What does ail me? I’m as blue as indigo. Last night I was as gay as a bob-o’-link—perhaps that is the reason. Good gracious, hear that wind howl! Now low—now high—till it fairly shrieks; it excites me like the pained cry of a human. There’s my pretty California flower—blue as a baby’s eyes; all shut up—no wonder—I wish my eyes were shut up, too. What does ail me? I think it is that dose of a Boston paper I have just been reading (for want of something better to do), whose book critic calls “Jane Eyre” an “immoral book.” Donkey! It is vain to hope that his life has been as pure and self-sacrificing as that of “Charlotte Bronte.” There’s the breakfast-bell—and there’s Tom with that autumn-leaf colored vest on, that I so hate. Why don’t men wear pretty vests? why can’t they leave off those detestable stiff collars, stocks, and things, that make them all look like choked chickens, and which hide so many handsomely-turned throats, that a body never sees, unless a body is married, or unless a body happens to see a body’s brothers while they are shaving. Talk of women’s throats—you ought to see a whiskered throat I saw once——Gracious, how blue I am! Do you suppose it is the weather? I wish the sun would shine out and try me. See the inch-worms on that tree. That’s because it is a pet of mine. Every thing I like goes just that way. If I have a nice easy dress that I can sneeze in, it is sure to wear out and leave me to the crucifying alternative of squeezing myself into one that is not broke into my figure. I hate new gowns—I hate new shoes—I hate new bonnets—I hate any thing new except new—spapers, and I was born reading them.
There’s a lame boy—now why couldn’t that boy have been straight? There’s a rooster driving round a harem of hens; what do the foolish things run for? If they didn’t run, he couldn’t chase them—of course not. Now it’s beginning to rain; every drop perforates my heart. I could cry tears enough to float a ship. Why need it rain?—patter—patter—skies as dull as lead—trees nestling up to each other in shivering sympathy; and that old cow—I hate cows—they always make a dive at me—I suppose it is because they are females; that old cow stands stock still, looking at that pump-handle just where, and as she did, when I went to bed last night. Do you suppose that a cow’s tail ever gets tired lashing flies from her side; do you suppose her jaws ever ache with that eternal munching? If there is any place I like, it is a barn; I mean to go a journey this summer, not “to see Niagara”—but to see a barn. Oh, the visions I’ve had on haymows! oh, the tears I’ve shed there—oh, the golden sunlight that has streamed down on me through the chinks in the raftered roof—oh, the cheerful swallow-twitterings on the old cross-beams—oh, the cunning brown mice scampering over the floor—oh, the noble bay-horse with his flowing mane, and arching neck, and satin sides, and great human eyes. Strong as Achilles—gentle as a woman. Pshaw! women were never half so gentle to me. He never repulsed me when I laid my head against his neck for sympathy. Brute forsooth! I wish there were more such brutes. Poor Hunter—he’s dead, of course, because I loved him;—the trunk-maker only knows what has become of his hide and my books. What of that? a hundred years hence and who’ll care? I don’t think I love any thing—or care for any thing to-day. I don’t think I shall ever have any feeling again for any body or any thing. Why don’t somebody turn that old rusty weather-cock, or play me a triumphant march, or bring me a dew-gemmed daisy?
There’s funeral—a child’s funeral! Oh—what a wretch I am! Come here—you whom I love—you who love me; closer—closer—let me twine my arms about you, and God forgive me for shutting my eyes to his sunshine.
PEEPS FROM UNDER A PARASOL.
People describe me, without saying “by your leave;” a little thought has just occurred to me that two can play at that game! I don’t go about with my eyes shut—no tailor can “take a measure” quicker than I, as I pass along.
There are Drs. Chapin and Bethune, whose well-to-do appearance in this world quite neutralizes their Sunday exhortations to “set one’s affections on a better.” There’s Greeley—but why describe the town pump? he has been handle-d enough to keep him from Rust-ing. There’s that Epicurean Rip-lie, critic of the “New York Tribune;” if I have spelt his name wrong, it was because I was thinking of the unmitigated fibs he has told in his book reviews! There’s Colonel Fuller, editor of the “New York Evening Mirror,” handsome, witty, and saucy. There’s Mr. Young, editor of “The Albion,” who looks too much like a gentlemen to have abused, in so wholesale a manner, the lady writers of America. There’s Blank-Blank, Esq., editor of the “New York Blank,” who always reminds me of what the Scotch parson said to his wife, whom he noticed asleep in church: “Jennie! Jennie! you have no beauty, as all the congregation may see, and if you have no grace, I have made but a poor bargain of it!” There’s Richard Storrs Willis, or, Storrs Richard Willis, or, Willis Richard Storrs (it is a way that family have to keep changing their names), editor of the “Musical World,” not a bad paper either. Richard has a fine profile, a trim, tight figure, always unexceptionably arrayed, and has a gravity of mien most edifying to one who has eat bread and molasses out of the same plate with him.
Behind that beard coming down street in that night-gown overcoat, is Mr. Charles A. Dana, of the “New York Tribune,” who is ready to say, “Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,” when he shall have made the “New York Tribune” like unto the “London Times;” Charles should remember that the motto of the “London Times” is “Fair Play”—not the appearance of fair play. And here is Philander Doesticks, of the “New York Picayune,” and “New York Tribune,” a delightful specimen of healthy manhood, in a day whose boys at sixteen look as though they had exhausted life; may his wit continue as keen as his eyes, his heart as fresh as his complexion, and his fancy as luxuriant as his beard. There’s Bayard Taylor, “the Oriental Bayard.” Now I don’t suppose Bayard is to blame for being a pretty man, or for looking so nice and bandbox-y. But if some public benefactor would tumble his hair and shirt collar, and tie his cravat in a loose sailor knot, and if Bayard himself would open that little three-cent piece mouth of his a l-i-t-t-l-e wider when he lectures, it would take a load off my mind! I write this, in full view of his interest in the Almighty “Tribune,” and also set up before him certain “Leaves” for a target, by way of reprisal.