Evolution of Expression, Volume 2—Revised
"Thankee, Sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle hastily. "You needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it to you this afternoon, Sam."
"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller.
"Just hold me at first, Sam, will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There, that's right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too fast!"
9. Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank, —
"Sam!"
"Sir?" said Mr. Weller.
"Here! I want you."
"Let go, sir," said Sam; "don't you hear the governor a-callin'? Let go, sir."
10. With a violent effort Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian; and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet; but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.
11. "Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen with great anxiety.
"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.
"I wish you would let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin Allen with great eagerness.
"No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.
"I really think you had better," said Mr. Allen.
"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle, "I'd rather not."
"What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer.
12. Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, "Take his skates off."
"No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle.
"Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.
The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in silence.
"Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.
13. Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the by-standers; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words:
"You're a humbug, sir."
"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting.
"A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer if you wish it. An imposter, sir."
With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends.
14. While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavors cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon in a very masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy sliding, which is currently denominated "knocking at the cobbler's door," and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a twopenny postman's knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide; and there was something in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could not help envying.
15. "It looks a nice warm exercise, that, doesn't it?" he inquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath by reason of the indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice.
"Ah, it does, indeed," replied Wardle. "Do you slide?"
"I used to do so on the gutters, when I was a boy," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"Try it now," said Wardle.
"Oh, do please, Mr. Pickwick!" cried all the ladies.
"I should be very happy to afford you any amusement," replied Mr. Pickwick; "but I haven't done such a thing these thirty years."
16. "Pooh! pooh! nonsense!" said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the impetuosity which characterized all his proceedings. "Here! I'll keep you company; come along." And away went the good-tempered old fellow down the slide with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing.
Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves, and put them in his hat, took two or three short runs, balked himself as often, and at last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of all the spectators.
17. "Keep the pot a-bilin', sir," said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely upon each other's heels, and running after each other with as much eagerness as if all their future prospects in life depended on their expedition.
18. It was the most intensely interesting thing to observe the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind gaining upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually expend the painful force which he had put on at first, and turn slowly round on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he started; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor, his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down, (which happened upon the average every third round), it was the most invigorating sight that could possibly be imagined, to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the rank with an ardor and enthusiasm which nothing could abate.
19. The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp, smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared, the water bubbled up over it, and Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief were floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody could see.
20. Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance; the males turned pale, and the females fainted; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone down, with frenzied eagerness; while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to any person who might be within hearing the clearest possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming "Fire!" with all his might and main.
21. It was at this very moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching the hole with cautious steps and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding the company generally, as an improving little bit of professional practice, – it was at this very moment that a face, head, and shoulders emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.
22. "Keep yourself up for an instant, for only one instant," bawled Mr. Snodgrass.
"Yes – do: let me implore you – for my sake," roared Mr. Winkle, deeply affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being, that, if Mr. Pickwick had not decided to keep himself up for anybody else's sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so for his own.
"Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?" said Wardle.
"Yes – certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head and face, and gasping for breath. "I fell upon my back. I couldn't get on my feet at first."
23. The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible bore testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and, as the fears of the spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity of splashing and cracking and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant situation, and once more stood on dry land.
24. Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off for home, presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an hour.
Charles Dickens.THE REALM OF FANCY
IEver let the Fancy roam;Pleasure never is at home:At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;Then let wingéd Fancy wanderThrough the thought still spread beyond her:Open wide the mind's cage-door,She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.IIO sweet Fancy! let her loose;Summer's joys are spoilt by use,And the enjoying of the SpringFades as does its blossoming;Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,Blushing through the mist and dew,Cloys with tasting: What do then?Sit thee by the ingle, whenThe sear faggot blazes bright,Spirit of a winter's night;When the soundless earth is muffled,And the cakéd snow is shuffledFrom the ploughboy's heavy shoon;When the Night doth meet the NoonIn a dark conspiracyTo banish Even from her sky.IIISit thee there, and send abroad,With a mind self-overaw'd,Fancy, high-commission'd: – send her!She has vassals to attend her:She will bring, in spite of frost,Beauties that the earth hath lost;She will bring thee, all together,All delights of summer weather;All the buds and bells of May,From dewy sward of thorny spray;All the heapéd Autumn's wealth,With a still, mysterious stealth:IVShe will mix these pleasures upLike three fit wines in a cup,And thou shalt quaff it: – thou shalt hearDistant harvest-carols clear;Rustle of the reapéd corn;Sweet birds antheming the morn:And, in the same moment – hark!'Tis the early April lark,Or the rooks, with busy caw,Foraging for sticks and straw.VThou shalt, at one glance, beholdThe daisy and the marigold;White-plumed lilies, and the firstHedge-grown primrose that hath burst;Shaded hyacinth, alwaySapphire queen of the mid-May;And every leaf, and every flowerPearléd with the self-same shower.VIThou shalt see the field-mouse peepMeagre from its celléd sleep;And the snake all winter-thinCast on sunny bank its skin;Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt seeHatching in the hawthorn-tree,When the hen-bird's wing doth restQuiet on her mossy nest;Then the hurry and alarmWhen the bee-hive casts its swarm;Acorns ripe down-pattering,While the autumn breezes sing.VIIOh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;Everything is spoilt by use:Where's the cheek that doth not fade,Too much gazed at? Where's the maidWhose lip mature is ever new?Where's the eye, however blue,Doth not weary? Where's the faceOne would meet in every place?Where's the voice, however soft,One would hear so very oft?At a touch sweet Pleasure meltethLike to bubbles when rain pelteth.VIIILet then wingéd Fancy findThee a mistress to thy mind:Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,Ere the God of Torment taught herHow to frown and how to chide;With a waist and with a sideWhite as Hebe's, when her zoneSlipt its golden clasp, and downFell her kirtle to her feet,While she held the goblet sweet,And Jove grew languid. – Break the meshOf the Fancy's silken leash;Quickly break her prison-string,And such joys as these she'll bring.– Let the wingéd Fancy roam,Pleasure never is at home.J. Keats.THE BATTLE OF NASEBY
IOh, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the north,With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which we tread?IIOh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,And crimson was the juice of the vintage that ye trod;For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,Who sat in the high places, and slew the saints of God.IIIIt was about the noon of a glorious day in June,That we saw their banner's dance, and their cuirasses shine:And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.IVLike a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,The general rode along us, to form us to the fight,When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout,Among the godless horsemen, upon the tyrant's right.VAnd, hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,The cry of battle rises along their charging line!For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!VIThe furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks,For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.VIIThey are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last.VIIIStout Skippon hath a wound; the center hath given ground;Hark! hark! What means this trampling of horsemen in our rear?Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God! 'tis he, boys.Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.IXTheir heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes;Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.XFast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hideTheir coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar;And he – he turns, he flies: – shame on those cruel eyesThat bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.Lord Macaulay.THE GLORIES OF MORNING
1. I had occasion, a few weeks since, to take the early train from Providence to Boston; and for this purpose rose at two o'clock in the morning. Everything around was wrapt in darkness and hushed in silence, broken only by what seemed at that hour the unearthly clank and rush of the train. It was a mild, serene, midsummer's night – the sky was without a cloud – the winds were whist. The moon, then in the last quarter, had just risen, and the stars shone with a spectral lustre but little affected by her presence. Jupiter two hours high, was the herald of the day; the Pleiades, just above the horizon, shed their sweet influence in the east; Lyra sparkled near the zenith; the steady pointers, far beneath the pole, looked meekly up from the depths of the north to their sovereign.
2. Such was the glorious spectacle as I entered the train. As we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense blue of the sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest; the sister-beams of the Pleiades soon melted together; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. Hands of angels, hidden from mortal eyes, shifted the scenery of the heavens; the glories of night dissolved into the glories of dawn.
3. The blue sky now turned more softly gray; the great watch-stars shut up their holy eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance; till at length, as we reached the Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds, the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began his state.
4. I do not wonder at the superstition of the ancient Magians, who in the morning of the world went up to the hill-tops of Central Asia, and, ignorant of the true God, adored the most glorious work of his hand. But I am filled with amazement, when I am told, that, in this enlightened age and in the heart of the Christian world, there are persons who can witness this daily manifestation of the power and wisdom of the Creator, and yet say in their hearts, "There is no God."
Edward Everett.THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
IThis is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main, —The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purple wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.IIIts webs of living gauze no more unfurl, —Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed, —Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!IIIYear after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year's dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.IVThanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is borneThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:VBuild thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!O. W. Holmes.AUTUMN
1. Once more I am upon this serene hill-top! The air is very clear, very still, and very solemn or, rather, tenderly sad, in its serene brightness. It is not that moist spring air, full of the smell of wood, of the soil, and of the odor of vegetation, which warm winds bring to us from the south.
2. It is not that summer atmosphere, full of alternations of haze and fervent clearness, as if Nature were calling into life every day some influence for its myriad children; sometimes in showers, and sometimes with coercive heat upon root and leaf; and, like a universal task-master, was driving up the hours to accomplish the labors of the year.
3. No! In these autumn days there is a sense of leisure and of meditation. The sun seems to look down upon the labors of its fiery hands with complacency. Be satisfied, O seasonable Sun! Thou hast shaped an ample year, and art garnering up harvests which well may swell thy rejoicing heart with gracious gladness.
4. One who breaks off in summer, and returns in autumn to the hills, needs almost to come to a new acquaintance with the most familiar things. It is another world; or it is the old world a-masquerading; and you halt, like one scrutinizing a disguised friend, between the obvious dissemblance and the subtile likeness.
5. Southward of our front door there stood two elms, leaning their branches toward each other, forming a glorious arch of green. Now, in faint yellow, they grow attenuated and seem as if departing; they are losing their leaves and fading out of sight, as trees do in twilight. Yonder, over against that young growth of birch and evergreen, stood, all summer long, a perfect maple-tree, rounded out on every side, thick with luxuriant foliage, and dark with greenness, save when the morning sun, streaming through it, sent transparency to its very heart.
6. Now it is a tower of gorgeous red. So sober and solemn did it seem all summer, that I should think as soon to see a prophet dancing at a peasant's holiday, as it transfigured to such intense gayety! Its fellows, too, the birches and the walnuts, burn from head to foot with fires that glow but never consume.
7. But these holiday hills! Have the evening clouds, suffused with sunset, dropped down and become fixed into solid forms? Have the rainbows that followed autumn storms faded upon the mountains and left their mantles there? Yet, with all their brilliancy, how modest do they seem; how patient when bare, or burdened with winter; how cheerful when flushed with summer-green, and how modest when they lift up their wreathed and crowned heads in the resplendent days of autumn!
8. I stand alone upon the peaceful summit of this hill, and turn in every direction. The east is all a-glow; the blue north flushes all her hills with radiance; the west stands in burnished armor; the southern hills buckle the zone of the horizon together with emeralds and rubies, such as were never set in the fabled girdle of the gods! Of gazing there cannot be enough. The hunger of the eye grows by feeding.
9. Only the brotherhood of evergreens – the pine, the cedar, the spruce, and the hemlock – refuse to join this universal revel. They wear their sober green through autumn and winter, as if they were set to keep open the path of summer through the whole year, and girdle all seasons together with a clasp of endless green.
10. But in vain do they give solemn examples to the merry leaves which frolic with every breeze that runs sweet riot in the glowing shades. Gay leaves will not be counselled, but will die bright and laughing. But both together – the transfigured leaves of deciduous trees and the calm unchangeableness of evergreens – how more beautiful are they than either alone! The solemn pine brings color to the cheek of the beeches, and the scarlet and golden maples rest gracefully upon the dark foliage of the million-fingered pine.
11. Lifted far above all harm of fowler or impediment of mountain, wild fowl are steadily flying southward. The simple sight of them fills the imagination with pictures. They have all summer long called to each other from the reedy fens and wild oat-fields of the far north. Summer is already extinguished there.
12. Winter is following their track, and marching steadily toward us. The spent flowers, the seared leaves, the thinning tree-tops, the morning frost, have borne witness of a change on earth; and these caravans of the upper air confirm the tidings. Summer is gone; winter is coming!
13. The wind has risen to-day. It is not one of those gusty, playful winds that frolic with the trees. It is a wind high up in air, that moves steadily, with a solemn sound, as if it were the spirit of summer journeying past us; and, impatient of delay, it does not stoop to the earth, but touches the tops of the trees, with a murmuring sound, sighing a sad farewell and passing on.
14. Such days fill one with pleasant sadness. How sweet a pleasure is there in sadness! It is not sorrow; it is not despondency; it is not gloom! It is one of the moods of joy. At any rate I am very happy, and yet it is sober, and very sad happiness. It is the shadow of joy upon the soul! I can reason about these changes. I can cover over the dying leaves with imaginations as bright as their own hues; and, by Christian faith, transfigure the whole scene with a blessed vision of joyous dying and glorious resurrection.
15. But what then? Such thoughts glow like evening clouds, and not far beneath them are the evening twilights, into whose dusk they will soon melt away. And all communions, and all admirations, and all associations, celestial or terrene, come alike into a pensive sadness, that is even sweeter than our joy. It is the minor key of our thoughts.
Henry Ward Beecher.MIDSUMMER
IAround this lovely valley riseThe purple hills of Paradise.O, softly on yon banks of hazeHer rosy face the Summer lays!Becalmed along the azure sky,The argosies of Cloudland lie,Whose shores, with many a shining rift,Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.IIThrough all the long midsummer dayThe meadow-sides are sweet with hay.I seek the coolest sheltered seat,Just where the field and forest meet, —Where grow the pine trees tall and bland,The ancient oaks austere and grand,And fringy roots and pebbles fretThe ripples of the rivulet.IIII watch the mowers, as they goThrough the tall grass a white-sleeved row.With even stroke their scythes they swing,In tune their merry whetstones ring.Behind, the nimble youngsters run,And toss the thick swaths in the sun.The cattle graze, while, warm and still,Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill,And bright, where summer breezes break,The green wheat crinkles like a lake.IVThe butterfly and humble beeCome to the pleasant woods with me;Quickly before me runs the quail,Her chickens skulk behind the rail;High up the lone wood-pigeon sits,And the woodpecker pecks and flits,Sweet woodland music sinks and swells,The brooklet rings its tinkling bells,The swarming insects drone and hum,The partridge beats his throbbing drum,The squirrel leaps among the boughs,And chatters in his leafy house,The oriole flashes by; and, look!Into the mirror of the brook,Where the vain bluebird trims his coat,Two tiny feathers fall and float.VAs silently, as tenderly,The down of peace descends on me.O, this is peace! I have no needOf friend to talk, of book to read.A dear Companion here abides;Close to my thrilling heart He hides;The holy silence is His voice:I lie and listen and rejoice.J. T. Trowbridge