 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
THE STUDENT.
Some eight or ten days after this conversation, Richard
Claverel, dressed as beseemed a gentleman student, was on his
way to the seminary in which he was to be fitted for college.
On one arm he carried a satchel of books, and across his saddle
was a pair of well filled bags, in which his mother had put as
many new fine shirts and carefully darned stockings as he would
be likely to need during the term, though it was proposed that
he should come home on a visit in a month, as Elmwood, the
place of his destination, was but ten miles away. He seemed
little to favor this proposal, it is true; and when his mother
tearfully entreated that he would not fail to come, he said he
would if he couldn't stay away; that he was not certain he
should come home at all; at least, not till he had finished the
preliminary course, but that she and the old man could come up
to Elmwood and see him, commencement times. When, however,
he was fairly off, his heart misgave him; he looked back
and saw his father leaning over the gate, watching him, and remembered
his last words, “Only the fool hates the school;”
he saw his mother standing under the low porch, just as he had
left her; his young sisters, Martha and Jane, were shouting, as
they played at “hide and seek”—it mattered little to them that
Dick was leaving home—he had never helped them build a
play-house, but always killed their pet kittens, and called themselves
little simpletons, because they preferred dish-washing to
grammar—so, on the whole, they were rather glad to be rid of
him.
Slowly wending down the lane, with axes over their shoulders,
and without once regretting his absence, were David and
scarce a cause for tears that he was gone. Looking back, he
saw all this, and half wished he had staid at home, and borne
his part manfully and cheerfully; very glad would he have
been of any plausible pretext for returning; but there was none
—he had shaped his course with his own hands, and the fixed
fact closed about him, and left him no chance of escape. Though
twenty-three, he had never been from home at all, save for a
day or two, with his mother, to visit relations, and a desolate,
home-sick feeling came over him, as the road struck into a
dense thick beech wood, flat and low, quite shutting the red
brick homestead from his view. He reined in his horse, dismounted,
and, sitting down on a mossy log, mused long, sometimes
so earnestly and coherently, that it might be said, he
thought.
“The little girls are playing; I suppose they are glad I am
gone; and David and Oliver have by this time felled a tree; I
wonder what one—perhaps the hollow sycamore that grew by
the spring—perhaps the hickory with the shelving bark, where
I caught the squirrel for which Jane cried, and I would not give
it her—or the beech, that grew in the cornfield—likeliest they
have felled that for back-logs; let me see, they are just three
feet and a half in length. And father, what is he doing? (he
didn't think of him as the old man,) reading the Bible, I guess,
to mother, who is making bread in the shade of the apple-tree.
Dear good woman! I wish I had told her I would come in a
month! I wish, when she asked me what I was reading, I had
said Don Quixote, and not showed her the windmill.”
A sudden fancy struck him; perhaps some book, or some
article of clothing, quite necessary, had been forgotten. He
overhauled his luggage eagerly, as one looks for a newly-missed
treasure, but all in vain; nothing had been forgotten; so with
reluctance, and as one cast out of the home where all his hopes
and affections centred, he re-arranged his effects, feeling that
they were poor and scanty; and then, taking from his pocket a
small purse, he emptied its contents, a few coins, into his hand,
counted them over, and replaced them, with a sigh. “This is a
dark, thick wood,” he said, “I might remain here forever—
home they don't care for me.” He paused a moment, and
added, “well, why should they? I never did anything to make
them love me. I have been an idler and a burden from the
first; but it was my fortune; I could not help it; if I could, I
would have done better; it is a mere lie that we make circumstances;
circumstances make us. It is no merit of mine that I
am not a thief or a murderer; if I had the training and the
temptation which others have had that are so, I might have
been no better. How do I know what I should have been
under different circumstances? If I had been bound to a hard
master, as my father was, and made to drive oxen, and burn
logs, and dig ditches, all day, without ever reading a book, or
seeing any persons of sense or refinement, I might have married
Dolly Tompkins—did as he did—likely I should. And if I
had, would I have done any worse than I am doing? No! a
great deal better. I can see readily enough how others might
have done, and for myself I am always going to do something,
but the time never comes when I begin. I have professed to
begin now, why do I not? There will never be a better time:
weakness and indecision, we must part.” He arose, after this
contradictory and crooked soliloquy, as one determined to make
his actions meet his convictions of duty, mounted his little bay,
and rode briskly forward.
I have often thought since, if he had been blest with the counsel
and encouragement of some kind and clear-sighted friend,
who, seeing through the frailties and foibles of his character,
could have discerned the higher and better qualities beneath, his
natural wilfulness and waywardness might have been checked,
and his weakness built into strength. I was too young to know
it then, had too little appreciation, too little forbearance, too
false and foolish an estimate of myself, and it is too late now.
Often when I think of him—for I knew him well, and in the
elm shadows that sweep against the house where I was born we
have sat on many a summer afternoon when we were children:
that is a long time ago, for my feet have pressed the summit
whenceforward the way is down—down, where in darkness
moans ever and ever the river of Death; when I think of him,
believe he was really ill-starred.
Under the sorrow and the struggle, the weakness and the rubbish
of years, I go down daily where the airs are gentlest, the
fountains brightest, and the birds are singing most sweetly, and
laying back the shroud-folds, souls long entered on new spheres
reanimate again pale dust, and my dearest playmates come
back to me, crowned with beautiful innocence, just as they went
away. It is here I like best to meet with Richard, with his
golden curls blowing against my face, to turn over the picture
books—Cock Robin, and another one, the name of which I forget,
but larger and of a more serious character, telling about
Saul, and Samuel, and David, and Goliath, and how
By the directest road,
When the Philistines homeward sent
The ark of Israel's God.”
Our library was not very large, but to us it was “ever charming,
ever new,” and we didn't know that any other children had
more than we, and so were satisfied.
But let me not linger: as the waves close over the drowning
man, and the stream ripples on in the sunshine as before, time
closes, to-day, over the places we occupied yesterday. Even
in the home circle, after a short absence—we come back and
find it narrowed, or another in our place, and no room for us
any more.
The harvest was done, and the cattle were turned into the
newly-shaven meadows—how they ran hither and thither, crowding
from the tufts of fresh white clover their weaker fellows
and, though full to repletion, feeding still. The corn was not
yet ripe, and for man and beast there was a holyday. Mr.
Claverel was come home from town, and sat in the porch, reading
the newspaper. He was tired, but good-humored; tired,
because he had ridden the black mare instead of driving her in
the carriage: she was as good a creature, he said, as there was
in the world, if she only had Tom on the near side to draw the
load; so, in consideration of her “balky” propensities, he
position. He was good-humored because everything had gone
on smoothly since the departure of Richard. Martha and Jane
stood at the kitchen table, busy with the contents of the market
basket; there were great brown paper packages of sugar and
coffee; one smaller one in a thin, white paper, probably tea,
from the exclamation, “Oh, isn't it good!” made as they inhaled
its fragrance; then there were numberless little square
packages in blue papers, labelled, “Fine Ground Ginger,”
“Best Allspice,” &c. These they seized eagerly, and demanded
guesses, each of the other, as to what they held; and whether a
guess were right or wrong the laugh that followed was equally
hearty.
David and Oliver were cutting wood, at the door, merely for
pastime, for they had been chopping sturdily all day in the
forest, and this was but playing with time until tea should be
ready, to which, owing to health and exercise, they were always
prepared to do honor; while Mrs. Claverel, that ever-busy
housewife, was at her evening cares. The snowy cloth was
already spread, garnished with sundry temptations—golden butter,
and delicious bread, and ripe blackberries, and the pitcher
of cream, like floating silver mixed with liquid gold. No place
was arranged for Richard, and Martha and Jane had been promoted
to the occupancy of his deserted chamber, and all the
articles he left at home had been carefully packed away by the
provident and loving hands of her whose mantle of charity was
wide enough to cover all the faults of her child.
There was a growl from the sleepy watch-dog as the gate
creaked on its hinges, followed by a rushing forth and a defiant
barking; suddenly he paused, and, crouching in the pathway,
began to whine his welcome; the girls left their basket, and ran
to the door; David and Oliver put down their axes; and Mr.
Claverel, taking off his spectacles, wiped his bright blue eyes,
and looked around the corner of the porch.
“Oh! dear, he's done great things,” exclaimed both the girls
at once.
“He has finished his education, I expect,” said Oliver, and
the two boys resumed their chopping.
“Dolly,” called Mr. Claverel, looking toward the kitchen,
“Mercy on us, Dolly, Richard has come home.”
“Is it possible?” said Mrs. Claverel; “poor boy, he must
be sick; why, it is only two weeks since he went away.” But
whether sick or well, Richard was sure of a welcome from her.
Martha and Jane eyed him curiously, affecting the laughter
with which they seemed to be convulsed, as though in fact he
had made himself so ludicrous that laughter was unavoidable.
Mr. Claverel resumed his paper with an uneasy gesture and a
frowning brow, as though the arrival were unexpected and unwelcome.
Mrs. Claverel alone went forth, half hesitatingly,
half cordially, to meet him. As if he did not see her, he dropped
his eyes to the ground and led his Bucephalus (he had
learned to pronounce the name) back to the stables, with
his father and sisters on one side, and his brothers on the other,
but without noticing them, or receiving any notice. Supper
was delayed some time for his coming, but he did not present
himself, and Martha was sent forth to bid him come—presently
returning with the intelligence that she could not find him;
upon which, Mr. Claverel drew up his chair to the table, saying,
“Come boys, come girls,” in a tone that indicated little
concern about Richard, and Mrs. Claverel was reluctantly
forced to pour the tea.
The supper, though unusually good, was not relished well by
anybody, and was partaken of in silence. When it was finished,
and Mr. Claverel had taken a kettle of warmed milk to feed the
weaning calves, and gone out of the house, Mrs. Claverel put
the teapot close to the fire, and sent Jane and Martha together,
with an earnest injunction to look carefully all about, and see
if they could not find Richard, and tell him to come in at once,
while his father was gone out. On a heap of straw that lay on
the barn floor they found him stretched at length; but he refused
to go in, saying he was sick; and it was not until after
nightfall, and when he was assured that the family were retired
to rest, that his mother herself could persuade him to do so.
He was ashamed and mortified at his conduct, and as usual
sought to palliate it in some measure with the old story: he
had had bad luck! The teachers were all blockheads, and
and cook for himself; he didn't think his bed had ever seen
clean sheets, and the pillow was so small that it actually made
his head ache to sleep on it—so much so, that he was utterly
incapable of study; besides, the students were a set of fools
that thought they knew every thing, whereas they scarcely
knew beans. In view of all this, and much more not worth repeating,
he had resolved to prosecute his studies at home; he
didn't see why he could not learn just as well there as anywhere,
and his mother didn't see either; so it was resolved that
his room should be fitted up as a study, and that, without going
from home, he should devote himself entirely to books. Martha
and Jane, delighted as they were with their new quarters,
having the secret promise of new dolls, were induced to give
him peaceable possession; Mrs. Claverel mediating as she best
could between the unstable, home-sick baby and his indignant
father and brothers.
“You know, Sammy,” she said, “Richard has always been
used to a good home and a kind father, who made the most
bountiful provision for him.” Mrs. Claverel had tact. Mr.
Claverel was a little flattered. He had, he said, “tried to
provide for his own household.”
“Yes, and you have provided—nobody can say to the contrary
of that,” was the timely reply; “and I guess Richard has
found it out now, and will hereafter better appreciate his
blessings.”
Mr. Claverel said he hoped so. This was quite encouraging;
and, secure of a little vantage-ground—but in justice to her, I
must say, with no intention of deceiving, but only desirous of
making all smooth—she went on to say, “I expect it would be
a little hard for any of us to go from home, among strangers,
where everything was new and different from what we had
been used to, and stay contentedly. I am sure I should not
want to live as Richard said he had to—poor boy!”
So, by dint of Mrs. Claverel's management, and Richard's
pretty sedulous application for a few days, the new arrangement
went forward, as a matter of course, with only the occasional
jar of Mr. Claverel calling Richard “the sick student;”
them, with, “Eh, you got home sick, and had to come back to
mother!”
At the end of two weeks, however, he began to grow weary,
and to think his room a very small and lonesome place. That
was not the way to learn, he thought, with no teacher, and no
one to encourage him. He wanted some sympathy, and his
mother's bread and butter, excellent as they were, began to be
taken as matters of course. He ceased to try to make himself
agreeable to persons he considered so much beneath him;
he became moody, and silent, and selfish. To see people about
him happy and contented, only aggravated his restless and
wretched state of mind. Hour after hour he sat alone in his
chamber with a closed volume in his hand, and gazing on the
vacant walls or floor. He wished to be a gentleman, without
knowing how—to be a great man, without energy to employ
the means by which greatness is attained. Sometimes he
fancied there was no niche in creation suited to him, that effort
was useless; and sometimes he indulged in vague dreams of
uncertain advantages; some unforeseen and wonderful event
would suddenly lift him into a great position. He never
walked without keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the ground,
lest he should miss the treasure that he expected; every rap
startled him; he thought perhaps they were come to place a
crown on his brows! Alas, they never did.
One afternoon, taking a book under his arm, he drew his hat
over his eyes and went out without any definite purpose, and
after wandering listlessly from place to place for a while, he
stretched himself on the grass, in the shadow of an elm that
grew by the road-side, and watched the passers by—now a
pedlar bending under a huge pack, and now a teamster whistling
by the side of his heavily-laden wagon.
“How are you, Mr. Claverel!” said a good humored, merry
voice; and looking up, Richard saw before him the rosy face of
the village doctor, to whom, raising his head on his hand, but
without rising, he made some sort of despondent reply.
“If you had,” said the medical man, “one half of my duties
to attend to, you would have no time for sighing; at least over
to witness in the course of my professional duty—sickness,
sorrow, pain, death—death, pain, sickness, sorrow!”
“To die,” said Richard, “is the best thing belonging to life:
I think I should like your profession.”
“Get in,” said Dr. Hilton, making room beside himself in
the nice little buggy he drove, “I will take you to-day on trial.
I have a round that I think will be interesting to you. In the
first place, I go to see a boy who has a broken leg, which will
probably have to be amputated; then to see a young man who
is becoming perfectly unmanageable—why, sir, he yesterday
attempted the life of his little sister, Drusilla, and I have no
doubt he will have to be sent to the insane asylum to-day. Let
me see: my next visit is to the widow Paxton—she that was
burnt out in the spring, at which time she so exerted herself, to
save some part of her furniture, as to produce effects from
which she will never recover—six helpless orphans to leave to
the mercy of the world, sir! Come, get in, get in.”
And rising to his feet, and drawing down his vest, and up
his collar, Richard did get in; but looking wistfully at the
sharp, red gables of the farm-house, which being seen by Dr.
Hilton, he slapped him over the shoulder, and said, “Ah, that
will not do, Dr. Claverel,” and, laughing, they drove away
together.
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |