It is a common remark that youth is the happiest portion of life, but, like many other wise and deep sayings, it passes by us unheeded, till, at some late period in the great journey, we look back upon our track, and, by a comparison of the past with the present, are forced to feel and confess the truth, which we have before doubted. Mankind are ever tempted to think that there is something better before them; if they are not happy yet, they still indulge bright expectations. They are reluctant, even when advanced in years, to believe that the noon of life’s joys is past; that the chill of evening is already mingling in every breeze that feeds the breath; that there is no returning morn to them; that the course of the sun is now only downward; and that sunset is the final close of that day that has dawned upon them, and lighted up a world full of hopes, and wishes, and anticipations. It is not till the shadows, dark and defined, are creeping around us, and forcing us to deal honestly with ourselves, that we admit the truth—that life is made up of a series of illusions; that we are constantly pursuing bubbles, which seem bright at a distance and allure us on to the chase, but which fly from our pursuit, or, if reached, burst in the hand that grasps them. It is not till we are already at the landing and about to step into the bark that is to bear us from the shore, that we come to the conclusion that human life is a chase, in which the game is nothing, and the pursuit everything; and that the brightest and best portion of this chase is found in the spring morning, when the faculties are fresh, the fancy pure, and all nature robed in dew, and chiming with the music of birds, and bees, and waterfalls.
It is something to have enjoyed life, even if that enjoyment may not come again, for memory can revive the past, and at least bring back its echoes. It is a pleasure to me, now that I am crippled and gray—a sort of hulk driven a-wreck upon the shore, and if incapable of further adventures upon the main, at least inaccessible to the surges that rise and rave upon its bosom—to look out to sea—to mark the sails that still glide over its surface—and, above all, to busy my fancy with the incidents of my own voyage upon the great ocean of life.
I love particularly to go back to that period at which my last chapter closed. I was then full of health, animation, and hope. As yet, my life was tarnished with no other vices or follies than those that belong to an ungoverned and passionate boy. My health was perfect. I can hardly describe the elation of my heart of a spring morning. Everything gave me delight. The adjacent mountains, robed in mist, or wreathed with clouds, seemed like the regions of the blest. The landscape around, tame and commonplace as it might be, was superior to the pictures of any artist that ever laid his colors upon canvass, to my vision. Every sound was music. The idle but joyous gabble of the geese at the brook—the far-off cawing of the crows that skimmed the slopes of the mountains—the multitudinous notes of jays, robins, and blackbirds in the orchard—the lowing of cattle—the cackle of the fowls in the barnyard—the gobble of the ostentatious turkey—were all melody to me. No burst of harmony from an Italian orchestra, even though Rossini composed and Paganini performed, ever touched the heart as those humble melodies of morn, in the little village of Salem, touched mine at the age of fifteen. At such times my bosom actually overflowed with joy. I would sometimes shout aloud from mere pleasure; and then I would run for no other object than the excitement of the race. At such times it seemed almost that I could fly. There was an elasticity in my limbs like that of a mountain deer. So exuberant was this buoyant feeling, that in my dreams, which were then always blissful, I often dreamed of setting out to run, and after a brief space of stepping upward into the air, where I floated like some feather upon the breeze.
At evening, I used again to experience the same joyous gust of emotion; and during the day, I seldom felt otherwise than happy. Considering the quiet nature of the place in which I dwelt, my life was marked with numerous incidents and adventures—of little moment to the world at large, but important to a boy of my years. Saturday was, in that golden age, a day always given up to amusement, for there was no school kept then. A description of a single day will give a sufficient idea of my way of life at this period.
The day we will suppose to be fine—and in fact it now seems to me that there was no dull weather when I was a boy. Bill Keeler and myself rose with the sun—and we must, of course, go to the mountain. For what? Like knights of the olden time, in search of adventures. Bound to no place, guided by no other power than our own will, we set out to see what we could see, and find what we could find.
We took our course through a narrow vale at the foot of the mountain, crossed by a whimpling brook, which wound with many a mazy turn amid bordering hills, the slopes of which were covered with trees, or consisted of smooth, open pastures. The brook was famous for trout, and as Bill usually carried his hooks and lines, we often stopped for a time and amused ourselves in fishing. On the present occasion, as we were passing a basin of still water, where the gush of the rivulet was stayed by a projecting bank, Bill saw an uncommonly large trout. He lay in the shadow of the knoll, perfectly still, except that the feathery fins beneath his gills fanned the water with a breath-like undulation. I saw Bill at the instant he marked the monster of the pool. In a moment he lifted up and waved his hand as a sign to me, and uttered a long, low she-e-e-e! He then stepped softly backwards, and at a little distance knelt down, to hide himself from the view of the trout. All this time Bill was fumbling with a nervous quickness for his hook and line. First he ran his hands into the pockets of his trowsers, seeming to turn over a great variety of articles there; then he felt in his coat pockets; and then he uttered two or three awkward words, which signified much vexation.
There was Bill on his knees—it seems as if I could see him now—evidently disappointed at not finding his hook and line. At last he began very deliberately to unlade his pockets. First came out a stout buck-handled knife, with one large blade, and the stump of a smaller one. Then came a large bunch of tow, several bits of rope, a gimblet, four or five flints, and a chestnut whistle. From the other pocket of the trowsers he disclosed three or four bits of lead, a screwdriver, a dough-nut, and something rolled into a wad that might have been suspected of being a pocket-handkerchief, if Bill had ever been seen to use one. The trowsers pockets being thus emptied, our hero applied himself to those in the flaps of his coat. He first took out a ball covered with deerskin, then a powder-flask and tinder-box, two or three corks, and sundry articles difficult to name. From the other pocket he took his stockings and shoes, for it was May, and we were both indulging ourselves in the luxury of going barefoot—a luxury which those only can know who have tried it.
Nothing could exceed the pitch of vexation to which Bill was worked up, when, turning the last pocket inside out, and shaking it as if it had been a viper, he found that he had not a hook or line about him. Gathering up his merchandise, and thrusting the articles back into their places, he cast about, and picking up a stone, approached the place where the trout lay, and hurled it at him with spiteful vengeance, exclaiming—“If I’m ever ketched without a fishhook agin—I hope I may be shot!”
“Stop, stop, Bill!” said I; “don’t be rash.”
“I say I hope I may be shot if I’m ever ketched without a fishhook agin!—so there!” said he, hurling another stone into the brook.