Hughes, the author of the school story Tom Brown's Schooldays, was nearly as popular in the US as he was in England, and it must have been quite a coup for the magazine to have received a piece from Hughes. It seems that not only in modern times that chiding words were written about children who seemed to be in a hurry to grow old before their time.A Summons from St. Nicholas! One of those fresh and sincere voices, which seem to me to be very truly characteristic of the New World, comes across the three thousand miles of sea rolling and leaping under these wild south winds. It reminds me of certain good intentions of mine, of pledges half given years ago, and never even half redeemed. It asks, not indeed for payment in full, but for some small installment, some acknowledgment of the debt, which will serve to prevent the statute of limitations from running. It tells me of a crowd of eager and bright young listeners, who think I may have some word to say to them which they want to hear,—an eager, bright young crowd of American boys, from nine to eighteen years of age,—and asks "if I can have the heart to refuse" to say it.
Not I, indeed! For I never had the heart to refuse anything to such applicants. But how to redeem my pledge—what word to say to such an audience—how to reach the hearts of "the youth that own the coming years" in a land which is not my own, though I can scarcely look on it as a foreign land,—there lies the puzzle.
The sight of an ordinary crowd, we are told, is—in England, at least—always a sad one,- if you take note of the expression of the faces in repose; though it may be inspiring enough when any strong wave of feeling is passing through or over them. I should say, from my own experience, that "pathetic" rather than "melancholy" is the true word, even for a grown-up crowd, and it most certainly is with a crowd of boys. Who can help being roused and lifted out of the humdrum jogtrot of the daily life of middle age when he gets in touch with them—lifted, though it may be only for a short hour or so, by the inspiring contact of overflowing health, and joy and hope, into the breezy, buoyant atmosphere of early morning?
When all the world is young, lads,
And all the trees arc green,
With every goose a swan, lads,
And every lass a queen,—
Then heigh for boot and horse, lads.
And round the world away!
Young blood must have its course, lads.
And every dog his day.
Yes, pathetic is the true word. For even while looking on the young faces, and feeling the pulse and inspiration of the dawn of life down to one's finger ends, thoughts of another kind will crowd up into the mind,—"thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,"—of beginnings cut short, of projects abandoned, of designs marred, of expectations unfulfilled.
But fair, and softly! How soon one's pen runs away with one! These are not the words I meant to say, or the thoughts I meant to suggest, to you, the young readers of St. Nicholas. You will touch the pathetic side of life, all of you, soon enough. Why should I thrust it on you before the appointed hour?
Meantime I say, revel in the dawn. Rejoice in your young strength and life; aim high, and build your castles like brave young architects, only taking care to dig the foundations deep, and to lay them with care and patience. Whether you will ever be able to build on them such brave and lofty towers and halls as you dream of now, matters comparatively little to you or your country. A thousand accidents and chances will determine in the coming years what the superstructure shall be,—accidents and chances we call them for want of a better name,—which you cannot control in the outset, but which will be controlled and settled for you.
What materials you will have to work with who can say? "To one clay, to another wood, to another marble, to another jewels and precious stones, will be served out in the great workshop of the world. You cannot make your choice; it will be made for you. But this you can and may do, and should be doing now: You can so prepare the ground and the foundations, that whatever material shall come to your hand hereafter, shall surely be made the most of, and used in the best way; so that whether you have to build marble palaces, or brick houses, or log huts, the work shall be faithful and strong, and fit to stand the stress of the wildest weather, and the wear and tear of time.
What are these foundations but the principles and habits which underlie the character of the man, and which can only be laid to good purpose by the boy? Truthfulness, self-control, simplicity, obedience,—these are the great corner-stones, to be welded and bound together by the cement of patience. "If I had only one word to speak to my boys," said one of the wisest and best educators of our time, "it should be Patience, Patience, Patience, over and over again." The world is getting into such a feverish hurry, and we are going so fast, that we are all in danger of missing the best things in life—the common sights and sounds which lie by the way-side on every stage of the journey, and nowhere in greater profusion than on the first stage. This is our trouble, and likely to be more and more the trouble of our children.
But, happily for us, our boys are the least affected by the disease of any section of society. The upper-school boy, unless he is a mere shiftless ne'er-do-well (a very small section of any community), is, as a rule, more than content with his daily life; he is rejoicing and glorying in it. And his daily life repays him with interest. He stands there, at seventeen or eighteen, on the verge of manhood,—a boy still in heart, full of enthusiasms and aspirations, but with an intellect and body patiently and carefully trained, looking hopefully to the next step in life, but unwilling to hurry it,—the best poised and most equally developed human creature, take him all round, that our life can show. He has not sold his birthright, and the grand morning hours of life, when boyhood is maturing, have passed slowly over him, leaving behind them a bouquet and fragrance which will sweeten the coming years, and a reserve of strength for the labor and heat of the approaching midday.
"Ah, your boy keeps his birthright, and ours sells it for a very poor mess of pottage," writes one American friend to me; while another says, "You, in England, have a proverb, 'Boys will be boys;' ours should run just the other way, 'Boys won' t be boys,'—I wish to heaven they would, and no one would grudge paying for broken glass and crockery."
"Have you had any American boys under you?" I asked of one of the ablest English masters, who has had great experience at two of our best public schools.
"Yes," he said, "I have had several as pupils, and have known a good many more; and nice, clever fellows they were. Very like our own boys, too, but older of their age, as a rule."
"Ah, you found it so!" 1 said. "I suppose they did n't care so much for games. Is that what you mean?"
"Well, partly so; but not exactly. They seemed rather to endure than to enjoy their lives, not only in the playing-fields, but in the schools. There were several promising cricketers, for instance, amongst them; but they did n't work at it as most of our boys do, or get the same zest out of it. And it was much the same with their school-work. They did it because they were sent there to do it, and did n't care to be left behind. But they could n't throw themselves into the life with any enthusiasm, and so lost much of the pleasure, as well as the profit, of it."
"But might n't that come from early associations and training? Our boys have a world of their own which is sufficient for them. To be captain of the school, or of the eleven, or of bigside football, or of the boats, is to be famous in that little world which they have heard their big brothers talk of ever since they were breeched. But an American boy has not been reared in the traditions, and so can't care so much for our boy's world. He feels like an outsider at an English school."
"Possibly. At any rate, it's a great loss, and would hinder me from sending over a boy of mine if I were an American."
"What! Not even to learn to write Greek and Latin verses? 1 fancy that art is ignored on the other side, and you know you think in your secret soul that life must be a poor thing to a man who can't amuse himself in a leisure half-hour by turning the last popular song into iambics, or longs and shorts."
"Well, so be it. Great, I own, are iambics, and great are longs and shorts; but you may pay too much for them, and the Yankee boy, I 'm afraid, buys our culture too dear. It does n't satisfy him. It isn't what he wants. Over here he isn't willing to remain a boy; very likely, as you say. because he feels like an outsider in our boy's world. Probably at home he would find something answering to it, in which he could let himself out, and be satisfied, without wanting to discount life, and be a man before his time."
How is it, my boys? Are my correspondents and friends right? Are you hurrying up your own lives, and therefore, so far as you can, spoiling the life of your country? Well, if so, the only word I have to say to you (like my friend above referred to) is—patience, patience, patience! But I am a stranger, and know little of your needs or your hopes. Let me cite, then, one who has the best right to speak to you, and whose words ought to go straight to the heart of every American boy. Take down your Lowell, and look out a little poem (not one of his best in workmanship, but a gem in spirit and motive) called "Hebe." The gods' messenger descends to earth, bearing in her hands their choicest gift, the cup brimming with nectar—inspiration, and solace, and strength—for the lip of him whom the gods approve. The youth rushes to meet her—will snatch the cup from her hand. In his haste it is broken, and the precious contents spilled on the ground.
"O spendthrift haste! await the gods:
Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience:
Haste scatters on unthankful sods
The immortal gift in vain libations.
Coy Hebe flics from those that woo.
And shuns the hand would seize upon her;
Follow thy life, and she shall sue
To pour for thee the cup of honor."
Yes, follow your lives, and you will control them; get ahead of them, and they will slip from under your hand. You are bred with a strong faith in your country and her destiny; justify that faith then, and remember that "he that believeth shall not make haste."
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