THE MASTER AND HIS PUPILS.
The course of the young rustic was pursued for half a mile further till
he came to a little cottage of which the eye could take no cognizance
from any part of the village. It was embowelled in a glen of its own--a
mere cup of the slightly-rising hills, and so encircled by foliage that
it needed a very near approach of the stranger before he became aware of
its existence. The structure was very small, a sort of square box with
a cap upon it, and consisted of two rooms only on a ground floor, with a
little lean-to or shed-room in the rear, intended for a kitchen. As
you drew nigh and passed through the thick fringe of wood by which
its approach was guarded, the space opened before you, and you found
yourself in a sort of amphitheatre, of which the cottage was the centre.
A few trees dotted this area, large and massive trees, and seemingly
preserved for purposes of shade only. It was the quietest spot in the
world, and inspired just that sort of feeling in the contemplative
stranger which would be awakened by a ramble among the roofless ruins of
the ancient abbey. It was a home for contemplation--in which one might
easily forget the busy world without, and deliver himself up, without an
effort, to the sweetly sad musings of the anchorite.
The place was occupied, however. A human heart beat within the humble
shed, and there was a spirit, sheltered by its quiet, that mused many
high thoughts, and dreamed in equal congratulation and self-reproach, of
that busy world from which it was an exile. The visit of William Hinkley
was not paid to the solitude. A venerable man, of large frame, and
benignant aspect, sat beneath an aged tree, paternal in its appearance
like himself. This person might be between fifty and sixty years of age.
His hair, though very thick and vigorous, was as white as driven snow.
But there were few wrinkles on his face, and his complexion was the
clear red and white of a healthy and sanguine temperament. His brow was
large and lofty. It had many more wrinkles than his face. There were two
large horizontal seams upon it that denoted the exercise of a very
busy thought. But the expression of his eye was that of the most
unembarrassed benevolence and peace. It was subdued and sometimes sad,
but then it had the sweetest, playfullest twinkle in the world.
His mouth, which was small and beautifully formed, wore a similar
expression. In short he was what we would call a handsome old gentleman,
whose appearance did not offend taste, and whose kind looks invited
confidence. Nor would we mistake his character.
This person was the Mr. Calvert, the schoolmaster of the village, of
whom Mrs. Hinkley spoke to Alfred Stevens in discussing the condition of
her son. His tasks were over for the day. The light-hearted rabble whom
he taught, released from his dominion which was not severe, were, by
this time, scampering over the hills, as far from their usual place
of restraint as the moderate strength of their legs could carry them.
Though let loose, boys are not apt to feel their liberty in its prime
and freshness, immediately in the neighborhood of the schoolhouse.
The old gentleman left to himself, sat out in the open air, beneath
a massive oak, the paternal stretching of whose venerable arms not
unfrequently led to the employment of the shade below for carrying on
the operations of the schoolhouse. There, squat on their haunches, the
sturdy boys--germs of the finest peasantry in the world--surrounded
their teacher in a group quite as pleasing as picturesque. The sway of
the old man was paternal. His rod was rather a figurative than a real
existence; and when driven to the use of the birch, the good man,
consulting more tastes than one, employed the switch from the peach or
some other odorous tree or shrub, in order to reconcile the lad, as
well as he could, to the extraordinary application. He was one of those
considerate persons, who disguise pills in gold-leaf, and if compelled,
as a judge, to hang a gentleman, would decree that a rope of silk should
carry out the painful requisitions of the laws.
Seated beneath his tree, in nearly the same spot and position in which
he had dismissed his pupils, William Calvert pored over the pages of
a volume as huge of size as it was musty of appearance. It was that
pleasant book--quite as much romance as history--the “Knights of
Malta,” by our venerable father, Monsieur L'Abbe Vertot. Its dull, dim,
yellow-looking pages--how yellow, dim, and dull-looking in comparison
with more youthful works--had yet a life and soul which it is not easy
to find in many of these latter. Its high wrought and elaborate pictures
of strife, and toil, and bloodshed, grew vividly before the old man's
eyes; and then, to help the illusion, were there not the portraits--mark
me--the veritable portraits, engraved on copper, with all their titles,
badges, and insignia, done to the life, of all those brave, grand, and
famous masters of the order, by whom the deeds were enacted which
he read, and who stared out upon his eyes, at every epoch, in full
confirmation of the veracious narrative? No wonder that the old man
became heedless of external objects. No wonder he forgot the noise of
the retiring urchins, and the toils of the day, as, for the twentieth
time, he glowed in the brave recital of the famous siege--the baffled
fury of the Turk--the unshaken constancy and unremitted valor of the few
but fearless defenders. The blood in his cheek might be seen hastening
to and fro in accordance with the events of which he read. His eye
was glowing--his pulse beating, and he half started from his seat, as,
hearing a slight footstep, he turned to encounter the respectful homage
of his former pupil, still his friend, our young acquaintance, William
Hinkley.
The old man laid down his book upon the grass, extended his hand to his
visiter, and leaning back against the tree, surrendered himself to a
quiet chuckle in which there was the hesitancy of a little shame.
“You surprised me, William,” he said; “when I read old Vertot, and
such books, I feel myself a boy again. You must have seen my emotion.
I really had got so warm, that I was about to start up and look for
the weapons of war; and had you but come a moment later, you might
have suffered an assault. As it was, I took you for a Turk--Solyman
himself--and was beginning to ask myself whether I should attack you
tooth and nail, having no other weapons, or propose terms of
peace. Considering the severe losses which you--I mean his Turkish
highness--had sustained, I fancied that you would not be disinclined to
an arrangement just at this moment. But this very notion, at the same
time, led me to the conclusion that I might end the struggle for ever by
another blow. A moment later, my boy, and you might have been compelled
to endure it for the Turk.”
The youth smiled sadly as he replied: “I must borrow that book from
you, sir, some of these days. I have often thought to do so, but I am
afraid.”
“Afraid of what, William?”
“That it will turn my head, sir, and make me dislike more difficult
studies.”
“It is a reasonable fear, my son; but there is no danger of this sort,
if we will only take heed of one rule, and that is, to take such books
as we take sweetmeats--in very small quantities at a time, and never to
interfere with the main repast. I suspect that light reading--or reading
which we usually call light, but which, as it concerns the fate of man
in his most serious relations, his hopes, his affections, his heart,
nay, his very people and nation--is scarcely less important than any
other. I suspect that this sort of reading would be of great service
to the student, by relieving the solemnity of more tedious and exacting
studies, if taken sparingly and at allotted hours. The student usually
finds a recreation of some kind. I would make books of this description
his recreation. Many a thick-headed and sour parent has forced his son
into a beer-shop, into the tastes for tobacco and consequently brandy,
simply from denying him amusements which equally warm the blood and
elevate the imagination. Studies which merely inform the head are very
apt to endanger the heart. This is the reproach usually urged against
the class of persons whom we call thorough lawyers. Their intense
devotion to that narrow sphere of law which leaves out jury-pleading, is
very apt to endanger the existence of feeling and imagination. The mere
analysis of external principles begets a degree of moral indifference to
all things else, which really impairs the intellect by depriving it
of its highest sources of stimulus. Mathematicians suffer in the same
way--become mere machines, and forfeit, in their concern for figures,
all the social and most of the human characteristics. The mind is always
enfeebled by any pursuit so single and absorbing in its aims as to leave
out of exercise any of the moral faculties. That course of study is the
only one to make a truly great man, which compels the mind to do all
things of which it is capable.”
“But how do you reconcile this, sir, with the opinion, so generally
entertained, that no one man can serve two masters? Law, like the muse,
is a jealous mistress. She is said to suffer no lachesse to escape with
impunity.”
“You mistake me. While I counsel one to go out of his profession for
relief and recreation, I still counsel but the one pursuit. Men fail in
their professions, not because they daily assign an hour to amusement,
but because they halt in a perpetual struggle between some two leading
objects. For example, nothing is more frequent in our country than to
combine law and politics. Nothing is more apt to ruin the lawyer.”
“Very true, sir. I now understand you. But I should think the great
difficulty would be, in resorting to such pleasant books as this of
Vertot for relief and recreation, that you could not cast him off when
you please. The intoxication would continue even after the draught has
been swallowed, and would thus interfere with the hours devoted to other
employments.”
“There is reason in that, William, and that, indeed, is the grand
difficulty. But to show that a good scheme has its difficulties is not
an argument for abandoning it.”
“By no means, sir.”
“The same individual whom Vertot might intoxicate, would most probably
be intoxicated by more dangerous stimulants. Everything, however,
depends upon the habits of self-control which a man has acquired in his
boyhood. The habit of self-control is the only habit which makes mental
power truly effective. The man who can not compel himself to do or to
forbear, can never be much of a student. Students, if you observe, are
generally dogged men--inflexible, plodding, persevering--among lawyers,
those men whom you always find at their offices, and seldom see anywhere
else. They own that mental habit which we call self-control, which
supplies the deficiency in numerous instances of real talent. It is a
power, and a mighty power, particularly in this country, where children
are seldom taught it, and consequently grow up to be a sort of moral
vanes that move with every change of wind, and never fix until they do
so with their own rust. He who learns this power in boyhood will be very
sure to master all his companions.”
The darker expression of sadness passed over the countenance of the
ingenuous youth.
“I am afraid,” said he, “that I shall never acquire this habit.”
“Why so? In your very fear I see a hope.”
“Alas! sir, I feel my own instability of character. I feel myself the
victim of a thousand plans and purposes, which change as soon and as
often as they are made. I am afraid, sir, I shall be nothing!”
“Do not despond, my son,” said the old man sympathizingly. “Your fear is
natural to your age and temperament. Most young men at your time of life
feel numerous yearnings--the struggle of various qualities of mind,
each striving in newly-born activity, and striving adversely. Your
unhappiness arises from the refusal of these qualities to act together.
When they learn to co-operate, all will be easy. Your strifes will be
subdued; there will be a calm like that upon the sea when the storms
subside.”
“Ah! but when will that be? A long time yet. It seems to me that the
storm rather increases than subsides.”
“It may seem so to you now, and yet, when the strife is greatest, the
favorable change is at hand. It needs but one thing to make all the
conflicting qualities of one's mind cooperate.”
“What is that one thing, sir?”
“An object! As yet, you have none.”
“None, sir!”
“None--or rather many--which is pretty much the same thing as having
none.”
“I am not sure, sir--but it seems to me, sir, that I have an object.”
“Indeed, William! are you sure?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Well, name it.”
“I have ambition, sir.”
“Ah! that is a passion, not an object. Does your ambition point in one
direction? Unless it does, it is objectless.”
The youth was silent. The old man proceeded:--
“I am disposed to be severe with you, my son. There is no surer sign of
feebleness than in the constant beginnings and the never performings
of a mind. Know thyself, is the first lesson to learn. Is it not very
childish to talk of having ambition, without knowing what to do with it?
If we have ambition, it is given to us to work with. You come to me,
and declare this ambition! We confer together. Your ambition seeks for
utterance. You ask, 'What sort of utterance will suit an ambition such
as mine?' To answer this question, we ask, 'What are your qualities?'
Did you think, William, that I disparaged yours when I recommended the
law to you as a profession?”
“No, sir! oh, no! Perhaps you overrated them. I am afraid so--I think
so.”
“No, William, unfortunately, you do not think about it. If you would
suffer yourself to think, you would speak a different language.”
“I can not think--I am too miserable to think!” exclaimed the youth in a
burst of passion. The old man looked surprised. He gazed with a serious
anxiety into the youth's face, and then addressed him:--
“Where have you been, William, for the last three weeks? In all that
time I have not seen you.”
A warm blush suffused the cheeks of the pupil. He did not immediately
answer.
“Ask ME!” exclaimed a voice from behind them, which they both instantly
recognised as that of Ned Hinkley, the cousin of William. He had
approached them, in the earnestness of their interview, without having
disturbed them. The bold youth was habited in a rough woodman's dress.
He wore a round jacket of homespun, and in his hand he carried a
couple of fishing-rods, which, with certain other implements, betrayed
sufficiently the object of his present pursuit.
“Ask me!” said he. “I can tell you what he's been about better than
anybody else.”
“Well, Ned,” said the old man, “what has it been? I am afraid it is your
fiddle that keeps him from his Blackstone.”
“My fiddle, indeed! If he would listen to my fiddle when she speaks
out, he'd be wiser and better for it. Look at him, Mr. Calvert, and say
whether it's book or fiddle that's likely to make him as lean as a March
pickerel in the short space of three months. Only look at him, I say.”
“Truly, William, I had not observed it before, but, as Ned says, you do
look thin, and you tell me you are unhappy. Hard study might make you
thin, but can not make you unhappy. What is it?”
The more volatile and freespoken cousin answered for him.
“He's been shot, gran'pa, since you saw him last.”
“Shot?”
“Yes, shot!--He THINKS mortally. I think not. A flesh wound to my
thinking, that a few months more will cure.”
“You have some joke at bottom, Edward,” said the old man gravely.
“Joke, sir! It's a tough joke that cudgels a plump lad into a lean one
in a single season.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean to use your own language, gran'pa. Among the lessons I got from
you when you undertook to fill our heads with wisdom by applications of
smartness to a very different place--among the books we sometimes read
from was one of Master Ovid.”
“Ha! ha! I see what you're after. I understand the shooting. So you
think that the blind boy has hit William, eh?”
“A flesh wound as I tell you; but he thinks the bolt is in his heart.
I'm sure it can and will be plucked out, and no death will follow.”
“Well! who's the maiden from whose eyes the arrow was barbed?”
“Margaret Cooper.”
“Ah! indeed!” said the old man gravely.
“Do not heed him,” exclaimed William Hinkley; but the blush upon his
cheeks, still increasing, spoke a different language.
“I would rather not heed him, William. The passions of persons so young
as yourself are seldom of a permanent character. The attractions which
win the boy seldom compensate the man. There is time enough for this,
ten years hence, and love then will be far more rational.”
“Ah, lud!--wait ten years at twenty. I can believe a great deal in the
doctrine of young men's folly, but I can't go that. I'm in love myself.”
“You!”
“Yes! I!--I'm hit too--and if you don't like it, why did you teach us
Ovid and the rest? As for rational love, that's a new sort of thing that
we never heard about before. Love was never expected to be rational.
He's known the contrary. I've heard so ever since I was knee-high to
the great picture of your Cupid that you showed us in your famous Dutch
edition of Apuleius. The young unmarried men feel that it's irrational;
the old married people tell us so in a grunt that proves the truth of
what they say. But that don't alter the case. It's a sort of natural
madness that makes one attack in every person's lifetime. I don't
believe in repeated attacks. Some are bit worse than others; and some
think themselves bit, and are mistaken. That's the case with William,
and it's that that keeps him from your law-books and my fiddle. That
makes him thin. He has a notion of Margaret Cooper, and she has none
of him; and love that's all of one side is neither real nor rational. I
don't believe it.”
William Hinkley muttered something angrily in the ears of the speaker.
“Well, well!” said the impetuous cousin, “I don't want to make you
vexed, and still less do I come here to talk such politics with you.
What do you say to tickling a trout this afternoon? That's what I come
for.”
“It's too cool,” said the old man.
“Not a bit. There's a wind from the south, and a cast of cloud
is constantly growing between us and the sun. I think we shall do
something--something better than talking about love, and law, where
nobody's agreed. You, gran'pa, won't take the love; Bill Hinkley can't
stomach the law, and the trout alone can bring about a reconciliation.
Come, gran'pa, I'm resolved on getting your supper to-night, and you
must go and see me do it.”
“On one condition only, Ned.”
“What's that, gran'pa?”
“That you both sup with me.”
“Done for myself. What say you, Bill?”
The youth gave a sad assent, and the rattling youth proceeded:--
“The best cure of grief is eating. Love is a sort of pleasant grief.
Many a case of affliction have I seen mended by a beefsteak. Fish is
better. Get a lover to eat, rouse up his appetites, and, to the
same extent, you lessen his affections. Hot suppers keep down the
sensibilities; and, gran'pa, after ours, to-night, you shall have the
fiddle. If I don't make her speak to you to-night, my name's Brag, and
you need never again believe me.”
And the good-humored youth, gathering up his canes, led the way to the
hills, slowly followed by his two less elastic companions.