The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022007730 Cornell University Library PS 1487.A1 1892 Prue and I, 3 1924 022 007 730 PRUE & I BY GEORGE WILLL-iM CURTIS ILLUSTRATED FROiM DRAW- IXGS BY ALBERT EDWARD STERXER ' KNITTERS IN THE SUN" TtrKLFTH NIGHT HARPER & BROTHERS NEW YORK MDCCCXCII Copyright, 1S1--12, by Harper & Brothers. J// rixj/ifs rcscrvca: TO Mr<;. He my 14/ , Longfellow IN MEMORY OF HAPPY HOURS AT MY CASTLES IN SPAIN (St^^-ty" -^i-L^ ^.'^-t^z; '^cc^ ZZZI^ ^mi^^ ■s-,^-^ ^-^ C2..-^ -^izsi^ '>^^' ..-i^,^ ^?3^ "^^ry—'ffi^ A-*-*-^^ ■= ^•^^^ -^-SfU^r- -f-^Si^ -SIZ^ -^^^^c^ <5„;t-t^ ■^ '^II^.-i^ y^ ii-c.^ C7^ j7 PAGE DINNER-TIME 3 MV CHATEAUX 43 SEA FROM SHORE 83 TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES I2g A CRUISE IN THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 181 FAMILY PORTRAITS 227 OUR COUSIN THE CURATE 247 J iUli STRATI 'ill:) ' ||\"' DIXNER-TIME Head-piece ..... ■■ But God bless you I" The Book-keeper " I see Aurelia's carnage stop " . " And sun'eys her form at length " " What a beautiful day, Miss Aurelia '■ Seating the trousers of Adoniram " '■ Haggling with the \\Tinkled Eve " " Helping her to a lady-finger "' . " I should have taken out the maiden aunt '* " Some of that Arethusa Madeira " " Both very eager for dinner " " While the maid arranges the last flowers in h " Secluding her with his constant devntion " The Club ■■ One of those graciously beaming bows " Tail-piece . MY CHATEAUX Head-piece , Eton ........ " I read aloud the romantic story " ibked I, with interest, for I knew that he held a great deal of Spanish stock. " Oh !" said he, " I'm going out to take pos- session. I have found the way to my castles in Spain." " Dear me !" I answered, with the blood streaming , / into my face ; and, heedless of Prue, pulling my glove until it ripped — "what is it?" "The direct route is through California," answered he. '' But then you have the sea to cross af- terwards," said I, remembering the map. "Not at all," answered Aspen; "the road runs along the shore of (he Sacramento River." He darted away from me, and I did not 55 meet him again. I was very curious to lay. P'riends turned back — I could not see them — and waved their hands, and wiped their eyes, and went home to dinner. Farther and far- ther from the ships at anchor, the lessening vessel became single and solitary upon the water. The sun sank in the west, but I watched her still. E\'ery flash of her sails, as she tacked and turned, thrilled my heart. Yet Prue was not on board. I had never seen one of the passengeis or the crew. I did not know the consignees, nor the name of the vessel. I had shipped no adventure, nor risked any insurance, nor made any bet, but my eyes clung to her as .Ariadne's to the fading sail of Theseus. 'I'he ship was freighted with more than appeared upon her papers, yet she was not a smuggler. She bore all there was of that nameless lading, yet the next ship would carry as much. She was freighted with fancv ; mv hopes and wishes and vague desires were all on board. It seemed to me a treasure not less rich than that which tilled the East Indiaman at the (lid dock in m\' boyhood. When at length the ship was a sparkle upon the horizon, I waved my hand in last farewell, I strained my eyes for a last y6 ''%r^>^ J" glimpse. M_v mind had gone to sea, and had left noise behind ; but now 1 heard again the multitudinous murmur of the city, and went down rapidly, and threaded the short, narrow streets to the office. Yet, be- lieve it, every dream of that day as I watch- ed the vessel was written at night to Prue. She knew that m_\' heart had not sailed away. Those days are long past now; but still I walk upon the Battery and look towards the Narrows, and know that beyond them, sep- arated only by the sea, are many of whom I would so gladly know and so rarely hear. The sea rolls between us like the lapse of dusky ages. They trusted themselves to it, and it bore them away far and far as if into tire past. Last night I read of Anton}^ but I have not heard from Christopher these many months ; and by so much farther away is he, so much older and more remote, than xAntony. As for William, he is as vague as any of the shepherd kings of ante-Pharaonic dynasties. It is the sea that has done it; it has car- ried them off and put them away upon its other side. It is fortunate the sea did not put them upon its underside. Are they hale and happy still ? Is their hair gra}', and have they mustaches ? or have they taken to wigs and crutches ? Are they popes or cardinals yet ? Do they feast with Lucrezia 99 Borgia, or preach red republicanism to the Council of Ten? Do they sing "Behold how brightly breaks tlie morning " with AFasaniello ? Do they laugh at Ulysses and skip ashore to the Sirens? Has Mesrour, chief of the Eunuchs, caught them with Zobeide in the Caliph's garden, or have they made cheese - cakes without pepper ? Friends of my youth, where in your wan- derings have you tasted the blissful Lotus that you neither come nor send us tidings ? Across the sea also came idle rumors, as false reports steal into history and defile fair fames. Was it longer ago than yester- day that I walked with my cousin, then re- cently a widow, and talked with her of the countries to which she meant to sail ? She was young and dark -eyed, and wore great hoops of gold, barbaric gold, in her ears. The hope of Italy, the tliought of living there, had risen like a dawn in the dark- ness of her mind. I talked and listened by rapid turns. Was it longer ago than yes- terday that she told me of her splendid plans, how palaces tapestried with gorgeous paintings should be cheaply hired, and the best of teachers lead her children to the completest and most various knowledge; how — and with her slender pittance ! — she should have a box at the opera, and a car- riage, and liveried servants, and, in perfect health and youth, lead a perfect life in a perfect climate ? And now what do I hear ? \\'hy does a tear sometimes drop so audibly upon my paper that I'itbottom looks across with a sort of mild rebuking glance of inquir\-, whether it is kind to let even a single tear fall, when an ocean of tears is pent up in hearts that would burst and overflow if but one drop should force its way out ? Why across the sea came faint, gusty stories, like low voices in the wind, of a cloistered gar- den and sunny seclusion, and a life of un- known and unexplained luxury? \^'hat is this picture of a pale face showered with streaming black hair, and large, sad eyes looking upon lovely and noble children playing in the sunshine, and a brow pained with thought straining into their destin)- ? Who is this figure, a man tall and comely, with melting eyes and graceful motion, who comes and goes at pleasure, who is not a husband, yet has the key of the cloistered garden ? I do not know. They are secrets of the sea. The pictures pass before my mind suddenly and unawares, and I feel the tears rising that I would gladl}' re]3ress. Titbot- tom looks at me, then stands by the win- dow of the office and leans his brow against the cold iron bars, and looks down into the little square paved court. I take my hat and steal out of the office for a few minutes, and slowly pace the hurrying streets. Meek- eyed Alice ! magnificent Maud ! sweet baby Lilian ! why does the sea imprison you so far away, when will you return, where do you linger ? The water laps idly about the docks — lies calm, or gayly heaves. Why does it bring me doubts and fears now, that brought such bounty of beautv in the days long gone ? I remember that the day when my dark- haired cousin, with hoops of barbaric gold in her ears, sailed for Italy, was cjuarter-day, and we balanced the books at the office. It was nearly noon, and in my impatience to be away I had not added my colunms with sufficient care. The inexorable hand of the ofiRce clock pointed sternly towards twelve, and the remorseless pendulum tick- ed solemnly to noon. To a man whose pleasures are not many, and rather small, the loss of such an event as saying farewell and wishing godspeed to a friend going to Europe is a great loss. It was so to me, especially, because there was always more to me in every departure than the parting and the farewell. I was gradualh- renouncing this pleasure, as I saw small prospect of ending before noon, when Titbottom, after looking at me a moment, came to my side of the desk, and said, "I should like to finish that for you." I looked at him. Poor Titbottom ! he had no friends to wish godspeed upon any journey. I quietly wiped my pen, took down my hat, and went out. It was in the days of sail packets and less regularity, when going to Europe was more of an epoch in life. How gayly my cousin stood upon the deck and detailed to me her plan ! How merrily the children shouted and sang ! How long held my cousin's little hand in mine, and gazed into her great eyes, remembering that they would see and touch the things that were invisible to me forever, but all the more ^Jl t<|j j>^, . ■■-'.-.^.^ precious ^ ■«'»■- >' " <• |- '\~it j.ifi' and fair! '""^^^^S _l She kissed me — I z. was younger then — there were tears, I remember, and prayers and promises, a waving handkerchief — a fad- ing sail. It was only the other day that I saw an- other parting of the same kind. I was not a principal, only a spectator ; but so fond am I of sharing afar off, as it were, and un- seen, the sympathies of iiuman beings, that I cannot avoid often going to the dock upon steamer-days and giving myself to that pleas- ant and melancholy observation. I'here is always a crowd, but this day it was almost impossible to advance through the masses of people. The eager faces hurried by ; a constant stream poured up the gangway into tlie steamer, and the upper deck, to which I gradually made my way, was crowded with the passengers and their friends. There was one group upon which my eyes first fell, and upon which my memory lingers. A glance brilliant as daybreak — a voice, "Her voice's music — call it the well's bubblinc;, the Ijird's \\'arl)Ie," a goddess girdled with flowers, and smiling farewell upon a circle of worshippers, to each one of whom that gracious calmness made the smile sweeter, and the farewell more sad — other figures, other flowers, an angel face — all these I saw in that group as I was swayed up and down the deck by the eager swarm of people. The hour came. and I went on shore with the rest. The plank was drawn awa}' — the captain raised his hand — the huge steamer slowly moved — a cannon was fired — the ship was gone. The sun sparkled upon the water as they sailed away. In five min- steamer was as much from the shore as if it sea a thousand years u t e s the separated had been at I leaned against a post upon the dock and looked around. Ranged upon the edge of the wharf stood that band of worshippers, waving handker- chiefs and straining their eyes to see the last smile of farewell — did any eager, self- ish eye hope to see a tear? They to whom the handkerchiefs were waved stood high upon the stern, holding flowers. Over them hung the great flag, raised Ijy the gentle wind into tlie graceful folds of a canopy — say, rather, a gorgeous gonfalon waved over the triumphant departure, over that supreme youth and bloom and beauty, go- ing out across the mystic ocean to carry a finer charm and more human splendor into those realms of my imagination be- yond the sea. " You will return, O youth and beauty!" I said to my dreaming and foolish self, as I contemplated those fair figures, " riclier than Alexander with Indian spoils. All that his- toric association, that copious civilization, those grandeurs and graces of art, that va- riety and picturesqueness of life, will mel- low and deepen your experience even as time silently touches those old pictures into a more persuasive and pathetic beauty, and as this increasing summer sheds ever softer lustre upon the landscape. You will return concjuerors and not conquered. You will bring Europe, even as Aurelian brought Zenobia captive, to deck your homeward triumph. I do not wonder that these clouds break away, I do not wonder that the sun presses out and floods all the air and land and water with light that graces witli happy omens your stately farewell." 1 06 But if my faded face looked after them with such earnest and longing emotion — I, a solitary old man, unknown to those fair beings, and standing apart from that band of lovers, yet in that moment bound more closely to them than they knew — how was it with those whose hearts sailed away with that youth and beauty ? I watched them closely from behind my post. I knew that life had paused with them ; that the world stood still. I knew that the long, long sum- mer would be only a yearning regret. I knew that each asked himself the mournful question, '• Is this parting typical — this slow, sad, sweet recession ?" And I knew that they did not care to ask whether they should meet again, nor dare to contemplate the chances of the sea. The steamer swept on ; she was near Staten Island, and a final gun boomed far and low across the water. The crowd was dispersing, but the little group remained Was it not all that Hood had sung ? — ' I saw thee, lovely Inez, Descend along the shore With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before ; And gentle youths and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore ; It would have been a beauteous dream, If it had been no more !" " O youth !" I said to the)n without speak- ing, " be it gently said, as it is solemnly thought, should they return no more, yet in your memories the high hour of their love- liness is forever enshrined. Should they come no more they never will be old nor changed to you. You will wax and wane, you will suffer and struggle and grow old ; but this summer vision will smile, immortal, upon your lives, and those fair faces shall shed forever, from under that slowly waving flag, hope and peace." It is so elsewhere ; it is the tenderness of Nature. Long, long ago we lost our first-born, Prue and I. Since then we have grown older and our children with us. Change comes, and grief, perhaps, and de- cay. We are happy, our children are obedi- ent and gay. But should Prue live until she has lost us all, and laid us, gray and weary, in our graves, she will have always one babe in her heart. Every mother who has lost an infant has gained a child of immortal youth. Can you find comfort here, lovers, whose mistress has sailed away ? I did not ask the question aloud ; I thought it only as I watched the youths, and turned away while they still stood gazing. One, I observed, climbed a post, and waved his black hat before the whitewashed side of the shed over the dock, whence I supposed he would tumble into the water. Another had tied a handkerchief to the end of a somewhat baggy umbrella, and in the eager- ness of gazing had forgotten to wave it, so that it hung mournfully down as if over- powered with grief it could not express. The entranced youth still held the umbrella aloft. It seemed to me as if he had struck his flag ; or as if one of my cravats were airing in that sunlight. A negro carter was joking witli an apple-woman at the entrance of the dock. The steamer was out of sight. I found that I was belated, and hurried back to my desk. Alas ! poor lovers ; I wonder if they are watching still ? Has he fallen exhausted from the post into the water ? Is that handkerchief, bleached and rent, still pendent upon that somewhat bag- gy umbrella ? " Youth and beauty went to Europe to- day," said I to I'rue, as I stirred my tea at evening. As I spoke our youngest daughter brought me the sugar. She is just eighteen, and her name sliould be Hebe. I took a lump of sugar and looked at her. She had never seemed so lovely, and as I dropped the lump in my cup I kissed her, I glanced at Prue as I did so. The dear woman smiled, but did not answer my exclamation. Thus, without travelling, I travel, and share the emotions of those I do not know. But sometimes the old longing comes over me as in the days when 1 timidly touched the huge East Indiaman, and magnetically sailed around the world. It was but a few days after the lovers and I waved farewell to the steamer, and while the lovely figures standing under the great gonfalon were as vivitl in ni)' mind as ever, that a day of premature sunny sadness, like those of the Indian summer, drew me away from the office early in the afternoon ; for fortunately it is our dull season now, and even Titbottom sometimes leaves the office by five o'clock. Although why he should leave it, or where he goes, or what he does, I do not well know. Before I knew him, I used sometimes to meet him with a man whom I was afterwards told was Bartleby, the scrivener. Even then it seemed to me that they rather clubbed their loneliness than made society for each other. Recently 1 have not seen Bartleby , but Titbottom seems no more solitary because he is alone. I strolled into the Battery as I sauntered about. Staten Island looked so alluring, tender-hued with summer and melting in the haze, that I resolved to indulge myself in a pleasure -trip. It was a little selfish, per- haps, to go alone, but I looked at my watch, and saw that if I should hurry home for Brue the trip would be lost ; then I should be disappointed, and she would be grieved. Ought I not rather (I like to begin ques- tions which I am going to answer affirm- atively with ought) to take the trip and recount my adventures to Brue upon my return, whereby I should actually enjoy the excursion and the pleasure of telling her ; while she would enjoy my story and be t^lad that 1 was pleased ? Ought I wilfully to deprive us both of this various enjoyment by aiming at a higher which, in losing, we should lose all ? Unfortunately, just as I was triumphantly answering " Certainly not !" another ques- tion marched into my mind, escorted by a very defiant oiii^/if. "Ought I to go when I have such a de- bate about it ?" But while I was perplexed, and scoffing at my own scruples, the ferry-bell suddenly rang and answered all my questions. In- voluntarily I hurried on board. The boat slipped from the dock, f went up on deck to enjoy the view of the city from the bay, but just as I sat down, and meant to have said "how beautiful!" I found myself ask- ing : ' Ought f to have come ?" Lost in perplexing debate, I saw httlc of the scenery of the bay ; the remembrance of Prue and the gentle influ- ' kij: - ence of the day plunged me into a mood of pensive reverie, which nothing tended to de- stroy until we suddenly ar- ived at the landing. As I was stepping ashore I was greeted by Mr. Bourne, who passes the summer on the iskind, and who hospitabl}* asked if I were going his way. His way was towards the southern end of the island, and I said yes. His pockets were full of papers and his brow of wrinkles ; so when we reached the point where he should turn off, I asked him to let me alight, although he was \'ery anxious to carry me wherever I was going. "I am only strolling about," I answered, as I clambered carefully out of the wagon. " Strolling about ?" asked he, in a be- wildered manner ; " do people stroll about, nowadays ?" "Sometimes," I answered, smiling, as I pulled my trousers down over my boots, for they had dragged up as I stepped out of the wagon, " and, besides, what can an old book-keeper do better in the dull season than stroll about this pleas- ant island, and watch the ships at sea ?" Bourne looked at me , n i with his weary eyes. y^ "I'd give five thousand v % dollars a year for a dull * * season," said he, for strolling, I've fo how." a dull ^\ ^ )rgotten *v ''~ — As he spoke, liis eyes wandered dreamily across the fields and wo(xls, and were fast- ened upon the distant sails. " It is pleasant," he said, musingly, and fell into silence. But I had no time to spare, so I wished him good-afternoon. " I hope your wife is well," said Bourne to me, as I turned away. Poor Bourne ! He drove on alone in his wagon. But I made haste to the most solitary point upon the southern shore, and there sat, glad to be so near the sea. There was that warm, sympathetic silence in the air that gives to Indian-summer days almost a human tenderness of feeling. A delicate haze, that seemed only the kindly air made visible, hung over the sea. The water lap- ped languidly among the rocks, and the voices of children in a boat beyond rang musically, and gradually receded until they were lost in the distance. It was some time before I was aware of the outline of a large ship, drawn vaguely upon the mist, which I supposed at first to be only a kind of mirage. But the more steadfastly I gazed the more distinct it be- came, and I could no longer doubt that I saw a stately ship lying at anchor, not more than half a mile from the land. " It is an extraordinary place to anchor," I said to myself, " or can she be ashore ?" There were no signs of distress ; tlie sails were careful!)- clewed up, and there were no sailors in tire tops, nor upon tire shrouds. A flag, of which I could not see the device or the nation, hung hea\-ily at the stern, and looked as if it had fallen asleep. INfy curios- ity began to be singularly excited. The form of the vessel seemed not to be per- manent ; but within a quarter of an hour I was sure that f had seen half a dozen dif- ferent ships. As I gazed, I saw no more sails nor masts, but a long range of oars, flashing like a golden fringe, or straight and stiff, like the legs of a sea-monster. " It is some bloated crab, or lobster, mag- nified by the mist," I said to myself, com- placently. But at the same moment there was a concentrated flashing and blazing in one spot among the rigging, and it was as if I saw a beatified ram, or, more truly, a sheepskin, splendid as the hair of Berenice. '■ Is that the golden fleece ?" I thought. " But, surely, Jason and the Argonauts have gone home long since. Do people go on gold-fleec- ing expeditions now ?" I asked my- self, in perplexity. " Can this be a California steamer ?'' How could I have thought it a 115 steamer ? Did I not see those sails, " thin and sere ?" Did I not feel the melancholy of that solitary bark ? It had a mystic aura ; a boreal brilliancy shimmered in its wake, for it was drifting seaward. A strange fear curdled along my veins. That summer sun shone cool. The weary, battered ship was gashed, as if gnawed by ice. There was terror in the air, as a " skinny hand so brown" waved to me from the deck. I lay as one bewitched. The hand of the ancient mariner seemed to be reaching for me, like the hand of death. Death ? Why, as I was inly praying Prue's forgiveness for my solitary ramble and consequent demise, a glance like the fulness of summer splendor gushed over me ; the odor of flowers and of Eastern gums made all the atmosphere. I breathed the Orient, and lay drunk with balm, while that strange ship, a golden galley now, with glit- tering draperies festooned with flowers, paced to the measured beat of oars along the calm, and Cleopatra smiled alluringly from the great pageant's heart. It faded. And was this a barge for summer waters, this peculiar ship I saw ? It had a ruined dignity, a cumbrous grandeur, al- though its masts were shattered, and its sails rent. It hung preternaturally still upon the sea, as if tormented and exhaust- ed by long driving and drifting. I saw no sailors, but a great Spanish ensign floated over and waved— a funereal plume. I knew it then. The Armada was long since scat- tered ; but, floating far " on desolate, rainy seas," lost for centuries, and again restored to sight, here lay one of the fated ships of \L-.,± M-. Spain. The huge galleon seemed to fill all the air, built up against the sky, like the gilded ships of Claude Lorraine against the sunset. But it fled, for now a black flag fluttered at the mastdiead — a long, low vessel darted swiftly where the last ship lay ; there came a shrill, piping whistle, the clash of cutlasses, fierce ringing oaths, sharp pistol cracks, the thunder of command, and over all the gusty yell of a demoniac chorus, "My name i\-as Rrjbert Kidd, when I sailed." — TJiere were no clouds longer, but ruider a serene sky I saw a bark moving with festal pomp, thronged with grave senators in flow- ing robes, and one with ducal bonnet in the midst, holding a ring. The smooth bark swam upon a sea like that of southern lati- tudes, f saw the Biicaitoro and the nup- tials of Venice and the Adriatic. Who were those coming over the side ? Who crowded the boats and sprang into the water — men in old Spanish armor, with plumes and swords, and bearing a glittering cross ? Who was he standing upon the deck with folded arms and gazing towards the shore, as lovers on their mistresses and martyrs upon heaven ? Over what distant and tumultuous seas had this small craft escaped from other centuries and distant shores? What sounds of foreign hymns, forgotten now, were these, and what solem- nity of debarkation ? Was this grave form Columbus ? Yet these were not so Spanish as they seemed just now. This group of stern-faced 'li'V- men with high peaked hats, who knelt upon the cold deck and looked out upon a shore which, I could see by their joyless smile of satisfaction, was rough and bare and for- bidding. In that soft afternoon, standing in mournful groups upon the small deck, why did they seem to me to be seeing the sad shores of wintry New England ? That phantom-ship could not be the Afayfllowe?-! I gazed long upon the shifting illusion. " If I should board this ship," I asked myself, "where should I go.' whom should I meet? what should I see ? Is not this the vessel that shall carry me to my Europe, my foreign countries, my impossible India, the Atlantis tliat 1 have lost?" As I sat staring at it I could not but wonder whether Bourne had seen this sail when he looked upon the water ? Does he see such sights every day, because he lives down here ? Is it not, perhaps, a magic yacht of his ; and does he slip off privately after business hours to Venice and Spain and Egypt, perhaps to El Dorado ? Does he run races with Ptoleni)-, I'hilopater and Hiero of Syracuse, rare regattas on fabulous seas ? ^^'h)^ not ? He is a rich man, too, and why should not a New York merchant do what a Syracuse tj'rant and an Egyptian prince did.'' Has Hourne's yacht those sumptuous chambers, like Philopater's galley, of which the greater part was made of split cedar, and of Milesian cypress ; and has he twenty doors put together with beams of citron- wood, with many ornaments ? Has the roof of his cabin a carved golden face, and is his sail linen with a purple fringe ? "I suppose it is so," I said to myself, as I looked wistfully at the shi]), whicli began to glimmer and melt in the haze. "It certainly is not a fishing-smack?" I asked, doubtfully. No, it nmst be Bourne's magic yacht; I was sure of it. I could not help laughing at poor old Hiero, whose cabins were divided into many rooms, with floors composed of mosaic work, of all kinds of stones tessel- lated. And on this mosaic the whole story of the Iliad was depicted in a marvellous manner. He had gardens " of all sorts of most wonderful beauty, enriched with all sorts of plants, and shadowed by roofs of lead or tiles. And, besides this, there were tents roofed with boughs of white ivy and of the vine — the roots of which derived their moisture from casks full of earth, and were watered in the same manner as the gardens. There were temples, also, with doors of ivory and citron-wood, furnished in the most ex- quisite manner, with pictures and statues, and with goblets and vases of every form and shape imaginable." " Poor Bourne !" I said, " I suppose his is finer than Hiero's, which is a thousand years old. Poor liourne ! I don't wonder that his eyes are weary, and that he would pay so dearly for a day of leisure. Dear me ! is it one of the prices that must be paid for wealth, the keeping up a magic yacht ?" Involuntarily, I had asked the question aloud. "The magic yacht is not Bourne's," an- swered a familiar voice. I looked uj?, and Titbottom stood by my side. " Do you not know that all Bourne's money would not buy the yacht?" asked lie. "He cannot even see it. And if he could, it «'ould be no magic yacht to him, but only a battered and solitary hulk." The haze blew gently away as Titbottom spoke, and there lay my Spanish galleon, my lhtit-iit have seen the same thing even in this city. '' But he was greatly beloved — my bland and bountiful grandfather. He was so large- hearted and open-handed. He was so friend- \y and thoughtful and genial that even his jokes had the air of graceful benedictions. He did not seem to grow old, and he was one of those persons who never appear to have been very young. He flourished in a perennial maturity, an immortal middle-age. 137 " My grandfather lived upon one of the small islands — St. Kitt's, perhaps — and his domain extended to the sea. His house, a rambling West Indian mansion, was sur- rounded with deep, spacious piazzas, cover- ed with luxurious lounges, among which one capacious chair was his peculiar seat. They tell me he used sometimes to sit there for the whole day, his great soft, brown eyes fastened u])on the sea, watching the specks of sails that flashed upon the horizon, ■\\'hile the evanescent expressions chased each oth- er over his placid face as if it reflected the calm and changing sea before him. " liis morning costume was an ample dressing-gown of gorgeously-flowered silk, and his morning was very apt to last all day. He rarely read ; but he paced the great piazza for hours, with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his dressing-gown, and an air of sweet reverie, which any book must be a very entertaining one to produce. " Society, of course, he saw little. There was some slight apprehension that, if he were bidden to social entertainments, he might forget his coat, or arrive without some other essential part of his dress ; and there is a sly tradition in the Titbottom family that once, having been invited to a ball in honor of a new Governor of the island, my grandfather Titbottom sauntered into the 138 hall towards midnight, wrapped in the gorgeous flowers of his dressing- gown, and with his hands buried in the pockets, as usual. There was great ex- citement among the guests, and immense -' deprecation of guber- natorial ire. Fortun- ately, it happened that the Governor and my grandfather were old friends, and there was no offence. But, as they were con\'ersing together, one of the distressed man- agers cast indignant glances at the brilliant costume of my grandfather, who summoned him and asked, courteously : '■ ' Did you invite me or my coat ?' " ' You, in a proper coat,' said the manager. '■ The Governor smiled approvingly, and looked at my grandfather. " 'My friend,' said he to the manager, ' I beg your pardon, I forgot.' " The next day my grandfather was seen promenading in full ball-dress along the streets of the little town. "'They ought to know,' said he, 'that I have a proper coat, and that not contempt, nor poverty, but forgetfuhiess, sent me to a ball in my dressing-gown.' " He did not much frequent social festi- vals after this failure, but he always told the story with satisfaction and a quiet smile. " To a stranger, life upon those little isl- ands is uniform even to weariness, lint the old native dons, like my grandfather, ripen in the prolonged sunshine, like the turtle upon the Bahama banks, nor know of exist- ence more desirable. Life in the tropics I take to be a placid torpidit}'. " During the long, warm mornings of nearly half a century my grandfather Tit- bottom had sat in his dressing-gown and gazed at the sea. Tut one calm June day, as he slowly paced the piazza after breakfast, his dreamy glance was arrested by a little vessel, evidently nearing the shore. He called for his spy-glass, and, surveying the craft, saw that she came fronr the neighbor- ing island. She glided smoothly, slowly, over the summer sea. The warm morning air was sweet with perfumes and silent with heat. The sea sparkled languidly, and the brilliant blue sky hung cloudlessly over. Scores of little island vessels had my grand- father seen coming over the horizon and cast anchor in the port. Hundreds of sum- nier mornings had the \vhitc sails llashed and faded, lil