The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 11, No. 68, June, 1863: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and PoliticsVarious
Science
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 11, No. 68, June, 1863: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
A close observer might have seen that the gentlemen increased their
attentions a little from that time. The objects of their devotion
perceived it, and smiled more and more graciously upon them.
The day set for the picnic arrived duly, and was radiant. It pains me to
confess that my heroes were a trifle nervous. Their apparel was more
gorgeous and wonderful than ever, and Thomas, who was anxious to be off,
courting Miss Chapman's lady's-maid, found his masters dreadfully
exacting in the matter of hair-dressing. At length, however, the toilet
was over, and "Solomon in all his glory" would have been vastly
astonished at finding himself "arrayed as one of these."
The boat lay at the pier, receiving large quantities of supplies for the
trip, stowed by Thomas, under the supervision of the grim and tarry
skipper. When all was ready, the young men gingerly escorted their fair
companions aboard, the lines were cast off, and the boat glided gently
down the bay, leaving Thomas free to fly to the smart presence of Susan
Jane, and to draw glowing pictures for her of a neat little porter-house
in the city, wherein they should hold supreme sway, be happy with each
other, and let rooms up-stairs for single gentlemen.
The brisk land-breeze, the swelling sail, the fluttering of the gay
little flag at the gaff, the musical rippling of water under the
counter, and the spirited motion of the boat, combined with the bland
air and pleasant sunshine to inspire the party with much vivacity. They
had not been many minutes afloat before the guitar-case was opened, and
the girls' voices--Laura's soprano and Hattie's contralto--rang
melodiously over the waves, mingled with feeble attempts at bass
accompaniment from their gorgeous guardians.
Before these vocal exercises wearied, the skipper hauled down his jib,
let go his anchor, and brought the craft to, just off the rocks; and
bringing the yawl alongside, unceremoniously plumped the girls down into
it, without giving their cavaliers a chance for the least display of
agile courtliness. Rowing ashore, this same tarry person left them
huddled upon the beach with their hopes, their hampers, their emotions,
and their baskets, and returned to the vessel to do a little private
fishing on his own account till wanted.
The maidens gave vent to their high spirits by chasing each other among
the rocks, gathering shells and sea-weed for the construction of those
ephemeral little ornaments--fair, but frail--in which the sex delights,
singing, laughing, quoting poetry, attitudinizing upon the peaks and
ledges of the fine old boulders,--mossy and weedy and green with the
wash of a thousand storms, worn into strange shapes, and stained with
the multitudinous dyes of mineral oxidization,--and, in brief, behaved
themselves with all the charming _abandon_ that so well becomes young
girls, set free, by the _entourage_ of a holiday ramble, from the
buckram and clear-starch of social etiquette.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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