Gifts of Genius | Page 4

a thousand times! and I--I loved her long and dearly. But
the ship in which she sailed went down--the strong, good ship, as I
regarded it. She died thus,--did she not?--or is it true that she was
married to a richer suitor far away from me in foreign lands?... These
are foolish tears--let me not think of her with want of charity; she was
only a woman, and we men are often very weak. ONE over all, is alone
great and good. So, beautiful
ship!--I say--that sailed across my path
in youth, sail on in peace and happiness! A lonely bark, lonely but not
unhappy, sees you, on the distant, happy seas, and the pennon floats
from the peak in amicable greeting and salute. Hail and farewell!
Heaven send the ship a happy voyage, and a welcome home!
This little soliloquy perhaps wearies you; it is ended. Let us sail for an

hour or so on the silver wave; my new pleasure-boat is rocking here
beneath in the shadow of the oak. She is built for speed. See how
gracefully she falls and rises, like a variegated leaf upon the
waves--how the slender prow curves upward--how the gaily-colored
sides are mirrored in the limpid surface of the joyous stream! Come, let
us step into the little craft, and unfurl the snowy sail.... How provoking!
I have left my boat key at the hall; another day we will sail. Let us
stroll back to the good old house again.
Are not my fields pleasant to behold? They are bringing in my wheat,
which stretches, you perceive, throughout the low-grounds there, in
neatly arranged shocks. My crops this year are excellent--my servants
enjoy this season, and its occupations. They will soon sing their
echoing "harvest home"--and over them at their joyous labor will shine
the "harvest-moon," lighting up field and forest, hill and dale--the
whole "broad domain and the hall." The affection of my servants is
grateful to me. Here comes Cato, with his team of patient oxen, and
there goes Cæsar, leading my favorite racehorse down to water. Cato,
Cæsar, and I, respectively salute each other in the kindest way. I think
they are attached to me. Faithful fellows! I shall never part with them. I
think I will give this coat to Cæsar; but, looking again, I perceive that
his own is better. Besides, I must not be extravagant. The little money I
make is required by another, and it would not be generous to buy a new
coat for myself. This one which I wear will do well enough, will it not?
I ask you with some diffidence, for 'tis sadly out at elbows, and the idea
has occurred to me that the coolness and neglect of certain visitors to
the hall, has been caused by my coat being shabby. Even Annie----, but
I'll not speak of that this morning. 'Twas the hasty word which we all
utter at times--'tis forgotten. Still, I think, I will give you the incident
some day, when we ramble, as now, in the fields.
From the fields we approach the honest old mansion, across the
emerald-carpeted lawn. The birds are singing, around the
sleepy-looking gables, and the toothless old hound comes wagging his
tail, in sign of welcome.
'Tis plain that Milo has an honest heart. I think he's smiling.

II
My ancestors were gentlemen of considerable taste. I am glad they built
me that wing for my books; my numerous children cannot disturb me
when I am composing, either my speech to be delivered in the Senate,
or my work which is destined to refute Sir William Hamilton.
Let us stroll in. A strain of tender music comes from the sitting-room,
and I recognize the exquisite air of "Katharine Ogie" which Annie is
singing. Let us look, nevertheless, at the pictures as we pass.
What a stately head my old grandfather had! He was president of the
King's Council, a hundred years ago--a man of decided mark. He wears
a long peruke descending in curls upon his shoulders--a gold-laced
waistcoat--and snowy ruffles. His white hand is nearly covered with
lace, and rests on a scroll of parchment. It looks like a Vandyke. He
must have been a resolute old gentleman. How serene and calm is his
look!--how firm are the finely chiselled lips! How proud and full of
collected intelligence the erect head, and the broad white brow! He was
a famous "macaroni," as they called it, in his youth--and cultivated an
enormous crop of wild oats. But this all disappeared, and he became
one of the sturdiest patriots of the Revolution, and fought clear through
the contest. Is it wrong to feel satisfaction at being descended from a
worthy race of men--from a family of brave, truthful gentlemen? I think
not. I trust I'm