The wind blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the sun's departing beam
Looked on the fading yellow woods
That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream.
BURNS.
He five dollars were gone. No matter -- they could be wanted.
They must be. Winthrop had no books either. What had he? A
wardrobe large enough to be tied up in a pocket-handkerchief;
his father's smile; his mother's tremulous blessing; and the
tears of his little brother and sister.
He set out with his wardrobe in his hand, and a dollar in his
pocket, to walk to Asphodel. It was a walk of thirteen miles.
The afternoon was chill, misty and lowering; November's sad-
colour in the sky, and Winter's desolating heralds all over
the ground. If the sun shone anywhere, there was no sign of
it; and there was no sign of it either in the traveller's
heart. If fortune had asked him to play "even or odd," he
could hardly have answered her.
He was leaving home. _They_ did not know it, but he did. It was
the first step over home's threshold. This little walk was the
beginning of a long race, of which as yet he knew only the
starting-point; and for love of that starting-point and for
straitness of heart at turning his back upon it, he could have
sat down under the fence and cried. How long this absence from
home might be, he did not know. But it was the snapping of the
tie, -- that he knew. He was setting his face to the world; and
the world's face did not answer him very cheerfully. And that
poor little pocket-handkerchief of things, which his mother's
hands had tied up, he hardly dared glance at it; it said so
pitifully how much they would, how little they had the power
to do for him; she and his father; how little way that heart
of love could reach, when once he had set out on the cold
journey of life. He had set out now, and he felt alone, --
alone; -- his best company was the remembrance of that
whispered blessing; and that, he knew, would abide with him.
If the heart could have coined the treasure it sent back, his
mother would have been poor no more.
He did not sit down, nor stop, nor shed a tear. It would have
gone hard with him if he had been obliged to speak to anybody;
but there was nobody to speak to. Few were abroad, at that
late season and unlovely time. Comfort had probably retreated
to the barns and farmhouses -- to the _homesteads_, -- for it was
a desolate road that he travelled; the very wagons and horses
that he met were going home, or would be. It was a long road,
and mile after mile was plodded over, and evening began to say
there was nothing so dark it might not be darker. No Asphodel
yet.
It was by the lights that he saw it at length and guessed he
was near the end of his journey. It took some plodding then to
reach it. Then a few inquiries brought him where he might see
Mr. Glanbally.
It was a corner house, flush upon the road, bare as a poverty
of boards could make it, and brown with the weather. In the
twilight he could see that. Winthrop thought nothing of it; he
was used to it; his own house at home was brown and bare; but
alas! this looked very little like his own house at home.
There wasn't penthouse enough to keep the rain from the
knocker. He knocked.
"Is Mr. Glanbally at home?"
"Yes -- I 'spect he is -- he come in from school half an hour
ago. You go in there, and I guess you'll find him."
'There,' indicated a door at right angles with the front and
about a yard behind it. The woman opened the door, and left
Winthrop to shut it for himself.
In a bare room, at a bare table, by an ill-to-do dip candle,
sat Mr. Glanbally and his book. The book on the table, and Mr.
Glanbally's face on the book, as near as possible; and both as
near as possible under the candle. Reason enough for that,
when the very blaze of a candle looked so little like giving
light. Was that why Mr. Glanbally's eyes almost touched the
letters? Winthrop wondered he could see them at all; but
probably he did, for he did not look up to see anything else.
He had taken the opening and shutting of the door to be by
some wonted hand. Winthrop stood still a minute. There was
nothing remarkable about his future preceptor, except his
position. He was a little, oldish man -- that was all.
Winthrop moved a step or two, and then looking hastily up, the
little man pushed the candle one way and the book another, and
peered at his visitor.
"Ah! -- Do you wish to see me, sir?"
"I wish to see Mr. Glanbally."
"That's my name, sir, -- that's right."
Winthrop came a step nearer and laid a letter on the table.
The old gentleman took it up, examined the outside, and then
went on to scan what was within, holding the lines in the same
fearful proximity to his face; so near indeed, that to
Winthrop's astonishment when he got to the bottom of the page
he made no scruple of turning over the leaf with his nose. The
letter was folded, and then Mr. Glanbally rose to his feet.
"Well, sir, and so you have come to take a place in our
Academy for a spell -- I am glad to see you -- sit down."
Which Winthrop did; and Mr. Glanbally sat looking at him, a
little business-like, a little curious, a little benevolent.
"What have you studied?"
"Very little, sir, -- of anything."
"Your father says, his second son -- What was the name of the
other?"
"William, sir."
"William what?"
"Landholm."
"William Landholm -- yes, I recollect -- I couldn't make out
exactly whether it was _Sandball_ or _Lardner_ -- Mr. Landholm --
Where is your brother now, sir?"
"He is at Little River, sir, going on with his studies."
"He made very good progress -- very good indeed -- he's a young
man of talent, your brother. He's a smart fellow. He's going
on to fit himself to enter college, ain't he?"
"Yes sir."
"He'll do well -- he can do what he's a mind. Well, Mr.
Landholm -- what are _you_ going to turn your hand to?"
"I have hardly determined, sir, yet."
"You'll see your brother -- something, I don't know what, one
of these days, and you'll always be his brother, you know. Now
what are you going to make of yourself? -- merchant or farmer?"
"Neither, sir."
"No?" -- said Mr. Glanbally. He looked a little surprised, for
Mr. Landholm's letter had spoken of "a few weeks."
"Well, what then?"
"I don't know what I shall like best, sir," said Winthrop.
"No, not yet; perhaps not yet. You'll be a happy man if ever
you do, sir. _I_ never knew what I liked best, till I couldn't
have it. Well sir -- what do you calculate to begin upon? -- a
little arithmetic, I suppose, won't be out of the way."
"I should like -- Latin, if you please, sir."
"Latin! Then you're following your brother's steps? I am glad
of it! It does me good to see boys studying Latin. That's
right. Latin. And Algebra, perhaps."
"Yes sir."
"I'll put you into Algebra, as soon as you like."
"I shall want books, I suppose, sir. Can I get them here?"
"No; you can't get 'em, I'm afraid, this side of Deerford."
"Deerford?"
"That's six miles off, or so."
"I can't walk there to-night," said Winthrop; "but I'll go to-
morrow."
"Walk there to-night! no, -- but we'll see. I think you've got
the stuff in you. To-night! -- Maybe we can find some old books
that will do to begin with; and you can walk over there some
waste afternoon. How far have you come to-day?"
"About thirteen miles, sir, from home."
"On foot?"
"Yes sir."
"And you want half a dozen more to-night?"
"No sir," said Winthrop, smiling, -- "not if I might choose."
"You'll find a day. Your father spoke to me about your
lodgings. You can lodge here, where I do; only twelve
shillings a week. I'll speak to Mrs. Nelson about it; and you
can just make yourself at home. I'm very glad to see you."
'Make himself at home'! Winthrop's heart gave an emphatic
answer, as he drew up a chair the opposite side of the
fireplace. Make himself at home. That might only be done by a
swift transport of thirteen miles. He could not do it, if he
would. Would he, if he could? Nay, he had set his face up the
mountain of learning, and not all the luring voices that might
sound behind and beside him could tempt him to turn back. He
must have the Golden Water that was at the top.
It was necessary to stuff cotton into his ears. Fancy had
obstinately a mind to bring his mother's gentle tread about
him, and to ring the sweet tones of home, and to shew him
pictures of the summer light on the hills, and of the little
snow-spread valley of winter. Nay, by the side of that cold
fireplace, with Mr. Glanbally at one corner and himself at the
other, she set the bright hearth of home, girdled with warm
hearts and hands; a sad break in them now for his being away.
Mr. Glanbally had returned to his book and was turning over
the leaves of it with his nose; and Winthrop was left alone to
his contemplations. How alone the turning over of those leaves
did make him feel. If Mr. Glanbally would have held up his
head and used his fingers, like a Christian man, it would not
have been so dreary; but that nose said emphatically, "You
never saw me before."
It was a help to him when somebody came in to spread that bare
table with supper. Fried pork, and cheese; and bread that was
not his mother's sweet baking, and tea that was very
"herbaceous." It was the fare he must expect up the mountain.
He did not mind that. He would have lived on bread and water.
The company were not fellow-travellers either, to judge by
their looks. No matter for that; he did not want company. He
would sing, "My mind to me a kingdom is;" but the kingdom had
to be conquered first; enough to do. He was thinking all
supper-time what waste ground it was. And after supper he was
taken to his very spare room. It was doubtful how the epithet
could possibly have been better deserved. That mattered not;
the temple of Learning should cover his head by and by; it
signified little what shelter it took in the mean while. But
though he cared nothing for each of these things separately,
they all together told him he was a traveller; and Winthrop's
heart owned itself overcome, whatever his head said to it.
His was not a head to be ashamed of his heart; and it was with
no self-reproach that he let tears come, and then wiped them
away. He slept at last; and the sleep of a tired man should be
sweet. But "as he slept he dreamed." He fell to his
journeyings again. He thought himself back on the wearisome
road he had come that day, and it seemed that night and
darkness overtook him; such night that his way was lost. And
he was sitting by the roadside, with his little bundle, stayed
that he could not go on, when his mother suddenly came, with a
light, and offered to lead him forward. But the way by which
she would lead him was not one he had ever travelled, for the
dream ended there. He awoke and knew it was a dream; yet
somewhat in the sweet image, or in the thoughts and
associations it brought back, touched him strangely; and he
wept upon his pillow with the convulsive weeping of a little
child. And prayed, that night, for the first time in his life,
that in the journey before him his mother's God might be his
God. He slept at last.
He awoke to new thoughts and to fresh exertion. Action,
action, was the business of the day; to get up the hill of
learning, the present aim of life; and to that he bent
himself. Whether or not Winthrop fancied this opportunity
might be a short one, it is certain he made the most of it.
Mr. Glanbally had for once his heart's desire of a pupil.
It was a week or two before the walk was taken to Deerford and
the books bought. At the end of those weeks the waste
afternoon fell out, and Mr. Glanbally got Winthrop a ride in a
wagon for one half the way. Deerford was quite a place; but to
Winthrop its great attraction was -- a Latin dictionary! He
found the right bookstore, and his dollar was duly exchanged
for a second-hand Virgil, a good deal worn, and a dictionary,
which had likewise seen its best days; and that was not saying
much; for it was of very bad paper and in most miserable
little type. But it was a precious treasure to Winthrop. His
heart yearned after some Greek books, but his hand was stayed;
there was nothing more in it. He had only got the Virgil and
dictionary by favour eking out his eight shillings, for the
books were declared to be worth ten. So he trudged off home
again with his purchases under his arm, well content. That
Virgil and dictionary were a guide of the way for a good piece
of the mountain. Now to get up it.
He had got home and was turning the books over with Mr.
Glanbally, just in the edge of the evening, when the door
opened quick and a little female figure came in. She came
close up to the table with the air of one quite at home.
"Good evening, Mr. Glanbally -- father told me to give you this
letter."
Winthrop looked at her, and Mr. Glanbally looked at the
letter. She was a slight little figure, a child, not more than
thirteen or fourteen at the outside, perhaps not so much, but
tall of her age. A face not like those of the Asphodel
children. She did not once look towards him.
"Why I thought you were in Mannahatta, Miss Elizabeth."
"Just going there -- we have just come from Little River on our
way."
"This letter is for you, Winthrop," said Mr. Glanbally,
handing it over. "And Mr. Haye was kind enough to bring it
from Little River?"
"Yes sir -- he said it was for somebody here."
"And now you are going to Mannahatta?"
"Yes sir -- to-morrow. Good bye, Mr. Glanbally."
"Are you alone, Miss Elizabeth?"
"Yes sir."
"Where is Miss Cadwallader?"
"She's at home. I've just been down to see nurse."
"But it's too late for you," said Mr. Glanbally, getting up, --
"it's too dark -- it's too late for you to go home alone."
"O no sir, I'm not afraid."
"Stop, I'll go with you," said Mr. Glanbally, -- "but I've been
riding till I'm as stiff as the tongs -- Winthrop, are you too
tired to walk home with this young lady? -- as her father has
brought you a letter you might do so much."
"Certainly, sir, -- I am not tired."
"I don't want anybody. I'm not in the least afraid, Mr.
Glanbally," said the little lady rather impatiently, and still
not glancing at her promised escort.
"But it's better, Miss Elizabeth" --
"No sir, it isn't."
"Your father will like it better, I know. This is Mr. Landholm
-- the brother of the Mr. Landholm you used to see last summer,
-- you remember."
Elizabeth looked at her guard, as if she had no mind to
remember anybody of the name, and without more ado left the
room. Winthrop understanding that he was to follow, did so,
and with some difficulty brought himself up alongside of the
little lady, for she had not tarried for him and was moving on
at a smart pace. Her way led them presently out of the village
and along a lonely country road. Winthrop thought he was not a
needless convenience at that hour; but it was doubtful what
his little charge thought. She took no manner of notice of
him. Winthrop thought he would try to bring her out, for he
was playing the part of a shadow too literally.
"You are a good walker, Miss Elizabeth."
A slight glance at him, and no answer.
"Do you often go out alone so late?"
"Whenever I want to."
"How do you like living in the city?"
"I? -- I don't know. I have never lived there."
"Have you lived here?"
"Yes."
The tone was perfectly self-possessed and equally dry. He
tried her again.
"My brother says you have a very pleasant place."
There was no answer at all this time. Winthrop gave it up as a
bad business.
It had grown nearly dark. She hurried on, as much as was
consistent with a pace perfectly steady. About half a mile
from the village she came to a full stop, and looked towards
him, almost for the first time.
"You can leave me now. I can see the light in the windows."
"Not yet," said Winthrop smiling -- "Mr. Glanbally would hardly
think I had done my duty."
"Mr. Glanbally needn't trouble himself about me! He has
nothing to do with it. This is far enough."
"I must go a little further."
She started forward again, and a moment after hardly made her
own words good. They encountered a large drove of cattle, that
spread all over the road. Little independence plainly faltered
here and was glad to walk behind her guard, till they had
passed quite through. They came then to the iron gate of her
grounds.
"You needn't come any further," she said. "Thank you."
And as she spoke she opened and shut the gate in his face.
Winthrop turned about and retraced his steps homeward, to read
his brother's letter. It was read by his little end of candle
after he went up to bed at night.
"Little River, Nov. 1807.
"My dear governor,
"For I expect you will be all that, one of these days, (a
literal "governor," I mean,) or in some other way assert your
supremacy over nineteen twentieths of the rest of the human
race. Methinks even now from afar I see Joseph's dream
enacting, in your favour, only you will perforce lack
something of his _baker's dozen_ of homages in your own family.
Unless -- but nobody can tell what may happen. For my part I am
sincerely willing to be surpassed, so it be _only by you;_ and
will swing my cap and hurrah for you louder than anybody, the
first time you are elected. Do not think I am more than half
mad. In truth I expect great things from you, and I expect
without any fear of disappointment. You have an obstinacy of
perseverance, under that calm face of yours, that will be more
than a match for all obstacles in your way; indeed obstacles
only make the rush of the stream the greater, if once it get
by them; the very things which this minute threatened to check
it, the next are but trophies in the foaming triumph of its
onward course. You can do what you will; and you will aim
high. Aim at the highest.
"_I_ am aiming as hard as I can, and so fast that I can't see
whether my arrows hit. Not at the capture of any pretty face,
-- though there are a few here that would be prizes worth
capturing; but really I am not skilled in that kind of archery
and on the whole am not quite ready for it. An archer needs to
be better equipped, to enter those lists with any chance of
success, than alas! I am at present. I am aiming hard at the
dressing up of my mind, in the sincere hope that the dressing
up of my person may have some place in the after-piece. In
other words, I am so busy that I don't know what I am doing.
Asphodel was a miserable place (though I am very glad you are
in it) -- my chances of success at Little River are much
better. Indeed I am very much to my mind here; were I, as I
said, a little better equipped outwardly, and if my aunt
Landholm only had mamma's recipe for making pumpkin pies; or,
as an alternative, had the pumpkin crop this season but
failed. But alas! the huge number of the copper-coloured tribe
that lurked among the corn forests a few weeks ago, forbid me
to hope for any respite till St. Nicholas jogs my aunt L.'s
elbow.
"I have left myself no room to say with how much delight I
received your letter, nor with what satisfaction I think of
you as having fairly started in the race. You have entered
your plough, now, Governor, -- quick, quick, for the other
side.
"Thine in the dearest rivalry,
"Will. Rufus Landholm
"All manner of love to mamma, papa, and the little ones, from
Will."
In another corner, -- "I am sorry Mr. Haye makes so little stay
at Asphodel at this time -- you will not see anything of him,
nor of his place."
"I can bear that," thought Winthrop.
He was much too busy to see men or places. One fortnight was
given to the diligent study of Algebra; two other little
fortnights to Latin; and then his father came and took him
home, sooner than he expected. But he had "entered his
plough."
Yet it was hard to leave it there just entered; and the ride
home was rather a thoughtful one. Little his father knew what
he had been about. _He_ thought his son had been "getting a
little schooling;" he had no notion he had begun to fit
himself for College!
Just as they reached the river, at a little hamlet under the
hill at the foot of the north bay, where the road branched off
to skirt the face of the tableland towards the home
promontory, the wagon was stopped by Mr. Underhill. He came
forward and unceremoniously rested both arms upon the tire of
the fore wheel.
"Mornin'. Where' you been?"
"A little way back. 'Been to Asphodel, to fetch my son
Winthrop home."
"Asphodel? -- that's a good way back, ain't it?"
"Well, a dozen miles or so," said Mr. Landholm laughing.
"Has he been to the 'cademy too?"
"Yes -- for a little while back, he has."
"What are you going to make of your sons, neighbour Landholm?"
"Ah! -- I don't know," said Mr. Landholm, touching his whip
gently first on one side and then on the other side of his off
horse; -- "_I_ can't make much of 'em -- they've got to make
themselves."
Neighbour Underhill gave a sharp glance at Winthrop and then
came back again.
"What do you reckon's the use of all this edication, farmer?"
"O -- I guess it has its uses," said Mr. Landholm, smiling a
little bit.
"Well, do you s'pose these boys are goin' to be smarter men
than you and I be?"
"I hope so."
"You do! Well, drive on! --" said he, taking his arms from the
top of the wheel. But then replacing them before the wagon had
time to move --
"Where's Will?"
"Will? he's at Little River --doing well, as I hear."
"Doing what? getting himself ready for College yet?"
"Yes -- he isn't ready yet."
"I say, neighbour, -- it takes a power of time to get these
fellows ready to begin, don't it?"
"Yes," said Mr. Landholm with a sigh.
"After they're gone you calculate to do all the work yourself,
I s'pose?"
"O I've only lost one yet," said Mr. Landholm shaking the
reins; "and he'll help take care of me by and by, I expect. --
Come!"
Again the other's hands slipped off the wheel, and again were
put back.
"We're goin' to do without larnin' here," said he. "Lost our
schoolmaster."
"That fellow Dolts gone?"
"Last week."
"What's the matter?"
"The place and him didn't fit somewheres, I s'pose; at least I
don't know what 'twas if 'twa'n't that."
"What are you going to do?"
"Play marbles, I guess, -- till some one comes along."
"Well, my hands 'll be too cold to play marbles, if I sit here
much longer," said Mr. Landholm laughing. "Good day to ye!"
And the wheel unclogged, they drove on.