The burning, suffocating heat of the summer "in the States," caused me
to pant after the cool shade of the old Prebend's walk at Saint Canon's;
and call to mind those inviting lawns and osiered eyots along the
Thames, where I used to spend the warm evenings at home. I thought as
Izaak Walton, the vicar's favourite, had thought before me--that I would
cheerfully sacrifice all hopes of worldly advancement, all dreams of
fortune, all future success, problematical though each and all
appeared--
So, I the fields and meadows green may view;
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will,
Among the daisies and violets blue,
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil;
Purple narcissus, like the morning's rays,
Pale gander grass and azure culver keys.
In the gorgeous Indian summer, when the nature of the New World seems to
awake, dressing all the trees in fantastic foliage of varied hue, my
fancies were recalled to a well-remembered Virginian creeper that
ornamented the houses of the Terrace, where my darling lived; for its
leafy colouring in the autumn was similar to that I now beheld--in the
chrome-tinted maples, the silvery-toned beeches and scarlet "sumachs" of
the western forests.
And in the frozen winter, of almost Arctic severity and continuance,
home was brought even nearer to me--in connection with all the cherished
memories of that kindly-tempered season. I thought of the old firesides
where I had been a welcome guest in times past; the old Christmas
festivities, the old Christmas cheer, the--bah! What good will it do to
you and I thus to trace over the aching foot-prints of recollection?
I used to go down to the mouth of the Hudson river, that I might watch
the red-funnelled Cunard steamers start on their passage to England--
sending my heart after them in impotent cravings: I used, I remember, to
mark off the days as they passed, in the little almanack of my pocket-
book--scoring them out, just as Robinson Crusoe was in the habit of
notching his post for the same purpose:--I used to fret and fret, in
fact, eating my soul away in vain repinings and foolish longings!
And, still, my fortunes did not brighten--notwithstanding that I hunted
in every direction for work, and tried to wean my mind from painful
associations by hopeful anticipations of "something turning up" on the
morrow. The morrow came, sure enough; but no good luck:--my fortunes
got darker and darker, as time went on; while my home yearnings grew
stronger.
I would have borne my troubles much better, I'm certain, if I could only
have heard from my darling.
There was no hope of that, however, as you know. Even if Min would have
consented to such a thing, which I knew she would not have done, I
should never have dreamt of asking her to write to me in opposition to
her mother's wishes. It is true that I had dear little Miss
Pimpernell's letters; but what could _they_ be in comparison with
letters from Min?--although, of course, the kind old lady would tell me
all about her, and how she looked, and what she said, in order to
encourage me?
It was a hard fight, a bitter struggle--that first year I passed in
America; and, my memory will bear the scars of the combat, I believe,
until my dying day.
Still, time brought relief; and, opportunity, success--so the world
wags.