Bart Ridgeley Part 17

"Therefore, flying should be dispensed with, I suppose," said Bart.

"Because things of mere painted wings, all wing and nothing else, can float in the lower atmosphere, are all winged things to be despised?

Birds of strong flight can light and build on or near the ground, but your barn-yard fowl can hardly soar to the top of the fence for his crow."

"But your geniuses, Bart, will not work, will not strip to the long, patient, delving drudgery necessary to unravel, separate, a.n.a.lyze, weigh, measure, estimate and count, and come to like work for work's sake, and so grow to do the best and most work. They deal a few heavy blows, scatter things, pick up a few glittering pebbles, and--"

"Leave to dullards the riches of the mines they never would have found," broke in Bart.

"And fly away into upper air," pursued Henry.

"Oh, I know that some chaps rise for want of weight, as you would say; but mere weight will keep a man always at the surface. Your men who are always plunging into things, digging and turning up the earth--who believe with the ancients that truth is in a well--often lose themselves, and are smothered in their own dirt-holes, and call on men to see how deep they are. G.o.d coins with His image on the outside, as men mint money, and your deep lookers can't see it; they are for rus.h.i.+ng into the bowels of things."

"There is force in that, Bart. Men may see G.o.d in His works, if they will; but men don't so stamp their works. At his best, man is weak; unknowing truth, he puts false brands on his goods, mixes and mingles, snarls and confuses, covers up, hides and effaces, so far as he can, G.o.d's works, and palms off as His the works of the other. And it is with these that the lawyer has to do: a work in which your mere genius would make little headway. He would go to it without preparation; he would grow weary of the hopelessness of the task, and fly away to some pleasant perch, and plume his wing for another flight, I fear."

"Might not his lamp of genius aid him somewhat?" put in Bart.

"It might," said Ranney, "and he might be misled by its flare. He would do better to use the old lights of the law. Some are a little lurid, and some a little blue, but always the same in tempest or calm. The law, as you have doubtless discovered, is founded in a few principles of obvious right. Their application to cases is artificial.

The law, for its own wise purposes, takes care of itself; of its own force, it embraces everything, investigates everything, construes itself, and enforces itself, as the sole power in the premises. Its rules in the text-books read plain enough, and are not difficult of apprehension. The uncertainty of the law arises in the doubt and uncertainty of the facts; and hence the doubt about which, of many rules, ought to govern. A man of genius, as you describe him, ought to become a good lawyer; he would excel in the investigation and presentation of facts; but none but a lawyer saturated with the spirit of the law until he comes to have a legal instinct, can with accuracy apply it."

This was clear and strong to Barton, and profitable to him.

"Now Barton," said Henry, turning to Ranney, as if Bart were absent, "went through with Blackstone in a month, and probably would go through it every month in the year, and then he might be profitably put to read Blackstone. If I were to shut him up with the 'Inst.i.tutes,' in four days there might be nothing of poor c.o.ke left but covers and cords."

"And what would become of Bart?" asked Ranney.

"Go mad--but not from much learning," answered the youth for himself; "or you would find him like a dried geranium-leaf hid in the leaves of the year-books,--

'Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead.'"

There was a touch of sarcasm in his mocking voice; and flas.h.i.+ng out with his old sparkle, "Be patient with me, boys, the future works miracles. There

Are mountains ungrown, And fountains unflown, And flowers unblown, And seed never strown, And meadows unmown, And maids all alone, And lots of things to you unknown, And every mother's son of us must Always blow his own--nose, you know."

And while the young men were a little astonished at the run of his lines, the practical and unexpected climax threw them into another laugh.

Soon Henry took a candle, and the two young men retired. They paused a moment in the little parlor.

"Was there ever such a singular and brilliant compound?" said Ranney.

"What a power of expression he has! and I see that he generally knows where he is going to hit. If you can hold him till he masters the law, he will be a power before juries."

"I think so too," said Henry; "but he must be a good lawyer before he can be a good advocate,--though that isn't the popular idea."

"Let him work," said Ranney. "He will shed his flightier notions as a young bird moults its down."

How kind to have said this to Bart! Oh, what a mistake, that just praise is injurious! How many weary, fainting, doubting young hearts have famished and died for a kind word of encouragement!

When Bart returned to the sitting-room, his mother and younger brothers had retired.

"I am scorned of women and misunderstood of men--even by my own brother," he said bitterly to himself. "Let me live to change this, and then let me die."

The old melancholy chords vibrated, and he went to his little attic, remembering with anguish the stream of nonsense and folly he had poured forth, and thought of the laughter he had provoked as so much deserved rebuke; and he determined never to utter another word that should provoke a smile. He would feed and sleep, and grow stupid and stolid, heavy and dull, and bring forth emptiness and nothings with solemn effort and dignified sweatings.

Early on the morrow he was away to the camp, to renew the fires under his sugar-kettles. The cool, fresh air of the woods refreshed and restored his spirits somewhat. He placed on the breakfast-table two bouquets of wood-flowers, and met his guests with the easy grace and courtesy of an accomplished host; and both felt for the first time the charm of his manner, and recognized that it sprung from a superior nature.

As they were about to rise from the breakfast-table, "Gentlemen," said he, "Miss Kate Fisher gives, this afternoon, a little sugar party, out at her father's camp. Henry, she sent over an invitation specially for you two, with one to me, for courtesy. I cannot go; but you must.

You will meet, Mr. Ranney, several young ladies, any one of whom will convert you to my creed of love and poetry, and two or three young, men stupid enough to master the law,"--with a bright smile. "I promised you would both go. The walk is not more than a mile, the day a marvel right out of Paradise, and you both need the exercise, and to feel that it is spring."

"And why don't you go, Barton?" asked Henry.

"Well, you are not a stranger to any whom you will meet, and don't need me. In the first place, I must remain and gather the sap, and can't go; in the second, I don't want to go, and won't; and in the third, I have several good reasons for not going,"--all very bright, and in good humor.

"What do you say, Ranney?"

"Well, I would like to go, and I would like to have Barton go with us."

"Would you, though?"--brightening. "No, I can't go; though I would be glad to go with you anywhere."

CHAPTER XX.

WHAT THE GIRLS SAID.

Kate's little party, out on the dry, bright yellow leaves, gay with early flowers, under the grand old maples, elms and beeches, in the warm sun, came and went, with laughter and light hearts. If it could be reproduced with its lights, and colors, and voices, what a bright little picture and resting-place it would be, in this sombre-colored annal! I am sad for poor Bart, and I cannot sketch it.

The young lawyers had been there, seen, talked to, got acquainted with, were looked up to, deferred to, admired and flirted with, and had gone, leaving themselves to be talked about.

Two young girls, amid the fading light, with the rich warm blood of young womanhood in their cheeks, and its latent emotions sending a softened light into their eyes, with their arms about each other's waists, were pensively walking out of the dusky woods to the open fields, with a little ripple and murmur of voices, like the liquid pearls of a brook.

They had been speaking of the young lawyers. "And these two," said Julia, "are some of those who are to go out and shape and mould and govern. I am glad to have seen them, and hear them talk."

"Do you think these are to be leading men?" asked Flora Walters.

"I presume so. It is generally conceded that Henry Ridgeley is a young man of ability; and I don't think any one could be long in the company of Mr. Ranney without feeling that he is no ordinary man. Indeed, Henry said that he was destined to a distinguished career."

"Well, now to me they were both a little heavy and commonplace.

Mr. Ridgeley was easy and gentlemanly; Mr. Ranney a little shy and awkward. I've no doubt one would come to like either of them, when one came to know him."

"Oh, Flora! the beauty of a man is strength and courage, and power and will and ability. When one comes to see these, the outside pa.s.ses out of sight."

"Do you think that absolute ugliness could be overcome in that way?"

"Yes, even deformity. I should be taken even by beauty, in a man, and should expect conforming beauty of heart and soul. Do you know, I sometimes half feel that I would like to be a man?"

"You, Julia! with your wealth, beauty and friends, who may, where you will, look and choose?"

"Yes, I, as much as you flatter me. I can feel the ambition of a young man; and were I one, how gladly would I put the world and its emptiness from me, and nurse and feed my soul and brain with the thoughts and souls of other men, till I was strong and great; and then, from my obscurity, I would come forth and take my place in the lead;" and her great eyes flashed.