V.
Thought I was in love. Heavens! what a creature she was! Her form was like a fairy’s; and her face, about which the flaxen ringlets fell long, and soft, and silky, was at once so arch and sweet, it witched the very soul out of me before I knew it. Her picture is before me.—Her head like Juno’s, when she walked before the Olympic Thunderer, and yet a woman’s; her brow, high, and white, and pure; eyes of heaven’s own coloring, and bright, and ustrous, and large, and full, in whose crystalline depths slept a soul such as—as—you must guess at, reader, I can’t think of a comparison; a cheek, the eloquent beauty of which melted away so gradually into the pure transparency of her temples, that the eye lost it, and was wandering away, up, and around them, before it became aware of its own vagaries; and her mouth—Heavens and Earth! it was altogether and absolutely, the sweetest, prettiest, pouting, come-kiss-me, little mouth, I ever looked at; and her voice—her voice—how clear and musical—there was nothing like her clear, happy laugh—it rung like an instrument—like the silvery bell in the Faery Tale; and when she prettily bade me sit at her feet, and look up into her clear bright eyes—pooh! I might as well have attempted to knock Destiny on the head at once, and steer the boat of life myself, as keep from doing her bidding; and her form, robed as she was in her white cymar, with a single rose in her hair—the neck—the full bust—the rounded arm—the graceful curvature and wavy sweep of her folded dress, as it swelled from her glittering zone and fell to her feet—dear me! dear me—I—but this will do for a description.
Her name was Fan.
One beautiful twilight—I shan’t forget it soon—one twilight, as the sun went, and right over his glorious resting place, the clouds of evening, like an enormous sweep of woven chrysolite, hung pinned by a single star to the blue wall of heaven—I sat and gazed at that star, then into her eyes; now into her eyes, and then at that star again; and—I grew silly.
Says I, “Fan!”
Says she, “Frank!”
“You are very pretty,” says Frank.
“You are very impudent,” says Fan.
She shook her head at me, and drew her mouth into the queerest pucker imaginable.
“Fanny,” said I seriously.
She sobered.
Some how or other, I got hold of her hand—’twas a pretty hand! I kissed it.
“Don’t be silly;” and she gave me a cuff that made me see stars.
“Fanny, I”—
She looked softly at me.
“Dearest Fanny, I”—
She pouted.
“I—I”—
She blushed.
“I—love you.”
She sprang into my arms.
Bending back her head, and shaking her long locks from her pretty brow, our lips—
Hillo! reader, you are not getting sentimental, are you? Don’t now; for I’ve no sympathy with you—no more sentiment than a horse.
But stop; here’s a bit, and written when things were tremendous. Ecce signum!
O Fanny, sweet Fanny,
I cannot tell why,
But I live in the glance
Of thy witching blue eye—
In the light of the spirit
And loveliness there:
O! I cannot tell why
I so love you, my fair!
It is not—it is not
Its mild beaming—far,
Far excelling each lonely
And dim gleaming star;
It is not the beauty,
The sweetness of face,
The form of perfection,
The movement of grace!
It is not, thou lovest me—
For ere I had heard
Thy low sweet confession
As murmur of bird;
Ere thou told’st me, my beauty,
Thy dreams were all mine;
I cannot tell thee why—
But I knew I was thine.
A charm floats around,
And I feel while with thee,
Though a poor silly captive,
No wish to be free;
O! thus to be bound
In a thraldom like this—
Though a thraldom indeed,
’Tis the sweetest of bliss!
I am thine, dearest Fanny,
Yea, thine and forever—
No dark storm of sorrow
Our young hearts shall sever;
We’ll live, dream, and sigh, love,
Till time is no more;
And when death comes, we’ll fly, love,
To a sunnier shore!
I suppose I felt considerably relieved after this Ætnæan effusion. ’Twould have cooled the furnace where they put Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. But hear the sequel! We pouted, quarreled, parted.
After our first pout, I scribbled as follows—
O! girls fantastic creatures are,
Vexing us—teasing us;
Now they’re here, now they’re there,
Perplexing us—pleasing us;
See you here a soft blue ee,
O! beware—O! beware;
For it melteth but to be
For a snare—for a snare.
I have loved a gentle girl;
How I loved—how I loved—
Witness it, my bosom’s whirl
When she moved—when she moved;
Life, soul, feeling, all sincere,
Bound up in her—bound up in her;
She has left me, and I’m here,
A wound up sinner—a wound up sinner.
Left me, and without a smile,
Save a cold one—save a cold one;
Not a word there fell the while,
Save some old one—save some old one;
My heart about to burst, and chain’d
As by a spell—as by a spell;
She could falter, unconstrained,
Fare thee well—fare thee well.
O! I loved her; (may I be
For it forgiven—for it forgiven;)
Rather, than a thing of clay,
As a thing of Heaven—a thing of Heaven;
Feelings, none I had but went
Straightway there—straightway there;
When I prayed, her image blent
With my prayer—with my prayer.
When she went, there was I,
Like her shade—like her shade—
When she call’d, I was by,
And there I staid—there I staid;
If her soft eye sadden’d seem’d,
I could smile—I could smile—
Till that soft eye gladden’d seemed,
As erewhile—as erewhile.
I presented her a ring,
Which she took—which she took;
And her words fell murmuring,
Like a brook—like a brook;
Soft her eye’s glance fell upon me,
Even there—even there—
When its gentle meanings won me
Like a prayer—like a prayer.
She has left me, and I’m here,
Desolate—desolate;
She has left me, nor a tear
For my fate—for my fate:
O! to be thus coldly parted,
Nor relief—nor relief—
And to be thus broken hearted,
This is grief—this is grief.
Yet, I love her—I confess it,
More than ever—more than ever;
Love’s a stream—you can’t repress it,
Mine’s a river! mine’s a river!
Life, soul, feeling, all are given,
All my store—all my store;
In her, round her—there’s my Heaven,
I want no more—I want no more.