University of Virginia Library

I.
Pride of Manliness.

AND has manhood no dreams? Does the soul
wither at that Rubicon, which lies between the
Gallic country of youth, and the Rome of manliness?
Does not fancy still love to cheat the heart, and weave
gorgeous tissues to hang upon that horizon, which lies
along the years that are to come? Is happiness so
exhausted, that no new forms of it lie in the mines of
imagination, for busy hopes to drag up to-day?

Where then would live the motives to an upward
looking of the eye, and of the soul;—where, the
beckonings that bid us ever—onward?

But these later dreams, are not the dreams of fond
boyhood, whose eye sees rarely below the surface of
things; nor yet the delicious hopes of sparkling-blooded

youth: they are dreams of sober trustfulness,
of practical results, of hard-wrought world-success, and
—may be—of Love and of Joy.

Ambitious forays do not rest, where they rested
once: hitherto, the balance of youth has given you, in
all that you have dreamed of accomplishment,—a
strong vantage against age: hitherto, in all your
estimates, you have been able to multiply them by that
access of thought, and of strength, which manhood
would bring to you. Now, this is forever ended.

There is a great meaning in that word—manhood.
It covers all human growth. It supposes no extensions,
or increase; it is integral, fixed, perfect—the whole.
There is no getting beyond manhood; it is much
to live up to it; but once reached, you are all that
a man was made to be, in this world.

It is a strong thought—that a man is perfected,
so far as strength goes;—that he will never be abler
to do his work, than under the very sun which is now
shining on him. There is a seriousness, that few call
to mind, in the reflection, that whatever you do in this
age of manhood, is an unalterable type of your whole
bigness. You may qualify particulars of your character,
by refinements, by special studies, and practice;
but,—once a man,—and there is no more manliness to
be lived for!

This thought kindles your soul to new, and swifter

dreams of ambition than belonged to youth. They
were toys; these are weapons. They were fancies;
these are motives. The soul begins to struggle with
the dust, the sloth, the circumstance, that beleaguer
humanity, and to stagger into the van of action.

Perception, whose limits lay along a narrow horizon,
now tops that horizon, and spreads, and reaches toward
the heaven of the Infinite. The mind feels its birth,
and struggles toward the great birth-master. The
heart glows: its humanities even, yield and crimple
under the fierce heat of mental pride. Vows leap
upward, and pile rampart upon rampart, to scale
all the degrees of human power.

Are there not times in every man's life when there
flashes on him a feeling—nay, more, an absolute
conviction,—that this soul is but a spark belonging
to some upper fire; and that by as much as we
draw near by effort, by resolve, by intensity of
endeavor, to that upper fire,—by so much, we draw
nearer to our home, and mate ourselves with angels?
Is there not a ringing desire in many minds to seize
hold of what floats above us in the universe of
thought, and drag down what shreds we can, to
scatter to the world? Is it not belonging to greatness,
to catch lightning, from the plains where lightning
lives, and curb it, for the handling of men?

Resolve is what makes a man manliest;—not puny

resolve, not crude determination, not errant purpose,—
but that strong, and indefatigable will, which treads
down difficulties and danger, as a boy treads down
the heaving frost-lands of winter;—which kindles his
eye and brain, with a proud pulse-beat toward the
unattainable. Will makes men giants. It made
Napoleon an Emperor of kings,—Bacon a fathomer
of nature,—Byron a tutor of passion, and the martyrs,
masters of Death!

In this age of manhood, you look back upon the
dreams of the years that are past; they glide to the
vision in pompous procession; they seem bloated with
infancy. They are without sinew or bone. They
do not bear the hard touches of the man's hand.

It is not long, to be sure, since the summer of life
ended with that broken hope; but the few years that
lie between have given long steps upward. The little
grief that threw its shadow, and the broken vision
that deluded you, have made the passing years long,
in such feeling as ripens manhood. Nothing lays
the brown of autumn upon the green of summer, so
quick as storms.

There have been changes too in the home scenes;
these graft age upon a man. Nelly—your sweet Nelly
of childhood, your affectionate sister of youth, has
grown out of the old brotherly companionship into the
new dignity of a household.

The fire flames and flashes upon the accustomed
hearth. The father's chair is there in the wonted
corner; he himself—we must call him the old man
now, though his head shows few white honors—wears
a calmness and a trust that light the failing eye.
Nelly is not away; Nelly is a wife; and the husband
yonder, as you may have dreamed,—your old friend
Frank.

Her eye is joyous; her kindness to you is unabated;
her care for you is quicker and wiser. But yet the
old unity of the household seems broken; nor can all
her winning attentions bring back the feeling which
lived in Spring, under the garret roof.

The isolation, the unity, the integrity of manhood,
make a strong prop for the mind; but a weak one for the
heart. Dignity can but poorly fill up that chasm of
the soul, which the home affections once occupied.
Life's duties, and honors press hard upon the bosom,
that once throbbed at a mother's tones, and that
bounded in a mother's smiles.

In such home, the strength you boast of, seems a
weakness; manhood leans into childish memories, and
melts—as Autumn frosts yield to a soft, south wind,
coming from a Tropic spring. You feel in a desert
where you once felt at home—in a bounded landscape,
—that was once—the world!

The tall sycamores have dwindled to paltry trees:

the hills that were so large, and lay at such grand
distance to the eye of childhood, are now near by, and
have fallen away to mere rolling waves of upland.
The garden fence that was so gigantic, is now only
a simple paling: its gate that was such a cumbrous
affair—reminding you of Gaza—you might easily lift
from its hinges. The lofty dovecote, which seemed to
rise like a monument of art, before your boyish vision,
is now only a flimsy box upon a tall spar of hemlock.

The garret even, with its lofty beams, its dark stains,
and its obscure corners, where the white hats, and coats
hung ghost-like, is but a low loft, darkened by age,—
hung over with cobwebs, dimly lighted with foul
windows,—its romping Charlie,—its glee,—its swing,—
its joy,—its mystery, all gone forever.

The old gallipots, and retorts are not anywhere to be
seen in the second story window of the brick school.
Dr. Bidlow is no more! The trees that seemed so
large, the gymnastic feats that were so extraordinary,
the boy that made a snapper of his handkerchief,—
have all lost their greatness, and their dread. Even
the springy usher, who dressed his hair with the ferule,
has become the middle-aged father of five curly-headed
boys, and has entered upon what once seemed the
gigantic commerce—of `stationery and account books.'

The marvellous labyrinth of closets, at the old
mansion where you once paid a visit—in a coach—is

all dissipated. They have turned out to be the merest
cupboards in the wall. Nat, who had travelled, and
seen London, is by no means so surprising a fellow to
your manhood, as he was to the boy. He has grown
spare, and wears spectacles. He is not so famous as he
was. You would hardly think of consulting him now
about your marriage; or even about the price of goats
upon London bridge.

As for Jenny—your first, fond flame!—lively,
romantic, black-eyed Jenny,—the reader of Thaddeus
of Warsaw,—who sighed and wore blue ribbons on her
bonnet,—who wrote love notes,—who talked so tenderly
of broken hearts,—who used a glass seal with a cupid
and a dart,—dear Jenny,—she is now the plump, and
thriving wife of the apothecary of the town! She
sweeps out every morning at seven, the little entry of
the apothecary's house: she buys a `joint' twice a
week from the butcher, and is particular to have the
`knuckle' thrown in, for soups: she wears a sky blue
calico gown, and dresses her hair in three little flat
quirls on either side of her head—each one pierced
through with a two-pronged hair-pin.

She does not read Thaddeus of Warsaw, now.