University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE MASTER AND HIS PUPILS.

The course of the young rustic was pursued for half a
mile further till he came to a little cottage of which the
eye could take no cognizance from any part of the village.
It was embowelled in a glen of its own — a mere cup of
the slightly-rising hills, and so encircled by foliage that
it needed a very near approach of the stranger before he
became aware of its existence. The structure was very
small, a sort of square box with a cap upon it, and consisted
of two rooms only on a ground floor, with a little
lean-to or shed-room in the rear, intended for a kitchen.
As you drew nigh and passed through the thick fringe of
wood by which its approach was guarded, the space opened
before you, and you found yourself in a sort of amphitheatre,
of which the cottage was the centre. A few trees
dotted this area, large and massive trees, and seemingly
preserved for purposes of shade only. It was the quietest
spot in the world, and inspired just that sort of feeling in
the contemplative stranger which would be awakened by
a ramble among the roofless ruins of the ancient abbey.
It was a home for contemplation — in which one might
easily forget the busy world without, and deliver himself
up, without an effort, to the sweetly sad musings of the
anchorite.

The place was occupied, however. A human heart beat
within the humble shed, and there was a spirit, sheltered

by its quiet, that mused many high thoughts, and dreamed
in equal congratulation and self-reproach, of that busy
world from which it was an exile. The visit of William
Hinkley was not paid to the solitude. A venerable man,
of large frame, and benignant aspect, sat beneath an aged
tree, paternal in its appearance like himself. This person
might be between fifty and sixty years of age. His hair,
though very thick and vigorous, was as white as driven
snow. But there were few wrinkles on his face, and his
complexion was the clear red and white of a healthy and
sanguine temperament. His brow was large and lofty.
It had many more wrinkles than his face. There were
two large horizontal seams upon it that denoted the exercise
of a very busy thought. But the expression of his eye
was that of the most unembarrassed benevolence and peace.
It was subdued and sometimes sad, but then it had the
sweetest, playfullest twinkle in the world. His mouth,
which was small and beautifully formed, wore a similar
expression. In short he was what we would call a handsome
old gentleman, whose appearance did not offend taste,
and whose kind looks invited confidence. Nor would we
mistake his character.

This person was the Mr. Calvert, the schoolmaster of the
village, of whom Mrs. Hinkley spoke to Alfred Stevens in
discussing the condition of her son. His tasks were over
for the day. The light-hearted rabble whom he taught,
released from his dominion which was not severe, were, by
this time, scampering over the hills, as far from their usual
place of restraint as the moderate strength of their legs
could carry them. Though let loose, boys are not apt to
feel their liberty in its prime and freshness, immediately in
the neighborhood of the schoolhouse. The old gentleman
left to himself, sat out in the open air, beneath a massive
oak, the paternal stretching of whose venerable arms not
unfrequently led to the employment of the shade below for
carrying on the operations of the schoolhouse. There,

squat on their haunches, the sturdy boys — germs of the
finest peasantry in the world — surrounded their teacher in
a group quite as pleasing as picturesque. The sway of the
old man was paternal. His rod was rather a figurative
than a real existence; and when driven to the use of the
birch, the good man, consulting more tastes than one, employed
the switch from the peach or some other odorous
tree or shrub, in order to reconcile the lad, as well as he
could, to the extraordinary application. He was one of
those considerate persons, who disguise pills in gold-leaf,
and if compelled, as a judge, to hang a gentleman, would
decree that a rope of silk should carry out the painful requisitions
of the laws.

Seated beneath his tree, in nearly the same spot and
position in which he had dismissed his pupils, William
Calvert pored over the pages of a volume as huge of size
as it was musty of appearance. It was that pleasant book
— quite as much romance as history — the “Knights of
Malta,” by our venerable father, Monsieur L'Abbe Vertot.
Its dull, dim, yellow-looking pages — how yellow, dim, and
dull-looking in comparison with more youthful works —
had yet a life and soul which it is not easy to find in many
of these latter. Its high wrought and elaborate pictures
of strife, and toil, and bloodshed, grew vividly before the
old man's eyes; and then, to help the illusion, were there
not the portraits — mark me — the veritable portraits, engraved
on copper, with all their titles, badges, and insignia,
done to the life, of all those brave, grand, and famous
masters of the order, by whom the deeds were enacted
which he read, and who stared out upon his eyes, at every
epoch, in full confirmation of the veracious narrative?
No wonder that the old man became heedless of external
objects. No wonder he forgot the noise of the retiring
urchins, and the toils of the day, as, for the twentieth
time, he glowed in the brave recital of the famous siege
— the baffled fury of the Turk — the unshaken constancy

and unremitted valor of the few but fearless defenders.
The blood in his cheek might be seen hastening to and
fro in accordance with the events of which he read. His
eye was glowing — his pulse beating, and he half started
from his seat, as, hearing a slight footstep, he turned to
encounter the respectful homage of his former pupil, still
his friend, our young acquaintance, William Hinkley.

The old man laid down his book upon the grass, extended
his hand to his visiter, and leaning back against the
tree, surrendered himself to a quiet chuckle in which there
was the hesitaney of a little shame.

“You surprised me, William,” he said; “when I read
old Vertot, and such books, I feel myself a boy again. You
must have seen my emotion. I really had got so warm,
that I was about to start up and look for the weapons of
war; and had you but come a moment later, you might
have suffered an assault. As it was, I took you for a
Turk — Solyman himself — and was beginning to ask myself
whether I should attack you tooth and nail, having no
other weapons, or propose terms of peace. Considering
the severe losses which you — I mean his Turkish highness
— had sustained, I fancied that you would not be disinclined
to an arrangement just at this moment. But this
very notion, at the same time, led me to the conclusion that
I might end the struggle for ever by another blow. A moment
later, my boy, and you might have been compelled to
endure it for the Turk.”

The youth smiled sadly as he replied: “I must borrow
that book from you, sir, some of these days. I have often
thought to do so, but I am afraid.”

“Afraid of what, William?”

“That it will turn my head, sir, and make me dislike
more difficult studies.”

“It is a reasonable fear, my son; but there is no danger
of this sort, if we will only take heed of one rule, and that
is, to take such books as we take sweetmeats — in very

small quantities at a time, and never to interfere with the
main repast. I suspect that light reading — or reading which
we usually call light, but which, as it concerns the fate of
man in his most serious relations, his hopes, his affections,
his heart, nay, his very people and nation — is scarcely less
important than any other. I suspect that this sort of reading
would be of great service to the student, by relieving
the solemnity of more tedious and exacting studies, if taken
sparingly and at allotted hours. The student usually finds
a recreation of some kind. I would make books of this
description his recreation. Many a thick-headed and sour
parent has forced his son into a beer-shop, into the tastes
for tobacco and consequently brandy, simply from denying
him amusements which equally warm the blood and elevate
the imagination. Studies which merely inform the head
are very apt to endanger the heart. This is the reproach
usually urged against the class of persons whom we call
thorough lawyers. Their intense devotion to that narrow
sphere of law which leaves out jury-pleading, is very apt to
endanger the existence of feeling and imagination. The
mere analysis of external principles begets a degree of
moral indifference to all things else, which really impairs
the intellect by depriving it of its highest sources of stimulus.
Mathematicians suffer in the same way — become
mere machines, and forfeit, in their concern for figures, all
the social and most of the human characteristics. The
mind is always enfeebled by any pursuit so single and absorbing
in its aims as to leave out of exercise any of the
moral faculties. That course of study is the only one to
make a truly great man, which compels the mind to do all
things of which it is capable.”

“But how do you reconcile this, sir, with the opinion,
so generally entertained, that no one man can serve
two masters? Law, like the muse, is a jealous mistress.
She is said to suffer no lachesse to escape with impunity.”

“You mistake me. While I counsel one to go out of
his profession for relief and recreation, I still counsel but
the one pursuit. Men fail in their professions, not because
they daily assign an hour to amusement, but because they
halt in a perpetual struggle between some two leading objects.
For example, nothing is more frequent in our country
than to combine law and politics. Nothing is more apt
to ruin the lawyer.”

“Very true, sir. I now understand you. But I should
think the great difficulty would be, in resorting to such
pleasant books as this of Vertot for relief and recreation,
that you could not cast him off when you please. The intoxication
would continue even after the draught has been
swallowed, and would thus interfere with the hours devoted
to other employments.”

“There is reason in that, William, and that, indeed, is
the grand difficulty. But to show that a good scheme has
its difficulties is not an argument for abandoning it.”

“By no means, sir.”

“The same individual whom Vertot might intoxicate,
would most probably be intoxicated by more dangerous
stimulants. Everything, however, depends upon the habits
of self-control which a man has acquired in his boyhood.
The habit of self-control is the only habit which makes
mental power truly effective. The man who can not compel
himself to do or to forbear, can never be much of a student.
Students, if you observe, are generally dogged men
— inflexible, plodding, persevering — among lawyers, those
men whom you always find at their offices, and seldom see
anywhere else. They own that mental habit which we call
self-control, which supplies the deficiency in numerous instances
of real talent. It is a power, and a mighty power,
particularly in this country, where children are seldom
taught it, and consequently grow up to be a sort of moral
vanes that move with every change of wind, and never fix
until they do so with their own rust. He who learns this

power in boyhood will be very sure to master all his companions.”

The darker expression of sadness passed over the countenance
of the ingenuous youth.

“I am afraid,” said he, “that I shall never acquire this
habit.”

“Why so? In your very fear I see a hope.”

“Alas! sir, I feel my own instability of character. I
feel myself the victim of a thousand plans and purposes,
which change as soon and as often as they are made. I
am afraid, sir, I shall be nothing!”

“Do not despond, my son,” said the old man sympathizingly.
“Your fear is natural to your age and temperament.
Most young men at your time of life feel numerous
yearnings — the struggle of various qualities of mind, each
striving in newly-born activity, and striving adversely.
Your unhappiness arises from the refusal of these qualities
to act together. When they learn to co-operate, all will
be easy. Your strifes will be subdued; there will be a
calm like that upon the sea when the storms subside.”

“Ah! but when will that be? A long time yet. It
seems to me that the storm rather increases than subsides.”

“It may seem so to you now, and yet, when the strife is
greatest, the favorable change is at hand. It needs but one
thing to make all the conflicting qualities of one's mind co-operate.”

“What is that one thing, sir?”

“An object! As yet, you have none.”

“None, sir!”

“None — or rather many — which is pretty much the
same thing as having none.”

“I am not sure, sir — but it seems to me, sir, that I have
an object.”

“Indeed, William! are you sure?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Well, name it.”

“I have ambition, sir.”

“Ah! that is a passion, not an object. Does your ambition
point in one direction? Unless it does, it is objectless.”

The youth was silent. The old man proceeded:—

“I am disposed to be severe with you, my son. There
is no surer sign of feebleness than in the constant beginnings
and the never performings of a mind. Know thyself,
is the first lesson to learn. Is it not very childish to talk
of having ambition, without knowing what to do with it?
If we have ambition, it is given to us to work with. You
come to me, and declare this ambition! We confer together.
Your ambition seeks for utterance. You ask, `What sort
of utterance will suit an ambition such as mine?' To answer
this question, we ask, `What are your qualities?'
Did you think, William, that I disparaged yours when I
recommended the law to you as a profession?”

“No, sir! oh, no! Perhaps you overrated them. I am
afraid so — I think so.”

“No, William, unfortunately, you do not think about it.
If you would suffer yourself to think, you would speak a
different language.”

“I can not think — I am too miserable to think!” exclaimed
the youth in a burst of passion. The old man
looked surprised. He gazed with a serious anxiety into
the youth's face, and then addressed him:—

“Where have you been, William, for the last three weeks?
In all that time I have not seen you.”

A warm blush suffused the cheeks of the pupil. He did
not immediately answer.

“Ask me!” exclaimed a voice from behind them, which
they both instantly recognised as that of Ned Hinkley, the
cousin of William. He had approached them, in the earnestness
of their interview, without having disturbed them.
The bold youth was habited in a rough woodman's dress.
He wore a round jacket of homespun, and in his hand he

carried a couple of fishing-rods, which, with certain other
implements, betrayed sufficiently the object of his present
pursuit.

“Ask me!” said he. “I can tell you what he's been
about better than anybody else.”

“Well, Ned,” said the old man, “what has it been? I am
afraid it is your fiddle that keeps him from his Blackstone.”

“My fiddle, indeed! If he would listen to my fiddle
when she speaks out, he'd be wiser and better for it. Look
at him, Mr. Calvert, and say whether it's book or fiddle
that's likely to make him as lean as a March pickerel in
the short space of three months. Only look at him, I say.”

“Truly, William, I had not observed it before, but, as Ned
says, you do look thin, and you tell me you are unhappy.
Hard study might make you thin, but can not make you unhappy.
What is it?”

The more volatile and freespoken cousin answered for him.

“He's been shot, gran'pa, since you saw him last.”

“Shot?”

“Yes, shot! — He thinks mortally. I think not. A
flesh wound to my thinking, that a few months more will
cure.”

“You have some joke at bottom, Edward,” said the old
man gravely.

“Joke, sir! It's a tough joke that cudgels a plump lad
into a lean one in a single season.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean to use your own language, gran'pa. Among
the lessons I got from you when you undertook to fill our
heads with wisdom by applications of smartness to a very
different place — among the books we sometimes read from
was one of Master Ovid.”

“Ha! ha! I see what you're after. I understand the
shooting. So you think that the blind boy has hit William,
eh?”

“A flesh wound as I tell you; but he thinks the bolt is

in his heart. I'm sure it can and will be plucked out, and
no death will follow.”

“Well! who's the maiden from whose eyes the arrow
was barbed?”

“Margaret Cooper.”

“Ah! indeed!” said the old man gravely.

“Do not heed him,” exclaimed William Hinkley; but
the blush upon his cheeks, still increasing, spoke a different
language.

“I would rather not heed him, William. The passions
of persons so young as yourself are seldom of a permanent
character. The attractions which win the boy seldom compensate
the man. There is time enough for this, ten years
hence, and love then will be far more rational.”

“Ah, lud! — wait ten years at twenty. I can believe a
great deal in the doctrine of young men's folly, but I can't
go that. I'm in love myself.”

“You!”

“Yes! I! — I'm hit too — and if you don't like it, why
did you teach us Ovid and the rest? As for rational love,
that's a new sort of thing that we never heard about before.
Love was never expected to be rational. He's known the
contrary. I've heard so ever since I was knee-high to the
great picture of your Cupid that you showed us in your
famous Dutch edition of Apuleius. The young unmarried
men feel that it's irrational; the old married people tell us
so in a grunt that proves the truth of what they say. But
that don't alter the case. It's a sort of natural madness
that makes one attack in every person's lifetime. I don't
believe in repeated attacks. Some are bit worse than
others; and some think themselves bit, and are mistaken.
That's the case with William, and it's that that keeps him
from your law-books and my fiddle. That makes him thin.
He has a notion of Margaret Cooper, and she has none of
him; and love that's all of one side is neither real nor
rational. I don't believe it.”

William Hinkley muttered something angrily in the ears
of the speaker.

“Well, well!” said the impetuous cousin, “I don't want
to make you vexed, and still less do I come here to talk
such politics with you. What do you say to tickling a trout
this afternoon? That's what I come for.”

“It's too cool,” said the old man.

“Not a bit. There's a wind from the south, and a cast
of cloud is constantly growing between us and the sun. I
think we shall do something — something better than talking
about love, and law, where nobody's agreed. You,
gran'pa, won't take the love; Bill Hinkley can't stomach
the law, and the trout alone can bring about a reconciliation.
Come, gran'pa, I'm resolved on getting your supper
to-night, and you must go and see me do it.”

“On one condition only, Ned.”

“What's that, gran'pa?”

“That you both sup with me.”

“Done for myself. What say you, Bill?”

The youth gave a sad assent, and the rattling youth proceeded:
—

“The best cure of grief is eating. Love is a sort of
pleasant grief. Many a case of affliction have I seen
mended by a beefsteak. Fish is better. Get a lover to
eat, rouse up his appetites, and, to the same extent, you
lessen his affections. Hot suppers keep down the sensibilities;
and, gran'pa, after ours, to-night, you shall have the
fiddle. If I don't make her speak to you to-night, my
name's Brag, and you need never again believe me.”

And the good-humored youth, gathering up his canes, led
the way to the hills, slowly followed by his two less elastic
companions.