My first want was a companion. From my boyhood, the book of nature was familiar. I had loved to ramble by woods and streams—gather flowers on meadow and hillside—and, with some favorite book, something to pleasure me, while away the mornings in many a gay bewilderment of fancy. But from the peculiarity of my disease, the bliss of solitary thought was denied me; while my natural bent which was quiet and meditative, it was thought might be indulged in to a degree, if shared with some gentle and kindred spirit. This lack was supplied me. I had been accustomed to observe in my rambles a pale thoughtful looking man, whose peculiarly fine countenance made me wish his acquaintance. This was brought about in some ordinary way, and would little interest the reader—so I pass it at once; but the result of that acquaintance, the knowledge I gained from it, the pleasure I derived from his friendship, are things to be forgotten by me never; and it is with reminiscences of my intercourse with this individual, that I intend to supply myself with subject matter for these occasional papers. So much was I delighted with him, that the first morning of our acquaintance I committed to paper the results of our conversation; so I have but little to do, save copying as from a register, such passages as I deem will be entertaining—which thing I hope to do in an unostentatious manner, at the same time throwing in such reflections as I think apposite, and rambling backwards and forwards as suits the mood of my mind. If I please, my time is well spent.
I must first give you a description of him, gentle reader, and the place in which I found him, even if it take up my whole sheet. Conceive yourself then on a little eminence about fifty yards removed from the water side, the ground sloping gradually to the stream; and conceive a small, low-roof’d farm house upon it with its windows facing the east, and its white roof partly covered and quite shaded by a clump of tall beech trees; and after you have looked at the creeper, and wild rose, and honeysuckles that grow in profusion about the door, you may stand and listen to the sound of the clearest, sweetest, sparkling little rivulet, that ever gushed from its native bed, to go and mix its sweet waters with the weltering waves of the ocean.
You may now stand with your back towards the farm-house, and look down before you. The broad Connecticut sweeps majestically by, its clear surface crinkled only by the sportings of some wanton fish as it darts through it, dashing a shower of pearls into the sunbeams; or perchance the form of a water fowl as it skims unwarily over it, gently catching the liquid on its pinions to scatter it off again with the next evolution. The soft piles of white clouds that sleep in the upper heaven, are as moveless below you; and as the startled dor-hawk sweeps out from the wood behind, and wends his course across to the distant mountains, you may watch his small form on the water growing fainter and fainter, till it becomes a speck and fades from the vision.
Now enter with me the dwelling. Is it not a scholar’s dwelling? That finely stocked library, with its newly-dusted curtain of green cotton-stuff—that row of antique busts over the mantel-piece—that engraving of the fiery Byron—that fine one of Scott—and that pleasing one of the gentle and melancholy Cowper—say, do you like it? A table stands in the middle of the room, and on it are books of a dozen languages—some thumbed and turned down as if they had seen good service, and others uncut as fresh from the book-seller’s. Here’s the antiquarian Homer. There’s the mellifluous Anachreon. This is the shrewd Horace—and there’s the philosophic Seneca. How worn they all are! No common one surely is the spirit of this place—But you shall see him.
He sits by the table, writing. There’s a forehead for you, shaded with fine dark hair—there’s an eye, deep, crystaline, full—there’s a cheek, delicate, perhaps too delicate—and above a prominent chin, there’s the pale thin lip of the scholar. His countenance is gentle, but there’s something of severity about the small closed mouth, and in the glitter of that eye—and yet all is calm, all is serenity, all is gentleness. No dark passions have had commission to mark that noble forehead—no feverish and fiery ambition have dared to light their hectic taper on that cheek—all is natural. And his voice—that is gentle too—woman would not wish softer. And now he smiles—how gentle! There’s so much of peace in it, you feel its gentleness.
Such was my friend. Alas! that he is not—that I have but the poor satisfaction of poring over these few, brief-sketched passages of his history.
HIS FIRST LOVE.
I found him one evening sad and solitary, seated by an open window with a book in his hand, and gazing out into the moonlight. I addressed him, but he answered me not. I took his hand and pressed it—he turned to me, and to my surprise, his eyes were filled with tears.
I did not offer him my pity—his feelings were too holy. I let him weep.
‘My friend,’ said he, after a pause, ‘you are welcome.’