Midsummer Day--An Artist's Visit--Ida's Letter--Moonlight on Croton
Lake--Morning Readings--Plato and Kohlrausch.
_June 21_.
In honor of Midsummer Day, Marguerite and I have spent the morning at
the piano, playing Mendelssohn's delicious fairy music from the
Midsummer Night's Dream.
We have had little time to practise or read this week, for company has
been of almost daily occurrence; Marguerite returned yesterday morning
from a flying visit to the city, accompanied by our friends, Colonel
Rogers and Mr. Hows, the artist, who is a neighbor of ours in our rural
part of the city--Cottage Place. Colonel Rogers was dressed entirely
in gray, a costume that looked delightfully cool, and was a perfect
match for his eyes.
The morning was spent in playing croquet, and in showing our guests
over the place, whose wild beauty delighted Mr. Hows' artistic eyes.
We walked first to the flower-garden, where we gathered flowers to
dress the table for dinner, and then visited the pine grove, the
romantic dell, and the stone barn of which uncle was always so proud,
where we spent an hour amid the sweet hay.
For the evening a drive was proposed, as we have now quite recovered
from our former dread of malaria. Ida held the ribbons on this
occasion, and as I was not one of the party, I will insert her graceful
description of the pleasant evening.
"CHAPPAQUA.
"DEAR JULIA: I was so sorry to get your letter saying you could not
come. I wish you had not let your tiresome old dressmaker deprive me
of the pleasure of your company on our expedition to Croton Lake.
"I must tell you all about the delightful time we had. Two of the
numerous friends of our blue-eyed Marguerite, Colonel Rogers and Mr.
Hows, whose exquisite pictures you and I have so often enjoyed
together, were our cavaliers on this occasion. As our light carriage
only has room for four, I drove the ponies myself. We started just
about sundown, and the pleasant coolness of evening came on while there
was still daylight enough to light up the constantly changing panorama
of hill and dale, and forest and distant river, beyond which the blue
mountain range dimly seen, now seemed to emerge into bolder relief, and
again to fade back into cloud-land.
"Mr. Hows' delight in the scenery was certainly equalled by mine in
listening to its praises. I am very fond of this part of Westchester,
and when people talk of the beauties of the Adirondacks, I listen with
the silent conviction that we have everything here but the musquitoes
and the bad cooking, with both of which I cheerfully dispense.
"But to return to our drive. The last mile the road ran through a dark
forest, following the course of a stream called Roaring Brook, which
generally makes good its title to the name, but now, owing to the
recent drouth, was reduced to roaring as gently as Bottom's Lion
promised to do. At last the lake was reached, and turning to the
right, we were soon skimming along at a great pace on the wide
boulevard that skirts the water as far along as Pine's Bridge. There
we put up our ponies at a hotel with an impossible and unpronounceable
Indian name, and accepted the Colonel's kind invitation for a row. We
all regretted there was no moon, with as much self-reproach as if it
had been accidentally left behind, but were glad enough to get into our
little white boat, that looked quite silvery against the dark current.
"The gentlemen, who had been dying to hear Marguerite sing ever since
coming out here, now suggested that her voice was all that was needed
to make the hour perfect; so Marguerite, who is as sweet and unaffected
about her singing as if she hadn't the most exquisite soprano ever
heard off the stage, consented without any tiresome urging, and asked
what it should be. We were evenly divided between 'Robin Adair' and
Mario's 'Good-bye, Sweetheart,' so our pretty songstress kindly gave us
both.
"I cannot recall the delicious effect of her singing as we were
drifting along in the sombre twilight, better than by quoting Buchanan
Read's charming lines, which I dare say you have seen before:
"'I heed not if
My rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.
"'Under the walls
Where swells and falls
The bay's deep breast at intervals;
At peace I lie,
Blown softly by
A cloud upon this liquid sky.
"'No more, no more
The worldly shore
Upbraids me with its load uproar:
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.'
"I. L. G."
_June 24_.
The week commenced with a dash of rain, but this morning it was again
as hot as though no clouds had darkened the sky. Croquet was out of
the question, and not even for the sake of trying my new beaver and
stylish habit, so becoming to a slight figure, could I confront the
dust and the sun's blazing rays upon Nancy's back (for such is the
unromantic name of the horse that oftenest has the honor of bearing me
when we ride). No one seemed inclined to drive, so Lady Alice and the
Duchess, that had been for some time impatiently stamping, and arching
their pretty necks, evidently impatient to be off, were sent back to
the stables, much amazed, I doubt not, at our capricious conduct; while
we--mamma, Marguerite, and I--sauntered up to the cool pine grove,
accompanied by Arthur, bearing a camp-chair for mamma, and a couple of
wise-looking tomes, in whose society we were to spend the morning.
But I have not yet introduced Arthur. He is neither brother, cousin,
nor _fiancé_, but bound to us by almost brotherly ties, having been our
playmate when we were little children; and after the death of his
parents (our eminent historian Richard Hildreth, and his gifted artist
wife), he became mamma's ward, and was our constant companion in Italy
and France. Arthur has come on from Cambridge, where he has just taken
his degree as a lawyer, to make us a visit of some weeks, and we have
had much pleasure talking over with him those poetic days that we
passed together in Florence and Venice.
But _our_ life is never made up of talking and dreaming, delightful
though it may be, and we have a certain amount of reading to do every
day, which we despatch as conscientiously as we do our prayers. There
is no rule, however, limiting the reading to any one person, and Arthur
often relieves us of that duty. I enjoy his reading very much,
especially when one of Plato's "Dialogues" is the lesson of the day,
for into them he throws so much enthusiasm and dramatic force, that
they are quite a revelation to me. I was amused this morning, upon
turning over the leaves of my journal of last winter, to find my first
impressions of the "Dialogues" thus laconically expressed:
"I have to-day commenced to read Plato aloud. I cannot say that I find
him very refreshing as yet; still I try to admire him as much as I
conscientiously can."
I must confess that at first the abstruse subtleties of Socrates and
his brother logicians were too much for my little brain, but now that I
am more familiar with them, I quite delight in following their
arguments. These "Dialogues" remind me of a fugue in musical
composition; only melody is wanting to make the resemblance perfect,
for here, as in the "Well-tempered Harpsichord," one train of thought
is taken up, viewed from every side and in every light--that is to say,
pursued through every possible key only to return and end at the
original starting-point.