PART SECOND.

On the Deep Waters.

"O HEAVEN! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolutions of the times.

How chances mock,

And changes fill the cup of alteration

With divers liquors! Oh, if this were seen,
The happiest youth, viewing his progress through,
What perils past, what crosses to ensue,

Would shut the book and sit him down and dic."

SHAKSPEARE, King Henry IV.

103

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

FAIR WINDS.

"ALL common things, each day's events,
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.

"We have not wings, we cannot soar;

But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time,

"The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upwards in the night.'

LONGFELLOW, The Ladder of St. Augustine.

I.

To be young-to be twenty years old-to have no aches, no pains, no regrets worthy of the name! It is a glorious time, few of us know how glorious until we are young no more!

We are so like travellers with a long journey before them, setting off at our topmost speed in the bright morning, dashing forward impetuous as if the miles would stretch before us to infinity, wearying over the early ways that must be trodden, disregarding the sunny landscape we are passing through, and the wayside flowers we are trampling down, because our eager eyes are fixed on some distant hill where the midday seems to shine with dazzling effulgence. The hill-top gained, we behold sterile spots, parched and shadowless as African deserts; it is no more all beautiful than the country we have traversed already-nay, we think it even less beautiful. Looking wistfully behind us, at last we see distinctly the quiet stretches of scenery, the green fields, and woods, and rivulets, the calm light, the flying showers that we made of such small account, and confess in our hearts that the morning is the best time of the day, and that we have passed over the loveliest district our wayfaring feet had to tread, before we had learnt the wisdom of enjoying and being thankful.

Children, we are impatient to grow up; travellers, we long for our journey's end; old, we would fain put back the swift

hands on the dial of Time; resting at strange inns, we grow home-sick and heart-sick, and would fain return. But no! Forward is the word, and God's will be done!

II.

Cyrus and Robert Hawthorne were no wiser than their fellows. They had dreamed dreams, and seen visions, which some near future had it in charge to realize: we shall know how that future kept its promise by-and-by. Meanwhile, hope made their hearts light, and their step buoyant, and they addressed themselves to their life-journey with good courage.

Great events had been happening in the world while they were boys; but, at last, after long and cruel convulsionsafter revolutions in which kings were overthrown, and princes became as the basest amongst the people-after wars, where thousands of brave soldiers were ploughed into the furrows of death, and thousands of innocent homes were made desolatepeace spread her white wings over the earth, and men rested under their shadow in safety. There were poet-giants living in the land in those days-men of spiritual might, heroes in the lists of Parnassus, against whom the belligerent critics ran a tilt in vain! High-seated in the saddle of popular favour, they shook the lance of defiance in their foemen's blinking visage, and rode their career triumphant, unannoyed save by the dust and reek of their own praises. Little smooth-faced innocents stood by, open-mouthed and wideeared, swallowing the dust, and the reek, and the clamour of the famous ones, until, being dazed, they fancied themselves inspired, and began to pipe forth an echo-an echo exceeding small-of the great men's songs; then mounting the wooden hobby-horse of self-gratulation, they clattered stiff-legged into the arena, casting tinselly gauntlets right and left; but lo! in a turn or two they were overthrown, and their puny lives trampled out to an accompaniment of horrid shouts and laughter.

Parnassus is strewn with the untimely bones of these slaughtered innocents.

Amidst the throng at its loudest, there one bright day appeared a ruddy-cheeked, amorous David, fair-fronted and courageous. The grizzled warriors recognized in him a revival of their own exuberant youth, and greeted him with

cheers. He was bold-eyed as one who fears no man, rubylipped, and white-browed as one who will win the love of women. His voice was pleasant to the ear, melodious and touching-the overflow of a full passionate heart, into whose sweetness the tooth of no decay has bitten. The giants bade him ride the race for immortality with them; so the youth sprang upon his fiery courser, and pranced into the mêlée amongst the best, shaking his hyacinthine locks, and crying "Eureka! ere the struggle was well begun.

Slowly, steadily, young David! bridle thy impetuous pride! the race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong! In the dust of the trampled course lies many a stout hero discrowned, overridden, unrecognisable save by the few soiled leaves of bay, clutched in his skeleton hand. The prize hangs high. To gain it thou must reach and look upward—not to the ground where rewards of gold lie for thy taking-not to either hand for mob-applause-but upward and onward, upward and onward !

Dazzled already! Ah, heedless David! not long shalt thou ride with the heroes, unless thou wilt look to thy ways, as all who have travelled far have looked before thee!

III.

Which being interpreted, signifies in plain English that Cyrus Hawthorne Nugent, when in his twenty-first year, did cause to be printed and published a collection of songs and ballads by him conceived and composed, and that the collection aforesaid was warmly welcomed by the poetryreading public, praised by the great literary dons, and tenderly handled by the minor critics. This gracious reception not unnaturally elated the youthful aspirant after fame, and filled him with resplendent visions of the future-visions of crowns and glory, such as attend the dawn of every young poet. But the brightness of his rising did not eclipse the glow of old affection, or lessen its wholesome warmth in his heart. He wished, with innocent, loving vanity, that his mother had been alive to see that day, and his first impulse when the book was ready was to send a copy of it, accompanied by a most affectionate letter, to his brother Robert at Walton Minster; and I think he had more anxiety that the book should please him, than he had pleasure in the admiration of all his other admirers put together.