That night, as Ned and I were about to go up to our rooms, I kissed mother good night, and said to her:
“Have you no parting advice for me, mother? I believe everybody has had some kind of valedictory for me.”
She drew me to her and said, smiling, as she parted my hair with one hand:
“I have nothing special to say, John, even though you are going away from me for the first time. I have endeavored from your infancy to instruct you in your duty to your fellow man, as well as to God. It now only remains with you to perform that duty. The one great thing I have always striven to impress upon your mind is to act from principle. Whatever you propose to do, consider carefully whether it be in itself right—not whether the time or occasion renders it so. I have placed your Bible in your trunk; read it without fail once every day, and, as you have always done, seek counsel of Heaven; and if my poor prayers will avail anything, you will ever be fortified with grace and courage from on high.”
In my room, as I undressed, I could not help looking around at the familiar articles of furniture, in order to remember exactly how the room looked after I was gone. Everything had a farewell for me.
The very bureau seemed to sigh as I took my toilet articles from its slab; and the chairs, with their worn rounds and knife-notched backs, seemed to creak an humble good-bye; the rug that I had scorched so often making squibs; the pitcher, whose lip I had broken by jerking it against a table, when a cat with a fit, on whose head I was pouring water, suddenly revived and sprang up under my hand; the book-case, through whose glass doors peeped the familiar faces of Swiss Family Robinson, Sandford and Merton, Tom Brown at Rugby, and the portentous covers of Latin Grammar, Greek Reader, Cæsar, Virgil and Sallust; the closet, with my gun and sporting furniture, and the bed, with its flowered coverlid, all looked as if they would be sad after I was gone, and as I went to sleep I felt prematurely homesick.
[CHAPTER XIX.]
Father awoke us by coming into our room with the lamp and telling us that Horace was waiting with the carriage. We were up and dressed by the time William had carried down our trunks. We went down to the dining room, where the gas was burning with the sleepy glare it always has in the morning, as if it had just waked from a sound nap. I felt no appetite, but gulped down an egg, a bit of steak and some coffee, as if it were medicine. Horace sent in word that we had best hurry, as he had heard the engine blow for backing down some time ago. I slipped on my linen duster, pulled on one glove, told the servants good-bye with half a dollar each, pressed father’s hand, received mother’s fond embrace and fervent “God bless you, my child,” and touched Carlotta’s lips with a thrill the hurry could not damp, and Ned and I were rattling over the pavement to the depot. As soon as my eyes recovered from the glare of the gaslight I found that day had dawned and objects were plainly visible. The dwelling houses were all closed, except where an extra smart housemaid here and there had opened the shutters, and was sweeping off the steps. Nobody was astir in the streets yet except one or two butchers’ carts, rattling on to the market house with their loads of beef. We rolled on down through the business part of the city, where sleepy porters, in their shirt sleeves, were taking down shutters and sprinkling and sweeping out the stores; on past the newspaper offices, where they were still working by gaslight, and where little newsboys were coming out with bundles of damp papers; on down Market street, past drowsy drays, with lazy negro drivers slapping the fat, sluggish horses with the ends of the reins; on, till we whirled round the corner at the river, where the chilly morning breeze was rippling the water and clicking the wavelets against the sides of the vessels and rafts that lay on the gray river, without other signs of life than a sailor leaning over the railing, dipping up water with his bucket and rope, or a negro cooking his breakfast at the door of his raft’s cabin. The rigging, wet with mist, stretched like immense spider webs from yard to yard, and the jack, left out all night, drooped straight down the mast. How familiar is every log and piece of timber in the wharf! Every barrel and hogs head is an acquaintance, and every spot we pass the scene of some boyish frolic. Everybody that sees us bows and says good-bye, and we almost feel sure that the town will pass resolutions of regret at our departure.
We reach the train just in time, and find Frank already on board, with seats reserved for us. He is pleasant towards me, and seems to bear no ill feeling for my rudeness. Being a good talker, he enlivened the tedium of travel with accounts of college life, and gave us many valuable points in regard to our demeanor, instructing us how to “dodge devilling,” and offering his assistance with as much conceit as kindness.