The Merchant's Son

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A young man of fine appearance was pacing slowly and thoughtfully up and down the parlors of his father's house. The clear, softened light of the full moon streamed in upon the furniture, and revealed occasionally the expression of his countenance, which was serious. Once in a while a smile broke over his features, as he appeared briefly to yield to the play of imagination.

"So I am indeed twenty-one!" he said, musingly; "this is the day I have looked forward to, from boyhood, as the period when I should be as free as the wind. What are my objects of pursuit? What have they been? Oh, Fame! I could die if your silver trumpet would ring out her loudest blast for me. I will be no mediocre character; I will either play aconspicuous part on the world's great stage — or I will sink into nothingness.

"I have been an obedient son to a father who means well, but judges wrongfully of me. He has kept me cooped up in a counting-room, lest, as he says, I should become a simpleton or a poet. I have borne it silently, although it galled me to the quick. God forbid that I should have pained his heart, before I had a man's right to act in freedom — to cut out my own path in the world! And yet — and yet" — the young man's lip curved bitterly, as he paused a moment, "he has drawn the reins almost too tight. I have not been allowed the choice of doing what I like. Money — money — money, when will the time come that it will not be worshiped? I hate it. I hate that grasping after gold. How can an immortal soul so far forget its high destiny, as to make the clutching of golden coins the great aim of existence? But there are thousands who seem fit for nothing else!"

Arthur Griswold seated himself on the sofa, passed his hand through his hair repeatedly, sighed profoundly, muttered something about the generality of people being such idiots — then he leaned his head back against the wall in silence.

"But money is a fine thing after all!" he said, half smiling, as after a long pause he resumed his train of thought. "It is well I can clutch a little myself just now; I fear father, when he learns my resolution, will request me to keep my distance from his coffers. Let it be so! I think I can get along. Yes, my life of close study shall soon commence; and then — what shall my glorious future be? Great as a poet's dream! There is a power within me; but alas! it is a smouldering spark which may never burst forth into a flame, and light up clearly the 'chambers of my imagery.' Such thoughts shall not be indulged! I will! Those two little words shall be the beacon stars, to lead me forward to the accomplishment of my purposes. Difficulties shall vanish before the might of a strong will. To resolve and to accomplish — shall be one thing with me!"

"Why, Arthur, are you all alone?" said the soft, musical voice of Lucy Griswold, as she entered the room. She seated herself on the sofa next to her brother, and rested her lovely head confidingly upon his shoulder.

"I was all alone, dear," he replied.

"Indulging in beautiful imaginations, I suppose?" suggested Lucy.

"Not remarkably beautiful."

"Well, then, come stand by the window, and look out upon this poetic sky. If imagination does not wave her wand for you, just banish earthly thoughts, and rove anywhere and everywhere, as I do, at such a lovely hour."

"I will, to oblige you," answered Arthur, leading her to the window, and kissing her pure brow with a kind brother's deep affection. That fair young girl was the only one to whom he poured forth the yearning aspirations of his soul. Her sweet influence breathed over his spirit like a balmy air, and hushed it into quietness. She was almost an idol to him; she understood, appreciated, and sympathized with him; while all her actions seemed to be a living prayer that he would become pure and good.

And yet she was rather a wayward, mischievous being, when she took it into her head to be so. The spirit of mirth peeped out of her laughing eyes somewhat too often, as her grave grandmother assured her. But she was silent now, as well as Arthur. It was, indeed, the hour for imagination to give reins to her darling reveries — for the bewitchery of romance to steal into the heart. You could, under its power, have rolled back the tide of time, and have planted your footsteps in great Rome — you could have gazed up at her softly-brilliant sky, revealing her thousand splendors. You could have reveled in the once sunlit streets of ancient Pompeii, or have trod the classic ground of Greece. The pastmight have been before you, or the sunny future, with its rainbow hopes, its glorious dreams, its flowers of love and gladness flung at your feet. Hope, delicious hope, the mirthful intruder, the wild deluder — she would have stolen on the wings of the softly-dreaming air — she would have poured her laughing light upon your bosom, as the zephyr plays over the unfolding petals of the sun-kissed rose.

All this might have happened if you were young, dear reader; for people strangely forget these romping imagination-flights, if care but presses her good-for-nothing fingers upon the bounding heart. Youth! how blessed you are, with your fresh, glad thoughts, your bewitching dreams, breathing their spell over the untrammelled heart! How do you roam over every sunny spot, and make all things bright with the touch of your own fairy wand! All things happy will be possible to you — all things wished for will surely press into your service, begging to entwine around your brow the garland of a proud, bright destiny! How do you laugh, when the aged lip of experience would foretell you a tale of your own blighted hopes! Clouds and sunlight you have known; but the April smile ever forced back the impetuous tear, and bade you see how the shining drops freshened the beauty of earth and sky. Your heart is free; and, if ever the mist comes, it looks upward and around, and smiles to see the sunshine breaking, and bringing back to you all your clustering joys.

Why may not the heart be always young, though wrinkles drive away the smoothness from the brow, and take from the lip its rosy hue — though silver threads the shining locks, and beauty departs from the wasting features? May not the undying soul retain its youth, as long as we are blessed with our faculties? May it not grow stronger and greater, as it nears its everlasting goal? May not its capabilities for happiness increase by a proper use of the gifts which God has bestowed, by careful culture, by refreshing from the dews of Heaven? Surely, surely, it may be so!

We drive from us our youth of soul. Storms come, but to clear away the darkness, and to show us depths within, that Heaven may fill with joy. Then let our course be onward. Still be our dreams bright and joyous; still let hope cast her halo around us, still let her be a mirthful intruder, but chasten her gently if she is the wild deluder of earlier days. Bid her not tell you of selfish visions. Ask her to breathe a fond spell over all you love, over every breaking heart, over the whole broad earth, which bears not a soul that you love not. Tell her the whole world is yours, that all God's people are your brethren and sisters. Whisper her to raise her throne in every downcast bosom, though she should forsake yours.

Will she forsake you? Oh, no! Your heart shall be more light than when your naive childhood was most full of innocent joy; more happy shall you be, than when earlier youth was thrilling you with its gushing gladness.

Next Part The Merchant's Son 2

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