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Read Ebook: Reveries of a Bachelor; or A Book of the Heart by Mitchell Donald Grant Ashe E M Illustrator
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Ebook has 891 lines and 66996 words, and 18 pages
FIRST REVERIE
SECOND REVERIE
THIRD REVERIE
FOURTH REVERIE
Morning, Noon and Evening 155 I Morning--Which Is the Past 165 School Days 177 The Sea 191 The Father-Lan 201 A Roman Girl 213 The Appenines 225 Enrica 235
II Noon--Which Is the Present 245 Early Friends 249 School Revisited 259 College 267 The Packet of Bella 275
PREFACE
This book is neither more nor less than it pretends to be; it is a collection of those floating reveries which have, from time to time, drifted across my brain. I never yet met with a bachelor who had not his share of just such floating visions; and the only difference between us lies in the fact that I have tossed them from me in the shape of a book.
If they had been worked over with more unity of design I dare say I might have made a respectable novel; as it is, I have chosen the honester way of setting them down as they came seething from my thought, with all their crudities and contrasts, uncovered.
As for the truth that is in them, the world may believe what it likes; for, having written to humor the world, it would be hard if I should curtail any of its privileges of judgment. I should think there was as much truth in them as in most Reveries.
The first story of the book has already had some publicity; and the criticisms upon it have amused and pleased me. One honest journalist avows that it could never have been written by a bachelor. I thank him for thinking so well of me, and heartily wish that his thought were as true as it is kind.
Yet I am inclined to think that bachelors are the only safe and secure observers of all the phases of married life. The rest of the world have their hobbies; and by law, as well as by immemorial custom, are reckoned unfair witnesses in everything relating to their matrimonial affairs.
Perhaps I ought, however, to make an exception in favor of spinsters, who, like us, are independent spectators, and possess just that kind of indifference to the marital state, which makes them intrepid in their observations, and very desirable for--authorities.
As for the style of the book I have nothing to say for it except to refer to my title. These are not sermons, nor essays, nor criticisms; they are only Reveries. And if the reader should stumble upon occasional magniloquence, or be worried with a little too much of sentiment, pray let him remember--that I am dreaming.
But while I say this, in the hope of nicking off the wiry edge of my reader's judgment, I shall yet stand up boldly for the general tone and character of the book. If there is bad feeling in it, or insincerity, or shallow sentiment, or any foolish depth of affection betrayed--I am responsible; and the critics may expose it to their hearts' content.
In the hope that this plain avowal may quicken the reader's charity, and screen me from cruel judgment,
I remain, with sincere good wishes,
IK MARVEL.
NEW YORK, November, 1850.
OVER A WOOD FIRE
I HAVE got a quiet farmhouse in the country, a very humble place to be sure, tenanted by a worthy enough man, of the old New England stamp, where I sometimes go for a day or two in the winter, to look over the farm accounts, and to see how the stock is thriving on the winter's keep.
One side the door, as you enter from the porch, is a little parlor, scarce twelve feet by ten, with a cozy-looking fireplace--a heavy oak floor--a couple of armchairs and a brown table with carved lions' feet. Out of this room opens a little cabinet, only big enough for a broad bachelor bedstead, where I sleep upon feathers, and wake in the morning, with my eye upon a saucy colored, lithographic print of some fancy "Bessy."
As for the fire, I keep the little hearth so hot as to warm half the cellar below, and the whole space between the jambs roars for hours together with white flame. To be sure the windows are not very tight, between broken panes and bad joints, so that the fire, large as it is, is by no means an extravagant comfort.
As night approaches, I have a huge pile of oak and hickory placed beside the hearth; I put out the tallow candle on the mantel then, drawing my chair directly in front of the blazing wood, and setting one foot on each of the old iron fire-dogs , I dispose myself for an evening of such sober and thoughtful quietude, as I believe, on my soul, that very few of my fellow men have the good fortune to enjoy.
But to return: the other evening--it happened to be on my last visit to my farmhouse--when I had exhausted all the ordinary rural topics of thought, had formed all sorts of conjectures as to the income of the year; had planned a new wall around one lot, and the clearing up of another, now covered with patriarchal wood, and wondered if the little rickety house would not be, after all, a snug enough box to live and to die in--I fell on a sudden into such an unprecedented line of thought, which took such a deep hold of my sympathies--sometimes even starting tears--that I determined, the next day, to set as much of it as I could recall on paper.
Something--it may have been the home-looking blaze , or possibly a plaintive cry of the baby in my tenant's room had suggested to me the thought of--Marriage.
The wood was green, and at first showed no disposition to blaze. It smoked furiously. Smoke, thought I, always goes before blaze; and so does doubt go before decision: and my reverie, from that very starting point, slipped into this shape:
SMOKE--SIGNIFYING DOUBT
A WIFE? thought I; yes, a wife! And why?
And pray, my dear sir, why not--why? Why not doubt; why not hesitate; why not tremble?
Does a man buy a ticket in a lottery--a poor man, whose whole earnings go in to secure the ticket--without trembling, hesitating, and doubting?
Can a man stake his bachelor respectability, his independence, and comfort, upon the die of absorbing, unchanging, relentless marriage, without trembling at the venture?
Shall a man who has been free to chase his fancies over the wide world, without let or hindrance, shut himself up to marriageship, within four walls called home, that are to claim him, his time, his trouble, and his tears, thenceforward forever more, without doubts thick and thick-coming as smoke?
Shall he who has been hitherto a mere observer of other men's cares and business, moving off where they made him sick of heart, approaching whenever and wherever they made him gleeful--shall he now undertake administration of just such cares and business without qualms? Shall he, whose whole life has been but a nimble succession of escapes from trifling difficulties, now broach, without doubtings, that matrimony, where if difficulty beset him there is no escape? Shall this brain of mine, careless-working, never tired with idleness, feeding on long vagaries, and high, gigantic castles, dreaming out beatitudes hour by hour--turn itself at length to such dull task-work, as thinking out a livelihood for wife and children?
Where thenceforward will be those sunny dreams, in which I have warmed my fancies, and my heart, and lighted my eye with crystal? This very marriage, which a brilliant working imagination has invested time and again with brightness and delight, can serve no longer as a mine for teeming fancy: all, alas, will be gone--reduced to the dull standard of the actual! No more room for intrepid forays of imagination--no more gorgeous realm-making--all will be over!
Why not, I thought, go on dreaming?
But if, after all, it must be--duty, or what-not, making provocation--what then? And I clapped my feet hard against the fire-dogs, and leaned back, and turned my face to the ceiling, as much as to say: And where on earth, then, shall a poor devil look for a wife?
Somebody says, Lyttleton or Shaftesbury, I think, that, "marriages would be happier if they were all arranged by the lord chancellor." Unfortunately, we have no lord chancellor to make this commutation of our misery.
I have trouted when the brook was so low and the sky so hot that I might as well have thrown my fly upon the turnpike; and I have hunted hare at noon, and woodcock in snow-time--never despairing, scarce doubting; but for a poor hunter of his kind, without traps or snares, or any aid of police or constabulary, to traverse the world, where are swarming, on a moderate computation, some three hundred and odd millions of unmarried women, for a single capture--irremediable, unchangeable--and yet a captive which, by strange metonymy not laid down in the books, is very apt to turn captor into captive, and make game of hunter--all this, surely, surely may make a man shrug with doubt!
Then--again--there are the plaguy wife's relations. Who knows how many third, fourth, or fifth cousins will appear at careless, complimentary intervals long after you had settled into the placid belief that all congratulatory visits were at an end? How many twisted-headed brothers will be putting in their advice, as a friend to Peggy?
How many maiden aunts will come to spend a month or two with their "dear Peggy," and want to know every tea-time "if she isn't a dear love of a wife?" Then dear father-in-law will beg to give a little wholesome counsel; and will be very sure to advise just the contrary of what you had determined to undertake. And dear mamma-in-law must set her nose into Peggy's cupboard, and insist upon having the key to your own private locker in the wainscot.
Then, perhaps, there is a little bevy of dirty-nosed nephews, who come to spend the holidays, and eat up your East India sweetmeats, and who are forever tramping over your head or raising the old Harry below, while you are busy with your clients. Last, and worst, is some fidgety old uncle, forever too cold or too hot, who vexes you with his patronizing airs, and impudently kisses his little Peggy!
She will be provokingly silent when you hint to a tradesman that you have not the money by you for his small bill--in short, she will tear the life out of you, making you pay in righteous retribution of annoyance, grief, vexation, shame and sickness of heart, for the superlative folly of "marrying rich."
"Bless your kind hearts! my dear fellows," said I, thrusting the tongs into the coals, and speaking out loud, as if my voice could reach from Virginia to Paris--"not married yet!"
Perhaps Peggy is pretty enough--only shrewish.
--No matter for cold coffee; you should have been up before.
What sad, thin, poorly-cooked chops, to eat with your rolls!
--She thinks they are very good, and wonders how you can set such an example to your children.
The butter is nauseating.
--She has no other, and hopes you'll not raise a storm about butter a little turned. I think I see myself--ruminated I--sitting meekly at table, scarce daring to lift up my eyes, utterly fagged out with some quarrel of yesterday, choking down detestably sour muffins that my wife thinks are "delicious"--slipping in dried mouthfuls of burned ham off the side of my fork tines--slipping off my chair sideways at the end, and slipping out with my hat between my knees, to business, and never feeling myself a competent, sound-minded man till the oak door is between me and Peggy!
--"Ha, ha--not yet!" said I; and in so earnest a tone that my dog started to his feet--cocked his eye to have a good look into my face--met my smile of triumph with an amiable wag of the tail, and curled up again in the corner.
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