Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; O hark, O hear, how thin and clear, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! O love, they die in yon rich sky, Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, THE REVERIES OF A BACHELOR. BY DONALD G. MITCHELL. [DONALD GRANT MITCHELL: An American essayist and novelist; born in Norwich, Conn., April 12, 1822. He graduated at Yale (1841); studied law; was United States consul at Venice (1853-1855); and has since lived on his farm, Edgewood, near New Haven, Conn. Under the pseudonym of "Ik Marvel" he has published "Reveries of a Bachelor" (1850), his best-known work; "Dream Life" (1851); "My Farm at Edgewood"; "Wet Days at Edgewood"; "English Lands, Letters, and Kings" (1889-1895); "American Lands and Letters" (1897).] FIRST REVERIE. -SMOKE, FLAME, AND ASHES. 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 of 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." It happens to be the only house in the world of which I am bona fide owner; and I take a vast deal of comfort in treating it just as I choose. I manage to break some article of furniture, almost every time I pay it a visit; and if I cannot open the window readily of a morning, to breathe the fresh air, I knock out a pane or two of glass with my boot. I lean against the walls in a very old armchair there is on the premises, and scarce ever fail to worry such a hole in the plastering as would set me down for a round charge for damages in town, or make a prim housewife fret herself into a raging fever. I laugh out loud with myself, in my big armchair, when I think that I am neither afraid of one nor the other. 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, (using the family snuffers, with one leg broken,)—then, drawing my chair directly in front of the blazing wood, and setting one foot on each of the old iron firedogs, (until they grow too warm,) 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. My tenant, meantime, in the other room, I can hear now and then, though there is a thick stone chimney and broad entry between,-multiplying contrivances with his wife, to put two babies to sleep. This occupies them, I should say, usually an hour; though my only measure of time (for I never carry a watch into the country) is the blaze of my fire. By ten, or thereabouts, my stock of wood is nearly exhausted; I pile upon the hot coals what remains, and sit watching how it kindles, and blazes, and goes out,-even like our joys! — and then slip by the light of the embers into my bed, where I luxuriate in such sound and healthful slumber as only such rattling window frames and country air can supply. - 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 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, (I am a bachelor of-say six and twenty,) or possibly a plaintive cry of the baby in my tenant's room, had suggested to me the thought of Marriage. I piled upon the heated firedogs the last armful of my wood; and now, said I, bracing myself courageously between the arms of my chair, I'll not flinch; - I'll pursue the thought wherever it leads, though it leads me to the d-, (I am apt to be hasty,)—at least, continued I, softening,—until my fire is out. 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: 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 marriage-ship, within four walls called Home, that are to claim him, his time, his trouble, and his tears, thenceforward for evermore, 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? Can any wife be prettier than an after-dinner fancy, idle and yet vivid, can paint for you? Can any children make less noise than the little rosy-cheeked ones, who have no existence, except in the omnium gatherum of your own brain? Can any housewife be more unexceptionable than she who goes sweeping daintily the cobwebs that gather in your dreams? Can any domestic larder be better stocked than the private larder of your head dozing on a cushioned chair back at Delmonico's? Can any family purse be better filled than the exceeding plump one you dream of, after reading such pleasant books as Munchausen or Typee? But if, after all, it must be-duty, or what not, making provocation- what then? And I clapped my feet hard against the firedogs, 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? 66 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. Shall a man then scour the country on a mule's back, like Honest Gil Blas of Santillane; or shall he make application to some such intervening providence as Madame St. Marc, who, as I see by the Presse, manages these matters to one's hand, for some five per cent on the fortunes of the parties? 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 capture 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 (taking dear Peggy's hand in his) 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 worse, is some fidgety old uncle, forever too cold or too hot, who vexes you with his patronizing airs, and impudently kisses his little Peggy! -That could be borne, however: for perhaps he has |