Prue and I | Page 7

the good and fair. As I stroll in the fading light and observe
the stately houses, my fancy believes the host equal to his house, and
the courtesy of his wife more agreeable than her conservatory. It will
not believe that the pictures on the wall and the statues in the corners
shame the guests. It will not allow that they are less than noble. It hears

them speak gently of error, and warmly of worth. It knows that they
commend heroism and devotion, and reprobate insincerity. My fancy is
convinced that the guests are not only feasted upon the choicest fruits
of every land and season, but are refreshed by a consciousness of
greater loveliness and grace in human character. Now you, who
actually go to the dinner, may not entirely agree with the view my
fancy takes of that entertainment. Is it not, therefore, rather your loss?
Or, to put it in another way, ought I to envy you the discovery that the
guests are shamed by the statues and pictures;--yes, and by the spoons
and forks also, if they should chance neither to be so genuine nor so
useful as those instruments? And, worse than this, when your fancy
wishes to enjoy the picture which mine forms of that feast, it cannot do
so, because you have foolishly interpolated the fact between the dinner
and your fancy.
Of course, by this time it is late twilight, and the spectacle I enjoyed is
almost over. But not quite, for as I return slowly along the streets, the
windows are open, and only a thin haze of lace or muslin separates me
from the Paradise within.
I see the graceful cluster of girls hovering over the piano, and the quiet
groups of the elders in easy chairs, around little tables. I cannot hear
what is said, nor plainly see the faces. But some hoyden evening wind,
more daring than I, abruptly parts the cloud to look in, and out comes a
gush of light, music, and fragrance, so that I shrink away into the dark,
that I may not seem, even by chance, to have invaded that privacy.
Suddenly there is singing. It is Aurelia, who does not cope with the
Italian Prima Donna, nor sing indifferently to-night, what was sung,
superbly last evening at the opera. She has a strange, low, sweet voice,
as if she only sang in the twilight. It is the ballad of "Allan Percy" that
she sings. There is no dainty applause of kid gloves, when it is ended,
but silence follows the singing, like a tear.
Then you, my young friend, ascend into the drawing-room, and, after a
little graceful gossip, retire; or you wait, possibly, to hand Aurelia into
her carriage, and to arrange a waltz for to-morrow evening. She smiles,
you bow, and it is over. But it is not yet over with me. My fancy still
follows her, and, like a prophetic dream, rehearses her destiny. For, as
the carriage rolls away into the darkness and I return homewards, how
can my fancy help rolling away also, into the dim future, watching her

go down the years?
Upon my way home I see her in a thousand new situations. My fancy
says to me, "The beauty of this beautiful woman is heaven's stamp
upon virtue. She will be equal to every chance that shall befall her, and
she is so radiant and charming in the circle of prosperity, only because
she has that irresistible simplicity and fidelity of character, which can
also pluck the sting from adversity. Do you not see, you wan old
book-keeper in faded cravat, that in a poor man's house this superb
Aurelia would be more stately than sculpture, more beautiful than
painting, and more graceful than the famous vases. Would her husband
regret the opera if she sang 'Allan Percy' to him in the twilight? Would
he not feel richer than the Poets, when his eyes rose from their jewelled
pages, to fall again dazzled by the splendor of his wife's beauty?"
At this point in my reflections I sometimes run, rather violently, against
a lamp-post, and then proceed along the street more sedately.
It is yet early when I reach home, where my Prue awaits me. The
children are asleep, and the trowsers mended. The admirable woman is
patient of my idiosyncrasies, and asks me if I have had a pleasant walk,
and if there were many fine dinners to-day, as if I had been expected at
a dozen tables. She even asks me if I have seen the beautiful Aurelia
(for there is always some Aurelia,) and inquires what dress she wore. I
respond, and dilate upon what I have seen. Prue listens, as the children
listen to her fairy tales. We discuss the little