Dream Life | Page 3

very awkward," said he to me one day; "I have had large occasion for practice to be sure; but I rather fancy, after all, our own language; it's heartier and easier."
He was utterly incapable of being lionized. Time and again, under the trees in the court of the hotel, did I hear him enter upon some pleasant story, lighted up with that rare turn of his eye, and by his deft expressions, when, as chance acquaintances grouped about him,--as is the way of watering-places,--and eager listeners multiplied, his hilarity and spirit took a chill from the increasing auditory, and drawing abruptly to a close, he would sidle away with a friend and be gone.
Among the visitors was a tall, interesting young girl--from Louisiana, if I mistake not--who had the reputation of being a great heiress, and who was, of course, beset by a host of admirers. There was something very attractive in her air, and Mr. Irving was never tired of gazing on her as she walked, with what he called a "faun-like step," across the lawn, or up and down the corridors. Her eyes too--"dove-like," he termed them--were his special admiration. He watched with an amused interest the varying fortunes of the rival lovers, and often met me with--"Well, who is in favor to-day?" And he discussed very freely the varying chances.
One brusque, heavy man, who thought to carry the matter through by a coup de main, he was sure could never succeed. A second, who was most assiduous, but whose brazen confidence was unyielding, he counted still less upon. But a quiet, somewhat older gentleman, whose look was ever full of tender appeal, and who bore himself with a modest dignity, he reckoned the probable winner. "He will feel a Nay grievously," said he; "but for the others, they will forget it in a supper."
I believe it eventually proved that no one of those present was the successful suitor. I know only that the fair girl was afterward a bride; and (what we all so little anticipated) her home is now a scene of desolation, her fortune very likely a wreck, her family scattered or slain, and herself, maybe, a fugitive.
I saw Mr. Irving afterward repeatedly in New York, and passed two delightful days at Sunnyside. I can never forget a drive with him upon a crisp autumn morning through Sleepy Hollow, and all the notable localities of his neighborhood, in the course of which he kindly called my attention, in the most unaffected and incidental way, to those which had been specially illustrated by his pen; and with a rare humor recounted to me some of his boyish adventures among the old Dutch farmers of this region. Most of all, it is impossible for me to forget the rare kindliness of his manner, his friendly suggestions, and the beaming expression of his eye.
I met it last at the little stile from which I strolled away to the station at Dearman; and when I saw the kind face again, it was in the coffin, at the little church where he attended service. But the eyes were closed, and the wonderful radiance of expression gone. It seemed to me that death never took away more from a living face; it was but a cold shadow lying there, of the man who had taught a nation to love him.
Edgewood, Sept. 1863.

CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTORY.
page
I. With my Aunt Tabithy 1
II. With my Reader 9
DREAMS OF BOYHOOD.
Spring 21
I. Rain in the Garret 26
II. School-Dreams 33
III. Boy Sentiment 43
IV. A Friend made and Friend lost 49
V. Boy Religion 60
VI. A New-England Squire 67
VII. The Country Church 78
VIII. A Home Scene 86
DREAMS OF YOUTH.
Summer 97
I. Cloister Life 104
II. First Ambition 115
III. College Romance 120
IV. First Look at the World 132
V. A Broken Home 142
VI. Family Confidence 151
VII. A Good Wife 159
VIII. A Broken Hope 167
DREAMS OF MANHOOD.
Autumn 179
I. Pride of Manliness 184
II. Man of the World 191
III. Manly Hope 198
IV. Manly Love 207
V. Cheer and Children 213
VI. A Dream of Darkness 221
VII. Peace 229
DREAMS OF AGE.
Winter 239
I. What is Gone 243
II. What is Left 249
III. Grief and Joy of Age 255
IV. The End of Dreams 261

INTRODUCTORY.
I.
With my Aunt Tabithy.
"Pshaw!" said my Aunt Tabithy, "have you not done with dreaming?"
My Aunt Tabithy, though an excellent and most notable person, loves occasionally a quiet bit of satire. And when I told her that I was sharpening my pen for a new story of those dreamy fancies and half-experiences which lie grouped along the journeying hours of my solitary life, she smiled as if in derision.
----"Ah, Isaac," said she, "all that is exhausted; you have rung so many changes on your hopes and your dreams, that you have nothing left but to make them real--if you can."
It is very idle to get angry with a good-natured old lady. I did