The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 05, March, 1858. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

        I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt, you would think so.

        I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so.

        I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant you

        It is a pleasure, indeed, to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift,

        Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, can

        Speak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking,

        Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment,

        Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents to

        Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vain

        Conscious understandings that vex the minds of man-kind.

        No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; 'tis

        Song, though you hear in her song the articulate vocables sounded,

        Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning.

        Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unbiased, unprompted!

        Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present!

        Say not, Time flies, and occasion, that never returns, is departing!

        Drive me not out, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden,

        Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own inspiration!

        Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ,

        Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort,

        Break into audible words? Let love be its own inspiration!

        Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but it is so.

        She doesn't like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me.

        Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways?

        Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly?

        'Tis not her fault, 'tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them:

        'Tis not her fault, 'tis her beautiful nature, not even to know me.

        Hopeless it seems,—yet I cannot, hopeless, determine to leave it:

        She goes,—therefore I go; she moves,—I move, not to lose her.

        Oh, 'tisn't manly, of course, 'tisn't manly, this method of wooing;

        'Tisn't the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell you,

        Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero;

        She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and for knowledge,—

        Knowledge, O ye gods!—when did they appreciate knowledge?

        Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire it.

        Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me!

        (Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?)

        But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant;

        Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her;

        Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence,

        Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me.

        Not that I care very much!—any way, I escape from the boy's own

        Folly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy.

        Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it.

        All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is,

        Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance.

        You couldn't come, I suppose, as far as Florence, to see her?

        * * * To-morrow we're starting for Florence,

        Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican terrors;

        Sir. C. and Papa to escort us; we by vettura

        Through Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leghorn.

        Then–Ah, what shall I say, my dearest? I tremble in thinking!

        You will imagine my feelings,—the blending of hope and of sorrow!

        How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my sisters?

        Dearest Louisa, indeed it is very alarming; but trust me

        Ever, whatever may change, to remain your loving Georgina.

        * * * "Do I like Mr. Claude any better?"

        I am to tell you,—and, "Pray, is it Susan or I that attract him?"

        This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask him.

        All I can say for myself is, alas! that he rather repels me.

        There! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive.

        So be content, dear Louisa; for one satisfactory marriage

        Surely will do in one year for the family you would establish,

        Neither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a second.

        Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better;

        He and Papa are great friends; but he really is too shilly-shally,—

        So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matter is going on fairly.

        I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something.

        Dearest Louisa, how delightful, to bring young people together!

        Is it to Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer,

          E'en amid clamor of arms, here in the city of