NIGHT-SKETCHES,
BENEATH AN UMBRELLA.
Pleasant is a rainy winter's day within-doors. The best study for sucha day--or the best amusement: call it what you will--is a book oftravels describing scenes the most unlike that sombre one which ismistily presented through the windows. I have experienced that Fancyis then most successful in imparting distinct shapes and vivid colorsto the objects which the author has spread upon his page, and that hiswords become magic spells to summon up a thousand varied pictures.Strange landscapes glimmer through the familiar walls of the room, andoutlandish figures thrust themselves almost within the sacredprecincts of the hearth. Small as my chamber is, it has space enoughto contain the ocean-like circumference of an Arabian desert, itsparched sands tracked by the long line of a caravan with the camelspatiently journeying through the heavy sunshine. Though my ceiling benot lofty, yet I can pile up the mountains of Central Asia beneath ittill their summits shine far above the clouds of the middleatmosphere. And with my humble means--a wealth that is not taxable--Ican transport hither the magnificent merchandise of an Orientalbazaar, and call a crowd of purchasers from distant countries to pay afair profit for the precious articles which are displayed on allsides. True it is, however, that amid the bustle of traffic, orwhatever else may seem to be going on around me, the raindrops willoccasionally be heard to patter against my window-panes, which lookforth upon one of the quietest streets in a New England town. After atime, too, the visions vanish, and will not appear again at mybidding. Then, it being nightfall, a gloomy sense of unrealitydepresses my spirits, and impels me to venture out before the clockshall strike bedtime to satisfy myself that the world is not entirelymade up of such shadowy materials as have busied me throughout theday. A dreamer may dwell so long among fantasies that the thingswithout him will seem as unreal as those within.
When eve has fairly set in, therefore, I sally forth, tightlybuttoning my shaggy overcoat and hoisting my umbrella, the silken domeof which immediately resounds with the heavy drumming of the invisibleraindrops. Pausing on the lowest doorstep, I contrast the warmth andcheerfulness of my deserted fireside with the drear obscurity andchill discomfort into which I am about to plunge. Now come fearfulauguries innumerable as the drops of rain. Did not my manhood cryshame upon me, I should turn back within-doors, resume my elbow-chair,my slippers and my book, pass such an evening of sluggish enjoyment asthe day has been, and go to bed inglorious. The same shiveringreluctance, no doubt, has quelled for a moment the adventurous spiritof many a traveller when his feet, which were destined to measure theearth around, were leaving their last tracks in the home-paths.
In my own case poor human nature may be allowed a few misgivings. Ilook upward and discern no sky, not even an unfathomable void, butonly a black, impenetrable nothingness, as though heaven and all itslights were blotted from the system of the universe. It is as ifNature were dead and the world had put on black and the clouds wereweeping for her. With their tears upon my cheek I turn my eyesearthward, but find little consolation here below. A lamp is burningdimly at the distant corner, and throws just enough of light along thestreet to show, and exaggerate by so faintly showing, the perils anddifficulties which beset my path. Yonder dingily-white remnant of ahuge snowbank, which will yet cumber the sidewalk till the latter daysof March, over or through that wintry waste must I stride onward.Beyond lies a certain Slough of Despond, a concoction of mud andliquid filth, ankle-deep, leg-deep, neck-deep--in a word, of unknownbottom--on which the lamplight does not even glimmer, but which I haveoccasionally watched in the gradual growth of its horrors from morntill nightfall. Should I flounder into its depths, farewell to upperearth! And hark! how roughly resounds the roaring of a stream theturbulent career of which is partially reddened by the gleam of thelamp, but elsewhere brawls noisily through the densest gloom! Oh,should I be swept away in fording that impetuous and unclean torrent,the coroner will have a job with an unfortunate gentleman who wouldfain end his troubles anywhere but in a mud-puddle.
Pshaw! I will linger not another instant at arm's-length from thesedim terrors, which grow more obscurely formidable the longer I delayto grapple with them. Now for the onset, and, lo! with little damagesave a dash of rain in the face and breast, a splash of mud high upthe pantaloons and the left boot full of ice-cold water, behold me atthe corner of the street. The lamp throws down a circle of red lightaround me, and twinkling onward from corner to corner I discern otherbeacons, marshalling my way to a brighter scene. But this is alonesome and dreary spot. The tall edifices bid gloomy defiance to thestorm with their blinds all closed, even as a man winks when he facesa spattering gust. How loudly tinkles the collected rain down the tinspouts! The puffs of wind are boisterous, and seem to assail me fromvarious quarters at once. I have often observed that this corner is ahaunt and loitering-place for those winds which have no work to doupon the deep dashing ships against our iron-bound shores, nor in theforest tearing up the sylvan giants with half a rood of soil at theirvast roots. Here they amuse themselves with lesser freaks of mischief.See, at this moment, how they assail yonder poor woman who is passingjust within the verge of the lamplight! One blast struggles for herumbrella and turns it wrong side outward, another whisks the cape ofher cloak across her eyes, while a third takes most unwarrantableliberties with the lower part of her attire. Happily, the good dame isno gossamer, but a figure of rotundity and fleshly substance; elsewould these aerial tormentors whirl her aloft like a witch upon abroomstick, and set her down, doubtless, in the filthiest kennelhereabout.
From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the centre of the town.Here there is almost as brilliant an illumination as when some greatvictory has been won either on the battlefield or at the polls. Tworows of shops with windows down nearly to the ground cast a glow fromside to side, while the black night hangs overhead like a canopy, andthus keeps the splendor from diffusing itself away. The wet sidewalksgleam with a broad sheet of red light. The raindrops glitter as if thesky were pouring down rubies. The spouts gush with fire. Methinks thescene is an emblem of the deceptive glare which mortals throw aroundtheir footsteps in the moral world, thus bedazzling themselves tillthey forget the impenetrable obscurity that hems them in, and that canbe dispelled only by radiance from above.
And, after all, it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are thewanderers in it. Here comes one who has so long been familiar withtempestuous weather that he takes the bluster of the storm for afriendly greeting, as if it should say, "How fare ye, brother?" He isa retired sea-captain wrapped in some nameless garment of thepea-jacket order, and is now laying his course toward themarine-insurance office, there to spin yarns of gale and shipwreckwith a crew of old seadogs like himself. The blast will put in itsword among their hoarse voices, and be understood by all of them. NextI meet an unhappy slipshod gentleman with a cloak flung hastily overhis shoulders, running a race with boisterous winds and striving toglide between the drops of rain. Some domestic emergency or other hasblown this miserable man from his warm fireside in quest of a doctor.See that little vagabond! How carelessly he has taken his stand rightunderneath a spout while staring at some object of curiosity in ashop-window! Surely the rain is his native element; he must havefallen with it from the clouds, as frogs are supposed to do.
Here is a picture, and a pretty one--a young man and a girl, bothenveloped in cloaks and huddled beneath the scanty protection of acotton umbrella. She wears rubber overshoes, but he is in hisdancing-pumps, and they are on their way no doubt, to somecotillon-party or subscription-ball at a dollar a head, refreshmentsincluded. Thus they struggle against the gloomy tempest, lured onwardby a vision of festal splendor. But ah! a most lamentable disaster!Bewildered by the red, blue and yellow meteors in an apothecary'swindow, they have stepped upon a slippery remnant of ice, and areprecipitated into a confluence of swollen floods at the corner of twostreets. Luckless lovers! Were it my nature to be other than alooker-on in life, I would attempt your rescue. Since that may not be,I vow, should you be drowned,
to weave such a pathetic story of yourfate as shall call forth tears enough to drown you both anew. Do yetouch bottom, my young friends? Yes; they emerge like a water-nymphand a river-deity, and paddle hand in hand out of the depths of thedark pool. They hurry homeward, dripping, disconsolate, abashed, butwith love too warm to be chilled by the cold water. They have stood atest which proves too strong for many. Faithful though over head andears in trouble!
Onward I go, deriving a sympathetic joy or sorrow from the variedaspect of mortal affairs even as my figure catches a gleam from thelighted windows or is blackened by an interval of darkness. Not thatmine is altogether a chameleon spirit with no hue of its own. Now Ipass into a more retired street where the dwellings of wealth andpoverty are intermingled, presenting a range of strongly-contrastedpictures. Here, too, may be found the golden mean. Through yondercasement I discern a family circle--the grandmother, the parents andthe children--all flickering, shadow-like, in the glow of awood-fire.--Bluster, fierce blast, and beat, thou wintry rain, againstthe window-panes! Ye cannot damp the enjoyment of that fireside.--Surelymy fate is hard that I should be wandering homeless here, taking to mybosom night and storm and solitude instead of wife and children.Peace, murmurer! Doubt not that darker guests are sitting round thehearth, though the warm blaze hides all but blissful images.
Well, here is still a brighter scene--a stately mansion illuminatedfor a ball, with cut-glass chandeliers and alabaster lamps in everyroom, and sunny landscapes hanging round the walls. See! a coach hasstopped, whence emerges a slender beauty who, canopied by twoumbrellas, glides within the portal and vanishes amid lightsomethrills of music. Will she ever feel the night-wind and the rain?Perhaps--perhaps! And will Death and Sorrow ever enter that proudmansion? As surely as the dancers will be gay within its hallsto-night. Such thoughts sadden yet satisfy my heart, for they teach methat the poor man in this mean, weatherbeaten hovel, without a fire tocheer him, may call the rich his brother--brethren by Sorrow, who mustbe an inmate of both their households; brethren by Death, who willlead them both to other homes.
Onward, still onward, I plunge into the night. Now have I reached theutmost limits of the town, where the last lamp struggles feebly withthe darkness like the farthest star that stands sentinel on theborders of uncreated space. It is strange what sensations of sublimitymay spring from a very humble source. Such are suggested by thishollow roar of a subterranean cataract where the mighty stream of akennel precipitates itself beneath an iron grate and is seen no moreon earth. Listen a while to its voice of mystery, and Fancy willmagnify it till you start and smile at the illusion. And now anothersound--the rumbling of wheels as the mail-coach, outward bound, rollsheavily off the pavements and splashes through the mud and water ofthe road. All night long the poor passengers will be tossed to and frobetween drowsy watch and troubled sleep, and will dream of their ownquiet beds and awake to find themselves still jolting onward. Happiermy lot, who will straightway hie me to my familiar room and toastmyself comfortably before the fire, musing and fitfully dozing andfancying a strangeness in such sights as all may see. But first let megaze at this solitary figure who comes hitherward with a tin lanternwhich throws the circular pattern of its punched holes on the groundabout him. He passes fearlessly into the unknown gloom, whither I willnot follow him.
This figure shall supply me with a moral wherewith, for lack of a moreappropriate one, I may wind up my sketch. He fears not to tread thedreary path before him, because his lantern, which was kindled at thefireside of his home, will light him back to that same fireside again.And thus we, night-wanderers through a stormy and dismal world, if webear the lamp of Faith enkindled at a celestial fire, it will surelylead us home to that heaven whence its radiance was borrowed.
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