University of Virginia Library

4. THE FAIRY FRIEND.

In these rational days, most people suppose that
fairies do not exist; but they are mistaken. The
mere fact that fairies have been imagined proves
that there are fairies; for fancy, in her oddest
freaks, never paints any thing which has no existence.
She merely puts invisible agencies into visible
forms, and embodies spiritual influences in
material facts. It seems a wild fiction when we
read of beautiful young maidens floating in gossamer,
and radiant with jewels, who suddenly change
into mocking old hags, or jump off into some slimy
pool, in the form of a frog; or like the fair Melusina,
doomed to become a fish on certain days of
the year, and those who happened to see her in
that plight could never again see her as the Fair
Melusina. Yet who that has grown from youth
to manhood, who that has been in love and out of
love, has not found the fairies of his life playing
him just such tricks?

In the fascinating ballet of Giselle, so poetic in

conception, and so gracefully expressed in music,
there is deep and tender meaning for all who have
lived long, or lived much. Is not Memory a fairy
spirit, like Giselle, dancing round graves, hovering
between us and the stars, flitting across our
woodland rambles, throwing us garlands and love-tokens
from the past, coming to us in dreams,
so real that we clasp our loved ones, and gliding
away when morning gleams on the material world?

Oh yes there are fairies, both good and bad;
and they are with us according as we obey or disobey
their laws of being. One, with whom I made
acquaintance as soon as I could run alone, has visited
me ever since; though sometimes she pouts
and hides herself, and will not soon come back. I
am always sad when she is gone; for she is a
wonder-working little sprite, and she takes all my
wealth away with her. If you were to gaze on a
field of dandelions, if she were not at your elbow,
you would merely think they were pretty posies,
and would make excellent greens for dinner. But
if she touches you, and renders you clairvoyant,
they will surprise you with their golden beauty,
and every blossom will radiate a halo. Sometimes
she fills the whole air with rainbows, as if Nature
were out for a dance, with all her ribbons on. A
sup of water, taken from a little brook, in the hollow
of her hand, has made me more merry than
would a goblet of wine. She has often filled my
apron with opals, emeralds, and sapphires, and I

was never weary of looking at them; but those who
had wandered away from the fairy, and forgotten
her treasures, sneered at my joy, and said, “Fie
upon thee! Wilt thou always be a child? They
are nothing but pebbles.”

Last Spring, my friendly little one guided me to
a silver-voiced waterfall at Weehawken, where a
group of German forget-me-nots were sitting with
their feet in the water. Their little blue eyes
laughed when they saw me. I asked what made
them smile in my face so lovingly. They answered,
“Because we hear a pleasant song, and you
know what it says to us.” It was not I who knew;
it was the fairy; but she had magnetized me, and so
I heard all that was said to her.

A wealthy invalid passed by, afflicted with dyspepsia.
He did not see the flowers smile, or hear
the waterfall singing his flowing melody of love to
the blue eyes that made his home so beautiful.
He had parted from the fairy long ago. He told
her she was a fool, and that none would ever grow
rich, who suffered themselves to be led by her.
She laughed and said, “Thou dost not know that
I alone am rich; always, and every where, rich.
But go thy ways, vain worldling. Shouldst thou
come back to me, I will ask if thou hast ever found
any thing equal to my gems and rainbows.” She
gazed after him for a moment, and laughed again,
as she exclaimed, “Aha, let him try!”

The gay little spirit spoke truly; for indeed

there is nothing so real as her unrealities. Those
who have parted from her complain that she made
them large promises in their early time, and has
never kept them; but to those who remain with
her trustfully, she more than fulfils all. For them
she covers the moss-grown rock with gold, and
fills the wintry air with diamonds. It is many
years since she first began to tell me her fine stories.
But this very last New Year's day she led me out
into the country, and lighted up all the landscape
as I went, so that it seemed lovelier than the rarest
pictures. The round bright face of the moon smiled
at me, and said, “I know thee well. Thou hast
built many castles up here. Come to them whenever
thou wilt. Their rose-coloured drapery, with
rainbow fringes, is more real than silken festoons
in Broadway palaces.” I was glad at heart, and I
said to my fairy, “The sheriff cannot attach our
furniture, or sell our castles at auction.” “No indeed,”
she replied. “He cannot even see them.
He has forgotten me. He thinks all the gems I
show are only pebbles, and all my prismatic mantles
mere soap-bubbles.”

This simple little sprite says much richer things
than the miracles she does. Her talk is all alive.
She is a poet, though she knows it not; or, rather
because she knows it not. She tells me the oddest
and most brilliant things; and sometimes I
write them down imperfectly, as well as I can remember
them. Matter-of-fact persons shake their

heads, and say, “What on earth does the woman
mean? I never see and hear such things.” And
grave people raise their spectacles and inquire,
“Can you point me out any moral, or any use, in
all this stuff?” “There is no sense in it,” says
one; “The writer is insane,” says another; “She's
an enthusiast, but we must pardon that weakness,”
says a third, more magnanimous than others. The
fairy and I have great fun together, while we listen
to their jokes and apologies. The frolicsome little
witch knows very well that it is she who says the
things that puzzle them; and she knows the meaning
very well; but she never tells it to those who
“speer questions.”

She is a philosopher, too, as well as a poet, without
being aware of it. She babbles all manner of
secrets, without knowing that they are secrets. If
you were to propound to her a theory concerning
the relation between tones and colours, she would
fold her wings over her face and drop asleep.
But sound a flute, and she will leap up and exclaim,
“Hear that beautiful, bright azure sound!”
And if oboës strike in, she will smile all over, and
say, “Now the yellow flowers are singing. How
pert and naïve they are!” It was she who led
the little English girl to the piano, and put a melody
of cowslip meadows in her brain; and as the
child improvised, she smiled, and said ever to herself,
“This is the tune with the golden spots.”

But this genial little fairy is easily grieved and

estranged. Her movements are impulsive, she
abhors calculators, and allows no questions. If
she shows you a shining gem, be careful not to
inquire what would be its price in the market;
otherwise its lustre will fade instantly, and you will
have to ask others whether the thing you hold in
your hand has any beauty or value. If she beckons
into blooming paths, follow her in simple faith,
whether she leads to castles in the moon, or lifts
up a coverlet of leaves to peep at little floral spirits
sound asleep, with their arms twined round the
fragrant blossoms of the arbutus. She carries
with her Aladdin's lamp, and all the things she
looks upon are luminous with transfigured glory.
Take heed not to inquire where the path will lead to,
whether others are accustomed to walk in it, or whether
they will believe your report of its wonderful
beauty. Above all, be careful not to wish that such
visions may be kept from the souls of others, that
your own riches may seem marvellous and peculiar.
Wish this but for a single instant and you
will find yourself all alone, in cold gray woods,
where owls hoot, and spectral shadows seem to lie
in wait for you. But if with a full heart you crave
forgiveness for the selfish thought, and pray earnestly
that the divine Spirit of Beauty may be revealed
to all, and not one single child of God be excluded
from the radiant palace, then will the fairy come
to you again, and say, “Now thou and I are
friends again. Give me thy hand, and I will lead
thee into gardens of paradise. Because thou hast
not wished to shut up any thing, therefore thou
shalt possess all things.” Instantly the cold gray
woods shine through a veil of gold; the shadows
dance, and all the little birds sing, “Joy be with
thee.” A spirit nods welcome to you from every
cluster of dried grass; a soul beams through the
commonest pebble; ferns bow before you more
gracefully than the plumes of princes; and verdant
mosses kiss your feet more softly than the richest
velvets of Genoa.

Trust the good little fairy. Be not disturbed by
the mockery of those who despise her simple joys.
She said truly, “I alone am rich; always, and everywhere,
rich.”