Gifts of Genius | Page 4

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 C?sar, leading my favorite racehorse down to water. Cato, C?sar, 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 C?sar; 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 no absurd aristocrat--but I would rather be the grandson of a faithful common soldier than of General Benedict Arnold, the traitor. I would rather trace my lineage to the Chevalier Bayàrd, simple knight though he was, than to France's great Constable de Bourbon, the renegade.
So I am glad my stout grandfather was a brave and truthful gentleman--that grandma yonder, smiling opposite, was worthy to be his wife. I do not remember her, but she must have been a beauty. Her head is bent over one shoulder, and she has