FullReads

After Melvina Felton had gone, Caroline Gay’s manner changed a good deal. Her cheek, the color of which had heightened during her conversation with her friend, still retained its beautiful glow, but the expression of her usually calm face was changed, and slightly marked by what seemed troubled thoughts. She sat almost motionless for nearly two minutes, and then rose up slowly with a slight sigh, and went to her chamber.

It was early on the same evening that Henry Clarence, the subject of her conversation with Melvina, called in, as he not unfrequently did, to spend an hour in pleasant conversation with Caroline Gay. He found her in the parlor reading.

“At your books, I see,” he remarked, in a pleasant tone, as he entered.

“Yes; I find my thoughts need exciting by contact with the thoughts of others. A good book helps us much sometimes.”

“You were reading a book then. May I ask its author?”

“Degerando.”

“You are right in calling this a good book, Caroline,” he said, glancing at the title page, to which she had opened, as she handed him the volume. “Self-education is a most important matter, and with such a guide as Degerando, few can go wrong.”

“So I think. He is not so abstract, nor does he border on transcendentalism, like Coleridge, who notwithstanding these peculiarities I am yet fond of reading. Degerando opens for you your own heart, and not only opens it, but gives you the means of self-control at every point of your exploration.”

The beautiful countenance of Caroline was lit up by pure thoughts, and Henry Clarence could not help gazing upon her with a lively feeling of admiration.

“I cannot but approve your taste,” he said.–“But do you not also read the lighter works of the day?”

“I do not certainly pass all these by. I would lose much were I to do so. But I read only a few, and those emanating from such minds as James, Scott, and especially our own Miss Sedgwick. The latter is particularly my favorite. Her pictures, besides being true to nature, are pictures of home. The life she sketches, is the life that is passing all around us–perhaps in the family, unknown to us, who hold the relation of next door neighbors.”

“Your discrimination is just. After reading Miss Sedgwick, our sympathies for our fellow creatures take a more humane range. We are moved by an impulse to do good–to relieve the suffering–to regulate our own action in regard to others by a higher and better rule. You are a reader of the poets, too–and like myself, I believe, are an admirer of Wordsworth’s calm and deep sympathy with the better and nobler principles of our nature.”

“The simple beauty of Wordsworth has ever charmed me. How much of the good and true, like precious jewels set in gold, are scattered thickly over his pages!”

“And Byron and Shelly–can you not enjoy them?” Clarence asked, with something of lively interest in her reply, expressed in his countenance.

“It were but an affectation to say that I can find nothing in them that is beautiful, nothing to please, nothing to admire. I have read many things in the writings of these men that were exquisitely beautiful. Many portions of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage are not surpassed for grandeur, beauty, and force, in the English language: and the Alastor of Shelly, is full of passages of exquisite tenderness and almost unequalled finish of versification. But I have never laid either of them down with feelings that I wished might remain. They excite the mind to a feverish and unhealthy action. We find little in them to deepen our sympathies with our fellows–little to make better the heart, or wiser the head.”

“You discriminate with clearness, Caroline,” he said; “I did not know that you looked so narrowly into the merits of the world’s favorites. But to change the subject; do you intend going to Mrs. Walsingham’s next week?”