WASTE PAPER;
OR “TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR.”
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BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
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“Good bye, Vivian, don’t fall in love till you see Miss Walton. God bless you, my dear boy!” And Vivian Russell shook his kind uncle warmly by the hand and sprung into the stage coach, which was waiting for him at the gate. “All right!” said the guard—the bluff coachman smacked his whip, and away they sped along the road to London.
They will not fly so fast, but that you and I, sweet reader, can overtake them when we list, though the swift steeds of Fancy must be harnessed for the purpose. To please you, then, we will follow them anon. In the mean time, sit you down by my side on this sunny bank, opposite the gate, where Vivian’s uncle still stands and gazes after the fast receding vehicle, and I will tell you all I know about him. You had time to see, ere he took his seat in the coach, that he was a tall, nobly formed youth, possessing, in an eminent degree, what the French call, “Un air distingué.” You could not but notice the thin silky intellectual looking curls, which waved on his classical head, (don’t laugh at the word “intellectual!”) Think a moment! Is there not expression even in hair? Does not thick, bushy, stubby hair, especially if it curl, give you an idea of dullness, sensuality and want of refinement? If it doesn’t, my precious reader, take my word for it, you don’t see with your “mind’s eye,” or at any rate, with my mind’s eye. Did you observe his eyes? They are black, brilliant and expressive, full of that great rarity, in this whig and tory world, soul. His complexion is glowing and slightly brown by exposure. There is a dimple in his chin, his nose is just like that of the Apollo Belvidere, and his forehead, how shall I describe its beauty? broad, white, spiritual, beaming with thought, I cannot do it justice. There is the least perceptible curl on his beautiful lip; but you cannot see it when he smiles; for his smile is tenderness itself. In his manly bearing too, there is, perhaps, a dash of aristocratic haughtiness, at first, but it soon wears away upon acquaintance. The difficulty is to become acquainted with him; I defy a dull or a vulgar person to do it.
The cheerful, healthy looking old gentleman, who is just turning from the gate towards that white house among the trees, is, as I told you, his uncle. Vivian’s parents died during his childhood, and left him to this uncle’s care. He has just returned from abroad, come of age,—taken possession of his paternal estates,—left the old gentleman to look after it, in his absence, and gone for the first time to pass a month or two amid the gaieties of the metropolis. And now let us after him with what speed we may.
See! there is my friend, Fancy; just in time! descending in her opal chariot, drawn by a score of peacocks, which fly or creep, as the wayward goddess wills. Her rainbow scarf flutters in the air, her wild blue eyes sparkle with excitement, as she beckons us towards her. Give me your hand, sweet reader! so, one bound, and we are safe by her side; and now we too are on our road to London, and our vehicle glances like a meteor through the air. Since then we are so comfortably en route, let me just explain my motive for having been, as some will think, unnecessarily minute in my description of our hero. It was because I wished my young lady readers,—for whom this story is especially intended, to be interested in him, and I thought the surest way of making them so, was to let them trace, in his person as well as mind, a remarkable resemblance to some favored acquaintance of their own. Have I succeeded? Mary, Caroline, Julia, Isabel! Is he not the “perfect image” of—you know who? There—don’t blush, dear! I won’t tell. “Revenons à nos moutons.” Hey day! what have we here? A traveling chariot broken down in the road! Our friend Vivian bearing a lady in his arms towards the neighboring inn, which the stage coach has already reached! An old gentleman, probably her father, staring and hurrying after them as fast as the gout will let him, and the servants, postilions &c., busy in untackling the horses and righting the injured vehicle. We won’t stop to inquire the cause of the accident. Fancy will tell us that at her leisure. Let us enter the inn.
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