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

[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

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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

[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,

[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

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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!

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