The Crayon Papers | Page 3

brook that glided through the shadowy depths of the forest, picturing
it to myself the haunt of Naiads. I would steal round some bushy copse
that opened upon a glade, as if I expected to come suddenly upon Diana
and her nymphs, or to behold Pan and his satyrs bounding, with whoop
and halloo, through the woodland. I would throw myself, during the
panting heats of a summer noon, under the shade of some
wide-spreading tree, and muse and dream away the hours, in a state of
mental intoxication. I drank in the very light of day, as nectar, and my
soul seemed to bathe with ecstasy in the deep blue of a summer sky.

In these wanderings nothing occurred to jar my feelings, or bring me
back to the realities of life. There is a repose in our mighty forests that
gives full scope to the imagination. Now and then I would hear the
distant sound of the woodcutter's ax, or the crash of some tree which he
had laid low; but these noises, echoing along the quiet landscape, could
easily be wrought by fancy into harmony with its illusions. In general,
however, the woody recesses of the neighborhood were peculiarly wild
and unfrequented. I could ramble for a whole day, without coming
upon any traces of cultivation. The partridge of the wood scarcely
seemed to shun my path, and the squirrel, from his nut-tree, would gaze
at me for an instant, with sparkling eye, as if wondering at the
unwonted intrusion.
I cannot help dwelling on this delicious period of my life; when as yet I
had known no sorrow, nor experienced any worldly care. I have since
studied much, both of books and men, and of course have grown too
wise to be so easily pleased; yet with all my wisdom, I must confess I
look back with a secret feeling of regret to the days of happy ignorance
before I had begun to be a philosopher.
* * * * *
It must be evident that I was in a hopeful training for one who was to
descend into the arena of life, and wrestle with the world. The tutor,
also, who superintended my studies in the more advanced stage of my
education, was just fitted to complete the fata morgana which was
forming in my mind. His name was Glencoe. He was a pale,
melancholy-looking man, about forty years of age; a native of Scotland,
liberally educated, and who had devoted himself to the instruction of
youth from taste rather than necessity; for, as he said, he loved the
human heart, and delighted to study it in its earlier impulses. My two
elder sisters, having returned home from a city boarding-school, were
likewise placed under his care, to direct their reading in history and
belles-lettres.
We all soon became attached to Glencoe. It is true, we were at first
somewhat prepossessed against him. His meager, pallid countenance,
his broad pronunciation, his inattention to the little forms of society,

and an awkward and embarrassed manner, on first acquaintance, were
much against him; but we soon discovered that under this unpromising
exterior existed the kindest urbanity of temper; the warmest sympathies;
the most enthusiastic benevolence. His mind was ingenious and acute.
His reading had been various, but more abstruse than profound; his
memory was stored, on all subjects, with facts, theories, and quotations,
and crowded with crude materials for thinking. These, in a moment of
excitement, would be, as it were, melted down, and poured forth in the
lava of a heated imagination. At such moments, the change in the
whole man was wonderful. His meager form would acquire a dignity
and grace; his long, pale visage would flash with a hectic glow; his
eyes would beam with intense speculation; and there would be pathetic
tones and deep modulations in his voice, that delighted the ear, and
spoke movingly to the heart.
But what most endeared him to us was the kindness and sympathy with
which he entered into all our interests and wishes. Instead of curbing
and checking our young imaginations with the reins of sober reason, he
was a little too apt to catch the impulse and be hurried away with us.
He could not withstand the excitement of any sally of feeling or fancy,
and was prone to lend heightening tints to the illusive coloring of
youthful anticipation.
Under his guidance my sisters and myself soon entered upon a more
extended range of studies; but while they wandered, with delighted
minds, through the wide field of history and belles-lettres, a nobler
walk was opened to my superior intellect.
The mind of Glencoe presented a singular mixture of philosophy and
poetry. He was fond of metaphysics and prone to indulge in abstract
speculations, though his metaphysics were