Grammar school boys

It was a fiery August day. The sun had for many weeks been pouring his fierce and burning rays upon the earth, which now lay so parched and dried beneath them, that the heavy night dews failed to restore the vigour of the plants and herbage, and the whole country in mountain and valley, town and forest, seemed to faint. Indians, and those accustomed to the heat of the tropics, said that the climate reminded them of that eastern one from which they had been so glad to escape, but English people,--those especially who had never left their own temperate atmosphere,--sickened and died as if plague-smitten. Few there were who escaped without some serious illness, and even of those few, the healthiest and the strongest of the population, not one but was languid, weak and indisposed to exertion.

In the hospitals and chambers of consumption the mortality was fearful. None seemed to rally, who where ill before this heat commenced, and upon whom it had come when their powers were debilitated; so the land was full of wailing from end to end. Go where you would, pass up what city street, or far off cottage lane, you might, and closed windows or mourning garbs suet you equally. No place, however retired, none, however guarded, or within the reach of whatever luxury and care, but had lost some old face, or childish gamboller. The destroying angel was abroad, and but few of the lintels were holy.

Fever, fever, the terrible heat, was the burthen of the incessant cry which shocked the ear from all sides, and made the English language seem but as the vehicle for one long bitter wail. Truly, the verse of Longfellow, was realized:--

"The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachael for her children crying,
Will not be comforted."

It is on one of the fiercest of these days that our tale begins.

There is in Bury, a long wide street stretching from the bridge of the town considerably into the country. It is scarcely so much a street as a road, bordered with houses of many grades, for, until these railway times, it was a great thoroughfare, along which coaches and mails used to run southward. It is called the Abbey Road, for years ago, when walls and gates kept our good towns safe against hostile visitors, one of the city gates stood here, as well as the grand old Abbey, whose remains still recall a something of the day when its church vied with the proudest Cathedral in the land, and its mitred head held baronial sway, and guided the councils of the nation.

But posterns and warders, monks and chantries, have long since passed away, and Bury Abbey Road now only presents the appearance of a long handsome street, adorned by many large and well-built houses. Into one of the smallest of these, dear reader, I must take you now.

It is a small upper bedroom. The bed is uncurtained, the floor is carpetless, the furniture scanty, everything not urgently necessary, has been removed to allow the little air which comes from the body of the house, to circulate freely. The chamber is forlorn and desolate, save of the extreme of human rest, and human agony. Upon the mattress covered with a white sheet, lies an object, the nature of which is clearly defined by the sharp and terrible outline which it presents to the beholder. There needs no word to tell him that he stands in the solemn presence of the dead.

Beside the bed, her face buried in her hands, weeping with most bitter agony, kneels a Lady. Her sobs are heartrending, and every now and then, as she raises her head, and her eyes fall upon the ghastly object before them, she draws herself together, as if the blow which has subdued her mental powers, had crushed her physical strength like-wise. And certainly there is no attitude which the human figure can assume, which is so eloquent of the utter prostration of body and spirit, as the cowering crouching one in which that poor Lady lay.

After a little time another person enters the room, and casting one long sorrowful glance upon the bed, kneels down beside the mourner, and tenderly passing his arm round her, whispers--"Mother, dear, dear Mother, do not weep so bitterly;" but, for the first time in her life, the Mother was deaf to the voice of her child, and a long long time elapsed before she appeared even conscious of his loving words and caressing action. And then turning suddenly, she threw her arms round the boy's neck, and dropped her head upon his shoulder, uttering that piercing cry of anguish, which once or twice before had thrilled the hearts of all who heard it.

"My own, own Mother," said the brave-hearted boy, "take comfort, do not grieve so terribly: For all our sakes bear up."

"Oh Lawrence, Lawrence, how can I take comfort now that he is gone: So tender, good, and kind as he was," and again the paroxysm returned.

"He was, he was indeed," said Lawrence, the tears falling fast though silently down his face, while his eyes rested mournfully upon the rigid form beside him. "He was indeed, a good, dear, kind Father."

And for a time Mother and Son wept sorrowfully in each other's arms. But the firm well-regulated mind of Lawrence, child though he was, soon bade him check his vain and impetuous grief, and partly by entreaty, partly by gentle force, and tender upbraiding, he succeeded at last in leading his Mother from the room.

And while they go, their relative positions reversed, the child guiding, and the parent following,--you and I, dear reader, will learn who they are, and what has been their previous history.

Some years before this time, Wyndham and Sybil Towers, then very young and newly married, came to reside in Bury. He was a Physician, of great natural abilities, with much kindness, and generosity of heart, as well as fascinating manners, and personal attractions; but unfortunately without that perseverance and resolution which is so necessary for every man who has to work his way upward in one of the most tedious professions upon which he can enter. Still he was an universal favourite; for although everybody saw and lamented his indecision of character, and infirmness of purpose, yet everybody liked, and many consulted him. His professional talent was undoubted, and in several urgent cases to which he had been summoned, his measures had been so prompt, and their success so signal, that a more persevering and energetic man would have made them the certain stepping-stones to fortune. But, unhappily, Doctor Towers' energies died out with the immediate causes which called them forth. He was indefatigable while the danger and excitement lasted, but when patience, daily work with small or no signs of the invalids amendment to reward and encourage him were required, then his interest abated, and his attention too. Thus it came, that although Doctor Towers was a frequent and most popular guest at the houses of all the principal people in his own town and neighbourhood, and his professional opinion held in great estimation, his practice was very small. Still, unlike the generality of men of his temperament, his personal expenses were small too. There was no coarseness of selfishness about him. If he could not persevere in his profession, and earn a handsome competence for his family, neither would he spend what he did earn in luxuries or indulgences for himself. He would not go day after day to see a patient whose condition was stationary, but if he thus lost guinea after guinea, he would sit down uncomplainingly to the frugal meal of home, and neither wish nor ask for the most trifling addition; and this very forbearance of complaint, where certainly he had no right to make any, bound his wife's heart closer to him. Her love, which would have lavished all upon him, was grateful for his content. She did not see, that loving generous Sybil! that, that for which she was so grateful, was only a more refined and subtle form of selfishness, or if now and then she could not help but see it, the love she felt, and the duty and obedience she had sworn, kept her silent.

They had enough to live upon, and although Mrs. Towers and her four beautiful children were more plainly dressed, and had fewer indulgences than any others, of the same position, yet Sybil was happy. Home and home pleasures were dearer to her than any other enjoyments, and as the unmistakeable grace and elegance of her children, looked out even more decidedly from their coarse plain dress, than they would have done from costlier garments, her maternal pride was satisfied. With some little difficulty, for the annual payments were serious deductions from his professional income, Sybil Towers persuaded her husband to insure his life for two thousand pounds, and this had been effected only three years, before he died.

When it was too late, when fever and death had claimed him for their own, Doctor Towers saw the sin and cruelty of his past life of indolence, and with an earnestness worthy of the cause, implored his children to take warning by his example, and avoid the fatal rock upon which he had struck.

Into the hearts of two of his hearers, this warning sunk with abiding effect, and the others were too deeply shocked at seeing the face they loved bedewed with the tears of remorse, to forget it easily. But between Lawrence and Minnie, and Wyndham and Maude, there was as wide a difference of disposition as between their parents.

Lawrence was the eldest, next was Maude, then came Wyndham and Minnie. There was a great deal that was good and beautiful in the disposition of each of these children, but there was a great deal also to fear, to check, and to nurse into quicker life.

Lawrence, at his father's death, was thirteen years old. He was a quiet brave boy, with a most resolute and determined will, a perseverance nothing could subdue, and fair average talent. His love for his mother was the ruling passion of his nature, and next to her he loved his wayward and beautiful sister Maude. He was the most unselfish of human beings,--would make any sacrifice for those he loved, but was too proud to suffer them to think that he considered what he did a sacrifice, and far too great-hearted to boast of it. He would have died in torture for love or duty's sake, and have made no sign. This was his form of pride.

Maude at twelve years old was as beautiful as a fairy, and as haughty as their queen. She was generous and affectionate, though indolent and wayward; and, notwithstanding her unusual capabilities, sadly averse to cultivate them. Her love and pride never urged her to sacrifice her own comfort or fancies for the good of others.

Wyndham, who came next to Maude, was of a frank and generous nature, as proud as his sister, but more courteous and impulsive. He was very clever, and by fits and starts, as children say, would do wonders, distancing his older and more persevering brother signally; but a victory once obtained, the exertion necessary to secure it, was too uninteresting and plodding for him, and the vantage ground was even more easily lost than won. He was very like his father in all things, except that he was more selfish; he was as fickle as the wind,

Last of all came Minnie, a sweet child of nine years. Without the beauty of her brothers and sisters, she had all their best qualities; the pride of Maude, but more chastened and unselfish; the perseverance and filial affection of Lawrence, without his leaven of reserve, and the generosity of Wyndham, without his self-esteem. She was not what people call a clever child, but she was that better thing, a good and high principled one. She would never attain the pinnacle which both her brothers and Maude might easily climb, did they choose to strive, but the chances were, that with her patience, firmness and quiet determination, she would far outrun Maude and Wyndham in the race of life.

Such were the children with whom the widow was left, having only the meagre income arising from the two thousand pounds for which her husband had insured his life, to support and educate them.

Many hearts would have sunk, and many spirits have been crushed into helplessness by the prospect which now lay before Sybil. But she was one whom great emergencies rouse not cripple, and whose love was that active living principle, which could never sink or flag, while those she loved needed her exertions.

The pittance upon which she had now to live and educate her children was small indeed, but not for long did her courage fail or falter; she felt that, humanly speaking, everything depended upon her, and she rallied all her powers of mind and body to answer the call. At first, when the blow fell, and the last tones of that beloved voice she was no more to hear on earth were still ringing in her ears, her grief was unappeasable; nothing could reconcile, nothing could comfort her, she was frantic and unmanageable; no one could entice or withdraw her from the body of her husband, and the agony of mind she endured was terrible to witness. Her children seemed to be forgotten, food and rest were utterly neglected, and not one thought or sense alive, but that he was gone, whom, in despite of faults and follies, she had loved with her whole heart.

But after a time the storm of grief abated, and the consciousness of all that was necessary to be done, came with its full force upon her mind, and then with an effort, which it was difficult to make, and still more difficult to continue, she resumed the patient duties she had for a time forsaken.

And patience and fortitude, courage and hope, were indeed called for now. The interest of two thousand pounds used with the most rigid economy, was a miserable income on which to support, clothe, and educate four children as befitted the sons and daughters of a gentleman, and poor Sybil's heart sank at the prospect. But God, who never removes one prop without in some way replacing it, gave to the widow an unexpected aid in the thoughtful brave heart of her young son Lawrence; child as he was in years,--in resolution and endurance he was a man. He had already laid out a plan for himself, fixed his eye upon the goal he meant to reach, and was bending all his energies to accomplish it. College, college, to go eventually to college. To gain a Fellowship; by its means to support his darling mother and sisters, and aid Wyndham; and then, unfettered by the thought of their necessities, to work onward at the Bar, was his dream,--his one passionate aspiration, and to achieve this most difficult end, all his powers were applied.

And with a wisdom, rare at any age, but especially so at his, he overlooked no obstacles, imagined no miracles, but quietly, faithfully counted the cost, and resolved to pay it. He did not deceive himself, he knew that he must suffer much, work much, bear and deny himself much, but the knowledge never made his resolution falter; the end was worth the sacrifice, and he did not hesitate.

But all this was hidden in his heart, Lawrence was too proud to tell it, too proud to make a boast of what he meant to do. To people generally, he seemed a quiet passionless boy, industrious and well principled, though not particularly clever; and while they thought Mrs. Towers happy in having so steady and good a son, not one suspected his real worth.

When his father died, Lawrence had been four years at the Royal Free Grammar School of the town, but had only attained a place in the upper fourth form. This position did not satisfy him now, he knew that to progress at this rate would never take him to the eminence he coveted, and thenceforth he determined that every other thing which was not absolutely necessary to be done, should give way to study. He knew that his talents were not brilliant, that it would cost him many hours to achieve what Wyndham could do in one, and therefore that perseverance was the only weapon which would ensure him the victory, but in all history he had bright examples of what great things perseverance can do, and what had been accomplished once, might he well knew be done again.