“It is because I am a Western literati,” she exclaimed to her brother, with a lofty contempt for grammar. “If I were a Boston or New York literati, they would be glad to get my productions.”
“I reckon you’re right, Melindy,” said her brother Ichabod. “Why don’t you have your perductions, as you call ’em, mailed in Boston or New York? You could send ’em to somebody there.”
“Thank you, I wouldn’t stoop to the subterfuge,” said Melinda, reciting melodramatically:
“Breathes there a girl with soul so dead,
Who never to herself hath said,
Wisconsin is my native State?”
“Good!” said her brother. “When did you make up them verses?”
“They are not mine,” confessed Melinda. “They are by Byron.”
“Are they, now? He was a smart feller, wasn’t he?”
“He was an inspired poet, Ichabod; but you wouldn’t understand him. He soars into the realms of the evanescent.”
“Does he? Then I guess I couldn’t. I ain’t much on soarin’.”
At half-past seven o’clock a knock was heard at the door of Melinda’s boudoir.
“Ichabod, open the door,” she said.
Her brother obeyed the command. As Barclay and Walter entered the room, they beheld4 their fair hostess seated at the center table, with a volume of poems resting on her lap, while one hand supported her forehead, the elbow resting on the table. She had practiced this attitude during the afternoon before a looking-glass, and considered it effective.
She lifted her eyes slowly, appearing wrapt in meditation5.
“Pardon my pensive6 preoccupation,” she said, rising and greeting her guests. “I was communing with Milton. Do you often commune with him, Mr. Barclay?”
“Indeed, Mr. Howard, I am glad to hear that. You and me will be congenial.”
“You flatter me, Miss Jones,” said Walter, looking sober, but wanting to laugh.
“Sometimes,” said Walter. “I hear you are an authoress.”
“A little of one,” said Melinda, modestly.
“I hope you will favor us by reading something of your own.”
“Indeed, Mr. Howard,” said Melinda, with affected10 bashfulness, “I should be afraid to submit my careless productions to gentlemen of such literary taste. I did indeed throw off a few rhymes to-day, but----”
“We shall be glad to hear them, Miss Jones. Perhaps, after you have read them, my friend, Mr. Howard, will read something.”
“Oh, that will be delightful11! In that case I cannot refuse. Ichabod, will you bring me that portfolio12 from the desk?”
Her brother, whom Melinda was in the habit of ordering around, complied with his sister’s request.
Melinda drew out a sheet of note paper and unfolded it.
“I hope, Mr. Howard, you will not be severe upon my verses. They were written this afternoon, in a fit of inspiration. You will see that they reveal my too susceptible13 soul. I am subject to fits----”
“Why, Melinda,” broke in her brother, “you never told me you had fits?”
“To fits of lonely contemplation,” continued Melinda, looking severely14 at her brother, “and it was in one of these that I penned the following stanzas15.”
Melinda cleared her throat, and read as follows, in an impressive voice:
“Oh, lay me to sleep in the deep, deep sea,
For my life is dark and drear;
Or give me the wings to soar aloft,--
I am tired of living here.
“I feel that I am not understood;
My thoughts are far too deep
For the common crowd, who only care
To eat and drink and sleep.
“My soul walks through the world alone,
Where it e’er must sadly roam.
Pining for congenial company
“I wreathe my face in hollow smiles,
And people think me glad;
They cannot see my aching heart,
For I am ever sad.
“Then lay me to sleep in the deep, deep sea;
For my life is dark and drear;
Or give me wings to soar aloft,--
I am tired of living here.”
“It takes Melinda to string off the rhymes,” said Ichabod, who took his sister at her own valuation, and firmly believed her to be a genius. “She writes ’em just as easy!”
“Do you share her talent, Mr. Jones?” asked Walter, gravely.
“Me? I couldn’t write poetry if you was to pay me ten dollars a line. I shouldn’t want to, either, if I’d got to feel as Melinda says she does in them verses she just read.”
“It is the penalty of a too-sensitive soul. Surely you have had such feelings, Mr. Howard. I am afraid you were not favorably impressed by my poor verses.”
This she said, anxious to draw out expressions of admiration17.
“The lines are very smooth, Miss Jones,” said Walter, “but I cannot say I ever have quite such feelings. I am of a cheerful temperament18, and my muse would not soar to such lofty heights as yours.”
“I envy you, Mr. Howard,” said Melinda, with a sigh. “I wish my muse were not so thoughtful and contemplative. Have you not some poem you could read us? Mr. Barclay says you are a poet.”
“I am afraid Mr. Barclay has spoken without authority.”
“Come, Mr. Howard, you must read Miss Jones the verses you wrote this afternoon.”
“What! Were you, too, provoking the muse, Mr. Howard?” asked Melinda, with eager interest.
“I am afraid I was,” said Walter, gravely, choosing to understand the young lady’s words literally19.
In fact he had written a few verses, at Mr. Barclay’s suggestion, “for the fun of it,” in order to contribute his quota20 to the feast of reason expected in the evening.
“But I hope you will excuse my reading it,” he added, with affected bashfulness.
“Indeed I will not. Mr. Barclay, help me to persuade Mr. Howard.”
Walter finally yielded, as he intended to do all the while, but on condition that Mr. Barclay would read the poem. This being accepted, Barclay read, with appropriate emphasis, the following verses, which were modeled after a song found in a small collection of minstrel verses in Walter’s possession:
“Around the little cottage
Waved fields of golden grain
And in it lived my heart’s delight,--
My Sophronisba Jane.
Within the pleasant homestead
Of Sophronisba Jane.
“Her cheeks were like red apples,
Her dress of neat de laine;
Was Sophronisba Jane.
“You cannot find in far-off climes,
In Italy or Spain,
A girl that’s half so charming
As Sophronisba Jane.
Instead of humble swain,
I still would seek to win the love
Of Sophronisba Jane.”
“How sweet!” murmured Melinda. “Indeed you are a true poet, Mr. Howard.”
“Thank you,” said Walter, who had hard work not to laugh, knowing himself what ridiculous rubbish his verses were.
“By Jove! that’s my style of poetry,” said Mr. Jones, energetically. “I like that better than yours, Melindy.”
“Oh, it don’t compare with your sister’s, Mr. Jones,” said Walter, modestly. “It doesn’t soar to such lofty heights.”
“Now, Mr. Howard, I think it excellent,” said Miss Jones, who was delighted at the praise of her own production. “I cannot expect all to be so contemplative as I am. My muse loves to dwell alone in primeval solitude25. Yours seeks the woodland glade26.”
“You have expressed the difference admirably, Miss Jones,” said Barclay, gravely. “Mr. Jones and myself unluckily cannot soar with you and Mr. Howard. We can only look on in silent admiration.”
“Do you often indite27 verses, Mr. Howard?” asked Melinda. “I hope you will show me all your productions.”
“I seldom write, Miss Jones. Whenever I do, I shall be sure to ask your critical opinion of my verses.”
But it is unnecessary to detail the rest of the conversation. Later in the evening some nuts, apples and raisins28 were passed around, to which Melinda did full justice, notwithstanding her unsatisfied longings29 and the solitude of her soul.
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1
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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unanimity
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| n.全体一致，一致同意 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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15
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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quota
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| n.（生产、进出口等的）配额，（移民的）限额 | |
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21
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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26
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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27
indite
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作 | |
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28
raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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29
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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