A prodigious fool

Chapter I

“ Up I sprung — and upright stood on my feet.

About me round I saw hill, dale, and shady woods,

And sunny plains and liquid lapse of murmuring streams. By these, creatures that lived and moved and walked or flew,

Birds on the branches warbling ; — all things smiled.’ ’

Milton's Paradise Lost.

Summer reigned at Slopingdale. May and June had come and gone, leaving their perfumed breath in the air, and now July was here with its oppressive heat. From the verdure-clad hills behind the old town, which promised a plentiful harvest, to the hovering trains on the horizon, which seemed to be waiting to carry that harvest to market, there was a general summer glow. The customary haze which was wont to obscure the view as it bore its freight of chills and fever on foggy wings had, for the time being, disappeared from the river. A slight breeze stirred aimlessly among the branches of the young water-willows along the shore, and 1 * 5

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rippled the surface of the shallow river into an aqueous goose-flesh under the fervent heat of the blazing sun. Up and down the glistening river, and far across the noble farms of the bordering country, the view spread out unobscured and unobstructed, presenting to the beholder as fair a scene as rests beneath the sky. From the narrow strip of shoreland, along the tree-tops, across the fenced fields to the near mountains, spread a vision of green, gradually shaded up from the light peagreen of the grass growing on the gravel bar to the deeper tints of the willows and clover-fields, to the still deeper shades of the mountain woods in the distance. Right within the path of this verdant vision, and harmonizing perfectly with the prevailing tint of the landscape, stood a couple of lone fishermen just fresh from a joint and several experience of fisherman’s luck.

Here on the banks of the brawling Susquehanna, on a spot of earth as fresh and fragrant as a flower, a little village of perhaps a hundred houses nestles on the sloping shore, while behind stretches a background of farming country in a pleasant vista of smiling fields and happy homes extending far across the hills, and still beyond all this, and fairly circling the horizon, rise the mountains, shaded from the nearest green to the distant blue, surrounding country, town, and river, and closing in the scene. Over this fair spot the unclouded sky

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spans as blue as over storied Venice; — the trees rustle, the river ripples, the birds sing, — and behold ! this is Slopingdale.

From this great hill behind the village one can look over the whole landscape, — can see the old town and the grass-grown river in its slow course, the grain-fields and watered meadows stretching far away to the feet of the mountains. Standing on this height, viewing the delightful prospect, one involuntarily exclaims, “ How like a perfect picture from the hand of God !”

Everything is still up here, — quiet as the graves whose white tombstones glitter in the sun down there among the tall pines in the village cemetery. Everything is peaceful, restful, sleepy; the sailboats move slowly through the water, the cars move slowly on the horizon, the people saunter "slowly through the streets. These are the only visible signs of life, except a few cows in the meadows, a few birds in the sky, a few wagons creeping along the dusty road which winds now into and now out of view far away in the west, and except a motionless boy lying full length under the great oak on this greenest hill.

One likes the picture of that boy. There is a charm about him that arrests attention. His presence brightens the scene wonderfully. The whole world seems to hem him round and frame him in as though it loved him.

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He seems to be a slender lad of weakly frame and modest manner as he lies there with great blue eyes looking out from under a broad, pale brow upon the beautiful country, — a slender boy with brown hair and smooth face; looking closer, with aquiline features, small hands and feet, and, possibly, mental nervous temperament; a slender boy of seventeen, dressed in ill-fitting but clean clothes, wearing a ten-cent straw hat, and possessing the tastes and sensibility of a woman; a slender boy, having the hand of a girl, the mind of a man, and the heart of a child !

Just such a boy like this must have been the philosopher and poet John Milton.

On reflection the resemblance could not possibly have extended farther than mere external appearance, for this boy’s name is William Smith. Whoever heard of the world honoring with distinction anybody with such a name ?

William Smith, clerk in the store of Gorham & Son, Market Square, Slopingdale, had gone on an errand to the country for the purpose, as directed by his employers, of “ drumming up fresh eggs and butter,” and, having completed his mission, was returning home, when the cool shade of the monster oak there on the hill-side enticed him to stop and rest. Perhaps the occupation of the day had not been pleasant, perhaps butter and eggs had “riz” or were “scerce,” perhaps the search

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for these valuable commodities had palled on the spirit as a thing far too small for the zeal of a human soul. Howbeit, the boy was out of humor and sighed deeply as he threw himself on the gra'ss and looked around upon the familiar country. After a long look, in which, I fear, he saw little beauty in the scenery, he untied his necktie, unbuttoned his shirt-collar, and proceeded to read a book which he drew from his shirt-bosom.

In a couple of minutes he was oblivious of the world.

Time sped on, the shadows of the tree lengthened on the hill and crept through the fence into the farther field. The sun searched out and beat upon his face; still he read on. At length he finished and closed the book, placing it again in his bosom, and rose upon his elbow with a bright look beaming in his eyes.

He had read the New Testament History of Christ, finishing with the temptations in the wilderness, where the Saviour deliberately determines not to use His supernatural power to accomplish His work in the world, but, on the contrary, to found His great empire on the love of mankind, by devoting His terribly pure life to doing them good, — an act which seemed to the reader, just then, more than aught else to endear the name of Jesus to sinning man.

Those temptations had long been mysterious

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tilings to the boy, as well as to many other and older good people, but he believed he understood them now, — understood them as temptations that came not alone to the Master, but that come some time to every aspiring human mind, — temptations to sin in various ways, always hard to resist, but to be overcome as the Master overcame them, — by trust in God and doing our duty towards our fellow-men.

The lesson was needful just at the time. How often had he fretted his soul against the narrow barriers of his life, like a bird against its cage, in the vain effort to escape from the confined condition in which Providence or a hard fate had placed him ! Had he not to-day even coolly entertained the thought that it might after all, perhaps, be a good thing to leap down that chasm in the hills among those sharp-pointed rocks and so disappear from the living ? And why should he live? Was not his life one wild throbbing tumult of desire never to be gratified or satisfied? Was it not one vast maelstrom of seething ambition never to be quelled or stilled ? Was it not a constant battle with self, making existence a misery and death a relief?

No, the boy was not crazy. He was only thoughtful, sensitive, ambitious, — the kind of soul always and everywhere doomed to the most restless discontent and the keenest unhappiness. To

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have been born an idiot would have been better in one sense, for it would have brought unalloyed contentment. The boy having been gifted with finer qualities and endowments, and feeling sensible of their possession, though at the same time not knowing how to use or enjoy them, he became miserable.

The thought that the Master had felt as he did and had conquered the feeling stilled the unrest within him, and calmed him, for the moment, to a sense of thankfulness for life ; he would conquer, too, by God’s help !

The evening deepened, and he stood up in the gathering twilight. There was trust, confidence, hope, in his face as he leaned against the tree and spoke aloud, —

“ What a beautiful world ! And I am alive in it, — alive and created to enjoy it. Why, I ought to be happy and not miserable. These feelings that stir up my soul and make me unhappy are not from God but from the devil. They are temptations, and must be conquered and overcome. I will conquer them. How often I have rebelled against Heaven, and thought it cruel that I was ever sent into this world, unasked and by force, to pass a narrow life in this solitary spot! How often I have longed to go out into the great world lying beyond these circling mountains, where action, conflict, joy, are to be found ! My tempta-

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tion is discontent with my lot. This I must overcome. Patiently I must strive and wait, and perhaps some time I shall conquer, and all will be well.”

But even as he spoke the joy faded out of his face as the day out of the sky, and a frown gathered on his brow and his eyes flashed with the fire of gathering feelings which would not be repressed. He looked around him at world and sky as only an ardent soul can look when moved by the spirit of youth. The change was instantaneous, its expression electric.

“ No,” he cried, resolutely ; “ I will not believe that my soul's best strivings, its fairest wishes, and grandest hopes are from the Evil One; I cannot believe it; I can never overcome these feelings. Temptations they may be, but I know that I shall ever feel thus, — it is my nature. God, — God formed me with these feelings ; He sent me into the world with them, He gave me my soul, He fills it with this longing, He made me, not the devil!”

And so the sad hour of conflict with himself came upon the boy, coming to him, as it comes to all of us some time in our lives, in a form seemingly the severest and most unendurable. It seemed to him impossible that he should be required to relinquish his dearest wishes and give up his best hopes. It looked horrible. He could not live without hope. “ Man liveth not by bread

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alone, but by every word which proceed eth from God,” rung in his ears. It was true, then, that aims, desires, purposes, hopes, were permitted. If necessary to man who should say that they were not from God ?

At length he sank on his knees and prayed, —

“ O Father in heaven, look kindly upon thy child ; teach him to know and do Thy will ; help him to live right; make his spirit resigned towards Thee and strong against the world, and protect and save him, for Christ’s sake. Amen.”

Happy indeed are they whose soul conflicts leave them the victors ! Battle with the world is hard enough, and many are overcome in the unequal contest. Still there is a strength born of such a battle, — born of a grapple with tangible things, — which grows fresher and stronger with every rebound. In the soul’s struggle there is no such discipline. The wrestler in such a contest has no foothold. Like a storm-blown ship amid the breakers, tossed to and fro at the mercy of the waves, the poor soul floats helplessly to its fate, with no pilot to direct its course and without an anchor that holds.

The sun had disappeared below the hills, leaving a lane of gold far into the clouded sky like a path into heaven. Soon the air began to chill, growing cool and damp with the falling dew. One by one the sorrowful stars crept into view, beamed, 2

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glinted, glittered, until the blue depths of creation blazed with jewelled splendor.

The boy arose to go down into the village. He felt conscious that in his struggle he had not conquered, and that other days would witness the renewed conflict. Standing there on the hill as still as nature itself, with the weird silence of a virgin world around him, the possession of conscious life seemed a dreadful burden and responsibility, and the question of how to use it, how not to abuse it, an unanswered and unanswerable problem. In after-years he came to know that “ true bliss is found in holy life, in charity to man, in love to God,” but just then it seemed impossible of attainment, or at best to come only through resignation to Heaven and struggle against the world.

With a determined look he set his face towards the village, where tallow candles were beginning to shine from the windows, and stepped out into the night, and as he did so he heard a movement in the branches of the old oak ; another, and right above his head.

The boy was not superstitious in the ordinary acceptation of the term ; he was rather skeptical than otherwise. He never had believed in ghosts, popular as such a belief was in Slopingdale. He took pride in being above such a weakness. That movement in the tree, however, startled him as something eerie and supernatural.

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He stood rooted to the earth, peering through the night into the branches, listening. Could it have been the wind ? There was no wind, not a breath in the air. Was it imagination? No, he could not be mistaken, there was something moved up there ; what was it ?

He stood motionless. The night was not very dark, but there was no moon, and all objects were darkly outlined against the sky, — the tree with its luxuriant foliage and low sweeping branches rising colossal before the strained expectant gaze.

Perfect silence.

Gradually but surely the sense of a presence obtruded upon the wondering mind and made the anxious heart beat faster ; it grew stronger, passing rapidly from suspicion into belief, from belief to conviction, from conviction to certainty. Was it a ghost?

The watchful gaze dropped to the level of the horizon with the dreadful thought; it turned slowly, irresolutely, irresistibly to the near graveyard, where the white stones here and there discernible seemed stepping out towards the hill from the horrid shades.

I think all men have some time suffered from fear; and I believe, furthermore, that all except cowards will acknowledge it. The difference between a brave man and a coward is, after all, only a difference in fortitude, — it is simply a question

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of nerve . The brave man feels fear as well as the coward, but he stands up under it, while the coward lies down or runs away.

William Smith, it must be confessed, was afraid, but, thanks to courage, he stood up under the feeling. He would have stood his ground if the sheeted dead had risen, and filed past with clanking bones and grinning skulls.

Once in his watch he thought he heard the leaves rustle and saw a limb bend down and sway up and down. This was followed by an impression of an outline of some object resting on that limb, — something shadowy with drapery about it. It did not move when he looked again, and he thought it was only imagination.

But casting another glance into the tree now at that spot, it was with amazement that he saw the limb sway up and down more distinctly than before ; he could distinctly hear it creak as it moved. The object too moved, plainly moved as he looked.

Fully determined now to end the mystery, he cried out, —

“ Whoever, whatever you are, come down out of that and show yourself !”

The nerves were a little unsteady, but the voice was clear and ringing.

Clear and ringing came the reply from the tree, —

“I will; it’s awful tiresome up here. You’ll help me down, won’t you ? Although I got up all alone, it’s not so easy getting down.”

“ It’s a girl!” muttered William, too much astonished to speak aloud. The revulsion of thought produced mingled feelings of surprise, anger, and disgust. Not the least unpleasant of these feelings came from the reflection that she must have heard everything he said in her perch up on that tree. What was she doing there anyway ? It was certainly a most unheard-of proceeding, — perfectly preposterous.

But there was small time for consideration of the situation or for indulgence in reflections and conjectures. William had scarcely began to grumble and complain before the mass of drapery commenced to sway about and move downwards through the foliage. It descended rapidly from limb to limb until it rested, a light and airy mass of skirts and flounces, on the lowest branch, where it revealed dimly through the dusk the flashing eyes, smiling face, and full form of a young woman. She hung there, holding fast with one hand and extending the other downwards, entreatingly, —

“ Oh, please catch me ; do, — quick !”

A strong, firm grasp, a jump, a scream, a sudden swing from tree to earth, and she stood there beside him, the most substantial and merry ghost that ever dropped from a tree; but he nearly let her fall in his sudden recognition and astonishment. b 2*

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“ Why, Jennie !”

“Well?”

“ Is it possible ?”

“ Quite possible, William. Please get my hat off that twig ; no, the one above that, — there. I believe my face is scratched, and my hands are sore, I know. Now, if ever I climb a tree again I want to be informed, that’s all.”

“ But ”

“Now, please don’t; I’m distressed awfully. Do let’s go home. How late it’s getting !”

She took his arm, but he stood still.

“ Oh, you are not angry ?”

The question was asked with two beautiful eyes peering into his face and a charming mouth near his own. She lightly put his hair back from his brow with a soft little hand, then, suddenly and woman-like, became exceedingly merry.

“You see,” she went on, innocently, unheeding the dark looks of her companion, — perhaps she couldn’t see his face plainly, — “you see, I never meant to let you know that I was there, and I tried hard not to listen or hear what you were saying, and I wanted the worst way to be still as a mouse, but you stayed so long, and I got so tired, and that limb would try to throw me off, and — creak, — and — and — so you see I couldn’t help your finding me.”

And the little woman executed such a bewitch-

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ing movement of impatience, and brought her fresh face so near her companion’s, and looked altogether so sweet under the starlight, that the general effect began to tell on her companion. He wouldn’t have been a man if it hadn’t told. Gradually his frown relaxed and his lips opened, — it was clear that she would bring him round.

“ But,” persisted he, “ what were you doing up there? why were you here at all, — here up a tree like a monkey ?”

“Must I tell?”

That was a poser. However, he decided the question in a summary way, — a man’s way.

“ Yes, you must.”

“ Well, I climbed it for fun”

“ For fun ! Climbing trees for fun ; a pretty fun that is for a young lady. Jennie, I’m surprised at you.”

“ You needn’t be.”

“ But I am ; really I am.”

“ Oh, the other girls climbed it too.”

“ The other girls ?”

“ Yes.”

“ What other girls ?”

“ Maine Bartlett, Sally Chichester, and Lucy Brown ; they ran away and left me on the tree when they saw you coming up the road. I think it was real mean.”

“ They shouldn’t have run off, I think.”

“ No, certainly not.”

“ And I’m going to tell them what I think, too. I do think they were real mean.”

“ So do I ; and then I kept you up there listening to a lot of rubbish for a couple of hours. Why, you must be wearied out standing here. Come, I’ll take you home. See here, Jennie, look in my eyes again as you did a moment ago.”

“Oh, William!”

“ Please do.”

But this really reasonable request was refused. An air of embarrassment now seized upon the young lady; she walked at his side with bowed head in silence. They walked slowly through the dark. He looked at her tenderly, and felt every charm of her grace and beauty. She, fully conscious that he was looking at her, experienced tile joy of being admired ; and so, the normal relationship of man and woman being correctly established, they silently passed over the darkened hill and down into the straggling village.

Their thoughts were busy with each other during the walk, and the singularity of their meeting was forgotten. But when at length they stopped before the door of a little cottage shaded by a mammoth oak, and she slipped her hand gently from his sleeve, the ludicrousness of the situation appealed to both at the same instant.

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She bounded up the steps of the porch laughing: “I declare it is all too funny for anything; I never heard of such a thing before.”

“ Nor I,” laughed he. “ I’m thinking though the girls will plague us; what do you think ?”

“I don’t care,” she answered, archly, as he tried to find the door-latch. “ What did you think of me ?”

“ You ? I think you an angel !”

u Pshaw ! I mean what did you think I was up that tree ?”

“ Oh, I thought you a ghost ; but what did you think I was, — a fool, eh?”

Her hand was upon the door-latch and her face was lifted to his.

“ What, then ?”

She lifted the latch.

“ A hero ! Good-night.”

He held her hand one short moment while the door was softly opened, kissed it; she entered, and the door softly closed against him standing alone on the porch.

CHAPTER II. Faust. “ Knowest thou, then, all my wishes?”

Devil. 11 And will leave them in the consumma-

tion far behind.”

Faust. “ How ! If thou wert to hear me to the uttermost stars, — to the uppermost part of the uppermost, — shall I not bring a human heart along with me, which in its wanton wishes will nine times surpass thy flight? Learn from me that man requires more than God and devil can give.” — Muller's Faust,

The name William Smith being a very ordinary and common name it is to be expected that its possessor should be a very ordinary and common person. And so he is.

In some respects, it is true, he greatly differed from those about him. He seldom exhibited the prevalent disposition and general habits of the average boy. He never romped in games, never played truant, never robbed birds’ nests, never went fishing on Sunday, never even pelted the bald head of the teacher with paper pellets. I fear that he utterly failed to come up to reasonable expectations in these and akin pastimes. Perhaps he was too obedient and exemplary. He was whipped at school once, a severe whipping it 22

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was too, but it was because he took the blame upon himself really belonging to another and suffered in his friend’s stead. A nd that other boy stood close by all the while and patiently saw his self-sacrificing friend well whipped without opening his mouth !

To the same peculiar disposition might properly be attributed some singular habits. Though sickly from infancy the boy never complained. He came and went bearing his sufferings in silence. For himself and his own comfort he cared little. His slender figure could be seen day after day trudging along the country road to school or church in all kinds of weather. It could be seen wading through the snow carrying some favorite story-book to a sick companion. This exposure was general among boys, to be sure, but not generally owing to the same motive, — a strong sense of duty and the desire to help others.

It was observable that the boy sought his pleasures in contemplation, study, and the commendation of teacher and friends. He preferred passive to active enjoyments. When his comrades played boisterously at various games he stood near by watching them, but not joining in their sport. In the winter-time he caught many a cold in the head standing for hours out-doors watching the skaters flying over the ice. So also in summer, when picnic-parties filled the woods, he would be present,

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seemingly taking pleasure in the fun of others ; but while they were noisy he was quiet, while they mingled in companionship he stood aloof, to wander away, perhaps, at length into the shady grove, where alone and buried in reflection, lying on the moss, he would play like a child with the pebbles and the grass near his hand, while his eyes and his thoughts were far away among the clouds above the rustling trees.

When afterwards he grew along into his teens his timidity and sensitiveness to observation grew yet more pronounced and striking. His nature, like a sensitive plant, shrunk from the touch and withdrew itself into seclusion. There were occasions when his modesty dropped from him like a garment, — if some good cause was poorly defended or decried, or some bad cause well championed and upheld, none were so quick to stand up for the right, and none so sure to leave a scar on the wrong thing. His soul, thoroughly devotional, could endure no unjust thing. The good, the true, and the beautiful appealed to him trumpet-tongued for recognition and vindication everywhere and at all times. Thus, from the lisping days of childhood through the rugged ways of youth, he grew a spiritual soul.

The boy possessed also a good stock of moral courage, a quality somewhat scarce in the world in these days. He had that essential element of manhood commonly known and described as backbone.

Is it possible for a human being to make amends for lack of backbone ?

Modern science has given new proof of man’s high destiny by showing that he sprung right up from the lowest created object to the highest, — developed from the mollusk to the immortal. A new science will have to be written to show the destiny of a creature who, starting as a man, retrogrades to an oyster, — falling from an immortal vertebrate to a spineless pulp !

Yet it is strictly true that William Smith’s reputation in the village at every period of his young life was quite unenviable, and, indeed, to speak the whole truth at once, it never in later and maturer years got much better. In spite of the amiable characteristics referred to possessed by that young gentleman, in spite of a spirit which burnt like a flame when aroused, or, perhaps, because of these things, the village conceived a palpable dislike for the boy, and consequently his companions were unappreciative and his friends few. Not that there was any positive persecution of the boy or open hostility freely expressed. Nobody actually hated him; the feeling was rather one of indifference, — a sort of disregard of his existence. People who took so much trouble as to notice him smilingly observed, “ That youngster ’ll b 3

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niver sit the river afire,” thus in one sentence expressing an equal contempt for the boy and the English grammar. It might be remarked also that at the same time a cheerful turn was given to gossip by speculations on the probabilities of the boy’s early death. The women quietly watched him, wondering why he didn’t die. The object of this tender solicitude read the question in the looks cast on him, — read it in the eyes of the questioners as plainly as if they had spoken it.

“ It’s agin Proverdence thet he surwives wen his face is so pale, his chist so narrer, and his body so thin,” remarked the sympathizing Matilda Johnson. And the irrepressible Matilda immediately resumed slandering her neighbors, from which congenial occupation her astonishment at the boy’s persistence in living had temporarily diverted her vigorous mind.

Possibly this treatment was the price exacted out of recompense for fine feelings. Nature bestows no gift without demanding compensation. Along with every pleasure is linked a pain, with every joy a sorrow. To the sensitive spirit of the dreaming enthusiast come many miseries all through life, none of which are more unpleasant and painful than to be misunderstood and unappreciated.