The roses and raptures of love.”;
or contain any of the highly colored medieval word pictures so
much in vogue. “My book should smell of pines, and resound with
the hum of insects,” might have been its motto, so sweet and
wholesome was it with a springlike sort of freshness which plainly
betrayed that the author had learned some of Nature’s deepest
secrets and possessed the skill to tell them in tuneful words. The
songs went ringing through one’s memory long after they were
read, and the sonnets were full of the subtle beauty, insight, and
half-unconscious wisdom, which seem to prove that “genius is
divine when young.?
Many faults it had, but was so full of promise that it was evident
Mac had not “kept good company, read good books, loved good
things, and cultivated soul and body as faithfully as he could” in
vain. It all told now, for truth and virtue had blossomed into
character and had a language of their own more eloquent than the
poetry to which they were what the fragrance is to the flower.
Wiser critics than Rose felt and admired this; less partial ones
could not deny their praise to a first effort, which seemed as
spontaneous and aspiring as a lark’s song; and, when one or two of
these Jupiters had given a nod of approval, Mac found himself, not
exactly famous, but much talked about. One set abused, the other
set praised, and the little book was sadly mauled among them, for
it was too original to be ignored, and too robust to be killed by
hard usage, so it came out of the fray none the worse but rather
brighter, if anything, for the friction which proved the gold
genuine.
This took time, however, and Rose could only sit at home reading
all the notices she could get, as well as the literary gossip Phebe
sent her, for Mac seldom wrote, and never a word about himself,
so Phebe skillfully extracted from him in their occasional meetings
all the personal news her feminine wit could collect and faithfully
reported it.
It was a little singular that without a word of inquiry on either side,
the letters of the girls were principally filled with tidings of their
respective lovers. Phebe wrote about Mac; Rose answered with
minute particulars about Archie; and both added hasty items
concerning their own affairs, as if these were of little consequence.
Phebe got the most satisfaction out of the correspondence, for soon
after the book appeared Rose began to want Mac home again and
to be rather jealous of the new duties and delights that kept him.
She was immensely proud of her poet, and had little jubilees over
the beautiful fulfillment of her prophecies, for even Aunt Plenty
owned now with contrition that “the boy was not a fool.” Every
word of praise was read aloud on the housetops, so to speak, by
happy Rose; every adverse criticism was hotly disputed; and the
whole family was in a great state of pleasant excitement over this
unexpectedly successful first flight of the Ugly Duckling, now
generally considered by his relatives as the most promising young
swan of the flock.
Aunt Jane was particularly funny in her new position of mother to
a callow poet and conducted herself like a proud but bewildered
hen when one of her brood takes to the water. She pored over the
poems, trying to appreciate them but quite failing to do so, for life
was all prose to her, and she vainly tried to discover where Mac
got his talent from. It was pretty to see the new respect with which
she treated his possessions now; the old books were dusted with a
sort of reverence; scraps of paper were laid carefully by lest some
immortal verse be lost; and a certain shabby velvet jacket fondly
smoothed when no one was by to smile at the maternal pride with
filled her heart and caused her once severe countenance to shine
with unwonted benignity.
Uncle Mac talked about “my son” with ill-concealed satisfaction,
and evidently began to feel as if his boy was going to confer
distinction upon the whole race of Campbell, which had already