[Illustration]
THE CLIMBERS.
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY THE
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY
150 NASSAU-STREET, NEW YORK.
ENTERED according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by the AMERICAN
TRACT SOCIETY, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the
United States for the Southern District of New York.
THE CLIMBERS
I.
“It’s of no use, and what’s more, I don’t believe it’s right,” said Mr.
Jeffries, “this filling every boy’s head with thoughts of rising in
the world. It looks all very well in books; but is quite a different
thing in reality. I tell you what, it’s doing a mighty deal of damage
in the world. Why, it’s almost impossible for anybody that wants help
to get any of the right sort. Once find a boy that has any grit in him,
and he’s off as soon as he can scrape up enough money to go to school
with. There’s that stable-boy of mine, as good a little fellow as I’d
ever care to have; but in the room of playing like other boys, when he
has a moment’s leisure, he’s off to the barn with a book in his hand.
I’ve told him many a time ’twould be the ruin of him; but he seems
to take to it as naturally as a duck does to water;” and the little
hotel-keeper looked around complacently.
“I thought that was the very spirit that was commendable in this
country, Mr. Jeffries,” said I, turning my gaze from the mountain
towering above us to the face of my host. “Hope is the grand incentive
to the American boy, the hope of knowing more, and doing better for
himself and others, than his father and grandfather did before him.
Look around you and see who are the men of the present; ten to one they
are poor men’s sons. They felt that they could do something, and they
accomplished it.”
“It looks all fair, I allow; but the thing is carried too far; it
makes them discontented and unsteady, changing from one thing to
another. In my opinion, if you want to make any thing in the world, you
must stick to one thing. It is an old saying, ‘A rolling stone gathers
no moss.’”
“True; but may not these poor boys have a higher aim and purpose, and
carry it out quite as effectually as if it required no changes? Your
stable-boy may have mapped out, vaguely perhaps, his future, and to
reach it must make use of such stepping-stones as come within his
reach. He does his work well, does he not?”
“Oh, there’s nothing to say against him, only I don’t like to see him
always reading; he can’t go by a newspaper--and my wife keeps them hung
up by the side of the roller--without stopping for a bit, catching as
a hungry horse does at a spear of grass or hay that comes within his
reach. I give him pretty good wages for a boy, and the women folks
patch up his clothes and see that he has plenty to eat. It seems to me
that he ought to be contented and happy, with jests and frolic like the
rest, in the room of being shut up with his book. And then, to cap all,
I went into the barn the other day, and there he was perched up on the
haymow, talking away and making gestures just as the parson does. I
could not keep from laughing, and he came down and skulked away looking
sheepish enough.”
“You have interested me in this boy, Mr. Jeffries. Who, and what is he?
Where did you find him?”
“Oh, his father lives up among the mountains, a thriftless, good for
nothing creature, who spends all his earnings in whiskey. The mother
was a delicate ladylike woman; my wife thought a heap of her; and when
she died, she made us both promise to look after her children.”
Just then a showy carriage was driven round from the stable, and
a sprightly lad jumped quickly down, and stood holding the lines
respectfully while the owner made ready to start. He was a tall, slight
young man, whom I had noticed in the hotel as excessively talkative,
flush with his money, drinking and smoking freely, and interlarding his
conversation with now and then an oath. He came out with a swagger,
followed by a little crowd of idlers. Mr. Jeffries broke off the thread
of conversation, giving the hand of his guest a prolonged shake.
“Always glad to see you when you come this way, Robinson; you will
always find the bar just the same; I never keep any thing but the best.”
“That’s a fact; the best mint julep I’ve had in a long time.”
While the leave-taking was going on, I was eagerly scanning the face of
the stable-boy. My heart ached for him as he stood there, the little
torn straw hat just covering the mass of dark hair, that had apparently
not seen a comb for days, the great heavy locks clustering over a broad
well-formed forehead, above delicately curved eyebrows with long brown
lashes. But the eyes were hidden; I could only imagine what they must
be from the profile of the face, the straight nose, somewhat deep upper
lip, and well-turned chin. Still and straight he stood, and almost as
motionless as though carved out of marble: yet not a dead, passive
statue; his very stillness had a life in it, just as the framework of
machinery is still while the movable parts are running swift as thought
can follow.
Down the steps and into the buggy the young gentleman passed, and as
the lines were handed him he tossed a silver coin to the stable-boy,
but so carelessly that it glanced from his shoulder, rolled across the
porch and down a crack in the floor before he could stop it.
“It’s gone, Marston; better luck next time,” said Mr. Jeffries with a
patronizing air. The boy bit his lips, while the eyelids quivered, and
turning on his heel was out of sight in an instant.
It was not in my heart to talk any more. Life was new to me; I was
myself trying to make my way upward in character and life. Just
through college, my health failed, and I was told to try mountain air
and exercise. My meagre purse would not allow of my gratifying my
benevolent feelings, and still every day there were just such cases
occurring. “Work yourself out” had been my motto. No doubt Marston Howe
would adopt the same. A rough, thorny way he will find; the feet will
become weary, the hands torn and bleeding; still, if he wills he will
succeed. It is better to wear out than to rust out; better be a climber
than a cumberer; and though we seem never fully to attain our desires,
let not the heart grow bitter and misanthropic, moody and uncharitable.
Success is sure if we try for it. Let me whisper this to Marston Howe,
and I have then done him all the good I can. Looking up I saw the
doctor’s buggy coming slowly round the curve of the mountain, and a
moment after it drew up, while a kindly face looked out. “How is this
invalid of mine? Almost ready to go home?”
“Nearly ready, doctor,” and my eye caught sight of the stable-boy with
his pail of water for the doctor’s horse.
“That’s right, Marston,” said Mr. Jeffries; “the doctor’s horse don’t
like to pass here without something,” but the doctor did not notice
the hint.
“You are fond of books,” I said to Marston as he held the pail for the
horse to drink; “I have one in my pocket which I think will please you.
It is called ‘Self Helps,’ and will show you how others have worked and
struggled to become good and useful men. I hope that is what you wish
to do.”
“I shall try for it,” he answered in a clear tone, while his grey eye
brightened as he grasped the book. “Aim to do right, Marston, and what
you do, do well; perhaps we shall meet again.”
Quick as an arrow he bounded round the corner, and the doctor’s pony
trotted leisurely down the mountain with us.
It had been a glorious afternoon, and I had taken a longer stroll than
usual; resting at the little mountain house, while the doctor visited
a patient further up the mountain.
“Do you know any thing of Marston’s family, doctor?” asked I, when we
finished what we had to say of the immediate landscape.
“Not much. The mother was a well-educated gentlewoman, above the
majority in these parts; she died soon after I came here, and her
husband soon married a real vixen. They say he spent every thing in
whiskey after that, and these two children, Marston and Jennie, live
with Mr. Jeffries, a good-natured man in his way, but mightily puffed
up with his success in that hotel. He has a good many boarders in
summer, and is making a great deal of money.”
By this time pony had struck into a quicker pace; the road was more
familiar, or he scented the corn crib, and his master let him have the
rein.
The next day I left the mountains, but not without a thought of Marston
Howe, and an earnest wish that he might succeed.
Poor, and dependent on his own labor, there was something in his case
that reminded me strangely of my own; and more than once I felt my
heart throb with a quicker beat as I thought of what might be in store
for him, had he the courage ever to undertake what I saw from his look
he so earnestly craved.
Still, with constant effort, untiring self-denial, and inflexible
purpose, the height might be won. The germs of the future harvest must
be planted before it can be gathered in. Slow and difficult might be
the ascent, and many a time the feet might falter in the way, and the
heart well-nigh break, while weakness, prejudice, and passion hinder
the progress of the eager soul.
One look to God, however, and obstacles vanish, doubts dissolve. His
strength is never denied those that ask him. Marston Howe’s mother was
a Christian. His cradle was consecrated by her prayers, and the little
son she left behind her was still the object of divine love and care.
Such thoughts comforted me. He must go up through the narrow defile
of labor, the rocky strait of necessity; but he will overcome: the
mother’s prayers will not be lost.
Years have passed since that summer day: we have both been climbers;
both began at the same level, the only difference being that I had the
start by some half a score of years; difference enough when starting
in the race, but hardly perceptible when standing, as we both now do,
nearer the top than the bottom of the ladder.
Last summer I again met with Marston Howe; and for the sake of the
climbers who have suffered and striven, and of others who are still
suffering and striving, I am induced to tell his story as nearly as he
told me as I can well remember it.
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II.
Of my early life I cannot remember much before we went to the
mountains, and still I have always had a vague remembrance of a
pleasant home surrounded with tall trees, a fountain bubbling up and
catching the sun’s rays in a thousand bewildering forms, sweet flowers,
and singing birds; while in my own little room there was a curious
round glass with rock and moss at the bottom, where the gold fish
flashed their beauty through the crystal water. Then there were days
indistinct and shadowy, when the glory and beauty had gone, where I
hardly knew, and we had another home--my mother, Jennie, and I.
My father I had seldom seen, and now I saw less of him than before. I
did not so much wonder, for it was not home to me, that little brown
house perched like a bird’s nest on the shelf of the mountain. I did
not like it, and often used to ask my mother why we were there. She
never used to answer me; but putting her arm around me drew me closely
to her, kissing me over and over again, while the tears fell on my
face, but saying nothing.
It was not so with Jennie, the pretty golden-haired baby that I used
to rock in a nice little crib in our first home. Then we had pretty
carpeted floors, and I could ride my pony all day in a room made on
purpose to play in.
But when I grew older I saw it all, and understood why my mother
pressed me to her heart and wept. I then knew what made my father
reel and stagger so as he came up the path; and why, when Jennie put
up her hands, and crowed out her evening welcome, he took no notice
of her, and one night came very near crushing the little creature as
he fell over the threshold. Oh, sad, sad days, when he was so cross,
declaring the house was cold and cheerless, or the rooms were so bare
of comfort--when he went to the village at the foot of the hills every
morning, and if he did not come back at night, mother took Jennie in
her arms, and we went after him.
In this way we lived till Jennie was five years old; then mother grew
sick, and for days lay on the bed so white and still, Jennie curling up
beside her, putting her little chubby cheek close to the thin pallid
one, while I dug up raspberry roots and boiled them into broth for
mother and the baby to eat.
One day she spoke less frequently; I thought she was asleep, and walked
about very carefully so as not to wake her: at length she looked
up, beckoned me to her, put her arms about my neck, and kissed me.
“Whatever happens,” she said, “you must be a good boy, Marston. You are
now almost ten years old; you will take good care of Jennie, and never
let her leave you.”
“I will, mother; but what makes you talk so?” and I cried aloud in
grief and fear.
“I am very sick, Marston, and I may die. If I do, you will take care of
Jennie; promise me.”
“Yes, mother; but you will not die. God must not--”
“Hush, my son; God knows what is best; you will always remember to love
and obey Him.”
“How can I, mother, if he takes you? You are all we have in the world.
What will Jennie and I do without you? No, mother, if he is good, he
will not do this;” and I buried my face in the pillows. My poor sick
mother put her thin arms about my neck, and drew me still nearer, her
hot cheek meeting mine.
“God _is_ good, my child, and still I must leave you. Mother would not
tell you any thing that was not so. You believe me, Marston?”
“I believe you, mother,” I cried passionately, “but I cannot let you
go; if you go, I must go with you.”
“No, Marston, you must stay to take care of Jennie and your father.
Jennie is such a little girl, what would become of her without you?”
“Will it make you happier, mother, if I take care of Jennie?” and I
kissed her white cheeks again and again.
“Yes, my son, I shall be very happy if you will promise to be a good
boy, and take care of your little sister for Christ and for me.”
“I will promise; I will be good, mother,” and my tears were dried.
Invested with a new dignity as the protector of my little sister, I
must be a man; and I took up Jennie and fed her from the one little
china bowl that remained to us of our old home.
Weary with the effort of talking, my mother fell asleep, looking
so calm and placid; while I rocked the baby, and watched her quiet
breathing.
Presently a neighbor came in, and bending over the bed asked how long
she had been sick.
“Two weeks,” I answered.
“Poor thing; why didn’t she send for the doctor?”
“She thought she should be better soon,” I replied, laying Jennie down
on the foot of the bed; and going softly to my mother, I gently kissed
the pale forehead.
“Marston, promise,” and she opened her eyes.
“I do, I will, mother.”
“Dear me, Mrs. Howe, why did you not send for me? your husband told me
this morning that you were sick; and as soon as we had dinner, I came
right up.”
“I knew there was no help for me. If it was not for leaving my
children--”
“Don’t be troubled, Mrs. Howe. It isn’t much that I have, but such as
it is they shall have a part.”
Slowly the sun went down, and as the darkness rolled up the mountain
father came home. He was steadier than usual, and for the first time
he seemed sorry that mother was sick; took her hand kindly in his, and
bent over the pillow and kissed her.
“Only get well, Mary, and I will stay at home always.” It was all he
could say, the tears choked him.
“I am very sick, Robert. You will do this for the children,” and her
eyes closed.
All night the two watched by her bed, Mrs. Jeffries and father; while
Jennie nestled in my arms, occasionally putting up her mouth for a
kiss, thinking it was mother.
I lived an age in that night, and how many resolves I formed and plans
laid of what I would do, and how I would care for that one little
sister.
Alas, I had to learn that he who wins must walk through rough places;
that the sweet rest for which we long is only given to those who have
been prompt in duty, resolute against temptation, strong in faith,
patient in the hour of trial. Alas for the weary feet that must walk
through the world without a mother’s guidance.
Before morning Jennie and I were alone, while my poor father was
stricken into soberness.
Three months passed. My father was much steadier, stayed more at home,
and was no longer cross and overbearing; for hours would he read to us,
then taking Jennie on his knee, sing her to sleep.
“If mother could only see him,” I said frequently to myself. I had not
known he was so handsome, for he kept himself much better, and looked
like a new man. Then at night he would put us in bed, and sometimes
sit down by himself, or go out looking so good and happy; I did not
understand it.
One day I had been down to Mrs. Jeffries with Jennie, and Mr. Jeffries
asked me what I would think if my father gave me a new mother. I told
him that could not be; we could not have but one mother, and our mother
was dead.
“But what if your father marries again?”
I went home in tears. Cheerless as our home was, I could not bear that
another should enter it. It was no place for a good woman to come, and
I felt it so. It was not long, however, before I found the reality of
what I feared. My father, on the strength of his good looks, married a
pretty, showily dressed woman, and brought her to our mountain home.
Very kindly he introduced us; but she did not so much as kiss either of
us. I grew indignant, and could have darted out of the house, but for
my remembered promise to my mother.
A year, and she had turned us out, while a baby of her own nestled in
her arms, and our father was nearly as bad as ever. Jennie had always
been a delicate little thing, or my new mother would not so readily
have parted with her. But my father, with all his waywardness, always
said to her that we should not be parted.
We knew no one but Mrs. Jeffries, and she kindly consented to take us
in; while her husband allowed me to hold the horses, and after a time
to drive them to and from the stable.
In this way I gained something. The first winter I was there I went to
school eighteen days; not enough to learn much, and still enough to
give me a thirst for more. The schoolmaster was a lame man that lived
near the school-house, and directly on my way.
Thin and scant my clothes were, and I used sometimes to go in and warm
myself. What a different atmosphere pervaded his home: his mother, a
sweet woman, with soft braids of still brown hair about her face, while
her mild blue eyes reminded me of my own mother, and not unfrequently
the tears would start as she inquired kindly for my little sister.
Charles Brisbane was to be a clergyman; and when he read and prayed
with us every morning, it seemed the easiest thing in the world to
be good, and I wondered why my father had not been just such another
good man. And when at the close of the day he talked to us of the dear
Saviour, who came down to earth, took upon himself our nature, suffered
and died to redeem us, I resolved that I would love and trust and serve
him; and then I thought he would take care of Jennie and me, and make
my father a sober man. Then I used to shut my eyes, and dream all sorts
of pleasant things, longing for a world where the people loved each
other and did right, and where death would never come.
My dear mother seemed to be very near me whenever Charles Brisbane was
talking; and when I went back to Mr. Jeffries’ it did not seem so hard
to do the little errands that were always ready for me.
Jennie was beginning to do something for Mrs. Jeffries, who herself
took the lead in her own house-work; and of course could not be
expected to do more for us than to see that we had plenty to eat, were
tidy, and not actually ragged.
I remember stopping one day at Mr. Brisbane’s, and how I longed to be
able to go to school regularly; and could not but say this in rather a
fretful mood.
“I am sorry that you cannot come, Marston; but remember that you can
learn, wherever you are.”
“How so?” said I.
“By reading and studying at home. Improve all your time; always have a
book in your pocket or on a shelf near you.”
“But I have no books.”
“I am going to give you some. Here is the Geography you studied at
school, and your Arithmetic. True, you are just commencing, but with
occasional help, I have no doubt you will get on finely. Come to school
when you can; but when kept at home by Mr. Jeffries, do not fret over
it. Do your work faithfully, and look forward. God helps those who help
themselves. He will not leave you, my boy.”
How strong and happy I felt as I climbed up the hill-side to Mr.
Jeffries’ house. I forgot the dark, cold mornings when I had to rise
at four o’clock, and make paths through the snow; and help feed the
stock and see to the horses, the poor patient brutes waiting until an
opening could be made in the trough, or the snow melted. Then there
were pigs to feed, and corn to shell for the poultry, and the kitchen
to sweep; and by the time I had done it was nearly noon, and too late
for school that day. And Jennie would climb up into my lap, and tell me
not to cry; and I would read my Geography to her very much as, the last
summer, I had read Jack the Giant Killer, Babes in the Wood, Robinson
Crusoe, and Sinbad the Sailor; her blue eyes looking up wonderingly as
she nestled still closer, laying her white velvet cheek to my brown one.
Dear little comforter, much as I loved her, my heart rebelled not
a little at the loss of school-hours. Still I did not forget Mr.
Brisbane’s words, so that I neither cried nor murmured outwardly,
studying every moment I could get, and repeating my lesson aloud to
Jennie, who in her turn began to study geography, and to make figures
on my slate.
My writing lesson I suffered the most in. But Mrs. Jeffries had a
sister that visited her occasionally, and when there, Miss Grimshaw
condescended to set me copies; so that between my duties at home, Mr.
Brisbane, and Miss Grimshaw, I made considerable advancement.
Mr. Jeffries scolded not a little whenever he saw my books, and one day
actually tossed them out of the window, where Molly the cook rescued
them from a mischievous puppy, minus one of the covers. I could have
cried over this; but the leaves were all there, and afterwards Mrs.
Jeffries gave us two chairs and a little table in her linen closet;
and as this was the tidiest place in the house, and above all, never
entered save by Mrs. Jeffries, we were for a time uncommonly happy.
While I had my books and a chair in the linen closet, Jennie had a
few pots of geraniums and tea-roses that Mrs. Brisbane had sent her,
and which she nurtured with great care. Never shall I forget the look
of distress on the little face, when one morning she had watered them
tenderly, taxing her strength not a little to set them where they
would have all the benefit of the sun, watching them with delight,
counting the buds on the rose-bush, and thinking of the little bouquets
she would be sure to make, first for me and then for Mrs. Jeffries,
putting one in Miss Grimshaw’s room by way of surprise. All at once Mr.
Jeffries came through the room, and seeing the little girl idle for the
moment, with one sweep of his hand landed the rose-bush in the middle
of the yard, the stem broken and the opening buds torn. There was not a
tear, not a word of complaint as she stole up to the linen closet and
laid the ruined stem in my hands, hiding her face on my shoulder, and
trembling like an aspen.
“Who has done this, Jennie?” said I hurriedly, and in a passion.
“Don’t be vexed at him; it was Mr. Jeffries. He’ll be sorry to-morrow.”
“But this was yours; what right had he to touch it? I will go and ask
him;” and I flung down my book and started up.
“No, Marston, you must not anger him. It is all the home we have; and
if you vex him, he may turn us away, or at least not let you have this
nice little closet to study in.”
There was something in Jennie’s philosophy that quieted me a little;
and drawing her to my side, I tried first to command myself and then
comfort her. Excited as the poor child was, she soon fell asleep; and
not seeing any thing but the clean white linen in the room, I took off
my coat and spread it on the floor, and laid her down. Accustomed to
a hard bed, she did not waken. Try as I would, I could not study, but
sat looking at the broken rose-bush and then at the thin, troubled face
of the sleeper, the blue lids swollen, and the delicate veins plainly
perceptible about the throbbing temples.
“How could he do it? By what right deny this little child the only
treasure she possessed?” and I was getting into a passion again, when
Mrs. Jeffries entered.
She read it all at a glance; went out and brought a quilt and a pillow
for Jennie, and taking up the broken stalk, looked at the roots.
“It will live. There is another pot, Marston, and if you will fill it
with fresh mould, I will help you. Its beauty has gone for the present,
but it will grow again.”
I did not move or stir, my anger was too deep. She laid her hand on my
shoulder, and kindly said, “You can’t be sorrier than I am, Marston.
I saw it all: but you wont be angry; Mr. Jeffries will be sorry
to-morrow.”
“Just what Jennie said; but that wont help it.”
“It may, Marston; at least it will not do any good to be angry about
it. I know you wont, Marston.”
“No, I will not be angry;” and at once I went to work filling the pot.
Mrs. Jeffries cut off the broken part, put the buds the least injured
in a little china vase filled with salt and water, and set them on a
shelf in the little attic where Jennie slept. I did not see Jennie
again till my work was done at night, when she said cheerily,
“Mrs. Jeffries says it will grow again. It was very good of her, wasn’t
it, Marston?” and she nestled by my side, and together we studied our
geography.
When the warm weather came, the schoolmaster and his mother went away,
and we never saw them afterwards. When the June sun was glowing,
and the soft winds wafted the fragrant breath of flowers up through
the mountain gorges, Mr. Jeffries’ house was once more filled with
visitors; and I was not unfrequently called upon to show some gentleman
or lady the best views, as they were called, until I became familiar
with the beauties and glories of nature, and felt their genial
influence thrilling me with a new and indefinite pleasure.
Sometimes I was brought face to face with the storm in the mountain
passes, while thunder and lightning shook and vibrated through them,
rolling slowly down the sides of the mountain and echoing along the
valley in terrific grandeur.
One day in the heat of summer a gentleman came up, saying to Mr.
Jeffries that it was his intention to remain for a week; that he had
come out of the city expressly for mountain air and scenery, and that
he wished to make the best use of his time. His name was Kirby, and
he had not been there a day before I felt that he was another Charles
Brisbane--the same views, the same hopes, the same manner characterized
them; and after my work was done in the morning, it was my privilege
to join him in his rambles, provided I returned in time to have every
thing in readiness for the night. What made this arrangement still
pleasanter, Jennie was permitted to go with us whenever it was not too
far, while Mr. Kirby would tell us stories of mountains over the sea.
I remember, one evening, we were flinging our lines in a little brook
that ran gurgling along through the green grass like a silver serpent,
when Mr. Kirby told us of the Rosenlani glacier in such glowing
language, that we seemed to see distinctly the pale sunshine dancing
on its sharp peaks of frosted silver, its blue ice caverns, its fringe
of firs, with hanging ledges of short crisp grass, and giant masses
of grey rock, and the sudden shower of snow from falling avalanches.
Then he unrolled a map, and pointed out the jagged pyramid of the
Wetterhorn, and told us of the people that lived there; and by the time
we returned, in season to have our trout for supper, we had learned
more of the geography of Switzerland than we should have learned from
poring over books for a long time.
“To-morrow,” said Mr. Kirby, “we must go up to the highest point of the
mountain. I am afraid my little Jennie must stay at home.”
“Why so, Mr. Kirby?” and Jennie pressed to his side; “I like to be with
you and Marston.”
“I should like to have you go, but I am afraid it would make you sick;
it will be a hard walk for us. If I give you a nice story to read, it
will interest you quite as much; and when we come back, you shall tell
us all about it. Besides, Miss Grimshaw is to teach you how to hem that
new handkerchief. You will be contented to stay now, wont you?”
“If you think it best,” and the long brown lashes drooped over the blue
eyes.
The next morning I was up earlier than usual; but not before Jennie,
who insisted on sharing my labor, feeding the pigs, and then scattering
corn to the poultry, and throwing wheat to the few pigeons that circled
about the premises.
“I do want to go with you,” she said as she kissed me good-by; but
Mr. Kirby was there with the neatly bound book he had promised, and
the tears were soon dried, Jennie looking the last look as she ran up
to her attic to lay aside her treasure, till the moment when her work
should be done and Mrs. Jeffries should give her permission to do what
she pleased.
“Shall you have patience to climb?” asked Mr. Kirby as we stood at the
base of the tallest peak, its jagged sides covered with stunted shrubs
and shelving rocks as far as the eye could reach, a veil of clouds and
mist resting on the summit.
“I shall like it exceedingly. You forget that I am accustomed to
climbing.”
“What was it that Miss Grimshaw called you and Jennie the other day?”
“The Climbers.”
“Yes, and the name rather pleased me,” continued Mr. Kirby. “Heights
are to be won every day, and our stand-point to-day should be in
advance of what it was yesterday. We are, or should be, all climbers,
using every incident, occasion, and advantage as a stepping-stone to
something better.”
“I fear some of us are doing it at a snail’s pace; a lifetime of such
climbing as mine would not amount to much.”
“You remember the hare and the tortoise,” said Mr. Kirby, “and which
won the race. The hare started off as some people would to go up this
mountain; but he soon grew weary, and lay down to rest. The tortoise
began as he could hold out, and the end justified his wisdom.” I now
understood why Mr. Kirby was walking leisurely.
“When I was a lad,” continued he, “I often visited my grandfather, who
lived on a farm in the country. On one occasion he hired two men to
work in the harvest-field. One man looked at the small field of wheat
contemptuously, and declared it his opinion the job had better be given
to one; he could do it all himself before sundown. Still my grandfather
insisted on the two, and accordingly they began. One worked furiously,
and at noon he was far in advance of his companion. As the hot hours
passed his arm grew nerveless, his back felt as though it was broken,
his limbs ached, and his head felt like bursting. Long before sundown
he had to withdraw to the house of the farmer; while his companion,
who had husbanded his strength, was left to finish the field alone.
Patience when we commence is quite as needful in intellectual as in
physical effort. The end of the race tells who wins.”
“There is a good deal of consolation in that,” I ventured to remark.
“Climbing hills I can easily do; but I am sometimes afraid that is the
only climbing that will be allowed me.”
“Not if you wish another. Obstacles vanish before a strong and resolute
will.”
“But circumstances, Mr. Kirby.”
“Look behind you, Marston, and you will see that while walking and
talking at our leisure, we have been advancing all the time, and have
in reality made a very perceptible ascent. The valley looks like a
green thread, and the few buildings that we see like pigeon-houses.”
“Yes, indeed; we get along better than I expected. We’ve been steadily
at it, that’s all.”
“That is it, Marston, steadily at it. Perseverance is sure, sooner or
later, to overcome.”
“And if we have a plan, and steadily follow it, shall we succeed?” I
asked.
“Almost sure to do so; not by one endeavor, not by two, but by years of
perpetual toil and labor. Climbers have more to contend with than those
who sit still in the valley. Do you begin to weary, Marston?”
“Oh no; but the path is much rougher, and I slip backward instead of
getting forward.”
“Now you see why I took this staff tipped with a sharp iron. It will
help us when the way is slippery. Give me your hand; it is hard work,
but nothing good is achieved without labor.”
At length we reached a cliff which, projecting boldly into our path,
rose like a dark grey wall to bar our advance.
“What shall we do now?” I asked; “go back?”
“Never do that, unless you are out of the way,” said Mr. Kirby. “We
must get up just as we have come so far, by climbing. But it is so
steep on this side, we shall have to go round.” After a short pause
to ascertain the most favorable point, Mr. Kirby with his iron-tipped
staff proceeded to put his advice into practice. Each step was
carefully taken, another, and another; while, as we advanced, helps
arose on all sides: here was a twig, there a rock, and there a secure
place for the feet; and without any great fatigue, and almost before we
were aware, we stood on the top of the enormous mass that but a short
time before had loomed up threateningly.
“You see where we are,” said Mr. Kirby. “Remember, and never give up
when you undertake any thing. Stop only sufficiently long to make sure
of the way, and then advance, one step at a time. You see here how
clearly one step prepares the way for another; so it will ever be. Oaks
are strengthened by wind and storm; so men grow firm by combating with
difficulty and opposition.”
“I don’t see how that can make them strong,” I said; for I did not
clearly understand the import of his words.
“I do not mean strong in body merely, although this might follow, but
strong in spirit, more resolute to do, more determined to endure. If
boys possess this quality, they will be pretty sure to make strong,
reliable men, able to take a position in the world and have an
influence among men. But look; what a splendid view we have from this
point;” and Mr. Kirby looked over the broad panorama with an eye that
seemed to see the Deity in his works; and from the top of that table
rock he told me of his own life, of the obstacles in his way, the
poverty and destitution that he had known: “And still by climbing, just
as we have been doing to-day, I have made some progress; and if I keep
on--”
“What will you make?” I asked in my eagerness.
“What would you say if you knew I had no higher ambition than to be a
clergyman?” looking at me with a half smile in his clear dark eye.
“I think I should be a lawyer, if I was in your place, Mr. Kirby.”
“A lawyer; why so?”
“Why, there’s a better chance to rise in the world. It must be very
nice to sway men as easily as lawyers do; and then there’s a chance of
one day being senator or judge.”
“It must be very pleasant, you say, to sway men as lawyers do. Do
you not think it equally good to sway men as clergymen do? It is the
lawyer’s business to help men out of temporary difficulties. It is the
clergyman’s business to show men a better way: first to show them
their condition as sinners, then to tell them of the precious Saviour
who died to redeem them, and who will not only save them from temporary
difficulties, but raise them to an eternity of happiness. Is there any
thing more glorious than this, Marston?”
“I hardly know, sir. It has always seemed to me I should like to be a
lawyer. Yet it must be pleasant, as you say, to make people better.”
“I hope you will always think so, Marston,” and Mr. Kirby gathered some
wild flowers. “They will remind us of the walk. Flowers have the happy
power of always calling our best thoughts to the surface.”
“It would seem your best thoughts are always there, Mr. Kirby.”
“On the contrary, my best thoughts are sometimes out of sight entirely.
I have to be very watchful over myself. I am too readily given to
despondency, and not willing to trust and be bright and cheerful when
it looks dark and lowering.”
“Is it our duty always to be bright and glad?” I asked.
“I think so, Marston.”
“But if every thing goes wrong with us?”
“Every thing cannot go wrong with us, if we love and trust the Saviour,
for he has said that all things shall work together for our good.”
“That is what mother used to say. I always wondered how she could.”
“Because she trusted him, and this trust made her cheerful and happy.”
“If we go to the top,” I ventured to say, “we must be going;” and again
the dry moss rustled beneath our feet. We had not gone far before dark
clouds began to scud over the sky, portending a sudden storm.
“Had we not better return?” I asked.
“We are much nearer the top than the bottom of the mountain,” said Mr.
Kirby. “If a storm should come, it would reach us before we could get
half way down. You are not afraid of a storm, Marston.”
“Not of mere rain; but this is no place as to the wind, to say nothing
of thunder and lightning.”
“All these are in His keeping. We are the objects of his love.” He had
hardly finished speaking, when a fearful gale swept down the mountain,
and nearly bore us away with it. The rain quickly followed, while the
thunder was startling, with its quick, sharp reports, then rolling
along in one continued roar till lost in the distance.
[Illustration]
“This will not last long,” said Mr. Kirby, and took shelter under
a great rock, drawing me after him. How long we stood there I hardly
know, for the dense mass of black clouds floating so near us, carried
swiftly by the winds, rolling and unrolling their rugged edges, fringed
with the lurid glare, was the most fascinating spectacle that I had
ever witnessed.
After explaining to me the different strata of the atmosphere and some
of the causes of this sudden change in the clouds, Mr. Kirby spoke of
that great day of storm and dread, when there would be some to cry for
the mountains to cover them from the wrath of the Lamb, and others to
whom He would be as the shelter of a great rock.
Then we stepped out from under the rock. The shower was over, and we
again advanced. For a time the ascent was more precipitous than any
that we had met before, while the wet boughs, brushing against our
faces, would have seriously disturbed a less persevering spirit than
Mr. Kirby’s.
Among the remembrances of that day were the tiny pools and cascades,
filled to overflowing during the shower. Then there were spots of soft
green beds of beautiful moss, and short, steep acclivities, such as
would hardly afford footing for the chamois or gazelle.
At length we stood at the top. Here, on the very summit of the
mountain, was a lovely little lake, its water clear as crystal,
where the clouds could see their beauty reflected without comment or
obstruction.
How proud and happy I felt. The work was done. I had often looked up,
but never before attempted going to the top. Once decided upon, it was
done. Would it be as easy with every thing else?
Scarcely had we turned from the lake, when the sun came out, rolling
up the floating mists into wool-like drapery of clouds, revealing a
panorama of surpassing grandeur.
Beneath us lay a succession of hills, shelving down to the valley,
while further in the distance were green fields, with farm-houses
looking hardly bigger than mole-hills, with the river winding on to the
ocean like a long blue thread; and the ocean itself, whose boundary
I could not define, was an object of strange wonder to me. Ignorant
as I was, I could not understand the strong emotion that thrilled me,
depriving me entirely of the power of speech.
“How beautiful He hath made them all;” and Mr. Kirby lifted his hat,
and stood uncovered, awed by the glorious majesty around him. As I
looked at him, I felt a still stronger yearning for something higher
and nobler. That hour, I am persuaded, was a turning-point in my life.
New hopes fluttered into being; new resolves were registered; new
purposes were to be maintained; and a strong confidence was born within
me, that the Lord would not leave me desolate.
Mr. Kirby talked of God’s exceeding great love, and how he never turned
any away, even the poorest and weakest, that might call upon him for
aid. He also told me several wonderful things of the mountains, and the
transformation continually going on in them; and then of Hugh Miller,
and the ways by which he had achieved his great work.
It surprises me now, when I think how much was crowded into that
one day. It was to me like a new revelation; the very air was full
of a new life; I breathed freer than I had done for months. A new
path was opening, and I felt strong to tread where others had gone
before--others as poor and friendless as I was. Oh that we could always
keep ourselves on the mountain heights of faith and hope.
With Mr. Kirby near to prompt and encourage me, I forgot my
ragged clothes and rimless hat, and that my shoes were old and
patched--forgot, or rather did not know, that to become learned as he
was would require years of time and a great deal of money, a commodity
that I knew little about. My heart was light and buoyant. I thought I
could do it, and hope began to trill a measure that was henceforth to
ring on all through my life.
The sudden shower had rendered fresh and green each leaf and flower,
while the bright sun-rays had transmuted the drops to brilliant
diamonds, suspended in lavish profusion from tree and shrub, catching
and reflecting its light in countless forms of splendor.
Just then a wren flew out of a thicket, and settled on a low spray just
in our path. With a sweep of my hand I could have reached the fearless
little songster, fresh, bright, glad, offering its tribute to the
Creator.
“Shall not we thank him too?” said Mr. Kirby; and suiting the action to
the word, he knelt, and placing one hand upon my bowed head, implored
God, for Christ’s sake, to have compassion upon me, to make me a child
of God, to forgive my sins, and to give me a teachable spirit, that I
might be willing to be led, and might, through the influence of his
grace, grow up to be a good and useful man.
This was the first time that anybody had ever prayed alone with me,
save my mother; and it brought her so forcibly before me, that I could
not keep down the sobs.
Going home, I asked Mr. Kirby if we should ever see him again.
“It is not probable,” he answered. “It is very possible that I may be
sent abroad; and if so, we may never meet again; but whether we meet or
not, I shall think of you, Marston, and pray that we may both live so
as to meet in heaven.”
Jennie saw us coming, and bounded over the brook that ran at the back
of the house and across the pasture to meet us, breaking out into a
glad welcome, telling us that she had finished the book, and nearly
hemmed the handkerchief. “Here it is,” holding it up for inspection.
“Very well done,” said Mr. Kirby, shaking it out, and examining it
attentively. “Now, my little friends, I want you both to remember this
day. It may be the last chance I shall have to speak to you alone. Do
your duty wherever you are. Let your first question be, Is it right?
and then never turn back, nor be discouraged. Do this, and you will
advance, just as we did in climbing the mountain to-day, one step at a
time; so by one act of duty at a time, one good purpose well carried
out, success will follow.” Then putting his hand on each of our heads,
“Give your hearts to Christ now; love and serve him. Wherever I go, I
shall think of you, and shall hope you are workers for him, let your
surroundings be what they may.”
[Illustration]
III.
Full of my new resolves, I went about my evening’s work, followed
closely by Jennie, telling me all the time about her book. While
listening to the charming story, I forgot, and put brindle into the
black cow’s place. No sooner done, than Mr. Jeffries, who had a quick
eye, sent me spinning across the stable floor, and Jennie into the
house and up to her attic, where I found her an hour afterwards, with
tears still on her cheeks.
“Don’t cry about it, Jennie;” and I drew up a little rocking-chair I
had made for her out of an old one, and took her in my arms. “It was
careless in me; I should have seen what I was about.”
“He said afterwards it would not have been much matter if the cattle
had remained so all night. Oh, if we only had a home, like other
children, Marston. I wonder why we haven’t;” and she nestled her
brown head on my shoulder, and tried hard not to sob any more. Just
then a sharp voice came up from the kitchen, and for once I felt like
resisting. I was tired, my work was all done, and I sat quite still,
holding Jennie tightly. Again and again the call.
“We must go, brother; Mr. Kirby said we must do what we have to do
well, and then God will open a path for us. I do hope he will; don’t
you?” Kissing my angry cheek, she put away her book, and ran down
the narrow stairs. Brushing off the tears, I followed as quickly as
possible.
“You’ve forgotten your wood, boy; this comes of reading books. If you
don’t quit it, you can’t stay here, I can tell you;” and Mr. Jeffries
stormed till he was tired, and then walked into the bar-room.
“Don’t mind his being cross, Marston,” said Mrs. Jeffries soothingly;
“he’s not quite himself to-night; to-morrow he’ll be sorry.”
Tired as I was at bedtime I could not sleep, the day had been so
pleasant notwithstanding the fatigue. I had listened to Mr. Kirby, and
thought it would be easy to be good; and then he had prayed that I
might be led. But before my work was done I had become angry and cross,
and half questioning God’s goodness because Jennie and I had not a
home, with some one to love and take care of us.
I went to the window where I could see the distant hills, the very
mountain the top of which we had reached by continued effort. “Nothing
is gained without labor,” Mr. Kirby had said. How easy it would be to
do right, I thought, if we could always live with such people; and I
looked up to the stars twinkling to each other in their beauty.
My heart was full, and yearned for sympathy; and to comfort myself, I
went back and lived the cheering scenes of my life over again--calling
up every word and look of my dear mother, then all Mr. Brisbane had
said, and now Mr. Kirby, and my books, of which I could count several.
In going up the mountain Mr. Kirby had often caused me to look behind
me, in that way getting an idea of the ascent we were really making. So
in looking over the past I could see that I had made some advance, and
insensibly my thoughts grew clearer. Again I looked up to the heavens;
but I knew but little of God’s love. His precious promise was to me
then a sealed voice. Still, there was a feeling of quiet stole over
me, something that spoke comfort, for I went to sleep.
The next morning Mr. Kirby left, and I had so much to do, and so many
calling upon me at once, that I had no time to tell him what I had
resolved to tell him, namely, how forgetful I had been, and what a
passionate feeling had swept over me. I meant to try and do better, but
I had no time to tell him.
“Do right, Marston, and study all you can,” had been his last words.
Mr. Jeffries was very kind, and as if to make amends for the last
night, gave me an hour to myself after dinner. Taking our books,
Jennie followed me to a flat rock under a gnarled apple-tree, and on a
broken slate I pored over my sums, while she studied geography. Then
I heard her lesson, and she questioned me in arithmetic; for with
less instruction she was further advanced than I was. After that, we
read the book Mr. Kirby had given her. It was a simple, unvarnished
sketch of every-day life, with allusions that I could understand, and
experiences so like my own that more than once I stopped to dry my eyes.
We had just finished, and were talking it over, when who should come
across the garden but our father? We had not seen him in a good while,
and there was something so kind in his look and manner, that we started
at once to meet him.
“So you have not quite forgotten me,” he said, as Jennie kissed him and
I clung to his hand.
“We can never do that, pa.” He sat down on the rock and held us to him,
with his arms close around us.
“Are you willing to come home, Marston? You are getting to be a large
boy, and can help me now; and I am going to try to do better.”
Had it not been for my new mother I should have jumped at the idea of
going with my father; but when I thought of her my heart struggled
against it. Again Mr. Kirby’s words came to my mind: “Do right,
Marston.” Something told me it was right, if my father was trying to
make a better man, to help him. So I answered resolutely,
“If you think it best, father; but I want to go to school, and do
something better by and by.”
“That is what I want you to do, my son; and I will try and help you.”
He was sober, and spoke so kindly, we both cried when he kissed us
good-by, and said he knew he had not been as good to us as he ought to
have been since we had no mother. Dear father, it was a long time since
we had seen him so kind; and it was to be a still longer time before
we should see him so kind again.
“You will come down to-morrow night, children.”
“Yes, father.”