VIII. Edward Delaney to John Flemming. August 22, Your letter in reply to my last has occupied my thoughts all the morning. I do not know what to think. Do you mean to say that you are seriously half in love with a woman whom you have never seen-with a shadow, a chimera? for what else can Miss Daw be to you? I do not understand it at all. I understand neither you nor her. You are a couple of ethereal beings moving in finer air than I can breathe with my commonplace lungs. Such delicacy of sentiment is something I admire without comprehending. I am bewildered. I am of the earth earthy; and I find myself in the incongruous position of having to do with mere souls, with natures so finely tempered that I run some risk of shattering them in my awkwardness. I am as Caliban among the spirits! Reflecting on your letter, I am not sure it is wise in me to continue this correspondence. But no, Jack; I do wrong to doubt the good sense that forms the basis of your character. You are deeply interested in Miss Daw; you feel that she is a person whom you may perhaps greatly admire when you know her: at the same time you bear in mind that the chances are ten to five that, when you do come to know her, she will fall far short of your ideal, and you will not care for her in the least. Look at it in this sensible light, and I will hold back nothing from you. Yesterday afternoon my father and myself rode over to Rivermouth with the Daws. A heavy rain in the morning had cooled the atmosphere and laid the dust. To Rivermouth is a drive of eight miles, along a winding road lined all the way with wild barberry bushes. I never saw anything more brilliant than these bushes, the green of the foliage and the red of the coral berries intensified by the rain. The colonel drove, with my father in front, Miss Daw and I on the back seat. I resolved that for the first five miles your name should not pass my lips. I was amused by the artful attempts she made, at the start, to break through my reticence. Then a silence fell upon her; and then she became suddenly gay. That keenness which I enjoyed so much when it was exercised on the lieutenant was not so satisfactory directed against myself. Miss Daw has great sweetness of disposition, but she can be disagreeable. She is like the young lady in the rhyme, with the curl on her forehead, "When she is good, She is very, very good, And when she is bad, she is horrid!" I kept to my resolution, however; but on the return home I relented, and talked of your mare! Miss Daw is going to try a side-saddle on Margot some morning. The animal is a trifle too light for my weight. By the by, I nearly forgot to say Miss Daw sat for a picture yesterday to a Rivermouth artist. If the negative turns out well, I am to have a copy. our ends will be accomplished without crime. I wish, though, I could send you the ivory type in the drawing-room; it is cleverly coloured, and would give you an idea of her hair and eyes, which, of course, the other will not. So No, Jack, the spray of mignonette did not come from me. A man of twenty-eight doesn't inclose flowers in his letters-to another man. But don't attach too much significance to the circumstance. She gives sprays of mignonette to the rector, sprays to the lieutenant. She has even given a rose from her bosom to your It is her jocund nature to scatter slave. I have just returned from the strangest interview with Marjorie. She has all but confessed to me her interest in you. But with what modesty and dignity! Her words elude my pen as I attempt to put them on paper; and, indeed, it was not so much what she said as her manner; and that I cannot reproduce. Perhaps it was of a piece with the strangeness of this whole business, that she should tacitly acknowledge to a third party the love she feels for a man she has never beheld! But I have lost, through your aid, the faculty of being surprised. I accept things as people do in dreams. Now that I am again in my room, it all appears like an illusion,-the black masses of shadow under the trees, the fire-flies whirling in Pyrrhic dances among the shrubbery, the sea over there, Marjorie sitting on the hammock! It is past midnight, and I am too sleepy to write more. Tuesday Morning.-My father has suddenly taken it into his head to spend a few days at the Shoals. In the meanwhile you will not hear from me. I see Marjorie walking in the garden with the Colonel. I wish I could speak to her alone, but shall probably not have an opportunity before we leave. X. Edward Delaney to John Flemming. August 28, -. You were passing into your second childhood, were you? Your intellect was so reduced that my epistolary gifts seemed quite considerable to you, did they? I rise superior to the sarcasm in your favour of the 11th instant, when I notice that five days' silence on my part is sufficient to throw you into the depths of despondency. We returned only this morning from Appledore, that enchanted island,-at four dollars per day. I find on my desk three letters from you! Evidently there is no lingering doubt in your mind as to the pleasure I derive from your correspondence. These letters are undated, but in what I take to be the latest are two passages that require my consideration. You will pardon my candour, dear Flemming, but the conviction forces itself upon me that as your leg grows stronger your head becomes weaker. You ask my advice on a certain point. I will give it. In my opinion you could do nothing more unwise than to address a note to Miss Daw, thanking her for the flower. It would, I am sure, offend her delicacy beyond pardon. She knows you only through me; you are to her an abstraction, a figure in a dream-a dream from which the slightest shock would awaken her. Of course, if you inclose a note to me and insist on its delivery, I shall deliver it; but I advise you not to do so. You say you are able, with the aid of a cane, to walk about your chamber, and that you purpose to come to The Pines the instant Dillon thinks you strong enough to stand the journey. Again I advise you not to. Do you not see that, every hour you remain away, Marjorie's glamour deepens and your influence over her increases? You will ruin everything by precipitancy. Wait until you are entirely recovered; in any case do not come without giving me warning. I I fear the effect of your abrupt advent here-under the circumstances. Miss Daw was evidently glad to see us back again, and gave me both hands in the frankest She stopped at the door a moment this afternoon in the carriage; she had been over way. to Rivermouth for her pictures. Unluckily the photographer had spilt some acid on the plate, and she was obliged to give him another sitting. I have an impression that something is troubling Marjorie. She had an abstracted air not usual with her. However, it may be only my fancy. . . . . I end this, leaving several things unsaid, to accompany my father on one of those long walks which are now his chief medicine, and mine! XI. Edward Delaney to John Flemming. I write in great haste to tell you what has taken place here since my letter of last night. I am in the utmost perplexity. Only one thing is plain, you must not dream of coming to The Pines. Marjorie has told her father everything! I saw her for a few minutes, an hour ago, in the garden; and, as near as I could gather from her confused statement, the facts are these: Lieutenant Bradly-that's the naval officer stationed at Rivermouth-has been paying court to Miss Daw for some time past, but not so much to her liking as to that of the colonel, who it seems is an old friend of the young gentleman's father. Yesterday (1 knew she was in some trouble when she drove up to our gate) the colonel spoke to Marjorie of Bradly,-urged his suit, I infer. Marjorie expressed her dislike for the lieutenant with characteristic frankness, and finally confessed to her father—well, I really do not know what she confessed. It must have been the vaguest of confessions, and must have sufficiently puzzled the colonel. At any rate, it exasper ated him. I suppose I am implicated in the matter, and that the colonel feels bitterly towards me. I do not see why: I have carried no messages between you and Miss Daw; I have behaved with the greatest discretion. I can find no flaw anywhere in my proceeding. I do not see that anybody has done anything, except the colonel himself. It is probable, nevertheless, that the friendly relations between the two houses will be broken off "A plague o' both your houses," say you. I will keep you informed, as well as I can, of what occurs over the way. We shall remain here until the second week in September. Stay where you are, or, at all events, do not dream of joining me. Colonel Daw is sitting on the piazza looking rather ferocious. I have not seen Marjorie since I parted with her in the garden. XII. Edward Delaney to Thomas Dillon, M.D., Madison Square, New York. August 30,-. My dear Doctor: If you have any influence over Flemming, I beg of you to exert it to prevent his coming to this place at present. There are circumstances, which I will explain to you before long, that make it of the first importance that he should not come into this neighbourhood. His appearance here, I speak advisedly, would be disastrous to him. In urging him to remain in New York, or to go to some inland resort, you will be doing him and me a real service. Of course you will not mention my name in this connection. know me well enough, my dear doctor, to be assured that, in begging your secret co-operation, I have reasons that will meet your entire approval when they are made plain to you. My father, I am glad to state, has so greatly improved that he can no longer be regarded as an invalid. With great esteem, I am, &c. &c. XIII. You Edward Delaney to John Flemming. Your letter announcing your mad determination to come here has just reached me. I beg of you to reflect a moment. The step would be fatal to your interests and hers. You would furnish just cause for irritation to R. W. D.; and, though he loves Marjorie tenderly, he is capable of going to any lengths if opposed. You would not like, I am convinced, to be the means of causing him to treat her with severity. That would be the result of your presence at The Pines at this juncture. Wait and see what happens. Moreover, I understand from Dillon that you are in no condition to take so long a journey. He thinks the air of the coast would be the worst thing possible for you; that you ought to go inland, if anywhere. Be advised by me. Be advised by Dillon. XIV. TELEGRAMS. September 1, 1.-To Edward Delaney. The On the 2d of September, 187-, as the down express due at 3:40 left the station at Hampton, a young man, leaning on the shoulder of a servant whom he addressed as Watkins, stepped from the platform into a hack, and requested to be driven to Pines." On arriving at the gate of a modest farmhouse, a few miles from the station, the young man descended with difficulty from the carriage, and, casting a hasty glance across the road, seemed much impressed by some peculiarity in the landscape. Again leaning on the shoulder of the person Watkins, he walked to the door of the farmhouse and inquired for Mr. Edward Delaney. He was informed by the Edward Delaney had gone to Boston the day aged man who answered his knock, that Mr. before, but that Mr. Jonas Delaney was within. This information did not appear satisfactory Delaney had left any message for Mr. John to the stranger, who inquired if Mr. Edward Flemming. There was a letter for Mr. FlemAfter a brief ming, if he were that person. absence the aged man reappeared with a letter. XV. Edward Delaney to John Flemming. September 1, —. I am horror-stricken at what I have done! When I began this correspondence I had no other purpose than to relieve the tedium of your sick-chamber. Dillon told me to cheer Letter received. Dillon be hanged. I think into the spirit of the thing. I had no idea, you up. I tried to. I thought you entered I ought to be on the ground. 2.-To John Flemming. J. F. Stay where you are. You would only complicate matters. Do not move until you hear from me. 2D SERIES, VOL. I. E. D. until within a few days, that you were taking matters au sérieux. What can I say? I am in sackcloth and ashes. I am a Pariah, a dog of an outcast. I tried to make a little romance to interest you, something soothing and idyllic, and, by Jove! I have done it only too well! My father 107 doesn't know a word of this, so don't jar the old gentleman any more than you can help. I fly from the wrath to come--when you arrive! For O, dear Jack, there isn't any colonial mansion on the other side of the road, there isn't any piazza, there isn't any hammock,there isn't any Marjorie Daw!!-Atlantic Monthly. SUNDAY. [Rev. George Herbert, born at Montgomery Castle, Wales, 3d April, 1593; died at Bemerton, 1632. He was the fifth of seven sons, a descendant of the Pembroke family, and his elder brother, Edward, who distinguished himself in the camp, the court, and in literature, became Lord Herbert of Cherbury. George was educated at Westminster and Cambridge, took orders, and was presented by Charles I. to the living of Bemerton. The immediate cause of his early death was consumption. Izaak Walton in his biography sums up Herbert's character: "Thus he lived, and thus he died like a saint, unspotted of the world, full of alms deeds, full of humility, and all the examples of a virtuous life." The Temple, Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, were first published in 1633. His chief prose works are: A Priest to the Temple, or the Country Parson, his Character and Rule of Holy Life; and Jacul Pudentum, or Outlandish Proverbs, Sentences, &c., selected by George Herbert.] O day most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world's bud, The indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with His blood; The couch of time; care's balm and bay; The week were dark, but for thy light: Thy torch doth show the way. The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow: The worky-days are the back-part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear. Man had straight forward gone To endless death; but thou dost pull And turn us round to look on One Whom, if we were not very dull, We could not choose but look on still; Since there is no place so alone The which He doth not fill. Sundays the pillars are, On which heaven's palace arched lies: The other days fill up the spare And hollow room with vanities. They are the fruitful beds and borders Which parts their ranks and orders. The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious King. On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope; Blessings are plentiful and rife, More plentiful than hope. This day my Saviour rose, And did inclose this light for His: Who want herbs for their wound. The rest of our creation Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvaton, The brightness of that day We sullied by our foul offence: Whose drops of blood paid the full price, And fit for Paradise. Thou art a day of mirth: O let me take thee at the bound, TREES. BY PROFESSOR WILSON. Trees are indeed the glory, the beauty, and the delight of nature. The man who loves not trees-to look at them-to lie under them -to climb up them (once more a school-boy)— would make no bones of murdering Mrs. Jeffs. In what one imaginable attribute, that it ought to possess, is a tree, pray, deficient? Light, shade, shelter, coolness, freshness, music, all the colours of the rainbow, dew and dreams dropping through their umbrageous twilight at eve or morn,-dropping direct, soft, sweet, soothing, and restorative, from heaven. Without trees, how in the name of wonder could we have had houses, ships, bridges, easy-chairs, or coffins, or almost any single one of the necessaries, conveniences, or comforts of life? Without trees, one man might have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but not another with a wooden ladle. Tree by itself Tree, "such tents the patriarchs loved,"-Ipse nemus,-"the brotherhood of Trees,"-the Grove, the Coppice, the Wood, the Forest,-dearly, and after a different fashion, do we love you all!--And love you all we shall, while our dim eyes can catch the glimmer, our dull ears the murmur, of the leaves, or our imagination hear at midnight, the far-off swing of old branches groaning in the tempest. Oh! is not Merry also Sylvan England? And has not Scotland, too, her old pine forests, blackening up her Highland mountains? Are not many of her rivered valleys not unadorned with woods,-her braes beautiful with their birken shaws? And does not stately ash or sycamore tower above the kirk-spire in many a quiet glen, overshadowing the humble house of God, "the dial-stone aged and green," and all the deep-sunk, sinking, or upright array of grave-stones, beneath which "The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep?" We have the highest respect for the ghost of Dr. Johnson; yet were we to meet it by moonlight, how should we make it hang its head on the subject of Scottish trees! Look there, you old, blind, blundering blockhead! That Pine Forest is twenty miles square! Many million trees there have at least five hundred arms each, six times as thick as ever your body was, sir, when you were at your very fattest in Bolt Court. As for their trunks-some straight as cathedral pillars-some flung all awry in their strength across cataracts—some without a twig till your eye meets the hawk's nest diminished to a black-bird's, and some overspread, from within a man's height of the mossy sward, with fantastic branches, conecovered, and green as emerald-what say you, you great, big, lumbering, unweildy ghost you, to trunks like these? And are not the Forests of Scotland the most forgiving that ever were self-sown, to suffer you to flit to and fro, haunting unharmed their ancient umbrage? Yet, Doctor, you were a fine old Tory every inch of you, for all that, my boy; so come glimmering away with you into the gloom after us don't stumble over the roots-we smell a still at work-and neither you nor I shadow nor substance (but, prithee, why so wan, good Doctor? Prithee, why so wan?) can be much the worse, eh, of a caulker of Glenlivat? Every man of landed property, that lies fairly out of arm's length of a town, whether free or copyhold, be its rental above or below forty shillings a-year, should be a planter. Even an old bachelor, who has no right to become the father of a child, is not only free, but in duty bound to plant a tree. Unless his organ of philoprogenitiveness be small indeed, as he looks at the young tender plants in his own nursery-garden his heart will yearn towards them with all the longing and instinctive fondness of a father. As he beholds them putting forth the tender buds of hope, he will be careful to preserve them from all blight— he will "teach the young idea how to shoot," and, according to their different natures, he will send them to different places to complete their education, according as they are ultimately intended for the church, the bar, or the navy. The old gentleman will be surprised to see how soon his young plants have grown as tall as himself, even though he should be an extraordinary member of the Six Feet Club. An, oak sapling of some five or six springs shall measure with him on his stocking-soles, and a larch considerably younger, laugh to shake its pink cones far over his wig. they are all dutiful children, never go stravaiging from home after youthful follies; and standing together in beautiful bands, and in majestic masses, they will not suffer the noonday sun to smite their father's head, nor the winds of heaven to "visit his face too roughly." But People are sometimes prevented from planting trees by the slowness of their growth. What a mistake that is! People might just as well be prevented from being wed, because a man-child takes one-and-twenty years to get out of his minority, and a woman-child, except in hot climates, is rarely marriageable before fifteen. Not the least fear in the world, that Tommy and Thomasine and the tree will grow up fast enough-wither at the top-and die! It is a strange fear to feel-a strange complaint to utter-that any one thing in this world, animate or inanimate, is of too slow growth; for the nearer to its perfection, the nearer to its decay. No man who enjoys good health at fifty, or even sixty, would hesitate, if much in love, to take a wife, on the ground that he could have no hope or chance of seeing his numerous children all grown up into hobbledehoys and Priscilla Tomboys. Get your children first, |