It delighted me to receive Mr. Bright, for the first time,under a roof, though a very humble one, which I could reallycall my own. Nor did I fail (as is the custom of landedproprietors all about the world) to parade the poor fellow upand down over my half a dozen acres; secretly rejoicing,nevertheless, that the disarray of the inclement season, andparticularly the six inches of snow then upon the ground,prevented him from observing the ragged neglect of soil andshrubbery into which the place had lapsed. It was idle,however, to imagine that an airy guest from Monument Mountain,Bald Summit, and old Graylock, shaggy with primeval forests,could see anything to admire in my poor little hillside, withits growth of frail and insect-eaten locust trees. Eustace veryfrankly called the view from my hill top tame; and so, nodoubt, it was, after rough, broken, rugged, headlong Berkshire,and especially the northern parts of the county, with which hiscollege residence had made him familiar. But to me there is apeculiar, quiet charm in these broad meadows and gentleeminences. They are better than mountains, because they do notstamp and stereotype themselves into the brain, and thus growwearisome with the same strong impression, repeated day afterday. A few summer weeks among mountains, a lifetime among greenmeadows and placid slopes, with outlines forever new, becausecontinually fading out of the memory--such would be my soberchoice.
I doubt whether Eustace did not internally pronounce the wholething a bore, until I led him to my predecessor's littleruined, rustic summer house, midway on the hillside. It is amere skeleton of slender, decaying tree trunks, with neitherwalls nor a roof; nothing but a tracery of branches and twigs,which the next wintry blast will be very likely to scatter infragments along the terrace. It looks, and is, as evanescent asa dream; and yet, in its rustic network of boughs, it hassomehow enclosed a hint of spiritual beauty, and has become atrue emblem of the subtile and ethereal mind that planned it. Imade Eustace Bright sit down on a snow bank, which had heapeditself over the mossy seat, and gazing through the archedwindows opposite, he acknowledged that the scene at once grewpicturesque.
"Simple as it looks," said he, "this little edifice seems to bethe work of magic. It is full of suggestiveness, and, in itsway, is as good as a cathedral. Ah, it would be just the spotfor one to sit in, of a summer afternoon, and tell the childrensome more of those wild stories from the classic myths!"
"It would, indeed," answered I. "The summer house itself, soairy and so broken, is like one of those old tales, imperfectlyremembered; and these living branches of the Baldwin appletree, thrusting so rudely in, are like your unwarrantableinterpolations. But, by the by, have you added any more legendsto the series, since the publication of the 'Wonder-Book'?"
"Many more," said Eustace; "Primrose, Periwinkle, and the restof them, allow me no comfort of my life unless I tell them astory every day or two. I have run away from home partly toescape the importunity of these little wretches! But I havewritten out six of the new stories, and have brought them foryou to look over."
"Are they as good as the first?" I inquired.
"Better chosen, and better handled," replied Eustace Bright."You will say so when you read them."
"Possibly not," I remarked. "I know from my own experience,that an author's last work is always his best one, in his ownestimate, until it quite loses the red heat of composition.After that, it falls into its true place, quietly enough. Butlet us adjourn to my study, and examine these new stories. Itwould hardly be doing yourself justice, were you to bring meacquainted with them, sitting here on this snow bank!"
So we descended the hill to my small, old cottage, and shutourselves up in the south-eastern room, where the sunshinecomes in, warmly and brightly, through the better half of awinter's day. Eustace put his bundle of manuscript into myhands; and I skimmed through it pretty rapidly, trying to findout its merits and demerits by the touch of my fingers, as aveteran story-teller ought to know how to do.
It will be remembered that Mr. Bright condescended to availhimself of my literary experience by constituting me editor ofthe "Wonder-Book." As he had no reason to complain of thereception of that erudite work by the public, he was nowdisposed to retain me in a similar position with respect to thepresent volume, which he entitled TANGLEWOOD TALES. Not, asEustace hinted, that there was any real necessity for myservices as introducer, inasmuch as his own name had becomeestablished in some good degree of favor with the literaryworld. But the connection with myself, he was kind enough tosay, had been highly agreeable; nor was he by any meansdesirous, as most people are, of kicking away the ladder thathad perhaps helped him to reach his present elevation. My youngfriend was willing, in short, that the fresh verdure of hisgrowing reputation should spread over my straggling andhalf-naked boughs; even as I have sometimes thought of traininga vine, with its broad leafiness, and purple fruitage, over theworm-eaten posts and rafters of the rustic summer house. I wasnot insensible to the advantages of his proposal, and gladlyassured him of my acceptance.
Merely from the title of the stories I saw at once that thesubjects were not less rich than those of the former volume;nor did I at all doubt that Mr. Bright's audacity (so far asthat endowment might avail) had enabled him to take fulladvantage of whatever capabilities they offered. Yet, in spiteof my experience of his free way of handling them, I did notquite see, I confess, how he could have obviated all thedifficulties in the way of rendering them presentable tochildren. These old legends, so brimming over with everythingthat is most abhorrent to our Christianized moral sense some ofthem so hideous, others so melancholy and miserable, amid whichthe Greek tragedians sought their themes, and moulded them intothe sternest forms of grief that ever the world saw; was suchmaterial the stuff that children's playthings should be madeof! How were they to be purified? How was the blessed sunshineto be thrown into them?
But Eustace told me that these myths were the most singularthings in the world, and that he was invariably astonished,whenever he began to relate one, by the readiness with which itadapted itself to the childish purity of his auditors. Theobjectionable characteristics seem to be a parasitical growth,having no essential connection with the original fable. Theyfall away, and are thought of no more, the instant he puts hisimagination in sympathy with the innocent little circle, whosewide-open eyes are fixed so eagerly upon him. Thus the stories(not by any strained effort of the narrator's, but in harmonywith their inherent germ) transform themselves, and re-assumethe shapes which they might be supposed to possess in the purechildhood of the world. When the first poet or romancer toldthese marvellous legends (such is Eustace Bright's opinion), itwas still the Golden Age. Evil had never yet existed; andsorrow, misfortune, crime, were mere shadows which the mindfancifully created for itself, as a shelter against too sunnyrealities; or, at most, but prophetic dreams to which thedreamer himself did not yield a waking credence. Children arenow the only representatives of the men and women of that happyera; and therefore it is that we must raise the intellect andfancy to the level of childhood, in order to re-create theoriginal myths.
I let the youthful author talk as much and as extravagantly ashe pleased, and was glad to see him commencing life with suchconfidence in himself and his performances. A few years will doall that is necessary towards showing him the truth in bothrespects. Meanwhile, it is but right to say, he does reallyappear to have overcome the moral objections against thesefables, although at the expense of such liberties with theirstructure as must be left to plead their own excuse, withoutany help from me. Indeed, except that there was a necessity forit--and that the inner life of the legends cannot be come atsave by making them entirely one's own property--there is nodefense to be made.
Eustace informed me that he had told his stories to thechildren in various situations--in the woods, on the shore ofthe lake, in the dell of Shadow Brook, in the playroom, atTanglewood fireside, and in a magnificent palace of snow, withice windows, which he helped his little friends to build. Hisauditors were even more delighted with the contents of thepresent volume than with the specimens which have already beengiven to the world. The classically learned Mr. Pringle, too,had listened to two or three of the tales, and censured themeven more bitterly than he did THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES; sothat, what with praise, and what with criticism, Eustace Brightthinks that there is good hope of at least as much success withthe public as in the case of the "WonderBook."
I made all sorts of inquiries about the children, not doubtingthat there would be great eagerness to hear of their welfare,among some good little folks who have written to me, to ask foranother volume of myths. They are all, I am happy to say(unless we except Clover), in excellent health and spirits.Primrose is now almost a young lady, and, Eustace tells me, isjust as saucy as ever. She pretends to consider herself quitebeyond the age to be interested by such idle stories as these;but, for all that, whenever a story is to be told, Primrosenever fails to be one of the listeners, and to make fun of itwhen finished. Periwinkle is very much grown, and is expectedto shut up her baby house and throw away her doll in a month ortwo more. Sweet Fern has learned to read and write, and has puton a jacket and pair of pantaloons--all of which improvements Iam sorry for. Squash Blossom, Blue Eye, Plantain, and Buttercuphave had the scarlet fever, but came easily through it.Huckleberry, Milkweed, and Dandelion were attacked with thewhooping cough, but bore it bravely, and kept out of doorswhenever the sun shone. Cowslip, during the autumn, had eitherthe measles, or some eruption that looked very much like it,but was hardly sick a day. Poor Clover has been a good dealtroubled with her second teeth, which have made her meagre inaspect and rather fractious in temper; nor, even when shesmiles, is the matter much mended, since it discloses a gapjust within her lips, almost as wide as the barn door. But allthis will pass over, and it is predicted that she will turn outa very pretty girl.
As for Mr. Bright himself, he is now in his senior year atWilliams College, and has a prospect of graduating with somedegree of honorable distinction at the next Commencement. Inhis oration for the bachelor's degree, he gives me tounderstand, he will treat of the classical myths, viewed in theaspect of baby stories, and has a great mind to discuss theexpediency of using up the whole of ancient history, for thesame purpose. I do not know what he means to do with himselfafter leaving college, but trust that, by dabbling so earlywith the dangerous and seductive business of authorship, hewill not bc tempted to become an author by profession. If so Ishall be very sorry for the little that I have had to do withthe matter, in encouraging these first beginnings.
I wish there were any likelihood of my soon seeing Primrose,Periwinkle, Dandelion, Sweet Fern, Clover Plantain,Huckleberry, Milkweed, Cowslip, Buttercup, Blue Eye, and SquashBlossom again. But as I do not know when I shall re-visitTanglewood, and as Eustace Bright probably will not ask me toedit a third "WonderBook," the public of little folks must notexpect to hear any more about those dear children from me.Heaven bless them, and everybody else, whether grown people orchildren!
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