Edward Burton

About three o’clock one sultry afternoon in August, 188-, a canoe containing two young men might have been seen slowly making its way southward upon that picturesque sheet of water on the coast of Maine known as “Frenchman’s Bay.” The paddles moved lazily, and the mirror-like surface of the water was disturbed only a short distance in the track of the light craft, which, on account of the placid transparency of its native element, seemed to be floating almost in air. That wonderful combination of sea, mountain, rock and forest, which has made this fairest gem of the coast famous, was at its best, and the atmosphere seemed quivering with light, beauty and color. The transparent azure of the sky was reflected in the crystal blue of the unruffled water, and nature was in its most serene and dreamy mood. To the southward, graceful cloud-forms were hanging over Green Mountain; but with that exception, the afternoon sun was in full dominion, and the clear-cut forms of the evergreen shores were duplicated in the waters of the bay. In the hazy distance to the northward, the graceful slopes of the Sullivan hills rose from a silvery foreground of water, backed by emerald mountains in the dim vista beyond. On either hand, down to the water’s edge, the shore was decked with dark forests, relieved occasionally by masses of irregular brown rocks, whose long encounter with the waves had fringed them with clefts, coves and fissures. Here and there, among the sloping evergreen spires were glimpses of summer cottages, the variegated colors of which formed a pleasing contrast with their dark green surroundings. To the south was the fashionable and flourishing town of Bar Harbor, with its lordly villas, great hotels, busy wharves, palatial steamers, and graceful yachts; but above all, its background of noble mountains, which like giant sentinels keep guard over it, in sunshine and in storm. Out towards the ocean, whose mighty pulsations send in a graceful swell, loom up those unique islands known as the “Porcupines,” which stand like huge forts to resist the rougher surges and assaults of old Neptune. The delicious air was laden with a delicate aroma of life-giving ozone, furnishing such an environment that bare existence seemed a luxury and an inspiration. Amid such scenery, Ruskin might have found new and graceful pictures of mountain grandeur, and Wordsworth have gained inspiration for rare songs of lake beauty and sublimity. In the direction of Bar Harbor lay a fleet of yachts and various other craft, some at anchor, and some lazily sailing with scarcely enough breeze to fill their sheets, or to give them perceptible motion.

The two young men whose easy and almost mechanical strokes impelled the canoe gracefully forward were so absorbed in the charming variety of water, forest and sky, that for some time they were silent, each apparently wrapped in his own meditations. The elder of the two was a pale, intellectual-looking young man, of refined appearance, regular features, and of an easy nonchalant air, which indicated familiarity with society, and acquaintance with the gay world. His keen, dark eye, high forehead, precise expression of feature, and all external indications, pointed to a character distinguished for unusual vigor and ability. He was, perhaps, twenty-two or twenty-three years of age; had been graduated the year before at Harvard, and, at present, was taking a course in the medical department of the same institution. His companion was of more sturdy and athletic build, with jet black hair and mustache, and showed a muscular development which would form a good equipment for baseball, or for pulling a strong oar. He also was a Harvard man, and the two, though not chums nor classmates, for two years past had been warm friends, and had seen much of each other. The medical student had just arrived at Bar Harbor as the guest of his friend, whose earnest invitation, seconded by that of his father, induced him to come for a part of his vacation. The elegant and spacious cottage of the Bonbrights usually was well filled with invited guests during “the season,” and a generous but informal hospitality was a family characteristic.

Silence reigned in the canoe, interrupted only by the soft, regular plash of the paddles; but at length the medical student arousing from his reverie, and turning his thoughts from natural scenery to friendly converse, observed, “Bert, who is that Miss Jenness whose arrival is expected this afternoon?”

Adelbert Bonbright, who was in the forward part of the canoe, turned partly around and with an interested expression replied: “She is a particular friend of my sisters, and a mighty clever girl. Helen was very intimate with her at Wellesley, and since that time they have exchanged visits, and I think it is ‘on the bills,’ that she is to be our guest for the next three or four weeks.”

“Where does she hail from?” asked Van Roden, his curiosity having been aroused by one or two previous references to the young lady.

“From Philadelphia, Van, and she belongs to one of the best families.”

“A regular ‘blue blood’ then,” suggested Van Roden.

“Oh, yes,” replied Bonbright; “her ancestors came over with William Penn, and two of her great-grandfathers were signers of the Declaration. Her father’s mansion is located centrally within the strictly correct patrician limits of the ‘Quaker City;’ but allow me to suggest, my dear boy, that the young lady has personal merits enough without drawing upon her ancestry.”

“Pray, what are her particularly fine points?” said the medical student, who, though steadily plying his paddle, seemed suddenly to have lost interest in the surrounding scenery.

“Well,” replied Bert, who now realized that he was arousing the curiosity of his companion, “you will observe them quickly enough when you meet her, but I warn you, old fellow, that she is very independent and unimpressible. She can hold her own in almost any department, and has decided views, whether in literature, philosophy, ethics or love. She is a devoted member of a Browning Club; prominent in a Theosophical Society; a good art critic, and dabbles in poetry.”

“What a paragon!” exclaimed Van Roden; “pray, is there any thing which she cannot do?”

“A truce to the subject,” responded Bonbright; “‘the proof of the pudding is in the eating.’”

“The topic is too interesting to be so summarily dismissed,” said Van Roden. “May I inquire whether it is your well-known general admiration for the sex, which kindles your enthusiasm in the case of this single specimen; or is it an example of special selection?”

“I might as well own that it has a flavor of the latter, Van; perhaps, to quote from your favorite author, it may be regarded as a case of the ‘survival of the fittest,’ she being the fittest.”

“I suppose,” retorted Van Roden, “that we may regard her as a ‘survival,’ because she is the latest of the series.”

“Well,” replied Bonbright, “there is always an improved edition—a climax to every series—and I might as well admit that Miss Jenness is the climax.”

“Until a later climax—if that is what you call a young lady—is reached, Bert.”

“Nonsense! Van; there is only one superlative among the comparatives; one Mont Blanc among the Alps. When a fellow’s ideal is fully complied with—in every detail—nothing more is possible.”

“One would conclude, my dear boy, that your neck was about ready for the matrimonial noose,” said Van Roden. “I hope that you will not be such a fool as to surrender your freedom to any woman. On the much mooted question, ‘Is marriage a failure?’ I vote, yes; that is, so far as its being a means whereby the aggregate of human happiness is increased. The average young woman of the present time knows little or nothing of love, per se; that impetuous unreasonable passion, which has been the most potent factor in all the world’s movements, in the past. She is on the lookout for jewelry, bric-à-brac, horses, an establishment, social rank and position. She is early put in training to play her cards for these things; and almost invariably carries out the programme. Her fine points are cultivated and polished, and those which are indifferent kept in the background; while she is trotted out on the matrimonial course in order to win. Her figure, hair, complexion, dress, manners, accent and dancing, are on exhibition at their best—and the fastest possible time is made towards the goal, which is a ‘good match.’ Marriage is regarded as the entrée, or vestibule to luxury, position and social distinction. Matrimony in modern society is a matter of money; indeed, a regular bargain and sale.”

“You are a regular old croaker, cynic and materialist, Van; utterly destitute of all sentiment, or romance. Love is as potent, and Cupid’s arrows as sharp, as at any time since the world began. Though the age of chivalry has passed, and brave knights no longer enter the lists of the tournament and risk their lives to gain the favor of a ‘faire ladie’; and although the love songs and serenades of gay troubadours have well-nigh ceased; yet love is a sovereign which will never be dethroned. The tinsel, the accompaniments, and the establishment, upon which you wax so eloquent, are mere side-shows and surface indications. Love is the motor, and thus will it ever be. Like the silent and unseen forces of attraction and cohesion, it is imperious; and all external motives must ‘pale their ineffectual fires’ before its sway.”

“O, that’s all hifalutin, Bert: I do not wish to dampen your ardor, or spoil your enthusiasm; but my observation leads me to conclude that the marriage tie—especially within the circle of that hollow aggregation known as ‘society’—in a majority of cases, is a yoke, the galling friction of which directly tends to infelicity and gilded misery. Granted, there are many exceptions, but if the inside and suppressed history of the marriage relation could be uncovered, I believe the exhibit would be as sensational, and have as much drawing power, as any drama upon the stage. Women are exacting, both by nature and education, in the present condition of society. Marriage has become a partnership, formed from motives of expediency, fashion and social ambition. In the very nature of the case, when the ‘fair sex’ claim equal, if not superior authority in all departments—whether within or outside of their peculiar province—to the traditional head of the household, you may look out for breakers. Were women content to fill the place that nature plainly designed for them, things might be different; but as a rule, they are ambitious to extend their domain, and thereby comes friction. It is often admitted that marriage is a ‘lottery,’ and it is quite as evident that lotteries should be suppressed. History is filled with examples of marital infelicity. Lend your sympathy to Socrates, Byron, Goldsmith, Carlyle, and to unnumbered other sufferers, whose experiences, unlike the examples named, have been a sealed book. Look at the rapid increase of business in the divorce courts; note the marvellous growth of Chicago, where, as a specialty, the yoke is severed with ‘neatness and despatch.’ My sentiments may be voiced in the immortal words of Patrick Henry; ‘I know not what others may choose, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death.’”

The paddles moved with automatic regularity, but in very slow time.

“A man who can utter such a carping and pessimistic piece of oratory as you have evolved, Van, deserves—in a metaphoric sense, at the least—a cuff from every woman whom he may meet. My revenge will be complete, if in the not distant future some particular example should present itself, in which to you, that yoke will seem easy, that captivity sweet, and that matrimonial noose become an attractive way of leaving the world. Your examples of marital misery are exceptions; the counterfeit proves the existence of the genuine, and the exception, that of the rule. If among a hundred marriages there be a divorce case, it makes more noise in the world than the ninety and nine who need no divorce. It has been wisely suggested, that man and woman are like two halves of a sphere—never complete until they find their counterpart; and it is, therefore, plain that you, being a hemisphere, will not roll smoothly through the world, but will go with a wabble, unfinished; and incomplete, as it were.”

“Please ‘give us a rest’ on the matrimonial business,” retorted Van Roden; “I think that you are better qualified to judge correctly of football, sparring or poker, than of the merits and demerits of marriage.”

By this time the light craft was past the headquarters of the Bar Harbor Canoe Club, and after skirting the shore of Bar Island, soon rounded the point, where the town, fringed with its busy and picturesque wharves, rose up in the immediate foreground.

“Do you not find this town stupid,” asked Van Roden, “after the lively old times and sports of Harvard?”

“Not at all, Van; one can manage to exist very well here; what with the hops, buckboard excursions, scenery, and fishing,—especially that kind of angling in which about five young ladies have a line out for each man,—it is interesting, and one would be a prig to vote it dull.”

“A prig in the clover, I suppose,”—quietly suggested Van Roden.

“An atrocious chestnut, Van; but look out for the swell of that Rockland steamer, for we are very close to her wake.”

One or two quick, skilful strokes, however, brought the sharp bow to receive the swell, and in a few moments the young men stepped upon the floating dock, and their light craft was moored alongside of its numerous companions, which constantly dance to the rhythm of the waves.