The Crayon Papers Read Free Page B

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 general observations, but paused and fixed on me an inquiring eye.
    “What is the matter with you?” said he, “you seem agitated; has anything in particular happened?”
    “Nothing,” said I, hesitating; “at least nothing worth communicating to you.”
    “Nay, my dear young friend,” said he, “whatever is of sufficient importance to agitate you is worthy of being communicated to me.”
    “Well; but my thoughts are running on what you would think a frivolous subject.”
    “No subject is frivolous that has the power to awaken strong feelings.”
    “What think you,” said I, hesitating, “what think you of love?”
    Glencoe almost started at the question. “Do you call that a frivolous subject?” replied he. “Believe me, there is none fraught with such deep, such vital interest. If you talk, indeed, of the capricious inclination awakened by the mere charm of perishable beauty, I grant it to be idle in the extreme; but that love which springs from the concordant sympathies of virtuous hearts; that love which is awakened by the perception of moral excellence, and fed by meditation on intellectual as well as personal beauty; that is a passion which refines and ennobles the human heart. Oh, where is there a sight more nearly approaching to the intercourse of angels, than that of two young beings, free from the sins and follies of the world, mingling pure thoughts, and looks, and feelings, and becoming, as it were, soul of one soul and heart of one heart! How exquisite the silent converse that they hold; the soft devotion of the eye, that needs no words to make it eloquent! Yes, my friend, if there be anything in this weary world worthy of heaven, it is the pure bliss of such a mutual affection!”
    The words of my worthy tutor overcame all further reserve. “Mr. Glencoe,” cried I, blushing still deeper, “I am in love.”
    “And is that what you were ashamed to tell me?