The Crayon Papers | Page 4

somewhat fine spun and
fanciful, and his speculations were apt to partake of what my father
most irreverently termed "humbug." For my part, I delighted in them,
and the more especially because they set my father to sleep and
completely confounded my sisters. I entered with my accustomed
eagerness into this new branch of study. Metaphysics were now my
passion. My sisters attempted to accompany me, but they soon faltered,

and gave out before they had got half way through Smith's Theory of
the Moral Sentiments. I, however, went on, exulting in my strength.
Glencoe supplied me with books, and I devoured them with appetite, if
not digestion. We walked and talked together under the trees before the
house, or sat apart, like Milton's angels, and held high converse upon
themes beyond the grasp of ordinary intellects. Glencoe possessed a
kind of philosophic chivalry, in imitation of the old peripatetic sages,
and was continually dreaming of romantic enterprises in morals, and
splendid systems for the improvement of society. He had a fanciful
mode of illustrating abstract subjects, peculiarly to my taste; clothing
them with the language of poetry, and throwing round them almost the
magic hues of fiction. "How charming," thought I, "is divine
philosophy;" not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,
"But a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, Where no crude surfeit
reigns."
I felt a wonderful self-complacency at being on such excellent terms
with a man whom I considered on a parallel with the sages of antiquity,
and looked down with a sentiment of pity on the feebler intellects of
my sisters, who could comprehend nothing of metaphysics. It is true,
when I attempted to study them by myself, I was apt to get in a fog; but
when Glencoe came to my aid, everything was soon as clear to me as
day. My ear drank in the beauty of his words; my imagination was
dazzled with the splendor of his illustrations. It caught up the sparkling
sands of poetry that glittered through his speculations, and mistook
them for the golden ore of wisdom. Struck with the facility with which
I seemed to imbibe and relish the most abstract doctrines, I conceived a
still higher opinion of my mental powers, and was convinced that I also
was a philosopher.
* * * * *
I was now verging toward man's estate, and though my education had
been extremely irregular--following the caprices of my humor, which I
mistook for the impulses of my genius--yet I was regarded with wonder
and delight by my mother and sisters, who considered me almost as
wise and infallible as I considered myself. This high opinion of me was

strengthened by a declamatory habit, which made me an oracle and
orator at the domestic board. The time was now at hand, however, that
was to put my philosophy to the test.
We had passed through a long winter, and the spring at length opened
upon us with unusual sweetness. The soft serenity of the weather; the
beauty of the surrounding country; the joyous notes of the birds; the
balmy breath of flower and blossom, all combined to fill my bosom
with indistinct sensations, and nameless wishes. Amid the soft
seductions of the season, I lapsed into a state of utter indolence, both of
body and mind.
Philosophy had lost its charms for me. Metaphysics--faugh! I tried to
study; took down volume after volume, ran my eye vacantly over a few
pages, and threw them by with distaste. I loitered about the house, with
my hands in my pockets, and an air of complete vacancy. Something
was necessary to make me happy; but what was that something? I
sauntered to the apartments of my sisters, hoping their conversation
might amuse me. They had walked out, and the room was vacant. On
the table lay a volume which they had been reading. It was a novel. I
had never read a novel, having conceived a contempt for works of the
kind, from hearing them universally condemned. It is true, I had
remarked that they were as universally read; but I considered them
beneath the attention of a philosopher, and never would venture to read
them, lest I should lessen my mental superiority in the eyes of my
sisters. Nay, I had taken up a work of the kind now and then, when I
knew my sisters were observing me, looked into it for a moment, and
then laid it down, with a slight supercilious smile. On the present
occasion, out of mere listlessness, I took up the volume and turned over
a few of the first pages. I thought I heard some one coming, and laid it
down. I was mistaken; no one was near, and what I had read tempted
my curiosity to read a little