 | Twice-told tales |  |
NIGHT SKETCHES,
BENEATH AN UMBRELLA.
Pleasant is a rainy winter's day, within doors!
The best study for such a day, or the best amusement,
— call it which you will, — is a book of travels, describing
scenes the most unlike that sombre one,
which is mistily presented through the windows. I
have experienced, that fancy is then most successful
in imparting distinct shapes and vivid colors to the
objects which the author has spread upon his page,
and that his words become magic spells to summon
up a thousand varied pictures. Strange landscapes
glimmer through the familiar walls of the room, and
outlandish figures thrust themselves almost within the
sacred precincts of the hearth. Small as my chamber
is, it has space enough to contain the ocean-like
circumference of an Arabian desert, its parched
sands tracked by the long line of a caravan, with the
camels patiently journeying through the heavy sunshine.
Though my ceiling be not lofty, yet I can
their summits shine far above the clouds of the middle
atmosphere. And, with my humble means, a
wealth that is not taxable, I can transport hither the
magnificent merchandise of an Oriental bazaar, and
call a crowd of purchasers from distant countries, to
pay a fair profit for the precious articles which are
displayed on all sides. True it is, however, that amid
the bustle of traffic, or whatever else may seem to
be going on around me, the rain-drops will occasionally
be heard to patter against my window-panes,
which look forth upon one of the quietest streets in a
New England town. After a time, too, the visions
vanish, and will not appear again at my bidding.
Then, it being nightfall, a gloomy sense of unreality
depresses my spirits, and impels me to venture out,
before the clock shall strike bedtime, to satisfy myself
that the world is not entirely made up of such
shadowy materials, as have busied me throughout the
day. A dreamer may dwell so long among fantasies,
that the things without him will seem as unreal as
those within.
When eve has fairly set in, therefore, I sally forth,
tightly buttoning my shaggy over-coat, and hoisting
my umbrella, the silken dome of which immediately
resounds with the heavy drumming of the invisible
rain-drops. Pausing on the lowest door-step, I contrast
the warmth and cheerfulness of my deserted
fireside, with the drear obscurity and chill discomfort,
into which I am about to plunge. Now come fearful
auguries, innumerable as the drops of rain. Did not
within doors, resume my elbow-chair, my slippers,
and my book, pass such an evening of sluggish enjoyment
as the day has been, and go to bed inglorious.
The same shivering reluctance, no doubt, has quelled,
for a moment, the adventurous spirit of many a traveller,
when his feet, which were destined to measure
the earth around, were leaving their last tracks in the
home-paths.
In my own case, poor human nature may be allowed
a few misgivings. I look upward, and discern no sky,
not even an unfathomable void, but only a black, impenetrable
nothingness, as though heaven and all its
lights were blotted from the system of the universe.
It is as if nature were dead, and the world had put
on black, and the clouds were weeping for her. With
their tears upon my cheek, I turn my eyes earthward,
but find little consolation here below. A lamp is
burning dimly at the distant corner, and throws just
enough of light along the street, to show, and exaggerate
by so faintly showing, the perils and difficulties
which beset my path. Yonder dingily white
remnant of a huge snowbank, — which will yet cumber
the sidewalk till the latter days of March, — over
or through that wintry waste must I stride onward.
Beyond, lies a certain Slough of Despond, a concoction
of mud and liquid filth, ankle-deep, leg-deep, neck-deep,
— in a word, of unknown bottom, — on which
the lamp-light does not even glimmer, but which I
have occasionally watched, in the gradual growth of
its horrors, from morn till nightfall. Should I flounder
hark! how roughly resounds the roaring of a stream,
the turbulent career of which is partially reddened
by the gleam of the lamp, but elsewhere brawls
noisily through the densest gloom. Oh, should I be
swept away in fording that impetuous and unclean
torrent, the coroner will have a job with an unfortunate
gentleman, who would fain end his troubles anywhere
but in a mud-puddle!
Pshaw! I will linger not another instant at arm's
length from these dim terrors, which grow more obscurely
formidable, the longer I delay to grapple with
them. Now for the onset! And lo! with little damage,
save a dash of rain in the face and breast, a
splash of mud high up the pantaloons, and the left
boot full of ice-cold water, behold me at the corner
of the street. The lamp throws down a circle of
red light around me; and, twinkling onward from
corner to corner, I discern other beacons, marshalling
my way to a brighter scene. But this is a lonesome
and dreary spot. The tall edifices bid gloomy defiance
to the storm, with their blinds all closed, even
as a man winks when he faces a spattering gust.
How loudly tinkles the collected rain down the tin
spouts! The puffs of wind are boisterous, and seem
to assail me from various quarters at once. I have
often observed that this corner is a haunt and loitering-place
for those winds which have no work to
do upon the deep, dashing ships against our iron-bound
shores; nor in the forest, tearing up the sylvan
giants with half a rood of soil at their vast roots.
mischief. See, at this moment, how they assail yonder
poor woman, who is passing just within the verge
of the lamp-light! One blast struggles for her umbrella,
and turns it wrong side outward; another
whisks the cape of her cloak across her eyes; while
a third takes most unwarrantable liberties with the
lower part of her attire. Happily, the good dame is
no gossamer, but a figure of rotundity and fleshly
substance; else would these aërial tormentors whirl
her aloft, like a witch upon a broomstick, and set her
down, doubtless, in the filthiest kennel hereabout.
From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the
centre of the town. Here there is almost as brilliant
an illumination as when some great victory has been
won, either on the battle-field or at the polls. Two
rows of shops, with windows down nearly to the
ground, cast a glow from side to side, while the black
night hangs overhead like a canopy, and thus keeps
the splendor from diffusing itself away. The wet
side-walks gleam with a broad sheet of red light.
The rain-drops glitter, as if the sky were pouring
down rubies. The spouts gush with fire. Methinks
the scene is an emblem of the deceptive glare, which
mortals throw around their footsteps in the moral
world, thus bedazzling themselves, till they forget the
impenetrable obscurity that hems them in, and that can
be dispelled only by radiance from above. And, after
all, it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are the wanderers
in it. Here comes one who has so long been
familiar with tempestuous weather that he takes the
should say, `How fare ye, brother?' He is a retired
sea-captain, wrapped in some nameless garment of
the pea-jacket order, and is now laying his course
towards the Marine Insurance Office, there to spin
yarns of gale and ship-wreck, with a crew of old
sea-dogs like himself. The blast will put in its word
among their hoarse voices, and be understood by all
of them. Next I meet an unhappy slip-shod gentleman,
with a cloak flung hastily over his shoulders,
running a race with boisterous winds, and striving
to glide between the drops of rain. Some domestic
emergency or other has blown this miserable man
from his warm fireside, in quest of a doctor! See
that little vagabond, — how carelessly he has taken
his stand right underneath a spout, while staring at
some object of curiosity in a shop-window! Surely
the rain is his native element; he must have fallen
with it from the clouds, as frogs are supposed to do.
Here is a picture, and a pretty one. A young
man and a girl, both enveloped in cloaks, and huddled
beneath the scanty protection of a cotton umbrella.
She wears rubber over-shoes; but he is in his
dancing-pumps; and they are on their way, no doubt,
to some cotillon-party, or subscription-ball at a dollar
a head, refreshments included. Thus they struggle
against the gloomy tempest, lured onward by a vision
of festal splendor. But, ah! a most lamentable disaster.
Bewildered by the red, blue, and yellow meteors, in
an apothecary's window, they have stepped upon a
slippery remnant of ice, and are precipitated into a
streets. Luckless lovers! Were it my nature to be
other than a looker-on in life, I would attempt your
rescue. Since that may not be, I vow, should you be
drowned, to weave such a pathetic story of your fate,
as shall call forth tears enough to drown you both
anew. Do ye touch bottom, my young friends?
Yes; they emerge like a water-nymph and a river-deity,
and paddle hand-in-hand out of the depths of
the dark pool. They hurry homeward, dripping, disconsolate,
abashed, but with love too warm to be
chilled by the cold water. They have stood a test
which proves too strong for many. Faithful, though
over head and ears in trouble!
Onward I go, deriving a sympathetic joy or sorrow
from the varied aspect of mortal affairs, even as my
figure catches a gleam from the lighted windows, or
is blackened by an interval of darkness. Not that
mine is altogether a chameleon spirit, with no hue
of its own. Now I pass into a more retired street,
where the dwellings of wealth and poverty are intermingled,
presenting a range of strongly contrasted
pictures. Here, too, may be found the golden mean.
Through yonder casement I discern a family circle,
— the grandmother, the parents, and the children, —
all flickering, shadow-like, in the glow of a wood-fire.
Bluster, fierce blast, and beat, thou wintry rain, against
the window-panes! Ye cannot damp the enjoyment
of that fireside. Surely my fate is hard, that I should
be wandering homeless here, taking to my bosom
night, and storm, and solitude, instead of wife and
guests are sitting round the hearth, though the warm
blaze hides all but blissful images. Well; here is
still a brighter scene. A stately mansion, illuminated
for a ball, with cut-glass chandeliers and alabaster
lamps in every room, and sunny landscapes hanging
round the walls. See! a coach has stopped, whence
emerges a slender beauty, who, canopied by two umbrellas,
glides within the portal, and vanishes amid
lightsome thrills of music. Will she ever feel the
night-wind and the rain? Perhaps, — perhaps! And
will Death and Sorrow ever enter that proud mansion!
As surely as the dancers will be gay within
its halls to-night. Such thoughts sadden, yet satisfy
my heart; for they teach me that the poor man, in
this mean, weather-beaten hovel, without a fire to
cheer him, may call the rich his brother, — brethren
by Sorrow, who must be an inmate of both their
households, — brethren by Death, who will lead them
both to other homes.
Onward, still onward, I plunge into the night.
Now have I reached the utmost limits of the town,
where the last lamp struggles feebly with the darkness,
like the furthest star that stands sentinel on the
borders of uncreated space. It is strange what sensations
of sublimity may spring from a very humble
source. Such are suggested by this hollow roar of a
subterranean cataract, where the mighty stream of a
kennel precipitates itself beneath an iron grate, and
is seen no more on earth. Listen awhile to its voice
of mystery; and fancy will magnify it, till you start,
the rumbling of wheels, — as the mail-coach, outward
bound, rolls heavily off the pavements, and
splashes through the mud and water of the road. All
night long, the poor passengers will be tossed to and
fro between drowsy watch and troubled sleep, and
will dream of their own quiet beds, and awake to
find themselves still jolting onward. Happier my lot,
who will straightway hie me to my familiar room, and
toast myself comfortably before the fire, musing, and
fitfully dozing, and fancying a strangeness in such
sights as all may see. But first let me gaze at this
solitary figure, who comes hitherward with a tin lantern,
which throws the circular pattern of its punched
holes on the ground about him. He passes fearlessly
into the unknown gloom, whither I will not follow
him.
This figure shall supply me with a moral, wherewith,
for lack of a more appropriate one, I may wind
up my sketch. He fears not to tread the dreary path
before him, because his lantern, which was kindled at
the fireside of his home, will light him back to that
same fireside again. And thus we, night-wanderers
through a stormy and dismal world, if we bear the
lamp of Faith, enkindled at a celestial fire, it will
surely lead us home to that Heaven whence its radiance
was borrowed.
| Twice-told tales | |