Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1841-1853, 1851-09-18
A Picture For Bachelors.

If in that chair yonder-not the one your feet lie
upon, but the other beside you-closer yet-were
seated a sweet-faced girl, with pretty little foot ly-
ing out upon the HEARTH bit of lace running round
the throat and the hair parted TO charm over FORE
head fair any in your dreams, and if you could
reach an arm through that chair-back without fear
of giving offence, and suffer your fingers TO play idly
with those curs that escape down the neck, and If
you could clasp with your other hand those little
white taper fingers of hers which lie SO temptngly
within reach, and talk softly and low in the pres
ence of the blaze, while the hours slip without knowl-
edge and the winter winds whistle uncared for-if,
in short, you bachelor, but the husband of
such a sweete image-dream call il rather-would il
not be far peasanter than cold single night sitting
counting the sticks reckoning the length of the blaze
and the height of the falling snow?
Surely imagination would be stronger and purer if
it could have the playful fancies of dawning
hood TO delight it. All toll would be torn from mind
labor, if but another heart grew into this present,
soul-quickening it, warming it, cheering it, bidding
it ever God speed. Her face would make halo rich
as rainbow top of all such noisome things as we
lonely souls call trouble. Her smiles would illu-
mine the blacklist of crowded cares; and darkness
that seats you respondent in your solitary chair
for days together, weaving bitter fancies, dreaming
bitter dreams, would grow light and thin, and spread
and float away, chased by that beloved smile. Your
friend, poor fellow, dies-never mind; that gentle
clasp of her fingers, as she steals behind you telling
you not to weep-it is worth ten friends.
Your sister, sweet one, is dead-buried. The
worms are busy with all her fairness. How ii makes
you think earth nothing but spot to dig graves up
on! II is more. She says she will be sister; and
the waving curls, as she leans upon your shoulder,
touch your cheek and your wet eye turns to meet
those other eyes. God has sent his angel surely!
Your mother-alas for it!-she is gone! Is there
any bitterness TO youth alone and homeless like
this? You are not alone. She is there--her tears
sofening yours her grief killing yours, and you live
again to assuage that kind sorrow of hers. Then
these children rosy, fair-haired-no, they do not dis
turb you with prattle now; they yours. Toss
away there on the green sward. Never mind the
hyacnhs the snow-drops the violets, If so be they
are there. The perfume of their healthful lips is
worth all the flowers in the world.
No need to gather wild bouquets to love and
cherish. Flower, tree, gun, all dead things.
Things ivelier hold your SOUL and she, the mother,
sweetest and fairest of all, watching, tending
ing, loving till your own heart grows panied with
tenderest jealousy. You have no need now of cold
lecture, to teach hankfulness; your heart is full of
it-no need now, as once, of bursting blossoms, of
trees taking leaf and greenness TO turn thought kind
ly and thankfully; for beside you there is bloom
and ever beside you there is fruit for which eye,
heart, and soul fsIl of unknown, unspoken, be-
cause unspeakable thank NEUTRALITY-SUSPICIOUS. Of a
Bachelor.