“Oh, very well, then. If you only half confide to me and to the public a secret that is never to be divulged, we may as well know nothing about it.”
“There is a very solemn meaning underneath,” said he, gravely.
“There may be,” said I, after pondering over it a little. And a vision floated before me of poor orphaned Harry crying himself almost to sleep, and then suddenly becoming aware that his mother was bending over him with looks of love. “The next verse,” said I, “I tell you frankly, Harry, I like very much:—
“‘Oh! if my griefs their hold forsook,
But at an angel’s passing look,
Saviour, how great the joy must be,
Always of beholding thee!’
Yes, Harry, that is very sweet—very nicely thought and worded. Go on amusing yourself, my dear boy, at leisure moments, only don’t let it interfere with the real business of life. Sir Walter Scott said, ‘Literature was a good stick, but a bad staff.’ Remember that our four greatest poets, Chaucer, Shakspere, Spenser, and Milton, were all practical men; and would never have written in their masterly way if they had been otherwise. And don’t get into the way, Harry, of writing far into the night; it robs the morrow—nay, it robs many morrows. There are young men who like the reputation of being great readers, writers, and thinkers, who boast of keeping themselves awake to study by drinking strong coffee, tying wet towels round their heads, and other silly things. In the first place, I do not quite believe them; in the second, I always feel a little contempt for boasters: and even supposing they neither boast nor exaggerate, they burn the candle at both ends, and it wastes all the faster. Rise as early as you will, it does no harm to the health nor the head; but remember Sir Walter Scott. As long as he rose at five, lighted his own fire, and wrote before breakfast, he could devote the chief part of the day to his other affairs, and the whole evening to relaxation in his family. As long as he did that, all went well with him. But when, with a laudable desire to pay off debts,—which, after all, he could not pay,—he wrote, hour after hour, all day long, and by gas-light, nearly all night too, human nature could not stand it; his mind, already overwrought by heavy afflictions and perplexing difficulties, gave way under the too great pressure he put upon it in its state of extreme tension. The consequence was, his powers of usefulness ceased—his magician’s wand was broken!”
“Poor man!” said Harry, after a little pause. “No, I’ll never overdo myself like that; and yet, Mrs. Cheerlove, there’s something grand, too, in dying at one’s post.”