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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/17862-8.txt b/17862-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d6df6f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/17862-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6772 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Dream Life, by Donald G. Mitchell + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Dream Life + A Fable Of The Seasons + +Author: Donald G. Mitchell + +Release Date: February 26, 2006 [EBook #17862] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAM LIFE *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Graeme Mackreth and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +DREAM LIFE: + +A + +FABLE OF THE SEASONS + +BY + +DONALD G. MITCHELL + + ---- We are such stuff + As dreams are made of; and our little life + Is rounded with a sleep + + Tempest. + +NEW YORK + +SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG, AND COMPANY + +1876. + +Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by +Charles Scribner & Co., + +In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the +Southern District of New York + +RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: +STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY +H.O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY + + + + +_A NEW PREFACE._ + + +Twelve years ago, this autumn, when I had finished the concluding +chapters of this little book, I wrote a letter of Dedication to +Washington Irving, and, forwarding it by mail to Sunnyside, begged his +permission to print it. I think I shall gratify a rational curiosity of +my readers (however much they may condemn my vanity) if I give his reply +in full. + + "My dear Sir,-- + + "Though I have a great disinclination in general to be the object + of literary oblations and compliments, yet in the present instance + I have enjoyed your writings with such peculiar relish, and been so + drawn toward the author by the qualities of head and heart evinced + in them, that I confess I feel gratified by a dedication, + over-flattering as I may deem it, which may serve as an outward + sign that we are cordially linked together in sympathies and + friendship. + + "I would only suggest that in your dedication you would omit the + LL.D., a learned dignity urged upon me very much 'against the + stomach of my sense,' and to which I have never laid claim. + + "Ever, my dear sir, + "Yours, very truly, + "Washington Irving + "Sunnyside, Nov. 1851." + +I had been personally presented to Mr. Irving for the first time, only a +year before, under the introduction of my good friend, Mr. Clark (the +veteran Editor of the old Knickerbocker in its palmy days). Thereafter I +had met him from time to time, and had paid a charming visit to his +delightful home of Sunnyside. But it was after the date of the +publication of this book and during the summer of 1852, that I saw Mr. +Irving more familiarly, and came to appreciate more fully that charming +_bonhomie_ and geniality in his character which we all recognize so +constantly in his writings. And if I set down here a few recollections +of that pleasant intercourse, they will, I am sure, more than make good +the place of the old letter of Dedication, and will serve to keep alive +the association I wish to cherish between my little book and the name of +the distinguished author who so kindly showed me his favor. + +For the first time, after many years, Mr. Irving made a stay of a few +weeks at Saratoga, in the summer of 1852. By good fortune, I chanced to +occupy a room upon the same corridor of the hotel, within a few doors of +his, and shared very many of his early morning walks to the "Spring." +What at once struck me very forcibly in the course of these walks, was +the rare alertness and minuteness of his observation: not a fair young +face could dash past us in its drapery of muslin, but the eye of the old +gentleman drank in all its freshness and beauty with the keen appetite +and the grateful admiration of a boy; not a dowager brushed past us +bedizened with finery, but he fastened the apparition in my memory with +some piquant remark,--as the pin of an entomologist fastens a gaudy fly. +No rheumatic old hero-invalid, battered in long wars with the +doctors,--no droll marplot of a boy, could appear within range, but I +could see in the changeful expression of my companion the admeasurement +and quiet adjustment of the appeal which either made upon his sympathy +or his humor. A flower, a tree, a burst of music, a country market-man +hoisted upon his wagon of cabbages,--all these by turns caught and +engaged his attention, however little they might interrupt the flow of +his talk. + +I ventured to ask on one occasion, if he had depended solely upon his +memory for the thousand little descriptions of natural objects which +occur in his books. + +"Not wholly," he replied; and went on to tell me it had been his way, in +the earlier days of his authorship, to carry little tablets with him +into the country, and whenever he saw a scene specially picturesque,--a +cottage of marked features, a noticeable tree, any picture, in short, +which promised service to him,--to note down its distinguishing points, +and hold it in reserve. + +"This," said he, "is one among those small arts and industries which a +person who writes much must avail himself of: they are equivalent to the +little thumb-sketches from which a painter makes up his larger +compositions." + +On our way to the church on a certain Sunday morning, he tapped my +shoulder as we entered the little gate, and called my attention to a +lithe young Indian girl, who had strolled down from the campment on the +plains, and was standing proudly erect upon the church-porch, with +finger to her lips, scanning curiously the worshippers as they passed +in. + +"What a splendid figure of a woman!" said he, "she is puzzling over the +extravagances and devotions of the white-faces." + +The black, straight elf-locks, the swart face, the great wondering eye, +with the gay blanket, short gown of woollen-stuff, and brilliant +moccasins, made a striking picture to be sure; and I could not help +thinking, that if the apparition had chanced upon him earlier, she might +have figured in some story of Pokanoket or of the Prairies. + +I took occasion one morning to ask if he was always able to control the +"humors of writing," and to put himself resolutely to work, whatever +might be the state of his feeling. + +"No," he said, very decidedly,--"unfortunately I cannot: there are men +who do, I believe. I always envied them; but there was a period of a +month or more, after I had finally decided upon literary labors, and had +declined a lucrative position under Government, when it seemed as if I +was utterly bereft of all the fancies I ever had; for weeks I could do +nothing; but at last the clouds lifted, and I wrote off the first +numbers of the 'Sketch-Book,' and dispatched them to my good friends in +this country, to make the most of. I feared it would not be much. + +"And the worst of it is," continued he, "the good people do not allow +for these periods of depression; if a man does a thing tolerably well in +his happy moods, they see no reason why he should not be always in a +happy mood." + +I asked if he had never found relief, and a stimulant to work, in the +reading aloud of some favorite old author. + +"Often," said he; "and none are more effective with me for this service +than the sacred writers; I think I have waked a good many sleeping +fancies by the reading of a chapter in Isaiah." + +In answer to inquiries of mine in regard to the incomplete state of +several of the stories of "Wolfert's Roost," he said: "Yes, we do not +get through all we lay out. Some of those sketches had lain in my mind +for a great many years; they made a sort of garret-trumpery, of which I +thought I would make a general clearance, leaving the odds and ends to +take care of themselves. + +"There was a novel too, I once laid out, in which an English lad, being +a son of one of the old Regicide Judges, was to come over to New England +in search of his father: he was to meet with a throng of adventures, and +to arrive at length upon a Saturday night, in the midst of a terrible +thunder-storm, at the house of a stern old Massachusetts Puritan, who +comes out to answer to the rappings; and by a flash of lightning which +gleams upon the harsh, iron visage of the old man, the son fancies he +recognizes his father." + +And as he told it, the old gentleman wrinkled his brow, and tried to put +on the fierce look he would describe. + +"It's all there is of it," said he. "If you want to make a story, you +can furbish it up." + +There were among other notable people at Saratoga, during the summer of +which I speak, the well-known Mrs. Dr. R----, of Philadelphia, since +deceased,--a woman of great eccentricities, but of a wonderfully +masculine mind, and of great cultivation. It was a fancy of hers to give +special, social patronage to foreign artists; and among those just then +at Saratoga, and the recipients of her favor, were a distinguished +violinist--whose name I do not now recall--and the newly married Mme. +Alboni. Mr. Irving, in common with her other acquaintances, she was +inclined to make contributory to her attentions. To this Mr. Irving was +not averse, both from his extreme love of music, and his kindliness +toward the artists themselves; yet, in his own quiet way, I think he +fretted considerably at being pounced upon at odd hours to give them +French talk. + +"It's very awkward," said he to me one day; "I have had large occasion +for practice to be sure; but I rather fancy, after all, our own +language; it's heartier and easier." + +He was utterly incapable of being lionized. Time and again, under the +trees in the court of the hotel, did I hear him enter upon some pleasant +story, lighted up with that rare turn of his eye, and by his deft +expressions, when, as chance acquaintances grouped about him,--as is the +way of watering-places,--and eager listeners multiplied, his hilarity +and spirit took a chill from the increasing auditory, and drawing +abruptly to a close, he would sidle away with a friend and be gone. + +Among the visitors was a tall, interesting young girl--from Louisiana, +if I mistake not--who had the reputation of being a great heiress, and +who was, of course, beset by a host of admirers. There was something +very attractive in her air, and Mr. Irving was never tired of gazing on +her as she walked, with what he called a "faun-like step," across the +lawn, or up and down the corridors. Her eyes too--"dove-like," he +termed them--were his special admiration. He watched with an amused +interest the varying fortunes of the rival lovers, and often met me +with--"Well, who is in favor to-day?" And he discussed very freely the +varying chances. + +One brusque, heavy man, who thought to carry the matter through by a +_coup de main_, he was sure could never succeed. A second, who was most +assiduous, but whose brazen confidence was unyielding, he counted still +less upon. But a quiet, somewhat older gentleman, whose look was ever +full of tender appeal, and who bore himself with a modest dignity, he +reckoned the probable winner. "He will feel a Nay grievously," said he; +"but for the others, they will forget it in a supper." + +I believe it eventually proved that no one of those present was the +successful suitor. I know only that the fair girl was afterward a bride; +and (what we all so little anticipated) her home is now a scene of +desolation, her fortune very likely a wreck, her family scattered or +slain, and herself, maybe, a fugitive. + +I saw Mr. Irving afterward repeatedly in New York, and passed two +delightful days at Sunnyside. I can never forget a drive with him upon a +crisp autumn morning through Sleepy Hollow, and all the notable +localities of his neighborhood, in the course of which he kindly called +my attention, in the most unaffected and incidental way, to those which +had been specially illustrated by his pen; and with a rare humor +recounted to me some of his boyish adventures among the old Dutch +farmers of this region. Most of all, it is impossible for me to forget +the rare kindliness of his manner, his friendly suggestions, and the +beaming expression of his eye. + +I met it last at the little stile from which I strolled away to the +station at Dearman; and when I saw the kind face again, it was in the +coffin, at the little church where he attended service. But the eyes +were closed, and the wonderful radiance of expression gone. It seemed to +me that death never took away more from a living face; it was but a cold +shadow lying there, of the man who had taught a nation to love him. + +Edgewood, _Sept._ 1863. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +_INTRODUCTORY._ + + page + +I. With my Aunt Tabithy 1 + +II. With my Reader 9 + + +_DREAMS OF BOYHOOD._ + +Spring 21 + +I. Rain in the Garret 26 + +II. School-Dreams 33 + +III. Boy Sentiment 43 + +IV. A Friend made and Friend lost 49 + +V. Boy Religion 60 + +VI. A New-England Squire 67 + +VII. The Country Church 78 + +VIII. A Home Scene 86 + + +_DREAMS OF YOUTH._ + +Summer 97 + +I. Cloister Life 104 + +II. First Ambition 115 + +III. College Romance 120 + +IV. First Look at the World 132 + +V. A Broken Home 142 + +VI. Family Confidence 151 + +VII. A Good Wife 159 + +VIII. A Broken Hope 167 + + +_DREAMS OF MANHOOD._ + +Autumn 179 + +I. Pride of Manliness 184 + +II. Man of the World 191 + +III. Manly Hope 198 + +IV. Manly Love 207 + +V. Cheer and Children 213 + +VI. A Dream of Darkness 221 + +VII. Peace 229 + + +_DREAMS OF AGE._ + +Winter 239 + +I. What is Gone 243 + +II. What is Left 249 + +III. Grief and Joy of Age 255 + +IV. The End of Dreams 261 + + + + +_INTRODUCTORY._ + + +I. + +_With my Aunt Tabithy._ + +"Pshaw!" said my Aunt Tabithy, "have you not done with dreaming?" + +My Aunt Tabithy, though an excellent and most notable person, loves +occasionally a quiet bit of satire. And when I told her that I was +sharpening my pen for a new story of those dreamy fancies and +half-experiences which lie grouped along the journeying hours of my +solitary life, she smiled as if in derision. + +----"Ah, Isaac," said she, "all that is exhausted; you have rung so many +changes on your hopes and your dreams, that you have nothing left but to +make them real--if you can." + +It is very idle to get angry with a good-natured old lady. I did better +than this,--I made her listen to me. + +----Exhausted, do you say, Aunt Tabithy? Is life then exhausted; is +hope gone out; is fancy dead? + +No, no. Hope and the world are full; and he who drags into book-pages a +phase or two of the great life of passion, of endurance, of love, of +sorrow, is but wetting a feather in the sea that breaks ceaselessly +along the great shore of the years. Every man's heart is a living drama; +every death is a drop-scene; every book only a faint foot-light to throw +a little flicker on the stage. + +There is no need of wandering widely to catch incident or adventure; +they are everywhere about us; each day is a succession of escapes and +joys,--not perhaps clear to the world, but brooding in our thought, and +living in our brain. From the very first, Angels and Devils are busy +with us, and we are struggling against them and for them. + +No, no, Aunt Tabithy; this life of musing does not exhaust so easily. It +is like the springs on the farmland, that are fed with all the showers +and the dews of the year, and that from the narrow fissures of the rock +send up streams continually; or it is like the deep well in the meadow, +where one may see stars at noon when no stars are shining. + +What is Reverie, and what are these Day-dreams, but fleecy cloud-drifts +that float eternally, and eternally change shapes, upon the great +over-arching sky of thought? You may seize the strong outlines that the +passion-breezes of to-day shall throw into their figures; but to-morrow +may breed a whirlwind that will chase swift, gigantic shadows over the +heaven of your thought, and change the whole landscape of your life. + +Dream-land will never be exhausted, until we enter the land of dreams, +and until, in "shuffling off this mortal coil," thought will become +fact, and all facts will be only thought. + +As it is, I can conceive no mood of mind more in keeping with what is to +follow upon the grave, than those fancies which warp our frail hulks +toward the ocean of the Infinite, and that so sublimate the realities of +this being, that they seem to belong to that shadowy realm whither every +day's journey is leading. + +--It was warm weather, and my aunt was dozing. "What is this all to be +about?" said she, recovering her knitting-needle. + +"About love, and toil, and duty, and sorrow," said I. + +My aunt laid down her knitting, looked at me over the rim of her +spectacles, and--took snuff. + +I said nothing. + +"How many times have you been in love, Isaac?" said she. + +It was now my turn to say, "Pshaw!" + +Judging from her look of assurance, I could not possibly have made a +more satisfactory reply. + +My aunt finished the needle she was upon, smoothed the stocking-leg over +her knee, and looking at me with a very comical expression, said, "Isaac, +you are a sad fellow!" + +I did not like the tone of this; it sounded very much as if it would +have been in the mouth of any one else--"bad fellow." + +And she went on to ask me, in a very bantering way, if my stock of +youthful loves was not nearly exhausted; and she cited the episode of +the fair-haired Enrica, as perhaps the most tempting that I could draw +from my experience. + +A better man than myself, if he had only a fair share of vanity, would +have been nettled at this; and I replied somewhat tartly, that I had +never professed to write my experiences. These might be more or less +tempting; but certainly if they were of a kind which I have attempted to +portray in the characters of Bella, or of Carry, neither my Aunt Tabithy +nor any one else should have learned such truth from any book of mine. +There are griefs too sacred to be babbled to the world; and there may be +loves which one would forbear to whisper even to a friend. + +No, no; imagination has been playing pranks with memory; and if I have +made the feeling real, I am content that the facts should be false. +Feeling, indeed, has a higher truth in it than circumstance. It appeals +to a larger jury for acquittal; it is approved or condemned by a better +judge. And if I can catch this bolder and richer truth of feeling, I +will not mind if the types of it are all fabrications. + +If I run over some sweet experience of love, (my Aunt Tabithy brightened +a little,) must I make good the fact that the loved one lives, and +expose her name and qualities to make your sympathy sound? Or shall I +not rather be working upon higher and holier ground, if I take the +passion for itself, and so weave it into words, that you and every +willing sufferer may recognize the fervor, and forget the personality? + +Life, after all, is but a bundle of hints, each suggesting actual and +positive development, but rarely reaching it. And as I recall these +hints, and in fancy trace them to their issues, I am as truly dealing +with life as if my life had dealt them all to me. + +This is what I would be doing in the present book. I would catch up here +and there the shreds of feeling which the brambles and roughnesses of +the world have left tangling on my heart, and weave them out into those +soft and perfect tissues which, if the world had been only a little less +rough, might now perhaps enclose my heart altogether. + +"Ah," said my Aunt Tabithy, as she smoothed the stocking-leg again, with +a sigh, "there is, after all, but one youth-time; and if you put down +its memories once, you can find no second growth." + +My Aunt Tabithy was wrong. There is as much growth in the thoughts and +feelings that run behind us as in those that run before us. You may make +a rich, full picture of your childhood to-day; but let the hour go by, +and the darkness stoop to your pillow with its million shapes of the +past, and my word for it, you shall have some flash of childhood lighten +upon you, that was unknown to your busiest thought of the morning. + +Let a week go by, and in some interval of care, as you recall the smile +of a mother, or some pale sister who is dead, a new crowd of memories +will rush upon your soul, and leave their traces in such tears as will +make you kinder and better for days and weeks. Or you shall assist at +some neighbor funeral, where the little dead one (like one you have seen +before) shall hold in its tiny grasp (as you have taught little dead +hands to do) fresh flowers, laughing flowers, lying lightly on the white +robe of the dear child,--all pale, cold, silent-- + +I had touched my Aunt Tabithy: she had dropped a stitch in her knitting. +I believe she was weeping. + +--Aye, this brain of ours is a master-worker, whose appliances we do not +one half know; and this heart of ours is a rare storehouse, furnishing +the brain with new material every hour of our lives; and their limits we +shall not know, until they shall end--together. + +Nor is there, as many faint-hearts imagine, but one phase of earnestness +in our life of feeling. One train of deep emotion cannot fill up the +heart: it radiates like a star, God-ward and earth-ward. It spends and +reflects all ways. Its force is to be reckoned not so much by token as +by capacity. Facts are the poorest and most slumberous evidences of +passion or of affection. True feeling is ranging everywhere; whereas +your actual attachments are too apt to be tied to sense. + +A single affection may indeed be true, earnest, and absorbing; but such +an one, after all, is but a type--and if the object be worthy, a +glorious type--of the great book of feeling: it is only the vapor from +the caldron of the heart, and bears no deeper relation to its +exhaustless sources than the letter, which my pen makes, bears to the +thought that inspires it,--or than a single morning strain of your +orioles and thrushes bears to that wide bird-chorus which is making +every sunrise a worship, and every grove a temple! + +My Aunt Tabithy nodded. + +Nor is this a mere bachelor fling against constancy. I can believe, +Heaven knows, in an unalterable and unflinching affection, which neither +desires nor admits the prospect of any other. But when one is tasking +his brain to talk for his heart,--when he is not writing positive +history, but only making mention, as it were, of the heart's +capacities,--who shall say that he has reached the fulness, that he has +exhausted the stock of its feeling, or that he has touched its highest +notes? It is true, there is but one heart in a man to be stirred; but +every stir creates a new combination of feeling, that like the turn of a +kaleidoscope will show some fresh color or form. + +A bachelor, to be sure, has a marvellous advantage in this; and with the +tenderest influences once anchored in the bay of marriage, there is +little disposition to scud off under each pleasant breeze of feeling. +Nay, I can even imagine--perhaps somewhat captiously--that after +marriage, feeling would become a habit, a rich and holy habit certainly, +but yet a habit, which weakens the omnivorous grasp of the affections, +and schools one to a unity of emotion that doubts and ignores the +promptness and variety of impulse which we bachelors possess. + +My aunt nodded again. + +Could it be that she approved what I had been saying? I hardly knew. + +Poor old lady,--she did not know herself. She was asleep! + + + + +II. + +_With my Reader._ + + +Having silenced my Aunt Tabithy, I shall be generous enough, in my +triumph, to offer an explanatory chat to my reader. + +This is a history of Dreams; and there will be those who will sneer at +such a history, as the work of a dreamer. So indeed it is; and you, my +courteous reader, are a dreamer too! + +You would perhaps like to find your speculations about wealth, marriage, +or influence called by some better name than Dreams. You would like to +see the history of them--if written at all--baptized at the font of your +own vanity, with some such title as--life's cares, or life's work. If +there had been a philosophic naming to my observations, you might have +reckoned them good; as it is, you count them all bald and palpable +fiction. + +But is it so? I care not how matter-of-fact you may be, you have in your +own life at some time proved the very truth of what I have set down; and +the chances are, that even now, gray as you may be, and economic as you +may be, and devotional as you pretend to be, you light up your Sabbath +reflections with just such dreams of wealth, of per centages, or of +family, as you will find scattered over these pages. + +I am not to be put aside with any talk about stocks, and duties, and +respectability: all these, though very eminent matters, are but so many +types in the volume of your thought; and your eager resolves about them +are but so many ambitious waves breaking up from that great sea of +dreamy speculation that has spread over your soul from its first start +into the realm of Consciousness. + +No man's brain is so dull, and no man's eye so blind, that they cannot +catch food for dreams. Each little episode of life is full, had we but +the perception of its fulness. There is no such thing as blank in the +world of thought. Every action and emotion have their development +growing and gaining on the soul. Every affection has its tears and +smiles. Nay, the very material world is full of meaning, and by +suggesting thought is making us what we are and what we will be. + +The sparrow that is twittering on the edge of my balcony is calling up +to me this moment a world of memories that reach over half my lifetime, +and a world of hope that stretches farther than any flight of sparrows. +The rose-tree which shades his mottled coat is full of buds and +blossoms; and each bud and blossom is a token of promise that has +issues covering life, and reaching beyond death. The quiet sunshine +beyond the flower and beyond the sparrow,--glistening upon the leaves, +and playing in delicious waves of warmth over the reeking earth,--is +lighting both heart and hope, and quickening into activity a thousand +thoughts of what has been and of what will be. The meadow stretching +away under its golden flood,--waving with grain, and with the feathery +blossoms of the grass, and golden buttercups, and white, nodding +daisies,--comes to my eye like the lapse of fading childhood, studded +here and there with the bright blossoms of joy, crimsoned all over with +the flush of health, and enamelled with memories that perfume the soul. +The blue hills beyond, with deep-blue shadows gathered in their bosom, +lie before me like mountains of years, over which I shall climb through +shadows to the slope of Age, and go down to the deeper shadows of Death. + +Nor are dreams without their variety, whatever your character may be. I +care not how much in the pride of your practical judgment, or in your +learned fancies, you may sneer at any dream of love, and reckon it all a +poet's fiction: there are times when such dreams come over you like a +summer-cloud, and almost stifle you with their warmth. + +Seek as you will for increase of lands or moneys, and there are moments +when a spark of some giant mind will flash over your cravings, and wake +your soul suddenly to a quick and yearning sense of that influence which +is begotten of intellect; and you task your dreams--as I have copied +them here--to build before you the pleasures of such a renown. + +I care not how worldly you may be: there are times when all distinctions +seem like dust, and when at the graves of the great you dream of a +coming country, where your proudest hopes shall be dimmed forever. + +Married or unmarried, young or old, poet or worker, you are still a +dreamer, and will one time know, and feel, that your life is but a +dream. Yet you call this fiction: you stave off the thoughts in print +which come over you in reverie. You will not admit to the eye what is +true to the heart. Poor weakling, and worldling, you are not strong +enough to face yourself! + +You will read perhaps with smiles; you will possibly praise the +ingenuity; you will talk with a lip schooled against the slightest +quiver of some bit of pathos, and say that it is--well done. Yet why is +it well done?--only because it is stolen from your very life and heart. +It is good, because it is so common; ingenious, because it is so honest; +well-conceived, because it is not conceived at all. + +There are thousands of mole-eyed people who count all passion in print a +lie,--people who will grow into a rage at trifles, and weep in the dark, +and love in secret, and hope without mention, and cover it all under +the cloak of what they call--propriety. I can see before me now some +gray-haired old gentleman, very money-getting, very correct, very +cleanly, who reads the morning paper with unction, and his Bible with +determination,--who listens to dull sermons with patience, and who prays +with quiet self-applause; and yet there are moments belonging to his +life, when his curdled affections yearn for something that they have +not,--when his avarice oversteps all the commandments,--when his pride +builds castles full of splendor; and yet put this before his eye, and he +reads with the most careless air in the world, and condemns as arrant +fiction, what cannot be proved to the elders. + +We do not like to see our emotions unriddled: it is not agreeable to the +proud man to find his weaknesses exposed; it is shocking to the +disappointed lover to see his heart laid bare; it is a great grief to +the pining maiden to witness the exposure of her loves. We do not like +our fancies painted; we do not contrive them for rehearsal: our dreams +are private, and when they are made public, we disown them. + +I sometimes think that I must be a very honest fellow for writing down +those fancies,--which every one else seems afraid to whisper. I shall at +least come in for my share of the odium in entertaining such fancies: +indeed I shall expect the charge of entertaining them exclusively, and +shall scarce expect to find a single fellow-confessor, unless it be some +pure and innocent-thoughted girl, who will say _peccavi_ to--here and +there--a single rainbow fancy. + +Well, I can bear it; but in bearing it, I shall be consoled with the +reflection that I have a great company of fellow-sufferers, who lack +only the honesty to tell me of their sympathy. It will even relieve in +no small degree my burden to watch the effort they will take to conceal +what I have so boldly divulged. + +Nature is very much the same thing in one man that it is in another; +and, as I have already said, Feeling has a higher truth in it than +circumstance. Let it only be touched fairly and honestly, and the heart +of humanity answers; but if it be touched foully or one-sidedly, you may +find here and there a lame-souled creature who will give response, but +there is no heart-throb in it. + +Of one thing I am sure:--if my pictures are fair, worthy, and hearty, +you _must_ see it in the reading; but if they are forced and hard, no +amount of kindness can make you feel their truth, as I want them felt. + +I make no self-praise out of this: if feeling has been honestly set +down, it is only in virtue of a native impulse, over which I have +altogether too little control, but if it is set down badly, I have +wronged Nature, and (as Nature is kind) I have wronged myself. + +A great many inquisitive people will, I do not doubt, be asking, after +all this prelude, if my pictures are true pictures? The question--the +courteous reader will allow me to say--is an impertinent one. It is but +a shabby truth that wants an author's affidavit to make it trustworthy. +I shall not help my story by any such poor support. If there are not +enough elements of truth, honesty, and nature in my pictures to make +them believed, they shall have no oath of mine to bolster them up. + +I have been a sufferer in this way before now; and a little book that I +had the whim to publish a year since, has been set down by many as an +arrant piece of imposture. Claiming sympathy as a Bachelor, I have been +recklessly set down as a cold, undeserving man of family! My story of +troubles and loves has been sneered at as the sheerest gammon. + +But among this crowd of cold-blooded critics, it was pleasant to hear of +one or two pursy old fellows who railed at me for winning the affections +of a sweet Italian girl, and then leaving her to pine in discontent! Yet +in the face of this, an old companion of mine in Rome, with whom I +accidentally met the other day, wondered how on earth I could have made +so tempting a story out of the matronly and black-haired spinster with +whom I happened to be quartered in the Eternal City! + +I shall leave my critics to settle such differences between themselves; +and consider it far better to bear with slanders from both sides of the +house, than to bewray the pretty tenderness of the pursy old gentlemen, +or to cast a doubt upon the practical testimony of my quondam companion. +Both give me high and judicious compliment,--all the more grateful +because only half deserved. For I never yet was conscious--alas, that +the confession should be forced from me!--of winning the heart of any +maiden, whether native or Italian; and as for such delicacy of +imagination as to work up a lovely damsel out of the withered remnant +that forty odd years of Italian life can spare, I can assure my +middle-aged friends, (and it may serve as a _caveat_,) I can lay no +claim to it whatever. + +The trouble has been, that those who have believed one passage, have +discredited another; and those who have sympathized with me in trifles, +have deserted me when affairs grew earnest. I have had sympathy enough +with my married griefs, but when it came to the perplexing torments of +my single life--not a weeper could I find! + +I would suggest to those who intend to believe only half of my present +book, that they exercise a little discretion in their choice. I am not +fastidious in the matter, and only ask them to believe what counts most +toward the goodness of humanity, and to discredit--if they will persist +in it--only what tells badly for our common nature. The man, or the +woman, who believes well, is apt to work well; and Faith is as much the +key to happiness here, as it is the key to happiness hereafter. + +I have only one thing more to say before I get upon my story. A great +many sharp-eyed people, who have a horror of light reading,--by which +they mean whatever does not make mention of stocks, cottons, or moral +homilies,--will find much fault with my book for its ephemeral +character. + +I am sorry that I cannot gratify such: homilies are not at all in my +habit; and it does seem to me an exhausting way of disposing of a good +moral, to hammer it down to a single point, so that there shall be only +one chance of driving it home. For my own part, I count it a great deal +better philosophy to fuse it, and rarefy it, so that it shall spread out +into every crevice of a story, and give a color and a taste, as it were, +to the whole mass. + +I know there are very good people, who, if they cannot lay their finger +on so much doctrine set down in old-fashioned phrase, will never get an +inkling of it at all. With such people, goodness is a thing of +understanding, more than of feeling, and all their morality has its +action in the brain. + +God forbid that I should sneer at this terrible infirmity, which +Providence has seen fit to inflict; God forbid too, that I should not be +grateful to the same kind Providence for bestowing upon others among +his creatures a more genial apprehension of true goodness, and a hearty +sympathy with every shade of human kindness. + +But in all this I am not making out a case for my own correct teaching, +or insinuating the propriety of my tone. I shall leave the book, in this +regard, to speak for itself; and whoever feels himself growing worse for +the reading, I advise to lay it down. It will be very harmless on the +shelf, however it may be in the hand. + +I shall lay no claim to the title of moralist, teacher, or romancist: my +thoughts start pleasant pictures to my mind; and in a garrulous humor I +put my finger in the button-hole of my indulgent friend, and tell him +some of them,--giving him leave to quit me whenever he chooses. + +Or, if a lady is my listener, let her fancy me only an honest, +simple-hearted fellow, whose familiarities are so innocent that she can +pardon them;--taking her hand in his, and talking on; sometimes looking +in her eyes, and then looking into the sunshine for relief; sometimes +prosy with narrative, and then sharpening up my matter with a few +touches of honest pathos;--let her imagine this, I say, and we may +become the most excellent friends in the world. + + + + +_SPRING;_ + +OR, + +_DREAMS OF BOYHOOD._ + + + + +_DREAMS OF BOYHOOD._ + +_Spring._ + + +The old chroniclers made the year begin in the season of frosts; and +they have launched us upon the current of the months from the snowy +banks of January. I love better to count time from spring to spring; it +seems to me far more cheerful to reckon the year by blossoms than by +blight. + +Bernardin de St. Pierre, in his sweet story of Virginia, makes the bloom +of the cocoa-tree, or the growth of the banana, a yearly and a loved +monitor of the passage of her life. How cold and cheerless in the +comparison would be the icy chronology of the North;--So many years have +I seen the lakes locked, and the foliage die! + +The budding and blooming of spring seem to belong properly to the +opening of the months. It is the season of the quickest expansion, of +the warmest blood, of the readiest growth; it is the boy-age of the +year. The birds sing in chorus in the spring--just as children prattle; +the brooks run full--like the overflow of young hearts; the showers drop +easily--as young tears flow; and the whole sky is as capricious as the +mind of a boy. + +Between tears and smiles, the year, like the child, struggles into the +warmth of life. The old year--say what the chronologists will--lingers +upon the very lap of spring, and is only fairly gone when the blossoms +of April have strown their pall of glory upon his tomb, and the +bluebirds have chanted his requiem. + +It always seems to me as if an access of life came with the melting of +the winter's snows, and as if every rootlet of grass, that lifted its +first green blade from the matted _débris_ of the old year's decay, bore +my spirit upon it, nearer to the largess of Heaven. + +I love to trace the break of spring step by step: I love even those long +rain-storms, that sap the icy fortresses of the lingering winter,--that +melt the snows upon the hills, and swell the mountain-brooks,--that make +the pools heave up their glassy cerements of ice, and hurry down the +crashing fragments into the wastes of ocean. + +I love the gentle thaws that you can trace, day by day, by the stained +snow-banks, shrinking from the grass; and by the gentle drip of the +cottage-eaves. I love to search out the sunny slopes by a southern wall, +where the reflected sun does double duty to the earth and where the +frail anemone, or the faint blush of the arbutus, in the midst of the +bleak March atmosphere, will touch your heart, like a hope of Heaven in +a field of graves! Later come those soft, smoky days, when the patches +of winter grain show green under the shelter of leafless woods, and the +last snow-drifts, reduced to shrunken skeletons of ice, lie upon the +slope of northern hills, leaking away their life. + +Then the grass at your door grows into the color of the sprouting grain, +and the buds upon the lilacs swell and burst. The peaches bloom upon the +wall, and the plums wear bodices of white. The sparkling oriole picks +string for his hammock on the sycamore, and the sparrows twitter in +pairs. The old elms throw down their dingy flowers, and color their +spray with green; and the brooks, where you throw your worm or the +minnow, float down whole fleets of the crimson blossoms of the maple. +Finally the oaks step into the opening quadrille of spring, with grayish +tufts of a modest verdure, which by-and-by will be long and glossy +leaves. The dogwood pitches his broad, white tent in the edge of the +forest; the dandelions lie along the hillocks, like stars in a sky of +green; and the wild cherry, growing in all the hedge-rows, without other +culture than God's, lifts up to Him thankfully its tremulous white +fingers. + +Amid all this come the rich rains of spring. The affections of a boy +grow up with tears to water them; and the year blooms with showers. But +the clouds hover over an April sky timidly, like shadows upon innocence. +The showers come gently, and drop daintily to the earth,--with now and +then a glimpse of sunshine to make the drops bright--like so many tears +of joy. + +The rain of winter is cold, and it comes in bitter scuds that blind you; +but the rain of April steals upon you coyly, half reluctantly,--yet +lovingly--like the steps of a bride to the Altar. + +It does not gather like the storm-clouds of winter, gray and heavy along +the horizon, and creep with subtle and insensible approaches (like age) +to the very zenith; but there are a score of white-winged swimmers +afloat, that your eye has chased as you lay fatigued with the delicious +languor of an April sun;--nor have you scarce noticed that a little bevy +of those floating clouds had grouped together in a sombre company. But +presently you see across the fields the dark gray streaks, stretching +like lines of mists from the green bosom of the valley to that spot of +sky where the company of clouds is loitering; and with an easy shifting +of the helm the fleet of swimmers come drifting over you, and drop their +burden into the dancing pools, and make the flowers glisten, and the +eaves drip with their crystal bounty. + +The cattle linger still, cropping the new-come grass; and childhood +laughs joyously at the warm rain, or under the cottage-roof catches with +eager ear the patter of its fall. + +----And with that patter on the roof,--so like to the patter of +childish feet,--my story of boyish dreams shall begin. + + + + +I. + +_Rain in the Garret._ + + +It is an old garret with big brown rafters; and the boards between are +stained darkly with the rain-storms of fifty years. And as the sportive +April shower quickens its flood, it seems as if its torrents would come +dashing through the shingles upon you, and upon your play. But it will +not; for you know that the old roof is strong, and that it has kept you, +and all that love you, for long years from the rain and from the cold; +you know that the hardest storms of winter will only make a little +oozing leak, that trickles down the brown stains--like tears. + +You love that old garret-roof; and you nestle down under its slope with +a sense of its protecting power that no castle-walls can give to your +maturer years. Aye, your heart clings in boyhood to the roof-tree of the +old family garret with a grateful affection and an earnest confidence, +that the after-years--whatever may be their successes, or their +honors--can never re-create. Under the roof-tree of his home the boy +feels SAFE: and where in the whole realm of life, with its +bitter toils and its bitterer temptations, will he feel _safe_ again? + +But this you do not know. It seems only a grand old place; and it is +capital fun to search in its corners, and drag out some bit of quaint +old furniture, with a leg broken, and lay a cushion across it, and fix +your reins upon the lion's claws of the feet, and then--gallop away! And +you offer sister Nelly a chance, if she will be good; and throw out very +patronizing words to little Charlie, who is mounted upon a much humbler +horse,--to wit, a decrepit nursery-chair,--as he of right should be, +since he is three years your junior. + +I know no nobler forage-ground for a romantic, venturesome, mischievous +boy, than the garret of an old family mansion on a day of storm. It is a +perfect field of chivalry. The heavy rafters, the dashing rain, the +piles of spare mattresses to carouse upon, the big trunks to hide in, +the old white coats and hats hanging in obscure corners, like +ghosts,--are great! And it is so far away from the old lady who keeps +rule in the nursery, that there is no possible risk of a scolding for +twisting off the fringe of the rug. There is no baby in the garret to +wake up. There is no "company" in the garret to be disturbed by the +noise. There is no crotchety old Uncle, or Grand-Ma, with their +everlasting "Boys, boys!" and then a look of such horror! + +There is great fun in groping through a tall barrel of books and +pamphlets, on the look-out for startling pictures; and there are +chestnuts in the garret drying, which you have discovered on a ledge of +the chimney; and you slide a few into your pocket, and munch them +quietly,--giving now and then one to Nelly, and begging her to keep +silent,--for you have a great fear of its being forbidden fruit. + +Old family garrets have their stock, as I said, of castaway clothes of +twenty years gone by; and it is rare sport to put them on; buttoning in +a pillow or two for the sake of good fulness; and then to trick out +Nelly in some strange-shaped head-gear, and old-fashioned brocade +petticoat caught up with pins; and in such guise to steal cautiously +down-stairs, and creep slyly into the sitting-room,--half afraid of a +scolding, and very sure of good fun,--trying to look very sober, and yet +almost ready to die with the laugh that you know you will make. And your +mother tries to look harshly at little Nelly for putting on her +grandmother's best bonnet; but Nelly's laughing eyes forbid it utterly; +and the mother spoils all her scolding with a perfect shower of kisses. + +After this you go, marching very stately, into the nursery, and utterly +amaze the old nurse; and make a deal of wonderment for the staring, +half-frightened baby, who drops his rattle, and makes a bob at you as if +he would jump into your waistcoat-pocket. + +But you grow tired of this; you tire even of the swing, and of the +pranks of Charlie; and you glide away into a corner with an old, +dog's-eared copy of "Robinson Crusoe." And you grow heart and soul into +the story, until you tremble for the poor fellow with his guns behind +the palisade; and are yourself half dead with fright when you peep +cautiously over the hill with your glass, and see the cannibals at their +orgies around the fire. + +Yet, after all, you think the old fellow must have had a capital time +with a whole island to himself; and you think you would like such a time +yourself, if only Nelly and Charlie could be there with you. But this +thought does not come till afterward; for the time you are nothing but +Crusoe; you are living in his cave with Poll the parrot, and are looking +out for your goats and man Friday. + +You dream what a nice thing it would be for you to slip away some +pleasant morning,--not to York, as young Crusoe did, but to New +York,--and take passage as a sailor; and how, if they knew you were +going, there would be such a world of good-byes; and how, if they did +not know it, there would be such a world of wonder! + +And then the sailor's dress would be altogether such a jaunty affair; +and it would be such rare sport to lie off upon the yards far aloft, as +you have seen sailors in pictures, looking out upon the blue and +tumbling sea. No thought now, in your boyish dreams, of sleety storms, +and cables stiffened with ice, and crashing spars, and great icebergs +towering fearfully around you! + +You would have better luck than even Crusoe; you would save a compass, +and a Bible, and stores of hatchets, and the captain's dog, and great +puncheons of sweetmeats, (which Crusoe altogether overlooked;) and you +would save a tent or two, which you could set up on the shore, and an +American flag, and a small piece of cannon, which you could fire as +often as you liked. At night you would sleep in a tree,--though you +wonder how Crusoe did it,--and would say the prayers you had been taught +to say at home, and fall to sleep, dreaming of Nelly and Charlie. + +At sunrise, or thereabouts, you would come down, feeling very much +refreshed; and make a very nice breakfast off of smoked herring and +sea-bread, with a little currant jam, and a few oranges. After this you +would haul ashore a chest or two of the sailors' clothes, and putting a +few large jackknives in your pocket, would take a stroll over the +island, and dig a cave somewhere, and roll in a cask or two of +sea-bread. And you fancy yourself growing after a time very tall and +corpulent, and wearing a magnificent goat-skin cap trimmed with green +ribbons, and set off with a plume. You think you would have put a few +more guns in the palisade than Crusoe did, and charged them with a +little more grape. + +After a long while you fancy a ship would arrive which would carry you +back; and you count upon very great surprise on the part of your father +and little Nelly, as you march up to the door of the old family mansion, +with plenty of gold in your pocket, and a small bag of cocoa-nuts for +Charlie, and with a great deal of pleasant talk about your island far +away in the South Seas. + +----Or perhaps it is not Crusoe at all, that your eyes and your heart +cling to, but only some little story about Paul and Virginia;--that dear +little Virginia! how many tears have been shed over her--not in garrets +only, or by boys only! + +You would have liked Virginia, you know you would; but you perfectly +hate the beldame aunt who sent for her to come to France; you think she +must have been like the old schoolmistress, who occasionally boxes your +ears with the cover of the spelling-book, or makes you wear one of the +girls' bonnets, that smells strongly of pasteboard and calico. + +As for black Domingue, you think he was a capital old fellow; and you +think more of him and his bananas than you do of the bursting, throbbing +heart of poor Paul. As yet Dream-life does not take hold on love. A +little maturity of heart is wanted to make up what the poets call +sensibility. If love should come to be a dangerous, chivalric matter, as +in the case of Helen Mar and Wallace, you can very easily conceive of +it, and can take hold of all the little accessories of male costume and +embroidering of banners; but as for pure sentiment, such as lies in the +sweet story of Bernardin de St. Pierre, it is quite beyond you. + +The rich, soft nights, in which one might doze in his hammock, watching +the play of the silvery moonbeams upon the orange-leaves and upon the +waves, you can understand; and you fall to dreaming of that lovely Isle +of France, and wondering if Virginia did not perhaps have some relations +on the island, who raise pine-apples, and such sort of things, still? + +----And so with your head upon your hand in your quiet garret-corner, +over some such beguiling story, your thought leans away from the book +into your own dreamy cruise over the sea of life. + + + + +II. + +_School-Dreams._ + + +It is a proud thing to go out from under the realm of a schoolmistress, +and to be enrolled in a company of boys, who are under the guidance of a +master. It is one of the earliest steps of worldly pride, which has +before it a long and tedious ladder of ascent. Even the advice of the +old mistress, and the ninepenny book that she thrusts into your hand as +a parting gift, pass for nothing; and her kiss of adieu, if she tenders +it in the sight of your fellows, will call up an angry rush of blood to +the cheek, that for long years shall drown all sense of its kindness. + +You have looked admiringly many a day upon the tall fellows who play at +the door of Dr. Bidlow's school; you have looked with reverence--second +only to that felt for the old village church--upon its dark-looking, +heavy brick walls. It seemed to be redolent of learning; and stopping at +times to gaze upon the gallipots and broken retorts at the second-story +window, you have pondered in your boyish way upon the inscrutable +wonders of Science, and the ineffable dignity of Dr. Bidlow's brick +school! + +Dr. Bidlow seems to you to belong to a race of giants; and yet he is a +spare, thin man, with a hooked nose, a large, flat, gold watch-key, a +crack in his voice, a wig, and very dirty wristbands. Still you stand in +awe at the mere sight of him,--an awe that is very much encouraged by a +report made to you by a small boy, that "Old Bid" keeps a large ebony +ruler in his desk. You are amazed at the small boy's audacity; it +astonishes you that any one who had ever smelt the strong fumes of +sulphur and ether in the Doctor's room, and had seen him turn red +vinegar blue, (as they say he does,) should call him "Old Bid!" + +You however come very little under his control; you enter upon the proud +life, in the small boy's department, under the dominion of the English +master. He is a different personage from Dr. Bidlow: he is a dapper +little man, who twinkles his eye in a peculiar fashion, and who has a +way of marching about the schoolroom with his hands crossed behind him, +giving a playful flirt to his coat-tails. He wears a pen tucked behind +his ear; his hair is carefully set up at the sides and upon the top, to +conceal (as you think later in life) his diminutive height; and he steps +very springily around behind the benches, glancing now and then at the +books,--cautioning one scholar about his dog's-ears, and startling +another from a doze by a very loud and odious snap of his forefinger +upon the boy's head. + +At other times he sticks a hand in the armlet of his waistcoat; he +brandishes in the other a thickish bit of smooth cherry-wood, sometimes +dressing his hair withal; and again giving his head a slight scratch +behind the ear, while he takes occasion at the same time for an oblique +glance at a fat boy in the corner, who is reaching down from his seat +after a little paper pellet that has just been discharged at him from +some unknown quarter. The master steals very cautiously and quickly to +the rear of the stooping boy, dreadfully exposed by his unfortunate +position, and inflicts a stinging blow. A weak-eyed little scholar on +the next bench ventures a modest titter, at which the assistant makes a +significant motion with his ruler,--on the seat, as it were, of an +imaginary pair of pantaloons,--which renders the weak-eyed boy on a +sudden very insensible to the recent joke. + +You meantime profess to be very much engrossed with your grammar--turned +upside-down; you think it must have hurt, and are only sorry that it did +not happen to a tall, dark-faced boy, who cheated you in a swop of +jackknives. You innocently think that he must be a very bad boy, and +fancy--aided by a suggestion of the old nurse at home on the same +point--that he will one day come to the gallows. + +There is a platform on one side of the schoolroom, where the teacher +sits at a little red table; and they have a tradition among the boys, +that a pin properly bent was one day put into the chair of the English +master, and that he did not wear his hand in the armlet of his waistcoat +for two whole days thereafter. Yet his air of dignity seems proper +enough in a man of such erudition, and such grasp of imagination, as he +must possess. For he can quote poetry,--some of the big scholars have +heard him do it; he can parse the whole of "Paradise Lost," and he can +cipher in Long Division, and the Rule of Three, as if it was all Simple +Addition; and then, such a hand as he writes, and such a superb capital +B! It is hard to understand how he does it. + +Sometimes lifting the lid of your desk, where you pretend to be very +busy with your papers, you steal the reading of some brief passage of +"Lazy Lawrence," or of the "Hungarian Brothers," and muse about it for +hours afterward to the great detriment of your ciphering; or, deeply +lost in the story of the "Scottish Chiefs," you fall to comparing such +villains as Menteith with the stout boys who tease you; and you only +wish they could come within reach of the fierce Kirkpatrick's claymore. + +But you are frighted out of this stolen reading by a circumstance that +stirs your young blood very strangely. The master is looking very sourly +on a certain morning, and has caught sight of the little weak-eyed boy +over beyond you, reading "Roderick Random." He sends out for a long +birch rod, and having trimmed off the leaves carefully,--with a glance +or two in your direction,--he marches up behind the bench of the poor +culprit,--who turns deathly pale,--grapples him by the collar, drags him +out over the desks, his limbs dangling in a shocking way against the +sharp angles, and having him fairly in the middle of the room, clinches +his rod with a new, and, as it seems to you, a very sportive grip. + +You shudder fearfully. + +"Please don't whip me," says the boy, whimpering. + +"Aha!" says the smirking pedagogue, bringing down the stick with a +quick, sharp cut,--"you don't like it, eh?" + +The poor fellow screams, and struggles to escape; but the blows come +faster and thicker. The blood tingles in your finger-ends with +indignation. + +"Please don't strike me again," says the boy, sobbing, and taking +breath, as he writhes about the legs of the master; "I won't read +another time." + +"Ah, you won't, sir,--won't you? I don't mean you shall, sir;" and the +blows fall thick and fast, until the poor fellow crawls back, utterly +crestfallen and heartsick, to sob over his books. + +You grow into a sudden boldness; you wish you were only large enough to +beat the master; you know such treatment would make you miserable; you +shudder at the thought of it; you do not believe he would dare; you +know the other boy has got no father. This seems to throw a new light +upon the matter, but it only intensifies your indignation. You are sure +that no father would suffer it; or, if you thought so, it would sadly +weaken your love for him. You pray Heaven, that it may never be brought +to such proof. + +----Let a boy once distrust the love or the tenderness of his parents, +and the last resort of his yearning affections--so far as the world +goes--is utterly gone. He is in the sure road to a bitter fate. His +heart will take on a hard, iron covering, that will flash out plenty of +fire in his after contact with the world, but it will never--never melt! + +There are some tall trees, that overshadow an angle of the schoolhouse; +and the larger scholars play some very surprising gymnastic tricks upon +their lower limbs: one boy, for instance, will hang for an incredible +length of time by his feet with his head down; and when you tell Charlie +of it at night, with such additions as your boyish imagination can +contrive, the old nurse is shocked, and states very gravely that it is +dangerous, and that the blood all runs to the head, and sometimes bursts +out of the eyes and mouth. You look at that particular boy with +astonishment afterward, and expect to see him some day burst into +bleeding from the nose and ears, and flood the schoolroom benches. + +In time however you get to performing some modest experiments yourself +upon the very lowest limbs, taking care to avoid the observation of the +larger boys, who else might laugh at you; you especially avoid the +notice of one stout fellow in pea-green breeches, who is a sort of +"bully" among the small boys, and who delights in kicking your marbles +about very accidentally. He has a fashion too of twisting his +handkerchief into what he calls a "snapper," with a knot at the end, and +cracking at you with it, very much to the irritation of your spirits and +of your legs. + +Sometimes, when he has brought you to an angry burst of tears, he will +very graciously force upon you the handkerchief, and insist upon your +cracking him in return; which, as you know nothing about his effective +method of making the knot bite, is a very harmless proposal on his part. + +But you have still stronger reason to remember that boy. There are +trees, as I said, near the school; and you get the reputation, after a +time, of a good climber. One day you are well in the tops of the trees, +and being dared by the boys below, you venture higher--higher than any +boy has ever gone before. You feel very proudly, but just then catch +sight of the sneering face of your old enemy of the snapper; and he +dares you to go upon a limb that he points out. + +The rest say,--for you hear them plainly,--"It won't bear him." And +Frank, a great friend of yours, shouts loudly to you not to try. + +"Pho," says your tormentor,--"the little coward!" + +If you could whip him, you would go down the tree, and do it willingly; +as it is, you cannot let him triumph; so you advance cautiously out upon +the limb; it bends and sways fearfully with your weight; presently it +cracks; you try to return, but it is too late; you feel yourself going; +your mind flashes home--over your life, your hope, your fate--like +lightning; then comes a sense of dizziness, a succession of quick blows, +and a dull, heavy crash! + +You are conscious of nothing again, until you find yourself in the great +hall of the school, covered with blood, the old Doctor standing over you +with a phial, and Frank kneeling by you, and holding your shattered arm, +which has been broken by the fall. + +After this come those long, weary days of confinement, when you lie +still through all the hours of noon, looking out upon the cheerful +sunshine only through the windows of your little room. Yet it seems a +grand thing to have the whole household attendant upon you. The doors +are opened and shut softly, and they all step noiselessly about your +chamber; and when you groan with pain, you are sure of meeting sad, +sympathizing looks. Your mother will step gently to your side and lay +her cool, white hand upon your forehead; and little Nelly will gaze at +you from the foot of your bed with a sad earnestness, and with tears of +pity in her soft hazel eyes. And afterward, as your pain passes away, +she will bring you her prettiest books, and fresh flowers, and whatever +she knows you will love. + +But it is dreadful when you wake at night from your feverish slumber, +and see nothing but the spectral shadows that the sick-lamp upon the +hearth throws aslant the walls; and hear nothing but the heavy breathing +of the old nurse in the easy-chair, and the ticking of the clock upon +the mantel! Then silence and the night crowd upon your soul drearily. +But your thought is active. It shapes at your bedside the loved figure +of your mother, or it calls up the whole company of Dr. Bidlow's boys +and weeks of study or of play group like magic on your quickened vision; +then a twinge of pain will call again the dreariness, and your head +tosses upon the pillow, and your eye searches the gloom vainly for +pleasant faces; and your fears brood on that drearier, coming night of +Death--far longer, and far more cheerless than this. + +But even here the memory of some little prayer you have been taught, +which promises a Morning after the Night, comes to your throbbing brain; +and its murmur on your fevered lips, as you breathe it, soothes like a +caress of angels, and woos you to smiles and sleep. + +As the days pass, you grow stronger; and Frank comes in to tell you of +the school, and that your old tormentor has been expelled; and you grow +into a strong friendship with Frank, and you think of yourselves as a +new Damon and Pythias, and that you will some day live together in a +fine house, with plenty of horses, and plenty of chestnut-trees. Alas, +the boy counts little on those later and bitter fates of life, which +sever his early friendships like wisps of straw! + +At other times, with your eye upon the sleek, trim figure of the Doctor, +and upon his huge bunch of watch-seals, you think you will some day be a +Doctor; and that with a wife and children, and a respectable gig, and +gold watch, with seals to match, you would needs be a very happy fellow. + +And with such fancies drifting on your thought, you count for the +hundredth time the figures upon the curtains of your bed; you trace out +the flower-wreaths upon the paper-hangings of your room; your eyes rest +idly on the cat playing with the fringe of the curtain; you see your +mother sitting with her needle-work beside the fire; you watch the +sunbeams, as they drift along the carpet, from morning until noon; and +from noon till night you watch them playing on the leaves, and dropping +spangles on the lawn; and as you watch--you dream. + + + + +III. + +_Boy Sentiment._ + + +Weeks and even years of your boyhood roll on, in the which your dreams +are growing wider and grander,--even as the Spring, which I have made +the type of the boy-age, is stretching its foliage farther and farther, +and dropping longer and heavier shadows on the land. + +Nelly, that sweet sister, has grown into your heart strangely; and you +think that all they write in their books about love cannot equal your +fondness for little Nelly. She is pretty, they say; but what do you care +for her prettiness? She is so good, so kind, so watchful of all your +wants, so willing to yield to your haughty claims! + +But, alas! it is only when this sisterly love is lost forever,--only +when the inexorable world separates a family, and tosses it upon the +waves of fate to wide-lying distances, perhaps to graves,--that a man +feels, what a boy can never know,--the disinterested and abiding +affection of a sister. + +All this that I have set down comes back to you long afterward, when +you recall with tears of regret your reproachful words, or some swift +outbreak of passion. + +Little Madge is a friend of Nelly's,--a mischievous, blue-eyed hoiden. +They tease you about Madge. You do not of course care one straw for her, +but yet it is rather pleasant to be teased thus. Nelly never does this; +oh no, not she. I do not know but in the age of childhood the sister is +jealous of the affections of a brother, and would keep his heart wholly +at home, until, suddenly and strangely, she finds her own wandering. + +But after all Madge is pretty, and there is something taking in her +name. Old people, and very precise people, call her Margaret Boyne. But +you do not: it is only plain Madge; it sounds like her, very rapid and +mischievous. It would be the most absurd thing in the world for you to +like her, for she teases you in innumerable ways: she laughs at your big +shoes, (such a sweet little foot as she has!) and she pins strips of +paper on your coat-collar; and time and again she has worn off your hat +in triumph, very well knowing that you--such a quiet body, and so much +afraid of her--will never venture upon any liberties with her gypsy +bonnet. + +You sometimes wish in your vexation, as you see her running, that she +would fall and hurt herself badly; but the next moment it seems a very +wicked wish, and you renounce it. Once she did come very near it. You +were all playing together by the big swing; (how plainly it swings in +your memory now!) Madge had the seat, and you were famous for running +under with a long push, which Madge liked better than anything +else;--well, you have half run over the ground when, crash! comes the +swing, and poor Madge with it! You fairly scream as you catch her up. +But she is not hurt,--only a cry of fright, and a little sprain of that +fairy ankle; and as she brushes away the tears and those flaxen curls, +and breaks into a merry laugh,--half at your woe-worn face, and half in +vexation at herself,--and leans her hand (such a hand!) upon your +shoulder, to limp away into the shade, you dream your first dream of +love. + +But it is only a dream, not at all acknowledged by you; she is three or +four years your junior,--too young altogether. It is very absurd to talk +about it. There is nothing to be said of Madge, only--Madge! The name +does it. + +It is rather a pretty name to write. You are fond of making capital M's; +and sometimes you follow it with a capital A. Then you practise a little +upon a D, and perhaps back it up with a G. Of course it is the merest +accident that these letters come together. It seems funny to you--very. +And as a proof that they are made at random, you make a T or an R before +them, and some other quite irrelevant letters after it. + +Finally, as a sort of security against all suspicion, you cross it +out,--cross it a great many ways, even holding it up to the light to see +that there should be no air of intention about it. + +----You need have no fear, Clarence, that your hieroglyphics will be +studied so closely. Accidental as they are, you are very much more +interested in them than any one else. + +----It is a common fallacy of this dream in most stages of life, that a +vast number of persons employ their time chiefly in spying out its +operations. + +Yet Madge cares nothing about you, that you know of. Perhaps it is the +very reason, though you do not suspect it then, why you care so much for +her. At any rate she is a friend of Nelly's, and it is your duty not to +dislike her. Nelly too, sweet Nelly, gets an inkling of matters,--for +sisters are very shrewd in suspicions of this sort, shrewder than +brothers or fathers,--and, like the good, kind girl that she is, she +wishes to humor even your weakness. + +Madge drops in to tea quite often: Nelly has something _in particular_ +to show her, two or three times a week. Good Nelly! perhaps she is +making your troubles all the greater. You gather large bunches of grapes +for Madge--because she is a friend of Nelly's--which she doesn't want at +all, and very pretty bouquets, which she either drops or pulls to +pieces. + +In the presence of your father one day you drop some hint about Madge +in a very careless way,--a way shrewdly calculated to lay all +suspicion,--at which your father laughs. This is odd; it makes you +wonder if your father was ever in love himself. + +You rather think that he has been. + +Madge's father is dead, and her mother is poor; and you sometimes dream +how--whatever your father may think or feel--you will some day make a +large fortune, in some very easy way, and build a snug cottage, and have +one horse for your carriage and one for your wife, (not Madge, of +course--that is absurd,) and a turtleshell cat for your wife's mother, +and a pretty gate to the front yard, and plenty of shrubbery; and how +your wife will come dancing down the path to meet you,--as the Wife does +in Mr. Irving's "Sketch-Book,"--and how she will have a harp in the +parlor, and will wear white dresses with a blue sash. + +----Poor Clarence, it never occurs to you that even Madge may grow fat, +and wear check aprons, and snuffy-brown dresses of woollen stuff, and +twist her hair in yellow papers! Oh, no, boyhood has no such dreams as +that! + +I shall leave you here in the middle of your first foray into the world +of sentiment, with those wicked blue eyes chasing rainbows over your +heart, and those little feet walking every day into your affections. I +shall leave you, before the affair has ripened into any overtures, and +while there is only a sixpence split in halves, and tied about your neck +and Maggie's neck, to bind your destinies together. + +If I even hinted at any probability of your marrying her, or of your not +marrying her, you would be very likely to dispute me. One knows his own +feelings, or thinks he does, so much better than any one can tell him. + + + + +IV. + +_A Friend made and Friend lost._ + + +To visit, is a great thing in the boy calendar;--not to visit this or +that neighbor,--to drink tea, or eat strawberries, or play at +draughts,--but to go away on a visit in a coach, with a trunk, and a +great-coat, and an umbrella--this is large! + +It makes no difference that they wish to be rid of your noise, now that +Charlie is sick of a fever: the reason is not at all in the way of your +pride of visiting. You are to have a long ride in a coach, and eat a +dinner at a tavern, and to see a new town almost as large as the one you +live in; and you are to make new acquaintances. In short, you are to see +the world: a very proud thing it is to see the world! + +As you journey on, after bidding your friends adieu, and as you see +fences and houses to which you have not been used, you think them very +odd indeed: but it occurs to you that the geographies speak of very +various national characteristics, and you are greatly gratified with +this opportunity of verifying your study. You see new crops too, perhaps +a broad-leaved tobacco-field, which reminds you pleasantly of the +luxuriant vegetation of the tropics, spoken of by Peter Parley, and +others. + +As for the houses and barns in the new town, they quite startle you with +their strangeness: you observe that some of the latter, instead of +having one stable-door have five or six,--a fact which puzzles you very +much indeed. You observe further that the houses many of them have +balustrades upon the top, which seems to you a very wonderful adaptation +to the wants of boys who wish to fly kites, or to play upon the roof. +You notice with special favor one very low roof, which you might climb +upon by a mere plank, and you think the boys whose father lives in that +house are very fortunate boys. + +Your old aunt, whom you visit, you think, wears a very queer cap, being +altogether different from that of the old nurse, or of Mrs. +Boyne,--Madge's mother. As for the house she lives in, it is quite +wonderful. There are such an immense number of closets, and closets +within closets, reminding you of the mysteries of "Rinaldo Rinaldini." +Beside which there are immensely curious bits of old furniture--so black +and heavy, and with such curious carving!--and you think of the old +wainscot in the "Children of the Abbey". You think you will never tire +of rambling about in its odd corners, and of what glorious stories you +will have to tell of it when you go back to Nelly and Charlie. + +As for acquaintances, you fall in the very first day with a tall boy +next door, called Nat, which seems an extraordinary name. Besides, he +has travelled; and as he sits with you on the summer nights under the +linden-trees, he tells you gorgeous stories of the things he has seen. +He has made the voyage to London; and he talks about the ship (a real +ship) and starboard and larboard, and the spanker, in a way quite +surprising; and he takes the stern-oar in the little skiff, when you row +off in the cove abreast of the town, in a most seaman-like way. + +He bewilders you, too, with his talk about the great bridges of +London,--London Bridge specially, where they sell kids for a penny; +which story your new acquaintance unfortunately does not confirm. You +have read of these bridges, and seen pictures of them in the "Wonders of +the World"; but then Nat has seen them with his own eyes: he has +literally walked over London Bridge, on his own feet! You look at his +very shoes in wonderment, and are surprised you do not find some +startling difference between those shoes and your shoes. But there is +none,--only yours are a trifle stouter in the welt. You think Nat one of +the fortunate boys of this world,--born, as your old nurse used to say, +with a gold spoon in his mouth. + +Beside Nat there is a girl lives over the opposite side of the way, +named Jenny,--with an eye as black as a coal, and a half a year older +than you, but about your height,--whom you fancy amazingly. + +She has any quantity of toys, that she lets you play with as if they +were your own. And she has an odd old uncle, who sometimes makes you +stand up together, and then marries you after his fashion,--much to the +amusement of a grown-up house-maid, whenever she gets a peep at the +performance. And it makes you somewhat proud to hear her called your +wife; and you wonder to yourself, dreamily, if it won't be true some day +or other. + +----Fie, Clarence, where is your split sixpence, and your blue ribbon! + +Jenny is romantic, and talks of "Thaddeus of Warsaw" in a very touching +manner, and promises to lend you the book. She folds billets in a +lover's fashion, and practises love-knots upon her bonnet-strings. She +looks out of the corners of her eyes very often, and sighs. She is +frequently by herself, and pulls flowers to pieces. She has great pity +for middle-aged bachelors, and thinks them all disappointed men. + +After a time she writes notes to you, begging you would answer them at +the earliest possible moment, and signs herself--"your attached Jenny." +She takes the marriage farce of her uncle in a cold way, as trifling +with a very serious subject, and looks tenderly at you. She is very much +shocked when her uncle offers to kiss her; and when he proposes it to +you, she is equally indignant, but--with a great change of color. + +Nat says one day in a confidential conversation that it won't do to +marry a woman six months older than yourself; and this, coming from Nat +who has been to London, rather staggers you. You sometimes think that +you would like to marry Madge and Jenny both, if the thing were +possible, for Nat says they sometimes do so the other side of the ocean, +though he has never seen it himself. + +----Ah, Clarence, you will have no such weakness as you grow older; you +will find that Providence has charitably so tempered our affections, +that every man of only ordinary nerve will be amply satisfied with a +single wife. + +All this time--for you are making your visit a very long one, so that +autumn has come, and the nights are growing cool, and Jenny and yourself +are transferring your little coquetries to the chimney-corner--poor +Charlie lies sick at home. Boyhood, thank Heaven! does not suffer +severely from sympathy when the object is remote. And those letters from +the mother, telling you that Charlie cannot play,--cannot talk even as +he used to do,--and that perhaps his "Heavenly Father will take him away +to be with him in the better world," disturb you for a time only. +Sometimes however they come back to your thought on a wakeful night, +and you dream about his suffering, and think--why it is not you, but +Charlie, who is sick? The thought puzzles you; and well it may, for in +it lies the whole mystery of our fate. + +Those letters grow more and more discouraging, and the kind admonitions +of your mother grow more earnest, as if (though the thought does not +come to you until years afterward) she was preparing herself to fasten +upon you that surplus of affection which she fears may soon be withdrawn +forever from the sick child. + +It is on a frosty, bleak evening, when you are playing with Nat, that +the letter reaches you which says Charlie is growing worse, and that you +must come to your home. It makes a dreamy night for you--fancying how +Charlie will look, and if sickness has altered him much, and if he will +not be well by Christmas. From this you fall away in your reverie to the +odd old house and its secret cupboards, and your aunt's queer caps; then +come up those black eyes of "your attached Jenny," and you think it a +pity that she is six month's older than you; and again--as you recall +one of her sighs--you think that six months are not much after all! + +You bid her good-bye, with a little sentiment swelling in your throat, +and are mortally afraid Nat will see your lip tremble. Of course you +promise to write, and squeeze her hand with an honesty you do not think +of doubting--for weeks. + +It is a dull, cold ride, that day, for you. The winds sweep over the +withered cornfields with a harsh, chilly whistle, and the surfaces of +the little pools by the roadside are tossed up into cold blue wrinkles +of water. Here and there a flock of quail, with their feathers ruffled +in the autumn gusts, tread through the hard, dry stubble of an oatfield; +or, startled by the snap of the driver's whip, they stare a moment at +the coach, then whir away down the cold current of the wind. The blue +jays scream from the roadside oaks, and the last of the blue and purple +asters shiver along the wall. And as the sun sinks, reddening all the +western clouds to the color of the frosted maples, light lines of the +Aurora gush up from the northern hills, and trail their splintered +fingers far over the autumn sky. + +It is quite dark when you reach home, but you see the bright reflection +of a fire within, and presently at the open door Nelly clapping her +hands for welcome. But there are sad faces when you enter. Your mother +folds you to her heart; but at your first noisy outburst of joy puts her +finger on her lip, and whispers poor Charlie's name. The Doctor you see +too, slipping softly out of the bedroom-door, with glasses in his hand; +and--you hardly know how--your spirits grow sad, and your heart +gravitates to the heavy air of all about you. + +You cannot see Charlie, Nelly says;--and you cannot in the quiet parlor +tell Nelly a single one of the many things, which you had hoped to tell +her. She says,--"Charlie has grown so thin and so pale, you would never +know him." You listen to her, but you cannot talk: she asks you what you +have seen, and you begin, for a moment joyously; but when they open the +door of the sick-room, and you hear a faint sigh, you cannot go on. You +sit still, with your hand in Nelly's, and look thoughtfully into the +blaze. + +You drop to sleep after that day's fatigue, with singular and perplexed +fancies haunting you; and when you wake up with a shudder in the middle +of the night, you have a fancy that Charlie is really dead: you dream of +seeing him pale and thin, as Nelly described him, and with the starched +grave-clothes on him. You toss over in your bed, and grow hot and +feverish. You cannot sleep; and you get up stealthily, and creep +down-stairs. A light is burning in the hall: the bedroom-door stands +half open, and you listen--fancying you hear a whisper. You steal on +through the hall, and edge around the side of the door. A little lamp is +flickering on the hearth, and the gaunt shadow of the bedstead lies dark +upon the ceiling. Your mother is in her chair with her head upon her +hand--though it is long after midnight. The Doctor is standing with his +back toward you, and with Charlie's little wrist in his fingers; and you +hear hard breathing, and now and then a low sigh from your mother's +chair. + +An occasional gleam of firelight makes the gaunt shadows stagger on the +wall, like something spectral. You look wildly at them, and at the bed +where your own brother--your laughing, gay-hearted brother--is lying. +You long to see him, and sidle up softly a step or two; but your +mother's ear has caught the sound, and she beckons you to her, and folds +you again in her embrace. You whisper to her what you wish. She rises, +and takes you by the hand, to lead you to the bedside. + +The Doctor looks very solemnly as we approach. He takes out his watch. +He is not counting Charlie's pulse, for he has dropped his hand, and it +lies carelessly, but oh, how thin! over the edge of the bed. + +He shakes his head mournfully at your mother; and she springs forward, +dropping your hand, and lays her fingers upon the forehead of the boy, +and passes her hand over his mouth. + +"Is he asleep, Doctor?" she says in a tone you do not know. + +"Be calm, madam." The Doctor is very calm. + +"I am calm," says your mother; but you do not think it, for you see her +tremble very plainly. + +"Dear madam, he will never waken in this world!" + +There is no cry,--only a bowing down of your mother's head upon the body +of poor dead Charlie!--and only when you see her form shake and quiver +with the deep, smothered sobs, your crying bursts forth loud and +strong. + +The Doctor lifts you in his arms, that you may see that pale +head,--those blue eyes all sunken,--that flaxen hair gone,--those white +lips pinched and hard!--Never, never will the boy forget his first +terrible sight of Death! + +In your silent chamber, after the storm of sobs has wearied you, the +boy-dreams are strange and earnest. They take hold on that awful +Visitant,--that strange slipping away from life, of which we know so +little, and yet know, alas, so much! Charlie that was your brother, is +now only a name: perhaps he is an angel; perhaps (for the old nurse has +said it when he was ugly--and now you hate her for it) he is with Satan! + +But you are sure this cannot be: you are sure that God, who made him +suffer, would not now quicken and multiply his suffering. It agrees with +your religion to think so; and just now you want your religion to help +you all it can. + +You toss in your bed, thinking over and over of that strange +thing--Death; and that perhaps it may overtake you before you are a man; +and you sob out those prayers (you scarce know why) which ask God to +keep life in you. You think the involuntary fear, that makes your little +prayer full of sobs, is a holy feeling;--and so it is a holy +feeling,--the same feeling which makes a stricken child yearn for the +embrace and the protection of a Parent. But you will find there are +those canting ones trying to persuade you, at a later day, that it is a +mere animal fear, and not to be cherished. + +You feel an access of goodness growing out of your boyish grief; you +feel right-minded; it seems as if your little brother in going to Heaven +had opened a path-way thither, down which goodness comes streaming over +your soul. + +You think how good a life you will lead; and you map out great purposes, +spreading themselves over the school-weeks of your remaining boyhood; +and you love your friends, or seem to, far more dearly than you ever +loved them before; and you forgive the boy who provoked you to that sad +fall from the oak, and you forgive him all his wearisome teasings. But +you cannot forgive yourself for some harsh words that you have once +spoken to Charlie; still less can you forgive yourself for having once +struck him in passion with your fist. You cannot forget his sobs +then;--if he were only alive one little instant to let you +say,--"Charlie, will you forgive me?" + +Yourself you cannot forgive; and sobbing over it, and murmuring "Dear, +dear Charlie!" you drop into a troubled sleep. + + + + +V. + +_Boy Religion._ + + +Is any weak soul frightened, that I should write of the Religion of the +boy? How indeed could I cover the field of his moral or intellectual +growth, if I left unnoticed those dreams of futurity and of goodness, +which come sometimes to his quieter moments, and oftener to his hours of +vexation and trouble? It would be as wise to describe the season of +Spring with no note of the silent influences of that burning Day-god +which is melting day by day the shattered ice-drifts of Winter,--which +is filling every bud with succulence, and painting one flower with +crimson, and another with white. + +I know there is a feeling--by much too general as it seems to me--that +the subject may not be approached except through the dicta of certain +ecclesiastic bodies, and that the language which touches it must not be +that every-day language which mirrors the vitality of our thought, but +should have some twist of that theologic mannerism, which is as cold to +the boy as to the busy man of the world. + +I know very well that a great many good souls will call levity what I +call honesty, and will abjure that familiar handling of the boy's lien +upon Eternity which my story will show. But I shall feel sure, that, in +keeping true to Nature with word and with thought, I shall in no way +offend against those highest truths to which all truthfulness is +kindred. + +You have Christian teachers, who speak always reverently of the Bible; +you grow up in the hearing of daily prayers; nay, you are perhaps taught +to say them. + +Sometimes they have a meaning, and sometimes they have none. They have a +meaning when your heart is troubled, when a grief or a wrong weighs upon +you: then the keeping of the Father, which you implore, seems to come +from the bottom of your soul; and your eye suffuses with such tears of +feeling as you count holy, and as you love to cherish in your memory. + +But they have no meaning when some trifling vexation angers you, and a +distaste for all about you breeds a distaste for all above you. In the +long hours of toilsome days little thought comes over you of the morning +prayer; and only when evening deepens its shadows, and your boyish +vexations fatigue you to thoughtfulness, do you dream of that coming and +endless night, to which--they tell you--prayers soften the way. + +Sometimes upon a Summer Sunday, when you are wakeful upon your seat in +church, with some strong-worded preacher who says things that half +fright you it occurs to you to consider how much goodness you are made +of; and whether there be enough of it after all to carry you safely away +from the clutch of Evil? And straightway you reckon up those friendships +where your heart lies; you know you are a true and honest friend to +Frank; and you love your mother, and your father; as for Nelly, Heaven +knows, you could not contrive a way to love her better than you do. + +You dare not take much credit to yourself for the love of little +Madge,--partly because you have sometimes caught yourself trying--not to +love her; and partly because the black-eyed Jenny comes in the way. Yet +you can find no command in the Catechism to love one girl to the +exclusion of all other girls. It is somewhat doubtful if you ever do +find it. But as for loving some half-dozen you could name, whose images +drift through your thought, in dirty, salmon-colored frocks, and +slovenly shoes, it is quite impossible; and suddenly this thought, +coupled with a lingering remembrance of the pea-green pantaloons, +utterly breaks down your hopes. + +Yet you muse again,--there are plenty of good people, as the times go, +who have their dislikes, and who speak them too. Even the sharp-talking +clergyman you have heard say some very sour things about his landlord, +who raised his rent the last year. And you know that he did not talk as +mildly as he does in the church, when he found Frank and yourself +quietly filching a few of his peaches through the orchard fence. + +But your clergyman will say perhaps, with what seems to you quite +unnecessary coldness, that goodness is not to be reckoned in your +chances of safety; that there is a Higher Goodness, whose merit is +All-Sufficient. This puzzles you sadly; nor will you escape the puzzle, +until, in the presence of the Home altar, which seems to guard you, as +the Lares guarded Roman children, you _feel_--you cannot tell how--that +good actions must spring from good sources; and that those sources must +lie in that Heaven toward which your boyish spirit yearns, as you kneel +at your mother's side. + +Conscience too is all the while approving you for deeds well done; +and--wicked as you fear the preacher might judge it--you cannot but +found on those deeds a hope that your prayer at night flows more easily, +more freely, and more holily toward "Our Father in Heaven." Nor indeed +later in life--whatever may be the ill-advised expressions of human +teachers--will you ever find that _Duty performed_, and _generous +endeavor_ will stand one whit in the way either of Faith or of Love. +Striving to be good is a very direct road toward Goodness and if life be +so tempered by high motive as to make actions always good, Faith is +unconsciously won. + +Another notion that disturbs you very much, is your positive dislike of +long sermons, and of such singing as they have when the organist is +away. You cannot get the force of that verse of Dr. Watts which likens +heaven to a never-ending Sabbath; you _do_ hope--though it seems a half +wicked hope--that old Dr. ---- will not be the preacher. You think that +your heart in its best moments craves for something more lovable. You +suggest this perhaps to some Sunday teacher, who only shakes his head +sourly, and tells you it is a thought that the Devil is putting in your +brain. It strikes you oddly that the Devil should be using a verse of +Dr. Watts to puzzle you! But if it be so, he keeps it sticking by your +thought very pertinaciously, until some simple utterance of your mother +about the Love that reigns in the other world seems on a sudden to widen +Heaven, and to waft away your doubts like a cloud. + +It excites your wonder not a little to find people, who talk gravely and +heartily of the excellence of sermons and of church-going, sometimes +fall asleep under it all. And you wonder--if they really like preaching +so well--why they do not buy some of the minister's old manuscripts, and +read them over on week-days, or invite the clergyman to preach to them +in a quiet way in private. + +----Ah, Clarence, you do not yet know the poor weakness of even +maturest manhood, and the feeble gropings of the soul toward a soul's +paradise in the best of the world! You do not yet know either, that +ignorance and fear will be thrusting their untruth and false show into +the very essentials of Religion. + +Again you wonder, if the clergymen are all such very good men as you are +taught to believe, why it is that every little while people will be +trying to send them off, and very anxious to prove that, instead of +being so good, they are in fact very stupid and bad men. At that day you +have no clear conceptions of the distinction between stupidity and vice, +and think that a good man must necessarily say very eloquent things. You +will find yourself sadly mistaken on this point, before you get on very +far in life. + +Heaven, when your mother peoples it with friends gone, and little +Charlie, and that better Friend who, she says, took Charlie in his arms, +and is now his Father above the skies, seems a place to be loved and +longed for. But to think that Mr. Such-an-one, who is only good on +Sundays, will be there too,--and to think of his talking as he does of a +place which you are sure he would spoil if he were there,--puzzles you +again; and you relapse into wonder, doubt, and yearning. + +--And there, Clarence, for the present, I shall leave you. A wide, rich +heaven hangs above you, but it hangs very high. A wide, rough world is +around you, and it lies very low! + +I am assuming in these sketches no office of a teacher. I am seeking +only to make a truthful analysis of the boyish thought and feeling. But +having ventured thus far into what may seem sacred ground, I shall +venture still farther, and clinch my matter with a moral. + +There is very much religious teaching, even in so good a country as New +England, which is far too harsh, too dry, too cold for the heart of a +boy. Long sermons, doctrinal precepts, and such tediously-worded dogmas +as were uttered by those honest but hard-spoken men, the Westminster +Divines, fatigue, and puzzle, and dispirit him. + +They may be well enough for those strong souls which strengthen by +task-work, or for those mature people whose iron habit of self-denial +has made patience a cardinal virtue; but they fall (_experto crede_) +upon the unfledged faculties of the boy like a winter's rain upon spring +flowers,--like hammers of iron upon lithe timber. They may make deep +impression upon his moral nature, but there is great danger of a sad +rebound. + +Is it absurd to suppose that some adaptation is desirable? And might not +the teachings of that Religion, which is the ægis of our moral being, be +inwrought with some of those finer harmonies of speech and form which +were given to wise ends,--and lure the boyish soul by something akin to +that gentleness which belonged to the Nazarene Teacher, and which +provided not only meat for men, but "milk for babes"? + + + + +VI. + +_A New-England Squire._ + + +Frank has a grandfather living in the country, a good specimen of the +old-fashioned New-England farmer. And--go where one will the world +over--I know of no race of men who, taken as a whole, possess more +integrity, more intelligence, and more of those elements of comfort +which go to make a home beloved and the social basis firm, than the +New-England farmers. + +They are not brilliant, nor are they highly refined; they know nothing +of arts, histrionic or dramatic; they know only so much of older nations +as their histories and newspapers teach them; in the fashionable world +they hold no place;--but in energy, in industry, in hardy virtue, in +substantial knowledge, and in manly independence, they make up a race +that is hard to be matched. + +The French peasantry are, in all the essentials of intelligence and +sterling worth, infants compared with them; and the farmers of England +are either the merest 'ockeys in grain, with few ideas beyond their +sacks, samples, and market-days,--or, with added cultivation, they lose +their independence in a subserviency to some neighbor patron of rank; +and superior intelligence teaches them no lesson so quickly as that +their brethren of the glebe are unequal to them, and are to be left to +their cattle and the goad. + +There are English farmers indeed, who are men in earnest, who read the +papers, and who keep the current of the year's intelligence; but such +men are the exceptions. In New England, with the school upon every third +hill-side, and the self-regulating, free-acting church to watch every +valley with week-day quiet, and to wake every valley with Sabbath sound, +the men become, as a class, bold, intelligent, and honest actors, who +would make again, as they have made before, a terrible army of +defence,--and who would find reasons for their actions as strong as +their armies. + +Frank's grandfather has silver hair, but is still hale, erect, and +strong. His dress is homely but neat. Being a thorough-going +Protectionist, he has no fancy for the gewgaws of foreign importation, +and makes it a point to appear always in the village church, and on all +great occasions, in a sober suit of homespun. He has no pride of +appearance, and he needs none. He is known as the Squire throughout the +township; and no important measure can pass the board of selectmen +without the Squire's approval;--and this from no blind subserviency to +his opinion,--because his farm is large, and he is reckoned +"forehanded,"--but because there is a confidence in his judgment. + +He is jealous of none of the prerogatives of the country parson, or of +the schoolmaster, or of the village doctor; and although the latter is a +testy politician of the opposite party, it does not all impair the +Squire's faith in his calomel; he suffers all his Radicalism with the +same equanimity that he suffers his rhubarb. + +The day-laborers of the neighborhood, and the small farmers, consider +the Squire's note-of-hand for their savings better than the best bonds +of city origin; and they seek his advice in all matters of litigation. +He is a Justice of the Peace, as the title of Squire in a New-England +village implies; and many are the sessions of the country courts that +you peep upon with Frank, from the door of the great dining-room. + +The defendant always seems to you in these important cases--especially +if his beard is rather long--an extraordinary ruffian, to whom Jack +Sheppard would have been a comparatively innocent boy. You watch +curiously the old gentleman sitting in his big arm-chair, with his +spectacles in their silver case at his elbow, and his snuffbox in hand, +listening attentively to some grievous complaint; you see him ponder +deeply,--with a pinch of snuff to aid his judgment,--and you listen with +intense admiration as he gives a loud preparatory "Ahem!" and clears +away the intricacies of the case with a sweep of that strong practical +sense which distinguishes the New-England farmer,--getting at the very +hinge of the matter, without any consciousness of his own precision, and +satisfying the defendant by the clearness of his talk as much as by the +leniency of his judgment. + +His lands lie along those swelling hills, which in southern New England +carry the chain of the White and Green Mountains in gentle undulations +to the borders of the sea. He farms some fifteen hundred +acres,--"suitably divided," as the old-school agriculturists say, into +"woodland, pasture, and tillage." The farm-house--a large, +irregularly-built mansion of wood--stands upon a shelf of the hills +looking southward, and is shaded by century-old oaks. The barns and +out-buildings are grouped in a brown phalanx a little to the northward +of the dwelling. Between them a high timber gate opens upon the +scattered pasture lands of the hills; opposite to this and across the +farmyard, which is the lounging-place of scores of red-necked turkeys +and of matronly hens, clucking to their callow brood, another gate of +similar pretensions opens upon the wide meadow-land, which rolls with a +heavy "ground-swell" along the valley of a mountain river. A veteran oak +stands sentinel at the brown meadow-gate, its trunk all scarred with the +ruthless cuts of new-ground axes, and the limbs garnished in +summer-time with the crooked snathes of murderous-looking scythes. + +The high-road passes a stone's-throw away; but there is little "travel" +to be seen; and every chance passer will inevitably come under the range +of the kitchen windows, and be studied carefully by the eyes of the +stout dairy-maid,--to say nothing of the stalwart Indian cook. + +This last you cannot but admire as a type of that noble old race, among +whom your boyish fancy has woven so many stories of romance. You wonder +how she must regard the white interlopers upon her own soil; and you +think that she tolerates the Squire's farming privileges with more +modesty than you would suppose. You learn however that she pays very +little regard to white rights--when they conflict with her own; and +further learn, to your deep regret, that your Princess of the old tribe +is sadly addicted to cider-drinking; and having heard her once or twice +with a very indistinct "Goo-er night, Sq-quare" upon her lips, your +dreams about her grow very tame. + +The Squire, like all very sensible men, has his hobbies and +peculiarities. He has a great contempt, for instance, for all paper +money, and imagines banks to be corporate societies skilfully contrived +for the legal plunder of the community. He keeps a supply of silver and +gold by him in the foot of an old stocking, and seems to have great +confidence in the value of Spanish milled dollars. He has no kind of +patience with the new doctrines of farming. Liebig, and all the rest, he +sets down as mere theorists, and has far more respect for the contents +of his barnyard than for all the guano deposits in the world. Scientific +farming, and gentleman farming, may do very well, he says, "to keep idle +young fellows from the city out of mischief; but as for real, effective +management, there's nothing like the old stock of men, who ran barefoot +until they were ten, and who count the hard winters by their frozen +toes." And he is fond of quoting in this connection--the only quotation, +by the by, that the old gentleman ever makes--that couplet of "Poor +Richard,"-- + + "He, that by the plough would thrive, + Himself must either hold or drive." + +The Squire has been in his day connected more or less intimately with +turnpike enterprise, which the railroads of the day have thrown sadly +into the background; and he reflects often in a melancholy way upon the +good old times when a man could travel in his own carriage quietly +across the country, without being frightened with the clatter of an +engine, and when turnpike stock paid wholesome yearly dividends of six +per cent. + +An almost constant hanger-on about the premises, and a great favorite +with the Squire, is a stout, middle-aged man, with a heavy-bearded +face, to whom Frank introduces you as "Captain Dick"; and he tells you +moreover that he is a better butcher, a better wall-layer, and cuts a +broader "swathe," than any man upon the farm. Beside all which he has an +immense deal of information. He knows in the spring where all the +crows'-nests are to be found; he tells Frank where the foxes burrow; he +has even shot two or three raccoons in the swamps; he knows the best +season to troll for pickerel; he has a thorough understanding of +bee-hunting; he can tell the ownership of every stray heifer that +appears upon the road: indeed scarce an inquiry is made, or an opinion +formed, on any of these subjects, or on such kindred ones as the +weather, or potato crop, without previous consultation with "Captain +Dick." + +You have an extraordinary respect for Captain Dick: his gruff tones, +dark beard, patched waistcoat, and cowhide boots, only add to it: you +can compare your regard for him only with the sentiments you entertain +for those fabulous Roman heroes, led on by Horatius, who cut down the +bridge across the Tiber, and then swam over to their wives and families! + +A superannuated old greyhound lives about the premises, and stalks +lazily around, thrusting his thin nose into your hands in a very +affectionate manner. + +Of course, in your way, you are a lion among the boys of the +neighborhood: a blue jacket that you wear, with bell buttons of white +metal, is their especial wonderment. You astonish them moreover with +your stories of various parts of the world which they have never +visited. They tell you of the haunts of rabbits, and great snake +stories, as you sit in the dusk after supper under the old oaks; and you +delight them in turn with some marvellous tale of South-American +reptiles out of Peter Parley's books. + +In all this your new friends are men of observation; while Frank and +yourself are comparatively men of reading. In ciphering, and all +schooling, you find yourself a long way before them; and you talk of +problems, and foreign seas, and Latin declensions, in a way that sets +them all agape. + +As for the little country girls, their bare legs rather stagger your +notions of propriety; nor can you wholly get over their out-of-the-way +pronunciation of some of the vowels. Frank however has a little +cousin,--a toddling, wee thing, some seven years your junior, who has a +rich eye for an infant. But, alas, its color means nothing; poor Fanny +is stone-blind! Your pity leans toward her strangely, as she feels her +way about the old parlor; and her dark eyes wander over the wainscot, or +over the clear, blue sky, with the same sad, painful vacancy. + +And yet--it is very strange!--she does not grieve: there is a sweet, +soft smile upon her lip,--a smile, that will come to you in your +fancied troubles of after-life with a deep voice of reproach. + +Altogether you grow into a liking of the country: your boyish spirit +loves its fresh, bracing air, and the sparkles of dew that at sunrise +cover the hills with diamonds; and the wild river, with its +black-topped, loitering pools; and the shaggy mists that lie in the +nights of early autumn like unravelled clouds, lost upon the meadow. You +love the hills, climbing green and grand to the skies, or stretching +away in distance their soft, blue, smoky caps, like the sweet, +half-faded memories of the years behind you. You love those oaks, +tossing up their broad arms into clear heaven with a spirit and a +strength that kindles your dawning pride and purposes, and that makes +you yearn, as your forehead mantles with fresh blood, for a kindred +spirit and a kindred strength. Above all you love--though you do not +know it now--the BREADTH of a country life. In the fields of +God's planting there is ROOM. No walls of brick and mortar +cramp one; no factitious distinctions mould your habit. The involuntary +reaches of the spirit tend toward the True and the Natural. The flowers, +the clouds, and the fresh-smelling earth, all give width to your intent. +The boy grows into manliness, instead of growing to be like men. He +claims--with tears almost of brotherhood--his kinship with Nature; and +he feels in the mountains his heirship to the Father of Nature! + +This delirium of feeling may not find expression upon the lip of the +boy; but yet it underlies his thought, and will without his +consciousness give the spring to his musing dreams. + +----So it is, that, as you lie there upon the sunny greensward, at the +old Squire's door, you muse upon the time when some rich-lying land, +with huge granaries, and cosy old mansion sleeping under the trees, +shall be yours,--when the brooks shall water your meadows, and come +laughing down your pasture-lands,--when the clouds shall shed their +spring fragrance upon your lawns, and the daisies bless your paths. + +You will then be a Squire, with your cane, your lean-limbed hound, your +stocking-leg of specie, and your snuffbox. You will be the happy and +respected husband of some tidy old lady in black, and spectacles,--a +little phthisicky, like Frank's grandmother,--and an accomplished cook +of stewed pears and Johnny-cakes! + +It seems a very lofty ambition at this stage of growth to reach such +eminence, as to convert your drawer in the wainscot, that has a secret +spring, into a bank for the country people; and the power to send a man +to jail seems one of those stretches of human prerogative to which few +of your fellow-mortals can ever hope to attain. + +----Well, it may all be. And who knows but the Dreams of Age, when +they are reached, will be lighted by the same spirit and freedom of +nature that is around you now? Who knows, but that after tracking you +through the spring and the summer of Youth, we shall find frosted Age +settling upon you heavily and solemnly in the very fields where you +wanton to-day? + +This American life of ours is a tortuous and shifting impulse. It brings +Age back from years of wandering to totter in the hamlet of its birth; +and it scatters armies of ripe manhood to bleach far-away shores with +their bones. + +That Providence, whose eye and hand are the spy and the executioner of +the Fateful changes of our life, may bring you back in Manhood, or in +Age, to this mountain home of New England; and that very willow yonder, +which your fancy now makes the graceful mourner of your leave, may one +day shadow mournfully your grave! + + + + +VII. + +_The Country Church._ + + +The country church is a square old building of wood without paint or +decoration, and of that genuine Puritanic stamp which is now fast giving +way to Greek porticos and to cockney towers. It stands upon a hill, with +a little churchyard in its rear, where one or two sickly-looking trees +keep watch and ward over the vagrant sheep that graze among the graves. +Bramble-bushes seem to thrive on the bodies below, and there is no +flower in the little yard, save a few golden-rods, which flaunt their +gaudy inodorous color under the lee of the northern wall. + +New England country-livers have as yet been very little inoculated with +the sentiment of beauty; even the doorstep to the church is a wide flat +stone, that shows not a single stroke of the hammer. Within, the +simplicity is even more severe. Brown galleries run around three sides +of the old building, supported by timbers, on which you still trace, +under the stains from the leaky roof, the deep scoring of the woodman's +axe. + +Below, the unpainted pews are ranged in square forms, and by age have +gained the color of those fragmentary wrecks of cigar-boxes which you +see upon the top shelves in the bar-rooms of country taverns. The +minister's desk is lofty, and has once been honored with a coating of +paint;--as well as the huge sounding-board, which to your great +amazement protrudes from the wall at a very dangerous angle of +inclination over the speaker's head. As the Squire's pew is the place of +honor to the right of the pulpit, you have a little tremor yourself at +sight of the heavy sounding-board, and cannot forbear indulging in a +quiet feeling of relief when the last prayer is said. + +There are in the Squire's pew long, faded, crimson cushions, which, it +seems to you, must date back nearly to the commencement of the Christian +era in this country. There are also sundry old thumb-worn copies of Dr. +Dwight's Version of the Psalms of David,--"appointed to be sung in +churches by authority of the General Association of the State of +Connecticut." The sides of Dr. Dwight's Version are, you observe, sadly +warped and weather-stained; and from some stray figures which appear +upon a fly-leaf you are constrained to think, that the Squire has +sometimes employed a quiet interval of the service with reckoning up the +contents of the old stocking-leg at home. + +The parson is a stout man, remarkable in your opinion chiefly for a +yellowish-brown wig, a strong nasal tone, and occasional violent thumps +upon the little, dingy, red velvet cushion, studded with brass tacks, at +the top of the desk. You do not altogether admire his style; and by the +time he has entered upon his "Fourthly," you give your attention in +despair to a new reading (it must be the twentieth) of the preface to +Dr. Dwight's Version of the Psalms. + +The singing has a charm for you. There is a long, thin-faced, +flax-haired man, who carries a tuning-fork in his waistcoat-pocket, and +who leads the choir. His position is in the very front rank of gallery +benches facing the desk; and by the time the old clergyman has read two +verses of the psalm, the country chorister turns around to his little +group of aids--consisting of the blacksmith, a carroty-headed +schoolmaster, two women in snuff-colored silks, and a girl in pink +bonnet--to announce the tune. + +This being done in an authoritative manner, he lifts his long +music-book--glances again at his little company,--clears his throat by a +powerful ahem, followed by a powerful use of a bandanna +pocket-handkerchief,--draws out his tuning-fork, and waits for the +parson to close his reading. He now reviews once more his +company,--throws a reproving glance at the young woman in the pink hat, +who at the moment is biting off a stout bunch of fennel,--lifts his +music-book,--thumps upon the rail with his fork,--listens +keenly,--gives a slight _ahem_,--falls into the cadence,--swells into a +strong _crescendo_,--catches at the first word of the line as if he were +afraid it might get away,--turns to his company,--lifts his music-book +with spirit, gives it a powerful slap with the disengaged hand, and with +a majestic toss of the head soars away, with half the women below +straggling on in his wake, into some such brave old melody +as--LITCHFIELD! + +Being a visitor, and in the Squire's pew, you are naturally an object of +considerable attention to the girls about your age, as well as to a +great many fat old ladies in iron spectacles, who mortify you +excessively by patting you under the chin after church; and insist upon +mistaking you for Frank; and force upon you very dry cookies spiced with +caraway seeds. + +You keep somewhat shy of the young ladies, as they are rather stout for +your notions of beauty, and wear thick calf-skin boots. They compare +very poorly with Jenny. Jenny, you think, would be above eating +gingerbread between service. None of them, you imagine, ever read +"Thaddeus of Warsaw," or ever used a colored glass seal with a Cupid and +a dart upon it. You are quite certain they never did, or they could not +surely wear such dowdy gowns, and suck their thumbs as they do! + +The farmers you have a high respect for,--particularly for one +weazen-faced old gentleman in a brown surtout, who brings his whip into +church with him, who sings in a very strong voice, and who drives a span +of gray colts. You think, however, that he has got rather a stout wife; +and from the way he humors her in stopping to talk with two or three +other fat women, before setting off for home, (though he seems a little +fidgety,) you naively think that he has a high regard for her opinion. +Another townsman who attracts your notice is a stout old deacon, who, +before entering, always steps around the corner of the church, and puts +his hat upon the ground, to adjust his wig in a quiet way. He then +marches up the broad aisle in a stately manner, and plants his hat and a +big pair of buckskin mittens on the little table under the desk. When he +is fairly seated in his corner of the pew, with his elbow upon the top +rail,--almost the only man who can comfortably reach it,--you observe +that he spreads his brawny fingers over his scalp in an exceedingly +cautious manner; and you innocently think again that it is very +hypocritical in a deacon to be pretending to lean upon his hand when he +is only keeping his wig straight. + +After the morning service they have an "hour's intermission," as the +preacher calls it; during which the old men gather on a sunny side of +the building, and, after shaking hands all around, and asking after the +"folks" at home, they enjoy a quiet talk about the crops. One man, for +instance, with a twist in his nose, would say, "It's raether a growin' +season;" and another would reply, "Tolerable, but potatoes is feelin' +the wet badly." The stout deacon approves this opinion, and confirms it +by blowing his nose very powerfully. + +Two or three of the more worldly-minded ones will perhaps stroll over to +a neighbor's barnyard, and take a look at his young stock, and talk of +prices, and whittle a little; and very likely some two of them will make +a conditional "swop" of "three likely ye'rlings" for a pair of +"two-year-olds." + +The youngsters are fond of getting out into the graveyard, and comparing +jackknives, or talking about the schoolmaster or the menagerie, or, it +may be, of some prospective "travel" in the fall,--either to town, or +perhaps to the "sea-shore." + +Afternoon service hangs heavily; and the tall chorister is by no means +so blithe, or so majestic in the toss of his head, as in the morning. A +boy in the next box tries to provoke you into familiarity by dropping +pellets of gingerbread through the bars of the pew; but as you are not +accustomed to that way of making acquaintance, you decline all +overtures. + +After the service is finished, the wagons, that have been disposed on +either side of the road, are drawn up before the door. The old Squire +meantime is sure to have a little chat with the parson before he leaves; +in the course of which the parson takes occasion to say that his wife +is a little ailing,--"a slight touch," he thinks, "of the rheumatiz." +One of the children too has been troubled with the "summer complaint" +for a day or two; but he thinks that a dose of catnip, under Providence, +will effect a cure. The younger and unmarried men, with red wagons +flaming upon bright yellow wheels, make great efforts to drive off in +the van; and they spin frightfully near some of the fat, sour-faced +women, who remark in a quiet, but not very Christian tone, that they +"fear the elder's sermon hasn't done the young bucks much good." It is +much to be feared in truth that it has not. + +In ten minutes the old church is thoroughly deserted; the neighbor who +keeps the key has locked up for another week the creaking door; and +nothing of the service remains within except--Dr. Dwight's Version,--the +long music-books,--crumbs of gingerbread, and refuse stalks of despoiled +fennel. + +And yet under the influence of that old, weather-stained temple are +perhaps growing up--though you do not once fancy it--souls possessed of +an energy, an industry, and a respect for virtue, which will make them +stronger for the real work of life than all the elegant children of a +city. One lesson, which even the rudest churches of New England +teach,--with all their harshness, and all their repulsive severity of +form,--is the lesson of Self-Denial. Once armed with that, and manhood +is strong. The soul that possesses the consciousness of mastering +passion, is endowed with an element of force that can never harmonize +with defeat. Difficulties it wears like a summer garment, and flings +away at the first approach of the winter of Need. + +Let not any one suppose, then, that in this detail of the country life +through which our hero is led, I would cast obloquy or a sneer upon its +simplicity, or upon its lack of refinement. Goodness and strength in +this world are quite as apt to wear rough coats as fine ones. And the +words of thorough and self-sacrificing kindness are far more often +dressed in the uncouth sounds of retired life than in the polished +utterance of the town. Heaven has not made warm hearts and honest hearts +distinguishable by the quality of the covering. True diamonds need no +work of the artificer to reflect and multiply their rays. Goodness is +more within than without; and purity is of nearer kin to the soul than +to the body. + +----And, Clarence, it may well happen that later in life--under the +gorgeous ceilings of Venetian churches, or at some splendid mass in +Nôtre Dame, with embroidered coats and costly silks around you--your +thoughts will run back to that little storm-beaten church, and to the +willow waving in its yard, with a Hope that _glows_, and with a tear +that you embalm! + + + + +VIII. + +_A Home Scene._ + + +And now I shall not leave this realm of boyhood, or suffer my hero to +slip away from this gala-time of his life, without a fair look at that +Home where his present pleasures lie, and where all his dreams begin and +end. + +Little does the boy know, as the tide of years drifts by, floating him +out insensibly from the harbor of his home upon the great sea of +life,--what joys, what opportunities, what affections, are slipping from +him into the shades of that inexorable Past, where no man can go save on +the wings of his dreams. Little does he think--and God be praised that +the thought does not sink deep lines in his young forehead!--as he leans +upon the lap of his mother, with his eye turned to her in some earnest +pleading for a fancied pleasure of the hour, or in some important story +of his griefs, that such sharing of his sorrows, and such sympathy with +his wishes, he will find nowhere again. + +Little does he imagine that the fond Nelly, ever thoughtful of his +pleasure, ever smiling away his griefs, will soon be beyond the reach +of either, and that the waves of the years, which come rocking so gently +under him, will soon toss her far away upon the great swell of life. + +But _now_ you are there. The firelight glimmers upon the walls of your +cherished home, like the Vestal fire of old upon the figures of adoring +virgins, or like the flame of Hebrew sacrifice, whose incense bore +hearts to Heaven. The big chair of your father is drawn to its wonted +corner by the chimney-side; his head, just touched with gray, lies back +upon its oaken top. Little Nelly leans upon his knee, looking up for +some reply to her girlish questionings. Opposite sits your mother: her +figure is thin, her look cheerful, yet subdued; her arm perhaps resting +on your shoulder, as she talks to you in tones of tender admonition of +the days that are to come. + +The cat is purring on the hearth; the clock, that ticked so plainly when +Charlie died, is ticking on the mantel still. The great table in the +middle of the room with its books and work waits only for the lighting +of the evening lamp, to see a return to its stores of embroidery, and of +story. + +Upon a little stand under the mirror, which catches now and then a +flicker of the firelight, and makes it play wantonly over the ceiling, +lies that big book reverenced of your New-England parents,--the Family +Bible. It is a ponderous square volume, with heavy silver clasps that +you have often pressed open for a look at its quaint old pictures, or +for a study of those prettily bordered pages which lie between the +Testaments, and which hold the Family Record. + +There are the Births,--your father's, and your mother's; it seems as if +they were born a long time ago; and even your own date of birth appears +an almost incredible distance back. Then there are the marriages,--only +one as yet; and your mother's maiden name looks oddly to you: it is hard +to think of her as any one else than your doting parent. You wonder if +your name will ever come under that paging; and wonder, though you +scarce whisper the wonder to yourself, how another name would look, just +below yours,--such a name, for instance, as Fanny, or as Miss Margaret +Boyne! + +Last of all come the Deaths,--only one. Poor Charlie! How it +looks?--"Died 12 September 18--Charles Henry, aged four years." You know +just how it looks. You have turned to it often; there you seem to be +joined to him, though only by the turning of a leaf. And over your +thoughts, as you look at that page of the record, there sometimes +wanders a vague shadowy fear, which _will_ come,--that your own name may +soon be there. You try to drop the notion, as if it were not fairly your +own; you affect to slight it, as you would slight a boy who presumed on +your acquaintance, but whom you have no desire to know. It is a common +thing, you will find, with our world to decline familiarity with those +ideas that fright us. + +Yet your mother--how strange it is!--has no fears of such dark fancies. +Even now as you stand beside her, and as the twilight deepens in the +room, her low, silvery voice is stealing upon your ear, telling you that +she cannot be long with you; that the time is coming when you must be +guided by your own judgment, and struggle with the world unaided by the +friends of your boyhood. There is a little pride, and a great deal more +of anxiety, in your thoughts now, as you look steadfastly into the home +blaze, while those delicate fingers, so tender of your happiness, play +with the locks upon your brow. + +----To struggle with the world,--that is a proud thing; to struggle +alone,--there lies the doubt! Then crowds in swift upon the calm of +boyhood the first anxious thought of youth; then chases over the sky of +Spring the first heated and wrathful cloud of Summer. + +But the lamps are now lit in the little parlor, and they shed a soft +haze to the farthest corner of the room; while the firelight streams +over the floor, where puss lies purring. Little Madge is there; she has +dropped in softly with her mother, and Nelly has welcomed her with a +bound and with a kiss. Jenny has not so rosy a cheek as Madge. But +Jenny with her love-notes, and her languishing dark eye, you think of as +a lady; and the thought of her is a constant drain upon your sentiment. +As for Madge,--that girl Madge, whom you know so well,--you think of her +as a sister; and yet--it is very odd--you look at her far oftener than +you do at Nelly! + +Frank too has come in to have a game with you at draughts; and he is in +capital spirits, all brisk and glowing with his evening's walk. +He--bless his honest heart!--never observes that you arrange the board +very adroitly, so that you may keep half an eye upon Madge, as she sits +yonder beside Nelly. Nor does he once notice your blush as you catch her +eye when she raises her head to fling back the ringlets, and then with a +sly look at you bends a most earnest gaze upon the board, as if she were +especially interested in the disposition of the men. + +You catch a little of the spirit of coquetry yourself,--(what a native +growth it is!)--and if she lift her eyes when you are gazing at her, you +very suddenly divert your look to the cat at her feet, and remark to +your friend Frank in an easy off-hand way--how still the cat is lying! + +And Frank turns--thinking probably, if he thinks at all about it, that +cats are very apt to lie still when they sleep. + +As for Nelly, half neglected by your thought as well as by your eye, +while mischievous-looking Madge is sitting by her, you little know as +yet what kindness, what gentleness, you are careless of. Few loves in +life, and you will learn it before life is done, can balance the lost +love of a sister. + +As for your parents, in the intervals of the game you listen dreamily to +their talk with the mother of Madge,--good Mrs. Boyne. It floats over +your mind, as you rest your chin upon your clenched hand, like a strain +of old familiar music,--a household strain that seems to belong to the +habit of your ear,--a strain that will linger about it melodiously for +many years to come,--a strain that will be recalled long time hence, +when life is earnest and its cares heavy, with tears of regret and with +sighs of bitterness. + +By-and-by your game is done; and other games, in which join Nelly (the +tears come when you write her name _now_!) and Madge, (the smiles come +when you look on her _then_,) stretch out that sweet eventide of Home, +until the lamp flickers, and you speak your friends--adieu. To Madge, it +is said boldly,--a boldness put on to conceal a little lurking tremor; +but there is no tremor in the home good-night. + +----Aye, my boy, kiss your mother,--kiss her again; fondle your sweet +Nelly; pass your little hand through the gray locks of your father; love +them dearly while you can! Make your good-nights linger and make your +adieus long, and sweet, and often repeated. Love with your whole +soul,--Father, Mother, and Sister,--for these loves shall die! + +----Not indeed in thought,--God be thanked! Nor yet in tears,--for He +is merciful! But they shall die, as the leaves die,--die, as Spring dies +into the heat and ripeness of Summer, and as boyhood dies into the +elasticity and ambition of youth. Death, Distance, and Time shall each +one of them dig graves for your affections; but this you do not know, +nor can know, until the story of your life is ended. + +The dreams of riches, of love, of voyage, of learning, that light up the +boy age with splendor, will pass on and over into the hotter dreams of +youth. Spring buds and blossoms, under the glowing sun of April, nurture +at their heart those firstlings of fruit which the heat of summer shall +ripen. + +You little know--and for this you may well thank Heaven--that you are +leaving the Spring of life, and that you are floating fast from the +shady sources of your years into heat, bustle, and storm. Your dreams +are now faint, flickering shadows, that play like fire-flies in the +coppices of leafy June. They have no rule but the rule of infantile +desire; they have no joys to promise greater than the joys that belong +to your passing life; they have no terrors but such terrors as the +darkness of a Spring night makes. They do not take hold on your soul as +the dreams of youth and manhood will do. + +Your highest hope is shadowed in a cheerful, boyish home. You wish no +friends but the friends of boyhood; no sister but your fond Nelly; none +to love better than the playful Madge. + +You forget, Clarence, that the Spring with you is the Spring with them, +and that the storms of Summer may chase wide shadows over your path and +over theirs. And you forget that Summer is even now lowering with its +mist, and with its scorching rays, upon the hem of your flowery May! + + * * * * * + +----The hands of the old clock upon the mantel, that ticked off the +hours when Charlie sighed and when Charlie died, draw on toward +midnight. The shadows that the fire-flame makes grow dimmer and dimmer. +And thus it is that Home, boy home, passes away forever,--like the +swaying of a pendulum,--like the fading of a shadow on the floor! + + + + + +_SUMMER;_ + +OR, + +_THE DREAMS OF YOUTH._ + + + + +_DREAMS OF YOUTH._ + +_Summer._ + + +I feel a great deal of pity for those honest but misguided people who +call their little, spruce suburban towns, or the shaded streets of their +inland cities,--the country and I have still more pity for those who +reckon a season at the summer resorts--country enjoyment. Nay, my +feeling is more violent than pity; and I count it nothing less than +blasphemy so to take the name of the country in vain. + +I thank Heaven every summer's day of my life, that my lot was humbly +cast within the hearing of romping brooks, and beneath the shadow of +oaks. And from all the tramp and bustle of the world into which fortune +has led me in these latter years of my life, I delight to steal away for +days, and for weeks together, and bathe my spirit in the freedom of the +old woods; and to grow young again, lying upon the brook-side, and +counting the white clouds that sail along the sky softly and +tranquilly--even as holy memories go stealing over the vault of life. + +I am deeply thankful that I could never find it in my heart so to +pervert truth as to call the smart villages with the tricksy shadow of +their maple avenues--the Country. + +I love these in their way, and can recall pleasant passages of thought, +as I have idled through the Sabbath-looking towns, or lounged at the +inn-door of some quiet New-England village. But I love far better to +leave them behind me, and to dash boldly out to where some out-lying +farm-house sits--like a sentinel--under the shelter of wooded hills, or +nestles in the lap of a noiseless valley. + +In the town, small as it may be, and darkened as it may be with the +shadows of trees, you cannot forget--men. Their voice, and strife, and +ambition come to your eye in the painted paling, in the swinging +signboard of the tavern, and--worst of all--in the trim-printed +"ATTORNEY AT LAW." Even the little milliner's shop, with its +meagre show of leghorns, and its string across the window all hung with +tabs and with cloth roses, is a sad epitome of the great and +conventional life of a city neighborhood. + +I like to be rid of them all, as I am rid of them this midsummer's day. +I like to steep my soul in a sea of quiet, with nothing floating past +me, as I lie moored to my thought, but the perfume of flowers, and +soaring birds, and shadows of clouds. + +Two days since I was sweltering in the heat of the City, jostled by the +thousand eager workers, and panting under the shadow of the walls. But I +have stolen away; and for two hours of healthful regrowth into the +darling Past I have been lying this blessed summer's morning upon the +grassy bank of a stream that babbled me to sleep in boyhood.--Dear old +stream, unchanging, unfaltering,--with no harsher notes now than +then,--never growing old,--smiling in your silver rustle, and calming +yourself in the broad, placid pools,--I love you as I love a friend! + +But now that the sun has grown scalding hot, and the waves of heat have +come rocking under the shadow of the meadow-oaks, I have sought shelter +in a chamber of the old farm-house. The window-blinds are closed; but +some of them are sadly shattered, and I have intertwined in them a few +branches of the late-blossoming white azalia, so that every puff of the +summer air comes to me cooled with fragrance. A dimple or two of the +sunlight still steals through my flowery screen, and dances (as the +breeze moves the branches) upon the oaken floor of the farm-house. + +Through one little gap indeed I can see the broad stretch of meadow, and +the workmen in the field bending and swaying to their scythes. I can see +too the glistening of the steel, as they wipe their blades, and can just +catch floating on the air the measured, tinkling thwack of the +rifle-stroke. + +Here and there a lark, scared from his feeding-place in the grass, soars +up, bubbling forth his melody in globules of silvery sound, and settles +upon some tall tree, and waves his wings, and sinks to the swaying +twigs. I hear too a quail piping from the meadow fence, and another +trilling his answering whistle from the hills. Nearer by, a tyrant +king-bird is poised on the topmost branch of a veteran pear-tree, and +now and then dashes down, assassin-like, upon some homebound, +honey-laden bee, and then with a smack of his bill resumes his predatory +watch. + +A chicken or two lie in the sun, with a wing and a leg stretched +out,--lazily picking at the gravel, or relieving their _ennui_ from time +to time with a spasmodic rustle of their feathers. An old, matronly hen +stalks about the yard with a sedate step, and with quiet self-assurance +she utters an occasional series of hoarse and heated clucks. A speckled +turkey, with an astonished brood at her heels, is eying curiously, and +with earnest variations of the head, a full-fed cat, that lies curled +up, and dozing, upon the floor of the cottage porch. + +As I sit thus, watching through the interstices of my leafy screen the +various images of country life, I hear distant mutterings from beyond +the hills. + +The sun has thrown its shadow upon the pewter dial two hours beyond the +meridian line. Great cream colored heads of thunder-clouds are lifting +above the sharp, clear line of the western horizon; the light breeze +dies away, and the air becomes stifling, even under the shadow of my +withered boughs in the chamber-window. The white-capped clouds roll up +nearer and nearer to the sun, and the creamy masses below grow dark in +their seams. The mutterings, that came faintly before, now spread into +wide volumes of rolling sound, that echo again and again from the +eastward heights. + +I hear in the deep intervals the men shouting to their teams in the +meadows; and great companies of startled swallows are dashing in all +directions around the gray roofs of the barn. + +The clouds have now wellnigh reached the sun, which seems to shine the +fiercer for his coming eclipse. The whole west, as I look from the +sources of the brook to its lazy drift under the swamps that lie to the +south, is hung with a curtain of darkness; and like swift-working, +golden ropes, that lift it toward the zenith, long chains of lightning +flash through it; and the growing thunder seems like the rumble of the +pulleys. + +I thrust away my azalia-boughs, and fling back the shattered blinds, as +the sun and the clouds meet, and my room darkens with the coming +shadows. For an instant the edges of the thick, creamy masses of cloud +are gilded by the shrouded sun, and show gorgeous scallops of gold, +that toss upon the hem of the storm. But the blazonry fades as the +clouds mount; and the brightening lines of the lightning dart up from +the lower skirts, and heave the billowy masses into the middle heaven. + +The workmen are urging their oxen fast across the meadow, and the +loiterers come straggling after with rakes upon their shoulders. The +matronly hen has retreated to the stable-door; and the brood of turkeys +stand dressing their feathers under the open shed. + +The air freshens, and blows now from the face of the coming clouds. I +see the great elms in the plain swaying their tops, even before the +storm-breeze has reached me; and a bit of ripened grain upon a swell of +the meadow waves and tosses like a billowy sea. + +Presently I hear the rush of the wind; and the cherry-and pear-trees +rustle through all their leaves; and my paper is whisked away by the +intruding blast. + +There is a quiet of a moment, in which the wind even seems weary and +faint, and nothing finds utterance save one hoarse tree-toad, doling out +his lugubrious notes. + +Now comes a blinding flash from the clouds, and a quick, sharp clang +clatters through the heavens, and bellows loud and long among the hills. +Then--like great grief spending its pent agony in tears--come the big +drops of rain,--pattering on the lawn and on the leaves, and most +musically of all upon the roof above me,--not now with the light fall of +the Spring shower, but with strong steppings, like the first proud tread +of Youth! + + + + +I. + +_Cloister Life._ + + +It has very likely occurred to you, my reader, that I am playing the +wanton in these sketches, and am breaking through all the canons of the +writers in making You my hero. + +It is even so; for my work is a story of those vague feelings, doubts, +passions, which belong more or less to every man of us all; and +therefore it is that I lay upon your shoulders the burden of these +dreams. If this or that one never belonged to your experience, have +patience for a while. I feel sure that others are coming which will lie +like a truth upon your heart, and draw you unwittingly--perhaps +tearfully even--into the belief that You are indeed my hero. + +The scene now changes to the cloister of a college; not the gray, +classic cloisters which lie along the banks of the Cam or the +Isis,--huge, battered hulks, on whose weather-stained decks great +captains of learning have fought away their lives,--nor yet the +cavernous, quadrangular courts that sleep under the dingy walls of the +Sorbonne. + +The youth-dreams of Clarence begin under the roof of one of those long, +ungainly piles of brick and mortar which make the colleges of New +England. + +The floor of the room is rough, and divided by wide seams. The +study-table does not stand firmly without a few spare pennies to prop it +into solid footing. The bookcase of stained fir-wood, suspended against +the wall by cords, is meagrely stocked with a couple of Lexicons, a pair +of Grammars, a Euclid, a Xenophon, a Homer, and a Livy. Beside these are +scattered about here and there a thumb-worn copy of British ballads, an +odd volume of the "Sketch-Book," a clumsy Shakspeare, and a pocket +edition of the Bible. + +With such appliances, added to the half-score of professors and tutors +who preside over the awful precincts, you are to work your way up to +that proud entrance upon our American life which begins with the +Baccalaureate degree. There is a tingling sensation in first walking +under the shadow of those walls, uncouth as they are, and in feeling +that you belong to them,--that you are a member, as it were, of the +body-corporate, subject to an actual code of printed laws, and to actual +moneyed fines varying from a shilling to fifty cents! + +There is something exhilarating in the very consciousness of your +subject state, and in the necessity of measuring your hours by the habit +of such a learned community. You think back upon your respect for the +lank figure of some old teacher of boy-days as a childish weakness; even +the little coteries of the home fireside lose their importance when +compared with the extraordinary sweep and dignity of your present +position. + +It is pleasant to measure yourself with men; and there are those about +you who seem to your untaught eye to be men already. Your chum, a +hard-faced fellow of ten more years than you, digging sturdily at his +tasks, seems by that very community of work to dignify your labor. You +watch his cold, gray eye bending down over some theorem of Euclid, with +a kind of proud companionship in what so tasks his manliness. + +It is nothing for him to quit sleep at the first tinkling of the +alarm-clock that hangs in your chamber, or to brave the weather in that +cheerless run to the morning prayers of winter. Yet with what a dreamy +horror you wake on mornings of snow to that tinkling alarum!--and glide +in the cold and darkness under the shadow of the college-walls, +shuddering under the sharp gusts that come sweeping between the +buildings,--and afterward, gathering yourself up in your cloak, watch in +a sleepy, listless maze the flickering lamps that hang around the dreary +chapel! You follow half unconsciously some tutor's rhetorical reading of +a chapter of Isaiah; and then, as he closes the Bible with a flourish, +your eye, half open, catches the feeble figure of the old Dominie as he +steps to the desk, and, with his frail hands stretched out upon the +cover of the big book, and his head leaning slightly to one side, runs +through in gentle and tremulous tones his wonted form of invocation. + +Your Division room is steaming with foul heat, and there is a strong +smell of burnt feathers and oil. A jaunty tutor with pug nose and +consequential air steps into the room--while you all rise to show him +deference--and takes his place at the pulpit-like desk. Then come the +formal loosing of his camlet cloak-clasp,--the opening of his sweaty +Xenophon to where the day's _parasangs_ begin,--the unsliding of his +silver pencil-case,--the keen, sour look around the benches, and the +cool pinch of his thumb and forefinger into the fearful box of names! + +How you listen for each as it is uttered,--running down the page in +advance,--rejoicing when some hard passage comes to a stout man in the +corner; and what a sigh of relief--on mornings after you have been out +late at night--when the last paragraph is reached, the ballot drawn, +and--you, safe! + +You speculate dreamily upon the faces around you. You wonder what sort +of schooling they may have had, and what sort of homes. You think one +man has got an extraordinary name, and another a still more +extraordinary nose. The glib, easy way of one student, and his perfect +_sang-froid_, completely charm you: you set him down in your own mind +as a kind of Crichton. Another weazen-faced, pinched-up fellow in a +scant cloak, you think must have been sometime a schoolmaster: he is so +very precise, and wears such an indescribable look of the ferule. There +is one big student, with a huge beard and a rollicking good-natured eye, +whom you would quite like to see measure strength with your old usher, +and on careful comparison rather think the usher would get the worst of +it. Another appears as venerable as some fathers you have seen; and it +seems wonderfully odd that a man old enough to have children should +recite Xenophon by morning candle-light! + +The class in advance you study curiously; and are quite amazed at the +precocity of certain youths belonging to it, who are apparently about +your own age. The Juniors you look upon with a quiet reverence for their +aplomb and dignity of character; and look forward with intense yearnings +to the time when you too shall be admitted freely to the precincts of +the Philosophical chamber, and to the very steep benches of the +Laboratory. This last seems, from occasional peeps through the blinds, a +most mysterious building. The chimneys, recesses, vats, and cisterns--to +say nothing of certain galvanic communications, which, you are told, +traverse the whole building in a way capable of killing a rat at an +incredible remove from the bland professor--utterly fatigue your +wonder! You humbly trust--though you have doubts upon the point--that +you will have the capacity to grasp it all, when once you shall have +arrived at the dignity of a Junior. + +As for the Seniors, your admiration for them is entirely boundless. In +one or two individual instances, it is true, it has been broken down by +an unfortunate squabble with thick-set fellows in the Chapel aisle. A +person who sits not far before you at prayers, and whose name you seek +out very early, bears a strong resemblance to some portrait of Dr. +Johnson; you have very much the same kind of respect for him that you +feel for the great lexicographer, and do not for a moment doubt his +capacity to compile a dictionary equal, if not superior, to Johnson's. + +Another man with very bushy, black hair, and an easy look of importance, +carries a large cane, and is represented to you as an astonishing +scholar and speaker. You do not doubt it; his very air proclaims it. You +think of him as presently--(say four or five years hence)--astounding +the United States Senate with his eloquence. And when once you have +heard him in debate, with that ineffable gesture of his, you absolutely +languish in your admiration for him, and you describe his speaking to +your country friends as very little inferior, if at all, to Mr. Burke's. +Beside this one are some half dozen others, among whom the question of +superiority is, you understand, strongly mooted. It puzzles you to +think, what an avalanche of talent will fall upon the country at the +graduation of those Seniors! + +You will find however that the country bears such inundations of college +talent with a remarkable degree of equanimity. It is quite wonderful how +all the Burkes, and Scotts, and Peels, among college Seniors, do quietly +disappear, as a man gets on in life. + +As for any degree of fellowship with such giants, it is an honor hardly +to be thought of. But you have a classmate--I will call him Dalton--who +is very intimate with a dashing Senior; they room near each other +outside the college. You quite envy Dalton, and you come to know him +well. He says that you are not a "green-one,"--that you have "cut your +eye-teeth"; in return for which complimentary opinions you entertain a +strong friendship for Dalton. + +He is a "fast" fellow, as the Senior calls him; and it is a proud thing +to happen at their rooms occasionally, and to match yourself for an hour +or two (with the windows darkened) against a Senior at "old sledge." It +is quite "the thing," as Dalton says, to meet a Senior familiarly in the +street. Sometimes you go, after Dalton has taught you "the ropes," to +have a cosy sit-down over oysters and champagne,--to which the Senior +lends himself with the pleasantest condescension in the world. You are +not altogether used to hard drinking; but this you conceal--as most +spirited young fellows do--by drinking a great deal. You have a dim +recollection of certain circumstances--very unimportant, yet very +vividly impressed on your mind--which occurred on one of these +occasions. + +The oysters were exceedingly fine, and the champagne exquisite. You have +a recollection of something being said, toward the end of the first +bottle, of Xenophon, and of the Senior's saying in his playful way, "Oh, +d--n Xenophon!" + +You remember Dalton laughed at this; and you laughed--for company. You +remember that you thought, and Dalton thought, and the Senior thought, +by a singular coincidence, that the second bottle of champagne was +better even than the first. You have a dim remembrance of the Senior's +saying very loudly, "Clarence--(calling you by your family name)--is no +spooney;" and drinking a bumper with you in confirmation of the remark. + +You remember that Dalton broke out into a song, and that for a time you +joined in the chorus; you think the Senior called you to order for +repeating the chorus in the wrong place. You think the lights burned +with remarkable brilliancy; and you remember that a remark of yours to +that effect met with very much such a response from the Senior as he had +before employed with reference to Xenophon. + +You have a confused idea of calling Dalton--Xenophon. You think the +meeting broke up with a chorus, and that somebody--you cannot tell +who--broke two or three glasses. You remember questioning yourself very +seriously as to whether you were, or were not, tipsy. You think you +decided that you were not, but--might be. + +You have a confused recollection of leaning upon some one, or something, +going to your room; this sense of a desire to lean, you think, was very +strong. You remember being horribly afflicted with the idea of having +tried your night-key at the tutor's door, instead of your own; you +remember further a hot stove,--made certain indeed by a large blister +which appeared on your hand next day. You think of throwing off your +clothes by one or two spasmodic efforts,--leaning in the intervals +against the bedpost. + +There is a recollection of an uncommon dizziness afterward, as if your +body was very quiet, and your head gyrating with strange velocity, and a +kind of centrifugal action, all about the room, and the college, and +indeed the whole town. You think that you felt uncontrollable nausea +after this, followed by positive sickness,--which waked your chum, who +thought you very incoherent, and feared derangement. + +A dismal state of lassitude follows, broken by the college-clock +striking three, and by very rambling reflections upon champagne, +Xenophon, "Captain Dick," Madge, and the old deacon who clinched his wig +in the church. + +The next morning (ah, how vexatious that all our follies are followed by +a "next morning!") you wake with a parched mouth, and a torturing +thirst; the sun is shining broadly into your reeking chamber. Prayers +and recitations are long ago over; and you see through the door in the +outer room that hard-faced chum with his Lexicon and Livy open before +him, working out with all the earnestness of his iron purpose the steady +steps toward preferment and success. + +You go with some story of sudden sickness to the tutor,--half fearful +that the bloodshot, swollen eyes will betray you. It is very mortifying +too to meet Dalton appearing so gay and lively after it all, while you +wear such an air of being "used up." You envy him thoroughly the +extraordinary capacity that he has. + +Here and there creeps in, amid all the pride and shame of the new life, +a tender thought of the old home; but its joys are joys no longer: its +highest aspirations even have resolved themselves into fine mist,--- +like rainbows that the sun drinks with his beams. + +The affection for a mother, whose kindness you recall with a suffused +eye, is not gone, or blighted; but it is woven up, as only a single +adorning tissue, into the growing pride of youth: it is cherished in the +proud soul rather as a redeeming weakness than as a vital energy. + +And the love for Nelly, though it bates no jot of fervor, is woven into +the scale of growing purposes rather as a color to adorn than as a +strand to strengthen. + +As for your other loves, those romantic ones which were kindled by +bright eyes, and the stolen reading of Miss Porter's novels, they linger +on your mind like perfumes; and they float down your memory--with the +figure, the step, the last words of those young girls who raised +them--like the types of some dimly shadowed but deeper passion, which is +some time to spur your maturer purposes and to quicken your manly +resolves. + +It would be hard to tell, for you do not as yet know, but that Madge +herself--hoidenish, blue-eyed Madge--is to be the very one who will gain +such hold upon your riper affections as she has held already over your +boyish caprice. It is a part of the pride--I may say rather an evidence +of the pride--which youth feels in leaving boyhood behind him, to talk +laughingly and carelessly of those attachments which made his young +years so balmy with dreams. + + + + +II. + +_First Ambition._ + + +I believe that sooner or later there come to every man dreams of +ambition. They may be covered with the sloth of habit, or with the +pretence of humility; they may come only in dim, shadowy visions, that +feed the eye like the glories of an ocean sunrise; but you may be sure +that they will come: even before one is aware, the bold, adventurous +goddess, whose name is Ambition, and whose dower is Fame, will be toying +with the feeble heart. And she pushes her ventures with a bold hand; she +makes timidity strong, and weakness valiant. + +The way of a man's heart will be foreshadowed by what goodness lies in +him,--coming from above, and from around;--but a way foreshadowed is not +a way made. And the making of a man's way comes only from that +quickening of resolve which we call Ambition. It is the spur that makes +man struggle with Destiny: it is Heaven's own incentive, to make Purpose +great, and Achievement greater. + +It would be strange if you, in that cloister life of a college, did not +sometimes feel a dawning of new resolves. They grapple you indeed +oftener than you dare to speak of. Here you dream first of that very +sweet, but very shadowy success called Reputation. + +You think of the delight and astonishment it would give your mother and +father, and most of all little Nelly, if you were winning such honors as +now escape you. You measure your capacities by those about you, and +watch their habit of study; you gaze for a half-hour together upon some +successful man who has won his prizes, and wonder by what secret action +he has done it. And when in time you come to be a competitor yourself, +your anxiety is immense. + +You spend hours upon hours at your theme. You write and rewrite; and +when it is at length complete and out of your hands, you are harassed by +a thousand doubts. At times, as you recall your hours of toil, you +question if so much has been spent upon any other; you feel almost +certain of success. You repeat to yourself some passages of special +eloquence at night. You fancy the admiration of the professors at +meeting with such a wonderful performance. You have a slight fear that +its superior goodness may awaken the suspicion that some one out of the +college, some superior man, may have written it. But this fear dies +away. + +The eventful day is a great one in your calendar you hardly sleep the +night previous. You tremble as the chapel-bell is rung; you profess to +be very indifferent, as the reading and the prayer close; you even stoop +to take up your hat, as if you had entirely overlooked the fact that the +old President was in the desk for the express purpose of declaring the +successful names. You listen dreamily to his tremulous, yet fearfully +distinct enunciation. Your head swims strangely. + +They all pass out with a harsh murmur along the aisles and through the +doorways. It would be well if there were no disappointments in life more +terrible than this. It is consoling to express very depreciating +opinions of the Faculty in general,--and very contemptuous ones of that +particular officer who decided upon the merit of the prize-themes. An +evening or two at Dalton's room go still farther toward healing the +disappointment, and--if it must be said--toward moderating the heat of +your ambition. + +You grow up however, unfortunately, as the college years fly by, into a +very exaggerated sense of your own capacities. Even the good, old, +white-haired Squire, for whom you once entertained so much respect, +seems to your crazy, classic fancy a very humdrum sort of personage. +Frank, although as noble a fellow as ever sat a horse, is yet--you +cannot help thinking--very ignorant of Euripides; even the English +master at Dr. Bidlow's school, you feel sure, would balk at a dozen +problems you could give him. + +You get an exalted idea of that uncertain quality which turns the heads +of a vast many of your fellows, called--Genius. An odd notion seems to +be inherent in the atmosphere of those college chambers, that there is a +certain faculty of mind--first developed, as would seem, in +colleges--which accomplishes whatever it chooses without any special +painstaking. For a time you fall yourself into this very unfortunate +hallucination; you cultivate it after the usual college fashion, by +drinking a vast deal of strong coffee and whiskey-toddy, by writing a +little poor verse in the Byronic temper, and by studying very late at +night with closed blinds. + +It costs you however more anxiety and hypocrisy than you could possibly +have believed. + +----You will learn, Clarence, when the Autumn has rounded your hopeful +Summer, if not before, that there is no Genius in life like the Genius +of energy and industry. You will learn, that all the traditions so +current among very young men that certain great characters have wrought +their greatness by an inspiration, as it were, grow out of a sad +mistake. + +And you will further find, when you come to measure yourself with men, +that there are no rivals so formidable as those earnest, determined +minds which reckon the value of every hour, and which achieve eminence +by persistent application. + +Literary ambition may inflame you at certain periods and a thought of +some great names will flash like a spark into the mine of your purposes; +you dream till midnight over books; you set up shadows, and chase them +down,--other shadows, and they fly. Dreaming will never catch them. +Nothing makes the "scent lie well" in the hunt after distinction, but +labor. + +And it is a glorious thing, when once you are weary of the dissipation, +and the _ennui_ of your own aimless thought, to take up some glowing +page of an earnest thinker, and read--deep and long, until you feel the +metal of his thought tinkling on your brain, and striking out from your +flinty lethargy flashes of ideas that give the mind light and heat. And +away you go in the chase of what the soul within is creating on the +instant, and you wonder at the fecundity of what seemed so barren, and +at the ripeness of what seemed so crude. The glow of toil wakes you to +the consciousness of your real capacities: you feel sure that they have +taken a new step toward final development. In such mood it is that one +feels grateful to the musty tomes, which at other hours stand like +wonder-making mummies with no warmth and no vitality. Now they grow into +the affections like new-found friends, and gain a hold upon the heart, +and light a fire in the brain, that the years and the mould cannot cover +nor quench. + + + + +III. + +_College Romance._ + + +In following the mental vagaries of youth, I must not forget the +curvetings and wiltings of the heart. + +The black-eyed Jenny, with whom a correspondence at red heat was kept up +for several weeks, is long before this entirely out of your regard,--not +so much by reason of the six months' disparity of age, as from the fact, +communicated quite confidentially by the travelled Nat, that she has had +a desperate flirtation with a handsome midshipman. The conclusion is +natural that she is an inconstant, cruel-hearted creature, with little +appreciation of real worth; and furthermore, that all midshipmen are a +very contemptible--not to say dangerous--set of men. She is consigned to +forgetfulness and neglect; and the late lover has long ago consoled +himself by reading in a spirited way that passage of Childe Harold +commencing,-- + + "I have not loved the world, nor the world me." + +As for Madge, the memory of her has been more wakeful, but less violent. +To say nothing of occasional returns to the old homestead, when you have +met her Nelly's letters not unfrequently drop a careless half-sentence +that keeps her strangely in mind. + +"Madge," she says, "is sitting by me with her work;" or, "You ought to +see the little silk purse that Madge is knitting;" or,--speaking of some +country rout,--"Madge was there in the sweetest dress you can imagine." +All this will keep Madge in mind; not, it is true, in the ambitious +moods, or in the frolics with Dalton; but in those odd half-hours that +come stealing over one at twilight, laden with sweet memories of the +days of old. + +A new romantic admiration is started by those pale lady-faces which +light up on a Sunday the gallery of the college chapel. An amiable and +modest fancy gives to them all a sweet classic grace. The very +atmosphere of these courts, wakened with high metaphysic discourse, +seems to lend them a Greek beauty and fineness; and you attach to the +prettiest, that your eye can reach, all the charms of some Sciote +maiden, and all the learning of her father--the professor. And as you +lie half-wakeful and half-dreaming, through the long Divisions of the +Doctor's morning discourse, the twinkling eyes in some corner of the +gallery bear you pleasant company as you float down those streaming +visions which radiate from you far over the track of the coming life. + +But following very closely upon this comes a whole volume of street +romance. There are prettily shaped figures that go floating at +convenient hours for college observation along the thoroughfares of the +town. And these figures come to be known, and the dresses, and the +streets; and even the door-plate is studied. The hours are ascertained, +by careful observation and induction, at which some particular figure is +to be met,--or is to be seen at some low parlor-window, in white summer +dress, with head leaning on the hand, very melancholy, and very +dangerous. Perhaps her very card is stuck proudly into a corner of the +mirror in the college-chamber. After this may come moonlight meetings at +the gate, or long listenings to the plaintive lyrics that steal out of +the parlor-windows, and that blur wofully the text of the Conic +Sections. + +Or perhaps she is under the fierce eye of some Cerberus of a +schoolmistress, about whose grounds you prowl piteously, searching for +small knot-holes in the surrounding board fence, through which little +_souvenirs_ of impassioned feeling may be thrust. Sonnets are written +for the town papers, full of telling phrases, and with classic allusions +and foot-notes which draw attention to some similar felicity of +expression in Horace or Ovid. Correspondence may even be ventured on, +enclosing locks of hair, and interchanging rings, and paper oaths of +eternal fidelity. + +But the old Cerberus is very wakeful: the letters fail; the lamp that +used to glimmer for a sign among the sycamores is gone out; a stolen +wave of a handkerchief, a despairing look, and tears,--which you fancy, +but do not see,--make you miserable for long days. + +The tyrant teacher, with no trace of compassion in her withered heart, +reports you to the college authorities. There is a long lecture of +admonition upon the folly of such dangerous practices; and if the +offence be aggravated by some recent joviality with Dalton and the +Senior, you are condemned to a month of exile with a country clergyman. +There are a few tearful regrets over the painful tone of the home +letters; but the bracing country air, and the pretty faces of the +village girls, heal your heart--with fresh wounds. + +The old Doctor sees dimly through his spectacles; and his pew gives a +good look-out upon the smiling choir of singers. A collegian wears the +honors of a stranger, and the country bucks stand but poor chance in +contrast with your wonderful attainments in cravats and verses. But this +fresh dream, odorous with its memories of sleigh-rides or +lilac-blossoms, slips by, and yields again to the more ambitious dreams +of the cloister. + +In the prouder moments that come when you are more a man and less a +boy,--with more of strategy and less of faith,--your thought of woman +runs loftily; not loftily in the realm of virtue or goodness, but +loftily on your new world-scale. The pride of intellect, that is +thirsting in you, fashions ideal graces after a classic model. The +heroines of fable are admired; and the soul is tortured with that +intensity of passion which gleams through the broken utterances of +Grecian tragedy. + +In the vanity of self-consciousness one feels at a long remove above the +ordinary love and trustfulness of a simple and pure heart. You turn away +from all such with a sigh of conceit, to graze on that lofty but bitter +pasturage where no daisies grow. Admiration may be called up by some +graceful figure that you see moving under those sweeping elms; and you +follow it with an intensity of look that makes you blush, and +straightway hide the memory of the blush by summing up some artful +sophistry, that resolves your delighted gaze into a weakness, and your +contempt into a virtue. + +But this cannot last. As the years drop off, a certain pair of eyes beam +one day upon you that seem to have been cut out of a page of Greek +poetry. They have all its sentiment, its fire, its intellectual reaches: +it would be hard to say what they have not. The profile is a Greek +profile, and the heavy chestnut hair is plaited in Greek bands. The +figure, too, might easily be that of Helen, or of Andromache. + +You gaze, ashamed to gaze; and your heart yearns, ashamed of its +yearning. It is no young girl who is thus testing you: there is too +much pride for that. A ripeness and maturity rest upon her look and +figure that completely fill up that ideal which exaggerated fancies have +wrought out of the Grecian heaven. The vision steals upon you at all +hours,--now rounding its flowing outline to the mellifluous metre of +Epic hexameter, and again with its bounding life pulsating with the +glorious dashes of tragic verse. + +Yet with the exception of stolen glances and secret admiration, you keep +aloof. There is no wish to fathom what seems a happy mystery. There lies +a content in secret obeisance. Sometimes it shames you, as your mind +glows with its fancied dignity; but the heart thrusts in its voice; and, +yielding to it, you dream dreams like fond old Boccaccio's upon the +olive-shaded slopes of Italy. The tongue even is not trusted with the +thoughts that are seething within: they begin and end in the voiceless +pulsations of your nature. + +After a time--it seems a long time, but it is in truth a very short +time--you find who she is who is thus entrancing you. It is done most +carelessly. No creature could imagine that you felt any interest in the +accomplished sister--of your friend Dalton. Yet it is even she who has +thus beguiled you; and she is at least some ten years Dalton's senior, +and by even more years--your own! + +It is singular enough, but it is true, that the affections of that +transition state from youth to manliness run toward the types of +maturity. The mind in its reaches toward strength and completeness +creates a heart-sympathy--which in its turn craves fulness. There is a +vanity too about the first steps of manly education, which is disposed +to underrate the innocence and unripened judgment of the other sex. Men +see the mistake as they grow older; for the judgment of a woman, in all +matters of the affections, ripens by ten years faster than a man's. + +In place of any relentings on such score you are set on fire anew. The +stories of her accomplishments, and of her grace of conversation, +absolutely drive you mad. You watch your occasion for meeting her upon +the street. You wonder if she has any conception of your capacity for +mental labor, and if she has any adequate idea of your admiration for +Greek poetry, and for herself. + +You tie your cravat poet-wise, and wear broad collars turned down, +wondering how such disposition may affect her. Her figure and step +become a kind of moving romance to you, drifting forward and outward +into that great land of dreams which you call the world. When you see +her walking with others, you pity her, and feel perfectly sure, that, if +she had only a hint of that intellectual fervor which in your own mind +blazes up at the very thought of her, she would perfectly scorn the +stout gentleman who spends his force in tawdry compliments. + +A visit to your home wakens ardor by contrast as much as by absence. +Madge, so gentle, and now stealing sly looks at you in a way so +different from her hoidenish manner of school-days, you regard +complacently as a most lovable, fond girl,--the very one for some fond +and amiable young man whose soul is not filled, as yours is, with higher +things! To Nelly, earnestly listening, you drop only exaggerated hints +of the wonderful beauty and dignity of this new being of your fancy. Of +her age you scrupulously say nothing. + +The trivialities of Dalton amaze you: it is hard to understand how a man +within the limit of such influences as Miss Dalton must inevitably +exert, can tamely sit down to a rubber of whist, and cigars! There must +be a sad lack of congeniality;--it would certainly be a proud thing to +supply that lack! + +The new feeling, wild and vague as it is,--for as yet you have only most +casual acquaintance with Laura Dalton,--invests the whole habit of your +study; not quickening overmuch the relish for Dugald Stewart, or the +miserable skeleton of college Logic, but spending a sweet charm upon the +graces of Rhetoric and the music of Classic Verse. It blends +harmoniously with your quickened ambition. There is some last appearance +that you have to make upon the college stage, in the presence of the +great worthies of the State, and of all the beauties of the town,--Laura +chiefest among them. In view of it you feel dismally intellectual. +Prodigious faculties are to be brought to the task. + +You think of throwing out ideas that will quite startle His Excellency +the Governor, and those very distinguished public characters whom the +college purveyors vote into their periodic public sittings. You are +quite sure of surprising them, and of deeply provoking such scheming, +shallow politicians as have never read Wayland's "Treatise," and who +venture incautiously within hearing of your remarks. You fancy yourself +in advance the victim of a long leader in the next day's paper, and the +thoughtful but quiet cause of a great change in the political programme +of the State. But crowning and eclipsing all the triumph, are those dark +eyes beaming on you from some corner of the church their floods of +unconscious praise and tenderness. + +Your father and Nelly are there to greet you. He has spoken a few calm, +quiet words of encouragement, that make you feel--very wrongfully--that +he is a cold man, with no earnestness of feeling. As for Nelly, she +clasps your arm with a fondness, and with a pride, that tell at every +step her praises and her love. + +But even this, true and healthful as it is, fades before a single word +of commendation from the new arbitress of your feeling. You have seen +Miss Dalton! You have met her on that last evening of your cloistered +life in all the elegance of ball-costume; your eye has feasted on her +elegant figure, and upon her eye sparkling with the consciousness of +beauty. You have talked with Miss Dalton about Byron, about Wordsworth, +about Homer. You have quoted poetry to Miss Dalton; you have clasped +Miss Dalton's hand! + +Her conversation delights you by its piquancy and grace; she is quite +ready to meet you (a grave matter of surprise!) upon whatever subject +you may suggest. You lapse easily and lovingly into the current of her +thought, and blush to find yourself vacantly admiring when she is +looking for reply. The regard you feel for her resolves itself into an +exquisite mental love, vastly superior, as you think, to any other kind +of love. There is no dream of marriage as yet, but only of sitting +beside her in the moonlight during a countless succession of hours, and +talking of poetry and nature, of destiny and love. + +Magnificent Miss Dalton! + +----And all the while vaunting youth is almost mindless of the presence +of that fond Nelly whose warm sisterly affection measures itself +hopefully against the proud associations of your growing years,--and +whose deep, loving eye, half suffused with its native tenderness, seems +longing to win you back to the old joys of that Home-love, which linger +on the distant horizon of your boyhood like the golden glories of a +sinking day. + +As the night wanes, you wander for a last look toward the dingy walls +that have made for you so long a home. The old broken expectancies, the +days of glee, the triumphs, the rivalries, the defeats, the friendships, +are recalled with a fluttering of the heart that pride cannot wholly +subdue. You step upon the chapel-porch in the quiet of the night as you +would step on the graves of friends. You pace back and forth in the wan +moonlight, dreaming of that dim life which opens wide and long from the +morrow. The width and length oppress you: they crush down your +struggling self-consciousness like Titans dealing with Pygmies. A single +piercing thought of the vast and shadowy future, which is so near, tears +off on the instant all the gewgaws of pride, strips away the vanity that +doubles your bigness, and forces you down to the bare nakedness of what +you truly _are_! + +With one more yearning look at the gray hulks of building, you loiter +away under the trees. The monster elms, which have bowered your proud +steps through four years of proudest life, lift up to the night their +rounded canopy of leaves with a quiet majesty that mocks you. They kiss +the same calm sky which they wooed four years ago; and they droop their +trailing limbs lovingly to the same earth, which has steadily and +quietly wrought in them their stature and their strength. Only here and +there you catch the loitering footfall of some other benighted dreamer, +strolling around the vast quadrangle of level green, which lies, like a +prairie-child, under the edging shadows of the town. The lights glimmer +one by one; and one by one, like breaking hopes, they fade away from the +houses. The full-risen moon, that dapples the ground beneath the trees, +touches the tall church-spires with silver, and slants their +loftiness--as memory slants grief--in long, dark, tapering lines upon +the silvered Green. + + + + +IV. + +_First Look at the World._ + + +Our Clarence is now fairly afloat upon the swift tide of Youth. The +thrall of teachers is ended, and the audacity of self-resolve is begun. +It is not a little odd, that, when we have least strength to combat the +world, we have the highest confidence in our ability. + +Very few individuals in the world possess that happy consciousness of +their own prowess which belongs to the newly-graduated collegian. He has +most abounding faith in the tricksy panoply that he has wrought out of +the metal of his Classics. His Mathematics, he has not a doubt, will +solve for him every complexity of life's questions; and his Logic will +as certainly untie all Gordian knots, whether in politics or ethics. + +He has no idea of defeat; he proposes to take the world by storm; he +half wonders that quiet people are not startled by his presence. He +brushes with an air of importance about the halls of country hotels; he +wears his honor at the public tables; he fancies that the inattentive +guests can have little idea that the young gentleman, who so recently +delighted the public ear with his dissertation on the "General Tendency +of Opinion," is actually among them, and quietly eating from the same +dish of beef and of pudding! + +Our poor Clarence does not know--Heaven forbid he should!--that he is +but little wiser now than when he turned his back upon the old Academy, +with its gallipots and broken retorts; and that with the addition of a +few Greek roots, a smattering of Latin, and some readiness of speech, he +is almost as weak for breasting the strong current of life as when a +boy. America is but a poor place for the romantic book-dreamer. The +demands of this new, Western life of ours are practical and earnest. +Prompt action, and ready tact, are the weapons by which to meet it, and +subdue it. The education of the cloister offers at best only a sound +starting-point from which to leap into the tide. + +The father of Clarence is a cool, matter-of-fact man. He has little +sympathy with any of the romantic notions that enthrall a youth of +twenty. He has a very humble opinion--much humbler than you think he +should have--of your attainments at college. He advises a short period +of travel, that by observation you may find out more fully how that +world is made up with which you are henceforth to struggle. + +Your mother half fears your alienation from the affections of home. Her +letters all run over with a tenderness that makes you sigh, and that +makes you feel a deep reproach. You may not have been wanting in the +more ordinary tokens of affection; you have made your periodic visits; +but you blush for the consciousness that fastens on you of neglect at +heart. You blush for the lack of that glow of feeling which once +fastened to every home-object. + +[Does a man indeed outgrow affections as his mind ripens? Do the early +and tender sympathies become a part of his intellectual perceptions, to +be appreciated and reasoned upon as one reasons about truths of science? +Is their vitality necessarily young? Is there the same ripe, joyous +burst of the heart at the recollection of later friendships, which +belonged to those of boyhood; and are not the later ones more the +suggestions of judgment, and less the absolute conditions of the heart's +health?] + +The letters of your mother, as I said, make you sigh: there is no moment +in our lives when we feel less worthy of the love of others, and less +worthy of our own respect, than when we receive evidences of kindness +which we know we do not merit,--and when souls are laid bare to us, and +we have too much indifference to lay bare our own in return. + +"Clarence,"--writes that neglected mother,--"you do not know how much +you are in our thoughts, and how often you are the burden of my prayers. +Oh, Clarence, I could almost wish that you were still a boy,--still +running to me for those little favors which I was only too happy to +bestow,--still dependent in some degree on your mother's love for +happiness. + +"Perhaps I do you wrong, Clarence, but it does seem from the changing +tone of your letters, that you are becoming more and more forgetful of +us all; that you are feeling less need of our advice, and--what I feel +far more deeply--less need of our affection. Do not, my son, forget the +lessons of home. There will come a time, I feel sure, when you will know +that those lessons are good. They may not indeed help you in that +intellectual strife which soon will engross you; and they may not have +fitted you to shine in what are called the brilliant circles of the +world, but they are such, Clarence, as make the heart pure and honest +and strong! + +"You may think me weak to write you thus, as I would have written to my +light-hearted boy years ago; indeed I am not strong, but growing every +day more feeble. + +"Nelly, your sweet sister, is sitting by me. 'Tell Clarence,' she says, +'to come home soon.' You know, my son, what hearty welcome will greet +you; and that, whether here or away, our love and prayers will be with +you always; and may God in his infinite mercy keep you from all harm!" + +A tear or two--brushed away as soon as they come--is all that youth +gives to embalm such treasure of love! A gay laugh, or the challenge of +some companion of a day, will sweep away into the night the earnest, +regretful, yet happy dreams that rise like incense from the pages of +such hallowed affection. + +The brusque world too is to be met, with all its hurry and promptitude. +Manhood, in our swift American world, is measured too much by +forgetfulness of all the sweet bonds which tie the heart to the home of +its first attachments. We deaden the glow that nature has kindled, lest +it may lighten our hearts into an enchanting flame of weakness. We have +not learned to make that flame the beacon of our purposes and the warmer +of our strength. We are men too early. + +But an experience is approaching Clarence, that will drive his heart +home for shelter, like a wounded bird! + +----It is an autumn morning, with such crimson glories to kindle it as +lie along the twin ranges of mountain that guard the Hudson. The white +frosts shine like changing silk in the fields of late-growing clover; +the river-mists curl, and idle along the bosom of the water, and creep +up the hill-sides, and at noon float their feathery vapors aloft in +clouds; the crimson trees blaze in the side valleys, and blend their +vermilion tints under the fairy hands of our American frost-painters +with the dark blood of the ash-trees and the orange-tinted oaks. Blue +and bright under the clear Fall heaven, the broad river shines before +the surging prow of the boat like a shield of steel. + +The bracing air lights up rich dreams of life. Your fancy peoples the +valleys and the hill-tops with its creations; and your hope lends some +crowning beauty of the landscape to your dreamy future. The vision of +your last college year is not gone. That figure, whose elegance your +eyes then feasted on, still floats before you; and the memory of the +last talk with Laura is as vivid as if it were only yesterday that you +listened. Indeed this opening campaign of travel--although you are half +ashamed to confess it to yourself--is guided by the thought of her. + +Dalton with a party of friends, his sister among them, is journeying to +the north. A hope of meeting them--scarce acknowledged as an +intention--spurs you on. The eye rests dreamily and vaguely on the +beauties that appear at every turn: they are beauties that charm you, +and charm you the more by an indefinable association with that fairy +object that floats before you, half unknown, and wholly unclaimed. The +quiet towns with their noonday stillness, the out-lying mansions with +their stately splendor, the bustling cities with their mocking din, and +the long reaches of silent and wooded shore, chime with their several +beauties to your heart, in keeping with the master-key that was touched +long weeks before. + +The cool, honest advices of the father drift across your memory in +shadowy forms, as you wander through the streets of the first northern +cities; and all the need for observation, and the incentives to purpose, +which your ambitious designs would once have quickened, fade dismally +when you find that _she_ is not there. All the lax gayety of Saratoga +palls on the appetite; even the magnificent shores of Lake George, +though stirring your spirit to an insensible wonder and love, do not +cheat you into a trance that lingers. In vain the sun blazons every +isle, and lights every shaded cove, and at evening stretches the Black +Mountain in giant slumber on the waters. + +Your thought bounds away from the beauty of sky and lake, and fastens +upon the ideal which your dreamy humors cherish. The very glow of +pursuit heightens your fervor,--a fervor that dims sadly the new-wakened +memories of home. The southern gates of Champlain, those fir-draped +Trosachs of America, are passed, and you find yourself, upon a golden +evening of Canadian autumn, in the quaint old city of Montreal. + +Dalton with his party has gone down to Quebec. He is to return within a +few days on his way to Niagara. There is a letter from Nelly awaiting +you. It says:--"Mother is much more feeble: she often speaks of your +return in a way that I am sure, if you heard, Clarence, would bring you +back to us soon." + +There is a struggle in your mind: old affection is weaker than young +pride and hope. Moreover, the world is to be faced; the new scenes +around you are to be studied. An answer is penned full of kind +remembrances, and begging a few days of delay. You wander, wondering, +under the quaint old houses, and wishing for the return of Dalton. + +He meets you with that happy, careless way of his,--the dangerous way +which some men are born to, and which chimes easily to every tone of the +world,--a way you wondered at once; a way you admire now; and a way that +you will distrust as you come to see more of men. Miss Dalton--(it seems +sacrilege to call her Laura)--is the same elegant being that entranced +you first. + +They urge you to join their party. But there is no need of urging: those +eyes, that figure, the whole presence indeed of Miss Dalton, attract you +with a power which you can neither explain nor resist. One look of grace +enslaves you; and there is a strange pride in the enslavement. + +----Is it dream, or is it earnest,--those moonlit walks upon the hills +that skirt the city, when you watch the stars, listening to her voice, +and feel the pressure of that jewelled hand upon your arm?--when you +drain your memory of its whole stock of poetic beauties to lavish upon +her ear? Is it love, or is it madness, when you catch her eye as it +beams more of eloquence than lies in all your moonlight poetry, and feel +an exultant gush of the heart that makes you proud as a man, and yet +timid as a boy, beside her? + +Has Dalton, with that calm, placid, _nonchalant_ look of his, any +inkling of the raptures which his elegant sister is exciting? Has the +stout, elderly gentleman, who is so prodigal of his bouquets and +attentions, any idea of the formidable rival that he has found? Has +Laura herself--you dream--any conception of that intensity of admiration +with which you worship? + +----Poor Clarence! it is his first look at Life! + +The Thousand Isles with their leafy beauties lie around your passing +boat, like the joys that skirt us, and pass us, on our way through life. +The Thousand Isles rise sudden before you, and fringe your yeasty track, +and drop away into floating spectres of beauty, of haze, of distance, +like those dreams of joy that your passion lends the brain. The low +banks of Ontario look sullen by night; and the moon, rising tranquilly +over the tops of vast forests that stand in majestic ranks over ten +thousand acres of shore-land, drips its silvery sparkles along the +rocking waters, and flashes across your foamy wake. + +With such attendance, that subdues for the time the dreamy forays of +your passion, you draw toward the sound of Niagara; and its distant, +vague roar, coming through great aisles of gloomy forest, bears up your +spirit, like a child's, into the Highest Presence. + +The morning after, you are standing with your party upon the steps of +the hotel. A letter is handed to you. Dalton remarks in a quizzical way, +that "it shows a lady's hand." + +"Aha, a lady!" says Miss Dalton,--and _so_ gayly! + +"A sister," I say; for it is Nelly's hand. + +"By the by, Clarence," says Dalton, "it was a very pretty sister you +gave us a glimpse of at Commencement." + +"Ah, you think so;" and there is something in your tone that shows a +little indignation at this careless mention of your fond Nelly; and from +those lips! It will occur to you again. + +A single glance at the letter blanches your cheek. Your heart +throbs--throbs harder--throbs tumultuously. You bite your lip, for there +are lookers-on. But it will not do. You hurry away; you find your +chamber; you close and lock the door, and burst into a flood of tears. + + + + +V. + +_A Broken Home._ + + +It is Nelly's own fair hand, yet sadly blotted,--blotted with her tears, +and blotted with yours. + +----"It is all over, dear, dear Clarence! Oh, how I wish you were here +to mourn with us! I can hardly now believe that our poor mother is +indeed dead." + +----Dead!--It is a terrible word! You repeat it with a fresh burst of +grief. The letter is crumpled in your hand. Unfold it again, sobbing, +and read on. + +"For a week she had been failing every day; but on Saturday we thought +her very much better. I told her I felt sure she would live to see you +again. + +"'I shall never see him again, Nelly,' said she, bursting into tears." + +----Ah, Clarence, where is your youthful pride, and your strength +now?--with only that frail paper to annoy you, crushed in your grasp! + +"She sent for father, and taking his hand in hers, told him she was +dying. I am glad you did not see his grief. I was kneeling beside her, +and she put her hand upon my head, and let it rest there for a moment, +while her lips moved as if she were praying. + +"'Kiss me, Nelly,' said she, growing fainter: kiss me again for +Clarence.' + +"A little while after she died." + +For a long time you remain with only that letter, and your thought, for +company. You pace up and down your chamber: again you seat yourself, and +lean your head upon the table, enfeebled by the very grief that you +cherish still. The whole day passes thus: you excuse yourself from all +companionship: you have not the heart to tell the story of your troubles +to Dalton,--least of all, to Miss Dalton. How is this? Is sorrow too +selfish, or too holy? + +Toward nightfall there is a calmer and stronger feeling. The voice of +the present world comes to your ear again. But you move away from it +unobserved to that stronger voice of God in the Cataract. Great masses +of angry cloud hang over the west; but beneath them the red harvest sun +shines over the long reach of Canadian shore, and bathes the whirling +rapids in splendor. You stroll alone over the quaking bridge, and under +the giant trees of the Island, to the edge of the British Fall. You go +out to the little shattered tower, and gaze down, with sensations that +will last till death, upon the deep emerald of those awful masses of +water. + +It is not the place for a bad man to ponder; it is not the atmosphere +for foul thoughts, or weak ones. A man is never better than when he has +the humblest sense of himself: he is never so unlike the spirit of Evil +as when his pride is utterly vanished. You linger, looking upon the +stream of fading sunlight that plays across the rapids, and down into +the shadow of the depths below, lit up with their clouds of spray;--yet +farther down, your sight swims upon the black eddying masses, with white +ribbons streaming across their glassy surface; and your dizzy eye +fastens upon the frail cockle-shells--their stout oarsmen dwindled to +pygmies--that dance like atoms upon the vast chasm, or like your own +weak resolves upon the whirl of Time. + +Your thought, growing broad in the view, seems to cover the whole area +of life: you set up your affections and your duties; you build hopes +with fairy scenery, and away they all go, tossing like the relentless +waters to the deep gulf that gapes a hideous welcome! You sigh at your +weakness of heart, or of endeavor, and your sighs float out into the +breeze, that rises ever from the shock of the waves, and whirl, +empty-handed, to Heaven. You avow high purposes, and clench them with +round utterance; and your voice, like a sparrow's, is caught up in the +roar of the fall, and thrown at you from the cliffs, and dies away in +the solemn thunders of nature. Great thoughts of life come over you--of +its work and destiny--of its affections and duties, and roll down +swift--like the river--into the deep whirl of doubt and danger. Other +thoughts, grander and stronger, like the continuing rush of waters, come +over you, and knit your purposes together with their weight, and crush +you to exultant tears, and then leap, shattered and broken, from the +very edge of your intent into mists of fear! + +The moon comes out, and gleaming through the clouds, braids its light +fantastic bow upon the waters. You feel calmer as the night deepens. The +darkness softens you; it hangs--like the pall that shrouds your mother's +corpse--low and heavily to your heart. It helps your inward grief with +some outward show. It makes the earth a mourner; it makes the flashing +water-drops so many attendant mourners. It makes the Great Fall itself a +mourner, and its roar a requiem! + +The pleasure of travel is cut short. To one person of the little company +of fellow-voyagers you bid adieu with regret; pride, love, and hope +point toward her, while all the gentler affections stray back to the +broken home. Her smile of parting is very gracious, but it is not, after +all, such a smile as your warm heart pines for. + +Ten days after, you are walking toward the old homestead with such +feelings as it never called up before. In the days of boyhood there were +triumphant thoughts of the gladness and the pride with which, when +grown to the stature of manhood, you would come back to that little town +of your birth. As you have bent with your dreamy resolutions over the +tasks of the cloister life, swift thoughts have flocked on you of the +proud step, and prouder heart, with which you would one day greet the +old acquaintances of boyhood; and you have regaled yourself on the +jaunty manner with which you would meet old Dr. Bidlow, and the +patronizing air with which you would address the pretty, blue-eyed +Madge. + +It is late afternoon when you come in sight of the tall sycamores that +shade your home; you shudder now, lest you may meet any whom you once +knew. The first keen grief of youth seeks little of the sympathy of +companions: it lies--with a sensitive man--bounded within the narrowest +circles of the heart. They only who hold the key to its innermost +recesses can speak consolation. Years will make a change;--as the Summer +grows in fierce heats, the balminess of the violet banks of Spring is +lost in the odors of a thousand flowers;--the heart, as it gains in age, +loses freshness, but wins breadth. + +----Throw a pebble into the brook at its source, and the agitation is +terrible, and the ripples chafe madly their narrowed banks;--throw in a +pebble when the brook has become a river, and you see a few circles, +widening and widening and widening, until they are lost in the gentle +every-day murmur of its life! + +You draw your hat over your eyes, as you walk toward the familiar door: +the yard is silent; the night is falling gloomily; a few katydids are +crying in the trees. The mother's window, where at such a season as this +it was her custom to sit watching your play, is shut, and the blinds are +closed over it. The honeysuckle, which grew over the window, and which +she loved so much, has flung out its branches carelessly; and the +spiders have hung their foul nets upon its tendrils. + +And she, who made that home so dear to your boyhood, so real to your +after-years,--standing amid all the flights of your youthful ambition, +and your paltry cares (for they seem paltry now), and your doubts, and +anxieties and weaknesses of heart, like the light of your hope--burning +ever there under the shadow of the sycamores,--a holy beacon, by whose +guidance you always came to a sweet haven, and to a refuge from all your +toils,--is gone, gone forever! + +The father is there indeed,--beloved, respected, esteemed; but the +boyish heart, whose old life is now reviving, leans more readily and +more kindly into that void where once beat the heart of a mother. + +Nelly is there,--cherished now with all the added love that is stricken +off from her who has left you forever. Nelly meets you at the door. + +----"Clarence!" + +----"Nelly!" + +There are no other words; but you feel her tears as the kiss of welcome +is given. With your hand joined in hers, you walk down the hall into the +old, familiar room,--not with the jaunty college step,--not with any +presumption on your dawning manhood,--oh, no,--nothing of this! + +Quietly, meekly, feeling your whole heart shattered, and your mind +feeble as a boy's, and your purposes nothing, and worse than +nothing,--with only one proud feeling you fling your arm around the form +of that gentle sister,--the pride of a protector,--the feeling--"_I_ +will care for you now, dear Nelly!"--that is all. And even that, proud +as it is, brings weakness. + +You sit down together upon the lounge; Nelly buries her face in her +hands, sobbing. + +"Dear Nelly!" and your arm clasps her more fondly. + +There is a cricket in the corner of the room, chirping very loudly. It +seems as if nothing else were living,--only Nelly, Clarence, and the +noisy cricket. Your eye on the chair where she used to sit; it is drawn +up with the same care as ever beside the fire. + +"I am _so_ glad to see you, Clarence," says Nelly, recovering herself; +there is a sweet, sad smile now And sitting there beside you, she tells +you of it all,--of the day, and of the hour,--and how she looked,--and +of her last prayer, and how happy she was. + +"And did she leave no message for me, Nelly?" + +"Not to forget us, Clarence; but you could not!" + +"Thank you, Nelly. And was there nothing else?" + +"Yes, Clarence,--to meet her one day!" + +You only press her hand. + +Presently your father comes in: he greets you with far more than his +usual cordiality. He keeps your hand a long time, looking quietly in +your face, as if he were reading traces of some resemblance that had +never struck him before. + +The father is one of those calm, impassive men, who shows little upon +the surface, and whose feelings you have always thought cold. But now +there is a tremulousness in his tones that you never remember observing +before. He seems conscious of it himself, and forbears talking. He goes +to his old seat, and after gazing at you a little while with the same +steadfastness as at first, leans forward, and buries his face in his +hands. + +From that very moment you feel a sympathy and a love for him, that you +have never known until then. And in after-years, when suffering or trial +come over you, and when your thoughts fly as to a refuge to that +shattered home, you will recall that stooping image of the +father,--with his head bowed, and from time to time trembling +convulsively with grief,--and feel that there remains yet by the +household fires a heart of kindred love and of kindred sorrow! + +Nelly steals away from you gently, and stepping across the room, lays +her hand upon his shoulder with a touch that says, as plainly as words +could say it,--"We are here, father!" + +And he rouses himself,--passes his arm around her,--looks in her face +fondly,--draws her to him, and prints a kiss upon her forehead. + +"Nelly, we must love each other now more than ever." + +Nelly's lips tremble, but she cannot answer; a tear or two go stealing +down her cheek. + +You approach them; and your father takes your hand again with a firm +grasp,--looks at you thoughtfully,--drops his eyes upon the fire, and +for a moment there is a pause;--"We are quite alone now, my boy!" + +----It is a Broken Home! + + + + +VI. + +_Family Confidence._ + + +Grief has a strange power in opening the hearts of those who sorrow in +common. The father, who has seemed to you, not so much neglectful, as +careless of your aims and purposes,--toward whom there have been in your +younger years yearnings of affection which his chilliness of manner has +seemed to repress, now grows under the sad light of the broken household +into a friend. The heart feels a joy it cannot express, in its freedom +to love and to cherish. There is a pleasure wholly new to you in telling +him of your youthful projects, in listening to his questionings, in +seeking his opinions, and in yielding to his judgment. + +It is a sad thing for the child, and quite as sad for the parent, when +this confidence is unknown. Many and many a time with a bursting heart +you have longed to tell him of some boyish grief, or to ask his guidance +out of some boyish trouble; but at the first sight of that calm, +inflexible face, and at the first sound of his measured words, your +enthusiastic yearnings toward his love and his counsels have all turned +back upon your eager and sorrowing heart, and you have gone away to +hide in secret the tears which the lack of his sympathy has wrung from +your soul. + +But now over the tomb of her, for whom you weep in common, there is a +new light breaking; and your only fear is lest you weary him with what +may seem a barren show of your confidence. + +Nelly too is nearer now than ever; and with her you have no fears of +your extravagance; you listen delightfully there by the evening flame to +all that she tells you of the neighbors of your boyhood. You shudder +somewhat at her genial praises of the blue-eyed Madge,--a shudder that +you can hardly account for, and which you do not seek to explain. It may +be that there is a clinging and tender memory yet--wakened by the home +atmosphere--of the divided sixpence. + +Of your quondam friend, Frank, the pleasant recollection of whom revives +again under the old roof-tree, she tells you very little,--and that +little in a hesitating and indifferent way that utterly surprises you. +Can it be, you think, that there has been some cause of unkindness? + +----Clarence is still very young! + +The fire glows warmly upon the accustomed hearth-stone, and--save that +vacant place never to be filled again--a home cheer reigns even in this +time of your mourning. The spirit of the lost parent seems to linger +over the remnant of the household; and the Bible upon its stand--the +book she loved so well--the book so sadly forgotten--seems still to open +on you its promises in her sweet tones, and to call you, as it were, +with her angel-voice to the land that she inherits. + +And when late night has come, and the household is quiet, you call up in +the darkness of your chamber that other night of grief which followed +upon the death of Charlie. That was the boy's vision of death; and this +is the youthful vision. Yet essentially there is but little difference. +Death levels the capacities of the living as it levels the strength of +its victims. It is as grand to the man as to the boy, its teachings are +as deep for age as for infancy. + +You may learn its manner, and estimate its approaches; but when it +comes, it comes always with the same awful front that it wore to your +boyhood. Reason and Revelation may point to rich issues that unfold from +its very darkness; yet all these are no more to your bodily sense, and +no more to your enlightened hope, than those foreshadowings of peace +which rest like a halo on the spirit of the child as he prays in +guileless tones--OUR FATHER, WHO ART IN HEAVEN! + +It is a holy and a placid grief that comes over you,--not crushing, but +bringing to life from the grave of boyhood all its better and nobler +instincts. In their light your wild plans of youth look sadly misshapen +and in the impulse of the hour you abandon them; holy resolutions beam +again upon your soul like sunlight, your purposes seem bathed in +goodness. There is an effervescence of the spirit that carries away all +foul matter, and leaves you in a state of calm that seems kindred to the +land and to the life whither the sainted mother has gone. + +This calm brings a smile in the middle of tears, and an inward looking +and leaning toward that Eternal Power which governs and guides us;--with +that smile and that leaning, sleep comes like an angelic minister, and +fondles your wearied frame and thought into that repose which is the +mirror of the Destroyer. + +----Poor Clarence, he is like the rest of the world,--whose goodness +lies chiefly in the occasional throbs of a better nature, which soon +subside, and leave them upon the old level of _desire_. + +As you lie between waking and sleeping, you have a fancy of a sound at +your door;--it seems to open softly, and the tall figure of your father, +wrapped in his dressing-gown, stands over you, and gazes--as he gazed at +you before;--his look is very mournful; and he murmurs your mother's +name--and sighs--and looks again--and passes out. + +At morning you cannot tell if it was real or a dream. Those higher +resolves too, which grief and the night made, seem very vague and +shadowy. Life with its ambitious and cankerous desires wakes again. You +do not feel them at first; the subjugation of holy thoughts and of +reaches toward the Infinite, leave their traces on you, and perhaps +bewilder you into a half-consciousness of strength. But at the first +touch of the grosser elements about you,--on your very first entrance +upon those duties which quicken pride or shame, and which are pointing +at you from every quarter,--your holy calm, your high-born purpose, your +spiritual cleavings, pass away, like the electricity of August storms +drawn down by the thousand glittering turrets of a city! + +The world is stronger than the night; and the bindings of sense are +tenfold stronger than the most exquisite delirium of soul. This makes +you feel, or will one day make you feel, that life,--strong life and +sound life,--that life which lends approaches to the Infinite, and takes +hold on Heaven, is not so much a PROGRESS as it is a RESISTANCE! + +There is one special confidence which, in all your talk about plans and +purposes, you do not give to your father: you reserve that for the ear +of Nelly alone. Why happens it that a father is almost the last +confidant that a son makes in any matter deeply affecting the feelings? +Is it the fear that a father may regard such matter as boyish? Is it a +lingering suspicion of your own childishness; or of that extreme of +affection which reduces you to childishness? + +Why is it always that a man, of whatever age or condition, forbears to +exhibit to those whose respect for his judgment and mental abilities +only he seeks, the most earnest qualities of the heart, and those +intenser susceptibilities of love which underlie his nature, and which +give a color in spite of him to the habit of his life? Why is he so +morbidly anxious to keep out of sight any extravagances of affection, +when he blurts officiously to the world his extravagances of action and +of thought? Can any lover explain me this? + +Again, why is a sister the one of all others to whom you first whisper +the dawnings of any strong emotion,--as if it were a weakness that her +charity alone could cover? + +However this may be, you have a long story for Nelly's ear. It is some +days after your return: you are strolling down a quiet, wooded lane,--a +remembered place,--when you first open to her your heart. Your talk is +of Laura Dalton. You describe her to Nelly with the extravagance of a +glowing hope. You picture those qualities that have attracted you most; +you dwell upon her beauty, her elegant figure, her grace of +conversation, her accomplishments. You make a study that feeds your +passion as you go on. You rise by the very glow of your speech into a +frenzy of feeling that she has never excited before. You are quite sure +that you would be wretched and miserable without her. + +"Do you mean to marry her?" says Nelly. + +It is a question that gives a swift bound to the blood of youth. It +involves the idea of possession, and of the dependence of the cherished +one upon your own arm and strength. But the admiration you entertain +seems almost too lofty for this; Nelly's question makes you diffident of +reply; and you lose yourself in a new story of those excellencies of +speech and of figure which have so charmed you. + +Nelly's eye on a sudden becomes full of tears. + +----"What is it, Nelly?" + +"Our mother, Clarence." + +The word and the thought dampen your ardor; the sweet watchfulness and +gentle kindness of that parent for an instant make a sad contrast with +the showy qualities you have been naming; and the spirit of that +mother--called up by Nelly's words--seems to hang over you with an +anxious love that subdues all your pride of passion. + +But this passes; and now--half believing that Nelly's thoughts have run +over the same ground with yours--you turn special pleader for your +fancy. You argue for the beauty which you just now affirmed; you do your +utmost to win over Nelly to some burst of admiration. Yet there she +sits beside you, thoughtfully and half sadly, playing with the frail +autumn flowers that grow at her side. What can she be thinking? You ask +it by a look. + +She smiles,--takes your hand, for she will not let you grow angry,-- + +"I was thinking, Clarence, whether this Laura Dalton would, after all, +make a good wife,--such an one as you would love always?" + + + + +VII. + +_A Good Wife._ + + +The thought of Nelly suggests new dreams that are little apt to find +place in the rhapsodies of a youthful lover. The very epithet of a good +wife mates tamely with the romantic fancies of a first passion. It is +measuring the ideal by too practical a standard. It sweeps away all the +delightful vagueness of a fairy dream of love, and reduces one to a dull +and economic estimate of actual qualities. Passion lives above all +analysis and estimate, and arrives at its conclusions by intuition. + +Did Petrarch ever think if Laura would make a good wife; did Oswald ever +think it of Corinne? Nay, did even the more practical Waverley ever +think it of the impassioned Flora? Would it not weaken faith in their +romantic passages, if you believed it? What have such vulgar, practical +issues to do with that passion which sublimates the faculties, and makes +the loving dreamer to live in an ideal sphere where nothing but goodness +and brightness can come? + +Nelly is to be pitied for entertaining such a thought; and yet Nelly is +very good and kind. Her affections are without doubt all centred in the +remnant of the shattered home; she has never known any further and +deeper love; never once fancied it even-- + +--Ah, Clarence, you are very young! + +And yet there are some things that puzzle you in Nelly. You have found +accidentally, in one of her treasured books,--a book that lies almost +always on her dressing-table,--a little withered flower with its stem in +a slip of paper, and on the paper the initials of--your old friend +Frank. You recall, in connection with this, her indisposition to talk of +him on the first evening of your return. It seems--you scarce know +why--that these are the tokens of something very like a leaning of the +heart. It does occur to you that she too may have her little casket of +loves; and you try one day very adroitly to take a look into this +casket. + +----You will learn later in life that the heart of a modest, gentle +girl is a very hard matter for even a brother to probe; it is at once +the most tender and the most unapproachable of all fastnesses. It admits +feeling by armies, with great trains of artillery,--but not a single +scout. It is as calm and pure as polar snows; but deep underneath, where +no footsteps have gone, and where no eye can reach but one, lies the +warm and the throbbing earth. + +Make what you will of the slight, quivering blushes, and of the half +broken expressions,--more you cannot get. The love that a +delicate-minded girl will tell is a short-sighted and outside love; but +the love that she cherishes without voice or token is a love that will +mould her secret sympathies, and her deepest, fondest yearnings, either +to a quiet world of joy, or to a world of placid sufferance. The true +voice of her love she will keep back long and late, fearful ever of her +most prized jewel,--fearful to strange sensitiveness; she will show +kindness, but the opening of the real floodgates of the heart, and the +utterance of those impassioned yearnings which belong to its nature, +come far later. And fearful, thrice fearful is the shock, if these flow +out unmet! + +That deep, thrilling voice, bearing all the perfume of the womanly soul +in its flow, rarely finds utterance; and if uttered vainly,--if called +out by tempting devices, and by a trust that is abused,--desolate indeed +is the maiden heart, widowed of its chastest thought! The soul shrinks +affrighted within itself. Like a tired bird lost at sea, fluttering +around what seem friendly boughs, it stoops at length, and finding only +cold, slippery spars, with no bloom and no foliage,--its last hope +gone,--it sinks to a wild ocean grave! + +Nelly--and the thought brings a tear of sympathy to your eye--must have +such a heart; it speaks in every shadow of her action. And this very +delicacy seems to lend her a charm that would make her a wife to be +loved and honored. + +Ay, there is something in that maidenly modesty--retiring from you as +you advance, retreating timidly from all bold approaches, fearful and +yet joyous--which wins upon the iron hardness of a man's nature like a +rising flame. To force of action and resolve he opposes force; to strong +will he mates his own; pride lights pride; but to the gentleness of the +true womanly character he yields with a gush of tenderness that nothing +else can call out. He will never be subjugated on his own ground of +action and energy; but let him be lured to that border country over +which the delicacy and fondness of a womanly nature presides, and his +energy yields, his haughty determination faints, he is proud of +submission! + +And with this thought of modesty and gentleness to illuminate your dream +of an ideal wife, you chase the pleasant phantom to that shadowy +home--lying far off in the future--of which she is the glory and the +crown. I know it is the fashion nowadays with many to look for a woman's +excellencies and influence--away from her home; but I know too that a +vast many eager and hopeful hearts still cherish the belief that her +virtues will range highest and live longest within those sacred walls. + +Where, indeed, can the modest and earnest virtue of a woman tell a +stronger story of its worth than upon the dawning habit of a child? +Where can her grace of character win a higher and a riper effect than +upon the action of her household? What mean those noisy declaimers who +talk of the feeble influence, and of the crushed faculties, of a woman? + +What school of learning, or of moral endeavor, depends more on its +teacher, than the home upon the mother? What influence of all the +world's professors and teachers tells so strongly on the habit of a +man's mind as those gentle droppings from a mother's lips, which, day by +day and hour by hour, grow into the enlarging stature of his soul, and +live with it forever? They can hardly be mothers who aim at a broader +and noisier field; they have forgotten to be daughters; they must needs +have lost the hope of being wives! + +Be this how it may, the heart of a man with whom affection is not a +name, and love a mere passion of the hour, yearns toward the quiet of a +home as toward the goal of his earthly joy and hope. And as you fasten +there your thought, an indulgent yet dreamy fancy paints the loved image +that is to adorn it and to make it sacred. + +----She is there to bid you God speed! and an adieu that hangs like +music on your ear as you go out to the every-day labor of life. At +evening she is there to greet you, as you come back wearied with a +day's toil; and her look so full of gladness cheats you of your +fatigue; and she steals her arm around you with a soul of welcome that +beams like sunshine on her brow, and that fills your eye with tears of a +twin gratitude--to her and Heaven! + +She is not unmindful of those old-fashioned virtues of cleanliness and +of order which give an air of quiet, and which secure content. Your +wants are all anticipated: the fire is burning brightly; the clean +hearth flashes under the joyous blaze; the old elbow-chair is in its +place. Your very unworthiness of all this haunts you like an accusing +spirit, and yet penetrates your heart with a new devotion toward the +loved one who is thus watchful of your comfort. + +She is gentle,--keeping your love, as she has won it, by a thousand +nameless and modest virtues which radiate from her whole life and +action. She steals upon your affections like a summer wind breathing +softly over sleeping valleys. She gains a mastery over your sterner +nature by very contrast, and wins you unwittingly to her lightest wish. +And yet her wishes are guided by that delicate tact which avoids +conflict with your manly pride; she subdues by seeming to yield. By a +single soft word of appeal she robs your vexation of its anger; and, +with a slight touch of that fair hand, and one pleading look of that +earnest eye, she disarms your sternest pride. + +She is kind,--shedding her kindness as heaven sheds dew. Who indeed +could doubt it?--least of all you, who are living on her kindness day by +day, as flowers live on light? There is none of that officious parade +which blunts the point of benevolence; but it tempers every action with +a blessing. If trouble has come upon you, she knows that her voice, +beguiling you into cheerfulness, will lay your fears; and as she draws +her chair beside you, she knows that the tender and confiding way with +which she takes your hand, and looks up into your earnest face, will +drive away from your annoyance all its weight. As she lingers, leading +off your thought with pleasant words, she knows well that she is +redeeming you from care, and soothing you to that sweet calm which such +home and such wife can alone bestow. And in sickness,--sickness that you +almost covet for the sympathy it brings,--that hand of hers resting on +your fevered forehead, or those fingers playing with the scattered +locks, are more full of kindness than the loudest vaunt of friends; and +when your failing strength will permit no more, you grasp that cherished +hand with a fulness of joy, of thankfulness, and of love, which your +tears only can tell. + +She is good; her hopes live where the angels live. Her kindness and +gentleness are sweetly tempered with that meekness and forbearance which +are born of Faith. Trust comes into her heart as rivers come to the +sea. And in the dark hours of doubt and foreboding you rest fondly upon +her buoyant Faith, as the treasure of your common life; and in your +holier musings you look to that frail hand, and that gentle spirit, to +lead you away from the vanities of worldly ambition to the fulness of +that joy which the good inherit. + +----Is Laura Dalton such an one? + + + + +VIII. + +_A Broken Hope._ + + +Youthful passion is a giant. It overleaps all the dreams, and all the +resolves of our better and quieter nature; and drives madly toward some +wild issue, that lives only in its frenzy. How little account does +passion take of goodness! It is not within the cycle of its revolution: +it is below; it is tamer; it is older; it wears no wings. + +And your proud heart flashing back to the memory of that sparkling eye +which lighted your hope--full-fed upon the vanities of cloister +learning, drives your soberer visions to the wind. As you recall those +tones, so full of brilliancy and pride, the quiet virtues fade, like the +soft haze upon a spring landscape driven westward by a swift, sea-born +storm. The pulse bounds; the eyes flash; the heart trembles with its +sharp springs. Hope dilates, like the eye, fed with swift blood leaping +to the brain. + +Again the image of Miss Dalton, so fine, so noble, so womanly, fills and +bounds the Future. The lingering tears of grief drop away from your eye, +as the lingering loves of boyhood drop from your scalding passion, or +drip into clouds of vapor. + +You listen to the calm, thoughtful advice of the father, with a deep +consciousness of something stronger than his counsels seething in your +bosom. The words of caution, of instruction, of guidance, fall upon your +heated imagination like the night-dews upon the crater of an Ætna. They +are beneficent and healthful for the straggling herbage upon the surface +of the mountain, but they do not reach or temper the inner fires that +are rolling their billows of flame beneath! + +You drop hints from time to time, to those with whom you are most +familiar, of some prospective change of condition. There is a new and +cheerful interest in the building-plans of your neighbors,--a new and +cheerful study of the principles of domestic architecture,--in which +very elegant boudoirs, adorned with harps, hold prominent place; and +libraries with gilt-bound books, very rich in lyrical and dramatic +poetry; fine views from bay-windows; graceful pots of flowers; +sleek-looking Italian greyhounds; cheerful sunlight; musical goldfinches +chattering on the wall; superb pictures of princesses in peasant +dresses; soft Axminster carpets; easy-acting bell-pulls; gigantic +candelabrums; porcelain vases of classic shape; neat waiters in white +aprons; luxurious lounges; and, to crown them all with the very height +of your pride,--the elegant Laura, the mistress, and the guardian of +your soul, moving amid the scene like a new Duchess of Vallière! + +You catch chance sights here and there of the blue-eyed Madge: you see +her in her mother's household, the earnest and devoted daughter,--gliding +gracefully about her mother's cottage, the very type of gentleness and of +duty. Yet withal there are sparks of spirit in her that pique your pride, +lofty as it is. You offer flowers, which she accepts with a kind smile, +not of coquetry, but of simplest thankfulness. She is not the girl to +gratify your vanity with any half-show of tenderness. And if there lived +ever in her heart an old girlish liking for the schoolboy Clarence, it is +all gone before the romantic lover of the elegant Laura; or at most it +lies in some obscure corner of her soul, never to be brought to light. + +You enter upon the new pursuits, which your father has advised, with a +lofty consciousness, not only of the strength of your mind, but of your +heart. You relieve your opening professional study with long letters to +Miss Dalton, full of Shakspearean compliments, and touched off with very +dainty elaboration. And you receive pleasant, gossiping notes in +answer,--full of quotations, but meaning very little. + +Youth is in a grand flush, like the hot days of ending summer; and +pleasant dreams thrall your spirit, like the smoky atmosphere that +bathes the landscape of an August day. Hope rides high in the heavens, +as when the summer sun mounts nearest to the zenith. Youth feels the +fulness of maturity before the second season of life is ended; yet is it +a vain maturity, and all the glow is deceitful. Those fruits that ripen +in summer do not last. They are sweet; they are glowing with gold; but +they melt with a luscious sweetness upon the lip. They do not give that +strength and nutriment which will bear a man bravely through the coming +chills of winter. + + * * * * * + +The last scene of summer changes now to the cobwebbed ceiling of an +attorney's office. Books of law, scattered ingloriously at your elbow, +speak dully to the flush of your vanities. You are seated at your +side-desk, where you have wrought at those heavy, mechanic labors of +drafting which go before a knowledge of your craft. + +A letter is by you, which you regard with strange feelings: it is yet +unopened. It comes from Laura. It is in reply to one which has cost you +very much of exquisite elaboration. You have made your avowal of feeling +as much like a poem as your education would admit. Indeed it was a +pretty letter,--promising not so much the trustful love of an earnest +and devoted heart, as the fervor of a passion which consumed you, and +glowed like a furnace through the lines of your letter. It was a +confession in which your vanity of intellect had taken very entertaining +part, and in which your judgment was too cool to appear at all. + +She must needs break out into raptures at such a letter; and her own +will doubtless be tempered with even greater passion. + +It is well to shift your chair somewhat, so that the clerks of the +office may not see your emotion as you read. It would be silly to +manifest your exuberance in a dismal, dark office of your instructing +attorney. One sighs rather for woods, and brooks, and sunshine, in whose +company the hopes of youth stretch into fulfilment. + +We will look only at a closing passage:-- + + * * * * * + +----"My friend Clarence will, I trust, believe me, when I say that his +letter was a surprise to me. To say that it was very grateful, would be +what my womanly vanity could not fail to claim. I only wish that I was +equal to the flattering portrait which he has drawn. I even half fancy +that he is joking me, and can hardly believe that my matronly air should +have quite won his youthful heart. At least I shall try not to believe +it; and when I welcome him one day, the husband of some fairy who is +worthy of his love, we will smile together at the old lady who once +played the Circe to his senses. Seriously, my friend Clarence, I know +your impulse of heart has carried you away, and that in a year's time, +you will smile with me at your old _penchant_ for one so much your +senior, and so ill-suited to your years, as your true friend, +LAURA." + + * * * * * + +----Magnificent Miss Dalton! + +Read it again. Stick your knife in the desk:--tut!--you will break the +blade! Fold up the letter carefully, and toss it upon your pile of +papers. Open Chitty again;--pleasant reading is Chitty! Lean upon your +hand--your two hands, so that no one will catch sight of your face. +Chitty is very interesting,--how sparkling and imaginative!--what a +depth and flow of passion in Chitty! + +The office is a capital place--so quiet and sunny. Law is a delightful +study--so captivating, and such stores of romance! And then those trips +to the Hall offer such relief and variety,--especially just now. It +would be well not to betray your eagerness to go. You can brush your hat +a round or two, and take a peep into the broken bit of looking-glass +over the wash-stand. + +You lengthen your walk, as you sometimes do, by a stroll upon the +Battery,--though rarely upon such a blustering November day. You put +your hands in your pockets, and look out upon the tossing sea. + +It is a fine sight--very fine. There are few finer bays in the world +than New York Bay,--either to look at, or, for that matter, to sleep in. +The ships ride up thickly, dashing about the cold spray delightfully; +the little cutters gleam in the November sunshine like white flowers +shivering in the wind. + +The sky is rich--all mottled with cold, gray streaks of cloud. The old +apple-women, with their noses frostbitten, look cheerful and blue. The +ragged immigrants, in short trousers and bell-crowned hats, stalk about +with a very happy expression, and very short-stemmed pipes; their +yellow-haired babies look comfortably red and glowing. And the trees +with their scant, pinched foliage have a charming, summer-like effect! + +Amid it all the thoughts of the boudoir, and harpsichord, and +goldfinches, and Axminster carpets, and sunshine, and Laura, are so +very, very pleasant! How delighted you would be to see her married to +the stout man in the red cravat, who gave her bouquets, and strolled +with her on the deck of the steamer upon the St. Lawrence! What a +jaunty, self-satisfied air he wore; and with what considerate +forbearance he treated you--calling you once or twice Master Clarence! +It never occurred to you before, how much you must be indebted to that +pleasant, stout man. + +You try sadly to be cheerful; you smile oddly; your pride comes strongly +to your help, but yet helps you very little. It is not so much a broken +heart that you have to mourn over, as a broken dream. You seem to see in +a hundred ways, that had never occurred to you before, the marks of her +superior age. Above all it is manifest in the cool and unimpassioned +tone of her letter. Yet how kindly withal! It would be a relief to be +angry. + +New visions come to you, wakened by the broken fancy which has just now +eluded your grasp. You will make yourself, if not old, at least gifted +with the force and dignity of age. You will be a man, and build no more +castles until you can people them with men! In an excess of pride you +even take umbrage at the sex; they can have little appreciation of that +engrossing tenderness of which you feel yourself to be capable. Love +shall henceforth be dead, and you will live boldly without it. + +----Just so, when some dark, eastern cloud-bank shrouds for a morning +the sun of later August, we say in our shivering pride--the winter is +come early! But God manages the seasons better than we; and in a day, or +an hour perhaps, the cloud will pass, and the heavens glow again upon +our ungrateful heads. + + * * * * * + +Well it is even so, that the passionate dreams of youth break up and +wither. Vanity becomes tempered with wholesome pride; and passion yields +to the riper judgment of manhood,--even as the August heats pass on, +and over, into the genial glow of a September sun. There is a strong +growth in the struggles against mortified pride; and then only does the +youth get an ennobling consciousness of that manhood which is dawning in +him, when he has fairly surmounted those puny vexations which a wounded +vanity creates. + +Now your heart is driven home; and that cherished place, where so little +while ago you wore your vanities with an air that mocked even your +grief, and that subdued your better nature, seems to stretch toward you +over long miles of distance its wings of love, and to welcome back to +the sister's and the father's heart, not the self-sufficient and +vaunting youth, but the brother and son--the schoolboy Clarence. Like a +thirsty child, you stray in thought to that fountain of cheer, and live +again--your vanity crushed, your wild hope broken--in the warm and +natural affections of the boyish home. + +Clouds weave the SUMMER into the season of AUTUMN; and +YOUTH rises from dashed hopes into the stature of a +MAN. + + + + +_AUTUMN;_ + +OR, + +_THE DREAMS OF MANHOOD._ + + + + +_DREAMS OF MANHOOD._ + +_Autumn._ + + +There are those who shudder at the approach of Autumn, and who feel a +light grief stealing over their spirits, like an October haze, as the +evening shadows slant sooner, and longer, over the face of an ending +August day. + +But is not Autumn the Manhood of the year? Is it not the ripest of the +seasons? Do not proud flowers blossom,--the golden-rod, the orchis, the +dahlia, and the bloody cardinal of the swamp-lands? + +The fruits too are golden, hanging heavy from the tasked trees. The +fields of maize show weeping spindles, and broad rustling leaves, and +ears half glowing with the crowded corn; the September wind whistles +over their thick-set ranks with whispers of plenty. The staggering +stalks of the buckwheat grow red with ripeness, and tip their tops with +clustering tricornered kernels. + +The cattle, loosed from the summer's yoke, grow strong upon the meadows +new-starting from the scythe. The lambs of April, rounded into fulness +of limb, and gaining day by day their woolly cloak, bite at the nodding +clover-heads; or, with their noses to the ground, they stand in solemn, +circular conclave under the pasture oaks, while the noon-sun beats with +the lingering passion of July. + +The Bob-o'-Lincolns have come back from their Southern rambles among the +rice, all speckled with gray; and, singing no longer as they did in +spring, they quietly feed upon the ripened reeds that straggle along the +borders of the walls. The larks, with their black and yellow +breastplates, and lifted heads, stand tall upon the close-mown meadow, +and at your first motion of approach spring up, and soar away, and light +again, and with their lifted heads renew the watch. The quails, in +half-grown coveys, saunter hidden through the underbrush that skirts the +wood, and only when you are close upon them, whir away, and drop +scattered under the coverts of the forest. + +The robins, long ago deserting the garden neighborhood, feed at eventide +in flocks upon the bloody berries of the sumac; and the soft-eyed +pigeons dispute possession of the feast. The squirrels chatter at +sunrise, and gnaw off the full-grown burrs of the chestnuts. The lazy +blackbirds skip after the loitering cow, watchful of the crickets that +her slow steps start to danger. The crows in companies caw aloft, and +hang high over the carcass of some slaughtered sheep lying ragged upon +the hills. + +The ash-trees grow crimson in color, and lose their summer life in great +gouts of blood. The birches touch their frail spray with yellow; the +chestnuts drop down their leaves in brown, twirling showers. The +beeches, crimped with the frost, guard their foliage until each leaf +whistles white in the November gales. The bittersweet hangs its bare and +leafless tendrils from rock to tree, and sways with the weight of its +brazen berries. The sturdy oaks, unyielding to the winds and to the +frosts, struggle long against the approaches of the winter, and in their +struggles wear faces of orange, of scarlet, of crimson, and of brown; +and finally, yielding to swift winds, as youth's pride yields to manly +duty, strew the ground with the scattered glories of their summer +strength, and warm and feed the earth with the _débris_ of their leafy +honors. + +The maple in the lowlands turns suddenly its silvery greenness into +orange scarlet, and in the coming chilliness of the autumn eventide +seems to catch the glories of the sunset, and to wear them--as a sign of +God's old promise in Egypt--like a pillar of cloud by day, and of fire +by night. + +And when all these are done,--and in the paved and noisy aisles of the +city the ailantus, with all its greenness gone, lifts up its skeleton +fingers to the God of Autumn and of storms,--the dogwood still guards +its crown; and the branches, which stretched their white canvas in +April, now bear up a spire of bloody tongues, that lie against the +leafless woods like a tree on fire! + +Autumn brings to the home the cheerful glow of "first fires." It +withdraws the thoughts from the wide and joyous landscape of summer, and +fixes them upon those objects which bloom and rejoice within the +household. The old hearth, that has rioted the summer through with +boughs and blossoms, gives up its withered tenantry. The fire-dogs gleam +kindly upon the evening hours; and the blaze wakens those sweet hopes +and prayers which cluster around the fireside of home. + +The wantoning and the riot of the season gone are softened in memory, +and supply joys to the season to come,--just as youth's audacity and +pride give a glow to the recollections of our manhood. + +At mid-day the air is mild and soft; a warm, blue smoke lies in the +mountain gaps; the tracery of distant woods upon the upland hangs in the +haze with a dreamy gorgeousness of coloring. The river runs low with +August drought, and frets upon the pebbly bottom with a soft, low +murmur, as of joyousness gone by. The hemlocks of the river-bank rise in +tapering sheens, and tell tales of Spring. + +As the sun sinks, doubling his disk in the October smoke, the low +south-wind creeps over the withered tree-tops, and drips the leaves upon +the land. The windows, that were wide open at noon, are closed; and a +bright blaze--to drive off the easterly dampness that promises a +storm--flashes lightly and kindly over the book-shelves and busts upon +my wall. + +As the sun sinks lower and lower, his red beams die in a sea of great +gray clouds. Slowly and quietly they creep up over the night-sky. Venus +is shrouded. The western stars blink faintly, then fade in the mounting +vapors. The vane points east of south. The constellations in the zenith +struggle to be seen, but presently give over, and hide their shining. + +By late lamp-light the sky is all gray and dark; the vane has turned two +points nearer east. The clouds spit fine rain-drops, that you only feel +with your face turned to the heavens. But soon they grow thicker and +heavier; and as I sit, watching the blaze, and--dreaming--they patter +thick and fast under the driving wind upon the window, like the swift +tread of an army of Men! + + + + +I. + +_Pride of Manliness._ + + +And has manhood no dreams? Does the soul wither at that Rubicon which +lies between the Gallic country of youth and the Rome of manliness? Does +not fancy still love to cheat the heart, and weave gorgeous tissues to +hang upon that horizon which lies along the years that are to come? Is +happiness so exhausted that no new forms of it lie in the mines of +imagination, for busy hopes to drag up to day? + +Where then would live the motives to an upward looking of the eye and of +the soul; where the beckonings that bid us ever onward? + +But these later dreams are not the dreams of fond boyhood, whose eye +sees rarely below the surface of things; nor yet the delicious hopes of +sparkling-blooded youth: they are dreams of sober trustfulness, of +practical results, of hard-wrought world-success, and, maybe, of Love +and of Joy. + +Ambitious forays do not rest where they rested once: hitherto the +balance of youth has given you, in all that you have dreamed of +accomplishment, a strong vantage against age; hitherto in all your +estimates you have been able to multiply them by that access of thought +and of strength which manhood would bring to you. Now this is forever +ended. + +There is a great meaning in that word--manhood. It covers all human +growth. It supposes no extensions or increase; it is integral, fixed, +perfect,--the whole. There is no getting beyond manhood; it is much to +live up to it; but once reached, you are all that a man was made to be +in this world. + +It is a strong thought--that a man is perfected, so far as strength +goes; that he will never be abler to do his work than under the very sun +which is now shining on him. There is a seriousness that few call to +mind in the reflection that whatever you do in this age of manhood is an +unalterable type of your whole bigness. You may qualify particulars of +your character by refinements, by special studies, and practice; but, +once a man, and there is no more manliness to be lived for! + +This thought kindles your soul to new and swifter dreams of ambition +than belonged to youth. They were toys; these are weapons. They were +fancies; these are motives. The soul begins to struggle with the dust, +the sloth, the circumstance, that beleaguer humanity, and to stagger +into the van of action. + +Perception, whose limits lay along a narrow horizon, now tops that +horizon, and spreads, and reaches toward the heaven of the Infinite. +The mind feels its birth, and struggles toward the great birth-master. +The heart glows; its humanities even yield and crimple under the fierce +heat of mental pride. Vows leap upward, and pile rampart upon rampart to +scale all the degrees of human power. + +Are there not times in every man's life when there flashes on him a +feeling--nay, more, an absolute conviction--that this soul is but a +spark belonging to some upper fire; and that, by as much as we draw near +by effort, by resolve, by intensity of endeavor, to that upper fire, by +so much we draw nearer to our home, and mate ourselves with angels? Is +there not a ringing desire in many minds to seize hold of what floats +above us in the universe of thought, and drag down what shreds we can to +scatter to the world? Is it not belonging to greatness to catch +lightning from the plains where lightning lives, and curb it for the +handling of men? + +Resolve is what makes a man manliest;--not puny resolve, not crude +determination, not errant purpose, but that strong and indefatigable +will which treads down difficulties and danger as a boy treads down the +heaving frost-lands of winter,--which kindles his eye and brain with a +proud pulse-beat toward the unattainable. Will makes men giants. It made +Napoleon an emperor of kings, Bacon a fathomer of nature, Byron a tutor +of passion, and the martyrs masters of Death! + +In this age of manhood you look back upon the dreams of the years that +are past: they glide to the vision in pompous procession; they seem +bloated with infancy. They are without sinew or bone. They do not bear +the hard touches of the man's hand. + +It is not long, to be sure, since the summer of life ended with that +broken hope; but the few years that lie between have given long steps +upward. The little grief that threw its shadow, and the broken vision +that deluded you, have made the passing years long in such feeling as +ripens manhood. Nothing lays the brown of autumn upon the green of +summer so quick as storms. + +There have been changes too in the home scenes; these graft age upon a +man. Nelly--your sweet Nelly of childhood, your affectionate sister of +youth--has grown out of the old brotherly companionship into the new +dignity of a household. + +The fire flames and flashes upon the accustomed hearth. The father's +chair is there in the wonted corner; he himself--we must call him the +old man now, though his head shows few white honors--wears a calmness +and a trust that light the failing eye. Nelly is not away; Nelly is a +wife; and the husband yonder, as you may have dreamed,--your old friend +Frank. + +Her eye is joyous; her kindness to you is unabated; her care for you is +quicker and wiser. But yet the old unity of the household seems broken; +nor can all her winning attentions bring back the feeling which lived in +Spring under the garret-roof. + +The isolation, the unity, the integrity of manhood make a strong prop +for the mind, but a weak one for the heart. Dignity can but poorly fill +up that chasm of the soul which the home affections once occupied. +Life's duties and honors press hard upon the bosom that once throbbed at +a mother's tones, and that bounded in a mother's smiles. + +In such home, the strength you boast of seems a weakness; manhood leans +into childish memories, and melts--as Autumn frosts yield to a soft +south-wind coming from a Tropic spring. You feel in a desert, where you +once felt at home,--in a bounded landscape, that was once the world! + +The tall sycamores have dwindled to paltry trees; the hills that were so +large, and lay at such grand distance to the eye of childhood, are now +near by, and have fallen away to mere rolling waves of upland. The +garden-fence, that was so gigantic, is now only a simple paling; its +gate that was such a cumbrous affair--reminding you of Gaza--you might +easily lift from its hinges. The lofty dove-cote, which seemed to rise +like a monument of art before your boyish vision, is now only a flimsy +box upon a tall spar of hemlock. + +The garret even, with its lofty beams, its dark stains, and its obscure +corners, where the white hats and coats hung ghost-like, is but a low +loft darkened by age,--hung over with cobwebs, dimly lighted with foul +windows,--its romping Charlie--its glee--its swing--its joy--its +mystery--all gone forever. + +The old gallipots and retorts are not anywhere to be seen in the +second-story window of the brick schoolhouse. Dr. Bidlow is no more! The +trees that seemed so large, the gymnastic feats that were so +extraordinary, the boy that made a snapper of his handkerchief,--have +all lost their greatness and their dread. Even the springy usher, who +dressed his hair with the ferule, has become the middle-aged father of +five curly-headed boys, and has entered upon what once seemed the +gigantic commerce of "stationery and account-books." + +The marvellous labyrinth of closets at the old mansion where you once +paid a visit--in a coach--is all dissipated. They have turned out to be +the merest cupboards in the wall. Nat, who had travelled and seen +London, is by no means so surprising a fellow to your manhood as he was +to the boy. He has grown spare, and wears spectacles. He is not so +famous as he was. You would hardly think of consulting him now about +your marriage, or even about the price of goats upon London Bridge. + +As for Jenny,--your first, fond flame!--lively, romantic, black-eyed +Jenny,--the reader of "Thaddeus of Warsaw,"--who sighed and wore blue +ribbons on her bonnet,--who wrote love-notes,--who talked so tenderly of +broken hearts,--who used a glass seal with a Cupid and a dart,--dear +Jenny!--she is now the plump and thriving wife of the apothecary of the +town! She sweeps out every morning at seven the little entry of the +apothecary's house; she buys a "joint" twice a week from the butcher, +and is particular to have the "knuckle" thrown in for soups; she wears a +sky-blue calico gown, and dresses her hair in three little flat quirls +on either side of her head, each one pierced through with a two-pronged +hair-pin. + +She does not read "Thaddeus of Warsaw" now. + + + + +II. + +_Man of the World._ + + +Few persons live through the first periods of manhood without strong +temptations to be counted "men of the world." The idea looms grandly +among those vanities that hedge a man's approach to maturity. + +Clarence is in good training for the acceptance of this idea. The broken +hope, which clouded his closing youth, shoots over its influence upon +the dawn of manhood. Mortified pride had taught--as it always +teaches--not caution only, but doubt, distrust, indifference. A new +pride grows up on the ruins of the old, weak, and vain pride of youth. +Then it was a pride of learning, or of affection; now it is a pride of +indifference. Then the world proved bleak and cold, as contrasted with +his shining dreams; and now he accepts the proof, and wins from it what +he can. + +The man of the world puts on the method and measure of the world: he +studies its humors. He gives up the boyish notion of a sincerity among +men like that of youth: he lives to seem. He conquers such annoyances as +the world may thrust upon him, in the shape of grief or losses, like a +practical athlete of the ring. He studies moral sparring. + +With somewhat of this strange vanity growing on you, you do not suffer +the heart to wake into life except in such fanciful dreams as tempt you +back to the sunny slopes of childhood. + +In this mood you fall in with Dalton, who has just returned from a year +passed in the French capital. There is an easy suavity and graceful +indifference in his manner that chimes admirably with your humor. He is +gracious, without needing to be kind. He is a friend, without any +challenge or proffer of sincerity. He is just one of those adepts in +world tactics which match him with all men, but which link him to none. +He has made it his art to be desired and admired, but rarely to be +trusted. You could not have a better teacher! + +Under such instruction you become disgusted for the time with any +effort, or pulse of affection, which does not have immediate and +practical bearing upon that success in life by which you measure your +hopes. The dreams of love, of romantic adventure, of placid joy, have +all gone out with the fantastic images to which your passionate youth +had joined them. The world is now regarded as a tournament, where the +gladiatorship of life is to be exhibited at your best endeavor. Its +honors and joys lie in a brilliant pennon and a plaudit. + +Dalton is learned in those arts which make of action, not a duty, but a +conquest; and sense of duty has expired in you with those romantic hopes +to which you bound it, not as much through sympathy as ignorance. It is +a cold and a bitterly selfish work that lies before you,--to be covered +over with such borrowed show of smiles as men call affability. The heart +wears a stout, brazen screen; its inclinations grow to the habit of your +ambitious projects. + +In such mood come swift dreams of wealth,--not of mere accumulation, but +of the splendor and parade which in our Western world are, alas! its +chiefest attractions. You grow observant of markets, and estimate +percentages. You fondle some speculation in your thought, until it grows +into a gigantic scheme of profit; and if the venture prove successful, +you follow the tide tremulously, until some sudden reverse throws you +back upon the resources of your professional employ. + +But again as you see this and that one wearing the blazonry which wealth +wins, and which the man of the world is sure to covet,--your weak soul +glows again with the impassioned desire, and you hunger, with brute +appetite and bestial eye, for riches. You see the mania around you, and +it is relieved of odium by the community of error. You consult some gray +old veteran in the war of gold, scarred with wounds, and crowned with +honors, and watch eagerly for the words and the ways which have won him +wealth. + +Your fingers tingle with mad expectancies; your eyes roam, lost in +estimates. Your note-book shows long lines of figures. Your reading of +the news centres in the stock-list. Your brow grows cramped with the +fever of anxiety. Through whole church-hours your dreams range over the +shadowy transactions of the week or the month to come. + +Even with old religious habit clinging fast to your soul, you dream now +only of nice conformity, comfortable faith, high respectability; there +lies very little in you of that noble consciousness of Duty +performed,--of living up to the Life that is in you,--of grasping boldly +and stoutly at those chains of Love which the Infinite Power has lowered +to our reach. You do not dream of being, but of seeming. You spill the +real essence, and clutch at the vial which has only a label of Truth. +Great and holy thoughts of the Future,--shadowy, yet bold conceptions of +the Infinite,--float past you dimly, and your hold is never strong +enough to grapple them to you. They fly, like eagles, too near the sun; +and there lies game below for your vulture beak to feed upon. + +[Great thoughts belong only and truly to him whose mind can hold them. +No matter who first puts them in words, if they come to a soul and fill +it, they belong to it,--whether they floated on the voice of others, or +on the wings of silence and the night.] + +To be up with the fashion of the time, to be ignorant of plain things +and people, and to be knowing in brilliancies, is a kind of Pelhamism +that is very apt to overtake one in the first blush of manhood. To hold +a fair place in the after-dinner table-talk, to meet distinction as a +familiarity, to wear _salon_ honors with aplomb, to know affection so +far as to wield it into grace of language, are all splendid achievements +with a man of the world. Instruction is caught without asking it; and no +ignorance so shames as ignorance of those forms by which natural impulse +is subdued to the tone of civilian habit. You conceal what tells of the +man, and cover it with what smacks of the _roué_. + +Perhaps under such training, and with a slight memory of early +mortification to point your spirit, you affect those gallantries of +heart and action which the world calls flirtation. You may study +brilliancies of speech to wrap their net around those susceptible hearts +whose habit is too _naïve_ by nature to wear the leaden covering of +custom. You win approaches by artful counterfeit of earnestness, and +dash away any _naïveté_ of confidence with some brave sophism of the +world. A doubt or a distrust piques your pride, and makes attentions +wear a humility that wins anew. An indifference piques you more, and +throws into your art a counter-indifference,--lit up by bold flashes of +feeling,--sparkling with careless brilliancies, and crowned with a +triumph of neglect. + +It is curious how ingeniously a man's vanity will frame apologies for +such action.--It is pleasant to give pleasure; you like to see a joyous +sparkle of the eye, whether lit up by your presence or by some buoyant +fancy. It is a beguiling task to weave words into some soft, melodious +flow, that shall keep the ear and kindle the eye; and to strew it over +with half-hidden praises, so deftly couched in double terms that their +aroma shall only come to the heart hours afterward, and seem to be the +merest accidents of truth. It is a happy art to make such subdued show +of emotion as seems to struggle with pride, and to flush the eye with a +moisture, of which you seem ashamed, and yet are proud. It is a pretty +practice to throw an earnestness into look and gesture, that shall seem +full of pleading, and yet--ask nothing! + +And yet it is hard to admire greatly the reputation of that man who +builds his triumphs upon womanly weakness; that distinction is not +over-enduring whose chiefest merit springs out of the delusions of a too +trustful heart. The man, who wins it, wins only a poor sort of womanly +distinction. Without power to cope with men, he triumphs over the +weakness of the other sex only by hypocrisy. He wears none of the armor +of Romans, and he parleys with Punic faith. + +----Yet even now there is a lurking goodness in you that traces its +beginning to the old garret-home,--there is an air in the harvest heats +that whispers of the bloom of spring. + +And over your brilliant career as man of the world, however lit up by a +morbid vanity, or galvanized by a lascivious passion, there will come at +times the consciousness of a better heart, struggling beneath your +cankered action,--like the low Vesuvian fire, reeking vainly under rough +beds of tufa and scoriated lava. And as you smile in _loge_ or _salon_, +with daring smiles, or press with villain fondness the hand of those +lady-votaries of the same god you serve, there will gleam upon you over +the waste of rolling years a memory that quickens again the nobler and +bolder instincts of the heart. + +Childish recollections, with their purity and earnestness,--a sister's +love,--a mother's solicitude, will flood your soul once more with a +gushing sensibility that yearns for enjoyment. And the consciousness of +some lingering nobility of affection, that can only grow great in mating +itself with nobility of heart, will sweep off your puny triumphs, your +Platonic friendships, your dashing coquetries, like the foul smoke of a +city before a fresh breeze of the country autumn. + + + + +III. + +_Manly Hope._ + + +You are at home again; not your own home,--that is gone,--but at the +home of Nelly and of Frank. The city heats of summer drive you to the +country. You ramble, with a little kindling of old desires and memories, +over the hill-sides that once bounded your boyish vision. Here you +netted the wild rabbits, as they came out at dusk to feed; there, upon +that tall chestnut, you cruelly maimed your first captive squirrel. The +old maples are even now scarred with the rude cuts you gave them in +sappy March. + +You sit down upon some height overlooking the valley where you were +born; you trace the faint, silvery line of river; you detect by the +leaning elm your old bathing-place upon the Saturdays of Summer. Your +eye dwells upon some patches of pasture-wood which were famous for their +nuts. Your rambling and saddened vision roams over the houses; it traces +the familiar chimney-stacks; it searches out the low-lying cottages; it +dwells upon the gray roof sleeping yonder under the sycamores. + +Tears swell in your eye as you gaze; you cannot tell whence or why they +come. Yet they are tears eloquent of feeling. They speak of +brother-children,--of boyish glee,--of the flush of young health,--of a +mother's devotion,--of the home affections,--of the vanities of +life,--of the wasting years,--of the Death that must shroud what friends +remain, as it has shrouded what friends have gone,--and of that Great +Hope, beaming on your seared manhood dimly from the upper world! + +Your wealth suffices for all the luxuries of life; there is no fear of +coming want; health beats strong in your veins; you have learned to hold +a place in the world with a man's strength, and a man's confidence. And +yet in the view of those sweet scenes which belonged to early days, when +neither strength, confidence, nor wealth were yours,--days never to come +again,--a shade of melancholy broods upon your spirit, and covers with +its veil all that fierce pride which your worldly wisdom has wrought. + +You visit again with Frank the country homestead of his grandfather: he +is dead; but the old lady still lives; and blind Fanny, now drawing +toward womanhood, wears yet through her darkened life the same air of +placid content, and of sweet trustfulness in Heaven. The boys, whom you +astounded with your stories of books, are gone, building up now with +steady industry the queen cities of our new western land. The old +clergyman is gone from the desk, and from under his sounding board; he +sleeps beneath a brown stone slab in the churchyard. The stout deacon is +dead; his wig and his wickedness rest together. The tall chorister sings +yet; but they have now a bass-viol--handled by a new schoolmaster--in +place of his tuning-fork; and the years have sown feeble quavers in his +voice. + +Once more you meet at the home of Nelly the blue-eyed Madge. The +sixpence is all forgotten; you cannot tell where your half of it is +gone. Yet she is beautiful, just budding into the full ripeness of +womanhood. Her eyes have a quiet, still joy, and hope beaming in them, +like angel's looks. Her motions have a native grace and freedom that no +culture can bestow. Her words have a gentle earnestness and honesty that +could never nurture guile. + +You had thought after your gay experiences of the world to meet her with +a kind condescension, as an old friend of Nelly's. But there is that in +her eye which forbids all thought of condescension. There is that in her +air which tells of a high womanly dignity, which can only be met on +equal ground. Your pride is piqued. She has known--she must know your +history; but it does not tame her. There is no marked and submissive +appreciation of your gifts as a man of the world. + +She meets your happiest compliments with a very easy indifference; she +receives your elegant civilities with a very assured brow. She neither +courts your society, nor avoids it. She does not seek to provoke any +special attention. And only when your old self glows in some casual +kindness to Nelly, does her look beam with a flush of sympathy. + +This look touches you. It makes you ponder on the noble heart that lives +in Madge. It makes you wish it were yours. But that is gone. The fervor +and the honesty of a glowing youth is swallowed up in the flash and +splendor of the world. A half-regret chases over you at nightfall, when +solitude pierces you with the swift dart of gone-by memories. But at +morning the regret dies in the glitter of ambitious purposes. + +The summer months linger; and still you linger with them. Madge is often +with Nelly; and Madge is never less than Madge. You venture to point +your attentions with a little more fervor; but she meets the fervor with +no glow. She knows too well the habit of your life. + +Strange feelings come over you,--feelings like half-forgotten +memories,--musical, dreamy, doubtful. You have seen a hundred faces more +brilliant than that of Madge; you have pressed a hundred jewelled hands +that have returned a half-pressure to yours. You do not exactly admire; +to love you have forgotten; you only--linger! + +It is a soft autumn evening, and the harvest-moon is red and round over +the eastern skirt of woods. You are attending Madge to that little +cottage-home where lives that gentle and doting mother, who, in the +midst of comparative poverty, cherishes that refined delicacy which +never comes to a child but by inheritance. + +Madge has been passing the day with Nelly. Something--it may be the soft +autumn air, wafting toward you the freshness of young days--moves you to +speak as you have not ventured to speak, as your vanity has not allowed +you to speak before. + +"You remember, Madge, (you have guarded this sole token of boyish +intimacy,) our split sixpence?" + +"Perfectly;" it is a short word to speak, and there is no tremor in her +tone,--not the slightest. + +"You have it yet?" + +"I dare say I have it somewhere;"--no tremor now; she is very composed. + +"That was a happy time;"--very great emphasis on the word happy. + +"Very happy;"--no emphasis anywhere. + +"I sometimes wish I might live it over again." + +"Yes?"--inquiringly. + +"There are, after all, no pleasures in the world like those." + +"No?"--inquiringly again. + +You thought you had learned to have language at command; you never +thought, after so many years' schooling of the world, that your pliant +tongue would play you truant. Yet now you are silent. + +The moon steals silvery into the light flakes of cloud, and the air is +soft as May. The cottage is in sight. Again you risk utterance:-- + +"You must live very happily here." + +"I have very kind friends;"--the very is emphasized. + +"I am sure Nelly loves you very much." + +"Oh, I believe it!"--with great earnestness. + +You are at the cottage-door.-- + +"Good night, Maggie;"--very feelingly. + +"Good night, Clarence;"--very kindly; and she draws her hand coyly, and +half tremulously, from your somewhat fevered grasp. + +You stroll away dreamily, watching the moon,--running over your +fragmentary life,--half moody, half pleased, half hopeful. + +You come back stealthily, and with a heart throbbing with a certain wild +sense of shame, to watch the light gleaming in the cottage. You linger +in the shadows of the trees until you catch a glimpse of her figure +gliding past the window. You bear the image home with you. You are +silent on your return. You retire early, but you do not sleep early. + +----If you were only as you were: if it were not too late! If Madge +could only love you, as you know she will and must love one manly heart, +there would be a world of joy opening before you. But it is too late! + +You draw out Nelly to speak of Madge: Nelly is very prudent. "Madge is a +dear girl," she says. Does Nelly even distrust you? It is a sad thing to +be too much a man of the world! + +You go back again to noisy, ambitious life: you try to drown old +memories in its blaze and its vanities. Your lot seems cast beyond all +change, and you task yourself with its noisy fulfilment. But amid the +silence and the toil of your office-hours, a strange desire broods over +your spirit,--a desire for more of manliness,--that manliness which +feels itself a protector of loving and trustful innocence. + +You look around upon the faces in which you have smiled unmeaning +smiles: there is nothing there to feed your dawning desires. You meet +with those ready to court you by flattering your vanity, by retailing +the praises of what you may do well, by odious familiarity, by brazen +proffer of friendship, but you see in it only the emptiness and the +vanity which you have studied to enjoy. + +Sickness comes over you, and binds you for weary days and nights,--in +which life hovers doubtfully, and the lips babble secrets that you +cherish. It is astonishing how disease clips a man from the +artificialities of the world! Lying lonely upon his bed, moaning, +writhing, suffering, his soul joins on to the universe of souls by only +natural bonds. The factitious ties of wealth, of place, of reputation, +vanish from his bleared eyes; and the earnest heart, deep under all, +craves only heartiness! + +The old craving of the office silence comes back,--not with the proud +wish only of being a protector, but--of being protected. And whatever +may be the trust in that beneficent Power who "chasteneth whom he +loveth," there is yet an earnest, human yearning toward some one, whose +love--most, and whose duty--least, would call her to your side; whose +soft hands would cool the fever of yours, whose step would wake a throb +of joy, whose voice would tie you to life, and whose presence would make +the worst of Death--an Adieu! + +As you gain strength once more, you go back to Nelly's home. Her +kindness does not falter; every care and attention belong to you there. +Again your eye rests upon that figure of Madge, and upon her face, +wearing an even gentler expression as she sees you sitting pale and +feeble by the old hearth-stone. She brings flowers--for Nelly: you beg +Nelly to place them upon the little table at your side. It is as yet the +only taste of the country that you can enjoy. You love those flowers. + +After a time you grow strong, and walk in the fields. You linger until +nightfall. You pass by the cottage where Madge lives. It is your +pleasantest walk. The trees are greenest in that direction; the shadows +are softest; the flowers are thickest. + +It is strange--this feeling in you. It is not the feeling you had for +Laura Dalton. It does not even remind of that. That was an impulse, but +this is growth. That was strong, but this is strength. You catch sight +of her little notes to Nelly; you read them over and over; you treasure +them; you learn them by heart. There is something in the very writing +that touches you. + +You bid her adieu with tones of kindness that tremble,--and that meet a +half-trembling tone in reply. She is very good. + +----If it were not too late! + + + + +IV. + +_Manly Love._ + + +And shall pride yield at length! + +----Pride!--and what has love to do with pride? Let us see how it is. + +Madge is poor; she is humble. You are rich; you are a man of the world; +you are met respectfully by the veterans of fashion; you have gained +perhaps a kind of brilliancy of position. + +Would it then be a condescension to love Madge? Dare you ask yourself +such a question? Do you not know--in spite of your worldliness--that the +man or the woman, who _condescends_ to love, never loves in earnest? + +But again Madge is possessed of a purity, a delicacy, and a dignity that +lift her far above you,--that make you feel your weakness and your +unworthiness; and it is the deep and the mortifying sense of this +unworthiness that makes you bolster yourself upon your pride. You _know_ +that you do yourself honor in loving such grace and goodness; you know +that you would be honored tenfold more than you deserve in being loved +by so much grace and goodness. + +It scarce seems to you possible; it is a joy too great to be hoped for; +and in the doubt of its attainment your old, worldly vanity comes in, +and tells you to--beware; and to live on in the splendor of your +dissipation and in the lusts of your selfish habit. Yet still underneath +all there is a deep, low, heart-voice,--quickened from above,--which +assures you that you are capable of better things; that you are not +wholly lost; that a mine of unstarted tenderness still lies smouldering +in your soul. + +And with this sense quickening your better nature, you venture the +wealth of your whole heart-life upon the hope that now blazes on your +path. + +----You are seated at your desk, working with such zeal of labor as +your ambitious projects never could command. It is a letter to Margaret +Boyne that so tasks your love, and makes the veins upon your forehead +swell with the earnestness of the employ. + + * * * * * + +----"DEAR MADGE,--May I not call you thus, if only in memory of +our childish affections; and might I dare to hope that a riper +affection, which your character has awakened, may permit me to call you +thus always? + +"If I have not ventured to speak, dear Madge, will you not believe that +the consciousness of my own ill-desert has tied my tongue; will you not +at least give me credit for a little remaining modesty of heart? You +know my life, and you know my character,--what a sad jumble of errors +and of misfortunes have belonged to each. You know the careless and the +vain purposes which have made me recreant to the better nature which +belonged to that sunny childhood, when we lived and grew up together. +And will you not believe me when I say, that your grace of character and +kindness of heart have drawn me back from the follies in which I lived, +and quickened new desires which I thought to be wholly dead? Can I +indeed hope that you will overlook all that has gained your secret +reproaches, and confide in a heart which is made conscious of better +things by the love you have inspired? + +"Ah, Madge, it is not with a vain show of words, or with any counterfeit +of feeling, that I write now; you know it is not; you know that my heart +is leaning toward you with the freshness of its noblest instincts; you +know that--I love you! + +"Can I, dare I hope, that it is not spoken in vain? I had thought in my +pride never to make such avowal,--never again to sue for affection; but +your gentleness, your modesty, your virtues of life and heart, have +conquered me! I am sure you will treat me with the generosity of a +victor. + +"You know my weaknesses; I would not conceal from you a single +one,--even to win you. I can offer nothing to you which will bear +comparison in value with what is yours to bestow. I can only offer this +feeble hand of mine--to guard you; and this poor heart--to love you! + +"Am I rash? Am I extravagant, in word, or in hope? Forgive it then, dear +Madge, for the sake of our old childish affection; and believe me, when +I say, that what is here written--is written honestly and tearfully. +Adieu." + + * * * * * + +It is with no fervor of boyish passion that you fold this letter: it is +with the trembling hand of eager and earnest manhood. They tell you that +man is not capable of love: so the September sun is not capable of +warmth! It may not indeed be so fierce as that of July; but it is +steadier. It does not force great flaunting leaves into breadth and +succulence, but it matures whole harvests of plenty! + +There is a deep and earnest soul pervading the reply of Madge that makes +it sacred; it is full of delicacy, and full of hope. Yet it is not +final. Her heart lies intrenched within the ramparts of Duty and of +Devotion. It is a citadel of strength in the middle of the city of her +affections. To win the way to it, there must be not only earnestness of +love, but earnestness of life. + +Weeks roll by, and other letters pass and are answered,--a glow of +warmth beaming on either side. + +You are again at the home of Nelly; she is very joyous; she is the +confidante of Madge. Nelly feels, that with all your errors you have +enough inner goodness of heart to make Madge happy; and she +feels--doubly--that Madge has such excess of goodness as will cover your +heart with joy. Yet she tells you very little. She will give you no full +assurance of the love of Madge; she leaves that for yourself to win. + +She will even tease you in her pleasant way, until hope almost changes +to despair, and your brow grows pale with the dread--that even now your +unworthiness may condemn you. + +It is summer weather; and you have been walking over the hills of home +with Madge and Nelly. Nelly has found some excuse to leave +you,--glancing at you most teasingly as she hurries away. + +You are left sitting with Madge upon a bank tufted with blue violets. +You have been talking of the days of childhood, and some word has called +up the old chain of boyish feeling, and joined it to your new hope. + +What you would say crowds too fast for utterance, and you abandon it. +But you take from your pocket that little, broken bit of +sixpence,--which you have found after long search,--and without a word, +but with a look that tells your inmost thought, you lay it in the +half-opened hand of Madge. + +She looks at you with a slight suffusion of color,--seems to hesitate a +moment,--raises her other hand, and draws from her bosom by a bit of +blue ribbon a little locket. She touches a spring, and there falls +beside your relique--another, that had once belonged to it. + +Hope glows now like the sun. + +----"And you have worn this, Maggie?" + +----"Always!" + +"Dear Madge!" + +"Dear Clarence!" + +----And you pass your arm now, unchecked, around that yielding, +graceful figure, and fold her to your bosom with the swift and blessed +assurance that your fullest and noblest dream of love is won! + + + + +V. + +_Cheer and Children._ + + +What a glow there is to the sun! What warmth--yet it does not oppress +you: what coolness--yet it is not too cool. The birds sing sweetly; you +catch yourself watching to see what new songsters they can be: they are +only the old robins and thrushes, yet what a new melody is in their +throats! + +The clouds hang gorgeous shapes upon the sky,--shapes they could hardly +ever have fashioned before. The grass was never so green, the buttercups +were never so plentiful; there was never such a life in the leaves. It +seems as if the joyousness in you gave a throb to nature that made every +green thing buoyant. + +Faces, too, are changed: men look pleasantly; children are all charming +children; even babies look tender and lovable. The street-beggar at your +door is suddenly grown into a Belisarius, and is one of the most +deserving heroes of modern times. Your mind is in a continued ferment; +you glide through your toil--dashing out sparkles of passion--like a +ship in the sea. No difficulty daunts you: there is a kind of buoyancy +in your soul that rocks over danger or doubt, as sea-waves heave calmly +and smoothly over sunken rocks. + +You grow unusually amiable and kind; you are earnest in your search of +friends; you shake hands with your office-boy as if he were your second +cousin. You joke cheerfully with the stout washerwoman, and give her a +shilling over-change, and insist upon her keeping it, and grow quite +merry at the recollection of it. You tap your hackman on the shoulder +very familiarly, and tell him he is a capital fellow; and don't allow +him to whip his horses, except when driving to the post-office. You even +ask him to take a glass of beer with you upon some chilly evening. You +drink to the health of his wife. He says he has no wife; whereupon you +think him a very miserable man, and give him a dollar by way of +consolation. + +You think all the editorials in the morning papers are remarkably well +written,--whether upon your side, or upon the other. You think the +stock-market has a very cheerful look, even with Erie--of which you are +a large holder--down to seventy-five. You wonder why you never admired +Mrs. Hemans before, or Stoddard, or any of the rest. + +You give a pleasant twirl to your fingers as you saunter along the +street, and say,--but not so loud as to be overheard,--"She is mine; she +is mine!" + +You wonder if Frank ever loved Nelly one half as well as you love Madge. +You feel quite sure he never did. You can hardly conceive how it is that +Madge has not been seized before now by scores of enamored men, and +borne off, like the Sabine women in Roman history. You chuckle over your +future, like a boy who has found a guinea in groping for sixpences. You +read over the marriage service,--thinking of the time when you will take +_her_ hand, and slip the ring upon _her_ finger,--and repeat, after the +clergyman, "for richer--for poorer; for better--for worse!" A great deal +of "worse" there will be about it, you think! + +Through all, your heart cleaves to that sweet image of the beloved +Madge, as light cleaves to day. The weeks leap with a bound; and the +months only grow long when you approach that day which is to make her +yours. There are no flowers rare enough to make bouquets for her; +diamonds are too dim for her to wear; pearls are tame. + +----And after marriage the weeks are even shorter than before: you +wonder why on earth all the single men in the world do not rush +tumultuously to the Altar; you look upon them all as a travelled man +will look upon some conceited Dutch boor who has never been beyond the +limits of his cabbage-garden. Married men, on the contrary, you regard +as fellow-voyagers; and look upon their wives--ugly as they may be--as +better than none. + +You blush a little at first telling your butcher what "your wife" would +like; you bargain with the grocer for sugars and teas, and wonder if he +_knows_ that you are a married man. You practise your new way of talk +upon your office-boy: you tell him that "your wife" expects you home to +dinner; and are astonished that he does not stare to hear you say it! + +You wonder if the people in the omnibus know that Madge and you are just +married; and if the driver knows that the shilling you hand to him is +for "self and wife." You wonder if anybody was ever so happy before, or +ever will be so happy again. + +You enter your name upon the hotel books as "Clarence ---- and Wife"; and +come back to look at it, wondering if anybody else has noticed it,--and +thinking that it looks remarkably well. You cannot help thinking that +every third man you meet in the hall wishes he possessed your wife; nor +do you think it very sinful in him to wish it. You fear it is placing +temptation in the way of covetous men to put Madge's little gaiters +outside the chamber-door at night. + +Your home, when it is entered, is just what it should be,--quiet, +small,--with everything she wishes, and nothing more than she wishes. +The sun strikes it in the happiest possible way; the piano is the +sweetest-toned in the world; the library is stocked to a charm;--and +Madge, that blessed wife, is there, adorning and giving life to it all. +To think even of her possible death is a suffering you class with the +infernal tortures of the Inquisition. You grow twin of heart and of +purpose. Smiles seem made for marriage; and you wonder how you ever wore +them before! + + * * * * * + +So a year and more wears off of mingled home-life, visiting, and travel. +A new hope and joy lightens home: there is a child there. + +----What a joy to be a father! What new emotions crowd the eye with +tears, and make the hand tremble! What a benevolence radiates from you +toward the nurse,--toward the physician,--toward everybody! What a +holiness and sanctity of love grows upon your old devotion to that wife +of your bosom--the mother of your child! + +The excess of joy seems almost to blur the stories of happiness which +attach to heaven. You are now joined, as you were never joined before, +to the great family of man. Your name and blood will live after you; nor +do you once think (what father can?) but that it will live honorably and +well. + +With what a new air you walk the streets! With what a triumph you speak, +in your letter to Nelly, of "your family!" Who, that has not felt it, +knows what it is to be "a man of family!" + +How weak now seem all the imaginations of your single life; what bare, +dry skeletons of the reality they furnished! You pity the poor fellows +who have no wives or children--from your soul; you count their smiles as +empty smiles, put on to cover the lack that is in them. There is a +freemasonry among fathers that they know nothing of. You compassionate +them deeply; you think them worthy objects of some charitable +association; you would cheerfully buy tracts for them, if they would but +read them,--tracts on marriage and children. + +----And then "the boy,"--_such_ a boy! + +There was a time when you thought all babies very much alike;--alike? Is +your boy like anything, except the wonderful fellow that he is? Was +there ever a baby seen, or even read of, like that baby! + +----Look at him: pick him up in his long, white gown: he may have an +excess of color,--but such a pretty color! he is a little pouty about +the mouth,--but such a mouth! His hair is a little scant, and he is +rather wandering in the eye,--but, Good Heavens, what an eye! + +There was a time when you thought it very absurd for fathers to talk +about their children; but it does not seem at all absurd now. You think, +on the contrary, that your old friends, who used to sup with you at the +club, would be delighted to know how your baby is getting on, and how +much he measures around the calf of the leg! If they pay you a visit, +you are quite sure they are in an agony to see Frank; and you hold the +little squirming fellow in your arms, half conscience-smitten for +provoking them to such envy as they must be suffering. You make a +settlement upon the boy with a chuckle,--as if you were treating +yourself to a mint-julep, instead of conveying away a few thousands of +seven per cents. + +----Then the boy develops astonishingly. What a head,--what a +foot,--what a voice! And he is so quiet withal,--never known to cry, +except under such provocation as would draw tears from a heart of +adamant; in short, for the first six months he is never anything but +gentle, patient, earnest, loving, intellectual, and magnanimous. You are +half afraid that some of the physicians will be reporting the case, as +one of the most remarkable instances of perfect moral and physical +development on record. + +But the years roll on, in the which your extravagant fancies die into +the earnest maturity of a father's love. You struggle gayly with the +cares that life brings to your door. You feel the strength of three +beings in your single arm; and feel your heart warming toward God and +man with the added warmth of two other loving and trustful beings. + +How eagerly you watch the first tottering step of that boy; how you riot +in the joy and pride that swell in that mother's eyes, as they follow +his feeble, staggering motions! Can God bless his creatures more than +he has blessed that dear Madge and you? Has Heaven even richer joys than +live in that home of yours? + +By-and-by he speaks; and minds tie together by language, as the hearts +have long tied by looks. He wanders with you feebly, and with slow, +wandering paces, upon the verge of the great universe of thought. His +little eye sparkles with some vague fancy that comes upon him first by +language. Madge teaches him the words of affection and of thankfulness; +and she teaches him to lisp infant prayer; and by secret pains (how +could she be so secret?) instructs him in some little phrase of +endearment that she knows will touch your heart; and then she watches +your coming; and the little fellow runs toward you, and warbles out his +lesson of love in tones that forbid you any answer,--save only those +brimming eyes, turned first on her, and then on him,--and poorly +concealed by the quick embrace, and the kisses which you shower in +transport! Still slip on the years, like brimming bowls of nectar! +Another Madge is sister to Frank; and a little Nelly is younger sister +to this other Madge. + +----Three of them! a charmed and mystic number, which, if it be broken +in these young days,--as, alas, it may be!--will only yield a cherub +angel to float over you, and to float over them,--to wean you, and to +wean them, from this world, where all joys do perish, to that seraph +world where joys do last forever. + + + + +VI. + +_A Dream of Darkness._ + + +Is our life a sun, that it should radiate light and heat forever? Do not +the calmest and brightest days of autumn show clouds, that drift their +ragged edges over the golden disk, and bear down swift with their weight +of vapors, until the sun's whole surface is shrouded; and you can see no +shadow of tree or flower upon the land, because of the greater and +gulping shadow of the cloud? + +Will not life bear me out; will not truth, earnest and stern, around me +make good the terrible imagination that now comes swooping, heavily and +darkly, upon my brain? + +You are living in a little village not far away from the city. It is a +graceful and luxurious home that you possess. The holly and the laurel +gladden its lawn in winter; and bowers of blossoms sweeten it through +all the summer. You know each day of your return from the town, where +first you will catch sight of that graceful figure flitting like a +shadow of love beneath the trees; you know well where you will meet the +joyous and noisy welcome of stout Frank, and of tottling Nelly. Day +after day and week after week they fail not. + +A friend sometimes attends you; and a friend to you is always a friend +to Madge. In the city you fall in once more with your old acquaintance +Dalton,--the graceful, winning, yet dissolute man that his youth +promised. He wishes to see your cottage home. Your heart half hesitates; +yet it seems folly to cherish distrust of a boon companion in so many of +your revels. + +Madge receives him with that sweet smile which welcomes all your +friends. He gains the heart of Frank by talking of his toys and of his +pigeons; and he wins upon the tenderness of the mother by his attentions +to the child. Even you repent of your passing shadow of dislike, and +feel your heart warming toward him as he takes little Nelly in his arms +and provokes her joyous prattle. + +Madge is unbounded in her admiration of your friend: he renews, at your +solicitation, his visit: he proves kinder than ever; and you grow +ashamed of your distrust. + +Madge is not learned in the arts of a city life; the accomplishments of +a man-of-the world are almost new to her; she listens with eagerness to +Dalton's graphic stories of foreign _fêtes_ and luxury; she is charmed +with his clear, bold voice, and with his manly execution of little +operatic airs. + +----She is beautiful,--that wife who has made your heart whole by its +division,--fearfully beautiful! And she is not cold, or impassive: her +heart, though fond and earnest, is yet human;--we are all human. The +accomplishments and graces of the world must needs take hold upon her +fancy. And a fear creeps over you that you dare not whisper,--that those +graces may cast into the shade your own yearning and silent tenderness. + +But this is a selfish fear, that you think you have no right to cherish. +She takes pleasure in the society of Dalton,--what right have you to say +her--nay? His character indeed is not altogether such as you could wish; +but will it not be selfish to tell her even this? Will it not be even +worse, and show taint of a lurking suspicion, which you know would wound +her grievously? You struggle with your distrust by meeting him more +kindly than ever; yet at times there will steal over you a sadness, +which that dear Madge detects, and sorrowing in her turn, tries to draw +away from you by the touching kindness of sympathy. Her look and manner +kill all your doubt; and you show that it is gone, and piously conceal +the cause by welcoming in gayer tones than ever the man who has fostered +it by his presence. + +Business calls you away to a great distance from home: it is the first +long parting of your real manhood. And can suspicion, or a fear, lurk +amid those tearful embraces? Not one,--thank God,--not one! + +Your letters, frequent and earnest, bespeak your increased devotion; and +the embraces you bid her give to the sweet ones of your little flock, +tell of the calmness and sufficiency of your love. Her letters too are +running over with affection;--what though she mentions the frequent +visits of Dalton, and tells stories of his kindness and attachment? You +feel safe in her strength; and yet--yet there is a brooding terror, that +rises out of your knowledge of Dalton's character. + +And can you tell her this; can you stab her fondness, now that you are +away, with even a hint of what would crush her delicate nature? + +What you know to be love, and what you fancy to be duty, struggle long; +but love conquers. And with sweet trust in her, and double trust in God, +you await your return. That return will be speedier than you think. + +You receive one day a letter: it is addressed in the hand of a friend, +who is often at the cottage, but who has rarely written to you. What can +have tempted him now? Has any harm come near your home? No wonder your +hands tremble at the opening of that sheet; no wonder that your eyes run +like lightning over the hurried lines. Yet there is little in them, very +little. The hand is stout and fair. It is a calm letter, a friendly +letter; but it is short, terribly short. It bids you come home--"_at +once!_" + +----And you go. It is a pleasant country you have to travel through; +but you see very little of the country. It is a dangerous voyage, +perhaps, you have to make; but you think very little of the danger. The +creaking of the timbers, and the lashing of the waves, are quieting +music compared with the storm of your raging fears. All the while you +associate Dalton with the terror that seems to hang over you; and yet, +your trust in Madge is true as Heaven! + +At length you approach that home: there lies your cottage resting +sweetly upon its hill-side; and the autumn winds are soft; and the +maple-tops sway gracefully, all clothed in the scarlet of their +frost-dress. Once again as the sun sinks behind the mountain with a +trail of glory, and the violet haze tints the gray clouds like so many +robes of angels, you take heart and courage, and with firm reliance on +the Providence that fashions all forms of beauty, whether in heaven or +in heart, your fears spread out, and vanish with the waning twilight. + +She is not at the cottage-door to meet you; she does not expect you; and +yet your bosom heaves, and your breathing is quick. Your friend meets +you, and shakes your hand.--"Clarence," he says, with the tenderness of +an old friend,--"be a man!" + +Alas, you are a man;--with a man's heart, and a man's fear, and a man's +agony! Little Frank comes bounding toward you joyously--yet under traces +of tears:--"Oh, papa, mother is gone!" + +----"Gone!" And you turn to the face of your friend; it is well he is +near by, or you would have fallen. + +He can tell you very little; he has known the character of Dalton; he +has seen with fear his assiduous attentions--tenfold multiplied since +your leave. He has trembled for the issue: this very morning he observed +a travelling carriage at the door;--they drove away together. You have +no strength to question him. You see that he fears the worst: he does +not know Madge so well as you. + +----And can it be? Are you indeed widowed with that most terrible of +widowhoods? Is your wife living, and yet--lost! Talk not to such a man +of the woes of sickness, of poverty, of death; he will laugh at your +mimicry of grief. + +----All is blackness; whichever way you turn, it is the same; there is +no light; your eye is put out; your soul is desolate forever! The heart +by which you had grown up into the full stature of joy and blessing, is +rooted out of you, and thrown like something loathsome, at which the +carrion dogs of the world scent and snuffle! + +They will point at you, as the man who has lost all that he prized; and +she has stolen it, whom he prized more than what was stolen! And he, the +accursed miscreant----. But no, it can never be! Madge is as true as +Heaven! + +Yet she is not there: whence comes the light that is to cheer you? + +----Your children? + +Ay, your children,--your little Nelly,--your noble Frank,--they are +yours,--doubly, trebly, tenfold yours, now that she, their mother, is a +mother no more to them forever! + +Ay, close your doors; shut out the world; draw close your curtains; fold +them to your heart,--your crushed, bleeding, desolate heart! Lay your +forehead to the soft cheek of your noble boy;--beware, beware how you +dampen that damask cheek with your scalding tears: yet you cannot help +it; they fall--great drops--a river of tears, as you gather him +convulsively to your bosom! + +"Father, why do you cry so?" says Frank, with the tears of dreadful +sympathy starting from those eyes of childhood. + +----"Why, papa?"--mimes little Nelly. + +----Answer them, if you dare! Try it;--what words--blundering, weak +words--choked with agony--leading nowhere--ending in new and convulsive +clasps of your weeping, motherless children! + +Had she gone to her grave, there would have been a holy joy, a great and +swelling grief indeed,--but your poor heart would have found a rest in +the quiet churchyard; and your feelings, rooted in that cherished grave, +would have stretched up toward Heaven their delicate leaves, and caught +the dews of His grace, who watcheth the lilies. But now,--with your +heart cast underfoot, or buffeted on the lips of a lying world,--finding +no shelter and no abiding place!--alas, we do guess at infinitude only +by suffering! + +----Madge, Madge! can this be so? Are you not still the same sweet, +guileless child of Heaven? + + + + +VII. + +_Peace._ + + +It is a dream,--fearful, to be sure, but only a dream! Madge _is_ true. +That soul is honest; it could not be otherwise. God never made it to be +false; He never made the sun for darkness. + +And before the evening has waned to midnight, sweet day has broken on +your gloom;--Madge is folded to your bosom, sobbing fearfully,--not for +guilt, or any shadow of guilt, but for the agony she reads upon your +brow, and in your low sighs. + +The mystery is all cleared by a few lightning words from her indignant +lips, and her whole figure trembles, as she shrinks within your embrace, +with the thought of that great evil that seemed to shadow you. The +villain has sought by every art to beguile her into appearances which +should compromise her character and so wound her delicacy as to take +away the courage for return; he has even wrought upon her affection for +you as his master-weapon: a skilfully contrived story of some accident +that had befallen you, had wrought upon her--to the sudden and silent +leave of home. But he has failed. At the first suspicion of his falsity, +her dignity and virtue shivered all his malice. She shudders at the bare +thought of that fiendish scheme which has so lately broken on her view. + +"Oh, Clarence, Clarence, could you for one moment believe this of me?" + +"Dear Madge, forgive me if a dreamy horror did for an instant palsy my +better thought;--it is gone utterly; it will never, never come again!" + +And there she leans with her head pillowed on your shoulder, the same +sweet angel that has led you in the way of light, and who is still your +blessing and your pride. + +He--and you forbear to name his name--is gone,--flying vainly from the +consciousness of guilt with the curse of Cain upon him,--hastening +toward the day when Satan shall clutch his own! + +A heavenly peace descends upon you that night,--all the more sacred and +calm for the fearful agony that has gone before. A Heaven, that seemed +lost, is yours. A love, that you had almost doubted, is beyond all +suspicion. A heart, that in the madness of your frenzy you had dared to +question, you worship now, with blushes of shame. You thank God for this +great goodness, as you never thanked him for any earthly blessing +before; and with this twin gratitude lying on your hearts, and clearing +your face to smiles, you live on together the old life of joy and of +affection. + + * * * * * + +Again with brimming nectar the years fill up their vases. Your children +grow into the same earnest joyousness, and with the same home faith, +which lightened upon your young dreams, and toward which you seem to go +back, as you riot with them in their Christmas joys, or upon the velvety +lawn of June. + +Anxieties indeed overtake you, but they are those anxieties which only +the selfish would avoid,--anxieties that better the heart with a great +weight of tenderness. It may be that your mischievous Frank runs wild +with the swift blood of boyhood, and that the hours are long which wait +his coming. It may be that your heart echoes in silence the mother's +sobs, as she watches his fits of waywardness, and showers upon his very +neglect excess of love. + +Danger perhaps creeps upon little, joyous Nelly, which makes you tremble +for her life; the mother's tears are checked that she may not deepen +your grief; and her care guards the little sufferer like a Providence. +The nights hang long and heavy; dull, stifled breathing wakes the +chamber with ominous sound; the mother's eye scarce closes, but rests +with fond sadness upon the little struggling victim of sickness; her +hand rests like an angel touch upon the brow, all beaded with the heats +of fever; the straggling, gray light of morning breaks through the +crevices of the closed blinds,--bringing stir and bustle to the world, +but in your home--lighting only the darkness. + +Hope, sinking in the mother's heart, takes hold on Faith in God; and her +prayer, and her placid look of submission,--more than all your +philosophy,--add strength to your faltering courage. + +But little Nelly brightens; her faded features take on bloom again; she +knows you; she presses your hand; she draws down your cheek to her +parched lip; she kisses you, and smiles. The mother's brow loses its +shadow; day dawns within as well as without, and on bended knees God is +thanked! + +Perhaps poverty faces you;--your darling schemes break down. One by one, +with failing heart, you strip the luxuries from life. But the sorrow +which oppresses you is not the selfish sorrow which the lone man feels: +it is far nobler; its chiefest mourning is over the despoiled home. +Frank must give up his promised travel; Madge must lose her favorite +pony; Nelly must be denied her little _fête_ upon the lawn. The home +itself, endeared by so many scenes of happiness and by so many of +suffering, must be given up. It is hard, very hard, to tear away your +wife from the flowers, the birds, the luxuries, that she has made so +dear. + +Now she is far stronger than you. She contrives new joys; she wears a +holy calm; she cheers by a new hopefulness; she buries even the memory +of luxury in the riches of the humble home that her wealth of heart +endows. Her soul, catching radiance from that heavenly world where her +hope lives, kindles amid the growing shadows, and sheds balm upon the +little griefs,--like the serene moon, slanting the dead sun's life, upon +the night! + +Courage wakes in the presence of those dependent on your toil. Love arms +your hand and quickens your brain. Resolutions break large from the +swelling soul. Energy leaps into your action like light. Gradually you +bring back into your humble home a few traces of the luxury that once +adorned it. That wife, whom it is your greatest pleasure to win to +smiles, wears a half-sad look as she meets these proofs of love; she +fears that you are perilling too much for her pleasure. + +----For the first time in life you deceive her. You have won wealth +again; you now step firmly upon your new-gained sandals of gold. But you +conceal it from her. You contrive a little scheme of surprise, with +Frank alone in the secret. + +You purchase again the old home; you stock it, as far as may be, with +the old luxuries; a new harp is in the place of that one which beguiled +so many hours of joy; new and cherished flowers bloom again upon the +windows; her birds hang, and warble their melody where they warbled it +before. A pony--like as possible to the old--is there for Madge; a fête +is secretly contrived upon the lawn. You even place the old, familiar +books upon the parlor-table. + +The birthday of your own Madge is approaching,--a _fête_ you never pass +by without home rejoicings. You drive over with her upon that morning +for another look at the old place; a cloud touches her brow,--but she +yields to your wish. An old servant--whom you had known in better +days--throws open the gates. + +----"It is too, too sad," says Madge. "Let us go back, Clarence, to our +own home;--we are happy there." + +----"A little farther, Madge." + +The wife steps slowly over what seems the sepulchre of so many +pleasures; the children gambol as of old, and pick flowers. But the +mother checks them. + +"They are not ours now, my children!" + +You stroll to the very door; the goldfinches are hanging upon the wall; +the mignonette is in the window. You feel the hand of Madge trembling +upon your arm; she is struggling with her weakness. + +A tidy waiting-woman shows you into the old parlor:--there is a harp; +and there, too, such books as we loved to read. + +Madge is overcome; now she entreats:--"Let us go away, Clarence!" and +she hides her face. + +----"Never, dear Madge, never! it is yours--all yours!" + +She looks up in your face; she sees your look of triumph; she catches +sight of Frank bursting in at the old hall-door all radiant with joy. + +----"Frank!--Clarence!"--the tears forbid any more. + +"God bless you, Madge! God bless you!" + + * * * * * + +And thus in peace and in joy MANHOOD passes on into the third +season of our life--even as golden AUTUMN sinks slowly into the +tomb of WINTER. + + + + +_WINTER_; + +OR, + +_THE DREAMS OF AGE_ + + + + +_DREAMS OF AGE._ + +_Winter._ + + +Slowly, thickly, fastly, fall the snow-flakes,--like the seasons upon +the life of man. At the first they lose themselves in the brown mat of +herbage, or gently melt, as they fall upon the broad stepping-stone at +the door. But as hour after hour passes, the feathery flakes stretch +their white cloak plainly on the meadow, and chilling the doorstep with +their multitude, cover it with a mat of pearl. + +The dried grass-tips pierce the mantle of white, like so many serried +spears; but as the storm goes softly on, they sink one by one to their +snowy tomb, and presently show nothing of all their army, save one or +two straggling banners of blackened and shrunken daisies. + +Across the wide meadow that stretches from my window, I can see nothing +of those hills which were so green in summer; between me and them lie +only the soft, slow-moving masses, filling the air with whiteness I +catch only a glimpse of one gaunt and bare-armed oak, looming through +the feathery multitude like a tall ship's spars breaking through fog. + +The roof of the barn is covered; and the leaking eaves show dark stains +of water that trickle down the weather-beaten boards. The pear-trees, +that wore such weight of greenness in the leafy June, now stretch their +bare arms to the snowy blast, and carry upon each tiny bough a narrow +burden of winter. + +The old house-dog marches stately through the strange covering of earth, +and seems to ponder on the welcome he will show,--and shakes the flakes +from his long ears, and with a vain snap at a floating feather he stalks +again to his dry covert in the shed. The lambs that belonged to the +meadow flock, with their feeding-ground all covered, seem to wonder at +their losses; but take courage from the quiet air of the veteran sheep, +and gambol after them, as they move sedately toward the shelter of the +barn. + +The cat, driven from the kitchen-door, beats a coy retreat, with long +reaches of her foot, upon the yielding surface. The matronly hens +saunter out at a little lifting of the storm, and eye curiously, with +heads half turned, their sinking steps, and then fall back, with a quiet +cluck of satisfaction, to the wholesome gravel by the stable-door. + +By-and-by the snow-flakes pile more leisurely: they grow large and +scattered, and come more slowly than before. The hills, that were brown, +heave into sight--great, rounded billows of white. The gray woods look +shrunken to half their height, and stand waving in the storm. The wind +freshens, and scatters the light flakes that crown the burden of the +snow; and as the day droops, a clear, bright sky of steel color cleaves +the land and clouds, and sends down a chilling wind to bank the walls +and to freeze the storm. The moon rises full and round, and plays with a +joyous chill over the glistening raiment of the land. + +I pile my fire with the clean-cleft hickory; and musing over some sweet +story of the olden time, I wander into a rich realm of thought, until my +eyes grow dim, and dreaming of battle and of prince, I fall to sleep in +my old farm-chamber. + +At morning I find my dreams all written on the window in crystals of +fairy shape. The cattle, one by one, with ears frost-tipped, and with +frosted noses, wend their way to the watering-place in the meadow. One +by one they drink, and crop at the stunted herbage which the warm spring +keeps green and bare. + +A hound bays in the distance; the smoke of cottages rises straight +toward heaven; a lazy jingle of sleigh-bells wakens the quiet of the +high-road; and upon the hills the leafless woods stand low, like +crouching armies, with guns and spears in rest; and among them the +scattered spiral pines rise like bannermen, uttering with their thousand +tongues of green the proud war-cry--"God is with us!" + +But the sky of winter is as capricious as the sky of spring, even as the +old wander in thought, like the vagaries of a boy. + +Before noon the heavens are mantled with a leaden gray; the eaves, that +leaked in the glow of the sun, now tell their tale of morning's warmth +in crystal ranks of icicles. The cattle seek their shelter; the few +lingering leaves of the white-oaks rustle dismally; the pines breathe +sighs of mourning. As the night darkens, and deepens the storm, the +house-dog bays; the children crouch in the wide chimney-corners; the +sleety rain comes in sharp gusts. And as I sit by the light leaping +blaze in my chamber, the scattered hail-drops beat upon my window, like +the tappings of an OLD MAN'S cane. + + + + +I. + +_What is Gone._ + + +Gone! Did it ever strike you, my reader, how much meaning lies in that +little monosyllable--gone? + +Say it to yourself at nightfall, when the sun has sunk under the hills, +and the crickets chirp,--"gone." Say it to yourself when the night is +far over, and you wake with some sudden start from pleasant +dreams,--"gone." Say it to yourself in some country churchyard, where +your father, or your mother, sleeps under the blooming violets of +spring,--"gone." Say it in your sobbing prayer to Heaven, as you cling +lovingly, but oh, how vainly, to the hand of your sweet wife,--"gone!" + +Ay, is there not meaning in it? And now, what is gone,--or rather what +is not gone? Childhood is gone, with all its blushes and fairness,--with +all its health and wantoning,--with all its smiles like glimpses of +heaven, and all its tears which were but the suffusion of joy. + +Youth is gone,--bright, hopeful youth, when you counted the years with +jewelled numbers, and hung lamps of ambition on your path, which lighted +the palace of renown; when the days were woven into weeks of blithe +labor, and the weeks were rolled into harvest months of triumph, and the +months were bound into golden sheaves of years,--all gone! + +The strength and pride of manhood is gone; your heart and soul have +stamped their deepest dye; the time of power is past; your manliness has +told its tale henceforth your career is _down_;--hitherto you have +journeyed _up_. You look back upon a decade as you once looked upon a +half score of months; a year has become to your slackened memory, and to +your dull perceptions, like a week of childhood. Suddenly and swiftly +come past you great whirls of gone-by thought, and wrecks of vain labor, +eddying upon the stream that rushes to the grave. The sweeping outlines +of life, that lay once before the vision,--rolling into wide billows of +years, like easy lifts of a broad mountain-range,--now seem close-packed +together as with a Titan hand, and you see only crowded, craggy +heights,--like Alpine fastnesses,--parted with glaciers of grief, and +leaking abundant tears! + +Your friends are gone; they who counselled and advised you, and who +protected your weakness, will guard it no more forever. One by one they +have dropped away as you have journeyed on; and yet your journey does +not seem a long one. Life at the longest is but a bubble that bursts so +soon as it is rounded. + +Nelly--your sweet sister, to whom your heart clung so fondly in the +young days, and to whom it has clung ever since in the strongest bonds +of companionship--is gone--with the rest! + +Your thought--wayward now, and flickering--runs over the old days with +quick and fevered step; it brings back, faintly as it may, the noisy +joys, and the safety, that belonged to the old garret-roof; it figures +again the image of that calm-faced father,--long since sleeping beside +your mother; it rests like a shadow upon the night when Charlie died; it +grasps the old figures of the schoolroom, and kindles again (how strange +is memory) the fire that shed its lustre upon the curtains, and the +ceiling, as you lay groaning with your first hours of sickness. + +Your flitting recollection brings back with gushes of exultation the +figure of that little, blue-eyed hoiden,--Madge,--as she came with her +work to pass the long evenings with Nelly; it calls again the shy +glances that you cast upon her, and your _naïve_ ignorance of all the +little counter-play that might well have passed between Frank and Nelly. +Your mother's form too, clear and distinct, comes upon the wave of your +rocking thought; her smile touches you now in age as it never touched +you in boyhood. + +The image of that fair Miss Dalton, who led your fancy into such mad +captivity, glides across your vision like the fragment of a crazy dream +long gone by. The country home, where lived the grandfather of Frank, +gleams kindly in the sunlight of your memory; and still,--poor, blind +Fanny--long since gathered to that rest where her closed eyes will open +upon visions of joy--draws forth a sigh of pity. + +Then comes up that sweetest and brightest vision of love, and the doubt +and care which ran before it,--when your hope groped eagerly through +your pride and worldliness toward the sainted purity of her whom you +know to be--all too good,--when you trembled at the thought of your own +vices and blackness in the presence of her who seemed virtue's self. And +even now your old heart bounds with joy as you recall the first timid +assurance that you were blessed in the possession of her love, and that +you might live in her smiles. + +Your thought runs like floating melody over the calm joy that followed +you through so many years,--to the prattling children, who were there to +bless your path. How poor seem now your transports, as you met their +childish embraces, and mingled in their childish employ; how utterly +weak the actual, when compared with that glow of affection which memory +lends to the scene! + +Yet all this is gone; and the anxieties are gone, which knit your heart +so strongly to those children, and to her--the mother,--anxieties which +distressed you,--which you would eagerly have shunned, yet whose memory +you would not now bargain away for a king's ransom! What were the +sunlight worth, if clouds did not sometimes hide its brightness; what +were the spring, or the summer, if the lessons of the chilling winter +did not teach us the story of their warmth? + +The days are gone too, in which you may have lingered under the sweet +suns of Italy,--with the cherished one beside you, and the eager +children, learning new prattle in the soft language of those Eastern +lands. The evenings are gone, in which you loitered under the trees with +those dear ones under the light of a harvest-moon, and talked of your +blooming hopes, and of the stirring plans of your manhood. There are no +more ambitious hopes, no more sturdy plans! Life's work has rounded into +the evening that shortens labor. + +And as you loiter in dreams over the wide waste of what is gone,--a +mingled array of griefs and of joys, of failures and of triumphs,--you +bless God that there has been so much of joy belonging to your shattered +life; and you pray God, with the vain fondness that belongs to a +parent's heart, that more of joy, and less of toil, may come near to the +cherished ones who bear up your hope and name. + +And with your silent prayer come back the old teachings, and vagaries of +the boyish heart in its reaches toward Heaven. You recall the old +church-reckoning of your goodness: is there much more of it now than +then? Is not Heaven just as high, and the world as sadly broad? + +Alas, for the poor tale of goodness which age brings to the memory! +There may be crowning acts of benevolence, shining here and there; but +the margin of what has not been done is very broad. How weak and +insignificant seems the story of life's goodness and profit, when Death +begins to slant his shadow upon our souls! How infinite in the +comparison seems that Eternal goodness which is crowned with mercy. How +self vanishes, like a blasted thing, and only lives--if it lives at +all--in the glow of that redeeming light which radiates from the +CROSS and the THRONE! + + + + +II. + +_What is Left._ + + +But much as there is gone of life, and of its joys, very much +remains,--very much in earnest, and very much more in hope. Still you +see visions, and you dream dreams, of the times that are to come. + +Your home and heart are left; within that home, the old Bible holds its +wonted place, which was the monitor of your boyhood; and now, more than +ever, it prompts those reverent reaches of the spirit, which go beyond +even the track of dreams. + +That cherished Madge, the partner of your life and joy, still lingers, +though her step is feeble, and her eyes are dimmed;--not as once +attracting you by any outward show of beauty; your heart, glowing +through the memory of a life of joy, needs no such stimulant to the +affections. Your hearts are knit together by a habit of growth, and a +unanimity of desire. There is less to remind of the vanities of earth, +and more to quicken the hopes of a time when body yields to spirit. + +Your own poor, battered hulk wants no jaunty-trimmed craft for consort; +but twin of heart and soul, as you are twin of years, you float +tranquilly toward that haven which lies before us all. + +Your children, now almost verging on maturity, bless your hearth and +home. Not one is gone. Frank indeed--that wild fellow of a youth, who +has wrought your heart into perplexing anxieties again and again, as you +have seen the wayward dashes of his young blood--is often away. But his +heart yet centres where yours centres; and his absence is only a nearer +and bolder strife with that fierce world whose circumstances every man +of force and energy is born to conquer. + +His return from time to time with that proud figure of opening +manliness, and that full flush of health, speaks to your affections as +you could never have believed it would. It is not for a man, who is the +father of a man, to show any weakness of the heart, or any +over-sensitiveness, in those ties which bind him to his kin. And +yet--yet, as you sit by your fireside, with your clear, gray eye +feasting in its feebleness on that proud figure of a man who calls you +"father,"--and as you see his fond and loving attentions to that one who +has been your partner in all anxieties and joys, there _is_ a throbbing +within your bosom that makes you almost wish him young again,--that you +might embrace him now, as when he warbled in your rejoicing ear those +first words of love!--Ah, how little does a son know the secret and +craving tenderness of a parent,--how little conception has he of those +silent bursts of fondness and of joy which attend his coming, and which +crown his parting! + +There is young Madge too,--dark-eyed, tall, with a pensive shadow +resting on her face,--the very image of refinement and of delicacy. She +is thoughtful;--not breaking out, like the hoiden, flax-haired Nelly, +into bursts of joy and singing,--but stealing upon your heart with a +gentle and quiet tenderness that diffuses itself throughout the +household like a soft zephyr of summer. + +There are friends too yet left, who come in upon your evening hours, and +light up the loitering time with dreamy story of the years that are +gone. How eagerly you listen to some gossiping veteran friend, who with +his deft words calls up the thread of some by-gone years of life; and +with what a careless, yet grateful recognition you lapse, as it were, +into the current of the past, and live over again by your hospitable +blaze the stir, the joy, and the pride of your lost manhood. + +The children of friends too have grown upon your march, and come to +welcome you with that reverent deference which always touches the heart +of age. That wild boy Will,--the son of a dear friend,--who but a little +while ago was worrying you with his boyish pranks, has now shot up into +tall and graceful youth, and evening after evening finds him making +part of your little household group. + +----Does the fond old man think that _he_ is all the attraction! + +It may be that in your dreamy speculations about the future of your +children, (for still you dream,) you think that Will may possibly become +the husband of the sedate and kindly Madge. It worries you to find Nelly +teasing him as she does; that mad hoiden will never be quiet; she +provokes you excessively: and yet she is a dear creature; there is no +meeting those laughing blue eyes of hers without a smile and an embrace! + +It pleases you however to see the winning frankness with which Madge +always receives Will. And with a little of your old vanity of +observation you trace out the growth of their dawning attachment. It +provokes you to find Nelly breaking up their quiet _tête-à-têtes_ with +her provoking sallies, and drawing away Will to some saunter in the +garden, or to some mad gallop over the hills. + +At length upon a certain summer's day Will asks to see you. He +approaches with a doubtful and disturbed look; you fear that wild Nell +has been teasing him with her pranks. Yet he wears not so much an +offended look as one of fear. You wonder if it ever happened to you to +carry your hat in just that timid manner, and to wear such a shifting +expression of the eye, as poor Will wears just now? You wonder if it +ever happened to you to begin to talk with an old friend of your +father's in just that abashed way? Will must have fallen into some sad +scrape.--Well, he is a good fellow, and you will help him out of it! + +You look up as he goes on with his story;--you grow perplexed +yourself;--you scarce believe your own ears. + +----"Nelly?"--Is Will talking of Nelly? + +"Yes, sir,--Nelly." + +----"What!--and you have told all this to Nelly--that you love her?" + +"I have, sir." + +"And she says"-- + +"That I must speak with you, sir." + +"Bless my soul!--But she's a good girl;"--and the old man wipes his +eyes. + +----"Nell!--are you there?" + +And she comes,--blushing, lingering, yet smiling through it all. + +----"And you could deceive your old father, Nell"--(very fondly.) + +Nelly only clasps your hand in both of hers. + +"And so you loved Will all the while?" + +----Nelly only stoops to drop a little kiss of pleading on your +forehead. + +----"Well, Nelly," (it is hard to speak roundly,) "give me your +hand;--here, Will,--take it:--she's a wild girl;--be kind to her, Will." + +"God bless you, sir!" + +And Nelly throws herself, sobbing, upon your bosom. + +----"Not here,--not here now, Nell!--Will is yonder!" + +----Sobbing, sobbing still! Nelly, Nelly,--who would have thought that +your merry face covered such a heart of tenderness! + + + + +III. + +_Grief and Joy of Age._ + + +The Winter has its piercing storms,--even as Autumn hath. Hoary age, +crowned with honor and with years, bears no immunity from suffering. It +is the common heritage of us all: if it come not in the spring or in the +summer of our day, it will surely find us in the autumn, or amid the +frosts of winter. It is the penalty humanity pays for pleasure; human +joys will have their balance. Nature never makes false weight. The east +wind is followed by a wind from the west; and every smile will have its +equivalent in a tear! + +You have lived long and joyously with that dear one who has made your +life a holy pilgrimage. She has seemed to lead you into ways of +pleasantness, and has kindled in you--as the damps of the world came +near to extinguish them--those hopes and aspirations which rest not in +life, but soar to the realm of spirits. + +You have sometimes shuddered with the thought of parting; you have +trembled even at the leave-taking of a year, or of months, and have +suffered bitterly as some danger threatened a parting forever. That +danger threatens now. Nor is it a sudden fear to startle you into a +paroxysm of dread: nothing of this. Nature is kinder,--or she is less +kind. + +It is a slow and certain approach of danger which you read in the feeble +step,--in the wan eye, lighting up from time to time into a brightness, +that seems no longer of this world. You read it in the new and ceaseless +attentions of the fond child, who yet blesses your home, and who +conceals from you the bitterness of the coming grief. + +Frank is away--over-seas; and as the mother mentions that name with a +tremor of love and of regret, that he is not now with you all,--you +recall that other death, when you too were not there. Then, you knew +little of a parent's feeling; now, its intensity is present! + +Day after day, as summer passes, she is ripening for that world where +her faith and her hope have so long lived. Her pressure of your hand at +some casual parting for a day is full of a gentle warning, as if she +said,--prepare for a longer adieu! + +Her language, too, without direct mention steeps your thought in the +bitter certainty that she foresees her approaching doom, and that she +dreads it only so far as she dreads the grief that will be left in her +broken home. Madge--the daughter--glides through the duties of that +household like an angel of mercy: she lingers at the sick-bed,--blessing, +and taking blessings. + + * * * * * + +The sun shines warmly without, and through the open casement beats +warmly upon the floor within. The birds sing in the joyousness of +full-robed summer; the drowsy hum of the bees, stealing sweets from the +honeysuckle that bowers the window, lulls the air to a gentle quiet. Her +breathing scarce breaks the summer stillness. Yet, she knows it is +nearly over. Madge, too,--with features saddened, yet struggling against +grief,--feels--that it is nearly over. + +It is very hard to think it; how much harder to know it! But there is no +mistaking her look now--so placid, so gentle, so resigned! And her grasp +of your hand--so warm--so full of meaning! + +----"Madge, Madge, must it be?" And a pleasant smile lights her eye; and +her grasp is warmer; and her look is--upward! + +----"Must it--must it be, dear Madge?"--A holier smile,--loftier,--lit +up of angels, beams on her faded features. The hand relaxes its clasp, +and you cling to it faster--harder,--joined close to the frail wreck of +your love,--joined tightly--but oh, how far apart! + +She is in Heaven;--and you, struggling against the grief of a lorn, old +man! + +But sorrow, however great it be, must be subdued in the presence of a +child. Its fevered outbursts must be kept for those silent hours when no +young eyes are watching, and no young hearts will "catch the trick of +grief." + +When the household is quiet and darkened,--when Madge is away from you, +and your boy Frank slumbering--as youth slumbers upon sorrow,--when you +are alone with God and the night,--in that room so long hallowed by her +presence, but now--deserted--silent,--then you may yield yourself to +such frenzy of tears as your strength will let you! And in your solitary +rambles through the churchyard you can loiter of a summer's noon over +_her_ fresh-made grave, and let your pent heart speak, and your spirit +lean toward the Rest where her love has led you! + +Thornton, the clergyman, whose prayer over the dead has dwelt with you, +comes from time to time to light up your solitary hearth with his talk +of the Rest for all men. He is young, but his earnest and gentle speech +win their way to your heart, and to your understanding. You love his +counsels; you make of him a friend, whose visits are long and often +repeated. + +Frank only lingers for a while; and you bid him again--adieu. It seems +to you that it may well be the last; and your blessing trembles on your +lip. Yet you look not with dread, but rather with a firm trustfulness +toward the day of the end. For your darling Madge, it is true, you have +anxieties; you fear to leave her lonely in the world with no protector +save the wayward Frank. + + * * * * * + +It is later August when you call to Madge one day to bring you the +little _escritoire_, in which are your cherished papers; among them is +your last will and testament. Thornton has just left you, and it seems +to you that his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial +mark of your regard. + +"Maggie," you say, "Mr. Thornton has been very kind to me." + +"Very kind, father." + +"I mean to leave him here some little legacy, Maggie." + +"I would not, father." + +"But Madge, my daughter!" + +"He is not looking for such return, father." + +"But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of +my regard. What shall it be, Maggie?" + +Madge hesitates,--Madge blushes,--Madge stoops to her father's ear as if +the very walls might catch the secret of her heart;--"Would you give +_me_ to him, father?" + +"But--my dear Madge--has he asked this?" + +"Eight months ago, papa." + +"And you told him"-- + +"That I would never leave you, so long as you lived!" + +----"My own dear Madge,--come to me,--kiss me! And you love him, +Maggie?" + +"With all my heart, sir." + +----"So like your mother,--the same figure,--the same true, honest +heart! It shall be as you wish, dear Madge. Only you will not leave me +in my old age,--eh, Maggie?" + +----"Never, father,--never." + + * * * * * + +----And there she leans upon his chair;--her arm around the old man's +neck,--her other hand clasped in his,--and her eyes melting with +tenderness as she gazes upon his aged face,--all radiant with joy and +with hope! + + + + +IV. + +_The End of Dreams._ + + +A feeble old man, and a young lady who is just now blooming into the +maturity of womanhood, are toiling up a gentle slope, where the spring +sun lies warmly. The old man totters, though he leans heavily upon his +cane; and he pants as he seats himself upon a mossy rock that crowns the +summit of the slope. As he recovers breath, he draws the hand of the +lady in his, and with a trembling eagerness he points out an old mansion +that lies below under the shadow of tall sycamores; and he says,--feebly +and brokenly,--"That is it, Maggie,--the old home--the sycamores--the +garret--Charlie--Nelly"-- + +The old man wipes his eyes. Then his hand shifts: he seems groping in +darkness; but soon it rests upon a little cottage below, heavily +overshadowed. + +"That was it, Maggie;--Madge lived there--sweet Madge--your mother"-- + +Again the old man wipes his eyes, and the lady turns away. + +Presently they walk down the hill together. They cross a little valley +with slow, faltering steps. The lady guides him carefully, until they +reach a little graveyard. + +"This must be it, Maggie, but the fence is new. There it is, Maggie, +under the willow,--my poor mother's grave!" + +The lady weeps. + +"Thank you, Madge; you did not know her, but you weep for me. God bless +you!" + + * * * * * + +The old man is in the midst of his household. It is some festive day. He +holds feebly his place at the head of the board. He utters in feeble +tones--a Thanksgiving. + +His married Nelly is there with two blooming children. Frank is there +with his bride. Madge--dearest of all--is seated beside the old man, +watchful of his comfort, and assisting him as with a shadowy dignity he +essays to do the honors of the board. The children prattle merrily: the +elder ones talk of the days gone by; and the old man enters feebly, yet +with floating glimpses of glee, into the cheer and the rejoicings. + +----Poor old man, he is near his tomb! Yet his calm eye, looking +upward, seems to show no fear. + + * * * * * + +The same old man is in his chamber; he cannot leave his chair now. Madge +is beside him; Nelly is there too with her eldest-born. Madge has been +reading to the old man: it was a passage of promise--of the Bible +promise. + +"A glorious promise!" says the old man, feebly;--"a promise to me,--a +promise to her, poor Madge!" + +----"Is her picture there, Maggie?" + +Madge brings it to him: he turns his head; but the light is not strong. +They wheel his chair to the window. The sun is shining brightly: still +the old man cannot see. + +"It is getting dark, Maggie." + +Madge looks at Nelly--wistfully--sadly. + +The old man murmurs something; and Madge stoops.--"Coming," he +says,--"coming!" + +Nelly brings the little child to take his hand. Perhaps it will revive +him. She lifts her boy to kiss his cheek. + +The old man does not stir: his eyes do not move: they seem fixed above. +The child cries as his lips touch the cold cheek.--It is a tender Spring +flower upon the bosom of the dying WINTER! + + * * * * * + +----The old man is gone: his dream-life is ended. + + + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Dream Life, by Donald G. 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Mitchell + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Dream Life + A Fable Of The Seasons + +Author: Donald G. Mitchell + +Release Date: February 26, 2006 [EBook #17862] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAM LIFE *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Graeme Mackreth and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<h1>DREAM LIFE:</h1> + +<h6>A</h6> + +<h2>FABLE OF THE SEASONS</h2> + +<h4>BY</h4> + +<h3>DONALD G. MITCHELL</h3> + +<p class="center"> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">—— We are such stuff</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">As dreams are made of; and our little life</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is rounded with a sleep</span></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 33em;"><span class="smcap"><small>Tempest.</small></span></p> + + +<p class="center" style="margin-top: 10em;"><small>NEW YORK<br /> + +SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG, AND COMPANY<br /> + +1876.</small></p> + +<p class="center" style="margin-bottom: 5em;"><small> +Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by<br /> +<span class="smcap">Charles Scribner & Co.,</span><br /> +In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the<br /> +Southern District of New York</small></p> +<p class="center"><small>RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:<br /> +STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY<br /> +H.O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY<br /> +</small></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><i>A NEW PREFACE.</i></h2> + + +<p>Twelve years ago, this autumn, when I had finished the concluding +chapters of this little book, I wrote a letter of Dedication to +Washington Irving, and, forwarding it by mail to Sunnyside, begged his +permission to print it. I think I shall gratify a rational curiosity of +my readers (however much they may condemn my vanity) if I give his reply +in full.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"<span class="smcap">My dear Sir</span>,—</p> + +<p>"Though I have a great disinclination in general to be the object +of literary oblations and compliments, yet in the present instance +I have enjoyed your writings with such peculiar relish, and been so +drawn toward the author by the qualities of head and heart evinced +in them, that I confess I feel gratified by a dedication, +over-flattering as I may deem it, which may serve as an outward +sign that we are cordially linked together in sympathies and +friendship.</p> + +<p>"I would only suggest that in your dedication you would omit the +LL.D., a learned dignity urged upon me very much 'against the +stomach of my sense,' and to which I have never laid claim.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 10em;">"Ever, my dear sir,</p> +<p style="margin-left: 15em;">"Yours, very truly,</p> +<p style="margin-left: 20em;"><span class="smcap">"Washington Irving</span></p> +<p>"<span class="smcap">Sunnyside</span>, <i>Nov</i>. 1851."</p></div> + + +<p>I had been personally presented to Mr. Irving for the first time, only a +year before, under the introduction of my good friend, Mr. Clark (the +veteran Editor of the old Knickerbocker in its palmy days). Thereafter I +had met him from time to time, and had paid a charming visit to his +delightful home of Sunnyside. But it was after the date of the +publication of this book and during the summer of 1852, that I saw Mr. +Irving more familiarly, and came to appreciate more fully that charming +<i>bonhomie</i> and geniality in his character which we all recognize so +constantly in his writings. And if I set down here a few recollections +of that pleasant intercourse, they will, I am sure, more than make good +the place of the old letter of Dedication, and will serve to keep alive +the association I wish to cherish between my little book and the name of +the distinguished author who so kindly showed me his favor.</p> + +<p>For the first time, after many years, Mr. Irving made a stay of a few +weeks at Saratoga, in the summer of 1852. By good fortune, I chanced to +occupy a room upon the same corridor of the hotel, within a few doors of +his, and shared very many of his early morning walks to the "Spring." +What at once struck me very forcibly in the course of these walks, was +the rare alertness and minuteness of his observation: not a fair young +face could dash past us in its drapery of muslin, but the eye of the old +gentleman drank in all its freshness and beauty with the keen appetite +and the grateful admiration of a boy; not a dowager brushed past us +bedizened with finery, but he fastened the apparition in my memory with +some piquant remark,—as the pin of an entomologist fastens a gaudy fly. +No rheumatic old hero-invalid, battered in long wars with the +doctors,—no droll marplot of a boy, could appear within range, but I +could see in the changeful expression of my companion the admeasurement +and quiet adjustment of the appeal which either made upon his sympathy +or his humor. A flower, a tree, a burst of music, a country market-man +hoisted upon his wagon of cabbages,—all these by turns caught and +engaged his attention, however little they might interrupt the flow of +his talk.</p> + +<p>I ventured to ask on one occasion, if he had depended solely upon his +memory for the thousand little descriptions of natural objects which +occur in his books.</p> + +<p>"Not wholly," he replied; and went on to tell me it had been his way, in +the earlier days of his authorship, to carry little tablets with him +into the country, and whenever he saw a scene specially picturesque,—a +cottage of marked features, a noticeable tree, any picture, in short, +which promised service to him,—to note down its distinguishing points, +and hold it in reserve.</p> + +<p>"This," said he, "is one among those small arts and industries which a +person who writes much must avail himself of: they are equivalent to the +little thumb-sketches from which a painter makes up his larger +compositions."</p> + +<p>On our way to the church on a certain Sunday morning, he tapped my +shoulder as we entered the little gate, and called my attention to a +lithe young Indian girl, who had strolled down from the campment on the +plains, and was standing proudly erect upon the church-porch, with +finger to her lips, scanning curiously the worshippers as they passed +in.</p> + +<p>"What a splendid figure of a woman!" said he, "she is puzzling over the +extravagances and devotions of the white-faces."</p> + +<p>The black, straight elf-locks, the swart face, the great wondering eye, +with the gay blanket, short gown of woollen-stuff, and brilliant +moccasins, made a striking picture to be sure; and I could not help +thinking, that if the apparition had chanced upon him earlier, she might +have figured in some story of Pokanoket or of the Prairies.</p> + +<p>I took occasion one morning to ask if he was always able to control the +"humors of writing," and to put himself resolutely to work, whatever +might be the state of his feeling.</p> + +<p>"No," he said, very decidedly,—"unfortunately I cannot: there are men +who do, I believe. I always envied them; but there was a period of a +month or more, after I had finally decided upon literary labors, and had +declined a lucrative position under Government, when it seemed as if I +was utterly bereft of all the fancies I ever had; for weeks I could do +nothing; but at last the clouds lifted, and I wrote off the first +numbers of the 'Sketch-Book,' and dispatched them to my good friends in +this country, to make the most of. I feared it would not be much.</p> + +<p>"And the worst of it is," continued he, "the good people do not allow +for these periods of depression; if a man does a thing tolerably well in +his happy moods, they see no reason why he should not be always in a +happy mood."</p> + +<p>I asked if he had never found relief, and a stimulant to work, in the +reading aloud of some favorite old author.</p> + +<p>"Often," said he; "and none are more effective with me for this service +than the sacred writers; I think I have waked a good many sleeping +fancies by the reading of a chapter in Isaiah."</p> + +<p>In answer to inquiries of mine in regard to the incomplete state of +several of the stories of "Wolfert's Roost," he said: "Yes, we do not +get through all we lay out. Some of those sketches had lain in my mind +for a great many years; they made a sort of garret-trumpery, of which I +thought I would make a general clearance, leaving the odds and ends to +take care of themselves.</p> + +<p>"There was a novel too, I once laid out, in which an English lad, being +a son of one of the old Regicide Judges, was to come over to New England +in search of his father: he was to meet with a throng of adventures, and +to arrive at length upon a Saturday night, in the midst of a terrible +thunder-storm, at the house of a stern old Massachusetts Puritan, who +comes out to answer to the rappings; and by a flash of lightning which +gleams upon the harsh, iron visage of the old man, the son fancies he +recognizes his father."</p> + +<p>And as he told it, the old gentleman wrinkled his brow, and tried to put +on the fierce look he would describe.</p> + +<p>"It's all there is of it," said he. "If you want to make a story, you +can furbish it up."</p> + +<p>There were among other notable people at Saratoga, during the summer of +which I speak, the well-known Mrs. Dr. R——, of Philadelphia, since +deceased,—a woman of great eccentricities, but of a wonderfully +masculine mind, and of great cultivation. It was a fancy of hers to give +special, social patronage to foreign artists; and among those just then +at Saratoga, and the recipients of her favor, were a distinguished +violinist—whose name I do not now recall—and the newly married Mme. +Alboni. Mr. Irving, in common with her other acquaintances, she was +inclined to make contributory to her attentions. To this Mr. Irving was +not averse, both from his extreme love of music, and his kindliness +toward the artists themselves; yet, in his own quiet way, I think he +fretted considerably at being pounced upon at odd hours to give them +French talk.</p> + +<p>"It's very awkward," said he to me one day; "I have had large occasion +for practice to be sure; but I rather fancy, after all, our own +language; it's heartier and easier."</p> + +<p>He was utterly incapable of being lionized. Time and again, under the +trees in the court of the hotel, did I hear him enter upon some pleasant +story, lighted up with that rare turn of his eye, and by his deft +expressions, when, as chance acquaintances grouped about him,—as is the +way of watering-places,—and eager listeners multiplied, his hilarity +and spirit took a chill from the increasing auditory, and drawing +abruptly to a close, he would sidle away with a friend and be gone.</p> + +<p>Among the visitors was a tall, interesting young girl—from Louisiana, +if I mistake not—who had the reputation of being a great heiress, and +who was, of course, beset by a host of admirers. There was something +very attractive in her air, and Mr. Irving was never tired of gazing on +her as she walked, with what he called a "faun-like step," across the +lawn, or up and down the corridors. Her eyes too—"dove-like," he +termed them—were his special admiration. He watched with an amused +interest the varying fortunes of the rival lovers, and often met me +with—"Well, who is in favor to-day?" And he discussed very freely the +varying chances.</p> + +<p>One brusque, heavy man, who thought to carry the matter through by a +<i>coup de main</i>, he was sure could never succeed. A second, who was most +assiduous, but whose brazen confidence was unyielding, he counted still +less upon. But a quiet, somewhat older gentleman, whose look was ever +full of tender appeal, and who bore himself with a modest dignity, he +reckoned the probable winner. "He will feel a Nay grievously," said he; +"but for the others, they will forget it in a supper."</p> + +<p>I believe it eventually proved that no one of those present was the +successful suitor. I know only that the fair girl was afterward a bride; +and (what we all so little anticipated) her home is now a scene of +desolation, her fortune very likely a wreck, her family scattered or +slain, and herself, maybe, a fugitive.</p> + +<p>I saw Mr. Irving afterward repeatedly in New York, and passed two +delightful days at Sunnyside. I can never forget a drive with him upon a +crisp autumn morning through Sleepy Hollow, and all the notable +localities of his neighborhood, in the course of which he kindly called +my attention, in the most unaffected and incidental way, to those which +had been specially illustrated by his pen; and with a rare humor +recounted to me some of his boyish adventures among the old Dutch +farmers of this region. Most of all, it is impossible for me to forget +the rare kindliness of his manner, his friendly suggestions, and the +beaming expression of his eye.</p> + +<p>I met it last at the little stile from which I strolled away to the +station at Dearman; and when I saw the kind face again, it was in the +coffin, at the little church where he attended service. But the eyes +were closed, and the wonderful radiance of expression gone. It seemed to +me that death never took away more from a living face; it was but a cold +shadow lying there, of the man who had taught a nation to love him.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Edgewood</span>, <i>Sept.</i> 1863.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> + + + +<h3><a href="#INTRODUCTORY"><i>INTRODUCTORY.</i></a></h3> +<ul class="TOC"> +<li><a href="#With_my_Aunt_Tabithy"> <span class="smcap">With my Aunt Tabithy</span></a></li> + +<li> <a href="#With_my_Reader"><span class="smcap">With my Reader</span> </a> </li> +</ul> + +<h3><a href="#DREAMS_OF_BOYHOOD"><i>DREAMS OF BOYHOOD.</i></a></h3> + +<p style="margin-left: 5.5em;"><a href="#SPRING"><span class="smcap">Spring</span> </a></p> +<ul class="TOC"> +<li><a href="#Rain_in_the_Garret"> <span class="smcap">Rain in the Garret</span></a></li> +<li><a href="#School_Dreams"> <span class="smcap">School-Dreams</span> </a> </li> +<li><a href="#Boy_Sentiment"> <span class="smcap">Boy Sentiment</span></a></li> +<li><a href="#A_Friend_made_and_A_Friend_lost"> <span class="smcap">A Friend made and Friend lost</span></a></li> +<li><a href="#Boy_Religion"> <span class="smcap">Boy Religion</span> </a></li> +<li><a href="#A_New_England_Squire"> <span class="smcap">A New-England Squire</span></a></li> +<li><a href="#The_Country_Church"> <span class="smcap">The Country Church</span></a></li> +<li><a href="#A_Home_Scene"> <span class="smcap">A Home Scene</span> </a></li> +</ul> + +<h3><a href="#DREAMS_OF_YOUTH"><i>DREAMS OF YOUTH.</i></a></h3> + +<p style="margin-left: 5.5em;"><a href="#SUMMER"><span class="smcap">Summer</span></a></p> +<ul class="TOC"> +<li> +<a href="#Cloister_Life"> <span class="smcap">Cloister Life</span></a></li> +<li> +<a href="#First_Ambition"> <span class="smcap">First Ambition</span></a></li> +<li> +<a href="#College_Romance"> <span class="smcap">College Romance</span> </a></li> +<li> +<a href="#First_Look_at_the_World"> <span class="smcap">First Look at the World</span></a></li> +<li> +<a href="#A_Broken_Home"> <span class="smcap">A Broken Home</span> </a></li> +<li> +<a href="#Family_Confidence"> <span class="smcap">Family Confidence</span></a></li> +<li> +<a href="#A_Good_Wife"> <span class="smcap">A Good Wife</span></a></li> +<li> +<a href="#A_Broken_Hope"> <span class="smcap">A Broken Hope</span> </a></li> +</ul> + + + + +<h3><a href="#DREAMS_OF_MANHOOD"><i>DREAMS OF MANHOOD.</i></a></h3> + + +<p style="margin-left: 5.5em;"><a href="#AUTUMN"><span class="smcap">Autumn</span></a></p> +<ul class="TOC"><li> +<a href="#Pride_of_Manliness"> <span class="smcap">Pride of Manliness</span></a></li> +<li> +<a href="#Man_of_the_World"> <span class="smcap">Man of the World</span></a></li> +<li> +<a href="#Manly_Hope"> <span class="smcap">Manly Hope</span></a></li> +<li> +<a href="#Manly_Love"> <span class="smcap">Manly Love</span> </a></li> +<li> +<a href="#Cheer_and_Children"> <span class="smcap">Cheer and Children</span></a></li> +<li> +<a href="#A_Dream_of_Darkness"> <span class="smcap">A Dream of Darkness</span> </a></li> +<li> +<a href="#Peace"> <span class="smcap">Peace</span> </a></li> +</ul> + + +<h3><a href="#DREAMS_OF_AGE"><i>DREAMS OF AGE.</i></a></h3> + +<p style="margin-left: 5.5em;"><a href="#WINTER"><span class="smcap">Winter</span></a></p> +<ul class="TOC"> +<li> +<a href="#What_is_Gone"> <span class="smcap">What is Gone</span></a> </li> +<li> +<a href="#What_is_Left"> <span class="smcap">What is Left</span></a> </li> +<li> +<a href="#Grief_and_Joy_of_Age"> <span class="smcap">Grief and Joy of Age</span></a> </li> +<li> +<a href="#The_End_of_Dreams"> <span class="smcap">The End of Dreams</span> </a> </li> +</ul> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="INTRODUCTORY" id="INTRODUCTORY"></a><i>INTRODUCTORY.</i></h2> + + +<h2>I.</h2> + +<h3><a name="With_my_Aunt_Tabithy" id="With_my_Aunt_Tabithy"></a><i>With my Aunt Tabithy.</i></h3> + +<p>"Pshaw!" said my Aunt Tabithy, "have you not done with dreaming?"</p> + +<p>My Aunt Tabithy, though an excellent and most notable person, loves +occasionally a quiet bit of satire. And when I told her that I was +sharpening my pen for a new story of those dreamy fancies and +half-experiences which lie grouped along the journeying hours of my +solitary life, she smiled as if in derision.</p> + +<p>----"Ah, Isaac," said she, "all that is exhausted; you have rung so many +changes on your hopes and your dreams, that you have nothing left but to +make them real—if you can."</p> + +<p>It is very idle to get angry with a good-natured old lady. I did better +than this,—I made her listen to me.</p> + +<p>----Exhausted, do you say, Aunt Tabithy? Is life then exhausted; is +hope gone out; is fancy dead?</p> + +<p>No, no. Hope and the world are full; and he who drags into book-pages a +phase or two of the great life of passion, of endurance, of love, of +sorrow, is but wetting a feather in the sea that breaks ceaselessly +along the great shore of the years. Every man's heart is a living drama; +every death is a drop-scene; every book only a faint foot-light to throw +a little flicker on the stage.</p> + +<p>There is no need of wandering widely to catch incident or adventure; +they are everywhere about us; each day is a succession of escapes and +joys,—not perhaps clear to the world, but brooding in our thought, and +living in our brain. From the very first, Angels and Devils are busy +with us, and we are struggling against them and for them.</p> + +<p>No, no, Aunt Tabithy; this life of musing does not exhaust so easily. It +is like the springs on the farmland, that are fed with all the showers +and the dews of the year, and that from the narrow fissures of the rock +send up streams continually; or it is like the deep well in the meadow, +where one may see stars at noon when no stars are shining.</p> + +<p>What is Reverie, and what are these Day-dreams, but fleecy cloud-drifts +that float eternally, and eternally change shapes, upon the great +over-arching sky of thought? You may seize the strong outlines that the +passion-breezes of to-day shall throw into their figures; but to-morrow +may breed a whirlwind that will chase swift, gigantic shadows over the +heaven of your thought, and change the whole landscape of your life.</p> + +<p>Dream-land will never be exhausted, until we enter the land of dreams, +and until, in "shuffling off this mortal coil," thought will become +fact, and all facts will be only thought.</p> + +<p>As it is, I can conceive no mood of mind more in keeping with what is to +follow upon the grave, than those fancies which warp our frail hulks +toward the ocean of the Infinite, and that so sublimate the realities of +this being, that they seem to belong to that shadowy realm whither every +day's journey is leading.</p> + +<p>—It was warm weather, and my aunt was dozing. "What is this all to be +about?" said she, recovering her knitting-needle.</p> + +<p>"About love, and toil, and duty, and sorrow," said I.</p> + +<p>My aunt laid down her knitting, looked at me over the rim of her +spectacles, and—took snuff.</p> + +<p>I said nothing.</p> + +<p>"How many times have you been in love, Isaac?" said she.</p> + +<p>It was now my turn to say, "Pshaw!"</p> + +<p>Judging from her look of assurance, I could not possibly have made a +more satisfactory reply.</p> + +<p>My aunt finished the needle she was upon, smoothed the stocking-leg over +her knee, and looking at me with a very comical expression, said, +"Isaac, you are a sad fellow!"</p> + +<p>I did not like the tone of this; it sounded very much as if it would +have been in the mouth of any one else—"bad fellow."</p> + +<p>And she went on to ask me, in a very bantering way, if my stock of +youthful loves was not nearly exhausted; and she cited the episode of +the fair-haired Enrica, as perhaps the most tempting that I could draw +from my experience.</p> + +<p>A better man than myself, if he had only a fair share of vanity, would +have been nettled at this; and I replied somewhat tartly, that I had +never professed to write my experiences. These might be more or less +tempting; but certainly if they were of a kind which I have attempted to +portray in the characters of Bella, or of Carry, neither my Aunt Tabithy +nor any one else should have learned such truth from any book of mine. +There are griefs too sacred to be babbled to the world; and there may be +loves which one would forbear to whisper even to a friend.</p> + +<p>No, no; imagination has been playing pranks with memory; and if I have +made the feeling real, I am content that the facts should be false. +Feeling, indeed, has a higher truth in it than circumstance. It appeals +to a larger jury for acquittal; it is approved or condemned by a better +judge. And if I can catch this bolder and richer truth of feeling, I +will not mind if the types of it are all fabrications.</p> + +<p>If I run over some sweet experience of love, (my Aunt Tabithy brightened +a little,) must I make good the fact that the loved one lives, and +expose her name and qualities to make your sympathy sound? Or shall I +not rather be working upon higher and holier ground, if I take the +passion for itself, and so weave it into words, that you and every +willing sufferer may recognize the fervor, and forget the personality?</p> + +<p>Life, after all, is but a bundle of hints, each suggesting actual and +positive development, but rarely reaching it. And as I recall these +hints, and in fancy trace them to their issues, I am as truly dealing +with life as if my life had dealt them all to me.</p> + +<p>This is what I would be doing in the present book. I would catch up here +and there the shreds of feeling which the brambles and roughnesses of +the world have left tangling on my heart, and weave them out into those +soft and perfect tissues which, if the world had been only a little less +rough, might now perhaps enclose my heart altogether.</p> + +<p>"Ah," said my Aunt Tabithy, as she smoothed the stocking-leg again, with +a sigh, "there is, after all, but one youth-time; and if you put down +its memories once, you can find no second growth."</p> + +<p>My Aunt Tabithy was wrong. There is as much growth in the thoughts and +feelings that run behind us as in those that run before us. You may make +a rich, full picture of your childhood to-day; but let the hour go by, +and the darkness stoop to your pillow with its million shapes of the +past, and my word for it, you shall have some flash of childhood lighten +upon you, that was unknown to your busiest thought of the morning.</p> + +<p>Let a week go by, and in some interval of care, as you recall the smile +of a mother, or some pale sister who is dead, a new crowd of memories +will rush upon your soul, and leave their traces in such tears as will +make you kinder and better for days and weeks. Or you shall assist at +some neighbor funeral, where the little dead one (like one you have seen +before) shall hold in its tiny grasp (as you have taught little dead +hands to do) fresh flowers, laughing flowers, lying lightly on the white +robe of the dear child,—all pale, cold, silent—</p> + +<p>I had touched my Aunt Tabithy: she had dropped a stitch in her knitting. +I believe she was weeping.</p> + +<p>—Aye, this brain of ours is a master-worker, whose appliances we do not +one half know; and this heart of ours is a rare storehouse, furnishing +the brain with new material every hour of our lives; and their limits we +shall not know, until they shall end—together.</p> + +<p>Nor is there, as many faint-hearts imagine, but one phase of earnestness +in our life of feeling. One train of deep emotion cannot fill up the +heart: it radiates like a star, God-ward and earth-ward. It spends and +reflects all ways. Its force is to be reckoned not so much by token as +by capacity. Facts are the poorest and most slumberous evidences of +passion or of affection. True feeling is ranging everywhere; whereas +your actual attachments are too apt to be tied to sense.</p> + +<p>A single affection may indeed be true, earnest, and absorbing; but such +an one, after all, is but a type—and if the object be worthy, a +glorious type—of the great book of feeling: it is only the vapor from +the caldron of the heart, and bears no deeper relation to its +exhaustless sources than the letter, which my pen makes, bears to the +thought that inspires it,—or than a single morning strain of your +orioles and thrushes bears to that wide bird-chorus which is making +every sunrise a worship, and every grove a temple!</p> + +<p>My Aunt Tabithy nodded.</p> + +<p>Nor is this a mere bachelor fling against constancy. I can believe, +Heaven knows, in an unalterable and unflinching affection, which neither +desires nor admits the prospect of any other. But when one is tasking +his brain to talk for his heart,—when he is not writing positive +history, but only making mention, as it were, of the heart's +capacities,—who shall say that he has reached the fulness, that he has +exhausted the stock of its feeling, or that he has touched its highest +notes? It is true, there is but one heart in a man to be stirred; but +every stir creates a new combination of feeling, that like the turn of a +kaleidoscope will show some fresh color or form.</p> + +<p>A bachelor, to be sure, has a marvellous advantage in this; and with the +tenderest influences once anchored in the bay of marriage, there is +little disposition to scud off under each pleasant breeze of feeling. +Nay, I can even imagine—perhaps somewhat captiously—that after +marriage, feeling would become a habit, a rich and holy habit certainly, +but yet a habit, which weakens the omnivorous grasp of the affections, +and schools one to a unity of emotion that doubts and ignores the +promptness and variety of impulse which we bachelors possess.</p> + +<p>My aunt nodded again.</p> + +<p>Could it be that she approved what I had been saying? I hardly knew.</p> + +<p>Poor old lady,—she did not know herself. She was asleep!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>II.</h2> + +<h3><a name="With_my_Reader" id="With_my_Reader"></a><i>With my Reader.</i></h3> + + +<p>Having silenced my Aunt Tabithy, I shall be generous enough, in my +triumph, to offer an explanatory chat to my reader.</p> + +<p>This is a history of Dreams; and there will be those who will sneer at +such a history, as the work of a dreamer. So indeed it is; and you, my +courteous reader, are a dreamer too!</p> + +<p>You would perhaps like to find your speculations about wealth, marriage, +or influence called by some better name than Dreams. You would like to +see the history of them—if written at all—baptized at the font of your +own vanity, with some such title as—life's cares, or life's work. If +there had been a philosophic naming to my observations, you might have +reckoned them good; as it is, you count them all bald and palpable +fiction.</p> + +<p>But is it so? I care not how matter-of-fact you may be, you have in your +own life at some time proved the very truth of what I have set down; and +the chances are, that even now, gray as you may be, and economic as you +may be, and devotional as you pretend to be, you light up your Sabbath +reflections with just such dreams of wealth, of per centages, or of +family, as you will find scattered over these pages.</p> + +<p>I am not to be put aside with any talk about stocks, and duties, and +respectability: all these, though very eminent matters, are but so many +types in the volume of your thought; and your eager resolves about them +are but so many ambitious waves breaking up from that great sea of +dreamy speculation that has spread over your soul from its first start +into the realm of Consciousness.</p> + +<p>No man's brain is so dull, and no man's eye so blind, that they cannot +catch food for dreams. Each little episode of life is full, had we but +the perception of its fulness. There is no such thing as blank in the +world of thought. Every action and emotion have their development +growing and gaining on the soul. Every affection has its tears and +smiles. Nay, the very material world is full of meaning, and by +suggesting thought is making us what we are and what we will be.</p> + +<p>The sparrow that is twittering on the edge of my balcony is calling up +to me this moment a world of memories that reach over half my lifetime, +and a world of hope that stretches farther than any flight of sparrows. +The rose-tree which shades his mottled coat is full of buds and +blossoms; and each bud and blossom is a token of promise that has +issues covering life, and reaching beyond death. The quiet sunshine +beyond the flower and beyond the sparrow,—glistening upon the leaves, +and playing in delicious waves of warmth over the reeking earth,—is +lighting both heart and hope, and quickening into activity a thousand +thoughts of what has been and of what will be. The meadow stretching +away under its golden flood,—waving with grain, and with the feathery +blossoms of the grass, and golden buttercups, and white, nodding +daisies,—comes to my eye like the lapse of fading childhood, studded +here and there with the bright blossoms of joy, crimsoned all over with +the flush of health, and enamelled with memories that perfume the soul. +The blue hills beyond, with deep-blue shadows gathered in their bosom, +lie before me like mountains of years, over which I shall climb through +shadows to the slope of Age, and go down to the deeper shadows of Death.</p> + +<p>Nor are dreams without their variety, whatever your character may be. I +care not how much in the pride of your practical judgment, or in your +learned fancies, you may sneer at any dream of love, and reckon it all a +poet's fiction: there are times when such dreams come over you like a +summer-cloud, and almost stifle you with their warmth.</p> + +<p>Seek as you will for increase of lands or moneys, and there are moments +when a spark of some giant mind will flash over your cravings, and wake +your soul suddenly to a quick and yearning sense of that influence which +is begotten of intellect; and you task your dreams—as I have copied +them here—to build before you the pleasures of such a renown.</p> + +<p>I care not how worldly you may be: there are times when all distinctions +seem like dust, and when at the graves of the great you dream of a +coming country, where your proudest hopes shall be dimmed forever.</p> + +<p>Married or unmarried, young or old, poet or worker, you are still a +dreamer, and will one time know, and feel, that your life is but a +dream. Yet you call this fiction: you stave off the thoughts in print +which come over you in reverie. You will not admit to the eye what is +true to the heart. Poor weakling, and worldling, you are not strong +enough to face yourself!</p> + +<p>You will read perhaps with smiles; you will possibly praise the +ingenuity; you will talk with a lip schooled against the slightest +quiver of some bit of pathos, and say that it is—well done. Yet why is +it well done?—only because it is stolen from your very life and heart. +It is good, because it is so common; ingenious, because it is so honest; +well-conceived, because it is not conceived at all.</p> + +<p>There are thousands of mole-eyed people who count all passion in print a +lie,—people who will grow into a rage at trifles, and weep in the dark, +and love in secret, and hope without mention, and cover it all under +the cloak of what they call—propriety. I can see before me now some +gray-haired old gentleman, very money-getting, very correct, very +cleanly, who reads the morning paper with unction, and his Bible with +determination,—who listens to dull sermons with patience, and who prays +with quiet self-applause; and yet there are moments belonging to his +life, when his curdled affections yearn for something that they have +not,—when his avarice oversteps all the commandments,—when his pride +builds castles full of splendor; and yet put this before his eye, and he +reads with the most careless air in the world, and condemns as arrant +fiction, what cannot be proved to the elders.</p> + +<p>We do not like to see our emotions unriddled: it is not agreeable to the +proud man to find his weaknesses exposed; it is shocking to the +disappointed lover to see his heart laid bare; it is a great grief to +the pining maiden to witness the exposure of her loves. We do not like +our fancies painted; we do not contrive them for rehearsal: our dreams +are private, and when they are made public, we disown them.</p> + +<p>I sometimes think that I must be a very honest fellow for writing down +those fancies,—which every one else seems afraid to whisper. I shall at +least come in for my share of the odium in entertaining such fancies: +indeed I shall expect the charge of entertaining them exclusively, and +shall scarce expect to find a single fellow-confessor, unless it be some +pure and innocent-thoughted girl, who will say <i>peccavi</i> to—here and +there—a single rainbow fancy.</p> + +<p>Well, I can bear it; but in bearing it, I shall be consoled with the +reflection that I have a great company of fellow-sufferers, who lack +only the honesty to tell me of their sympathy. It will even relieve in +no small degree my burden to watch the effort they will take to conceal +what I have so boldly divulged.</p> + +<p>Nature is very much the same thing in one man that it is in another; +and, as I have already said, Feeling has a higher truth in it than +circumstance. Let it only be touched fairly and honestly, and the heart +of humanity answers; but if it be touched foully or one-sidedly, you may +find here and there a lame-souled creature who will give response, but +there is no heart-throb in it.</p> + +<p>Of one thing I am sure:—if my pictures are fair, worthy, and hearty, +you <i>must</i> see it in the reading; but if they are forced and hard, no +amount of kindness can make you feel their truth, as I want them felt.</p> + +<p>I make no self-praise out of this: if feeling has been honestly set +down, it is only in virtue of a native impulse, over which I have +altogether too little control, but if it is set down badly, I have +wronged Nature, and (as Nature is kind) I have wronged myself.</p> + +<p>A great many inquisitive people will, I do not doubt, be asking, after +all this prelude, if my pictures are true pictures? The question—the +courteous reader will allow me to say—is an impertinent one. It is but +a shabby truth that wants an author's affidavit to make it trustworthy. +I shall not help my story by any such poor support. If there are not +enough elements of truth, honesty, and nature in my pictures to make +them believed, they shall have no oath of mine to bolster them up.</p> + +<p>I have been a sufferer in this way before now; and a little book that I +had the whim to publish a year since, has been set down by many as an +arrant piece of imposture. Claiming sympathy as a Bachelor, I have been +recklessly set down as a cold, undeserving man of family! My story of +troubles and loves has been sneered at as the sheerest gammon.</p> + +<p>But among this crowd of cold-blooded critics, it was pleasant to hear of +one or two pursy old fellows who railed at me for winning the affections +of a sweet Italian girl, and then leaving her to pine in discontent! Yet +in the face of this, an old companion of mine in Rome, with whom I +accidentally met the other day, wondered how on earth I could have made +so tempting a story out of the matronly and black-haired spinster with +whom I happened to be quartered in the Eternal City!</p> + +<p>I shall leave my critics to settle such differences between themselves; +and consider it far better to bear with slanders from both sides of the +house, than to bewray the pretty tenderness of the pursy old gentlemen, +or to cast a doubt upon the practical testimony of my quondam companion. +Both give me high and judicious compliment,—all the more grateful +because only half deserved. For I never yet was conscious—alas, that +the confession should be forced from me!—of winning the heart of any +maiden, whether native or Italian; and as for such delicacy of +imagination as to work up a lovely damsel out of the withered remnant +that forty odd years of Italian life can spare, I can assure my +middle-aged friends, (and it may serve as a <i>caveat</i>,) I can lay no +claim to it whatever.</p> + +<p>The trouble has been, that those who have believed one passage, have +discredited another; and those who have sympathized with me in trifles, +have deserted me when affairs grew earnest. I have had sympathy enough +with my married griefs, but when it came to the perplexing torments of +my single life—not a weeper could I find!</p> + +<p>I would suggest to those who intend to believe only half of my present +book, that they exercise a little discretion in their choice. I am not +fastidious in the matter, and only ask them to believe what counts most +toward the goodness of humanity, and to discredit—if they will persist +in it—only what tells badly for our common nature. The man, or the +woman, who believes well, is apt to work well; and Faith is as much the +key to happiness here, as it is the key to happiness hereafter.</p> + +<p>I have only one thing more to say before I get upon my story. A great +many sharp-eyed people, who have a horror of light reading,—by which +they mean whatever does not make mention of stocks, cottons, or moral +homilies,—will find much fault with my book for its ephemeral +character.</p> + +<p>I am sorry that I cannot gratify such: homilies are not at all in my +habit; and it does seem to me an exhausting way of disposing of a good +moral, to hammer it down to a single point, so that there shall be only +one chance of driving it home. For my own part, I count it a great deal +better philosophy to fuse it, and rarefy it, so that it shall spread out +into every crevice of a story, and give a color and a taste, as it were, +to the whole mass.</p> + +<p>I know there are very good people, who, if they cannot lay their finger +on so much doctrine set down in old-fashioned phrase, will never get an +inkling of it at all. With such people, goodness is a thing of +understanding, more than of feeling, and all their morality has its +action in the brain.</p> + +<p>God forbid that I should sneer at this terrible infirmity, which +Providence has seen fit to inflict; God forbid too, that I should not be +grateful to the same kind Providence for bestowing upon others among +his creatures a more genial apprehension of true goodness, and a hearty +sympathy with every shade of human kindness.</p> + +<p>But in all this I am not making out a case for my own correct teaching, +or insinuating the propriety of my tone. I shall leave the book, in this +regard, to speak for itself; and whoever feels himself growing worse for +the reading, I advise to lay it down. It will be very harmless on the +shelf, however it may be in the hand.</p> + +<p>I shall lay no claim to the title of moralist, teacher, or romancist: my +thoughts start pleasant pictures to my mind; and in a garrulous humor I +put my finger in the button-hole of my indulgent friend, and tell him +some of them,—giving him leave to quit me whenever he chooses.</p> + +<p>Or, if a lady is my listener, let her fancy me only an honest, +simple-hearted fellow, whose familiarities are so innocent that she can +pardon them;—taking her hand in his, and talking on; sometimes looking +in her eyes, and then looking into the sunshine for relief; sometimes +prosy with narrative, and then sharpening up my matter with a few +touches of honest pathos;—let her imagine this, I say, and we may +become the most excellent friends in the world.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="SPRING" id="SPRING"></a><i>SPRING;</i></h2> + +<h4>OR,</h4> + +<h2><i>DREAMS OF BOYHOOD.</i></h2> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2><a name="DREAMS_OF_BOYHOOD" id="DREAMS_OF_BOYHOOD"></a><i>DREAMS OF BOYHOOD.</i></h2> + +<h4><i>Spring.</i></h4> + + +<p>The old chroniclers made the year begin in the season of frosts; and +they have launched us upon the current of the months from the snowy +banks of January. I love better to count time from spring to spring; it +seems to me far more cheerful to reckon the year by blossoms than by +blight.</p> + +<p>Bernardin de St. Pierre, in his sweet story of Virginia, makes the bloom +of the cocoa-tree, or the growth of the banana, a yearly and a loved +monitor of the passage of her life. How cold and cheerless in the +comparison would be the icy chronology of the North;—So many years have +I seen the lakes locked, and the foliage die!</p> + +<p>The budding and blooming of spring seem to belong properly to the +opening of the months. It is the season of the quickest expansion, of +the warmest blood, of the readiest growth; it is the boy-age of the +year. The birds sing in chorus in the spring—just as children prattle; +the brooks run full—like the overflow of young hearts; the showers drop +easily—as young tears flow; and the whole sky is as capricious as the +mind of a boy.</p> + +<p>Between tears and smiles, the year, like the child, struggles into the +warmth of life. The old year—say what the chronologists will—lingers +upon the very lap of spring, and is only fairly gone when the blossoms +of April have strown their pall of glory upon his tomb, and the +bluebirds have chanted his requiem.</p> + +<p>It always seems to me as if an access of life came with the melting of +the winter's snows, and as if every rootlet of grass, that lifted its +first green blade from the matted <i>débris</i> of the old year's decay, bore +my spirit upon it, nearer to the largess of Heaven.</p> + +<p>I love to trace the break of spring step by step: I love even those long +rain-storms, that sap the icy fortresses of the lingering winter,—that +melt the snows upon the hills, and swell the mountain-brooks,—that make +the pools heave up their glassy cerements of ice, and hurry down the +crashing fragments into the wastes of ocean.</p> + +<p>I love the gentle thaws that you can trace, day by day, by the stained +snow-banks, shrinking from the grass; and by the gentle drip of the +cottage-eaves. I love to search out the sunny slopes by a southern wall, +where the reflected sun does double duty to the earth and where the +frail anemone, or the faint blush of the arbutus, in the midst of the +bleak March atmosphere, will touch your heart, like a hope of Heaven in +a field of graves! Later come those soft, smoky days, when the patches +of winter grain show green under the shelter of leafless woods, and the +last snow-drifts, reduced to shrunken skeletons of ice, lie upon the +slope of northern hills, leaking away their life.</p> + +<p>Then the grass at your door grows into the color of the sprouting grain, +and the buds upon the lilacs swell and burst. The peaches bloom upon the +wall, and the plums wear bodices of white. The sparkling oriole picks +string for his hammock on the sycamore, and the sparrows twitter in +pairs. The old elms throw down their dingy flowers, and color their +spray with green; and the brooks, where you throw your worm or the +minnow, float down whole fleets of the crimson blossoms of the maple. +Finally the oaks step into the opening quadrille of spring, with grayish +tufts of a modest verdure, which by-and-by will be long and glossy +leaves. The dogwood pitches his broad, white tent in the edge of the +forest; the dandelions lie along the hillocks, like stars in a sky of +green; and the wild cherry, growing in all the hedge-rows, without other +culture than God's, lifts up to Him thankfully its tremulous white +fingers.</p> + +<p>Amid all this come the rich rains of spring. The affections of a boy +grow up with tears to water them; and the year blooms with showers. But +the clouds hover over an April sky timidly, like shadows upon innocence. +The showers come gently, and drop daintily to the earth,—with now and +then a glimpse of sunshine to make the drops bright—like so many tears +of joy.</p> + +<p>The rain of winter is cold, and it comes in bitter scuds that blind you; +but the rain of April steals upon you coyly, half reluctantly,—yet +lovingly—like the steps of a bride to the Altar.</p> + +<p>It does not gather like the storm-clouds of winter, gray and heavy along +the horizon, and creep with subtle and insensible approaches (like age) +to the very zenith; but there are a score of white-winged swimmers +afloat, that your eye has chased as you lay fatigued with the delicious +languor of an April sun;—nor have you scarce noticed that a little bevy +of those floating clouds had grouped together in a sombre company. But +presently you see across the fields the dark gray streaks, stretching +like lines of mists from the green bosom of the valley to that spot of +sky where the company of clouds is loitering; and with an easy shifting +of the helm the fleet of swimmers come drifting over you, and drop their +burden into the dancing pools, and make the flowers glisten, and the +eaves drip with their crystal bounty.</p> + +<p>The cattle linger still, cropping the new-come grass; and childhood +laughs joyously at the warm rain, or under the cottage-roof catches with +eager ear the patter of its fall.</p> + +<p>----And with that patter on the roof,—so like to the patter of +childish feet,—my story of boyish dreams shall begin.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>I.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Rain_in_the_Garret" id="Rain_in_the_Garret"></a><i>Rain in the Garret.</i></h3> + + +<p>It is an old garret with big brown rafters; and the boards between are +stained darkly with the rain-storms of fifty years. And as the sportive +April shower quickens its flood, it seems as if its torrents would come +dashing through the shingles upon you, and upon your play. But it will +not; for you know that the old roof is strong, and that it has kept you, +and all that love you, for long years from the rain and from the cold; +you know that the hardest storms of winter will only make a little +oozing leak, that trickles down the brown stains—like tears.</p> + +<p>You love that old garret-roof; and you nestle down under its slope with +a sense of its protecting power that no castle-walls can give to your +maturer years. Aye, your heart clings in boyhood to the roof-tree of the +old family garret with a grateful affection and an earnest confidence, +that the after-years—whatever may be their successes, or their +honors—can never re-create. Under the roof-tree of his home the boy +feels <span class="smcap">safe</span>: and where in the whole realm of life, with its +bitter toils and its bitterer temptations, will he feel <i>safe</i> again?</p> + +<p>But this you do not know. It seems only a grand old place; and it is +capital fun to search in its corners, and drag out some bit of quaint +old furniture, with a leg broken, and lay a cushion across it, and fix +your reins upon the lion's claws of the feet, and then—gallop away! And +you offer sister Nelly a chance, if she will be good; and throw out very +patronizing words to little Charlie, who is mounted upon a much humbler +horse,—to wit, a decrepit nursery-chair,—as he of right should be, +since he is three years your junior.</p> + +<p>I know no nobler forage-ground for a romantic, venturesome, mischievous +boy, than the garret of an old family mansion on a day of storm. It is a +perfect field of chivalry. The heavy rafters, the dashing rain, the +piles of spare mattresses to carouse upon, the big trunks to hide in, +the old white coats and hats hanging in obscure corners, like +ghosts,—are great! And it is so far away from the old lady who keeps +rule in the nursery, that there is no possible risk of a scolding for +twisting off the fringe of the rug. There is no baby in the garret to +wake up. There is no "company" in the garret to be disturbed by the +noise. There is no crotchety old Uncle, or Grand-Ma, with their +everlasting "Boys, boys!" and then a look of such horror!</p> + +<p>There is great fun in groping through a tall barrel of books and +pamphlets, on the look-out for startling pictures; and there are +chestnuts in the garret drying, which you have discovered on a ledge of +the chimney; and you slide a few into your pocket, and munch them +quietly,—giving now and then one to Nelly, and begging her to keep +silent,—for you have a great fear of its being forbidden fruit.</p> + +<p>Old family garrets have their stock, as I said, of castaway clothes of +twenty years gone by; and it is rare sport to put them on; buttoning in +a pillow or two for the sake of good fulness; and then to trick out +Nelly in some strange-shaped head-gear, and old-fashioned brocade +petticoat caught up with pins; and in such guise to steal cautiously +down-stairs, and creep slyly into the sitting-room,—half afraid of a +scolding, and very sure of good fun,—trying to look very sober, and yet +almost ready to die with the laugh that you know you will make. And your +mother tries to look harshly at little Nelly for putting on her +grandmother's best bonnet; but Nelly's laughing eyes forbid it utterly; +and the mother spoils all her scolding with a perfect shower of kisses.</p> + +<p>After this you go, marching very stately, into the nursery, and utterly +amaze the old nurse; and make a deal of wonderment for the staring, +half-frightened baby, who drops his rattle, and makes a bob at you as if +he would jump into your waistcoat-pocket.</p> + +<p>But you grow tired of this; you tire even of the swing, and of the +pranks of Charlie; and you glide away into a corner with an old, +dog's-eared copy of "Robinson Crusoe." And you grow heart and soul into +the story, until you tremble for the poor fellow with his guns behind +the palisade; and are yourself half dead with fright when you peep +cautiously over the hill with your glass, and see the cannibals at their +orgies around the fire.</p> + +<p>Yet, after all, you think the old fellow must have had a capital time +with a whole island to himself; and you think you would like such a time +yourself, if only Nelly and Charlie could be there with you. But this +thought does not come till afterward; for the time you are nothing but +Crusoe; you are living in his cave with Poll the parrot, and are looking +out for your goats and man Friday.</p> + +<p>You dream what a nice thing it would be for you to slip away some +pleasant morning,—not to York, as young Crusoe did, but to New +York,—and take passage as a sailor; and how, if they knew you were +going, there would be such a world of good-byes; and how, if they did +not know it, there would be such a world of wonder!</p> + +<p>And then the sailor's dress would be altogether such a jaunty affair; +and it would be such rare sport to lie off upon the yards far aloft, as +you have seen sailors in pictures, looking out upon the blue and +tumbling sea. No thought now, in your boyish dreams, of sleety storms, +and cables stiffened with ice, and crashing spars, and great icebergs +towering fearfully around you!</p> + +<p>You would have better luck than even Crusoe; you would save a compass, +and a Bible, and stores of hatchets, and the captain's dog, and great +puncheons of sweetmeats, (which Crusoe altogether overlooked;) and you +would save a tent or two, which you could set up on the shore, and an +American flag, and a small piece of cannon, which you could fire as +often as you liked. At night you would sleep in a tree,—though you +wonder how Crusoe did it,—and would say the prayers you had been taught +to say at home, and fall to sleep, dreaming of Nelly and Charlie.</p> + +<p>At sunrise, or thereabouts, you would come down, feeling very much +refreshed; and make a very nice breakfast off of smoked herring and +sea-bread, with a little currant jam, and a few oranges. After this you +would haul ashore a chest or two of the sailors' clothes, and putting a +few large jackknives in your pocket, would take a stroll over the +island, and dig a cave somewhere, and roll in a cask or two of +sea-bread. And you fancy yourself growing after a time very tall and +corpulent, and wearing a magnificent goat-skin cap trimmed with green +ribbons, and set off with a plume. You think you would have put a few +more guns in the palisade than Crusoe did, and charged them with a +little more grape.</p> + +<p>After a long while you fancy a ship would arrive which would carry you +back; and you count upon very great surprise on the part of your father +and little Nelly, as you march up to the door of the old family mansion, +with plenty of gold in your pocket, and a small bag of cocoa-nuts for +Charlie, and with a great deal of pleasant talk about your island far +away in the South Seas.</p> + +<p>----Or perhaps it is not Crusoe at all, that your eyes and your heart +cling to, but only some little story about Paul and Virginia;—that dear +little Virginia! how many tears have been shed over her—not in garrets +only, or by boys only!</p> + +<p>You would have liked Virginia, you know you would; but you perfectly +hate the beldame aunt who sent for her to come to France; you think she +must have been like the old schoolmistress, who occasionally boxes your +ears with the cover of the spelling-book, or makes you wear one of the +girls' bonnets, that smells strongly of pasteboard and calico.</p> + +<p>As for black Domingue, you think he was a capital old fellow; and you +think more of him and his bananas than you do of the bursting, throbbing +heart of poor Paul. As yet Dream-life does not take hold on love. A +little maturity of heart is wanted to make up what the poets call +sensibility. If love should come to be a dangerous, chivalric matter, as +in the case of Helen Mar and Wallace, you can very easily conceive of +it, and can take hold of all the little accessories of male costume and +embroidering of banners; but as for pure sentiment, such as lies in the +sweet story of Bernardin de St. Pierre, it is quite beyond you.</p> + +<p>The rich, soft nights, in which one might doze in his hammock, watching +the play of the silvery moonbeams upon the orange-leaves and upon the +waves, you can understand; and you fall to dreaming of that lovely Isle +of France, and wondering if Virginia did not perhaps have some relations +on the island, who raise pine-apples, and such sort of things, still?</p> + +<p>----And so with your head upon your hand in your quiet garret-corner, +over some such beguiling story, your thought leans away from the book +into your own dreamy cruise over the sea of life.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>II.</h2> + +<h3><a name="School_Dreams" id="School_Dreams"></a><i>School-Dreams</i>.</h3> + + +<p>It is a proud thing to go out from under the realm of a schoolmistress, +and to be enrolled in a company of boys, who are under the guidance of a +master. It is one of the earliest steps of worldly pride, which has +before it a long and tedious ladder of ascent. Even the advice of the +old mistress, and the ninepenny book that she thrusts into your hand as +a parting gift, pass for nothing; and her kiss of adieu, if she tenders +it in the sight of your fellows, will call up an angry rush of blood to +the cheek, that for long years shall drown all sense of its kindness.</p> + +<p>You have looked admiringly many a day upon the tall fellows who play at +the door of Dr. Bidlow's school; you have looked with reverence—second +only to that felt for the old village church—upon its dark-looking, +heavy brick walls. It seemed to be redolent of learning; and stopping at +times to gaze upon the gallipots and broken retorts at the second-story +window, you have pondered in your boyish way upon the inscrutable +wonders of Science, and the ineffable dignity of Dr. Bidlow's brick +school!</p> + +<p>Dr. Bidlow seems to you to belong to a race of giants; and yet he is a +spare, thin man, with a hooked nose, a large, flat, gold watch-key, a +crack in his voice, a wig, and very dirty wristbands. Still you stand in +awe at the mere sight of him,—an awe that is very much encouraged by a +report made to you by a small boy, that "Old Bid" keeps a large ebony +ruler in his desk. You are amazed at the small boy's audacity; it +astonishes you that any one who had ever smelt the strong fumes of +sulphur and ether in the Doctor's room, and had seen him turn red +vinegar blue, (as they say he does,) should call him "Old Bid!"</p> + +<p>You however come very little under his control; you enter upon the proud +life, in the small boy's department, under the dominion of the English +master. He is a different personage from Dr. Bidlow: he is a dapper +little man, who twinkles his eye in a peculiar fashion, and who has a +way of marching about the schoolroom with his hands crossed behind him, +giving a playful flirt to his coat-tails. He wears a pen tucked behind +his ear; his hair is carefully set up at the sides and upon the top, to +conceal (as you think later in life) his diminutive height; and he steps +very springily around behind the benches, glancing now and then at the +books,—cautioning one scholar about his dog's-ears, and startling +another from a doze by a very loud and odious snap of his forefinger +upon the boy's head.</p> + +<p>At other times he sticks a hand in the armlet of his waistcoat; he +brandishes in the other a thickish bit of smooth cherry-wood, sometimes +dressing his hair withal; and again giving his head a slight scratch +behind the ear, while he takes occasion at the same time for an oblique +glance at a fat boy in the corner, who is reaching down from his seat +after a little paper pellet that has just been discharged at him from +some unknown quarter. The master steals very cautiously and quickly to +the rear of the stooping boy, dreadfully exposed by his unfortunate +position, and inflicts a stinging blow. A weak-eyed little scholar on +the next bench ventures a modest titter, at which the assistant makes a +significant motion with his ruler,—on the seat, as it were, of an +imaginary pair of pantaloons,—which renders the weak-eyed boy on a +sudden very insensible to the recent joke.</p> + +<p>You meantime profess to be very much engrossed with your grammar—turned +upside-down; you think it must have hurt, and are only sorry that it did +not happen to a tall, dark-faced boy, who cheated you in a swop of +jackknives. You innocently think that he must be a very bad boy, and +fancy—aided by a suggestion of the old nurse at home on the same +point—that he will one day come to the gallows.</p> + +<p>There is a platform on one side of the schoolroom, where the teacher +sits at a little red table; and they have a tradition among the boys, +that a pin properly bent was one day put into the chair of the English +master, and that he did not wear his hand in the armlet of his waistcoat +for two whole days thereafter. Yet his air of dignity seems proper +enough in a man of such erudition, and such grasp of imagination, as he +must possess. For he can quote poetry,—some of the big scholars have +heard him do it; he can parse the whole of "Paradise Lost," and he can +cipher in Long Division, and the Rule of Three, as if it was all Simple +Addition; and then, such a hand as he writes, and such a superb capital +B! It is hard to understand how he does it.</p> + +<p>Sometimes lifting the lid of your desk, where you pretend to be very +busy with your papers, you steal the reading of some brief passage of +"Lazy Lawrence," or of the "Hungarian Brothers," and muse about it for +hours afterward to the great detriment of your ciphering; or, deeply +lost in the story of the "Scottish Chiefs," you fall to comparing such +villains as Menteith with the stout boys who tease you; and you only +wish they could come within reach of the fierce Kirkpatrick's claymore.</p> + +<p>But you are frighted out of this stolen reading by a circumstance that +stirs your young blood very strangely. The master is looking very sourly +on a certain morning, and has caught sight of the little weak-eyed boy +over beyond you, reading "Roderick Random." He sends out for a long +birch rod, and having trimmed off the leaves carefully,—with a glance +or two in your direction,—he marches up behind the bench of the poor +culprit,—who turns deathly pale,—grapples him by the collar, drags him +out over the desks, his limbs dangling in a shocking way against the +sharp angles, and having him fairly in the middle of the room, clinches +his rod with a new, and, as it seems to you, a very sportive grip.</p> + +<p>You shudder fearfully.</p> + +<p>"Please don't whip me," says the boy, whimpering.</p> + +<p>"Aha!" says the smirking pedagogue, bringing down the stick with a +quick, sharp cut,—"you don't like it, eh?"</p> + +<p>The poor fellow screams, and struggles to escape; but the blows come +faster and thicker. The blood tingles in your finger-ends with +indignation.</p> + +<p>"Please don't strike me again," says the boy, sobbing, and taking +breath, as he writhes about the legs of the master; "I won't read +another time."</p> + +<p>"Ah, you won't, sir,—won't you? I don't mean you shall, sir;" and the +blows fall thick and fast, until the poor fellow crawls back, utterly +crestfallen and heartsick, to sob over his books.</p> + +<p>You grow into a sudden boldness; you wish you were only large enough to +beat the master; you know such treatment would make you miserable; you +shudder at the thought of it; you do not believe he would dare; you +know the other boy has got no father. This seems to throw a new light +upon the matter, but it only intensifies your indignation. You are sure +that no father would suffer it; or, if you thought so, it would sadly +weaken your love for him. You pray Heaven, that it may never be brought +to such proof.</p> + +<p>----Let a boy once distrust the love or the tenderness of his parents, +and the last resort of his yearning affections—so far as the world +goes—is utterly gone. He is in the sure road to a bitter fate. His +heart will take on a hard, iron covering, that will flash out plenty of +fire in his after contact with the world, but it will never—never melt!</p> + +<p>There are some tall trees, that overshadow an angle of the schoolhouse; +and the larger scholars play some very surprising gymnastic tricks upon +their lower limbs: one boy, for instance, will hang for an incredible +length of time by his feet with his head down; and when you tell Charlie +of it at night, with such additions as your boyish imagination can +contrive, the old nurse is shocked, and states very gravely that it is +dangerous, and that the blood all runs to the head, and sometimes bursts +out of the eyes and mouth. You look at that particular boy with +astonishment afterward, and expect to see him some day burst into +bleeding from the nose and ears, and flood the schoolroom benches.</p> + +<p>In time however you get to performing some modest experiments yourself +upon the very lowest limbs, taking care to avoid the observation of the +larger boys, who else might laugh at you; you especially avoid the +notice of one stout fellow in pea-green breeches, who is a sort of +"bully" among the small boys, and who delights in kicking your marbles +about very accidentally. He has a fashion too of twisting his +handkerchief into what he calls a "snapper," with a knot at the end, and +cracking at you with it, very much to the irritation of your spirits and +of your legs.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, when he has brought you to an angry burst of tears, he will +very graciously force upon you the handkerchief, and insist upon your +cracking him in return; which, as you know nothing about his effective +method of making the knot bite, is a very harmless proposal on his part.</p> + +<p>But you have still stronger reason to remember that boy. There are +trees, as I said, near the school; and you get the reputation, after a +time, of a good climber. One day you are well in the tops of the trees, +and being dared by the boys below, you venture higher—higher than any +boy has ever gone before. You feel very proudly, but just then catch +sight of the sneering face of your old enemy of the snapper; and he +dares you to go upon a limb that he points out.</p> + +<p>The rest say,—for you hear them plainly,—"It won't bear him." And +Frank, a great friend of yours, shouts loudly to you not to try.</p> + +<p>"Pho," says your tormentor,—"the little coward!"</p> + +<p>If you could whip him, you would go down the tree, and do it willingly; +as it is, you cannot let him triumph; so you advance cautiously out upon +the limb; it bends and sways fearfully with your weight; presently it +cracks; you try to return, but it is too late; you feel yourself going; +your mind flashes home—over your life, your hope, your fate—like +lightning; then comes a sense of dizziness, a succession of quick blows, +and a dull, heavy crash!</p> + +<p>You are conscious of nothing again, until you find yourself in the great +hall of the school, covered with blood, the old Doctor standing over you +with a phial, and Frank kneeling by you, and holding your shattered arm, +which has been broken by the fall.</p> + +<p>After this come those long, weary days of confinement, when you lie +still through all the hours of noon, looking out upon the cheerful +sunshine only through the windows of your little room. Yet it seems a +grand thing to have the whole household attendant upon you. The doors +are opened and shut softly, and they all step noiselessly about your +chamber; and when you groan with pain, you are sure of meeting sad, +sympathizing looks. Your mother will step gently to your side and lay +her cool, white hand upon your forehead; and little Nelly will gaze at +you from the foot of your bed with a sad earnestness, and with tears of +pity in her soft hazel eyes. And afterward, as your pain passes away, +she will bring you her prettiest books, and fresh flowers, and whatever +she knows you will love.</p> + +<p>But it is dreadful when you wake at night from your feverish slumber, +and see nothing but the spectral shadows that the sick-lamp upon the +hearth throws aslant the walls; and hear nothing but the heavy breathing +of the old nurse in the easy-chair, and the ticking of the clock upon +the mantel! Then silence and the night crowd upon your soul drearily. +But your thought is active. It shapes at your bedside the loved figure +of your mother, or it calls up the whole company of Dr. Bidlow's boys +and weeks of study or of play group like magic on your quickened vision; +then a twinge of pain will call again the dreariness, and your head +tosses upon the pillow, and your eye searches the gloom vainly for +pleasant faces; and your fears brood on that drearier, coming night of +Death—far longer, and far more cheerless than this.</p> + +<p>But even here the memory of some little prayer you have been taught, +which promises a Morning after the Night, comes to your throbbing brain; +and its murmur on your fevered lips, as you breathe it, soothes like a +caress of angels, and woos you to smiles and sleep.</p> + +<p>As the days pass, you grow stronger; and Frank comes in to tell you of +the school, and that your old tormentor has been expelled; and you grow +into a strong friendship with Frank, and you think of yourselves as a +new Damon and Pythias, and that you will some day live together in a +fine house, with plenty of horses, and plenty of chestnut-trees. Alas, +the boy counts little on those later and bitter fates of life, which +sever his early friendships like wisps of straw!</p> + +<p>At other times, with your eye upon the sleek, trim figure of the Doctor, +and upon his huge bunch of watch-seals, you think you will some day be a +Doctor; and that with a wife and children, and a respectable gig, and +gold watch, with seals to match, you would needs be a very happy fellow.</p> + +<p>And with such fancies drifting on your thought, you count for the +hundredth time the figures upon the curtains of your bed; you trace out +the flower-wreaths upon the paper-hangings of your room; your eyes rest +idly on the cat playing with the fringe of the curtain; you see your +mother sitting with her needle-work beside the fire; you watch the +sunbeams, as they drift along the carpet, from morning until noon; and +from noon till night you watch them playing on the leaves, and dropping +spangles on the lawn; and as you watch—you dream.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>III.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Boy_Sentiment" id="Boy_Sentiment"></a><i>Boy Sentiment.</i></h3> + + +<p>Weeks and even years of your boyhood roll on, in the which your dreams +are growing wider and grander,—even as the Spring, which I have made +the type of the boy-age, is stretching its foliage farther and farther, +and dropping longer and heavier shadows on the land.</p> + +<p>Nelly, that sweet sister, has grown into your heart strangely; and you +think that all they write in their books about love cannot equal your +fondness for little Nelly. She is pretty, they say; but what do you care +for her prettiness? She is so good, so kind, so watchful of all your +wants, so willing to yield to your haughty claims!</p> + +<p>But, alas! it is only when this sisterly love is lost forever,—only +when the inexorable world separates a family, and tosses it upon the +waves of fate to wide-lying distances, perhaps to graves,—that a man +feels, what a boy can never know,—the disinterested and abiding +affection of a sister.</p> + +<p>All this that I have set down comes back to you long afterward, when +you recall with tears of regret your reproachful words, or some swift +outbreak of passion.</p> + +<p>Little Madge is a friend of Nelly's,—a mischievous, blue-eyed hoiden. +They tease you about Madge. You do not of course care one straw for her, +but yet it is rather pleasant to be teased thus. Nelly never does this; +oh no, not she. I do not know but in the age of childhood the sister is +jealous of the affections of a brother, and would keep his heart wholly +at home, until, suddenly and strangely, she finds her own wandering.</p> + +<p>But after all Madge is pretty, and there is something taking in her +name. Old people, and very precise people, call her Margaret Boyne. But +you do not: it is only plain Madge; it sounds like her, very rapid and +mischievous. It would be the most absurd thing in the world for you to +like her, for she teases you in innumerable ways: she laughs at your big +shoes, (such a sweet little foot as she has!) and she pins strips of +paper on your coat-collar; and time and again she has worn off your hat +in triumph, very well knowing that you—such a quiet body, and so much +afraid of her—will never venture upon any liberties with her gypsy +bonnet.</p> + +<p>You sometimes wish in your vexation, as you see her running, that she +would fall and hurt herself badly; but the next moment it seems a very +wicked wish, and you renounce it. Once she did come very near it. You +were all playing together by the big swing; (how plainly it swings in +your memory now!) Madge had the seat, and you were famous for running +under with a long push, which Madge liked better than anything +else;—well, you have half run over the ground when, crash! comes the +swing, and poor Madge with it! You fairly scream as you catch her up. +But she is not hurt,—only a cry of fright, and a little sprain of that +fairy ankle; and as she brushes away the tears and those flaxen curls, +and breaks into a merry laugh,—half at your woe-worn face, and half in +vexation at herself,—and leans her hand (such a hand!) upon your +shoulder, to limp away into the shade, you dream your first dream of +love.</p> + +<p>But it is only a dream, not at all acknowledged by you; she is three or +four years your junior,—too young altogether. It is very absurd to talk +about it. There is nothing to be said of Madge, only—Madge! The name +does it.</p> + +<p>It is rather a pretty name to write. You are fond of making capital M's; +and sometimes you follow it with a capital A. Then you practise a little +upon a D, and perhaps back it up with a G. Of course it is the merest +accident that these letters come together. It seems funny to you—very. +And as a proof that they are made at random, you make a T or an R before +them, and some other quite irrelevant letters after it.</p> + +<p>Finally, as a sort of security against all suspicion, you cross it +out,—cross it a great many ways, even holding it up to the light to see +that there should be no air of intention about it.</p> + +<p>----You need have no fear, Clarence, that your hieroglyphics will be +studied so closely. Accidental as they are, you are very much more +interested in them than any one else.</p> + +<p>----It is a common fallacy of this dream in most stages of life, that a +vast number of persons employ their time chiefly in spying out its +operations.</p> + +<p>Yet Madge cares nothing about you, that you know of. Perhaps it is the +very reason, though you do not suspect it then, why you care so much for +her. At any rate she is a friend of Nelly's, and it is your duty not to +dislike her. Nelly too, sweet Nelly, gets an inkling of matters,—for +sisters are very shrewd in suspicions of this sort, shrewder than +brothers or fathers,—and, like the good, kind girl that she is, she +wishes to humor even your weakness.</p> + +<p>Madge drops in to tea quite often: Nelly has something <i>in particular</i> +to show her, two or three times a week. Good Nelly! perhaps she is +making your troubles all the greater. You gather large bunches of grapes +for Madge—because she is a friend of Nelly's—which she doesn't want at +all, and very pretty bouquets, which she either drops or pulls to +pieces.</p> + +<p>In the presence of your father one day you drop some hint about Madge +in a very careless way,—a way shrewdly calculated to lay all +suspicion,—at which your father laughs. This is odd; it makes you +wonder if your father was ever in love himself.</p> + +<p>You rather think that he has been.</p> + +<p>Madge's father is dead, and her mother is poor; and you sometimes dream +how—whatever your father may think or feel—you will some day make a +large fortune, in some very easy way, and build a snug cottage, and have +one horse for your carriage and one for your wife, (not Madge, of +course—that is absurd,) and a turtleshell cat for your wife's mother, +and a pretty gate to the front yard, and plenty of shrubbery; and how +your wife will come dancing down the path to meet you,—as the Wife does +in Mr. Irving's "Sketch-Book,"—and how she will have a harp in the +parlor, and will wear white dresses with a blue sash.</p> + +<p>----Poor Clarence, it never occurs to you that even Madge may grow fat, +and wear check aprons, and snuffy-brown dresses of woollen stuff, and +twist her hair in yellow papers! Oh, no, boyhood has no such dreams as +that!</p> + +<p>I shall leave you here in the middle of your first foray into the world +of sentiment, with those wicked blue eyes chasing rainbows over your +heart, and those little feet walking every day into your affections. I +shall leave you, before the affair has ripened into any overtures, and +while there is only a sixpence split in halves, and tied about your neck +and Maggie's neck, to bind your destinies together.</p> + +<p>If I even hinted at any probability of your marrying her, or of your not +marrying her, you would be very likely to dispute me. One knows his own +feelings, or thinks he does, so much better than any one can tell him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>V.</h2> + +<h3><a name="A_Friend_made_and_A_Friend_lost" id="A_Friend_made_and_A_Friend_lost"></a><i>A Friend made and Friend lost.</i></h3> + + +<p>To visit, is a great thing in the boy calendar;—not to visit this or +that neighbor,—to drink tea, or eat strawberries, or play at +draughts,—but to go away on a visit in a coach, with a trunk, and a +great-coat, and an umbrella—this is large!</p> + +<p>It makes no difference that they wish to be rid of your noise, now that +Charlie is sick of a fever: the reason is not at all in the way of your +pride of visiting. You are to have a long ride in a coach, and eat a +dinner at a tavern, and to see a new town almost as large as the one you +live in; and you are to make new acquaintances. In short, you are to see +the world: a very proud thing it is to see the world!</p> + +<p>As you journey on, after bidding your friends adieu, and as you see +fences and houses to which you have not been used, you think them very +odd indeed: but it occurs to you that the geographies speak of very +various national characteristics, and you are greatly gratified with +this opportunity of verifying your study. You see new crops too, perhaps +a broad-leaved tobacco-field, which reminds you pleasantly of the +luxuriant vegetation of the tropics, spoken of by Peter Parley, and +others.</p> + +<p>As for the houses and barns in the new town, they quite startle you with +their strangeness: you observe that some of the latter, instead of +having one stable-door have five or six,—a fact which puzzles you very +much indeed. You observe further that the houses many of them have +balustrades upon the top, which seems to you a very wonderful adaptation +to the wants of boys who wish to fly kites, or to play upon the roof. +You notice with special favor one very low roof, which you might climb +upon by a mere plank, and you think the boys whose father lives in that +house are very fortunate boys.</p> + +<p>Your old aunt, whom you visit, you think, wears a very queer cap, being +altogether different from that of the old nurse, or of Mrs. +Boyne,—Madge's mother. As for the house she lives in, it is quite +wonderful. There are such an immense number of closets, and closets +within closets, reminding you of the mysteries of "Rinaldo Rinaldini." +Beside which there are immensely curious bits of old furniture—so black +and heavy, and with such curious carving!—and you think of the old +wainscot in the "Children of the Abbey". You think you will never tire +of rambling about in its odd corners, and of what glorious stories you +will have to tell of it when you go back to Nelly and Charlie.</p> + +<p>As for acquaintances, you fall in the very first day with a tall boy +next door, called Nat, which seems an extraordinary name. Besides, he +has travelled; and as he sits with you on the summer nights under the +linden-trees, he tells you gorgeous stories of the things he has seen. +He has made the voyage to London; and he talks about the ship (a real +ship) and starboard and larboard, and the spanker, in a way quite +surprising; and he takes the stern-oar in the little skiff, when you row +off in the cove abreast of the town, in a most seaman-like way.</p> + +<p>He bewilders you, too, with his talk about the great bridges of +London,—London Bridge specially, where they sell kids for a penny; +which story your new acquaintance unfortunately does not confirm. You +have read of these bridges, and seen pictures of them in the "Wonders of +the World"; but then Nat has seen them with his own eyes: he has +literally walked over London Bridge, on his own feet! You look at his +very shoes in wonderment, and are surprised you do not find some +startling difference between those shoes and your shoes. But there is +none,—only yours are a trifle stouter in the welt. You think Nat one of +the fortunate boys of this world,—born, as your old nurse used to say, +with a gold spoon in his mouth.</p> + +<p>Beside Nat there is a girl lives over the opposite side of the way, +named Jenny,—with an eye as black as a coal, and a half a year older +than you, but about your height,—whom you fancy amazingly.</p> + +<p>She has any quantity of toys, that she lets you play with as if they +were your own. And she has an odd old uncle, who sometimes makes you +stand up together, and then marries you after his fashion,—much to the +amusement of a grown-up house-maid, whenever she gets a peep at the +performance. And it makes you somewhat proud to hear her called your +wife; and you wonder to yourself, dreamily, if it won't be true some day +or other.</p> + +<p>----Fie, Clarence, where is your split sixpence, and your blue ribbon!</p> + +<p>Jenny is romantic, and talks of "Thaddeus of Warsaw" in a very touching +manner, and promises to lend you the book. She folds billets in a +lover's fashion, and practises love-knots upon her bonnet-strings. She +looks out of the corners of her eyes very often, and sighs. She is +frequently by herself, and pulls flowers to pieces. She has great pity +for middle-aged bachelors, and thinks them all disappointed men.</p> + +<p>After a time she writes notes to you, begging you would answer them at +the earliest possible moment, and signs herself—"your attached Jenny." +She takes the marriage farce of her uncle in a cold way, as trifling +with a very serious subject, and looks tenderly at you. She is very much +shocked when her uncle offers to kiss her; and when he proposes it to +you, she is equally indignant, but—with a great change of color.</p> + +<p>Nat says one day in a confidential conversation that it won't do to +marry a woman six months older than yourself; and this, coming from Nat +who has been to London, rather staggers you. You sometimes think that +you would like to marry Madge and Jenny both, if the thing were +possible, for Nat says they sometimes do so the other side of the ocean, +though he has never seen it himself.</p> + +<p>----Ah, Clarence, you will have no such weakness as you grow older; you +will find that Providence has charitably so tempered our affections, +that every man of only ordinary nerve will be amply satisfied with a +single wife.</p> + +<p>All this time—for you are making your visit a very long one, so that +autumn has come, and the nights are growing cool, and Jenny and yourself +are transferring your little coquetries to the chimney-corner—poor +Charlie lies sick at home. Boyhood, thank Heaven! does not suffer +severely from sympathy when the object is remote. And those letters from +the mother, telling you that Charlie cannot play,—cannot talk even as +he used to do,—and that perhaps his "Heavenly Father will take him away +to be with him in the better world," disturb you for a time only. +Sometimes however they come back to your thought on a wakeful night, +and you dream about his suffering, and think—why it is not you, but +Charlie, who is sick? The thought puzzles you; and well it may, for in +it lies the whole mystery of our fate.</p> + +<p>Those letters grow more and more discouraging, and the kind admonitions +of your mother grow more earnest, as if (though the thought does not +come to you until years afterward) she was preparing herself to fasten +upon you that surplus of affection which she fears may soon be withdrawn +forever from the sick child.</p> + +<p>It is on a frosty, bleak evening, when you are playing with Nat, that +the letter reaches you which says Charlie is growing worse, and that you +must come to your home. It makes a dreamy night for you—fancying how +Charlie will look, and if sickness has altered him much, and if he will +not be well by Christmas. From this you fall away in your reverie to the +odd old house and its secret cupboards, and your aunt's queer caps; then +come up those black eyes of "your attached Jenny," and you think it a +pity that she is six month's older than you; and again—as you recall +one of her sighs—you think that six months are not much after all!</p> + +<p>You bid her good-bye, with a little sentiment swelling in your throat, +and are mortally afraid Nat will see your lip tremble. Of course you +promise to write, and squeeze her hand with an honesty you do not think +of doubting—for weeks.</p> + +<p>It is a dull, cold ride, that day, for you. The winds sweep over the +withered cornfields with a harsh, chilly whistle, and the surfaces of +the little pools by the roadside are tossed up into cold blue wrinkles +of water. Here and there a flock of quail, with their feathers ruffled +in the autumn gusts, tread through the hard, dry stubble of an oatfield; +or, startled by the snap of the driver's whip, they stare a moment at +the coach, then whir away down the cold current of the wind. The blue +jays scream from the roadside oaks, and the last of the blue and purple +asters shiver along the wall. And as the sun sinks, reddening all the +western clouds to the color of the frosted maples, light lines of the +Aurora gush up from the northern hills, and trail their splintered +fingers far over the autumn sky.</p> + +<p>It is quite dark when you reach home, but you see the bright reflection +of a fire within, and presently at the open door Nelly clapping her +hands for welcome. But there are sad faces when you enter. Your mother +folds you to her heart; but at your first noisy outburst of joy puts her +finger on her lip, and whispers poor Charlie's name. The Doctor you see +too, slipping softly out of the bedroom-door, with glasses in his hand; +and—you hardly know how—your spirits grow sad, and your heart +gravitates to the heavy air of all about you.</p> + +<p>You cannot see Charlie, Nelly says;—and you cannot in the quiet parlor +tell Nelly a single one of the many things, which you had hoped to tell +her. She says,—"Charlie has grown so thin and so pale, you would never +know him." You listen to her, but you cannot talk: she asks you what you +have seen, and you begin, for a moment joyously; but when they open the +door of the sick-room, and you hear a faint sigh, you cannot go on. You +sit still, with your hand in Nelly's, and look thoughtfully into the +blaze.</p> + +<p>You drop to sleep after that day's fatigue, with singular and perplexed +fancies haunting you; and when you wake up with a shudder in the middle +of the night, you have a fancy that Charlie is really dead: you dream of +seeing him pale and thin, as Nelly described him, and with the starched +grave-clothes on him. You toss over in your bed, and grow hot and +feverish. You cannot sleep; and you get up stealthily, and creep +down-stairs. A light is burning in the hall: the bedroom-door stands +half open, and you listen—fancying you hear a whisper. You steal on +through the hall, and edge around the side of the door. A little lamp is +flickering on the hearth, and the gaunt shadow of the bedstead lies dark +upon the ceiling. Your mother is in her chair with her head upon her +hand—though it is long after midnight. The Doctor is standing with his +back toward you, and with Charlie's little wrist in his fingers; and you +hear hard breathing, and now and then a low sigh from your mother's +chair.</p> + +<p>An occasional gleam of firelight makes the gaunt shadows stagger on the +wall, like something spectral. You look wildly at them, and at the bed +where your own brother—your laughing, gay-hearted brother—is lying. +You long to see him, and sidle up softly a step or two; but your +mother's ear has caught the sound, and she beckons you to her, and folds +you again in her embrace. You whisper to her what you wish. She rises, +and takes you by the hand, to lead you to the bedside.</p> + +<p>The Doctor looks very solemnly as we approach. He takes out his watch. +He is not counting Charlie's pulse, for he has dropped his hand, and it +lies carelessly, but oh, how thin! over the edge of the bed.</p> + +<p>He shakes his head mournfully at your mother; and she springs forward, +dropping your hand, and lays her fingers upon the forehead of the boy, +and passes her hand over his mouth.</p> + +<p>"Is he asleep, Doctor?" she says in a tone you do not know.</p> + +<p>"Be calm, madam." The Doctor is very calm.</p> + +<p>"I am calm," says your mother; but you do not think it, for you see her +tremble very plainly.</p> + +<p>"Dear madam, he will never waken in this world!"</p> + +<p>There is no cry,—only a bowing down of your mother's head upon the body +of poor dead Charlie!—and only when you see her form shake and quiver +with the deep, smothered sobs, your crying bursts forth loud and +strong.</p> + +<p>The Doctor lifts you in his arms, that you may see that pale +head,—those blue eyes all sunken,—that flaxen hair gone,—those white +lips pinched and hard!—Never, never will the boy forget his first +terrible sight of Death!</p> + +<p>In your silent chamber, after the storm of sobs has wearied you, the +boy-dreams are strange and earnest. They take hold on that awful +Visitant,—that strange slipping away from life, of which we know so +little, and yet know, alas, so much! Charlie that was your brother, is +now only a name: perhaps he is an angel; perhaps (for the old nurse has +said it when he was ugly—and now you hate her for it) he is with Satan!</p> + +<p>But you are sure this cannot be: you are sure that God, who made him +suffer, would not now quicken and multiply his suffering. It agrees with +your religion to think so; and just now you want your religion to help +you all it can.</p> + +<p>You toss in your bed, thinking over and over of that strange +thing—Death; and that perhaps it may overtake you before you are a man; +and you sob out those prayers (you scarce know why) which ask God to +keep life in you. You think the involuntary fear, that makes your little +prayer full of sobs, is a holy feeling;—and so it is a holy +feeling,—the same feeling which makes a stricken child yearn for the +embrace and the protection of a Parent. But you will find there are +those canting ones trying to persuade you, at a later day, that it is a +mere animal fear, and not to be cherished.</p> + +<p>You feel an access of goodness growing out of your boyish grief; you +feel right-minded; it seems as if your little brother in going to Heaven +had opened a path-way thither, down which goodness comes streaming over +your soul.</p> + +<p>You think how good a life you will lead; and you map out great purposes, +spreading themselves over the school-weeks of your remaining boyhood; +and you love your friends, or seem to, far more dearly than you ever +loved them before; and you forgive the boy who provoked you to that sad +fall from the oak, and you forgive him all his wearisome teasings. But +you cannot forgive yourself for some harsh words that you have once +spoken to Charlie; still less can you forgive yourself for having once +struck him in passion with your fist. You cannot forget his sobs +then;—if he were only alive one little instant to let you +say,—"Charlie, will you forgive me?"</p> + +<p>Yourself you cannot forgive; and sobbing over it, and murmuring "Dear, +dear Charlie!" you drop into a troubled sleep.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>V.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Boy_Religion" id="Boy_Religion"></a><i>Boy Religion.</i></h3> + + +<p>Is any weak soul frightened, that I should write of the Religion of the +boy? How indeed could I cover the field of his moral or intellectual +growth, if I left unnoticed those dreams of futurity and of goodness, +which come sometimes to his quieter moments, and oftener to his hours of +vexation and trouble? It would be as wise to describe the season of +Spring with no note of the silent influences of that burning Day-god +which is melting day by day the shattered ice-drifts of Winter,—which +is filling every bud with succulence, and painting one flower with +crimson, and another with white.</p> + +<p>I know there is a feeling—by much too general as it seems to me—that +the subject may not be approached except through the dicta of certain +ecclesiastic bodies, and that the language which touches it must not be +that every-day language which mirrors the vitality of our thought, but +should have some twist of that theologic mannerism, which is as cold to +the boy as to the busy man of the world.</p> + +<p>I know very well that a great many good souls will call levity what I +call honesty, and will abjure that familiar handling of the boy's lien +upon Eternity which my story will show. But I shall feel sure, that, in +keeping true to Nature with word and with thought, I shall in no way +offend against those highest truths to which all truthfulness is +kindred.</p> + +<p>You have Christian teachers, who speak always reverently of the Bible; +you grow up in the hearing of daily prayers; nay, you are perhaps taught +to say them.</p> + +<p>Sometimes they have a meaning, and sometimes they have none. They have a +meaning when your heart is troubled, when a grief or a wrong weighs upon +you: then the keeping of the Father, which you implore, seems to come +from the bottom of your soul; and your eye suffuses with such tears of +feeling as you count holy, and as you love to cherish in your memory.</p> + +<p>But they have no meaning when some trifling vexation angers you, and a +distaste for all about you breeds a distaste for all above you. In the +long hours of toilsome days little thought comes over you of the morning +prayer; and only when evening deepens its shadows, and your boyish +vexations fatigue you to thoughtfulness, do you dream of that coming and +endless night, to which—they tell you—prayers soften the way.</p> + +<p>Sometimes upon a Summer Sunday, when you are wakeful upon your seat in +church, with some strong-worded preacher who says things that half +fright you it occurs to you to consider how much goodness you are made +of; and whether there be enough of it after all to carry you safely away +from the clutch of Evil? And straightway you reckon up those friendships +where your heart lies; you know you are a true and honest friend to +Frank; and you love your mother, and your father; as for Nelly, Heaven +knows, you could not contrive a way to love her better than you do.</p> + +<p>You dare not take much credit to yourself for the love of little +Madge,—partly because you have sometimes caught yourself trying—not to +love her; and partly because the black-eyed Jenny comes in the way. Yet +you can find no command in the Catechism to love one girl to the +exclusion of all other girls. It is somewhat doubtful if you ever do +find it. But as for loving some half-dozen you could name, whose images +drift through your thought, in dirty, salmon-colored frocks, and +slovenly shoes, it is quite impossible; and suddenly this thought, +coupled with a lingering remembrance of the pea-green pantaloons, +utterly breaks down your hopes.</p> + +<p>Yet you muse again,—there are plenty of good people, as the times go, +who have their dislikes, and who speak them too. Even the sharp-talking +clergyman you have heard say some very sour things about his landlord, +who raised his rent the last year. And you know that he did not talk as +mildly as he does in the church, when he found Frank and yourself +quietly filching a few of his peaches through the orchard fence.</p> + +<p>But your clergyman will say perhaps, with what seems to you quite +unnecessary coldness, that goodness is not to be reckoned in your +chances of safety; that there is a Higher Goodness, whose merit is +All-Sufficient. This puzzles you sadly; nor will you escape the puzzle, +until, in the presence of the Home altar, which seems to guard you, as +the Lares guarded Roman children, you <i>feel</i>—you cannot tell how—that +good actions must spring from good sources; and that those sources must +lie in that Heaven toward which your boyish spirit yearns, as you kneel +at your mother's side.</p> + +<p>Conscience too is all the while approving you for deeds well done; +and—wicked as you fear the preacher might judge it—you cannot but +found on those deeds a hope that your prayer at night flows more easily, +more freely, and more holily toward "Our Father in Heaven." Nor indeed +later in life—whatever may be the ill-advised expressions of human +teachers—will you ever find that <i>Duty performed</i>, and <i>generous +endeavor</i> will stand one whit in the way either of Faith or of Love. +Striving to be good is a very direct road toward Goodness and if life be +so tempered by high motive as to make actions always good, Faith is +unconsciously won.</p> + +<p>Another notion that disturbs you very much, is your positive dislike of +long sermons, and of such singing as they have when the organist is +away. You cannot get the force of that verse of Dr. Watts which likens +heaven to a never-ending Sabbath; you <i>do</i> hope—though it seems a half +wicked hope—that old Dr. —— will not be the preacher. You think that +your heart in its best moments craves for something more lovable. You +suggest this perhaps to some Sunday teacher, who only shakes his head +sourly, and tells you it is a thought that the Devil is putting in your +brain. It strikes you oddly that the Devil should be using a verse of +Dr. Watts to puzzle you! But if it be so, he keeps it sticking by your +thought very pertinaciously, until some simple utterance of your mother +about the Love that reigns in the other world seems on a sudden to widen +Heaven, and to waft away your doubts like a cloud.</p> + +<p>It excites your wonder not a little to find people, who talk gravely and +heartily of the excellence of sermons and of church-going, sometimes +fall asleep under it all. And you wonder—if they really like preaching +so well—why they do not buy some of the minister's old manuscripts, and +read them over on week-days, or invite the clergyman to preach to them +in a quiet way in private.</p> + +<p>----Ah, Clarence, you do not yet know the poor weakness of even +maturest manhood, and the feeble gropings of the soul toward a soul's +paradise in the best of the world! You do not yet know either, that +ignorance and fear will be thrusting their untruth and false show into +the very essentials of Religion.</p> + +<p>Again you wonder, if the clergymen are all such very good men as you are +taught to believe, why it is that every little while people will be +trying to send them off, and very anxious to prove that, instead of +being so good, they are in fact very stupid and bad men. At that day you +have no clear conceptions of the distinction between stupidity and vice, +and think that a good man must necessarily say very eloquent things. You +will find yourself sadly mistaken on this point, before you get on very +far in life.</p> + +<p>Heaven, when your mother peoples it with friends gone, and little +Charlie, and that better Friend who, she says, took Charlie in his arms, +and is now his Father above the skies, seems a place to be loved and +longed for. But to think that Mr. Such-an-one, who is only good on +Sundays, will be there too,—and to think of his talking as he does of a +place which you are sure he would spoil if he were there,—puzzles you +again; and you relapse into wonder, doubt, and yearning.</p> + +<p>—And there, Clarence, for the present, I shall leave you. A wide, rich +heaven hangs above you, but it hangs very high. A wide, rough world is +around you, and it lies very low!</p> + +<p>I am assuming in these sketches no office of a teacher. I am seeking +only to make a truthful analysis of the boyish thought and feeling. But +having ventured thus far into what may seem sacred ground, I shall +venture still farther, and clinch my matter with a moral.</p> + +<p>There is very much religious teaching, even in so good a country as New +England, which is far too harsh, too dry, too cold for the heart of a +boy. Long sermons, doctrinal precepts, and such tediously-worded dogmas +as were uttered by those honest but hard-spoken men, the Westminster +Divines, fatigue, and puzzle, and dispirit him.</p> + +<p>They may be well enough for those strong souls which strengthen by +task-work, or for those mature people whose iron habit of self-denial +has made patience a cardinal virtue; but they fall (<i>experto crede</i>) +upon the unfledged faculties of the boy like a winter's rain upon spring +flowers,—like hammers of iron upon lithe timber. They may make deep +impression upon his moral nature, but there is great danger of a sad +rebound.</p> + +<p>Is it absurd to suppose that some adaptation is desirable? And might not +the teachings of that Religion, which is the ægis of our moral being, be +inwrought with some of those finer harmonies of speech and form which +were given to wise ends,—and lure the boyish soul by something akin to +that gentleness which belonged to the Nazarene Teacher, and which +provided not only meat for men, but "milk for babes"?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>VI.</h2> + +<h3><a name="A_New_England_Squire" id="A_New_England_Squire"></a><i>A New-England Squire.</i></h3> + + +<p>Frank has a grandfather living in the country, a good specimen of the +old-fashioned New-England farmer. And—go where one will the world +over—I know of no race of men who, taken as a whole, possess more +integrity, more intelligence, and more of those elements of comfort +which go to make a home beloved and the social basis firm, than the +New-England farmers.</p> + +<p>They are not brilliant, nor are they highly refined; they know nothing +of arts, histrionic or dramatic; they know only so much of older nations +as their histories and newspapers teach them; in the fashionable world +they hold no place;—but in energy, in industry, in hardy virtue, in +substantial knowledge, and in manly independence, they make up a race +that is hard to be matched.</p> + +<p>The French peasantry are, in all the essentials of intelligence and +sterling worth, infants compared with them; and the farmers of England +are either the merest 'ockeys in grain, with few ideas beyond their +sacks, samples, and market-days,—or, with added cultivation, they lose +their independence in a subserviency to some neighbor patron of rank; +and superior intelligence teaches them no lesson so quickly as that +their brethren of the glebe are unequal to them, and are to be left to +their cattle and the goad.</p> + +<p>There are English farmers indeed, who are men in earnest, who read the +papers, and who keep the current of the year's intelligence; but such +men are the exceptions. In New England, with the school upon every third +hill-side, and the self-regulating, free-acting church to watch every +valley with week-day quiet, and to wake every valley with Sabbath sound, +the men become, as a class, bold, intelligent, and honest actors, who +would make again, as they have made before, a terrible army of +defence,—and who would find reasons for their actions as strong as +their armies.</p> + +<p>Frank's grandfather has silver hair, but is still hale, erect, and +strong. His dress is homely but neat. Being a thorough-going +Protectionist, he has no fancy for the gewgaws of foreign importation, +and makes it a point to appear always in the village church, and on all +great occasions, in a sober suit of homespun. He has no pride of +appearance, and he needs none. He is known as the Squire throughout the +township; and no important measure can pass the board of selectmen +without the Squire's approval;—and this from no blind subserviency to +his opinion,—because his farm is large, and he is reckoned +"forehanded,"—but because there is a confidence in his judgment.</p> + +<p>He is jealous of none of the prerogatives of the country parson, or of +the schoolmaster, or of the village doctor; and although the latter is a +testy politician of the opposite party, it does not all impair the +Squire's faith in his calomel; he suffers all his Radicalism with the +same equanimity that he suffers his rhubarb.</p> + +<p>The day-laborers of the neighborhood, and the small farmers, consider +the Squire's note-of-hand for their savings better than the best bonds +of city origin; and they seek his advice in all matters of litigation. +He is a Justice of the Peace, as the title of Squire in a New-England +village implies; and many are the sessions of the country courts that +you peep upon with Frank, from the door of the great dining-room.</p> + +<p>The defendant always seems to you in these important cases—especially +if his beard is rather long—an extraordinary ruffian, to whom Jack +Sheppard would have been a comparatively innocent boy. You watch +curiously the old gentleman sitting in his big arm-chair, with his +spectacles in their silver case at his elbow, and his snuffbox in hand, +listening attentively to some grievous complaint; you see him ponder +deeply,—with a pinch of snuff to aid his judgment,—and you listen with +intense admiration as he gives a loud preparatory "Ahem!" and clears +away the intricacies of the case with a sweep of that strong practical +sense which distinguishes the New-England farmer,—getting at the very +hinge of the matter, without any consciousness of his own precision, and +satisfying the defendant by the clearness of his talk as much as by the +leniency of his judgment.</p> + +<p>His lands lie along those swelling hills, which in southern New England +carry the chain of the White and Green Mountains in gentle undulations +to the borders of the sea. He farms some fifteen hundred +acres,—"suitably divided," as the old-school agriculturists say, into +"woodland, pasture, and tillage." The farm-house—a large, +irregularly-built mansion of wood—stands upon a shelf of the hills +looking southward, and is shaded by century-old oaks. The barns and +out-buildings are grouped in a brown phalanx a little to the northward +of the dwelling. Between them a high timber gate opens upon the +scattered pasture lands of the hills; opposite to this and across the +farmyard, which is the lounging-place of scores of red-necked turkeys +and of matronly hens, clucking to their callow brood, another gate of +similar pretensions opens upon the wide meadow-land, which rolls with a +heavy "ground-swell" along the valley of a mountain river. A veteran oak +stands sentinel at the brown meadow-gate, its trunk all scarred with the +ruthless cuts of new-ground axes, and the limbs garnished in +summer-time with the crooked snathes of murderous-looking scythes.</p> + +<p>The high-road passes a stone's-throw away; but there is little "travel" +to be seen; and every chance passer will inevitably come under the range +of the kitchen windows, and be studied carefully by the eyes of the +stout dairy-maid,—to say nothing of the stalwart Indian cook.</p> + +<p>This last you cannot but admire as a type of that noble old race, among +whom your boyish fancy has woven so many stories of romance. You wonder +how she must regard the white interlopers upon her own soil; and you +think that she tolerates the Squire's farming privileges with more +modesty than you would suppose. You learn however that she pays very +little regard to white rights—when they conflict with her own; and +further learn, to your deep regret, that your Princess of the old tribe +is sadly addicted to cider-drinking; and having heard her once or twice +with a very indistinct "Goo-er night, Sq-quare" upon her lips, your +dreams about her grow very tame.</p> + +<p>The Squire, like all very sensible men, has his hobbies and +peculiarities. He has a great contempt, for instance, for all paper +money, and imagines banks to be corporate societies skilfully contrived +for the legal plunder of the community. He keeps a supply of silver and +gold by him in the foot of an old stocking, and seems to have great +confidence in the value of Spanish milled dollars. He has no kind of +patience with the new doctrines of farming. Liebig, and all the rest, he +sets down as mere theorists, and has far more respect for the contents +of his barnyard than for all the guano deposits in the world. Scientific +farming, and gentleman farming, may do very well, he says, "to keep idle +young fellows from the city out of mischief; but as for real, effective +management, there's nothing like the old stock of men, who ran barefoot +until they were ten, and who count the hard winters by their frozen +toes." And he is fond of quoting in this connection—the only quotation, +by the by, that the old gentleman ever makes—that couplet of "Poor +Richard,"—</p> + +<p class="center"> +"He, that by the plough would thrive,<br /> +Himself must either hold or drive."<br /> +</p> + +<p>The Squire has been in his day connected more or less intimately with +turnpike enterprise, which the railroads of the day have thrown sadly +into the background; and he reflects often in a melancholy way upon the +good old times when a man could travel in his own carriage quietly +across the country, without being frightened with the clatter of an +engine, and when turnpike stock paid wholesome yearly dividends of six +per cent.</p> + +<p>An almost constant hanger-on about the premises, and a great favorite +with the Squire, is a stout, middle-aged man, with a heavy-bearded +face, to whom Frank introduces you as "Captain Dick"; and he tells you +moreover that he is a better butcher, a better wall-layer, and cuts a +broader "swathe," than any man upon the farm. Beside all which he has an +immense deal of information. He knows in the spring where all the +crows'-nests are to be found; he tells Frank where the foxes burrow; he +has even shot two or three raccoons in the swamps; he knows the best +season to troll for pickerel; he has a thorough understanding of +bee-hunting; he can tell the ownership of every stray heifer that +appears upon the road: indeed scarce an inquiry is made, or an opinion +formed, on any of these subjects, or on such kindred ones as the +weather, or potato crop, without previous consultation with "Captain +Dick."</p> + +<p>You have an extraordinary respect for Captain Dick: his gruff tones, +dark beard, patched waistcoat, and cowhide boots, only add to it: you +can compare your regard for him only with the sentiments you entertain +for those fabulous Roman heroes, led on by Horatius, who cut down the +bridge across the Tiber, and then swam over to their wives and families!</p> + +<p>A superannuated old greyhound lives about the premises, and stalks +lazily around, thrusting his thin nose into your hands in a very +affectionate manner.</p> + +<p>Of course, in your way, you are a lion among the boys of the +neighborhood: a blue jacket that you wear, with bell buttons of white +metal, is their especial wonderment. You astonish them moreover with +your stories of various parts of the world which they have never +visited. They tell you of the haunts of rabbits, and great snake +stories, as you sit in the dusk after supper under the old oaks; and you +delight them in turn with some marvellous tale of South-American +reptiles out of Peter Parley's books.</p> + +<p>In all this your new friends are men of observation; while Frank and +yourself are comparatively men of reading. In ciphering, and all +schooling, you find yourself a long way before them; and you talk of +problems, and foreign seas, and Latin declensions, in a way that sets +them all agape.</p> + +<p>As for the little country girls, their bare legs rather stagger your +notions of propriety; nor can you wholly get over their out-of-the-way +pronunciation of some of the vowels. Frank however has a little +cousin,—a toddling, wee thing, some seven years your junior, who has a +rich eye for an infant. But, alas, its color means nothing; poor Fanny +is stone-blind! Your pity leans toward her strangely, as she feels her +way about the old parlor; and her dark eyes wander over the wainscot, or +over the clear, blue sky, with the same sad, painful vacancy.</p> + +<p>And yet—it is very strange!—she does not grieve: there is a sweet, +soft smile upon her lip,—a smile, that will come to you in your +fancied troubles of after-life with a deep voice of reproach.</p> + +<p>Altogether you grow into a liking of the country: your boyish spirit +loves its fresh, bracing air, and the sparkles of dew that at sunrise +cover the hills with diamonds; and the wild river, with its +black-topped, loitering pools; and the shaggy mists that lie in the +nights of early autumn like unravelled clouds, lost upon the meadow. You +love the hills, climbing green and grand to the skies, or stretching +away in distance their soft, blue, smoky caps, like the sweet, +half-faded memories of the years behind you. You love those oaks, +tossing up their broad arms into clear heaven with a spirit and a +strength that kindles your dawning pride and purposes, and that makes +you yearn, as your forehead mantles with fresh blood, for a kindred +spirit and a kindred strength. Above all you love—though you do not +know it now—the <span class="smcap">Breadth</span> of a country life. In the fields of +God's planting there is <span class="smcap">Room</span>. No walls of brick and mortar +cramp one; no factitious distinctions mould your habit. The involuntary +reaches of the spirit tend toward the True and the Natural. The flowers, +the clouds, and the fresh-smelling earth, all give width to your intent. +The boy grows into manliness, instead of growing to be like men. He +claims—with tears almost of brotherhood—his kinship with Nature; and +he feels in the mountains his heirship to the Father of Nature!</p> + +<p>This delirium of feeling may not find expression upon the lip of the +boy; but yet it underlies his thought, and will without his +consciousness give the spring to his musing dreams.</p> + +<p>----So it is, that, as you lie there upon the sunny greensward, at the +old Squire's door, you muse upon the time when some rich-lying land, +with huge granaries, and cosy old mansion sleeping under the trees, +shall be yours,—when the brooks shall water your meadows, and come +laughing down your pasture-lands,—when the clouds shall shed their +spring fragrance upon your lawns, and the daisies bless your paths.</p> + +<p>You will then be a Squire, with your cane, your lean-limbed hound, your +stocking-leg of specie, and your snuffbox. You will be the happy and +respected husband of some tidy old lady in black, and spectacles,—a +little phthisicky, like Frank's grandmother,—and an accomplished cook +of stewed pears and Johnny-cakes!</p> + +<p>It seems a very lofty ambition at this stage of growth to reach such +eminence, as to convert your drawer in the wainscot, that has a secret +spring, into a bank for the country people; and the power to send a man +to jail seems one of those stretches of human prerogative to which few +of your fellow-mortals can ever hope to attain.</p> + +<p>----Well, it may all be. And who knows but the Dreams of Age, when +they are reached, will be lighted by the same spirit and freedom of +nature that is around you now? Who knows, but that after tracking you +through the spring and the summer of Youth, we shall find frosted Age +settling upon you heavily and solemnly in the very fields where you +wanton to-day?</p> + +<p>This American life of ours is a tortuous and shifting impulse. It brings +Age back from years of wandering to totter in the hamlet of its birth; +and it scatters armies of ripe manhood to bleach far-away shores with +their bones.</p> + +<p>That Providence, whose eye and hand are the spy and the executioner of +the Fateful changes of our life, may bring you back in Manhood, or in +Age, to this mountain home of New England; and that very willow yonder, +which your fancy now makes the graceful mourner of your leave, may one +day shadow mournfully your grave!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>VII.</h2> + +<h3><a name="The_Country_Church" id="The_Country_Church"></a><i>The Country Church.</i></h3> + + +<p>The country church is a square old building of wood without paint or +decoration, and of that genuine Puritanic stamp which is now fast giving +way to Greek porticos and to cockney towers. It stands upon a hill, with +a little churchyard in its rear, where one or two sickly-looking trees +keep watch and ward over the vagrant sheep that graze among the graves. +Bramble-bushes seem to thrive on the bodies below, and there is no +flower in the little yard, save a few golden-rods, which flaunt their +gaudy inodorous color under the lee of the northern wall.</p> + +<p>New England country-livers have as yet been very little inoculated with +the sentiment of beauty; even the doorstep to the church is a wide flat +stone, that shows not a single stroke of the hammer. Within, the +simplicity is even more severe. Brown galleries run around three sides +of the old building, supported by timbers, on which you still trace, +under the stains from the leaky roof, the deep scoring of the woodman's +axe.</p> + +<p>Below, the unpainted pews are ranged in square forms, and by age have +gained the color of those fragmentary wrecks of cigar-boxes which you +see upon the top shelves in the bar-rooms of country taverns. The +minister's desk is lofty, and has once been honored with a coating of +paint;—as well as the huge sounding-board, which to your great +amazement protrudes from the wall at a very dangerous angle of +inclination over the speaker's head. As the Squire's pew is the place of +honor to the right of the pulpit, you have a little tremor yourself at +sight of the heavy sounding-board, and cannot forbear indulging in a +quiet feeling of relief when the last prayer is said.</p> + +<p>There are in the Squire's pew long, faded, crimson cushions, which, it +seems to you, must date back nearly to the commencement of the Christian +era in this country. There are also sundry old thumb-worn copies of Dr. +Dwight's Version of the Psalms of David,—"appointed to be sung in +churches by authority of the General Association of the State of +Connecticut." The sides of Dr. Dwight's Version are, you observe, sadly +warped and weather-stained; and from some stray figures which appear +upon a fly-leaf you are constrained to think, that the Squire has +sometimes employed a quiet interval of the service with reckoning up the +contents of the old stocking-leg at home.</p> + +<p>The parson is a stout man, remarkable in your opinion chiefly for a +yellowish-brown wig, a strong nasal tone, and occasional violent thumps +upon the little, dingy, red velvet cushion, studded with brass tacks, at +the top of the desk. You do not altogether admire his style; and by the +time he has entered upon his "Fourthly," you give your attention in +despair to a new reading (it must be the twentieth) of the preface to +Dr. Dwight's Version of the Psalms.</p> + +<p>The singing has a charm for you. There is a long, thin-faced, +flax-haired man, who carries a tuning-fork in his waistcoat-pocket, and +who leads the choir. His position is in the very front rank of gallery +benches facing the desk; and by the time the old clergyman has read two +verses of the psalm, the country chorister turns around to his little +group of aids—consisting of the blacksmith, a carroty-headed +schoolmaster, two women in snuff-colored silks, and a girl in pink +bonnet—to announce the tune.</p> + +<p>This being done in an authoritative manner, he lifts his long +music-book—glances again at his little company,—clears his throat by a +powerful ahem, followed by a powerful use of a bandanna +pocket-handkerchief,—draws out his tuning-fork, and waits for the +parson to close his reading. He now reviews once more his +company,—throws a reproving glance at the young woman in the pink hat, +who at the moment is biting off a stout bunch of fennel,—lifts his +music-book,—thumps upon the rail with his fork,—listens +keenly,—gives a slight <i>ahem</i>,—falls into the cadence,—swells into a +strong <i>crescendo</i>,—catches at the first word of the line as if he were +afraid it might get away,—turns to his company,—lifts his music-book +with spirit, gives it a powerful slap with the disengaged hand, and with +a majestic toss of the head soars away, with half the women below +straggling on in his wake, into some such brave old melody +as—<span class="smcap">Litchfield</span>!</p> + +<p>Being a visitor, and in the Squire's pew, you are naturally an object of +considerable attention to the girls about your age, as well as to a +great many fat old ladies in iron spectacles, who mortify you +excessively by patting you under the chin after church; and insist upon +mistaking you for Frank; and force upon you very dry cookies spiced with +caraway seeds.</p> + +<p>You keep somewhat shy of the young ladies, as they are rather stout for +your notions of beauty, and wear thick calf-skin boots. They compare +very poorly with Jenny. Jenny, you think, would be above eating +gingerbread between service. None of them, you imagine, ever read +"Thaddeus of Warsaw," or ever used a colored glass seal with a Cupid and +a dart upon it. You are quite certain they never did, or they could not +surely wear such dowdy gowns, and suck their thumbs as they do!</p> + +<p>The farmers you have a high respect for,—particularly for one +weazen-faced old gentleman in a brown surtout, who brings his whip into +church with him, who sings in a very strong voice, and who drives a span +of gray colts. You think, however, that he has got rather a stout wife; +and from the way he humors her in stopping to talk with two or three +other fat women, before setting off for home, (though he seems a little +fidgety,) you naively think that he has a high regard for her opinion. +Another townsman who attracts your notice is a stout old deacon, who, +before entering, always steps around the corner of the church, and puts +his hat upon the ground, to adjust his wig in a quiet way. He then +marches up the broad aisle in a stately manner, and plants his hat and a +big pair of buckskin mittens on the little table under the desk. When he +is fairly seated in his corner of the pew, with his elbow upon the top +rail,—almost the only man who can comfortably reach it,—you observe +that he spreads his brawny fingers over his scalp in an exceedingly +cautious manner; and you innocently think again that it is very +hypocritical in a deacon to be pretending to lean upon his hand when he +is only keeping his wig straight.</p> + +<p>After the morning service they have an "hour's intermission," as the +preacher calls it; during which the old men gather on a sunny side of +the building, and, after shaking hands all around, and asking after the +"folks" at home, they enjoy a quiet talk about the crops. One man, for +instance, with a twist in his nose, would say, "It's raether a growin' +season;" and another would reply, "Tolerable, but potatoes is feelin' +the wet badly." The stout deacon approves this opinion, and confirms it +by blowing his nose very powerfully.</p> + +<p>Two or three of the more worldly-minded ones will perhaps stroll over to +a neighbor's barnyard, and take a look at his young stock, and talk of +prices, and whittle a little; and very likely some two of them will make +a conditional "swop" of "three likely ye'rlings" for a pair of +"two-year-olds."</p> + +<p>The youngsters are fond of getting out into the graveyard, and comparing +jackknives, or talking about the schoolmaster or the menagerie, or, it +may be, of some prospective "travel" in the fall,—either to town, or +perhaps to the "sea-shore."</p> + +<p>Afternoon service hangs heavily; and the tall chorister is by no means +so blithe, or so majestic in the toss of his head, as in the morning. A +boy in the next box tries to provoke you into familiarity by dropping +pellets of gingerbread through the bars of the pew; but as you are not +accustomed to that way of making acquaintance, you decline all +overtures.</p> + +<p>After the service is finished, the wagons, that have been disposed on +either side of the road, are drawn up before the door. The old Squire +meantime is sure to have a little chat with the parson before he leaves; +in the course of which the parson takes occasion to say that his wife +is a little ailing,—"a slight touch," he thinks, "of the rheumatiz." +One of the children too has been troubled with the "summer complaint" +for a day or two; but he thinks that a dose of catnip, under Providence, +will effect a cure. The younger and unmarried men, with red wagons +flaming upon bright yellow wheels, make great efforts to drive off in +the van; and they spin frightfully near some of the fat, sour-faced +women, who remark in a quiet, but not very Christian tone, that they +"fear the elder's sermon hasn't done the young bucks much good." It is +much to be feared in truth that it has not.</p> + +<p>In ten minutes the old church is thoroughly deserted; the neighbor who +keeps the key has locked up for another week the creaking door; and +nothing of the service remains within except—Dr. Dwight's Version,—the +long music-books,—crumbs of gingerbread, and refuse stalks of despoiled +fennel.</p> + +<p>And yet under the influence of that old, weather-stained temple are +perhaps growing up—though you do not once fancy it—souls possessed of +an energy, an industry, and a respect for virtue, which will make them +stronger for the real work of life than all the elegant children of a +city. One lesson, which even the rudest churches of New England +teach,—with all their harshness, and all their repulsive severity of +form,—is the lesson of Self-Denial. Once armed with that, and manhood +is strong. The soul that possesses the consciousness of mastering +passion, is endowed with an element of force that can never harmonize +with defeat. Difficulties it wears like a summer garment, and flings +away at the first approach of the winter of Need.</p> + +<p>Let not any one suppose, then, that in this detail of the country life +through which our hero is led, I would cast obloquy or a sneer upon its +simplicity, or upon its lack of refinement. Goodness and strength in +this world are quite as apt to wear rough coats as fine ones. And the +words of thorough and self-sacrificing kindness are far more often +dressed in the uncouth sounds of retired life than in the polished +utterance of the town. Heaven has not made warm hearts and honest hearts +distinguishable by the quality of the covering. True diamonds need no +work of the artificer to reflect and multiply their rays. Goodness is +more within than without; and purity is of nearer kin to the soul than +to the body.</p> + +<p>----And, Clarence, it may well happen that later in life—under the +gorgeous ceilings of Venetian churches, or at some splendid mass in +Nôtre Dame, with embroidered coats and costly silks around you—your +thoughts will run back to that little storm-beaten church, and to the +willow waving in its yard, with a Hope that <i>glows</i>, and with a tear +that you embalm!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>VIII.</h2> + +<h3><a name="A_Home_Scene" id="A_Home_Scene"></a><i>A Home Scene.</i></h3> + + +<p>And now I shall not leave this realm of boyhood, or suffer my hero to +slip away from this gala-time of his life, without a fair look at that +Home where his present pleasures lie, and where all his dreams begin and +end.</p> + +<p>Little does the boy know, as the tide of years drifts by, floating him +out insensibly from the harbor of his home upon the great sea of +life,—what joys, what opportunities, what affections, are slipping from +him into the shades of that inexorable Past, where no man can go save on +the wings of his dreams. Little does he think—and God be praised that +the thought does not sink deep lines in his young forehead!—as he leans +upon the lap of his mother, with his eye turned to her in some earnest +pleading for a fancied pleasure of the hour, or in some important story +of his griefs, that such sharing of his sorrows, and such sympathy with +his wishes, he will find nowhere again.</p> + +<p>Little does he imagine that the fond Nelly, ever thoughtful of his +pleasure, ever smiling away his griefs, will soon be beyond the reach +of either, and that the waves of the years, which come rocking so gently +under him, will soon toss her far away upon the great swell of life.</p> + +<p>But <i>now</i> you are there. The firelight glimmers upon the walls of your +cherished home, like the Vestal fire of old upon the figures of adoring +virgins, or like the flame of Hebrew sacrifice, whose incense bore +hearts to Heaven. The big chair of your father is drawn to its wonted +corner by the chimney-side; his head, just touched with gray, lies back +upon its oaken top. Little Nelly leans upon his knee, looking up for +some reply to her girlish questionings. Opposite sits your mother: her +figure is thin, her look cheerful, yet subdued; her arm perhaps resting +on your shoulder, as she talks to you in tones of tender admonition of +the days that are to come.</p> + +<p>The cat is purring on the hearth; the clock, that ticked so plainly when +Charlie died, is ticking on the mantel still. The great table in the +middle of the room with its books and work waits only for the lighting +of the evening lamp, to see a return to its stores of embroidery, and of +story.</p> + +<p>Upon a little stand under the mirror, which catches now and then a +flicker of the firelight, and makes it play wantonly over the ceiling, +lies that big book reverenced of your New-England parents,—the Family +Bible. It is a ponderous square volume, with heavy silver clasps that +you have often pressed open for a look at its quaint old pictures, or +for a study of those prettily bordered pages which lie between the +Testaments, and which hold the Family Record.</p> + +<p>There are the Births,—your father's, and your mother's; it seems as if +they were born a long time ago; and even your own date of birth appears +an almost incredible distance back. Then there are the marriages,—only +one as yet; and your mother's maiden name looks oddly to you: it is hard +to think of her as any one else than your doting parent. You wonder if +your name will ever come under that paging; and wonder, though you +scarce whisper the wonder to yourself, how another name would look, just +below yours,—such a name, for instance, as Fanny, or as Miss Margaret +Boyne!</p> + +<p>Last of all come the Deaths,—only one. Poor Charlie! How it +looks?—"Died 12 September 18—Charles Henry, aged four years." You know +just how it looks. You have turned to it often; there you seem to be +joined to him, though only by the turning of a leaf. And over your +thoughts, as you look at that page of the record, there sometimes +wanders a vague shadowy fear, which <i>will</i> come,—that your own name may +soon be there. You try to drop the notion, as if it were not fairly your +own; you affect to slight it, as you would slight a boy who presumed on +your acquaintance, but whom you have no desire to know. It is a common +thing, you will find, with our world to decline familiarity with those +ideas that fright us.</p> + +<p>Yet your mother—how strange it is!—has no fears of such dark fancies. +Even now as you stand beside her, and as the twilight deepens in the +room, her low, silvery voice is stealing upon your ear, telling you that +she cannot be long with you; that the time is coming when you must be +guided by your own judgment, and struggle with the world unaided by the +friends of your boyhood. There is a little pride, and a great deal more +of anxiety, in your thoughts now, as you look steadfastly into the home +blaze, while those delicate fingers, so tender of your happiness, play +with the locks upon your brow.</p> + +<p>----To struggle with the world,—that is a proud thing; to struggle +alone,—there lies the doubt! Then crowds in swift upon the calm of +boyhood the first anxious thought of youth; then chases over the sky of +Spring the first heated and wrathful cloud of Summer.</p> + +<p>But the lamps are now lit in the little parlor, and they shed a soft +haze to the farthest corner of the room; while the firelight streams +over the floor, where puss lies purring. Little Madge is there; she has +dropped in softly with her mother, and Nelly has welcomed her with a +bound and with a kiss. Jenny has not so rosy a cheek as Madge. But +Jenny with her love-notes, and her languishing dark eye, you think of as +a lady; and the thought of her is a constant drain upon your sentiment. +As for Madge,—that girl Madge, whom you know so well,—you think of her +as a sister; and yet—it is very odd—you look at her far oftener than +you do at Nelly!</p> + +<p>Frank too has come in to have a game with you at draughts; and he is in +capital spirits, all brisk and glowing with his evening's walk. +He—bless his honest heart!—never observes that you arrange the board +very adroitly, so that you may keep half an eye upon Madge, as she sits +yonder beside Nelly. Nor does he once notice your blush as you catch her +eye when she raises her head to fling back the ringlets, and then with a +sly look at you bends a most earnest gaze upon the board, as if she were +especially interested in the disposition of the men.</p> + +<p>You catch a little of the spirit of coquetry yourself,—(what a native +growth it is!)—and if she lift her eyes when you are gazing at her, you +very suddenly divert your look to the cat at her feet, and remark to +your friend Frank in an easy off-hand way—how still the cat is lying!</p> + +<p>And Frank turns—thinking probably, if he thinks at all about it, that +cats are very apt to lie still when they sleep.</p> + +<p>As for Nelly, half neglected by your thought as well as by your eye, +while mischievous-looking Madge is sitting by her, you little know as +yet what kindness, what gentleness, you are careless of. Few loves in +life, and you will learn it before life is done, can balance the lost +love of a sister.</p> + +<p>As for your parents, in the intervals of the game you listen dreamily to +their talk with the mother of Madge,—good Mrs. Boyne. It floats over +your mind, as you rest your chin upon your clenched hand, like a strain +of old familiar music,—a household strain that seems to belong to the +habit of your ear,—a strain that will linger about it melodiously for +many years to come,—a strain that will be recalled long time hence, +when life is earnest and its cares heavy, with tears of regret and with +sighs of bitterness.</p> + +<p>By-and-by your game is done; and other games, in which join Nelly (the +tears come when you write her name <i>now</i>!) and Madge, (the smiles come +when you look on her <i>then</i>,) stretch out that sweet eventide of Home, +until the lamp flickers, and you speak your friends—adieu. To Madge, it +is said boldly,—a boldness put on to conceal a little lurking tremor; +but there is no tremor in the home good-night.</p> + +<p>---- Aye, my boy, kiss your mother,—kiss her again; fondle your sweet +Nelly; pass your little hand through the gray locks of your father; love +them dearly while you can! Make your good-nights linger and make your +adieus long, and sweet, and often repeated. Love with your whole +soul,—Father, Mother, and Sister,—for these loves shall die!</p> + +<p>----Not indeed in thought,—God be thanked! Nor yet in tears,—for He +is merciful! But they shall die, as the leaves die,—die, as Spring dies +into the heat and ripeness of Summer, and as boyhood dies into the +elasticity and ambition of youth. Death, Distance, and Time shall each +one of them dig graves for your affections; but this you do not know, +nor can know, until the story of your life is ended.</p> + +<p>The dreams of riches, of love, of voyage, of learning, that light up the +boy age with splendor, will pass on and over into the hotter dreams of +youth. Spring buds and blossoms, under the glowing sun of April, nurture +at their heart those firstlings of fruit which the heat of summer shall +ripen.</p> + +<p>You little know—and for this you may well thank Heaven—that you are +leaving the Spring of life, and that you are floating fast from the +shady sources of your years into heat, bustle, and storm. Your dreams +are now faint, flickering shadows, that play like fire-flies in the +coppices of leafy June. They have no rule but the rule of infantile +desire; they have no joys to promise greater than the joys that belong +to your passing life; they have no terrors but such terrors as the +darkness of a Spring night makes. They do not take hold on your soul as +the dreams of youth and manhood will do.</p> + +<p>Your highest hope is shadowed in a cheerful, boyish home. You wish no +friends but the friends of boyhood; no sister but your fond Nelly; none +to love better than the playful Madge.</p> + +<p>You forget, Clarence, that the Spring with you is the Spring with them, +and that the storms of Summer may chase wide shadows over your path and +over theirs. And you forget that Summer is even now lowering with its +mist, and with its scorching rays, upon the hem of your flowery May!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>----The hands of the old clock upon the mantel, that ticked off the +hours when Charlie sighed and when Charlie died, draw on toward +midnight. The shadows that the fire-flame makes grow dimmer and dimmer. +And thus it is that Home, boy home, passes away forever,—like the +swaying of a pendulum,—like the fading of a shadow on the floor!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="SUMMER" id="SUMMER"></a><i>SUMMER;</i></h2> + +<h4>OR,</h4> + +<h2><i>THE DREAMS OF YOUTH.</i></h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="DREAMS_OF_YOUTH" id="DREAMS_OF_YOUTH"></a><i>DREAMS OF YOUTH.</i></h2> + +<h4><i>Summer.</i></h4> + + +<p>I feel a great deal of pity for those honest but misguided people who +call their little, spruce suburban towns, or the shaded streets of their +inland cities,—the country and I have still more pity for those who +reckon a season at the summer resorts—country enjoyment. Nay, my +feeling is more violent than pity; and I count it nothing less than +blasphemy so to take the name of the country in vain.</p> + +<p>I thank Heaven every summer's day of my life, that my lot was humbly +cast within the hearing of romping brooks, and beneath the shadow of +oaks. And from all the tramp and bustle of the world into which fortune +has led me in these latter years of my life, I delight to steal away for +days, and for weeks together, and bathe my spirit in the freedom of the +old woods; and to grow young again, lying upon the brook-side, and +counting the white clouds that sail along the sky softly and +tranquilly—even as holy memories go stealing over the vault of life.</p> + +<p>I am deeply thankful that I could never find it in my heart so to +pervert truth as to call the smart villages with the tricksy shadow of +their maple avenues—the Country.</p> + +<p>I love these in their way, and can recall pleasant passages of thought, +as I have idled through the Sabbath-looking towns, or lounged at the +inn-door of some quiet New-England village. But I love far better to +leave them behind me, and to dash boldly out to where some out-lying +farm-house sits—like a sentinel—under the shelter of wooded hills, or +nestles in the lap of a noiseless valley.</p> + +<p>In the town, small as it may be, and darkened as it may be with the +shadows of trees, you cannot forget—men. Their voice, and strife, and +ambition come to your eye in the painted paling, in the swinging +signboard of the tavern, and—worst of all—in the trim-printed +"<span class="smcap">Attorney at Law</span>." Even the little milliner's shop, with its +meagre show of leghorns, and its string across the window all hung with +tabs and with cloth roses, is a sad epitome of the great and +conventional life of a city neighborhood.</p> + +<p>I like to be rid of them all, as I am rid of them this midsummer's day. +I like to steep my soul in a sea of quiet, with nothing floating past +me, as I lie moored to my thought, but the perfume of flowers, and +soaring birds, and shadows of clouds.</p> + +<p>Two days since I was sweltering in the heat of the City, jostled by the +thousand eager workers, and panting under the shadow of the walls. But I +have stolen away; and for two hours of healthful regrowth into the +darling Past I have been lying this blessed summer's morning upon the +grassy bank of a stream that babbled me to sleep in boyhood.—Dear old +stream, unchanging, unfaltering,—with no harsher notes now than +then,—never growing old,—smiling in your silver rustle, and calming +yourself in the broad, placid pools,—I love you as I love a friend!</p> + +<p>But now that the sun has grown scalding hot, and the waves of heat have +come rocking under the shadow of the meadow-oaks, I have sought shelter +in a chamber of the old farm-house. The window-blinds are closed; but +some of them are sadly shattered, and I have intertwined in them a few +branches of the late-blossoming white azalia, so that every puff of the +summer air comes to me cooled with fragrance. A dimple or two of the +sunlight still steals through my flowery screen, and dances (as the +breeze moves the branches) upon the oaken floor of the farm-house.</p> + +<p>Through one little gap indeed I can see the broad stretch of meadow, and +the workmen in the field bending and swaying to their scythes. I can see +too the glistening of the steel, as they wipe their blades, and can just +catch floating on the air the measured, tinkling thwack of the +rifle-stroke.</p> + +<p>Here and there a lark, scared from his feeding-place in the grass, soars +up, bubbling forth his melody in globules of silvery sound, and settles +upon some tall tree, and waves his wings, and sinks to the swaying +twigs. I hear too a quail piping from the meadow fence, and another +trilling his answering whistle from the hills. Nearer by, a tyrant +king-bird is poised on the topmost branch of a veteran pear-tree, and +now and then dashes down, assassin-like, upon some homebound, +honey-laden bee, and then with a smack of his bill resumes his predatory +watch.</p> + +<p>A chicken or two lie in the sun, with a wing and a leg stretched +out,—lazily picking at the gravel, or relieving their <i>ennui</i> from time +to time with a spasmodic rustle of their feathers. An old, matronly hen +stalks about the yard with a sedate step, and with quiet self-assurance +she utters an occasional series of hoarse and heated clucks. A speckled +turkey, with an astonished brood at her heels, is eying curiously, and +with earnest variations of the head, a full-fed cat, that lies curled +up, and dozing, upon the floor of the cottage porch.</p> + +<p>As I sit thus, watching through the interstices of my leafy screen the +various images of country life, I hear distant mutterings from beyond +the hills.</p> + +<p>The sun has thrown its shadow upon the pewter dial two hours beyond the +meridian line. Great cream colored heads of thunder-clouds are lifting +above the sharp, clear line of the western horizon; the light breeze +dies away, and the air becomes stifling, even under the shadow of my +withered boughs in the chamber-window. The white-capped clouds roll up +nearer and nearer to the sun, and the creamy masses below grow dark in +their seams. The mutterings, that came faintly before, now spread into +wide volumes of rolling sound, that echo again and again from the +eastward heights.</p> + +<p>I hear in the deep intervals the men shouting to their teams in the +meadows; and great companies of startled swallows are dashing in all +directions around the gray roofs of the barn.</p> + +<p>The clouds have now wellnigh reached the sun, which seems to shine the +fiercer for his coming eclipse. The whole west, as I look from the +sources of the brook to its lazy drift under the swamps that lie to the +south, is hung with a curtain of darkness; and like swift-working, +golden ropes, that lift it toward the zenith, long chains of lightning +flash through it; and the growing thunder seems like the rumble of the +pulleys.</p> + +<p>I thrust away my azalia-boughs, and fling back the shattered blinds, as +the sun and the clouds meet, and my room darkens with the coming +shadows. For an instant the edges of the thick, creamy masses of cloud +are gilded by the shrouded sun, and show gorgeous scallops of gold, +that toss upon the hem of the storm. But the blazonry fades as the +clouds mount; and the brightening lines of the lightning dart up from +the lower skirts, and heave the billowy masses into the middle heaven.</p> + +<p>The workmen are urging their oxen fast across the meadow, and the +loiterers come straggling after with rakes upon their shoulders. The +matronly hen has retreated to the stable-door; and the brood of turkeys +stand dressing their feathers under the open shed.</p> + +<p>The air freshens, and blows now from the face of the coming clouds. I +see the great elms in the plain swaying their tops, even before the +storm-breeze has reached me; and a bit of ripened grain upon a swell of +the meadow waves and tosses like a billowy sea.</p> + +<p>Presently I hear the rush of the wind; and the cherry-and pear-trees +rustle through all their leaves; and my paper is whisked away by the +intruding blast.</p> + +<p>There is a quiet of a moment, in which the wind even seems weary and +faint, and nothing finds utterance save one hoarse tree-toad, doling out +his lugubrious notes.</p> + +<p>Now comes a blinding flash from the clouds, and a quick, sharp clang +clatters through the heavens, and bellows loud and long among the hills. +Then—like great grief spending its pent agony in tears—come the big +drops of rain,—pattering on the lawn and on the leaves, and most +musically of all upon the roof above me,—not now with the light fall of +the Spring shower, but with strong steppings, like the first proud tread +of Youth!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>I.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Cloister_Life" id="Cloister_Life"></a><i>Cloister Life.</i></h3> + + +<p>It has very likely occurred to you, my reader, that I am playing the +wanton in these sketches, and am breaking through all the canons of the +writers in making You my hero.</p> + +<p>It is even so; for my work is a story of those vague feelings, doubts, +passions, which belong more or less to every man of us all; and +therefore it is that I lay upon your shoulders the burden of these +dreams. If this or that one never belonged to your experience, have +patience for a while. I feel sure that others are coming which will lie +like a truth upon your heart, and draw you unwittingly—perhaps +tearfully even—into the belief that You are indeed my hero.</p> + +<p>The scene now changes to the cloister of a college; not the gray, +classic cloisters which lie along the banks of the Cam or the +Isis,—huge, battered hulks, on whose weather-stained decks great +captains of learning have fought away their lives,—nor yet the +cavernous, quadrangular courts that sleep under the dingy walls of the +Sorbonne.</p> + +<p>The youth-dreams of Clarence begin under the roof of one of those long, +ungainly piles of brick and mortar which make the colleges of New +England.</p> + +<p>The floor of the room is rough, and divided by wide seams. The +study-table does not stand firmly without a few spare pennies to prop it +into solid footing. The bookcase of stained fir-wood, suspended against +the wall by cords, is meagrely stocked with a couple of Lexicons, a pair +of Grammars, a Euclid, a Xenophon, a Homer, and a Livy. Beside these are +scattered about here and there a thumb-worn copy of British ballads, an +odd volume of the "Sketch-Book," a clumsy Shakspeare, and a pocket +edition of the Bible.</p> + +<p>With such appliances, added to the half-score of professors and tutors +who preside over the awful precincts, you are to work your way up to +that proud entrance upon our American life which begins with the +Baccalaureate degree. There is a tingling sensation in first walking +under the shadow of those walls, uncouth as they are, and in feeling +that you belong to them,—that you are a member, as it were, of the +body-corporate, subject to an actual code of printed laws, and to actual +moneyed fines varying from a shilling to fifty cents!</p> + +<p>There is something exhilarating in the very consciousness of your +subject state, and in the necessity of measuring your hours by the habit +of such a learned community. You think back upon your respect for the +lank figure of some old teacher of boy-days as a childish weakness; even +the little coteries of the home fireside lose their importance when +compared with the extraordinary sweep and dignity of your present +position.</p> + +<p>It is pleasant to measure yourself with men; and there are those about +you who seem to your untaught eye to be men already. Your chum, a +hard-faced fellow of ten more years than you, digging sturdily at his +tasks, seems by that very community of work to dignify your labor. You +watch his cold, gray eye bending down over some theorem of Euclid, with +a kind of proud companionship in what so tasks his manliness.</p> + +<p>It is nothing for him to quit sleep at the first tinkling of the +alarm-clock that hangs in your chamber, or to brave the weather in that +cheerless run to the morning prayers of winter. Yet with what a dreamy +horror you wake on mornings of snow to that tinkling alarum!—and glide +in the cold and darkness under the shadow of the college-walls, +shuddering under the sharp gusts that come sweeping between the +buildings,—and afterward, gathering yourself up in your cloak, watch in +a sleepy, listless maze the flickering lamps that hang around the dreary +chapel! You follow half unconsciously some tutor's rhetorical reading of +a chapter of Isaiah; and then, as he closes the Bible with a flourish, +your eye, half open, catches the feeble figure of the old Dominie as he +steps to the desk, and, with his frail hands stretched out upon the +cover of the big book, and his head leaning slightly to one side, runs +through in gentle and tremulous tones his wonted form of invocation.</p> + +<p>Your Division room is steaming with foul heat, and there is a strong +smell of burnt feathers and oil. A jaunty tutor with pug nose and +consequential air steps into the room—while you all rise to show him +deference—and takes his place at the pulpit-like desk. Then come the +formal loosing of his camlet cloak-clasp,—the opening of his sweaty +Xenophon to where the day's <i>parasangs</i> begin,—the unsliding of his +silver pencil-case,—the keen, sour look around the benches, and the +cool pinch of his thumb and forefinger into the fearful box of names!</p> + +<p>How you listen for each as it is uttered,—running down the page in +advance,—rejoicing when some hard passage comes to a stout man in the +corner; and what a sigh of relief—on mornings after you have been out +late at night—when the last paragraph is reached, the ballot drawn, +and—you, safe!</p> + +<p>You speculate dreamily upon the faces around you. You wonder what sort +of schooling they may have had, and what sort of homes. You think one +man has got an extraordinary name, and another a still more +extraordinary nose. The glib, easy way of one student, and his perfect +<i>sang-froid</i>, completely charm you: you set him down in your own mind +as a kind of Crichton. Another weazen-faced, pinched-up fellow in a +scant cloak, you think must have been sometime a schoolmaster: he is so +very precise, and wears such an indescribable look of the ferule. There +is one big student, with a huge beard and a rollicking good-natured eye, +whom you would quite like to see measure strength with your old usher, +and on careful comparison rather think the usher would get the worst of +it. Another appears as venerable as some fathers you have seen; and it +seems wonderfully odd that a man old enough to have children should +recite Xenophon by morning candle-light!</p> + +<p>The class in advance you study curiously; and are quite amazed at the +precocity of certain youths belonging to it, who are apparently about +your own age. The Juniors you look upon with a quiet reverence for their +aplomb and dignity of character; and look forward with intense yearnings +to the time when you too shall be admitted freely to the precincts of +the Philosophical chamber, and to the very steep benches of the +Laboratory. This last seems, from occasional peeps through the blinds, a +most mysterious building. The chimneys, recesses, vats, and cisterns—to +say nothing of certain galvanic communications, which, you are told, +traverse the whole building in a way capable of killing a rat at an +incredible remove from the bland professor—utterly fatigue your +wonder! You humbly trust—though you have doubts upon the point—that +you will have the capacity to grasp it all, when once you shall have +arrived at the dignity of a Junior.</p> + +<p>As for the Seniors, your admiration for them is entirely boundless. In +one or two individual instances, it is true, it has been broken down by +an unfortunate squabble with thick-set fellows in the Chapel aisle. A +person who sits not far before you at prayers, and whose name you seek +out very early, bears a strong resemblance to some portrait of Dr. +Johnson; you have very much the same kind of respect for him that you +feel for the great lexicographer, and do not for a moment doubt his +capacity to compile a dictionary equal, if not superior, to Johnson's.</p> + +<p>Another man with very bushy, black hair, and an easy look of importance, +carries a large cane, and is represented to you as an astonishing +scholar and speaker. You do not doubt it; his very air proclaims it. You +think of him as presently—(say four or five years hence)—astounding +the United States Senate with his eloquence. And when once you have +heard him in debate, with that ineffable gesture of his, you absolutely +languish in your admiration for him, and you describe his speaking to +your country friends as very little inferior, if at all, to Mr. Burke's. +Beside this one are some half dozen others, among whom the question of +superiority is, you understand, strongly mooted. It puzzles you to +think, what an avalanche of talent will fall upon the country at the +graduation of those Seniors!</p> + +<p>You will find however that the country bears such inundations of college +talent with a remarkable degree of equanimity. It is quite wonderful how +all the Burkes, and Scotts, and Peels, among college Seniors, do quietly +disappear, as a man gets on in life.</p> + +<p>As for any degree of fellowship with such giants, it is an honor hardly +to be thought of. But you have a classmate—I will call him Dalton—who +is very intimate with a dashing Senior; they room near each other +outside the college. You quite envy Dalton, and you come to know him +well. He says that you are not a "green-one,"—that you have "cut your +eye-teeth"; in return for which complimentary opinions you entertain a +strong friendship for Dalton.</p> + +<p>He is a "fast" fellow, as the Senior calls him; and it is a proud thing +to happen at their rooms occasionally, and to match yourself for an hour +or two (with the windows darkened) against a Senior at "old sledge." It +is quite "the thing," as Dalton says, to meet a Senior familiarly in the +street. Sometimes you go, after Dalton has taught you "the ropes," to +have a cosy sit-down over oysters and champagne,—to which the Senior +lends himself with the pleasantest condescension in the world. You are +not altogether used to hard drinking; but this you conceal—as most +spirited young fellows do—by drinking a great deal. You have a dim +recollection of certain circumstances—very unimportant, yet very +vividly impressed on your mind—which occurred on one of these +occasions.</p> + +<p>The oysters were exceedingly fine, and the champagne exquisite. You have +a recollection of something being said, toward the end of the first +bottle, of Xenophon, and of the Senior's saying in his playful way, "Oh, +d—n Xenophon!"</p> + +<p>You remember Dalton laughed at this; and you laughed—for company. You +remember that you thought, and Dalton thought, and the Senior thought, +by a singular coincidence, that the second bottle of champagne was +better even than the first. You have a dim remembrance of the Senior's +saying very loudly, "Clarence—(calling you by your family name)—is no +spooney;" and drinking a bumper with you in confirmation of the remark.</p> + +<p>You remember that Dalton broke out into a song, and that for a time you +joined in the chorus; you think the Senior called you to order for +repeating the chorus in the wrong place. You think the lights burned +with remarkable brilliancy; and you remember that a remark of yours to +that effect met with very much such a response from the Senior as he had +before employed with reference to Xenophon.</p> + +<p>You have a confused idea of calling Dalton—Xenophon. You think the +meeting broke up with a chorus, and that somebody—you cannot tell +who—broke two or three glasses. You remember questioning yourself very +seriously as to whether you were, or were not, tipsy. You think you +decided that you were not, but—might be.</p> + +<p>You have a confused recollection of leaning upon some one, or something, +going to your room; this sense of a desire to lean, you think, was very +strong. You remember being horribly afflicted with the idea of having +tried your night-key at the tutor's door, instead of your own; you +remember further a hot stove,—made certain indeed by a large blister +which appeared on your hand next day. You think of throwing off your +clothes by one or two spasmodic efforts,—leaning in the intervals +against the bedpost.</p> + +<p>There is a recollection of an uncommon dizziness afterward, as if your +body was very quiet, and your head gyrating with strange velocity, and a +kind of centrifugal action, all about the room, and the college, and +indeed the whole town. You think that you felt uncontrollable nausea +after this, followed by positive sickness,—which waked your chum, who +thought you very incoherent, and feared derangement.</p> + +<p>A dismal state of lassitude follows, broken by the college-clock +striking three, and by very rambling reflections upon champagne, +Xenophon, "Captain Dick," Madge, and the old deacon who clinched his wig +in the church.</p> + +<p>The next morning (ah, how vexatious that all our follies are followed by +a "next morning!") you wake with a parched mouth, and a torturing +thirst; the sun is shining broadly into your reeking chamber. Prayers +and recitations are long ago over; and you see through the door in the +outer room that hard-faced chum with his Lexicon and Livy open before +him, working out with all the earnestness of his iron purpose the steady +steps toward preferment and success.</p> + +<p>You go with some story of sudden sickness to the tutor,—half fearful +that the bloodshot, swollen eyes will betray you. It is very mortifying +too to meet Dalton appearing so gay and lively after it all, while you +wear such an air of being "used up." You envy him thoroughly the +extraordinary capacity that he has.</p> + +<p>Here and there creeps in, amid all the pride and shame of the new life, +a tender thought of the old home; but its joys are joys no longer: its +highest aspirations even have resolved themselves into fine mist,—- +like rainbows that the sun drinks with his beams.</p> + +<p>The affection for a mother, whose kindness you recall with a suffused +eye, is not gone, or blighted; but it is woven up, as only a single +adorning tissue, into the growing pride of youth: it is cherished in the +proud soul rather as a redeeming weakness than as a vital energy.</p> + +<p>And the love for Nelly, though it bates no jot of fervor, is woven into +the scale of growing purposes rather as a color to adorn than as a +strand to strengthen.</p> + +<p>As for your other loves, those romantic ones which were kindled by +bright eyes, and the stolen reading of Miss Porter's novels, they linger +on your mind like perfumes; and they float down your memory—with the +figure, the step, the last words of those young girls who raised +them—like the types of some dimly shadowed but deeper passion, which is +some time to spur your maturer purposes and to quicken your manly +resolves.</p> + +<p>It would be hard to tell, for you do not as yet know, but that Madge +herself—hoidenish, blue-eyed Madge—is to be the very one who will gain +such hold upon your riper affections as she has held already over your +boyish caprice. It is a part of the pride—I may say rather an evidence +of the pride—which youth feels in leaving boyhood behind him, to talk +laughingly and carelessly of those attachments which made his young +years so balmy with dreams.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>II.</h2> + +<h3><a name="First_Ambition" id="First_Ambition"></a><i>First Ambition.</i></h3> + + +<p>I believe that sooner or later there come to every man dreams of +ambition. They may be covered with the sloth of habit, or with the +pretence of humility; they may come only in dim, shadowy visions, that +feed the eye like the glories of an ocean sunrise; but you may be sure +that they will come: even before one is aware, the bold, adventurous +goddess, whose name is Ambition, and whose dower is Fame, will be toying +with the feeble heart. And she pushes her ventures with a bold hand; she +makes timidity strong, and weakness valiant.</p> + +<p>The way of a man's heart will be foreshadowed by what goodness lies in +him,—coming from above, and from around;—but a way foreshadowed is not +a way made. And the making of a man's way comes only from that +quickening of resolve which we call Ambition. It is the spur that makes +man struggle with Destiny: it is Heaven's own incentive, to make Purpose +great, and Achievement greater.</p> + +<p>It would be strange if you, in that cloister life of a college, did not +sometimes feel a dawning of new resolves. They grapple you indeed +oftener than you dare to speak of. Here you dream first of that very +sweet, but very shadowy success called Reputation.</p> + +<p>You think of the delight and astonishment it would give your mother and +father, and most of all little Nelly, if you were winning such honors as +now escape you. You measure your capacities by those about you, and +watch their habit of study; you gaze for a half-hour together upon some +successful man who has won his prizes, and wonder by what secret action +he has done it. And when in time you come to be a competitor yourself, +your anxiety is immense.</p> + +<p>You spend hours upon hours at your theme. You write and rewrite; and +when it is at length complete and out of your hands, you are harassed by +a thousand doubts. At times, as you recall your hours of toil, you +question if so much has been spent upon any other; you feel almost +certain of success. You repeat to yourself some passages of special +eloquence at night. You fancy the admiration of the professors at +meeting with such a wonderful performance. You have a slight fear that +its superior goodness may awaken the suspicion that some one out of the +college, some superior man, may have written it. But this fear dies +away.</p> + +<p>The eventful day is a great one in your calendar you hardly sleep the +night previous. You tremble as the chapel-bell is rung; you profess to +be very indifferent, as the reading and the prayer close; you even stoop +to take up your hat, as if you had entirely overlooked the fact that the +old President was in the desk for the express purpose of declaring the +successful names. You listen dreamily to his tremulous, yet fearfully +distinct enunciation. Your head swims strangely.</p> + +<p>They all pass out with a harsh murmur along the aisles and through the +doorways. It would be well if there were no disappointments in life more +terrible than this. It is consoling to express very depreciating +opinions of the Faculty in general,—and very contemptuous ones of that +particular officer who decided upon the merit of the prize-themes. An +evening or two at Dalton's room go still farther toward healing the +disappointment, and—if it must be said—toward moderating the heat of +your ambition.</p> + +<p>You grow up however, unfortunately, as the college years fly by, into a +very exaggerated sense of your own capacities. Even the good, old, +white-haired Squire, for whom you once entertained so much respect, +seems to your crazy, classic fancy a very humdrum sort of personage. +Frank, although as noble a fellow as ever sat a horse, is yet—you +cannot help thinking—very ignorant of Euripides; even the English +master at Dr. Bidlow's school, you feel sure, would balk at a dozen +problems you could give him.</p> + +<p>You get an exalted idea of that uncertain quality which turns the heads +of a vast many of your fellows, called—Genius. An odd notion seems to +be inherent in the atmosphere of those college chambers, that there is a +certain faculty of mind—first developed, as would seem, in +colleges—which accomplishes whatever it chooses without any special +painstaking. For a time you fall yourself into this very unfortunate +hallucination; you cultivate it after the usual college fashion, by +drinking a vast deal of strong coffee and whiskey-toddy, by writing a +little poor verse in the Byronic temper, and by studying very late at +night with closed blinds.</p> + +<p>It costs you however more anxiety and hypocrisy than you could possibly +have believed.</p> + +<p>----You will learn, Clarence, when the Autumn has rounded your hopeful +Summer, if not before, that there is no Genius in life like the Genius +of energy and industry. You will learn, that all the traditions so +current among very young men that certain great characters have wrought +their greatness by an inspiration, as it were, grow out of a sad +mistake.</p> + +<p>And you will further find, when you come to measure yourself with men, +that there are no rivals so formidable as those earnest, determined +minds which reckon the value of every hour, and which achieve eminence +by persistent application.</p> + +<p>Literary ambition may inflame you at certain periods and a thought of +some great names will flash like a spark into the mine of your purposes; +you dream till midnight over books; you set up shadows, and chase them +down,—other shadows, and they fly. Dreaming will never catch them. +Nothing makes the "scent lie well" in the hunt after distinction, but +labor.</p> + +<p>And it is a glorious thing, when once you are weary of the dissipation, +and the <i>ennui</i> of your own aimless thought, to take up some glowing +page of an earnest thinker, and read—deep and long, until you feel the +metal of his thought tinkling on your brain, and striking out from your +flinty lethargy flashes of ideas that give the mind light and heat. And +away you go in the chase of what the soul within is creating on the +instant, and you wonder at the fecundity of what seemed so barren, and +at the ripeness of what seemed so crude. The glow of toil wakes you to +the consciousness of your real capacities: you feel sure that they have +taken a new step toward final development. In such mood it is that one +feels grateful to the musty tomes, which at other hours stand like +wonder-making mummies with no warmth and no vitality. Now they grow into +the affections like new-found friends, and gain a hold upon the heart, +and light a fire in the brain, that the years and the mould cannot cover +nor quench.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>III.</h2> + +<h3><a name="College_Romance" id="College_Romance"></a><i>College Romance.</i></h3> + + +<p>In following the mental vagaries of youth, I must not forget the +curvetings and wiltings of the heart.</p> + +<p>The black-eyed Jenny, with whom a correspondence at red heat was kept up +for several weeks, is long before this entirely out of your regard,—not +so much by reason of the six months' disparity of age, as from the fact, +communicated quite confidentially by the travelled Nat, that she has had +a desperate flirtation with a handsome midshipman. The conclusion is +natural that she is an inconstant, cruel-hearted creature, with little +appreciation of real worth; and furthermore, that all midshipmen are a +very contemptible—not to say dangerous—set of men. She is consigned to +forgetfulness and neglect; and the late lover has long ago consoled +himself by reading in a spirited way that passage of Childe Harold +commencing,—</p> + +<p class="center"> +"I have not loved the world, nor the world me." +</p> + +<p>As for Madge, the memory of her has been more wakeful, but less violent. +To say nothing of occasional returns to the old homestead, when you have +met her Nelly's letters not unfrequently drop a careless half-sentence +that keeps her strangely in mind.</p> + +<p>"Madge," she says, "is sitting by me with her work;" or, "You ought to +see the little silk purse that Madge is knitting;" or,—speaking of some +country rout,—"Madge was there in the sweetest dress you can imagine." +All this will keep Madge in mind; not, it is true, in the ambitious +moods, or in the frolics with Dalton; but in those odd half-hours that +come stealing over one at twilight, laden with sweet memories of the +days of old.</p> + +<p>A new romantic admiration is started by those pale lady-faces which +light up on a Sunday the gallery of the college chapel. An amiable and +modest fancy gives to them all a sweet classic grace. The very +atmosphere of these courts, wakened with high metaphysic discourse, +seems to lend them a Greek beauty and fineness; and you attach to the +prettiest, that your eye can reach, all the charms of some Sciote +maiden, and all the learning of her father—the professor. And as you +lie half-wakeful and half-dreaming, through the long Divisions of the +Doctor's morning discourse, the twinkling eyes in some corner of the +gallery bear you pleasant company as you float down those streaming +visions which radiate from you far over the track of the coming life.</p> + +<p>But following very closely upon this comes a whole volume of street +romance. There are prettily shaped figures that go floating at +convenient hours for college observation along the thoroughfares of the +town. And these figures come to be known, and the dresses, and the +streets; and even the door-plate is studied. The hours are ascertained, +by careful observation and induction, at which some particular figure is +to be met,—or is to be seen at some low parlor-window, in white summer +dress, with head leaning on the hand, very melancholy, and very +dangerous. Perhaps her very card is stuck proudly into a corner of the +mirror in the college-chamber. After this may come moonlight meetings at +the gate, or long listenings to the plaintive lyrics that steal out of +the parlor-windows, and that blur wofully the text of the Conic +Sections.</p> + +<p>Or perhaps she is under the fierce eye of some Cerberus of a +schoolmistress, about whose grounds you prowl piteously, searching for +small knot-holes in the surrounding board fence, through which little +<i>souvenirs</i> of impassioned feeling may be thrust. Sonnets are written +for the town papers, full of telling phrases, and with classic allusions +and foot-notes which draw attention to some similar felicity of +expression in Horace or Ovid. Correspondence may even be ventured on, +enclosing locks of hair, and interchanging rings, and paper oaths of +eternal fidelity.</p> + +<p>But the old Cerberus is very wakeful: the letters fail; the lamp that +used to glimmer for a sign among the sycamores is gone out; a stolen +wave of a handkerchief, a despairing look, and tears,—which you fancy, +but do not see,—make you miserable for long days.</p> + +<p>The tyrant teacher, with no trace of compassion in her withered heart, +reports you to the college authorities. There is a long lecture of +admonition upon the folly of such dangerous practices; and if the +offence be aggravated by some recent joviality with Dalton and the +Senior, you are condemned to a month of exile with a country clergyman. +There are a few tearful regrets over the painful tone of the home +letters; but the bracing country air, and the pretty faces of the +village girls, heal your heart—with fresh wounds.</p> + +<p>The old Doctor sees dimly through his spectacles; and his pew gives a +good look-out upon the smiling choir of singers. A collegian wears the +honors of a stranger, and the country bucks stand but poor chance in +contrast with your wonderful attainments in cravats and verses. But this +fresh dream, odorous with its memories of sleigh-rides or +lilac-blossoms, slips by, and yields again to the more ambitious dreams +of the cloister.</p> + +<p>In the prouder moments that come when you are more a man and less a +boy,—with more of strategy and less of faith,—your thought of woman +runs loftily; not loftily in the realm of virtue or goodness, but +loftily on your new world-scale. The pride of intellect, that is +thirsting in you, fashions ideal graces after a classic model. The +heroines of fable are admired; and the soul is tortured with that +intensity of passion which gleams through the broken utterances of +Grecian tragedy.</p> + +<p>In the vanity of self-consciousness one feels at a long remove above the +ordinary love and trustfulness of a simple and pure heart. You turn away +from all such with a sigh of conceit, to graze on that lofty but bitter +pasturage where no daisies grow. Admiration may be called up by some +graceful figure that you see moving under those sweeping elms; and you +follow it with an intensity of look that makes you blush, and +straightway hide the memory of the blush by summing up some artful +sophistry, that resolves your delighted gaze into a weakness, and your +contempt into a virtue.</p> + +<p>But this cannot last. As the years drop off, a certain pair of eyes beam +one day upon you that seem to have been cut out of a page of Greek +poetry. They have all its sentiment, its fire, its intellectual reaches: +it would be hard to say what they have not. The profile is a Greek +profile, and the heavy chestnut hair is plaited in Greek bands. The +figure, too, might easily be that of Helen, or of Andromache.</p> + +<p>You gaze, ashamed to gaze; and your heart yearns, ashamed of its +yearning. It is no young girl who is thus testing you: there is too +much pride for that. A ripeness and maturity rest upon her look and +figure that completely fill up that ideal which exaggerated fancies have +wrought out of the Grecian heaven. The vision steals upon you at all +hours,—now rounding its flowing outline to the mellifluous metre of +Epic hexameter, and again with its bounding life pulsating with the +glorious dashes of tragic verse.</p> + +<p>Yet with the exception of stolen glances and secret admiration, you keep +aloof. There is no wish to fathom what seems a happy mystery. There lies +a content in secret obeisance. Sometimes it shames you, as your mind +glows with its fancied dignity; but the heart thrusts in its voice; and, +yielding to it, you dream dreams like fond old Boccaccio's upon the +olive-shaded slopes of Italy. The tongue even is not trusted with the +thoughts that are seething within: they begin and end in the voiceless +pulsations of your nature.</p> + +<p>After a time—it seems a long time, but it is in truth a very short +time—you find who she is who is thus entrancing you. It is done most +carelessly. No creature could imagine that you felt any interest in the +accomplished sister—of your friend Dalton. Yet it is even she who has +thus beguiled you; and she is at least some ten years Dalton's senior, +and by even more years—your own!</p> + +<p>It is singular enough, but it is true, that the affections of that +transition state from youth to manliness run toward the types of +maturity. The mind in its reaches toward strength and completeness +creates a heart-sympathy—which in its turn craves fulness. There is a +vanity too about the first steps of manly education, which is disposed +to underrate the innocence and unripened judgment of the other sex. Men +see the mistake as they grow older; for the judgment of a woman, in all +matters of the affections, ripens by ten years faster than a man's.</p> + +<p>In place of any relentings on such score you are set on fire anew. The +stories of her accomplishments, and of her grace of conversation, +absolutely drive you mad. You watch your occasion for meeting her upon +the street. You wonder if she has any conception of your capacity for +mental labor, and if she has any adequate idea of your admiration for +Greek poetry, and for herself.</p> + +<p>You tie your cravat poet-wise, and wear broad collars turned down, +wondering how such disposition may affect her. Her figure and step +become a kind of moving romance to you, drifting forward and outward +into that great land of dreams which you call the world. When you see +her walking with others, you pity her, and feel perfectly sure, that, if +she had only a hint of that intellectual fervor which in your own mind +blazes up at the very thought of her, she would perfectly scorn the +stout gentleman who spends his force in tawdry compliments.</p> + +<p>A visit to your home wakens ardor by contrast as much as by absence. +Madge, so gentle, and now stealing sly looks at you in a way so +different from her hoidenish manner of school-days, you regard +complacently as a most lovable, fond girl,—the very one for some fond +and amiable young man whose soul is not filled, as yours is, with higher +things! To Nelly, earnestly listening, you drop only exaggerated hints +of the wonderful beauty and dignity of this new being of your fancy. Of +her age you scrupulously say nothing.</p> + +<p>The trivialities of Dalton amaze you: it is hard to understand how a man +within the limit of such influences as Miss Dalton must inevitably +exert, can tamely sit down to a rubber of whist, and cigars! There must +be a sad lack of congeniality;—it would certainly be a proud thing to +supply that lack!</p> + +<p>The new feeling, wild and vague as it is,—for as yet you have only most +casual acquaintance with Laura Dalton,—invests the whole habit of your +study; not quickening overmuch the relish for Dugald Stewart, or the +miserable skeleton of college Logic, but spending a sweet charm upon the +graces of Rhetoric and the music of Classic Verse. It blends +harmoniously with your quickened ambition. There is some last appearance +that you have to make upon the college stage, in the presence of the +great worthies of the State, and of all the beauties of the town,—Laura +chiefest among them. In view of it you feel dismally intellectual. +Prodigious faculties are to be brought to the task.</p> + +<p>You think of throwing out ideas that will quite startle His Excellency +the Governor, and those very distinguished public characters whom the +college purveyors vote into their periodic public sittings. You are +quite sure of surprising them, and of deeply provoking such scheming, +shallow politicians as have never read Wayland's "Treatise," and who +venture incautiously within hearing of your remarks. You fancy yourself +in advance the victim of a long leader in the next day's paper, and the +thoughtful but quiet cause of a great change in the political programme +of the State. But crowning and eclipsing all the triumph, are those dark +eyes beaming on you from some corner of the church their floods of +unconscious praise and tenderness.</p> + +<p>Your father and Nelly are there to greet you. He has spoken a few calm, +quiet words of encouragement, that make you feel—very wrongfully—that +he is a cold man, with no earnestness of feeling. As for Nelly, she +clasps your arm with a fondness, and with a pride, that tell at every +step her praises and her love.</p> + +<p>But even this, true and healthful as it is, fades before a single word +of commendation from the new arbitress of your feeling. You have seen +Miss Dalton! You have met her on that last evening of your cloistered +life in all the elegance of ball-costume; your eye has feasted on her +elegant figure, and upon her eye sparkling with the consciousness of +beauty. You have talked with Miss Dalton about Byron, about Wordsworth, +about Homer. You have quoted poetry to Miss Dalton; you have clasped +Miss Dalton's hand!</p> + +<p>Her conversation delights you by its piquancy and grace; she is quite +ready to meet you (a grave matter of surprise!) upon whatever subject +you may suggest. You lapse easily and lovingly into the current of her +thought, and blush to find yourself vacantly admiring when she is +looking for reply. The regard you feel for her resolves itself into an +exquisite mental love, vastly superior, as you think, to any other kind +of love. There is no dream of marriage as yet, but only of sitting +beside her in the moonlight during a countless succession of hours, and +talking of poetry and nature, of destiny and love.</p> + +<p>Magnificent Miss Dalton!</p> + +<p>----And all the while vaunting youth is almost mindless of the presence +of that fond Nelly whose warm sisterly affection measures itself +hopefully against the proud associations of your growing years,—and +whose deep, loving eye, half suffused with its native tenderness, seems +longing to win you back to the old joys of that Home-love, which linger +on the distant horizon of your boyhood like the golden glories of a +sinking day.</p> + +<p>As the night wanes, you wander for a last look toward the dingy walls +that have made for you so long a home. The old broken expectancies, the +days of glee, the triumphs, the rivalries, the defeats, the friendships, +are recalled with a fluttering of the heart that pride cannot wholly +subdue. You step upon the chapel-porch in the quiet of the night as you +would step on the graves of friends. You pace back and forth in the wan +moonlight, dreaming of that dim life which opens wide and long from the +morrow. The width and length oppress you: they crush down your +struggling self-consciousness like Titans dealing with Pygmies. A single +piercing thought of the vast and shadowy future, which is so near, tears +off on the instant all the gewgaws of pride, strips away the vanity that +doubles your bigness, and forces you down to the bare nakedness of what +you truly <i>are</i>!</p> + +<p>With one more yearning look at the gray hulks of building, you loiter +away under the trees. The monster elms, which have bowered your proud +steps through four years of proudest life, lift up to the night their +rounded canopy of leaves with a quiet majesty that mocks you. They kiss +the same calm sky which they wooed four years ago; and they droop their +trailing limbs lovingly to the same earth, which has steadily and +quietly wrought in them their stature and their strength. Only here and +there you catch the loitering footfall of some other benighted dreamer, +strolling around the vast quadrangle of level green, which lies, like a +prairie-child, under the edging shadows of the town. The lights glimmer +one by one; and one by one, like breaking hopes, they fade away from the +houses. The full-risen moon, that dapples the ground beneath the trees, +touches the tall church-spires with silver, and slants their +loftiness—as memory slants grief—in long, dark, tapering lines upon +the silvered Green.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>IV.</h2> + +<h3><a name="First_Look_at_the_World" id="First_Look_at_the_World"></a><i>First Look at the World.</i></h3> + + +<p>Our Clarence is now fairly afloat upon the swift tide of Youth. The +thrall of teachers is ended, and the audacity of self-resolve is begun. +It is not a little odd, that, when we have least strength to combat the +world, we have the highest confidence in our ability.</p> + +<p>Very few individuals in the world possess that happy consciousness of +their own prowess which belongs to the newly-graduated collegian. He has +most abounding faith in the tricksy panoply that he has wrought out of +the metal of his Classics. His Mathematics, he has not a doubt, will +solve for him every complexity of life's questions; and his Logic will +as certainly untie all Gordian knots, whether in politics or ethics.</p> + +<p>He has no idea of defeat; he proposes to take the world by storm; he +half wonders that quiet people are not startled by his presence. He +brushes with an air of importance about the halls of country hotels; he +wears his honor at the public tables; he fancies that the inattentive +guests can have little idea that the young gentleman, who so recently +delighted the public ear with his dissertation on the "General Tendency +of Opinion," is actually among them, and quietly eating from the same +dish of beef and of pudding!</p> + +<p>Our poor Clarence does not know—Heaven forbid he should!—that he is +but little wiser now than when he turned his back upon the old Academy, +with its gallipots and broken retorts; and that with the addition of a +few Greek roots, a smattering of Latin, and some readiness of speech, he +is almost as weak for breasting the strong current of life as when a +boy. America is but a poor place for the romantic book-dreamer. The +demands of this new, Western life of ours are practical and earnest. +Prompt action, and ready tact, are the weapons by which to meet it, and +subdue it. The education of the cloister offers at best only a sound +starting-point from which to leap into the tide.</p> + +<p>The father of Clarence is a cool, matter-of-fact man. He has little +sympathy with any of the romantic notions that enthrall a youth of +twenty. He has a very humble opinion—much humbler than you think he +should have—of your attainments at college. He advises a short period +of travel, that by observation you may find out more fully how that +world is made up with which you are henceforth to struggle.</p> + +<p>Your mother half fears your alienation from the affections of home. Her +letters all run over with a tenderness that makes you sigh, and that +makes you feel a deep reproach. You may not have been wanting in the +more ordinary tokens of affection; you have made your periodic visits; +but you blush for the consciousness that fastens on you of neglect at +heart. You blush for the lack of that glow of feeling which once +fastened to every home-object.</p> + +<p>[Does a man indeed outgrow affections as his mind ripens? Do the early +and tender sympathies become a part of his intellectual perceptions, to +be appreciated and reasoned upon as one reasons about truths of science? +Is their vitality necessarily young? Is there the same ripe, joyous +burst of the heart at the recollection of later friendships, which +belonged to those of boyhood; and are not the later ones more the +suggestions of judgment, and less the absolute conditions of the heart's +health?]</p> + +<p>The letters of your mother, as I said, make you sigh: there is no moment +in our lives when we feel less worthy of the love of others, and less +worthy of our own respect, than when we receive evidences of kindness +which we know we do not merit,—and when souls are laid bare to us, and +we have too much indifference to lay bare our own in return.</p> + +<p>"Clarence,"—writes that neglected mother,—"you do not know how much +you are in our thoughts, and how often you are the burden of my prayers. +Oh, Clarence, I could almost wish that you were still a boy,—still +running to me for those little favors which I was only too happy to +bestow,—still dependent in some degree on your mother's love for +happiness.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I do you wrong, Clarence, but it does seem from the changing +tone of your letters, that you are becoming more and more forgetful of +us all; that you are feeling less need of our advice, and—what I feel +far more deeply—less need of our affection. Do not, my son, forget the +lessons of home. There will come a time, I feel sure, when you will know +that those lessons are good. They may not indeed help you in that +intellectual strife which soon will engross you; and they may not have +fitted you to shine in what are called the brilliant circles of the +world, but they are such, Clarence, as make the heart pure and honest +and strong!</p> + +<p>"You may think me weak to write you thus, as I would have written to my +light-hearted boy years ago; indeed I am not strong, but growing every +day more feeble.</p> + +<p>"Nelly, your sweet sister, is sitting by me. 'Tell Clarence,' she says, +'to come home soon.' You know, my son, what hearty welcome will greet +you; and that, whether here or away, our love and prayers will be with +you always; and may God in his infinite mercy keep you from all harm!"</p> + +<p>A tear or two—brushed away as soon as they come—is all that youth +gives to embalm such treasure of love! A gay laugh, or the challenge of +some companion of a day, will sweep away into the night the earnest, +regretful, yet happy dreams that rise like incense from the pages of +such hallowed affection.</p> + +<p>The brusque world too is to be met, with all its hurry and promptitude. +Manhood, in our swift American world, is measured too much by +forgetfulness of all the sweet bonds which tie the heart to the home of +its first attachments. We deaden the glow that nature has kindled, lest +it may lighten our hearts into an enchanting flame of weakness. We have +not learned to make that flame the beacon of our purposes and the warmer +of our strength. We are men too early.</p> + +<p>But an experience is approaching Clarence, that will drive his heart +home for shelter, like a wounded bird!</p> + +<p>----It is an autumn morning, with such crimson glories to kindle it as +lie along the twin ranges of mountain that guard the Hudson. The white +frosts shine like changing silk in the fields of late-growing clover; +the river-mists curl, and idle along the bosom of the water, and creep +up the hill-sides, and at noon float their feathery vapors aloft in +clouds; the crimson trees blaze in the side valleys, and blend their +vermilion tints under the fairy hands of our American frost-painters +with the dark blood of the ash-trees and the orange-tinted oaks. Blue +and bright under the clear Fall heaven, the broad river shines before +the surging prow of the boat like a shield of steel.</p> + +<p>The bracing air lights up rich dreams of life. Your fancy peoples the +valleys and the hill-tops with its creations; and your hope lends some +crowning beauty of the landscape to your dreamy future. The vision of +your last college year is not gone. That figure, whose elegance your +eyes then feasted on, still floats before you; and the memory of the +last talk with Laura is as vivid as if it were only yesterday that you +listened. Indeed this opening campaign of travel—although you are half +ashamed to confess it to yourself—is guided by the thought of her.</p> + +<p>Dalton with a party of friends, his sister among them, is journeying to +the north. A hope of meeting them—scarce acknowledged as an +intention—spurs you on. The eye rests dreamily and vaguely on the +beauties that appear at every turn: they are beauties that charm you, +and charm you the more by an indefinable association with that fairy +object that floats before you, half unknown, and wholly unclaimed. The +quiet towns with their noonday stillness, the out-lying mansions with +their stately splendor, the bustling cities with their mocking din, and +the long reaches of silent and wooded shore, chime with their several +beauties to your heart, in keeping with the master-key that was touched +long weeks before.</p> + +<p>The cool, honest advices of the father drift across your memory in +shadowy forms, as you wander through the streets of the first northern +cities; and all the need for observation, and the incentives to purpose, +which your ambitious designs would once have quickened, fade dismally +when you find that <i>she</i> is not there. All the lax gayety of Saratoga +palls on the appetite; even the magnificent shores of Lake George, +though stirring your spirit to an insensible wonder and love, do not +cheat you into a trance that lingers. In vain the sun blazons every +isle, and lights every shaded cove, and at evening stretches the Black +Mountain in giant slumber on the waters.</p> + +<p>Your thought bounds away from the beauty of sky and lake, and fastens +upon the ideal which your dreamy humors cherish. The very glow of +pursuit heightens your fervor,—a fervor that dims sadly the new-wakened +memories of home. The southern gates of Champlain, those fir-draped +Trosachs of America, are passed, and you find yourself, upon a golden +evening of Canadian autumn, in the quaint old city of Montreal.</p> + +<p>Dalton with his party has gone down to Quebec. He is to return within a +few days on his way to Niagara. There is a letter from Nelly awaiting +you. It says:—"Mother is much more feeble: she often speaks of your +return in a way that I am sure, if you heard, Clarence, would bring you +back to us soon."</p> + +<p>There is a struggle in your mind: old affection is weaker than young +pride and hope. Moreover, the world is to be faced; the new scenes +around you are to be studied. An answer is penned full of kind +remembrances, and begging a few days of delay. You wander, wondering, +under the quaint old houses, and wishing for the return of Dalton.</p> + +<p>He meets you with that happy, careless way of his,—the dangerous way +which some men are born to, and which chimes easily to every tone of the +world,—a way you wondered at once; a way you admire now; and a way that +you will distrust as you come to see more of men. Miss Dalton—(it seems +sacrilege to call her Laura)—is the same elegant being that entranced +you first.</p> + +<p>They urge you to join their party. But there is no need of urging: those +eyes, that figure, the whole presence indeed of Miss Dalton, attract you +with a power which you can neither explain nor resist. One look of grace +enslaves you; and there is a strange pride in the enslavement.</p> + +<p>----Is it dream, or is it earnest,—those moonlit walks upon the hills +that skirt the city, when you watch the stars, listening to her voice, +and feel the pressure of that jewelled hand upon your arm?—when you +drain your memory of its whole stock of poetic beauties to lavish upon +her ear? Is it love, or is it madness, when you catch her eye as it +beams more of eloquence than lies in all your moonlight poetry, and feel +an exultant gush of the heart that makes you proud as a man, and yet +timid as a boy, beside her?</p> + +<p>Has Dalton, with that calm, placid, <i>nonchalant</i> look of his, any +inkling of the raptures which his elegant sister is exciting? Has the +stout, elderly gentleman, who is so prodigal of his bouquets and +attentions, any idea of the formidable rival that he has found? Has +Laura herself—you dream—any conception of that intensity of admiration +with which you worship?</p> + +<p>----Poor Clarence! it is his first look at Life!</p> + +<p>The Thousand Isles with their leafy beauties lie around your passing +boat, like the joys that skirt us, and pass us, on our way through life. +The Thousand Isles rise sudden before you, and fringe your yeasty track, +and drop away into floating spectres of beauty, of haze, of distance, +like those dreams of joy that your passion lends the brain. The low +banks of Ontario look sullen by night; and the moon, rising tranquilly +over the tops of vast forests that stand in majestic ranks over ten +thousand acres of shore-land, drips its silvery sparkles along the +rocking waters, and flashes across your foamy wake.</p> + +<p>With such attendance, that subdues for the time the dreamy forays of +your passion, you draw toward the sound of Niagara; and its distant, +vague roar, coming through great aisles of gloomy forest, bears up your +spirit, like a child's, into the Highest Presence.</p> + +<p>The morning after, you are standing with your party upon the steps of +the hotel. A letter is handed to you. Dalton remarks in a quizzical way, +that "it shows a lady's hand."</p> + +<p>"Aha, a lady!" says Miss Dalton,—and <i>so</i> gayly!</p> + +<p>"A sister," I say; for it is Nelly's hand.</p> + +<p>"By the by, Clarence," says Dalton, "it was a very pretty sister you +gave us a glimpse of at Commencement."</p> + +<p>"Ah, you think so;" and there is something in your tone that shows a +little indignation at this careless mention of your fond Nelly; and from +those lips! It will occur to you again.</p> + +<p>A single glance at the letter blanches your cheek. Your heart +throbs—throbs harder—throbs tumultuously. You bite your lip, for there +are lookers-on. But it will not do. You hurry away; you find your +chamber; you close and lock the door, and burst into a flood of tears.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>V.</h2> + +<h3><a name="A_Broken_Home" id="A_Broken_Home"></a><i>A Broken Home.</i></h3> + + +<p>It is Nelly's own fair hand, yet sadly blotted,—blotted with her tears, +and blotted with yours.</p> + +<p>----"It is all over, dear, dear Clarence! Oh, how I wish you were here +to mourn with us! I can hardly now believe that our poor mother is +indeed dead."</p> + +<p>----Dead!—It is a terrible word! You repeat it with a fresh burst of +grief. The letter is crumpled in your hand. Unfold it again, sobbing, +and read on.</p> + +<p>"For a week she had been failing every day; but on Saturday we thought +her very much better. I told her I felt sure she would live to see you +again.</p> + +<p>"'I shall never see him again, Nelly,' said she, bursting into tears."</p> + +<p>----Ah, Clarence, where is your youthful pride, and your strength +now?—with only that frail paper to annoy you, crushed in your grasp!</p> + +<p>"She sent for father, and taking his hand in hers, told him she was +dying. I am glad you did not see his grief. I was kneeling beside her, +and she put her hand upon my head, and let it rest there for a moment, +while her lips moved as if she were praying.</p> + +<p>"'Kiss me, Nelly,' said she, growing fainter: kiss me again for +Clarence.'</p> + +<p>"A little while after she died."</p> + +<p>For a long time you remain with only that letter, and your thought, for +company. You pace up and down your chamber: again you seat yourself, and +lean your head upon the table, enfeebled by the very grief that you +cherish still. The whole day passes thus: you excuse yourself from all +companionship: you have not the heart to tell the story of your troubles +to Dalton,—least of all, to Miss Dalton. How is this? Is sorrow too +selfish, or too holy?</p> + +<p>Toward nightfall there is a calmer and stronger feeling. The voice of +the present world comes to your ear again. But you move away from it +unobserved to that stronger voice of God in the Cataract. Great masses +of angry cloud hang over the west; but beneath them the red harvest sun +shines over the long reach of Canadian shore, and bathes the whirling +rapids in splendor. You stroll alone over the quaking bridge, and under +the giant trees of the Island, to the edge of the British Fall. You go +out to the little shattered tower, and gaze down, with sensations that +will last till death, upon the deep emerald of those awful masses of +water.</p> + +<p>It is not the place for a bad man to ponder; it is not the atmosphere +for foul thoughts, or weak ones. A man is never better than when he has +the humblest sense of himself: he is never so unlike the spirit of Evil +as when his pride is utterly vanished. You linger, looking upon the +stream of fading sunlight that plays across the rapids, and down into +the shadow of the depths below, lit up with their clouds of spray;—yet +farther down, your sight swims upon the black eddying masses, with white +ribbons streaming across their glassy surface; and your dizzy eye +fastens upon the frail cockle-shells—their stout oarsmen dwindled to +pygmies—that dance like atoms upon the vast chasm, or like your own +weak resolves upon the whirl of Time.</p> + +<p>Your thought, growing broad in the view, seems to cover the whole area +of life: you set up your affections and your duties; you build hopes +with fairy scenery, and away they all go, tossing like the relentless +waters to the deep gulf that gapes a hideous welcome! You sigh at your +weakness of heart, or of endeavor, and your sighs float out into the +breeze, that rises ever from the shock of the waves, and whirl, +empty-handed, to Heaven. You avow high purposes, and clench them with +round utterance; and your voice, like a sparrow's, is caught up in the +roar of the fall, and thrown at you from the cliffs, and dies away in +the solemn thunders of nature. Great thoughts of life come over you—of +its work and destiny—of its affections and duties, and roll down +swift—like the river—into the deep whirl of doubt and danger. Other +thoughts, grander and stronger, like the continuing rush of waters, come +over you, and knit your purposes together with their weight, and crush +you to exultant tears, and then leap, shattered and broken, from the +very edge of your intent into mists of fear!</p> + +<p>The moon comes out, and gleaming through the clouds, braids its light +fantastic bow upon the waters. You feel calmer as the night deepens. The +darkness softens you; it hangs—like the pall that shrouds your mother's +corpse—low and heavily to your heart. It helps your inward grief with +some outward show. It makes the earth a mourner; it makes the flashing +water-drops so many attendant mourners. It makes the Great Fall itself a +mourner, and its roar a requiem!</p> + +<p>The pleasure of travel is cut short. To one person of the little company +of fellow-voyagers you bid adieu with regret; pride, love, and hope +point toward her, while all the gentler affections stray back to the +broken home. Her smile of parting is very gracious, but it is not, after +all, such a smile as your warm heart pines for.</p> + +<p>Ten days after, you are walking toward the old homestead with such +feelings as it never called up before. In the days of boyhood there were +triumphant thoughts of the gladness and the pride with which, when +grown to the stature of manhood, you would come back to that little town +of your birth. As you have bent with your dreamy resolutions over the +tasks of the cloister life, swift thoughts have flocked on you of the +proud step, and prouder heart, with which you would one day greet the +old acquaintances of boyhood; and you have regaled yourself on the +jaunty manner with which you would meet old Dr. Bidlow, and the +patronizing air with which you would address the pretty, blue-eyed +Madge.</p> + +<p>It is late afternoon when you come in sight of the tall sycamores that +shade your home; you shudder now, lest you may meet any whom you once +knew. The first keen grief of youth seeks little of the sympathy of +companions: it lies—with a sensitive man—bounded within the narrowest +circles of the heart. They only who hold the key to its innermost +recesses can speak consolation. Years will make a change;—as the Summer +grows in fierce heats, the balminess of the violet banks of Spring is +lost in the odors of a thousand flowers;—the heart, as it gains in age, +loses freshness, but wins breadth.</p> + +<p>----Throw a pebble into the brook at its source, and the agitation is +terrible, and the ripples chafe madly their narrowed banks;—throw in a +pebble when the brook has become a river, and you see a few circles, +widening and widening and widening, until they are lost in the gentle +every-day murmur of its life!</p> + +<p>You draw your hat over your eyes, as you walk toward the familiar door: +the yard is silent; the night is falling gloomily; a few katydids are +crying in the trees. The mother's window, where at such a season as this +it was her custom to sit watching your play, is shut, and the blinds are +closed over it. The honeysuckle, which grew over the window, and which +she loved so much, has flung out its branches carelessly; and the +spiders have hung their foul nets upon its tendrils.</p> + +<p>And she, who made that home so dear to your boyhood, so real to your +after-years,—standing amid all the flights of your youthful ambition, +and your paltry cares (for they seem paltry now), and your doubts, and +anxieties and weaknesses of heart, like the light of your hope—burning +ever there under the shadow of the sycamores,—a holy beacon, by whose +guidance you always came to a sweet haven, and to a refuge from all your +toils,—is gone, gone forever!</p> + +<p>The father is there indeed,—beloved, respected, esteemed; but the +boyish heart, whose old life is now reviving, leans more readily and +more kindly into that void where once beat the heart of a mother.</p> + +<p>Nelly is there,—cherished now with all the added love that is stricken +off from her who has left you forever. Nelly meets you at the door.</p> + +<p>----"Clarence!"</p> + +<p>----"Nelly!"</p> + +<p>There are no other words; but you feel her tears as the kiss of welcome +is given. With your hand joined in hers, you walk down the hall into the +old, familiar room,—not with the jaunty college step,—not with any +presumption on your dawning manhood,—oh, no,—nothing of this!</p> + +<p>Quietly, meekly, feeling your whole heart shattered, and your mind +feeble as a boy's, and your purposes nothing, and worse than +nothing,—with only one proud feeling you fling your arm around the form +of that gentle sister,—the pride of a protector,—the feeling—"<i>I</i> +will care for you now, dear Nelly!"—that is all. And even that, proud +as it is, brings weakness.</p> + +<p>You sit down together upon the lounge; Nelly buries her face in her +hands, sobbing.</p> + +<p>"Dear Nelly!" and your arm clasps her more fondly.</p> + +<p>There is a cricket in the corner of the room, chirping very loudly. It +seems as if nothing else were living,—only Nelly, Clarence, and the +noisy cricket. Your eye on the chair where she used to sit; it is drawn +up with the same care as ever beside the fire.</p> + +<p>"I am <i>so</i> glad to see you, Clarence," says Nelly, recovering herself; +there is a sweet, sad smile now And sitting there beside you, she tells +you of it all,—of the day, and of the hour,—and how she looked,—and +of her last prayer, and how happy she was.</p> + +<p>"And did she leave no message for me, Nelly?"</p> + +<p>"Not to forget us, Clarence; but you could not!"</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Nelly. And was there nothing else?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Clarence,—to meet her one day!"</p> + +<p>You only press her hand.</p> + +<p>Presently your father comes in: he greets you with far more than his +usual cordiality. He keeps your hand a long time, looking quietly in +your face, as if he were reading traces of some resemblance that had +never struck him before.</p> + +<p>The father is one of those calm, impassive men, who shows little upon +the surface, and whose feelings you have always thought cold. But now +there is a tremulousness in his tones that you never remember observing +before. He seems conscious of it himself, and forbears talking. He goes +to his old seat, and after gazing at you a little while with the same +steadfastness as at first, leans forward, and buries his face in his +hands.</p> + +<p>From that very moment you feel a sympathy and a love for him, that you +have never known until then. And in after-years, when suffering or trial +come over you, and when your thoughts fly as to a refuge to that +shattered home, you will recall that stooping image of the +father,—with his head bowed, and from time to time trembling +convulsively with grief,—and feel that there remains yet by the +household fires a heart of kindred love and of kindred sorrow!</p> + +<p>Nelly steals away from you gently, and stepping across the room, lays +her hand upon his shoulder with a touch that says, as plainly as words +could say it,—"We are here, father!"</p> + +<p>And he rouses himself,—passes his arm around her,—looks in her face +fondly,—draws her to him, and prints a kiss upon her forehead.</p> + +<p>"Nelly, we must love each other now more than ever."</p> + +<p>Nelly's lips tremble, but she cannot answer; a tear or two go stealing +down her cheek.</p> + +<p>You approach them; and your father takes your hand again with a firm +grasp,—looks at you thoughtfully,—drops his eyes upon the fire, and +for a moment there is a pause;—"We are quite alone now, my boy!"</p> + +<p>----It is a Broken Home!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>VI.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Family_Confidence" id="Family_Confidence"></a><i>Family Confidence.</i></h3> + + +<p>Grief has a strange power in opening the hearts of those who sorrow in +common. The father, who has seemed to you, not so much neglectful, as +careless of your aims and purposes,—toward whom there have been in your +younger years yearnings of affection which his chilliness of manner has +seemed to repress, now grows under the sad light of the broken household +into a friend. The heart feels a joy it cannot express, in its freedom +to love and to cherish. There is a pleasure wholly new to you in telling +him of your youthful projects, in listening to his questionings, in +seeking his opinions, and in yielding to his judgment.</p> + +<p>It is a sad thing for the child, and quite as sad for the parent, when +this confidence is unknown. Many and many a time with a bursting heart +you have longed to tell him of some boyish grief, or to ask his guidance +out of some boyish trouble; but at the first sight of that calm, +inflexible face, and at the first sound of his measured words, your +enthusiastic yearnings toward his love and his counsels have all turned +back upon your eager and sorrowing heart, and you have gone away to +hide in secret the tears which the lack of his sympathy has wrung from +your soul.</p> + +<p>But now over the tomb of her, for whom you weep in common, there is a +new light breaking; and your only fear is lest you weary him with what +may seem a barren show of your confidence.</p> + +<p>Nelly too is nearer now than ever; and with her you have no fears of +your extravagance; you listen delightfully there by the evening flame to +all that she tells you of the neighbors of your boyhood. You shudder +somewhat at her genial praises of the blue-eyed Madge,—a shudder that +you can hardly account for, and which you do not seek to explain. It may +be that there is a clinging and tender memory yet—wakened by the home +atmosphere—of the divided sixpence.</p> + +<p>Of your quondam friend, Frank, the pleasant recollection of whom revives +again under the old roof-tree, she tells you very little,—and that +little in a hesitating and indifferent way that utterly surprises you. +Can it be, you think, that there has been some cause of unkindness?</p> + +<p>----Clarence is still very young!</p> + +<p>The fire glows warmly upon the accustomed hearth-stone, and—save that +vacant place never to be filled again—a home cheer reigns even in this +time of your mourning. The spirit of the lost parent seems to linger +over the remnant of the household; and the Bible upon its stand—the +book she loved so well—the book so sadly forgotten—seems still to open +on you its promises in her sweet tones, and to call you, as it were, +with her angel-voice to the land that she inherits.</p> + +<p>And when late night has come, and the household is quiet, you call up in +the darkness of your chamber that other night of grief which followed +upon the death of Charlie. That was the boy's vision of death; and this +is the youthful vision. Yet essentially there is but little difference. +Death levels the capacities of the living as it levels the strength of +its victims. It is as grand to the man as to the boy, its teachings are +as deep for age as for infancy.</p> + +<p>You may learn its manner, and estimate its approaches; but when it +comes, it comes always with the same awful front that it wore to your +boyhood. Reason and Revelation may point to rich issues that unfold from +its very darkness; yet all these are no more to your bodily sense, and +no more to your enlightened hope, than those foreshadowings of peace +which rest like a halo on the spirit of the child as he prays in +guileless tones—<span class="smcap">Our Father, who art in Heaven</span>!</p> + +<p>It is a holy and a placid grief that comes over you,—not crushing, but +bringing to life from the grave of boyhood all its better and nobler +instincts. In their light your wild plans of youth look sadly misshapen +and in the impulse of the hour you abandon them; holy resolutions beam +again upon your soul like sunlight, your purposes seem bathed in +goodness. There is an effervescence of the spirit that carries away all +foul matter, and leaves you in a state of calm that seems kindred to the +land and to the life whither the sainted mother has gone.</p> + +<p>This calm brings a smile in the middle of tears, and an inward looking +and leaning toward that Eternal Power which governs and guides us;—with +that smile and that leaning, sleep comes like an angelic minister, and +fondles your wearied frame and thought into that repose which is the +mirror of the Destroyer.</p> + +<p>----Poor Clarence, he is like the rest of the world,—whose goodness +lies chiefly in the occasional throbs of a better nature, which soon +subside, and leave them upon the old level of <i>desire</i>.</p> + +<p>As you lie between waking and sleeping, you have a fancy of a sound at +your door;—it seems to open softly, and the tall figure of your father, +wrapped in his dressing-gown, stands over you, and gazes—as he gazed at +you before;—his look is very mournful; and he murmurs your mother's +name—and sighs—and looks again—and passes out.</p> + +<p>At morning you cannot tell if it was real or a dream. Those higher +resolves too, which grief and the night made, seem very vague and +shadowy. Life with its ambitious and cankerous desires wakes again. You +do not feel them at first; the subjugation of holy thoughts and of +reaches toward the Infinite, leave their traces on you, and perhaps +bewilder you into a half-consciousness of strength. But at the first +touch of the grosser elements about you,—on your very first entrance +upon those duties which quicken pride or shame, and which are pointing +at you from every quarter,—your holy calm, your high-born purpose, your +spiritual cleavings, pass away, like the electricity of August storms +drawn down by the thousand glittering turrets of a city!</p> + +<p>The world is stronger than the night; and the bindings of sense are +tenfold stronger than the most exquisite delirium of soul. This makes +you feel, or will one day make you feel, that life,—strong life and +sound life,—that life which lends approaches to the Infinite, and takes +hold on Heaven, is not so much a <span class="smcap">Progress</span> as it is a <span class="smcap">Resistance</span>!</p> + +<p>There is one special confidence which, in all your talk about plans and +purposes, you do not give to your father: you reserve that for the ear +of Nelly alone. Why happens it that a father is almost the last +confidant that a son makes in any matter deeply affecting the feelings? +Is it the fear that a father may regard such matter as boyish? Is it a +lingering suspicion of your own childishness; or of that extreme of +affection which reduces you to childishness?</p> + +<p>Why is it always that a man, of whatever age or condition, forbears to +exhibit to those whose respect for his judgment and mental abilities +only he seeks, the most earnest qualities of the heart, and those +intenser susceptibilities of love which underlie his nature, and which +give a color in spite of him to the habit of his life? Why is he so +morbidly anxious to keep out of sight any extravagances of affection, +when he blurts officiously to the world his extravagances of action and +of thought? Can any lover explain me this?</p> + +<p>Again, why is a sister the one of all others to whom you first whisper +the dawnings of any strong emotion,—as if it were a weakness that her +charity alone could cover?</p> + +<p>However this may be, you have a long story for Nelly's ear. It is some +days after your return: you are strolling down a quiet, wooded lane,—a +remembered place,—when you first open to her your heart. Your talk is +of Laura Dalton. You describe her to Nelly with the extravagance of a +glowing hope. You picture those qualities that have attracted you most; +you dwell upon her beauty, her elegant figure, her grace of +conversation, her accomplishments. You make a study that feeds your +passion as you go on. You rise by the very glow of your speech into a +frenzy of feeling that she has never excited before. You are quite sure +that you would be wretched and miserable without her.</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to marry her?" says Nelly.</p> + +<p>It is a question that gives a swift bound to the blood of youth. It +involves the idea of possession, and of the dependence of the cherished +one upon your own arm and strength. But the admiration you entertain +seems almost too lofty for this; Nelly's question makes you diffident of +reply; and you lose yourself in a new story of those excellencies of +speech and of figure which have so charmed you.</p> + +<p>Nelly's eye on a sudden becomes full of tears.</p> + +<p>----"What is it, Nelly?"</p> + +<p>"Our mother, Clarence."</p> + +<p>The word and the thought dampen your ardor; the sweet watchfulness and +gentle kindness of that parent for an instant make a sad contrast with +the showy qualities you have been naming; and the spirit of that +mother—called up by Nelly's words—seems to hang over you with an +anxious love that subdues all your pride of passion.</p> + +<p>But this passes; and now—half believing that Nelly's thoughts have run +over the same ground with yours—you turn special pleader for your +fancy. You argue for the beauty which you just now affirmed; you do your +utmost to win over Nelly to some burst of admiration. Yet there she +sits beside you, thoughtfully and half sadly, playing with the frail +autumn flowers that grow at her side. What can she be thinking? You ask +it by a look.</p> + +<p>She smiles,—takes your hand, for she will not let you grow angry,—</p> + +<p>"I was thinking, Clarence, whether this Laura Dalton would, after all, +make a good wife,—such an one as you would love always?"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>VII.</h2> + +<h3><a name="A_Good_Wife" id="A_Good_Wife"></a><i>A Good Wife.</i></h3> + + +<p>The thought of Nelly suggests new dreams that are little apt to find +place in the rhapsodies of a youthful lover. The very epithet of a good +wife mates tamely with the romantic fancies of a first passion. It is +measuring the ideal by too practical a standard. It sweeps away all the +delightful vagueness of a fairy dream of love, and reduces one to a dull +and economic estimate of actual qualities. Passion lives above all +analysis and estimate, and arrives at its conclusions by intuition.</p> + +<p>Did Petrarch ever think if Laura would make a good wife; did Oswald ever +think it of Corinne? Nay, did even the more practical Waverley ever +think it of the impassioned Flora? Would it not weaken faith in their +romantic passages, if you believed it? What have such vulgar, practical +issues to do with that passion which sublimates the faculties, and makes +the loving dreamer to live in an ideal sphere where nothing but goodness +and brightness can come?</p> + +<p>Nelly is to be pitied for entertaining such a thought; and yet Nelly is +very good and kind. Her affections are without doubt all centred in the +remnant of the shattered home; she has never known any further and +deeper love; never once fancied it even—</p> + +<p>—Ah, Clarence, you are very young!</p> + +<p>And yet there are some things that puzzle you in Nelly. You have found +accidentally, in one of her treasured books,—a book that lies almost +always on her dressing-table,—a little withered flower with its stem in +a slip of paper, and on the paper the initials of—your old friend +Frank. You recall, in connection with this, her indisposition to talk of +him on the first evening of your return. It seems—you scarce know +why—that these are the tokens of something very like a leaning of the +heart. It does occur to you that she too may have her little casket of +loves; and you try one day very adroitly to take a look into this +casket.</p> + +<p>----You will learn later in life that the heart of a modest, gentle +girl is a very hard matter for even a brother to probe; it is at once +the most tender and the most unapproachable of all fastnesses. It admits +feeling by armies, with great trains of artillery,—but not a single +scout. It is as calm and pure as polar snows; but deep underneath, where +no footsteps have gone, and where no eye can reach but one, lies the +warm and the throbbing earth.</p> + +<p>Make what you will of the slight, quivering blushes, and of the half +broken expressions,—more you cannot get. The love that a +delicate-minded girl will tell is a short-sighted and outside love; but +the love that she cherishes without voice or token is a love that will +mould her secret sympathies, and her deepest, fondest yearnings, either +to a quiet world of joy, or to a world of placid sufferance. The true +voice of her love she will keep back long and late, fearful ever of her +most prized jewel,—fearful to strange sensitiveness; she will show +kindness, but the opening of the real floodgates of the heart, and the +utterance of those impassioned yearnings which belong to its nature, +come far later. And fearful, thrice fearful is the shock, if these flow +out unmet!</p> + +<p>That deep, thrilling voice, bearing all the perfume of the womanly soul +in its flow, rarely finds utterance; and if uttered vainly,—if called +out by tempting devices, and by a trust that is abused,—desolate indeed +is the maiden heart, widowed of its chastest thought! The soul shrinks +affrighted within itself. Like a tired bird lost at sea, fluttering +around what seem friendly boughs, it stoops at length, and finding only +cold, slippery spars, with no bloom and no foliage,—its last hope +gone,—it sinks to a wild ocean grave!</p> + +<p>Nelly—and the thought brings a tear of sympathy to your eye—must have +such a heart; it speaks in every shadow of her action. And this very +delicacy seems to lend her a charm that would make her a wife to be +loved and honored.</p> + +<p>Ay, there is something in that maidenly modesty—retiring from you as +you advance, retreating timidly from all bold approaches, fearful and +yet joyous—which wins upon the iron hardness of a man's nature like a +rising flame. To force of action and resolve he opposes force; to strong +will he mates his own; pride lights pride; but to the gentleness of the +true womanly character he yields with a gush of tenderness that nothing +else can call out. He will never be subjugated on his own ground of +action and energy; but let him be lured to that border country over +which the delicacy and fondness of a womanly nature presides, and his +energy yields, his haughty determination faints, he is proud of +submission!</p> + +<p>And with this thought of modesty and gentleness to illuminate your dream +of an ideal wife, you chase the pleasant phantom to that shadowy +home—lying far off in the future—of which she is the glory and the +crown. I know it is the fashion nowadays with many to look for a woman's +excellencies and influence—away from her home; but I know too that a +vast many eager and hopeful hearts still cherish the belief that her +virtues will range highest and live longest within those sacred walls.</p> + +<p>Where, indeed, can the modest and earnest virtue of a woman tell a +stronger story of its worth than upon the dawning habit of a child? +Where can her grace of character win a higher and a riper effect than +upon the action of her household? What mean those noisy declaimers who +talk of the feeble influence, and of the crushed faculties, of a woman?</p> + +<p>What school of learning, or of moral endeavor, depends more on its +teacher, than the home upon the mother? What influence of all the +world's professors and teachers tells so strongly on the habit of a +man's mind as those gentle droppings from a mother's lips, which, day by +day and hour by hour, grow into the enlarging stature of his soul, and +live with it forever? They can hardly be mothers who aim at a broader +and noisier field; they have forgotten to be daughters; they must needs +have lost the hope of being wives!</p> + +<p>Be this how it may, the heart of a man with whom affection is not a +name, and love a mere passion of the hour, yearns toward the quiet of a +home as toward the goal of his earthly joy and hope. And as you fasten +there your thought, an indulgent yet dreamy fancy paints the loved image +that is to adorn it and to make it sacred.</p> + +<p>----She is there to bid you God speed! and an adieu that hangs like +music on your ear as you go out to the every-day labor of life. At +evening she is there to greet you, as you come back wearied with a +day's toil; and her look so full of gladness cheats you of your +fatigue; and she steals her arm around you with a soul of welcome that +beams like sunshine on her brow, and that fills your eye with tears of a +twin gratitude—to her and Heaven!</p> + +<p>She is not unmindful of those old-fashioned virtues of cleanliness and +of order which give an air of quiet, and which secure content. Your +wants are all anticipated: the fire is burning brightly; the clean +hearth flashes under the joyous blaze; the old elbow-chair is in its +place. Your very unworthiness of all this haunts you like an accusing +spirit, and yet penetrates your heart with a new devotion toward the +loved one who is thus watchful of your comfort.</p> + +<p>She is gentle,—keeping your love, as she has won it, by a thousand +nameless and modest virtues which radiate from her whole life and +action. She steals upon your affections like a summer wind breathing +softly over sleeping valleys. She gains a mastery over your sterner +nature by very contrast, and wins you unwittingly to her lightest wish. +And yet her wishes are guided by that delicate tact which avoids +conflict with your manly pride; she subdues by seeming to yield. By a +single soft word of appeal she robs your vexation of its anger; and, +with a slight touch of that fair hand, and one pleading look of that +earnest eye, she disarms your sternest pride.</p> + +<p>She is kind,—shedding her kindness as heaven sheds dew. Who indeed +could doubt it?—least of all you, who are living on her kindness day by +day, as flowers live on light? There is none of that officious parade +which blunts the point of benevolence; but it tempers every action with +a blessing. If trouble has come upon you, she knows that her voice, +beguiling you into cheerfulness, will lay your fears; and as she draws +her chair beside you, she knows that the tender and confiding way with +which she takes your hand, and looks up into your earnest face, will +drive away from your annoyance all its weight. As she lingers, leading +off your thought with pleasant words, she knows well that she is +redeeming you from care, and soothing you to that sweet calm which such +home and such wife can alone bestow. And in sickness,—sickness that you +almost covet for the sympathy it brings,—that hand of hers resting on +your fevered forehead, or those fingers playing with the scattered +locks, are more full of kindness than the loudest vaunt of friends; and +when your failing strength will permit no more, you grasp that cherished +hand with a fulness of joy, of thankfulness, and of love, which your +tears only can tell.</p> + +<p>She is good; her hopes live where the angels live. Her kindness and +gentleness are sweetly tempered with that meekness and forbearance which +are born of Faith. Trust comes into her heart as rivers come to the +sea, And in the dark hours of doubt and foreboding you rest fondly upon +her buoyant Faith, as the treasure of your common life; and in your +holier musings you look to that frail hand, and that gentle spirit, to +lead you away from the vanities of worldly ambition to the fulness of +that joy which the good inherit.</p> + +<p>----Is Laura Dalton such an one?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>VIII.</h2> + +<h3><a name="A_Broken_Hope" id="A_Broken_Hope"></a><i>A Broken Hope.</i></h3> + + +<p>Youthful passion is a giant. It overleaps all the dreams, and all the +resolves of our better and quieter nature; and drives madly toward some +wild issue, that lives only in its frenzy. How little account does +passion take of goodness! It is not within the cycle of its revolution: +it is below; it is tamer; it is older; it wears no wings.</p> + +<p>And your proud heart flashing back to the memory of that sparkling eye +which lighted your hope—full-fed upon the vanities of cloister +learning, drives your soberer visions to the wind. As you recall those +tones, so full of brilliancy and pride, the quiet virtues fade, like the +soft haze upon a spring landscape driven westward by a swift, sea-born +storm. The pulse bounds; the eyes flash; the heart trembles with its +sharp springs. Hope dilates, like the eye, fed with swift blood leaping +to the brain.</p> + +<p>Again the image of Miss Dalton, so fine, so noble, so womanly, fills and +bounds the Future. The lingering tears of grief drop away from your eye, +as the lingering loves of boyhood drop from your scalding passion, or +drip into clouds of vapor.</p> + +<p>You listen to the calm, thoughtful advice of the father, with a deep +consciousness of something stronger than his counsels seething in your +bosom. The words of caution, of instruction, of guidance, fall upon your +heated imagination like the night-dews upon the crater of an Ætna. They +are beneficent and healthful for the straggling herbage upon the surface +of the mountain, but they do not reach or temper the inner fires that +are rolling their billows of flame beneath!</p> + +<p>You drop hints from time to time, to those with whom you are most +familiar, of some prospective change of condition. There is a new and +cheerful interest in the building-plans of your neighbors,—a new and +cheerful study of the principles of domestic architecture,—in which +very elegant boudoirs, adorned with harps, hold prominent place; and +libraries with gilt-bound books, very rich in lyrical and dramatic +poetry; fine views from bay-windows; graceful pots of flowers; +sleek-looking Italian greyhounds; cheerful sunlight; musical goldfinches +chattering on the wall; superb pictures of princesses in peasant +dresses; soft Axminster carpets; easy-acting bell-pulls; gigantic +candelabrums; porcelain vases of classic shape; neat waiters in white +aprons; luxurious lounges; and, to crown them all with the very height +of your pride,—the elegant Laura, the mistress, and the guardian of +your soul, moving amid the scene like a new Duchess of Vallière!</p> + +<p>You catch chance sights here and there of the blue-eyed Madge: you see +her in her mother's household, the earnest and devoted daughter,—gliding +gracefully about her mother's cottage, the very type of gentleness and of +duty. Yet withal there are sparks of spirit in her that pique your pride, +lofty as it is. You offer flowers, which she accepts with a kind smile, +not of coquetry, but of simplest thankfulness. She is not the girl to +gratify your vanity with any half-show of tenderness. And if there lived +ever in her heart an old girlish liking for the schoolboy Clarence, it is +all gone before the romantic lover of the elegant Laura; or at most it lies +in some obscure corner of her soul, never to be brought to light.</p> + +<p>You enter upon the new pursuits, which your father has advised, with a +lofty consciousness, not only of the strength of your mind, but of your +heart. You relieve your opening professional study with long letters to +Miss Dalton, full of Shakspearean compliments, and touched off with very +dainty elaboration. And you receive pleasant, gossiping notes in +answer,—full of quotations, but meaning very little.</p> + +<p>Youth is in a grand flush, like the hot days of ending summer; and +pleasant dreams thrall your spirit, like the smoky atmosphere that +bathes the landscape of an August day. Hope rides high in the heavens, +as when the summer sun mounts nearest to the zenith. Youth feels the +fulness of maturity before the second season of life is ended; yet is it +a vain maturity, and all the glow is deceitful. Those fruits that ripen +in summer do not last. They are sweet; they are glowing with gold; but +they melt with a luscious sweetness upon the lip. They do not give that +strength and nutriment which will bear a man bravely through the coming +chills of winter.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The last scene of summer changes now to the cobwebbed ceiling of an +attorney's office. Books of law, scattered ingloriously at your elbow, +speak dully to the flush of your vanities. You are seated at your +side-desk, where you have wrought at those heavy, mechanic labors of +drafting which go before a knowledge of your craft.</p> + +<p>A letter is by you, which you regard with strange feelings: it is yet +unopened. It comes from Laura. It is in reply to one which has cost you +very much of exquisite elaboration. You have made your avowal of feeling +as much like a poem as your education would admit. Indeed it was a +pretty letter,—promising not so much the trustful love of an earnest +and devoted heart, as the fervor of a passion which consumed you, and +glowed like a furnace through the lines of your letter. It was a +confession in which your vanity of intellect had taken very entertaining +part, and in which your judgment was too cool to appear at all.</p> + +<p>She must needs break out into raptures at such a letter; and her own +will doubtless be tempered with even greater passion.</p> + +<p>It is well to shift your chair somewhat, so that the clerks of the +office may not see your emotion as you read. It would be silly to +manifest your exuberance in a dismal, dark office of your instructing +attorney. One sighs rather for woods, and brooks, and sunshine, in whose +company the hopes of youth stretch into fulfilment.</p> + +<p>We will look only at a closing passage:—</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>----"My friend Clarence will, I trust, believe me, when I say that his +letter was a surprise to me. To say that it was very grateful, would be +what my womanly vanity could not fail to claim. I only wish that I was +equal to the flattering portrait which he has drawn. I even half fancy +that he is joking me, and can hardly believe that my matronly air should +have quite won his youthful heart. At least I shall try not to believe +it; and when I welcome him one day, the husband of some fairy who is +worthy of his love, we will smile together at the old lady who once +played the Circe to his senses. Seriously, my friend Clarence, I know +your impulse of heart has carried you away, and that in a year's time, +you will smile with me at your old <i>penchant</i> for one so much your +senior, and so ill-suited to your years, as your true friend, +<span class="smcap">Laura</span>."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>----Magnificent Miss Dalton!</p> + +<p>Read it again. Stick your knife in the desk:—tut!—you will break the +blade! Fold up the letter carefully, and toss it upon your pile of +papers. Open Chitty again;—pleasant reading is Chitty! Lean upon your +hand—your two hands, so that no one will catch sight of your face. +Chitty is very interesting,—how sparkling and imaginative!—what a +depth and flow of passion in Chitty!</p> + +<p>The office is a capital place—so quiet and sunny. Law is a delightful +study—so captivating, and such stores of romance! And then those trips +to the Hall offer such relief and variety,—especially just now. It +would be well not to betray your eagerness to go. You can brush your hat +a round or two, and take a peep into the broken bit of looking-glass +over the wash-stand.</p> + +<p>You lengthen your walk, as you sometimes do, by a stroll upon the +Battery,—though rarely upon such a blustering November day. You put +your hands in your pockets, and look out upon the tossing sea.</p> + +<p>It is a fine sight—very fine. There are few finer bays in the world +than New York Bay,—either to look at, or, for that matter, to sleep in. +The ships ride up thickly, dashing about the cold spray delightfully; +the little cutters gleam in the November sunshine like white flowers +shivering in the wind.</p> + +<p>The sky is rich—all mottled with cold, gray streaks of cloud. The old +apple-women, with their noses frostbitten, look cheerful and blue. The +ragged immigrants, in short trousers and bell-crowned hats, stalk about +with a very happy expression, and very short-stemmed pipes; their +yellow-haired babies look comfortably red and glowing. And the trees +with their scant, pinched foliage have a charming, summer-like effect!</p> + +<p>Amid it all the thoughts of the boudoir, and harpsichord, and +goldfinches, and Axminster carpets, and sunshine, and Laura, are so +very, very pleasant! How delighted you would be to see her married to +the stout man in the red cravat, who gave her bouquets, and strolled +with her on the deck of the steamer upon the St. Lawrence! What a +jaunty, self-satisfied air he wore; and with what considerate +forbearance he treated you—calling you once or twice Master Clarence! +It never occurred to you before, how much you must be indebted to that +pleasant, stout man.</p> + +<p>You try sadly to be cheerful; you smile oddly; your pride comes strongly +to your help, but yet helps you very little. It is not so much a broken +heart that you have to mourn over, as a broken dream. You seem to see in +a hundred ways, that had never occurred to you before, the marks of her +superior age. Above all it is manifest in the cool and unimpassioned +tone of her letter. Yet how kindly withal! It would be a relief to be +angry.</p> + +<p>New visions come to you, wakened by the broken fancy which has just now +eluded your grasp. You will make yourself, if not old, at least gifted +with the force and dignity of age. You will be a man, and build no more +castles until you can people them with men! In an excess of pride you +even take umbrage at the sex; they can have little appreciation of that +engrossing tenderness of which you feel yourself to be capable. Love +shall henceforth be dead, and you will live boldly without it.</p> + +<p>----Just so, when some dark, eastern cloud-bank shrouds for a morning +the sun of later August, we say in our shivering pride—the winter is +come early! But God manages the seasons better than we; and in a day, or +an hour perhaps, the cloud will pass, and the heavens glow again upon +our ungrateful heads.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Well it is even so, that the passionate dreams of youth break up and +wither. Vanity becomes tempered with wholesome pride; and passion yields +to the riper judgment of manhood,—even as the August heats pass on, +and over, into the genial glow of a September sun. There is a strong +growth in the struggles against mortified pride; and then only does the +youth get an ennobling consciousness of that manhood which is dawning in +him, when he has fairly surmounted those puny vexations which a wounded +vanity creates.</p> + +<p>Now your heart is driven home; and that cherished place, where so little +while ago you wore your vanities with an air that mocked even your +grief, and that subdued your better nature, seems to stretch toward you +over long miles of distance its wings of love, and to welcome back to +the sister's and the father's heart, not the self-sufficient and +vaunting youth, but the brother and son—the schoolboy Clarence. Like a +thirsty child, you stray in thought to that fountain of cheer, and live +again—your vanity crushed, your wild hope broken—in the warm and +natural affections of the boyish home.</p> + +<p>Clouds weave the <span class="smcap">Summer</span> into the season of <span class="smcap">Autumn</span>; and +<span class="smcap">Youth</span> rises from dashed hopes into the stature of a +<span class="smcap">Man</span>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="AUTUMN" id="AUTUMN"></a><i>AUTUMN;</i></h2> + +<h4>OR,</h4> + +<h2><i>THE DREAMS OF MANHOOD.</i></h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="DREAMS_OF_MANHOOD" id="DREAMS_OF_MANHOOD"></a><i>DREAMS OF MANHOOD.</i></h2> + +<h4><i>Autumn.</i></h4> + + +<p>There are those who shudder at the approach of Autumn, and who feel a +light grief stealing over their spirits, like an October haze, as the +evening shadows slant sooner, and longer, over the face of an ending +August day.</p> + +<p>But is not Autumn the Manhood of the year? Is it not the ripest of the +seasons? Do not proud flowers blossom,—the golden-rod, the orchis, the +dahlia, and the bloody cardinal of the swamp-lands?</p> + +<p>The fruits too are golden, hanging heavy from the tasked trees. The +fields of maize show weeping spindles, and broad rustling leaves, and +ears half glowing with the crowded corn; the September wind whistles +over their thick-set ranks with whispers of plenty. The staggering +stalks of the buckwheat grow red with ripeness, and tip their tops with +clustering tricornered kernels.</p> + +<p>The cattle, loosed from the summer's yoke, grow strong upon the meadows +new-starting from the scythe. The lambs of April, rounded into fulness +of limb, and gaining day by day their woolly cloak, bite at the nodding +clover-heads; or, with their noses to the ground, they stand in solemn, +circular conclave under the pasture oaks, while the noon-sun beats with +the lingering passion of July.</p> + +<p>The Bob-o'-Lincolns have come back from their Southern rambles among the +rice, all speckled with gray; and, singing no longer as they did in +spring, they quietly feed upon the ripened reeds that straggle along the +borders of the walls. The larks, with their black and yellow +breastplates, and lifted heads, stand tall upon the close-mown meadow, +and at your first motion of approach spring up, and soar away, and light +again, and with their lifted heads renew the watch. The quails, in +half-grown coveys, saunter hidden through the underbrush that skirts the +wood, and only when you are close upon them, whir away, and drop +scattered under the coverts of the forest.</p> + +<p>The robins, long ago deserting the garden neighborhood, feed at eventide +in flocks upon the bloody berries of the sumac; and the soft-eyed +pigeons dispute possession of the feast. The squirrels chatter at +sunrise, and gnaw off the full-grown burrs of the chestnuts. The lazy +blackbirds skip after the loitering cow, watchful of the crickets that +her slow steps start to danger. The crows in companies caw aloft, and +hang high over the carcass of some slaughtered sheep lying ragged upon +the hills.</p> + +<p>The ash-trees grow crimson in color, and lose their summer life in great +gouts of blood. The birches touch their frail spray with yellow; the +chestnuts drop down their leaves in brown, twirling showers. The +beeches, crimped with the frost, guard their foliage until each leaf +whistles white in the November gales. The bittersweet hangs its bare and +leafless tendrils from rock to tree, and sways with the weight of its +brazen berries. The sturdy oaks, unyielding to the winds and to the +frosts, struggle long against the approaches of the winter, and in their +struggles wear faces of orange, of scarlet, of crimson, and of brown; +and finally, yielding to swift winds, as youth's pride yields to manly +duty, strew the ground with the scattered glories of their summer +strength, and warm and feed the earth with the <i>débris</i> of their leafy +honors.</p> + +<p>The maple in the lowlands turns suddenly its silvery greenness into +orange scarlet, and in the coming chilliness of the autumn eventide +seems to catch the glories of the sunset, and to wear them—as a sign of +God's old promise in Egypt—like a pillar of cloud by day, and of fire +by night.</p> + +<p>And when all these are done,—and in the paved and noisy aisles of the +city the ailantus, with all its greenness gone, lifts up its skeleton +fingers to the God of Autumn and of storms,—the dogwood still guards +its crown; and the branches, which stretched their white canvas in +April, now bear up a spire of bloody tongues, that lie against the +leafless woods like a tree on fire!</p> + +<p>Autumn brings to the home the cheerful glow of "first fires." It +withdraws the thoughts from the wide and joyous landscape of summer, and +fixes them upon those objects which bloom and rejoice within the +household. The old hearth, that has rioted the summer through with +boughs and blossoms, gives up its withered tenantry. The fire-dogs gleam +kindly upon the evening hours; and the blaze wakens those sweet hopes +and prayers which cluster around the fireside of home.</p> + +<p>The wantoning and the riot of the season gone are softened in memory, +and supply joys to the season to come,—just as youth's audacity and +pride give a glow to the recollections of our manhood.</p> + +<p>At mid-day the air is mild and soft; a warm, blue smoke lies in the +mountain gaps; the tracery of distant woods upon the upland hangs in the +haze with a dreamy gorgeousness of coloring. The river runs low with +August drought, and frets upon the pebbly bottom with a soft, low +murmur, as of joyousness gone by. The hemlocks of the river-bank rise in +tapering sheens, and tell tales of Spring.</p> + +<p>As the sun sinks, doubling his disk in the October smoke, the low +south-wind creeps over the withered tree-tops, and drips the leaves upon +the land. The windows, that were wide open at noon, are closed; and a +bright blaze—to drive off the easterly dampness that promises a +storm—flashes lightly and kindly over the book-shelves and busts upon +my wall.</p> + +<p>As the sun sinks lower and lower, his red beams die in a sea of great +gray clouds. Slowly and quietly they creep up over the night-sky. Venus +is shrouded. The western stars blink faintly, then fade in the mounting +vapors. The vane points east of south. The constellations in the zenith +struggle to be seen, but presently give over, and hide their shining.</p> + +<p>By late lamp-light the sky is all gray and dark; the vane has turned two +points nearer east. The clouds spit fine rain-drops, that you only feel +with your face turned to the heavens. But soon they grow thicker and +heavier; and as I sit, watching the blaze, and—dreaming—they patter +thick and fast under the driving wind upon the window, like the swift +tread of an army of Men!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>I.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Pride_of_Manliness" id="Pride_of_Manliness"></a><i>Pride of Manliness.</i></h3> + + +<p>And has manhood no dreams? Does the soul wither at that Rubicon which +lies between the Gallic country of youth and the Rome of manliness? Does +not fancy still love to cheat the heart, and weave gorgeous tissues to +hang upon that horizon which lies along the years that are to come? Is +happiness so exhausted that no new forms of it lie in the mines of +imagination, for busy hopes to drag up to day?</p> + +<p>Where then would live the motives to an upward looking of the eye and of +the soul; where the beckonings that bid us ever onward?</p> + +<p>But these later dreams are not the dreams of fond boyhood, whose eye +sees rarely below the surface of things; nor yet the delicious hopes of +sparkling-blooded youth: they are dreams of sober trustfulness, of +practical results, of hard-wrought world-success, and, maybe, of Love +and of Joy.</p> + +<p>Ambitious forays do not rest where they rested once: hitherto the +balance of youth has given you, in all that you have dreamed of +accomplishment, a strong vantage against age; hitherto in all your +estimates you have been able to multiply them by that access of thought +and of strength which manhood would bring to you. Now this is forever +ended.</p> + +<p>There is a great meaning in that word—manhood. It covers all human +growth. It supposes no extensions or increase; it is integral, fixed, +perfect,—the whole. There is no getting beyond manhood; it is much to +live up to it; but once reached, you are all that a man was made to be +in this world.</p> + +<p>It is a strong thought—that a man is perfected, so far as strength +goes; that he will never be abler to do his work than under the very sun +which is now shining on him. There is a seriousness that few call to +mind in the reflection that whatever you do in this age of manhood is an +unalterable type of your whole bigness. You may qualify particulars of +your character by refinements, by special studies, and practice; but, +once a man, and there is no more manliness to be lived for!</p> + +<p>This thought kindles your soul to new and swifter dreams of ambition +than belonged to youth. They were toys; these are weapons. They were +fancies; these are motives. The soul begins to struggle with the dust, +the sloth, the circumstance, that beleaguer humanity, and to stagger +into the van of action.</p> + +<p>Perception, whose limits lay along a narrow horizon, now tops that +horizon, and spreads, and reaches toward the heaven of the Infinite. +The mind feels its birth, and struggles toward the great birth-master. +The heart glows; its humanities even yield and crimple under the fierce +heat of mental pride. Vows leap upward, and pile rampart upon rampart to +scale all the degrees of human power.</p> + +<p>Are there not times in every man's life when there flashes on him a +feeling—nay, more, an absolute conviction—that this soul is but a +spark belonging to some upper fire; and that, by as much as we draw near +by effort, by resolve, by intensity of endeavor, to that upper fire, by +so much we draw nearer to our home, and mate ourselves with angels? Is +there not a ringing desire in many minds to seize hold of what floats +above us in the universe of thought, and drag down what shreds we can to +scatter to the world? Is it not belonging to greatness to catch +lightning from the plains where lightning lives, and curb it for the +handling of men?</p> + +<p>Resolve is what makes a man manliest;—not puny resolve, not crude +determination, not errant purpose, but that strong and indefatigable +will which treads down difficulties and danger as a boy treads down the +heaving frost-lands of winter,—which kindles his eye and brain with a +proud pulse-beat toward the unattainable. Will makes men giants. It made +Napoleon an emperor of kings, Bacon a fathomer of nature, Byron a tutor +of passion, and the martyrs masters of Death!</p> + +<p>In this age of manhood you look back upon the dreams of the years that +are past: they glide to the vision in pompous procession; they seem +bloated with infancy. They are without sinew or bone. They do not bear +the hard touches of the man's hand.</p> + +<p>It is not long, to be sure, since the summer of life ended with that +broken hope; but the few years that lie between have given long steps +upward. The little grief that threw its shadow, and the broken vision +that deluded you, have made the passing years long in such feeling as +ripens manhood. Nothing lays the brown of autumn upon the green of +summer so quick as storms.</p> + +<p>There have been changes too in the home scenes; these graft age upon a +man. Nelly—your sweet Nelly of childhood, your affectionate sister of +youth—has grown out of the old brotherly companionship into the new +dignity of a household.</p> + +<p>The fire flames and flashes upon the accustomed hearth. The father's +chair is there in the wonted corner; he himself—we must call him the +old man now, though his head shows few white honors—wears a calmness +and a trust that light the failing eye. Nelly is not away; Nelly is a +wife; and the husband yonder, as you may have dreamed,—your old friend +Frank.</p> + +<p>Her eye is joyous; her kindness to you is unabated; her care for you is +quicker and wiser. But yet the old unity of the household seems broken; +nor can all her winning attentions bring back the feeling which lived in +Spring under the garret-roof.</p> + +<p>The isolation, the unity, the integrity of manhood make a strong prop +for the mind, but a weak one for the heart. Dignity can but poorly fill +up that chasm of the soul which the home affections once occupied. +Life's duties and honors press hard upon the bosom that once throbbed at +a mother's tones, and that bounded in a mother's smiles.</p> + +<p>In such home, the strength you boast of seems a weakness; manhood leans +into childish memories, and melts—as Autumn frosts yield to a soft +south-wind coming from a Tropic spring. You feel in a desert, where you +once felt at home,—in a bounded landscape, that was once the world!</p> + +<p>The tall sycamores have dwindled to paltry trees; the hills that were so +large, and lay at such grand distance to the eye of childhood, are now +near by, and have fallen away to mere rolling waves of upland. The +garden-fence, that was so gigantic, is now only a simple paling; its +gate that was such a cumbrous affair—reminding you of Gaza—you might +easily lift from its hinges. The lofty dove-cote, which seemed to rise +like a monument of art before your boyish vision, is now only a flimsy +box upon a tall spar of hemlock.</p> + +<p>The garret even, with its lofty beams, its dark stains, and its obscure +corners, where the white hats and coats hung ghost-like, is but a low +loft darkened by age,—hung over with cobwebs, dimly lighted with foul +windows,—its romping Charlie—its glee—its swing—its joy—its +mystery—all gone forever.</p> + +<p>The old gallipots and retorts are not anywhere to be seen in the +second-story window of the brick schoolhouse. Dr. Bidlow is no more! The +trees that seemed so large, the gymnastic feats that were so +extraordinary, the boy that made a snapper of his handkerchief,—have +all lost their greatness and their dread. Even the springy usher, who +dressed his hair with the ferule, has become the middle-aged father of +five curly-headed boys, and has entered upon what once seemed the +gigantic commerce of "stationery and account-books."</p> + +<p>The marvellous labyrinth of closets at the old mansion where you once +paid a visit—in a coach—is all dissipated. They have turned out to be +the merest cupboards in the wall. Nat, who had travelled and seen +London, is by no means so surprising a fellow to your manhood as he was +to the boy. He has grown spare, and wears spectacles. He is not so +famous as he was. You would hardly think of consulting him now about +your marriage, or even about the price of goats upon London Bridge.</p> + +<p>As for Jenny,—your first, fond flame!—lively, romantic, black-eyed +Jenny,—the reader of "Thaddeus of Warsaw,"—who sighed and wore blue +ribbons on her bonnet,—who wrote love-notes,—who talked so tenderly of +broken hearts,—who used a glass seal with a Cupid and a dart,—dear +Jenny!—she is now the plump and thriving wife of the apothecary of the +town! She sweeps out every morning at seven the little entry of the +apothecary's house; she buys a "joint" twice a week from the butcher, +and is particular to have the "knuckle" thrown in for soups; she wears a +sky-blue calico gown, and dresses her hair in three little flat quirls +on either side of her head, each one pierced through with a two-pronged +hair-pin.</p> + +<p>She does not read "Thaddeus of Warsaw" now.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>II.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Man_of_the_World" id="Man_of_the_World"></a><i>Man of the World.</i></h3> + + +<p>Few persons live through the first periods of manhood without strong +temptations to be counted "men of the world." The idea looms grandly +among those vanities that hedge a man's approach to maturity.</p> + +<p>Clarence is in good training for the acceptance of this idea. The broken +hope, which clouded his closing youth, shoots over its influence upon +the dawn of manhood. Mortified pride had taught—as it always +teaches—not caution only, but doubt, distrust, indifference. A new +pride grows up on the ruins of the old, weak, and vain pride of youth. +Then it was a pride of learning, or of affection; now it is a pride of +indifference. Then the world proved bleak and cold, as contrasted with +his shining dreams; and now he accepts the proof, and wins from it what +he can.</p> + +<p>The man of the world puts on the method and measure of the world: he +studies its humors. He gives up the boyish notion of a sincerity among +men like that of youth: he lives to seem. He conquers such annoyances as +the world may thrust upon him, in the shape of grief or losses, like a +practical athlete of the ring. He studies moral sparring.</p> + +<p>With somewhat of this strange vanity growing on you, you do not suffer +the heart to wake into life except in such fanciful dreams as tempt you +back to the sunny slopes of childhood.</p> + +<p>In this mood you fall in with Dalton, who has just returned from a year +passed in the French capital. There is an easy suavity and graceful +indifference in his manner that chimes admirably with your humor. He is +gracious, without needing to be kind. He is a friend, without any +challenge or proffer of sincerity. He is just one of those adepts in +world tactics which match him with all men, but which link him to none. +He has made it his art to be desired and admired, but rarely to be +trusted. You could not have a better teacher!</p> + +<p>Under such instruction you become disgusted for the time with any +effort, or pulse of affection, which does not have immediate and +practical bearing upon that success in life by which you measure your +hopes. The dreams of love, of romantic adventure, of placid joy, have +all gone out with the fantastic images to which your passionate youth +had joined them. The world is now regarded as a tournament, where the +gladiatorship of life is to be exhibited at your best endeavor. Its +honors and joys lie in a brilliant pennon and a plaudit.</p> + +<p>Dalton is learned in those arts which make of action, not a duty, but a +conquest; and sense of duty has expired in you with those romantic hopes +to which you bound it, not as much through sympathy as ignorance. It is +a cold and a bitterly selfish work that lies before you,—to be covered +over with such borrowed show of smiles as men call affability. The heart +wears a stout, brazen screen; its inclinations grow to the habit of your +ambitious projects.</p> + +<p>In such mood come swift dreams of wealth,—not of mere accumulation, but +of the splendor and parade which in our Western world are, alas! its +chiefest attractions. You grow observant of markets, and estimate +percentages. You fondle some speculation in your thought, until it grows +into a gigantic scheme of profit; and if the venture prove successful, +you follow the tide tremulously, until some sudden reverse throws you +back upon the resources of your professional employ.</p> + +<p>But again as you see this and that one wearing the blazonry which wealth +wins, and which the man of the world is sure to covet,—your weak soul +glows again with the impassioned desire, and you hunger, with brute +appetite and bestial eye, for riches. You see the mania around you, and +it is relieved of odium by the community of error. You consult some gray +old veteran in the war of gold, scarred with wounds, and crowned with +honors, and watch eagerly for the words and the ways which have won him +wealth.</p> + +<p>Your fingers tingle with mad expectancies; your eyes roam, lost in +estimates. Your note-book shows long lines of figures. Your reading of +the news centres in the stock-list. Your brow grows cramped with the +fever of anxiety. Through whole church-hours your dreams range over the +shadowy transactions of the week or the month to come.</p> + +<p>Even with old religious habit clinging fast to your soul, you dream now +only of nice conformity, comfortable faith, high respectability; there +lies very little in you of that noble consciousness of Duty +performed,—of living up to the Life that is in you,—of grasping boldly +and stoutly at those chains of Love which the Infinite Power has lowered +to our reach. You do not dream of being, but of seeming. You spill the +real essence, and clutch at the vial which has only a label of Truth. +Great and holy thoughts of the Future,—shadowy, yet bold conceptions of +the Infinite,—float past you dimly, and your hold is never strong +enough to grapple them to you. They fly, like eagles, too near the sun; +and there lies game below for your vulture beak to feed upon.</p> + +<p>[Great thoughts belong only and truly to him whose mind can hold them. +No matter who first puts them in words, if they come to a soul and fill +it, they belong to it,—whether they floated on the voice of others, or +on the wings of silence and the night.]</p> + +<p>To be up with the fashion of the time, to be ignorant of plain things +and people, and to be knowing in brilliancies, is a kind of Pelhamism +that is very apt to overtake one in the first blush of manhood. To hold +a fair place in the after-dinner table-talk, to meet distinction as a +familiarity, to wear <i>salon</i> honors with aplomb, to know affection so +far as to wield it into grace of language, are all splendid achievements +with a man of the world. Instruction is caught without asking it; and no +ignorance so shames as ignorance of those forms by which natural impulse +is subdued to the tone of civilian habit. You conceal what tells of the +man, and cover it with what smacks of the <i>roué</i>.</p> + +<p>Perhaps under such training, and with a slight memory of early +mortification to point your spirit, you affect those gallantries of +heart and action which the world calls flirtation. You may study +brilliancies of speech to wrap their net around those susceptible hearts +whose habit is too <i>naïve</i> by nature to wear the leaden covering of +custom. You win approaches by artful counterfeit of earnestness, and +dash away any <i>naïveté</i> of confidence with some brave sophism of the +world. A doubt or a distrust piques your pride, and makes attentions +wear a humility that wins anew. An indifference piques you more, and +throws into your art a counter-indifference,—lit up by bold flashes of +feeling,—sparkling with careless brilliancies, and crowned with a +triumph of neglect.</p> + +<p>It is curious how ingeniously a man's vanity will frame apologies for +such action.—It is pleasant to give pleasure; you like to see a joyous +sparkle of the eye, whether lit up by your presence or by some buoyant +fancy. It is a beguiling task to weave words into some soft, melodious +flow, that shall keep the ear and kindle the eye; and to strew it over +with half-hidden praises, so deftly couched in double terms that their +aroma shall only come to the heart hours afterward, and seem to be the +merest accidents of truth. It is a happy art to make such subdued show +of emotion as seems to struggle with pride, and to flush the eye with a +moisture, of which you seem ashamed, and yet are proud. It is a pretty +practice to throw an earnestness into look and gesture, that shall seem +full of pleading, and yet—ask nothing!</p> + +<p>And yet it is hard to admire greatly the reputation of that man who +builds his triumphs upon womanly weakness; that distinction is not +over-enduring whose chiefest merit springs out of the delusions of a too +trustful heart. The man, who wins it, wins only a poor sort of womanly +distinction. Without power to cope with men, he triumphs over the +weakness of the other sex only by hypocrisy. He wears none of the armor +of Romans, and he parleys with Punic faith.</p> + +<p>----Yet even now there is a lurking goodness in you that traces its +beginning to the old garret-home,—there is an air in the harvest heats +that whispers of the bloom of spring.</p> + +<p>And over your brilliant career as man of the world, however lit up by a +morbid vanity, or galvanized by a lascivious passion, there will come at +times the consciousness of a better heart, struggling beneath your +cankered action,—like the low Vesuvian fire, reeking vainly under rough +beds of tufa and scoriated lava. And as you smile in <i>loge</i> or <i>salon</i>, +with daring smiles, or press with villain fondness the hand of those +lady-votaries of the same god you serve, there will gleam upon you over +the waste of rolling years a memory that quickens again the nobler and +bolder instincts of the heart.</p> + +<p>Childish recollections, with their purity and earnestness,—a sister's +love,—a mother's solicitude, will flood your soul once more with a +gushing sensibility that yearns for enjoyment. And the consciousness of +some lingering nobility of affection, that can only grow great in mating +itself with nobility of heart, will sweep off your puny triumphs, your +Platonic friendships, your dashing coquetries, like the foul smoke of a +city before a fresh breeze of the country autumn.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>III.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Manly_Hope" id="Manly_Hope"></a><i>Manly Hope.</i></h3> + + +<p>You are at home again; not your own home,—that is gone,—but at the +home of Nelly and of Frank. The city heats of summer drive you to the +country. You ramble, with a little kindling of old desires and memories, +over the hill-sides that once bounded your boyish vision. Here you +netted the wild rabbits, as they came out at dusk to feed; there, upon +that tall chestnut, you cruelly maimed your first captive squirrel. The +old maples are even now scarred with the rude cuts you gave them in +sappy March.</p> + +<p>You sit down upon some height overlooking the valley where you were +born; you trace the faint, silvery line of river; you detect by the +leaning elm your old bathing-place upon the Saturdays of Summer. Your +eye dwells upon some patches of pasture-wood which were famous for their +nuts. Your rambling and saddened vision roams over the houses; it traces +the familiar chimney-stacks; it searches out the low-lying cottages; it +dwells upon the gray roof sleeping yonder under the sycamores.</p> + +<p>Tears swell in your eye as you gaze; you cannot tell whence or why they +come. Yet they are tears eloquent of feeling. They speak of +brother-children,—of boyish glee,—of the flush of young health,—of a +mother's devotion,—of the home affections,—of the vanities of +life,—of the wasting years,—of the Death that must shroud what friends +remain, as it has shrouded what friends have gone,—and of that Great +Hope, beaming on your seared manhood dimly from the upper world!</p> + +<p>Your wealth suffices for all the luxuries of life; there is no fear of +coming want; health beats strong in your veins; you have learned to hold +a place in the world with a man's strength, and a man's confidence. And +yet in the view of those sweet scenes which belonged to early days, when +neither strength, confidence, nor wealth were yours,—days never to come +again,—a shade of melancholy broods upon your spirit, and covers with +its veil all that fierce pride which your worldly wisdom has wrought.</p> + +<p>You visit again with Frank the country homestead of his grandfather: he +is dead; but the old lady still lives; and blind Fanny, now drawing +toward womanhood, wears yet through her darkened life the same air of +placid content, and of sweet trustfulness in Heaven. The boys, whom you +astounded with your stories of books, are gone, building up now with +steady industry the queen cities of our new western land. The old +clergyman is gone from the desk, and from under his sounding board; he +sleeps beneath a brown stone slab in the churchyard. The stout deacon is +dead; his wig and his wickedness rest together. The tall chorister sings +yet; but they have now a bass-viol—handled by a new schoolmaster—in +place of his tuning-fork; and the years have sown feeble quavers in his +voice.</p> + +<p>Once more you meet at the home of Nelly the blue-eyed Madge. The +sixpence is all forgotten; you cannot tell where your half of it is +gone. Yet she is beautiful, just budding into the full ripeness of +womanhood. Her eyes have a quiet, still joy, and hope beaming in them, +like angel's looks. Her motions have a native grace and freedom that no +culture can bestow. Her words have a gentle earnestness and honesty that +could never nurture guile.</p> + +<p>You had thought after your gay experiences of the world to meet her with +a kind condescension, as an old friend of Nelly's. But there is that in +her eye which forbids all thought of condescension. There is that in her +air which tells of a high womanly dignity, which can only be met on +equal ground. Your pride is piqued. She has known—she must know your +history; but it does not tame her. There is no marked and submissive +appreciation of your gifts as a man of the world.</p> + +<p>She meets your happiest compliments with a very easy indifference; she +receives your elegant civilities with a very assured brow. She neither +courts your society, nor avoids it. She does not seek to provoke any +special attention. And only when your old self glows in some casual +kindness to Nelly, does her look beam with a flush of sympathy.</p> + +<p>This look touches you. It makes you ponder on the noble heart that lives +in Madge. It makes you wish it were yours. But that is gone. The fervor +and the honesty of a glowing youth is swallowed up in the flash and +splendor of the world. A half-regret chases over you at nightfall, when +solitude pierces you with the swift dart of gone-by memories. But at +morning the regret dies in the glitter of ambitious purposes.</p> + +<p>The summer months linger; and still you linger with them. Madge is often +with Nelly; and Madge is never less than Madge. You venture to point +your attentions with a little more fervor; but she meets the fervor with +no glow. She knows too well the habit of your life.</p> + +<p>Strange feelings come over you,—feelings like half-forgotten +memories,—musical, dreamy, doubtful. You have seen a hundred faces more +brilliant than that of Madge; you have pressed a hundred jewelled hands +that have returned a half-pressure to yours. You do not exactly admire; +to love you have forgotten; you only—linger!</p> + +<p>It is a soft autumn evening, and the harvest-moon is red and round over +the eastern skirt of woods. You are attending Madge to that little +cottage-home where lives that gentle and doting mother, who, in the +midst of comparative poverty, cherishes that refined delicacy which +never comes to a child but by inheritance.</p> + +<p>Madge has been passing the day with Nelly. Something—it may be the soft +autumn air, wafting toward you the freshness of young days—moves you to +speak as you have not ventured to speak, as your vanity has not allowed +you to speak before.</p> + +<p>"You remember, Madge, (you have guarded this sole token of boyish +intimacy,) our split sixpence?"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly;" it is a short word to speak, and there is no tremor in her +tone,—not the slightest.</p> + +<p>"You have it yet?"</p> + +<p>"I dare say I have it somewhere;"—no tremor now; she is very composed.</p> + +<p>"That was a happy time;"—very great emphasis on the word happy.</p> + +<p>"Very happy;"—no emphasis anywhere.</p> + +<p>"I sometimes wish I might live it over again."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"—inquiringly.</p> + +<p>"There are, after all, no pleasures in the world like those."</p> + +<p>"No?"—inquiringly again.</p> + +<p>You thought you had learned to have language at command; you never +thought, after so many years' schooling of the world, that your pliant +tongue would play you truant. Yet now you are silent.</p> + +<p>The moon steals silvery into the light flakes of cloud, and the air is +soft as May. The cottage is in sight. Again you risk utterance:—</p> + +<p>"You must live very happily here."</p> + +<p>"I have very kind friends;"—the very is emphasized.</p> + +<p>"I am sure Nelly loves you very much."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I believe it!"—with great earnestness.</p> + +<p>You are at the cottage-door.—</p> + +<p>"Good night, Maggie;"—very feelingly.</p> + +<p>"Good night, Clarence;"—very kindly; and she draws her hand coyly, and +half tremulously, from your somewhat fevered grasp.</p> + +<p>You stroll away dreamily, watching the moon,—running over your +fragmentary life,—half moody, half pleased, half hopeful.</p> + +<p>You come back stealthily, and with a heart throbbing with a certain wild +sense of shame, to watch the light gleaming in the cottage. You linger +in the shadows of the trees until you catch a glimpse of her figure +gliding past the window. You bear the image home with you. You are +silent on your return. You retire early, but you do not sleep early.</p> + +<p>----If you were only as you were: if it were not too late! If Madge +could only love you, as you know she will and must love one manly heart, +there would be a world of joy opening before you. But it is too late!</p> + +<p>You draw out Nelly to speak of Madge: Nelly is very prudent. "Madge is a +dear girl," she says. Does Nelly even distrust you? It is a sad thing to +be too much a man of the world!</p> + +<p>You go back again to noisy, ambitious life: you try to drown old +memories in its blaze and its vanities. Your lot seems cast beyond all +change, and you task yourself with its noisy fulfilment. But amid the +silence and the toil of your office-hours, a strange desire broods over +your spirit,—a desire for more of manliness,—that manliness which +feels itself a protector of loving and trustful innocence.</p> + +<p>You look around upon the faces in which you have smiled unmeaning +smiles: there is nothing there to feed your dawning desires. You meet +with those ready to court you by flattering your vanity, by retailing +the praises of what you may do well, by odious familiarity, by brazen +proffer of friendship, but you see in it only the emptiness and the +vanity which you have studied to enjoy.</p> + +<p>Sickness comes over you, and binds you for weary days and nights,—in +which life hovers doubtfully, and the lips babble secrets that you +cherish. It is astonishing how disease clips a man from the +artificialities of the world! Lying lonely upon his bed, moaning, +writhing, suffering, his soul joins on to the universe of souls by only +natural bonds. The factitious ties of wealth, of place, of reputation, +vanish from his bleared eyes; and the earnest heart, deep under all, +craves only heartiness!</p> + +<p>The old craving of the office silence comes back,—not with the proud +wish only of being a protector, but—of being protected. And whatever +may be the trust in that beneficent Power who "chasteneth whom he +loveth," there is yet an earnest, human yearning toward some one, whose +love—most, and whose duty—least, would call her to your side; whose +soft hands would cool the fever of yours, whose step would wake a throb +of joy, whose voice would tie you to life, and whose presence would make +the worst of Death—an Adieu!</p> + +<p>As you gain strength once more, you go back to Nelly's home. Her +kindness does not falter; every care and attention belong to you there. +Again your eye rests upon that figure of Madge, and upon her face, +wearing an even gentler expression as she sees you sitting pale and +feeble by the old hearth-stone. She brings flowers—for Nelly: you beg +Nelly to place them upon the little table at your side. It is as yet the +only taste of the country that you can enjoy. You love those flowers.</p> + +<p>After a time you grow strong, and walk in the fields, You linger until +nightfall. You pass by the cottage where Madge lives. It is your +pleasantest walk. The trees are greenest in that direction; the shadows +are softest; the flowers are thickest.</p> + +<p>It is strange—this feeling in you. It is not the feeling you had for +Laura Dalton. It does not even remind of that. That was an impulse, but +this is growth. That was strong, but this is strength. You catch sight +of her little notes to Nelly; you read them over and over; you treasure +them; you learn them by heart. There is something in the very writing +that touches you.</p> + +<p>You bid her adieu with tones of kindness that tremble,—and that meet a +half-trembling tone in reply. She is very good.</p> + +<p>----If it were not too late!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>IV.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Manly_Love" id="Manly_Love"></a><i>Manly Love.</i></h3> + + +<p>And shall pride yield at length!</p> + +<p>----Pride!—and what has love to do with pride? Let us see how it is.</p> + +<p>Madge is poor; she is humble. You are rich; you are a man of the world; +you are met respectfully by the veterans of fashion; you have gained +perhaps a kind of brilliancy of position.</p> + +<p>Would it then be a condescension to love Madge? Dare you ask yourself +such a question? Do you not know—in spite of your worldliness—that the +man or the woman, who <i>condescends</i> to love, never loves in earnest?</p> + +<p>But again Madge is possessed of a purity, a delicacy, and a dignity that +lift her far above you,—that make you feel your weakness and your +unworthiness; and it is the deep and the mortifying sense of this +unworthiness that makes you bolster yourself upon your pride. You <i>know</i> +that you do yourself honor in loving such grace and goodness; you know +that you would be honored tenfold more than you deserve in being loved +by so much grace and goodness.</p> + +<p>It scarce seems to you possible; it is a joy too great to be hoped for; +and in the doubt of its attainment your old, worldly vanity comes in, +and tells you to—beware; and to live on in the splendor of your +dissipation and in the lusts of your selfish habit. Yet still underneath +all there is a deep, low, heart-voice,—quickened from above,—which +assures you that you are capable of better things; that you are not +wholly lost; that a mine of unstarted tenderness still lies smouldering +in your soul.</p> + +<p>And with this sense quickening your better nature, you venture the +wealth of your whole heart-life upon the hope that now blazes on your +path.</p> + +<p>----You are seated at your desk, working with such zeal of labor as +your ambitious projects never could command. It is a letter to Margaret +Boyne that so tasks your love, and makes the veins upon your forehead +swell with the earnestness of the employ.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>----"<span class="smcap">Dear Madge</span>,—May I not call you thus, if only in memory of +our childish affections; and might I dare to hope that a riper +affection, which your character has awakened, may permit me to call you +thus always?</p> + +<p>"If I have not ventured to speak, dear Madge, will you not believe that +the consciousness of my own ill-desert has tied my tongue; will you not +at least give me credit for a little remaining modesty of heart? You +know my life, and you know my character,—what a sad jumble of errors +and of misfortunes have belonged to each. You know the careless and the +vain purposes which have made me recreant to the better nature which +belonged to that sunny childhood, when we lived and grew up together. +And will you not believe me when I say, that your grace of character and +kindness of heart have drawn me back from the follies in which I lived, +and quickened new desires which I thought to be wholly dead? Can I +indeed hope that you will overlook all that has gained your secret +reproaches, and confide in a heart which is made conscious of better +things by the love you have inspired?</p> + +<p>"Ah, Madge, it is not with a vain show of words, or with any counterfeit +of feeling, that I write now; you know it is not; you know that my heart +is leaning toward you with the freshness of its noblest instincts; you +know that—I love you!</p> + +<p>"Can I, dare I hope, that it is not spoken in vain? I had thought in my +pride never to make such avowal,—never again to sue for affection; but +your gentleness, your modesty, your virtues of life and heart, have +conquered me! I am sure you will treat me with the generosity of a +victor.</p> + +<p>"You know my weaknesses; I would not conceal from you a single +one,—even to win you. I can offer nothing to you which will bear +comparison in value with what is yours to bestow. I can only offer this +feeble hand of mine—to guard you; and this poor heart—to love you!</p> + +<p>"Am I rash? Am I extravagant, in word, or in hope? Forgive it then, dear +Madge, for the sake of our old childish affection; and believe me, when +I say, that what is here written—is written honestly and tearfully. +Adieu."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It is with no fervor of boyish passion that you fold this letter: it is +with the trembling hand of eager and earnest manhood. They tell you that +man is not capable of love: so the September sun is not capable of +warmth! It may not indeed be so fierce as that of July; but it is +steadier. It does not force great flaunting leaves into breadth and +succulence, but it matures whole harvests of plenty!</p> + +<p>There is a deep and earnest soul pervading the reply of Madge that makes +it sacred; it is full of delicacy, and full of hope. Yet it is not +final. Her heart lies intrenched within the ramparts of Duty and of +Devotion. It is a citadel of strength in the middle of the city of her +affections. To win the way to it, there must be not only earnestness of +love, but earnestness of life.</p> + +<p>Weeks roll by, and other letters pass and are answered,—a glow of +warmth beaming on either side.</p> + +<p>You are again at the home of Nelly; she is very joyous; she is the +confidante of Madge. Nelly feels, that with all your errors you have +enough inner goodness of heart to make Madge happy; and she +feels—doubly—that Madge has such excess of goodness as will cover your +heart with joy. Yet she tells you very little. She will give you no full +assurance of the love of Madge; she leaves that for yourself to win.</p> + +<p>She will even tease you in her pleasant way, until hope almost changes +to despair, and your brow grows pale with the dread—that even now your +unworthiness may condemn you.</p> + +<p>It is summer weather; and you have been walking over the hills of home +with Madge and Nelly. Nelly has found some excuse to leave +you,—glancing at you most teasingly as she hurries away.</p> + +<p>You are left sitting with Madge upon a bank tufted with blue violets. +You have been talking of the days of childhood, and some word has called +up the old chain of boyish feeling, and joined it to your new hope.</p> + +<p>What you would say crowds too fast for utterance, and you abandon it. +But you take from your pocket that little, broken bit of +sixpence,—which you have found after long search,—and without a word, +but with a look that tells your inmost thought, you lay it in the +half-opened hand of Madge.</p> + +<p>She looks at you with a slight suffusion of color,—seems to hesitate a +moment,—raises her other hand, and draws from her bosom by a bit of +blue ribbon a little locket. She touches a spring, and there falls +beside your relique—another, that had once belonged to it.</p> + +<p>Hope glows now like the sun.</p> + +<p>----"And you have worn this, Maggie?"</p> + +<p>----"Always!"</p> + +<p>"Dear Madge!"</p> + +<p>"Dear Clarence!"</p> + +<p>----And you pass your arm now, unchecked, around that yielding, +graceful figure, and fold her to your bosom with the swift and blessed +assurance that your fullest and noblest dream of love is won!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>V.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Cheer_and_Children" id="Cheer_and_Children"></a><i>Cheer and Children.</i></h3> + + +<p>What a glow there is to the sun! What warmth—yet it does not oppress +you: what coolness—yet it is not too cool. The birds sing sweetly; you +catch yourself watching to see what new songsters they can be: they are +only the old robins and thrushes, yet what a new melody is in their +throats!</p> + +<p>The clouds hang gorgeous shapes upon the sky,—shapes they could hardly +ever have fashioned before. The grass was never so green, the buttercups +were never so plentiful; there was never such a life in the leaves. It +seems as if the joyousness in you gave a throb to nature that made every +green thing buoyant.</p> + +<p>Faces, too, are changed: men look pleasantly; children are all charming +children; even babies look tender and lovable. The street-beggar at your +door is suddenly grown into a Belisarius, and is one of the most +deserving heroes of modern times. Your mind is in a continued ferment; +you glide through your toil—dashing out sparkles of passion—like a +ship in the sea. No difficulty daunts you: there is a kind of buoyancy +in your soul that rocks over danger or doubt, as sea-waves heave calmly +and smoothly over sunken rocks.</p> + +<p>You grow unusually amiable and kind; you are earnest in your search of +friends; you shake hands with your office-boy as if he were your second +cousin. You joke cheerfully with the stout washerwoman, and give her a +shilling over-change, and insist upon her keeping it, and grow quite +merry at the recollection of it. You tap your hackman on the shoulder +very familiarly, and tell him he is a capital fellow; and don't allow +him to whip his horses, except when driving to the post-office. You even +ask him to take a glass of beer with you upon some chilly evening. You +drink to the health of his wife. He says he has no wife; whereupon you +think him a very miserable man, and give him a dollar by way of +consolation.</p> + +<p>You think all the editorials in the morning papers are remarkably well +written,—whether upon your side, or upon the other. You think the +stock-market has a very cheerful look, even with Erie—of which you are +a large holder—down to seventy-five. You wonder why you never admired +Mrs. Hemans before, or Stoddard, or any of the rest.</p> + +<p>You give a pleasant twirl to your fingers as you saunter along the +street, and say,—but not so loud as to be overheard,—"She is mine; she +is mine!"</p> + +<p>You wonder if Frank ever loved Nelly one half as well as you love Madge. +You feel quite sure he never did. You can hardly conceive how it is that +Madge has not been seized before now by scores of enamored men, and +borne off, like the Sabine women in Roman history. You chuckle over your +future, like a boy who has found a guinea in groping for sixpences. You +read over the marriage service,—thinking of the time when you will take +<i>her</i> hand, and slip the ring upon <i>her</i> finger,—and repeat, after the +clergyman, "for richer—for poorer; for better—for worse!" A great deal +of "worse" there will be about it, you think!</p> + +<p>Through all, your heart cleaves to that sweet image of the beloved +Madge, as light cleaves to day. The weeks leap with a bound; and the +months only grow long when you approach that day which is to make her +yours. There are no flowers rare enough to make bouquets for her; +diamonds are too dim for her to wear; pearls are tame.</p> + +<p>----And after marriage the weeks are even shorter than before: you +wonder why on earth all the single men in the world do not rush +tumultuously to the Altar; you look upon them all as a travelled man +will look upon some conceited Dutch boor who has never been beyond the +limits of his cabbage-garden. Married men, on the contrary, you regard +as fellow-voyagers; and look upon their wives—ugly as they may be—as +better than none.</p> + +<p>You blush a little at first telling your butcher what "your wife" would +like; you bargain with the grocer for sugars and teas, and wonder if he +<i>knows</i> that you are a married man. You practise your new way of talk +upon your office-boy: you tell him that "your wife" expects you home to +dinner; and are astonished that he does not stare to hear you say it!</p> + +<p>You wonder if the people in the omnibus know that Madge and you are just +married; and if the driver knows that the shilling you hand to him is +for "self and wife." You wonder if anybody was ever so happy before, or +ever will be so happy again.</p> + +<p>You enter your name upon the hotel books as "Clarence —— and Wife"; and +come back to look at it, wondering if anybody else has noticed it,—and +thinking that it looks remarkably well. You cannot help thinking that +every third man you meet in the hall wishes he possessed your wife; nor +do you think it very sinful in him to wish it. You fear it is placing +temptation in the way of covetous men to put Madge's little gaiters +outside the chamber-door at night.</p> + +<p>Your home, when it is entered, is just what it should be,—quiet, +small,—with everything she wishes, and nothing more than she wishes. +The sun strikes it in the happiest possible way; the piano is the +sweetest-toned in the world; the library is stocked to a charm;—and +Madge, that blessed wife, is there, adorning and giving life to it all. +To think even of her possible death is a suffering you class with the +infernal tortures of the Inquisition. You grow twin of heart and of +purpose. Smiles seem made for marriage; and you wonder how you ever wore +them before!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>So a year and more wears off of mingled home-life, visiting, and travel. +A new hope and joy lightens home: there is a child there.</p> + +<p>----What a joy to be a father! What new emotions crowd the eye with +tears, and make the hand tremble! What a benevolence radiates from you +toward the nurse,—toward the physician,—toward everybody! What a +holiness and sanctity of love grows upon your old devotion to that wife +of your bosom—the mother of your child!</p> + +<p>The excess of joy seems almost to blur the stories of happiness which +attach to heaven. You are now joined, as you were never joined before, +to the great family of man. Your name and blood will live after you; nor +do you once think (what father can?) but that it will live honorably and +well.</p> + +<p>With what a new air you walk the streets! With what a triumph you speak, +in your letter to Nelly, of "your family!" Who, that has not felt it, +knows what it is to be "a man of family!"</p> + +<p>How weak now seem all the imaginations of your single life; what bare, +dry skeletons of the reality they furnished! You pity the poor fellows +who have no wives or children—from your soul; you count their smiles as +empty smiles, put on to cover the lack that is in them. There is a +freemasonry among fathers that they know nothing of. You compassionate +them deeply; you think them worthy objects of some charitable +association; you would cheerfully buy tracts for them, if they would but +read them,—tracts on marriage and children.</p> + +<p>----And then "the boy,"—<i>such</i> a boy!</p> + +<p>There was a time when you thought all babies very much alike;—alike? Is +your boy like anything, except the wonderful fellow that he is? Was +there ever a baby seen, or even read of, like that baby!</p> + +<p>----Look at him: pick him up in his long, white gown: he may have an +excess of color,—but such a pretty color! he is a little pouty about +the mouth,—but such a mouth! His hair is a little scant, and he is +rather wandering in the eye,—but, Good Heavens, what an eye!</p> + +<p>There was a time when you thought it very absurd for fathers to talk +about their children; but it does not seem at all absurd now. You think, +on the contrary, that your old friends, who used to sup with you at the +club, would be delighted to know how your baby is getting on, and how +much he measures around the calf of the leg! If they pay you a visit, +you are quite sure they are in an agony to see Frank; and you hold the +little squirming fellow in your arms, half conscience-smitten for +provoking them to such envy as they must be suffering. You make a +settlement upon the boy with a chuckle,—as if you were treating +yourself to a mint-julep, instead of conveying away a few thousands of +seven per cents.</p> + +<p>----Then the boy develops astonishingly. What a head,—what a +foot,—what a voice! And he is so quiet withal,—never known to cry, +except under such provocation as would draw tears from a heart of +adamant; in short, for the first six months he is never anything but +gentle, patient, earnest, loving, intellectual, and magnanimous. You are +half afraid that some of the physicians will be reporting the case, as +one of the most remarkable instances of perfect moral and physical +development on record.</p> + +<p>But the years roll on, in the which your extravagant fancies die into +the earnest maturity of a father's love. You struggle gayly with the +cares that life brings to your door. You feel the strength of three +beings in your single arm; and feel your heart warming toward God and +man with the added warmth of two other loving and trustful beings.</p> + +<p>How eagerly you watch the first tottering step of that boy; how you riot +in the joy and pride that swell in that mother's eyes, as they follow +his feeble, staggering motions! Can God bless his creatures more than +he has blessed that dear Madge and you? Has Heaven even richer joys than +live in that home of yours?</p> + +<p>By-and-by he speaks; and minds tie together by language, as the hearts +have long tied by looks. He wanders with you feebly, and with slow, +wandering paces, upon the verge of the great universe of thought. His +little eye sparkles with some vague fancy that comes upon him first by +language. Madge teaches him the words of affection and of thankfulness; +and she teaches him to lisp infant prayer; and by secret pains (how +could she be so secret?) instructs him in some little phrase of +endearment that she knows will touch your heart; and then she watches +your coming; and the little fellow runs toward you, and warbles out his +lesson of love in tones that forbid you any answer,—save only those +brimming eyes, turned first on her, and then on him,—and poorly +concealed by the quick embrace, and the kisses which you shower in +transport! Still slip on the years, like brimming bowls of nectar! +Another Madge is sister to Frank; and a little Nelly is younger sister +to this other Madge.</p> + +<p>----Three of them! a charmed and mystic number, which, if it be broken +in these young days,—as, alas, it may be!—will only yield a cherub +angel to float over you, and to float over them,—to wean you, and to +wean them, from this world, where all joys do perish, to that seraph +world where joys do last forever.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>VI.</h2> + +<h3><a name="A_Dream_of_Darkness" id="A_Dream_of_Darkness"></a><i>A Dream of Darkness.</i></h3> + + +<p>Is our life a sun, that it should radiate light and heat forever? Do not +the calmest and brightest days of autumn show clouds, that drift their +ragged edges over the golden disk, and bear down swift with their weight +of vapors, until the sun's whole surface is shrouded; and you can see no +shadow of tree or flower upon the land, because of the greater and +gulping shadow of the cloud?</p> + +<p>Will not life bear me out; will not truth, earnest and stern, around me +make good the terrible imagination that now comes swooping, heavily and +darkly, upon my brain?</p> + +<p>You are living in a little village not far away from the city. It is a +graceful and luxurious home that you possess. The holly and the laurel +gladden its lawn in winter; and bowers of blossoms sweeten it through +all the summer. You know each day of your return from the town, where +first you will catch sight of that graceful figure flitting like a +shadow of love beneath the trees; you know well where you will meet the +joyous and noisy welcome of stout Frank, and of tottling Nelly. Day +after day and week after week they fail not.</p> + +<p>A friend sometimes attends you; and a friend to you is always a friend +to Madge. In the city you fall in once more with your old acquaintance +Dalton,—the graceful, winning, yet dissolute man that his youth +promised. He wishes to see your cottage home. Your heart half hesitates; +yet it seems folly to cherish distrust of a boon companion in so many of +your revels.</p> + +<p>Madge receives him with that sweet smile which welcomes all your +friends. He gains the heart of Frank by talking of his toys and of his +pigeons; and he wins upon the tenderness of the mother by his attentions +to the child. Even you repent of your passing shadow of dislike, and +feel your heart warming toward him as he takes little Nelly in his arms +and provokes her joyous prattle.</p> + +<p>Madge is unbounded in her admiration of your friend: he renews, at your +solicitation, his visit: he proves kinder than ever; and you grow +ashamed of your distrust.</p> + +<p>Madge is not learned in the arts of a city life; the accomplishments of +a man-of-the world are almost new to her; she listens with eagerness to +Dalton's graphic stories of foreign <i>fêtes</i> and luxury; she is charmed +with his clear, bold voice, and with his manly execution of little +operatic airs.</p> + +<p>----She is beautiful,—that wife who has made your heart whole by its +division,—fearfully beautiful! And she is not cold, or impassive: her +heart, though fond and earnest, is yet human;—we are all human. The +accomplishments and graces of the world must needs take hold upon her +fancy. And a fear creeps over you that you dare not whisper,—that those +graces may cast into the shade your own yearning and silent tenderness.</p> + +<p>But this is a selfish fear, that you think you have no right to cherish. +She takes pleasure in the society of Dalton,—what right have you to say +her—nay? His character indeed is not altogether such as you could wish; +but will it not be selfish to tell her even this? Will it not be even +worse, and show taint of a lurking suspicion, which you know would wound +her grievously? You struggle with your distrust by meeting him more +kindly than ever; yet at times there will steal over you a sadness, +which that dear Madge detects, and sorrowing in her turn, tries to draw +away from you by the touching kindness of sympathy. Her look and manner +kill all your doubt; and you show that it is gone, and piously conceal +the cause by welcoming in gayer tones than ever the man who has fostered +it by his presence.</p> + +<p>Business calls you away to a great distance from home: it is the first +long parting of your real manhood. And can suspicion, or a fear, lurk +amid those tearful embraces? Not one,—thank God,—not one!</p> + +<p>Your letters, frequent and earnest, bespeak your increased devotion; and +the embraces you bid her give to the sweet ones of your little flock, +tell of the calmness and sufficiency of your love. Her letters too are +running over with affection;—what though she mentions the frequent +visits of Dalton, and tells stories of his kindness and attachment? You +feel safe in her strength; and yet—yet there is a brooding terror, that +rises out of your knowledge of Dalton's character.</p> + +<p>And can you tell her this; can you stab her fondness, now that you are +away, with even a hint of what would crush her delicate nature?</p> + +<p>What you know to be love, and what you fancy to be duty, struggle long; +but love conquers. And with sweet trust in her, and double trust in God, +you await your return. That return will be speedier than you think.</p> + +<p>You receive one day a letter: it is addressed in the hand of a friend, +who is often at the cottage, but who has rarely written to you. What can +have tempted him now? Has any harm come near your home? No wonder your +hands tremble at the opening of that sheet; no wonder that your eyes run +like lightning over the hurried lines. Yet there is little in them, very +little. The hand is stout and fair. It is a calm letter, a friendly +letter; but it is short, terribly short. It bids you come home—"<i>at +once!</i>"</p> + +<p>----And you go. It is a pleasant country you have to travel through; +but you see very little of the country. It is a dangerous voyage, +perhaps, you have to make; but you think very little of the danger. The +creaking of the timbers, and the lashing of the waves, are quieting +music compared with the storm of your raging fears. All the while you +associate Dalton with the terror that seems to hang over you; and yet, +your trust in Madge is true as Heaven!</p> + +<p>At length you approach that home: there lies your cottage resting +sweetly upon its hill-side; and the autumn winds are soft; and the +maple-tops sway gracefully, all clothed in the scarlet of their +frost-dress. Once again as the sun sinks behind the mountain with a +trail of glory, and the violet haze tints the gray clouds like so many +robes of angels, you take heart and courage, and with firm reliance on +the Providence that fashions all forms of beauty, whether in heaven or +in heart, your fears spread out, and vanish with the waning twilight.</p> + +<p>She is not at the cottage-door to meet you; she does not expect you; and +yet your bosom heaves, and your breathing is quick. Your friend meets +you, and shakes your hand.—"Clarence," he says, with the tenderness of +an old friend,—"be a man!"</p> + +<p>Alas, you are a man;—with a man's heart, and a man's fear, and a man's +agony! Little Frank comes bounding toward you joyously—yet under traces +of tears:—"Oh, papa, mother is gone!"</p> + +<p>----"Gone!" And you turn to the face of your friend; it is well he is +near by, or you would have fallen.</p> + +<p>He can tell you very little; he has known the character of Dalton; he +has seen with fear his assiduous attentions—tenfold multiplied since +your leave. He has trembled for the issue: this very morning he observed +a travelling carriage at the door;—they drove away together. You have +no strength to question him. You see that he fears the worst: he does +not know Madge so well as you.</p> + +<p>----And can it be? Are you indeed widowed with that most terrible of +widowhoods? Is your wife living, and yet—lost! Talk not to such a man +of the woes of sickness, of poverty, of death; he will laugh at your +mimicry of grief.</p> + +<p>----All is blackness; whichever way you turn, it is the same; there is +no light; your eye is put out; your soul is desolate forever! The heart +by which you had grown up into the full stature of joy and blessing, is +rooted out of you, and thrown like something loathsome, at which the +carrion dogs of the world scent and snuffle!</p> + +<p>They will point at you, as the man who has lost all that he prized; and +she has stolen it, whom he prized more than what was stolen! And he, the +accursed miscreant——. But no, it can never be! Madge is as true as +Heaven!</p> + +<p>Yet she is not there: whence comes the light that is to cheer you?</p> + +<p>----Your children?</p> + +<p>Ay, your children,—your little Nelly,—your noble Frank,—they are +yours,—doubly, trebly, tenfold yours, now that she, their mother, is a +mother no more to them forever!</p> + +<p>Ay, close your doors; shut out the world; draw close your curtains; fold +them to your heart,—your crushed, bleeding, desolate heart! Lay your +forehead to the soft cheek of your noble boy;—beware, beware how you +dampen that damask cheek with your scalding tears: yet you cannot help +it; they fall—great drops—a river of tears, as you gather him +convulsively to your bosom!</p> + +<p>"Father, why do you cry so?" says Frank, with the tears of dreadful +sympathy starting from those eyes of childhood.</p> + +<p>----"Why, papa?"—mimes little Nelly.</p> + +<p>----Answer them, if you dare! Try it;—what words—blundering, weak +words—choked with agony—leading nowhere—ending in new and convulsive +clasps of your weeping, motherless children!</p> + +<p>Had she gone to her grave, there would have been a holy joy, a great and +swelling grief indeed,—but your poor heart would have found a rest in +the quiet churchyard; and your feelings, rooted in that cherished grave, +would have stretched up toward Heaven their delicate leaves, and caught +the dews of His grace, who watcheth the lilies. But now,—with your +heart cast underfoot, or buffeted on the lips of a lying world,—finding +no shelter and no abiding place!—alas, we do guess at infinitude only +by suffering!</p> + +<p>----Madge, Madge! can this be so? Are you not still the same sweet, +guileless child of Heaven?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>VII.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Peace" id="Peace"></a><i>Peace.</i></h3> + + +<p>It is a dream,—fearful, to be sure, but only a dream! Madge <i>is</i> true. +That soul is honest; it could not be otherwise. God never made it to be +false; He never made the sun for darkness.</p> + +<p>And before the evening has waned to midnight, sweet day has broken on +your gloom;—Madge is folded to your bosom, sobbing fearfully,—not for +guilt, or any shadow of guilt, but for the agony she reads upon your +brow, and in your low sighs.</p> + +<p>The mystery is all cleared by a few lightning words from her indignant +lips, and her whole figure trembles, as she shrinks within your embrace, +with the thought of that great evil that seemed to shadow you. The +villain has sought by every art to beguile her into appearances which +should compromise her character and so wound her delicacy as to take +away the courage for return; he has even wrought upon her affection for +you as his master-weapon: a skilfully contrived story of some accident +that had befallen you, had wrought upon her—to the sudden and silent +leave of home. But he has failed. At the first suspicion of his falsity, +her dignity and virtue shivered all his malice. She shudders at the bare +thought of that fiendish scheme which has so lately broken on her view.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Clarence, Clarence, could you for one moment believe this of me?"</p> + +<p>"Dear Madge, forgive me if a dreamy horror did for an instant palsy my +better thought;—it is gone utterly; it will never, never come again!"</p> + +<p>And there she leans with her head pillowed on your shoulder, the same +sweet angel that has led you in the way of light, and who is still your +blessing and your pride.</p> + +<p>He—and you forbear to name his name—is gone,—flying vainly from the +consciousness of guilt with the curse of Cain upon him,—hastening +toward the day when Satan shall clutch his own!</p> + +<p>A heavenly peace descends upon you that night,—all the more sacred and +calm for the fearful agony that has gone before. A Heaven, that seemed +lost, is yours. A love, that you had almost doubted, is beyond all +suspicion. A heart, that in the madness of your frenzy you had dared to +question, you worship now, with blushes of shame. You thank God for this +great goodness, as you never thanked him for any earthly blessing +before; and with this twin gratitude lying on your hearts, and clearing +your face to smiles, you live on together the old life of joy and of +affection.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Again with brimming nectar the years fill up their vases. Your children +grow into the same earnest joyousness, and with the same home faith, +which lightened upon your young dreams, and toward which you seem to go +back, as you riot with them in their Christmas joys, or upon the velvety +lawn of June.</p> + +<p>Anxieties indeed overtake you, but they are those anxieties which only +the selfish would avoid,—anxieties that better the heart with a great +weight of tenderness. It may be that your mischievous Frank runs wild +with the swift blood of boyhood, and that the hours are long which wait +his coming. It may be that your heart echoes in silence the mother's +sobs, as she watches his fits of waywardness, and showers upon his very +neglect excess of love.</p> + +<p>Danger perhaps creeps upon little, joyous Nelly, which makes you tremble +for her life; the mother's tears are checked that she may not deepen +your grief; and her care guards the little sufferer like a Providence. +The nights hang long and heavy; dull, stifled breathing wakes the +chamber with ominous sound; the mother's eye scarce closes, but rests +with fond sadness upon the little struggling victim of sickness; her +hand rests like an angel touch upon the brow, all beaded with the heats +of fever; the straggling, gray light of morning breaks through the +crevices of the closed blinds,—bringing stir and bustle to the world, +but in your home—lighting only the darkness.</p> + +<p>Hope, sinking in the mother's heart, takes hold on Faith in God; and her +prayer, and her placid look of submission,—more than all your +philosophy,—add strength to your faltering courage.</p> + +<p>But little Nelly brightens; her faded features take on bloom again; she +knows you; she presses your hand; she draws down your cheek to her +parched lip; she kisses you, and smiles. The mother's brow loses its +shadow; day dawns within as well as without, and on bended knees God is +thanked!</p> + +<p>Perhaps poverty faces you;—your darling schemes break down. One by one, +with failing heart, you strip the luxuries from life. But the sorrow +which oppresses you is not the selfish sorrow which the lone man feels: +it is far nobler; its chiefest mourning is over the despoiled home. +Frank must give up his promised travel; Madge must lose her favorite +pony; Nelly must be denied her little <i>fête</i> upon the lawn. The home +itself, endeared by so many scenes of happiness and by so many of +suffering, must be given up. It is hard, very hard, to tear away your +wife from the flowers, the birds, the luxuries, that she has made so +dear.</p> + +<p>Now she is far stronger than you. She contrives new joys; she wears a +holy calm; she cheers by a new hopefulness; she buries even the memory +of luxury in the riches of the humble home that her wealth of heart +endows. Her soul, catching radiance from that heavenly world where her +hope lives, kindles amid the growing shadows, and sheds balm upon the +little griefs,—like the serene moon, slanting the dead sun's life, upon +the night!</p> + +<p>Courage wakes in the presence of those dependent on your toil. Love arms +your hand and quickens your brain. Resolutions break large from the +swelling soul. Energy leaps into your action like light. Gradually you +bring back into your humble home a few traces of the luxury that once +adorned it. That wife, whom it is your greatest pleasure to win to +smiles, wears a half-sad look as she meets these proofs of love; she +fears that you are perilling too much for her pleasure.</p> + +<p>----For the first time in life you deceive her. You have won wealth +again; you now step firmly upon your new-gained sandals of gold. But you +conceal it from her. You contrive a little scheme of surprise, with +Frank alone in the secret.</p> + +<p>You purchase again the old home; you stock it, as far as may be, with +the old luxuries; a new harp is in the place of that one which beguiled +so many hours of joy; new and cherished flowers bloom again upon the +windows; her birds hang, and warble their melody where they warbled it +before. A pony—like as possible to the old—is there for Madge; a fête +is secretly contrived upon the lawn. You even place the old, familiar +books upon the parlor-table.</p> + +<p>The birthday of your own Madge is approaching,—a <i>fête</i> you never pass +by without home rejoicings. You drive over with her upon that morning +for another look at the old place; a cloud touches her brow,—but she +yields to your wish. An old servant—whom you had known in better +days—throws open the gates.</p> + +<p>----"It is too, too sad," says Madge. "Let us go back, Clarence, to our +own home;—we are happy there."</p> + +<p>----"A little farther, Madge."</p> + +<p>The wife steps slowly over what seems the sepulchre of so many +pleasures; the children gambol as of old, and pick flowers. But the +mother checks them.</p> + +<p>"They are not ours now, my children!"</p> + +<p>You stroll to the very door; the goldfinches are hanging upon the wall; +the mignonette is in the window. You feel the hand of Madge trembling +upon your arm; she is struggling with her weakness.</p> + +<p>A tidy waiting-woman shows you into the old parlor:—there is a harp; +and there, too, such books as we loved to read.</p> + +<p>Madge is overcome; now she entreats:—"Let us go away, Clarence!" and +she hides her face.</p> + +<p>----"Never, dear Madge, never! it is yours—all yours!"</p> + +<p>She looks up in your face; she sees your look of triumph; she catches +sight of Frank bursting in at the old hall-door all radiant with joy.</p> + +<p>----"Frank!—Clarence!"—the tears forbid any more.</p> + +<p>"God bless you, Madge! God bless you!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And thus in peace and in joy <span class="smcap">Manhood</span> passes on into the third +season of our life—even as golden <span class="smcap">Autumn</span> sinks slowly into the +tomb of <span class="smcap">Winter</span>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="WINTER" id="WINTER"></a><i>WINTER;</i></h2> + +<h4>OR,</h4> + +<h2><i>THE DREAMS OF AGE</i></h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="DREAMS_OF_AGE" id="DREAMS_OF_AGE"></a><i>DREAMS OF AGE.</i></h2> + +<h4><i>Winter.</i></h4> + + +<p>Slowly, thickly, fastly, fall the snow-flakes,—like the seasons upon +the life of man. At the first they lose themselves in the brown mat of +herbage, or gently melt, as they fall upon the broad stepping-stone at +the door. But as hour after hour passes, the feathery flakes stretch +their white cloak plainly on the meadow, and chilling the doorstep with +their multitude, cover it with a mat of pearl.</p> + +<p>The dried grass-tips pierce the mantle of white, like so many serried +spears; but as the storm goes softly on, they sink one by one to their +snowy tomb, and presently show nothing of all their army, save one or +two straggling banners of blackened and shrunken daisies.</p> + +<p>Across the wide meadow that stretches from my window, I can see nothing +of those hills which were so green in summer; between me and them lie +only the soft, slow-moving masses, filling the air with whiteness I +catch only a glimpse of one gaunt and bare-armed oak, looming through +the feathery multitude like a tall ship's spars breaking through fog.</p> + +<p>The roof of the barn is covered; and the leaking eaves show dark stains +of water that trickle down the weather-beaten boards. The pear-trees, +that wore such weight of greenness in the leafy June, now stretch their +bare arms to the snowy blast, and carry upon each tiny bough a narrow +burden of winter.</p> + +<p>The old house-dog marches stately through the strange covering of earth, +and seems to ponder on the welcome he will show,—and shakes the flakes +from his long ears, and with a vain snap at a floating feather he stalks +again to his dry covert in the shed. The lambs that belonged to the +meadow flock, with their feeding-ground all covered, seem to wonder at +their losses; but take courage from the quiet air of the veteran sheep, +and gambol after them, as they move sedately toward the shelter of the +barn.</p> + +<p>The cat, driven from the kitchen-door, beats a coy retreat, with long +reaches of her foot, upon the yielding surface. The matronly hens +saunter out at a little lifting of the storm, and eye curiously, with +heads half turned, their sinking steps, and then fall back, with a quiet +cluck of satisfaction, to the wholesome gravel by the stable-door.</p> + +<p>By-and-by the snow-flakes pile more leisurely: they grow large and +scattered, and come more slowly than before. The hills, that were brown, +heave into sight—great, rounded billows of white. The gray woods look +shrunken to half their height, and stand waving in the storm. The wind +freshens, and scatters the light flakes that crown the burden of the +snow; and as the day droops, a clear, bright sky of steel color cleaves +the land and clouds, and sends down a chilling wind to bank the walls +and to freeze the storm. The moon rises full and round, and plays with a +joyous chill over the glistening raiment of the land.</p> + +<p>I pile my fire with the clean-cleft hickory; and musing over some sweet +story of the olden time, I wander into a rich realm of thought, until my +eyes grow dim, and dreaming of battle and of prince, I fall to sleep in +my old farm-chamber.</p> + +<p>At morning I find my dreams all written on the window in crystals of +fairy shape. The cattle, one by one, with ears frost-tipped, and with +frosted noses, wend their way to the watering-place in the meadow. One +by one they drink, and crop at the stunted herbage which the warm spring +keeps green and bare.</p> + +<p>A hound bays in the distance; the smoke of cottages rises straight +toward heaven; a lazy jingle of sleigh-bells wakens the quiet of the +high-road; and upon the hills the leafless woods stand low, like +crouching armies, with guns and spears in rest; and among them the +scattered spiral pines rise like bannermen, uttering with their thousand +tongues of green the proud war-cry—"God is with us!"</p> + +<p>But the sky of winter is as capricious as the sky of spring, even as the +old wander in thought, like the vagaries of a boy.</p> + +<p>Before noon the heavens are mantled with a leaden gray; the eaves, that +leaked in the glow of the sun, now tell their tale of morning's warmth +in crystal ranks of icicles. The cattle seek their shelter; the few +lingering leaves of the white-oaks rustle dismally; the pines breathe +sighs of mourning. As the night darkens, and deepens the storm, the +house-dog bays; the children crouch in the wide chimney-corners; the +sleety rain comes in sharp gusts. And as I sit by the light leaping +blaze in my chamber, the scattered hail-drops beat upon my window, like +the tappings of an <span class="smcap">Old Man's</span> cane.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>I.</h2> + +<h3><a name="What_is_Gone" id="What_is_Gone"></a><i>What is Gone.</i></h3> + + +<p>Gone! Did it ever strike you, my reader, how much meaning lies in that +little monosyllable—gone?</p> + +<p>Say it to yourself at nightfall, when the sun has sunk under the hills, +and the crickets chirp,—"gone." Say it to yourself when the night is +far over, and you wake with some sudden start from pleasant +dreams,—"gone." Say it to yourself in some country churchyard, where +your father, or your mother, sleeps under the blooming violets of +spring,—"gone." Say it in your sobbing prayer to Heaven, as you cling +lovingly, but oh, how vainly, to the hand of your sweet wife,—"gone!"</p> + +<p>Ay, is there not meaning in it? And now, what is gone,—or rather what +is not gone? Childhood is gone, with all its blushes and fairness,—with +all its health and wantoning,—with all its smiles like glimpses of +heaven, and all its tears which were but the suffusion of joy.</p> + +<p>Youth is gone,—bright, hopeful youth, when you counted the years with +jewelled numbers, and hung lamps of ambition on your path, which lighted +the palace of renown; when the days were woven into weeks of blithe +labor, and the weeks were rolled into harvest months of triumph, and the +months were bound into golden sheaves of years,—all gone!</p> + +<p>The strength and pride of manhood is gone; your heart and soul have +stamped their deepest dye; the time of power is past; your manliness has +told its tale henceforth your career is <i>down</i>;—hitherto you have +journeyed <i>up</i>. You look back upon a decade as you once looked upon a +half score of months; a year has become to your slackened memory, and to +your dull perceptions, like a week of childhood. Suddenly and swiftly +come past you great whirls of gone-by thought, and wrecks of vain labor, +eddying upon the stream that rushes to the grave. The sweeping outlines +of life, that lay once before the vision,—rolling into wide billows of +years, like easy lifts of a broad mountain-range,—now seem close-packed +together as with a Titan hand, and you see only crowded, craggy +heights,—like Alpine fastnesses,—parted with glaciers of grief, and +leaking abundant tears!</p> + +<p>Your friends are gone; they who counselled and advised you, and who +protected your weakness, will guard it no more forever. One by one they +have dropped away as you have journeyed on; and yet your journey does +not seem a long one. Life at the longest is but a bubble that bursts so +soon as it is rounded.</p> + +<p>Nelly—your sweet sister, to whom your heart clung so fondly in the +young days, and to whom it has clung ever since in the strongest bonds +of companionship—is gone—with the rest!</p> + +<p>Your thought—wayward now, and flickering—runs over the old days with +quick and fevered step; it brings back, faintly as it may, the noisy +joys, and the safety, that belonged to the old garret-roof; it figures +again the image of that calm-faced father,—long since sleeping beside +your mother; it rests like a shadow upon the night when Charlie died; it +grasps the old figures of the schoolroom, and kindles again (how strange +is memory) the fire that shed its lustre upon the curtains, and the +ceiling, as you lay groaning with your first hours of sickness.</p> + +<p>Your flitting recollection brings back with gushes of exultation the +figure of that little, blue-eyed hoiden,—Madge,—as she came with her +work to pass the long evenings with Nelly; it calls again the shy +glances that you cast upon her, and your <i>naïve</i> ignorance of all the +little counter-play that might well have passed between Frank and Nelly. +Your mother's form too, clear and distinct, comes upon the wave of your +rocking thought; her smile touches you now in age as it never touched +you in boyhood.</p> + +<p>The image of that fair Miss Dalton, who led your fancy into such mad +captivity, glides across your vision like the fragment of a crazy dream +long gone by. The country home, where lived the grandfather of Frank, +gleams kindly in the sunlight of your memory; and still,—poor, blind +Fanny—long since gathered to that rest where her closed eyes will open +upon visions of joy—draws forth a sigh of pity.</p> + +<p>Then comes up that sweetest and brightest vision of love, and the doubt +and care which ran before it,—when your hope groped eagerly through +your pride and worldliness toward the sainted purity of her whom you +know to be—all too good,—when you trembled at the thought of your own +vices and blackness in the presence of her who seemed virtue's self. And +even now your old heart bounds with joy as you recall the first timid +assurance that you were blessed in the possession of her love, and that +you might live in her smiles.</p> + +<p>Your thought runs like floating melody over the calm joy that followed +you through so many years,—to the prattling children, who were there to +bless your path. How poor seem now your transports, as you met their +childish embraces, and mingled in their childish employ; how utterly +weak the actual, when compared with that glow of affection which memory +lends to the scene!</p> + +<p>Yet all this is gone; and the anxieties are gone, which knit your heart +so strongly to those children, and to her—the mother,—anxieties which +distressed you,—which you would eagerly have shunned, yet whose memory +you would not now bargain away for a king's ransom! What were the +sunlight worth, if clouds did not sometimes hide its brightness; what +were the spring, or the summer, if the lessons of the chilling winter +did not teach us the story of their warmth?</p> + +<p>The days are gone too, in which you may have lingered under the sweet +suns of Italy,—with the cherished one beside you, and the eager +children, learning new prattle in the soft language of those Eastern +lands. The evenings are gone, in which you loitered under the trees with +those dear ones under the light of a harvest-moon, and talked of your +blooming hopes, and of the stirring plans of your manhood. There are no +more ambitious hopes, no more sturdy plans! Life's work has rounded into +the evening that shortens labor.</p> + +<p>And as you loiter in dreams over the wide waste of what is gone,—a +mingled array of griefs and of joys, of failures and of triumphs,—you +bless God that there has been so much of joy belonging to your shattered +life; and you pray God, with the vain fondness that belongs to a +parent's heart, that more of joy, and less of toil, may come near to the +cherished ones who bear up your hope and name.</p> + +<p>And with your silent prayer come back the old teachings, and vagaries of +the boyish heart in its reaches toward Heaven. You recall the old +church-reckoning of your goodness: is there much more of it now than +then? Is not Heaven just as high, and the world as sadly broad?</p> + +<p>Alas, for the poor tale of goodness which age brings to the memory! +There may be crowning acts of benevolence, shining here and there; but +the margin of what has not been done is very broad. How weak and +insignificant seems the story of life's goodness and profit, when Death +begins to slant his shadow upon our souls! How infinite in the +comparison seems that Eternal goodness which is crowned with mercy. How +self vanishes, like a blasted thing, and only lives—if it lives at +all—in the glow of that redeeming light which radiates from the +<span class="smcap">Cross</span> and the <span class="smcap">Throne</span>!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>II.</h2> + +<h3><a name="What_is_Left" id="What_is_Left"></a><i>What is Left.</i></h3> + + +<p>But much as there is gone of life, and of its joys, very much +remains,—very much in earnest, and very much more in hope. Still you +see visions, and you dream dreams, of the times that are to come.</p> + +<p>Your home and heart are left; within that home, the old Bible holds its +wonted place, which was the monitor of your boyhood; and now, more than +ever, it prompts those reverent reaches of the spirit, which go beyond +even the track of dreams.</p> + +<p>That cherished Madge, the partner of your life and joy, still lingers, +though her step is feeble, and her eyes are dimmed;—not as once +attracting you by any outward show of beauty; your heart, glowing +through the memory of a life of joy, needs no such stimulant to the +affections. Your hearts are knit together by a habit of growth, and a +unanimity of desire. There is less to remind of the vanities of earth, +and more to quicken the hopes of a time when body yields to spirit.</p> + +<p>Your own poor, battered hulk wants no jaunty-trimmed craft for consort; +but twin of heart and soul, as you are twin of years, you float +tranquilly toward that haven which lies before us all.</p> + +<p>Your children, now almost verging on maturity, bless your hearth and +home. Not one is gone. Frank indeed—that wild fellow of a youth, who +has wrought your heart into perplexing anxieties again and again, as you +have seen the wayward dashes of his young blood—is often away. But his +heart yet centres where yours centres; and his absence is only a nearer +and bolder strife with that fierce world whose circumstances every man +of force and energy is born to conquer.</p> + +<p>His return from time to time with that proud figure of opening +manliness, and that full flush of health, speaks to your affections as +you could never have believed it would. It is not for a man, who is the +father of a man, to show any weakness of the heart, or any +over-sensitiveness, in those ties which bind him to his kin. And +yet—yet, as you sit by your fireside, with your clear, gray eye +feasting in its feebleness on that proud figure of a man who calls you +"father,"—and as you see his fond and loving attentions to that one who +has been your partner in all anxieties and joys, there <i>is</i> a throbbing +within your bosom that makes you almost wish him young again,—that you +might embrace him now, as when he warbled in your rejoicing ear those +first words of love!—Ah, how little does a son know the secret and +craving tenderness of a parent,—how little conception has he of those +silent bursts of fondness and of joy which attend his coming, and which +crown his parting!</p> + +<p>There is young Madge too,—dark-eyed, tall, with a pensive shadow +resting on her face,—the very image of refinement and of delicacy. She +is thoughtful;—not breaking out, like the hoiden, flax-haired Nelly, +into bursts of joy and singing,—but stealing upon your heart with a +gentle and quiet tenderness that diffuses itself throughout the +household like a soft zephyr of summer.</p> + +<p>There are friends too yet left, who come in upon your evening hours, and +light up the loitering time with dreamy story of the years that are +gone. How eagerly you listen to some gossiping veteran friend, who with +his deft words calls up the thread of some by-gone years of life; and +with what a careless, yet grateful recognition you lapse, as it were, +into the current of the past, and live over again by your hospitable +blaze the stir, the joy, and the pride of your lost manhood.</p> + +<p>The children of friends too have grown upon your march, and come to +welcome you with that reverent deference which always touches the heart +of age. That wild boy Will,—the son of a dear friend,—who but a little +while ago was worrying you with his boyish pranks, has now shot up into +tall and graceful youth, and evening after evening finds him making +part of your little household group.</p> + +<p>----Does the fond old man think that <i>he</i> is all the attraction!</p> + +<p>It may be that in your dreamy speculations about the future of your +children, (for still you dream,) you think that Will may possibly become +the husband of the sedate and kindly Madge. It worries you to find Nelly +teasing him as she does; that mad hoiden will never be quiet; she +provokes you excessively: and yet she is a dear creature; there is no +meeting those laughing blue eyes of hers without a smile and an embrace!</p> + +<p>It pleases you however to see the winning frankness with which Madge +always receives Will. And with a little of your old vanity of +observation you trace out the growth of their dawning attachment. It +provokes you to find Nelly breaking up their quiet <i>tête-à-têtes</i> with +her provoking sallies, and drawing away Will to some saunter in the +garden, or to some mad gallop over the hills.</p> + +<p>At length upon a certain summer's day Will asks to see you. He +approaches with a doubtful and disturbed look; you fear that wild Nell +has been teasing him with her pranks. Yet he wears not so much an +offended look as one of fear. You wonder if it ever happened to you to +carry your hat in just that timid manner, and to wear such a shifting +expression of the eye, as poor Will wears just now? You wonder if it +ever happened to you to begin to talk with an old friend of your +father's in just that abashed way? Will must have fallen into some sad +scrape.—Well, he is a good fellow, and you will help him out of it!</p> + +<p>You look up as he goes on with his story;—you grow perplexed +yourself;—you scarce believe your own ears.</p> + +<p>----"Nelly?"—Is Will talking of Nelly?</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir,—Nelly."</p> + +<p>----"What!—and you have told all this to Nelly—that you love her?"</p> + +<p>"I have, sir."</p> + +<p>"And she says"—</p> + +<p>"That I must speak with you, sir."</p> + +<p>"Bless my soul!—But she's a good girl;"—and the old man wipes his +eyes.</p> + +<p>----"Nell!—are you there?"</p> + +<p>And she comes,—blushing, lingering, yet smiling through it all.</p> + +<p>----"And you could deceive your old father, Nell"—(very fondly.)</p> + +<p>Nelly only clasps your hand in both of hers.</p> + +<p>"And so you loved Will all the while?"</p> + +<p>----Nelly only stoops to drop a little kiss of pleading on your +forehead.</p> + +<p>----"Well, Nelly," (it is hard to speak roundly,) "give me your +hand;—here, Will,—take it:—she's a wild girl;—be kind to her, Will."</p> + +<p>"God bless you, sir!"</p> + +<p>And Nelly throws herself, sobbing, upon your bosom.</p> + +<p>----"Not here,—not here now, Nell!—Will is yonder!"</p> + +<p>----Sobbing, sobbing still! Nelly, Nelly,—who would have thought that +your merry face covered such a heart of tenderness!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>III.</h2> + +<h3><a name="Grief_and_Joy_of_Age" id="Grief_and_Joy_of_Age"></a><i>Grief and Joy of Age.</i></h3> + + +<p>The Winter has its piercing storms,—even as Autumn hath. Hoary age, +crowned with honor and with years, bears no immunity from suffering. It +is the common heritage of us all: if it come not in the spring or in the +summer of our day, it will surely find us in the autumn, or amid the +frosts of winter. It is the penalty humanity pays for pleasure; human +joys will have their balance. Nature never makes false weight. The east +wind is followed by a wind from the west; and every smile will have its +equivalent in a tear!</p> + +<p>You have lived long and joyously with that dear one who has made your +life a holy pilgrimage. She has seemed to lead you into ways of +pleasantness, and has kindled in you—as the damps of the world came +near to extinguish them—those hopes and aspirations which rest not in +life, but soar to the realm of spirits.</p> + +<p>You have sometimes shuddered with the thought of parting; you have +trembled even at the leave-taking of a year, or of months, and have +suffered bitterly as some danger threatened a parting forever. That +danger threatens now. Nor is it a sudden fear to startle you into a +paroxysm of dread: nothing of this. Nature is kinder,—or she is less +kind.</p> + +<p>It is a slow and certain approach of danger which you read in the feeble +step,—in the wan eye, lighting up from time to time into a brightness, +that seems no longer of this world. You read it in the new and ceaseless +attentions of the fond child, who yet blesses your home, and who +conceals from you the bitterness of the coming grief.</p> + +<p>Frank is away—over-seas; and as the mother mentions that name with a +tremor of love and of regret, that he is not now with you all,—you +recall that other death, when you too were not there. Then, you knew +little of a parent's feeling; now, its intensity is present!</p> + +<p>Day after day, as summer passes, she is ripening for that world where +her faith and her hope have so long lived. Her pressure of your hand at +some casual parting for a day is full of a gentle warning, as if she +said,—prepare for a longer adieu!</p> + +<p>Her language, too, without direct mention steeps your thought in the +bitter certainty that she foresees her approaching doom, and that she +dreads it only so far as she dreads the grief that will be left in her +broken home. Madge—the daughter—glides through the duties of that +household like an angel of mercy: she lingers at the sick-bed,—blessing, +and taking blessings.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The sun shines warmly without, and through the open casement beats +warmly upon the floor within. The birds sing in the joyousness of +full-robed summer; the drowsy hum of the bees, stealing sweets from the +honeysuckle that bowers the window, lulls the air to a gentle quiet. Her +breathing scarce breaks the summer stillness. Yet, she knows it is +nearly over. Madge, too,—with features saddened, yet struggling against +grief,—feels—that it is nearly over.</p> + +<p>It is very hard to think it; how much harder to know it! But there is no +mistaking her look now—so placid, so gentle, so resigned! And her grasp +of your hand—so warm—so full of meaning!</p> + +<p>----"Madge, Madge, must it be?" And a pleasant smile lights her eye; and +her grasp is warmer; and her look is—upward!</p> + +<p>----"Must it—must it be, dear Madge?"—A holier smile,—loftier,—lit +up of angels, beams on her faded features. The hand relaxes its clasp, +and you cling to it faster—harder,—joined close to the frail wreck of +your love,—joined tightly—but oh, how far apart!</p> + +<p>She is in Heaven;—and you, struggling against the grief of a lorn, old +man!</p> + +<p>But sorrow, however great it be, must be subdued in the presence of a +child. Its fevered outbursts must be kept for those silent hours when no +young eyes are watching, and no young hearts will "catch the trick of +grief."</p> + +<p>When the household is quiet and darkened,—when Madge is away from you, +and your boy Frank slumbering—as youth slumbers upon sorrow,—when you +are alone with God and the night,—in that room so long hallowed by her +presence, but now—deserted—silent,—then you may yield yourself to +such frenzy of tears as your strength will let you! And in your solitary +rambles through the churchyard you can loiter of a summer's noon over +<i>her</i> fresh-made grave, and let your pent heart speak, and your spirit +lean toward the Rest where her love has led you!</p> + +<p>Thornton, the clergyman, whose prayer over the dead has dwelt with you, +comes from time to time to light up your solitary hearth with his talk +of the Rest for all men. He is young, but his earnest and gentle speech +win their way to your heart, and to your understanding. You love his +counsels; you make of him a friend, whose visits are long and often +repeated.</p> + +<p>Frank only lingers for a while; and you bid him again—adieu. It seems +to you that it may well be the last; and your blessing trembles on your +lip. Yet you look not with dread, but rather with a firm trustfulness +toward the day of the end. For your darling Madge, it is true, you have +anxieties; you fear to leave her lonely in the world with no protector +save the wayward Frank.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It is later August when you call to Madge one day to bring you the +little <i>escritoire</i>, in which are your cherished papers; among them is +your last will and testament. Thornton has just left you, and it seems +to you that his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial +mark of your regard.</p> + +<p>"Maggie," you say, "Mr. Thornton has been very kind to me."</p> + +<p>"Very kind, father."</p> + +<p>"I mean to leave him here some little legacy, Maggie."</p> + +<p>"I would not, father."</p> + +<p>"But Madge, my daughter!"</p> + +<p>"He is not looking for such return, father."</p> + +<p>"But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of +my regard. What shall it be, Maggie?"</p> + +<p>Madge hesitates,—Madge blushes,—Madge stoops to her father's ear as if +the very walls might catch the secret of her heart;—"Would you give +<i>me</i> to him, father?"</p> + +<p>"But—my dear Madge—has he asked this?"</p> + +<p>"Eight months ago, papa."</p> + +<p>"And you told him"—</p> + +<p>"That I would never leave you, so long as you lived!"</p> + +<p>----"My own dear Madge,—come to me,—kiss me! And you love him, +Maggie?"</p> + +<p>"With all my heart, sir."</p> + +<p>----"So like your mother,—the same figure,—the same true, honest +heart! It shall be as you wish, dear Madge. Only you will not leave me +in my old age,—eh, Maggie?"</p> + +<p>----"Never, father,—never."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>----And there she leans upon his chair;—her arm around the old man's +neck,—her other hand clasped in his,—and her eyes melting with +tenderness as she gazes upon his aged face,—all radiant with joy and +with hope!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>IV.</h2> + +<h3><a name="The_End_of_Dreams" id="The_End_of_Dreams"></a><i>The End of Dreams.</i></h3> + + +<p>A feeble old man, and a young lady who is just now blooming into the +maturity of womanhood, are toiling up a gentle slope, where the spring +sun lies warmly. The old man totters, though he leans heavily upon his +cane; and he pants as he seats himself upon a mossy rock that crowns the +summit of the slope. As he recovers breath, he draws the hand of the +lady in his, and with a trembling eagerness he points out an old mansion +that lies below under the shadow of tall sycamores; and he says,—feebly +and brokenly,—"That is it, Maggie,—the old home—the sycamores—the +garret—Charlie—Nelly"—</p> + +<p>The old man wipes his eyes. Then his hand shifts: he seems groping in +darkness; but soon it rests upon a little cottage below, heavily +overshadowed.</p> + +<p>"That was it, Maggie;—Madge lived there—sweet Madge—your mother"—</p> + +<p>Again the old man wipes his eyes, and the lady turns away.</p> + +<p>Presently they walk down the hill together. They cross a little valley +with slow, faltering steps. The lady guides him carefully, until they +reach a little graveyard.</p> + +<p>"This must be it, Maggie, but the fence is new. There it is, Maggie, +under the willow,—my poor mother's grave!"</p> + +<p>The lady weeps.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Madge; you did not know her, but you weep for me. God bless +you!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The old man is in the midst of his household. It is some festive day. He +holds feebly his place at the head of the board. He utters in feeble +tones—a Thanksgiving.</p> + +<p>His married Nelly is there with two blooming children. Frank is there +with his bride. Madge—dearest of all—is seated beside the old man, +watchful of his comfort, and assisting him as with a shadowy dignity he +essays to do the honors of the board. The children prattle merrily: the +elder ones talk of the days gone by; and the old man enters feebly, yet +with floating glimpses of glee, into the cheer and the rejoicings.</p> + +<p>----Poor old man, he is near his tomb! Yet his calm eye, looking +upward, seems to show no fear.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The same old man is in his chamber; he cannot leave his chair now. Madge +is beside him; Nelly is there too with her eldest-born. Madge has been +reading to the old man: it was a passage of promise—of the Bible +promise.</p> + +<p>"A glorious promise!" says the old man, feebly;—"a promise to me,—a +promise to her, poor Madge!"</p> + +<p>----"Is her picture there, Maggie?"</p> + +<p>Madge brings it to him: he turns his head; but the light is not strong. +They wheel his chair to the window. The sun is shining brightly: still +the old man cannot see.</p> + +<p>"It is getting dark, Maggie."</p> + +<p>Madge looks at Nelly—wistfully—sadly.</p> + +<p>The old man murmurs something; and Madge stoops.—"Coming," he +says,—"coming!"</p> + +<p>Nelly brings the little child to take his hand. Perhaps it will revive +him. She lifts her boy to kiss his cheek.</p> + +<p>The old man does not stir: his eyes do not move: they seem fixed above. +The child cries as his lips touch the cold cheek.—It is a tender Spring +flower upon the bosom of the dying <span class="smcap">Winter</span>!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>----The old man is gone: his dream-life is ended.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center"><small>THE END.</small></p> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Dream Life, by Donald G. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Dream Life + A Fable Of The Seasons + +Author: Donald G. Mitchell + +Release Date: February 26, 2006 [EBook #17862] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAM LIFE *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Graeme Mackreth and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +DREAM LIFE: + +A + +FABLE OF THE SEASONS + +BY + +DONALD G. MITCHELL + + ---- We are such stuff + As dreams are made of; and our little life + Is rounded with a sleep + + Tempest. + +NEW YORK + +SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG, AND COMPANY + +1876. + +Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by +Charles Scribner & Co., + +In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the +Southern District of New York + +RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: +STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY +H.O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY + + + + +_A NEW PREFACE._ + + +Twelve years ago, this autumn, when I had finished the concluding +chapters of this little book, I wrote a letter of Dedication to +Washington Irving, and, forwarding it by mail to Sunnyside, begged his +permission to print it. I think I shall gratify a rational curiosity of +my readers (however much they may condemn my vanity) if I give his reply +in full. + + "My dear Sir,-- + + "Though I have a great disinclination in general to be the object + of literary oblations and compliments, yet in the present instance + I have enjoyed your writings with such peculiar relish, and been so + drawn toward the author by the qualities of head and heart evinced + in them, that I confess I feel gratified by a dedication, + over-flattering as I may deem it, which may serve as an outward + sign that we are cordially linked together in sympathies and + friendship. + + "I would only suggest that in your dedication you would omit the + LL.D., a learned dignity urged upon me very much 'against the + stomach of my sense,' and to which I have never laid claim. + + "Ever, my dear sir, + "Yours, very truly, + "Washington Irving + "Sunnyside, Nov. 1851." + +I had been personally presented to Mr. Irving for the first time, only a +year before, under the introduction of my good friend, Mr. Clark (the +veteran Editor of the old Knickerbocker in its palmy days). Thereafter I +had met him from time to time, and had paid a charming visit to his +delightful home of Sunnyside. But it was after the date of the +publication of this book and during the summer of 1852, that I saw Mr. +Irving more familiarly, and came to appreciate more fully that charming +_bonhomie_ and geniality in his character which we all recognize so +constantly in his writings. And if I set down here a few recollections +of that pleasant intercourse, they will, I am sure, more than make good +the place of the old letter of Dedication, and will serve to keep alive +the association I wish to cherish between my little book and the name of +the distinguished author who so kindly showed me his favor. + +For the first time, after many years, Mr. Irving made a stay of a few +weeks at Saratoga, in the summer of 1852. By good fortune, I chanced to +occupy a room upon the same corridor of the hotel, within a few doors of +his, and shared very many of his early morning walks to the "Spring." +What at once struck me very forcibly in the course of these walks, was +the rare alertness and minuteness of his observation: not a fair young +face could dash past us in its drapery of muslin, but the eye of the old +gentleman drank in all its freshness and beauty with the keen appetite +and the grateful admiration of a boy; not a dowager brushed past us +bedizened with finery, but he fastened the apparition in my memory with +some piquant remark,--as the pin of an entomologist fastens a gaudy fly. +No rheumatic old hero-invalid, battered in long wars with the +doctors,--no droll marplot of a boy, could appear within range, but I +could see in the changeful expression of my companion the admeasurement +and quiet adjustment of the appeal which either made upon his sympathy +or his humor. A flower, a tree, a burst of music, a country market-man +hoisted upon his wagon of cabbages,--all these by turns caught and +engaged his attention, however little they might interrupt the flow of +his talk. + +I ventured to ask on one occasion, if he had depended solely upon his +memory for the thousand little descriptions of natural objects which +occur in his books. + +"Not wholly," he replied; and went on to tell me it had been his way, in +the earlier days of his authorship, to carry little tablets with him +into the country, and whenever he saw a scene specially picturesque,--a +cottage of marked features, a noticeable tree, any picture, in short, +which promised service to him,--to note down its distinguishing points, +and hold it in reserve. + +"This," said he, "is one among those small arts and industries which a +person who writes much must avail himself of: they are equivalent to the +little thumb-sketches from which a painter makes up his larger +compositions." + +On our way to the church on a certain Sunday morning, he tapped my +shoulder as we entered the little gate, and called my attention to a +lithe young Indian girl, who had strolled down from the campment on the +plains, and was standing proudly erect upon the church-porch, with +finger to her lips, scanning curiously the worshippers as they passed +in. + +"What a splendid figure of a woman!" said he, "she is puzzling over the +extravagances and devotions of the white-faces." + +The black, straight elf-locks, the swart face, the great wondering eye, +with the gay blanket, short gown of woollen-stuff, and brilliant +moccasins, made a striking picture to be sure; and I could not help +thinking, that if the apparition had chanced upon him earlier, she might +have figured in some story of Pokanoket or of the Prairies. + +I took occasion one morning to ask if he was always able to control the +"humors of writing," and to put himself resolutely to work, whatever +might be the state of his feeling. + +"No," he said, very decidedly,--"unfortunately I cannot: there are men +who do, I believe. I always envied them; but there was a period of a +month or more, after I had finally decided upon literary labors, and had +declined a lucrative position under Government, when it seemed as if I +was utterly bereft of all the fancies I ever had; for weeks I could do +nothing; but at last the clouds lifted, and I wrote off the first +numbers of the 'Sketch-Book,' and dispatched them to my good friends in +this country, to make the most of. I feared it would not be much. + +"And the worst of it is," continued he, "the good people do not allow +for these periods of depression; if a man does a thing tolerably well in +his happy moods, they see no reason why he should not be always in a +happy mood." + +I asked if he had never found relief, and a stimulant to work, in the +reading aloud of some favorite old author. + +"Often," said he; "and none are more effective with me for this service +than the sacred writers; I think I have waked a good many sleeping +fancies by the reading of a chapter in Isaiah." + +In answer to inquiries of mine in regard to the incomplete state of +several of the stories of "Wolfert's Roost," he said: "Yes, we do not +get through all we lay out. Some of those sketches had lain in my mind +for a great many years; they made a sort of garret-trumpery, of which I +thought I would make a general clearance, leaving the odds and ends to +take care of themselves. + +"There was a novel too, I once laid out, in which an English lad, being +a son of one of the old Regicide Judges, was to come over to New England +in search of his father: he was to meet with a throng of adventures, and +to arrive at length upon a Saturday night, in the midst of a terrible +thunder-storm, at the house of a stern old Massachusetts Puritan, who +comes out to answer to the rappings; and by a flash of lightning which +gleams upon the harsh, iron visage of the old man, the son fancies he +recognizes his father." + +And as he told it, the old gentleman wrinkled his brow, and tried to put +on the fierce look he would describe. + +"It's all there is of it," said he. "If you want to make a story, you +can furbish it up." + +There were among other notable people at Saratoga, during the summer of +which I speak, the well-known Mrs. Dr. R----, of Philadelphia, since +deceased,--a woman of great eccentricities, but of a wonderfully +masculine mind, and of great cultivation. It was a fancy of hers to give +special, social patronage to foreign artists; and among those just then +at Saratoga, and the recipients of her favor, were a distinguished +violinist--whose name I do not now recall--and the newly married Mme. +Alboni. Mr. Irving, in common with her other acquaintances, she was +inclined to make contributory to her attentions. To this Mr. Irving was +not averse, both from his extreme love of music, and his kindliness +toward the artists themselves; yet, in his own quiet way, I think he +fretted considerably at being pounced upon at odd hours to give them +French talk. + +"It's very awkward," said he to me one day; "I have had large occasion +for practice to be sure; but I rather fancy, after all, our own +language; it's heartier and easier." + +He was utterly incapable of being lionized. Time and again, under the +trees in the court of the hotel, did I hear him enter upon some pleasant +story, lighted up with that rare turn of his eye, and by his deft +expressions, when, as chance acquaintances grouped about him,--as is the +way of watering-places,--and eager listeners multiplied, his hilarity +and spirit took a chill from the increasing auditory, and drawing +abruptly to a close, he would sidle away with a friend and be gone. + +Among the visitors was a tall, interesting young girl--from Louisiana, +if I mistake not--who had the reputation of being a great heiress, and +who was, of course, beset by a host of admirers. There was something +very attractive in her air, and Mr. Irving was never tired of gazing on +her as she walked, with what he called a "faun-like step," across the +lawn, or up and down the corridors. Her eyes too--"dove-like," he +termed them--were his special admiration. He watched with an amused +interest the varying fortunes of the rival lovers, and often met me +with--"Well, who is in favor to-day?" And he discussed very freely the +varying chances. + +One brusque, heavy man, who thought to carry the matter through by a +_coup de main_, he was sure could never succeed. A second, who was most +assiduous, but whose brazen confidence was unyielding, he counted still +less upon. But a quiet, somewhat older gentleman, whose look was ever +full of tender appeal, and who bore himself with a modest dignity, he +reckoned the probable winner. "He will feel a Nay grievously," said he; +"but for the others, they will forget it in a supper." + +I believe it eventually proved that no one of those present was the +successful suitor. I know only that the fair girl was afterward a bride; +and (what we all so little anticipated) her home is now a scene of +desolation, her fortune very likely a wreck, her family scattered or +slain, and herself, maybe, a fugitive. + +I saw Mr. Irving afterward repeatedly in New York, and passed two +delightful days at Sunnyside. I can never forget a drive with him upon a +crisp autumn morning through Sleepy Hollow, and all the notable +localities of his neighborhood, in the course of which he kindly called +my attention, in the most unaffected and incidental way, to those which +had been specially illustrated by his pen; and with a rare humor +recounted to me some of his boyish adventures among the old Dutch +farmers of this region. Most of all, it is impossible for me to forget +the rare kindliness of his manner, his friendly suggestions, and the +beaming expression of his eye. + +I met it last at the little stile from which I strolled away to the +station at Dearman; and when I saw the kind face again, it was in the +coffin, at the little church where he attended service. But the eyes +were closed, and the wonderful radiance of expression gone. It seemed to +me that death never took away more from a living face; it was but a cold +shadow lying there, of the man who had taught a nation to love him. + +Edgewood, _Sept._ 1863. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +_INTRODUCTORY._ + + page + +I. With my Aunt Tabithy 1 + +II. With my Reader 9 + + +_DREAMS OF BOYHOOD._ + +Spring 21 + +I. Rain in the Garret 26 + +II. School-Dreams 33 + +III. Boy Sentiment 43 + +IV. A Friend made and Friend lost 49 + +V. Boy Religion 60 + +VI. A New-England Squire 67 + +VII. The Country Church 78 + +VIII. A Home Scene 86 + + +_DREAMS OF YOUTH._ + +Summer 97 + +I. Cloister Life 104 + +II. First Ambition 115 + +III. College Romance 120 + +IV. First Look at the World 132 + +V. A Broken Home 142 + +VI. Family Confidence 151 + +VII. A Good Wife 159 + +VIII. A Broken Hope 167 + + +_DREAMS OF MANHOOD._ + +Autumn 179 + +I. Pride of Manliness 184 + +II. Man of the World 191 + +III. Manly Hope 198 + +IV. Manly Love 207 + +V. Cheer and Children 213 + +VI. A Dream of Darkness 221 + +VII. Peace 229 + + +_DREAMS OF AGE._ + +Winter 239 + +I. What is Gone 243 + +II. What is Left 249 + +III. Grief and Joy of Age 255 + +IV. The End of Dreams 261 + + + + +_INTRODUCTORY._ + + +I. + +_With my Aunt Tabithy._ + +"Pshaw!" said my Aunt Tabithy, "have you not done with dreaming?" + +My Aunt Tabithy, though an excellent and most notable person, loves +occasionally a quiet bit of satire. And when I told her that I was +sharpening my pen for a new story of those dreamy fancies and +half-experiences which lie grouped along the journeying hours of my +solitary life, she smiled as if in derision. + +----"Ah, Isaac," said she, "all that is exhausted; you have rung so many +changes on your hopes and your dreams, that you have nothing left but to +make them real--if you can." + +It is very idle to get angry with a good-natured old lady. I did better +than this,--I made her listen to me. + +----Exhausted, do you say, Aunt Tabithy? Is life then exhausted; is +hope gone out; is fancy dead? + +No, no. Hope and the world are full; and he who drags into book-pages a +phase or two of the great life of passion, of endurance, of love, of +sorrow, is but wetting a feather in the sea that breaks ceaselessly +along the great shore of the years. Every man's heart is a living drama; +every death is a drop-scene; every book only a faint foot-light to throw +a little flicker on the stage. + +There is no need of wandering widely to catch incident or adventure; +they are everywhere about us; each day is a succession of escapes and +joys,--not perhaps clear to the world, but brooding in our thought, and +living in our brain. From the very first, Angels and Devils are busy +with us, and we are struggling against them and for them. + +No, no, Aunt Tabithy; this life of musing does not exhaust so easily. It +is like the springs on the farmland, that are fed with all the showers +and the dews of the year, and that from the narrow fissures of the rock +send up streams continually; or it is like the deep well in the meadow, +where one may see stars at noon when no stars are shining. + +What is Reverie, and what are these Day-dreams, but fleecy cloud-drifts +that float eternally, and eternally change shapes, upon the great +over-arching sky of thought? You may seize the strong outlines that the +passion-breezes of to-day shall throw into their figures; but to-morrow +may breed a whirlwind that will chase swift, gigantic shadows over the +heaven of your thought, and change the whole landscape of your life. + +Dream-land will never be exhausted, until we enter the land of dreams, +and until, in "shuffling off this mortal coil," thought will become +fact, and all facts will be only thought. + +As it is, I can conceive no mood of mind more in keeping with what is to +follow upon the grave, than those fancies which warp our frail hulks +toward the ocean of the Infinite, and that so sublimate the realities of +this being, that they seem to belong to that shadowy realm whither every +day's journey is leading. + +--It was warm weather, and my aunt was dozing. "What is this all to be +about?" said she, recovering her knitting-needle. + +"About love, and toil, and duty, and sorrow," said I. + +My aunt laid down her knitting, looked at me over the rim of her +spectacles, and--took snuff. + +I said nothing. + +"How many times have you been in love, Isaac?" said she. + +It was now my turn to say, "Pshaw!" + +Judging from her look of assurance, I could not possibly have made a +more satisfactory reply. + +My aunt finished the needle she was upon, smoothed the stocking-leg over +her knee, and looking at me with a very comical expression, said, "Isaac, +you are a sad fellow!" + +I did not like the tone of this; it sounded very much as if it would +have been in the mouth of any one else--"bad fellow." + +And she went on to ask me, in a very bantering way, if my stock of +youthful loves was not nearly exhausted; and she cited the episode of +the fair-haired Enrica, as perhaps the most tempting that I could draw +from my experience. + +A better man than myself, if he had only a fair share of vanity, would +have been nettled at this; and I replied somewhat tartly, that I had +never professed to write my experiences. These might be more or less +tempting; but certainly if they were of a kind which I have attempted to +portray in the characters of Bella, or of Carry, neither my Aunt Tabithy +nor any one else should have learned such truth from any book of mine. +There are griefs too sacred to be babbled to the world; and there may be +loves which one would forbear to whisper even to a friend. + +No, no; imagination has been playing pranks with memory; and if I have +made the feeling real, I am content that the facts should be false. +Feeling, indeed, has a higher truth in it than circumstance. It appeals +to a larger jury for acquittal; it is approved or condemned by a better +judge. And if I can catch this bolder and richer truth of feeling, I +will not mind if the types of it are all fabrications. + +If I run over some sweet experience of love, (my Aunt Tabithy brightened +a little,) must I make good the fact that the loved one lives, and +expose her name and qualities to make your sympathy sound? Or shall I +not rather be working upon higher and holier ground, if I take the +passion for itself, and so weave it into words, that you and every +willing sufferer may recognize the fervor, and forget the personality? + +Life, after all, is but a bundle of hints, each suggesting actual and +positive development, but rarely reaching it. And as I recall these +hints, and in fancy trace them to their issues, I am as truly dealing +with life as if my life had dealt them all to me. + +This is what I would be doing in the present book. I would catch up here +and there the shreds of feeling which the brambles and roughnesses of +the world have left tangling on my heart, and weave them out into those +soft and perfect tissues which, if the world had been only a little less +rough, might now perhaps enclose my heart altogether. + +"Ah," said my Aunt Tabithy, as she smoothed the stocking-leg again, with +a sigh, "there is, after all, but one youth-time; and if you put down +its memories once, you can find no second growth." + +My Aunt Tabithy was wrong. There is as much growth in the thoughts and +feelings that run behind us as in those that run before us. You may make +a rich, full picture of your childhood to-day; but let the hour go by, +and the darkness stoop to your pillow with its million shapes of the +past, and my word for it, you shall have some flash of childhood lighten +upon you, that was unknown to your busiest thought of the morning. + +Let a week go by, and in some interval of care, as you recall the smile +of a mother, or some pale sister who is dead, a new crowd of memories +will rush upon your soul, and leave their traces in such tears as will +make you kinder and better for days and weeks. Or you shall assist at +some neighbor funeral, where the little dead one (like one you have seen +before) shall hold in its tiny grasp (as you have taught little dead +hands to do) fresh flowers, laughing flowers, lying lightly on the white +robe of the dear child,--all pale, cold, silent-- + +I had touched my Aunt Tabithy: she had dropped a stitch in her knitting. +I believe she was weeping. + +--Aye, this brain of ours is a master-worker, whose appliances we do not +one half know; and this heart of ours is a rare storehouse, furnishing +the brain with new material every hour of our lives; and their limits we +shall not know, until they shall end--together. + +Nor is there, as many faint-hearts imagine, but one phase of earnestness +in our life of feeling. One train of deep emotion cannot fill up the +heart: it radiates like a star, God-ward and earth-ward. It spends and +reflects all ways. Its force is to be reckoned not so much by token as +by capacity. Facts are the poorest and most slumberous evidences of +passion or of affection. True feeling is ranging everywhere; whereas +your actual attachments are too apt to be tied to sense. + +A single affection may indeed be true, earnest, and absorbing; but such +an one, after all, is but a type--and if the object be worthy, a +glorious type--of the great book of feeling: it is only the vapor from +the caldron of the heart, and bears no deeper relation to its +exhaustless sources than the letter, which my pen makes, bears to the +thought that inspires it,--or than a single morning strain of your +orioles and thrushes bears to that wide bird-chorus which is making +every sunrise a worship, and every grove a temple! + +My Aunt Tabithy nodded. + +Nor is this a mere bachelor fling against constancy. I can believe, +Heaven knows, in an unalterable and unflinching affection, which neither +desires nor admits the prospect of any other. But when one is tasking +his brain to talk for his heart,--when he is not writing positive +history, but only making mention, as it were, of the heart's +capacities,--who shall say that he has reached the fulness, that he has +exhausted the stock of its feeling, or that he has touched its highest +notes? It is true, there is but one heart in a man to be stirred; but +every stir creates a new combination of feeling, that like the turn of a +kaleidoscope will show some fresh color or form. + +A bachelor, to be sure, has a marvellous advantage in this; and with the +tenderest influences once anchored in the bay of marriage, there is +little disposition to scud off under each pleasant breeze of feeling. +Nay, I can even imagine--perhaps somewhat captiously--that after +marriage, feeling would become a habit, a rich and holy habit certainly, +but yet a habit, which weakens the omnivorous grasp of the affections, +and schools one to a unity of emotion that doubts and ignores the +promptness and variety of impulse which we bachelors possess. + +My aunt nodded again. + +Could it be that she approved what I had been saying? I hardly knew. + +Poor old lady,--she did not know herself. She was asleep! + + + + +II. + +_With my Reader._ + + +Having silenced my Aunt Tabithy, I shall be generous enough, in my +triumph, to offer an explanatory chat to my reader. + +This is a history of Dreams; and there will be those who will sneer at +such a history, as the work of a dreamer. So indeed it is; and you, my +courteous reader, are a dreamer too! + +You would perhaps like to find your speculations about wealth, marriage, +or influence called by some better name than Dreams. You would like to +see the history of them--if written at all--baptized at the font of your +own vanity, with some such title as--life's cares, or life's work. If +there had been a philosophic naming to my observations, you might have +reckoned them good; as it is, you count them all bald and palpable +fiction. + +But is it so? I care not how matter-of-fact you may be, you have in your +own life at some time proved the very truth of what I have set down; and +the chances are, that even now, gray as you may be, and economic as you +may be, and devotional as you pretend to be, you light up your Sabbath +reflections with just such dreams of wealth, of per centages, or of +family, as you will find scattered over these pages. + +I am not to be put aside with any talk about stocks, and duties, and +respectability: all these, though very eminent matters, are but so many +types in the volume of your thought; and your eager resolves about them +are but so many ambitious waves breaking up from that great sea of +dreamy speculation that has spread over your soul from its first start +into the realm of Consciousness. + +No man's brain is so dull, and no man's eye so blind, that they cannot +catch food for dreams. Each little episode of life is full, had we but +the perception of its fulness. There is no such thing as blank in the +world of thought. Every action and emotion have their development +growing and gaining on the soul. Every affection has its tears and +smiles. Nay, the very material world is full of meaning, and by +suggesting thought is making us what we are and what we will be. + +The sparrow that is twittering on the edge of my balcony is calling up +to me this moment a world of memories that reach over half my lifetime, +and a world of hope that stretches farther than any flight of sparrows. +The rose-tree which shades his mottled coat is full of buds and +blossoms; and each bud and blossom is a token of promise that has +issues covering life, and reaching beyond death. The quiet sunshine +beyond the flower and beyond the sparrow,--glistening upon the leaves, +and playing in delicious waves of warmth over the reeking earth,--is +lighting both heart and hope, and quickening into activity a thousand +thoughts of what has been and of what will be. The meadow stretching +away under its golden flood,--waving with grain, and with the feathery +blossoms of the grass, and golden buttercups, and white, nodding +daisies,--comes to my eye like the lapse of fading childhood, studded +here and there with the bright blossoms of joy, crimsoned all over with +the flush of health, and enamelled with memories that perfume the soul. +The blue hills beyond, with deep-blue shadows gathered in their bosom, +lie before me like mountains of years, over which I shall climb through +shadows to the slope of Age, and go down to the deeper shadows of Death. + +Nor are dreams without their variety, whatever your character may be. I +care not how much in the pride of your practical judgment, or in your +learned fancies, you may sneer at any dream of love, and reckon it all a +poet's fiction: there are times when such dreams come over you like a +summer-cloud, and almost stifle you with their warmth. + +Seek as you will for increase of lands or moneys, and there are moments +when a spark of some giant mind will flash over your cravings, and wake +your soul suddenly to a quick and yearning sense of that influence which +is begotten of intellect; and you task your dreams--as I have copied +them here--to build before you the pleasures of such a renown. + +I care not how worldly you may be: there are times when all distinctions +seem like dust, and when at the graves of the great you dream of a +coming country, where your proudest hopes shall be dimmed forever. + +Married or unmarried, young or old, poet or worker, you are still a +dreamer, and will one time know, and feel, that your life is but a +dream. Yet you call this fiction: you stave off the thoughts in print +which come over you in reverie. You will not admit to the eye what is +true to the heart. Poor weakling, and worldling, you are not strong +enough to face yourself! + +You will read perhaps with smiles; you will possibly praise the +ingenuity; you will talk with a lip schooled against the slightest +quiver of some bit of pathos, and say that it is--well done. Yet why is +it well done?--only because it is stolen from your very life and heart. +It is good, because it is so common; ingenious, because it is so honest; +well-conceived, because it is not conceived at all. + +There are thousands of mole-eyed people who count all passion in print a +lie,--people who will grow into a rage at trifles, and weep in the dark, +and love in secret, and hope without mention, and cover it all under +the cloak of what they call--propriety. I can see before me now some +gray-haired old gentleman, very money-getting, very correct, very +cleanly, who reads the morning paper with unction, and his Bible with +determination,--who listens to dull sermons with patience, and who prays +with quiet self-applause; and yet there are moments belonging to his +life, when his curdled affections yearn for something that they have +not,--when his avarice oversteps all the commandments,--when his pride +builds castles full of splendor; and yet put this before his eye, and he +reads with the most careless air in the world, and condemns as arrant +fiction, what cannot be proved to the elders. + +We do not like to see our emotions unriddled: it is not agreeable to the +proud man to find his weaknesses exposed; it is shocking to the +disappointed lover to see his heart laid bare; it is a great grief to +the pining maiden to witness the exposure of her loves. We do not like +our fancies painted; we do not contrive them for rehearsal: our dreams +are private, and when they are made public, we disown them. + +I sometimes think that I must be a very honest fellow for writing down +those fancies,--which every one else seems afraid to whisper. I shall at +least come in for my share of the odium in entertaining such fancies: +indeed I shall expect the charge of entertaining them exclusively, and +shall scarce expect to find a single fellow-confessor, unless it be some +pure and innocent-thoughted girl, who will say _peccavi_ to--here and +there--a single rainbow fancy. + +Well, I can bear it; but in bearing it, I shall be consoled with the +reflection that I have a great company of fellow-sufferers, who lack +only the honesty to tell me of their sympathy. It will even relieve in +no small degree my burden to watch the effort they will take to conceal +what I have so boldly divulged. + +Nature is very much the same thing in one man that it is in another; +and, as I have already said, Feeling has a higher truth in it than +circumstance. Let it only be touched fairly and honestly, and the heart +of humanity answers; but if it be touched foully or one-sidedly, you may +find here and there a lame-souled creature who will give response, but +there is no heart-throb in it. + +Of one thing I am sure:--if my pictures are fair, worthy, and hearty, +you _must_ see it in the reading; but if they are forced and hard, no +amount of kindness can make you feel their truth, as I want them felt. + +I make no self-praise out of this: if feeling has been honestly set +down, it is only in virtue of a native impulse, over which I have +altogether too little control, but if it is set down badly, I have +wronged Nature, and (as Nature is kind) I have wronged myself. + +A great many inquisitive people will, I do not doubt, be asking, after +all this prelude, if my pictures are true pictures? The question--the +courteous reader will allow me to say--is an impertinent one. It is but +a shabby truth that wants an author's affidavit to make it trustworthy. +I shall not help my story by any such poor support. If there are not +enough elements of truth, honesty, and nature in my pictures to make +them believed, they shall have no oath of mine to bolster them up. + +I have been a sufferer in this way before now; and a little book that I +had the whim to publish a year since, has been set down by many as an +arrant piece of imposture. Claiming sympathy as a Bachelor, I have been +recklessly set down as a cold, undeserving man of family! My story of +troubles and loves has been sneered at as the sheerest gammon. + +But among this crowd of cold-blooded critics, it was pleasant to hear of +one or two pursy old fellows who railed at me for winning the affections +of a sweet Italian girl, and then leaving her to pine in discontent! Yet +in the face of this, an old companion of mine in Rome, with whom I +accidentally met the other day, wondered how on earth I could have made +so tempting a story out of the matronly and black-haired spinster with +whom I happened to be quartered in the Eternal City! + +I shall leave my critics to settle such differences between themselves; +and consider it far better to bear with slanders from both sides of the +house, than to bewray the pretty tenderness of the pursy old gentlemen, +or to cast a doubt upon the practical testimony of my quondam companion. +Both give me high and judicious compliment,--all the more grateful +because only half deserved. For I never yet was conscious--alas, that +the confession should be forced from me!--of winning the heart of any +maiden, whether native or Italian; and as for such delicacy of +imagination as to work up a lovely damsel out of the withered remnant +that forty odd years of Italian life can spare, I can assure my +middle-aged friends, (and it may serve as a _caveat_,) I can lay no +claim to it whatever. + +The trouble has been, that those who have believed one passage, have +discredited another; and those who have sympathized with me in trifles, +have deserted me when affairs grew earnest. I have had sympathy enough +with my married griefs, but when it came to the perplexing torments of +my single life--not a weeper could I find! + +I would suggest to those who intend to believe only half of my present +book, that they exercise a little discretion in their choice. I am not +fastidious in the matter, and only ask them to believe what counts most +toward the goodness of humanity, and to discredit--if they will persist +in it--only what tells badly for our common nature. The man, or the +woman, who believes well, is apt to work well; and Faith is as much the +key to happiness here, as it is the key to happiness hereafter. + +I have only one thing more to say before I get upon my story. A great +many sharp-eyed people, who have a horror of light reading,--by which +they mean whatever does not make mention of stocks, cottons, or moral +homilies,--will find much fault with my book for its ephemeral +character. + +I am sorry that I cannot gratify such: homilies are not at all in my +habit; and it does seem to me an exhausting way of disposing of a good +moral, to hammer it down to a single point, so that there shall be only +one chance of driving it home. For my own part, I count it a great deal +better philosophy to fuse it, and rarefy it, so that it shall spread out +into every crevice of a story, and give a color and a taste, as it were, +to the whole mass. + +I know there are very good people, who, if they cannot lay their finger +on so much doctrine set down in old-fashioned phrase, will never get an +inkling of it at all. With such people, goodness is a thing of +understanding, more than of feeling, and all their morality has its +action in the brain. + +God forbid that I should sneer at this terrible infirmity, which +Providence has seen fit to inflict; God forbid too, that I should not be +grateful to the same kind Providence for bestowing upon others among +his creatures a more genial apprehension of true goodness, and a hearty +sympathy with every shade of human kindness. + +But in all this I am not making out a case for my own correct teaching, +or insinuating the propriety of my tone. I shall leave the book, in this +regard, to speak for itself; and whoever feels himself growing worse for +the reading, I advise to lay it down. It will be very harmless on the +shelf, however it may be in the hand. + +I shall lay no claim to the title of moralist, teacher, or romancist: my +thoughts start pleasant pictures to my mind; and in a garrulous humor I +put my finger in the button-hole of my indulgent friend, and tell him +some of them,--giving him leave to quit me whenever he chooses. + +Or, if a lady is my listener, let her fancy me only an honest, +simple-hearted fellow, whose familiarities are so innocent that she can +pardon them;--taking her hand in his, and talking on; sometimes looking +in her eyes, and then looking into the sunshine for relief; sometimes +prosy with narrative, and then sharpening up my matter with a few +touches of honest pathos;--let her imagine this, I say, and we may +become the most excellent friends in the world. + + + + +_SPRING;_ + +OR, + +_DREAMS OF BOYHOOD._ + + + + +_DREAMS OF BOYHOOD._ + +_Spring._ + + +The old chroniclers made the year begin in the season of frosts; and +they have launched us upon the current of the months from the snowy +banks of January. I love better to count time from spring to spring; it +seems to me far more cheerful to reckon the year by blossoms than by +blight. + +Bernardin de St. Pierre, in his sweet story of Virginia, makes the bloom +of the cocoa-tree, or the growth of the banana, a yearly and a loved +monitor of the passage of her life. How cold and cheerless in the +comparison would be the icy chronology of the North;--So many years have +I seen the lakes locked, and the foliage die! + +The budding and blooming of spring seem to belong properly to the +opening of the months. It is the season of the quickest expansion, of +the warmest blood, of the readiest growth; it is the boy-age of the +year. The birds sing in chorus in the spring--just as children prattle; +the brooks run full--like the overflow of young hearts; the showers drop +easily--as young tears flow; and the whole sky is as capricious as the +mind of a boy. + +Between tears and smiles, the year, like the child, struggles into the +warmth of life. The old year--say what the chronologists will--lingers +upon the very lap of spring, and is only fairly gone when the blossoms +of April have strown their pall of glory upon his tomb, and the +bluebirds have chanted his requiem. + +It always seems to me as if an access of life came with the melting of +the winter's snows, and as if every rootlet of grass, that lifted its +first green blade from the matted _debris_ of the old year's decay, bore +my spirit upon it, nearer to the largess of Heaven. + +I love to trace the break of spring step by step: I love even those long +rain-storms, that sap the icy fortresses of the lingering winter,--that +melt the snows upon the hills, and swell the mountain-brooks,--that make +the pools heave up their glassy cerements of ice, and hurry down the +crashing fragments into the wastes of ocean. + +I love the gentle thaws that you can trace, day by day, by the stained +snow-banks, shrinking from the grass; and by the gentle drip of the +cottage-eaves. I love to search out the sunny slopes by a southern wall, +where the reflected sun does double duty to the earth and where the +frail anemone, or the faint blush of the arbutus, in the midst of the +bleak March atmosphere, will touch your heart, like a hope of Heaven in +a field of graves! Later come those soft, smoky days, when the patches +of winter grain show green under the shelter of leafless woods, and the +last snow-drifts, reduced to shrunken skeletons of ice, lie upon the +slope of northern hills, leaking away their life. + +Then the grass at your door grows into the color of the sprouting grain, +and the buds upon the lilacs swell and burst. The peaches bloom upon the +wall, and the plums wear bodices of white. The sparkling oriole picks +string for his hammock on the sycamore, and the sparrows twitter in +pairs. The old elms throw down their dingy flowers, and color their +spray with green; and the brooks, where you throw your worm or the +minnow, float down whole fleets of the crimson blossoms of the maple. +Finally the oaks step into the opening quadrille of spring, with grayish +tufts of a modest verdure, which by-and-by will be long and glossy +leaves. The dogwood pitches his broad, white tent in the edge of the +forest; the dandelions lie along the hillocks, like stars in a sky of +green; and the wild cherry, growing in all the hedge-rows, without other +culture than God's, lifts up to Him thankfully its tremulous white +fingers. + +Amid all this come the rich rains of spring. The affections of a boy +grow up with tears to water them; and the year blooms with showers. But +the clouds hover over an April sky timidly, like shadows upon innocence. +The showers come gently, and drop daintily to the earth,--with now and +then a glimpse of sunshine to make the drops bright--like so many tears +of joy. + +The rain of winter is cold, and it comes in bitter scuds that blind you; +but the rain of April steals upon you coyly, half reluctantly,--yet +lovingly--like the steps of a bride to the Altar. + +It does not gather like the storm-clouds of winter, gray and heavy along +the horizon, and creep with subtle and insensible approaches (like age) +to the very zenith; but there are a score of white-winged swimmers +afloat, that your eye has chased as you lay fatigued with the delicious +languor of an April sun;--nor have you scarce noticed that a little bevy +of those floating clouds had grouped together in a sombre company. But +presently you see across the fields the dark gray streaks, stretching +like lines of mists from the green bosom of the valley to that spot of +sky where the company of clouds is loitering; and with an easy shifting +of the helm the fleet of swimmers come drifting over you, and drop their +burden into the dancing pools, and make the flowers glisten, and the +eaves drip with their crystal bounty. + +The cattle linger still, cropping the new-come grass; and childhood +laughs joyously at the warm rain, or under the cottage-roof catches with +eager ear the patter of its fall. + +----And with that patter on the roof,--so like to the patter of +childish feet,--my story of boyish dreams shall begin. + + + + +I. + +_Rain in the Garret._ + + +It is an old garret with big brown rafters; and the boards between are +stained darkly with the rain-storms of fifty years. And as the sportive +April shower quickens its flood, it seems as if its torrents would come +dashing through the shingles upon you, and upon your play. But it will +not; for you know that the old roof is strong, and that it has kept you, +and all that love you, for long years from the rain and from the cold; +you know that the hardest storms of winter will only make a little +oozing leak, that trickles down the brown stains--like tears. + +You love that old garret-roof; and you nestle down under its slope with +a sense of its protecting power that no castle-walls can give to your +maturer years. Aye, your heart clings in boyhood to the roof-tree of the +old family garret with a grateful affection and an earnest confidence, +that the after-years--whatever may be their successes, or their +honors--can never re-create. Under the roof-tree of his home the boy +feels SAFE: and where in the whole realm of life, with its +bitter toils and its bitterer temptations, will he feel _safe_ again? + +But this you do not know. It seems only a grand old place; and it is +capital fun to search in its corners, and drag out some bit of quaint +old furniture, with a leg broken, and lay a cushion across it, and fix +your reins upon the lion's claws of the feet, and then--gallop away! And +you offer sister Nelly a chance, if she will be good; and throw out very +patronizing words to little Charlie, who is mounted upon a much humbler +horse,--to wit, a decrepit nursery-chair,--as he of right should be, +since he is three years your junior. + +I know no nobler forage-ground for a romantic, venturesome, mischievous +boy, than the garret of an old family mansion on a day of storm. It is a +perfect field of chivalry. The heavy rafters, the dashing rain, the +piles of spare mattresses to carouse upon, the big trunks to hide in, +the old white coats and hats hanging in obscure corners, like +ghosts,--are great! And it is so far away from the old lady who keeps +rule in the nursery, that there is no possible risk of a scolding for +twisting off the fringe of the rug. There is no baby in the garret to +wake up. There is no "company" in the garret to be disturbed by the +noise. There is no crotchety old Uncle, or Grand-Ma, with their +everlasting "Boys, boys!" and then a look of such horror! + +There is great fun in groping through a tall barrel of books and +pamphlets, on the look-out for startling pictures; and there are +chestnuts in the garret drying, which you have discovered on a ledge of +the chimney; and you slide a few into your pocket, and munch them +quietly,--giving now and then one to Nelly, and begging her to keep +silent,--for you have a great fear of its being forbidden fruit. + +Old family garrets have their stock, as I said, of castaway clothes of +twenty years gone by; and it is rare sport to put them on; buttoning in +a pillow or two for the sake of good fulness; and then to trick out +Nelly in some strange-shaped head-gear, and old-fashioned brocade +petticoat caught up with pins; and in such guise to steal cautiously +down-stairs, and creep slyly into the sitting-room,--half afraid of a +scolding, and very sure of good fun,--trying to look very sober, and yet +almost ready to die with the laugh that you know you will make. And your +mother tries to look harshly at little Nelly for putting on her +grandmother's best bonnet; but Nelly's laughing eyes forbid it utterly; +and the mother spoils all her scolding with a perfect shower of kisses. + +After this you go, marching very stately, into the nursery, and utterly +amaze the old nurse; and make a deal of wonderment for the staring, +half-frightened baby, who drops his rattle, and makes a bob at you as if +he would jump into your waistcoat-pocket. + +But you grow tired of this; you tire even of the swing, and of the +pranks of Charlie; and you glide away into a corner with an old, +dog's-eared copy of "Robinson Crusoe." And you grow heart and soul into +the story, until you tremble for the poor fellow with his guns behind +the palisade; and are yourself half dead with fright when you peep +cautiously over the hill with your glass, and see the cannibals at their +orgies around the fire. + +Yet, after all, you think the old fellow must have had a capital time +with a whole island to himself; and you think you would like such a time +yourself, if only Nelly and Charlie could be there with you. But this +thought does not come till afterward; for the time you are nothing but +Crusoe; you are living in his cave with Poll the parrot, and are looking +out for your goats and man Friday. + +You dream what a nice thing it would be for you to slip away some +pleasant morning,--not to York, as young Crusoe did, but to New +York,--and take passage as a sailor; and how, if they knew you were +going, there would be such a world of good-byes; and how, if they did +not know it, there would be such a world of wonder! + +And then the sailor's dress would be altogether such a jaunty affair; +and it would be such rare sport to lie off upon the yards far aloft, as +you have seen sailors in pictures, looking out upon the blue and +tumbling sea. No thought now, in your boyish dreams, of sleety storms, +and cables stiffened with ice, and crashing spars, and great icebergs +towering fearfully around you! + +You would have better luck than even Crusoe; you would save a compass, +and a Bible, and stores of hatchets, and the captain's dog, and great +puncheons of sweetmeats, (which Crusoe altogether overlooked;) and you +would save a tent or two, which you could set up on the shore, and an +American flag, and a small piece of cannon, which you could fire as +often as you liked. At night you would sleep in a tree,--though you +wonder how Crusoe did it,--and would say the prayers you had been taught +to say at home, and fall to sleep, dreaming of Nelly and Charlie. + +At sunrise, or thereabouts, you would come down, feeling very much +refreshed; and make a very nice breakfast off of smoked herring and +sea-bread, with a little currant jam, and a few oranges. After this you +would haul ashore a chest or two of the sailors' clothes, and putting a +few large jackknives in your pocket, would take a stroll over the +island, and dig a cave somewhere, and roll in a cask or two of +sea-bread. And you fancy yourself growing after a time very tall and +corpulent, and wearing a magnificent goat-skin cap trimmed with green +ribbons, and set off with a plume. You think you would have put a few +more guns in the palisade than Crusoe did, and charged them with a +little more grape. + +After a long while you fancy a ship would arrive which would carry you +back; and you count upon very great surprise on the part of your father +and little Nelly, as you march up to the door of the old family mansion, +with plenty of gold in your pocket, and a small bag of cocoa-nuts for +Charlie, and with a great deal of pleasant talk about your island far +away in the South Seas. + +----Or perhaps it is not Crusoe at all, that your eyes and your heart +cling to, but only some little story about Paul and Virginia;--that dear +little Virginia! how many tears have been shed over her--not in garrets +only, or by boys only! + +You would have liked Virginia, you know you would; but you perfectly +hate the beldame aunt who sent for her to come to France; you think she +must have been like the old schoolmistress, who occasionally boxes your +ears with the cover of the spelling-book, or makes you wear one of the +girls' bonnets, that smells strongly of pasteboard and calico. + +As for black Domingue, you think he was a capital old fellow; and you +think more of him and his bananas than you do of the bursting, throbbing +heart of poor Paul. As yet Dream-life does not take hold on love. A +little maturity of heart is wanted to make up what the poets call +sensibility. If love should come to be a dangerous, chivalric matter, as +in the case of Helen Mar and Wallace, you can very easily conceive of +it, and can take hold of all the little accessories of male costume and +embroidering of banners; but as for pure sentiment, such as lies in the +sweet story of Bernardin de St. Pierre, it is quite beyond you. + +The rich, soft nights, in which one might doze in his hammock, watching +the play of the silvery moonbeams upon the orange-leaves and upon the +waves, you can understand; and you fall to dreaming of that lovely Isle +of France, and wondering if Virginia did not perhaps have some relations +on the island, who raise pine-apples, and such sort of things, still? + +----And so with your head upon your hand in your quiet garret-corner, +over some such beguiling story, your thought leans away from the book +into your own dreamy cruise over the sea of life. + + + + +II. + +_School-Dreams._ + + +It is a proud thing to go out from under the realm of a schoolmistress, +and to be enrolled in a company of boys, who are under the guidance of a +master. It is one of the earliest steps of worldly pride, which has +before it a long and tedious ladder of ascent. Even the advice of the +old mistress, and the ninepenny book that she thrusts into your hand as +a parting gift, pass for nothing; and her kiss of adieu, if she tenders +it in the sight of your fellows, will call up an angry rush of blood to +the cheek, that for long years shall drown all sense of its kindness. + +You have looked admiringly many a day upon the tall fellows who play at +the door of Dr. Bidlow's school; you have looked with reverence--second +only to that felt for the old village church--upon its dark-looking, +heavy brick walls. It seemed to be redolent of learning; and stopping at +times to gaze upon the gallipots and broken retorts at the second-story +window, you have pondered in your boyish way upon the inscrutable +wonders of Science, and the ineffable dignity of Dr. Bidlow's brick +school! + +Dr. Bidlow seems to you to belong to a race of giants; and yet he is a +spare, thin man, with a hooked nose, a large, flat, gold watch-key, a +crack in his voice, a wig, and very dirty wristbands. Still you stand in +awe at the mere sight of him,--an awe that is very much encouraged by a +report made to you by a small boy, that "Old Bid" keeps a large ebony +ruler in his desk. You are amazed at the small boy's audacity; it +astonishes you that any one who had ever smelt the strong fumes of +sulphur and ether in the Doctor's room, and had seen him turn red +vinegar blue, (as they say he does,) should call him "Old Bid!" + +You however come very little under his control; you enter upon the proud +life, in the small boy's department, under the dominion of the English +master. He is a different personage from Dr. Bidlow: he is a dapper +little man, who twinkles his eye in a peculiar fashion, and who has a +way of marching about the schoolroom with his hands crossed behind him, +giving a playful flirt to his coat-tails. He wears a pen tucked behind +his ear; his hair is carefully set up at the sides and upon the top, to +conceal (as you think later in life) his diminutive height; and he steps +very springily around behind the benches, glancing now and then at the +books,--cautioning one scholar about his dog's-ears, and startling +another from a doze by a very loud and odious snap of his forefinger +upon the boy's head. + +At other times he sticks a hand in the armlet of his waistcoat; he +brandishes in the other a thickish bit of smooth cherry-wood, sometimes +dressing his hair withal; and again giving his head a slight scratch +behind the ear, while he takes occasion at the same time for an oblique +glance at a fat boy in the corner, who is reaching down from his seat +after a little paper pellet that has just been discharged at him from +some unknown quarter. The master steals very cautiously and quickly to +the rear of the stooping boy, dreadfully exposed by his unfortunate +position, and inflicts a stinging blow. A weak-eyed little scholar on +the next bench ventures a modest titter, at which the assistant makes a +significant motion with his ruler,--on the seat, as it were, of an +imaginary pair of pantaloons,--which renders the weak-eyed boy on a +sudden very insensible to the recent joke. + +You meantime profess to be very much engrossed with your grammar--turned +upside-down; you think it must have hurt, and are only sorry that it did +not happen to a tall, dark-faced boy, who cheated you in a swop of +jackknives. You innocently think that he must be a very bad boy, and +fancy--aided by a suggestion of the old nurse at home on the same +point--that he will one day come to the gallows. + +There is a platform on one side of the schoolroom, where the teacher +sits at a little red table; and they have a tradition among the boys, +that a pin properly bent was one day put into the chair of the English +master, and that he did not wear his hand in the armlet of his waistcoat +for two whole days thereafter. Yet his air of dignity seems proper +enough in a man of such erudition, and such grasp of imagination, as he +must possess. For he can quote poetry,--some of the big scholars have +heard him do it; he can parse the whole of "Paradise Lost," and he can +cipher in Long Division, and the Rule of Three, as if it was all Simple +Addition; and then, such a hand as he writes, and such a superb capital +B! It is hard to understand how he does it. + +Sometimes lifting the lid of your desk, where you pretend to be very +busy with your papers, you steal the reading of some brief passage of +"Lazy Lawrence," or of the "Hungarian Brothers," and muse about it for +hours afterward to the great detriment of your ciphering; or, deeply +lost in the story of the "Scottish Chiefs," you fall to comparing such +villains as Menteith with the stout boys who tease you; and you only +wish they could come within reach of the fierce Kirkpatrick's claymore. + +But you are frighted out of this stolen reading by a circumstance that +stirs your young blood very strangely. The master is looking very sourly +on a certain morning, and has caught sight of the little weak-eyed boy +over beyond you, reading "Roderick Random." He sends out for a long +birch rod, and having trimmed off the leaves carefully,--with a glance +or two in your direction,--he marches up behind the bench of the poor +culprit,--who turns deathly pale,--grapples him by the collar, drags him +out over the desks, his limbs dangling in a shocking way against the +sharp angles, and having him fairly in the middle of the room, clinches +his rod with a new, and, as it seems to you, a very sportive grip. + +You shudder fearfully. + +"Please don't whip me," says the boy, whimpering. + +"Aha!" says the smirking pedagogue, bringing down the stick with a +quick, sharp cut,--"you don't like it, eh?" + +The poor fellow screams, and struggles to escape; but the blows come +faster and thicker. The blood tingles in your finger-ends with +indignation. + +"Please don't strike me again," says the boy, sobbing, and taking +breath, as he writhes about the legs of the master; "I won't read +another time." + +"Ah, you won't, sir,--won't you? I don't mean you shall, sir;" and the +blows fall thick and fast, until the poor fellow crawls back, utterly +crestfallen and heartsick, to sob over his books. + +You grow into a sudden boldness; you wish you were only large enough to +beat the master; you know such treatment would make you miserable; you +shudder at the thought of it; you do not believe he would dare; you +know the other boy has got no father. This seems to throw a new light +upon the matter, but it only intensifies your indignation. You are sure +that no father would suffer it; or, if you thought so, it would sadly +weaken your love for him. You pray Heaven, that it may never be brought +to such proof. + +----Let a boy once distrust the love or the tenderness of his parents, +and the last resort of his yearning affections--so far as the world +goes--is utterly gone. He is in the sure road to a bitter fate. His +heart will take on a hard, iron covering, that will flash out plenty of +fire in his after contact with the world, but it will never--never melt! + +There are some tall trees, that overshadow an angle of the schoolhouse; +and the larger scholars play some very surprising gymnastic tricks upon +their lower limbs: one boy, for instance, will hang for an incredible +length of time by his feet with his head down; and when you tell Charlie +of it at night, with such additions as your boyish imagination can +contrive, the old nurse is shocked, and states very gravely that it is +dangerous, and that the blood all runs to the head, and sometimes bursts +out of the eyes and mouth. You look at that particular boy with +astonishment afterward, and expect to see him some day burst into +bleeding from the nose and ears, and flood the schoolroom benches. + +In time however you get to performing some modest experiments yourself +upon the very lowest limbs, taking care to avoid the observation of the +larger boys, who else might laugh at you; you especially avoid the +notice of one stout fellow in pea-green breeches, who is a sort of +"bully" among the small boys, and who delights in kicking your marbles +about very accidentally. He has a fashion too of twisting his +handkerchief into what he calls a "snapper," with a knot at the end, and +cracking at you with it, very much to the irritation of your spirits and +of your legs. + +Sometimes, when he has brought you to an angry burst of tears, he will +very graciously force upon you the handkerchief, and insist upon your +cracking him in return; which, as you know nothing about his effective +method of making the knot bite, is a very harmless proposal on his part. + +But you have still stronger reason to remember that boy. There are +trees, as I said, near the school; and you get the reputation, after a +time, of a good climber. One day you are well in the tops of the trees, +and being dared by the boys below, you venture higher--higher than any +boy has ever gone before. You feel very proudly, but just then catch +sight of the sneering face of your old enemy of the snapper; and he +dares you to go upon a limb that he points out. + +The rest say,--for you hear them plainly,--"It won't bear him." And +Frank, a great friend of yours, shouts loudly to you not to try. + +"Pho," says your tormentor,--"the little coward!" + +If you could whip him, you would go down the tree, and do it willingly; +as it is, you cannot let him triumph; so you advance cautiously out upon +the limb; it bends and sways fearfully with your weight; presently it +cracks; you try to return, but it is too late; you feel yourself going; +your mind flashes home--over your life, your hope, your fate--like +lightning; then comes a sense of dizziness, a succession of quick blows, +and a dull, heavy crash! + +You are conscious of nothing again, until you find yourself in the great +hall of the school, covered with blood, the old Doctor standing over you +with a phial, and Frank kneeling by you, and holding your shattered arm, +which has been broken by the fall. + +After this come those long, weary days of confinement, when you lie +still through all the hours of noon, looking out upon the cheerful +sunshine only through the windows of your little room. Yet it seems a +grand thing to have the whole household attendant upon you. The doors +are opened and shut softly, and they all step noiselessly about your +chamber; and when you groan with pain, you are sure of meeting sad, +sympathizing looks. Your mother will step gently to your side and lay +her cool, white hand upon your forehead; and little Nelly will gaze at +you from the foot of your bed with a sad earnestness, and with tears of +pity in her soft hazel eyes. And afterward, as your pain passes away, +she will bring you her prettiest books, and fresh flowers, and whatever +she knows you will love. + +But it is dreadful when you wake at night from your feverish slumber, +and see nothing but the spectral shadows that the sick-lamp upon the +hearth throws aslant the walls; and hear nothing but the heavy breathing +of the old nurse in the easy-chair, and the ticking of the clock upon +the mantel! Then silence and the night crowd upon your soul drearily. +But your thought is active. It shapes at your bedside the loved figure +of your mother, or it calls up the whole company of Dr. Bidlow's boys +and weeks of study or of play group like magic on your quickened vision; +then a twinge of pain will call again the dreariness, and your head +tosses upon the pillow, and your eye searches the gloom vainly for +pleasant faces; and your fears brood on that drearier, coming night of +Death--far longer, and far more cheerless than this. + +But even here the memory of some little prayer you have been taught, +which promises a Morning after the Night, comes to your throbbing brain; +and its murmur on your fevered lips, as you breathe it, soothes like a +caress of angels, and woos you to smiles and sleep. + +As the days pass, you grow stronger; and Frank comes in to tell you of +the school, and that your old tormentor has been expelled; and you grow +into a strong friendship with Frank, and you think of yourselves as a +new Damon and Pythias, and that you will some day live together in a +fine house, with plenty of horses, and plenty of chestnut-trees. Alas, +the boy counts little on those later and bitter fates of life, which +sever his early friendships like wisps of straw! + +At other times, with your eye upon the sleek, trim figure of the Doctor, +and upon his huge bunch of watch-seals, you think you will some day be a +Doctor; and that with a wife and children, and a respectable gig, and +gold watch, with seals to match, you would needs be a very happy fellow. + +And with such fancies drifting on your thought, you count for the +hundredth time the figures upon the curtains of your bed; you trace out +the flower-wreaths upon the paper-hangings of your room; your eyes rest +idly on the cat playing with the fringe of the curtain; you see your +mother sitting with her needle-work beside the fire; you watch the +sunbeams, as they drift along the carpet, from morning until noon; and +from noon till night you watch them playing on the leaves, and dropping +spangles on the lawn; and as you watch--you dream. + + + + +III. + +_Boy Sentiment._ + + +Weeks and even years of your boyhood roll on, in the which your dreams +are growing wider and grander,--even as the Spring, which I have made +the type of the boy-age, is stretching its foliage farther and farther, +and dropping longer and heavier shadows on the land. + +Nelly, that sweet sister, has grown into your heart strangely; and you +think that all they write in their books about love cannot equal your +fondness for little Nelly. She is pretty, they say; but what do you care +for her prettiness? She is so good, so kind, so watchful of all your +wants, so willing to yield to your haughty claims! + +But, alas! it is only when this sisterly love is lost forever,--only +when the inexorable world separates a family, and tosses it upon the +waves of fate to wide-lying distances, perhaps to graves,--that a man +feels, what a boy can never know,--the disinterested and abiding +affection of a sister. + +All this that I have set down comes back to you long afterward, when +you recall with tears of regret your reproachful words, or some swift +outbreak of passion. + +Little Madge is a friend of Nelly's,--a mischievous, blue-eyed hoiden. +They tease you about Madge. You do not of course care one straw for her, +but yet it is rather pleasant to be teased thus. Nelly never does this; +oh no, not she. I do not know but in the age of childhood the sister is +jealous of the affections of a brother, and would keep his heart wholly +at home, until, suddenly and strangely, she finds her own wandering. + +But after all Madge is pretty, and there is something taking in her +name. Old people, and very precise people, call her Margaret Boyne. But +you do not: it is only plain Madge; it sounds like her, very rapid and +mischievous. It would be the most absurd thing in the world for you to +like her, for she teases you in innumerable ways: she laughs at your big +shoes, (such a sweet little foot as she has!) and she pins strips of +paper on your coat-collar; and time and again she has worn off your hat +in triumph, very well knowing that you--such a quiet body, and so much +afraid of her--will never venture upon any liberties with her gypsy +bonnet. + +You sometimes wish in your vexation, as you see her running, that she +would fall and hurt herself badly; but the next moment it seems a very +wicked wish, and you renounce it. Once she did come very near it. You +were all playing together by the big swing; (how plainly it swings in +your memory now!) Madge had the seat, and you were famous for running +under with a long push, which Madge liked better than anything +else;--well, you have half run over the ground when, crash! comes the +swing, and poor Madge with it! You fairly scream as you catch her up. +But she is not hurt,--only a cry of fright, and a little sprain of that +fairy ankle; and as she brushes away the tears and those flaxen curls, +and breaks into a merry laugh,--half at your woe-worn face, and half in +vexation at herself,--and leans her hand (such a hand!) upon your +shoulder, to limp away into the shade, you dream your first dream of +love. + +But it is only a dream, not at all acknowledged by you; she is three or +four years your junior,--too young altogether. It is very absurd to talk +about it. There is nothing to be said of Madge, only--Madge! The name +does it. + +It is rather a pretty name to write. You are fond of making capital M's; +and sometimes you follow it with a capital A. Then you practise a little +upon a D, and perhaps back it up with a G. Of course it is the merest +accident that these letters come together. It seems funny to you--very. +And as a proof that they are made at random, you make a T or an R before +them, and some other quite irrelevant letters after it. + +Finally, as a sort of security against all suspicion, you cross it +out,--cross it a great many ways, even holding it up to the light to see +that there should be no air of intention about it. + +----You need have no fear, Clarence, that your hieroglyphics will be +studied so closely. Accidental as they are, you are very much more +interested in them than any one else. + +----It is a common fallacy of this dream in most stages of life, that a +vast number of persons employ their time chiefly in spying out its +operations. + +Yet Madge cares nothing about you, that you know of. Perhaps it is the +very reason, though you do not suspect it then, why you care so much for +her. At any rate she is a friend of Nelly's, and it is your duty not to +dislike her. Nelly too, sweet Nelly, gets an inkling of matters,--for +sisters are very shrewd in suspicions of this sort, shrewder than +brothers or fathers,--and, like the good, kind girl that she is, she +wishes to humor even your weakness. + +Madge drops in to tea quite often: Nelly has something _in particular_ +to show her, two or three times a week. Good Nelly! perhaps she is +making your troubles all the greater. You gather large bunches of grapes +for Madge--because she is a friend of Nelly's--which she doesn't want at +all, and very pretty bouquets, which she either drops or pulls to +pieces. + +In the presence of your father one day you drop some hint about Madge +in a very careless way,--a way shrewdly calculated to lay all +suspicion,--at which your father laughs. This is odd; it makes you +wonder if your father was ever in love himself. + +You rather think that he has been. + +Madge's father is dead, and her mother is poor; and you sometimes dream +how--whatever your father may think or feel--you will some day make a +large fortune, in some very easy way, and build a snug cottage, and have +one horse for your carriage and one for your wife, (not Madge, of +course--that is absurd,) and a turtleshell cat for your wife's mother, +and a pretty gate to the front yard, and plenty of shrubbery; and how +your wife will come dancing down the path to meet you,--as the Wife does +in Mr. Irving's "Sketch-Book,"--and how she will have a harp in the +parlor, and will wear white dresses with a blue sash. + +----Poor Clarence, it never occurs to you that even Madge may grow fat, +and wear check aprons, and snuffy-brown dresses of woollen stuff, and +twist her hair in yellow papers! Oh, no, boyhood has no such dreams as +that! + +I shall leave you here in the middle of your first foray into the world +of sentiment, with those wicked blue eyes chasing rainbows over your +heart, and those little feet walking every day into your affections. I +shall leave you, before the affair has ripened into any overtures, and +while there is only a sixpence split in halves, and tied about your neck +and Maggie's neck, to bind your destinies together. + +If I even hinted at any probability of your marrying her, or of your not +marrying her, you would be very likely to dispute me. One knows his own +feelings, or thinks he does, so much better than any one can tell him. + + + + +IV. + +_A Friend made and Friend lost._ + + +To visit, is a great thing in the boy calendar;--not to visit this or +that neighbor,--to drink tea, or eat strawberries, or play at +draughts,--but to go away on a visit in a coach, with a trunk, and a +great-coat, and an umbrella--this is large! + +It makes no difference that they wish to be rid of your noise, now that +Charlie is sick of a fever: the reason is not at all in the way of your +pride of visiting. You are to have a long ride in a coach, and eat a +dinner at a tavern, and to see a new town almost as large as the one you +live in; and you are to make new acquaintances. In short, you are to see +the world: a very proud thing it is to see the world! + +As you journey on, after bidding your friends adieu, and as you see +fences and houses to which you have not been used, you think them very +odd indeed: but it occurs to you that the geographies speak of very +various national characteristics, and you are greatly gratified with +this opportunity of verifying your study. You see new crops too, perhaps +a broad-leaved tobacco-field, which reminds you pleasantly of the +luxuriant vegetation of the tropics, spoken of by Peter Parley, and +others. + +As for the houses and barns in the new town, they quite startle you with +their strangeness: you observe that some of the latter, instead of +having one stable-door have five or six,--a fact which puzzles you very +much indeed. You observe further that the houses many of them have +balustrades upon the top, which seems to you a very wonderful adaptation +to the wants of boys who wish to fly kites, or to play upon the roof. +You notice with special favor one very low roof, which you might climb +upon by a mere plank, and you think the boys whose father lives in that +house are very fortunate boys. + +Your old aunt, whom you visit, you think, wears a very queer cap, being +altogether different from that of the old nurse, or of Mrs. +Boyne,--Madge's mother. As for the house she lives in, it is quite +wonderful. There are such an immense number of closets, and closets +within closets, reminding you of the mysteries of "Rinaldo Rinaldini." +Beside which there are immensely curious bits of old furniture--so black +and heavy, and with such curious carving!--and you think of the old +wainscot in the "Children of the Abbey". You think you will never tire +of rambling about in its odd corners, and of what glorious stories you +will have to tell of it when you go back to Nelly and Charlie. + +As for acquaintances, you fall in the very first day with a tall boy +next door, called Nat, which seems an extraordinary name. Besides, he +has travelled; and as he sits with you on the summer nights under the +linden-trees, he tells you gorgeous stories of the things he has seen. +He has made the voyage to London; and he talks about the ship (a real +ship) and starboard and larboard, and the spanker, in a way quite +surprising; and he takes the stern-oar in the little skiff, when you row +off in the cove abreast of the town, in a most seaman-like way. + +He bewilders you, too, with his talk about the great bridges of +London,--London Bridge specially, where they sell kids for a penny; +which story your new acquaintance unfortunately does not confirm. You +have read of these bridges, and seen pictures of them in the "Wonders of +the World"; but then Nat has seen them with his own eyes: he has +literally walked over London Bridge, on his own feet! You look at his +very shoes in wonderment, and are surprised you do not find some +startling difference between those shoes and your shoes. But there is +none,--only yours are a trifle stouter in the welt. You think Nat one of +the fortunate boys of this world,--born, as your old nurse used to say, +with a gold spoon in his mouth. + +Beside Nat there is a girl lives over the opposite side of the way, +named Jenny,--with an eye as black as a coal, and a half a year older +than you, but about your height,--whom you fancy amazingly. + +She has any quantity of toys, that she lets you play with as if they +were your own. And she has an odd old uncle, who sometimes makes you +stand up together, and then marries you after his fashion,--much to the +amusement of a grown-up house-maid, whenever she gets a peep at the +performance. And it makes you somewhat proud to hear her called your +wife; and you wonder to yourself, dreamily, if it won't be true some day +or other. + +----Fie, Clarence, where is your split sixpence, and your blue ribbon! + +Jenny is romantic, and talks of "Thaddeus of Warsaw" in a very touching +manner, and promises to lend you the book. She folds billets in a +lover's fashion, and practises love-knots upon her bonnet-strings. She +looks out of the corners of her eyes very often, and sighs. She is +frequently by herself, and pulls flowers to pieces. She has great pity +for middle-aged bachelors, and thinks them all disappointed men. + +After a time she writes notes to you, begging you would answer them at +the earliest possible moment, and signs herself--"your attached Jenny." +She takes the marriage farce of her uncle in a cold way, as trifling +with a very serious subject, and looks tenderly at you. She is very much +shocked when her uncle offers to kiss her; and when he proposes it to +you, she is equally indignant, but--with a great change of color. + +Nat says one day in a confidential conversation that it won't do to +marry a woman six months older than yourself; and this, coming from Nat +who has been to London, rather staggers you. You sometimes think that +you would like to marry Madge and Jenny both, if the thing were +possible, for Nat says they sometimes do so the other side of the ocean, +though he has never seen it himself. + +----Ah, Clarence, you will have no such weakness as you grow older; you +will find that Providence has charitably so tempered our affections, +that every man of only ordinary nerve will be amply satisfied with a +single wife. + +All this time--for you are making your visit a very long one, so that +autumn has come, and the nights are growing cool, and Jenny and yourself +are transferring your little coquetries to the chimney-corner--poor +Charlie lies sick at home. Boyhood, thank Heaven! does not suffer +severely from sympathy when the object is remote. And those letters from +the mother, telling you that Charlie cannot play,--cannot talk even as +he used to do,--and that perhaps his "Heavenly Father will take him away +to be with him in the better world," disturb you for a time only. +Sometimes however they come back to your thought on a wakeful night, +and you dream about his suffering, and think--why it is not you, but +Charlie, who is sick? The thought puzzles you; and well it may, for in +it lies the whole mystery of our fate. + +Those letters grow more and more discouraging, and the kind admonitions +of your mother grow more earnest, as if (though the thought does not +come to you until years afterward) she was preparing herself to fasten +upon you that surplus of affection which she fears may soon be withdrawn +forever from the sick child. + +It is on a frosty, bleak evening, when you are playing with Nat, that +the letter reaches you which says Charlie is growing worse, and that you +must come to your home. It makes a dreamy night for you--fancying how +Charlie will look, and if sickness has altered him much, and if he will +not be well by Christmas. From this you fall away in your reverie to the +odd old house and its secret cupboards, and your aunt's queer caps; then +come up those black eyes of "your attached Jenny," and you think it a +pity that she is six month's older than you; and again--as you recall +one of her sighs--you think that six months are not much after all! + +You bid her good-bye, with a little sentiment swelling in your throat, +and are mortally afraid Nat will see your lip tremble. Of course you +promise to write, and squeeze her hand with an honesty you do not think +of doubting--for weeks. + +It is a dull, cold ride, that day, for you. The winds sweep over the +withered cornfields with a harsh, chilly whistle, and the surfaces of +the little pools by the roadside are tossed up into cold blue wrinkles +of water. Here and there a flock of quail, with their feathers ruffled +in the autumn gusts, tread through the hard, dry stubble of an oatfield; +or, startled by the snap of the driver's whip, they stare a moment at +the coach, then whir away down the cold current of the wind. The blue +jays scream from the roadside oaks, and the last of the blue and purple +asters shiver along the wall. And as the sun sinks, reddening all the +western clouds to the color of the frosted maples, light lines of the +Aurora gush up from the northern hills, and trail their splintered +fingers far over the autumn sky. + +It is quite dark when you reach home, but you see the bright reflection +of a fire within, and presently at the open door Nelly clapping her +hands for welcome. But there are sad faces when you enter. Your mother +folds you to her heart; but at your first noisy outburst of joy puts her +finger on her lip, and whispers poor Charlie's name. The Doctor you see +too, slipping softly out of the bedroom-door, with glasses in his hand; +and--you hardly know how--your spirits grow sad, and your heart +gravitates to the heavy air of all about you. + +You cannot see Charlie, Nelly says;--and you cannot in the quiet parlor +tell Nelly a single one of the many things, which you had hoped to tell +her. She says,--"Charlie has grown so thin and so pale, you would never +know him." You listen to her, but you cannot talk: she asks you what you +have seen, and you begin, for a moment joyously; but when they open the +door of the sick-room, and you hear a faint sigh, you cannot go on. You +sit still, with your hand in Nelly's, and look thoughtfully into the +blaze. + +You drop to sleep after that day's fatigue, with singular and perplexed +fancies haunting you; and when you wake up with a shudder in the middle +of the night, you have a fancy that Charlie is really dead: you dream of +seeing him pale and thin, as Nelly described him, and with the starched +grave-clothes on him. You toss over in your bed, and grow hot and +feverish. You cannot sleep; and you get up stealthily, and creep +down-stairs. A light is burning in the hall: the bedroom-door stands +half open, and you listen--fancying you hear a whisper. You steal on +through the hall, and edge around the side of the door. A little lamp is +flickering on the hearth, and the gaunt shadow of the bedstead lies dark +upon the ceiling. Your mother is in her chair with her head upon her +hand--though it is long after midnight. The Doctor is standing with his +back toward you, and with Charlie's little wrist in his fingers; and you +hear hard breathing, and now and then a low sigh from your mother's +chair. + +An occasional gleam of firelight makes the gaunt shadows stagger on the +wall, like something spectral. You look wildly at them, and at the bed +where your own brother--your laughing, gay-hearted brother--is lying. +You long to see him, and sidle up softly a step or two; but your +mother's ear has caught the sound, and she beckons you to her, and folds +you again in her embrace. You whisper to her what you wish. She rises, +and takes you by the hand, to lead you to the bedside. + +The Doctor looks very solemnly as we approach. He takes out his watch. +He is not counting Charlie's pulse, for he has dropped his hand, and it +lies carelessly, but oh, how thin! over the edge of the bed. + +He shakes his head mournfully at your mother; and she springs forward, +dropping your hand, and lays her fingers upon the forehead of the boy, +and passes her hand over his mouth. + +"Is he asleep, Doctor?" she says in a tone you do not know. + +"Be calm, madam." The Doctor is very calm. + +"I am calm," says your mother; but you do not think it, for you see her +tremble very plainly. + +"Dear madam, he will never waken in this world!" + +There is no cry,--only a bowing down of your mother's head upon the body +of poor dead Charlie!--and only when you see her form shake and quiver +with the deep, smothered sobs, your crying bursts forth loud and +strong. + +The Doctor lifts you in his arms, that you may see that pale +head,--those blue eyes all sunken,--that flaxen hair gone,--those white +lips pinched and hard!--Never, never will the boy forget his first +terrible sight of Death! + +In your silent chamber, after the storm of sobs has wearied you, the +boy-dreams are strange and earnest. They take hold on that awful +Visitant,--that strange slipping away from life, of which we know so +little, and yet know, alas, so much! Charlie that was your brother, is +now only a name: perhaps he is an angel; perhaps (for the old nurse has +said it when he was ugly--and now you hate her for it) he is with Satan! + +But you are sure this cannot be: you are sure that God, who made him +suffer, would not now quicken and multiply his suffering. It agrees with +your religion to think so; and just now you want your religion to help +you all it can. + +You toss in your bed, thinking over and over of that strange +thing--Death; and that perhaps it may overtake you before you are a man; +and you sob out those prayers (you scarce know why) which ask God to +keep life in you. You think the involuntary fear, that makes your little +prayer full of sobs, is a holy feeling;--and so it is a holy +feeling,--the same feeling which makes a stricken child yearn for the +embrace and the protection of a Parent. But you will find there are +those canting ones trying to persuade you, at a later day, that it is a +mere animal fear, and not to be cherished. + +You feel an access of goodness growing out of your boyish grief; you +feel right-minded; it seems as if your little brother in going to Heaven +had opened a path-way thither, down which goodness comes streaming over +your soul. + +You think how good a life you will lead; and you map out great purposes, +spreading themselves over the school-weeks of your remaining boyhood; +and you love your friends, or seem to, far more dearly than you ever +loved them before; and you forgive the boy who provoked you to that sad +fall from the oak, and you forgive him all his wearisome teasings. But +you cannot forgive yourself for some harsh words that you have once +spoken to Charlie; still less can you forgive yourself for having once +struck him in passion with your fist. You cannot forget his sobs +then;--if he were only alive one little instant to let you +say,--"Charlie, will you forgive me?" + +Yourself you cannot forgive; and sobbing over it, and murmuring "Dear, +dear Charlie!" you drop into a troubled sleep. + + + + +V. + +_Boy Religion._ + + +Is any weak soul frightened, that I should write of the Religion of the +boy? How indeed could I cover the field of his moral or intellectual +growth, if I left unnoticed those dreams of futurity and of goodness, +which come sometimes to his quieter moments, and oftener to his hours of +vexation and trouble? It would be as wise to describe the season of +Spring with no note of the silent influences of that burning Day-god +which is melting day by day the shattered ice-drifts of Winter,--which +is filling every bud with succulence, and painting one flower with +crimson, and another with white. + +I know there is a feeling--by much too general as it seems to me--that +the subject may not be approached except through the dicta of certain +ecclesiastic bodies, and that the language which touches it must not be +that every-day language which mirrors the vitality of our thought, but +should have some twist of that theologic mannerism, which is as cold to +the boy as to the busy man of the world. + +I know very well that a great many good souls will call levity what I +call honesty, and will abjure that familiar handling of the boy's lien +upon Eternity which my story will show. But I shall feel sure, that, in +keeping true to Nature with word and with thought, I shall in no way +offend against those highest truths to which all truthfulness is +kindred. + +You have Christian teachers, who speak always reverently of the Bible; +you grow up in the hearing of daily prayers; nay, you are perhaps taught +to say them. + +Sometimes they have a meaning, and sometimes they have none. They have a +meaning when your heart is troubled, when a grief or a wrong weighs upon +you: then the keeping of the Father, which you implore, seems to come +from the bottom of your soul; and your eye suffuses with such tears of +feeling as you count holy, and as you love to cherish in your memory. + +But they have no meaning when some trifling vexation angers you, and a +distaste for all about you breeds a distaste for all above you. In the +long hours of toilsome days little thought comes over you of the morning +prayer; and only when evening deepens its shadows, and your boyish +vexations fatigue you to thoughtfulness, do you dream of that coming and +endless night, to which--they tell you--prayers soften the way. + +Sometimes upon a Summer Sunday, when you are wakeful upon your seat in +church, with some strong-worded preacher who says things that half +fright you it occurs to you to consider how much goodness you are made +of; and whether there be enough of it after all to carry you safely away +from the clutch of Evil? And straightway you reckon up those friendships +where your heart lies; you know you are a true and honest friend to +Frank; and you love your mother, and your father; as for Nelly, Heaven +knows, you could not contrive a way to love her better than you do. + +You dare not take much credit to yourself for the love of little +Madge,--partly because you have sometimes caught yourself trying--not to +love her; and partly because the black-eyed Jenny comes in the way. Yet +you can find no command in the Catechism to love one girl to the +exclusion of all other girls. It is somewhat doubtful if you ever do +find it. But as for loving some half-dozen you could name, whose images +drift through your thought, in dirty, salmon-colored frocks, and +slovenly shoes, it is quite impossible; and suddenly this thought, +coupled with a lingering remembrance of the pea-green pantaloons, +utterly breaks down your hopes. + +Yet you muse again,--there are plenty of good people, as the times go, +who have their dislikes, and who speak them too. Even the sharp-talking +clergyman you have heard say some very sour things about his landlord, +who raised his rent the last year. And you know that he did not talk as +mildly as he does in the church, when he found Frank and yourself +quietly filching a few of his peaches through the orchard fence. + +But your clergyman will say perhaps, with what seems to you quite +unnecessary coldness, that goodness is not to be reckoned in your +chances of safety; that there is a Higher Goodness, whose merit is +All-Sufficient. This puzzles you sadly; nor will you escape the puzzle, +until, in the presence of the Home altar, which seems to guard you, as +the Lares guarded Roman children, you _feel_--you cannot tell how--that +good actions must spring from good sources; and that those sources must +lie in that Heaven toward which your boyish spirit yearns, as you kneel +at your mother's side. + +Conscience too is all the while approving you for deeds well done; +and--wicked as you fear the preacher might judge it--you cannot but +found on those deeds a hope that your prayer at night flows more easily, +more freely, and more holily toward "Our Father in Heaven." Nor indeed +later in life--whatever may be the ill-advised expressions of human +teachers--will you ever find that _Duty performed_, and _generous +endeavor_ will stand one whit in the way either of Faith or of Love. +Striving to be good is a very direct road toward Goodness and if life be +so tempered by high motive as to make actions always good, Faith is +unconsciously won. + +Another notion that disturbs you very much, is your positive dislike of +long sermons, and of such singing as they have when the organist is +away. You cannot get the force of that verse of Dr. Watts which likens +heaven to a never-ending Sabbath; you _do_ hope--though it seems a half +wicked hope--that old Dr. ---- will not be the preacher. You think that +your heart in its best moments craves for something more lovable. You +suggest this perhaps to some Sunday teacher, who only shakes his head +sourly, and tells you it is a thought that the Devil is putting in your +brain. It strikes you oddly that the Devil should be using a verse of +Dr. Watts to puzzle you! But if it be so, he keeps it sticking by your +thought very pertinaciously, until some simple utterance of your mother +about the Love that reigns in the other world seems on a sudden to widen +Heaven, and to waft away your doubts like a cloud. + +It excites your wonder not a little to find people, who talk gravely and +heartily of the excellence of sermons and of church-going, sometimes +fall asleep under it all. And you wonder--if they really like preaching +so well--why they do not buy some of the minister's old manuscripts, and +read them over on week-days, or invite the clergyman to preach to them +in a quiet way in private. + +----Ah, Clarence, you do not yet know the poor weakness of even +maturest manhood, and the feeble gropings of the soul toward a soul's +paradise in the best of the world! You do not yet know either, that +ignorance and fear will be thrusting their untruth and false show into +the very essentials of Religion. + +Again you wonder, if the clergymen are all such very good men as you are +taught to believe, why it is that every little while people will be +trying to send them off, and very anxious to prove that, instead of +being so good, they are in fact very stupid and bad men. At that day you +have no clear conceptions of the distinction between stupidity and vice, +and think that a good man must necessarily say very eloquent things. You +will find yourself sadly mistaken on this point, before you get on very +far in life. + +Heaven, when your mother peoples it with friends gone, and little +Charlie, and that better Friend who, she says, took Charlie in his arms, +and is now his Father above the skies, seems a place to be loved and +longed for. But to think that Mr. Such-an-one, who is only good on +Sundays, will be there too,--and to think of his talking as he does of a +place which you are sure he would spoil if he were there,--puzzles you +again; and you relapse into wonder, doubt, and yearning. + +--And there, Clarence, for the present, I shall leave you. A wide, rich +heaven hangs above you, but it hangs very high. A wide, rough world is +around you, and it lies very low! + +I am assuming in these sketches no office of a teacher. I am seeking +only to make a truthful analysis of the boyish thought and feeling. But +having ventured thus far into what may seem sacred ground, I shall +venture still farther, and clinch my matter with a moral. + +There is very much religious teaching, even in so good a country as New +England, which is far too harsh, too dry, too cold for the heart of a +boy. Long sermons, doctrinal precepts, and such tediously-worded dogmas +as were uttered by those honest but hard-spoken men, the Westminster +Divines, fatigue, and puzzle, and dispirit him. + +They may be well enough for those strong souls which strengthen by +task-work, or for those mature people whose iron habit of self-denial +has made patience a cardinal virtue; but they fall (_experto crede_) +upon the unfledged faculties of the boy like a winter's rain upon spring +flowers,--like hammers of iron upon lithe timber. They may make deep +impression upon his moral nature, but there is great danger of a sad +rebound. + +Is it absurd to suppose that some adaptation is desirable? And might not +the teachings of that Religion, which is the aegis of our moral being, be +inwrought with some of those finer harmonies of speech and form which +were given to wise ends,--and lure the boyish soul by something akin to +that gentleness which belonged to the Nazarene Teacher, and which +provided not only meat for men, but "milk for babes"? + + + + +VI. + +_A New-England Squire._ + + +Frank has a grandfather living in the country, a good specimen of the +old-fashioned New-England farmer. And--go where one will the world +over--I know of no race of men who, taken as a whole, possess more +integrity, more intelligence, and more of those elements of comfort +which go to make a home beloved and the social basis firm, than the +New-England farmers. + +They are not brilliant, nor are they highly refined; they know nothing +of arts, histrionic or dramatic; they know only so much of older nations +as their histories and newspapers teach them; in the fashionable world +they hold no place;--but in energy, in industry, in hardy virtue, in +substantial knowledge, and in manly independence, they make up a race +that is hard to be matched. + +The French peasantry are, in all the essentials of intelligence and +sterling worth, infants compared with them; and the farmers of England +are either the merest 'ockeys in grain, with few ideas beyond their +sacks, samples, and market-days,--or, with added cultivation, they lose +their independence in a subserviency to some neighbor patron of rank; +and superior intelligence teaches them no lesson so quickly as that +their brethren of the glebe are unequal to them, and are to be left to +their cattle and the goad. + +There are English farmers indeed, who are men in earnest, who read the +papers, and who keep the current of the year's intelligence; but such +men are the exceptions. In New England, with the school upon every third +hill-side, and the self-regulating, free-acting church to watch every +valley with week-day quiet, and to wake every valley with Sabbath sound, +the men become, as a class, bold, intelligent, and honest actors, who +would make again, as they have made before, a terrible army of +defence,--and who would find reasons for their actions as strong as +their armies. + +Frank's grandfather has silver hair, but is still hale, erect, and +strong. His dress is homely but neat. Being a thorough-going +Protectionist, he has no fancy for the gewgaws of foreign importation, +and makes it a point to appear always in the village church, and on all +great occasions, in a sober suit of homespun. He has no pride of +appearance, and he needs none. He is known as the Squire throughout the +township; and no important measure can pass the board of selectmen +without the Squire's approval;--and this from no blind subserviency to +his opinion,--because his farm is large, and he is reckoned +"forehanded,"--but because there is a confidence in his judgment. + +He is jealous of none of the prerogatives of the country parson, or of +the schoolmaster, or of the village doctor; and although the latter is a +testy politician of the opposite party, it does not all impair the +Squire's faith in his calomel; he suffers all his Radicalism with the +same equanimity that he suffers his rhubarb. + +The day-laborers of the neighborhood, and the small farmers, consider +the Squire's note-of-hand for their savings better than the best bonds +of city origin; and they seek his advice in all matters of litigation. +He is a Justice of the Peace, as the title of Squire in a New-England +village implies; and many are the sessions of the country courts that +you peep upon with Frank, from the door of the great dining-room. + +The defendant always seems to you in these important cases--especially +if his beard is rather long--an extraordinary ruffian, to whom Jack +Sheppard would have been a comparatively innocent boy. You watch +curiously the old gentleman sitting in his big arm-chair, with his +spectacles in their silver case at his elbow, and his snuffbox in hand, +listening attentively to some grievous complaint; you see him ponder +deeply,--with a pinch of snuff to aid his judgment,--and you listen with +intense admiration as he gives a loud preparatory "Ahem!" and clears +away the intricacies of the case with a sweep of that strong practical +sense which distinguishes the New-England farmer,--getting at the very +hinge of the matter, without any consciousness of his own precision, and +satisfying the defendant by the clearness of his talk as much as by the +leniency of his judgment. + +His lands lie along those swelling hills, which in southern New England +carry the chain of the White and Green Mountains in gentle undulations +to the borders of the sea. He farms some fifteen hundred +acres,--"suitably divided," as the old-school agriculturists say, into +"woodland, pasture, and tillage." The farm-house--a large, +irregularly-built mansion of wood--stands upon a shelf of the hills +looking southward, and is shaded by century-old oaks. The barns and +out-buildings are grouped in a brown phalanx a little to the northward +of the dwelling. Between them a high timber gate opens upon the +scattered pasture lands of the hills; opposite to this and across the +farmyard, which is the lounging-place of scores of red-necked turkeys +and of matronly hens, clucking to their callow brood, another gate of +similar pretensions opens upon the wide meadow-land, which rolls with a +heavy "ground-swell" along the valley of a mountain river. A veteran oak +stands sentinel at the brown meadow-gate, its trunk all scarred with the +ruthless cuts of new-ground axes, and the limbs garnished in +summer-time with the crooked snathes of murderous-looking scythes. + +The high-road passes a stone's-throw away; but there is little "travel" +to be seen; and every chance passer will inevitably come under the range +of the kitchen windows, and be studied carefully by the eyes of the +stout dairy-maid,--to say nothing of the stalwart Indian cook. + +This last you cannot but admire as a type of that noble old race, among +whom your boyish fancy has woven so many stories of romance. You wonder +how she must regard the white interlopers upon her own soil; and you +think that she tolerates the Squire's farming privileges with more +modesty than you would suppose. You learn however that she pays very +little regard to white rights--when they conflict with her own; and +further learn, to your deep regret, that your Princess of the old tribe +is sadly addicted to cider-drinking; and having heard her once or twice +with a very indistinct "Goo-er night, Sq-quare" upon her lips, your +dreams about her grow very tame. + +The Squire, like all very sensible men, has his hobbies and +peculiarities. He has a great contempt, for instance, for all paper +money, and imagines banks to be corporate societies skilfully contrived +for the legal plunder of the community. He keeps a supply of silver and +gold by him in the foot of an old stocking, and seems to have great +confidence in the value of Spanish milled dollars. He has no kind of +patience with the new doctrines of farming. Liebig, and all the rest, he +sets down as mere theorists, and has far more respect for the contents +of his barnyard than for all the guano deposits in the world. Scientific +farming, and gentleman farming, may do very well, he says, "to keep idle +young fellows from the city out of mischief; but as for real, effective +management, there's nothing like the old stock of men, who ran barefoot +until they were ten, and who count the hard winters by their frozen +toes." And he is fond of quoting in this connection--the only quotation, +by the by, that the old gentleman ever makes--that couplet of "Poor +Richard,"-- + + "He, that by the plough would thrive, + Himself must either hold or drive." + +The Squire has been in his day connected more or less intimately with +turnpike enterprise, which the railroads of the day have thrown sadly +into the background; and he reflects often in a melancholy way upon the +good old times when a man could travel in his own carriage quietly +across the country, without being frightened with the clatter of an +engine, and when turnpike stock paid wholesome yearly dividends of six +per cent. + +An almost constant hanger-on about the premises, and a great favorite +with the Squire, is a stout, middle-aged man, with a heavy-bearded +face, to whom Frank introduces you as "Captain Dick"; and he tells you +moreover that he is a better butcher, a better wall-layer, and cuts a +broader "swathe," than any man upon the farm. Beside all which he has an +immense deal of information. He knows in the spring where all the +crows'-nests are to be found; he tells Frank where the foxes burrow; he +has even shot two or three raccoons in the swamps; he knows the best +season to troll for pickerel; he has a thorough understanding of +bee-hunting; he can tell the ownership of every stray heifer that +appears upon the road: indeed scarce an inquiry is made, or an opinion +formed, on any of these subjects, or on such kindred ones as the +weather, or potato crop, without previous consultation with "Captain +Dick." + +You have an extraordinary respect for Captain Dick: his gruff tones, +dark beard, patched waistcoat, and cowhide boots, only add to it: you +can compare your regard for him only with the sentiments you entertain +for those fabulous Roman heroes, led on by Horatius, who cut down the +bridge across the Tiber, and then swam over to their wives and families! + +A superannuated old greyhound lives about the premises, and stalks +lazily around, thrusting his thin nose into your hands in a very +affectionate manner. + +Of course, in your way, you are a lion among the boys of the +neighborhood: a blue jacket that you wear, with bell buttons of white +metal, is their especial wonderment. You astonish them moreover with +your stories of various parts of the world which they have never +visited. They tell you of the haunts of rabbits, and great snake +stories, as you sit in the dusk after supper under the old oaks; and you +delight them in turn with some marvellous tale of South-American +reptiles out of Peter Parley's books. + +In all this your new friends are men of observation; while Frank and +yourself are comparatively men of reading. In ciphering, and all +schooling, you find yourself a long way before them; and you talk of +problems, and foreign seas, and Latin declensions, in a way that sets +them all agape. + +As for the little country girls, their bare legs rather stagger your +notions of propriety; nor can you wholly get over their out-of-the-way +pronunciation of some of the vowels. Frank however has a little +cousin,--a toddling, wee thing, some seven years your junior, who has a +rich eye for an infant. But, alas, its color means nothing; poor Fanny +is stone-blind! Your pity leans toward her strangely, as she feels her +way about the old parlor; and her dark eyes wander over the wainscot, or +over the clear, blue sky, with the same sad, painful vacancy. + +And yet--it is very strange!--she does not grieve: there is a sweet, +soft smile upon her lip,--a smile, that will come to you in your +fancied troubles of after-life with a deep voice of reproach. + +Altogether you grow into a liking of the country: your boyish spirit +loves its fresh, bracing air, and the sparkles of dew that at sunrise +cover the hills with diamonds; and the wild river, with its +black-topped, loitering pools; and the shaggy mists that lie in the +nights of early autumn like unravelled clouds, lost upon the meadow. You +love the hills, climbing green and grand to the skies, or stretching +away in distance their soft, blue, smoky caps, like the sweet, +half-faded memories of the years behind you. You love those oaks, +tossing up their broad arms into clear heaven with a spirit and a +strength that kindles your dawning pride and purposes, and that makes +you yearn, as your forehead mantles with fresh blood, for a kindred +spirit and a kindred strength. Above all you love--though you do not +know it now--the BREADTH of a country life. In the fields of +God's planting there is ROOM. No walls of brick and mortar +cramp one; no factitious distinctions mould your habit. The involuntary +reaches of the spirit tend toward the True and the Natural. The flowers, +the clouds, and the fresh-smelling earth, all give width to your intent. +The boy grows into manliness, instead of growing to be like men. He +claims--with tears almost of brotherhood--his kinship with Nature; and +he feels in the mountains his heirship to the Father of Nature! + +This delirium of feeling may not find expression upon the lip of the +boy; but yet it underlies his thought, and will without his +consciousness give the spring to his musing dreams. + +----So it is, that, as you lie there upon the sunny greensward, at the +old Squire's door, you muse upon the time when some rich-lying land, +with huge granaries, and cosy old mansion sleeping under the trees, +shall be yours,--when the brooks shall water your meadows, and come +laughing down your pasture-lands,--when the clouds shall shed their +spring fragrance upon your lawns, and the daisies bless your paths. + +You will then be a Squire, with your cane, your lean-limbed hound, your +stocking-leg of specie, and your snuffbox. You will be the happy and +respected husband of some tidy old lady in black, and spectacles,--a +little phthisicky, like Frank's grandmother,--and an accomplished cook +of stewed pears and Johnny-cakes! + +It seems a very lofty ambition at this stage of growth to reach such +eminence, as to convert your drawer in the wainscot, that has a secret +spring, into a bank for the country people; and the power to send a man +to jail seems one of those stretches of human prerogative to which few +of your fellow-mortals can ever hope to attain. + +----Well, it may all be. And who knows but the Dreams of Age, when +they are reached, will be lighted by the same spirit and freedom of +nature that is around you now? Who knows, but that after tracking you +through the spring and the summer of Youth, we shall find frosted Age +settling upon you heavily and solemnly in the very fields where you +wanton to-day? + +This American life of ours is a tortuous and shifting impulse. It brings +Age back from years of wandering to totter in the hamlet of its birth; +and it scatters armies of ripe manhood to bleach far-away shores with +their bones. + +That Providence, whose eye and hand are the spy and the executioner of +the Fateful changes of our life, may bring you back in Manhood, or in +Age, to this mountain home of New England; and that very willow yonder, +which your fancy now makes the graceful mourner of your leave, may one +day shadow mournfully your grave! + + + + +VII. + +_The Country Church._ + + +The country church is a square old building of wood without paint or +decoration, and of that genuine Puritanic stamp which is now fast giving +way to Greek porticos and to cockney towers. It stands upon a hill, with +a little churchyard in its rear, where one or two sickly-looking trees +keep watch and ward over the vagrant sheep that graze among the graves. +Bramble-bushes seem to thrive on the bodies below, and there is no +flower in the little yard, save a few golden-rods, which flaunt their +gaudy inodorous color under the lee of the northern wall. + +New England country-livers have as yet been very little inoculated with +the sentiment of beauty; even the doorstep to the church is a wide flat +stone, that shows not a single stroke of the hammer. Within, the +simplicity is even more severe. Brown galleries run around three sides +of the old building, supported by timbers, on which you still trace, +under the stains from the leaky roof, the deep scoring of the woodman's +axe. + +Below, the unpainted pews are ranged in square forms, and by age have +gained the color of those fragmentary wrecks of cigar-boxes which you +see upon the top shelves in the bar-rooms of country taverns. The +minister's desk is lofty, and has once been honored with a coating of +paint;--as well as the huge sounding-board, which to your great +amazement protrudes from the wall at a very dangerous angle of +inclination over the speaker's head. As the Squire's pew is the place of +honor to the right of the pulpit, you have a little tremor yourself at +sight of the heavy sounding-board, and cannot forbear indulging in a +quiet feeling of relief when the last prayer is said. + +There are in the Squire's pew long, faded, crimson cushions, which, it +seems to you, must date back nearly to the commencement of the Christian +era in this country. There are also sundry old thumb-worn copies of Dr. +Dwight's Version of the Psalms of David,--"appointed to be sung in +churches by authority of the General Association of the State of +Connecticut." The sides of Dr. Dwight's Version are, you observe, sadly +warped and weather-stained; and from some stray figures which appear +upon a fly-leaf you are constrained to think, that the Squire has +sometimes employed a quiet interval of the service with reckoning up the +contents of the old stocking-leg at home. + +The parson is a stout man, remarkable in your opinion chiefly for a +yellowish-brown wig, a strong nasal tone, and occasional violent thumps +upon the little, dingy, red velvet cushion, studded with brass tacks, at +the top of the desk. You do not altogether admire his style; and by the +time he has entered upon his "Fourthly," you give your attention in +despair to a new reading (it must be the twentieth) of the preface to +Dr. Dwight's Version of the Psalms. + +The singing has a charm for you. There is a long, thin-faced, +flax-haired man, who carries a tuning-fork in his waistcoat-pocket, and +who leads the choir. His position is in the very front rank of gallery +benches facing the desk; and by the time the old clergyman has read two +verses of the psalm, the country chorister turns around to his little +group of aids--consisting of the blacksmith, a carroty-headed +schoolmaster, two women in snuff-colored silks, and a girl in pink +bonnet--to announce the tune. + +This being done in an authoritative manner, he lifts his long +music-book--glances again at his little company,--clears his throat by a +powerful ahem, followed by a powerful use of a bandanna +pocket-handkerchief,--draws out his tuning-fork, and waits for the +parson to close his reading. He now reviews once more his +company,--throws a reproving glance at the young woman in the pink hat, +who at the moment is biting off a stout bunch of fennel,--lifts his +music-book,--thumps upon the rail with his fork,--listens +keenly,--gives a slight _ahem_,--falls into the cadence,--swells into a +strong _crescendo_,--catches at the first word of the line as if he were +afraid it might get away,--turns to his company,--lifts his music-book +with spirit, gives it a powerful slap with the disengaged hand, and with +a majestic toss of the head soars away, with half the women below +straggling on in his wake, into some such brave old melody +as--LITCHFIELD! + +Being a visitor, and in the Squire's pew, you are naturally an object of +considerable attention to the girls about your age, as well as to a +great many fat old ladies in iron spectacles, who mortify you +excessively by patting you under the chin after church; and insist upon +mistaking you for Frank; and force upon you very dry cookies spiced with +caraway seeds. + +You keep somewhat shy of the young ladies, as they are rather stout for +your notions of beauty, and wear thick calf-skin boots. They compare +very poorly with Jenny. Jenny, you think, would be above eating +gingerbread between service. None of them, you imagine, ever read +"Thaddeus of Warsaw," or ever used a colored glass seal with a Cupid and +a dart upon it. You are quite certain they never did, or they could not +surely wear such dowdy gowns, and suck their thumbs as they do! + +The farmers you have a high respect for,--particularly for one +weazen-faced old gentleman in a brown surtout, who brings his whip into +church with him, who sings in a very strong voice, and who drives a span +of gray colts. You think, however, that he has got rather a stout wife; +and from the way he humors her in stopping to talk with two or three +other fat women, before setting off for home, (though he seems a little +fidgety,) you naively think that he has a high regard for her opinion. +Another townsman who attracts your notice is a stout old deacon, who, +before entering, always steps around the corner of the church, and puts +his hat upon the ground, to adjust his wig in a quiet way. He then +marches up the broad aisle in a stately manner, and plants his hat and a +big pair of buckskin mittens on the little table under the desk. When he +is fairly seated in his corner of the pew, with his elbow upon the top +rail,--almost the only man who can comfortably reach it,--you observe +that he spreads his brawny fingers over his scalp in an exceedingly +cautious manner; and you innocently think again that it is very +hypocritical in a deacon to be pretending to lean upon his hand when he +is only keeping his wig straight. + +After the morning service they have an "hour's intermission," as the +preacher calls it; during which the old men gather on a sunny side of +the building, and, after shaking hands all around, and asking after the +"folks" at home, they enjoy a quiet talk about the crops. One man, for +instance, with a twist in his nose, would say, "It's raether a growin' +season;" and another would reply, "Tolerable, but potatoes is feelin' +the wet badly." The stout deacon approves this opinion, and confirms it +by blowing his nose very powerfully. + +Two or three of the more worldly-minded ones will perhaps stroll over to +a neighbor's barnyard, and take a look at his young stock, and talk of +prices, and whittle a little; and very likely some two of them will make +a conditional "swop" of "three likely ye'rlings" for a pair of +"two-year-olds." + +The youngsters are fond of getting out into the graveyard, and comparing +jackknives, or talking about the schoolmaster or the menagerie, or, it +may be, of some prospective "travel" in the fall,--either to town, or +perhaps to the "sea-shore." + +Afternoon service hangs heavily; and the tall chorister is by no means +so blithe, or so majestic in the toss of his head, as in the morning. A +boy in the next box tries to provoke you into familiarity by dropping +pellets of gingerbread through the bars of the pew; but as you are not +accustomed to that way of making acquaintance, you decline all +overtures. + +After the service is finished, the wagons, that have been disposed on +either side of the road, are drawn up before the door. The old Squire +meantime is sure to have a little chat with the parson before he leaves; +in the course of which the parson takes occasion to say that his wife +is a little ailing,--"a slight touch," he thinks, "of the rheumatiz." +One of the children too has been troubled with the "summer complaint" +for a day or two; but he thinks that a dose of catnip, under Providence, +will effect a cure. The younger and unmarried men, with red wagons +flaming upon bright yellow wheels, make great efforts to drive off in +the van; and they spin frightfully near some of the fat, sour-faced +women, who remark in a quiet, but not very Christian tone, that they +"fear the elder's sermon hasn't done the young bucks much good." It is +much to be feared in truth that it has not. + +In ten minutes the old church is thoroughly deserted; the neighbor who +keeps the key has locked up for another week the creaking door; and +nothing of the service remains within except--Dr. Dwight's Version,--the +long music-books,--crumbs of gingerbread, and refuse stalks of despoiled +fennel. + +And yet under the influence of that old, weather-stained temple are +perhaps growing up--though you do not once fancy it--souls possessed of +an energy, an industry, and a respect for virtue, which will make them +stronger for the real work of life than all the elegant children of a +city. One lesson, which even the rudest churches of New England +teach,--with all their harshness, and all their repulsive severity of +form,--is the lesson of Self-Denial. Once armed with that, and manhood +is strong. The soul that possesses the consciousness of mastering +passion, is endowed with an element of force that can never harmonize +with defeat. Difficulties it wears like a summer garment, and flings +away at the first approach of the winter of Need. + +Let not any one suppose, then, that in this detail of the country life +through which our hero is led, I would cast obloquy or a sneer upon its +simplicity, or upon its lack of refinement. Goodness and strength in +this world are quite as apt to wear rough coats as fine ones. And the +words of thorough and self-sacrificing kindness are far more often +dressed in the uncouth sounds of retired life than in the polished +utterance of the town. Heaven has not made warm hearts and honest hearts +distinguishable by the quality of the covering. True diamonds need no +work of the artificer to reflect and multiply their rays. Goodness is +more within than without; and purity is of nearer kin to the soul than +to the body. + +----And, Clarence, it may well happen that later in life--under the +gorgeous ceilings of Venetian churches, or at some splendid mass in +Notre Dame, with embroidered coats and costly silks around you--your +thoughts will run back to that little storm-beaten church, and to the +willow waving in its yard, with a Hope that _glows_, and with a tear +that you embalm! + + + + +VIII. + +_A Home Scene._ + + +And now I shall not leave this realm of boyhood, or suffer my hero to +slip away from this gala-time of his life, without a fair look at that +Home where his present pleasures lie, and where all his dreams begin and +end. + +Little does the boy know, as the tide of years drifts by, floating him +out insensibly from the harbor of his home upon the great sea of +life,--what joys, what opportunities, what affections, are slipping from +him into the shades of that inexorable Past, where no man can go save on +the wings of his dreams. Little does he think--and God be praised that +the thought does not sink deep lines in his young forehead!--as he leans +upon the lap of his mother, with his eye turned to her in some earnest +pleading for a fancied pleasure of the hour, or in some important story +of his griefs, that such sharing of his sorrows, and such sympathy with +his wishes, he will find nowhere again. + +Little does he imagine that the fond Nelly, ever thoughtful of his +pleasure, ever smiling away his griefs, will soon be beyond the reach +of either, and that the waves of the years, which come rocking so gently +under him, will soon toss her far away upon the great swell of life. + +But _now_ you are there. The firelight glimmers upon the walls of your +cherished home, like the Vestal fire of old upon the figures of adoring +virgins, or like the flame of Hebrew sacrifice, whose incense bore +hearts to Heaven. The big chair of your father is drawn to its wonted +corner by the chimney-side; his head, just touched with gray, lies back +upon its oaken top. Little Nelly leans upon his knee, looking up for +some reply to her girlish questionings. Opposite sits your mother: her +figure is thin, her look cheerful, yet subdued; her arm perhaps resting +on your shoulder, as she talks to you in tones of tender admonition of +the days that are to come. + +The cat is purring on the hearth; the clock, that ticked so plainly when +Charlie died, is ticking on the mantel still. The great table in the +middle of the room with its books and work waits only for the lighting +of the evening lamp, to see a return to its stores of embroidery, and of +story. + +Upon a little stand under the mirror, which catches now and then a +flicker of the firelight, and makes it play wantonly over the ceiling, +lies that big book reverenced of your New-England parents,--the Family +Bible. It is a ponderous square volume, with heavy silver clasps that +you have often pressed open for a look at its quaint old pictures, or +for a study of those prettily bordered pages which lie between the +Testaments, and which hold the Family Record. + +There are the Births,--your father's, and your mother's; it seems as if +they were born a long time ago; and even your own date of birth appears +an almost incredible distance back. Then there are the marriages,--only +one as yet; and your mother's maiden name looks oddly to you: it is hard +to think of her as any one else than your doting parent. You wonder if +your name will ever come under that paging; and wonder, though you +scarce whisper the wonder to yourself, how another name would look, just +below yours,--such a name, for instance, as Fanny, or as Miss Margaret +Boyne! + +Last of all come the Deaths,--only one. Poor Charlie! How it +looks?--"Died 12 September 18--Charles Henry, aged four years." You know +just how it looks. You have turned to it often; there you seem to be +joined to him, though only by the turning of a leaf. And over your +thoughts, as you look at that page of the record, there sometimes +wanders a vague shadowy fear, which _will_ come,--that your own name may +soon be there. You try to drop the notion, as if it were not fairly your +own; you affect to slight it, as you would slight a boy who presumed on +your acquaintance, but whom you have no desire to know. It is a common +thing, you will find, with our world to decline familiarity with those +ideas that fright us. + +Yet your mother--how strange it is!--has no fears of such dark fancies. +Even now as you stand beside her, and as the twilight deepens in the +room, her low, silvery voice is stealing upon your ear, telling you that +she cannot be long with you; that the time is coming when you must be +guided by your own judgment, and struggle with the world unaided by the +friends of your boyhood. There is a little pride, and a great deal more +of anxiety, in your thoughts now, as you look steadfastly into the home +blaze, while those delicate fingers, so tender of your happiness, play +with the locks upon your brow. + +----To struggle with the world,--that is a proud thing; to struggle +alone,--there lies the doubt! Then crowds in swift upon the calm of +boyhood the first anxious thought of youth; then chases over the sky of +Spring the first heated and wrathful cloud of Summer. + +But the lamps are now lit in the little parlor, and they shed a soft +haze to the farthest corner of the room; while the firelight streams +over the floor, where puss lies purring. Little Madge is there; she has +dropped in softly with her mother, and Nelly has welcomed her with a +bound and with a kiss. Jenny has not so rosy a cheek as Madge. But +Jenny with her love-notes, and her languishing dark eye, you think of as +a lady; and the thought of her is a constant drain upon your sentiment. +As for Madge,--that girl Madge, whom you know so well,--you think of her +as a sister; and yet--it is very odd--you look at her far oftener than +you do at Nelly! + +Frank too has come in to have a game with you at draughts; and he is in +capital spirits, all brisk and glowing with his evening's walk. +He--bless his honest heart!--never observes that you arrange the board +very adroitly, so that you may keep half an eye upon Madge, as she sits +yonder beside Nelly. Nor does he once notice your blush as you catch her +eye when she raises her head to fling back the ringlets, and then with a +sly look at you bends a most earnest gaze upon the board, as if she were +especially interested in the disposition of the men. + +You catch a little of the spirit of coquetry yourself,--(what a native +growth it is!)--and if she lift her eyes when you are gazing at her, you +very suddenly divert your look to the cat at her feet, and remark to +your friend Frank in an easy off-hand way--how still the cat is lying! + +And Frank turns--thinking probably, if he thinks at all about it, that +cats are very apt to lie still when they sleep. + +As for Nelly, half neglected by your thought as well as by your eye, +while mischievous-looking Madge is sitting by her, you little know as +yet what kindness, what gentleness, you are careless of. Few loves in +life, and you will learn it before life is done, can balance the lost +love of a sister. + +As for your parents, in the intervals of the game you listen dreamily to +their talk with the mother of Madge,--good Mrs. Boyne. It floats over +your mind, as you rest your chin upon your clenched hand, like a strain +of old familiar music,--a household strain that seems to belong to the +habit of your ear,--a strain that will linger about it melodiously for +many years to come,--a strain that will be recalled long time hence, +when life is earnest and its cares heavy, with tears of regret and with +sighs of bitterness. + +By-and-by your game is done; and other games, in which join Nelly (the +tears come when you write her name _now_!) and Madge, (the smiles come +when you look on her _then_,) stretch out that sweet eventide of Home, +until the lamp flickers, and you speak your friends--adieu. To Madge, it +is said boldly,--a boldness put on to conceal a little lurking tremor; +but there is no tremor in the home good-night. + +----Aye, my boy, kiss your mother,--kiss her again; fondle your sweet +Nelly; pass your little hand through the gray locks of your father; love +them dearly while you can! Make your good-nights linger and make your +adieus long, and sweet, and often repeated. Love with your whole +soul,--Father, Mother, and Sister,--for these loves shall die! + +----Not indeed in thought,--God be thanked! Nor yet in tears,--for He +is merciful! But they shall die, as the leaves die,--die, as Spring dies +into the heat and ripeness of Summer, and as boyhood dies into the +elasticity and ambition of youth. Death, Distance, and Time shall each +one of them dig graves for your affections; but this you do not know, +nor can know, until the story of your life is ended. + +The dreams of riches, of love, of voyage, of learning, that light up the +boy age with splendor, will pass on and over into the hotter dreams of +youth. Spring buds and blossoms, under the glowing sun of April, nurture +at their heart those firstlings of fruit which the heat of summer shall +ripen. + +You little know--and for this you may well thank Heaven--that you are +leaving the Spring of life, and that you are floating fast from the +shady sources of your years into heat, bustle, and storm. Your dreams +are now faint, flickering shadows, that play like fire-flies in the +coppices of leafy June. They have no rule but the rule of infantile +desire; they have no joys to promise greater than the joys that belong +to your passing life; they have no terrors but such terrors as the +darkness of a Spring night makes. They do not take hold on your soul as +the dreams of youth and manhood will do. + +Your highest hope is shadowed in a cheerful, boyish home. You wish no +friends but the friends of boyhood; no sister but your fond Nelly; none +to love better than the playful Madge. + +You forget, Clarence, that the Spring with you is the Spring with them, +and that the storms of Summer may chase wide shadows over your path and +over theirs. And you forget that Summer is even now lowering with its +mist, and with its scorching rays, upon the hem of your flowery May! + + * * * * * + +----The hands of the old clock upon the mantel, that ticked off the +hours when Charlie sighed and when Charlie died, draw on toward +midnight. The shadows that the fire-flame makes grow dimmer and dimmer. +And thus it is that Home, boy home, passes away forever,--like the +swaying of a pendulum,--like the fading of a shadow on the floor! + + + + + +_SUMMER;_ + +OR, + +_THE DREAMS OF YOUTH._ + + + + +_DREAMS OF YOUTH._ + +_Summer._ + + +I feel a great deal of pity for those honest but misguided people who +call their little, spruce suburban towns, or the shaded streets of their +inland cities,--the country and I have still more pity for those who +reckon a season at the summer resorts--country enjoyment. Nay, my +feeling is more violent than pity; and I count it nothing less than +blasphemy so to take the name of the country in vain. + +I thank Heaven every summer's day of my life, that my lot was humbly +cast within the hearing of romping brooks, and beneath the shadow of +oaks. And from all the tramp and bustle of the world into which fortune +has led me in these latter years of my life, I delight to steal away for +days, and for weeks together, and bathe my spirit in the freedom of the +old woods; and to grow young again, lying upon the brook-side, and +counting the white clouds that sail along the sky softly and +tranquilly--even as holy memories go stealing over the vault of life. + +I am deeply thankful that I could never find it in my heart so to +pervert truth as to call the smart villages with the tricksy shadow of +their maple avenues--the Country. + +I love these in their way, and can recall pleasant passages of thought, +as I have idled through the Sabbath-looking towns, or lounged at the +inn-door of some quiet New-England village. But I love far better to +leave them behind me, and to dash boldly out to where some out-lying +farm-house sits--like a sentinel--under the shelter of wooded hills, or +nestles in the lap of a noiseless valley. + +In the town, small as it may be, and darkened as it may be with the +shadows of trees, you cannot forget--men. Their voice, and strife, and +ambition come to your eye in the painted paling, in the swinging +signboard of the tavern, and--worst of all--in the trim-printed +"ATTORNEY AT LAW." Even the little milliner's shop, with its +meagre show of leghorns, and its string across the window all hung with +tabs and with cloth roses, is a sad epitome of the great and +conventional life of a city neighborhood. + +I like to be rid of them all, as I am rid of them this midsummer's day. +I like to steep my soul in a sea of quiet, with nothing floating past +me, as I lie moored to my thought, but the perfume of flowers, and +soaring birds, and shadows of clouds. + +Two days since I was sweltering in the heat of the City, jostled by the +thousand eager workers, and panting under the shadow of the walls. But I +have stolen away; and for two hours of healthful regrowth into the +darling Past I have been lying this blessed summer's morning upon the +grassy bank of a stream that babbled me to sleep in boyhood.--Dear old +stream, unchanging, unfaltering,--with no harsher notes now than +then,--never growing old,--smiling in your silver rustle, and calming +yourself in the broad, placid pools,--I love you as I love a friend! + +But now that the sun has grown scalding hot, and the waves of heat have +come rocking under the shadow of the meadow-oaks, I have sought shelter +in a chamber of the old farm-house. The window-blinds are closed; but +some of them are sadly shattered, and I have intertwined in them a few +branches of the late-blossoming white azalia, so that every puff of the +summer air comes to me cooled with fragrance. A dimple or two of the +sunlight still steals through my flowery screen, and dances (as the +breeze moves the branches) upon the oaken floor of the farm-house. + +Through one little gap indeed I can see the broad stretch of meadow, and +the workmen in the field bending and swaying to their scythes. I can see +too the glistening of the steel, as they wipe their blades, and can just +catch floating on the air the measured, tinkling thwack of the +rifle-stroke. + +Here and there a lark, scared from his feeding-place in the grass, soars +up, bubbling forth his melody in globules of silvery sound, and settles +upon some tall tree, and waves his wings, and sinks to the swaying +twigs. I hear too a quail piping from the meadow fence, and another +trilling his answering whistle from the hills. Nearer by, a tyrant +king-bird is poised on the topmost branch of a veteran pear-tree, and +now and then dashes down, assassin-like, upon some homebound, +honey-laden bee, and then with a smack of his bill resumes his predatory +watch. + +A chicken or two lie in the sun, with a wing and a leg stretched +out,--lazily picking at the gravel, or relieving their _ennui_ from time +to time with a spasmodic rustle of their feathers. An old, matronly hen +stalks about the yard with a sedate step, and with quiet self-assurance +she utters an occasional series of hoarse and heated clucks. A speckled +turkey, with an astonished brood at her heels, is eying curiously, and +with earnest variations of the head, a full-fed cat, that lies curled +up, and dozing, upon the floor of the cottage porch. + +As I sit thus, watching through the interstices of my leafy screen the +various images of country life, I hear distant mutterings from beyond +the hills. + +The sun has thrown its shadow upon the pewter dial two hours beyond the +meridian line. Great cream colored heads of thunder-clouds are lifting +above the sharp, clear line of the western horizon; the light breeze +dies away, and the air becomes stifling, even under the shadow of my +withered boughs in the chamber-window. The white-capped clouds roll up +nearer and nearer to the sun, and the creamy masses below grow dark in +their seams. The mutterings, that came faintly before, now spread into +wide volumes of rolling sound, that echo again and again from the +eastward heights. + +I hear in the deep intervals the men shouting to their teams in the +meadows; and great companies of startled swallows are dashing in all +directions around the gray roofs of the barn. + +The clouds have now wellnigh reached the sun, which seems to shine the +fiercer for his coming eclipse. The whole west, as I look from the +sources of the brook to its lazy drift under the swamps that lie to the +south, is hung with a curtain of darkness; and like swift-working, +golden ropes, that lift it toward the zenith, long chains of lightning +flash through it; and the growing thunder seems like the rumble of the +pulleys. + +I thrust away my azalia-boughs, and fling back the shattered blinds, as +the sun and the clouds meet, and my room darkens with the coming +shadows. For an instant the edges of the thick, creamy masses of cloud +are gilded by the shrouded sun, and show gorgeous scallops of gold, +that toss upon the hem of the storm. But the blazonry fades as the +clouds mount; and the brightening lines of the lightning dart up from +the lower skirts, and heave the billowy masses into the middle heaven. + +The workmen are urging their oxen fast across the meadow, and the +loiterers come straggling after with rakes upon their shoulders. The +matronly hen has retreated to the stable-door; and the brood of turkeys +stand dressing their feathers under the open shed. + +The air freshens, and blows now from the face of the coming clouds. I +see the great elms in the plain swaying their tops, even before the +storm-breeze has reached me; and a bit of ripened grain upon a swell of +the meadow waves and tosses like a billowy sea. + +Presently I hear the rush of the wind; and the cherry-and pear-trees +rustle through all their leaves; and my paper is whisked away by the +intruding blast. + +There is a quiet of a moment, in which the wind even seems weary and +faint, and nothing finds utterance save one hoarse tree-toad, doling out +his lugubrious notes. + +Now comes a blinding flash from the clouds, and a quick, sharp clang +clatters through the heavens, and bellows loud and long among the hills. +Then--like great grief spending its pent agony in tears--come the big +drops of rain,--pattering on the lawn and on the leaves, and most +musically of all upon the roof above me,--not now with the light fall of +the Spring shower, but with strong steppings, like the first proud tread +of Youth! + + + + +I. + +_Cloister Life._ + + +It has very likely occurred to you, my reader, that I am playing the +wanton in these sketches, and am breaking through all the canons of the +writers in making You my hero. + +It is even so; for my work is a story of those vague feelings, doubts, +passions, which belong more or less to every man of us all; and +therefore it is that I lay upon your shoulders the burden of these +dreams. If this or that one never belonged to your experience, have +patience for a while. I feel sure that others are coming which will lie +like a truth upon your heart, and draw you unwittingly--perhaps +tearfully even--into the belief that You are indeed my hero. + +The scene now changes to the cloister of a college; not the gray, +classic cloisters which lie along the banks of the Cam or the +Isis,--huge, battered hulks, on whose weather-stained decks great +captains of learning have fought away their lives,--nor yet the +cavernous, quadrangular courts that sleep under the dingy walls of the +Sorbonne. + +The youth-dreams of Clarence begin under the roof of one of those long, +ungainly piles of brick and mortar which make the colleges of New +England. + +The floor of the room is rough, and divided by wide seams. The +study-table does not stand firmly without a few spare pennies to prop it +into solid footing. The bookcase of stained fir-wood, suspended against +the wall by cords, is meagrely stocked with a couple of Lexicons, a pair +of Grammars, a Euclid, a Xenophon, a Homer, and a Livy. Beside these are +scattered about here and there a thumb-worn copy of British ballads, an +odd volume of the "Sketch-Book," a clumsy Shakspeare, and a pocket +edition of the Bible. + +With such appliances, added to the half-score of professors and tutors +who preside over the awful precincts, you are to work your way up to +that proud entrance upon our American life which begins with the +Baccalaureate degree. There is a tingling sensation in first walking +under the shadow of those walls, uncouth as they are, and in feeling +that you belong to them,--that you are a member, as it were, of the +body-corporate, subject to an actual code of printed laws, and to actual +moneyed fines varying from a shilling to fifty cents! + +There is something exhilarating in the very consciousness of your +subject state, and in the necessity of measuring your hours by the habit +of such a learned community. You think back upon your respect for the +lank figure of some old teacher of boy-days as a childish weakness; even +the little coteries of the home fireside lose their importance when +compared with the extraordinary sweep and dignity of your present +position. + +It is pleasant to measure yourself with men; and there are those about +you who seem to your untaught eye to be men already. Your chum, a +hard-faced fellow of ten more years than you, digging sturdily at his +tasks, seems by that very community of work to dignify your labor. You +watch his cold, gray eye bending down over some theorem of Euclid, with +a kind of proud companionship in what so tasks his manliness. + +It is nothing for him to quit sleep at the first tinkling of the +alarm-clock that hangs in your chamber, or to brave the weather in that +cheerless run to the morning prayers of winter. Yet with what a dreamy +horror you wake on mornings of snow to that tinkling alarum!--and glide +in the cold and darkness under the shadow of the college-walls, +shuddering under the sharp gusts that come sweeping between the +buildings,--and afterward, gathering yourself up in your cloak, watch in +a sleepy, listless maze the flickering lamps that hang around the dreary +chapel! You follow half unconsciously some tutor's rhetorical reading of +a chapter of Isaiah; and then, as he closes the Bible with a flourish, +your eye, half open, catches the feeble figure of the old Dominie as he +steps to the desk, and, with his frail hands stretched out upon the +cover of the big book, and his head leaning slightly to one side, runs +through in gentle and tremulous tones his wonted form of invocation. + +Your Division room is steaming with foul heat, and there is a strong +smell of burnt feathers and oil. A jaunty tutor with pug nose and +consequential air steps into the room--while you all rise to show him +deference--and takes his place at the pulpit-like desk. Then come the +formal loosing of his camlet cloak-clasp,--the opening of his sweaty +Xenophon to where the day's _parasangs_ begin,--the unsliding of his +silver pencil-case,--the keen, sour look around the benches, and the +cool pinch of his thumb and forefinger into the fearful box of names! + +How you listen for each as it is uttered,--running down the page in +advance,--rejoicing when some hard passage comes to a stout man in the +corner; and what a sigh of relief--on mornings after you have been out +late at night--when the last paragraph is reached, the ballot drawn, +and--you, safe! + +You speculate dreamily upon the faces around you. You wonder what sort +of schooling they may have had, and what sort of homes. You think one +man has got an extraordinary name, and another a still more +extraordinary nose. The glib, easy way of one student, and his perfect +_sang-froid_, completely charm you: you set him down in your own mind +as a kind of Crichton. Another weazen-faced, pinched-up fellow in a +scant cloak, you think must have been sometime a schoolmaster: he is so +very precise, and wears such an indescribable look of the ferule. There +is one big student, with a huge beard and a rollicking good-natured eye, +whom you would quite like to see measure strength with your old usher, +and on careful comparison rather think the usher would get the worst of +it. Another appears as venerable as some fathers you have seen; and it +seems wonderfully odd that a man old enough to have children should +recite Xenophon by morning candle-light! + +The class in advance you study curiously; and are quite amazed at the +precocity of certain youths belonging to it, who are apparently about +your own age. The Juniors you look upon with a quiet reverence for their +aplomb and dignity of character; and look forward with intense yearnings +to the time when you too shall be admitted freely to the precincts of +the Philosophical chamber, and to the very steep benches of the +Laboratory. This last seems, from occasional peeps through the blinds, a +most mysterious building. The chimneys, recesses, vats, and cisterns--to +say nothing of certain galvanic communications, which, you are told, +traverse the whole building in a way capable of killing a rat at an +incredible remove from the bland professor--utterly fatigue your +wonder! You humbly trust--though you have doubts upon the point--that +you will have the capacity to grasp it all, when once you shall have +arrived at the dignity of a Junior. + +As for the Seniors, your admiration for them is entirely boundless. In +one or two individual instances, it is true, it has been broken down by +an unfortunate squabble with thick-set fellows in the Chapel aisle. A +person who sits not far before you at prayers, and whose name you seek +out very early, bears a strong resemblance to some portrait of Dr. +Johnson; you have very much the same kind of respect for him that you +feel for the great lexicographer, and do not for a moment doubt his +capacity to compile a dictionary equal, if not superior, to Johnson's. + +Another man with very bushy, black hair, and an easy look of importance, +carries a large cane, and is represented to you as an astonishing +scholar and speaker. You do not doubt it; his very air proclaims it. You +think of him as presently--(say four or five years hence)--astounding +the United States Senate with his eloquence. And when once you have +heard him in debate, with that ineffable gesture of his, you absolutely +languish in your admiration for him, and you describe his speaking to +your country friends as very little inferior, if at all, to Mr. Burke's. +Beside this one are some half dozen others, among whom the question of +superiority is, you understand, strongly mooted. It puzzles you to +think, what an avalanche of talent will fall upon the country at the +graduation of those Seniors! + +You will find however that the country bears such inundations of college +talent with a remarkable degree of equanimity. It is quite wonderful how +all the Burkes, and Scotts, and Peels, among college Seniors, do quietly +disappear, as a man gets on in life. + +As for any degree of fellowship with such giants, it is an honor hardly +to be thought of. But you have a classmate--I will call him Dalton--who +is very intimate with a dashing Senior; they room near each other +outside the college. You quite envy Dalton, and you come to know him +well. He says that you are not a "green-one,"--that you have "cut your +eye-teeth"; in return for which complimentary opinions you entertain a +strong friendship for Dalton. + +He is a "fast" fellow, as the Senior calls him; and it is a proud thing +to happen at their rooms occasionally, and to match yourself for an hour +or two (with the windows darkened) against a Senior at "old sledge." It +is quite "the thing," as Dalton says, to meet a Senior familiarly in the +street. Sometimes you go, after Dalton has taught you "the ropes," to +have a cosy sit-down over oysters and champagne,--to which the Senior +lends himself with the pleasantest condescension in the world. You are +not altogether used to hard drinking; but this you conceal--as most +spirited young fellows do--by drinking a great deal. You have a dim +recollection of certain circumstances--very unimportant, yet very +vividly impressed on your mind--which occurred on one of these +occasions. + +The oysters were exceedingly fine, and the champagne exquisite. You have +a recollection of something being said, toward the end of the first +bottle, of Xenophon, and of the Senior's saying in his playful way, "Oh, +d--n Xenophon!" + +You remember Dalton laughed at this; and you laughed--for company. You +remember that you thought, and Dalton thought, and the Senior thought, +by a singular coincidence, that the second bottle of champagne was +better even than the first. You have a dim remembrance of the Senior's +saying very loudly, "Clarence--(calling you by your family name)--is no +spooney;" and drinking a bumper with you in confirmation of the remark. + +You remember that Dalton broke out into a song, and that for a time you +joined in the chorus; you think the Senior called you to order for +repeating the chorus in the wrong place. You think the lights burned +with remarkable brilliancy; and you remember that a remark of yours to +that effect met with very much such a response from the Senior as he had +before employed with reference to Xenophon. + +You have a confused idea of calling Dalton--Xenophon. You think the +meeting broke up with a chorus, and that somebody--you cannot tell +who--broke two or three glasses. You remember questioning yourself very +seriously as to whether you were, or were not, tipsy. You think you +decided that you were not, but--might be. + +You have a confused recollection of leaning upon some one, or something, +going to your room; this sense of a desire to lean, you think, was very +strong. You remember being horribly afflicted with the idea of having +tried your night-key at the tutor's door, instead of your own; you +remember further a hot stove,--made certain indeed by a large blister +which appeared on your hand next day. You think of throwing off your +clothes by one or two spasmodic efforts,--leaning in the intervals +against the bedpost. + +There is a recollection of an uncommon dizziness afterward, as if your +body was very quiet, and your head gyrating with strange velocity, and a +kind of centrifugal action, all about the room, and the college, and +indeed the whole town. You think that you felt uncontrollable nausea +after this, followed by positive sickness,--which waked your chum, who +thought you very incoherent, and feared derangement. + +A dismal state of lassitude follows, broken by the college-clock +striking three, and by very rambling reflections upon champagne, +Xenophon, "Captain Dick," Madge, and the old deacon who clinched his wig +in the church. + +The next morning (ah, how vexatious that all our follies are followed by +a "next morning!") you wake with a parched mouth, and a torturing +thirst; the sun is shining broadly into your reeking chamber. Prayers +and recitations are long ago over; and you see through the door in the +outer room that hard-faced chum with his Lexicon and Livy open before +him, working out with all the earnestness of his iron purpose the steady +steps toward preferment and success. + +You go with some story of sudden sickness to the tutor,--half fearful +that the bloodshot, swollen eyes will betray you. It is very mortifying +too to meet Dalton appearing so gay and lively after it all, while you +wear such an air of being "used up." You envy him thoroughly the +extraordinary capacity that he has. + +Here and there creeps in, amid all the pride and shame of the new life, +a tender thought of the old home; but its joys are joys no longer: its +highest aspirations even have resolved themselves into fine mist,--- +like rainbows that the sun drinks with his beams. + +The affection for a mother, whose kindness you recall with a suffused +eye, is not gone, or blighted; but it is woven up, as only a single +adorning tissue, into the growing pride of youth: it is cherished in the +proud soul rather as a redeeming weakness than as a vital energy. + +And the love for Nelly, though it bates no jot of fervor, is woven into +the scale of growing purposes rather as a color to adorn than as a +strand to strengthen. + +As for your other loves, those romantic ones which were kindled by +bright eyes, and the stolen reading of Miss Porter's novels, they linger +on your mind like perfumes; and they float down your memory--with the +figure, the step, the last words of those young girls who raised +them--like the types of some dimly shadowed but deeper passion, which is +some time to spur your maturer purposes and to quicken your manly +resolves. + +It would be hard to tell, for you do not as yet know, but that Madge +herself--hoidenish, blue-eyed Madge--is to be the very one who will gain +such hold upon your riper affections as she has held already over your +boyish caprice. It is a part of the pride--I may say rather an evidence +of the pride--which youth feels in leaving boyhood behind him, to talk +laughingly and carelessly of those attachments which made his young +years so balmy with dreams. + + + + +II. + +_First Ambition._ + + +I believe that sooner or later there come to every man dreams of +ambition. They may be covered with the sloth of habit, or with the +pretence of humility; they may come only in dim, shadowy visions, that +feed the eye like the glories of an ocean sunrise; but you may be sure +that they will come: even before one is aware, the bold, adventurous +goddess, whose name is Ambition, and whose dower is Fame, will be toying +with the feeble heart. And she pushes her ventures with a bold hand; she +makes timidity strong, and weakness valiant. + +The way of a man's heart will be foreshadowed by what goodness lies in +him,--coming from above, and from around;--but a way foreshadowed is not +a way made. And the making of a man's way comes only from that +quickening of resolve which we call Ambition. It is the spur that makes +man struggle with Destiny: it is Heaven's own incentive, to make Purpose +great, and Achievement greater. + +It would be strange if you, in that cloister life of a college, did not +sometimes feel a dawning of new resolves. They grapple you indeed +oftener than you dare to speak of. Here you dream first of that very +sweet, but very shadowy success called Reputation. + +You think of the delight and astonishment it would give your mother and +father, and most of all little Nelly, if you were winning such honors as +now escape you. You measure your capacities by those about you, and +watch their habit of study; you gaze for a half-hour together upon some +successful man who has won his prizes, and wonder by what secret action +he has done it. And when in time you come to be a competitor yourself, +your anxiety is immense. + +You spend hours upon hours at your theme. You write and rewrite; and +when it is at length complete and out of your hands, you are harassed by +a thousand doubts. At times, as you recall your hours of toil, you +question if so much has been spent upon any other; you feel almost +certain of success. You repeat to yourself some passages of special +eloquence at night. You fancy the admiration of the professors at +meeting with such a wonderful performance. You have a slight fear that +its superior goodness may awaken the suspicion that some one out of the +college, some superior man, may have written it. But this fear dies +away. + +The eventful day is a great one in your calendar you hardly sleep the +night previous. You tremble as the chapel-bell is rung; you profess to +be very indifferent, as the reading and the prayer close; you even stoop +to take up your hat, as if you had entirely overlooked the fact that the +old President was in the desk for the express purpose of declaring the +successful names. You listen dreamily to his tremulous, yet fearfully +distinct enunciation. Your head swims strangely. + +They all pass out with a harsh murmur along the aisles and through the +doorways. It would be well if there were no disappointments in life more +terrible than this. It is consoling to express very depreciating +opinions of the Faculty in general,--and very contemptuous ones of that +particular officer who decided upon the merit of the prize-themes. An +evening or two at Dalton's room go still farther toward healing the +disappointment, and--if it must be said--toward moderating the heat of +your ambition. + +You grow up however, unfortunately, as the college years fly by, into a +very exaggerated sense of your own capacities. Even the good, old, +white-haired Squire, for whom you once entertained so much respect, +seems to your crazy, classic fancy a very humdrum sort of personage. +Frank, although as noble a fellow as ever sat a horse, is yet--you +cannot help thinking--very ignorant of Euripides; even the English +master at Dr. Bidlow's school, you feel sure, would balk at a dozen +problems you could give him. + +You get an exalted idea of that uncertain quality which turns the heads +of a vast many of your fellows, called--Genius. An odd notion seems to +be inherent in the atmosphere of those college chambers, that there is a +certain faculty of mind--first developed, as would seem, in +colleges--which accomplishes whatever it chooses without any special +painstaking. For a time you fall yourself into this very unfortunate +hallucination; you cultivate it after the usual college fashion, by +drinking a vast deal of strong coffee and whiskey-toddy, by writing a +little poor verse in the Byronic temper, and by studying very late at +night with closed blinds. + +It costs you however more anxiety and hypocrisy than you could possibly +have believed. + +----You will learn, Clarence, when the Autumn has rounded your hopeful +Summer, if not before, that there is no Genius in life like the Genius +of energy and industry. You will learn, that all the traditions so +current among very young men that certain great characters have wrought +their greatness by an inspiration, as it were, grow out of a sad +mistake. + +And you will further find, when you come to measure yourself with men, +that there are no rivals so formidable as those earnest, determined +minds which reckon the value of every hour, and which achieve eminence +by persistent application. + +Literary ambition may inflame you at certain periods and a thought of +some great names will flash like a spark into the mine of your purposes; +you dream till midnight over books; you set up shadows, and chase them +down,--other shadows, and they fly. Dreaming will never catch them. +Nothing makes the "scent lie well" in the hunt after distinction, but +labor. + +And it is a glorious thing, when once you are weary of the dissipation, +and the _ennui_ of your own aimless thought, to take up some glowing +page of an earnest thinker, and read--deep and long, until you feel the +metal of his thought tinkling on your brain, and striking out from your +flinty lethargy flashes of ideas that give the mind light and heat. And +away you go in the chase of what the soul within is creating on the +instant, and you wonder at the fecundity of what seemed so barren, and +at the ripeness of what seemed so crude. The glow of toil wakes you to +the consciousness of your real capacities: you feel sure that they have +taken a new step toward final development. In such mood it is that one +feels grateful to the musty tomes, which at other hours stand like +wonder-making mummies with no warmth and no vitality. Now they grow into +the affections like new-found friends, and gain a hold upon the heart, +and light a fire in the brain, that the years and the mould cannot cover +nor quench. + + + + +III. + +_College Romance._ + + +In following the mental vagaries of youth, I must not forget the +curvetings and wiltings of the heart. + +The black-eyed Jenny, with whom a correspondence at red heat was kept up +for several weeks, is long before this entirely out of your regard,--not +so much by reason of the six months' disparity of age, as from the fact, +communicated quite confidentially by the travelled Nat, that she has had +a desperate flirtation with a handsome midshipman. The conclusion is +natural that she is an inconstant, cruel-hearted creature, with little +appreciation of real worth; and furthermore, that all midshipmen are a +very contemptible--not to say dangerous--set of men. She is consigned to +forgetfulness and neglect; and the late lover has long ago consoled +himself by reading in a spirited way that passage of Childe Harold +commencing,-- + + "I have not loved the world, nor the world me." + +As for Madge, the memory of her has been more wakeful, but less violent. +To say nothing of occasional returns to the old homestead, when you have +met her Nelly's letters not unfrequently drop a careless half-sentence +that keeps her strangely in mind. + +"Madge," she says, "is sitting by me with her work;" or, "You ought to +see the little silk purse that Madge is knitting;" or,--speaking of some +country rout,--"Madge was there in the sweetest dress you can imagine." +All this will keep Madge in mind; not, it is true, in the ambitious +moods, or in the frolics with Dalton; but in those odd half-hours that +come stealing over one at twilight, laden with sweet memories of the +days of old. + +A new romantic admiration is started by those pale lady-faces which +light up on a Sunday the gallery of the college chapel. An amiable and +modest fancy gives to them all a sweet classic grace. The very +atmosphere of these courts, wakened with high metaphysic discourse, +seems to lend them a Greek beauty and fineness; and you attach to the +prettiest, that your eye can reach, all the charms of some Sciote +maiden, and all the learning of her father--the professor. And as you +lie half-wakeful and half-dreaming, through the long Divisions of the +Doctor's morning discourse, the twinkling eyes in some corner of the +gallery bear you pleasant company as you float down those streaming +visions which radiate from you far over the track of the coming life. + +But following very closely upon this comes a whole volume of street +romance. There are prettily shaped figures that go floating at +convenient hours for college observation along the thoroughfares of the +town. And these figures come to be known, and the dresses, and the +streets; and even the door-plate is studied. The hours are ascertained, +by careful observation and induction, at which some particular figure is +to be met,--or is to be seen at some low parlor-window, in white summer +dress, with head leaning on the hand, very melancholy, and very +dangerous. Perhaps her very card is stuck proudly into a corner of the +mirror in the college-chamber. After this may come moonlight meetings at +the gate, or long listenings to the plaintive lyrics that steal out of +the parlor-windows, and that blur wofully the text of the Conic +Sections. + +Or perhaps she is under the fierce eye of some Cerberus of a +schoolmistress, about whose grounds you prowl piteously, searching for +small knot-holes in the surrounding board fence, through which little +_souvenirs_ of impassioned feeling may be thrust. Sonnets are written +for the town papers, full of telling phrases, and with classic allusions +and foot-notes which draw attention to some similar felicity of +expression in Horace or Ovid. Correspondence may even be ventured on, +enclosing locks of hair, and interchanging rings, and paper oaths of +eternal fidelity. + +But the old Cerberus is very wakeful: the letters fail; the lamp that +used to glimmer for a sign among the sycamores is gone out; a stolen +wave of a handkerchief, a despairing look, and tears,--which you fancy, +but do not see,--make you miserable for long days. + +The tyrant teacher, with no trace of compassion in her withered heart, +reports you to the college authorities. There is a long lecture of +admonition upon the folly of such dangerous practices; and if the +offence be aggravated by some recent joviality with Dalton and the +Senior, you are condemned to a month of exile with a country clergyman. +There are a few tearful regrets over the painful tone of the home +letters; but the bracing country air, and the pretty faces of the +village girls, heal your heart--with fresh wounds. + +The old Doctor sees dimly through his spectacles; and his pew gives a +good look-out upon the smiling choir of singers. A collegian wears the +honors of a stranger, and the country bucks stand but poor chance in +contrast with your wonderful attainments in cravats and verses. But this +fresh dream, odorous with its memories of sleigh-rides or +lilac-blossoms, slips by, and yields again to the more ambitious dreams +of the cloister. + +In the prouder moments that come when you are more a man and less a +boy,--with more of strategy and less of faith,--your thought of woman +runs loftily; not loftily in the realm of virtue or goodness, but +loftily on your new world-scale. The pride of intellect, that is +thirsting in you, fashions ideal graces after a classic model. The +heroines of fable are admired; and the soul is tortured with that +intensity of passion which gleams through the broken utterances of +Grecian tragedy. + +In the vanity of self-consciousness one feels at a long remove above the +ordinary love and trustfulness of a simple and pure heart. You turn away +from all such with a sigh of conceit, to graze on that lofty but bitter +pasturage where no daisies grow. Admiration may be called up by some +graceful figure that you see moving under those sweeping elms; and you +follow it with an intensity of look that makes you blush, and +straightway hide the memory of the blush by summing up some artful +sophistry, that resolves your delighted gaze into a weakness, and your +contempt into a virtue. + +But this cannot last. As the years drop off, a certain pair of eyes beam +one day upon you that seem to have been cut out of a page of Greek +poetry. They have all its sentiment, its fire, its intellectual reaches: +it would be hard to say what they have not. The profile is a Greek +profile, and the heavy chestnut hair is plaited in Greek bands. The +figure, too, might easily be that of Helen, or of Andromache. + +You gaze, ashamed to gaze; and your heart yearns, ashamed of its +yearning. It is no young girl who is thus testing you: there is too +much pride for that. A ripeness and maturity rest upon her look and +figure that completely fill up that ideal which exaggerated fancies have +wrought out of the Grecian heaven. The vision steals upon you at all +hours,--now rounding its flowing outline to the mellifluous metre of +Epic hexameter, and again with its bounding life pulsating with the +glorious dashes of tragic verse. + +Yet with the exception of stolen glances and secret admiration, you keep +aloof. There is no wish to fathom what seems a happy mystery. There lies +a content in secret obeisance. Sometimes it shames you, as your mind +glows with its fancied dignity; but the heart thrusts in its voice; and, +yielding to it, you dream dreams like fond old Boccaccio's upon the +olive-shaded slopes of Italy. The tongue even is not trusted with the +thoughts that are seething within: they begin and end in the voiceless +pulsations of your nature. + +After a time--it seems a long time, but it is in truth a very short +time--you find who she is who is thus entrancing you. It is done most +carelessly. No creature could imagine that you felt any interest in the +accomplished sister--of your friend Dalton. Yet it is even she who has +thus beguiled you; and she is at least some ten years Dalton's senior, +and by even more years--your own! + +It is singular enough, but it is true, that the affections of that +transition state from youth to manliness run toward the types of +maturity. The mind in its reaches toward strength and completeness +creates a heart-sympathy--which in its turn craves fulness. There is a +vanity too about the first steps of manly education, which is disposed +to underrate the innocence and unripened judgment of the other sex. Men +see the mistake as they grow older; for the judgment of a woman, in all +matters of the affections, ripens by ten years faster than a man's. + +In place of any relentings on such score you are set on fire anew. The +stories of her accomplishments, and of her grace of conversation, +absolutely drive you mad. You watch your occasion for meeting her upon +the street. You wonder if she has any conception of your capacity for +mental labor, and if she has any adequate idea of your admiration for +Greek poetry, and for herself. + +You tie your cravat poet-wise, and wear broad collars turned down, +wondering how such disposition may affect her. Her figure and step +become a kind of moving romance to you, drifting forward and outward +into that great land of dreams which you call the world. When you see +her walking with others, you pity her, and feel perfectly sure, that, if +she had only a hint of that intellectual fervor which in your own mind +blazes up at the very thought of her, she would perfectly scorn the +stout gentleman who spends his force in tawdry compliments. + +A visit to your home wakens ardor by contrast as much as by absence. +Madge, so gentle, and now stealing sly looks at you in a way so +different from her hoidenish manner of school-days, you regard +complacently as a most lovable, fond girl,--the very one for some fond +and amiable young man whose soul is not filled, as yours is, with higher +things! To Nelly, earnestly listening, you drop only exaggerated hints +of the wonderful beauty and dignity of this new being of your fancy. Of +her age you scrupulously say nothing. + +The trivialities of Dalton amaze you: it is hard to understand how a man +within the limit of such influences as Miss Dalton must inevitably +exert, can tamely sit down to a rubber of whist, and cigars! There must +be a sad lack of congeniality;--it would certainly be a proud thing to +supply that lack! + +The new feeling, wild and vague as it is,--for as yet you have only most +casual acquaintance with Laura Dalton,--invests the whole habit of your +study; not quickening overmuch the relish for Dugald Stewart, or the +miserable skeleton of college Logic, but spending a sweet charm upon the +graces of Rhetoric and the music of Classic Verse. It blends +harmoniously with your quickened ambition. There is some last appearance +that you have to make upon the college stage, in the presence of the +great worthies of the State, and of all the beauties of the town,--Laura +chiefest among them. In view of it you feel dismally intellectual. +Prodigious faculties are to be brought to the task. + +You think of throwing out ideas that will quite startle His Excellency +the Governor, and those very distinguished public characters whom the +college purveyors vote into their periodic public sittings. You are +quite sure of surprising them, and of deeply provoking such scheming, +shallow politicians as have never read Wayland's "Treatise," and who +venture incautiously within hearing of your remarks. You fancy yourself +in advance the victim of a long leader in the next day's paper, and the +thoughtful but quiet cause of a great change in the political programme +of the State. But crowning and eclipsing all the triumph, are those dark +eyes beaming on you from some corner of the church their floods of +unconscious praise and tenderness. + +Your father and Nelly are there to greet you. He has spoken a few calm, +quiet words of encouragement, that make you feel--very wrongfully--that +he is a cold man, with no earnestness of feeling. As for Nelly, she +clasps your arm with a fondness, and with a pride, that tell at every +step her praises and her love. + +But even this, true and healthful as it is, fades before a single word +of commendation from the new arbitress of your feeling. You have seen +Miss Dalton! You have met her on that last evening of your cloistered +life in all the elegance of ball-costume; your eye has feasted on her +elegant figure, and upon her eye sparkling with the consciousness of +beauty. You have talked with Miss Dalton about Byron, about Wordsworth, +about Homer. You have quoted poetry to Miss Dalton; you have clasped +Miss Dalton's hand! + +Her conversation delights you by its piquancy and grace; she is quite +ready to meet you (a grave matter of surprise!) upon whatever subject +you may suggest. You lapse easily and lovingly into the current of her +thought, and blush to find yourself vacantly admiring when she is +looking for reply. The regard you feel for her resolves itself into an +exquisite mental love, vastly superior, as you think, to any other kind +of love. There is no dream of marriage as yet, but only of sitting +beside her in the moonlight during a countless succession of hours, and +talking of poetry and nature, of destiny and love. + +Magnificent Miss Dalton! + +----And all the while vaunting youth is almost mindless of the presence +of that fond Nelly whose warm sisterly affection measures itself +hopefully against the proud associations of your growing years,--and +whose deep, loving eye, half suffused with its native tenderness, seems +longing to win you back to the old joys of that Home-love, which linger +on the distant horizon of your boyhood like the golden glories of a +sinking day. + +As the night wanes, you wander for a last look toward the dingy walls +that have made for you so long a home. The old broken expectancies, the +days of glee, the triumphs, the rivalries, the defeats, the friendships, +are recalled with a fluttering of the heart that pride cannot wholly +subdue. You step upon the chapel-porch in the quiet of the night as you +would step on the graves of friends. You pace back and forth in the wan +moonlight, dreaming of that dim life which opens wide and long from the +morrow. The width and length oppress you: they crush down your +struggling self-consciousness like Titans dealing with Pygmies. A single +piercing thought of the vast and shadowy future, which is so near, tears +off on the instant all the gewgaws of pride, strips away the vanity that +doubles your bigness, and forces you down to the bare nakedness of what +you truly _are_! + +With one more yearning look at the gray hulks of building, you loiter +away under the trees. The monster elms, which have bowered your proud +steps through four years of proudest life, lift up to the night their +rounded canopy of leaves with a quiet majesty that mocks you. They kiss +the same calm sky which they wooed four years ago; and they droop their +trailing limbs lovingly to the same earth, which has steadily and +quietly wrought in them their stature and their strength. Only here and +there you catch the loitering footfall of some other benighted dreamer, +strolling around the vast quadrangle of level green, which lies, like a +prairie-child, under the edging shadows of the town. The lights glimmer +one by one; and one by one, like breaking hopes, they fade away from the +houses. The full-risen moon, that dapples the ground beneath the trees, +touches the tall church-spires with silver, and slants their +loftiness--as memory slants grief--in long, dark, tapering lines upon +the silvered Green. + + + + +IV. + +_First Look at the World._ + + +Our Clarence is now fairly afloat upon the swift tide of Youth. The +thrall of teachers is ended, and the audacity of self-resolve is begun. +It is not a little odd, that, when we have least strength to combat the +world, we have the highest confidence in our ability. + +Very few individuals in the world possess that happy consciousness of +their own prowess which belongs to the newly-graduated collegian. He has +most abounding faith in the tricksy panoply that he has wrought out of +the metal of his Classics. His Mathematics, he has not a doubt, will +solve for him every complexity of life's questions; and his Logic will +as certainly untie all Gordian knots, whether in politics or ethics. + +He has no idea of defeat; he proposes to take the world by storm; he +half wonders that quiet people are not startled by his presence. He +brushes with an air of importance about the halls of country hotels; he +wears his honor at the public tables; he fancies that the inattentive +guests can have little idea that the young gentleman, who so recently +delighted the public ear with his dissertation on the "General Tendency +of Opinion," is actually among them, and quietly eating from the same +dish of beef and of pudding! + +Our poor Clarence does not know--Heaven forbid he should!--that he is +but little wiser now than when he turned his back upon the old Academy, +with its gallipots and broken retorts; and that with the addition of a +few Greek roots, a smattering of Latin, and some readiness of speech, he +is almost as weak for breasting the strong current of life as when a +boy. America is but a poor place for the romantic book-dreamer. The +demands of this new, Western life of ours are practical and earnest. +Prompt action, and ready tact, are the weapons by which to meet it, and +subdue it. The education of the cloister offers at best only a sound +starting-point from which to leap into the tide. + +The father of Clarence is a cool, matter-of-fact man. He has little +sympathy with any of the romantic notions that enthrall a youth of +twenty. He has a very humble opinion--much humbler than you think he +should have--of your attainments at college. He advises a short period +of travel, that by observation you may find out more fully how that +world is made up with which you are henceforth to struggle. + +Your mother half fears your alienation from the affections of home. Her +letters all run over with a tenderness that makes you sigh, and that +makes you feel a deep reproach. You may not have been wanting in the +more ordinary tokens of affection; you have made your periodic visits; +but you blush for the consciousness that fastens on you of neglect at +heart. You blush for the lack of that glow of feeling which once +fastened to every home-object. + +[Does a man indeed outgrow affections as his mind ripens? Do the early +and tender sympathies become a part of his intellectual perceptions, to +be appreciated and reasoned upon as one reasons about truths of science? +Is their vitality necessarily young? Is there the same ripe, joyous +burst of the heart at the recollection of later friendships, which +belonged to those of boyhood; and are not the later ones more the +suggestions of judgment, and less the absolute conditions of the heart's +health?] + +The letters of your mother, as I said, make you sigh: there is no moment +in our lives when we feel less worthy of the love of others, and less +worthy of our own respect, than when we receive evidences of kindness +which we know we do not merit,--and when souls are laid bare to us, and +we have too much indifference to lay bare our own in return. + +"Clarence,"--writes that neglected mother,--"you do not know how much +you are in our thoughts, and how often you are the burden of my prayers. +Oh, Clarence, I could almost wish that you were still a boy,--still +running to me for those little favors which I was only too happy to +bestow,--still dependent in some degree on your mother's love for +happiness. + +"Perhaps I do you wrong, Clarence, but it does seem from the changing +tone of your letters, that you are becoming more and more forgetful of +us all; that you are feeling less need of our advice, and--what I feel +far more deeply--less need of our affection. Do not, my son, forget the +lessons of home. There will come a time, I feel sure, when you will know +that those lessons are good. They may not indeed help you in that +intellectual strife which soon will engross you; and they may not have +fitted you to shine in what are called the brilliant circles of the +world, but they are such, Clarence, as make the heart pure and honest +and strong! + +"You may think me weak to write you thus, as I would have written to my +light-hearted boy years ago; indeed I am not strong, but growing every +day more feeble. + +"Nelly, your sweet sister, is sitting by me. 'Tell Clarence,' she says, +'to come home soon.' You know, my son, what hearty welcome will greet +you; and that, whether here or away, our love and prayers will be with +you always; and may God in his infinite mercy keep you from all harm!" + +A tear or two--brushed away as soon as they come--is all that youth +gives to embalm such treasure of love! A gay laugh, or the challenge of +some companion of a day, will sweep away into the night the earnest, +regretful, yet happy dreams that rise like incense from the pages of +such hallowed affection. + +The brusque world too is to be met, with all its hurry and promptitude. +Manhood, in our swift American world, is measured too much by +forgetfulness of all the sweet bonds which tie the heart to the home of +its first attachments. We deaden the glow that nature has kindled, lest +it may lighten our hearts into an enchanting flame of weakness. We have +not learned to make that flame the beacon of our purposes and the warmer +of our strength. We are men too early. + +But an experience is approaching Clarence, that will drive his heart +home for shelter, like a wounded bird! + +----It is an autumn morning, with such crimson glories to kindle it as +lie along the twin ranges of mountain that guard the Hudson. The white +frosts shine like changing silk in the fields of late-growing clover; +the river-mists curl, and idle along the bosom of the water, and creep +up the hill-sides, and at noon float their feathery vapors aloft in +clouds; the crimson trees blaze in the side valleys, and blend their +vermilion tints under the fairy hands of our American frost-painters +with the dark blood of the ash-trees and the orange-tinted oaks. Blue +and bright under the clear Fall heaven, the broad river shines before +the surging prow of the boat like a shield of steel. + +The bracing air lights up rich dreams of life. Your fancy peoples the +valleys and the hill-tops with its creations; and your hope lends some +crowning beauty of the landscape to your dreamy future. The vision of +your last college year is not gone. That figure, whose elegance your +eyes then feasted on, still floats before you; and the memory of the +last talk with Laura is as vivid as if it were only yesterday that you +listened. Indeed this opening campaign of travel--although you are half +ashamed to confess it to yourself--is guided by the thought of her. + +Dalton with a party of friends, his sister among them, is journeying to +the north. A hope of meeting them--scarce acknowledged as an +intention--spurs you on. The eye rests dreamily and vaguely on the +beauties that appear at every turn: they are beauties that charm you, +and charm you the more by an indefinable association with that fairy +object that floats before you, half unknown, and wholly unclaimed. The +quiet towns with their noonday stillness, the out-lying mansions with +their stately splendor, the bustling cities with their mocking din, and +the long reaches of silent and wooded shore, chime with their several +beauties to your heart, in keeping with the master-key that was touched +long weeks before. + +The cool, honest advices of the father drift across your memory in +shadowy forms, as you wander through the streets of the first northern +cities; and all the need for observation, and the incentives to purpose, +which your ambitious designs would once have quickened, fade dismally +when you find that _she_ is not there. All the lax gayety of Saratoga +palls on the appetite; even the magnificent shores of Lake George, +though stirring your spirit to an insensible wonder and love, do not +cheat you into a trance that lingers. In vain the sun blazons every +isle, and lights every shaded cove, and at evening stretches the Black +Mountain in giant slumber on the waters. + +Your thought bounds away from the beauty of sky and lake, and fastens +upon the ideal which your dreamy humors cherish. The very glow of +pursuit heightens your fervor,--a fervor that dims sadly the new-wakened +memories of home. The southern gates of Champlain, those fir-draped +Trosachs of America, are passed, and you find yourself, upon a golden +evening of Canadian autumn, in the quaint old city of Montreal. + +Dalton with his party has gone down to Quebec. He is to return within a +few days on his way to Niagara. There is a letter from Nelly awaiting +you. It says:--"Mother is much more feeble: she often speaks of your +return in a way that I am sure, if you heard, Clarence, would bring you +back to us soon." + +There is a struggle in your mind: old affection is weaker than young +pride and hope. Moreover, the world is to be faced; the new scenes +around you are to be studied. An answer is penned full of kind +remembrances, and begging a few days of delay. You wander, wondering, +under the quaint old houses, and wishing for the return of Dalton. + +He meets you with that happy, careless way of his,--the dangerous way +which some men are born to, and which chimes easily to every tone of the +world,--a way you wondered at once; a way you admire now; and a way that +you will distrust as you come to see more of men. Miss Dalton--(it seems +sacrilege to call her Laura)--is the same elegant being that entranced +you first. + +They urge you to join their party. But there is no need of urging: those +eyes, that figure, the whole presence indeed of Miss Dalton, attract you +with a power which you can neither explain nor resist. One look of grace +enslaves you; and there is a strange pride in the enslavement. + +----Is it dream, or is it earnest,--those moonlit walks upon the hills +that skirt the city, when you watch the stars, listening to her voice, +and feel the pressure of that jewelled hand upon your arm?--when you +drain your memory of its whole stock of poetic beauties to lavish upon +her ear? Is it love, or is it madness, when you catch her eye as it +beams more of eloquence than lies in all your moonlight poetry, and feel +an exultant gush of the heart that makes you proud as a man, and yet +timid as a boy, beside her? + +Has Dalton, with that calm, placid, _nonchalant_ look of his, any +inkling of the raptures which his elegant sister is exciting? Has the +stout, elderly gentleman, who is so prodigal of his bouquets and +attentions, any idea of the formidable rival that he has found? Has +Laura herself--you dream--any conception of that intensity of admiration +with which you worship? + +----Poor Clarence! it is his first look at Life! + +The Thousand Isles with their leafy beauties lie around your passing +boat, like the joys that skirt us, and pass us, on our way through life. +The Thousand Isles rise sudden before you, and fringe your yeasty track, +and drop away into floating spectres of beauty, of haze, of distance, +like those dreams of joy that your passion lends the brain. The low +banks of Ontario look sullen by night; and the moon, rising tranquilly +over the tops of vast forests that stand in majestic ranks over ten +thousand acres of shore-land, drips its silvery sparkles along the +rocking waters, and flashes across your foamy wake. + +With such attendance, that subdues for the time the dreamy forays of +your passion, you draw toward the sound of Niagara; and its distant, +vague roar, coming through great aisles of gloomy forest, bears up your +spirit, like a child's, into the Highest Presence. + +The morning after, you are standing with your party upon the steps of +the hotel. A letter is handed to you. Dalton remarks in a quizzical way, +that "it shows a lady's hand." + +"Aha, a lady!" says Miss Dalton,--and _so_ gayly! + +"A sister," I say; for it is Nelly's hand. + +"By the by, Clarence," says Dalton, "it was a very pretty sister you +gave us a glimpse of at Commencement." + +"Ah, you think so;" and there is something in your tone that shows a +little indignation at this careless mention of your fond Nelly; and from +those lips! It will occur to you again. + +A single glance at the letter blanches your cheek. Your heart +throbs--throbs harder--throbs tumultuously. You bite your lip, for there +are lookers-on. But it will not do. You hurry away; you find your +chamber; you close and lock the door, and burst into a flood of tears. + + + + +V. + +_A Broken Home._ + + +It is Nelly's own fair hand, yet sadly blotted,--blotted with her tears, +and blotted with yours. + +----"It is all over, dear, dear Clarence! Oh, how I wish you were here +to mourn with us! I can hardly now believe that our poor mother is +indeed dead." + +----Dead!--It is a terrible word! You repeat it with a fresh burst of +grief. The letter is crumpled in your hand. Unfold it again, sobbing, +and read on. + +"For a week she had been failing every day; but on Saturday we thought +her very much better. I told her I felt sure she would live to see you +again. + +"'I shall never see him again, Nelly,' said she, bursting into tears." + +----Ah, Clarence, where is your youthful pride, and your strength +now?--with only that frail paper to annoy you, crushed in your grasp! + +"She sent for father, and taking his hand in hers, told him she was +dying. I am glad you did not see his grief. I was kneeling beside her, +and she put her hand upon my head, and let it rest there for a moment, +while her lips moved as if she were praying. + +"'Kiss me, Nelly,' said she, growing fainter: kiss me again for +Clarence.' + +"A little while after she died." + +For a long time you remain with only that letter, and your thought, for +company. You pace up and down your chamber: again you seat yourself, and +lean your head upon the table, enfeebled by the very grief that you +cherish still. The whole day passes thus: you excuse yourself from all +companionship: you have not the heart to tell the story of your troubles +to Dalton,--least of all, to Miss Dalton. How is this? Is sorrow too +selfish, or too holy? + +Toward nightfall there is a calmer and stronger feeling. The voice of +the present world comes to your ear again. But you move away from it +unobserved to that stronger voice of God in the Cataract. Great masses +of angry cloud hang over the west; but beneath them the red harvest sun +shines over the long reach of Canadian shore, and bathes the whirling +rapids in splendor. You stroll alone over the quaking bridge, and under +the giant trees of the Island, to the edge of the British Fall. You go +out to the little shattered tower, and gaze down, with sensations that +will last till death, upon the deep emerald of those awful masses of +water. + +It is not the place for a bad man to ponder; it is not the atmosphere +for foul thoughts, or weak ones. A man is never better than when he has +the humblest sense of himself: he is never so unlike the spirit of Evil +as when his pride is utterly vanished. You linger, looking upon the +stream of fading sunlight that plays across the rapids, and down into +the shadow of the depths below, lit up with their clouds of spray;--yet +farther down, your sight swims upon the black eddying masses, with white +ribbons streaming across their glassy surface; and your dizzy eye +fastens upon the frail cockle-shells--their stout oarsmen dwindled to +pygmies--that dance like atoms upon the vast chasm, or like your own +weak resolves upon the whirl of Time. + +Your thought, growing broad in the view, seems to cover the whole area +of life: you set up your affections and your duties; you build hopes +with fairy scenery, and away they all go, tossing like the relentless +waters to the deep gulf that gapes a hideous welcome! You sigh at your +weakness of heart, or of endeavor, and your sighs float out into the +breeze, that rises ever from the shock of the waves, and whirl, +empty-handed, to Heaven. You avow high purposes, and clench them with +round utterance; and your voice, like a sparrow's, is caught up in the +roar of the fall, and thrown at you from the cliffs, and dies away in +the solemn thunders of nature. Great thoughts of life come over you--of +its work and destiny--of its affections and duties, and roll down +swift--like the river--into the deep whirl of doubt and danger. Other +thoughts, grander and stronger, like the continuing rush of waters, come +over you, and knit your purposes together with their weight, and crush +you to exultant tears, and then leap, shattered and broken, from the +very edge of your intent into mists of fear! + +The moon comes out, and gleaming through the clouds, braids its light +fantastic bow upon the waters. You feel calmer as the night deepens. The +darkness softens you; it hangs--like the pall that shrouds your mother's +corpse--low and heavily to your heart. It helps your inward grief with +some outward show. It makes the earth a mourner; it makes the flashing +water-drops so many attendant mourners. It makes the Great Fall itself a +mourner, and its roar a requiem! + +The pleasure of travel is cut short. To one person of the little company +of fellow-voyagers you bid adieu with regret; pride, love, and hope +point toward her, while all the gentler affections stray back to the +broken home. Her smile of parting is very gracious, but it is not, after +all, such a smile as your warm heart pines for. + +Ten days after, you are walking toward the old homestead with such +feelings as it never called up before. In the days of boyhood there were +triumphant thoughts of the gladness and the pride with which, when +grown to the stature of manhood, you would come back to that little town +of your birth. As you have bent with your dreamy resolutions over the +tasks of the cloister life, swift thoughts have flocked on you of the +proud step, and prouder heart, with which you would one day greet the +old acquaintances of boyhood; and you have regaled yourself on the +jaunty manner with which you would meet old Dr. Bidlow, and the +patronizing air with which you would address the pretty, blue-eyed +Madge. + +It is late afternoon when you come in sight of the tall sycamores that +shade your home; you shudder now, lest you may meet any whom you once +knew. The first keen grief of youth seeks little of the sympathy of +companions: it lies--with a sensitive man--bounded within the narrowest +circles of the heart. They only who hold the key to its innermost +recesses can speak consolation. Years will make a change;--as the Summer +grows in fierce heats, the balminess of the violet banks of Spring is +lost in the odors of a thousand flowers;--the heart, as it gains in age, +loses freshness, but wins breadth. + +----Throw a pebble into the brook at its source, and the agitation is +terrible, and the ripples chafe madly their narrowed banks;--throw in a +pebble when the brook has become a river, and you see a few circles, +widening and widening and widening, until they are lost in the gentle +every-day murmur of its life! + +You draw your hat over your eyes, as you walk toward the familiar door: +the yard is silent; the night is falling gloomily; a few katydids are +crying in the trees. The mother's window, where at such a season as this +it was her custom to sit watching your play, is shut, and the blinds are +closed over it. The honeysuckle, which grew over the window, and which +she loved so much, has flung out its branches carelessly; and the +spiders have hung their foul nets upon its tendrils. + +And she, who made that home so dear to your boyhood, so real to your +after-years,--standing amid all the flights of your youthful ambition, +and your paltry cares (for they seem paltry now), and your doubts, and +anxieties and weaknesses of heart, like the light of your hope--burning +ever there under the shadow of the sycamores,--a holy beacon, by whose +guidance you always came to a sweet haven, and to a refuge from all your +toils,--is gone, gone forever! + +The father is there indeed,--beloved, respected, esteemed; but the +boyish heart, whose old life is now reviving, leans more readily and +more kindly into that void where once beat the heart of a mother. + +Nelly is there,--cherished now with all the added love that is stricken +off from her who has left you forever. Nelly meets you at the door. + +----"Clarence!" + +----"Nelly!" + +There are no other words; but you feel her tears as the kiss of welcome +is given. With your hand joined in hers, you walk down the hall into the +old, familiar room,--not with the jaunty college step,--not with any +presumption on your dawning manhood,--oh, no,--nothing of this! + +Quietly, meekly, feeling your whole heart shattered, and your mind +feeble as a boy's, and your purposes nothing, and worse than +nothing,--with only one proud feeling you fling your arm around the form +of that gentle sister,--the pride of a protector,--the feeling--"_I_ +will care for you now, dear Nelly!"--that is all. And even that, proud +as it is, brings weakness. + +You sit down together upon the lounge; Nelly buries her face in her +hands, sobbing. + +"Dear Nelly!" and your arm clasps her more fondly. + +There is a cricket in the corner of the room, chirping very loudly. It +seems as if nothing else were living,--only Nelly, Clarence, and the +noisy cricket. Your eye on the chair where she used to sit; it is drawn +up with the same care as ever beside the fire. + +"I am _so_ glad to see you, Clarence," says Nelly, recovering herself; +there is a sweet, sad smile now And sitting there beside you, she tells +you of it all,--of the day, and of the hour,--and how she looked,--and +of her last prayer, and how happy she was. + +"And did she leave no message for me, Nelly?" + +"Not to forget us, Clarence; but you could not!" + +"Thank you, Nelly. And was there nothing else?" + +"Yes, Clarence,--to meet her one day!" + +You only press her hand. + +Presently your father comes in: he greets you with far more than his +usual cordiality. He keeps your hand a long time, looking quietly in +your face, as if he were reading traces of some resemblance that had +never struck him before. + +The father is one of those calm, impassive men, who shows little upon +the surface, and whose feelings you have always thought cold. But now +there is a tremulousness in his tones that you never remember observing +before. He seems conscious of it himself, and forbears talking. He goes +to his old seat, and after gazing at you a little while with the same +steadfastness as at first, leans forward, and buries his face in his +hands. + +From that very moment you feel a sympathy and a love for him, that you +have never known until then. And in after-years, when suffering or trial +come over you, and when your thoughts fly as to a refuge to that +shattered home, you will recall that stooping image of the +father,--with his head bowed, and from time to time trembling +convulsively with grief,--and feel that there remains yet by the +household fires a heart of kindred love and of kindred sorrow! + +Nelly steals away from you gently, and stepping across the room, lays +her hand upon his shoulder with a touch that says, as plainly as words +could say it,--"We are here, father!" + +And he rouses himself,--passes his arm around her,--looks in her face +fondly,--draws her to him, and prints a kiss upon her forehead. + +"Nelly, we must love each other now more than ever." + +Nelly's lips tremble, but she cannot answer; a tear or two go stealing +down her cheek. + +You approach them; and your father takes your hand again with a firm +grasp,--looks at you thoughtfully,--drops his eyes upon the fire, and +for a moment there is a pause;--"We are quite alone now, my boy!" + +----It is a Broken Home! + + + + +VI. + +_Family Confidence._ + + +Grief has a strange power in opening the hearts of those who sorrow in +common. The father, who has seemed to you, not so much neglectful, as +careless of your aims and purposes,--toward whom there have been in your +younger years yearnings of affection which his chilliness of manner has +seemed to repress, now grows under the sad light of the broken household +into a friend. The heart feels a joy it cannot express, in its freedom +to love and to cherish. There is a pleasure wholly new to you in telling +him of your youthful projects, in listening to his questionings, in +seeking his opinions, and in yielding to his judgment. + +It is a sad thing for the child, and quite as sad for the parent, when +this confidence is unknown. Many and many a time with a bursting heart +you have longed to tell him of some boyish grief, or to ask his guidance +out of some boyish trouble; but at the first sight of that calm, +inflexible face, and at the first sound of his measured words, your +enthusiastic yearnings toward his love and his counsels have all turned +back upon your eager and sorrowing heart, and you have gone away to +hide in secret the tears which the lack of his sympathy has wrung from +your soul. + +But now over the tomb of her, for whom you weep in common, there is a +new light breaking; and your only fear is lest you weary him with what +may seem a barren show of your confidence. + +Nelly too is nearer now than ever; and with her you have no fears of +your extravagance; you listen delightfully there by the evening flame to +all that she tells you of the neighbors of your boyhood. You shudder +somewhat at her genial praises of the blue-eyed Madge,--a shudder that +you can hardly account for, and which you do not seek to explain. It may +be that there is a clinging and tender memory yet--wakened by the home +atmosphere--of the divided sixpence. + +Of your quondam friend, Frank, the pleasant recollection of whom revives +again under the old roof-tree, she tells you very little,--and that +little in a hesitating and indifferent way that utterly surprises you. +Can it be, you think, that there has been some cause of unkindness? + +----Clarence is still very young! + +The fire glows warmly upon the accustomed hearth-stone, and--save that +vacant place never to be filled again--a home cheer reigns even in this +time of your mourning. The spirit of the lost parent seems to linger +over the remnant of the household; and the Bible upon its stand--the +book she loved so well--the book so sadly forgotten--seems still to open +on you its promises in her sweet tones, and to call you, as it were, +with her angel-voice to the land that she inherits. + +And when late night has come, and the household is quiet, you call up in +the darkness of your chamber that other night of grief which followed +upon the death of Charlie. That was the boy's vision of death; and this +is the youthful vision. Yet essentially there is but little difference. +Death levels the capacities of the living as it levels the strength of +its victims. It is as grand to the man as to the boy, its teachings are +as deep for age as for infancy. + +You may learn its manner, and estimate its approaches; but when it +comes, it comes always with the same awful front that it wore to your +boyhood. Reason and Revelation may point to rich issues that unfold from +its very darkness; yet all these are no more to your bodily sense, and +no more to your enlightened hope, than those foreshadowings of peace +which rest like a halo on the spirit of the child as he prays in +guileless tones--OUR FATHER, WHO ART IN HEAVEN! + +It is a holy and a placid grief that comes over you,--not crushing, but +bringing to life from the grave of boyhood all its better and nobler +instincts. In their light your wild plans of youth look sadly misshapen +and in the impulse of the hour you abandon them; holy resolutions beam +again upon your soul like sunlight, your purposes seem bathed in +goodness. There is an effervescence of the spirit that carries away all +foul matter, and leaves you in a state of calm that seems kindred to the +land and to the life whither the sainted mother has gone. + +This calm brings a smile in the middle of tears, and an inward looking +and leaning toward that Eternal Power which governs and guides us;--with +that smile and that leaning, sleep comes like an angelic minister, and +fondles your wearied frame and thought into that repose which is the +mirror of the Destroyer. + +----Poor Clarence, he is like the rest of the world,--whose goodness +lies chiefly in the occasional throbs of a better nature, which soon +subside, and leave them upon the old level of _desire_. + +As you lie between waking and sleeping, you have a fancy of a sound at +your door;--it seems to open softly, and the tall figure of your father, +wrapped in his dressing-gown, stands over you, and gazes--as he gazed at +you before;--his look is very mournful; and he murmurs your mother's +name--and sighs--and looks again--and passes out. + +At morning you cannot tell if it was real or a dream. Those higher +resolves too, which grief and the night made, seem very vague and +shadowy. Life with its ambitious and cankerous desires wakes again. You +do not feel them at first; the subjugation of holy thoughts and of +reaches toward the Infinite, leave their traces on you, and perhaps +bewilder you into a half-consciousness of strength. But at the first +touch of the grosser elements about you,--on your very first entrance +upon those duties which quicken pride or shame, and which are pointing +at you from every quarter,--your holy calm, your high-born purpose, your +spiritual cleavings, pass away, like the electricity of August storms +drawn down by the thousand glittering turrets of a city! + +The world is stronger than the night; and the bindings of sense are +tenfold stronger than the most exquisite delirium of soul. This makes +you feel, or will one day make you feel, that life,--strong life and +sound life,--that life which lends approaches to the Infinite, and takes +hold on Heaven, is not so much a PROGRESS as it is a RESISTANCE! + +There is one special confidence which, in all your talk about plans and +purposes, you do not give to your father: you reserve that for the ear +of Nelly alone. Why happens it that a father is almost the last +confidant that a son makes in any matter deeply affecting the feelings? +Is it the fear that a father may regard such matter as boyish? Is it a +lingering suspicion of your own childishness; or of that extreme of +affection which reduces you to childishness? + +Why is it always that a man, of whatever age or condition, forbears to +exhibit to those whose respect for his judgment and mental abilities +only he seeks, the most earnest qualities of the heart, and those +intenser susceptibilities of love which underlie his nature, and which +give a color in spite of him to the habit of his life? Why is he so +morbidly anxious to keep out of sight any extravagances of affection, +when he blurts officiously to the world his extravagances of action and +of thought? Can any lover explain me this? + +Again, why is a sister the one of all others to whom you first whisper +the dawnings of any strong emotion,--as if it were a weakness that her +charity alone could cover? + +However this may be, you have a long story for Nelly's ear. It is some +days after your return: you are strolling down a quiet, wooded lane,--a +remembered place,--when you first open to her your heart. Your talk is +of Laura Dalton. You describe her to Nelly with the extravagance of a +glowing hope. You picture those qualities that have attracted you most; +you dwell upon her beauty, her elegant figure, her grace of +conversation, her accomplishments. You make a study that feeds your +passion as you go on. You rise by the very glow of your speech into a +frenzy of feeling that she has never excited before. You are quite sure +that you would be wretched and miserable without her. + +"Do you mean to marry her?" says Nelly. + +It is a question that gives a swift bound to the blood of youth. It +involves the idea of possession, and of the dependence of the cherished +one upon your own arm and strength. But the admiration you entertain +seems almost too lofty for this; Nelly's question makes you diffident of +reply; and you lose yourself in a new story of those excellencies of +speech and of figure which have so charmed you. + +Nelly's eye on a sudden becomes full of tears. + +----"What is it, Nelly?" + +"Our mother, Clarence." + +The word and the thought dampen your ardor; the sweet watchfulness and +gentle kindness of that parent for an instant make a sad contrast with +the showy qualities you have been naming; and the spirit of that +mother--called up by Nelly's words--seems to hang over you with an +anxious love that subdues all your pride of passion. + +But this passes; and now--half believing that Nelly's thoughts have run +over the same ground with yours--you turn special pleader for your +fancy. You argue for the beauty which you just now affirmed; you do your +utmost to win over Nelly to some burst of admiration. Yet there she +sits beside you, thoughtfully and half sadly, playing with the frail +autumn flowers that grow at her side. What can she be thinking? You ask +it by a look. + +She smiles,--takes your hand, for she will not let you grow angry,-- + +"I was thinking, Clarence, whether this Laura Dalton would, after all, +make a good wife,--such an one as you would love always?" + + + + +VII. + +_A Good Wife._ + + +The thought of Nelly suggests new dreams that are little apt to find +place in the rhapsodies of a youthful lover. The very epithet of a good +wife mates tamely with the romantic fancies of a first passion. It is +measuring the ideal by too practical a standard. It sweeps away all the +delightful vagueness of a fairy dream of love, and reduces one to a dull +and economic estimate of actual qualities. Passion lives above all +analysis and estimate, and arrives at its conclusions by intuition. + +Did Petrarch ever think if Laura would make a good wife; did Oswald ever +think it of Corinne? Nay, did even the more practical Waverley ever +think it of the impassioned Flora? Would it not weaken faith in their +romantic passages, if you believed it? What have such vulgar, practical +issues to do with that passion which sublimates the faculties, and makes +the loving dreamer to live in an ideal sphere where nothing but goodness +and brightness can come? + +Nelly is to be pitied for entertaining such a thought; and yet Nelly is +very good and kind. Her affections are without doubt all centred in the +remnant of the shattered home; she has never known any further and +deeper love; never once fancied it even-- + +--Ah, Clarence, you are very young! + +And yet there are some things that puzzle you in Nelly. You have found +accidentally, in one of her treasured books,--a book that lies almost +always on her dressing-table,--a little withered flower with its stem in +a slip of paper, and on the paper the initials of--your old friend +Frank. You recall, in connection with this, her indisposition to talk of +him on the first evening of your return. It seems--you scarce know +why--that these are the tokens of something very like a leaning of the +heart. It does occur to you that she too may have her little casket of +loves; and you try one day very adroitly to take a look into this +casket. + +----You will learn later in life that the heart of a modest, gentle +girl is a very hard matter for even a brother to probe; it is at once +the most tender and the most unapproachable of all fastnesses. It admits +feeling by armies, with great trains of artillery,--but not a single +scout. It is as calm and pure as polar snows; but deep underneath, where +no footsteps have gone, and where no eye can reach but one, lies the +warm and the throbbing earth. + +Make what you will of the slight, quivering blushes, and of the half +broken expressions,--more you cannot get. The love that a +delicate-minded girl will tell is a short-sighted and outside love; but +the love that she cherishes without voice or token is a love that will +mould her secret sympathies, and her deepest, fondest yearnings, either +to a quiet world of joy, or to a world of placid sufferance. The true +voice of her love she will keep back long and late, fearful ever of her +most prized jewel,--fearful to strange sensitiveness; she will show +kindness, but the opening of the real floodgates of the heart, and the +utterance of those impassioned yearnings which belong to its nature, +come far later. And fearful, thrice fearful is the shock, if these flow +out unmet! + +That deep, thrilling voice, bearing all the perfume of the womanly soul +in its flow, rarely finds utterance; and if uttered vainly,--if called +out by tempting devices, and by a trust that is abused,--desolate indeed +is the maiden heart, widowed of its chastest thought! The soul shrinks +affrighted within itself. Like a tired bird lost at sea, fluttering +around what seem friendly boughs, it stoops at length, and finding only +cold, slippery spars, with no bloom and no foliage,--its last hope +gone,--it sinks to a wild ocean grave! + +Nelly--and the thought brings a tear of sympathy to your eye--must have +such a heart; it speaks in every shadow of her action. And this very +delicacy seems to lend her a charm that would make her a wife to be +loved and honored. + +Ay, there is something in that maidenly modesty--retiring from you as +you advance, retreating timidly from all bold approaches, fearful and +yet joyous--which wins upon the iron hardness of a man's nature like a +rising flame. To force of action and resolve he opposes force; to strong +will he mates his own; pride lights pride; but to the gentleness of the +true womanly character he yields with a gush of tenderness that nothing +else can call out. He will never be subjugated on his own ground of +action and energy; but let him be lured to that border country over +which the delicacy and fondness of a womanly nature presides, and his +energy yields, his haughty determination faints, he is proud of +submission! + +And with this thought of modesty and gentleness to illuminate your dream +of an ideal wife, you chase the pleasant phantom to that shadowy +home--lying far off in the future--of which she is the glory and the +crown. I know it is the fashion nowadays with many to look for a woman's +excellencies and influence--away from her home; but I know too that a +vast many eager and hopeful hearts still cherish the belief that her +virtues will range highest and live longest within those sacred walls. + +Where, indeed, can the modest and earnest virtue of a woman tell a +stronger story of its worth than upon the dawning habit of a child? +Where can her grace of character win a higher and a riper effect than +upon the action of her household? What mean those noisy declaimers who +talk of the feeble influence, and of the crushed faculties, of a woman? + +What school of learning, or of moral endeavor, depends more on its +teacher, than the home upon the mother? What influence of all the +world's professors and teachers tells so strongly on the habit of a +man's mind as those gentle droppings from a mother's lips, which, day by +day and hour by hour, grow into the enlarging stature of his soul, and +live with it forever? They can hardly be mothers who aim at a broader +and noisier field; they have forgotten to be daughters; they must needs +have lost the hope of being wives! + +Be this how it may, the heart of a man with whom affection is not a +name, and love a mere passion of the hour, yearns toward the quiet of a +home as toward the goal of his earthly joy and hope. And as you fasten +there your thought, an indulgent yet dreamy fancy paints the loved image +that is to adorn it and to make it sacred. + +----She is there to bid you God speed! and an adieu that hangs like +music on your ear as you go out to the every-day labor of life. At +evening she is there to greet you, as you come back wearied with a +day's toil; and her look so full of gladness cheats you of your +fatigue; and she steals her arm around you with a soul of welcome that +beams like sunshine on her brow, and that fills your eye with tears of a +twin gratitude--to her and Heaven! + +She is not unmindful of those old-fashioned virtues of cleanliness and +of order which give an air of quiet, and which secure content. Your +wants are all anticipated: the fire is burning brightly; the clean +hearth flashes under the joyous blaze; the old elbow-chair is in its +place. Your very unworthiness of all this haunts you like an accusing +spirit, and yet penetrates your heart with a new devotion toward the +loved one who is thus watchful of your comfort. + +She is gentle,--keeping your love, as she has won it, by a thousand +nameless and modest virtues which radiate from her whole life and +action. She steals upon your affections like a summer wind breathing +softly over sleeping valleys. She gains a mastery over your sterner +nature by very contrast, and wins you unwittingly to her lightest wish. +And yet her wishes are guided by that delicate tact which avoids +conflict with your manly pride; she subdues by seeming to yield. By a +single soft word of appeal she robs your vexation of its anger; and, +with a slight touch of that fair hand, and one pleading look of that +earnest eye, she disarms your sternest pride. + +She is kind,--shedding her kindness as heaven sheds dew. Who indeed +could doubt it?--least of all you, who are living on her kindness day by +day, as flowers live on light? There is none of that officious parade +which blunts the point of benevolence; but it tempers every action with +a blessing. If trouble has come upon you, she knows that her voice, +beguiling you into cheerfulness, will lay your fears; and as she draws +her chair beside you, she knows that the tender and confiding way with +which she takes your hand, and looks up into your earnest face, will +drive away from your annoyance all its weight. As she lingers, leading +off your thought with pleasant words, she knows well that she is +redeeming you from care, and soothing you to that sweet calm which such +home and such wife can alone bestow. And in sickness,--sickness that you +almost covet for the sympathy it brings,--that hand of hers resting on +your fevered forehead, or those fingers playing with the scattered +locks, are more full of kindness than the loudest vaunt of friends; and +when your failing strength will permit no more, you grasp that cherished +hand with a fulness of joy, of thankfulness, and of love, which your +tears only can tell. + +She is good; her hopes live where the angels live. Her kindness and +gentleness are sweetly tempered with that meekness and forbearance which +are born of Faith. Trust comes into her heart as rivers come to the +sea. And in the dark hours of doubt and foreboding you rest fondly upon +her buoyant Faith, as the treasure of your common life; and in your +holier musings you look to that frail hand, and that gentle spirit, to +lead you away from the vanities of worldly ambition to the fulness of +that joy which the good inherit. + +----Is Laura Dalton such an one? + + + + +VIII. + +_A Broken Hope._ + + +Youthful passion is a giant. It overleaps all the dreams, and all the +resolves of our better and quieter nature; and drives madly toward some +wild issue, that lives only in its frenzy. How little account does +passion take of goodness! It is not within the cycle of its revolution: +it is below; it is tamer; it is older; it wears no wings. + +And your proud heart flashing back to the memory of that sparkling eye +which lighted your hope--full-fed upon the vanities of cloister +learning, drives your soberer visions to the wind. As you recall those +tones, so full of brilliancy and pride, the quiet virtues fade, like the +soft haze upon a spring landscape driven westward by a swift, sea-born +storm. The pulse bounds; the eyes flash; the heart trembles with its +sharp springs. Hope dilates, like the eye, fed with swift blood leaping +to the brain. + +Again the image of Miss Dalton, so fine, so noble, so womanly, fills and +bounds the Future. The lingering tears of grief drop away from your eye, +as the lingering loves of boyhood drop from your scalding passion, or +drip into clouds of vapor. + +You listen to the calm, thoughtful advice of the father, with a deep +consciousness of something stronger than his counsels seething in your +bosom. The words of caution, of instruction, of guidance, fall upon your +heated imagination like the night-dews upon the crater of an AEtna. They +are beneficent and healthful for the straggling herbage upon the surface +of the mountain, but they do not reach or temper the inner fires that +are rolling their billows of flame beneath! + +You drop hints from time to time, to those with whom you are most +familiar, of some prospective change of condition. There is a new and +cheerful interest in the building-plans of your neighbors,--a new and +cheerful study of the principles of domestic architecture,--in which +very elegant boudoirs, adorned with harps, hold prominent place; and +libraries with gilt-bound books, very rich in lyrical and dramatic +poetry; fine views from bay-windows; graceful pots of flowers; +sleek-looking Italian greyhounds; cheerful sunlight; musical goldfinches +chattering on the wall; superb pictures of princesses in peasant +dresses; soft Axminster carpets; easy-acting bell-pulls; gigantic +candelabrums; porcelain vases of classic shape; neat waiters in white +aprons; luxurious lounges; and, to crown them all with the very height +of your pride,--the elegant Laura, the mistress, and the guardian of +your soul, moving amid the scene like a new Duchess of Valliere! + +You catch chance sights here and there of the blue-eyed Madge: you see +her in her mother's household, the earnest and devoted daughter,--gliding +gracefully about her mother's cottage, the very type of gentleness and of +duty. Yet withal there are sparks of spirit in her that pique your pride, +lofty as it is. You offer flowers, which she accepts with a kind smile, +not of coquetry, but of simplest thankfulness. She is not the girl to +gratify your vanity with any half-show of tenderness. And if there lived +ever in her heart an old girlish liking for the schoolboy Clarence, it is +all gone before the romantic lover of the elegant Laura; or at most it +lies in some obscure corner of her soul, never to be brought to light. + +You enter upon the new pursuits, which your father has advised, with a +lofty consciousness, not only of the strength of your mind, but of your +heart. You relieve your opening professional study with long letters to +Miss Dalton, full of Shakspearean compliments, and touched off with very +dainty elaboration. And you receive pleasant, gossiping notes in +answer,--full of quotations, but meaning very little. + +Youth is in a grand flush, like the hot days of ending summer; and +pleasant dreams thrall your spirit, like the smoky atmosphere that +bathes the landscape of an August day. Hope rides high in the heavens, +as when the summer sun mounts nearest to the zenith. Youth feels the +fulness of maturity before the second season of life is ended; yet is it +a vain maturity, and all the glow is deceitful. Those fruits that ripen +in summer do not last. They are sweet; they are glowing with gold; but +they melt with a luscious sweetness upon the lip. They do not give that +strength and nutriment which will bear a man bravely through the coming +chills of winter. + + * * * * * + +The last scene of summer changes now to the cobwebbed ceiling of an +attorney's office. Books of law, scattered ingloriously at your elbow, +speak dully to the flush of your vanities. You are seated at your +side-desk, where you have wrought at those heavy, mechanic labors of +drafting which go before a knowledge of your craft. + +A letter is by you, which you regard with strange feelings: it is yet +unopened. It comes from Laura. It is in reply to one which has cost you +very much of exquisite elaboration. You have made your avowal of feeling +as much like a poem as your education would admit. Indeed it was a +pretty letter,--promising not so much the trustful love of an earnest +and devoted heart, as the fervor of a passion which consumed you, and +glowed like a furnace through the lines of your letter. It was a +confession in which your vanity of intellect had taken very entertaining +part, and in which your judgment was too cool to appear at all. + +She must needs break out into raptures at such a letter; and her own +will doubtless be tempered with even greater passion. + +It is well to shift your chair somewhat, so that the clerks of the +office may not see your emotion as you read. It would be silly to +manifest your exuberance in a dismal, dark office of your instructing +attorney. One sighs rather for woods, and brooks, and sunshine, in whose +company the hopes of youth stretch into fulfilment. + +We will look only at a closing passage:-- + + * * * * * + +----"My friend Clarence will, I trust, believe me, when I say that his +letter was a surprise to me. To say that it was very grateful, would be +what my womanly vanity could not fail to claim. I only wish that I was +equal to the flattering portrait which he has drawn. I even half fancy +that he is joking me, and can hardly believe that my matronly air should +have quite won his youthful heart. At least I shall try not to believe +it; and when I welcome him one day, the husband of some fairy who is +worthy of his love, we will smile together at the old lady who once +played the Circe to his senses. Seriously, my friend Clarence, I know +your impulse of heart has carried you away, and that in a year's time, +you will smile with me at your old _penchant_ for one so much your +senior, and so ill-suited to your years, as your true friend, +LAURA." + + * * * * * + +----Magnificent Miss Dalton! + +Read it again. Stick your knife in the desk:--tut!--you will break the +blade! Fold up the letter carefully, and toss it upon your pile of +papers. Open Chitty again;--pleasant reading is Chitty! Lean upon your +hand--your two hands, so that no one will catch sight of your face. +Chitty is very interesting,--how sparkling and imaginative!--what a +depth and flow of passion in Chitty! + +The office is a capital place--so quiet and sunny. Law is a delightful +study--so captivating, and such stores of romance! And then those trips +to the Hall offer such relief and variety,--especially just now. It +would be well not to betray your eagerness to go. You can brush your hat +a round or two, and take a peep into the broken bit of looking-glass +over the wash-stand. + +You lengthen your walk, as you sometimes do, by a stroll upon the +Battery,--though rarely upon such a blustering November day. You put +your hands in your pockets, and look out upon the tossing sea. + +It is a fine sight--very fine. There are few finer bays in the world +than New York Bay,--either to look at, or, for that matter, to sleep in. +The ships ride up thickly, dashing about the cold spray delightfully; +the little cutters gleam in the November sunshine like white flowers +shivering in the wind. + +The sky is rich--all mottled with cold, gray streaks of cloud. The old +apple-women, with their noses frostbitten, look cheerful and blue. The +ragged immigrants, in short trousers and bell-crowned hats, stalk about +with a very happy expression, and very short-stemmed pipes; their +yellow-haired babies look comfortably red and glowing. And the trees +with their scant, pinched foliage have a charming, summer-like effect! + +Amid it all the thoughts of the boudoir, and harpsichord, and +goldfinches, and Axminster carpets, and sunshine, and Laura, are so +very, very pleasant! How delighted you would be to see her married to +the stout man in the red cravat, who gave her bouquets, and strolled +with her on the deck of the steamer upon the St. Lawrence! What a +jaunty, self-satisfied air he wore; and with what considerate +forbearance he treated you--calling you once or twice Master Clarence! +It never occurred to you before, how much you must be indebted to that +pleasant, stout man. + +You try sadly to be cheerful; you smile oddly; your pride comes strongly +to your help, but yet helps you very little. It is not so much a broken +heart that you have to mourn over, as a broken dream. You seem to see in +a hundred ways, that had never occurred to you before, the marks of her +superior age. Above all it is manifest in the cool and unimpassioned +tone of her letter. Yet how kindly withal! It would be a relief to be +angry. + +New visions come to you, wakened by the broken fancy which has just now +eluded your grasp. You will make yourself, if not old, at least gifted +with the force and dignity of age. You will be a man, and build no more +castles until you can people them with men! In an excess of pride you +even take umbrage at the sex; they can have little appreciation of that +engrossing tenderness of which you feel yourself to be capable. Love +shall henceforth be dead, and you will live boldly without it. + +----Just so, when some dark, eastern cloud-bank shrouds for a morning +the sun of later August, we say in our shivering pride--the winter is +come early! But God manages the seasons better than we; and in a day, or +an hour perhaps, the cloud will pass, and the heavens glow again upon +our ungrateful heads. + + * * * * * + +Well it is even so, that the passionate dreams of youth break up and +wither. Vanity becomes tempered with wholesome pride; and passion yields +to the riper judgment of manhood,--even as the August heats pass on, +and over, into the genial glow of a September sun. There is a strong +growth in the struggles against mortified pride; and then only does the +youth get an ennobling consciousness of that manhood which is dawning in +him, when he has fairly surmounted those puny vexations which a wounded +vanity creates. + +Now your heart is driven home; and that cherished place, where so little +while ago you wore your vanities with an air that mocked even your +grief, and that subdued your better nature, seems to stretch toward you +over long miles of distance its wings of love, and to welcome back to +the sister's and the father's heart, not the self-sufficient and +vaunting youth, but the brother and son--the schoolboy Clarence. Like a +thirsty child, you stray in thought to that fountain of cheer, and live +again--your vanity crushed, your wild hope broken--in the warm and +natural affections of the boyish home. + +Clouds weave the SUMMER into the season of AUTUMN; and +YOUTH rises from dashed hopes into the stature of a +MAN. + + + + +_AUTUMN;_ + +OR, + +_THE DREAMS OF MANHOOD._ + + + + +_DREAMS OF MANHOOD._ + +_Autumn._ + + +There are those who shudder at the approach of Autumn, and who feel a +light grief stealing over their spirits, like an October haze, as the +evening shadows slant sooner, and longer, over the face of an ending +August day. + +But is not Autumn the Manhood of the year? Is it not the ripest of the +seasons? Do not proud flowers blossom,--the golden-rod, the orchis, the +dahlia, and the bloody cardinal of the swamp-lands? + +The fruits too are golden, hanging heavy from the tasked trees. The +fields of maize show weeping spindles, and broad rustling leaves, and +ears half glowing with the crowded corn; the September wind whistles +over their thick-set ranks with whispers of plenty. The staggering +stalks of the buckwheat grow red with ripeness, and tip their tops with +clustering tricornered kernels. + +The cattle, loosed from the summer's yoke, grow strong upon the meadows +new-starting from the scythe. The lambs of April, rounded into fulness +of limb, and gaining day by day their woolly cloak, bite at the nodding +clover-heads; or, with their noses to the ground, they stand in solemn, +circular conclave under the pasture oaks, while the noon-sun beats with +the lingering passion of July. + +The Bob-o'-Lincolns have come back from their Southern rambles among the +rice, all speckled with gray; and, singing no longer as they did in +spring, they quietly feed upon the ripened reeds that straggle along the +borders of the walls. The larks, with their black and yellow +breastplates, and lifted heads, stand tall upon the close-mown meadow, +and at your first motion of approach spring up, and soar away, and light +again, and with their lifted heads renew the watch. The quails, in +half-grown coveys, saunter hidden through the underbrush that skirts the +wood, and only when you are close upon them, whir away, and drop +scattered under the coverts of the forest. + +The robins, long ago deserting the garden neighborhood, feed at eventide +in flocks upon the bloody berries of the sumac; and the soft-eyed +pigeons dispute possession of the feast. The squirrels chatter at +sunrise, and gnaw off the full-grown burrs of the chestnuts. The lazy +blackbirds skip after the loitering cow, watchful of the crickets that +her slow steps start to danger. The crows in companies caw aloft, and +hang high over the carcass of some slaughtered sheep lying ragged upon +the hills. + +The ash-trees grow crimson in color, and lose their summer life in great +gouts of blood. The birches touch their frail spray with yellow; the +chestnuts drop down their leaves in brown, twirling showers. The +beeches, crimped with the frost, guard their foliage until each leaf +whistles white in the November gales. The bittersweet hangs its bare and +leafless tendrils from rock to tree, and sways with the weight of its +brazen berries. The sturdy oaks, unyielding to the winds and to the +frosts, struggle long against the approaches of the winter, and in their +struggles wear faces of orange, of scarlet, of crimson, and of brown; +and finally, yielding to swift winds, as youth's pride yields to manly +duty, strew the ground with the scattered glories of their summer +strength, and warm and feed the earth with the _debris_ of their leafy +honors. + +The maple in the lowlands turns suddenly its silvery greenness into +orange scarlet, and in the coming chilliness of the autumn eventide +seems to catch the glories of the sunset, and to wear them--as a sign of +God's old promise in Egypt--like a pillar of cloud by day, and of fire +by night. + +And when all these are done,--and in the paved and noisy aisles of the +city the ailantus, with all its greenness gone, lifts up its skeleton +fingers to the God of Autumn and of storms,--the dogwood still guards +its crown; and the branches, which stretched their white canvas in +April, now bear up a spire of bloody tongues, that lie against the +leafless woods like a tree on fire! + +Autumn brings to the home the cheerful glow of "first fires." It +withdraws the thoughts from the wide and joyous landscape of summer, and +fixes them upon those objects which bloom and rejoice within the +household. The old hearth, that has rioted the summer through with +boughs and blossoms, gives up its withered tenantry. The fire-dogs gleam +kindly upon the evening hours; and the blaze wakens those sweet hopes +and prayers which cluster around the fireside of home. + +The wantoning and the riot of the season gone are softened in memory, +and supply joys to the season to come,--just as youth's audacity and +pride give a glow to the recollections of our manhood. + +At mid-day the air is mild and soft; a warm, blue smoke lies in the +mountain gaps; the tracery of distant woods upon the upland hangs in the +haze with a dreamy gorgeousness of coloring. The river runs low with +August drought, and frets upon the pebbly bottom with a soft, low +murmur, as of joyousness gone by. The hemlocks of the river-bank rise in +tapering sheens, and tell tales of Spring. + +As the sun sinks, doubling his disk in the October smoke, the low +south-wind creeps over the withered tree-tops, and drips the leaves upon +the land. The windows, that were wide open at noon, are closed; and a +bright blaze--to drive off the easterly dampness that promises a +storm--flashes lightly and kindly over the book-shelves and busts upon +my wall. + +As the sun sinks lower and lower, his red beams die in a sea of great +gray clouds. Slowly and quietly they creep up over the night-sky. Venus +is shrouded. The western stars blink faintly, then fade in the mounting +vapors. The vane points east of south. The constellations in the zenith +struggle to be seen, but presently give over, and hide their shining. + +By late lamp-light the sky is all gray and dark; the vane has turned two +points nearer east. The clouds spit fine rain-drops, that you only feel +with your face turned to the heavens. But soon they grow thicker and +heavier; and as I sit, watching the blaze, and--dreaming--they patter +thick and fast under the driving wind upon the window, like the swift +tread of an army of Men! + + + + +I. + +_Pride of Manliness._ + + +And has manhood no dreams? Does the soul wither at that Rubicon which +lies between the Gallic country of youth and the Rome of manliness? Does +not fancy still love to cheat the heart, and weave gorgeous tissues to +hang upon that horizon which lies along the years that are to come? Is +happiness so exhausted that no new forms of it lie in the mines of +imagination, for busy hopes to drag up to day? + +Where then would live the motives to an upward looking of the eye and of +the soul; where the beckonings that bid us ever onward? + +But these later dreams are not the dreams of fond boyhood, whose eye +sees rarely below the surface of things; nor yet the delicious hopes of +sparkling-blooded youth: they are dreams of sober trustfulness, of +practical results, of hard-wrought world-success, and, maybe, of Love +and of Joy. + +Ambitious forays do not rest where they rested once: hitherto the +balance of youth has given you, in all that you have dreamed of +accomplishment, a strong vantage against age; hitherto in all your +estimates you have been able to multiply them by that access of thought +and of strength which manhood would bring to you. Now this is forever +ended. + +There is a great meaning in that word--manhood. It covers all human +growth. It supposes no extensions or increase; it is integral, fixed, +perfect,--the whole. There is no getting beyond manhood; it is much to +live up to it; but once reached, you are all that a man was made to be +in this world. + +It is a strong thought--that a man is perfected, so far as strength +goes; that he will never be abler to do his work than under the very sun +which is now shining on him. There is a seriousness that few call to +mind in the reflection that whatever you do in this age of manhood is an +unalterable type of your whole bigness. You may qualify particulars of +your character by refinements, by special studies, and practice; but, +once a man, and there is no more manliness to be lived for! + +This thought kindles your soul to new and swifter dreams of ambition +than belonged to youth. They were toys; these are weapons. They were +fancies; these are motives. The soul begins to struggle with the dust, +the sloth, the circumstance, that beleaguer humanity, and to stagger +into the van of action. + +Perception, whose limits lay along a narrow horizon, now tops that +horizon, and spreads, and reaches toward the heaven of the Infinite. +The mind feels its birth, and struggles toward the great birth-master. +The heart glows; its humanities even yield and crimple under the fierce +heat of mental pride. Vows leap upward, and pile rampart upon rampart to +scale all the degrees of human power. + +Are there not times in every man's life when there flashes on him a +feeling--nay, more, an absolute conviction--that this soul is but a +spark belonging to some upper fire; and that, by as much as we draw near +by effort, by resolve, by intensity of endeavor, to that upper fire, by +so much we draw nearer to our home, and mate ourselves with angels? Is +there not a ringing desire in many minds to seize hold of what floats +above us in the universe of thought, and drag down what shreds we can to +scatter to the world? Is it not belonging to greatness to catch +lightning from the plains where lightning lives, and curb it for the +handling of men? + +Resolve is what makes a man manliest;--not puny resolve, not crude +determination, not errant purpose, but that strong and indefatigable +will which treads down difficulties and danger as a boy treads down the +heaving frost-lands of winter,--which kindles his eye and brain with a +proud pulse-beat toward the unattainable. Will makes men giants. It made +Napoleon an emperor of kings, Bacon a fathomer of nature, Byron a tutor +of passion, and the martyrs masters of Death! + +In this age of manhood you look back upon the dreams of the years that +are past: they glide to the vision in pompous procession; they seem +bloated with infancy. They are without sinew or bone. They do not bear +the hard touches of the man's hand. + +It is not long, to be sure, since the summer of life ended with that +broken hope; but the few years that lie between have given long steps +upward. The little grief that threw its shadow, and the broken vision +that deluded you, have made the passing years long in such feeling as +ripens manhood. Nothing lays the brown of autumn upon the green of +summer so quick as storms. + +There have been changes too in the home scenes; these graft age upon a +man. Nelly--your sweet Nelly of childhood, your affectionate sister of +youth--has grown out of the old brotherly companionship into the new +dignity of a household. + +The fire flames and flashes upon the accustomed hearth. The father's +chair is there in the wonted corner; he himself--we must call him the +old man now, though his head shows few white honors--wears a calmness +and a trust that light the failing eye. Nelly is not away; Nelly is a +wife; and the husband yonder, as you may have dreamed,--your old friend +Frank. + +Her eye is joyous; her kindness to you is unabated; her care for you is +quicker and wiser. But yet the old unity of the household seems broken; +nor can all her winning attentions bring back the feeling which lived in +Spring under the garret-roof. + +The isolation, the unity, the integrity of manhood make a strong prop +for the mind, but a weak one for the heart. Dignity can but poorly fill +up that chasm of the soul which the home affections once occupied. +Life's duties and honors press hard upon the bosom that once throbbed at +a mother's tones, and that bounded in a mother's smiles. + +In such home, the strength you boast of seems a weakness; manhood leans +into childish memories, and melts--as Autumn frosts yield to a soft +south-wind coming from a Tropic spring. You feel in a desert, where you +once felt at home,--in a bounded landscape, that was once the world! + +The tall sycamores have dwindled to paltry trees; the hills that were so +large, and lay at such grand distance to the eye of childhood, are now +near by, and have fallen away to mere rolling waves of upland. The +garden-fence, that was so gigantic, is now only a simple paling; its +gate that was such a cumbrous affair--reminding you of Gaza--you might +easily lift from its hinges. The lofty dove-cote, which seemed to rise +like a monument of art before your boyish vision, is now only a flimsy +box upon a tall spar of hemlock. + +The garret even, with its lofty beams, its dark stains, and its obscure +corners, where the white hats and coats hung ghost-like, is but a low +loft darkened by age,--hung over with cobwebs, dimly lighted with foul +windows,--its romping Charlie--its glee--its swing--its joy--its +mystery--all gone forever. + +The old gallipots and retorts are not anywhere to be seen in the +second-story window of the brick schoolhouse. Dr. Bidlow is no more! The +trees that seemed so large, the gymnastic feats that were so +extraordinary, the boy that made a snapper of his handkerchief,--have +all lost their greatness and their dread. Even the springy usher, who +dressed his hair with the ferule, has become the middle-aged father of +five curly-headed boys, and has entered upon what once seemed the +gigantic commerce of "stationery and account-books." + +The marvellous labyrinth of closets at the old mansion where you once +paid a visit--in a coach--is all dissipated. They have turned out to be +the merest cupboards in the wall. Nat, who had travelled and seen +London, is by no means so surprising a fellow to your manhood as he was +to the boy. He has grown spare, and wears spectacles. He is not so +famous as he was. You would hardly think of consulting him now about +your marriage, or even about the price of goats upon London Bridge. + +As for Jenny,--your first, fond flame!--lively, romantic, black-eyed +Jenny,--the reader of "Thaddeus of Warsaw,"--who sighed and wore blue +ribbons on her bonnet,--who wrote love-notes,--who talked so tenderly of +broken hearts,--who used a glass seal with a Cupid and a dart,--dear +Jenny!--she is now the plump and thriving wife of the apothecary of the +town! She sweeps out every morning at seven the little entry of the +apothecary's house; she buys a "joint" twice a week from the butcher, +and is particular to have the "knuckle" thrown in for soups; she wears a +sky-blue calico gown, and dresses her hair in three little flat quirls +on either side of her head, each one pierced through with a two-pronged +hair-pin. + +She does not read "Thaddeus of Warsaw" now. + + + + +II. + +_Man of the World._ + + +Few persons live through the first periods of manhood without strong +temptations to be counted "men of the world." The idea looms grandly +among those vanities that hedge a man's approach to maturity. + +Clarence is in good training for the acceptance of this idea. The broken +hope, which clouded his closing youth, shoots over its influence upon +the dawn of manhood. Mortified pride had taught--as it always +teaches--not caution only, but doubt, distrust, indifference. A new +pride grows up on the ruins of the old, weak, and vain pride of youth. +Then it was a pride of learning, or of affection; now it is a pride of +indifference. Then the world proved bleak and cold, as contrasted with +his shining dreams; and now he accepts the proof, and wins from it what +he can. + +The man of the world puts on the method and measure of the world: he +studies its humors. He gives up the boyish notion of a sincerity among +men like that of youth: he lives to seem. He conquers such annoyances as +the world may thrust upon him, in the shape of grief or losses, like a +practical athlete of the ring. He studies moral sparring. + +With somewhat of this strange vanity growing on you, you do not suffer +the heart to wake into life except in such fanciful dreams as tempt you +back to the sunny slopes of childhood. + +In this mood you fall in with Dalton, who has just returned from a year +passed in the French capital. There is an easy suavity and graceful +indifference in his manner that chimes admirably with your humor. He is +gracious, without needing to be kind. He is a friend, without any +challenge or proffer of sincerity. He is just one of those adepts in +world tactics which match him with all men, but which link him to none. +He has made it his art to be desired and admired, but rarely to be +trusted. You could not have a better teacher! + +Under such instruction you become disgusted for the time with any +effort, or pulse of affection, which does not have immediate and +practical bearing upon that success in life by which you measure your +hopes. The dreams of love, of romantic adventure, of placid joy, have +all gone out with the fantastic images to which your passionate youth +had joined them. The world is now regarded as a tournament, where the +gladiatorship of life is to be exhibited at your best endeavor. Its +honors and joys lie in a brilliant pennon and a plaudit. + +Dalton is learned in those arts which make of action, not a duty, but a +conquest; and sense of duty has expired in you with those romantic hopes +to which you bound it, not as much through sympathy as ignorance. It is +a cold and a bitterly selfish work that lies before you,--to be covered +over with such borrowed show of smiles as men call affability. The heart +wears a stout, brazen screen; its inclinations grow to the habit of your +ambitious projects. + +In such mood come swift dreams of wealth,--not of mere accumulation, but +of the splendor and parade which in our Western world are, alas! its +chiefest attractions. You grow observant of markets, and estimate +percentages. You fondle some speculation in your thought, until it grows +into a gigantic scheme of profit; and if the venture prove successful, +you follow the tide tremulously, until some sudden reverse throws you +back upon the resources of your professional employ. + +But again as you see this and that one wearing the blazonry which wealth +wins, and which the man of the world is sure to covet,--your weak soul +glows again with the impassioned desire, and you hunger, with brute +appetite and bestial eye, for riches. You see the mania around you, and +it is relieved of odium by the community of error. You consult some gray +old veteran in the war of gold, scarred with wounds, and crowned with +honors, and watch eagerly for the words and the ways which have won him +wealth. + +Your fingers tingle with mad expectancies; your eyes roam, lost in +estimates. Your note-book shows long lines of figures. Your reading of +the news centres in the stock-list. Your brow grows cramped with the +fever of anxiety. Through whole church-hours your dreams range over the +shadowy transactions of the week or the month to come. + +Even with old religious habit clinging fast to your soul, you dream now +only of nice conformity, comfortable faith, high respectability; there +lies very little in you of that noble consciousness of Duty +performed,--of living up to the Life that is in you,--of grasping boldly +and stoutly at those chains of Love which the Infinite Power has lowered +to our reach. You do not dream of being, but of seeming. You spill the +real essence, and clutch at the vial which has only a label of Truth. +Great and holy thoughts of the Future,--shadowy, yet bold conceptions of +the Infinite,--float past you dimly, and your hold is never strong +enough to grapple them to you. They fly, like eagles, too near the sun; +and there lies game below for your vulture beak to feed upon. + +[Great thoughts belong only and truly to him whose mind can hold them. +No matter who first puts them in words, if they come to a soul and fill +it, they belong to it,--whether they floated on the voice of others, or +on the wings of silence and the night.] + +To be up with the fashion of the time, to be ignorant of plain things +and people, and to be knowing in brilliancies, is a kind of Pelhamism +that is very apt to overtake one in the first blush of manhood. To hold +a fair place in the after-dinner table-talk, to meet distinction as a +familiarity, to wear _salon_ honors with aplomb, to know affection so +far as to wield it into grace of language, are all splendid achievements +with a man of the world. Instruction is caught without asking it; and no +ignorance so shames as ignorance of those forms by which natural impulse +is subdued to the tone of civilian habit. You conceal what tells of the +man, and cover it with what smacks of the _roue_. + +Perhaps under such training, and with a slight memory of early +mortification to point your spirit, you affect those gallantries of +heart and action which the world calls flirtation. You may study +brilliancies of speech to wrap their net around those susceptible hearts +whose habit is too _naive_ by nature to wear the leaden covering of +custom. You win approaches by artful counterfeit of earnestness, and +dash away any _naivete_ of confidence with some brave sophism of the +world. A doubt or a distrust piques your pride, and makes attentions +wear a humility that wins anew. An indifference piques you more, and +throws into your art a counter-indifference,--lit up by bold flashes of +feeling,--sparkling with careless brilliancies, and crowned with a +triumph of neglect. + +It is curious how ingeniously a man's vanity will frame apologies for +such action.--It is pleasant to give pleasure; you like to see a joyous +sparkle of the eye, whether lit up by your presence or by some buoyant +fancy. It is a beguiling task to weave words into some soft, melodious +flow, that shall keep the ear and kindle the eye; and to strew it over +with half-hidden praises, so deftly couched in double terms that their +aroma shall only come to the heart hours afterward, and seem to be the +merest accidents of truth. It is a happy art to make such subdued show +of emotion as seems to struggle with pride, and to flush the eye with a +moisture, of which you seem ashamed, and yet are proud. It is a pretty +practice to throw an earnestness into look and gesture, that shall seem +full of pleading, and yet--ask nothing! + +And yet it is hard to admire greatly the reputation of that man who +builds his triumphs upon womanly weakness; that distinction is not +over-enduring whose chiefest merit springs out of the delusions of a too +trustful heart. The man, who wins it, wins only a poor sort of womanly +distinction. Without power to cope with men, he triumphs over the +weakness of the other sex only by hypocrisy. He wears none of the armor +of Romans, and he parleys with Punic faith. + +----Yet even now there is a lurking goodness in you that traces its +beginning to the old garret-home,--there is an air in the harvest heats +that whispers of the bloom of spring. + +And over your brilliant career as man of the world, however lit up by a +morbid vanity, or galvanized by a lascivious passion, there will come at +times the consciousness of a better heart, struggling beneath your +cankered action,--like the low Vesuvian fire, reeking vainly under rough +beds of tufa and scoriated lava. And as you smile in _loge_ or _salon_, +with daring smiles, or press with villain fondness the hand of those +lady-votaries of the same god you serve, there will gleam upon you over +the waste of rolling years a memory that quickens again the nobler and +bolder instincts of the heart. + +Childish recollections, with their purity and earnestness,--a sister's +love,--a mother's solicitude, will flood your soul once more with a +gushing sensibility that yearns for enjoyment. And the consciousness of +some lingering nobility of affection, that can only grow great in mating +itself with nobility of heart, will sweep off your puny triumphs, your +Platonic friendships, your dashing coquetries, like the foul smoke of a +city before a fresh breeze of the country autumn. + + + + +III. + +_Manly Hope._ + + +You are at home again; not your own home,--that is gone,--but at the +home of Nelly and of Frank. The city heats of summer drive you to the +country. You ramble, with a little kindling of old desires and memories, +over the hill-sides that once bounded your boyish vision. Here you +netted the wild rabbits, as they came out at dusk to feed; there, upon +that tall chestnut, you cruelly maimed your first captive squirrel. The +old maples are even now scarred with the rude cuts you gave them in +sappy March. + +You sit down upon some height overlooking the valley where you were +born; you trace the faint, silvery line of river; you detect by the +leaning elm your old bathing-place upon the Saturdays of Summer. Your +eye dwells upon some patches of pasture-wood which were famous for their +nuts. Your rambling and saddened vision roams over the houses; it traces +the familiar chimney-stacks; it searches out the low-lying cottages; it +dwells upon the gray roof sleeping yonder under the sycamores. + +Tears swell in your eye as you gaze; you cannot tell whence or why they +come. Yet they are tears eloquent of feeling. They speak of +brother-children,--of boyish glee,--of the flush of young health,--of a +mother's devotion,--of the home affections,--of the vanities of +life,--of the wasting years,--of the Death that must shroud what friends +remain, as it has shrouded what friends have gone,--and of that Great +Hope, beaming on your seared manhood dimly from the upper world! + +Your wealth suffices for all the luxuries of life; there is no fear of +coming want; health beats strong in your veins; you have learned to hold +a place in the world with a man's strength, and a man's confidence. And +yet in the view of those sweet scenes which belonged to early days, when +neither strength, confidence, nor wealth were yours,--days never to come +again,--a shade of melancholy broods upon your spirit, and covers with +its veil all that fierce pride which your worldly wisdom has wrought. + +You visit again with Frank the country homestead of his grandfather: he +is dead; but the old lady still lives; and blind Fanny, now drawing +toward womanhood, wears yet through her darkened life the same air of +placid content, and of sweet trustfulness in Heaven. The boys, whom you +astounded with your stories of books, are gone, building up now with +steady industry the queen cities of our new western land. The old +clergyman is gone from the desk, and from under his sounding board; he +sleeps beneath a brown stone slab in the churchyard. The stout deacon is +dead; his wig and his wickedness rest together. The tall chorister sings +yet; but they have now a bass-viol--handled by a new schoolmaster--in +place of his tuning-fork; and the years have sown feeble quavers in his +voice. + +Once more you meet at the home of Nelly the blue-eyed Madge. The +sixpence is all forgotten; you cannot tell where your half of it is +gone. Yet she is beautiful, just budding into the full ripeness of +womanhood. Her eyes have a quiet, still joy, and hope beaming in them, +like angel's looks. Her motions have a native grace and freedom that no +culture can bestow. Her words have a gentle earnestness and honesty that +could never nurture guile. + +You had thought after your gay experiences of the world to meet her with +a kind condescension, as an old friend of Nelly's. But there is that in +her eye which forbids all thought of condescension. There is that in her +air which tells of a high womanly dignity, which can only be met on +equal ground. Your pride is piqued. She has known--she must know your +history; but it does not tame her. There is no marked and submissive +appreciation of your gifts as a man of the world. + +She meets your happiest compliments with a very easy indifference; she +receives your elegant civilities with a very assured brow. She neither +courts your society, nor avoids it. She does not seek to provoke any +special attention. And only when your old self glows in some casual +kindness to Nelly, does her look beam with a flush of sympathy. + +This look touches you. It makes you ponder on the noble heart that lives +in Madge. It makes you wish it were yours. But that is gone. The fervor +and the honesty of a glowing youth is swallowed up in the flash and +splendor of the world. A half-regret chases over you at nightfall, when +solitude pierces you with the swift dart of gone-by memories. But at +morning the regret dies in the glitter of ambitious purposes. + +The summer months linger; and still you linger with them. Madge is often +with Nelly; and Madge is never less than Madge. You venture to point +your attentions with a little more fervor; but she meets the fervor with +no glow. She knows too well the habit of your life. + +Strange feelings come over you,--feelings like half-forgotten +memories,--musical, dreamy, doubtful. You have seen a hundred faces more +brilliant than that of Madge; you have pressed a hundred jewelled hands +that have returned a half-pressure to yours. You do not exactly admire; +to love you have forgotten; you only--linger! + +It is a soft autumn evening, and the harvest-moon is red and round over +the eastern skirt of woods. You are attending Madge to that little +cottage-home where lives that gentle and doting mother, who, in the +midst of comparative poverty, cherishes that refined delicacy which +never comes to a child but by inheritance. + +Madge has been passing the day with Nelly. Something--it may be the soft +autumn air, wafting toward you the freshness of young days--moves you to +speak as you have not ventured to speak, as your vanity has not allowed +you to speak before. + +"You remember, Madge, (you have guarded this sole token of boyish +intimacy,) our split sixpence?" + +"Perfectly;" it is a short word to speak, and there is no tremor in her +tone,--not the slightest. + +"You have it yet?" + +"I dare say I have it somewhere;"--no tremor now; she is very composed. + +"That was a happy time;"--very great emphasis on the word happy. + +"Very happy;"--no emphasis anywhere. + +"I sometimes wish I might live it over again." + +"Yes?"--inquiringly. + +"There are, after all, no pleasures in the world like those." + +"No?"--inquiringly again. + +You thought you had learned to have language at command; you never +thought, after so many years' schooling of the world, that your pliant +tongue would play you truant. Yet now you are silent. + +The moon steals silvery into the light flakes of cloud, and the air is +soft as May. The cottage is in sight. Again you risk utterance:-- + +"You must live very happily here." + +"I have very kind friends;"--the very is emphasized. + +"I am sure Nelly loves you very much." + +"Oh, I believe it!"--with great earnestness. + +You are at the cottage-door.-- + +"Good night, Maggie;"--very feelingly. + +"Good night, Clarence;"--very kindly; and she draws her hand coyly, and +half tremulously, from your somewhat fevered grasp. + +You stroll away dreamily, watching the moon,--running over your +fragmentary life,--half moody, half pleased, half hopeful. + +You come back stealthily, and with a heart throbbing with a certain wild +sense of shame, to watch the light gleaming in the cottage. You linger +in the shadows of the trees until you catch a glimpse of her figure +gliding past the window. You bear the image home with you. You are +silent on your return. You retire early, but you do not sleep early. + +----If you were only as you were: if it were not too late! If Madge +could only love you, as you know she will and must love one manly heart, +there would be a world of joy opening before you. But it is too late! + +You draw out Nelly to speak of Madge: Nelly is very prudent. "Madge is a +dear girl," she says. Does Nelly even distrust you? It is a sad thing to +be too much a man of the world! + +You go back again to noisy, ambitious life: you try to drown old +memories in its blaze and its vanities. Your lot seems cast beyond all +change, and you task yourself with its noisy fulfilment. But amid the +silence and the toil of your office-hours, a strange desire broods over +your spirit,--a desire for more of manliness,--that manliness which +feels itself a protector of loving and trustful innocence. + +You look around upon the faces in which you have smiled unmeaning +smiles: there is nothing there to feed your dawning desires. You meet +with those ready to court you by flattering your vanity, by retailing +the praises of what you may do well, by odious familiarity, by brazen +proffer of friendship, but you see in it only the emptiness and the +vanity which you have studied to enjoy. + +Sickness comes over you, and binds you for weary days and nights,--in +which life hovers doubtfully, and the lips babble secrets that you +cherish. It is astonishing how disease clips a man from the +artificialities of the world! Lying lonely upon his bed, moaning, +writhing, suffering, his soul joins on to the universe of souls by only +natural bonds. The factitious ties of wealth, of place, of reputation, +vanish from his bleared eyes; and the earnest heart, deep under all, +craves only heartiness! + +The old craving of the office silence comes back,--not with the proud +wish only of being a protector, but--of being protected. And whatever +may be the trust in that beneficent Power who "chasteneth whom he +loveth," there is yet an earnest, human yearning toward some one, whose +love--most, and whose duty--least, would call her to your side; whose +soft hands would cool the fever of yours, whose step would wake a throb +of joy, whose voice would tie you to life, and whose presence would make +the worst of Death--an Adieu! + +As you gain strength once more, you go back to Nelly's home. Her +kindness does not falter; every care and attention belong to you there. +Again your eye rests upon that figure of Madge, and upon her face, +wearing an even gentler expression as she sees you sitting pale and +feeble by the old hearth-stone. She brings flowers--for Nelly: you beg +Nelly to place them upon the little table at your side. It is as yet the +only taste of the country that you can enjoy. You love those flowers. + +After a time you grow strong, and walk in the fields. You linger until +nightfall. You pass by the cottage where Madge lives. It is your +pleasantest walk. The trees are greenest in that direction; the shadows +are softest; the flowers are thickest. + +It is strange--this feeling in you. It is not the feeling you had for +Laura Dalton. It does not even remind of that. That was an impulse, but +this is growth. That was strong, but this is strength. You catch sight +of her little notes to Nelly; you read them over and over; you treasure +them; you learn them by heart. There is something in the very writing +that touches you. + +You bid her adieu with tones of kindness that tremble,--and that meet a +half-trembling tone in reply. She is very good. + +----If it were not too late! + + + + +IV. + +_Manly Love._ + + +And shall pride yield at length! + +----Pride!--and what has love to do with pride? Let us see how it is. + +Madge is poor; she is humble. You are rich; you are a man of the world; +you are met respectfully by the veterans of fashion; you have gained +perhaps a kind of brilliancy of position. + +Would it then be a condescension to love Madge? Dare you ask yourself +such a question? Do you not know--in spite of your worldliness--that the +man or the woman, who _condescends_ to love, never loves in earnest? + +But again Madge is possessed of a purity, a delicacy, and a dignity that +lift her far above you,--that make you feel your weakness and your +unworthiness; and it is the deep and the mortifying sense of this +unworthiness that makes you bolster yourself upon your pride. You _know_ +that you do yourself honor in loving such grace and goodness; you know +that you would be honored tenfold more than you deserve in being loved +by so much grace and goodness. + +It scarce seems to you possible; it is a joy too great to be hoped for; +and in the doubt of its attainment your old, worldly vanity comes in, +and tells you to--beware; and to live on in the splendor of your +dissipation and in the lusts of your selfish habit. Yet still underneath +all there is a deep, low, heart-voice,--quickened from above,--which +assures you that you are capable of better things; that you are not +wholly lost; that a mine of unstarted tenderness still lies smouldering +in your soul. + +And with this sense quickening your better nature, you venture the +wealth of your whole heart-life upon the hope that now blazes on your +path. + +----You are seated at your desk, working with such zeal of labor as +your ambitious projects never could command. It is a letter to Margaret +Boyne that so tasks your love, and makes the veins upon your forehead +swell with the earnestness of the employ. + + * * * * * + +----"DEAR MADGE,--May I not call you thus, if only in memory of +our childish affections; and might I dare to hope that a riper +affection, which your character has awakened, may permit me to call you +thus always? + +"If I have not ventured to speak, dear Madge, will you not believe that +the consciousness of my own ill-desert has tied my tongue; will you not +at least give me credit for a little remaining modesty of heart? You +know my life, and you know my character,--what a sad jumble of errors +and of misfortunes have belonged to each. You know the careless and the +vain purposes which have made me recreant to the better nature which +belonged to that sunny childhood, when we lived and grew up together. +And will you not believe me when I say, that your grace of character and +kindness of heart have drawn me back from the follies in which I lived, +and quickened new desires which I thought to be wholly dead? Can I +indeed hope that you will overlook all that has gained your secret +reproaches, and confide in a heart which is made conscious of better +things by the love you have inspired? + +"Ah, Madge, it is not with a vain show of words, or with any counterfeit +of feeling, that I write now; you know it is not; you know that my heart +is leaning toward you with the freshness of its noblest instincts; you +know that--I love you! + +"Can I, dare I hope, that it is not spoken in vain? I had thought in my +pride never to make such avowal,--never again to sue for affection; but +your gentleness, your modesty, your virtues of life and heart, have +conquered me! I am sure you will treat me with the generosity of a +victor. + +"You know my weaknesses; I would not conceal from you a single +one,--even to win you. I can offer nothing to you which will bear +comparison in value with what is yours to bestow. I can only offer this +feeble hand of mine--to guard you; and this poor heart--to love you! + +"Am I rash? Am I extravagant, in word, or in hope? Forgive it then, dear +Madge, for the sake of our old childish affection; and believe me, when +I say, that what is here written--is written honestly and tearfully. +Adieu." + + * * * * * + +It is with no fervor of boyish passion that you fold this letter: it is +with the trembling hand of eager and earnest manhood. They tell you that +man is not capable of love: so the September sun is not capable of +warmth! It may not indeed be so fierce as that of July; but it is +steadier. It does not force great flaunting leaves into breadth and +succulence, but it matures whole harvests of plenty! + +There is a deep and earnest soul pervading the reply of Madge that makes +it sacred; it is full of delicacy, and full of hope. Yet it is not +final. Her heart lies intrenched within the ramparts of Duty and of +Devotion. It is a citadel of strength in the middle of the city of her +affections. To win the way to it, there must be not only earnestness of +love, but earnestness of life. + +Weeks roll by, and other letters pass and are answered,--a glow of +warmth beaming on either side. + +You are again at the home of Nelly; she is very joyous; she is the +confidante of Madge. Nelly feels, that with all your errors you have +enough inner goodness of heart to make Madge happy; and she +feels--doubly--that Madge has such excess of goodness as will cover your +heart with joy. Yet she tells you very little. She will give you no full +assurance of the love of Madge; she leaves that for yourself to win. + +She will even tease you in her pleasant way, until hope almost changes +to despair, and your brow grows pale with the dread--that even now your +unworthiness may condemn you. + +It is summer weather; and you have been walking over the hills of home +with Madge and Nelly. Nelly has found some excuse to leave +you,--glancing at you most teasingly as she hurries away. + +You are left sitting with Madge upon a bank tufted with blue violets. +You have been talking of the days of childhood, and some word has called +up the old chain of boyish feeling, and joined it to your new hope. + +What you would say crowds too fast for utterance, and you abandon it. +But you take from your pocket that little, broken bit of +sixpence,--which you have found after long search,--and without a word, +but with a look that tells your inmost thought, you lay it in the +half-opened hand of Madge. + +She looks at you with a slight suffusion of color,--seems to hesitate a +moment,--raises her other hand, and draws from her bosom by a bit of +blue ribbon a little locket. She touches a spring, and there falls +beside your relique--another, that had once belonged to it. + +Hope glows now like the sun. + +----"And you have worn this, Maggie?" + +----"Always!" + +"Dear Madge!" + +"Dear Clarence!" + +----And you pass your arm now, unchecked, around that yielding, +graceful figure, and fold her to your bosom with the swift and blessed +assurance that your fullest and noblest dream of love is won! + + + + +V. + +_Cheer and Children._ + + +What a glow there is to the sun! What warmth--yet it does not oppress +you: what coolness--yet it is not too cool. The birds sing sweetly; you +catch yourself watching to see what new songsters they can be: they are +only the old robins and thrushes, yet what a new melody is in their +throats! + +The clouds hang gorgeous shapes upon the sky,--shapes they could hardly +ever have fashioned before. The grass was never so green, the buttercups +were never so plentiful; there was never such a life in the leaves. It +seems as if the joyousness in you gave a throb to nature that made every +green thing buoyant. + +Faces, too, are changed: men look pleasantly; children are all charming +children; even babies look tender and lovable. The street-beggar at your +door is suddenly grown into a Belisarius, and is one of the most +deserving heroes of modern times. Your mind is in a continued ferment; +you glide through your toil--dashing out sparkles of passion--like a +ship in the sea. No difficulty daunts you: there is a kind of buoyancy +in your soul that rocks over danger or doubt, as sea-waves heave calmly +and smoothly over sunken rocks. + +You grow unusually amiable and kind; you are earnest in your search of +friends; you shake hands with your office-boy as if he were your second +cousin. You joke cheerfully with the stout washerwoman, and give her a +shilling over-change, and insist upon her keeping it, and grow quite +merry at the recollection of it. You tap your hackman on the shoulder +very familiarly, and tell him he is a capital fellow; and don't allow +him to whip his horses, except when driving to the post-office. You even +ask him to take a glass of beer with you upon some chilly evening. You +drink to the health of his wife. He says he has no wife; whereupon you +think him a very miserable man, and give him a dollar by way of +consolation. + +You think all the editorials in the morning papers are remarkably well +written,--whether upon your side, or upon the other. You think the +stock-market has a very cheerful look, even with Erie--of which you are +a large holder--down to seventy-five. You wonder why you never admired +Mrs. Hemans before, or Stoddard, or any of the rest. + +You give a pleasant twirl to your fingers as you saunter along the +street, and say,--but not so loud as to be overheard,--"She is mine; she +is mine!" + +You wonder if Frank ever loved Nelly one half as well as you love Madge. +You feel quite sure he never did. You can hardly conceive how it is that +Madge has not been seized before now by scores of enamored men, and +borne off, like the Sabine women in Roman history. You chuckle over your +future, like a boy who has found a guinea in groping for sixpences. You +read over the marriage service,--thinking of the time when you will take +_her_ hand, and slip the ring upon _her_ finger,--and repeat, after the +clergyman, "for richer--for poorer; for better--for worse!" A great deal +of "worse" there will be about it, you think! + +Through all, your heart cleaves to that sweet image of the beloved +Madge, as light cleaves to day. The weeks leap with a bound; and the +months only grow long when you approach that day which is to make her +yours. There are no flowers rare enough to make bouquets for her; +diamonds are too dim for her to wear; pearls are tame. + +----And after marriage the weeks are even shorter than before: you +wonder why on earth all the single men in the world do not rush +tumultuously to the Altar; you look upon them all as a travelled man +will look upon some conceited Dutch boor who has never been beyond the +limits of his cabbage-garden. Married men, on the contrary, you regard +as fellow-voyagers; and look upon their wives--ugly as they may be--as +better than none. + +You blush a little at first telling your butcher what "your wife" would +like; you bargain with the grocer for sugars and teas, and wonder if he +_knows_ that you are a married man. You practise your new way of talk +upon your office-boy: you tell him that "your wife" expects you home to +dinner; and are astonished that he does not stare to hear you say it! + +You wonder if the people in the omnibus know that Madge and you are just +married; and if the driver knows that the shilling you hand to him is +for "self and wife." You wonder if anybody was ever so happy before, or +ever will be so happy again. + +You enter your name upon the hotel books as "Clarence ---- and Wife"; and +come back to look at it, wondering if anybody else has noticed it,--and +thinking that it looks remarkably well. You cannot help thinking that +every third man you meet in the hall wishes he possessed your wife; nor +do you think it very sinful in him to wish it. You fear it is placing +temptation in the way of covetous men to put Madge's little gaiters +outside the chamber-door at night. + +Your home, when it is entered, is just what it should be,--quiet, +small,--with everything she wishes, and nothing more than she wishes. +The sun strikes it in the happiest possible way; the piano is the +sweetest-toned in the world; the library is stocked to a charm;--and +Madge, that blessed wife, is there, adorning and giving life to it all. +To think even of her possible death is a suffering you class with the +infernal tortures of the Inquisition. You grow twin of heart and of +purpose. Smiles seem made for marriage; and you wonder how you ever wore +them before! + + * * * * * + +So a year and more wears off of mingled home-life, visiting, and travel. +A new hope and joy lightens home: there is a child there. + +----What a joy to be a father! What new emotions crowd the eye with +tears, and make the hand tremble! What a benevolence radiates from you +toward the nurse,--toward the physician,--toward everybody! What a +holiness and sanctity of love grows upon your old devotion to that wife +of your bosom--the mother of your child! + +The excess of joy seems almost to blur the stories of happiness which +attach to heaven. You are now joined, as you were never joined before, +to the great family of man. Your name and blood will live after you; nor +do you once think (what father can?) but that it will live honorably and +well. + +With what a new air you walk the streets! With what a triumph you speak, +in your letter to Nelly, of "your family!" Who, that has not felt it, +knows what it is to be "a man of family!" + +How weak now seem all the imaginations of your single life; what bare, +dry skeletons of the reality they furnished! You pity the poor fellows +who have no wives or children--from your soul; you count their smiles as +empty smiles, put on to cover the lack that is in them. There is a +freemasonry among fathers that they know nothing of. You compassionate +them deeply; you think them worthy objects of some charitable +association; you would cheerfully buy tracts for them, if they would but +read them,--tracts on marriage and children. + +----And then "the boy,"--_such_ a boy! + +There was a time when you thought all babies very much alike;--alike? Is +your boy like anything, except the wonderful fellow that he is? Was +there ever a baby seen, or even read of, like that baby! + +----Look at him: pick him up in his long, white gown: he may have an +excess of color,--but such a pretty color! he is a little pouty about +the mouth,--but such a mouth! His hair is a little scant, and he is +rather wandering in the eye,--but, Good Heavens, what an eye! + +There was a time when you thought it very absurd for fathers to talk +about their children; but it does not seem at all absurd now. You think, +on the contrary, that your old friends, who used to sup with you at the +club, would be delighted to know how your baby is getting on, and how +much he measures around the calf of the leg! If they pay you a visit, +you are quite sure they are in an agony to see Frank; and you hold the +little squirming fellow in your arms, half conscience-smitten for +provoking them to such envy as they must be suffering. You make a +settlement upon the boy with a chuckle,--as if you were treating +yourself to a mint-julep, instead of conveying away a few thousands of +seven per cents. + +----Then the boy develops astonishingly. What a head,--what a +foot,--what a voice! And he is so quiet withal,--never known to cry, +except under such provocation as would draw tears from a heart of +adamant; in short, for the first six months he is never anything but +gentle, patient, earnest, loving, intellectual, and magnanimous. You are +half afraid that some of the physicians will be reporting the case, as +one of the most remarkable instances of perfect moral and physical +development on record. + +But the years roll on, in the which your extravagant fancies die into +the earnest maturity of a father's love. You struggle gayly with the +cares that life brings to your door. You feel the strength of three +beings in your single arm; and feel your heart warming toward God and +man with the added warmth of two other loving and trustful beings. + +How eagerly you watch the first tottering step of that boy; how you riot +in the joy and pride that swell in that mother's eyes, as they follow +his feeble, staggering motions! Can God bless his creatures more than +he has blessed that dear Madge and you? Has Heaven even richer joys than +live in that home of yours? + +By-and-by he speaks; and minds tie together by language, as the hearts +have long tied by looks. He wanders with you feebly, and with slow, +wandering paces, upon the verge of the great universe of thought. His +little eye sparkles with some vague fancy that comes upon him first by +language. Madge teaches him the words of affection and of thankfulness; +and she teaches him to lisp infant prayer; and by secret pains (how +could she be so secret?) instructs him in some little phrase of +endearment that she knows will touch your heart; and then she watches +your coming; and the little fellow runs toward you, and warbles out his +lesson of love in tones that forbid you any answer,--save only those +brimming eyes, turned first on her, and then on him,--and poorly +concealed by the quick embrace, and the kisses which you shower in +transport! Still slip on the years, like brimming bowls of nectar! +Another Madge is sister to Frank; and a little Nelly is younger sister +to this other Madge. + +----Three of them! a charmed and mystic number, which, if it be broken +in these young days,--as, alas, it may be!--will only yield a cherub +angel to float over you, and to float over them,--to wean you, and to +wean them, from this world, where all joys do perish, to that seraph +world where joys do last forever. + + + + +VI. + +_A Dream of Darkness._ + + +Is our life a sun, that it should radiate light and heat forever? Do not +the calmest and brightest days of autumn show clouds, that drift their +ragged edges over the golden disk, and bear down swift with their weight +of vapors, until the sun's whole surface is shrouded; and you can see no +shadow of tree or flower upon the land, because of the greater and +gulping shadow of the cloud? + +Will not life bear me out; will not truth, earnest and stern, around me +make good the terrible imagination that now comes swooping, heavily and +darkly, upon my brain? + +You are living in a little village not far away from the city. It is a +graceful and luxurious home that you possess. The holly and the laurel +gladden its lawn in winter; and bowers of blossoms sweeten it through +all the summer. You know each day of your return from the town, where +first you will catch sight of that graceful figure flitting like a +shadow of love beneath the trees; you know well where you will meet the +joyous and noisy welcome of stout Frank, and of tottling Nelly. Day +after day and week after week they fail not. + +A friend sometimes attends you; and a friend to you is always a friend +to Madge. In the city you fall in once more with your old acquaintance +Dalton,--the graceful, winning, yet dissolute man that his youth +promised. He wishes to see your cottage home. Your heart half hesitates; +yet it seems folly to cherish distrust of a boon companion in so many of +your revels. + +Madge receives him with that sweet smile which welcomes all your +friends. He gains the heart of Frank by talking of his toys and of his +pigeons; and he wins upon the tenderness of the mother by his attentions +to the child. Even you repent of your passing shadow of dislike, and +feel your heart warming toward him as he takes little Nelly in his arms +and provokes her joyous prattle. + +Madge is unbounded in her admiration of your friend: he renews, at your +solicitation, his visit: he proves kinder than ever; and you grow +ashamed of your distrust. + +Madge is not learned in the arts of a city life; the accomplishments of +a man-of-the world are almost new to her; she listens with eagerness to +Dalton's graphic stories of foreign _fetes_ and luxury; she is charmed +with his clear, bold voice, and with his manly execution of little +operatic airs. + +----She is beautiful,--that wife who has made your heart whole by its +division,--fearfully beautiful! And she is not cold, or impassive: her +heart, though fond and earnest, is yet human;--we are all human. The +accomplishments and graces of the world must needs take hold upon her +fancy. And a fear creeps over you that you dare not whisper,--that those +graces may cast into the shade your own yearning and silent tenderness. + +But this is a selfish fear, that you think you have no right to cherish. +She takes pleasure in the society of Dalton,--what right have you to say +her--nay? His character indeed is not altogether such as you could wish; +but will it not be selfish to tell her even this? Will it not be even +worse, and show taint of a lurking suspicion, which you know would wound +her grievously? You struggle with your distrust by meeting him more +kindly than ever; yet at times there will steal over you a sadness, +which that dear Madge detects, and sorrowing in her turn, tries to draw +away from you by the touching kindness of sympathy. Her look and manner +kill all your doubt; and you show that it is gone, and piously conceal +the cause by welcoming in gayer tones than ever the man who has fostered +it by his presence. + +Business calls you away to a great distance from home: it is the first +long parting of your real manhood. And can suspicion, or a fear, lurk +amid those tearful embraces? Not one,--thank God,--not one! + +Your letters, frequent and earnest, bespeak your increased devotion; and +the embraces you bid her give to the sweet ones of your little flock, +tell of the calmness and sufficiency of your love. Her letters too are +running over with affection;--what though she mentions the frequent +visits of Dalton, and tells stories of his kindness and attachment? You +feel safe in her strength; and yet--yet there is a brooding terror, that +rises out of your knowledge of Dalton's character. + +And can you tell her this; can you stab her fondness, now that you are +away, with even a hint of what would crush her delicate nature? + +What you know to be love, and what you fancy to be duty, struggle long; +but love conquers. And with sweet trust in her, and double trust in God, +you await your return. That return will be speedier than you think. + +You receive one day a letter: it is addressed in the hand of a friend, +who is often at the cottage, but who has rarely written to you. What can +have tempted him now? Has any harm come near your home? No wonder your +hands tremble at the opening of that sheet; no wonder that your eyes run +like lightning over the hurried lines. Yet there is little in them, very +little. The hand is stout and fair. It is a calm letter, a friendly +letter; but it is short, terribly short. It bids you come home--"_at +once!_" + +----And you go. It is a pleasant country you have to travel through; +but you see very little of the country. It is a dangerous voyage, +perhaps, you have to make; but you think very little of the danger. The +creaking of the timbers, and the lashing of the waves, are quieting +music compared with the storm of your raging fears. All the while you +associate Dalton with the terror that seems to hang over you; and yet, +your trust in Madge is true as Heaven! + +At length you approach that home: there lies your cottage resting +sweetly upon its hill-side; and the autumn winds are soft; and the +maple-tops sway gracefully, all clothed in the scarlet of their +frost-dress. Once again as the sun sinks behind the mountain with a +trail of glory, and the violet haze tints the gray clouds like so many +robes of angels, you take heart and courage, and with firm reliance on +the Providence that fashions all forms of beauty, whether in heaven or +in heart, your fears spread out, and vanish with the waning twilight. + +She is not at the cottage-door to meet you; she does not expect you; and +yet your bosom heaves, and your breathing is quick. Your friend meets +you, and shakes your hand.--"Clarence," he says, with the tenderness of +an old friend,--"be a man!" + +Alas, you are a man;--with a man's heart, and a man's fear, and a man's +agony! Little Frank comes bounding toward you joyously--yet under traces +of tears:--"Oh, papa, mother is gone!" + +----"Gone!" And you turn to the face of your friend; it is well he is +near by, or you would have fallen. + +He can tell you very little; he has known the character of Dalton; he +has seen with fear his assiduous attentions--tenfold multiplied since +your leave. He has trembled for the issue: this very morning he observed +a travelling carriage at the door;--they drove away together. You have +no strength to question him. You see that he fears the worst: he does +not know Madge so well as you. + +----And can it be? Are you indeed widowed with that most terrible of +widowhoods? Is your wife living, and yet--lost! Talk not to such a man +of the woes of sickness, of poverty, of death; he will laugh at your +mimicry of grief. + +----All is blackness; whichever way you turn, it is the same; there is +no light; your eye is put out; your soul is desolate forever! The heart +by which you had grown up into the full stature of joy and blessing, is +rooted out of you, and thrown like something loathsome, at which the +carrion dogs of the world scent and snuffle! + +They will point at you, as the man who has lost all that he prized; and +she has stolen it, whom he prized more than what was stolen! And he, the +accursed miscreant----. But no, it can never be! Madge is as true as +Heaven! + +Yet she is not there: whence comes the light that is to cheer you? + +----Your children? + +Ay, your children,--your little Nelly,--your noble Frank,--they are +yours,--doubly, trebly, tenfold yours, now that she, their mother, is a +mother no more to them forever! + +Ay, close your doors; shut out the world; draw close your curtains; fold +them to your heart,--your crushed, bleeding, desolate heart! Lay your +forehead to the soft cheek of your noble boy;--beware, beware how you +dampen that damask cheek with your scalding tears: yet you cannot help +it; they fall--great drops--a river of tears, as you gather him +convulsively to your bosom! + +"Father, why do you cry so?" says Frank, with the tears of dreadful +sympathy starting from those eyes of childhood. + +----"Why, papa?"--mimes little Nelly. + +----Answer them, if you dare! Try it;--what words--blundering, weak +words--choked with agony--leading nowhere--ending in new and convulsive +clasps of your weeping, motherless children! + +Had she gone to her grave, there would have been a holy joy, a great and +swelling grief indeed,--but your poor heart would have found a rest in +the quiet churchyard; and your feelings, rooted in that cherished grave, +would have stretched up toward Heaven their delicate leaves, and caught +the dews of His grace, who watcheth the lilies. But now,--with your +heart cast underfoot, or buffeted on the lips of a lying world,--finding +no shelter and no abiding place!--alas, we do guess at infinitude only +by suffering! + +----Madge, Madge! can this be so? Are you not still the same sweet, +guileless child of Heaven? + + + + +VII. + +_Peace._ + + +It is a dream,--fearful, to be sure, but only a dream! Madge _is_ true. +That soul is honest; it could not be otherwise. God never made it to be +false; He never made the sun for darkness. + +And before the evening has waned to midnight, sweet day has broken on +your gloom;--Madge is folded to your bosom, sobbing fearfully,--not for +guilt, or any shadow of guilt, but for the agony she reads upon your +brow, and in your low sighs. + +The mystery is all cleared by a few lightning words from her indignant +lips, and her whole figure trembles, as she shrinks within your embrace, +with the thought of that great evil that seemed to shadow you. The +villain has sought by every art to beguile her into appearances which +should compromise her character and so wound her delicacy as to take +away the courage for return; he has even wrought upon her affection for +you as his master-weapon: a skilfully contrived story of some accident +that had befallen you, had wrought upon her--to the sudden and silent +leave of home. But he has failed. At the first suspicion of his falsity, +her dignity and virtue shivered all his malice. She shudders at the bare +thought of that fiendish scheme which has so lately broken on her view. + +"Oh, Clarence, Clarence, could you for one moment believe this of me?" + +"Dear Madge, forgive me if a dreamy horror did for an instant palsy my +better thought;--it is gone utterly; it will never, never come again!" + +And there she leans with her head pillowed on your shoulder, the same +sweet angel that has led you in the way of light, and who is still your +blessing and your pride. + +He--and you forbear to name his name--is gone,--flying vainly from the +consciousness of guilt with the curse of Cain upon him,--hastening +toward the day when Satan shall clutch his own! + +A heavenly peace descends upon you that night,--all the more sacred and +calm for the fearful agony that has gone before. A Heaven, that seemed +lost, is yours. A love, that you had almost doubted, is beyond all +suspicion. A heart, that in the madness of your frenzy you had dared to +question, you worship now, with blushes of shame. You thank God for this +great goodness, as you never thanked him for any earthly blessing +before; and with this twin gratitude lying on your hearts, and clearing +your face to smiles, you live on together the old life of joy and of +affection. + + * * * * * + +Again with brimming nectar the years fill up their vases. Your children +grow into the same earnest joyousness, and with the same home faith, +which lightened upon your young dreams, and toward which you seem to go +back, as you riot with them in their Christmas joys, or upon the velvety +lawn of June. + +Anxieties indeed overtake you, but they are those anxieties which only +the selfish would avoid,--anxieties that better the heart with a great +weight of tenderness. It may be that your mischievous Frank runs wild +with the swift blood of boyhood, and that the hours are long which wait +his coming. It may be that your heart echoes in silence the mother's +sobs, as she watches his fits of waywardness, and showers upon his very +neglect excess of love. + +Danger perhaps creeps upon little, joyous Nelly, which makes you tremble +for her life; the mother's tears are checked that she may not deepen +your grief; and her care guards the little sufferer like a Providence. +The nights hang long and heavy; dull, stifled breathing wakes the +chamber with ominous sound; the mother's eye scarce closes, but rests +with fond sadness upon the little struggling victim of sickness; her +hand rests like an angel touch upon the brow, all beaded with the heats +of fever; the straggling, gray light of morning breaks through the +crevices of the closed blinds,--bringing stir and bustle to the world, +but in your home--lighting only the darkness. + +Hope, sinking in the mother's heart, takes hold on Faith in God; and her +prayer, and her placid look of submission,--more than all your +philosophy,--add strength to your faltering courage. + +But little Nelly brightens; her faded features take on bloom again; she +knows you; she presses your hand; she draws down your cheek to her +parched lip; she kisses you, and smiles. The mother's brow loses its +shadow; day dawns within as well as without, and on bended knees God is +thanked! + +Perhaps poverty faces you;--your darling schemes break down. One by one, +with failing heart, you strip the luxuries from life. But the sorrow +which oppresses you is not the selfish sorrow which the lone man feels: +it is far nobler; its chiefest mourning is over the despoiled home. +Frank must give up his promised travel; Madge must lose her favorite +pony; Nelly must be denied her little _fete_ upon the lawn. The home +itself, endeared by so many scenes of happiness and by so many of +suffering, must be given up. It is hard, very hard, to tear away your +wife from the flowers, the birds, the luxuries, that she has made so +dear. + +Now she is far stronger than you. She contrives new joys; she wears a +holy calm; she cheers by a new hopefulness; she buries even the memory +of luxury in the riches of the humble home that her wealth of heart +endows. Her soul, catching radiance from that heavenly world where her +hope lives, kindles amid the growing shadows, and sheds balm upon the +little griefs,--like the serene moon, slanting the dead sun's life, upon +the night! + +Courage wakes in the presence of those dependent on your toil. Love arms +your hand and quickens your brain. Resolutions break large from the +swelling soul. Energy leaps into your action like light. Gradually you +bring back into your humble home a few traces of the luxury that once +adorned it. That wife, whom it is your greatest pleasure to win to +smiles, wears a half-sad look as she meets these proofs of love; she +fears that you are perilling too much for her pleasure. + +----For the first time in life you deceive her. You have won wealth +again; you now step firmly upon your new-gained sandals of gold. But you +conceal it from her. You contrive a little scheme of surprise, with +Frank alone in the secret. + +You purchase again the old home; you stock it, as far as may be, with +the old luxuries; a new harp is in the place of that one which beguiled +so many hours of joy; new and cherished flowers bloom again upon the +windows; her birds hang, and warble their melody where they warbled it +before. A pony--like as possible to the old--is there for Madge; a fete +is secretly contrived upon the lawn. You even place the old, familiar +books upon the parlor-table. + +The birthday of your own Madge is approaching,--a _fete_ you never pass +by without home rejoicings. You drive over with her upon that morning +for another look at the old place; a cloud touches her brow,--but she +yields to your wish. An old servant--whom you had known in better +days--throws open the gates. + +----"It is too, too sad," says Madge. "Let us go back, Clarence, to our +own home;--we are happy there." + +----"A little farther, Madge." + +The wife steps slowly over what seems the sepulchre of so many +pleasures; the children gambol as of old, and pick flowers. But the +mother checks them. + +"They are not ours now, my children!" + +You stroll to the very door; the goldfinches are hanging upon the wall; +the mignonette is in the window. You feel the hand of Madge trembling +upon your arm; she is struggling with her weakness. + +A tidy waiting-woman shows you into the old parlor:--there is a harp; +and there, too, such books as we loved to read. + +Madge is overcome; now she entreats:--"Let us go away, Clarence!" and +she hides her face. + +----"Never, dear Madge, never! it is yours--all yours!" + +She looks up in your face; she sees your look of triumph; she catches +sight of Frank bursting in at the old hall-door all radiant with joy. + +----"Frank!--Clarence!"--the tears forbid any more. + +"God bless you, Madge! God bless you!" + + * * * * * + +And thus in peace and in joy MANHOOD passes on into the third +season of our life--even as golden AUTUMN sinks slowly into the +tomb of WINTER. + + + + +_WINTER_; + +OR, + +_THE DREAMS OF AGE_ + + + + +_DREAMS OF AGE._ + +_Winter._ + + +Slowly, thickly, fastly, fall the snow-flakes,--like the seasons upon +the life of man. At the first they lose themselves in the brown mat of +herbage, or gently melt, as they fall upon the broad stepping-stone at +the door. But as hour after hour passes, the feathery flakes stretch +their white cloak plainly on the meadow, and chilling the doorstep with +their multitude, cover it with a mat of pearl. + +The dried grass-tips pierce the mantle of white, like so many serried +spears; but as the storm goes softly on, they sink one by one to their +snowy tomb, and presently show nothing of all their army, save one or +two straggling banners of blackened and shrunken daisies. + +Across the wide meadow that stretches from my window, I can see nothing +of those hills which were so green in summer; between me and them lie +only the soft, slow-moving masses, filling the air with whiteness I +catch only a glimpse of one gaunt and bare-armed oak, looming through +the feathery multitude like a tall ship's spars breaking through fog. + +The roof of the barn is covered; and the leaking eaves show dark stains +of water that trickle down the weather-beaten boards. The pear-trees, +that wore such weight of greenness in the leafy June, now stretch their +bare arms to the snowy blast, and carry upon each tiny bough a narrow +burden of winter. + +The old house-dog marches stately through the strange covering of earth, +and seems to ponder on the welcome he will show,--and shakes the flakes +from his long ears, and with a vain snap at a floating feather he stalks +again to his dry covert in the shed. The lambs that belonged to the +meadow flock, with their feeding-ground all covered, seem to wonder at +their losses; but take courage from the quiet air of the veteran sheep, +and gambol after them, as they move sedately toward the shelter of the +barn. + +The cat, driven from the kitchen-door, beats a coy retreat, with long +reaches of her foot, upon the yielding surface. The matronly hens +saunter out at a little lifting of the storm, and eye curiously, with +heads half turned, their sinking steps, and then fall back, with a quiet +cluck of satisfaction, to the wholesome gravel by the stable-door. + +By-and-by the snow-flakes pile more leisurely: they grow large and +scattered, and come more slowly than before. The hills, that were brown, +heave into sight--great, rounded billows of white. The gray woods look +shrunken to half their height, and stand waving in the storm. The wind +freshens, and scatters the light flakes that crown the burden of the +snow; and as the day droops, a clear, bright sky of steel color cleaves +the land and clouds, and sends down a chilling wind to bank the walls +and to freeze the storm. The moon rises full and round, and plays with a +joyous chill over the glistening raiment of the land. + +I pile my fire with the clean-cleft hickory; and musing over some sweet +story of the olden time, I wander into a rich realm of thought, until my +eyes grow dim, and dreaming of battle and of prince, I fall to sleep in +my old farm-chamber. + +At morning I find my dreams all written on the window in crystals of +fairy shape. The cattle, one by one, with ears frost-tipped, and with +frosted noses, wend their way to the watering-place in the meadow. One +by one they drink, and crop at the stunted herbage which the warm spring +keeps green and bare. + +A hound bays in the distance; the smoke of cottages rises straight +toward heaven; a lazy jingle of sleigh-bells wakens the quiet of the +high-road; and upon the hills the leafless woods stand low, like +crouching armies, with guns and spears in rest; and among them the +scattered spiral pines rise like bannermen, uttering with their thousand +tongues of green the proud war-cry--"God is with us!" + +But the sky of winter is as capricious as the sky of spring, even as the +old wander in thought, like the vagaries of a boy. + +Before noon the heavens are mantled with a leaden gray; the eaves, that +leaked in the glow of the sun, now tell their tale of morning's warmth +in crystal ranks of icicles. The cattle seek their shelter; the few +lingering leaves of the white-oaks rustle dismally; the pines breathe +sighs of mourning. As the night darkens, and deepens the storm, the +house-dog bays; the children crouch in the wide chimney-corners; the +sleety rain comes in sharp gusts. And as I sit by the light leaping +blaze in my chamber, the scattered hail-drops beat upon my window, like +the tappings of an OLD MAN'S cane. + + + + +I. + +_What is Gone._ + + +Gone! Did it ever strike you, my reader, how much meaning lies in that +little monosyllable--gone? + +Say it to yourself at nightfall, when the sun has sunk under the hills, +and the crickets chirp,--"gone." Say it to yourself when the night is +far over, and you wake with some sudden start from pleasant +dreams,--"gone." Say it to yourself in some country churchyard, where +your father, or your mother, sleeps under the blooming violets of +spring,--"gone." Say it in your sobbing prayer to Heaven, as you cling +lovingly, but oh, how vainly, to the hand of your sweet wife,--"gone!" + +Ay, is there not meaning in it? And now, what is gone,--or rather what +is not gone? Childhood is gone, with all its blushes and fairness,--with +all its health and wantoning,--with all its smiles like glimpses of +heaven, and all its tears which were but the suffusion of joy. + +Youth is gone,--bright, hopeful youth, when you counted the years with +jewelled numbers, and hung lamps of ambition on your path, which lighted +the palace of renown; when the days were woven into weeks of blithe +labor, and the weeks were rolled into harvest months of triumph, and the +months were bound into golden sheaves of years,--all gone! + +The strength and pride of manhood is gone; your heart and soul have +stamped their deepest dye; the time of power is past; your manliness has +told its tale henceforth your career is _down_;--hitherto you have +journeyed _up_. You look back upon a decade as you once looked upon a +half score of months; a year has become to your slackened memory, and to +your dull perceptions, like a week of childhood. Suddenly and swiftly +come past you great whirls of gone-by thought, and wrecks of vain labor, +eddying upon the stream that rushes to the grave. The sweeping outlines +of life, that lay once before the vision,--rolling into wide billows of +years, like easy lifts of a broad mountain-range,--now seem close-packed +together as with a Titan hand, and you see only crowded, craggy +heights,--like Alpine fastnesses,--parted with glaciers of grief, and +leaking abundant tears! + +Your friends are gone; they who counselled and advised you, and who +protected your weakness, will guard it no more forever. One by one they +have dropped away as you have journeyed on; and yet your journey does +not seem a long one. Life at the longest is but a bubble that bursts so +soon as it is rounded. + +Nelly--your sweet sister, to whom your heart clung so fondly in the +young days, and to whom it has clung ever since in the strongest bonds +of companionship--is gone--with the rest! + +Your thought--wayward now, and flickering--runs over the old days with +quick and fevered step; it brings back, faintly as it may, the noisy +joys, and the safety, that belonged to the old garret-roof; it figures +again the image of that calm-faced father,--long since sleeping beside +your mother; it rests like a shadow upon the night when Charlie died; it +grasps the old figures of the schoolroom, and kindles again (how strange +is memory) the fire that shed its lustre upon the curtains, and the +ceiling, as you lay groaning with your first hours of sickness. + +Your flitting recollection brings back with gushes of exultation the +figure of that little, blue-eyed hoiden,--Madge,--as she came with her +work to pass the long evenings with Nelly; it calls again the shy +glances that you cast upon her, and your _naive_ ignorance of all the +little counter-play that might well have passed between Frank and Nelly. +Your mother's form too, clear and distinct, comes upon the wave of your +rocking thought; her smile touches you now in age as it never touched +you in boyhood. + +The image of that fair Miss Dalton, who led your fancy into such mad +captivity, glides across your vision like the fragment of a crazy dream +long gone by. The country home, where lived the grandfather of Frank, +gleams kindly in the sunlight of your memory; and still,--poor, blind +Fanny--long since gathered to that rest where her closed eyes will open +upon visions of joy--draws forth a sigh of pity. + +Then comes up that sweetest and brightest vision of love, and the doubt +and care which ran before it,--when your hope groped eagerly through +your pride and worldliness toward the sainted purity of her whom you +know to be--all too good,--when you trembled at the thought of your own +vices and blackness in the presence of her who seemed virtue's self. And +even now your old heart bounds with joy as you recall the first timid +assurance that you were blessed in the possession of her love, and that +you might live in her smiles. + +Your thought runs like floating melody over the calm joy that followed +you through so many years,--to the prattling children, who were there to +bless your path. How poor seem now your transports, as you met their +childish embraces, and mingled in their childish employ; how utterly +weak the actual, when compared with that glow of affection which memory +lends to the scene! + +Yet all this is gone; and the anxieties are gone, which knit your heart +so strongly to those children, and to her--the mother,--anxieties which +distressed you,--which you would eagerly have shunned, yet whose memory +you would not now bargain away for a king's ransom! What were the +sunlight worth, if clouds did not sometimes hide its brightness; what +were the spring, or the summer, if the lessons of the chilling winter +did not teach us the story of their warmth? + +The days are gone too, in which you may have lingered under the sweet +suns of Italy,--with the cherished one beside you, and the eager +children, learning new prattle in the soft language of those Eastern +lands. The evenings are gone, in which you loitered under the trees with +those dear ones under the light of a harvest-moon, and talked of your +blooming hopes, and of the stirring plans of your manhood. There are no +more ambitious hopes, no more sturdy plans! Life's work has rounded into +the evening that shortens labor. + +And as you loiter in dreams over the wide waste of what is gone,--a +mingled array of griefs and of joys, of failures and of triumphs,--you +bless God that there has been so much of joy belonging to your shattered +life; and you pray God, with the vain fondness that belongs to a +parent's heart, that more of joy, and less of toil, may come near to the +cherished ones who bear up your hope and name. + +And with your silent prayer come back the old teachings, and vagaries of +the boyish heart in its reaches toward Heaven. You recall the old +church-reckoning of your goodness: is there much more of it now than +then? Is not Heaven just as high, and the world as sadly broad? + +Alas, for the poor tale of goodness which age brings to the memory! +There may be crowning acts of benevolence, shining here and there; but +the margin of what has not been done is very broad. How weak and +insignificant seems the story of life's goodness and profit, when Death +begins to slant his shadow upon our souls! How infinite in the +comparison seems that Eternal goodness which is crowned with mercy. How +self vanishes, like a blasted thing, and only lives--if it lives at +all--in the glow of that redeeming light which radiates from the +CROSS and the THRONE! + + + + +II. + +_What is Left._ + + +But much as there is gone of life, and of its joys, very much +remains,--very much in earnest, and very much more in hope. Still you +see visions, and you dream dreams, of the times that are to come. + +Your home and heart are left; within that home, the old Bible holds its +wonted place, which was the monitor of your boyhood; and now, more than +ever, it prompts those reverent reaches of the spirit, which go beyond +even the track of dreams. + +That cherished Madge, the partner of your life and joy, still lingers, +though her step is feeble, and her eyes are dimmed;--not as once +attracting you by any outward show of beauty; your heart, glowing +through the memory of a life of joy, needs no such stimulant to the +affections. Your hearts are knit together by a habit of growth, and a +unanimity of desire. There is less to remind of the vanities of earth, +and more to quicken the hopes of a time when body yields to spirit. + +Your own poor, battered hulk wants no jaunty-trimmed craft for consort; +but twin of heart and soul, as you are twin of years, you float +tranquilly toward that haven which lies before us all. + +Your children, now almost verging on maturity, bless your hearth and +home. Not one is gone. Frank indeed--that wild fellow of a youth, who +has wrought your heart into perplexing anxieties again and again, as you +have seen the wayward dashes of his young blood--is often away. But his +heart yet centres where yours centres; and his absence is only a nearer +and bolder strife with that fierce world whose circumstances every man +of force and energy is born to conquer. + +His return from time to time with that proud figure of opening +manliness, and that full flush of health, speaks to your affections as +you could never have believed it would. It is not for a man, who is the +father of a man, to show any weakness of the heart, or any +over-sensitiveness, in those ties which bind him to his kin. And +yet--yet, as you sit by your fireside, with your clear, gray eye +feasting in its feebleness on that proud figure of a man who calls you +"father,"--and as you see his fond and loving attentions to that one who +has been your partner in all anxieties and joys, there _is_ a throbbing +within your bosom that makes you almost wish him young again,--that you +might embrace him now, as when he warbled in your rejoicing ear those +first words of love!--Ah, how little does a son know the secret and +craving tenderness of a parent,--how little conception has he of those +silent bursts of fondness and of joy which attend his coming, and which +crown his parting! + +There is young Madge too,--dark-eyed, tall, with a pensive shadow +resting on her face,--the very image of refinement and of delicacy. She +is thoughtful;--not breaking out, like the hoiden, flax-haired Nelly, +into bursts of joy and singing,--but stealing upon your heart with a +gentle and quiet tenderness that diffuses itself throughout the +household like a soft zephyr of summer. + +There are friends too yet left, who come in upon your evening hours, and +light up the loitering time with dreamy story of the years that are +gone. How eagerly you listen to some gossiping veteran friend, who with +his deft words calls up the thread of some by-gone years of life; and +with what a careless, yet grateful recognition you lapse, as it were, +into the current of the past, and live over again by your hospitable +blaze the stir, the joy, and the pride of your lost manhood. + +The children of friends too have grown upon your march, and come to +welcome you with that reverent deference which always touches the heart +of age. That wild boy Will,--the son of a dear friend,--who but a little +while ago was worrying you with his boyish pranks, has now shot up into +tall and graceful youth, and evening after evening finds him making +part of your little household group. + +----Does the fond old man think that _he_ is all the attraction! + +It may be that in your dreamy speculations about the future of your +children, (for still you dream,) you think that Will may possibly become +the husband of the sedate and kindly Madge. It worries you to find Nelly +teasing him as she does; that mad hoiden will never be quiet; she +provokes you excessively: and yet she is a dear creature; there is no +meeting those laughing blue eyes of hers without a smile and an embrace! + +It pleases you however to see the winning frankness with which Madge +always receives Will. And with a little of your old vanity of +observation you trace out the growth of their dawning attachment. It +provokes you to find Nelly breaking up their quiet _tete-a-tetes_ with +her provoking sallies, and drawing away Will to some saunter in the +garden, or to some mad gallop over the hills. + +At length upon a certain summer's day Will asks to see you. He +approaches with a doubtful and disturbed look; you fear that wild Nell +has been teasing him with her pranks. Yet he wears not so much an +offended look as one of fear. You wonder if it ever happened to you to +carry your hat in just that timid manner, and to wear such a shifting +expression of the eye, as poor Will wears just now? You wonder if it +ever happened to you to begin to talk with an old friend of your +father's in just that abashed way? Will must have fallen into some sad +scrape.--Well, he is a good fellow, and you will help him out of it! + +You look up as he goes on with his story;--you grow perplexed +yourself;--you scarce believe your own ears. + +----"Nelly?"--Is Will talking of Nelly? + +"Yes, sir,--Nelly." + +----"What!--and you have told all this to Nelly--that you love her?" + +"I have, sir." + +"And she says"-- + +"That I must speak with you, sir." + +"Bless my soul!--But she's a good girl;"--and the old man wipes his +eyes. + +----"Nell!--are you there?" + +And she comes,--blushing, lingering, yet smiling through it all. + +----"And you could deceive your old father, Nell"--(very fondly.) + +Nelly only clasps your hand in both of hers. + +"And so you loved Will all the while?" + +----Nelly only stoops to drop a little kiss of pleading on your +forehead. + +----"Well, Nelly," (it is hard to speak roundly,) "give me your +hand;--here, Will,--take it:--she's a wild girl;--be kind to her, Will." + +"God bless you, sir!" + +And Nelly throws herself, sobbing, upon your bosom. + +----"Not here,--not here now, Nell!--Will is yonder!" + +----Sobbing, sobbing still! Nelly, Nelly,--who would have thought that +your merry face covered such a heart of tenderness! + + + + +III. + +_Grief and Joy of Age._ + + +The Winter has its piercing storms,--even as Autumn hath. Hoary age, +crowned with honor and with years, bears no immunity from suffering. It +is the common heritage of us all: if it come not in the spring or in the +summer of our day, it will surely find us in the autumn, or amid the +frosts of winter. It is the penalty humanity pays for pleasure; human +joys will have their balance. Nature never makes false weight. The east +wind is followed by a wind from the west; and every smile will have its +equivalent in a tear! + +You have lived long and joyously with that dear one who has made your +life a holy pilgrimage. She has seemed to lead you into ways of +pleasantness, and has kindled in you--as the damps of the world came +near to extinguish them--those hopes and aspirations which rest not in +life, but soar to the realm of spirits. + +You have sometimes shuddered with the thought of parting; you have +trembled even at the leave-taking of a year, or of months, and have +suffered bitterly as some danger threatened a parting forever. That +danger threatens now. Nor is it a sudden fear to startle you into a +paroxysm of dread: nothing of this. Nature is kinder,--or she is less +kind. + +It is a slow and certain approach of danger which you read in the feeble +step,--in the wan eye, lighting up from time to time into a brightness, +that seems no longer of this world. You read it in the new and ceaseless +attentions of the fond child, who yet blesses your home, and who +conceals from you the bitterness of the coming grief. + +Frank is away--over-seas; and as the mother mentions that name with a +tremor of love and of regret, that he is not now with you all,--you +recall that other death, when you too were not there. Then, you knew +little of a parent's feeling; now, its intensity is present! + +Day after day, as summer passes, she is ripening for that world where +her faith and her hope have so long lived. Her pressure of your hand at +some casual parting for a day is full of a gentle warning, as if she +said,--prepare for a longer adieu! + +Her language, too, without direct mention steeps your thought in the +bitter certainty that she foresees her approaching doom, and that she +dreads it only so far as she dreads the grief that will be left in her +broken home. Madge--the daughter--glides through the duties of that +household like an angel of mercy: she lingers at the sick-bed,--blessing, +and taking blessings. + + * * * * * + +The sun shines warmly without, and through the open casement beats +warmly upon the floor within. The birds sing in the joyousness of +full-robed summer; the drowsy hum of the bees, stealing sweets from the +honeysuckle that bowers the window, lulls the air to a gentle quiet. Her +breathing scarce breaks the summer stillness. Yet, she knows it is +nearly over. Madge, too,--with features saddened, yet struggling against +grief,--feels--that it is nearly over. + +It is very hard to think it; how much harder to know it! But there is no +mistaking her look now--so placid, so gentle, so resigned! And her grasp +of your hand--so warm--so full of meaning! + +----"Madge, Madge, must it be?" And a pleasant smile lights her eye; and +her grasp is warmer; and her look is--upward! + +----"Must it--must it be, dear Madge?"--A holier smile,--loftier,--lit +up of angels, beams on her faded features. The hand relaxes its clasp, +and you cling to it faster--harder,--joined close to the frail wreck of +your love,--joined tightly--but oh, how far apart! + +She is in Heaven;--and you, struggling against the grief of a lorn, old +man! + +But sorrow, however great it be, must be subdued in the presence of a +child. Its fevered outbursts must be kept for those silent hours when no +young eyes are watching, and no young hearts will "catch the trick of +grief." + +When the household is quiet and darkened,--when Madge is away from you, +and your boy Frank slumbering--as youth slumbers upon sorrow,--when you +are alone with God and the night,--in that room so long hallowed by her +presence, but now--deserted--silent,--then you may yield yourself to +such frenzy of tears as your strength will let you! And in your solitary +rambles through the churchyard you can loiter of a summer's noon over +_her_ fresh-made grave, and let your pent heart speak, and your spirit +lean toward the Rest where her love has led you! + +Thornton, the clergyman, whose prayer over the dead has dwelt with you, +comes from time to time to light up your solitary hearth with his talk +of the Rest for all men. He is young, but his earnest and gentle speech +win their way to your heart, and to your understanding. You love his +counsels; you make of him a friend, whose visits are long and often +repeated. + +Frank only lingers for a while; and you bid him again--adieu. It seems +to you that it may well be the last; and your blessing trembles on your +lip. Yet you look not with dread, but rather with a firm trustfulness +toward the day of the end. For your darling Madge, it is true, you have +anxieties; you fear to leave her lonely in the world with no protector +save the wayward Frank. + + * * * * * + +It is later August when you call to Madge one day to bring you the +little _escritoire_, in which are your cherished papers; among them is +your last will and testament. Thornton has just left you, and it seems +to you that his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial +mark of your regard. + +"Maggie," you say, "Mr. Thornton has been very kind to me." + +"Very kind, father." + +"I mean to leave him here some little legacy, Maggie." + +"I would not, father." + +"But Madge, my daughter!" + +"He is not looking for such return, father." + +"But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of +my regard. What shall it be, Maggie?" + +Madge hesitates,--Madge blushes,--Madge stoops to her father's ear as if +the very walls might catch the secret of her heart;--"Would you give +_me_ to him, father?" + +"But--my dear Madge--has he asked this?" + +"Eight months ago, papa." + +"And you told him"-- + +"That I would never leave you, so long as you lived!" + +----"My own dear Madge,--come to me,--kiss me! And you love him, +Maggie?" + +"With all my heart, sir." + +----"So like your mother,--the same figure,--the same true, honest +heart! It shall be as you wish, dear Madge. Only you will not leave me +in my old age,--eh, Maggie?" + +----"Never, father,--never." + + * * * * * + +----And there she leans upon his chair;--her arm around the old man's +neck,--her other hand clasped in his,--and her eyes melting with +tenderness as she gazes upon his aged face,--all radiant with joy and +with hope! + + + + +IV. + +_The End of Dreams._ + + +A feeble old man, and a young lady who is just now blooming into the +maturity of womanhood, are toiling up a gentle slope, where the spring +sun lies warmly. The old man totters, though he leans heavily upon his +cane; and he pants as he seats himself upon a mossy rock that crowns the +summit of the slope. As he recovers breath, he draws the hand of the +lady in his, and with a trembling eagerness he points out an old mansion +that lies below under the shadow of tall sycamores; and he says,--feebly +and brokenly,--"That is it, Maggie,--the old home--the sycamores--the +garret--Charlie--Nelly"-- + +The old man wipes his eyes. Then his hand shifts: he seems groping in +darkness; but soon it rests upon a little cottage below, heavily +overshadowed. + +"That was it, Maggie;--Madge lived there--sweet Madge--your mother"-- + +Again the old man wipes his eyes, and the lady turns away. + +Presently they walk down the hill together. They cross a little valley +with slow, faltering steps. The lady guides him carefully, until they +reach a little graveyard. + +"This must be it, Maggie, but the fence is new. There it is, Maggie, +under the willow,--my poor mother's grave!" + +The lady weeps. + +"Thank you, Madge; you did not know her, but you weep for me. God bless +you!" + + * * * * * + +The old man is in the midst of his household. It is some festive day. He +holds feebly his place at the head of the board. He utters in feeble +tones--a Thanksgiving. + +His married Nelly is there with two blooming children. Frank is there +with his bride. Madge--dearest of all--is seated beside the old man, +watchful of his comfort, and assisting him as with a shadowy dignity he +essays to do the honors of the board. The children prattle merrily: the +elder ones talk of the days gone by; and the old man enters feebly, yet +with floating glimpses of glee, into the cheer and the rejoicings. + +----Poor old man, he is near his tomb! Yet his calm eye, looking +upward, seems to show no fear. + + * * * * * + +The same old man is in his chamber; he cannot leave his chair now. Madge +is beside him; Nelly is there too with her eldest-born. Madge has been +reading to the old man: it was a passage of promise--of the Bible +promise. + +"A glorious promise!" says the old man, feebly;--"a promise to me,--a +promise to her, poor Madge!" + +----"Is her picture there, Maggie?" + +Madge brings it to him: he turns his head; but the light is not strong. +They wheel his chair to the window. The sun is shining brightly: still +the old man cannot see. + +"It is getting dark, Maggie." + +Madge looks at Nelly--wistfully--sadly. + +The old man murmurs something; and Madge stoops.--"Coming," he +says,--"coming!" + +Nelly brings the little child to take his hand. Perhaps it will revive +him. She lifts her boy to kiss his cheek. + +The old man does not stir: his eyes do not move: they seem fixed above. +The child cries as his lips touch the cold cheek.--It is a tender Spring +flower upon the bosom of the dying WINTER! + + * * * * * + +----The old man is gone: his dream-life is ended. + + + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Dream Life, by Donald G. 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