I

II.

FIRST AMBITION.

BELIEVE that sooner or later, there come to

every man, dreams of ambition. They may be covered with the sloth of habit, or with a pretence of humility: they may come only in dim, shadowy visions, that feed the eye, like the glories of an ocean sun-rise; but, you may be sure that they will come: even before one is aware, the bold, adventurous Goddess, whose name is Ambition, and whose dower is Fame, will be toying with the feeble heart. And she pushes her ventures with a bold hand: she makes timidity strong, and weakness valiant.

The way of a man's heart, will be foreshadowed by what goodness lies in him,-coming from above, and from around ;-but a way foreshadowed, is not a way

made. And the making of a man's way, cornes only from that quickening of resolve, which we call Ambition. It is the spur that makes man struggle with Destiny: it is Heaven's own incentive, to make Purpose great, and Achievement greater.

It would be strange if you, in that cloister life of a college, did not sometimes feel a dawning of new resolves. They grapple you indeed, oftener than you dare to speak of. Here, you dream first of that very sweet, but very shadowy success, called reputation.

You think of the delight and astonishment, it would give your mother and father, and most of all, little Nelly, if you were winning such honors, as now escape you. You measure your capacities by those about you, and watch their habit of study; you gaze for a half hour together, upon some successful man, who has won his prizes; and wonder by what secret action he has done it. And when, in time, you come to be a competitor yourself, your anxiety is immense.

You spend hours upon hours at your theme. You write and re-write; and when it is at length complete, and out of your hands, you are harassed by a thousand doubts. At times, as you recal your hours of toil, you question if so much has been spent upon any other; you feel almost certain of success. You repeat to yourself, some passages of special eloquence, at night. You fancy the admiration of

the Professors at meeting with such wonderful performance. You have a slight fear that its superior goodness may awaken the suspicion, that some one out of the college-some superior man, may have written it. But this fear dies away.

The eventful day is a great one in your calendar; you hardly sleep the night previous. You tremble as the Chapel bell is rung; you profess to be very indifferent, as the reading, and the prayer close; you

even stoop to take up your hat, as if you had entirely overlooked the fact, that the old President was in the desk, for the express purpose of declaring the successful names. You listen dreamily to his tremulous, yet fearfully distinct enunciation. Your head swims strangely. They all out with a harsh murmur, along pass the aisles, and through the door ways. It would be well if there were no disappointments in life more terrible than this. It is consoling to express very deprecating opinions of the Faculty in general;-and very contemptuous ones of that particular officer who decided upon the merit of the prize themes. An evening or two at Dalton's room go still farther toward healing the disappointment; and—if it must be said— toward moderating the heat of your ambition.

You grow up however, unfortunately, as the College years fly by, into a very exaggerated sense of your

own capacities. Even the good, old, white-haired Squire, for whom you had once entertained so much respect, seems to your crazy, classic fancy, a very hum-drum sort of personage. Frank, although as noble a fellow as ever sat a horse, is yet-you cannot help thinking-very ignorant of Euripides; even the English master at Dr. Bidlow's school, you feel sure would balk at a dozen problems you could give him.

You get an exalted idea of that uncertain quality, which turns the heads of a vast many of your fellows, called-Genius. An odd notion seems to be inherent in the atmosphere of those College chambers, that there is a certain faculty of mind-first developed as would seem in Colleges,-which accomplishes whatever it chooses, without any special pains-taking. For a time, you fall yourself into this very unfortunate hallucination; you cultivate it, after the usual college fashion, by drinking a vast deal of strong coffee, and whiskey toddy,—by writing a little poor verse, in the Byronic temper, and by studying very late at night, with closed blinds.

It costs you, however, more anxiety and hypocrisy than you could possibly have believed.

-You will learn, Clarence, when the Autumn has rounded your hopeful Summer, if not before, that there is no Genius in life, like the Genius of energy and industry. You will learn, that all the traditions so

current among very young men, that certain great characters have wrought their greatness by an inspiration as it were, grow out of a sad mistake.

And you will further find, when you come to measure yourself with men, that there are no rivals so formidable, as those earnest, determined minds, which reckon the value of every hour, and which achieve eminence by persistent application.

Literary ambition may inflame you at certain periods; and a thought of some great names will flash like a spark into the mine of your purposes; you dream till midnight over books; you set up shadows, and chase them down-other shadows, and they fly. Dreaming will never catch them. Nothing makes the 'scent lie well,' in the hunt after distinction, but labor.

And it is a glorious thing, when once you are weary of the dissipation, and the ennui of your own aimless thought, to take up some glowing page of an earnest thinker, and read-deep, and long, until you feel the metal of his thought tinkling on your brain, and striking out from your flinty lethargy, flashes of ideas, that give the mind light and heat. And away you go, in the chase of what the soul within, is creating on the instant, and you wonder at the fecundity of what seemed so barren, and at the ripeness of what seemed so crude. The glow of toil wakes you to the consciousness of your real capacities: you feel sure that they have