Ernest Linwood; or, The Inner Life of the Author. Caroline Lee Hentz
Louis the Sixteenth one of the most amiable, just, Christian monarchs the world ever saw. Yet the accumulated wrongs under which the nation had been groaning during the reign of his predecessors, were to be avenged in his person—innocent, heroic sufferer that he was. This is a most interesting historic fact, and bears out wonderfully the truth of God's words. But I did not mean to give a lecture on history. It is out of place here. I meant to do you good yesterday, and discourage you from becoming an idle rhymer—a vain dreamer. You are not getting angry I hope, little girl, for I am kind now."
"No, sir—no, indeed, sir," I answered, with my face all in a glow.
"Your mother, I am told, wishes you to be educated for a teacher, a profession which requires as much training as the Spartan youth endured, when fitted to be the warriors of the land. Why, you should be preparing yourself a coat of mail, instead of embroidering a silken suit. How do you expect to get through the world, child—and it is a hard world to the poor, a cold world to the friendless—how do you expect to get along through the briars and thorns, over the rocks and the hills with nothing but a blush on your cheek, a tear in your eye, and a sentimental song on your lips? Independence is the reward of the working mind, the thinking brain, and the earnest heart."
He grew really eloquent as he went on. He raised his head to an erect position, and ran his fingers through his bushy locks. I cannot remember all he said, but every word he uttered had meaning in it. I appreciated for the first time the difficulties and trials of a teacher's vocation. I had thought before, that it was the pupil only who bore the burden of endurance. It had never entered my mind that the crown of authority covered the thorns of care, that the wide sweep of command wearied more than the restraint of subjection. I was flattered by the manner in which he addressed me, the interest he expressed in my future prospects. I found myself talking freely to him of myself, of my hopes and my fears. I forgot the tyrant of yesterday in the friend of to-day. I remember one thing he said, which is worth recording.
"It is very unfortunate when a child, in consequence of a facility of making rhyme, is led to believe herself a poetess—or, in other words, a prodigy. She is praised and flattered by injudicious friends, till she becomes inflated by vanity and exalted by pride. She wanders idly, without aim or goal, in the flowery paths of poesy, forgetful of the great highway of knowledge, not made alone for the chariot wheels of kings, but the feet of the humblest wayfarer."
When he began to address me, he remembered that I was a child, but before he finished the sentence he forgot my age, and his thoughts and language swelled and rose to the comprehension of manhood. But I understood him. Perhaps there was something in my fixed and fascinated glance that made him conscious of my full appreciation.
"I have no friends to praise and flatter me," I simply answered. "I have loved to sing in rhyme as the little birds sing, because God gave me the power."
He looked pleased. He even laid his hand on my head and smiled. Not the cold smile of yesterday, but quite a genial smile. I could hardly believe it the same face, it softened and transformed it so. I involuntarily drew nearer to him, drawn by that powerful magnetism, which every human heart feels more or less.
The great brazen tongue of the town clock rang discordantly on the sweet stillness of the morning hour. The master rose and motioned me to follow him.
"Richard Clyde is forgiven. Tell him so. Let the past be forgotten, or remembered only to make us wiser and better."
We entered the academy together, to the astonishment of the pupils, who were gathered in little clusters, probably discussing the events of yesterday.
Richard Clyde was not there, but he came the next day, and the scene in which we were both such conspicuous actors was soon forgotten. It had, however, an abiding influence on me. A new motive for exertion was born within me—affection for my master—and the consequence was, ambition to excel, that I might be rewarded by his approbation.
Bid he ever again treat me with harshness and severity? No—never. I have often wondered why he manifested such unusual and wanton disregard of my feelings then, that one, only time. It is no matter now. It is a single blot on a fair page.
Man is a strangely inconsistent being. His soul is the battle ground of the warring angels of good and evil. As one or the other triumphs, he exhibits the passions of a demon or the attributes of a God.
Could we see this hidden war field, would it not be grand? What were the plains of Marathon, the pass of Thermopylæ, or Cannæ paved with golden rings, compared to it?
Let us for a moment imagine the scene. Not the moment of struggle, but the pause that succeeds. The angels of good have triumphed, and though the plumage of their wings may droop, they are white and dazzling so as no "fuller of earth could whiten them." The moonlight of peace rests upon the battle field, where evil passions lie wounded and trampled under feet. Strains of victorious music float in the air; but it comes from those who have triumphed in the conflict and entered into rest, those who behold the conflict from afar. It is so still, that one can almost hear the trees of Paradise rustle in the ambrosial gales of heaven.
Is this poetry? Is it sacrilege? If so, forgive me, thou great Inspirer of thought—"my spirit would fain not wander from thee."
CHAPTER VI.
The life of a school-girl presents but few salient points to arrest the interest. It is true, every day had its history, and every rising and setting sun found something added to the volume of my life. But there seems so little to describe! I could go on for ever, giving utterance to thoughts that used to crowd in my young brain, thoughts that would startle as well as amuse—but I fear they might become monotonous to the reader.
I had become a hard student. My mother wished me to fit myself for a teacher. It was enough.
It was not, however, without many struggles. I had acquired this submission to her wishes. Must I forever be a slave to hours? Must I weave for others the chain whose daily restraint chafed and galled my free, impatient spirit? Must I bear the awful burden of authority, that unlovely appendage to youth? Must I voluntarily assume duties to which the task of the criminal that tramps, tramps day after day the revolving tread-mill, seems light; for that is mere physical labor and monotony, not the wear and tear of mind, heart, and soul?
"What else can you do, my child?" asked my mother.
"I could sew."
My mother smiled and shook her head.
"Your skill does not lie in handicraft," she said, "that would never do."
"I could toil as a servant. I would far rather do it."
I had worked myself up to a belief in my own sincerity when I said this, but had any tongue but mine suggested the idea, how would my aspiring blood have burned with indignation.
"It is the most honorable path to independence a friendless young girl can choose—almost the only one," said my mother, suppressing a deep sigh.
"Oh, mother! I am not friendless. How can I be, with you and Peggy?"
"But we are not immortal, my child. Every day loosens my frail hold of earthly things, and even Peggy's strong arm will in time grow weak. Your young strength will then be her stay and support."
"Oh, mother! as if I could live when you are taken from me! What do I live for, but you? What have I on earth but thee? Other children have father and mother, and brothers and sisters, and friends. If one is taken from them, they have others left to love and care for them, but I have nobody in the wide world but you. I could not, would not live without you."
I spoke with passionate earnestness. Life without my mother! The very thought was death! I looked in her pale, beautiful face. It was more than pale—it was wan—it was sickly. There was a purplish shadow under her soft, dark eyes, which I had not observed before, and her figure looked thin and drooping. I gazed into the sad, loving depths of her