"GOOD-NIGHT!"
Era gia l'ora che volge 'l disio,
A' naviganti e 'ntenerisce il cuore,
Lo di ch' ban detto a' dolci amici addio,
E che lo nuova peregrin d'amore
Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano,
Che paja 'l giorno pianger che si muore!
"Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I could say good-night till it be morrow!"
We were sitting side by side, Min and I, leaning over the gunwale of the
"gondola" which was rapidly gliding down the river; the stream being in
our favour, and our teamster on the towing path keeping his horse up to
a brisk trot, that caused us to proceed at a faster rate than we could
have pulled even a lighter boat.
It was a lovely summer night, calm and still, with hardly a breath of
wind in the air; although, it was not at all unpleasantly close or
oppressive.
A bright crescent moon was shining, touching up the trees that skirted
the bank with a flood of silvery-azure light, that brought out each twig
and particle of foliage in strong relief, and cast their trunks in
shade; while, the surface of the water, unstirred by the slightest
ripple, gleamed like a mirror of burnished steel, winding in and out, in
its serpentine course, between masses of dense shadow--until it was lost
to sight in the distance, behind a sudden bend, and a dark projecting
clump of willows and undergrowth.
Our boat seemed to be the only floating thing for miles!
Had it not been for an occasional twinkle from the far-off window of
some riparian villa, and the "whish" of a startled swan as it swerved
aside to allow the boat to sweep by, we might easily have imagined
ourselves traversing the bosom of one of those vast, solitary rivers of
the wilderness across the sea.
The children were nearly all asleep, tired out with happiness in excess;
and, most of us were silent, being awed by the beauty of the evening
into voiceless admiration.
A little girl near us, wakeful still, was breaking one of the daisy-
chains that Min had woven her at Richmond, and casting the pieces one by
one into the current as it hurried along:--the daisy cups sometimes
keeping pace with us, as our tow-rope slackened, and then falling
astern, on our horse trotting ahead once more.
"Don't you remember," said I to Min, "those lines of Schiller's _Der
Jungling am Bache_? They seem appropriate to that little incident,"--I
continued, pointing to the small toddlekin, who was destroying the
daisy-chain:--
"`An der Quelle sass der Knabe
Blumen wand er sich zum Kranz,
Und er sah sie fortgerissen
Treiben in den wellen Tanz.
Und so fleihen meine Tage,
Wie die quelle rastlos hin!
Und so bleichet meine Jugend,
Wie die Kranze schnell verbluhn!'"
"They are very pretty," said Min. "Still, do you know, as a rule I do
not think German poetry nice. It always sounds so harsh and guttural to
me, however tender and sentimental the words may be."
"That may be true in some respects," I answered; "but if you hear it
well read, or sung, there is much more pathos and softness about it than
one is able to discern when simply skimming it over to oneself. Some of
Goethe's little ballads, for instance, such as `The Erl King,' and
others that Walter Scott has translated, are wonderfully beautiful; not
to speak of Uhland's poetry, and La Motte Fouque's charming _Undine_,
which is as pretty a poem as I have ever read."
"I confess," said Min, "that I have not had any general experience of
German literature. Indeed, I have quite neglected it since I left
school; and then I only studied heavy books--such as _The History of
Frederick the Great_, that wearisome _Jungfrau von Orleans_, and others
of Schiller's plays."
"Ah!" I replied, "that accounts for it, then. The more you read
German, the more you will like it. I think our schoolmasters and
schoolmistresses make a great mistake, generally, in the books they
select for the instruction and familiarising of their pupils with
foreign languages. They appear, really, to choose the driest authors
they can pick out! If I had anything to do with `teaching the young
idea how to shoot,' I should adopt a very different plan."
"Dear me!" she exclaimed, laughing. "I can fancy I see you, a grim old
pedagogue, with a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and a snuff-coloured
coat! What would be your new system, Mr Professor?"
"Well," said I, "in the first place, I should not dream of putting books
like Schiller's dramas into their hands, as is the ordinary course,
before they were able to translate pretty fluently, gathering the sense
of what they read without the aid of a dictionary. I say nothing
against the masterpieces of the great German classic. I like Schiller,
myself. But, what boy or girl can appreciate the poetry of his
descriptions, and the grandeur of his verse, when every second word they
meet with is a stumbling-block, that has to be sought out diligently in
the lexicon ere they can understand the context? Instead of this
inculcating a love for what they read, it breeds disgust. Even now, I
confess, I cannot take an interest in _William Tell_, just because he,
and his fellow Switzers, of Uri and elsewhere, will always be associated
in my mind with so many lines of translation and repetition that I had
to learn by heart at school."
"But, what would you give your pupils to study in lieu of such works?"
she asked.
"Vividly interesting stories--novels, if you like--in the language they
had to learn. Not short pieces, or `elegant extracts;' but, good, long
tales of thrilling adventure and well worked-up plots, whose interest,
and the desire to know what was coming next, would make them read on and
stammer out the sense, until they reached the denouement. And, if it
should be objected that German and French novels are not exactly what
you would place before young children for study, I would retort, that,
the majority of the works of our best authors are now translated into
both those languages almost as soon as they are published over here; let
them read those! However, you were saying that you did not think German
poetry pleasing or euphonious?"
"No," she said, "I do not; although, it may be owing to what you have
remarked, that school study has given me a distaste for it. Still, you
have now made me wish that I knew more of it. I think I will take it up
again; and, perhaps, Mr Professor, under your tuition, I may learn
better to like it."
"I should be only too glad, Min," I said, "to unfold its beauties to
you; but, I'm the worst teacher in the world, and too impatient of
blunders. Yet, I don't think I could be a very hard master to _you_" I
added, lowering my voice to a whisper.
"Couldn't you?" she said. "I don't know about that, Master Frank! I
well remember a particular evening, and my birthday party; and how a
certain gentleman--whom I won't name--behaved then and since."
"Oh! Haven't you forgiven me yet, Min?" I exclaimed. "I thought--"
"Don't mind about that," she said, hurriedly.--"Go on with what you were
telling me concerning German; the others will hear you! Do you think
the language soft?"
"I can't say exactly that it _is_ as soft as our own," I proceeded to
say, for the benefit of Miss Spight, who appeared to be listening to our
conversation.--"But, a good many people, who call the Teuton tongue
uncouth, seem to forget its close resemblance both in style and
expression, to English. Either language can be rendered in the
vernacular of the other, without losing its force or even sound; and
that is more than can be said for French or Italian. Shakspeare, for
instance, in German, is almost equally as telling and forcible as
Shakspeare in English; while, in French--Bah! you should just hear it as
_once_ I heard it, and you would laugh! Indeed, if we are strictly
logical on the point of the euphony of language, the Italian dialect,
which we deem so soft and liquid, sounds quite harsh, I'm told, in
comparison with the labial syllables that the Polynesian islanders use
in the South Seas."
We then relapsed into silence again, Min still leaning over the side of
the boat and dipping her fingers in the limpid, silvery water, which
sparkled with gem-like coruscations of light as she stirred it to and
fro.
At Mortlake she splashed a shower of sprinkling pearls over an irate
swan pater-familias, who had hurried out from the alders, to see what
business we meant by coming at that time of night so near the domain of
Mrs Swan and her cygnet progeny. We were both much amused at the
fierce air with which he advanced, as if to eat us all up; and then, his
precipitate retreat, on getting wetted so unceremoniously. He turned
tail at once; and, propelling himself away with vigorous strokes of his
webbed sculls, made the water foam from his prow-like curving neck,
leaving a broad wake behind him of glistening sheen.
"What a nice day we have had," said Min, presently. "All has gone off
so well, without a hitch. We have had such a nice talk, too. Why is
it, I wonder," she continued, musingly, "that ordinary conversation is
generally so empty and silly? Gentlemen appear to believe that ladies
know nothing but about balls, and dancing, and the weather, and croquet!
I do not mean, when we are all talking together, as to-day; but, when
one is alone with them, and not one of a circle of talkers, they never
say anything of any depth and reflection. Perhaps, when I go out, it is
my fate to meet with exceptional partners at parties. But, I declare,
they never utter a sensible remark! I suppose they think me very
stupid, and not worth the trouble of seriously conversing to. Really, I
imagine that gentlemen believe all girls to belong to an inferior order
of intellect; and fancy that it is necessary for them to descend from
their god-like level, in order to talk to them about such senseless
trivialities as they think suited to their age and sex!"
"Perhaps it is not all the fault of the men," said I. "They are
probably bashful, as most of us are."
"Bashful?" she replied; "I like that, Master Frank. Why, you are all a
most intolerable set of conceited mortals! No, it is not that:--it is,
because the `lords of creation' think us beneath the notice of their
superior minds."--And she tossed her little head proudly.
"Well, then," I said, "your duty is to draw us out. Many men are
diffident of speaking earnestly and showing their feelings, from the
fear of being laughed at, or ridiculed, as solemn prigs and book-worms.
Ladies should think of this, and encourage us."
"Yet, some of you," she replied, undauntedly, "are not so reticent and
retiring. There is Mr Mawley, for instance. He always talks to me
about literature and art, and politics, too--although I do not care much
about _them_--just as if I were a man like himself, and blessed with the
same understanding!"
"Oh," said I, "the curate is usually fond of hearing himself talk!"
"You need not abuse poor Mr Mawley," she said, laughing. "`Those who
live in glass houses,' you know, `should not throw stones!' _You_ are,
also, not averse to airing your opinions, Master Frank! But, don't get
angry--" she continued, as I slightly withdrew from her side, in
momentary pique at hearing the curate's part taken.--"I like to hear you
talk of such things, Frank, far better than if you only spoke to me of
commonplace matters, as most gentlemen do, or dosed me with flattery,
which I detest!"
"I do not talk so to _everybody_,"--I said, meaningly, coming closer to
her again and taking one of her hands captive.--"Do you know why I like
to let you know my deeper thoughts, Min, and learn more of my inner
nature than others?" I whispered, bending over her.
"N-o!" she said, faintly, turning away her head.
"Because, Min--" I said, hesitatingly, almost abashed at my own
rashness--"because, I--I--love you!"
She said nothing in reply; but she bent her head lower, so that I could
not see her face; and, the little hand I held, trembled in my grasp.
At this point, too, our conversation was interrupted by the vicar asking
Bessie Dasher and her sister to start the "Canadian Boat Song," in which
we all joined in harmony:--the music, borne far and wide over the
expanse of resonant water, sounding like some fairy chorus of yellow-
haired sea-maidens, singing fathoms deep below in ocean caves!
When I was seeing her home, however, after we had all arrived at the
vicarage, and separated severally with a cheerful "good-night," I was
able to prosecute my wooing.
We were walking along side by side--she declined taking my arm, being
shy, and quite unlike the frank, straightforward Min whom I had before
known. I was not downhearted at this change, though:--I really felt
shy, and nervous, myself!
As soon as we had got a safe distance from the others, and there was no
fear of being overheard in the stillness of the night, I again spoke to
her.
"Min," I said, "do you remember what I said to you just now when we were
on the river?"
She made no answer; but, quickening her steps, walked on hurriedly, I
still keeping pace by her side.
"Min, my darling," I said once more, "I love you dearer than life.
Won't you try to like me a little in return? Won't you listen to me?
Won't you hear me?"
"O-oh, Frank!" she exclaimed.
"Ever since I first saw you in church, so many long months ago, Min, I
have thought of you, dreamt of you, loved you!"--I proceeded,
passionately.--"O, my darling! my darling! won't you try and like me a
little; or, have I been deceived in thinking that you could care for
me?"
"I _do_ like you, Frank," she said, softly, laying her little hand on my
arm.