusive, that is. But with the day now closing--or

opening--begins a new era. My poor vapid old diary, at last you shall

hold a _fact_.

For three days past we have been having damp, chilly weather. Dusk has

fallen early. This evening, after tea, the Captain went into town,--on

business, as he said: I believe, to attend some Poorhouse or Hospital

Board. Esther and I went into the parlor. The room seemed cold. She

brought in lamp from the dining-room, and proposed we should have a

little fire. I went into the kitchen, procured an armful of wood, and

while she drew the curtains and wheeled up the table, I kindled a

lively, crackling blaze. A fortnight ago she would not have allowed me

to do this without a protest. She would not have offered to do it

herself,--not she!--but she would have said that I was not here to

serve, but to be served, and would have pretended to call Dorothy. Of

course I should have had my own way. But we have changed all that.

Esther went to her piano, and I sat down to a book. I read not a word. I

sat looking at my mistress, and thinking with a very uneasy heart. For

the first time in our friendship, she had put on a dark, warm dress: I

think it was of the material called alpaca. The first time I saw her

she wore a white dress with a purple neck-ribbon; now she wore a black

dress with the same ribbon. That is, I remember wondering, as I sat

there eying her, whether it _was_ the same ribbon, or merely another

like it. My heart was in my throat; and yet I thought of a number of

trivialities of the same kind. At last I spoke.

"Miss Blunt," I said, "do you remember the first evening I passed

beneath your roof, last June?"

"Perfectly," she replied, without stopping.

"You played this same piece."

"Yes; I played it very badly, too. I only half knew it. But it is a

showy piece, and I wished to produce an effect. I didn't know then how

indifferent you are to music."

"I paid no particular attention to the piece. I was intent upon the

performer."

"So the performer supposed."

"What reason had you to suppose so?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Did you ever know a woman to be able to give a

reason, when she has guessed aright?"

"I think they generally contrive to make up a reason, afterwards. Come,

what was yours?"