“And, mother, you know that the balloon glided up and away so softly, that it seemed like a dream, fading from the memory. And at last, when it was like a mere insect in the vast blue sky, it stole into a cloud, and hid itself, and then I had a feeling of sadness. Can you tell me why, mother?”
Here there was a pause, and the blue-eyed girl, stood for a moment, as if expecting an answer. But Romance was impatient to begin, and her dark eye, shaded by the long black lashes, seemed to grow larger and brighter as she spoke thus:
“History has told you, mother, all the events that occurred, and she has accurately described them. Poetry has painted the scene, and made it clear and bright by comparisons. But I must tell you of the thoughts and feelings it awakened in my breast, and of the fairy world in which I seemed to be, while I looked on the balloon.
“When the balloon went up, it seemed as if I went with it, into a new scene. I think I have dreamed something like it, in my sleep, when my thoughts seemed like wings, and all around was fair and heavenly. As the balloon ascended, I seemed to ascend also. I did not, at the moment, think how strange it was, but I went on fancying myself with the balloon, and riding upon the air, in that little boat. And I thought of the vast blue space around, and the earth beneath, and the heaven above, and I felt as if I was something like an angel, gifted with the power of rising upward, and seeing earth, and sky, and heaven, as others could not see them. And I felt a sort of happiness I cannot express.
“Well, as the balloon sailed farther and farther upon the airy sea, and as it grew less and less to the sight, like a ship that glides away upon the ocean—I began to think of the realms to which it seemed hastening. And at last, when it flew into the cloud, I did not dream that it had disappeared. My eye was still bent upon the spot, and I still fancied that I was with it, and that I was sailing on and on, upon the blue deep, and among regions where the happy and the lovely only dwell.”
When Romance had got to this point of her story, the mother smiled, and History tittered aloud. Poetry, however, drew nearer, and seemed entranced with the tale of the dark-eyed girl. But Romance was dashed at the ridicule she had excited, and was silent.
Now I suppose some of my waggish young readers, some of the roguish Paul Pries, will laugh at me, as History did at Romance; and think me not a little ridiculous, for telling such a rigmarole tale as this. But old Peter knows what he is about! He has an object in view; and now, as Mr. Lauriat let the cat out of the car, he will “let the cat out of the bag.”
My purpose is to teach the meaning of the three words, History, Poetry, and Romance. History is a true record of events; and, accordingly, the little girl whom we call History, tells the exact story of the balloon. Poetry is a display of fanciful thoughts, and deals much in comparison; and so, our little Poetry gives a fanciful description of the scene, embellishing her tale by many illustrations. Romance is a picture of fantastic and extraordinary scenes and feelings; and our dark-haired maiden, who deals in it, sets forth the fairy world of visions and sentiments that is reflected in her own breast.
I suppose all my readers have heard of the Nine Muses, goddesses of ancient Greece. One was called Clio, the muse of history; one was Erato, the muse of poetry. And I have sometimes fancied that the idea of these goddesses, might have originated among the fanciful Greeks, from perceiving the different ways in which different persons notice the same scenes; one being apt to remark things soberly and accurately, like our Miss History; another being apt to see them fancifully, like our Miss Poetry; and another apt to weave a world of fiction out of them, like our Miss Romance.