I knew the path which led from the boarding-place of Mr. Regulus crossed
the one which I daily traversed. I met him exactly at the point of
intersection, under the shadow of a great, old oak. The dew of the
morning glittered on the shaded grass. The clear light blue of the
morning sky smiled through upward quivering leaves. Every thing looked
bright and buoyant, and as I walked on, girded with a resolute purpose,
my spirit caught something of the animation and inspiration of the
scene.
The master saw me as I approached, and I expected to see a frown darken
his brow. I felt brave, however, for I was about to plead for another,
not myself. He did not frown, neither did he smile. He seemed willing to
meet me,--he even slackened his pace till I came up. I felt a sultry
glow on my cheek when I faced him, and my breath came quick and short. I
was not so very brave after all.
"Master Regulus," said I, "do not expel Richard Clyde,--do not disgrace
him, because he thought I was not kindly dealt with. I am sorry I ran
from school as I did,--I am sorry I wrote the poem,--I hardly knew what
I was doing when I snatched the paper from your hands. I suppose Richard
hardly knew what he was doing when he stopped you at the door."
I did not look up while I was speaking, for had I met an angry glance I
should have rebelled.
"I am glad I have met you, Gabriella," said he, in a tone so gentle, I
lifted my eyes in amazement. His beamed with unusual kindness beneath
his shading brows. Gone was the mocking gleam,--gone the deriding smile.
He looked serious, earnest, almost sad, but not severe. Looking at his
watch, and then at the golden vane, as if that too were a chronometer,
he turned towards the old oak, and throwing himself carelessly on a seat
formed of a broken branch, partially severed from the trunk, motioned me
to sit down on the grass beside him. Quick as lightning I obeyed him,
untying my bonnet and pushing it back from my head. I could scarcely
believe the evidence of my senses. There reclined the formidable master,
like a great, overgrown boy, his attitude alone banishing all restraint
and fear, and I, perched on a mossy rock, that looked as if placed there
on purpose for me to sit down upon, all my wounded and exasperated
feelings completely drowned in a sudden overflow of pleasant emotions. I
had expected scolding, rebuke, denial,--I had armed myself for a
struggle of power,--I had resolved to hazard a martyr's doom.
Oh, the magic of kindness on a child's heart!--a lonely, sensitive,
proud, yearning heart like mine!--'Tis the witch-hazel wand that shows
where the deep fountain is secretly welling. I was ashamed of the tears
that _would_ gather into my eyes. I shook my hair forward to cover them,
and played with the green leaves within my reach.
The awful space between me and this tall, stern, learned man seemed
annihilated. I had never seen him before, divested of the insignia of
authority, beyond the walls of the academy. I had always been compelled
to look up to him before; now we were on a level, on the green sward of
the wild-wood. God above, nature around, no human faces near, no fear of
man to check the promptings of ingenuous feeling. Softly the folded
flower petals of the heart began to unfurl. The morning breeze caught
their fragrance and bore it up to heaven.
"You thought me harsh and unkind, Gabriella," said the master in a low,
subdued voice, "and I fear I was so yesterday. I intended to do you
good. I began sportively, but when I saw you getting excited and angry,
I became angry and excited too. My temper, which is by no means gentle,
had been previously much chafed, and, as is too often the case, the
irritation, caused by the offences of many, burst forth on one, perhaps
the most innocent of all. Little girl, you have been studying the
history of France; do you remember its Louises?--Louis the Fourteenth
was a profligate, unprincipled, selfish king. Louis the Fifteenth,
another God-defying, self-adoring sensualist. Louis the Sixteenth one of
the most amiable, just, Christian monarchs the world ever saw. Yet the
accumulated wrongs under which the nation had been groaning during the
reign of his predecessors, were to be avenged in his person,--innocent,
heroic sufferer that he was. This is a most interesting historic fact,
and bears out wonderfully the truth of God's words. But I did not mean
to give a lecture on history. It is out of place here. I meant to do you
good yesterday, and discourage you from becoming an idle rhymer--a vain
dreamer. You are not getting angry I hope, little girl, for I am kind
now."
"No, sir,--no, indeed, sir," I answered, with my face all in a glow.
"Your mother, I am told, wishes you to be educated for a teacher, a
profession which requires as much training as the Spartan youth endured,
when fitted to be the warriors of the land. Why, you should be preparing
yourself a coat of mail, instead of embroidering a silken suit. How do
you expect to get through the world, child,--and it is a hard world to
the poor, a cold world to the friendless,--how do you expect to get
along through the briars and thorns, over the rocks and the hills with
nothing but a blush on your cheek, a tear in your eye, and a sentimental
song on your lips? Independence is the reward of the working mind, the
thinking brain, and the earnest heart."
He grew really eloquent as he went on. He raised his head to an erect
position, and ran his fingers through his bushy locks. I cannot remember
all he said, but every word he uttered had meaning in it. I appreciated
for the first time the difficulties and trials of a teacher's vocation.
I had thought before, that it was the pupil only who bore the burden of
endurance. It had never entered my mind that the crown of authority
covered the thorns of care, that the wide sweep of command wearied more
than the restraint of subjection. I was flattered by the manner in which
he addressed me, the interest he expressed in my future prospects. I
found myself talking freely to him of myself, of my hopes and my fears.
I forgot the tyrant of yesterday in the friend of to-day. I remember one
thing he said, which is worth recording.
"It is very unfortunate when a child, in consequence of a facility of
making rhyme, is led to believe herself a poetess,--or, in other words,
a prodigy. She is praised and flattered by injudicious friends, till she
becomes inflated by vanity and exalted by pride. She wanders idly,
without aim or goal, in the flowery paths of poesy, forgetful of the
great highway of knowledge, not made alone for the chariot wheels of
kings, but the feet of the humblest wayfarer."
When he began to address me, he remembered that I was a child, but
before he finished the sentence he forgot my age, and his thoughts and
language swelled and rose to the comprehension of manhood. But I
understood him. Perhaps there was something in my fixed and fascinated
glance that made him conscious of my full appreciation.
"I have no friends to praise and flatter me," I simply answered. "I have
loved to sing in rhyme as the little birds sing, because God gave me the
power."
He looked pleased. He even laid his hand on my head and smiled. Not the
cold smile of yesterday, but quite a genial smile. I could hardly
believe it the same face, it softened and transformed it so. I
involuntarily drew nearer to him, drawn by that powerful magnetism,
which every human heart feels more or less.
The great brazen tongue of the town clock rang discordantly on the sweet
stillness of the morning hour. The master rose and motioned me to follow
him.
"Richard Clyde is forgiven. Tell him so. Let the past be forgotten, or
remembered only to make us wiser and better."
We entered the academy together, to the astonishment of the pupils, who
were gathered in little clusters, probably discussing the events of
yesterday.
Richard Clyde was not there, but he came the next day, and the scene in
which we were both such conspicuous actors was soon forgotten. It had,
however, an abiding influence on me. A new motive for exertion was born
within me,--affection for my master,--and the consequence was, ambition
to excel, that I might be rewarded by his approbation.
Bid he ever again treat me with harshness and severity? No,--never. I
have often wondered why he manifested such unusual and wanton disregard
of my feelings then, that one, only time. It is no matter now. It is a
single blot on a fair page.
Man is a strangely inconsistent being. His soul is the battle ground of
the warring angels of good and evil. As one or the other triumphs, he
exhibits the passions of a demon or the attributes of a God.
Could we see this hidden war field, would it not be grand? What were the
plains of Marathon, the pass of Thermopylæ, or Cannæ paved with golden
rings, compared to it?
Let us for a moment imagine the scene. Not the moment of struggle, but
the pause that succeeds. The angels of good have triumphed, and though
the plumage of their wings may droop, they are white and dazzling so as
no "fuller of earth could whiten them." The moonlight of peace rests
upon the battle field, where evil passions lie wounded and trampled
under feet. Strains of victorious music float in the air; but it comes
from those who have triumphed in the conflict and entered into rest,
those who behold the conflict from afar. It is so still, that one can
almost hear the trees of Paradise rustle in the ambrosial gales of
heaven.
Is this poetry? Is it sacrilege? If so, forgive me, thou great Inspirer
of thought,--"my spirit would fain not wander from thee."