turned into a proverb and a jest--what consolation is there in such a case?

I avoided the fatal brook where I had seen the footstep. My favorite resort
was now the banks of the Hudson, where I sat upon the rocks and mused upon
the current that dimpled by, or the waves that laved the shore; or watched
the bright mutations of the clouds, and the shifting lights and shadows of
the distant mountain. By degrees a returning serenity stole over my
feelings; and a sigh now and then, gentle and easy, and unattended by pain,
showed that my heart was recovering its susceptibility.

As I was sitting in this musing mood my eye became gradually fixed upon an
object that was borne along by the tide. It proved to be a little pinnace,
beautifully modeled, and gayly painted and decorated. It was an unusual
sight in this neighborhood, which was rather lonely; indeed, it was rare to
see any pleasure-barks in this part of the river. As it drew nearer, I
perceived that there was no one on board; it had apparently drifted from
its anchorage. There was not a breath of air; the little bark came floating
along on the glassy stream, wheeling about with the eddies. At length it
ran aground, almost at the foot of the rock on which I was seated. I
descended to the margin of the river, and drawing the bark to shore,
admired its light and elegant proportions and the taste with which it was
fitted up. The benches were covered with cushions, and its long streamer
was of silk. On one of the cushion's lay a lady's glove, of delicate size
and shape, with beautifully tapered fingers. I instantly seized it and
thrust it in my bosom; it seemed a match for the fairy footstep that had so
fascinated me.

In a moment all the romance of my bosom was again in a glow. Here was one
of the very incidents of fairy tale; a bark sent by some invisible power,
some good genius, or benevolent fairy, to waft me to some delectable