A　Far　Country
  By　Winston　Churchill
  I。
  My　name　is　Hugh　Paret。　　I　was　a　corporation　lawyer；　but　by　no　means　a
  typical　one；　the　choice　of　my　profession　being　merely　incidental；　and
  due；　as　will　be　seen；　to　the　accident　of　environment。　　The　book　I　am
  about　to　write　might　aptly　be　called　The　Autobiography　of　a　Romanticist。
  In　that　sense；　if　in　no　other；　I　have　been　a　typical　American；　regarding
  my　country　as　the　happy　hunting…ground　of　enlightened　self…interest；　as　a
  function　of　my　desires。　　Whether　or　not　I　have　completely　got　rid　of　this
  romantic　virus　I　must　leave　to　those　the　aim　of　whose　existence　is　to
  eradicate　it　from　our　literature　and　our　life。　　A　somewhat　Augean　task！
  I　have　been　impelled　therefore　to　make　an　attempt　at　setting　forth；　with
  what　frankness　and　sincerity　I　may；　with　those　powers　of　selection　of
  which　I　am　capable；　the　life　I　have　lived　in　this　modern　America；　the
  passions　I　have　known；　the　evils　I　have　done。　　I　endeavour　to　write　a
  biography　of　the　inner　life；　but　in　order　to　do　this　I　shall　have　to
  relate　those　causal　experiences　of　the　outer　existence　that　take　place　in
  the　world　of　space　and　time；　in　the　four　walls　of　the　home；　in　the　school
  and　university；　in　the　noisy　streets；　in　the　realm　of　business　and
  politics。　　I　shall　try　to　set　down；　impartially；　the　motives　that　have
  impelled　my　actions；　to　reveal　in　some　degree　the　amazing　mixture　of　good
  and　evil　which　has　made　me　what　I　am　to…day：　to　avoid　the　tricks　of
  memory　and　resist　the　inherent　desire　to　present　myself　other　and　better
  than　I　am。　　Your　American　romanticist　is　a　sentimental　spoiled　child　who
  believes　in　miracles；　whose　needs　are　mostly　baubles；　whose　desires　are
  dreams。　　Expediency　is　his　motto。　　Innocent　of　a　knowledge　of　the
  principles　of　the　universe；　he　lives　in　a　state　of　ceaseless　activity；
  admitting　no　limitations；　impatient　of　all　restrictions。　　What　he　wants；
  he　wants　very　badly　indeed。　　This　wanting　things　was　the　corner…stone　of
  my　character；　and　I　believe　that　the　science　of　the　future　will　bear　me
  out　when　I　say　that　it　might　have　been　differently　built　upon。　　Certain
  it　is　that　the　system　of　education　in　vogue　in　the　70's　and　80's　never
  contemplated　the　search　for　natural　corner…stones。
  At　all　events；　when　I　look　back　upon　the　boy　I　was；　I　see　the　beginnings
  of　a　real　person　who　fades　little　by　little　as　manhood　arrives　and
  advances；　until　suddenly　I　am　aware　that　a　stranger　has　taken　his
  place。。。。
  I　lived　in　a　city　which　is　now　some　twelve　hours　distant　from　the
  Atlantic　seaboard。　　A　very　different　city；　too；　it　was　in　youth；　in　my
  grandfather's　day　and　my　father's；　even　in　my　own　boyhood；　from　what　it
  has　since　become　in　this　most　material　of　ages。
  There　is　a　book　of　my　photographs；　preserved　by　my　mother；　which　I　have
  been　looking　over　lately。　　First　is　presented　a　plump　child　of　two；
  gazing　in　smiling　trustfulness　upon　a　world　of　sunshine；　later　on　a　lean
  boy　in　plaided　kilts；　whose　wavy；　chestnut…brown　hair　has　been　most
  carefully　parted　on　the　side　by　Norah；　his　nurse。　　The　face　is　still
  childish。　　Then　appears　a　youth　of　fourteen　or　thereabout　in　long
  trousers　and　the　queerest　of　short　jackets；　standing　beside　a　marble
  table　against　a　classic　background；　he　is　smiling　still　in　undiminished
  hope　and　trust；　despite　increasing　vexations　and　crossings；　meaningless
  lessons　which　had　to　be　learned；　disciplines　to　rack　an　aspiring　soul；
  and　long；　uncomfortable　hours　in　the　stiff　pew　of　the　First　Presbyterian
  Church。　　Associated　with　this　torture　is　a　peculiar　Sunday　smell　and　the
  faint　rustling　of　silk　dresses。　　I　can　see　the　stern　black　figure　of　Dr。
  Pound；　who　made　interminable　statements　to　the　Lord。
  〃Oh；　Lord；〃　I　can　hear　him　say；　〃thou　knowest。。。〃
  These　pictures；　though　yellowed　and　faded；　suggest　vividly　the　being　I
  once　was；　the　feelings　that　possessed　and　animated　me；　love　for　my
  playmates；　vague　impulses　struggling　for　expression　in　a　world　forever
  thwarting　them。　　I　recall；　too；　innocent　dreams　of　a　future　unidentified；
  dreams　from　which　I　emerged　vibrating　with　an　energy　that　was　lost　for
  lack　of　a　definite　objective：　yet　it　was　constantly　being　renewed。　　I
  often　wonder　what　I　might　have　become　if　it　could　have　been　harnessed；
  directed！　　Speculations　are　vain。　　Calvinism；　though　it　had　begun　to　make
  compromises；　was　still　a　force　in　those　days；　inimical　to　spontaneity　and
  human　instincts。　　And　when　I　think　of　Calvinism　I　see；　not　Dr。　Pound；　who
  preached　it；　but　my　father；　who　practised　and　embodied　it。　　I　loved　him；
  but　he　made　of　righteousness　a　stern　and　terrible　thing　implying　not　joy；
  but　punishment；　the；　suppression　rather　than　the　expansion　of
  aspirations。　　His　religion　seemed　woven　all　of　austerity；　contained　no
  shining　threads　to　catch　my　eye。　　Dreams；　to　him；　were　matters　for
  suspicion　and　distrust。
  I　sometimes　ask　myself；　as　I　gaze　upon　his　portrait　now；　the　duplicate　of
  the　one　painted　for　the　Bar　Association；　whether　he　ever　could　have　felt
  the　secret；　hot　thrills　I　knew　and　did　not　identify　with　religion。　　His
  religion　was　real　to　him；　though　he　failed　utterly　to　make　it
  comprehensible　to　me。　　The　apparent　calmness；　evenness　of　his　life　awed
  me。　　A　successful　lawyer；　a　respected　and　trusted　citizen；　was　he　lacking
  somewhat　in　virility；　vitality？　　I　cannot　judge　him；　even　to…day。　　I
  never　knew　him。　　There　were　times　in　my　youth　when　the　curtain　of　his
  unfamiliar　spirit　was　withdrawn　a　little：　and　once；　after　I　had　passed
  the　crisis　of　some　childhood　disease；　I　awoke　to　find　him　bending　over　my
  bed　with　a　tender　expression　that　surprised　and　puzzled　me。
  He　was　well　educated；　and　from　his　portrait　a　shrewd　observer　might
  divine　in　him　a　genteel　taste　for　literature。　　The　fine　features　bear
  witness　to　the　influence　of　an　American　environment；　yet　suggest　the
  intellectual　Englishman　of　Matthew　Arnold's　time。　　The　face　is
  distinguished；　ascetic；　the　chestnut　hair　lighter　and　thinner　than　my
  own；　the　side　whiskers　are　not　too　obtrusive；　the　eyes　blue…grey。　　There
  is　a　large　black　cravat　crossed　and　held　by　a　cameo　pin；　and　the　coat　has
  odd；　narrow　lapels。　　His　habits　of　mind　were　English；　although　he
  harmonized　well　enough　with　the　manners　and　traditions　of　a　city　whose
  inheritance　was　Scotch…Irish；　and　he　invariably　drank　tea　for　breakfast。
  One　of　my　earliest　recollections　is　of　the　silver　breakfast　service　and
  egg…cups　which　my　great…grandfather　brought　with　him　from　Sheffield　to
  Philadelphia　shortly　after　the　Revolution。　　His　son；　Dr。　Hugh　Moreton
  Paret；　after　whom　I　was　named；　was　the　best　known　physician　of　the　city
  in　the　decorous；　Second　Bank　days。
  My　mother　was　Sarah　Breck。　　Hers　was　my　Scotch…Irish　side。　　Old　Benjamin
  Breck；　her　grandfather；　undaunted　by　sea　or　wilderness；　had　come　straight
  from　Belfast　to　the　little　log　settlement　by　the　great　river　that
  mirrored　then　the　mantle　of　primeval　forest　on　the　hills。　　So　much　for
  chance。　　He　kept　a　store　with　a　side　porch　and　square…paned　windows；
  where　hams　and　sides　of　bacon　and　sugar　loaves　in　blue　glazed　paper　hung
  beside　ploughs　and　calico　prints；　barrels　of　flour；　of　molasses　and　rum；
  all　of　which　had　been　somehow　marvellously　transported　over　the　passes　of
  those　forbidding　mountains；passes　we　blithely　thread　to…day　in　dining
  cars　and　compartment　sleepers。　　Behind　the　store　were　moored　the　barges
  that　floated　down　on　the　swift　current　to　the　Ohio；　carrying　goods　to
  even　remoter　settlements　in　the　western　wilderness。
  Benjamin；　in　addition　to　his　emigrant's　leather　box；　brought　with　him
  some　of　that　pigment　that　was　to　dye　the　locality　for　generations　a　deep
  blue。　　I　refer；　of　course；　to　his　Presbyterianism。　　And　in　order　the
  better　to　ensure　to　his　progeny　the　fastness　of　this　dye；　he　married　the
  granddaughter　of　a　famous　divine；　celebrated　in　the　annals　of　New
  England；no　doubt　with　some　injustice；as　a　staunch　advocate　on　the
  doctrine　of　infant　damnation。　　My　cousin　Robert　Breck　had　old　Benjamin's
  portrait；　which　has　since　gone　to　the　Kinley's。　　Heaven　knows　who　painted
  it；　though　no　great　art　were　needed　to　suggest　on　canvas　the　tough　fabric
  of　that　sitter；　who　was　more　Irish　than　Scotch。　　The　heavy　stick　he　holds
  might；　with　a　slight　stretch　of　the　imagination；　be　a　blackthorn；　his
  head　looks　capable　of　withstanding　many　blows；　his　hand　of　giving　many。
  And；　as　I　gazed　the　other　day　at　this　picture　hanging　in　the　shabby
  suburban　parlour；　I　could　only　contrast　him　with　his　anaemic　descendants
  who　possessed　the　likeness。　　Between　the　children　of　poor　Mary　Kinley；
  Cousin　Robert's　daughter；　and　the　hardy　stock　of　the　old　country　there　is
  a　gap　indeed！
  Benjamin　Breck　made　the　foundation　of　a　fortune。　　It　was　his　son　who
  built　on　the　Second　Bank　the　wide；　corniced　mansion　in　which　to　house
  comfortably　his　eight　children。　　There；　two　tiers　above　the　river；　lived
  my　paternal　grandfather；　Dr。　Paret；　the　Breck's　physician　and　friend；　the
  Durretts　and　the　Hambletons；　iron…masters；　the　Hollisters；　Sherwins；　the
  McAlerys　and　Ewanses；Breck　connections；the　Willetts　and　Ogilvys；　in
  short；　everyone　of　importance　in　the　days　between　the　'thirties　and　the
  Civil　War。　　Theirs　were　generous　houses