Bressant | Page 2

the bottom of the valley, or where the gray, irregular face
of a precipice denied all foothold to the boldest roots. There was
nothing smooth, swelling, or graceful, in the aspect of the range. They
seemed, hills though they were, to be inspired with the souls of
mountains, which were ever seeking to burst the narrow bounds that
confined them. And, for his part, the professor liked them much better
than if they had been mountains indeed. They gave an impression of
greater energy and vitality, and were all the more comprehensible and
lovable, because not too sublime and vast.
In another way, his garden afforded as much pleasure to the professor
as his hills. From having planned and, in a great measure, made it
himself, he took in it a peculiar pride and interest. He knew just the
position of every plant and shrub, tree and flower, and in what sort of
condition they were as regarded luxuriance and vigor. Sitting quietly in
his chair, his fancy could wander in and out along the winding paths,
mindful of each new opening vista or backward scene--of where the
shadow fell, and where the sunshine slept hottest; could inhale the
fragrance of the tea-rose bush, and pause beneath the branches of the
elm-tree; the material man remaining all the while motionless, with
closed eyelids, or, now and then, half opening them to verify, by a
glance, some questionable recollection. This utilization, by the mental
faculties alone, of knowledge acquired by physical experience, always
produces an agreeable sub-consciousness of power--the ability to be, at
the same time, active and indolent.
In about the centre of the garden, flopped and tinkled a weak-minded
little fountain. The shrubbery partly hid it from view of the balcony, but
the small, irregular sound of its continuous fall was audible in the quiet
of the summer afternoons. Weak-minded though it was, Professor
Valeyon loved to listen to it. It suited him better than the full-toned
rush and splash of a heavier water-power; there was about it a human
uncertainty and imperfection which brought it nearer to his heart.

Moreover, weak and unambitious though it was, the fountain must have
been possessed of considerable tenacity of purpose, to say the least,
otherwise, doing so little, it would not have been persistent enough to
keep on doing it at all. It was really wonderful, on each recurring year,
to behold this poor little water-spout effecting neither more nor less
than the year before, and with no signs of any further aspirations for the
future.
A flight of five or six granite steps led up from the garden to the
balcony, and, although they were quite as old as the rest of the house,
they looked nearly as fresh and crude as when they were first put down.
The balcony itself was strongly built of wood, and faced by a broad and
stout railing, darkened by sun and rain, and worn smooth by much
leaning and sitting. Overhead spread an ample roof, which kept away
the blaze of the noonday sun, but did not deny the later and ruddier
beams an entrance. On either side the door-way, the windows of the
dining-room and of the professor's study opened down nearly to the
floor. Every thing in the house seemed to have some reference to the
balcony, and, in summer, it was certainly the most important part of all.
From the balcony to the front door extended, as has already been said, a
straight passage-way, into which the stairs descended, and on which
opened the doors of three rooms. It was covered with a deeply-worn
strip of oil-cloth, the pattern being quite undistinguishable in the
middle, and at the entrances of the doors and foot of the stairs, but
appearing with tolerable clearness for a distance of several inches out
along the walls. A high wainscoting ran along the sides; at the front
door stood an old-fashioned hat-tree, with no hats upon it; for the
professor had a way of wearing his hat into the house, and only taking
it off when he was seated at his study-table.
The gabled porch was wide and roomy, but had seen its best days, and
was rather out of repair. The board flooring creaked as you stepped
upon it, and the seams of the roof admitted small rills of water when it
rained hard, which, falling on the old brown mat, hastened its decay not
a little. A large, arched window opened on either side, so that one
standing in the porch could be seen from the upper and lower front

windows of the house. The outer woodwork and roof of the porch were
covered by a woodbine, trimmed, however, so as to leave the openings
clear. A few rickety steps, at the sides and between