And they do well, for Seward’s name and fame are Auburn’s glory.

* * * * *

I may be mistaken, but it seems to me that all the worry of the world is quite useless.  And on no subject affecting mortals is there so much worry as on that of (no, not love!) parents’ ambitions for their children.  When the dimpled darling toddles and lisps and chatters, the satisfaction he gives is unalloyed; for he is so small and insignificant, his demands so imperious, that the entire household dance attendance on the wee tyrant, and count it joy.  But by and by the things at which we used to laugh become presumptuous, and that which was once funny is now perverse.  And the more practical a man is, the larger his stock of Connecticut commonsense, the greater his disillusionment as his children grow to manhood.  When he beholds dawdling inanity and dowdy vanity growing lush as jimson, where yesterday, with strained prophetic vision, he saw budding excellence and worth, his soul is wrung by a worry that knows no peace.  The matter is so poignantly personal that he dare not share it with another in confessional, and so he hugs his grief to his heart, and tries to hide it even from himself.

And thus does many a mother scrub the kitchen-floor on her knees, rather than face the irony of maternity and ask the assistance of the seventeen-year-old pert chit with bangs, who strums a mandolin in the little front parlor, gay with its paper flowers, six plush-covered chairs and a “company” sofa.

The late Commodore Vanderbilt is reported to have said, “I have over a dozen sons, and not one is worth a damn.”  I fear me that every father with sons grown to manhood has at some time voiced the same sentiment, curtailed, possibly, only as to numbers, and softened by another expletive, which does not mitigate the anguish of his cry, as he sees the dreams he had for his baby boys fade away into a mist of agonizing tears.

And is all this worry the penalty that Nature exacts for dreaming dreams that can not in their very nature come true?  Jean Jacques Rousseau, who wrote so beautifully on child-study, avoided the risk of failure by putting his children into an asylum; several “Communities” since have set apart certain women to be mothers to all, and bring up and care for the young, and strangely, with no apparent loss to the children; and Bellamy prophesies a day when the worries of parenthood will all be transferred to a “committee.”

But the worry is futile and senseless, being born often of a blindness that will not wait.  Man has not only “Seven Ages,” but many more, and he must pass through this one before the next arrives.  The Commodore certainly possessed what is called horse-sense, and if his conceptions of character had been clearer, he might have realized that in more ways than one the abilities of his sons were going to be greater than his own.  His eldest son was, nevertheless, banished to a Long Island farm on a pension,