"I cannot recall the delicious effect of her singing as we were drifting along in the sombre twilight, better than by quoting Buchanan Read's charming lines, which I dare say you have seen before:
"'I heed not if
My rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.
"'Under the walls
Where swells and falls
The bay's deep breast at intervals;
At peace I lie,
Blown softly by
A cloud upon this liquid sky.
"'No more, no more
The worldly shore
Upbraids me with its load uproar:
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.'
"I. L. G."
June 24.
The week commenced with a dash of rain, but this morning it was again as hot as though no clouds had darkened the sky. Croquet was out of the question, and not even for the sake of trying my new beaver and stylish habit, so becoming to a slight figure, could I confront the dust and the sun's blazing rays upon Nancy's back (for such is the unromantic name of the horse that oftenest has the honor of bearing me when we ride). No one seemed inclined to drive, so Lady Alice and the Duchess, that had been for some time impatiently stamping, and arching their pretty necks, evidently impatient to be off, were sent back to the stables, much amazed, I doubt not, at our capricious conduct; while we—mamma, Marguerite, and I—sauntered up to the cool pine grove, accompanied by Arthur, bearing a camp-chair for mamma, and a couple of wise-looking tomes, in whose society we were to spend the morning.
But I have not yet introduced Arthur. He is neither brother, cousin, nor fiancé, but bound to us by almost brotherly ties, having been our playmate when we were little children; and after the death of his parents (our eminent historian Richard Hildreth, and his gifted artist wife), he became mamma's ward, and was our constant companion in Italy and France. Arthur has come on from Cambridge, where he has just taken his degree as a lawyer, to make us a visit of some weeks, and we have had much pleasure talking over with him those poetic days that we passed together in Florence and Venice.
But our life is never made up of talking and dreaming, delightful though it may be, and we have a certain amount of reading to do every day, which we despatch as conscientiously as we do our prayers. There is no rule, however, limiting the reading to any one person, and Arthur often relieves us of that duty. I enjoy his reading very much, especially when one of Plato's "Dialogues" is the lesson of the day, for into them he throws so much enthusiasm and dramatic force, that they are quite a revelation to me. I was amused this morning, upon turning over the leaves of my journal of last winter, to find my first impressions of the "Dialogues" thus laconically expressed:
"I have to-day commenced to read Plato aloud. I cannot say that I find him very refreshing as yet; still I try to admire him as much as I conscientiously can."