His life in the
garden had granted serenity to his forehead, the reading of his few
books had filled his eyes with reverie, and the feeling that he was not
quite a good citizen had given a slight and occasional trembling to his
lips.
garden had granted serenity to his forehead, the reading of his few
books had filled his eyes with reverie, and the feeling that he was not
quite a good citizen had given a slight and occasional trembling to his
lips.
Yeats
' He dined at two with
perfect regularity, and in the afternoon went out to shoot or walk.
At twilight he set night-lines. Later on he read. He had not many
books--a Shakespeare, Mungo Park's travels, a few two-shilling novels,
_Percy's Reliques_, and a volume on etiquette. He seldom varied his
occupations. He had no profession. The town talked of it. They said:
'He lives upon his mother,' and were very angry. They never let him
see this, however, for it was generally understood he would be a
dangerous fellow to rouse; but there was an uncle from whom Sherman had
expectations who sometimes wrote remonstrating. Mrs. Sherman resented
these letters, for she was afraid of her son going away to seek his
fortune--perhaps even in America. Now this matter preyed somewhat on
Sherman. For three years or so he had been trying to make his mind up
and come to some decision. Sometimes when reading he would start and
press his lips together and knit his brows for a moment.
It will now be seen why the garden, the book, and the letter were
the three symbols of his life, summing up as they did his love of
out-of-door doings, his meditations, his anxieties.
His life in the
garden had granted serenity to his forehead, the reading of his few
books had filled his eyes with reverie, and the feeling that he was not
quite a good citizen had given a slight and occasional trembling to his
lips.
He opened the letter. Its contents were what he had long expected.
His uncle offered to take him into his office. He laid it spread
out before him--a foot on each margin, right and left--and looked at
it, turning the matter over and over in his mind. Would he go? would
he stay? He did not like the idea much. The lounger in him did not
enjoy the thought of London. Gradually his mind wandered away into
scheming--infinite scheming--what would he do if he went, what would he
do if he did not go?
A beetle, attracted by the faint sunlight, had crawled out of its hole.
It saw the paper and crept on to it, the better to catch the sunlight.
Sherman saw the beetle but his mind was not occupied with it. 'Shall I
tell Mary Carton? ' he was thinking. Mary had long been his adviser and
friend.
perfect regularity, and in the afternoon went out to shoot or walk.
At twilight he set night-lines. Later on he read. He had not many
books--a Shakespeare, Mungo Park's travels, a few two-shilling novels,
_Percy's Reliques_, and a volume on etiquette. He seldom varied his
occupations. He had no profession. The town talked of it. They said:
'He lives upon his mother,' and were very angry. They never let him
see this, however, for it was generally understood he would be a
dangerous fellow to rouse; but there was an uncle from whom Sherman had
expectations who sometimes wrote remonstrating. Mrs. Sherman resented
these letters, for she was afraid of her son going away to seek his
fortune--perhaps even in America. Now this matter preyed somewhat on
Sherman. For three years or so he had been trying to make his mind up
and come to some decision. Sometimes when reading he would start and
press his lips together and knit his brows for a moment.
It will now be seen why the garden, the book, and the letter were
the three symbols of his life, summing up as they did his love of
out-of-door doings, his meditations, his anxieties.
His life in the
garden had granted serenity to his forehead, the reading of his few
books had filled his eyes with reverie, and the feeling that he was not
quite a good citizen had given a slight and occasional trembling to his
lips.
He opened the letter. Its contents were what he had long expected.
His uncle offered to take him into his office. He laid it spread
out before him--a foot on each margin, right and left--and looked at
it, turning the matter over and over in his mind. Would he go? would
he stay? He did not like the idea much. The lounger in him did not
enjoy the thought of London. Gradually his mind wandered away into
scheming--infinite scheming--what would he do if he went, what would he
do if he did not go?
A beetle, attracted by the faint sunlight, had crawled out of its hole.
It saw the paper and crept on to it, the better to catch the sunlight.
Sherman saw the beetle but his mind was not occupied with it. 'Shall I
tell Mary Carton? ' he was thinking. Mary had long been his adviser and
friend.
