And don't we, all of us, Mrs. G., take out our French Grammars, and learn, at some period of our lives, to translate that Gallic phrase? Don't we all get that old saw down and try its teeth on our tender flesh? When the old friends drop off, and the dear eyes we have loved look strange to us,--when the darling of our hearts is ruthlessly torn away, and we sit in the darkness of the tomb,--when shame for the living lost bows us to the earth in anguish,--when life has become meaningless, and nothing remains to vitalize the monotony of existence,--when we look upon our own past hopes, ambitions, interests, as though they characterized some other being, long since departed,--when the morning light and the evening shade, May's sweet flowers and November's yellow leaves, are only the symbols of Time's weary flight, and awaken neither cheer nor gloom,--do we not all of us hear, in the silence of our hearts, the grating of that blade? Statues of Memnon are we all. The bright morning sun brings melodious music from our hearts; the soft, perfumed air bears afar the strains of jocund hope, passionate love, and aspiring faith. But when the shadows fall, the strains lose their sweetness and beauty; one by one, the rich harmonies change into harsh dissonance, then cease altogether; and the sun sets on a silent form which in the morning sent forth seraphic tones.
My dear boy, let us hope that you and I and all those we love so dearly will always have a bright sun above our earthly horizon to give us cheer, and to light our way, and to bring sweet songs from our hearts. And if it should set in the night of suffering and sorrow, let us guide ourselves by a holier, purer, steadier light than mortal hands can mould or kindle. So pass me those snuffers, and I will put out the candle, and we will go to bed. For all this paper of candle-ends I have collected, Bridget will find our beautiful wax-light scarcely burned; and, certainly, I think it a very cheap and excellent purchase, _N'est-ce pas, mon fils_?
At nine next morning, prayers and breakfast being despatched,--during which Parson Brummem had determined to leave Reuben to the sting of his conscience,--the master appears in the school-room with his wristbands turned up, and his ferule in hand, to enforce judgment upon the culprit. It had been a frosty night, and the cool October air had not tempted the boys to any wide movement out of doors, so that no occupant of the parsonage had as yet detected the draggled white banner that hung from the prison-window.