AN IMAGINARY RETROSPECT
Come！ another log upon the hearth. True， our littleparlor is comfortable， especially here where the old mansits in his old arm-chair； but on Thanksgiving-night theblaze should dance higher up the chimney and send ashower of sparks into the outer darkness. Toss on anarmful of those dry oak chips， the last relicts of theMermaid’s knee-timbers—the bones of your namesake，Susan. Higher yet， and clearer， be the blaze， till our cottagewindows glow the ruddiest in the village and the light ofour household mirth flash far across the bay to Nahant.
And now come， Susan； come， my children. Draw yourchairs round me， all of you. There is a dimness over yourfigures. You sit quivering indistinctly with each motion ofthe blaze， which eddies about you like a flood； so that youall have the look of visions or people that dwell only in thefirelight， and will vanish from existence as completely asyour own shadows when the flame shall sink among theembers.
Hark！ let me listen for the swell of the surf； it should beaudible a mile inland on a night like this. Yes； there I catchthe sound， but only an uncertain murmur， as if a good waydown over the beach， though by the almanac it is hightide at eight o’clock， and the billows must now be dashingwithin thirty yards of our door. Ah！ the old man’s ears arefailing him， and so is his eyesight， and perhaps his mind，else you would not all be so shadowy in the blaze of hisThanksgiving fire.
How strangely the past is peeping over the shoulders ofthe present！ To judge by my recollections， it is but a fewmoments since I sat in another room. Yonder model ofa vessel was not there， nor the old chest of drawers， norSusan’s profile and mine in that gilt frame—nothing， inshort， except this same fire， which glimmered on books，papers and a picture， and half discovered my solitary figurein a looking-glass. But it was paler than my rugged old self，and younger， too， by almost half a century.
Speak to me， Susan； speak， my beloved ones； for thescene is glimmering on my sight again， and as it brightensyou fade away. Oh， I should be loth to lose my treasure ofpast happiness and become once more what I was then—ahermit in the depths of my own mind， sometimes yawningover drowsy volumes and anon a scribbler of wearier trashthan what I read； a man who had wandered out of the realworld and got into its shadow， where his troubles， joys andvicissitudes were of such slight stuff that he hardly knewwhether he lived or only dreamed of living. Thank HeavenI am an old man now and have done with all such vanities！
Still this dimness of mine eyes！ Come nearer， Susan， andstand before the fullest blaze of the hearth. Now I beholdyou illuminated from head to foot， in your clean cap anddecent gown， with the dear lock of gray hair across yourforehead and a quiet smile about your mouth， while theeyes alone are concealed by the red gleam of the fire uponyour spectacles. There！ you made me tremble again. Whenthe flame quivered， my sweet Susan， you quivered withit and grew indistinct， as if melting into the warm light，that my last glimpse of you might be as visionary as thefirst was， full many a year since. Do you remember it？
You stood on the little bridge over the brook that runsacross King’s Beach into the sea. It was twilight， the wavesrolling in， the wind sweeping by， the crimson clouds fadingin the west and the silver moon brightening above thehill； and on the bridge were you， fluttering in the breezelike a sea-bird that might skim away at your pleasure. Youseemed a daughter of the viewless wind， a creature of theocean-foam and the crimson light， whose merry life wasspent in dancing on the crests of the billows that threwup their spray to support your footsteps. As I drew nearerI fancied you akin to the race of mermaids， and thoughthow pleasant it would be to dwell with you among thequiet coves in the shadow of the cliffs， and to roam alongsecluded beaches of the purest sand， and， when ourNorthern shores grew bleak， to haunt the islands， greenand lonely， far amid summer seas. And yet it gladdenedme， after all this nonsense， to find you nothing but apretty young girl sadly perplexed with the rude behaviorof the wind about your petticoats. Thus I did with Susanas with most other things in my earlier days， dipping herimage into my mind and coloring it of a thousand fantastichues before I could see her as she really was.
Now， Susan， for a sober picture of our village. It was asmall collection of dwellings that seemed to have beencast up by the sea with the rock-weed and marine plantsthat it vomits after a storm， or to have come ashore amongthe pipe-staves and other lumber which had been washedfrom the deck of an Eastern schooner. There was justspace for the narrow and sandy street between the beachin front and a precipitous hill that lifted its rocky foreheadin the rear among a waste of juniper-bushes and the wildgrowth of a broken pasture. The village was picturesque inthe variety of its edifices， though all were rude. Here stooda little old hovel， built， perhaps， of driftwood， there a rowof boat-houses， and beyond them a two-story dwellingof dark and weatherbeaten aspect， the whole intermixedwith one or two snug cottages painted white， a sufficiencyof pig-styes and a shoemaker’s shop. Two grocery storesstood opposite each other in the centre of the village.
