Richard Clyde was not there, but he came the next day, and the scene in which we were both such conspicuous actors was soon forgotten. It had, however, an abiding influence on me. A new motive for exertion was born within me,—affection for my master,—and the consequence was, ambition to excel, that I might be rewarded by his approbation.
Bid he ever again treat me with harshness and severity? No,—never. I have often wondered why he manifested such unusual and wanton disregard of my feelings then, that one, only time. It is no matter now. It is a single blot on a fair page.
Man is a strangely inconsistent being. His soul is the battle ground of the warring angels of good and evil. As one or the other triumphs, he exhibits the passions of a demon or the attributes of a God.
Could we see this hidden war field, would it not be grand? What were the plains of Marathon, the pass of Thermopylæ, or Cannæ paved with golden rings, compared to it?
Let us for a moment imagine the scene. Not the moment of struggle, but the pause that succeeds. The angels of good have triumphed, and though the plumage of their wings may droop, they are white and dazzling so as no "fuller of earth could whiten them." The moonlight of peace rests upon the battle field, where evil passions lie wounded and trampled under feet. Strains of victorious music float in the air; but it comes from those who have triumphed in the conflict and entered into rest, those who behold the conflict from afar. It is so still, that one can almost hear the trees of Paradise rustle in the ambrosial gales of heaven.
Is this poetry? Is it sacrilege? If so, forgive me, thou great Inspirer of thought,—"my spirit would fain not wander from thee."
CHAPTER VI.
The life of a school-girl presents but few salient points to arrest the interest. It is true, every day had its history, and every rising and setting sun found something added to the volume of my life. But there seems so little to describe! I could go on for ever, giving utterance to thoughts that used to crowd in my young brain, thoughts that would startle as well as amuse,—but I fear they might become monotonous to the reader.
I had become a hard student. My mother wished me to fit myself for a teacher. It was enough.