THE HISTORY OF A FAILURE.
The route, which conducted them--over a range of gently-ascending hills, through groves tolerably thick, an uncleared woodland tract comprising every variety of pleasant foliage, at length brought them to a lonely tarn or lake, about a mile in circ.u.mference, nestled and crouching in the hollow of the hills, which, in some places sloped gently down to its margin, at others hung abruptly over its deep and pensive waters.
A thick fringe of shrubs, water-gra.s.ses, and wild flowers, girdled its edges, and gave a dark and mysterious expression to its face. There were many beaten tracks, narrow paths for individual wayfarers on foot, which conducted down to favorite fishing-spots. These were found chiefly on those sides of the lake where the rocks were precipitous. Perched on a jutting eminence, and half shrouded in the bushes which clothed it, the silent fisherman took his place, while his fly was made to kiss the water in capricious evolutions, such as the experienced angler knows how to employ to beguile the wary victim from close cove, or gloomy hollow, or from beneath those decaying trunks of overthrown trees which have given his brood a shelter from immemorial time.
To one of these selected spots, Ned Hinkley proceeded, leaving his companions above, where, in shade themselves, and lying at ease upon the smooth turf, they could watch his successes, and at the same time enjoy the coup d"oeil, which was singularly beautiful, afforded by the whole surrounding expanse. The tarn, like the dark mysterious dwelling of an Undine, was spread out before them with the smoothness of gla.s.s, though untransparent, and shining beneath their eyes like a vast basin of the richest jet. A thousand pretty changes along the upland slopes, or abrupt hills which hemmed it in, gave it a singular aspect of variety which is seldom afforded by any scene very remarkable for its stillness and seclusion. Opposite to the rock on which Ned Hinkley was already crouching, the hill-slope to the lake was singularly unbroken, and so gradual was the ascent from the margin, that one was scarcely conscious of his upward movement, until looking behind him, he saw how far below lay the waters which he had lately left.
The pathway, which had been often trodden, was very distinctly marked to the eyes of our two friends on the opposite elevation, and they could also perceive where the same footpath extended on either hand a few yards from the lake, so as to enable the wanderer to prolong his rambles, on either side, until reaching the foot of the abrupt ma.s.ses of rock which distinguished the opposite margin of the basin. To ascend these, on that side, was a work of toil, which none but the lover of the picturesque is often found willing to encounter. Above, even to the eyes of our friends, though they occupied an eminence, the skies seemed circ.u.mscribed to the circ.u.mference of the lake and the hills by which it was surrounded; and the appearance of the whole region, therefore, was that of a complete amphitheatre, the lake being the floor, the hills the mighty pillars, and the roof, the blue, bright, fretted canopy of heaven.
"I have missed you, my son, for some time past, and the beauty of the picture reminds me of what your seeming neglect has made me lose. When I was a young man I would have preferred to visit such a spot as this alone. But the sense of desolation presses heavily upon an old man under any circ.u.mstances; and he seeks for the company of the young, as if to freshen, with sympathy and memory, the cheerlessness and decay which attends all his own thoughts and fancies. To come alone into the woods, even though the scene I look on be as fair as this, makes me moody and awakens gloomy imaginations; and since you have been so long absent, I have taken to my books again, and given up the woods. Ah! books, alone, never desert us; never prove unfaithful; never chide us; never mock us, as even these woods do, with the memory of baffled hopes, and dreams of youth, gone, never to return again.
"I trust, my dear sir, you do not think me ungrateful. I have not wilfully neglected you. More than once I set out to visit you; but my heart was so full--I was so very unhappy--that I had not the spirit for it. I felt that I should not be any company for you, and feared that I would only affect you with some of my own dullness."
"Nay, that should be no fear with you, my dear boy, for you should know that the very sorrows of youth, as they awaken the sympathies of age, provide it with the means of excitement. It is the misfortune of age that its interest is slow to kindle. Whatever excites the pulse, if not violently, is beneficial to the heart of the old man. But these sorrows of yours, my son--do you not call them by too strong a name? I suspect they are nothing more than the discontents, the vague yearnings of the young and ardent nature, such as prompt enterprise and lead to n.o.bleness. If you had them not, you would think of little else than how to squat with your cousin there, seeking to entrap your dinner; nay, not so much--you would think only of the modes of cooking and the delight of eating the fish, and shrink from the toil of taking it. Do not deceive yourself. This sorrow which distresses you is possibly a beneficial sorrow. It is the hope which is in you to be something--to DO something--for this DOING is after all, and before all, the great object of living. The hope of the heart is always a discontent--most generally a wholesome discontent--sometimes a n.o.ble discontent leading to n.o.bleness. It is to be satisfied rather than nursed. You must do what it requires."
"I know not what it requires."
"Your DOING then must be confined at present to finding out what that is."
"Alas! sir, it seems to me as if I could no more THINK than I can DO"
"Very likely;--that is the case at present; and there are several reasons for this feebleness. The energies which have not yet been tasked, do not know well how to begin. You have been a favored boy. Your wants have been well provided for. Your parents have loved you only too much."
"Too much! Why, even now, I am met with cold looks and reproachful words, on account of this stranger, of whom n.o.body knows anything."
"Even so: suppose that to be the case, my son; still it does not alter the truth of what I say. You can not imagine that your parents prefer this stranger to yourself, unless you imagine them to have undergone a very sudden change of character. They have always treated you tenderly--too tenderly."
"Too tenderly, sir?"
"Yes, William, too tenderly. Their tenderness has enfeebled you, and that is the reason you know not in what way to begin to dissipate your doubts, and apply your energies. If they reproach you, that is because they have some interest in you, and a right in you, which const.i.tutes their interest. If they treat the stranger civilly, it is because he is a stranger."
"Ay, sir, but what if they give this stranger authority to question and to counsel me? Is not this a cruel indignity?"
"Softly, William, softly! There is something at the bottom of this which I do not see, and which perhaps you do not see. If your parents employ a stranger to counsel you, it proves that something in your conduct leads them to think that you need counsel."
"That may be, sir; but why not give it themselves? why employ a person of whom n.o.body knows anything?"
"I infer from your tone, my son, rather than your words, that you have some dislike to this stranger.
"No, sir--" was the beginning of the young man"s reply, but he stopped short with a guilty consciousness. A warm blush overspread his cheek, and he remained silent. The old man, without seeming to perceive the momentary interruption, or the confusion which followed it, proceeded in his commentary.
"There should be nothing, surely, to anger you in good counsel, spoken even by a stranger, my son; and even where the counsel be not good, if the motive be so, it requires our grat.i.tude though it may not receive our adoption."
"I don"t know, sir, but it seems to me very strange, and is very humiliating, that I should be required to submit to the instructions of one of whom we know nothing, and who is scarcely older than myself."
"It may be mortifying to your self-esteem, my son, but self-esteem, when too active, is compelled constantly to suffer this sort of mortification. It may be that one man shall not be older in actual years than another, yet be able to teach that other. Merely living, days and weeks and months, const.i.tutes no right to wisdom: it is the crowding events and experience--the indefatigable industry--the living actively and well--that supply us with the materials for knowing and teaching. In comparison with millions of your own age, who have lived among men, and shared in their strifes and troubles, you would find yourself as feeble a child as ever yet needed the helping hand of counsel and guardianship; and this brings me back to what I said before. Your parents have treated you too tenderly. They have done everything for you. You have done nothing for yourself. They provide for your wants, hearken to your complaints, nurture you in sickness, with a diseasing fondness, and so render you incapable. Hence it is, that, in the toils of manhood, you do not know how to begin. You lack courage and perseverance."
"Courage and perseverance!" was the surprised exclamation of the youth.
"Precisely, and lest I should offend you, my son, I must acknowledge to you beforehand, that this very deficiency was my own."
"Yours, sir? I can not think it. What! lack courage?"
"Exactly so!"
"Why, sir--did I not see you myself, when everybody else looked on with trembling and with terror, throw yourself in the way of Drummond"s horses and save the poor boy from being dashed to pieces? There was surely no lack of courage there!"
"No! in that sense, my son, I labor under no deficiency. But this sort of courage is of the meanest kind. It is the courage of impulse, not of steadfastness. Hear me, William. You have more than once allowed the expression of a wonder to escape you, why a man, having such a pa.s.sion for books and study, and with the appearance of mental resources, such as I am supposed to possess, should be content, retiring from the great city, to set up his habitation in this remote and obscure region. My chosen profession was the law; I was no unfaithful student. True, I had no parents to lament my wanderings and failures; but I did not wander. I studied closely, with a degree of diligence which seemed to surprise all my companions. I was ambitious--intensely ambitious. My head ran upon the strifes of the forum, its exciting contests of mind and soul--its troubles, its triumphs. This was my leading thought--it was my only pa.s.sion. The boy-frenzies for women, which are prompted less by sentiment or judgment, than by feverish blood, troubled me little.
Law was my mistress--took up all my time--absorbed all my devotion. I believe that I was a good lawyer--no pettifogger--the merely drilled creature who toils for his license, and toils for ever after solely for his petty gains, in the miserably petty arts of making gains for others, and eluding the snares set for his own feet by kindred spirits. As far as the teaching of this country could afford me the means and opportunity, I endeavored to procure a knowledge of universal law--its sources--its true objects--its just principles--its legitimate dicta.
Mere authorities never satisfied me, unless, pa.s.sing behind the black gowns, I could follow up the reasoning to the first fountains--the small original truths, the nicely discriminated requisitions of immutable justice--the clearly-defined and inevitable wants of a superior and prosperous society. Everything that could ill.u.s.trate law as well as fortify it; every collateral aid, in the shape of history or moral truth, I gathered together, even as the dragoon whose chief agent is his sabre, yet takes care to provide himself with pistols, that may finish what the other weapon has begun. Nor did I content myself with the mere acquisition of the necessary knowledge. Knowing how much depends upon voice, manner and fluency, in obtaining success before a jury, I addressed myself to these particulars with equal industry. My voice, even now, has a compa.s.s which your unexercised lungs, though quite as good originally as mine, would fail entirely to contend with. I do not deceive myself, as I certainly do not seek to deceive you, when I say, that I acquired the happiest mastery over my person."
"Ah! sir--we see that now--that must have been the case!" said the youth interrupting him. The other continued, sadly smiling as he heard the eulogy which the youth meant to speak, the utterance of which was obviously from the heart.
"My voice was taught by various exercises to be slow or rapid, soft or strong, harsh or musical, by the most sudden, yet unnoticeable transitions. I practised all the arts, which are recommended by elocutionists for this purpose, I rumbled my eloquence standing on the seash.o.r.e, up to my middle in the breakers. I ran, roaring up steep hills--I stretched myself at length by the side of meandering brooks, or in slumberous forests of pine, and sought, by the merest whispers, to express myself with distinctness and melody. But there was something yet more requisite than these, and this was language. My labors to obtain all the arts of utterance did not seem less successful. I could dilate with singular fluency, with cla.s.sical propriety, and great natural vigor of expression. I studied directness of expression by a frequent intercourse with men of business, and examined, with the nicest urgency, the particular characteristics of those of my own profession who were most remarkable for their plain, forcible speaking. I say nothing of my studies of such great masters in discourse and philosophy, as Milton, Shakspere, Homer, Lord Bacon, and the great English divines. As a model of pure English the Bible was a daily study of two hours; and from this n.o.ble well of vernacular eloquence, I gathered--so I fancied--no small portion of its quaint expressive vigor, its stern emphasis, its golden and choice phrases of ill.u.s.tration. Never did a young lawyer go into the forum more thoroughly clad in proof, or with a better armory as well for defence as attack."
"You did not fail, sir?" exclaimed the youth with a painful expression of eager anxiety upon his countenance.
"I did fail--fail altogether! In the first effort to speak, I fainted, and was carried lifeless from the court-room."
The old man covered his face with his hands, for a few moments, to conceal the expression of pain and mortification which memory continued to renew in utter despite of time. The young man"s hand rested affectionately on his shoulder. A few moments sufficed to enable the former to renew his narrative.
"I was stunned but not crushed by this event. I knew my own resources.
I recollected a similar anecdote of Sheridan; of his first attempt and wretched failure. I, too, felt that "I had it in me," and though I did not express, I made the same resolution, that "I would bring it out."
But Sheridan and myself failed from different causes, though I did not understand this at that time. He had a degree of hardihood which I had not; and he utterly lacked my sensibilities. The very intenseness of my ambition; the extent of my expectation; the elevated estimate which I had made of my own profession; of its exactions; and, again, of what was expected from me; were all so many obstacles to my success. I did not so esteem them, then; and after renewing my studies in private, my exercises of expression and manner, and going through a harder course of drilling, I repeated the attempt to suffer a repet.i.tion of the failure.
I did not again faint, but I was speechless. I not only lost the power of utterance, but I lost the corresponding faculty of sight. My eyes were completely dazed and confounded. The objects of sight around me were as crowded and confused as the far, dim ranges of figures, tribes upon tribes, and legions upon legions, which struggle in obscurity and distance, in any one of the begrimed and blurred pictures of Martin"s Pandemonium. My second failure was a more enfeebling disaster than the first. The first procured me the sympathy of my audience, the last exposed me to its ridicule."
Again the old man paused. By this time, the youth had got one of his arms about the neck of the speaker, and had taken one of his hands within his grasp.
"Yours is a generous nature, William," said Mr. Calvert, "and I have not said to you, until to-day, how grateful your boyish sympathies have been to me from the first day when you became my pupil. It is my knowledge of these sympathies, and a desire to reward them, that prompts me to tell a story which still brings its pains to memory, and which would be given to no other ears than your own. I see that you are eager for the rest--for the wretched sequel."
"Oh, no! sir--do not tell me any more of it if it brings you pain. I confess I should like to know all, but--"
"You shall have it all, my son. My purpose would not be answered unless I finished the narrative. You will gather from it, very possibly, the moral which I could not. You will comprehend something better, the woful distinction between courage of the blood and courage of the brain; between the mere recklessness of brute impulse, and the steady valor of the soul--that valor, which, though it trembles, marches forward to the attack--recovers from its fainting, to retrieve its defeat; and glows with self-indignation because it has suffered the moment of victory to pa.s.s, without employing itself to secure the boon!--
"Shame, and a natural desire to retrieve myself, operated to make me renew my efforts. I need not go through the processes by which I endeavored to acquire the necessary degree of hardihood. In vain did I recall the fact that my compet.i.tors were notoriously persons far inferior to me in knowledge of the topics; far inferior in the capacity to a.n.a.lyze them; rude and coa.r.s.e in expression; unfamiliar with the language--mere delvers and diggers in a science in which I secretly felt that I should be a master. In vain did I recall to mind the fact that I knew the community before which I was likely to speak; I knew its deficiencies; knew the inferiority of its idols, and could and should have no sort of fear of its criticism. But it was myself that I feared.
I had mistaken the true censor. It was my own standards of judgment that distressed and made me tremble. It was what I expected of myself--what I thought should be expected of me--that made my weak soul recoil in terror from the conviction that I must fail in its endeavor to reach the point which my ambitious soul strove to attain. The fear, in such cases, produced the very disaster, from the antic.i.p.ated dread of which it had arisen. I again failed--failed egregiously--failed utterly and for ever! I never again attempted the fearful trial. I gave up the contest, yielded the field to my inferiors, better-nerved, though inferior, and, with all my learning, all my eloquence, my voice, my manner; my resources of study, thought, and utterance, fled from sight--fled here--to bury myself in the wilderness, and descend to the less ambitious, but less dangerous vocation of schooling--I trust, to better uses--the minds of others. I had done nothing with my own."
"Oh, sir, do not say so. Though you may have failed in one department of human performance, you have succeeded in others. You have lost none of the knowledge which you then acquired. You possess all the gifts of eloquence, of manner, of voice, of education, of thought."
"But of what use, my son? Remember, we do not toil for these possessions to lock them up--to content ourselves, as the miserable miser, with the consciousness that we possess a treasure known to ourselves only--useless to all others as to ourselves! Learning, like love, like money, derives its true value from its circulation."
"And you circulate yours, my dear sir. What do we not owe you in Charlemont? What do I not owe you, over all?"
"Love, my son--love only. Pay me that. Do not desert me in my old age.
Do not leave me utterly alone!"