Reveries of a Bachelor; or, A Book of the Heart

by Donald Grant Mitchell

At such a stage you are quite certain that you are deeply and madly in love; you persist in the face of heaven and earth. You would like to meet the individual who dared to doubt it.

You think she has got the tidiest and jauntiest little figure that ever was seen. You think back upon some time when, in your games of forfeit, you gained a kiss from those lips; and it seems as if the kiss was hanging on you yet and warming you all over. And then, again, it seems so strange that your lips did really touch hers! You half question if it could have been actually so—and how you could have dared—and you wonder if you would have courage to do the same thing again?—and upon second thought are quite sure you would—and snap your fingers at the thought of it.

What sweet little hats she does wear; and in the schoolroom, when the hat is hung up—what curls—golden curls, worth a hundred Golcondas! How bravely you study the top lines of the spelling-book that your eyes may run over the edge of the cover, without the schoolmaster’s notice, and feast upon her!

You half wish that somebody would run away with her, as they did with Amanda, in the Children of the Abbey—and then you might ride up on a splendid black horse and draw a pistol, or blunderbuss, and shoot the villains, and carry her back, all in tears, fainting and languishing upon your shoulder—and have her father (who is judge of the county court) take your hand in both of his and make some eloquent remarks. A great many such recaptures you run over in your mind and think how delightful it would be to peril your life, either by flood, or fire—to cut off your arm, or your head, or any such trifle—for your dear Louise.

You can hardly think of anything more joyous in life than to live with her in some old castle, very far away from steamboats and post-offices, and pick wild geraniums for her hair, and read poetry with her under the shade of very dark ivy vines. And you would have such a charming boudoir in some corner of the old ruin, with a harp in it, and books bound in gilt, with Cupids on the cover, and such a fairy couch, with curtains hung—as you have seen them hung in some illustrated Arabian stories—upon a pair of carved doves.

And when they laugh at you about it, you turn it off, perhaps, with saying—“It isn’t so;” but afterward, in your chamber, or under the tree where you have cut her name, you take Heaven to witness that it is so; and think—what a cold world it is, to be so careless about such holy emotions! You perfectly hate a certain stout boy in a green jacket, who is forever twitting you, and calling her names; but when some old maiden aunt teases you in her kind, gentle way, you bear it very proudly; and with a feeling as if you could bear a great deal more for her sake. And when the minister reads off marriage announcements in the church, you think how it will sound one of these days, to have your name, and hers, read from the pulpit—and how the people will look at you, and how prettily she will blush; and how poor little Dick, who you know loves her, but is afraid to say so, will squirm upon his bench.

—Heigho! mused I—as the blue smoke rolled up around my head—these first kindlings of the love that is in one, are very pleasant! but will they last?

You love to listen to the rustle of her dress, as she stirs about the room. It is better music than grown-up ladies will make upon all their harpischords in the years that are to come. But this, thank Heaven, you do not know.

You think you can trace her foot-mark, on your way to the school; and what a dear little foot-mark it is! And from that single point, if she be out of your sight for days, you conjure up the whole image—the elastic lithe little figure—the springy step—the dotted muslin so light and flowing—the silk kerchief, with its most tempting fringe playing upon the clear white of her throat—how you envy that fringe! And her chin is as round as a peach—and the lips—such lips! and you sigh, and hang your head, and wonder when you shall see her again!

You would like to write her a letter; but then people would talk so coldly about it; and besides you are not quite sure you could write such billets as Thaddeus of Warsaw used to write; and anything less warm or elegant would not do at all. You talk about this one, or that one, whom they call pretty, in the coolest way in the world; you see very little of their prettiness; they are good girls to be sure; and you hope they will get good husbands some day or other; but it is not a matter that concerns you very much. They do not live in your world of romance; they are not the angels of that sky which your heart makes rosy, and to which I have likened the blue waves of this rolling smoke.