The Old Stone House - Constance Fenimore Woolson (each kindness read aloud txt) 📗

the upper hall, and then, just before dawn, had departed as strangely as it came.

“‘Who or what it was, we never knew. The only possible solution was, that it might have been some somnambulist; and, in that case, it must have been some acquaintance who bad been in the house in his waking moments. But even this solution seemed unsatisfactory, and finally Kate and I gave up trying to solve the enigma, content to let it rest as the mystery of our Unseen Visitor.

SIBYL WARRINGTON.’”

“Oh, Sibyl! you never told us anything about it before!” exclaimed Gem, who had listened with breathless interest. “Is it all really true?”

“Entirely true,” replied Sibyl; “it is an exact description of what happened during my visit to C–– last summer.”

After a little general conversation upon somnambulism, and the stories connected with it, Hugh took up another paper.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “the next manuscript, which I have taken at random from the basket, seems to be poetical. It is prefaced by the following note:—

“‘To the Editor,—Sir: I am a Boston man; I do not deny it, but glory in the title! Some winters ago I was tempted to go west on business, and found myself snowed up in that great Metropolis of the Lakes,—the Pride of the West,—the Garden City,—in a word, Chicago! It was before the great fire; the hotels were crowded; I was in the fifth story, and, need I say it, I was miserable! In addition to my bodily sufferings, my ear was tortured by the various pronunciations given to the city’s name. No sooner had I mastered one than I heard another! At last, driven to desperation, I tried to while away the time in composing the following ‘Ode,’ in which my feelings, and the three different pronunciations are expressed:—

‘ODE TO CHICAGO.

The wind is loud, and on the road The snow lays an embargo, While, in his room, a Boston man Sits snow-bound in Chi-CAR-go.

A monkey when he is so sick That he can’t make his paw go, Feels better than a Boston man When storm-bound in Chi-CAW-go.

A spinster, when she cannot make Her thin and grayish hair grow, Feels happier than a Boston man When storm-bound in Chi-CARE-go.

A Boston man would sooner lose His credit, cash, and cargo, He’d sooner be a beggar than A dweller in Chi-CAR-go.

A Boston man would sooner far To wigwam with a squaw go, Than to enjoy domestic bliss In the best house in Chi-CAW-go.

All the extreme and dreadful lengths A Boston man would dare go, Could ne’er include the direful thought Of DWELLING in Chi-CARE-go.

ELIJAH GAY.’”

There was a general laugh over this effusion of the Boston bachelor. Mr. Gay was a genial, pleasant man, and although approaching his three-score years and ten, he enjoyed the companionship of young people, and, what is more unusual, the young people sought his company; he entered into their feelings and interests, and was not so devoted to memories of the past but that; he could see the advantages and improvements of the present.

“The next article to which I shall call your attention,” said Hugh, taking another paper from the basket, “is a grave and scholarly essay upon that momentous subject, ambition. After the story and the poem, no doubt our minds will receive much enjoyment from the contemplation of this instructive theme:—

‘AMBITION

Ambition is the curse of nations.

If it was not for ambition, America would be a better country.

Ambition is wrong.

Americans are very ambitious.

It is always better to be content with what we have got.

Especially when we have got so much.

It is not right to be too ambitious.

It is said we are going to have Cuba, Mexico and Canada.

Of course we can have them if we want to.

Or anything else.

But we must always remember that ambition is wrong.

THOMAS MORRIS.’”

“Very good, my boy,” said Mr. Gay to Tom, whose scarlet face had betrayed the authorship of this profound essay long before his name was read; “adhere to that moral, and, mark my words, you will—never be President of the United States.”

Tom’s embarrassment checked the smiles of the audience, and Hugh took up another paper. “Ah!” he said with enthusiasm, “this seems to be a poem in earnest, breathing the real afflatus, written with the pen of Melpomene! With your permission, ladies and gentlemen, I will refresh myself with a glass of water before I begin:—

‘A JUNE LYRIC.

After all, not to labor only,— But to breathe in the essence of vivified sheen, The fragrance of rarefied thoughts as they surge to and fro, Heaving the unknown depths up to mountains of night. Crystalline, luminous, rare, opalescently rare,— This,—this is June!

GRAHAM MARR’”

“Ah, blank verse,” said Sibyl to her companion, with admiring interest. He bowed and stroked his moustache with a dreamy air.

“Very blank, I should say,” murmured Bessie to Mr. Gay.

“It seems to me as though I had heard the beginning of it before, somewhere,” answered the Boston bachelor in the same tone.

“The next contribution consists of a series of illustrations,” said Hugh, unfastening some loose sheets of drawing paper; “the following introduction is appended:—

‘The hand is not only an index of character, but it has a character of its own. We may disguise or droll our features, cultivate our voices and expression, but our hands betray us; I propose to illustrate this principle by a series of sketches. To begin: when you see an irregular hand with large, broad palm, strong wrist, but shapely, tapering fingers, you may know that hand betokens a duplex temperament, where opposite characteristics are constantly struggling for the mastery. The palm may denote strength and industry, but the fingers may overbalance these qualities by their love of ease or generous prodigality. For instance, when you see a hand of this nature, you may know that its owner might give you half his fortune, might even give you his life, and yet would be very likely to keep the household in discomfort for months, for want of one new shingle on the roof. In short, my friends, you might know it was—’”

Here the reader paused, and held up a large drawing of two hands, so lifelike and alive with character that the whole company cried out with one voice, “Hugh!”

“Rather embarrassing for the editor,” said Hugh, hastening on with his task as the laughter subsided. “Here, my friends is another design. When you see a hand proportioned in careful outlines, beautiful, but also firm; white, but also strong to the playing of a sonata, you may know the owner will be prompt, even-tempered and calm; you may know the owner will be such a one as—” here Hugh held up another design; “Sibyl!” said the audience, as the two hands appeared.

Mr. Leslie rose, and crossed the room to examine the drawing; he did not lay it aside, but carried it back to his seat, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Sibyl’s color rose, but she turned with marked interest towards Graham Marr, and listened to his remarks with a bright smile.

“The next design,” Hugh read, “requires no explanation. It is the strong, broad, long palm, and strong, long, shapely fingers of the well-balanced, resolute man, who will fight the battle of life with all his strength, and never give up until it is won. In short, it is—”

“Mr. Leslie!” said the audience, as the illustration was held up for inspection. Sibyl’s eyes brightened as she saw the lifelike picture, but she sat silent as the others poured forth criticisms and comments.

“Go on, Hugh!” said Mr. Leslie laughing; “this is quite an ordeal, I find.”

“The next design,” read Hugh, “shows all the faults of nature’s worst handiwork. (No pun intended.) A scraggy little paw, brown, knotted and shapeless; of course every one will know that it is—”

“Bessie!” cried the laughing audience, as two ridiculous caricatures of Bessie’s little brown hands came into view.

“Last of all, I present the fat-simile of a perfect hand. Our other designs have been youthful, but this one has borne the burden and heat of the day. Originally beautiful and shapely, it is now worn with labor for others; it has given to the poor, it has tended the sick, it has guarded the young, and soothed the afflicted. It is,—I am sure you will recognize it,—”

“Aunt Faith!”—“Mrs. Sheldon!” cried the company, as the last drawing was displayed.

“Bravo, Bessie!” said Tom; “your contribution is the best so far.”

When the buzz of conversation had subsided, Hugh took another paper from the basket.

“The next contribution is poetical,” he said; “it is entitled:—

‘A JUNE RHAPSODY.

The lovely month of June has come, The sweetest of the year,— (I’ve heard this somewhere;—never mind;) The meadows green and sear;— Sear’s not the word; there’s something wrong,— I fear my muse will drop The fire of genius’ flowing song, And so I’d better stop!

ROSE SAXON.’”

A general laugh followed this effusion, and no one joined in it more heartily than the authoress, a bright little brunette with sparkling eyes, in whose expression merriment predominated.

“Our next manuscript seems to be of a serious nature,” said Hugh; “it treats of a solemn subject, and I beg you to give it your attentive consideration:—

‘BOYS.

Boys are funny sometimes, but girls are more dignified for their age. Boys are rude, but girls are polite and lady-like. It is a pity boys are not lady-like too. Once I knew a boy, a very little boy, and he had a pair of boots. Real boots,—the first he ever had. One night when his father came home, he found Jimmy sitting on the stairs in the hall. The boots were outside the parlor door,—against the wall. “What are you doing here, Giant Grimm?” said his father. (His father called him “Giant Grimm,” sometimes; for fun, I suppose.) “I’m seein’ how my boots ‘ud look if they was stood outside the door at a hotel to be cleaned,” said Jimmy. He could not speak very plain, so I have not written it plain.

GRACE EVANS MORRIS.’”

“Very good, little girl,” said Aunt Faith, drawing her youngest child to her side, and signing to Hugh to go on in order to divert attention from her; “I didn’t know you could write so well.”

“THE OHIO CAPTAIN,”

read Hugh.

“When the war for the Union broke out, I had just completed my studies and entered the ministry. My intention had been to enter upon my new duties in a little village not far from my home, but as the excitement spread through the country, and the young men left their fields, their workshops, and their homes, to join the army, I could not overcome my desire to go with them. I could not sleep, through many exciting weeks; in imagination I saw this one, and that one, friends that I knew, cold in death, or lying wounded alone in the night. I seemed to walk through crowded hospitals and to hear the ‘ping’ of the balls; I felt that if ever there was a place where the gospel words were needed, it was after the battle, when men were left with the awful shadow of death hanging over them. My youth and inexperience would be obstacles in the well-regulated quiet village, but in the army might they not be overlooked, if accompanied by willing hands and heart? In the great haste, in the great excitement, in the great agony, might not the great tidings be delivered acceptably even by an inexperienced messenger? Thus I thought, and soon after the battle of Bull Run, I obtained an appointment as chaplain, joined the army, and remained with it until the close of the war.

“Part of this time I