"In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs—and God has given my share—
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
* * * * *
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw."
—GOLDSMITH.
Every time the pastor went to see the captain, he could not help noticing that his eyes were very often fixed on a portrait which hung just over the looking-glass, and he noticed, too, that whenever he was looking at it, his eyes were filled with tears. At first, from a feeling of delicacy, he did not like to ask him the cause of this; but at length he thought that his title of friend added to that of pastor made it his duty to endeavour to free his friend from the burden of some unhappy memory, under which he was evidently labouring. One day, then, when he found him alone, he said to him, "My dear friend, how is it that you are always gazing at that portrait with such an expression of sadness on your countenance?"
"All, my dear pastor," answered the captain, "your question touches the spring of all my grief. Even now, that all my wanderings are over, and I am settled down here, leading such a peaceful, quiet life in my native village, how can I be happy when every moment the memory of him whose face you see there comes up before my mind?"
"Whose portrait is it, then?" asked the pastor.
"It is my father's," was the reply; "but for you to fully understand my feelings when I think of him, you must know something of my history; and as the present is a good opportunity, I will relate my story to you and to your family. I should like you all to know what troubles I have passed through."
The pastor's wife and children did not want asking twice to come and listen to the captain's adventures, which they had so long been hoping and longing to hear. When they had all come and were seated, he began his story.
"I was, as you know, born in this village in the year 17—. Shortly after my birth, my mother died, leaving me, her only child, to my father's care. He, sadly distressed at her loss, resolved never to marry again. He was a pious and very learned man, and as I grew up he took great pains to instruct me in the fear of God; but his parochial duties and his studies prevented him from having me constantly under his own eye. I was, indeed, left in a great measure to the care of an old aunt, who was very deaf, and whose weak, easy good-nature could not restrain my naturally headstrong disposition, so that I had no lack of opportunities for disobeying my father's commands, and satisfying my own taste for amusements of which he did not approve. I never found any difficulty in learning, and indeed could always get my tasks done long before the time I had to say them, so that I had a great deal of spare time on my hands which I used to spend in the streets, playing with the little boys of the village, who taught me a great many bad habits. Whenever I was found out, it is true, I was severely punished, and for a little while was more sharply looked after, but I too often managed to deceive my father, and did not hesitate even at falsehoods in order to be able to follow the bent of my own bad disposition.
"My father had intended that I should become a pastor like himself. My taste, however, was rather for a life of travels; but I dared not set up my will in opposition to his, and in my eighteenth year I left his house and entered the University at Giessen. The liberty which the students there enjoyed pleased me amazingly, and I endeavoured to avail myself of it to the utmost. I studied, however, with great diligence, and my natural aptitude for learning always left me plenty of time to devote to pleasure. Little by little I found my studies become irksome to me, and my desire for amusement increase, until at length I entirely gave up all serious occupations, and used to pass all my time either in pleasure-parties or in the public house. Before I left home my bad behaviour had gained for me the name of the Scapegrace, and at the University I did my best to show myself worthy of the title.
"It was not long before my father was informed of my disorderly conduct, and you can understand what impression such a report made upon him. He wrote me a most affectionate letter, full of the most touching exhortations to give up my evil course. This at the time sensibly moved me, and made me seriously resolve to turn over a new leaf. Soon, however, my love of pleasure, aided by the influence of bad companions, made me break through all my good resolutions; I was ashamed of what my associates called my weakness, and I soon fell lower than ever. Oh how deeply has the experience of that time proved to me the truth of that saying of an old French writer, 'The being ashamed of what is right is the root and source of all our misery.'
"When my father saw that all his exhortations were without effect, and all my promises without any result, he tried the plan of refusing to send me any more money, hoping that the want of means to indulge my bad habits would bring me back to a better frame of mind. This plan, however, was far from being successful. I soon got into debt, and when at last no one would trust me any longer, I sold my books and every article of value that I had, and getting on the coach, I resolved to make my way to Amsterdam and go to sea. The journey to Amsterdam suited me very well, for I found most of my travelling companions were young men of about my own stamp, and with them I passed the time pleasantly enough. Over and over again, I repeated to myself the foolish wish, 'Oh that I could be always as happy as I am now.'"