CHAPTER VII.
So, reader, thou art now at the secret of my heart.
Wonder not that I, a bookman's son, and at certain periods of my life a
bookman myself, though of lowly grade in that venerable class,--wonder
not that I should thus, in that transition stage between youth and
manhood, have turned impatiently from books. Most students, at one time
or other in their existence, have felt the imperious demand of that
restless principle in man's nature which calls upon each son of Adam to
contribute his share to the vast treasury of human deeds. And though
great scholars are not necessarily, nor usually, men of action, yet the
men of action whom History presents to our survey have rarely been
without a certain degree of scholarly nurture. For the ideas which
books quicken, books cannot always satisfy. And though the royal pupil
of Aristotle slept with Homer under his pillow, it was not that he might
dream of composing epics, but of conquering new Ilions in the East.
Many a man, how little soever resembling Alexander, may still have the
conqueror's aim in an object that action only can achieve, and the book
under his pillow may be the strongest antidote to his repose. And how
the stern Destinies that shall govern the man weave their first delicate
tissues amidst the earliest associations of the child! Those idle tales
with which the old credulous nurse had beguiled my infancy,--tales of
wonder, knight-errantry, and adventure,--had left behind them seeds long
latent, seeds that might never have sprung up above the soil, but that
my boyhood was so early put under the burning-glass, and in the quick
forcing house, of the London world. There, even amidst books and study,
lively observation and petulant ambition broke forth from the lush
foliage of romance,--that fruitless leafiness of poetic youth! And
there passion, which is a revolution in all the elements of individual
man, had called anew state of being, turbulent and eager, out of the old
habits and conventional forms it had buried,--ashes that speak where the
fire has been. Far from me, as from any mind of some manliness, be the
attempt to create interest by dwelling at length on the struggles
against a rash and misplaced attachment, which it was my duty to
overcome; but all such love, as I have before implied, is a terrible
unsettler,--
"Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth ever grow."
To re-enter boyhood, go with meek docility through its disciplined
routine--how hard had I found that return, amidst the cloistered
monotony of college! My love for my father, and my submission to his
wish, had indeed given some animation to objects otherwise distasteful;
but now that my return to the University must be attended with positive
privation to those at home, the idea became utterly hateful and
repugnant. Under pretence that I found myself, on trial, not yet
sufficiently prepared to do credit to my father's name, I had easily
obtained leave to lose the ensuing college term and pursue my studies at
home. This gave me time to prepare my plans and bring round -----. How
shall I ever bring round to my adventurous views those whom I propose to
desert? Hard it is to get on in the world,--very hard; but the most
painful step in the way is that which starts from the threshold of a
beloved home.
How--ah, how indeed! "No, Blanche, you cannot join me to-day; I am
going out for many hours. So it will be late before I can be home."
Home,--the word chokes me! Juba slinks back to his young mistress,
disconsolate; Blanche gazes at me ruefully from our favorite hill-top,
and the flowers she has been gathering fall unheeded from her basket. I
hear my mother's voice singing low as she sits at work by her open
casement. How,--ah, how indeed!
[END OF PRINT VOL 1.]
