n*: fftt 
 
 ft* it 
 
 5V * 
 
 jf 
 
 * 
 
 tm 
 
 if 
 
 / 
 
 .- 
 
 * f ^*~*s\ 5"" 
 X - f 
 
 # JicW V 
 
 \ % 
 
 ' 
 
 ft 
 
 
 ^^ 
 

 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD
 
 flbrue anfc If 
 
 <3eorge IKHUliam Curtis. 
 
 Chicago : 
 
 Donobue Brotbers, 
 
 407-429 Dearborn Street.
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 PS 
 
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I. DINNER-TIME II 
 
 II. MY CHATEAUX 45 
 
 III. SEA FROM SHORE 83 
 
 IV. TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES 127 
 
 V. A CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN 179 
 
 VI. FAMILY PORTRAITS 225 
 
 VII. OUR COUSIN THE CURATE t.... 245 
 
 10536C6
 
 A WORD TO THE GENTLE READER. 
 
 AN old bookkeeper, who wears a white 
 cravat and black trousers in the morning, 
 who rarely goes to the opera, and never 
 dines out, is clearly a person of no fashion, 
 and of no superior sources of information. 
 His only journey is from his bouse to his 
 office ; his only satisfaction is in doing his 
 duty ; his only happiness is in his Proe 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 1 
 her court of love, and youth, and beauty, 
 that the historians have not told of a fair 
 er queen, nor the travelers seen devouter 
 homage. And when I remember that it
 
 8 A WORD TO THE GENTLE READER. 
 
 was in misty England that quaint old George 
 Herbert sang of the 
 
 "Sweet day so cool, so calm, so bright 
 The bridal of the eartli and sky," 
 
 I am sure that I sec days ns lovely in our 
 clearer air, n nd do not believe that Italian 
 sunsets have a more gorgeous purple or a 
 softer gold. 
 
 So, as the circle of my little life revolves, 
 I console myself with believing, what I 
 cannot help believing, that a man need not 
 be a vagabond to enjoy the sweetest charm 
 of travel, but that all countries and all 
 times repeat themselves in his experience. 
 This is an old philosophy, I am told, and 
 much favored by those who have traveled ; 
 and I cannot but be glad that iny faith has 
 such a fine name and such competent wit 
 nesses. I am assured, however, upon th<? 
 other hand, that such a faith is only im 
 agination. But, if that be true, imagination 
 is as good as many voyages and how much 
 cheaper ! a consideration which an old book 
 keeper can never afford to forget.
 
 A WORD TO THE GENTLE READER. 9 
 
 I have not found, in my experience, that 
 travelers al wavs bring back with them the 
 sunshine of Italy or the elegance of Greece. 
 They tell us that there are such things, and 
 that they have seen them ; but, perhaps, 
 they saw them, as the apples in the garden 
 of the Ilesperifles were sometimes seen 
 over the wall. I prefer the fruit which I 
 can buv in the market to that which a man 
 tells me he saw in Sicily, but of which 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 I begin t<> 
 suspect a man must have Italy and Greece 
 in his heart and mind, if he would ever see 
 them with his eyes. 
 
 I know that this may be only a device of 
 that compassionate imagination designed to 
 comfort me, who shall never take but one 
 other journey than my daily beat. Yet 
 there have been wise men who taught that 
 all scenes are but pictures upon the mind ; 
 and if I can see them as I walk the street 
 that leads to my office, or sit at the office 
 window looking into the court, or take a
 
 IO A WORD TO THE GENTLE READER. 
 
 little trip down the bay or up the river, why 
 are not my pictures as pleasant and as 
 profitable as those which men travel for 
 years, at great costs of time, and trouble, 
 and money, to behold ? 
 
 For my part I do not believe that any 
 man can see softer skies than I see in Prue's 
 eyes ; nor hear sweeter music than I hear in 
 Prue's voice ; nor find a more heaven-lighted 
 temple than I know Prue's mind to be. 
 And when I wish to pl3ase myself with a 
 lovely image of peace and contentment, I 
 do not think of the plain of Sharon, nor 
 of the valley of Enna, nor of Arcadia, nor 
 of Claude's pictures; but, feeling that the 
 jfairest fortune of my life is the right to be 
 mamed with her, I whisper gently, to myself, 
 \vith a smile for it seems as if my very 
 heart smiled within me, when I think of 
 her ^"Pjuennd I."
 
 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
 
 DIXXER-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. 
 
 Ix the warm afternoons of the early sum 
 mer, it is my pleasure to stroll about Wash 
 ington Square and along the Fifth Avenue, 
 at the hour when the diners-out are hurry 
 ing to the tables of the wealthy and refined. 
 I gaze with placid delight upon the cheerful 
 expanse of white waistcoat that illumes those 
 streets at that hour, and mark the variety of 
 e' .otions that swell beneath all that purity. 
 ^ man goinor ou t to dine has a singular 
 
 O O *-2 
 
 cheerfulness of aspect. Except for his gloves, 
 which fit so well, and which he has careful 
 ly buttoned, that he may not make an awk 
 ward pause in the hall of his friend's house, 
 
 1 am sure he would search his pocket for a 
 
 13
 
 14 PRUE AND I. 
 
 cent to give the wan beggar at the corner. 
 It is impossible just now, my dear woman ; 
 but God bless you ! 
 
 It is pleasant to consider that simple suit 
 of black. If my man be young and only 
 lately cognizant of the rigors of the social 
 law, he is a little nervous at being seen in 
 his dress-suit body coat and black trou 
 sers before sunset. For in the last days of 
 May the light lingers long over the freshly 
 leaved trees in the Square, and lies warm 
 along the Avenue. All winter the sun has 
 not been permitted to see dress-coats. They 
 come out only with the stars, and fade with 
 ghosts, before the dawn. Except, haply, 
 they be brought homeward before breakfast 
 in an early twilight of hackney-coach. Now, 
 in the budding and bursting summer, the 
 sun takes his revenge, and looks aslant over 
 the tree-tops and the chimneys upon the 
 most unimpeachable garments. A cat may 
 look upon a king. 
 
 I know my man at a distance. If I am 
 chatting with the nursery-maids around the 
 fountain, I see him upo;i the broad walk of
 
 DINNER-TIME. 15 
 
 Washington Square, and detect him by the 
 freshness of his movement, his springy gait. 
 Then the white waistcoat flashes in the sun. 
 
 "Go on, happy youth," I exclaim aloud, to 
 the great alarm of the nursery maids, who 
 suppose me to be an innocent insane person 
 suffered to go at large, unattended, "go 
 on, and be happy with fellow waistcoats 
 over fragrant wines." 
 
 It is hard to describe the pleasure in this 
 amiable spectacle of a man going out to dine. 
 I, who am a quiet family man, and take a 
 quiet family ^ut at four o'clock ; or, when I 
 am detained down town by a false quantity 
 in my figures, who run into Delmonico's and 
 seek comfort in a cutlet, am rarely invited to 
 dinner and have few white waistcoats. In 
 deed, my dear Prue tells me that I have but 
 one in the world, and I often want to con 
 front my eager young friends as they bound 
 along, and ask abruptly, " What do you 
 think of a man \vlio:u 0:13 white waistcoat 
 suffices ? " 
 
 By the time I have eutea my modest re 
 past, it is the hour for the diners-out to
 
 36 PRUE AND I. 
 
 appear. If the day is unusually soft and 
 sunny, I hurry my simple meal a little, that I 
 may not losa any of my favorite spectacle. 
 Then I saunter o:it. If you met me you 
 would see that I am also clad in black. But 
 black is my natural color, so that it begets 
 no false theories concerning my intentions. 
 Nobody, meeting me in full black, supposes 
 that I am going to dine out. That somber 
 hue is professional with me. It belongs to 
 bookkeepers as to clergymen, physicians* 
 and undertakers. \ "We wear it because jye 
 follow solemn callings. Saving men's bodies 
 and souls, or keeping the machinery of busi 
 ness well wound, are such sad professions 
 that it is becoming to drape dolefully those 
 who adopt them. ( 
 
 I wear a white' cravat, too, but nobody 
 supposes that it is in any danger of being 
 stained by Lafitte. It is a limp cravat with 
 a craven tie. It has none of the dazzling 
 dash of the white that my young friends 
 sport, or, I should s:iy, snorted ; for the 
 white cravat is no\v ab:m;lm 1 to the somber 
 professions of \v'i;c'i I K*V!C\ ?Iy young
 
 DIXXF.R-TIML. \? 
 
 friends suspect that the flunkeys of the Brit 
 ish nobleman \vear such ties, and they have 
 therefore, discarded them. I am sorry to 
 remark, also, an uneasiness, if not downright 
 skepticism, about the white waistcoat. Will 
 it extend to shirts, I ask myself with sor 
 row. 
 
 I3ut there is something pleasanter to con 
 template during these quiet strolls 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 shall honor, 
 and I strain my eyes in at the carriage win 
 dow to see their cheerful faces as they pass. 
 I have already dined ; upon beef and cab 
 bage, probably, if it is boiled day. I am 
 not expected at the table to which Aurelia is 
 hastening, yet no guest there shall enjoy 
 more than I enjoy, nor so much, if he con 
 siders the meats the best part of the dinner. 
 The beauty of the beauti t'ul Aurelia I see and 
 worship as she drives by. Tlie vision of 
 many beautiful Anrelins driving t > dinner, is 
 the mirage of that pleasant journey of mine 
 alonir the avenue. I do not envy the Persian
 
 1 8 PRUE AND I. 
 
 poets, on those afternoons, nor long to be uo. 
 Arabian traveler. For I can walk that 
 street, finer than any of \vhich the Ispahan 
 architects dreamed ; and I can see sultanas 
 as splendid as the enthusiastic and exag 
 gerating Orientals describe. 
 
 But not only do I see and enjoy A uremia's 
 beauty, I delight in. her exquisite attire. In. 
 these warm days she does not wear comuch 
 as the lightest shawl. She is clad only in 
 spring sunshine. It glitters in the soft dark 
 ness of her hair. It touches the diamonds, 
 the opals, the pearls, that cling to her arms, 
 and neck, and fingers. They flash back 
 again, and the gorgeous silks glisten, and 
 the light laces flutter, until the stately 
 Aurelia seems to me, in tremulous radiance, 
 swimming by. 
 
 I doubt whether you who are to have 
 the inexpressible pleasure of dining with her, 
 and even of sitting by her side, will enjoy 
 more than I. For my pleasure is inexpress 
 ible, also. And it is in this greater than 
 yours, that I see all the beautiful ones who 
 are to dine at various tables, while you only
 
 DINNER-TIME. 19 
 
 see your own circle, although that, I will not 
 deny, is the most desirable of all. 
 
 Beside, although my person is not present 
 at your dinner, rny fancy is. ' I see Aurelia's- 
 curriuge stop, and behold white-gloved serv 
 ants opening wide doors. There is a brief 
 glimpse of magnificence for the dull eyes 
 of the loiterers outside ; then the door closes. 
 B:it my fancy went in with Aurelia. With 
 her, it looks at the vast mirror, and sur 
 veys her form at length in the Psyche- 
 glass. It gives the final shake to the skirt r 
 the last flirt to the embroidered handkerchief^ 
 carefully held, and adjusts the bouquet, com 
 plete as a tropic nestling in orange leaves. 
 It descends with her, and marks the faint 
 blush upon her cheek at the thought of her 
 exceeding beauty ; the consciousness of the 
 most beautiful woman, that the most beauti 
 ful woman is entering the room. There is 
 the momentary hush, the subdued greet 
 ing, the quick glance of the Aurelias who 
 have arrive;! e:irlier, and who perceive in a 
 moment the hopeless perfection of that- 
 attire ; tlie courtly g::z3 of gentlemen, who
 
 2O PRUE AND I. 
 
 feel the serenity of that beauty. All this 
 my fancy surveys ; my fancy, Aurelia's in 
 visible cavalier. 
 
 You approach with hat in hand and the 
 thumb of your left hand in your waistcoat 
 pocket. You are polished and cool, and 
 have an irreproachable repose of manner. 
 There are no improper wrinkles in your 
 cravat ; your shirt-bosom does not bulge ; 
 the trousers are accurate about your ad 
 mirable boot. But you look very stiff and 
 brittle. You are a little bullied by your 
 unexceptional shirt-collar, which interdicts 
 perfect freedom of movement in your head. 
 You are elegant, undoubtedly, but it seems 
 as if you might break and fall to pieces, 
 like a porcelain vase, if you were roughly 
 shaken. 
 
 Now, here, I have the advantage of you. 
 My fancy quietly surveying the scene, is 
 subject to none of these embarrassments. 
 My fancy will not utter commonplaces. 
 That will not say to the superb lady, who 
 stands with her flowers, incarnate May, 
 ** What a beautiful day, Miss Aurelia."
 
 DINNER-TIME. 21 
 
 That will not feel constrained to say some 
 thing, when it has nothing to say ; nor will 
 it be obliged to smother all the pleasant 
 things that occur, because they would be too 
 flattering to express. My fancy perpetually 
 murmurs in Aurelia's ear, "Those flowers. 
 "Would not be fair in your hand, if you your 
 self were not fairer. That diamond neck 
 lace would be gaudy, if your eyes were not 
 brighter. That queenly movement would be 
 awkward, if your soul were not queenlier." 
 
 You could not say such things to Aurelia,. 
 although, if you are net worthy co dine Jit. 
 her si;le, they are the very things you are- 
 longing to sav. What insufferable stuff you 
 are talking about the weather, and the opera,, 
 and Alboni's delicious voice, and Newport,, 
 and Saratoga ! They are all verv pleasant, 
 
 O * ** 1 
 
 subjects, but do you suppose Ixion talked 
 Thessalian politics when he was admitted to- 
 dine with Juno 1 
 
 I almost begin to p'ty you, and to believe 
 that a scarcity of wlr'to waistcor-ts h tr::e 
 wisdom. Tor no-v >".\v; : s ;nnnimr<><!, jnul 
 you, O rare itl;c.ty, are to hu.ul down
 
 22 PRUE AND I. 
 
 Aurelia. But you run the risk of tumbling 
 her expansive skirt, and you have to drop 
 your hat upon a chance chair, and wonder, 
 en passant, who will wear it home, which is 
 annoying. My fancy runs no such risk; is 
 not at all solicitous about its hat, and glides 
 l>y the side of Aurelia, stately as she. 
 There! you stumble on the stair, and are 
 vexed at your own awkwardness, and are 
 sure you saw the ghost of a smile glimmer 
 along that 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 own secret. 
 
 Is it any better, now you are seated at 
 table ? Your companion eats little because 
 she wishes little. You eat little because you 
 think it is elegant to do so. It is a shabby, 
 second-hand elegance, like your brittle be 
 havior. It is just as foolish for you to play 
 with the meats, when you ought to satisfy 
 your healthy appetite generously, as it is for 
 you, in the drawing-room, to atfect that cool 
 indifference when you have real and noble 
 interests.
 
 DINNER-TIME. 2$ 
 
 I grant you that fine manners, if you 
 please, are a fine art. But is not monotony 
 the destruction of art? Your manners, O 
 happy Ixion, banqueting with Juno, ar^ 
 Egyptian. They have no perspective, no 
 variety. They havj no color, no shading 
 They are all on a dead level ; th-;y ara fl.-l. 
 Now, for you ara a m:i:i of sense, you are 
 conscious that those wonderful eyes of 
 Aurelia s^e straight through all this net 
 work of elegant manners in which yoj have 
 entangled yourself, and that consciousness 
 is uncomfortable to you. It is another trick 
 in the game for 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 was only last year, 
 in May. I had dined, somewhat hastily, in 
 consideration of the fine day, and of my 
 confidence that many would be wending 
 dinnerwards that afternoon. I saw my Prue 
 comfortably engaged in seating the trousers- 
 of Adoniram, our eldest boy an economical 
 care to which inv <l:i '" P;-ue is not un-
 
 24 PRUE AND I. 
 
 equal, even in these days and in this town 
 and then hurried toward the avenue. It is 
 never much thronged at that hour. The 
 moment is sacred to dinner. As I paused 
 at the corner of Twelfth Street, by the 
 church, Vou re'msmbor, I saw an apple* 
 woman, from whos3 stores I determined to 
 finish my dessert, which had been imperfect 
 iit horn,}. But, mindful of meritorious and 
 economical Prue, I was not the man to pay 
 exorbitant prices for apples, and while still 
 haggling with tho wrinkled Eve who had 
 tempted me, I became suddenly aware of a 
 carriag ; approaching, and, indeed, already 
 doss by. 1 raisad my eyes, still munching 
 -an apple which I held in one hand, while 
 the other grasped my walking-stick (true 
 to my instincts of dinner guests, as young 
 women to a passing wedding or old ones to 
 a funeral), and beheld Aurelia ! 
 
 Old in this kind of observation as I am, 
 there was something so graciously alluring 
 in the look that she cast upon me, as uncon 
 sciously, indeed, as she would have cast it 
 upon the church, that, fumbling hastily for
 
 DINNER-TIME. 2*, 
 
 my spectacles to enjoy the boon more fully, 
 I thoughtlessly advanced upon the apple- 
 stand, and, in some indescribable manrer, 
 tripping, down we all fell into the street, old 
 woman, apples, baskets, stand, and I, in pro 
 miscuous confusion. As I struggled there,. 
 somewhat bewildered, yet sufficiently self- 
 possessed to look after the carriage, I beheld, 
 that beautiful woman looking at us through 
 the back-window (you could not have dona 
 it ; the integrity of your shirt-collar would 
 have interfered,) and smiling pleasantly, so 
 that her going around the corner was like 
 a gentle sunset, so seemed she to disappear 
 in her own -smiling ; or if you chooso, in 
 view of the apple difficulties like a rainbow 
 after a storm. 
 
 If the beautiful Aurelia recalls that event, 
 she may know of mv existence ; not other 
 wise. And even then she knows me only 
 as a funny old gentleman, who, in his eager 
 ness to look at her, tumbled over an apple- 
 woman. 
 
 My fancy from that moment followed her. 
 How grateful I was to the wrinkled Eve'*
 
 26 PRUE AND I. 
 
 * 
 
 extortion, and to the untoward tumble, 
 since it procured me the sight of that smile. 
 I took my sweet revenge from that. For 
 I knew that the beautiful Aurelia entered 
 the house of her host with beaming eyes, 
 and my fancy h.\ird her sparkling story. 
 You consider yourself happy because you are 
 sitting by her and helping her to a lady- 
 finger, or a macaroon, for which she smiles. 
 But I was her theme for ten mortal minutes. 
 She was my bard, my blithe historian. She 
 was the Homer of my luckless Trojan fall. 
 She set my mishap to music, in telling it. 
 Think what it is to have inspired Uraniu .; 
 to have called a brighter beam into the eyes 
 of Miranda, and do not think so much of 
 passing Aurelia the mottoes, my dear young 
 friend. 
 
 There was the advantage of not going to 
 that dinner. Had I been invited, as you 
 were, I should have pestered Prue about the 
 buttons on my white waistcoat, instead of 
 leaving her plicidly piecing adolescent 
 trousers. She would have been flustered, 
 fearful of being too late, of tumbling the
 
 DINNER-TIME. 27 
 
 garment, of soiling it, fearful of offending me 
 in some way, (admirable woman !) I, in my 
 natural impatience, might have let drop a 
 thoughtless word, which would have been a 
 p:ing in her heart and a tear in her eye, for 
 weeks afterward. 
 
 As I walked nervously up the avenue (for 
 I am unaccustomed to prandial recreations), 
 I should not ha\ T e had that solacing image 
 of quiet Prue, and the trousers, as the back 
 ground in the pictures of the gay figures I 
 passed, making each, by contrast, fairer. I 
 should have been wondering what to say and 
 <lo at the dinner. I should surely have been 
 very warm, and yet not have enjoyed the* 
 rich, waning sunlight. Need I tell you that 
 I should not have stopped for apples, but 
 instead of economically tumbling into the 
 street with apples and apple-women, where 
 by I merely rent my trousers across the 
 knee, in a manner that Prue can readily, and 
 at little cost, repair, I should, beyond per- 
 ad venture, have split a new dollar-pair of 
 gloves in the effort of straining my large 
 hands into them, which would, also, have
 
 23 PRUE AND L 
 
 caused me additional redness in ahe face, and 
 renewed fluttering. 
 
 Above all, I should .not have seen Aurelia 
 passing in her carriage, nor would she have 
 smilad at me, nor charmed my memory with 
 her radiance, nor the circle at dinner with 
 the sparkling Iliad of my woes. Then ;it 
 the table, I. should not have sat by her. You 
 would have had that pleasure ; I should have 
 led out the maiden aunt from the country, 
 and have talked poultry, when I talked at 
 all. Aurelia would not have remarked me. 
 Afterward, in describing the dinner to her 
 virtuous parents, she would have concluded, 
 "and one old gentleman, whom I didn't 
 know." 
 
 No, my polished friend, whose elegant 
 repose of manner I yet greatly commend, I 
 am content, if you are. How much better 
 it was that I was not invited to that dinner, 
 but was permitted, by a kind fate, to furnish 
 a subject for Aurelia's wit. 
 
 There is one ot'ier ndvnntage in sending 
 your fancy to dinner, instead of going your 
 self. It is, that the;i ti.'.o occasion remains
 
 DINNER-TIME. 2Q 
 
 wholly fair in your memory. You, who 
 devote yourself to dining out,, and who are 
 to be daily seen affably sitting down to such 
 feasts, as I know mainly by hearsay by 
 the report of waiters, guests, and others who 
 were present you cannot escape the little 
 things that spoil the picture, and which the 
 fancy does not see. 
 
 For instance, in handing you \\\Q potage a 
 la Bisque, at the very commencement of 
 this dinner to-day, John, the waiter, who 
 never did such a thing before, did this time 
 suffer the plate to tip, so that a little of that 
 rare soup dripped into your lap just enough 
 to spoil those trousers, which is nothing to 
 you, because you can buy a great many more 
 trousers, but which little event is inharmo 
 nious with the fine porcelain dinner service, 
 with the fragrant wines, the glittering glass, 
 the beautiful guests, and the mood of mind 
 suggested by all of these. There, is in fact, 
 if you will pardon a free use of the vernac 
 ular, there is a grease-spot upon your re 
 membrance of this dinner, 
 
 Or in the same way, and with the same
 
 JO TRUE AND I. 
 
 kind of mental result, you can easily imagine 
 the meats a little tough ; a suspicion of 
 smoke somewhere in -the sauces ; too much 
 pepper, perhaps, or too little salt ; or there 
 might be .the graver dissonance of claret not 
 properly attempered, or a choice Rhenish 
 below the average mark, or the spilling of 
 some of that Arethusa Madeira, marvelous 
 for its innumerable circumnavigations of the 
 globe, and for being as dry as the conversa 
 tion of the host. TlieoC things arc not up 
 to the high level of the dinner ; for wherever 
 Aurelia dines, all accessories should be- as per 
 fect in their kind as she, the principal, is in 
 hers. 
 
 That reminds me of 'i possible dissonance 
 worse than all. Suppose that soup had 
 trickled down t'.ie unimaginable Ixrthe of 
 Aurelia's dress (since it might have done 
 so), instead of wasting itself upon your trou 
 sers ! Could even the irreproachable ele 
 gance of your manners have contemplated, 
 unmoved, a grease-spot upon your remem 
 brance of the peerless Aurelia ? 
 
 You smile, of course, and remind me that
 
 DINNER-TIME. 3! 
 
 that lady's manners are so perfect that, if 
 she drank poison, she would wipe her mouth 
 after it as gracefully as ever. How much 
 more then, you say, in the case of such a 
 slight contretemps rs spotting her dress, 
 would she app^ii 1 totally unmoved. 
 
 So s!io would, undoubtedly. She would 
 be, a:;d look, as pure as ever ; bu', my young 
 friend, her dress would not. Once, I dropped 
 a pickled oyster in the lap of my Prua, who 
 wore, on the occasion, her sea-green silk 
 gown. I did not love my Prue the less ; but 
 there certainly was a very unhandsome spot 
 upon her dress. And although I know my 
 Prue to bo spotless, yet, whenever I recall that 
 day, I see her in a spotted gown, and I would 
 prefer never to hava been obliged to think 
 of hor in such a garment. 
 
 Can you not make the application to the 
 case, very likely to happen, of some disfig 
 urement of that exquisite toilet of Aurelin's? 
 In going down-stairs, for instance, why 
 should not heavy eld Mr. Carbuncle, who is 
 Coming olos lvhuH wit'i Mr;. Peonv, both 
 very eagjr for dinner, tread upon the hem
 
 32 PRUE AND I. 
 
 of that garment which my lips would prow 
 pale to kiss ? The august Aurelia, yielding 
 to natural laws, would be drawn suddenly 
 backward a very undignified movement 
 and the dress would be dilapidated. There 
 would be apologies, and smiles, and forgive 
 ness, and pinning up the pieces, nor would 
 tluro be the faintest feeling of awkward 
 ness or vexation in Aurelia's mind. But to 
 y ju, looking on, and, beneath all that pure 
 show of waistcoat, cursing old Carbuncle's 
 carelessness, this tearing of dresses and re 
 pair of the toilet is by no means a poetic 
 and cheerful spectacle. Nay, the very im 
 patience that it produces in your mind jars 
 upon the harmony of the moment. 
 
 You will respond, with proper scorn, that 
 vou are not so absurdly fastidious as to heed 
 the little necessary drawback's of social meet 
 ings, and that you have not much regard for 
 " the harmony of the occasion" (which phrase 
 I fear you will repeat in a sneering tone). 
 You will do very right in sr.ying this: and 
 it is a remark to which I s'lall give all the 
 hospitality of my mind, and I do so because
 
 DINNER-TIME. 33 
 
 
 
 I heartily coincide in it. I hold a man to 
 be very .foolish who will not eat a good din 
 ner because the tablecloth is not clean, or 
 who cavils at the spots upon the sun. But 
 still a man who does not apply his eye to a 
 telescope or some kind of prepared medium, 
 does not see those 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 delightful dinners without 
 seeing the spots upon the tablecloth, and 
 behold all the beautiful Aurelias without 
 swearing at old Carbuncle. I am the guest 
 who, for the small price of invisibility, 
 drinks only the best wines, 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. My fancy 
 slips in between you and Aurelia, sityou never 
 so closely together. It not only hears what 
 she says, b'lt it perceives what she thinks 
 and fed.;. It lies like a bw i:i her flowery 
 thor.ghfs, sucking all their honey. If there 
 are unhandsome or unfeeling gnofita at table, 
 it v : 'l not see the:n. It knows only the
 
 34 PRUE AND I, 
 
 good and fair. As I stroll in the fading 
 light and observe the stately houses, my 
 fancy believes the host equal to his house, 
 and the courtesy of his wife nioiv agr<'( ;.ble 
 than her conservatory. It will not believe 
 that the pictures on the wall and the st tr.es 
 in the corners shame the guests. It will not 
 allow that they are less than noble. It 
 hears them speak gently ol error, r.nd 
 warmly of worth. It knows that they com 
 mend heroism and devotion, and reprobate 
 insincerity. My fancy is convinced that 
 the guests are not only feasted upon the 
 choicest fruits of every land and season, but 
 are refreshed by a consciousness of greater 
 loveliness and grace in human character. 
 
 Now you, who actually go to the dinner,- 
 may not entirely agree with the view my 
 fancy takes of that entertainment. Is it not, 
 therefore, rather your loss ? Or, to put it in 
 another way, ought I to envy you the dis 
 covery that the guests are shamed by th'> 
 statues and pictures ; yes, and by the 
 spoons and forivs also, if they should chance 
 neither to be so genuine nor so useful as
 
 DINNER-TIME. 35 
 
 those instruments ? And, worse than this, 
 when your fancy wishes to enjoy the picture 
 which mine forms of that feast, it cannot do 
 so, because you have foolishly interpolated 
 the fact between the dinner and your 
 fancy. 
 
 Of course, by this time it is late twilight, 
 and the spectacle I enjoyed is almost over. 
 But not quite, for as I return slowly along 
 the streets, the windows are open, and only 
 a thin ha/o of lace or muslin separates me 
 from the Paradise within. 
 
 I see the graceful cluster of girls hovering 
 over ,tho piano, and the quiet groups of the 
 elders in easy -chairs, around little tables. 
 I cannot hear what is said, nor plainly see 
 the faces. But some hoyden evening wind, 
 moro glaring than I, abruptly parts the cloud 
 to look in, and out comes a gush of light, 
 music, and fragrance, so that I shrink away 
 into the dark, that I may not seem, even by 
 chance, to have invaded that privac} T . 
 
 Suddenly there is singing. It is Aurelia, 
 who does not cope with the Italian Prima 
 Donna, nor sing indifferently to-night, what
 
 36 PRUE AND I. 
 
 was sung superbly last evening at the opera. 
 She has a strange, low, sweet voice, as if 
 she only sang in the twilight. It is the 
 ballad of " Allan Percy " 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 
 tho drawing-room, and, after a little grace 
 ful gossip, retire ; or you wait, possibly, to 
 hand Aurelia into her carriage, and to ar 
 range a waltz for to-morrow evening. She 
 smiles, you bow, and it is over. But it is 
 not yet over with me. My fancy still follows 
 her, and, like a prophetic dream, rehearses 
 her destiny. For, as the carriage rolls a\\ ;.y 
 into the darkness and I return homewards, 
 how can my fancy help rolling away also, 
 into the dim future, watching her go down 
 the years ? 
 
 Upon my way home I see her in a thou 
 sand new situations. My fancy says to me, 
 *' The beauty of this beautiful woman is 
 heaven's stamp upon virtue. She will be 
 equal to every chance that shall befall her,
 
 DINNER-TIME. 3f 
 
 and she is so radiant and charming in the 
 circle of prosperity, only because she has 
 that irresistible simplicity and fidelity of 
 character, which can also pluck the sting 
 from adversity. Do you not see, you wan. 
 cli I bookkeeper in faded cravat, that in a 
 poor man's house this superb Aurelia would 
 be more stately than sculpture, more beauti 
 ful than painting, and more graceful than 
 the famous vases. Would her husband re 
 gret the opera if she sang ' Allan Percy ' to 
 him in the twilight? Would ho not feel 
 richer than the Poets, when his eves rose 
 from their jeweled pages, to fall again daz 
 zled by the splendor of his Avife's beauty ?" 
 
 At this point in my reflections I some 
 times 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. The children are asleep, 
 and the trousers mended. The admirable 
 woman is patient of my idjosjncrasies, and 
 asks me if I have had a pleasant walk, and 
 if there were many line dinners to-day, as
 
 38 PRUE AND I. 
 
 if I had been expected at a dozen tables. 
 She even asks me if I have seen the beauti 
 ful Aurelia (for there is always some Aurelia,) 
 and inquires what dress she wore. I re 
 spond, and dilate upon what I have seen. 
 Prue listens, as the children listen to her 
 fairy tales. AVe discuss the little stories 
 that penetrate our retirement, of the great 
 people who actually dine out. Prue, with 
 iine womanly instinct, declares it is a shame 
 that Aurelia should smile for a moment 
 upon - , yes, even upon you, 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 the opera, much more adroitly than 
 the singers upon the stage. I have read his 
 determination to marry Aurelia ; and I shall 
 not be surprised," concludes my tender wife, 
 sadly, " if he wins her at last, by tiring her 
 out, or, by secluding her by his constant 
 devotion from the homage of other men, con 
 vinces IKT thnt f lw > Ind better marry him, 
 since it u so tlis;:;ai to live on unmarried."
 
 DINNER-TIME. 39 
 
 And so, my friend, at the moment when 
 the bouquet you ordered is arriving at 
 Aurelia's house, and she is sitting before the 
 glass while her maid arranges the last flower 
 in her hair, my darling Prue, whom you will 
 never hear of, is shedding warm tears over 
 your probable union, and I am sitting by, 
 adjusting my cravat and incontinently clear 
 ing my throat. 
 
 It is rather a ridiculous business, I allow ; 
 yet you will smile at it tenderly, rather than 
 scornfully, if you remember that it shows 
 how closely linked we human creatures are, 
 without knowing it, and that more hearts 
 than we dream of enjoy our happiness and_ 
 share our sorrow. 
 
 Thus, I dine at great tables uninvited and 
 unknown, converse with the famous beauties. 
 If Aurelia is at last engaged, (but who is. 
 worthy ?) she will, with even greater care, 
 arrange that wondrous toilette, will teach 
 that lace a fall more alluring, those gems a. 
 sweeter light. But even then, as she rolls 
 to dinner in her carriage, glad that she is 
 fair, not for h-T '> -, < i!;- nor for the world's,
 
 40 PRUE AND I. 
 
 but for that of a single youth (who, I hope, 
 has not been smoking at the club 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, per 
 chance, my garments which must seem 
 quaint to her, with their shining knees and 
 carefully brushed elbows ; my, white cravat, 
 careless, yet prim ; my meditative movement, 
 as I put my stick und^r my arm to pare an 
 apple, and not, I hope, this time to fall into 
 the street, should remind her, in her spring 
 of youth, and beaut}', and love, 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 come even to you. 
 There will be a time when you will no longer 
 go out to dinner, or only very quietly, in the 
 family. I shall be gone then : but other old 
 bookkeepers in white cravats will inherit 
 ray tastes, and saunter, on summer after 
 noons, to see what I loved to see. 
 
 They will -not pause, I fear, in buying ap-
 
 DINNER-TIME. 4! 
 
 pies, to look at the old lady in venerable cap, 
 who is rolling by in the carriage. They will 
 worship another Aurelia. You will not wear 
 diamonds or opals any more, only one pcari 
 upon your blue-veined linger your engage 
 ment ring. Grave clergymen and antiquated 
 beaux will hand you down to dinner, and 
 the group of polished youth, who gather 
 around the yet unborn Aurelia of that 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 bo : for consider how few 
 years since it was your grandmother who 
 was the belle, by whose side the handsome 
 young men longed to sit and pass expressive 
 mottoes. Your grandmother was the Aurelia 
 cf a half-centurv ago, although vou cannot 
 
 %> O 7 O t/ 
 
 fancy her young. She is indissolubly asso 
 ciated in your mind with caps and dark 
 dresses. You can believe Mary Queen of 
 Scots, or Nell Gwyn, or Cleopatra, to have 
 been young and blooming* although they be 
 long to old and dea 1 centuries, but not your 
 grandmother. Think of those who
 
 42 PRUE AND I. 
 
 believe the same of yon you, who to-day are 
 the very flower of youth. 
 
 Might I plead with you, Aurelia I, who 
 would be too happy to receive one of those 
 graciously beaming bows that I see you be 
 stow upon young men, 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 subtle grace. Wear in your 
 summer garland this little leaf of rue. It 
 will not be the skull at the feast, it will rather 
 be the tender thoughtfulness in the face of 
 the young Madonna. 
 
 For the years pass like summer clouds, 
 Aurolia, and the children of yesterday are 
 the wives and mothers of to-day. Even I do 
 sometimes discover the mild eyes of my 
 Prue iixed pensively upon my face, as if 
 searching for the bloom which she remem 
 bers there in the days long ago, when we 
 were vounir. She will never see it there 
 
 / ^j 
 
 again, an^ more than the flowers she held 
 in her hand, in oui'oll spring rambles. Yet 
 the tenr that slowly :at!K-rs as she giizes, is 
 not grief that t!r> hloovi \\ -s !'a .led from my
 
 DINNER-TIME. 43 
 
 cheek, but the sweet consciousness that it 
 can never fade from my heart ; and as her 
 eyes fall upon her work again, or the children 
 climb her lap to hear the old fairy-tales they 
 already know by heart, my wife Prue is 
 dearer to me than the sweetheart of those 
 days long ago.
 
 MY CHATEAUX, 
 
 **In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree." 
 
 Coleridge,

 
 MY CHATEAUX. 
 
 <? In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree." 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 I AM the owner of great estates. Many 
 of tliern lie in the West ; but the greater 
 part are in Spain. You may see my western 
 possessions any evening at sunset when their 
 spires and battlements flash against the 
 horizon. 
 
 It gives me a feeling of pardonable im 
 portance, as a proprietor, that they are 
 visible, to mv eves at least, from any part 
 
 v * *. 1 
 
 of the world in which I chance to be. In 
 my long voyage around the Cape of Good 
 Hope to India (the only voyage I ever 
 made, when I was a boy and a supercargo), 
 if I fell home-sick, or sank into a reverie of 
 all the pleasant homes I had left behind, I 
 had but to wait until sunset, and then look 
 ing toward the west, I l-eheld my clustering 
 
 47
 
 48 PRUE AND I. 
 
 pinnacles and towers brightly burnished as 
 if to salute and welcome me. 
 
 So, in the city, if I get vexed and wearied, 
 and cannot find my wonted solace in sallying 
 forth at dinner-time to contemplate the gay 
 world ot youth and beauty hurrying to the 
 congress of fashion, or if I observe that 
 years are deepening their trades around the 
 eyes of my wife, Prue, I go quietly up to 
 the housetop, toward evening, and refresh 
 myself with a distant prospect of my estates. 
 It is as dear to me as that of Eton to the 
 poet Gray ; and, if I sometimes wonder at 
 such moments whether I shall find those 
 realms as fair as they appear, I am suddenly 
 reminded that the night air may be noxious, 
 and descending, I enter the little parlor 
 where Prue sits stitching, and surprise that 
 precious woman by exclaiming with the 
 poet's pensive enthusiasm : 
 
 " 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 the romantic
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 49- 
 
 story of hip life, my voice quivers when I 
 come to the point in which it is related that 
 sweet odors of the land mingled with the 
 sea-air, as the admiral's fleet approached the 
 shores ; that tropical birds flew out and 
 fluttered around the ships, glittering in the 
 sun, the gorgeous promises of the new coun 
 try ; that boughs, perhaps with blossoms 
 not ;-ll (lecnvcd, floated out to welcome the 
 st iv.r: jo v.os/d lYom which the craft were 
 hollowed. Then I cannot restrain myself. 
 I think of the gorgeous visions I have seen 
 before I have even undertaken the journey 
 to the West, and I cry aloud to Prue : 
 
 " What sun-bright birds, and gorgeous 
 blossoms, and celestial odors will float out 
 to us, my Prue, as we approach our western 
 possessions ! " 
 
 The placid Prue raises her eyes to mine 
 with a reproof so delicate that it could not 
 ba trusted to words ; and, after a moment, 
 she resumes her knitting and I proceed. 
 
 These arc my western estates, but my 
 finest castles are in Spain. It is a country 
 famously romantic, and my castles are all of
 
 50 PRUE AND I. 
 
 perfect proportions, and appropriately set 
 in the most picturesque situations. I have 
 never been to Spain myself, but I have 
 naturally conversed much with travelers to 
 that country ; although, I must allo\v, with 
 out deriving from them much substantial 
 information about my property there. The 
 wisest of them told me that there were 
 more holders of real estate in Spain than in 
 any other region he had ever heard of, and 
 they are all great proprietors. Every one 
 of them possesses a multitude of the state 
 liest castles. From conversation with them 
 you easily gather that each one considers 
 his own castles much the largest and in the 
 loveliest positions. And, after I had heard 
 this said, I verified it, by discovering that 
 all my immediate neighbors in the city were 
 great Spanish proprietors. 
 
 One da} T as I raised im T head from enter 
 ing some long and tedious accounts in my 
 books, and began to reflect that the quarter 
 was expiring, and that I must begin to pre 
 pare the balance-sheet, I observed my sub 
 ordinate, in office but not in years, (for poor
 
 MY CHATEAUX, 5F 
 
 old Titbottom will never see sixty again !} 
 leaning on his Land, and much abstracted. 
 
 "Are you not well, Titbottom?" asked I. 
 
 " Periactly, but 1 was just building a. 
 castle in Spain," said he. 
 
 I looked at his rusty coat, his faded h::r. 's, 
 his sad eye, and white hair, for a ino:::...i. 
 in great surprise, a:ul then inquired, 
 
 " Is it ])ossible that you own property 
 there too ?" 
 
 He shook his head silently ; and still lean 
 ing 0:1 his hand, and with an expression in 
 his eye, as if he were looking upon the most 
 fertile estate of Andalusia, he went on 
 making his plans ; laving out his gardens, I. 
 suppose, building terraces for the vines,, 
 determining a library with a southern ex 
 posure, and resolving which should be the 
 tapestried chamber. 
 
 ' ; What a singular whim," thought I, as 
 I watched Titbottom and filled up a check 
 for four hundred dollars, my quarterly 
 salary, "that a man who owns castles in 
 Spain, should be deputy bookkeeper at nine; 
 hundred dollars a year ! "
 
 52 PRUE AND I. 
 
 When I went home I ate my dinner si 
 lently, and afterward sat for a long time 
 upon the roof of the house, looking at 
 my western property, and thinking of Tit- 
 .bottom. 
 
 It is remarkable that none of the pro 
 prietors have ever been to Spain to take 
 possession and report to the rest of uS the 
 state of our property there. I, of course, 
 cannot go, 1 am too much engaged. So is 
 Titbottom, And I find it is the case with 
 all the proprietors. AVe have so much to 
 dot;iin us at homo that we cannot get away. 
 But it is always so \\ith rich men. Prue 
 .-sighed onco as she sat ;:t the window and 
 s;i\v Bourne, the millionaire, the President of 
 innumerable companies, and manager and 
 director of all the charitable societies in town, 
 .going by with wrinkled brow and hurried 
 tep. I asked her why she sighed. 
 
 " Because I was remembering that my 
 mother used to tell me not to desire great 
 riches, for they occasioned great cares,'* 
 said she. 
 
 " They do indeed," answered I, with era-
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 53 
 
 phasis, remembering Titbottom, and the 
 impossibility of looking after my Spanish, 
 estates. 
 
 Prue turned and looked at me with mild 
 surprise ; but I saw that her mind had gone 
 down the street with Bourne. I could never 
 discover if he held much Spanish stock. 
 But I think lie does. All the Spanish pro 
 prietors have a certain expression. Bourne 
 lias it to a remarkable degree. It is a kind 
 of look, as if, in fact, a man's mind were in 
 Spain. Bourne was an old lover of Pruc'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 stand lofty and fair in a luminous,, 
 golden atmosphere, a little hazy and dreamy,, 
 perhaps, like the Indian summer, but in which 
 no gales blow and there arc no tempests. 
 All the sublime mountains, and beautiful 
 vadeys, and soft landscape, that I have not 
 yet seen, are t<> bo found in the grounds. 
 They comman-l a noble view of the Alps; so-
 
 54 PRUE AND I. 
 
 fine, indeed, that I should be quite content 
 with the prospect of them from the highest 
 tower of my castle, and not care to go to 
 Switzerland. 
 
 The neighboring ruins, too, are as pictur- 
 ^?que as those of Italy, and my desire of 
 st.inding in the Coliseum, and of seeing the 
 shuttered arches of the Aqueducts stretching 
 .along the Campagna and melting into the 
 Alban Mount, is entirely quenched. The 
 rich gloom of my orange groves is gilded by 
 fruit as brilliant of complexion ana exquisite" 
 of flavor as any that ever dark-eyed Sor- 
 ronto girls, looking over the high plastered 
 walls of southern Italy, hand to the youth 
 ful travelers, climbing on donkeys up the 
 narrow lane beneath. 
 
 The Nile flows through my grounds. The 
 Dfsert lies upon their edge, and Damascus 
 tst;inds in my gmlen. I am given to under 
 stand, also, that the Parthenon has been 
 removed to my Spanish possessions. The 
 Golden-lion is my fi si i -preserve ; my flocks 
 of goMe-i fierce sire p"s f< ired on the plain of 
 -Marathon, and the honey of Ilymettus is
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 55 
 
 distilled from the flowers that grow in 
 the vale of Enna all in my Spanish co- 
 mains. 
 
 From the windows of those castles lock the 
 beautiful women whom I have never seen. 
 whooj portraits the poets l.ave painted. 
 They wait for me there, and chiefly the fair 
 haired child, lost to my eyes so long "go, 
 no.v bloomed, into an impossible beauty. 
 The lights that never shone, glance at ev< n- 
 inj in the vaulted halls, upon banquets that 
 were never spread. The bands I have never 
 collected, play all night long, and er,ch:i:it 
 the brilliant company, that was never as 
 sembled, into silence. 
 
 In the long summer mornings the children 
 that I never had, play in the gardens 
 that I 'never planted. I hear their sweet 
 voices sounding low and far away, calling 
 "Father! Father!" I see the lost fair- 
 haired girl, grown now into a woman, de 
 scending the stately stairs of my castle in 
 Spain, stepping out upon the lawn, and 
 playing vi'li those children. They bound 
 away together (!ow:i the garden ; but those
 
 56 PRUE AND I. 
 
 voices linger, this time airily calling, 
 *' Mother ! mother ! " 
 
 But there is a stranger magic than this in 
 my Spanish estates. The lawny slopes on 
 which, when a child, I played, in my father's 
 old country place which was sold when he 
 failed, are all there, and not a flower faded, 
 nor a blade of grass sere. The green leaves 
 have not fallen from thfi spring \\ oods of half 
 a century ago, and a gorgeous autumn lias 
 blazed undimmed for fifty years, among the 
 trees I remember. 
 
 Chestnuts are not especially sweet to my 
 palate now, but those with which I used to 
 prick my fingers when gathering them in 
 New Hampshire woods are exquisite as ever 
 to my taste, when I think of eating them in 
 Spain. I never ride horseback now at home ; 
 but in Spain, when I think of it, I bound 
 over all the fences in the country, bare 
 backed upon the wildest horses. Sermons 
 I am apt to find a little soporific in this 
 country ; but in Spain I should listen as rev 
 erently as ever, for proprietors must set a 
 good example on tiicir estates.
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 57 
 
 Plavs are insufferable to me here Prue 
 and I never go. Prue, indeed, is not quito 
 sure it is moral ; but the theaters in my 
 Spanish castles are of a prodigious splendor,, 
 and when I think of going there, Prue sits 
 IH 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 my 
 white waistcoat, which in Spain has no 
 appearance of mending, but dazzles 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 face 
 has a bloom which we both remember, and 
 her movement a grace whidi my Spanish, 
 swans emulate, and her voice a music sweeter 
 than those that orchestras discourse. She 
 is always there what she seemed to me when 
 I fell in love with her, many and many years 
 ago. The neighbors culled her then a nice, 
 capable girl ; and certainly she did knit and 
 darn with a zeal and success to which my 
 feet and my legs have testified for nearly 
 half a century. But she could spin a finer
 
 58 PRUE AND I. 
 
 web than ever came from cotton, and in its 
 subtle meshes my heart was entangled, and 
 there has reposed softly and happily ever 
 .since. The neighbors declared she could 
 iihike pudding and cake better than any girl 
 of her age ; but stale bread from Prue's hand 
 was ambrosia to my palate. 
 
 " She who makes everything well, even to 
 making neighbors speak \vell of her, will 
 surely make a good wife," said 1 to myself 
 when I knew her ; and the echo of a half 
 3?ntury answers, " a good wife." 
 
 So, when I meditate my Spanish castles, 
 I see Prue in them as my heart saw her 
 standing by her father's door. " Age can 
 not wither her." There is a magic in the 
 Spanish air that paralyzes Time. He glides 
 by, unnoticed and unnoticing. I greatly 
 admire the Alps, which I soe so distinctly 
 "from my Spanish windows ; I delight in the 
 t-iste of the southern fruit that ripens upon 
 my terraces ; I enjoy the pensive shade of 
 t!;e Italian ruins ia my gardens ; I like to 
 shoot crocodiles, and talk with the Sphinx 
 upon the shores of the Nile, flowing through
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 59 
 
 my domain : I am glad to drink sherbet in 
 .Damascus, and ileece my flocks on the 
 plains of Marathon ; but I would resign all 
 thase forever rather than part with tliat 
 Spanish portrait of Prue fora day. Nay, 
 have I not resigned them a-H forever, to live 
 with that portrait's changing original ? 
 
 I have often wondered how I should reach 
 my castles. The desire of going comes over 
 me very strongly sometimes, and I endeavor 
 to S3e how I can arrange my affairs, so as 
 to g3t away. To tell the truth, I am not 
 quite sure of the route, I mean, to that 
 particular part of Spain in which my estates 
 lie. I have inquired very particularly, but 
 nobody seems to know precisely. One morn 
 ing I met young Aspen, trembling with ex 
 citement. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " asked I with in 
 terest, for I knew that he held a great deal 
 of Spanish stock. 
 
 " Oh ! " said he, " I'm going out to take 
 possession. I have found the way to my 
 castles in Spain." 
 
 " Dear me!" I answered, with the blood
 
 60 PRUE AND I. 
 
 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 after 
 ward," said I, remembering the map. 
 
 " Not at all," answered Aspen, " the road 
 runs along the shore of the Sacramento 
 Kiver." 
 
 He darted away from me, and I did not 
 meet him again. I was very curious to- 
 know if he arrived safely in Spain, and was 
 expecting every day to hear news from him 
 of my property there, when, one evening, 
 I bought an extra, full of California news, 
 and the first thing upon which my eye fell 
 was this: "Died, in San Francisco, Edward 
 Aspen, Esq., aged 35." There is a large 
 body of the Spanish stockholders who be- 
 liove with Aspen, and sail for California 
 every week. I have not yet heard of their 
 rrrval out at their castles, but I suppose 
 tluy are s.> !;isy with their own affairs 
 there, taut they i:av3iio time to write to the
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 6l 
 
 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 into the office one day, just as I was 
 balancing my books, and whispered to me, 
 eagerly : 
 
 " I've found my castle in Spain." 
 
 I put the blotting-paper in the leaf de 
 liberately, for I was wiser now than 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," said Jonathan 
 Bud, hilariously. 
 
 " She'll make you walk Spanish, Jon 
 athan Bud," said I. 
 
 And so she does, lie makes no more 
 hilarious remarks. He never bursts into a 
 room. He does not ask us to dinner. He 
 says that Mrs. Bu 1 do^s not like smoking. 
 Mrs. Ba.l h.is :v - vo> an I b.jbies. She has a
 
 62 PRUE AND I. 
 
 way of saying, " Mr. Bud ! " which destroys 
 conversation, and casts a gloom upon 
 society. 
 
 It occurred to me that Bourne the mil 
 lionaire, must have ascertained the safest 
 and most expeditious route to Spain ; so I 
 stole a few minutes one afternoon, and went 
 into his office. He was sitting at his desk, 
 writing rapidly, and surrounded by files of 
 papers and patterns, specimens, boxes, every 
 thing that covers the tables of a great mer 
 chant. In the outer rooms clerks were 
 writing. Upon high shelves over 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 black 
 letters " Bourne & Dye." The}' were all 
 numbered also with the proper year ; some 
 of them with a single capital B, and dates 
 extending back into the last century, when 
 old Bourne made the great fortune, before 
 he went into, partnership with Dye. Every 
 thing was indicative of immense and increas 
 ing prosperity. 
 
 There were several gentlemen in wait-
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 63 
 
 ing to converse with Bourne (\ve all call him 
 so, familiarly, down town), and I waited 
 until they went out. But others came in. 
 There was no pause in the rush. All kinds 
 of inquiries 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 none of the 
 others, ond 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 with 
 out speaking, and without seeming 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 r and without * 
 addressing me. 
 
 I suppose he felt himself too much ex-
 
 64 PRUE AND I. 
 
 tended as we say in Wall Street. He 
 feared, I thought, that he had too much im 
 practicable property elsewhere, to own so 
 much in Spain ; so I asked, 
 
 " Will you tell me what you consider the 
 shortest and safest route thither, Mr. Bourne ? 
 for, of course, a man who drives such an im 
 mense trade with all parts of the world, will 
 know all that I have come to inquire." 
 
 " My dear sir," answered he wearily, " I 
 have been trying all my life to discover it ; 
 but none of my ships have ever been there 
 none of my captains have any report to 
 make. They bring me, as they brought my 
 father, 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, and travelers of all 
 kinds, philosophers, pleasure-hunters, and 
 invalids, in all sorts of ships, to all sorts of 
 places, but none of them ever saw or heard 
 of my castles, except one young poet, and 
 he died in a madhouse" 
 
 "Mr Bourne, will you t;.ke five thou-
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 6$ 
 
 sand at ninety-seven ? " hastily demanded a 
 man, whom, as he entered, I recognized as a 
 broker. " We'll make a splendid thing of it.** 
 
 Bourne nodded assent, and the broker 
 disappeared. 
 
 " Happy man I " muttered the merchant, 
 as the broker went out ; " he has no castles 
 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 the route you 
 hoped to ascertain from me, I should ha* r e 
 stiiled years and years ago. People sail for 
 the Northwest Passage, which is nothing 
 when you have found it. Why don't the 
 English Admiralty fit out expeditions to 
 discover all our castles in Spain ? " 
 
 lie 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 
 hrn good morning. When I had nearly 
 VM 'icd the door, he called me back, saying 
 
 us ' "ontin'iing his remarks 
 
 5
 
 66 PRUE AND I. 
 
 " It is strange that you, of all men, should 
 come to ask me this question. If I envy an y 
 man, it is you, for I sincerely assure \ ou 
 th:it I supposed you lived altogether upon 
 your Spanish estate?. I once thought I 
 khe\v the way to mine. I gave directions 
 for furnishing them, and 01 dried bridal 
 bouquets, which were never used, but I t;up- 
 pose they are there still." 
 
 He paused a moment, then said slowly 
 " How is your wife 1 " 
 
 I told him that Prue was veil that she 
 was alwavs remarkably well. Mr. Bourne 
 
 r * 
 
 shook n:e warmly by the hand. 
 " "Tlr.mk you,-' said he. " Good morning." 
 I knew why he thanked me; I knew why 
 he thought that T lived altogether upon my 
 Spanish estates ; I knew a little bit about 
 those bridal bouquets. Mr. Bourne, the mil 
 lionaire was an old lover of I 'rue's. There 
 is something very odd about these Spanish 
 castles. "When I think of them, I somehow 
 r -.' th<> fair-li-'ired girl whom I knew when 
 I VM'.S rot out of short jackets. When 
 Bourne meditates them, he sees Pruc and
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 67 
 
 me quietly at home in their best chambers. 
 It is a very singular thing that my wife 
 should live in another man's castle in Spain. 
 
 At length I resolved to ask Titbottom if 
 ho had ever heard of the best route to our 
 estates. He said that he owned castles, and 
 sometimes there was an expression in his face, 
 as if he saw them. I hope he did. I should 
 long ago have asked him if he had ever ob 
 served the turrets of ray possessions in the 
 "West, without alluding to Spain, if I had not 
 feared he would suppose I was mocking his 
 poverty. I hope his poverty has not turned 
 his head, for he is very forlorn. 
 
 One Sunday I went with him a few miles 
 into the country. It was a soft, bright day, 
 the fields and hills lay turned to the sky, as 
 if every leaf and blade of grass were nerves, 
 bared to the touch of the sun. I almost felt 
 the ground warm under my feet. The mead 
 ows waved and glittered, the lights and 
 shadows were exquisite, and the distant hills 
 seemed only to remove the horizon farther 
 away. As we strolled along, picking wild 
 flowers, for it was in summer, I was think-
 
 68 TRUE AM) I. 
 
 ing what a fine day it was for a trip to 
 Spain, when Titbottoin suddenly exclaimed : 
 
 " Thank God ! I own this landscape." 
 
 " You," returned I. 
 
 " Certainly," said he. 
 
 "Why," I answered, "I thouglit this was 
 part of Bourne's property ? " 
 
 Titbottoin smiled. 
 
 " Does Bourne own the sun and sky ? 
 Does Bourne own that sailing shadow 
 yonder ? Does Bourne own the golden lus 
 ter of the grain, or the motion of the wood, 
 or those ghosts of hills, that glide pallid 
 along the horizon ? Bourne owns the dirt 
 and fences; I own the beauty tl.at makes 
 tlie landscape, or otherwise how could I own 
 castles in Spain ? " 
 
 That was very true. I respected Titbot 
 toin more than ever. 
 
 *' Do von k -ow," said ho, rftrr a lor.fr 
 
 . O 
 
 pnu e, "that 1 fancy my castles lie just be 
 yond t'-os'* distant hills. At ;.!! events, I can 
 see t!uin distinctly from their : umniits." 
 
 lie s'nil'^1 <i!ii -tly as bespoke, and it was 
 then I isIv-d :
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 69 
 
 " But, Titbottom, have you never discov 
 ered the way to them ?" 
 
 "Dear me! yes," answered he, " I know 
 the \\i\y well enough ; but it -would do no 
 good to follow it. I should give out before 
 1 arrived. It is a long and difficult journey 
 for a man of my years and habits and in 
 come,'' he added slowly. 
 
 As he spoke he seated himself upon the 
 ground ; and while he pulled long blades of 
 grass, and, putting them between his thumbs, 
 whistled shrilly, 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 story window," said 
 Titbottom, fitting a broad blade between his 
 thumbs and blowing a demoniacal blast. 
 
 " And I know one proprietor who resides 
 upon his estates constantly," continued lie. 
 
 "Who is that?" 
 
 "Our old friend Slug, whom you may see 
 any day at the asylum, just coming in from 
 the hunt, or going to call upon his friend the
 
 70 PRUE AND I. 
 
 Grand Lama, or dressing for the wedding of 
 the Man in the Moon, or receiving an ambas 
 sador from Timbuctoo. Whenever I go to 
 see him, Slug insists that I am the Pope dis 
 guised as a journeyman carpenter, and he 
 entertains me in the most distinguished man 
 ner. He always insists upon kissing my foot, 
 and I bestow upon him, kneeling, the apos 
 tolic benediction. This is the only Spanish 
 proprietor in possession, with whom I am 
 acquainted." 
 
 " And, so saying, Titbottom lay back upon 
 the ground, and making a spy-glass of his 
 hand, surveyed the landscape through it. 
 This was a marvelous bookkeeper 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 who married old Buhl's 
 daughter. She was all smiles, and mamma 
 was all sugar, and Stunning was all bliss, for 
 two months. He carried his head in the 
 clouds, and felicity absolutely foamed at his 
 eyes. He was drowned in love ; seeing, as
 
 MY CHATEAUX. Jl 
 
 usual, not what really was, but what he fan 
 cied. He lived so exclusively in his castle, 
 that he forgot the office down town, and one 
 morning there came a fall, and Stunning 
 was smashed." 
 
 Titbottorn arose, and stooping over, con 
 templated the landscape, with his head down 
 between his legs. 
 
 " It's quite a new effect, so," said the nim 
 ble bookkeeper. 
 
 " Well,*' said I, " Stunning failed '( " 
 
 " Oh yes, smashed all up, and the castle 
 in Spain came down about his ears with a 
 tremendous crash. The family sugar was 
 all dissolved into the original cane in a mo 
 ment. Fairy times are over, are they ? 
 Heigh-ho! the falling stones of Stunning's 
 castle have left their .marks all over his 
 face. I call them his Spanish scars." 
 
 u But, my dear Tilbottom," said I, " what 
 is the matter with you thlj morning, your 
 usual sedateness is quite gone ? " 
 
 "It's only the exhilarating air of Spain/* 
 he answered. " My castles are so beautiful 
 that I can never think of them, nor speak
 
 ?2 PRUE AND I. 
 
 of them, without excitement; when I was 
 younger I desired to reach them even more 
 ardentiy than now, because I heard that the 
 philosopher's stone was m the vault cf one 
 of them." 
 
 "Indeed," said I, yielding to sympathy, 
 " and I have gooil reason to believe that tho 
 fountain of eternal youth flows through the 
 garden of one of mine. Do yon know 
 whether there are any children upon your 
 grounds ? " 
 
 "'The children of Alice call Eartrum 
 father !'" replied Titbottom, solemnly, and 
 in a low voice, as he folded his faded hands 
 befo-re him, and stood erect, looking wist 
 fully over the landscape. The light wind 
 played with his thin white hair, and his 
 sober, black suit was almost romber in the 
 sunshine. The halt' bitter expression, which 
 I had remarked upon his face during part of 
 our conversation, had passed away, and the 
 old sadness had returned to his eyes. Jle 
 stood, in the pleasant morning, the very 
 image of a great proprietor of castles in' 
 Spain.
 
 73 
 
 " There is wonderful music there," be said : 
 " sometimes I awake at night, 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 great gates of my es 
 tates. They swing open upon noiseless 
 hinges, and the tropic of my dreams receives 
 me. Up the broad steps, whose marble 
 pavement mingled light and shadow print 
 with shifting mosaic, beneath the boughs of 
 lustrous oleanders, and palms, and trees of 
 unimaginable fragrance, I pass into the ves 
 tibule, warm with summer odors, and into, 
 the presence-chamber beyond, where my 
 wife awaits me. But castle, and wife, and 
 odorous woods, and pictures, and statues, 
 and all the bright substance of my house 
 hold, seem to reel and glimmer in the splen 
 dor, as the music fails. 
 
 " But when it swells again, I clasp the wife 
 to my heart, and we move on with a fair so 
 ciety, beautiful women, noble men, before 
 whom the tropical luxuriance of that world 
 bends nn-'l bows in ho'tia-re; ,"nd, through 
 endless d ivs ;.m! r:i.<;hts of eternal summer,
 
 74 PRUE AND I. 
 
 the stately revel of our life proceeds. Then, 
 suddenly, the music stops. I hear my watch 
 ticking under the pillow. I see dimly the 
 outline of my little upper room. Then I fall 
 asleep, and in the morning some one of the 
 boarders at the breakfast-table says : 
 
 " ' Did you hear the serenade last night, 
 Hr. Titbottom ? ' " 
 
 J doubted no longer that Titbottom was 
 ;a very extensive proprietor. The truth is, 
 that he was so constantly engaged in plan 
 ning and arranging his castles, that he con 
 versed very little at the office, and I had 
 misinterpreted his silence. As we walked 
 homeward, that day, he was more than ever 
 tender and gentle. " We must all have some 
 thing to do in this world," said he, " and I, 
 who have so much leisure for you know I 
 have no wife nor children to work for know 
 not what I should do, if I had not my castles 
 in Spain to look after." 
 
 When I reached home, mv darling Prue 
 was sitting in the small pnHor, rending. I 
 felt a little gr.il'v fn having beon so long 
 away, and upon n.y onlv holiday, too. So
 
 MY CHATEAUX, 75 
 
 I began to say that Titbottom invited me to 
 go to walk, and that I ha/l no idea we had 
 gone so far, and that : 
 
 " Don't excuse yourself," said Prue, smil 
 ing 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 not 
 .strong 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 little comfort in this life," said my 
 thoughtful Prue, as she called Jane to set 
 the tea table. 
 
 " But he has a good deal of comfort in 
 Spain, Prue," answered I. 
 
 " When was Mr. Titbottom in Spain," in 
 quired 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 to breathe the 
 country air," said she. " Jane, get some of 
 the blackberry jam, and call Adoniram and 
 the children."
 
 7f} PRUE AND I. 
 
 So we went in to tea. We eat in the back 
 parlor, for our little house and limited means 
 do not allow us to have things upon the 
 Spanish scale. It is better than a sermon to- 
 hear my wife Prue talk to the children ; and 
 when she speaks to me it seems sweeter than 
 psalm singing; at least, such as we have in 
 our church. I am very happy. 
 
 Yet I dream my dreams, and attend to mv 
 castles in Spain. I have so much property 
 there, that I could not, in conscience, neglect 
 it. All the years of my youth, and the hopes, 
 of my manhood, are stored away, like pre 
 cious stones, in the vaults, and I kno\v that 
 I shall find everything convenient, elegant,. 
 and beautiful, when I come into pos;sc>s : on. 
 
 As the years go by, I am not conscious, 
 that my interest diminishes. If I i\ e that. 
 age is subtly sifting his snow in tl.e dark 
 hair of my Prue, I smile, contented, for her 
 hair, dark an:l heavy as when I first saw it, 
 is all carefully treasured in mv castles in 
 Spain. If I feel her arm more heavily lean 
 ing upon mine, as we walk around the 
 squares, I press it closely to my side, for
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 77 
 
 I know that the easy grace of her youth's 
 motion will be restored by the elixir of that 
 Spanish air. If her voice sometimes falls 
 less clearly from her lips, it is no less sweet 
 to me, for the music of her voice's prime fills, 
 freshly as ever, those Spanish halls. If the 
 li^-ht I love fades a little from, her eyes, I 
 know that the glances she gave me, in our 
 youth, are the eternal sunshine of my castles 
 in Spain. 
 
 I defy time and change. Each year laid 
 upon our heads, is a hand of blessing. I have 
 no doubt that I shall find the shortest route 
 to my possessions as soon as need be. 
 Perhaps, when Adoniram is married, we 
 shall 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 were there ! The most 
 purely romantic ruin in the world is the 
 Alhambra. But of the Spanisii castles, 
 more spacious and splendid than any possi 
 ble Alhambra, and for ever unruined, no 
 towers ;ire visible, no pictures have been 
 painted, and only a few ecstatic songs have
 
 78 PRUE AND I. 
 
 been sung. The pleasure-dome of Kubla 
 Khan, which Coleridge saw in Xanadu (a 
 province with which I am not familiar), and 
 a fine Castle of Indolence belonging to- 
 Thomson, and the Palace of art which 
 Tennyson built as a " lordly pleasure-house "" 
 for his soul, are among the best statistical 
 accounts of those Spanish estates. Turner,, 
 too, has done for them much the same 
 service that Owen Jones .has done for the 
 Alhambra. In the vignette to Moore's 
 Epicurean you will find represented one of 
 the most extensive castles in Spain ; and 
 there are several exquisite studies 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 fact makes me 
 prouder of my own castles, for, if there be 
 such boundless variety of magnificence in 
 their aspect and exterior, imagine the life 
 that is led there, a life not unworthy such a 
 setting. 
 
 If Adoniram should be married within a 
 reasonable time, and we should make up
 
 MY CHATEAUX, 79 
 
 that little family party to go out, I have 
 considered already what society I should 
 ask to meet the bride. Jephthah's daughter 
 and the Chevalier Bayard, I should say and 
 fair Rosamond with Dean Swift King 
 Solomon and the Queen of Sheba Avould 
 come over, I think-, from his famous castle 
 Shakespeare and his friend the Marquis of 
 Southampton might come in a galley with 
 Cleopatra; and, if any guest were offended 
 by her presence, he should devote himself to 
 the Fair One with Golden Locks. Mephis- 
 topheles is not personally disagreeable, and 
 is exceedingly well-bred in society, I am 
 told ; and he should, come tete-a-tete with 
 Mrs. Rawdon Crawley. Spenser should 
 escort his Faerie Queen, who would preside 
 at the tea-table. 
 
 Mr. Samuel Weller I should ask as Lord 
 of Misrule, and Dr. Johnson as the Abbot 
 of Unreason. I would suggest to Major 
 Dobbin to accompany Mrs. Fry ; Alcibiades 
 would bring Homer and Plato in his purple- 
 sailed galley ; and I would have Aspasia, 
 Ninon de 1'Enclos, and Mrs. Battle, to make
 
 TRUE AND I. 
 
 Up a table of whist with Queen Elizabeth. 
 I shall order a seat placed in the oratory for 
 Lady Jane Grey and Joan of Arc. I shall 
 invite General "Washington to bring some of 
 the choicest cigars from his plantation for 
 Sir Walter Raleigh ; and Chaucer, Browning, 
 and Walter Savage Landor, should talk with 
 Goethe, who is to bring Tasso on one arm 
 and Iphigenia on the other. 
 
 Dante and Mr. Carlyle would prefer, I 
 suppose, to go down into the dark vaults 
 under the castle. The Man in the Moon, the 
 Old Harry, and William of the Wisp would 
 be valuable additions, and the Laureate 
 ^Tennyson might compose an official ode 
 upon the occasion : or I would ask " They " 
 to say all about it. 
 
 Of course there are many other guests 
 whose names I do not at the moment recall. 
 But I should invite, first of all, Miles Cover- 
 dale, who knows everything about these 
 places and this society, for he was at Blithe- 
 dale, and he has described " a select party " 
 which he attended at a castle in the air. 
 
 Prue has not vet looked over tho list. In
 
 MY CHATEAUX. 8l 
 
 fact I am not quite sure that she knows my 
 intention. For I wish to surprise her, and 
 I think it would be generous to ask Bourne 
 to lead her out in the bridal quadrille. I 
 think that I shall try the first waltz with 
 the g'rl I sometimes seem to see in my 
 fairest castle, but whom I very vaguely 
 remember. Titbottom will come with old 
 Burton and Jaques. But I have not prepared 
 h:i!f my invitations. Do you not guess it, 
 s?eing that I did not name, first of all, Elia, 
 who assisted at the " Rejoicings upon the 
 n; >: vv year's coming of age? " 
 
 And yet, if Adoniram should never marry ? 
 or if we could not get to Spain? or if 
 to company would not come? 
 
 What then? Shall I betray a secret ? I 
 1'Mve already entertained this party in my 
 I 1 , :;nble little parlor at home; and Prue 
 presided r.s serenely as Semiramis over her 
 r.'iirt. Ilavo I not said that I defy time, 
 :->id slinll space hope to daunt me? I keep 
 books by day, but by night books keep me. 
 They leave me to dreams and reveries. Shall 
 I co" f <*>!, tint so-iftiwps when I have been
 
 82 PRUE AND I. 
 
 sitting, reading to my Prue, Cymbeline, 
 perhaps, or a Canterbury tale, I have seemed 
 to see clearly before me the broad highway 
 to my castles in Spain ; and as she looked 
 up from her work, and smiled in sympathy, 
 I have even fancied that i was 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.
 
 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 l!ke to- 
 walk upon the Battery toward sunset, and 
 watch the steamers, crowded with passen 
 gers, bound for the pleasant places along 
 the coast where people pass the hot mont!:s. 
 Sea-side lodgings are not very comfortable, 
 I am told ; but who would not be a little 
 pinched in his chamber, if hie windows 
 looked upon the sea? 
 
 In such praises of the ocean do I indulge 
 at such times, and so respectfully do I* re 
 gard the sailors who may chance to pass, 
 that Prueoften says, with '">" shroud smiles,. 
 
 that my mind is a kind cf Greenwich JIos- 
 
 85
 
 86 PRUE AND I. 
 
 pital, full of abortive marine hopes and 
 wishes, broken-legged intentions, blind re 
 grets, and desires, whose hands have been 
 shot away in some hard battle of experience 
 so that they cannot grasp the results towards 
 which they reach. 
 
 She is right, as usual. Such hopes and 
 intentions do lie, ruined and hopeless now, 
 strewn about the placid contentment of my 
 mental life, as the old pensioners sit about 
 the grounds at Greenwich, maimed and mus 
 ing in the quiet morning sunshine. Many a 
 one among them thinks what a Nelson he 
 would have been if both his legs had not 
 been prematurely carried away ; or in what 
 a Trafalgar of triumph he would have ended, 
 if, unfortunately, he had not happened to 
 have been blown blind by the explosion of 
 that unlucky magazine. 
 
 So I dream, sometimes, of a straight scar 
 let collar, stiff with gold lace, around my 
 "neck, instead of this limp white cravat ; and 
 I have even brandished my quill at the 
 office so cutlass-wise, that Titbottom has 
 paused in his additions nnd looked at me as
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 87 
 
 if lie doubted whether I should come out 
 quite square in my petty cash. Yet he un 
 derstands it. Titbottorn was born in Nan- 
 tucket. 
 
 That is the secret of my fondness for the 
 se.i ; I was born by it. Not more surely do 
 Savoyards pine for the mountains, or Cock 
 neys for the sound of Bow bells, than those 
 who are born within sight and sound of the 
 ocean to return to it and renew their fealty. 
 In dreams the children of the sea hear its 
 voice. 
 
 I have read in some book of travels that 
 certain tribes of Arabs have no name for the 
 ocean, and that when they came to the shore 
 for the first time, they asked with eager sad 
 ness, as if penetrated by the conviction of a> 
 superior beauty, " what is that desert of water 
 more beautiful than the land ? " And in the 
 ' translations of German stories which Ado- 
 niram and the other children read, and into 
 which I occasionally look in the evening 
 when they are gone to bed for I like to 
 know what interests my children I find 
 that the Germans, who do not live near the
 
 88 PRUE ATs T D I. 
 
 sea, love the fairy lore of water, and tell the 
 sweet stories of Undine and Melusina, us if 
 they had especial charm for them, because 
 their country is inland. 
 
 Wo who know the sea have less fairy feel 
 ing about it, but our realities are romance. 
 My earliest remembrances are of a long 
 range of old, half dilapidated stores ; red 
 brick stores with steep wooden roofs, and 
 ;stone window-frames and door-frames, which 
 stood upon docks built 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 tropical hurricane. But some 
 times a great ship, an East Indiaman. with 
 rusty, seamed, blistered sides, anil dingy 
 ;sails, came slowly moving up the harbor, 
 with an air of indolent self-importance and 
 -consciousness of superiority, which inspired 
 mo with profound respect. If the ship had 
 ever chanced to run down t\ ro\v-bo;it, or a 
 .sloop, or any specimen of smaller craft, I 
 should only have wondered at the temerity
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 89 
 
 of any floating thing in crossing the path of 
 such supreme majesty. The ship was lei 
 surely chained and 'cabled to the old dock, 
 and then came the disemboweling. 
 
 llo\v the stately monster had been fatten 
 ing upon foreign spoils ! How it had gorged 
 itself (such galleons did never seem to iiie of 
 the feminine gender) with the luscious treas 
 ures of the tropics! It had lain its lazy 
 length along the shores of China, and sucked 
 in whole flowery harvests of tea. The Bra 
 zilian sun flashed through the strong wkker 
 prisons, bursting with bananas and nectarean 
 fruits that eschew the temperate zone. 
 Steams of camphor, of sandal wood, s;rose: 
 from the hold. Sailors chanting cabalistic 
 strains, that had to my ear a shrill and 
 monotonous pathos, like the uniform rising- 
 and falling of an autumn wind, turned 
 cranks that lifted the bales, and bo'xes, and 
 crates, and swung them ashore. 
 
 But to my mind, the spell of their singing 
 raised the frngrar.t freight, and r.ot the 
 crank. Madagascar and Ceylon appeared ;,t 
 the mystic buKiin^ ' tiu> so:?g. The placid-
 
 90 PRUE AND i. 
 
 sunshine of the docks was perfumed with 
 India. The universal calm of southern seas 
 poured from the bosom of the ship over the 
 quiet, decaying old northern port. 
 
 Long after the confusion of unloading was 
 over and the ship lay as if all voyages wero 
 ended, 1 dared to creep timorously along 
 the edge of the dock, and at great risk of 
 fallino- in the black water of its huge shadow, 
 
 O * ' 
 
 I placed my hand upon the hot hulk, and 
 so established a mystic and exquisite con 
 nection with Pacific islands, with palm 
 groves and all the passionate beauties they 
 embower; with jungles, Bengal tigers, 
 pepper, and the crushed feet of Chinese 
 fairies. I touched Asia, the Cape of Good 
 Hope and the Happy Islands. I would not 
 believe that the heat I felt was of our north 
 ern sun ; to my finer sympathy it burned 
 with equatorial fervors. 
 
 The freight was piled in the old stores. 
 I believe that many of them remain, but 
 they have lost their character. When ] 
 knew them, not only was I younger, but 
 partial decay had overtaken the town;
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 91 
 
 at least the bulk of its India trade had 
 shifted to New York and Boston. But the 
 appliances remained. There was no throng 
 of busy traffickers, and after school, in the 
 afternoon, I strolled bv and gazed into the 
 
 V 
 
 solemn interiors. 
 
 Silence reigned within, silence, dimness, 
 and piles of foreign treasure. Vast coils of 
 cable, like tame boa-constrictors, served as 
 seats for men with large stomachs, and 
 heavy watch-seals, and nankeen trousers, 
 who sat looking out of the door toward the 
 ships, with little other sign of life than an 
 occasional low talking, as if in their sleep. 
 Huge hogsheads perspiring brown sugar 
 and oozing slow molasses, as if nothing 
 tropical couid keep within bounds, but must 
 continually expand, and exude, and over- 
 flow, stood against the walls, and had an 
 architectural significance, for they darkly 
 reminded me of Egyptian prints, and in the 
 duskiness of the low vaulted store seemed 
 cyclopean columns incomplete. Strange 
 festoons and heaps of bags, square piles of 
 square boxes cased in mats, bales of airy
 
 92 PRUE A*D I. 
 
 snmmor stuffs, which, even in winter, 
 
 scoffed at cold, and shamed it by audacious 
 
 assumption of eternal sun, little specimen 
 
 f boxes of precious dyes that even now shine 
 
 > through my memory, like old Venetian 
 
 schools unpainted, these were all there in 
 
 rich confusion. 
 
 The stores had a twilight of dimness, the 
 air was spicy with mingled odors. I liked to 
 look suddenly in from the glare of sunlight 
 outside, and then the cool sweet dimness was 
 like the palpable breath of the far off island- 
 groves ; and if only some parrot or macaw 
 hung within, would flaunt with glistening 
 plumage in his cage, and as the gay hue 
 flashed in a chance sunbeam, call in his 
 hard, shrill voice, as if thrusting sharp sounds 
 . upon a glistening wire from out that grate 
 ful gloom, then the enchantment was com 
 plete, and without moving, I was circum 
 navigating the globe. 
 
 From the old stores and the docks slowly 
 crumbling, touched, I know not why or how, 
 by the pensive air of past prosperity, I ram 
 bled out of town on those well remembered
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 93 
 
 afternoons, to the fields that lay upon hill 
 sides over the harbor, and there sat, looking 
 out to sea, fancying some distant sail pro 
 ceeding to the glorious" ends of the earth, to 
 be my type and image, who would so sail, 
 stately and successful, to all the glorious 
 ports of the Future. Going home, I re 
 turned by the stores, which black porters 
 were closing. But I stood long looking in, 
 saturating my imagination, and as it ap 
 peared, my clothes, with the spicy sugges 
 tion. For when I reached home my thrifty 
 mother another Prue came snuffing and 
 smelling about me. 
 
 " "Why ! my son, (snuff, snuff,} where have 
 you been ? (snuff, snuff}. lias the baker 
 been making (snuff} ginger-bread \ You 
 smell 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 with molasses. "Wharves 
 are dirty places, and dangerous. You must 
 take care of yourself, my son. Really -this 
 smell is (snuff, snuff} very strong."
 
 94 PRUE AND I. 
 
 But I departed from the maternal pres 
 ence, proud and happy. I was aromatic. I 
 bore about me the true foreign air. Who 
 ever smelt me smelt distant countries. I had 
 nutmeg, spices, cinnamon, and cloves, with 
 out the jolly red-nose. I pleased myself 
 with being the representative of the Indies. 
 I was in good odor with myself and all the 
 \vorld. 
 
 I do not know how it is, but surely Na 
 ture makes kindly provision. An imagina 
 tion so easily excited as mine could not 
 have escr.pe;! disappointment if it hacl had 
 ample opportunity and experience of the 
 lands it so longed to see. Therefore, al 
 though I made the India voyage, I have 
 never been a traveler, and saving the little 
 time I was 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 now that I should 
 never have found the country from which 
 the East Indiaman of my early days arrived. 
 The palm groves do not grow with which
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 95 
 
 that hand laid upon the ship placed me in 
 magic conception. As for the lovely Indian 
 maid whom the palmy arches bowered, she 
 has long since clasped some native lover to 
 her bosom, an:l, r pened into mild maternity, 
 how should I know her now? 
 
 u You would find her quiio as easily now 
 as then," says my Pruc, when I speak of it. 
 
 She is right again, as usual, that precious 
 woman ; and it is therefore I feel thatjf the 
 chances of life have moored me fast to a 
 bookkeeper's desk, they have left all the 
 lands I longed to see fairer and fresher in 
 my mind than they could ever be in my 
 memory. Upon rnv only voyage I used to 
 climb into the top and search the horizon 
 for tho shore. But now in a moment of 
 c::lm thought I see a more Indian India than 
 ever mariner discerned, and do not envy tbo 
 youths who go there and make fortunes, 
 
 *. O 
 
 who wear grass-cloth jackets, drink iced 
 beer, and eat curry ; whose minds fall 
 asleep, and whose bodies have liver com 
 plaints. 
 
 Unseen by me forever nor ever regretted,
 
 96 PRUE AND I. 
 
 shall wave the Egyptian palms and the 
 Italian pines. Untrodden by me, the Forum 
 shall siill echo with the footfall of imperial 
 Home, and the Parthenon un rifled of its 
 marbles, loo!; p-.M'iVct across the Egean blue. 
 My young friends return from tluir for 
 eign tours el. ;te \\i;h the smiles of a nameless 
 Italian or Parisian i;eile I kno\v not such 
 cheap delights; 1 am a suitor of Yittoria 
 Colonna ; I walk with Tasso along t'.:e ter 
 raced garden of the Villa d'Este, n\\d look 
 to see Beatrice smiling down the rich g'.-oom 
 of the cypress shade. You stayed at the 
 Hotel Europa in Venice, at DanielWs^ or 
 the Leone bianco ; I am the guest of Marino 
 Faliero, and I whisper to his wife as we 
 climb the giant staircase in the summer 
 moonlight, 
 
 " Ah, senza amare 
 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 and Aurelia, that I 
 am content not to stand in St. Peter's.
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 9? 
 
 Alas ! if I could see the end of it, it would 
 not be St. Peter's. For those of us whom 
 Nature means to keep at home, she provides 
 entertainment. One man goes four thou 
 sand miles to Italy, and does not see it, he is 
 so short-sighted. Another is so far-sighted 
 that he stays in his room and sees more 
 than Italy. 
 
 But for this very reason that it washes 
 the shores of my possible Europe and Asia, 
 the sea draws me constantly to itself. 
 Before I came to New York, while 1 was 
 still a clerk in Boston, courting Prue, and 
 living out of town, I never knew of a ship 
 sailing for India or even for England and 
 France, but I went up to the State House 
 cupola or to the observatory on some 
 friend's house in lioxbury, where I could 
 not be interrupted, and there watched the 
 departure. 
 
 The sails hung ready ; the ships lay in the 
 stream ; busy little boats and puffing steam 
 ers darted about it, clung to its sides, pad 
 dled away from it, or led the way to sea, as 
 minniry^ ;:iL"ht pilot a whale. Tiie anchor
 
 98 PRUE AND I. 
 
 was slowly swung at the bow ; I could not 
 hear the sailors' song, but I knew they were 
 singing. I could not see the parting friends, 
 but 1 knew farewells were spoken. I did 
 not share the confusion, although I knew 
 what bustle there was, what hurry, what 
 shouting, what creaking, what fall of ropes 
 and iron, what sharp oaths, lo.v laughs, 
 whispers, sobs. But I was cool, high, sepa 
 rate. To me it was 
 
 " A painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean." 
 
 The sails were shaken out, and the ship 
 began to move. It was a fair breeze, per 
 haps, and no steamer was needed to tow her 
 away. She receded down the bay. Friends 
 turned back I could not see them and 
 waved their hands, and wiped their eyes, 
 and went home to dinner. Farther and far 
 ther from the ships at anchor, the lessening 
 vessel became.' single and solitary upon the 
 water. The sun sank in the west; but I 
 watched her still. Every Hash of her sails 
 as she tacked and turned, thrilled my hea.v. 
 
 Yet Prue was not on board. I had never
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 99 
 
 -;een one of the passengers or the crew. I 
 did not know the consignees, nor the name 
 of the vessel. I had shipped no adventure, 
 nor risked any insurance, nor made any bet,, 
 but my eyes clung to her as Ariadne's to 
 the fading sail of Theseus. The ship was. 
 freighted with more than appeared upon 
 her papers, yet she was not a smuggler. 
 She bore all there was of that nameless, 
 lading, yet the next ship would carry as. 
 much. She was freighted with fancy. My 
 hopes, and wishes, and vague desires, were 
 all on board. It seemed to me a treasure 
 not less rich than that which filled the East 
 Indiaman at the old dock in my boyhood. 
 
 When, at length, the ship was a sparkle 
 upon the horizon, I waved my hand in last 
 farewell, I strained my eyes for a last 
 glimpse. My mind had gone to sea, and 
 had left noise behind. But now I heard 
 again the multitudinous murmur of the 
 city, and went down rapidly, and threaded 
 the short, narrow streets to the office. Yet,, 
 believe it, every dream of that day, as I 
 watched the vessel, was written at night to-
 
 IOO PRUE AND I. 
 
 Prue. She knew my heart had not sailed 
 away. 
 
 Those days are long past now, but still I 
 walk upon the Battery and look towards the 
 Narrows and know that beyond them, sep 
 arated only by the sea, are many of whom I 
 would so gladly know, and so rarely hear. 
 The sea rolls between us like the lapse of 
 dusky ages. They trusted themselves to it, 
 and it bore them away far and far as if into 
 the past. Last night I read of Antony, but 
 I have not heard from Christopher these 
 many months, and by so much farther away 
 is he, so much older and more remote, than 
 Antony. As for William, he is as vague 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 them away upon its other 
 side. It is fortunate t!ic sea did not put 
 them upon its underside. Are they hale and 
 happy still? Is their hai; gr:iy, and luivo 
 thay mustachios? Or havo they taken to 
 wig; an 1 crutches ? Arc* thoy popas or car 
 dinals yet ? Do they feast with Lucrez'-\
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. IOI 
 
 Borgia, or preach red republicanism to the 
 Council of Ten ? Do they sing, Behold how 
 orightly 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 y outh > 
 where in your wanderings have you tasted 
 the blissful Lotus, that you neither come nor 
 send us tidings ? 
 
 Across the sea also came idle rumors as 
 false reports steal into history and defile fair 
 fames. Was it longer ago than yesterday 
 that I walked with my cousin, then recently 
 ;i widow, and talked with her of the coun 
 tries to which she meant to sail ? She was 
 young, and dark-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 dawn in the darkness of her 
 mind. I talked and listened by rapid turns. 
 
 Was it longer ago than yesterday that she 
 told me of her splendid plans, how palaces 
 tapestried with gorgeous paintings should be
 
 102 PRUE AND I. 
 
 cheaply hired, and the best of teachers lead 
 her children to the completest and most vari 
 ous knowledge; ho\v, and with her slender 
 pittance! she should have a box at the 
 opera, and a carriage, and liveried servants, 
 and in perfect health and youth, lead a per 
 fect life in a perfect climate? 
 
 And now what do I hear ? Why does a 
 tear sometimes drop so audibly upon my 
 paper, that Titbottom looks across with a 
 sort of mild rebuking glance of inquiry, 
 whether it is kind to let even a single tear 
 fail, when an ocean of tears is pent up in 
 hearts that would burst and overflow if but 
 one drop should fores its way out ? Why 
 across the sea came faint gusty stories like 
 low voices in the wind, of a cloistered garden 
 and sunny seclusion and a life of unknown 
 and unexplained luxury. What is this pic 
 ture of a pale face showered with streaming 
 black hair, and large sad eyes looking upon 
 lovely and noble children playing in the 
 sunshine and a brow pained with thought 
 str lining iito their d$tinv? Who is this 
 figure, a man tali an 1 c >m >ly, with melting
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 10$ 
 
 eyes and graceful motion, who uomes and 
 goes at pleasure, who is not a husband, yet 
 has the key of the cloistered garden ? 
 
 I do not know. They are secrets of the 
 sea. The pictures pass before ray mind sud 
 denly and unawares, and I feel the tears ris 
 ing that I would gladly repress. Titbottom 
 looks at mej then stands by the window of 
 the office and leans his brow against the cold 
 iron bars, and looks down into the little 
 square paved court. I take my hat and steal 
 out of the office fora few minutes, and slowly 
 pace the hurrying streets. Meek-eyed Alice ! 
 magnificent Maud ! sweet baby Lilian ! 
 why does the sea imprison you so far away, 
 when will you return, where do you linger ? 
 The water laps, idly about docks, lies calm, 
 or gaily heaves. Why does it bring me 
 doubts and fears now, that brought such 
 bounty of Iteauty in the days long gone? 
 
 I remember that the day when my dark- 
 haired cousin, with hoops of barbaric gold 
 in her ears, sailed for Italy, was quarter-day, 
 and we balanced the books at the office. It 
 was nearly noon, and in my impatience to
 
 IO4 PRUE AND I. 
 
 be away, I had not added my columns with 
 sufficient care. The inexorable hand of the 
 office clock pointed sternly towards twelve, 
 and the remorseless pendulum ticked sol 
 emnly to noon. 
 
 To a man Avhose pleasures are not many, 
 and rather small, the loss of such an event 
 as s lying farewell and wishing Godspeed to 
 a friend going to Europe, is a great loss. It 
 was so to mo, especially, because there was 
 always more to me, in every departure, than 
 tha parting and the farewell. I was gradu 
 ally renouncing this pleasure, as I saw small 
 prospect of ending before noon, when Tit- 
 bottQin, after looking at me 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-speed upon any jour 
 ney. I quietly wiped my pen, took down 
 my hat, and went out. It was in the days 
 of sail packets and less regularity, when go 
 ing to Europe was more of an epoch in life. 
 How gaily my cousin stoo 1 upon the deck 
 and detailed to me her pla.i ! How merrily
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. IOJ 
 
 the children shouted find sang ! How long 
 I held my cousin's little hand in mine, and 
 gazed into her great eyes, remembering 
 that they would see and touch the things 
 that were invisible to me forever, but all the 
 more precious and fair! She kissed me 
 I was younger then there were teai:- v 
 I remember, and prayers, and promises,. 
 a waving handkerchief, a fading sail. 
 
 It was only the other day that I saw an 
 other parting of the same kind. I was not a. 
 principal, only a spectator ; but so fond am 
 I of sharing, afar off, as it were, and unseen,, 
 the sympathies of human beings, that I can 
 not avoid often going to the dock upon 
 steamer-days and giving myself to that 
 pleasant and melancholy observation. There 
 is always a crowd, but this day it was al 
 most impossible to advance through the 
 masses of people. The eager faces hurried 
 by ; a constant stream poured up the gang 
 way into the steamer, and the upper deck,, 
 to which I gradually made my way, was 
 crowded with the passengers and their 
 friends.
 
 IO6 PRUE AND I. 
 
 There was one group upon which my eyes 
 first fell, and upon which my memory lingers. 
 A glance, brHliant as daybreak a voice, 
 
 *' Her voice's music. call it the well's bubbling, the. 
 birds's warble," 
 
 a goddess girdled with flowers, and smil 
 ing farewell upon a circle of worshipers, to 
 each ons of whom that gracious calmness 
 made the smile sweeter, and the farewell 
 more sad other figures, other flowers, an 
 angyl face all these I saw in that group as 
 I was swayed up and down the deck by the 
 e;ig ?r swarm of people. The hour came, and 
 I wont on shore with the rest. The plank 
 was drawn away the captain raised his 
 hand the huge steamer slowly moved a 
 cannon was fired the ship was gone. ' 
 
 The sun sparkled upon the water as they 
 s:iib I away. In five minutes the steamer 
 was as much separated from the shore as if 
 it had been at saa a tho;is:ind years. 
 
 I leaned agiin.st a post upon the dock 
 anil looked nround. Tlurj^d upon the edge 
 of the wharf stood that bund of worshipers,
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. IO/ 
 
 -waving handkerchiefs and straining their 
 eyes to see the last smile of farewell did 
 any eagar selfish eye hope to see a tear? 
 They to whom the handkerchiefs were 
 waved stood high upon the stern, holding 
 flowers. Over them hung the great flag, 
 raised by the gentle wind into the graceful 
 foils of a canopy, say rather a gorgeous gon 
 falon waved over the triumphant departure, 
 over that supreme youth, and bloom, and 
 beauty, going out across the mystic ocean to 
 carry a liner charm and more human splen 
 dor into those realms of my imagination 
 beyond the sea. 
 
 " You will return, O youth and beauty ! " 
 I s:iid to my dreaming and foolish setf, as I 
 co itrnplate I thos3 fair figures, " richer than 
 Al ^ in br with Indian spoils. All that his- 
 to '}", association, that copious civilization, 
 th >.> 5 grind ours an I graces of art, that 
 varietv and picturesq'13'iess of life, will mel 
 low and deepen your experience even as time 
 silently to - Hr>s tho=?3 old pictures into a 
 more persuasive and p-ithetic beauty, and as 
 this increasing summer sheds ever softer
 
 108 PRUE AND I. 
 
 luster upon the landscape. You will return 
 conquerors and not conquered. You will 
 bring Europe, even as Aurelian brought Zeno- 
 bia captive, to deck your homeward triumph. 
 I do not wonder that these clouds break 
 away, I do not wonder that the sun presses 
 out and floods all the air, and land, anil 
 water, with light that graces with happy 
 omens your stately farewell." 
 
 But if my faded face looked after them 
 with such earnest and longing emotion, I, 
 a solitary old man, unknown to thoso fair 
 beings, and standing apart from that bund 
 of lovers, yet in that moment bound more 
 closely to them than they knew, how was 
 it witji those Avhose hearts sailed away with 
 that youth and beauty ? I watched them 
 closely from behind my post. I knew that 
 life had paused with them ; that the world 
 stood still. I knew that the long, long sum 
 mer would be only a yearning regret. I 
 knew that each asked himself the mournful 
 question, " Is this parting typical this slow, 
 s:ul sweet recession ? " And I knew that 
 they did not care to ask wiiather they should
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 109 
 
 meet again, nor dare to contemplate the 
 chances of the sea. 
 
 The steamer swept on, she was near Staten 
 Island, and a tinal gun boomed far and low 
 across the water. The crowd was dispers 
 ing, but the little group remained. Was it 
 not all Hood had sung ? 
 
 " I sa%v 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 speak 
 ing, " be it gently said, as it is solemnly 
 thought, should they return no more, yet in 
 your memories the high hour of their love- 
 linoss is forever enshrined. Should they 
 come no more they never will be old, nor 
 changed, to you. You will wax and wane, 
 you will suffer, and struggle, and grow old ; 
 but this summer vision will smile, immortal, 
 upon your lives, and those fair faces shall 
 shed, forever, from under that slowly wav 
 ing flag, hops and peace."
 
 IIO PRUE AND I. 
 
 It is so elsewhere ; it is the tenderness of 
 Nature. Long, long ago \ve lost our first 
 born, Prue and I. Since then, we have 
 grown older and our children with us. 
 Change comes, and grief, perhaps, and decay. 
 "We are happy, our children are obedient 
 and ga} r . But should Prue live until 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 lost 
 an infant, has gained a child of immortal 
 youth. Can you find comfort here, lovers, 
 whose mistress has sailed away ? 
 
 I did not ask the question aloud, I thought 
 it only, as I watched the youths, and turned 
 away while they still stood gazing. One, I 
 observed, climbed a post and waved his 
 black hat before the whitewashed side of 
 the shed over the dock, whence I supposed 
 he would tumble into the water. Another 
 had tied a handkerchief to the end of a 
 somewhat baggy umbrella, and in the eager 
 ness of gazing, had forgotten to wave it, so 
 that it hung mournfully down, as if over 
 powered with grief it could not express.
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. Ill 
 
 The entranced youth still held the umbrella 
 aloft. It seemed to me as if he had struck 
 his flag; or as if one of my cravats were 
 airing in that sunlight. A negro carter w;;s 
 ;ok:rig with an apple- woman at the entrance 
 of tlio dock. The steamer was out of sight. 
 
 I found that I was belated and hurried 
 b;;ck to my desk. Alas ! poor lovers ; I 
 wonder if they are watching still ? Has lie 
 fallen exhausted from the post into the 
 water? Is that handkerchief, bleached 
 and rent, still pendant upon that somewhat 
 baggy umbrella? 
 
 " Youth and beautv went to Europe to- 
 
 / 1 
 
 day,"" said I to Prue, us I stirred my tea at 
 evening. 
 
 As I spoke, our youngest (laughter brought 
 me the sugar. She is just eighteen, and her 
 name should be Hebe. I took a lump of 
 sugar and looked, at her. She had never 
 seemed so lovely, and as I dropped the lump 
 in my cup, I kissed her. I glanced at Prue 
 as I did so. The denr worn -in smiled, but 
 did not nns"*" nv ^"H"'n:<tion. 
 
 Thus, wi'hont t-<velin<r, I travel, and
 
 112 PRUE AND I. 
 
 share the emotions of those I do not know. 
 But sometimes the old longing comes over 
 me as in the days when I timidly touched 
 the huge East Indiaman, and magnetically 
 sailed around the world. 
 
 It was but a few days after the lovers 
 and I waved farewell to the steamer, and 
 while the lovely figures standing under the 
 great gonfalon were as vivid in my mind as 
 ever, that a day of premature sunny sadness, 
 like those of the Indian summer, drew me 
 away from the office early in the afternoon : 
 for fortunately it is our dull season now, 
 and even Titbottom sometimes leaves the 
 office by live o'clock. Although why he 
 should leave it, or where he goes, or what 
 he does, I do not well know. Before I 
 knew him, I used sometimes to meet him 
 with a man whom I was afterwards told 
 was Bartleby, the scrivener. Even then it 
 seemed to me that they rather clubbed their 
 loneliness than made society for each other. 
 Recently 1 have not seen Bartleby ; but Tit- 
 bottom seems no more solitary because he 
 is alone.
 
 'ROM SUCRE. 113 
 
 I strolled into the Buttery as I sauntered 
 about. Staten Island looked so alluring, 
 tender-bued with summer and melting in 
 the haze, that I resolved to indulge myself 
 in a pleasure-trip. It was a little selfish, 
 perhaps, to go alone, but 1 looked at my 
 watch and saw that if I should hurry home 
 for Frue the trip would be lost ; then I 
 sl'ouid bo disappointed, r.r. : she would be 
 
 8T.OVXU. 
 
 Ought I not rather (I like to begin ques 
 tions, which I am going to answer affirma 
 tively, with ought,} to take the trip and re 
 count my adventures to Prue upon my re 
 turn, whereby I should actually enjoy the 
 excursion and the pleasure of telling her ; 
 while she would enjoy my story and be glad 
 that I was pleased? Ought I wilfully to 
 deprive us both of this various enjoyment 
 by aiming at a higher, which, in losing, we 
 should lose all ? 
 
 Unfortunately, just as I was triumphantly 
 answering " Certainly not! " another ques 
 tion marched into my mind, escorted by a 
 
 verv defiant ought. 
 *
 
 114 PRUE AND I. 
 
 " Ought I to go when I have such a debate 
 about it ? " 
 
 But while I was perplexed, and scoffing 
 it my own scruples, the ferry-bell suddenly 
 rang, and answered all my questions. In 
 voluntarily I hurried on board. The boat 
 slipped from the dock. I went up on deck 
 to 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 ask 
 ing: 
 
 " Ought I to have come ? " 
 
 Lost in perplexing debate, I saw little of 
 the scenery of the bay ; but the remem 
 brance of Prue and the gentle influence of 
 the day plunged me into a mood of pensive 
 reverie which nothing tended to destroy, 
 until we suddenly arrived at the landing. 
 
 As I was stepping ashore, I was greeted 
 by Mr. Bourne, who passes the summer on 
 the island, and who hospitably asked }f I 
 were going his way. His way was toward 
 the southern end of the island, and I said yes. 
 His pockets were full of papers and his brow 
 of wrinkles ; so when we reached the point
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 
 
 where he should turn off, I asked him to let 
 me alight, although he was verv anxious ta 
 
 O 7 O / 
 
 carry me wherever I was going. 
 
 " I am onl} T strolling about,'' I answered', 
 as I clambered carefully out of the w:ig:>n. 
 
 "Strolling about: 1 " asked he, in a se- 
 wildered manner; " do people stroll r.u,..., 
 nowadays ? " 
 
 " Sometimes," I answered, smiling, as I 
 pulled my trousers down over my boots, for 
 they had dragged up, as I stepped out of the 
 wagon, " and beside, what can an old book-, 
 keeper do better in the dull season than stroll 
 about this pleasant island, and watch the 
 ships at sea?" 
 
 Bourne looked at me with his Aveary 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 fas 
 tened upon the distant sails. 
 
 " It is pleasant," he said musingly, and fell 
 into silence. But I had no time to spare, so 
 J wished him good afternoon.
 
 Il6 PRUE AND I, 
 
 " 1 hope your wife is well," said Bourne 
 to me, as I turned away. Poor Bourne! 
 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 days almost a human tender 
 ness of feeling. A delicate haze, that seemeu 
 only the kindly air made visible, hung over 
 the sea. The water lapped languidly among 
 the rocks, and the voices of children in a 
 boat beyond, rang musically, and gradually 
 receded, until they were lost in the 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 a kind of mirage. But the more 
 steadfastly I gazed, the more distinct it be 
 came, and I could no longer doubt that I saw 
 a stately ship lying at anchor, not more than 
 Lalf a mile from the land. 
 
 " It is an extraordinary place to anchor," 
 I said to myself, " or can she be ashore? " 
 
 There were no signs of distress ; the sails
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 1 1/ 
 
 were carefully clewed up, and there were no 
 sailors in the tops, nor upon the shrouds. A 
 flag, of which 1 could not see the device or 
 the nation, hung heavily at the stern, and 
 looked as if it had fallen asleep. My curi 
 osity began to be singularly excited. The 
 form of the vessel seemed not to be per 
 manent ; but within a quarter of an hour, I 
 was sure that I had seen half a dozen dif 
 ferent ships. As I gazed, I saw no more 
 sails nor masts, but a long range of oars, 
 flashing like a golden fringe, or straight and 
 stiff, like the legs of a sea-monster. 
 
 " It is some bloated crab, or lobster, mag 
 nified by the mist,'' I said to myself, com 
 placently. 
 
 But, at the same moment, there was a con 
 centrated flashing and blazing in one spot 
 among the rigging, and it was as if I saw a 
 beatified rain, or, more truly, a sheepskin, 
 splendid as the hair of Berenice. 
 
 "Is that the golden fleece?" I thought. 
 " But, surely, Jason and the Argonauts have 
 gone home long sinco. Do people go on 
 gold-fleecing expeditions no;v?" I asked
 
 Il8 PRUE AND I. 
 
 myself, in perplexity. " Can this be a Cali 
 fornia 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 bril 
 liancy shimmered in its wake, for it was 
 drifting seaward. A strange fear curdled 
 along my veins. That summer sun shone 
 cool. The weary, battered ship was gashed, 
 as if gnawed by ice. There was terror in 
 the air, as a " skinny hand so brown " waved 
 to me from the deck. I lay as one bewitched. 
 The hand of the ancient mariner seemed 
 to be reaching for me, like the hand of 
 death. 
 
 Death? Why, as I was inly praying 
 Prue's forgiveness for my solitary ramble 
 and consequent demise, a glance like the ful 
 ness of summer splendor gushed over me; 
 the odor of flowers and of eastern gums made 
 all the atmosphere. I breathed the orient, 
 and lay drunk with balm, while that strange 
 ship, a golden galley now, with glittering 
 draperies festooned with flowers, paced to
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 
 
 the measured beat of oars along the calm, 
 and Cleopatra smiled alluringly from the 
 great pageant's heart. 
 
 Was this a barge for summer waters, this 
 peculiar ship I saw ? It had a ruined dignity, 
 a cumbrous grandeur, although its masts 
 wore shattered, and its sails rent. It hung 
 preternatu rally still upon the sea. as if tor 
 mented and exhausted by long driving and 
 (',.iff,ing. I saw no sailors, but a grent Span- 
 lib ensign 11 oa ted over, and waved, a funeral 
 pi urne. I knew it then. The armada was. 
 I.mg since scattered ; but, floating far, 
 
 ' On desolate rainy seas/' 
 
 lost for centuries, and again restored to sight, 
 Lere- lay one of the fated ships of Spain. The 
 };,,-; galleon seemed to fill all the air, built 
 n > against the sky, like the gilded ships of 
 (",md;- Lorraine against the sunset. 
 
 B'it it fled, for now a black flag fluttered 
 ;.t t! e mr'st-head a long low vessel darted 
 sv. iftiv where the vast ship lay ; there came 
 a !-.!:ril! p';>-r,g whistle, the clash of cutlasses, 
 fierce ringing oaths, sharp pistol cracks, the
 
 120 PRUE AND I. 
 
 thunder of command, and over all the gusty 
 yell of a demoniac cborus, 
 
 " My name was Robert Kidd, when i" sailed." 
 There were no clouds longer, buv- under a 
 serene sky I saw a bark moving with festal 
 pomp, thronged with grave senators in flow 
 ing robes, and one with ducal bonnet in the 
 midst, holding a ring. The smooth bark 
 swam upon a sea like that of southern lati 
 tudes. I saw the Bucentoro and the nuptials 
 of Venice and the Adriatic. 
 
 Who were those coming over the side ? 
 "Who crowded the boats, and sprang into the 
 water, men in old Spanish armor, with 
 plumes and swords, and bearing a glittering 
 cross? Who was he standing upon the 
 deck with folded arms and gazing towards 
 the shore, as lovers on their mistresses and 
 martyrs upon heaven ? Over what distant 
 and tumultuous seas had this small craft 
 escaped from other centuries and distant 
 shores I What sounds of foreign hymns, 
 forgotten now, were these, and what solem 
 nity of debarkation ? Was this grave form, 
 Columbus ?
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 121 
 
 Yet these were not so Spanish as they 
 seemed just now. This group of stern-faced 
 men with high peaked hats, who knelt upon 
 the cold deck and looked out upon a shore 
 which, I could see by their joyless smile of 
 satisfaction, was rough, and bare, and for 
 bidding. In that soft afternoon, standing 
 in mournful groups upon the small deck, 
 why did they 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 my 
 self, " where should I go? whom should I 
 meet ? what should I see ? Is not this the 
 vessel that shall carry me to my Europe, 
 my foreign countries, my impossible India, 
 the Atlantis that I have lost ? " 
 
 As I sat staring at it I could not but won 
 der whether Bourne had seen this sail when 
 he looked upon the water? Does be see 
 such sights every day, because he lives down 
 here? Is it not perhaps a magic yacht of 
 his ; and does he slip off privately after busi 
 ness hours to Venice, and Spain, and Egypt,
 
 122 PRUE AND I. 
 
 perhaps to El Dorado ? Does he run races 
 with Ptolemy, Philopater and Hiero of 
 Syracuse, rare regattas on fabulous seas ? 
 
 "Why not ? He is a rich man, too, and 
 why should not a New York merchant do 
 what a Syracuse tyrant and an Egyptian 
 prince did ? Has Bourne's yacht those 
 sumptuous chambers, like Philopater's gal 
 ley, of which the greater part was made of 
 split cedar, and of Milesian cypress ; and 
 lias he twenty doors put together with 
 beams of citron wood, with many ornaments? 
 Has the roof of his cabin a carved golden 
 face, and is his sail linen with a purple 
 fringe ? 
 
 " I suppose it is so," I said to myself, as I 
 looked wistfully at the ship, 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 not help laughing 
 at poor old Hiero, whose cabins were di 
 vided into many rooms, with floors composed 
 of mosaic work, of all kinds of stones tessel-
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 123 
 
 lated. And, on this mosaic, the whole story 
 of the Iliad was depicted in a marvelous 
 manner. He had gardens "of all sorts of 
 most wonderful beauty, enriched with all 
 sorts of plants, and shadowed by roofs of 
 lead or tiles. Apd, besides this, there were 
 tents roofed with boughs of white ivy and 
 of the vine the roots of which derived their 
 moisture from casks full of earth, and were 
 watered in the same manner as the gardens. 
 There were temples, also, with doors of ivory 
 and citron-wood, furnished in the most ex 
 quisite manner, with pictures and statues, 
 and with goblets and vases of every form 
 and shape imaginable." 
 
 " Poor Bourne ! " I said. " I suppose his 
 is finer than Hiero's which is a thousand 
 \ 7 ears old. Poor Bourne! I don't wonder 
 that his eyes are weary, 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 keepimr i^i a magic yacht ?" 
 
 Involuntarily, I i.::d nskcd the question 
 aloud. 
 
 "The m.iine vrscl-.t i< TV -t TYmrnoV'an-
 
 124 PRUE AND I. 
 
 swered a familiar voice. I looked up, and 
 Titbottom stood by my side. " Do you not 
 know that all Bourne's money would not 
 buy the yacht ? " asked he. " He cannot 
 even see it. And if he could, it would be 
 110 magic yacht to him, but only a battered 
 and solitary hulk." 
 
 The haze blew gently away, as Titbottom 
 spoke, and there lay my Spanish galleon, rny 
 Bucentoro, my Cleopatra's galley, Colum- 
 bus'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 bare 
 headed, and the soft sunset wind played with 
 his few hairs. " 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 have sailed in Hiero's ship, or in 
 Koman galleys, had I lived long centuries 
 ago, and been born a nobleman. But would 
 it be so sweet a remembrance, that of lying
 
 SEA FROM SHORE. 12$ 
 
 on a marble couch, under a golden-faced 
 roof, and within doors of citron-wood and 
 ivory, and sailing in that state to greet queens, 
 who are mummies now, as that of seeing those 
 i'.iir figures, standing under the great gon- 
 fa'on, themselves as lovely as Egyptian belles 
 and going to see more than Egypt dreamed ? 
 r l he yacht was mine, then, and not 
 Bou -ne's. I took Titbottom's arm, and we 
 sauntered toward the ferry. What sump 
 tuous sultan wns I, with this sad vizier ? My 
 lan<m:d odalisque, the sea, lay at my feet as 
 
 V V 
 
 we advanced, and sparkled all over with a 
 sunset smile. Had I trusted myself to her 
 arms, to bo borne to the realms that I shall 
 never see, or sailed long voyages towards 
 Cathay, I am not sure I should have brought 
 a more precious present to Prue, than the 
 story of that afternoon. 
 
 " 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 to do. But how 
 strange that you should see such things at 
 Staten Island. I never did, Mr. Titbottom,"
 
 126 PRUE AND I. 
 
 said she, turning to my deputy whom I had 
 asked to tea. 
 
 " Madam," answered Titbottom, with a 
 kind of wan and quaint dignity, so that I 
 could not help thinking he must have ar 
 rived in that stray ship from the Spanish 
 armada, " neither did Mr.
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 
 
 ** In my mind's eye, Horatio." 
 
 MtmlA
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 
 
 " In my mind's eye, Horatio." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 PRUE and I do not entertain much ; our 
 means forbid it. In truth, other people en 
 tertain for us. We enjoy that hospitality 
 of which no account is made. We see the 
 show, and hear the music, and smell the flow 
 ers, of great festivities, tasting, as it were, 
 the drippings from rich dishes. 
 
 Our own dinner service is remarkably 
 plain, our dinners, even on state occasions, 
 are strictly in 'keeping, and almost our only 
 guest is Titbottoin. I buy a handful of roses 
 as I come up from the office, perhaps, and 
 Prua arranges them so prettily in a glass 
 <lis'i for the center of the table, that, even 
 when I (rive Jr.irrie:! out to see Aurelia step 
 into her carriage) to go out to dine, I have 
 
 tho r;!it tbnt thj bouujiK't she cnrried was 
 i> 129
 
 130 PRUE AND L, 
 
 not more beautiful because it was more 
 costly. 
 
 I grant that it was more harmonious with 
 her superb beauty and her rich 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, who ornaments 
 her sex with as much sweetness, although 
 
 , with less splendor, than Aurelia herself, she 
 would also acknowledge that the nosegay of 
 roses was as line and fit upon their table, as 
 
 her own sumptuous bouquet is for herself. 
 I have so much faith in the perception of 
 that lovely lady. 
 
 It is my habit, I hope I may say, my na 
 ture, to believe the best of people, rather than 
 the worst. If I thought that all this spark 
 ling setting of beauty, this fine fashion, 
 these bla/ing jewels, and lustrous silks, and 
 airy gauzes, embellished with gold-threaded 
 embroidery and wrought in a thousand ex 
 quisite elaborations, so that I cannot see one 
 of those lovely girls pass me by, without 
 thanking God for the vision, if I thought 
 that this was all. and that, underneath her
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 131 
 
 lace flounces and diamond bracelets, Aurelia 
 was a sullen, selfish woman, then I should 
 turn sadly homeward, for I should see that 
 her jewels were flashing scorn upon the 
 object they adorned, that her laces were of 
 a more exquisite loveliness than the woman 
 whom they merely touched with a superficial 
 grace. It would be like a gaily decorated 
 mausoleum, bright to see, but silent and 
 dark within. 
 
 " Great excellences, my dear Prue," I 
 sometimes allow myself to say, " lie con 
 cealed in the depths of character, like pearls 
 at the bottom of the sea. Under the laugh 
 ing, glancing surface, how little they are sus 
 pected ! Perhaps love is nothing else than 
 .the sight of them by one person. Hence 
 every man's mistress is apt to be an enigma 
 to everybody else. 
 
 " I have no doubt that when Aurelia is 
 engaged, people will say she is a most admi 
 rable girl, certainly ; but they cannot under 
 stand why any man should be in love with 
 her. As if it were at all necessary that they 
 should ! And her lover, like a boy who finds
 
 132 PRUE AND I. 
 
 a pearl in the public street, and wonders as 
 much that others did not see it as th;tt he did, 
 will tremble until he knows liis passion is re 
 turned ; feeling, of course, that the whole 
 world must be in love with this paragon, 
 who cannot possibly smile upon anything so 
 unworthy as he. 
 
 ' 1 hope, therefore, my dear Mrs. Prue," 
 I continue, and my wife looks up, with 
 pleased pride, from her work', as if I were 
 such an irresistible humorist, "you \villallo\v 
 me to believe that the depth may be calm, 
 although the surface is dancing. If you tell 
 me that Aurelia is buta^iddy girl, 1 shall 
 believe that you thinks^*. But I shall know, 
 n\\\ the while, what profound dignity, ;:n<l 
 s \veetn ess, and peace. lie at the foundation of 
 IKT character.** 
 
 1 say such things toTitbottmn, during the 
 dull season at the office. And I luivo known 
 iiim sometimes to reply, witli a kind of dry, 
 sad humor, not PS if he enjoyed the j<>!:'\ 
 but ns if the joke must b made, that he sa \v 
 Tto reas-^'i v'iv I should be dull loca.use the 
 season w.is so.
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 133 
 
 " And what do I know of Aurelia, or any 
 
 other girl ? " he says to me with that ab 
 stracted air; "I whose Aurelias were of an 
 other century, and another zone." 
 
 Then he falls into a silence which it seems 
 quite profane to interrupt. But as we sit 
 upon oar high stools, at the desk, opposite 
 each other, I leaning upon my elbows, and 
 looking at him, he, with sidelong face, glan 
 cing out of die window, as if it commanded a 
 boundless landscape, instead of a dim, dingy 
 office court, I cannot refrain from saying : 
 
 " Well ! " 
 
 He turns slowly, and I go chatting on, 
 a little too loquacious perhaps, about those 
 young girls. But I know that Titbottom re 
 gards such an excess as venial, for his sadness 
 is so sweet that you could believe it the re 
 flection of a smile from long, long years ago. 
 
 One day, after I had been talking for a 
 longtime, and we had put up our books, and 
 were preparing to leave, he stood for some? 
 time by the window, gazing with a drooping 
 intent-ness, as if he really saw something 
 more than tho dark court, and said slowly :
 
 134 FRUE AND I. 
 
 " Perhaps you would have different im 
 pressions of things, if you saw them through 
 my spectacles." 
 
 There was no change in his expression. 
 He . still looked from the window, and I 
 said : 
 
 " Titbottom, I did not know that you used 
 glasses. I have never seen you wearing 
 spectacles." 
 
 " No, I don't often wear them* I am not 
 very fond of looking through them. But 
 sometimes an irresistible necessity compels 
 me to put them on, and I cannot help 
 seeing." 
 
 Titbottom sighed. N 
 
 " Is it o grievous a fate to see ? " inquired I. 
 
 "Yes; through my spectacles," he said, 
 turning slowly, and looking at me 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. The heavy iron shutters 
 were gloomily closed over the windows. 
 From one o; - two ollices struggled the dim
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 135 
 
 gleam of an early cair^e, by whose light 
 some perplexed accountant sat belated, and 
 hunting for his error. A careless clerk 
 passed, whistling. But the great tide of 
 life had ebbed. We heard its roar far 
 away, and the sound stole into that silent 
 street like the murmur of the ocean into an 
 inland dell. 
 
 " You will come and dine with us, Tit- 
 bottom ? " 
 
 He assented by continuing to walk with 
 me, and I think we were both glad 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 a happier man for it." 
 
 Prue looked a little puzzled. 
 
 "My dear," I said, "you must know that 
 our friend, Mr. Titbottom, is the happy 
 possessor of a pair of wonderful spectacles. 
 I have never seen them, indeed ; and, from 
 what he says, I should be rather afraid of
 
 136 TRUE AND I. 
 
 being seen by them. Most shortsighted 
 persons are very glad to have the help of 
 glasses ; but Mr. Titbottom seems to find 
 very little pleasure in his." 
 
 " It is because they make him too far- 
 sighted, perhaps/' interrnpted Prue quietly, 
 :.s she to;>k the silver soup-ladle from the 
 sideboard. 
 
 We sip{>ed our wine after dinner, and 
 Prue took hor work. Can a nr.m be too 
 far-sighted ? I did not ask the question 
 aloud. The very tone in which Prue had 
 spoken, convinced me that he might. 
 
 "At least," I s:iid, "Mr. Titbottom will 
 not refuse to tell us tho history of his mys 
 terious spectacles. I have known plenty 
 of magic in eyes (and I glanced at the 
 tender blue eyes of Prue), but I have not 
 heard of any enchanted glasses." 
 
 " Yet you must have seen the glass in 
 which your wife looks every morning, and, 
 I take it, that glass must be daily enchanted," 
 said Titbottom, with a bow of quaint respect 
 to my wife. 
 
 I do not think I have seen such a blush
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 137 
 
 upon Prue's cheek since well, since a great 
 
 many years ago. 
 
 " I will gladly tell you the history of ray 
 spectacles," begun Titbottom. " It is very 
 simple ; and I am not at all sure that a great 
 many other people have not a pair of the 
 s:une kind. I have never, indeed, heard of 
 them by the gross, like those of our young 1 
 friend, Mosss, the son of the Vicar of Wake- 
 lield. In fact, I think a gross would be 
 quite enough to supply the world. It is a 
 kind of article for which the demand does 
 not increase with use. If we should all 
 wear spectacles like mine, we should never 
 smile any more. Or I am not quite 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 large proprietor, 
 and a easy man, be basked in the tropical 
 sun, leading his quiet, luxurious life. He 
 lived much alone, and ivas Tvhat people call 
 eccentric by which I understand, that he 
 was very much himselfj and, refusing the
 
 138 PRUE AND I. 
 
 influence of other people, they had their re 
 venges, and called him names. T i is a habit 
 not exclusively tropical. I think I have seen 
 the same thing even in this city. 
 
 " But he was greatly beloved my bland 
 and bountiful grandfather. He was so 
 large-hearted and open-handed. He was so 
 friendly, and thoughtful, and genial, that even 
 his jokes had the air of graceful benedic 
 tions. He did not seem to grow old, and he 
 was one of those who never appear to have 
 been very young. He flourished in a per 
 ennial maturity, and 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 
 rambling West Indian mansion, was sur 
 rounded with deep, spacious piazzas, covered 
 with luxurious lounges, among which one 
 capacious chair was his peculiar seat. They 
 tell me, he used sometimes to sit there for 
 the whole day, his great, soft, brown eyes 
 fastened upon the sea, watching the specks 
 of sails that flashed upon the horizon, while 
 the evanescent expressions chased each other
 
 TTTBOTTOMS SPECTACLES. 139 
 
 over his placid face as if it reflected the 
 calm and changing sea before him. 
 
 " His morning costume was an ample 
 dressing-gown of gorgeously-flowered silk, 
 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 in the pockets of his dressing-gown, 
 and an air of sweet reverie, which any book 
 must be a very entertaining one to produce. 
 
 " Society, of course, he saw little. There 
 was some slight apprehension that, if he 
 Avere bidden to social entertainments, he 
 might forget his coat, or arrive without 
 some other essential part of his dress ; and 
 there is a sly tradition in the Titbottom 
 family, that once, having been invited to a 
 ball in honor of a new governor of the 
 island, my grandfather Titbottom sauntered 
 into the hall towards midnight, wrapped in 
 the gorgeous flowers of his dressing-gown, 
 and with his hands buried in the pockets, as 
 usual. There was great excitement among 
 the guests, and immense deprecation of guber 
 natorial ire. Fortunately, it happened that
 
 140 PRUE AND I. 
 
 the governor and ray grandfather were old 
 friends, and there was no offense. But, as 
 they were conversing together, one of the 
 distressed managers cast indignant glances 
 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, anJ 
 looked at my grandfather. 
 
 " 'My friend,' said he to the manager, ' 1 
 beg your pardon, I forgot.' 
 
 " The next day, my grandfather was seen 
 promenading in full ball dress along the 
 streets of the little town. 
 
 " ' They ought to know,' said he, 5 that 
 I have a proper coat, and that not contempt, 
 nor poverty, but forgetfulncss, sent me to a 
 ball in my dressing-gown.' 
 
 "He did not much frequent social festi 
 vals after this failure, but he always told the 
 story with satisfaction and a quiet smile. 
 
 " To a stranger, life upon those little islands 
 is uniform even to weariness. But the old
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 141 
 
 native dons, like my grandfather, ripen in 
 the prolonged sunshine, like the turtle upon 
 the Bahama banks, nor know of existence 
 more desirable. Life in the tropics, I take 
 to be a placid torpidity. 
 
 " During the long, warm mornings of 
 nearly half a century, my grand lather Tit- 
 bottom had sat in his dressing-gown, and 
 gazed at the sea. lJut one calm June day, as he 
 slowly paced the piazza after breakfast, his 
 dreamy glance was arrested by a little ves 
 sel, evidently nearing the shore. lie called 
 for his spy-glass, and, surveying the craft, 
 saw that she came from the neighboring 
 island. Slu glided, smoothly, slowly, over 
 the summer sea. The warm morning air 
 was sweet with perfumes, and silent with 
 heat. The sea sparkled languidly, and the 
 brilliant blue sky hung cloudlessly over. 
 Scores of little island vessels had my grand 
 father seen coming over the horizon, and 
 cast anchor in the port. Hundreds of sum 
 mer morniniis h:ul the white sails flashed 
 and faded, like v.-cjuo f-ices through forgot 
 ten dr. vims, r.tit th s timo ho l:;id down the
 
 142 PRUE AND I. 
 
 spy-glass, and leaned against a column of the 
 piazza, and watched the vessel with an in- 
 tentness that he couM not explain. She 
 came nearer and nearer, a graceful specter 
 in the dazzling morning. 
 
 " ' Decidedly, I must step down and see 
 about that vessel,' said my grandfather 
 Titbottom. 
 
 "He gathered his ample dressing-gown 
 about him, and stepped from the piazza, with 
 no other protection from the sun than the little 
 smoking cap upon his head. His face wore 
 a calm, beaming smile, as if he loved the 
 Avhole world. He was not an old man ; but 
 there was almost a patriarchal pathos in his 
 expression, as he sauntered along in the sun 
 shine towards the shore. A group of idle 
 gazers was collected, to watch the arrival. 
 The little vessel furled her sails, and drifted 
 slowly landwards, and, as she was of very 
 light draft, she came close to the shelving 
 shore. A long plank was put out from her 
 side, and the debarkation commenced. 
 
 " My grandfather Titbottom stood look 
 ing on, to see tho passengers as they passed.
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 143 
 
 There were but a fe\\ r of them, and mostly 
 traders from the neighboring island. But 
 suddenly the face of a young girl appeared 
 over the side of the vessel, and she stepped 
 upon the plank to descend. My grandfather 
 Titbottom instantly advanced, and, moving 
 briskly, reached the top of the plank at the 
 same moment, and with the old tassel of his 
 cap flashing in the sun, and one hand in the 
 pocket of his dressing-gown, with the other 
 he handed the young lady careful^ down 
 the plank. That young lady was afterwards 
 my grandmother Titbottom. 
 
 " For, over the gleaming sea which he had 
 watched so long, and which seemed thus to 
 reward his patient gaze, came his bride that 
 sunny morning. 
 
 " ' Of course, we are happy,' he used to 
 say to her, after they were married : ' For 
 you are the gift of the sun I have loved so 
 lomnmd so well.' And mv grand father Tit- 
 
 O *s O 
 
 bottom would lay his hand so tenderly upon 
 the golden hair of his young bride, that you 
 could fancy him a devout Parsee, caressing 
 sunbeams.
 
 144 PRUE AND I. 
 
 " There were endless festivities upon oc 
 casion of the marriage ; and my grand 
 father did not go to one of them in his 
 dressing-gown. The gentle sweetness of his 
 wife melted every heart into love and sym 
 pathy. He was much older than she, with 
 out doubt. But agt.-, as ho used to say with 
 a smilo of immortal youth, is a matter of 
 feeling, not of years.Uj^, 
 
 " And if, sometimes, as she sat by his side 
 on the piazza, her fancy looked through her 
 eyes upon that summer sea, and saw a younger 
 lover, perhaps some one of those graceful 
 and glowing heroes who occupy the fore 
 ground of all young maidens' visions by the 
 sea, yet she could not find one more generous 
 and gracious, nor fancy one more worthy 
 and loving than my grandfather Titbottom. 
 
 "And if, in the moonlit midnight, while 
 he lay calmly sleeping, she leaned out of the 
 window, and sank into vague reveries of 
 sweet possibility, and watched the gleaming 
 path of the moonlight upon the water, until 
 the dawn glided over it it was only that 
 mood of nameless ro~rot and longing, which
 
 TITEOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 145 
 
 underlies tul human happiness; or it was the 
 vision of that life of cities and the world, 
 which she had never seen, but of which she 
 had often read, and which looked very fair 
 and alluring across the sea, to a girlish im 
 agination, which knew that it should never 
 see that reality. 
 
 " These West Indian years were the great 
 days of the family," said Titbottom, with an 
 air of majestic and regal regret, pausing, and 
 musing, in our little parlor, like a late Stuart 
 in exile, remembering England. 
 
 Prue raised her eyes from her work, and 
 looked at him with subdued admiration ; for 
 I have observed that, like the rest of her 
 sex, she has a singular sympathy with the 
 representative of a reduced family. 
 
 Perhaps it is their finer perception, which. 
 1-jads these tender-hearted women to recog- 
 niz3 the divine right of social superiority so 
 much more readily than we ; and yet, much 
 as Titbottom was enhanced in my wife's 
 admiration by the discovery that his dusky 
 sadness of nature and expression was, as it 
 w > :*'\ the expiring gleam and late twilight
 
 146 PRUE AND I. 
 
 of ancestral splendors. I doubt if Mr. Bourne 
 would have preferred him for bookkeeper 
 a moment sooner upon that account. In 
 truth, I have observed, down town, that the 
 fact of your ancestors doing nothing 1 , is not 
 considered good proof that you can do i.r.y- 
 thing. 
 
 But Prue and her sex regard soiitiitu-: t 
 more than action, and I understand tas.ly 
 enough why she is uever tired of hearing in j 
 read of Prince Charlie. If Titboitom l.;.d 
 been only a little younger, a little hard- 
 somer, a little more gallantly dressc. 1 in fact, 
 a little more of a Prince Charlie, I am sure 
 her eyes would not have fallen again upon 
 her work so tranquilly, as he resumed his 
 story. 
 
 " I can remember my grandfather Titbot 
 torn, although I was a very young child, and 
 he was a very old man. My young mother 
 and my young grandmother are very dis 
 tinct figures in my memory, ministering to 
 the old gentleman, wrapped in his dressing- 
 gown, and seated upon the piazza. I remem 
 ber his white hair, and his calm smile, a:;d
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 147 
 
 how, not long before he died, he called me 
 to him, and laying his hand upon my head r 
 said to me : 
 
 " ' My child, the world is not this great 
 sunny piazza, nor life the fairy stories 
 which tho women tell you here, as you sit 
 i:i their laps. I shall soon be gone, but I 
 want to leave with you some memento of 
 my love for you, and I know of nothing- 
 more valuable than these spectacles, which 
 your grandmother brought from her native 
 island, when she arrived here one fine sum 
 mer morning, long ago. I cannot tell 
 whether, when, you grow older, you will re 
 gard them as a gift of the greatest value, or 
 as something that you had been happier never 
 to have possessed.' 
 
 " ' But, grandpapa, I am not short-sighted/ 
 
 " ' My son, are you not human ? ' said the 
 
 old gentleman ; and how shall I ever forget 
 
 the thoughtful sadness with which, at the 
 
 o > 
 
 same time, he handed me the spectacles. 
 
 " Instinctively I put them on, and looked 
 at my grandfather. But I saw no grand 
 father, no piazza, no flowered dressing-gown ;
 
 148 PRUE AND I. 
 
 I saw only a luxuriant palm-tree, waving 
 broadly over a tranquil landscape ; pleasant 
 homes clustered around it; gardens teeming 
 with fruit and flowers ; flocks quietly feed 
 ing; birds wheeling and chirping.' I heard 
 children's voices, and the low lullaby of 
 happy mothers. The sound of cheerful 
 singing came wafted from distant fields upon 
 the light breeze. Golden harvests glistened 
 out of sight, and I caught their rustling 
 whispers of prosperity. A warm, mellow 
 atmosphere bathed the whole. 
 
 " I have seen copies of the landscapes of 
 the Italian painter Claude, which seemed to 
 me faint reminiscences of that calm and 
 happy vision. But all this peace and pros 
 perity seemed to flow from the spreading 
 palm as from a fountain. 
 
 " I do not know how long I looked, but I 
 had, apparently, no power, as T had no will, 
 to remove the spectacles. What a wonder 
 ful island must Nevis be, thought I, if people 
 carry such pictures in their pockets, only by 
 buying a pair of spectacles ! What wonder 
 that my dear grandmother Tit bottom has
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 149 
 
 lived such a placid life, and has blessed us 
 all with her sunny temper, when she has. 
 lived surrounded by such images of peace ! 
 
 " My grandfather died. But still, in the 
 warm morning sunshine upon the piazza, I 
 felt his placid presence, and as I crawled 
 into his great chair, and drifted on in reverie 
 through the still tropical day, it was as if 
 his soft dreamy eye had passed into my soul. 
 My grandmother cherished his memory with, 
 tender regret. A violent passion of grief 
 for his loss was no more possible than for 
 the pensive decay of the year. 
 
 " 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 one good old man one man 
 who, through the chances and rubs of a long, 
 life, has carried his heart in his hand, like a, 
 palm branch, waving all discords into peace,, 
 helps our faith in God, in ourselves, and in 
 each other, more than many sermons. I 
 hardly know whether to be grateful to my 
 grandfather for the spectacles ; and yet 
 when I remember that it is to them I owe,
 
 150 PRUE AND I. 
 
 the pleasant image of him which I cherish 
 I seem to myself sadly ungrateful. 
 
 " Madam," said Tit bottom to Prue, sol 
 emnly, "my memory is a long ami glooinv 
 gallery, and only remotely, at its further 
 end, do I see the glimmer of soft sunshine, 
 and only there are the .pleasant pictures 
 hung. They seem to me very happy along 
 whose gallery the sunlight streams to their 
 very feet, striking all the pictured walls into 
 unfading splendor." 
 
 Prue had laid her \vork 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 she 
 felt herself to be one of those who seemed 
 to Titbottom very happ} 7 . 
 
 " Misfortunes of many kinds came heavily 
 upon the family after the head was gone. 
 The great house was relinquished. My 
 parents were both dead, and my grand 
 mother had entire charge of me. But from 
 the moment that I received the gift of the 
 -.spectacles, I could i:ot ivsist tl.eir fascination,
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 151 
 
 and I withdrew into myself, and became a. 
 solitary boy. There Avere not many com 
 panions for me of my own age, and they 
 gradually left me, or, at least, had not a 
 Learty s} r mpathy with me; for, if they 
 teased me, I pulled out my spectacles and 
 surveyed them so seriously that they acquired 
 a kind of awe of me, and evidently regarded 
 my grandfather's gift as a concealed magical 
 weapon which might be dangerously drawn, 
 upon them at any moment. Whenever, ia 
 our games, there were quarrels and high 
 words, and I began to feel about my dresa 
 and to wear a grave look, they all took the 
 alarm, and shouted, ' Look out for Titbot- 
 tom's spectacles,' and scattered like a flock 
 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 quarreling about a marble 
 or a ball, I had only to go behind a tree 
 where I was concealed and look at them 
 /eisurely. Then the scene changed, and it
 
 352 PRUE AND I. 
 
 was no longer a green meadow with boys 
 playing, but a spot which I did not recognize, 
 and forms that made me shudder, or smile. 
 It was not a big boy bullying a little one, 
 but a yo-.mg wolf with glistening teeth and 
 a lamb cowering before him ; or, it was a 
 <log faithful and famishing or a star going 
 slowly into eclipse or a rainbow fading 
 or a flower blooming or a sun rising or a 
 waning moon. 
 
 " The revelations of the spectacles deter- 
 in inc-d my feeling for the boys, and for all 
 AY horn I saw through them. No shyness, 
 nor awkwardness, nor silence, could separate 
 me from those who looked lovely as lilies to 
 my illuminated eyes. But the vision made 
 me afraid. It I felt myself warmly drawn 
 to any one, I struggled with the fierce desire 
 of seeing him through the spectacles, for I 
 feared to find him something else than I 
 fancied. I longed to enjoy the luxury of 
 ignorant feeling, to love without knowing, 
 to float like a leaf upon the eddies of life, 
 -drifted now to a sunny point, now to a 
 solemn shade now ovor glittering ripples,
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 153 
 
 now over gleaming calms, and not to 
 determined ports, a trim vessel with an inex 
 orable rudder. 
 
 " But sometimes, mastered after long 
 strujwles, as if the unavoidable condition of 
 
 OO 7 
 
 owning the spectacles were using them, I 
 seized them and sauntered into the little 
 town. Putting them to ray eyes I peered, 
 into the houses and at the people who passed 
 me. Here, sat a family at breakfast, and I 
 stood at the window looking in. O motley 
 meal ! fantastic vision ! The good mother 
 saw her lord sitting opposite, a grave, re 
 spectable being, eating muffins. But I saw 
 only a bank-bill, more or less crumbled and 
 tattered, marked with a larger or lesser- 
 figure. If a sharp wind blew suddenly, I 
 saw it tremble and flutter ; it was thin, flat,, 
 impalpable. I removed my glasses, and 
 looked with my eyes at the wife. I tould 
 have smiled to see the humid tenderness with 
 which she regarded her strange r/.v ft //.<?. 
 Is life only a g:m; of blind man's- buIH of 
 droll cross-purposes? 
 
 "Or I put t i.-::i <TI ?V".Mn, -r>d ;ho'i looked
 
 154 PRUE AND I. 
 
 at the wives. How many stout trees J saw, 
 bow many tender flowers, how many 
 placid pools ; yes, and how many little streams 
 winding out of sight, shrinking before the 
 large, hard, round eyes opposite, and slipping 
 off into solitude and shade, 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 calls upon elegant 
 ladies, and after 1 had enjoyed the gloss of 
 silk, and the delicacy of lace, and the glitter 
 of jewels, I slipped on my spectacles, and 
 sa\v a peacock's feather, flounced, and furbe- 
 lowed, and fluttering ; or an iron rod, thin, 
 sharp, and hard ; nor could I possibly mis 
 take the movement of the drapery for any 
 flexibility of the thing draped. 
 
 " Or, mysteriously chilled, I saw a statue 
 of perfect form, or flowing movement, it 
 might be alabaster, or bronze, or marble, 
 Iwt sadly often it was ice ; and I knew that 
 lifter it had shone a little, a:*.d frozen a few
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 155 
 
 eyes with its despairing perfection, it could 
 not be put away in the niches of palaces for 
 ornament and proud family tradition, like 
 the alabaster, or bronze, or marble statues, 
 but would melt, and shrink, and fall coldly 
 away in colorless and useless water, be ab 
 sorbed in the earth and utterly forgotten. 
 
 " But the true sadness was rather in see 
 ing those who, not having the spectacles, 
 thought that the iron rod was flexible, and 
 the ice status warm. I saw many a gallant 
 heart, which seemed to me brave and loyal 
 as the crusaders, pursuing, through days and 
 nights, ami a long life of devotion, the hope 
 of lighting at least a smile in the cold eves, 
 
 O fj v * 
 
 if not a tiro in the icy heart. I watched the 
 earnest, enthusiastic sacrifice. I saw the 
 pure resolve, the generous faith, the fine 
 scorn of doubt, the impatience of suspicion. 
 I watched the grace, the ardor, the glory of 
 devotion. Through those strange spectacles 
 how often I s:iw the noblest heart renouncing 
 all other hope, all other ambition, all other 
 life, than the possible love of some one of 
 those stntiv^
 
 156 PRUE ASD I. 
 
 " Ah ! me, it was terrible, but they had 
 not the love to give. The face Avas so 
 polished and smooth, because there was no 
 sorrow in the heart, and drearily, often, no 
 heart to be touched. I could not wonder 
 that the noble heart of devotion was brok< n, 
 for it had dashed itself against a sl< no. 1 
 wept, until my spectacles were dimmed, for 
 those hopeless lovers ; but there was a j -;:iig 
 beyond tears for those icy statues. 
 
 " Still a boy, I was thus too much a n;;;n 
 in knowledge, I did not comprchrsid ti.e 
 sights I was compelled to see. I used to tear 
 my glasses away from my eyes, ard, fright 
 ened ut myself, run to escape my own con 
 sciousness. Reaching the small Louse w'here 
 we then lived, I plunged into my grand 
 mother's room, and, throwing myself upon 
 the floor, buried my face in her lap ; and 
 sobbed myself to sleep with premature grief. 
 
 " But when J awakened, and felt her cool 
 hand upon my hot forehead, and heard the 
 low sweet song, or the gentle story, or the 
 tenderly told payable from the Bible, with 
 which she tried to soothe me, I could not re-
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 157 
 
 sist the mystic fascination that lured me, as 
 I lay in her lap, to steal a glance at her 
 through the spectacles. 
 
 u Pictures of the Madonna have not her 
 rare and pensive beauty. Upon the tran 
 quil little islands her life had been eventless, 
 and all the fine possibilities of her nature 
 \vere like flowers that never bloomed. 
 Placid were all her years ; yet I have rend 
 of no heroine, of no woman great in sudden 
 crises, that it did not seem to me she might 
 have been. The wife and widow of a man 
 who loved his home better than the homes 
 of others, I have yet heard of no queen, no 
 belle, no imperial beauty whom in grace, and 
 brilliancy, and persuasive courtesy, siie 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 camellia in her hair, and no 
 diamond in the ball-room seems so costly as 
 that perfect flower, which women envy, and 
 for whose least and withered petal men sigh ^ 
 yet, in the tropical solitudes of Brazil, how
 
 158 PRUE AND I. 
 
 many a camellia bud drops from the bush 
 that no eye has ever seen, which, had it 
 flowered and been noticed, would have gilded 
 all hearts with its memory. 
 
 " When I stole these furtive glances at my 
 grandmother, half fearing that they were 
 wrong, J saw only a calm lake, whose shores 
 were low, and over which the sun hung 
 unbroken, so that the least star was clearly 
 reflected. It had an atmosphere of solemn 
 twilight tranquillity, and so completely did 
 its unruffled surface blend with the cloud 
 less, star-studded sky, that, when I looked 
 through my spectacles at my grandmother, 
 the vision seemed to me all heaven and 
 stars. 
 
 " Yet, as I gazed and gazed, I felt what 
 stately cities might well have been built upon 
 those shores, and have flashed prosperity 
 over the calm, like coruscations of pearls. I 
 dreamed of gorgeous fleets, silken-sailed, ;.mi 
 blown by perfumed winds, drifting over those 
 depthless waters and through those spacious 
 skies. I gazed upon the twilight, the inscru 
 table silence, like a God-fearing discoverer
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 159 
 
 upon a new and vast sea bursting upon him 
 through forest glooms, and in the fervor of 
 whose impassioned gaze, a millennial and 
 poetic world arises, and man need no longer 
 die to be happy. 
 
 " My companions naturally deserted me, 
 for I had gro\vn wearily grave and ab 
 stracted : and, unable to resist the allure 
 ments of my spectacles, I was constantly 
 lost in the world, of which those companions 
 were part, yet of which they knew nothing. 
 
 " I grew cold and hard, almost morose ; 
 people seemed to me so blind and unreason 
 able. They did the wrong thing. They 
 called green, yellow ; and black, white. 
 Young men said of a girl, ' "What a lovely, 
 simple creature ! ' I looked, and there was 
 only a glistening wisp of straw, dry and hol- 
 iow. Or they said, ' What a cold, proud 
 beaut}' ! ' I looked, and lo ! a Madonna, 
 whose heart held the world. Or they said, 
 * What a wild, giddy girl ! ' and I saw a 
 glancing, dancing mountain stream, pure as 
 the virgin snows whence it flowed, singing 
 through sun and shade, over pearls and gold
 
 l6o PRUE AND I. 
 
 dust, slipping along unstained by weed or 
 rain, or heavy foot of cattle, touching the 
 flowers with a dewy kiss, a beam of grace, 
 a happy song, a line of light, in the dim and 
 troubled landscape. 
 
 " My grandmother sent me to school, but 
 I looked at the muster, and s;i\v that he was 
 a smooth r.mnd ferule, or an improper noun, 
 or a vulgar fraction, and refused to obey 
 him. Or ho was a piece of string, a rag, a 
 wiilow-wan .l,and I had a contemptuous pity. 
 But one was a well of cool, deep water, and 
 looking suddenly in, one day, I saw the 
 stars. 
 
 *' That one g ive me all my schooling. 
 With, him I used to walk by the sea, and, as 
 we strolled and the waves plunged in long 
 legions before us, T looked at him through the 
 spectacles, and as his eyes dilated with the 
 boundless view, and his chest heaved with 
 an impossible desire, I saw Xerxes and his 
 army, tossed and glittering, rank upon rank, 
 multitude upon multitude, out of sight, but 
 ever regularly advancing, and with confuted 
 roar of ceaseless music, prostrating them-
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 161 
 
 selves in abject homage. Or, as with arms 
 outstretched and hair streaming on the wind, 
 he chanted full lines of the resounding Iliad, 
 I sa\v Homer pacing the Egean sands of the 
 Greek sunsets of forgotten times. 
 
 " My grandmother died, and I was thrown 
 into the world without resources, and with 
 no capital but my spectacles. I tried to find 
 employment, but everybody was shy of me. 
 There was a vague suspicion that I was 
 either a little crazed, or a good deal in league 
 with the prince of darkness. My compan 
 ions, who would persist in calling a piece of 
 painted muslin, a fair and fragrant flower, 
 had no difficulty ; success waited for them 
 around every corner, and arrived in every 
 ship. 
 
 " I tried to teach, for I loved children. 
 But if anything excited a suspicion of my 
 pupils, and putting on my spectacles, I saw 
 that 1 was fondling a snake, or smelling at 
 a bud with a worm i;i it, 1 sprang up in hor 
 ror and rin away; or, if it seemed .to me 
 thro ig'i the glasses, that a cherub smiled 
 
 upo \ i)i, or a roso was blooming in my 
 i
 
 162 PRUE AND I. 
 
 buttonhole, then I felt myself imperfect and 
 impure, not lit to be leading and training 
 what was so essentially superior to myself, 
 and I kissed the children and left them 
 weeping and wondering. 
 
 " In despair I went to a great merchant 
 on the island, and asked him to employ me. 
 
 " ' My dear young friend,' said he, ' I un 
 derstand that you have some singular secret, 
 some charm, or spell, or amulet, or some 
 thing, I don't kno\v what, of which people 
 are afraid. Now you know, my dear,' said 
 the merchant, swelling up, and apparently 
 prouder of his great stomach than of his 
 large fortune, 'I am not of that kind. I am 
 not easily frightened. You may spare 
 yourself the pain of trying to impose upon 
 me. People who propose to come to time 
 before I arrive, are accustomed to arise very 
 6arly in the morning,' said he, thrusting his 
 thumbs in the armholesof his waistcoat, and 
 spreading the fingers like two fans, upon his 
 bosom. ' I think I have heard something of 
 your secret. You have a pair of spectacles, 
 I believe, that you valn~ very much, because
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 163 
 
 your grandmother brought them as a mar 
 riage portion to your grandfather. Now, if 
 you think fit to sell me those spectacles; I 
 will pay you the largest market price for 
 them. What do you 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 a contemptuous 
 smile. 
 
 " I made no reply, but was turning to- 
 leave the office, when the merchant called 
 after me 
 
 " ' My young friend, poor people should 
 never suffer themselves to get into pets. 
 Anger is an expansive luxury, in which only 
 men of a certain income can indulge. A. 
 pair of spectacles and a hot temper are r.ot 
 the most promising capital for success in 
 life, Master Titbottom.' 
 
 " I said nothing, but put my hand upon 
 the door to go out, when the merchant said, 
 more respectfully 
 
 " 'Well, you foolish boy, if you will not' 
 sell your spectacles, perhaps you will agree
 
 164 PRUE AND I. 
 
 to sell the use of them to me. That is, you 
 shall only put them on when I direct you, 
 and for my purposes. Hullo ! you little fool ! ' 
 cried he, impatiently, as he saw that I in 
 tended to make no reply. 
 
 " But I had pulled out my spectacles and 
 put them on for mv own purposes, and 
 agiinst his wish and desire. I looked at him, 
 and saw a huge, bald-headed wild boar, with 
 gross chaps and a leering eye only the 
 more ridiculous for the high-arched, gold- 
 bowed spectacles, that straddled his nose. 
 O.io 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 forward with a brisk, sensitive smart 
 ness. In a word where prize pork was the 
 best excellence, he would have carried off all 
 the premiums. 
 
 " T stenped into the next office in the street, 
 and a mild-faced, genial man, also a large and 
 opulent merchant, asked me my business in 
 s-^'i :\ ton", th-'t T instantly looked through 
 ir.v 9' v - i ''*.;icV v v rind snw a land flowing with
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 165 
 
 milk and honey. There I pitched my tent, 
 and stayed till the good man died, and his 
 business was discontinued. 
 
 " But while there,'' said Titbottom, and 
 his voice trembled away into a sigh, k ' I first 
 saw Pivcios i Despite the spectacles, I saw 
 Predosa. For days, for weeks, for months, 
 I dU not take my spectacles with me. T ran. 
 awav from them, I threw them up on high 
 shelves, I tried to make up my mind to throw 
 them into the sea, or down the well. I could 
 not, I would not, I dared not, look at Pre- 
 ciosa through the spectacles. It was not pos 
 sible for me deliberately to destroy them ; but 
 I awoke in the night, and could almost have 
 cursed my dear old grandfather for his gift. 
 
 ' ; I sometimes escaped from the office, and 
 sat for whole days with Preciosa. I told 
 her the strange things I had seen with my 
 mystic glasses. The hours were not enough 
 for the wild romances which I raved in her 
 ear. She listene:!, astonished and appalled. 
 Her blue eyes turned upon me with sweet 
 deprecation. She clung to me, and then 
 withdrew, and fie;l fearfully from the room-
 
 1 66 PRUE AND I. 
 
 " But she could not stay away. She could 
 not resist ray voice, in whose tones burnt all 
 the love that filled my heart and brain. The 
 very effort 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. I sat by her side, looking into her 
 eyes, smoothing her hair, folding her to my 
 heart, which was sunken deep and deep 
 why not forever? in that dream of peace. 
 I ran from her presence, and shouted, and 
 leaped with joy, and sat the whole night 
 through thrilled into happiness by the 
 thought of her love and loveliness, like a 
 wind harp, tightly strung, and answering the 
 airiest sigh of the breeze with music. 
 
 " Then came calmer days the conviction 
 of deep love settled upon our lives as after 
 the hurrying, heaving days of spring, comes 
 the bland and benignant summer. 
 
 u ' It is no dream, then, after all, and we 
 are happy,' I s:iid to her, one day ; and there 
 came no answer, for happiness is speechless. 
 
 " ' We are happy, thon,' I said to myself, 
 * there is no excite :i >:ir no v. I low jrlad I
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 167 
 
 am that I can now look- at her through my 
 spectacles.' 
 
 " I feared lest some instinct should warn 
 me to beware. I escaped from her arms, and 
 ran home and seiz3:l t'.ie glasses, and bound 
 ed back again to Prociosa. As I entered the 
 room I was heat3;l, my head was swimming 
 with confused apprehensions, my eyes must 
 have glared. Preciosa was frightened, and 
 rising from her sent, stood with an inquiring 
 glance of surprise i:i Ii3r eyas. 
 
 " But I was b3nt with frenzy upon my 
 purpose. I was merely aware that she was 
 in the room. I saw nothing else. I heard 
 nothing. I cared for nothing, but to see her 
 through that magic glass, and feel at once 
 all the fulness of blissful perfection which 
 that would reveal. Preciosa stood before 
 the mirror, but alarmed at my wild and eager 
 movements, unible to distinguish what I 
 had in my hands, and seeing me raise them 
 suddenly to my face, she shrieked with ter 
 ror, and fell fainting upon the floor, at the 
 very moment that I placed the glasses before 
 my eyes, and beheld 'myself, reflected in
 
 l68 PRUE AND I. 
 
 the mirror, before which she had been stand 
 ing. 
 
 "Dear madam," cried Titbottom, to my 
 wife, springing up and falling back again in 
 his chair, pale and trembling, while Prue 
 ran to him and took 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 the head of our 
 guest, whose eyes were closed, and who 
 breathed softly like an infant in sleeping. 
 Perhaps, in all the long years of anguish 
 since that hour, no tender hand had touched 
 his brow, nor wiped away the damps of a 
 bitter sorrow. Perhaps the tender, maternal 
 fingers of my wife smoothed his .weary head 
 with the conviction that he felt the hand of 
 his mother playing with the long hair of her 
 boy in the soft "West India morning. Per 
 haps it was only the natural relief of express 
 ing a pent-up sorrow. 
 
 "When he spoke again, it was with the old 
 subdued tone, and thenirof quaint solemnity. 
 
 " These things were m jitters of lono-, long 
 
 - ty* *** 
 
 ago. and I came to this country soon after. I
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 169 
 
 brought with me, premature age, a past of 
 melancholy memories, and the magic spoc- 
 tacles. I had become their slave. I had 
 nothing more to fear. Having seen myself, I 
 was compelled to see others, properly to un 
 derstand my relations to them. The lig'.il.; 
 that cheer the future of other men had gon^ 
 out for me, my eyes were those of an exi!o 
 turned backwards upon the receding shore, 
 and not forwards with hope upon the ocean. 
 " I mingled with men, but with little 
 pleasure. There are but many varieties 
 of a few types. I did not find those I came- 
 to clearer-sighted than those I had left be 
 hind. I heard men called shrewd and wise, 
 and report said they were highly intelligent 
 and successful. My finest sense detected no 
 aroma of purity and principle ; but I saw 
 only a fungus that had fattened and spread 
 in a night. They went to the theaters to 
 see actors upon the stage. I went to see 
 actors in the boxes so consummately cun 
 ning that others did not know they were 
 acting, and Jiey did not suspect it them 
 selves.
 
 I/O PRUE AND I. 
 
 " Perhaps you wonder it did not make me 
 misanthropical. My dear' friends, do not 
 forget that I had seen myself. That made 
 me compassionate not cynical. 
 
 " Of course, I could not value highly the 
 ordinary standards of success and excellence. 
 When I went to church and saw a thin, blue, 
 artificial flower, or a great sleepy cushion 
 expounding the beauty of holiness to pews 
 full of eagles, half-eagles, and three-pences, 
 however adroitly concealed they might be 
 in broadcloth and boots: or saw an onion in 
 an Easter bonnet weeping over the sins of 
 Magdalen, I did not feel as they felt who 
 saw in all this, not only propriety but piety. 
 
 " Or when at public meetings an eel stood 
 up on end, and wriggled and squirmed 
 lithely in every direction, and declared that, 
 for liis part, he went in for rainbows and 
 hot water how could I help seeing that he 
 w;u still black and loved a slimy pool ? 
 
 " I could not grow misanthropical when I 
 sa\v in the eyes of so many who were called 
 old, the gus'iing fountains of eternal youth, 
 and the light of nn immortal dawn, or when
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 171 
 
 I saw those who were esteemed unsuccessful 
 and aimless, ruling a fair realm of peace and 
 plenty, either in their own hearts, or in 
 another's a realm and princely possession 
 for which they had well renounced a hopeless 
 search and a belated triumph. 
 
 " I knew one man who had been for years 
 a "by word for having sought the philosophers 
 stone. But I looked at him through the 
 spectacles and saw a satisfaction in concen 
 trated energies, and a tenacity arising fro in 
 devotion to a noble dream which was not 
 apparent in the youths who pitied him in the 
 aimless effeminacy of clubs, nor in the clever 
 gentlemen who cracked their thin jokes upon 
 Mm over a gossiping dinner. 
 
 " And there was your neighbor over the 
 way, who passes for a woman who has failed 
 in her career, because she u an old la.iid. 
 People wag solemn heads of pity, and say 
 that she made so great a mistake in not mar 
 rying the brilliant and famous man who was 
 for long years her suitor. It is clear that no 
 orange flower will ever bloom for her. The 
 young people mako the!;- tender romances
 
 PRUE AND I. 
 
 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 my imagination with 
 fancying her hard struggle Avith the convic 
 tion that she had lost all that made life 
 baautiful. I supposed that if I had looked 
 at her through my spectacles, I should see 
 that it was only her radiant temper which 
 so illuminated her dress, that we did not see 
 it to be heavy sables. 
 
 " But when, one day, I did raise my glasses, 
 and glanced at her, I did not see the old 
 maid whom we all pitied for a secret sorrow, 
 but a woman whose nature was a tropic, in 
 which the sun shone, and birds sang, and 
 flowers bloomed forever. There wero no re 
 grets, no doubts and half wishes, but a calm 
 sweetness, a transparent peace. I saw her 
 bias j when that old lover passed by, or paused 
 to speak to her, but it was only the sign of 
 delicate feminine consciousness. She knev,- 
 h:-; lov 1 , arr.l hono-^ I h, although she could 
 not understand it r.or return it. i looked
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 173 
 closelv at her, and I saw that although all 
 
 */ 
 
 the world had exclaimed at her indifference 
 to such homqge, and had declared it was 
 astonishing she should lose so fine a match, 
 she would only say simply and quietly 
 
 ' ; ' If Shakespeare loved me and I did not 
 love him, ho\v could I marry him?' 
 
 " Could I be misanthropical when I saw 
 such fidelity, and dignity, and simplicity? 
 
 " You may believe that 1 was especially 
 curious to look at that old lover of hers 
 through my glasses. He was no longer 
 young, you know, when I came, and his 
 famo and fortune were secure. Certainly 1 
 have heard of few men more beloved, and 
 of none more worthy to be loved. He had 
 the easy manner of a man of the world, the 
 sensitive grace of a poet, and the charitable 
 judgment of a wide-traveler. He was ac 
 counted the most successful and most un 
 spoiled of men. Handsome, brilliant, wise, 
 tender, graceful, accomplished, rich and 
 famous, I looked at him, without the spec 
 tacles, in surprise, and admiration, and won 
 dered how your neighbor over the way had
 
 PRUE AND I. 
 
 been so entirely untouched by his homage. I 
 watched their intercourse in society, I saw 
 her gay smile, her cordial greeting ; I marked 
 his frank address, his lofty courtesy. Their 
 manner told no tales. The eager world \vas 
 balked, and I pulled out my spectacles. 
 
 " I had seen her already, and now 1 saw 
 him. He lived only in memory, and his 
 memory was a spacious and stately palace. 
 But he did not oftenest frequent the ban- 
 quoting hall, where were endless hospitality 
 and feasting, nor did he loiter much in I he 
 reception rooms, where a throng of new 
 visitors was forever swarming, nor did he 
 feed his vanity by haunting the apartment 
 in which were stored the trophies of his 
 varied triumphs, nor dream much in the 
 great gallery hung with pictures of his 
 travels. 
 
 " From all these lofty halls of memory ho 
 constantly escaped to a remote and solitary 
 chamber, into which no one had ever pene 
 trated. But my fatal eyes, behind the 
 glasses, followed and entered with him, and 
 saw that the chamber was a chapel. It was
 
 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES. 175 
 
 lim, and silent, and sweet with perpetual 
 incense that burned upon an altar before a 
 picture forever veiled. There, whenever I 
 chanced to look, I saw him kneel and pray ; 
 and there, by day and by night, a funeral 
 hynm was chanted. 
 
 " I do not believe you will be surprised 
 t!i:it I have been content to remain a deputy 
 bookkeeper. My spectacles regulated my 
 ambition, and I early learned that there were 
 b'-tter gods than Plutus. The glasses ha\ T e 
 lost much of their fascination now, and I do 
 not o i'ten use them . But sometimes the desire 
 is irresistible. Whenever I am greatly in 
 terested, I am compelled to take them out 
 and see what it is that I admire. 
 
 " And yet and yet," said Titbottom, 
 after a pause, '' I am not sure that I thank 
 my grandfather." 
 
 True had long since laid away her work, 
 and had heard every word of the story. I 
 saw that the dear woman had yet one ques 
 tion to ask, Rnd had been earnestly hoping 
 to hear something that would spare her the 
 necessity of asking. But Titbottom had
 
 176 PRUE AND I. 
 
 resumed his usual tone, after the momentary 
 excitement, and made no further allusion to 
 himself. We all sat silently ; Titbottom's 
 eyes fastened musingly upon the carpet, 
 Prue looking wistfully at him, and I regard 
 ing both. 
 
 It was past midnight, and our guest arose 
 to go. He shook hands quietly, made his 
 grave Spanish bow to Prue, and, taking his 
 hat, went toward the front door. Prue and 
 I accompanied him. I saw in her eyes that 
 she would ask her question. And as Tit- 
 bottom opened the door, I heard the low 
 words : 
 
 "And Preciosa?" 
 
 Titbottom paused. He had just opened 
 the door, and the moonlight streamed over 
 him as he stood turning back to us. 
 
 " I have seen her but once since. It was 
 in church, and she was kneeling, with her 
 eyes closed, so that she did not see me. 
 But I rubbed the glasses well, and looked at 
 her, and saw a white lilv. \vhos^ stern was 
 broken, but which was fresh, and luminous, 
 arjl frajzrant still."
 
 TTTBOTTOMS SPECTACLES. 
 
 " That was a miracle," interrupted Prue. 
 
 " Madam, it was a miracle," replied Tit- 
 bottom, " and for that one sight I am de 
 voutly grateful for my grandfather's gift. I 
 saw, that although a flower may have lost its 
 hold upon earthly moisture, it may still bloom 
 as sweetly, fed by the dews of heaven." 
 
 The door closed, and he was gone. But 
 a; Prm p'lt hr arm in mine, and we went 
 up-stairs together, she whispered in my ear : 
 
 'How glad I am that you don't wear 
 spectacles." 
 
 12
 
 A CRUISE IN THE FJ YING DUTCHMAN, 
 
 " When I sailed : when I sailed." 
 
 Ballad of Robert Kidd
 
 A CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCH 
 MAN, 
 
 " When I sailed : when I sailed." 
 
 Ballad of Robert Kldd. 
 
 WITH the opening of spring my heart 
 opens. My fancy expands with the flowers, 
 and, as I walk down town in the May morn 
 ing, toward the dingy counting-room, and 
 the old routine, you would hardly believe 
 that I would not -change my feelings for 
 those of the French Barber-Poet Jasmin., 
 who goes, merrily singing, to his shaving 
 and hair-cutting. 
 
 The lirst warm day puts the w T hole winter 
 to flight. It stands in front of the summer 
 like a young warrior before his host, and, 
 single-handed, defies and destroys its re 
 morseless enemy. 
 
 I throw up the chamber-window, to 
 breathe the earliest breath <>f summer. 
 
 "The brave vo-ing Divid lias hit old 
 
 181
 
 1 82 PRUE AND I. 
 
 Goliah square in the forehead this morning," 
 I say to Prue, as I lean out, and bathe in 
 the soft sunshine. 
 
 My wife is tying on her cap at the glass, 
 and, not quite disentangled from her dreams, 
 thinks 1 am speaking of a street brawl, and 
 replies that I had better take care of my 
 own- head. 
 
 <: Since you have charge of my heart, I 
 uppo.>e," I answer gaily, turning round to 
 make her one of Titbottom's bows. 
 
 " But seriously, Prue, how is it about my 
 sum m jr wardrobe ? " 
 
 Prue smiles, and tells me we shall have 
 two months of winter yet, and I had better 
 stop and order some more coal as I go down 
 town. 
 
 " Winter coal ! " 
 
 Tiien I step back, and, taking her by the 
 -arm, lead her to the window. I throw it 
 open even wider than before. The sunlight 
 streams on the great church-towers opposite, 
 and the trr^j ii tho neighboring square 
 glisten, rrvl wn<*< t'u^r bon-hs gently, as if 
 they v.oui.l Imist inio leaf heforo dinner.
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 183. 
 
 Cages are hung at the open chamber- win 
 dows in the street, and the birds, touched 
 into song by the sun, make jVIemnon true^ 
 Prue's purple and white hyacinths are in 
 full blossom, and perfume the warm air, so 
 that the canaries and the mocking birds are 
 no longer aliens in the city streets, but are 
 once more swinging in their spicy native 
 groves. 
 
 A soft wind blows upon us as we stand, 
 listening and looking. Cuba and the Trop 
 ics are in the air. The drowsy tune of a. 
 hand-organ rises from the square, and Italy 
 comes singing in upon the sound. My 
 triumphant eyes meet Prue's. They are full 
 of sweetness and spring. 
 
 " What do you think of the summer-ward 
 robe now ? " I ask, and we go down to 
 breakfast. 
 
 But the air has magic in it, and I do not 
 cease to dream, if I meet Charles, who. is. 
 bound for Alabama, or John, who sails for 
 G:vvannah, with a trunk full of white jackets, 
 1 C.o not say to them, as their other friends, 
 say,
 
 1 84 PRUE AND I. 
 
 " Happy travelers, who cut March and 
 April out of the dismal year ! " 
 
 I do not envy them. They will be sea 
 sick on tlie way. The southern winds will 
 blow all the water out of the rivers, and, 
 desolately stranded upon mud, they will re 
 lieve the tedium of the interval by tying 
 with large ropes a young gentleman raving 
 with delirium tremens. They will hurry 
 along, appalled by forests blazing in the 
 windy night ; and, housed in a bad inn, 
 they will find themselves anxiously asking, 
 " Are the cars punctual in leaving '> " 
 grimly sure that impatient travelers find 
 nil conveyances too slow. The travelers 
 are very warm, indeed, even in March and 
 April, but Prue doubts if it is altogether 
 the effect of the southern climate. 
 
 Why should they go to the South ? If 
 they only wait a little, the South will come 
 to them. Savannah arrives in April ; 
 Florida in May ; Cuba and the Gulf come 
 in with June, and the full splendor of the 
 Tropics burns through July nnd August. 
 Sitting upon the earth, do we not glide by
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 185 
 
 all the constellations, all the awful stars? 
 Does not the flash of Orion's scimeter dazzle- 
 as we pass? Do AVC not hear, as we gaze- 
 in hushed midnights, the music of the Lyre; 
 are we not throned with Cassiopea ; do w& 
 not play with the tangles of Berenice's hair,. 
 as we sail, as we sail? 
 
 When Christopher told me that he was 
 going to Italy, I went into Bourne's conserv 
 atory, saw a magnolia, and so reached Italy 
 before him. Can Christopher bring Italy 
 home ? But I brought to Prue a branch 
 of magnolia blossoms, with IIr. Bourne's 
 kindest regards, and she put them upon her 
 table, and our little house smelled of Italy 
 for a week afterward. The incident devel 
 oped Prue's Italian tastes, which I had not 
 suspected to be so strong. I found her look 
 ing very often at the magnolias ; even hold 
 ing them in her hand, and standing before the- 
 table with a pensive air. I suppose she was. 
 thinking of Beatrice Cenci, or of Tasso and* 
 Leonora, or of the wife o.f Marino Faliero,. 
 or of some other of those sad old Italian tales 
 of love and wo. So easily Prue went to Italy T
 
 186 TRUE AND I. 
 
 Thus the spring comes in my heart as well 
 as in the air, and leaps along my veins as 
 well as through the trees. I immediately 
 travel. An orange takes me to Sorrento, 
 and roses, when they blo\v, to Pa?stum. 
 The camellias in Aurelia's hair bring Brazil 
 into the happy rooms she treads, and she 
 takes me to South America as she goes to 
 dinner. The pearls upon her neck make me 
 free of the Persian gulf. Upon her shawl, 
 like the Arabian prince upon his carpet, I 
 am transported to the vales of Cashmere ; 
 and thus, as I daily walk in the bright spring 
 days, I go round the -world. 
 
 But the season wakes a finer longing, a 
 desire that could only be satisfied if the pa 
 vilions of the clouds were real, and I could 
 stroll amonir the towering splendors of a 
 sultry spring evening. Ah ! if I could leap 
 those flaming battlements that glo\v along 
 the west if I could tread those cool, dewy, 
 serene isles of sunset, and sink with them in 
 the sea of st;;rs. 
 
 I ay so to Pruo, and my wife smiles. 
 
 " But why is it so impossible," I ask,
 
 CRUISE IN THE I- LYING DUTCHMAN. l8/ 
 
 "if you go to Italy upon a magnolia 
 branch?" 
 
 The smile fades from her eyes. 
 
 " I went a shorter voyage than that," she 
 answered ; " it was only to Mr. Bourne's." 
 
 I walked slowly out of the house, and 
 overtook Titbottom as I went. He smiled 
 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 wher 
 ever he pleases, and in the way he best can. 
 My dear Titbottom, I have long belonged 
 to that pleasure party, although I never 
 heard it called by so pleasant a name be 
 fore." 
 
 My companion said only : 
 
 " If you would like to join, I will introduce 
 you to the party. I cannot go, but they 
 are all on board.:' 
 
 I an.swerod nothing; but Titbottom drew
 
 PRUt: AND I. 
 
 me along. We took a boat, and put off to 
 the most extraordinary craft I had ever seen. 
 "We approached her stern, and, as I curiously 
 looked at it, I could think of nothing but an. 
 old picture that hung in my father's house. 
 It was of the Flemish school, and represented 
 the rear view of the vrouw of a burgomaster 
 going to market. The Avide yards were 
 stretched like elbows, and even the studding- 
 sails were spread. The hull was seared and 
 blistered, and, in the tops, I saw what I sup 
 posed to be strings of turnips or cabbages, 
 little round masses, with tufted crests; but 
 Titbottom 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 catch her." 
 
 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 not getting nearer to
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 189 
 
 the vessel. But I did not say it aloud. I 
 would as soon have said it to Prue as to Tit- 
 bottom. The truth is, I began to feel a little 
 ill, from the motion of the boat, and remem 
 bered, with a shade of regret, Prue and pep 
 permint. If wives could only keep their 
 husbands a little nauseated, I am confident 
 they might be very sure of their constancy. 
 
 B.it, somehow, the strange ship was gained, 
 an:l I found myself among as singular a 
 company us I have ever seen. There were 
 men of every country, and costumes of all 
 lands. There was an indescribable misti 
 ness in the air, or a premature twilight, in 
 which all the figures looked ghostly and un 
 real. The ship was of a model such as I had 
 never seen, and the rigging had a musty 
 odor, so that the whole craft smelled like 
 a ship-chandler's shop grown moldy. The 
 figures glided rather than walked about, 
 and I perceived a strong smell of cabbage 
 issuing from tlie hold. 
 
 But the most extraordinary thing of all 
 Avas the sens of resistless motion which pos 
 sess- >! inv m" 1 ' tlr> niom-Mit KIV foot struck
 
 PRUE AND I. 
 
 the deck. I could have sworn we wore 
 dashing through the water at the rate of 
 twenty knots an hour. (Prue has a great, 
 but a little ignorant, admiration of my tech 
 nical knowledge of nautical affairs and 
 phrases.) I looked aloft and saw the sails 
 taut with a stiff breeze, and I heard 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 cordage in the 
 ships of Crusaders ; or of quaint old craft upon 
 the Spanish main, echoing through remote 
 years so far away it sounded. 
 
 Yet I heard no orders given ; I saw no 
 sailors running aloft, and only one figure 
 crouching over the wheel, lie was lost I >e- 
 hind his great beard as behind a snowdrift. 
 But the startling speed with which v, c scud 
 ded along did not lift a solitary hair of that 
 beard, nor did the old and withered fr.co of 
 the pilot betray any curiosity or interest as 
 to what breakers, or reefs, or pitiless shores, 
 might be lyino: in ambush to destroy us. 
 
 Still on we r, "r>nt ; nnd ns th^ tnvelor m 
 a niht-tram knows that !: > is v.ssin^ -Teen
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 19! 
 
 fields, and pleasant gardens, and winding 
 streams fringed with flowers, and is now 
 gliding through tunnels or darting along the 
 base of fearful cliffs, so I was conscious that 
 we were pressing through various climates 
 and by romantic shores. In vain I peered 
 into the <miv twilight mist that folded all. 
 
 CD */ 
 
 I could only see the vague figures that grew 
 iind faded upon the haze, as my eye fell upon 
 them, like the intermittent characters of 
 sympathetic ink when heat touches them. 
 
 Now, it was a belt of warm, odorous air 
 in which we sailed, and then cold as the 
 breath of a polar ocean. The perfume of 
 new-mown hay and the breath of roses, came 
 mingled with the distant music of bells, and 
 the twittering song of birds, and a low surf- 
 lik: 1 sound of the wind in summer woods. 
 There were all sounds of pastoral beauty, of 
 a tranquil landscape such as Prue loves 
 and which shall be painted as the background 
 of her portrait whenever she sits to any of 
 my many artist friends and that pastoral 
 beauty sha'.l !>' called r.n yland ; I strained 
 X3 ees into tho cruel mist luat held all that
 
 192 T;;UE AND i. 
 
 music and all that suggested beauty, but I 
 could see nothing. It was so sweet that I 
 scarcely knew it' I cared to see. The very 
 thought of it charmed my senses and satis- 
 tied my heart. I smelled and heard the land 
 scape that I could not see. 
 
 Then the pungent, penetrating fragrance 
 of blossoming vineyards was Avafted across 
 the air; the flowery richness of orange 
 groves, and the sacred odor of crushed bay 
 leaves, such as is pressed from them Avhens 
 they are streAvn upon the flat pavement of 
 the streets of Florence, and gorgeous priestly 
 processions tread them underfoot. A steam; 
 of incense filled the air. I smelled Italy 
 as in the magnolia from Bourne's garden 
 and, even while my heart leaped with the 
 consciousness, the odor passed, and a stretch 
 of burning silence succeeded. 
 
 It Avas an oppressive zone of heat op 
 pressive not only from its silence, but from 
 the scene of awful, antique form?, whether 
 of art or natur?, that were 1 sittii-g, closely 
 veiled, in that mysterions Hiscurity. I shud 
 dered as I fek that it' IMV cy< : roi.1.1 pierce
 
 CRUISE IN TH1-; FLYING DUTCHMAN. 
 
 that mist, or if it should lift and roll away, 
 I should see upon a silent shore low ranges 
 of lonely hills, or mystic figures and huge 
 temples trampled out of history by time. 
 
 This, too, we left. There was a rustling 
 of distant palms, the indistinct roar of beasts, 
 and the hiss of serpents. Then all was still 
 again. Only at times the remote sigh of the 
 weary sea, mormmg around desolate isles 
 undiscovered ; and the howl of winds that 
 h;id never wafted human voices, but had rung 
 endless changes upon the sound of dashing 
 waters, made the voyage more appalling and 
 the Hgures around me more fearful. 
 
 As the ship plunged on through all the 
 varying zones, as climate and country drifted 
 I), hind us, unseen in the gray mist, but each, 
 in turn, making that quaint craft England 
 or Italy, Africa and the Southern seas, I 
 ventured to steal a glance at the motley 
 crew, to see what impression this wild career 
 produced upon them. 
 
 They sat about the deck in a hundred 
 list 1 ! ss postures. Some leaned idly over the 
 bulv '\s, and looked wistfully awav from 
 
 / / 
 
 '3
 
 194 TRUE AND ;, 
 
 cne ships, as if they fancied they saw all that 
 I inferred but couLl not see. As the per 
 fume, and sound, and climate changed, I 
 could see many a longing eve sadden and 
 
 * o o / 
 
 grow moist, and as the chime of bells echoed 
 distinctly like the airy syllables of names, 
 and, as it were, made pictures in music upon 
 the minds of those quaint mariners then 
 dry lips moved, perhaps to name a name,, 
 perhaps to breathe a prayer. Others sat 
 upon the deck, vacantly smoking pipes that 
 required no refilling, but had an immortality 
 of weed and tire. The more they smoked 
 the more mysterious they became. The 
 smoke mule the mist around them more im 
 penetrable., and I could clearly sae that those 
 distant sounds gradually grew more distant, 
 and, by some of the most desperate and con 
 stant smokers, were heard no more. The 
 faces of such had an apathy, which, had it 
 been human, would have been despair. 
 
 Others stood staring ur> into the rigging, 
 as if eaJenkittag when the snils must needs 
 be rent and th' 1 vo-nsfe or/I. "Rnt there was 
 no hope in their eyes, only a bitter longing.
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 19$ 
 
 Some paced restlessly up and down the deck. 
 They had evidently been walking a long, 
 long time. At intervals they, too, threw a 
 searching glance into the mist that enveloped 
 the ship, and up into the sails and rigging 
 that stretched over them in hopeless strength 
 and order. 
 
 One of the promenaders I especially no 
 ticed. His beard was long and snowy, like 
 that of the pilot. He had a staff in his hand, 
 and his movement was very rapid. His 
 body swung forward, as if to a void something, 
 and his glance half turned back over his 
 shoulder, apprehensively, as if he were threat 
 ened from behind. The head and the whole 
 figure Wtire bowed as if under a burden, 
 although I could not see that he had any 
 thing upon his shoulders ; and his gait was 
 not that of a man who is walking off the 
 ennui of a voyage, but rather of a criminal 
 flying, or of a startled traveler pursued, 
 
 As he came nearer to me in his walk, I 
 saw that his features were strongly Hebrew, 
 and there was an air of the proudest dignity, 
 fearfully abased, in his mien and expression.
 
 196 PRUE AM) I, 
 
 It was more than the dignity of an indi 
 vidual. I could have believed that the pride 
 of a race was humbled in his person. 
 
 His agile eye presently fastened itself 
 upon me, as a stranger. He came nearer and 
 nearer to me, as he paced rapidly to and 
 fro, and was evidently several times on the 
 point of addressing me, but. looking over 
 his shoulder apprehensively, he passed on. 
 At length, with a great effort, he paused for 
 an instant, and invited me to join him in 
 his walk. Before the invitation was fairly 
 uttered, he was in motion again. I followed, 
 but I could not overtake him. He kept just 
 before me, and turned occasionally with an 
 air of terror, as if he fancied L were dor;pii<r 
 him ; then glided on more rapidly. 
 
 His f;ice was by r.o means agree;. Mo, but 
 it had an in >xplic:ible fascination, j s if it 
 liad bee i turned upon \vh; t no other mcrtal 
 eyes had ov.-rsvni. Vet I coul.l hardly till 
 whether it W-.T:\ probably, an ob;*t ol' 
 sn;>re:ne b : viu v <-r of terror. He looked at 
 everything :s \i he hope 1 is impression 
 might o jiH-.'iMC s >me anterior and awful
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 197 
 
 on 3; ar.d I was gradually possessed with 
 the unpleasant idea that his eyes were never 
 closed that in fact, he never slept. 
 
 Suddenly, fixing me with his unnatural, 
 wakeful glare, hj whispered something which 
 I could not understand, and then darted 
 forward even more rapidly, as if he dreaded 
 that, in merely speaking, he had lost time. 
 
 Still the ship drove on, and I walked hur 
 riedly along the deck, just behind my com 
 panion. But our speed and that of the ship 
 contrasted strangely with the moldy smell 
 of old rigging, and the listless and lazy 
 groups, smoking and leaning on the bul 
 warks. The seasons, in endless succession 
 and iteration, passed over the ship. The 
 twilight was summer haze at the stern, 
 while it was the fiercest winter mist at the 
 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 not help saying: 
 
 " You must be tired." 
 
 He only shook his head and quickened 
 hie pace. But now that I had once spoken,
 
 198 PRUE AND I. 
 
 it was not so difficult to speak, and 1 asked 
 him why he did not stop and rest. 
 
 He turned for moment, and a mournful 
 sweetness shone in his dark eyes and hag 
 gard, swarthy face. It played flittiigly 
 around that strange look of ruined human 
 dignity, like a wan beam of late sunset 
 about a crumbling and forgotten temple. 
 Ke put his hand hurriedly to his forehead, 
 as if he w^re trying to remember like a 
 lunatic, who, having heard only the wrangle 
 of fisnds in his delirium, suddenly in a con 
 scious moment, perceives the familiar voice 
 of love. But who could this be, to whom 
 mere human sympathy was so startlingly 
 sweet ? 
 
 Still moving, he whispered with a woful 
 sadness, " I want to stop, but I cannot. If 
 I could only stop long e:ioug!i 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 I had not 
 observed the costume of this strange bein.
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 199 
 
 He wore a black hat upon his head. It was 
 not only black, but it was shiny. Even in 
 the midst of this wonderful scene, I could 
 observe that it had the artificial newness of 
 a second-hand hat ; and, at the same mo 
 ment, I was disgustad by the odor of old 
 clothes very old clothes, indeed. The mist 
 and my sympathy had prevented my seeing 
 before what a singular garb the figure wore. 
 ' It was all second-hand and carefully ironed, 
 but the garments were obviously collected 
 from every prv/t of the civilized globe. 
 Good heavens ! as I lookad at the coat, I had 
 a strange sensation. I was sure that I had 
 once worn that coat. It wits my wedding 
 surtout long in the skirts which Prue had 
 told me, years and years before, she had 
 given away to the neediest Jo\v beggar she 
 had ever seen. 
 
 The spectral figure dwindled in my fancy 
 the features lost th,Mr antique grandeur, 
 and the restless eye c:?ns;jd to be sublime 
 from immortal sleeplessness, and became 
 only lively with mean cunning. The ap 
 parition was fearfully grotesque, but the>
 
 2OO PRUE AND I. 
 
 driving ship and the mysterious company 
 gradually restored its tragic interest. I 
 stopped and leaned against the side, and 
 heard the rippling water that 1 could not 
 see, and flitting through the mist, with anx 
 ious speed, the figure held its \v;;y. What 
 was lie flying ' ^ hat conscience with relent 
 less sting pricked this victim on ? 
 
 Jle came again nearer and nearer to me 
 in his walk. I recoiled with disgust, this 
 time, no less than terror. But he seemed 
 resolved to speak, and, finally, each time, as 
 he passed me, he asked single questions, as 
 a ship which fires whenever it can bring a 
 gun to 'jcar. 
 
 "Can you tell me to what port we are 
 bound ? '' 
 
 " No," I replied ; " but how came yon to 
 take passage without inquiry ? To me it 
 makes little difference." 
 
 "Nor do I care," he answered, when he 
 next came near enough ; ' ; I have already 
 been there." 
 
 "Where?" asked I. 
 
 " Wherever we are going," he replied.
 
 CRUISE IN T:: : rivixc DUTCHMAN. 201 
 
 " I have been there i great many times, and, 
 oli ! 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 his face, as I spoke. 
 The representative grandeur of a race, which 
 he sometimes showed in his look, faded into 
 a glanca of hopeless and puny despair. 
 His eyes looked at nie^ curiously, h's chest 
 heaved, and there was clearly a struggle in 
 his mind, between some lofty and mean 
 desire. At times, I saw only the austere* 
 suffering of ages in his strongly-carved 
 features, and again I could see nothing but 
 the second-hand black hat above them. lie 
 rubbed his forehead with his skinny hand ; he 
 glanced over his shoulder, as if calculating 
 whether he had time to speak to me, and then, 
 as a splendid defiance flashed from his pierc 
 ing eyes, so that I know how Milton's Satan 
 looked, he said bitterly, and with hopeless sor 
 row, that no mortal voice ever knew before : 
 
 '"I c.innot stop: my wo is infinite, like 
 my sin ! "and he passed into the mist.
 
 2O2 PRUE AND I. 
 
 But, in a few moments, lie reappeared. I 
 could now see only the hat, which sank 
 more and moreover his face, until it covered 
 it entirely ; and I heard a querulous voice, 
 which seemed to be quarreling with itself, 
 for saying what it was compelled to say, so 
 that the words were even more appalling 
 than what it had said before : 
 
 "OldcloM old clo'!" 
 
 I gazed at the disappearing figure, in 
 speechless amazement, and was still looking, 
 when I was tapped upon the shoulder, and, 
 turning round, saw a German cavalry officer, 
 with a heavy mustache, and a dog-whistle 
 in his hand. 
 
 "Most extraordinary man, your friend 
 yonder," said the officer ; " I don't remember 
 to have seen him in Turkey, and yet I recog 
 nize upon his feet the boots that I wore in the 
 great Russian cavalry charge, where I indi 
 vidually rode down five hundred and thirty 
 Turks, slew seven hundred, at a moderate 
 computation, by the mere force of my rush, 
 and, taking the soven in 'iirmoiintable walls 
 of Constantino}-!/ ;;t one clean flying leap.
 
 CRUISE IX THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 203 
 
 rode straight into the seraglio, and, drop 
 ping the bridle, cut the sultan's throat with 
 niv bridle-hand, kissed the other to the 
 Lulies of the hareein, and was back again 
 within our lines and taking a glass of wine 
 Avith the hereditary Grand Duke Generalis 
 simo before he knew that I had mounted. 
 Oddly enough, your old friend is now sport 
 ing the identical boots I wore on that oc- 
 c.ssion." 
 
 The cavalry officer coolly curled his 
 mustache with his lingers. I looked at him 
 in silence. 
 
 " Speaking of boots," he resumed, " I 
 don't remember to have told you of that 
 little incident of the Princess of the Crimea's 
 diamonds. It was slight, but curious. I 
 was dining one day with the Emperor of 
 the Crimea, who always had a cover laid 
 ior me at his table, when he said, in great 
 perplexity, ' Baron, my boy, I am in straits. 
 The Shah of Persia has just sent me word 
 that he has presented me with two thousand 
 pcarl-of-Oman necklaces, and I. don't know 
 Low to get them over, the duties are so
 
 204 PRUE AND I. 
 
 heavy.' 'Nothing easier,' replied I; 'I'll 
 bring them in my boots.' ' Nonsense ! ' said 
 the Emperor of the Crimea. ' Nonsense I 
 yourself,' replied I, sportively : for the Em 
 peror of the Crimea always gives me my 
 joke; and so after dinner I went over to 
 Persia. The thing was easily enough done. 
 I ordered a hundred thousand pairs of boots 
 or so, filled them with the pearls; said at 
 the Custom-house that they were part of my 
 private wardrobe, and I had left the blocks 
 in to keep them stretched, for I was particu 
 lar about my bunions. The officers bowul,. 
 and said that their own feet were tender, 
 upon which I jokingly remarked that 1 
 wished their consciences were, and so in the 
 pleasantest manner possible the poail-ol- 
 Oman necklaces were bowed out of Persia, 
 and the Emperor of the Crimea gave me 
 three thousand of them as my share. It 
 was no trouble. It was only ordering the 
 boots, and whistling to the infernal rascals 
 of Persian shoemakers to hang for then- 
 pay." 
 
 I could reply nothing to my new a<: quaint
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 2O$ 
 
 ance, but I treasured his stories to tell to 
 Prue, and at length summoned courage to 
 ask him why lie had taken passage. 
 
 " Pure fun," answered he, " nothing else 
 under the sun. You see, it happened in this 
 way : I was sitting quietly and swinging 
 in a cedar of Lebanon, on the very summit 
 of that mountain, when suddenly, feeling a 
 little warm, I took a brisk dive into the 
 Mediterranean. Now I was careless, and 
 got going obliquely, and with the force of 
 such a dive I could not come up near Sicilv, 
 as I had intended, but 1 Vent clean under 
 Africa, and came out at the Cape of Good 
 Hope, and as Fortune would have it, just as 
 this good ship was passing. So .1 sprang 
 over the side, and offered the crew to treat 
 all round if they would tell me where I 
 started from. But I suppose they had just 
 been piped to grog, for not a man stirred, 
 except your friend yonder, and he only kept 
 on stirring." 
 
 " Are you going far? " I asked. 
 
 The cavalry officer looked a little dis 
 turb" ! ' ' ~ -nn.->t, precisely tell," answered
 
 206 PRUE AND I. 
 
 he, " in fact I wish I could ; " and he glanced 
 round nervously at the strange company. 
 
 " If you should come our way, Prue and I 
 will be very glad to see you," said I, " and 1 
 can promise vou a warm welcome from the 
 children.'' 
 
 " Many thanks," said the officer, and 
 handed me his card, upon which I read, Le 
 Baron Muncliausen. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said a low voice at 
 my side ; and, turning, I saw one of the 
 most constant smqkers a very old man " 1 
 beg your pardon, but can } T ou tell me where 
 I came from ? " 
 
 " I am sorry to say I cannot," answered I, 
 as I surveyed a man with a very bewildered 
 and wrinkled face, who seemed to be intently 
 looking for something. 
 
 " Nor where I am going ? " 
 
 I replied that it was equally impossible. 
 He mused a few moments, and then said 
 slowly, " Do you know, it is a very strange 
 thing that I have not found anybody who 
 can answer me either of those questions. 
 And yet I must have co*ne from some-
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 2O/ 
 
 where," said be, speculatively " yes, and I 
 must be going somewhere, and I should 
 really like to know something about it." 
 
 " I observe," said I, " that you smoke a 
 good deal, and perhaps you find tobacco 
 clouds your brain a little." 
 
 " Smoke ! Smoke ! " repeated he, sadly 
 dwelling upon tli3 words ; "why, it 'all 
 seems smoke to me ; " and he looked wist 
 fully around the deck, and I felt quite ready 
 to agree with him. 
 
 " May I ask what you are here for," in 
 quired I ; " perhaps your health, or business 
 of some kind ; although I was told it was 
 a pleasure party ? " 
 
 " That's just it," said he ; " if I only knew 
 where we were going, I might be able to 
 say something about it. But where are you 
 going ? " 
 
 u I am going home as fast as I can," re 
 plied I warmly, for I began to be very un 
 comfortable. The old man's eyes half closed, 
 and his mind seemed to have struck a 
 scent. 
 
 " Isn't that where I was going? I believe
 
 208 PRUE AND I. 
 
 it is ; I wish I knew ; I think that's what it 
 is called. Where is home ? " 
 
 And the old man puffed a prodigious 
 cloud of smoke, in which lie was quite lost. 
 
 " It is certainly very smoky," said he, " I 
 came on board this ship to go to- in fact, I 
 meant, as I was saying, I took passage 
 
 for ." lie smoked silently. "I beg your 
 
 pardon, but where did you say I was going ( " 
 
 Out of the mist where he had been lean 
 ing over the side, and gazing earnestly 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 traveler. I have been all over the 
 world, and in all kinds of conveyances; 
 but,"' he continued, nervously, starting con 
 tinually, and looking around, " 1 haven't yet 
 got abroad." 
 
 " Not got abroad, and yet you have been 
 everywhere? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; I know," be replied, hurriedly ;
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 2OQ 
 
 *' but I mean that I haven't yet got away. 
 I travel constantly, but it does no good 
 anil perhaps you can tell me the secret I 
 want to know. I will pay any sum for it. 
 I am very rich and very young, and if money 
 cannot buy it, I will give as many years of 
 my life as you require." 
 
 lie moved his hands convulsively, and his 
 hair was wet upon his forehead. He was 
 very handsome in that mystic light, bat his 
 e\v burned with eagerness, and his slight, 
 graceful frame thrilled- with the earnestness 
 of his emotion. The Emperor Hadrian, who 
 loved the boy Antinous, would have loved 
 the vonth. 
 
 " D it what is it that you wish to leave 
 behind ?" said I, at length, holding his ann 
 paternally ; " what do you wish to escape ? " 
 
 lie threw his arms straight down by his 
 s< le, clenchod his hands, and looked fixedly 
 in mv eye's. T!i'^ beautiful head was thrown 
 i\ !rtl> bank upon one shoulder, and the wan 
 1'iced glowe I with venrning desire and utter 
 abnnlonmenttofH>n6l*n( w , so that, without 
 iiis savinir it, 1 !;: -w that he had never
 
 210 PRUE AND I. 
 
 whispered the secret which he was about to 
 impart to me. Then, with a long sigh, as if 
 his life were exhaling, he whispered, 
 
 "Myself." 
 
 " Ah ! my boy, you are bound upon a long 
 journey." 
 
 "I know it," he replied mournfully ; 'V.rnl 
 I cannot even get started. If I don't ; ct 
 off in this ship, I fear I shall never es 
 cape.'' His last words were lost in themut 
 which gradually removed him from rny 
 view. 
 
 "The youth has been amusing you with 
 some of his wild fancies, I suppose,' 1 said a. 
 venerable man, who might have been twin 
 brother of that snow^y-bearded pilot. " It is 
 a great pity so promising a young man 
 should 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 o?
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 2Tf 
 
 that long process to find the Philosopher's 
 Stone, and, although I was just upon the 
 point of the last combination which must 
 infallibly have produced the medium, I 
 abandoned it when I heard Orellana's ac 
 count, ami found that Nature had already 
 done in Eldorado precisely what I was try 
 ing to do. You see," continued the old man 
 abstractedly, " I had put youth, and love, 
 and hope, besides a great many scarce 
 minerals, into the crucible, and they all 
 dissolved siowly, and vanished in vapor. It 
 was curious, but they left no residuum ex- 
 c-'pt a little ashes, which were not strong 
 enough to make a lye to cure a lame finger. 
 But, as 1 was saying, Orellana told us about 
 ELlorad,) just in time, and I thought, if any 
 ship would carry me there it must be this. 
 But I am very sorry to find that any one 
 who is in pursuit of such a hopeless goal as- 
 that pale young man yonder, should have 
 taken passage. It is only age," he said,, 
 slowly stroking his white beard, " that 
 teaches us wisdom, and persuades us to re 
 nounce the hope of escaping ourselves ; and
 
 212 PRUE AND I. 
 
 just as we are discovering the Philosopher's 
 Stone, relieves our anxiety by pointing 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 we be going, 
 if not there? However, let us summon the 
 passengers and ascertain." 
 
 So saying, the venerable man beckoned 
 to the various groups that were clustered, 
 ghostlike, in the mist that enveloped the 
 ship. They seemed to draw nearer with 
 listless curiosity, and stood or sat near us, 
 smoking as before, or, still leaning on the 
 siil'.?, idly gazing. But the restless figure 
 who had first accosted me still paced the 
 deck, flitting in and out of the obscurity ; 
 ;ind as he passed there was the same mien 
 of humbl 'd pride, and tl:e air of a fate of 
 tragic grandeur, and still the same faint 
 odor of old clothes, and the lo\v querulous 
 cry, " Old clo'! oil do'!" 
 
 T!M> ship (Usl.C'1 on. Fr. known odors and 
 strun^e so.i.-iiis still i;lled tne air, and all the
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 213 
 
 world went by us as we flew with no other 
 noise than the low gurgling of the sea around 
 the side 
 
 ' Gentlemen," said the reverend passenger 
 for Eldorado, " I ho|K3 there is no misappre 
 hension as to oar destination ? " 
 
 As he said this, there was a general move- 
 nunt of anxiety and curiosity. Presently 
 the smoker, who had asked me where lie was. 
 going, said, doubtfully : 
 
 "I don't know it seems tome I mean. 
 I wish somebody would distinctly sav v. here 
 
 / v * 
 
 we are going." 
 
 " I think I can throw a light upon this- 
 subject," said a person whom I had not be 
 fore remarked. He was dressed like a sailor,, 
 and had a dreamy eye. "It is very clear to 
 me where we aregoin^. 1 have been taking- 
 observations for somz time, and I am glad. 
 to announce that we are on the eve of achiev 
 ing great fame ; and I may add," said he,, 
 modestly, " that my own good name for 
 scientih'c acumen will b^ amrly vindicated. 
 Gentlein^'i, we are s.n '.oubted!y going into 
 the Hole."
 
 214 PRUE AND I. 
 
 " What hole is that ? " asked M. le Baron 
 Munchausen, a little contemptuously. 
 
 "Sir, it will make you more famous than 
 you ever were before,'' replied the first 
 speaker, evidently much enraged. 
 
 ; ' 1 am persuaded we are going into no 
 .such absurd place," said the Baron, exasper 
 ated. 
 
 The sailor with the dreamy eye was fear- 
 fuily angry. lie drew himself up stiffly 
 and said : 
 
 " Sir, you lie ! " 
 
 M, le Baron Munchausen tpok it in very 
 good part. He smiled and held out his 
 hand : 
 
 " My friend," said he, blandly, " that is 
 precisely what I have always heard. I am 
 glad you do me no more than justice. I 
 fully assent to your theory : and your words 
 constitute mo the proper historiographer 
 of the expedition. But tell me one thing, 
 how soon, after getting into the Hole, do 
 you think we shall get out ? " 
 
 " Tho result will provo." said the marine 
 gentleman, handing the officer his card, upon
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 2IJ> 
 
 which was written, Captain Sy mines. The 
 two gentleme.i then walked aside ; and the 
 groups began to sway to and fro in the haze 
 as if not quite contented. 
 
 " (TOO;! Go I," s:iid the pale youth, rumirig- 
 up to me ami clutching my arm, u I c.nnot 
 go into any Hole alone with rnys:-lf. I 
 siiould die I should kill myself. I thought. 
 somebody was on board, and I hoped you 
 were he, who would steer us to the fountain, 
 of oblivion." 
 
 " Very well, that is in the Hole," said M. 
 le Baron, who came out of the mist at that 
 moment, leaning upon the Captain's arm. 
 
 " But can 1 leave myself outside '( " askeci 
 the youth, nervously. 
 
 " Certainly," interposed the old Alchemist ; 
 " you may be sure that you will 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 over the side of 
 the ship and listened to the rippling water,
 
 2l6 PRUE AND I. 
 
 as if it had been the music of the fountain 
 of oblivion." 
 
 "Drink! drink!" said the smoking old 
 man. "Fountain! fountain! "Why, I 
 believe that is what I am after. I beg your 
 p;mlon," continued he, addressing the Al 
 chemist. " But can you tell me if I am 
 looking for a fountain ? " 
 
 ''The fountain of youth, perhaps," re 
 plied the Alchemist. 
 
 "The very thing! "cried the smoker, with 
 a shrill laugh, while his pipe fell from his 
 mouth, and was shattered upon the deck, and 
 tlie oM man tottered away into the mist, 
 chuckling feebly to himself, " Youth ! 
 youth ! " 
 
 " He'll find that in the Hole, too," said 
 the Alchemist, as he gazed after the reced 
 ing figure. 
 
 The crowd now gathered more nearly 
 tiround us. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen," continued the Al 
 chemist, " where shall we go, or, rather, 
 where are we going ? " 
 
 A man in a friar's habit, with the cowl
 
 CRUISE IX THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 2 1/ 
 
 closely drawn about his head, now crossed 
 himself, and whispered : 
 
 " I have but one object. I should not have 
 been here if I had not supposed we were 
 going to find Prester John, to whom I have 
 been appointed father confessor, and at 
 whose court I am to live splendidly, like a 
 cardinal at Rome. Gentlemen, if you will 
 only agree that we shall go there, you shall 
 all be permitted to hold my train when I 
 proceed to be enthroned as Bishop of Cen 
 tral Africa. 
 
 While he was speaking, another old man 
 came from the bows of the ship, a figure 
 which had been so immovable in its place 
 that I supposed it was the ancient figure 
 head of the craft, and said in a low, hollow 
 voice, and a quaint accent : 
 
 " I have been looking for centuries, and I 
 cannot see it. I supposed we were heading 
 for it. I thought sometimes I saw the flash 
 of distant spires, the sunny gleam of upland 
 pastures, the soft undulation of purple hills. 
 Ah ! me. I am sure I heard the singing of 
 birds, and tho faint low of c-tH<\ Tint I da
 
 2l8 PRUE AND I. 
 
 not kno\v : we come no nearer ; and yet I 
 felt its presence in the air. If the mist 
 would only lift, we should see it lying so fair 
 upon the sea, so graceful against the sky. I 
 fear we may have passed it. Gentlemen," 
 said he, sadly, " I am afraid we may have 
 lost the island of Atlantis forever." 
 
 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 of every country 
 and time, " we have a chance at the Encan- 
 tadas, the Enchanted Islands. We were 
 reading of them only the other day, and the 
 very style of the story had the music of 
 waves. How happy we shall be to reach a 
 land where there is no work, nor tempest, 
 nor pain, and we shall be forever happy." 
 
 " I am content here," said a laughing 
 youth, with heavily matted curls. " What 
 c-in be better than this? We feel every cli 
 mate, the music and the perfume of every 
 zone, are ours. In the starlight I woo the 
 mermaids, as I lean over the side, and no 
 enchanted island will show us fairer forms. I
 
 CRUISE IN Tliii FLYING DUTCHMAN. 2 19 
 
 am satisfied. The ship sails on. "We can not 
 see, but we can dream. What worker pain, 
 have we here ? I like the ship ; I like the voy 
 age ; I like my company, and am content." 
 
 As he spoke he put something into his 
 mouth, and, drawing a white substance from 
 his pocket, offered it to his neighbor, saying, 
 " Try a bit of this lotus ; you will find it 
 very soothing to the nerves and an infallible 
 remedy fo; 1 homesickness." 
 
 "Gentlemen," said M. le Baron Munchau- 
 sen, " I have no fear. The arrangements 
 are well made; the voyage has been perfectly 
 planned, and each passenger will discover 
 what he took passage to find, in the Hole 
 into which we are going, under the auspices 
 of tii is worthy Captain." 
 
 lie ceased, and silence fell upon the ship's 
 company. Still on we swept ; it seemed a 
 wear.y way. The tireless pedestrians still 
 paced to and fro, and the idle smokers 
 puffed. The sliip sailed on, and endless mu 
 sic and odor chased each other through the 
 misty air. Suddenly a deep sigh drew uni 
 versal attention to a person who had not
 
 220 PRUE AND I. 
 
 yet spoken. He held a broken harp in his 
 hand, the strings fluttered loosely in the air, 
 and the head of the speaker, bound with a 
 withered wreath of laurels, bent over it. 
 
 " No, no," said he, " I will not eat your 
 lotus, nor sail into the Hole. No magic root 
 can cure the homesickness I feel ; for it is 
 no regretful remembrance, but an immortal 
 longing. I have roamed farther than I 
 thought the earth extended.- I have cli-.nbcd 
 mountains; I have threaded rivers ; I have- 
 sailed seas ; but nowhere have I seen the home 
 for which my heartaches. Ah ! my friends, 
 you look very weary ; let us go home." 
 
 The pedestrian paused a moment in his 
 walk, and the smokers took their pipes from 
 their mouths. The soft air which blew in 
 that moment across the deck, drew a low 
 sound from the broken harp-strings, and a, 
 light shone in the eyes of the old man'of the 
 figure-head, as if the mist had lifted for an 
 instant, and he had caught a glimpse of the 
 lost Atlantis. 
 
 "I really believe that is where I wish to 
 go," said the seeker of the fountain cf youth.
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 221 
 
 "I think I would give up drinking at the 
 fountain if I could get there. I do not 
 kno\v," he murmured, doubtfully; "it is 
 not sure ; I mean, perhaps, I should not have 
 strength to get to the fountain, even if I were 
 near it." 
 
 " But is it possible to get home?" inquired 
 the pale young man. "I think I should be 
 resigned if I could get home." 
 
 " Certainly," said the dry, hard voice of 
 Prester John's confessor, as his cowl fell a 
 little back, and a sudden flush burned upon 
 his gaunt face ; " if there is any chance of 
 home, I will give up the Bishop's palace 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 kinds of men, of all 
 times and countries, pursuing the wildest 
 hopes, the r^ost chimerical desires. One 
 took ir.o rsido t;> rro;i st that I would not
 
 222 FRUE AND I. 
 
 let it be known, but that he inferred from 
 certain signs we were nearing Utopia. 
 Another whispered gaily in my ear that he 
 thought the water was gradually becoming 
 of a ruby color the line of wine; and he 
 had no doubt we should wake in the morn- 
 i.ig and find ourselves in the land of Cock 
 aigne. A third, in great anxietv, stated to 
 
 O w * 
 
 me that such continuous mists were unknown 
 upon the ocean ; that they were peculiar to 
 rivers, and that, beyond question, we were 
 drifting along some stream, probably the 
 Nile, and immediate measures ought to be 
 taken that we did not go ashore at the foot 
 of the mountains of the moon. Others were 
 quite sure that we were in the way of strik 
 ing the great southern continent ; and a 
 young man, who gave his name as "Wilkins, 
 said we might be quite at ease for presently 
 some friends of his would come flying over 
 from the neighboring islands and tell us all 
 we wished. 
 
 Still I smelled the moldy rigging, and 
 the odor of cabbage was strong from the 
 hold.
 
 CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 223 
 
 Prue, what could the ship be, in which 
 such fantastic characters were sailing to 
 ward impossible bournes characters which 
 in every age have ventured all the bright 
 capital of life in vague speculations and 
 romantic dreams ? What could it be but 
 the ship that haunts the sea for ever, and, 
 with all sails set, drives onward before a 
 ceaseless gale, and is not hailed, nor ever 
 co rues to port ? 
 
 1 know the ship is always full ; I know the 
 graybeard still watches at the prow for the 
 lost Atlantis, and still the alchemist believes 
 that Eldorado is at hand. Upon his aim 
 less quest, the dotard still asks where he 
 is going, and the pale youth knows that he 
 shall never fly himself. Yet they would 
 gladly renounce that wild chase and the dear 
 dreams of years could they find what I 
 have never lost. They were ready to follow 
 the poet home, if he would have told them 
 where it lay. 
 
 I know where it lies. I breathe the soft 
 air of the purple uplands which they shall 
 never tread. 1 hear the sweet music of the
 
 224 PRUE AND I. 
 
 voices they long for in vain. I am no 
 traveler; my only voyage is. to the office 
 and home again. William and Christopher, 
 John and Charles sail to Europe and tlu 
 South, but 1 defy their romantic distances. 
 AVhen the spring comejand the flowers l>!o\v, 
 I drift through tho year belted with summer 
 and with spice. 
 
 With the changing months I keep high 
 carnival in ;.ll the zones. I sit at home and 
 walk with Prue, and if the sun tluit stirs 
 the sap (j'.iickenii also the wish to winder, 
 I remember my fellow-voyagers o:\ that 
 romantic craft, ;;n 1 looking round upon my 
 peaceful room, a. id pressing more closely 
 the arm of Prue, I feel t!i:it I have reached 
 tho port for which they hopelessly sailed. 
 And when winds blow fiercely and thenight- 
 Btorin rages, and the thought of lost mariners 
 and of perilous voyages touches the soft 
 heart of Prue, I hear a voice sweeter to my 
 car 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." 
 
 Hamkt
 
 FAMILY POKTEAITS. 
 
 "Look here upon this picture, and on this." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 WE have no family pictures, Prue and I, 
 only a portrait of my grandmother hangs 
 upon our parlor wall. It was takjen at least 
 a century ago, and represents the venerable 
 lady, whom I remember in my childhood in 
 spectacles and comely cap, as a young and 
 bloomjng girl. 
 
 She is sitting upon an old-fashioned sofa,, 
 by the side of a prim aunt of 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 the throat, 
 ruffled around the neck, and over the bosom 
 and the shoulders. The waist is just under 
 her shoulders, and the sleeves are tight, 
 tighter than any of our coat sleeves, and also 
 
 ruffled at the wrist. Around the plump and 
 
 227
 
 228 PRUE AND I. 
 
 rosy neck, which I remember as shriveled 
 and sallow, and .hidden under a decent lace 
 handkerchief, hangs, in the picture, a neck 
 lace of large ebony beads. There are two 
 curls upon the forehead, and the rest of the 
 hair flows away in ringlets down the neck. 
 
 The hands hold an open book : the eyes 
 look up from it with tranquil sweetness, and, 
 tli rough the open window behind, you see a 
 quiet landscape a hill, a tree, the glimpse 
 of a rivet", and a few peaceful summer 
 clouds. 
 
 Often in my younger days, when my 
 grandmother sat by the fire, after dinner, 
 iost in thought perhaps rememberfng the 
 time when the picture was really a portrait 
 [ have curiously compared her wasted fnce 
 with the blooming beauty of the girl, and 
 tried to detect the likeness. It was strange 
 how the resemblance would sometimes start 
 out : how, as I gazed and gazed upon her 
 old face, age disappeared before my eager 
 glance, as snow melts in the sunshine, re 
 vealing tljo flowers of a forgotten spring. 
 
 It was touching to see my grandmother
 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS. 229 
 
 steal quietly up to her portrait, on still sum 
 mer mornings when every one had left the 
 house, and I, the only child, played, disre 
 garded, and look at it wistfully and long. 
 
 She held her hand over her eyes to shade 
 them from the light that streamed in at the 
 window, and I have seen her stand at least 
 a quarter of an hour gazing steadfastly at 
 the picture. She said nothing, she made no 
 motion, she shed no tear, but when she 
 turned away there was always a pensive 
 sweetness in her face that mir.de it not less 
 lovely than the face of her youth. 
 
 I have learned since, what her thoughts 
 m-.ist have been how that long, wistful 
 glance annihilated time and space, how forms 
 ;;n 1 faces unknown to any other, rose in 
 sudden resurrection around her how she 
 loved, suffered, struggled and conquered 
 again ; how many a jest that I shall never 
 hear, how many a game that I shall never 
 play, how many a song that I shall never 
 sing, were all renewed and remembered as 
 my grandmother contemplated her picture. 
 
 J often stand, as she stood, gazing earnestly
 
 230 PRUE AND I. 
 
 at the picture, so long and so silently, that 
 Prue looks up from her work and says she 
 shall be jealous of that beautiful belie, my 
 grandmother, who yet makes her think more 
 kindly of those remote old times. 
 
 " Yes, Prue, and that is the charm of a 
 family portrait." 
 
 " Yes, again ; but," says Titbottom when 
 he hears the remark, " ho\v, if one's grand 
 mother were a shrew, a termagant, a vira- 
 go?" 
 
 " All ! in that case " I am compelled to 
 say, while Pruo looks up again, half archly, 
 and I add gravely " you, for instance, Prue." 
 
 Then Titbottom smiles one of his sad 
 svniles, and we change the subject. 
 
 Yet, I am always glad when Minim Scul- 
 pin, our neighbor, who knows that my op 
 portunities are few, comes to ask me to step 
 round and see the family portraits. 
 
 The Sculpins, I think, are a very old 
 family. Titbottom says they date from 
 the deluge. But I thought people of Eng 
 lish descent; p~ff rt TfMl to" stop with "William 
 the Conqueror, who cam > f-o:n France.
 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Before going with Minim, I always fortify 
 myself with a glance at the great family 
 Bible, in which Adam, Eve, and the patri 
 archs, lire indifferently well represented. 
 
 "Those are tho ancestors of the Howards, 
 the Plantagenets, and the Montmorencis,'* 
 says Prui>, surprising me with her erudition. 
 " Have you any remoter ancestry, Mr. Scul 
 pin '" she asks Minim, who only smiles 
 compassionately upon the dear woman, 
 while 1 am butttoning my coat. 
 
 Then we step along the street, and I am. 
 conscious of trembling a little, for I feel as 
 if I were going to court. Suddenly we are 
 standing before the range of portraits. 
 
 " This," says Minim, with unction, " is 
 Sir Solomon Sculpin, the founder of the 
 family." 
 
 " Famous for what ? " I ask, respectfull}^ 
 
 " For founding the family," replies Minim 
 gravely, and I have sometimes thought a 
 little severely. 
 
 "This," he says, pointing to a dame in 
 hoops and diamond stomacher, " this is Lady 
 Sheba Sculpin."
 
 232 PRUE AND I. 
 
 "Ah! yes. Famous for what ?'' I inquire 
 
 " For being the wife of Sir Solomon." 
 
 Then, in order, comes a gentleman in a 
 hug^i, curling wig, looking indifferently like 
 James the Second, or Louis the Fourteenth, 
 and Holding 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 
 Aureliu of that old society. 
 
 ' Lady Dorothea Sculpin, who married 
 yomg Lord Pop and Cock, and died prema 
 turely in Italy." 
 
 Poor Lady Dorothea ! whose great grand 
 child, in the tenth remove, died last week, 
 an old man of eighty ! 
 
 Next the gentle lady hangs a fierce figure, 
 flourishing a sword, with an anchor embroi 
 dered on his coat-collar, and thunder and 
 lightning, sinking ships, flames and tornadoes 
 in the background. 
 
 " Ilo-ir Admiral Fir Shark Sculpin, who 
 fell in the <rreat action olr Madagascar."
 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS. 233 
 
 So Minim goes on through the series, 
 brandishing his ancestors about my bead, 
 and incontinently knocking me into admi 
 ration. 
 
 And when we reach the last portrait r.r.d 
 our own times, what is the natural emotion. ? 
 Is it not to put Minim against the wall, draw 
 off at him with my eyes and mind, scan him, 
 and consider his life, and determine how 
 mucti of the Right Honorable Haddock'-s 
 integrity, and the Lady Dorothy's loveliness, 
 and the Admiral Shark's valor, reappears in 
 the modern man ? After all this proving 
 and refining, ought not the last child of a 
 famous race to be its flower and epitome? 
 Or, in the case that he does not chance to be 
 so, is it not better to conceal the family 
 name ? * 
 
 I am told, however, that in the higher 
 circles of society, it is better not to conceal 
 the name, however un'worthy the man or 
 woman may bo who bears it. Prue once 
 remonstrated with a. iady about the marriage 
 of a lovely voting givl with a cousin of 
 Minim's; but th" o ! nT ; ^swer r.hc received
 
 234 TRUE AND I. 
 
 was, " "Well, he may not be a perfect man, 
 but then he is a Sculpin," which consider 
 ation apparently gave great comfort to the 
 lady's mind. 
 
 But even Prue grants that Minim has some 
 reason for his pride. Sir Solomon was a 
 respectable man, and Sir Shark a brave one; 
 and the Right Honorable Haddock a learned 
 one ; the Lady Sheba was grave and gracious 
 in. her way ; and the smile of the fair 
 Dorothea lights with soft sunlight those 
 lon<r-rons summers. The filial blood rushes 
 
 O O 
 
 more gladly from Minim's heart as he gazes ; 
 find admiration for the virtues of his kindred 
 inspires and sweetly mingles with good 
 resolutions of his own. 
 
 Time has its share, too, in the ministry, 
 an 1 the influence. The hills bevond the 
 
 v 
 
 river lay yesterday, at sunset, lost in purple 
 o-loo-.n ; thev receded into airv distances of 
 
 *. */ 
 
 dreams and faery ; .they sank softly into 
 night, the poaks oT the delectable mountains. 
 l)ut I knrv, ns 1 uri/-' 1 *! enchanted, that the 
 hilh, so pnrple-^oft of seeming, were hard, 
 and gray, and barren in the wintry twilight;
 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS. 235 
 
 and that in the distance \vas the magic that 
 made them fair. 
 
 So, beyond the river of time that flows 
 between, walk the brave men and the beau 
 tiful women of our ancestry, grouped in 
 twiliglit upon the shore. Distance smooths 
 iiway defects, and, with gentle darkness, 
 roun.ls every form into grace. It steals tire 
 harshness from their speech, and every word 
 becomes a song. Far across the gulf that 
 ever widens, they look upon us with eyes 
 whose glance is tender, and which light us 
 to success. We acknowledge our inheri 
 tance; we accept our birthright; we own 
 that their careers have pledged us to noble 
 action. Every great life is an incentive to 
 all other lives ; but when the brave heart, 
 that beats for the world, loves us with the 
 warmth of private affection, then the ex 
 ample of heroism is more persuasive, because 
 more personal. 
 
 This is the true pride of ancestry. It is 
 founded in the tenderness with which the 
 child regards the father, and in the romance 
 that time sheds upon history.
 
 236 PRUE AND I. 
 
 " Where be all the bad people buried ? " 
 asks every man, with Charles Lamb, as he 
 strolls among the rank graveyard grass, 
 sim! brushes it aside to read of the faithful 
 husban.l, and the loving wife, and the dutiful 
 chad. 
 
 He finds only praise in the epitaphs, 
 bv32aaso the human heart is kind ; because it 
 yearns with wistful tenderness after all its 
 brethren who have passed into the clou:l, 
 and will only speak well of the departed. 
 No offense is longer an offenss when the 
 grass is green over the offender. Even faults 
 then seem characteristic and individual. 
 Even Justice is appeased when the drop falls. 
 How ths old stories and plays teem with 
 the incident of the duel in which one gen 
 tleman fall?, and, in dying, forgives and is 
 forgiven. We turn the page with a tear. 
 How much better had there been no offense, 
 b'lt how well that death wipes it out. 
 
 It is not observed in history that families 
 improve with time. It is rather discovered 
 th-it t'ie whole in-'Uo!' i; like a comet, of 
 which the brightest pi;t is the head ; and
 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS. 237 
 
 tho tail, although long and luminous, is grad 
 ually shaded into obscurity. 
 
 Yet, by a singular compensation, the pride 
 of ancestry increases in the ratio of distance. 
 Adam \vas valiant, and did so well at Poic- 
 tieiv, that he was knighted a hearty, homely 
 co mtry gentleman, who lived humbly to the 
 ea.l. But young Lucifer, his representative in 
 t!i 3 twentieth remove, has a tinder-like con 
 ceit because old Sir Adam was so brave and 
 humble. Sir Adam's sword is hung up at 
 iio ne, and Lucifer has a box at the opera. 
 O;i a thin finger he has a ring, cut with a 
 ina.teh fizzling, the crest of the Lucifers. But 
 if ha should be at a Poictiers, he would run 
 away. Then history would be sorry not 
 only for 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 char 
 acters are known. His neighbor Mudge, 
 has no pedigree of this kind, and when he 
 reels homeward, \ve do not suffer the sorrow 
 of a:iv fair Lady Dorothv in such a descend-
 
 238 PRUE AND I. 
 
 ant we pity him for himself alone. But 
 genius and power are so imperial and uni 
 versal, that when Minim Sculpin falls, we 
 are grieved not only for him, hut for that 
 eternal truth and beauty which appeared in 
 t!i3 vilor of Sir Shark, and the loveliness 
 of Lady Djrothy. His neighbor Mudge's 
 grandfather may have been quite as valorous 
 and virtuous as Sculpin's; but wo know of 
 the one, and we do not know of the other. 
 
 Therefore, Prae, I say to my wifj, who 
 has, by this time, fallen as soundly asbop as 
 if I had been preaching a real sermon, do 
 not let Mrs. Madge feel hurt, because I g:ize 
 so long and earnestly npo:i the portrait of 
 tlie fair Lady Sculpin, and, lost in dreams, 
 mingle in a society which distance and 
 poetry immortalize. 
 
 But let the love of the family portraits 
 belong to poetry and not to politics. It is 
 good in the one way, and bad in the other. 
 
 The sentiment of ancestral pride is an in 
 tegral part of human nature. Its organisa 
 tion in institutions is the real object of en 
 mity to all sensible men, because it is a di-
 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS. 239 
 
 rect preference of derived to original power, 
 implying a doubt that the world at every 
 period is able to take care of itself. 
 
 The family portraits have a poetic signifi 
 cance; but he is a brave child of the family 
 who dares to show them. They all sit in 
 p -.ssionbss and austere judgment upon liim- 
 sj'f. Lat him not, itivibe us to S33 them, un 
 til h? has considered whether they are lion- 
 o.'j-l or di.rjr.ica I by his o\vn career until 
 h) has 1 >oked in t!i3 glass of his own thought 
 n\ \ sjanaj 1 hU owa proportions. 
 
 The family portraits are liko a woman's 
 diamonds, they may flash finely enougli be 
 fore t'le world, but she herself trembles lest 
 thoir luster eclipse her eyes. It is difficult 
 to resist the te.i ler.cy to depend upon those 
 portr.iiti, an.1 t) enjoy vicariously through 
 thorn a hig'i consideration. But, after all, 
 what girl is co:nplimented when you curi 
 ously reg'iril h a r because hor mother was 
 beautiful ? What attenuato.l consumptive, 
 in \vhom solf-res.;)ect is yet unconsumed, 
 delight? in yo-ir r">>n^>t fo- him, founded in 
 honor for iris staiwart ancestor?
 
 240 PRUE AND I. 
 
 No man worthy the name rejoices in any 
 homage which his own effort and character 
 have not deserved. You intrinsically insult 
 him when you make him the scapegoat of 
 your admiration for his ancestor. But when 
 his ancestor is his accessory, then your hom 
 age would flatter Jupiter. All that Minim 
 Sculpin do3s by his own talent is the more 
 radiantly sst and ornamented by the family 
 fame. The imagi.iatio i is pleased when 
 Lord Jo'.m Russell is Premier of England 
 and a whig, bscausa the great Lord William 
 Russell, his ancestor, died in England for 
 liberty. 
 
 In the samo way Minim's sister Sara adds 
 to her o\vn grace the sweet memory of the 
 Lady Dorothy. When she glides, a sunbeam, 
 through that quiet house, and in winter 
 makes summer by her presence; when she 
 sits at tl^ piano, singing in the twilight, or 
 stands leaning against the Venus in the cor 
 ner of the ro >m herself more graceful- 
 then, in glancing from her to the portrait of 
 the g3n*lo D'>:*othy, you feol that the long 
 years betwee.i tiiei:i have be, n lighted by
 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS. 24 I 
 
 the sajne sparkling grace, and shadowed by 
 the same pensive smile for this is but one 
 Sara 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 a sense sweeter than 
 we knew, and be glad when young Sculpin 
 invites us to see the family portraits. 
 Could a man lie named Sidney, and not be 
 it better man, or .Milton, and be a churl? 
 
 But it is apart from any historical associa 
 tion that I like to look at the family portraits. 
 TheSculpins were very distinguished heroes, 
 and judges, and founders of families; but I 
 chiefly linger upon their pictures, because 
 they were men and women. Their portraits 
 remove the vagueness from history, and give 
 it reility. Ancient valor and beauty cease to 
 be names and poetic myths, and become 
 facts. I feel that they lived, and loved, and 
 suffered in those old days. The story of 
 th Mr lives is instantly full of human symj r.- 
 tliy in my mind, and I judge them moio 
 gently, more generously. 
 
 Then I look at those of us who are the 
 16
 
 242 PRUE AND I. 
 
 spectators of the portraits. I know that we 
 are made of the same flesh and blood, that 
 time is preparing us to be placed in his cabi 
 net and upon canvas, to be curiously studied 
 by the grandchildren of unborn Prues. I 
 put out my hands to grasp those of my fel 
 lows around the pictures. " Ah ! friends, 
 we live not only for ourselves. Those whom 
 we shall never see will look to us as models, 
 as counselors. We shall be speechless then. 
 We shall only look at them from the canvas 
 and cheer or discourage them by their idea 
 of our lives and ourselves. Let us so look 
 in the portrait, that they shall love our 
 memories that they shall say, in turn, 
 * they were kind and thoughtful, thoso queer 
 old ancestors of ours; let us not disgrace 
 them.' " 
 
 If they only recognize us as men and wom 
 en like themselves, they will be the better 
 for it, and the family portraits will be family- 
 blessings. 
 
 This u what my grandmother did. Gho 
 looked at her own portrait, at the portrait 
 of her youth, with much the same feeling 
 

 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS. 243 
 
 that I remember Prue as she was when 1 
 first saw her, with much the same feeling 
 that I hope our grandchildren will remem 
 ber us. 
 
 Upon those still summer mornings, though 
 she stood withered and wan in a plain bk< k 
 silk gown, a close cap, and spectacles, ;.r.<l 
 held her shrunken and blue- veined hand to 
 shield her eyes, yet, as she gazed with that 
 long and longing glance, upon the blooming 
 beauty that had faded from her form forever, 
 she recognized under that flowing hair and 
 that rosy cheek the immortal fashions of 
 youth and health and beneath those many 
 ruffles and that quaint high waist, the fash 
 ions of the day the same true and loving 
 woman. If her face was pensive as she 
 turned away, it was because truth and love 
 are, in their essence, forever young ; and it 
 is the hard condition of nature that they 
 cannot always appear so.
 
 OUR COUSIN T-HE CURATE. 
 
 * Why. let the stricken deer go weep, 
 
 The heart ungalled play ; 
 For some must watch while : ome must sleep; 
 Thus runs the world away."
 
 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 
 
 65 Why, let the stricken deer go weep, 
 
 The heart ungalled play ; 
 
 For some must watch while some must sleep j. 
 Thus runs the world away.'" 
 
 PRUE and I have very few relations Prue,. 
 especially, says that she never had any but 
 her parents, and that she hasjnone now but 
 her children. She often wishes she had some? 
 large aunt in the country, who might come 
 in unexpectedly with bags and bundles, 
 and encamp in our little house for a whole 
 winter. 
 
 u Because you are tired of me, I suppose, 
 Mrs. Prue?'' I reply with dignity, when she 
 alludes to the imaginary large aunt. 
 
 " You could take aunt to the opera, you 
 k-'.o'.v, and walk witli her on Sundays," says 
 Prue, as she knits and calmly looks me in 
 the face, without recognizing my observa 
 tion. 
 
 247
 
 248 PRUE AND I. 
 
 Then I tell Prue in the plainest possible 
 manner that, if her large aunt should come 
 up from the country to pass the \vinter, I 
 shoald insist upon her bringing her oldest 
 daughter, with whom I would flirt so desper- 
 sitaly tlint the street would ba scandalized, 
 and even the corner grocery should gossip 
 ovjr the iniquity. 
 
 " Poor Prue, how I should pity you," I 
 s:iy triumphantly to my wife. 
 
 " Poor oldest daughter, liow I should pity 
 liar," replies Prue, plaoidly counting her 
 stitches. 
 
 So the happy evening passes, as we gaily 
 mock each other, and wonder how old the 
 iarge aunt should be, and how many bun 
 dles she ought to bring with her. 
 
 "I would have her arrive by the late train 
 at midnight," says Prue ; " and when she 
 iiad eaten some supper and had gone to her 
 room, she should discover that she had left the 
 most precious bundle of all in the cars, with 
 out whose contents she could not sleep, nor 
 tlress, and you would st'irt to hunt for it." 
 
 And the needle clicks f.ister than ever
 
 OUR COUSIN* THE CURATE. 249 
 
 " Yes, and when I am gone to the office 
 in the morning, and am busy about impor 
 tant affairs yes, Mrs. Prue, important af 
 fairs," I insist, as my wife half raises her head 
 incredulously a then our large aunt front 
 the country \vould like to go shopping-, and 
 would want you for her escort. And she 
 would cheapen tape at all the shops, and 
 even to tho great Stewart himself, she would 
 offer a shilling less for the gloves. Then 
 the comely clerks of the great Stewart would 
 look at you, with their brows lifted, as if 
 they said, Mrs. True, your large aunt had 
 better stay in the country." 
 
 And the neeuie clicks more slowly as if 
 the tune were changing. 
 
 The large aunt will never come, I know ; 
 nor shall I ever flirt with the oldest daughter.. 
 I should like to believe that our little house 
 will teem with aunts and cousins when Prue 
 and I are gone ; but how can I believe it^ 
 when there is a milliner within three doors, 
 and a hair-dresser combs his wigs in the late 
 dining-room of my opposite neighbor? The- 
 large aunt from the country is entirely im-
 
 25O PRUK AND I. 
 
 possible, and as Prue feels it and I feel it, 
 the needles seem to click a dirge for that 
 late lamented lady. 
 
 '' But at least \ve have one relative, Prue." 
 The needles stop : only the clock ticks 
 upon the mantel to remind us how cease 
 lessly the stream of time flows on that bears 
 us away from our cousin the curate. 
 
 AVhen Prue and I are most cheerful, and 
 the world looks fair we talk of our cousin 
 the curate. When the world seems a little 
 cloudy, arid we remember that though we 
 have lived and loved together, we may r.ot 
 <lie together we talk of our cousin the cu 
 rate. When we plan little plans for the boys 
 and dream dreams for the girls we talk 
 of our cousin the curate. When I tell Prue 
 of Aurelia whose character is every day 
 lovelier we talk of our cousin the curate. 
 There is no subject which does not seem to 
 lead naturally to our cousin the curate. As 
 the soft air steals in and envelopes everything 
 in the world, so that the trees, and the hills, 
 iind the rivers, the cities, the crops, and the 
 sen, are made remote, and delicate, and beauti-
 
 OUR co'jsi:," Tii;; CLT.ATE. 2^1 
 
 ful, by its pure baptism, so over all the events 
 of our little lives, comforting, refining, and 
 elevating, falls like a benediction the remem 
 brance of our cousin the curate. 
 
 He was my only early companion. He 
 had no brother, I had none : and we became 
 brothers to each other. He was always 
 beautiful. His face was symmetrical and 
 delicate ; his figure was slight and graceful. 
 He looked as the sons of kings ought to look : 
 as I am sure Philip Sidney looked when he 
 was a boy. His eyes were blue, and as you 
 looked at them, they seemed to let your gaze 
 out into a June heaven. The blood ran 
 < lose to the skin, and his complexion had 
 the rich transparency of light. There was 
 nothing gross or heavy in his expression or 
 texture ; his soul seemed to have mastered 
 J.ii body. But he had strong passions, for 
 liis delicacy was positive, not negative : it 
 was not weakness, but intensity. 
 
 There was a patch of ground about the 
 house which we ti'lod as a garden. I was 
 proud of my morning glories, and sweet 
 peas; my. cousin cultivated roses. One day
 
 252 PRUE AND I. 
 
 and we could scarcely have been more 
 than six years old we were digging mer 
 rily and talking. Suddenly there was some 
 kind of difference ; I taunted him, and, raising- 
 his spade, he struck me upon the leg. The 
 blow was heavy for a boy, and the blood 
 trickled from the wound. I burst into in 
 dignant tears, and limped toward the housa. 
 My cousin turned pale and said nothing, but 
 just as I opened the door, he darted by me^ 
 and before I could interrupt him, he had con 
 fessed his crime, and asked for punishment. 
 
 From that day he conquered himself. lie 
 devoted a kind of ascetic energy to subduing 
 his own will, and 1 remember no other out 
 break. But the penalty he paid for con 
 quering his will was a loss of the gushing- 
 expression of feeling. My cousin became 
 perfectly gentle in his manner, but there 
 was a want of that pungent excess, which i 
 the finest flavor of character. His views 
 were moderate and calm. He was swept 
 away by no boyish extravagance, and, even 
 while I wished he would sin only a very 
 little, I still adored him as a saint. The
 
 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 253 
 
 truth is, as I tell Prue, I am so very bad be- 
 cause I have to sin for two for myself and 
 our cousin the curate. Often, when I returned 
 panting and restless from some frolic, which 
 Jiad \vasted almost all the night, I was re 
 buked as I entered the room in which he lay 
 peacefully sleeping. There was something 
 lio'.y in. the profound repose of his beauty, 
 sind, as I stood looking at him, how many a 
 tiins the tears have dropped from my hot eyes 
 9i[.i his face, while I vowed to make my- 
 s^!f worthy of such a companion, for I felt 
 my heart owning its allegiance to that strong 
 ami imperial nature. 
 
 My cousin was loved by the boys, but the 
 girls worshiped him. His mind, large in 
 <rrasp, and subtle in perception, naturally 
 commanded his companions, while the luster 
 of his character allured those who could not 
 understand him. The asceticism occasionally 
 showed itself a vein of hardness, or rather 
 of severity in his treatment of others. He 
 did what he thought it his duty to do, but 
 he forgot that few could see the right so 
 clearly ;n he, and verv few of those few
 
 254 PRUE AND I. 
 
 could so calmly obey the least command of 
 conscience. I confess I was a little afraid 
 of him, for I think I never could be severe. 
 
 In the long winter evenings I often read 
 to Prue the story of some old father of the 
 church, or some quaint poem of George 
 Herbert's and every Christmas-eve, I read 
 to her Milton's Hymn of the Nativity. Yet v 
 when the saint seems to us most saintly or 
 the poem most pathetic or sublime, we find 
 ourselves talking of our cousin the curate. 
 I have not seen him for many years ; but,, 
 when we parted, his head had the intellect 
 ual symmetry of Milton's, without the puri 
 tanic stoop, 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 do not wonder. 
 For my part, I find in the best romnnce 0:1 ly 
 the story of my love for her, and often as I 
 read to her, whenever I come to \\-\r.\t Tit- 
 bottom calls "tin cryim: p-irt," if 1 lift n;y 
 eyes su.ldenly, I bee iii.:t P. -lie's eyes are fixed
 
 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 255 
 
 on me with a softer light by reason of their 
 moisture. 
 
 Our cousin the curate loved, while he was 
 yet a boy, Flora, of the sparkling eyes and 
 tiu ringing voice. His devotion was abso 
 lute. P'lora was flattered, because all the 
 girls, as I said, worshiped him ; but she was 
 a gav, glancing girl, who had invaded the 
 student's heart with her audacious brilliancy, 
 and was half surprised that she had subdued 
 it. Our cousin for I never think of him as 
 my cousin, only wasted away under the 
 fjrvor of his passion. His life exhaled as 
 License before her. He wrote poems to her, 
 and sang them under her window, in the 
 summer moonlight. He brought her flowers 
 and precious gifts. "When he had nothing 
 elso to give, be gave her his love in a homage 
 so eloquent and beautiful that the worship 
 was like the worship of the wise men. The 
 gay Flora was proud and superb. She was a 
 girl, and the bravest and best boy loved her. 
 She was young, and the wisest and truest 
 youth loved her. They lived together, we 
 all lived together, in the happy valley of child-
 
 25 J TRUE AND I. 
 
 hood. \Ve looked forward to manhood as 
 island-poets look across tho sea, believing 
 that the whole world beyond is a blest A ruby 
 of spices. 
 
 The months went by, and the young love 
 continued. Our cousin and Flora were only- 
 children still, and there was no engagement. 
 The elders looked upon the intimacy as 
 natural and mutually beneficial. It would 
 help soften the boy and strengthen the girl ; 
 and they took for granted that softness and 
 strength were precisely what were wanted. 
 It is a great pity that men and women for 
 get that they have been children. Parents 
 are apt to be foreigners to their sons and 
 daughters. Maturity is the gate of Para 
 dise, which shuts behind us ; and our memo 
 ries are gradually weaned from the glories in, 
 which our nativity was cradled. 
 
 The months went by, the children grew 
 older, and they constantly loved. Now 
 Prue always smiles at one of my theories ; 
 she is entirely skeptical of it ; but it is, never 
 theless, my opinion, that men love most pas 
 sionately, and women most permanently.
 
 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 257 
 
 Men love at first and most warmly ; women 
 love last and longest. This is natural 
 enough ; for nature makes women to be won : 
 and men to win. Men are the active, positive 
 force, and, therefore, they are more ardent 
 and demonstrative. 
 
 I can never get farther than that in m\ 
 philosophy, when Prue looks at me, and 
 smiles me into skepticism of my own doc 
 trines. But they are true, notwithstanding. 
 
 My day is rather past for such specula 
 tions ; but so long as Aurelia is unmarried, 
 I am sure I shall indulge myself in them. I 
 Lave never made much progress in the phil 
 osophy of love ; in fact, I can only be sure 
 of this one cardinal principle, that when you 
 are quite sure two people cannot be in love 
 with each other, because there is no earthly 
 reason why they should be, then you may be 
 very confident that you are wrong, and that 
 they are in love, for the secret of love is 
 past finding out. Why our cousin should 
 have loved the gay Flora so ardently was 
 hard to say ; but that he did so was not dif 
 ficult to see. 
 
 IT
 
 258 PRl'C AND I. 
 
 IT 3 went away to colbgo. lie wrote the 
 m >st eloquent and passionate letters ; and 
 \\h?:i iu returned in vacations, he had no 
 eyes, cars, nor heart for any other being. I 
 rarely saw him, for I was living away from 
 o.sr early home, and was busy in a store 
 learning to be bookkeeper but I heard 
 aftjrward from himself the whole story. 
 
 One day when he came home for the holi 
 days, he found a young foreigner with Flora 
 a handsome youth, brilliant and graceful. 
 I have asked Prue a thousand times why 
 women adore soldiers and foreigners. She 
 says it is because they love heroism and are 
 romant'u. A soldier is professionally' a 
 here, says Prue, an:i a foreigner is associated 
 with all unknown and beautiful regions. I 
 hope thora 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 the horizon. 
 \,hen you stand upon its rocky and barren 
 side, has transmitted its romance to its re 
 motest neighbor. I cannot but admire the 
 fancies of girls which make them poets.
 
 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 259 
 
 They have only to look upon a dull-eyed, 
 ignorant, exhausted roue, with an impudent 
 mustache, and they surrender to Itah", to the 
 tropics, to the splendors 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 
 surrender to a blear-eyed foreigner in. a 
 mustache ? " 
 
 Prue has such a reasonable way of putting 
 these things ? 
 
 Our cousin came home and found Flora 
 and the young foreigner conversing. The 
 young foreigner had large, soft black eyes, 
 and the dusky skin of the tropics. His 
 manner was languid and fascinating, court 
 eous and reserved. It assumed a natural 
 supremacy, and you felt as if here \vcro a 
 young prince traveling before he came into 
 possession of his realm. 
 
 It is an old fable that love is blind. But 
 I think there are no eyes so sharp as those 
 of lovers. I am sure there is not a shade 
 upon Prue's brow that I do not instantly
 
 260 PRUE AND I. 
 
 remark, nor an altered tone in her voice that 
 I do not instantly observe. Do you suppose 
 Aurelia would not note the slightest devia 
 tion of heart in her lover, if she had one ? 
 Love is the coldest of critics. To be in love 
 is to live in a crisis, and the very imminence 
 of uncertainty makes the lover perfectly 
 self-possessed. His eye constantly scours 
 the horizon. There is no footfall so light 
 that it does not thunder in his ear. Love is 
 tortured by the tempest the moment the 
 cloud of a hand's size rises out of the sea. 
 It foretells its own doom ; its agony is past 
 before its sufferings are known. 
 
 Our cousin the curate no sooner saw the 
 tropical stranger, and marked his impression 
 upon Flora, than he felt the end. As the 
 shaft struck his heart, his smile was sweeter, 
 and his homage even more poetic ami rever 
 ential. I doubt if Flora understood him or 
 herself. She did not know, what he instinc 
 tively perceived, that she loved him 1 >ss. 
 But there are no degrees iu love : when it .s 
 less than absolute a-ul supreme, it is nothing. 
 Our cousin and ilora were not formally
 
 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 26l 
 
 engage;!, but their betrothal was understood 
 by all of us as a thing of course. He did 
 not allude to tho stranger; but as day fol 
 lowed day, ho saw with every nerve all that 
 passed. Gradually- so gradually that she 
 scarcely noticed it our cousin left Flora 
 more and more with the soft-eyed stranger, 
 whom lie saw she preferred. His treatment 
 of her was so full of tact, he still walked and 
 talked with her so familiarly, that she was 
 not troubled by any fear that he saw what 
 she hardly saw herself. Therefore, she was 
 not obliged to conceal any thing from him or 
 from herself ; but all .the soft currents of 
 her heart were setting toward the West In 
 dian. Our cousin's cheek grew paler, and 
 his soul burned and wasted within him. 
 His whole future all his dream of life had 
 been founded upon his love. It was a stately 
 palace built upon thesand, and now the sand 
 was sliding away. I have read somewhere, 
 that love will sacrifice everything but itself. 
 But our cousin sacrificed his love to the hap 
 piness of his mistress. He ceased to treat 
 her as pocuiia lv l.is o\vn. He made no
 
 262 PRUE AND I. 
 
 claim in word or manner that everybody 
 might not have made. He did not refrain 
 trom seeing- her, 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 was evident and under 
 stood that he was no more her lover, but 
 that both were the best of friends. 
 
 lie still wrote to her occasionally from col 
 lege, and his letters were those of a friend, 
 not of a lover. He could not reproach her. I 
 do not believe any man is secretly surprised 
 that a woman ceases to love him. Her love 
 is a neavenly favor won by no desert of his. 
 If it passes, he can no more complain than a 
 flower when the sunshine leaves it. 
 
 Before our cousin left college, Flora was 
 married to 'he tropical stranger. It was the 
 brightest of June days, and the summer 
 smiled upon the bride. There were roses in 
 her hand and orange flowers in her hair, and 
 the village church bill rang out over the 
 peaceful fields. The warm sunshine lay upon 
 the landscape like God's blessing, and Prue 
 and I, not yet married ourselves, stood at an
 
 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 263 
 
 open Avindow in the old meeting-house, hand 
 in hand, while the young couple spoke their 
 vows. Prue says that brides are always 
 beautiful, and I, who remember Prue her 
 self upon her weduing-day ho\v can I deny 
 it? Truly, the gay Flora was lovely that 
 summer morning, and the throng was happy 
 in the old church. But it was very sad 
 to me, although I only suspected then what 
 now I know. I shed no tears at my o\vn 
 wedding, but I did at Flora's, Although I knew 
 she was marrying a soft eyed youth whom 
 she dearly loved, and who, I doubt not, 
 dearly loved her. 
 
 Among the group of her nearest friends 
 was our cousin the curate. When the cere 
 mony was ended, he came to shake her hand 
 with the rest. His face was calm, and his 
 smile sweet, and his manner unconstrained. 
 Flora did not blush why should she 't 
 but shook his hand warmly, and thanked 
 him for his good wishes. Then they all 
 sauntered down the aisle together ; there 
 were some tears with the smiles among the 
 other friends ; our cousin handed the bride
 
 264 PRUE AND I. 
 
 into her carriage, shook hands with the hus 
 band, closed the door, and Flora drove away. 
 
 I have never seen her since ; I do not even 
 know if she be living still. I>;:t I shall ; 1- 
 ways remember her as she looked that Juno 
 morning, holding roses in her h:md, and 
 wreathed with orange flowers. Dear Flor i 
 it was no fault of hers that she loved one 
 man more thnn another: she could not be 
 blamed for rot preferring our cousin to the 
 West Indian : there is no fault in the story? 
 it is only a tr.'.ge-Jy. 
 
 Our cor.sin carried all the collegiate 
 honors but without exciting jealousy or 
 envy. lie was so really the best, that his 
 companions were anxious he should have the 
 sign of his superiority. lie studied hard, ho 
 thought much, and wrote well. Tlure was 
 no evidence of any blight upon his ambition 
 or career, but after living quietly in the 
 country for some time, he went to Europe 
 and traveled. When .he returned, he re 
 solved to study law, but presently relin 
 quish^! it. Then he colloctH ""t^rials for 
 a history, but suffered th.?:r. !>!';> r.nusod.
 
 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 265 
 
 Somehow the mainspring was gone. lie 
 used to come and pass weeks with Prue and 
 me. His coming made the children happy, 
 for he sat with them, and talked and played 
 with them all day long, as one of themselves. 
 They had no quarrels when our cousin the cu 
 rate was their playmate, and their laugh was 
 hardly sweeter than his as it ran down fiom 
 the nursery. Yet sometimes, as Prue was set 
 ting the tea-table, and I sat musing by the 
 fire, she stopped and turned to me ;is we 
 heard that sound, and her eyes filleil with 
 tears. 
 
 lie was interested in all subjects that in 
 terested others. His fine perception, his clt-ar 
 sense his noble imagination, illuminated 
 every question. His friends wanted him to 
 go into political life, to writea great book, to 
 do something worthy of his powers. It was 
 the very thing he longed to do himself; but 
 he came and played with the children in the 
 nursery, and the great deed was undone. 
 Often, in the long winter evenings, we talked 
 of the past, vhibTitbottom sat silent by, and 
 Prue w:is hasilv k:iittir:<r. lie told us theinci-
 
 266 PRUE AND I. 
 
 dents of his early passion but he did not mor 
 alize about it, nor sigh, nor grow moody. 
 He turned to Prue, sometimes, and jested 
 gently, and often quoted 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 humor was no gayer 
 than a flower upon a grave. 
 
 I am sure Titbottom loved our cousin the 
 curate for his heart is as hospitable as the 
 summer heaven. It was beautiful to watch 
 his curtesy toward him, and I do not wonder 
 that Prue considers the deputy bookkeeper 
 the model of a high-bred gentleman. When 
 you see his poor clothes, and thin gray hair, 
 his loitering step, and dreamy eye, you 
 might pass him by as an inefficient man ; but 
 when you hear his voice always speaking for 
 the noble and generous side, or recounting, 
 in a half-melancholy chant, the recollections 
 of his youth ; when you know that his heart 
 beats with the simple emotion of a boy's 
 heart, and that his courtesy is as delicate as
 
 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 267 
 
 a girl's modesty, you will understand why 
 Prue declares that she has never seen but 
 one man who reminded her of our especial 
 favorite, Sir Philip Sidney, and that his 
 name is Titbottom. 
 
 At length our cousin went abroad again to 
 Europe. It was many years ago that we 
 watched him sail away, and when Titbottom, 
 and Prue, and I, went home to dinner, the 
 ^rrace that was said that day was a fervent 
 prayer for our cousin the curate. Many an 
 evening afterward, the children wanted him, 
 .and cried themselves to sleep calling upon 
 his name. Many an evening still, our talk 
 flags into silence as we sit before the fire, 
 .and Prue puts down her knitting and takes 
 my hand, as if she knew my thoughts, al 
 though we do not name his name. 
 
 He wrote us letters as he wandered about 
 the world. They were affectionate letters, 
 full of observation, and thought, and de 
 scription. He lingered longest in Italy, but 
 he said his conscience accused him of yielding 
 to the syrens ; and he declared that his life 
 was running uselessly awav. At last he
 
 268 PRUE AND I. 
 
 came to England. He was charmed with 
 everything, and the climate was even kinder 
 to him than that of Italy. He went to all 
 the famous places, and saw many of the 
 famous Englishmen, and wrote that he felt 
 England to be his home. Burying himself 
 in the ancient gloo.n of a university town, 
 although past the prime of life, he studied 
 like an ambitious boy. He said again that 
 
 / 
 
 his life had been wine poured upon the 
 ground, and he felt guilty. And so our 
 cousin became a curate. 
 
 "Surely," wrote he, "you and Prue will 
 be glad to hear it ; and my friend Titbottom. 
 can no longer boast that he is moro useful 
 in the world than I. Dear old George 
 Herbert has already said what 1 would say 
 to you, aii'.l 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 moro thinking, in good part, 
 
 Time's gentle admonition ;
 
 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 269 
 
 Which did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, 
 Making my mind to smell my fatal day, 
 Yet sugaring the suspicion. 
 
 " ' Farewell, dear flo ( wers, 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 days are danc or 
 bright, wo naturally speak of our cousin 
 the curate? There is no nursery longer, 
 for the children are grown ; but I have seen 
 Prue stand, with her hand holding the door 
 for an hour, and looking into the room now 
 so sad! v still and tidy, with a sweet solem 
 nity in her eyes that I will call holy. Our 
 children have forgotten their old playmate, 
 but I am sure if there be any children in his 
 parish, over the sea, they love our cousin the 
 curate, and watch eagerly for his coming. 
 Does his step falter now, I wonder is that 
 long, fair hair, gray ; is that laugh as musi 
 cal in thos'* distant homes ns it used to be 
 in our nursery ; has England, among all her
 
 2/0 PRUE AND I. 
 
 good and great men, any man so noble as 
 our cousin the curate ? 
 
 The great book is unwritten ; the great 
 deeds are undone ; in no biographical dic 
 tionary will you find the name of our cousin 
 the curate. Is his life, therefore, lost ? Have 
 his powers been wasted ? 
 
 I do not dare to say it ; for I see Bourne, 
 on the pinnacle of prosperity, but still look 
 ing sadly for his castle in Spain ; I see Tit- 
 bottom an old deputy bookkeeper, whom 
 nobody knows, but with his chivalric heart, 
 loyal to whatever is generous and humane, 
 full of sweet hope, and faith, and devotion ; 
 I see the superb Aurelia, so lovely 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 is lost, or 
 what is won ? I know that in every way, 
 and by all his creatures, God is served and 
 his purposes accomplished. How should I 
 explain or understand, I who am only an old 
 bookkeeper in a white cravat ? 
 
 Yet in all history, in the splendid triumphs 
 of emperors and kings, in the dreams of
 
 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE. 2/1 
 
 poets, the speculations of philosophers, the 
 sacrifices of heroes, and the ecstasies of 
 saints, I find no exclusive secret of success. 
 Prue says she knows that nobody ever did 
 more good than our cousin the curate, for 
 every smile and word of his is a good deed ; 
 and I, for my part, am sure that, although 
 many must do more good in the world, 
 nobody enjoys it more than Prue and I, 
 
 THE END.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
 COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Slip-25m-9,'60(,B2e36s4)4280
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 001322014 o
 
 . %; 
 
 1 
 
 * * ' 
 
 fc ' & 
 
 Jtfe f - 
 
 *.** 
 
 < 
 
 L> 
 
 ^IK 
 ^^