University of Virginia Library

LEGEND FOURTH.
THE BOY AND THE BOOK.

One hour of silence and of thought.

Who shall paint its history? What power
of language, what eloquence of speech, can
paint the day-dreams that come like ghosts over
the mind of boyhood, and fling their shadowy
hands toward a distant but a gorgeous future?

One summer day, upon a rock which overhung
a wood-embosomed brook, there sat a
boy of fourteen years, clasping his hand over
a book which rested on his knee, while his absent
gaze was fixed upon the wave below.

That wave, framed in foliage, mirrored in a
cloudless sky, warmed by the rays of a declining
sun.

The slender form of the boy was clad in a
dress of coarse grey; his falling collar disclosed
his white throat; his brown hair, shadowed
features remarkable at once for their firmly
chisseled outlines, and their expression of precocious
thought. Those grey eyes, warming
and dilating under the boldly defined brows,
shone with the rapture of some absorbing day-dream.

Near the boy, reclining on the rock which
overhung the stream, arose an aged oak, whose
massive trunk was garlanded with vines, while
it extended one rugged and gnarled limb, thick
with leaves, over the bosom of the waters.

And the boy reclining on the rock, and the
old tree clad in vines, looked, together, like an
image of Youth stretched at the feet of the
venerable Past.

On the rock, beside the boy, were scattered
various things which seem to indicate the sports
of youth, mingled with the grave thought of
manhood. A bow and three arrows — a compass
— a fishing rod, and a rusted sword, battered
in the handle and dented in the blade.

But the eye of the boy was fixed upon the
waters with a dreamy, absent glance. He sat
for a long time like a statue — a dumb thing,
without power of speech or motion — his
clasped hands lay upon the old book, supported
by his knee.

Vines, whose green leaves embraced flowers
white as snow, were dipping in the waters with
every breath of the summer air — a solitary
bird hung trembling on the oaken bought, singing
as it swung, and filling the place with bursts of
wild music — the sun bathed the mass of foliage
with his rays, while yonder wall of leaves
was veiled in shadows — it was a beautiful
scene, an hour of peace, but the soul of the boy
was far away.

Once in the space of an hour he moved his
head. It was to grasp the hilt of the rusted
sword. Then something like a shadow passed
over his face, and his lip curled in a kind of
defiant smile.

Next his hand rested upon the book. A
massive volume, bound in dark leather, with
the traces of age upon its broad leaves, the
odor of time upon its bold and rugged type.
He lifted one lid of the book, and a blank leaf
was revealed — blank, save that it bore a name,
written in a quaint, round hand —

JOHN WASHINGTON — 1657.

For this book, more than a hundred years
old, had been brought from England by the
grandfather of this boy, at least one hundred
years before this summer day. That ancestor,
an exile from his native soil, brought the book
with him to the wilds of Virginia, and, believe
me, it brought a blessing with it: for, after
soothing many an hour of pain — lifting up
many a head bowed down by sickness — nerving
many a heart chilled by death — the book was
now, even in this calm summer hour, doing its

yet baptised in its first hour by the rays of a
star, that melted into the heart at once, and
filled it with a Peace unutterable.

The Boy read on.

The Child, grown to Boyhood, stands up in
a lofty temple, and confutes grave Doctors and
learned Scribes — heaps confusion upon their
cunning and puts their intricate code of lies to
shame — by the simple learning of a Heart that
cannot Hate, a Heart that finds Truth and Law
and Religion in the simple words —“Love one
another.”

Then came scenes that made the heart of the
boy beat with pulsations of vivid joy, succeeded
by oppressive sadness. His eyes were drowned
in tears. For the Child of whom he read, had
grown to manhood. He was derided by the
Priests, mocked by the minions of Kings,
crowned with thorns, and put to death on a
felon's tree — every instant of his agony, accompanied
by some unutterable mockery. And
with all this — He — the being of whom the
Boy was reading — gave to his enemies love
for their scorn, blessings for their blows — yes,
to the World which disowned him, and raised
him in mockery upon its breast, he bequeathed
a deathless Testament of Forgiveness, a holy
Covenant of Brotherhood. And while the Boy
was reading, the evening shadows fell. The
sun passed down the sky, leaving only one
smile of light upon the waters. And yet the
Face of the Divine Being seemed to start from
the very gloom, and look with its deathless
eyes into the very eyes of the dreaming
Boy.

Do you assert that the lesson which the old
Book taught to the mind and the heart of the
Boy — in this still hour — ever lost its influence,
ever passed away?

Or, did the words of the Book, dropping
imperceptibly into the heart of that Boy —
gentle as fragrant rain upon an opening flower
and yet mightier than armies — appear in his
Future life, in the shape of Deeds that win the
love of a World?

Who shall count the imperceptible steps by
which the soul of youth ascends to manhood,
gathering fresh vigor at every step, and coming
freer and bolder into the light, as the summit
grows near and nearer?

Who shall estimate the influence which the
old Book exercised upon the life of the solitary
Boy?

Other books would have taught him Glory
in the place of Duty — the life of Alexander
the Great would have learned him the blessing
of wholesale murder — the history of Oliver
Cromwell might have taught him the right to
destroy one form of oppression by another
form as galling.

But the old Book had a different lesson.
From the shadows of dead centuries it spoke
to the heart of that Boy. Its words took
shape, and rose before him, even from the
tombs of long buried ages. And its lesson was
simply — it is right to battle in the cause of
freedom, because God has given the earth and
its fruits to all his children — All. Yet never,
even in warring for the right, forget that perfect
freedom is only found in perfect love.