It seems to me this must be so; because the pilgrim who surrenders himself to the influences of these peaceful and sun-inundated coasts, under this sky which the bright Athena loved and loves, loses, by and by, those longings and heart-sicknesses which waste away his life, and comes under the dominion, more and more, of those constant desires after that which is peaceful and enduring and has the saving quality of purity.  I know, indeed, that it is not always so; and that, as Boreas is a better nurse of rugged virtue than Zephyr, so the soft influences of this clime only minister to the fatal desires of some:  and such are likely to sail speedily back to Naples.

The Sirens, indeed, are everywhere; and I do not know that we can go anywhere that we shall escape the infinite longings, or satisfy them.  Here, in the purple twilight of history, they offered men the choice of good and evil.  I have a fancy, that, in stepping out of the whirl of modern life upon a quiet headland, so blessed of two powers, the air and the sea, we are able to come to a truer perception of the drift of the eternal desires within us.  But I cannot say whether it is a subtle fascination, linked with these mythic and moral influences, or only the physical loveliness of this promontory, that lures travelers hither, and detains them on flowery meads.

BEING A BOY

By Charles Dudley Warner

BEING A BOY

One of the best things in the world to be is a boy; it requires no experience, though it needs some practice to be a good one.  The disadvantage of the position is that it does not last long enough; it is soon over; just as you get used to being a boy, you have to be something else, with a good deal more work to do and not half so much fun.  And yet every boy is anxious to be a man, and is very uneasy with the restrictions that are put upon him as a boy.  Good fun as it is to yoke up the calves and play work, there is not a boy on a farm but would rather drive a yoke of oxen at real work.  What a glorious feeling it is, indeed, when a boy is for the first time given the long whip and permitted to drive the oxen, walking by their side, swinging the long lash, and shouting “Gee, Buck!” “Haw, Golden!” “Whoa, Bright!” and all the rest of that remarkable language, until he is red in the face, and all the neighbors for half a mile are aware that something unusual is going on.  If I were a boy, I am not sure but I would rather drive the oxen than have a birthday.  The proudest day of my life was one day when I rode on the neap of the cart, and drove the oxen, all alone, with a load of apples to the cider-mill.  I was so little that it was a wonder that I did n’t fall off, and get under the broad wheels.  Nothing could make a boy, who cared anything for his appearance, feel flatter than to be run over by the broad tire of a cart-wheel.