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while she is dressed in the glories of leaf and flower； and draw the
icy lid over my shining surface when she stands naked and ashamed in
the poverty of winter？'
〃I have had strange experiences and sad thoughts in the course of a
life not very long； but with a record which much longer lives could
not match in incident。 Oftentimes the temptation has come over me
with dangerous urgency to try a change of existence； if such change
is a part of human destiny；to seek rest； if that is what we gain by
laying down the burden of life。 I have asked who would be the friend
to whom I should appeal for the last service I should have need of。
Ocean was there； all ready； asking no questions； answering none。
What strange voyages； downward through its glaucous depths； upwards
to its boiling and frothing surface； wafted by tides； driven by
tempests； disparted by rude agencies； one remnant whitening on the
sands of a northern beach； one perhaps built into the circle of a
coral reef in the Pacific； one settling to the floor of the vast
laboratory where continents are built； to emerge in far…off ages！
What strange companions for my pall…bearers！ Unwieldy sea…monsters；
the stories of which are counted fables by the spectacled collectors
who think their catalogues have exhausted nature； naked…eyed
creatures； staring； glaring； nightmare…like spectres of the ghastly…
green abysses； pulpy islands； with life in gelatinous immensity；
what a company of hungry heirs at every ocean funeral！ No！ No！
Ocean claims great multitudes； but does not invite the solitary who
would fain be rid of himself。
'Shall I seek a deeper slumber at the bottom of the lake I love than
I have ever found when drifting idly over its surface？ No； again。 I
do not want the sweet； clear waters to know me in the disgrace of
nature； when life； the faithful body…servant； has ceased caring for
me。 That must not be。 The mirror which has pictured me so often
shall never know me as an unwelcome object。
〃If I must ask the all…subduing element to be my last friend； and
lead me out of my prison； it shall be the busy； whispering； not
unfriendly； pleasantly companionable river。
〃But Ocean and River and Lake have certain relations to the periods
of human life which they who are choosing their places of abode
should consider。 Let the child play upon the seashore。 The wide
horizon gives his imagination room to grow in； untrammelled。 That
background of mystery； without which life is a poor mechanical
arrangement； is shaped and colored； so far as it can have outline； or
any hue but shadow； on a vast canvas； the contemplation of which
enlarges and enriches the sphere of consciousness。 The mighty ocean
is not too huge to symbolize the aspirations and ambitions of the yet
untried soul of the adolescent。
〃The time will come when his indefinite mental horizon has found a
solid limit； which shuts his prospect in narrower bounds than he
would have thought could content him in the years of undefined
possibilities。 Then he will find the river a more natural intimate
than the ocean。 It is individual； which the ocean； with all its
gulfs and inlets and multitudinous shores； hardly seems to be。 It
does not love you very dearly； and will not miss you much when you
disappear from its margin； but it means well to you； bids you good…
morning with its coming waves； and good…evening with those which are
leaving。 It will lead your thoughts pleasantly away； upwards to its
source； downwards to the stream to which it is tributary； or the wide
waters in which it is to lose itself。 A river； by choice； to live by
in middle age。
〃In hours of melancholy reflection； in those last years of life which
have little left but tender memories； the still companionship of the
lake； embosomed in woods； sheltered； fed by sweet mountain brooks and
hidden springs； commends itself to the wearied and saddened spirit。
I am not thinking of those great inland seas； which have many of the
features and much of the danger that belong to the ocean； but of
those 'ponds；' as our countrymen used to call them until they were
rechristened by summer visitors； beautiful sheets of water from a
hundred to a few thousand acres in extent； scattered like raindrops
over the map of our Northern sovereignties。 The loneliness of
contemplative old age finds its natural home in the near neighborhood
of one of these tranquil basins。
Nature does not always plant her poets where they belong； but if we
look carefully their affinities betray themselves。 The youth will
carry his Byron to the rock which overlooks the ocean the poet loved
so well。 The man of maturer years will remember that the sonorous
couplets of Pope which ring in his ears were written on the banks of
the Thames。 The old man； as he nods over the solemn verse of
Wordsworth； will recognize the affinity between the singer and the
calm sheet that lay before him as he wrote；the stainless and sleepy
Windermere。
〃The dwellers by Cedar Lake may find it an amusement to compare their
own feelings with those of one who has lived by the Atlantic and the
Mediterranean； by the Nile and the Tiber； by Lake Leman and by one of
the fairest sheets of water that our own North America embosoms in
its forests。〃
Miss Lurida Vincent； Secretary of the Pansophian Society； read this
paper； and pondered long upon it。 She was thinking very seriously of
studying medicine； and had been for some time in frequent
communication with Dr。 Butts； under whose direction she had begun
reading certain treatises； which added to such knowledge of the laws
of life in health and in disease as she had brought with her from the
Corinna Institute。 Naturally enough； she carried the anonymous paper
to the doctor； to get his opinion about it； and compare it with her
own。 They both agreed that it was probably； they would not say
certainly； the work of the solitary visitor。 There was room for
doubt； for there were visitors who might well have travelled to all
the places mentioned； and resided long enough on the shores of the
waters the writer spoke of to have had all the experiences mentioned
in the paper。 The Terror remembered a young lady； a former
schoolmate； who belonged to one of those nomadic families common in
this generation； the heads of which； especially the female heads； can
never be easy where they are； but keep going between America and
Europe； like so many pith…balls in the electrical experiment；
alternately attracted and repelled； never in contented equilibrium。
Every few years they pull their families up by the roots； and by the
time they have begun to take hold a little with their radicles in the
spots to which they have been successively transplanted up they come
again； so that they never get a tap…root anywhere。 The Terror
suspected the daughter of one of these families of sending certain
anonymous articles of not dissimilar character to the one she had
just received。 But she knew the style of composition common among
the young girls； and she could hardly believe that it was one of them
who had sent this paper。 Could a brother of this young lady have
written it？ Possibly； she knew nothing more than that the young lady
had a brother； then a student at the University。 All the chances
were that Mr。 Maurice Kirkwood was the author。 So thought Lurida；
and so thought Dr。 Butts。
Whatever faults there were in this essay； it interested them both。
There was nothing which gave the least reason to suspect insanity on
the part of the writer； whoever he or she might be。 There were
references to suicide； it is true； but they were of a purely
speculative nature； and did not look to any practical purpose in that
direction。 Besides； if the stranger were the author of the paper； he
certainly would not choose a sheet of water like Cedar Lake to
perform the last offices for him； in case he seriously meditated
taking unceremonious leave of life and its accidents。 He could find
a river easily enough； to say nothing of other methods of effecting
his purpose； but he had committed himself as to the impropriety of
selecting a lake； so they need not be anxious about the white canoe
and its occupant； as they watched it skimming the surface of the deep
waters。
The holder of the Portfolio would never have ventured to come before
the public if he had not counted among his resources certain papers
belonging to the records of the Pansophian Society； which he can make
free use of； either for the illustration of the narrative； or for a
diversion during those intervals in which the flow of events is
languid； or even ceases for the time to manifest any progress。 The
reader can hardly have failed to notice that the old Anchor Tavern
had become the focal point where a good deal of mental activity
converged。 There were the village people； including a number of
cultivated families； there were the vi