MY LAST WALK WITH THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.
(_A Parenthesis_.)
I can"t say just how many walks she and I had taken together before this one. I found the effect of going out every morning was decidedly favorable on her health. Two pleasing dimples, the places for which were just marked when she came, played, shadowy, in her freshening cheeks when she smiled and nodded good-morning to me from the school-house-steps.
I am afraid I did the greater part of the talking. At any rate, if I should try to report all that I said during the first half-dozen walks we took together, I fear that I might receive a gentle hint from my friends the publishers, that a separate volume, at my own risk and expense, would be the proper method of bringing them before the public.
-I would have a woman as true as Death. At the first real lie which works from the heart outward, she should be tenderly chloroformed into a better world, where she can have an angel for a governess, and feed on strange fruits which will make her all over again, even to her bones and marrow.-Whether gifted with the accident of beauty or not, she should have been moulded in the rose-red clay of Love, before the breath of life made a moving mortal of her. Love-capacity is a congenital endowment; and I think, after a while, one gets to know the warm-hued natures it belongs to from the pretty pipe-clay counterfeits of them.-Proud she may be, in the sense of respecting herself; but pride in the sense of contemning others less gifted than herself, deserves the two lowest circles of a vulgar woman"s Inferno, where the punishments are Smallpox and Bankruptcy.-She who nips off the end of a brittle courtesy, as one breaks the tip of an icicle, to bestow upon those whom she ought cordially and kindly to recognize, proclaims the fact that she comes not merely of low blood, but of bad blood. Consciousness of unquestioned position makes people gracious in proper measure to all; but if a woman puts on airs with her real equals, she has something about herself or her family she is ashamed of, or ought to be. Middle, and more than middle-aged people, who know family histories, generally see through it.
An official of standing was rude to me once. Oh, that is the maternal grandfather,-said a wise old friend to me,-he was a boor.-Better too few words, from the woman we love, than too many: while she is silent, Nature is working for her; while she talks, she is working for herself.-Love is sparingly soluble in the words of men; therefore they speak much of it; but one syllable of woman"s speech can dissolve more of it than a man"s heart can hold.
-Whether I said any or all of these things to the schoolmistress, or not,-whether I stole them out of Lord Bacon,-whether I cribbed them from Balzac,-whether I dipped them from the ocean of Tupperian wisdom,-or whether I have just found them in my head, laid there by that solemn fowl, Experience, (who, according to my observation, cackles oftener than she drops real live eggs,) I cannot say. Wise men have said more foolish things,-and foolish men, I don"t doubt, have said as wise things.
Anyhow, the schoolmistress and I had pleasant walks and long talks, all of which I do not feel bound to report.
-You are a stranger to me, Ma"am.-I don"t doubt you would like to know all I said to the schoolmistress.-I sha"n"t do it;-I had rather get the publishers to return the money you have invested in this. Besides, I have forgotten a good deal of it. I shall tell only what I like of what I remember.
-My idea was, in the first place, to search out the picturesque spots which the city affords a sight of, to those who have eyes. I know a good many, and it was a pleasure to look at them in company with my young friend. There were the shrubs and flowers in the Franklin-Place front-yards or borders; Commerce is just putting his granite foot upon them. Then there are certain small seraglio-gardens, into which one can get a peep through the crevices of high fences,-one in Myrtle Street, or backing on it,-here and there one at the North and South Ends. Then the great elms in Ess.e.x Street. Then the stately horse-chestnuts in that vacant lot in Chambers Street, which hold their outspread hands over your head, (as I said in my poem the other day,) and look as if they were whispering, "May grace, mercy, and peace be with you!"-and the rest of that benediction. Nay, there are certain patches of ground, which, having lain neglected for a time, Nature, who always has her pockets full of seeds, and holes in all her pockets, has covered with hungry plebeian growths, which fight for life with each other, until some of them get broad-leaved and succulent, and you have a coa.r.s.e vegetable tapestry which Raphael would not have disdained to spread over the foreground of his masterpiece. The Professor pretends that he found such a one in Charles Street, which, in its dare-devil impudence of rough-and-tumble vegetation, beat the pretty-behaved flower-beds of the Public Garden as ignominiously as a group of young tatterdemalions playing pitch-and-toss beats a row of Sunday-school-boys with their teacher at their head.
But then the Professor has one of his burrows in that region, and puts everything in high colors relating to it. That is his way about everything. I hold any man cheap,-he said,-of whom nothing stronger can be uttered than that all his geese are swans.-How is that, Professor?-said I;-I should have set you down for one of that sort.-Sir,-said he,-I am proud to say, that Nature has so far enriched me, that I cannot own so much as a duck without seeing in it as pretty a swan as ever swam the basin in the garden of the Luxembourg. And the Professor showed the whites of his eyes devoutly, like one returning thanks after a dinner of many courses.
I don"t know anything sweeter than this leaking in of Nature through all the cracks in the walls and floors of cities. You heap up a million tons of hewn rocks on a square mile or two of earth which was green once. The trees look down from the hill-sides and ask each other, as they stand on tiptoe,-"What are these people about?" And the small herbs at their feet look up and whisper back,-"We will go and see." So the small herbs pack themselves up in the least possible bundles, and wait until the wind steals to them at night and whispers, "Come with me." Then they go softly with it into the great city,-one to a cleft in the pavement, one to a spout on the roof, one to a seam in the marbles over a rich gentleman"s bones, and one to the grave without a stone where nothing but a man is buried,-and there they grow, looking down on the generations of men from mouldy roofs, looking up from between the less-trodden pavements, looking out through iron cemetery-railings. Listen to them, when there is only a light breath stirring, and you will hear them saying to each other,-"Wait awhile!" The words run along the telegraph of those narrow green lines that border the roads leading from the city, until they reach the slope of the hills, and the trees repeat in low murmurs to each other,-"Wait awhile!" By-and-by the flow of life in the streets ebbs, and the old leafy inhabitants-the smaller tribes always in front-saunter in, one by one, very careless seemingly, but very tenacious, until they swarm so that the great stones gape from each other with the crowding of their roots, and the feldspar begins to be picked out of the granite to find them food. At last the trees take up their solemn line of march, and never rest until they have encamped in the market-place. Wait long enough and you will find an old doting oak hugging a huge worn block in its yellow underground arms; that was the cornerstone of the State-House. Oh, so patient she is, this imperturbable Nature!
-Let us cry!-
But all this has nothing to do with my walks and talks with the schoolmistress. I did not say that I would not tell you something about them. Let me alone, and I shall talk to you more than I ought to, probably. We never tell our secrets to people that pump for them.
Books we talked about, and education. It was her duty to know something of these, and of course she did. Perhaps I was somewhat more learned than she, but I found that the difference between her reading and mine was like that of a man"s and a woman"s dusting a library. The man flaps about with a bunch of feathers; the woman goes to work softly with a cloth. She does not raise half the dust, nor fill her own eyes and mouth with it,-but she goes into all the corners, and attends to the leaves as much as the covers.-Books are the _negative_ pictures of thought, and the more sensitive the mind that receives their images, the more nicely the finest lines are reproduced. A woman, (of the right kind,) reading after a man, follows him as Ruth followed the reapers of Boaz, and her gleanings are often the finest of the wheat.
But it was in talking of Life that we came most clearly together. I thought I knew something about that,-that I could speak or write about it somewhat to the purpose.
To take up this fluid earthly being of ours as a sponge sucks up water,-to be steeped and soaked in its realities as a hide fills its pores lying seven years in a tan-pit,-to have winnowed every wave of it as a mill-wheel works up the stream that runs through the flume upon its float-boards,-to have curled up in the keenest spasms and flattened out in the laxest languors of this breathing-sickness, which keeps certain parcels of matter uneasy for three or four score years,-to have fought all the devils and clasped all the angels of its delirium,-and then, just at the point when the white-hot pa.s.sions have cooled down to cherry-red, plunge our experience into the ice-cold stream of some human language or other, one might think would end in a rhapsody with something of spring and temper in it. All this I thought my power and province.
The schoolmistress had tried life, too. Once in a while one meets with a single soul greater than all the living pageant which pa.s.ses before it.
As the pale astronomer sits in his study with sunken eyes and thin fingers, and weighs Ura.n.u.s or Neptune as in a balance, so there are meek, slight women who have weighed all which this planetary life can offer, and hold it like a bauble in the palm of their slender hands. This was one of them. Fortune had left her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor and the loneliness of almost friendless city-life were before her. Yet, as I looked upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a cheerfulness which was often sprightly, as she became interested in the various matters we talked about and places we visited, I saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament were made for love,-unconscious of their sweet office as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of Duty with the natural graces which were meant for the reward of nothing less than the Great Pa.s.sion.
-I never addressed one word of love to the schoolmistress in the course of these pleasant walks. It seemed to me that we talked of everything but love on that particular morning. There was, perhaps, a little more timidity and hesitancy on my part than I have commonly shown among our people at the boarding-house. In fact, I considered myself the master at the breakfast-table; but, somehow, I could not command myself just then so well as usual. The truth is, I had secured a pa.s.sage to Liverpool in the steamer which was to leave at noon,-with the condition, however, of being released in case circ.u.mstances occurred to detain me. The schoolmistress knew nothing about all this, of course, as yet.
It was on the Common that we were walking. The _mall_, or boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different directions. One of these runs down from opposite Joy Street southward across the whole length of the Common to Boylston Street. We called it the long path, and were fond of it.
I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got out the question,-Will you take the long path with me?-Certainly,-said the schoolmistress,-with much pleasure.-Think,-I said,-before you answer; if you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more!-The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her.
One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by,-the one you may still see close by the Gingko-tree.-Pray, sit down,-I said.-No, no, she answered, softly,-I will walk the _long path_ with you!
-The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path, and said, very charmingly,-"Good morning, my dears!"
CHAPTER XII
[I did not think it probable that I should have a great many more talks with our company, and therefore I was anxious to get as much as I could into every conversation. That is the reason why you will find some odd, miscellaneous facts here, which I wished to tell at least once, as I should not have a chance to tell them habitually at our breakfast-table.-We"re very free and easy, you know; we don"t read what we don"t like. Our parish is so large, one can"t pretend to preach to all the pews at once. One can"t be all the time trying to do the best of one"s best if a company works a steam fire-engine, the firemen needn"t be straining themselves all day to squirt over the top of the flagstaff.
Let them wash some of those lower-story windows a little. Besides, there is no use in our quarrelling now, as you will find out when you get through this paper.]
-Travel, according to my experience, does not exactly correspond to the idea one gets of it out of most books of travels. I am thinking of travel as it was when I made the Grand Tour, especially in Italy. Memory is a net; one finds it full of fish when he takes it from the brook; but a dozen miles of water have run through it without sticking. I can prove some facts about travelling by a story or two. There are certain principles to be a.s.sumed,-such as these:-He who is carried by horses must deal with rogues.-To-day"s dinner subtends a larger visual angle than yesterday"s revolution. A mote in my eye is bigger to me than the biggest of Dr. Gould"s private planets.-Every traveller is a self-taught entomologist.-Old jokes are dynamometers of mental tension; an old joke tells better among friends travelling than at home,-which shows that their minds are in a state of diminished, rather than increased vitality.
There was a story about "strahps to your pahnts," which was vastly funny to us fellows-on the road from Milan to Venice.-_Caelum_, _non animum_,-travellers change their guineas, but not their characters. The bore is the same, eating dates under the cedars of Lebanon, as over a plate of baked beans in Beacon Street.-Parties of travellers have a morbid instinct for "establishing raws" upon each other.-A man shall sit down with his friend at the foot of the Great Pyramid and they will take up the question they had been talking about under "the great elm," and forget all about Egypt. When I was crossing the Po, we were all fighting about the propriety of one fellow"s telling another that his argument was _absurd_; one maintaining it to be a perfectly admissible logical term, as proved by the phrase "reductio ad absurdum;" the rest badgering him as a conversational bully. Mighty little we troubled ourselves for _Padus_, the Po, "a river broader and more rapid than the Rhone," and the times when Hannibal led his grim Africans to its banks, and his elephants thrust their trunks into the yellow waters over which that pendulum ferry-boat was swinging back and forward every ten minutes!
-Here are some of those reminiscences, with morals prefixed, or annexed, or implied.
Lively emotions very commonly do not strike us full in front, but obliquely from the side; a scene or incident in _undress_ often affects us more than one in full costume.
"Is this the mighty ocean?-is this all?"
says the Princess in Gebir. The rush that should have flooded my soul in the Coliseum did not come. But walking one day in the fields about the city, I stumbled over a fragment of broken masonry, and lo! the World"s Mistress in her stone girdle-_alta maenia Romae_-rose before me and whitened my cheek with her pale shadow as never before or since.
I used very often, when coming home from my morning"s work at one of the public inst.i.tutions of Paris, to stop in at the dear old church of St.
Etienne du Mont. The tomb of St. Genevieve, surrounded by burning candles and votive tablets, was there; the mural tablet of Jacobus Benignus Winslow was there; there was a n.o.ble organ with carved figures; the pulpit was borne on the oaken shoulders of a stooping Samson; and there was a marvellous staircase like a coil of lace. These things I mention from memory, but not all of them together impressed me so much as an inscription on a small slab of marble fixed in one of the walls. It told how this church of St. Stephen was repaired and beautified in the year 16**, and how, during the celebration of its reopening, two girls of the parish (_filles de la paroisse_) fell from the gallery, carrying a part of the bal.u.s.trade with them, to the pavement, but by a miracle escaped uninjured. Two young girls, nameless, but real presences to my imagination, as much as when they came fluttering down on the tiles with a cry that outscreamed the sharpest treble in the Te Deum. (Look at Carlyle"s article on Boswell, and see how he speaks of the poor young woman Johnson talked with in the streets one evening.) All the crowd gone but these two "filles de la paroisse,"-gone as utterly as the dresses they wore, as the shoes that were on their feet, as the bread and meat that were in the market on that day.
Not the great historical events, but the personal incidents that call up single sharp pictures of some human being in its pang or struggle, reach us most nearly. I remember the platform at Berne, over the parapet of which Theobald Weinzapfli"s restive horse sprung with him and landed him more than a hundred feet beneath in the lower town, not dead, but sorely broken, and no longer a wild youth, but G.o.d"s servant from that day forward. I have forgotten the famous bears, and all else.-I remember the Percy lion on the bridge over the little river at Alnwick,-the leaden lion with his tail stretched out straight like a pump-handle,-and why?
Because of the story of the village boy who must fain bestride the leaden tail, standing out over the water,-which breaking, he dropped into the stream far below, and was taken out an idiot for the rest of his life.
Arrow-heads must be brought to a sharp point, and the guillotine-axe must have a slanting edge. Something intensely human, narrow, and definate pierces to the seat of our sensibilities more readily than huge occurrences and catastrophes. A nail will pick a lock that defies hatchet and hammer. "The Royal George" went down with all her crew, and Cowper wrote an exquisitely simple poem about it; but the leaf which holds it is smooth, while that which bears the lines on his mother"s portrait is blistered with tears.
My telling these recollections sets me thinking of others of the same kind which strike the imagination, especially when one is still young.
You remember the monument in Devizes market to the woman struck dead with a lie in her mouth. I never saw that, but it is in the books. Here is one I never heard mentioned;-if any of the "Note and Query" tribe can tell the story, I hope they will. Where is this monument? I was riding on an English stage-coach when we pa.s.sed a handsome marble column (as I remember it) of considerable size and pretensions.-What is that?-I said.-That,-answered the coachman,-is _the hangman"s pillar_. Then he told me how a man went out one night, many years ago, to steal sheep. He caught one, tied its legs together, pa.s.sed the rope over his head, and started for home. In climbing a fence, the rope slipped, caught him by the neck, and strangled him. Next morning he was found hanging dead on one side of the fence and the sheep on the other; in memory whereof the lord of the manor caused this monument to be erected as a warning to all who love mutton better than virtue. I will send a copy of this record to him or her who shall first set me right about this column and its locality.
And telling over these old stories reminds me that I have something which may interest architects and perhaps some other persons. I once ascended the spire of Strasburg Cathedral, which is the highest, I think, in Europe. It is a shaft of stone filigree-work, frightfully open, so that the guide puts his arms behind you to keep you from falling. To climb it is a noonday nightmare, and to think of having climbed it crisps all the fifty-six joints of one"s twenty digits. While I was on it, "pinnacled dim in the intense inane," a strong wind was blowing, and I felt sure that the spire was rocking. It swayed back and forward like a stalk of rye or a cat-o"nine-tails (bulrush) with a bobolink on it. I mentioned it to the guide, and he said that the spire did really swing back and forward,-I think he said some feet.
Keep any line of knowledge ten years and some other line will intersect it. Long afterwards I was hunting out a paper of Dumeril"s in an old journal,-the "Magazin Encyclopedique" for _l"an troisieme_, (1795,) when I stumbled upon a brief article on the vibrations of the spire of Strasburg Cathedral. A man can shake it so that the movement shall be shown in a vessel of water nearly seventy feet below the summit, and higher up the vibration is like that of an earthquake. I have seen one of those wretched wooden spires with which we very shabbily finish some of our stone churches (thinking that the lidless blue eye of heaven cannot tell the counterfeit we try to pa.s.s on it,) swinging like a reed, in a wind, but one would hardly think of such a thing"s happening in a stone spire. Does the Bunker-Hill Monument bend in the blast like a blade of gra.s.s? I suppose so.
You see, of course, that I am talking in a cheap way;-perhaps we will have some philosophy by and by;-let me work out this thin mechanical vein.-I have something more to say about trees. I have brought down this slice of hemlock to show you. Tree blew down in my woods (that were) in 1852. Twelve feet and a half round, fair girth;-nine feet, where I got my section, higher up. This is a wedge, going to the centre, of the general shape of a slice of apple-pie in a large and not opulent family.
Length, about eighteen inches. I have studied the growth of this tree by its rings, and it is curious. Three hundred and forty-two rings.
Started, therefore, about 1510. The thickness of the rings tells the rate at which it grew. For five or six years the rate was slow,-then rapid for twenty years. A little before the year 1550 it began to grow very slowly, and so continued for about seventy years. In 1620 it took a new start and grew fast until 1714 then for the most part slowly until 1786, when it started again and grew pretty well and uniformly until within the last dozen years, when it seems to have got on sluggishly.
Look here. Here are some human lives laid down against the periods of its growth, to which they corresponded. This is Shakspeare"s. The tree was seven inches in diameter when he was born; ten inches when he died.
A little less than ten inches when Milton was born; seventeen when he died. Then comes a long interval, and this thread marks out Johnson"s life, during which the tree increased from twenty-two to twenty-nine inches in diameter. Here is the span of Napoleon"s career;-the tree doesn"t seem to have minded it.
I never saw the man yet who was not startled at looking on this section.
I have seen many wooden preachers,-never one like this. How much more striking would be the calendar counted on the rings of one of those awful trees which were standing when Christ was on earth, and where that brief mortal life is chronicled with the stolid apathy of vegetable being, which remembers all human history as a thing of yesterday in its own dateless existence!
I have something more to say about elms. A relative tells me there is one of great glory in Andover, near Bradford. I have some recollections of the former place, pleasant and other. [I wonder if the old Seminary clock strikes as slowly as it used to. My room-mate thought, when he first came, it was the bell tolling deaths, and people"s ages, as they do in the country. He swore-(ministers" sons get so familiar with good words that they are apt to handle them carelessly)-that the children were dying by the dozen, of all ages, from one to twelve, and ran off next day in recess, when it began to strike eleven, but was caught before the clock got through striking.] At the foot of "the hill," down in town, is, or was, a tidy old elm, which was said to have been hooped with iron to protect it from Indian tomahawks, (_Credat Hahnemannus_,) and to have grown round its hoops and buried them in its wood. Of course, this is not the tree my relative means.
Also, I have a very pretty letter from Norwich, in Connecticut, telling me of two n.o.ble elms which are to be seen in that town. One hundred and twenty-seven feet from bough-end to bough-end! What do you say to that?
And gentle ladies beneath it, that love it and celebrate its praises!
And that in a town of such supreme, audacious, Alpine loveliness as Norwich!-Only the dear people there must learn to call it Norridge, and not be misled by the mere accident of spelling.
Nor_wich_.