A CONTENTED MAN

* * * * *

MOUNTJOY

OR SOME PASSAGES OUT OF THE LIFE OF A CASTLE-BUILDER

I was born among romantic scenery, in one of the wildest parts of the

Hudson, which at that time was not so thickly settled as at present. My

father was descended from one of the old Huguenot families that came over

to this country on the revocation of the edict of Nantz. He lived in a

style of easy, rural independence, on a patrimonial estate that had been

for two or three generations in the family. He was an indolent,

good-natured man, who took the world as it went, and had a kind of laughing

philosophy, that parried all rubs and mishaps, and served him in the place

of wisdom. This was the part of his character least to my taste; for I was

of an enthusiastic, excitable temperament, prone to kindle up with new

schemes and projects, and he was apt to dash my sallying enthusiasm by some

unlucky joke; so that whenever I was in a glow with any sudden excitement,

I stood in mortal dread of his good-humor.

Yet he indulged me in every vagary; for I was an only son, and of course a

personage of importance in the household. I had two sisters older than

myself, and one younger. The former were educated at New York, under the

eye of a maiden aunt; the latter remained at home, and was my cherished

playmate, the companion of my thoughts. We were two imaginative little

beings, of quick susceptibility, and prone to see wonders and mysteries in

everything around us. Scarce had we learned to read, when our mother made

us holiday presents of all the nursery literature of the day; which at that

time consisted of little books covered with gilt paper, adorned with

"cuts," and filled with tales of fairies, giants, and enchanters. What

draughts of delightful fiction did we then inhale! My sister Sophy was of a

soft and tender nature. She would weep over the woes of the Children in the

Wood, or quake at the dark romance of Blue-Beard, and the terrible

mysteries of the blue chamber. But I was all for enterprise and adventure.

I burned to emulate the deeds of that heroic prince who delivered the white

cat from her enchantment; or he of no less royal blood, and doughty

enterprise, who broke the charmed slumber of the Beauty in the Wood!

The house in which we lived was just the kind of place to foster such

propensities. It was a venerable mansion, half villa, half farmhouse. The

oldest part was of stone, with loop-holes for musketry, having served as a

family fortress in the time of the Indians. To this there had been made

various additions, some of brick, some of wood, according to the exigencies

of the moment; so that it was full of nooks and crooks, and chambers of all

sorts and sizes. It was buried among willows, elms, and cherry trees, and

surrounded with roses and hollyhocks, with honeysuckle and sweetbrier

clambering about every window. A brood of hereditary pigeons sunned

themselves upon the roof; hereditary swallows and martins built about the

eaves and chimneys; and hereditary bees hummed about the flower-beds.

Under the influence of our story-books every object around us now assumed a

new character, and a charmed interest. The wild flowers were no longer the

mere ornaments of the fields, or the resorts of the toilful bee; they were

the lurking-places of fairies. We would watch the humming-bird, as it

hovered around the trumpet creeper at our porch, and the butterfly as it

flitted up into the blue air, above the sunny tree-tops, and fancy them

some of the tiny beings from fairyland. I would call to mind all that I had

read of Robin Goodfellow and his power of transformation. Oh, how I envied

him that power! How I longed to be able to compress my form into utter

littleness; to ride the bold dragonfly; swing on the tall bearded grass;

follow the ant into his subterraneous habitation, or dive into the

cavernous depths of the honeysuckle!

While I was yet a mere child I was sent to a daily school, about two miles

distant. The schoolhouse was on the edge of a wood, close by a brook

overhung with birches, alders, and dwarf willows. We of the school who

lived at some distance came with our dinners put up in little baskets. In

the intervals of school hours we would gather round a spring, under a tuft

of hazel-bushes, and have a kind of picnic; interchanging the rustic

dainties with which our provident mothers had fitted us out. Then, when our

joyous repast was over, and my companions were disposed for play, I would

draw forth one of my cherished story-books, stretch myself on the green

sward, and soon lose myself in its bewitching contents.

I became an oracle among my schoolmates on account of my superior

erudition, and soon imparted to them the contagion of my infected fancy.

Often in the evening, after school hours, we would sit on the trunk of some

fallen tree in the woods, and vie with each other in telling extravagant

stories, until the whip-poor-will began his nightly moaning, and the

fireflies sparkled in the gloom. Then came the perilous journey homeward.

What delight we would take in getting up wanton panics in some dusky part

of the wood; scampering like frightened deer; pausing to take breath;

renewing the panic, and scampering off again, wild with fictitious terror!

Our greatest trial was to pass a dark, lonely pool, covered with

pond-lilies, peopled with bullfrogs and water snakes, and haunted by two

white cranes. Oh! the terrors of that pond! How our little hearts would

beat as we approached it; what fearful glances we would throw around! And

if by chance a plash of a wild duck, or the guttural twang of a bullfrog,

struck our ears, as we stole quietly by--away we sped, nor paused until

completely out of the woods. Then, when I reached home, what a world of

adventures and imaginary terrors would I have to relate to my sister Sophy!

As I advanced in years, this turn of mind increased upon me, and became

more confirmed. I abandoned myself to the impulses of a romantic

imagination, which controlled my studies, and gave a bias to all my habits.

My father observed me continually with a book in my hand, and satisfied

himself that I was a profound student; but what were my studies? Works of

fiction; tales of chivalry; voyages of discovery; travels in the East;

everything, in short, that partook of adventure and romance. I well

remember with what zest I entered upon that part of my studies which

treated of the heathen mythology, and particularly of the sylvan deities.

Then indeed my school books became dear to me. The neighborhood was well

calculated to foster the reveries of a mind like mine. It abounded with

solitary retreats, wild streams, solemn forests, and silent valleys. I

would ramble about for a whole day with a volume of Ovid's Metamorphoses in

my pocket, and work myself into a kind of self-delusion, so as to identify

the surrounding scenes with those of which I had just been reading. I would

loiter about a brook that glided through the shadowy depths of the forest,

picturing it to myself the haunt of Naiads. I would steal round some bushy

copse that opened upon a glade, as if I expected to come suddenly upon

Diana and her nymphs, or to behold Pan and his satyrs bounding, with whoop

and halloo, through the woodland. I would throw myself, during the panting

heats of a summer noon, under the shade of some wide-spreading tree, and

muse and dream away the hours, in a state of mental intoxication. I drank

in the very light of day, as nectar, and my soul seemed to bathe with

ecstasy in the deep blue of a summer sky.

In these wanderings nothing occurred to jar my feelings, or bring me back

to the realities of life. There is a repose in our mighty forests that

gives full scope to the imagination. Now and then I would hear the distant

sound of the woodcutter's ax, or the crash of some tree which he had laid

low; but these noises, echoing along the quiet landscape, could easily be

wrought by fancy into harmony with its illusions. In general, however, the

woody recesses of the neighborhood were peculiarly wild and unfrequented. I

could ramble for a whole day, without coming upon any traces of

cultivation. The partridge of the wood scarcely seemed to shun my path, and

the squirrel, from his nut-tree, would gaze at me for an instant, with

sparkling eye, as if wondering at the unwonted intrusion.

I cannot help dwelling on this delicious period of my life; when as yet I

had known no sorrow, nor experienced any worldly care. I have since studied

much, both of books and men, and of course have grown too wise to be so

easily pleased; yet with all my wisdom, I must confess I look back with a

secret feeling of regret to the days of happy ignorance before I had begun

to be a philosopher.

* * * * *

It must be evident that I was in a hopeful training for one who was to

descend into the arena of life, and wrestle with the world. The tutor,

also, who superintended my studies in the more advanced stage of my

education, was just fitted to complete the _fata morgana_ which was

forming in my mind. His name was Glencoe. He was a pale, melancholy-looking

man, about forty years of age; a native of Scotland, liberally educated,

and who had devoted himself to the instruction of youth from taste rather

than necessity; for, as he said, he loved the human heart, and delighted to

study it in its earlier impulses. My two elder sisters, having returned

home from a city boarding-school, were likewise placed under his care, to

direct their reading in history and belles-lettres.

We all soon became attached to Glencoe. It is true, we were at first

somewhat prepossessed against him. His meager, pallid countenance, his

broad pronunciation, his inattention to the little forms of society, and an

awkward and embarrassed manner, on first acquaintance, were much against

him; but we soon discovered that under this unpromising exterior existed

the kindest urbanity of temper; the warmest sympathies; the most

enthusiastic benevolence. His mind was ingenious and acute. His reading had

been various, but more abstruse than profound; his memory was stored, on

all subjects, with facts, theories, and quotations, and crowded with crude

materials for thinking. These, in a moment of excitement, would be, as it

were, melted down, and poured forth in the lava of a heated imagination. At

such moments, the change in the whole man was wonderful. His meager form

would acquire a dignity and grace; his long, pale visage would flash with a

hectic glow; his eyes would beam with intense speculation; and there would

be pathetic tones and deep modulations in his voice, that delighted the

ear, and spoke movingly to the heart.

But what most endeared him to us was the kindness and sympathy with which

he entered into all our interests and wishes. Instead of curbing and

checking our young imaginations with the reins of sober reason, he was a

little too apt to catch the impulse and be hurried away with us. He could

not withstand the excitement of any sally of feeling or fancy, and was

prone to lend heightening tints to the illusive coloring of youthful

anticipation.

Under his guidance my sisters and myself soon entered upon a more extended

range of studies; but while they wandered, with delighted minds, through

the wide field of history and belles-lettres, a nobler walk was opened to

my superior intellect.

The mind of Glencoe presented a singular mixture of philosophy and poetry.

He was fond of metaphysics and prone to indulge in abstract speculations,

though his metaphysics were somewhat fine spun and fanciful, and his

speculations were apt to partake of what my father most irreverently termed

"humbug." For my part, I delighted in them, and the more especially because

they set my father to sleep and completely confounded my sisters. I entered

with my accustomed eagerness into this new branch of study. Metaphysics

were now my passion. My sisters attempted to accompany me, but they soon

faltered, and gave out before they had got half way through Smith's Theory

of the Moral Sentiments. I, however, went on, exulting in my strength.

Glencoe supplied me with books, and I devoured them with appetite, if not

digestion. We walked and talked together under the trees before the house,

or sat apart, like Milton's angels, and held high converse upon themes

beyond the grasp of ordinary intellects. Glencoe possessed a kind of

philosophic chivalry, in imitation of the old peripatetic sages, and was

continually dreaming of romantic enterprises in morals, and splendid

systems for the improvement of society. He had a fanciful mode of

illustrating abstract subjects, peculiarly to my taste; clothing them with

the language of poetry, and throwing round them almost the magic hues of

fiction. "How charming," thought I, "is divine philosophy;" not harsh and

crabbed, as dull fools suppose,

"But a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets,

Where no crude surfeit reigns."

I felt a wonderful self-complacency at being on such excellent terms with a

man whom I considered on a parallel with the sages of antiquity, and looked

down with a sentiment of pity on the feebler intellects of my sisters, who

could comprehend nothing of metaphysics. It is true, when I attempted to

study them by myself, I was apt to get in a fog; but when Glencoe came to

my aid, everything was soon as clear to me as day. My ear drank in the

beauty of his words; my imagination was dazzled with the splendor of his

illustrations. It caught up the sparkling sands of poetry that glittered

through his speculations, and mistook them for the golden ore of wisdom.

Struck with the facility with which I seemed to imbibe and relish the most

abstract doctrines, I conceived a still higher opinion of my mental powers,

and was convinced that I also was a philosopher.

* * * * *

I was now verging toward man's estate, and though my education had been

extremely irregular--following the caprices of my humor, which I mistook

for the impulses of my genius--yet I was regarded with wonder and delight

by my mother and sisters, who considered me almost as wise and infallible

as I considered myself. This high opinion of me was strengthened by a

declamatory habit, which made me an oracle and orator at the domestic

board. The time was now at hand, however, that was to put my philosophy to

the test.

We had passed through a long winter, and the spring at length opened upon

us with unusual sweetness. The soft serenity of the weather; the beauty of

the surrounding country; the joyous notes of the birds; the balmy breath of

flower and blossom, all combined to fill my bosom with indistinct

sensations, and nameless wishes. Amid the soft seductions of the season, I

lapsed into a state of utter indolence, both of body and mind.

Philosophy had lost its charms for me. Metaphysics--faugh! I tried to

study; took down volume after volume, ran my eye vacantly over a few pages,

and threw them by with distaste. I loitered about the house, with my hands

in my pockets, and an air of complete vacancy. Something was necessary to

make me happy; but what was that something? I sauntered to the apartments

of my sisters, hoping their conversation might amuse me. They had walked

out, and the room was vacant. On the table lay a volume which they had been

reading. It was a novel. I had never read a novel, having conceived a

contempt for works of the kind, from hearing them universally condemned. It

is true, I had remarked that they were as universally read; but I

considered them beneath the attention of a philosopher, and never would

venture to read them, lest I should lessen my mental superiority in the

eyes of my sisters. Nay, I had taken up a work of the kind now and then,

when I knew my sisters were observing me, looked into it for a moment, and

then laid it down, with a slight supercilious smile. On the present

occasion, out of mere listlessness, I took up the volume and turned over a

few of the first pages. I thought I heard some one coming, and laid it

down. I was mistaken; no one was near, and what I had read tempted my

curiosity to read a little further. I leaned against a window-frame, and in

a few minutes was completely lost in the story. How long I stood there

reading I know not, but I believe for nearly two hours. Suddenly I heard my

sisters on the stairs, when I thrust the book into my bosom, and the two

other volumes which lay near into my pockets, and hurried out of the house

to my beloved woods. Here I remained all day beneath the trees, bewildered,

bewitched, devouring the contents of these delicious volumes, and only

returned to the house when it was too dark to peruse their pages.

This novel finished, I replaced it in my sisters' apartment, and looked for

others. Their stock was ample, for they had brought home all that were

current in the city; but my appetite demanded an immense supply. All this

course of reading was carried on clandestinely, for I was a little ashamed

of it, and fearful that my wisdom might be called in question; but this

very privacy gave it additional zest. It was "bread eaten in secret"; it

had the charm of a private amour.

But think what must have been the effect of such a course of reading on a

youth of my temperament and turn of mind; indulged, too, amid romantic

scenery and in the romantic season of the year. It seemed as if I had

entered upon a new scene of existence. A train of combustible feelings were

lighted up in me, and my soul was all tenderness and passion. Never was

youth more completely love-sick, though as yet it was a mere general

sentiment, and wanted a definite object. Unfortunately, our neighborhood

was particularly deficient in female society, and I languished in vain for

some divinity to whom I might offer up this most uneasy burden of

affections. I was at one time seriously enamored of a lady whom I saw

occasionally in my rides, reading at the window of a country-seat; and

actually serenaded her with my flute; when, to my confusion, I discovered

that she was old enough to be my mother. It was a sad damper to my romance;

especially as my father heard of it, and made it the subject of one of

those household jokes which he was apt to serve up at every meal-time.

I soon recovered from this check, however, but it was only to relapse into

a state of amorous excitement. I passed whole days in the fields, and along

the brooks; for there is something in the tender passion that makes us

alive to the beauties of nature. A soft sunshiny morning infused a sort of

rapture into my breast. I flung open my arms, like the Grecian youth in

Ovid, as if I would take in and embrace the balmy atmosphere. [Footnote:

Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book vii] The song of the birds melted me to

tenderness. I would lie by the side of some rivulet for hours, and form

garlands of the flowers on its banks, and muse on ideal beauties, and sigh

from the crowd of undefined emotions that swelled my bosom.

In this state of amorous delirium, I was strolling one morning along a

beautiful wild brook, which I had discovered in a glen. There was one place

where a small waterfall, leaping from among rocks into a natural basin,

made a scene such as a poet might have chosen as the haunt of some shy

Naiad. It was here I usually retired to banquet on my novels. In visiting

the place this morning I traced distinctly, on the margin of the basin,

which was of fine clear sand, the prints of a female foot of the most

slender and delicate proportions. This was sufficient for an imagination

like mine. Robinson Crusoe himself, when he discovered the print of a

savage foot on the beach of his lonely island, could not have been more

suddenly assailed with thick-coming fancies.

I endeavored to track the steps, but they only passed for a few paces along

the fine sand, and then were lost among the herbage. I remained gazing in

reverie upon this passing trace of loveliness. It evidently was not made by

any of my sisters, for they knew nothing of this haunt; besides, the foot

was smaller than theirs; it was remarkable for its beautiful delicacy.

My eye accidentally caught two or three half-withered wild flowers lying on

the ground. The unknown nymph had doubtless dropped them from her bosom!

Here was a new document of taste and sentiment. I treasured them up as

invaluable relics. The place, too, where I found them, was remarkably

picturesque, and the most beautiful part of the brook. It was overhung with

a fine elm, entwined with grapevines. She who could select such a spot, who

could delight in wild brooks, and wild flowers, and silent solitudes, must

have fancy, and feeling, and tenderness; and with all these qualities, she

must be beautiful!

But who could be this Unknown, that had thus passed by, as in a morning

dream, leaving merely flowers and fairy footsteps to tell of her

loveliness? There was a mystery in it that bewildered me. It was so vague

and disembodied, like those "airy tongues that syllable men's names" in

solitude. Every attempt to solve the mystery was vain. I could hear of no

being in the neighborhood to whom this trace could be ascribed. I haunted

the spot, and became daily more and more enamored. Never, surely, was

passion more pure and spiritual, and never lover in more dubious situation.

My case could be compared only to that of the amorous prince in the fairy

tale of Cinderella; but he had a glass slipper on which to lavish his

tenderness. I, alas! was in love with a footstep!

The imagination is alternately a cheat and a dupe; nay, more, it is the

most subtle of cheats, for it cheats itself and becomes the dupe of its own

delusions. It conjures up "airy nothings," gives to them a "local

habitation and a name," and then bows to their control as implicitly as

though they were realities. Such was now my case. The good Numa could not

more thoroughly have persuaded himself that the nymph Egeria hovered about

her sacred fountain and communed with him in spirit than I had deceived

myself into a kind of visionary intercourse with the airy phantom

fabricated in my brain. I constructed a rustic seat at the foot of the tree

where I had discovered the footsteps. I made a kind of bower there, where I

used to pass my mornings reading poetry and romances. I carved hearts and

darts on the tree, and hung it with garlands. My heart was full to

overflowing, and wanted some faithful bosom into which it might relieve

itself. What is a lover without a confidante? I thought at once of my

sister Sophy, my early playmate, the sister of my affections. She was so

reasonable, too, and of such correct feelings, always listening to my words

as oracular sayings, and admiring my scraps of poetry as the very

inspirations of the muse. From such a devoted, such a rational being, what

secrets could I have?

I accordingly took her one morning to my favorite retreat. She looked

around, with delighted surprise, upon the rustic seat, the bower, the tree

carved with emblems of the tender passion. She turned her eyes upon me to

inquire the meaning.

"Oh, Sophy," exclaimed I, clasping both her hands in mine, and looking

earnestly in her face, "I am in love."

She started with surprise.

"Sit down," said I, "and I will tell you all."

She seated herself upon the rustic bench, and I went into a full history of

the footstep, with all the associations of idea that had been conjured up

by my imagination.

Sophy was enchanted; it was like a fairy tale; she had read of such

mysterious visitations in books, and the loves thus conceived were always

for beings of superior order, and were always happy. She caught the

illusion in all its force; her cheek glowed; her eye brightened.

"I daresay she's pretty," said Sophy.

"Pretty!" echoed I, "she is beautiful." I went through all the reasoning by

which I had logically proved the fact to my own satisfaction. I dwelt upon

the evidences of her taste, her sensibility to the beauties of nature; her

soft meditative habit that delighted in solitude. "Oh," said I, clasping my

hands, "to have such a companion to wander through these scenes; to sit

with her by this murmuring stream; to wreathe garlands round her brows; to

hear the music of her voice mingling with the whisperings of these groves;

to--"

"Delightful! delightful!" cried Sophy; "what a sweet creature she must be!

She is just the friend I want. How I shall dote upon her! Oh, my dear

brother! you must not keep her all to yourself. You must let _me_ have

some share of her!"

I caught her to my bosom: "You shall--you shall!" cried I, "my dear Sophy;

we will all live for each other!"

* * * * *

The conversation with Sophy heightened the illusions of my mind; and the

manner in which she had treated my daydream identified it with facts and

persons and gave it still more the stamp of reality. I walked about as one

in a trance, heedless of the world around and lapped in an elysium of the

fancy.

In this mood I met one morning with Glencoe. He accosted me with his usual

smile, and was proceeding with some general observations, but paused and

fixed on me an inquiring eye.

"What is the matter with you?" said he, "you seem agitated; has anything in

particular happened?"

"Nothing," said I, hesitating; "at least nothing worth communicating to

you."

"Nay, my dear young friend," said he, "whatever is of sufficient importance

to agitate you is worthy of being communicated to me."

"Well; but my thoughts are running on what you would think a frivolous

subject."

"No subject is frivolous that has the power to awaken strong feelings."

"What think you," said I, hesitating, "what think you of love?"

Glencoe almost started at the question. "Do you call that a frivolous

subject?" replied he. "Believe me, there is none fraught with such deep,

such vital interest. If you talk, indeed, of the capricious inclination

awakened by the mere charm of perishable beauty, I grant it to be idle in

the extreme; but that love which springs from the concordant sympathies of

virtuous hearts; that love which is awakened by the perception of moral

excellence, and fed by meditation on intellectual as well as personal

beauty; that is a passion which refines and ennobles the human heart. Oh,

where is there a sight more nearly approaching to the intercourse of

angels, than that of two young beings, free from the sins and follies of

the world, mingling pure thoughts, and looks, and feelings, and becoming,

as it were, soul of one soul and heart of one heart! How exquisite the

silent converse that they hold; the soft devotion of the eye, that needs no

words to make it eloquent! Yes, my friend, if there be anything in this

weary world worthy of heaven, it is the pure bliss of such a mutual

affection!"

The words of my worthy tutor overcame all further reserve. "Mr. Glencoe,"

cried I, blushing still deeper, "I am in love."

"And is that what you were ashamed to tell me? Oh, never seek to conceal

from your friend so important a secret. If your passion be unworthy, it is

for the steady hand of friendship to pluck it forth; if honorable, none but

an enemy would seek to stifle it. On nothing does the character and

happiness so much depend as on the first affection of the heart. Were you

caught by some fleeting and superficial charm--a bright eye, a blooming

cheek, a soft voice, or a voluptuous form--I would warn you to beware; I

would tell you that beauty is but a passing gleam of the morning, a

perishable flower; that accident may becloud and blight it, and that at

best it must soon pass away. But were you in love with such a one as I

could describe; young in years, but still younger in feelings; lovely in

person, but as a type of the mind's beauty; soft in voice, in token of

gentleness of spirit; blooming in countenance, like the rosy tints of

morning kindling with the promise of a genial day; an eye beaming with the

benignity of a happy heart; a cheerful temper, alive to all kind impulses,

and frankly diffusing its own felicity; a self-poised mind, that needs not

lean on others for support; an elegant taste, that can embellish solitude,

and furnish out its own enjoyments--"

"My dear sir," cried I, for I could contain myself no longer, "you have

described the very person!"

"Why, then, my dear young friend," said he, affectionately pressing my

hand, "in God's name, love on!"

* * * * *

For the remainder of the day I was in some such state of dreamy beatitude

as a Turk is said to enjoy when under the influence of opium. It must be

already manifest how prone I was to bewilder myself with picturings of the

fancy, so as to confound them with existing realities. In the present

instance, Sophy and Glencoe had contributed to promote the transient

delusion. Sophy, dear girl, had as usual joined with me in my

castle-building, and indulged in the same train of imaginings, while

Glencoe, duped by my enthusiasm, firmly believed that I spoke of a being I

had seen and known. By their sympathy with my feelings they in a manner

became associated with the Unknown in my mind, and thus linked her with the

circle of my intimacy.

In the evening, our family party was assembled in the hall, to enjoy the

refreshing breeze. Sophy was playing some favorite Scotch airs on the

piano, while Glencoe, seated apart, with his forehead resting on his hand,

was buried in one of those pensive reveries that made him so interesting to

me.

"What a fortunate being I am!" thought I, "blessed with such a sister and

such a friend! I have only to find out this amiable Unknown, to wed her,

and be happy! What a paradise will be my home, graced with a partner of

such exquisite refinement! It will be a perfect fairy bower, buried among

sweets and roses. Sophy shall live with us, and be the companion of all our

enjoyments. Glencoe, too, shall no more be the solitary being that he now

appears. He shall have a home with us. He shall have his study, where, when

he pleases, he may shut himself up from the world, and bury himself in his

own reflections. His retreat shall be sacred; no one shall intrude there;

no one but myself, who will visit him now and then, in his seclusion, where

we will devise grand schemes together for the improvement of mankind. How

delightfully our days will pass, in a round of rational pleasures and

elegant employments! Sometimes we will have music; sometimes we will read;

sometimes we will wander through the flower garden, when I will smile with

complacency on every flower my wife has planted; while in the long winter

evenings the ladies will sit at their work, and listen with hushed

attention to Glencoe and myself, as we discuss the abstruse doctrines of

metaphysics."

From this delectable reverie, I was startled by my father's slapping me on

the shoulder. "What possesses the lad?" cried he; "here have I been

speaking to you half a dozen times, without receiving an answer."

"Pardon me, sir," replied I; "I was so completely lost in thought, that I

did not hear you."

"Lost in thought! And pray what were you thinking of? Some of your

philosophy, I suppose."

"Upon my word," said my sister Charlotte, with an arch laugh, "I suspect

Harry's in love again."

"And if were in love, Charlotte," said I, somewhat nettled, and

recollecting Glencoe's enthusiastic eulogy of the passion, "if I were in

love, is that a matter of jest and laughter? Is the tenderest and most

fervid affection that can animate the human breast to be made a matter of

cold-hearted ridicule?"

My sister colored. "Certainly not, brother!--nor did I mean to make it so,

or to say anything that should wound your feelings. Had I really suspected

you had formed some genuine attachment, it would have been sacred in my

eyes; but--but," said she, smiling, as if at some whimsical recollection,

"I thought that you--you might be indulging in another little freak of the

imagination."

"Ill wager any money," cried my father, "he has fallen in love again with

some old lady at a window!"

"Oh, no!" cried my dear sister Sophy, with the most gracious warmth; "she

is young and beautiful."

"From what I understand," said Glencoe, rousing himself, "she must be

lovely in mind as in person."

I found my friends were getting me into a fine scrape. I began to perspire

at every pore, and felt my ears tingle.

"Well, but," cried my father, "who is she?--what is she? Let us hear

something about her."

This was no time to explain so delicate a matter. I caught up my hat, and

vanished out of the house.

The moment I was in the open air, and alone, my heart upbraided me. Was

this respectful treatment to my father--to _such_ a father, too--who

had always regarded me as the pride of his age--the staff of his hopes? It

is true, he was apt sometimes to laugh at my enthusiastic flights, and did

not treat my philosophy with due respect; but when had he ever thwarted a

wish of my heart? Was I then to act with reserve toward him, in a matter

which might affect the whole current of my future life? "I have done

wrong," thought I; "but it is not too late to remedy it. I will hasten back

and open my whole heart to my father!"

I returned accordingly, and was just on the point of entering the house,

with my heart full of filial piety and a contrite speech upon my lips, when

I heard a burst of obstreperous laughter from my father, and a loud titter

from my two elder sisters.

"A footstep!" shouted he, as soon as he could recover himself; "in love

with a footstep! Why, this beats the old lady at the window!" And then

there was another appalling burst of laughter. Had it been a clap of

thunder, it could hardly have astounded me more completely. Sophy, in the

simplicity of her heart, had told all, and had set my father's risible

propensities in full action.

Never was poor mortal so thoroughly crestfallen as myself. The whole

delusion was at an end. I drew off silently from the house, shrinking

smaller and smaller at every fresh peal of laughter; and, wandering about

until the family had retired, stole quietly to my bed. Scarce any sleep,

however, visited my eyes that night! I lay overwhelmed with mortification,

and meditating how I might meet the family in the morning. The idea of

ridicule was always intolerable to me; but to endure it on a subject by

which my feelings had been so much excited seemed worse than death. I

almost determined, at one time, to get up, saddle my horse, and ride off, I

knew not whither.

At length I came to a resolution. Before going down to breakfast, I sent

for Sophy, and employed her as embassador to treat formally in the matter.

I insisted that the subject should be buried in oblivion; otherwise I would

not show my face at table. It was readily agreed to; for not one of the

family would have given me pain for the world. They faithfully kept their

promise. Not a word was said of the matter; but there were wry faces, and

suppressed titters, that went to my soul; and whenever my father looked me

in the face, it was with such a tragi-comical leer--such an attempt to pull

down a serious brow upon a whimsical mouth--that I had a thousand times

rather he had laughed outright.

* * * * *

For a day or two after the mortifying occurrence just related, I kept as

much as possible out of the way of the family, and wandered about the

fields and woods by myself. I was sadly out of tune; my feelings were all

jarred and unstrung. The birds sang from every grove, but I took no

pleasure in their melody; and the flowers of the field bloomed unheeded

around me. To be crossed in love is bad enough; but then one can fly to

poetry for relief, and turn one's woes to account in soul-subduing stanzas.

But to have one's whole passion, object and all, annihilated, dispelled,

proved to be such stuff as dreams are made of--or, worse than all, to be

turned into a proverb and a jest--what consolation is there in such a case?

I avoided the fatal brook where I had seen the footstep. My favorite resort

was now the banks of the Hudson, where I sat upon the rocks and mused upon

the current that dimpled by, or the waves that laved the shore; or watched

the bright mutations of the clouds, and the shifting lights and shadows of

the distant mountain. By degrees a returning serenity stole over my

feelings; and a sigh now and then, gentle and easy, and unattended by pain,

showed that my heart was recovering its susceptibility.

As I was sitting in this musing mood my eye became gradually fixed upon an

object that was borne along by the tide. It proved to be a little pinnace,

beautifully modeled, and gayly painted and decorated. It was an unusual

sight in this neighborhood, which was rather lonely; indeed, it was rare to

see any pleasure-barks in this part of the river. As it drew nearer, I

perceived that there was no one on board; it had apparently drifted from

its anchorage. There was not a breath of air; the little bark came floating

along on the glassy stream, wheeling about with the eddies. At length it

ran aground, almost at the foot of the rock on which I was seated. I

descended to the margin of the river, and drawing the bark to shore,

admired its light and elegant proportions and the taste with which it was

fitted up. The benches were covered with cushions, and its long streamer

was of silk. On one of the cushion's lay a lady's glove, of delicate size

and shape, with beautifully tapered fingers. I instantly seized it and

thrust it in my bosom; it seemed a match for the fairy footstep that had so

fascinated me.

In a moment all the romance of my bosom was again in a glow. Here was one

of the very incidents of fairy tale; a bark sent by some invisible power,

some good genius, or benevolent fairy, to waft me to some delectable

adventure. I recollected something of an enchanted bark, drawn by white

swans, that conveyed a knight down the current of the Rhine, on some

enterprise connected with love and beauty. The glove, too, showed that

there was a lady fair concerned in the present adventure. It might be a

gauntlet of defiance, to dare me to the enterprise.

In the spirit of romance and the whim of the moment, I sprang on board,

hoisted the light sail, and pushed from shore. As if breathed by some

presiding power, a light breeze at that moment sprang up, swelled out the

sail, and dallied with the silken streamer. For a time I glided along under

steep umbrageous banks, or across deep sequestered bays; and then stood out

over a wide expansion of the river toward a high rocky promontory. It was a

lovely evening; the sun was setting in a congregation of clouds that threw

the whole heavens in a glow, and were reflected in the river. I delighted

myself with all kinds of fantastic fancies, as to what enchanted island, or

mystic bower, or necromantic palace, I was to be conveyed by the fairy

bark.

In the revel of my fancy I had not noticed that the gorgeous congregation

of clouds which had so much delighted me was in fact a gathering thunder

gust. I perceived the truth too late. The clouds came hurrying on,

darkening as they advanced. The whole face of nature was suddenly changed,

and assumed that baleful and livid tint, predictive of a storm. I tried to

gain the shore, but before I could reach it a blast of wind struck the

water and lashed it at once into foam. The next moment it overtook the

boat. Alas! I was nothing of a sailor; and my protecting fairy forsook me

in the moment of peril. I endeavored to lower the sail; but in so doing I

had to quit the helm; the bark was overturned in an instant, and I was

thrown into the water. I endeavored to cling to the wreck, but missed my

hold; being a poor swimmer I soon found myself sinking, but grasped a light

oar that was floating by me. It was not sufficient for my support; I again

sank beneath the surface; there was a rushing and bubbling sound in my

ears, and all sense forsook me.

How long I remained insensible, I know not. I had a confused notion of

being moved and tossed about, and of hearing strange beings and strange

voices around me; but all this was like a hideous dream. When I at length

recovered full consciousness and perception, I found myself in bed in a

spacious chamber, furnished with more taste than I had been accustomed to.

The bright rays of a morning sun were intercepted by curtains of a delicate

rose color, that gave a soft, voluptuous tinge to every object. Not far

from my bed, on a classic tripod, was a basket of beautiful exotic flowers,

breathing the sweetest fragrance.

"Where am I? How came I here?"

I tasked my mind to catch at some previous event, from which I might trace

up the thread of existence to the present moment. By degrees I called to

mind the fairy pinnace, my daring embarkation, my adventurous voyage, and

my disastrous shipwreck. Beyond that, all was chaos. How came I here? What

unknown region had I landed upon? The people that inhabited it must be

gentle and amiable, and of elegant tastes, for they loved downy beds,

fragrant flowers, and rose-colored curtains.

While I lay thus musing, the tones of a harp reached my ear. Presently they

were accompanied by a female voice. It came from the room below; but in the

profound stillness of my chamber not a modulation was lost. My sisters were

all considered good musicians, and sang very tolerably; but I had never

heard a voice like this. There was no attempt at difficult execution, or

striking effect; but there were exquisite inflections, and tender turns,

which art could not reach. Nothing but feeling and sentiment could produce

them. It was soul breathed forth in sound. I was always alive to the

influence of music; indeed, I was susceptible of voluptuous influences of

every kind--sounds, colors, shapes, and fragrant odors. I was the very

slave of sensation.

I lay mute and breathless, and drank in every note of this siren strain. It

thrilled through my whole frame, and filled my soul with melody and love. I

pictured to myself, with curious logic, the form of the unseen musician.

Such melodious sounds and exquisite inflections could only be produced by

organs of the most delicate flexibility. Such organs do not belong to

coarse, vulgar forms; they are the harmonious results of fair proportions,

and admirable symmetry. A being so organized must be lovely.

Again my busy imagination was at work. I called to mind the Arabian story

of a prince, borne away during sleep by a good genius, to the distant abode

of a princess of ravishing beauty. I do not pretend to say that I believed

in having experienced a similar transportation; but it was my inveterate

habit to cheat myself with fancies of the kind, and to give the tinge of

illusion to surrounding realities.

The witching sound had ceased, but its vibrations still played round my

heart, and filled it with a tumult of soft emotions. At this moment, a

self-upbraiding pang shot through my bosom. "Ah, recreant!" a voice seemed

to exclaim, "is this the stability of thine affections? What! hast thou so

soon forgotten the nymph of the fountain? Has one song, idly piped in thine

ear, been sufficient to charm away the cherished tenderness of a whole

summer?"

The wise may smile--but I am in a confiding mood, and must confess my

weakness. I felt a degree of compunction at this sudden infidelity, yet I

could not resist the power of present fascination. My peace of mind was

destroyed by conflicting claims. The nymph of the fountain came over my

memory, with all the associations of fairy footsteps, shady groves, soft

echoes, and wild streamlets; but this new passion was produced by a strain

of soul-subduing melody, still lingering in my ear, aided by a downy bed,

fragrant flowers, and rose-colored curtains. "Unhappy youth!" sighed I to

myself, "distracted by such rival passions, and the empire of thy heart

thus violently contested by the sound of a voice, and the print of a

footstep!"

* * * * *

I had not remained long in this mood, when I heard the door of the room

gently opened. I turned my head to see what inhabitant of this enchanted

palace should appear; whether page in green, a hideous dwarf, or haggard

fairy. It was my own man Scipio. He advanced with cautious step, and was

delighted, as he said, to find me so much myself again. My first questions

were as to where I was and how I came there? Scipio told me a long story of

his having been fishing in a canoe at the time of my hare-brained cruise;

of his noticing the gathering squall, and my impending danger; of his

hastening to join me, but arriving just in time to snatch me from a watery

grave; of the great difficulty in restoring me to animation; and of my

being subsequently conveyed, in a state of insensibility, to this mansion.

"But where am I?" was the reiterated demand.

"In the house of Mr. Somerville."

"Somerville--Somerville!" I recollected to have heard that a gentleman of

that name had recently taken up his residence at some distance from my

father's abode, on the opposite side of the Hudson. He was commonly known

by the name of "French Somerville," from having passed part of his early

life in France, and from his exhibiting traces of French taste in his mode

of living, and the arrangements of his house. In fact, it was in his

pleasure-boat, which had got adrift, that I had made my fanciful and

disastrous cruise. All this was simple, straightforward matter of fact, and

threatened to demolish all the cobweb romance I had been spinning, when

fortunately I again heard the tinkling of a harp. I raised myself in bed

and listened.

"Scipio," said I, with some little hesitation, "I heard some one singing

just now. Who was it?"

"Oh, that was Miss Julia."

"Julia! Julia! Delightful! what a name! And, Scipio--is she--is she

pretty?"

Scipio grinned from ear to ear. "Except Miss Sophy, she was the most

beautiful young lady he had ever seen."

I should observe, that my sister Sophia was considered by all the servants

a paragon of perfection.

Scipio now offered to remove the basket of flowers; he was afraid their

odor might be too powerful; but Miss Julia had given them that morning to

be placed in my room.

These flowers, then, had been gathered by the fairy fingers of my unseen

beauty; that sweet breath which had filled my ear with melody had passed

over them. I made Scipio hand them to me, culled several of the most

delicate, and laid them on my bosom.

Mr. Somerville paid me a visit not long afterward. He was an interesting

study for me, for he was the father of my unseen beauty, and probably

resembled her. I scanned him closely. He was a tall and elegant man, with

an open, affable manner, and an erect and graceful carriage. His eyes were

bluish-gray, and, though not dark, yet at times were sparkling and

expressive. His hair was dressed and powdered, and being lightly combed up

from his forehead, added to the loftiness of his aspect. He was fluent in

discourse, but his conversation had the quiet tone of polished society,

without any of those bold flights of thought, and picturings of fancy,

which I so much admired.

My imagination was a little puzzled, at first, to make out of this

assemblage of personal and mental qualities a picture that should harmonize

with my previous idea of the fair unseen. By dint, however, of selecting

what it liked, and giving a touch here and a touch there, it soon furnished

out a satisfactory portrait.

"Julia must be tall," thought I, "and of exquisite grace and dignity. She

is not quite so courtly as her father, for she has been brought up in the

retirement of the country. Neither is she of such vivacious deportment; for

the tones of her voice are soft and plaintive, and she loves pathetic

music. She is rather pensive--yet not too pensive; just what is called

interesting. Her eyes are like her father's, except that they are of a

purer blue, and more tender and languishing. She has light hair--not

exactly flaxen, for I do not like flaxen hair, but between that and auburn.

In a word, she is a tall, elegant, imposing, languishing blue-eyed,

romantic-looking beauty." And having thus finished her picture, I felt ten

times more in love with her than ever.

* * * * *

I felt so much recovered that I would at once have left my room, but Mr.

Somerville objected to it. He had sent early word to my family of my

safety; and my father arrived in the course of the morning. He was shocked

at learning the risk I had run, but rejoiced to find me so much restored,

and was warm in his thanks to Mr. Somerville for his kindness. The other

only required, in return, that I might remain two or three days as his

guest, to give time for my recovery, and for our forming a closer

acquaintance; a request which my father readily granted. Scipio accordingly

accompanied my father home, and returned with a supply of clothes, and with

affectionate letters from my mother and sisters.

The next morning, aided by Scipio, I made my toilet with rather more care

than usual, and descended the stairs with some trepidation, eager to see

the original of the portrait which had been so completely pictured in my

imagination.

On entering the parlor, I found it deserted. Like the rest of the house, it

was furnished in a foreign style. The curtains were of French silk; there

were Grecian couches, marble tables, pier-glasses, and chandeliers. What

chiefly attracted my eye, were documents of female taste that I saw around

me; a piano, with an ample stock of Italian music: a book of poetry lying

on the sofa; a vase of fresh flowers on a table, and a portfolio open with

a skillful and half-finished sketch of them. In the window was a canary

bird, in a gilt cage, and near by, the harp that had been in Julia's arms.

Happy harp! But where was the being that reigned in this little empire of

delicacies?--that breathed poetry and song, and dwelt among birds and

flowers, and rose-colored curtains?

Suddenly I heard the hall door fly open, the quick pattering of light

steps, a wild, capricious strain of music, and the shrill barking of a dog.

A light, frolic nymph of fifteen came tripping into the room, playing on a

flageolet, with a little spaniel romping after her. Her gypsy hat had

fallen back upon her shoulders; a profusion of glossy brown hair was blown

in rich ringlets about her face, which beamed through them with the

brightness of smiles and dimples.

At sight of me she stopped short, in the most beautiful confusion,

stammered out a word or two about looking for her father, glided out of the

door, and I heard her bounding up the staircase, like a frightened fawn,

with the little dog barking after her.

When Miss Somerville returned to the parlor, she was quite a different

being. She entered, stealing along by her mother's side with noiseless

step, and sweet timidity; her hair was prettily adjusted, and a soft blush

mantled on her damask cheek. Mr. Somerville accompanied the ladies, and

introduced me regularly to them. There were many kind inquiries and much

sympathy expressed, on the subject of my nautical accident, and some

remarks upon the wild scenery of the neighborhood, with which the ladies

seemed perfectly acquainted.

"You must know," said Mr. Somerville, "that we are great navigators, and

delight in exploring every nook and corner of the river. My daughter, too,

is a great hunter of the picturesque, and transfers every rock and glen to

her portfolio. By the way, my dear, show Mr. Mountjoy that pretty scene you

have lately sketched." Julia complied, blushing, and drew from her

portfolio a colored sketch. I almost started at the sight. It was my

favorite brook. A sudden thought darted across my mind. I glanced down my

eye, and beheld the divinest little foot in the world. Oh, blissful

conviction! The struggle of my affections was at an end. The voice and the

footstep were no longer at variance. Julia Somerville was the nymph of the

fountain!

* * * * *

What conversation passed during breakfast I do not recollect, and hardly

was conscious of at the time, for my thoughts were in complete confusion. I

wished to gaze on Miss Somerville, but did not dare. Once, indeed, I

ventured a glance. She was at that moment darting a similar one from under

a covert of ringlets. Our eyes seemed shocked by the rencontre, and fell;

hers through the natural modesty of her sex, mine through a bashfulness

produced by the previous workings of my imagination. That glance, however,

went like a sunbeam to my heart.

A convenient mirror favored my diffidence, and gave me the reflection of

Miss Somerville's form. It is true it only presented the back of her head,

but she had the merit of an ancient statue; contemplate her from any point

of view, she was beautiful. And yet she was totally different from

everything I had before conceived of beauty. She was not the serene,

meditative maid that I had pictured the nymph of the fountain; nor the

tall, soft, languishing, blue-eyed, dignified being that I had fancied the

minstrel of the harp. There was nothing of dignity about her: she was

girlish in her appearance, and scarcely of the middle size; but then there

was the tenderness of budding youth; the sweetness of the half-blown rose,

when not a tint of perfume has been withered or exhaled; there were smiles

and dimples, and all the soft witcheries of ever-varying expression. I

wondered that I could ever have admired any other style of beauty.

After breakfast, Mr. Somerville departed to attend to the concerns of his

estate, and gave me in charge of the ladies. Mrs. Somerville also was

called away by her household cares, and I was left alone with Julia! Here,

then, was the situation which of all others I had most coveted. I was in

the presence of the lovely being that had so long been the desire of my

heart. We were alone; propitious opportunity for a lover! Did I seize upon

it? Did I break out in one of my accustomed rhapsodies? No such thing!

Never was being more awkwardly embarrassed.

"What can be the cause of this?" thought I. "Surely, I cannot stand in awe

of this young girl. I am of course her superior in intellect, and am never

embarrassed in company with my tutor, notwithstanding all his wisdom."

It was passing strange. I felt that if she were an old woman, I should be

quite at my ease; if she were even an ugly woman, I should make out very

well: it was her beauty that overpowered me. How little do lovely women

know what awful beings they are, in the eyes of inexperienced youth! Young

men brought up in the fashionable circles of our cities will smile at all

this. Accustomed to mingle incessantly in female society, and to have the

romance of the heart deadened by a thousand frivolous flirtations, women

are nothing but women in their eyes; but to a susceptible youth like

myself, brought up in the country, they are perfect divinities.

Miss Somerville was at first a little embarrassed herself; but, somehow or

other, women have a natural adroitness in recovering their self-possession;

they are more alert in their minds, and graceful in their manners. Besides,

I was but an ordinary personage in Miss Somerville's eyes; she was not

under Hie influence of such a singular course of imaginings as had

surrounded her, in my eyes, with the illusions of romance. Perhaps, too,

she saw the confusion in the opposite camp and gained courage from the

discovery. At any rate she was the first to take the field.

Her conversation, however, was only on commonplace topics, and in an easy,

well-bred style. I endeavored to respond in the same manner; but I was

strangely incompetent to the task. My ideas were frozen up; even words

seemed to fail me. I was excessively vexed at myself, for I wished to be

uncommonly elegant. I tried two or three times to turn a pretty thought, or

to utter a fine sentiment; but it would come forth so trite, so forced, so

mawkish, that I was ashamed of it. My very voice sounded discordantly,

though I sought to modulate it into the softest tones. "The truth is,"

thought I to myself, "I cannot bring my mind down to the small talk

necessary for young girls; it is too masculine and robust for the mincing

measure of parlor gossip. I am a philosopher--and that accounts for it."

The entrance of Mrs. Somerville at length gave me relief. I at once

breathed freely, and felt a vast deal of confidence come over me. "This is

strange," thought I, "that the appearance of another woman should revive my

courage; that I should be a better match for two women than one. However,

since it is so, I will take advantage of the circumstance, and let this

young lady see that I am not so great a simpleton as she probably thinks

me."

I accordingly took up the book of poetry which lay upon the sofa. It was

Milton's Paradise Lost. Nothing could have been more fortunate; it afforded

a fine scope for my favorite vein of grandiloquence. I went largely into a

discussion of its merits, or rather an enthusiastic eulogy of them. My

observations were addressed to Mrs. Somerville, for I found I could talk to

her with more ease than to her daughter. She appeared alive to the beauties

of the poet and disposed to meet me in the discussion; but it was not my

object to hear her talk; it was to talk myself. I anticipated all she had

to say, overpowered her with the copiousness of my ideas, and supported and

illustrated them by long citations from the author.

While thus holding forth, I cast a side glance to see how Miss Somerville

was affected. She had some embroidery stretched on a frame before her, but

had paused in her labor, and was looking down as if lost in mute attention.

I felt a glow of self-satisfaction, but I recollected, at the same time,

with a kind of pique, the advantage she had enjoyed over me in our

tete-a-tete. I determined to push my triumph, and accordingly kept on with

redoubled ardor, until I had fairly exhausted my subject, or rather my

thoughts.

I had scarce come to a full stop, when Miss Somerville raised her eyes from

the work on which they had been fixed, and turning to her mother, observed:

"I have been considering, mamma, whether to work these flowers plain, or in

colors."

Had an ice-bolt shot to my heart, it could not have chilled me more

effectually. "What a fool," thought I, "have I been making

myself--squandering away fine thoughts, and fine language, upon a light

mind and an ignorant ear! This girl knows nothing of poetry. She has no

soul, I fear, for its beauties. Can any one have real sensibility of heart,

and not be alive to poetry? However, she is young; this part of her

education has been neglected; there is time enough to remedy it. I will be

her preceptor. I will kindle in her mind the sacred flame, and lead her

through the fairy land of song. But after all, it is rather unfortunate

that I should have fallen in love with a woman who knows nothing of

poetry."

* * * * *

I passed a day not altogether satisfactory. I was a little disappointed

that Miss Somerville did not show more poetical feeling. "I am afraid,

after all," said I to myself, "she is light and girlish, and more fitted to

pluck wild flowers, play on the flageolet, and romp with little dogs than

to converse with a man of my turn."

I believe, however, to tell the truth, I was more out of humor with myself.

I thought I had made the worst first appearance that ever hero made, either

in novel or fairy tale. I was out of all patience, when I called to mind my

awkward attempts at ease and elegance, in the tete-a-tete. And then my

intolerable long lecture about poetry to catch the applause of a heedless

auditor! But there I was not to blame. I had certainly been eloquent: it

was her fault that the eloquence was wasted. To meditate upon the

embroidery of a flower, when I was expatiating on the beauties of Milton!

She might at least have admired the poetry, if she did not relish the

manner in which it was delivered: though that was not despicable, for I had

recited passages in my best style, which my mother and sisters had always

considered equal to a play. "Oh, it is evident," thought I, "Miss

Somerville has very little soul!"

Such were my fancies and cogitations during the day, the greater part of

which was spent in my chamber, for I was still languid. My evening was

passed in the drawing-room, where I overlooked Miss Somerville's portfolio

of sketches. They were executed with great taste, and showed a nice

observation of the peculiarities of nature. They were all her own, and free

from those cunning tints and touches of the drawing-master, by which young

ladies' drawings, like their heads, are dressed up for company. There was

no garish and vulgar trick of colors, either; all was executed with

singular truth and simplicity.

"And yet," thought I, "this little being, who has so pure an eye to take

in, as in a limpid brook, all the graceful forms and magic tints of nature,

has no soul for poetry!"

Mr. Somerville, toward the latter part of the evening, observing my eye to

wander occasionally to the harp, interpreted and met my wishes with his

accustomed civility.

"Julia, my dear," said he, "Mr. Mountjoy would like to hear a little music

from your harp; let us hear, too, the sound of your voice."

Julia immediately complied, without any of that hesitation and difficulty,

by which young ladies are apt to make company pay dear for bad music. She

sang a sprightly strain, in a brilliant style, that came trilling playfully

over the ear; and the bright eye and dimpling smile showed that her little

heart danced with the song. Her pet canary bird, who hung close by, was

awakened by the music, and burst forth into an emulating strain. Julia

smiled with a pretty air of defiance, and played louder.

After some time the music changed, and ran into a plaintive strain, in a

minor key. Then it was that all the former witchery of her voice came over

me; then it was that she seemed to sing from the heart and to the heart.

Her fingers moved about the chords as if they scarcely touched them. Her

whole manner and appearance changed; her eyes beamed with the softest

expression; her countenance, her frame, all seemed subdued into tenderness.

She rose from the harp, leaving it still vibrating with sweet sounds, and

moved toward her father, to bid him good-night.

His eyes had been fixed on her intently during her performance. As she came

before him he parted her shining ringlets with both his hands, and looked

down with the fondness of a father on her innocent face. The music seemed

still lingering in its lineaments, and the action of her father brought a

moist gleam in her eye. He kissed her fair forehead, after the French mode

of parental caressing: "Goodnight, and God bless you," said he, "my good

little girl!"

Julia tripped away, with a tear in her eye, a dimple in her cheek, and a

light heart in her bosom. I thought it the prettiest picture of paternal

and filial affection I had ever seen.

When I retired to bed, a new train of thoughts crowded into my brain.

"After all," said I to myself, "it is clear this girl has a soul, though

she was not moved by my eloquence. She has all the outward signs and

evidences of poetic feeling. She paints well, and has an eye for nature.

She is a fine musician, and enters into the very soul of song. What a pity

that she knows nothing of poetry! But we will see what is to be done? I am

irretrievably in love with her; what then am I to do? Come down to the

level of her mind, or endeavor to raise her to some kind of intellectual

equality with myself? That is the most generous course. She will look up to

me as a benefactor. I shall become associated in her mind with the lofty

thoughts and harmonious graces of poetry. She is apparently docile: besides

the difference of our ages will give me an ascendency over her. She cannot

be above sixteen years of age, and I am full turned to twenty." So, having

built this most delectable of air castles, I fell asleep.

* * * * *

The next morning I was quite a different being. I no longer felt fearful of

stealing a glance at Julia; on the contrary, I contemplated her steadily,

with the benignant eye of a benefactor. Shortly after breakfast I found

myself alone with her, as I had on the preceding morning; but I felt

nothing of the awkwardness of our previous tete-a-tete. I was elevated by

the consciousness of my intellectual superiority and should almost have

felt a sentiment of pity for the ignorance of the lovely little being, if I

had not felt also the assurance that I should be able to dispel it. "But it

is time," thought I, "to open school."

Julia was occupied in arranging some music on her piano. I looked over two

or three songs; they were Moore's Irish melodies.

"These are pretty things!" said I, flirting the leaves over lightly, and

giving a slight shrug, by way of qualifying the opinion.

"Oh, I love them of all things," said Julia, "they're so touching!"

"Then you like them for the poetry," said I, with an encouraging smile.

"Oh, yes; she thought them charmingly written."

Now was my time. "Poetry," said I, assuming a didactic attitude and air,

"poetry is one of the most pleasing studies that can occupy a youthful

mind. It renders us susceptible of the gentle impulses of humanity, and

cherishes a delicate perception of all that is virtuous and elevated in

morals, and graceful and beautiful in physics. It--"

I was going on in a style that would have graced a professor of rhetoric,

when I saw a light smile playing about Miss Somerville's mouth, and that

she began to turn over the leaves of a music-book. I recollected her

inattention to my discourse of the preceding morning. "There is no fixing

her light mind," thought I, "by abstract theory; we will proceed

practically." As it happened, the identical volume of Milton's Paradise

Lost was lying at hand.

"Let me recommend to you, my young friend," said I, in one of those tones

of persuasive admonition, which I had so often loved in Glencoe, "let me

recommend to you this admirable poem; you will find in it sources of

intellectual enjoyment far superior to those songs which have delighted

you." Julia looked at the book, and then at me, with a whimsically dubious

air. "Milton's Paradise Lost?" said she; "oh, I know the greater part of

that by heart."

I had not expected to find my pupil so far advanced; however, the Paradise

Lost is a kind of school book, and its finest passages are given to young

ladies as tasks.

"I find," said I to myself, "I must not treat her as so complete a novice;

her inattention yesterday could not have proceeded from absolute ignorance,

but merely from a want of poetic feeling. I'll try her again."

I now determined to dazzle her with my own erudition, and launched into a

harangue that would have done honor to an institute. Pope, Spenser,

Chaucer, and the old dramatic writers were all dipped into, with the

excursive flight of a swallow. I did not confine myself to English poets,

but gave a glance at the French and Italian schools; I passed over Ariosto

in full wing, but paused on Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered. I dwelt on the

character of Clorinda: "There's a character," said I, "that you will find

well worthy a woman's study. It shows to what exalted heights of heroism

the sex can rise, how gloriously they may share even in the stern concerns

of men."

"For my part," said Julia, gently taking advantage of a pause, "for my

part, I prefer the character of Sophronia."

I was thunderstruck. She then had read Tasso! This girl that I had been

treating as an ignoramus in poetry! She proceeded with a slight glow of the

cheek, summoned up perhaps by a casual glow of feeling:

"I do not admire those masculine heroines," said she, "who aim at the bold

qualities of the opposite sex. Now Sophronia only exhibits the real

qualities of a woman, wrought up to their highest excitement. She is

modest, gentle, and retiring, as it becomes a woman to be; but she has all

the strength of affection proper to a woman. She cannot fight for her

people as Clorinda does, but she can offer herself up, and die to serve

them. You may admire Clorinda, but you surely would be more apt to love

Sophronia; at least," added she, suddenly appearing to recollect herself,

and blushing at having launched into such a discussion, "at least that is

what papa observed when we read the poem together."

"Indeed," said I, dryly, for I felt disconcerted and nettled at being

unexpectedly lectured by my pupil; "indeed, I do not exactly recollect the

passage."

"Oh," said Julia, "I can repeat it to you;" and she immediately gave it in

Italian.

Heavens and earth!--here was a situation! I knew no more of Italian than I

did of the language of Psalmanazar. What a dilemma for a would-be-wise man

to be placed in! I saw Julia waited for my opinion.

"In fact," said I, hesitating, "I--I do not exactly understand Italian."

"Oh," said Julia, with the utmost naivete, "I have no doubt it is very

beautiful in the translation."

I was glad to break up school, and get back to my chamber, full of the

mortification which a wise man in love experiences on finding his mistress

wiser than himself. "Translation! translation!" muttered I to myself, as I

jerked the door shut behind me: "I am surprised my father has never had me

instructed in the modern languages. They are all important. What is the

use of Latin and Greek? No one speaks them; but here, the moment I make my

appearance in the world, a little girl slaps Italian in my face. However,

thank heaven, a language is easily learned. The moment I return home, I'll

set about studying Italian; and to prevent future surprise, I will study

Spanish and German at the same time; and if any young lady attempts to

quote Italian upon me again, I'll bury her under a heap of High Dutch

poetry!"

* * * * *

I felt now like some mighty chieftain, who has carried the war into a weak

country, with full confidence of success, and been repulsed and obliged to

draw off his forces from before some inconsiderable fortress.

"However," thought I, "I have as yet brought only my light artillery into

action; we shall see what is to be done with my heavy ordnance. Julia is

evidently well versed in poetry; but it is natural she should be so; it is

allied to painting and music, and is congenial to the light graces of the

female character. We will try her on graver themes."

I felt all my pride awakened; it even for a time swelled higher than my

love. I was determined completely to establish my mental superiority, and

subdue the intellect of this little being; it would then be time to sway

the scepter of gentle empire, and win the affections of her heart.

Accordingly, at dinner I again took the field, _en potence._ I now

addressed myself to Mr. Somerville, for I was about to enter upon topics in

which a young girl like her could not be well versed. I led, or rather

forced, the conversation into a vein of historical erudition, discussing

several of the most prominent facts of ancient history, and accompanying

them with sound, indisputable apothegms.

Mr. Somerville listened to me with the air of a man receiving information.

I was encouraged, and went on gloriously from theme to theme of school

declamation. I sat with Marius on the ruins of Carthage; I defended the

bridge with Horatius Cocles; thrust my hand into the flame with Martius

Scaevola, and plunged with Curtius into the yawning gulf; I fought side by

side with Leonidas, at the straits of Thermopylae; and was going full drive

into the battle of Plataea, when my memory, which is the worst in the

world, failed me, just as I wanted the name of the Lacedemonian commander.

"Julia, my dear," said Mr. Somerville, "perhaps you may recollect the name

of which Mr. Mountjoy is in quest?"

Julia colored slightly. "I believe," said she, in a low voice, "I believe

it was Pausanius."

This unexpected sally, instead of re-enforcing me, threw my whole scheme of

battle into confusion, and the Athenians remained unmolested in the field.

I am half inclined, since, to think Mr. Somerville meant this as a sly hit

at my schoolboy pedantry; but he was too well bred not to seek to relieve

me from my mortification. "Oh!" said he, "Julia is our family book of

reference for names, dates, and distances, and has an excellent memory for

history and geography."

I now became desperate; as a last resource I turned to metaphysics. "If she

is a philosopher in petticoats," thought I, "it is all over with me." Here,

however, I had the field to myself. I gave chapter and verse of my tutor's

lectures, heightened by all his poetical illustrations; I even went further

than he had ever ventured, and plunged into such depths of metaphysics that

I was in danger of sticking in the mire at the bottom. Fortunately, I had

auditors who apparently could not detect my flounderings. Neither Mr.

Somerville nor his daughter offered the least interruption.

When the ladies had retired, Mr. Somerville sat some time with me; and as I

was no longer anxious to astonish, I permitted myself to listen, and found

that he was really agreeable. He was quite communicative, and from his

conversation I was enabled to form a juster idea of his daughter's

character, and the mode in which she had been brought up. Mr. Somerville

had mingled much with the world, and with what is termed fashionable

society. He had experienced its cold elegances and gay insincerities; its

dissipation of the spirits and squanderings of the heart. Like many men of

the world, though he had wandered too far from nature ever to return to it,

yet he had the good taste and good feeling to look back fondly to its

simple delights, and to determine that his child, if possible, should never

leave them. He had superintended her education with scrupulous care,

storing her mind with the graces of polite literature, and with such

knowledge as would enable it to furnish its own amusement and occupation,

and giving her all the accomplishments that sweeten and enliven the circle

of domestic life. He had been particularly sedulous to exclude all

fashionable affectations; all false sentiment, false sensibility, and false

romance. "Whatever advantages she may possess," said he, "she is quite

unconscious of them. She is a capricious little being, in everything but

her affections; she is, however, free from art; simple, ingenuous, amiable,

and, I thank God! happy."

Such was the eulogy of a fond father, delivered with a tenderness that

touched me. I could not help making a casual inquiry, whether, among the

graces of polite literature, he had included a slight tincture of

metaphysics. He smiled, and told me he had not.

On the whole, when, as usual, that night, I summed up the day's

observations on my pillow, I was not altogether dissatisfied. "Miss

Somerville," said I, "loves poetry, and I like her the better for it. She

has the advantage of me in Italian; agreed; what is it to know a variety of

languages, but merely to have a variety of sounds to express the same idea?

Original thought is the ore of the mind; language is but the accidental

stamp and coinage by which it is put into circulation. If I can furnish an

original idea, what care I how many languages she can translate it into?

She may be able also to quote names and dates and latitudes better than I;

but that is a mere effort of the memory. I admit she is more accurate in

history and geography than I; but then she knows nothing of metaphysics."

I had now sufficiently recovered to return home; yet I could not think of

leaving Mr. Somerville's without having a little further conversation with

him on the subject of his daughter's education.

"This Mr. Somerville," thought I, "is a very accomplished, elegant man; he

has seen a good deal of the world, and, upon the whole, has profited by

what he has seen. He is not without information, and, as far as he thinks,

appears to think correctly; but, after all, he is rather superficial, and

does not think profoundly. He seems to take no delight in those

metaphysical abstractions that are the proper aliment of masculine minds. I

called to mind various occasions in which I had indulged largely in

metaphysical discussions, but could recollect no instance where I had been

able to draw him out. He had listened, it is true, with attention, and

smiled as if in acquiescence, but had always appeared to avoid reply.

Besides, I had made several sad blunders in the glow of eloquent

declamation; but he had never interrupted me, to notice and correct them,

as he would have done had he been versed in the theme.

"Now, it is really a great pity," resumed I, "that he should have the

entire management of Miss Somerville's education. What a vast advantage it

would be if she could be put for a little time under the superintendence of

Glencoe. He would throw some deeper shades of thought into her mind, which

at present is all sunshine; not but that Mr. Somerville has done very well,

as far as he has gone; but then he has merely prepared the soil for the

strong plants of useful knowledge. She is well versed in the leading facts

of history, and the general course of belles-lettres," said I; "a little

more philosophy would do wonders."

I accordingly took occasion to ask Mr. Somerville for a few moments'

conversation in his study, the morning I was to depart. When we were alone

I opened the matter fully to him. I commenced with the warmest eulogium of

Glencoe's powers of mind and vast acquirements, and ascribed to him all my

proficiency in the higher branches of knowledge. I begged, therefore, to

recommend him as a friend calculated to direct the studies of Miss

Somerville; to lead her mind, by degrees, to the contemplation of abstract

principles, and to produce habits of philosophical analysis; "which," added

I, gently smiling, "are not often cultivated by young ladies." I ventured

to hint, in addition, that he would find Mr. Glencoe a most valuable and

interesting acquaintance for himself; one who would stimulate and evolve

the powers of his mind; and who might open to him tracts of inquiry and

speculation to which perhaps he had hitherto been a stranger.

Mr. Somerville listened with grave attention. When I had finished, he

thanked me in the politest manner for the interest I took in the welfare of

his daughter and himself. He observed that, as it regarded himself, he was

afraid he was too old to benefit by the instruction of Mr. Glencoe, and

that as to his daughter, he was afraid her mind was but little fitted for

the study of metaphysics. "I do not wish," continued he, "to strain her

intellects with subjects they cannot grasp, but to make her familiarly

acquainted with those that are within the limits of her capacity. I do not

pretend to prescribe the boundaries of female genius, and am far from

indulging the vulgar opinion that women are unfitted by nature for the

highest intellectual pursuits. I speak only with reference to my daughter's

tastes and talents. She will never make a learned woman; nor, in truth, do

I desire it; for such is the jealousy of our sex, as to mental as well as

physical ascendency, that a learned woman is not always the happiest. I do

not wish my daughter to excite envy, or to battle with the prejudices of

the world; but to glide peaceably through life, on the good will and kind

opinions of her friends. She has ample employment for her little head, in

the course I have marked out for her; and is busy at present with some

branches of natural history, calculated to awaken her perceptions to the

beauties and wonders of nature, and to the inexhaustible volume of wisdom

constantly spread open before her eyes. I consider that woman most likely

to make an agreeable companion, who can draw topics of pleasing remark from

every natural object; and most likely to be cheerful and contented, who is

continually sensible of the order, the harmony, and the invariable

beneficence that reign throughout the beautiful world we inhabit."

"But," added he, smiling, "I am betraying myself into a lecture, instead of

merely giving a reply to your kind offer. Permit me to take the liberty, in

return, of inquiring a little about your own pursuits. You speak of having

finished your education; but of course you have a line of private study and

mental occupation marked out; for you must know the importance, both in

point of interest and happiness, of keeping the mind employed. May I ask

what system you observe in your intellectual exercises?"

"Oh, as to system," I observed, "I could never bring myself into anything

of the kind. I thought it best to let my genius take it own course, as it

always acted the most vigorously when stimulated by inclination."

Mr. Somerville shook his head. "This same genius," said he, "is a wild

quality that runs away with our most promising young men. It has become so

much the fashion, too, to give it the reins that it is now thought an

animal of too noble and generous a nature to be brought to harness. But it

is all a mistake. Nature never designed these high endowments to run riot

through society, and throw the whole system into confusion. No, my dear

sir, genius, unless it acts upon system, is very apt to be a useless

quality to society; sometimes an injurious, and certainly a very

uncomfortable one, to its possessor. I have had many opportunities of

seeing the progress through life of young men who were accounted geniuses,

and have found it too often end in early exhaustion and bitter

disappointment; and have as often noticed that these effects might be

traced to a total want of system. There were no habits of business, of

steady purpose, and regular application, superinduced upon the mind;

everything was left to chance and impulse, and native luxuriance, and

everything of course ran to waste and wild entanglement. Excuse me if I am

tedious on this point, for I feel solicitous to impress it upon you, being

an error extremely prevalent in our country and one into which too many of

our youth have fallen. I am happy, however, to observe the zeal which still

appears to actuate you for the acquisition of knowledge, and augur every

good from the elevated bent of your ambition. May I ask what has been your

course of study for the last six months?"

Never was question more unluckily timed. For the last six months I had been

absolutely buried in novels and romances.

Mr. Somerville perceived that the question was embarrassing, and, with his

invariable good breeding, immediately resumed the conversation, without

waiting for a reply. He took care, however, to turn it in such a way as to

draw from me an account of the whole manner in which I had been educated,

and the various currents of reading into which my mind had run. He then

went on to discuss, briefly but impressively, the different branches of

knowledge most important to a young man in my situation; and to my surprise

I found him a complete master of those studies on which I had supposed him

ignorant, and on which I had been descanting so confidently.

He complimented me, however, very graciously, upon the progress I had made,

but advised me for the present to turn my attention to the physical rather

than the moral sciences. "These studies," said he, "store a man's mind with

valuable facts, and at the same time repress self-confidence, by letting

him know how boundless are the realms of knowledge, and how little we can

possibly know. Whereas metaphysical studies, though of an ingenious order

of intellectual employment, are apt to bewilder some minds with vague

speculations. They never know how far they have advanced, or what may be

the correctness of their favorite theory. They render many of our young men

verbose and declamatory, and prone to mistake the aberrations of their

fancy for the inspirations of divine philosophy."

I could not but interrupt him, to assent to the truth of these remarks, and

to say that it had been my lot, in the course of my limited experience, to

encounter young men of the kind, who had overwhelmed me by their verbosity.

Mr. Somerville smiled. "I trust," said he, kindly, "that you will guard

against these errors. Avoid the eagerness with which a young man is apt to

hurry into conversation, and to utter the crude and ill-digested notions

which he has picked up in his recent studies. Be assured that extensive and

accurate knowledge is the slow acquisition of a studious lifetime; that a

young man, however pregnant his wit, and prompt his talent, can have

mastered but the rudiments of learning, and, in a manner, attained the

implements of study. Whatever may have been your past assiduity, you must

be sensible that as yet you have but reached the threshold of true

knowledge; but at the same time you have the advantage that you are still

very young, and have ample time to learn."

Here our conference ended. I walked out of the study a very different being

from what I was on entering it. I had gone in with the air of a professor

about to deliver a lecture; I came out like a student who had failed in his

examination, and been degraded in his class.

"Very young," and "on the threshold of knowledge!" This was extremely

flattering to one who had considererd himself an accomplished scholar and a

profound philosopher.

"It is singular," thought I; "there seems to have been a spell upon my

faculties, ever since I have been in this house. I certainly have not been

able to do myself justice. Whenever I have undertaken to advise, I have had

the tables turned upon me. It must be that I am strange and diffident among

people I am not accustomed to. I wish they could hear me talk at home!"

"After all," added I, on further reflection, "after all there is a great

deal of force in what Mr. Somerville has said. Somehow or other, these men

of the world do now and then hit upon remarks that would do credit to a

philosopher. Some of his general observations came so home that I almost

thought they were meant for myself. His advice about adopting a system of

study is very judicious. I will immediately put it hi practice. My mind

shall operate henceforward with the regularity of clock-work."

How far I succeeded in adopting this plan, how I fared in the further

pursuit of knowledge, and how I succeeded in my suit to Julia Somerville,

may afford matter for a further communication to the public, if this simple

record of my early life is fortunate enough to excite any curiosity.