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"Yes, Mac, the new life dawns upon me, no Plotinian trance, no somnambulic introspection, but a genuine awakening of the soul to a sense of its own beauty." "Prodigious! as Dominie Sampson would say. Nay, I am not laughing at you, Clarian," said Mac, pointing to the picture; "there is enough to make me believe in you, though how you achieved it I cannot imagine." "The means, Mac?
It was during the hour for the forenoon recitation, and the elm-shaded campus was entirely free of students. As Clarian walked along, his eyes bent down, I heard him murmuring that delicious verse of George Herbert's, "Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky! The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die!" "'For thou must die, so sad!
Towards this class Clarian tended, I knew very well, and hence, from the first, I had thrown a damper upon his artistic aspirations, often rewarded by his mournful and reproaching glances, as I sneered at his sketches, which, to tell the truth, were most admirable, showing at once a keen poetic insight, fine composition, and an unusual mastery of technical details.
Buckhurst?" asked Mac, with considerable impatience in his tones. "Eh, what? He's mighty delicate, a'n't he?" said the man, with his thumb indicating the next room. "Very delicate indeed, Sir, perhaps you can explain the cause of his present attack," said I, angrily; for I had begun to think, from Buckhurst's manner, that he had been guilty of some practical joke upon Clarian.
Not that Clarian was effeminate, or in any material respect deficient in manly character; but his mother was a widow, and he her only son, and consequently he had been brought up like a girl, at home, without any slightest opportunity to acquire those rough-and-tumble experiences of ordinary boyhood which are so necessary to fit us for battling in the world; for the world, though not unfeeling at core, wears yet a sufficiently rough rind, and pretends but little sympathy with persons of Clarian's stamp.
Here the inner door was opened, and Thorne joined us, with a moisture about his eyes that he used afterwards to deny most vehemently. "Buckhurst, he wants to see you; go in there," said he, adding, in a lower tone, "Now, mind you, the child's delicate as spun glass; so be careful." "Come in, Mr. Buckhurst," called Clarian.
"Anan?" said Mac, looking at the boy curiously. "For instance, in what the good Cure of Meudon says about the 'herb Pantagruelion', did the symbolism and esoteric meaning of all that never strike you?" "Oh, yes," cried Mac, with a singularly significant smile, "I see how it is now. I understand. You are improving, Clarian, rapidly.
'Tis pity you and I have not experienced a slight attack of that same poverty, Ned Blount!" "Poor Clarian!" repeated I, sturdily.
Come, I will take no denial, I am about to finish it, and I want your criticisms before I lay on the final touches." "Why not to-morrow, Clarian?" "Then everybody will want to see. No, it must be to-night." Mac and I were by no means reluctant to humor the lad, for we were not incurious respecting the picture, and we accompanied him forthwith.
We were talking about Clarian and his picture, at the time, as, indeed, we had been doing for a month, and when I mentioned the purport of the note, curiosity rose to the tiptoe of expectation, and numerous surmises were set afloat.
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