PRUE AND I. 

BY

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 

"Knitters in the sun. "_Twelfth Night. _

A WORD TO THE GENTLE READER. 

An old book-keeper, who wears a white cravat and black trowsers in themorning, who rarely goes to the opera, and never dines out, is clearlya person of no fashion and of no superior sources of information. Hisonly journey is from his house to his office; his only satisfaction isin doing his duty; his only happiness is in his Prue and his children. 

What romance can such a life have? What stories can such a man tell?

Yet I think, sometimes, when I look up from the parquet at the opera, and see Aurelia smiling in the boxes, and holding her court of love, and youth, and beauty, that the historians have not told of a fairerqueen, nor the travellers seen devouter homage. And when I remememberthat it was in misty England that quaint old George Herbert Sang ofthe--

 "Sweet day so cool, so calm, so bright-- The bridal of the earth and sky, "

I am sure that I see days as lovely in our clearer air, and do notbelieve that Italian sunsets have a more gorgeous purple or a softergold. 

So, as the circle of my little life revolves, I console myself withbelieving, what I cannot help believing, that a man need not be avagabond to enjoy the sweetest charm of travel, but that all countriesand all times repeat themselves in his experience. This is an oldphilosophy, I am told, and much favored by those who have travelled;and I cannot but be glad that my faith has such a fine name and suchcompetent witnesses. I am assured, however, upon the other hand, thatsuch a faith is only imagination. But, if that be true, imagination isas good as many voyages--and how much cheaper!--a consideration whichan old book-keeper can never afford to forget. 

I have not found, in my experience, that travellers always bring backwith them the sunshine of Italy or the elegance of Greece. They tellus that there are such things, and that they have seen them; but, perhaps, they saw them, as the apples in the garden of the Hesperideswere sometimes seen--over the wall. I prefer the fruit which I can buyin the market to that which a man tells me he saw in Sicily, but ofwhich there is no flavor in his story. Others, like Moses Primrose, bring us a gross of such spectacles as we prefer not to see; so that Ibegin to suspect a man must have Italy and Greece in his heart andmind, if he would ever see them with his eyes. 

I know that this may be only a device of that compassionateimagination designed to comfort me, who shall never take but one otherjourney than my daily beat. Yet there have been wise men who taughtthat all scenes are but pictures upon the mind; and if I can see themas I walk the street that leads to my office, or sit at theoffice-window looking into the court, or take a little trip down thebay or up the river, why are not my pictures as pleasant and asprofitable as those which men travel for years, at great cost of time, and trouble, and money, to behold?

For my part, I do not believe that any man can see softer skies than Isee in Prue's eyes; nor hear sweeter music than I hear in Prue'svoice; nor find a more heaven-lighted temple than I know Prue's mindto be. And when I wish to please myself with a lovely image of peaceand contentment, I do not think of the plain of Sharon, nor of thevalley of Enna, nor of Arcadia, nor of Claude's pictures; but, feelingthat the fairest fortune of my life is the right to be named with her, I whisper gently, to myself, with a smile--for it seems as if my veryheart smiled within me, when I think of her--"Prue and I. "

CONTENTS. 

 I. DINNER-TIME II. MY CHATEAUXIII. SEA FROM SHORE IV. TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES V. A CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN VI. FAMILY PORTRAITSVII. OUR COUSIN THE CURATE

DINNER-TIME. 

 "Within this hour it will be dinner-time; I'll view the manners of the town, Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings. " _Comedy of Errors_. 

In the warm afternoons of the early summer, it is my pleasure tostroll about Washington Square and along the Fifth Avenue, at the hourwhen the diners-out are hurrying to the tables of the wealthy andrefined. I gaze with placid delight upon the cheerful expanse of whitewaistcoat that illumes those streets at that hour, and mark thevariety of emotions that swell beneath all that purity. A man goingout to dine has a singular cheerfulness of aspect. Except for hisgloves, which fit so well, and which he has carefully buttoned, thathe may not make an awkward pause in the hall of his friend's house, Iam sure he would search his pocket for a cent to give the wan beggarat the corner. It is impossible just now, my dear woman; but God blessyou!

It is pleasant to consider that simple suit of black. If my man beyoung and only lately cognizant of the rigors of the social law, he isa little nervous at being seen in his dress suit--body coat and blacktrowsers--before sunset. For in the last days of May the light lingerslong over the freshly leaved trees in the Square, and lies warm alongthe Avenue. All winter the sun has not been permitted to seedress-coats. They come out only with the stars, and fade with ghosts, before the dawn. Except, haply, they be brought homeward beforebreakfast in an early twilight of hackney-coach. Now, in the buddingand bursting summer, the sun takes his revenge, and looks aslant overthe tree-tops and the chimneys upon the most unimpeachable garments. Acat may look upon a king. 

I know my man at a distance. If I am chatting with the nursery maidsaround the fountain, I see him upon the broad walk of WashingtonSquare, and detect him by the freshness of his movement his springygait. Then the white waistcoat flashes in the sun. 

"Go on, happy youth, " I exclaim aloud, to the great alarm of thenursery maids, who suppose me to be an innocent insane person sufferedto go at large, unattended, --"go on, and be happy with fellowwaistcoats over fragrant wines. "

It is hard to describe the pleasure in this amiable spectacle of a mangoing out to dine. I, who am a quiet family man, and take a quietfamily cut at four o'clock; or, when I am detained down town by afalse quantity in my figures, who run into Delmonico's and seekcomfort in a cutlet, am rarely invited to dinner and have few whitewaistcoats. Indeed, my dear Prue tells me that I have but one in theworld, and I often want to confront my eager young friends as theybound along, and ask abruptly, "What do you think of a man whom onewhite waistcoat suffices?"

By the time I have eaten my modest repast, it is the hour for thediners-out to appear. If the day is unusually soft and sunny, I hurrymy simple meal a little, that I may not lose any of my favoritespectacle. Then I saunter out. If you met me you would see that I amalso clad in black. But black is my natural color, so that it begetsno false theories concerning my intentions. Nobody, meeting me in fullblack, supposes that I am going to dine out. That sombre hue isprofessional with me. It belongs to book-keepers as to clergymen, physicians, and undertakers. We wear it because we follow solemncallings. Saving men's bodies and souls, or keeping the machinery ofbusiness well wound, are such sad professions that it is becoming todrape dolefully those who adopt them. 

I wear a white cravat, too, but nobody supposes that it is in anydanger of being stained by Lafitte. It is a limp cravat with a craventie. It has none of the dazzling dash of the white that my youngfriends sport, or, I should say, sported; for the white cravat is nowabandoned to the sombre professions of which I spoke. My young friendssuspect that the flunkeys of the British nobleman wear such ties, andthey have, therefore, discarded them. I am sorry to remark, also, anuneasiness, if not downright skepticism, about the white waistcoat. Will it extend to shirts, I ask myself with sorrow. 

But there is something pleasanter to contemplate during these quietstrolls of mine, than the men who are going to dine out, and that is, the women. They roll in carriages to the happy houses which they shallhonor, and I strain my eyes in at the carriage window to see theircheerful faces as they pass. I have already dined; upon beef andcabbage, probably, if it is boiled day. I I am not expected at thetable to which Aurelia is hastening, yet no guest there shall enjoymore than I enjoy, --nor so much, if he considers the meats the bestpart of the dinner. The beauty of the beautiful Aurelia I see andworship as she drives by. The vision of many beautiful Aureliasdriving to dinner, is the mirage of that pleasant journey of minealong the avenue. I do not envy the Persian poets, on thoseafternoons, nor long to be an Arabian traveller. For I can walk thatstreet, finer than any of which the Ispahan architects dreamed; and Ican see sultanas as splendid as the enthusiastic and exaggeratingOrientals describe. 

But not only do I see and enjoy Aurelia's beauty I delight in herexquisite attire. In these warm days she does not wear so much as thelightest shawl. She is clad only in spring sunshine. It glitters inthe soft darkness of her hair. It touches the diamonds, the opals, thepearls, that cling to her arms, and neck, and fingers. They flash backagain, and the gorgeous silks glisten, and the light laces flutter, until the stately Aurelia seems to me, in tremulous radiance, swimmingby. 

I doubt whether you who are to have the inexpressible pleasure ofdining with her, and even of sitting by her side, will enjoy more thanI. For my pleasure is inexpressible, also. And it is in this greaterthan yours, that I see all the beautiful ones who are to dine atvarious tables, while you only see your own circle, although that, Iwill not deny, is the most desirable of all. 

Beside, although my person is not present at your dinner, my fancyis. I see Aurelia's carriage stop, and behold white-gloved servantsopening wide doors. There is a brief glimpse of magnificence for thedull eyes of the loiterers outside; then the door closes. But my fancywent in with Aurelia. With her, it looks at the vast mirror, andsurveys her form at length in the Psyche-glass. It gives the finalshake to the skirt, the last flirt to the embroidered handkerchief, carefully held, and adjusts the bouquet, complete as a tropic nestlingin orange leaves. It descends with her, and marks the faint blush uponher cheek at the thought of her exceeding beauty; the consciousness ofthe most beautiful woman, that the most beautiful woman is enteringthe room. There is the momentary hush, the subdued greeting, the quickglance of the Aurelias who have arrived earlier, and who perceive in amoment the hopeless perfection of that attire; the courtly gaze ofgentlemen, who feel the serenity of that beauty. All this my fancysurveys; my fancy, Aurelia's invisible cavalier. 

You approach with hat in hand and the thumb of your left hand in yourwaistcoat pocket. You are polished and cool, and have anirreproachable repose of manner. There are no improper wrinkles inyour cravat; your shirt-bosom does not bulge; the trowsers areaccurate about your admirable boot. But you look very stiff andbrittle. You are a little bullied by your unexceptionableshirt-collar, which interdicts perfect freedom of movement in yourhead. You are elegant, undoubtedly, but it seems as if you might breakand fall to pieces, like a porcelain vase, if you were roughly shaken. 

Now, here, I have the advantage of you. My fancy quietly surveying thescene, is subject to none of these embarrassments. My fancy will notutter commonplaces. That will not say to the superb lady, who standswith her flowers, incarnate May, "What a beautiful day, Miss Aurelia. "That will not feel constrained to say something, when it has nothingto say; nor will it be obliged to smother all the pleasant things thatoccur, because they would be too flattering to express. My fancyperpetually murmurs in Aurelia's ear, "Those flowers would not be fairin your hand, if you yourself were not fairer. That diamond necklacewould be gaudy, if your eyes were not brighter. That queenly movementwould be awkward, if your soul were not queenlier. "

You could not say such things to Aurelia, although, if you are worthyto dine at her side, they are the very things you are longing tosay. What insufferable stuff you are talking about the weather, andthe opera, and Alboni's delicious voice, and Newport, and Saratoga!They are all very pleasant subjects, but do you suppose Ixion talkedThessalian politics when he was admitted to dine with Juno?

I almost begin to pity you, and to believe that a scarcity of whitewaistcoats is true wisdom. For now dinner is announced, and you, Orare felicity, are to hand down Aurelia. But you run the risk oftumbling her expansive skirt, and you have to drop your hat upon achance chair, and wonder, _en passant_ who will wear it home, which is annoying. My fancy runs no such risk; is not at allsolicitous about its hat, and glides by the side of Aurelia, statelyas she. There! you stumble on the stair, and are vexed at your ownawkwardness, and are sure you saw the ghost of a smile glimmer alongthat superb face at your side. My fancy doesn't tumble down stairs, and what kind of looks it sees upon Aurelia's face, are its ownsecret. 

Is it any better, now you are seated at table? Your companion eatslittle because she wishes little. You eat little because you think itis elegant to do so. It is a shabby, second-hand elegance, like yourbrittle behavior. It is just as foolish for you to play with themeats, when you ought to satisfy your healthy appetite generously, asit is for you, in the drawing-room, to affect that cool indifferencewhen you have real and noble interests. 

I grant you that fine manners, if you please, are a fine art. But isnot monotony the destruction of art? Your manners, O happy Ixion, banqueting with Juno, are Egyptian. They have no perspective, novariety. They have no color, no shading. They are all on a dead level;they are flat. Now, for you are a man of sense, you are conscious thatthose wonderful eyes of Aurelia see straight through all this net-workof elegant manners in which you have entangled yourself, and thatconsciousness is uncomfortable to you. It is another trick in the gamefor me, because those eyes do not pry into my fancy. How can they, since Aurelia does not know of my existence?

Unless, indeed, she should remember the first time I saw her. It wasonly last year, in May. I had dined, somewhat hastily, inconsideration of the fine day, and of my confidence that many would bewending dinnerwards that afternoon. I saw my Prue comfortably engagedin seating the trowsers of Adoniram, our eldest boy--an economicalcare to which my darling Prue is not unequal, even in these days andin this town--and then hurried toward the avenue. It is never muchthronged at that hour. The moment is sacred to dinner. As I paused atthe corner of Twelfth Street, by the church, you remember, I saw anapple-woman, from whose stores I determined to finish my dessert, which had been imperfect at home. But, mindful of meritorious andeconomical Prue, I was not the man to pay exorbitant prices forapples, and while still haggling with the wrinkled Eve who had temptedme, I became suddenly aware of a carriage approaching, and, indeed, already close by. I raised my eyes, still munching an apple which Iheld in one hand, while the other grasped my walking-stick (true to myinstincts of dinner guests, as young women to a passing wedding or oldones to a funeral), and beheld Aurelia!

Old in this kind of observation as I am, there was something sograciously alluring in the look that she cast upon me, asunconsciously, indeed, as she would have cast it upon the church, that, fumbling hastily for my spectacles to enjoy the boon more fully, I thoughtlessly advanced upon the apple-stand, and, in someindescribable manner, tripping, down we all fell into the street, oldwoman, apples, baskets, stand, and I, in promiscuous confusion. As Istruggled there, somewhat bewildered, yet sufficiently self-possessedto look after the carriage, I beheld that beautiful woman looking atus through the back-window (you could not have done it; the integrityof your shirt-collar would have interfered, ) and smiling pleasantly, so that her going around the corner was like a gentle sunset, soseemed she to disappear in her own smiling; or--if you choose, in viewof the apple difficulties--like a rainbow after a storm. 

If the beautiful Aurelia recalls that event, she may know of myexistence; not otherwise. And even then she knows me only as a funnyold gentleman, who, in his eagerness to look at her, tumbled over anapple-woman. 

My fancy from that moment followed her. How grateful I was to thewrinkled Eve's extortion, and to the untoward tumble, since itprocured me the sight of that smile. I took my sweet revenge fromthat. For I knew that the beautiful Aurelia entered the house of herhost with beaming eyes, and my fancy heard her sparkling story. Youconsider yourself happy because you are sitting by her and helping herto a lady-finger, or a macaroon, for which she smiles. But I was hertheme for ten mortal minutes. She was my bard, my blithe historian. She was the Homer of my luckless Trojan fall. She set my mishap tomusic, in telling it. Think what it is to have inspired Urania; tohave called a brighter beam into the eyes of Miranda, and do not thinkso much of passing Aurelia the mottoes, my dear young friend. 

There was the advantage of not going to that dinner. Had I beeninvited, as you were, I should have pestered Prue about the buttons onmy white waistcoat, instead of leaving her placidly piecing adolescenttrowsers. She would have been flustered, fearful of being too late, oftumbling the garment, of soiling it, fearful of offending me in someway, (admirable woman!) I, in my natural impatience, might have letdrop a thoughtless word, which would have been a pang in her heart anda tear in her eye, for weeks afterward. 

As I walked nervously up the avenue (for I am unaccustomed to prandialrecreations), I should not have had that solacing image of quiet Prue, and the trowsers, as the back-ground in the pictures of the gayfigures I passed, making each, by contrast, fairer. I should have beenwondering what to say and do at the dinner. I should surely have beenvery warm, and yet not have enjoyed the rich, waning sunlight. Need Itell you that I should not have stopped for apples, but instead ofeconomically tumbling into the street with apples and apple-women, whereby I merely rent my trowsers across the knee, in a manner thatPrue can readily, and at little cost, repair. I should, beyondperadventure, have split a new dollar-pair of gloves in the effort ofstraining my large hands into them, which would, also, have caused meadditional redness in the face, and renewed fluttering. 

Above all, I should not have seen Aurelia passing in her carriage, norwould she have smiled at me, nor charmed my memory with her radiance, nor the circle at dinner with the sparkling Iliad of my woes. Then atthe table, I should not have sat by her. You would have had thatpleasure; I should have led out the maiden aunt from the country, andhave talked poultry, when I talked at all. Aurelia would not haveremarked me. Afterward, in describing the dinner to her virtuousparents, she would have concluded, "and one old gentleman, whom Ididn't know. "

No, my polished friend, whose elegant repose of manner I yet greatlycommend, I am content, if you are. How much better it was that I wasnot invited to that dinner, but was permitted, by a kind fate, tofurnish a subject for Aurelia's wit. 

There is one other advantage in sending your fancy to dinner, insteadof going yourself. It is, that then the occasion remains wholly fairin your memory. You, who devote yourself to dining out, and who are tobe daily seen affably sitting down to such feasts, as I know mainly byhearsay--by the report of waiters, guests, and others who werepresent--you cannot escape the little things that spoil the picture, and which the fancy does not see. 

For instance, in handing you the _potage à la Bisque_, at thevery commencement of this dinner to-day, John, the waiter, who neverdid such a thing before, did this time suffer the plate to tip, sothat a little of that rare soup dripped into your lap--just enough tospoil those trowsers, which is nothing to you, because you can buy agreat many more trowsers, but which little event is inharmonious withthe fine porcelain dinner service, with the fragrant wines, theglittering glass, the beautiful guests, and the mood of mind suggestedby all of these. There is, in fact, if you will pardon a free use ofthe vernacular, there is a grease-spot upon your remembrance of thisdinner. 

Or, in the same way, and with the same kind of mental result, you caneasily imagine the meats a little tough; a suspicion of smokesomewhere in the sauces; too much pepper, perhaps, or too little salt;or there might be the graver dissonance of claret not properlyattempered, or a choice Rhenish below the average mark, or thespilling of some of that Arethusa Madeira, marvellous for itsinnumerable circumnavigations of the globe, and for being as dry asthe conversation of the host. These things are not up to the highlevel of the dinner; for wherever Aurelia dines, all accessoriesshould be as perfect in their kind as she, the principal, is in hers. 

That reminds me of a possible dissonance worse than all. Suppose thatsoup had trickled down the unimaginable _berthe_ of Aurelia'sdress (since it might have done so), instead of wasting itself uponyour trowsers! Could even the irreproachable elegance of your mannershave contemplated, unmoved, a grease-spot upon your remembrance of thepeerless Aurelia?

You smile, of course, and remind me that that lady's manners are soperfect that, if she drank poison, she would wipe her mouth after itas gracefully as ever. How much more then, you say, in the case ofsuch a slight _contretemps_ as spotting her dress, would sheappear totally unmoved. 

So she would, undoubtedly. She would be, and look, as pure as ever;but, my young friend, her dress would not. Once, I dropped a pickledoyster in the lap of my Prue, who wore, on the occasion, her sea-greensilk gown. I did not love my Prue the less; but there certainly was avery unhandsome spot upon her dress. And although I know my Prue to bespotless, yet, whenever I recall that day, I see her in a spottedgown, and I would prefer never to have been obliged to think of her insuch a garment. 

Can you not make the application to the case, very likely to happen, of some disfigurement of that exquisite toilette of Aurelia's? Ingoing down stairs, for instance, why should not heavy old MrCarbuncle, who is coming close behind with Mrs. Peony, both veryeager for dinner, tread upon the hem of that garment which my lipswould grow pale to kiss? The august Aurelia, yielding to natural laws, would be drawn suddenly backward--a very undignified movement--and thedress would be dilapidated. There would be apologies, and smiles, andforgiveness, and pinning up the pieces, nor would there be thefaintest feeling of awkwardness or vexation in Aurelia's mind. But toyou, looking on, and, beneath all that pure show of waistcoat, cursingold Carbuncle's carelessness, this tearing of dresses and repair ofthe toilette is by no means a poetic and cheerful spectacle. Nay, thevery impatience that it produces in your mind jars upon the harmony ofthe moment. 

You will respond, with proper scorn, that you are not so absurdlyfastidious as to heed the little necessary drawbacks of socialmeetings, and that you have not much regard for "the harmony of theoccasion" (which phrase I fear you will repeat in a sneeringtone). You will do very right in saying this; and it is a remark towhich I shall give all the hospitality of my mind, and I do so becauseI heartily coincide in it. I hold a man to be very foolish who willnot eat a good dinner because the table-cloth is not clean, or whocavils at the spots upon the sun. But still a man who does not applyhis eye to a telescope or some kind of prepared medium, does not seethose spots, while he has just as much light and heat as he who does. 

So it is with me. I walk in the avenue, and eat all the delightfuldinners without seeing the spots upon the table-cloth, and behold allthe beautiful Aurelias without swearing at old Carbuncle. I am theguest who, for the small price of invisibility, drinks only the bestwines, and talks only to the most agreeable people. That is something, I can tell you, for you might be asked to lead out old Mrs. Peony. Myfancy slips in between you and Aurelia, sit you never so closelytogether. It not only hears what she says, but it perceives what shethinks and feels. It lies like a bee in her flowery thoughts, suckingall their honey. If there are unhandsome or unfeeling guests at table, it will not see them. It knows only the good and fair. As I stroll inthe fading light and observe the stately houses, my fancy believes thehost equal to his house, and the courtesy of his wife more agreeablethan her conservatory. It will not believe that the pictures on thewall and the statues in the corners shame the guests. It will notallow that they are less than noble. It hears them speak gently oferror, and warmly of worth. It knows that they commend heroism anddevotion, and reprobate insincerity. My fancy is convinced that theguests are not only feasted upon the choicest fruits of every land andseason, but are refreshed by a consciousness of greater loveliness andgrace in human character. Now you, who actually go to the dinner, maynot entirely agree with the view my fancy takes of thatentertainment. Is it not, therefore, rather your loss? Or, to put itin another way, ought I to envy you the discovery that the guests_are_ shamed by the statues and pictures;--yes, and by the spoonsand forks also, if they should chance neither to be so genuine nor souseful as those instruments? And, worse than this, when your fancywishes to enjoy the picture which mine forms of that feast, it cannotdo so, because you have foolishly interpolated the fact between thedinner and your fancy. 

Of course, by this time it is late twilight, and the spectacle Ienjoyed is almost over. But not quite, for as I return slowly alongthe streets, the windows are open, and only a thin haze of lace ormuslin separates me from the Paradise within. 

I see the graceful cluster of girls hovering over the piano, and thequiet groups of the elders in easy chairs, around little tables. Icannot hear what is said, nor plainly see the faces. But some hoydenevening wind, more daring than I, abruptly parts the cloud to look in, and out comes a gush of light, music, and fragrance, so that I shrinkaway into the dark, that I may not seem, even by chance, to haveinvaded that privacy. 

Suddenly there is singing. It is Aurelia, who does not cope with theItalian Prima Donna, nor sing indifferently to-night, what was sung, superbly last evening at the opera. She has a strange, low, sweetvoice, as if she only sang in the twilight. It is the ballad of "AllanPercy" that she sings. There is no dainty applause of kid gloves, when it is ended, but silence follows the singing, like a tear. 

Then you, my young friend, ascend into the drawing-room, and, after alittle graceful gossip, retire; or you wait, possibly, to hand Aureliainto her carriage, and to arrange a waltz for to-morrow evening. Shesmiles, you bow, and it is over. But it is not yet over with me. Myfancy still follows her, and, like a prophetic dream, rehearses herdestiny. For, as the carriage rolls away into the darkness and Ireturn homewards, how can my fancy help rolling away also, into thedim future, watching her go down the years?

Upon my way home I see her in a thousand new situations. My fancy saysto me, "The beauty of this beautiful woman is heaven's stamp uponvirtue. She will be equal to every chance that shall befall her, andshe is so radiant and charming in the circle of prosperity, onlybecause she has that irresistible simplicity and fidelity ofcharacter, which can also pluck the sting from adversity. Do you notsee, you wan old book-keeper in faded cravat, that in a poor man'shouse this superb Aurelia would be more stately than sculpture, morebeautiful than painting, and more graceful than the famousvases. Would her husband regret the opera if she sang 'Allan Percy' tohim in the twilight? Would he not feel richer than the Poets, when hiseyes rose from their jewelled pages, to fall again dazzled by thesplendor of his wife's beauty?"

At this point in my reflections I sometimes run, rather violently, against a lamp-post, and then proceed along the street more sedately. 

It is yet early when I reach home, where my Prue awaits me. Thechildren are asleep, and the trowsers mended. The admirable woman ispatient of my idiosyncrasies, and asks me if I have had a pleasantwalk, and if there were many fine dinners to-day, as if I had beenexpected at a dozen tables. She even asks me if I have seen thebeautiful Aurelia (for there is always some Aurelia, ) and inquireswhat dress she wore. I respond, and dilate upon what I have seen. Pruelistens, as the children listen to her fairy tales. We discuss thelittle stories that penetrate our retirement, of the great people whoactually dine out. Prue, with fine womanly instinct, declares it is ashame that Aurelia should smile for a moment upon ----, yes, even uponyou, my friend of the irreproachable manners!

"I know him, " says my simple Prue; "I have watched his cold courtesy, his insincere devotion. I have seen him acting in the boxes at theopera, much more adroitly than the singers upon the stage. I haveread his determination to marry Aurelia; and I shall not besurprised, " concludes my tender wife, sadly, "if he wins her at last, by tiring her out, or, by secluding her by his constant devotion fromthe homage of other men, convinces her that she had better marry him, since it is so dismal to live on unmarried. "

And so, my friend, at the moment when the bouquet you ordered isarriving at Aurelia's house, and she is sitting before the glass whileher maid arranges the last flower in her hair, my darling Prue, whomyou will never hear of, is shedding warm tears over your probableunion, and I am sitting by, adjusting my cravat and incontinentlyclearing my throat. 

It is rather a ridiculous business, I allow; yet you will smile at ittenderly, rather than scornfully, if you remember that it shows howclosely linked we human creatures are, without knowing it, and thatmore hearts than we dream of enjoy our happiness and share our sorrow. 

Thus, I dine at great tables uninvited, and, unknown, converse withthe famous beauties. If Aurelia is at last engaged, (but who isworthy?) she will, with even greater care, arrange that wondroustoilette, will teach that lace a fall more alluring, those gems asweeter light. But even then, as she rolls to dinner in her carriage, glad that she is fair, not for her own sake nor for the world's, butfor that of a single youth (who, I hope, has not been smoking at theclub all the morning), I, sauntering upon the sidewalk, see her pass, I pay homage to her beauty, and her lover can do no more; and if, perchance, my garments--which must seem quaint to her, with theirshining knees and carefully brushed elbows; my white cravat, careless, yet prim; my meditative movement, as I put my stick under my arm topare an apple, and not, I hope, this time to fall into thestreet, --should remind her, in her spring of youth, and beauty, andlove, that there are age, and care, and poverty, also; then, perhaps, the good fortune of the meeting is not wholly mine. 

For, O beautiful Aurelia, two of these things, at least, must comeeven to you. There will be a time when you will no longer go out todinner, or only very quietly, in the family. I shall be gone then: butother old book-keepers in white cravats will inherit my tastes, andsaunter, on summer afternoons, to see what I loved to see. 

They will not pause, I fear, in buying apples, to look at the old ladyin venerable cap, who is rolling by in the carriage. They will worshipanother Aurelia. You will not wear diamonds or opals any more, onlyone pearl upon your blue-veined finger--your engagement ring. Graveclergymen and antiquated beaux will hand you down to dinner, and thegroup of polished youth, who gather around the yet unborn Aurelia ofthat day, will look at you, sitting quietly upon the sofa, and say, softly, "She must have been very handsome in her time. "

All this must be: for consider how few years since it was yourgrandmother who was the belle, by whose side the handsome, young menlonged to sit and pass expressive mottoes. Your grandmother was theAurelia of a half-century ago, although you cannot fancy heryoung. She is indissolubly associated in your mind with caps and darkdresses. You can believe Mary Queen of Scots, or Nell Gwyn orCleopatra, to have been young and blooming, although they belong toold and dead centuries, but not your grandmother. Think of those whoshall believe the same of you--you, who to-day are the very flower ofyouth. 

Might I plead with you, Aurelia--I, who would be too happy to receiveone of those graciously beaming bows that I see you bestow upon youngmen, in passing, --I would ask you to bear that thought with you, always, not to sadden your sunny smile, but to give it a more subtlegrace. Wear in your summer garland this little leaf of rue. It willnot be the skull at the feast, it will rather be the tenderthoughtfulness in the face of the young Madonna. 

For the years pass like summer clouds, Aurelia, and the children ofyesterday are the wives and mothers of to-day. Even I do sometimesdiscover the mild eyes of my Prue fixed pensively upon my face, as ifsearching for the bloom which she remembers there in the days, longago, when we were young. She will never see it there again, any morethan the flowers she held in her hand, in our old spring rambles. Yetthe tear that slowly gathers as she gazes, is not grief that the bloomhas faded from my cheek, but the sweet consciousness that it can neverfade from my heart; and as her eyes fall upon her work again, or thechildren climb her lap to hear the old fairy tales they already knowby heart, my wife Prue is dearer to me than the sweetheart of thosedays long ago. 

MY CHATEAUX. 

 "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree. " _Coleridge. _

I am the owner of great estates. Many of them lie in the West; but thegreater part are in Spain. You may see my western possessions anyevening at sunset when their spires and battlements flash against thehorizon. 

It gives me a feeling of pardonable importance, as a proprietor, thatthey are visible, to my eyes at least, from any part of the world inwhich I chance to be. In my long voyage around the Cape of Good Hopeto India (the only voyage I ever made, when I was a boy and asupercargo), if I fell home-sick, or sank into a reverie of all thepleasant homes I had left behind, I had but to wait until sunset, andthen looking toward the west, I beheld my clustering pinnacles andtowers brightly burnished as if to salute and welcome me. 

So, in the city, if I get vexed and wearied, and cannot find my wontedsolace in sallying forth at dinner-time to contemplate the gay worldof youth and beauty hurrying to the congress of fashion, --or if Iobserve that years are deepening their tracks around the eyes of mywife, Prue, I go quietly up to the housetop, toward evening, andrefresh myself with a distant prospect of my estates. It is as dear tome as that of Eton to the poet Gray; and, if I sometimes wonder atsuch moments whether I shall find those realms as fair as they appear, I am suddenly reminded that the night air may be noxious, anddescending, I enter the little parlor where Prue sits stitching, andsurprise that precious woman by exclaiming with the poet's pensiveenthusiasm;

 "Thought would destroy their Paradise, No more;--where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise. "

Columbus, also, had possessions in the West; and as I read aloud theromantic story of his life, my voice quivers when I come to the pointin which it is related that sweet odors of the land mingled with thesea-air, as the admiral's fleet approached the shores; that tropicalbirds flew out and fluttered around the ships, glittering in the sun, the gorgeous promises of the new country; that boughs, perhaps withblossoms not all decayed, floated out to welcome the strange wood fromwhich the craft were hollowed. Then I cannot restrain myself, I thinkof the gorgeous visions I have seen before I have even undertaken thejourney to the West, and I cry aloud to Prue:

"What sun-bright birds, and gorgeous blossoms, and celestial odorswill float out to us, my Prue, as we approach our westernpossessions!"

The placid Prue raises her eyes to mine with a reproof so delicatethat it could not be trusted to words; and, after a moment, sheresumes her knitting and I proceed. 

These are my western estates, but my finest castles are in Spain. Itis a country famously romantic, and my castles are all of perfectproportions, and appropriately set in the most picturesque situations. I have never been to Spain myself, but I have naturally conversed muchwith travellers to that country; although, I must allow, withoutderiving from them much substantial information about my propertythere. The wisest of them told me that there were more holders of realestate in Spain than in any other region he had ever heard of, andthey are all great proprietors. Every one of them possesses amultitude of the stateliest castles. From conversation with them youeasily gather that each one considers his own castles much the largestand in the loveliest positions. And, after I had heard this said, Iverified it, by discovering that all my immediate neighbors in thecity were great Spanish proprietors. 

One day as I raised my head from entering some long and tediousaccounts in my books, and began to reflect that the quarter wasexpiring, and that I must begin to prepare the balance-sheet, Iobserved my subordinate, in office but not in years, (for poor oldTitbottom will never see sixty again!) leaning on his hand, and muchabstracted. 

"Are you not well, Titbottom!" asked I. 

"Perfectly, but I was just building a castle in Spain, " said he. 

I looked at his rusty coat, his faded hands, his sad eye, and whitehair, for a moment, in great surprise, and then inquired, "Is it possible that you own property there too?"

He shook his head silently; and still leaning on his hand, and with anexpression in his eye, as if he were looking upon the most fertileestate of Andalusia, he went on making his plans; laying out hisgardens, I suppose, building terraces for the vines, determining alibrary with a southern exposure, and resolving which should be thetapestried chamber. 

"What a singular whim, " thought I, as I watched Titbottom and filledup a cheque for four hundred dollars, my quarterly salary, "that a manwho owns castles in Spain should be deputy book-keeper at nine hundreddollars a year!"

When I went home I ate my dinner silently, and afterward sat for along time upon the roof of the house, looking at my western property, and thinking of Titbottom. 

It is remarkable that none of the proprietors have ever been to Spainto take possession and report to the rest of us the state of ourproperty there. I, of course, cannot go, I am too much engaged. So isTitbottom. And I find it is the case with all the proprietors. Wehave so much to detain us at home that we cannot get away. But it isalways so with rich men. Prue sighed once as she sat at the windowand saw Bourne, the millionaire, the President of innumerablecompanies, and manager and director of all the charitable societies intown, going by with wrinkled brow and hurried step. I asked her whyshe sighed. 

"Because I was remembering that my mother used to tell me not todesire great riches, for they occasioned great cares, " said she. 

"They do indeed, " answered I, with emphasis, remembering Titbottom, and the impossibility of looking after my Spanish estates. 

Prue turned and looked at me with mild surprise; but I saw that hermind had gone down the street with Bourne. I could never discover ifhe held much Spanish stock. But I think he does. All the Spanishproprietors have a certain expression. Bourne has it to a remarkabledegree. It is a kind of look, as if, in fact, a man's mind were inSpain. Bourne was an old lover of Prue's, and he is not married, which is strange for a man in his position. 

It is not easy for me to say how I know so much, as I certainly do, about my castles in Spain. The sun always shines upon them. They standlofty and fair in a luminous, golden atmosphere, a little hazy anddreamy, perhaps, like the Indian summer, but in which no gales blowand there are no tempests. All the sublime mountains, and beautifulvalleys, and soft landscape, that I have not yet seen, are to be foundin the grounds. They command a noble view of the Alps; so fine, indeed, that I should be quite content with the prospect of them fromthe highest tower of my castle, and not care to go to Switzerland. 

The neighboring ruins, too, are as picturesque as those of Italy, andmy desire of standing in the Coliseum, and of seeing the shatteredarches of the Aqueducts stretching along the Campagna and melting intothe Alban Mount, is entirely quenched. The rich gloom of my orangegroves is gilded by fruit as brilliant of complexion and exquisite offlavor as any that ever dark-eyed Sorrento girls, looking over thehigh plastered walls of southern Italy, hand to the youthfultravellers, climbing on donkeys up the narrow lane beneath. 

The Nile flows through my grounds. The Desert lies upon their edge, and Damascus stands in my garden. I am given to understand, also, thatthe Parthenon has been removed to my Spanish possessions. TheGolden-Horn is my fish-preserve; my flocks of golden fleece arepastured on the plain of Marathon, and the honey of Hymettus isdistilled from the flowers that grow in the vale of Enna--all in mySpanish domains. 

From the windows of those castles look the beautiful women whom I havenever seen, whose portraits the poets have painted. They wait for methere, and chiefly the fair-haired child, lost to my eyes so long ago, now bloomed into an impossible beauty. The lights that never shone, glance at evening in the vaulted halls, upon banquets that were neverspread. The bands I have never collected, play all night long, andenchant the brilliant company, that was never assembled, into silence. 

In the long summer mornings the children that I never had, play in thegardens that I never planted. I hear their sweet voices sounding lowand far away, calling, "Father! Father!" I see the lost fair-hairedgirl, grown now into a woman, descending the stately stairs of mycastle in Spain, stepping out upon the lawn, and playing with thosechildren. They bound away together down the garden; but those voiceslinger, this time airily calling, "Mother! mother!"

But there is a stranger magic than this in my Spanish estates. Thelawny slopes on which, when a child, I played, in my father's oldcountry place, which was sold when he failed, are all there, and not aflower faded, nor a blade of grass sere. The green leaves have notfallen from the spring woods of half a century ago, and a gorgeousautumn has blazed undimmed for fifty years, among the trees Iremember. 

Chestnuts are not especially sweet to my palate now, but those withwhich I used to prick my fingers when gathering them in New Hampshirewoods are exquisite as ever to my taste, when I think of eating themin Spain. I never ride horseback now at home; but in Spain, when Ithink of it, I bound over all the fences in the country, barebackedupon the wildest horses. Sermons I am apt to find a little soporificin this country; but in Spain I should listen as reverently as ever, for proprietors must set a good example on their estates. 

Plays are insufferable to me here--Prue and I never go. Prue, indeed, is not quite sure it is moral; but the theatres in my Spanish castlesare of a prodigious splendor, and when I think of going there, Pruesits in a front box with me--a kind of royal box--the good woman, attired in such wise as I have never seen her here, while I wear mywhite waistcoat, which in Spain has no appearance of mending, butdazzles with immortal newness, and is a miraculous fit. 

Yes, and in those castles in Spain, Prue is not the placid, breeches-patching helpmate, with whom you are acquainted, but her facehas a bloom which we both remember, and her movement a grace which mySpanish swans emulate, and her voice a music sweeter than those thatorchestras discourse. She is always there what she seemed to me whenI fell in love with her, many and many years ago. The neighborscalled her then a nice, capable girl; and certainly she did knit anddarn with a zeal and success to which my feet and my legs havetestified for nearly half a century. But she could spin a finer webthan ever came from cotton, and in its subtle meshes my heart wasentangled, and there has reposed softly and happily ever since. Theneighbors declared she could make pudding and cake better than anygirl of her age; but stale bread from Prue's hand was ambrosia to mypalate. 

"She who makes every thing well, even to making neighbors speak wellof her, will surely make a good wife, " said I to myself when I knewher; and the echo of a half century answers, "a good wife. "

So, when I meditate my Spanish castles, I see Prue in them as my heartsaw her standing by her father's door. "Age cannot wither her. " Thereis a magic in the Spanish air that paralyzes Time. He glides by, unnoticed and unnoticing. I greatly admire the Alps, which I see sodistinctly from my Spanish windows; I delight in the taste of thesouthern fruit that ripens upon my terraces; I enjoy the pensive shadeof the Italian ruins in my gardens; I like to shoot crocodiles, andtalk with the Sphinx upon the shores of the Nile, flowing through mydomain; I am glad to drink sherbet in Damascus, and fleece my flockson the plains of Marathon; but I would resign all these for everrather than part with that Spanish portrait of Prue for a day. Nay, have I not resigned them all for ever, to live with that portrait'schanging original?

I have often wondered how I should reach my castles. The desire ofgoing comes over me very strongly sometimes, and I endeavor to see howI can arrange my affairs, so as to get away. To tell the truth, I amnot quite sure of the route, --I mean, to that particular part of Spainin which my estates lie. I have inquired very particularly, but nobodyseems to know precisely. One morning I met young Aspen, trembling withexcitement. 

"What's the matter?" asked I with interest, for I knew that he held agreat deal of Spanish stock. 

"Oh!" said he, "I'm going out to take possession. I have found theway to my castles in Spain. "

"Dear me!" I answered, with the blood streaming into my face; and, heedless of Prue, pulling my glove until it ripped--"what is it?"

"The direct route is through California, " answered he. 

"But then you have the sea to cross afterward, " said I, rememberingthe map. 

"Not at all, " answered Aspen, "the road runs along the shore of theSacramento River. "

He darted away from me, and I did not meet him again. I was verycurious to know if he arrived safely in Spain, and was expecting everyday to hear news from him of my property there, when, one evening, Ibought an extra, full of California news, and the first thing uponwhich my eye fell was this: "Died, in San Francisco, Edward Aspen, Esq. , aged 35. " There is a large body of the Spanish stockholders whobelieve with Aspen, and sail for California every week. I have not yetheard of their arrival out at their castles, but I suppose they are sobusy with their own affairs there, that they have no time to write tothe rest of us about the condition of our property. 

There was my wife's cousin, too, Jonathan Bud, who is a good, honest, youth from the country, and, after a few weeks' absence, he burst intothe office one day, just as I was balancing my books, and whispered tome, eagerly:

"I've found my castle in Spain. "

I put the blotting-paper in the leaf deliberately, for I was wiser nowthan when Aspen had excited me, and looked at my wife's cousin, Jonathan Bud, inquiringly. 

"Polly Bacon, " whispered he, winking. 

I continued the interrogative glance. 

"She's going to marry me, and she'll show me the way to Spain, " saidJonathan Bud, hilariously. 

"She'll make you walk Spanish, Jonathan Bud, " said I. 

And so she does. He makes no more hilarious remarks. He never burstsinto a room. He does not ask us to dinner. He says that Mrs. Bud doesnot like smoking. Mrs. Bud has nerves and babies. She has a way ofsaying, "Mr. Bud!" which destroys conversation, and casts a gloom uponsociety. 

It occurred to me that Bourne, the millionaire, must have ascertainedthe safest and most expeditious route to Spain; so I stole a fewminutes one afternoon, and went into his office. He was sitting at hisdesk, writing rapidly, and surrounded by files of papers and patterns, specimens, boxes, everything that covers the tables of a greatmerchant. In the outer rooms clerks were writing. Upon high shelvesover their heads, were huge chests, covered with dust, dingy with age, many of them, and all marked with the name of the firm, in large blackletters--"Bourne & Dye. " They were all numbered also with the properyear; some of them with a single capital B, and dates extending backinto the last century, when old Bourne made the great fortune, beforehe went into partnership with Dye. Everything was indicative ofimmense and increasing prosperity. 

There were several gentlemen in waiting to converse with Bourne (weall call him so, familiarly, down town), and I waited until they wentout. But others came in. There was no pause in the rush. All kinds ofinquiries were made and answered. At length I stepped up. 

"A moment, please, Mr. Bourne. "

He looked up hastily, wished me good morning which he had done to noneof the others, and which courtesy I attributed to Spanish sympathy. "What is it, sir?" he asked, blandly, but with wrinkled brow. 

"Mr. Bourne, have you any castles in Spain?" said I, without preface. 

He looked at me for a few moments without speaking, and withoutseeming to see me. His brow gradually smoothed, and his eyes, apparently looking into the street, were really, I have no doubt, feasting upon the Spanish landscape. 

"Too many, too many, " said he at length, musingly, shaking his head, and without addressing me. 

I suppose he felt himself too much extended--as we say in WallStreet. He feared, I thought, that he had too much impracticableproperty elsewhere, to own so much in Spain; so I asked, "Will you tell me what you consider the shortest and safest routethither, Mr. Bourne? for, of course, a man who drives such an immensetrade with all parts of the world, will know all that I have come toinquire. "

"My dear sir, " answered he wearily, "I have been trying all my life todiscover it; but none of my ships have ever been there--none of mycaptains have any report to make. They bring me, as they brought myfather, gold dust from Guinea; ivory, pearls, and precious stones, from every part of the earth; but not a fruit, not a solitary flower, from one of my castles in Spain. I have sent clerks, agents, andtravellers of all kinds, philosophers, pleasure-hunters, and invalids, in all sorts of ships, to all sorts of places, but none of them eversaw or heard of my castles, except one young poet, and he died in amad-house. "

"Mr. Bourne, will you take five thousand at ninety-seven?" hastilydemanded a man, whom, as he entered, I recognized as a broker. "We'llmake a splendid thing of it. "

Bourne nodded assent, and the broker disappeared. 

"Happy man!" muttered the merchant, as the broker went out; "he has nocastles in Spain. "

"I am sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Bourne, " said I, retiring. 

"I am glad you came, " returned he; "but I assure you, had I known theroute you hoped to ascertain from me, I should have sailed years andyears ago. People sail for the North-west Passage, which is nothingwhen you have found it. Why don't the English Admiralty fit outexpeditions to discover all our castles in Spain?"

He sat lost in thought. 

"It's nearly post-time, sir, " said the clerk. 

Mr. Bourne did not heed him. He was still musing; and I turned to go, wishing him good morning. When I had nearly reached the door, hecalled me back, saying, as if continuing his remarks--

"It is strange that you, of all men, should come to ask me thisquestion. If I envy any man, it is you, for I sincerely assure youthat I supposed you lived altogether upon your Spanish estates. I oncethought I knew the way to mine. I gave directions for furnishing them, and ordered bridal bouquets, which were never used, but I suppose theyare there still. "

He paused a moment, then said slowly--"How is your wife?"

I told him that Prue was well--that she was always remarkablywell. Mr. Bourne shook me warmly by the hand. 

"Thank you, " said he. "Good morning. "

I knew why he thanked me; I knew why he thought that I livedaltogether upon my Spanish estates; I knew a little bit about thosebridal bouquets. Mr. Bourne, the millionaire, was an old lover ofPrue's. There is something very odd about these Spanish castles. WhenI think of them, I somehow see the fair-haired girl whom I knew when Iwas not out of short jackets. When Bourne meditates them, he sees Prueand me quietly at home in their best chambers. It is a very singularthing that my wife should live in another man's castle in Spain. 

At length I resolved to ask Titbottom if he had ever heard of the bestroute to our estates. He said that he owned castles, and sometimesthere was an expression in his face, as if he saw them. I hope hedid. I should long ago have asked him if he had ever observed theturrets of my possessions in the West, without alluding to Spain, if Ihad not feared he would suppose I was mocking his poverty. I hope hispoverty has not turned his head, for he is very forlorn. 

One Sunday I went with him a few miles into the country. It was asoft, bright day, the fields and hills lay turned to the sky, as ifevery leaf and blade of grass were nerves, bared to the touch of thesun. I almost felt the ground warm under my feet. The meadows wavedand glittered, the lights and shadows were exquisite, and the distanthills seemed only to remove the horizon farther away. As we strolledalong, picking wild flowers, for it was in summer, I was thinking whata fine day it was for a trip to Spain, when Titbottom suddenlyexclaimed:

"Thank God! I own this landscape. "

"You, " returned I. 

"Certainly, " said he. 

"Why, " I answered, "I thought this was part of Bourne's property?"

Titbottom smiled. 

"Does Bourne own the sun and sky? Does Bourne own that sailing shadowyonder? Does Bourne own the golden lustre of the grain, or the motionof the wood, or those ghosts of hills, that glide pallid along thehorizon? Bourne owns the dirt and fences; I own the beauty that makesthe landscape, or otherwise how could I own castles in Spain?"

That was very true. I respected Titbottom more than ever. 

"Do you know, " said he, after a long pause, "that I fancy my castleslie just beyond those distant hills. At all events, I can see themdistinctly from their summits. "

He smiled quietly as he spoke, and it was then I asked:

"But, Titbottom, have you never discovered the way to them?"

"Dear me! yes, " answered he, "I know the way well enough; but it woulddo no good to follow it. I should give out before I arrived. It is along and difficult journey for a man of my years and habits--andincome, " he added slowly. 

As he spoke he seated himself upon the ground; and while he pulledlong blades of grass, and, putting them between his thumbs, whistledshrilly, he said:

"I have never known but two men who reached their estates in Spain. "

"Indeed!" said I, "how did they go?"

"One went over the side of a ship, and the other out of a third storywindow, " said Titbottom, fitting a broad blade between his thumbs andblowing a demoniacal blast. 

"And I know one proprietor who resides upon his estates constantly, "continued he. 

"Who is that?"

"Our old friend Slug, whom you may see any day at the asylum, justcoming in from the hunt, or going to call upon his friend the GrandLama, or dressing for the wedding of the Man in the Moon, or receivingan ambassador from Timbuctoo. Whenever I go to see him, Slug insiststhat I am the Pope, disguised as a journeyman carpenter, and heentertains me in the most distinguished manner. He always insistsupon kissing my foot, and I bestow upon him, kneeling, the apostolicbenediction. This is the only Spanish proprietor in possession, withwhom I am acquainted. "

And, so saying, Titbottom lay back upon the ground, and making aspy-glass of his hand, surveyed the landscape through it. This was amarvellous book-keeper of more than sixty!

"I know another man who lived in his Spanish castle for two months, and then was tumbled out head first. That was young Stunning whomarried old Buhl's daughter. She was all smiles, and mamma was allsugar, and Stunning was all bliss, for two months. He carried his headin the clouds, and felicity absolutely foamed at his eyes. He wasdrowned in love; seeing, as usual, not what really was, but what hefancied. He lived so exclusively in his castle, that he forgot theoffice down town, and one morning there came a fall, and Stunning wassmashed. "

Titbottom arose, and stooping over, contemplated the landscape, withhis head down between his legs. 

"It's quite a new effect, so, " said the nimble book-keeper. 

"Well, " said I, "Stunning failed?"

"Oh yes, smashed all up, and the castle in Spain came down about hisears with a tremendous crash. The family sugar was all dissolved intothe original cane in a moment. Fairy-times are over, are they?Heigh-ho! the falling stones of Stunning's castle have left theirmarks all over his face. I call them his Spanish scars. "

"But, my dear Titbottom, " said I, "what is the matter with you thismorning, your usual sedateness is quite gone?"

"It's only the exhilarating air of Spain, " he answered. "My castlesare so beautiful that I can never think of them, nor speak of them, without excitement; when I was younger I desired to reach them evenmore ardently than now, because I heard that the philosopher's stonewas in the vault of one of them. "

"Indeed, " said I, yielding to sympathy, "and I have good reason tobelieve that the fountain of eternal youth flows through the garden ofone of mine. Do you know whether there are any children upon yourgrounds?"

"'The children of Alice call Bartrum father!'" replied Titbottom, solemnly, and in a low voice, as he folded his faded hands before him, and stood erect, looking wistfully over the landscape. The light windplayed with his thin white hair, and his sober, black suit was almostsombre in the sunshine. The half bitter expression, which I hadremarked upon his face during part of our conversation, had passedaway, and the old sadness had returned to his eye. He stood, in thepleasant morning, the very image of a great proprietor of castles inSpain. 

"There is wonderful music there, " he said: "sometimes I awake atnight, and hear it. It is full of the sweetness of youth, and love, and a new world. I lie and listen, and I seem to arrive at the greatgates of my estates. They swing open upon noiseless hinges, and thetropic of my dreams receives me. Up the broad steps, whose marblepavement mingled light and shadow print with shifting mosaic, beneaththe boughs of lustrous oleanders, and palms, and trees of unimaginablefragrance, I pass into the vestibule, warm with summer odors, and intothe presence-chamber beyond, where my wife awaits me. But castle, andwife, and odorous woods, and pictures, and statues, and all the brightsubstance of my household, seem to reel and glimmer in the splendor, as the music fails. 

"But when it swells again, I clasp the wife to my heart, and we moveon with a fair society, beautiful women, noble men, before whom thetropical luxuriance of that world bends and bows in homage; and, through endless days and nights of eternal summer, the stately revelof our life proceeds. Then, suddenly, the music stops. I hear mywatch ticking under the pillow. I see dimly the outline of my littleupper room. Then I fall asleep, and in the morning some one of theboarders at the breakfast-table says:

"'Did you hear the serenade last night, Mr. Titbottom. '"

I doubted no longer that Titbottom was a very extensiveproprietor. The truth is, that he was so constantly engaged inplanning and arranging his castles, that he conversed very little atthe office, and I had misinterpreted his silence. As we walkedhomeward, that day, he was more than ever tender and gentle. "We mustall have something to do in this world, " said he, "and I, who have somuch leisure--for you know I have no wife nor children to workfor--know not what I should do, if I had not my castles in Spain tolook after. "

When I reached home, my darling Prue was sitting in the small parlor, reading. I felt a little guilty for having been so long away, and uponmy only holiday, too. So I began to say that Titbottom invited me togo to walk, and that I had no idea we had gone so far, and that----

"Don't excuse yourself, " said Prue, smiling as she laid down her book;"I am glad you have enjoyed yourself. You ought to go out sometimes, and breathe the fresh air, and run about the fields, which I am notstrong enough to do. Why did you not bring home Mr. Titbottom to tea?He is so lonely, and looks so sad. I am sure he has very littlecomfort in this life, " said my thoughtful Prue, as she called Jane toset the tea-table. 

"But he has a good deal of comfort in Spain, Prue, " answered I. 

"When was Mr. Titbottom in Spain, " inquired my wife. 

"Why, he is there more than half the time, " I replied. 

Prue looked quietly at me and smiled. "I see it has done you good tobreathe the country air, " said she. "Jane, get some of the blackberryjam, and call Adoniram and the children. "

So we went in to tea. We eat in the back parlor, for our little houseand limited means do not allow us to have things upon the Spanishscale. It is better than a sermon to hear my wife Prue talk to thechildren; and when she speaks to me it seems sweeter than psalmsinging; at least, such as we have in our church. I am very happy. 

Yet I dream my dreams, and attend to my castles in Spain. I have somuch property there, that I could not, in conscience, neglect it. Allthe years of my youth, and the hopes of my manhood, are stored away, like precious stones, in the vaults; and I know that I shall findeverything convenient, elegant, and beautiful, when I come intopossession. 

As the years go by, I am not conscious that my interest diminishes. IfI see that age is subtly sifting his snow in the dark hair of my Prue, I smile, contented, for her hair, dark and heavy as when I first sawit, is all carefully treasured in my castles in Spain. If I feel herarm more heavily leaning upon mine, as we walk around the squares, Ipress it closely to my side, for I know that the easy grace of heryouth's motion will be restored by the elixir of that Spanish air. Ifher voice sometimes falls less clearly from her lips, it is no lesssweet to me for the music of her voice's prime fills, freshly as ever, those Spanish halls. If the light I love fades a little from her eyes, I know that the glances she gave me, in our youth, are the eternalsunshine of my castles in Spain. 

I defy time and change. Each year laid upon our heads, is a hand ofblessing. I have no doubt that I shall find the shortest route to mypossessions as soon as need be. Perhaps, when Adoniram is married, weshall all go out to one of my castles to pass the honey-moon. 

Ah! if the true history of Spain could be written what a book werethere! The most purely romantic ruin in the world is the Alhambra. Butof the Spanish castles, more spacious and splendid than any possibleAlhambra, and for ever unruined, no towers are visible, no pictureshave been painted, and only a few ecstatic songs have been sung. Thepleasure-dome of Kubla Khan, which Coleridge saw in Xanadu (a provincewith which I am not familiar), and a fine Castle of Indolencebelonging to Thomson, and the Palace of art which Tennyson built as a"lordly pleasure-house" for his soul, are among the best statisticalaccounts of those Spanish estates. Turner, too, has done for themmuch the same service that Owen Jones has done for the Alhambra. Inthe vignette to Moore's Epicurean you will find represented one of themost extensive castles in Spain; and there are several exquisitestudies from others, by the same artists, published in Rogers's Italy. 

But I confess I do not recognize any of these as mine, and that factmakes me prouder of my own castles, for, if there be such boundlessvariety of magnificence in their aspect and exterior, imagine the lifethat is led there, a life not unworthy such a setting. 

If Adoniram should be married within a reasonable time, and we shouldmake up that little family party to go out, I have considered alreadywhat society I should ask to meet the bride. Jephthah's daughter andthe Chevalier Bayard, I should say--and fair Rosamond with DeanSwift--King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba would come over, I think, from his famous castle--Shakespeare and his friend the Marquis ofSouthampton might come in a galley with Cleopatra; and, if any guestwere offended by her presence, he should devote himself to the FairOne with Golden Locks. Mephistophiles is not personally disagreeable, and is exceedingly well-bred in society, I am told; and he should come_tête-à-tête_ with Mrs. Rawdon Crawley. Spenser should escort hisFaerie Queen, who would preside at the tea-table. 

Mr. Samuel Weller I should ask as Lord of Misrule, and Dr. Johnson asthe Abbot of Unreason. I would suggest to Major Dobbin to accompanyMrs. Fry; Alcibiades would bring Homer and Plato in his purple-sailedgalley; and I would have Aspasia, Ninon de l'Enclos, and Mrs. Battle, to make up a table of whist with Queen Elizabeth. I shall order a seatplaced in the oratory for Lady Jane Grey and Joan of Arc. I shallinvite General Washington to bring some of the choicest cigars fromhis plantation for Sir Walter Raleigh; and Chaucer, Browning, andWalter Savage Landor, should talk with Goethe, who is to bring Tassoon one arm and Iphigenia on the other. 

Dante and Mr. Carlyle would prefer, I suppose, to go down into thedark vaults under the castle. The Man in the Moon, the Old Harry, andWilliam of the Wisp would be valuable additions, and the LaureateTennyson might compose an official ode upon the occasion: or I wouldask "They" to say all about it. 

Of course there are many other guests whose names I do not at themoment recall. But I should invite, first of all, Miles Coverdale, whoknows every thing about these places and this society, for he was atBlithedale, and he has described "a select party" which he attended ata castle in the air. 

Prue has not yet looked over the list. In fact I am not quite surethat she knows my intention. For I wish to surprise her, and I thinkit would be generous to ask Bourne to lead her out in the bridalquadrille. I think that I shall try the first waltz with the girl Isometimes seem to see in my fairest castle, but whom I very vaguelyremember. Titbottom will come with old Burton and Jaques. But I havenot prepared half my invitations. Do you not guess it, seeing that Idid not name, first of all, Elia, who assisted at the "Rejoicings uponthe new year's coming of age"?

And yet, if Adoniram should never marry?--or if we could not get toSpain?--or if the company would not come?

What then? Shall I betray a secret? I have already entertained thisparty in my humble little parlor at home; and Prue presided asserenely as Semiramis over her court. Have I not said that I defytime, and shall space hope to daunt me? I keep books by day, but bynight books keep me. They leave me to dreams and reveries. Shall Iconfess, that sometimes when I have been sitting, reading to my Prue, Cymbeline, perhaps, or a Canterbury tale, I have seemed to see clearlybefore me the broad highway to my castles in Spain; and as she lookedup from her work, and smiled in sympathy, I have even fancied that Iwas already there. 

SEA FROM SHORE

 "Come unto these yellow sands. " _The Tempest. _

 "Argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales. " _Tennyson_

In the month of June, Prue and I like to walk upon the Battery towardsunset, and watch the steamers, crowded with passengers, bound for thepleasant places along the coast where people pass the hot months. Sea-side lodgings are not very comfortable, I am told; but who wouldnot be a little pinched in his chamber, if his windows looked upon thesea?

In such praises of the ocean do I indulge at such times, and sorespectfully do I regard the sailors who may chance to pass, that Prueoften says, with her shrewd smiles, that my mind is a kind ofGreenwich Hospital, full of abortive marine hopes and wishes, broken-legged intentions, blind regrets, and desires, whose hands havebeen shot away in some hard battle of experience, so that they cannotgrasp the results towards which they reach. 

She is right, as usual. Such hopes and intentions do lie, ruined andhopeless now, strewn about the placid contentment of my mental life, as the old pensioners sit about the grounds at Greenwich, maimed andmusing in the quiet morning sunshine. Many a one among them thinkswhat a Nelson he would have been if both his legs had not beenprematurely carried away; or in what a Trafalgar of triumph he wouldhave ended, if, unfortunately, he had not happened to have been blownblind by the explosion of that unlucky magazine. 

So I dream, sometimes, of a straight scarlet collar, stiff with goldlace, around my neck, instead of this limp white cravat; and I haveeven brandished my quill at the office so cutlass-wise, that Titbottomhas paused in his additions and looked at me as if he doubted whetherI should come out quite square in my petty cash. Yet he understandsit. Titbottom was born in Nantucket. 

That is the secret of my fondness for the sea; I was born by it. Notmore surely do Savoyards pine for the mountains, or Cockneys for thesound of Bow bells, than those who are born within sight and sound ofthe ocean to return to it and renew their fealty. In dreams thechildren of the sea hear its voice. 

I have read in some book of travels that certain tribes of Arabs haveno name for the ocean, and that when they came to the shore for thefirst time, they asked with eager sadness, as if penetrated by theconviction of a superior beauty, "what is that desert of water morebeautiful than the land?" And in the translations of German storieswhich Adoniram and the other children read, and into which Ioccasionally look in the evening when they are gone to bed--for I liketo know what interests my children--I find that the Germans, who donot live near the sea, love the fairy lore of water, and tell thesweet stories of Undine and Melusina, as if they had especial charmfor them, because their country is inland. 

We who know the sea have less fairy feeling about it, but ourrealities are romance. My earliest remembrances are of a long range ofold, half dilapidated stores; red brick stores with steep woodenroofs, and stone window-frames and door-frames, which stood upon docksbuilt as if for immense trade with all quarters of the globe. 

Generally there were only a few sloops moored to the tremendous posts, which I fancied could easily hold fast a Spanish Armada in a tropicalhurricane. But sometimes a great ship, an East Indiaman, with rusty, seamed, blistered sides, and dingy sails, came slowly moving up theharbor, with an air of indolent self-importance and consciousness ofsuperiority, which inspired me with profound respect. If the ship hadever chanced to run down a row-boat, or a sloop, or any specimen ofsmaller craft, I should only have wondered at the temerity of anyfloating thing in crossing the path of such supreme majesty. The shipwas leisurely chained and cabled to the old dock, and then came thedisembowelling. 

How the stately monster had been fattening upon foreign spoils! How ithad gorged itself (such galleons did never seem to me of the femininegender) with the luscious treasures of the tropics! It had lain itslazy length along the shores of China, and sucked in whole floweryharvests of tea. The Brazilian sun flashed through the strong wickerprisons, bursting with bananas and nectarean fruits that eschew thetemperate zone. Steams of camphor, of sandal wood, arose from thehold. Sailors chanting cabalistic strains, that had to my ear a shrilland monotonous pathos, like the uniform rising and falling of anautumn wind, turned cranks that lifted the bales, and boxes, andcrates, and swung them ashore. 

But to my mind, the spell of their singing raised the fragrantfreight, and not the crank. Madagascar and Ceylon appeared at themystic bidding of the song. The placid sunshine of the docks wasperfumed with India. The universal calm of southern seas poured fromthe bosom of the ship over the quiet, decaying old northern port. 

Long after the confusion of unloading was over, and the ship lay as ifall voyages were ended, I dared to creep timorously along the edge ofthe dock, and at great risk of falling in the black water of its hugeshadow, I placed my hand upon the hot hulk, and so established amystic and exquisite connection with Pacific islands, with palm grovesand all the passionate beauties they embower; with jungles, Bengaltigers, pepper, and the crushed feet of Chinese fairies. I touchedAsia, the Cape of Good Hope and the Happy Islands. I would not believethat the heat I felt was of our northern sun; to my finer sympathy itburned with equatorial fervors. 

The freight was piled in the old stores. I believe that many of themremain, but they have lost their character. When I knew them, not onlywas I younger, but partial decay had overtaken the town; at least thebulk of its India trade had shifted to New York and Boston. But theappliances remained. There was no throng of busy traffickers, andafter school, in the afternoon, I strolled by and gazed into thesolemn interiors. 

Silence reigned within, --silence, dimness, and piles of foreigntreasure. Vast coils of cable, like tame boa-constrictors, served asseats for men with large stomachs, and heavy watch-seals, and nankeentrowsers, who sat looking out of the door toward the ships, withlittle other sign of life than an occasional low talking, as if intheir sleep. Huge hogsheads perspiring brown sugar and oozing slowmolasses, as if nothing tropical could keep within bounds, but mustcontinually expand, and exude, and overflow, stood against the walls, and had an architectural significance, for they darkly reminded me ofEgyptian prints, and in the duskiness of the low vaulted store seemedcyclopean columns incomplete. Strange festoons and heaps of bags, square piles of square boxes cased in mats, bales of airy summerstuffs, which, even in winter, scoffed at cold, and shamed it byaudacious assumption of eternal sun, little specimen boxes of preciousdyes that even now shine through my memory, like old Venetian schoolsunpainted, --these were all there in rich confusion. 

The stores had a twilight of dimness, the air was spicy with mingledodors. I liked to look suddenly in from the glare of sunlight outside, and then the cool sweet dimness was like the palpable breath of thefar off island-groves; and if only some parrot or macaw hung within, would flaunt with glistening plumage in his cage, and as the gay hueflashed in a chance sunbeam, call in his hard, shrill voice, as ifthrusting sharp sounds upon a glistening wire from out that gratefulgloom, then the enchantment was complete, and without moving, I wascircumnavigating the globe. 

From the old stores and the docks slowly crumbling, touched, I knownot why or how, by the pensive air of past prosperity, I rambled outof town on those well remembered afternoons, to the fields that layupon hillsides over the harbor, and there sat, looking out to sea, fancying some distant sail proceeding to the glorious ends of theearth, to be my type and image, who would so sail, stately andsuccessful, to all the glorious ports of the Future. Going home, Ireturned by the stores, which black porters were closing. But I stoodlong looking in, saturating my imagination, and as it appeared, myclothes, with the spicy suggestion. For when I reached home mythrifty mother--another Prue--came snuffing and smelling about me. 

"Why! my son, (_snuff, snuff, _) where have you been? (_snuff, snuff. _) Has the baker been making (_snuff_) ginger-bread? Yousmell as if you'd been in (_snuff, snuff, _) a bag of cinnamon. "

"I've only been on the wharves, mother. "

"Well, my dear, I hope you haven't stuck up your clothes withmolasses. Wharves are dirty places, and dangerous. You must take careof yourself, my son. Really this smell is (_snuff, snuff_, ) verystrong. "

But I departed from the maternal presence, proud and happy. I wasaromatic. I bore about me the true foreign air. Whoever smelt me smeltdistant countries. I had nutmeg, spices, cinnamon, and cloves, withoutthe jolly red-nose. I pleased myself with being the representative ofthe Indies. I was in good odor with myself and all the world. 

I do not know how it is, but surely Nature makes kindly provision. Animagination so easily excited as mine could not have escapeddisappointment if it had had ample opportunity and experience of thelands it so longed to see. Therefore, although I made the Indiavoyage, I have never been a traveller, and saving the little time Iwas ashore in India, I did not lose the sense of novelty and romance, which the first sight of foreign lands inspires. 

That little time was all my foreign travel. I am glad of it. I see nowthat I should never have found the country from which the EastIndiaman of my early days arrived. The palm groves do not grow withwhich that hand laid upon the ship placed me in magic conception. Asfor the lovely Indian maid whom the palmy arches bowered, she has longsince clasped some native lover to her bosom, and, ripened into mildmaternity, how should I know her now?

"You would find her quite as easily now as then, " says my Prue, when Ispeak of it. She is right again, as usual, that precious woman; andit is therefore I feel that if the chances of life have moored me fastto a book-keeper's desk, they have left all the lands I longed to seefairer and fresher in my mind than they could ever be in mymemory. Upon my only voyage I used to climb into the top and searchthe horizon for the shore. But now in a moment of calm thought I seea more Indian India than ever mariner discerned, and do not envy theyouths who go there and make fortunes, who wear grass-cloth jackets, drink iced beer, and eat curry; whose minds fall asleep, and whosebodies have liver complaints. 

Unseen by me for ever, nor ever regretted, shall wave the Egyptianpalms and the Italian pines. Untrodden by me, the Forum shall stillecho with the footfall of imperial Rome, and the Parthenon unrifled ofits marbles, look, perfect, across the Egean blue. 

My young friends return from their foreign tours elate with the smilesof a nameless Italian, or Parisian belle. I know not such cheapdelights; I am a suitor of Vittoria Colonna; I walk with Tasso alongthe terraced garden of the Villa d'Este, and look to see Beatricesmiling down the rich gloom of the cypress shade. You staid at the_Hôtel Europa_ in Venice, at _Danielli's_ or the _Leonebianco_; I am the guest of Marino Faliero, and I whisper to hiswife as we climb the giant staircase in the summer moonlight, "Ah! senza amaro Andare sul mare, Col sposo del mare, Non puo consolare. "

It is for the same reason that I did not care to dine with you andAurelia, that I am content not to stand in St. Peter's. Alas! if Icould see the end of it, it would not be St. Peter's. For those of uswhom Nature means to keep at home, she provides entertainment. One mangoes four thousand miles to Italy, and does not see it, he is soshort-sighted. Another is so far-sighted that he stays in his room andsees more than Italy. 

But for this very reason that it washes the shores of my possibleEurope and Asia, the sea draws me constantly to itself. Before I cameto New York, while I was still a clerk in Boston, courting Prue, andliving out of town, I never knew of a ship sailing for India or evenfor England and France, but I went up to the State House cupola or tothe observatory on some friend's house in Roxbury, where I could notbe interrupted, and there watched the departure. 

The sails hung ready; the ship lay in the stream; busy little boatsand puffing steamers darted about it, clung to its sides, paddled awayfrom it, or led the way to sea, as minnows might pilot a whale. Theanchor was slowly swung at the bow; I could not hear the sailors'song, but I knew they were singing. I could not see the partingfriends, but I knew farewells were spoken. I did not share theconfusion, although I knew what bustle there was, what hurry, whatshouting, what creaking, what fall of ropes and iron, what sharpoaths, low laughs, whispers, sobs. But I was cool, high, separate. Tome it was

 "A painted ship Upon a painted ocean. "

The sails were shaken out, and the ship began to move. It was a fairbreeze, perhaps, and no steamer was needed to tow her away. Shereceded down the bay. Friends turned back--I could not see them--andwaved their hands, and wiped their eyes, and went home to dinner. Farther and farther from the ships at anchor, the lessening vesselbecame single and solitary upon the water. The sun sank in the west;but I watched her still. Every flash of her sails, as she tacked andturned, thrilled my heart. 

Yet Prue was not on board. I had never seen one of the passengers orthe crew. I did not know the consignees, nor the name of the vessel. Ihad shipped no adventure, nor risked any insurance, nor made any bet, but my eyes clung to her as Ariadne's to the fading sail ofTheseus. The ship was freighted with more than appeared upon herpapers, yet she was not a smuggler. She bore all there was of thatnameless lading, yet the next ship would carry as much. She wasfreighted with fancy. My hopes, and wishes, and vague desires, wereall on board. It seemed to me a treasure not less rich than that whichfilled the East Indiaman at the old dock in my boyhood. 

When, at length, the ship was a sparkle upon the horizon, I waved myhand in last farewell, I strained my eyes for a last glimpse. My mindhad gone to sea, and had left noise behind. But now I heard again themultitudinous murmur of the city, and went down rapidly, and threadedthe short, narrow, streets to the office. Yet, believe it, every dreamof that day, as I watched the vessel, was written at night toPrue. She knew my heart had not sailed away. 

Those days are long past now, but still I walk upon the Battery andlook towards the Narrows and know that beyond them, separated only bythe sea, are many of whom I would so gladly know, and so rarelyhear. The sea rolls between us like the lapse of dusky ages. Theytrusted themselves to it, and it bore them away far and far as if intothe past. Last night I read of Antony, but I have not heard fromChristopher these many months, and by so much farther away is he, somuch older and more remote, than Antony. As for William, he is asvague as any of the shepherd kings of ante-Pharaonic dynasties. 

It is the sea that has done it, it has carried them off and put themaway upon its other side. It is fortunate the sea did not put themupon its underside. Are they hale and happy still? Is their hairgray, and have they mustachios? Or have they taken to wigs andcrutches? Are they popes or cardinals yet? Do they feast with LucreziaBorgia, or preach red republicanism to the Council of Ten? Do theysing, _Behold how brightly breaks the morning_ with Masaniello?Do they laugh at Ulysses and skip ashore to the Syrens? Has Mesrour, chief of the Eunuchs, caught them with Zobeide in the Caliph's garden, or have they made cheese cakes without pepper? Friends of my youth, where in your wanderings have you tasted the blissful Lotus, that youneither come nor send us tidings?

Across the sea also came idle rumors, as false reports steal intohistory and defile fair fames. Was it longer ago than yesterday thatI walked with my cousin, then recently a widow, and talked with her ofthe countries to which she meant to sail? She was young, anddark-eyed, and wore great hoops of gold, barbaric gold, in her ears. The hope of Italy, the thought of living there, had risen like a dawnin the darkness of her mind. I talked and listened by rapid turns. 

Was it longer ago than yesterday that she told me of her splendidplans, how palaces tapestried with gorgeous paintings should becheaply hired, and the best of teachers lead her children to thecompletest and most various knowledge; how, --and with her slenderpittance!--she should have a box at the opera, and a carriage, andliveried servants, and in perfect health and youth, lead a perfectlife in a perfect climate?

And now what do I hear? Why does a tear sometimes drop so audibly uponmy paper, that Titbottom looks across with a sort of mild rebukingglance of inquiry, whether it is kind to let even a single tear fall, when an ocean of tears is pent up in hearts that would burst andoverflow if but one drop should force its way out? Why across the seacame faint gusty stories, like low voices in the wind, of a cloisteredgarden and sunny seclusion--and a life of unknown and unexplainedluxury. What is this picture of a pale face showered with streamingblack hair, and large sad eyes looking upon lovely and noble childrenplaying in the sunshine--and a brow pained with thought straining intotheir destiny? Who is this figure, a man tall and comely, with meltingeyes and graceful motion, who comes and goes at pleasure, who is not ahusband, yet has the key of the cloistered garden?

I do not know. They are secrets of the sea. The pictures pass beforemy mind suddenly and unawares, and I feel the tears rising that Iwould gladly repress. Titbottom looks at me, then stands by the windowof the office and leans his brow against the cold iron bars, and looksdown into the little square paved court. I take my hat and steal outof the office for a few minutes, and slowly pace the hurryingstreets. Meek-eyed Alice! magnificent Maud! sweet baby Lilian! whydoes the sea imprison you so far away, when will you return, where doyou linger? The water laps idly about docks, --lies calm, or gailyheaves. Why does it bring me doubts and fears now, that brought suchbounty of beauty in the days long gone?

I remember that the day when my dark haired cousin, with hoops ofbarbaric gold in her ears, sailed for Italy, was quarter-day, and webalanced the books at the office. It was nearly noon, and in myimpatience to be away, I had not added my columns with sufficientcare. The inexorable hand of the office clock pointed sternly towardstwelve, and the remorseless pendulum ticked solemnly to noon. 

To a man whose pleasures are not many, and rather small, the loss ofsuch an event as saying farewell and wishing God-speed to a friendgoing to Europe, is a great loss. It was so to me, especially, becausethere was always more to me, in every departure, than the parting andthe farewell. I was gradually renouncing this pleasure, as I sawsmall prospect of ending before noon, when Titbottom, after looking atme a moment, came to my side of the desk, and said:

"I should like to finish that for you. "

I looked at him: poor Titbottom! he had no friends to wish God-speedupon any journey. I quietly wiped my pen, took down my hat, and wentout. It was in the days of sail packets and less regularity, whengoing to Europe was more of an epoch in life. How gaily my cousinstood upon the deck and detailed to me her plan! How merrily thechildren shouted and sang! How long I held my cousin's little hand inmine, and gazed into her great eyes, remembering that they would seeand touch the things that were invisible to me for ever, but all themore precious and fair! She kissed me--I was younger then--there weretears, I remember, and prayers, and promises, a waving handkerchief, --afading sail. 

It was only the other day that I saw another parting of the samekind. I was not a principal, only a spectator; but so fond am I ofsharing, afar off, as it were, and unseen, the sympathies of humanbeings, that I cannot avoid often going to the dock upon steamer-daysand giving myself to that pleasant and melancholy observation. Thereis always a crowd, but this day it was almost impossible to advancethrough the masses of people. The eager faces hurried by; a constantstream poured up the gangway into the steamer, and the upper deck, towhich I gradually made my way, was crowded with the passengers andtheir friends. 

There was one group upon which my eyes first fell, and upon which mymemory lingers. A glance, brilliant as daybreak--a voice, "Her voice's music, --call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble, "

a goddess girdled with flowers, and smiling farewell upon a circle ofworshippers, to each one of whom that gracious calmness made the smilesweeter, and the farewell more sad--other figures, other flowers, anangel face--all these I saw in that group as I was swayed up and downthe deck by the eager swarm of people. The hour came, and I went onshore with the rest. The plank was drawn away--the captain raised hishand--the huge steamer slowly moved--a cannon was fired--the ship wasgone. 

The sun sparkled upon the water as they sailed away. In five minutesthe steamer was as much separated from the shore as if it had been atsea a thousand years. 

I leaned against a post upon the dock and looked around. Ranged uponthe edge of the wharf stood that band of worshippers, wavinghandkerchiefs and straining their eyes to see the last smile offarewell--did any eager selfish eye hope to see a tear? They to whomthe handkerchiefs were waved stood high upon the stern, holdingflowers. Over them hung the great flag, raised by the gentle wind intothe graceful folds of a canopy, --say rather a gorgeous gonfalon wavedover the triumphant departure, over that supreme youth, and bloom, andbeauty, going out across the mystic ocean to carry a finer charm andmore human splendor into those realms of my imagination beyond thesea. 

"You will return, O youth and beauty!" I said to my dreaming andfoolish self, as I contemplated those fair figures, "richer thanAlexander with Indian spoils. All that historic association, thatcopious civilization, those grandeurs and graces of art, that varietyand picturesqueness of life, will mellow and deepen your experienceeven as time silently touches those old pictures into a morepersuasive and pathetic beauty, and as this increasing summer shedsever softer lustre upon the landscape. You will return conquerors andnot conquered. You will bring Europe, even as Aurelian broughtZenobia captive, to deck your homeward triumph. I do not wonder thatthese clouds break away, I do not wonder that the sun presses out andfloods all the air, and land, and water, with light that graces withhappy omens your stately farewell. "

But if my faded face looked after them with such earnest and longingemotion, --I, a solitary old man, unknown to those fair beings, andstanding apart from that band of lovers, yet in that moment bound moreclosely to them than they knew, --how was it with those whose heartssailed away with that youth and beauty? I watched them closely frombehind my post. I knew that life had paused with them; that the worldstood still. I knew that the long, long summer would be only ayearning regret. I knew that each asked himself the mournful question, "Is this parting typical--this slow, sad, sweet recession?" And I knewthat they did not care to ask whether they should meet again, nor dareto contemplate the chances of the sea. 

The steamer swept on, she was near Staten Island, and a final gunboomed far and low across the water. The crowd was dispersing, but thelittle group remained. Was it not all Hood had sung?

 "I saw thee, lovely Inez, Descend along the shore With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youths and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore;-- It would have been a beauteous dream, If it had been no more!"

"O youth!" I said to them without speaking, "be it gently said, as itis solemnly thought, should they return no more, yet in your memoriesthe high hour of their loveliness is for ever enshrined. Should theycome no more they never will be old, nor changed, to you. You will waxand wane, you will suffer, and struggle, and grow old; but this summervision will smile, immortal, upon your lives, and those fair facesshall shed, for ever, from under that slowly waving flag, hope andpeace. "

It is so elsewhere; it is the tenderness of Nature. Long, long ago welost our first-born, Prue and I. Since then, we have grown older andour children with us. Change comes, and grief, perhaps, and decay. Weare happy, our children are obedient and gay. But should Prue liveuntil she has lost us all, and laid us, gray and weary, in our graves, she will have always one babe in her heart. Every mother who has lostan infant, has gained a child of immortal youth. Can you find comforthere, lovers, whose mistress has sailed away?

I did not ask the question aloud, I thought it only, as I watched theyouths, and turned away while they still stood gazing. One, Iobserved, climbed a post and waved his black hat before thewhite-washed side of the shed over the dock, whence I supposed hewould tumble into the water. Another had tied a handkerchief to theend of a somewhat baggy umbrella, and in the eagerness of gazing, hadforgotten to wave it, so that it hung mournfully down, as ifoverpowered with grief it could not express. The entranced youthstill held the umbrella aloft. It seemed to me as if he had struck hisflag; or as if one of my cravats were airing in that sunlight. Anegro carter was joking with an apple-woman at the entrance of thedock. The steamer was out of sight. 

I found that I was belated and hurried back to my desk. Alas! poorlovers; I wonder if they are watching still? Has he fallen exhaustedfrom the post into the water? Is that handkerchief, bleached and rent, still pendant upon that somewhat baggy umbrella?

"Youth and beauty went to Europe to-day, " said I to Prue, as I stirredmy tea at evening. As I spoke, our youngest daughter brought me thesugar. She is just eighteen, and her name should be Hebe. I took alump of sugar and looked at her. She had never seemed so lovely, andas I dropped the lump in my cup, I kissed her. I glanced at Prue as Idid so. The dear woman smiled, but did not answer my exclamation. 

Thus, without travelling, I travel, and share the emotions of those Ido not know. But sometimes the old longing comes over me as in thedays when I timidly touched the huge East Indiaman, and magneticallysailed around the world. 

It was but a few days after the lovers and I waved farewell to thesteamer, and while the lovely figures standing under the greatgonfalon were as vivid in my mind as ever, that a day of prematuresunny sadness, like those of the Indian summer, drew me away from theoffice early in the afternoon: for fortunately it is our dull seasonnow, and even Titbottom sometimes leaves the office by five o'clock. Although why he should leave it, or where he goes, or what he does, Ido not well know. Before I knew him, I used sometimes to meet him witha man whom I was afterwards told was Bartleby, the scrivener. Eventhen it seemed to me that they rather clubbed their loneliness thanmade society for each other. Recently I have not seen Bartleby; butTitbottom seems no more solitary because he is alone. 

I strolled into the Battery as I sauntered about. Staten Islandlooked so alluring, tender-hued with summer and melting in the haze, that I resolved to indulge myself in a pleasure-trip. It was a littleselfish, perhaps, to go alone, but I looked at my watch, and saw thatif I should hurry home for Prue the trip would be lost; then I shouldbe disappointed, and she would be grieved. 

Ought I not rather (I like to begin questions, which I am going toanswer affirmatively, with _ought_, ) to take the trip and recountmy adventures to Prue upon, my return, whereby I should actually enjoythe excursion and the pleasure of telling her; while she would enjoymy story and be glad that I was pleased? Ought I wilfully to depriveus both of this various enjoyment by aiming at a higher, which, inlosing, we should lose all?

Unfortunaely, just as I was triumphantly answering "Certainly not!"another question marched into my mind, escorted by a very defiant_ought_. 

"Ought I to go when I have such a debate about it?"

But while I was perplexed, and scoffing at my own scruples, theferry-bell suddenly rang, and answered all my questions. InvoluntarilyI hurried on board. The boat slipped from the dock. I went up on deckto enjoy the view of the city from the bay, but just as I sat down, and meant to have said "how beautiful!" I found myself asking:

"Ought I to have come?"

Lost in perplexing debate, I saw little of the scenery of the bay; butthe remembrance of Prue and the gentle influence of the day plunged meinto a mood of pensive reverie which nothing tended to destroy, untilwe suddenly arrived at the landing. 

As I was stepping ashore, I was greeted by Mr. Bourne, who passes thesummer on the island, and who hospitably asked if I were going hisway. His way was toward the southern end of the island, and I saidyes. His pockets were full of papers and his brow of wrinkles; so whenwe reached the point where he should turn off, I asked him to let mealight, although he was very anxious to carry me wherever I was going. 

"I am only strolling about, " I answered, as I clambered carefully outof the wagon. 

"Strolling about?" asked he, in a bewildered manner; "'do peoplestroll about, now-a-days?"

"Sometimes, " I answered, smiling, as I pulled my trowsers down over myboots, for they had dragged up, as I stepped out of the wagon, "andbeside, what can an old book-keeper do better in the dull season thanstroll about this pleasant island, and watch the ships at sea?"

Bourne looked at me with his weary eyes. 

"I'd give five thousand dollars a year for a dull season, " said he, "but as for strolling, I've forgotten how. "

As he spoke, his eyes wandered dreamily across the fields and woods, and were fastened upon the distant sails. 

"It is pleasant, " he said musingly, and fell into silence. But I hadno time to spare, so I wished him good afternoon. 

"I hope your wife is well, " said Bourne to me, as I turned away. PoorBourne! He drove on alone in his wagon. 

But I made haste to the most solitary point upon the southern shore, and there sat, glad to be so near the sea. There was that warm, sympathetic silence in the air, that gives to Indian-summer daysalmost a human tenderness of feeling. A delicate haze, that seemedonly the kindly air made visible, hung over the sea. The water lappedlanguidly among the rocks, and the voices of children in a boatbeyond, rang musically, and gradually receded, until they were lost inthe distance. 

It was some time before I was aware of the outline of a large ship, drawn vaguely upon the mist, which I supposed, at first, to be only akind of mirage. But the more steadfastly I gazed, the more distinct itbecame, and I could no longer doubt that I saw a stately ship lying atanchor, not more than half a mile from the land. 

"It is an extraordinary place to anchor, " I said to myself, "or canshe be ashore?"

There were no signs of distress; the sails were carefully clewed up, and there were no sailors in the tops, nor upon the shrouds. A flag, of which I could not see the device or the nation, hung heavily at thestern, and looked as if it had fallen asleep. My curiosity began tobe singularly excited. The form of the vessel seemed not to bepermanent; but within a quarter of an hour, I was sure that I had seenhalf a dozen different ships. As I gazed, I saw no more sails normasts, but a long range of oars, flashing like a golden fringe, orstraight and stiff, like the legs of a sea-monster. 

"It is some bloated crab, or lobster, magnified by the mist, " I saidto myself, complacently. But, at the same moment, there was aconcentrated flashing and blazing in one spot among the rigging, andit was as if I saw a beatified ram, or, more truly, a sheep-skin, splendid as the hair of Berenice. 

"Is that the golden fleece?" I thought. "But, surely, Jason and theArgonauts have gone home long since. Do people go on gold-fleecingexpeditions now?" I asked myself, in perplexity. "Can this be aCalifornia steamer?"

How could I have thought it a steamer? Did I not see those sails, "thin and sere?" Did I not feel the melancholy of that solitary bark?It had a mystic aura; a boreal brilliancy shimmered in its wake, forit was drifting seaward. A strange fear curdled along my veins. Thatsummer sun shone cool. The weary, battered ship was gashed, as ifgnawed by ice. There was terror in the air, as a "skinny hand sobrown" waved to me from the deck. I lay as one bewitched. The hand ofthe ancient mariner seemed to be reaching for me, like the hand ofdeath. 

Death? Why, as I was inly praying Prue's forgiveness for my solitaryramble and consequent demise, a glance like the fulness of summersplendor gushed over me; the odor of flowers and of eastern gums madeall the atmosphere. I breathed the orient, and lay drunk with balm, while that strange ship, a golden galley now, with glitteringdraperies festooned with flowers, paced to the measured beat of oarsalong the calm, and Cleopatra smiled alluringly from the greatpageant's heart. 

Was this a barge for summer waters, this peculiar ship I saw? It had aruined dignity, a cumbrous grandeur, although its masts wereshattered, and its sails rent. It hung preternaturally still upon thesea, as if tormented and exhausted by long driving and drifting. I sawno sailors, but a great Spanish ensign floated over, and waved, afunereal plume. I knew it then. The armada was long since scattered;but, floating far

 "on desolate rainy seas, "

lost for centuries, and again restored to sight, here lay one of thefated ships of Spain. The huge galleon seemed to fill all the air, built up against the sky, like the gilded ships of Claude Lorraineagainst the sunset. 

But it fled, for now a black flag fluttered at the mast-head--a longlow vessel darted swiftly where the vast ship lay; there came a shrillpiping whistle, the clash of cutlasses, fierce ringing oaths, sharppistol cracks, the thunder of command, and over all the gusty yell ofa demoniac chorus, "My name was Robert Kidd, when I sailed. "

--There were no clouds longer, but under a serene sky I saw a barkmoving with festal pomp, thronged with grave senators in flowingrobes, and one with ducal bonnet in the midst, holding a ring. Thesmooth bark swam upon a sea like that of southern latitudes. I saw theBucentoro and the nuptials of Venice and the Adriatic. 

Who where those coming over the side? Who crowded the boats, andsprang into the water, men in old Spanish armor, with plumes andswords, and bearing a glittering cross? Who was he standing upon thedeck with folded arms and gazing towards the shore, as lovers on theirmistresses and martyrs upon heaven? Over what distant and tumultuousseas had this small craft escaped from other centuries and distantshores? What sounds of foreign hymns, forgotten now, were these, andwhat solemnity of debarkation? Was this grave form, Columbus?

Yet these were not so Spanish as they seemed just now. This group ofstern-faced men with high peaked hats, who knelt upon the cold deckand looked out upon a shore which, I could see by their joyless smileof satisfaction, was rough, and bare, and forbidding. In that softafternoon, standing in mournful groups upon the small deck, why didthey seem to me to be seeing the sad shores of wintry New England?That phantom-ship could not be the May Flower!

I gazed long upon the shifting illusion. 

"If I should board this ship, " I asked myself, "where should I go?whom should I meet? what should I see? Is not this the vessel thatshall carry me to my Europe, my foreign countries, my impossibleIndia, the Atlantis that I have lost?"

As I sat staring at it I could not but wonder whether Bourne had seenthis sail when he looked upon the water? Does he see such sights everyday, because he lives down here? Is it not perhaps a magic yacht ofhis; and does he slip off privately after business hours to Venice, and Spain, and Egypt, perhaps to El Dorado? Does he run races withPtolemy, Philopater and Hiero of Syracuse, rare regattas on fabulousseas?

Why not? He is a rich, man, too, and why should not a New Yorkmerchant do what a Syracuse tyrant and an Egyptian prince did? HasBourne's yacht those sumptuous chambers, like Philopater's galley, ofwhich the greater part was made of split cedar, and of Milesiancypress; and has he twenty doors put together with beams ofcitron-wood, with many ornaments? Has the roof of his cabin a carvedgolden face, and is his sail linen with a purple fringe?

"I suppose it is so, " I said to myself, as I looked wistfully at theship, which began to glimmer and melt in the haze. 

"It certainly is not a fishing smack?" I asked, doubtfully. 

No, it must be Bourne's magic yacht; I was sure of it. I could nothelp laughing at poor old Hiero, whose cabins were divided into manyrooms, with floors composed of mosaic work, of all kinds of stonestessellated. And, on this mosaic, the whole story of the Iliad wasdepicted in a marvellous manner. He had gardens "of all sorts of mostwonderful beauty, enriched with all sorts of plants, and shadowed byroofs of lead or tiles. And, besides this, there were tents roofedwith boughs of white ivy and of the vine--the roots of which derivedtheir moisture from casks full of earth, and were watered in the samemanner as the gardens. There were temples, also, with doors of ivoryand citron-wood, furnished in the most exquisite manner, with picturesand statues, and with goblets and vases of every form and shapeimaginable. "

"Poor Bourne!" I said. "I suppose his is finer than Hiero's, which isa thousand years old. Poor Bourne! I don't wonder that his eyes areweary, and that he would pay so dearly for a day of leisure. Dear me!is it one of the prices that must be paid for wealth, the keeping up amagic yacht?"

Involuntarily, I had asked the question aloud. 

"The magic yacht is not Bourne's, " answered a familiar voice. I lookedup, and Titbottom stood by my side. "Do you not know that all Bourne'smoney would not buy the yacht?" asked he. "He cannot even see it. Andif he could, it would be no magic yacht to him, but only a batteredand solitary hulk. "

The haze blew gently away, as Titbottom spoke and there lay my Spanishgalleon, my Bucentoro, my Cleopatra's galley, Columbus's Santa Maria, and the Pilgrims' May Flower, an old bleaching wreck upon the beach. 

"Do you suppose any true love is in vain?" asked Titbottom solemnly, as he stood bareheaded, and the soft sunset wind played with his fewhairs. "Could Cleopatra smile upon Antony, and the moon upon Endymion, and the sea not love its lovers?"

The fresh air breathed upon our faces as he spoke. I might havesailed in Hiero's ship, or in Roman galleys, had I lived longcenturies ago, and been born a nobleman. But would it be so sweet aremembrance, that of lying on a marble couch, under a golden-facedroof, and within doors of citron-wood and ivory, and sailing in thatstate to greet queens who are mummies now, as that of seeing thosefair figures, standing under the great gonfalon, themselves as lovelyas Egyptian belles, and going to see more than Egypt dreamed?

The yacht was mine, then, and not Bourne's. I took Titbottom's arm, and we sauntered toward the ferry. What sumptuous sultan was I, withthis sad vizier? My languid odalisque, the sea, lay at my feet as weadvanced, and sparkled all over with a sunset smile. Had I trustedmyself to her arms, to be borne to the realms that I shall never see, or sailed long voyages towards Cathay, I am not sure I should havebrought a more precious present to Prue, than the story of thatafternoon. 

"Ought I to have gone alone?" I asked her, as I ended. 

"I ought not to have gone with you, " she replied, "for I had work todo. But how strange that you should see such things at StatenIsland. I never did, Mr. Titbottom, " said she, turning to my deputy, whom I had asked to tea. 

"Madam, " answered Titbottom, with a kind of wan and quaint dignity, sothat I could not help thinking he must have arrived in that stray shipfrom the Spanish armada, "neither did Mr. Bourne. "

TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 

 "In my mind's eye, Horatio. " _Hamlet_. 

Prue and I do not entertain much; our means forbid it. In truth, otherpeople entertain for us. We enjoy that hospitality of which noaccount is made. We see the show, and hear the music, and smell theflowers, of great festivities, tasting, as it were, the drippings fromrich dishes. 

Our own dinner service is remarkably plain, our dinners, even on stateoccasions, are strictly in keeping, and almost our only guest isTitbottom. I buy a handful of roses as I come up from the office, perhaps, and Prue arranges them so prettily in a glass dish for thecentre of the table, that, even when I have hurried out to see Aureliastep into her carriage to go out to dine, I have thought that thebouquet she carried was not more beautiful because it was more costly. 

I grant that it was more harmonious with her superb beauty and herrich attire. And I have no doubt that if Aurelia knew the old man, whom she must have seen so often watching her, and his wife, whoornaments her sex with as much sweetness, although with less splendor, than Aurelia herself, she would also acknowledge that the nosegay ofroses was as fine and fit upon their table, as her own sumptuousbouquet is for herself. I have so much faith in the perception of thatlovely lady. 

It is my habit, --I hope I may say, my nature, --to believe the best ofpeople, rather than the worst. If I thought that all this sparklingsetting of beauty, --this fine fashion, --these blazing jewels, andlustrous silks, and airy gauzes, embellished with gold-threadedembroidery and wrought in a thousand exquisite elaborations, so that Icannot see one of those lovely girls pass me by, without thanking Godfor the vision, --if I thought that this was all, and that, underneathher lace flounces and diamond bracelets, Aurelia was a sullen, selfishwoman, then I should turn sadly homeward, for I should see that herjewels were flashing scorn upon the object they adorned, that herlaces were of a more exquisite loveliness than the woman whom theymerely touched with a superficial grace. It would be like a gailydecorated mausoleum, --bright to see, but silent and dark within. 

"Great excellences, my dear Prue, " I sometimes allow myself to say, "lie concealed in the depths of character, like pearls at the bottomof the sea. Under the laughing, glancing surface, how little they aresuspected! Perhaps love is nothing else than the sight of them by oneperson. Hence every man's mistress is apt to be an enigma to everybodyelse. 

"I have no doubt that when Aurelia is engaged, people will say she isa most admirable girl, certainly; but they cannot understand why anyman should be in love with her. As if it were at all necessary thatthey should! And her lover, like a boy who finds a pearl in the publicstreet, and wonders as much that others did not see it as that he did, will tremble until he knows his passion is returned; feeling, ofcourse, that the whole world must be in love with this paragon, whocannot possibly smile upon anything so unworthy as he. 

"I hope, therefore, my dear Mrs. Prue, " I continue, and my wife looksup, with pleased pride, from her work, as if I were such anirresistible humorist, "you will allow me to believe that the depthmay be calm, although the surface is dancing. If you tell me thatAurelia is but a giddy girl, I shall believe that you think so. But Ishall know, all the while, what profound dignity, and sweetness, andpeace, lie at the foundation of her character. "

I say such things to Titbottom, during the dull season at theoffice. And I have known him sometimes to reply, with a kind of dry, sad humor, not as if he enjoyed the joke, but as if the joke must bemade, that he saw no reason why I should be dull because the seasonwas so. 

"And what do I know of Aurelia, or any other girl?" he says to me withthat abstracted air; "I, whose Aurelias were of another century, andanother zone. "

Then he falls into a silence which it seems quite profane tointerrupt. But as we sit upon our high stools, at the desk, oppositeeach other, I leaning upon my elbows, and looking at him, he, withsidelong face, glancing out of the window, as if it commanded aboundless landscape, instead of a dim, dingy office court, I cannotrefrain from saying:

"Well!"

He turns slowly, and I go chatting on, --a little too loquaciousperhaps, about those young girls. But I know that Titbottom regardssuch an excess as venial, for his sadness is so sweet that you couldbelieve it the reflection of a smile from long, long years ago. 

One day, after I had been talking for a long time, and we had put upour books, and were preparing to leave, he stood for some time by thewindow, gazing with a drooping intentness, as if he really sawsomething more than the dark court, and said slowly:

"Perhaps you would have different impressions of things, if you sawthem through my spectacles. "

There was no change in his expression. He still looked from thewindow, and I said:

"Titbottom, I did not know that you used glasses. I have never seenyou wearing spectacles. "

"No, I don't often wear them. I am not very fond of looking throughthem. But sometimes an irresistible necessity compels me to put themon, and I cannot help seeing. "

Titbottom sighed. 

"Is it so grievous a fate to see?" inquired I. 

"Yes; through my spectacles, " he said, turning slowly, and looking atme with wan solemnity. 

It grew dark as we stood in the office talking, and, taking our hats, we went out together. The narrow street of business was deserted. Theheavy iron shutters were gloomily closed over the windows. From oneor two offices struggled the dim gleam of an early candle, by whoselight some perplexed accountant sat belated, and hunting for hiserror. A careless clerk passed, whistling. But the great tide of lifehad ebbed. We heard its roar far away, and the sound stole into thatsilent street like the murmur of the ocean into an inland dell. 

"You will come and dine with us, Titbottom?"

He assented by continuing to walk with me, and I think we were bothglad when we reached the house, and Prue came to meet us, saying:

"Do you know I hoped you would bring Mr. Titbottom to dine?"

Titbottom smiled gently, and answered:

"He might have brought his spectacles with him, and have been ahappier man for it. "

Prue looked a little puzzled. 

"My dear, " I said, "you must know that our friend, Mr. Titbottom, isthe happy possessor of a pair of wonderful spectacles. I have neverseen them, indeed; and, from what he says, I should be rather afraidof being seen by them. Most short-sighted persons are very glad tohave the help of glasses; but Mr. Titbottom seems to find very littlepleasure in his. "

"It is because they make him too far-sighted, perhaps, " interruptedPrue quietly, as she took the silver soup-ladle from the sideboard. 

We sipped our wine after dinner, and Prue took her work. Can a man betoo far-sighted? I did not ask the question aloud. The very tone inwhich Prue had spoken, convinced me that he might. 

"At least, " I said, "Mr. Titbottom will not refuse to tell us thehistory of his mysterious spectacles. I have known plenty of magic ineyes (and I glanced at the tender blue eyes of Prue), but I have notheard of any enchanted glasses. "

"Yet you must have seen the glass in which your wife looks everymorning, and, I take it, that glass must be daily enchanted, " saidTitbottom, with a bow of quaint respect to my wife. 

I do not think I have seen such a blush upon Prue's cheek since--well, since a great many years ago. 

"I will gladly tell you the history of my spectacles, " beganTitbottom. "It is very simple; and I am not at all sure that a greatmany other people have not a pair of the same kind. I have never, indeed, heard of them by the gross, like those of our young friend, Moses, the you of the Vicar of Wakefield. In fact, I think a grosswould be quite enough to supply the world. It is a kind of article forwhich the demand does not increase with use If we should all wearspectacles like mine, we should never smile any more. Or--I am notquite sure--we should all be very happy. "

"A very important difference, " said Prue, counting her stitches. 

"You know my grandfather Titbottom was a West Indian. A largeproprietor, and an easy man he basked in the tropical sun, leading hisquiet, luxurious life. He lived much alone, and was what people calleccentric--by which I understand, that he was very much himself, and, refusing the influence of other people, they had their revenges, andcalled him names. It is a habit not exclusively tropical. I think Ihave seen the same thing even in this city. 

"But he was greatly beloved--my bland and bountiful grandfather. Hewas so large-hearted and open-handed. He was so friendly, andthoughtful, and genial, that even his jokes had the air of gracefulbenedictions. He did not seem to grow old, and he was one of those whonever appear to have been very young. He flourished in a perennialmaturity, an immortal middle-age. 

"My grandfather lived upon one of the small islands--St. Kitt's, perhaps--and his domain extended to the sea. His house, a ramblingWest Indian mansion, was surrounded with deep, spacious piazzas, covered with luxurious lounges, among which one capacious chair washis peculiar seat. They tell me, he used sometimes to sit there forthe whole day, his great, soft, brown eyes fastened upon the sea, watching the specks of sails that flashed upon the horizon, while theevanescent expressions chased each other over his placid face as if itreflected the calm and changing sea before him. 

"His morning costume was an ample dressing-gown of gorgeously-floweredsilk, and his morning was very apt to last all day. He rarely read;but he would pace the great piazza for hours, with his hands buried inthe pockets of his dressing-gown, and an air of sweet reverie, whichany book must be a very entertaining one to produce. 

"Society, of course, he saw little. There was some slight apprehensionthat, if he were bidden to social entertainments, he might forget hiscoat, or arrive without some other essential part of his dress; andthere is a sly tradition in the Titbottom family, that once, havingbeen invited to a ball in honor of a new governor of the island, mygrand father Titbottom sauntered into the hall towards midnight, wrapped in the gorgeous flowers of his dressing-gown, and with hishands buried in the pockets, as usual. There was great excitementamong the guests, and immense deprecation of gubernatorialire. Fortunately, it happened that the governor and my grandfatherwere old friends, and there was no offence. But, as they wereconversing together, one of the distressed managers cast indignantglances at the brilliant costume of my grandfather, who summoned him, and asked courteously:

"'Did you invite me, or my coat?'

"'You, in a proper coat, ' replied the manager. 

"The governor smiled approvingly, and looked at my grandfather. 

"'My friend, ' said he to the manager, 'I beg your pardon, I forgot. '

"The next day, my grandfather was seen promenading in full ball dressalong the streets of the little town. 

"'They ought to know, ' said he, 'that I have a proper coat, and thatnot contempt, nor poverty, but forgetfulness, sent me to a ball in mydressing-gown. '

"He did not much frequent social festivals after this failure, but healways told the story with satisfaction and a quiet smile. 

"To a stranger, life upon those little islands is uniform even toweariness. But the old native dons, like my grandfather, ripen in theprolonged sunshine, like the turtle upon the Bahama banks, nor know ofexistence more desirable. Life in the tropics, I take to be a placidtorpidity. 

"During the long, warm mornings of nearly half a century, mygrandfather Titbottom had sat in his dressing-gown, and gazed at thesea. But one calm June day, as he slowly paced the piazza afterbreakfast, his dreamy glance was arrested by a little vessel, evidently nearing the shore. He called for his spyglass, and, surveying the craft, saw that she came from the neighboringisland. She glided smoothly, slowly, over the summer sea. The warmmorning air was sweet with perfumes, and silent with heat. The seasparkled languidly, and the brilliant blue sky hung cloudlesslyover. Scores of little island vessels had my grandfather seen comingover the horizon, and cast anchor in the port. Hundreds of summermornings had the white sails flashed and faded, like vague facesthrough forgotten dreams. But this time he laid down the spyglass, andleaned against a column of the piazza, and watched the vessel with anintentness that he could not explain. She came nearer and nearer, agraceful spectre in the dazzling morning. 

"'Decidedly, I must step down and see about that vessel, ' said mygrandfather Titbottom. 

"He gathered his ample dressing-gown about him, and stepped from thepiazza, with no other protection from the sun than the littlesmoking-cap upon his head. His face wore a calm, beaming smile, as ifhe loved the whole world. He was not an old man; but there was almosta patriarchal pathos in his expression, as he sauntered along in thesunshine towards the shore. A group of idle gazers was collected, towatch the arrival. The little vessel furled her sails, and driftedslowly landward, and, as she was of very light draft, she came closeto the shelving shore. A long plank was put out from her side, and thedebarkation commenced. 

"My grandfather Titbottom stood looking on, to see the passengers asthey passed. There were but a few of them, and mostly traders from theneighboring island. But suddenly the face of a young girl appearedover the side of the vessel, and she stepped upon the plank todescend. My grandfather Titbottom instantly advanced, and, movingbriskly, reached the top of the plank at the same moment, and with theold tassel of his cap flashing in the sun, and one hand in the pocketof his dressing-gown, with the other he handed the young ladycarefully down the plank. That young lady was afterwards mygrandmother Titbottom. 

"For, over the gleaming sea which he had watched so long, and whichseemed thus to reward his patient gaze, came his bride that sunnymorning. 

"'Of course, we are happy, ' he used to say to her, after they weremarried: 'For you are the gift of the sun I have loved so long and sowell. ' And my grandfather Titbottom would lay his hand so tenderlyupon the golden hair of his young bride, that you could fancy him adevout Parsee, caressing sunbeams. 

"There were endless festivities upon occasion of the marriage; and mygrandfather did not go to one of them in his dressing-gown. The gentlesweetness of his wife melted every heart into love and sympathy. Hewas much older than she, without doubt. But age, as he used to saywith a smile of immortal youth, is a matter of feeling, not of years. 

"And if, sometimes, as she sat by his side on the piazza, her fancylooked through her eyes upon that summer sea, and saw a younger lover, perhaps some one of those graceful and glowing heroes who occupy theforeground of all young maidens' visions by the sea, yet she could notfind one more generous and gracious, nor fancy one more worthy andloving than my grandfather Titbottom. 

"And if, in the moonlit midnight, while he lay calmly sleeping, sheleaned out of the window, and sank into vague reveries of sweetpossibility, and watched the gleaming path of the moonlight upon thewater, until the dawn glided over it--it was only that mood ofnameless regret and longing, which underlies all human happiness; orit was the vision of that life of cities and the world, which she hadnever seen, but of which she had often read, and which looked veryfair and alluring across the sea, to a girlish imagination, which knewthat it should never see that reality. 

"These West Indian years were the great days of the family, " saidTitbottom, with an air of majestic and regal regret, pausing, andmusing, in our little parlor, like a late Stuart in exile, rememberingEngland. 

Prue raised her eyes from her work, and looked at him with subduedadmiration; for I have observed that, like the rest of her sex, shehas a singular sympathy with the representative of a reduced family. 

Perhaps it is their finer perception, which leads these tender-heartedwomen to recognize the divine right of social superiority so much morereadily than we; and yet, much as Titbottom was enhanced in my wife'sadmiration by the discovery that his dusky sadness of nature andexpression was, as it were, the expiring gleam and late twilight ofancestral splendors, I doubt if Mr. Bourne would have preferred himfor book-keeper a moment sooner upon that account. In truth, I haveobserved, down town, that the fact of your ancestors doing nothing, isnot considered good proof that you can do anything. 

But Prue and her sex regard sentiment more than action, and Iunderstand easily enough why she is never tired of hearing me read ofPrince Charlie. If Titbottom had been only a little younger, a littlehandsomer, a little more gallantly dressed--in fact, a little more ofa Prince Charlie, I am sure her eyes would not have fallen again uponher work so tranquilly, as he resumed his story. 

"I can remember my grandfather Titbottom, although I was a very youngchild, and he was a very old man. My young mother and my younggrandmother are very distinct figures in my memory, ministering to theold gentleman, wrapped in his dressing-gown, and seated upon thepiazza. I remember his white hair, and his calm smile, and how, notlong before he died, he called me to him, and laying his hand upon myhead, said to me:

"'My child, the world is not this great sunny piazza, nor life thefairy stories which the women tell you here, as you sit in theirlaps. I shall soon be gone, but I want to leave with you some mementoof my love for you, and I know of nothing more valuable than thesespectacles, which your grandmother brought from her native island, when she arrived here one fine summer morning, long ago. I cannot tellwhether, when you grow older, you will regard them as a gift of thegreatest value, or as something that you had been happier never tohave possessed. '

"'But, grandpapa, I am not short-sighted. '

"'My son, are you not human?' said the old gentleman; and how shall Iever forget the thoughtful sadness with which, at the same time, hehanded me the spectacles. 

"Instinctively I put them on, and looked at my grandfather. But I sawno grandfather, no piazza, no flowered dressing-gown; I saw only aluxuriant palm-tree, waving broadly over a tranquil landscape;pleasant homes clustered around it; gardens teeming with fruit andflowers; flocks quietly feeding; birds wheeling and chirping. I heardchildren's voices, and the low lullaby of happy mothers. The sound ofcheerful singing came wafted from distant fields upon the lightbreeze. Golden harvests glistened out of sight, and I caught theirrustling whispers of prosperity. A warm, mellow atmosphere bathed thewhole. 

"I have seen copies of the landscapes of the Italian, painter Claude, which seemed to me faint reminiscences of that calm and happyvision. But all this peace and prosperity seemed to flow from thespreading palm as from a fountain. 

"I do not know how long I looked, but I had, apparently, no power, asI had no will, to remove the spectacles. What a wonderful island mustNevis be, thought I, if people carry such pictures in their pockets, only by buying a pair of spectacles! What wonder that my deargrandmother Titbottom has lived such a placid life, and has blessed usall with her sunny temper, when she has lived surrounded by suchimages of peace!

"My grandfather died. But still, in the warm morning sunshine upon thepiazza, I felt his placid presence, and as I crawled into his greatchair, and drifted on in reverie through the still tropical day, itwas as if his soft dreamy eye had passed into my soul. My grandmothercherished his memory with tender regret. A violent passion of grieffor his loss was no more possible than for the pensive decay of theyear. 

"We have no portrait of him, but I see always, when I remember him, that peaceful and luxuriant palm. And I think that to have known onegood old man--one man who, through the chances and rubs of a longlife, has carried his heart in his hand, like a palm branch, wavingall discords into peace, helps our faith in God, in ourselves, and ineach other, more than many sermons. I hardly know whether to begrateful to my grandfather for the spectacles; and yet when I rememberthat it is to them I owe the pleasant image of him which I cherish Iseem to myself sadly ungrateful. 

"Madam, " said Titbottom to Prue, solemnly, "my memory is a long andgloomy gallery, and only remotely, at its further end, do I see theglimmer of soft sunshine, and only there are the pleasant pictureshung. They seem to me very happy along whose gallery the sunlightstreams to their very feet, striking all the pictured walls intounfading splendor. "

Prue had laid her work in her lap, and as Titbottom paused a moment, and I turned towards her, I found her mild eyes fastened upon my face, and glistening with many tears. I knew that the tears meant that shefelt herself to be one of those who seemed to Titbottom very happy. 

"Misfortunes of many kinds came heavily upon the family after the headwas gone. The great house was relinquished. My parents were both dead, and my grandmother had entire charge of me. But from the moment thatI received the gift of the spectacles, I could not resist theirfascination, and I withdrew into myself, and became a solitary boy. There were not many companions for me of my own age, and theygradually left me, or, at least, had not a hearty sympathy with me;for, if they teased me, I pulled out my spectacles and surveyed themso seriously that they acquired a kind of awe of me, and evidentlyregarded my grandfather's gift as a concealed magical weapon whichmight be dangerously drawn upon them at any moment. Whenever, in ourgames, there were quarrels and high words, and I began to feel aboutmy dress and to wear a grave look, they all took the alarm, andshouted, 'Look out for Titbottom's spectacles, ' and scattered like aflock of scared sheep. 

"Nor could I wonder at it. For, at first, before they took the alarm, I saw strange sights when I looked at them through the glasses. 

"If two were quarrelling about a marble, or a ball, I had only to gobehind a tree where I was concealed and look at them leisurely. Thenthe scene changed, and it was no longer a green meadow with boysplaying, but a spot which I did not recognise, and forms that made meshudder, or smile. It was not a big boy bullying a little one, but ayoung wolf with glistening teeth and a lamb cowering before him; or, it was a dog faithful and famishing--or a star going slowly intoeclipse--or a rainbow fading--or a flower blooming--or a sunrising--or a waning moon. 

"The revelations of the spectacles determined my feeling for the boys, and for all whom I saw through them. No shyness, nor awkwardness, norsilence, could separate me from those who looked lovely as lilies tomy illuminated eyes. But the vision made me afraid. If I felt myselfwarmly drawn to any one, I struggled with the fierce desire of seeinghim through the spectacles, for I feared to find him something elsethan I fancied. I longed to enjoy the luxury of ignorant feeling, tolove without knowing, to float like a leaf upon the eddies of life, drifted now to a sunny point, now to a solemn shade--now overglittering ripples, now over gleaming calms, --and not to determinedports, a trim vessel with an inexorable rudder. 

"But sometimes, mastered after long struggles, as if the unavoidablecondition of owning the spectacles were using them, I seized them andsauntered into the little town. Putting them to my eyes I peered intothe houses and at the people who passed me. Here sat a family atbreakfast, and I stood at the window looking in. O motley meal!fantastic vision! The good mother saw her lord sitting opposite, agrave, respectable being, eating muffins. But I saw only a bank-bill, more or less crumbled and tattered, marked with a larger or lesserfigure. If a sharp wind blew suddenly, I saw it tremble and flutter;it was thin, flat, impalpable. I removed my glasses, and looked withmy eyes at the wife. I could have smiled to see the humid tendernesswith which she regarded her strange _vis-à-vis_. Is life only agame of blindman's-buff? of droll cross-purposes?

"Or I put them on again, and then looked at the wives. How many stouttrees I saw, --how many tender flowers, --how many placid pools; yes, and how many little streams winding out of sight, shrinking before thelarge, hard, round eyes opposite, and slipping off into solitude andshade, with a low, inner song for their own solace. 

"In many houses I thought to see angels, nymphs, or, at least, women, and could only find broomsticks, mops, or kettles, hurrying about, rattling and tinkling, in a state of shrill activity. I made callsupon elegant ladies, and after I had enjoyed the gloss of silk, andthe delicacy of lace, and the glitter of jewels, I slipped on myspectacles, and saw a peacock's feather, flounced, and furbelowed, andfluttering; or an iron rod, thin, sharp, and hard; nor could Ipossibly mistake the movement of the drapery for any flexibility ofthe thing draped. 

"Or, mysteriously chilled, I saw a statue of perfect form, or flowingmovement, it might be alabaster, or bronze, or marble, --but sadlyoften it was ice; and I knew that after it had shone a little, andfrozen a few eyes with its despairing perfection, it could not be putaway in the niches of palaces for ornament and proud family tradition, like the alabaster, or bronze, or marble statues, but would melt, andshrink, and fall coldly away in colorless and useless water, beabsorbed in the earth and utterly forgotten. 

"But the true sadness was rather in seeing those who, not having thespectacles, thought that the iron rod was flexible, and the ice statuewarm. I saw many a gallant heart, which seemed to me brave and loyalas the crusaders, pursuing, through days and nights, and a long lifeof devotion, the hope of lighting at least a smile in the cold eyes, if not a fire in the icy heart. I watched the earnest, enthusiasticsacrifice. I saw the pure resolve, the generous faith, the fine scornof doubt, the impatience of suspicion. I wratched the grace, theardor, the glory of devotion. Through those strange spectacles howoften I saw the noblest heart renouncing all other hope, all otherambition, all other life, than the possible love of some one of thosestatues. 

"Ah! me, it was terrible, but they had not the love to give. The facewas so polished and smooth, because there was no sorrow in theheart, --and drearily, often, no heart to be touched. I could notwonder that the noble heart of devotion was broken, for it had dasheditself against a stone. I wept, until my spectacles were dimmed, forthose hopeless lovers; but there was a pang beyond tears for those icystatues. 

"Still a boy, I was thus too much a man in knowledge, --I did notcomprehend the sights I was compelled to see. I used to tear myglasses away from my eyes, and, frightened at myself, run to escape myown consciousness. Reaching the small house where we then lived, Iplunged into my grandmother's room, and, throwing myself upon thefloor, buried my face in her lap; and sobbed myself to sleep withpremature grief. 

"But when I awakened, and felt her cool hand upon my hot forehead, andheard the low sweet song, or the gentle story, or the tenderly toldparable from the Bible, with which she tried to soothe me, I could notresist the mystic fascination that lured me, as I lay in her lap, tosteal a glance at her through the spectacles. 

"Pictures of the Madonna have not her rare and pensive beauty. Uponthe tranquil little islands her life had been eventless, and all thefine possibilities of her nature were like flowers that neverbloomed. Placid were all her years; yet I have read of no heroine, ofno woman great in sudden crises, that it did not seem to me she mighthave been. The wife and widow of a man who loved his home better thanthe homes of others, I have yet heard of no queen, no belle, noimperial beauty whom in grace, and brilliancy, and persuasivecourtesy, she might not have surpassed. 

"Madam, " said Titbottom to my wife, whose heart hung upon his story;"your husband's young friend, Aurelia, wears sometimes a camelia inher hair, and no diamond in the ball-room seems so costly as thatperfect flower, which women envy, and for whose least and witheredpetal men sigh; yet, in the tropical solitudes of Brazil, how many acamelia bud drops from the bush that no eye has ever seen, which, hadit flowered and been noticed, would have gilded all hearts with itsmemory. 

"When I stole these furtive glances at my grandmother, half fearingthat they were wrong, I saw only a calm lake, whose shores were low, and over which the sun hung unbroken, so that the least star wasclearly reflected. It had an atmosphere of solemn twilighttranquillity, and so completely did its unruffled surface blend withthe cloudless, star-studded sky, that, when I looked through myspectacles at my grandmother, the vision seemed to me all heaven andstars. 

"Yet, as I gazed and gazed, I felt what stately cities might well havebeen built upon those shores, and have flashed prosperity over thecalm, like coruscations of pearls. I dreamed of gorgeous fleets, silken-sailed, and blown by perfumed winds, drifting over thosedepthless waters and through those spacious skies. I gazed upon thetwilight, the inscrutable silence, like a God-fearing discoverer upona new and vast sea bursting upon him through forest glooms, and in thefervor of whose impassioned gaze, a millenial and poetic world arises, and man need no longer die to be happy. 

"My companions naturally deserted me, for I had grown wearily graveand abstracted: and, unable to resist the allurements of myspectacles, I was constantly lost in the world, of which thosecompanions were part, yet of which they knew nothing. 

"I grew cold and hard, almost morose; people seemed to me so blind andunreasonable. They did the wrong thing. They called green, yellow; andblack, white. Young men said of a girl, 'What a lovely, simplecreature!' I looked, and there was only a glistening wisp of straw, dry and hollow. Or they said, 'What a cold, proud beauty!' I looked, and lo! a Madonna, whose heart held the world. Or they said, 'What awild, giddy girl!' and I saw a glancing, dancing mountain stream, pure as the virgin snows whence it flowed, singing through sun andshade, over pearls and gold dust, slipping along unstained by weed orrain, or heavy foot of cattle, touching the flowers with a dewykiss, --a beam of grace, a happy song, a line of light, in the dim andtroubled landscape. 

"My grandmother sent me to school, but I looked at the master, and sawthat he was a smooth round ferule, or an improper noun, or a vulgarfraction, and refused to obey him. Or he was a piece of string, a rag, a willow-wand, and I had a contemptuous pity. But one was a well ofcool, deep water, and looking suddenly in, one day, I saw the stars. 

"That one gave me all my schooling. With him I used to walk by thesea, and, as we strolled and the waves plunged in long legions beforeus, I looked at him through the spectacles, and as his eyes dilatedwith the boundless view, and his chest heaved with an impossibledesire, I saw Xerxes and his army, tossed and glittering, rank uponrank, multitude upon multitude, out of sight, but ever regularlyadvancing, and with confused roar of ceaseless music, prostratingthemselves in abject homage. Or, as with arms outstretched and hairstreaming on the wind, he chanted full lines of the resounding Iliad, I saw Homer pacing the Aegean sands of the Greek sunsets of forgottentimes. 

"My grandmother died, and I was thrown into the world withoutresources, and with no capital but my spectacles. I tried to findemployment, but everybody was shy of me. There was a vague suspicionthat I was either a little crazed, or a good deal in league with theprince of darkness. My companions, who would persist in calling apiece of painted muslin, a fair and fragrant flower, had nodifficulty; success waited for them around every corner, and arrivedin every ship. 

"I tried to teach, for I loved children. But if anything excited asuspicion of my pupils, and putting on my spectacles, I saw that I wasfondling a snake, or smelling at a bud with a worm in it, I sprang upin horror and ran away; or, if it seemed to me through the glasses, that a cherub smiled upon me, or a rose was blooming in mybutton-hole, then I felt myself imperfect and impure, not fit to beleading and training what was so essentially superior to myself, and Ikissed the children and left them weeping and wondering. 

"In despair I went to a great merchant on the island, and asked him toemploy me. 

"'My dear young friend, ' said he, 'I understand that you have somesingular secret, some charm, or spell, or amulet, or something, Idon't know what, of which people are afraid. Now you know, my dear, 'said the merchant, swelling up, and apparently prouder of his greatstomach than of his large fortune, 'I am not of that kind. I am noteasily frightened. You may spare yourself the pain of trying to imposeupon me. People who propose to come to time before I arrive, areaccustomed to arise very early in the morning, ' said he, thrusting histhumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and spreading the fingerslike two fans, upon his bosom. 'I think I have heard something ofyour secret. You have a pair of spectacles, I believe, that you valuevery much, because your grandmother brought them as a marriage portionto your grandfather. Now, if you think fit to sell me thosespectacles, I will pay you the largest market price for them. What doyou say?'

"I told him I had not the slightest idea of selling my spectacles. 

"'My young friend means to eat them, I suppose, ' said he, with acontemptuous smile. 

"I made no reply, but was turning to leave the office, when themerchant called after me--

"'My young friend, poor people should never suffer themselves to getinto pets. Anger is an expensive luxury, in which only men of acertain income can indulge. A pair of spectacles and a hot temper arenot the most promising capital for success in life, Master Titbottom. '

"I said nothing, but put my hand upon the door to go out, when themerchant said, more respect fully--

"'Well, you foolish boy, if you will not sell your spectacles, perhapsyou will agree to sell the use of them to me. That is, you shall onlyput them on when I direct you, and for my purposes. Hallo! you littlefool!' cried he, impatiently, as he saw that I intended to make noreply. 

"But I had pulled out my spectacles and put them on for my ownpurposes, and against his wish and desire. I looked at him, and saw ahuge, bald-headed wild boar, with gross chaps and a leering eye--onlythe more ridiculous for the high-arched, gold-bowed spectacles, thatstraddled his nose One of his fore-hoofs was thrust into the safe, where his bills receivable were hived, and the other into his pocket, among the loose change and bills there. His ears were pricked forwardwith a brisk, sensitive smartness. In a world where prize pork was thebest excellence, he would have carried off all the premiums. 

"I stepped into the next office in the street, and a mild-faced;genial man, also a large and opulent merchant, asked me my business insuch a tone, that I instantly looked through my spectacles, and saw aland flowing with milk and honey. There I pitched my tent, and staidtill the good man died, and his business was discontinued. 

"But while there, " said Titbottom, and his voice trembled away into asigh, "I first saw Preciosa. Despite the spectacles, I sawPreciosa. For days, for weeks, for months, I did not take myspectacles with me. I ran away from them, I threw them up on highshelves, I tried to make up my mind to throw them into the sea, ordown the well. I could not, I would not, I dared not, look at Preciosathrough the spectacles. It was not possible for me deliberately todestroy them; but I awoke in the night, and could almost have cursedmy dear old grandfather for his gift. 

"I sometimes escaped from the office, and sat for whole days withPreciosa. I told her the strange things I had seen with my mysticglasses. The hours were not enough for the wild romances which I ravedin her ear. She listened, astonished and appalled. Her blue eyesturned upon me with sweet deprecation. She clung to me, and thenwithdrew, and fled fearfully from the room. 

"But she could not stay away. She could not resist my voice, in whosetones burnt all the love that filled my heart and brain. The veryeffort to resist the desire of seeing her as I saw everybody else, gave a frenzy and an unnatural tension to my feeling and my manner. Isat by her side, looking into her eyes, smoothing her hair, foldingher to my heart, which was sunken deep and deep--why not for ever?--inthat dream of peace. I ran from her presence, and shouted, and leapedwith joy, and sat the whole night through, thrilled into happiness bythe thought of her love and loveliness, like a wind harp, tightlystrung, and answering the airiest sigh of the breeze with music. 

"Then came calmer days--the conviction of deep love settled upon ourlives--as after the hurrying, heaving days of spring, comes the blandand benignant summer. 

"'It is no dream, then, after all, and we are happy, ' I said to her, one day; and there came no answer, for happiness is speechless. 

"'We are happy, then, ' I said to myself, 'there is no excitementnow. How glad I am that I can now look at her through my spectacles. '

"I feared least some instinct should warn me to beware. I escaped fromher arms, and ran home and seized the glasses, and bounded back againto Preciosa. As I entered the room I was heated, my head was swimmingwith confused apprehensions, my eyes must have glared. Preciosa wasfrightened, and rising from her seat, stood with an inquiring glanceof surprise in her eyes. 

"But I was bent with frenzy upon my purpose. I was merely aware thatshe was in the room. I saw nothing else. I heard nothing. I cared fornothing, but to see her through that magic glass, and feel at once allthe fulness of blissful perfection which that would reveal. Preciosastood before the mirror, but alarmed at my wild and eager movements, unable to distinguish what I had in my hands, and seeing me raise themsuddenly to my face, she shrieked with terror, and fell fainting uponthe floor, at the very moment that I placed the glasses before myeyes, and beheld--_myself_, reflected in the mirror, before whichshe had been standing. 

"Dear madam, " cried Titbottom, to my wife, springing up and fallingback again in his chair, pale and trembling, while Prue ran to him andtook his hand, and I poured out a glass of water--"I saw myself. "

There was silence for many minutes. Prue laid her hand gently upon thehead of our guest, whose eyes were closed, and who breathed softlylike an infant in sleeping. Perhaps, in all the long years of anguishsince that hour, no tender hand had touched his brow, nor wiped awaythe damps of a bitter sorrow. Perhaps the tender, maternal fingers ofmy wife soothed his weary head with the conviction that he felt thehand of his mother playing with the long hair of her boy in the softWest India morning. Perhaps it was only the natural relief ofexpressing a pent-up sorrow. 

When he spoke again, it was with the old subdued tone, and the air ofquaint solemnity. 

"These things were matters of long, long ago, and I came to thiscountry soon after. I brought with me, premature age, a past ofmelancholy memories, and the magic spectacles. I had become theirslave. I had nothing more to fear. Having seen myself, I was compelledto see others, properly to understand my relations to them. The lightsthat cheer the future of other men had gone out for me; my eyes werethose of an exile turned backwards upon the receding shore, and notforwards with hope upon the ocean. 

"I mingled with men, but with little pleasure. There are but manyvarieties of a few types. I did not find those I came toclearer-sighted than those I had left behind. I heard men calledshrewd and wise, and report said they were highly intelligent andsuccessful. My finest sense detected no aroma of purity and principle;but I saw only a fungus that had fattened and spread in a night. Theywent to the theatres to see actors upon the stage. I went to seeactors in the boxes, so consummately cunning, that others did not knowthey were acting, and they did not suspect it themselves. 

"Perhaps you wonder it did not make me misanthropical. My dearfriends, do not forget that I had seen myself. That made mecompassionate not cynical. 

"Of course, I could not value highly the ordinary standards of successand excellence. When I went to church and saw a thin, blue, artificialflower, or a great sleepy cushion expounding the beauty of holiness topews full of eagles, half-eagles, and three-pences, however adroitlyconcealed they might be in broadcloth and boots: or saw an onion in anEaster bonnet weeping over the sins of Magdalen, I did not feel asthey felt who saw in all this, not only propriety but piety. 

"Or when at public meetings an eel stood up on end, and wriggled andsquirmed lithely in every direction, and declared that, for his part, he went in for rainbows and hot water--how could I help seeing that hewas still black and loved a slimy pool?

"I could not grow misanthropical when I saw in the eyes of so many whowere called old, the gushing fountains of eternal youth, and the lightof an immortal dawn, or when I saw those who were esteemedunsuccessful and aimless, ruling a fair realm of peace and plenty, either in their own hearts, or in another's--a realm and princelypossession for which they had well renounced a hopeless search and abelated triumph. 

"I knew one man who had been for years a byword for having sought thephilosopher's stone. But I looked at him through the spectacles andsaw a satisfaction in concentrated energies, and a tenacity arisingfrom devotion to a noble dream which was not apparent in the youthswho pitied him in the aimless effeminacy of clubs, nor in the clevergentlemen who cracked their thin jokes upon him over a gossipingdinner. 

"And there was your neighbor over the way, who passes for a woman whohas failed in her career, because she is an old maid. People wagsolemn heads of pity, and say that she made so great a mistake in notmarrying the brilliant and famous man who was for long years hersuitor. It is clear that no orange flower will ever bloom for her. Theyoung people make their tender romances about her as they watch her, and think of her solitary hours of bitter regret and wasting longing, never to be satisfied. 

"When I first came to town I shared this sympathy, and pleased myimagination with fancying her hard struggle with the conviction thatshe had lost all that made life beautiful. I supposed that if I hadlooked at her through my spectacles, I should see that it was only herradiant temper which so illuminated her dress, that we did not see itto be heavy sables. 

"But when, one day, I did raise my glasses, and glanced at her, I didnot see the old maid whom we all pitied for a secret sorrow, but awoman whose nature was a tropic, in which the sun shone, and birdssang, and flowers bloomed for ever. There were no regrets, no doubtsand half wishes, but a calm sweetness, a transparent peace. I saw herblush when that old lover passed by, or paused to speak to her, but itwas only the sign of delicate feminine consciousness. She knew hislove, and honored it, although she could not understand it nor returnit. I looked closely at her, and I saw that although all the world hadexclaimed at her indifference to such homage, and had declared it wasastonishing she should lose so fine a match, she would only say simplyand quietly--

"'If Shakespeare loved me and I did not love him, how could I marryhim?'

"Could I be misanthropical when I saw such fidelity, and dignity, andsimplicity?

"You may believe that I was especially curious to look at that oldlover of hers, through my glasses. He was no longer young, you know, when I came, and his fame and fortune were secure. Certainly I haveheard of few men more beloved, and of none more worthy to be loved. Hehad the easy manner of a man of the world, the sensitive grace of apoet, and the charitable judgment of a wide-traveller. He wasaccounted the most successful and most unspoiled of men. Handsome, brilliant, wise, tender, graceful, accomplished, rich, and famous, Ilooked at him, without the spectacles, in surprise, and admiration, and wondered how your neighbor over the way had been so entirelyuntouched by his homage. I watched their intercourse in society, I sawher gay smile, her cordial greeting; I marked his frank address, hislofty courtesy. Their manner told no tales. The eager world wasbaulked, and I pulled out my spectacles. 

"I had seen her already, and now I saw him. He lived only in memory, and his memory was a spacious and stately palace. But he did notoftenest frequent the banqueting hall, where were endless hospitalityand feasting, --nor did he loiter much in the reception rooms, where athrong of new visitors was for ever swarming, --nor did he feed hisvanity by haunting the apartment in which were stored the trophies ofhis varied triumphs, --nor dream much in the great gallery hung withpictures of his travels. 

"From all these lofty halls of memory he constantly escaped to aremote and solitary chamber, into which no one had everpenetrated. But my fatal eyes, behind the glasses, followed andentered with him, and saw that the chamber was a chapel. It was dim, and silent, and sweet with perpetual incense that burned upon an altarbefore a picture forever veiled. There, whenever I chanced to look, Isaw him kneel and pray; and there, by day and by night, a funeral hymnwas chanted. 

"I do not believe you will be surprised that I have been content toremain a deputy book-keeper. My spectacles regulated my ambition, andI early learned that there were better gods than Plutus. The glasseshave lost much of their fascination now, and I do not often usethem. But sometimes the desire is irresistible. Whenever I am greatlyinterested, I am compelled to take them out and see what it is that Iadmire. 

"And yet--and yet, " said Titbottom, after a pause, "I am not sure thatI thank my grandfather. "

Prue had long since laid away her work, and had heard every word ofthe story. I saw that the dear woman had yet one question to ask, andhad been earnestly hoping to hear something that would spare her thenecessity of asking. But Titbottom had resumed his usual tone, afterthe momentary excitement, and made no further allusion to himself. Weall sat silently; Titbottom's eyes fastened musingly upon the carpet, Prue looking wistfully at him, and I regarding both. 

It was past midnight, and our guest arose to go. He shook handsquietly, made his grave Spanish bow to Prue, and, taking his hat, wenttowards the front door. Prue and I accompanied him. I saw in her eyesthat she would ask her question, And as Titbottom opened the door, Iheard the low words:

"And Preciosa?"

Titbottom paused. He had just opened the door, and the moonlightstreamed over him as he stood, turning back to us. 

"I have seen her but once since. It was in church, and she waskneeling, with her eyes closed, so that she did not see me. But Irubbed the glasses well, and looked at her, and saw a white lily, whose stem was broken, but which was fresh, and luminous, and fragrantstill. "

"That was a miracle, " interrupted Prue. 

"Madam, it was a miracle, " replied Titbottom, "and for that one sightI am devoutly grateful for my grandfather's gift. I saw, that althougha flower may have lost its hold upon earthly moisture, it may stillbloom as sweetly, fed by the dews of heaven. "

The door closed, and he was gone. But as Prue put her arm in mine, andwe went up stairs together, she whispered in my ear:

"How glad I am that you don't wear spectacles. "

A CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 

 "When I sailed: when I sailed. " _Ballad of Robert Kidd. _

With the opening of spring my heart opens. My fancy expands with theflowers, and, as I walk down town in the May morning, toward the dingycounting-room, and the old routine, you would hardly believe that Iwould not change my feelings for those of the French Barber-PoetJasmin, who goes, merrily singing, to his shaving and hair cutting. 

The first warm day puts the whole winter to flight. It stands in frontof the summer like a young warrior before his host, and, single-handed, defies and destroys its remorseless enemy. 

I throw up the chamber-window, to breathe the earliest breath ofsummer. 

"The brave young David has hit old Goliath square in the forehead thismorning, " I say to Prue, as I lean out, and bathe in the softsunshine. 

My wife is tying on her cap at the glass, and, not quite disentangledfrom her dreams, thinks I am speaking of a street-brawl, and repliesthat I had better take care of my own head. 

"Since you have charge of my heart, I suppose, " I answer gaily, turning round to make her one of Titbottom's bows. 

"But seriously, Prue, how is it about my summer wardrobe?"

Prue smiles, and tells me we shall have two months of winter yet, andI had better stop and order some more coal as I go down town. 

"Winter--coal!"

Then I step back, and taking her by the arm, lead her to the window. Ithrow it open even wider than before. The sunlight streams on thegreat church-towers opposite, and the trees in the neighboring squareglisten, and wave their boughs gently, as if they would burst intoleaf before dinner. Cages are hung at the open chamber-windows in thestreet, and the birds, touched into song by the sun, make Memnontrue. Prue's purple and white hyacinths are in full blossom, andperfume the warm air, so that the canaries and the mocking birds areno longer aliens in the city streets, but are once more swinging intheir spicy native groves. 

A soft wind blows upon us as we stand, listening and looking. Cuba andthe Tropics are in the air. The drowsy tune of a hand-organ risesfrom the square, and Italy comes singing in upon the sound. Mytriumphant eyes meet Prue's. They are full of sweetness and spring. 

"What do you think of the summer-wardrobe now?" I ask, and we go downto breakfast. 

But the air has magic in it, and I do not cease to dream. If I meetCharles, who is bound for Alabama, or John, who sails for Savannah, with a trunk full of white jackets, I do not say to them, as theirother friends say, --

"Happy travellers, who cut March and April out of the dismal year!"

I do not envy them. They will be sea-sick on the way. The southernwinds will blow all the water out of the rivers, and, desolatelystranded upon mud, they will relieve the tedium of the interval bytying with large ropes a young gentleman raving with deliriumtremens. They will hurry along, appalled by forests blazing in thewindy night; and, housed in a bad inn, they will find themselvesanxiously asking, "Are the cars punctual in leaving?"--grimly surethat impatient travellers find all conveyances too slow. Thetravellers are very warm, indeed, even in March and April, --but Pruedoubts if it is altogether the effect of the southern climate. 

Why should they go to the South? If they only wait a little, the Southwill come to them. Savannah arrives in April; Florida in May; Cuba andthe Gulf come in with June, and the full splendor of the Tropicsburns through July and August. Sitting upon the earth, do we notglide by all the constellations, all the awful stars? Does not theflash of Orion's scimeter dazzle as we pass? Do we not hear, as wegaze in hushed midnights, the music of the Lyre; are we not thronedwith Cassiopea; do we not play with the tangles of Berenice's hair, aswe sail, as we sail?

When Christopher told me that he was going to Italy, I went intoBourne's conservatory, saw a magnolia, and so reached Italy beforehim. Can Christopher bring Italy home? But I brought to Prue a branchof magnolia blossoms, with Mr. Bourne's kindest regards, and she putthem upon her table, and our little house smelled of Italy for a weekafterward. The incident developed Prue's Italian tastes, which I hadnot suspected to be so strong. I found her looking very often at themagnolias; even holding them in her hand, and standing before thetable with a pensive air. I suppose she was thinking of BeatriceCenci, or of Tasso and Leonora, or of the wife of Marino Faliero, orof some other of those sad old Italian tales of love and woe So easilyPrue went to Italy!

Thus the spring comes in my heart as well as in the air, and leapsalong my veins as well as through the trees. I immediately travel. Anorange takes me to Sorrento, and roses, when they blow, to Pæstum. The camelias in Aurelia's hair bring Brazil into the happy rooms shetreads, and she takes me to South America as she goes to dinner. Thepearls upon her neck make me free of the Persian gulf. Upon hershawl, like the Arabian prince upon his carpet, I am transported tothe vales of Cashmere; and thus, as I daily walk in the bright springdays, I go round the world. 

But the season wakes a finer longing, a desire that could only besatisfied if the pavilions of the clouds were real, and I could strollamong the towering splendors of a sultry spring evening. Ah! if Icould leap those flaming battlements that glow along the west--if Icould tread those cool, dewy, serene isles of sunset, and sink withthem in the sea of stars. 

I say so to Prue, and my wife smiles. 

"But why is it so impossible, " I ask, "if you go to Italy upon amagnolia branch?"

The smile fades from her eyes. 

"I went a shorter voyage than that, " she answered; "it was only toMr. Bourne's. "

I walked slowly out of the house, and overtook Titbottom as I went. Hesmiled gravely as he greeted me, and said:

"I have been asked to invite you to join a little pleasure party. "

"Where is it going?"

"Oh! anywhere, " answered Titbottom. 

"And how?"

"Oh! anyhow, " he replied. 

"You mean that everybody is to go wherever he pleases, and in the wayhe best can. My dear Titbottom, I have long belonged to that pleasureparty, although I never heard it called by so pleasant a name before. "

My companion said only:

"If you would like to join, I will introduce you to the party. Icannot go, but they are all on board. "

I answered nothing; but Titbottom drew me along. We took a boat, andput off to the most extraordinary craft I had ever seen. We approachedher stern, and, as I curiously looked at it, I could think of nothingbut an old picture that hung in my father's house. It was of theFlemish school, and represented the rear view of the _vrouw_ of aburgomaster going to market. The wide yards were stretched likeelbows, and even the studding-sails were spread. The hull was searedand blistered, and, in the tops, I saw what I supposed to be stringsof turnips or cabbages, little round masses, with tufted crests; butTitbottom assured me they were sailors. 

We rowed hard, but came no nearer the vessel. 

"She is going with the tide and wind, " said I; "we shall never catchher. "

My companion said nothing. 

"But why have they set the studding-sails?" asked I. 

"She never takes in any sails, " answered Titbottom. 

"The more fool she, " thought I, a little impatiently, angry at notgetting nearer to the vessel. But I did not say it aloud. I would assoon have said it to Prue as to Titbottom. The truth is, I began tofeel a little ill, from the motion of the boat, and remembered, with ashade of regret, Prue and peppermint. If wives could only keep theirhusbands a little nauseated, I am confident they might be very sure oftheir constancy. 

But, somehow, the strange ship was gained, and I found myself among assingular a company as I have ever seen. There were men of everycountry, and costumes of all kinds. There was an indescribablemistiness in the air, or a premature twilight, in which all thefigures looked ghostly and unreal. The ship was of a model such as Ihad never seen, and the rigging had a musty odor, so that the wholecraft smelled like a ship-chandler's shop grown mouldy. The figuresglided rather than walked about, and I perceived a strong smell ofcabbage issuing from the hold. 

But the most extraordinary thing of all was the sense of resistlessmotion which possessed my mind the moment my foot struck the deck. Icould have sworn we were dashing through, the water at the rate oftwenty knots an hour. (Prue has a great, but a little ignorant, admiration of my technical knowledge of nautical affairs and phrases. )I looked aloft and saw the sails taut with a stiff breeze, and. Iheard a faint whistling of the wind in the rigging, but very faint, and rather, it seemed to me, as if it came from the creak of cordagein the ships of Crusaders; or of quaint old craft upon the Spanishmain, echoing through remote years--so far away it sounded. 

Yet I heard no orders given; I saw no sailors running aloft, and onlyone figure crouching over the wheel: He was lost behind his greatbeard as behind a snow-drift. But the startling speed with which wescudded along did not lift a solitary hair of that beard, nor did theold and withered face of the pilot betray any curiosity or interest asto what breakers, or reefs, or pitiless shores, might be lying inambush to destroy us. 

Still on we swept; and as the traveller in a night-train knows that heis passing green fields, and pleasant gardens, and winding streamsfringed with flowers, and is now gliding through tunnels or dartingalong the base of fearful cliffs, so I was conscious that we werepressing through various climates and by romantic shores. In vain Ipeered into the gray twilight mist that folded all. I could only seethe vague figures that grew and faded upon the haze, as my eye fellupon them, like the intermittent characters of sympathetic ink whenheat touches them. 

Now, it was a belt of warm, odorous air in which we sailed, and thencold as the breath of a polar ocean. The perfume of new-mown hay andthe breath of roses, came mingled with the distant music of bells, andthe twittering song of birds, and a low surf-like sound of the wind insummer woods. There were all sounds of pastoral beauty, of a tranquillandscape such as Prue loves--and which shall be painted as thebackground of her portrait whenever she sits to any of my many artistfriends--and that pastoral beauty shall be called England; I strainedmy eyes into the cruel mist that held all that music and all thatsuggested beauty, but I could see nothing. It was so sweet that Iscarcely knew if I cared to see. The very thought of it charmed mysenses and satisfied my heart. I smelled and heard the landscape thatI could not see. 

Then the pungent, penetrating fragrance of blossoming vineyards waswafted across the air; the flowery richness of orange groves, and thesacred odor of crushed bay leaves, such as is pressed from them whenthey are strewn upon the flat pavement of the streets of Florence, andgorgeous priestly processions tread them under foot. A steam ofincense filled the air. I smelled Italy--as in the magnolia fromBourne's garden--and, even while my heart leaped with theconsciousness, the odor passed, and a stretch of burning silencesucceeded. 

It was an oppressive zone of heat--oppressive not only from itssilence, but from the sense of awful, antique forms, whether of art ornature, that were sitting, closely veiled, in that mysteriousobscurity. I shuddered as I felt that if my eyes could pierce thatmist, or if it should lift and roll away, I should see upon a silentshore low ranges of lonely hills, or mystic figures and huge templestrampled out of history by time. 

This, too, we left. There was a rustling of distant palms, theindistinct roar of beasts, and the hiss of serpents. Then all wasstill again. Only at times the remote sigh of the weary sea, moaningaround desolate isles undiscovered; and the howl of winds that hadnever wafted human voices, but had rung endless changes upon the soundof dashing waters, made the voyage more appalling and the figuresaround me more fearful. 

As the ship plunged on through all the varying zones, as climate andcountry drifted behind us, unseen in the gray mist, but each, in turn, making that quaint craft England or Italy, Africa and the Southernseas, I ventured to steal a glance at the motley crew, to see whatimpression this wild career produced upon them. 

They sat about the deck in a hundred listless postures. Some leanedidly over the bulwarks, and looked wistfully away from the ship, as ifthey fancied they saw all that I inferred but could not see. As theperfume, and sound, and climate changed, I could see many a longingeye sadden and grow moist, and as the chime of bells echoed distinctlylike the airy syllables of names, and, as it were, made pictures inmusic upon the minds of those quaint mariners--then dry lips moved, perhaps to name a name, perhaps to breathe a prayer. Others sat uponthe deck, vacantly smoking pipes that required no refilling, but hadan immortality of weed and fire. The more they smoked the moremysterious they became. The smoke made the mist around them moreimpenetrable, and I could clearly see that those distant soundsgradually grew more distant, and, by some of the most desperate andconstant smokers, were heard no more. The faces of such had an apathy, which, had it been human, would have been despair. 

Others stood staring up into the rigging, as if calculating when thesails must needs be rent and the voyage end. But there was no hope intheir eyes, only a bitter longing. Some paced restlessly up and downthe deck. They had evidently been walking a long, long time. Atintervals they, too threw a searching glance into the mist thatenveloped the ship, and up into the sails and rigging that stretchedover them in hopeless strength and order. 

One of the promenaders I especially noticed. His beard was long andsnowy, like that of the pilot. He had a staff in his hand, and hismovement was very rapid. His body swung forward, as if to avoidsomething, and his glance half turned back over his shoulder, apprehensively, as if he were threatened from behind. The head and thewhole figure were bowed as if under a burden, although I could not seethat he had anything upon his shoulders; and his gait was not that ofa man who is walking off the ennui of a voyage, but rather of acriminal flying, or of a startled traveller pursued. 

As he came nearer to me in his walk, I saw that his features werestrongly Hebrew, and there was an air of the proudest dignity, fearfully abased, in his mien and expression. It was more than thedignity of an individual. I could have believed that the pride of arace was humbled in his person. 

His agile eye presently fastened itself upon me, as a stranger. Hecame nearer and nearer to me, as he paced rapidly to and fro, and wasevidently several times on the point of addressing me, but, lookingover his shoulder apprehensively, he passed on. At length, with agreat effort, he paused for an instant, and invited me to join him inhis walk. Before the invitation was fairly uttered, he was in motionagain. I followed, but I could not overtake him. He kept just beforeme, and turned occasionally with an air of terror, as if he fancied Iwere dogging him; then glided on more rapidly. 

His face was by no means agreeable, but it had an inexplicablefascination, as if it had been turned upon what no other mortal eyeshad ever seen. Yet I could hardly tell whether it were, probably, anobject of supreme beauty or of terror. He looked at everything as ifhe hoped its impression might obliterate some anterior and awful one;and I was gradually possessed with the unpleasant idea that his eyeswere never closed--that, in fact, he never slept. 

Suddenly, fixing me with his unnatural, wakeful glare, he whisperedsomething which I could not understand, and then darted forward evenmore rapidly, as if he dreaded that, in merely speaking, he had losttime. 

Still the ship drove on, and I walked hurriedly along the deck, justbehind my companion. But our speed and that of the ship contrastedstrangely with the mouldy smell of old rigging, and the listless andlazy groups, smoking and leaning on the bulwarks. The seasons, inendless succession and iteration, passed over the ship. The twilightwas summer haze at the stern, while it was the fiercest winter mist atthe bows. But as a tropical breath, like the warmth of a Syrian day, suddenly touched the brow of my companion, he sighed, and I could nothelp saying:

"You must be tired. "

He only shook his head and quickened his pace. But now that I hadonce spoken, it was not so difficult to speak, and I asked him why hedid not stop and rest. 

He turned for moment, and a mournful sweetness shone in his dark eyesand haggard, swarthy face. It played flittingly around that strangelook of ruined human dignity, like a wan beam of late sunset about acrumbling and forgotten temple. He put his hand hurriedly to hisforehead, as if he were trying to remember--like a lunatic, who, having heard only the wrangle of fiends in his delirium, suddenly in aconscious moment, perceives the familiar voice of love. But who couldthis be, to whom mere human sympathy was so startlingly sweet?

Still moving, he whispered with a woful sadness, "I want to stop, butI cannot. If I could only stop long enough to leap over the bulwarks!"

Then he sighed long and deeply, and added, "But I should not drown. "

So much had my interest been excited by his face and movement, that Ihad not observed the costume of this strange being. He wore a blackhat upon his head. It was not only black, but it was shiny. Even inthe midst of this wonderful scene, I could observe that it had theartificial newness of a second-hand hat; and, at the same moment, Iwas disgusted by the odor of old clothes--very old clothes, indeed. The mist and my sympathy had prevented my seeing before what asingular garb the figure wore. It was all second-hand and carefullyironed, but the garments were obviously collected from every part ofthe civilized globe. Good heavens! as I looked at the coat, I had astrange sensation. I was sure that I had once worn that coat. It wasmy wedding surtout--long in the skirts--which Prue had told me, yearsand years before, she had given away to the neediest Jew beggar shehad ever seen. 

The spectral figure dwindled in my fancy--the features lost theirantique grandeur, and the restless eye ceased to be sublime fromimmortal sleeplessness, and became only lively with mean cunning. Theapparition was fearfully grotesque, but the driving ship and themysterious company gradually restored its tragic interest. I stoppedand leaned against the side, and heard the rippling water that I couldnot see, and flitting through the mist, with anxious speed, the figureheld its way. What was he flying? What conscience with relentlesssting pricked this victim on?

He came again nearer and nearer to me in his walk. I recoiled withdisgust, this time, no less than terror. But he seemed resolved tospeak, and, finally, each time, as he passed me, he asked singlequestions, as a ship which fires whenever it can bring a gun to bear. 

"Can you tell me to what port we are bound?"

"No, " I replied; "but how came you to take passage without inquiry? Tome it makes little difference. "

"Nor do I care, " he answered, when he next came near enough; I havealready been there. "

"Where?" asked I. 

"Wherever we are going, " he replied. "I have been there a great manytimes, and, oh! I am very tired of it. "

"But why are you here at all, then; and why don't you stop?"

There was a singular mixture of a hundred conflicting emotions in hisface, as I spoke. The representative grandeur of a race, which hesometimes showed in his look, faded into a glance of hopeless and punydespair. His eyes looked at me curiously, his chest heaved, and therewas clearly a struggle in his mind, between some lofty and meandesire. At times, I saw only the austere suffering of ages in hisstrongly-carved features, and again I could see nothing but thesecond-hand black hat above them. He rubbed his forehead with hisskinny hand; he glanced over his shoulder, as if calculating whetherhe had time to speak to me; and then, as a splendid defiance flashedfrom his piercing eyes, so that I know how Milton's Satan looked, hesaid, bitterly, and with hopeless sorrow, that no mortal voice everknew before:

"I cannot stop: my woe is infinite, like my sin!"--and he passed intothe mist. 

But, in a few moments, he reappeared. I could now see only the hat, which sank more and more over his face, until it covered it entirely;and I heard a querulous voice, which seemed to be quarrelling withitself, for saying what it was compelled to say, so that the wordswere even more appalling than what it had said before:

"Old clo'! old clo'!"

I gazed at the disappearing figure, in speechless amazement, and wasstill looking, when I was tapped upon the shoulder, and, turninground, saw a German cavalry officer, with a heavy moustache, and adog-whistle in his hand. 

"Most extraordinary man, your friend yonder, " said the officer; "Idon't remember to have seen him in Turkey, and yet I recognize uponhis feet the boots that I wore in the great Russian cavalry charge, where I individually rode down five hundred and thirty Turks, slewseven hundred, at a moderate computation, by the mere force of myrush, and, taking the seven insurmountable walls of Constantinople atone clean flying leap, rode straight into the seraglio, and, droppingthe bridle, cut the sultan's throat with my bridle-hand, kissed theother to the ladies of the hareem, and was back again within our linesand taking a glass of wine with the hereditary Grand DukeGeneralissimo before he knew that I had mounted. Oddly enough, yourold friend is now sporting the identical boots I wore on thatoccasion. "

The cavalry officer coolly curled his moustache with his fingers. Ilooked at him in silence. 

"Speaking of boots, " he resumed, "I don't remember to have told you ofthat little incident of the Princess of the Crimea's diamonds. It wasslight, but curious. I was dining one day with the Emperor of theCrimea, who always had a cover laid for me at his table, when he said, in great perplexity, 'Baron, my boy, I am in straits. The Shah ofPersia has just sent me word that he has presented me with twothousand pearl-of-Oman necklaces, and I don't know how to get themover, the duties are so heavy. ' 'Nothing easier, ' replied I; 'I'llbring them in my boots. ' 'Nonsense!' said the Emperor of theCrimea. 'Nonsense! yourself, ' replied I, sportively: for the Emperorof the Crimea always gives me my joke; and so after dinner I went overto Persia. The thing was easily enough done. I ordered a hundredthousand pairs of boots or so, filled them with the pearls; said atthe Custom-house that they were part of my private wardrobe, and I hadleft the blocks in to keep them stretched, for I was particular aboutmy bunions. The officers bowed, and said that their own feet weretender, --upon which I jokingly remarked that I wished theirconsciences were, and so in the pleasantest manner possible thepearl-of-Oman necklaces were bowed out of Persia, and the Emperor ofthe Crimea gave me three thousand of them as my share. It was notrouble. It was only ordering the boots, and whistling to the infernalrascals of Persian shoe-makers to hang for their pay. "

I could reply nothing to my new acquaintance, but I treasured hisstories to tell to Prue, and at length summoned courage to ask him whyhe had taken passage. 

"Pure fun, " answered he, "nothing else under the sun. You see, ithappened in this way:--I was sitting quietly and swinging in a cedarof Lebanon, on the very summit of that mountain, when suddenly, feeling a little warm, I took a brisk dive into the Mediterranean. NowI was careless, and got going obliquely, and with the force of such adive I could not come up near Sicily, as I had intended, but I wentclean under Africa, and came out at the Cape of Grood Hope, and asFortune would have it, just as this good ship was passing. So Isprang over the side, and offered the crew to treat all round if theywould tell me where I started from. But I suppose they had just beenpiped to grog, for not a man stirred, except your friend yonder, andhe only kept on stirring. "

"Are you going far?" I asked. 

The cavalry officer looked a little disturbed. "I cannot preciselytell, " answered he, "in fact, I wish I could;" and he glanced roundnervously at the strange company. 

"If you should come our way, Prue and I will be very glad to see you, "said I, "and I can promise you a warm welcome from the children. "

"Many thanks, " said the officer, --and handed me his card, upon which Iread, _Le Baron Munchausen_. 

"I beg your pardon, " said a low voice at my side; and, turning, I sawone of the most constant smokers--a very old man--"I beg your pardon, but can you tell me where I came from?"

"I am sorry to say I cannot, " answered I, as I surveyed a man with avery bewildered and wrinkled face, who seemed to be intently lookingfor something. 

"Nor where I am going?"

I replied that it was equally impossible. He mused a few moments, andthen said slowly, "Do you know, it is a very strange thing that I havenot found anybody who can answer me either of those questions. And yetI must have come from somewhere, " said he, speculatively--"yes, and Imust be going somewhere, and I should really like to know somethingabout it. "

"I observe, " said I, "that you smoke a good deal, and perhaps you findtobacco clouds your brain a little. "

"Smoke! Smoke!" repeated he, sadly, dwelling upon the words; "why, itall seems smoke to me;" and he looked wistfully around the deck, and Ifelt quite ready to agree with him. 

"May I ask what you are here for, " inquired I; "perhaps your health, or business of some kind; although I was told it was a pleasureparty?"

"That's just it, " said he; "if I only knew where we were going, I mightbe able to say something about it. But where are you going?"

"I am going home as fast as I can, " replied I warmly, for I began tobe very uncomfortable. The old man's eyes half closed, and his mindseemed to have struck a scent. 

"Isn't that where I was going? I believe it is; I wish I knew; I thinkthat's what it is called, Where is home?"

And the old man puffed a prodigious cloud of smoke, in which he wasquite lost. 

"It is certainly very smoky, " said he, "I came on board this ship togo to--in fact, I meant, as I was saying, I took passage for--. " Hesmoked silently. "I beg your pardon, but where did you say I wasgoing?"

Out of the mist where he had been leaning over the side, and gazingearnestly into the surrounding obscurity, now came a pale young man, and put his arm in mine. 

"I see, " said he, "that you have rather a general acquaintance, and, as you know many persons, perhaps you know many things. I am young, you see, but I am a great traveller. I have been all over the world, and in all kinds of conveyances; but, " he continued, nervously, starting continually, and looking around, "I haven't yet got abroad. "

"Not got abroad, and yet you have been everywhere?"

"Oh! yes; I know, " he replied, hurriedly; "but I mean that I haven'tyet got away. I travel constantly, but it does no good--and perhapsyou can tell me the secret I want to know. I will pay any sum forit. I am very rich and very young, and, if money cannot buy it, I willgive as many years of my life as you require. "

He moved his hands convulsively, and his hair was wet upon hisforehead. He was very handsome in that mystic light, but his eyeburned with eagerness, and his slight, graceful frame thrilled withthe earnestness of his emotion. The Emperor Hadrian, who loved the boyAntinous, would have loved the youth. 

"But what is it that you wish to leave behind?" said I, at length, holding his arm paternally; "what do you wish to escape?"

He threw his arms straight down by his side, clenched his, hands, andlooked fixedly in my eyes. The beautiful head was thrown a littleback upon one shoulder, and the wan faced glowed with yearning desireand utter abandonment to confidence, so that, without his saying it, Iknew that he had never whispered the secret which he was about toimpart to me. Then, with a long sigh, as if his life were exhaling, hewhispered, "Myself. "

"Ah! my boy, you are bound upon a long journey. "

"I know it, " he replied mournfully; "and I cannot even get started. IfI don't get off in this ship, I fear I shall never escape. " His lastwords were lost in the mist which gradually removed him from my view. 

"The youth has been amusing you with some of his wild fancies, Isuppose, " said a venerable man, who might have been twin brother ofthat snowy-bearded pilot. "It is a great pity so promising a young manshould be the victim of such vagaries. "

He stood looking over the side for some time, and at length added, "Don't you think we ought to arrive soon?"

"Where?" asked I. 

"Why, in Eldorado, of course, " answered he. 

"The truth is, I became very tired of that long process to find thePhilosopher's Stone, and, although I was just upon the point of thelast combination which must infallibly have produced the medium, Iabandoned it when I heard Orellana's account, and found that Naturehad already done in Eldorado precisely what I was trying to do. Yousee, " continued the old man abstractedly, "I had put youth, and love, and hope, besides a great many scarce minerals, into the crucible, andthey all dissolved slowly, and vanished--in vapor. It was curious, butthey left no residuum except a little ashes, which were not strongenough to make a lye to cure a lame finger. But, as I was saying, Orellana told us about Eldorado just in time, and I thought, if anyship would carry me there it must be this. But I am very sorry to findthat any one who is in pursuit of such a hopeless goal as that paleyoung man yonder, should have taken passage. It is only age, " he said, slowly stroking his white beard, "that teaches us wisdom, andpersuades us to renounce the hope of escaping ourselves; and just aswe are discovering the Philosopher's Stone, relieves our anxiety bypointing the way to Eldorado. "

"Are we really going there?" asked I, in some trepidation. 

"Can there be any doubt of it?" replied the old man. "Where should webe going, if not there? However, let us summon the passengers andascertain. "

So saying, the venerable man beckoned to the various groups that wereclustered, ghost-like, in the mist that enveloped the ship. Theyseemed to draw nearer with listless curiosity, and stood or sat nearus, smoking as before, or, still leaning on the side, idly gazing. Butthe restless figure who had first accosted me, still paced the deck, flitting in and out of the obscurity; and as he passed there was thesame mien of humbled pride, and the air of a fate of tragic grandeur, and still the same faint odor of old clothes, and the low querulouscry, "Old clo!' old clo'!"

The ship dashed on. Unknown odors and strange sounds still filled theair, and all the world went by us as we flew, with no other noise thanthe low gurgling of the sea around the side. 

"Gentlemen, " said the reverend passenger for Eldorado, "I hope thereis no misapprehension as to our destination?"

As he said this, there was a general movement of anxiety andcuriosity. Presently the smoker, who had asked me where he was going, said, doubtfully:

"I don't know--it seems to me--I mean I wish somebody would distinctlysay where we are going. "

"I think I can throw a light upon this subject, " said a person whom Ihad not before remarked. He was dressed like a sailor, and had adreamy eye. "It is very clear to me where we are going. I have beentaking observations for some time, and I am glad to announce that weare on the eve of achieving great fame; and I may add, " said he, modestly, "that my own good name for scientific acumen will be amplyvindicated. Gentlemen, we are undoubtedly going into the Hole. "

"What hole is that?" asked M. Le Baron Munchausen, a littlecontemptuously. 

"Sir, it will make you more famous than you ever were before, " repliedthe first speaker, evidently much enraged. 

"I am persuaded we are going into no such absurd place, " said theBaron, exasperated. 

The sailor with the dreamy eye was fearfully angry. He drew himself upstiffiy and said:

"Sir, you lie!"

M. Le Baron Munchausen took it in very good part. He smiled and heldout his hand:

"My friend, " said he, blandly, "that is precisely what I have alwaysheard. I am glad you do me no more than justice. I fully assent toyour theory: and your words constitute me the proper historiographerof the expedition. But tell me one thing, how soon, after getting intothe Hole, do you think we shall get out?"

"The result will prove, " said the marine gentleman, handing theofficer his card, upon which was written, _Captain Symmes_. Thetwo gentlemen then walked aside; and the groups began to sway to andfro in the haze as if not quite contented. 

"Good God, " said the pale youth, running up to me and clutching myarm, "I cannot go into any Hole alone with myself. I should die--Ishould kill myself. I thought somebody was on board, and I hoped youwere he, who would steer us to the fountain of oblivion. "

"Very well, that is in the Hole, " said M. Le Baron, who came out ofthe mist at that moment, leaning upon the Captain's arm. 

"But can I leave myself outside?" asked the youth, nervously. 

"Certainly, " interposed the old Alchemist; "you may be sure that youwill not get into the Hole, until you have left yourself behind. "

The pale young man grasped his hand, and gazed into his eyes. 

"And then I can drink and be happy, " murmured he, as he leaned overthe side of the ship and listened to the rippling water, as if it hadbeen the music of the fountain of oblivion. 

"Drink! drink!" said the smoking old man. "Fountain! fountain! Why, Ibelieve that is what I am after. I beg your pardon, " continued he, addressing the Alchemist. "But can you tell me if I am looking for afountain?"

"The fountain of youth, perhaps, " replied the Alchemist. 

"The very thing!" cried the smoker, with a shrill laugh, while hispipe fell from his mouth, and was shattered upon the deck, and the oldman tottered away into the mist, chuckling feebly to himself, "Youth!youth!"

"He'll find that in the Hole, too, " said the Alchemist, as he gazedafter the receding figure. 

The crowd now gathered more nearly around us. 

"Well, gentlemen, " continued the Alchemist, "where shall we go, or, rather, where are we going?"

A man in a friar's habit, with the cowl closely drawn about his head, now crossed himself, and whispered:

"I have but one object. I should not have been here if I had notsupposed we were going to find Prester John, to whom I have beenappointed father confessor, and at whose court I am to livesplendidly, like a cardinal at Rome. Gentlemen, if you will only agreethat we shall go there, you shall all be permitted to hold my trainwhen I proceed to be enthroned as Bishop of Central Africa. "

While he was speaking, another old man came from the bows of the ship, a figure which had been so immoveable in its place that I supposed itwas the ancient figure-head of the craft, and said in a low, hollowvoice, and a quaint accent:

"I have been looking for centuries, and I cannot see it. I supposed wewere heading for it. I thought sometimes I saw the flash of distantspires, the sunny gleam of upland pastures, the soft undulation ofpurple hills. Ah! me. I am sure I heard the singing of birds, and thefaint low of cattle. But I do not know: we come no nearer; and yet Ifelt its presence in the air. If the mist would only lift, we shouldsee it lying so fair upon the sea, so graceful against the sky. I fearwe may have passed it. Gentlemen, " said he, sadly, "I am afraid we mayhave lost the island of Atlantis for ever. "

There was a look of uncertainty in the throng upon the deck. 

"But yet, " said a group of young men in every kind of costume, and ofevery country and time, "we have a chance at the Encantadas, theEnchanted Islands. We were reading of them only the other day, and thevery style of the story had the music of waves. How happy we shall beto reach a land where there is no work, nor tempest, nor pain, and weshall be for ever happy. "

"I am content here, " said a laughing youth, with heavily mattedcurls. "What can be better than this? We feel every climate, the musicand the perfume of every zone, are ours. In the starlight I woo themermaids, as I lean over the side, and no enchanted island will showus fairer forms. I am satisfied. The ship sails on. We cannot see butwe can dream. What work or pain have we here? I like the ship; I likethe voyage; I like my company, and am content. "

As he spoke he put something into his mouth, and, drawing a whitesubstance from his pocket, offered it to his neighbor, saying, "Try abit of this lotus; you will find it very soothing to the nerves, andan infallible remedy for home-sickness. "

"Gentlemen, " said M. Le Baron Munchausen, "I have no fear. Thearrangements are well made; the voyage has been perfectly planned, andeach passenger will discover what he took passage to find, in the Holeinto which we are going, under the auspices of this worthy Captain. "

He ceased, and silence fell upon the ship's company. Still on weswept; it seemed a weary way. The tireless pedestrians still paced toand fro, and the idle smokers puffed. The ship sailed on, and endlessmusic and odor chased each other through the misty air. Suddenly adeep sigh drew universal attention to a person who had not yet spoken. He held a broken harp in his hand, the strings fluttered loosely inthe air, and the head of the speaker, bound with a withered wreath oflaurels, bent over it. 

"No, no, " said he, "I will not eat your lotus, nor sail into theHole. No magic root can cure the home-sickness I feel; for it is noregretful remembrance, but an immortal longing. I have roamed fartherthan I thought the earth extended. I have climbed mountains; I havethreaded rivers; I have sailed seas; but nowhere have I seen the homefor which my heart aches. Ah! my friends, you look very weary; let usgo home. "

The pedestrian paused a moment in his walk, and the smokers took theirpipes from their mouths. The soft air which blew in that momentacross the deck, drew a low sound from the broken harp-strings, and alight shone in the eyes of the old man of the figure-head, as if themist had lifted for an instant, and he had caught a glimpse of thelost Atlantis. 

"I really believe that is where I wish to go, " said the seeker of thefountain of youth. "I think I would give up drinking at the fountainif I could get there. I do not know, " he murmured, doubtfully; "it isnot sure; I mean, perhaps, I should not have strength to get to thefountain, even if I were near it. "

"But is it possible to get home?" inquired the pale young man. "Ithink I should be resigned if I could get home. "

"Certainly, " said the dry, hard voice of Prester John's confessor, ashis cowl fell a little back, and a sudden flush burned upon his gauntface; "if there is any chance of home, I will give up the Bishop'spalace in Central Africa. "

"But Eldorado is my home, " interposed the old Alchemist. 

"Or is home Eldorado?" asked the poet, with the withered wreath, turning towards the Alchemist. 

It was a strange company and a wondrous voyage. Here were all kindsof men, of all times and countries, pursuing the wildest hopes, themost chimerical desires. One took me aside to request that I would notlet it be known, but that he inferred from certain signs we werenearing Utopia. Another whispered gaily in my ear that he thought thewater was gradually becoming of a ruby color--the hue of wine; and hehad no doubt we should wake in the morning and find ourselves in theland of Cockaigne. A third, in great anxiety, stated to me that suchcontinuous mists were unknown upon the ocean; that they were peculiarto rivers, and that, beyond question, we were drifting along somestream, probably the Nile, and immediate measures ought to be takenthat we did riot go ashore at the foot of the mountains of themoon. Others were quite sure that we were in the way of striking thegreat southern continent; and a young man, who gave his name asWilkins, said we might be quite at ease for presently some friends ofhis would come flying over from the neighboring islands and tell usall we wished. 

Still I smelled the mouldy rigging, and the odor of cabbage was strongfrom the hold. 

O Prue, what could the ship be, in which such fantastic characterswere sailing toward impossible bournes--characters which in every agehave ventured all the bright capital of life in vague speculations andromantic dreams? What could it be but the ship that haunts the sea forever, and, with all sails set, drives onward before a ceaseless gale, and is not hailed, nor ever comes to port?

I know the ship is always full; I know the gray-beard still watches atthe prow for the lost Atlantis, and still the alchemist believes thatEldorado is at hand. Upon his aimless quest, the dotard still askswhere he is going, and the pale youth knows that he shall never flyhimself. Yet they would gladly renounce that wild chase and the deardreams of years, could they find what I have never lost. They wereready to follow the poet home, if he would have told them where itlay. 

I know where it lies. I breathe the soft air of the purple uplandswhich they shall never tread. I hear the sweet music of the voicesthey long for in vain. I am no traveller; my only voyage is to theoffice and home again. William and Christopher, John and Charles sailto Europe and the South, but I defy their romantic distances. When thespring comes and the flowers blow, I drift through the year beltedwith summer and with spice. 

With the changing months I keep high carnival in all the zones. I sitat home and walk with Prue, and if the sun that stirs the sap quickensalso the wish to wander, I remember my fellow-voyagers on thatromantic craft, and looking round upon my peaceful room, and pressingmore closely the arm of Prue, I feel that I have reached the port forwhich they hopelessly sailed. And when winds blow fiercely and thenight-storm rages, and the thought of lost mariners and of perilousvoyages touches the soft heart of Prue, I hear a voice sweeter to myear than that of the syrens to the tempest-tost sailor: "Thank God!Your only cruising is in the Flying Dutchman!"

FAMILY PORTRAITS. 

 "Look here upon this picture, and on this. " _Hamlet_

We have no family pictures, Prue and I, only a portrait of mygrandmother hangs upon our parlor wall. It was taken at least acentury ago, and represents the venerable lady, whom I remember in mychildhood in spectacles and comely cap, as a young and blooming girl. 

She is sitting upon an old-fashioned sofa, by the side of a prim auntof hers, and with her back to the open window. Her costume is quaint, but handsome. It consists of a cream-colored dress made high in thethroat, ruffled around the neck, and over the bosom and theshoulders. The waist is just under her shoulders, and the sleeves aretight, tighter than any of our coat sleeves, and also ruffled at thewrist. Around the plump and rosy neck, which I remember as shrivelledand sallow, and hidden under a decent lace handkerchief, hangs, in thepicture, a necklace of large ebony beads. There are two curls upon theforehead, and the rest of the hair flows away in ringlets down theneck. 

The hands hold an open book: the eyes look up from it with tranquilsweetness, and, through the open window behind, you see a quietlandscape--a hill, a tree, the glimpse of a river, and a few peacefulsummer clouds. 

Often in my younger days, when my grandmother sat by the fire, afterdinner, lost in thought--perhaps remembering the time when the picturewas really a portrait--I have curiously compared her wasted face withthe blooming beauty of the girl, and tried to detect the likeness. Itwas strange how the resemblance would sometimes start out: how, as Igazed and gazed upon her old face, age disappeared before my eagerglance, as snow melts in the sunshine, revealing the flowers of aforgotten spring. 

It was touching, to see my grandmother steal quietly up to herportrait, on still summer mornings when every one had left thehouse, --and I, the only child, played, disregarded, --and look at itwistfully and long. 

She held her hand over her eyes to shade them from the light thatstreamed in at the window, and I have seen her stand at least aquarter of an hour gazing steadfastly at the picture. She saidnothing, she made no motion, she shed no tear, but when she turnedaway there was always a pensive sweetness in her face that made it notless lovely than the face of her youth. 

I have learned since, what her thoughts must have been--how that long, wistful glance annihilated time and space, how forms and faces unknownto any other, rose in sudden resurrection around her--how she loved, suffered, struggled and conquered again; how many a jest that I shallnever hear, how many a game that I shall never play, how many a songthat I shall never sing, were all renewed and remembered as mygrandmother contemplated her picture. 

I often stand, as she stood, gazing earnestly at the picture, so longand so silently, that Prue looks up from her work and says she shallbe jealous of that beautiful belle, my grandmother, who yet makes herthink more kindly of those remote old times. "Yes, Prue, and that isthe charm of a family portrait. "

"Yes, again; but, " says Titbottom when he hears the remark, "how, ifone's grandmother were a shrew, a termagant, a virago?"

"Ah! in that case--" I am compelled to say, while Prue looks up again, half archly, and I add gravely--"you, for instance, Prue. "

Then Titbottom smiles one of his sad smiles, and we change thesubject. 

Yet, I am always glad when Minim Sculpin, our neighbor, who knows thatmy opportunities are few, comes to ask me to step round and see thefamily portraits. 

The Sculpins, I think, are a very old family. Titbottom says theydate from the deluge. But I thought people of English descentpreferred to stop with William the Conqueror, who came from France. 

Before going with Minim, I always fortify myself with a glance at thegreat family Bible, in which Adam, Eve, and the patriarchs, areindifferently well represented. 

"Those are the ancestors of the Howards, the Plantagenets, and theMontmorencis, " says Prue, surprising me with her erudition. "Have youany remoter ancestry, Mr. Sculpin?" she asks Minim, who only smilescompassionately upon the dear woman, while I am buttoning my coat. 

Then we step along the street, and I am conscious of trembling alittle, for I feel as if I were going to court. Suddenly we arestanding before the range of portraits. 

"This, " says Minim, with unction, "is Sir Solomon Sculpin, the founderof the family. "

"Famous for what?" I ask, respectfully. 

"For founding the family, " replies Minim gravely, and I have sometimesthought a little severely. 

"This, " he says, pointing to a dame in hoops and diamond stomacher, "this is Lady Sheba Sculpin. "

"Ah! yes. Famous for what?" I inquire. 

"For being the wife of Sir Solomon. "

Then, in order, comes a gentleman in a huge, curling wig, lookingindifferently like James the Second, or Louis the Fourteenth, andholding a scroll in his hand. 

"The Right Honorable Haddock Sculpin, Lord Privy Seal, etc. , etc. "

A delicate beauty hangs between, a face fair, and loved, and lost, centuries ago--a song to the eye--a poem to the heart--the Aurelia ofthat old society. 

"Lady Dorothea Sculpin, who married young Lord Pop and Cock, and diedprematurely in Italy. "

Poor Lady Dorothea! whose great grandchild, in the tenth remove, diedlast week, an old man of eighty!

Next the gentle lady hangs a fierce figure, flourishing a sword, withan anchor embroidered on his coat-collar, and thunder and lightning, sinking ships flames and tornadoes in the background. 

"Rear Admiral Sir Shark Sculpin, who fell in the great action offMadagascar. "

So Minim goes on through the series, brandishing his ancestors aboutmy head, and incontinently knocking me into admiration. 

And when we reach the last portrait and our own times, what is thenatural emotion? Is it not to put Minim against the wall, draw off athim with my eyes and mind, scan him, and consider his life, anddetermine how much of the Eight Honorable Haddock's integrity, and theLady Dorothy's loveliness, and the Admiral Shark's valor, reappears inthe modern man? After all this proving and refining, ought not thelast child of a famous race to be its flower and epitome? Or, in thecase that he does not chance to be so, is it not better to conceal thefamily name?

I am told, however, that in the higher circles of society, it isbetter not to conceal the name, however unworthy the man or woman maybe who bears it. Prue once remonstrated with a lady about the marriageof a lovely young girl with a cousin of Minim's; but the only answershe received was, "Well, he may not be a perfect man, but then he is aSculpin, " which consideration apparently gave great comfort to thelady's mind. 

But even Prue grants that Minim has some reason for his pride. SirSolomon was a respectable man, and Sir Shark a brave one; and theRight Honorable Haddock a learned one; the Lady Sheba was grave andgracious in her way; and the smile of the fair Dorothea lights withsoft sunlight those long-gone summers. The filial blood rushes moregladly from Minim's heart as he gazes; and admiration for the virtuesof his kindred inspires and sweetly mingles with good resolutions ofhis own. 

Time has its share, too, in the ministry, and the influence. The hillsbeyond the river lay yesterday, at sunset, lost in purple gloom; theyreceded into airy distances of dreams and faery; they sank softly intonight, the peaks of the delectable mountains. But I knew, as I gazedenchanted, that the hills, so purple-soft of seeming, were hard, andgray, and barren in the wintry twilight; and that in the distance wasthe magic that made them fair. 

So, beyond the river of time that flows between, walk the brave menand the beautiful women of our ancestry, grouped in twilight upon theshore. Distance smooths away defects, and, with gentle darkness, rounds every form into grace. It steals the harshness from theirspeech, and every word becomes a song. Far across the gulf that everwidens, they look upon us with eyes whose glance is tender, and whichlight us to success. We acknowledge our inheritance; we accept ourbirthright; we own that their careers have pledged us to noble action. Every great life is an incentive to all other lives; but when thebrave heart, that beats for the world, loves us with the warmth ofprivate affection, then the example of heroism is more persuasive, because more personal. 

This is the true pride of ancestry. It is founded in the tendernesswith which the child regards the father, and in the romance that timesheds upon history. 

"Where be all the bad people buried?" asks every man, with CharlesLamb, as he strolls among the rank grave-yard grass, and brushes itaside to read of the faithful husband, and the loving wife, and thedutiful child. 

He finds only praise in the epitaphs, because the human heart is kind;because it yearns with wistful tenderness after all its brethren whohave passed into the cloud, and will only speak well of the departed. No offence is longer an offence when the grass is green over theoffender. Even faults then seem characteristic and individual. EvenJustice is appeased when the drop falls. How the old stories and playsteem with the incident of the duel in which one gentleman falls, and, in dying, forgives and is forgiven. We turn the page with a tear. Howmuch better had there been no offence, but how well that death wipesit out. 

It is not observed in history that families improve with time. It israther discovered that the whole matter is like a comet, of which thebrightest part, is the head; and the tail, although long and luminous, is gradually shaded into obscurity. 

Yet, by a singular compensation, the pride of ancestry increases inthe ratio of distance. Adam was valiant, and did so well at Poictiersthat he was knighted--a hearty, homely country gentleman, who livedhumbly to the end. But young Lucifer, his representative in thetwentieth remove, has a tinder-like conceit because old Sir Adam wasso brave and humble. Sir Adam's sword is hung up at home, and Luciferhas a box at the opera. On a thin finger he has a ring, cut with amatch fizzling, the crest of the Lucifers. But if he should be at aPoictiers, he would run away. Then history would be sorry--not onlyfor his cowardice, but for the shame it brings upon old Adam's name. 

So, if Minim Sculpin is a bad young man, he not only shames himself, but he disgraces that illustrious line of ancestors, whose charactersare known. His neighbor, Mudge, has no pedigree of this kind, andwhen he reels homeward, we do not suffer the sorrow of any fair LadyDorothy in such a descendant--we pity him for himself alone. Butgenius and power are so imperial and universal, that when MinimSculpin falls, we are grieved not only for him, but for that eternaltruth and beauty which appeared in the valor of Sir Shark, and theloveliness of Lady Dorothy. His neighbor Mudge's grandfather may havebeen quite as valorous and virtuous as Sculpin's; but we know of theone, and we do not know of the other. 

Therefore, Prue, I say to my wife, who has, by this time, fallen assoundly asleep as if I had been preaching a real sermon, do not letMrs. Mudge feel hurt, because I gaze so long and earnestly upon theportrait of the fair Lady Sculpin, and, lost in dreams, mingle in asociety which distance and poetry immortalize. 

But let the love of the family portraits belong to poetry and not topolitics. It is good in the one way, and bad in the other. 

The _sentiment_ of ancestral pride is an integral part of humannature. Its _organization_ in institutions is the real object ofenmity to all sensible men, because it is a direct preference ofderived to original power, implying a doubt that the world at everyperiod is able to take care of itself. 

The family portraits have a poetic significance; but he is a bravechild of the family who dares to show them. They all sit inpassionless and austere judgment upon himself. Let him not invite usto see them, until he has considered whether they are honored ordisgraced by his own career--until he has looked in the glass of hisown thought and scanned his own proportions. 

The family portraits are like a woman's diamonds; they may flashfinely enough before the world, but she herself trembles lest theirlustre eclipse her eyes. It is difficult to resist the tendency todepend upon those portraits, and to enjoy vicariously through them ahigh consideration. But, after all, what girl is complimented when youcuriously regard her because her mother was beautiful? What attenuatedconsumptive, in whom self-respect is yet unconsumed, delights in yourrespect for him, founded in honor for his stalwart ancestor?

No man worthy the name rejoices in any homage which his own effort andcharacter have not deserved. You intrinsically insult him when youmake him the scapegoat of your admiration for his ancestor. But whenhis ancestor is his accessory, then your homage would flatterJupiter. All that Minim Sculpin does by his own talent is the moreradiantly set and ornamented by the family fame. The imagination ispleased when Lord John Russell is Premier of England and a whig, because the great Lord William Russell, his ancestor, died in Englandfor liberty. 

In the same way Minim's sister Sara adds to her own grace the sweetmemory of the Lady Dorothy. When she glides, a sunbeam, through thatquiet house, and in winter makes summer by her presence; when she sitsat the piano, singing in the twilight, or stands leaning against theVenus in the corner of the room--herself more graceful--then, inglancing from her to the portrait of the gentle Dorothy, you feel thatthe long years between them have been lighted by the same sparklinggrace, and shadowed by the same pensive smile--for this is but oneSara and one Dorothy, out of all that there are in the world. 

As we look at these two, we must own that _noblesse oblige_ in asense sweeter than we knew, and be glad when young Sculpin invites usto see the family portraits. Could a man be named Sidney, and not be abetter man, or Milton, and be a churl?

But it is apart from any historical association that I like to look atthe family portraits. The Sculpins were very distinguished heroes, andjudges, and founders of families; but I chiefly linger upon theirpictures, because they were men and women. Their portraits remove thevagueness from history, and give it reality. Ancient valor and beautycease to be names and poetic myths, and become facts. I feel that theylived, and loved, and suffered in those old days. The story of theirlives is instantly full of human sympathy in my mind, and I judge themmore gently, more generously. 

Then I look at those of us who are the spectators of the portraits. Iknow that we are made of the same flesh and blood, that time ispreparing us to be placed in his cabinet and upon canvass, to becuriously studied by the grandchildren of unborn Prues. I put out myhands to grasp those of my fellows around the pictures. "Ah! friends, we live not only for ourselves. Those whom we shall never see, willlook to us as models, as counsellors. We shall be speechless then. Weshall only look at them from the canvass, and cheer or discourage themby their idea of our lives and ourselves. Let us so look in theportrait, that they shall love our memories--that they shall say, inturn, 'they were kind and thoughtful, those queer old ancestors ofours; let us not disgrace them. '"

If they only recognize us as men and women like themselves, they willbe the better for it, and the family portraits will be familyblessings. 

This is what my grandmother did. She looked at her own portrait, atthe portrait of her youth, with much the same feeling that I rememberPrue as she was when I first saw her, with much the same feeling thatI hope our grandchildren will remember us. 

Upon those still summer mornings, though she stood withered and wan ina plain black silk gown, a close cap, and spectacles, and held hershrunken and blue-veined hand to shield her eyes, yet, as she gazedwith that long and longing glance, upon the blooming beauty that hadfaded from her form forever, she recognized under that flowing hairand that rosy cheek--the immortal fashions of youth and health--andbeneath those many ruffles and that quaint high waist, the fashions ofthe day--the same true and loving woman. If her face was pensive asshe turned away, it was because truth and love are, in their essence, forever young; and it is the hard condition of nature that they cannotalways appear so. 

OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 

 "Why, let the stricken deer go weep, The heart ungalled play; For some must watch while some must sleep; Thus runs the world away. "

Prue and I have very few relations: Prue, especially, says that shenever had any but her parents, and that she has none now but herchildren. She often wishes she had some large aunt in the country, whomight come in unexpectedly with bags and bundles, and encamp in ourlittle house for a whole winter. 

"Because you are tired of me, I suppose, Mrs. Prue?" I reply withdignity, when she alludes to the imaginary large aunt. 

"You could take aunt to the opera, you know, and walk with her onSundays, " says Prue, as she knits and calmly looks me in the face, without recognizing my observation. 

Then I tell Prue in the plainest possible manner that, if her largeaunt should come up from the country to pass the winter, I shouldinsist upon her bringing her oldest daughter, with whom I would flirtso desperately that the street would be scandalized, and even thecorner grocery should gossip over the iniquity. 

"Poor Prue, how I should pity you, " I say triumphantly to my wife. 

"Poor oldest daughter, how I should pity her, " replies Prue, placidlycounting her stitches. 

So the happy evening passes, as we gaily mock each other, and wonderhow old the large aunt should be, and how many bundles she ought tobring with her. 

"I would have her arrive by the late train at midnight, " says Prue;"and when she had eaten some supper and had gone to her room, sheshould discover that she had left the most precious bundle of all inthe cars, without whose contents she could not sleep, nor dress, andyou would start to hunt for it. "

And the needle clicks faster than ever. 

"Yes, and when I am gone to the office in the morning, and am busyabout important affairs--yes, Mrs. Prue, important affairs, " I insist, as my wife half raises her head incredulously--"then our large auntfrom the country would like to go shopping, and would want you for herescort. And she would cheapen tape at all the shops, and even to thegreat Stewart himself, she would offer a shilling less for thegloves. Then the comely clerks of the great Stewart would look at you, with their brows lifted, as if they said, Mrs. Prue, your large aunthad better stay in the country. "

And the needle clicks more slowly, as if the tune were changing. 

The large aunt will never come, I know; nor shall I ever flirt withthe oldest daughter. I should like to believe that our little housewill teem with aunts and cousins when Prue and I are gone; but how canI believe it, when there is a milliner within three doors, and ahair-dresser combs his wigs in the late dining-room of my oppositeneighbor? The large aunt from the country is entirely impossible, andas Prue feels it and I feel it, the needles seem to click a dirge forthat late lamented lady. 

"But at least we have one relative, Prue. "

The needles stop: only the clock ticks upon the mantel to remind ushow ceaselessly the stream of time flows on that bears us away fromour cousin the curate. 

When Prue and I are most cheerful, and the world looks fair--we talkof our cousin the curate. When the world seems a little cloudy, andwe remember that though we have lived and loved together, we may notdie together--we talk of our cousin the curate. When we plan littleplans for the boys and dream dreams for the girls--we talk of ourcousin the curate. When I tell Prue of Aurelia whose character isevery day lovelier--we talk of our cousin the curate. There is nosubject which does not seem to lead naturally to our cousin thecurate. As the soft air steals in and envelopes everything in theworld, so that the trees, and the hills, and the rivers, the cities, the crops, and the sea, are made remote, and delicate, and beautiful;by its pure baptism, so over all the events of our little lives, comforting, refining, and elevating, falls like a benediction theremembrance of our cousin the curate. 

He was my only early companion. He had no brother, I had none: and webecame brothers to each other. He was always beautiful. His face wassymmetrical and delicate; his figure was slight and graceful. Helooked as the sons of kings ought to look: as I am sure Philip Sidneylooked when he was a boy. His eyes were blue, and as you looked atthem, they seemed to let your gaze out into a June heaven. The bloodran close to the skin, and his complexion had the rich transparency oflight. There was nothing gross or heavy in his expression or texture;his soul seemed to have mastered his body. But he had strong passions, for his delicacy was positive, not negative: it was not weakness, butintensity. 

There was a patch of ground about the house which we tilled as agarden. I was proud of my morning-glories, and sweet peas; my cousincultivated roses. One day--and we could scarcely have been more thansix years old--we were digging merrily and talking. Suddenly there wassome kind of difference; I taunted him, and, raising his spade, hestruck me upon the leg. The blow was heavy for a boy, and the bloodtrickled from the wound. I burst into indignant tears, and limpedtoward the house. My cousin turned pale and said nothing, but just asI opened the door, he darted by me, and before I could interrupt him, he had confessed his crime, and asked for punishment. 

From that day he conquered himself. He devoted a kind of asceticenergy to subduing his own will, and I remember no other outbreak. Butthe penalty he paid for conquering his will, was a loss of the gushingexpression of feeling. My cousin became perfectly gentle in hismanner, but there was a want of that pungent excess, which is thefinest flavor of character. His views were moderate and calm. He wasswept away by no boyish extravagance, and, even while I wished hewould sin only a very little, I still adored him as a saint. The truthis, as I tell Prue, I am so very bad because I have to sin fortwo--for myself and our cousin the curate. Often, when I returnedpanting and restless from some frolic, which had wasted almost all thenight, I was rebuked as I entered the room in which he lay peacefullysleeping. There was something holy in the profound repose of hisbeauty, and, as I stood looking at him, how many a time the tears havedropped from my hot eyes upon his face, while I vowed to make myselfworthy of such a companion, for I felt my heart owning its allegianceto that strong and imperial nature. 

My cousin was loved by the boys, but the girls worshipped him. Hismind, large in grasp, and subtle in perception, naturally commandedhis companions, while the lustre of his character allured those whocould not understand him. The asceticism occasionally showed itself avein of hardness, or rather of severity in his treatment of others. Hedid what he thought it his duty to do, but he forgot that few couldsee the right so clearly as he, and very few of those few could socalmly obey the least command of conscience. I confess I was a littleafraid of him, for I think I never could be severe. 

In the long winter evenings I often read to Prue the story of some oldfather of the church, or some quaint poem of George Herbert's--andevery Christmas-eve, I read to her Milton's Hymn of the Nativity. Yet, when the saint seems to us most saintly, or the poem mostpathetic or sublime, we find ourselves talking of our cousin thecurate. I have not seen him for many years; but, when we parted, hishead had the intellectual symmetry of Milton's, without the puritanicstoop, and with the stately grace of a cavalier. 

Such a boy has premature wisdom--he lives and suffers prematurely. 

Prue loves to listen when I speak of the romance of his life, and I donot wonder. For my part, I find in the best romance only the story ofmy love for her, and often as I read to her, whenever I come to whatTitbottom calls "the crying part, " if I lift my eyes suddenly, I seethat Prue's eyes are fixed on me with a softer light by reason oftheir moisture. 

Our cousin the curate loved, while he was yet a boy, Flora, of thesparkling eyes and the ringing voice. His devotion was absolute. Florawas flattered, because all the girls, as I said, worshipped him; butshe was a gay, glancing girl, who had invaded the student's heart withher audacious brilliancy, and was half surprised that she had subduedit. Our cousin--for I never think of him as my cousin, only--wastedaway under the fervor of his passion. His life exhaled as incensebefore her. He wrote poems to her, and sang them under her window, inthe summer moonlight. He brought her flowers and precious gifts. Whenhe had nothing else to give, he gave her his love in a homage soeloquent and beautiful that the worship was like the worship of thewise men. The gay Flora was proud and superb. She was a girl, and thebravest and best boy loved her. She was young, and the wisest andtruest youth loved her. They lived together, we all lived together, inthe happy valley of childhood. We looked forward to manhood asisland-poets look across the sea, believing that the whole worldbeyond is a blest Araby of spices. 

The months went by, and the young love continued. Our cousin andFlora were only children still, and there was no engagement. Theelders looked upon the intimacy as natural and mutually beneficial. Itwould help soften the boy and strengthen the girl; and they took forgranted that softness and strength were precisely what were wanted. Itis a great pity that men and women forget that they have beenchildren. Parents are apt to be foreigners to their sons anddaughters. Maturity is the gate of Paradise, which shuts behind us;and our memories are gradually weaned from the glories in which ournativity was cradled. 

The months went by, the children grew older, and they constantlyloved. Now Prue always smiles at one of my theories; she is entirelysceptical of it; but it is, nevertheless, my opinion, that men lovemost passionately, and women most permanently. Men love at first andmost warmly; women love last and longest. This is natural enough; fornature makes women to be won, and men to win. Men are the active, positive force, and, therefore, they are more ardent anddemonstrative. 

I can never get farther than that in my philosophy, when Prue looks atme, and smiles me into scepticism of my own doctrines. But they aretrue, notwithstanding. 

My day is rather past for such speculations; but so long as Aurelia isunmarried, I am sure I shall indulge myself in them. I have never mademuch progress in the philosophy of love; in fact, I can only be sureof this one cardinal principle, that when you are quite sure twopeople cannot be in love with each other, because there is no earthlyreason why they should be, then you may be very confident that you arewrong, and that they are in love, for the secret of love is pastfinding out. Why our cousin should have loved the gay Flora soardently was hard to say; but that he did so, was not difficult tosee. 

He went away to college. He wrote the most eloquent and passionateletters; and when he returned in vacations, he had no eyes, ears, norheart for any other being. I rarely saw him, for I was living awayfrom our early home, and was busy in a store--learning to bebook-keeper--but I heard afterward from himself the whole story. 

One day when he came home for the holidays, he found a young foreignerwith Flora--a handsome youth, brilliant and graceful. I have askedPrue a thousand times why women adore soldiers and foreigners. Shesays it is because they love heroism and are romantic. A soldier isprofessionally a hero, says Prue, and a foreigner is associated withall unknown and beautiful regions. I hope there is no worse reason. But if it be the distance which is romantic, then, by her own rule, the mountain which looked to you so lovely when you saw it upon thehorizon, when you stand upon its rocky and barren side, hastransmitted its romance to its remotest neighbor. I cannot but admirethe fancies of girls which make them poets. They have only to lookupon a dull-eyed, ignorant, exhausted _roué_, with an impudentmoustache, and they surrender to Italy to the tropics, to thesplendors of nobility, and a court life--and--

"Stop, " says Prue, gently; "you have no right to say 'girls' do so, because some poor victims have been deluded. Would Aurelia surrenderto a blear-eyed foreigner in a moustache?"

Prue has such a reasonable way of putting these things!

Our cousin came home and found Flora and the young foreignerconversing. The young foreigner had large, soft, black eyes, and thedusky skin of the tropics. His manner was languid and fascinating, courteous and reserved. It assumed a natural supremacy, and you feltas if here were a young prince travelling before he came intopossession of his realm. 

It is an old fable that love is blind. But I think there are no eyesso sharp as those of lovers. I am sure there is not a shade uponPrue's brow that I do not instantly remark, nor an altered tone in hervoice that I do not instantly observe. Do you suppose Aurelia wouldnot note the slightest deviation of heart in her lover, if she hadone? Love is the coldest of critics. To be in love is to live in acrisis, and the very imminence of uncertainty makes the loverperfectly self-possessed. His eye constantly scours the horizon. Thereis no footfall so light that it does not thunder in his ear. Love istortured by the tempest the moment the cloud of a hand's size risesout of the sea. It foretells its own doom; its agony is past beforeits sufferings are known. 

Our cousin the curate no sooner saw the tropical stranger, and markedhis impression upon Flora, than he felt the end. As the shaft struckhis heart, his smile was sweeter, and his homage even more poetic andreverential. I doubt if Flora understood him or herself. She did notknow, what he instinctively perceived, that she loved him less. Butthere are no degrees in love; when it is less than absolute andsupreme, it is nothing. Our cousin and Flora were not formallyengaged, but their betrothal was understood by all of us as a thing ofcourse. He did not allude to the stranger; but as day followed day, hesaw with every nerve all that passed. Gradually--so gradually that shescarcely noticed it--our cousin left Flora more and more with thesoft-eyed stranger, whom he saw she preferred. His treatment of herwas so full of tact, he still walked and talked with her sofamiliarly, that she was not troubled by any fear that he saw what shehardly saw herself. Therefore, she was not obliged to conceal anythingfrom him or from herself; but all the soft currents of her heart weresetting toward the West Indian. Our cousin's cheek grew paler, and hissoul burned and wasted within him. His whole future--all his dream oflife--had been founded upon his love. It was a stately palace builtupon the sand, and now the sand was sliding away. I have readsomewhere, that love will sacrifice everything but itself. But ourcousin sacrificed his love to the happiness of his mistress. He ceasedto treat her as peculiarly his own. He made no claim in word or mannerthat everybody might not have made. He did not refrain from seeingher, or speaking of her as of all his other friends; and, at length, although no one could say how or when the change had been made, it wasevident and understood that he was no more her lover, but that bothwere the best of friends. 

He still wrote to her occasionally from college, and his letters werethose of a friend, not of a lover. He could not reproach her. I donot believe any man is secretly surprised that a woman ceases to lovehim. Her love is a heavenly favor won by no desert of his. If itpasses, he can no more complain than a flower when the sunshine leavesit. 

Before our cousin left college, Flora was married to the tropicalstranger. It was the brightest of June days, and the summer smiledupon the bride. There were roses in her hand and orange flowers in herhair, and the village church bell rang out over the peaceful fields. The warm sunshine lay upon the landscape like God's blessing, and Prueand I, not yet married ourselves, stood at an open window in the oldmeeting-house, hand in hand, while the young couple spoke theirvows. Prue says that brides are always beautiful, and I, who rememberPrue herself upon her wedding-day--how can I deny it? Truly, the gayFlora was lovely that summer morning, and the throng was happy in theold church. But it was very sad to me, although I only suspected thenwhat now I know. I shed no tears at my own wedding, but I did atFlora's, although I knew she was marrying a soft-eyed youth whom shedearly loved, and who, I doubt not, dearly loved her. 

Among the group of her nearest friends was our cousin the curate. Whenthe ceremony was ended, he came to shake her hand with the rest. Hisface was calm, and his smile sweet, and his manner unconstrained. Flora did not blush--why should she?--but shook his hand warmly, andthanked him for his good wishes. Then they all sauntered down theaisle together; there were some tears with the smiles among the otherfriends; our cousin handed the bride into her carriage, shook handswith the husband, closed the door, and Flora drove away. 

I have never seen her since; I do not even know if she be livingstill. But I shall always remember her as she looked that Junemorning, holding roses in her hand, and wreathed with orangeflowers. Dear Flora! it was no fault of hers that she loved one manmore than another: she could not be blamed for not preferring ourcousin to the West Indian: there is no fault in the story, it is onlya tragedy. 

Our cousin carried all the collegiate honors--but without excitingjealousy or envy. He was so really the best, that his companions wereanxious he should have the sign of his superiority. He studied hard, he thought much, and wrote well. There was no evidence of any blightupon his ambition or career, but after living quietly in the countryfor some time, he went to Europe and travelled. When he returned, heresolved to study law, but presently relinquished it. Then hecollected materials for a history, but suffered them to lie unused. Somehow the mainspring was gone. He used to come and pass weeks withPrue and me. His coming made the children happy, for he sat withthem, and talked and played with them all day long, as one ofthemselves. They had no quarrels when our cousin the curate was theirplaymate, and their laugh was hardly sweeter than his as it rang downfrom the nursery. Yet sometimes, as Prue was setting the tea-table, and I sat musing by the fire, she stopped and turned to me as we heardthat sound, and her eyes filled with tears. 

He was interested in all subjects that interested others. His fineperception, his clear sense, his noble imagination, illuminated everyquestion. His friends wanted him to go into political life, to write agreat book, to do something worthy of his powers. It was the verything he longed to do himself; but he came and played with thechildren in the nursery, and the great deed was undone. Often, in thelong winter evenings, we talked of the past, while Titbottom satsilent by, and Prue was busily knitting. He told us the incidents ofhis early passion--but he did not moralize about it, nor sigh, norgrow moody. He turned to Prue, sometimes, and jested gently, and oftenquoted from the old song of George Withers, I believe:

 "If she be not fair for me, What care I how fair she be?"

But there was no flippancy in the jesting; I thought the sweet humorwas no gayer than a flower upon a grave. 

I am sure Titbottom loved our cousin the curate, for his heart is ashospitable as the summer heaven. It was beautiful to watch hiscourtesy toward him, and I do not wonder that Prue considers thedeputy book-keeper the model of a high-bred gentleman. When you seehis poor clothes, and thin, gray hair, his loitering step, and dreamyeye, you might pass him by as an inefficient man; but when you hearhis voice always speaking for the noble and generous side, orrecounting, in a half-melancholy chant, the recollections of hisyouth; when you know that his heart beats with the simple emotion of aboy's heart, and that his courtesy is as delicate as a girl's modesty, you will understand why Prue declares that she has never seen but oneman who reminded her of our especial favorite, Sir Philip Sidney, andthat his name is Titbottom. 

At length our cousin went abroad again to Europe. It was many yearsago that we watched him sail away, and when Titbottom, and Prue, andI, went home to dinner, the grace that was said that day was a ferventprayer for our cousin the curate. Many an evening afterward, thechildren wanted him, and cried themselves to sleep calling upon hisname. Many an evening still, our talk flags into silence as we sitbefore the fire, and Prue puts down her knitting and takes my hand, asif she knew my thoughts, although we do not name his name. 

He wrote us letters as he wandered about the world. They wereaffectionate letters, full of observation, and thought, anddescription. He lingered longest in Italy, but he said his conscienceaccused him of yielding to the syrens; and he declared that his lifewas running uselessly away. At last he came to England. He was charmedwith everything, and the climate was even kinder to him than that ofItaly. He went to all the famous places, and saw many of the famousEnglishmen, and wrote that he felt England to be his home. Buryinghimself in the ancient gloom of a university town, although past theprime of life, he studied like an ambitious boy. He said again thathis life had been wine poured upon the ground, and he felt guilty. Andso our cousin became a curate. 

"Surely, " wrote he, "you and Prue will be glad to hear it; and myfriend Titbottom can no longer boast that he is more useful in theworld than I. Dear old George Herbert has already said what I wouldsay to you, and here it is. 

 "'I made a posy, while the day ran by; Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie My life within this band. But time did beckon to the flowers, and they My noon most cunningly did steal away, And wither'd in my hand. 

 "'My hand was next to them, and then my heart; I took, without more thinking, in good part, Time's gentle admonition; Which did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, Making my mind to smell my fatal day, Yet sugaring the suspicion. 

 "'Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent, Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament, And after death for cures; I follow straight without complaints or grief, Since if my scent be good, I care not if It be as short as yours. '"

This is our only relation; and do you wonder that, whether our daysare dark or bright, we naturally speak of our cousin the curate? Thereis no nursery longer, for the children are grown; but I have seen Pruestand, with her hand holding the door, for an hour, and looking intothe room now so sadly still and tidy, with a sweet solemnity in hereyes that I will call holy. Our children have forgotten their oldplaymate, but I am sure if there be any children in his parish, overthe sea, they love our cousin the curate, and watch eagerly for hiscoming. Does his step falter now, I wonder, is that long, fair hair, gray; is that laugh as musical in those distant homes as it used to bein our nursery; has England, among all her good and great men, any manso noble as our cousin the curate?

The great book is unwritten; the great deeds are undone; in nobiographical dictionary will you find the name of our cousin thecurate. Is his life, therefore, lost? Have his powers been wasted?

I do not dare to say it; for I see Bourne, on the pinnacle ofprosperity, but still looking sadly for his castle in Spain; I seeTitbottom, an old deputy book-keeper, whom nobody knows, but with hischivalric heart, loyal to whatever is generous and humane, full ofsweet hope, and faith, and devotion; I see the superb Aurelia, solovely that the Indians would call her a smile of the Great Spirit, and as beneficent as a saint of the calendar--how shall I say what islost, or what is won? I know that in every way, and by all hiscreatures, God is served and his purposes accomplished. How should Iexplain or understand, I who am only an old book-keeper in a whitecravat?

Yet in all history, in the splendid triumphs of emperors and kings, inthe dreams of poets, the speculations of philosophers, the sacrificesof heroes, and the extacies of saints, I find no exclusive secret ofsuccess. Prue says she knows that nobody ever did more good than ourcousin the curate, for every smile and word of his is a good deed; andI, for my part, am sure that, although many must do more good in theworld, nobody enjoys it more than Prue and I.