Beneath An Umbrella

Pleasant is a rainy winter's day, within doors! The best study for
such a day, or the best amusement,--call it which you will,--is a
book of travels, describing scenes the most unlike that sombre one,
which is mistily presented through the windows. I have experienced,
that fancy is then most successful in imparting distinct shapes and
vivid colors to the objects which the author has spread upon his
page, and that his words become magic spells to summon up a thousand
varied pictures. Strange landscapes glimmer through the familiar
walls of the room, and outlandish figures thrust themselves almost
within the sacred precincts of the hearth. Small as my chamber is, it
has space enough to contain the ocean-like circumference of an
Arabian desert, its parched sands tracked by the long line of a
caravan, with the camels patiently journeying through the heavy
sunshine. Though my ceiling be not lofty, yet I can pile up the
mountains of Central Asia beneath it, till their summits shine far
above the clouds of the middle atmosphere. And, with my humble
means, a wealth that is not taxable, I can transport hither the
magnificent merchandise of an Oriental bazaar, and call a crowd of
purchasers from distant countries, to pay a fair profit for the
precious articles which are displayed on all sides. True it is,
however, that amid the bustle of traffic, or whatever else may seem to
be going on around me, the rain-drops will occasionally be heard to
patter against my window-panes, which look forth upon one of the
quietest streets in a New England town. After a time, too, the
visions vanish, and will not appear again at my bidding. Then, it
being nightfall, a gloomy sense of unreality depresses my spirits, and
impels me to venture out, before the clock shall strike bedtime, to
satisfy myself that the world is not entirely made up of such shadowy
materials, as have busied me throughout the day. A dreamer may dwell
so long among fantasies, that the things without him will seem as
unreal as those within.

When eve has fairly set in, therefore, I sally forth, tightly
buttoning my shaggy overcoat, and hoisting my umbrella, the silken
dome of which immediately resounds with the heavy drumming of the
invisible rain-drops. Pausing on the lowest doorstep, I contrast the
warmth and cheerfulness of my deserted fireside with the drear
obscurity and chill discomfort into which I am about to plunge. Now
come fearful auguries, innumerable as the drops of rain. Did not my
manhood cry shame upon me, I should turn back within doors, resume my
elbow-chair, my slippers, and my book, pass such an evening of
sluggish enjoyment as the day has been, and go to bed inglorious. The
same shivering reluctance, no doubt, has quelled, for a moment,