Yale Literary Magazine/Volume 85/Issue 759/A Student's Walk

——I rebel, I slam down my books, I break forth with arms uplifted from the sulphurous vale of application (wherein an unnatural atmosphere as of sickening ether lingers), onto the slopes of liberty. I flee as one would from the poisonous fumes of Vesuvius. Behind is all the pounding, the boring, the rasping of self-indoctrination. Behind, all the impossibility of absorbing, of analyzing, of committing, of dissecting; of building up card-houses of memory inevitably overthrown by "the unimaginable touch of time." The wrinkles are left behind to multiply between the covers of text-books. Behind are the clenched teeth, the strained eyes, the nervous movement of the fingers through the moist hair, and all the other symptoms and concomitants of the Unnatural Process. Behind me is the Aristophanean laughter of a jaded Minerva from above the book-case; the madhouse laughter of Father Time on the mantel, where he spills gold that becomes dust and ashes; the fiendish laughter of Euclid, Caesar, Cicero, the holy fathers, prophets, priests and sages, down to Taussig and Bryce, all exulting horribly as they pass on (with interest!) the Great Delusions which they received (with interest!) from other fiendish laughters in a nightmare, lunatic world. What was that that echoed and died along the sky but a tremendous laugh from some mad god, hooting earth's aspirations, and anticipating with huge delight the wailing and gnashing of teeth when comes disillusionment.

What release there is, on the open road! Miles behind and miles before, but what are half a hundred miles to the exultant stride of youth and freedom? Stretch it out then, throw back the shoulders, and breathe in the whole atmosphere. The wind scampers ahead and back, jumps up at you and tugs at your clothes, for all the world like a terrier. Farm houses, fields, fences and poles vanish behind, while clouds and the distance race one up the road. The exercise sends the blood coursing through the veins, and the dizzy eyes behold the skies swirling and rushing as though composed of matter. Stop a minute and see the fields and skies whirling along while you steady yourself.

So when at last there comes relief, when the road is clear and the spirit has sunk to the sea-level of all nature, we can look back calmly on our escape. It is as though we had just awakened from a fever. We have been unconscious, we remember nothing of it but the paroxysm in the midst of which we awoke, and the beating of the heart which did not at once subside. Surely we have been in a far country, and the true self has not been there to comfort us. But now in the peace of reunion, myself and I walk along the muddied road or in the swampy woods, taking delight in all things.

On returning all was found different. A power able to move mountains had been at work. That heavy, oppressive room had been expanded. My spirit entering was not forced to stoop, but exulted to find the walls widening and the ceiling towering. The dingy and murky atmosphere had been expelled by radiance and color. I stood in a palace so light that it seemed a-tip-toe for flight. True, the books were still there, but how they had shrunk. The trespassing power, whoever he was, had compressed them from their truly encyclopædic dimensions into pocket editions. I took one up. It looked strangely new and was as interesting as a leaf or a flower. At the same time it wore a rather penitent air, as though it had done me injustice. I greeted it all the more affectionately, as divided friends that kiss again with tears. All was renovated. The Tithonean Minerva above the book-case, (my raven), had given place to an ever-youthful Minerva. Father Time is not now scattering but amassing golden grains, each one differently jewelled. The philosophers and poets, the linguists and scientists, speak comfortably from the shelf. And what was that that echoed and died along the sky? Not the reverberating, idiotic laugh of an Aristophanes, but the very music of the spheres. Amos N. Wilder.