frame thrilled, as if from a heavy blow, Belle was silent for a while,
and then said in a subdued tone that contrasted strangely with her
former bird-like glee--"Your horse goes nicely now, Charley, doesn't he?
You seem to have effectually conquered him; but I am sure you must be
tired, now, dear cousin, you have been out so long. Had we not better
return?"
"Why, you have had no ride at all yet, Isabella," returned the young
man, in a voice that was as startling to his sensitive auditor as his
altered countenance had been.
"Oh, yes, I have," she quickly answered, endeavoring to speak as
cheerfully as possible, "I have enjoyed myself so much that I ought to
be quite contented to go back, and I really think we'd better do so."
Charley's only response was turning his horse's head homeward. For a
while they drove on in silence, Belle's employment of arranging her
flowers now wholly mechanical, so engrossing was the tumult in her
heart.
Just as they came in sight of their hotel, the unruly animal that had
already occasioned his new owner so much trouble, stopped, and stood
like a wooden effigy in the middle of the road.
In vain did word and whip appeal to his locomotive powers. At length the
pent-up wrath that had apparently been gathering fury for the last hour
burst forth.
"Devilish brute! I never was so shamefully imposed upon! I wish to G----
I never had set foot in this infernal hole! There's no company here fit
for a decent fellow to associate with. I shall die of stupidity in a
week--particularly if I have to drive such a confounded concern as
this!" Here followed a volley of mingled blows and curses.
The terrified witness of this scene sat tremblingly silent, for a time,
clinging to the side of the carriage, as if to keep herself quiet.
Presently she said:
"Perhaps I'd better jump out and run to the house, and send some one out
to assist you."
"You may get out, if you choose," answered her cousin, gruffly, "but I
want no assistance about the horse. I'll break every bone in his body,
but I'll conquer his devilish temper!"
After another pause, Belle said, "Well, Charley, if you please, I will
walk on. I am sorry you are so annoyed," she added, timidly, carefully
averting her pale face from him; "but perhaps this is only a phase, and
he may never do so again."
Her companion broke into a loud, mocking laugh. "What in thunder do you
know about horses, Isabella?"
"Nothing, Charley--nothing in the world," returned his cousin, quickly,
in the gentlest voice, "I only"----
"Ye-es!" drawled the angry youth, "I know--some women think their
'_ready wit_' will enable them to talk upon any subject! Get up, now,
you rascal, will you?"
Belle knew her weakness too well to trust herself to speak, so, drawing
her veil closely about her face, and gathering up her shawl and her
flowers, she stepped from the low carriage with assumed composure, and
bowing slightly, walked towards the house.
Meeting a servant, at the foot of the stairs, she said, very quietly,
"Mr. Cunningham will be here in a few minutes with his horse; I hope
some one will be ready to take him," and passed on. This was all she
_dared_ to do, in aid of the exasperated youth.
Once in her own room, it seemed but the work of a moment for the
agitated girl to throw off her shawl and bonnet, and transport some
light refreshments she had previously prepared, across the passage to
her cousin's room, to draw up his lounging chair to the table, and with
a few skillful touches to give that air of comfort to the
simply-furnished apartment which it had been her daily pleasure to
impart to it.
This self-imposed task achieved, she flew, like a guilty intruder, to
her own little asylum, and locking the door, flung herself upon the bed,
burying her face in the pillows.
But though her quick, convulsive sobs were stifled, they shook her
slight, sensitive form till it quivered in every nerve, like a delicate
exotic suddenly exposed to the blasts of a northern winter.
By-and-by a sound roused her from this agony of tears.
"There is the first dinner-gong," said she, to herself, starting up,
"what shall I do? Perhaps Charley won't like it if I don't go to dinner.
My head aches dreadfully. I don't mind that so much, but (looking in the
glass) my face is so flushed. I wouldn't for the world vex Charley, I'm
sure." With this she began some hasty toilet preparations; but her hands
trembled so violently as to force her to desist.
Wrapping her shivering form in her shawl, she sat down on a low chair,
and again gave way to emotions which gradually shaped themselves thus:
"I am so sorry I came with Charley. He was never anything but kind till
we came here. And then I should have, at least, had nothing but pleasant
things to remember. But now--I am afraid Charley is ashamed of me; he
looked at my dress so scrutinizingly this morning, when he came to my
door. I know I'm not the least fashionable; but Mrs. Tillou is, and she
complimented me on this _neglige_--it is soiled now, and my pretty
slippers, too, walking back through the mud! 'Isabella!' How cold and
strange it sounded! I am so used to 'cozzy dear,' and have learned to
love it so. My poor heart!" pressing both hands upon her side as if to
still a severe pang. Then she rose, and creeping slowly along the floor,
swallowed some water, and seating herself at the table, drew writing
materials towards her. Steadying her hand with great effort, and every
moment pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, she achieved the following
note:
"Having a little headache to-day, dear Charley, I prefer not to
dine, if you will excuse me. I will be quite ready to meet you in
the parlor before tea.
"Ever yours,
"BELLE.
"_Tuesday Morning._"
Designing to accompany this with some of the flowers she now remembered,
for the first time since her return from her ill-starred morning
excursion, Belle hastily re-arranged the prettiest of them in a little
bouquet. As she removed an already withered wild-rose from among its
companions, a solitary tear fell upon its shrivelled petals. "Perhaps,"
she murmured mournfully, with a heavy sigh, "I should have made another
idol,--perhaps I should soon have learned to _love Charley too well_, if
this chastening had not come upon me--could he have thought so?" As she
breathed this query, the small head was suddenly thrown back, like that
of a startled gazelle, and a blush so vivid and burning as to pale the
previous flush of agitation, flashed over cheek and brow.
Quickly ringing the bell, and carefully concealing herself from
observation, behind the door, when she half-opened it, the servant who
answered her summons was requested to hand the note and flowers to Mr.
Cunningham, if he was in his room, and if not, to place them where he
would "be sure to see them when he came up."
"When will I ever learn," said Belle, in a tone of bitter self-reproach,
as she re-locked the door, "not to cling and trust,--not
----"to make idols, and to find them clay!"
"I have not seen you looking so well since you came here, Miss
Cunningham," said a gentleman to Belle, joining her as she was entering
the public parlor that evening. "Do allow me to felicitate you! What a
brilliant color!--You were driving this morning, were you not? No doubt
you are indebted to your cousin for the bright roses in your cheeks!"
* * * * *
And now, my dear young friends, let me only add, in concluding this
lengthened letter, that, had I early acquired the _habit of writing_,
you would, doubtless, have less occasion to criticise these
effusions--attempted, for your benefit, at too late a period of life to
enable me to render them what I could wish. Use them as _beacons_, since
they cannot serve as _models_!
Adieu!
HENRY LUNETTES.
LETTER XI.
MENTAL AND MORAL EDUCATION.
MY DEAR NEPHEWS:
Having touched, in our preceding letters, upon matters relating to
Physical Training, Manner, and the lighter accomplishments that
embellish existence, we come now to the _inner life_--to the Education
of the Mind and Heart, or Soul of Man.
Metaphysicians would, I make no doubt, find ample occasion to cavil at
the few observations I shall venture to offer you on these important
subjects, and, painfully conscious of my total want of skill to treat
them in detail, I will only attempt a few desultory suggestions,
intended rather to impress you with the importance I attach to
_self-culture_, than to furnish you with full directions regarding it.
The genius of our National Institutions pre-supposes the truth that
education is within the power of all, and that all are capable of
availing themselves of its benefits. Education, in the highest, truest
sense, does not involve the necessity of an elaborate system of
scientific training, with an expenditure of time and money entirely
beyond the command of any but the favored few who make the exception,
rather than the rule, in relation to the race in general.
Happily for the Progress of Humanity, the "will to do, the soul to
dare," are never wholly subject to the control of outer circumstance,
and here, in our free land, they are comparatively untrammeled.
"There are two powers of the human soul," says one of our countrymen,
distinguished for a knowledge of Intellectual Science, "which make
self-culture possible, the _self-searching_, and the _self-forming_
power. We have, first, the faculty of turning the mind on itself; of
recalling its past, and watching its present operations; of learning its
various capacities and susceptibilities; what it can do and bear; what
it can enjoy and suffer; and of thus learning, in general, what our
nature is, and what it is made for. It is worthy of observation, that we
are able to discern not only what we already are, but what we may
become, to see in ourselves germs and promises of a growth to which no
bounds can be set; to dart beyond what we have actually gained, to the
idea of perfection at the end of our being."
Assuming that to be the most enlightened system of education which tends
most effectively to develop all the faculties of our nature, it is
impossible, practically, to separate moral and religious from
intellectual discipline. If we possess the _responsibility_ as well as
the capacity of self-training--that must be a most imperfect system, one
most unjust to our better selves, which cultivates the intellectual
powers at the expense of those natural endowments, without which, man
were fitter companion for fiends than for higher intelligences!
Pursued beyond a certain point, education, established upon this basis,
may not facilitate the acquisition of wealth; and if this were the
highest pursuit to which it can be made subservient, effort, beyond that
point, were useless. But if we regard the acquirement of money chiefly
important as affording the essential means of gratifying the tastes,
providing for the necessities, and facilitating the exercise of the
moral instincts of our being, we return, at once, to our former
position.
"_He, therefore, who does what he can to unfold all his powers and
capacities, especially his nobler ones, so as to become a
well-proportioned, vigorous, excellent, happy being, practises
self-culture._"
Those of you who have enjoyed the advantages of a regular course of
intellectual training, will need no suggestion of mine to aid you in
mental discipline; but possibly a few hints on this point may not be
wholly useless to others.
The general dissemination of literature, in forms so cheap as to be
within the reach of all, renders _reading_ a natural resource for
purposes of amusement as well as instruction. But they who are still so
young as to make the acquisition of knowledge the proper business of
life, should never indulge themselves in reading for _mere amusement_.
Never, therefore, permit yourselves to pass over words or allusions,
with the meaning of which you are unacquainted, in works you are
perusing. Go at once to the fountain-head--to a dictionary for
unintelligible words, to an encyclopedia for general information, to a
classical authority for mythological and other similar facts, etc., etc.
You will not read _as fast_, by adopting this plan, but you will soon
realize that you are, nevertheless, advancing much more rapidly, in the
truest sense. When you have not works of reference at command, adopt the
practice of making brief memoranda, as you go along, of such points as
require elucidation, and avail yourself of the earliest opportunity of
seeking a solution of your doubts. And do not, I beg of you, think this
too laborious. The best minds have been trained by such a course. Depend
upon it, _genius_ is no equivalent for the advantage ultimately derived
from patient perseverance in such a course. I remember well, that to the
latest year of his life, my old friend, De Witt Clinton, one of the
noblest specimens of the race it has been my fortune to know, would
spring up, like a boy, despite his stiff knee, when any point of doubt
arose, in conversation, upon literary or scientific subjects, and hasten
to select a book containing the desired information, from a little
cabinet adjoining his usual reception-room. His was a genuine _love of
learning_ for its own sake; and the toil and turmoil of political life
never extinguished his early passion, nor deprived him of a taste for
its indulgence.
Moralists have always questioned the wisdom of indulging a taste for
fictitious literature, even when time has strengthened habit and
principle into fixedness. The license of the age in which we live,
renders futile the elaborate discussion of this question of ethics. But,
while permitting yourselves the occasional perusal of works of poetry
and fiction, do not so far indulge this taste as to stimulate a
disrelish for more instructive reading. And, above all, do not permit
yourselves to acquire an inclination for the unwholesome stimulus of
licentiousness, in this respect. Every man of the world should know
something of the belle-lettre literature of his own language, at least,
and, as a rule, the more the better; but,
"Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise;"
and the vile translations from profligate foreign literature, which
have, of late years, united with equally immoral productions in our own,
to foster a corrupt popular taste, cannot be too carefully avoided by
all who would escape moral contagion.
You will find the practice of noting fine passages, felicitous modes of
expression, novel thoughts, etc., as they occur even in lighter literary
productions, not unworthy of your attention. It will serve,
collaterally, to assist in the formation of a pure style of conversation
and composition, a consideration of no small importance for those whose
future career will demand facility in this regard. Carlyle has somewhere
remarked that, "our public men are all gone to tongue!" This
peculiarity of the times, may, to some extent, have grown out of its new
and peculiar social and political necessities. But, whether that be so,
or not, since such is the actual state of things, let all new
competitors for public distinction seek every means of securing ready
success.
While I would not, without reservation, condemn the perusal of
fictitious literature, I think you will need no elaborate argument to
convince you of the superior importance of a thorough familiarity with
_History_ and general _Science_.
Let me, also, commend to your attention, well-chosen _Biography_, as
affording peculiarly impressive incentives to individual effort, and,
often, a considerable amount of collateral and incidental information.
The Life of Johnson, by Boswell, for instance, which, as far as I know,
still retains its long-accorded place at the very head of this class of
composition (some critic has recorded his wonder that the best biography
in our language should have been written by a _fool_!) contains a world
of information, respecting the many celebrated contemporaries of that
great man, the peculiarities of social life in England, at his day, and
the general characteristics of elegant literature. So, of Lockhart's
Life of Scott, and other records of literary life. The lives of such men
as Shelley, and Coleridge, afford an impressive warning to the
young--teaching, better than a professed homily, how little talents,
unguided by steadfastness of purpose and principle, avail for usefulness
and happiness. The examples of Lord Nelson, Howard, Mungo Park, Robert
Hall, Franklin, and Washington, may well be studied, in detail, for the
lessons they impress upon all. And so, of many of the brave and the good
of our race--I but name such as passingly occur to me.
Do not permit newspaper and magazine reading to engross too much of your
time, lest you gradually fall into a sort of _mental dissipation_, which
will unfit you for more methodical literary pursuits.
A cultivated taste in Literature and Art, as, indeed, in relation to all
the embellishments and enjoyments of life, is, properly, one of the
indications, if not the legitimate result, of thorough mental education.
But, while you seek, by every means within your control, to enlarge the
sphere of your perceptions, and to elevate your standard of intellectual
pleasures, carefully avoid all semblance of conscious superiority, all
_dilettanti_ pretension, all needless technicalities of artistic
language. Remember that _modesty_ is always the accompaniment of true
merit, and that the smattering of knowledge, which the condition of Art
in our infant Republic alone enables its most devoted disciples to
acquire, ill justifies display and pretension, in this respect. So, with
regard to matters of literary criticism--enjoy your own opinions, and
seek to base them upon the true principles of art; but do not inflict
crudities and platitudes upon others, under the impression that, because
of recent acquisition to a tyro in years, and in learning, they are
likely to strike mature minds with the charm of novelty! Thus, too, with
scientific lore. If Sir Isaac Newton only gathered "pebbles on the
shore" of the limitless ocean of knowledge, we may well believe that
----"Wisdom is a pearl, with most success
Sought in still water."
Let me add, while we are, incidentally, upon this matter of personal
pretension, that to observing persons such a manner often indicates
internal distrust of one's just claims to one's social position, while,
on the contrary, quiet self-possession, ease and simplicity, are equally
expressive of self-respect and of an entire certainty of the tacit
admission of one's rights by others. Nothing is more underbred than the
habit of taking offense, or fancying one's self slighted, on all
occasions. It betokens either intense egotism, or, as I have said,
_distrust of your rightful position_--that you are embittered by
struggling with the world--neither of which suppositions should be
betrayed by the bearing of a man of the world. Maintain outward
serenity, let the torrent rage as it may within, and _never allow the
world to know its power to wound you through your undue sensitiveness_!
Well has the poet asserted that
"Truth's a discovery made by _travelled minds_."
No one who can secure the advantage of seeing life and manners in every
varying phase, should fail to add this to the other branches of a polite
education. Do not imbibe the impression, however, that merely going
abroad is _travelling_, in the just sense of the term.
"Oft has it been my lot to mark,
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before.
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop:--
'Sir, if _my_ judgment you'll allow,
I've _seen_, and sure _I_ ought to know!'
So begs you'll pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision."
Send a fool to visit other countries, and he will return--only a
"_travelled_ fool!" But give a rightly-constituted man opportunities for
thus enriching and expanding his intellectual powers, and he returns to
his native land, especially if he be an American, a better citizen, a
more enlightened, discriminating companion and friend, and a more
liberal, useful, catholic Christian!
Some knowledge of modern languages, especially of the French, has now
become an essential part of education. The value of this acquisition,
even for _home use_, can scarcely be over-estimated, and without a
familiarity with colloquial French, a man can hardly hope to pass muster
abroad. I will, however, hazard the general observation that, as a rule,
it is better to acquire a _thorough knowledge of one language_ (and of
French, pre-eminently, for practical availability) than a slight
acquaintance with several. Few persons, comparatively, in our active,
busy land, have leisure, at any period of life, for familiarizing
themselves with the literature of more than one language, besides their
own, and to possess the mere nomenclature of a foreign tongue is but to
have _the key_ to information. There is, of late, a fashion in this
matter, which has little else to recommend it than that it _is the
fashion_; and with persons of sense and intelligence there should be
some more powerful and satisfactory motive for the devotion of any
considerable portion of "_Time, nature's stock_."
_Apropos_ of this, nothing is more likely to teach a true estimate of
the _value_ of _time_ than that perfection of education pronounced by
the philosopher of old to be the knowledge that we _know nothing_! In
other words, they only, who in some sort discern, by the light of
education, the vast field that lies unexplored before them, can have any
adequate conception of the care and discrimination with which they
should use that treasure of which alone it is '_a virtue to be
covetous_.'
Nothing, perhaps, more unmistakably indicates successful self-culture
than the habitual exhibition of Tact. It may almost be called another
sense, growing out of the proper training of the several faculties of
body and mind. And though there is a vast natural difference between
persons of similar outward circumstances, in this respect, much may be
effected by attention and practice, in the acquisition of this
invaluable possession. Like self-possession, tact is one of the
essential, distinctive characteristics of good-breeding--the legitimate
expression of natural refinement, quick perceptions and kindly
sympathies. Cultivate it, then, my young friends, in common with every
elegant embellishment of the true gentleman! Do not confound it with
dissimulation or hypocrisy, nor yet regard it as the antagonist of
truthfulness, self-respect and manly dignity. On the contrary, it is the
best safeguard of courtesy, as well as of sensibility.
Among useful methods of self-discipline, let me instance the benefit
resulting from the early adoption of a _code of private morality_, if
you will permit me to coin a phrase, composed of rules and maxims
adapted to your own personal needs and peculiarities of position and
mental constitution. Washington, I remember, adopted this practice, and
Mr. Sparks, or some one of his biographers, has preserved the record
from oblivion. It is many years since I came across these rules, and I
can no longer recall more than the fixed, though general, impression
that they embodied much practical wisdom and clearly indicated the
patient spirit of self-improvement for which the author was remarkable.
I commend them to you as a model. Perhaps the immortal biographer who
has now given the world a new life of his great namesake, will afford
you the means of satisfying yourselves personally of the correctness of
my impressions of them.
In preparing this code for yourselves, I can give you no better guide
than that afforded by the truth expressively conveyed in the following
lines:
"_'Tis wisely great to talk with our past hours,
To ask them what report they bore to Heaven,
And how they might have borne more welcome news._"