University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
CORYDON GOES A-COURTING.

HAVE you never, friendly reader, on some bright
May morning, when the air is soft and warm, the
sky deep azure, and the whole universe filled to the
brim with that gay spirit of youth which spring infuses
into this the month of flowers, as wine is squeezed from
the ripe bunch of grapes into the goblet of Bohemian
glass, all red and blue and emerald—at such times
have you never suffered the imagination to go forth,
unfettered by reality, to find in the bright scenes which
it creates, a world more sunny, figures more attractive
than the actual universe, the real forms around you?
Have you never tried to fill your heart with dreams,
to close your vision to the present, and to bathe your
weary forehead in those golden waters flowing from the
dreamland of the past? The Spanish verses say the old
times were the best; and we may assert truly that they
are for us at least the best—for reverie.

This reverie may be languid, luxurious, and lapped in
down—enveloped in a perfume weighing down the very
senses, and obliterating by its drowsy influence every
sentiment but languid pleasure; or it may be fiery and
heroic, eloquent of war and shocks, sounding of beauteous
battle, and red banners bathed in slaughter. But

there is something different from both of these moods—
the one languid and the other fiory.

There is the neutral ground of fancy properly so
called: a land which we enter with closed eyes and
smiling lips, a country full of fruits and flowers—fruits
of that delicious flavor of the Hesperides, sweet flowers
odorous as the breezy blossoms which adorn the mountains.
Advance into that brilliant country, and you draw
in life at every pore—a thousand merry figures come
to meet you: maidens clad in the gay costumes of the
elder time, all fluttering with ribbons, rosy cheeks and
lips!—maidens who smile, and with their taper fingers
point at those who follow them; gay shepherds, gallant in
silk stockings and embroidered doublets, carrying their
crooks wreathed round with floweres; while over all,
the sun laughs gladly, and the breezes bear away the
merry voices, sprinkling on the air the joyous music
born of lightness and gay-heartedness.

All the old manners, dead and gone with dear grandmother's
youth, are fresh again; and myriads of children
trip along on red-heeled shoes, and agitate the
large rosettes, and glittering ribbons, and bright
wreaths of flowers which deck them out like tender
heralds of the spring. And with them mingle all those
maidens holding picture-decorated fans with which they
flirt—this is the derivation of our modern word—and
the gay gallants with their never-ending compliments
and smiles. And so the pageant sweeps along with
music, joy, and laughter, to the undiscovered land,
hidden in mist, and entered by the gateway of oblivion.

You see all this in reverie, gentle reader—build your
pretty old chateau to dream in, that is; and it swarms

with figures—graceful and grotesque as those old high-backed
carven chairs—slender and delicate as the chiselled
wave which breaks in foam against the cornice.
And then you wake, and find the flowers pressed in the
old volume called the Past, all dry—your castle only
a castle of your dreams. Poor castle made of cards,
which a child's finger fillips down, or, like the frost palace
on the window pane, faints and fails at a breath!

Your reverie is over: nothing bright can last, not
even dreams; and so your figures are all gone, your
fairy realm obliterated—nothing lives but the recollection
of a shadow!

The reader is requested to identify our melancholy
lover Jacques with the foregoing sentences; and forgive
him in consideration of his unfortunate condition.
Lovers, as every body knows, live dream-lives; and what
we have written is not an inaccurate hint of what passed
through the heart of Jacques as he went on beneath
peach and cherry blossoms to his love.

Poor Jacques was falling more deeply in love with
every passing day. That fate which seemed to deny
him incessantly an opportunity to hear Belle-bouche's
reply to his suit, had only inflamed his love. He uttered
mournful sighs, and looked with melancholy pleasure
at the thrushes who skipped nimbly through the boughs,
and did their musical wooing under the great azure canopy.
His arms hung down, his eyes were very dreamy,
his lips were wreathed into a faint wistful smile. Poor
Jacques!

As he drew near Shadynook, the sunshine seemed
growing every moment brighter, and the flowers exhaled
sweeter odors. The orchis, eglantine, and crocus

burned in blue and shone along the braes, to use the
fine old Scottish word; and over him the blossoms
shook and showered, and made the whole air heavy
with perfume. As he approached the gate, set in the
low flowery fence, Jacques sighed and smiled. Daphnis
was near his Daphne—Strephon would soon meet
Chloe.

He tied his horse to a sublunary rack—not a thing of
fairy land and moonshine as he thought—and slowly
took his way, across the flower-enamelled lawn, towards
the old smiling mansion. Eager, longing, dreaming,
Jacques held out his arms and listened for her voice.

He heard instead an invisible voice, which he soon,
however, made out as belonging to an Ethiopian lady of
the bedchamber; and this voice said:

“Miss Becca's done gone out, sir!”

And Jacques felt suddenly as if the sunshine all
around had faded, and thick darkness followed. All the
light and joy of smiling Shadynook was gone—she was
not there!

“Where was she?”

“She and Mistiss went out for a walk, sir—down to
the quarters through the grove.”

Jacques brightened up like a fine dawn. The accident
might turn to his advantage: he might see Mrs.
Wimple safely home, then he and Belle-bouche would
prolong their walk; and then she would be compelled
to listen to him; and then—and then—Jacques had
arranged the whole in his mind by the time he had
reached the grove.

He was going along reflecting upon the hidden significance
of crooks, and flowers, and shepherdesses—for

Jacques was a poet, and more still, a poet in love—
when a stifled laugh attracted his attention, and raising
his head, he directed his dreamy glances in the direction
of the sound.

He saw Belle-bouche!—Belle-bouche sitting under a
flowering cherry tree, upon the brink of a little stream
which, crossed by a wide single log, purled on through
sun and shadow.

Belle-bouche was clad, as usual, with elegant simplicity,
and her fair hair resembled gold in the vagrant
gleams of sunlight which stole through the boughs,
drooping their odorous blossoms over her, and scattering
the delicate rosy-snow leaves on the book she
held.

That book was a volume of Scotch songs, and against
the rough back the little hand of Belle-bouche resembled
a snow-flake.

Jacques caught his breath, and bowed and fell, so to
speak, beside her.

“You came near walking into the brook,” said Belle-bouche,
with her languishing smile; “what, pray, were
you thinking of?”

“Of you,” sighed Jacques.

The little beauty blushed.

“Oh, then your time was thrown away,” she said;
“you should not busy yourself with so idle a personage.”

“Ah!” sighed Jacques, “how can I help it?”

“What a lovely day!” said Belle-bouche, in order to
divert the conversation. “Aunt and myself thought
we'd come down to the quarters and see the sick. I
carried mammy Lucy some nice things, and aunt went

on to see about some spinning, and I came here to
look over this book of songs, which I have just got
from London.”

“Songs?” said Jacques, with deep interest, and bending
down until his lips nearly touched the little hand;
“songs, eh?”

“Scottish songs,” laughed Belle-bouche; “and when
you came I was reading this one, which seems to be the
chronicle of a very unfortunate gentleman.”

With which words Belle-Bouche, laughing gaily,
read:

And ending, Belle-bouche handed the book, with
a merry little glance, to Jacques, who signed profoundly

“Yes, yes!” he murmured, “I believe you are right
—true, it is about a very unfortunate shephered—all
lovers are unfortunate. These seem to be pretty songs
—very pretty.”

And he disconsolately turned over the leaves; then
stopped and began reading.

“Here is one more cheerful,” he said; “suppose I
read it, my dear Miss Belle-bouche.”

And he read:

“Pretty, is n't it?” sighed Jacques; “but here is another
verse:

With which words Jacques shut the book, and threw
upon Belle-bouche a glance which made that young
lady color to the roots of her hair.

“I think we had better go,” murmured Belle-bouche,
rising; “I have to fix for the ball——”

“Not before——!”

“No, not before Tuesday, I believe,” said Belle-bouche;
“I am glad they changed it from Monday.”

Jacques drew back, sighing; but returning to the attack,
said in an expiring voice:

“What will my Flora wear—lace and flowers?”

“Who is she?” said Belle-bouche, putting on her
light chip hat and tying the ribbon beneath her dimpled
chin.

Poor Jacques was for a moment so completely absorbed
by this lovely picture, that he did not reply.

“Who is Flora!—can you ask?” he stammered.

“Oh, yes!” said Belle-bouche, blushing; “you mean
Philippa, do you not? But I can't tell you what she
will wear. She has returned home. Let us go back
through the orchard.”

And Belle-bouche, with that exquisite grace which
characterized her, crossed the log and stood upon the
opposite bank of the brook, looking coquettishly over
her shoulder at the melancholy Jacques, who was so absorbed
in gazing after her that he had scarcely presence
of mind enough to follow.

“What a lovely day; a real lover's day!” he said,
with a sigh, when he had joined her, and they were
walking on.

“Delightful,” said Belle-bouche, smelling a violet.

“And the blossoms, you know,” observed Jacques
disconsolately.

“Delicious!”

“To say nothing of the birds,” continued Jacques,
sighing. “I believe the birds know the twentieth of
May is coming.”

“Why—what takes place upon the twentieth?” said
Belle-bouche, with a faint smile.

“That is the day for lovers, and I observed a number
of birds making love as I came along,” sighed Jacques.
“I only wish they'd teach me how.”

Belle-bouche turned away, blushing.

“On the twentieth of May,” continued Jacques, enveloping
the fascinating countenance of Belle-bouche
with his melancholy glance, “the old lovers in Arcadia
—the Strephons, Chloes, Corydons, Daphnes, and Narcissuses—always
made love and married on that day.”

“Then,” said Belle-bouche, faintly smiling, “they did
every thing very quickly.”

“In a great hurry, eh?” said Jacques, sighing.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do not call me sir, my dearest Miss Belle-bouche—
it sounds so formal and unpoetical.”

“What then shall I call you?” laughed Belle-bouche,
with a slight tremor in her voice.

“Strephon, or Corydon, or Daphnis,” said Jacques;
“for you ar Phillis, you know.”

Belle-bouche turned the color of a peony, and said
faintly:

“I thought my name was Chloe the other day.”

“Yes,” said the ready Jacques, “but that was when
my own name was Corydon.”

“Corydon?”

“Yes, yes,” sighed Jacques, “the victim of the lovely
Chloe's beauty in the old days of Arcady.”

Belle-bouche made no reply.

“Ah!” sighed Jacques, “if you. would only make
that old tradition true—if——”

“Oh!” said Belle-bouche, looking another way, “just
listen to that mocking-bird!”

“If love far greater than the love of Corydon—devotion——”

“I could dance a reel to it,” said Belle-bouche, blushing;
“and we shall have some reels, I hope, at the ball.
Oh! I expect a great deal of pleasure.”

“And I,” said Jacques, sadly, “for I escort you.”

“Then you have not forgotten your promise?”

“Forgotten!”

“And you really will take charge of me?” said Belle-bouche,
with a delightful expression of doubt.

“Take charge of you?” cried Jacques, overwhelmed
and drowned in love; “take charge of you! Oh Belle-bouche!
dearest Belle-bouche!—you are killing me!
Oh! let me take charge of your life—see Corydon here
at your feet, the fondest, most devoted——”

“Becca! will you never hear me?” cried the voice of
Aunt Wimple; “here I am toiling after you till I am
out of breath—for Heaven's sake, stop!”

And smiling, red in the face, panting Aunt Wimple
drew near and bowed pleasantly to Jacques, who only
groaned, and murmured:

“One more chance gone—ah!”

As for Belle-bouche, she was blushing like a rose.
She uttered not one word until they reached the house.
Then she said, turning round with a smile and a blush:

“Indeed, you must excuse me!”

Poor Jacques sighed. He saw her leave him, taking
away the light and joy of his existence. He slowly went
away; and all the way back to town he felt as if he was
not a real man on horseback, rather a dream mounted
upon a cloud, and both asleep. Poor Jacques!