27. CHAPTER XXVII.
PHILOSOPHICAL.
We left our friend Verty slowly going onward toward the
western hills, under the golden autumn sunset, with drooping
head and listless arms, thinking of Redbud and the events of the
day, which now was going to its death in royal purple over the
far horizon.
One thought, one image only dwelt in the young man's mind,
and what that thought was, his tell-tale lips clearly revealed:—
“Redbud! Redbud!” they murmured; and the dreamer seemed
to be wholly dead to that splendid scene around him, dreaming
of his love.
There are those who speak slightingly of boyhood and its feelings,
scoffing at the early yearnings of the heart, and finding only
food for jest in those innocent and childish raptures and regrets.
We do not envy such. That man's heart must be made of
doubtful stuff, who jeers at the fresh dreams of youth; or rather,
he must have no heart at all—above all, no sweet and affecting
recollections. There is something touching in the very idea of
this pure and unselfish emotion, which the hardened nature of the
grown-up man can never feel again. Men often dream about
their childhood, and shed unavailing tears as they gaze in fancy
on their own youthful faces, and with the pencil of imagination
slowly trace the old forms and images.
Said a writer of our acquaintance, no matter who, since no
one read or thought of him:—“The writer of these idle lines
finds no difficulty in painting for himself a Titian picture, in
which, as in his life-picture, his own figure lies on the canvas.
Long ago—a long, long time ago—in fact, when he was a boy,
and loved dearly a child like himself, a child who is now a fair
and beautiful-browed woman, and who smiles with a dreamy,
thoughtful expression, when his face comes to her—long ago,
flowers were very bright in the bright May day, by a country
brookside. The butter-cups were over all the hills, for children
to put under their chins, and pea-blossoms, very much like lady-slippers,
swayed prettily in the wind. Beneath the feet of the
boy and girl—she was a merry, bright-eyed child! how I love
her still!—broke crocuses and violets, and a thousand wild
flowers, fresh and full of fairy beauty. The grass was green and
soft, and the birds rose through the air on fluttering wings, singing
and rejoicing, and the clouds floated over them as only clouds
in May can float, quickly, hopefully, with a dash of changeful
April in them—not like those of August: for the May cloud is a
maiden, a child, full of life and joy, running and playing, and
looking playfully back at the winds as they rustle on—not
August-like—a thoughtful ripened beauty, large, lazy, and contemplative,
whose spring of youth has passed, whose summer has arrived,
in all its wealth, and power, and languid splendor. Well, they
wandered—the boy and girl—on the bright May day, pleasantly
across the hills, and along the brook, which ran merrily over the
pebbles as bright as diamonds. That boy has now become a
man, and he has vainly sought, in all the glittering pursuits of
life, an adequate recompense for the death of those soft hours.
Having gone, as all things must go, they left no equivalent in the
future. But not, therefore, in sadness does he write this: rather
in deep joy, and as though he had said—
`Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heaped-up flowers—'
“So wholly flooded is his heart with the memory of that young,
frank face. She wore a pink dress, he recollects—all children
should wear either pink or white—and her hair was in long,
bright curls, and her eyes were diamonds, full of light. He
thought the birds were envious of her singing, when she carolled
clearly in the bright May morning. He wove her a garland of
flowers for her hair, and she blushed as she took it from his
hands. She had on a small gold ring, and a red bracelet; and
since that time he has loved red bracelets more than all barbaric
pearls and gold. In those times, the trees were greener than at
present, the birds sang more sweetly, and the streams ran far
more merrily. They thought so at least, as they sat under a
large oak, and he read to her, with shadowy, loving eyes, nearly
full of happy tears, old songs, that `dallied with the innocence
of love, like the old age.' And so the evening went into the
west, and they returned, and all the night and long days afterward
her smile shone on him, brightening his life as it does
now.”
Who laughs? Is it at Verty going along with drooping forehead,
and deep sighs; or at the unappreciated great poet, whose
prose-strains we have recorded? Well, friends, perhaps you
have reason. Therefore, let us unite our voices in one great
burst of “inextinguishable laughter”—as of the gods on Mount
Olympus—raised very high above the world!
Let us rejoice that we have become more rational, and discarded
all that folly, and are busying ourselves with rational affairs—
Wall-street, and cent per cent, and dividends. Having become
men, we have put away childish things, and among them, the
encumbrances of a heart. Who would have one? It makes
you dream on autumn days, when the fair sunlight streams upon
the sails which waft the argosies of commerce to your warehouse;—it
almost leads you to believe that stocks are not the one
thing to be thought of on this earth—that all the hurrying bustle
of existence is of doubtful-weight, compared with the treasures
of that memory which leads us back to boyhood and its innocent
illusions. Let us part with it, if any indeed remains, and so press
on, unfettered, in the glorious race for cash. The “golden age”
of Arcady is gone so long—the new has come! The crooks
wreathed round with flowers are changed into telegraph-posts,
and Corydon is on a three-legged stool, busy with ledgers—knitting
his brow as he adds up figures. Let us be thankful.
Therefore, as we have arrived at this rational conclusion, and
come to regard Verty and his feelings in their proper light, we
will not speak further of the foolish words which escaped from
his lips, as he went on; in the crimson sunset slowly fading. In
time, perhaps, his education will be completed in the school of
Rational Philosophy, under that distinguished lady-professor, Miss
Sallianna. At present we shall allow him to proceed upon his
way toward his lodge in the wilderness, where the old Indian
woman awaits him with her deep love and anxious tenderness.
