The Crayon Papers | Page 6

in wild brooks, and
wild flowers, and silent solitudes, must have fancy, and feeling, and
tenderness; and with all these qualities, she must be beautiful!
But who could be this Unknown, that had thus passed by, as in a
morning dream, leaving merely flowers and fairy footsteps to tell of her
loveliness? There was a mystery in it that bewildered me. It was so
vague and disembodied, like those "airy tongues that syllable men's
names" in solitude. Every attempt to solve the mystery was vain. I

could hear of no being in the neighborhood to whom this trace could be
ascribed. I haunted the spot, and became daily more and more
enamored. Never, surely, was passion more pure and spiritual, and
never lover in more dubious situation. My case could be compared only
to that of the amorous prince in the fairy tale of Cinderella; but he had a
glass slipper on which to lavish his tenderness. I, alas! was in love with
a footstep!
The imagination is alternately a cheat and a dupe; nay, more, it is the
most subtle of cheats, for it cheats itself and becomes the dupe of its
own delusions. It conjures up "airy nothings," gives to them a "local
habitation and a name," and then bows to their control as implicitly as
though they were realities. Such was now my case. The good Numa
could not more thoroughly have persuaded himself that the nymph
Egeria hovered about her sacred fountain and communed with him in
spirit than I had deceived myself into a kind of visionary intercourse
with the airy phantom fabricated in my brain. I constructed a rustic seat
at the foot of the tree where I had discovered the footsteps. I made a
kind of bower there, where I used to pass my mornings reading poetry
and romances. I carved hearts and darts on the tree, and hung it with
garlands. My heart was full to overflowing, and wanted some faithful
bosom into which it might relieve itself. What is a lover without a
confidante? I thought at once of my sister Sophy, my early playmate,
the sister of my affections. She was so reasonable, too, and of such
correct feelings, always listening to my words as oracular sayings, and
admiring my scraps of poetry as the very inspirations of the muse.
From such a devoted, such a rational being, what secrets could I have?
I accordingly took her one morning to my favorite retreat. She looked
around, with delighted surprise, upon the rustic seat, the bower, the tree
carved with emblems of the tender passion. She turned her eyes upon
me to inquire the meaning.
"Oh, Sophy," exclaimed I, clasping both her hands in mine, and looking
earnestly in her face, "I am in love."
She started with surprise.

"Sit down," said I, "and I will tell you all."
She seated herself upon the rustic bench, and I went into a full history
of the footstep, with all the associations of idea that had been conjured
up by my imagination.
Sophy was enchanted; it was like a fairy tale; she had read of such
mysterious visitations in books, and the loves thus conceived were
always for beings of superior order, and were always happy. She caught
the illusion in all its force; her cheek glowed; her eye brightened.
"I daresay she's pretty," said Sophy.
"Pretty!" echoed I, "she is beautiful." I went through all the reasoning
by which I had logically proved the fact to my own satisfaction. I dwelt
upon the evidences of her taste, her sensibility to the beauties of nature;
her soft meditative habit that delighted in solitude. "Oh," said I,
clasping my hands, "to have such a companion to wander through these
scenes; to sit with her by this murmuring stream; to wreathe garlands
round her brows; to hear the music of her voice mingling with the
whisperings of these groves; to--"
"Delightful! delightful!" cried Sophy; "what a sweet creature she must
be! She is just the friend I want. How I shall dote upon her! Oh, my
dear brother! you must not keep her all to yourself. You must let me
have some share of her!"
I caught her to my bosom: "You shall--you shall!" cried I, "my dear
Sophy; we will all live for each other!"
* * * * *
The conversation with Sophy heightened the illusions of my mind; and
the manner in which she had treated my daydream identified it with
facts and persons and gave it still more the stamp of reality. I walked
about as one in a trance, heedless of the world around and lapped in an
elysium of the fancy.

In this mood I met one morning with Glencoe. He accosted me with his
usual smile, and was proceeding with some