Several days elapsed, and of each day my father spent a considerable part at Vivian’s lodgings. But he maintained a reserve as to his success, begged me not to question him, and to refrain also for the present from visiting my cousin. My uncle guessed or knew his brother’s mission; for I observed that whenever Austin went noiseless away, his eye brightened, and the color rose in a hectic flush to his cheek. At last my father came to me one morning, his carpet-bag in his hand, and said, “I am going away for a week or two. Keep Roland company till I return.”
“Going with him?”
“With him.”
“That is a good sign.”
“I hope so; that is all I can say now.”
The week had not quite passed when I received from my father the letter I am about to place before the reader; and you may judge how earnestly his soul must have been in the task it had volunteered, if you observe how little, comparatively speaking, the letter contains of the subtleties and pedantries (may the last word be pardoned, for it is scarcely a just one) which ordinarily left my father,—a scholar even in the midst of his emotions. He seemed here to have abandoned his books, to have put the human heart before the eyes of his pupil, and said, “Read and un-learn!”
To Pisistratus Caxton.
My Dear Son,—It were needless to tell you all the earlier
difficulties I have had to encounter with my charge, nor to repeat
all the means which, acting on your suggestion (a correct one), I
have employed to arouse feelings long dormant and confused, and
allay others long prematurely active and terribly distinct. The
evil was simply this: here was the intelligence of a man in all
that is evil, and the ignorance of an infant in all that is good.
In matters merely worldly, what wonderful acumen; in the plain
principles of right and wrong, what gross and stolid obtuseness!
At one time I am straining all my poor wit to grapple in an
encounter on the knottiest mysteries of social life; at another, I
am guiding reluctant fingers over the horn-book of the most obvious
morals. Here hieroglyphics, and there pot-hooks! But as long as
there is affection in a man, why, there is Nature to begin with!
To get rid of all the rubbish laid upon her, clear back the way to
that Nature and start afresh,—that is one’s only chance.
Well, by degrees I won my way, waiting patiently till the bosom,
pleased with the relief, disgorged itself of all “its perilous
stuff,”—not chiding, not even remonstrating, seeming almost to
sympathize, till I got him, Socratically, to disprove himself.
When I saw that he no longer feared me, that my company had become
a relief to him, I proposed an excursion, and did not tell him
whither.
Avoiding as much as possible the main north road (for I did not
wish, as you may suppose, to set fire to a train of associations
that might blow us up to the dog-star), and where that avoidance
was not possible, travelling by night, I got him into the
neighborhood of the old Tower.
I would not admit him under its roof. But you know the little inn,
three miles off, near the trout stream? We made our abode there.
Well, I have taken him into the village, preserving his incognito.
I have entered with him into cottages, and turned the talk upon
Roland. You know how your uncle is adored; you know what anecdotes
of his bold, warm-hearted youth once, and now of his kind and
charitable age, would spring up from the garrulous lips of
gratitude! I made him see with his own eyes, hear with his own
ears, how all who knew Roland loved and honored him,—except his
son. Then I took him round the ruins (still not suffering him to
enter the house); for those ruins are the key to Roland’s
character,—seeing them, one sees the pathos in his poor foible of
family pride. There, you distinguish it from the insolent boasts
of the prosperous, and feel that it is little more than the pious
reverence to the dead, “the tender culture of the tomb.” We sat
down on heaps of mouldering stone, and it was there that I
explained to him what Roland was in youth, and what he had dreamed
that a son would be to him. I showed him the graves of his
ancestors, and explained to him why they were sacred in Roland’s
eyes. I had gained a great way when he longed to enter the home
that should have been his and I could make him pause of his own
accord and say, “No, I must first be worthy of it.” Then you would
have smiled—sly satirist that you are—to have heard me impressing
upon this acute, sharp-witted youth all that we plain folk
understand by the name of Home,—its perfect trust and truth, its
simple holiness, its exquisite happiness, being to the world what
conscience is to the human mind. And after that I brought in his
sister, whom till then he had scarcely named, for whom he scarcely
seemed to care,—brought her in to aid the father and endear the
home. “And you know,” said I, “that if Roland were to die, it
would be a brother’s duty to supply his place,—to shield her
innocence, to protect her name! A good name is something, then.
Your father was not so wrong to prize it. You would like yours to
be that which your sister would be proud to own!”
While we were talking, Blanche suddenly came to the spot, and
rushed to my arms. She looked on him as a stranger, but I saw his
knees tremble. And then she was about to put her hand in his, but
I drew her back. Was I cruel? He thought so. But when I
dismissed her, I replied to his reproach: “Your sister is a part of
Home. If you think yourself worthy of either, go and claim both; I
will not object.”
“She has my mother’s eyes,” said he, and walked away. I left him
to muse amidst the ruins, while I went in to see your poor mother
and relieve her fears about Roland and make her understand why I
could not yet return home.
This brief sight of his sister has sunk deep into him. But I now
approach what seems to me the great difficulty of the whole. He is
fully anxious to redeem his name, to regain his home. So far so
well. But he cannot yet see ambition, except with hard, worldly
eyes. He still fancies that all he has to do is to get money and
power and some of those empty prizes in the Great Lottery which we
often win more easily by our sins than our virtues. [Here follows
a long passage from Seneca, omitted as superfluous.] He does not
yet even understand me—or if he does, he fancies me a mere book-
worm indeed—when I imply that he might be poor and obscure, at the
bottom of fortune’s wheel, and yet be one we should be proud of.
He supposes that to redeem his name he has only got to lacker it.
Don’t think me merely the fond father when I add my hope that I
shall use you to advantage here. I mean to talk to him to-morrow,
as we return to London, of you and of your ambition; you shall hear
the result.
At this moment (it is past midnight) I hear his step in the room
above me. The window-sash aloft opens, for the third time. Would
to Heaven he could read the true astrology of the stars! There
they are,—bright, luminous, benignant. And I seeking to chain
this wandering comet into the harmonies of heaven! Better task
than that of astrologers, and astronomers to boot! Who among them
can “loosen the band of Orion”? But who amongst us may not be
permitted by God to have sway over the action and orbit of the
human soul?
Your ever-affectionate father,
A. C.
Two days after the receipt of this letter came the following; and though I would fain suppress those references to myself which must be ascribed to a father’s partiality, yet it is so needful to retain them in connection with Vivian that I have no choice but to leave the tender flatteries to the indulgence of the kind reader.
My Dear Son,—I was not too sanguine as to the effect that your
simple story would produce upon your cousin. Without implying any
contrast to his own conduct, I described that scene in which you
threw yourself upon our sympathy, in the struggle between love and
duty, and asked for our counsel and support; when Roland gave you
his blunt advice to tell all to Trevanion; and when, amidst such
sorrow as the heart in youth seems scarcely large enough to hold,
you caught at truth impulsively, and the truth bore you safe from
the shipwreck. I recounted your silent and manly struggles, your
resolution not to suffer the egotism of passion to unfit you for
the aims and ends of that spiritual probation which we call Life.
I showed you as you were,—still thoughtful for us, interested in
our interests, smiling on us, that we might not guess that you wept
in secret! Oh, my son, my son, do not think that in those times I
did not feel and pray for you! And while he was melted by my own
emotion, I turned from your love to your ambition. I made him see
that you too had known the restlessness which belongs to young,
ardent natures; that you too had had your dreams of fortune and
aspirations for success. But I painted that ambition in its true
colors: it was not the desire of a selfish intellect to be in
yourself a somebody, a something, raised a step or two in the
social ladder, for the pleasure of looking down on those at the
foot, but the warmer yearning of a generous heart; your ambition
was to repair your father’s losses, minister to your father’s very
foible in his idle desire of fame, supply to your uncle what he had
lost in his natural heir, link your success to useful objects, your
interests to those of your kind, your reward to the proud and
grateful smiles of those you loved. That was thine ambition, O my
tender Anachronism! And when, as I closed the sketch, I said,
“Pardon me, you know not what delight a father feels when, while
sending a son away from him into the world, he can speak and think
thus of him. But this, you see, is not your kind of ambition. Let
us talk of making money, and driving a coach-and-four through this
villanous world,”—your cousin sank into a profound revery; and
when he woke from it, it was like the waking of the earth after a
night in spring,—the bare trees had put forth buds!
And, some time after, he startled me by a prayer that I would
permit him, with his father’s consent, to accompany you to
Australia. The only answer I have given him as yet has been in the
form of a question: “Ask yourself if I ought? I cannot wish
Pisistratus to be other than he is; and unless you agree with him
in all his principles and objects, ought I to incur the risk that
you should give him your knowledge of the world and inoculate him
with your ambition?” he was struck, and had the candor to attempt
no reply.
Now, Pisistratus, the doubt I expressed to him is the doubt I feel.
For, indeed, it is only by home-truths, not refining arguments,
that I can deal with this unscholastic Scythian, who, fresh from
the Steppes, comes to puzzle me in the Portico.
On the one hand, what is to become of him in the Old World? At his
age and with his energies it would be impossible to cage him with
us in the Cumberland ruins; weariness and discontent would undo all
we could do. He has no resource in books, and I fear never will
have! But to send him forth into one of the over-crowded
professions; to place him amidst all those “disparities of social
life,” on the rough stones of which he is perpetually grinding his
heart; turn him adrift amongst all the temptations to which he is
most prone,—this is a trial which, I fear, will be too sharp for a
conversion so incomplete. In the New World, no doubt, his energies
would find a safer field, and even the adventurous and desultory
habits of his childhood might there be put to healthful account.
Those complaints of the disparities of the civilized world find, I
suspect, an easier, if a bluffer, reply from the political
economist than the Stoic philosopher. “You don’t like them, you
find it hard to submit to them,” says the political economist; “but
they are the laws of a civilized state, and you can’t alter them.
Wiser men than you have tried to alter them, and never succeeded,
though they turned the earth topsy-turvy! Very well; but the world
is wide,—go into a state that is not so civilized. The
disparities of the Old World vanish amidst the New! Emigration is
the reply of Nature to the rebellious cry against Art.” Thus would
say the political economist; and, alas, even in your case, my son,
I found no reply to the reasonings! I acknowledge, then, that
Australia might open the best safety-valve to your cousin’s
discontent and desires; but I acknowledge also a counter-truth,
which is this: “It is not permitted to an honest man to corrupt
himself for the sake of others.” That is almost the only maxim of
Jean Jacques to which I can cheerfully subscribe! Do you feel
quite strong enough to resist all the influences which a
companionship of this kind may subject you to; strong enough to
bear his burden as well as your own; strong enough, also,—ay, and
alert and vigilant enough,—to prevent those influences harming the
others whom you have undertaken to guide, and whose lots are
confided to you? Pause well and consider maturely, for this must
not depend upon a generous impulse. I think that your cousin would
now pass under your charge with a sincere desire for reform; but
between sincere desire and steadfast performance there is a long
and dreary interval, even to the best of us. Were it not for
Roland, and had I one grain less confidence in you, I could not
entertain the thought of laying on your young shoulders so great a
responsibility. But every new responsibility to an earnest nature
is a new prop to virtue; and all I now ask of you is to remember
that it is a solemn and serious charge, not to be undertaken
without the most deliberate gauge and measure of the strength with
which it is to be borne.
In two days we shall be in London.
Yours, my Anachronism, anxiously and fondly,
A. C.
I was in my own room while I read this letter, and I had just finished it when, as I looked up, I saw Roland standing opposite to me. “It is from Austin,” said he; then he paused a moment, and added, in a tone that seemed quite humble, “May I see it,—and dare I?” I placed the letter in his hands, and retired a few paces, that he might not think I watched his countenance while he read it. And I was only aware that he had come to the end by a heavy, anxious, but not disappointed sigh. Then I turned, and our eyes met; and there was something in Roland’s look, inquiring and, as it were, imploring. I interpreted it at once.
“Oh, yes, uncle!” I said, smiling; “I have reflected, and I have no fear of the result. Before my father wrote, what he now suggests had become my secret wish. As for our other companions, their simple natures would defy all such sophistries as—But he is already half-cured of those. Let him come with me, and when he returns he shall be worthy of a place in your heart beside his sister Blanche. I feel, I promise it; do not fear for me! Such a charge will be a talisman to myself. I will shun every error that I might otherwise commit, so that he may have no example to entice him to err.”
I know that in youth, and the superstition of first love, we are credulously inclined to believe that love and the possession of the beloved are the only happiness. But when my uncle folded me in his arms and called me the hope of his age and stay of his house,—the music of my father’s praise still ringing on my heart,—I do affirm that I knew a prouder bliss than if Trevanion had placed Fanny’s hand in mine and said, “She is yours.”
And now the die was cast, the decision made. It was with no regret that I wrote to Trevanion to decline his offers. Nor was the sacrifice so great—even putting aside the natural pride which had before inclined to it—as it may seem to some; for restless though I was, I had labored to constrain myself to other views of life than those which close the vistas of ambition with images of the terrestrial deities, Power and Rank. Had I not been behind the scenes, noted all of joy and of peace that the pursuit of power had cost Trevanion, and seen how little of happiness rank gave even to one of the polished habits and graceful attributes of Lord Castleton? Yet each nature seemed fitted so well,—the first for power, the last for rank! It is marvellous with what liberality Providence atones for the partial dispensations of Fortune. Independence, or the vigorous pursuit of it; affection, with its hopes and its rewards; a life only rendered by Art more susceptible to Nature, in which the physical enjoyments are pure and healthful, in which the moral faculties expand harmoniously with the intellectual, and the heart is at peace with the mind,—is this a mean lot for ambition to desire, and is it so far out of human reach? “Know thyself,” said the old philosophy. “Improve thyself,” saith the new. The great object of the Sojourner in Time is not to waste all his passions and gifts on the things external that he must leave behind,—that which he cultivates within is all that he can carry into the Eternal Progress. We are here but as schoolboys, whose life begins where school ends; and the battles we fought with our rivals, and the toys that we shared with our playmates, and the names that we carved, high or low, on the wall above our desks,—will they so much bestead us hereafter? As new fates crowd upon us, can they more than pass through the memory with a smile or a sigh? Look back to thy schooldays and answer.
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