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 comes 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 rewrite; and when it is at length complete and out of your hands, you are harassed by a thousand doubts.  At times, as you recall 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 a 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 pass out with a harsh murmur along the aisles and through the doorways.  It would be well if there were no disappointments in life more terrible than this.  It is consoling to express very depreciating 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 once entertained so much respect, seems to your crazy, classic fancy a very humdrum 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.