Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 1, July 1849Various
General
Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 1, July 1849
Various
Literature -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
He was dressed simply in a close-fitting jacket and tight hose of
dark-green cloth, without any lace or embroidery, light boots of
untanned leather, and a broad-leafed hat, with a single eagle’s feather
thrust carelessly through the band. He wore neither cloak nor sword,
though it was a period at which gentlemen rarely went abroad without
both these, their distinctive attributes; but in the broad black belt
which girt his rounded waist he carried a stout wood-knife with a
buckhorn hilt; and over his shoulder there swung from a leathern thong,
a large wicker fishing-basket.
Nothing, indeed, could be simpler or less indicative of any particular
rank or station in society than young St. Aubyn’s garb, yet it would
have been a very dull and unobservant eye which should take him for
aught less than a high-born and high-bred gentleman.
His fine intellectual face, his bearing erect before heaven, the
graceful ease of his every motion, as he hurried down the flagged steps
of the terrace, and planted his light foot on the dewy greensward, all
betokened gentle birth and gentle associations.
But he thought nothing of himself, nor cared for his advantages,
acquired or natural. The long and heavy salmon-rod which he carried in
his right hand, in three pieces as yet unconnected, did not more clearly
indicate his purpose than the quick marking glance which he cast toward
the half-veiled sun and hazy sky, scanning the signs of the weather.
“It will do, it will do,” he said to himself, thinking as it were aloud,
“for three or four hours at least; the sun will not shake off those
vapors before eight o’clock at the earliest, and if he do come out then
hot and strong, I do not know but the water is dark enough after the
late rains to serve my turn awhile longer. It will blow up, too, I
think, from the westward, and there will be a brisk curl on the pools.
But come, I must be moving, if I would reach Darringford to breakfast.”
And as he spoke he strode out rapidly across the park toward the deep
chasm of the stream, crushing a thousand aromatic perfumes from the dewy
wild-flowers with his heedless foot, and thinking little of the beauties
of nature, as he hastened to the scene of his loved exercise.
It was not long, accordingly, before he reached the brink of the steep
rocky bank above the stream, which he proposed to fish that morning, and
paused to select the best place for descending to the water’s edge.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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