We can be but partially acquainted even with the eventswhich actually influence our course through life and ourfinal destiny. There are innumerable other events， if suchthey may be called， which come close upon us， yet passaway without actual results or even betraying their nearapproach by the reflection of any light or shadow acrossour minds. Could we know all the vicissitudes of ourfortunes， life would be too full of hope and fear， exultationor disappointment， to afford us a single hour of trueserenity. This idea may be illustrated by a page from thesecret history of David Swan.
We have nothing to do with David until we find him，at the age of twenty， on the high road from his nativeplace to the city of Boston， where his uncle， a smalldealer in the grocery line， was to take him behind thecounter. Be it enough to say that he was a native of NewHampshire， born of respectable parents， and had receivedan ordinary school education with a classic finish by a yearat Gilmanton Academy. After journeying on foot fromsunrise till nearly noon of a summer’s day， his wearinessand the increasing heat determined him to sit down inthe first convenient shade and await the coming up of thestage-coach. As if planted on purpose for him， there soonappeared a little tuft of maples with a delightful recess inthe midst， and such a fresh bubbling spring that it seemednever to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David Swan.
Virgin or not， he kissed it with his thirsty lips and thenflung himself along the brink， pillowing his head uponsome shirts and a pair of pantaloons tied up in a stripedcotton handkerchief. The sunbeams could not reach him；the dust did not yet rise from the road after the heavyrain of yesterday， and his grassy lair suited the young manbetter than a bed of down. The spring murmured drowsilybeside him； the branches waved dreamily across the bluesky overhead， and a deep sleep， perchance hiding dreamswithin its depths， fell upon David Swan. But we are torelate events which he did not dream of.
While he lay sound asleep in the shade other peoplewere wide awake， and passed to and fro， afoot， onhorseback and in all sorts of vehicles， along the sunny roadby his bedchamber. Some looked neither to the right handnor the left and knew not that he was there； some merelyglanced that way without admitting the slumberer amongtheir busy thoughts； some laughed to see how soundlyhe slept， and several whose hearts were brimming full ofscorn ejected their venomous superfluity on David Swan.
A middle-aged widow， when nobody else was near， thrusther head a little way into the recess， and vowed that theyoung fellow looked charming in his sleep. A temperancelecturer saw him， and wrought poor David into thetexture of his evening’s discourse as an awful instance ofdead drunkenness by the roadside. But censure， praise，merriment， scorn and indifference were all one—or， rather，all nothing—to David Swan.
He had slept only a few moments when a brown carriagedrawn by a handsome pair of horses bowled easily alongand was brought to a standstill nearly in front of David’sresting-place. A linch-pin had fallen out and permittedone of the wheels to slide off. The damage was slightand occasioned merely a momentary alarm to an elderlymerchant and his wife， who were returning to Bostonin the carriage. While the coachman and a servant werereplacing the wheel the lady and gentleman shelteredthemselves beneath the maple trees， and there espiedthe bubbling fountain and David Swan asleep besideit. Impressed with the awe which the humblest sleeperusually sheds around him， the merchant trod as lightly as thegout would allow， and his spouse took good heed not to rustleher silk gown lest David should start up all of a sudden.
“How soundly he sleeps！” whispered the old gentleman.
“From what a depth he draws that easy breath！ Such sleepas that， brought on without an opiate， would be worthmore to me than half my income， for it would supposehealth and an untroubled mind.”
“And youth besides，” said the lady. “Healthy and quietage does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no more like histhan our wakefulness.”
The longer they looked， the more did this elderly couplefeel interested in the unknown youth to whom the waysideand the maple shade were as a secret chamber withthe rich gloom of damask curtains brooding over him.
Perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down uponhis face， the lady contrived to twist a branch aside so as tointercept it， and， having done this little act of kindness，she began to feel like a mother to him.
“Providence seems to have laid him here，” whisperedshe to her husband， “and to have brought us hither tofind him， after our disappointment in our cousin’s son.
Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed Henry. Shallwe waken him？”
“To what purpose？” said the merchant， hesitating. “Weknow nothing of the youth’s character.”
“That open countenance！” replied his wife， in the samehushed voice， yet earnestly. “This innocent sleep！”
While these whispers were passing， the sleeper’s heartdid not throb， nor his breath become agitated， nor hisfeatures betray the least token of interest. Yet Fortune wasbending over him， just ready to let fall a burden of gold.
The old merchant had lost his only son， and had no heirto his wealth except a distant relative with whose conducthe was dissatisfied. In such cases people sometimes dostranger things than to act the magician and awaken ayoung man to splendor who fell asleep in poverty.
“Shall we not waken him？” repeated the lady， persuasively.
“The coach is ready， Sir，” said the servant， behind.
The old couple started， reddened and hurried away，mutually wondering that they should ever have dreamedof doing anything so very ridiculous. The merchant threwhimself back in the carriage and occupied his mind withthe plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate men ofbusiness. Meanwhile， David Swan enjoyed his nap.