DONALD GRANT MITCHELL (1822-1908) ·

Donald G. Mitchell, or Ik Marvel' as he was known to his contemporaries, was a Connecticut writer, a graduate of Yale, who all his life long, save for the period of a consulship at Venice, was a resident of New Haven, on the farm which he has made so well known with such books as My Farm of Edgewood and Wet Days at Edgewood. He wrote much in many literary fields, -satirical essays, travels, popular papers on farm life, a novel, Dr. Johns, 1866, literary criticism, and history, English Lands, Letters, and Kings, 1889. It was, however, his two early books. Reveries of a Bachelor, 1850, and Dream Life. 1851, that first made him widely known, and it is these two that must keep his fame alive if it is not to perish. The dreamy, genial sentimentalism of these books captivated the readers of the mid-nineteenth century, and one must read them to understand fully the period. but even to-day they have not lost their power over readers. There is a delicacy of treatment. a genuineness of feeling, and an atmosphere of leisurely culture that one looks for in vain in our later writers.

REVERIES OF A BACHELOR

FIRST REVERIE

OVER A WOOD-FIRE

the plastering as would set me down for a round charge for damages in town, or make a prim housewife fret herself into a raging fever. I laugh out loud 5 with myself, in my big arm-chair, when I think that I am neither afraid of one nor the other.

I have got a quiet farm-house in the country, a very humble place to be sure, tenanted by a worthy enough man, of As for the fire, I keep the little hearth the old New-England stamp, where I so hot as to warm half the cellar below, sometimes go for a day or two in the 10 and the whole space between the jambs winter, to look over the farm accounts, roars for hours together with white flame. and to see how the stock is thriving on To be sure, the windows are not very the winter's keep. tight, between broken panes and bad joints, so that the fire, large as it is, is by no means an extravagant comfort.

One side the door, as you enter from the porch, is a little parlor, scarce twelve 15 feet by ten, with a cosy-looking fireplace, a heavy oak floor, a couple of armchairs, and a brown table with carved lions' feet. Out of this room opens a little cabinet, only big enough for a broad 20 bachelor bedstead, where I sleep upon feathers, and wake in the morning with my eye upon a saucy colored lithographic print of some fancy Bessie.'

It happens to be the only house in the 25 world of which I am bona-fide owner; and I take a vast deal of comfort in treating it just as I choose. I manage to break some article of furniture, almost every time I pay it a visit: and if I can- 30 not open the window readily of a morning, to breathe the fresh air, I knock out a pane or two of glass with my boot. I lean against the walls in a very old arm-chair there is on the premises, and 35 scarce ever fail to worry such a hole in

As night approaches, I have a huge pile of oak and hickory placed beside the hearth; I put out the tallow candle on the mantel (using the family snuffers, with one leg broke), then, drawing my chair directly in front of the blazing wood, and setting one foot on each of the old iron fire-dogs (until they grow too warm), I dispose myself for an evening of such sober and thoughtful quietude, as I believe, on my soul, that very few of my fellow-men have the good fortune to enjoy.

My tenant, meantime, in the other room, I can hear now and then, though there is a thick stone chimney and broad entry between, multiplying contrivances with his wife to put two babies to sleep. This occupies them, I should say, usually an hour; though my only measure of time (for I never carry a watch into the

But to return. The other evening,— it happened to be on my last visit to my farm-house, when I had exhausted all the ordinary rural topics of thought, had formed all sorts of conjectures as to the 15 income of the year; had planned a new wall around one lot, and the clearing up of another, now covered with patriarchal wood; and wondered if the little rickety house would not be after all a snug enough 20 box to live and to die in,- I fell on a sudden into such an unprecedented line of thought, which took such deep hold of my sympathies - sometimes even starting tears that I determined, the next day, to 25 set as much of it as I could recall, on paper.

Does a man buy a ticket in a lottery — a poor man, whose whole earnings go in to secure the ticket - without trembling, hesitating, and doubting?

Can a man stake his bachelor respectability, his independence and comfort, upon the die of absorbing, unchanging, relentless marriage, without trembling at the venture?

Shall a man who has been free to chase his fancies over the wide world, without let or hindrance, shut himself up to marriage-ship, within four walls called Home, that are to claim him, his time, his trouble, and his thought, thenceforward forevermore, without doubts thick, and thick-coming as Smoke?

Shall he who has been hitherto a mere observer of other men's cares and business, moving off where they made him sick of heart, approaching whenever and wherever they made him gleeful, shall he now undertake administration of just such cares and business, without qualms? Shall he, whose whole life has been but a nimble succession of escapes from trifling difficulties, now broach without Something it may have been the doubtings that Matrimony, where if difhome-looking blaze (I am a bachelor of ficulty beset him, there is no escape? -say six and twenty), or possibly a 30 Shall this brain of mine, careless-workplaintive cry of the baby in my tenant's ing, never tired with idleness, feeding on room had suggested to me the thought long vagaries and high gigantic castles, of Marriage. dreaming out beatitudes hour by hour,turn itself at length to such dull taskwork, as thinking out a livelihood for wife and children?

I piled upon the heated fire-dogs the last armful of my wood; and now, said I, bracing myself courageously between the arms of my chair, I'll not flinch; I'll pursue the thought wherever it leads, though it lead me to the d

35

(I am apt to be hasty).- at least, continued 1,42 softening, until my fire is out.

The wood was green, and at first showed no disposition to blaze. It smoked furiously. Smoke, thought I, always goes before Blaze: and so does 45 doubt go before decision: and my Reverie, from that very starting point, slipped into this shape:

Why not, I thought, go on dreaming?

Can any wife be prettier than an afterdinner fancy, idle and yet vivid, can paint for you? Can any children make less noise than the little, rosy-cheeked ones, who have no existence except in the 55 omnium gatherum of your own brain? Can any housewife be more unexceptional than she who goes sweeping daintily the cobwebs that gather in your dreams?

time if she is n't a dear love of a wife?' Then, dear father-in-law will beg (taking dear Peggy's hand in his), to give a little wholesome counsel; and will be 5 very sure to advise just the contrary of what you had determined to undertake. And dear mama-in-law must set her nose into Peggy's cupboard, and insist upon having the key to your own private locker

But if, after all, it must be,- duty, or what-not, making provocation,-what then? And I clapped my feet hard against 10 in the wainscot. the fire-dogs, and leaned back, and turned my face to the ceiling, as much as to say, And where on earth, then, shall a poor devil look for a wife?

Somebody says,- Lyttleton or Shaftesbury I think, that marriages would be happier if they were all arranged by the Lord Chancellor.' Unfortunately, we have no Lord Chancellor to make this commutation of our misery.

Then, perhaps, there is a little bevy of dirty-nosed nephews who come to spend the holidays, and eat up your East India sweetmeats; and who are forever tramping over your head, or raising the old Harry below, while you are busy with your clients. Last, and worse, is some fidgety old uncle, forever too cold or too hot, who vexes you with his patronizing 20 airs, and impudently kisses his little Peggy!

But if not rich, then poor. Bah! the thought made me stir the coals; but there was still no blaze. The paltry earnings you are able to wring out of clients by the sweat of your brow, will now be all our income; you will be pestered for pinmoney, and pestered with your poor wife's relations. Ten to one, she will stickle 55 about taste, Sir Visto's,'- and want to make this so pretty, and that so charming, if she only had the means; and is sure Paul (a kiss) can't deny his little Peggy

such a trifling sum, and all for the common benefit.

Then she, for one, means that her children shan't go a-begging for clothes,and another pull at the purse. Trust a poor mother to dress her children in finery!

Perhaps she is ugly; not noticeable at first, but growing on her, and (what is worse) growing faster on you. You won- 10 der why you did n't see that vulgar nose long ago; and that lip - it is very strange, you think, that you ever thought it pretty. And then, to come to breakfast, with her hair looking as it does, and you not so 15 much as daring to say, 'Peggy, do brush your hair!' Her foot too not very bad when decently chaussée - but now since she's married she does wear such infernal slippers! And yet for all this, to be 20 prigging up for an hour when any of my old chums come to dine with me!

enough, mild enough, only she does n't care a fig for you. She has married you because father or grandfather thought the match eligible, and because she did n't 5 wish to disoblige them. Besides, she did n't positively hate you, and thought you were a respectable enough young person; she has told you so repeatedly at dinner. She wonders you like to read poetry; she wishes you would buy her a good cook-book, and insists upon your making your will at the birth of the first baby.

'Bless your kind hearts! my dear fellows,' said I, thrusting the tongs into the coals, and speaking out loud, as if my 25 voice could reach from Virginia to Paris: 'not married yet!''

Perhaps Peggy is pretty enough, only shrewish.

No matter for cold coffee; you should 30 have been up before.

What sad, thin, poorly cooked chops, to eat with your rolls! — she thinks they are very good, and wonders how you can set such an example to your children.

The butter is nauseating.

She thinks Captain So-and-So a splendid-looking fellow, and wishes you would trim up a little, were it only for appearance's sake.

You need not hurry up from the office so early at night: she, bless her dear heart! does not feel lonely. You read to her a love-tale; she interrupts the pathetic parts with directions to her seamstress. You read of marriages: she sighs, and asks if Captain So-and-So has left town? She hates to be mewed up in a cottage, or between brick walls; she does so love the Springs!

But, again, Peggy loves you; at least she swears it, with her hand on the Sorrows of Werther. She has pin-money which she spends for the Literary World and the Friends in Council. She is not bad-looking, save a bit too much of forehead; nor is she sluttish, unless a 35 negligé till three o'clock, and an ink-stain on the forefinger be sluttish; but then she is such a sad blue!

She had not other, and hopes you'll not raise a storm about butter a little turned. I think I see myself, ruminated I, sitting meekly at table, scarce daring to 40 lift up my eyes, utterly fagged out with some quarrel of yesterday, choking down detestably sour muffins, that my wife thinks are delicious,' slipping in dried mouthfuls of burnt ham off the side of my 45 fork tines, slipping off my chair sideways at the end, and slipping out, with my hat between my knees, to business, and never feeling myself a competent, soundminded man, till the oak door is between 50 me and Peggy.

'Ha, ha! not yet!' said I; and in so earnest a tone that my dog started to his feet, cocked his eye to have a good look into my face, met my smile of triumph 55 with an amiable wag of the tail, and curled up again in the corner.

Again, Peggy is rich enough, well

You never fancied, when you saw her buried in a three-volume novel, that it was anything more than a girlish vagary; and when she quoted Latin, you thought innocently that she had a capital memory for her samplers.

But to be bored eternally about divine Dante and funny Goldoni, is too bad. Your copy of Tasso, a treasure print of 1680, is all bethumbed, and dogs-eared, and spotted with baby-gruel. Even your Seneca an Elzevir-is all sweaty with handling. She adores La Fontaine, reads Balzac with a kind of artist-scowl, and will not let Greek alone.

You hint at broken rest and an aching head at breakfast, and she will fling you a scrap of Anthology, in lieu of the camphor-bottle, or chant the alã of tragic chorus.

The nurse is getting dinner; you are