Part 12 (2/2)
Lead us on our sins to muse, Give us truest penitence, Then the love of G.o.d infuse, Kindling humblest confidence.
Melt our spirits, mould our will, Soften, strengthen, comfort, still.
Blessed Trinity! be near Through the hours of darkness drear.
When the help of man is far Ye more clearly present are.
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!
Watch o'er our defenceless heads, Let your angels' guardian host Keep all evil from our beds, Till the flood of morning rays Wake as to a song of praise.[1]
CHAPTER VIII.
Mr. Arlington is a gem of the first water. He reveals every day some new trait of interest or agreeableness. I saw immediately that he was a man of fine taste; I have since learned to respect him as a man of enlarged intellect and earnest feeling; and now I am just beginning to discover that he is master of all those _agremens_ which const.i.tute the charm of general society, and that he might become the ”gla.s.s of fas.h.i.+on,” if he had not a mind elevated too far above such a petty ambition. This last observation has been called forth by mere trifles, yet trifles so prettily shown, with such ease and grace, as to justify the conclusion.
He is apt at ill.u.s.tration and application, and has a fine memory, stored brimfull of entertaining anecdotes, s.n.a.t.c.hes of poetry, and those thousand nothings which tell for so much in society, and which it is so pleasant to find combined with much else that is valuable. A few evenings since, he kept Annie and me in the library, with his agreeable chat, till so late an hour, that Col. Donaldson, who is the least bit of a martinet in his own family, gave some very intelligible hints to us the next morning, at breakfast, on the value of early hours. With a readiness and grace which I never saw surpa.s.sed, Mr. Arlington turned to us with the exquisite apology of the poet for a like fault,
”I stay'd too late; forgive the crime; Unheeded flew the hours.
Unnoted falls the foot of time, Which only treads on flowers.”
This evening again, as he placed a candle-screen before Annie, who, having a headache, found the light oppressive, he said with a graceful mixture of play and earnest, impossible to describe,
”Ah, lady! if that taper's blaze Requires a screen to blunt its rays, What screen, not form'd by art divine, Shall s.h.i.+eld us from those orbs of thine?
”But oh! let nothing intervene Our hearts and those bright suns between; 'Tis bliss, like the bewilder'd fly To flutter round, though sure to die.”
As the others were engaged in very earnest conversation at the time, and I was reading, he probably expected to be heard only by her to whom he addressed himself; but a little romance, such as that of Annie and Mr.
Arlington, acted before me, interests me far more than any book, and I brought a bright blush to Annie's cheek and a conscious smile to his lip, by asking, ”Where did you find those very apposite lines? I do not remember to have seen them.”
”Probably not, as they have never been published. They were addressed by Anthony Bleecker, of New-York, to a belle of his day, and the lady for whose sake, it is whispered, he lived and died a bachelor.”
Our colloquy was here interrupted by Robert Dudley, who wanted to know if we were to have no story this evening. Robert was a great lover of stories. ”Ask Mr. Arlington, Robert,” said I, ”I have given three stories to his one already.”
”Aunt Nancy,” said Mr. Arlington, who had already begun to give me the affectionate cognomen by which I was always addressed at Donaldson Manor, ”Aunt Nancy has stories without number, written and ready for demand, but my portfolio furnishes only rude pencilings, or at best a crayon sketch.”
”Will you show them to us, Mr. Arlington?” asked the persevering Robert, who stood beside him, portfolio in hand. ”May I draw one out, as Aunt Annie did the other evening; and will you tell us about it?”
Mr. Arlington, with good-humored playfulness, consented, and Robert drew from the portfolio one of his drawings, representing a fisherman's family.
”That man,” said I, as I looked at the honest face of the rude, weather-beaten fisherman, ”looks as though he had pa.s.sed through adventurous scenes, and might have many a history to tell.”
”He did not tell his histories to me,” said Mr. Arlington. ”I know nothing more of them than that paper reveals. It seemed to me that the woman and child were visiting, for the first time, the ocean, whose booming sound was to the fisherman as the voice of home. He was probably introducing them to its wonders--revealing to them the mysteries which awaken the superst.i.tion of the vulgar and the poetry of the cultivated imagination. He has given her, you may observe, a sea-sh.e.l.l, and she is listening for the first time to its low, strange music.”
”And is that all?” asked Robert, when Mr. Arlington ceased speaking.
”All I know, Robert,” he answered, with a smile at the boy's earnestness.
”But did you never go fis.h.i.+ng yourself, Mr. Arlington?”
”Not often, Robert; I like more active sports better--hunting--”
”Ah! do tell us about your hunting, Mr. Arlington; you must have had some adventures in hunting in those great Western forests I have heard you speak of.”
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