Charlemont; Or, The Pride of the Village Part 15

"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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion 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 circ.u.mstances 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 peris.h.!.+" 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----"