CONVERSATION AND FLIRTATION WITH COLONEL FAIRLY.
And then we had another very long conversation, and if I did not write in so much haste, my dear friends would like to read it.
Our subject to-night—his subject, rather—was, the necessity of participation, to every species of happiness. “His” subject, you may easily believe; for to him should I never have dared touch on one so near and so tender to him. Fredy, however, could join With him more feelingly—though he kept perfectly clear of all that was personal, to which I would not have led for a thousand worlds. He seems born with the tenderest social affections; and, though religiously resigned to his loss—which, I have been told, the hopeless sufferings of Lady ——— rendered, at last, even a release to be desired—he thinks life itself, single and unshared, a mere melancholy burthen, and the wish to have done with it appears the only wish he indulges. I could not perceive this without the deepest commiseration, but I did what was possible to conceal it; as it is much more easy, both to the hearer and the speaker, to lead the discourse to matters more lively, under an appearance of being ignorant of the state of a sad heart, than with a betrayed consciousness.
We talked of books, and not a little I astonished him by the discovery I was fain to make, of the number of authors I have never yet read. Particularly he instanced Akenside, and quoted from him some passages I have heard selected by Mr. Locke. Then we talked of the country, of landscapes, of walking, and then, again, came back the favourite proposition,—participation! That, he said, could make an interest in anything,—everything; and O, how did I agree with him! There is sympathy enough, heaven knows, in our opinions on this subject.
But not in what followed. I am neither good nor yet miserable enough to join with him in what he added,—that life, taken all in all, was of so little worth and value, it could afford its thinking possessor but one steady wish,—that its duration might be short!
Alas! thought I, that a man so good should be so unhappy!
We then came back again to books, and he asked us if we had read a little poem called the “Shipwreck”?[279] Neither of us had even heard of it. He said it was somewhat too long, and somewhat too technical, but that it contained many beautiful passages. He had it with him, he said, and proposed sending Columb for it, to his house, if we should like to read it. We thanked him, and off marched Columb. It is in a very small duodecimo volume, and he said he would leave it with me.
Soon after, Miss Planta said she would stroll round the house for a little exercise. When she was gone, he took up the book, and said, “Shall I read some passages to you?” I most gladly assented, and got my work,—of which I have no small store, believe me!—morning caps, robins, etc., all to prepare from day to day; which, with my three constant and long attendances, and other official company ceremonies, is no small matter.
The passages he selected were really beautiful: they were chiefly from an episode, of Palemon and Anna, excessively delicate, yet tender in the extreme, and most touchingly melancholy.
One line he came to, that he read with an emotion extremely affecting— ‘tis a sweet line—
“He felt the chastity of silent woe.”
He stopped upon it, and sighed so deeply that his sadness quite infected me.
Then he read various characters of the ship’s company, which are given with much energy and discrimination. I could not but admire every passage he chose, and I was sensible each of them owed much obligation to his reading, which was full of feeling and effect.
How unwillingly did I interrupt him, to go upstairs and wait my night’s summons! But the queen has no bell for me, except to my bed-room.
He hastily took the hint, and rose to go. “Shall I leave the poem,” he cried, “or take it with me, in case there should be any leisure to go on with it to-morrow?”
“Which you please,” cried I, a little stupidly, for I did not, at the moment, comprehend his meaning which, however, he immediately explained by answering, “Let me take it, then;—let me make a little interest in it to myself, by reading it with you.”
And then he put it in his pocket, and went to his home in the town, and up stairs went I to my little cell, not a little internally simpering to see a trait so like what so often I have done myself,—carrying off a favourite book, when I have begun it with my Susanna, that we might finish it together, without leaving her the temptation to peep beforehand.