. . . . But, after all, perhaps it
is not wise to intermix fantastic ideas with the reality of affection.
Let us content ourselves to be earthly creatures, and hold communion of
spirit in such modes as are ordained to us. . . . .
I was not at the end of Long Wharf to-day, but in a distant region,--my
authority having been put in requisition to quell a rebellion of the
captain and "gang" of shovellers aboard a coal-vessel. I would you could
have beheld the awful sternness of my visage and demeanor in the
execution of this momentous duty. Well,--I have conquered the rebels,
and proclaimed an amnesty; so to-morrow I shall return to that paradise
of measurers, the end of Long Wharf,--not to my former salt-ship, she
being now discharged, but to another, which will probably employ me
well-nigh a fortnight longer. . . . . Salt is white and pure,--there is
something holy in salt. . . . .
I have observed that butterflies--very broad-winged and magnificent
butterflies--frequently come on board of the salt-ship, where I am at
work. What have these bright strangers to do on Long Wharf, where there
are no flowers nor any green thing,--nothing but brick storehouses, stone
piers, black ships, and the bustle of toilsome men, who neither look up
to the blue sky, nor take note of these wandering gems of the air? I
cannot account for them, unless they are the lovely fantasies of the
mind.
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