University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
INCIDENTS.

We were about to commence this chapter with the word
“Our readers.” But while adjusting the nib of our pen on
our thumb-nail; — the prongs having crossed their arms, —
tired and sleepy, we suppose, — it was late at night; — that
word, sleepy too, impatient and fretful, began to mutter.
“Readers! what does he know about readers? His readers;
I should wonder!” it seemed to say. This made us
curl a little, and while we were meditating some stifling
rejoinder to this impertinence, the solar lamp suddenly gave
out. There was no help for that, and we sank back resignedly
in the rocking-chair, and fell into a doze. It may be
added, that we had been engaged, the day before, reading a
work entitled “The true history of the earth and its
inhabitants; showing the analogy between man and brute,
and deducing the human race from five varieties of the
oyster, recently discovered in a fossil state under the French
Academy;” a suggestive volume, with plates of sections and
atoms of shells as microscopically developed, in which,
among other things, are seen human forms in embryo, lobes
of the heart, brain-shaped configurations, finger-nails; the
chit of an idea, and a very perfect approximation to a Gothic
church.

While sleeping, we seemed to be standing on a plain,
where were many animals, and a number of books; and in
the distance stood anxious-looking umbræ of authors. First
advanced the lion, and with a slight flourish of the tail, he

devoured fifteen of the newest books; a dream-allusion, I
suppose, to a habit this animal possesses of taking fifteen
pounds of raw flesh at a meal. Then came a kangaroo, who,
lifting the lid of a book, instantly leaped from the imprimatur
to the colophon, and proceeded in this way from volume
to volume, as it were playing leap-frog among them. A
chamois goat would open a book, and if he found crags and
chasms in it, he gambolled amongst them, and seemed to be
uneasy at a level spot. A book was seen sinking in a pond
of water; instantly, at the beck of an author, a Newfoundland
dog swam for it, and bore it safe to the shore. Marmots
appeared burrowing in books, and making a home for
themselves in the middle of the pile. A squirrel sat on the
cover of one, with a nut in its mouth. A flock of crows
alighted on the spot. The authors trembled; they seized
the forlorn shade of one of their number, and set it on a
pole for a scare-crow. Chimney-swallows flitted among the
books, in pursuit of dark and smirchy places, where they
could build their nests. An anaconda glided through the
grass, and having first smoothed and polished the volume of
his choice with a sort of mucilage, proceeded to swallow it.
Then he fell into a swollen torpor, with the corners of the
book protruding from his mouth. A rhinoceros came up
from a muddy creek, having a terrible horn on his nose,
which he turned every way; — the timid umbræ fled. The
creature, approaching the books, gored some and tossed
others. Looking in the direction where we were standing,
he seemed to be aiming his horn at our shadowy self; — in
exceeding terror we awoke.

This dream, mixed and incongruous indeed, as all dreams
are, and the History above mentioned, set us upon reflection.
Is there not, we asked, an analogy between certain zoological
species and the readers of books? The law of analogy

would seem indeed to be imperfectly developed; and yet its
accredited results are striking. For instance, Ulrici discovers
in the plays of Shakspeare a compend of all the
points of Calvinism. Gardiner classifies musical instruments
after the colors of the prism. Even in the Bible, we
find David comparing himself in trouble to a bottle in the
smoke. Should we transcend the proprieties of the case, if,
in a matter of mere speculation, we discriminated readers
of books by the marks of certain faunæ? In fact, is not
this agreeable to the whole method of analogical and derivative
science?

There is, then, the leopard. It is related this animal may
be taken in a trap with a mirror at the bottom. Let an
author bait his book with a looking-glass; this reader,
discerning in his own image what he supposes is a monster
that he is in duty bound to devour, pitches in headlong, and
may be easily taken. The Newfoundland dog, we should
imagine, would be a favorite of all authors. The cat is the
delight of most persons; yet, if you chance to tread on the
tail of one that has been a pet for years, the creature will
turn on you teeth and claws. The giraffe goes through the
forest of an author's thoughts, and plucks off the sweet buds
and tender leaves from the tops of the trees; at the same
time, with dirty hoof, he tramples the pretty stars-of-Bethlehem,
and useful checkerberries, that grow beneath. Rather
to be avoided, we should suppose. The hippopotamus sinks
into a book, like water, and can be seen walking at his ease
on the bottom. He is obliged to rise to the surface to take
breath. The musk-deer reader is graceful and engaging;
has beautiful dark eyes, with a voice like a sigh; but is said
to be indolent. Wild turkeys, before proceeding, assemble
on an eminence, and remain in consultation one or two days.
At length the leader gives the signal note, and taking a particular

direction, is followed by the rest. — Common in America.
It is justly observed, that the sagacity which enables
the domestic cock with such precision to announce the hour
of dawn, is matter of astonishment. One is sufficient. —
The bob-o-link is remarkable for changing his name, note,
and color, as he goes from the North to the South. How
fortunate is that author whose friends are the mocking-birds!
Would somebody present us a cage of canaries,
to hang in the bay-window of our study, and sing betimes
to our melancholy, and answer when we whistle, we
should deem ourselves happy. At rare and angelic intervals,
— a shuttle-like iridescence, a feathery pause in the
stillness of things, — a little humming-bird has been seen
gliding about our verandah, and tasting with nicest relish
the honeysuckles whose nectared goblets hang out all
day long on the pillars. If we were to name a reader
to be chiefly recommended, we should find the type in
those very common objects, cows. They begin at the bars,
the title-page, and graze to the end of the pasture, and
regraze; they drink at the murmuring brooks, the pleasant
fancies of an author, — repose under the shade of the great
trees, and ruminate; they afford to the public tasteful and
useful results of their labor. The sawn offers points of
interest. To see this graceful creature, with arched neck
and half-displayed pinions, sailing over the serene surface of
a great idea, which reflects, as she passes, the snowy beauty
of her dress, flatters an author's vanity. The most terrible
of all American snakes is the copper-head. An author
need not be afraid of toads. They are useful about one's
grounds. They feed on insects, and are good against
vermin. There is a vulgar notion concerning this creature,
it being supposed, from the great numbers that appear after
a rain, they descend with the shower. This may be true.
The great lantern-fly is remarkable for the light that
emanates from its head, — a light by which it usually reads.

These are some of the kinds of readers distinguished in the
manner above mentioned. They are such as an author will
meet with; — many of them he will be happy to see; others
he will do well to shun. At first blush there is something
dismal in a writer's prospect. Quite large portions of his
world seem to consist of jungle overrun with rapacious
beasts and reptiles, or of swamps crowded by venomous
insects. But these must all live, Dr. Good tells us. Moreover,
we may remember that insects are useful in disintegrating
the soil, and rendering it light, loamy, and fertile.
There is, it may be added, in the East, a tribe of barbarians
who handle the most venomous reptiles with impunity, and
eat them alive, from head to tail. Celsus and Lucan make
mention of them, and they were called by the ancients,
Psylli. A club of authors might import a few. Besides,
Dr. Bell contends that there is no real ferocity in the lion,
for instance; that his glare is merely excited attention, and
his grin or snarl the natural motion of uncasing his fangs
before using them. How many of the feræ, withal, can be
tamed! In fishes the sense of smell is so acute, that if an
author will rub his hand with extract of rose, or even leaves
of marjoram, and dip it into the water, he can draw any
quantity of these creatures into it. Good Pierre, before
quoted, declares, and supports his opinion by striking testimony,
that wild beasts will fly a naked man; whence I
infer that an author would do well to present his thoughts
simply, directly, as it were naturally, and not rely upon conventional
adaptation, or academical canons.

And we are reminded, in this connection, nor can we forbear
to mention, what a fine race of readers used to exist, —
the Lectores of scholastic days. “Candidus,” “ingenuus,”

“benevolens,” “vigilans,” were universal traits. Has that
race become extinct?

We digress. We were about to say, our readers would
remember — something. — Yet, after all, does not this
imply considerable? First, that we have readers; secondly,
that they have read the book; and thirdly, that they have
attended to what they read. Can one imply so much,
without a latent reference to other things, — say, to this
whole matter of the different sorts of readers, that we
have so pleasantly discussed? Nor can it be a thing of
small personal moment for any author to know what sort of
readers he shall be surrounded by, — whether by swans or
anacondas, nightingales or cougars. If the reader of these
pages has any of the properties of the domestic cat, for
example, we can rely upon him, and while he honors us
with his confidence, and has a place by our fireside, we will
be cautious how we tread; for this creature inspects every
portion of a new house before she makes up her mind about
it. So our reader will have gone over that passage, and a
short one it is, in Chapter V., where allusion is made to certain
business transactions between the elder Edney and
Governor Dennington; and will remember — it is a trifle —
that the former was under indentures to the latter as
relating to his farm; and that one of Richard's objects in
coming to Woodylin was to obtain means for cancelling this
contract. Being so fortunate as to have amassed the
requisite sum, now, while his sorrow was fresh upon him,
he repaired to the Governor's office to apply it. That
gentleman received our friend courteously and quietly, as
was his custom; greeted him with a cordial “good-morning;”
shook hands with him; shoved a chair towards him,
and had him seated by his table; alluded to the pleasantness
of the weather, and inquired after his father. He

took from a large file the papers in question, computed the
interest, counted the money, and gave Richard a receipt.
The Governor loved to do business; he did it in the softest
and easiest way imaginable, Perhaps this made him so
good-natured at the present moment.

Richard arose to leave, when, as if a new thought had
struck him, taking a gold piece from his pocket, he extended
it towards the Governor, and, with suppressed emotion, said,
“Sir, I received that, two or three years since, upon resigning
a horse, whose fright in the street had arrested my
attention. I do not wish to keep it.” “I recollect,” said
the Governor. “My daughter Melicent was in the sleigh.
It showed spirit and nerve.” “I do not wish to keep it,”
reiterated Richard, growing paroxysmal inside. “Melicent
said,” continued the Governor, unmoved, but bland, “few
acts of heroism were better carried through, or deserved
more honorable remembrance.” “Will you have the kindness,
Sir,” pursued Richard, “to receive back that which
suggests nothing pleasant to my memory?” The Governor
did not, or could not, or would not, enter into the spirit of
Richard's tender; he merely replied, “It is not mine, — it
is yours.” He opened his day-book, and appeared to be
making an entry. Richard would have thrown the gold into
the fireplace, or out of the window; but the manner of the
Governor would not allow this, and, finally, forced it back
into his pocket.

Richard was a little piqued, and a little surprised; and on
his way home he could but wonder, partly at himself, and
partly at the Governor. It was as if the latter was wholly
ignorant of all recent transactions, and the former was sensible
of nothing else; and this sensibility, and this ignorance,
had a queer encounter.

Richard went to the office with any quantity of misgivings

and chokings, yet the Governor did not, in any way,
appear to be cognizant of, or willing to revive, disagreeable
recollections. Wherefore? This puzzled Richard. Did
politeness conceal contempt? Was the Governor's aversion,
like deep water, silent because it was deep? Did business
keep in abeyance all paternal and moral sentiments? Yet
he alluded unreservedly to his daughter, and pleasantly to
the reminiscences of Richard, who, on the whole, felt better
after the interview than before.

From this incident we are disposed to draw an inference
for our readers Ruminantes. It is said men are governed
by their interests, — that is, pecuniary interests. We
oppose the example of Richard, point-blank, to that theory.
He would gladly be rid of money. Nay, men are governed
by their emotions; in other words, moral sentiments.
Again, it is asserted that the golden eagle is one of the
American gods; nay, furthermore, Richard held in his hand
a veritable golden eagle, which he would cheerfully have
flung to the depths of Tartarus, into the face of Pluto himself,
if he could; — a fact worthy of consideration. Gold,
heavy as it is, will not outweight a passion, be it individual,
— be it national. This we suggest to those of our readers
who do not affect the golden eagle, or the fustian
eagle, and yet are like the mountain eagle, in the grandeur
of their flight, intensity of their gaze, terror of their swoop,
and especially in the way they pounce upon another of their
tribe, the fish-hawk, to disgorge him of his prey.

Another incident. As Richard was walking, towards
dusk, turning the corner of St. Agnes-street, he saw Melicent
slowly approaching the gate of her father's house.
Here she stopped, and stood looking in a direction opposite
from him. She was a dozen rods off. Above her were the
branches of the great elms. Beyond was the sunset. She had

on the same blue shirred bonnet, white cashmere shawl with
dark spots, and blue muslin dress, — the same that Richard
had seen before. Her hand reposed softly and gracefully on
the latch of the gate; her parasol was dropped, carelessly
upturned, on the flagging at her feet. Richard's heart went
to throbbing, of course. It was as if the sight diffused a
fragrance, in which all his senses swam. She disengaged
the shawl from her neck, and hung it on her arm, still looking
the other way. If Richard had been a German, he would
have wept; if an Italian, torn his hair; if a Frenchman,
leaped towards the beloved one. He was an American, and
did not know what to do. He could not remain stationary; he
dared not advance. As he was about to retreat, or, rather,
make a detour across the street, on the opposite walk he beheld
Miss Eyre. She was loitering, and had evidently been
watching him and Melicent. Well, go back. But in this
direction, his eye encountered the person of Clover, partially
concealed by the twilight shadows of the trees, who had
been reconnoitring all three. Fly, sink, burst; he would
have rejoiced in any slight miracle, or, as he was sufficiently
distended, why not, like a kernel of corn in the fire, permit
him to pop out of his dilemma, and drop, say, into his little
chamber at Willow Croft? There was the glimmer of an
equivocal smile on Miss Eyre's face; Clover satanically
gloated; Melicent had her back towards him, with her eyes
on the clouds. Silent, calm, unconscious Melicent, in her
blue dress; what a fever she created, — what a prairie-on-fire,
with the flames approaching and fencing one in on all
sides, she incontinently aroused! She went through the
gate, and into the house, and made an escape at once for
Richard's person and alarm.

A reader of the manuscript, — perhaps a lion inspecting
a flock of kids in the distance, — perhaps a musk-deer,

pretty, but languid, — says the writer questions, when he
ought to narrate; hints at what should be developed, is
redundant in unimportant brevities, sparing in what is rich
and copious, and that, hastening through pleasant fields, he
loiters in barrens. For instance, that in this last incident,
while there is much said, there is an omission of what is
essential to the right feeling of the scene, — to wit, that the
dress of Melicent, the contour of her person, the verisimilitude
of her motion, the way she rested her arm on the gate,
had been endeared to Richard by the deepest of all associations
— love. That the gate-post supplanted his arm, and
he must needs be pained at the interference. That the contrast
between the pleasant past and the dismal present was
provoking; that his heart was inflamed with a sense of
repulsed, disdained love, that still loved on. Our reply is,
that we described the case in its phenomena, if not in its
substance; that we stated the external facts, if not their
spiritual connection; in a word, acting upon the suggestions
of our respected College Rhetorical Professor, made many
years ago, and living in our memory still, we “left something
to the imagination of the reader.”

That night, as sometimes happened, Bebby slept with
Richard. The Moon, bright and full, shone into the
chamber, and upon the bed, and on the child, restoring the
beauty of the features, and illuminating the silvery hair of
the slumberer. Richard raised himself on his elbow, and
bent over the unconscious enchanter with mingled agony
and ecstasy. It was as if a vision of beauty and repose had
been lent to him from some far off heaven. It was as if his
own innocency and early promise had been collected out of
his life, and laid in breathing form at his side. Was it his
Childhood come back to mock him? Was it put there to
reinspire him? He worked his fingers in his dark hair, till

it hung in tangled locks over the pearly fairness before him,
and his worried brow contrasted strongly with the calm face
of the little one. It was Despair bending over Hope; it was
Sorrow confronted with Blessedness; it was penitent Aspiration
weeping at the feet of some long-lost Ideality. He
kissed the child, inhaled its balsamic breath, and laid down
by the side of it to sleep.

Fourth-of-July came, and the evening was to be celebrated
with a new display, — the illumination of May-flower Glen,
by lamps suspended in the trees, and heightened, withal,
by a band of music. Everybody was abroad that day, and
Richard, with Memmy and Bebby, followed in the wake.

Richard's enjoyment seemed rather to lie behind him, in
the children, than before him, in the scenes of the occasion.
He appeared to be hauling his pleasures along, instead of
going in pursuit of them. He labored under the mistake we
have commented upon. There were, at a moderate computation,
30,000 people in the city and in the streets thereof,
that morning, and all recreating; and how few knew anything
of Richard, and how fewer were intent on anything else
than happiness, or were unwilling that everybody should
be happy too! Richard found this out before the day
was over, and that he had really nothing else to do but forget
himself, and care and sorrow, and be as happy as the
rest. He found out, too, that he was not of any consequence
compared with a show-bill of the Theatre, which a
jam of people on the side-walk were almost in a quarrel to
see, and never thought of opening for him to pass. There
were gay processions through the streets, and great crowds
following them; there were crowds about Dr. Broadwell's
Church, where an oration was to be delivered; there were
multitudes of boys and girls, from the country, filling the
candy-shops and ice-cream saloons. Memmy and Bebby

saw so many strange sights, and fell into so many novel
situations, their surprise, curiosity and glee, were gradually
communicated to their Uncle.

But May-flower Glen, in the evening, was the greatest
spectacle. Half a thousand lamps shed a palatial, alabastrian
light through sylvan corridors, and on grassy terraces;
they glimmered in the tinkling brook, and glowed
again in thousands of bright countenances. There was the
vacant strolling to and fro, the chattering of animated
groups, the roistering of children, and the quiet looking on
of elderly people. There were fair young ladies, in white
dresses, and lavender-colored dresses, and changeable silk
dresses; girdled, tuniced, caped; with flowers in their hands,
and on their breasts, and in their hair; and great luxuriance
of beautiful hair, and great glory of joyous feeling, and a
whole Avoca-vale of sweetness, loveliness, and hope, in their
eyes and on their lips. There were noble-looking young
men, in white trowsers and vests, and some with red sashes.
Hidden music filled the place with enchantment, as if Pan
and his nymphs, and their pipes, were concealed in the
grove.

We have not said that Richard had anything to do in
getting this up; — he had, nevertheless. He was on the
committee of arrangements; and, if less conspicuous, was as
effective as any. This committee wore red sashes; — Richard
omitted the badge.

Richard was so caught up, subdued, or etherized, or
whatever it be, by the pleasantness of the hour, he saw Miss
Eyre pass without a pang, and beheld Melicent in the distance
without emotion, unless it be that of simple gladness.

As he stood, with the two children in front of him, on a
seat, Mangil approached, with Melicent and Helen the Good
on his arm. Mangil bowed, and Richard bowed, and they

all bowed; and Mangil took Richard's hand, and so did
Helen the Good, and Richard and Melicent exchanged the
same compliment. “Beautiful!” said the Broker; “fine,
inexpressible, — a high quotation! It carries the board.”
“It was a splendid idea,” said Helen the Good. “I enjoy it
exceedingly. Don't you?” said Melicent. Richard replied
that he did. “The children,” added Melicent, “are so
happy!” “It is a great treat to them,” rejoined Richard.
The children showed a joyous excitement when they saw
Melicent; but Richard had the advantage of them, and kept
them still. Mangil, being one of the committee, wore a
sash, and, alluding pleasantly to Richard's want of it, said,
“You are not in authority to-night.” “It goes off of itself,”
replied Richard. “Then it must have been admirably contrived,”
added Helen the Good. “I think so, too,” said
Melicent.

At this moment, a lamp fell in the rear of Richard, and
there was a shriek in the crowd. “Will the ladies please
to look after the children?” said Richard, starting for the
scene of alarm. It was Miss Eyre, whom the accident
frightened into a swoon. Richard helped bear her to a
seat, where, with due application of fans, and water from
the brook, she presently recovered. Richard returned to the
children, whom he found alone with Melicent. “Helen the
Good,” said the latter, “is always foremost in scenes of distress,
and withholds from no terrors; and she, with Mr.
Mangil, followed you.” “I was apprehensive,” said Richard,
“in the haste of preparation, that some of the lamps were not
made sufficiently fast. I regret it exceedingly.” “Did you
know the person?” asked Melicent. “It was Miss Eyre,”
replied Richard. “It is but a trifle,” continued Melicent,
“and produces no sensible effect on the general festivity.”
“More scared than hurt,” said Helen the Good, who

returned, laughing. “She is a sensitive creature,” rejoined
Melicent. “We were discussing the propriety of
repeating these illuminations,” said the Broker. “I should
like it,” said Richard. “So should I,” said Helen the
Good. “And I,” responded Melicent.

Promenading commenced, and Mangil, with the ladies,
wheeling into the ranks, moved off to music.

As Richard had received and conversed with Melicent, so
he saw her retire, without agitation. He did watch the
rose-bud in her hair, till it was lost in a thicket of flowers
and the glimmering distance.

Ere long the band struck up Home, Sweet Home, the signal
of dispersion, and the people obeyed the hint.

The sentimentalist asks, how could Richard keep his
countenance and heart, during such an interview with Melicent?
The reply has already been indicated in what was
said of the general exhilaration of the hour. There is an
effect in festivity like music, at once exciting and tranquillizing;
it clears the atmosphere of the mind, and leaves one
in a state of azure quietude.

But, interposes the lady judge, that may answer for
Richard; — it does not explain Melicent. No woman, who
had ever so loved, or was so separated, could be so insensible
and emotionless in a subsequent encounter. We would
not be wise above what is written, nor above what a lady
knows. But we are at liberty to conjecture, — first, that the
laws of emotion in the two sexes are not radically different;
and, therefore, secondly, that a woman, under these circumstances,
might be calm. We believe, furthermore, if the
phrase does not offend, that a woman will swallow down
more emotion than a man, and preserve a face of stone
when the latter is flaming to the roots of his hair. Besides,
it may be stated that the love both of Richard and Melicent

was founded, as Miss Edgeworth would say, on esteem, and
not on impulse; and this will afford some key to their subsequent
conduct, throughout. Finally, Melicent was not
the aggressor, — she was purely a sufferer; and Christian
principle, to speak of nothing else, would save her from
rudeness, — check the ferment of feeling, and help maintain
the equilibrium of her mind.

What may be called the Philosophy of Blushes, in other
words, the law of the expression of emotion, has not been
written; or if so, we have not seen it. The subject is a
curious and a serious one. Life and death hang upon it.

How had Melicent borne herself in trials so painful to the
female heart, and to all hearts, through which she had
passed? If we should say she sometimes lamented and
wept, — that she had her hours of terror and anguish, —
should we hazard any truth? Richard had arisen to her eye
a splendid model of a human being; and to see this shattered
by one blow, must needs distress her. But she had supports
that Richard wanted; — one, in the unequivocalness of her
position; another, in the multitude of her friends; a third,
in the abundant and elegant ministries of her daily life.

In a letter to a friend, she says, “You will expect me
to be dejected. I am saddened by Richard, and for him.
He was so purely princely to my imagination, I am slow to
comprehend his vulgarity. Could the great Enemy of souls
dissemble so? My attention was first called to the heroism,
simplicity, and modesty, of his outward life. My interest
was awakened by contact with his sentiments. I first knew
his heart, — was introduced to his reflections, and, so to
say, made the journey of his principles and purposes; and
found myself a lover. I loved him as soul can love soul,
as sympathy yearns for sympathy, as weakness is won by
strength, as aspiration adores grandeur. Was he great

enough to deceive me? — simply, coldly, infernally vast
enough? Harrowing suggestion! cruel imputation! My
chamber, which has been enlivened by the flow of every
pleasant feeling, is sacred to silence and to sorrow. A
Sleeping Christ hangs on my walls; — let me repose on my
God. Above sin and woe, doubt and questioning, is the All
Love; — let me be the child of its bosom. Sparrows sing
in the trees at my window. Sunshine, and the blue heavens
above, and the green earth beneath, encompass them. In
the midst of the beauty of Virtue and Hope that still surrounds
my darkened life, let me sing too.”