And here,
to-day, was the questionable Professor, linking one with the other in
his inquiries, and seeking communication with both.
Meanwhile, my inclination for a ramble having been balked, I lingered
in the vicinity of the farm, with perhaps a vague idea that some new
event would grow out of Westervelt's proposed interview with Zenobia.
My own part in these transactions was singularly subordinate. It
resembled that
of the Chorus in a classic play, which seems to be set aloof from the
possibility of personal concernment, and bestows the whole measure of
its hope or fear, its exultation or sorrow, on the fortunes of others,
between whom and itself this sympathy is the only bond. Destiny, it
may be,--the most skilful of stage managers,--seldom chooses to
arrange its scenes, and carry forward its drama, without securing the
presence of at least one calm observer. It is his office to give
applause when due, and sometimes an inevitable tear, to detect the
final fitness of incident to character, and distil in his
long-brooding thought the whole morality of the performance.
Not to be out of the way in case there were need of me in my vocation,
and, at the same time, to avoid thrusting myself where neither
destiny nor mortals might desire my presence, I remained pretty near
the verge of the woodlands. My position was off the track of
Zenobia's customary walk, yet not so remote but that a recognized
occasion might speedily have brought me thither.
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