VISIONS OF THE FUTURE.
The big uncle and the little nephew.--Exchange of ideas between the
eccentric Henry Glazier and young Willard.--Inseparable
companions.--Willard's early reading.--Favorite
authors.--Hero-worship of the first Napoleon and Charles XII. of
Sweden.--The genius of good and of evil.--Allen Wight.--A born
teacher.--Reverses of fortune.--The shadow on the
home.--Willard's resolve to seek his fortune and what came of
it.--The sleep under the trees.--The prodigal's return.--"All's
well that ends well."
Between Henry Glazier and young Willard a singular friendship had sprung
up. The great, six-foot uncle and the quaint, old-fashioned boy were
much together.
In the woods and fields, at junketings and corn-huskings, the pair were
often seen in grave converse, and while Willard was ever eager to hear
the stories of his uncle's mad adventures and queer scrapes, Henry
Glazier, in turn, would listen with a species of reverent wonder to the
boy's recital of striking passages of history or of fiction which he had
picked up in the course of a varied and desultory reading--a taste for
which was developed even at that early age. The volumes to which he had
access were few in number, but he had read their pages again and again,
and the subjects of which they treated were, for the most part, of just
such a character as were calculated to attract the attention of a youth
of action rather than of thought.
Among them were "Rollin's Ancient History," "Robinson Crusoe," "The
Arabian Nights," "Life of Charles XII. of Sweden," "Kossuth and his
Generals," and "Napoleon and his Marshals,"--everything relating to the
career of the great Corsican being devoured with the greatest avidity.
He began, of course, by reading the descriptions of battles. All boys do
so. But gradually his interest in such exciting events extended to the
actors in them, and again to the causes that led to them, and at length
the books were read from the preface to the end.
The conversations between the uncle and nephew were far from exercising
a good influence over the boy. If Willard related some daring deed from
the life of Charles XII. or of the great Napoleon--his own especial
hero--his uncle Henry would match it with some equally striking, if less
civilized adventure in the forest or upon the river, in which he or some
of his whilom associates had played the principal part. All this was, to
a certain extent, calculated to unsettle the lad's mind for the common,
routine duties of a useful existence. Fortunately, however, at about the
time that it began to produce that effect, another opposite and more
powerful influence was brought to bear upon him which changed the
current of his ambition, and turned his attention to matters less
exciting in their character, but destined to exert a much greater
influence over his future life. I allude to his association with his
teacher, Allen Wight.
The small, plain brick school-house at Little York stands there, we
believe, to-day as it did then in all its native and naked ugliness.
Such a structure, looking at it aesthetically, is not a cheerful sight
to the lover of learning, but at that period it was under the mastership
of a mind of no ordinary calibre. From all that we can learn of him,
Allen Wight was that remarkable character--a born educator. He did not
believe his duty was performed by merely drilling his pupils,
parrot-like, to repeat other men's sentiments. He knew that the minds of
mortals, particularly if young and fresh, are as diverse in their
springs of action as the laws of the universe, and he conceived it to be
his duty to study the individual characteristics of each scholar under
his charge, as he would have familiarized himself with the notes of a
piece of music before he attempted to play it. His method was that of
the Jesuit, carried out in a Protestant fashion. In young Glazier he
took especial interest. He liked the sturdy little fellow who, though
full of youthful vim, could yet sit down and discuss the difference
between a Macedonian phalanx as described by Rollin and a _corps
d'armee_ as manoeuvred by Soult, and he determined if possible--to use
his own phraseology--"to make a man of him."
His first step was to lead the boy's mind up to a habit of reasoning
upon the present and the past, and upon the every day world of practical
realities with which he had to do. When this habit had become
sufficiently matured in him, the wise teacher told him the story of his
own life, with its struggles, its disappointments and its triumphs,
thinking thus to stimulate his favorite pupil to greater efforts and
better achievements in the path of knowledge. He talked to young Willard
as he would have talked to a man, yet with all the gentleness of manner
he would have used in addressing a woman. Every incentive which he could
place before the boy, every appeal to both heart and brain which he
could make, Allen Wight used--as the mechanic would use the lever--to
bring out all that was noblest and best in him--to develop all the
sleeping possibilities of his young nature.
Ward Glazier had not been as prosperous in his worldly affairs as his
patriotism and honesty deserved, and things at the old "Homestead"
looked rather gloomy. Poverty is a fearful darkener of child-life, and
while its shadow rarely fell on Willard, who was always at school or
roving the woods and fields with his uncle Henry, to his sisters and
brothers it frequently presented its dark face and whispered unpleasant
prophesies of the future.
Of course it was not that abject kind of poverty which stints the supply
of food and fire in a house. It did not still the prattle of the
children, or banish childish mirth from the dwelling. It was not the
wolf at the door, but the wolf in the dim possible distance when the
poor father, bent with age, would perhaps be unable to keep his little
flock together. But the boy had never thought of such a possible time.
_His_ visions of the future were of sights to be seen in the great
world--of a time when he would be large enough and free enough to
accompany his uncle Henry upon some of his wild adventures among
civilized or savage races, and of the delights of unlimited books to be
read upon subjects most congenial to his mind. He therefore made no
allowance for his father's gloomy face and short words, and often
thought him stern when he was only sad.
A slight incident, however, changed all this and compelled him to face
life not as a dream but as a reality. One evening Willard's father came
home very tired and somewhat dispirited by some adverse circumstances,
such as occur in every man's business life at times, and of course he
was not in the most pleasant frame of mind to encounter the petty
annoyances of a household. Something that Willard said or did, capped
the climax of his irritability and he called the boy a fool. It was a
very unusual thing for Ward Glazier to speak with even apparent
harshness to his children, and the lad felt it, therefore, all the more
keenly. He became very thoughtful and silent, and crept off to bed
earlier than usual only to lie awake most of the night brooding over the
insult, and debating within himself what to do in order to vindicate his
outraged dignity. The conclusion at which he finally arrived was that
when the morning came, he would run away from home and seek his fortune
in the great world. The fact is he had been reading "Robinson Crusoe"
but a day or two previous, and that charming story had made a great
impression on his mind. Under its weird influence his vivid imagination
conjured up possible scenes of adventure in which he was to emulate the
courage and sagacity of that celebrated truant, and eventually come
home, as Robinson did, a man full of knowledge with which to astonish
the family, and with wealth to lavish on brothers and sisters, and make
comfortable the declining years of his parents. "_Then_ his father would
not think him a fool," said this youthful logician to himself. His
active little brain was too highly stimulated by his great resolve to
permit much sleep that night, and his bosom swelled proudly as he
thought how bravely he would encounter misfortune and face danger for
the sake of the glorious future he saw in the distance. His boyish heart
thrilled strangely within him as he pictured to himself how full of
amazement his brothers and sisters would be, when they found he had gone
forth all alone to seek his fortune. Even the little sleep, therefore,
that he obtained, was but a dreamy repetition of his waking thoughts,
and when the first gray streak of dawn told of the coming day, the boy
arose and quietly dressing himself for his journey, emerged from the
house, passed down the avenue under the broad elms and struck the
highway. He shivered a little as the chill air of morning touched his
cheek, and his ambitious dream did not look quite so glowing and
glorious as it had done when snugly ensconced in his comfortable bed,
but still he had a consciousness that he was doing something very manly,
and he walked on with a firm step and determined heart.
It is true he had no very definite idea of _where_ he was going,--he
only thought of doing great things and seeing strange sights. His whole
plan of travel was comprehended in the one idea of _going out into the
world_. That was all. Accordingly the youth trudged on for miles without
weariness,--for his head was still thronged with thick coming fancies of
the possible future that lay before him, and for some time the exulting
sense of freedom that ever accompanies disenthralment of any kind,
thrilled his whole being with a firm resolution to accomplish great
things.
At the expiration of a few hours, however, the fatigue involved in so
unusual a tramp before breakfast, began to tell upon him, and as he
mechanically slackened his pace, his reflections assumed a less jubilant
and less satisfactory character. He had walked nearly fourteen miles and
was already footsore. "Going out into the world," began to seem not
quite so enchanting a proceeding as it had appeared to be at starting.
For the first time since the idea of "seeking his fortune" had entered
his mind, he asked himself _where_ he was to seek it.
The reply to this inquiry was not easy. Meanwhile the sun had mounted
high up in the heavens and was shining brightly, the birds were singing
their matin songs, and in the roadside pastures the cattle were quietly
grazing. It was a peaceful, pastoral scene, but its peace did not enter
the heart of the wanderer. Somehow the world did not appear half so
attractive in his eyes as it had looked when he stole forth from his
father's gate in the cold gray of the morning twilight. His step,
therefore, was less elastic and his bearing less assured now than then,
and at length he sat down under a large beech-tree by the roadside, to
reflect upon the situation. He began to feel very weary, and the sudden
transition from action to repose induced a drowsiness that in a few
minutes overcame his waking sense and launched him into the sea of
forgetfulness. The young head sank lower and lower on his breast, and
finally, sleep ... "that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,"...
"sore labor's bath, balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,"
came to him unawares, and for some hours he was totally oblivious of all
surroundings.
It was a dreamless sleep, and noon had come when he awoke. For a few
moments he was unable to recall where he was or how he had come there,
but in a very short time the recollection of everything that had
happened to him since the evening before swept over his mind like a
flood. Every circumstance now, however, was viewed in a far different
light. Somehow, the provocation which had sent him into the wide world
to seek his fortune did not seem half so great as it had seemed only the
night before. The example of De Foe's hero was not so completely
alluring, and a portion of that history which the evening previous he
had not deemed worthy of a thought, now rose vividly before him. He
seemed to read again these words:
"My father, a grave, wise man, gave me serious and excellent counsel
against what he saw was my design. He told me it was for men of
desperate fortunes on the one hand, or of aspiring superior fortunes on
the other, who went abroad upon adventures, to rise by enterprise and
make themselves famous in undertakings of a nature out of the common
road: that these things were all either too far above me, or too far
below me: that mine was the middle state or what might be called the
upper station of humble life, which he had found by long experience was
the best state in the world, the most suited to human happiness. The
wise man gave his testimony to this when he prayed to have 'neither
poverty nor riches.'" And then came the thought that all that Robinson
ever gained in fame or fortune, failed to still the quiet but terrible
whisper of his conscience whenever he thought of those he had abandoned
for a roving life. So intently did he think upon these things, he seemed
actually to behold the wanderer upon his sea-girt island with lawless
Will Atkins and the gentle French priest beside him, while the words of
the repentant mutineer seemed to be hissed into his ear:--"No, sir, I
did not cut his throat, but I cut the throat of all his comforts. I
shortened his days and I broke his heart by the most ungrateful,
unnatural return, for the most tender and affectionate treatment that
father ever gave or child could receive." Young Willard could not but
remember that _his_ parents had been most kind and tender, that _his_
father had lavished upon him during all the years of his childhood a
most prodigal wealth of affection: and the one harsh epithet he had
received seemed as nothing among the multitude of kind and loving words
that had never been withheld from him. His heart told him that something
deeper than any ordinary woe would darken his mother's quiet face when
she beheld his empty chair and realized that he had gone, perhaps never
to return, without one farewell word to her. Such reflections as these,
that he wondered had not occurred to him before, now took possession of
his mind and, impelled by their influence, he arose and slowly started
back towards home. As he came within sight of the old place he saw his
father in the distance reaping, and the sight filled him with gladness.
"From the top of the road, through the gap was seen
Down a zigzag road cut up by rills,
The velvet valley cradled between
Dark double ridges of 'elm' clad hills;
And just beyond, on the sunniest slope,
With its windows aglint in the sunset warm,
In the spot where he first knew life and hope,
Was the dear old house of the 'Homestead' farm."
But he was not just then in a frame of mind to meet the parental eye,
and he therefore skirted round a piece of woods which concealed him from
his father's view and reaching the door unobserved, crept into the
house.
Though his absence had been discovered, and its cause, if not known, at
least shrewdly suspected, his father and mother in their reception of
him very wisely ignored all knowledge of his truancy and treated the
young prodigal with such unusual marks of kindness and indulgence, that
he was completely melted, and felt, with keen remorse, that he had been
upon the eve of becoming a most wretched ingrate. The lesson of the
experiment was not lost upon him, and he never again tried the foolish
venture.