d of Ophir;
but shall it therefore rot in the harbor? No; give its sails to the
wind! But I had expected that Roland's letter to his son would have been
full of joy and exultation,--joy there was none in it, yet exultation
there might be, though serious, grave, and subdued. In the proud assent
that the old soldier gave to his son's wish, in his entire comprehension
of motives so akin to his own nature, there was yet a visible sorrow; it
seemed even as if he constrained himself to the assent he gave. Not till
I had read it again and again could I divine Roland's feelings while he
wrote. At this distance of time I comprehend them well. Had he sent from
his side, into noble warfare, some boy fresh to life, new to sin, with
an enthusiasm pure and single-hearted as his own young chivalrous ardor,
then, with all a soldier's joy, he had yielded a cheerful tribute to the
hosts of England. But here he recognized, though perhaps dimly, not the
frank, military fervor, but the stern desire of expiation; and in that
thought he admitted forebodings that would have been otherwise
rejected, so that at the close of the letter it seemed, not the fiery,
war-seasoned Roland that wrote, but rather some timid, anxious mother.
Warnings and entreaties and cautions not to be rash, and assurances that
the best soldiers were ever the most prudent,--were these the counsels
of the fierce veteran who at the head of the forlorn hope had mounted
the wall at--, his sword between his teeth?

But whatever his presentiments, Roland had yielded at once to his son's
prayer, hastened to London at the receipt of his letter, obtained
a commission in a regiment now in active service in India; and that
commission was made out in his son's name. The commission, with an order
to join the regiment as soon as possible, accompanied the letter.

And Vivian, pointing to the name addressed to him, said, "Now indeed I
may resume this name, and next to Heaven will I hold it sacred! It shall
guide me to glory in life, or my father shall read it, without shame,
on my tomb!" I see him before me as he stood then,--his form erect, his
dark eyes solemn in their light, a serenity in his smile, a grandeur on
his brow, that I had never marked till then! Was that the same man I
had recoiled from as the sneering cynic, shuddered at as the audacious
traitor, or wept over as the cowering outcast? How little the nobleness
of aspect depends on symmetry of feature, or the mere proportion