University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
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 circumference, 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-grasses, 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'æil,

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 glass, 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
masses 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
circumscribed to the circumference 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 circumstances; 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 nobleness.
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 noble discontent leading to nobleness. 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
nobody 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 constitutes
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 nobody 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 gratitude 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, constitutes 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 passion
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 passion. 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,
passing 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 illustrate 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 compass
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 seashore, 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 classical 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 noble 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
illustration. 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 repetition 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
pass, 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 competitors were notoriously persons far inferior
to me in knowledge of the topics; far inferior in the capacity
to analyze them; rude and coarse 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 anticipated 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!”

“I will not, sir — I never thought to do so.”

“But,” said the old man, “to resume. Why did I fail
is still the question. Because I had not been taught those
lessons of steady endurance in my youth which would
have strengthened me against failure, and enable me finally
to triumph. There is a rich significance in what we hear

of the Spartan boy, who never betrayed his uneasiness or
agony though the fox was tearing out his bowels. There
is a sort of moral roughening which boys should be made
to endure from the beginning, if the hope is ever entertained,
to mature their minds to intellectual manhood. Our
American Indians prescribe the same laws, and in their
practice, very much resemble the ancient Spartans. To
bear fatigue, and starvation, and injury — exposure, wet,
privation, blows — but never to complain. Nothing betrays
so decidedly the lack of moral courage as the voice of
complaint. It is properly the language of woman. It
must not be your language. Do you understand me, William?”

“In part, sir, but I do not see how I could have helped
being what I am.”

“Perhaps not, because few have control of their own
education. Your parents have been too tender of you.
They have not lessoned you in that proper hardihood which
leads to performance. That task is before yourself, and
you have shrunk from the first lessons.”

“How, sir?”

“Instead of clinging to your Blackstone, you have allowed
yourself to be seduced from its pages, by such attractions
as usually delude boys. The eye and lip of a pretty
woman — a bright eye and a rosy cheek, have diverted you
from your duties.”

“But do our duties deny us the indulgence of proper
sensibilities?”

“Certainly not — proper sensibilities, on the contrary,
prescribe our duties.”

“But love, sir — is not love a proper sensibility?”

“In its place, it is. But you are a boy only. Do you
suppose that it was ever intended that you should entertain
this passion before you had learned the art of providing
your own food? Not so; and the proof of this is to
be found in the fact that the loves of boyhood are never of

a permanent character. No such passion can promote happiness
if it is indulged before the character of the parties
is formed. I now tell you that in five years from this time
you will probably forget Miss Cooper.”

“Never! never!”

“Well, well — I go farther in my prophecy. Allow me
to suppose you successful in your suit, which I fancy can
never be the case—”

“Why, sir, why?”

“Because she is not the girl for you; or rather, she does
not think you the man for her!”

“But why do you think so, sir?”

“Because I know you both. There are circumstances
of discrepancy between you which will prevent it, and even
were you to be successful in your suit, which I am very sure
will never be the case, you would be the most miserably-matched
couple under the sun.”

“Oh, sir, do not say so — do not. I can not think so,
sir.”

“You will not think so, I am certain. I am equally certain
from what I know of you both, that you are secure from
any such danger. It is not my object to pursue this reference,
but let me ask you, William, looking at things in the
most favorable light, has Margaret Cooper ever given you
any encouragement?”

“I can not say that she has, sir, but—”

“Nay, has she not positively discouraged you? Does
she not avoid you — treat you coldly when you meet — say
little, and that little of a kind to denote — I will not say
dislike — but pride, rather than love?”

The young man said nothing. The old one proceeded: —

“You are silent, and I am answered. I have long
watched your intercourse with this damsel, and loving you
as my own son, I have watched it with pain. She is not
for you, William. She loves you not. I am sure of it. I
can not mistake the signs. She seeks other qualities than

such as you possess. She seeks meretricious qualities, and
yours are substantial. She seeks the pomps of mind, rather
than its subdued performances. She sees not, and can not
see, your worth; and whenever you propose to her, your
suit will be rejected. You have not done so yet?”

“No, sir — but I had hoped—”

“I am no enemy, believe me, William, when I implore
you to discard your hope in that quarter. It will do you
no hurt. Your heart will suffer no detriment, but be as
whole and vigorous a few years hence — perhaps months —
as if it had never suffered any disappointment.”

“I wish I could think so, sir.”

“And you would not wish that you could think so, if you
were not already persuaded that your first wish is hopeless.”

“But I am not hopeless, sir.”

“Your cause is. But, promise me that you will not
press your suit at present.”

The young man was silent.

“You hesitate.”

“I dare not promise.”

“Ah, you are a foolish boy. Do you not see the rock
on which you are about to split. You have never learned
how to submit. This lesson of submission was that which
made the Spartan boy famous. Here, you persist in your
purpose, though your own secret convictions, as well as
your friend's counsel, tell you that you strive against hope.
You could not patiently submit to the counsel of this stranger,
though he came directly from your parents, armed with
authority to examine and to counsel.”

“Submit to him! I would sooner perish!” exclaimed
the indignant youth.

“You will perish unless you learn this one lesson. But
where now is your ambition, and what does it aim at?”

The youth was silent.

“The idea of an ambitious youth, at twenty, giving up

book and candle, leaving his studies, and abandoning himself
to despair, because his sweetheart won't be his sweetheart
any longer, gives us a very queer idea of the sort of
ambition which works in his breast.”

“Don't, sir, don't, I pray you, speak any more in this
manner.”

“Nay, but, William, ask yourself. Is it not a queer
idea?”

“Spare me, sir, if you love me.”

“I do love you, and to show you that I do, I now recommend
to you to propose to Margaret Cooper.”

“What, sir, you do not think it utterly hopeless then?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you would have me expose myself to rejection?”

“Exactly so!”

“Really, sir, I do not understand you.”

“Well, I will explain. Nothing short of rejection will
possibly cure you of this malady; and it is of the last importance
to your future career, that you should be freed
as soon as possible from this sickly condition of thought
and feeling — a condition in which your mind will do nothing,
and in which your best days will be wasted. Blackstone
can only hope to be taken up when you have done
with her.”

“Stay, sir — that is she below.”

“Who?”

“Margaret—”

“Who is with her?”

“The stranger — this man, Stevens.”

“Ha! your counsellor, that would be? Ah! William,
you did not tell me all.”