THE CLIMBERS
“IT’S of no use, and what’s more, I don’t believe it’s right,” said Mr. Jeffries, “this filling every boy’s head with thoughts of rising in the world. It looks all very well in books; but is quite a different thing in reality. I tell you what, it’s doing a mighty deal of damage in the world. Why, it’s almost impossible for anybody that wants help to get any of the right sort. Once find a boy that has any grit in him, and he’s off as soon as he can scrape up enough money to go to school with. There’s that stable-boy of mine, as good a little fellow as I’d ever care to have; but in the room of playing like other boys, when he has a moment’s leisure, he’s off to the barn with a book in his hand. I’ve told him many a time ’twould be the ruin of him; but he seems to take to it as naturally as a duck does to water;” and the little hotel-keeper looked around complacently.
“I thought that was the very spirit that was commendable in this country, Mr. Jeffries,” said I, turning my gaze from the mountain towering above us to the face of my host. “Hope is the grand incentive to the American boy, the hope of knowing more, and doing better for himself and others, than his father and grandfather did before him. Look around you and see who are the men of the present; ten to one they are poor men’s sons. They felt that they could do something, and they accomplished it.”
“It looks all fair, I allow; but the thing is carried too far; it makes them discontented and unsteady, changing from one thing to another. In my opinion, if you want to make any thing in the world, you must stick to one thing. It is an old saying, ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss.’”
“True; but may not these poor boys have a higher aim and purpose, and carry it out quite as effectually as if it required no changes? Your stable-boy may have mapped out, vaguely perhaps, his future, and to reach it must make use of such stepping-stones as come within his reach. He does his work well, does he not?”
“Oh, there’s nothing to say against him, only I don’t like to see him always reading; he can’t go by a newspaper—and my wife keeps them hung up by the side of the roller—without stopping for a bit, catching as a hungry horse does at a spear of grass or hay that comes within his reach. I give him pretty good wages for a boy, and the women folks patch up his clothes and see that he has plenty to eat. It seems to me that he ought to be contented and happy, with jests and frolic like the rest, in the room of being shut up with his book. And then, to cap all, I went into the barn the other day, and there he was perched up on the haymow, talking away and making gestures just as the parson does. I could not keep from laughing, and he came down and skulked away looking sheepish enough.”
“You have interested me in this boy, Mr. Jeffries. Who, and what is he? Where did you find him?”
“Oh, his father lives up among the mountains, a thriftless, good for nothing creature, who spends all his earnings in whiskey. The mother was a delicate ladylike woman; my wife thought a heap of her; and when she died, she made us both promise to look after her children.”
Just then a showy carriage was driven round from the stable, and a sprightly lad jumped quickly down, and stood holding the lines respectfully while the owner made ready to start. He was a tall, slight young man, whom I had noticed in the hotel as excessively talkative, flush with his money, drinking and smoking freely, and interlarding his conversation with now and then an oath. He came out with a swagger, followed by a little crowd of idlers. Mr. Jeffries broke off the thread of conversation, giving the hand of his guest a prolonged shake.
“Always glad to see you when you come this way, Robinson; you will always find the bar just the same; I never keep any thing but the best.”
“That’s a fact; the best mint julep I’ve had in a long time.”
While the leave-taking was going on, I was eagerly scanning the face of the stable-boy. My heart ached for him as he stood there, the little torn straw hat just covering the mass of dark hair, that had apparently not seen a comb for days, the great heavy locks clustering over a broad well-formed forehead, above delicately curved eyebrows with long brown lashes. But the eyes were hidden; I could only imagine what they must be from the profile of the face, the straight nose, somewhat deep upper lip, and well-turned chin. Still and straight he stood, and almost as motionless as though carved out of marble: yet not a dead, passive statue; his very stillness had a life in it, just as the framework of machinery is still while the movable parts are running swift as thought can follow.
Down the steps and into the buggy the young gentleman passed, and as the lines were handed him he tossed a silver coin to the stable-boy, but so carelessly that it glanced from his shoulder, rolled across the porch and down a crack in the floor before he could stop it.
“It’s gone, Marston; better luck next time,” said Mr. Jeffries with a patronizing air. The boy bit his lips, while the eyelids quivered, and turning on his heel was out of sight in an instant.
It was not in my heart to talk any more. Life was new to me; I was myself trying to make my way upward in character and life. Just through college, my health failed, and I was told to try mountain air and exercise. My meagre purse would not allow of my gratifying my benevolent feelings, and still every day there were just such cases occurring. “Work yourself out” had been my motto. No doubt Marston Howe would adopt the same. A rough, thorny way he will find; the feet will become weary, the hands torn and bleeding; still, if he wills he will succeed. It is better to wear out than to rust out; better be a climber than a cumberer; and though we seem never fully to attain our desires, let not the heart grow bitter and misanthropic, moody and uncharitable. Success is sure if we try for it. Let me whisper this to Marston Howe, and I have then done him all the good I can. Looking up I saw the doctor’s buggy coming slowly round the curve of the mountain, and a moment after it drew up, while a kindly face looked out. “How is this invalid of mine? Almost ready to go home?”
“Nearly ready, doctor,” and my eye caught sight of the stable-boy with his pail of water for the doctor’s horse.
“That’s right, Marston,” said Mr. Jeffries; “the doctor’s horse don’t like to pass here without something,” but the doctor did not notice the hint.
“You are fond of books,” I said to Marston as he held the pail for the horse to drink; “I have one in my pocket which I think will please you. It is called ‘Self Helps,’ and will show you how others have worked and struggled to become good and useful men. I hope that is what you wish to do.”
“I shall try for it,” he answered in a clear tone, while his grey eye brightened as he grasped the book. “Aim to do right, Marston, and what you do, do well; perhaps we shall meet again.”
Quick as an arrow he bounded round the corner, and the doctor’s pony trotted leisurely down the mountain with us.
It had been a glorious afternoon, and I had taken a longer stroll than usual; resting at the little mountain house, while the doctor visited a patient further up the mountain.
“Do you know any thing of Marston’s family, doctor?” asked I, when we finished what we had to say of the immediate landscape.
“Not much. The mother was a well-educated gentlewoman, above the majority in these parts; she died soon after I came here, and her husband soon married a real vixen. They say he spent every thing in whiskey after that, and these two children, Marston and Jennie, live with Mr. Jeffries, a good-natured man in his way, but mightily puffed up with his success in that hotel. He has a good many boarders in summer, and is making a great deal of money.”
By this time pony had struck into a quicker pace; the road was more familiar, or he scented the corn crib, and his master let him have the rein.
The next day I left the mountains, but not without a thought of Marston Howe, and an earnest wish that he might succeed.
Poor, and dependent on his own labor, there was something in his case that reminded me strangely of my own; and more than once I felt my heart throb with a quicker beat as I thought of what might be in store for him, had he the courage ever to undertake what I saw from his look he so earnestly craved.
Still, with constant effort, untiring self-denial, and inflexible purpose, the height might be won. The germs of the future harvest must be planted before it can be gathered in. Slow and difficult might be the ascent, and many a time the feet might falter in the way, and the heart well-nigh break, while weakness, prejudice, and passion hinder the progress of the eager soul.
One look to God, however, and obstacles vanish, doubts dissolve. His strength is never denied those that ask him. Marston Howe’s mother was a Christian. His cradle was consecrated by her prayers, and the little son she left behind her was still the object of divine love and care. Such thoughts comforted me. He must go up through the narrow defile of labor, the rocky strait of necessity; but he will overcome: the mother’s prayers will not be lost.
Years have passed since that summer day: we have both been climbers; both began at the same level, the only difference being that I had the start by some half a score of years; difference enough when starting in the race, but hardly perceptible when standing, as we both now do, nearer the top than the bottom of the ladder.
Last summer I again met with Marston Howe; and for the sake of the climbers who have suffered and striven, and of others who are still suffering and striving, I am induced to tell his story as nearly as he told me as I can well remember it.
