BEAUCHAMPE. — CHAPTER I.
[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]
The stormy and rugged winds of March were overblown—
the first fresh smiling days of April had come at
last—the days of sunshine and shower, of fitful breezes,
the breath of blossoms, and the newly awakened song of
birds. Spring was there in all the green and glory of her
youth, and the bosom of Kentucky heaved with the prolific
burden of the season. She had come, and her messengers
were every where, and every where busy. The birds bore
her gladsome tidings to
“Alley green,
Dingle or bushy dell of each wild wood,
And every bosky bourn from side to side—”
nor were the lately trodden and seared grasses of the forests
left unnoted; and the humbled flower of the wayside
sprang up at her summons. Like some loyal and devoted
people, gathered to hail the approach of a long exiled and
well-beloved sovereign, they crowded upon the path over
which she came, and yielded themselves with gladness at
her feet. The mingled songs and sounds of their rejoicing
might be heard, and far off murmurs of gratulation, rising
from the distant hollows, or coming faintly over the hill
tops, in accents not the less pleasing because they were the
less distinct. That lovely presence which makes every
land blossom and every living thing rejoice, met, in the
happy region in which we meet her now, a double tribute
of honour and rejoicing. The “dark and bloody ground,”
by which mournful epithets Kentucky was originally
-- 014 --
[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
known to the Anglo-American, was dark and bloody no
longer. The savage had disappeared from its green forests
for ever, and no longer profaned with slaughter, and his
unholy whoop of death, its broad and beautiful abodes. A
newer race had succeeded; and the wilderness, fulfilling
the better destinies of earth, had begun to blossom like the
rose. Conquest had fenced in its sterile borders, with a
wall of fearless men, and peace slept every where in security
among its green recesses. Stirring industry—the
perpetual conqueror—made the woods resound with the
echoes of his biting axe and ringing hammer. Smiling villages
rose in cheerful white, in place of the crumbling and
smoky cabins of the hunter. High and becoming purposes
of social life and thoughtful enterprise superseded that
eating and painful decay, which has terminated in the
annihilation of the native man; and which, among every
people, must always result from their refusal to exercise,
according to the decree of experience, no less than Providence,
their limbs and sinews in tasks of well directed
and continual labour. A great nation urging on a sleepless
war against sloth and feebleness, is one of the noblest of
human spectacles. This warfare was rapidly and hourly
changing the monotony and dreary aspects of rock and
forest. Under the creative hands of art, temples of magnificence
rose where the pines had fallen. Long and lovely
vistas were opened through the dark and hitherto impervious
thickets. The city sprang up beside the river, while
hamlets, filled with active hope and cheerful industry,
crowded upon the verdant hill-side, and clustered among
innumerable valleys. Grace began to seek out the homes
of toil, and taste supplied their decorations. A purer form
of religion hallowed the forest homes of the red man,
while expelling for ever the rude divinities of his worship;
and throughout the land, an advent of moral loveliness
seemed approaching, not less grateful to the affections and
the mind, than was the beauty of the infant April, to the
eye and the heart of the wanderer.
But something was still wanting to complete the harmonies
of nature, in the scene upon which we are about to
enter. Though the savage had for ever departed from its
limits, the blessings of a perfect civilization were not yet
secured to the new and flourishing regions of Kentucky.
Its morals were still in that fermenting condition which
-- 015 --
[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
invariably distinguishes the settlement of every new country
by a various and foreign people. At the distant period
of which we write, the population of Kentucky had not yet
become sufficiently stationary to have made their domestic
goods secure, or to have fixed the proper lines and limits
regulating social intercourse and attaching precise standards
to human conduct. The habits and passions of the first
settlers—those fearless pioneers who had struggled foot to
foot with the Indian, and lived in a kindred state of barbarity
with him, had not yet ceased to have influence over
the numerous race which followed them. That moral
amalgam which we call society, and which recognizes a
mutual and perfectly equal condition of dependance, and a
common necessity, as the great cementing principles of the
human family, had not yet taken place; and it was still too
much the custom, in that otherwise lovely region, for the
wild man to revenge his own wrong, and the strong man
to commit a greater with impunity. The repose of social
order was not yet secured to the great mass, covering with
its wing, as with a sky that never knew a cloud, the sweet
homes and secure possessions of the unwarlike. The fierce
robber sometimes smote the peaceful traveller upon the
highway, and the wily assassin of reputation, within the
limits of the city barrier, not unfrequently plucked the
sweetest rose that ever adorned the virgin bosom of innocence,
and triumphed, without censure, in the unhallowed
spoliation. But sometimes there came an avenger;—and
the highway-robber fell before the unexpected patriot; and
the virgin was avenged by the yet beardless hero, for the
wrong of her cruel seducer. The story which we have
to tell, is of times and of actions such as these. It is a
melancholy narrative—the more melancholy, as it is most
certainly true. It will not be told in vain, if the crime
which it describes in proper colours, and the vengeance by
which it was followed, and which it equally records, shall
secure the innocent from harm, and discourage the incipient
wrong-doer from his base designs.
-- 016 --
CHAPTER II.
[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
Let the traveller stand with us, on the tower of this
rugged eminence, and look down upon the scene below
him. Around us, the hills gather in groups on every side,
a family cluster, each of which wears the same general
likeness to that on which we stand, yet there is no monotony
in their aspect. The axe has not yet deprived them
of a single tree, and they rise up, covered with the honoured
growth of a thousand summers. But they seem not half so
venerable. They wear, in this invigorating season, all the
green, fresh features of youth and spring. The leaves cover
the rugged limbs which sustain them, with so much ease
and grace, as if for the first time, they are so green and
glossy; and as if the impression should be made more certain
and complete, the gusty wing of March has scattered
abroad and borne afar, all the yellow garments of the vanished
winter. The wild flowers begin to flaunt their blue
and crimson draperies about us, as if conscious that they
are borne upon the bosom of undecaying beauty; and the
spot so marked and hallowed by each charming variety of
bud and blossom, would seem to have been a selected dwelling
for the queenly Spring herself.
Man, mindful of those tastes and sensibilities which in
great part constitute his claim to superiority over the brute,
has not been indifferent to the beauties of the place. In the
winding hollows of these hills, beginning at our feet, you
see the first signs of as lovely a little hamlet as ever promised
peace to the weary and the discontent. This is the
village of Charlemont.
A dozen snug and smiling cottages seem to have been
dropped in this natural cup, as if by a spell of magic.
They appear, each of them, to fill a fitted place—not
equally distant from, but equally near each other. Though
distinguished each, by an individual feature, there is yet no
great dissimilarity among them. All are small, none of
them out of joint or wanting in proportion. They are now
quite as flourishing as when first built, and their number
has had no increase, since the village was first settled.
Speculation has not made it populous and prosperous, by
destroying its repose, stifling its charities, and abridging the
-- 017 --
[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
sedate habits and comforts of its people. The houses,
though constructed after the fashion of the country, of heavy
and ill-squared logs, roughly hewn, and hastily thrown
together, perhaps by unpractised hands, are yet made
cheerful by that tidy industry, which is always sure to
make them comfortable also. Trim hedges that run beside
slender white pailings, surround and separate them from
each other. Sometimes as you see, festoons of graceful
flowers, and waving blossoms, distinguish one dwelling
from the rest, displaying its possession of some fair tenant,
whose hand and fancy, have kept equal progress with habitual
industry;—at the same time, some of them appear
entirely without the little garden of flowers and vegetables,
which glimmers and glitters in the rear.
Such was Charlemont, at the date of our narrative. But
the traveller would vainly look, now, to find the place as
we describe it. The garden is no longer green with fruits
and flowers—the festoons no longer grace the lowly portals—
the white pailings are down and blackened in the
gloomy mould—the roofs have fallen, and silence dwells
lonely among the ruins,—the only inhabitant of the place.
It has no longer a human occupant.
“Something ails it now—the spot is cursed.”
Why this fate has fallen upon so sweet an abiding place,—
why the villagers should have deserted a spot, so quiet and so
beautiful—it does not fall within our present purpose to
inquire. It was most probably abandoned—not because of
the unfruitfulness of the soil, or the unhealthiness of the
climate,—for but few places on the bosom of the earth, may
be found either more fertile, more beautiful, or more sanative—
but in compliance with that feverish restlessness of
mood—that sleepless discontent of temper, which, perhaps,
more than any other quality, is the moral failing in the
character of the Anglo-American. The roving desires of
his ancestor, which brought him across the waters, have
been transmitted without diminution—nay, with large increase—
to the son. The creatures of a new condition of
things, and new necessities, our people will follow out
their destiny. The restless energies which distinguish
them, are, perhaps, the contemplated characteristics which
Providence has assigned them, in order that they may the
-- 018 --
[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
more effectually and soon, bring into the use and occupation
of a yet mightier people, the wilderness of that new world
in which their fortunes have been cast. Generation is but
the pioneer of generation, and the children of millions,
more gigantic and powerful than ourselves, shall yet smile
to behold, how feeble was the stroke made by our axe upon
the towering trees of their inheritance.
It was probably because of this characteristic of our people,
that Charlemont came in time to be deserted. The
inhabitants were one day surprised with tidings of more
attractive regions in yet deeper forests, and grew dissatisfied
with their beautiful and secluded valley. Such is the ready
access to the American mind, in its excitable state, of
novelty and sudden impulse, that there needs but few suggestions
to persuade the forester to draw stakes, and
remove his tents, where the signs seem to be more numerous
of sweeter waters and more prolific fields. For a
time, change has the power which nature does not often
exercise; and under its freshness, the waters do seem
sweeter, and the stores of the wilderness, the wild-honey
and the locust, do seem more abundant to the lip and eye.
Where our cottagers went, and under what delusion, is
utterly unknown to us; nor is it important to our narrative
that we should inquire. Our knowledge of them is only
desirable, while they were in the flourishing condition in
which they have been seen. It is our trust that the novelty
which seduced them from their homes, did not fail
them in its promises—that they may never have found, in
all their wanderings, a less lovely abiding place, than that
which they abandoned. But change has its bitter, as well
as its sweet, and the fear is strong that the cottagers of
Charlemont, in the weary hours, when life's winter is approaching,
will still and vainly sigh after the once despised
enjoyments of their deserted hamlet.
It was towards the close of one of those bright, tearful
days in April, of which we have briefly spoken, when a
couple of travellers on horseback, ascended the last hill
looking down upon Charlemont. One of these travellers
had passed the middle period of life;—the other was, perhaps,
just about to enter upon its higher responsibilities,
and more active duties. The first wore the countenance of
one who had borne many sorrows, and borne them with
that resignation, which, while it proves the wisdom of the
-- 019 --
[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
sufferer, is at the same time, calculated to increase his
benevolence. The expression of his eye, was full of kindness
and benignity, while that of his mouth, with equal
force, was indicative of a melancholy, as constant as it was
gentle and unobtrusive. A feeble smile played over his
lips while he spoke, that increased the sadness which it
softened; as the faint glimmer of the evening sunlight, upon
the yellow leaves of autumn, heightens the solemn tones in
the rich colouring of the still decaying forest.
The face of his companion, in many of its features, was
in direct contrast with his own. It was well formed, and
to the casual glance, seemed no less handsome than intellectual.
There was much in it to win the regard of the
young and superficial. An eye that sparkled with fire, a
mouth that glowed with animation—cheeks warmly
coloured, and a contour full of vivacity, seemed to
denote properties of mind and heart equally valuable and
attractive. Still, a keen observer would have found something
sinister, in the upward glancing of the eye, at intervals,
from the half-closed lids; and, at such moments, there
was a curling contempt upon the lips, which seemed to
denote a cynical and sarcastic turn of mind. A restless
movement of the same features seemed equally significant
of caprice of character, and a flexibility of moral; while
the chin narrowed too suddenly and became too sharp at
the extremity, to persuade a thorough physiognomist, that
the owner could be either very noble in his aims, or very
generous in his sentiments. But as these outward tokens
cannot well be considered authority in the work of judgment,
let events, which speak for themselves, determine
the true character of our travellers.
They had reached the table land of the heights which
looked down upon Charlemont, at a moment when the
beauty of the scene could scarcely fail to impress itself
upon the most indifferent observer. The elder of the travellers,
who happened to be in the advance, was immediately
arrested by it; and, staying the progress of his horse,
with hand lifted above his eye, looked around him with
a delight which expressed itself in an abrupt ejaculation,
which brought his companion to his side. The sun had
just reached that point in his descent, which enabled him
to level a shaft of rosy light from the pinnacle of the opposite
hill, into the valley below, where it rested among the
-- 020 --
[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
roofs of two of the cottages, which arose directly in its
path. The occupants of these two cottages had come forth,
as it were, in answer to the summons; and old and young,
to the number of ten or a dozen persons, had met, in the
winding pathway between, which led through the valley,
and in front of every cottage which it contained. The
elder of the cottagers, sat upon the huge trunk of a tree,
which had been felled beside the road, for the greater convenience
of the traveller; and with eyes turned in the
direction of the hill on which the sunlight had sunk and
appeared to slumber, seemed to enjoy the vision with no
less pleasure than our senior traveller. Two tall damsels
of sixteen, accompanied by a young man something older,
were strolling off in the direction of the woods; while five
or six chubby girls and boys were making the echoes leap
and dance along the hills, in the clamorous delight which
they felt at their innocent but stirring exercises. The
whole scene was warmed with the equal brightness of the
natural and the human sun. Beauty was in the sky, and
its resemblance, at least, was on the earth. God was in
the heavens, and in his presence could there be other than
peace and harmony among men!
“How beautiful!” exclaimed the elder of our travellers—
“could any thing be more so! How pure, how peaceful!
See, Warham, how soft, how spirit-like, that light lies
along the hill-side, and how distinct, yet how delicate, is
the train which glides from it down the valley, even to the
white dwellings at its bottom, from which it seems to
shrink, and trembles as if half conscious of intrusion. And
yet the picture below is of close kindred with it. That,
now, is a scene that I delight in,—it is a constant picture
in my mind. There is peace in that valley, if there be
peace any where on earth. The old men sit before the
door, and contemplate with mingled feelings of pride and
pleasure, the vigorous growth of their children. They
behold in them their own immortality, even upon earth.
The young will preserve their memories, and transmit their
names to other children yet unborn; and how must such
a reflection reconcile them to their own time of departure,
not unfitly shown in the last smiles of that sunlight, which
they are so soon about to lose. Like him, they look with
benevolence and love, upon the world from which they
will soon depart.”
-- 021 --
[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
“Take my word for it, uncle, they will postpone their
departure to the last possible moment, and, so far from
looking with smiles, upon what they are about to leave for
ever, they will leave it with very great reluctance, and in
monstrous bad humour. As for regarding their children
with any such notions as those you dwell upon with such
poetical raptures, they will infinitely prefer transmitting for
themselves their names and qualities to the very end of the
chapter. Ask any one of them the question now, and he
will tell you that an immortality, each, in his own wigwam,
and with his weight of years and infirmity upon him,
would satisfy all their expectations. If they look at the
vigour of their young, it is to recollect that they themselves
once were so, and to repine at the recollection. Take my
word for it, there is not a dad among them, that does not
envy his own son the excellence of his limbs, and the long
time of exercise and enjoyments which they seemingly
assure him.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the senior. “Impossible! I
should be sorry to think as you do. But you, Warham,
cannot understand these things. You are an habitual unbeliever—
the most unfortunate of all mankind.”
“The most fortunate, rather. I have but few burdens of
credulity to carry. The stars be blessed, my articles of
faith are neither very many nor very cumbrous. I should
be sorry if my clients were so few.”
“I should be sorry, Warham, if I had so little feeling
as yourself.”
“And I should be still more sorry, uncle, if I had half
so much. Why, sir, yours is in such excess, that you
continually mistake the joys and sorrows of other people
for your own. You laugh and weep with them alternately;
and, until all's done and over, you never seem to discover
that the business was none of yours;—that you had none
of the pleasure which made you laugh, and might have been
spared all the unnecessary suffering which moved your
tears. 'Pon my soul, sir, you pass a most unprofitable
life.”
“You mistake, Warham, I have shared both; and my
profits have been equally great from both sources. My
susceptibility has been an exceeding great gain to me, and
has quickened all my senses. There is a joy of grief, you
know, according to Ossian.”
-- 022 --
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
“Nay, if you quote Ossian, uncle, I give you up. I
don't believe in Ossian, and his raving stuff always sickens
me.”
“I sometimes think, Warham,” said the uncle good
naturedly, “that Providence has denied you some of the
more human faculties. Nay, I fear that you are partially
deficient in some of the senses. Do you see that sunlight
to which I point—there, on the hill-side, a sort of rosy haze,
which seems to me eminently beautiful?”
“Yes, sir, and, if you will suffer me, I will get out of its
reach as quickly as possible. I have been half blinded
by it, ever since you found it so beautiful. Sunlight is,
I think, of very little importance to professional men, unless
as a substitute for candles, and then it should come over the
left shoulder, if you would not have it endanger the sight.
Nay, I will go farther, and confess that it is better than
candlelight, and certainly far less expensive. Shall we go
forward, sir?”
“Warham,” said the senior, with increasing gravity,
“I should be sorry to believe that a habit of speech so
irreverential, springs from any thing but an ambition for
saying smart things, and strange things; which are not
always smart. It would give me great pain, to think that
you were devoid of any of those sensibilities which soften
the hearts of other men, and lead them to generous impulses.”
“Nay, be not harsh, uncle. You should know me better.
I trust my sensibilities and senses too, may be sufficient
for all proper purposes, when the proper time comes for
their employment; but I can't flame up at every sunbeam,
and grow enthusiastic in the contemplation of Bill Johnson's
cottage, and Richard Higgins's hedgerow. A turnip-patch
never yet could waken my enthusiasm, and I do
believe, sir,—I confess it with some shame and a slight
misgiving, lest my admissions should give you pain,—that
my fancy has never been half so greatly enkindled by Carthula,
of the bending spear, or Morven of the winds, as by
the sedate and homely aspect of an ordinary dish of eggs
and bacon, hot from the flaming frying-pan, of `some
worthy housewife.' ”
The uncle simply looked upon the speaker, but without
answering. He was probably quite too much accustomed
to his modes of thought and speech, to be so much
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
surprised as annoyed by what he said. Perhaps, too, his
own benevolence of spirit, interfered to save the nephew
from that harsher rebuke which his judgment might yet
have very well disposed him to bestow. Following the
steps of the latter in silence, he descended into the valley,
and soon made his way among the sweet little cottages at
its foot. An interchange of courtesies between the travellers
and the villagers whose presence had given occasion
to some portion of the previous dialogue, in which the manner
of the younger traveller was civil, and that of the elder
kind; and the two continued on their journey, though not
without being compelled to refuse sundry invitations, given
with true patriarchal hospitality, to remain among the
quiet abodes through which they passed. As cottage after
cottage unfolded itself to their eyes, along the winding
avenue, the proprietors appeared at door and window, and
with the simple freedoms of rural life, welcomed the strangers
with a smile, a nod, and sometimes when sufficiently
nigh, a friendly word of salutation; but without having the
effect of arresting their onward progress. Yet many a
backward glance was sent by the elder of the travellers,
whose eyes, beaming with satisfaction, sufficiently declared
the delight which he received from the contemplation of so
many of the mingled graces of physical and moral nature.
His loitering steps drew from his young companion an
occasional remark, which, to ears less benevolent and unsuspecting
than those of the senior, might have been
deemed a sarcasm, and his lips more than once curled with
contemptuous smiles, as he watched the yearning glances
of his uncle on each side of the avenue as they wended
slowly through it. At the end of the village, and at the
foot of the opposite hills, they encountered a group of
young people of both sexes, whose bursts of merriment
were suddenly restrained as they emerged unexpectedly
into sight. The girls had been sitting upon the grassy
mead, with the young men before them; but they started to
their feet at the sound of strange steps, and the look of
strange faces. Charlemont, it must be remembered, was
not in the thoroughfare of common travel. If visited at all
by strangers, it was most usually visited by those only,
who came with that single purpose, and who accordingly
remained for some time in it. Nothing, therefore, could
have been more calculated to surprise a community so
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
insulated, than that they should attract, but not arrest, the
traveller. The natural surprise which the young people
felt, when unexpectedly encountered in their rustic sports,
was naturally increased by this unusual circumstance; and
they looked after the departing forms of the wayfarers, with
a wonder and curiosity that kept them for some time
silent. The elder of the two, meanwhile,—one of whose
habits of mind was always to give instantaneous utterance
to the feeling which was uppermost, dilated, without heeding
the sneers of his nephew, upon the apparent happiness
which they witnessed.
“Here, you see, Warham, is a pleasure which the great
city never knows:—the free intercourse of the sexes, in
all those natural exercises which give health to the body,
grace to the movement, and vivacity to the manners.”
“The health will do well enough,” replied the sceptic,
“but save me from the grace of Hob and Hinney; and as
for their manners,—did I hear you correctly, uncle, when
you spoke of their manners?”
“Surely, you did. I have always regarded the natural
manners which belong to the life of the forester, as being
infinitely more noble, as well as more graceful, than those
of the citizen. Where did you ever see a tradesmen, whose
bearing was not mean compared with that of the hunter?”
“Ay, but these are no hunters, and scarcely foresters. I
see not a single Nimrod among the lads; and as for the
lasses, even your eyes, indulgent as they usually are, will
scarcely venture to insist that I shall behold one nymph
among them worthy to tie the shoe-latchets of Diana. The
manners of the hunter are those of an elastic savage; but
these lads shear sheep, raise hogs for the slaughter-pen,
and seldom perform a nobler feat than felling a bullock.
They have none of the elasticity, which, coupled with
strength, makes the grace of the man; and they walk as if
perpetually in the faith that their corn-rows and potatoe-hills
were between their legs.”
“Did you note the young woman in the crimson body,
Warham? Was she not majestically made?”
“It struck me she would weigh against any two of the
company.”
“She is rather heavy, I grant you, but her carriage,
Warham?”
“Would carry weight—nothing more.”
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
“There was one little girl, just rising into womanhood;—
you must admit that she had a very lovely face, and her
form—”
“My dear uncle, what is it that you will not desire me
to believe? You are sadly given to proselytism, and take
infinite pains to compel me to see with eyes that never do
their owner so much wrong, as when they reject the aid of
spectacles. How much would Charlemont and its inhabitants
differ to your sight, were you only to take your green
spectacles from the shagreen cases in which they do no
duty. But if you are resolved, in order to seem youthful, to
let your age go unprovided with the means of seeing as
youth would see, at least suffer me to enjoy the natural privileges
of twenty-five. When, like you, my hairs whiten,
and my eyes grow feeble, ten to one, I shall think with you
that every third woodman is an Apollo, and every other
peasant girl is a Venus, whom—”
The words of the speaker ceased—cut short by the sudden
appearance of a form and face, the beauty and dignity
of which silenced the sceptic, and made him doubtful, for
the moment, whether he had not in reality reached that
period of confused and confounding vision, which, as he
alleged to be the case with his uncle, loses all power of
discrimination. A maiden stood before him—tall, erect,
majestic—beautiful after no ordinary standard of beauty.
She was a brunette, with large dark eyes, which, though
bright, seemed dark with the excess of bright—and had a
depth of expression which thrilled instantly through the
bosom of the spectator. A single glance did she bestow
upon the travellers, while she acknowledged, by a slight
courtesy, the respectful bow which they each made her.
They drew up their horses as with mutual instinct, but she
passed them quickly, courtesying a second time as she did
so, and, in another moment a turn of the road concealed
her from the eyes of the travellers.
“What say you to that, Warham?” demanded the
senior exultingly.
“A Diana, in truth; but, uncle, we find her not among
the rest. She is none of your cottagers. She is of another
world and element. She is no Charlemonter.”
And, as he spoke, the younger traveller looked back
with straining eyes to catch another glance of the vanished
object, but in vain.
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
“You deserve never to see a lovely woman again, Warham,
for your scepticism.”
“But I will have a second look at her, uncle, though the
skies fall;” answered the young man, as, wheeling his
horse round, he deliberately galloped back to the bend in
the avenue, by which she had been hidden from his view.
He had scarcely reached the desired point, when he suddenly
recoiled to find the object of his pursuit standing
motionless just beyond, with eyes averted to the backward
path—her glance consequently encountering his own, the
very moment when he discovered her. A deep crimson,
visible even where he stood, suffused her cheeks when she
beheld him; and without acknowledging the second bow
which the traveller made, she haughtily averted her head
with a suddenness which shook her long and raven tresses
entirely free from the net-work which confined them.
“A proud gipsy!” muttered the youth as he rode back
to his uncle—“just such a spirit as I should like to tame.”
He took especial care, however, that this sentiment did
not reach the ears of the senior.
“Well?” said the latter, inquiringly, at his approach.
“I am right after all, uncle:—the wench is no better
than the rest. A heavy bulk that seemed dignified only
because she is too fat for levity. She walks like a blind
plough-horse in a broken pasture, up and down, over and
over; with a gait as rigid and deliberate as if she trod
among the hot cinders, and had corns on all her toes. She
took us so by surprise that if we had not thought her beautiful
we must have thought her ugly, and the chances are
equal, that, on a second meeting, we shall both think her
so. I shall, I'm certain, and you must, provided you give
your eyes the benefit, and your nose the burden of your
green specs.”
“Impossible! I can scarce believe it, Warham;” replied
the senior with Charlemontic simplicity. “I thought her
very beautiful.”
“I shall never rely on your judgment again;—nay,
uncle, I am almost inclined to suspect your taste.”
“Well, let them be beautiful or ugly, still I should
think the same of the beauty of this little village.”
“While the sun shines it may be tolerable; but, uncle,
in wet bad weather—it must become a mere pond, it lies
so completely in the hollow of the hills.”
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
“There is reason in that, Warham.”
“And yet, even as a pond, it would have its advantages—
it would be famous for duck raising.”
“Pshaw! you are worse than a Mahometan.”
“Something of a just comparison, uncle, though scarcely
aimed,” said the other; “like Mahomet, you know, I
doubt the possession of souls by women.”
“Yet if these of Charlemont have not souls, they have
no small share of happiness on earth. I never heard more
happy laughter from human lips than from theirs. They
must be happy.”
“I doubt that also;” was the reply. “See you not,
uncle, that to nine or ten women there are but three lads?
Where the disproportion is so great among the sexes, and
where it is so unfavourable to the weaker, woman never
can be happy. Their whole lives will be lives of turmoil,
jealousy and pulling of caps. Nay, eyes shall not
be secure under such circumstances; and Nan's fingers
shall be in Doll's hair, and Doll's claws in Nanny's cheeks,
whenever it shall so happen, that Tom Jenkins shall incline
to Nan, or John Dobbins to Doll. Such a disparity between
the sexes is one of the most fruitful causes of domestic
war.”
“Warham, where do you think to go when you die?”
“Where there shall be no such inequality in the population.
Believe me, uncle, though I am sometimes disposed
to think with Mahomet, and deny the possession of
souls to the sex, I also incline to believe, with other more
charitable teachers,—however difficult it may be to reconcile
the two philosophies—that there will be no lack of
them in either world.”
“Hush, hush, Warham,” was the mild rebuke of the
senior; “you go too far,—you are irreverent. As for this
maiden, I still think her very beautiful—of a high, noble
kind of beauty. My eyes may be bad;—indeed I am
willing to admit they are none of the best; but I feel certain
that they cannot so far deceive me, when we consider
how nigh we were to her.”
“The matter deserves inquiry, uncle, if it were only to
satisfy your faith;—suppose we ride back, both of us, and
see for ourselves,—closely, and with the aid of the green
spectacles? Not that I care to see farther—not that I have
any doubts,—but I wish you to be convinced in this case,
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
if only to make you sensible of the frequent injustice to
which your indulgence of judgment, subjects the critical
fastidiousness of mine. What say you; shall we wheel
about?”
“Why, you are mad, surely. It is now sunset, and we
have a good eight miles before we get to Holme's Station.”
“But we can sleep in Charlemont to-night. A night in
this earthly Eden—”
“And run the risk of losing our company? Oh, no,
most worthy nephew. They will start at dawn to-morrow.”
“We can soon come up with 'em.”
“Perhaps not, and the risk is considerable. Travelling
to the Mississippi is no such small matter at any time, and,
in these times with a multitude, alone, there is safety. The
murder of old Whiteford, is a sufficient warning not to go
alone, with more gold than lead in one's pocket. We are
two, it is true, but better ten than two. You are a brave
fellow enough, Warham, I doubt not; but a shot will dispose
of you, and after that I should be an easy victim. I
could wink and hold out as well as the best of you, but
I prefer to escape the necessity. Let us mend our pace.
We are burning daylight.”
The nephew, with an air of some impatience, which,
however, escaped the eyes of the senior, sent his horse
forward by a sharp application of his spur, though looking
back the while, with a glance of reluctance, which strongly
disagreed with the sentiments which he expressed. Indeed,
with both the travellers, the impression made by the little
village of Charlemont, was such that the subject seemed
no ways displeasing to either, and furnished the chief staple
of conversation between them, as they rode the remaining
eight miles of their journey. The old man's heart had
been subdued and won by the sweet air of peace which
seemed to overspread and hallow the soft landscape, and
the smiling cottages which made it human. The laughing
maidens with their bright eyes and cheering accents, gave
vivacity to its milder charms. We have heard from the
lips of the younger traveller, that these attractions had
failed to captivate his fancy. We may believe what of
this we please. It is very probable that he had, in considerable
part, spoken nothing but the truth. He was too
much of a mocker:—one of those worldlings who derive
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
their pleasures from circumstances of higher conventional
attraction. He had no feeling for natural romance. His
penchant, was decidedly for a more artificial existence;
and the sneers which he had been heard to express at the
humble joys of rustic life, its tastes, and characteristics,
were, in truth, only such as he really felt. But, even in
his case, there was an evident disposition to know something
more of Charlemont. He was really willing to
return. He renewed the same subject of conversation,
when it happened to flag, with obvious eagerness; and,
though his language was still studiedly disparaging, a more
deeply penetrating judgment than that of his uncle, would
have seen that the little village, slightly as he professed
to esteem it, was yet an object of thought and interest in
his eyes. Of the sources of this new interest time must
inform us.
“Well, well, Warham,” at length exclaimed the
uncle, in a tone that seemed meant to close the discussion
of a topic which his nephew now appeared mischievously
bent to thrust upon him—“you will return to Kentucky
in the fall. Take Charlemont in your route. Stop a week
there. It will do you no harm. Possibly, you may procure
some clients—may indeed, include it in your tour of
practice—at all events, you will not be unprofitably employed
if you come to see the village and the people with
my eyes, which, I doubt not, you will in time.”
“In time, perhaps, I may. It is well that you do not
insist upon any hurried convictions. Were I at your
years, uncle mine,” continued the other irreverently,—“I
shall no doubt see with your eyes, and possibly feel with
your desires. Then, no doubt, I shall have acquired a
taste for warming-pans and night-caps—shall look for landscapes
rather than lands—shall see nothing but innocence
among the young, and resignation and religion among the
old; and fancy, in every aged pair of bumpkins that I see,
a Darby and Joan, with perpetual peace at their fireside,
though they may both happen to lie there, drunk on apple
brandy. Between caudle-cups and “John Anderson, my
Jo-John,” it is my hope to pass the evening of my days
with a tolerable grace, and leave behind me some comely
representatives, who shall take up the burden of the ditty
where I leave off. On this head be sure you shall have no
cause to complain of me. I shall be no malthusian, as you
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
certainly have shown yourself. It is the strangest thing
to me, uncle, that, with all your spoken rapture for the sex,
you should never have thought of securing for yourself, at
least one among the crowd which you so indiscriminately
admire. Surely, a gentleman of your personal attractions—
attractions which seem resolute to cling to you to the
last,—could not have found much difficulty in procuring
the damsel he desired! And when, too, your enthusiasm
for the sex is known, one would think it only necessary
that you should sling your handkerchief, to have it greedily
gsappled by the fairest of the herd. How is it, uncle,—
how have you escaped—from them—from yourself?”
“Pshaw, Warham, you are a fool!”—exclaimed the
senior, riding forward with increasing speed. The words
were spoken good naturedly, but the youth had touched a
spot, scarcely yet thoroughly scarred over, in the old man's
bosom; and memories, not less painful because they had
been hidden so long, were instantly wakened into fresh and
cruel activity. It will not diminish the offence of the
nephew in the mind of the reader, when he is told that the
youth was not ignorant of the particular tenderness of his
relative in this respect. The gentle nature of the latter,
alone, rescued him from the well merited reproach of suffering
his habitual levity of mood to prevail, in reference to
one whom, even he himself was disposed to honour. But few
words passed between the two, ere they reached the place
of appointment. The careless reference of the youth had
made the thoughts of the senior active at the expense of
his observation. His eyes were now turned inwards; and
the landscape, and the evening sun, which streamed over,
and hallowed it with a tender beauty to the last, was as
completely hidden from his vision, as if a veil had been
drawn above his sight. The retrospect, indeed, is ever the
old man's landscape; and perhaps, even had he not been
so unkindly driven back to its survey, one aged traveller
would have been reminded of the past in the momently
deepening shadows which the evening gathered around his
path. Twilight is the cherished season for sad memories,
even as the midnight is supposed to be that of guilty
ghosts; and nothing, surely, can be more fitting than that
the shadows of former hopes should revisit us in those
hours when the face of nature itself seems darkening into
gloom. It was night before the wayfarers reached the
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
appointed baiting place. There they found their company;—
a sort of little caravan, such as is frequent in the history
of western emigration—already assembled; and the
supper awaiting them. Let us leave them to its enjoyment,
and return once more to the village of Charlemont.
CHAPTER III.
The young maiden last met by our travellers, and whose
appearance had so favourably impressed them, had not
been altogether uninfluenced by the encounter. Her spirit
was of a musing and perhaps somewhat moody character,
and the little adventure related in our last chapter, had
awakened in her mind a train of vague and purposeless
thought, from which she did not strive to disengage herself.
She ceased to pursue the direct path back to Charlemont,
the moment she had persuaded herself that the strangers
had continued on their way; and turning from the beaten
track, she strolled aside, following the route of a brooklet,
the windings of which, as it lead her forward, were completely
hidden from the intrusive glance of any casual wayfarer.
The prattle of the little stream as it wound upon its
sleepless journey, contributed still more to strengthen the
musings of those vagrant fancies that filled the maiden's
thoughts. She sat down upon the prostrate trunk of a
tree, and surrendered herself for awhile to their control.
Her thoughts were probably of a kind which, to a certain
extent, are commended to every maiden. Among them,
perpetually rose an image of the bold and handsome stranger
whose impudence, in turning back in pursuit of her,
was somewhat qualified by the complimentary curiosity
which such conduct manifested. Predominant even over
this image, however, was the conviction of isolation which
she felt where she was, and the still more painful conviction,
that the future was without promise. Such thoughts
and apprehensions are natural enough to all young persons
of active, earnest minds; but in the bosom of Margaret
Cooper they were particularly so. Her mind was of a
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
masculine and commanding character, and was ill-satisfied
with her position and prospects in Charlemont. A quiet,
obscure village, such as that we have described, held forth
no promise for a spirit so proud, impatient and ambitious
as hers. She knew the whole extent of knowledge which
it contained, and all its acquisitions and re ources—she had
sounded its depths, and seen all its shallows. The young
women kept no pace with her own progress—they were
good, silly girls enough,—a chattering, playful set, whom
small sports could easily satisfy, and who seemed to have
no care, and scarce a hope, beyond the hilly limits of their
homestead,—and as for the young men,—they were only
suited to the girls, such as they were, and could never
meet the demand of such an intellect as hers. This lofty
self-estimate, which was in some sense just, necessarily
gave a tone to her language and a colouring to all her
actions, such as good sense and amiability should equally
strive to suppress and conceal—unless, as in the case of
Margaret Cooper, the individual herself was without due
consciousness of their presence. It had the effect of discouraging
and driving from her side many a good-natured
damsel, who would have loved to condole with her and
might have been a pleasant companion. The young
women regarded her with some dislike in consequence of
her self-imposed isolation,—and the young men with some
apprehension. Her very knowledge of books, which infinitely
surpassed that of all her sex within the limits of
Charlemont, was also an object of some alarm. It had
been her fortune, whether well or ill may be a question, to
inherit from her father a collection, not well chosen, upon
which her mind had preyed with an appetite as insatiate
as it was undiscriminating. They had taught her many
things, but among these neither wisdom nor patience was
included;—and one of the worst lessons which she had
learned, and which they had contributed in some respects
to teach, was discontent with her condition,—a discontent
which saddened, if it did not embitter her present life,
while it left the aspects of the future painfully doubtful,
even to her own eye. She was fatherless, and had in consequence
of this allotment been also taught some of those
rude lessons which painfully teach dependance; but such
lessons, which to most others would have brought submission,
only provoked her to resistance. Her natural
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
impetuosity of disposition, strengthened by her mother's
idolatrous indulgence, increased the haughtiness of her
character; and when, to these influences, we add that her
surviving parent was poor, and suffered from privations
which were unfelt by many of their neighbours, it may be
easily conceived that a temper and mind, such as we have
described those of Margaret Cooper,—ardent, commanding
and impatient,—hourly found occasion, even in the secluded
village where she dwelt, for the exercise of moods equally
adverse to propriety and happiness. Isolated from the
world by circumstances, she doubly exiled herself from its
social indulgences, by the tyrannical sway of a superior
mind, strengthened and stimulated by an excitable and
ever feverish blood; and, as we find her now, wandering
sad and sternly by the brookside, afar from the sports
and humbler sources of happiness, which gentler moods
left open to the rest, so might she customarily be fonnd,
at all hours, when it was not absolutely due to appearances
that she should be seen among the crowd.
We will not now seek to pursue her musings and trace
them out to their conclusions, nor will it be necessary that
we should do more than indicate their character. That
they were sad and solemn as usual,—perhaps humbling,—
may be gathered from the fact that a big tear might have
been seen, long gathering, at one moment in her eye;—
at the next she brushed off the intruder with an impatience
of gesture, that plainly showed how much her proud spirit
resented any such intrusion. The tear dispersed the images
which had filled her contemplative mood, and rising from
her sylvan seat, she prepared to move forward, when a
voice calling at some little distance, drew her attention;
giving a hasty glance in the direction of the sound, she
beheld a young man making his way through the woods,
and approaching her with rapid footsteps. His evident
desire to reach her, did not, however, prompt her to any
suspension of her own progress; but, as if satisfied with
the single glance which she gave him, and indifferent
utterly to his object, she continued on her way, nor paused
for an instant, nor again looked back, until his salutation,
immediately behind her, compelled her attention and
answer.
`Margaret—Miss Cooper!” said the speaker, who
was a young rustic, probably twenty or twenty-one years
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
of age, of tall, good person, a handsome face, which was
smooth, though of dark complexion, and lightened by an
eye of more than ordinary size and intelligence. His tones
were those of one whose sensibilities were fine and active,
and it would not have called for much keen observation to
have seen that his manner in approaching and addressing
the maiden, was marked with some little trepidation. She,
on the contrary, seemed too familiar with his homage, or
too well satisfied of his inferiority, to deign much attention
to his advances. She answered his salutation coldly,
and was preparing to move forward, when his words again
called for her reluctant notice.
“I have looked for you, Margaret, full an hour. Mother
sent me after you to beg that you will come there this
evening. Old Jenks has come up from the river, and
brought a store of fine things—there's a fiddle for Ned,
and Jason Lightner has a flute, and I—I have a small
lot of books, Margaret, that I think will please you.”
“I thank you, William Hinkley, and thank your mother,
but I cannot come this evening.”
“But why not, Margaret?—your mother's coming,—she
promised me for you too, but I thought you might not get
home soon enough to see her, and so I came out to seek
you.”
“I am very sorry you took so much trouble, William,
for I cannot come this evening.”
“But why not, Margaret? You have no other promise
to go elsewhere, have you?”
“None;” was the indifferent reply.
“Then—but, perhaps, you are not well, Margaret?”
“I am quite well, I thank you, William Hinkley, but I
don't feel like going out this evening. I am not in the
humour.”
Already, in the little village of Charlemont, Margaret
Cooper was one of the few who were permitted to indulge in
humours, and William Hinkley learned the reason assigned
for her refusal, with an expression of regret and disappointment,
but not of reproach. An estoppel, which would
have been so conclusive in the case of a city courtier, was
not sufficient, however, to satisfy the more frank and
direct rustic, and he preceeded with some new suggestions,
in the hope to change her determination.
“But you'll be so lonesome at home, Margaret, when
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
your mother's with us. She'll be gone before you can
get back, and—”
“I'm never lonesome, William, at least I'm never so
well content or so happy as when I'm alone;” was the
self-satisfactory reply.
“But that's so strange, Margaret. It's so strange that
you should be different from every body else. I often
wonder at it, Margaret; for I know none of the other girls
but love to be where there's a fiddle, and where there's
pleasant company. It's so pleasant to be where every
body's pleased that we see; and then, Margaret, where one
can talk so well as you, and of so many subjects, it's a
greater wonder still that you should not like to be among
the rest.”
“I do not, however, William;” was the answer in more
softened tones. There was something in this speech of
her lover, that found its way through the only accessible
avenues of her nature. It was a truth, which she often
repeated to herself with congratulatory pride, that she had
no feeling, no desire in common with the crowd.
“It is my misfortune,” she continued, “to care very
little for the pastimes which you speak of; and as for the
company, I've no doubt it will be very pleasant for those
who go, but to me, I am sure, it will afford very little
pleasure. Your mother must therefore excuse me, William:—
I should be a very dull person among the rest.”
“She will be so sorry, Margaret,—and Ned, whose new
fiddle has just come, and Jason Lightner, with his flute.
They all spoke of you and look for you above all, to hear
them this evening. They will be so disappointed.”
William Hinkley spoke nothing of his own disappointment,
but it was visible enough in his blank countenance,
and sufficiently audible in the undisguised faltering of his
accents.
“I do not think they will be so much disappointed,
William Hinkley. They have no reason to be, as they
have no right to look for me in particular. I have very little
acquaintance with the young men you speak of.”
“Why, Margaret, they live alongside of you,—and I'm
sure you've met them a thousand times in company,” was
the response of the youth, uttered in tones more earnest
than any he had yet employed in the dialogue, and with
something of surprise in his accents.
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
“Perhaps so: but that makes them no intimates of
mine, William Hinkley. They may be very good young
men, and, indeed, so far as I know, they really are; but
that makes no difference. We find our acquaintances and
our intimates among those who are congenial, who somewhat
resemble us in spirit, feeling and understanding.”
“Ah, Margaret,” said her rustic companion with a sigh,
which amply testified to the humility of his own self-estimate,
and of the decline of his hope which came with it—
“ah, Margaret, if that be the rule, where are you going to
find friends and intimates in Charlemont?”
“Where!” was the single word spoken by the haughty
maiden, as her eye wandered off to the cold tops of the
distant hills along which the latest rays of falling sunlight,
faint and failing, as they fell, imparted a hue, which though
bright, still as it failed to warm, left an expression of October
sadness to the scene, that fitly harmonized with the
chilling mood under which she had spoken throughout the
interview.
“I don't think, Margaret,” continued the lover, finding
courage as he continued, “that such a rule is a good one.
I know it can't be a good one for getting happiness. There's
many a person that never will meet his or her match in
this world, in learning and understanding,—and if they
won't look on other persons with kindness, because they
are not altogether equal to them, why there's a chance
that they'll always be solitary and sad, as you are, Margaret.
It's a real blessing, I believe, to have great sense, but
I don't see, that because one has great sense, that one
should not think well and kindly of those who have little,
provided they be good, and are willing to be friendly. Now,
a good heart seems to be the very best thing that nature
can give to us;—and I know, Margaret, that there's no two
better hearts in all Charlemont—perhaps in all the world,
though I won't say that—than cousin Ned Hinkley, and
Jason Lightner, and—”
“I don't deny their merits and their virtues, and their
goodness of heart, William Hinkley,” was the answer of
the maiden,—“I only say that the possession of these qualities
gives them no right to claim my kindred, acquaintance
or affection. These claims are only founded upon congeniality
of character and mind, and without this congeniality,
there can be no proper, no lasting intimacy between
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
persons. They no doubt, will find friends between whom
and themselves, this congeniality exists.—I, on the other
hand, must be permitted to find mine, after my own ideas,
and as I best can. But if I do not,—the want of them
gives me no great concern. I find company enough, and
friends enough, even in these woods, to satisfy the desires
of my heart at present; I am not anxious to extend my
acquaintance or increase the number of my intimates.”
William Hinkley, who had become somewhat warmed
by the argument, could have pursued the discussion somewhat
farther; but the tones and manner of his companion,
to say nothing of her words, counselled him to forbear.
Still, he was not disposed altogether to give up his attempts
to secure her presence for the evening party.
“But if you don't come for the company, Margaret,
recollect the music. Even if Ned Hinkley was a perfect
fool, which he is not, and Jason Lightner were no better,—
nobody can say that they are not good musicians. Old
Squire Bee says there's not in all Kentucky a better violinist
than Ned, and Jason's flute is the sweetest sound that
ear ever listened to along these hills. If you don't care
any thing for the players, Margaret, I'm sure you can't be
indifferent to their music; and I know they are any thing
but indifferent to what you may think about it. They will
play ten times as well if you are there; and I'm sure,
Margaret, I shall be the last”—here the tone of the speaker's
voice audibly faltered—“I shall be the very last to
think it sweet if you are not there.”
But the words and faltering accents of the lover equally
failed with the arguments of common sense and a gentle
nature in subduing the inflexible, perverse mood of the
haughty maiden. Her cold denial was repeated, and with
looks that did not once fail to speak the disappointment of
William Hinkley, he attended her back to the village.
Their progress was marked by coldness on the one hand,
and regret and reluctance on the other. The conversation
was carried on in monosyllables only, on the part of Margaret,
while timidity and a painful hesitancy marked the
language of her attendant. But a single passage may be
remembered of all that was said between the two, ere they
separated at the door of the widow Cooper.
“Did you see the two strangers, Margaret, that passed
through Charlemont this afternoon?”
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
The cheeks of the maiden became instantly flushed, and
the rapid utterance of her reply in the affirmative, denoted
an emotion which the jealous instincts of the lover readily
perceived. A cold chill, on the instant, pervaded the veins
of the youth; and that night he did not hear, any more
than Margaret Cooper, the music of his friends. He was
present all the time and he answered their inquiries as
usual; but his thoughts were very far distant, and somehow
or other, they perpetually mingled up the image of
the young traveller, whom he too had seen, with that of the
proud woman, whom he was not yet sure that he unprofitably
worshipped.
CHAPTER IV.
The mirth and music of Charlemont were enjoyed by
others, but not by Margaret Cooper. The resolution not
to share in the pleasures of the young around her, which
she showed to her rustic lover, was a resolution firmly
persevered in throughout the long summer which followed.
Her wayward mood shut out from her contemplation the
only sunshine of the place; and her heart, brooding over
the remote, if not the impossible, denied itself those joys
which were equally available and nigh. Her lonesome
walks became longer in the forests, and later each evening
grew the hour of her return to the village. Her solitude
daily increased, as the youth who really loved her with
all the ardency of a first passion, and who regarded her at
the same time with no little veneration for those superior
gifts of mind and education which, it was the general conviction
in Charlemont, that she possessed, became, at
length, discouraged in a pursuit which hitherto had found
nothing but coldness and repulses. Not that he ceased to
love,—nay, he did not cease entirely to hope. What lover
ever did? He fondly ascribed to the object of his affections
a way wardness of humour, which he fancied would
pass away after a season, and leave her mind to the influence
of a more sober and wholesome judgment. Perhaps,
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
too, like many other youth in like circumstances, he did
not always see or feel the caprice of which he was the
victim. But for this fortunate blindness, many a fair damsel
would lose her conquest quite as suddenly as it was
made. But the summer passed away, and the forest put
on the sere and sombre robes of the melancholy autumn,
and yet no visible change—none at least more favourable
to the wishes of William Hinkley—took place in the character
and conduct of the maiden. Her mind, on the contrary,
seemed to take something of its hue from the cold
sad tones of the forest aspect. The serious depth of expression
in her dark eyes seemed to deepen yet more, and
become yet more concentrated—their glance acquired a yet
keener intentness,—an inflexibility of direction—which
suffered them seldom to turn aside for those seemingly
abstract contemplations, which had made her, for a long
time, infinitely prefer to gaze upon the rocks, and woods,
and waters, than upon the warm and wooing features of
humanity. At distance the youth watched and sometimes
followed her, and when, with occasional boldness, he would
draw nigh to her secret wanderings, a cold fear filled his
heart, and he shrunk back with all the doubt and dread of
some guilty trespasser. But his doubt, and we may add,
his dread also, was soon to cease entirely, in the complete
conviction of his hopelessness. The day and the fate
were approaching, in the person of one, to whom a natural
instinct had already taught him to look with apprehension,
and whose very first appearance had inspired him with
antipathy. What a strange prescience, in some respects,
has the devoted and watchful heart that loves! William
Hinkley, had seen, but for a single instant, the face of that
young traveller, who has already been introduced to us,
and that instant was enough to awaken his dislike—nay,
more, his hostility. Yet no villager in Charlemont but
would have told you, that of all the village, William Hinkley
was the most gentle, the most generous,—the very
last to be moved by bad passions, by jealousy or hate!
The youth whom we have seen going down with his
uncle to the great valley of the Mississippi, was now upon
his return. His backward journey was unaccompanied by
the benignant senior with whom we first made his acquaintance.
He had simply attended the old bachelor,
from whom he had considerable expectations, to his
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
plantation, in requital of the spring visit which the latter had
paid to his relatives in Kentucky, and having spent the
summer in the southwest, was about to resume his residence,
and the profession of the law, which he practised
in that state. We have seen that, however he might have
succeeded in disguising his true feelings from his uncle, he
was not unmoved by the encounter with Margaret Cooper,
on the edge of the village. He now remembered the
casual suggestion of the senior, which concluded their discussion
on the subject of her beauty; and resolved to go
aside from his direct path, and take Charlemont in the
route of his return, not that he himself needed a second
glance to convince him of that loveliness which, in his
wilfulness, he yet denied. He was free to acknowledge
to himself that Margaret Cooper was one of the noblest
and most impressive beauties he had ever seen. The very
scorn that spoke in all her features, the imperious fires
that kindled in her eyes, were better calculated than any
more gentle expressions, to impose upon one who was apt
to be sceptical on the subject of ordinary beauties. The
confidence and consciousness of superiority, which too
plainly spoke out in the features of Margaret, seemed to
deny to his mind the privilege of doubting or discussing
their charms—a privilege upon which no one could have
been more ready to insist than himself. This seeming
denial, while it suggested to him ideas of novelty, provoked
his curiosity and enkindled his pride. The haughty
glance with which she encountered his second approach,
aroused his vanity, and a latent desire arose in his heart,
to overcome one who had shown herself so premature in
her defiance. We will not venture to assert that the young
traveller had formed any very deliberate designs of conquest,
but, it may be said, as well here as elsewhere, that
self-esteem was greatly active in his mind; and accustomed,
as he had been, to make easy conquests among the
sex, in the region where he dwelt, it was only necessary
to inflame her vanity, to stimulate him to the use and exercise
of all his arts of victory.
It was about noon, on one of those bright, balmy days,
early in October, when “the bridal of the earth and sky,”
in the language of the good old Hubert, seemed going on—
when, the summer heats subdued, there is yet nothing
either cold, or repulsive in the atmosphere, and the soft
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
breathing from the southwest has just power enough to
stir the flowers and disperse their scents, that our young
traveller was joined in his progress towards Charlemont,
by a person mounted like himself and pursuing a similar
direction. At the first glance the youth distinguished him
as one of the homely forest preachers of the Methodist
persuasion, who are the chief agents and pioneers of religion
in most of the western woods. His plain, unstudied
garments all of black, rigid and unfashionable; his pale
demure features, and the general humility of his air and
gesture, left him little reason to doubt of this conviction;
and when he spoke and expressed his simple satisfaction
at meeting with a companion at last, after a long and
weary ride without one, the turn of his expressions, the
use of an antiquated biblical phraseology, and the unvarying
and monotonous solemnity of his tones, reduced the
doubts of the youth, if any remained in his mind, to absolute
certainty. At first, with the habitual levity of the
young and sceptical, he congratulated himself upon an encounter,
which promised to afford him a good subject for
quizzing; but a moment's reflection counselled him to a
more worldly policy, and he restrained his natural impulse
in order that he might first sound the depths of the
preacher, and learn in what respect he might be made
subservient to his own purposes. He had already learned
from the stranger that he was on his way to Charlemont,
of which place he seemed to have some knowledge; and
the youth, in an instant, conceived the possibility of making
him useful in procuring for himself a favourable introduction
to the people of that place. With this thought, he
assumed the grave aspect and deliberate enunciation of his
companion, expressed himself equally gratified to meet
with a person, who, if he did not much mistake, was a
divine, and concluded his address by the utterance of one
of those pious commonplaces, which are of sufficiently
easy acquisition, to all who have ever listened to the wandering
and verbose harangues of the western preacher, and
which at once secured him the unscrupulous confidence of
his companion.
“Truly it gladdens me, young gentleman,” said the
holy man in reply, “to meet with one, as a fellow-traveller
in these lonesome ways, who hath a knowledge of
God's grace and the blessings which he daily sheddeth,
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
even as the falling of the dews, upon a benighted land. It
is my lot, and I repine not that such it is, to be for ever a
wayfarer, in a desert where there are but few fountains to
refresh the spirit. When I say desert, young gentleman,
I speak not in the literal language of the world, for truly it
were a most sinful denial of God's bounty, were I to say,
looking round me upon the mighty forests through which
I pass, and upon the rich soil over which I travel, that my
way lies not through a country covered, thrice covered,
with the best worldly bounties of the Lord. But it is a
moral desert which my speech would signify. The soul
of man is here lacking the blessed fountains of the truth—
the mind of man, here, lacketh the holy and joy-shedding
lights of the spirit; and it rejoiceth me, therefore, when I
meet with one, like thyself, in whose language I find a
proof that thou hast neither heard the word with idle ears,
nor treasured it in thy memory with unapplying mind.
May I ask of thee, my young friend, who thou art and by
what name I shall call thee?—not for the satisfaction of an
idle curiosity, to know either thy profession or thy private
concerns, but that I may the better speak to thee in
our conference hereafter. Thou hast rightly conjectured
as to my calling—and my own name, which is one unknown
to most even in these forests, is John Cross,—I
come of a family in North Carolina, which still abide in
that state, by the waters of the river Haw. Perhaps, if
thou hast ever travelled in those parts, thou hast happened
upon some of my kindred, which are very numerous.”
“I have never, reverend sir, travelled in those parts;”
said the youth with commendable gravity; “but I have
heard of the Cross family which, I believe, as you say, to
be very numerous—both male and female.”
“Yea, I have brothers and sisters an equal number; I
have aunts and uncles a store, and it has been the blessing
of God so to multiply and increase every member thereof,
that each of my brothers, in turn, hath a goodly flock, in
testimony of his favours. I, alone, of all my kindred,
have neither wife nor child, and I seem as one set apart
for other ties, and other purposes.”
“Ah, sir,” returned the other quickly, and with a slyness
of expression which escaped the direct and unsuspecting
mind of the preacher; “but if you are denied the
blessings which are theirs, you have your part in the great
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
family of the world. If you have neither wife nor child
of your own loins, yet, I trust, you have an abiding interest
in the wives and children of all other men.”
“I were but an unworthy teacher of the blessed word,
had I not;” was the simple answer. “Verily, all that I
teach are my children; there is not one crying to me for
help, to whom I do not hasten with the speed of a father
flying to bring succour to his young. I trust in God, that
I have not made a difference between them; that I heed
not one to the forfeit or suffering of the other; and for this
impartial spirit towards the flock entrusted to my charge,
do I pray, as well as for the needful strength of body and
soul, through which my duties are to be done. But thou
hast not yet spoken thy name, or my ears have failed to
receive it.”
There was some little hesitation on the part of the youth
before he answered this second application; and a less
unheeding observer than his fellow-traveller, might have
noticed an increasing warmth of hue upon his cheek,
while he was uttering his reply:
“I am called Alfred Stevens,” he replied at length in
tones of some little precipitation. The colour increased
upon his cheek even after the words were spoken. But
they were spoken. The falsehood was registered against
him beyond recal, though, of course, without startling the
doubts or suspicions of his companion.
“Alfred Stevens, there are many Stevenses: I have
known several and sundry. There is a worthy family of
that name by the waters of the Dan.”
“You will find them, I suspect, from Dan to Beersheba,”
responded the youth with a resumption of his
former levity.
“Truly, it may be so. The name is of good repute.
But what is thy calling, Alfred Stevens. Methinks at thy
age thou should'st have one.”
“So I have, reverend sir,” replied the other; “my
calling heretofore has been that of the law. But it likes
me not, and I think soon to give it up.”
“Thou wilt take to some other then. What other hast
thou chosen; or art thou like those unhappy youths, by
far too many in our blessed country, whom fortune hath
hurt by her gifts, and beguiled into idleness and sloth?”
“Nay, not so, reverend sir; the gifts of fortune have
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
been somewhat sparing in my case, and I am even now
conferring with my own thoughts whether or not to take
to school-keeping. Nay, perhaps, I should incline to
something better, if I could succeed in persuading myself
of my own worthiness in a vocation which, more than all
others, demands a pure mind with a becoming zeal. The
law consorts not with my desires—it teaches selfishness,
rather than self-denial; and I have already found that some
of its duties demand the blindness and the silence of that
best teacher from within, the watchful and unsleeping conscience.”
“Thou hast said rightly, Alfred Stevens; I have long
thought that the profession of the law hardeneth the heart,
and blindeth the conscience. Thou wilt do well to leave
it, as a craft that leads to sin, and makes the exercise of
sin a duty; and if, as I rightly understand thee, thou
lookest to the gospel as that higher vocation for which
thy spirit yearneth, then would I say to thee, arise, and
gird up thy loins; advance and falter not;—the field is
open, and though the victory brings thee no worldly profit,
and but little worldly honour, yet the reward is eternal,
and the interest thereof, unlike the money which thou puttest
out to usury in the hands of men, never fails to be
paid, at the very hour of its due, from the unfailing treasury
of Heaven. Verily, I rejoice, Alfred Stevens, that I
have met with thee to-day. I had feared that the day had
been lost to that goodly labour, to which all my days have
been given for seventeen years, come the first Sabbath in
the next November. But what thou hast said, awakens
hope in my soul that such will not be the case. Let not
my counsels fail thee, Alfred;—let thy zeal warm; let thy
spirit work within thee, and thy words kindle, in the service
of the Lord. How it will rejoice me to see thee taking
up the scrip and the staff and setting forth for the wildernesses
of the Mississippi, of Arkansas, and Texas, far
beyond;—bringing the wild man of the frontier, and the
red savage, into the blessed fold and constant company of
the Lord Jesus, to whom all praise!”
“It were indeed a glorious service,” responded the
young stranger—whom we shall proceed, hereafter to
designate by the name which he has assigned himself. He
spoke musingly, and with a gravity that was singularly
inflexible—“it were indeed a glorious service. Let me
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
see, there were thousands of miles to traverse before one
might reach the lower Arkansas; and I reckon, Mr. Cross,
the roads are mighty bad after you pass the Mississippi—
nay, even in the Mississippi, through a part of which territory
I have gone only this last summer, there is a sad
want of causeways, and the bridges are exceedingly out of
repair. There is one section of near an hundred miles,
which lies between the bluffs of Ashibiloxi, and the far
creek of Catahoula, that was a shame and reproach to the
country and the people thereof. What, then, must be the
condition of the Texas territory, beyond? and, if I err not,
the Cumanchees are a race rather given to destroy than to
build up. The chance is that the traveller in their country
might have to swim his horse over most of the watercourses,
and where he found a bridge, it were perhaps a
perilous risk to cross it. Even then he might ride fifty
miles a day, before he should see the smokes which would
be a sign of supper that night.”
“The greater the glory—the greater the glory, Alfred
Stevens. The toil and the peril, the pain and the privation,
in a good cause, increase the merit of the performance in
the eyes of the Lord. What matters the roads and the
bridges, the length of the way, or the sometimes lack of
those comforts of the flesh, which are craved only at the
expense of the spirit, and to the great delay of one day of
conquest. These wants are the infirmities of the human,
which dissipate and disappear, the more few they become,
and the less pressing in their complaint. Shake thyself
loose from them, Alfred Stevens, and thy way henceforth
is perfect freedom.”
“Alas! this is my very weakness, Mr. Cross:—it was
because of these very infirmities, that I had doubt of my
own worthiness to take up the better vocation which is yet
my desire. I am sadly given to hunger and thirst towards
noon and evening; and the travel of a long day makes me
so weary at night, that I should say but a hurried grace
before meal, and make an even more hurried supper after
it. Nay, I have not yet been able to divest myself of a
habit which I acquired in my boyhood; and I need at
times, throughout the day, a mouthful of something
stronger than mere animal food, to sustain the fainting and
feeble flesh, and keep my frame from utter exhaustion. I
dare not go upon the road, even for the brief journey of a
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
single day, without providing myself beforehand with a
supply of a certain beverage, such as is even now contained
within this vessel, and which is infallible against sinking
of the spirits, faintings of the frame, disordered nerves,
and even against flatulence and indigestion. If, at any
time, thou should'st suffer from one or the other of these
infirmities, Mr. Cross, be sure there is no better medicine
for their cure than this.”
The speaker drew from his bosom a little flask, such as
is sufficiently well known to most western travellers, which
he held on high, and which, to the unsuspecting eyes of the
preacher, contained a couple of gills or more of a liquid of
very innocent complexion.
“Verily, Alfred Stevens, I do myself suffer from some
of the weaknesses of which thou hast spoken. The sinking
of the spirits, and the faintness of the frame, are but
too often the enemies that keep me back from the plough
when I would thereto set my hand; and that same flatulence—”
“A most frequent disorder in a region where greens and
collards form the largest dishes on the tables of the people;”
interrupted Stevens but without changing a muscle of his
countenance.
“I do believe as thou say'st, Alfred Stevens, that the
disorder comes in great part from that cause, though, still,
I have my doubts if it be not a sort of wind-melancholy,
to which people who preach aloud are greatly subject. It
is in my case almost always associated with a sort of
hoarseness, and the nerves of my frame twitch grievously
at the same periods. If this medicine of thine be sovereign
against so cruel an affliction, I would crave of thee
such knowledge as would enable me to get a large supply
of it, that I may overcome a weakness, which, as I tell
thee, oftentimes impairs my ministry, and sometimes
makes me wholly incapable of fervent preaching. Let me
smell of it, I pray thee.”
“Nay, taste of it, sir—it is just about the time when I
find it beneficial to partake of it, as a preservative of my
own weakness, and I doubt not, it will have a powerful
effect also upon you. A single draught has been found to
relieve the worst case of flatulence and cholic.”
“From cholic too, I am also a great sufferer;” said the
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
preacher as he took the flask in his hand, and proceeded
to draw the stopper.
“That is also the child of collards;” said Stevens, as he
watched with a quiet and unmoved countenance the proceedings
of his simple companion, who, finding some
difficulty in drawing the cork, handed it back to the youth.
The latter, more practised, was more successful, and now
returned the open bottle to the preacher.
“Take from it first, the dose which relieves thee, Alfred
Stevens, that I may know how much will avail in my
own case;” and he watched curiously, while Stevens,
applying the flask to his lips, drew from it a draught,
which, in western experience of benefits, would have been
accounted a very moderate potion. This done, he handed
it back to his companion, who, about to follow his example,
asked him:
“And by what name, Alfred Stevens, do they call this
medicine, the goodly effect of which thou hold'st to be so
great?”
Stevens did not immediately reply—not until the preacher
had applied the bottle to his mouth, and he could see by
the distension of his throat, that he had imbided a taste, at
least, of the highly lauded medicine. The utterance then,
of the single word—“Brandy”—was productive of an
effect no less ludicrous in the sight of the youth, than it
was distressing to the mind of his worthy companion. The
descending liquor was ejected with desperate effort from the
throat which it had fairly entered—the flask flung from his
hands—and with choking and guggling accents, startling
eyes, and reddening visage, John Cross turned full upon his
fellow-traveller, vainly trying to repeat, with the accompanying
horror of expression which he felt, the single
spellword, which had produced an effect so powerful.
“Bran—bran—brandy!—Alfred Stevens!—thou
hast given me poison—the soul's poison—the devil's
liquor—liquor distilled in the vessels of eternal sin. Wherefore
hast thou done this? Dost thou not know”—
“Know—know what, Mr. Cross?” replied Stevens,
with all the astonishment which he could possibly throw
into his air, as he descended from his horse with all haste
to recover his flask, and save its remaining contents from
loss.
“Call me not mister—call me plain John Cross:”
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
replied the preacher,—in the midst of a second fit of
choking, the result of his vain effort to disgorge that
portion of the pernicious liquid which had too irretrievably
descended into his bowels. With a surprise admirably
affected, Stevens approached him.
“My dear sir,—what troubles you?—what can be the
matter? What have I done? What is it you fear?”
“That infernal draught—that liquor—I have swallowed
of it a mouthful. I feel it in me. The sin be upon thy
head, Alfred Stevens,—why did you not tell me, before I
drank, that it was the soul's poison?—the poison that slays
more than the sword or the pestilence;—the liquor of the
devil, distilled in the vessels of sin,—and sent among men
for the destruction of the soul! I feel it now within me,
and it burns,—it burns like the fires of damnation. Is
there no water nigh that I may quench my thirst?—Show
me, Alfred Stevens, show me where the cool waters lie,
that I may put out these raging flames.”
“There is a branch, if I mistake not, just above us on
the road,—I think I see it glistening among the leaves.
Let us ride towards it, sir, and it will relieve you.”
“Ah, Alfred Stevens, why have you served me thus?
Why did you not say—tell me?”
Repeated groans accompanied this apostrophe, and marked
every step in the progress of the preacher to the little
rivulet which did, indeed, trickle across the road. John
Cross, descended with the rapidity of one whose hope
hangs upon the suspension of a minute, and dreads its
loss, as equal to the loss of life. He straddled the stream
and thrust his lips into the water, drawing up a quantity
sufficient, in the estimation of Stevens, to have effectually
neutralized the entire contents of his flask.
“Blessed water! Blessed water! Holiest beverage!
Thou art the creation of the Lord, and, next to the waters
of eternal life, his best gift to undiscerning man. I drink
of thee, and I am faint no longer. I rise up, strong and
refreshed! Ah, my young friend, Alfred Stevens, I trust
thou did'st not mean me harm in giving me that poisonous
liquor?”
“Far from it, sir, I rather thought to do you a great
benefit.”
“How could'st thou think to do me benefit by proffering
such poison to my lips? nay, wherefore dost thou
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
thyself carry it with thee, and why dost thou drink of it,
as if it were something not hurtful as well to the body as
the soul? Take my counsel, I pray thee, Alfred Stevens,
and cast it behind thee for ever. Look not after it when
thou dost so, with an eye of regret lest thou forfeit the
merit of thy self-denial. If thou would'st pursue the higher
vocation of the brethren, thou must seek for the needful
strength from a better and purer spirit. But what unhappy
teacher could have persuaded thee to an indulgence which
the good men of all the churches agree to regard as so
deadly?”
“Nay, Mr. Cross—”
“John Cross, I pray thee; do I not call thee Alfred
Stevens?—Mr., is a speech of worldly fashion, and
becomes not one who should set the world and its fashions
behind him.”
Stevens found it more difficult to comply with this one
requisition of the preacher, than to pursue a long game of
artful and complex scheming. He evaded the difficulty
by dropping the name entirely.
“You are too severe upon brandy, and upon those who
use it. Nay, I am not sure, but you do injustice to those
who make it. So far from its manufacturers being such as
you call them, we have unquestionable proof that they are
very worthy people of a distant but a Christian country;
and surely you will not deny that we should find a medicine
for our hurts, and a remedy for our complaints, in a
liquor which, perhaps, it might be sinful to use as an ordinary
beverage. Doctors, who have the care of human
life, and whose business and desire it is to preserve it,
nevertheless do sometimes administer poisons to their
patients, which poisons, though deadly at other times, will,
in certain diseases and certain conditions of disease, prove
of only and great good.”
“Impossible! I believe it not. I believe not in the good
of brandy. It is hurtful—it is deadly. It has slain its
thousands and its tens of thousands—it is worse than the
sword and the summer pestilence. Many a man have I
known to perish for strong drink. In my own parts, upon
the river Haw, in North Carolina state, I have known
many. Nay, wherefore should I spare the truth, Alfred
Stevens?—the very father of my own life, Ezekiel Cross,
perished miserably from this burning water of sin. I will
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
not hear thee speak of it again; and if thou would'st have
me think of thee with favour, as one hopeful of the
service of the brethren, cast the accursed beverage of
Satan from thy hands.”
The youth, without a word, deliberately emptied the
contents of his vessel upon the sands, and the garrulous
lips of the preacher poured forth as great a flood of speech
in congratulation, as he had hitherto bestowed in homily.
The good, unsuspecting man, did not perceive that the
liquor thus thrown away, was very small in quantity, and
that his companion, when the flask was emptied, quietly
restored it to his bosom. He had obtained a seeming victory,
and did not care to examine its details.
CHAPTER V.
The concession made by Stevens, and which had produced
an effect so gratifying upon his companion, was one
that involved no sacrifices. The animal appetite of the
young lawyer was, in truth, comparatively speaking, indifferent
to the commodity which he discarded; and even had
it been otherwise, still he was one of those selfish, cool
and calculating persons, who seem by nature to be perfectly
able to subdue the claims of the blood, with great ease,
whenever any human or social policy would appear to
render it advisable. The greatest concession which he
made in the transaction, was in his so readily subscribing
to that insane cant of the day, which reasons against the
use of the gifts of Providence, because a diseased moral,
and a failing education, among men sometimes results in
their abuse.
The imperfections of a mode of reasoning so utterly
illogical, were as obvious to the mind of the young lawyer
as to any body else; and the compliance which he
exhibited to a requisition which his own sense readily
assured him was as foolish as it was presumptuous, was
as degrading to his moral character from the hypocrisy
which it declared, as it was happy in reference to the
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
small policy by which he had been governed. The unsuspecting
preacher did not perceive the scornful sneer which
curled his lips and flashed his eyes, by which his own
vanity still asserted itself through the whole proceeding;
or he would not have been so sure that the mantle of grace
which he deemed to have surely fallen upon the shoulders
of his companion, was sufficiently large and sound, to
cover the multitude of sins which it yet enabled the
wearer, so far, to conceal. Regarding him with all the
favour of one by whose prowess he has been plucked as a
brand from the burning, the soul of John Cross grew warmer
than before, and it required no great effort of the wily
Stevens to win, not only all its own secrets and secret hopes,—
for these were of but small value in the eyes of the
worldling—but those matters which belonged to the little
village to which they were trending, and the unwritten
histories of every dweller in that happy community.
With all the adroit and circumspect art of the lawyer,
sifting the testimony of the unconscious witness, and worming
from his custody those minor details which seem to
the uninitiated so perfectly unimportant to the great matter
immediately in hand,—Stevens now propounded his direct
inquiry, and now dropped his seemingly unconsidered insinuation,
by which he drew from the preacher as much as
he cared to know of the rustic lads and lasses of Charlemont.
It does not concern our narrative to render the
details thus unfolded to the stranger. And we will content
ourselves, as did the younger of the travellers, who placed
himself with hearty good will at the disposal of the holy
man.
“You shall find for me a place of lodging, Mr. Cross,
while it shall suit me to stay in Charlemont. You have
a knowledge of the people, and of the world, which I possess
not; and it will be better that I should give myself
up to your guidance. I know that you will not bring me
to the dwelling of persons not in good repute; and, perhaps,
I need not remind you that my worldly means are
smal—I must be at little charge wherever I stop.”
“Ah, Brother Stevens, worldly goods and worldly wealth
are no more needed in Charlemont, than they are necessary
to the service of the blessed Redeemer. With an
empty scrip is thy service blest;—God sees the pure
heart through the threadbare garment. I have friends in
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
Charlemont who will be too happy to receive thee in the
name of the Lord; without money and without price.”
The pride of Stevens, which had not shrunk from hypocrisy
and falsehood, yet recoiled at a suggestion which
involved the idea of his pecuniary dependence upon strangers,
and he replied accordingly; though he still disguised
his objections under the specious appearance of a becoming
moral scruple.
“It will not become me, Mr. Cross, to burden the brethren
of the church for that hospitality which is only due
to brethren.”
“But thou art in the way of grace—the light is shining
upon thee—the door is open, and already the voice of the
Bridegroom is calling from within. Thou wilt become a
burning and a shining light—and the brethren of the
church will rejoice to hail thee among its chosen. Shall
they hold back their hand when thou art even on the
threshold?”
“But, Mr. Cross—”
“Call me not Mr., I pray thee. Call me plain John
Cross, if it please thee not yet to apply to me that sweeter
term of loving kindness which the flock of God are happy
to use in speech one to another. If thou wilt call me
Brother Cross, my heart shall acknowledge the bonds between
us, and my tongue shall make answer to thine, in
like fashion. Oh, Alfred Stevens, may the light shine
soon upon thine eyes, that thou may'st know for a truth
how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in the
peace of the Lord, and according to his law. I will, with
God's grace, bring thee to this perfect knowledge, for I
see the way clear because of the humility which thou hast
already shown, and thy yielding to the counsels of the
teacher. As for what thou sayest about charges to the
brethren, let that give thee no concern. Thou shalt lodge
with old Brother Hinkley, who is the pattern of good
things and of holiness in Charlemont. His house is more
like unto the tent of the patriarch pitched upon the plain,
than the house of the dweller among the cities. No lock
fastens its doors against the stranger; and the heart of the
aged man is even more open than the doorway of his
dwelling. He standeth in the entrance like one looking
out for him that cometh, and his first word to the messenger
of God, crieth `come!' Thou shalt soon see the truth
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
of what I say to thee, for even now do we look down upon
his house in the very midst of the village.”
If the scruples of Stevens still continued to urge him
against accepting the hospitality of the old patriarch of
whom he had received a description at once just and agreeable,
the recollection of the village maiden whom he had
gone aside from his direct path of travel, and made some
even greater departures from the truth, to see, determined
him at length to waive them; particularly when he ascertained
from his fellow-traveller that he knew of nobody in
Charlemont who accommodated strangers for money.
Stevens was one of those persons who watch the progress
of events, and he resolved, with a mental reservation,—
that seems strange enough in the case of one who had
shown so little reluctance to say and do the thing which
he could not maintain or defend—to avail himself of some
means for requiting, to the uttermost farthing, the landlord,
to whose hospitality he might be indebted during his stay
in Charlemont. Such are the contradictions of character
which hourly detect and describe the mere worldling—the
man lacking in all principle, but that which is subservient
to his selfish policy. To accept money or money's worth
from a stranger, seemed mean and humbling to one, who
did not hesitate, in the promotion of a scheme, which had
treachery for its object, to clothe himself in the garments
of deception, and to make his appearance with a lie festering
upon his lips. That evening, Alfred Stevens became,
with his worthier companion, an inmate of the happy
dwelling of William Hinkley, the elder—a venerable,
white-headed father, whose whole life had made him worthy
of a far higher eulogium than that which John Cross
had pronounced upon him.
The delight of the family to see their reverend teacher
was heartfelt and unreserved. A vigorous gripe of the
hand, by the elder, dragged him into the house, and a sentence
of unusual length, from his better half, assured him
of that welcome which the blunter action of her venerable
husband had already sufficiently declared. Nor was the
young adventurer who accompanied the preacher, suffered
to remain long unconsidered. When John Cross had told
them who he was, or rather when he had declared his spiritual
hopes in him—which he did with wonderful unction,
in a breath—the reception of old Hinkley, which had been
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
hospitable enough before, became warm and benignant;
and Brother Stevens already became the word of salutation,
whenever the old people desired to distinguish their
younger guest. Brother Stevens, it may be said here,
found no difficulty in maintaining the character he had assumed.
He had, in high degree, the great art of the selfish
man, and could when his game required it,—subdue
with little effort, those emotions and impulses, which the
frank and ardent spirit must speak out or die. He went
into the house of the hospitable old man, and into the village
of Charlemont, as if he had gone into the camp of an
enemy. He was, indeed, a spy, seeking to discover, not
the poverty, but the richness of the land. His mind, therefore,
was like one who has clothed himself in armour,
placed himself in waiting for the foe, and set all his sentinels
on the watch. His caution, measured every word ere
it was spoken, every look ere it was shown, every movement
ere he suffered his limbs to make it. The muscles
of his face, were each put under curb and chain—the
smiles of the lip and the glances of the eyes, were all subdued
to precision, and permitted to go forth, only under
special guard and restriction. In tone, look, and manner,
he strove as nearly as he might, to resemble the worthy
but simple-minded man, who had so readily found a worthy
adherent and pupil in him; and his efforts at deception
might be held to be sufficiently successful, if the frank
confiding faith of the aged heads of the Hinkley family be
the fitting test of his experiment. With them he was soon
perfectly at home—his own carriage seemed to them wondrously
becoming, and the approbation of John Cross
was of itself conclusive. The preacher was the oracle of
the family, all of whom were only too happy of his favour
not to make large efforts to be pleased with those he
brought; and in a little while, sitting about the friendly
fireside, the whole party had become as sociable as if they
had been “hail fellow! well met,” a thousand years.
Two young girls, children of a relative, and nieces of the
venerable elder, had already perched themselves upon the
knee of the stranger, and strove at moments over his neck
and shoulder, without heeding the occasional sugary reproof
of dame Hinkley, which bade them “let Brother
Stevens be;” and, already had Brother Stevens himself,
ventured upon the use of sundry grave laws from the holy
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
volume, the fruit of early reading and a retentive memory,
which not a little helped to maintain his novel pretensions
in the mind of the brethren, and the worthy teacher, John
Cross himself. All things promised a long duration to a
friendship suddenly begun; when William Hinkley, the
younger, a youth already introduced to the reader, made
his appearance within the happy circle. He wore a different
aspect from all the rest as he recognised in the person
of Brother Stevens, the handsome stranger, his antipathy
to whom, at a first glance, months before, seemed
almost to have the character of a warning instinct. A
nearer glance did not serve to lessen his hostility.
Our traveller was to the eye of a lover, one who promised
dangerous rivalship, and an intrepid air of confidence
which, even his assumed character could not enable him
to disguise from the searching eyes of jealousy, at least
contributed to strengthen the dislike of the youth for a
person who seemed so perfectly sure of his ground. Still,
William Hinkley behaved as a civil and well-bred youth
might have been expected to behave. He did not suffer
his antipathy to put on the aspect of rudeness; he was grave
and cold, but respectful; and though he did not “be-brother”
the stranger, he yet studiously subdued his tones to mildness,
when it became necessary in the course of the evening
meal, that he should address him. Few words, however,
were exchanged between the parties. If Hinkley
beheld an enemy to his heart's hopes in Stevens, the latter
was sufficiently well-read in the human heart to discover
quite as soon, that the rustic was prepared to see in himself
any character but that of a friend. The unwillingness
with which Hinkley heard his suggestions—the absence
of all freedom and ease in his deportment, towards himself,
so different from the manner of the youth when speaking
or listening to all other persons, the occasional gleam
of jealous inquiry and doubt within his eye, and the utter
lack of all enthusiasm and warmth in his tones while he
spoke to him, satisfied Stevens, that he, of all the household
of his hospitable entertainers, if not actually suspicious
of his true character, was the one whose suspicions were
those most easily to be awakened, and who of all others,
needed most to be guarded against. It will not increase our
estimate of the wisdom of the stranger, to learn that with
this conviction, he should yet arrogate to himself a tone of
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
superiority, while speaking in hearing of the youth. This
was shown in a manner that was particularly galling to a
high spirited youth, and one whose prejudices were already
wakened against the speaker. It was that of a paternal
and patronising senior, whose very gentleness and benignity
of look and accent, seem to arise from a full conviction
of the vast difference which exists between himself
and his hearer. An indignity like this, which cannot be
resented, is one which the young mind feels always most
anxious to resent. The very difficulties in the way of
doing so, stimulates the desire. Such was the feeling of
William Hinkley. With such a feeling it may be conjectured
that opportunity was not long wanting, or might
soon be made, for giving utterance to the suppressed fires
of anger which were struggling in his heart. Days and
weeks may elapse, but the antipathy will declare itself at
last. It would be easier to lock up the mountain torrent
after the breath of the tornado has torn away its rocky
seals, than to stifle in the heart that hates because of its
love, the fierce fury which these united passions enkindle
within it. In the first hour of their first interview, William
Hinkley and Alfred Stevens felt that they were mutual
foes. In that little space of time, the former had but one
thought, which though it changed its aspect with each progressive
moment, never for an instant changed its character.
He panted with the hope of redressing himself for
wrongs which he could not name; for injuries and indignities
which he knew not how to describe. Stevens had
neither done nor said any thing which might be construed
into an offence. And yet, nobody knew better than
Stevens, that he had been offensive. The worthy John
Cross, in the simplicity of his nature, never dreamed of
this, but on the contrary, when our adventurer dilated in
the fatherly manner already adverted to, he looked upon
himself as particularly favoured of Heaven, in falling upon
a youth, as a pupil, of such unctuous moral delivery.
“Surely,” he mused internally, “this is a becoming instrument
which I have found, for the prosecution of the
good work. He will bear the word like one sent forth to
conquer. He will bind and loose with a strong hand.
He will work wondrous things!” Not unlike these were
the calculations of old Hinkley, as he hearkened to the
reverend reasonings and the solemn commonplaces of the
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
stranger. Stevens, like most recent converts, was the
most uncompromising enemy of those sins from which he
professed to have achieved with difficulty his own narrow
escape; and finding, from the attentive ear of his audience,
that he had made a favourable impression, he proceeded
to manufacture for them his religious experience; an art
which his general information, and knowledge of the world
enabled him to perform without much difficulty. But the
puritan declamation which pleased all the rest, disgusted
young Hinkley, and increased his dislike for the declaimer.
There was too much of the worldling in the looks, dress,
air and manner of Stevens, to satisfy the rustic of his sincerity.
Something of his doubts had their source, without
question, in the antipathy which he had formed against
him; but William Hinkley was not without keen, quick,
observing, and justly discriminating faculties, and much of
his conclusions were the due consequences of a correct
estimate of the peculiarities which we have named. Stevens,
he perceived, declared his experiences of religion, with the
air of one who expects the congratulations of his audience.
The humility which thinks only of the acquisition itself,
as the very perfection of human conquests, was wanting
equally to his language and deportment. The very details
which he gave, were ostentatious; and the gracious smiles
which covered his lips as he concluded, were those of the
self-complacent person, who feels that he has just been
saying those good things, which of necessity, must command
the applause of his hearers. A decent pause of half
an hour after the supper was finished, which was spent by
the jealous youth in utter silence, and he then rose abruptly
and hurried from the apartment, leaving the field
entirely to his opponent. He proceeded to the house of
his neighbour and cousin, Ned Hinkley, but without any
hope of receiving comfort from his communion. Ned
was a lively, thoughtless, light-hearted son of the soil, who
was very slow to understand sorrows of any kind; and
least of all, those which lie in the fancy of a dreaming and
a doubtful lover. At this moment, when the possession of
a new violin absorbed all his thoughts, his mind was particularly
obtuse on the subject of sentimental grievances,
and the almost voluptuous delight which filled his eyes
when William entered his chamber, entirely prevented him
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
from seeing the heavy shadow which overhung the brows
of the latter.
“What, back again, William? Why, you're as changeable
as the last suit of a green lizard. When I asked you
to stop, and hear me play `cross-possum,' and `criss-cross,'
off you went without giving me a civil answer. I've a
mind now to put up the fiddle and send your ears to bed
supperless. How would you like that, old fellow? but
I'll be good-natured. You shall have it, though you don't
deserve it: she's in prime tune, and the tones—only hear
that, Bill,—there. Isn't she delicious?”
And as the inconsiderate cousin poured out his warmest
eulogy of the favourite instrument, his right hand flourished
the bow in air, in a style that would have cheered
the heart of Jean Crapaud himself, and then brought it
over the cat-gut in a grand clash, that sounded as
harshly in the ears of his morbid visiter, as if the two
worlds had suddenly come together with steam engine velocity.
He clapped his hands upon the invaded organs,
and with something like horror in his voice, cried out his
expostulations.
“For Heaven's sake, Ned, don't stun a body with your
noise.”
“Noise!—Did you say noise, Bill Hinkley—noise?”
“Yes, noise;” answered the other with some peevishness
in his accents. The violinist looked at him incredulously,
while he suffered the point of the fiddle-bow to
sink on a line with the floor; then, after a moment's pause,
he approached his companion, wearing in his face the
while, an appearance of the most grave inquiry, and when
sufficiently nigh, he suddenly brought the bow over the
strings of the instrument, immediately in William's ears,
with a sharp and emphatic movement, producing an effect
to which the former annoying crash, might well have been
thought a very gentle effusion. This was followed by an
uncontrollable burst of laughter from the merry lips of the
musician.
“There,—that's what I call a noise, Bill. Sweet Sall
can make a noise when I worry her into it; she's just
like other women in that respect; she'll be sure to squall
out if you don't touch her just in the right quarter. But
the first time she did not go amiss, and as for stunning
you—but what's the matter? Where's the wind now?”
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
“Nothing,—only I don't want to be deafened with such
a clatter.”
“Something's wrong, Bill, I know it. You look now
for all the world like a bottle of sour sop, with the cork
out, and ready to boil over. As for Sall making a noise
the first time, that's all a notion, and a very strange one.
She was as sweet-spoken then as she was when you left
me before supper. The last time, I confess, I made her
squall out on purpose. But what of that? you are not the
man to get angry with a little fun!”
“No, I'm not angry with you, Ned—I am not angry
with any body; but just now, I would rather not hear the
fiddle. Put it up.”
“There!” said the other good-naturedly, as he placed
the favourite instrument in its immemorial case in the corner.
“There; and now Bill, untie the jack, and let's see
the sort of wolf-cubs you've got to carry; for there's no
two horns to a wild bull, if something hasn't gored you
to-night.”
“You're mistaken, Ned—quite mistaken—quite!”
“Deuse a bit! I know you too well, Bill Hinkley, so
it's no use to hush up now. Out with it, and don't be
sparing, and if there's any harm to come, I'm here, just
as ready to risk a cracked crown for you, as if the trouble
was my own. I'd rather fiddle than fight, it's true; but
when there's any need for it, you know I can do one just
as well as the other; and can go to it with just as much
good humour. So show us the quarrel.”
“There's no quarrel, Ned;” said the other, softened by
the frank and ready feeling which his companion showed;
“but I'm very foolish in some things, and don't know how
it is. I'm not apt to take dislikes, but there's a man come
to our house with John Cross, this evening, that I somehow
dislike very much.”
“A man! What's he like? Any thing like Joe Richards?
That was a fellow that I hated mightily. I never longed to
lick any man but Joe Richards, and him I longed to lick
three times, though you know I never got at him more
than twice. It's a great pity he got drowned, for I owe
him a third licking, and don't feel altogether right, since I
know no sort of way to pay it. But if this man's any
thing like Joe, it may be just the same if I give it to him.
Now—”
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
“He's nothing like Richards;” said the other. “He's
a taller and better-looking man.”
“If he's nothing like Joe, what do you want to lick him
for?” said the single-minded musician, with a surprise in
his manner, which was mingled with something like rebuke.
“I have expressed no such wish, Ned; you are too
hasty; and if I did wish to whip him, I don't think I
should trouble you or any man to help me. If I could
not do it myself, I should give it up as a bad job, without
calling in assistants.”
“Oh, you're a spunky fellow—a real colt for hard
riding;” retorted the other with a good-humoured mock in
his tones and looks: “but if you don't want to lick the
fellow, how comes it you dislike him? It seems to me if
a chap behaved so as to make me dislike him, it wouldn't
be an easy matter to keep my hands off him. I'd teach
him how to put me into a bad humour, or I'd never touch
violin again.”
“This man's a parson, I believe.”
“A parson,—that's a difficulty. It is not altogether
right to lick parsons, because they're not counted fighting
people. But there's a mighty many on 'em that licking
would help. No wonder you dislike the fellow, though
if he comes with John Cross, he shouldn't be altogether
so bad. Now, John Cross is a good man. He's good,
and he's good-humoured. He don't try to set people's
teeth on edge against all the pleasant things of this world,
and he can laugh, and talk, and sing, like other people.
Many's the time he's asked me, of his own mouth, to
play the violin; and I've seen his little eyes caper again,
when Sweet Sall talked out her funniest. If it was not so
late, I'd go over now and give him a reel or two, and then
I could take a look at this strange chap, that's set your
grinders against each other.”
The fiddler looked earnestly at the instrument in the
corner, his features plainly denoting his anxiety to resume
the occupation which his friend's coming had so inopportunely
interrupted. William Hinkley saw the looks of his
cousin, and divined the cause.
“You shall play for me, Ned,” he remarked; “you
shall give me that old Highland-reel that you learned from
Scotch Georgy. It will put me out of my bad humour, I
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
think, and then we can go to bed quietly. I've come to
sleep with you to-night.”
“You're a good fellow, Bill; I knew that you couldn't
stand it long, if Sweet Sall kept a still tongue in her head.
That reel's the very thing to drive away bad humours,
though there's another that I learnt from John Blodget, the
boatman, that sounds to me the merriest and comicalest
thing in the world. It goes—,” and here the fiddle
was put in requisition to produce the required sounds: and
having got carte blanche, our enthusiastic performer, without
weariness, went through his whole collection, without
once perceiving that his comical and merry tunes had entirely
failed to change the grave, and even gloomy expression
which still mantled the face of his companion. It
was only when in his exhaustion he set down the instrument,
that he became conscious of William Hinkley's continued
discomposure.
“Why, Bill, the trouble has given you a bigger bite
than I thought for. What words did you have with the
preacher?”
“None: I don't know that he is a preacher. He speaks
only as if he was trying to become one.”
“What, you hadn't any difference—no quarrel?”
“None.”
“And it's only to-night that you've seen him for the
first time?”
A flush passed over the grave features of William Hinkley
as he heard this question, and it was with a hesitating
manner and faltering accents, that he continued to tell his
cousin of the brief glimpse which he had of the same
stranger several months before, on that occasion, when, in
the emotion of Margaret Cooper, replying to a similar
question, he first felt the incipient seed of jealousy planted
within his bosom. But this latter incident he forbore to
reveal to the inquirer; and Ned Hinkley, though certainly
endowed by nature with sufficient skill to draw forth the
very soul of music from the instrument on which he
played, had no similar power upon the secret soul of the
person whom he partially examined.
“But 'tis very strange how you should take offence at
a man you've seen so little; though I have heard before
this of people taking dislikes at other people the first moment
they set eyes on 'em. Now, I'm not a person of
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
that sort unless it was in the case of Joe Richards; and
him I took a sort of grudge at from the first beginning.
But even then there was a sort of reason for it; for, at the
beginning, when Joe came down upon us here in Charlemont,
he was for riding over people's necks, without so
much as asking, `by your leave.' He had a way about
him that vexed me, though we did not change a word.”
“And it's a way that this person has that I don't like;”
said William Hinkley. “He talks as if he made you, and
when you talk, he smiles as if he thought you were the
very worst work that ever went out of his hands. Then,
if he has to say any thing, be it ever so trifling, he says it
just as if he was telling you that the world was to come
to an end the day after to-morrow.”
“Just the same with Joe Richards. I never could get
at him but twice; though I give him then a mighty smart
hammering; and if he hadn't got under the broadhorn
and got drowned;—but this fellow?”
“You'll see him at church to-morrow. I shouldn't
wonder if he preaches; for John Cross was at him about
it before I came away. What's worse, the old man's
been asking him to live with us.”
“What, here in Charlemont?”
“Yes.”
“I'll be sure to lick him then, if he's any thing like Joe
Richards. But what's to make him live in Charlemont?
Is he to be a preacher for us?”
“Perhaps so, but I couldn't understand all, for I came
in while they were at it, and left home before they were
done. I'm sure if he stays there I shall not. I shall
leave home, for I really dislike to meet him.”
“You shall stay with me, Bill, and we'll have Sall at
all hours;” was the hearty speech of the cousin, as he
threw his arms around the neck of his morose companion,
and dragged him gently towards the adjoining apartment,
which formed his chamber. “To-morrow,” he continued,
“as you say, we'll see this chap, and if he's any thing
like Joe Richards—” The doubled fist of the speaker,
and his threatening visage, completed the sentence with
which this present conference and chapter may very well
conclude.
-- 063 --
CHAPTER VI.
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
The next day was the Sabbath. John Cross had timed
his arrival at the village with a due reference to his duties,
and after a minute calculation of days and distances, so
that his spiritual manna might be distributed in equal proportions
among his hungering flock. His arrival made
itself felt accordingly, not simply in Charlemont, but
throughout the surrounding country for a circuit of ten
miles or more. There was a large and hopeful gathering
of all sorts and sexes, white and black, old and young.
Charlemont had a very pretty little church of its own; but
one, and that, with more true Christianity than is found
commonly in this world of pretence and little tolerance,
was open to preachers of all denominations. The word
of God, among these simple folks, was quite too important
to make them scruple at receiving it from the lips of either
Geneva, Rome or Canterbury. The church stood out
among the hills at a little distance from, but in sight of the
village; a small, neat Grecian-like temple, glimmering
white and saintlike through solemn-visaged groves, and
gaudy green foliage. The old trees about it were all kept
neatly trimmed, the brush pruned away and cleared up,
and a smooth sweet sward, lawnlike, surrounded it, such
as children love to skip and scramble over, and older
children rest at length upon, in pairs, talking over their
sweet silly affections. Surrounded by an admiring crowd,
each of whom had his respectful salutation, at length
towards noon we see our friend John Cross approaching
the sacred dwelling. Truly he was the most simple, fraternal
of all God's creatures. He had a good word for
this, an affectionate inquiry for that, none had he forgotten,
and he had a benevolent smile, and a kind pressure of the
hand for all. He was a man to do good, for every body
saw that he thought for every body sooner than for himself,
and sincerity and earnestness, constitute with the necessary
degree of talent, the grand secrets for making
successful teachers in every department. Though a
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
simple, unsophisticated, unsuspecting creature, John Cross
was a man of very excellent natural endowments. He
chose for his text a passage of the Scriptures which admitted
of a direct practical application to the concerns of
the people, their daily wants, their pressing interests,
moral, human, and social. He was thus enabled to preach
a discourse which sent home many of his congregation
much wiser than they came, if only in reference to their
homely duties of farmstead and family. John Cross was
none of those sorry and self-constituted representatives of
our eternal interests, who deluge us with a vain, worthless
declamation, proving that virtue is a very good thing, religion
a very commendable virtue, and a liberal contribution
to the church-box at the close of the sermon one of the
most decided proofs that we have this virtue in perfection.
Nay, it is somewhat doubtful, indeed, if he ever once alluded
to the state of his own scrip and the treasury of the
church. His faith, sincere, spontaneous, ardent, left him
in very little doubt that the Lord will provide, for is he
not called “Jehovah-jireh?”—and his faith—and for this
too was he a believer—was strengthened and confirmed by
the experience of his whole life. But then John Cross
had few wants—few, almost none! In this respect he
resembled the first apostles. The necessities of life once
cared for, never was mortal man more thoroughly independent
of the world. He was not one of those fine
preachers who, dealing out counsels of self-denial, in grave
saws and solemn maxims, with wondrous grim visage and
a most slow, lugubrious shaking of the head,—are yet always
religiously careful to secure the warmest seat by the
fireside, and the best buttered bun on table. He taught no
doctrine which he did not practice; and as for consideration—
that test at once of the religionist and the gentleman—
he was as humbly solicitous of the claims and feelings
of others, as the lovely and lowly child to whom reverence
has been well taught from the beginning, as the true beginning,
equally of politeness and religion.
Before going into church he urged his protégé, Stevens,
to consent to share in the ceremonies of the service as a
layman; but there was still some saving virtue in the young
man, which made him resolute in refusing to do so. Perhaps,
his refusal was dictated by a policy like that which
had governed him so far already; which made him
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
reluctant to commit himself to a degree which might increase
very much the hazards of detection. He feared indeed,
the restraints which the unequivocal adoption of the profession
would impose upon him, fettering somewhat the
freedom of his intercourse with the young of both sexes,
and, consequently, opposing an almost insurmountable
barrier to the prevailing object which had brought him to
the village. Whatever may have been the feelings or motives
which governed him, they, at least, saved him from
an act which would have grievously aggravated his already
large offence against truth and propriety. He declined,
in language of the old hypocrisy. He did not feel justified
in taking up the cross—he felt that he was not yet worthy;
and, among the members of a church, which takes largely
into account the momentary impulses and impressions of
the professor, the plea was considered a sufficiently legitimate
one.
But though Stevens forbore to commit himself openly
in the cause which he professed a desire to espouse, he
was yet sufficiently heedful to maintain all those externals
of devotion which a seriously-minded believer would be
apt to exhibit. He could be a good actor of a part, and
in this lay his best talent. He had that saving wisdom of
the worldling, which is too often estimated beyond its
worth, which is called cunning; and the frequent successes
of which produces that worst of all the diseases
that ever impaired the value of true greatness,—conceit.
Alfred Stevens, fancied that he could do every thing, and
this fancy produced in him the appearances of a courage
which his moral nature never possessed. He had
the audacity which results from presumption, not the wholesome
strength which comes from the conscious possession
of right purpose. But a truce to our metaphysics.
Never did a saint wear the aspect of such supernatural
devotion. He knelt with the first, groaned audibly at intervals,
and when his face became visible, his eyes were
strained in upward glances, so that the spectator could behold
little more in their orbs than a sea of white.
“Oh! what a blessed young man!” said Mrs. Quackenbosh.
“How I wish it was he that was to preach for us today;”
responded that gem from the antique, Miss Polly
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
Entwistle, who had joined every church in Kentucky in
turn, without having been made a spouse in either.
“How handsome he is!” simpered Miss Julia Evergreen—
a damsel of seventeen, upon whom the bilious
eyes of Miss Entwistle were cast with such an expression
as the devil is said to put on when suddenly soused in holy
water.
“Handsome is that handsome does!” was the commentary
of a venerable cormorant to whom Brother Cross had
always appeared the special and accepted agent of heaven.
“I wish Brother Cross would get him to pray only. I
wonder if he believes in the new-light doctrine?” purred
one of the ancient tabbies of the conventicle.
“The new light is but the old darkness, Sister Widgeon;”
responded an old farmer of sixty-four, who had
divided his time so equally between the plough and the
prayer book, that his body had grown as crooked as the
one, while his mind was bewildered with as many doctrines
as ever worried all sense out of the other. We
shall not suffer these to divert us from our purpose, any
more than Stevens permitted their speculations upon his
person and religion to affect the appearances of his devotion.
He looked neither to the right nor to the left while
entering the church, or engaging in the ceremonies. No
errant glances were permitted to betray to the audience a
mind wandering from the obvious duties that were before
it; and yet Alfred Stevens knew just as well that every
eye in the congregation was fixed upon him, as that he
was himself there; and among those eyes, his own keen
glance had already discovered those of that one for whom
all these labours of hypocrisy were undertaken. Margaret
Cooper sat on the opposite side of the church, but the line
of vision was uninterrupted between them, and when—
though very unfrequently—Stevens suffered his gaze to
rest upon her form, it was with a sudden look of pleased
abstraction, as if, in spite of himself, his mind was irresistibly
drawn away from all recollection of its immediate
duties. If a word is sufficient for the wise, a look answers
an equal purpose with the vain. Margaret Cooper
left the church that morning with a pleased conviction that
the handsome stranger had already paid his devotion to her
charms. There was yet another passion to be gratified.
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
The restless ambition of her foolish heart whispered to her
momently, that if her person had done so much, what
might she not hope to achieve when the treasures of her
mind were known. She had long since made the comparison
of her own intellect with that of every other maiden
in the village, and she flattered herself that before
many days, the young stranger should make it too. Her
vain heart was rapidly preparing to smooth the path of the
enemy and make his conquests easy.
But it was not the women only, by whom the deportment
of Alfred Stevens was so closely watched. The
eyes of suspicion and jealousy were upon him. The two
young men whose interview formed the conclusion of our
last chapter, scanned his conduct and carriage with sufficient
keenness of scrutiny.
“I'll tell you what, Bill Hinkley,” said his cousin,
“this fellow, to my thinking, is a very great rascal.”
“What makes you think so?” demanded the former,
with slow, dissatisfied accents; “he seems to pray very
earnestly.”
“That's the very reason I think him a rascal. His
praying seems to me very unnatural. Here, he's a perfect
stranger in the place, yet he never shows any curiosity
to see the people. He never once looks around him.
He walks to the church with his eye cast upon the ground,
and sometimes he squints to this side and sometimes to
that, but he seems to do it slyly, and seems to take pains
that nobody should see him doing it. All this might answer
for an old man, who believing that every thing is
vanity—as, indeed, every thing must seem to old people;
but to a young fellow, full of blood, who eats well, drinks
well, sleeps well, and should naturally have a hankering
after a young girl, all this is against nature. Now, what's
against nature is wrong, and there's wrong at the bottom
of it. Youth is the time to laugh, dance, sing, play on the
violin, and always have a sweetheart when it can find one.
If you can't get a beauty take a brown; and if Mary won't
smile, Susan will. But always have a sweetheart; always
be ready for fun and frolic; that's the way for the young,
and when they don't take these ways, it's unnatural—
there's something wrong about it, and I'm suspicious of
that person. Now, I just have this notion of the young
stranger. He's after no good. I reckon he's like a
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
hundred others; too lazy to go to work, he goes to preaching,
and learns in the first sermon to beg hard for the missionaries.
I'll lick him, Bill, to a certainty if he gives me the
littlest end of an opportunity.”
“Pshaw, Ned, don't think of such a thing. You are
quite too fond of licking people.”
“Deuse a bit. It does 'em good.—Look you, this chap
is monstrous like Joe Richards. I'll have to lick him on
that account.”
“You're mad, Ned;—talk of whipping a preacher.”
“He's no preacher yet,” said the other, “but if I lick
him he may become one.”
“No matter, he's never offended you.”
“Ay, but he will. I see it in the fellow's looks. I
never was mistaken in a fellow's looks in all my life.”
“Wait till he does offend you then.”
“Well, I'm willing to do that, for I know the time will
come. I'm always sure, when I first see a man, to know
whether I'll ever have to flog him or not. There's a
something that tells me so. Isn't that very singular,
Bill?”
“No! you form a prejudice against a man, fancy that
you ought to whip him, and then never rest till you've
done so. You'll find your match some day.”
“What! you think some other chap will fancy he
ought to whip me? Well—maybe so. But this ain't the
fellow to do that.”
“He's a stout man, and I reckon strong. Besides, Ned,
he's very handsome.”
“Handsome! Lord, Bill, what a taste you have? How
can a man be called handsome that never altogether opens
his eyes, except when he turns up the whites until you'd
think he'd never be able to get the balls back to their proper
place? Then, what a chin he has—as sharp as a
pitchfork, and who but a girl child would fancy a man
with his hair combed sleek like a woman's on each side of
his ears, with big whiskers at the same time that looks for
all the world like the brush of a seven years running fox
Handsome! If my pup `Dragon' was only half so much
like a beast, I'd plump him into the horsepond!”
It is probable that Ned Hinkley did not in truth think
of the stranger as he expressed himself. But he saw how
deep a hold his appearance had taken, in an adverse way,
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
upon the mind and feelings of his relative and friend, and
his rude, but well-meant endeavours, were intended to console
his companion, after his own fashion, by the exhibition
of a certain degree of sympathy. His efforts, however
well intended, did not produce any serious effect.
William Hinkley, though he forbore the subject, and
every expression which might indicate either soreness or
apprehension, was still the victim of that presentiment
which had touched him on the very first appearance of the
stranger. He felt more than ever apprehensive on the
score of his misplaced affections. While his cousin had
been watching the stranger, his eyes had been fixed upon
those of Margaret Cooper, and his fears were increased
and strengthened, as he perceived that she was quite too
much absorbed in other thoughts and objects to behold for
an instant the close espionage which he maintained upon
her person. His heart sunk within him, as he beheld how
bold was her look, and how undisguised the admiration
which it expressed for the handsome stranger.
“You will go home with me, William?” said the
cousin.
The other hesitated.
“I think,” said he, after a moment's pause, “I should
rather go to my own home. It is a sort of weakness to
let a stranger drive a man off from his own family, and
though I somehow dislike this person's looks, and am very
sorry that John Cross brought him to our house, yet I
shouldn't let a prejudice which seems to have no good foundation
take such possession of my mind. I will go home,
Ned, and see,—perhaps, I may come to like the stranger
more when I know him better.”
“You'll never like him. I see it in the fellow's eye;
but just as you please about going home. You're right in
one thing, never to give up your own dunghill, so long as
you can get room on it for a fair fling with your enemy.
Besides, you can see better, by going home, what the
chap's after. I don't see why he should come here to
learn to preach. We can't support a preacher. We don't
want one. He could just as well have learnt his business
where he came from.”
With these words the cousins separated.
“Now,” said Ned Hinkley as he took his own way
homeward, in a deeper fit of abstraction than was altogether
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
usual with him—“now will Bill Hinkley beat about the
bush without bouncing through it, until it's too late to do
any thing. He's mealy-mouthed with the woman, and
mealy-mouthed with the man, and mealy-mouthed with
every body—quite too soft-headed, too easy to get on.
Here's a stranger nobody knows, just like some crow from
another corn-field, that'll pick up his provision from under
his very nose, and he doing nothing to hinder until there's
no use in trying. If I don't push in and help him he'll
not help himself. As for Margaret Cooper, dang it, I'll
court her for him myself. If he's afraid to pop the question
I ain't; though I'll have to be mighty careful about the
words I use, or she'll be thinking I come on my own hook;
and that would be a mighty scary sort of business all round
the house. Then this stranger. If any body can look
through a stranger here in Charlemont, I reckon I'm that
man. I suspect him already. I think he's after no good
with his great religioning; and I'll tie such a pair of eyes
to his heels, that his understanding will never be entirely
out of my sight. I'll find him out if any body can. But
I won't lick him till I do. That would'nt be altogether
right, considering he's to be a parson, though I doubt he'll
never make one.”
And thus, with a head filled with cares of a fashion
altogether new to it, the sturdy young Kentuckian moved
homewards with a degree of abstraction and gravity in his
countenance which was not among the smallest wonders
of the day and place in the estimation of his friends and
neighbours.
Meanwhile, the work of mischief was in full progress.
Every body knows the degree of familiarity which exists
among all classes in a country village, particularly when
the parties are brought together under the social and stimulating
influences of religion. It was natural that the pastor,
long known and well beloved, should be surrounded by his
flock as he descended from the pulpit. The old ladies
always have a saving interest in his presence, and they
pave the way for the young ones. Alfred Stevens, as the
protégé of John Cross, naturally attended his footsteps,
and was introduced by him to the little congregation—such
portion, at least, as had remained to do honour to the
preacher. Of these, not last, nor least, was the widow
Cooper; and, unreluctant by her side, though in silence
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
and not without a degree of emotion, which she yet
was able to conceal,—stood her fair but proud-hearted
daughter. Margaret, alas! Margaret stood there with a
heart more proud, yet more humble, than ever. Proud in
the consciousness of a new conquest—humble in the feeling
that this conquest had not been made, but at the expense
of some portion of her own independence. Hitherto, her
suitors had awakened no other feeling in her heart but
vanity. Now, she felt no longer able to sail on, “imperial
arbitress,” smiling at woes which she could inflict, but
never share. That instinct, which, in the heart of young
Hinkley had produced fear, if not antipathy, had been as
active in her case, though with a very different result. The
first glimpse which she had of the handsome stranger,
months before, had impressed her with a singular emotion;
and now that he was returned,—she could not divest herself
of the thought that his return was a consequence of
that one glimpse. With a keener judgment than belonged
to her neighbours, she too had some suspicions that religion
was scarcely the prevailing motive which had brought
the youth back to their little village; for how could she
reconcile with his present demure gravity and devout
profession, the daring which he had shown in riding back
to behold her a second time. That such had been his
motive she divined by her own feeling of curiosity, and
the instincts of vanity were prompt enough to believe that
this was motive sufficient to bring him back once more,
and under the guise of a character, which would the readiest
secure an easy entrance to society. Pleased with the
fancy that she herself was the object sought, she did not
perceive how enormous was the sort of deception which
the stranger had employed to attain the end desired. With
all her intellect she had not the wisdom to suspect that he
who could so readily practise so bold an hypocrisy, was
capable of the worst performances;—and when their
names were mentioned, and his eyes were permitted to
meet and mingle their glances with hers, she was conscious
of nothing farther than a fluttering sentiment of pleasure,
which was amply declared to the stranger, in the flash
of animation which spoke openly in her countenance;—
eye speaking to lip and cheek, and these, in turn, responding
with a kindred sentiment to the already tell-tale eye.
William Hinkley, from a little distance, beheld this
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
meeting. He had lingered with the curiosity which belongs to
the natural apprehension of the lover. He saw them
approach—nay, fancied he beheld the mutual expression
of their sympathizing eyes, and he turned away, and
hurried homeward, with the feeling of a heart already overborne,
and defrauded in all its hopes and expectations.
The flowers were threatened with blight in his Eden;—but
he did not conjecture, poor fellow, that a serpent had
indeed entered it!
CHAPTER VII.
Perhaps, it may be assumed, with tolerable safety, that
no first villany is ever entirely deliberate. There is something
in events to give it direction;—something to egg it
on;—to point out time, place and opportunity. Of course,
it is to be understood that the actor is one, in the first
place, wanting in the moral sense. What we simply
mean to affirm, is, that the particular, single act, is, in few
instances, deliberately meditated from the beginning. We
very much incline to think that some one event, which we
ordinarily refer to the chapter of accidents, has first set
the mind to work upon schemes, which would otherwise,
perhaps, never be thought of at all. Thus, we find persons
who continue very good people, as the world goes,
until middle age, or even seniority; then, suddenly breaking
out into some enormous offence against decency and
society, which startles the whole pious neighbourhood.
Folks start up, with outstretched hands and staring eyes,
and cry aloud,—“Lord bless us, who would have thought
so good a man could be so bad!” He, poor devil,
never fancied it himself, till he became so, and it was
quite too late to alter his arrangements. Perhaps, his
neighbours may have had some share in making him so.
Pious persons are very frequently reduced to these straits
by having the temptation forced too much upon them.
Flesh and blood cannot always withstand the provocation
of earthly delicacies, even where the spirit is a tolerably
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
stout one;—and of the inadequacy of the mind, always to
contend with the inclinations of the flesh, have we not a
caution in that injunction of Holy Book which warns us to
fly from temptation? But lame people cannot fly, and he is
most certainly lame who halts upon mere feet of circumstances.
Such people are always in danger.
Now, Alfred Stevens, properly brought up, from the
beginning, at some Theological Seminary, would have been,—
though in moral respects pretty much the same person—
yet in the eye of the world,—a far less criminal man. Not
that his desires would have been a jot more innocent; but
they would have taken a different direction. Instead of
the recklessness of course, such as seems to have distinguished
the conduct of our present subject,—instead of his
loose indulgencies,—his smart, licentious speeches,—the
sheep's-eye glances, right and left, which he was but too
prone to bestow, without prudence or precaution, whenever
he walked among the fair sisters—he, the said Alfred,
would have taken counsel of a more worldly policy, which
is yet popularly considered a more pious one. He would
have kept his eyes from wandering to and fro—he would
have held his blood in subjection;—patient as a fox on a
long scent in autumn, he would have kept himself lean and
circumspect, until, through the help of lugubrious prayer,
and lanthern visage, he could have beguiled into matrimony
some one feminine member of the flock,—not always fair,—
whose worldly goods would have sufficed, in full atonement
of all those circumspect, self-imposed restraints which
we find usually so well rewarded. But Alfred Stevens
was not a man of this pious temper. It is evident, from
his present course, that he had some inkling of the modus
operandi; but all his knowledge fell short of that saving
wisdom, which would have defrauded the social world of
one of its moral earthquakes, and, possibly, deprived the
survivors of the present moral story. For moral it is,
though our hero is not exactly so.
It would be doing our subject and our theory equal injustice,
if we were to suppose that he had any fixed purpose,
known to himself, when he borrowed the professional
garment, and began to talk with the worthy John Cross in
the language of theology, and with the tongue of a hypocrite.
He designed to revisit Charlemont, for he had really
been impressed by the commanding figure and noble
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
expression of beauty, of that young damsel whom he had
encountered by the road side. Even this impression,
however, would have been suffered to escape from his
mind, had it not been so perfectly convenient to revisit the
spot, on his return to his usual place of residence. During
the summer, Charlemont, and its rustic attractions, had
been the frequent subject of a conversation, running into
discussion, between himself and the amiable old man, his
uncle. The latter repeatedly urged upon his nephew to
make the visit; fondly conceiving that a nearer acquaintance
with the pleasant spot which had so won upon his
own affections, would be productive of a like effect upon
his nephew. Alas! how little did he know the mischief
he was doing!
In very idleness of mood—with just that degree of
curiosity which prompts one to turn about and look a
second time,—Alfred Stevens resumed the route which included
Charlemont. But the devil had, by this time, found
his way into the meditations of the youth, and lay lurking,
unknown to himself, perhaps, at the bottom of this same
curiosity. The look of pride and defiance which Margaret
Cooper had betrayed, when the bold youth rode back to
steal a second glance at her matchless person, was equivalent
to an equally bold challenge;—and his vanity hastily
picked up the gauntlet which hers had thrown down. He
wished to see the damsel again—to see if she was so
beautiful—if she did, indeed, possess that intellectual
strength and vivacity which flashed out so suddenly and
with so much splendour, from beneath her large, dark eyelashes!
In this mood he met with John Cross, and the
simplicity of that worthy creature offered another challenge,
not less provoking than the former, to the levity and love
of mischief which also actively predominated in the bosom
of the youth. Fond of fun, and ever on the look out for
subjects of quizzing, it was in compliance with a purely
habitual movement of his mind, that he conjured up that
false, glazing story of his religious inclinations, which had
so easily imposed upon the unsuspecting preacher. Never
was proceeding less premeditated, or so completely the
result of an after-thought than this; and now, that it had
proved so perfectly successful,—now, that he found himself
admitted into the very heart of the little village, and
into the bosoms of the people,—he began, for the first
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
time, to feel the awkwardness of the situation in which he
had placed himself, and the responsibilities, if not dangers,
to which it subjected him. To play the part of a mere
preacher,—to talk glibly and with proper unction, in
the stereotype phraseology of the profession,—was no
difficult matter to a clever young lawyer of the west,
having a due share of the gift of gab, and almost as profoundly
familiar with Scripture quotation as Henry Clay
himself. But there was something awkward in the idea of
detection, and he was not unaware of those summary dangers
which are like to follow, in those wild frontier regions
from the discovery of so doubtful a personage as “Bro'
Wolf,” in the clothing of a more innocent animal. Chief
Justice Lynch is a sacred authority in those parts,—and,
in such a case as his, Alfred Stevens did not doubt that the
church itself would feel it only becoming to provide another
sort of garment for the offender, which whether pleasant
or not, would at least be like to stick more closely and be
quite as warm.
But, once in, there was no help but to play out the game
as it had been begun. Villagers are seldom very sagacious
people, and elegant strangers are quite too much esteemed
among them to make them very particular in knowing the
whys and wherefores about them—whence they come,
what they do, and whither they propose to go. He had
only to preserve his countenance and a due degree of caution,—
and the rest was easy. He had no reason to suppose
himself an object of suspicion to any body; and
should he become so, nothing was more easy than to
take his departure with sufficient promptness, and without
unnecessarily soliciting the prayers of the church
in behalf of the hurried traveller. At all events, he could
lose nothing by the visit—perhaps something might be
gained. What was that something?—Behold him in
his chamber preparing to ask and to answer this question
for himself. The Sabbath day is finally over. He has been
almost the lion of the day. We say almost, for the worthy
John Cross could not easily be deprived, by any rivalry, of
the loyal regards of his old parishioners. But, though the
latter had most friends, the stranger, Alfred Stevens, had had
most followers. All were anxious to know him,—the young
in particular, maidens and men;—and the grave old dames
would have given their last remaining teeth, bone or waxen,
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
to have heard him discourse. There was so much sense
and solemnity in his profound, devout looks! He has
been made known to them all. He has shaken hands with
many. But he has exchanged the speech of sympathy and
feeling with but one only!—and that one!—
Of her he thinks in his chamber—his quiet, snug, little
chamber,—a mere closet, looking out upon a long garden
slip, in which he sees, without much heeding them, long
lanes of culinary cabbage, and tracts of other growing
and decaying vegetation, in which his interest is quite too
small, to make it needful that he should even ask its
separate names. His chin rests upon his hands with an air
of meditation; and gradually his thoughts rise up in
soliloquy which is suffered to invade no ear but ours.
“Well! who'd have thought it! a parson!—devilish
good, indeed! How it will tell at Murkey's! What a
metamorphose! If it don't stagger 'em, nothing will! It's
the best thing I've done yet!—I shall have to do it over a
hundred times, and must get up a sermon or two before-hand,
and swear that I preached them—and egad! I may
have to do it yet before I'm done! Ha! ha! ha!”
The laughter was a quiet chuckle, not to be heard by
vulgar ears. It subsided in the gorges of his throat. The
idea of really getting up a sermon tickled him. He muttered
over texts, all that he could remember; and proceeded
to turn over the phrases for an introduction, such
as, unctious with good things in high degree, he fancied
would be particularly commendable to his unsuspecting
hearers. Alfred Stevens had no small talent for imitation.
He derived a quiet sort of pleasure, on the present occasion,
from its indulgence.
“I should have made a famous parson, and if all trades
fail may yet. But, now that I am here,—what's to come
of it! It's not so hard to put on a long face, and prose in
Scripture dialect;—but, cui bono? Let me see! Hem!—
The girl is pretty, devilish pretty—with such an eye,
and looks so! There's soul in the wench—life,—and a
passion that speaks out in every glance and movement. A
very Cressid, here in Charlemont. Should she be like her
of Troy? At all events, it can do no harm to see what she's
made of!
“But I must manage warily. I have something to lose
in the business. Frankfort is but fifty miles from
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
Charlemont—fifty miles;—and there's Ellisland, but fourteen.
Fourteen!—an easy afternoon ride. That way it must be
done. Ellisland shall be my post-town. I can gallop
there in an afternoon, drop and receive my letters, and be
back by a round-about, which shall effectually baffle inquiry.
A week or two will be enough. I shall see, by
that time, what can be done with her;—though still, cautiously,
Parson Stevens!—cautiously.”
The farther cogitations of Stevens were subordinate to
these, but of the same family complexion. They were
such as to keep him wakeful. The Bible which had been
placed upon his table, by the considerate providence of his
hostess, lay there unopened; though more than once, he
lifted the cover of the sacred volume, letting it fall again
suddenly, as if with a shrinking consciousness that such
thoughts, as at that moment filled his mind, were scarcely
consistent with the employment, in any degree, of such a
companion. Finally, he undressed and went to bed. The
hour had become very late.
“Good young man,” muttered worthy Mrs. Hinkley to
her drowsy spouse, in the apartment below, as she heard
the movements of her guest—“good young man, he's
just now going to bed. He's been studying all this while.
I reckon Brother Cross has been sound this hour.”
The light from Stevens's window glimmered out, over
the cabbage garden, and was seen by many an ancient
dame, as she prepared for her own slumbers.
“Good young man,” said they all with one accord. “I
reckon he's at the Bible now. Oh! he'll be a blessed
labourer in the vineyard, I promise you, when Brother
Cross is taken.”
“If it were not for the cursed bore of keeping up the
farce beyond the possibility of keeping up the fun, such a
rig as this would be incomparably pleasant; but,”—yawning—
“that's the devil! I get monstrous tired of a joke
that needs dry nursing!”
Such were the last muttered words of Parson Stevens
before he yielded himself up to his slumbers. Good
young man—charitable old ladies—gullible enough, if not
charitable! But the professions need such people, and we
must not quarrel with them!
-- 078 --
CHAPTER VIII.
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
The poor conceited blackguards of this ungracious earth,
have a fancy that there must be huge confusion and a
mighty bobbery in nature, corresponding with that which
is for ever going on in their own little spheres. If we have
a toothache we look for a change of weather; our rheumatism
is a sure sign that God has made his arrangements to
give us a slapping rain; and should the white bull or the
brown heifer die, look out for hail, or thunder-storm, at
least, as a forerunner of the event. Nothing less can possibly
console or satisfy us for such a most unaccountable,
not to say unnatural and unwarrantable, a dispensation.
The poets have ministered largely to this vanity on the
part of mankind. Shakspeare is constantly at it, and Ben
Jonson, and all the dramatists. Not a butcher, in the
whole long line of the butchering Cæsars, from Augustus
down, but, according to them, died in a sort of gloom-glory,
resulting from the explosion of innumerable stars
and rockets, and the apparitions of as many, comets!—
“Gorgons, and hydras, and chimeras dire,” invariably
announced the coming stroke of fate; and five or seven
moons of a night, have suddenly arisen to warn some
miserable sublunarian that orders had been issued, that
there should be no moon for him that quarter:—or, in
military and more precise phrase, that he should have no
“quarters” during that moon. Even our venerable and
stern old puritan saint, Milton,—he who was blessed with
the blindness of his earthly eye, that he should be more
perfectly enabled to contemplate the Deity within, has
given way to this superstition when he subjects universal
nature to an earthquake, because Adam's wife followed the
counsels of the snake.
A pretty condition of things it would be, if stars, suns
and systems were to shoot madly from their spheres on
such occasions. Well might the devil laugh if such were
the case! How he would chuckle to behold globes and
seas, and empires, fall into such irreverend antics because
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
some poor earthling, be he kingling or common sodling,
goes into desuetude, either by the operation of natural
laws, or the sharp application of steel or shot. Verily, it
makes precious little difference to the Great Reaper, by
what process we finally become harvested. He is sure of
us, though no graves gape, no stars fall, no comets rush
out, like young colts from their stables, flinging their tails
into the faces of the more sober and pacific brotherhood of
lights. But, denied the satisfaction of chuckling at such
sights as these, his satanic majesty chuckles not the less
at the human vanity which looks for them. Nay, he himself,
is very likely to suggest this vanity. It is one of his
forms of temptation—one of his manœuvres; and we take
leave, by way of warning, to hint to those worthy people,
who judge of to-morrow's providence by the corns of their
great toe, or their periodical lumbago; or the shooting of
their warts; or the pricking of their palms; that it is in
truth the devil which is at the bottom of all this, and that
the Deity has nothing to do in the business. It is the
devil instilling his vanities into the human heart, in that
form which he thinks least likely to prove offensive, or
rouse suspicion. The devil is most active in your affairs,
Mrs. Thompson, the moment you imagine that there must
be a revolution on your account, in the universal laws of
nature. At such a moment your best policy will be to have
blood let, take physic, and go with all diligence to your
prayers.
There was no sort of warning on the part of the natural
to the moral world, on the day when Alfred Stevens set
forth with the worthy John Cross, to visit the flock of the
latter. There was not a lovelier morning in the whole
calendar. The sun was alone in heaven, without a cloud;
and on earth, the people in and about Charlemont, having
been to church only the day before, necessarily made their
appearance every where with petticoats and pantaloons
tolerably clean and unrumpled. Cabbages had not yet been
frost-bitten. Autumn had dressed up her children in the
garments of beauty, preparatory to their funeral. There
was a good crop of grain that year, and hogs were brisk,
and cattle lively, and all “looking up,” in the language of
the prices current. This was long before the time when
Mr. Memminger made his famous gammon speeches; but
the people had a presentiment of what was coming, and
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
to crown the eventful anticipations of the season, there was
quite a freshet in Salt river. The signs were all and every
where favourable. Speculation was beginning to chink his
money-bags; thirty new banks were about to be established;
old things were about to fleet and disappear; all
things were becoming new; and the serpent entered
Charlemont, and made his way among the people thereof,
without any signs of combustion, or overthrow, or earthquake.
Every body has some tolerable idea of what the visitation
of a parson is, to the members of his flock. In the
big cities he comes one day, and the quarterly collector
the next. He sits down with the “gude wife” in a corner
to themselves, and he speaks to her in precisely the
same low tones which cunning lovers are apt to use. If
he knows any one art better than another, it is that of
finding his way to the affections of the female part of his
flock. A subdued tone of voice betrays a certain deference
for the party addressed. The lady is pleased with such a
preliminary. She is flattered again by the pains he takes
in behalf of her eternal interests; she is pretty sure he
takes no such pains with any of her neighbours. It is a
sign that he thinks her soul the most becoming little soul
in the flock, and when he goes away, she looks after him
and sighs, and thinks him the most blessed soul of a parson.
The next week she is the first to get up a subscription
which she heads with her own name in connexion
with a sum realized by stinting her son of his gingerbread
money, in order to make this excellent parson a life member
of the “Zion African Bible and Missionary Society,
for Disseminating the Word among the Heathen.” The
same fifty dollars so appropriated, would have provided
fuel for a month to the starving poor of her own parish.
But Brother Cross gets no such windfalls. It is probable
that he never heard of such a thing, and that if he did,
he would unhesitatingly cry out, “Humbug,” at the first
intimation of it. Besides, his voice was not capable of
that modulation which a young lover, or a city parson can
give it. Accustomed to cry aloud and spare not, he usually
spoke as if there were some marrow in his bones, and
some vigour in his wind-bags. When he came to see the
good wife of his congregation, he gave her a hearty shake
of the hand, congratulated her as he found her at her
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
spinning-wheel; spoke with a hearty approbation, if he saw
that her children were civil and cleanly; if otherwise, he
blazed out with fury and boldness, by telling her that all
her praying and groaning, would avail nothing for her
soul's safety, so long as Jackey's breeches were unclean;
and that the mother of a rude and dirty child, was as sure
of damnation, as if she never prayed at all. He had no
scruples about speaking the truth. He never looked about
him for the gentle, easy phrases, by which to distinguish
the conduct which he was compelled to condemn. He
knew not only that the truth must be spoken, and be
spoken by him, if by any body, but that there is no language
too strong,—perhaps none quite strong enough, for
the utterance of the truth. But it must not be supposed,
that John Cross was in any respect an intolerant, or sour
man. He was no hypocrite, and did not, therefore, need
to clothe his features in the vinegar costume of that numerous
class. His limbs were put into no such rigid fetters
as too often denote the unnatural restraints which such
persons have imposed upon their inner minds. He could
laugh and sing with the merriest, and though he did not
absolutely shake a leg himself, yet none rejoiced more
than he, when Ned Hinkley's fiddle summoned the village
to this primitive exercise.
“Now, Alfred Stevens,” said he, the breakfast being
over, “what say'st thou to a visit with me among my
people. Some of them know thee already; they will all
be rejoiced to see thee. I will show thee how they live,
and if thou should'st continue to feel within thee, the
growing of that good seed whose quickening thou hast
declared to me, it will be well that thou should'st begin
early to practise the calling which may so shortly become
thine own. Here mightest thou live a space, toiling in
thy spiritual studies, until the brethren should deem thee
ripe for thy office; meanwhile, thy knowledge of the people
with whom thou livest, and their knowledge of thee,
would be matter of equal comfort and consolation, I trust,
to thee as to them.”
Alfred Stevens expressed himself pleased with the arrangement.
Indeed, he desired nothing else.
“But shall we see all of them?” he demanded. The
arch-hypocrite began to fear that his curiosity would be
compelled to pay a heavy penalty to dullness.
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
“The flock is small,” said John Cross. “A day will
suffice, but I shall remain three days in Charlemont, and
some I will see to-day, and some to-morrow, and some on
the day after, which is Wednesday.”
“Taken in moderate doses,” murmured Stevens to himself,
“and one may stand it.”
He declared himself in readiness, and the twain set
forth. The outward behaviour of Stevens was very exemplary.
He had that morning contrived to alter his costume
in some respects to suit the situation of affairs. For
example, he had adopted that slavish affectation which
seems to insist that a preacher of God, should always
wear a white cravat, so constructed and worn as to hide
the tips of his shirt collar. If they wore none, they would
look infinitely more noble, and we may add, never suffer
from bronchilis. In his deportment, Stevens was quite as
sanctified as heart could wish. He spoke always deliberately,
and with great unction. If he had to say “cheese
and mousetrap,” he would look very solemn, shake his
head with great gravity and slowness, and then deliberately
and equally emphasising every syllable, would roll forth
the enormous sentence with all the conscious dignity of
an ancient oracle. That “cheese and mousetrap,” so
spoken, acquired in the ears of the hearer, a degree of importance
and signification, which it confounded them to
think they had never seen before in the same felicitous
collocation of syllables. John Cross was not without his
vanities. Who is? Vanity is quite as natural as any
other of our endowments. It is a guaranty for amiability.
A vain man is always a conciliating one. He is kind to
others, because the approbation of others is a strong desire
in his mind. Accordingly, even vanity is not wholly evil.
It has its uses.
John Cross had his share, and Alfred Stevens soon discovered
that he ministered to it in no small degree. The
good old preacher took to himself the credit of having
effected his conversion, so far as it had gone. It was his
hand that had plucked the brand from the burning. He
spoke freely of his protégé, as well before his face as behind
his back. In his presence he dwelt upon the holy
importance of his calling; to others he dilated upon the
importance of securing for the church a young man of so
much tatent, yet of so much devotion: qualities not always
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
united, it would seem, among the churchlings of modern
times. Alfred Stevens seemed to promise great honour to
his teacher. That cunning which is the wisdom of the
worldling, and which he possessed in a very surprising
degree, enabled him to adopt a course of conduct, look and
remark, which amply satisfied the exactions of the scrupulous,
and secured the unhesitating confidence of those who
were of a more yielding nature. He soon caught the
phraseology of his companion, and avoiding his intensity,
was less likely to offend his hearers. His manner was
better subdued to the social tone of ordinary life, his voice
lacked the sharp twang of the countryman; and, unlike
John Cross, he was able to modulate it to those under
tones, which, as we have before intimated, are so agreeable
from the lips of young lovers and fashionable preachers.
At all events, John Cross himself, was something more
than satisfied with his pupil, and took considerable pains
to show him off. He was a sort of living and speaking
monument of the good man's religious prowess.
It does not need that we should follow the two into all
the abodes which they were compelled to visit. The
reader would scarcely conceal his yawns though Stevens
did. Enough, that a very unctious business was made of
it that morning. Many an old lady was refreshed with
the spiritual beverage bestowed in sufficient quantity to
last for another quarter; while many a young one rejoiced
in the countenance of so promising a shepherd as appeared
under the name of Alfred Stevens. But the latter thought
of the one damsel only. He said many pleasant things to
those whom he did see; but his mind ran only upon one.
He began to apprehend that she might be among the flock
who were destined to wait for the second or last day's visitation;
when, to his great relief, John Cross called his
attention to the dwelling of the widow Cooper, to whom
they were fast approaching. Stevens remarked that the
dwelling had very much the appearance of poverty—he
did not fail to perceive that it lacked the flower-garden in
front which distinguished the greater number of the cottages
in Charlemont; and there was an appearance of coldness
and loneliness about its externals which impressed
itself very strongly upon his thoughts, and seemed to
speak unfavourably for the taste of the inmates. One is
apt to associate the love of flowers with sweetness and
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
gentleness of disposition, and such a passion would seem
as natural, as it certainly would be becoming, to a young
lady of taste and sensibility. But the sign is a very doubtful
one. Taste and gentleness may satisfy themselves
with other objects. A passion for books is very apt to
exclude a very active passion for flowers, and it will be
found, I suspect, that these persons who are most remarkable
for the cultivation of flowers are least sensible to the
charms of letters. It seems monstrous, indeed, that a
human being should expend hours and days in the nursing
and tendance of such stupid beauties as plants and flowers,
when earth is filled with so many lovelier objects that come
to us commended by the superior sympathies which belong
to humanity. Our cities are filled with the sweetest
orphans—flowers destined to be immortal; angels in form,
that might be angels in spirit—that must be, whether for
good or evil—whom we never cultivate—whom we suffer
to escape our tendance, and leave to the most pitiable ignorance,
and the most wretched emergencies of want. The
life that is wasted upon dahlias, must, prima facie, be the
life of one heartless and insensible, and most probably,
brutish in a high degree.
But Alfred Stevens had very little time for farther reflection.
They were at the door of the cottage. Never did
the widow Cooper receive her parson in more tidy trim,
and with an expression of less qualified delight. She
brought forth the best chair, brushed the deer-skin seat
with her apron, and having adjusted the old man to her
own satisfaction as well as his, she prepared to do a like
office for the young one. Having seated them fairly, and
smoothed her apron, and gone through the usual preliminaries,
and placed herself a little aloof, on a third seat, and
rubbed her hands, and struggled into a brief pause in her
brisk action, she allowed her tongue to do the office for
which her whole soul was impatient.
“Oh, Brother Cross, what a searching sermon you give
us yesterday. You stirred the hearts of every body, I
warrant you, as you stirred up mine. We've been a needing
it for a precious long time, I tell you; and there's no
knowing what more's a wanting to make us sensible to the
evil that's in us. I know from myself what it is, and I
guess from the doings of others. We're none of us perfect
that's certain, but it's no harm to say that some's
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
more and some's not so perfect as others, There's a difference
in sin, Brother Cross, I'm a thinking, and I'd like
you to explain why, and what's the difference. One won't
have so much, and one will have more; one will take a
longer spell of preaching, and half the quantity will be a
dose to work another out clean, entire. I'm not boastful
for myself, Brother Cross, but I do say, I'd give up in despair
if I thought it took half so much to do me, as it
would take for a person like that Mrs. Thackeray.”
“Sister Cooper,” said Brother Cross, rebukingly—
“beware of the temptation to vain-glory. Be not like the
Pharisee, disdainful of the publican. To be too well
pleased with ones self is to be displeasing to the Lord.”
“Oh, Brother Cross, don't be thinking that I'm over
and above satisfied with the goodness that's in me. I
know I'm not so good. I have a great deal of evil; but
then it seems to me there's a difference in good and a difference
in evil. One has most of one and one has most of
another. None of us have much good and all of us have a
great deal of sin. God help me, for I need his help—I
have my own share; but as for that Mrs. Thackeray, she's
as full of wickedness as an egg's full of meat.”
“It is not the part of Christianity, Sister Cooper,” said
John Cross mildly, “to look into our neighbours' accounts
and make comparisons between their doings and our own.
We can only do so at great risk of making a false reckoning.
Besides, Sister Cooper, it is business enough on our
hands, if we see to our own short-comings. As for Mrs.
Thackeray, I have no doubt she's no better than the rest
of us, and we are all, as you said before, children of suffering
and prone to sin as certain as that the sparks fly
upward. We must only watch and pray without ceasing,
particularly so that we may not deceive ourselves with the
most dangerous sin of being too sure of our own works.
The good deeds that we boast of so much in our earthly
day will shrivel and shrink up at the last account to so
small a size that the best of us, through shame and confusion,
will be only too ready to call upon the rocks and
hills to cover us. We are very weak and foolish all, Sister
Cooper. We can't believe ourselves too weak, or too
mean, or too sinful. To believe this with all our hearts,
and to try to be better with all our strength, is the true
labour of religion. God send it to us, in all its sweetness
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
and perfection, so that we may fight the good fight without
ceasing.”
“But if you could only hear of the doings of Mrs.
Thackeray, Brother Cross, you'd see how needful it would
be to put forth all your strength to bring her back to the
right path.”
“The Lord will know. None of us can hide our evil
from the eyes of the Lord. I will strive with our sister,
when I seek her, which will be this very noon, but it is
of yourself, Sister Cooper, and your daughter Margaret
that I would speak. Where is she that I see her not?”
This was the question that made our quasi hierophant
look up with a far greater degree of interest than he had
felt in the long and random twattle to which he had been
compelled to listen. Where was she—that fair daughter?
He was impatient for the answer. But he was not long
detained in suspense. Next to her neighbours there was
no subject of whom the mother so loved to speak as the
daughter, and the daughter's excellencies.
“Ah! she is up stairs, at her books as usual. She
does so love them books, Brother Cross, I'm afraid it 'll do
harm to her health. She cares for nothing half so well.
Morning, noon, and night, all the same, you find her
poring over them; and even when she goes out to ramble,
she must have a book, and she wants no other company.
For my part I can't see what she finds in them to love so;
for except to put a body to sleep I never could see the use
they were to any person yet.”
“Books are of two kinds,” said Brother Cross gravely.
“They are useful or hurtful. The useful kinds are good,
the hurtful kinds are bad. The Holy Bible is the first
book, and the only book, as I reckon it will be the book
that'll live longest. The Life of Whitfield is a good book,
and I can recommend the sermons of that good man, Brother
Peter Cummins, that preached when L was a lad, all
along through the back parts of North Carolina, into South
Carolina and Georgia. I can't say that he came as far
back into the west as these parts; but he was a most
faithful shepherd. There was a book of his sermons
printed for the benefit of his widow and children. He
died, like that blessed man, John Rogers, that we see in
the primer books, leaving a wife with eleven children and
one at the breast. His sermons are very precious reading.
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
One of them in particular, on the Grace of God, is a very
falling of manna in the wilderness. It freshens the soul
and throws light upon the dark places in the wilderness.
Ah! if only such books were printed what a precious
world for poor souls it would be. But they print a great
many bad books now-a-days.”
The natural love of mischief which prevailed in the bosom
of Alfred Stevens now prompted him to take part in
the conversation at this happy moment. The opportunity
was a tempting one.
“The printers,” said he, “are generally very bad men.
They call themselves devils, and take young lads and
bring them up to their business under that name!”
The old lady threw up her hands, and John Cross, to
whom this intelligence was wholly new, inquired with a
sort of awe-struck gravity,—
“Can this be true, Alfred Stevens? Is this possible?”
“The fact, sir. They go by no other name among
themselves; and you may suppose, if they are not ashamed
of the name, they are not unwilling to perform the doings
of the devil. Indeed, they are busy doing his business
from morning to night—and night to morning. They
don't stop for the Sabbath. They work on Sunday the
same as any other day, and if they take any rest at all it
is on Saturday, which would show them to be a kind of
Jews.”
“Good Lord deliver us!” ejaculated the widow.
“Where, O! where?” exclaimed Brother Cross with
similar earnestness. The game was too pleasant for Alfred
Stevens. He purshued it.
“In such cities,” he continued, “as New York and
Philadelphia, thousands of these persons are kept in constant
employ sending forth those books of falsehood and
folly which fill the hearts of the young with vain imaginings,
and mislead the footsteps of the unwary. In one of
these establishments, four persons preside, who are considered
brothers; but they are brothers in sin only, and
are by some supposed to be no other. They have called
themselves after the names of saints and holy men; even
the names of the thrice blessed apostles, John and James,
have been in this fashion abused; but if it be true that the
spirits of evil may even in our day as of old embody themselves
in mortal shape for the better enthralling and
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
destruction of mankind, then should I prefer to believe that
these persons were no other than the evil demons who
ruled in Ashdod and Assyria. Such is their perseverance
in evil—such their busy industry, which keeps a thousand
authors (which is but another name for priests and prophets)
constantly at work to frame cunning falsehoods and
curious devices, and winning fancies, which when printed
and made into books, turn the heads of the young and unwary,
and blind the soul to the wrath which is to come.”
The uplifted hands of the widow Cooper still attested
her wonder.
“Lord save us!” she exclaimed, “I should not think it
strange if Sister Thackeray had some of these very books.
Do ask, Brother Cross, when you go to see her. She
speaks much of books, and I see her reading them whenever
I look in at the back window.”
John Cross did not seem to give any heed to the remark
of the old woman. There was a theological point
involved in one of the remarks of Alfred Stevens which
he evidently regarded as of the first importance.
“What you say, Alfred Stevens, is very new and very
strange to me, and I should think from what I already
know of the evil which is sometimes put in printed books,
that there was indeed a spirit of malice at work in this
way, to help the progress and the conquests of Satan among
our blind and feeble race. But I am not prepared to believe
that God has left it to Satan to devise so fearful a
scheme for prosecuting his evil designs as that of making
the demons of Ashdod and Assyria take the names of mortal
men, while seeming to follow mortal occupations. It
would be fearful tidings for our poor race were this so.
But if so, is it not seen that there is a difference in the
shapes of these persons. If either of these brothers who
blasphemously call themselves John and James, after the
manner of the apostles, shall be in very truth and certainty
that Dagon of the Philistines whom Jehovah smote before
his altar, will he not be made fishlike from the waist downwards,
and will this not be seen by his followers and some
of the thousands whom he daily perverts to his evil purposes
and so leads to eternal destruction?”
“It may be that it is permitted to such a demon to put
on what shape he thinks proper,” replied Stevens; “but
even if it was not, yet this would not be the subject of any
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
difference—it would scarcely prevent the prosecution of
this evil purpose. You are to remember, Mr. Cross—”
“John Cross—plain John Cross, Alfred Stevens,” was
the interruption of the preacher.
“You are to remember,” Stevens resumed, “that when
the heart is full of sin, the eyes are full of blindness. The
people who believe in these evil beings are incapable of
seeing their deformities.”
“That is true—a sad truth.”
“And, again,” continued Stevens, “there are devices of
mere mortal art, by which the deformities and defects of an
individual may be concealed. One of these brothers, I am
told, is never to be seen except seated in one position at
the same desk, and this desk is so constructed, as to hide
his lower limbs in great part, while still enabling him to
prosecute his nefarious work.”
“It's clear enough, Brother Cross,” exclaimed the
widow Cooper, now thoroughly convinced.
“It's clear enough that there's something that he wants
to hide. Lord help us! but these things are terrible.”
“To the weak and the wicked, Sister Cooper, they are,
as you say, terrible, and hence the need that we should have
our lamps trimmed and lighted, for the same light which
brings us to the sight of the Holy of Holies, shows us the
shape of hatefulness, the black and crouching form of
Satan, with nothing to conceal his deformity. Brother
Stevens has well said that when the heart is full of sin, the
eyes are full of blindness; and so we may say that when
the heart is full of godliness, the eyes are full of seeing.
You cannot blind them with devilish arts. You cannot
delude them as to the true forms of Satan let him take any
shape. The eye of godliness sees clean through the mask
of sin, as the light of the sun pierces the thickest cloud,
and brings day after the darkest night.”
“Oh! what a blessed thing to hear you say so.”
“More blessed to believe, Sister Cooper, and believing,
to pray with all your heart for this same eye of godliness.
But we should not only pray but work. Working for God
is the best sort of prayer. We must do something in his
behalf: and this reminds me, Sister Cooper, that if there is
so much evil spread abroad in these books, we should look
heedfully into the character of such as fall into the hands
of the young and the unmindful of our flock.”
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
“That is very true; that is just what I was thinking of,
Brother Cross. You cannot look too close, I'm thinking
into such books as you'll find at the house of widow
Thackeray. I can give a pretty 'cute guess where she
gets all that sort of talk, that seems so natural at the end
of her tongue.”
“Verily, I will speak with Sister Thackeray on this
subject,” responded the pastor,—“but your own books,
Sister Cooper, and those of your daughter Margaret,—if
it is convenient, I should prefer to examine them now
while I am here.”
“What! Margaret's books! examine Margaret's books!”
“Even so, while I am present and while Brother Stevens
is here, also, to give me his helping council in the way
of judgment.”
“Why, bless us, Brother Cross, you don't suppose that
my daughter Margaret would keep any but the properest
books? she's too sensible, I can tell you, for that.
She's no books but the best, none, I'll warrant you, like
them you'll find at widow Thackeray's. She's not to
be put off with bad books. She goes through 'em
with a glance of the eye. Ah! she's too smart to be
caught by the contrivances of those devils, though in place
of four brothers there was four thousand of 'em. No, no!
let her alone for that—she's a match for the best of 'em.”
“But as Brother Stevens said,” continued John Cross,
“where sin gets into the heart, the eye is blinded to the
truth. Now—”
“Her eye's not blinded, Brother Cross, I can tell you.
They can't cheat her with their books. She has none but
the very best. I'll answer for them. None of them ever
did me any harm; and I reckon none of them 'll ever hurt
her. But I'm mistaken, if you don't have a real burning
when you get to Mrs. Thackeray's.”
“But, Sister Cooper—” commenced the preacher.
“But, Brother Cross;” replied the dame.
“Books, as I said before, are of two kinds.”
“Yes, I know,—good and bad—I only wonder there's
no indifferent ones among 'em;” replied the lady.
“They should be examined for the benefit of the young
and ignorant.”
“Oh, yes, and for more besides, for Mrs. Thackeray's
not young, that's clear enough; and I know there's a good
many things that she's not ignorant of. She's precious
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
knowing about many things that don't do her much good;
and if the books could unlearn her, I'd say for one let her
keep 'em. But as for looking at Margaret's books,—why,
Brother Cross, you surely know Margaret?”
The preacher answered meekly, but negatively.
“Ain't she about the smartest girl you ever met with?”
continued the mother.
“God has certainly blessed her with many gifts,” was
the reply, “but where the trust is great, the responsibility
is great also.”
“Don't she know it?”
“I trust she does, Sister Cooper.”
“You may trust every bit of it. She's got the smartness,
the same as it is in books—”
“But the gift of talents, Sister Cooper, is a dangerous
gift.”
“I don't see, Brother Cross, how good things that come
from God can be dangerous things.”
“If I could see the books, Sister Cooper;—I say not
that they are evil—”
John Cross began in tones that denoted something like
despair; certainly dissatisfaction was in them, when Alfred
Stevens, who had long since tired of what was going on,
heard a light footfall behind him. He turned his eyes and
beheld the fair maiden, herself, the propriety of whose
reading was under discussion, standing in the doorway.
It appeared that she had gathered from what had reached
her ears, some knowledge of what was going on, for a
smile of ineffable scorn curled her classic and nobly
chiselled mouth, while her brow was the index to a very
haughty volume. In turning, Alfred Stevens betrayed to
her the playful smile upon his own lips,—their eyes met,
and that single glance established a certain understanding
between them.
Her coming did not avail to stifle the subject of discussion.
John Cross was too resolute in the prosecution of
his supposed duty, to give up the cause he had once undertaken.
He had all the inveteracy of the stout old puritan.
The usual introduction over and he resumed, though he
now addressed himself to the daughter rather than the
mother. She scarcely heard him to the end.
“The books were my father's, Mr. Cross; they are
valuable to me on that account. They are dear to me on
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
their own. They are almost my only companions, and
though I believe you would find nothing in them which
might be held detrimental, yet I must confess, if there
were, I should be sorry to be made acquainted with the
fact. I have not yet discovered it myself, and should be
loth to have it shown by another.”
“But you will let me see them, Margaret?”
“Yes, sir, whenever you please. I can have no objection
to that, but if by seeing them you only desire an
opportunity to say what I shall read and what not, I can
only tell you that your labour will be taken in vain.
Indeed, the evil is already done. I have not a volume
which I have not read repeatedly.”
It is needless to add that Brother Cross was compelled
to forego his book examination at the widow Cooper's,
though strongly recommended there to press it at widow
Thackeray's. Alfred Stevens was a mute observer during
the interview, which did not last very long after the appearance
of Margaret. He was confirmed in all his previous
impressions of her beauty, nor did the brevity of the conference
prevent him from perceiving her intense selfesteem,
which under certain influences of temperament is
only another name for vanity. Besides they had exchanged
glances which were volumes, rendering unnecessary much
future explanation. She had seen that he was secretly
laughing at the simple preacher, and that was a source of
sympathy between them. She was very much in the
habit of doing the same thing. He, on the other hand,
was very well satisfied that the daughter of such a mother
must be perverse and vain; and he was moralist enough
to know that there is no heart so accessible to the tempter
as the wilful heart. But few words had passed between
them, but those were expressive, and they both parted,
with the firm conviction that they must necessarily meet
again.
-- 093 --
CHAPTER IX.
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
Shall we go the rounds with our pastor? Shall we
look in upon him at Mrs. Thackeray's, while, obeying the
suggestion of the widow Cooper, he purges her library of
twenty volumes, casting out the devils and setting up the
true gods? It is scarcely necessary. Enough to know
that, under his expurgatorial finger, our beloved and bosom
friend, William Shakspeare, was the first to suffer. Plays!
The one word was enough. Some lying histories were
permitted to escape. The name of history saved them!
Robinson Crusoe was preserved as a true narative; and
Swift's Tale of a Tub escaped, as it was assured—(there
being no time to read any of the books, and in this respect
John Cross showed himself much more of a professional
critic than he conjectured)—to be a treatise on one branch
of the cooperage business, and so important to domestic
mechanics in a new country. The reader will remember
the manner in which the library of the knight of La
Mancha was disposed of. He would err, however, if he
supposed that John Cross dismissed the books from the
window, or did any thing farther than simply to open the
eyes of Mrs. Thackeray to the bad quality of some of the
company she kept. That sagacious lady did not think it
worth while to dispute the ipse dixit of a teacher so single-minded,
if not sagacious. She bowed respectfully to all
his suggestions, promised no longer to bestow her smiles
on the undeserving—a promise of no small importance
when it is remembered that at thirty-three, Mrs. Thackeray
was for the first time a widow;—and that-night she
might have been seen laughing heartily with Mesdames
Ford and Quickly, at the amorous pertinacity of the baffled
knight of Eastcheap.
Under the paternal wing of John Cross, Alfred Stevens
obtained the desired entrée into the bosom of the flock.
He was every where admitted with gladness—every where
welcomed as to a home; and the unsophisticated old
teacher by whose agency this was effected, congratulated
his congregation and himself, on leaving the village,
that he had left in it a person so full of grace, and one who,
with the blessing of God, was so likely to bring about the
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
birth of grace in others. The good old man bestowed long
and repeated counsels upon his neophyte. The course of
study which he prescribed was very simple. The Bible
was the Alpha and the Omega—it was the essential whole.
It would be well to read other books if they could be had—
Clarke and Wesley were of course spoken of—but they
could be done without. The word of God was in the one
volume, and it needed no help from commentators to win
its way and suffice the hungering and thirsting soul.
“If you could lay hands upon the book of sermons
written by Brother Peter Cummins, which his wife had
printed, I'm thinking it would serve, next to God's own
blessed word, to put you in the right way. It's been a
great helping to me, Alfred Stevens, that same book of
sermons; and I reckon it's because it's so good a book that
it's not printed now. I don't see it much about. But I'll
get you one if I can, and bring or send it to you, soon
enough to help you to the wisdom that you're a seeking
after. If it only wakes the spirit in you as it did in me—
if it only stirs you up with the spirit of divine love, you'll
find it easy enough to understand the teachings of the holy
volume. All things become clear in that blessed light.
By its help you read, and by its working you inwardly
digest all the needful learning. The Lord be with you,
Alfred Stevens, and bring to perfect ripening your present
undertaking.”
“Amen!” was the solemn response of the hypocrite,
but we need not say what an irreverent and unholy
thought lay at the bottom of his mind in making this ejaculation.
Before the departure of John Cross, the latter had made
terms with Squire Hinkley for the board and lodging of
Brother Stevens, and his horse. Hinkley would have
preferred taking nothing, considering the praiseworthy
purpose of the supposed theological student; but Stevens
shrunk from receiving such an obligation with a feeling of
pride, which yet had no scruples at practising so wretched
an imposture. He insisted upon making compensation, or
upon leaving the house; and, not to incur this risk, Hinkley
consented to receive a weekly sum in payment, but
the charge was considerably smaller, as we may suppose,
than it would have been had the lodger simply appeared
as an inoffensive traveller, practising no fraud and making
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
no professions of religion. Having effected all, these arrangements,
to his own satisfaction and seemingly that of
all others, John Cross departed once more into the wilderness
on his single-hearted ministry of love. A sturdy and
an honest worker was he in the tabernacle; with a right
mind if not a very wise one; and doing more good in his
generation, and after the fashion of his strength, than is
often permitted to the stallfed doctors of his vocation.
The reader will suppose that the old man has been already
gone some seven days; meanwhile the young student
has fairly made himself at home in Charlemont. He
has a snug room, entirely to himself, at Squire Hinkley's,
and by the excellent care of the worthy dame, it is provided
with the best bedding and the finest furniture. Her
own hands sweep it clean, morning and night, for the incipient
parson; she makes up the bed, and, in customary
phrase, puts it in all respects to rights. His wants are anticipated,
his slightest suggestion met with the most prompt
consideration; and John Cross himself, humble and unexacting
as he was, might have felt some little twinges of
mortal envy could he have known that his protégé promised
to become a much greater favourite than himself.
This, indeed, seemed very like to be the case. A good
young man in the sight of the ladies is always a more attractive
person than a good old man. Dame Hinkley,
though no longer young herself, remembered that she had
been so, and preserved all her sympathies, in consequence,
for young people. She thought Alfred Stevens so handsome,
and he smiled so sweetly, and he spoke so gently,
and, in short, so great had been his progress in the affections
of his hostess in the brief space of a single week, that
we are constrained to confess ourselves rejoiced, that she
herself was an old woman, as well on her own account as
on that of her worthy spouse. Her good man was very
well satisfied, whether from confidence or indifference, that
such should be the case. Her attentions to the young
stranger probably diverted them from himself. But not so
with William Hinkley—the son. We have already had
some glimpses of the character of this young man. We
may now add that the short week's residence of Stevens
in Charlemont had increased the soreness at his heart. In
that week he had seen fairly established that intimacy between
his rival and the lady of his love, which seemed to
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
give the deathblow to any pretensions of his. He had
seen them meet; had seen them go forth together; beheld
their mutual eyes, and, turning his own inwards, saw how
deeply his heart was concerned in the probable sympathies
of theirs. Then, to turn to his own habitation, and
to behold that, mother and all, devoted to the same absolute
stranger! To pass unheeded in the presence of those
whom he best loved—over whom natural ties gave him
inalienable rights;—to feel himself put aside for one only
known of yesterday—to look with yearning and meet eyes
only of disregard and indifference! Such being the suggestions
of his jealous and suffering nature, it is sure no
matter of wonder that the youth grew melancholy and abstracted.
Our adventurer was snugly seated in the little but select
chamber which had been given him in the house of Squire
Hinkley: a table neatly spread with a cotton cover stood
before him. A travelling portfolio was opened beneath
his hand, with a broad sheet of paper, already well written
over, and waiting nothing but his signature, and perhaps
the postscript. He was absorbed unusually in his cogitations,
and nibbled into bits the feathery end of the gray
goosequill of which he had been making such excellent
use. While he meditates, unseeing, we will use the liberty
of an old acquaintance to scan the letter—for such it is—
which he has been writing. Perhaps we shall gather from
it some matters which it may concern us yet to know.
“Dear Barnabas—
“The strangest adventure—positively the very strangest—
that ever happened to a son of Murkey's, will keep me
from the embraces of the brethren a few weeks longer. I
am benighted, bewildered, taken with art-magic, transmuted,
transmogrified, not myself nor yet another, but,
as they say in Mississippi, `a sort of betweenity.' Fancy
me suddenly become a convert to the bluest Presbyterianism,
as our late excellent brother Woodford became, when
he found that he could not get Moll Parkinson on any
other terms—and your guess will not be very far from the
true one. I am suddenly touched with conviction. I have
seen a light on my way from Tarsus. The scales have
fallen from my eyes. I have seen the wickedness of my
ways, and yours too, you dog, and having resolved on my
own repentance, I am taking lessons which shall enable
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
me to effect yours. Precious deal of salt will it need for
that. Salt river will fall, while its value rises. But the
glory of the thing—think of that, my boy. What a triumph
it will be to revolutionize Murkey's. To turn out
the drinkers, and smokers, and money-changers. To say,
`hem! my brethren let us pay no more taxes to sin in this
place!' There shall be no more cakes and ale. Ginger
shall have no heat i'the mouth there; and in place of
smoking meats and tobacco, give you nothing but smoking
Methodism. Won't that be a sight and a triumph which
shall stir the dry bones in our valley,—ay, and bones not
so dry. There shall be a quaking of the flesh in sundry
places. Flam will perish in the first fit of consternation,
and if Joe Burke's sides do not run into sop and jelly,
through the mere humour of the thing, then prophecy is
out of its element quite.
“Seriously, you dog, I have become a theological student!
Don't you see proofs of my progress in my unctuous
phraseology. I was taken suddenly upon the highway—
a brand plucked from the burning—and to be stuck
up on high, still lighted, however, as a sort of lantern
and lighthouse to other wayfarers—wandering rogues like
yourself, who need some better lights than your own if it
only be to show you how to sin decently. I am professedly
a convert to the true faith, though which that is I
think has not well been determined among you at Murkey's,
or indeed any where else. I believe the vox populi, vox
Dei, still comprises the only wholesome decision which
has yet been made on the subject. The popular vote here
declares it to be Methodism; with you it is Baptism or
Presbyterianism—which? I am a flexible student, however,
and when I meet you again at Murkey's shall be
prepared to concur with the majority.
“But, in sober fact, I am a professor—actually recognised
by my neighbours as one of the elect—set apart to
be and do mighty things. How I came so, will call for a
long story, which I defer to another occasion. Enough to
tell you that an accidental rencontre with a silly old
preacher—(whose gullet I filled with raw brandy, which I
recommended to him under another name as a sovereign
remedy against flatulence, and which nearly strangled him,
he took such a premeditated swallow)—brought me into
one of the loveliest little villages in all this western
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
country, and there I saw many things—among others—a
woman!—
“A woman!—that one word, you dog, will explain the
mystery—will show you why I am thus transmuted,
transmogrified, and in `a state of betweenity.' Nothing
less, I assure you, could make me disguise myself after
the present fashion; wear the sanctimonious and sour
phiz which the common law of modern religion prescribes,
and keep me much longer from the pleasanter communion
of such glorious imps, as I suppose, are, even now, beginning
to gather in the dingy smoke-room of our sovereign
Murkey. But this woman, you will ask. Ay, ay,
but you shall have no answer yet. It shall be enough for
you that she is a Queen of Sheba, after her own fashion.
A proud, imperious, passionate creature—tall, really beautiful—
and so majestic! You should see the flashing of her
eyes to know what sort of a thing is moral lightning.
Her face kindles up in an instant. She is an intensifier,
and like most such, cursedly smart. Young too,—scarce
seventeen, I think;—queer too—almost tyrannical at
times—but full of blood, of unregulated passions, moody,
capricious, and of course easy game, if the sportsman
knows any thing of the habits of the bird. She is a country
girl, but no hoyden. Her intensity of character, her
pride and great self-esteem, have made her a solitary.
Unsophisticated in some respects, she is yet not to be surprised.
In solitude, and a taste for it, she has acquired a
sort of moral composure which makes her secure against
surprise. I am really taken with the girl, and could love
her, I tell you—nay, do love her—so long as love can
keep himself—out of a state of bondage! I do not think,
at this moment, that I shall violate any of the laws of the
conventicle, like small-witted Brother Woodford; though,
so far as the woman is concerned, I should leave it without
argument to the free vote of all the Lads of Fancy that ever
gather round Murkey's round table, if my justification for
turning traitor, would not prove immeasurably more complete
than his.
“So! so! There are bones enough for you to crunch,
you professional bandog. I had not meant to tell you half
so much. There is some danger that one may lose his
game altogether, if he suffers his nose to point unnecessarily
to the cover where it lies. I know what keen scents
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
are in the club, some of which would be on my track in
no time if they knew where to find me; but I shall baffle
you, you villains. My post-town is twenty miles from
the place where I pursue my theological studies; you are
too wise to attempt a wild goose chase. You may smack
your chops, Barney, with envy;—bite them too if you
please, and it will only whet my own sense of pleasure to
fancy your confusion, and your hopeless denunciations in
the club. I shall be back in time for term—meanwhile
get the papers in readiness. Write to me at the post-town
of Ellisland, and remember to address me as Alfred Stevens—
nay, perhaps, you may even say, `Rev. Alfred
Stevens,' it will grace the externals of the document with
a more unctuous aspect, and secure the recipient a more
wholesome degree of respect. Send all my letters to this
town under envelope with this direction. I wrote you
twice from Somerville. Did I tell you that old Hunks has
been deused liberal? I can laugh at the small terms, yet
go to Murkey's and shine through the smoke with the best
of you. I solicit the prayers of the Round Table.
“Faithfully, yours, &c.”
So far our profligate had written to his brother profligate,
when a tap was heard at the entrance of his chamber.
Thrusting the written papers into his portfolio, he rose,
and opening the door discovered his hostess at the entrance.
“came, Brother Stevens,” said the old lady, “if you
were not too busy in your studies, to have a little talk
with you, and to get your counsel upon a subject that a
little distresses me. But you look as if you were busy
now—”
“Not too busy, Mrs. Hinkley, to oblige you in this or
in any other respect;” replied the guest with suitable
suavity of expression—“shall I attend you down stairs.”
“Oh! no! it won't need,” said she. “I'll take a seat
with you awhile. We shall be less liable to interruption
here.”
Stevens scarcely repressed his smile, but the seniority
of the old lady made her proceedings very innocent, however
much they might have been adverse to the rules. He
threw wide the door, and without more hesitation she followed
him at once into the chamber.
-- 100 --
CHAPTER X.
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
The business upon which Mrs. Hinkley sought the
chamber of her guest was a very simple one, and easily
expressed. Not that she expressed it in few words. That
is scarcely possible at any time with an ancient lady. But
the long story which she told, when compressed into intelligible
form, related to her son William. She had some
maternal fears on his account. The lad was a decided
melancholic. His appetite was bad; his looks were thin
and unhappy; he lacked the usual spirit of youth; he
lacked his own usual spirit. What was the cause of the
change which had come over him so suddenly, she could
not divine. Her anxiety was for the remedy. She had
consulted Brother Cross on the subject before he departed;
but that good man, after a brief examination of the patient,
had freely admitted his inability to say what was the matter
with him, and what was proper for his cure. To the
object of this solicitude himself, he had given much good
counsel, concluding finally with a recommendation to read
devoutly certain chapters in Job and Isaiah. It appears
that William Hinkley submitted to all this scrutiny with
exemplary fortitude, but gave no satisfactory answers to
any of the questions asked him. He had no complaints,
he denied any suffering; and expressed himself annoyed
at the inquisition into his thoughts and feelings. This
annoyance had been expressed, however, with the subdued
tones and language of one habitually gentle and
modest. Whenever he was approached on the subject, as
the good old lady assured her guest, he shook off his questioners
with no little haste, and took to the woods for the
rest of the day. “That day,” said she, “you needn't
look for William Hinkley to his dinner.”
Stevens had been struck with the deportment of this
youth, which had seemed to him haughty and repulsive;
and, as he fancied, characterized by some sentiment of
hostility for himself. He was surprised therefore to learn
from the old lady that the lad was remarkable for his gentleness.
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
“How long has he been in this way, Mrs. Hinkley?”
he asked with some curiosity.
“Well now, Brother Stevens, I can't tell you. It's been
growing on him for some time. I reckon it's a matter of
more than four months since I first seen it; but it's only
been a few weeks that I have spoken to him. Brother
Cross spoke to him only Monday of last week. My old
man don't seem to see so much of it; but I know there's
a great change in him now from what there used to be. A
mother's eye sees a great way farther into the hearts of her
children, Brother Stevens, than any other persons; and I
can see plainly that William is no more the same boy—
no! nor nothing like it—that he once was. Why, once,
he was all life, and good humour; could dance and sing
with the merriest among them; and was always so good
and kind, and loved to do whatever would please a body;
and was always with somebody, or other, making merry,
and planning the prettiest sports. Now, he don't sing,
nor dance, nor play; when you see him, you 'most always
see him alone. He goes by himself into the woods,
and he'll be going over the hills all day, nobody with
him, and never seeming to care about his food, and what's
more strange, never looking at the books that he used to
be so fond of.”
“He has been fond of books then;—had he many?”
“Oh, yes, a whole drawer of them, and he used to get
them besides from the schoolmaster, Mr. Calvert, a very
good man that lives about half a mile from the village, and
has a world of books. But now he neither gets books
from other people nor reads what he's got. I'm dubious,
Brother Stevens, that he's read too much for his own good.
Something's not right here, I'm a thinking.”
The good old lady touched her head with her finger and
in this manner indicated her conjecture as to the seat of her
son's disease. Stevens answered her encouragingly.
“I scarcely think, Mrs. Hinkley, that it can be any thing
so bad. The young man is at that age when a change
naturally takes place in the mind and habits. He wants to
go into the world, I suspect. He's probably tired of doing
nothing. What is to be his business? It's high time
that such a youth should have made a choice.”
“That's true, Brother Stevens, but he's been the apple
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
to our eyes, and we haven't been willing that he should
take up any business that would carry him away from us.
He's done a little farming about the country, but that took
him away, and latterly he's kept pretty much at home,
going over his books and studying, now one and now
another, just as Mr. Calvert gave them to him.”
“What studies did he pursue?”
“Well, I can't tell you. He was a good time at Latin,
and then he wants to be a lawyer;—”
“A lawyer!”
“Yes, he had a great notion to be a lawyer and was at
his books pretty hard for a good year, constant, day by day,
until, as I said before, about four months ago, when I saw
that he was growing thin, and that he had put down the
books altogether, and had the change come over him just
as I told you. You see how thin he is now. You'd
scarce believe him to be the same person if you'd seen him
then. Why his cheeks were as full and as red as roses,
and his eye was always shining and laughing, and he had
the liveliest step, and between him and Ned Hinkley, his
cousin, what with flute and fiddle, they kept the house in
a constant uproar, and we were all so happy. Now, it
isn't once a month that we hear the sound of the fiddle in
the house. He never sings, and he never dances, and he
never plays, and what little he lets us see of him, is always
so sad and so spiritless that I feel heartsick whenever I look
upon him. Oh! Brother Stevens, if you could only find
out what's the matter, and tell us what to do, it would be
the most blessed kindness, and I'd never forget it, or forget
you, to my dying day.”
“Whatever I can do, Mrs. Hinkley shall surely be
done. I will see and speak with your son.”
“Oh! do,—that's a dear good sir. I'm sure if you
only talk to him and advise him it will do him good.”
“Without being so sure, ma'am, I will certainly try to
please you. Though I think you see the matter with too
serious eyes. Such changes are natural enough to young
people, and to old ones too. But what may be your son's
age.”
“Nineteen last April.”
“Quite a man for his years, Mrs. Hinkley.”
“Isn't he?”
“He will do you credit yet.”
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
“Ah! if I could believe so. But you'll speak to him,
Brother Stevens? You'll try and bring all to rights.”
“Rely upon me to do what I can;—to do my best.”
“Well, that's as much as any man can do, and I'm sure
I'll be so happy—we shall all be so much indebted to
you.”
“Do not speak of it, my dear madam,” said Stevens,
bowing with profound deference as the old lady took her
departure. She went off with light heart, having great faith
in the powers of the holy man, and an equal faith in his
sincerity.
“What a bore!” he muttered as he closed the door
behind her. “This is one of the penalties, I suppose,
which I must pay for my privileges. I shall be called upon
to reform the morals and manners, and look into the petty
cares of every chuckle-headed boor, and boor's brat for ten
miles round. See why boys reject their mush, and why
the girls dislike to listen to the exhortations of a mamma,
who requires them to leave undone what she has done
herself—and with sufficient reason too, if her own experience
be not wholly profitless. Well, I must submit. There
are advantages, however; I shall have other pupils to tutor,
and it shall go hard with me if all the grapes prove sour
where the vines are so various.”
The student of divinity, after these conclusions, prepared
to make his toilet. Very few of these students, in their
extreme solicitude for the well being of the inner man,
show themselves wholly regardless of his externals. Even
mourning, it appears, requires to be disposed by a fashionble
costumier. Though the garments to which the necessities
of travel limited Brother Stevens were not various,
they were yet select. The good young man had an
affection for his person, which was such certainly as to
deserve his care. On this occasion he was more than
usually particular. He did not scruple to discard the white
cravat. For this he substituted a handkerchief which had
the prettiest sprig of lilac, on a ground of the most delicate
lemon colour. He consulted complexions, and his mirror
determined him in favour of this pattern. Brother Stevens
would not have worn it had he been summoned, in his
new vocation, to preach or pray at the conventicle; nor
would he have dreamed of any thing but a black stock had
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
his business been to address the democracy from the top
of a cider barrel. His habits, under such necessities, would
have been made to correspond with the principles (Qu?)
which such a situation more distinctly called for. But
the thoughts of our worthy brother ran upon other
objects. He was thinking of Margaret Cooper. He
was about to pay that damsel a visit. His progress, we
may suppose, had not been inconsiderable when we are
told that his present visit was one of previous arrangement.
They were about to go forth on a ramble together—the
woods were so wild and lovely—the rocks surrounding
Charlemont were so very picturesque;—there was the
quietest tarn, a sort of basin in the bosom of the hills at
a little distance, which she was to show him; and there
was the sweeteet stream in the world, that meandered in
the neighbourhood; and Brother Stevens so loved the
picturesque,—lakes embosomed in hills, and streams stealing
through unbroken forests, and all so much the more
devotedly, when he had such a companion as Margaret
Cooper. And Margaret Cooper!—she the wild, the impassioned.
A dreamer—a muse—filled with ambitious
thoughts—proud, vain, aspiring after the vague, the unfathomable!
What was her joy, now that she could
speak her whole soul, with all its passionate fulness, to
understanding ears! Stevens and herself had already
spoken together. Her books had been his books. The
glowing passages which she loved to repeat, were also the
favourite passages in his memory. Over the burning and
thrilling strains of Byron, the tender and spiritual of Shelley,
the graceful and soft of Campbell, she loved to linger.
They filled her thoughts. They made thoughts. She
felt that her true utterance lay in their language; and this
language, until now, had fallen dead and without fruit upon
the dull ears of her companions in Charlemont. What was
their fiddling and festivity to her! What their tedious
recreations by hillside or stream, when she had to depress
her speech to the base levels of their unimaginative souls!
The loveliness of nature itself, unrepresented by the glowing
hues of poetry, grew tame, if not offensive; and when
challenged to its contemplation by those to whom the
muse was nothing, the fancy of the true observer grew
chilled and heavy, and the scenes of beauty seemed prostituted
in their glance. We have all felt this. Nothing can
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
more annoy the soul of taste or sensibility than to behold
its favourite scene and subject fail of awakening in others
that emotion which it has inspired in ourselves. We turn
away in haste lest the object of our worship should become
degraded by a longer survey. Enthusiasm recoils at a
denial of sympathy, and all the worth of our companion,
in a thousand other respects, fails to reconcile us to his
coldness and indifference.
That Alfred Stevens had taste and talent—that he was
well read in the volumes which had been her favourite
study, Margaret Cooper needed no long time to discover.
She soon ascribed to him qualities and tastes which were
beyond his nature. Deceived by his tact, she believed in
his enthusiasm. He soon discovered her tastes; and she
found equally soon, that his were like her own. After this
discovery she gave him credit for other and more important
possessions; and little dreamed, that while he responded
to her glowing sentiments with others equally glowing,—
avowed the same love for the same authors, and
concurred with her in the preference of the same passages,—
his feelings were as little susceptible of sympathy with
hers as would have been those of the cold demon Mephistophles.
While her eye was flashing, her cheek flushed,
her breast heaving with the burning thoughts and strains of
the master to which her beautiful lips were giving utterance,
he was simply sensible to her beauty,—to its strange
wild charms; and meditating thoughts from which the soul
of true poetry recoils with the last feelings of aversion.
Even the passion which he felt while he surveyed her,—
foreign as it was to those legitimate emotions which her
ambition and her genius would equally have tended to
inspire in any justly-minded nature,—might well be considered
frigid,—regarded as the result of deliberate artifice,—
the true offspring of a habitual and base indulgence.
It was to meet this unsophisticated, impassioned and
confiding girl, that Alfred Stevens bestowed such particular
pains on his costume. He felt its deficiencies, and, accordingly,
the necessity of making the most of it; for, though
he perfectly well knew that such a woman as Margaret
Cooper would have been the very last to regard the mere
garment in which a congenial nature is arrayed, yet, he
also well knew that the costume is not less indicative of
the tastes, than the wealth of the wearer. You will see
thousands of persons, men and women, richly dressed, and
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
but one will be well dressed,—that one, most generally,
will be the individual who is perhaps of all others possessed
of the least resources for dress, other than those which
dwell in the well arranged mind, the well disposing taste,
and the happy, crowning fancy. His tasks were at length
ended, and he was preparing to go forth. He was about
to leave the chamber, had already placed his hand upon the
latch of the door, when he heard the voice of his hostess,
on the stairway, in seeming expostulation with her son.
He was about to forbear his purpose of departure until the
parties had retired, when remembering the solicitude of
the lady, and thinking it would show that zeal in her
service which he really could not entertain, he determined
at once to join the young man, and begin with him that
certain degree of intimacy without which it could scarcely
be supposed that he could broach the subject of his personal
affairs. He felt some what the awkwardness of this assumed
duty, but then he recollected his vocation;—he knew
the paramount influence of the clergy upon all classes of
persons in the west, and with the conscious superiority
derived from greater years and better education, he felt
himself fortified in undertaking the paternal office which
the fond, foolish mother had confided to his hands. Accordingly,
descending the stairs briskly, he joined the two at
the entrance of the dwelling The son was already on
the outside; the mother stood in the doorway, and as
Stevens appeared and drew nigh, William Hinkley bowed,
and turned away as if to withdraw.
“If you have no objections, Mr. Hinkley,” said Stevens,
“I will join you. You seem to be about to go my
way.”
The young man paused with an air of reluctance, muttered
something which was not altogether intelligible, but
which Stevens construed into assent; and the two set forth
together;—the good old matron giving a glance of gratitude
to the benevolent young student which her son did not ail
to note, while, at the same time, a sentence which evidently
conveyed some motherly rebuke, was addressed to his
already irritated ears.
-- 107 --
CHAPTER XI.
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
Alfred Stevens, as he walked behind his young companion,
observed him with a more deliberate survey than
he had yet taken. Hitherto, the young man had challenged
but little of his scrutiny. He had simply noted him for a
tall youth, yet in the green, who seemed of a sulky
retiring nature, and whose looks had seemed to him on
one or more occasions to manifest something like distaste
for himself. The complacency of Stevens, however, was
too well grounded to be much disturbed by such an exhibition.
Perhaps, indeed, he would have derived a malicious
sort of satisfaction in making a presumptuous lad feel his
inferiority. He had just that smallness of spirit which
would find its triumph in the success of such a performance.
He now saw that the youth was well formed, tall, not
ungraceful; with features of singular intelligence, though
subdued to the verge of sadness. His face was pale and thin,
his eyes were a little sunken, and his air, expression, and
general outside, denoted a youth of keen sensibilities who
had suffered some disappointment. In making this examination,
Alfred Stevens was not awakened to any generous
purposes. He designed, in reality, nothing more than to
acquit himself of the duty he had undertaken, with the
smallest possible exertion. His own mind was one of that
mediocre character which the heart never informs. His
scrutiny, therefore, though it enabled him to perceive that
the young man had qualities of worth, was not such as to
prompt any real curiosity to examine further. A really
superior mind would have been moved to look into these
resources; and, without other motive than that of bringing
a young, labouring and ardent soul out of the meshes of a
new and bewildering thought or situation, would have
addressed himself to the task with that degree of solicitous
earnestness which disarms prejudice and invites and wins
confidence. But, with his first impression, that the whole
business was a “bore,” our benevolent young teacher
determined on getting through with it with the least possible
effort. He saw that the youth carried a book under
his arm, the externals of which, so uniform and
-- 108 --
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
discouraging as they appear in every legal library, could not well be
mistaken as belonging to some such venerable receptacle
of barbarous words and rigid authority. The circumstance
afforded him an occasion to begin a conversation the
opening of which, with all his coolness, was a subject of
some awkwardness.
“You seem a student like myself, Mr. Hinkley, and if
I mistake not from the appearance of your book, you are
taking up the profession which I am about to lay down.”
“This is a law book, sir,” said Hinkley in accents which
were rather meek than cold—“it is Blackstone.”
“Ah! I thought as much. Have you been long a
student.”
“I may scarcely consider myself one yet. I have read,
sir, rather than studied.”
“A good distinction, not often made. But, do you incline
to law seriously.”
“Yes, sir,—I know no occupation to which I so much
incline.”
“The law is a very arduous profession. It requires a
rare union of industry, talent and knowledge of mankind
to be a good lawyer.”
“I should think so, sir.”
“Few succeed where thousands fail. Young men are
very apt to mistake inclination for ability; and to be a poor
lawyer—”
“Is to be worse than poor—is to be despicable!”—
replied Hinkley, with a half smile as he interrupted a speech
which might have been construed into a very contemptuous
commentary on his own pretensions. It would seem
that the young man had so understood it. He continued
thus:—
“It may be so with me, sir. It is not improbable that
I deceive myself and confound inclination with ability.”
“Oh, pardon me, my dear young friend,” said Stevens
patronisingly,—“but I do not say so. I utter a mere
generality. Of course I can know nothing on the subject
of your abilities. I should be glad to know. I-should
like to converse with you. But the law is very arduous,
very exacting. It requires a good mind, and it requires the
whole of it. There is no such thing as being a good
lawyer from merely reading law. You can't bolt it as we
-- 109 --
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
do food in this country. We must chew upon it. It must
be well digested. You seem to have the right notion on
this subject. I should judge so from two things:—the
distinction which you made between the reader and the
student; and the fact that your appearance is that of the
student. I am afraid, my young friend, that you overwork
yourself. You look thin, and pale, and unhappy. You
should be careful that your passion for study is not indulged
at the peril of your health.”
The frame of the young man seemed to be suddenly
agitated. His face was flushed, and a keen quick flash of
anger seemed to lighten in his eyes as he looked up to the
paternal counsellor and replied—
“I thank you, sir, for your interest, but it is premature.
I am not conscious that my health suffers from this or any
other cause.”
“Nay, my young friend, do not deceive yourself. You
perhaps underrate your own industry. It is a very difficult
matter to decide how much we can do and how much
we ought to do, in the way of study. No mere thinking
can determine this matter for us. It can only be decided
by being able to see what others do and can endure. In a
little country village like this, one cannot easily determine;
and the difficulty may be increased somewhat by one's
own conviction, of the immense deal that one has to learn.
If you were to spend a year at some tolerably large community.
Perhaps you meditate some such plan?”
“I do not, sir,” was the cold reply.
“Indeed,—and have you no desire that way?”
“None!”
“Very strange! at your time of life the natural desire
is to go into the great world. Even the student fancies he
can learn better there than he can any where else;—and so
he can.”
“Indeed, sir,—if I may be so bold to ask, why, with
this opinion, have you left the great city to bury yourself
in a miserable village like Charlemont?”
The question was so quickly put, and with so much
apparent keenness, that Stevens found the tables suddenly
reversed. But he was in no wise discomposed. He
answered promptly.
“You forget,” he said, “that I was speaking of very
-- 110 --
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
young men, of an ambitious temper, who were seeking to
become lawyers. The student of divinity may very well
be supposed to be one who would withdraw himself from
the scene of ambition, strifes, vanities, and tumultuous
passions.”
“You speak, sir, as if there were a material difference
in our years?” said Hinkley inquiringly.
“Perhaps it is less than in our experience, my young
friend,” was the answer of the other, betraying that quiet
sense of superiority which would have been felt more
gallingly by Hinkley had he been of a less modest nature.
Still, it had the effect of arousing some of the animal in
his blood, and he responded in a sentence which was not
entirely without its sneer, though it probably passed without
penetrating such a buff of self-esteem as guarded the
sensibilities of our adventurer.
“You are fortunate, sir, if, at your time of life, you
have succeeded in withdrawing your thoughts and feelings,
with your person, from such scenes of ambition as you
speak of. But I fancy the passions dwell with us in the
country as well as with the wiser people in the town; and
I am not sure that there is any pursuit much more free
from their intrusion than that of the law.”
“Your remark exhibits penetration, Mr. Hinkley. I
should not be surprised if you have chosen your profession
properly. Still, I should counsel you not to overwork
yourself. Bear with me, sir—I feel an interest in your
behalf, and I must think you do so. Allow me to be
something of a judge in this matter. You are aware, sir,
that I too have been a lawyer.”
The youth bowed stiffly.
“If I can lend you any assistance in your studies, I will
do so. Let me arrange them for you, and portion out your
time. I know something about that, and will save you
from injuring your health. On this point you evidently
need instruction. You are doing yourself hurt. Your
appearance is matter of distress and apprehension to your
parents.”
“To my parents, sir!”
“Your mother, I mean! She spoke to me about you
this very morning. She is distressed at some unaccountable
changes which have taken place in your manners, your
health, your personal appearance. Of course I can say
-- 111 --
[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]
nothing on the subject of the past, or of these changes;
but I may be permitted to say that your present looks do
not betoken health, and I have supposed this to be on
account of your studies. I promised your good mother to
confer with you, and counsel you, and if I can be of any
help—”
“You are very good, sir!”
The young man spoke bitterly. His gorge was rising.
It was not easy to suppress his vexation with his mother,
and the indignation which he felt at the supercilious
approaches of the agent whom she had employed. Besides,
his mind, not less than his feelings, was rising in vigour
in due degree with the pressure put upon it.
“You are very good, sir, and I am very much obliged
to you. I could have wished, however, that my mother
had not given you this trouble, sir. She certainly must
have been thinking of Mr. John Cross. She could scarcely
have hoped that any good could have resulted to me, from
the counsel of one who is so little older than myself.”
This speech made our adventurer elevate his eyebrows.
He absolutely stopped short to look upon the speaker.
William Hinkley stopped short also. His eye encountered
that of Stevens with an expression as full of defiance as
firmness. His cheeks glowed with the generous indignation
which filled his veins.
“This fellow has something in him after all;” was the
involuntary reflection that rose to his mind. The effect
was, however, not very beneficial to his own manner.
Instead of having the effect of impressing upon Stevens
the necessity of working cautiously, the show of defiance
which he saw tended to provoke and annoy him. The
youth had displayed so much propriety in his anger, had
been so moderate as well as firm, and had uttered his
answer with so much dignity and correctness, that he felt
himself rebuked. To be encountered by an unsophisticated
boy, and foiled, though but for an instant—slightly estimated,
though but by a youth, and him too, a mere rustic,
was mortifying to the self-esteem that rather precipitately
hurried to resent it.
“You take it seriously, Mr. Hinkley. But surely an
offer of service need not be mistaken. As for the trifling
difference which may be in our years, that is perhaps
-- 112 --
[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
nothing to the difference which may be in our experience,
our knowledge of the world, our opportunities and studies.”
“Surely, sir,—all these may be, but at all events we
are not bound to assume their existence until it is shown.”
“Oh, you are likely to prove an adept in the law, Mr.
Hinkley.”
“I trust, sir, that your progress may be as great in the
church.”
“Ha!—do I understand you? There is war between us
then?” said Stevens, watching the animated and speaking
countenance of William Hinkley with increasing curiosity.
“Ay, sir,—there is!” was the spirited reply of the
youth. “Let it be war, I am the better pleased, sir, that
you are the first to proclaim it.”
“Very good,” said Stevens, “be it so, if you will. At
all events you can have no objection to say why it should
be so.”
“Do you ask, sir?”
“Surely; for I cannot guess.”
“You are less sagacious then than I had fancied you.
You, scarce older than myself—a stranger among us,—
come to me in the language of a father, or a master, and
without asking what I have of feeling, or what I lack of
sense, undertake deliberately to wound the one, while
insolently presuming to inform the other.”
“At the request of your own mother!”
“Pshaw! what man of sense or honesty would urge
such a plea. Years, and long intimacy, and wisdom
admitted to be superior, could alone justify the presumption.”
The cheeks of Stevens became scalding hot.
“Young man!” he exclaimed, “there is something
more than this!”
“What would it need more were our positions reversed?”
demanded Hinkley with a promptness that surprised
himself.
“Perhaps not!—would you provoke me to personal
violence?”
“Ha! might I hope for that?—surely you forget that you
are a churchman?”
Stevens paused a while before he answered. His eyes
looked vacantly around him. By this time they had left
the more thickly settled parts of the village considerably
-- 113 --
[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
behind them. But a few more dwellings lay along the
path on which they were approaching. On the left, a
gorge opened in the hills by which the valley was dotted,
which seemed a pathway, and did indeed lead to one or
more dwellings which were out of sight in the opposite
valley. The region to which this pathway led was very
secluded, and the eye of Stevens surveyed it for a few
moments in silence. The words of Hinkley unquestionably
conveyed a challenge. According to the practice of
the country, as a lawyer, he would have been bound to
have taken it as such. A moment was required for reflection.
His former and present position caused a conflict in
his mind. The last sentence of Hinkley, and a sudden
glimpse which he just then caught of the residence of
Margaret Cooper, determined his answer.
“I thank you, young man, for reminding me of my
duties. You had nearly provoked old passions and old
practices into revival. I forgive you—you misunderstand
me clearly. I know not how I have offended you, for my
only purpose was to serve your mother and yourself. I
may have done this unwisely. I will not attempt to prove
that I have not. At all events, assured of my own motives,
I leave you to yourself. You will probably ere long feel
the injustice you have done me!”
He continued on his way, leaving William Hinkley
almost rooted to the spot. The poor youth was actually
stunned, not by what was said to him, but by the sudden
consciousness of his own vehemence. He had expressed
himself with a boldness and an energy of which neither
himself nor his friend, until now, would have thought him
capable. A moment's pause in the provocation, and the
feelings which had goaded him on were taken with a
revulsion quite as sudden. As he knew not well what he
had said, so he fancied he had said every thing precisely
as the passionate thought had suggested it in his own mind.
Already he began to blame himself—to feel that he had
done wrong,—that there had been nothing in the conduct
or manner of Stevens, however unpleasant, to justify his
own violence; and that the true secret of his anger was to
be found in that instinctive hostility which he had felt for
his rival from the first. The more he mused, the more he
became humbled by his thoughts; and when he recollected
the avowed profession of Stevens his shame increased.
-- 114 --
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
He felt how shocking it was to intimate to a sworn noncombatant
the idea of a personal conflict. To what point
of self-abasement his thoughts would have carried him,
may only be conjectured; he might have hurried forward to
overtake his antagonist with the distinct purpose of making
the most ample apology;—nay, more, such was the distinct
thought which was now pressing upon his mind,—
when he was saved from this humiliation by perceiving
that Stevens had already reached, and was about to enter
the dwelling of Margaret Cooper. With this sight, every
thought and feeling gave place to that of baffled love, and
disappointed affection. With a bitter groan he turned up
the gorge, and soon shut himself from sight of the now
hateful habitation.
CHAPTER XII.
The course of the young rustic was pursued for half a
mile further 'till he came to a little cottage of which the
eye could take no cognizance from any part of the village.
It was embowelled in a glen of its own—a mere cup of
the slightly rising hills, and so encircled by foliage that
it needed a very near approach of the stranger before he
became aware of its existence. The structure was very
small, a sort of square box with a cap upon it, and consisted
of two rooms only on a ground floor, with a little
lean-to or shed-room in the rear, intended for a kitchen.
As you drew nigh and passed through the thick fringe of
wood by which its approach was guarded, the space opened
before you, and you found yourself in a sort of amphitheatre,
of which the cottage was the centre. A few trees
dotted this area, large and massive trees, and seemingly
preserved for purposes of shade only. It was the quietest
spot in the world, and inspired just that sort of feeling in
the contemplative stranger which would be awakened by
a ramble among the roofless ruins of the ancient abbey.
It was a home for contemplation—in which one might
easily forget the busy world without, and deliver himself
-- 115 --
[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]
up, without an effort, to the sweetly sad musings of the
anchorite.
The place was occupied however. A human heart
beat within the humble shed, and there was a spirit, sheltered
by its quiet, that mused many high thoughts, and
dreamed in equal congratulation and self-reproach, of that
busy world from which it was an exile. The visit of
William Hinkley was not paid to the solitude. A venerable
man, of large frame, and benignant aspect, sat beneath
an aged tree, paternal in its appearance like himself. This
person might be between fifty and sixty years of age. His
hair though very thick and vigorous was as white as
driven snow. But there were few wrinkles on his face,
and his complexion was the clear red and white of a
healthy and sanguine temperament. His brow was large
and lofty. It had many more wrinkles than his face.
There were two large horizontal seams upon it that denoted
the exercise of a very busy thought. But the expression
of his eye was that of the most unembarrassed benevolence
and peace. It was subdued and sometimes sad, but then
it had the sweetest, playfullest twinkle in the world. His
mouth, which was small and beautifully formed, wore a
similar expression. In short he was what we would call
a handsome old gentleman, whose appearance did not offend
taste, and whose kind looks invited confidence. Nor
would we mistake his character.
This person was the Mr. Calvert, the schoolmaster of
the village, of whom Mrs. Hinkley spoke to Alfred Stevens
in discussing the condition of her son. His tasks
were over for the day. The light-hearted rabble whom
he taught, released from his dominion which was not
severe, were, by this time, scampering over the hills, as
far from their usual place of restraint as the moderate
strength of their legs could carry them. Though let loose,
boys are not apt to feel their liberty in its prime and freshness,
immediately in the neighbourhood of the school-house.
The old gentleman left to himself, sat out in the
open air, beneath a massive oak, the paternal stretching of
whose venerable arms not unfrequently led to the employment
of the shade below for carrying on the operations of
the school-house. There, squat on their haunches, the
sturdy boys—germs of the finest peasantry in the world—
surrounded their teacher in a group quite as pleasing as
-- 116 --
[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]
picturesque. The sway of the old man was paternal. His
rod was rather a figurative than a real existence; and
when driven to the use of the birch, the good man, consulting
more tastes than one, employed the switch from
the peach or some other odorous tree or shrub, in order
to reconcile the lad, as well as he could, to the extraordinary
application. He was one of those considerate persons,
who disguise pills in gold-leaf, and if compelled, as
a judge, to hang a gentleman, would decree that a rope of
silk should carry out the painful requisitions of the laws.
Seated beneath his tree, in nearly the same spot and position
in which he had dismissed his pupils, William
Calvert pored over the pages of a volume as huge of size
as it was musty of appearance. It was that pleasant book—
quite as much romance as history—the “Knights of
Malta,” by our venerable father, Monsieur L'Abbe Vertot.
Its dull, dim, yellow-looking pages—how yellow, dim,
and dull-looking in comparison with more youthful works—
had yet a life and soul which it is not easy to find in
many of these latter. Its high wrought and elaborate pictures
of strife, and toil, and bloodshed, grew vividly before
the old man's eyes; and then, to help the illusion, were
there not the portraits—mark me—the veritable portraits,
engraved on copper, with all their titles, badges, and insignia,
done to the life, of all those brave, grand, and
famous masters of the order, by whom the deeds were
enacted which he read, and who stared out upon his eyes,
at every epoch, in full confirmation of the veracious narrative?
No wonder that the old man became heedless of
external objects. No wonder he forgot the noise of the
retiring urchins, and the toils of the day, as, for the twentieth
time, he glowed in the brave recital of the famous
siege—the baffled fury of the Turk—the unshaken constancy
and unremitted valour of the few but fearless defenders.
The blood in his cheek might be seen hastening
to and fro in accordance with the events of which he read.
His eye was glowing—his pulse beating, and he half
started from his seat, as, hearing a slight footstep, he
turned to encounter the respectful homage of his former
pupil, still his friend, our young acquaintance, William
Hinkley.
The old man laid down his book upon the grass, extended
his hand to his visited, and leaning back against the
-- 117 --
[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]
tree, surrendered himself to a quiet chuckle in which there
was the hesitancy of a little shame.
“You surprised me, William,” he said; “when I read
old Vertot, and such books, I feel myself a boy again.
You must have seen my emotion. I really had got so
warm that I was about to start up and look for the weapons
of war; and had you but come a moment later, you
might have suffered an assault. As it was, I took you for
a Turk—Solyman himself—and was beginning to ask
myself whether I should attack you tooth and nail, having
no other weapons, or propose terms of peace. Considering
the severe losses which you—I mean his Turkish
Highness—had sustained, I fancied that you would not be
disinclined to an arrangement just at this moment. But
this very notion, at the same time, led me to the conclusion
that I might end the struggle for ever by another blow.
A moment later, my boy, and you might have been compelled
to endure it for the Turk.”
The youth smiled sadly as he replied—“I must borrow
that book from you, sir, some of these days. I have often
thought to do so, but I am afraid.”
“Afraid of what, William?”
“That it will turn my head, sir, and make me dislike
more difficult studies.”
“It is a reasonable fear, my son; but there is no danger
of this sort, if we will only take heed of one rule, and that
is to take such books as we take sweetmeats—in very
small quantities at a time, and never to interfere with the
main repast. I suspect that light reading—or reading
which we usually call light—but which, as it concerns the
fate of man in his most serious relations, his hopes, his
affections, his heart, nay his very people and nation, is
certainly scarcely less important than any other. I suspect
that this sort of reading would be of great service to
the student, by relieving the solemnity of more tedious and
exacting studies, if taken sparingly and at allotted hours.
The student, usually finds a recreation of some kind. I
would make books of this description his recreation.
Many a thick-headed and sour parent has forced his son
into a beer-ship, into the tastes for tobacco, and consequently
brandy, simply from denying him amusements
which equally warm the blood and elevate the imagination.
Studies which merely inform the head are very apt
-- 118 --
[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]
to endanger the heart. This is the reproach usually urged
against the class of persons whom we call thorough lawyers.
Their intense devotion to that narrow sphere of
law which leaves out jury pleading, is very apt to endanger
the existence of feeling and imagination. The
mere analysis of external principles begets a degree of
moral indifference to all things else, which really impairs
the intellect by depriving it of its highest sources of stimulus.
Mathematicians suffer in the same way—become
mere machines, and forfeit, in their concern for figures, all
the social and most of the human characteristics. The
mind is always enfeebled by any pursuit, so single and
absorbing in its aims as to leave out of exercise any of the
moral faculties. That course of study is the only one to
make a truly great man, which compels the mind to do all
things of which it is capable!”
“But how do you reconcile this, sir, with the opinion,
so generally entertained, that no one man can serve two
masters? Law, like the muse, is a jealous mistress. She
is said to suffer no lachesse to escape with impunity.”
“You mistake me. While I counsel one to go out of
his profession for relief and recreation, I still counsel but
the one pursuit. Men fail in their professions, not because
they daily assign an hour to amusement, but because
they halt in a perpetual struggle between some two
leading objects. For example, nothing is more frequent
in our country than to combine law and politics. Nothing
is more apt to ruin the lawyer.”
“Very true, sir. I now understand you. But I should
think the great difficulty would be, in resorting to such
pleasant books as this of Vertot, for relief and recreation,
that you could not cast him off when you please. The
intoxication would continue even after the draught has
been swallowed, and would thus interfere with the hours
devoted to other employments.”
“There is reason in that, William, and that, indeed, is
the grand difficulty. But to show that a good scheme has
its difficulties is not an argument for abandoning it.”
“By no means, sir.”
“The same individual whom Vertot might intoxicate,
would most probably be intoxicated by more dangerous
stimulants. Every thing, however, depends upon the
habits of self-control which a man has acquired in his
-- 119 --
[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
boyhood. The habit of self-control is the only habit which
makes mental power truly effective. The man who cannot
compel himself to do or to forbear, can never be much
of a student. Students, if you observe, are generally
dogged men—inflexible—plodding, persevering—among
lawyers, those men whom you always find at their offices,
and seldom see any where else. They own that mental
habit which we call self-control, which supplies the deficiency
in numerous instances of real talent. It is a power—
and a mighty power, particularly in this country, where
children are seldom taught it, and, consequently, grow up
to be a sort of moral vanes that move with every change
of wind, and never fix until they do so with their own
rust. He who learns this power in boyhood will be very
sure to master all his companions.”
The darker expression of sadness passed over the countenance
of the ingenuous youth.
“I am afraid,” said he, “that I shall never acquire this
habit.”
“Why so? In your very fear I see a hope.”
“Alas! sir, I feel my own instability of character. I
feel myself the victim of a thousand plans and purposes,
which change as soon and as often as they are made. I
am afraid, sir, I shall be nothing!”
“Do not despond, my son,” said the old man sympathizingly.
“Your fear is natural to your age and temperament.
Most young men at your time of life feel numerous
yearnings—the struggle of various qualities of mind,
each striving in newly-born activity, and striving adversely.
Your unhappiness arises from the refusal of
these qualities to act together. When they learn to cooperate
all will be easy. Your strifes will be subdued,
there will be a calm like that upon the sea when the
storms subside.”
“Ah! but when will that be? A long time yet. It
seems to me that the storm rather increases than subsides.”
“It may seem so to you now, and yet, when the strife
is greatest, the favourable change is at hand. It needs but
one thing to make all the conflicting qualities of one's
mind co-operate.”
“What is that one thing, sir?”
“An object! As yet you have none!”
-- 120 --
[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]
“None, sir!”
“None—or rather many—which is pretty much the
same thing as having none.”
“I am not sure, sir—but it seems to me, sir, that I have
an object.”
“Indeed, William—are you sure?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Well, name it.”
“I have ambition, sir.”
“Ah! that is a passion not an object. Does your ambition
point in one direction? Unless it does it is objectless.”
The youth was silent. The old man proceeded.
“I am disposed to be severe with you, my son. There
is no surer sign of feebleness than in the constant beginnings
and the never-performings of a mind. Know thyself,
is the first lesson to learn. Is it not very childish to
talk of having ambition, without knowing what to do with
it? If we have ambition, it is given to us to work with.
You come to me and declare this ambition! We confer
together. Your ambition seeks for utterance. You ask
`What sort of utterance will suit an ambition such as mine?'
To answer this question, we ask, what are your qualities?
Did you think, William, that I disparaged yours when I
recommended the law to you as a profession?”
“No, sir! oh, no! Perhaps you overrated them. I am
afraid so—I think so.”
“No, William, unfortunately, you do not think about
it. If you would suffer yourself to think you would speak
a different language.”
“I cannot think—I am too miserable to think!” exclaimed
the youth in a burst of passion. The old man
looked surprised. He gazed with a serious anxiety into
the youth's face, and then addressed him:—
“Where have you been, William, for the last three
weeks? In all that time I have not seen you.”
A warm blush suffused the cheeks of the pupil. He did
not immediately answer.
“Ask me!” exclaimed a voice from behind them which
they both instantly recognised as that of Ned Hinkley, the
cousin of William. He had approached them, in the earnestness
of their interview, without having disturbed them.
The bold youth was habited in a rough woodman's dress.
-- 121 --
[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
He wore a round jacket of homespun, and in his hand he
carried a couple of fishing-rods which, with certain other
implements, betrayed sufficiently the object of his present
pursuit.
“Ask me!” said he. “I can tell you what he's been
about better than any body else.”
“Well, Ned,” said the old man, “what has it been? I
am afraid it is your fiddle that keeps him from his Black-stone.”
“My fiddle, indeed! If he would listen to my fiddle
when she speaks out, he'd be wiser and better for it. Look
at him, Mr. Calvert, and say whether it's book or fiddle
that's likely to make him as lean as a March pickerel in
the short space of three months. Only look at him, I say.”
“Truly, William, I-had not observed it before, but, as
Ned says, you do look thin, and you tell me you are unhappy.
Hard study might make you thin, but cannot
make you unhappy. What is it?”
The more volatile and freespoken cousin answered for
him.
“He's been shot, gran'pa, since you saw him last.”
“Shot?”
“Yes, shot!—He thinks mortally. I think not. A
flesh wound to my thinking, that a few months more will
cure.”
“You have some joke at bottom, Edward,” said the old
man gravely.
“Joke, sir! It's a tough joke that cudgels a plump lad
into a lean one in a single season.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean to use your own language, gran'pa. Among
the lessons I got from you when you undertook to fill our
heads with wisdom by applications of smartness to a very
different place—among the books we sometimes read from
was one of Master Ovid.”
“Ha! ha! I see what you're after. I understand the
shooting. So you think that the blind boy has hit William,
eh?”
“A flesh wound as I tell you; but he thinks the bolt is
in his heart. I'm sure it can and will be plucked out, and
no death will follow.”
“Well, who's the maiden from whose eyes the arrow
was barbed?”
-- 122 --
[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]
“Margaret Cooper.”
“Ah! indeed!” said the old man gravely.
“Do not heed him;” exclaimed William Hinkley, but
the blush upon his cheeks, still increasing, spoke a different
language.
“I would rather not heed him, William. The passions
of persons so young as yourself are seldom of a permanent
character. The attractions which win the boy seldom
compensate the man. There is time enough for this, ten
years hence, and love then will be far more rational.”
“Ah, lud!—wait ten years at twenty. I can believe a
great deal in the doctrine of young men's folly, but I can't
go that. I'm in love myself.”
“You!”
“Yes! I!—I'm hit too—and if you don't like it, why
did you teach us Ovid and the rest? As for rational love,
that's a new sort of thing that we never heard about before.
Love was never expected to be rational. He's known the
contrary. I've heard so ever since I was knee-high to the
great picture of your Cupid that you showed us in your
famous Dutch edition of Apuleius. The young unmarried
men feel that it's irrational; the old married people tell us
so in a grunt that proves the truth of what they say. But
that don't alter the case. It's a sort of natural madness
that makes one attack in every person's lifetime. I don't
believe in repeated attacks. Some are bit worse than
others; and some think themselves bit, and are mistaken.
That's the case with William, and it's that that keeps him
from your law-books and my fiddle. That makes him
thin. He has a notion of Margaret Cooper, and she has
none of him; and love that's all of one side is neither real
nor rational. I don't believe it.”
William Hinkley muttered something angrily in the
ears of the speaker.
“Well, well!” said the impetuous cousin, “I don't
want to make you vexed, and still less do I come here to
talk such politics with you. What do you say to tickling
a trout this afternoon? That's what I come for.”
“It's too cool,” said the old man.
“Not a bit. There's a wind from the south, and a
cast of cloud is constantly growing between us and the
sun. I think we shall do something—something better
than talking about love, and law, where nobody's agreed.
-- 123 --
[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
You, gran'pa, won't take the love; Bill Hinkley can't
stomach the law, and the trout alone can bring about a
reconciliation. Come, gran'pa, I'm resolved on getting
your supper to-night, and you must go and see me do it.”
“On one condition only, Ned.”
“What's that, gran'pa?”
“That you both sup with me.”
“Done for myself. What say you, Bill?”
The youth gave a sad assent, and the rattling youth
proceeded.
“The best cure of grief is eating. Love is a sort of
pleasant grief. Many a case of affliction have I seen
mended by a beefsteak. Fish is better. Get a lover to
eat, rouse up his appetites, and, to the same extent, you
lessen his affections. Hot suppers keep down the sensibilities;
and, gran'pa, after ours, to-night, you shall have
the fiddle. If I don't make her speak to you to-night, my
name's Brag, and you need never again believe me.”
And the good-humoured youth, gathering up his canes,
led the way to the hills, slowly followed by his two less
elastic companions.
CHAPTER XIII.
The route, which conducted them over a range of gently
ascending hills, through groves tolerably thick, an uncleared
woodland tract comprising every variety of pleasant
foliage, at length brought them to a lonely tarn or lake,
about a mile in circumference, nestled and crouching in
the hollow of the hills, which, in some places sloped
gently down to its margin, at others hung abruptly over
its deep and pensive waters. A thick fringe of shrubs,
water-grasses, and wild flowers girdled its edges, and gave
a dark and mysterious expression to its face. There were
many beaten tracks, narrow paths for individual wayfarers
on foot, which conducted down to favourite fishing spots.
These were found chiefly on those sides of the lake where
the rocks were precipitous. Perched on a jutting eminence,
and half shrouded in the bushes which clothed it,
-- 124 --
[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
the silent fisherman took his place, while his fly was
made to kiss the water in capricious evolutions, such as
the experienced angler knows how to employ to beguile the
wary victim from close cove, or gloomy hollow, or from
beneath those decaying trunks of overthrown trees which
have given his brood a shelter from immemorial time.
To one of these selected spots, Ned Hinkley proceeded,
leaving his companions above, where, in shade themselves,
and lying at ease upon the smooth turf, they could watch
his successes, and at the same time enjoy the coup d'œil,
which was singularly beautiful, afforded by the whole
surrounding expanse. The tarn, like the dark mysterious
dwelling of an Undine, was spread out before them with
the smoothness of glass, though untransparent, and shining
beneath their eyes like a vast basin of the richest jet.
A thousand pretty changes along the upland slopes, or abrupt
hills which hemmed it in, gave it a singular aspect of
variety which is seldom afforded by any scene very remarkable
for its stillness and seclusion. Opposite to the
rock on which Ned Hinkley was already crouching, the
hillslope to the lake was singularly unbroken, and so gradual
was the ascent from the margin, that one was scarcely
conscious of his upward movement, until looking behind
him, he saw how far below lay the waters which he had
lately left. The pathway, which had been often trodden,
was very distinctly marked to the eyes of our two friends
on the opposite elevation, and they could also perceive
where the same footpath extended on either hand a few
yards from the lake, so as to enable the wanderer to prolong
his rambles, on either side, until reaching the foot of
the abrupt masses of rock which distinguished the opposite
margin of the basin. To ascend these, on that side,
was a work of toil, which none but the lover of the picturesque
is often found willing to encounter. Above, even
to the eyes of our friends, though they occupied an eminence,
the skies seemed circumscribed to the circumference
of the lake and the hills by which it was surrounded;
and the appearance of the whole region, therefore, was
that of a complete amphitheatre, the lake being the floor,
the hills the mighty pillars, and the roof, the blue, bright,
fretted canopy of heaven.
“I have missed you, my son, for some time past, and
the beauty of this picture reminds me of what your
-- 125 --
[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
seeming neglect has made me lose. When I was a young man
I would have preferred to visit such a spot as this alone.
But the sense of desolation presses heavily upon an old
man under any circumstances; and he seeks for the company
of the young, as if to freshen, with sympathy and
memory, the cheerlessness and decay which attends all his
own thoughts and fancies. To come alone into the woods,
even though the scene I look on be as fair as this, makes
me moody and awakens gloomy imaginations; and since
you have been so long absent, I have taken to my books
again, and given up the woods. Ah! books, alone, never
desert us; never prove unfaithful; never chide us; never
mock us, as even these woods do, with the memory of
baffled hopes, and dreams of youth, gone, never to return
again!”
“I trust, my dear sir, you do not think me ungrateful.
I have not wilfully neglected you. More than once I set
out to visit you; but my heart was so full—I was so very
unhappy—that I had not the spirit for it. I felt that I
should not be any company for you, and feared that I
would only affect you with some of my own dulness.”
“Nay, that should be no fear with you, my dear boy,
for you should know that the very sorrows of youth, as
they awaken the sympathies of age, provide it with the
means of excitement. It is the misfortune of age that its
interest is slow to kindle. Whatever excites the pulse, if
not violently, is beneficial to the heart of the old man.
But these sorrows of yours, my son—do you not call them
by too strong a name? I suspect they are nothing more
than the discontents, the vague yearnings of the young
and ardent nature, such as prompt enterprise and lead to
nobleness. If you had them not, you would think of little
else than how to squat with your cousin there, seeking to
entrap your dinner; nay, not so much—you would think
only of the modes of cooking and the delight of eating the
fish, and shrink from the toil of taking it. Do not deceive
yourself. This sorrow which distresses you is possibly
a beneficial sorrow. It is the hope which is in you to be
something—to do something—for this doing is after all,
and before all, the great object of living. The hope of the
heart is always a discontent—most generally a wholesome
discontent—sometimes a noble discontent leading to
-- 126 --
[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
noble-ness. It is to be satisfied rather than nursed. You mnst
do what it requires.”
“I know not what it requires.”
“Your doing then must be confined at present to finding
out what that is.”
“Alas! sir, it seems to me as if I could no more think
than I can do.”
“Very likely;—that is the case at present; and there
are several reasons for this feebleness. The energies
which have not yet been tasked, do not know well how to
begin. You have been a favoured boy. Your wants
have been well provided for. Your parents have loved
you only too much.”
“Too much! Why, even now, I am met with cold
looks and reproachful words, on account of this stranger,
of whom nobody knows any thing.”
“Even so: suppose that to be the case, my son; still
it does not alter the truth of what I say. You cannot
imagine that your parents prefer this stranger to yourself,
unless you imagine them to have undergone a very sudden
change of character. They have always treated you tenderly—
too tenderly.”
“Too tenderly, sir?”
“Yes, William, too tenderly. Their tenderness has
enfeebled you, and that is the reason you know not in
what way to begin to dissipate your doubts, and apply
your energies. If they reproach you, that is because they
have some interest in you, and a right in you, which constitutes
their interest. If they treat the stranger civilly,
it is because he is a stranger.”
“Ay, sir, but what if they give this stranger authority
to question and to counsel me? Is not this a cruel indignity?”
“Softly, William, softly! There is something at the
bottom of this which I do not see, and which perhaps you
do not see. If your parents employ a stranger to counsel
you, it proves that something in your conduct leads them
to think that you need counsel.”
“That may be, sir; but why not give it themselves—
why employ a person of whom nobody knows any thing?”
“I infer from your tone, my son, rather than your
words, that you have some dislike to this stranger.”
-- 127 --
[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
“No, sir—” was the beginning of the young man's
reply, but he stopped short with a guilty consciousness.
A warm blush overspread his cheek, and he remained
silent. The old man, without seeming to perceive the momentary
interruption, or the confusion which followed it,
proceeded in his commentary.
“There should be nothing, surely, to anger you in good
counsel, spoken even by a stranger, my son; and even
where the counsel be not good, if the motive be so, it requires
our gratitude though it may not receive our adoption.”
“I don't know, sir, but it seems to me very strange,
and is very humiliating, that I should be required to submit
to the instructions of one of whom we know nothing,
and who is scarcely older than myself.”
“It may be mortifying to your self-esteem, my son, but
self-esteem, when too active, is compelled constantly to
suffer this sort of mortification. It may be that one man
shall not be older in actual years than another, yet be able
to teach that other. Mere living days, and weeks, and
months, constitute no right to wisdom; it is the crowding
events and experience; the indefatigable industry; the
living actively and well, that supplies us with the materials
for knowing and teaching. In comparison with millions
of your own age, who have lived among men, and shared
in their strifes and troubles, you would find yourself as
feeble a child as ever yet needed the helping hand of counsel
and guardianship; and this brings me back to what I
said before. Your parents have treated you too tenderly.
They have done every thing for you. You have done
nothing for yourself. They provide for your wants,
hearken to your complaints, nurture you in sickness, with
a diseasing fondness, and so render you incapable. Hence
it is, that, in the toils of manhood, you do not know how
to begin. You lack courage and perseverance.”
“Courage and perseverance!” was the surprised exclamation
of the youth.
“Precisely, and lest I should offend you, my son, I
must acknowledge to you beforehand, that this very deficiency
was my own.”
“Yours, sir? I cannot think it. What! lack courage?”
“Exactly so!”
“Why, sir—did I not see you myself, when every
-- 128 --
[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]
body else looked on with trembling and with terror, throw
yourself in the way of Drummond's horses and save the
poor boy from being dashed to pieces? There was surely
no lack of courage there!”
“No! in that sense, my son, I labour under no deficiency.
But this sort of courage is of the meanest kind.
It is the courage of impulse, not of steadfastness. Hear
me, William. You have more than once allowed the expression
of a wonder to escape you, why a man, having
such a passion for books and study, and with the appearance
of mental resources, such as I am supposed to possess,
should be content, retiring from the great city, to set
up his habitation in this remote and obscure region. My
chosen profession was the law; I was no unfaithful student.
True, I had no parents to lament my wanderings
and failures; but I did not wander. I studied closely,
with a degree of diligence which seemed to surprise all
my companions. I was ambitious—intensely ambitious.
My head ran upon the strifes of the forum, its exciting
contests of mind and soul—its troubles, its triumphs. This
was my leading thought—it was my only passion. The
boy-frenzies for women, which are prompted less by
sentiment or judgment, than by feverish blood, troubled
me little. Law was my mistress—took up all my time—
absorbed all my devotion. I believe that I was a good
lawyer—no pettifogger—the merely drilled creature who
toils for his license, and toils for ever after solely for his
petty gains, in the miserably petty arts of making gains
for others, and eluding the snares set for his own feet by
kindred spirits. As far as the teaching of this country
could afford me the means and opportunity, I endeavoured
to procure a knowledge of universal law—its sources—its
true objects—its just principles—its legitimate dicta. Mere
authorities never satisfied me, unless, passing behind the
black gowns, I could follow up the reasoning to the first
fountains—the small original truths, the nicely discriminated
requisitions of immutable justice—the clearly defined
and inevitable wants of a superior and prosperous society.
Every thing that could illustrate law as well as fortify it;
every collateral aid, in the shape of history or moral truth,
I gathered together, even as the dragoon whose chief agent
is his sabre, yet takes care to provide himself with pistols,
that may finish what the other weapon has begun. Nor
-- 129 --
[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
did I content myself with the mere acquisition of the necessary
knowledge. Knowing how much depends upon
voice, manner and fluency, in obtaining success before a
jury, I addressed myself to these particulars with equal
industry. My voice, even now, has a compass which
your unexercised lungs, though quite as good originally as
mine, would fail entirely to contend with. I do not deceive
myself, as I certainly do not seek to deceive you,
when I say, that I acquired the happiest mastery over my
person.”
“Ah! sir,—we see that now—that must have been the
case!” said the youth interrupting him. The other continued,
sadly smiling as he heard the eulogy which the
youth meant to speak, the utterance of which was obviously
from the heart.
“My voice was taught by various exercises to be slow
or rapid, soft or strong, harsh or musical, by the most sudden,
yet unnoticeable transitions. I practised all the arts,
which are recommended by elocutionists for this purpose.
I rumbled my eloquence standing on the sea-shore, up to
my middle in the breakers. I ran, roaring up steep hills—
I stretched myself at length by the side of meandering
brooks, or in slumberous forests of pine, and sought, by
the merest whispers, to express myself with distinctness
and melody. But there was something yet more requisite
than these, and this was language. My labours to obtain
all the arts of utterance did not seem less successful. I
could dilate with singular fluency, with classical propriety,
and great natural vigour of expression. I studied directness
of expression by a frequent intercourse with men of
business, and examined, with the nicest urgency, the particular
characteristics of those of my own profession who
were most remarkable for their plain, forcible speaking.
I say nothing of my studies of such great masters in discourse
and philosophy, as Milton, Shakspeare, Homer,
Lord Bacon, and the great English divines. As a model
of pure English the Bible was a daily study of two hours;
and from this noble well of vernacular eloquence, I gathered—
so I fancied—no small portion of its quaint expressive
vigour, its stern emphasis, its golden and choice
phrases of illustration. Never did a young lawyer go into
the forum more thoroughly clad in proof, or with a better
armoury as well for defence as attack.”
-- 130 --
[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
“You did not fail, sir?” exclaimed the youth with a
painful expression of eager anxiety upon his countenance.
“I did fail—fail altogether! In the first effort to speak,
I fainted, and was carried lifeless from the court-room.”
The old man covered his face with his hands, for a few
moments, to conceal the expression of pain and mortification
which memory continued to renew in utter despite of
time. The young man's hand rested affectionately on his
shoulder. A few moments sufficed to enable the former
to renew his narrative.
“I was stunned but not crushed by this event. I knew
my own resources. I recollected a similar anecdote of
Sheridan; of his first attempt and wretched failure. I, too,
felt that `I had it in me,' and though I did not express, I
made the same resolution, that `I would bring it out.' But
Sheridan and myself failed from different causes, though
I did not understand this at that time. He had a degree of
hardihood which I had not; and he utterly lacked my
sensibilities. The very intenseness of my ambition; the
extent of my expectation; the elevated estimate which I
had made of my own profession; of its exactions; and,
again, of what was expected from me; were all so many
obstacles to my success. I did not so esteem them, then;
and after renewing my studies in private, my exercises of
expression and manner, and going through a harder course
of drilling, I repeated the attempt to suffer a repetition of
the failure. I did not again faint, but I was speechless.
I not only lost the power of utterance, but I lost the corresponding
faculty of sight. My eyes were completely
dazed and confounded. The objects of sight around me
were as crowded and confused as the far, dim ranges of
figures, tribes upon tribes, and legions upon legions, which
struggle in obscurity and distance, in any one of the begrimed
and blurred pictures of Martin's Pandemonium.
My second failure was a more enfeebling disaster than the
first. The first procured me the sympathy of my audience,
the last exposed me to its ridicule.”
Again the old man paused. By this time, the youth
had got one of his arms about the neck of the speaker, and
had taken one of his hands within his grasp.
“Yours is a generous nature, William,” said Mr. Calvert,
“and I have not said to you, until to-day, how grateful
your boyish sympathies have been to me from the first
-- 131 --
[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
day when you became my pupil. It is my knowledge of
these sympathies, and a desire to reward them, that
prompts me to tell a story which still brings its pains to
memory, and which would be given to no other ears than
your own. I see that you are eager for the rest—for the
wretched sequel.”
“Oh, no! sir—do not tell me any more of it if it
brings you pain. I confess I should like to know all,
but—”
“You shall have it all, my son. My purpose would
not be answered unless I finished the narrative. You will
gather from it, very possibly, the moral which I could not.
You will comprehend something better, the woful distinction
between courage of the blood and courage of the
brain; between the mere recklessness of brute impulse,
and the steady valour of the soul—that valour, which,
though it trembles, marches forward to the attack—recovers
from its fainting, to retrieve its defeat; and glows
with self-indignation because it has suffered the moment
of victory to pass, without employing itself to secure the
boon!—
“Shame, and a natural desire to retrieve myself, operated
to make me renew my efforts. I need not go through
the processes by which I endeavoured to acquire the necessary
degree of hardihood. In vain did I recal the fact
that my competitors were notoriously persons far inferior
to me in knowledge of the topics; far inferior in the capacity
to analyze them; rude and coarse in expression; unfamiliar
with the language—mere delvers and diggers in a
science in which I secretly felt that I should be a master.
In vain did I recal to mind the fact that I knew the community
before which I was likely to speak; I knew its
deficiencies; knew the inferiority of its idols, and could
and should have no sort of fear of its criticism. But it
was myself that I feared. I had mistaken the true censor.
It was my own standards of judgment that distressed and
made me tremble. It was what I expected of myself—
what I thought should be expected of me—that made my
weak soul recoil in terror from the conviction that I must
fail in its endeavour to reach the point which my ambitious
soul strove to attain. The fear, in such cases, produced
the very disaster, from the anticipated dread of which
it had arisen. I again failed—failed egregiously—failed
-- 132 --
[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
utterly and for ever! I never again attempted the fearful
trial. I gave up the contest, yielded the field to my inferiors,
better nerved though inferior, and, with all my learning,
all my eloquence, my voice, my manner; my resources
of study, thought and utterance, fled from sight—fled here—
to bury myself in the wilderness, and descend to the
less ambitious, but less dangerous, vocation of schooling—
I trust, to better uses—the minds of others. I had done
nothing with my own.”
“Oh, sir, do not say so. Though you may have failed
in one department of human performance, you have succeeded
in others. You have lost none of the knowledge
which you then acquired. You possess all the gifts of
eloquence, of manner, of voice, of education, of thought.”
“But of what use, my son? Remember, we do not toil
for these possessions to lock them up—to content ourselves,
as the miserable miser, with the consciousness that
we possess a treasure known to ourselves only—useless to
all others as to ourselves! Learning, like love, like money,
derives its true value from its circulation.”
“And you circulate yours, my dear sir. What do we
not owe you in Charlemont? What do I not owe you,
over all?”
“Love, my son—love only. Pay me that. Do not
desert me in my old age. Do not leave me utterly alone!”
“I will not, sir—I never thought to do so.”
“But,” said the old man, “to resume. Why did I fail
is still the question. Because I had not been taught those
lessons of steady endurance in my youth which would
have strengthened me against failure, and enable me finally
to triumph. There is a rich significance in what we hear
of the Spartan boy, who never betrayed his uneasiness or
agony though the fox was tearing out his bowels. There
is a sort of moral roughening which boys should be made
to endure from the beginning, if the hope is ever entertained,
to mature their minds to intellectual manhood. Our
American Indians prescribe the same laws, and in their
practice, very much resemble the ancient Spartans. To
bear fatigue, and starvation, and injury—exposure, wet,
privation, blows—but never to complain. Nothing betrays
so decidedly the lack of moral courage as the voice
of complaint. It is properly the language of woman. It
-- 133 --
[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
must not be your language. Do you understand me, William?”
“In part, sir, but I do not see how I could have helped
being what I am.”
“Perhaps not, because few have control of their own
education. Your parents have been too tender for you.
They have not lessoned you in that proper hardihood
which leads to performance. That task is before yourself,
and you have shrunk from the first lessons.”
“How, sir?”
“Instead of clinging to your Blackstone, you have allowed
yourself to be seduced from its pages, by such attractions
as usually delude boys. The eye and lip of a
pretty woman—a bright eye and a rosy cheek, have diverted
you from your duties.”
“But do our duties deny us the indulgence of proper
sensibilities?”
“Certainly not—proper sensibilities, on the contrary,
prescribe our duties.”
“But love, sir—is not love a proper sensibility?”
“In its place, it is. But you are a boy only. Do you
suppose that it was ever intended that you should entertain
this passion before you had learned the art of providing
your own food? Not so; and the proof of this is
to be found in the fact that the loves of boyhood are never
of a permanent character. No such passion can promote
happiness if it is indulged before the character of the parties
is formed. I now tell you that in five years from this
time you will probably have forgotten Miss Cooper.”
“Never! never!”
“Well, well—I go farther in my prophecy. Allow me
to suppose you successful in your suit, which I fancy can
never be the case—”
“Why, sir, why?”
“Because she is not the girl for you—or rather, she
does not think you the man for her!”
“But why do you think so, sir?”
“Because I know you both. There are circumstances
of discrepancy between you which will prevent it, and
even were you to be successful in your suit, which I am
very sure will never be the case, you would be the most
miserably matched couple under the sun.”
-- 134 --
[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
“Oh, sir, do not say so—do not. I cannot think so,
sir.”
“You will not think so, I am certain. I am equally
certain from what I know of you both, that you are secure
from any such danger. It is not my object to pursue this
reference, but let me ask you, William, looking at things
in the most favourable light, has Margaret Cooper ever
given you any encouragement?”
“I cannot say that she has, sir, but—”
“Nay, has she not positively discouraged you? Does
she not avoid you—treat you coldly when you meet—say
little, and that little of a kind to denote—I will not say
dislike—but pride, rather than love?”
The young man said nothing. The old one proceeded.
“You are silent and I am answered. I have long
watched your intercourse with this damsel, and loving
you as my own son, I have watched it with pain. She
is not for you, William. She loves you not. I am sure
of it. I cannot mistake the signs. She seeks other qualities
than such as you possess. She seeks meretricious
qualities, and yours are substantial. She seeks the pomps
of mind, rather than its subdued performances. She sees
not and cannot see your worth; and whenever you propose
to her, your suit will be rejected. You have not done
so yet?”
“No, sir—but I had hoped—”
“I am no enemy, believe me, William, when I implore
you to discard your hope in that quarter. It will do you
no hurt. Your heart will suffer no detriment, but be as
whole and vigorous a few years hence—perhaps months—
as if it had never suffered any disappointment.”
“I wish I could think so, sir.”
“And you would not wish that you could think so, if
you were not already persuaded that your first wish is
hopeless.”
“But I am not hopeless, sir.”
“Your cause is. But, promise me that you will not
press your suit at present.”
The young man was silent.
“You hesitate.”
“I dare not promise.”
“Ah, you are a foolish boy. Do you not see the rock
-- 135 --
[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
on which you are about to split. You have never learned
how to submit. This lesson of submission was that which
made the Spartan boy famous. Here, you persist in your
purpose, though your own secret convictions, as well as
your friend's counsel, tell you that you strive against hope.
You could not patiently submit to the counsel of this stranger,
though he came directly from your parents armed with
authority to examine and to counsel.”
“Submit to him! I would sooner perish!” exclaimed
the indignant youth.
“You will perish unless you learn this one lesson. But
where now is your ambition, and what does it aim at?”
The youth was silent.
“The idea of an ambitions youth, at twenty, giving up
book and candle, leaving his studies and abandoning himself
to despair, because his sweetheart won't be his sweetheart
any longer, gives us a very queer idea of the sort of
ambition which works in his breast.”
“Don't sir, don't, I pray you, speak any more in this
manner.”
“Nay, but, William, ask yourself. Is it not a queer
idea?”
“Spare me, sir, if you love me.”
“I do love you, and to show you that I do, I now recommend
to you to propose to Margaret Cooper.”
“What, sir, you do not think it utterly hopeless then?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you would have me expose myself to rejection?”
“Exactly so!”
“Really, sir, I do not understand you.”
“Well, I will explain. Nothing short of rejection will
possibly cure you of this malady; and it is of the last
importance to your future career, that you should be freed
as soon as possible from this sickly condition of thought
and feeling—a condition in which your mind will do nothing,
and in which your best days will be wasted. Blackstone
can only hope to be taken up when you have done
with her.”
“Stay, sir,—that is she below.”
“Who?”
“Margaret—”
“Who is with her?”
-- 136 --
[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]
“The stranger—this man, Stevens.”
“Ha! your counsellor, that would be? Ah! William,
you did not tell me all.”
CHAPTER XIV.
The cheeks of the youth glowed. He felt how much
he had suppressed in his conference with his venerable
counsellor. Mr. Calvert did not press the topic, and the
two remained silent, looking down, from the shaded spot
where they lay, upon the progress of Margaret Cooper and
her present attendant, Stevens. The eminence on which
they rested was sufficiently lofty, as we have seen, to
enable them, though themselves almost concealed from
sight, to take in the entire scene, not only below but around
them; and the old man, sharing now in the interest of his
young companion, surveyed the progress of the new
comers with a keen sense of curiosity which, for a time,
kept him silent. The emotions of William Hinkley were
such as to deprive him of all desire for speech; and each,
accordingly, found sufficient employment in brooding over
his own awakened fancies. Even had they spoken in the
ordinary tone of their voices, the sounds could not have
reached the persons approaching on the opposite side.
They drew nigh, evidently unconscious that the scene was
occupied by any other than themselves. Ned Hinkley was
half-shrouded in the shrubbery that environed the jutting
crag upon which his form was crouched, and they were
not yet sufficiently nigh to the tarn to perceive his projecting
rod, and the gaudy fly which he kept skipping about
upon the surface. The walk which they pursued was an
ancient Indian footpath, which had without doubt conducted
the red warriors, a thousand times before, to a spot
of seclusion and refreshment after their long day's conflict
on the “dark and bloody ground.” It was narrow and
very winding, and had been made so in order to lessen the
fatigue of an ascent which, though gradual enough, was
yet considerable, and would have produced great weariness,
-- 137 --
[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
finally, had the pathway been more direct. The circuitousness
of this route, which lay clear enough before the
eyes of our two friends upon the eminence—crawling, as
it did, up the woodland slopes with the sinuous motion of
a serpent,—was yet visible to Ned Hinkley, on his lowlier
perch, only at its starting point upon the very margin of
the lake. He, accordingly, saw as little of the approaching
persons as they had seen of him. They advanced slowly,
and seemed to be mutually interested in their subject of
conversation. The action of Stevens was animated. The
air and attitude of Margaret Cooper was that of interest
and attention; it was with something little short of agony
that William Hinkley beheld them pause upon occasion,
and confront each other as if the topic was of a nature to
arrest the feet and demand the whole fixed attention of the
hearer.
It will be conjectured that Alfred Stevens had pressed his
opportunities with no little industry. Enough has been
shown to account for the readiness of that reception which
Margaret Cooper was prepared to give him. Her intelligence
was keen, quick and penetrating. She discovered at
a glance,—not his hypocrisy—but that his religious
enthusiasm was not of a sort to become very tyrannical.
The air of mischief which was expressed upon his face
when the venerable John Cross proposed to purge her
library of its obnoxious contents, commended him to her
as a sort of ally; and the sympathy with herself, which
such a conjecture promised, made her forgetful of the disingenuousness
of his conduct if her suspicions were true.
But there were some other particulars which, in her mind,
tended to dissipate the distance between them. She recognized
the individual. She remembered the bold, dashing
youth, who, a few months before, had encountered her
on the edge of the village, and, after they had parted, had
ridden back to the spot where she still loitered, for a second
look. To that very spot had she conducted him on their
ramble that afternoon.
“Do you know this place, Mr. Stevens?” she demanded
with an arch smile, sufficiently good-humoured to convince
the adventurer that if she had any suspicions they were
not of a nature to endanger his hopes.
“Do I not!” he said with an air of empressement
which caused her to look down.
-- 138 --
[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]
“I thought I recollected you;” she said a moment
after.
“Ah! may I hope that I did not then offend you with
my impertinence? but the truth is, I was so struck—pardon
me if I say it—with the singular and striking difference
between the group of damsels I had seen and the one—
the surprise was so great,—the pleasure so unlooked
for—that—”
The eye of Margaret Cooper brightened, her cheek
glowed, and her form rose somewhat proudly. The arch
hypocrite paused judiciously, and she spoke.
“Nay, nay, Mr. Stevens, these fine speeches do not
pass current. You would make the same upon occasion
to any one of the said group of damsels, were you to be
her escort.”
“But I would scarcely ride back for a second look;”
he responded in a subdued tone of voice, while looking
with sad expressiveness into her eyes. These were cast
down upon the instant, and the colour upon her cheeks
was heightened.
“Come,” said she, making an effort, “there is nothing
here to interest us.”
“Except memory,” he replied; “I shall never forget
the spot.”
She hurried forward and he joined her. She had received
the impression which he intended to convey, without
declaring as much,—namely, that his return to Charlemont
had been prompted by that one glimpse which he had then
had of her person. Still, that nothing should be left in
doubt, he proceeded to confirm the impression by other
suggestions.
“You promise to show me a scene of strange beauty,
but your whole village is beautiful, Miss Cooper. I
remember how forcibly it struck me as I gained the ascent
of the opposite hills coming in from the east. It was late
in the day, the sun was almost setting, and his faintest but
loveliest beams fell upon the cottages in the valley, and lay
with a strange quiet beauty among the grassplats, and the
flower ranges, and upon the neat white palings.”
“It is beautiful;” she said with a sigh, “but its beauty
does not content me. It is too much beauty; it is too
soft; for though it has its rocks and huge trees, yet it lacks
wildness and sublimity. The rocks are not sufficiently
-- 139 --
[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]
abrupt, the steeps not sufficiently great—there are no
chasms, no waterfalls—only purling brooks and quiet
walks.”
“I have felt this already,” he replied, “but there is
yet a deficiency which you have not expressed, Miss
Cooper.”
“What is that?” she demanded.
“It is the moral want. You have no life here; and
that which would least content me would be this very
repose—the absence of provocation—the strife,—the
triumph. These, I take it, are the deficiencies which you
really feel when you speak of the want of crag and chasm
and waterfall!”
“You too are ambitious then!” she said quickly; “but
how do you reconcile this feeling with your profession?”
She looked up and caught his eye tenderly fixed upon
her.
“Ah!” said he, “Miss Cooper, there are some situations
in which we find it easy to reconcile all discrepancies.”
If the language lacked explicitness, the look did not.
He proceeded:—
“If I mistake not, Miss Cooper, you will be the last
one to blame me for not having stifled my ambition, even
at the calls of duty and profession!”
“Blame you, sir? Far from it. I should think you
very unfortunate indeed, if you could succeed in stifling
ambition at any calls, nor do I exactly see how duty should
require it.”
“If I pursue the profession of the divine;” he answered
hesitatingly.
“Yes—perhaps—but that is not certain?” There was
some timidity in the utterance of this inquiry. He evaded
it.
“I know not yet what I shall be;” he replied with an
air of self-reproach. “I fear I have too much of this fiery
ardour which we call ambition to settle down into the passive
character of the preacher.”
“Oh, do not, do not!” she exclaimed impetuously;
then, as if conscious of the impropriety, she stopped
short in the sentence, while increasing her forward pace.
“What!” said he, “you think that would effectually
stifle it?”
-- 140 --
[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]
“Would it not—does it not in most men?”
“Perhaps; but this depends upon the individual. Churchmen
have a great power,—the greatest in any country.”
“Over babes and sucklings!” she said scornfully.
“And through these over the hearts of men and
women!”
“But these too are babes and sucklings. People to be
scared by shadows. The victims of their own miserable
fears and superstitions!”
“Nevertheless, these confer power. Where there is
power, there is room for ambition. You recollect that
churchmen have put their feet upon the necks of princes.”
“Yes, but that was when there was one church only in
Christendom. It was a monopoly, and consequently a
tyranny. Now there are a thousand, always in conflict,
and serving very happily to keep each other from mischief.
They no longer put their feet on princes' necks, though I
believe, that the princes are no better off for this forbearance;—
there are others who do. But only fancy that this
time was again, and think of the comical figure our worthy
brother, John Cross, would make, mounting from such a
noble horse-block.”
The idea was sufficiently pleasant to make Stevens
laugh.
“I am afraid I shall have greater trouble in converting
you, Miss Cooper, than any other of the flock in Charlemont.
I doubt that your heart is stubborn—that you are
an insensible!”
“I insensible!” she exclaimed, and with such a look.
The expression of sarcasm had passed, as with the rapidity
of a lightning flash from her beautiful lips; and a silent
tear rose, tremulous and large, with the same instantaneous
emotion, beneath her long, dark eyelashes. She said
nothing more, but with eyes cast down, went forward.
Stevens was startled with the suddenness of these transitions.
They proved, at least, how completely her mind
was at the control of her blood. Hitherto, he had never
met with a creature so liberally endowed by nature, who
was, at the same time, so perfectly unsophisticated. The
subject was gratifying as a study alone, even if it conferred
no pleasure, and awakened no hopes.
“Do not mistake me,” he exclaimed, hurrying after, “I
-- 141 --
[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]
had no purpose to impute to you any other insensibility
except to that of the holy truths of religion.”
She looked up and smiled archly. There was another
transition from cloud to sunlight.
“What! are you so doubtful of your own ministry?”
“In your case, I am.”
“Why!”
“You will force me to betake myself to studies more
severe than any I have yet attempted.”
She was flattered but she uttered a natural disclaimer.
“No, no! I am presumptuous. I trust you will teach
me. Begin—do not hesitate—I will listen.”
“To move you I must not come in the garments of
Methodism. That faith will never be yours.”
“What faith shall it be?”
“That of Catholicism. I must come armed with
authority. I must carry the sword and keys of St. Peter.
I must be sustained by all the pomps of that church of
pomps and triumphs. My divine mission must speak
through signs and symbols, through stately stole, pontifical
ornaments, the tiara of religious state on the day of its
most solemn ceremonial; and with these I must bring
the word of power, born equally of intellect and soul, and
my utterance must be in the language of divinest poesy!”
“Ah! you mistake! That last will be enough. Speak
to me in poesy—let me hear that—and you will subdue
me, I believe, to any faith that you teach. For I cannot
but believe the faith that is endowed with the faculty of
poetic utterance.”
“In truth it is a divine utterance—perhaps the only
divine utterance. Would I had it for your sake.”
“Oh! you must have it. I fancy I see it in some things
that you have said. You read poetry, I am sure—I am
sure you love it.”
“I do! I know not any thing that I love half so well.”
“Then you write it?” she asked eagerly.
“No! the gift has been denied me.”
She looked at him with eyes of regret.
“How unfortunate,” she said.
“Doubly so, as the deficiency seems to disappoint
you.”
She did not seem to heed the flattery of this remark,
-- 142 --
[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
nor did she appear to note the expression of face with
which it was accompanied. Her feelings took the ascendency.
She spoke out her uncommissioned thoughts and
fancies musingly, as if without the knowledge of her
will.
“I fancy that I could kneel down and worship the poet,
and feel no shame, no humility. It is the only voice that
enchants me,—that leads me out from myself; that carries
me where it pleases and finds for me companions in the
solitude; songs in the storm; affections in the barren
desert! Even here, it brings me friends and fellowships.
How voiceless would be all these woods to me had it no
voice speaking to, and in, my soul. Hoping nothing, and
performing nothing here, it is my only consolation. It
reconciles me to this wretched spot. It makes endurance
tolerable. If it were not for this companionship,—if I
heard not this voice in my sorrows, soothing my desolation,
I could freely die!—die here, beside this rock, without
making a struggle to go forward, even to reach the
stream that flows quietly beyond!”
She had stopped in her progress while this stream of
enthusiasm poured from her lips. Her action was suited
to her utterance. Unaccustomed to restraint—nay, accustomed
only to pour herself forth to woods, and trees, and
waters, she was scarcely conscious of the presence of any
other companion, yet she looked even while she spoke, in
the eyes of Stevens. He gazed on her with glances of
unconcealed admiration. The unsophisticated nature which
led her to express that enthusiasm which a state of conventional
existence prompts us, through fear of ridicule,
industriously to conceal, struck him with the sense of a
new pleasure. The novelty alone had its charm; but
there were other sources of delight. The natural grace
and dignity of the enthusiastic girl, adapting to such words
the appropriate action, gave to her beauty, which was now
in its first bloom, all the glow which is derived from
intellectual inspiration. Her whole person spoke. All
was vital, spiritual, expressive, animated; and when the
last word lingered on her lips. Stevens could scarcely
repress the impulse which prompted him to clasp her in
his embrace.
“Margaret!” he exclaimed—“Miss Cooper!—you are
yourself a poet!”
-- 143 --
[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]
“No, no!” she murmured, rather than spoke;—“would
I were!—a dreamer only—a self-deluded dreamer.”
“You cannot deceive me!” he continued, “I see it in
your eyes, your action; I hear it in your words. I cannot
be deceived. You are a poet—you will, and must be
one!”
“And if I were!” she said mournfully, “of what avail
would it be here? What heart in this wilderness would
be touched by song of mine? Whose ear could I soothe
in this cold and sterile hamlet? Where would be the
temple—who the worshippers,—even were the priestess
all that her vanity would believe, or her prayers and toils
might make her? No, no! I am no poet; and if I were,
better that the flame should go out—vanish altogether in
the smoke of its own delusions—than burn with a feeble
light, unseen, untrimmed, unhonoured—perhaps, beheld
with the scornful eye of vulgar and unappreciating ignorance!”
“Such is not your destiny, Margaret Cooper,” replied
Stevens, using the freedom of address, perhaps unconsciously,
which the familiarity of country life is sometimes
found to tolerate. “Such is not your destiny, Margaret.
The flame will not go out—it will be loved and worshipped!”
“Ah! never! what is here to justify such a hope—
such a dream?”
“Nothing here; but it was not of Charlemont I spoke.
The destiny which has endowed you with genius will not
leave it to be extinguished here. There will come a
worshipper, Margaret. There will come one, equally
capable to honour the priestess and to conduct her to befitting
altars. This is not your home, though it may have
been your place of trial and novitiate. Here, without the
restraint of cold, oppressive, social forms, your genius has
ripened,—your enthusiasm has been kindled into proper
glow,—your heart, and mind, and imagination, have kept
equal pace to an equal maturity! Perhaps this was fortunate.
Had you grown up in more polished and worldly
circles, you would have been compelled to subdue the
feelings and fancies which now make your ordinary language
the language of a muse.”
“Oh! speak not so, I implore you. I am afraid you
mock me.”
-- 144 --
[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
“No! on my soul, I do not. I think all that I say.
More than that, I feel it, Margaret. Trust to me,—confide
in me—make me your friend! Believe me, I am not
altogether what I seem.”
An arch smile once more possessed her eyes.
“Ah! I could guess that! But sit you here. Here is
a flower,—a beautiful, small flower, with a dark blue eye.
See it—how humbly it hides amid the grass. It is the
last flower of the season. I know not its name. I am no
botanist: but it is beautiful without a name, and it is the
last flower of the season. Sit down on this rock, and I
will sing you Moore's beautiful song, `'Tis the last of its
kindred.' ”
“Nay, sing me something of your own, Margaret.”
“No, no! Don't speak of me, and mine, in the same
breath with Moore. You will make me repent of having
seen you. Sit down and be content with Moore, or go
without your song altogether.”
He obeyed her, and the romantic and enthusiastic girl,
seating herself upon a fragment of rock beside the path,
sang the delicate and sweet verses of the Irish poet, with
a natural felicity of execution, which amply compensated
for the absence of those Italian arts, which so frequently
elevate the music at the expense of the sentiment. Stevens
looked and listened, and half forgot himself in the breathlessness
of his attention—his eye fastened with a gaze of
absolute devotion on her features, until, having finished her
song, she detected the expression of his face, and started,
with blushing cheeks, to her feet.
“Oh! sweet!” he murmured as he offered to take her
hand, but she darted forward, and following her, he found
himself a few moments after, standing by her side, and
looking down upon one of the loveliest lakes that ever
slept in the embrace of jealous hills.
-- 145 --
CHAPTER XV.
[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]
“You disparage these scenes,” said Stevens, after several
moments had been given to the survey of that before
him, “and yet you have drawn your inspiration from them—
the fresh food which stimulates poetry and strengthens
enthusiasm. Here you learned to be contemplative; and
here, in solitude, was your genius nursed. Do not be
ungrateful, Margaret,—you owe to these very scenes all
that you are, and all that you may become.”
“Stay! before I answer. Do you see yon bird?”
“Where?”
“In the west—there!” she pointed with her finger,
catching his wrist unconsciously, at the same time, with
the other hand, as if more certainly to direct his gaze.
“I see it,—what bird is it?”
“An eagle! See how it soars and swings; effortless, as
if supported by some external power!”
“Indeed—it seems small for an eagle.”
“It is one nevertheless! There are thousands of them
that roost among the hills in that quarter. I know the place
thoroughly. The heights are the greatest that we have in
the surrounding country. The distance from this spot is
about five miles. He, no doubt, has some fish, or bird now
within his talons, with which to feed his young. He will
feed them, and they will grow strong, and will finally use
their own wings. Shall he continue to feed them after
that? Must they never seek their own food?”
“Surely they must.”
“If these solitudes have nursed me, must they continue
to nurse me always? Must I never use the wings to which
they have given vigour? Must I never employ the sight
to which they have imparted vigilance? Must I never go
forth, and strive and soar, and make air, and earth, and sea
tributary to my wing and eye? Alas! I am a woman!—
and her name is weakness! You tell me of what I am,
and of what I may become. But what am I? I mock
myself too often with this question to believe all your fine
speeches. And what may I become? Alas! who can
-- 146 --
[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]
tell me that? I know my strength, but I also know my
weakness. I feel the burning thoughts of my brain;—I
feel the yearning impulses in my heart;—but they bring
nothing—they promise nothing—I feel the pang of constant
denial. I feel that I can be nothing!”
“Say not so, Margaret—think not so, I beseech you.
With your genius, your enthusiasm—your powers of
expression—there is nothing, becoming in your sex, and
worthy of it, which you may not be.”
“You cannot deceive me! It might be so, if this were
Italy;—there, where the very peasant burns with passion,
and breathes his feeblest and meanest thoughts and desires
in song. But here, they already call me mad! They look
on me as one doomed to Bedlam. They avoid me with
sentiments and looks of distrust, if not of fear; and when
I am looking into the cloud, striving to pierce, with dilating
eye its wild yellow flashing centres, they draw their
flaxen-headed infants to their breasts, and mutter their
thanks to God, that he has not, in a fit of wrath, made
them to resemble me! If, forgetful of earth, and trees,
and the human stocks around me, I pour forth the language
of the great song-masters, they grin at my insanity—
they hold me incapable of reason, and declare their
ideas of what that is, by asking who knows most of the
dairy, the cabbage-patch, the spinning-wheel, the darning-needle—
who can best wash Polly's or Patty's face and
comb its head—can chop up sausage-meat the finest,—
make the lighest paste, and more economically dispense
the sugar in serving up the tea! and these are what is
expected of woman! These duties of the meanest slave!
From her mind nothing is expected. Her enthusiasm
terrifies, her energy offends, and if her taste is ever challenged,
it is to the figures upon a quilt or in a flower garden,
where the passion seems to be to make flowers grow in
stars, and hearts, and crescents. What has woman to
expect where such are the laws;—where such are the
expectations from her? What am I to hope? I, who
seem to be set apart—to feel nothing like the rest,—to live
in a different world—to dream of foreign things—to burn
with a hope which to them is frenzy, and speak a language
which they neither understand nor like! What can
I be, in such a world? Nothing, nothing! I do not
deceive myself. I can never hope to be any thing.”
-- 147 --
[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
Her enthusiasm hurried her forward. In spite of himself,
Stevens was impressed. He ceased to think of his
evil purposes in the superior thoughts which her wild,
unregulated energy inspired. He scarcely wondered, indeed—
if it were true—that her neighbours fancied her insane.
The indignation of a powerful mind denied—denied justice,—
baffled in its aims,—conscious of the importance of
all its struggles against binding and blinding circumstances,—
is akin to insanity!—is apt to express itself in the defiant
tones of a fierce and feverish frenzy.
“Margaret,” said he, as she paused and waited for him,
“you are not right in every thing. You forget that your
lonely little village of Charlemont, is not only not the
world, but that it is not even an American world. America
is not Italy, I grant you, nor likely soon to become
so; but if you fancy there are not cities even in our country,
where genius such as yours would be felt and worshipped,
you are mistaken.”
“Do you believe there are such?” she demanded incredulously.
“I know there are!”
“No! no! I know better. You cannot deceive me. It
cannot be so. I know the sort of genius which is popular
in those cities. It is the gentleman and lady genius. Look
at their verses for example. I can show you thousands of
such things that come to us here, from all quarters of the
Union—verses written by nice people—people of small
tastes and petty invention, who would not venture upon
the utterance of a noble feeling, or a bold sentiment of
originality, for fear of startling the fashionable nerves with
the strong words which such a novelty would require.
Consider, in the first place, how conclusive it is of the
feeblest sort of genius that these people should employ
themselves, from morning to night, in spinning their small
strains, scraps of verse, song, and sonnet, and invariably
on such subjects of commonplace, as cannot admit of originality,
and do not therefore task reflection. Not an infant
dies or is born, but is made the subject of verse; nay, its
smiles and tears are put on record; its hobby-horse, and
its infant ideas as they begin to bud and breathe aloud.
Then comes the eternal strain about summer blooms and
spring flowers; autumn's melancholy and winter's storms,
until one sickens of the intolerable monotony. Such are
-- 148 --
[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]
the things that your great cities demand. Such things
content them. Speak the fearless and always strange
language of originality and strength, and you confound
and terrify them.”
“But, Margaret, these things are held at precisely the
same value in the big cities as they are held by you here
in Charlemont. The intelligent people smile—they do
not applaud. If they encourage at all it is by silence.”
“No! no! that you might say, if, unhappily, public
opinion did not express itself. The same magazines which
bring us the verses bring us the criticism.”
“That is to say, the editor puffs his contributors, and
disparages those who are not. Look at the rival journal
and you will find these denounced and another set praised
and beplaistered.”
“Ah! and what would be my hope, my safety, in communities
which tolerate these things; in which the number
of just and sensible people is so small that they dare not
speak, or cannot influence those who have better courage?
Where would be my triumphs? I, who would no more
subscribe to the petty tyranny of conventional law, than
to that baser despotism which is wielded by a mercenary
editor, in the absence of a stern justice in the popular
mind. Here I may pine to death—there, my heart would
burst with its own convulsions.”
“No! Margaret, no! It is because they have not the
genius, that such small birds are let to sing. Let them but
hear the true minstrel—let them but know that there is a
muse, and how soon would the senseless twitter which
they now tolerate be hushed in undisturbing silence. In
the absence of better birds they bear with what they have.
In the absence of the true muse they build no temple—
they throng not to hear. Nay, even now, already, they
look to the west for the minstrel and the muse—to these
very woods. There is a tacit and universal feeling in the
Atlantic country, that leads them to look with expectation
to the Great West, for the genius whose song is to give
us fame. `When?' is the difficult—the only question.
Ah! might I but say to them,—`now'—the muse is already
here!”
He took her hand—she did not withhold it; but her
look was subdued—the fire had left her eyes—her whole
frame trembled with the recoil of those feelings—the
-- 149 --
[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
relaxation of those nerves—the tension of which we have endeavoured
feebly to display. Her cheek was no longer
flushed but pale; her lips trembled,—her voice was low
and faint,—only a broken and imperfect murmur;—and
her glance was cast upon the ground.
“You!” she exclaimed.
“Yes! I! Have I not said I am not altogether what I
seem? Ah! I may not yet say more. But I am not
without power, Margaret, in other and more powerful
regions. I too have had my triumphs—I too can boast
that the minds of other men hang for judgment upon the
utterance of mine.”
She looked upwards to his glance with a stranger expression
of timidity than her features had before expressed.
The form of Stevens had insensibly risen in seeming elevation
as he spoke, and the expression of his face was that
of a more human pride. He continued:
“My voice is one of authority in circles where yours
would be one of equal attraction and command. I cannot
promise you an Italian devotion, Margaret—our people,
though sufficiently enthusiastic, are too sensible to ridicule
to let the heart and blood speak out with such freedom as
they use in the warmer regions of the South; but the
homage will be more intellectual, more steady, and the
fame more enduring. You must let your song be heard,—
you must give me the sweet privilege of making it known
to ears whose very listening is fame.”
“Ah!” she said, “what you say makes me feel how
foolishly I have spoken. What is my song—what have I
done—what am I—what have I to hope? I have done
nothing! I am nothing! I have suffered, like a child, a
miserable vanity to delude me, and I have poured into the
ears of a stranger those ravings which I have hitherto
uttered to the hills and forests. You laugh at me now—
you must.”
The paleness on her cheek was succeeded by the deepest
flush of crimson. She withdrew her hand from his
grasp.
“Laugh at you, Margaret! You have awakened my
wonder. Struck with you when we first met,—”
“Nay, no more of that, but let us follow these windings,
they lead us to the tarn. It is the prettiest Indian path,
and my favourite spot. Here I ramble morning and eve,
-- 150 --
[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]
and try to forget those vain imaginings, and foolish strivings
of thought, which I have just inflicted upon you.
The habit proved too much for my prudence, and I spoke
as if you were not present. Possibly, had you not spoken
in reply, I should have continued until now.”
“Why did I speak?”
“Ah! it is better. I wish you had spoken sooner. But
follow me quickly. The sunlight is now falling in a particular
line which gives us the loveliest effect, shooting its
rays through certain fissures of the rock, and making a
perfect arrow path along the water. You would fancy
that Apollo had just dismissed a golden shaft from his
quiver, so direct is the levelled light along the surface of
the lake.”
Speaking thus, they came in sight of the party on the
opposite hills, as we have already shown, without, however,
perceiving them in turn. It will be conjectured
without difficulty, that, with a nature so full of impulse,
so excitable, as that to Margaret Cooper,—particularly in
the company of an adroit man like Stevens, whose purpose
was to encourage her in that language and feeling of
egotism which, while it was the most grateful exercise to
herself, was that which most effectually served to blind
her to his designs,—her action was always animated, expressively
adapting itself not only to the words she uttered,
but, even when she did not speak, to the feelings by which
she was governed. It was the art of Stevens to say little
except by suggestives. A single word, or brief sentence
from his lips, judiciously applied to her sentiments or
situation, readily excited her to speech, and this utterance
necessarily brought with it the secret of her soul, the desire
of her heart,—nay, the very shape of the delusion which
possessed it. The wily libertine, deliberate as the demon
to which we have likened him, could provoke the warmth
which he did not share—could stimulate the eloquence
which he would not feel—could, coldly, like some Mephistopheles
of science, subject the golden winged bird or
butterfly, to the torturous process of examination, with a
pin thrust through its vitals, and gravely dilate on its properties,
its rich plumage, and elaborate finish of detail,
without giving heed to those writhings which declared its
agonies. It is not meant to be understood that Stevens
found no pleasure himself in the display of that wild,
-- 151 --
[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]
unschooled imagination which was the prevailing quality in
the mind of Margaret Cooper. He was a man of education
and taste. He could be pleased as an amateur; but
he wanted the moral to be touched, and to sympathize
with a being so gifted and so feeble,—so high aiming, yet
so liable to fall.
The ardour of Margaret Cooper, and the profound devotion
which it was the policy of Stevens to display, necessarily
established their acquaintance, in a very short time, on
the closest footing of familiarity. With a nature such as
hers, all that is wanted is sympathy—all that she craves
is sympathy—and to win this, no toil is too great, no
sufferance too severe;—alas! how frequently do we see
that no penalty is too discouraging. But the confiding
spirit never looks for penalties, and seldom dreams of
deceit. What then were the emotions of William Hinkley
as he beheld the cordiality which distinguished the manner
of Margaret Cooper as she approached the edge of the
lake with her companion. In the space of a single week
this stranger had made greater progress in her acquaintance,
than he had been able to make in a period of years. The
problem which distressed him was beyond his power to
solve. His heart was very full. The moisture was already
in his eyes; and when he beheld the animated gestures of
the maid—when he saw her turn to her companion, and
meet his gaze without shrinking, while her own was fixed
in gratified contemplation—he scarcely restrained himself
from jumping to his feet. The old man saw his emotion.
“William,” he said, “did I understand you that this
young stranger was a preacher?”
“No, sir,—but he seeks to be one. He is studying for
the ministry, under Brother Cross.”
“Brother Cross is a good man, and is scarcely likely to
have any thing to do with any other than good men. I
suppose he knows every thing about the stranger?”
William Hinkley narrated all that was known on the subject
in the village. In the innocence of his heart, Brother
Cross had described Alfred Stevens as a monument of his
own powers of conversion. Under God, he had been a
blessed instrument for plucking this brand from the burning.
A modified account of the brandy-flask accompanied
the narrative. Whether it was that Mr. Calvert, who had
-- 152 --
[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]
been a man of the world, saw something in the story itself,
and in the ludicrousness of the event, which awakened his
suspicions; or, whether the carriage of Alfred Stevens, as
he walked with Margaret Cooper, was rather that of a
young gallant than a young student in theology, may admit
of question; but it was very certain that the suspicions of
the old gentleman were somewhat awakened. Believing
himself to be alone with his fair companion, Alfred Stevens
was not as scrupulous of the rigidity of manner, which, if
not actually prescribed to persons occupying his professional
position, is certainly expected from them; and by
a thousand little acts of gallantry, he proved himself much
more at home as a courtier, and ladies' man, than as one
filled with the overflow of divine grace, and thoughtful of
nothing less than the serious earnest of his own soul. His
hand was promptly extended to assist the progress of his
fair companion,—a service which was singularly unnecessary
in the case of one to whom daily rambles, over hill
and through forest, had imparted a most unfeminine degree
of vigour. Now he broke the branch away from before her
path; and now, stooping suddenly he gathered for her the
pale flower of autumn. These little acts of courtesy, so
natural to the gentleman, were any thing but natural to one
suddenly impressed with the ascetical temper of Methodism.
Highly becoming in both instances, they were yet strangely
at variance with the straight-laced practices of the thoroughgoing
Wesleyan, who fancies that the condition of souls is
so desperate as to leave no time for good manners. Mr.
Calvert had no fault to find with Stevens's civility, but there
was certainly an inconsistency between his deportment
now, and those characteristics which were to be predicated
of the manner and mode of his very recent conversion.
Besides, there was the story of the brandy-flask, in which
Calvert saw much less of honour, either to John Cross or
his neophyte. But the old man did not express his doubts
to his young friend, and they sat together, watching, in a
silence only occasionally broken by a monosyllable, the
progress of the unconscious couple below.
Meanwhile, our fisherman, occupying his lonely perch
just above the stream had been plying his vocation with
all the silent deligence of one to the manner born. Once
busy with his angle, and his world equally of thought and
-- 153 --
[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
observation, became confined to the stream before his eyes,
and the victim before his imagination. Scarcely seen by
his companions on the heights above, he had succeeded in
taking several very fine fish, and had his liberality been
limited to the supper table of his venerable friend, Calvert,
he would long before have given himself respite, and temporary
immunity to the rest of the finny tribe remaining
in the tarn. But, Ned Hinkley thought of all his neighbours,
not omitting the two rival widows, Mesdames
Cooper and Thackeray. Something too, there was in the
sport, which, on the present occasion, beguiled him rather
longer than his wont. More than once had his eye detected,
from the advantageous and jutting rock where he
lay concealed, just above the water, the dark outlines of a
fish, one of the largest he had ever seen in the lake, whose
brown sides, and occasionally flashing fins, excited his
imagination and offered a challenge to his skill, which
provoked him into something like a feeling of personal
hostility. The fish moved slowly to and fro, not often in
sight, but at such regularly recurring periods as to keep
up the exciting desire which his very first appearance had
awakened in the mind of his enemy. To Ned Hinkley
he was the beau ideal of the trout genus. He was certainly
the hermit trout of the tarn. Such coolness, such
strength, such size, such an outline, and then such sagacity.
That trout was a triton among his brethren. A
sort of Dr. Johnson among fishes. Ned Hinkley could
imagine—for on such subjects his imagination kindled—
how like an oracle must be the words of such a trout, to
his brethren, gathering in council in their deep-down hole,—
or, driven by a shower under the cypress log, or in any
other situation in which an oracle would be apt to say,
looking around him with fierceness mingled with contempt—
“let no dog bark.” Ned Hinkley could also fancy the
contemplations of such a trout as he witnessed the efforts
made to beguile him out of the water. “Not to be caught
by a fly like that,—my lad!” and, precisely as if the trout
had spoken what was certainly whispered in his own mind,
the fisherman silently changed his gilded, glittering figure
on his hook for one of browner plumage,—one of the
autumn tribe of flies which stoop to the water from the
overhanging trees, and glide off for twenty paces in
-- 154 --
[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
the stream, to dart up again to the trees, in as many
seconds, if not swallowed by some watchful fisher-trout,
like the one then before the eyes of our companion.
Though his fancy had become excited, Ned Hinkley was
not impatient. With a cautions hand he conducted the fly
down the stream with the flickering fidgetty motion which
the real insect would have employed. The keen-nosed
trout turned with the movements of the fly, but philosophically
kept aloof. Now he might be seen to sink, now
to rise, now he glided close under the rock where the
angle reclined, and, even in the very deep waters which
were there, which were consequently very dark, so great
was the size of the animal, that its brown outline was yet
to be seen, with its slightly waving tail, and at moments
the flash of its glittering eye, as, inclining on its side, it
glanced cunningly upward through the water. Again did
Ned Hinkley consult his resources. Fly after fly was
taken from his box, and suffered to glide upon the stream.
The wary fish did not fail to bestow some degree of attention
upon each, but his regards were too deliberate for the
success of the angler, and he had almost began to despair,
when he observed a slight quivering movement in the
object of pursuit which usually prepares the good sportsman
to expect his prey. The fins were laid aback. The
motion of the fish became steady; a slight vibration of
the tail only was visible; and in another moment he
darted, and was hooked. Then came the struggle. Ned
Hinkley had never met with a more formidable prey.
The reel was freely given, but the strain was great
upon shaft and line. There was no such thing as contending.
The trout had his way, and went down and
off, though it might have been observed that the fisherman
took good care to baffle his efforts to retreat in the direction
of the old log which had harboured him, and the
tangling alders, which might have been his safest places of
retreat. The fish carried a long stretch of line, but the
hook was still in his jaws, and this little annoyance soon
led him upon other courses. The line became relaxed,
and with this sign, Ned Hinkley began to amuse himself
in tiring his victim. This required skill and promptness
rather than strength. The hermit-trout was led to and
fro by a judicious turn of wrist or elbow. His efforts had
subsided to a few spasmodic struggles—an occasional
-- 155 --
[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]
struggle ending with a shiver, and then he was brought to
the surface. This was followed by a last great convulsive
effort, when his tail churned the water into a little circle of
foam, which disappeared the moment his struggles were
over. But a few seconds more were necessary to lift the
prey into sight of all the parties near to the lake. They
had seen some of the struggle, and had imagined the rest.
Neither Margaret Cooper nor Stevens had suspected the
presence of the fisherman until drawn to the spot by this
trial of strength.
“What a prodigious fish!” exclaimed Stevens; “can
we go to the spot?”
“Oh! easily—up the rocks on the left there is a path.
I know it well. I have traversed it often. Will you go?
The view is very fine from that quarter.”
“Surely—but who is the fisherman?”
“Ned Hinkley, the nephew of the gentleman with
whom you stay. He is a hunter, fisherman, musician,
every thing. A lively, simple, but well-meaning young
person. It is something strange that his cousin William
Hinkley is not with him. They are usually inseparable.”
And with these words she led the way for her companion
following the edge of the lake until reaching the
point where the rocks seemed to form barriers to their
farther progress, but which her agility and energy had long
since enabled her to overcome.
“A bold damsel!” said Calvert, as he viewed her progress.
“She certainly does not intend to clamber over
that range of precipices. She will peril her life.”
“No!” said William Hinkley—“she had done it often
to my great terror. I have been with her more than once
over the spot myself. She seems to me to have no fear,
and to delight in the most dangerous places.”
“But her companion! If he's not a more active man
than he seems he will hardly succeed so well.”
William was silent, his eye watching with the keenest
interest the progress of the two. In a few moments he
started to his feet with some appearance of surprise.
“What's the matter?” demanded Calvert.
“She does not seem as if she wished to ascend the
rocks, but she's aiming to keep along the ledges that overhang
the stream, so as to get where Ned is. That can
-- 156 --
[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
hardly be done by the surest-footed and most active.
Many of the rocks are loose. The ledge is very narrow,
and even where there is room for the feet there are such
projections above as leave no room for the body. I will
halloo to her, and tell her of the danger.”
“If you halloo, you will increase the danger,—you will
alarm her;” said the old man.
“It will be best to stop her now, in season,—when she
can go back. Stay for me, sir, I can run along on the
heights so as to overlook them, and can then warn without
alarming.”
“Do so, my son, and hasten, for she seems bent on
going forward. The preacher follows but slowly, and she
stops for him. Away!”
The youth darted along the hill, pursuing something of
a table-line which belonged to the equal elevation of the
range of rock on which he stood. The rock was formed
of successive and shelving ledges, at such intervals, however,
as to make it no easy task—certainly no safe one,—
to drop from one to the other. The perch of Ned
Hinkley, was a projection from the lowest of these ledges,
running brokenly along the margin of the basin until lost
in the forest slope over which Margaret Cooper had led
her companion. If it was a task to try the best vigour
and agility—to say nothing of courage—of the ablest
mountaineer, to ascend the abrupt ledges from below,
aiming at the highest point of elevation,—the attempt was
still more startling to follow the lower ledges, some of
which hung, loosened and tottering, just above the deepest
parts of the lake. Yet, with that intrepidity which marked
her character, this was the very task which Margaret
Cooper had proposed to herself. William Hinkley had
justly said that she did not seem to know fear; and when
Stevens with the natural sense of caution which belongs
to one to whom such performances are unusual, suggested
to her that such a pathway seemed very dangerous—
“Dangerous!” she exclaimed, standing upon the merest
pinnacle of a loosened fragment which rested on the very
margin of the stream. “Did you never perceive that
there was a loveliness in danger which you scarcely felt
to be half so great in any other object or situation. I love
the dangerous. It seems to lift my soul, to make my heart
bound with joy and the wildest delight. I know nothing
-- 157 --
[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
so delightful as storm and thunder. I look, and see the
tall trees shivering and going down with a roar, and feel
that I could sing—sing aloud,—and believe that there are
voices, like mine, then singing through all the tempest.
But there is no danger here. I have clambered up these
ledges repeatedly—up to the very top. Here, you see,
we have an even pathway along the edge. We have
nothing to do but to set the foot down firmly.”
But Stevens was not so sure, and his opinion on the
beauties of the dangerous did not chime exactly with hers.
Still, he did not lack for courage, and his pride did not
suffer him to yield in a contest with a female. He gazed
on her with increasing wonder. If he saw no loveliness
in danger—he saw no little loveliness just then in her; and
she might be said to personify danger to his eyes. Her
tall, symmetrical and commanding figure, perched on the
trembling pinnacle of rock which sustained her, was as
firm and erect as if she stood on the securest spot of land.
Nor was her position that of simple security and firmness.
The grace of her attitude, her extended and gently waving
arm as she spoke, denoted a confidence which could only
have arisen from a perfect unconsciousness of danger.
Her swan-like neck, with the face slightly turned back to
him; the bright flashing eyes, and the smile of equal pride
and dignity on her exquisitely chiselled mouth;—all
formed a picture for the artist's study, which almost served
to divert the thoughts of Stevens from the feeling of danger
which he expressed. While he gazed, he heard a
voice calling in tones of warning from above; and, at the
sound, he perceived a change in the expression of Margaret
Cooper's face, from confidence and pride, to scorn and
contempt. At the same time she darted forward from rock
to rock, with a sort of defying haste, which made him
tremble for her safety, and left him incapable to follow.
The call was repeated; and Stevens looked up, and recognised
the person of the youth whom he had counselled
that morning with such bad success. If the progress of
Margaret Cooper appeared dangerous in his sight, that of
the young man was evidently more so. He was leaping,
with the cool indifference of one who valued his life not a
pin's fee, from ledge to ledge, down the long steppes which
separated the several reaches of the rock formation. The
-- 158 --
[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
space between was very considerable, the descent abrupt;
the youth had no steadying pole to assist him, but flying
rather than leaping, was now beheld in air, and in the
next moment stood balancing himself with difficulty, but
with success, and without seeming apprehension, on the
pinnacle of rock below him. In this way he was approaching
the lower ledge along which Margaret Cooper
was hurrying as rapidly as fearlessly, and calling to her
as he came, implored her to forbear a progress which was
so full of danger. Stevens fancied he had no reason to
love the youth, but he could not help admiring and envying
his equal boldness and agility; the muscular ease with
which he flung himself from point to point, and his sure-footed
descent upon the crags and fragments which trembled
and tottered beneath the sudden and unaccustomed
burden. Charitably wishing that, amidst all his agility he
might yet make a false step, and find an unexpected and
rather cold bath in the lake below, Stevens now turned his
eyes upon Margaret Cooper. She did not answer the
counsels of William Hinkley—certainly did not heed them:
and, but for the increased impatience of her manner might
be supposed not to have heard them. The space between
herself and Stevens had increased meanwhile, and looking
back, she waited for his approach. She stood on a heavy
mass which jutted above the lake, and not six feet from
the water. Her right foot was upon the stone, sustaining
the whole weight of her person. Her left was advanced
and lifted to another fragment which lay beyond. As she
looked back she met the eyes of Stevens. Just then he
saw the large fragment yield beneath her feet. She seemed
suddenly conscious of it in the same moment, and sprung
rapidly on that to which her left foot was already advanced.
The impetus of this movement, sent the rock over which
she had left. This disturbed the balance of that to which
she had risen, and while his breath hung suspended in the
utterance of the meditated warning, the catastrophe had
taken place. The stone shrank from beneath her, and,
sinking with it, in another moment, she was hidden from
sight in the still, deep waters of the lake.
-- 159 --
CHAPTER XVI.
[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
The disappearance of Margaret Cooper was succeeded
by a shriek from above—a single shriek—a cry of terror
and despair; and in the same instant the form of William
Hinkley might have been seen cleaving the air, with the
boldness of a bird, secure always of his wing, and descending
into the lake as nearly as it was possible for him to
come, to the spot where she had sunk. Our cooler fisherman
looked up to the abrupt eminence, just above his own
head, from which his devoted cousin had sprung.
“By gemini!” he exclaimed with an air of serious
apprehension, “if William Hinkley hasn't knocked his
life out by that plunge he's more lucky than I think him.
It's well the lake's deep enough in this quarter else he'd
have tried the strength of hard head against harder rock
below. But there's no time for such nice calculations!
We can all swim—that's a comfort.”
Thus speaking, he followed the example of his cousin,
though more quietly, plunging off from his lowlier perch,
and cleaving the water, headforemost, with as little commotion
as a sullen stone would make sent directly downwards
to the deep. By this time, however, our former
companion, Stevens, had done the same thing. Stevens
was no coward, but he had no enthusiasm. He obeyed
few impulses. His proceedings were all the result of
calculation. He could swim as well as his neighbours.
He had no apprehensions on that score; but he disliked
cold water; and there was an involuntary shrug of the
shoulder and shiver of the limbs before he committed himself
to the water, which he did with all the deliberation of
the cat, who, longing for fish, is yet unwilling to wet her
own feet. His deliberation, and the nearness of his position
to Margaret Cooper, were so far favourable to his
design that he succeeded in finding her first. It must be
understood that the events, which we have taken so much
time to tell, occupied but a few seconds in the performance.
Stevens was in the water quite as quickly as Ned Hinkley,
-- 160 --
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
and only not so soon as his more devoted and desperate
cousin. If it was an advantage to him to come first in
contact with the form of Margaret Cooper, it had nearly
proved fatal to him also. In the moment when he encountered
her, her outstretched and grasping arms, encircled
his neck. They rose together, but he was nearly strangled,
and but for the timely interposition of the two cousins,
they must probably have both perished. It was the fortune
of our fisherman to relieve the maiden, whom he bore to
the opposite shore with a coolness, a skill and spirit, which
enabled him to save himself from her desperate but unconscious
struggles, while supporting her with a degree of
ease and strength which had been acquired while teaching
some dozen of the village urchins how to practise an art
in which he himself was reckoned a great proficient. It
was fortunate for Stevens that the charities of William
Hinkley were more active and indulgent than his own,
since, without the timely succour and aid which he afforded,
that devout young gentleman would have been made to
discontinue his studies very suddenly and have furnished
a summary conclusion to this veracious narrative—a consummation
which, if it be as devoutly wished by the reader
as by the writer, will be a much greater source of annoyance
to our publisher than it has proved already. Never
had poor mortal been compelled to drink, at one time, a
greater quantity of that celestial beverage, which the Reverend
Mr. Pierpont insists is the only liquor drunk at the
hotels of heaven. We should be sorry to misrepresent
that very gentle gentleman, but we believe that this is substantially
his idea. It was unfortunate for Stevens that,
previously to this, he had never been accustomed to drink
much of this beverage in its original strength any where.
He had been too much in the habit of diluting it; and
being very temperate always in his enjoyment of the creature
comforts, he had never taken it, even when thus
diluted, except in very moderate quantities. In consequence
of his former abstemiousness, the quantity which
he now swallowed nearly strangled him. He was about
to take his last draught with many wry faces, when the
timely arms of the two cousins, by no very sparing application
of force withdrew him from the grasp of the damsel;
and without very well understanding the process, or any
-- 161 --
[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
particulars of his extrication, he found himself stretched
upon the banks over which he had lately wandered, never
dreaming of any such catastrophe; discharging from his
stomach by no effort of his own, a large quantity of foreign
ingredients—the ordinary effect, we are given to understand,
of every inordinate indulgence in strong waters.
Our excellent old friend, Mr. Calvert, was soon upon
the spot, and while Ned Hinkley was despatched to the
village for assistance, he took himself the charge of recovering
the unconscious maiden. Half forgetting his
hostility, William Hinkley undertook the same good service
to Stevens, who really seemed to need succour much
more than his fair companion. While William Hinkley
busied himself by rolling, friction, fanning and other practises
employed in such cases, to bring his patient back to
life, he could not forbear an occasional glance to the spot,
where, at a little distance, lay the object of his affections.
Her face was toward him, as she lay upon her side. Her
head was supported on the lap of the old man. Her long
hair hung dishevelled, of a more glossy black now when
filled with water. Her eyes were shut, and the dark
fringes of her lids, lay like a pencil streak across the pale,
prominent orbs which they served to bind together. The
glow of indignant pride with which she was wont to receive
his approaches, had all disappeared in the mortal
struggle for life through which she had lately gone; and
pure, as seemingly free from every passion, her pale beauties
appeared to his doating eye the very perfection of
human loveliness. Her breast now heaved convulsively,
deep sighs poured their way through her parted lips. Her
eyes alternately opened upon but shut against the light,
and, finally, the exertions of the old man were rewarded as
the golden gleam of expression began to relight and reillumine
those features which seemed never to be without
it. She recovered her consciousness, started up, made an
effort to rise, but feeling with inability sunk down again
into the paternal grasp of the old man.
“Mr. Calvert!” she murmured.
“You are safe, my daughter!” said the old man.
“But how did it happen—where am I?”
“By the lake!”
“Ah! I remember. I was drowning. I felt it all.
The choking—the struggle. The water in my ears and
-- 162 --
[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
eyes. It was a dreadful feeling. How did I come here?
Who saved me?”
“Ned Hinkley brought you to land, but he was helped
by his cousin William, who assisted the stranger.”
“The stranger!—ah! yes! I remember; but where
is he?”
She looked around wildly and anxiously, and beholding
William Hinkley at a little distance, busy with the still
unconscious form of Stevens, a quick fearful shudder passed
over her frame. She almost crouched into the old
man's arms as she asked, in husky accents—
“He is not dead? He lives?”
“I hope so. He breathes.”
She waited for no more, but starting to her feet she
hurried to the spot where Stevens lay. The old man
would have prevented her.
“You are feeble—you will do yourself harm. Better,
if you are able to walk, hurry homeward with me, when
you can change your clothes?”
“Would you have me ungrateful?” she exclaimed.
“Shall I neglect him when he risked his life for me?”
There was a consciousness in her mind that it was not
all gratitude which moved her, for the deathly paleness of
her cheek was now succeeded by a warm blush which
denoted a yet stronger and warmer emotion. The keen
eyes of William Hinkley understood the meaning of this
significant but unsyllabling mode of utterance, and his eyes
spoke the reproach to hers which his lips left unsaid.
“Ah! did I not risk my life too, to prevent—to save?
When would she feel such an interest in me—when would
she look thus were my life at stake?”
“He will not be neglected;” said the old man, gently
endeavouring to restrain her. Perhaps she would not have
given much heed to the interruption, for hers was the
strength of an unfettered will, one accustomed to have way,
but that, at this moment, the eyes of Stevens unclosed and
met her own. His consciousness had returned, and under
the increasing expression in his looks, she sunk back, and
permitted the old man to lead her along the homeward
path. More than once she looked back, but, with the
assurance of Mr. Calvert that there was no more danger to
be apprehended, she continued to advance; the worthy old
-- 163 --
[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
man, as they went, seeking to divert her mind by pleasant
and choice anecdotes of which his memory had abundant
stores, from dwelling upon the unpleasant and exciting
event which had just taken place. Margaret Cooper,
whose habits previously had kept her from much intimacy
with the village sage, was insensibly taken by his gentleness,
the purity of his taste, the choiceness of his expression,
the extent of his resources. She wondered how a
mind so full should have remained unknown to her so long,—
committing the error, very common to persons of strong
will, and determined self-esteem, of assuming that she
should, as a matter of inevitable necessity, have known
every thing and every body of which the knowledge is at
all desirable. In pleasant discourse he beguiled her progress,
until Ned Hinkley was met returning with horses—
the pathway did not admit of a vehicle, and the village had
none less cumbrous than cart and wagon—on one of which
she mounted, refusing all support or assistance, and when
Mr. Calvert insisted upon walking beside her, she grasped
the bough of a tree, broke off a switch, and giving an arch
but good-natured smile and nod to the old man, laid it
smartly over the horse's flank, and in a few moments was
out of sight.
“The girl is smart!” said Calvert, as he followed her
retreating form with his eye,—“too smart! She speaks
well,—has evidently read. No wonder that William loves
her—but she will never do for him. She has no humility.
Pride is the demon in her heart. Pride will overthrow
her. These woods spoil her. Solitude is the natural
nurse of self-esteem; particularly where it is strong at
first and is coupled with any thing like talent. Better for
such an one if sickness, and strife, and suffering had taken
her at the cradle, and nursed her with the milk of self-denial
which is the only humility worth having: and yet,
why should I speak of her, when the sting remains in my
own soul—when I yet feel the pang of my feebleness and
self-reproach? Alas! I should school none. The voice
speaks to me ever—Old man! to thy prayers. Thy own
knees are yet stubborn as thy neck!”
Leaving him to the becoming abasement of that delusive
self-comfort which ministers to our vain glory, and
which this good old man had so happily succeeded in
rebuking, we will return to the spot where we left our two
-- 164 --
[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
other friends. Ned Hinkley has already joined them.
With his horse he had providently brought a suit of his
own clothes for the stranger, which though made of home-spun,
and not of the most modern fashion, were yet warm
and comfortable, and as Stevens was compelled to think,
infinitely preferable to the chilly and dripping garments
which he wore. A few moments, in the cover of the
woods, sufficed the neophyte to make the alteration; while
the two cousins, to whom the exigencies of forester and
fisherman life were more familiar, prepared to walk the
water out of their own habits, by giving rapid circulation
to their blood and limbs. While their preparations were
in progress, however, Ned Hinkley could not deny himself
the pleasure of discoursing at length on the subject of the
late disaster.
“Stranger,” he said, “I must tell you that you've had
a souse in as fine a fishing pond as you'll meet with from
here to Salt river. I reckon now that while you were in,
you never thought for a moment of the noble trout that
inhabit it.”
“I certainly did not,” said the other.
“There now! I could have sworn it! That a man
should go with his eyes open into a country without ever
asking what sort of folks lived there. Is'nt it monstrous?”
“It certainly seems like a neglect of the first duty of a
traveller;” said Stevens good-humouredly;—“let me not
show myself heedless of another. Let me thank you,
gentlemen, for saving my life. I believe I owe it to one
or both of you.”
“To him, not to me;” said Ned Hinkley, pointing to
his cousin. William was at a little distance, looking
sullenly upon the two, with eyes which, if dark and moody,
seemed to denote a thought which was any where else but
in the scene around him.
“He saved you, and I saved the woman. I would'nt
have a woman drowned in this lake for all the houses in
Charlemont.”
“Ah! why?”
“'Twould spoil it for fishing for ever.”
“Why would a woman do this more than a man?”
“For a very good reason, my friend. Because the
ghost of a woman talks, and a man's don't, they say. The
ghost of a man says what it wants to say with its eyes; a
-- 165 --
[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
woman's with her tongue. You know there's nothing
scares fish so much as one's talking.”
“I have heard so;—but is it so clear that there is such
a difference between them? How is it known that the
female does all the talking?”
“Oh! that's beyond dispute. There's a case that we
all know about—all here in Charlemont—the case of Joe
Barney's millpond. Barney lost one of his children and
one of his negroes in the pond,—drowned as a judgment,
they say, for fishing a Sunday. That didn't make any
difference with the fish. You could catch them there just
the same as before. But when old Mrs. Frey fell in,
crossing the dam, the case was altered. You might sit
there for hours and days, night and day, and bob till you
were weary; devil a bite after that! Now, what could
make the difference but the tongue? Mother Frey had a
tongue of her own, I tell you. 'Twas going when she
fell in, and I reckon's been going ever since. She was a
sulphury, spiteful body, to be sure, and some said she
poisoned the fish if she didn't scare them. To my thinking,
'twas the tongue.”
Stevens had been something seduced from his gravity
by the blunt humour and the unexpected manner of Ned
Hinkley; besides having been seryed if not saved by his
hands. Something, perhaps, of attention was due to what
he had to say;—but he recollected the assumed character
which he had to maintain—something doubtful too, if he
had not already impaired it in the sight and hearing of
those who had come so opportunely, but so unexpectedly,
to his relief. He recovered his composure and dignity;
forbore to smile at the story which might otherwise have
provoked not only smile but corresponding answer; and,
by the sudden coolness of his manner, tended to confirm in
Ned Hinkley's bosom the half formed hostility which the
cause of his cousin had originally taught him to feel.
“I'll lick the conceit out of him yet!” he muttered, as
Stevens, turning away, ascended to the spot where William
Hinkley stood.
“I owe you thanks, Mr. Hinkley,” he began.
The young man interrupted him.
“You owe me nothing, sir,” he answered hastily, and
prepared to turn away.
“You have saved my life, sir.”
-- 166 --
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
“I should have saved your dog's life, sir, in the same
situation. I have done but an act of duty.”
“But, Mr. Hinkley—”
“Your horse is ready for you, sir,” said the young
man, turning off abruptly, and darting up the sides of the
hill, remote from the pathway, and burying himself in the
contiguous forests.
“Strange!” exclaimed the neophyte; “this is very
strange!”
“Not so strange, stranger, as that I should stand your
groom, without being brought up to such a business for
any man. Here's your nag, sir.”
“I thank you. I would not willingly trespass;” he
replied, as he relieved our angler from his grasp upon the
bridle.
“You're welcome without the thanks, stranger. I
reckon you know the route you come. Up hill, follow the
track to the top, take the left turn to the valley, then you'll
see the houses, and can follow your own nose or your
nag's. Either's straight enough to carry you to his rack.
You'll find your clothes at your boarding-house about the
time that you'll get there.”
“Nay, sir, I already owe you much. Let them not
trouble you. I will take them myself.”
“No, no, stranger!” was the reply of our fisherman,
as he stooped down and busied himself in making the
garments into a compact bundle. “I'm not the man to
leave off without doing the thing I begin to do. I sometimes
do more than I bargain for—sometimes lick a man
soundly when I set out only to tweak his nose; but I
make it a sort of Christian law never to do less. You
may reckon to find your clothes home by the time you
get there. There's your road.”
“A regular pair of cubs!” muttered the horseman as he
ascended the hill.
“To purse up his mouth as if I was giving him root-drink,
when I was telling him about Mother Frey's spoiling
the fish. Let him take care—he may get the vinegar
next time and not the fish.”
And with these characteristic commentaries the parties
separated for the time.
-- 167 --
CHAPTER XVII.
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
“You're not a fighter, Bill Hinkley, and that's about
the worst fault that I can find against you.”
Such was the beginning of a dialogue between the
cousins some three days after the affair which was narrated
in our last chapter. The two young men were at the
house of the speaker, or rather at his mother's house;
where, a favourite and only son, he had almost supreme
dominion. He was putting his violin in tune, and the
sentences were spoken at intervals with the discordant
scrapes of sound which were necessarily elicited by this
unavoidable musical operation. These sounds might be
said to form a running accompaniment for the dialogue,
and, considering the sombre mood of the person addressed,
they were perhaps far more congenial than any more
euphonious strains would have been.
“Not a fighter!” said the other; “why, what do you
mean?”
“Why, just what I say,—you are not a fighter. You
love reading, and fiddling, and fishing sometimes, and sometimes
dancing, and hunting, and swimming; but I'm pretty
certain you don't love fighting. You needn't contradict,
Bill,—I've been thinking the matter over; and I'm sure of
it. I recollect every battle or scrape you ever were in,
from the time we went to old Chandler's, and I tell you,
you're not a fighter—you don't love fighting!”
This was concluded with a tremendous scrape over the
strings, which seemed to say as well as scrape could speak,—
“There can be no mistake on the subject,—I've said it.”
“If I knew exactly what you were driving at,” said the
other, “perhaps I might answer you. I never pretended
to be a fighter; and as for loving it, as I love eating, drinking,
books, fiddling and dancing, why that needs no
answer. Of course I do not, and I don't know who
does.”
“There it is. I told you. I knew it. You'd sooner
do almost any thing than fight.”
“If you mean that I would submit to insult,” said the
-- 168 --
[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
more peaceable cousin, with some displeasure in his tones
and countenance, “sooner than resent it, you are very
much mistaken. It wouldn't be advisable even for you to
try the experiment.”
“Poh, poh, Bill, you know for that matter that it
wouldn't take much trying. I'd lick you as easily now as
I did when we were boys together.”
“We are boys no longer,” said the other gravely.
“I'm as much a boy as ever, so far as the licking
capacity calls for boyhood. I've pretty much the same
spirit now that I had then, and ten times the same strength
and activity. But don't look so blue. I'm not going to
try my strength and spirit and activity on you. And don't
suppose, Bill Hinkley, that I mean to say you're any thing
of a coward, or that you'd submit to any open insult; but
still I do say you're not only not fond of fighting, but
you're just not as much inclined that way as you should
be.”
“Indeed! what more would you have? Do you not say
that I would not submit to insult?—that I show the proper
degree of courage in such cases?”
“Not the proper degree. That's the very question.
You're not quick enough. You wait for the first blow.
You don't step out to meet the enemy. You look for him
to come to you.”
“Surely! I look upon fighting as brutal—to be waited
for, not sought—to be resorted to only in compliance with
necessity—to be avoided to the last!”
“No such thing—all a mistake. Fighting and the
desire to get on the shoulders of our neighbours is a natural
passion. We see that every day. The biggest boy licks
the one just below him, he whips the next, and so down,
and there's not one that don't lick somebody and don't
stand licked himself,—for the master licks the biggest.
The desire to fight and flog is natural, and this being the
case, it stands to reason that we must lick our neighbour
or he'll be sure to lick us.”
“Pshaw! you speak like a boy yet. This is school-house
philosophy.”
“And very good philosophy too. I'm thinking the
schoolhouse and the play-ground is pretty much a sort of
world to itself. It's no bad show of what the world
-- 169 --
[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
without is; and one of its first lessons and that which I think
the truest, is the necessity of having a trial of strength
with every new-comer; until we learn where he's to stand
in the ranks, number one or number nothing. You see
there just the same passions, though perhaps on a small
scale, that we afterwards find to act upon the big world of
manhood. There, we fight for gingerbread, for marbles,
top and ball; not unfrequently because we venture to look
at our neighbour's sweetheart; and sometimes, quite as
often, for the love of the thing and to know where the
spirit and the sinew are. Well, isn't that just what the big
world does after us? As men, we fight for bigger play-things,
for pounds, where before we fought for pence,—
for gold where before we fought for coppers—for command
of a country instead of a schoolyard; for our wives
instead of sweethearts, and through their deviltry and the
love of the thing, when there's nothing else to fight about,
just the same as we did in boyhood.”
“But even were you to prove, and I to admit, that it is
so, just as you say, that would not prove the practice to
be a jot more proper or a jot less brutal.”
“Begging your pardon, Bill, it proves it to be right
and proper, and accordingly, if brutal, a becoming brutality.
If this is the natural disposition of boys and men,
don't you see that this schoolboy licking and fighting is
a necessary part of one's moral education? It learns one
to use his strength, his limbs and sinews, as he may be
compelled to use them, in self-defence, in every future day
of his life. You know very well what follows a boy at
school who doesn't show himself ready to bung up his
neighbour's eye the moment he sees it at a cross-twinkle.
He gets his own bunged up. Well, it's just the same
thing when he gets to be a man. If you have a dispute
with your enemy, I don't say that you shouldn't reason
with him, but I do say that your reasoning will have very
little effect upon him unless he sees that you are able and
willing to write it in black and blue upon his sheepskin.
And what better way could you find to show him that
unless by giving him word and blow, the blow first, as
being the most impressive argument?”
“You must have been dreaming of these subjects last
night,” said the grave cousin—“you seem to have them
unusually well cut and dried.”
-- 170 --
[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
“I haven't been dreaming about it, Bill, but I confess
I've been thinking about it very seriously all night, and
considering all the arguments that I thought you would
make use of against it. I haven't quite done with my discussion,
which I took up entirely for your benefit.”
“Indeed! you are quite philanthropic before breakfast;
but let us hear you?”
“You talk of the brutality of fighting—now in what
does that brutality consist? Is it not in breaking noses,
kicking shins, bunging up eyes, and making one's neighbour
feel uncomfortable in thigh, and back, and arms, and
face, and skin, and indeed, every where, where a big fist
or a cowhide shoe may plant a buffet or a bruise?”
“Quite a definition, Ned.”
“I'm glad you think so: for if it's brutal in the boy to
do so to his schoolmate, is it less so for the schoolmaster
to do the same thing to the boy that's under his charge?
He bruises my skin, makes my thighs, and arms, and
back, and legs, and face, and hands ache, and if my definition
be a correct one, he is quite as brutal as the boys who
do the same thing to one another.”
“He does it because the boys deserve it, and in order
to make them obedient and active.”
“And when did a boy not deserve a flogging when he
gets licked by his companion?” demanded the other triumphantly—
“and don't the licking make him obedient,
and don't the kicking make him active? By gemini, I've
seen more activity from one chap's legs under the quick
application of another's feet, than I think any thing else
could produce, unless it were feet made expressly for such
a purpose and worked by a steam-engine. That might
make them move something faster, but I reckon there
would be no need in such a case of any such improvement.”
“What are you driving at, Ned Hinkley? This is by
far the longest argument, I think, that you've ever undertaken.
You must be moved by some very serious considerations.”
“I am, and you'll see what I'm driving at after a little
while. I'm not fond of arguing, you know, but I look
upon the fighting principle as a matter to be known and
believed in, and I wish to make clear to you my reasons
for believing in it myself. You don't suppose I'd put
-- 171 --
[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]
down the fiddle for a talk at any time if the subject was
not a serious one?”
“Give way—you have the line.”
“About the brutality of fighting then, there's another
thing to be said. Fighting produces good feeling—that is
to say supposing one party fairly to have licked another.”
“Indeed,—that's new.”
“And true too, Bill Hinkley. It cures the sulks. It
lets off steam. It's like a thunderstorm that comes once
in a while, and drives away the clouds, and clears the
skies until all's blue again.”
“Black and blue!”
“No! what was black becomes blue. Chaps that have
been growling at each other for weeks and months lose
their bad blood—”
“From the nostrils!”
“Yes, from the nostrils. It's a sort of natural channel,
and runs freely from that quarter. The one crows and the
other runs and there's an end of the scrape and the sulks.
The weaker chap, feeling his weakness, ceases to be impudent;
the stronger, having his power acknowledged,
becomes the protector of the weak. Each party falls into
his place, and so far from the licking producing bad feeling
it produces good feeling and good humour; and I conclude
that one half of the trouble in the world, the squabbles
between man and man, woman and woman, boy and boy—
nay, between rival nations—is simply because your false
and foolish notions of brutality and philanthropy keep
them from coming to the scratch as soon as they should.
They hang off, growling and grumbling, and blackguarding,
and blaspheming, when, if they would only take hold,
and come to an earnest grapple, the odds would soon
show themselves,—broken heads and noses would follow—
the bad blood would run, and as soon as each party
found his level, the one being finally on his back, peace
would ensue, and there would be good humour for ever
after, or at least until the blood thickened again. I think
there's reason in my notion. I was thinking it over half
the night. I've thought of it oftentimes before. I've
never yet seen the argument that's strong enough to
tumble it.”
“Your views are certainly novel, Ned, if not sound.
-- 172 --
[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
You will excuse me if I do not undertake to dispute them
this morning. I give in therefore, and you may congratulate
yourself upon having gained a triumph if not a
convert?”
“Stop, stop, William Hinkley: you don't suppose I've
done all this talking only to make a convert or to gain a
triumph?”
“Why, that's your object in fighting, why not in
arguing?”
“Well, that's the object of most persons when they
dispute, I know; but it is not mine. I wish to make a
practical application of my doctrine.”
“Indeed! who do you mean to fight now?”
“It's not for me to fight, it's for you.”
“Me!”
“Yes; you have the preference by rights, though if you
don't—and I'm rather sorry to think, as I told you at the
start, that the only fault I had to find with you is that
you're not a fighter—I must take your place and settle the
difference.”
William Hinkley turned upon the speaker. The latter
had laid down the violin, having, in the course of the
argument, broken all its strings; and he stood now, unjacketted,
and still in the chamber, where the two young
men had been sleeping, almost in the attitude of one about
to grapple with an antagonist. The serious face of him
whose voice had been for war; his startling position,—
the unwonted eagerness of his eye, and the ludicrous
importance which he attached to the strange principle
which he had been asserting, conquered for a moment the
graver mood of his love-sick companion, and he laughed
outright at his pugnacious cousin. The latter seemed a
little offended.
“It's well you can laugh at such things, Bill Hinkley,
but I can't. There was a time when every mother's son
in Kentucky was a man, and could stand up to his rack
with the best. If he couldn't keep the top place, he went a
peg lower; but he made out to keep the place for which
he was intended. Then, if a man disliked his neighbour
he crossed over to him and said so, and they went at it
like men, and as soon as the pout was over they shook
hands, and stood side by side, and shoulder to shoulder,
-- 173 --
[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]
like true friends, in every danger, and never did fellows
fight better against Indians and British than the same two
men, that had lapped muscles, and rolled in the grain
together 'till you couldn't say whose was whose, and
which was which, till the best man jumped up, and shook
himself, and give the word to crow. After that it was all
peace and good humour, and they drank and danced
together, and it didn't lessen a man in his sweetheart's
eyes, though he was licked, if he could say he had stood
up like a man, and was downed after a good hug, because
he couldn't help it. Now, there's precious little of that. The
chap that dislikes his fellow, hasn't the soul to say it out,
but he goes aside and sneers and snickers, and he whispers
things that breed slanders, and scandals, and bad blood,
until there's no trusting any body; and every thing is full
of hate and enmity,—but then it's so peaceful! Peaceful,
indeed! as if there was any peace where there is no confidence,
and no love, and no good feeling either for one
thing or another.”
“Really, Ned, it seems to me you're indignant without
any occasion. I am tempted to laugh at you again.”
“No, don't. You'd better not.”
“Ha! ha! ha! I cannot help it, Ned; so don't buffet
me. You forced me into many a fight when I was a
boy, for which I had no stomach; I trust you will not
pummel me yourself because the world has grown so
hatefully pacific. Tell me, in plain terms, who I am to
fight now?”
“Who! who but Stevens?—this fellow Stevens. He's
your enemy, you say—comes between you and your sweetheart—
between you and your own mother—seems to look
down upon you—speaks to you as if he was wiser, and
better, and superior in every way—makes you sad and
sulky to your best friends—you growl and grumble at him—
you hate him—you fear him—”
“Fear him!”
“Yes, yes, I say fear him, for it's a sort of fear to skulk
off from your mother's house to avoid seeing him—”
“What, Ned, do you tell me that—do you begrudge me
a place with you here, my bed, my breakfast?”
“Begrudge! dang it, William Hinkley, don't tell me
that, unless you want me to lay heavy hand on your
-- 174 --
[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]
shoulder!”—and the tears gushed into the rough fellow's
eyes as he spoke these words, and he turned off to conceal
them.
“I don't mean to vex you, Ned, but why tell me that I
skulk,—that I fear this man?”
“Begrudge!” muttered the other.
“Nay, forgive me; I didn't mean it. I was hasty when
I said so; but you also said things to provoke me. Do
you suppose that I fear this man Stevens?”
“Why don't you lick him then, or let him lick you,
and bring the matter to an ending? Find out who's the
best man, and put an end to the growling and the groaning.
As it now stands you're not the same person—you're not
fit company for any man. You scarcely talk, you listen to
nobody. You won't fish, you won't hunt: you're sulky
yourself and you make other people so!”
“I'm afraid, Ned, it wouldn't much help the matter
even if I were to chastise the stranger.”
“It would cure him of his impudence. It would make
him know how to treat you; and if the rest of your
grievance comes from Margaret Cooper, there's a way to
end that too.”
“How! you wouldn't have me fight her?” said William
Hinkley, with an effort to smile.
“Why, we may call it fighting,” said the advocate for
such wholesale pugnacity, “since it calls for quite as much
courage sometimes to face one woman as it does to face
three men. But what I mean that you should do with her
is to up and at her. Put the downright question like a
man, `will you?' or `won't you?' and no more beating
about the bush. If she says `no!' there's no more to be
said, and if I was you after that, I'd let Stevens have her
or the d—l himself, since I'm of the notion that no
woman is fit for me if she thinks me not fit for her. Such
a woman can't be worth having, and after that I wouldn't
take her as a gracious gift were she to be made twice as
beautiful. The track's before you, William Hinkley.
Bring the stranger to the hug, and Margaret Cooper too, if
she'll let you. But, at all events, get over the grunting and
the growling, the sulky looks, and the sour moods. They
don't become a man who's got a man's heart, and the
sinews of a man.”
-- 175 --
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
William Hinkley leaned against the fireplace with his
head resting upon his hand. The other approached him.
“I don't mean to say any thing Bill, or even to
look any thing, that'll do you hurt. I'm for bringing
your trouble to a short cut. I've told you what I
think right and reasonable, and for no other man in
Kentucky would I have taken the pains to think out this
matter as I have done. But you or I must lick Stevens.”
“You forget, Ned. Your eagerness carries you astray.
Would you beat a man who offers no resistance?”
“Surely not.”
“Stevens is a non-combatant. If you were to slap
John Cross on one cheek he'd turn you the other. He'd
never strike you back.”
“John Cross and Stevens are two persons. I tell you
the stranger will fight. I'm sure of it. I've seen it in his
looks and actions.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do, I'm sure of it. But you must recollect besides,
that John Cross is a preacher, already sworn in as I may
say. Stevens is only a beginner. Besides, John Cross
is an old man, Stevens a young one. John Cross don't
care a straw about all the pretty girls in the country. He
works in the business of souls, not beauties, and it's very
clear that Stevens not only loves a pretty girl, but that he's
over head and heels in love with your Margaret—”
“Say no more. If he will fight, Ned Hinkley, he shall
fight!”
“Bravo, Bill—that's all that I was arguing for—that's
all that I want. But you must make at Margaret Cooper
also.”
“Ah! Ned, there I confess my fears.”
“Why, what are you afraid of?”
“Rejection!”
“Is that worse than this suspense—this anxiety—this
looking out from morning till night for the sunshine, and
this constant apprehension of the cloud—this knowing not
what to be about—this sulking—this sadding—this growling—
this grunting—this muling—this moping—this eternal
vinegar face and ditchwater spirit?”
“I don't know, Ned, but I confess my weakness—my
want of courage in this respect!”
-- 176 --
[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
“Psho! the bark's worse always than the bite. The
fear worse than the danger! Did you ever hear of the
Scotch parson's charity? He prayed that God might suspend
Napoleon over the very jaws of hell,—but `Oh!
Lord!' said he, `dinna let him fa' in!' To my mind,
mortal lips never uttered a more malignant prayer!”
CHAPTER XVIII.
This dialogue was broken by a summons to the breakfast
table. We have already intimated that while the
hateful person of Stevens was an inmate of his own house,
William Hinkley remained, the better portion of his time,
at that of his cousin. It was not merely that Stevens was
hateful to his sight, but such was the devotion of his father
and mother to that adventurer, that the young man passed
with little notice from either, or if he incurred their attention
at all, it was only to receive their rebuke. He had not
been able to disguise from them his dislike to Stevens.
This dislike showed itself in many ways—in coldness,
distance, silence,—a reluctance to accord the necessary
civilities, and in very unequivocal glances of hostility from
the eyes of the jealous young villager. Such offences
against good-breeding were considered by them as so many
offences against God himself, shown to one who was about
to profess his ministry; and being prepared to see in Brother
Stevens an object of worth and veneration only, they
lacked necessarily all that keenness of discrimination which
might have helped somewhat to qualify the improprieties of
which they believed their son to be guilty. Of his causes
of jealousy they had not suspicion, and they shared none of
his antipathies. He was subject to the daily lecture from
the old man, and the nightly exhortation and expostulation
of the old woman. The latter did her spiriting gently.
The former roared and thundered. The mother implored
and kissed—the father denounced and threatened. The
one, amidst the faults of her son which she reproved, could
see his virtues; she could also see that he was suffering—
she knew not why—as well as sinning;—the other could
-- 177 --
[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
only see an insolent, disobedient boy who was taking airs
upon himself, flying in the face of his parents, and doomed
to perish like the sons of Eli, unless by proving himself a
better manager than Eli, he addressed himself in time to
the breaking in of the unruly spirit whose offences promised
to be so heinous. It was not merely from the hateful sight
of his rival, or the monotonous expostulation of his mother,
that the poor youth fled; it was sometimes to escape the
heavily chastening hand of his bigotted father.
These things worked keenly and constantly in the mind
of William Hinkley. They acquired additional powers of
ferment from the coldness of Margaret Cooper, and from
the goadings of his cousin. Naturally one of the gentlest
of creatures, the young man was not deficient in spirit.
What seemed to his more rude and elastic relative a token
of imbecility, was nothing more than the softening influence
of his reflective and mental over his physical powers.
These, under the excitement of his blood were
necessarily made subject to his animal impulses, and when
he left the house that morning, with his Blackstone under
his arm, on his way to the peaceful cottage of old Calvert,
where he pursued his studies, his mind was in a perfect
state of abeyance, or at least of chaos. Of the chapter
which he had striven to compass the previous night, in
which the rights of persons are discussed with the usual
clearness of style, but the usual onesidedness of judgment,
of that smooth old monarchist, William Hinkley scarcely
remembered a solitary syllable. He had read only with
his eyes. His mind had kept no pace with his proceedings,
and though he strove as he went along to recall the
heads of topics, the points and principles of what he had
been reading, his efforts at reflection, by insensible but
sudden transitions, invariably concluded with some image
of strife and commotion, in which he was one of the parties
and Alfred Stevens another; the beautiful, proud face of
Margaret Cooper being always unaccountably present, and
seeming to countenance, with its scornful smiles, the spirit
of strife which operated upon the combatants.
This mood had the most decided effect upon his appearance;
and the good old man, Calvert, whose attention had
been already drawn to the appearance of distress and suffering
which he manifested, was now more than ever
struck with the seemingly sudden increase of this
-- 178 --
[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
expression upon his face. It was Saturday,—the saturnalia of
schoolboys—and a day of rest to the venerable teacher.
He was seated before his door, under the shadows of his
paternal oak, once more forgetting the baffled aims and
profitless toils of his own youthful ambition, in the fascinating
pages of that historical romancer the stout Abbé
Vertôt. But a glance at the youth soon withdrew his
mind from this contemplation, and the sombre pages of the
present opened upon his eye, and the doubtful ones of the
future became, on the instant, those which he most desired
to peruse. The study of the young is always a study of
the past with the old. They seem, in such a contemplation,
to live over the records of memory. They feel as
one just returning from a long and weary journey, who
encounters another, freshly starting to traverse the same
weary but inviting track. Something in the character of
William Hinkley, which seemed to resemble his own,
made this feeling yet more active in the mind of Mr.
Calvert; and his earnest desire was to help the youth
forward on the path which, he soon perceived, it was
destined that the other should finally take. He was not
satisfied with the indecision of character which the youth
displayed. But how could he blame it harshly? It was in
this very respect that his own character had failed, and
though he felt that all his counsels were to be addressed to
this point, yet he knew not where, or in what manner, to
begin. The volume of Blackstone which the youth carried
suggested to him a course, however. He bade the young
man bring out a chair, and taking the book in his hand, he
proceeded to examine him upon parts of the volume which
he professed to have been reading. This examination, as
it had the effect of compelling the mind of the student to
contract itself to a single subject of thought, necessarily
had the farther effect of clearing it somewhat from the
chaos of clouds which had been brooding over it, obscuring
the light, and defeating the warmth of the intellectual sun
behind them; and if the examination proved the youth to
have been very little of a student, or one who had been
reading with a vacant mind, it also proved that the original
powers of his intellect were vigorous and various,—that he
had an analytical capacity of considerable compass; was
bold in opinion, ingenious in solution, and with a tendency
to metaphysical speculation, which, modified by the active
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
wants and duties of a large city-practice, would have made
him a subtle lawyer and a very logical debater. But the
blush kept heightening on the youth's cheeks as the examination
proceeded. He had answered, but he felt all the
while how much his answer had sprung from his own
conjectures and how little from his authorities. The examination
convinced him that the book had been so much
waste paper under his thumb. When it was ended the
old man closed the volume, laid it on the sward beside
him, and looked, with a mingled expression of interest and
commiseration, on his face. William Hinkley noted this
expression, and spoke, with a degree of mortification in
look and accent, which he did not attempt to hide.
“I am afraid, sir, you will make nothing of me. I can
make nothing of myself. I am almost inclined to give up
in despair. I will be nothing. I can be nothing. I feared
as much from the beginning, sir. You only waste your
time on me.”
“You speak too fast, William—you let your blood
mingle too much with your thoughts. Let me ask you
one question. How long will you be content to live as
you do now—seeking nothing, performing nothing—being
nothing?”
The youth was silent.
“I, you see, am nothing,” continued the old man—
“nay, do not interrupt me. You will tell me as you have
already told me, that I am much, and have done much here
in Charlemont. But for all that I am, and have done here,
I need not have gone beyond my accidence. My time has
been wasted—my labours, considered as means to ends,
were unnecessary—I have toiled without the expected
profits of toil—I have drawn water in a sieve. It is not
pleasant for me to recall these things, much less to speak
of them; but it is for your good that I told you my story.
You have, as I had, certain defects of character—not the
same exactly, but of the same family complexion. To be
something you must be resolved. You must devote yourself,
heart and mind, with all your soul and with all your
strength, to the business you have undertaken:—shut your
windows against the sunshine—your ears to the song of
birds, your heart against the fascinations of beauty; and if
you never think of the last until you are thirty, you will
be then a better judge of beauty, a truer lover, a better
-- 180 --
[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]
husband, a more certain candidate for happiness. Let me
assure you that of the hundred men that take wives before
they are thirty, there is scarcely one who, in his secret
soul does not repent it—scarcely one who does not look
back with yearning to the days when he was free!”
There was a pause. The young man became very
much agitated. He rose from his chair, walked apart for
a few moments, and then, returning, resumed his seat by
the old man.
“I believe you are right, sir—nay, I know you are; but
I cannot be at once—I cannot promise—to be all that you
wish. If Margaret Cooper would consent, I would marry
her to-morrow.”
The old man shook his head but remained silent. The
young one proceeded.
“One thing I will say, however, I will take to my studies
after this week, whatever befalls, with the hearty
resolution which you recommend. I will try to shut
out the sunshine and the song. I will endeavour to devote
soul and strength, and heart and mind, to the task before
me. I know that I could master these studies—I think I
can,”—he continued more modestly, modifying the positive
assertion—“and I know that it is equally my interest
and duty to do so. I thank you, sir, very much for what
you have told me. Believe me, it has not fallen upon
heedless or disrespectful ears.”
The old man pressed his hand.
“I know that, my son, and I rejoice to think that, having
given me these assurances, you will strive hard to
make them good.”
“I will, sir!” replied William, taking up his cap to
depart.
“But whither are you going now?”
The youth blushed as he replied frankly—
“To the widow Cooper's. I'm going to see Margaret.”
“Well, well!” said the old man as the youth disappeared—
“if it must be done, the sooner it's over the better.
But there's another moth to the flame. Fortunately,
he will be singed only; but she!—What is left for her?
So proud, yet so confiding. So confident of strength, yet
so artless! But it is useless to look beyond, and very
dismal.”
And the speaker once more took up Vertôt and was
-- 181 --
[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
soon lost amid the glories of the Knights of St. John. His
studies were interrupted by the sudden and boisterous
salutation of Ned Hinkley.
“Well, gran'pa, hard at the big book as usual. No end
to the fun of fighting, eh! I confess, if ever I get to love
reading, it'll be in some such book as that. But reading's
not natural to me, though you made me do enough of it
while you had me. Bill was the boy for the books, and I
for the hooks. By the way, talking of hooks, how did
those trout eat? Fine, eh! I haven't seen you since the
day of our ducking.”
“No, Ned, and I've been looking for you. Where
have you been?”
“Working, working! Every thing's been going wrong.
Lines snapt, fiddle strings cracked, hooks missing, gun
rusty, and Bill Hinkley so sulky that his frown made a
shadow on the wall as large and ugly as a buffalo's. But
where is he? I came to find him here?”
While he was speaking the lively youth squatted down,
and deliberately took his seat on the favourite volume
which Mr. Calvert had laid upon the sward at his approach.
“Take the chair, Ned;” said the old man with a smaller
degree of kindness in his tone than was habitual with
him. “Take the chair. Books are sacred things; to be
worshipped and studied, not employed as footstools.”
“Why, what's the hurt, gran'pa?” demanded the young
man, though he rose and did as he was bidden. “If't was
a fiddle now, there would be some danger of a crash, but
a big book like that seems naturally made to sit upon.”
The old man answered him mildly.
“I have learned to venerate books, Ned, and can no
more bear to see them abused than I could bear to be
abused myself. It seems to me like treating their writers
and their subjects with scorn. If you were to contemplate
the venerable heads of the old knights with my eyes
and feelings, you would see why I wish to guard them
from every thing like disrespect.”
“Well, I beg their pardon—a thousand pardons—I
meant no offence, gran'pa—and can't help thinking that
it's all a notion of yours, your reverencing such old Turks
and Spaniards that have been dead a thousand years.
They were very good people, no doubt, but I'm thinking
-- 182 --
[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
they've served their turn; and I see no more harm in
squatting upon their histories, than in walking over their
graves, which if I were in their country of Jericho—that
was where they lived, gran'pa, wa'n't it?—I should be
very apt to do without asking leave, I tell you.”
Ned Hinkley purposely perverted his geography and
history. There was a spice of mischief in his composition,
and he grinned good-naturedly as he watched the increasing
gravity upon the old man's face.
“Come, come, gran'pa, don't be angry. You know
my fun is a sort of fizz—there's nothing but a flash—nothing
to hurt—no shotting. But where's Bill Hinkley,
gran'pa?”
“Gone to the widow Cooper's to see Margaret.”
“Ah! well, I'm glad he's made a beginning. But I'd
much rather he'd have seen the other first.”
“What other do you mean?” demanded the old man;
but the speaker, though sufficiently random and reckless
in what he said, saw the impolicy of allowing the purpose
of his cousin in regard to Stevens to be understood. He
continued to throw the inquirer off.
“Gran'pa, do you know there's something in this fellow
Stevens that don't altogether please me? I'm not
satisfied with him.”
“Ah! indeed! what do you see to find fault with?”
“Well, you see, he comes here pretending to study.
Now, in the first place, why should he come here to
study? why didn't he stay at home with his friends and
parents?”
“Perhaps he had neither. Perhaps he had no home.
You might as well ask me why I came here, and settled
down, where I was not born, where I had neither friends
nor parents.”
“Oh, no! but you told us why,” said the other. “You
gave us a reason for what you did.”
“And why may not the stranger give a reason too?”
“He don't though.”
“Perhaps he will when you get intimate with him. I
see nothing in this to be dissatisfied with. I had not
thought you so suspicious, Ned Hinkley—so little charitable.”
“Charity begins at home, gran'pa. But there's more
-- 183 --
[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
in this matter. This man comes here to study to be a
parson. How does he study? Can you guess?”
“I really cannot.”
“By dressing spruce as a buck—curling his hair backwards
over his ears something like a girl's, and going out,
morning, noon, and night, to see Margaret Cooper.”
“As there is no good reason to suppose that a student
of divinity is entirely without the affections of humanity,
I still see nothing inconsistent with his profession in this
conduct.”
“But how can he study?”
“Ah! it may be inconsistent with his studies though
not with his profession. It is human without being altogether
proper. You see that your cousin neglects his
studies in the same manner. I presume that the stranger
also loves Miss Cooper.”
“But he has no such right as Bill Hinkley.”
“Why not?”
“Why not! Why, Bill is a native here, has been loving
her for the last year or more. His right certainly ought
to be much greater than that of a man whom nobody
knows—who may be the man in the moon for any thing
we know to the contrary—just dropped in upon us, nobody
knows how, to do nobody knows what.”
“All that may be very true, Ned, and yet his right to
seek Miss Cooper may be just as good as that of yourself
or mine. You forget that it all depends upon the young
lady herself whether either of them is to have a right at all
in her concerns.”
“Well, that's a subject we needn't dispute about, gran'pa,
when there's other things. Now, isn't it strange that this
stranger should ride off once a week with his valise on his
saddle, just as if he was starting on a journey—should be
gone half a day—then come back with his nag all in a
foam, and after that you should see him in some new cravat,
or waistcoat, or pantaloons, just as if he had gone
home and got a change?”
“And does he do that?” inquired Mr. Calvert, with
some show of curiosity.
“That he does, and he always takes the same direction;
and it seems—so Aunt Sarah herself says, though she
thinks him a small sort of divinity on earth—that the day
before, he's busy writing letters, and, according to her
-- 184 --
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
account, pretty long letters too. Well, nobody sees that he
ever gets any letters in return. He never asks at the post-office,
so Jacob Zandts himself tells me, and that's strange
enough, too, if so be he has any friends or relations any
where else.”
Mr. Calvert listened with interest to these and other
particulars which his young companion had gathered respecting
the habits of the stranger; and he concurred with
his informant in the opinion that there was something in
his proceedings which was curious and perhaps mysterious.
Still, he did not think it advisable to encourage the
prying and suspicious disposition of the youth, and spoke
to this effect in the reply which finally dismissed the subject.
Ned Hinkley was silenced not satisfied.
“There's something wrong about it,” he muttered to
himself on leaving the old man, “and, by dickens! I'll get
to the bottom of it, or there's no taste in Salt-river. The
fellow's a rascal; I feel it if I don't know it, and if Bill
Hinkley don't pay him off, I must. One or t'other must
do it, that's certain.”
With these reflections, which seemed to him to be no
less moral than social, the young man took his way back
to the village, labouring with all the incoherence of unaccustomed
thought, to strike out some process by which to
find a solution for those mysteries which were supposed
to characterize the conduct of the stranger. He had just
turned out of the gorge leading from Calvert's house into
the settlement, when he encountered the person to whom
his meditations were given, on horseback, and going at a
moderate gallop along the high-road to the country. Stevens
bowed to him and drew up for speech as he drew
nigh. At first Ned Hinkley appeared disposed to avoid
him, but moved by a sudden notion, he stopped and suffered
himself to speak with something more of civility
than he had hitherto shown to the same suspected personage.
“Why, you're not going to travel, Parson Stevens,”
said he—“you're not going to leave us, are you?”
“No, sir—I only wish to give myself and horse a
stretch of a few miles for the sake of health. Too much
stable, they say, makes a saucy nag.”
“So it does, and I may say, a saucy man too. But
seeing you with your valise, I thought you were off for
good.”
-- 185 --
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
Stevens said something about his being so accustomed
to ride with the valise that he carried it without thinking.
“I scarcely knew I had it on!”
“That's a lie all round;” said Ned Hinkley to himself
as the other rode off. “Now, if I was mounted, I'd ride
after him and see where he goes and what he's after.
What's to hinder? It's but a step to the stable and but five
minutes to the saddle. Dang it, but I'll take trail this time
if I never did before.”
CHAPTER XIX.
With this determination our suspicious youth made
rapid progress in getting out his horse. A few minutes
saw him mounted, and putting some of his resolution into
his heels, he sent the animal forward at a killing start,
under the keen infliction of the spur. He had marked
with his eye the general course which Stevens had taken
up the hills, and having a nag of equal speed and bottom,
did not scruple, in the great desire which he felt, to ascertain
the secret of the stranger, to make him display the
qualities of both from the very jump. Stevens had been
riding with a free rein, but in consequence of these energetic
measures on the part of Hinkley, the latter soon succeeded
in overhauling him. Still he had already gone a
space of five miles, and this too in one direction. He
looked back when he found himself pursued, and his countenance
very clearly expressed the chagrin which he felt.
This he strove, but with very indifferent success, to hide
from the keen searching eyes of his pursuer. He drew
up to wait his coming, and there was a dash of bitterness
in his tones as he expressed his “gratification at finding a
companion where he least expected one.”
“And perhaps, parson, when you didn't altogether
wish for one,” was the reply of the reckless fellow. “The
truth is, I know I'm not the sort of company that a wise,
sensible, learned and pious young gentleman would like to
keep, but the truth is what you said about taking a stretch,
man and beast, seemed to me to be just about as wise a
-- 186 --
[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]
thing for me and my beast also. We've been lying by so
long that I was getting stiff in my joints, and Flipflap,
my nag here, was getting stiff in his neck, as they
say was the case with the Jews in old times, so I took
your idea and put after you, thinking that you'd agree with
me that bad company's far better than none.”
There was a mixture of simplicity and archness in the
manner of the speaker that put Stevens somewhat at fault;
but he felt sure it wouldn't do to show the dudgeon which
he really felt; and smoothing his quills with as little obvious
effort as possible, he expressed his pleasure at the
coming of his companion. While doing so, he wheeled
his horse about, and signified a determination to return.
“What! so soon? Why, Lord bless you, Flipflap has
scarcely got in motion yet. If such as stir will do for your
nag 'twont do for him.”
But Stevens doggedly kept his horse's head along the
back track, though the animal himself exhibited no small
restiveness and a disposition to go forward.
“Well, really, Parson Stevens, I take it as unkind that
you turn back almost the very moment I join you. I seem to
have scared ride out of you if not out of your creature; but
do as you please. I'll ride on, now I'm out. I don't want
to force myself on any man for company.
Stevens disclaimed any feeling of this sort, but declared
he had ridden quite as far as he intended; and while he
hesitated, Hinkley cut the matter short by putting spurs to
his steed, and going out of sight in a moment.
“What can the cur mean?” demanded Stevens of himself,
the moment after they had separated. “Can he have
any suspicions? Ha! I must be watchful! At all events,
there's no going forward to day. I must put it off for next
week; and mean while have all my eyes about me. The
fellow seems to have as much cunning as simplicity. He
is disposed too to be insolent. I marked his manner at the
lake, as well as that of his dull-headed cousin; but that
sousing put anger out of me, and then again 'twill scarcely
do in these good days for such holy men as myself to take
up cudgels. I must bear it for awhile as quietly as possible.
It will not be long. She at least is supicionless. Never
did creature so happily delude herself. Yet what a judgment
in some things! What keen discrimination! What
a wild, governless imagination! She would be a prize,
-- 187 --
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
if it were only to exhibit. How she would startle the dull,
insipid, tea-table simperers on our Helicon,—nay, with
what scorn she would traverse the Helicon itself. The devil
is that she would have a will in spite of her keeper. Such
an animal is never tamed. There could be no prescribing
to her the time when she should roar—no teaching her to
fawn and fondle, and not to rend. Soul, and eye, and tongue
would speak under the one impulse, in the exciting moment;
and when Mrs. Singalongohnay was squeaking out
her eternal requiems,—her new versions of the Psalms and
Scriptures—her blank elogies—oh! how blank!—beginning,
`Night was upon the hills,'—or, `The evening
veil hung low,' or, `It slept,'—or after some other
equally threatening form and fashion. I can fancy how
the bright eye of Margaret would gleam with scorn, and
while the Pollies and Dollies, the Patties and Jennies,
the Corydons and Jemmy Jessamies, all round were
throwing up hands and eyes in a sort of diluted rapture,
how she would look, with what equal surprise and contempt,
doubting her own ears, and sickening at the stuff
and the strange sycophancy which induced it. And should
good old Singalongohnay, with a natural and patronizing
visage, approach, and venture to talk to her about poetry,
with that assured smile of self-excellence which such a
venerable authority naturally employs, how she would
turn upon the dame and exclaim—`What! do you call
that poetry?' What a concussion would follow. How
the simperers would sheer off;—the tea that night might
as well be made of aqua fortis. Ha! ha! I can fancy the
scene before me. Nothing could be more rich. I must
give her a glimpse of such a scene. It will be a very
good mode of operation. Her pride and vanity will do
the rest. I have only to intimate the future sway—the
exclusive sovereignty which would follow—the overthrow
of the ancient idols, and the setting up of a true divinity
in herself. But shall it be so, Master Stevens? Verily,
that will be seen hereafter. Enough, if the delusion takes.
If I can delude the woman through the muse, I am satisfied.
The muse after that may dispose of the woman as
she pleases.”
Such was a portion of the soliloquy of the libertine as he
rode slowly back to Charlemont. His farther musings we
need not pursue at present. It is enough to say that they
-- 188 --
[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
were of the same family character. He returned to his
room as soon as he reached his lodging-house, and drawing
from his pocket a bundle of letters which he had intended
putting in the post-office at Ellisland, he carefully
locked them up in the portable writing-desk which he
kept at the bottom of his valise. When the devout Mrs.
Hinkley tapped at his door to summon him to dinner, the
meritorious young man was to be seen, seated at his table,
with the massive Bible of the family conspicuously open
before him. Good young man! never did he invoke a
blessing on the meats with more holy unction than on that
very day.
Meanwhile, let us resume our progress with William
Hinkley, and inquire in what manner his wooing sped
with the woman whom he so unwisely loved. We have
seen him leaving the cottage of Mr. Calvert with the
avowed purpose of seeking her for a final answer. A purpose
from which the old man did not seek to dissuade him,
though he readily conceived its fruitlessness. It was with
no composed spirit that the young rustic felt himself approaching
the house of Mrs. Cooper. More than once he
hesitated and even halted. But a feeling of shame, and the
efforts of returning manliness re-resolved him, and he
hurried with an unwonted rapidity of movement towards the
dwelling, as if he distrusted his own power, unless he did
so, to conclude the labour he had begun. He gathered
some courage when he found that Margaret was from
home. She had gone on her usual rambles. Mrs. Cooper
pointed out the course which she had taken, and the young
man set off in pursuit. The walks of the maiden were of
course well known to a lover so devoted. He had sought
and followed her a thousand times, and the general direction
which she had gone, once known, his progress was as
direct as his discoveries were certain. The heart of the
youth dilated with better hopes as he felt himself traversing
the old familiar paths. It seemed to him that the fates
could scarcely be adverse in a region which had always
been so friendly. Often had he escorted her along this
very route, when their spirits better harmonized,—when,
more of the girl struggling into womanhood, the mind of
Margaret Cooper, ignorant of its own resources and unconscious
of its maturer desires, was more gentle, and
could rejoice in that companionship for which she now
-- 189 --
[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]
betrayed so little desire. The sheltered paths, the well
known trees, even the little clumps of shrubbery that filled
up the intervals, were too pleasant and familiar to his eye
not to seem favourable to his progress, and with a hope
that had no foundation save in the warm and descriptive
colours of a young heart's fancy, William Hinkley pursued
the route which led him to one of the most lovely
and love-haunted glades in all Kentucky. So sweet a
hush never hallowed the Sabbath rest of any forest. The
very murmur of a dowsy zephyr among the leaves was of
slumberous tendency; and silence prevailed, with the least
possible exertion of her authority, over the long narrow
dell through which the maiden had gone wandering. At
the foot of a long slope, to which his eye was conducted
by a natural and lovely vista, the youth beheld the object
of his search, seated, motionless, with her back towards
him. The reach of light was bounded by her figure,
which was seated on the decaying trunk of a fallen tree.
She was deeply wrapped in thought, for she did not observe
his approach, and when his voice reached her ears,
and she started and looked round, her eyes were full of
tears. These she hastily brushed away, and met the
young man with a degree of composure which well might
have put the blush upon his cheek, for the want of it.
“In tears!—weeping, Margaret?” was the first address
of the lover who necessarily felt shocked at what he saw.
“They were secret tears, sir—not meant for other eyes,”
was the reproachful reply.
“Ah, Margaret! but why should you have secret tears,
when you might have sympathy—why should you have
tears at all? You have no sorrows.”
“Sympathy!” was the exclamation of the maiden, while
a scornful smile gleamed from her eyes; “whose sympathy,
I pray?”
The young man hesitated to answer. The expression
of her eye discouraged him. He dreaded lest, in offering
his sympathies, he should extort from her lips a more
direct intimation of that scorn which he feared. He chose
a middle course.
“But that you should have sorrows, Margaret, seems
very strange to me. You are young and hearty; endowed
beyond most of your sex, and with a beauty which cannot
be too much admired. Your mother is hearty and
-- 190 --
[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]
happy, and for years you have had no loss of relations
to deplore. I see not why you should have sorrows.”
“It is very likely, William Hinkley, that you do not
see. The ordinary sorrows of mankind arise from the
loss of wives and cattle, children and property. There
are sorrows of another kind; sorrows of the soul; the
consciousness of denial; of strife—strife to be continued—
strife without victory—baffled hopes—defeated aims and
energies. These are sorrows which are not often computed
in the general account. It is highly probable that
none of them afflict you. You have your parents, and
very good people they are. You yourself are no doubt a
very good young man—so every body says—and you
have health and strength. Besides, you have property,
much more, I am told, than falls to the lot ordinarily of
young people in this country. These are reasons why
you should not feel any sorrow; but were all these mine
and a great deal more, I'm afraid it would not make me
any more contented. You, perhaps, will not understand
this, William Hinkley, but I assure you that such nevertheless
is my perfect conviction.”
“Yes, I can, and do understand it, Margaret,” said the
young man, with flushed cheek and a very tremulous voice,
as he listened to language which, though not intended to
be contemptuous, was yet distinctly coloured by that
scornful estimate which the maiden had long since made
of the young man's abilities. In this respect she had done
injustice to his mind, which had been kept in subjection
and deprived of its ordinary strength and courage, by the
enfeebling fondness of his heart.
“Yes, Margaret,” he continued, “I can, and do understand
it, and I too have my sorrows of this very sort. Do
not smile, Margaret, but hear me patiently, and believe,
that, whatever may be the error which I commit, I have
no purpose to offend you in what I say or do. Perhaps,
we are both of us quite too young to speak of the sorrows
which arise from defeated hopes, or baffled energies, or
denial of our rights and claims. The yearnings and apprehensions
which we are apt to feel on this subject are
not to be counted as sorrows, or confounded with them.
I had a conversation on this very subject, only a few days
ago, with old Mr. Calvert, and this was his very opinion.”
The frankness with which William Hinkley declared
-- 191 --
[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
the source of his opinions, though creditable to his sincerity,
was scarcely politic—it served to confirm Margaret
Cooper in the humble estimate which she had formed of
the speaker.
“Mr. Calvert,” said she, “is a very sensible old man,
but neither him nor you can enter into the heart of another
and say what shall, or what shall not be its source
of trouble. It is enough, William Hinkley, that I have
my cares—at least I fancy that I have them—and though
I am very grateful for your sympathies, I do not know
that they can do me any good, and, though I thank you,
I must yet decline them.”
“Oh, do not say so, Margaret—dear Margaret—it is to
proffer them that I seek you now. You know how long
I have sought you, and loved you: you cannot know how
dear you are to my eyes, how necessary to my happiness!
Do not repulse me—do not speak quickly. What I am,
and what I have, is yours. We have grown up together;
I have known no other hope, no other love, but that for
you. Look not upon me with that scornful glance—hear
me—I implore you—on my knee, dear Margaret. I implore
you as for life—for something more dear than life—
that which will make life precious—which may make it
valuable. Be mine, dear Margaret—”
“Rise, William Hinkley, and do not forget yourself!”
was the stern, almost deliberate answer of the maiden.
“Do not, I pray you, do not speak in those tones, dear
Margaret—do not look on me with those eyes. Remember
before you speak, that the dearest hope of a devoted heart
hangs upon your lips.”
“And what have you seen in me, or what does your
vain conceit behold in yourself, William Hinkley, to make
you entertain a hope?”
“The meanest creature has it.”
“Ay, but only of creatures like itself.”
“Margaret!” exclaimed the lover starting to his feet.
“Ay, sir, I say it. If the meanest creature has its hope.
it relates to a creature like itself—endowed with its own
nature and fed with like sympathies. But you—what
should make you hope of me? Have I not long avoided
you, discouraged you? I would have spared you the pain
of this moment by escaping it myself. You haunt my
steps—you pursue me—you annoy me with attentions
-- 192 --
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
which I dare not receive for fear of encouraging you, and
in spite of all this, which every body in the village must
have seen but yourself, you still press yourself upon me.”
“Margaret Cooper, be not so proud!”
“I am what I am! I know that I am proud—vain,
perhaps, and having little to justify either pride or vanity;
but to you, William Hinkley, as an act of justice, I must
speak what I feel—what is the truth. I am sorry, from
my very soul, that you love me, for I can have no feeling
for you in return. I do not dislike you, but you have so
oppressed me that I would prefer not to see you. We
have no feelings in common. You can give me no sympathies.
My soul, my heart, my hope—every desire of
my mind, every impulse of my heart, leads me away from
you—from all that you can give—from all that you can
relish. To you it would suffice, if all your life could be
spent here in Charlemont—to me it would be death to
think that any such doom hung over me. From this one
sentiment judge of the rest, and know, for good and all,
that I can never feel for you other than I feel now. I cannot
love you, nor can the knowledge that you love me,
give me any but a feeling of pain and mortification.”
William Hinkley had risen to his feet. His form had
put on an unusual erectness. His eye had gradually become
composed; and now it wore an expression of firmness
almost amounting to defiance. He heard her with
only an occasional quiver of the muscles about his mouth.
The flush of shame and pride was still red upon his cheek.
When she had finished, he spoke to her in tones of more
dignity than had hitherto marked his speech.
“Margaret Cooper, you have at least chosen the plainest
language to declare a cruel truth.”
The cheek of the girl become suddenly flushed.
“Do you suppose,” she said, “that I found pleasure in
giving you pain? No! William Hinkley, I am sorry for
you! But this truth, which you call cruel, was shown to
you repeatedly before. Any man but yourself would have
seen it, and saved me the pain of its frequent repetition.
You alone refused to understand, until it was rendered
cruel. It was only by the plainest language that you could
be made to believe a truth that you either would not or
could not otherwise be persuaded to hear. If cold looks,
reserved answers, and a determined rejection of all
-- 193 --
[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
familiarity could have availed, you would never have heard
from my lips a solitary word which could have brought
you mortification. You would have seen my feelings in
my conduct, and would have spared your own that pain,
which I religiously strove to save them.”
“I have, indeed, been blind and deaf!” said the young
man; “but you have opened my eyes and ears, Margaret,
so that I am fully cured of these infirmities. If your purpose,
in this plain mode of speech, be such as you have
declared it, then I must thank you; though it is very much
as one would thank the dagger that puts him out of his
pain by putting him out of life.”
There was so much of subdued feeling in this address—
the more intense in its effect, from the obvious restraint
put upon it, that the heart of the maiden was touched.
The dignified bearing of the young man, also—so different
from that which marked his deportment hitherto—was not
without its effect.
“I assure you, William Hinkley, that such alone was
my motive for what else would seem a most wanton
harshness. I would not be harsh to you or to any body;
and with my firm rejection of your proffer, I give you my
regrets that you ever made it. It gives me no pleasure
that you should make it. If I am vain, my vanity is not
flattered or quickened by a tribute which I cannot accept;
and if you never had my sympathy before, William Hinkley,
I freely give it now. Once more I tell you, I am
sorry, from the bottom of my heart, that you ever felt for
me a passion which I cannot requite, and that you did not
stifle it from the beginning; as, Heaven knows, my bearing
toward you, for a whole year, seemed to me to convey
sufficient warning.”
“It should have done so! I can now very easily understand
it, Margaret. Indeed, Mr. Calvert and others
told me the same thing. But as I have said, I was blind
and deaf. Once more, I thank you, Margaret,—it is a
bitter medicine which you have given me, but I trust a
wholesome one.”
He caught her hand and pressed it in his own. She
did not resist or withdraw it, and, after the retention of an
instant only, he released it, and was about to turn away.
A big tear was gathering in his eye, and he strove to conceal
it. Margaret averted her head, and was about to
-- 194 --
[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
move forward in an opposite direction, when the voice of
the young man arrested her:—
“Stay, but a few moments more, Margaret. Perhaps
we shall never meet again—certainly not in a conference
like this. I may have no other opportunity to say that
which, in justice to you, should be spoken. Will you
listen to me, patiently?”
“Speak boldly, William Hinkley. It was the subject of
which you spoke heretofore which I shrunk from rather
than the speaker.”
“I know not,” said he, “whether the subject of which
I propose to speak now will be any more agreeable than
that of which we have spoken. At all events, my purpose
is your good, and I shall speak unreservedly. You have
refused the prayer of one heart, Margaret, which, if unworthy
of yours, was yet honestly and fervently devoted to
it. Let me warn you to look well when you do choose,
lest you fall into the snares of one, who with more talent
may be less devoted, and with more claims to admiration,
may be far less honest in his purpose.”
“What mean you, sir?” she demanded hurriedly, with
an increasing glow upon her face.
“This stranger—this man, Stevens!”
“What of him? What do you know of the stranger
that you should give me this warning?”
“What does any body know of him? Whence does he
come,—whither would he go? What brings him here to
this lonely village?—”
A proud smile which curled the lips of Margaret Cooper
arrested the speech of the youth. It seemed to say, very
distinctly, that she, at least, could very well conjecture
what brought the stranger so far from the travelled haunts.
“Ha! do you then know, Margaret?”
“And if I did not, William Hinkley, these base insinuations
against the man, of whom, knowing nothing, you
would still convey the worst imputations, would never
move my mind a hair's breadth from its proper balance.
Go, sir,—you have your answer. I need not your counsel.
I should be sorry to receive it from such a source. Failing
in your own attempt, you would seek to fill my mind with
calumnious impressions in order to prejudice the prospects
of another. For shame! for shame, William Hinkley. I
had not thought this of you. But go! go! go, at once,
-- 195 --
[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
lest I learn to loathe as well as despise you. I thought
you simple and foolish, but honourable and generous. I
was mistaken even in this. Go, sir, your slanderous insinuations
have no effect upon me, and as for Alfred Stevens,
you are as far below him in nobleness and honest
purpose, as you are in every quality of taste and intellect.”
Her face was the very breathing image of idealized scorn
and beauty as she uttered these stinging words. Her
nostrils were dilated, her eyes flashing fire, her lips
slightly protruded and parted, her hand waving him off.
The young man gazed upon her with wild looks equally
expressive of anger and agony. His form fairly writhed
beneath his emotions; but he found strength enough
gaspingly to exclaim—
“And even this I forgive you, Margaret.”
“Go! go!” she answered—“you know not what you
say, or what you are;—go! go!”
And turning away, she moved slowly up the long avenue
before her, till, by a sudden turn of the path she was
hidden from the sight. Then, when his eye could no
longer follow her form, the agony of his soul burst forth
in a single groan, and staggering, he fell forward upon the
sward, hopeless, reckless, in a wretched condition of self-abandonment
and despair.
CHAPTER XX.
But this mood lasted not long. Youth, pride, anger,
asserted themselves before the lapse of many minutes.
Darker feelings got possession of his mind. He rose to
his feet. If love was baffled, was there not revenge?
Then came the recollection of his cousin's counsel. Should
this artful stranger triumph in every thing? Margaret
Cooper had scarcely disguised the interest which she felt
in him. Nay, had not that exulting glance of the eye declared
that she, at least, knew what was the purpose of
Stevens in seeking the secluded village? His own wrongs
were also present to his mind. This usurper had possessed
himself of the affections of all he loved—of all of
-- 196 --
[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]
whose love he had till then felt himself secure—all but the
good old schoolmaster, and the sturdy schoolmate and
cousin. And how soon might he deprive him even of
these? That was a new fear! So rapid had been the
stranger's progress,—so adroitly had he insinuated himself
into this Eden of the wilderness,—bringing discontent and
death in his train—that the now thoroughly miserable
youth began to fancy that nothing could be safe from his
influence. In a short time his garden would all be overrun,
and his loveliest plants would wither. Was there no remedy
for this? There was!—and traversing the solemn
recesses of that wood, he meditated the various modes by
which the redress of wrong, and slight, and indignity,
were to be sought. He brooded over images of strife;
and dark and savage ideas of power rioting over its victim,
with entirely new feelings—feelings new at least to
him. We have not succeeded in doing him justice, nor
in our own design, if we have failed to show that he was
naturally gentle of heart, rigidly conscientious, a lover of
justice for its own sake, and solicitously sensitive on the
subject of another's feelings. But the sense of suffering
will blind the best judgment, and the feeling of injury
will arouse and irritate the gentlest nature. Besides,
William Hinkley, though meek and conscientious, had not
passed through his youth, in the beautiful but wild border
country in which he lived, without having been informed,
and somewhat influenced, by those characteristic ideas of
the modes and manner in which personal wrongs were to
be redressed. Perhaps, had his cousin said nothing to him
on this subject, his feelings would have had very much the
same tendency and general direction which they were
taking now. A dark and somewhat pleasurable anxiety to
be in conflict with his rival—a deadly conflict—a close,
hard, death-struggle, was now the predominant feeling in
his mind;—but the feeling was not altogether a pleasurable
one. It had its pains and humiliations, also. Not
that he had any fears—any dread of the issue. Of the
issue he never thought. But it disturbed the long and
peaceful order of his life. It conflicted with the subdued
tastes of the student. It was at war with that gentle calm
of atmosphere, which letters diffuse around the bower of
the muse.
In the conflict of his thoughts and feelings, the judgment
-- 197 --
[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
of the youth was impaired. He forgot his prudence. In
fact, he knew not what he did. He entered the dwelling
of his father, and passed into the dining-room, at that solemn
moment when the grace before meat was yet in
course of utterance by our worthy Brother Stevens.
Hitherto, old Mr. Hinkley had religiously exacted that,
whenever any of the household failed to be present in season,
this ceremony should never be disturbed. They
were required, hat in hand, to remain at the entrance,
until the benediction had been implored; and, only after
the audible utterance of the word “amen,” to approach
the cloth. We have shown little of old Hinkley. It has
not been necessary. The reader has seen enough, however,
to understand that, in religious matters—at least in
the forms and externals of religion—he was a rigid disciplinarian.
Upon grace before and after meat he always
insisted. His own prayers of this sort might have been
unctuous, but they were never short; and the meats were
very apt to grow cold, while the impatience of his hearers
grew warm, before he finished. But through respect to
the profession, he waived his own peculiar privilege in
behalf of Brother Stevens; and this holy brother was in
the middle of his entreaty, when William Hinkley appeared
at the door. He paused for an instant, without
taking off his hat. Perhaps, had his father been engaged
in this office, he would have forborne, as usual, however
long the grace, and have patiently waited without, hat off,
until it had reached the legitimate conclusion. But he
had no such veneration for Stevens; and without scruple
he dashed, rather hastily, into the apartment, and flinging
his hat upon a chair, strode at once to the table. The old
man did not once raise his eyes until the prayer was over.
He would not have done so had the house been on fire.
But at the close, he looked up at his son with a brow of
thunder. The cloud was of serious and very unusual
blackness. He had for some time been dissatisfied with
his son. He had seen that the youth entertained some
aversion for his guest. Besides, he had learned from his
worthy consort, that in an endeavour of Brother Stevens to
bestow good counsel upon the youth, he had been repulsed
with as little respect as ceremony. There was one thing
that the stern old man had not seen, and could not see;
and that was the altered appearance of the lad. As he
-- 198 --
[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
knew of no reason why he should be unhappy, so he failed
to perceive in his appearance any of the signs of unhappiness.
He saw nothing but the violation of his laws, and
that sort of self-esteem which produces fanaticism, is always
the most rigid in the enforcement of its own ordinances.
Already he regarded the youth as in a state of
rebellion, and for such an offence his feeling was very
much that of the ancient Puritan. No one more insists
upon duty, than him who has attained authority by flinging
off the fetters of obedience. Your toughest sinner
usually makes the sourest saint.
“And is this the way, William Hinkley, that you show
respect to God? Do you despise the blessing which
Brother Stevens asks upon the food which sustains us?”
“I presume, sir, that God has already blessed all the
food which he bestows upon man. I do not think that
any prayer of Brother Stevens can render it more blessed.”
“Ha! you do not, do you? Please to rise from this
table.”
“Nay, sir—” began Stevens.
“Rise, sir,” continued the old man, laying down knife
and fork, and confronting the offender with that dogged
look of determination which in a coarse nature is the sure
sign of moral inflexibility.”
“Forgive him, sir, this time,” said Stevens,—“I entreat
you to forgive him. The young man knows not what he
does.”
“I will make him know,” continued the other.
“Plead not for me, sir,” said William Hinkley, glaring
upon Stevens with something of that expression which in
western parlance is called wolfish—“I scorn and spurn
your interference.”
“William, William, my dear son,—do not speak so—
do not make your father angry.”
“Will you leave the table, sir, or not?” demanded the
father, his words being spoken very slowly, through his
teeth, and with the effort of one who seeks to conceal the
growing agitation. The eyes of the mother fell upon the
youth full of tears and entreaty. His fine countenance
betrayed the conflicting emotions of his soul. There was
grief, and anger, despair and defiance; the consciousness
of being wrong, and the more painful consciousness of
suffering wrong. He half started from his chair, again
-- 199 --
[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
resumed it, and gazing upon Stevens with the hate and
agony which he felt, seemed to be entirely forgetful of the
words and presence of the father. The old man deliberately
rose from the table and left the room. The mother now
started up in an agony of fear.
“Run, my son,—leave the room before your father
comes back. Speak to him, Brother Stevens, and tell him
of the danger.”
“Do not call upon him, mother, if you would not have
me defy you also. If your words will not avail with me,
be sure that his cannot.”
“What mean you, my son? you surely have no cause
to be angry with Brother Stevens.”
“No cause! no cause!—but it matters not! Brother
Stevens knows that I have cause. He has heard my defiance—
he knows my scorn and hate, and he shall feel
them.”
“William, my son, how—”
The steps of the father, approaching through the passage-way,
diverted her mind to a new terror. She knew
the vindictive and harsh nature of the old man; and apprehensions
for her son superseded the feeling of anger which
his language had provoked.
“Oh, my son, be submissive or fly. Jump out of the
window, and leave Brother Stevens and me to pacify him.
We will do all we can.”
The unlucky allusion to Brother Stevens only increased
the young man's obstinacy.
“I ask you not, mother. I wish you to do nothing,
and to say nothing! Here I will remain! I will not fly.
It will be for my father and mother to say whether they
will expel their only son from their home to make room
for a stranger.”
“It shall not be said that I have been the cause of this,”
said Stevens rising with dignity from his chair—“I will
leave your house, Mrs. Hinkley, only regretting that I
should be the innocent cause of any misunderstanding or
discontent among its members. I know not exactly what
can be the meaning of your son's conduct. I have never
offended him. But as my presence does offend him, I
will withdraw myself!—”
“You shall not!” exclaimed old Hinkley, who re-entered
the room at this moment, and had heard the last
-- 200 --
[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
words of the speaker. “You shall not leave the house.
Had I fifty sons, and they were all to behave in the manner
of this viper, they should all leave it before you should
stir from the threshold.”
The old man brought with him a cowskin, and the
maternal apprehensions of his wife, who knew his severe
and determined disposition, were now awakened to such a
degree, as to overcome the feeling of deference, if not fear,
with which the authority of her liege lord had always
inspired her.
“Mr. Hinkley, you won't strike William with that
whip,—you must not—you shall not;” and, speaking
thus, she started up and threw herself in the old man's
way. He put her aside with no measured movement of
his arm, and approached the side of the table where the
young man sat.
“Run, William, run, if you love me,” cried the terrified
mother.
“I will not run!” was the answer of the youth, who
rose from his seat, however, at the same moment and confronted
his father.
“Do not strike me, father! I warn you—do not strike
me. I may be wrong, but I have suffered wrong. I did
not mean, and do not mean to offend you. Let that content
you; but do not strike me.”
The answer was a blow. The whip descended once,
and but once, upon the shoulders of the young man. His
whole frame was in a convulsion. His eyes dilated with
the anguish of his soul; his features worked spasmodically.
There was a moment's hesitation. The arm that smote
him, was again uplifted. The cruel and degrading instrument
of punishment a second time about to descend; when,
with the strength of youth, and the determination of manhood,
the son grasped the arm of the father, and without
any more than the degree of violence necessary to effect
his object, he tore the weapon from the uplifted hand.
“I cannot strike you!” he exclaimed, addressing the old
man. “That blow has lost you your son—for ever! The
shame and the dishonour shall rest on other shoulders.
They are better deserved here, and here I place them!”
With these words he smote Stevens over the shoulders,
once, twice, thrice, before the latter could close with him
or the father interfere to arrest the attempt. Stevens
-- 201 --
[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
sprang upon him, but the more athletic countryman flung
him off and still maintained his weapon. The father
added his efforts to those of Stevens, but he shook himself
free from both, and, by this time, the mother had contrived
to place herself between the parties. William Hinkley
then flung the whip from the window, and moved towards
the door. In passing Stevens, he muttered a few words—
“If there is any skin beneath the cloak of the parson,
I trust I have reached it.”
“Enough!” said the other in the same low tone. “You
shall have your wish!”
The youth looked back once, with tearful eyes, upon his
mother; and making no other answer but a glance more
full of sorrow than anger, to the furious flood of denunciation
which the old man continued to pour forth, he proceeded
slowly from the apartment and the dwelling.
CHAPTER XXI.
The whole scene passed in very few minutes. No
time was given for reflection, and each of the parties obeyed
his natural or habitual impulses. Old Hinkley, except
when at prayers, was a man of few words. He was much
more prompt at deeds than words,—a proof of which has
already been shown; but the good mother was not so
patient, and made a freer use of the feminine weapon, than
we have been willing to inflict upon our readers. Though
she heartily disapproved of her son's conduct towards
Stevens, and regarded it as one of the most unaccountable
wonders, the offender was still her son. She never once
forgot, or could forget, that. But the rage of the old man
was unappeasable. The indignity to his guest, and that
guest of a calling so sacred, was past all forgiveness, as it
was past all his powers of language fitly to describe. He
swore to pursue the offender with his wrath to the end of
the world, to cut him off equally from his fortune and forgiveness;
and when Brother Stevens, endeavouring to
maintain the pacific and forgiving character which his profession
required, uttered some commonplace pleading in
-- 202 --
[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
the youth's behalf, he silenced him by saying that “were
he on the bed of death, and were the offender then to
present himself, the last prayer that he should make to
Heaven would be for sufficient strength to rise up and
complete the punishment which he had then begun.” As for
Stevens, though he professed a more charitable spirit, his
feelings were quite as hostile and much more deadly. He
was not without that conventional courage which makes
one, in certain states of society, prompt enough to place
himself, in the fields of the duello. To this condition of
preparedness, it has hitherto been the training of the
west, that every man, at all solicitous of public life, must
eventually come. As a student of divinity it was not a
necessity with Alfred Stevens. Nay, it was essential to
the character which he professed that he should eschew
such a mode of arbitrament. But he reasoned on this
subject, as well with reference to past habits, as to future
responsibilities. His present profession being simply a
ruse d'amour, (and, as he already began to perceive, a
harmless one in the eyes of the beauty whom he sought,
and whose intense feelings and unregulated mind did not
suffer her to perceive the serious defects of a character
which should attempt so impious a fraud,) he was beginning
to be somewhat indifferent to its preservation; and
with the decline of his caution in this respect, arose the
natural inquiry as to what would be expected of him in
his former relations to society. Should it ever be known
hereafter, at a time when he stood before the people as a
candidate for some high political trust, that he had tamely
submitted to the infliction of a cowskin, the revelation
would be fatal to all his hopes of ambition, and conclusive
against all his social pretensions. In short, so far as
society was concerned, it would be his moral death.
These considerations were felt in their fullest force.
Indeed, their force cannot well be conceived by the citizen
of any community where the sense of individual responsibility
is less rigid and exacting. They naturally outweighed
all others in the mind of Alfred Stevens, and
though no fire-eater, he not only resolved in fighting with
Hinkley, but, smarting under the strokes of the cowskin—
heavily laid on as they had been—his resolution was
equally firm, that, in the conflict, they should not separate
-- 203 --
[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]
until blood was drawn. Of course there was some difficulties
to be overcome in bringing about the meeting, but
where the parties are willing, most difficulties are surmounted
with tolerable ease. This being the case at present,
it followed that both minds were busy at the same
moment in devising the when, the how, and the where.
William Hinkley went from the house of his father to
that of his cousin, but the latter had not yet returned from
that ride which he had taken in order to discover the
course usually pursued by Stevens. Here, he sat down to
dinner, but the sister of Ned Hinkley observed that he
ate little, and fancied he was sick. That he should come
to dine with his cousin was too frequent a matter to occasion
question or surprise. This lady was older than her
brother by some seven years. She was a widow, with an
only child,—a girl. The child was a prattling, smiling
good-natured thing, about seven years old, who was never
so happy as when on cousin William's knee. Poor William,
indeed, was quite a favourite at every house in the
village except that of Margaret Cooper, and, as he sometimes
used bitterly to add, his own. On this occasion,
however, the child was rendered unhappy by the seeming
indifference of cousin William. The heart of the young
man was too full of grief, and his mind of anxiety, to
suffer him to bestow the usual caresses upon her; and
when, putting her down, he passed into the chamber of
Ned Hinkley, the little thing went off to her mother to
complain of the neglect she had undergone.
“Cousin William don't love Susan any more, mamma,”
was the burden of her complaint.
“Why do you say so, Susan?”
“He don't kiss me, mamma; he don't keep me in his
lap. He don't say good things to me and call me his little
sweetheart. I'm afraid cousin William's got some other
sweetheart. He don't love Susan.”
It was while the little prattler was pouring forth her
infantile sorrows in her mother's ear, that the voice of
William Hinkley was heard calling her name from the
chamber.
“There, he's calling you now, Susan. Run to him and
kiss him, and see what he wants. I'm sure he loves you
just as much as ever. He's got no other sweetheart.”
“I'll run, mamma,—that I will. I'm so glad. I hope he
-- 204 --
[figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]
loves me!” and the little innocent scampered away to the
chamber. Her artless tongue as she approached, enabled
him to perceive what had been her grievances.
“Do you call me to love me, and to kiss me, cousin
William, and to make me your sweetheart again?”
“Yes, Susan, you shall be my only sweetheart. I will
kiss nobody but you.”
“You'll forget—you will—you'll put me out of your
lap, and go away shaking your head and looking so!—”
and here the observant little creature attempted a childish
imitation of the sad action and the strange moody gestures
with which he had put her down when he was retiring
from the room—gestures and looks which the less quick
eyes of her mother had failed utterly to perceive.
“No, no!” said he with a sad smile, “no, Susan. I'll
keep you in my lap for an hour whenever I come; and
you shall be my sweetheart always.”
“Your little sweetheart, your little Susan, cousin William.”
“Yes, my dear little Susan, my dearest little sweetheart,
Susan.”
And he kissed the child fondly while he spoke, and
patted her rosy cheeks with a degree of tenderness which
his sad and wandering thoughts did not materially diminish.
“But now, Susan,” said he, “if I am to be your sweetheart
and to love you always, you must do all that I bid
you. You must go where I send you.”
“Don't I, cousin William? When you send me to
gran'pa Calvert, don't I go and bring you books, and didn't
I always run, and come back soon, and never play by the
way?”
“You're a dear Susan,” said he; “and I want you to
carry a paper for me now. Do you see this little paper?
What is it?”
“A note—don't I know?”
“Well, you must carry this note for me to uncle's, but
you mustn't give it to uncle, nor to aunty, nor to any body
but the young man that lives there—young Mr. Stevens.”
“Parson Stevens;” said the little thing, correcting
him.
“Ay, ay, Parson Stevens, if you please. You must
-- 205 --
[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]
give it to him and him only; and he will give you a paper
to bring back to me. Will you go now, Susan?”
“Yes, I'll go: but, cousin William, are you going to
shoot the little guns? Don't shoot them till I come back,
will you?”
The child pointed to a pair of pistols which lay upon
the table where William Hinkley had penned the billet.
A flush of consciousness passed over the young man's
cheek. It seemed to him as if the little innocent's inquiry
had taken the aspect of an accusation. He promised and
dismissed her, and when she had disappeared proceeded to
put the pistols in some condition for use. In that time
and region duels were not often fought with those costly
and powerful weapons, the pistols of rifle bore and sight.
The rifle, or the ordinary horseman's pistol, answered the
purposes of hate. The former instrument, in the hands of
the Kentuckian, was a deadly weapon always; and in the
grasp of a firm hand, and under the direction of a practised
eye, the latter, at ten paces, was scarcely less so. This
being the case, but few refinements were necessary to
bring about the most fatal issues of enmity; and the instruments
which William Hinkley was preparing for the
field, were such as would produce a smile on the lips of
more civilized combatants. They were of the coarsest
kind of holster pistols, and had probably seen service in
the revolution. The stocks were ricketty, the barrels
thin, the bore almost large enough for grape, and, really,
such as would receive and disgorge a three ounce bullet
with little straining or reluctance. They had been the
property of his own grandfather, and their value for use,
was perhaps rather heightened than diminished by the
degree of veneration which, in the family, was attached to
their history.
William Hinkley soon put them in the most efficient
order. He was not a practised hand, but an American
forester is a good shot almost by instinct. He naturally
cleaves to a gun, and without instruction learns its use.
William, however, did not think much of what he could
hit, at what distance, and under what circumstances. Nothing,
perhaps, could better show the confidence in himself
and weapon than the inattention which the native-born
woodman usually exhibits to these points. Let his
weapon be such as he can rely upon, and his cause of
-- 206 --
[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
quarrel such as can justify his anger, and the rest seems
easy and gives him little annoyance. This was now the
case with our rustic. He never, for a moment, thought of
practising. He had shot repeatedly, and knew what he
could do. His simple object was to bring his enemy to
the field and to meet him there. Accordingly, when he
had loaded both pistols, which he did with equal care, and
with a liberal allowance of lead and powder, he carefully
put them away without offering to test his own skill or
their capacities. On this subject, his indifference would
have appeared, to a regular duellist, the very extreme of
obtuseness.
His little courier, conveyed his billet to Stevens, in due
season. As she had been instructed, she gave it into the
hands of Stevens only; but when she delivered it, old
Hinkley was present, and she named the person by whom
it was sent.
“My son! what does he say?” demanded the old
man, half suspecting the purport of the billet.
“Ah!” exclaimed Stevens with the readiness of a practised
actor—“there is some hope, I am glad to tell you,
Mr. Hinkley, of his coming to his senses. He declares
his wish to atone, and invites me to see him. I have no
doubt that he wishes me to mediate for him.”
“I will never forgive him while I have breath!” cried
the old man, leaving the room. “Tell him that!”
“Wait a moment, my pretty one,” said Stevens, as he
was about retiring to his chamber, “till I can write an answer.”
The billet of Hinkley he again read. We may do so
likewise. It was to the following effect.
“Sir
:—If I understood your last assurance on leaving
you this day, I am to believe that the stroke of my whip
has made its proper impression on your soul—that you
are willing to use the ordinary means of ordinary persons,
to avenge an indignity which was not confined to your
cloth. If so, meet me at the lake with whatever weapons
you choose to bring. I will be there, provided with pistols
for both, at any hour from three to six. I shall proceed
to the spot as soon as I receive your answer.
W. H.”
-- 207 --
[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]
“Short and sharp!” exclaimed Stevens as he read the
billet. “ `Who would have thought that the old man had
so much blood in him!' Well, we will not baulk your
desire, Master Hinkley. We will meet you, in verity,
though it may compel me tot hrow up my present hand
and call for other cards. N'importe:—there is no other
course.”
While soliloquizing, he penned his answer, which was
brief and to the purpose.
“I will meet you as soon as I can steal off without
provoking suspicion. I have pistols which I will bring
with me.
A. S.”
“There, my little damsel,” said he, re-entering the
dining-room, and putting the sealed paper into the hands
of the child—“carry that to Mr. Hinkley, and tell him I
will come and speak with him as he begs me. But the
note will tell him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So—”
Mrs. Hinkley entered the room at this moment. Her
husband had apprised her of the communication which her
son had made, and the disposition to atonement and repentance
which he had expressed. She was anxious to
confirm this good disposition, to have her son brought
back within the fold, restored to her own affections and
the favour of his father. The latter, it is true, had signified
his determined hostility, even while conveying his
intelligence; but the mother was sanguine—when was a
mother otherwise?—that all things would come right
which related to her only child. She now came to implore
the efforts of Stevens; to entreat, that, like a good
Christian, he would not suffer the shocking stripes which
her son, in his madness, had inflicted upon him, to outweigh
his charity; to get the better of his blessed principles;
and make him war upon the atoning spirit which
had so lately, and so suddenly wakened up in the bosom
of the unruly boy. She did not endeavour to qualify the
offence of which her son had been guilty. She was far
from underrating the indignity to which Stevens had been
subjected; but the offender was her son—her only son—
-- 208 --
[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]
in spite of all his faults, follies, and imperfections, the
apple of her eye—the only being for whom she cared to
live! Ah! the love of a mother!—what a holy thing!
sadly wanting in judgment—frequently misleading, perverting,
nay, dooming the object which it loves; but, nevertheless,
most pure; least selfish; truest, most devoted!
And the tears gushed from the old woman's eyes as she
caught the hand of Stevens in her own, and kissed it—
kissed his hands—could William Hinkley have seen that,
how it would have rankled, how he would have writhed!
She kissed the hands of that wily hypocrite, bedewing
them with her tears, as if he were some benign and blessing
saint; and not because he had shown any merits or
practised any virtues, but simply because of certain professions
which he had made, and in which she had perfect
faith because of the professions, and not because of any
previous knowledge which she had of the professor.
Truly, it behoves a rogue monstrous much to know what
garment it is best to wear; the question is equally important
to rogue and dandy.
Stevens made a thousand assurances in the most Christian
spirit—we cannot say that he gave her tear for tear—
promised to do his best to bring back the prodigal son to
her embrace, and the better to effect this object—put his
pistols under his belt! Within the hour he was on his
way to the place of meeting.
CHAPTER XXII.
William Hinkley was all impatience until his little
messenger returned, which she did with a speed which
might deserve commendation in the case of our professional.
Mercury's—stage-drivers and mail-contractors,
hight! He did not withhold it from the little maid, but
taking her in his arms, and kissing her fondly, he despatched
her to her mother, while he wrapped up his pistols
and concealing them in the folds of his coat, hurried
from the house with the anxious haste of one who is going
to seek his prey. He felt somewhat like that broad-winged
-- 209 --
[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]
eagle which broods on the projecting pinnacle of yonder
rocky peak in waiting for the sea hawk who is stooping
far below him, watching when the sun's rays shall glisten
from the uprising fins of his favourite fish. But it was
not a selfish desire to secure the prey which the terror of
the other might cause him to drop. It was simply to
punish the prowler. Poor William could not exactly tell
indeed why he wished to shoot Alfred Stevens; but his
cause of hostility was not less cogent because it had no
name. The thousand little details which induce our prejudices
in regard to persons, are, singly, worth no one's
thought, and would possibly provoke the contempt of all;
but like the myriad threads which secured the huge frame
of Gulliver in his descent upon Lilliput, they are, when
united, able to bind the biggest giant of us all. The prejudices
of William Hinkley, though very natural in such
a case as his, seemed to him very much like instincts. It
seemed to him, if he once reasoned on the matter, that, as
he had good cause to hate the intruder, so there must be
justification for shooting him. Were this not so, the
policy of hating would be very questionable, and surely
very unprofitable. It would be a great waste of a very
laudable quantity of feeling—something like omitting one's
bullet in discharging one's piece—a profligacy only justifiable
in a feu de joie after victory; where the bullets have
already done all necessary mischief, and will warrant a
small subsequent waste of the more harmless material.
Without designing any such child's play, our rustic
hero, properly equipped with his antique pistols, well
charged, close rammed, three ounce bullets, or nearabouts,
in each, stood, breathing fire but without cooling, on the
edge of the lake, perched on an eminence and looking out
for the coming enemy. He was playing an unwonted
character, but he felt as if it were quite familiar to him.
He had none of that nice feeling which, without impugning
courage, is natural enough to inexperience in such
cases. The muzzles of the pistols did not appear to him
particularly large. He never once thought of his own ribs
being traversed by his three ounce messengers. He had
no misgivings on the subject of his future digestion. He
only thought of that blow from his father's hand—that
keen shaft from the lips of Margaret Cooper—that desolation
which had fallen upon his soul from the scorn of
-- 210 --
[figure description] Page 210.[end figure description]
both; and the vengeance which it was in his power to
inflict upon the fortunate interloper to whose arts he ascribed
all his misfortunes! and with these thoughts his
fury and impatience increased, and he ascended the highest
hill to look out for his foe; descended, in the next
moment, to the edge of the lake, the better to prepare for
the meeting. In this state of excitement the meekness
had departed from his countenance; an entire change of
expression had taken place: he stood up, erect, bold,
eagle-eyed, with the look of one newly made a man by
the form of indomitable will, and feeling, for the first time,
man's terrible commission to destroy. In a moment, with
the acquisition of new moods, he had acquired a new aspect.
Hitherto, he had been tame, seemingly devoid of
spirit—you have not forgotten the reproaches of his cousin,
which actually conveyed an imputation against his
manliness?—shrinking, with a feeling of shyness akin to
mauvaise honte, and almost submitting to injustice, to
avoid the charge of ill-nature. The change that we have
described in his soul, had made itself singularly apparent
in his looks. They were full of a grim determination.
Had he gazed upon his features, in the glassy surface of
the lake beside him, he had probably recoiled from their
expression.
We have seen Mrs. Hinkley sending Stevens forth for
the purpose of recalling her son to his senses, receiving
his repentance, and bringing him once more home into the
bosom of the flock. We have not forgotten the brace of
arguments with which he provided himself in order to
bring about this charitable determination. Stevens was a
shot. He could snuff his candle at ten paces, sever his
bamboo, divide the fingers of the hand with separate bullets
without grazing the skin,—nay, more, as was said in the
euphuistic phraseology of his admirers, send his ball between
soul and body without impairing the integrity of
either. But men may do much shooting at candle or bamboo,
who would do precious little while another is about to
shoot at them. There is a world of difference between
looking in a bull's eye, and looking in the eye of man. A
pistol too, looks far less innocent, regarded through the
medium of a yawning muzzle, than the rounded and neatly
polished butt. The huge mouth seems to dilate as you
look upon it. You already begin to fancy you behold the
-- 211 --
[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
leaden mass—the three ounce bullet—issuing from its
stronghold, like a relentless baron of the middle ages,
going forth under his grim archway, seeking only whom
he may devour. The sight is apt to diminish the influence
of skill. Nerves are necessary to such sportsmen, and
nerves become singularly untrue when frowned upon
through such a medium. Under this view of the case, we
are not so sure that the excellence of aim for which Alfred
Stevens has been so much lauded, will make the difference
very material between the parties; and now that he is fairly
roused, there is a look of the human devil about William
Hinkley, that makes him promise to be dangerous. Nay,
the very pistols that he wields, those clumsy, rusty, big
mouthed ante-revolutionary machines, which his stout
grandsire carried at Camden and Eutaw, have a look of
service about them—a grim, veteran-like aspect, that makes
them quite as perilous to face as to handle. If they burst
they will blow on all sides. There will be fragments
enough for friend and foe; and even though Stevens may not
apprehend so much from the aim of his antagonist, something
of deference is due to the possibility of such a concussion,
as will make up all his deficiencies of skill.
But they have not yet met, though Stevens, with praiseworthy
Christianity, is on his way to keep his engagements,
as well to mother as to son. He has his own
pistols,—not made for this purpose—but a substantial pair
of traveller's babes—big of mouth, long of throat, thick of
jaw, keen of sight, quick of speech, strong of wind, and
weighty of argument. They are rifled bores also, and, in
the hands of the owner, have done clever things at bottle
and sapling. Stevens would prefer to have the legitimate
things, but these babes are trustworthy; and he has no
reason to suppose that the young rustic whom he goes to
meet can produce any thing more efficient. He had no
idea of those ancient bull-pups, those solemn ante-revolutionary
barkers, which our grandsire used upon harder
heads than his, at Camden and the Eutaws. He is scarcely
so confident in his own weapons when his eye rests on
the rusty tools of his enemy.
But it was not destined that this fight should take place
without witnesses. In spite of all the precautions of the
parties, and they were honest in taking them, our little
village had its inklings of what was going on. There were
-- 212 --
[figure description] Page 212.[end figure description]
certain signs of commotion and explosion which made
themselves understood. Our little maid, Susan Hinkley,
was the first, very innocently, to furnish a clue to the
mystery. She had complained to her mother that cousin
William had not shot the little guns for her according to his
promise.
“But, perhaps, he didn't want to shoot them, Susan.”
“Yes, mamma, he put them in his pockets. He's carried
them to shoot; and he promised to shoot them for me as
soon as I carried the note.”
“And to whom did you carry the note, Susan?” asked
the mother.
“To the young parson, at uncle William's.”
The mother had not been unobservant of the degree of
hostility which her brother, as well as cousin, entertained
for Stevens. They had both very freely expressed their
dislike in her presence. Some of their conferences had
been overheard and were now recalled, in which this expression
of dislike had taken the form of threats, vague and
purposeless, seemingly, at the time; but which now, taken
in connexion with what she gathered from the lips of the
child, seemed of portentous interest. Then, when she understood
that Stevens had sent a note in reply,—and that
both notes were sealed, the quick, feminine mind instantly
jumped to the right conclusion.
“They are surely going to fight. Get my bonnet,
Susan, I must run to uncle William's, and tell him while
there's time. Which way did cousin William go?”
The child could tell her nothing but that he had taken to
the hills.
“That brother Ned shouldn't be here now! Though I
don't see the good of his being here. He'd only make
matters worse. Run, Susan,—run over to gran'pa Calvert,
and tell him to come and stop them from fighting,
while I hurry to uncle William's. Lord save us!—and let
me get there in time.”
The widow had a great deal more to say, but this was
quite enough to bewilder the little girl. Nevertheless, she
set forth to convey the mysterious message to grand'pa
Calvert, though the good mother never once reflected that
this message was of the sort which assumes the party addressed
to be already in possession of the principal facts.
While she took one route the mother pursued another, and
-- 213 --
[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
the two arrived at their respective places at about the same
time. Stevens had already left old Hinkley's when the
widow got there, and the consternation of Mrs. Hinkley
was complete. The old man was sent for to the fields,
and came in only to declare that some such persuasion
had filled his own mind when first the billet of his son had
been received. But the suspicion of the father was of a
much harsher sort than that of the widow Hinkley. In
her sight it was a duel only—bad enough as a duel—but
still only a duel, where the parties incurring equal risks,
had equal rights. But the conception of the affair, as it
occurred to old Hinkley, was very different.
“Base serpent!” he exclaimed—“he has sent for
the good young man only to murder him. He implores
him to come to him, in an artful writing, pretending to be
sorely sorrowful and full of repentance; and he prepares
the weapon of murder to slay him when he comes. Was
there ever creature so base, but I will hunt him out. God
give me strength, and grant that I may find him in season.”
Thus saying, the old man seized his crab-stick, a knotty
club, that had been seasoned in a thousand smokes, and
toughened by the use of twenty years. His wife caught
up her bonnet and hurried with the widow Hinkley in his
train. Meanwhile, by cross-examining the child, Mr. Calvert
had formed some plausible conjectures of what was on
foot, and by the time that the formidable procession had
reached his neighbourhood he was prepared to join it.
Events thickened with the increasing numbers. New
facts came in to the aid of old ones partially understood.
The widow Thackeray, looking from her window, as
young and handsome widows are very much in the habit
of doing, had seen William Hinkley going by towards the
hill, with a very rapid stride and a countenance very much
agitated; and an hour afterwards she had been Brother
Stevens following on the same route—good young man!—
with the most heavenly and benignant smile upon his countenance,—
the very personification of the cherub and the
seraph, commissioned to subdue the fiend.
“Here is some of your treachery, Mr. Calvert. You
have spoiled this boy of mine; turning his head with law
studie, and making him disobedient—giving him counsel
and encouragement against his father—and filling his mind
with evil things. It is all your doing, and your books.
-- 214 --
[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]
And now he's turned out a bloody murderer, a Papist murderer,
with your Roman Catholic doctrines.”
“I am no Roman Catholic, Mr. Hinkley,” was the
mild reply—“and as for William becoming a murderer,
I think that improbable. I have a better opinion of your
son than you have.”
“He's an ungrateful cub—a varmint of the wilderness,—
to strike the good young man in my own presence—to
strike him with a cowskin—what do you think of that, sir?
answer me that, if you please.”
“Did William Hinkley do this?” demanded the old
teacher earnestly.
“Ay, that he did, did he!”
“I can hardly understand it. There must have been
some grievous provocation?”
“Yes; it was a grievous provocation, indeed, to have
to wait for grace before meat.”
“Was that all? can it be possible!”
The mother of the offender supplied the hiatus in the
story—and Calvert was somewhat relieved. Though he
did not pretend to justify the assault of the youth, he
readily saw how he had been maddened by the treatment
of his father. He saw that the latter was in a high pitch
of religious fury,—his prodigious self-esteem taking part
with it, naturally enough, against a son, who, until this
instance, had never risen in defiance against either. Expostulation
and argument were equally vain with him; and
ceasing the attempt at persuasion, Calvert hurried on with
the rest, being equally anxious to arrest the meditated
violence, whether that contemplated the murderous assassination
which the father declared, or the less heinous proceeding
of the duel which he suspected. There was one
thing which made him tremble for his own confidence in
William Hinkley's propriety of course. It was the difficulty
which he had with the rest, in believing that the
young student of divinity would fight a duel. This doubt,
he felt, must be that of his pupil also: whether the latter
had any reason to suppose that Stevens would depart from
the principles of his profession, and waive the securities
which it afforded, he had of course, no means for conjecturing;
but his confidence in the youth induced him to
believe that some such impression upon his mind had led
him to the measure of sending a challenge, which,
-- 215 --
[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
otherwise, addressed to a theologian, would have been a shameless
mockery.
There was a long running fire, by way of conversation
and commentary, which was of course maintained by these
toiling pedestrians, cheering the way as they went; but
though it made old Hinkley pleasant and wrathy, and exercised
the vernacular of the rest to very liberal extent, we
do not care to distress the reader with it. It may have
been very fine or not. It is enough to say that the general
tenor of opinion run heavily against our unhappy rustic,
and in favour of the good young man, Stevens. Mrs.
Thackeray, the widow, to whom Stevens had paid two
visits or more since he had been in the village, and who
had her own reasons for doubting that Margaret Cooper
had really obtained any advantages in the general struggle
to find favour in the sight of this handsome man of God,—
was loud in her eulogy upon the latter, and equally
unsparing in her denunciations of the village lad who
meditated so foul a crime as the extinguishing so blessed a
light. Her denunciations at length aroused all the mother
in Mrs. Hinkley's breast, and the two dames had it, hot
and heavy, until, as the parties approached the lake, old
Hinkley, with a manner all his own, enjoined the most
profound silence, and hushed, without settling the dispute.
Meanwhile, the combatants had met. William Hinkley,
having ascended the tallest perch among the hills, beheld
his enemy approaching at a natural pace and at a short
distance. He descended rapidly to meet him and the
parties joined at the foot of the woodland path leading
down to the lake, where, but a few days before, we beheld
Stevens and Margaret Cooper. Stevens was somewhat
surprised to note the singular and imposing change which
a day, almost an hour, had wrought in the looks and bearing
of the young rustic. His good, and rather elevated
command of language, had struck him previously as very
remarkable, but this had been explained by his introduction
to Mr. Calvert, who, as his teacher, he soon found was
very well able to make him what he was. It was the
high bearing, the courteous defiance, the superior consciousness
of strength and character, which now spoke in
the tone and manner of the youth. A choice military
school, for years, could scarcely have brought about a more
decided expression of that subdued heroism, which makes
-- 216 --
[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]
mere manliness a matter of chivalry, and dignifies brute
anger and blind hostility into something like a sentiment.
Under the prompting of a good head, a generous temper,
and the goodness of a highly roused, but legitimate state
of feeling, William Hinkley wore the very appearance
of that nobleness, pride, ease, firmness and courtesy,
which, in the conventional world, it is so difficult, yet held
to be so important, to impress upon the champion when
ready for the field. A genuine son of thunder would have
rejoiced in his deportment, and though of a sneering,
jealous and disparaging temper, Alfred Stevens could not
conceal from himself the conviction that there was stuff in
the young man which it needed nothing but trial and rough
attrition to bring out.
William Hinkley bowed at his approach, and pointed to
a close footpath leading to the rocks on the opposite
shore.
“There, sir, we shall be more secret. There is a narrow
grove above, just suited to our purpose. Will it please
you to proceed thither?”
“As you please, Mr. Hinkley,” was the reply; “I have
no disposition to baulk your particular desires. But the
sight of this lake reminds me that I owe you my life?”
“I had thought, sir, that the indignity which I put upon
you, would cancel all such memories;” was the stern
reply.
The cheek of Stevens became crimson—his eye flashed—
he felt the sarcasm—but something was due to his position,
and he was cool enough to make a concession to
circumstances. He answered with tolerable calmness,
though not without considerable effort.
“It has cancelled the obligation, sir, if not the memory!
I certainly can owe you nothing for a life which you have
attempted to disgrace—”
“Which I have disgraced!” said the other interrupting
him.
“You are right, sir. How far, however, you have
shown your manhood in putting an indignity upon one
whose profession implies peace, and denounces war, you
are as well prepared to answer as myself.”
“The cloth seems to be of precious thickness!” was
the answer of Hinkley, with a smile of bitter and scornful
sarcasm.
-- 217 --
[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
“If you mean to convey the idea that I do not feel the
shame of the blow, and am not determined on avenging it,
young man, you are in error. You will find that I am
not less determined because I am most cool. I have come
out deliberately for the purpose of meeting you. My
purpose in reminding you of my profession was simply to
undeceive you. It appears to me not impossible that the
knowledge of it has made you somewhat bolder than you
otherwise might have been.”
“What mean you?” was the stern demand of Hinkley,
uttered in very startling accents.
“To tell you that I have not always been a non-combatant,
that I am scarcely one now, and that, in the other
schools, in which I have been taught, the use of the pistol
was an early lesson. You have probably fancied that such
was not the case, and that my profession—”
“Come, sir,—will you follow this path?” said Hinkley,
interrupting him impatiently.
“All in good time, sir, when you have heard me out,”
was the cool reply. “Now, sir,” he continued, “were
you to have known that it would be no hard task for me
to mark any button on your vest, at any distance,—that
I have often notched a smaller mark, and that I am prepared
to do so again, it might be that your prudence
would have tempered your courage—”
“I regret for your sake,” said Hinkley, again interrupting
him with a sarcasm, “that I have not brought with
me the weapon with which my marks are made. You
seem to have forgotten that I too have some skill in my
poor way. One would think, sir, that the memory would
not fail of retaining what I suspect will be impressed upon
the skin for some time longer.”
“You are evidently bent on fighting, Mr. Hinkley, and
I must gratify you!”
“If you please, sir.”
“But, before doing so, I should like to know in what
way I have provoked such a feeling of hostility in your
mind? I have not sought to do so. I have, on the contrary,
striven to show you my friendship, in part requital
of the kindness shown me by your parents.”
“Do not speak of them, if you please.”
“Ay, but I must. It was at the instance of your worthy
-- 218 --
[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]
mother that I sought you and strove to confer with you on
the cause of your evident unhappiness.”
“You were the cause.”
“I?”
“Yes—you! Did I not tell you then that I hated you;
and did you not accept my defiance?”
“Yes; but when you saved my life!—”
“It was to spurn you—to put stripes upon you. I tell
you, Alfred Stevens, I loathe you with the loathing one
feels for a reptile, whose cunning is as detestable as his
sting is deadly. I loathe you from instinct. I felt this
dislike and distrust for you from the first moment that I
saw you. I know not how, or why, or in what manner,
you are a villain, but I feel you to be one! I am convinced
of it as thoroughly as if I knew it. You have
wormed yourself into the bosom of my family. You
have expelled me from the affections of my parents; and
not content with this, you have stolen to the heart of the
woman to whom my life was devoted, to have me driven
thence also. Can I do less than hate you? Can I desire
less than your destruction? Say, having heard so much,
whether you will make it necessary that I should again
lay my whip over your shoulders.”
The face of Stevens became livid as he listened to this
fierce and bitter speech. His eye watched that of the
speaker with the glare of the tiger, as if noteful only of
the moment when to spring. His frame trembled. His
lip quivered with the struggling rage. All his feeling of
self-superiority vanished when he listened to language of
so unequivocal a character,—language which so truly
denounced, without defining, his villany. He felt, that if
the instinct of the other was indeed so keen and quick,
then was the combat necessary, and the death of the rustic
essential, perhaps, to his own safety. William Hinkley
met his glance with a like fire. There was no shrinking
of his heart or muscles. Nay, unlike his enemy, he felt
a strange thrill of pleasure in his veins as he saw the
effect which his language had produced on the other.
“Lead the way!” said Stevens; “the sooner you are
satisfied the better.”
“You are very courteous, and I thank you,” replied
Hinkley, with a subdued but sarcastic smile, “you will
pardon me for the seeming slight, in taking precedence of
-- 219 --
[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]
one so superior; but the case requires it. You will please
to follow. I will show you my back no longer than it
seems necessary.”
“Lead on, sir—lead on.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
William Hinkley ascended the narrow path leading to
the hills with an alacrity of heart which somewhat surprised
himself. The apprehensions of danger, if he felt
any, were not of a kind to distress or annoy him, and were
more than balanced by the conviction that he had brought his
enemy within his level. That feeling of power is indeed a
very consolatory one. It satisfies the ambitious heart, though
death preys upon his household, one by one; though suffering
fevers his sleep; though the hopes of his affection
wither; though the loves and ties of his youth decay and
vanish. It makes him careless of the sunshine, and heedless
of the storm. It deadens his ear to the song of birds,
it blinds his eye to the seduction of flowers. It makes him
fly from friendship and rush on hate. It compensates for
all sorts of loneliness, and it produces them. It is a princely
despotism; which, while it robs its slave of freedom, covers
him with other gifts which he learns to value more;—which
binding him in fetters makes him believe that they are sceptres
and symbols before which all things become what he
desires them. His speech is changed, his very nature perverted,
but he acquires an “open sesame” by their loss, and
the loss seems to his imagination an exceeding gain. We
will not say that William Hinkley was altogether satisfied
with his bargain, but in the moment when he stood confronting
his enemy on the bald rock, with a deadly weapon
in each hand—when he felt that he stood foot to foot in
equal conflict with his foe, one whom he had dragged
down from his pride of place, and had compelled to the
fearful issue which made his arrogance quail—in that moment,
if he did not forget, he did not so much feel that he
had lost family and friends, parents and love; and if he
-- 220 --
[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
felt, it was only to induce that heavier feeling of revenge
in which even the affections are apt to be swallowed up.
Stevens looked in the eye of the young man and saw
that he was dangerous. He looked upon the ante-revolutionary
pistols, and saw that they were dangerous too, in a
double sense.
“Here are pistols,” he said, “better suited to our purpose.
You can sound them and take your choice.”
“These,” said Hinkley, doggedly, “are as well suited
as any. If you will, you can take your choice of mine;
but if you think yours superior, use them. These are
good enough for me.”
“But this is out of all usage,” said Stevens.
“What matters it, Mr. Stevens? If you are satisfied that
yours are the best, the advantage is with you. If you
doubt that mine can kill, try them. I have a faith in these
pistols which will content me; but we will take one of
each, if that will please you better, and use which we think
proper.”
Stevens expressed himself better pleased to keep his
own.
“Suit yourself as to distance,” said Hinkley, with all
the coolness of an unmixed salamander. His opponent
stepped off ten paces with great deliberation, and William
Hinkley, moving towards a fragment of rock upon which
he had placed his “revolutions” for the better inspection of
his opponent, possessed himself of the veterans and prepared
to take the station which had been assigned him.
“Who shall give the word?” demanded Stevens.
“You may!” was the cool rejoinder.
“If I do, I kill you,” said the other.
“I have no fear, Mr. Stevens,” answered William Hinkley
with a degree of phlegm which almost led Stevens to
fancy he had to deal with a regular Trojan—“I have no
fear,” he continued, “and if you fancy you can frighten
me by this sort of bragging you have very much mistaken
your man. Shoot when you please, word or no word.”
William Hinkley stood with his back to the woods, his
face towards the lake which spread itself, smooth and calm,
at a little distance. He did not perceive that his position
was a disadvantageous one. The tree behind, and that
beside him, rendered his body a most conspicuous mark;
-- 221 --
[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
while his opponent, standing with his back to the uncovered
rocks ranged with no other objects of any prominence.
Had he even been sufficiently practised in the arts
of the duello, he would most probably have been utterly
regardless of these things. They would not have influenced
his firmness in the slightest degree. His course was quite
as much the result of desperation as philosophy. He felt
himself an outcast as well from home as from love, and it
mattered to him very little, in the morbid excitement of his
present mind, whether he fell by the hand of his rival, or
lived to pine out a wearisome existence, lonely and uninspired,
a gloomy exile in the bitter world. He waited, it
may be said, with some impatience for the fire of his antagonist.
Once he saw the pistol of Stevens uplifted. He
had one in each hand. His own hung beside him. He
waited for the shot of the enemy as a signal when to lift
and use his own weapon. But instead of this he was surprised
to see him drop the muzzle of his weapon, and with
some celerity and no small degree of slight of hand, thrust
the two pistols behind his coat-skirts. A buz reached his ears
a moment after—the hum of voices,—some rustling in the
bushes, which signified confusion in the approach of
strangers. He did not wish to look round as he preferred
keeping his eye on his antagonist.
“Shoot!” he exclaimed—“quickly, before we are interrupted.”
Before he could receive answer there was a rush behind
him—he heard his father's voice, sudden, and in a high
degree of fury, mingled with that of his mother and Mr.
Calvert, as if in expostulation. From the latter the words
distinctly reached his ears, warning him to beware. Such,
also, was the purport of his mother's cry. Before he could
turn and guard against the unseen danger, he received a
blow upon his head, the only thing of which he was conscious
for some time. He staggered and fell forward. He
felt himself stunned, fancied that he was shot, and sunk to
the ground in an utter state of insensibility.
The blow came from his father's crab-stick. It was so
utterly unexpected by the parties who had attended old
Hinkley to the place of meeting, that no efforts were made
to prevent it. But the mother of the victim rushed in in
time to defeat the second blow, which the father prepared
to inflict, in the moment when his son was falling from the
-- 222 --
[figure description] Page 222.[end figure description]
effects of the first. Grasping the coat-skirts of her spouse,
she pulled him back with no scrupulous hand, and effectually
baffled his design by bringing him down, though in
an opposite direction, to the same level with the youth.
Old Hinkley did not bite the dust, but the latter part of his
skull most effectually butted it; and had not his head been
quite as tough as his crab-stick, the hurt might have been
quite as severe as that which the latter had inflicted on the
son's. The latter lay as perfectly quiet as if all had been
over with him. So much so, that the impression became
very general that such was the case. Under this impression
the heart of the mother spoke out in mingled screams
of lamentation and reproach. She threw herself down by
the side of the youth and vainly attempted to stop the
blood which was streaming from a deep gash on his skull.
While engaged in this work, her apron and handkerchief
being both employed for this purpose, she poured forth a
torrent of wrath and denunciation against her spouse. She
now forgot all the offences of the boy, and even Alfred
Stevens came in for his share of the objurgation with which
she visited the offence and the offender.
“Shame! shame! you bloody-minded man,” she cried,
“to slaughter your own son,—your only son—to come
behind him and knock him down with a club as if he had
been an inhuman ox! You are no husband of mine. He
shan't own you for a father. If I had the pick, I'd choose
a thousand fathers for him, from here to Massassippi,
sooner than you. He's only too good and too handsome
to be son of yours. And for what should you strike him?
For a stranger—a man we never saw before. Shame on
you! You are a brute, a monster, William Hinkley, and
I'm done with you for ever.
“My poor, poor boy! Look up, my son. Look up,
William. Open your eyes. It's your own dear mother
that speaks to you. Oh! my God! you've killed him—
he will not open his eyes. He's dead, he's dead, he's
dead!”
And truly it seemed so, for the youth gave no sign of
consciousness. She threw herself in a screaming agony
upon his body, and gave herself up to the unmeasured despair,
which, if a weakness, is at least a sacred one in the
case of a mother mourning her only son. Old Hinkley
was not without his alarms—nay, not altogether without
-- 223 --
[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]
his compunctions. But he was one of that round head
genus whose self-esteem is too much at all times for fear,
or shame, or sensibility. Without seeking to assist the
lad, and ascertain what was his real condition, he sought
only to justify himself for what he had done by repeating
the real and supposed offences of the youth. He addressed
himself in this labour chiefly to Mr. Calvert, who, with
quite as much suffering as any of the rest, had more consideration,
and was now busied in the endeavour to staunch
the blood and cleanse the wound of the victim.
“He's got only what he deserved,” exclaimed the sullen,
stubborn father.
“Do not speak so, Mr. Hinkley,” replied Calvert, with
a sternness which was unusual with him; “your son may
have got his death.”
“And he deserves it!” responded the other doggedly.
“And if he has,” continued Calvert, “you are a murderer—
a cold-blooded murderer, and as such will merit
and will meet the halter.”
The face of the old man grew livid—his lips whitened
with rage; and he approached Calvert, his whole frame
quivering with fury, and shaking his hand threateningly,
exclaimed—
“Do you dare to speak to me in this manner, you miserable,
white-headed pedagogue—do you dare?”
“Dare!” retorted Calvert, rising to his feet with a look
of majesty which, in an instant, awed the insolence of the
offender. Never had he been faced by such defiance, so
fearlessly and nobly expressed.
“Dare!—Look on me, and ask yourself whether I dare
or not. Approach me but a step nigher, and even my
love for your unfortunate, and much abused, but well-minded
son, will not protect you. I would chastise you,
with all my years upon me, in spite of my white head.
Yours, if this boy should die, will never become white, or
will become so suddenly, as your soul will wither, with
its own self-torture, within you. Begone!—keep back—
do not approach me, and, above all, do not approach me
with uplifted hand, or by Heaven, I will fell you to the
earth as surely as you felled this boy. You have roused
a feeling within me, William Hinkley, which has slept
for years. Do not provoke it too far. Beware in season.
You have acted the brute and the coward to your son—
-- 224 --
[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]
you could do so with impunity to him—to me you cannot.”
There was something in this speech, from one whom
old Hinkley was accustomed to look upon as a dreaming
book-worm, which goaded the tyrannical father into irrepressible
fury, and grinding his teeth, without a moment's
hesitation he advanced, and was actually about to lay the
crab-stick over the shoulders of the speaker; but the latter
was as prompt as he was fearless. Before Hinkley could
conceive his intention, he had leapt over the still unconscious
person of William, and flinging the old man round
with a sudden jerk had grasped and wrested the stick
from his hands with a degree of activity and strength
which confounded all the bystanders, and the subject of
his sudden exercise of manhood no less than the rest.
“Were you treated justly,” said Calvert, regarding
him with a look of the loftiest indignation, “you should
yourself receive a taste of the cudgel you are so free to use
on others. Let your feebleness, old man, be a warning to
your arrogance.”
With these words he flung the crab-stick into the lake,
old Hinkley regarding him with looks in which it was
difficult to say whether mortification or fury had preponderance.
“Go,” he continued, “your son lives; but it is God's
mercy and none of yours which has spared his life. You
will live, I hope, to repent of your cruelty and injustice to
him. To repent of having shown a preference to a stranger
so blind as that which has moved you to attempt the
life of one of the most gentle lads in the whole country.”
“And did he not come here to murder the stranger?
Did we not find him even now with pistol ready to murder
Brother Stevens? See, the pistols now in his hands—
my father's pistols. We came not a minute too soon.
But for my blow, he had been a murderer.”
Such was the justification which old Hinkley now offered
for what he had done.
“I am no advocate for duelling,” said Calvert, “but I
believe that your son came with the stranger for this purpose,
and not to murder him.”
“No! no! do you not see that Brother Stevens has no
pistols? Did we not see him trying to escape—walking
off—walking almost over the rocks to get out of the way?”
-- 225 --
[figure description] Page 225.[end figure description]
Calvert comprehended the matter much more clearly.
“Speak, sir,” he said to Stevens, “did you not come
prepared to defend yourself?”
“You see me as I am,” said Stevens, showing his empty
hands.
Calvert looked at him with searching eye.
“I understand you, sir,” he said, with an expression
not to be mistaken. “I understand you now. This lad
I know. He could not be a murderer. He could not
take any man at advantage. If you do not know the
fact, Mr. Stevens, I can assure you that your life was perfectly
secure from his weapon, so long as his remained
equally unendangered. The sight of that lake from which
he rescued you but a few days ago, should sufficiently
have persuaded you of this.”
Stevens muttered something, the purport of which was,
that “he did not believe the young man intended to murder
him.”
“Did he not send you a challenge?”
“No!” said old Hinkley—“he sent him a begging
note, promising atonement and repentance.”
“Will you let me see that note?” said Calvert, addressing
Stevens.
“I have it not—I destroyed it,” said Stevens with some
haste. Calvert said no more, but he looked plainly enough
his suspicions. He now gave his attention to William
Hinkley, whose mother, while this scene was in progress,
had been occupied, as Calvert had begun, in staunching
the blood, and trimming, with her scissors, which were
fortunately at her girdle, the hair from the wound. The
son meanwhile had wakened to consciousness. He had
been stunned but not severely injured by the blow, and
with the promptitude of a border dame, Mrs. Hinkley,
hurrying to a pine tree, had gathered enough of its resin,
which, spread upon a fragment of her cotton apron, and
applied to the hurt, proved a very fair substitute for adhesive
plaister. The youth rose to his feet still retaining
the pistols in his grasp. His looks were heavy from the
stupor which still continued; but kindled into instant intelligence
when he caught sight of Stevens and his father.
“Go home, sir,” said the latter, waving his hand in the
prescribed direction.
-- 226 --
[figure description] Page 226.[end figure description]
“Never!” was the reply of the young man, firmly expressed.
“Never, sir! if I never have a home.”
“You shall always have a home, William, while I have
one,” said Mr. Calvert.
“What! you encourage my son in rebellion—you teach
him to fly in the face of his father?” shouted the old man.
“No, sir; I only offer him a shelter from tyranny, a
place of refuge from persecution. When you learn the
duties and the feelings of a father, it will be time enough
to assert the rights of one. I do not think him safe in
your house against your vindictiveness and brutality. He
is, however, of full age, and will can determine for himself.”
“He is not of age, and will not be till July.”
“It matters not. He is more near the years of discretion
than his father, and judging him to be in some danger
in your house, as a man and as a magistrate, I offer him
the protection of mine. Come home with me, William.”
“Let him go, if he pleases—go to the d—l! He who
honours not his father, says the Scriptures—what says the
passage, Brother Stevens—doth it not say that he who
honours not his father is in danger of hell-fire?”
“Not exactly, I believe,” said the other.
“Matters not, matters not!—the meaning is very much
the same.”
“Oh, my son,” said the mother, clinging to his neck,
“will you, indeed, desert me—can you leave me in my
old age? I have none, none but you. You know how I
have loved—you know I will always love you.”
“And I love you, mother—and love him too—though
he treats me as an outcast—I will always love you, but I
will never more enter my father's dwelling. He has degraded
me with his whip—he has attempted my life with
his bludgeon. I forgive him, but will never expose myself
again to his cruelties or indignities. You will always
find me a son, and a dutiful one, in all other respects.”
He turned away with Mr. Calvert, and slowly proceeded
down the pathway by which he had approached
the eminence. He gave Stevens a significant look as he
passed him, and lifted one of the pistols which he still
carried in his hands, in a manner to make evident his
meaning. The other smiled and turned off with the group,
who proceeded by the route along the hills, but the last
-- 227 --
[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]
words of the mother, subdued by sobs, still came to the
ears of the youth—
“Oh, my son, come home! come home!”
“No! no! I have no home—no home, mother!” muttered
the young man, as if he thought the half-stifled response
could reach the ears of the complaining woman.
“No home! no hope!” he continued—“I am desolate.”
“Not so, my son. God is our home; God is our companion;
our strength, our preserver! Living and loving,
manfully striving and working out our toils for deliverance,
we are neither homeless, nor hopeless; neither strengthless,
nor fatherless; wanting neither in substance or companion.
This is a sharp lesson, perhaps, but a necessary
one. It will give you that courage, of the great value of
which I spoke to you but a few days ago. Come with
me to my home; it shall be yours until you can find a
better.”
“I thank you—oh! how much I thank you. It may
be all as you say, but I feel very, very miserable.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
The artist in the moral world must be very careful not
to suffer his nice sense of retributive justice, to get so
much the better of his judgment, as an artist, as to make
him forgetful of human probabilities, and the superior duty
of preparing the mind of the young reader by sterling examples
of patience and protracted reward, to bear up manfully
against injustice, and not to despond because his
rewards are slow. It would be very easy for an author to
make every body good, or, if any were bad, to dismiss
them, out of hand to purgatory and places even worse.
But it would be a thankless toil to read the writings of
such an author. His character would fail in vraisemblance,
and his incidents would lack in interest. The
world is a sort of vast moral lazar-house, in which most
have sores, either of greater or less degree of virulence.
Some are nurses, and doctors, and guardians; and these
-- 228 --
[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]
are necessarily free from the diseases to which they minister.
Some, though not many, are entirely incurable;
many labour for years in pain, and when dismissed, still
hobble along feebly, bearing the proofs of their trials in
ugly seams and blotches, contracted limbs, and pale, haggard
features. Others get off with a shorter and less
severe probation. None are free from taint, and those who
are the most free, are not always the greatest favourites
with fortune. We are speaking of the moral world, good
reader. We simply borrow an illustration from the physical.
Our interest in one another is very much derived
from our knowledge of each other's infirmities; and it may
be remarked, passingly, that this interest is productive of
a very excellent philosophical temper, since it enables us
to bear the worst misfortunes of our best friends with the
most amazing fortitude. It is a frequent error with the
reader of a book—losing sight of these facts—to expect
that justice will always be done on the instant. He will
suffer no delay in the book, though he sees that this delay
of justice is one of the most decided of all the moral certainties
whether in life or law. He does not wish to see
the person in whom the author makes him interested,
perish in youth—die of broken heart or more rapid disaster;
and if he could be permitted to interfere, the bullet or the
knife of the assassin would be arrested at the proper
moment and always turned against the bosom of the wrongdoer.
This is a very commendable state of feeling, and
whenever it occurs, it clearly shows that the author is
going right in his vocation. It proves him to be a human
author, which is something better than being a mere, dry,
moral one. But he would neither be a human nor a
moral author were he to comply with their desires, and, to
satisfy their sympathies, arrest the progress of events.
The fates must have their way, in the book as in the lazar-house;
and the persons of his drama must endure their
sores and sufferings with what philosophy they may, until,
under the hands of that great physician, fortune, they
receive an honourable discharge or otherwise.
Were it with him, our young friend, William Hinkley,
who is really a clever fellow, should not only be received
to favour with all parties, but should never have fallen from
favour in the minds of any. His father should become
-- 229 --
[figure description] Page 229.[end figure description]
soon repentant, and having convicted Stevens of his falsehood
and hypocrisy, he should be rewarded with the hand
of the woman to whom his young heart is so devoted.
Such, perhaps, would be the universal wish with our
readers; but would this be fortunate for William Hinkley?
Our venerable friend and his, Mr. Calvert, has a very
different opinion. He says:—
“This young man is not only a worthy young man, but
he is one, naturally of very vigorous intellect. He is of
earnest, impassioned temperament, full of enthusiasm and
imagination; fitted for work—great work—public work—
head work—the noblest kind of work. He will be a great
lawyer—perhaps a great statesman if he addresses himself
at once, manfully, to his tasks; but he will not address
himself to these tasks while he pursues the rusting and
mind-destroying life of a country village. Give him the
object of his desire and you deprive him of all motive for
exertion. Give him the woman he seeks and you probably
deprive him even of the degree of quiet which the
country village affords. He would forfeit happiness without
finding strength. Force him to the use of his tools
and he builds himself fame and fortune.”
Calvert was really not sorry that William Hinkley's
treatment had been so harsh. He sympathized, it is true,
in his sufferings, but he was not blind to their probable
advantages; and he positively rejoiced in his rejection by
Margaret Cooper.
It was some four or five days after the events with
which our last chapter was closed, that the old man and
his young friend were to be seen sitting together, under
the shade of the venerable tree where we have met them
before. They had conferred together seriously, and finally
with agreeing minds, on the several topics which have
been adverted to in the preceding paragraph. William
Hinkley had become convinced that it was equally the
policy of his mind and heart to leave Charlemont. He
was not so well satisfied, however, as was the case with Mr.
Calvert, that the loss of Margaret Cooper was his exceeding
gain. When did young lover come to such a conclusion?
Not, certainly, while he was young. But when
was young lover wise? Through a discontent, William
Hinkley, was not soured nor despairing, from the denial of
his hopes. He had resources of thought and spirit, never
-- 230 --
[figure description] Page 230.[end figure description]
tested before, of the possession of which he knew nothing.
They were to be brought into use and made valuable only
by these very denials; by the baffling of his hope; by the
provocation of his strength. His resolution grew rapidly
in consequence of his disappointments. He was now
prepared to meet the wishes of his venerable and wise
preceptor—to grapple stoutly with the masters of the law;
and, keeping his heart in restraint, if not absolute abeyance,
to do that justice to his head, which, according to
the opinion of Mr. Calvert, it well deserved if hitherto it
had not demanded it. But to pursue his studies as well as
his practice, he was to leave Charlemont. How was this
to be done—where was he to go—by what means? A
horse, saddle and bridle—a few books and the ante-revolutionary
pistols of his grandsire, which recent circumstances
seemed to have endeared to him, were all his available
property. His poverty was an estoppel, at the outset, to
his own reflections; and thinking of this difficulty he
turned with a blank visage to his friend.
The old man seemed to enter into and imagine his
thoughts. He did not wait to be reminded, by the halting
speech of the youth, of the one subject from which the
latter shrunk to speak.
“The next thing, my son,” said he, “is the necessary
means. Happily, in the case of one so prudent and temperate
as yourself, these will not be much. Food and
clothing, and a small sum, annually, for contingencies, will
be your chief expense; and this, I am fortunately able to
provide. I am not a rich man, my son; but economy and
temperance, with industry, have given me enough, and to
spare. It is long since I had resolved that all I have
should be yours; and I had laid aside small sums from
time to time, intending them for an occasion like the present,
which I felt sure would at length arrive. I am
rejoiced that my foresight should have begun in time,
since it enables me to meet the necessity promptly, and to
interpose myself at the moment when you most need
counsel and assistance.”
“Oh, my friend, my kind generous friend, how it
shames me for my own father to hear you speak thus!”
The youth caught the hands of his benefactor, and the
hot tears fell from his eyes upon them, while he fervently
bent to kiss them.
-- 231 --
[figure description] Page 231.[end figure description]
“Your father is a good but rough man, William, who
will come to his senses in good time. Men of his education,
governed as he is by the mistake which so commonly
confounds God with his self-constituted representative,—
religion with its professor,—will err, and cannot be reasoned
out of their errors. It is the unceasing operation of time
which can alone teach them a knowledge of the truth. You
must not think too hardly of your father, who does not
love you the less because he fancies you are his particular
property, with whom he may do what he pleases. As for
what I have done, and am disposed to do for you, let that
not become burdensome to your gratitude. In some respects
you have been a son to me, and I send you from
me with the same reluctance which a father would feel in
the like circumstances. You have been my companion,
you have helped to cheer my solitude; and I have learned
to look on the progress of your mind with the interest of
the philosopher who pursues a favourite experiment. In
educating you, I have attempted an experiment which I
should be sorry to see fail. I do not think now that it
will fail. I think you will do yourself and me ample
justice. If I have had my doubts, they were of your
courage, not your talent. If you have a weakness, it is
because of a deficiency of self-esteem—a tendency to self-disparagement.
A little more actual struggle with the
world, and an utter withdrawal from those helps and hands,
which in a youth's own home are very apt to be constantly
employed to keep him from falling, and to save him
from the consequences of his fall, and I do not despair
of seeing you acquire that necessary moral hardihood
which will enable you to think freely, and to make your
mind give a fair utterance to the properties which are in it.
When this is done I have every hope for you. You will
rise to eminence in your profession. I know, my son,
that you will do me honour.”
“Ah, sir, I am afraid you overrate my abilities. I have
no consciousness of any such resources as you suppose
me to possess.”
“It is here that your deficiency speaks out. Be bold,
my son—be bold, bolder, boldest. I would not have you
presumptuous, but there is a courage, short of presumption,
which is only a just confidence in one's energies,
and moral determination. This you will soon form, if,
-- 232 --
[figure description] Page 232.[end figure description]
looking around you and into the performances of others,
you see how easy they are, and how far inferior they are
to your own ideas of what excellence should be. Do not
look into yourself for your standards. I have perhaps
erred in making these too high. Look out from yourself—
look into others—analyze the properties of others; and,
in attempting, seek only to meet the exigencies of the
occasion, without asking what a great mind might effect
beyond it. Your heart will fail you always if your beau
idéal is for ever present to your mind.”
“I will try, sir. My tasks are before me, and I know it
is full time that I should discard my boyhood. I will go
to work with industry, and will endeavour not to disappoint
your confidence; but I must confess, sir, I have
very little in myself.”
“If you will work seriously, William, my faith is in
this very humility. A man, knowing his own weakness
and working to be strong, cannot fail. He must achieve
something more than he strives for.”
“You make me strong as I hear you, sir. But I have
one request to make, sir. I have a favour to ask, sir, which
will make me almost happy if you grant it—which will
at least reconcile me to receive your favours, and to feel
them less oppressively.”
“What is that, William? You know, my son, there
are few things which I could refuse you.”
“It is that I may be your son; that I may call you
father, and bear henceforward your name. If you adopt
me, rear me, teach me, provide me with the means of
education and life, and do for me what a father should have
done, you are substantially more than my father to me.
Let me bear your name? I shall be proud of it, sir. I
will not disgrace it—nay, more, it will strengthen me in
my desire to do it and myself honour. When I hear it
spoken, it will remind me of my equal obligations to you
and to myself?”
“But this, my son, is a wrong done to your own
father.”
“Alas! he will not feel it such.”
The old man shook his head.
“You speak now with a feeling of anger, William.
The treatment of your father rankles in your mind.”
“No, sir, no! I freely forgive him. I have no reference
-- 233 --
[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]
to him in the prayer I make. My purpose is simply what
I declare. Your name will remind me of your counsels,
will increase my obligation to pursue them—will strengthen
me in my determination—will be to me a fond monitor
in your place. Oh, sir, do not deny me! You have
shown me the affections of a father—let me, I intreat
you, bear the name of your son?”
The youth flung his arms about the old man's neck, and
wept with a gush of fondness which the venerable sire
could not withstand. He was deeply touched. His lips
quivered; his eyes thrilled and throbbed. In vain did he
strive to resist the impulse. He gave him tear for tear.
“My son, you have unmanned me.”
“Ah, my father, I cannot regret, since, in doing so, I
have strengthened my own manhood.”
“If it have this effect, William, I shall not regret my
own weakness. There is a bird, you are aware, of which
it is fabled that it nourishes its young by the blood of its
own bosom which it wounds for this purpose. Believe
me, my dear boy, I am not unwilling to be this bird for
your sake. If to feel for you as the fondest of fathers
can give me the rights of one, then are you most certainly
my son,—my son!”
Long and fond and sweet was their embrace. For a
full hour, but few words, and those of a mournful tenderness,
were exchanged between the parties; but the scene
and the struggle was drawing nigh its close. This was the
day when they were to separate. It had been arranged
that William Hinkley, or, as he now calls himself, William
Calvert, was to go into the world. The old man had recalled
for his sake many of the memories and associations
of his youth. He had revived that period, in his case one
of equal bitterness and pleasure, when, a youth like him
he was about to send forth, he had been the ardent student
in a profession whose honours he had so sadly failed to
reap. In this profession he was then fortunate in having
many sterling friends. Some of these were still so. In
withdrawing from society he had not withdrawn from all
commerce with a select and sacred few; and to the friendly
counsel and protection of these, he now deputed the paternal
trusts which had been just so solemnly surrendered
to himself. There were long and earnest appeals to many
noble associates—men who had won great names by dint
-- 234 --
[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]
of honourable struggle in those fields into which the feebler
temper of Mr. Calvert did not permit him to penetrate.
Some of these letters bore for their superscriptions such
names as the Clays and the Metcalfs,—the strong men,
not merely of Kentucky, but of the Union. The good old
man sighed as he read them over, separately, to his young
companion.
“Once I stood with them, and like them—not the meanest
among them;—nay, beloved by them as an associate
and recognised as a competitor. But they are here—
strong, high, glorious, in the eye of the nation—and I am
nothing;—a poor white-headed pedagogue in the obscurest
regions of Kentucky. Oh, my son, remember this, and
be strong! Beware of that weakness, the offspring of a
miserable vanity, which, claiming too much for itself, can
bestow nothing upon others. Strive only to meet the exigency,
and you will do more—you will pass beyond it.
Ask not what your fame requires—the poor fame of a solitary
man struggling like an atom in the bosom of the great
struggling world—ask only what is due to the task which
you have assumed, and labour to do that. This is the
simple, small secret, but be sure, it is the one which is of
more importance than all beside.”
The departure of William Hinkley from his native village
was kept a profound secret from all persons except his
adopted father and his bosom friend and cousin, Fisherman
Ned. We have lost sight of this young man for several
pages, and, in justice equally to the reader and himself, it is
necessary that we should hurriedly retrace our progress, at
least so far as concerns his. We left him, if we remember,
having driven Alfred Stevens from his purpose, riding
on alone, really with no other aim than to give circulation to
his limbs and fancies. His ride, if we are to believe his random
but significant words, and his very knowing looks,
was not without its results. He had certainly made some
discoveries,—at least he thought and said so; but, in truth,
we believe these amounted to nothing more than some
plausible conjectures as to the route which Alfred Stevens
was in the habit of pursuing, on these excursions, in which
the neighbours were disposed to think that there was something
very mysterious. He certainly had jumped to the
conclusion that, on such occasions, the journey of Stevens
was prolonged to Ellisland; and as such a ride was too
-- 235 --
[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]
long for one of mere pleasure and exercise, the next conclusion
was, that such a journey had always some business
in it. Now, a business that calls for so much secrecy, in
a young student of theology, was certainly one that could
have very little relation to the church. So far as Ned
Hinkley knew any thing of the Decalogue it could not well
relate to that. There was nothing in St. Paul that required
him to travel post to Ellisland; though a voyage to Tarsus
might be justified by the authority of that apostle; and the
whole proceeding, therefore, appeared to be a mystery in
which gospelling had very little to do. Very naturally,
having arrived at this conclusion, Ned Hinkley jumped to
another. If the saints have nothing to do with this
journey of Alfred Stevens, the sinners must have. It
meant mischief,—it was a device of Satan; and the matter
seemed so clearly made out to his own mind, that
he returned home with the farther conviction, which was
equally natural and far more easily arrived at, that he was
now bound by religion, as he had previously been impelled
by instinct, to give Stevens “a regular licking the very
first chance that offered.” Still, though determined on this
measure, he was not unmindful of the necessity of making
other discoveries; and he returned to Charlemont with a
countenance big with importance and almost black with
mystery.
But the events which had taken place in his absence,
and which we have already related, almost put his own
peculiar purposes out of his mind. That William Hinkley
should have cowskinned Stevens would have been much
more gratifying to him could he have been present; and
he was almost disposed to join with the rest in their outcry
against this sacrilegious proceeding, for the simple
reason, that it somewhat anticipated his own rigorous intentions
to the same effect. He was not less dissatisfied
with the next attempt for two reasons.
“You might have known, Bill, that a parson won't
fight with pistols. You might have persuaded him to fist
or cudgel, to a fair up and down, hand over, fight! That's
not so criminal, they think. I heard once of Brother
John Cross, himself trying a cudgel bout with another
parson down in Mississippi, because he took the same text
out of his mouth, and preached it over the very same day,
with contrary reason. Every body said that John Cross
-- 236 --
[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]
served him right, and nobody blamed either. But they
would have done so if pistols had been used. You can't
expect parsons or students of religion to fight with firearms.
Swords, now, they think justifiable, for St. Peter
used them; but we read nowhere in Old or New Testament
of their using guns, pistols, or rifles.”
“But he consented to fight, and brought his own pistols,
Ned?”
“Why then didn't you fight? That's the next thing I
blame you for—that, when you were both ready, and had
the puppies in your hands, you should have stood looking
at each other without taking a crack. By jingo, had there
been fifty fathers and mothers in the bush, I'd have had a
crack at him. No, I blame you, William,—I can't help it.
You didn't do right. Oh! if you had only waited for me,
and let me have fixed it, how finely we would have managed.
What then, if your father had burst in, it was only
shifting the barkers from your hands to mine. I'd have
banged at him, though John Cross himself, and all his
flock, stood by and kneed it to prevent me. They might
have prayed to all eternity without stopping me, I tell you.”
William Hinkley muttered something about the more
impressive sort of procedure which his father had resorted
to, and a little soreness about the parietal bones just at that
moment giving a quick impatient air to his manner, had
the effect of putting an end to all farther discussion of this
topic. Fisherman Ned concluded with a brief assurance,
meant as consolation, that, when he took up the cudgels,
his cousin need make himself perfectly easy with the conviction
that he would balance both accounts very effectually.
He had previously exhorted William to renew the attempt,
though with different weapons, to bring his enemy into the
field; but against this attempt Mr. Calvert had already
impressively enjoined him, exacting from him a promise
that he would not seek Stevens, and would simply abide
any call for satisfaction which the latter might make. The
worthy old man assured that in Stevens's situation there
was very little likelihood of a summons to the field from
him. Still, William Hinkley did not deem it becoming in
him to leave the ground for several days, even after his
preparations for departure were complete. He loitered in
the neighbourhood, showed himself frequently to his enemy,
and, on some of these occasions, was subjected to the
-- 237 --
[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
mortification of beholding the latter on his way to the
house of Margaret Cooper, with whom, a few moments
after, he might be seen in lonely rambles by the lake side
and in the wood. William had conquered his hopes from
this quarter, but he vainly endeavoured to suppress his
pangs.
At length the morning came for his departure. He had
seen his mother for the last time the night before. They
had met at the house of the widow Hinkley, between
which and that of Calvert, his time had been chiefly spent,
since the day of his affair with Stevens. His determination
to depart was carefully concealed from his mother.
He dreaded to hear her entreaties, and he doubted his own
strength to endure them. His deportment, however, was
sufficiently fond and tender, full of pain and passion, to
have convinced her, had she been at all suspicious of the
truth, of the design he meditated. But, as it was, it simply
satisfied her affections; and the fond “good night”
with which he addressed her ears at parting, was followed
by a gush of tears which shocked the more sturdy courage
of his cousin, and aroused the suspicions of the widow.
“William Hinkley,” she said after the mother had gone
home—“you must be thinking to leave Charlemont. I'm
sure of it—I know it.”
“If you do, say nothing, dear cousin; it will do no
good—it cannot prevent me now, and will only make our
parting more painful.”
“Oh, don't fear me,” said the widow—“I shan't speak
of it, till it's known to every body, for I think you right
to go and do just as gran'pa Calvert tells you; but you
needn't have made it such a secret with me. I've always
been too much of your friend to say a word.”
“Alas!” said the youth mournfully, “until lately, dear
cousin, I fancied that I had no friends—do not blame me
therefore, if I still sometimes act as if I had none.”
“You have many friends, William, already—I'm sure
you will find many more wherever you go; abler friends
if not fonder ones, than you leave behind you.”
The youth threw his arms round the widow's neck and
kissed her tenderly. Her words sounded in his ears like
some melodious prophecy.
“Say no more, cousin,” he exclaimed with sudden enthusiasm,
“I am so well pleased to believe what you
-- 238 --
[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
promise me of the future, that I am willing to believe all. God
bless you. I will never forget you.”
The parting with Calvert was more touching in reality,
but with fewer of the external signs of feeling. A few
words, a single embrace and squeeze of the hand, and they
separated; the old man hiding himself and his feelings in
the dimness of his secluded abode, while his adopted son,
with whom Ned Hinkley rode a brief distance on his way,
struck spurs into his steed, as if to lose, in the rapid motion
of the animal, the slow, sad feelings which were pressing
heavily upon his heart. He had left Charlemont for ever.
He had left it under circumstances of doubt, and despondency—
stung by injustice, and baffled in the first ardent
hopes of his youthful mind. “The world was all before
him where to choose.” Let us not doubt that the benignant
Providence is still his guide.
CHAPTER XXV.
The progress of events and our story necessarily brings
us back to Charlemont. We shall lose sight of William
Hinkley for some time; and here, par parenthese, let us
say to our readers, that this story being drawn from veritable
life, will lack some of that compactness and close
fitness of parts which make our novels too much resemble
the course of a common law case. Instead of having
our characters always at hand, at the proper moment, to
do the business of the artist, like so many puppets, each
working on a convenient wire, and waiting to be whirled
in upon the scene, we shall find them sometimes absent,
as we do in real life, when their presence is most seriously
desired, and when the reader would perhaps prefer that
they should come in, to meet or make emergencies. Some
are gone whom we should rather see; some present,
whose absence, in the language of the Irishman, would be
the best company they could give us; and some, not
forthcoming, like the spirits of Owen Glendower, even
when most stoutly called for. The vast deeps of human
progress do not release their tenants at the beck and call
-- 239 --
[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
of ordinary magicians, and we, who endeavour to describe
events as we find them, must be content to take them and
persons, too, only when they are willing. Were we writing
the dramatic romance, we should be required to keep
William Hinkley always at hand, as a convenient foil to
Alfred Stevens. He should watch his progress; pursue
his sinuosities of course; trace him out in all his ill-favoured
purposes, and be ready, at the first act—having,
like the falcon, by frequent and constantly ascending gyrations,
reached the point of command—to pounce down
upon the fated quarry, and end the story and the strife
together. But ours is a social narrative, where people
come and go without much regard to the unities, and without
asking leave of the manager. William Hinkley, too,
is a mere man and no hero. He has no time to spare,
and he is conscious that he has already wasted too much.
He has work to do and is gone to do it. Let it console the
reader, in his absence, to know that he will do it—that his
promise is a good one—and that we have already been
shown, in the dim perspective of the future, glimpses of
his course which compensate him for his mishaps, and
gladden the heart of his adopted father, by confirming its
prophecies and hopes.
The same fates which deny that he should realize the
first fancies of his boyhood, are, in the end, perhaps, not a
jot kinder to others whom they now rather seem to favour.
His absence did not stop the social machine of Charlemont
from travelling on very much as before. There was a
shadow over his mother's heart, and his disappearance
rather aroused some misgiving and self-reproachful sensations
in that of his father. Mr. Calvert, too, had his touch
of hypochondria in consequence of his increased loneliness;
and Ned Hinkley's fighting monomania underwent
startling increase; but, with the rest, the wheel went on
without much sensible difference. The truth is, that,
however mortifying the truth may be, the best of us makes
but a very small sensation in his absence. Death is a
longer absence, in which our friends either forget us, or
recollect our vices. Our virtues are best acknowledged
when we are standing nigh and ready to enforce them.
Like the argumentative eloquence of the Eighth Harry,
they are never effectual until the halberdiers clinch their
rivets forcibly.
-- 240 --
[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
It does not necessarily impugn the benevolence or wisdom
of Providence to show that crime is successful for a
season in its purposes. Vice may prevail, and victims
perish, without necessarily disparaging the career, or impeding
the progress of virtue. To show that innocence
may fall, is sometimes to strengthen innocence, so that it
may stand against all assailants. To show vice, even in
its moments of success, is not necessarily to show that
such success is desirable. Far from it! As none of us
can look very deeply into the future, so it happens that
the boon for which we pray sometimes turns out to be
our bane; while the hardship and suffering, whose approach
we deprecate in sackcloth and ashes, may come
with healing on their wings, and afford us a dearer blessing
than any ever yet depicted in the loom of a sanguine and
brilliant imagination. We are, after all, humbling as this
fact may be to our clamorous vanity, only so many agents
and instruments, blind, and scuffling vainly in our blindness,
in the perpetual law of progress. As a soul never
dies, so it is never useless or unemployed. The Deity is
no more profligate in the matter of souls than be is in that
of seeds. They pass, by periodical transitions, from body
to body; perhaps from sphere to sphere; and as the performance
of their trusts have been praiseworthy or censurable,
so will be the character of their trusts in future.
He who has shown himself worthy of confidence in one
state, will probably acquire a corresponding increase of
responsibility in another. He who has betrayed his trusts
or impaired them, will share less of the privileges of the
great moral credit system. In all these transitions, however,
work is to be done. The fact that there is a trust,
implies duty and performance; and the practice of virtue
is nothing more than the performance of this work to the
best of our abilities. Well, we do not do our work. We
fail in our trusts. We abuse them. Such a man as Alfred
Stevens abuses them. Such a woman as Margaret Cooper
fails in them. What then? Do we destroy the slave who
fails in his duty, or chasten him, and give him inferior
trusts? Do you suppose that the Deity is more profligate
in souls than in seeds—that he creates and sends forth
millions of new souls, annually, in place of those which
have gone astray? Not so! He is too good an economist
for that. We learn this from all the analogies. As a soul
-- 241 --
[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]
cannot perish, so it never remains unemployed. It still
works, though its labours may be confined to a treadmill.
The mere novel reader may regard all this as so much
unnecessary digression. But let him not deceive himself.
It would be the most humiliating and painful thought, indeed,
could we believe that the genius which informs and
delights us—which guides the bark of state through a
thousand storms and dangers to its port of safety—which
conquers and commands—which sings in melodies that
make melodies in human hearts for thousands of succeeding
years—is suddenly to be suspended—to have no more
employment—to do no more work—guide no more states—
make no more melodies! Nay, the pang would be
scarcely less to believe that fair intellect like that of Alfred
Stevens, or wild, irregular genius, like that of Margaret
Cooper—because of its erring, either through perversity
or blindness, are wholly to become defunct, so far as employment
is concerned—that they are to be deprived of all
privilege of working up to the lost places—regaining the
squandered talents—atoning, by industry and humble desire,
the errors and deficiencies of the past! We rather
believe that heaven is a world where the labours are more
elevated, the necessities less degrading; that it is no more
permanent than what we esteem present life; nay, that it
is destined to other transitions; that we may still ascend,
on and on, and that each heaven has its higher heaven yet.
We believe that our immortality is from the beginning;
that time is only a periodical step in eternity—that transition
is the true meaning of life—and death nothing more
than a sign of progress. It may be an upward or a downward
progress, but it is not a toilsome march to a mere
sleep. Lavish as is the bounty of God, and boundless as
are his resources, there is nothing of him that we do know
which can justify the idea of such utter profligacy of material.
We transgress. Our business is with the present doings
of our dramatis personæ and not with the future employment
of their souls. Still, we believe the doctrine which
we teach not only to be more rational, but absolutely more
moral than the conjectures on this subject which are in
ordinary use. More rational as relates to the characteristics
of the Deity, and more moral as it affects the conduct
and the purposes of man himself. There is
-- 242 --
[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
something grand beyond all things else, in the conception of
this eternal progress of the individual nature; its passage
from condition to condition; sphere to sphere; life to
life; always busy, working for the mighty master; failing
and sinking to mere menial toils, or achieving and rising
to more noble trusts; but, at all events, still working in
some way in the great world-plantation, and under the
direct eye of the sovereign World-Planter. The torture
of souls on the one hand, and the singing of psalms on
the other, may be doctrines infinitely more orthodox; but,
to our mind, they seem immeasurably inferior in granddeur,
in propriety, in noble conception of the appointments
of the creature, and the wondrous and lovely designs of
the benignant Father.
The defeat of such a soul as that of Margaret Cooper,
can surely be a temporary defeat only. It will recover
strength, it must rise in the future, it must recover the
lost ground, and reassert the empire whose sway it has
unwillingly abandoned; for it is not through will, wholly,
by which we lose the moral eminence. Something is
due to human weaknesses; to the blindness in which a
noble spirit is sometimes suffered to grow into stature;
disproportioned stature—that, reaching to heaven, is yet
shaken down and overthrown by the merest breath of
storm that sweeps suddenly beneath its skies. The very
hopelessness of Margaret Cooper's ambition, which led her
to misanthropy, was the source of an ever fertile and upsprung
confidence. Thus it was that the favouring opinions
which Alfred Stevens expressed—a favouring opinion
expressed by one whom she soon discovered was well able
to form one—accompanied by an assurance that the dream
of fame which her wild imagination had formed should
certainly be realized, gave him a large power over her confidence.
Her passion was sway—the sway of mind over
mind—of genius over sympathy—of the syren Genius
over the subject Love. It was this passion which had made
her proud, which had filled her mind with visions, and
yielded to her a world by itself, and like no other, filled
with all forms of worship and attraction; chivalrous faith,
unflagging zeal, generous confidence, pure spirits, and
the most unquestioning loyalty! Ignorant of the world
which she had not seen, and of those movements of
human passion which she had really never felt, she
-- 243 --
[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
naturally regarded Alfred Stevens as one of the noble representatives
of that imaginary empire which her genius
continually brought before her eyes. She saw in him
the embodiment of that faith in her intellect which it was
the first and last hope of her intellect to inspire; and
seeing thus, it will be easy to believe that her full heart,
which, hitherto, had poured itself forth on rocks, and
trees, and solitary places, forgetful of all prudence—a lesson
which she had never learned—and rejoicing in the
sympathy of a being like herself, now gushed forth with
all the volume of its impatient fulness. The adroit art of
her companion led her for ever into herself; she was continually
summoned to pour forth the treasures of her
mind and soul; and, toiling in the same sort of egoisme
in which her life heretofore had been consumed, she was
necessarily diverted from all doubts or apprehensions of
the occult purposes of him who had thus beguiled her
over the long-frequented paths. As the great secret of success
with the mere worlding, is to pry into the secret of
his neighbour while carefully concealing his own, so, it
is the great misfortune of enthusiasm to be soon blinded
to a purpose which its own ardent nature neither allows
it to suspect nor penetrate. Enthusiasm is a thing of
utter confidence; it has no suspicion; it sets no watch on
other hearts; it is too constantly employed in pouring
forth the treasures of its own. It is easy, therefore, to
deceive and betray it, to beguile it into confidence, and
turn all its revelations against itself. How far the frequency
of this usage in the world makes it honourable, is
a question which we need not discuss on this occasion.
Alfred Stevens had now been for some weeks in the
village of Charlemont, where, in the meantime, he had become
an object of constantly increasing interest. The
men shrank from him with a feeling of inferiority; the
women—the young ones being understood—shrank from
him also, but with that natural art of the sex which invites
pursuit, and strives to conquer even in flight. But
it was soon evident enough that Stevens bestowed his
best regards solely upon Margaret Cooper. If he sought
the rest it was simply in compliance with those seeming
duties of his ostensible profession which were necessary
to maintain appearances. Whether he loved Margaret
Cooper or not, he soon found a pleasure in her society
-- 244 --
[figure description] Page 244.[end figure description]
which he sought for in no other quarter of the village.
The days, in spite of the strife with William Hinkley, flew
by with equal pleasantness and rapidity to both. The
unsophisticated mind of Margaret Cooper, left her sensible
to few restraints upon their ordinary intercourse; and,
indeed, if she did know or regard them for an instant, it
was only to consider them as necessary restraints for the
protection of the ignorant and feeble of her sex—a class
in which she never once thought to include herself. Her
attachment to Alfred Stevens, though it first arose from
the pleasure which her mind derived from its intercourse
with his, and not from any of those nice and curious sympathies
of temperament and taste which are supposed to
constitute the essence and comprise the secret of love,
was yet sufficient to blind her judgment to the risks of
feeling, if nothing more, which were likely to arise from
their hourly increasing intimacy; and she wandered with
him into the devious woods, and they walked by moonlight
among the solemn-shaded hills, and the unconscious
girl had no sort of apprehension that the spells of an enslaving
passion were rapidly passing over her soul.
How should she apprehend such spells, how break
them? For the first time in her life had she found intellectual
sympathy—the only moral response which her
heart longed to hear. For the first time had she encountered
a mind which could do justice, and correspond on
any thing like equal terms with her own. How could she
think that evil would ensue from an acquisition which
yielded her the only communion which she had ever
craved. Her confidence in herself, in her own strength,
and her ignorance of her own passions, were sufficient to
render her feelings secure; and then she was too well
satisfied of the superiority and nobleness of his. But, in
truth, she never thought upon the subject. Her mind
dwelt only on the divine forms and images of poetry.
The ideal world had superseded not only the dangers but
the very aspect of the real. Under the magic action of
her fancy, she had come to dwell
“With those gay creatures of the element,
That in the colours of the rainbow live,
And play the plighted clouds—”
She had come to speak only in the one language, and o
-- 245 --
[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]
the one topic; and, believing now that she had an auditor
equally able to comprehend and willing to sympathize with
her cravings, she gave free scope to the utterance of her
fancies, and to the headlong impulse of that imagination
which had never felt the curb. The young heart not yet
chilled by the world's denials, will readily comprehend the
beguiling influence of the dreaming and enthusiastic nature
of some dear spirit, in whose faith it has full confidence,
and whose tastes are kindred with its own. How sweet
the luxury of moonlight in commerce with such a congenial
spirit. How heavenly the occasional breath of the
sweet southwest. How gentle and soothing fond the
whispers of night; the twiring progress of sad-shining
stars; the gentle sway of winds among the tree-tops; the
plaintive moan of billows, as they gather and disperse themselves
along the shores. To speak of these delights; to
walk hand in hand, along the gray sands by the sea-side,
and whisper in murmuring tones, that seem to gather sympathies
from those of ocean; to guide the eye of the
beloved associate to the sudden object; to challenge the
kindred fancy which comments upon our own; to remember
together, and repeat, the happy verse of inspired
poets, speaking of the scene, and to the awakened heart
which feels it; and more, to pour forth one's own inspirations
in the language of tenderness and song, and awaken,
in the heart of our companion, the rapture to which our
own has given speech—these, which are subjects of mock
and scorn to the worldling, are substantial, though not
enduring joys, to the young and ardent nature. In this
communion, with all her pride, strength and confidence,
Margaret Cooper was the merest child. Without a feeling
of guile, she was dreaming of the greatness which her
ambition craved, and telling her dreams, with all the artless
freedom of the child who has some golden fancy of the
future, which it seeks to have confirmed by the lips of
experience. The wily Stevens led her on, gave stimulus
to her enthusiasm, made her dreams become reasonable in
her eyes, and laughed at them in his secret heart. She
sung at his suggestion, and sung her own verses with all
that natural tremor which even the most self-assured poet
feels on such an occasion.
“Beautiful!” the arch-hypocrite would exclaim, as if
unconscious of utterance; “beautiful!” and his hand
-- 246 --
[figure description] Page 246.[end figure description]
would possess itself of the trembling fingers of hers.
“But beautiful as it is, Margaret, I am sure that is nothing
to what you could do under more auspicious circumstances.”
“Ah! if there were ears to hear; if there were hearts
to feel, and eyes to weep, I feel, I know, what might be
done. No, no! This is nothing. This is the work of
a child.”
“Nay, Margaret, if the work of a child, it is that of a
child of genius.”
“Ah! do not flatter me, Alfred Stevens, do not deceive
me. I am too willing to believe you, for it is so dear a
feeling to think that I too am a poet. Yet at the first, I
had not the smallest notion of this kind, I neither knew
what poetry was nor felt the desire to be a poet. Yet I
yearned with strange feeling, which uttered themselves in
that form ere I had seen books or read the verses of others.
It was an instinct that led me as it would. I sometimes
fear that I have been foolish in obeying it; for oh! what
has it brought me? What am I? What are my joys?
I am lonely even with my companions. I share not the
sports, and feel not the things which delight my sex.
Their dances and frolics give me no pleasure. I have no
sympathy with them or their cares. I go apart—I am here
on the hills—or deep in the forests—sad, lonely, scarcely
knowing what I am and what I desire.”
“You are not alone, nor are your pleasures less acute
than theirs. If they laugh, their laughter ends in sleep.
If you are sad, you lose not the slightest faculty of perception
or sensibility but rather gain them in consequence.
Laughter and tears are signs neither of happiness nor
grief; and as frequently result from absolute indifference
as from any active emotion. If you are absent from them
you have better company. You can summon spirits to
your communion, Margaret; noble thoughts attend you;
eyes that cheer, lips that assure you, and whispers, from
unknown attendants, that bid you be of good heart for the
time is coming. Ah! Margaret, believe me when I tell
you, that time is at hand. Such genius as yours, such a
spirit cannot always be buried in these woods.”
It was in such artful language as this that the arch-hypocrite
flattered and beguiled her. They were wandering
along the edge of the streamlet to which we have more
-- 247 --
[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
than once conducted the footsteps of the reader. The sun
was about setting. The autumn air was mild with a gentle
breathing from the south. The woods were still and meek
as the slumbers of an infant. The quiet of the scene
harmonized with the temper of their thoughts and feelings.
They sat upon a fragment of the rock. Margaret was
silent, but her eyes were glistening bright—not with hope
only; but with that first glimmering consciousness of a
warmer feeling, which gives a purple light to hope, and
makes the heart tremble, for the first time, with its own
expectations. It did not escape Alfred Stevens that, for
the first time, her eye sank beneath his glance; for the
first time there was a slight flush upon her cheek. He
was careful not to startle and alarm the consciousness
which these signs indicated. The first feeling which the
young heart has of its dependance upon another, is one little
short of terror—it is a feeling which wakens up suspicion,
and puts all the senses upon the watch. To appear
to perceive this emotion is to make it circumspect; to disarm
it, one must wear the aspect of unconsciousness. The
wily Stevens, practised in the game, and master of the
nature of the unsuspecting girl, betrayed in his looks none
of the intelligence which he felt. If he uttered himself
in the language of admiration, it was that admiration which
would be natural to a profound adorer of literature and all
its professors. His words were those of the amateur.
“I cannot understand, Margaret, how you have studied—
how you have learnt so much—your books are few—
you have had no masters. I never met in my life with
so remarkable an instance of unassisted endeavour.”
“My books were here in the woods—among these old
rocks. My teacher was solitude. Ah! there is no teacher
like one's own heart. My instinct made me feel my deficiencies—
my deficiencies taught me contemplation—and
from contemplation came thoughts and cravings, and you
know, when the consciousness of our lack is greatest, then,
even the dumb man finds a voice. I found my voice in
consequence of my wants. My language you see is that
of complaint only.”
“And a sweet and noble language it is, Margaret; but
it is not in poetry alone that your utterance is so distinct
and beautiful—you sing too with a taste as well as power
which would prove that contemplation was as happy in
-- 248 --
[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
bringing about perfection in the one as in the other art.
Do, sing me, Margaret, that little ditty which you sang
here the other night?”
His hand gently detained and pressed hers as he urged
the request.
“I would rather not sing to-night;” she replied, “I do
not feel as if I could, and I trust altogether to feeling. I
will sing for you some other time when you do not ask,
and perhaps would prefer not to hear me.”
“To hear you at all, Margaret, is music to my ears.”
She was silent, and her fingers made a slight movement
to detach themselves from his.
“No, Margaret, do not withdraw them! Let me detain
them thus,—longer,—for ever! My admiration of you has
been too deeply felt not to have been too clearly shown.
Your genius is too dear to me now to suffer me to lose it.
Margaret,—dear Margaret!”
She spoke not—her breathing became quick and hard.
“You do not speak, let me hope that you are not angry
with me?”
“No, no!” she whispered faintly. He continued with
more boldness, and while he spoke, his arm encircled her
waist.
“A blessed chance brought me to your village. I saw
you and returned. I chose a disguise in which I might
study you, and see how far the treasures of your mind
confirmed the noble promise of your face. They have done
more. Like him who finds the precious ore among the
mountains, I cannot part with you so found. I must tear
you from the soil. I must bear you with me. You must
be mine, Margaret,—you must go with me where the
world will see, and envy me my prize.”
He pressed her to his bosom. She struggled slightly.
“Do not, do not, Alfred Stevens, do not press me—do
not keep me. You think too much of me. You think too much of me. I am no treasure—
alas! this is all deception. You cannot—cannot
desire it?”
“Do I not! Ah! Margaret, what else do I desire now?
Do you think me only what I appear in Charlemont?”
“No! no!”
“I have the power of a name, Margaret, in my profession—
among a numerous people—and that power is growing
into wealth and sway. I am feared and honoured,
-- 249 --
[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
loved by some, almost worshipped by others; and what
has led me from this sway, to linger among these hills—
to waste hours so precious to ambition—to risk the influence
which I had already secured—what, but a higher
impulse—a dearer prospect—a treasure, Margaret, of equal
beauty and genius.”
Her face was hidden upon his bosom. He felt the beating
of her heart against his hand.
“If you have a genius for song, Margaret Cooper, I,
too, am not without my boast. In my profession, men
speak of my eloquence as that of a genius which has few
equals, and no superior.”
“I know it—it must be so!”
“Move me not to boast, dear Margaret; it is in your
ears only that I do so,—and only to assure you that, in
listening to my love, you do not yield to one utterly obscure,
and wanting in claims, which, as yours must do, are
already held to be established and worthy of the best
admiration of the intelligent and wise. Do you hear me,
Margaret?”
“I do, I do! It must be as you say. But of love, I
have thought nothing. No, no! I know not, Alfred Stevens,
if I love or not—if I can love.”
“You mistake, Margaret. It is in the heart that the
head finds its inspiration. Mere intellect makes not genius.
All the intellect in the world would fail of this divine
consummation. It is from the fountains of feeling that
poetry drinks her inspiration. It is at the altars of love
that the genius of song first bends in adoration. You have
loved, Margaret, from the first moment when you sung.
It did not alter the case that there was no object of sight.
The image was in your mind—in your hope. One sometimes
goes through life without ever meeting the human
counterpart of this ideal; and the language of such a heart
will be that of chagrin—distaste of life—misanthropy, and
a general scorn of his own nature. Such, I trust, is not
your destiny. No, Margaret, that is impossible. I take
your doubt as my answer, and unless your own lips undeceive
me, dearest Margaret, I will believe that your love
is willing to requite my own.”
She was actually sobbing on his breast. With an effort
she struggled into utterance.
-- 250 --
[figure description] Page 250.[end figure description]
“My heart is so full, my feelings are so strange,—oh!
Alfred Stevens, I never fancied I could be so weak.”
“So weak—to love! surely, Margaret, you mistake the
word. It is in loving only that the heart finds its strength.
Love is the heart's sole business; and not to exercise it in
its duties is to impair its faculties, and deprive it equally
of its pleasures and its tasks. Oh, I will teach you of the
uses of this little heart of yours, dear Margaret—ay, till
it grows big with its own capacity to teach. We will inform
each other, every hour, of some new impulses and
objects. Our dreams, our hopes, our fears, and our desires,
ah! Margaret,—what a study of love will these afford us.
Nor to love only. Ah! dearest, when your muse shall
have its audience, its numerous watching eyes and eager
ears, then shall you discover how much richer will be the
strain from your lips once informed by the gushing fulness
of this throbbing heart.”
She murmured fondly in his embrace, “Ah! I ask no
other eyes and ears than yours.”
In the glow of a new and overpowering emotion, such
indeed was her feeling. He gathered her up closer in his
arms. He pressed his lips upon the rich ripe beauties of
hers, as some hungering bee, darting upon the yet unrifled
flower which it first finds in the shadows of the forest,
clings to, and riots on, the luscious loveliness, as if appetite
could only be sated in its exhaustion. She struggled
and freed herself from his embrace; but, returning home
that evening her eye was cast upon the ground; her step
was set down hesitatingly;—there was a tremor in her
heart; a timid expression in her face and manners! These
were proofs of the discovery which she then seems to
have made for the first time, that there is a power stronger
than mere human will—a power that controls genius;
that mocks at fame; feels not the lack of fortune, and is
independent of the loss of friends! She now first knew
her weakness. She had felt the strength of love! Ah!
the best of us may quail, whatever his hardihood, in the
day when love asserts his strength and goes forth to victory.
Margaret Cooper sought her chamber, threw herself
on the bed, and turned her face in the pillow to hide
the burning blushes which, with every movement of
thought and memory, seemed to increase upon her cheek.
Yet, while she blushed and even wept, her heart throbbed
-- 251 --
[figure description] Page 251.[end figure description]
and trembled with the birth of a new emotion of joy. Ah!
how sweet is our first secret pleasure—shared by one
other only—sweet to that other as to ourself—so precious
to him also. To be carried into our chamber,—to be set
up ostentatiously—there, where none but ourselves may
see—to be an object of our constant tendance, careful
idolatry, keen suspicion, delighted worship! Ah! but if
the other makes it no idol—his toy only—what shall follow
this desecration of the sacred thing! What but shame,
remorse, humiliation, perhaps death!—alas! for Margaret
Cooper, the love which had so suddenly grown into a
precious divinity with her, was no divinity with him. He
is no believer. He has no faith in such things, but like
the tradesman in religion, he can preach deftly the good
doctrines which he cannot feel and is slow to practise.
CHAPTER XXVI.
We should speak unprofitably and with little prospect
of being understood, did our readers require to be told,
that there is a certain impatient and gnawing restlessness
in the heart of love, which keeps it for ever feverish and
anxious. Where this passion is associated with a warm
enthusiastic genius, owning the poetic temperament, the
anxiety is proportionably greater. The ideal of the mind
is a sort of classical image of perfect loveliness, chaste,
sweet, commanding, but, how cold! But love gives life
to this image, even as the warm rays of the sun falling
upon the sullen lips of the Memnon, compels its utterance
in music. It not only looks beauty—it breathes it. It is
not only the aspect of the Apollo, it is the god himself;
his full lyre strung, his golden bow quivering at his back
with the majesty of his motion; and his lips parting with
the song which shall make the ravished spheres stoop,
and gather round to listen. Hitherto Margaret Cooper
had been a girl of strong will; will nursed in solitude, and
by the wrong-headed indulgence of a vain and foolish
mother. She was conscious of that bounding, bursting
soul of genius which possessed her bosom; that strange
-- 252 --
[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]
moody and capricious god; pent up, denied, crying ever
more for utterance, with a breath more painful to endure,
because of the suppression. This consciousness, with the
feeling of denial which attended it, had cast a gloomy intensity
over her features not less than her mind. The
belief that she was possessed of treasures which were unvalued—
that she had powers which were never to be
exercised—that with a song such as might startle an
empire, she was yet doomed to a silent and senseless
auditory of rocks and trees; this belief had brought with
it a moody arrogance of temper which had made itself
felt by all around her. In one hour this mood had departed.
Ambition and love became united for a common
purpose; for the object of the latter, was also the profound
admirer of the former.
The anxious restlessness which her newly acquired
sensations occasioned in her bosom, was not diminished
by a renewal of those tender interviews with her lover,
which we have endeavoured, though so faultily, already
to describe. Evening after evening found them together;
the wily hypocrite still stimulating, by his glozing artifices,
the ruling passion for fame which, in her bosom, was only
temporarily subservient to love, while he drank his precious
reward from her warm, lovely, and still blushing
lips and cheeks. The very isolation in which she had
previously dwelt in Charlemont, rendered the society of
Stevens still more dear to her heart. She was no longer
alone—no longer unknown—not now unappreciated in
that respect in which hitherto she felt her great denial.
“Here is one—himself a genius—who can do justice to
mine.” The young poet who finds an auditor, where he
has never had one before, may be likened to a blind man
suddenly put in possession of his sight. He sees sun and
moon and stars, the forms of beauty, the images of grace;
and his soul grows intoxicated with the wonders of its
new empire. What does he owe to him who puts him in
possession of these treasures, who has given him his
sight. Love, devotion, all that his full heart has to pay
of homage and affection. Such was very much the relation
which Margaret Cooper bore to Alfred Stevens; and
when, by his professions of love, he left the shows of his
admiration no longer doubtful, she was at once and entirely
his. She was no longer the self-willed, imperious
-- 253 --
[figure description] Page 253.[end figure description]
damsel, full of defiance, dreaming of admiration only,
scornful of the inferior, and challenging the regards of
equals. She was now a timid, trembling girl—a dependant,
such as the devoted heart must ever be, waiting for
the sign to speak, looking eagerly for the smile to reward
her sweetest utterance. If now she walked with Stevens,
she no longer led the way; she hung a little backward,
though she grasped his arm,—nay, even when her hand
was covered with a gentle pressure in the folds of his. If
she sung, she did not venture to meet his eyes, which she
felt must be upon hers, and now it was no longer her
desire that the village damsels should behold them as they
went forth together on their rambles. She no longer met
their cunning and significant smiles with confidence and
pride, but with faltering looks, and with cheeks covered
with blushes. Great, indeed, was the change which had
come over that once proud spirit—change surprising to
all, but as natural as any other of the thousand changes
which are produced in the progress of moments only by
that arch-magician, Love. Heretofore, her song had disdained
the ordinary topics of the youthful ballad-monger.
She had uttered her apostrophes to the eagle, soaring
through the black, billowy masses of the coming thunder-storm;
to the lonely but lofty rock, lonely in its loftiness,
which no foot travelled but her own; to the silent glooms
of the forest—to the majesty of white-bearded and majestic
trees. The dove and the zephyr now shared her song,
and a deep sigh commonly closed it. She was changed
from what she was. The affections had suddenly bounded
into being, trampling the petty vanities under foot; and
those first lessons of humility which are taught by love,
had subdued a spirit which, hitherto, had never known
control.
Alfred Stevens soon perceived how complete was his
victory. He soon saw the extent of that sudden change
which had come over her character. Hitherto, she had
been the orator. When they stood together by the lakeside,
or upon the rock, it was her finger which had pointed
out the objects for contemplation; it was her voice
whose eloquence had charmed the ear, dilating upon the
beauties or the wonders which they surveyed. She was
now no longer eloquent in words. But she looked a
deeper eloquence by far than any words could embody.
-- 254 --
[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]
He was now the speaker; and regarding him through the
favouring media of kindled affections, it seemed to her ear,
that there was no eloquence so sweet as his. He spoke
briefly of the natural beauties by which they were surrounded.
“Trees, rocks, the valley and the hill, all realms of
solitude and shade, inspire enthusiasm and ardour in the
imaginative spirit. They are beneficial for this purpose.
For the training of a great poet they are necessary. They
have the effect of lifting the mind to the contemplation of
vastness, depth, height, profundity. This produces an
intensity of mood—the natural result of any association
between our own feelings and such objects as are lofty and
noble in the external world. The feelings and passions as
they are uninfluenced by the petty play of society, which
diffuses their power and breaks their lights into little, become
concentrated on the noble and the grand. Serious
earnestness of nature becomes habitual—the heart flings
itself into all the subjects of its interest—it trifles with
none—all its labours become sacred in its eyes, and the
latest object of study and analysis is that which is always
most important. The effects of this training in youth on
the poetic mind, is to the last degree beneficial; since,
without a degree of seriousness amounting to intensity,—
without a hearty faith in the importance of what is to be
done,—without a passionate fulness of soul which drives
one to his task,—there will be no truthfulness, no eloquence,
no concentrated thought and permanent achievement. With
you, dear Margaret, such has already been the effect. You
shrink from the ordinary enjoyments of society. Their
bald chat distresses you, as the chatter of so many jays.
You prefer the solitude which feeds the serious mood
which you love, and enables your imagination, unrepressed
by the presence of shallow witlings, to evoke its agents
from storm and shadow,—from deep forest and lonesome
lake,—to minister to the cravings of an excited heart, and a
soaring and ambitious fancy.”
“Oh, how truly, Alfred, do you speak it,” she murmured
as he closed.
“So far, so good; but, dear Margaret,—there are other
subjects of study which are equally necessary for the great
poet. The wild aspects of nature are such as are of use
in the first years of his probation. To grow up in the
-- 255 --
[figure description] Page 255.[end figure description]
woods and among the rocks, so that a hearty simplicity,
an earnest directness, with a constant habit of contemplation
should be permanently formed, is a first and necessary
object. But it is in this training as in every other. There
are successive steps. There is a law of progressive
advance. You must not stop there. The greatest moral
study for the poet must follow. This is the study of
man in society—in the great world—where he puts on
a thousand various aspects,—far otherwise than those
which are seen in the country—in correspondence with
the thousand shapes of fortune, necessity, or caprice,
which attend him there. Indeed, it may safely be said,
that he never knows one half of the responsibility of his
tasks who toils without the presence of those for whom he
toils. It is in the neighbourhood of man that we feel his
and our importance. It is while we are watching his
strifes and struggles that we see the awful importance of
his destiny; and the great trusts of self, and truth, and the
future, which have been delivered to his hands. Here you
do not see man. You see certain shapes, which are employed
in raising hay, turnips, and potatoes; which eat and
drink very much as man does; but which, as they suffer
to sleep and rest most of those latent faculties, the exercise
of which can alone establish the superiority of the intellectual
over the animal nature, so they have no more right
to the name of man than any other of those animals who
eat as industriously, and sleep as profoundly, as themselves.
The contemplation of the superior being, engaged in superior
toils, awakens superior faculties in the observer.
He who sees nothing but the gathering of turnips will think
of nothing but turnips. As we enlarge the sphere of our
observation, the faculty of thought becomes expanded.
You will discover this wonderful change when you go into
the world. Hitherto, your inspirers have been these
groves, these rocks, lakes, trees, and silent places. But,
when you sit amid crowds of bright-eyed, full-minded, and
admiring people; when you see the eyes of thousands
looking for the light to shine from yours;—hanging, with
a delight that still hungers, on the words of truth and beauty
which fall from your lips,—then, then only, dearest Margaret,
will you discover the true sources of inspiration and
of fame.”
“Ah!” she murmured despondingly—“you daunt me
when you speak of these crowds,—crowds of the
-- 256 --
[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]
intellectual and the wise. What should I be,—how would I
appear among them?”
“As you appear to me, Margaret,—their queen, their
idol, their divinity, not less a beauty than a muse!”
The raptures which Stevens expressed seemed to justify
the embrace which followed it; and it was some moments
before she again spoke. When she did the same subject
was running in her mind.
“Ah! Alfred, still I fear!”
“Fear nothing, Margaret. It will be as I tell you,—as
I promise! If I deceive you I deceive myself. Is it not
for the wife of my bosom that I expect this homage?”
Her murmurs were unheard. They strolled on—still
deeper into the mazes of the forest, and the broad disc of
the moon, suddenly gleaming, yellow, through the tops of
the trees, surprised them in their wanderings.
“How beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Let us sit here,
dearest Margaret. The rock here is smooth and covered
with the softest lichen. A perfect carpet of it is at our
feet, and the brooklet makes the sweetest murmuring as it
glides onward through the grove, telling all the while, like
some silly schoolgirl, where you may look for it. See
the little drops of moonlight falling here and there in the
small opening of the forest, and lying upon the green-sward
like so many scattered bits of silver. One might
take it for fairy coin. And, do you note the soft breeze
that seems to rise with the moon as from some Cytherean
isle, breathing of love, love only,—love never perishing!”
“Ah! were it so, Alfred?”
“Is it not, Margaret. If I could fancy that you would
cease to love me or I you—could I think that these dear
joys were to end—but no! no! let us not think of it. It
is too sweet to believe, and the distrust seems as unholy as
it is unwholesome. That bright soft planet seems to persuade
to confidence as it inspires love. Do you not feel
your heart soften in the moonlight, Margaret? your eye
glistens, dearest,—and your heart, I know, must be touched.
It is,—I feel its beating! What a tumult, dear Margaret, is
here!”
“Do not, do not!” she murmured, gently striving to
disengage herself from his grasp.
“No! no!—move not, dearest;” he replied in a subdued
tone—a murmur most like hers. “Are we not
-- 257 --
[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]
happy? Is there any thing, dear Margaret, which we could
wish for?”
“Nothing! nothing!”
“Ah! what a blessed chance it was that brought me to
these hills. I never lived till now. I had my joys, Margaret,—
my triumphs! I freely yield them to the past! I
care for them no more! They are no longer joys or triumphs!
Yes, Margaret you have changed my heart within
me. Even fame which I so much worshipped is forgotten.”
“Say not that, oh! say not that!” she exclaimed, but
still in subdued accents.
“I must,—it is too far true. I could give up the shout
of applause,—the honour of popular favour,—the voice of
a people's approbation, the shining display and the golden
honour—all, dear Margaret, sooner than part with you.”
“But you need not give them up, Alfred.”
“Ah, dearest, but I have no soul for them now. You
are alone my soul, my saint,—the one dear object, desire,
and pride, and conquest.”
“Alas! and have you not conquered, Alfred?”
“Sweet! do I not say that I am content to forfeit all
honours, triumphs, applauses—all that was so dear to me
before—and only in the fond faith that I had conquered?
You are mine,—you tell me so with your dear lips—I
have you in my fond embrace—ah! do not talk to me
again of fame.”
“I were untrue to you as to myself, dear Alfred, did I
not. No! with your talents, to forego their uses,—to deliver
yourself up to love wholly, were as criminal as it
would be unwise.”
“You shall be my inspiration then, dear Margaret.
These lips shall send me to the forum—these eyes shall
reward me with smiles when I return. Your applause
shall be to me a dearer triumph than all the clamours of
the populace.”
“Let us return home—it is late.”
“Not so!—and why should we go? What is sleep to
us but loss? What the dull hours, spent after the ordinary
fashion, among ordinary people. Could any scene be
more beautiful than this—ah! can any feeling be more
sweet! Is it not so to you, dearest? tell me—nay, do not
tell me,—if you love as I do, you cannot leave me—not
-- 258 --
[figure description] Page 258.[end figure description]
now—not thus—while such is the beauty of earth and
heaven—while such are the rich joys clustering in our
hearts. Nay, while, in that hallowing moonlight, I gaze
upon thy dark eyes, and streaming hair, thy fair, beautiful
cheeks, and those dear rosy lips!”
“Oh! Alfred, do not speak so—do not clasp me thus.
Let us go. It is late—very late, and what will they say?”
“Let them say! Are we not blessed? Can all their
words take from us these blessings—these sacred, sweet
moments—such joys, such delights? Let them dream of
such, with their dull souls if they can. No! no! Margaret—
we are one! and thus one, our world is as free
from their control as it is superior to their dreams and
hopes. Here is our heaven, Margaret—ah! how long
shall it be ours! at what moment may we lose it, by death,
by storm, by what various mischance! What profligacy
to fly before the time! No! no! but a little while longer—
but a little while!”
And there they lingered! He, fond, artful, persuasive;—
she, trembling with the dangerous sweetness of wild, unbidden
emotions. Ah! why did she not go? Why was
the strength withheld which would have carried out her
safer purpose? The moon rose until she hung in the
zenith, seeming to linger there in a sad, sweet watch, like
themselves—the rivulet ran along, still prattling through
the groves;—the breeze, which had been a soft murmur
among the trees at the first rising of the moon, now blew
a shrill whistle among the craggy hills;—but they no
longer heard the prattle of the rivulet—even the louder
strains of the breeze were unnoticed, and it was only when
they were about to depart, that poor Margaret discovered
that the moon had all the while been looking down upon
them.
CHAPTER XXVII.
It was now generally understood in Charlemont that
Margaret Cooper had made a conquest of the handsome
stranger. We have omitted—as a matter not congenial
-- 259 --
[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]
to our taste—the small by-play which had been carried
on by the other damsels of the village to effect the same
object. There had been setting of caps, without number,
ay, and pulling them too, an the truth were known among
the fair Stellas and Clarissas, the Daphnes and Dorises,
but, though Stevens was sufficiently considerate of the
claims of each, so far as politeness demanded it, and contrived
to say pleasant things, pour passer le temps, with
all of them, it was very soon apparent to the most sanguine,
that the imperial beauties and imperious mind of
Margaret Cooper had secured the conquest for herself.
As a matter of course, the personal and intellectual attractions
of Stevens underwent no little disparagement as
soon as this fact was known. It was now universally
understood that he was no such great things after all;
and our fair friend, the window Thackeray, who was not
without her pretensions to wit and beauty, was bold
enough to say that Mr. Stevens was certainly too fat in
the face, and she rather thought him stupid. Such an
opinion gave courage to the rest, and pert Miss Bella
Tompkins, a romp of first-rate excellence, had the audacity
to say that he squinted! and this opinion was very
natural, since neither of his eyes had ever rested with satisfaction
on her pouting charms.
It may be supposed that the discontent of the fair bevy,
and its unfavourable judgment of himself, did not reach
the ears of Alfred Stevens, and would scarcely have disturbed
them if it did. Margaret Cooper was more fortunate
than himself in this respect. She could not altogether
be insensible to the random remarks which sour
envy and dark-eyed jealousy continued to let fall in her
hearing; but her scorn for the speakers, and her satisfaction
with herself, secured her from all annoyance from
this cause. Such, at least, had been the case in the first
days of her conquest. Such was not exactly the case
now. She had no more scorn of others. She was no
longer proud—no longer strong. Her eyes no longer
flashed with haughty defiance on the train which, though
envious, were yet compelled to follow. She could no
longer speak in those superior tones, the language equally
of a proud intellect, and a spirit whose sensibilities had
neither been touched by love, or enfeebled by anxiety and
apprehension. A sad change had come over her heart
-- 260 --
[figure description] Page 260.[end figure description]
and all her features in the progress of a few days. Her
courage had departed. Her step was no longer firm;
her eye no longer uplifted like that of the mountain eagle,
to which, in the first darings of her youthful muse, she
had boldly likened herself. Her look was downcast, her
voice subdued; she was now not less timid than the
feeblest damsel of the village in that doubtful period of
life when, passing from childhood to girlhood, the virgin
falters as it were, with bashful thoughts, upon the threshhold
of a new and perilous condition. The intercourse
of Margaret Cooper with her lover had had the most
serious effect upon her manners and her looks. But the
change upon her spirit was no less striking to all.
“I'm sure if I did love any man,” was the opinion of
one of the damsels, “I'd die sooner than show it to him,
as she shows it to Alfred Stevens. It's a guess what he
must think of it.”
“And no hard guess, neither;” said another, “I reckon
there's no reason why he should pick out Margaret Cooper,
except that he saw that it was no such easy matter any
where else.”
“Well! there can be no mistake about it with them;
for now they're always together, and Betty, her own
maid, thinks—but it's better not to say!”
And the prudent antique pursed up her mouth in a language
that said every thing.
“What! what does she say?” demanded a dozen
voices.
“Well! I won't tell you that. I won't tell you all; but
she does say, among other things, that the sooner John
Cross marries them, the better for all parties.”
“Is it possible!”
“Can it be!”
“Bless me—but I always thought something wrong.”
“And Betty, her own maid, told you? Well, who
should know, if she don't!”
“And this, too, after all her airs.”
“Her great smartness, her learning, and verse making!
I never knew any good come from books yet.”
“And never will, Jane;” said another, with an equivocal
expression, with which Jane was made content;
and, after a full half hour's confabulation, in the primitive
style, the parties separated, each, in her way, to give as
-- 261 --
[figure description] Page 261.[end figure description]
much circulation to Betty's innuendoes as the importance
of the affair deserved.
Scandal travels along the highways, seen by all but the
victim. Days and nights passed, and in the solitude of
lonely paths, by the hillside, or the rivulet, Margaret
Cooper still wandered with her lover. She heard not the
poisonous breath which was already busy with her virgin
fame. She had no doubts, whatever might be the event,
that the heart of Alfred Stevens could leave her without
that aliment, which, in these blissful moments, seemed to
be her very breath of life. But she felt many fears, many
misgivings, she knew not why. A doubt, a cloud of
anxiety hung brooding on the atmosphere. In a heart
which is unsophisticated, the consciousness, however
vague, that all is not right, is enough to produce this cloud;
but with the gradual progress of that heart to the indulgence
of the more active passions, this consciousness
necessarily increases, and the conflict then begins between
the invading passion and the guardian principle.
We have seen enough to know what must be the result
of such a conflict with a nature such as hers, under the
education which she had received. It did not end in the
expulsion of her lover. It did not end in the discontinuance
of those long and frequent rambles amidst silence,
and solitude, and shadow. She had not courage for this,
and the poor vain mother, flattered with the idea that her
son-in-law would be a preacher, beheld nothing wrong in
their nightly wanderings, and suffered her daughter, in
such saintly society, to go forth without restraint or rebuke.
There was one person in the village who was not satisfied
that Margaret Cooper should fall a victim either to
the cunning of another, or to her own passionate vanity.
This was our old friend, Calvert. He was rather inclined
to be interested in the damsel, in spite of the ill-treatment
of his protege, if it were only in consequence of the feelings
with which she had inspired him. It has been seen
that, in the affair of the duel, he was led to regard the
stranger with an eye of suspicion. This feeling had been
farther heightened by the statements of Ned Hinckley,
which, however loose and inconclusive, were yet of a
kind to show that there was some mystery about Stevens—
that he desired concealment in some respects—a fact
-- 262 --
[figure description] Page 262.[end figure description]
very strongly inferred from his non-employment of the
village post-office, and the supposition—taken for true—
that he employed that of some distant town. Ned Hinkley
had almost arrived at certainty in this respect, and some
small particulars which seemed to bear on this conviction,
which he had recently gathered, taken in connexion with
the village scandal in reference to the parties, determined
the old man to take some steps in the matter to forewarn
the maiden, or at least her mother, of the danger of yielding
too much confidence to one of whom so little was, or
could be, known.
It was a pleasant afternoon, and Calvert was sitting
beneath his rooftree, musing over this very matter, when
he caught a glimpse of the persons of whom he thought,
ascending one of the distant hills, apparently on their way
to the lake. He rose up instantly, and seizing his staff,
hurried off to see the mother of the damsel. The matter
was one of the nicest delicacy—not to be undertaken
lightly—not to be urged incautiously. Nothing, indeed,
but a strong sense of duty could have determined him
upon a proceeding likely to appear invidious, and which
might be so readily construed, by a foolish woman, into
an impertinence. Though a man naturally of quick, warm
feelings, Calvert had been early taught to think cautiously—
indeed, the modern phrenologist would have said that,
in the excess of this prudent organ lay the grand weakness
of his moral nature. This delayed him in the contemplated
performance much longer than his sense of its
necessity seemed to justify. Having now resolved, however,
and secure in the propriety of his object, he did not
scruple any longer. A few minutes sufficed to bring him
to the cottage of the old lady, and her voice in very
friendly tenor commanded him to enter. Without useless
circumlocution, yet without bluntness, the old man broached
the subject; and without urging any of the isolated
facts of which he was possessed, and by which his suspicions
were awakened, he dwelt simply upon the dangers
which might result from such a degree of confidence as
was given to the stranger. The long, lonely rambles in
the woods, by night as well as day, were commented on,
justly, but in an indulgent spirit; and the risks of a young
and unsuspecting maiden, under such circumstances,
were shown with sufficient distinctness for the
-- 263 --
[figure description] Page 263.[end figure description]
comprehension of the mother, had she been disposed to hear.
But never was good old man, engaged in the thankless
office of bestowing good advice, so completely confounded
as was he by the acknowledgments which his
interference incurred. A keen observer might have seen
the gathering storm while he was speaking; and, at every
sentence there was a low, running commentary, bubbling
up from the throat of the opinionated dame, somewhat like
rumbling thunder, which amply denoted the rising tempest.
It was a sort of religious effort which kept the old
lady quiet till Calvert had fairly reached a conclusion.
Then, rising from her seat, she approached him, smoothed
back her apron, perked out her chin, and fixing her keen
gray eyes firmly upon his own, with her nose elongated
to such a degree as almost to suggest the possibility of a
pointed collision between that member and the corresponding
one of his own face—she demanded—
“Have you done—have you got through?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cooper, this is all I came to say. It is the
suggestion of prudence—the caution of a friend—your
daughter is young, very young, and—”
“I thank you! I thank you! My daughter is young,
very young; but she is no fool, Mr. Calvert—let me tell
you that! Margaret Cooper is no fool. If you don't know
that, I do. I know her. She's able to take care of herself
as well as the best of us.”
“I am glad you think so, Mrs. Cooper, but the best of
us find it a difficult matter to steer clear of danger, and
error and misfortune; and the wisest, my dear madam,
are only too apt to fall when they place their chief reliance
on their wisdom.”
“Indeed! that's a new doctrine to me, and I reckon to
every body else. If it's true, what's the use of all your
schooling, I want to know?”
“Precious little, Mrs. Cooper, if—”
“Ah! precious little; and let me tell you, Mr. Calvert,
I think it's mighty strange that you should think Margaret
Cooper in more need of your advice, than Jane Colter, or
Besty Barnes, or Susan Mason, or Rebecca Forbes, or even
the window Thackeray.”
“I should give the same advice to them under the same
circumstances, Mrs. Cooper.”
“Should you, indeed! Then I beg you will go and
-- 264 --
[figure description] Page 264.[end figure description]
give it to them, for if they are not in the same circumstances
now, they'd give each of them an eye to be so.
Ay, wouldn't they! Yes! don't I know, Mr. Calvert,
that it's all owing to envy that you come here talking
about Brother Stevens.”
“But I do not speak of Mr. Stevens, Mrs. Cooper;
were it any other young man with whom your daughter
had such intimacy I should speak in the same manner.”
“Would you indeed? Tell that to the potatoes. Don't
I know better. Don't I know that if your favourite, that
you made so much of—your adopted son, Bill Hinkley—
if he could have got her to look at him, they might have
walked all night and you'd never have said the first word.
He'd have given one eye for her, and so would every girl
in the village give an eye for Brother Stevens. I'm not
so old but I know something. But it won't do. You can
go to the widow Thackeray, Mr. Calvert. It'll do her
good to tell her that it's very dangerous for her to be
thinking about young men from morning to night. It's
true you can't say any thing about the danger, for precious
little danger she's in; but lord! wouldn't she jump to it if
she had a chance. Let her alone for that. You'd soon
have cause enough to give her your good advice about the
danger, and much good would come of it. She'd wish,
after all was said, that the danger was only twice as big
and twice as dangerous.”
Such was the conclusion of Mr. Calvert's attempt to
give good counsel. It resulted as unprofitably in this as
in most cases; but it had not utterly fallen, like the wasted
seed, in stony places. There was something in it to impress
itself upon the memory of Mrs. Cooper; and she
resolved that when her daughter came in, it should be the
occasion of an examination into her feelings and her relation
to the worthy brother, such as she had more than
once before meditated to make.
But Margaret Cooper did not return till a comparatively
late hour; and the necessity of setting up, after her usual
time of retiring, by making the old lady irritable, had the
effect of giving some additional force to the suggestions of
Mr. Calvert. When Margaret did return, she came alone.
Stevens had attended her only to the wicket. She did not
expect to find her mother still sitting up; and started, with
an appearance of disquiet, when she met her glance. The
-- 265 --
[figure description] Page 265.[end figure description]
young girl was pale and haggard. Her eye had a dilated,
wild expression. Her step faltered; her voice was scarcely
distinct as she remarked timidly—
“Not yet abed, mother?”
“No! it's a pretty time for you to keep me up.”
“But why did you sit up, mother? It's not usual with
you to do so.”
“No! but it's high time for me to sit up, and be on the
watch too, when here's the neighbours coming to warn
me to do so—and telling me all about your danger.”
“Ha! my danger—speak—what danger, mother?”
“Don't you know what danger? Don't you know?”
“Know!” The monosyllable subsided in a gasp. At
that moment, Margaret Cooper could say no more.
“Well, I suppose you don't know, and so I'll tell you.
Here's been that conceited, stupid old man, Calvert, to tell
me how wrong it is for you to go out by night walking
with Brother Stevens; and hinting to me that you don't
know how to take care of yourself with all your learning;
and how nobody knows any thing about Brother Stevens;
as if nobody was wise for any thing but himself. But I
gave him as good as he brought, I'll warrant you. I sent
him off with a flea in his ear!”
It was fortunate for the poor girl that the light, which
was that of a dipped candle, was burning in the corner of
the chimney, and was too dim to make her features visible.
The ghastly tale which they expressed could not have
been utterly unread even by the obtuse and opinionated
mind of the vain mother. The hands of Margaret were
involuntarily clasped in her agony, and she felt very much
like falling upon the floor; but, with a strong effort, her
nerves were braced to the right tension, and she continued
to endure, in a speechless terror which was little short of
frenzy, the outpourings of her mother's folly which was
a frenzy of another sort.
“I sent him off,” she repeated, “with a flea in his ear.
I could see what the old fool was driving after, and I as
good as told him so. If it had been his favourite, his
adopted son, Bill Hinkley, it would have been another
guess story—I reckon. Then you might have walked out
where you pleased together, at all hours, and no harm
done, no danger; old Calvert would have thought it the
properest thing in the world. But no Bill Hinkley for
-- 266 --
[figure description] Page 266.[end figure description]
me. I'm for Brother Stevens, Margaret; only make sure
of him, my child—make sure of him.”
“No more of this, dear mother, I entreat you. Let
us go to bed, and think no more of it.”
“And why should we not think of it? I tell you, Margaret,
you must think of it! Brother Stevens soon will be
a preacher, and a fine speck he will be. There'll be no
parson like him in all west Kentucky. As for John Cross,
I reckon he won't be able to hold a candle to him. Brother
Stevens is something to try for. You must play
your cards nicely, Margaret. Don't let him see too soon
that you like him. Beware of that! But don't draw off
too suddenly as if you didn't like him—that's worse still;
for very few men like to see that they ain't altogether
pleasing even at first sight to the lady that they like.
There's a medium in all things, and you must just manage
it, as if you wa'n't thinking at all about him, or love, or a
husband, or any thing; only take care always to turn a
quick ear to what he says, and seem to consider it always
as if 'twas worth your considering. And look round when
he speaks, and smile softly sometimes; and don't be too
full of learning and wisdom in what you say, for I've
found that men of sense love women best when they seem
to talk most like very young children—maybe because
they think it's a sign of innocence. But I reckon, Margaret,
you don't want much teaching. Only be sure and
fix him; and don't stop to think when he asks. Be sure
to have your answer ready, and you can't say `yes' too
quickly now-a-days, when the chances are so very few.”
The mother paused to take breath. Her very moral
and maternal counsel had fallen upon unheeding ears.
But Margaret was sensible of the pause, and was desirous
of taking advantage of it. She rose from her chair, with
the view of retiring; but the good old dame, whose
imagination had been terribly excited by the delightful
idea of having a preacher for her son-in-law who was to
take such precedence over all the leaders of the other
tribes, was not willing to abridge her eloquence.
“Why, you're in a great hurry now, Margaret. Where
was your hurry when you were with Brother Stevens?
Ah! you jade, can't I guess—don't I know? There you
were, you two, under the trees, looking at the moon, and
talking such sweet, foolish nonsense. I reckon, Margaret,
-- 267 --
[figure description] Page 267.[end figure description]
'twould puzzle you to tell what he said, or what you said,
I can guess he didn't talk much religion to you, heh? Ah!
I know it all. It's the old story. It's been so with all
young people, and will be so till the end. Love is the
strangest thing, and it does listen to the strangest nonsense.
Ain't it so, Margaret? I know nothing but love
would ever dumbfounder you in this way; why, child,
have you lost your tongue? What's the matter with
you?”
“Oh, mother, let me retire now, I have such a headache.”
“Heartache, you mean.”
“Heartache it is,” replied the other desperately, with
an air of complete abandonment.
“Ah! well, it's clear that he's got the heartache quite as
much as you, for he almost lives with you now. But
make him speak out, Margaret—get him to say the word,
and don't let him be too free until he does. No squeezing
of hands, no kissing, no—”
“No more, no more, I entreat you, mother, if you would
not drive me mad! Why do you speak to me thus—why
counsel me in this manner? Leave me alone, I pray you,
let me retire—I must, I must sleep now!”
The mother was not unaccustomed to such passionate
bursts of speech from her daughter, and she ascribed the
startling energy of her utterance now, to an excited spirit
in part, and partly to the headache of which she complained.
“What! do you feel so bad, my child? Well, I won't
keep you up any longer. I wouldn't have kept you up
so long, if I hadn't been vexed by that old fool, Calvert.”
“Mr. Calvert is a good man, mother.”
“Well, he may be—I don't say a word against that;”
replied the mother, somewhat surprised at the mildly reproachful
nature of that response which her daughter had
made, so different from her usual custom:—“he may be
very good, but I think he's very meddlesome to come
here talking about Brother Stevens.”
“He meant well, mother.”
“Well or ill, it don't matter. Do you be ready when
Brother Stevens says the word. He'll say it before long.
He's mighty keen after you, Margaret. I've seen it in
his eyes; only you keep a little off, till he begins to press
-- 268 --
[figure description] Page 268.[end figure description]
and be anxious; and after that he can't help himself.
He'll be ready for any terms; and look you, when a
man's ready, none of your long bargains. Settle up at
once. As for waiting till he gets permission to preach, I
wouldn't think of it. A man can be made a preacher or
any thing, at any time, but 'tain't so easy in these times,
for a young woman to be made a wife. It's not every
day that one can get a husband, and such a husband!
Look at Jane Colter, and Betsy Barnes, and Rebecca
Forbes, and Susan Mason; they'll be green again, I
reckon, before the chance comes to them; ay, and the
widow Thackeray—though she's had her day already.
If 'twas a short one she's got no reason to complain.
She'll learn how to value it before it begins again. But,
go to bed, my child, you oughtn't to have a headache.
No! no! you should leave it to them that's not so fortunate.
They'll have headaches and heartaches enough, I
warrant you, before they get such a man as Brother
Stevens.”
At last, Margaret Cooper found herself alone and in her
chamber. With unusual vigilance she locked and double-locked
the door. She then flung herself upon the bed.
Her face was buried in the clothes. A convulsion of
feeling shook her frame. But her eyes remained dry, and
her cheeks were burning. She rose at length and began
to undress, but for this she found herself unequal. She
entered the couch and sat up in it—her hands crossed
upon her lap—her face wan, wild, the very picture of
hopelessness if not desperation! The words of her weak
mother had tortured her; but what was this agony to
that which was occasioned by her own thoughts.
“Oh God!” she exclaimed at length, “can it be real?
Can it be true? Do I wake? Is it no dream? Am I,
am I what I dare not name to myself—and dread to hear
from any other? Alas! it is true—too true. That shade,
that wood!—oh, Alfred Stevens! Alfred Stevens! What
have you done! To what have you beguiled me!”
-- 269 --
CHAPTER XXVIII.
[figure description] Page 269.[end figure description]
That weary night no sleep came to the eyelids of the
hapless Margaret Cooper. The garrulous language of
the mother had awakened far other emotions in her bosom
than those which she laboured to inspire; and the warning
of Mr. Calvert, for the first time impressed upon herself
the terrible conviction that she was lost. In the wild intoxicating
pleasures of that new strange dream, she had
been wofully unconscious of the truth. So gradual had
been the progress of passion, that it had never alarmed or
startled her. Besides, it had come to her under a disguise
afforded by the customary cravings of her soul. Her
vanity had been the medium by which her affections had
been won, by which her confidence had been beguiled, by
which the guardian watchers of her virtue had been laid
to sleep. What a long and dreadful night was that when
Margaret Cooper was first brought to feel the awful truth
in its true impressiveness of wo. Alas! how terribly do
the sorrows of sin torture us. The worst human foe is
guilt. The severest censure the consciousness of wrong
doing. Poverty may be endured—nay is—and virtue
still be secure; since the mind may be made strong to
endure the heaviest toil, yet cherish few desires; the loss
of kin may call for few regrets, if we feel that we have religiously
performed our duties towards them, and requited
all their proper claims upon us. Sickness and pain may
even prove benefits and blessings, if it shall so happen
that we resign ourselves without complaint, to the scourge
of the chastener, and grow patient beneath his stripes.
But that self-rebuke of one's own spirit from which we
may not fly—that remorseful and ever-vexing presence
which haunts us, and pursues with a wing even more
fleet than that of fear—which tells clamorously of what
we had, and scornfully of what we have lost—lost for ever!
that is the demon from which there is no escape, and
beyond which there is no torture. Vainly would we strive
with this relentless enemy. Every blow aimed at its
-- 270 --
[figure description] Page 270.[end figure description]
shadowy bosom recoils upon our own. In the crowd it
takes the place of other forms and dogs us with suspicious
glances; in the solitude it stalks boldly to our side, confronts
us with its audacious truths and terrible denunciations—
leaves no moment secure, waking or sleeping! It
is the ghost of murdered virtue, brooding over its grave
in that most dark and dismal of all sepulchres, the human
heart. And if we cry aloud, as did Margaret Cooper,
with vain prayer for the recall of a single day, with what
a yell of derisive mockery it answers to our prayer.
The night was passed in the delusive effort of the mind
to argue itself into a state of fancied security. She endeavoured
to recall those characteristics in Alfred Stevens,
by which her confidence had been beguiled. This task
was not a difficult one in that early day of her distress;
before experience had yet come to confirm the apprehensions
of doubt—before the intoxicating dream of a first
passion had yet begun to stale upon her imagination.
Her own elastic mind helped her in this endeavour.
Surely, she thought, where the mind is so noble and expansive,
where the feelings are so tender and devoted, the
features so lofty and impressive, the look so sweet, the
language so delicate and refined, there can be no falsehood.
“The devotion of such a man,” she erringly thought,
“might well sanction the weakness of a woman's heart—
might well persuade to the momentary error which none
will seek more readily to repair than himself. If he be
true to me, what indeed should I care for the scorn of
others.”
Alas! for the credulous victim. This was the soul of
her error. This scorn of others—of the opinions of the
world around her, is the saddest error of which woman,
who is the most dependant of all in the moral world, can
ever be guilty. But such philosophy did not now deceive
even the poor girl by whom it was uttered. It is a melancholy
truth, that where there is no principle the love
cannot be relied on; and the love of Alfred Stevens had
hitherto shown itself in selfishness. Margaret Cooper felt
this, but she did not dare to believe it.
“No! no!” she muttered—“I will not doubt—I will
not fear! He is too noble, too generous, too fond! I could
not be deceived.”
Her reliance was upon her previous judgment, not upon
-- 271 --
[figure description] Page 271.[end figure description]
his principles. Her self-esteem assisted to make this reference
sufficient for the purposes of consolation, and this
was all that she desired in this first moment of her doubt
and apprehension.
“And if he be true—if he keep for ever the faith that his
lips and looks declare, then will I heed nothing of the
shame and the sin. The love of such a man is sufficient
recompense for the loss of all beside. What to me is the
loss of society? What should I care for the association
and opinions of these in Charlemont? And elsewhere—he
will bear me hence where none can know. Ah! I fear
not. He will be true.”
Her self-esteem was recovering considerably from its
first overthrow. Her mind was already preparing to do
battle with those, the scorn of whom she anticipated, and
whose judgments she had always hitherto despised. This
was an easy task. She was yet to find that it was not the
only task. Her thoughts are those of many, in like situations,
and it is for this reason, that we dwell upon them.
Our purpose is to show the usual processes of self-deception.
Margaret Cooper, like a large class of persons of
strong natural mind and sanguine temper, was only too apt
to confound the cause of virtue with its sometimes uncouth,
harsh and self-appointed professors. She overlooked
the fact that public opinion, though a moral object against
which woman dares not often offend, is yet no standard for
her government—that principles are determinable elsewhere,
and whatever the world may think of them, and
whatever may be their seeming unimportance under existing
circumstances, are the only real moral securities of
earth. She might fly from Charlemont, either into a
greater world, or into a more complete solitude, but she
would fly to no greater certainties than she now possessed.
Her securities were still based upon the principles of Alfred
Stevens, and of these she knew nothing. She knew
that he was a man of talent—of eloquence; alas! for her!
she had felt it; of skill—she had been its victim; of rare
sweetness of utterance, of grace and beauty; and as she
enumerated to herself these, his mental powers and personal
charms, she felt, however numerous the catalogue,
that none of these afforded her the guarantee she sought.
She arose the next day somewhat more composed, and
with a face which betrayed sleeplessness, but nothing
-- 272 --
[figure description] Page 272.[end figure description]
worse. This she ascribed to the headache with which
she had retired. She had not slept an instant, and she
arose entirely unrefreshed. But the stimulating thoughts
which had kept her wakeful, furnished her with sufficient
strength to appear as usual in the household and to go
through her accustomed duties. But it was with an impatience,
scarcely restrainable, that she waited for the approach
of evening which would bring her lover. Him,
she felt it now absolutely of the last necessity that she
should see—that she should once more go with him to
those secret places, the very thought of which inspired her
with terror—and laying bare her soul to his eyes, demand
of him the only restitution which he could make.
He came. Once more she descended the steps to meet
him. Her mother arrested her on the stairway. A cunning
leer was in her eye, as she looked into the woful,
impassive eyes of her daughter. She grinned with a sort
of delight expressive of the conviction that the advice she
had given the night before was to be put in execution
soon.
“Fix him, Margaret. He's mighty eager for you.
You've cut your eye-tooth—be quick, and you'll have a
famous parson for a husband yet.”
The girl shrunk from the counsellor as if she had been
a serpent. The very counsel was enough to show her
the humiliating attitude in which she stood to all parties.
“Remember,” said the old woman, detaining her—
“don't be too willing at first. Let him speak fairly out.
A young maiden can't be too backward, until the man
offers to make her a young wife!”
The last words went to her soul like an arrow.
“A young maiden!” she almost murmured aloud as
she descended the steps—“oh, God! how lovely now,
to my eyes, appears the loveliness of a young maiden!”
She joined Stevens in silence—the mother watching
them with the eyes of a maternal hawk as they went forth
together. They pursued a customary route, and, passing
through one of the gorges of the surrounding hills, they
soon lost sight of the village. When the forest shadows
had gathered thickly around them, and the silence of the
woods became felt, Stevens approached more nearly, and,
renewing a former liberty, put his arm about her waist.
She gently but firmly removed it, but neither of them
-- 273 --
[figure description] Page 273.[end figure description]
spoke a word. A dense copse appeared before them.
Towards it he would have led the way. But she resolutely
turned aside, and, while a shudder passed over her
frame, exclaimed—
“Not there—not there!”
Breathlessly she spoke. He well enough understood
her. They pursued an opposite direction, and, in the
shade of a wood which before they had never traversed,
they at length paused. Stevens conducting her to the
trunk of a fallen tree, seated her, and placed himself beside
her. Still they were silent. There was a visible
constraint upon both. The thoughts and feelings of both,
were alike active—but very unlike in character. With
him, passion, reckless passion, was uppermost; selfish in
all its phases, and resolute on its own indulgence at every
hazard. In her bosom was regreat if not remorse, mingled
with doubts and hopes in pretty equal proportion.
Yet had she, even then, but little doubt of him. She accused
him of no practice. She fancied, foolish girl, that
his error like her own, had been that of blind impulse,
availing itself of a moment of unguarded reason, to take
temporary possession of the citadel of prudence. That he
was calculating, cunning—that his snares had been laid
beforehand—she had not the least idea. But she was to
grow wiser in this and other respects in due season. How
little did she then conjecture the coldness and calmness of
that base and selfish heart, which had so fanned the consuming
flame in hers.
Her reserve and coolness were unusual. She had been
the creature, heretofore, of the most uncalculating impulse.
The feeling was spoken, the thought uttered, as soon as
conceived. Now she was silent. He expected her to
speak—nay, he expected reproaches, and was prepared to
meet them. He had his answer for any reproaches which
she might make. But for that stony silence of her lips he
was not prepared. The passive grief which her countenance
betrayed—so like despair—repelled and annoyed
him. Yet, wherefore had she come, if not to complain
bitterly, and, after exhaustion, be soothed at last? Such
had been his usual experience in all such cases. But the
unsophisticated woman before him had no language for
such a situation as was hers. Her pride, her ambition—
-- 274 --
[figure description] Page 274.[end figure description]
the very intensity of all her moods—rendered the effort at
speech a mocking, and left her dumb.
“You are sad, Margaret—silent and very cold to me,”
he said, at last breaking the silence. His tones were subdued
to a whisper, and how full of entreating tenderness!
She slowly raised her eyes from the ground, and fixed
them upon him. What a speech was in that one look!
There was no trace of excitement—scarcely of expression,
in her face. There was no flush upon her cheeks. She
was pale as death. She was still silent. Her eye alone
had spoken; and from its searching but stony glance, his
own fell in some confusion to the ground. There was a
dreary pause which he at length broke.
“You are still silent, Margaret—why do you not speak
to me?”
“It is for you to speak, Alfred,” was her reply. It was
full of significance, understood but not felt by her companion.
What, indeed, had she to say—what could she
say—while he said nothing? She was the victim. With
him lay the means of rescue and preservation. She but
waited the decision of one whom in her momentary madness,
she had made the arbiter of her destiny. Her reply
confused him. He would have preferred to listen to the
ordinary language of reproach. Had she burst forth into
tears and lamentations—had she cried, “you have wronged
me—you must do me justice!” he would have been better
pleased than with the stern, unsuggestive character that
she assumed. To all this, his old experience would have
given him an easy answer. But to be driven to condemn
himself—to define his own doings with the name due to
his deserts—to declare his crime, and proffer the sufficient
atonement, was an unlooked for necessity.
“You are displeased with me, Margaret.” He dared
not meet her glance while uttering this feeble and purposeless
remark. It was so short of all that he should have
said—of all that she expected—that her eye glistened with
a sudden expression of indignation which was new to
them in looking upon him. There was a glittering sarcasm
in her glance which showed the intensity of her
feelings in the comment which they involuntarily made
on the baldness and poverty of his. Displeasure, indeed!
That such an epithet should be employed to describe the
-- 275 --
[figure description] Page 275.[end figure description]
withering pang, the vulturous gnawing torture in her bosom—
and that fiery fang which thought, like some winged
serpent, was momentarily darting into her brain.
“Displeased!” she exclaimed, in low, bitter tones,
which she seemed rather desirous to suppress—“no, no!
sir—not displeased. I am miserable, most miserable—
any thing but displeased. I am too wretched to feel displeasure!”
“And to me you owe this wretchedness, dear Margaret
—that—that is what you would say. Is it not, Margaret?
I have wronged—I have ruined you! From me comes this
misery! You hate, you would denounce me.”
He put his arm about her waist—he sank upon his knee
beside her—his eye, now that he had found words, could
once more look courageously into hers.
“Wronged—ruined!” she murmured, using a part of
his words, and repeating them as if she did not altogether
realize their perfect sense.
“Ay, you would accuse me, Margaret,” he continued—
“you would reproach and denounce me—you hate me—
I deserve it—I deserve it.”
She answered with some surprise—
“No, Alfred Stevens, I do not accuse—I do not denounce
you. I am wretched—I am miserable. It is for
you to say if I am wronged and ruined. I am not what I
was—I know that!—What I am—what I will be!—”
She paused! Her hands were clasped suddenly and
violently—she looked to heaven, and, for the first time,
the tears, streamed from her eyes like rain,—a sudden,
heavy shower, which was soon over.
“Ah, Margaret, you would have me accuse myself,—
and I do,—the crime is mine! I have done you this
wrong—”
She interrupted him.
“No, Alfred Stevens, I have done wrong! I feel that
I have done wrong. That I have been feeble and criminal,
I know. I will not be so base as to deny what I
cannot but feel. As for your crime, you know best what
it is. I know mine. I know that my passions are evil
and presumptuous; and though I blush to confess their
force, it is yet due to the truth that I should do so, though
I sink into the earth with my shame. But neither your
self-reproaches nor my confession will acquit us. Is there
-- 276 --
[figure description] Page 276.[end figure description]
nothing, Alfred Stevens, that can be done? Must I fall
before you, here, amidst the woods which have witnessed
my shame, and implore you to save me? I do! Behold
me! I am at your feet—my face is in the dust. Oh!
Alfred Stevens—when I called your eyes to watch, in the
day of my pride, the strong-winged eagle of our hills, did
I look as now? Save me from this shame! save me! For,
though I have no reproaches, yet God knows, when we
looked on that eagle's flight together, my soul had no such
taint as fills it now. Whatever were my faults, my follies,
my weaknesses, Heaven knows, I felt not, feared not this!
a thought,—a dream of such a passion, then,—never
came to my bosom. From you it came! You put it
there! You woke up the slumbering emotion—you—but
no!—I will not accuse you! I will only implore you to
save me! Can it be done?—can you do it,—will you—
will you not?”
“Rise, dearest Margaret—let me lift you!” She had
thrown herself upon the earth, and she clung to it.
“No, no! your words may lift me, Alfred Stevens,
when your hands cannot. If you speak a hope, a promise
of safety, it will need no other help to make me rise!
If you do not!—I would not wish to rise again. Speak!
let me hear, even as I am, what my doom shall be? The
pride which has made me fall shall be reconciled to my
abasement.”
“Margaret, this despair is idle. There is no need for
it. Do I not tell you that there is no danger?”
“Why did you speak of ruin?” she demanded.
“I know not—the word escaped me. There is no ruin.
I will save you. I am yours—yours only. Believe me, I
will do you right. I regard you as sacredly my wife
as if the rites of the church had so decreed it.”
“I dare not disbelieve you, Alfred! I have no hope else.
Your words life me!—Oh! Alfred Stevens, you did not
mean the word, but how true it was;—what a wreck,
what a ruin do I feel myself now—what a wreck have I
become!”
“A wreck, a ruin! no, Margaret, no! never were you
more beautiful than at this very moment. These large,
sad eyes—these long, dark lashes seem intended to bear
the weight of tears. These cheeks are something paler
than their wont, but not less beautiful, and these lips—”
-- 277 --
[figure description] Page 277.[end figure description]
He would have pressed them with his own—he would
have taken her into his arms, but she repulsed him.
“No, no! Alfred—this must not be. I am yours. Let
me prove to you that I am firm enough to protect your
rights from invasion.”
“But why so coy, dearest? Do you doubt me?”
“Heaven forbid.”
“Ah! but you do. Why do you shrink from me—
why this coldness? If you are mine, if these charms are
mine, why not yield them to me? I fear, Margaret, that
you doubt me still?”
“I do not—dare not doubt you, Alfred Stevens. My
life bangs upon this faith.”
“Why so cold then?”
“I am not cold. I love you—I will be your wife; and
never was wife more faithful, more devoted, than I will be
to you; but,—if you knew the dreadful agony which I
have felt, since that sad moment of my weakness, you
would forbear and pity me.”
“Hear me, Margaret; to-morrow is Saturday. John
Cross is to be here in the evening. He shall marry us on
Sunday. Are you willing?”
“Oh, yes! thankful, happy! Ah! Alfred, why did I
distrust you for an instant?”
“Why, indeed! But you distrust me no longer—you
have no more misgivings!”
“No, none!”
“You will be no longer cold, no longer coy, dear Margaret—
here in the sweet evening, among these pleasant
shades, love, alone, has supremacy. Here, in the words
of one of your favourites—
`Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,
And here thou art a god—' ”
concluding this quotation, he would have taken her in his
embrace—he would have renewed those dangerous endearments
which had already proved so fatal; but she repulsed
the offered tenderness, firmly, but with gentleness.
“Margaret, you still doubt me,” he exclaimed reproachfully.
“No, Alfred, I doubt you not. I believe you. I have
-- 278 --
[figure description] Page 278.[end figure description]
only been too ready and willing to believe you. Ah!
have you not had sufficient proof of this? Leave me the
consciousness of virtue—the feeling of strength still to
assert it, now that my eyes are open to my previous
weakness.”
“But there is no reason to be so cold. Remember you
are mine by every tie of the heart—another day will make
you wholly mine. Surely, there is no need for this frigid
bearing. No, no! you doubt—you do not believe me,
Margaret!”
“If I did not believe you, Alfred Stevens,” she answered
gravely, “my prayer would be for death, and I should
find it. These woods which have witnessed my fault
should have witnessed my expiation. The homes which
have known—me should know me no more.”
The solemnity of her manner rather impressed him, but
having no real regard for her, he was unwilling to be baffled
in his true desires.
“If you doubt me not—if you have faith in me, Margaret,
why this solemnity, this reserve? Prove to me, by
your looks, by your actions, by the dear glances, the sweet
murmurs, and the fond embrace, what these cold assurances
do not say.”
His hand rested on her neck. She gently raised and
removed it.
“I have already proved to you my weakness. I will
now prove my strength. It is better so, Alfred. If I have
won your love, let me now command your esteem, or
maintain what is left me of my own. Do not be angry
with me if I insist upon it. I am resolute now to be worthy
of you and of myself.”
“Ah! you call this love?” said he bitterly. “If you
ever loved, indeed, Margaret—”
“If I ever loved,—and have I given you no proofs?”
she exclaimed in a burst of passion; “all the proofs that
a woman can give, short of her blood; and that, Alfred
Stevens,—that too, I was prepared to give, had you not
promptly assured me of your faith.”
She drew a small dagger from her sleeve, and bared it
beneath his glance.
“Think you I brought this without an object? No!
Alfred Stevens,—know me better! I came here prepared
to die, as well as a frail and erring woman could be
-- 279 --
[figure description] Page 279.[end figure description]
prepared. You disarmed the dagger. You subdued the
determination when you bid me live for you. In your
faith, I am willing to live. I believe you and am resolved
to make myself worthy of your belief also. I have promised
to be your wife, and here before heaven, I swear to
be your faithful wife; but, until then, you shall presume
in no respect. Your lip shall not touch mine; your arms
shall not embrace me; you shall see, dear Alfred, that, with
my eyes once opened fully upon my own weakness, I have
acquired the most certain strength.”
“Give me the dagger,” he said.
She hesitated.
“You doubt me still?”
“No, no!” she exclaimed handing him the weapon—
“no, no! I do not doubt you. I dare not. Doubt you,
Alfred?—that were death even without the dagger!”
CHAPTER XXIX.
Alfred Stevens was sufficiently familiar with the sex
to perceive that Margaret Cooper was resolved. There
was that in her look and manner which convinced him that
she was not now to be overcome. There was no effort or
constraint either in her looks or language. The composure
of assumed strength was there. The discovery of her
weakness, which he had so unexpectedly made, had rendered
her vigilant. Suspect ng herself, which women are not
apt to do—she became watchful, not only of the approach
of her lover, but of every emotion of her own soul; and
it was with a degree of chagrin which he could scarcely
refrain from showing, that he was compelled to forego, at
least for the present, all his usual arts of seduction. Yet
he knew not how to refrain. Never had Margaret Cooper
seemed so lovely in his eyes, so commanding, so eloquent
with beauty, as now, when remorse had touched her eyes
with an unwonted shadow, and tears and night-watching
had subdued the richer bloom upon her cheek. Proud
still, but pensive in her pride, she walked silently beside
him, still brooding over thoughts which she would not
-- 280 --
[figure description] Page 280.[end figure description]
willingly admit were doubts, and grasping every word of
assurance that fell from his lips as if it had been some
additional security. These assurances he still suffered to
escape him with sufficient frequency and solemnity to confirm
that feeling of confidence which his promise of marriage
had inspired in her mind. There was a subdued
fondness in his voice, and an empressement in his manner,
which was not all practice. The character which Margaret
Cooper had displayed in this last interview—her equal
firmness and fear—the noble elevation of soul which, admitting
her own errors, disdained to remind him of his—
a course which would have been the most ready of adoption
among the weaker and less generous of the sex—had
touched him with a degree of respect akin to admiration;
and so strong was the impression made upon him of her
great natural superiority of mind to almost all the women
he had ever met, that, but for her unhappy lapse, he had
sought no other wife. Had she been strong at first as she
proved herself at last, this had been inevitable. When in
his own chamber that night, he could not help recalling to
his memory, the proud elevation of her character as it had
appeared in that interview. The recollection really gave
him pain, since, along with it arose the memory also of
that unfortunate frailty, which became more prominent as
a crime, in connexion with that intellectual merit which, it
is erroneously assumed, should have made it sure.
“But for that, Margaret Cooper, and this marriage were
no vain promise. But that forbids. No, no! no spousals
for me; let John Cross and the bride be ready or not, there
shall be a party wanting to that contract! And yet, what
a woman to lose! what a woman to win! No tragedy
queen ever bore herself like that. Talk of Siddons, indeed!
She would have brought down the house in that
sudden prostration—that passionate appeal. She made
even me tremble. I could have loved her for that, if for
that only. To make me to tremble! and with such a look,
such an eye—such a stern, sweet, fierce beauty! By
Heavens! I know not how to give her up. What a sensation
she would make in Frankfort! Were she my wife—
but no! no! bait for gudgeons! I am not so great a fool
as that. She who is mine on my terms, is yours, sir, or
vours—is any body's when the humour suits and the
-- 281 --
[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]
opportunity. I cannot think of that. Yet, to lose her is
as little to be thought of. I must manage it. I must get
her off from this place. It need not be to Frankfort! Let
me see—there is—hum!—hum!—yes!—a ride of a few
miles—an afternoon excursion—quite convenient, yet not
too near. It must be managed; but, at all events, I must
evade this marriage,—put it off for the present—get some
decent excuse. That's easy enough, and for the rest, why,
time that softens all things, except man and woman, time
will make that easy too. To-morrow for Ellisland, and
the rest after.”
Thus, resolving not to keep his vows to his unhappy
victim, the criminal was yet devising plans by which to
continue his power over her. These plans, yet immature
in his own mind, at least unexpressed, need not be analyzed
here, and may be conjectured by the reader. That
night Stevens busied himself in preparing letters. Of these
he wrote several. It will not further our progress to look
over him as he writes, and we prefer rather, in this place,
to hurry on events which, it may be the complaint of all
parties, reader not omitted, have been too long suffered
to stagnate. But we trust not. Let us hurry Stevens
through Friday night—the night of that last interview.
Saturday morning, we observe that his appetite is unimpaired.
He discusses the breakfast at Hinkley's as if he
had never heard of suffering. He has said an unctuous
grace. Biscuits hot, of best Ohio flour, are smoking on
his plate. A golden looking mass of best fresh butter is
made to assimilate its luscious qualities with those of the
dryer and hotter substance. A copious bowl of milk, new
from the dugs of old Brindle, stands beside him, patiently
waiting to be honoured by his unscrupulous, but not unfastidious
taste. The grace is said and the gravy follows.
He has a religious regard for the goods and gifts of this life.
He eats heartily, and the thanks which follow, if not from
the bottom of the soul, were sufficiently earnest to have
emanated from the bottom of his stomach. This over, he
has a chat with his hosts. He discusses with old Hinkley
the merits of the new lights. What these new lights were,
at that period, we do not pretend to remember. Among
sectarians, there are periodical new lights which singularly
tend to increase the moral darkness. Then they passed
to the love festivals or feasts,—a pleasant practice of the
-- 282 --
[figure description] Page 282.[end figure description]
Methodist church, which is supposed to be very promotive
of many other good things beside love; though we
are constrained to say that Brother Stevens and Brother
Hinkley—who, it may be remarked, had very long and
stubborn arguments, frequently without discovering, till
they reached the close, that they were thoroughly agreed
in every respect except in words—concurred in the opinion
that there was no portion of the church practice so
highly conducive to the amalgamation of soul with soul,
and all souls with God, as this very practice of love feasts!
Being agreed on this and other subjects, Mr. Hinkley invited
Brother Stevens out to look at his turnips and potatoes;
and when this delicate inquiry was over, towards
ten o'clock in the day, Brother Stevens concluded that he
must take a gallop, he was dyspeptic, felt queerish, his
studies were too close, his mind too busy with the great
concerns of salvation. These are enough to give one
dyspepsia. Of course the hot rolls and mountains of volcanic
butter—steam ejecting—could have produced no
such evil effects upon a labourer in the vineyard. At all
events a gallop was necessary, and the horse was brought.
Brother Hinkley and our matronly sister of the same
name, watched the progress of the pious youth, as, spurring
up the hills, he pursued the usual route, taking at first
the broad highway leading to the eastern country.
There were other eyes that watched the departure of
Brother Stevens with no less interest, but of another kind,
than those of the venerable couple. Our excellent friend,
Calvert, started up on hearing the tread of the horse, and
looking out from his porch, ascertained with some eagerness
of glance that the rider was Alfred Stevens. Now,
why was the interest of Calvert so much greater on this
than on any other previous occasion? We will tell you,
gentle reader. He had been roused at an early hour that
morning by a visit from Ned Hinkley.
“Gran'pa,” was the reverent formula of our fisherman
at beginning, “to-day's the day. I'm pretty certain that
Stevens will be riding out to-day, for he missed the last
Saturday. I'll take my chance for it, therefore, and brush
out ahead of him. I think I've got it pretty straight now,
the place that he goes to, and I'll see if I can't get there
soon enough to put myself in a comfortable fix, so as to
see what's a-going on and what he goes after. Now,
-- 283 --
[figure description] Page 283.[end figure description]
gran'pa, I'll tell you what I want from you—them pocket
pistols of your'n. Bill Hinkley carried off grandad's, and
there's none beside that I can lay hold on.”
“But, Ned, I'm afraid to lend them to you.”
“What 'fraid of?”
“That you'll use them.”
“To be sure I will, if there's any need, gran'pa. What
do I get them for?”
“Ah, yes! but I fear you'll find a necessity where there
is none. You'll be thrusting your head into some fray in
which you may lose your ears.”
“By Jupiter, no! No, gran'pa, I'll wait for the necessity.
I won't look for it. I'm going straight ahead this
time, and to one object only. I think Stevens is a rascal,
and I'm bent to find him out. I've had no disposition to
lick any body but him, ever since he drove Bill Hinkley
off—you and him together.”
“You'll promise me, Ned?”
“Sure as a snag in the forehead of a Mississippi steamer.
Depend upon me.”
“But there must be no quarrelling with Stevens either,
Ned.”
“Look you, gran'pa, if I'm to quarrel with Stevens or
any body else, 'twouldn't be your pistols in my pocket
that would make me set on, and 'twouldn't be the want of
'em that would make me stop. When it's my cue to fight,
look you, I won't need any prompter, in the shape of
friend or pistol. Now that speech is from one of your
poets, pretty near, and ought to convince you that you
may as well lend the puppies and say no more about it.
If you don't you'll only compel me to carry my rifle, and
that'll be something worse to an enemy, and something
heavier for me. Come, come, gran'pa, don't be too scrupulous
in your old age. Your having them is a sufficient
excuse for my having them too. It shows that they ought
to be had.”
“You're logic-chopping this morning, Ned,—see that
you don't get to man-chopping in the afternoon. You
shall have the pistols, but do not use them rashly. I have
kept them simply for defence against invasion; not for
the purpose of quarrel, or revenge.”
“And you've kept them mighty well, gran'pa,” replied
the young man, as he contemplated with an eye of anxious
-- 284 --
[figure description] Page 284.[end figure description]
admiration, the polish of the steel barrels, the nice carving
of the handles, and the fantastic but graceful inlay of
the silver-mounting and setting. The old man regarded
him with a smile.
“Yes, Ned, I've kept them well. They have never
taken life, though they have been repeatedly tried upon
bull's eye and tree-bark. If you will promise me not to
use them to-day, Ned, you shall have them.”
“Take 'em back, gran'pa.”
“Why?”
“Why, I'd feel the meanest in the world to have a
we'pon, and not use it when there's a need to do so; and
I'm half afraid that the temptation of having such beautiful
puppies for myself—twin-puppies, I may say—having
just the same look out of the eyes, and just the same
spots and marks, and, I reckon, just the same way of
giving tongue—I'm half afraid, I say, that to get to be the
owner of them, might tempt me to stand quiet and let a
chap wink at me—maybe laugh outright—maybe suck
in his breath, and give a phew-phew-whistle just while
I'm passing! No! no! gran'pa, take back your words, or
take back your puppies. Won't risk to carry both. I'd
sooner take Patsy Rifle, with all her weight, and no terms
at all.”
“Pshaw, Ned, you're a fool.”
“That's no news, gran'pa, to you or me. But it don't
alter the case. Put up your puppies.”
“No, Ned; you shall have them on your own terms.
Take 'em as they are. I give them to you.”
“And I may shoot any body I please this afternoon,
gran'pa?”
“Ay, ay, Ned—any body—”
Thus far the old man, when he stopped himself, changed
his manner, which was that of playful good-humour, to
that of gravity, while his tones underwent a corresponding
change—
“But, Ned, my son, while I leave it to your discretion,
I yet beg you to proceed cautiously—seek no strife, avoid
it—go not into the crowd—keep from them where you see
them drinking, and do not use these or any weapons for
any trifling provocation. Nothing but the last necessity
of self-preservation justifies the taking of life.”
“Gran'pa,—thank you,—you've touched me in the
-- 285 --
[figure description] Page 285.[end figure description]
very midst of my tender place, by this handsome present.
One of these puppies I'll name after you, and I'll notch it
on the butt. The other I'll call Bill Hinkley, and I won't
notch that. Yours, I'll call my pacific puppy, and I'll use
it only for peace-making purposes. The other I'll call my
bull-pup, and him I'll use for baiting and butting, and
goring. But, as you beg, I promise you I'll keep 'em
both out of mischief as long as I can. Be certain sure
that it won't be my having the pups that'll make me get
into a skrimmage a bit the sooner; for I never was the
man to ask whether my dogs were at hand before I could
say the word, `set-on!' It's a sort of nature in a man that
don't stop to look after his weapons, but naturally expects
to find 'em any how, when his blood's up, and there's a
necessity to do.”
This long speech and strong assurance of his pacific nature
and purposes, did not prevent the speaker from making,
while he spoke, certain dextrous uses of the instruments
which were given into his hands. Right and left were
equally busy; one muzzle was addressed to the candle
upon the mantelpiece, the other pursued the ambulatory
movements of a great black spider upon the wall. The
old man surveyed him with an irrepressible smile. Suddenly
interrupting himself the youth exclaimed,—
“Are they loaded, gran'pa?”
He was answered in the negative.
“Because, if they were,” said he, “and that great
black spider was Brother Stevens, I'd show you in the
twinkle of a musquito, how I'd put a finish to his morning's
work. But I'd use the bull-pup, gran'pa,—see, this
one—the pacific one I'd empty upon him with powder
only, as a sort of feu de joie—and then I'd set up the song—
what's it? ah! Te Deum. A black spider always puts
me in mind of a rascal.”
-- 286 --
CHAPTER XXX.
[figure description] Page 286.[end figure description]
The youth barely stopped to swallow his breakfast,
when he set off from the village. He managed his movements
with considerable caution; and, fetching a circuit
from an opposite quarter, after having ridden some five
miles out of his way, passed into the road which he suspected
that Stevens would pursue. We do not care to
show the detailed processes by which he arrived at this
conclusion. The reader may take for granted that he had
heard from some way-side farmer, that a stranger rode by
his cottage once a week, wearing such and such breeches,
and mounted upon a nag of a certain colour and with certain
qualities. Enough to say, that Ned Hinkley was
tolerably certain of his route and man. He sped on accordingly—
did not once hesitate at turns, right or left,
forks and cross-roads, but keeping an inflexible course,
he placed himself at such a point on the road as to leave it
no longer doubtful, should Stevens pass, of the place which
usually brought him up. Here he dismounted, hurried his
horse out of sight and hearing in the woods, and choosing
a position for himself, with some nicety, along the roadside,
put himself in close cover, where stretching his frame
at length, he commenced the difficult labour of cooling his
impatience with his cogitations. But cogitating, with a
fellow of his blood, rather whets impatience. He was
monstrous restive. At his fishing-pond, with a trout to
hook, he would have lain for hours, as patient as philosophy
itself, and as inflexible as the solid rock over which he
brooded. But without an angle at his hand, how could he
keep quiet? Not by thinking, surely; and, least of all, by
thinking about that person for whom his hostility was so
active. Thinking of Stevens, by a natural association, reminded
him of the pistols which Calvert had given him.
Nothing could be more natural than to draw them from his
bosom. Again and again he examined them in fascinated
contemplation. He had already charged them, and he
amused himself by thinking of the mischief he could do,
by a single touch upon the trigger, to a poor little
-- 287 --
[figure description] Page 287.[end figure description]
woodrat, that once or twice ran along a decaying log some five
steps from his feet. But his object being secrecy, the rat
brushed his whiskers in safety. Still he amused himself
by aiming at this and other objects, until suddenly reminded
of the very important difference which he had promised
Calvert to make between the pistols in his future use of
them. With this recollection he drew out his knife, and
laid the weapons before him.
“This,” said he, after a careful examination, in which
he fancied he discovered some slight difference between
them in the hang of the trigger,—“this shall be my bull-pup—
this my peace-maker!”
The latter was marked accordingly with a “P,” carved
rudely enough by one whose hand was much more practised
in slitting the weasand of a buck, than in cutting out,
with crayon, or Italian crow-quill, the ungainly forms of
the Roman alphabet. Ned Hinkley shook his head with
some misgiving when the work was done; as he could not
but see that he had somewhat impaired the beauty of the
peace-maker's butt by the hang-dog looking initial which
he had grafted upon it. But when he recollected the subordinate
uses to which this “puppy” was to be put, and
considered how unlikely, in his case, it would be exposed
to sight in comparison with its more masculine brother, he
grew partially reconciled to an evil which was now, indeed,
irreparable.
It does not require that we should bother the reader
with the numberless thoughts and fancies which bothered
him, in the three mortal hours in which he kept his watch.
Nothing but the hope that he should ultimately be compensated
to the utmost by a full discovery of all that he
sought to know, could possibly have sustained him during
the trying ordeal. At every new spasm of impatience
which he felt, he drew up his legs, shifted from one side
to the other, and growled out some small thunder in the
shape of a threat that “it would be only so much the worse
for him when the time came!” Him—meaning Stevens.
At last Stevens came. He watched the progress of his
enemy with keen eyes; and, with his “bull-pup” in his
hand, which a sort of instinct made him keep in the direction
of the highway, he followed his form upon the road.
When he was out of sight and hearing, the spy jumped to
his feet. The game, he felt, was secure now—in one
respect at least.
-- 288 --
[figure description] Page 288.[end figure description]
“He's for Ellisland. That was no bad guess then. He
might have been for Fergus, or Jonesboro, or Debarre, but
there's no turn now in the clear track to Ellisland. He's
there for certain.”
Ned Hinkley carefully restored his pistols to his bosom
and buttoned up. He was mounted in a few moments,
and pressing slowly forward in pursuit. He had his own
plans which we will not attempt to fathom; but we fear
we shall be compelled to admit that he was not sufficiently
a getleman to scruple at turning scout in a time of peace,
(though, with him, by the way, and thus he justified, he is
in pursuit of an enemy, and consequantly is at war,) and
dodging about, under cover, spying out the secrets of the
land, and not very fastidious in listening to conversation
that does not exactly concern him. We fear that there is
some such flaw in the character of Ned Hinkley, though,
otherwise, a good, hardy fellow—with a rough and tumble
sort of good nature, which, having bloodied your nose, would
put a knife-handle down your back, and apply a handful
of cobwebs to the nasal extremity in order to arrest the
hæmorrhage. We are sorry that there is such a defect in
his character; but we did not put it there. We should
prefer that he should be perfect—the reader will believe
us—but there are grave lamentations enough over the failures
of humanity to render our homilies unnecessary.
Ned Hinkley was not a gentleman, and the only thing to
be said in his behalf, is, that he was modest enough to
make no pretensions to the character. As he once said in
a row, at the company muster:—
“I'm blackguard enough, on this occasion, to whip e'er
a gentleman among you!”
Without any dream of such a spectre at his heels to disturb
his imagination, Alfred Stevens was pursuing his way
towards Ellisland, at that easy travelling gait, which is the
best for man and beast, vulgarly called a “dog-trot.”
Some very fine and fanciful people insist upon calling it a
“jog-trot.” We beg leave, in this place, to set them right.
Every trot is a jog, and so, for that matter, is every canter.
A dog-trot takes its name from the even motion of the
smaller quadruped, when he is seized with no particular
mania, and is yet disposed to go stubbornly forward. It
is in more classical dialect, the festina lente motion. It is
regularly forward, and therefore fast—it never puts the
-- 289 --
[figure description] Page 289.[end figure description]
animal out of breath, and is therefore slow. Nobody ever
saw a dog practice this gait, with a tin cannister at his tail,
and a huddle of school-boys at his heels. No! it is the
travelling motion, considering equally the health of all
parties, and the necessity of getting on.
In this desire, Ned Hinkley pressed too closely on the
heels of Stevens. He once nearly overhauled him; and,
falling back, he subdued his speed, to what, in the same
semi-figurative language, he styled “the puppy-trot.”
Observing these respective gaits, Brother Stevens rode into
Ellisland at a moderately late dinner-hour, and the pursuer
followed at an unspeakable, but not great, distance behind
him. We will, henceforward, after a brief glance at Ellisland,
confine ourselves more particularly to the progress of
Brother Stevens.
Ellisland was one of those little villages to which geographers
scarcely accord a place upon the maps. It is not
honoured with a dot in any map that we have ever seen of
Kentucky. But, for all this, it is a place! Some day the
name will be changed into Acarnania or Etolia, Epirus or
Scandinavia, and then be sure you shall hear of it. Already,
the village lawyers—there are two of them—have
been discussing the propriety of a change to something
classical; and we do not doubt that, before long, their stupidity
will become infectious. Under these circumstances
Ellisland will catch a name that will stick. At present,
you would probably never hear of the place, were it not
necessary to our purposes and those of Brother Stevens.
It has its tavern and blacksmith shop,—its church,—the
meanest fabric in the village,—its post-office and public
well and trough. There is also a rack pro bono publico,
but as it is in front of the tavern, the owner of that establishment
has not wholly succeeded in convincing the people
that it was put there with simple reference to the public
convenience. The tavern-keeper is, politically, a quadrupled
personage. He combines the four offices of post-master,
justice of the peace, town council and publican;
and is considered a monstrous small person with all. The
truth is, reader—this aside—he has been democrat and
whig, alternately, every second year of his political life.
His present politics, being loco-foco, are in Ellisland considered
contra bonos mores. It is hoped that he will be
-- 290 --
[figure description] Page 290.[end figure description]
dismissed from office, and a memorial to that effect is in
preparation; but the days of Harrison—“and Tyler too”—
have not yet come round, and Jerry Sunderland, who
knows what his enemies are driving at, whirls his coat-skirts,
and snaps his fingers, in scorn of all their machinations.
He has a friend at Washington, who spoons in the
back parlour of the White House—in other words, is a
member of the Kitchen Cabinet, of which, be it said, en
passant, there never was a President of the United States
yet entirely without one—and—there never will be! So
much for politics and Ellisland.
There was some crowd in the village on the day of
Brother Stevens's arrival. Saturday is a well known day
in the western and southern country for making a village
gathering; and when Brother Stevens, having hitched his
horse at the public rack, pushed his way to the post-office, he
had no small crowd to set aside. He had just deposited
his letters, received others in return, answered some ten or
fifteen questions which Jerry Sunderland, P. M., Q. U., N.
P., M. C., publican and sinner—such were all deservedly
his titles—had thought it necessary to address to him,
when he was suddenly startled by a familiar tap upon the
shoulder;—such a tap as leads the recipient to imagine
that he is about to be honoured with the affectionate salutation
of some John Doe or Richard Roe, of the law. Stevens
turned with some feeling of annoyance, if not misgiving,
and met the arch, smiling and very complacent visage
of a tall, slender young gentleman in black bushy whiskers
and a green coat, who seized him by the hand and shook
it heartily, while a chuckling half-suppressed laughter gurgling
in his throat, for a moment, forbade the attempt to
speak. Stevens seemed disquieted and looked around him
suspiciously.
“What! you here, Ben?”
“Ay, you see me! You didn't expect to see me, Warham—”
“Hush!” was the whispered word of Stevens, again
looking round him in trepidation.
“Oh! ay!” said the other with a sly chuckle, and also
in a whisper—“Mr. Stevens—Brother Stevens—hem! I
did not think. How is your holiness to-day?”
“Come aside,” muttered Stevens; and taking the arm
of the incautious speaker, he led him away from the crowd,
-- 291 --
[figure description] Page 291.[end figure description]
and took the way out of the village. Their meeting and
departure did not occasion much if any sensation. The
visiters in the village were all too busy in discussing the
drink and doctrines, pretty equally distributed, of Jerry,
the publican. But there was one eye that noted the meeting
of the friends—that beheld the concern and confusion
of Stevens—that saw their movements and followed their
departing steps.
“Take your horse,—where is he?” demanded Stevens.
“Here, at hand—but what do you mean to do?”
“Nothing, but get out of hearing and sight;—for your
long tongue, Ben, and significant face would blab any
secret however deep.”
“Ah! did I not say that I would find you out? Did you
get my last letter?”
“Ay, I did: but I'm devilish sorry, Ben, that you've
come. You'll do mischief. You have always been a
marplot.”
“Never! never! You don't know me.”
“Don't I?—but get your horse and let's go into the
woods, while we talk over matters.”
“Why not leave the nags here?”
“For a very good reason. My course lies in that direction,
so that I am in my way; while yours, if your purpose
be to go back to Frankfort, will lie on the upper
side. Neither of us need come back to the village.”
“And you think to shuffle me off so soon, do you?”
“What would you have me do?”
“Why, give us a peep at this beauty—this Altamira of
yours, at least.”
“Impossible! Do not think of it Ben; you'd spoil all.
But, get the horse. These billet-heads will suspect mischief
if they see us talking together, particularly when
they behold your conceited action. This political landlord
will surmise that you are a second Aaron Burr, about to
beat up recruits to conquer California. Your big whiskers—
what an atrocious pair!—with your standing collar,
will confirm the impression.”
The two were soon mounted, and rode into the adjoining
woods. They were only a stone's throw from the
village when Stevens alighted, followed by his companion.
They hitched their horses to some swinging branches of
a sheltering tree, and going aside a few paces beyond,
-- 292 --
[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]
seated themselves upon the grass, as they fancied, in a
place of perfect security.
“And now, Ben, what in truth brings you here?” demanded
Stevens in tones of voice and with a look which
betrayed any thing but satisfaction with the visit.
“Curiosity, I tell you, and the legs of my horse.”
“Pshaw, you have some other motive.”
“No, 'pon honour. I resolved to find you out—to see
what you were driving at, and where! I could only guess
a part from your letter to Barnabas, and that costive
scrawl with which you honoured me. Perhaps, too,—
and give my friendship credit for the attempt—I came
with some hope to save you.”
“Save me—from what”
“Why, wedlock—the accursed thing! The club is in
terror lest you should forget your vows. So glowing
were your descriptions of your Cleopatra, that we knew
not what to make. We feared every thing.”
“Why, Barnabas might have opened your eyes. He
knew better.”
“You're not married then?”
“Pshaw,—no!”
“Nor engaged?”
The other laughed as he replied,—
“Why, on that head, the least said the better. The
roving commission permits you to run up any flag that
the occasion requires.”
“Ah! you sly dog!—and what success?”
“Come, come, Ben, you must not be so inquisitive;
the game's my own, you know; and the rules of the club
give me immunity from a fellow member.”
“By Gad! I'll resign! I must see this forest beauty.”
“Impossible.”
“Where's she? How will you prevent?”
“By a very easy process! Do you know the bird that
shrieks farthest from her young ones when the fowler is
at hand? I'll follow her example.”
“I'll follow you to the uttermost ends of the earth,
Warham?”
“Hush! you forget! Am I not Brother Stevens? Ha!
ha! ha! You are not sufficiently reverent, brother.
See you no divinity in my look and bearing. Hark you,
-- 293 --
[figure description] Page 293.[end figure description]
Ben, I've been a sort of small divinity in the eyes of a
whole flock for a month past!”
“You pray?”
“And preach!”
“Ha! ha! ha! Devilish good; but I must see you in
order to believe. I must, indeed, Brother Stevens. Why,
man, think of it,—success in this enterprise will make
you head of the fraternity—you will be declared Pope,—
but you must have witnesses!”
“So I think,—and hark ye, Ben”—laying a finger on
the arm of the other—“I am successful!”
“What! you don't say so! This Queen, this Princess
of Egypt, Cleopatra, Altamira—eh?”
“Is mine—soul and body—she is mine!”
“And is what you say—come, come, you don't mean
that such a splendid woman as you describe—such a
genius, poet, painter, musician,—beauty too!—you don't
mean to say that—”
“I do; every bit of it.”
“Gad! what a fellow! What a lucky dog! But you
must let me see her, Warham!”
“What! to spoil all—to blurt out the truth?—for with
every disposition to fib, you lack the ability, No! no!
Ben; when the game's up; when I'm tired of the sport,
and feel the necessity of looking out fresh viands; you
shall then know all. I'll give the clue into your own hands,
and you may follow it to your heart's content. But not
now!”
“But, how will you get rid of me, mon ami, if my
curiosity is stubborn?”
“Do as the kill-deer does. Travel from the nest. Go
home with you, rather than you should succeed in your
impertinence, and have you expelled from the club for
thrusting your spoon into the dish of a brother member.”
“You're a Turk, with no bowels of compassion. But,
at all events, you promise me the dish when you're done
with it? You give me the preference?”
“I do!”
“Swear by Beelzebub and Mahomet; by Jupiter Ammon
and Johannes Secundus; by the ghost of Cardinal
Bembo, and the gridiron of the fraternity!”
“Ay, and by the virginity of Queen Elizabeth!”
“Simulacrum! no! no! no such oath for me! That's
-- 294 --
[figure description] Page 294.[end figure description]
swearing by the thing that is not, was not—could not
be! You shall swear by the oaths of the club—you must
be bound on the gridiron of the fraternity, before I believe
you. Swear!”
“You are as tenacious as the ghost of buried Denmark.
But you shall be satisfied. I swear by the mystic gridiron
of the fraternity, and by the legs thereof, of which
the images are Beelzebub, Mahomet, Johannes Secundus,
and so forth—nay, by that memorable volume, so revered
in the eyes of the club, the new edition of the “Basiad,”
of which who among us has been the true exponent—
that profound mystery of sweets, fathomed hourly, yet
unfathomable still,—for which the commentators, already
legions, are hourly becoming legions more;—by these
and by the mysteries of the mirror that reflects not our
own, but the image we desire;—by these things; by all
things that among the brotherhood are held potent, I
swear to—”
“Give me the preference in the favour of this princess—
the clue to find her when you have left her, and the
assurance that you will get a surfeit as soon as possible!
swear!”
“Nay! nay! I swear not to that last! I shall hold
on while appetite holds, and make all efforts not to grow
dyspeptic in a hurry. I'll keep my stomach for a dainty,
be sure, as long as I can. I were no brother, worthy of
our order, if I did not.”
“Well! well!—to the rest! Swear to the rest, and I
am satisfied.”
“You go back then instanter?”
“What! this very day?”
“This hour!”
“The d—l! you don't mean that, Warham?” returned
the other in some consternation.
“Ay! this very hour. You must swear to that. Your
oath must precede mine.”
“Ah! man, remember I only got here last night—long
ride—hard trotting horse. We have not seen each other
for months. I have a cursed sight to tell you, about the
boys—girls too—love, law, logic, politics. Do you know
they talk of running you for the house?”
“All in good season, Ben, not now. No! no! you
shall see me when you least look for me, and there will
-- 295 --
[figure description] Page 295.[end figure description]
be time enough for all these matters then. They'll keep.
For the present, let me say to you that we must part
now within the hour. You must swear not to dog my
steps, and I will swear to give you carte blanche, and the
first privileges at my princess, when I leave her. This is
my bargain. I make no other.”
“I've a great mind not to leave you;” said the other
doggedly.
“And what will that resolution bring you, do you
fancy? Do you suppose I am to be tracked in such a
manner? No, Ben! The effect will be to make me set
off for the east instantly, whether you go with me or not;
and an equally certain effect will be to make us cut loose
for ever.”
“You're a d—d hard colt to manage;” said the other
moodily.
“I sha'n't let myself be straddled by every horse-boy, I
assure you.”
“Come, come, old fellow, that's too much like horse-play.
Don't be angry with me. I'll accept your conditions.”
“Very good,” said Stevens—“if you did not, Ben, it
would be no better for you; for, otherwise, you should
never even see my beauty!”
“Is she so very beautiful, old boy?”
“A queen, I tell you! a proud, high-spirited, wild
beauty of the mountains,—a thing of fire and majesty—a
glorious woman, full of song and sentiment and ambition!—
a genius, I tell you—who can improvise like Corinne, and,
by the way, continually reminds one of that glorious creature.
In Italy, she would have been greater than Corinne.”
“And you've won her,—and she loves you?”
“Ay,—to doting!—I found her a sort of eagle,—soaring,
striving,—always with an eye upon the hills, and fighting
with the sunbeams. I have subdued her. She is now
like a timid fawn that trembles at the very falling of a
leaf in the forests. She pants with hope to see me, and
pants with tremulous delight when I come. Still, she
shows every now and then, a glimmering of that eagle
spirit which she had at first. She flashes up suddenly,
but soon sinks again. Fancy a creature, an idolater of
fame before, suddenly made captive by love, and you have
a vain, partial image of my forest princess.”
-- 296 --
[figure description] Page 296.[end figure description]
“What a lucky dog! You'll marry her yet, old boy, in
spite of all!”
“Pshaw! You are green to talk so.”
“You'll be devilish loth to give her up—I'm afraid, I'll
have to wait a cursed long time.”
“No, not long! Do not despair. Easy won, easy
valued.”
“And was she easily won?”
“Very! the game was a short one. She is a mere
country girl, you know, but sixteen or thereabouts—suspecting
nobody, and never dreaming that she had a heart
or passions at all. She thought only of her poetry and her
books. It was only necessary to work upon heart and passions
while talking of poetry and books, and they carried
her out of her depth before she could recover. She's wiser
now, Ben, I can assure you, and will require more dexterity
to keep than to conquer.”
“And she has no brother to worry a body—no d—d
ugly Hobnail, who has a fancy for her, and may make a
window between the ribs of a gallant, such as nature never
intended, with the ounce bullet of some d—d old fashioned
seven foot rifle—eh?”
“There was a silly chap, one Hinkley, who tried it on
me—actually challenged me, though I was playing parson,
and there might have been work for me but for his own
bull-headed father, who came to my rescue, beat the boy
and drove him from the place. There is nobody else to
give me any annoyance, unless it be a sort of half-witted
chap, a cousin of the former,—a sleepy dog that is never,
I believe, entirely awake unless when he's trout-fishing.
He has squinted at me, as if he could quarrel if he dared,
but the lad is dull—too dull to be very troublesome. You
might kiss his grandmother under his nose, and he would
probably regard it only as a compliment to her superior
virtues, and would thank you accordingly—”
A voice a little to the left interrupted the speaker.
“So he does, my brave parson, for his grandmother's
sake and his own;” were the words of the speaker. They
turned in sudden amaze to the spot whence the sounds
issued. The bushes opening in this quarter, presented to
the astonished eyes of Brother Stevens, the perfect image
of the dull lad of whom he had been speaking. There was
Ned Hinkley in proper person—perfectly awake, yet not
-- 297 --
[figure description] Page 297.[end figure description]
trout-fishing! A sarcastic grin was upon his visage, and
rolling his eyes with a malicious leer, he repeated the
words which had first interrupted the progress of the dialogue
between the friends.
“I thank you, Brother Stevens, for the compliment to
my grandmother's virtues. I thank you, on her account
as well as my own. I'm very grateful, I assure you, very
grateful, very!”
CHAPTER XXXI.
Had a bolt suddenly flashed and thundered at the feet
of the two friends, falling from a clear sky in April, they
could not have been more astounded. They started, as
with one impulse, in the same moment, to their feet.
“Keep quiet,” said the intruder—“don't let me interrupt
you in so pleasant a conversation. I'd like to hear
you out. I'm refreshed by it. What you say is so very
holy and sermon-like, that I'm like a new man when I
hear it. Sit down, Brother Stevens, and begin again;
sit down, Ben, my good fellow, and don't look so scary!
You look as if you had a window in your ribs already!”
The intruder had not moved, though he had startled the
conspirators. He did not seem to share in their excitement.
He was very coolly seated, with his legs deliberately
crossed, while his two hands parted the bushes before
him in order to display his visage—perhaps with the
modest design of showing to the stranger that his friend
had grievously misrepresented its expression. Certainly,
no one could say that, at this moment, it lacked any thing
of spirit or intelligence. Never were eyes more keen—
never were lips more emphatically made to denote sarcasm
and hostility. The whole face was alive with scorn, and
hate, and bitterness; and there was definance enough in the
glance to have put wings to fifty bullets.
His coolness, the composure which his position and
words manifested, awakened the anger of Brother Stevens
as soon as the first feeling of surprise had passed away.
He felt, in a moment, that the game was up with him—
-- 298 --
[figure description] Page 298.[end figure description]
that he could no longer play the hypocrite in Charlemont.
He must either keep his pledges to Margaret Cooper, without
delay or excuse, or he must abandon all other designs
which his profligate heart may have suggested in its cruel
purposes against her peace.
“Scoundrel!” he exclaimed—“how came you here?
What have you heard?”
“Good words, Brother Stevens. You forget, you are
a parson.”
“Brain the rascal!” exclaimed the whiskered stranger,
looking more fierce than ever. The same idea seemed to
prompt the actions of Stevens. Both of them, at the same
moment advanced upon the intruder, with their whips uplifted;
but still Ned Hinkley did not rise. With his legs
still crossed, he kept his position, simply lifting from the
sward beside him, where they had been placed conveniently,
his two “puppies.” One of these he grasped in
his right hand and presented as his enemies approached.
“This, gentlemen,” said he, “is my peace-maker. It
says, `keep your distance.' This is my bull-pup, or peace
breaker—it says `come on.' Listen to which you please.
It's all the same to me. Both are ready to answer you,
and I can hardly keep 'em from giving tongue. The
bull-pup longs to say something to you, Brother Stevens—
the pacificator is disposed to trim your whiskers, Brother
Ben; and I say, for 'em both, come on, you black
hearted rascals, if you want to know whether a girl of
Charlemont can find a man of Charlemont to fight her
battles. I'm man enough, by the Eternal! for both of
you!”
The effect of Hinkley's speech was equally great upon
himself and the enemy. He sprang to his feet, ere the
last sentence was concluded, and they recoiled in something
like indecent haste. The language of determination
was even more strongly expressed by the looks of the rustic
than by his language and action. They backed hurriedly
at his approach.
“What! won't you stand?—won't you answer to your
villanies?—won't you fight? Pull out your barkers and
blaze away, you small-souled scamps; I long to have a
crack at you—here and there—both at a time! Aint you
willing? I'm the sleepy trout-fisherman! Don't you know
me? You've wakened me up, my lads, and I sha'nt sleep
-- 299 --
[figure description] Page 299.[end figure description]
again in a hurry! As for you, Alfred Stevens—you were
ready to fight Bill Hinkley—here's another of the breed—
won't you fight him?”
“Yes—give me one of your pistols, if you dare, and
take your stand,” said Stevens boldly.
“You're a cunning chap—give you one of my puppies—
a stick for my own head—while this bush-whiskered
chap cudgels me over from behind. No! no! none of
that! Besides, these pistols were a gift from a good man;
they sha'n't be disgraced by the handling of a bad one.
Get your own weapons, Brother Stevens, and every man
to his tree.”
“They are in Charlemont!”
“Well!—you'll meet me there then?”
“Yes!” was the somewhat eager answer of Stevens,
“I will meet you there—to-morrow morning—”
“Sunday—no! no!”
“Monday then;—this evening, if we get home in season.”
“It's a bargain then,” replied Hinkley, “though I can
hardly keep from giving you the teeth of the bull! As for
big-whiskered Ben, there, I'd like to let him taste my pacificator.
I'd just like to brush up his whiskers with gun-powder—
they look to have been done up with bear's
grease before, and have a mighty fine curl; but if I
wouldn't frizzle them better than ever a speckled hen had
her feathers frizzled, then I don't know the virtues of gun-powder.
On Monday morning, Brother Stevens!”
“Ay, ay! on Monday morning!”
Had Ned Hinkley been more a man of the world—had
he not been a simple countryman, he would have seen, in
the eagerness of Stevens to make this arrangement, something,
which would have rendered him suspicious of his
truth. The instantaneous thought of the arch-hypocrite,
convinced him that he could never return to Charlemont if
this discovery was once made there. His first impulse
was to put it out of the power of Ned Hinkley to convey
the tidings. We do not say that he would have deliberately
murdered him; but, under such an impulse of rage
and disappointment as governed him in the first moments
of detection, murder has been often done. He would probably
have beaten him into incapacity with his whip—
which had a heavy handle—had not the rustic been
-- 300 --
[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]
sufficiently prepared. The pistols of Stevens were in his
valise, but he had no purpose of fighting, on equal terms,
with a fellow who spoke with the confidence of one who
knew how to use his tools; and when the simple fellow,
assuming that he would return to Charlemont for his chattels,
offered him the meeting there, he eagerly caught at
the suggestion as affording himself and friend the means of
final escape. It was not merely the pistols of Hinkley
of which he had a fear. But he well knew how extreme
would be the danger, should the rustic gather together the
people of Ellisland, with the story of his fraud, and the
cruel consequences to the beauty of Charlemont, by which
the deception had been followed. But the simple youth,
ignorant of the language of libertinism, had never once
suspected the fatal lapse from virtue of which Margaret
Cooper had been guilty. He was too unfamiliar with the
annals and practices of such criminals, to gather this fact
from the equivocal words, and half spoken sentences, and
sly looks of the confederates. Had he dreamed this—
had it, for a moment, entered into his conjecturings—that
such had been the case, he would probably have shot down
the seducer without a word of warning. But that the crime
was other than prospective, he had not the smallest fancy;
and this may have been another reason why he took the
chances of Stevens's return to Charlemont, and let him off
at the moment.
“Even should he not return;” such may have been his
reflection—“I have prevented mischief at least. He will
be able to do no harm. Margaret Cooper shall be warned
of her escape, and become humbler at least, if not wiser,
in consequence. At all events, the eyes of uncle Hinkley
will be opened, and poor Bill be restored to us again!”
“And now mount, you scamps,” said Hinkley, pressing
upon the two with presented pistols. “I'm eager to
send big-whiskered Ben home to his mother; and to see
you, Brother Stevens, on your way back to Charlemont.
I can hardly keep hands off you till then; and it's only to
do so, that I hurry you. If you stay, looking black, and
mouthing together, I can't stand it. I will have a crack at
you. My peace-maker longs to brush up them whiskers.
My bull-pup is eager to take you, Brother Stevens, by the
chin. Mount you, as quick as you can, before I do mischief.”
-- 301 --
[figure description] Page 301.[end figure description]
Backing towards their horses, they yielded to the advancing
muzzels, which the instinct of fear made them
loth to turn their backs upon. Never were two hopeful
projectors so suddenly abashed—so completely baffled.
Hinkley, advancing with moderate pace, now thrust forward
one, and now the other pistol, accompanying the
action with a specific sentence corresponding to each, in
manner and form as follows:—
“Back, parson—back whiskers! Better turn, and look
out for the roots, as you go forward. There's no seeing
your way along the road by looking down the throats of
my puppies. If you want to be sure that they'll follow
till you're mounted, you have my word for it. No mistake,
I tell you. They're too eager on scent, to lose sight
of you in a hurry, and they're ready to give tongue at a
moment's warning. Take care not to stumble, whiskers,
or pacificator'll be into your brush.”
“I'll pay you for this!” exclaimed Stevens, with a rage
which was not less really felt than judiciously expressed.
“Wait till we meet!”
“Ay, ay! I'll wait; but be in a hurry. Turn now,
your nags are at your backs. Turn and mount!”
In this way they reached the tree where their steeds
were fastened. Thus, with the muzzle of a pistol bearing
close upon the body of each—the click of the cock they
had heard—the finger close to the trigger they saw—they
were made to mount—in momentary apprehension that
the countryman, whose determined character was sufficiently
seen in his face, might yet change his resolve, and
with wanton hand, riddle their bodies with his bullets. It
was only when they were mounted, that they drew a
breath of partial confidence.
“Now,” said Hinkley, “my lads, let there be few last
words between you. The sooner you're off the better.
As for you, Alfred Stevens, the sooner you're back in
Charlemont the more daylight we'll have to go upon. I'll
be waiting you, I reckon, when you come.”
“Ay, and you may wait;” said Stevens, as the speaker
turned off and proceeded to the spot where his own horse
was fastened.
“You won't return, of course?” said his companion.
“No! I must now return with you, thanks to your interference.
By Heavens, Ben, I knew, at your coming,
-- 302 --
[figure description] Page 302.[end figure description]
that you would do mischief; you have been a marplot
ever; and after this, I am half resolved to forswear your
society for ever.”
“Nay, nay! do not say so, Warham. It was unfortunate,
I grant you; but how the devil should either of us
guess that such a Turk as that was in the bush?”
“Enough for the present,” said the other. “It is not
now whether I wish to ride with you or not. There is
no choice. There is no return to Charlemont.”
“And that's the name of the place, is it?”
“Yes! yes! Much good may the knowledge of it do
you.”
“How fortunate that this silly fellow concluded to let
you off on such a promise. What an ass!”
“Yes! but he may grow wiser! Put spurs to your
jade, and let us see what her heels are good for, for the
next three hours. I do not yet feel secure. The simpleton
may grow wiser and change his mind.”
“He can scarcely do us harm now, if he does.”
“Indeed!” said Stevens—“you know nothing. There's
such a thing as hue and cry, and its not unfrequently
practised in these regions, when the sheriff is not at hand
and constables are scarce. Every man is then a sheriff.”
“Well—but there's no law-process against us!”
“You are a born simpleton, I think;” said Stevens
with little scruple. He was too much mortified to be very
heedful of the feelings of his companion. “There needs
no law in such a case, at least for the capture of a supposed
criminal; and, for that matter, they do not find it
necessary for his punishment either. Hark ye, Ben—
there's a farmhouse!”
“Yes, I see it!”
“Don't you smell tar?—They're running it now!”
“I think I do smell something like it. What of it?”
“Do you see that bed hanging from yon window?”
“Yes! of course I see it!”
“It is a feather bed!”
“Well,—what of that? Why tell me this stuff? Of
course I can guess as well as you that it's a feather bed,
since I see a flock of geese in the yard with their necks
all bare.”
“Hark ye, then! There's something more than this,
which you may yet see! Touch up your mare. If this
-- 303 --
[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
fellow brings the mob at Ellisland upon us, that tar will be
run, and that feather-bed gutted, for our benefit. What
they took from the geese will be bestowed on us. Do you
understand me? Did you ever hear of a man whose coat
was made of tar and feathers, and furnished at the expense
of the county?”
“Hush! for God's sake, Warham,—you make my blood
run cold with your hideous notions!”
“That fellow offered to frizzle your whiskers. These
would anoint them with tar in which your bear's oil would
be of little use.”
“Ha! don't you hear a noise?” demanded the whiskered
companion, looking behind him.
“I think I do;” replied the other musingly.
“A great noise!” continued Don Whiskerandos.
“Yes, it seems to me that it is a great noise.”
“Like people shouting?”
“Somewhat—yes! by my soul, that does sound something
like a shout!—”
“And there!—Don't stop to look and listen, Warham;”
cried his companion; “it's no time for meditation.
They're coming!—hark!—” and with a single glance
behind him, with eyes dilating with the novel apprehensions
of receiving a garment, unsolicited, bestowed by the
bounty of the country,—he drove his spurs into the flanks
of his mare and went ahead like an arrow. Stevens smiled
in spite of his vexation.
“D—n him!” he muttered as he rode forward; “it's
some satisfaction at least to scare the soul out of him!”
END OF VOL. I.
