The Bed-Book of Happiness. Harold Begbie
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best German and Italian authors, had picked up considerable desultory information, and had that "mother wit" which so often in women and poets seems to render culture superfluous, their rapid intuitions anticipating the tardy conclusions of experience. Her letters are full of spirit: not always strictly grammatical; not irreproachable in orthography; but vigorous and vivacious. After a lengthened interview with her, an enthusiast exclaimed, "Now do I understand how Goethe has become the man he is!" Wieland, Merck, Bürger, Madame de Staël, Karl August, and other great people sought her acquaintance. The Duchess Amalia corresponded with her as with an intimate friend; and her letters were welcomed eagerly at the Weimar Court. She was married at seventeen to a man for whom she had no love, and was only eighteen when the poet was born. This, instead of making her prematurely old, seems to have perpetuated her girlhood. "I and my Wolfgang," she said, "have always held fast to each other, because we were both young together." To him she transmitted her love of story-telling, her animal spirits, her love of everything which bore the stamp of distinctive individuality, and her love of seeing happy faces around her. "Order and quiet," she says in one of her charming letters to Freiherr von Stein, "are my principal characteristics. Hence I despatch at once whatever I have to do, the most disagreeable always first, and I gulp down the devil without looking at him. When all has returned to its proper state, then I defy any one to surpass me in good humour." Her heartiness and tolerance are the causes, she thinks, why every one likes her. "I am fond of people, and that every one feels directly—young and old. I pass without pretension through the world, and that gratifies men. I never bemoralise any one—always seek out the good that is in them, and leave what is bad to Him who made mankind, and knows how to round off the angles. In this way I make myself happy and comfortable." Who does not recognise the son in those accents? The kindliest of men inherited his loving, happy nature from the heartiest of women.
WHERE—AND OH! WHERE?
[Sidenote: Henry S. Leigh]
Where are the times when—miles away
From the din and the dust of cities—
Alexis left his lambs to play,
And wooed some shepherdess half the day
With pretty and plaintive ditties?
Where are the pastures daisy-strewn
And the flocks that lived in clover;
The Zephyrs that caught the pastoral tune
And carried away the notes as soon
As ever the notes were over?
Where are the echoes that bore the strains
Each to his nearest neighbour;
And all the valleys and all the plains
Where all the nymphs and their love-sick swains
Made merry to pipe and tabor?
Where are they gone? They are gone to sleep
Where Fancy alone can find them;
But Arcady's times are like the sheep
That quitted the care of Little Bo-peep,
For they've left their tales behind them!
THE SECRETS OF THE HEART
[Sidenote: Austin Dobson]
"Le coeur mène où il va"
SCENE—A Chalet covered with honeysuckle
NINETTE NINON
NINETTE
This way—
NINON
No, this way—
NINETTE
This way, then.
(They enter the Chalet) You are as changing, child—as men.
NINON
But are they? Is it true, I mean?
Who said it?
NINETTE
Sister Séraphine.
She was so pious and so good,
With such sad eyes beneath her hood,
And such poor little feet—all bare!
Her name was Eugénie la Fère.
She used to tell us—moonlight nights—
When I was at the Carmelites.
NINON
Ah, then it must be right. And yet,
Suppose for once—suppose, Ninette—
NINETTE
But what?
NINON
Suppose it were not so?
Suppose there were true men, you know!
NINETTE
And then?
NINON
Why, if that could occur, What kind of men should you prefer?
NINETTE
What looks, you mean?
NINON
Looks, voice and all.
NINETTE
Well, as to that, he must be tall,
Or say, not "tall"—of middle size;
And next, he must have laughing eyes;
And a hook-nose—with, underneath,
Oh! what a row of sparkling teeth!
NINON (touching her cheek suspiciously) Has he a scar on this side?
NINETTE
Hush!
Some one is coming. No; a thrush:
I see it swinging there.
NINON
Go on.
NINETTE
Then he must fence (ah, look, 'tis gone!)
And dance like Monseigneur, and sing
"Love was a Shepherd,"—everything
That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon.
NINON
Shall I? Then mine has black, black hair …
I mean, he should have; then an air Half sad, half noble; features thin; A little royale on the chin; And such a pale, high brow. And then, He is a prince of gentlemen;— He, too, can ride and fence and write Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight No worse for that—
NINETTE
I know your man.
NINON
And I know yours. But you'll not tell—
Swear it!
NINETTE
I swear upon this fan—
My grandmother's!
NINON
And I, I swear
On this old turquoise reliquaire— My great-great-grandmother's!— (After a pause)
Ninette!
I feel so sad.
NINETTE
I too. But why?
NINON
Alas, I know not!
NINETTE (with a sigh) Nor do I.
BRITISH FESTIVITIES
[Sidenote: Mark Twain]
Niagara Falls is a most enjoyable place of resort. The hotels are