The Crayon Papers

alternately a cheat and a dupe; nay, more, it is the most subtle of cheats, for it cheats itself and becomes the dupe of its own delusions. It conjures up “airy nothings,” gives to them a “local habitation and a name,” and then bows to their control as implicitly as though they were realities. Such was now my case. The good Numa could not more thoroughly have persuaded himself that the nymph Egeria hovered about her sacred fountain and communed with him in spirit than I had deceived myself into a kind of visionary intercourse with the airy phantom fabricated in my brain. I constructed a rustic seat at the foot of the tree where I had discovered the footsteps. I made a kind of bower there, where I used to pass my mornings reading poetry and romances. I carved hearts and darts on the tree, and hung it with garlands. My heart was full to overflowing, and wanted some faithful bosom into which it might relieve itself. What is a lover without a confidante? I thought at once of my sister Sophy, my early playmate, the sister of my affections. She was so reasonable, too, and of such correct feelings, always listening to my words as oracular sayings, and admiring my scraps of poetry as the very inspirations of the muse. From such a devoted, such a rational being, what secrets could I have?
    I accordingly took her one morning to my favorite retreat. She looked around, with delighted surprise, upon the rustic seat, the bower, the tree carved with emblems of the tender passion. She turned her eyes upon me to inquire the meaning.
    “Oh, Sophy,” exclaimed I, clasping both her hands in mine, and looking earnestly in her face, “I am in love.”
    She started with surprise.
    “Sit down,” said I, “and I will tell you all.”
    She seated herself upon the rustic bench, and I went into a full history of the footstep, with all the associations of idea that had been conjured up by my imagination.
    Sophy was enchanted; it was like a fairy tale; she had read of such mysterious visitations in books, and the loves thus conceived were always for beings of superior order, and were always happy. She caught the illusion in all its force; her cheek glowed; her eye brightened.
    “I daresay she’s pretty,” said Sophy.
    “Pretty!” echoed I, “she is beautiful.” I went through all the reasoning by which I had logically proved the fact to my own satisfaction. I dwelt upon the evidences of her taste, her sensibility to the beauties of nature; her soft meditative habit that delighted in solitude. “Oh,” said I, clasping my hands, “to have such a companion to wander through these scenes; to sit with her by this murmuring stream; to wreathe garlands round her brows; to hear the music of her voice mingling with the whisperings of these groves; to—”
    “Delightful! delightful!” cried Sophy; “what a sweet creature she must be! She is just the friend I want. How I shall dote upon her! Oh, my dear brother! you must not keep her all to yourself. You must let me have some share of her!”
    I caught her to my bosom: “You shall—you shall!” cried I, “my dear Sophy; we will all live for each other!”
    * * * * *
    The conversation with Sophy heightened the illusions of my mind; and the manner in which she had treated my daydream identified it with facts and persons and gave it still more the stamp of reality. I walked about as one in a trance, heedless of the world around and lapped in an elysium of the fancy.
    In this mood I met one morning with Glencoe. He accosted me with his usual smile, and was proceeding with some general observations, but paused and fixed on me an inquiring eye.
    “What is the matter with you?” said he, “you seem agitated; has anything in particular happened?”
    “Nothing,” said I, hesitating; “at least nothing worth communicating to you.”
    “Nay, my dear young friend,” said he, “whatever is of sufficient importance to agitate you is worthy of being communicated to me.”
    “Well; but my thoughts are running on what you would think a frivolous subject.”
    “No subject is frivolous that has the power to awaken strong feelings.”
    “What think you,” said I, hesitating, “what think you of love?”
    Glencoe almost started at the question. “Do you call that a frivolous subject?” replied he. “Believe me, there is none fraught with such deep, such vital interest. If you talk, indeed, of the capricious inclination awakened by the mere charm of perishable beauty, I grant it