Gala-Days Part 10

They never found the food bad, or the beds hard, or the servants stupid. They never were tired when anything was to be done, or cross when it had been done, or under any circ.u.mstances peevish, or pouty or "offish." They were ready for everything and content with anything.

It was a pleasure to give them a pleasure, because their pleasure was so manifest. They looked eagerly at everything and into everything.

The younger one, indeed, was so interested, that she often forgot her feet in her bright, observant eyes, which would lead her right on and on, regardless of the course of others, till she was discovered to be missing, a search inst.i.tuted, and the wanderer returned smiling, but not disconcerted. They were never restless, uneasy, discontented, wanting to go somewhere else, or stay longer when every one was ready to go, or annoying their friends by rus.h.i.+ng into needless danger. They never brought their personal tastes into conflict with the general convenience. They were thoroughly free from affectation. They never seemed to say or do anything with a view to the impression it would make, or even to suspect that they should make an impression. They were just fond enough of dress to array themselves with neatness, freshness, a pretty little touch of youthful ornament, and a very nice sense of fitness. But they were never occupied with their dress, and they had only as much as was necessary,--though that may have been a mother's care,--and what of them was not the result of wise parental care? They did not talk about GENTLEMEN. They had evidently been brought up in familiar contact with the thing, so that no glamour hung about the word. They talked of places, people, books, flowers, all simple things, in a simple way. They were interested in music, in pictures, in what they saw and what they did. They sang and played with fresh, natural grace, to the delight and applause of all, and stopped soon enough to make us wish for more, but not soon enough to seem capricious or disobliging or pert.

But my pen fails to picture them to you as I saw them,--the one with her grave, sweet, artless dignity, a perfect Honoria, crowned with the soft glory of a dawning womanhood; but the other docile and sprightly, careless, but not thoughtless. The beauty of their characters lay in the perfect balance. Their qualities were set off against each other, and symmetry was the result. They combined opposites into a fascinating harmony. They had all the ease and unconcern of refined a.s.sociation, without the smallest admixture of forwardness. They were neither bold nor bashful. They neither pampered nor neglected themselves,--neither fawned upon nor insulted others. They were everything that they ought to be, and nothing that they ought not to be, and I wished I could put them in a cage, and carry them through the country, and say: "Look, girls, this is what I mean. This is what I wish you to be."

We wound around the mountains, and wandered back and forth through the defiles like the Israelites in the wilderness, seeing everything that was to be seen, and a good deal more. We alighted incessantly, and struck into little wood-paths after cascades and falls, and got them to, sometimes. Of course we penetrated into the dripping Flume, and paddled on the Pool, or the Basin,--I have forgotten which they call it,--for a pool is but a big basin, and a basin a small pool. Of course we sailed and shouted on Echo Lake, and did obeisance to the Old Man of the Mountains and his numerous and nondescript progeny; for he has played pranks up there, and infected the whole surrounding country with a furor of personality. The Old Man himself I acknowledged. That great stone face is clearly and calmly profiled against the sky. His knee, too, is susceptible of proof, for I climbed it. A white horse in the vicinity of Conway is visible to the imaginative eye, and, by a little forcing of vision and conscience, one can make out a turtle, all but the head and legs. But there is a limit to all things, and when Halicarna.s.sus held up both hands in astonishment and admiration, and declared that he saw a kangaroo, and then, in short and rapid succession, a rhinoceros, an armadillo, and a crocodile, I felt, in the words of General Banks, "We have now reached that limit," and shut down the gates upon credulity.

At a little village among the mountains we met our friends, and stopped a week or two, loath to leave the charmed spot. "Where?" Never mind.

A place where the sun s.h.i.+nes, and lavender-hued clouds whirl in craggy, defiant, thunderous ma.s.ses around imperturbable mountain-tops; and vapors, pearly and amber-tinted, have not forgotten to float softly among the valleys; and evening skies fling out their pink and purple banner; and stars throb, and glow, and flash, with a radiant life that is not of the earth;--where great rivers have not yet put on the majesty of manhood, but trill over pebbles, curl around rocks, ripple against banks, waltz little eddies, spread dainty pools for gay little trout, dash up saucy spray into the eyes of bending ferns, mock the frantic struggles of lost flowers and twigs, tantalizing them with hope of a rest that never comes, leap headlong, swirling and singing with a thousand silver tongues, down cranny and ravine in all the wild winsomeness of unchecked youth;--a land flowing with maple-mola.s.ses and sugar, and cider applesauce, and cheese new and old, and baked beans, and three sermons on Sundays, besides Sabbath school at noon, and no time to go home; and wagons with three seats, [Mem. Always choose the back seat, if you wish to secure a reputation for amiability,] three on a seat, two and a colt trotting gravely beside his mother; roads all sand in the hollows and all ruts on the hills, blocked up by snow in the winter, and washed away by thunder-showers in the summer;--a land where carpets are disdained, latches are of wood, thieves unknown, wainscots and wells au naturel, women are as busy as bees all day and knit in the c.h.i.n.ks, men are invisible till evening, girls braid hats and have beaux, and everybody goes to bed and to sleep at nine o'clock, and gets up n.o.body knows when, and cooks, eats, and "clears away"

breakfast before other people have fairly rubbed their eyes open; where all the town are neighbors for ten miles round, and know your outgoings and incomings without impertinence, gossip without a sting, are intelligent without pretension, st.u.r.dy without rudeness, honest without effort, and cherish an orthodoxy true as steel, straight as a pine, unimpeachable in quality, and unlimited in quant.i.ty. G.o.d bless them!

Late may they return to heaven, and never want a man to stand before the Lord forever!

Some people have conscientious scruples about fis.h.i.+ng. I respect them.

I had them once myself. Wantonly to destroy, for mere sport, the innocent life, in lake and river, seemed to me a cruelty and a shame.

But people must fish. Now, then, how shall your theory and practice be harmonized? Practice can't yield. Plainly, theory must. A year ago, I went out on a rock in the Atlantic Ocean, held a line--just to see how it seemed,--and caught eight fishes; and every time a fish came up, a scruple went down. They weren't very large,--the fishes, I mean, not the scruples, though the same adjective might, perhaps, not unjustly be applied to both,--and I don't know that the enormity of the sin depends at all upon the size of the fish; but if it did, so entirely had my success convinced me of man's lawful dominion over the fish of the sea, that I verily believe, if a whale had hooked himself on the end of my line, I should have hauled him up without a pang.

I do not insist that you shall accept my system of ethics. Deplorable results might follow its practical application in every imaginable case. I simply state facts, leaving the "thoughtful reader" to generalize from them whatever code he pleases.

Which facts will partially account for the eagerness with which I, one morning, seconded a proposal to go a-fis.h.i.+ng in a river about fourteen miles away. One wanted the scenery, another the drive, a third a chowder, and so on; but I--I may as well confess--wanted the excitement, the fishes, the opportunity of displaying my piscatory prowess. I enjoyed in antic.i.p.ation the masculine admiration and feminine chagrin that would accompany the beautiful, fat, s.h.i.+ning, speckled, prismatic trout into my basket, while other rods waited in vain for a "nibble." I resolved to be magnanimous. Modesty should lend to genius a heightened charm. I would win hearts by my humility, as well as laurels by my dexterity. I would disclaim superior skill, attribute success to fortune, and offer to distribute my spoil among the discomfited. Glory, not pelf, was my object. You imagine my disgust on finding, at the end of our journey, that there was only one rod for the party. Plenty of lines, but no rods. What was to be done?

It was proposed to improvise rods from the trees. "No," said the female element. "We don't care. We shouldn't catch any fish. We'd just as soon stroll about." I bubbled up, if I didn't boil over. "WE shouldn't, should WE? Pray, speak for yourselves! Didn't I catch eight cod-fishes in the Atlantic Ocean, last summer? Answer me that!"

I was indignant that they should so easily be turned away, by the trivial circ.u.mstance of there being no rods, from the n.o.ble art of fis.h.i.+ng. My spirits rose to the height of the emergency. The story of my exploits makes an impression. There is a marked respect in the tone of their reply. "Let there be no division among us. Go you to the stream, O Nimrod of the waters, since you alone have the prestige of success. We will wander quietly in the woods, build a fire, fry the potatoes, and await your return with the fish." They go to the woods.

I hang my prospective trout on my retrospective cod, and march river-ward. Halicarna.s.sus, according to the old saw, "leaves this world, and climbs a tree," and, with jackknife, cord, and perseverance, manufactures a fis.h.i.+ng-rod, which he courteously offers to me, which I succinctly decline, informing him in no ambiguous phrase that I consider nothing beneath the best as good enough for me. Halicarna.s.sus is convinced by my logic, overpowered by my rhetoric, and meekly yields up the best rod, though the natural man rebels. The bank of the river is rocky, steep, shrubby, and difficult of ascent or descent.

Halicarna.s.sus bids me tarry on the bridge, while he descends to reconnoitre. I am acquiescent, and lean over the railing awaiting the result of investigation. Halicarna.s.sus picks his way over the rocks, sidewise and zigzaggy along the bank, and down the river, in search of fish. I grow tired of playing Casabianca, and steal behind the bridge, and pick my way over the rocks, sidewise and zigzaggy along the bank, and up the river, in search of "fun"; practise irregular and indescribable gymnastics with variable success for half an hour or so.

Shout from the bridge. I look up. Too far off to hear the words, but see Halicarna.s.sus gesticulating furiously, and evidently laboring under great excitement. Retrograde as rapidly as circ.u.mstances will permit.

Halicarna.s.sus makes a speaking-trumpet of his hands, and roars, "I've FOUND--a FIs.h.!.+ LEFT--him for--YOU--to CATCH! Come QUICK!"--and, plunging headlong down the bank, disappears. I am touched to the heart by this sublime instance of self-denial and devotion, and scramble up to the bridge, and plunge down after him. Heel of boot gets entangled in dress every third step,--fis.h.i.+ng-line in tree-top every second; progress consequently not so rapid as could be desired. Reach the water at last. Step cautiously from rock to rock to the middle of the stream,--balance on a pebble just large enough to plant both feet on, and just firm enough to make it worth while to run the risk,--drop my line into the spot designated,--a quiet, black little pool in the rus.h.i.+ng river,--see no fish, but have faith in Halicarna.s.sus.

"Bite?" asks Halicarna.s.sus, eagerly.

"Not yet," I answer, sweetly. Breathless expectation. Lips compressed. Eyes fixed. Five minutes gone.

"Bite?" calls Halicarna.s.sus, from down the river.

"Not yet," hopefully.

"Lower your line a little. I'll come in a minute." Line is lowered.

Arms begin to ache. Rod suddenly bobs down. s.n.a.t.c.h it up. Only an old stick. Splash it off contemptuously.

"Bite?" calls Halicarna.s.sus from afar.

"No," faintly responds Marius, amid the ruins of Carthage.

"Perhaps he will by and by," suggests Halicarna.s.sus, encouragingly.

Five minutes more. Arms breaking. Knees trembling. Pebble shaky.

Brain dizzy. Everything seems to be sailing down the stream. Tempted to give up, but look at the empty basket, think of the expectant party and the eight cod-fish, and possess my soul in patience.

"Bite?" comes the distant voice of Halicarna.s.sus, disappearing by a bend in the river.

"No!" I moan, trying to stand on one foot to rest the other, and ending by standing on neither for the pebble quivers, convulses, and finally rolls over and expires; and only a vigorous leap and a sudden conversion of the fis.h.i.+ng-rod into a balancing-pole save me from an ignominious bath. Weary of the world, and lost to shame, I gather all my remaining strength, wind the line about the rod, poise it on high, hurl it out into the deepest and most un.o.bstructed part of the stream, climb up pugnis et calcibus on the back of an old boulder; coax, threaten, cajole, and intimidate my wet boots to come off; dip my handkerchief in the water, and fold it on my head, to keep from being sunstruck; lie down on the rock, pull my hat over my face, and dream, to the purling of the river, the singing of the birds, and the music of the wind in the trees, (whether in the body I cannot tell, or whether out of the body I cannot tell,) of another river, far, far away,--broad, and deep, and seaward rus.h.i.+ng,--now in shadow, now in s.h.i.+ne,--now lashed by storm, now calm as a baby's sleep,--bearing on its vast bosom a million crafts, whereof I see only one,--a little pinnace, frail yet buoyant,--tossed hither and thither, yet always keeping her prow to the waves,--washed, but not whelmed. So small and slight a thing, will she not be borne down by the merchant-s.h.i.+ps, the ocean steamers, the men-of-war, that ride the waves, reckless in their pride of power? How will she escape the sunken rocks, the treacherous quicksands, the ravening whirlpools, the black and dark night? Lo!

yonder, right across her bows, comes one of the Sea-Kings, freighted with death for the frail little bark! Woe! woe! for the lithe little bark! Nay, not death, but life. The Sea-King marks the path of the pinnace. Not death, but life. Signals flash back and forth. She discerns the voice of the Master. He, too, is steering seaward,--not more bravely, not more truly, but a directer course. He will pilot her past the breakers and the quicksands. He will bring her to the haven where she would be. O brave little bark! Is it Love that watches at the masthead? Is it Wisdom that stands at the helm? Is it Strength that curves the swift keel?--

"h.e.l.lo! how many?"

I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into the water. Jump after it, at the imminent risk of going in myself, catch it by one of the strings, and stare at Halicarna.s.sus.

"Asleep, I fancy?" says Halicarna.s.sus, interrogatively.

"Fancy," I echo, dreamily.

"How many fishes?" persists Halicarna.s.sus.

"Fishes?" says the echo.

"Yes, fishes," repeats Halicarna.s.sus, in a louder tone.

"Yes, it must have been the fishes," murmurs the echo.

"Goodness gracious me!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es Halicarna.s.sus, with the voice of a giant; "how many fishes have you caught?"

"Oh! yes," waking up and hastening to appease his wrath; "eight,--chiefly cod."

Indignation chokes his speech. Meanwhile I wake up still further, and, instead of standing before him like a culprit, beard him like an avenging Fury, and upbraid him with his deception and desertion. He attempts to defend himself, but is overpowered. Conscious guilt dyes his face, and remorse gnaws at the roots of his tongue.

"Sinful heart makes feeble hand."

We walk silently towards the woods. We meet a small boy with a tin pail and thirty-six fishes in it. We accost him.

"Are these fishes for sale?" asks Halicarna.s.sus.

"Bet they be!" says small boy, with energy.

Halicarna.s.sus looks meaningly at me. I look meaningly at Halicarna.s.sus, and both look meaningly at our empty basket.

"Won't you tell?" says Halicarna.s.sus.

"No; won't you?" Halicarna.s.sus whistles, the fishes are transferred from pan to basket, and we walk away as "chirp as a cricket," reach the sylvan party, and are speedily surrounded.

"O what beauties! Who caught them? How many are there?"

"Thirty-six," says Halicarna.s.sus, in a lordly, thoroughbred way. "I caught 'em."

"In a tin pan," I exclaim, disgusted with his conceit, and determined to "take him down."

A cry of rage from Halicarna.s.sus, a shout of derision from the party.

"And how many did you catch, pray?" demands he.

"Eight,--all cods," I answer, placidly.

Tolerably satisfied with our aquatic experience, we determined to resume the mountains, but in a milder form; before which, however, it became necessary to do a little shopping. An individual--one of the party, whose name I will not divulge, and whose ident.i.ty you never can conjecture, so it isn't worth while to exhaust yourself with guessing--found one day, while she was in the country, that she had walked a hole through the bottom of her boots. How she discovered this fact is of no moment; but, upon investigating the subject, she ascertained that it could scarcely be said with propriety that there was a hole in her boots, but, to use a term which savors of the street, though I employ it literally, there WASN'T ANYTHING ELSE. Now the fact of itself is not worthy of remark. That the integrity of a pair of boots should yield to the continued solicitations of time, toil, bone, and muscle, is too nearly a matter of everyday occurrence to excite alarm. The "irrepressible conflict" between leather and land has, so far as I know, been suspended but once since