Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for Uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother.
Then I told how, for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W——n;[342-16] and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens.
When suddenly turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of representment, that I became in doubt which of them stood before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding, till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech:
“We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Bartram father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe[342-17] millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.”
And immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor armchair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget[342-18] unchanged by my side,—but John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.
You know Lamb’s pathetic history, and you can see how Dream Children came right out of his own sad heart, and how it teems with affectionate recollection. The children, too,—do they not seem like living beings? Can you believe that Alice and John never lived? Let us go back to the essay and see how little it is that he really says about them. Here it is:
ALICE
JOHN
1. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother’s looks, too tender
to be upbraiding.
She thought it very sad that any one should pull down the beautiful
mantelpiece in the great hall, but she would not find fault with
him—she was too gentle, too tender for that!
1. Here John smiled as much as to say, “that would be foolish
indeed.”
John is quite the boy—wise enough to see how ridiculous it was to
put a fine, rich old carved chimney among a lot of gilt
gimcracks—and rather anxious to show his wisdom.
2. Here little Alice spread her hands.
Don’t you think she knew her Psaltery by heart, and a great part of
the Testament besides? “Of course it is very wonderful that
grandma knew so much—but then, I know it too.”
2. Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look
courageous.
The tale of the ghostly infants has frightened John a little, but
he does not like to admit any timidity there with his father and
sister, so he straightens up, expands his eyebrows and looks very
brave and manly.
3. Here Alice’s little right foot played an involuntary movement,
till, upon my looking grave, it desisted.
The mere suggestion of a dance sets the little foot in motion, and
you and I know that Alice is a lively girl who would be as proud of
being the best dancer in the country as she was of knowing as much
Scripture as her grandmother knew. But how quickly she stops when
her father looks grave! We do not think that he objects to Alice
dancing, but he knows that he is going to tell her the sad part of
the story, and that the dancing accompaniment of Alice’s little
right foot would be very much out of place.
Later, Alice joined with John in wishing for the grapes, but she
was equally willing to give them up when it seemed childish to take
them.
3. Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes
which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated dividing with her;
and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as
irrelevant.
While the father has been telling of his glorious childhood among
the rich fruit on the great estate, John has quietly picked up a
bunch of grapes, and his quick-witted father, seeing the act,
sneers a little at such-like common baits of children. John,
wishing to be manly, puts the grapes back without a word, though
evidently he will be glad enough to return to them at the proper
time.
Not a selfish child at all was John, for he meditated dividing the grapes with Alice, and they would have been so sweet and cooling while the children stood there listening to the story.
4. Here the children fell a-crying and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for Uncle John, and they looked up and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother.
