“Put money in thy purse.”
Harry Thatcher was poor, that is, he had only his inborn energies to
carry him through the world. When very young he had been seized with
poetic inspiration, and had sometimes even dreamed of immortality. He
wrote with ease and beauty. Page after page came from his prolific pen,
almost without an effort; and many of his productions were published and
circulated. The world applauded them, and inquiries were made, in the
hope of discovering the author, but vainly; for, wrapped in the veil of
impenetrable obscurity, he merely listened to the voice of praise. His
thirst for fame had been gratified; and he now began to yearn for the
companionship of the other sex, to share with him the laurels he had
won. Though he had often pictured to himself the felicity of being
beloved by a beautiful and intellectual being, on whom he could pour all
the treasured feeling which lay hushed in repose, he had never met with
such a creature until he had seen Miss Bryarly; for so exalted had been
his conceptions of the woman whom he could love, that all he had
hitherto met fell far below the standard he had erected in his own mind.
He now loved, yet he could never hope to obtain the object of his
choice, while his position in life remained undefined, and his fortunes
uncertain; he would not offer a portionless hand to one who might choose
a suitor from the wealthiest of the land. He knew he had talents which,
if properly used, would lead to distinction, and gain competency—but
how were they to be profitably employed? To toil for such a woman would
be nothing; but then the time required would be a great trial. He
pondered long on the subject, but definitely made up his mind to engage
in mercantile business, and abandon the classic shades in which he had
hitherto wandered, until images of beauty filled his soul. He was not
without friends, who were both able and willing to assist him in his
claims upon fortune. An advantageous offer was made him, which he
accepted, though it involved the necessity of banishment from his native
home to a far distant state.
The labors of the intellect—which rarely bring fortune, but which are
to the scholar a delightful pastime—were now put aside for the musty
ledgers of a dingy counting-room. He had chosen for his motto, “hope
on—hope ever;” and he did not despair of success. He was now no longer
the light-hearted boy to whom life was but a scene of enjoyment and
preparation for future struggles—he had but one object, and but one
hope; to labor that he might acquire a competency, was accomplishing the
first, then to seek and win Mary, would fulfill the second.
He soon acquired a knowledge of commerce, and devoted himself with a
degree of zeal and perseverance that could not but command success.
Though he had never told his love, it cannot be said that concealment
had “preyed on his damask cheek;” the only change effected in that
damask was a more healthful color caused by constant exercise. Even
during the excitement of his daily duties, and the engrossing study of
all that could tend to the fulfillment of his designs, time seemed to
wear but slowly away, though, indeed, the hours were often beguiled of
their weariness when meditating on the loveliness and grace of Mary.