University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

—“Had I observed that Herbert's natural
dispositions exposed him to be particularly injured
by pursuing this course, I should not
have permitted him to pursue it. Respect
for his father's injunctions would have yielded
to regard for his welfare. Indeed, in disregarding
such injunctions from such a motive,
I should have felt, that I was doing a duty
towards my brother himself, as well as towards
my nephew. But Herbert, has, I think,
lost less by the imperfections of education,
than most young persons lose. He has run
smoothly over the customary course, learning
the little that can be learnt in it, with such
readiness, that acquisition has not been to him
an irksome labor, nor absence from his teachers,

liberation from prison. He has none
of the disgust for study, which is so often
the strongest impression brought away from
school. Besides, with the will and opportunity,
a young man of twenty can, in a great
measure, make up for early deficiencies.”

“Herbert has, too, his mother's enthusiasm.”

“Yes: and enthusiasm is the wings of life,
that take from the weight of its heaviest burdens.
The light-headed are often borne
away by it to dizzy heights; but in Herbert,
there is solidity enough to balance its buoyancy.”

“Had your brother reversed the provisions
of his will, and given you over his son
the control he gave you over his property, he
would have charged you with a more suitable
duty and provided more wisely for his son.
With his high estimation of you, it was singular
that he should have undertaken to prescribe
himself for twelve years after his death
for Herbert's education.”

“Far stronger, Elizabeth, than individual
opinion, is the force of custom. In my brother's
conduct spoke the voice of the multitude.
He was a strict conformist to established
usage. This was to him law—so sacred, that
he suffered no personal partiality to infringe
it. He did not think for himself in such
matters; and he was therefore incapable of
appreciating the consequences of doing so in
others. Divergence from the general opinion
was in his view an unprofitable eccentricity:
he could not realize that it might be a step
forward. Esteem for me, so far from gaining
consideration for my theoretical opinions, he
turned to account against them; and in his
last moments it was a source of comfort to
him, that in my promise to carry into effect
the plan he laid down, he could rely against
the temptations of my own principles.”

“The further guidance of Herbert,—so far
as he may need or be willing to be guided,—
devolves now by your brother's own wish
upon you”—

“And therein again is apparent the same
influence that controlled him in making provision
for Herbert's instruction. Tuition at
an expensive public school, and after that
four years in the classes of a college—and
the education of a young man is completed!
My brother was satisfied that he had done all
he could do—all that could be done, in securing
this to his son. And had he lived to see
how successfully Herbert has passed through
the gradation, he would have believed that
there is not in the world a better educated
young man! And had I told him that on the
play ground, from his college amusements and
relaxation, Herbert had learnt more that is
available in life than in the school room and
college halls—more from his class-mates than
from his class-teachers, he would have laughed
at me. And yet, so it is. A Roman galley
is as well suited to navigate the Atlantic,—a
monk's library of the middle ages, as
serviceable for scientific acquirement,—an ancient
war-chariot, as fitted to oppose flying

artillery, as is the scholastic system of education
to prepare youth for the performances of
manhood. This system is at once arduous
and barren: it is like a hickory nut,—hard to
crack, and nearly all shell. Its machinery is
as unwieldy as it is weak, encumbering without
moving the young powers. Its effects
are as superficial as its operation is laborious.
It does not reach the swelling roots of the
nascent faculties; it merely encrusts them with
a shallow layer of verbal learning, which, far
from fertilizing them, obstructs their healthful
development. Often have I observed,—
when Herbert has been with us in his vacations,—the
spontaneous movement of his
mind to which education ought to give elasticity
and boldness, checked by the habitual
pressure of heavy forms.”

“The few weeks in each year he has spent
with us, were times of such full enjoyment to
him, that he returns with the happiest anticipations.
In coming to live with us, he feels
that he comes to his home. Did you observe

how his countenance sparkled with gladness
yesterday when he burst in upon us on his
arrival?

“Yes: he has a warm and happy disposition.”—

It was towards the end of September 18—,
that Mr. and Mrs. Barclay were thus engaged
in conversation.

The room in which they were sitting was
furnished with simplicity. A few busts and
pictures gave to it that air of refined luxury
which tasteful productions of the fine arts always
diffuse around them. On one side, two
windows reached the floor, through which
the eye rested on a rich verdure of sward
and foliage.

About thirty acres expanded before the
house, gently sloping towards the south in
graceful undulation to a body of forest, whose
tall trees, running irregularly in front and at
the sides of the lawn, completely enclosed it,
and bounded the view. A few majestic remnants
of the primitive forest, scattered over

the open ground, deepened the verdure with
their broad shadows. Near the walls on
either side, rose from the turf the huge
trunks of several oaks, the offspring of ages.
These did not,—like their brothers beyond, as
if in rivalry of aspiring neighbors,—shoot up
with clean stems high into the air; but, early
disengaged from the vicinity of other trees,
they had expanded broadly over the earth,
sending out, at a few feet above their roots,
gnarled branches which stretched afar their
brawny limbs—sturdy kings of the forest,
that looked in their freshness, as if they still
grew in vigor, mocking time and rejoicing in
the tempest.

The sun was declining, imparting as it approached
the horizon, by the contrast of light
and shadow from its oblique rays, a livelier
picturesqueness to the lovely scene. This
effect was heightened by the irregular projections
from the body of the wood, one side
of them glowing with golden light, while the
other had already put on and cast beside it

on the ground a deep shade, giving to the
retreating recesses that mysterious indistinctness,
which a great writer has cited, as a fit
image of what is called in literature, the romantic,
as distinguished from the classical.

To the right of the house, one of these
withdrawing openings, which seemed to invite
the beholder to explore them, led through
the trees up a considerable elevation, on reaching
which, a wide prospect met the eye. At
about two miles distant was spread out a
large city, covering, as all American cities do,
a great extent of surface, and, with its straggling
suburbs, presenting no defined outline.
On its furthest side lay, half embraced by it,
a mass of water, whose still bosom reflected
softly the red beams of the sun. The position
of the neighboring grounds gave to the
water from this point the appearance of a
lake, although the tall masts of ships bore
evidence of a deep outlet to the sea. The
prospect extended far around over a cultivated
country, and terminated on the right

and south in wooded ridges, and on the left,
in low grounds which marked the course of
the river.

Returning from the spot whence this extensive
and diversified scene was beheld, to
the wood-inclosed lawn, was like suddenly
passing from a crowded street into the stillness
of one's dwelling.

The exterior of the house corresponded
with the simple beauty around it and the taste
within. It was of moderate size and without
pretension. The art of its design manifested
itself in the pleasing impression produced,
while the means by which it was produced
were so skilfully disposed and mingled as not
to give prominence to any individual architectural
element; unlike many buildings which
ambitiously court notice by the display of
some one outward characteristic of art, and,
intended to be fine specimens of architecture,
are in reality offensive monuments of ostentatation.

The conversation of Mr. and Mrs. Barclay,

was interrupted by the approach of its subject
who galloped up to the door.

“Well, Herbert, you have returned early,”
said his uncle, who went out to meet him.

“Yes, sir,” said Herbert, as they walked
into his house. “Mr. Grey was not at his
office: I saw him only for a moment after I
had started to come out. He made me promise
to spend the day with him to-morrow.”

“He has wished your return almost as
much as we have, Herbert,” said Mr. Barclay.
“Alfred Grey will be a friend whom
I am sure you will delight in. He has half a
dozen years the start of you in life, and will
be often able to give you a helping hand better
than we old people, for he is fresh from
the ground you are about entering on.”

“He will not help you, however, to partners
at a dance,” said Mrs. Barclay. “He is
not a frequenter of large companies.”

“I am provided in that way already,” said
Herbert, “I met Mr. Seldon, who offered me
a seat in his carriage for every ball I should
wish to go to”—

“He must have turned over a new leaf
lately; for he has always confined himself to
a small circle. But I suppose, in making you
this offer, he meant, all that were worth going
to.”

“While I was talking to him,” continued
Herbert, “Dr. Walsall came up and greeted
me very cordially, and begged me to make
a convenience of his table whenever I wanted
a dinner.”

“Ah! that's a valuable invitation,” said
Mr. Barclay. “The doctor, Herbert, keeps
the best cook in town.”

In playful familiar conversation the three
passed a happy evening; Herbert, in the joyousness
of youthful spirits, and Mr. and Mrs.
Barclay, in the warm pleasure of kindly sympathy,
and almost parental tenderness, which
his presence awakened.