Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents
LETTER I June 19th, 1780.--Shall I tell you my dreams?--To give an account of my time is doing, I assure you, but little better. Never did there exist a more ideal being. A frequent mist hovers before my eyes, and, through its medium, I see objects so faint and hazy, that both their colours and forms are apt to delude me. This is a rare confession, say the wise, for a traveller to make: pretty accounts will such a one give of outlandish countries: his correspondents must reap great benefit, no doubt, from such purblind observations. But stop, my good friends; patience a moment!--I really have not the vanity of pretending to make a single remark, during the whole of my journey: if--be contented with my visionary way of gazing, I am perfectly pleased; and shall write away as freely as Mr. A., Mr. B., Mr. C., and a million others whose letters are the admiration of the politest circles. All through Kent did I doze as usual; now and then I opened my eyes to take in an idea or two of the green, woody country through which I
at Bellevue. My month has passed away like a dream of pleasure,--so
short it seemed that time had staid his wheels,--so joyous that earth
seemed shorn of sorrow. You know not how much I have enjoyed the society
of your father, and, pardon me, of yourself," returned Henry, scarcely
less confused than Emily.
"I am glad to hear you say so," she replied, with some hesitation, and
fearful of exposing the sentiment she was conscious of cherishing. "I
have thought that, accustomed as you are to the stirring life of the
camp, you had grown tired of our quiet home."
"You wrong me, Emily, I should never weary here; but I was fearful that
I had already staid too long," said Henry, in a sad tone, for he felt it
most deeply, though not in the sense that Emily understood him.
"Too long! Then you are weary of us, and I will not chide you forbidding
us adieu," said Emily, with a glance of anxiety at Henry.
"Nay, Miss Dumont, do not misinterpret my words. I am not weary, I
cannot be weary, of Bellevue and its fair and good inmates."
"Then what mean you by saying you have staid too long?"
"Pardon me, I cannot tell why I said it; but I feel that I should do
wrong to prolong my stay, however congenial to my feelings to do so,"
replied Henry, with the most evident embarrassment.
LETTER I June 19th, 1780.--Shall I tell you my dreams?--To give an account of my time is doing, I assure you, but little better. Never did there exist a more ideal being. A frequent mist hovers before my eyes, and, through its medium, I see objects so faint and hazy, that both their colours and forms are apt to delude me. This is a rare confession, say the wise, for a traveller to make: pretty accounts will such a one give of outlandish countries: his correspondents must reap great benefit, no doubt, from such purblind observations. But stop, my good friends; patience a moment!--I really have not the vanity of pretending to make a single remark, during the whole of my journey: if--be contented with my visionary way of gazing, I am perfectly pleased; and shall write away as freely as Mr. A., Mr. B., Mr. C., and a million others whose letters are the admiration of the politest circles. All through Kent did I doze as usual; now and then I opened my eyes to take in an idea or two of the green, woody country through which I