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 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
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OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
CHAKL EMONT ; 
 
 OR* 
 
 THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 
 
 A TALE OF KENTUCKY. 
 BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE PARTISAN," "MELMCIIAMPE," " KATHARINE WALTON, 
 
 "THE FORAYERS," "WOODCRAFT, 11 "UEAUCllAMPE," ETC. 
 
 " Nor Avill I bo secure. 
 In any confidence of mine own Strength, 
 For such security is oft the mother 
 Of negligence, and that, the occasion 
 Of uuremedy d ruin. 11 
 
 Jtficrocosmtia THO. 
 
 i)ifion. 
 
 CMIOAGO: 
 
 DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO 
 
 407-425 DEARBORN STREET 
 1890 
 
DONOHUE & HENNEBERRY, 
 
 PRINTERS AND BINDERS, 
 CHICAGO. 
 
PSZ0HB 
 
 C(P 
 
 mo 
 
 MAIM 
 
 TO THE 
 
 H O N J A M E S HALL, 
 
 OF CINCINNATI: 
 
 A Cfifti CF THE AHLEST UK Ol 11 1JTEUARY PIONEERS 
 A GENUINE KEPKESENTATIVE OF THE GREAT WEST; 
 
 WHOSE WHITINGS 
 HK-llIAL^Y ILLUSTRATE HER HISTORY AM) GENIUS: 
 
 thie story of "t/HARLKMONT," and ita Sequel "BEAUCHAMPK 
 aro respectfully inscribed by 
 
 THEIR AUTHOF 
 
 166362 
 

 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE domestic legend which follows, is founded upon ac 
 tual events of comparatively recent occurrence in the state 
 of Kentucky. However strange the facts may appear in 
 the sequel however in conflict with what are usually sup 
 posed to be the sensibilities and characteristics of womar. 
 they are yet unquestionably true ; most of thorn paving 
 been conclusively established, by the best testimony, before 
 a court of justice. Very terrible, indeed, was the tragedy 
 to which they conducted one that startled the whole 
 country when it took place, and the mournful interest of 
 which will long be remembered. More on this subject 
 need not be mentioned here. The narrative, it is hoped, 
 will satisfy all the curiosity of the reader. It has been 
 very carefully prepared from and according to the evidence ; 
 the art of the romancer being held in close subjection to 
 the historical authorities. I have furnished only the nocep- 
 sary details which would fill such blanks in the story as 
 are of domestic character ; taking care that these should 
 accord, in all cases, with the despotic facts. In respect to- 
 these, I have seldom appealed to invention. It is in the 
 delineation and development of character, only, that I have 
 made free to furnish scenes, such as appeared to me calcu 
 lated to perfect the portraits, and the better to reconcile 
 
8 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 the ,ader to real occurrences, which, in their original na 
 kedness, however unquestionably true, might incur the risk 
 of being thought improbabilities. 
 
 The reflections which will be most likely to arise from 
 the perusal of such a history, lead us to a consideration of 
 the social characteristics of the time and region, and to a 
 consideration of the facility with which access to society 
 is afforded by the manners and habits of our forest popula 
 tion. It is in all newly-settled countries, as among the 
 rustic population of most nations, that the absence of the 
 compensative resources of wealth leads to a singular and 
 unreserved freedom among the people. In this way, society 
 endeavors to find equivalents for those means of enjoyment 
 which a wealthy people may procure from travel, from 
 luxur^ from the arts, and the thousand comforts of a well- 
 provided homestead. The population of a frontier country, 
 lacking such resources, scattered over a large territory, 
 and meeting infrequently, fed the lack of social intercourse ; 
 and this lack tends to break down most of the barriers 
 which a strict convention usually establishes for the pro 
 tection, not only of sex and caste, but of its own tastes and 
 prejudices. Lacking the resources of superior wealth, pop 
 ulation, and civilization, the frontier people arc naturally 
 required to throw the doors open as widely as possible, in 
 order to obtain that intercourse with their fellows which is, 
 perhaps, the first great craving of humanity. As a matter 
 of necessity, there is little discrimination exercised in the 
 admission of their guests. A specious outside, agreeable 
 manners, cleverness and good humor, will soon make their 
 way into confidence, without requiring other guaranties for 
 the moral of the stranger. The people are naturally frank 
 and hospitable ; for the simple reason that these qualities 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 9 
 
 of character are essential for procuring them that inter 
 course which they crave. The habits are accessible, the 
 restraints few, the sympathies are genial, active, easily 
 aroused, and very confiding. It follows, naturally, that 
 they are frequently wronged and outraged, and just as nat 
 urally that their resentments are keen, eager, and vindic 
 tive. The self-esteem, if not watchful, is revengeful ; and 
 society sanctions promptly the fierce redress that wild 
 justice of revenge which punishes without appeal to law, 
 with its own right hand, the treacherous guest who has 
 abused the unsuspecting confidence which welcomed him 
 to a seat upon the sacred hearth. In this brief portrait 
 of the morale of society, upon our frontiers, you will find 
 the materiel from which this story has been drawn, and its 
 justification, as a correct delineation of border life in one 
 of its more settled phases in the new states. The social 
 description of Charlemont exhibits, perhaps, a third ad 
 vance in our forest civilization, from the original settle 
 ment. 
 
 It is not less the characteristic of these regions to exhibit 
 the passions and the talents of the people in equal and 
 wonderful saliency. We are accordingly struck with two 
 classes of social facts, which do not often arrest the atten 
 tion in old communities. We see, for example, the most 
 singular combination of simplicity and sagacity in the same 
 person ; simplicity in conventional respects, and sagacity 
 in all that affects the absolute and real in life, nature and 
 the human sensibilities. The rude man, easily imposed 
 upon, in his faith, fierce as an outlaw in his conflicts with 
 men, will be yet exquisitely alive to the nicest consciousness 
 of woman ; will as delicately appreciate her instincts and 
 sensibilities, as if love and pootry had been his only tutors 
 
10 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 from the first, and had mainly addressed their labors to 
 this one object of the higher heart, education ; and in duo 
 degree with the tenderness with which he will regard the 
 sex, will be the vindictive ferocity with which even 
 though no kinsman he will pursue the offender who has 
 dared to outrage them in the case of any individual. In 
 due degree as his faith is easy will his revenges be extreme. 
 In due degree as he is slow to suspect the wrong-doer, will 
 be the tenacity of his pursuit when the offender requires 
 punishment. He seems to throw wide his heart and habita 
 tion, but you must beware how you trespass upon the soro 
 rities of cither. 
 
 The other is a mental characteristic which leads to fre 
 quent surprises among si rangers from the distant cities. 
 It consists in the wonderful inequality between his nnM.lal 
 and social development. The same person who will be re 
 garded as a boor in good society, will yet exhibit a rapidity 
 and profundity of thought and intelligence a depth and 
 soundness of judgment an acuteness in discrimination 
 a logical accuracy, and critical analysis, such as mere 
 good society rarely shows, and sucli as books almost as 
 rarely teach. There will be a deficiency of refinement, 
 taste, art all that the polished world values so highly 
 and which it seems to cherish and encourage to the partial 
 repudiation of the more essential properties of intellect. 
 However surprising this characteristic may appear, it may 
 yet be easily accounted for by the very simplicity of a 
 training which results in great directness and force of char 
 acter a frank heartiness of aim and object a truthful 
 ness of object which suffers the thoughts to turn neither to 
 the right hand nor to the left, but to press forward deci 
 sively to the one object a determined will, and a restless 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 11 
 
 instinct which, conscious of the deficiencies of wealth 
 and position, is yet perpetually seeking- to supply them 
 from the resources within its reach. These characteristics 
 will be found illustrated in the present legend, an object 
 which it somewhat contemplates, apart from the mere story 
 with which they are interwoven. 
 
 A few words more in respect to our heroine, Margaret 
 Cooper. It is our hope and belief, that she will be found 
 a real character by most of our readers. She is drawn 
 from the life, and with a severe regard to the absolute fea 
 tures of the original. In these days of " strong-minded 
 women," even more certainly than when the portrait was 
 first taken, the identity of the sketch with its original will 
 be sure of recognition. Her character and career will 
 illustrate most of the mistakes which are made by that am 
 bitious class, among the gentler sex, who are now seeking 
 so earnestly to pass out from that province of humiliation 
 to which the sex has been circumscribed from the first mo 
 ment of recorded history. What she will gain by the 
 mbtion, if successful, might very well be left to time, were 
 it not that the proposed change in her condition threatens 
 fatally some of her own and the best securities of humanity. 
 We may admit, and cheerfully do so, that she might, with 
 propriety, be allowed some additional legal privileges of a 
 domestic sort. But the great object of attainment, which is 
 the more serious need of the sex her own more full de 
 velopment as a responsible being seems mainly to depend 
 upon herself, and upon self-education. The great first 
 duty of woman is in her becoming the mother of men ; and 
 this duty implies her proper capacity for the education and 
 training of the young. To fit her properly for this duty, 
 her education should become more elevated, and more 
 
1 2 A i)Vi-:i!Tisi-:.MKXT. 
 
 severe in degree with its elevation. But the argument ia 
 one of too grave, too intricate, and excursive a character, 
 to be attempted here. It belongs to a very different con 
 nection. It is enough, in this place, to say that Margaret 
 Cooper possesses just the sort of endowment to make a 
 woman anxious to pass the guardian boundaries which 
 Hedge in her sex her danger corresponds with her desires. 
 Her securities, with such endowments, and such a nature, 
 can only be found in a strict and appropriate education, 
 such as woman seldom receives anywhere, and less, per 
 haps, in this country than in any other. To train fully the 
 feminine mind, without in any degree impairing her sus 
 ceptibilities and sensibilities, seems at once the necessity 
 and the difficulty of the subject. Her very influence over 
 man lies in her sensibilities. It will be to her a perilous 
 fall from pride of place, and power, when, goaded by an 
 insane ambition, in the extreme development of her mere 
 intellect, she shall forfeit a single one of these securities 
 of her sox:. 
 
UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE SCENE. 
 
 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 witli the prolific burden of the 
 season. She had come, and her messengers were every 
 where, and everywhere 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 for 
 ests 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- 
 
14 CHARLKMONT. 
 
 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 honor and rejoicing. 
 
 The " dark and bloody ground," by which mournful epi 
 thets Kentucky was originally known to the Anglo-American, 
 was dark and bloody no longer. The savage had disap 
 peared from its green forests for ever, and no longer pro 
 faned 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 
 everywhere in security among its green rocesscs. Slirrinjr 
 industry the perpetual conqueror mado the woods re 
 sound 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 be 
 coming purposes of social life and thoughtful enterprise 
 superseded that eating and painful decay, which has termi 
 nated in the annihilation of the red man ; and which, among 
 every people, must always result from their refusal to ex 
 ercise, according to the decree of experience, no less than 
 Providence, their limbs and sinews in tasks of well-directed 
 and continual labor. 
 
 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 monot 
 uny 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 ver 
 dant hill-side, and clustered among innumerable valleys 
 
THE SCENE. 15 
 
 Grace began to seek out the homes of toil, and taste sup 
 plied 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 harmo 
 nies 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 in 
 variably 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 
 gods secure, or to have fixed the proper lines and limits 
 regulating social intercourse and attaching precise stand 
 ards 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 recognises a 
 mutual and perfectly equal condition of dependence, 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 
 
16 CHARLKMONT. 
 
 highway, and the wily assassin of reputation, within fche 
 limits of the city barrier, not unfrequently plucked Hie 
 sweetest rose that ever adorned the virgin bosom of inno 
 cence, and triumphed, without censure, in the unhallowed 
 spoliation. 
 
 But sometimes there came an avenger; and the high 
 way robber fell before the unexpected patriot; and the vir 
 gin was avenged by the yet beardless hero, for the wrong 
 of her cruel seducer. The story which we have to tell, i.s 
 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 colors, 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. 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 LET the traveller stand with us on the top of this rugged 
 eminence, and look down upon the scene below. Around 
 us, the hills gather in groups on every side, a family clus 
 ter, each of which wears the same general likeness to that 
 on which we stand, yet there is no monotony in their as 
 pect. The axe has not yet deprived them of a single tree, 
 and they rise up, covered with the honored 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 were so green and glossy, and as 
 if the impression should be made more certain and com 
 plete, the gusty wind 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 dra 
 peries 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 tlie beauties of the place. In 
 the winding hollows of these hills, beginning at our feet, 
 you see the first signs uf as lovely a little hamlet as ever 
 
1 3 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 promised peace to the weary and the discontent. This is 
 the village of Charlcmont. 
 
 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 distin 
 guished, each by an individual feature, there is yet no great 
 dissimilarity among them. All are small, and none of them 
 distinguished by architectural pretension. 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 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 to 
 gether, perhaps by unpractised hands, are yet made cheer 
 ful by that tidy industry which is always sure to make them 
 comfortable also. Trim hedges that run beside slender 
 white palings, surround and separate them from each other. 
 Sometimes, as you sec, festoons of graceful flowers, and 
 waving blossoms, distinguish one dwelling from the rest, 
 declaring 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 ai.d 
 glitters in. the rear or front of the greater number. 
 
 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 por 
 tals the wHite palings are down and blackening in tho 
 gloomy mould the roofs have fallen, and silence dwell? 
 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." 
 
THt TRAVELLERS. 19 
 
 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 withii. our present purpose to 
 inquire. It was most probably abandoned not because of 
 the unfruitfulness of the soil, or the unhcalthincss of the 
 climate for but few places on the bosom of the earth, may 
 be found either more fertile, more beautiful, or more health 
 ful 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 hun across the waters, have 
 been transmitted without diminution nay, with large in 
 crease 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 Prov 
 idence has assigned them, in order that they may the 
 more effectually and soon, bring into the use and occupation 
 of a yet mightier people, the wilderness of that new world 
 in which thcil fortunes have been cast. Generation is but 
 the pioneer of generation, and the children of millions, 
 more gigantic and powerful tnan ourselves, shall yet smile 
 to behold, how fecWe was the stroke made by our axe upon 
 the towering trees of tneir inheritance. 
 
 It was probably because of this characteristic of our peo 
 ple, 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 sug 
 gestions to persuade the forester to draw stakes, and re 
 move 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 exer- 
 
20 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 *iisc ; 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, are 
 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 nov 
 elty 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 
 Charlcmont, in the weary hours, when life s winter is ap 
 proaching, will still and vainly sigh after the oncc-despiscG 
 enjoyments of their deserted hamlet. 
 
 It was toward 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 Charlernont. One of these travellers 
 had passed the middle period of life ; the other was, per 
 haps, just about to enter upon its heavy responsibilities, 
 and more active duties. The first wore the countenance 01 
 one who had borne many sorrows, and borne them with 
 that resignation, which, while it proves the wisdom of the 
 sufferer, is at the same time, calculated to increase his 
 benevolence. The expression of his eye, was full of kind 
 ness 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 hi* 
 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 coloring 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, 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 21 
 
 to the casual glance, seemed no less handsome than intel 
 lectual. There was much in it to win the regard of tho 
 young and superficial. An eye that sparkled with fire, a 
 mouth that glowed with animation cheeks warmly colored, 
 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 hall- 
 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 o^ the 
 same features seemed equally significant of caprice of char 
 acter, 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 can not 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 Avhen the 
 beauty of the scene could scarcely fail to impress itself 
 upon the most indifferent observer. The elder of the trav 
 ellers, who happened to be in 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, and 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 tho 
 valley below, where it rested among the 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 be- 
 
22 CHAULKMONT. 
 
 tween, wbicli 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 en 
 joy the vision with no less pleasure than our senior travel 
 ler. Two tall damsels of sixteen, accompanied by a young 
 man something older, were strolling off in the direction of 
 the woods ; while live or six chubby girls and boys were 
 making the echoes leap and dance along the hills, in the 
 clamorous delight which they felt in their innocent but stir 
 ring exercises. The whole scene was warmed with the equal 
 brightness of the natural and the human sun. Beauty was 
 in the sky, and its semblance, at least, was on the earth. 
 God was in the heavens, and in his presence could there DC 
 other than peace and harmony among men ! 
 
 " How beautiful !" exclaimed the elder of our travellers 
 " could anything be more so ! How pure, how peaceful ! 
 See, Warliam, 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 
 tremble as if half conscious of intrusion. And yet the 
 picture below is 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 anywhere 
 on earth. The old men sit before the door, and con tem 
 plate with mingled feelings of pride and pleasure, the vigor 
 ous growth of their children. They behold in them their 
 own immortality, even upon earth. The young will pre 
 serve their memories, and transmit their naross to other 
 children yet unborn ; and how must such a reflection rec 
 oncile 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 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 28 
 
 and love upon the world from which they wilJ soon de 
 part." 
 
 " 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 humor. As for regarding their children 
 witli any such notions as those you dwell upon with sucli 
 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 wig 
 wam, and with his weight of years and infirmity upon him, 
 would satisfy all his expectations. If they look at the 
 vigor 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 docs not 
 envy his own son the excellence of his limbs, and the long 
 time of exercise and enjoyment which they seemingly as 
 sure him." 
 
 u Impossible !" exclaimed the elder of the two travellers. 
 " Impossible ! I should be sorry to think as you do. But 
 you, Warham, can not understand these things. You are 
 an habitual unbeliever the most unfortunate of all man 
 kind." 
 
 " 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 aa 
 yourself." 
 
 "And I should be still more sorry, uncle, if I had half 
 so much. Why, sir, yours is in such excess, that you con 
 tinually 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 
 
24 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 tliat 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." 
 
 " 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 na- 
 turcdly, " that Providence has denied you some of the more 
 human faculties. Nay, 1 fear that you are partially defi 
 cient 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 uncle, with increasing gravity, " 1 
 should be sorry to believe that a habit of speech so irreve- 
 rcntial, springs from anything 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 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. JD 
 
 for all proper purposes, when the proper time eoines for 
 their employment ; but I can t flame up at every sunbeam, 
 and grow enthusiastic in the contemplation of Bill John 
 son s cottage, and Richard Higgins s hedgerow. A tur 
 nip-patch never yet could waken my enthusiasm, ar.d 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 Car- 
 thula, 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 surprised 
 as annoyed by what he sa,id. Perhaps, too, his own hcnov- 
 olence 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 course of the latter in silence, he de 
 scended into the valley, and soon made his way among the 
 sweet little cottages at its foot. An interchange of courte 
 sies between the travellers and the villagers whose pres 
 ence 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 
 
2J CIIARLEMOXT. 
 
 without ha\ing the effect of arresting their onward progress. 
 Ycl many a backward glance was sent by the elder of the 
 travellers, whose eyes, beaming with satisfaction, suffi 
 cicntly 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 cars less benev 
 olent anfl unsuspecting than than those of the senior, might 
 have been deemed a sarcasm ; and more than once the lips 
 of the nephew had 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 be 
 fore 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 by those only who came with a single purpose. 
 Nothing, therefore could have been more calculated to sur 
 prise a community so insulated, than that they should 
 attract, but not arrest the traveller. The natural surprise 
 which the young people felt, when unexpectedly encoun 
 tered 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 upper 
 most dilated, without heeding the sneers of his nephew, 
 upon the apparent happiness which they witnessed. 
 
 " Here, yon see, Warham, is a pleasure which the groat 
 city never knows : the free intercourse of the sexes in all 
 
TJIR TIIAVKLLKIIS. 27 
 
 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 skeptic, 
 " 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 tradesman 
 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 pota- 
 toe-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." 
 
 " There was one little girl, just rising into womanhood ; 
 you must admit that she had a very lovely face, and her 
 form" 
 
 u My dear uncle, what is it that you will not desire me 
 to believe ? You are sadly given to proselytism, and take 
 
28 CHAPtLEMONT. 
 
 infinite pains to compel me to sec with eyes that never do 
 their owner so much wrong, as when they reject the aid of 
 spectacles. How mucli would Charlemont and its inhabi 
 tants differ to your sight, were you only to take your green 
 spectacles from the shagreen case 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 priv 
 ileges of twenty-live. 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 sud 
 den appearance of a form and face, the beauty and dignity 
 of which silenced the skeptic, 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 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 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 
 cxultingly. 
 
 " 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 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 9 
 
 straining eyes to catch another glance of the vanished ob 
 ject, but in vain. 
 
 " You deserve never to see a lovely woman again, War- 
 ham, for your skepticism." 
 
 " 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 reachui the desired point, when he sudden 
 ly recoiled to find the object of his pursuit standing motion 
 less just beyond, with eyes averted to the backward path 
 her glance consequently encountering his own, the very mo 
 ment 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 trav 
 eller made, she somewhat haughtily averted her head witli 
 a suddenness which shook her long and raven tresses en 
 tirely free of 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 his senior. 
 
 " Well ?" said the latter, inquiringly, at his approach. 
 
 "lam 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 beau 
 tiful 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 tho burden of your 
 green specs." 
 
30 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 " Impossible ! I can scarce believe it, Warhain," replied 
 the senior. " I Ihouglit her very beautiful." 
 
 " I shall never rely on your judgment again ; nay, uncle, 
 .1 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 village." 
 
 " While the sun shines it may be tolerable ; but, uncle, 
 in wet bad weather it must brcorne a mere pond, it lies 
 so completely in the hollow of the hills." 
 
 "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 arc but three lads ? 
 Where the disproportion is so great among the sexes, and 
 where it is so unfavorable to the weaker, women ;iever can 
 be happy. Their whole lives will be lives of turmoil, 
 jealousy, and pulling of caps. Nay, eyes shall not be se 
 cure 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 be 
 tween the sexes is one of the most fruitful causes of domes 
 tic war." 
 
 " Warham, where do you think to go when you die ?" 
 
 " Where there shall be no great inequality in the popu 
 lation. Bfiliovn me, uncle, though I n.m sometimes dis 
 posed 10 tninK witn Manomei, ana aeny me possession of 
 
THE TIIAVKLLKKS. 81 
 
 souls to the sex, I also incline to believe, with other more 
 charitable teachers however difficult it may be to recon 
 cile the two philosophies - that there will be no lack of 
 them in either world." 
 
 44 Hush, hush, Warham," was the mild rebuke of the 
 senior ; u you go too far you are irreverent. As for this 
 maiden, I still think her very beautiful of a high and 
 noble kind of beauty. My eyes may be bad; indeed 1 
 am willing to admit they are none of the best ; but I feel 
 certain that they cannot so far deceive me, when we con 
 sider how nigh we were to her." 
 
 44 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 1 have, 
 any doubts but I wish you to be convinced in this case, 
 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 ?" 
 
 44 Why, you are mad, surely. It is now sunset, and we 
 have a good eight miles before we get to Holme s Station." 
 
 44 But we can sleep in Charlcmont to-night. A night in 
 this earthly Eden " 
 
 4fc And run the risk of losing our company ? Oh, no, 
 most worthy nephew. They will start at dawn to-mor 
 row." 
 
 44 We can soon come up with em." 
 
 44 Perhaps not, and the risk is considerable. Travelling 
 to the Mississippi is no such small matter at any time, and, 
 in these times it is only with a multitude, that there is 
 safety. The murder of old Whiteford, is a sufficient warn 
 ing 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, ^ uoubt not ; but a shot 
 will dispose of you, and after that I should be an easy vie 
 
32 CHARLKAIONT. 
 
 fcim. I could wink and hold out my iron 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, how 
 ever, escaped the eyes of the senior, sent his horse forward 
 by a sharp application of his spur, though looking back the 
 while, w r ith 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 nowise dis 
 pleasing to either, and furnished the chief staple of conver 
 sation 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 over 
 spread and hallow the soft landscape, and the smiling cot 
 tages 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 of this as 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 their pleasures from circum 
 stances of higher conventional attraction. He had no feel 
 ing for natural romance. His penchant, was decidedly for 
 the artificial existence of city life ; 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 sub 
 ject of conversation, when it happened to flag, with obvi 
 ous 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, w r as 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 un profitably employed if you 
 come to see the village and the people with my eyes, which, 
 I doubt not, you will in time." 
 
 " In otime, perhaps, 1 may. It is well that you do no! 
 insist upon any hurried convictions. Were I at your year. , 
 uncle mine," continued the other irreverently, " I should 
 no doubt see with your eyes, and possibly feel with your 
 desires. Then, no doubt, I shall acquire a taste for warm- 
 ingpans and nightcaps 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 oil . 
 On this head be sure you shall have no cause to complain 
 of me. I shall be no Malthusian, as you 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 attrac 
 tions which seem resolute to cling to you to the last could 
 not have found much difficulty in procuring the damsel ho 
 
 2* 
 
desired ! And when, too, your enthusiasm lor the sex is 
 known, one would think it only necessary that you should 
 fling your handkerchief, to have it greedily grappled by the 
 fairest of the herd. How is it, uncle how have you 
 sscaped from them from yourself?" 
 
 u Pshaw, Warham,you arc a fool !" exclaimed the senior, 
 
 id ing forward with increasing speed. The words were 
 
 poken good naturedly, hut the youth had touched a spot, 
 
 carcely yet thoroughly scarred over, in the old man s bo- 
 
 ; .)m : and memories, not less painful because they had been 
 
 tiddcn 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 igno 
 rant of the particular tenderness of his relative in this re 
 spect. The gentle nature of the latter, alone, rescued him 
 from the well-merited reproach of suffering his habitual lev 
 ity of mood to prevail in reference to one whom even he 
 himself was disposed to honor. But few words passed be 
 tween 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 wore now turned inward ; 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, our aged traveller would have been. reminded of 
 the past in the momently-deepening shadows which the even 
 ing 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 darkeni ig into gloom. 
 
THE YKAVKJLLKkS 50 
 
 It was night before the wayfarers readied the appointed 
 baiting place. There they found their company a sort 
 of little caravan, such as is frequent in the history of west 
 ern emigration already assembled, and the supper await 
 ing them. Let us leave them to its enjoyment, and return 
 once more to the village of Charlemont. 
 
CI1ARLEMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER ill. 
 
 THE STRONG-MINDED WOMAN. 
 
 THE young maiden last met by our travellers, ai-d whose 
 appearance had so favorably 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 awa 
 kened 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 wind 
 ings of which, as it led her forward, were completely hid 
 den 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 thought. 
 
 She sat down upon the prostrate trunk of a tree, and sur 
 rendered herself for a while 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 con 
 duct manifested. Predominant even over this image, how 
 ever, was the conviction of isolation which she felt where 
 ahe was, and the still more painful conviction, that the 
 
THE STRONG-MINDED WOMAN. 37 
 
 future was without promise. Such thoughts and apprehen 
 sions may be natural enough to all young persons of active. 
 earnest nature, not permitted to perform ; but in the bosom 
 of Margaret Cooper they were particularly so. Her mind 
 was of a masculine and commanding character, and was ill- 
 satisfied with her position and prospect in Chaiiemont. A 
 quiet, obscure village, such as that we have described, held 
 forth no promise for a spirit so proud, impatient, and am 
 bitious as hers. She knew the whole extent of knowledge 
 which it contained, and all its acquisitions and resources 
 she had sounded its depths, and traced 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 coloring to 
 all her thoughts, 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 with 
 out 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 witli her, 
 and might have been a pleasant companion. The young 
 women regarded her with some dislike in consequence of 
 her self-imposed isolation and ^he young men with some 
 apprehension. Her\ery knowledge of books, which infi 
 nitely surpassed that of all her sex within the limits of 
 jjOharlemont, 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 U was undiscriminating. They had taught her mariv 
 
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 _ife, 
 while it left the aspects of the future painfully doubtful, 
 even to her own eye. 
 
 She was fatherless, and had been already taught some 
 of those rude lessons which painfully teach dependence ; 
 but such lessons, which to most others would have brought 
 submission, only provoked her to resistance. Her natural 
 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 neighbors, it may be 
 easily conceived that a temper and mind such as we have 
 described those of Margaret Cooper ardent, commanding, 
 and impatiom hourh found occasion, even in the seclu 
 ded villago 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 
 will, strengthened and stimulated by an excitable and ever 
 feverish blood ; and, as we find her now, wandering sad 
 and sternly by the brooksidc, afar from the sports and hum 
 bler sources of happiness, which gentler moods left open to 
 the rest, so might she customarily be found, at all hours, 
 when it was not abp^lutcly due to appearances that siio 
 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 Avere sad and solemn as usual perhaps humbling 
 may be gathered from the fact trial, a big- tear might have 
 seen, long gathering in her eye ; the next moment 
 
THI-: STHONd-MlNDKl) WOMAN. 39 
 
 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 ap 
 proaching her with rapid footsteps. His evident desire to 
 reach her, did not, however, prompt her to any pause in 
 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 stopped 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 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 even 
 ing. Old Jeriks 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." 
 
40 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 " I thank you, William fJinkley, and thank your mother, 
 but I can not come this evening." 
 
 " But why not, Margaret ? your mother s coming she 
 promised 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 can not come this evening." 
 
 "But why not, Margaret ? V ou 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 tlinkley, but 1 
 don t feel like going out this evening. I am not in the 
 humor." 
 
 Already, in the little village of Charlemont, Margaret 
 Cooper was one of the few who were permitted to indulge in 
 humors, and William Hinklcy learned the reason assigned 
 for her refusal, with an expression of regret and disappoint 
 ment, if 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 proceeded with some new suggestions, in the 
 hope to change her determination. 
 
 " But you ll be so lonesome at home, Margaret, when 
 jour 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. 
 
 u But that s so strange, Margaret. It s so strange that 
 you should be different from everybody else. I often 
 Bonder at it, Margaret ; for I know none of the other girls 
 but love to bo where there s a fiddle, and where there s 
 pleasant company. It s so pleasant to be where every 
 body s pleased ; and then, Margaret, where one can talk so 
 
THE STRONG-MINDED WOMAN. 41 
 
 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 
 few feelings or desires in common with the crowd. 
 
 " It is my misfortune," she continued, " to care very 
 little for the pastimes you speak of; and as for the com 
 pany, I ve no doubt it will be very pleasant for those who 
 go, but to me 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 very 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 disappoint 
 ment, 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 
 eure 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. 
 
 " 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 nre congenial, who somewhat 
 resemble us in spirit, feeling, and understanding." 
 
42 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 "Ah, Margaret!" said her rustic companion with a sigh, 
 which amply testified to the humility of his own self-esti 
 mate, 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 Charlcmont ?" 
 
 " Where !" was the single word spoken by the haughty 
 m:iiden, 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 Octo 
 ber 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 happiness. There s many 
 a person that never will meet his or her match in this 
 world, in learning find 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. It s a real blessing, 1 believe, 
 to have great sense, but I don t sec, 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 will 
 ing to be friendly. Now, a good heart seems to be the 
 very best thing that nature can give us ; and I know, Mar 
 garet, 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 Lightncr, 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 quali 
 ties gives them no right to claim my sympathies or affection. 
 These claims are only founded upon congeniality of charac 
 ter and mind, and without this congeniality, there can be no 
 proper, no lasting intimacy between persons. They no 
 
THE STRONG-MINDED WOMAN. 48 
 
 doubt, will find friends between whom and themselves, thia 
 congeniality exists. I, on the other hand, must be per 
 mitted to iind mine, after my own ideas, and as I best can. 
 But if I do not the want of them gives me no great con 
 cern. I find company enough, and friends enough, even in 
 these woods, to satisfy the desires of my heart at present ; 
 1 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 
 further ; but the tones and manner of his companion, to say 
 nothing oflier words, counselled him to forbear. Still, he 
 was not disposed altogether to give up Ids attempts to secure 
 her presence for the evening party. 
 
 * But if you don t come for the company, Margaret, rec 
 ollect 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 violin 
 ist than Ned, and Jason s flute is the sweetest sound that 
 ear ever listened to along these hills. If you don t care 
 anything for the players, Margaret, I m sure you can t be 
 indifferent to their music; and I know they are anything 
 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 speak 
 er s voice audibly faltered rt 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 in subduing the inflexible, perverse mood of the 
 haughty maiden. Her cold denial was repeated ; and with 
 looks that did not fail to speak the disappointment of Wii- 
 liarn Hinkley, he attended her back to the village. Their 
 progress was marked by coldness on the one hand, and de 
 cided sadness on the other. The conversation was carried 
 on in monosyllables only, on the part of Margaret, while 
 
14 CHARLKMOXT. 
 
 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 ?" 
 
 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 some 
 how or other, they perpetually mingled up the image of 
 the young traveller, whom he too had seen, with that of the 
 proud woman, whom lie was not yet sure that he unprofit- 
 ably worshipped. 
 
SIMPLICITY 4ND THE SERPENT. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SIMPLICITY AND THE SERPENT. 
 
 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 con 
 viction in Charlemont, that she possessed, became, at 
 length, discouraged in a pursuit which hitherto had found 
 nothing but coldness and repulse. 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 affec 
 tions a waywardness of humor, which lie fancied would 
 pass away after a season, and leave her mind to the influ 
 ence of a more sober and wholesome judgment. Perhaps, 
 too, like many other youth in like circumstances, he did 
 not always see or feel the caprice of which he was the 
 
1 CHAKLKMOM. 
 
 victim. But for this fortunate blindness, many a fair dam 
 sel wouljl 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 autumn, and yet no visible change 
 none at least more favorable to the wishes of William 
 JJiiikley took place in the character and conduct of the 
 maiden. Her mind, on the contrary, seemed to take some 
 thing of its hue from the cold sad tones of the forest. 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 inflexi 
 bility of direction which suffered them seldom to turn 
 aside from those moody 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 con 
 viction of his hopelessness. The day and the fate were 
 approaching, in the person of one, to whom a natural in 
 stinct 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 Ilinkley, 
 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 Hinklcy was the 
 most gentle, the most generous the very last to be moved 
 by bad uassions, by jealousy or hate. 
 
SIMPLICITY AND TIIK SKlil KNT. 47 
 
 The t , outli whom wo have seen going down with his 
 u.icle to the great valley of the Mississippi, was now upon 
 his return. He was now unaccompanied by the benignant 
 senior witlrwhom we first made his acquaintance. He had 
 simply attended the old bachelor, from whom he had con 
 siderable expectations, to his 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, 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 Mar 
 garet Cooper, on the edge of the village. He no\v remem 
 bered the casual suggestion of the senior, which concluded 
 their discussion on the subject of her beauty ; and he re 
 solved to go aside from his direct path, and take Charlc- 
 mont 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. lie was free to acknow 
 ledge to himself that Margaret Cooper was one of the no 
 blest 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 skeptical 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 
 her charms a privilege upon which no one could have 
 been more apt to insist than himself. This seeming denial, 
 tfhile it suggested to him ideas of novelty, provoked his 
 curiosity and kindled 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 
 
48 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 formed any very deliberate designs of conquest, but, it may 
 be said, as well here as elsewhere, that his self-esteem was 
 great ; and accustomed to easy conquests among the sex, 
 in the region where he dwelt, it was only necessary to in 
 flame his vanity, to stimulate him to the exercise of all hip 
 arts. 
 
 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 Herbert, is going on 
 when, the summer heats subdued, there is yet nothing 
 either cold, or repulsive in the atmosphere ; and the soft 
 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 inethodist 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 our 
 young skeptic little reason to doubt of this ; and when the 
 other expressed his satisfaction at meeting with a compan 
 ion at last, after a long and weary ride without one, the 
 cone of his expressions, the use of biblical phraseology, and 
 the monotonous solemnity of his tones, reduced the doubts 
 of the youth to absolute certainty. At first, with the habit 
 ual levity of the young and skeptical, he congratulated him 
 self 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 sub 
 servient to his own purposes. He had already learned 
 from the latter that lie was on his way to Charlemont, 
 
SIMPLICITY AND THE SERPENT. 49 
 
 cf 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 favorable introduction 
 to the place. With this thought, he assumed the grave 
 aspect and deliberate enunciation of his companion, ex 
 pressed himself equally gratified to meet with a person 
 who, if he did not much mistake, was a divine, and conclu 
 ded his address by the utterance of one of those pious com 
 monplaces which are of sufficiently easy acquisition, and 
 which at once secured him the unscrupulous confidence of 
 his companion. 
 
 " Truly, it gladdens me, sir," 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 bles 
 sings which lie daily sheddcth, 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 the desert 
 where there are but few fountains to refresh the spirit. 
 When I say desert, young gentleman, 1 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 
 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 imapplying mind. May I ask of thee, 
 my young friend, who thou art, and by what name I shall 
 call thce ? 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. 
 
50 
 
 Thou hast rightly conjectured as to my calling and my 
 own name, which is one unknown to most even in these for 
 ests, 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 arc 
 very numerous." 
 
 " I have never, reverend sir, travelled in those parts," 
 said the youth, with commendable gravity, u 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 ; 1 
 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 favors. 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 sly 
 ness of expression which escaped the direct and unsuspect 
 ing mind of the preacher, " but if you are denied the bles 
 sings which arc theirs, you have your part in the great 
 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 1 
 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 
 (lying to bring succor to his young. 1 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 im 
 partial spirit toward the flock intrusted 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." 
 
SIMPLICITY AN 1; Tllti SERI KNT. 51 
 
 There was some little hesitation 011 the part of the youth 
 before he answered this second application ; and a less un 
 heeding observer than his fellow-traveller, might have no 
 ticed an increasing warmth of hue upon his cheek, while he 
 was uttering his reply : 
 
 "I am called Alfred Stevens," he replied at length, the 
 color increasing upon his cheek even after the words wero 
 spoken. But they were spoken. The falsehood was re 
 gistered against him beyond recall, though, of course, with 
 out 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 Bccrshe- 
 oa," 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 ? Me thinks at thy 
 age thou shouldst have one." 
 
 " So 1 have, reverend sir," replied the other; -my call 
 ing 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 been 
 somewhat sparing in my case, and I am even now confer 
 ring with my own thoughts whether or not to take to school- 
 keeping. Nay, perhaps, I should incline to something bet 
 ter, if I could succeed in persuading myself of my own 
 worthiness in a vocation which, more than all others, de 
 mands a pure mind with a becoming zeal. The law con 
 &urts not with my desires it teaches selfishness, rathci 
 than self-denial ; and I have already found that some of its 
 duties demand the blindness and the silence of that besl 
 
5 k J CHARLEMONT. 
 
 teacher from within, the watchful and unsleeping coiv 
 Bcicnce." 
 
 " 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 look 
 cst 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 honor, yet the reward is eternal, and the in 
 terest 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 labor, to which all my days have been given for 
 seventeen years, come the first sabbath in the next Novem 
 ber. But^hat 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 savagt, 
 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 by which he has called himself. He spoke 
 musingly, and with a gravity that was singularly inflexible 
 "it were indeed a glorious service. Let me see, there 
 were thousands of miles to traverse before one might reach 
 the lower Arkansas ; and i reckon, Mr. Cross, the roads 
 
SIMPLICITY AND THE SERPENT. 53 
 
 arc mighty bad after you pass the Mississippi nay, 
 in the Mississippi, through a part of which territory I hare 
 gone only this last summer, there is a sad want of cause 
 ways, and the bridges arc exceedingly out of repair. There 
 is one section of near a 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 lie 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." 
 
 u 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 our 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 toward 
 noon and evening ; and the travel of a long day makes me 
 so weary at night, that I should say but a hurried grace be 
 fore meal, and make an even more hurried supper after it. 
 Nay, I have not yet been able to divest myself of a habit 
 which 1 acquired in my boyhood : and 1 need at times, 
 
54 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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. 1 dare not go 
 upon the road, even for the brief journey of a 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 
 the spirits, fain tings of the frame, disordered nerves, and 
 even against flatulence and indigestion. If, at any time, 
 thou shouldst suffer from one or the other of these infirmi 
 ties, Mr. Cross, be sure there is no better medicine for their 
 cure than this." 
 
 The speaker drew from his bosom a little (lask, such as 
 is sufficiently well known to most western travellers, which 
 lie 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. 
 
 u Verily, Alfred Stevens, I do myself suffer from some 
 of the weaknesses of which thou hast spoken. The sink 
 ing 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 flatu 
 lence" 
 
 a 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. 
 
 " 1 do believe as thou say st, Alfred Stevens, that the 
 disorder comes in great part from that cause, though, still, 
 1 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, 1 would crave of thec such 
 knowledge as would enable me to get a large supply of it. 
 
SIMPLICITY AND THE SERPENT. 55 
 
 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, 
 1 pray thee." 
 
 "Nay, taste of it, sir it is just about the time when 1 
 find it beneficial to partake of it, as a medicine for 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 colic." 
 
 " From colic too, I am also a great sufferer," said the 
 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 proceed 
 ings 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 re 
 turned 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 owr. 
 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 holdst to be so 
 great ?" 
 
 Stevens did not immediately reply not until the preach 
 er had applied the bottle to his mouth, and he could see 
 by the distension of his throat, that he had imbibed 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 
 
56 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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 gurgling accents, start 
 ling 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 
 spcllword, 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 possiblv 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," replied 
 the preacher in the midst of a second fit of choking, the 
 result of his vain effort to disgorge that portion of the per 
 nicious liquid which had irretrievably descended into his 
 bowels. With a surprise admirably affected, Stevens ap 
 proached 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 swallow 
 ed of it a mouthful. I fed 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 1 mistake not, just above us on the 
 
t 
 SIMPLICITY AND THE SERPENT. 57 
 
 road I think I see it glistening among the leaves. Let 
 us ride toward it, sir, and it will relieve you." 
 
 "Ah, Alfred Stevens, why have you served me thus? 
 Why did you not tell me ?" 
 
 Repeated groans accompanied this apostrophe, and mark 
 ed every step in the progress of the preacher to the little 
 rivulet which trickled across the road. John Cross, de 
 scended with the rapidity of one whose hope hangs upon a 
 minute, and dreads its loss, as equal to the loss of life. Ho 
 etraddled 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 IAS 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 tliee, and I am faint no longer. I rise up, strong and 
 refreshed ! Ah, my young friend, Alfred Stevens, I trust 
 thou didst not mean me harm in giving me that poisonous 
 liquor ?" 
 
 " Far from it, sir, I rather thought to do you a great 
 benefit." 
 
 * How couldst thou think to do me benefit by proffering 
 such poison to my lips ? nay, wherefore dost thou 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, 1 pray thee, Alfred Stevens, and cast it 
 \ ehind 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 wouldst 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 
 
 8* 
 
58 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 Stevens? Mr. is a speech of worldly fashion, and be 
 comes not one who should put 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 medi 
 cine for our hurts, and a remedy for our complaints, in a 
 liquor which, perhaps, it might be sinful to use as an ordi 
 nary beverage. Doctors, who have the care of human life, 
 and whose business and desire it is to preserve it, never 
 theless do sometimes administer poisons to their patients, 
 which poisons, though deadly at other times, will, in cer 
 tain 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 flie 
 sword and the summer pestilence. Many a man have I 
 known to perish from 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 not hear 
 thee speak of it again ; and if thou wouldst have me think 
 of thee with favor, 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 
 
SIMPLICITY AMI THK -iEUPRNl 
 
 jps of the preacher poured forth as great a flood of speech 
 in congratulation, as he had hitherto bestowed in hornilv 
 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 
 -cstored it to his bosom. John Cross had obtained a seem- 
 Mg victory, and did not wie to examine ifes details. 
 
OHARLRMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SERPENT IF ^^ GARDEN. 
 
 THE concessioL ue.de by Stevens, rnd which had pro 
 duced 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, in- 
 d fterent 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 perfect 
 ly able to subdue the claims of *,he 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 . "?. his so readily subscribing 
 to that false logic of the day, which reasons against the 
 use of the gifts of Providence, because a diseased moral, 
 and a failing education, among men, sometimes result 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 anybody else ; and the compliance which he exhibit 
 ed 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 de 
 clared, as it was happy in reference to the small policy by 
 which he had been governed. The unsuspecting preacher 
 did not perceive the scoinful sneer which curled his lips 
 and flashed his eyes, by which his own vanity still asserted 
 
THE SERPENT IN THE GARDEN. 6J 
 
 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 upcn 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 favor which one is apt to feel 
 for the person whom he has plucked as a brand from the 
 burning, the soul of John Cross warmed to the young sin 
 ner ; and it required no great effort of the wily Stevens to 
 win from him the history, not only of all its own secrets and 
 secret hopes for these were of but small value in the eyes 
 of the worldling but of all those matters which belonged 
 to the little village to which they were trending, and the 
 unwritten lives 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 worm 
 ing 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 in 
 sinuation, by which he drew from the preacher as much as 
 he cared to know of the rustic lads and lasses of Charle- 
 mont. It does not concern our narrative to render the 
 details thus unfolded to the stranger. And we will con 
 tent 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 rne 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 pos 
 sess not ; and it will be better that I should give myself 
 up to your guidance. I know that you will not bring mo 
 to the dwelling of persons not in good repute; and, per 
 haps, I need not remind you that my worldly means are 
 I must be at little charge wherever I stop." 
 
 " Ah, Brother Stevens, worldly goods and worldly wealth 
 
62 CHARLKMONT. 
 
 arc no more needed in Charlemont, than they are necessary 
 to the service of the ble-scd Redeemer. With an empty 
 scrip is thy service blest; God sees the pure heart through 
 the threadbare garment. I have friends in Charlemont 
 who will be too happy to receive tliee in the name of the 
 Lord, without money and without price." 
 
 The pride of Stevens, which had not shrunk from hypoc 
 risy and falsehood, yet recoiled at a suggestion which in 
 volved the idea of his pecuniary dependence upon strangers, 
 and lie replied accordingly ; though lie still disguised his 
 objections under the precious appearance of a becoming 
 moral scruple. 
 
 " It will not become me, Mr. Cross, to burden the breth 
 ren of the church for that hospitality which is only due 
 to brethren." 
 
 u But thou art in the way of grace the light is shining 
 upon thce 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 thec among its chosen. Shall 
 they hold back their hand when thou art even on the thresh 
 old ?" 
 
 " 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. I." thou wilt call me 
 Brother Cross, my heart shall acknowledge the bonds be 
 tween 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 rnay st know for a truth how 
 pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in the peace of 
 of the Lord, and according to his law. I will, with God s 
 grace, bring thee to this perfect knowledge, for I see tho 
 way clear because of the humility which thou hast already 
 shown, and thy yielding to the counsels of the teacher. 
 
THE SKRPKNT IN TIIK G.MIDEN. od 
 
 As for what thou sayest about charges to the brethren, lot 
 that give thee no concern. Thou shult lodge with old 
 Brother Ilinkley, 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 comcth, 
 and his first word to the messenger of God, is welcome ! 
 Thou shalt soon see the truth 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 agree 
 able, 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 ascer 
 tained 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 stran 
 ger, seemed mean and humbling to one. who did net hesi 
 tate, in the promotion of a scheme, which had treachery for 
 
64 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 its object, to clothe himself in the garments of deception, 
 and to make his appearance with a lie festering 1 upon his 
 lips. That evening, Alfred Stevens became, with hi? 
 worthier companion, an inmate of the happy dwelling of 
 William Hinklcy, the elder a venerable, white-headed 
 father, whose whole life had made him worthy of a fa: 
 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 tlic 
 hand, by the elder dragged him into the house, and a sen 
 tence 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 unconsidercd. 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 Hinklcy, which 
 had been hospitable enough before, became warm and be 
 nignant ; 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 cfic t, 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 armor, placed himself in 
 waiting for the foe, and set all his sentinels on the watch 
 liis caution measured every word ere it was spoken, every 
 
THE SERPENT IN THE GARDEN. 65 
 
 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 restric 
 tion. 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 car 
 riage seemed to them wondrously becoming, and the ap 
 probation of John Cross was of itself conclusive. The 
 preacher was the oracle of the family, all of whom were 
 only too happy of his favor 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 
 saws from the holy 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 recog 
 nised iii the person of Brother Stevens, the handsome 
 stranger, his antipathy to whom, at a first glance, months 
 
00 
 
 before, seemed almost to have the character of a warning 
 instinct. A nearer glance did not serve to lessen his hos 
 tility. 
 
 Our traveller was to the eye of a lover, one, indeed, who 
 promised dangerous rivalship, and an intrepid air of con 
 fidence which, even his assumed character could not enable 
 him to disguise from the searching eyes of jealousy, con 
 tributed to strengthen the dislike of the youth for a person 
 who seemed so perfectly sure of his ground. Still, Willmm 
 Hinkley behaved as a civil and well-bred youth might be 
 expected to behave. He did not suffer his antipathy to put 
 on the aspect of rudeness ; he was grave and cold, but re 
 spectful ; and though he did not " bc-brothcr" the stranger, 
 lie yet studiously subdued his tones to mildness, when it be 
 came necessary, in the course of the evening meal, that he 
 should address him. Few words, however, were exchanged 
 between the parties. If Ilinklcy 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, toward 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, arid 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 charac 
 ter, 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 superiority, 
 while speaking in hearing of the youth. 
 
 This was shown in a manner that was particularly galling 
 
TUB SKIUM:NT ix THK GARDEN. 67 
 
 to a high-spirited youth, and one whose prejudices were 
 already awakened against the speaker. It was that of a 
 paternal and patronizing senior, whose very gentleness and 
 benignity of look and accent, seem to arise from a full con 
 viction of the vast difference which exists between himself 
 and his hearer. An indignity like this, which can not 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 con 
 jectured that opportunity was not long wanting, or might 
 soon be made, for giving utterance to the suppressed tires 
 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 Hinkloy 
 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 anything 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 man 
 ner already adverted to, ho looked upon himself as particu 
 larly favored of Heaven, in falling upon a youth, as a pupil, 
 of such unctuous moral delivery. 
 
 " Surely," he mused internally, " this is a becoming in 
 
68 CIIAllLKMONT. 
 
 struincnt 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. Ho 
 will work wondrous tilings !" 
 
 Not unlike these were the calculations of old Hinklcy, 
 as he hearkened to the reverend reasonings and the solemn 
 commonplaces of the stranger. Stevens, like most recent 
 converts, was the most uncompromising enemy of those 
 sins from which lie professed to have achieved with diffi 
 culty his own narrow escape ; and finding, from the atten 
 tive ear of his audience, that he had made a favorable im 
 pression, he proceeded to manufacture for them his re 
 ligious experience ; an art which his general information, 
 and knowledge of the world enabled him to perform with 
 out 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 rus 
 tic 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 consequence 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 acquisi 
 tion itself, as the very perfection of human conquest, 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 "tiupsr vyac La 
 
THE SERPENT IN THE GARDEN. 69 
 
 ishcd, which was spent by the jealous youth in utter silence, 
 and he then rose abruptly and hurried -from the apartment, 
 leaving the iield entirely to his opponent. He proceeded to 
 the house of his neighbor and cousin, Ned Hinklcy, 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 partic 
 ularly obtuse on the subject of sentimental grievances, and 
 the almost voluptuous delight which filled his eyes when 
 William entered his chamber, entirely prevented him from 
 seeing the heavy shadow which overhung the brows of the 
 latter. 
 
 " What, back again, William ? Why, you re as change 
 able as the last suit of a green lizard. When 1 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 favorite 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 crash, that sounded as harshly in the ears of 
 his morbid visitor, 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 
 uoise." 
 
 " Noise ! Did you say noise, Bill ITinkley noise ?" 
 
70 CHAItLEMONT. 
 
 " Yes. noise," answered the other with some pccvish- 
 mss in his accents. The violinist looked at him incredu 
 lously, 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 
 appeal-mice of the most grave inquiry, and when sufficiently 
 nigh, lie suddenly brought the bow over the strings of the 
 instrument, immediately in William s cars, 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 Sail 
 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 ?" 
 
 u 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 Sail 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 be 
 fore 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 
 anybody ; but just now, I would rather not hear the fiddle. 
 Put it up." 
 
 "There!" said the other good-naturedly, as he placed 
 the favorite instrument in its immemorial casein the corner. 
 "There; and now Bill, untie the pack, and let s sec 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." 
 
TIIH SERPKNT IN THE GARDEN. 71 
 
 " You re mistaken, Ned --quite mistaken quite !" 
 
 u Deuse a bit ! I know you too well, Bill Hinklcy, ? r . 
 it s no use to hush up now. Out with it, and don t le 
 spa ing, and if there s any harm to come, I m here, just ai 
 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 hu- 
 ii. or. So show us the quarrel." 
 
 " There s no quarrel, Ned," said the other, softened by 
 Jic frank ani ready fseling "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 lie like 1 Anything like Joe Richards 1 
 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, fcr I owe him a 
 third licking, and don t feel altogether right, since 1 know 
 no sort of way to pay it. But if this man s anything like 
 Joe, it may be just the same if I give it to him. Now 
 
 " 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 hiri 
 for ?" said the single-minded musician, with a surprise in 
 his manner, which was mingled with something like rebuke. 
 
 " I have expressed no sucli 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, 1 
 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-natured mock in 
 his tones and looks ; " but if you don t want to lick the fel 
 low, how comes it you dislike him ? It seems to me if a 
 
72 C HA RLE MO NT. 
 
 chap behaved so as to make me dislike him, it wouldn t be an 
 easy matter to keep my hands off him. I d teacli him how 
 :o put me into a bad humor, 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-humored. 
 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, 
 und 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 Sail talked out her fun 
 niest. 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 cor 
 ner, his features plainly denoting his anxiety to resume the 
 occupation which his friends 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 Geordie. It will put me out of my bad humor, I 
 think, and 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 Sail kept a still tongue in her head. 
 That reel s the very thing to drive away bad humors, though 
 there s another that I learnt from John Blodget, the boat 
 man, 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 carle blanche, our enthusiastic performer, without wear- 
 
TRE SERPEM iN TIli^ (JARDEN. 73 
 
 iness, went through his whole collection, without once per 
 ceiving 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 HinklcyV 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-n : ght that you ve seen him for the first 
 time ?" 
 
 A flush passed over the grave features of William Hink- 
 ley as he heard this question, and it was with a hesitating 
 manner and faltering accents, that he contrived to tell his 
 cousin of the brief glimpse which he had of the same stran 
 ger 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 Ilinklcy, 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 mo 
 ment they net eyes on em. Now, I m not a person of that 
 , 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 be 
 ginning, when Joci came down upon us here in Charlo- 
 
. CFIARLEMONT. 
 
 mont, ho was for riding over people s necks, without so 
 much as asking, by your leave. lie had a way about him 
 that vexed me, though we did not change a word." 
 
 " And it s that very way that this person has that I don t 
 like," said William Ilinkley. " 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 anything, 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 won 
 der if he preaches ; for John Cross was at him about it be 
 fore I came away. What s worse, the old man s been ask 
 ing him to live with us." 
 
 " What, here in Charlemont ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I ll be sure to lick him then, if he s anything 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 lie stays there I .shall not. 1 shall leave 
 nome, for I really dislike to meet him." 
 
 u You shall stay with me, Bill, and we ll have Sail at 
 all hours," was the hearty speech of the cousin, as he 
 throw his arms around the neck of his morose companion, 
 and dragged him gently toward the adjoining apartment, 
 which formed his chamber. " To-morrow," he continued, 
 " as you say, we ll sec this chap, and if he s anything like 
 Joe Richards The doubled list of the speaker, and 
 his threatening visage, completed the sentence with which 
 this present conference and chapter may very well conclude 
 
THE TOAD ON THE ALTAR. It? 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE TOAD ON THE ALTAR. 
 
 THE next day was the sabbath. John Cross had timed 
 his arrival at the village with a due reference to his duties, 
 arid after a minute calculation of days and distances, so that 
 his spiritual manna might be distributed in equal propor 
 tions among his hungering flock. His arrival made itself 
 felt accordingly, not simply in Charlcmont, 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. Charlcmont 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 re 
 ceiving it from the lips of cither Geneva, Rome, or Canter 
 bury. The church stood out among the hills at a little dis 
 tance 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, talk 
 ing over their sweet siliy affections. 
 
 Surrounded bv an admiring crowd, each of whom had his 
 
JHAKLEMONT 
 
 respectful salutation, we see our friend John Cross toward 
 noon 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, a be 
 nevolent smile, and a kind pressure of the hand for all. 
 He was a man to do good, for everybody saw that he 
 thought for others before himself, and sincerity and earnest 
 ness constitute, with the necessary degree of talent, the 
 grand secrets for making successful teachers in every de 
 partment. 
 
 Though a simple, unsophisticated, unsuspecting creature, 
 John Cross was a man of very excellent natural endow 
 ments. He chose for his text a passage of the Scriptures 
 which admitted of a direct practical application to the con 
 cerns of the people, their daily wants, their pressing inter 
 ests, moral, human, and social. He was thus enabled to 
 preach a discourse which sent home many of his congrega 
 tion 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, reli 
 gion a very commendable virtue, and a liberal contribution 
 tu 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 "r" and his faith was strengthened and 
 confirmed by the experience of his whole life. But then 
 Johr. Cross had few wants few, almost none ! In this re 
 spect he resembled the firGt apostles. The necessities of 
 life once cared for, never was mortal man more thoroughly 
 independent of the world. He was riot one of those fine 
 preachers v*ho, dealing out counsels of self-denial, in grave 
 
THE TOAD ON THE ALTAR. 77 
 
 snvvs and solemn maxims, with wondrous grim visage and a 
 most slo^v , lugubrious shaking of the head are yet always 
 religiously careful to secure the warmest scat by the fire 
 side, and the best buttered bun on table. He taught no 
 doctrine which he did not practise ; and as for considera 
 tion that test at once of the religionist and the gentle 
 man he was as humbly solicitous of the claims and feelings 
 of others, as the lovely and lowly child to whom reverence 
 lias been well taught as the true beginning, equally of po 
 liteness and religion. 
 
 Before going into church he urged his protege, 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. Per 
 haps, his refusal was dictated by a policy like that which 
 had governed him so far already ; which made him reluc 
 tant 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 pro 
 fession 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 mo 
 tives 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. Ho 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 ot 
 the professor, the plea was considered a sufficiently legiti 
 mate one. 
 
 But though Stevens forbore to commit himself openly in 
 the cause which he professed a desire to espouse, he waa 
 yet sufficiently heedful to maintain all those externals of 
 
78 CII. \ULKMONT. 
 
 devotion which a serious 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, called cun 
 ning; 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 everything, and this fancy produced in him the 
 appearance of a courage which his moral nature never pos 
 sessed. He had the audacity which results from presump 
 tion, not the wholesome strength which comes from the 
 conscious possession of a right purpose. But a truce to 
 our metaphysics. 
 
 Never did saint wear the aspect of such supernatural 
 devotion. He knelt with the first, groaned audibly at in 
 tervals, and when his face became visible, his eyes were 
 strained in upward glances, so that the spectator could be 
 hold little more in their orbs than a sea of white. 
 
 " Oh ! what a blessed young man !" said Mrs. Quack- 
 enbosh. 
 
 " How 1 wisli it was he that was to preach for us to-day," 
 responded that gem from the antique, Miss Polly Eutwistle, 
 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 Entwistlo 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 commen 
 tary of a venerable cormorant to whom Brother Cross had 
 always appeared the special and accepted agent of heaven. 
 
 " I wisli 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 Wid 
 geon," responded an old fanner of sixty four, who had 
 
THE fOAD ON TLIK ALTAR. 79 
 
 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, any more limn 
 
 Stevens permitted their speculations upon his person and 
 
 religion to affect his devotion. He looked neither to fcc 
 
 right nor to the left while entering the church, or engaging 
 
 u the ceremonies. No errant glances were permitted to 
 
 etray to the audience a mind wandering from the obvious 
 
 aitics before it; and yet Alfred Stevens knew just as veil 
 
 hat every eye in the congregation was fixed upon him, as 
 
 hat he was himself there ; and among those eyes, his own 
 
 :een glance had already discovered those of that one for 
 
 vhom all these labors 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 imme 
 diate duties. 
 
 If a word is sufficient for the wise, a look answers a;; 
 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 he- 
 charms. There was yet another passion to be gratified. 
 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 way 
 rapidly preparing to smooth the path of the enemy ai)d 
 make his conquests easy. 
 
80 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 But it was not the women only, by whom the deportment 
 of Alfred Stevens was so closely Avatched. 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. 
 
 l I ll tell you what, Bill Hinkley," said his cousin, " this 
 feilow, 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 1 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 believes that everything is vanity as, 
 indeed, everything 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 al 
 ways 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 hundred others ; too lazy 
 to go to work, he goes to preaching, and learns in the first 
 eermci: to beg hard for the missionaries. I ll lick him, 
 
THK TOAD ON T1JM ALTAR. 8} 
 
 Bill, to a certainty, if he gi^os me the littlest end of an 
 opportunity." 
 
 " Pshaw, Ned, don t think of such a thing. You aro 
 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." 
 
 u 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. ] 
 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 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 lie 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 open? 
 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. 
 
 4* 
 
$L . CllARLKMONT. 
 
 El and so in o ! If my pup Dragon was only half so much 
 like a beast., ! d plump him into the horscpond !" 
 
 it is probable that Ned Hinkley did not altogether think 
 of the stranger as he expressed himself. But he saw ho\\ 
 deep a hold his appearance had taken, in an adverse way, 
 upon the mind and feelings of his relative and friend, and 
 his rude, but well-meant endeavors wers intended to eon- 
 sole 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 cither 
 soreness or apprehension, was still the victim of that pro-, 
 sentiment which had touched him on the very first appear 
 ance 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 in 
 stant 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, " 1 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 
 1 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 sec 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 
 
THE TOAD ON T1IK ALTAIl. 88 
 
 just as you please about going nome. You re right in one 
 tiling never to give up your own dunghill, so long as you 
 can get room on it for a fair fling with your enemy. Be 
 sides, 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 fiave learned his business, 
 where he came from." 
 
 With these words the cousins separated. 
 
 " Now," said Ned Hinklcy as lie took his own way 
 homeward, in a deeper fit of abstraction than was altogether 
 usual with him, " now will Bill Hinklcy 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 witli everybody. 
 quite too soft-hearted and too easy to get on. Here s a 
 stranger nobody knows, just like some crow from another 
 corn-field, that ll pick up his provisions 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 anybody can look through a 
 stranger here in Charlemont, I reckon I m that man. 1 
 suspect him alread) . 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 anybody can. But I wont 
 lick him till I do. That wouldn t be altogether right, con 
 sidering he s to be a parson, though I doubt he ll never 
 make ore." 
 
 And thus, with a head filled with cares of a fashion 
 altogether new, the sturdy young Kentuckian moved home- 
 
84 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 ward with a degree of abstraction in his countenance which 
 was not among the smallest wonders of the day and place 
 in the estimation of his friends and neighbors. 
 
 Meanwhile, the work of mischief was in full progress. 
 Everybody 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 stim 
 ulating influences of religion. It was natural that the pas 
 tor, long known and well beloved, should be surrounded by 
 his flock as he descended from the pulpit. The old ladies 
 111 ways have a saving interest in his presence, and they 
 pave the way for the young ones. Alfred Stevens, as the 
 prot- go of John Cross, naturally attended his footsteps, 
 and was introduced by him to the little congregation, which 
 had mostly remained to do honor to the preacher. Of 
 these, not last, nor least, was the widow Cooper ; and, un- 
 reluctant by her side, though in silence, 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 con 
 sciousness of a new conquest humble in the feeling that 
 this conquest had not been made, but at the expense of some 
 >ortion of her own independence. Hitherto, her suitors 
 ^ad 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, LI 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 neighbors, 
 she too had some suspicions that religion was scarcely the 
 
THE TOAD ON THE ALTAR. 86 
 
 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 feel 
 ing of curiosity, and the instincts of vanity wore 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 wis 
 dom to suspect that he who could so readily practise so bold 
 tin hypocrisy, was capable of the worst performances ; and 
 when their names were mentioned, and his eyes were per 
 mittod 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 counte 
 nance ; eye speaking to lip and chock, and these, in turn, 
 responding with a kindred sentiment to the already tell-tale 
 eye. 
 
 William Ilinkley, from a little distance, beheld this meet 
 ing. He had lingered with the curiosity which belongs to 
 the natural apprehension of the lover. He saw them ap 
 proach 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 en 
 tered it ! 
 
86 CUARLEMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE GOOD YOUNG MAN IN MEDITATION. 
 
 PERHAPS, it may be assumed, with tolerable safety, that uo 
 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, want 
 ing in the moral sense. What we simply mean to affirm is, 
 that the particular, single act, is, in few instances, delib 
 erately meditated from the beginning. We very much in 
 cline 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 neighborhood. Folks start up, with out 
 stretched 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 neighbors may have had some share in making 
 him so. Pious persons arc very frequently reduced to 
 these straits by having the temptation forced too much upon 
 them. Flesh and blood can not always withstand the prov 
 ocation of earthly delicacies, even where the spirit is a 
 
THE GOOD YOUNH MAN IN MEDITATION. 87 
 
 tolerably 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 can not 
 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 be 
 ginning, 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 
 wo ild have taken a different direction. Instead of the 
 recklessness of course, such as seems to have distinguished 
 th(3 conduct of our present subject instead of his loose 
 indulgences - his smart, licentious speeches the sheep s- 
 eyo glances, right and left, which lie 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 popu 
 larly 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 circum 
 spect, until, through the help of lugubrious prayer and lan 
 tern 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 for all 
 those circumspect, self-imposed restraints, which we find 
 asually 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; 
 out 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 
 
88 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 It would be doing our subject and our theory equal injus 
 tice if we were to suppose that he had any fixed purpose, 
 known to himself, when he borrowed the professional gar 
 ment, and began to talk with the worthy John Cross in the 
 language of theology, and with the tongue of a hypocrite, 
 lie designed to visit Charlomont that was all as he had 
 really been impressed by the commanding figure and noble 
 expression of beauty of that young damsel whom he had 
 encountered by the roadside. Even this impression, how 
 ever, 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 
 siiinmer, 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 pleas 
 ant 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 \vas doing! 
 
 In the very idleness of mood with just that degree of 
 curiosity which prompts one to turn about and look a sec 
 ond time Alfred Stevens resumed the route which included 
 Oharlemont. But the devil had, by this time, found his 
 \vay into the meditations of the youth, and lay lurking, un 
 known to himself, perhaps, at the bottom of this same curi 
 osity. 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 equiva 
 lent 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 beau 
 tiful if she did, indeed, possess that intellectual strength 
 and vivacity which Hashed out so suddenly and with so 
 much splendor from beneath her long, dark eye-lashes ! 
 
 In this mood he met with John Cross ; and the simplicity 
 
THE GOOD YOUNG MAN IN MEDITATION. 81 
 
 of that worthy creature offered another challenge, not lesa 
 provoking than the former, to the levity and love of mis 
 chief which also actively predominated in the bosom of the 
 youth. Fond of a malicious sort 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, glozing story of his religious inclinations, 
 which had so easily imposed upon the unsuspecting preach 
 er. Never was proceeding less premeditated, or so com 
 pletely 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 vil 
 lage, and into the bosoms of the people he began, for the 
 first time, to feel the awkwardness of the situation in which 
 he had placed himself, and the responsibilities, if not dan 
 gers, 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, hav 
 ing a due share of the gift of gab, and almost as profoundly 
 familiar with scripture quotation as Henry Clay himself. 
 I3ut there was something awkward in the idea of detection,^ 
 and he was not unaware of those summary dangers which 
 arc likely 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 Stev?ns 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 likely to stick more closely, and prove 
 less comfortably 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 
 
CIIARLEMONT. 
 
 whys and wherefores about them whence they come, 
 what they do, and whither they propose to go. Stevens 
 had only to preserve his countenance and a due degree of 
 caution, and the rest was easy. He had no reason to sup 
 pose himself an object of suspicion to anybody ; and should 
 he become so, nothing was more easy than to take his de 
 parture with sufficient promptness, and without unnecessa 
 rily 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, 
 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 Chinks 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 medi 
 tation ; and gradually his thoughts rise up in soliloquy, 
 which is suffered to invade no ear but ours : 
 
 "Wail! who d have thought it? a parson! devilish 
 <;: i deed ! How it will tell at Murkcy s ! What a 
 
THE COOI) YOUiNd MAN IN MEDITATION. l 
 
 metamorphose! if it don t stagger cm, nothing will! It s 
 the best thing I ve done yet ! 1 shall have to do it over a 
 nundred 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 mut 
 tered over texts, all that he could remember ; and pro 
 cecded to turn over the phrases for an introduction, such 
 as, unctuous with good things in high degree, he fancied 
 would be particularly commendable to his unsuspecting 
 hearers. Alfred Stevens had no small talent for imitation, 
 lie derived a quiet sort of pleasure, on the present occa 
 sion, 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 iy 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, 
 with a cross of Corinne ! 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 Charle- 
 mont 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 Ste 
 vens ! cautiously." 
 
 The farther cogitations of Stevens were subordinate to 
 these, but of the same family complexion. They wero 
 
92 CFIARLEMONT. 
 
 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, ho 
 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 
 nour had become very late. 
 
 " Good young man," muttered worthy Mrs. Ilinklcy to 
 ner drowsy spouse, in the apartment below, as she heard 
 u he movements of her guest "good young man, lie s just 
 low going to bed. lie s been studying all this while. 1 
 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 
 rockon he s at the Bible now. Oh ! he ll be a blessed la 
 borer 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" yawn 
 ing" that s the devil! I get monstrous tired of a joke 
 that needs dry nursing !" 
 
 Such were the last muttered words of Parson Stevens be 
 fore he yielded himself up to his slumbers. Good young 
 man charitable old ladies gullible enough, if not chari 
 table ! But the professions need such people, and we mur^ 
 aot quarrel with them ! 
 
JMROClIJ.tL PERFORMANCES. 93 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 PAROCHIAL PERFORMANCES. 
 
 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 u 
 toothache, we look for a change of weather ; our rhcunia 
 tism 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 thunderstorm, at 
 least, as a forerunner of the event. Nothing less can pos 
 sibly 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. Shakspere is constantly at it, and Ben 
 Jonson, and all the dramatists. Not a butcher, in thf 
 whole long line of the butchering Caesars, from Augustus 
 down, but, according to them, died in a sort of gloom 
 glory, resulting from the explosion of innumerable star? 
 and rockets, and the apparitions of as many comets ! " Gor 
 gons, and hydras, and chimeras dire/ invariably announce 
 the coming stroke of fate ; and five or seven moons of a 
 night have suddenly arisen to warn some miserable sublu 
 narian that orders had been issued that there should be nc 
 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 s f ern old puritan saint, Milton 
 
94 
 
 he who was blessed with the blindness o_ his earthly eye, 
 that lie 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 Ad 
 am 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 
 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 pro 
 cess 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, do 
 med the satisfaction of chuckling at sucli sights as these, 
 his satanic majesty chuckles not the less at the human van 
 ity which looks for them. Nay, lie himself is very likely 
 to suggest this vanity. It is one of his forms of temptation 
 one of his manoeuvres; 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 
 tha 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 mo 
 ment 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. 
 
PAIJorJIIAL PERFORMANCES. 05 
 
 I herc 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 cf 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 
 beer to church only the day before, necessarily made their 
 appearance everywhere with petticoats and pantaloons tol 
 erably clean and unrurrpled. 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. M made his famous gammon speeches ; but the 
 
 people had a presentiment of what was coming, and to 
 crown the eventful anticipations of the season, there was 
 quite a freshet in Salt river. The signs were all and every 
 where favorable. Speculation was beginning to chink his 
 money-bags ; three hundred new banks, as many railways, 
 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 over 
 throw, or earthquake. 
 
 Everybody 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. lie 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 prelimi 
 nary. 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 neighbors. It is a sign that he thinks 
 her soul the most becoming little soul in the (lock, 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 connection with a sum realized 
 by stinting her son of hi?, gingerbread money, in order to 
 make this excellent parson a life-member of the " /ion 
 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 proba 
 ble that he never heard of such a thing, and that if lie did, 
 he would unhesitating!" 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 
 vigor 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 spinning- 
 wheel ; spoke with a hearty approbation, if he saw that her 
 children were civil and cleanly ; if otherwise, he blazed out 
 with proper 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 
 anybody, but that there is no language too strong per 
 haps none quite strong enough for the utterance of the 
 
PAROCHIAL PKRFOUMANCES. 97 
 
 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 mer 
 riest, and though he did not absolutely shake a leg himself, 
 yet none rejoiced more than he, when Ned Hinklcy 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 tlice already ; they will all 
 be rejoiced to see thee. I will show thee how they live, 
 and if thou shouldst continue to feel within thee, the 
 growing of that good seed whoso quickening thou hast 
 declared to me, it will be well that thou shouldst begin 
 early to practise the calling which may so shortly become 
 thine own. Here mightcst thou live a space, toiling in 
 thy spiritual studies, until the brethren should deem thee 
 ripe for thy office ; meanwhile, thy knowledge of the peo 
 ple 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 ar 
 rangement. Indeed, he desired nothing else. 
 
 "But shall we see all of them?" he demanded. Tho 
 arch-hypocrite began to fear that his curiosity would be 
 compelled to pay a heavy penalty to dullness. 
 
 " The flock is small," said Jalm 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 him 
 self, " one may stand it." 
 
 He declared himself in readiness, and the twain sot 
 5 
 
98 CHAULEMONT. 
 
 forth. The outward behavior of Stevens was very exem 
 plary. Tie had that morning contrived to alter liis costume 
 in some respects to suit the situation of alfofrrs. For ex 
 ample, 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 gufler from 
 bronchitis. In his deportment, Stevens was quite as sanc 
 tified as heart couid 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 emphasizing every syllable, would roll forth the 
 enoiTi ous sentence with all the conscious dignity of an 
 ancient oracle. That " cheese and mousetrap," so spoken, 
 acquired in the cars of the hearer, a degree of importance 
 and signification, which it confounded them to think they 
 had never perceived before in the same felicitous colloca 
 tion 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 conciliatory 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 dis 
 covered 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 protege, as well before his face as be 
 hind 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 talent, yet of so much devotion : qualities not always 
 
I AIIOCHIAL I KHFOUMANCKS. Of 
 
 united, it would seem, among the churchliogs of modern 
 times. 
 
 Alfred Stevens seemed to promise great honor to his 
 teacher. That cunning which is the wisdom of the world- 
 lino-, 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 i> 
 more yielding nature. He soon caught the phraseology of 
 his companion, and avoiding his intensity, was less likely 
 to offend his hearers. I-Iis manner was better subdued to 
 the social tone of ordinary life, his voice lacked the sharp 
 twang of the backwoods man ; and, unlike John Cross, ho 
 was able to modulate it to those undertones, 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 unctuous business was made of it that 
 morning. Many an old lady was refreshed with the spir 
 itual 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. lie 
 began to apprehend that she might be among the Hock 
 who were destined to wait for the second or last day s vis 
 itation ; when, to his great relief, John Cross called his 
 attention to the dwelling of the widow Cooper, to whom 
 they were fast approaching. 
 
100 CHARLKMONT 
 
 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 iu 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 unfavorably for the taste of 
 the inmates. One is apt to associate the love of flowers 
 with sweetness and gentleness of disposition, and such a 
 passion would seem as natural, as it certainly would be be 
 coming, 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 arc 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 ig 
 norance, 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 further reflec 
 tion. They were at the door of the cottage. Never did 
 the widow Cooper receive her parson in more tidy trim, 
 and with c.n expression of less qualified delight. She brought 
 forth the best chair, brushed the decrskm-sc .it with her 
 ipron, and having adjusted the old man to her own sati* 
 
PAROCHIAL PERFORMANCE. 101 
 
 faction 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 scat, 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 gave 
 us yesterday. You stirred the hearts of everybody, 1 war 
 rant 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 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, " lye- 
 ware of the temptation to vain-glory. Be not like the 
 Pharisee, disdainful of the publican. To be too well pleased 
 with one s 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 kno w 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 
 am. God help me, for I need his help I have my own 
 
102 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 share ; but as for that Mrs. Thackeray, she s as full of wick 
 edness as an an egg s full of m<jat." 
 
 " It is not the part of Christianity, Sister Cooper," said 
 John Cross mildly, " to look into our neighbors accounts 
 and make comparisons between their doings and our own. 
 We can only do so at great risk of making a false reckon 
 ing. 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 suffer 
 ing, and prone to sin as certain as that the sparks fly up 
 ward. We must only watcli and pray without ceasing, 
 particularly 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 labor of religion. 
 God send it to us, in all its sweetness and perfection, so 
 that we may light the good tight without ceasing." 
 
 " But if you could only hear of the doings of Mrs. Thack 
 eray, 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 hicrophant 
 look up with a far greater degree of interest than he had 
 felt in the long and random twattle to which he had beoo 
 
[ A R.OCH T A L PERFORM ANCES. 
 
 compelled to listen. Where was she that fair daughter ? 
 He was impatient for the answer. But he was not T ong 
 detained in suspense. Next to her neighbors there wis no 
 subject of whom the mother so loved to speak as the Daugh 
 ter, and the daughter s excellences. 
 
 " Ah ! she is up-stairs, at her books, as usual. She does 
 so love them books, Brother Cross, I m afraid it 7 i do harm 
 to her health. She cares for nothing half so wnl. Morn 
 ing, 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. 
 a They are useful or hurtful. The useful kinds arc 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 Whitefield is a good book, 
 and I can recommend the sermons of that good man, Brother 
 Peter Cummins, that preached when I was a lad, all along 
 through the back parts of North Carolina, into South Caro 
 lina and Georgia. I can t say that he came as far back into 
 the west as these parts ; but he was a most faithful shep 
 herd. 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. One of them in par 
 ticular, 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." s 
 
 The natural love of mischief which prevailed in the bosom 
 of Alfred Stevens now prompted him to take part in the 
 
104 CHAKLEMOXT. 
 
 conversation at this happy moment. The opportunity wat 
 a tempting one. 
 
 " The printers," said he, " arc 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 waft 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 them 
 selves ; 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, ! where ?" exclaimed the Brother Cross with 
 similar earnestness. The game was too pleasant for Alfred 
 Stevens. He pursued it. 
 
 " In such cities," he continued, " as New York and Phil 
 adelphia, 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 cstab- 
 * lisliraents, four persons preside, who arc considered broth 
 ers ; but they ar brothers in sin only, and are by some sup 
 posed to be no other. They have called themselves aftor 
 the names of saints and holy men ; even the names of the 
 thrice blessed apostles, John and James, have been in tins 
 , 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 destruction of mankind, then 
 should I prefer to believe that these persons were no other 
 lhan the evil demons who ruled in Ashdod and Assyria. 
 
PAROCHIAL PERFORMANCES. 105 
 
 Such is their perseverance in evil such their busy indus 
 try, 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 
 heeming 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 them 
 selves 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 downward, and will this not be seen 
 by his followers and some of the thousands whom lie daily 
 
 5* 
 
LOG CHAIILEMONT. 
 
 perverts to his evil purposes and so leads to eternal de 
 struction ?" 
 
 " 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 is not, yet this would not be the subject of any 
 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 arc to remember," Stevens resumed, " that when 
 the heart is full of sin, the eyes arc 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, u 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 pro 
 secute 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 hatefulncss, the black and crouching form of Sa 
 tan, with nothing to conceal his deformity. Brother Ste 
 vens 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 
 can not blind them with devilish arts. You can nut delude 
 t v i as to the true forms of Satan, let him take any shape 
 
PAROCHIAL PERFORMANCES. 107 
 
 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 besc 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." 
 
 " That is very true ; that is just what I was thinking of, 
 Brother Cross. You can not look too close, I m thinking 
 into such books as you ll find at the house of Widow Thacke 
 ray. 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 witli Sister Thackeray on this sub 
 ject," 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 counsel in the way of 
 judgment." 
 
 " Why, bless us, Brother Cross, you don t suppose that 
 mv daughter Margaret would keep any but the propcre-t 
 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 cm with a glance of 
 the eye. Ah ! she s too smart to be caught by the contri 
 vances 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." 
 
108 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 "But as Brother Stevens said," continued John Cross, 
 " where sin gets into the licart, 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 11 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. 
 
 " Yes, 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 
 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." 
 
TARuCHIAL PERFORMANCES. 109 
 
 " If 1 could sec 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. Pie turned his eyes and 
 beheld the fair maiden, herself, the propriety of whoso 
 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 sup 
 posed 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 ad 
 dressed 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 valu 
 able to me on that account. They are dear to me on 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 loath 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 opportu 
 nity to say what I shall read and what not, I can only tell 
 you that your iauor will be taken in vain. Indeed, the evil 
 
110 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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 appear 
 ance of Margaret. He was confirmed in all his previous 
 impressions of her beauty, nor did the brevity of the con 
 ference prevent him from perceiving her intense self-esteem, 
 which under certain influences of temperament is only an 
 other 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 sat 
 isfied 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 proud and 
 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. 
 
HOW THE TOAD (iKINS UPON Till-: ALTAR. 131 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HOW TFIE TOAD GRINS UPON THE ALTAR. 
 
 SHALL we go the rounds with our pastor? Shall we 
 look in upon him at Mrs. Thackeray s, wLlle, obeying the 
 suggestion of the widow Cooper, lie 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 Shakspcrc, was the first to suffer. Plays ! 
 The one word was enough. Some lying histories were per 
 mitted to escape. The name of history saved them ! Rob 
 inson Crusoe was preserved as a true narrative ; and Swift s 
 Tale of a Tub escaped, as it was assumed (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 mechan 
 ics in a new country. The reader will remember the man 
 ner 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 
 anything farther than simply to open the eyes of Mrs. Thack 
 oray 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 
 
112 CIIAULKMONT. 
 
 ui 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 
 Mesdamcs 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 entree into the bosom of the Hock. 
 lie was everywhere admitted with gladness every whore 
 welcomed as to a home ; and the unsophisticated old teacher 
 by whose agency this was effected, congratulated his con 
 gregation 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 birth of 
 grace in others. The good old man bestowed long ar.l 
 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 writ 
 ten 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 help 
 ing 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 print 
 ed 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 thinga 
 become clear in that blessed light. By its help you read, 
 and by its working you inwardly digest all the needful 
 
H()\V [ UK T().\!> CHINS UPON THK ALTAIi. 118 
 
 learning 1 . The Lord bo with you, Alfred Stevens, and bring 
 to pcrfeet ripening your present undertaking." 
 
 " Amen !" was tlic 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 Squirtf Jlinkley for the board and lodging of 
 Brother Stevens and his horse. Ilinkley would have pre 
 ferred taking nothing, considering the praiseworthy pur 
 pose 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, Ilink 
 ley 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 no 
 professions of religion. 
 
 Having effected all these arrangements, to his own sat 
 isfaction and seemingly that of all others, John Cross de 
 parted 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 fash 
 ion of his strength, than is often permitted to the stall-fed 
 doctors of his vocation. 
 
 The reader will suppose that the old man has been al 
 ready gone some seven days. Meanwhile, the young stu 
 dent hae fairly made himself at home in Charlemont. He 
 has a snug room, entirely to himself, at Squire llinkley s, 
 and, by the excellent care of the worthy dame, it is oro- 
 vidcd with <the best bedding and the finest furniture. Tier 
 own hands sweep it clean, morning and night, for the in 
 cipient parson ; she makes up the bed, and, in customary 
 phrase, puts it in all respects to rights. His wants are an 
 
114 
 
 ticipated,his slightest suggestion mot with tlio most prompt 
 consideration ; and John Cross himself, humble and unex- 
 actiug as lie was, might have felt some little twinges of 
 mortal envy could, he have known that his protege prom 
 ised to become a much greater favorite than himself. 
 
 This, indeed, seemed very likely to be the case. A good 
 young man in the sight of the ladies is always a more at 
 tractive person than a good old man. Dame Ilinkley, 
 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 hand 
 some, and he smiled so sweetly, and he spoke so gently, 
 and, in short, so great had been his progress in the affec 
 tions 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 con 
 fidence or indifference, that such should be the case. Her 
 attentions to the young stranger probably diverted them 
 from himself. Cut not so with William Ilinkley 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 Chaiiemont had increased the sore 
 ness at his heart. In that week he had seen fairly estab 
 lished that intimacy between his rival and the lady of his 
 love which seemed to give the death-blow to any preten 
 sions of his. lie had seen them meet ; had seen them go 
 forth together ; beheld their mutual eyes, and, turning his 
 own inward, saw how deeply his heart was concerned in 
 the probable sympathies of theirs. Then, to tarn 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 
 tics gave him inalienable rights ; to feel himself put aside 
 for one only known of yesterday ; to look with yearning, 
 
HOW THE TOAD GRINS UPON THE ALTAR. 
 
 and moot eyes only of disregard and indifference ! Such 
 being the suggestions of his jealous and suffering nature, it 
 is surely no matter of wonder that the youth grew melan 
 choly and abstracted. 
 
 Our adventurer was snugly seated in the little but select 
 chamber which had been given him in the house of Squire 
 Ilinkley. 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 
 ovr, and waiting nothing but his signature, and perhaps 
 the postscript, lie was absorbed unusually in his cogita 
 tions, 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 presbytcrian- 
 isrn, as our late excellent brother Wood ford 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 haye 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 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 
 
116 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 i Kj to revolutionize Murkcy s! to turnout 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 hu 
 mor of the thing, then prophecy is out of its element quite. 
 
 " Seriously, you dog, I have become a theological stu 
 dent ! Don t you see proofs of my progress in my unc 
 tuous phraseology. I was taken suddenly upon the high 
 way 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 Murkcy s, or, 
 indeed, anywhere 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 prcsbytcn- 
 anism 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 recog 
 niscd by my neighbors as one of the elect set apart t/* 
 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 
 
HOW THE TOAD GRINS UPON THE ALTAR. 117 
 
 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 coun 
 try, 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, trans 
 mogrified* and in a state of betweenity. Nothing less, 1 
 assure you, could make me disguise myself after the pres 
 ent 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, impe 
 rious, 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 
 HD in an instant. She is an intensitier, and like most such, 
 c-urscdly smart. Young too scarce eighteen, 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 anything 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 ! 
 1 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 
 
118 CIIABLKMONT. 
 
 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 (o 
 the cover where it lies. I know what keen scents 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 fifty miles from the place where 
 1 pursue my theological studies ; you are too wise to attempt 
 a wild-goose chase. You may smack your chaps, 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 readi 
 ness. Write to me at the post-town of Ellisland, and re 
 member 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 re 
 spect. Send all my letters to this town under envelope 
 with this direction. I wrote you twice from Somcrville. 
 Did 1 tell you that old Hunks has been doused liberal ? I 
 can laugh at the small terms, yet go to Murkey s and shine 
 through the smoke with the best of you. 1 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. 
 
 44 1 came, Brother Stevens," said the old lady, " if you 
 
HOW THE TOAD GRINS UPON THE ALTAR. 119 
 
 v. vjre 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, how 
 ever much they might have been adverse to the rules. He 
 threw wide the door, and without more hesitation Biie fo*- 
 lowed him at once into the chamber. 
 
J 1*0 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE MOTHER S GRIEFS. 
 
 THE business upon which Mrs. Hirikley 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 in 
 telligible 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 mat 
 ter 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 an 
 noyance had been expressed, however, with the subdued 
 
THE MOTHER S GRIEFS. 121 
 
 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 leari] 
 from the old lady that the lad was remarkable for his gen 
 tleness. 
 
 " 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, 
 lie was all life, and good humor ; 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 sec 
 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 ho used to be so fond of." 
 
 " He has been fond of books, then had he many ?" 
 
1-2 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 44 Oh, yes, a whole drawer of them, and he used to c m l t 
 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. Some 
 thing 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. Hinklcy, that it can be anything 
 so bad. The young man is at that age when a change nat 
 urally takes place in the mind and habits. He wants to 
 go into the world, I suspect. lie s probably tired of doing 
 nothing. What is to be his business ? It s high time that 
 such a youtli should have made a choice." 
 
 44 That s true, Brother Stevens, but he s been the apple 
 to our eyes, and we haven t been willing that he should take 
 jp 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 lie s kept pretty much at home, going 
 over his books arid studying, now one arid now another, 
 just as Mr. Calvert gave them to him." 
 
 44 What studies did he pursue ?" 
 
 44 Well, I can t toll 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 
 hooks altogether, and had the change come over him just 
 as I told you. You sec how thin he is now. You d scarce 
 believe him to be the same person if you d seen him then. 
 Why his checks were as full and as red as roses, and his 
 eye was always shining and laughing, and he had the live- 
 
TOR MOTHER S GRIEFS. 
 
 licst step, and between him and Ned IlLnkley, 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 lie never dances, and he never plays, 
 and what little he lets us see of him, is always so sad and 
 so spiritless that 1 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 dMie. 
 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 
 ago." 
 
 " Nineteen last April." 
 
 " Quite a man for his years, Mrs. Hinkley." 
 
 " Isn t he ?" 
 
 " He will do you credit yet." 
 
 u 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 be- 
 
124 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 hind her. " This is one of the penalties, I suppose, which 1 
 must pay for my privileges. I shall be called upon to re 
 form 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 re 
 quires 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 ad 
 vantages, 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 their externals. Even 
 mourning, it appears, requires to be disposed by a fashion 
 able costumer. Though the garments to which the necessi 
 ties 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 color. He 
 consulted complexions, and his mirror determined him in 
 favor 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 anything but a black stock had his business 
 been to address the democracy from the top of a cider-bar 
 rel. 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 
 
THE MOTHER S GRIEFS. 125 
 
 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 Charle- 
 mont were so very picturesque; there was the quietest 
 tarn, a sort of basin in the bosom of the hills at a little dis 
 tance, which she was to show him ; and there was the 
 sweetest stream in the world, that meandered in the neigh 
 borhood ; and Brother Stevens so loved the picturesque 
 lakes embosomed in hills, and streams stealing through un 
 broken 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 amuse 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 fullness, to understanding ears ! Ste 
 vens and herself had already spoken together. Her books 
 had been his books. The glowing passages which she 
 loved to repeat, were also the favorite passages in his mem 
 ory. 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 her 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 com 
 panions in Charlemont. What was their fiddling and fes 
 tivity 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 na 
 ture 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. 
 
126 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 We have all felt this. Nothing can more annoy the soul 
 of taste or sensibility than to behold its favorite scene and 
 subject fail in awakening others to 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 re 
 spects, 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 favorite 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 en 
 thusiasm, lie soon discovered her tastes ; and she found 
 equally soon that his were like her own. After this dis 
 covery, 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 feel 
 ings were as little susceptible of sympathy with hers as 
 would have been those of the cold demon Mephistophelcs ! 
 While her eye was flashing, her cheek flushed, her breast 
 heaving with the burning thoughts and strains of the mas 
 ter to whom 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 
 il, 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 off 
 spring of an habitual and base indulgence. 
 
 It was to meet this unsophisticated, impassioned, and 
 confiding girl, that Alfred Stevens bestowed such particu 
 
THE MOTHER S GRIEFS. 127 
 
 lar pains on his costume. He felt its deficiencies, and, ac 
 cordingly, the necessity of making the most of it ; for, 
 though he perfectly well knew that such a woman as Mar 
 garet 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 
 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 of the toilet were at length ended, and he was 
 preparing tc /o forth. lie was abor; - to leave the cham 
 ber, had already placed his Lu:a<i *.ip?.i ,ho latch of the door, 
 when he heard the voice of MH host^s, on the stairway, in 
 seeming expostulation with her 3C^ Ho was about to for 
 bear his purpose of departure CLL;^ !? parties had retired, 
 when, remembering tl ^ 8j!5ci~u ~j "f. "^o lady, and thinking 
 it would show that 4 >r,l i, 5vi A rv..c,> which he really could 
 not entertain, he detrr.?rr;Ar; a* >^ce to join the young man, 
 and begin with him fchi ;C?au;.. degree of intimacy without 
 which it could scare.-!;- be supposed that he could broach 
 the subject of his personal affairs. He felt somewhat the 
 awkwardness of thL aas imed dutj>, 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 con 
 scious superiority derived froLi greater years and better 
 education, he felt V-?riC. : . f fcriiiiecL LL undertaking the pater 
 nal office which the fcid, fcoiinh. mother had confided to his 
 hands. According!/, descending the stairs briskly, he joined 
 the two at the entrance of the dwelling. The son was al 
 ready on the outside ; itio mother stood in the doorway : 
 and, as Stevens appeared and drew nigh, William Hinkley 
 bowed, and turned away as if to withdraw. 
 
1 28 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 " 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, mut 
 tered 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 fail 
 to note, while, at the same time, a sentence which evidently 
 conveyed some motherly rebuke, was addressed to his 
 already-irritated ears. 
 
WRESTLING. 129 
 
 CHAPTER Kl. 
 
 WRESTLING. 
 
 ALFRED STEVENS, as he walked behind his young com 
 panion, observed him with a more deliberate survey than 
 lie had yet taken. Hitherto, the young man had challenged 
 bait little of his scrutiny. He had simply noted him for a 
 tall youth, yet in the green, who appeared 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 exhi 
 bition. Perhaps, indeed, he would have derived a mali 
 cious sort of satisfaction in making a presumptuous lad 
 feel his inferiority. ITe had just that smallness of spirit 
 which would find its triumph in the success of such a per 
 formance. 
 
 lie now observed 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 re 
 ality, 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 
 
 6* 
 
l.MO CHAKLEMOrfT. 
 
 heart never informs. His scrutiny, therefore, tliough 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 mo 
 tive than that of bringing a young, laboring, 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 preju 
 dice and invites and wins confidence. But, with his lirst 
 impression, that the whole business was a " bore," our be 
 nevolent 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 discouraging as they appear in every legal 
 library, could not well be questioned as belonging lo some 
 such venerable receptacle of barbarous phrase 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. llinkley, 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 stu 
 dent ?" 
 
 " I may scarcely consider myself one yet. I have read, 
 sir, rather than studied." 
 
 " A good distinction, not often made. But, do you in 
 cline to law seriously ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir I know no occupation to which I so much 
 incline." 
 
 " The law is a verj arduous profession. It requires a 
 rare union of industry, talent, and knowledge of mankind 
 to be a good lawyer." 
 
WRESTLING. 121 
 
 " 1 should think so, sir." 
 
 "Few succeed where thousands fail Young- nun are 
 very apt to mistake inclination for ability ; and to be a poor 
 lawyer " 
 
 "Is to be worse than poor is to be despicable!" re 
 plied Ilinkley with a half-smile, as he interrupted a speech 
 which might have been construed into a very contemptu 
 ous commentary on his own pretensions. It would seem 
 that the young man had so understood it. lie 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 
 patronizingly ; " but I do not say so. I utter a mere gen 
 erality. 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 law 
 yer from merely reading law. You can t bolt it as we 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 distinc 
 tion which you made between the reader and the student ; 
 and the fact that your appearance is that of the student. 1 
 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 in a- 
 the peril of your health." 
 
 The frame of the young man seemed to be suddenly agi 
 tated. 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. 
 1 am not conscious that my health sutlers from this or any 
 other cause." 
 
132 
 
 "Nay, my young friend, do not deceive yourselv. You 
 perhaps underrate your own industry. It is 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 lit 
 tle country village like this, one can not easily determine ; 
 and the diiliculty may be increased somewhat by one s own 
 conviction, of the immense deal that one lias to learn. If 
 you were to spend a year in some tolerably large commu 
 nity. Perhaps you meditate some such plan ;" 
 
 u I do not. sir," was the cold foply. 
 
 " Indeed ; and have you no desire that way ?" 
 
 " None !" 
 
 u 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 anywhere else and so 
 lie 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 ap 
 parent keenness, that Stevens found the tables suddenly 
 reversed. But he was in nowise discomposed, lie an 
 swered promptly. 
 
 u You forget," he said, " that I was speaking of very 
 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 pas 
 sions." 
 
 " 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 
 eense of superiority which would have been felt more gall- 
 
WRESTLING. 133 
 
 ingly by If inkley had lie been of a less modest nature. Still, 
 it had the effect of arousing some of the animal in his 
 blood, and he respond 3d in a sentence which was not en 
 tirely without its sneer, though it probably passed without 
 penetrating such a buff of self-esteem as guarded the sensi 
 bilities 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. Hinklcy. 1 
 should not be surprised if you have chosen your profession 
 properly. Still, I should counsel you not to overwork 
 yourself. Bear with me, sir : 1 feel an interest in your be 
 half, and I must think you do so. Allow me to be some 
 thing 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 youi 
 time. I know something about that, and will save you from 
 injuring your health. On this point you evidently need in 
 struction. 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 
 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 con- 
 
io4 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 fer with you. and counsel yc 1 , ard if I can be of anj 
 belp- 
 
 " You are very good, sir !" 
 
 The young man spoke bitterly. Ids gorge was rising 
 It was not easy to suppress his vexation with his mothc.% 
 and the indignation which he felt at the supercilious ap 
 proaches of the agent whom she had employed. Besides, 
 his mind, not less than his feelings, was rising in vigor ia 
 due degree with the pressure put upon it. 
 
 " You arc 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 indigna 
 tion which filled his veins. 
 
 " This fellow has something in him after all," was the 
 involuntary reflection that rose to the other s mind. The 
 eifect 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 lie 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 an 
 swer 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 esti 
 mated, 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. Ilinkley. But surely ac 
 
WRESTLING. 13ft 
 
 offer of service need not be mistaken. As for the trifling 
 difference which ma/ co in our years, that is perhaps noth 
 ing to the difference which may be in our experience, our 
 knowledge of the world, our opportunities and studies." 
 
 " Surely, sir ; all thece may be, but at all events we are 
 not bound to assume their existence until it is shown." 
 
 " Oh, you are likely to :;ove an adept in the law, Mr. 
 Ilinkley." 
 
 " I trust, sir, that your prc/ % c:s ray 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 Ilinkley with increasing curi 
 osity. 
 
 "Ay, sir there is!" was the spirited reply of the 
 youth. " Let it be war ; 1 am the better pleased, sir, that 
 you arc 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 can not 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 inso 
 lently presuming to inform the other." 
 
 " At the request of your own mother !" 
 
 " Pshaw ! what man of sense or honesty would urge such 
 a pica. 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?" 
 
136 C1IARLEMONT. 
 
 demanded Ilinkley with a promptness that surprised him 
 self. 
 
 " Perhaps not ! would you provoke me to personal vio 
 lence ?" 
 
 " Ha ! might I liopc for that ? surely you forget that you 
 are a churchman ?" 
 
 Stevens paused awhile before he answered. His eyes 
 looked vacantly around him. By this time they had left 
 the more thickly-settled parts of the village considerably 
 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 Ilinkley 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 Ilinkley, and a sudden glimpse which he just 
 then caught of the residence of Margaret Cooper, deter 
 mined his answer. 
 
 " I thank you, young man, for reminding me of my 
 duties. You had nearly provoked the 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. 1 
 may have done this unwisely. I will not attempt to prove 
 that I have not. At all events, assured of my own motives, 
 1 leave you to yourself. You will probably ere long feel 
 the injustice you have done me !" 
 
 He continued on his way, leaving William Ilinkley 
 almost rooted to the spot. The poor youth was actually 
 Ptunncd, not by what was said to him, but by the sudden 
 
WRESTLING. 137 
 
 consciousness of bis own vehemence. He had expressed 
 himself with a boldness and an energy of which neither 
 nimself nor his friend, until now, would have thought him 
 capable. A moment s pause in the provocation, and the 
 jee lings 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 everything precisely 
 as the passionate thought had suggested it in his own mind. 
 Already he began to blarnc 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 lie 
 became humbled by his thoughts ; and when he recollected 
 the avowed profession of Stevens his shame increased. He 
 felt how shocking it was to intimate to a sworn non-com 
 batant 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 
 Stevcnj 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 s^L* of the now 
 hateful habitation. 
 
CHARLEMONT. 
 
 3HAPTER XII. 
 
 THE MASTER AND HIS PUPILS. 
 
 THE course of the young rustic was pursued for half a 
 mile further till lie came to a little cottage of which the 
 eye could take no cognizance from any part of the village. 
 It was embowellcd 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 con 
 sisted 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 amphithe 
 atre, 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 miglit 
 easily forget the busy world without, and deliver himself 
 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 
 
TEE MAST 311 AND HfJ PUPILS. 139 
 
 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, 
 chough 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 lie was what we would( call a hand- 
 sonic old gentleman, whose appearance did not offend taste, 
 and whoso kind looks invited confidence. Nor would wo 
 mistake his character. 
 
 This person was the Mr. Culvert, 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 neighborhood of the schoolhouse. 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 schoolhouse. There, 
 
140 CI1ARLEMONT. 
 
 squat on their haunches, the etuxly boys germs of tho 
 finest .peasantry in the world ----r. grounded their teacher in 
 a. group quite as pleasing as picturesque. The sway of the 
 old man was paternal. His rod was ia :her a figurative 
 than a real existence; and when dir. 3*1 to the use of the 
 birch, the good man, consulting more tastes than one, em- 
 plpyed 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 re 
 quisitions 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 Abbc 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, en 
 graved 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 deods were enacted 
 which he read, and who stared out upon his eyes, at every 
 eroch, 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 balllcd fury of the Turk the unshaken constancy 
 
THE MASTER AND HIS PUPILS. i4l 
 
 and unrcmitted valor 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, arid 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, ex 
 tended his hand to his visiter, and leaning back against the 
 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, 1 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; anc^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 ack my 
 self 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 disin 
 clined 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 mo 
 ment later, my boy, and you might have been compelled to 
 endure it for the Turk." 
 
 The youth smiled sadly as he replied: "I must borroy 
 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, anl make rne 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 \\e take sweetmeats in very 
 
142 CHARLEMONl. 
 
 Siavil) q . antitios at a time, and never to intencre with the 
 main, resist. I suspect that light reading or reading which 
 TG usually call light, but which, as it concerns the fate of 
 man in his most serious relations, his hopes, his affections, 
 jjs heart, nay, his very people arid nation is scarcely less 
 important than any other. I suspect that this sort of read 
 ing wo ild 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-shop, into the tastes 
 for tobacco and consequently brandy, simply from denying 
 him amusements which equally v;arm the blood and elevate 
 the imagination. Studies which merely inform the head 
 arc very apt to endanger the he-art. 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 fueling 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 stimu 
 lus. 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 ab 
 sorbing in its aims as to leave out of exercise any of the 
 moral faculties. That course of study ic the only one to 
 make a truly great man, which compels t"u3 mind to do all 
 things of which it is capable." 
 
 " But how do you reconcile this, sir, with the opin 
 ion, 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 impu- 
 lity." 
 
THE MAST Kit AND HIS I UPILS. 14? 
 
 v f,; mistake me. While 1 counsel one to go out o: 
 ms i x .:<*sion for relief and recreation, I still counsel bu L 
 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 ob 
 jects. For example, nothing is more frequent in our eoun 
 try than to combine law and politics. Nothing is more apl 
 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 Vcrtot for relief and recreation, 
 that you could not cast him oft* when you please. The in 
 toxication would continue even after the draught has been 
 swallowed, and would thus interfere with the hour? 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. Everything, however, depends upon the habits 
 of self-control which a man has acquired in his boyhood. 
 The habit of self-control is the only habit which make? 
 mental power truly effective. Trie man who can not com 
 pel himself to do or to forbear, can never be much of a stu 
 dent. 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 
 anywhere else. They own that mental habit which we call 
 self-control, which supplies the deficiency in numerous in 
 stances 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 witli their own rust. He who learns this 
 
A-l CHAKLEMONT. 
 
 jowcr in boyhood will be very sure to master all his com 
 among." 
 
 The darker expression of sadness passed over the coun 
 tenance 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. J 
 am afraid, sir, I shall be nothing !" 
 
 " Do not despond, my son," said the old man sympathi- 
 zingly. " Your fear is natural to your age and tempera 
 ment. 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 co-operate, all will 
 be easy. Your strifes will be subdued ; there will be a 
 calm like that upon the sea when the storms subside." 
 
 u 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 favorable change is at hand. It needs but one 
 thing to make all the conflicting qualities of one s mind co 
 operate." 
 
 u What is that one thing, sir ?" 
 
 " An object ! As yet, you have none." 
 
 " 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." 
 
TIJK MASTEU AND HIS PUPILS 146 
 
 " I have ambition, sir." 
 
 " Ah ! that is a passion, not an object. Does your am 
 bition point in one direction ? Unless it does, it is object 
 less." 
 
 The youth was silent. The old man proceeded : 
 
 i; I am disposed to be severe with you, my son. There 
 is no surer sign of feebleness than in the constant begin 
 nings and the never pcrformings 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 suxsh as mine ? To an 
 swer this question, we ask, What are your qualities? 
 Did you think, William, that I disparaged yours when 1 
 recommended the law to you as a profession ?" 
 
 " No, sir ! oh, no ! Perhaps you overrated them. 1 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." 
 
 " 1 can not think I am too miserable to think !" ex 
 claimed 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 Ilinkley, the 
 cousin of William. He had approached them, in the ear 
 nestness of their interview, without having disturbed them. 
 The bold youth was habited in a rough woodman s dress, 
 lie wore a round jacket of homespun, and in his hand he 
 
 7 
 
Mb CHAKLEMONT. 
 
 curried a couple of fishing-rods, which, with certain othor 
 implements, betrayed sufficiently the object of his present 
 pursuit. 
 
 " Ask me !" said he. " I can tell you what he s been 
 about better than anybody else." 
 
 " Well, Ned," said the old man, " what has it been ? I am 
 afraid it is your fiddle that keeps him from his Blackstone." 
 
 " 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 can not make you un 
 happy. What is it ?" 
 
 The more volatile and frcespoken cousin answered for him. 
 
 " lie 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, Kdward," 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 
 
THK MASTKU A XL) HIS I UTILS. 147 
 
 in his heart. I m sure it can and will bo plucked out, and 
 no death will follow." 
 
 " Well ! who s the maiden from whose eyes the arrow 
 was barbed ?" 
 
 " 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 com 
 pensate 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 Apulcius. 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 
 iirn ; and love that s all of one side is neither real nor 
 ational. I don t believe it." 
 
148 CHARLBMONT. 
 
 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. 1 
 think we shall do something something better than talk 
 ing about love, and law, where nobody s agreed. You, 
 grari pa, won t take the love ; Bill Hinkley can t stomach 
 the law, and the trout alone can bring about a reconcilia 
 tion. 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 pro 
 ceeded : 
 
 " 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 sensibil 
 ities ; 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-humored youth, gathering up his canes, led 
 the way to the hills, slowly followed by his two less elastic 
 companions. 
 
THE HISTORY OF A FAILURE. 149 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A FAILURE. 
 
 THE route, which conducted them over a range of gently- 
 ascending hills, through groves tolerably thick, an uncleared 
 woodland tract comprising every A T ariety 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 pen 
 sive waters. A thick fringe of shrubs, water-grasses, and 
 wild flowers, girdled its edges, and gave a dark and myste 
 rious expression to its face. There were many beaten 
 tracks, narrow paths for individual wayfarers on foot, which 
 conducted down to favorite 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, the silent fisher 
 man 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 
 
150 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 which was singularly beautiful, afforded by the whole sur 
 rounding expanse. The tarn, like the dark mysterious 
 dwelling of an Undine, was spread out before them with the 
 smoothness of glass, though un transparent, and shining be 
 neath 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 vari 
 ety which is seldom afforded by any scene very remarkable 
 for its stillness and seclusion. Opposite to the rock on 
 which Ned llinkley was already crouching, the hill-slope 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 op 
 posite 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 ram 
 bles, on cither 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 amphithe 
 atre, 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 the picture, reminds me of what your seeming neg 
 lect has made me lose. When I was a young man I would 
 have preferred to visit sucli 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 
 
THE HISTORY OF A FAILURE. 151 
 
 young, as if to freshen, vvitli 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 
 flic 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 dullness." 
 
 " 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 vio 
 lently, 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 outing 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 
 n discontent most generally a wholesome discontent 
 
152 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 sometimes a noble discontent leading to nobleness. It is 
 to be satisfied rather than nursed. You must 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 
 arc several reasons for this feebleness. The energies which 
 have not yet been tasked, do not know well how to begin. 
 You have been a favored 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 anything." 
 
 " Even so : suppose that to be the case, my son ; still it 
 docs not alter the truth of what I say. You can not ima 
 gine that your parents prefer this stranger to yourself, un 
 less you imagine them to have undergone a very sudden 
 change of character. They have always treated you ten 
 derly 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 be 
 cause 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 indig 
 nity ?" 
 
 "Softly, William, softly! There is something at the 
 bottom of this which I do not sec, and which perhaps you 
 
THE HISTORY OF A FAILURE. 153 
 
 do not sec. 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 anything ?" 
 
 " I infer from your tone, my son, rather than your words, 
 that you have some dislike to this stranger. 
 
 " 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 re 
 quires our gratitude though it may not receive our adop 
 tion." 
 
 " 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. Merely living, days and weeks and 
 months, constitutes no right to wisdom - it is the crowding 
 events and experience the indefatigable industry the 
 living actively and well that supply us with the materials 
 for knowing arid 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 coun 
 sel and guardianship ; and this brings me back to what I 
 said before. Your parents have treated you too tenderly. 
 
 7* 
 
154 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 They have done everything 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 excla 
 mation 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 can not think it. What ! lack courage ?" 
 
 " Exactly so !" 
 
 " Why, sir did I not see you myself, when everybody 
 else looked on with trembling and with terror, throw your 
 self 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 labor under no deficiency. 
 But this sort of courage is of the meanest kind. It is the 
 courage of impulse, not of steadfastness. Hear me, Wil 
 liam. 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 re 
 sources, such as I am supposed to possess, should be con 
 tent, retiring from the great city, to set up his Habitation in 
 this remote and obscure region. My chosen profession 
 wits- 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. 1 was ambi 
 tious 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 fever 
 
TIIK HISTORY OF A FAILURE. 155 
 
 ish blood, troubled mo 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 en 
 deavored to procure a knowledge of universal law its 
 sources its true objects its just principles its legiti 
 mate dicta. Mere authorities never satisfied me, unless, 
 passing behind the black gowns, I could follow up the rea 
 soning 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 pros 
 perous society. Everything 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 othei 
 weapon has begun. Nor 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, lias a compass 
 which your unexercised lungs, though quite as good origi 
 nally 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 con 
 tinued, 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 
 
156 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 or rapid, soft or strong, harsh or musical, by the most sud 
 den, yet unnoticeable transitions. I practised all the arts, 
 which are recommended by elocutionists for this purpose, 
 I rumbled my eloquence standing on the seashore, 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 
 tli an these, and this was language. My labors to obtain 
 all the arts of utterance did not seem less successful. 1 
 could dilate with singular fluency, with classical propriety, 
 and great natural vigor of expression. I studied direct- 
 ness of expression by a frequent. intercourse with men of 
 business, and examined, witli the nicest urgency, the par 
 ticular 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 dis 
 course and philosophy, as Milton, Shakspere, 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 
 vigor, 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 armory as 
 well for defence as attack." 
 
 " 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, 
 1 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 mortifica 
 tion which memory continued to renew in utter despite of 
 time. The young man s hand rested affectionately on his 
 
THE HISTORY OF A FAILURL. 157 
 
 shoulder. A few moments sufficed to enable the former to 
 renew his narrative. 
 
 " I was stunned but nut 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, 
 .T 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 cor 
 responding 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 be 
 grimed 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. Cal- 
 vcrt, " and I have not said to you, until to-day, how grate 
 ful your boyish sympathies have been to me from the first 
 day when you became my pupil. It is my knowledge of 
 
U>-S CHARLEMONT. 
 
 these sympathies, and a desire to reward tlism, 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 distinc 
 tion between courage of the blood and courage of the brain ; 
 between the mere recklessness of brute impulse, and the 
 steady valor of the soul that valor, which, though it 
 trembles, marches forward to the attack recovers from its 
 fainting, to retrieve its defeat ; and glows with self-indig 
 nation 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, oper 
 ated to make me renew my efforts. I need not go through 
 the processes by which I endeavored to acquire the neces 
 sary degree of hardihood. In vain did I recall the fact 
 that my competitors were notoriously persons far inferior 
 to me in knowledge of the topics; far inferior in the capa 
 city to analyze them ; rude and coarse in expression ; un 
 familiar with the language mere dclvcrs and diggers in a 
 science in which I secretly felt that I should be a master. 
 In vain did I recall to mind the fact that I knew the com 
 munity 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. 
 Jt was my own standards of judgment that distressed and 
 made mo tremble. It was what I expected of myself 
 what I thought should be expected of me that made my 
 
THE HISTORY OF A FAILURE. 159 
 
 weak soul recoil in terror from the conviction that I must 
 fail in its endeavor to reach the point which my ambitious 
 Boul 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 
 utterly and for ever ! I never again attempted the fearful 
 trial. I gave up the contest, yielded the field to my infe 
 riors, better-nerved, though inferior, and, with all my learn 
 ing, 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 suc 
 ceeded in others. You have lost none of the knowledge 
 which you then acquired. You possess all the gifts of elo 
 quence, 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 pos 
 sess 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." 
 
 u 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 de 
 sert me in my old age. Do not leave me utterly alone !" 
 
 " I will not, sir I never thought to do so." 
 
 u But," said the old man, u 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 heai 
 
100 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 of the Spartan boy, who never betrayed bis uneasiness or 
 agony though the fox was tearing out his bowels. Thero 
 is a sort of moral roughening which boys should be raade 
 to endure from the beginning, if the hope is ever enter 
 tained, 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 
 must not be your language. Do you understand me, Wil 
 liam ?" 
 
 " 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 of 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 al 
 lowed yourself to be seduced from its pages, by such attrac 
 tions 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 enter 
 tain this passion before you had learned the art of provi 
 ding 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 
 
THE HISTORY OF A FAILURE. 161 
 
 a permanent character. No such passion can promote hap 
 piness 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 forget Miss Cooper." 
 
 " Never ! never !" 
 
 " Well, well I go farther in my prophecy. Allow mo 
 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 thin k 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." 
 
 " Oli, sir, do not say so do not. I can not think so, 
 
 "You ivill not think so, I am certain. I am equally cer 
 tain from what I know of you both, that you are secure from 
 any such danger. It is not my object to pursue this refer 
 ence, but let me ask you, William, looking at things in the 
 most favorable light, has Margaret Cooper ever given you 
 any encouragement ?" 
 
 u I can not 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 
 can uot mistake the signs. She seeks other qualities than 
 
M>2 CHARLE&TONT. 
 
 such as you possess. She seeks meretricious qualities, and 
 yours are substantial. She seeks the pomps of mind, rathci 
 than its subdued performances. She sees not, and can not 
 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." 
 
 " 1 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 hope 
 less." 
 
 " But I am not l^peless, 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 
 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 stran 
 ger, though he carne 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. B lt 
 where now is your ambition, and what does it aim at ? J 
 
 The youth was silent. 
 
 " The idea of an ambitious youth, at twenty, giving up 
 
THE HISTOKY OF A FAILURE. 108 
 
 book and candle, leaving his studies, and abandoning him 
 self to despair, because his sweetheart won t be his sweet 
 heart 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 recom 
 mend 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 ?" 
 
 u Exactly so !" 
 
 " Really, sir, I do not understand you." 
 
 u Well, I will explain. Nothing short of rejection will 
 possibly cure you of this malady ; and it is of the last im 
 portance 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 noth 
 ing, and in which your beat days will be wasted. Black- 
 atone can only hope to be taken up when you have dono 
 with her." 
 
 * Stay, sir that is she below." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Margaret " 
 
 "Who is with her?" 
 
 "The stranger this man, Stevens." 
 
 "lla! your counsellor, that would be? Ah! William, 
 you did not tell me all." 
 
164 CHAKLKMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 THE checks of the youth glowed. He felt how much he 
 had suppressed in his conference with his venerable coun 
 sellor. Mr. Calvcrt did not press the topic, and the t\vo 
 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, evi 
 dently 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, 
 
TI1K ENTHUSIAST. 165 
 
 which had without doubt conducted the red warriors, a 
 thousand times before, to a spot of seclusion and refresh 
 ment 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 as 
 cent which, though gradual enough, was yet considerable, 
 and would have produced great weariness, 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 sinu 
 ous course of a serpent- 1 - was yet visible to Ned Hinkley, 
 on his lowlier perch, only at its starting-point, upon the 
 very margin of the lake, lie, 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 Ilinkley 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 intelli 
 gence was keen, quick, and penetrating. She discovered 
 at a glance, not his hypocrisy, but that his religious enthu 
 siasm 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 conjec 
 ture promised, made her forgetful of the disiugenuousness 
 of his conduct if her suspicions were true. But there were 
 
166 CHAULEMONT. 
 
 some other particulars which, in her mind, tended to dissi 
 pate the distance between them. She recognised the indi 
 vidual. She remembered the bold, dashing youth, who, a 
 few months before, had encountered her on the edge of the 
 tillage, 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 af 
 ternoon. 
 
 " Do you know this place, Mr. Stevens ?" she demanded 
 with an arch smile, sufficiently good-humored to convince 
 the adventurer that, if she had any suspicions, they were 
 not of a nature to endanger his hopes. 
 
 "Do 1 not!" he said, with an air of empressement which 
 caused her to look down. 
 
 6i 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 par 
 don me if 1 say it with the singular and striking differ 
 ence between the group of damsels 1 had seen and the one 
 the surprise was so great the pleasure so unlocked 
 for that " 
 
 The eye of Margaret Cooper brightened, her cheek 
 glowed, and her form rose somewhat proudly. The arch- 
 hvpocrite 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 es 
 cort." 
 
 " 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 color upon her cheeks was height 
 ened. 
 
 " Come," said she, making an effort, " there is nothing 
 acre to interest us." 
 
THE ENTHUSIAST. 167 
 
 " Except memory," he replied ; " I shall never forget the 
 spot." 
 
 She hurried forward, and he joined her. She had re 
 ceived 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 op 
 posite hills coining in from the east. It was late in the 
 day, the sun was almost setting, and his faintest but love 
 liest beams fell upon the cottages in the valley, and lay 
 witli a strange, quiet beauty among the grass-plats, 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 ab 
 rupt, the steeps not sufficiently great ; there are no chasms, 
 no waterfalls only purling brooks and quiet walks." 
 
 " I have felt this already," he replied ; u 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 wa 
 terfall." 
 
 " 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. 
 
K>5 CHARLESTON!. 
 
 " All !" said he, " Miss Cooper, there are some situations 
 in which we find it easy to reconcile all discrepancies." 
 
 If the language lacked cxplicitness, the look did not. 
 lie 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 sec 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 ardor 
 which we call ambition to settle down into the passive char 
 acter 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?" 
 
 " Would it not docs it not in most men ?" 
 
 " Perhaps ; but this depends upon the individual. Church 
 men 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 wo 
 men." 
 
 "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." 
 
THE ENTHUSIAST. 169 
 
 " Yes, but that was when there was one church only in 
 Christendom. It was a monopoly, and consequently a tyr 
 anny. Now there are a thousand, always in conflict, and serv 
 ing 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 Charle- 
 mont. 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 instantane 
 ous 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 transi 
 tions. 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, " 1 
 had no purpose to impute to you any other insensibility ex 
 cept to that of the holy truths of religion." 
 
 She looked up and smiled archly. There was another 
 transition from cloud to sunlight. 
 
 " What ! arc you so doubtful of your own ministry ?" 
 
 " In your case, I am." 
 
 8 
 
170 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 "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 mo 
 Begin do not hesitate I will listen." 
 
 " To move you I must not come in the garments of moth- 
 odisrn. That faith will never be yours." 
 
 " What faith shall it be ?" 
 
 " That of Catholicism. I must cornc armed with author 
 ity. 1 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 cere 
 monial ; 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 divincst 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 faitli that you teach. For I can not 
 but believe the faith that is endowed with the faculty of 
 poetic utterance." 
 
 " In truth it is a divine utterance perhaps the only di 
 vine 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 anything that I love half so well." 
 
 " Then you write it ?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 " No ! the gift lias 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, nor 
 did she appear to iioto the expression of face with which it 
 
THE ENTHUSIAST. 171 
 
 fas accompanied. Her feelings took the ascendency. She 
 spoke out her uncommissioned thoughts and fancies musing 
 ly, 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 per 
 forming nothing here, it is my only consolation. It recon 
 ciles me to this wretched spot. It makes endurance toler 
 able. 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 en 
 thusiasm poured from her lips. Her action was suited to 
 her utterance. Unaccustomed to restraint nay, accus 
 tomed 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 un 
 concealed admiration. The unsophisticated nature which 
 led her to express that enthusiasm which a state of conven 
 tional existence prompts us, through fear of ridicule, in 
 dustriously 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 appro 
 priate action, gave to her beauty, which was now in its first 
 bloom, all the glow which is derived from intellectual in 
 spiration. Her w r hole person spoke. All was vital, spirit 
 ual, expressive, animated ; and when the last word lingered 
 
I i 2 CHAIILEMONT. 
 
 on her lips, Stevens could scarcely repress tlic impulse 
 which prompted him to clasp her in his embrace. 
 
 " Margaret !" he exclaimed " Miss Cooper ! you are 
 yourself a poet !" 
 
 " No, no !" she murmured, rather than spoke ; " would 
 [ were ! a dreamer only a self-deluded dreamer." 
 
 "You can not deceive me!" he continued, "I see it in 
 your eyes, your action ; I hear it in your words. I can not 
 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, untrimincd, unhonored 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 uncon 
 sciously, 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 wor 
 shipped !" 
 
 " 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 wor 
 shipper, Margaret. There will come one, equally capable 
 to honor 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, 
 
THE ENTHUSIAST. 172 
 
 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 f 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." 
 
 "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 al 
 together what I seem." 
 
 An arch smile once more possessed her eyes. 
 
 " AJ: 1 r could guess that! But sit you here. Here is 
 a Mo ver-- a beautiful, small flower, with a dark blue eye. 
 See it how humbly it hides amid the grass. It is the 
 last (lower if 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. " 
 
 u 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." 
 
 lie 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 breath- 
 lessness of his attention his eye fastened with a g-azo of 
 
17 i CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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 look 
 ing down upon one of the loveliest lakes that ever slept in 
 the embrace of jealous hills. 
 
A CATASTROPHE. J75 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A CATASTROPHE. 
 
 " You disparage these scenes," said Stevens, after sev 
 eral moments had been given to tlie 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 un 
 grateful, 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 fingers, 
 catching his wrist unconsciously, at the same time, with tho 
 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. 
 lie will feed them, and they will grow strong, and will 
 
! 7 tf CI1AIILEMONT. 
 
 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 vigor ? 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, tribu 
 tary 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 arn I ? I mock myself too often 
 with this question to believe all your fine speeches. And 
 what may I become ? Alas ! who can 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 noth 
 ing I feel the pang of constant denial. I feel that 1 can 
 be nothing!" 
 
 " Say not so, Margaret think not so, 1 beseech you. 
 With your genius, your enthusiasm your powers of ex 
 pression there is nothing, becoming in your sex, and 
 worthy of it, which you may not be." 
 
 " You can not 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 witli 
 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 re 
 semble 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 
 
A CATASTROPHE. 177 
 
 lliut is, by asking who knows most of. the dairy, the cab 
 bage-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 lightest 
 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 noth 
 ing 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 pas 
 sion seems to be to make flowers grow in stars, and hearts, 
 and crescents. What has woman to expect where sucli 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 anything." 
 
 Her enthusiasm hurried her forward. In spite of him 
 self, Stevens was impressed. He ceased to think of his 
 evil purposes in the superior thoughts whicli her wild, un 
 regulated energy inspired. He scarcely wondered, indeed 
 if it were true that her neighbors 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 everything. You forget that your 
 lonely little village of Chaiiernont, 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 nut cities even in our country, where 
 
 8* 
 
178 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 geni is such as yours would be felt and worshipped, you are 
 mistaken." 
 
 " Do you believe there are sueh ?" she demanded incred 
 ulously. 
 
 " I know there are !" 
 
 " No ! no ! I know better. You can not deceive me. 
 It can not be so. I know the sort of genius which is pop 
 ular in those cities. It is the gentleman and lady genius. 
 Look at their verses for example. 1 can show you thou 
 sands 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 can not admit of origi 
 nality, 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 
 the things that your great cities demand. Such things 
 content them. Speak the fearless and always strange lan 
 guage 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 hero 
 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 
 
A CATASTROPHE, 179 
 
 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 
 anc! you will find these denounced and another set praised 
 and beplastered." 
 
 " Ah ! and what would be rny hope, my safety, in com 
 munities which tolerate these things ; in which the number 
 of just and sensible people is so small that they dare not 
 speak, or can not 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 edi 
 tor, 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 fires had left her eyes her wholo 
 frame trembled with the recoil of those feelings the relax 
 ation of those nerves the tension of which we have en- 
 cndcavored feebly to display. Her cheek was no longer 
 
180 . CHAULEMUNT. 
 
 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 waa* i 
 seem ? Ah ! I may not yet say more. But I am not with 
 out 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 upward to his glance with a stranger expres 
 sion of timidity than her features had before exhibited. 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 can not 
 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 hom 
 age 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 fool 
 ishly 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 deep 
 est flush of crimson. She withdrew her hand from his 
 grasp. 
 
A CATASTROPHE. 181 
 
 " 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 favorite spot. Here I ramble morning and eve, 
 and try to forget those vain imaginings and foolish stri 
 vings 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 par 
 ticular line which gives us the loveliest effect, shooting its 
 rays tli rough 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 op 
 positc 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 of Margaret Cooper particularly in the company 
 of an adroit man like Stevens, whose purpose was to en 
 courage 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 it 
 self, 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 Ste\ens 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 
 
182 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 shape of the delusion which possessed it. The wily liber 
 tine, 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 Mephistophelcs 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 elab 
 orate finish of detail, without giving heed to those writhings 
 which declared its agonies. It is not meant to be under 
 stood that Stevens found no pleasure himself in the display 
 of that wild, unschooled imagination which was the prevail 
 ing quality in the mind of Margaret Cooper, lie 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 ardor of Margaret Cooper, and the profound devo 
 tion which it was the policy of Stevens to display, necessa 
 rily 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 suf 
 ferance too severe ; alas, how frequently do we sec 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 Hinklcy as he 
 oeheld 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 
 *4ie maid when he saw her turn to her companion, and 
 
A CATASTROPHE. 183 
 
 moot his gazo 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. lie is studying for 
 the ministry, under Brother Cross." 
 
 " Brother Cross is a good man, and is scarcely likely to 
 have anything to do with any other than good men. I sup 
 pose he knows everything about the stranger ?" 
 
 William Hinkley narrated all that was known on the sub 
 ject 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 burn 
 ing. A modified account of the brandy-flask accompanied 
 the narrative. Whether it was that Mr. Calvert, who had 
 been a man of the world, saw something in the story itself, 
 and in the ludicrousncss 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 ot .inan- 
 r.er which, if not actually prescribed to persons occupying 
 i:is professional position, is certainly expected from them ; 
 and, by a thousand little acts of gallantry, he proved him 
 self much more at home as a courtier and a 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 sin 
 gularly unnecessary in the case of one to whom daily ram 
 bles, over hill and through forest, had iinparte^ a most uu 
 
J 34 CITARLEMONT. 
 
 fomr.be degree of vigor. Now he broke the branch away 
 from before her path ; and now, stooping suddenly, he gath 
 ered foi her the pale flower of autumn. 
 
 Thesu little acts of courtesy, so natural to the gentleman, 
 were an) thing but natural to one suddenly impressed with 
 the ascetbal temper of methodism. Highly becoming in 
 both instances, they were yet strangely at variance with the 
 straight-laced practices of the thoroughgoing Wesleyan, who 
 sometimes fancies that the condition of souls is so desper 
 ate as to leare no time for good manners. Mr. Calvert had 
 no fault to Lnd with Stevens s civility, but there was cer 
 tainly 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 utory of the brandy-flask, in which Calvert 
 saw much less of honor either to John Cross or his neo 
 phyte. 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 diligence of one to the manner born. Once 
 busy with his angle, and his world equally of thought and 
 observation became connaed to the stream before his eyes, 
 and the victim before his imagination. Scarcely scon by 
 his companions on the heights above, he had succeeded in 
 taking several very fine fish; and had his liberality I ceil 
 limited to the supper-table or his venerable friend Calvert, 
 he would long before have given himself respite, and tem 
 porary immunity to the rest of the finny tribe remaining in 
 the tarn. But Ned llinkley thought of all his neighbors, 
 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. 
 
A CATASTROPHE. 185 
 
 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 feel 
 ing of personal hostility. 
 
 The fish nioved 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 
 genius. lie 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 imagina 
 tion kindled how like an oracle must be the words of such 
 a trout, to his brethren, gathering in council in their deep- 
 o.Gwn hole or driven by a shower under the cypress log 
 or in any other situation in which an oracle would be aj 
 to say, looking around him with fierceness mingled wit 
 contempt, " Lot 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 pre 
 cisely as if the trout had spoken what was certainly whis 
 pered 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 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 com 
 panion. 
 
 Though his fancy had become excited, Ned Hinkley waa 
 
1S<J CHARLEMONT. 
 
 not impatient. With a cautious hand he conducted the fly 
 down the stream with the flickering, fidgety motion which 
 the real insect would have employed. The keen-nosed 
 trout turned with the movements of the fly, but philosophi 
 cally kept aloof. No\\ he might be seen to sink, now to 
 rise, now he glided close under the rock where the angler 
 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. 
 A^ith 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 Hinklcy 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 sports 
 man to expect his prey. The fins were laid aback. Th? 
 motion of the fish became steady ; a slight vibration of the 
 tail only was visible ; arid in another moment he darted, 
 and was hooked. 
 
 Then came the struggle. Ned Ilinkley 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 harbored 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 Ilinkley began to amuse himself in 
 tiring his victim. 
 
n CATASTROPHE. 187 
 
 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 spas 
 modic struggles an occasional 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 disap 
 peared 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 Marga 
 ret 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, lie 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 compan 
 ion following the edge of the lake until reaching the point 
 where the rocks seemed to form barriers to their further 
 progress, but which her agility and energy had long since 
 enabled her to overcome. 
 
 " A bold damsel !" said Calvert, as he viewed her prog 
 ress. " She certainly does not intend to clamber over 
 that range of precipices. She will peril her life." 
 
 " No !" said William Hinkley ; " she has 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." 
 
188 CIIARLEMONT. 
 
 " But her Companion ! If he s not a more active man 
 ihan 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 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 fr-et 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, how 
 ever, 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 com 
 panion. 
 
 If it was a task to try the best vigor and agility to say 
 nothing of courage of the ablest mountaineer, to ascend 
 the abrupt ledges from below, aiming at the highest point 
 
A CATASTROPHE. 189 
 
 of elevation c-he attempt was still more startling to follow 
 the lower livlgej, some of which hung, loosened and totter 
 ing, just above the deepest parts of the lake. Yet, with 
 that intrepidity <vhich marked her character, this was the 
 very task which Margaret Cooper had proposed to herself. 
 William Ilinkley had justly said that she did not seem to 
 know fear; and when Stevens with the natural sense of 
 caution which be Songs to one to whom such performances 
 are unusual, suggosted to her that such a pathway seemod 
 very dangerous - 
 
 " Dangerous !" jhe 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 Lnow nothing 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 ha\e nothing to do but to set the 
 foot down firmly." 
 
 But Stevens was not so Btv/e, and his opinion on the beau 
 ties of the dangerous did not ohime exactly with hers. Still, 
 he did not lack for courage, and his pride did not suffer 
 him to yield in a contest with d 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 trem 
 bling pinnacle of rock which sustained her, was as firm and 
 erect as if she stood on the securest spot of land. 
 
190 CIIARLEMONT. 
 
 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 hack 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 warn 
 ing from above ; and, at the sound, he perceived a change 
 in the expression of Margaret Cooper s face, from confi 
 dence 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 suc 
 cess. 
 
 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 readies of the rock 
 formation. The 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 witli diffi- 
 culty, but with success, and without seeming apprehension, 
 on the pinnacle of rock below him. In this way he was ap 
 proaching 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 : 10 reason to love the youth, but 
 
A CATASTROPHE. = 
 
 he could i ot help admiring and envying his equal boldness 
 and agility ; the muscular case with which lie 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, amid all his agility he might yet make a false stop, 
 and find an unexpected and rather cold bath in the lake be 
 low, 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 im 
 patience 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 appro r i<-h, 
 She stood on a heavy mass which jutted above the la,-*n, 
 and not six feet from the water. Her right foot was upon 
 the stone, sustaining the whole weight of her person. Tier 
 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 al 
 ready 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 the breath of the 
 stranger 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 witers 
 of the lake. 
 
 L 
 
CEARLKAIONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 SOUSING A GURNET. 
 
 THE disappearance of Margaret Cooper was succeeded 
 by a shriek from above a single shriek a cry of terror 
 arid 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 descend 
 ing into the lake as nearly as it was possible for him to 
 come, to the spot where she had sunk. Oar cooler fisher 
 man 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 ap 
 prehension, "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, lie followed the example of his- cousin, 
 though more quietly, plunging off from his lowlier perch, 
 and cleaving the water, headforemost, with as little com 
 motion as a sullen stone would make sent directly down 
 ward to the deep. By this time, however, our former com 
 panion, Stevens, had done the same thing. Stevens was 
 no coward, but he had no enthusiasm. He obeyed few im 
 pulses. His proceedings were all the result of calculation. 
 He could swim as well as his neighbors. He had no ap 
 
SOUSING A GURNET. 193 
 
 prehensions on that seore ; but he disliked eold 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 favorable 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, 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 inter 
 position 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 des 
 perate but unconscious struggles, while supporting her with 
 a degree of case 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 succor and aid which he afforded, that 
 devout young gentleman would have been made to discon 
 tinue his studies very suddenly and have furnished a sum 
 mary conclusion to this veracious narrative a consumma 
 tion 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 poo* 
 
104 CHAIILEMUNT. 
 
 mortal been compelled to drink, at one time, a greatei 
 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 anywhere. lie had been 
 too much in the habit of diluting it; and being very tem 
 perate 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 quan 
 tity which he now swallowed nearly strangled him. Ho 
 was about to take his last draught with many wry faces, 
 when the timely arms of the two cousins, by no very spar 
 ing application of force withdrew him from the grasp of 
 the damsel ; and without very well understanding the pro 
 cess, or any particulars of his extrication, he found himself 
 stretched upon the banks over which he had lately wander 
 ed, 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 Ilinklcy 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 succor much more than his fair com 
 panion. While William Hinkley busied himself by rolling, 
 friction, fanning, and other practices, 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. 
 
SOOSINC A <;UI!NKT. 195 
 
 Her face was toward him, as she lay upon lier 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 their 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 ap 
 peared to his doating eye the very perfection of human 
 loveliness. Her breast now heaved convulsively deep 
 Highs 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, reeling 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 V 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 eyes! 
 It was a dreadful feeling. How did I come here ? Who 
 saved me ?" 
 
 " Ned llinkley 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 llinkley at a little distance, busy with the still un 
 conscious 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 
 
196 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 M He is not dead he lives ?" 
 
 " I hope so. He breathes." 
 
 She waited for no more, but, starting to her feet, she 
 staggered 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 
 endeavoring 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 assu 
 rance of Mr. Gal vert that there was no more danger to be 
 apprehended, she continued to advance ; the worthy old 
 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 lief 
 
SOUSING A GURNET. 197 
 
 from much intimacy with the village sage, was insensibly 
 taken by his gentleness, the purity of his taste, the choice- 
 ness of his expression, the extent of his resources. She 
 wondered how a mind so full should have remained un 
 known to her so long committing the error, very common 
 to persons of strong will and determined self-esteem, of as 
 suming that she should, as a matter of inevitable necessity, 
 have known everything and everybody of which the knowl 
 edge 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 cum 
 brous thai}- cart and wagon on one of which she mounted, 
 refusing all support or assistance ; and when Mr. Calvcrt 
 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 
 ner ; 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 anything like talent. Better for such a 
 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 wortli having. And yet, why 
 should I speak of her, when the sting remains in iny 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 
 
198 CHARLEMOXT. 
 
 this good old man had so happily succeeded in rebuking, 
 we will return to the spot where we left our other parties. 
 Ned Ilinkley had already joined them. With his horse he 
 had providently brought a suit of his own clothes for the 
 stranger, which, though made of homespun, 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 giv 
 ing 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 ! Isn t it monstrous ?" 
 
 " It certainly seems like a neglect of the first duty of a 
 traveller," said Stevens good-humoredly ; " 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 anywhere else but in the 
 scene around him. 
 
 " lie saved you, and 1 saved the woman. -I wouldn t 
 
SOUSING A GURNET. 199 
 
 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 woman s 
 witli 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 ghosts ? How is it known that the 
 female docs 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 Bar 
 ney 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 rcckon s been 
 going ever since. She w r as 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 humor and unexpected manner of Ned Hinkley; 
 besides, having been served, if not saved, by his hands, 
 ^something, perhaps, o? attention was due to what he had 
 to say ; but he recollected the assumed character which he 
 had to maintain something doubtful, too, if lie had not 
 already impaired it in the sight and hearing of those who 
 had come so opportunely but so unexpectedly to his relief, 
 
200 CFIARLEMONT. 
 
 lie recovered his composure and dignity ; forbore to smilo 
 at the story which might otherwise have provoked not only 
 smile but corresponding answer; and, by the sudden cool 
 ness of his manner, tended to confirm in Ned Ilinkley 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 
 Ilinkley stood. 
 
 " I owe you thanks, Mr. Ilinkley," 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." 
 
 "I should have saved your dog s life, sir, in the same 
 situation. I have done but an act of duty." 
 
 "But, Mr. Ilinkley" 
 
 " Your horse is ready for you, sir," said the young man, 
 turning off abruptly, and darting up the sides of the hill, re 
 mote from the pathway, and burying himself in the contig 
 uous forests. 
 
 " Strange !" exclaimed the neophyte " this is very 
 strange !" 
 
 " Not so strange, stranger, as that I should stand join 
 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 re 
 plied, as lie 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 sec 
 the houses, and can follow your own nose or your nag s 
 Either s straight enough to carry you to his rack. YouT 
 find your clothes at your boarding-house about the time 
 that you ll get there." 
 
SOUSING A GURNET. 201 
 
 " 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 with 
 out 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- 
 driiik, 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 
 
 9 
 
202 CHAULFMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 PHILOSOPHY OF FIGHTING. 
 
 " YOU RE not a fighter, Bill Ilinklcy, and that s about the 
 worst fault that I can find against you." 
 
 Such was the beginning of a dialogue between the cous 
 ins 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 
 favorite 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 scraps of sound 
 which were necessarily elicited by this unavoidable musical 
 operation. TheSc sounds might be said to form a running 
 accompaniment for the dialogue, and, considering the som 
 bre 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 some 
 times 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 ycu 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!" 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF FltJtiTIXC. 203 
 
 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, u perhaps I might answer you. I never pretended 
 to be a fighter ; and as for loving it, as I love eating, drink 
 ing, books, fiddling, and dancing, why that needs no an 
 swer. Of course 1 do not, and I don t know who does." 
 
 " There it is. I told you. I knew it. You d sooner do 
 almost anything than fight." 
 
 " If you mean that I would submit to insult," said the 
 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 capa 
 city 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 sup 
 pose, Bill Hinkiey, that I mean to say you re anything 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. " 
 
204 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 " 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 de 
 sire to get on the shoulders of our neighbors 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 neighbor or 
 he ll be sure to lick us." 
 
 " Pshaw ! you speak like a boy yet. This is schoolliouse 
 philosophy." 
 
 "And very good philosophy too. I m thinking the 
 schoolhousc and the play-ground is pretty much a sort of 
 world to itself. It s no bad show of what the world with 
 out 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 wo 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 afterward 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 neighbor s sweetheart ; and sometimes, quite as 
 often, for the love of the thing and to know where the 
 sprit and the sinew are. Well, isn t that just what the 
 big world docs 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 sheer deviltry and the love cf 
 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, thai it is 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF FIGHTING. 205 
 
 so, just as you say, *that would not prove the practice tc 
 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 neces 
 sary 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 neighbor 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 lie sees that you are able and willing to write it in 
 black and Hue upon his sheepskin. And what better way 
 codld 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." 
 
 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 dis 
 cussion, 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 neigh 
 bor feel uncomfortable in thigh, and back, and arms, and 
 
20() CHARLEMONT. 
 
 face, arid skin, and indeed, every wheVe, where a big fist or 
 a cowhide shoe may plant a buflet 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 tiling to the boy that s under his charge? 
 lie 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 tiling 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 tri 
 umphantly " 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 tiling 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 improve 
 ment." 
 
 " What are you driving at, Ned Hinklcy ? This is by 
 far the longest argument, I think, that you ve ever under 
 taken. You must be moved by some very serious consid 
 erations." 
 
 " I am, and you ll see what I m driving at after a little 
 while. I m not fond of arguing, you know, but 1 look 
 upon the lighting principle as a matter to be known and 
 believed in, and 1 wish to make clear to you my reasons 
 tor believing in it myself. You don t suppose I d put down 
 the fiddle for a talk at any time if the subject was not a 
 serious one ?" 
 
 u Give way you have the line." 
 r " About the brutality of fighting then, there s another 
 
PHILOSOPHY OK Ki(iIlTIN<;. 207 
 
 tiling to be said. Fig:] i ting produces good feeling that is 
 Co say supposing one party fairly to have liekcd another. 1 
 
 " 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 
 n 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 
 heen 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 im 
 pudent; the stronger, having his power acknowledged, be 
 comes 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 humor; ami I conclude 
 that one half of the trouble in the world, the squabbles be 
 tween 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 humor for ever after, or at least until the 
 blood thickened again. I think there s reason in my no 
 tion. 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." 
 
JO 8 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 Your views are certainly novel, Ned, if not sound. 
 You will excuse me if I do not undertake to dispute them 
 this morning. I give in, therefore, and you may congrat 
 ulate yourself upon having gained a triumph if not a con 
 vert ?" 
 
 " 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, whj aot in argu- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Well, that s the object of most persons when they dis 
 pute, 1 know ; but it is not mine. I wish to make a prac 
 tical 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 differ 
 ence." 
 
 William Hinkley turned upon the speaker. The latter 
 had laid down the violin, having, in the course of the ar 
 gument, broken all its strings; and he stood now, unjack- 
 eted, 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 un 
 wonted 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 puch things, Bill Hinkley, 
 but I can t. There was a time when every mother s son 
 ID Kentucky was a man, and could stand up to his rack 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF FIGHTING. 209 
 
 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 neighbor lie 
 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, 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 gave 
 the word to crow. After that it was all peace and good 
 humor, 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 Ijke a man, and was down 
 ed 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 anybody ; and everything is full of hate and en 
 mity 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. v 
 
 "Really, Ned, it seems to me you re indignant without 
 any occasion. I am tempted to laugh at you agr.La," 
 
 " No, don t. You d better not." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! I can not 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 pa 
 cific. 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 sweet 
 heart between you and your own mother seems to look 
 down upon you speaks to you as if he was wiser, and 
 
% CIIAIM.I-:MONT. 
 
 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 
 oil 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 shoul 
 der!" and the tears gushed into the rough fellow s eyes 
 as he spoke these words, and lie turned off to conceal them. 
 
 " I don t mean to vex you, Ned, but why tell me that 1 
 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 staids 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 ever 
 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 griev 
 ance comes from Margaret Cooper, there s a way to end 
 that too." 
 
 " How ! you wouldn t have me fight her?" said William 
 Uinklcy, 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 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF FIGHTING. 211 
 
 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 l no! there s no more to be said, and 
 if I was you after that, I d let Stevens have her or the 
 d 1 himself, sinee I m of the .notion that no woman is 
 lit 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 stran 
 ger 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 becomo 
 a man who s got a man s heart, and the sinews of a man." 
 William Hinkley leaned against the fireplace with his 
 head resting upon his hand. The other approached him. 
 
 " 1 don t mean to say anything, 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 yon what I think right and reason 
 able, 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." 
 
 b 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 check he d turn you the other. He d never 
 strike you back." 
 
 " John Cro^s 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." 
 u 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 
 
212 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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 clouds this know ing not 
 what to be about this sulking -this sadding this growl 
 ing this grunting this muling this moping this eter 
 nal vinegar-face and ditchwater-spirit ?" 
 
 "I don t know, Ned, but I confess my weakness my 
 want of courage in this respect !" 
 
 " Psho ! the bark s worse always than the bite. The fear 
 worse than the danger ! Suspense is the very d 1 ! 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 utter id a more malignant 
 prayer !" 
 
TRAILING THE FOX. 21 3 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 TRAILING THE FOX. 
 
 THIS dialogue was broken by a summons to the breakfast- 
 table. We have already intimated that while the hateful 
 person of Stevens Avas 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 pre 
 pared 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 no sus 
 picion, and they shared none of his antipathies. Pie was 
 subject to the daily lecture from the old man, and the 
 nightly exhortation and expostulation of the old woman. 
 
2.14 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 Thu 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 \vas suffering she knew not 
 why as well as sinning; the other could only see an in 
 Solent, disobedient boy who was taking airs upon himscll, 
 flying ia 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 hein 
 ous. 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 bigoted 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 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 one-sidedness 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 lie strove as he went along to re 
 call the heads of topics, the points and principles oi what 
 
TRAILING THE FOX. 215 
 
 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 pres 
 ent, 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 appear 
 ance ; and the good old man, Calvert, whose attention had 
 been already drawn to the condition of distress and suffer 
 ing which he manifested, was now more than ever struck 
 with the seemingly sudden increase of this 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 his 
 torical romancer the stout Abbe Vertot. 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 patli which, ho 
 soon perceived, it was destined that the other should finally 
 take. He was not satisfied with the indecision of charac 
 ter which the youth displayed. But how could he blame 
 ;t harshly ? It was in this very respect that his own char 
 acter had failed, and though he felt that all his counsels 
 
216 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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, how 
 ever. He bade the young man bring out a chair, and tak 
 ing 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 further effect of clearing it 
 somewhat from the chaos of clouds which had been brood 
 ing 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 vigor 
 ous 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 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, lie 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 Hink- 
 ley noted this expression, and spoke, with a degree of mor 
 tification in look and accent, which he did not attempt 
 to hide : 
 
 " 1 am afraid, jir, 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 
 
TRAILING THE FOX. 217 
 
 as much from the beginning, sir. You only waste your 
 time on me." 
 
 "You speak too fast, William you let your blood min 
 gle 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 al 
 ready 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 labors, 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 arc thirty, you will be then a better 
 judge of beauty, a truer lover, a better 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 re 
 pent it scarcely one who does not look back with yearu- 
 ing 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. 
 
 10 
 
218 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 " I bolicvc you are right, sir nay, I know you are ; but 
 I can not be at once I can not 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 stud 
 ies after this week, whatever befalls, with the hearty reso 
 lution which you recommend. I will try to shut out the 
 sunshine and the song. I win endeavor to devote soul and 
 strength, and heart and mind, to the task before me. I 
 know that I can. master these studies I think I can" 
 he continued, more modestly, modifying the positive asser 
 tion " 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 thai, 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 de 
 part. 
 
 " But whither are you going now?" 
 
 The youth blushed as he replied frankly : 
 
 " To the widow Cooper s. I m going to see Mar 
 garet." 
 
 " Well, well !" said the old man, as the youth disap 
 peared, " if it must be done, the sooner it s over the bet- 
 tci. 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, yel 
 so artless? But it is useless to look beyond, and very 
 dismal." 
 
 And the speaker once more took up Vertot, and was soon 
 amid the glories of the knights of St. John. His stud 
 
TRAILING THE FOX. 210 
 
 ies were interrupted by the sudden and boisterous saluta 
 tion 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 1 
 for the hooks. By-the-way, talking of hooks, how did those 
 trout eat ? Fine, eh V 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! Everything s been going wrong. 
 Lines snapped, fiddle-strings cracked, hooks missing, gun 
 rusty, and Bill Ilinkley 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 lie was speaking, the lively youth squatted down, 
 and deliberately took his seat on the favorite volume which 
 Mr. Gal vert 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. 
 41 Take the chair. Books are sacred things to be wor 
 shipped 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 twas 
 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 
 everything like disrespect." 
 
220 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 " 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 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 II inkley purposely perverted his geography and his 
 tory. There was a spice of mischief in his composition, 
 and he grinned good-naturedly as he watched the increas 
 ing gravity upon the old man s face. 
 
 " Ccmc, 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 whore s Bill 1 1 inkley, gran pa ?" 
 
 " Gone to the widow Cooper s, to see Margaret." 
 
 u Ah ! well, I m glad he s made a beginning. But I d 
 much rather he d have seen the other first." 
 
 a 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. lie con- 
 f rived to throw the inquirer off. 
 
 lt 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 sec, 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." 
 
TRAILING THE FOX. 221 
 
 "Oh, no, but you told us why, 1 said the other. " You 
 gave us a reason for what you did." 
 
 " Lvd why may not the stranger give a reason too ?" 
 
 u He don t, though." 
 
 u Perhaps he will when you get intimate with him. I 
 3QQ nothing in this to be dissatisfied with. I had not 
 thought you so suspicious, Ned Hinldey so little chari 
 table." 
 
 " Charity begins at home, gran pa. But there s more 
 in this matter. This man comes here to study to be a par 
 son. How does he study ? Can you guess ?" 
 
 "I really can not." 
 
 " By dressing spruce as a buck curling his hair back 
 ward 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 anything 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 
 
222 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 lady herself whether either of them is to have a right at nil 
 in her concerns." 
 
 "-Well, that s a subject we needn t dispute about, chirps,, 
 when there s other tilings. Now, isn t it strange ib.vt this 
 stranger should ride off once a week with his valise or. 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 sec 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 ac 
 count, 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 lias any friends or relations any 
 where else." 
 
 Mr. Calvert listened with interest to these and other 
 particulars which his young companion had gathered re 
 specting 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 
 Ilinkley 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." 
 
TRAILING THE FOX. 223 
 
 With these reflections, which seemed to him to be no 
 less moral than social, the young man took his way back 
 to the village, laboring with all the incoherence of unac 
 customed 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 Gal vert 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. Ste 
 vens bowed to him and drew up for speech as he drew 
 nigh. At first Ned Hinklcy appeared disposed to avoid 
 him, but moved by a sudden notion, lie stopped and suf 
 fered himself to speak with something more of civility 
 than he had hitherto shown to the same suspected per 
 sonage. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 44 So it does, and I may say, a saucy man too. But 
 seeing you with your valise, I thought you were off for 
 good." 
 
 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. u 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." 
 
224 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE DOOM. 
 
 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 scru 
 ple, 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 lie 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 corning, and there 
 was a dash of bitterness in his tones as he expressed his 
 " gratification at finding a companion where he least ex 
 pected 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 tc 
 
THE DOOM. 225 
 
 keep, out tie truth is what you said about taking a stretch, 
 man and beast, seemed to me to be just about as wise a 
 thing for me and my beast also. We ve been lying by so 
 long that I was getting a little stiff in my joints, and Flip- 
 flap, iny 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 saw that 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 a 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 
 restiffness 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 him 
 self, the moment after they had separated. " Can he have 
 any suspicions ? Ha ! I must be watchful ! At all events, 
 thers s no going forward to-day. I must put it off for next 
 V7eek ; and meanwhile have all my eyes about me. Tho 
 fellow seems to have as much cunning as simplicity. He 
 
 10* 
 
CHARLEMONT. 
 
 is disposed too, to be insolent I marked his manner at the 
 lake, as \vcll as that of his bull-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 suspicionless. Never 
 did creature so happily delude herself. Yet what a judg 
 ment in some things ! What keen discrimination ! What 
 a wild, governless imagination ! She would be a prize, 
 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 pre 
 scribing 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 ex 
 citing moment ; and when Mrs. Singalongohnay was squeak 
 ing out her eternal requiems her new versions of the 
 Psalms and Scriptures her blank verse elegiacs 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 Follies and Dollies, the Patties and Jennies, 
 the Cory dons and Jemmy Jesamies, all round were throw 
 ing up hands and eyes in a sort of rapture, how she would 
 look, with what equal surprise and contempt, doubting her 
 own ears, and sickening at the stuff and the strange syco 
 phancy which induced it. And should good old Singalon 
 gohnay, 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 con 
 cussion would follow. How the simperers would sheer off; 
 
THE DOOM. 227 
 
 the tea that night might as well be made of aqua-fortis. 
 JTa ! 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 delu 
 sion 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 further musings we 
 need not pursue at present. It is enough to say that they 
 wore 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 postoffice at Ellisland, he carefully locked 
 them up in his 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 meri 
 torious 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 lie 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 a final answer. A purpose from which 
 the old man did not seek to dissuade him, though he read 
 ily conceived its fruitlessness. It was with no composed 
 spirit that the young rustic felt himself approaching the 
 house of Mrs, Cooper. More than <m<H ho hesitated ;m<? 
 
228 CHARLKMONT. 
 
 even halted. But a feeling of shame, and the efforts ot 
 returning manliness re-resolved him, and he hurried with 
 an unwonted rapidity of movement toward the dwelling, as 
 if he distrusted his own power, unless he did so, to conclude 
 the labor 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 Hint 
 the fates could scarcely be adverse in a region which had 
 always been so friendly. Often had lie 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 un 
 conscious of its maturer desires, was more gentle, and could 
 rejoice in that companionship for which she now betrayed 
 so little desire. The sheltered paths and well-known trees, 
 even the little clumps of shrubbery that filled up the inter 
 vals, were too pleasant and familiar to his eye not to seem 
 favorable to his progress, and with a hope that had no foun 
 dation, save in the waim and descriptive colors 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 drowsy 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 wan 
 dering. At the foot of a long slope, to which his eye waa 
 
THE DOOM. 229 
 
 conducted by a natural and lovely vista, the youth beheld 
 the object of his search, sitting, motionless, with her back 
 toward him. The reach of light was bounded by her fig 
 ure, 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 cars, 
 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 sympa 
 thy, 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 mid 
 dle 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 can not 
 be too much admired. Your mother is hearty and 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 sor 
 rows of another kind ; sorrows of the soul ; the conscious 
 ness of denial; of strife --strife to bo continued strife 
 
230 CHAIILKMONT. 
 
 without victory baffled hopes defeated aims and ener 
 gies. 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 arc no doubt a very good 
 young man so everybody 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 con 
 viction." 
 
 " Yes, I can, and do understand it r 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 colored by that scorn 
 ful estimate which the maiden had long since made of the 
 young man s abilities. In this respect she had done injus 
 tice to his mind, which had been kept in subjection and de 
 prived of its ordinary strength and courage, by the enfee 
 bling fondness of his lieart. 
 
 u Yes, Margaret," he continued, " I can and do under 
 stand 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 of this sort are not to be count 
 ed as sorrows, or confounded with them. I had a conver 
 sation on this very subject only a few days ago, with old 
 Mr. Calvert, and this was his very opinion." 
 
 The frankness with which William Ilinklev declared the 
 
THE DOOM. 231 
 
 source of his opinions, though creditable to his sincerity, 
 was scarcely politic it served to confirm Margaret Coop 
 er in the humble estimate which she had formed of the 
 speaker 
 
 "Mr Calvert," said she, "is a very sensible old man, 
 but neither he 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, 1 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 can not know how 
 dear you are to my eyes, how necessary to my happiness ! 
 Do riot 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 im 
 plore 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. Remem 
 ber before you speak, tliat 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." 
 
 " Aye, but only of creatures like itself." 
 
 "Margaret!" exclaimed the lover starting to his feet. 
 
232 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 " 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 3011 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 which I 
 dare not receive for fear of encouraging you, and in spite 
 of all this, which everybody 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, per 
 haps, 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 feel 
 ings 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 Char- 
 lemon t 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 can not 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 al 
 most 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 
 
THE DOOM. 238 
 
 When she had finisned, 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 became suddenly flushed. 
 
 " Do you suppose," she said, " that I found pleasure in 
 giving you pain ? No ! William Hinkley, I arn 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 famili 
 arity could have availed, you would never have heard from 
 my lips a solitary word which could have brought you mor 
 tification. You would have seen my feelings in my conduct, 
 and would have spared your own that pain, which I reli 
 giously 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 pur 
 pose, in this plain mode of speech, be such as you have de 
 clared 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 with 
 out its effect. 
 
 " I assure you, William Hinkley, that such alone was 
 my motive for what else would seem a most wanton harsh 
 ness. I would not be harsh to you or to anybody ; and 
 
234 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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 can not 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 can not 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 under 
 stand it, Margaret. Indeed, Mr. Calvcrt 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 1 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 in 
 stant 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 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 T. shall speak unreservedly. You have re 
 fused the prayer of one heart, Margaret, which, if unworthy 
 
THE DOOM. 
 
 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 anybody know of him ? Whence docs 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 1 did not, William Hinkley, these base insinua 
 tions 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. 1 should 
 be sorry to receive it from such a source. Failing in yo ir 
 own attempt, you would seek to fill my mind with calum 
 nious impressions in order to prejudice the prospects of an 
 other. For shame ! for shame, William Hinkley. I hai 
 not thought this of you. But go ! go ! go, at once, lest I 
 learn to loathe as well as despise you. I thought you sim 
 ple and foolish, but honorable and generous. I was mis 
 taken even : n 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 LIS- 
 
236 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 trils were dilated, her eyes flashing fire, her lips slightly 
 protruded and parted, her hand waving him off. The 
 young man gazed upon her witli wild looks equally expres 
 sive 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 hid 
 den from the sight. Then, when his eye could no longer 
 follow her form, the agony of his soul burst forth in a sin 
 gle groan, and staggering, he fell forward upon the sward, 
 hopeless, reckless, in a wretched condition of self-abandon* 
 ment and despair. 
 
BLOWS A CRISIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 i 
 
 BLOWS A CRISIS. 
 
 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 everything ? 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 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 tho 
 wilderness bringing discontent and suffering in his tiam 
 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 trav 
 ersing: the solemn recesses of that wood, he meditated the 
 various moues oy wnicn me reuress ox wrung, and slight. 
 
238 CHARLEMOiV. 
 
 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 
 Jlinkley, though meek and conscientious, had riot passed 
 through his youth, in the beautiful but wild border country 
 in which he lived, without having been informed, and some 
 what influenced, by those characteristic ideas of the modes 
 and manner in which personal wrongs were to be re 
 dressed. 
 
 Perhaps, had his cousin said nothing to him on this sul> 
 ject, his feelings would have had very much the same ten 
 dency 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 
 e.irs any dread of the issue. Of the issue he never 
 thought But it disturbed the long and peaceful order of 
 [ As life. It conflicted with the subdued tastes of the stu 
 dent. It was at war with that gentle calm of atmosphere, 
 Vnich letters diffuse around the bower of the muse. 
 
 In the conflict of his thoughts and feelings, the judgment 
 cf the youth was impaired. Ke 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 
 
BLOWS A CRISIS. 289 
 
 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. Tho reader has seen enough, however, to un 
 derstand that, in religious matters at least in the forma 
 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 
 eold,Avhile the impatience of his hearers grew warm, before 
 he finished. But through respect to the profession, lie 
 waived his own peculiar privilege in behalf of Brother 
 Slovens ; 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 oil his hat. Perhaps 
 had his father been engaged in his office, William 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. lie 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 arid very un 
 usual 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 endeavor of Brother Stevens to 
 bestow good counsel upon the youth, he had been repulsed 
 with as little respect as ceremony. There was one thing 
 ^bit ifce stern old man had not seen, and could not sec ; 
 
10 CHARLEA10NT. 
 
 and that was the altered appearance of the lad. As lie 
 knew of no reason why he should be unhappy, so lie failed 
 to perceive in his appearance any of the signs of unhappi- 
 ness. 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 
 he who has attained authority by flinging off the fetters i,l 
 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." 
 
 " Ila ! 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 
 
BLOWS A CRISIS. 241 
 
 father, his words being spoken very slowly, through hi3 
 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 be 
 trayed 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 suf 
 fering wrong. He half started from his chair, again re 
 sumed 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 can not. * 
 
 " 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 defi 
 ance he knows my scorn and hate, and he shall feel them !" 
 
 " William, my son, how v 
 
 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 apprehen 
 sions 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 
 
 11 
 
242 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 to say nothing. Here 1 will remain. I will not fly. It 
 will bo 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. llinkley, only regretting that 
 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, 1 will 
 withdraw myself " 
 
 " You shall not !" exclaimed old llinkley, who re-entered 
 the room at this moment, and had heard the last 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 ma 
 ternal apprehensions of his wife, who knew his severe and 
 determined disposition, were now awakened to such a de 
 gree as to overcome the feeling of deference, if not fear, 
 with which the authority of her liege lord had always in 
 spired her. 
 
 " Mr. llinkley, 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. lie 
 
 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, a 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. J did 
 
~A CRISIS. 24" 
 
 lot mean, and do not mean, to offend you. Let that con 
 tent 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 an 
 guish 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 pun 
 ishment 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 
 thnr_ the degree of violence necessary to effect his object, 
 he tore the weapon from the uplifted hand. 
 
 "I can not strike you!" he exclaimed, addressing the 
 old man. "That blow has lost you your son for ever! 
 The shame and the dishonor shall rest on other shoulders 
 They arc 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 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 Iliukley then flung 
 the whip from the window, and moved toward the door. 
 In passing Stevens, he muttered a few words : 
 
 " Ef 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 Jris 
 mother; and making no other answer but a glance more 
 fall of sorrow than anger to the furious flood of denuncia 
 tion which the old man continued to pour forth, he pro 
 ceeded slowly from the apartment and the dwelling. 
 
24-t CHARLEMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 CHALLENGE. 
 
 THE whole scene passed in very few minutes. No timo 
 was given for reflection, and each of the parties obeyed his 
 natural or habitual impulses. Old Ilinkley, 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 toward Stevens, and re 
 garded 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 unappeasa 
 ble. 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, endeavoring to maintain the pacific and 
 forgiving character which his profession required, uttered 
 some commonplace pleading in the youth s behalf, he si 
 lenced 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 IJeaven would be for suffi 
 cient strength to rise up and complete the punishment which 
 he had then begun." 
 
CHALLENGE. 245 
 
 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 sub 
 ject, as well with reference to past habits as to future re 
 sponsibilities. 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 at 
 tempt so impious a fraud), he was beginning to be some 
 what 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 social death. 
 
 These considerations were felt in their fullest force. In 
 deed, their force can not well be conceived by the citizen 
 of any community where the sense of individual responsi- 
 ^ bility 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 on fighting with Iliiikley, 
 but, smarting under the strokes of the cowskin heavily 
 laid on as they had been his resolution was equally firm 
 
246 CHAIILEMONT. 
 
 that, in the conflict, they should not separate until blood 
 was drawn. Of course, there were 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, of the encounter. 
 
 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 lie 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 ques 
 tion 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 favorite at every house in the village except 
 that of Margaret Cooper, and, as he sometimes used bit 
 terly 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 un 
 dergone. 
 
 " 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 sweet 
 heart. I m afraid Cousin William s got some other sweet 
 heart. He don t love Susan." 
 
CHALLENGE. 247 
 
 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 
 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, rny dearest little sweetheart 
 Susan." 
 
 And he kissed the child fondly while he spoke, and pat 
 ted 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 sweet 
 heart, 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 
 
248 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 I always run, and come back soon, and never play by the 
 way ?" 
 
 "You re a dear Susan," said lie; "and I want you tc 
 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 anybody 
 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 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 Ilinkley 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 dis 
 missed 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 pur 
 poses 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 Ilinkley 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- 
 piotols, and had probably seen service in the Revolution. 
 
CHALLENGE. 249 
 
 The stocks were rickety, the barrels thin, the boro 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 grand 
 father, and their value for use was perhaps rather height 
 ened 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 or 
 der. He was not a practised hand, but an American for 
 ester 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 quarrel such as can justify his 
 anger, and the rest seems easy, and gives him little annoy 
 ance. This was now the case with our rustic. He never, 
 for a moment, thought of practising. He had shot repeat 
 edly, and knew what he could do. His simple object was 
 to bring his enemy to the field, and to meet him there. Ac 
 cordingly, 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 in 
 difference 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 
 Ilinkley 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 prao- 
 
2f>0 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 tiscd actor, " there is some hope, I am glad to tell you, Mr, 
 1 1 inkley, of his coming to his senses. He declares his wish 
 to atone, and invites me to see him. I have no doubt that 
 lie 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 ho 
 was about retiring to his chamber, " till I can write an an 
 swer." 
 
 The billet of II inkley 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." 
 
 " Short and sharp !" exclaimed Stevens as he read tho 
 billet. " Who would have thought that the young man 
 had so much blood in him ! Well, we will not balk your 
 desire, Master Hinkley. We will meet you, in verity, 
 though it may compel me to throw 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 pro 
 voking 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 tho scaled paper into the hands of 
 
CHALLENGE. > 
 
 the child, " carry that to Mr. Hinkloy, and tell him I will 
 come and speak with him as he begs me. But the note will 
 toll him." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " So " 
 
 Mrs. Hinkley entered the room at this moment. Her 
 husband had apprized her of the communication which her 
 son had made, and the disposition to atonement and repent 
 ance 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 favor 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 endeavor 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 in spite of all his faults, follies, and imperfec 
 tions, 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 hand could William Hinkley have seen that^ 
 Uow it would have rankled, how he would have writhed ! 
 
252 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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 prac 
 tised any virtues, but simply because of certain professions 
 which he had made, and in which she had perfect faith be 
 cause of the professions, and not because of any previous 
 knowledge which she had of the professor. Truly, it be 
 hooves 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 Chris 
 tian spirit we can not 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. 
 
FOOT TO FOOT. 268 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 FOOT TO FOOT. 
 
 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 
 Mercuries 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 conceal 
 ing them in the folds of his coat, hurried from the house 
 with the anxious haste of one who is going to seek his 
 prey. lie felt somewhat like that broad-winged 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 favorite fish. Bat 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 hostil 
 ity 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 
 
"254 CHAIILEMONT. 
 
 m such a case as his, seemed to him very much like in 
 stincts. It seemed to him, if lie once reasoned on the mat 
 ter, 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 com 
 ing 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 nat 
 ural 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 sub 
 ject 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 both ; and the vengeance 
 which it was in his power to inflict upon the fortunate inter 
 loper 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 ; de 
 scended, 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 
 
FOOT TO FOOT. 255 
 
 look of one newly made a man by the form of indomitable 
 will, and feeling, for the first time, man s terrible commis 
 sion 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 for 
 gotten 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 sub 
 mitting 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 re 
 coiled 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 his 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 leaden mass the 
 three-ounce bullet issuing from its stronghold, like a re 
 lentless baron of the middle ages, going forth under his 
 grim archway, seeking only whom he may devour. The 
 
25 G CHABLEMONT. 
 
 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 be 
 tween 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-revolu 
 tionary 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 per 
 ilous 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 appreheifd 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 praise 
 worthy 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 sup 
 pose that the young rustic whom he goes to meet can pro 
 duce anything 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. 
 
FOOT TO FOOT. 257 
 
 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 
 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 riot 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 ex 
 pression of dislike had taken the form of threats, vague 
 and purposeless, seemingly, at the time ; but whicli now, 
 taken in connection 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 miiid in 
 stantly 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 mako 
 
2f>8 CHAULEMONT. 
 
 matters worse. Run, Susan run over to Gran pa Calvert, 
 and tell liim to conic 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 
 fr> et 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 ad 
 dressed to be already in possession of the principal facts. 
 While she took one route the mother pursued another, and 
 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 re 
 ceived. 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. Cal 
 vert had formed some plausible conjectures of what was oy 
 
FOOT TO FOOT. 259 
 
 foot, and by the time that the formidable procession had 
 reached his neighborhood lie 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 widow, as young and 
 handsome widows are very much in the habit of doing, had 
 seen William Hinkley going by toward the hill, with a very 
 rapid stride and a countenance very much agitated ; and an 
 hour afterward she had seen Brother Stevens following on 
 the same route good young man! with the most heav 
 enly 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. Calvcrt. You 
 have spoiled this boy of mine ; turning his head with law 
 studies ; and making him disobedient giving him counsel 
 find encouragement against his father and filling his mind 
 with evil things. It is all your doing, and your books. 
 And now he s turned out a bloody murderer, a papist mur 
 derer, 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." 
 
 u l)id 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 V" 
 
 " Yes ; it was a grievous provocation, indeed, to have to 
 wait for grace before meat." 
 
 u Was that all ? can it be possible 1" 
 
260 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 The mother of the offender supplied the hiatus in the 
 story and Calvcrt 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 
 witli it, naturally enough, against a son, who, until this 
 instance, had never risen in defiance against either. Ex 
 postulation 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 vio 
 lence, whether that contemplated the murderous assassi 
 nation which the father declared, or the less heinous pro 
 ceeding 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 lie 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 securi 
 ties which it afforded, he had of course, no means for con 
 jecturing ; but his confidence in William induced him to 
 believe that some such impression upon his mind had led 
 him to the measure of sending a challenge, which, other 
 wise, addressed to a theologian, would have been a shame 
 less 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 peccant and wrathy, and ex 
 ercised the vernacular of the rest to very liberal extent, vre 
 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 favor of the good young man, Stevens. Mrs. Thackeray, 
 
FOOT TO FOOT. 261 
 
 the widow, to whom Stevens had paid two visits or more 
 since he had been in the village, and who had her own rca- 
 Eons for doubting that Margaret Cooper had really obtained 
 any advantages in the general struggle to find favor 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 ex 
 tinguishing 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 ap 
 proached 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, 
 naving ascended the tallest perch among the hills, beheld 
 his enemy approaching at a natural pace and at a short dis 
 tance. 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 lan 
 guage, 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 mere manliness a mat 
 ter 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 Hink 
 
262 CHAKLEMONT. 
 
 Icy wore the very appearance of that nobleness, pride, case, 
 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 
 lli under would have rejoiced in his deportment, and though 
 it 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 Ilinkley 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 balk 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 posi 
 tion, and he was cool enough to make a concession to cir 
 cumstances. 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 pro 
 fession 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, witli a smile of bitter and scornful 
 sarcasm. 
 
FOOT TO FOOT. 263 
 
 " If you mean to convey the idea that I do not feel the 
 shame of the blo\\ , 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 Hinklej, 
 uttered in very startling accents. 
 
 " To tell you that I have not always been a non-o.ombat- 
 ant, 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, 
 : ntcrrupting 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 interrupt 
 ing 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 J 
 must gratify you !" 
 
 " If you please, sir." 
 
 " But, before doing so, I should like to know in what 
 
204 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 way I have provoked such a feeling of hostility in your 
 mind ? I have riot sought to do so. I have on the contrary, 
 striven to show you my friendship, in part requital of tho 
 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 
 mother that I sought you and strove to confer with you on 
 the cause of your evident unhappincss." 
 
 " 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 ! " 
 
 u 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 dis 
 like and distrust for you from the first moment that 1 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 ne 
 cessary that I should again lay my whip over your shoul- 
 dcrL." 
 
 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 un 
 equivocal a character language which so truly denounced, 
 
FOOT TO FOOT. 26 
 
 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 arc 
 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 oi" 
 one so superior ; but the case requires it. You will pleaso 
 to follow. I will show you my back no longer than it seeing 
 necessary." 
 
 "Lead on, sir lead on." 
 
 12 
 
266 CTlAttLEMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 UNEXPECTED ISSUES. 
 
 WILLIAM HINKLEY ascended the narrow path leading to 
 me hills with an alacrity of heart which somewhat sur 
 mised 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 lie 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 heed 
 less of the storm. It deadens his car 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 prince 
 ly 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 exceed 
 ing gain. We will not say that William Hinkley was alto 
 gether satisfied with his bargain, but in the moment when 
 he stood confronting his enemy on the bald rock, with a 
 
UNRXPKCTKO I.-WUK3. 267 
 
 deadly weapon in cacli 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 felt, it was only to induce that keener feeling of re 
 venge in which even the affections arc apt to be swal 
 lowed up. 
 
 Stevens looked in the eye of the young man and saw that 
 lie 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 pur 
 pose. You can sound them and take your choice." 
 
 " These," said Hinkley, doggedly, " are as well suitod 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. 
 
 u What matters it, Mr. Stevens ? If you are satislied 
 that yours arc 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 Ilinkley,, 
 moving toward a fragment of the rock upon which he had 
 placed his u 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. 
 
208 CIIARLEMONT. 
 
 " If 1 do, 1 kill you," said the other. 
 
 " I have no fear, Mr. Stevens," answered William Hink 
 ley 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, u 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 toward 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 ; 
 while liis opponent, standing with his back to the uncov 
 ered rocks ranged with no other objects of any prominence. 
 Had lie even been sufficiently practised in the arts of the 
 duello, lie would most probably have been utterly regard 
 less 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 him 
 self an outcast as well from home as from love, and it mat 
 tered 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 unin 
 spired, a gloomy exile in the bitter world. He waited, it 
 may be said, with some impatience for the fire of his an 
 tagonist. Once he saw the pistol of Stevens uplifted. He 
 h;id 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 sur 
 prised to see him drop the muzzle of his weapon, and with 
 Borne celerity and no small degree of slight of hand, thrust 
 th.j two pistols under 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. lie did not wish to look round as he preferred 
 keeping his eye on his antagonist. 
 
UNEXPECTED ISSUES. 269 
 
 u Shoot !" he exclaimed " quickly, before we a^e inter 
 rupted." 
 
 Before he could receive any answer there was a rush be 
 hind him he heard his father s voice, sudden, and ir> 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 re 
 ceived a blow upon his head, the only thing of which he 
 was conscious for some time. He staggered and fell for 
 ward. He felt himself stunned, fancied 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 
 Hinklcy 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 
 effects of the first. Grasping the coat skirts of her spouse, 
 she pulled him back with no scrupulous hand, and. effectu 
 ally baffled his designs by bringing him down, though in an 
 opposite direction, to the same level with the youth. Old 
 IJinkley did not bite the dust, but the latter part of his 
 skull most effectually butted it ; and had not his head been 
 ;uitc as tough as his crab-stick, the hurt might have been 
 quite as severe as that which the latter had inflicted on the 
 son. 
 
 The latter lay as perfectly quiet as if all had been over 
 wiih 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 
 
270 
 
 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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 anger with which she visit 
 ed the offence and the offender. 
 
 44 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 
 shaVt own you for a father. If I had the pick, I d choose 
 a thousand fathers for him, from here to Massassippi, soon 
 er 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. 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 ol 
 consciousness. She threw herself in a screaming agony 
 upon his body, and gave herself up to the unmeasured de 
 spair, 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 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 labor chiefly to Mr. Calvert, who, with quite 
 as much suffering as any of the rest, had more considera 
 tion, and was now busied in the endeavor to stanch the 
 blood and cleanse the wound of the victim. 
 
UNEXPECTED ISSUES. 271 
 
 ; - He s only got what lie deserved," exclaimed the sullen, 
 stubborn father. 
 
 " Do not speak so, Mr. Ilinkley," replied Calvcrt, 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 lie lias," continued Calvert, "you are a mur 
 derer 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 miser 
 able, 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 rne, 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 Ilinkley, which has slept for years. Do not pro 
 voke it too far. Beware in season. You have acted the 
 brute and the coward to your son you could do so with 
 impunity to him to me you can not." 
 
 There was something in this speech, from one whom old 
 Uinkley was accustomed to look upon as a dreaming book- 
 
272 CUARLEMOXT. 
 
 worm, which goaded the tyrannical father into irrepressible 
 fury ; and, grinding his teeth, without a moment s hesita 
 tion 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 con 
 ceive his intention, he had leaped 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 con 
 founded all the bystanders, and the subject of his sudden 
 exercise of manhood no less than the rest. 
 
 " Were you treated justly," said Calvcrt, regarding him 
 with a look of the loftiest indignation, " you should your 
 self 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, 
 Did Hinkley regarding him with looks in which it was 
 difficult to say whether mortification or fury had prcpon- 
 ierance. 
 
 " 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, 
 BO 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 pur 
 pose, and not to murder him." 
 
UNEXPECTED ISSUES. 273 
 
 " No, no ! do you not see that Brother Stevens has nc 
 pistols? Did we not see him trying to escape- -walking 
 off walking almost over the rocks to get out of the way ? 
 
 Calvcrt 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. Tins 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 uncndangered. 
 The sight of that lake, from which lie 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 Ilinkley ; " he sent him a begging note, 
 promising atonement and repentance." 
 
 " Will you let me see that note ?" said Calvert, addres 
 sing Stevens. 
 
 " I have it not I destroyed it," said Stevens with some 
 haste. Calvcrt said no more, but he looked plainly enough 
 his suspicions. He now gave his attention to William 
 Ilinkley, whose mother, while this scene was in progress, 
 had been occupied, as Calvcrt had begun, in stanching the 
 blood, and trimming with her scissors, which were fortu 
 nately 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. Ilinkley, hurrying to 
 a pine-tree, had gathered enough of its resin, which, spread 
 
 12* 
 
274 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 upon a fragment of her cotton apron, and applied to tho 
 hi rt, proved a very fair substitute for adhesive plaster. 
 The you ll rose to his feet, still retaining the pistols in his 
 gi-asp. His looks were heavy from the stupor which still 
 continued, but kindled into instant intelligence when he 
 caught sight of Stevens and his father. 
 
 a Go home, sir !" said the latter, waving his hand in the 
 prescribed direction. 
 
 "Never!" was the reply of the young man, firmly ex 
 pressed ; " never, sir, if I never have a home !" 
 
 " You shall always have a home. William, while I have 
 one," said Mr. Calvcrt. 
 
 " 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 vindictiveriess and brutality. He is, however, 
 of full age, and can determine for himself." 
 
 " lie is not of age, arid will not be till July." 
 
 " It matters not. lie is more near the years of discre 
 tion than his father; and, judging him to be in some danger 
 in your house, as a man and as a magistrate 1 oiler him the 
 protection of mine. Come home with me, William." 
 
 " Let him go, if ho pleases go to the d 1 ! lie who 
 honors not his father, says the Scriptures what says the 
 passage, Brother Stevens does it not say that he who 
 honors 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 1 will always love you." 
 
UNEXPECTED ISSUES. 27 A 
 
 "And I love you, mother and love him too, though he 
 treats inc as an outcast I will always love you, but I will 
 never more enter my father s dwelling. lie has degraded 
 ino with his whip he has attempted my life with his blud 
 geon. 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 emi 
 nence. 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 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!" mut 
 tered the young man, as if he thought the half-stifled re 
 sponse could reach the ears of the complaining woman. 
 
 " No home ! no hope !" he continued " I am desolate." 
 
 u Not so, my son. God is our home ; God is our com 
 panion ; our strength, our preserver ! Living and loving, 
 manfully striving and working out our toils for deliverance, 
 we are neither homeless, nor hopeless ; neither strength- 
 less, nor fatherless ; wanting neither in substance nor com 
 panion. 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 pay, but I feel very, very miserable." 
 
27t ; CHAKLEMONT, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 EXILE. 
 
 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 ex 
 amples of patience and protracted reward, to bear up man 
 fully against injustice, and not to despond because his 
 rewards are slow. It would be very easy for an author to 
 make everybody 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 characters would fail in vraisem- 
 blance, 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 
 are necessarily free from the diseases tc which they minis 
 ter. Some, though not many, are entirely incurable ; many 
 labor 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 favorites with 
 fortune. 
 
EXILE. 277 
 
 We are speaking of the moral world, good reader. We 
 simply borrow an illustration from the physical. Our in 
 terest in one another is very much derived from our knowl 
 edge of each other s infirmities; and it may be remarked, 
 passingly, that this interest is productive of very excellent 
 philosophical temper, since it enables us to bear the worst 
 misfortunes of our best friends with the most amazing forti 
 tude. . 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 wrong-doer. 
 
 This is a very commendable state of feeling, and when 
 ever 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 the desires of such gentle readers, 
 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 honorable discharge or otherwise. 
 
 Were it with him, our young friend, William Hinkley, 
 who is really a clever fellow, should not only be received to 
 favor with all parties, but such should never have fallen from 
 favor in the minds of any. His father should become soon 
 repentant, and having convicted Stevens of his falsehood 
 and hypocrisy, he should bo rewarded with the hand of the 
 
278 CHAHLEMOMT. 
 
 woinaa to whom his young heart is so devoted. Such, per 
 haps, would be the universal wish with our readers; but 
 would this be fortunate for William Hinkley ? Our vener 
 able friend and his, Mr. Calvert, has a very different 
 opinion. He says : 
 
 " This young man is not only a worthy young man, bui 
 he is one, naturally of very vigorous intellect. He is uf 
 earnest, impassioned temperament, full of enthusiasm an ; 
 imagination ; fitted for work great work public work 
 head work the noblest kind of work. He will be a gru- 
 lawyer perhaps a great statesman if he addresses him 
 self 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 present 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 rnind 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 
 
EXILE. 279 
 
 young lover come to such a con lusion ? Not, certainly, 
 while he was young. But when was young lover wise? 
 Though a discontent, William Hinkley was not, however, 
 soured nor despairing from the denial of his hopes. He 
 had resources of thought and spirit never tested before, of 
 the possession of which he, himself, 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 provoca 
 tion of his strength. 
 
 His resolution grew rapidly in consequence of his disap 
 pointments. 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. Bat to pursue 
 his studies as well as his practice, he was to leave Charle- 
 mont. 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 think 
 ing 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 arid tem 
 perate as yourself, you will not need 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 
 
280 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 spare. It is long since I had resolved that all I have 
 should be yours ; and I had laid aside small sums from 
 lime to time, intending them for an occasion like the pres 
 ent, which I felt sure would at length arrive. I am re 
 joiced that my foresight should have begun in time, since 
 it enables me to meet the necessity promptly, and to inter 
 pose myself -at the moment when you most need counsel 
 and assistance." 
 
 kt 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 tho 
 hot tears fell from his eyes upon them, while he fervently 
 bent to kiss them. 
 
 " Your father is a good but rough man, William, who 
 will come to his senses in good time. Men of his educa 
 tion governed as he is by the mistake which so commonly 
 confounds God vvitli his self-constituted representative, reli 
 gion with its professor will err, and can not be reasoned 
 out of their errors. It is the unceasing operation of time 
 which can alone teacli 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 lie pleases. As for 
 what 1 have done, and am disposed to do for you, let that 
 not become burdensome to your gratitude. In some re 
 spects 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 cf the 
 philosopher who pursues a favorite experiment. In educa 
 ting 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 defi- 
 
EXILF- 281 
 
 cicncy 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 of you. You will rise to eminence in your pro 
 fession. I know, my son, that you will do me honor." 
 
 " 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, 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 ideal 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 endeavor 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 work 
 
282 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 ing to be strong, can not 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 favor to ask, sir, which 
 will make me almost happy if you grant it which will at 
 east reconcile me to receive your favors, 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 / 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 dis 
 grace it nay, more, it will strengthen me in my desire 
 to do it and myself honor. 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 fa 
 ther." 
 
 " Alas ! ho 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 
 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 entreat 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. lie was doeply touched : his lips quivered ; 
 
EXILE. 283 
 
 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 can hot 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 
 mo 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 tender 
 ness, were exchanged between the parties. But the scene 
 and the struggle were drawing nigh their close. This was 
 the day when they were to separate. It had been arranged 
 that William Ilirikley, or as he now calls himself, William 
 Calvert, was to go into the world. The old man had re 
 called 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 stu 
 dent in a profession whose honors 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 pater 
 nal trusts which had been just so solemnly surrendered to 
 himself. There were long and earnest appeals written to 
 many noble associates men who had won great names by 
 dint of honorable struggle in those fields into which the 
 feebler temper of Mr. Calvert did not permit him to pene 
 trate. Some of these letters bore for their superscriptions 
 
284 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 such names as the Clays, the Crittendens, and the Metcalfs 
 the strong men, not merely of Kentucky, but of the Un 
 ion. The good old man sighed as he read them over, sepa 
 rately, to his young companion. 
 
 " Once I stood with them, and like them not the mean 
 est among diem nay, beloved by them as an associate, 
 ana 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 mis 
 erable vanity, which, claiming too much for itself, can be 
 stow nothing upon others. Strive only to meet the exi 
 gency, and you will do more "you will pass beyond it. 
 Ask not what your fame requires the poor fame of a soli 
 tary 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 labor to do that. This is the sim 
 ple, small secret, but be sure it is the one whicl is of more 
 importance than all beside." 
 
 The departure of William Hinkley from his native vil 
 lage was kept a profound secret from all persons except his 
 adopted father and ftis 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 remem- 
 oer, 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 plau 
 sible conjectures as to the route which Alfred Stevens was 
 in the habit of pursuing, on those excursions, in which thr 
 
EXILE. 286 
 
 neighbors were disposed to think that there was something 
 very mysterious. He certainly had jumped to the con 
 clusion that, on such occasions, the journey of Stevens 
 was prolonged to Ellisland ; and, as such a ride was too 
 long for one of mere pleasure and exercise, the next con 
 clusion 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 
 anything 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 jus 
 tified by the authority of that apostle ; and the whole pro 
 ceeding, therefore, appeared to be a mystery in which gos- 
 pelling had very little to do. Very naturally, having ar 
 rived 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 
 further conviction, which was equally natural and far more 
 easily arrived at, that he was now bound by religion, as lie 
 had previously been impelled by instinct, to give Stevens 
 u 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 re 
 turned to Charlemont with a countenance big with impor 
 tance 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 cow skinned Stevens would have been much more grat 
 ifying to him could he have been present ; and he was al 
 most disposed to join with the rest in their outcry against 
 this sacrilegious proceeding, for the simple reason, that it 
 
286 CHARL3MONT. 
 
 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 
 witli 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. Everybody said that John Cross served 
 him right, and nobody blamed either. But they would have 
 done so if pistols had been used. You can t expect par 
 sons 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 
 ocon 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 man 
 aged. 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 Ilmklcy muttered something about the more im 
 pressive 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 
 
KXILK. 287 
 
 the effect of putting an end to all further 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 con 
 viction 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 was well 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 prepa 
 rations for departure were complete. He loitered in the 
 neighborhood, showed himself frequently to his enemy, and, 
 OB some of these occasions, was subjected to the mortifica 
 tion of beholding the latter on his way to the house of Mar 
 garet Cooper, with whom, a few moments after, he might 
 bo seen in lonely rambles by the lake-side and in the wood. 
 William had conquered his hopes from this quarter, but he 
 vainly endeavored 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 dread 
 ed 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 de 
 sign he meditated. But, as it was, it simply satisfied her 
 iffections ; and the fond " good night" with which he ad- 
 
288 
 
 CHAIILEMONT. 
 
 dressed 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 can not prevent me now, and will only make our part 
 ing more painful." 
 
 " Oh, don t fear me," said the widow " I shan t speak 
 of it, till it s known to everybody, 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 en 
 thusiasm ; " I am so well pleased to believe what you prom 
 ise 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 ii: 
 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 
 
289 
 
 heavily upon his heart. He had left Chaiiemont for ever. 
 He had left it under circumstances of doubt, and despon 
 dency 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 benig 
 nant Providence is still his guide. 
 
 THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
CHATTER XXV. 
 
 CONQUEST. 
 
 THE progress of events and our story necessarily brings 
 us hack to Charlemont. We shall lose sight of William 
 Ilinkloy, henceforth Calvert, for some time; and here, par 
 parenlhese, let us say to our readers, that this story being 
 drawn from veritable life, will lack some of that compact 
 ness and close fitness of parts which make our novels toe 
 much resemble the course of a common law case. Instead 
 of having our characters always at hand, at the proper mo 
 ment, to do the business of the artist, like so many puppets, 
 eacli working on a convenient wire, and waiting to be whis 
 tled in upon the scene, we shall find them sometimes ab 
 sent, as we do in real life when their presence is most 
 seriously desired, and when the reader would perhaps pre 
 fer 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 forth 
 coming, 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 of ordinary 
 magicians, and we, who endeavor 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 lie 
 
CONQUEST. 2 
 
 should watcli his progress ; pursue his sinuosities of course ; 
 trace him out in all his ill-favored purposes, and be ready, 
 at the first act having, like the falcon, by frequent and 
 constantly- ascending gyrations, reached the point of com 
 mand to pounce down upon the fated quarry, and end 
 the story and the strife together. But ours is a social nar 
 rative, where people come and go without much regard to 
 the unities, and without asking leave of the manager. Wil 
 liam Hinkley, too, is a mere man and no hero. Pie has no 
 time to spare, and he is conscious that he has already wast 
 ed 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 fu 
 ture, 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 thci 
 first fancies of his boyhood, are, in the end, perhaps, not a 
 jot kinder to others whom they now rather seem to favor. 
 If is 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 scnsa 
 tions in that of his father. Mr. Calvert, too, had his touch 
 of hypochondria in consequence of his increased loneliness . 
 and Ned llinkley s lighting monomania underwent startling 
 increase ; but, with the rest, the wheel went on without 
 much sensible difference. The truth is, that, however mor 
 tifying 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 vice?. 
 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 UP 
 til the halberdiers clinch their rivets forcibly. 
 
292 CHAULKMONT. 
 
 It docs 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 use 
 less or unemployed. The Deity is no more profligate in the 
 matter of souls than he 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 char 
 acter of their trusts in future. lie w r ho has shown himself 
 worthy of confidence in one state, will probably acquire a 
 corresponding increase of responsibility in another. lie 
 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 fc^t that there is a trust, implies duty and perform 
 ance ; 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 
 tnem. Such a man as Alfred Stevens abuses them. Such 
 a woman as Margaret Cooper fails in them. What then ? 
 
CONQUEST. 293 
 
 Do \ve destroy the slave who fails in his duty, or chasten 
 him, and give him inferior trusts? Do you suppcse 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 1 ave gone astray ? Hardly so ! He 
 is too good an economist for that. We learn this from all 
 the analogies. As a soul can not perish, so it never remains 
 unemployed. It still works, though its labors may be con 
 fined 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, in 
 deed, 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 succeed 
 ing 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 a fair intellect like that of Al 
 fred Stevens, or a wild, irregular genius, like that of Mar 
 garet Cooper because of its erring, either through per 
 versity or blindness, is 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 labors arc 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 transi 
 tion is the true meaning of life and death nothing more 
 
294 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 than a sign of progress. It may be an upward or a down 
 ward progress, but it is not a toilsome march to a mere 
 sleep. Lavish as is the bounty of God, and boundless asr 
 are his resources, there is nothing of him that we do know 
 which can justify the idea of such utter profligacy of ma 
 terial. 
 
 We transgress. Our business is with the present doings 
 of our dramatis personas and not witli the future employ 
 ment 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 or 
 dinary 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 something grand 
 beyond all things else, in the conception of this eternal 
 progress of the individual nature ; its passage from condi 
 tion to condition ; sphere to sphere ; life to life ; always 
 busy, working for the mighty Master ; falling 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 sov 
 ereign World-Planter. The torture of souls on the one 
 hand, and the singing of psalms on the other, may be doc 
 trines infinitely more orthodox ; but, to our mind, they 
 seem immeasurably inferior in grandeur, 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 regain 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 
 
CONQUEST. 295 
 
 overthrown by the merest breath of storm that sweeps sud 
 denly beneath its skies. The very hopelessness of Marga 
 ret Cooper s ambition, which led her to misanthropy, was 
 the source of an ever-fertile and upspringing confidence. 
 Thus it was that the favoring opinions which Alfred Stevena 
 expressed a favoring 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 im- 
 agination had formed should certainly be realized, gave hini 
 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 attrac 
 tion ; 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 move 
 ments of human passion which she had really never felt, she 
 naturally regarded Alfred Stevens as one of the noble rep 
 resentatives of that imaginary empire which her genius con 
 tinually brought before her eyes. She saw in him the em 
 bodiment 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 fullness. 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 purpose s of him who 
 had thus beguiled her over the long- frequented paths. As 
 
296 CIlARLEMONT. 
 
 the great secret of success with the mere worldling, is to 
 pry into the secret of his neighbor while carefully conceal 
 ing 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, there 
 fore, 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 honorable, is 
 a question which we need not discuss on this occasion. 
 
 Alfred Stevens had now been for some weeks in the vil 
 lage 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 pro 
 fession which were necessary to maintain appearances. 
 Whether he loved Margaret Cooper or not, lie soon found 
 a pleasure in her society which he sought for in no other 
 quarter of the village. The days, in spite of the strife with 
 William Ilinkley, flew by with equal pleasantness and ra 
 pidity to both. The unsophisticated mind of Margaret 
 Cooper left her sensible to few restraints upon their ordi 
 nary intercourse ; and, indeed, if she did know or regard 
 Jiem for an instant, it was only to consider them as neces 
 sary restraints for the protection of the ignorant and feeble 
 of her sex a class in which she never once thought to in 
 clude herself. Her attachment to Alfred Stevens, though 
 it first arose from the pleasure which her mind derived from 
 its intercourse witli his, and not from any of those nice and 
 
CONQUEST. 29? 
 
 curious sympathies of temperament and taste which are sup 
 posed 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 sym 
 pathy the only moral response which her heart longed to 
 hear. -For the first time had she encountered a mind which 
 could do justice to, and correspond on anything like equal 
 terms with, her own. How could she think that evil would 
 ensue from an acquisition which yielded her the only com 
 munion 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 noble 
 ness of his. But, in truth, she never thought upon the sub 
 ject. 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 colors of the rainbow live, 
 And play i the plighted clouds" 
 
 she had come to speak only in the one language, and of 
 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, 
 13* 
 
498 CIIAULEMOXT. 
 
 will readily con-.prchcnd the beguiling influence of tho 
 dreaming and enthusiastic nature of sonic dear spirit, in 
 whose faith it has full confidence, and whose tastes arc kin 
 dred 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 tho 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 seaside, 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 re 
 member together, and repeat, the happy verse of inspired 
 poets, speaking of the scene, and to the awakened heart 
 which fools it; and, more, to pour forth one s own inspira 
 tions 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, arc substantial though not enduring 
 joys to the young and ardent nature. 
 
 In this communion, with all her pride, strength, and con 
 fidencc, 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 art 
 less freedom of the child who has some golden fancy of the 
 future, which it seeks to have confirmed by the lips of ex 
 perience. 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 ! v the arch-hypocrite would exclaim, as if un 
 
CONQUEST. 299 
 
 conscious of utterance; "beautiful!" and his hand would 
 possess itself of the trembling fingers of hers. " But beau 
 tiful as it is, Margaret, I am sure that it 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, T 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." 
 
 "All ! 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 ,thc smallest -notion of this kind: I neither knew 
 what poetry was, nor felt the desire to be a poet. Yet 1 
 yearned with strange feelings, 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 1 ? 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 sympa 
 thy with them or their cares. I go apart I am here on 
 the hills, or deep in the forests sad, lonely, scarcely 
 knowing what 1 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 percep 
 tion 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 com 
 munion, 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 good 
 
CHARLEMONT. 
 
 time is corning. Ah ! Margaret, believe me when I tell 
 you that time is at hand. Such a genius as yours, such 
 a spirit, can not always be buried in these woods." 
 
 It was in such artful language as this that the arch-hypo 
 crite flattered and beguiled her. They were wandering 
 along the edge of the streamlet to which we have more 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 har 
 monized 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 indi 
 cated. The first feeling which the young heart has of its 
 dependence 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 emo 
 tion 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 admira 
 tion, 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 can not understand, Margaret, how you have studied 
 how. you have learned so much your books are few 
 you have had no masters. I never met in my life with so 
 remarkable an instance of unassisted endeavor." 
 
COXQUtiST. 801 
 
 "My books were hero in the woods among these old 
 rocks. My teacher was solitude. All ! there is no teacher 
 like one s own heart. My instinct made me feel my defi 
 ciencies 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 
 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. 1 
 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. 
 
302 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 " A blessed chance brought me to your village. I saw 
 you and returned. T chose a disguise in which I might 
 study you, and sec how far the treasures of your mind con 
 firmed the noble promise of your face. They have done 
 more. Like him who finds the precious ore among the 
 mountains, I can not 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 
 \vill 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. I am no treas 
 ure alas! this is all deception. You can not can not 
 desire it?" 
 
 " Do I not ! Ah ! Margaret, what else do I desire now ? 
 Do you think me only what I appear in Charlcmont?" 
 
 "No! no!" 
 
 " T have the power of a name, Margaret, in my profes 
 sion among a numerous people and that power is grow 
 ing into wealth and sway. I am feared and honored, 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 beat 
 ing 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, 
 
COXQUKST. 3" 3 
 
 and wanting in claims, which, as yours must be finally, arc 
 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 Ste 
 vens, 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 con 
 summation. 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 iri your mind in your hope. One sometimes 
 goes through life without ever meeting the human counter 
 part 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 wil 
 ling to requite my own." 
 
 She was actually sobbing on his breast. With an effort 
 she struggled into utterance. 
 
 " 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 grow big with its own capacity to teach. We will in 
 form each other, overy hour, of some new impulses and 
 
304 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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 cars, 
 then shall you discover how much richer will be the strain 
 from your lips once informed by the gushing fullness 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 appe 
 tite could only be sated in its exhaustion. She struggled 
 and freed herself from his embrace : but, returning homo 
 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 manner ! 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 inde 
 pendent 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 burn 
 ing 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 and trem 
 bled 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 ouraelf so precious to him 
 
CONQUEST. 805 
 
 also. To be carried into our chamber to be set up osten 
 tatiously 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 trader in religion, he can preach deftly 
 the good doctrines which he can not feel and is slow to 
 practise. 
 
CHARLEMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 FALL. 
 
 WR should speak un profitably and with little prospect ot 
 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. 
 Whore this passion is associated with a warm, enthusiastic 
 genius, owning the poetic temperament, the anxiety is pro 
 portionally greater. The ideal of the mind is a sort of 
 classical image of perfect loveliness, chaste, sweet, com 
 manding, but, how cold ! But love gives life to this image, 
 even as the warm rays of the sun foiling upon the sullen 
 lips of the Memnon, compel 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, moody, and capricious god ; pent-up, 
 denied, crying evermore for utterance, with a breath more 
 painful to endure, because of the suppression. This con 
 sciousness, with the feeling of denial which attended it, had 
 
FALL. 307 
 
 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 whieh were never to 
 oe exercised that with a song such as might startle an 
 empire, she was yet doomed to a silent and senseless audi 
 tory 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 sen 
 sations occasioned in her bosom, was not diminished by a 
 renewal of those tender interviews with her lover, which 
 we have endeavored, though so faultily, already to describe. 
 Evening after evening found them together; the wily hypo 
 crite still stimulating, by his glozing artifices, the ruling 
 passion for fame, which, in her bosom, was only tempora 
 rily subservient to love, while he drank his precious reward 
 from her warm, lovely, and still-blushing lips and checks. 
 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 un 
 known 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 linds 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, devo 
 tion, all that his full heart has to pay of homage and affec 
 tion. 
 
 Such was very much the relation which Margaret Cooper 
 
308 CHARLEMONT 
 
 bore to Alfred Stevens ; and when, by his professions of 
 love, he left the shows of his admiration no longer doubt 
 ful, she was at once and entirely his. She was no longer 
 the self-willed, imperious 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 shGfelt 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 checks 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 by the arch-magi 
 cian, Love. Heretofore, her song had disdained the ordi 
 nary topics of the youthful ballad-monger. She had uttered 
 her apostrophes to the eagle, soaring through the black, 
 "billowy masses of the corning 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 humil 
 ity which are taught by love, had subdued a spirit which, 
 hitherto, had never known control. 
 
 Alfred Stevens soon perceived how complete was his vie- 
 
FALL. 309 
 
 tory. 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 lake-side, 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. lie was now the 
 speaker ; and regarding him through the favoring media of 
 kindled affections, it seemed to her ear, that there was no 
 eloquence so sweet as his. lie spoke briefly of the natural 
 beauties by which they were surrounded. 
 
 " Trees, rocks, the valley and the hill, all realms of soli 
 tude and shade, inspire enthusiasm and ardor in the imagi 
 native 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 vastncss, 
 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 in 
 fluenced by the petty play of society, which diffuses their 
 power and breaks their lights into little, become concen 
 trated on the noble and tbe grand. Serious earnestness of 
 nature becomes habitual the heart flings itself into all the 
 subjects of its interest it trifles with none all its labors 
 become sacred in its eyes, and the latest object of study 
 and analysis is that which is always most important. The 
 effect of this training in youth on the poetic mind, is to the 
 last degree beneficial ; since, without a degree of serious 
 ness amounting to intensity without a hearty faith in the 
 importance of what is to be done without a passionate 
 fullness 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 
 
810 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 has already been the effect. You shrink from the ordinary 
 enjoyments of society. Their bald chat distresses you, as 
 the chatter of sa, many jays. You prefer the solitude which 
 feeds the serious mood which you love, and enables your 
 imagination, unrepressed by the presence of shallow wit 
 lings, to evoke its agents from storm and shadow from 
 deep forest and lonesome lake to minister to the craving 
 of an excited heart, and a soaring and ambitious fancy. 1 
 
 " Oh, how truly, Alfred, do you speak it," she munnure<; 
 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 woods 
 and among the rocks, so that a hearty simplicity, an ear 
 nest 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 ad. 
 vancc. 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 thou 
 sand various aspects far other 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 neigh 
 borhood 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 sec certain 
 shapes, which are employed in raising hay, turnips, and 
 potatoes ; which eat and drink very much as man does ; 
 but wnich, as they suffer to sleep and rest most of those 
 
PALL. 311 
 
 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 won 
 derful 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 sec 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 dcspondingly "you daunt me 
 when you speak of these crowds crowds of the intellec 
 tual and the wise. What should I be how would I ap 
 pear 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 f/his homage ?" 
 
 Her murmurs were unheard. They strolled on still 
 deeper into the mazes of the forest, and the broad disk of 
 
812 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 / 
 
 the moon, suddenly gleaming, yellow, through the tops of 
 the trees, s irprised 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 the -e in the small 
 openings of the forest, and lying upon the greensward 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 per 
 suade to confidence as it inspires love. Do you not feel 
 your heart soften in the moonlight, Margaret? your eye 
 glistens, dearest and your heart, 1 know, must be touched. 
 It is I feel its beating ! What a tumult, dear Margar6t, 
 is here !" 
 
 " Do not, do not !" she murmured, gently striving to dis 
 engage herself from his grasp. 
 
 " No ! no ! move not, dearest," he replied in a sub 
 dued tone a murmur most like hers. " Are we not hap 
 py ? Is there anything, 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, Mar 
 garet my triumphs ! I freely yield them to the past ! I 
 care for them no more ! They are no longer joys or tri- 
 
PALL. 313 
 
 umphs ! Yes, Margaret you have changed my heart with- 
 in me. Even fame which I so much worshipped is for 
 gotten." 
 
 " 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 honor of popular favor the voice of a 
 people s approbation the shining display and the golden 
 honor 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 
 honors, 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 ia 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 de 
 liver 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 clamors of the 
 populace." 
 
 u Let us return home -it is late." 
 
 * Not so ! and why should we go ? What is sleep to 
 us out 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 mo 
 if you love as I do, you can not leave me not now 
 
 14 
 
814 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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 ! Mar 
 garet 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, unbid 
 den 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 them 
 selves the rivulet ran along, still prattling through the 
 groves ; the breeze, which had been a soft murmur among 
 (be trees at the first rising of the moon, now blew a shril) 
 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 wciv* 
 about to depart, that poor Margaret discovered that the 
 uioon lad all the while been looking down upon them. 
 
THE RTTni/ OF IrfE AGONY. 31 - r 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE BIRTH OF THE AGONY. 
 
 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 
 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, of 
 Charlemont, but, though Stevens was sufficiently consider 
 ate 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 at 
 tractions of Stevens underwent no little disparagement as 
 soon as this fact was known. It was now universally un 
 derstood that he was no such great things, after all ; and 
 our fair friend the widow Thackeray, who was not without 
 her pretensions to wit and beauty, was bold enough to say 
 :hat 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- 
 idte excellence, had the audacity to say that he squinted! 
 
CHARLEMONT- 
 
 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 unfavorable 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 insen 
 sible 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 lan 
 guage equally of a proud intellect, and a spirit whose sen 
 sibilities had neither been touched by love nor enfeebled by 
 anxiety and apprehension. A sad change had come over 
 her heart and all her features in the progress of a few days. 
 Tier 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 
 ooldly likened herself. Her look was downcast, her voice 
 subdued ; she wr.s new not less timid than the feeblest dam 
 scl of the village in that doubtful period of life when, pas 
 sing from childhood to girlhood, the virgin falters, as it 
 were, with bashful thoughts, upon the threshold of a new 
 and perilous condition. The intercourse of Margaret Coop 
 er 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 OLO 
 of the damsels, " I d die sooner than show it to him, as she 
 
THE BIRTH OF THE AGONY. 317 
 
 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 lan 
 guage that said everything. 
 
 " 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 much cir 
 culation to Betty s inuendoes as the importance of the affair 
 deserved. 
 
 Scandal travels along the highways, seen by all but tho 
 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 poison 
 ous breath which was already busy with her virgin fame. 
 She had no doubts, whatever might be the event, that Ue 
 
318 CIIARLEMOXT. 
 
 heart of Alfred Stevens could leave her without that all 
 mcnt which, in these blissful moments, seemed to be her 
 very breath of life. But she felt many fears, many misgiv 
 ings, she knew not why. A doubt, a cloud of anxiety, hung 
 brooding on the atmosphere. In a heart which is unso 
 phisticated, 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 sucli 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 amid si 
 lence, and solitude, and shadow. She had not courage for 
 this ; and the poor, vain mother, flattered with the idea 
 that ker son-in-law would be a preacher, beheld nothing 
 wrong in their nightly wanderings, and suffered her daugh 
 tor, in such saintly society, to go forth without restraint or 
 rebuke. 
 
 There was one person in the village who was not satis 
 fied 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. lie 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 feel 
 ings 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 
 further heightened by the statements of Ned llinkley, 
 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 very 
 strongly inferred from his non-employment of the village 
 postofiico, and the supposition taken for true that he 
 
Tin-: IIIUTII OK TJIK A<;OXY. 319 
 
 employed that of some distant town. Ned Ilinklcy 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 connection with the 
 village scandal in reference to the pp,rties, 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 be 
 neath his roof-tree, musing over this very matter, when he 
 caught a glimpse of the persons of whom he thought, as 
 cending -one of the distant hills, apparently on their way 
 to the lake. lie 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 
 i proceeding likely to appear invidious, and which might 
 be so readily construed, by a foolish woman, into an imper 
 tinence. Though a man naturally of quick, warm feelings, 
 Calvert had been early taught to think cautiously in 
 deed, 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 sim 
 ply upon the dangers which might result from such a de- 
 
320 CIIAI:LK.MOXT. 
 
 gree 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 cir 
 cumstances, were shown with sufficient distinctness for the 
 comprehension of the mother, had she been disposed to 
 hear. But never was good old man, engaged in the thank 
 less oilice of bestowing good advice, so completely con 
 founded as he vras by the sort of acknowledgments which 
 his interference obtained. A keen observer might have 
 seen the gathering storm while he was speaking ; and, at 
 every sentence, there was a low, running commentary, bub 
 bling up from the throat of the opinionated dame, some 
 what like rumbling thunder, which amply denoted the 
 rising tempest. It was a sort of religious effort which 
 kept the old lady quiet till Calvcrt had fairly readied 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, 1 do. I know her. She s able to take care of her 
 self as well as the best of us." 
 
 lt 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 the" place their chief reliance on 
 their wisdom." 
 
THE BIRTH OF THE AGONY. 321 
 
 " Indeed ! that s a new doctrine to me, and I reckon to 
 everybody 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 
 Betsy Barnes, or Susan Mason, or Rebecca Forbes, or even 
 the widow 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 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 favorite, 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 anything 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 dan 
 ger, and much good would come of it. She d wish, after 
 14* 
 
322 CIIAULKMONT. 
 
 all was said, that the danger was only twice -as big and 
 twice as dangerous." 
 
 Such was the conclusion of Mr. Culvert s attempt to give 
 good counsel. It resulted as un profitably 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 sitting up. after her usual 
 time of retiring, by making the old lady irritable, had the 
 e fleet of giving some additional force to the suggestions of 
 Mr. Culvert. 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 
 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 neighbors coining 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, Culvert, to tell 
 me how *vrong it is for you to go out by night walking with 
 
T11K WliTll OF Till-] ACJONY. 323 
 
 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 anything about Brother Stevens ; as if 
 nobody was wise for anything but himself. But I gave him 
 as good as lie 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 told could not have been utterly 
 unread even by the obtuse and opinionated mind c r V~ 
 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, arid 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 favorite, his 
 adopted son, Bill Ilinkley, 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 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, Mar 
 garet, 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, 
 1 reckon he won t be able to hold a candle to him. Brother 
 Stevens is something to try for. You must play your card;* 
 
324 
 
 nicely, Margaret. Don t let him see too soon that you like 
 him. Beware of that! But don t draw oil 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 prece 
 dence over all the leaders of the other tribes, was not wil 
 ling 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, 
 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 ! 
 1 know it all. It s the old story. It s been so with all 
 
THK BIRTH )P THE AGONY. 325 
 
 young people, and will bo so till the end. Love is the 
 strangest thing, and it does listen to the strangest non 
 sense. Ain t it so, Margaret? I know nothing but lovo 
 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 re 
 proachful nature of that response which her daughter had 
 made, so different from her usual custom: "he may bo 
 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 
 
826 CHATILKMONT. 
 
 eyes ; only you keep a little off, till he begins to press 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 anything, 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 heartache? 
 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 feel 
 ing shook her frame. But her eyes remained dry, and her 
 checks were burning. She rose at length and began to 
 undress, but for this she found herself unequal. She en 
 tered the couch and sat up in it her hands crossed upon 
 her lap her face wan, wild, the very picture of hopeless 
 ness if not desperation ! The words of her weak mother 
 had tortured her ; but what was this agony to that which 
 wati 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 !" 
 
STRENGTH AFTER FALL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 
 
 STRENGTH AFTER FALL. 
 
 THAT weary night no sleep came to the eyelids of th 
 hapless Margaret Cooper. The garrulous language of the 
 mother had awakened far other emotions in her bosom than 
 those which she labored 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 intoxica 
 ting 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 guar 
 dian watchers of her virtue had been laid to sleep. 
 
 What a long and dreadful night was that when Margaret 
 Oooper was first brought to feel the awful truth in its true 
 impressiveness of wo. Alas ! how terribly do the pleasures 
 of sin torture us. The worst human foe is guilt. The 
 severest censure the consciousness of wrong doing. Pov 
 erty may be endured nay is and virtue still be secure; 
 since the mind may be made strong to endure tho 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 toward them, and required all their proper claims 
 upon us. Sickness and oain may even prove benefits and 
 
828 CHARLI-:M;:/. 
 
 blessings, if it shall so happen that wo i\.sign ourselves 
 without complaint, to the scourge of the chastenor, and 
 grow patient beneatli his stripes. But that self-rebuke of 
 one s own spirit from which we may not fly that remorse 
 ful 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 whom 
 there is no escape, and beyond whom there is no torture. 
 Vainly would we strive with this relentless enemy. Every 
 blow aimed at its 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 terri 
 ble denunciations leaves no moment secure, waking or 
 sleeping ! It is the ghost of murdered virtue, brooding 
 over its grave in that mo t dark and dismal of all sepul 
 chres, the human heart. And if we cry aloud, as did Mar 
 garet 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 endeav 
 ored 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 endeavor. Surely, she thought, 
 where the mind is so noble and expansive, where the feel 
 ings are eo 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 crringly thought, 
 u might well sanction the weakness of a woman s heart 
 
STRENGTH AFTER FALL. 329 
 
 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 beings in the moral world, 
 can ever be guilty. But such philosophy did not now de 
 ceive even the poor girl by whom it was uttered. It is a 
 melancholy truth, that, where there is no principle, the pas 
 sions can not 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 
 his principles. Her self-esteem assisted to make this ref 
 erence 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 besides. What to me is the 
 loss of society ? what should I care for the association arid 
 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 wis yet to find that it was not the 
 only task. Her thoughts arc those of many, in like situa 
 
3oO CHARLEMONT. 
 
 tions, and it is for this reason that we dwell upon them. 
 Our purpose is, to show the usual processes of self-decep 
 tion. 
 
 Margaret Cooper, like a large class of persons of strong 
 natural mind and sanguine temper, was only too apt to con 
 found 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 oilend, is yet no standard for her 
 government ; that principles are detcrminable elsewhere ; 
 and that, whatever the world may think of them, and what 
 ever 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 securi 
 ties 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 ut 
 terance, 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 guaranty she sought. 
 
 She arose the next day somewhat more composed, and 
 with a face which betrayed sleeplessness, but nothing worse. 
 This she ascribed to the headache with which she had re 
 tired. She had not slept an instant, and she arose entirely 
 unre freshed. 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 restrain- 
 able 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 
 
STRENGTH AFTER FALL. 331 
 
 of which inspired her witli terror, and, laying bare her soul 
 to his eyes, demand of him the only restitution which lie 
 could make. 
 
 lie came. Once more she descended the steps to meet 
 him. Her mother arrested her on the stairway. A cun 
 ning 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 u don t 
 be too willing at first. Let him speak fairly out. A young 
 maiden can t be too backward, until the man oilers 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 "0 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 to 
 gether. 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 spoke 
 a word. A dense copse appeared before them. Toward 
 it he would have led the way. But she resolutely turned 
 aside, and, while a shudder passed over her frame, ex 
 claimed 
 
e) C II A RLE. MO NT. 
 
 "Not there not there!" 
 
 Breathlessly she spoke. Tie 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 pas 
 sion, was uppermost ; selfish in all its phases, and resolute 
 on its own indulgence at every hazard. In her bosom was 
 regret 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 fan 
 cied, foolish girl, that his qrror, like her own, had been 
 that of blind impulse, availing itself of a moment of un 
 guarded 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 cold 
 ness and hardness 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 w^is silent. lie expected her to 
 spoak 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 ho 
 was not prepared. The passive grief which her counte 
 nance 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 tho 
 unsophisticated woman before him had no language for such 
 
STRENGTH AFTER FALL. 338 
 
 a situation as was hers. Her pride, her ambition the 
 very intensity of all her moods rendered the effort at 
 speech a mockery, and left her dumb. 
 
 "You are sad, Margaret silent and very cold to me," 
 he said, at last breaking the silence. His tones were sub 
 dued 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 spo 
 ken ; 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 mo r 
 
 " It is for you to speak, Alfred, 11 was her reply. It was 
 full of significance, understood but not felt by her compan 
 ion. 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. 
 u You are displeased with me, Margaret." 
 He dared not meet her glance while uttering this i eeblo 
 and purposeless remark. It was so short of all that he 
 
>34 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 sliould have said of all that she expected that her eyes 
 glistened with a sudden expression of indignation which 
 was new to them in looking upon him. There was a glit 
 tering 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, in 
 deed ! That such an epithet should be employed to describe 
 the 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 anything 
 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 Ids 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 re 
 alize their perfect sense. 
 
 " Ay, you would accuse me, Margaret," he continued 
 " you would reproach and denounce me you hate rue I 
 deserve it I deserve it." 
 
 She answered with some surprise: 
 
 u 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 I What I am what I will be ! 
 
 She paused ! Her hands were clasped suddenly and vio 
 lently 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. 
 
STRKNCJTH AFTKK FALL. 335 
 
 " All, 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, /have done wrong ! I feel that 1 
 have done wrong. That 1 have been feeble and criminal, 
 I know. I will not be so base as to deny what I can not but 
 feel. As for your crime, you know best what it is. 1 know 
 inLie. 1 know that my passions are evil and presumptuous ; 
 and though 1 blush to confess their force, it is yet duo to 
 the truth that 1 should do so, though 1 sink into the earth 
 with my shame. But neither your self-reproaches nor my 
 confession will acquit us. Is there nothing, Alfred Stevens, 
 tnat 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? Savo 
 me from this shame ! save me ! For, though I have no re 
 proaches, 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 I 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 ?" 
 
 u 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 can not. 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 
 
336 CHARLKMONT. 
 
 which has made me fall shall be reconciled to my abase* 
 inent." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " 1 dare not disbelieve you, Alfred ! 1 have no hope 
 else. Your words lift 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 1 
 become !" 
 
 u 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 
 thrir wont, but not less beautiful, and these lips- 
 He would have pressed them with his own he would 
 nave taken her into his arms, but she repulsed him. 
 
 " No, no ! Alfred this must not be. I arn 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 
 tins 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 hangs 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 
 
STIIKNCTU AFTER FALL. 837 
 
 felt, since thai sad moment of my weakness, you would for 
 bear 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 Mar 
 garet here in the sweet evening, among these pleasant 
 shades, love, alone, has supremacy. Here, in the words of 
 one of your favorites : 
 
 " 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 endear 
 ments which had already proved so fatal ; but she repulsed 
 the offered tenderness, firmly, but with gentleness. 
 
 " Margaret, you still doubt me," he exclaimed reproach 
 fully. 
 
 " No, Alfred, I doubt you not. I believe you. I have 
 only been too ready and willing to believe you. Ah ! have 
 you not had sufficient proof of this ? Leave me the con 
 sciousness 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 
 
 15 
 
338 CHAKLEMONT. 
 
 it. Tlicso woods winch 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 biif- 
 4| ed in his true desires. 
 
 " If you doubt me not if you have faith in me, Marga 
 ret, why tli is 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. 
 
 " 1 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 1 ever loved and have 1 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 pre 
 pared. You disarmed the dagger. You subdued the de 
 termination 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 
 
STRENGTH AFTER FALL. 330 
 
 faithful wife ; but, until then, you shall presume in no re 
 spect. 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!" 
 
340 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 BULL-PUPS IN TRAINING. 
 
 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 con 
 straint in either her looks or language. The composure of 
 assured strength was there. The discovery of her weak 
 ness, which he had so unexpectedly made, had rendered 
 her vigilant. Suspecting 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 re 
 frain 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 check. 
 Proud still, but pensive in her pride, she walked silently 
 beside him, still brooding over thoughts which she would 
 not 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 
 
BULL-PUPS IN TRAINING. 341 
 
 of confidence which his promise of marriage had inspired 
 iu her mind. There was a subdued fondness in his voice, 
 and an empressement in his manner, which wag not all prac 
 tice. 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 de 
 gree 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 one 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 charac 
 ter 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 promi 
 nent as a crime in connection 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 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 
 
34 2 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 
 
 is mine on my terms, is yours, sir, or yours is anybody s, 
 when the humor suits and the opportunity. I can not 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 sec thore is hum ! 
 hum ! yes, a ride of a few miles an afternoon excur 
 sion quite convenient, yet not too near. It must be man 
 aged ; 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 vic- 
 .im, the criminal was yet devising plans by which to con 
 tinue 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 com 
 plaint 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 in 
 terview. 
 
 Saturday morning, we observe that his appetite is unim 
 paired, lie discusses the breakfast at Hinklcy s as if lie 
 had never heard of suffering, lie 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 
 drier and hotter substance. A copious bowl of milk, new 
 from the dugs of old Brindle, stands beside him, patiently 
 waiting to be honored by his unscrupulous but not unfas- 
 tidious taste. The grace is said, and the gravy follows. 
 He has a religious regard for the goods and gifts of this 
 
BULL-PUPS IN TRAINING. 343 
 
 life. He cats 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. Ke discusses 
 with old Ilinkley 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. 
 Prom these, after a while, they passed to the love festivals 
 or feasts a pleasant practice of the method ist church, 
 which is supposed to be very promotive of many other good 
 things besides love ; though we are constrained to say that 
 Brother Stevens and Brother Ilinkley who, it may be re 
 marked, 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 prac 
 tice of love-feasts ! 
 
 Being agreed on this and other subjects, Mr. Ilinkley 
 invited Brother Stevens out to look at his turnips and po 
 tatoes ; and when this delicate inquiry was over, toward 
 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 dys 
 pepsia. Of course, the hot rolls and mountains of volcanic 
 butter stearn-ejecting could have produced no such evil 
 effects upon a laborer in the vineyard. At all events, a 
 gallop was necessary, and the horse was brought. Brother 
 Ilinkley 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 high 
 way leading to the eastern country. 
 
 There were < tlier eyes that watched the departure ot 
 
344 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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 eager 
 ness 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, gran pa, 
 I ll tell you what I want from you them pocket-pistols of 
 your n. Bill llinkley carried off grandad s, and there s 
 none besides that I can lay hold on." 
 
 " But, Ned, I m afraid to lend them to you." 
 
 "What fraidof?" 
 
 " That you ll use them." 
 
 44 To be sure I will, if there s any need, gran pa. What 
 do T 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 neces 
 sity. 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 anybody but him, ever since he drove Bill Hinkley off 
 you and him together." 
 
 " You ll promise me, Ned ?" 
 
 u Sure as a snag in the forehead of a Mississippi steamer. 
 Penend upon me." 
 
BULL-PUPS IN TRAINING. 345 
 
 " But there must be no quarrelling with Stevens either, 
 Ned." 
 
 " Look you, gran pa, if I m to quarrel with Stevens or 
 anybody else, twouldn t be your pistols in my pocket that 
 would make me set on, and twouldn t be the want of em 
 tli at 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 speecli 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 pur 
 pose 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 
 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 ?" 
 
 u 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 
 
 15* 
 
346 CITAULEMONT. 
 
 the same look out of the eyes, and just the same spots and 
 marks, and, I reckon, just the same way of giving tongua 
 Tin 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 may be suck in his breath, 
 arid give a phew-phew-vvhistle 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 anybody I please this afternoon, 
 gran pa ?" 
 
 " Ay, ay, Ned anybody 
 
 Thus far the old man, when he stopped himself, changed 
 his manner, which was that of playful good-humor, 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 trilling provocation. Nothing but the last necessity 
 of .self-preservation justifies the taking of life." 
 
 " Gran pa thank you you ve touched me in the 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 
 
RULL-PCJPS IN TRAINING 3*17 
 
 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, 4 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 na 
 ture and purposes, did not prevent the speaker from making, 
 while he spoke, certain dextrous uses of the instruments 
 which wore 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. Sud 
 denly 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 
 o feu de joie and then I d set up the song what s it? 
 all ! Te Deun . A black spider always puts me in mind 
 of a rascal." 
 
348 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE FOX IN THE TRAP. 
 
 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 op 
 posite 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 pro 
 cesses 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 cotta,ge once a week, 
 wearing such and such breeches, and mounted upon a nag 
 of a certain color 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 inflexi 
 ble 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 dis 
 mounted, hurried his horse, out of sight and hearing, into 
 the woods, and choosing a position for himself, with some 
 nicety, along the road-side, put himself in close cover, 
 where, stretching his frame at length, he commenced the 
 difficult labor of cooling his impatience with his cogitations. 
 
 But cogitating, with a fellow of his blood, rather whets 
 impatience. He was monstrous restiff. At his fishing 
 
THE FOX IN THE TRAP. 349 
 
 pnd, 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 lie 
 examined them in fascinated contemplation. He had al 
 ready 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 wood-rat, 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 lie amused himself by aiming at this and 
 other objects, until suddenly reminded of the very import 
 ant 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 
 ho 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 prac 
 tised in slitting the weasand of a buck, than in cutting out, 
 with crayon, or Italian crow-quill, the ungainly forms of tho 
 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 bu.tt 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 
 
3/)0 CHAIILEMONT. 
 
 comparison with its more masculine brother, he grew par- 
 tially reconciled to an evil which was now, indeed, irre 
 parable. 
 
 It does not require that we should bother the reader with 
 the numberless thoughts and fancies which bothered our 
 spy, in the three mortal hours in which he kept his watch. 
 Nothing but the hope that he should ultimately be compen 
 sated to the utmost by a full discovery of all that lie sought 
 to know, could possibly have sustained him during the try 
 ing 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!" IHm meaning Stevens. 
 
 At last Stevens came. He watched the progress of his 
 enemy with keen eyes ; and, with his ic 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. 
 
 " He s for Ellisland. That was no bad guess then. He 
 might have been for Fergus, or Joncsboro , or Debarrc, 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 gentle 
 man 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 consequently 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 
 
TUB FOX IN Till*: THAI . 351 
 
 good, hardy follow 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 cob 
 webs to the nasal extremity in order to arrest the haemor 
 rhage. 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 dis 
 turb his imagination, Alfred Stevens was^pursuing his way 
 toward 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 it is seized with no particular 
 mania, and is yet disposed to go stubbornly forward. It 
 is in more classical dialect, the fcstina lente motion. It is 
 regularly forward, and therefore fast it never puts the 
 animal out of breath, and is therefore slow. Nobody ever 
 saw a dog practice this gait, with a tin canister at his tail, 
 and a huddle of schoolboys at his heels. No! it is the 
 travelling motion, considering equally the health of all par 
 ties, 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 bdck, he subdued his speed, to what, in the samo 
 eemi-iigurative language, he styled u the puppy-trot." Ob- 
 
CHARLEMONT. 
 
 serving 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 Ellis- 
 land, confine ourselves more particularly to the progress 
 of Brother Stevens. 
 
 Ellisland was one of those little villages to which geog 
 raphers scarcely accord a place upon the maps. It is not 
 honored with o, dot in any map that we have ever seen of 
 Kentucky. Bat, 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. Al 
 ready, 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 stu 
 pidity 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. 
 f It has its tavern and blacksmith shop its church the 
 meanest fabric in the village its postoffice and public 
 well and trough. There is also a rack pro bo-no publico, 
 but as it is in front of the tavern, the owner of that estab 
 lishment 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 quad 
 rupled 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 con 
 sidered contra bonos mores. It is hoped that he will be 
 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 
 
THE FOX IN Till-; TilAP. 353 
 
 knows what his enemies are driving at, whirls his coat- 
 skirts, and snaps his fingers, in scorn of all their machina 
 tions. He has a friend at Washington, who spoons in tho 
 back parlor of the white-house in other words, is a mem 
 ber 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 Ell island. 
 
 u 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 postoffice, 
 lie 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 deser 
 vedly 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 honored witli the affectionate saluta 
 tion of some John Doe or Richard Roe of the law. Ste 
 vens turned with some feeling of annoyance, if not misgiv 
 ing, 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 gur 
 gling 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, War- 
 ham 
 
 " Hush !" was the whispered word of Stevens, again look 
 ing round him in trepidation. 
 
 " Oh ! ay !" said the other with a sly chuckle, and also 
 
8~>4 CFIAULKMONT. 
 
 in 11 whisper, " Mr. Stevens Brother Stevens hem! 1 
 <]id not think. How is your holiness to-day ?" 
 
 u Come aside, 1 muttered Stevens ; and, taking the arm 
 of the incautious speaker, he led him away from the crowd, 
 and took the way out of the village. Their meeting and 
 departure did not occasion much, if any, sensation. The 
 visitors in the village were all too busy in discussing the 
 drink and doctrines, pretty equally distributed, of Jerry 
 liie publican. But there was one eye that noted the meet 
 ing 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. 
 
 44 Here, at hand ; but what do you mean to do ?" 
 
 44 Nothing, but get out of hearing and sight; for your 
 long tongue, Ben, and significant face, would blab any se 
 cret, however deep." 
 
 44 Ah ! did I not say that I would find you out ? Did you 
 get my last letter ?" 
 
 44 Ay, I did: but I m devilish sorry, Ben, that you ve 
 come. You ll do mischief. You have always been a mar 
 plot." 
 
 44 Never, never ! You don t know me." 
 
 64 Don t I? but get your horse, and let s go into the 
 woods, while we talk over matters." 
 
 44 Why not leave the nags here ?" 
 
 44 For a very good reason. My course lies in that diree* 
 lion, so that I am in my way ; while yours, if your purpose 
 be to go back to Frankfort, will lie on the upper side. Nei 
 ther of us need come back to the village." 
 
 44 And you think to shuffle me off so soon, do you ?" 
 
 44 What would you have me do?" 
 
 " Why, give us a peep at this beauty this Altamira of 
 yours at least." 
 
 44 Impossible ! Do not think of it, Ben ; you d spoil all. 
 But, get the horse. These billet heads will suspect mis- 
 
THE FOX TN THE TRAP. 355 
 
 chief if they see us talking together, particularly wlien 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 stoneVthrow from the village, 
 when Stevens alighted, followed by his companion. They 
 hitched their horses to some swinging branches of a shel 
 tering tree, and, going aside a few paces beyond, seated 
 themselves upon the grass, as they fancied, in a place of 
 perfect security. 
 
 u And now, Ben, what in truth brings you here?" de 
 manded Stevens, in tones of voice and with a look which 
 betrayed anything but satisfaction with the visit. 
 
 " Curiosity, I tell you, and the legs of my horse. " 
 
 " Pshaw ! you have some other motive." 
 
 "No, pon honor. I resolved to find you out to see 
 what you ^vere driving at, and where. I could only guess 
 a part from your letter to Barnabas, and that costive scrawl 
 with which you honored 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 m 
 terror lest you should forget your vows. So glowing were 
 your descriptions of your Cleopatra, that we knew not what 
 to make. We feared everything." 
 
 " 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 r<-- 
 
350 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 ving 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, A\ r ar- 
 ham!" 
 
 " Hush ! you forget ! Am 1 not Brother Stevens ? Ila ! 
 ha! ha! You are not sufficiently reverent, brother. See 
 you no divinity in my look and bearing? Hark you, Ben, 
 I ve been a sort of small divinity in the eyes of a whole 
 flock for a month past !" 
 
 " You pray ?" % 
 
 "And preach !" 
 
 "Ila! 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 " 
 
 " 1 do, every bit of it." 
 
THE FOX IN THE TRAP. 357 
 
 " Gad! what a fellow! what a lucky dog! But you 
 must let me sec 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 curi 
 osity is stubborn ?" 
 
 "Do as the kill-deer does travel from the nest go 
 home with you, rather than you should succeed in your im 
 pertinence, and have you expelled from the club for thrust 
 ing 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 Mohammed ; by Jupiter Am- 
 mon and Johannes Secundus ; by the ghost of Cardinal 
 Bembo, and the gridiron of t .ie fraternity !" 
 
 " Ay, and by the virginity of Queen Elizabeth !" 
 
 " Simulacrum ! no ! no ! no such oath for me ! That s 
 swearing by the thing that is not, was not could not be! 
 You shall swear by the oaths pf the club you must be 
 bound on the gridiron of the fraternity, before I believe you. 
 Swear I" 
 
 "You are as tenacious as the ghost of buried Denmark, 
 But you shall be satisfied. I swear by the mystic grid 
 iron of the fraternity, and by the legs thereof, of which the 
 images are Beelzebub, Mohammed, Johannes Secundus, 
 and so forth nay, by that memorable volume, so revered 
 in the eyes of the club, the new edition of 4 The Basiad, 
 of which who among us has been the true exponent ? - 
 that profound mystery of sweets, fathomed hourly, yet 
 
358 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 an fathomable still for which the commentators, already 
 legions, are hourly becoming legions more; by these, 
 and by the mysteries of the mirror that reflects not oui 
 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 favor of this princess ; 
 the clue to find her when you have left her ; and the assu 
 rance 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 dys 
 peptic 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 1! 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 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, arid I will 
 swear to give you carte blanche, and the first privileges at 
 my princess, when I leave her. This is my bargain. J 
 make no other." 
 
THE FOX IN THE TRAP. 359 
 
 "1 v.j 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." 
 
 u Arid 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 sho 
 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." 
 
 X 
 
 llMIVCDQITY 11 
 
300 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 " What a lucky dog ! You ll marry her yet, old boy, in 
 spite of all!" 
 
 " Pshaw ! You arc green to talk so." 
 
 " You ll be devilish loath to give her up ; I m afraid I ll 
 bave 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 eighteen or thereabouts sus 
 pecting nobody, and never dreaming that she had a heart 
 or passions at all. She thought only of her pootry and her 
 books. It was only necessary to work upon heart and pas 
 sions 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 
 ,o 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 Uinkley, 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 belie v?., entirely awake unless when he s trout-fishing, 
 lie 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 vir 
 tues, and would thank you accordingly 
 
 A voice a little to the left interrupted the speaker. 
 
THE FOX IN THE TRAP. 801 
 
 " So lie docs, my bravo parson, for his grandmother s 
 sake and his own," were the words of the speaker. They 
 turned in sudden amaee 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 Ilinkley in proper person perfectly awake, yet not 
 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 !" 
 
 16 
 
GHARLKMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 " ABSQUATULATING." 
 
 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 yot^ ribs already i" 
 
 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 griev 
 ously misrepresented its expression. Certainly, no one 
 could say that, at this moment, it lacked anything of spirit 
 or intelligence. Never were eyes more keen never were 
 lips more emphatically made to denote sarcasm and hos 
 tility. The whole face was alive with scorn, and hate, and 
 bitterness ; and there was defiance enough in the glance to 
 have put wings to fifty bullets. 
 
 His coolness, the composure which his position and words 
 
Al>SQL ATULATINi;." 3G3 
 
 manifested, awakened the anger ol 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 that he 
 could no longer play the hypocrite in Charlemont. He 
 must either keep his pledges to Margaret Cooper, without 
 delay or excuse, or lie 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 ?" 
 
 a 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 up 
 lifted ; but still Ned Hinklcy did not rise. With his legs 
 still crossed, lie 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 iny 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 paci 
 ficator is disposed to trim your whiskers, Brother Ben ; and 
 I say, for em both, come on, you black-hearted rascals, if 
 yoiOvant 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 effcc.t of Hinklcy 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 evei) 
 
>(- CHARLEMONT. 
 
 more strongly expressed by the looks of the rustic than by 
 his language and action. They backed hurriedly at his ap 
 proach. 
 
 " What ! won t you stand ? won t you answer to your 
 villanics ? 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 waked me up, my lads, and I sha n t sleep 
 again in a hurry ! As for you, Alfred Stevens you were 
 ready to fight Bill Ilinkley 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 Ilinkley, " 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^aci- 
 ficator. 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 friz 
 zle 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 ! >f 
 
"ABSQUATULATING." 365 
 
 " Ay, ay ! on Monday morning !" 
 
 Hud Ned Hinkley been more a man of the world had 
 fie not been a simple backwoodsman, 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 proba 
 bly have beaten him into incapacity with his whip which 
 had a heavy handle had not the rustic been sufficiently 
 prepared. The pistols of Stevens were in his valise, but 
 lie had no purpose of fighting, on equal terms, with a man 
 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 dan 
 ger, should the rustic gather together the people of Ellis- 
 land, 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 lan 
 guage of libertinism, had never once suspected the fatal 
 lapse^ffom virtue of which Margaret Cooper had been 
 guilty. He was too unfamiliar with the annals and prac 
 tices of such criminals, to gather this fact from the equivo 
 cal words, and half-spoken sentences, and sly looks of the 
 confederates. Had he dreamed this had it, for a moment, 
 entered into his conjccturings that such had been the 
 case, he would probably have shot down the seducer without 
 
306 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 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 v/liy he took the chances of Ste 
 vens s return to Cliarlcmont, and let him off at the moment. 
 
 " Even should lie 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 yoj. If you stay, looking black, 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 muz 
 zle ! Mount you, as quick as you can, before I do mis 
 chief." 
 
 Backing toward their horses, they yielded to the advan 
 cing muzzles, which the instinct of fear made them loath to 
 turn their backs upon. Never were two hopeful projectors 
 so suddenly abased so completely baffled. Hinkley, ad 
 vancing with moderate pace, now thrust forward one, and 
 now the other pistol, accompanying the action with a spe 
 cific sentence corresponding to each, in manner and form 
 as follows : 
 
 " Back, parson back, whiskers ! Better turn, arirf 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, 1 
 tell you. They re too eager on scent, to lose sight cf you 
 -n a hurry, and they re ready to give tongue at a moment s 
 
" ABSQUATULATING." 367 
 
 warning. Take care not to stumble, whiskers, or the paci 
 ficator 11 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 sleeds 
 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 backwoodsman, whose determined character was suffi 
 ciently 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 Charle- 
 mont 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 s_:ot whvre his own horse 
 was fastened. 
 
 " You won t return, of course?" said his companion. 
 
 " No ! I must now return with you, thanks to your in 
 terference. By Heavens, Ben, I knew, at your coming, 
 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 unfor 
 tunate, 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 
 
368 CHAIiLEMONT. 
 
 no w 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." 
 
 u Be can scarcely do us harm now, if he does." 
 
 "Indeed !" said Stevens "you know nothing. There s 
 such a thii. g as hue and cry, and its not (infrequently prac 
 tised 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 bora 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 sup 
 posed 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 
 
" ABSQUATULATING." 369 
 
 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 
 I un 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." 
 
 %i Ha ! don t you hear a noise ?" demanded the whiskered 
 companion, looking behind him. 
 
 " I think 1 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 some 
 thing 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 receiv 
 ing a garment, unsolicited, bestowed by the bounty of the 
 county 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 !" 
 16* 
 
CHA1H,EMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXli. 
 
 THE REVELATION. 
 
 HAVING seen his enemy fairly mounted, and under way> 
 as he thought, for Charlcmont, Ned Ilinklcy returned to 
 Ellisland for his own horse. Here he did not suffer him 
 self to linger, though, before he could succeed in taking his 
 departure, he was subjected to a very keen and searching 
 examination by the village publican and politician. Hav 
 ing undergone this scrutiny with tolerable patience, if not 
 to the entire satisfaction of the examiner, he set forward at 
 a free canter, determined that his adversary should not be 
 compelled to wait. 
 
 r It was only while he rode that he began to fancy the pos 
 sibility of the other having taken a different course ; but 
 as, upon reflection, he saw no other plan which he might 
 have adopted for lynching for suspected offences was not 
 yet a popular practice in and about Charlenioat lie con 
 tented himself with the reflection that he had done all that 
 could have been done ; and if Alfred Stevens failed to keep 
 
 jjiis appointment, he, at least, was one of the losers. Ho 
 would necessarily lose the chance of revenging an indig 
 nity, not to speak of the equally serious loss of that enjoy 
 ment which a manly fight usually gave to Ned Ilinklcy 
 himself, and which, he accordingly assumed, must be an 
 equal gratification to all other persons. When he arrived 
 at Charlemont, he did not make his arrival known, but, re 
 pairing directly to the lake among the hills, ho hitched hte 
 
THK :;i ]v:.LATi<)N. 371 
 
 horse, and prepared, with what patience he could command, 
 to await the coming of the enemy. 
 
 The reader is already prepared to believe that the wor 
 thy rustic waited in vain. It was only v\ ith the coining on 
 of night that he began to consider himself outwitted. lie 
 scratched his head impatiently, not without bringing away 
 some shreds of the hair, jumped on his horse, and, without 
 making many allowances for the rough and hilly character 
 of the road, went off at a driving pace for the house of Uncle 
 Hinkley. Here he drew up only to ask if Brother Stevens 
 had returned. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Then, dang it! he never will return. Iie j a c-rink, 
 uncle as great a skunk as ever was in all E oLtucky !" 
 
 "How! what! what of Brother Stevens?" decr.andsd 
 the uncle, seconded by John Cross, who had only some two 
 hours arrived at the village, and now appeared at the door. 
 But Ned Hinkley was already off. 
 
 " lie s a skunk! that s all !* 
 
 His last words threw very little light over the mystery, 
 and certainly gave very little satisfaction to his hearers. 
 The absence of Alfred Stevens, at a time when John Cross 
 was expected, had necessarily occasioned some surprise ; 
 but, of course, no apprehensions were entertained by either 
 the worthy parson or the bigoted host that he could be de 
 tained by any cause whatsoever which he could not fully 
 justify. 
 
 The next course of Ned Hinkley was for the cottage of 
 Mr. Calvert. To the old man he gave a copious detail of 
 all his discoveries not only the heads of what he heard 
 from the conspirators in the wood, but something of the 
 terms of the dialogue. The gravity of Calvert increased 
 as the other proceeded. He saw more deeply into the sig 
 nification of certain portions of this dialogue than did the 
 narrator ; and when the latter, after having expressed his 
 disappointment at the non-appearance of Stevens on the 
 
872 CHAHLEMONT. 
 
 field of combat, at least congratulated himself at having 
 driven him fairly from the ground, the other shook his head 
 mournfully. 
 
 " I am afraid it s too late, my son." 
 
 " Too late, gran pa ! How ? Is it ever too late to send 
 such a rascal a-packing ?" 
 
 "It may be for the safety of some, my son." 
 
 " What ! Margaret you mean ? You think the poor fool 
 of a girl s too far gone in love of him, do you ?" 
 
 "If that were all, Ned" 
 
 Why, what more, eh ? You don t mean ! " 
 
 The apprehensions of the simple, unsuspecting fellow, for 
 the first time began to be awakened to the truth. 
 
 " I am afraid, my son, that this wretch has been in Charle- 
 mont too long. From certain words that you have dropped, 
 as coming from Stevens, in speaking to his comrade, I should 
 regard him as speaking the language of triumph for succes 
 ses already gained," 
 
 " Oh, hardly ! I didn t think so. If I had only guessed 
 that he meant such a thing though I can t believe it 
 Td ha dropped him without a word. I d have given him 
 the pacificator as well as the peace-breaker. Oh, no ! I 
 can t think -it I can t I won t ! Margaret Cooper is not 
 a girl to my liking, but, Lord help us ! sne s too beautiful 
 and too smart to suffer such a skunk, in so short a time, to 
 get the whip-hand of her. No, gran pa, I can t and won t 
 believe it!" 
 
 " Yet, Ned, these words which you have repealed con 
 vey some such fear to my mind. It may be that the villain 
 was only boasting to his companion. There are scoundrels 
 in this world who conceive of no higher subject of boast 
 than the successful deception and ruin of the artless and 
 confiding. I sincerely hope that this may be the case now 
 that it was the mere brag of a profligate, to excite the 
 admiration of his comrade. But when you speak of the 
 beauty and the ;.:. *r.e r? of this ooor girl, as of securities 
 
THE REVELATION. 873 
 
 for virtue, you make a great mistake. Beauty is more apt 
 to be a betrayer than a protector ; and as for her talent, 
 that is seldom a protection unless it be associated with hu 
 utility. Hers was not. She was most ignorant where she 
 was most assured. She knew just enough to congratulate 
 herself that she was unlike her neighbors, and this is the 
 very temper of mind which is likely to cast down its pos 
 sessor in shame. I trust that she had a better guardian 
 angel than either her beauty or her talents. I sincerely 
 hope that she is safe. At all events, let me caution you not 
 to hint the possibility of its being otherwise. We will take 
 for granted that Stevens is a baffled villain." 
 
 " I only wish I had dropped him !" 
 
 " Better as it is." 
 
 " What ! even if the poor girl is " 
 
 " Ay, even then !" 
 
 " Why, gran pa, can it be possible you say so ?" 
 
 u Yes, my son ; I say so here, in moments of comparative 
 calmness, and in the absence of the villain. Perhaps, were 
 he present, I should say otherwise." 
 
 " And do otherwise ! You d shoot him, gran pa, as soon 
 as I." 
 
 " Perhaps ! I think it likely. But, put up your pistols, 
 Ned. You have nobody now to yhoot. Put them up, and 
 let us walk over to your uncle s at once. It is proper that 
 he and John Cross should know these particulars." 
 
 Ned agreed to go, but not to put up his pistols. 
 
 " For, you see, gran pa, this rascal may return. His 
 friend may hare kept him in long talk. Wo may meet him 
 coming into the village." 
 
 " It ic not likely ; but come alon ;. Cive me that staff, 
 my sen, and your arm on the other side. I feel that my 
 eyes arc no longer young." 
 
 " You could shoot still, gran pa ?" 
 
 " Not wel:. ?: 
 
 64 "What, couldn t you hit a chap Hire Stovoio between 
 
374 CHARLlvMONT. 
 
 the eyes at ten paces ? I m sure I could do it, blindfolded, 
 by a sort of instinct." 
 
 And the youth, shutting his eyes, as if to try the experi 
 ment, drew forth one of his pistols from his bosom, and 
 began to direct its muzzle around the room. 
 
 " There was a black spider there, gran pa! Tin ure, 
 taking him for Stevens, I could cut his web for him." 
 
 " You have cut that of Stevens himself, and his comb 
 too, Ned." 
 
 "Yes, yes but what a fool I was not to make it his 
 gills!" 
 
 By this time the old man had got on his spencer, and, 
 with staff in hand, declared himself in readiness. Ned 
 Ilinkley lowered his pistol with reluctance. He was very 
 anxious to try the weapon arid hjs own aim, on somebody 
 or something. That black spider which lived so securely 
 in the domicil of Mr. Calvert would have stood no chance 
 in any apartment of the widow Ilinkley. Even the " pa 
 cificator" would have been employed for its extermination, 
 if, for no other reason, because of the fancied resemblance 
 which it had always worn to Brother Stevens a resem 
 blance which occurred to him, perhaps, in consequence of 
 the supposed similarity between the arts of the libertine 
 and those for the entrapping of his victims which distin 
 guish the labors of the spider. 
 
 The two were soon arrived at old llinklcy s, and the 
 tale of Ned was told ; but, such was the bigotry of the 
 hearers, without securing belief. 
 
 " So blessed a young man ! said the old lady. 
 
 " A brand from the burning!" exclaimed Brother Cross. 
 
 " It s all an mention of Satan !" cried old Ilinkley, " to 
 prevent the consummation of a goodly work." 
 
 " We should n )t give our faith too readily to sucli de 
 vices of thj cue.: ly, Frier. 1 Calvert," said John Cross, pater 
 nally. 
 
 " I nover saw anything in him that wasn t perfectly saint- 
 
THE UK DELATION 375 
 
 like," said Mrs. Ilinklcy. " He mcdo thj most heartfelt 
 prayer, and the loveliest blessing before meat ! I think I 
 hear him now Lord, make us thankful with his eyes 
 shut up so sweetly, and with such a voice." 
 
 " There are always some people, Brother Cross, to hate 
 the saints of the Lord and to slander them ! They lie in 
 wait like thieves of the night, and roaring lions of the wil 
 derness, seeking what they may devour." 
 
 " Ah," exclaimed Brother Cross, " how little do such 
 know that they devour themselves ; for whoso dcstroyetli 
 his best friend is a devourer of himself." 
 
 " The blindness of Satan i. upon them, and they do his 
 work." 
 
 And thus purr, purr, purr they went on, to the end 
 of the chapter. Poor Ned Ilinkley found the whole kennel 
 was upon him. Not only did they deny everything that 
 could by possibility affect the fair fame of the absent brother, 
 but, from defending him, they passed, with an easy transi 
 tion, to the denunciation of those who were supposed to be 
 his dcfamers. In this the worthy old man Calvert came in 
 for his share. 
 
 " All this comes of your supporting that worthless boy of 
 mine in defiance of my will," said old Hinkley. " You hate 
 Brother Stevens because that boy hated him, and because I 
 love him." 
 
 " You are mistaken, Mr. Hinkley," said Calvert, mildly. 
 " I hate nobody ; at the same time I suffer no mere preju 
 dices to delude me against sight and reason." 
 
 " Ah !" said Brother Cross, gently, " it s that very rea 
 son, Brother Calvert, that ruins you worldlings. You irust 
 not rely on human reason. B;iM on faitb, ar.d yoo. build 
 on the Rock of Ages." 
 
 " I propose to use reason only in worldly mattery, Mr. 
 Cross," said the other ; " for which use, only, I believe it 
 was given us. I employ it in reference to a case of or 3 \i\ary 
 evidence, and 1 bog your regards now, while 1 dra* -oar 
 
376 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 attention to the use I make of it in the present instance. 
 Will you hear me without interruption ?" 
 
 " Surely, Brother Calvert, but call me not Mr. Cross. 1 
 am not a Mister. I am plain John Cross ; by virtue of my 
 business, a brother, if it so please you to esteem me. Call 
 me Brother Cross, or Brother John Cross, or plain John 
 Cross, either of these will be acceptable unto me." 
 
 " We are all brothers, or should be," said Calvert ; " and 
 it will not need that there should be any misunderstanding 
 between us on so small a matter." 
 
 " The matter is not small in the eye of the Lord," said 
 the preacher. " Titles of vanity become not us, and offend 
 in his hearing." 
 
 The old teacher smiled, but proceeded. 
 
 " Now, Brother Cross, if you will hear me, I will pro 
 ceed, according to my reason, to dwell upon the proofs 
 which are here presented to you, of the worthlessness of this 
 man, Alfred Stevens ; and when you consider how much the 
 feelings and the safety of the daughters of your flotfk depend 
 upon the character of those moral and religious teachers to 
 whom the care of them is intrusted, you will see, I think, 
 the necessity of listening patiently, and determining without 
 religious prejudice, according to tbc truth and reason of tho 
 case." 
 
 " I am prepared to listen patiently, Brother Calvert," said 
 John Cross, clasping his hands together, setting his elbows 
 down upon the table, shutting his eyes, and turning his face 
 fervently up to heaven. Old Hinkley imitated this posture 
 quite as nearly as he was able ; while Mrs. I linkley, sitting 
 between the two, maintained a constant to-and-fro motion, 
 first on one Bide, then on the other, as they severally spoke 
 to the occasion, with her head deferentially bowing, like a 
 pendulum, and with a motion almost as regular and method 
 ical. The movements of her nephew, Ned Ilinkley, were 
 also ?. somewhat pleasant study, after a fashion of his own. 
 i; in a corner, lie amused himself by drawing forth his 
 
THE REVELATION. 37T 
 
 " puppies," and taking occasional aim at a candle or flower 
 pot ; and sometimes, with some irreverence, at the curved 
 and rather extravagant proboscis of his worthy uncle, which, 
 cocked up in air, was indeed something of a tempting ob 
 ject of sight to a person so satisfied of his skill in shooting 
 as the young rustic. The parties being thus arranged in a 
 fit attitude for listening, Mr. Calvert began somewhat after 
 the following fashion : 
 
 u Our first knowledge of Alfred Stevens was obtained 
 through Brother John Cross. * 
 
 And what better introduction would you have ?" de 
 manded old Hinkley. 
 
 " None," said the other, " if Brother Cross knew any 
 thing about the party he introduced. But it so happens, 
 as we learn from Brother Cross himself, that the first ac 
 quaintance he had with Stevens was made upon the road, 
 where Stevens played a trick upon him by giving him brandy 
 to drink." 
 
 " No trick, Brother Calvert ; the young man gave it ine 
 as a medicine, took it as a medicine himself, and, when I 
 bade him, threw away the accursed beverage." 
 
 " Ordinary men, governed by ordinary reason, Brother 
 Cross, would say that Stevens knev very well what he was 
 giving you, arid that it was a trick." 
 
 " But only think, Mr. Calvert," said Mrs. Hinkley, lift 
 ing her hands and eyes at the same moment, " the blessed 
 young man threw away the evil liquor the moment he was 
 cold to do so. What a sign of meekness was that !" 
 
 " I will not dwell on this point," was the reply of Cal- 
 vcrt. " He comes into our village and declares his pur 
 pose to adopt the profession of the preacher, and proceeds 
 to his studies under the direction of Brother Cross." 
 
 " And didn t he study them V" demanded Mrs. Hinkley. 
 " Wasn t he, late and early, at the blessed volume ? I 
 heard I: im at all hours above stairs. Oh ! how often was he 
 
4YH CHATU/FMONT. 
 
 on his banded knees in behalf of our sinful race, ungrateful 
 and minV elieving that we are !" 
 
 " I am afraid, madam," said Calvert, "that his studies 
 were scarcely so profound as you think them. Indeed, I 
 am at a loss to conceive how you should blind your eyes to 
 the fact that the greater part of his time was spent among 
 the young girls of the village." 
 
 " Arid where is it denied," exclaimed old Hinkley, "thai 
 the lambs of God should sport together ?" 
 
 " Do not speak in that language, I pray you, Mr. Hink 
 ley," said Calvert, with something of pious horror in his 
 look ; " this young man was no lamb of God, but, I fear, as 
 you will find, a wolf in the fold. It is, I say, very well 
 known that he was constantly wandering, even till a late 
 hour of the night, with one of the village maidens." 
 
 " Who was that one, Brother Calvert?" demanded John 
 Cross. 
 
 " Margaret Cooper." 
 
 " Hem !" said the preacher. 
 
 " Well, he quarrels with my young friend, the worthy son 
 of Brother Hinkley 
 
 " Do not speak of that ungrateful cub. Brother Stevens 
 did not quarrel with him. He quarrelled with Brother 
 Stevens, and would have murdered him, but that I put in 
 in time to save." 
 
 " Say not so, Mr. Hinklcy. I have good reason to be 
 lieve that Stevens went forth especially to fight with Wil 
 liam." 
 
 " I would not believe it, if a prophet were to tell me it." 
 
 " Nevertheless, I believe it. We found both of them 
 placed at the usual fighting-distarce." 
 
 " Ah ! but where were Brother Stovens s pistols ?" 
 
 " In his pocket, I suppose." 
 
 " He had none. He was at a distance from my ungrate 
 ful son, and flying that lie should not be murdered. The 
 lamb under the hands of iho butcher. And would you be- 
 
379 
 
 licvc it, Brother Cross, lie liad gone forth only to counsel 
 the unworthy boy- -j. ily to bring him back into the fold 
 gone forth at hij OWL prayer, as Brother Stevens declared 
 to Betsy, just before he went out" 
 
 " I am of opinion that lie deceived her and yourself* 
 
 " Where were his pistols then ?" 
 
 " He must have concealed thorn. He told Ned Hinkley, 
 this very day, that he had pistols, but that they were 
 here." 
 
 " Run up, Betsy, to Brother Stevcns s room and see." 
 
 The old lady disappeared. Co 1 /ert proceeded. 
 
 " I can only repeat my opinion, founded upon the known 
 pacific and honorable character of William Hinkley and 
 certain circumstance s in the conduct of Stevens, that the 
 two did go forth, under a previous arrangement, to fight a 
 duel. That they were prevented, and that Stevens had no 
 visible weapon, is unquestionably true. But I do riot con 
 fine myself to these circumstances. This young man writes 
 .a great many letters, it is supposed to his friends, but never 
 puts them in the post here, but every Saturday rides off, as 
 we afterward learn, to the village of Ellisland, where he 
 deposites them and receive others. This is a curious cir 
 cumstance, which alone should justify suspicion. 
 
 " The ways of God are intricate, Brother Calvert," said 
 John Cross, " and we are not to suspect the truth which 
 we can not understand." 
 
 " But these are the ways of man, Brother Cross." 
 
 " And the man of God is governed by the God which is 
 in him. He obeys a law which, perhaps, is ordered to be 
 hidden from thy sight." 
 
 " This doctrine certainly confers very extraordinary priv 
 ileges upon the man of God," said Calvert, quietly, " and, 
 perhaps, this is one reason why the profession is so prolific 
 of professors now-a-days ; but the point does not need dis 
 cussion. Enough lias been shown to awaken suspicion and 
 doubt in the case of any ordinary person ; and I now come 
 
380 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 to that portion of the affair which is sustained by the tosti 
 raony of Ned Hiukley, our young friend here, who, what 
 ever his faults may be, has been always regarded in Chaiio 
 mont, as a lover and speaker of the truth." 
 
 Ay, ay, so far as he knows what the truth is," said old 
 Binkley, scornfully. 
 
 - And I m just as likely to know what the truth is as 
 you, uncle !" retorted the young man, rising and coming 
 forward from his corner. 
 
 " Come, come," he continued, " you re not going to ride 
 rough shod over me as you did over Cousin Bill. I don t care 
 a snap of the finger, I can tell you, for all your puffed 
 cheej^s and big bellied speeches. I don t, I toll you !" and 
 suiting the action to the word, the sturdy fellow snapped 
 lis fingers almost under the nose of his uncle, which was 
 now erected heavenward, with a more scornful pre-eminence 
 than ever. The sudden entrance of Mrs. Hinklcy, from 
 her search after Steven s s pistols, prevented any rough issue 
 between these new parties, as it seemed to tell in favor of 
 Stevens. There were no pistols to be found. The old lady 
 did not add, indeed, that thcrs was nothing of any kind to 
 be found belonging to the same worthy. 
 
 " There ! That s enough !" said old Hinkley. 
 
 " Did you find anything of Stevcns s, Mrs, Hinkley ?" 
 inquired Mr. Calvert. 
 
 " Nothing, whatever." 
 
 " Well, madam," said Calvert, " your search, if it proves 
 anything, proves the story of Ned Hinkley conclusively. 
 This man has carried off all his chattels." 
 
 John Cross looked down from heaven, and stared inquir 
 ingly at Mrs. Ilinkley. 
 
 " Is this true ? Have you found nothing, Sister Betsy ?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 c - And Brother Stevens has not como back ?" 
 
 i* NO !" 
 
 :< And reason for it,, enough," said eld Ki?ikley. ^ Did nt 
 
THE REVELATION. 381 
 
 you hear that Ned Hinkley threatened to shoot him if he 
 carne back ?" 
 
 " Look you, -mcle," said the person thus accused, " if 
 you was anybod, ^e ; and a little younger, I d thrash you 
 for that speech the ..-.me as if it was a lie ! I would." 
 
 " Peace !" said C 4vcrt, looking sternly at the youth. 
 Having- obtained temporary, silence, he was permitted at 
 length to struggle th .-ough his narrative, and to place, in 
 their proper lights, al! the particulars which Ned Hinkley 
 had obtained at Ellis iand. When this was done the dis 
 cussion was renewed, and raged, with no little violence, for 
 a full hour. At length it ceased through the sheer exhaus 
 tion of the parties. Calvert was the first to withdraw from 
 it, as he soon discovered that such was the bigotry of old 
 Hinkley and his wife, and even of John Cross himself, 
 that nothing short of divine revelation could persuade 
 them of the guilt of one who had once made a religious 
 profession. 
 
 Brother Cross, though struck with some of the details 
 which Calvert had given, was afterward prepared to regard 
 them as rather trivial than otherwise, and poor Ned was 
 doomed to perceive that the conviction was general in this 
 ho)y family, that he had, by his violence, and the terror 
 which his pistols had inspired, driven away, in desperation, 
 the most meek and saintly of all possible young apostles. 
 The youth was nearly furious ere the evening and the dis 
 cussion were over. It was very evident, to Calvert that 
 nothing was needed, should Stevens come back, but a bold 
 front and a lying tongue, to maintain his position in the 
 estimation of the flock, until such time as the truth would 
 make itself known a thing which, eventually, always hap 
 pens. That night Ned Ilinkley dreamed of nothing but of 
 shooting Stevens and his comrade and of thrashing his mi 
 cle. What did Margaret Cooper dream of? 
 
882 CFIARLEMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 STORM AND CONVULSION. 
 
 WHAT did Margaret Cooper dream of? Disappointment, 
 misery, death. There was a stern presentiment in her 
 waking thoughts, sufficiently keen arid agonizing to inspire 
 such dreadful apprehensions in her dreams. The tempera 
 ment which is sanguine, and which, in a lively mood, in 
 spires hope, is, at the same time, the source of those dark 
 images of thought and feeling, which appal it with the most 
 terrifying forms of fear ; and when Saturday and Saturday 
 night came and passed, and Alfred Stevens did not appear, 
 a lurking dread that would not be chidden or kept down, 
 continued to rise within her soul, which, without assuming 
 any real form or decisive speech, was yet suggestive of com- 
 Dlete overthrow and ruin. 
 
 Her dreams were of this complexion. She felt herself 
 abandoned. Nor merely abandoned. She was a victim. 
 In her desolation she had even lost her pride. She could 
 no longer meet the sneer with scorn. She could no longer 
 carry a lofty brow arnor.g the little circle, who, once hav 
 ing cnviod, were now about to despise her. To the impa 
 tient spirit, once so strong so insolent in its strength 
 what a pang what a humiliation was here! In her 
 dreams she saw the young maidens of the village stand 
 aloof, as she had once stood aloof from them:- sVe heard 
 the senseless titter of their laugh ; and she had no courage 
 to resent th.3 impertinence. Her courage was buried in 
 
STOltM. AND CONVULSION. 353 
 
 ner shame. No heart is so cowardly as that which is eon- 
 scions of guilt. Picture after picture of this sort did hoi 
 fancy present to her that night ; and when she awoke the 
 next morn ing, the sadness of her soul had taken the color 
 of a deep and brooding misanthropy. Sucli had been the 
 cllect of her dreams. Her resolution came only from de 
 spair; and resolution from such a source, we well know, is 
 usually only powerful against itself. 
 
 It is one proof of a religious instinct, and of a universal 
 belief in a controlling and benevolent Deity, that all men 
 however abased, scornful of divine and human law, inva 
 riably, in their moments of desperation, call uv on God. 
 Their first appeal is, involuntarily, to him. The outlaw, 
 as the fatal bullet pierces his breast the inlidel, sinking 
 and struggling in the water the cold stony heart of the 
 murderer, the miser, the assassin of reputation as of life 
 all cry out upon God in the unexpected paroxysms of death. 
 Let us hope that the instinct w.iicU prompts this involun 
 tary appeal for mercy, somewhat helps to secure its bles 
 sings. Jt is thus also with one who, in the hey-day of the 
 youthful heart, has lived without thought or prayer a 
 tumultuous life of uproar and riot a long carnival of the 
 passions the warm blood suppressing the cool thought, 
 and making the reckless heart impatient of consideration. 
 Let the sudden emergency arise, with such a heart let 
 the blood become stagnant with disease and the involun 
 tary appeal is to that God, of whom before there was no 
 thought. We turn to him as to a father who is equally 
 strong to help and glad to preserve us. 
 
 Margaret Cooper, in the ordinary phrase, had lived with 
 out God. Her God was in her own heart, beheld by the 
 lurid fires of an intense, unmethodized ambition. Her own 
 strength or rather the persuasion of her own strength - 
 had been so great, that hitherto she had seen no necessity 
 for appealing to any other source of power. She might 
 now well begin to distrust that strength. She did so. Her 
 
( II. \ULKMO NT. 
 
 desperation was not of that sort utterly to shut out hope; 
 and, while there is hope, there is yet a moral assurance that 
 the worst is not yet perhaps not to be, T 3ut. she wan 
 humbled not enough, perhaps but c .ugh to feel the 
 necessity of calling in her allies. She cropped by her bed 
 side, in prayer, when she arose that morning. We do not 
 say that she prayed for forgiveness, without reference to 
 her future earthly desires. Few of us know how to sim 
 plify our demands upon the Deity to this one. We pray 
 that he may assist us in this or that grand speculation : the 
 planter for a great crop ; the banker for investments that 
 give him fifty per cent. ; the lawyer for more copious fees ; 
 the parson for an increase of salary. How few pray for 
 mercy forgiveness for the past strength to sustain the 
 struggling conscience in the future ! Poor Margaret ^as 
 no wiser, no better, than the rest of us. She prayed - 
 silly woman ! that Alfred Stevens might keep his engsr j- 
 ment ! 
 
 J I e did not ! " That day chc was to be married ! She 
 had some reference to this in making her toilet that mom- 
 ing. The garments which she put on were all of white. 
 A white rose gleamed palely from amid the raven hair upon 
 her brow. Beautiful was she, exceedingly. How beauti 
 ful ! but alas! the garb she wore the pale, sweet flower 
 on her forehead they were mockeries the emblems of 
 that purity of soul, that innocence of heart, which we--e 
 gone gone for ever ! She shuddered as she beheld the 
 flower, and meditated this thought. Silently she took the 
 (lower from her forehead, and, as if it wero precious as tint 
 lost jewel of which it reminded her, she carefully place! it 
 away in her toilet-case. 
 
 Yet her beauty was heightened rather than diminished. 
 Margaret Cooper was beautiful after no ordinary mould. 
 Tall in stature, with a frame rounded by the most natural 
 proportions into symmetry, and so formed for grace ; with 
 a power of muscle more than common among women, which. 
 
STORM AND CONVULSION. 385 
 
 by inducing- activity, made her movements as easy as they 
 were graceful ; with an eye bright like the morning-star, 
 and with a depth of expression darkly clear, like that of 
 the same golden orb at night ; with a face exquisitely oval ; 
 a mouth of great sweetness ; cheeks on which the slightest 
 dash of hue from the red, red rose in June, might be seen 
 to come and go under the slightest promptings of the ac 
 tive heart within ; a brow of great height and corresponding 
 expansion ; with a bust that impressed you with a sense of 
 the maternal strength which might be harbored there, even 
 as the swollen bud gives promises of the full-bosomed luxu 
 riance of the flower when it opens : add to these a lofty 
 carriage, a look where the quickened spirit seems ever 
 ready for utterance ; a something of eager solemnity in her 
 speech ; and a play of expression on her lips which, if the 
 brow were less lofty and the eye less keenly bright, might 
 be a smile and you have some idea of that noble and 
 lovely temple on which fires of lava had been raised by an 
 unholy hand ; in which a secret worship is carried on which 
 dreads the light, shrinks from exposure, and trembles to be 
 seen by the very Deity whose favor it yet seeks in prayer 
 and apprehension. 
 
 These beauties of person as we have essayed, though 
 most feebly, to describe them, were enhanced rather than les 
 sened by that air of anxiety by which they were now over 
 cast. Her step was no longer free. It was marked by an 
 unwonted timidity. Her glance was no longer confident ; 
 and when she looked round upon the faces of the young 
 village-maidens, it was seen that her lip trembled and 
 moved, but no longer with scorn. If the truth were told, 
 she now envied the meanest of those maidens that security 
 which her laok of beauty had guarantied. She, the scorner 
 of all around her, now envied the innocence of the very 
 meanest of her companions. 
 
 Such was the natural effect of her unhappy experience 
 
 17 
 
CHARLEMONT. 
 
 upon her heart. What would she not have given to be like 
 one of them ? She dared not take her place, in the church, 
 among them. It was a dread that kept her back. Strange, 
 wondrous power of innocence ! The guilty girl felt that she 
 might be repulsed ; that her frailty might make itself known 
 must make itself known ; and she would be driven with 
 *hame from that communion with the pure to which she had 
 1:0 longer any claim ! She sunk into one of the humblest 
 treats in the church, drawing her reluctant mother into the 
 lowly place beside her. 
 
 John Cross did not that day address himself to her case : 
 but sin has a family similitude among all its members. 
 There is an unmistakeable likeness, which runs through the 
 connection. If the preacher speaks fervently to one sin, ho 
 is very apt to goad, in some degree, all the rest : and though 
 Brother Cross had not the most distant idea of singling out 
 Margaret Cooper for his censure, yet there was a whisper 
 ing devil at her elbow that kept up a continual commentary 
 upon what he said, filling her ears with a direct application 
 of every syllable to her own peculiar instance. 
 
 " See you not," said the demon, " that every eye is turned 
 upon you ? lie sees into your soul ; he knows your secret, 
 lie declares it, as you hear, aloud, with a voice of thunder, 
 to all the congregation. Do you not perceive that you sit 
 alone ; that everybody shrinks from your side ; that your 
 miserable old mother alone sits with you ; that the eyes of 
 some watch you with pity, but more with indignation ? Look 
 at the young damsels late your companions they arc 
 your companions no longer ! They triumph in your shame. 
 Their titter is only suppressed because of the place in which 
 they are. They ask : Is this the maiden who was so wise, 
 so strong who scorned us scorned us, indeed! and 
 was not able to baffle the serpent in his very first approach 
 es? lla! ha! How they laugh! Well, indeed, they 
 may. It is very laughable, Margaret not less laughable 
 and amusing than strange ! that you should have fallen * 
 
STOi. M .,ND CONVULSION. o-S7 
 
 so easily, so blindly and not even to suspect \vliat e^ 
 ery one else was sure of! Margaret! Margaret! can it 
 be true? Who will believe in your wit now, your genius. 
 your beauty ? Smutched and smutted ! Poor, weak, de 
 graded ! If there is pity for you, Margaret, it is full of 
 mockery too; it is a pity that is full of bitterness. You 
 should now cast yourself down, and cover yourself with 
 ashes, and cry, Wo is me ! and call upon the rocks an<i 
 the hills to cover you !" 
 
 Such was the voice in her soul, which to her senses 
 seemed like that of some jibing demon at her elbow. Mar 
 garet tried to pray to expel him by prayer; but the 
 object of his mockery had not been attained. She couk 1 
 not surrender herself entirely to the chastener. She was 
 scourged, but not humbled ; and the language of the demon 
 provoked defiance, not humility. Her proud spirit rose 
 once more against the pressure put upon it. Her bright, 
 dazzling eye flashed in scorn upon the damsels whom she 
 now fancied to be actually tittering scarcely able to sup 
 press their laughter at her obvious disgrace. On John 
 Cross she fixed her fearless eye, like that of some fallen 
 angel, still braving the chastener, whom he can not contend 
 with. A strange strength for even sin has its strength 
 for a season came to her relief in that moment of fiend 
 ish mockery. The strength of an evil spirit was accorded 
 her. Her heart once more swelled with pride. Her soul 
 once more insisted on its ascendency. She felt, though she 
 did not say : 
 
 " Even as I am, overthrown, robbed of rny treasure, .1 
 feel that I am superior to these. I feel that I have strength 
 against the future. If they are pure and innocent, it is not 
 because of their greater strength, but their greater obscu 
 rity. If I am overthrown by the tempter, it was because I 
 was the more worthy object of overthrow. In their little 
 ness they live: if I am doomed to the shaft, at least it wili 
 be as the eagle is doomed ; it will re while so;irini>- aloft-- 
 
?uS8 CHABLflMONT. 
 
 wliile aiming for the sun while grasping at the very bolt 
 by which I am destroyed !" 
 
 Such was the consolation offered by the twin-demons of 
 pride and vanity. The latter finds its aliment in the heart 
 which it too completely occupies, even from those circum 
 stances which, in other eyes, make its disgrace and weak 
 ness. The sermon which had touched her sin had not sub 
 dued it. Perhaps no sermon, no appeal, however powerful 
 and touching, could at that moment have had power ov.^r 
 her. t The paroxysm of her first consciousness of ruin ha.l 
 not yet passed off. The condition of mind was not yet 
 reached in which an appeal could be felt. 
 
 As in the case of physical disease, so with that of the 
 mind and heart, there is a period when it is neither useful 
 nor prudent to administer the medicines which are yet most 
 necessary to safety. The judicious physician will wait for 
 the moment when the frame is prepared when the pulse 
 is somewhat subdued before he tries the most powerful 
 remedy. The excitement of the wrong which she had suf 
 fered was still great in her bosom. It was necessary that 
 she should have repose. That excitement was maintained 
 by the expectation that Stevens would yet make his appear 
 ance. Her eye, at intervals, wandered over the assembly in 
 search of him. The demon at her elbow understood her quest. 
 
 " lie will not come," it said; "you look in vain. The 
 r nrls follow your eyes ; they behold your disappointment ; 
 they laugh at your credulity. If he leads any to the altar, 
 think you it will be one whom he could command at pleas 
 ure without any such conditions one who, in her wikl pas 
 sions and disordered vanity, could so readily yield to his 
 desires, without demanding any corresponding sacrifices? 
 Margaret, they laugh now at those weaknesses of a mind 
 which they once feared if not honored. They wonder, now, 
 that they could have been so deceived. If they do not 
 laugh aloud, Margaret, it is because they would spare your 
 shame. Indeed, indeed, they pity you!" 
 
STOIIM AND CONVULSION 889 
 
 The head of the desperate, but still haughty woman, was 
 now more proudly uplifteu, and her eyes shot forth yet 
 fiercer fires of indignation. What a conflict was going on 
 in her bosom. Her cheeks glowed with the strife her 
 breast heaved ; with difficulty she maintained her seat in 
 flexibly, and. continued, without other signs of discompo 
 sure, until the service was concluded. Her step was more 
 stately than ever as she walked from church ; and while 
 her mother lingered behind to talk with Brother Cross, and 
 to exchange the sweetest speeches with the widow Thacke 
 ray and others, she went on alone seeing none, heeding 
 none dreading to meet any face lest it should wear a 
 smile and look the language in which the demon at her 
 side still dealt. He still clung to her, with the tenacity of 
 a fiendish purpose. He mocked her with her shame, goad 
 ing her, with dart upon dart, of every sort of mockery. 
 Truly did he mutter in her cars : 
 
 " Stevens has abandoned you. Never was child, before 
 yourself, so silly as to believe such a promise as he made 
 you. Do you doubt ? do you still hope ? It is madness ? 
 Why came he not yesterday last night to-day? He is 
 gone. He has abandoned you. You are not only alone 
 you are lost! lost for ever!" 
 
 The tidings of this unsolicited attendant were confirmed 
 the next day, by the unsuspecting John Cross. He came 
 to visit Mrs. Cooper and her daughter among the first of 
 his parishioners. He had gathered from the villagers 
 already that Stevens had certainly favored Miss Cooper 
 beyond all the rest of the village damsels. Indeed, it was 
 no\\ r generally bruited that he was engaged to her in mar 
 riage. Though the worthy preacher had very stoutly re 
 sisted the suggestions of Mr. Calvert, and the story of Ned 
 Hinkley, he was yet a little annoyed by them ; and he 
 fancied that, if Stevens were, indeed, engaged to Margaret, 
 she, or perhaps the old lady, might relieve his anxiety by 
 accounting for the absence of his protege. The notion of 
 
890 CHARLKMONT. 
 
 Brother John was, that, having resolved to marry the 
 maiden, lie had naturally gone home to apprize his parents 
 and to make the necessary preparations. 
 
 But this conjecture brought with it a new anxiety. It 
 now, for the first time, seemed something strange that 
 Stevens had never declared to himself, or to anybody else 
 who his parents were what they were where they were 
 what business they pursued; or anything about them. 
 Of his friends, they knew as little. The simple old man 
 had never thought of these things, until the propriety of 
 such inquiries was forced upon him by the conviction that 
 they would now be made in vain. The inability to answer 
 them, when it was necessary that an answer should be 
 found, was a commentary upon his imprudence which 
 startled the good old man not a little. But, in the confi 
 dent hope that a solution of the difficulty could be afforded 
 by the sweetheart or the mother, he proceeded to her cot 
 tage. Of course, Calvcrt, in his communication to him, 
 had forborne those darker conjectures which he could not 
 help but entertain ; and his simple auditor, unconscious 
 himself of any thought of evil, had never himself formed 
 any such suspicions. 
 
 Margaret Cooper w r as in her chamber when Brother 
 Cross arrived. She had lost that elasticity of temper 
 which would have carried her out at that period among 
 the hills in long rambles, led by those wild, wooing 
 companions, which gambol along the paths of poetic con 
 templation. The old man opened his stores of scandal to 
 Mrs. Cooper with little or no hesitation. He told her all 
 that Gal vert had said, all that Ned Hinkley had fancied 
 himself to have heard, and all the village tattle touching 
 the engagement supposed tc exist between Stevens and her 
 daughter. 
 
 " Of course, Sister Cooper," said he, " I believe nothing 
 of this sort against the youth. I should be sorry to think 
 it of one whom 1 plucked as a brand from the burning. 1 
 
STOilM AND CONVULSION. 391 
 
 hold Brother Stevens to be a wise young man and a pious ; 
 and truly I fear, as indeed I learn, that there is in the mind 
 of Ned Hinkley a bitter dislike to the youth, because of 
 Borne quarrel which Brother Stevens is said to have had 
 with William Hinkley. This dislike hath made him con 
 ceive evil things of Brother Stevens and to misunderstand 
 and to pervert some conversation which he hath overheard 
 which Stevens hath had with his companion. Truly, in 
 deed, 1 think that Alfred Stevens is a worthy youth of 
 whom we shall hear a good account." 
 
 " And I think so too, Brother Cross. Brother Stevens 
 will be yet a burning and a shining light in the church. 
 There is a malice against him ; and I think I know the 
 cause, .Brother Cross." 
 
 " Ah ! this will be a light unto our footsteps, Sister 
 Cooper." 
 
 " Thou knowest, Brother Cross," resumed the old lady 
 in a subdued tone but with a loftier elevation of eyebrows 
 and head " thou knowest the great beauty of my daugh 
 ter Margaret?" 
 
 u The maiden is comely, sister, comely among the maid 
 ens ; but beauty is grass. It is a flower which blooms at 
 morning and is cut down in the evening. It withereth on 
 the stalk where it bloomed, until men turn from it with 
 sickening and with sorrow, remembering what it hath been. 
 Be not boastful of thy daughter s beauty, Sister Cooper 
 it is the beauty of goodness alone which dieth not." 
 
 " But said I not, Brother Cross, of her wisdom, and her 
 wit, as well as her beauty?" replied the old lady with 
 some little pique. " I was forgetful of much, if I spoke 
 only of the beauty of person which Margaret Cooper 
 surely possesseth, and which the eyes of blindness itself 
 might see." 
 
 " Dross, dross all, Sister Cooper. The wit of man is a 
 flash which blindeth and maketh dark ; and the wisdom of 
 man is a vain thing. The one crackleth like thorns beneath 
 
392 
 
 the pot the other stiilcth the heart and kcepcth down the 
 soul from her true Iliglit. I count the wit and wisdom of 
 thy daughter even as I count her beauty. She hath all, I 
 think as they are known to and regarded by men. But 
 all is nothing. Beauty hath a day s life like the butterfly ; 
 wit shineth like the sudden flash of the lightning, leaving 
 only the cloud behind it ; and oh ! for the vain wisdom of 
 man which makes him vain and unsteady likely to falter 
 
 liable to fall rash in his judgment erring in his aims 
 
 blind to his duty wilful in his weakness insolent to 
 his fellow presumptuous in the sight of God. Talk not 
 to me of worldly wisdom. It is the foe to prayer and 
 meekness. The very fruit of the tree which brought sin 
 and death into the world. Thy daughter is fair to behold 
 
 very fair among the maidens of our flock none fairer, 
 none so fair : God hath otherwise blessed her with a bright 
 mind and a quick intelligence ; but I think not that she is 
 wise to salvation. No, no ! she hath not yearned to the 
 holy places of the tabernacle, unless it be that Brother 
 Stevens hath been more blessed in his ministry than I !" 
 
 " And he hath !" exclaimed the mother. " I tell you, 
 Brother John, the heart of Margaret Cooper is no longer 
 what it was. It is softened. The toils of Brother Stevens 
 have not been in vain. Blessed young man, no wonder 
 they hate and defame him. He hath had a power over 
 Margaret Cooper such as man never had before ; and it is 
 for this reason that Bill Hinkley and Ned conspired against 
 him, first to take his life, and then to speak evil of his 
 deeds. They beheld the beauty of my daughter, and they 
 looked on her with famishing eyes. She sent them a-pack- 
 ing, I tell you. But this youth, Brother Stevens, found 
 favor in her heart. They beheld the two as they went 
 forth together. Ah ! Brother John, it is the sweetest sight 
 to behold two young, loving people walk forth in amity 
 born, as it would seem, for each other ; both so tall, and 
 young, and handsome ; walking together with such smiles, 
 
STORM AND CONVULSION. 393 
 
 as if there was no sorrow in the world ; as if there was 
 nothing but flowers and sweetness on the path ; as if they 
 could see nothing but one another ; and as if there were 
 no enemies looking on. It did my heart good to see them, 
 Brother Cross ; they always looked so happy with one 
 another." 
 
 " And you think, Sister Cooper, that Brother Stevens 
 hath agreed to take Margaret to wife ?" 
 
 " She hath not told me this yet, but in truth, I think it 
 hath very nigh come to that." 
 
 " Where is she ?" 
 
 " In her chamber." 
 
 " Call her hither, Sister Cooper ; let us ask of her the 
 truth." 
 
 Margaret Cooper was summoned, and descended with 
 slow steps and an unwilling spirit to meet their visiter. 
 
 " Daughter," said the good old man, taking her hand, 
 and leading her to a sent, " tliou art, even as thy mother 
 sayest, one of exceeding beauty. Few damsels have ever 
 met mine eyes with a beauty like to thine. No wonder the 
 young men look on thee with eyes of love ; but let not the 
 love of youth betray thee. The love of God is the only 
 love that is precious to the heart of wisdom." 
 
 Thus saying, the old man gazed on her with as much 
 admiration as was consistent with the natural coldness of 
 his temperament, his years, and his profession. His ad 
 dress, so different from usual, had a soothing effect upon 
 her. A sigh escaped her, but she said nothing. He then 
 proceeded to renew the history which had been given to 
 him and which he had already detailed to her mother. She 
 heard him with patience, in spite of all his interpolations 
 from Scripture, his ejaculations, his running commentary 
 upon the narrative, and the numerous suggestive topics 
 which took him from episode to episode, until the story 
 seemed interminably mixed up in the digression. 
 
 But when he came to that portion which related to the 
 17* 
 
ot 4 CIIAIILEMONT. 
 
 adventure of Ned Hinklcy, to his espionage, the conference 
 of Stevens with his companion then she started then 
 her breathing became suspended, then quickened then 
 again suspended and then, so rapid in its rush, that her 
 emotion became almost too much for her powers of sup 
 pression. 
 
 But she did suppress it, with a power, a resolution, not 
 often paralleled among men still more seldom among 
 women. After the first spasmodic acknowledgment given 
 by her surprise, she listened with comparative calmness. 
 She, alone, had the key to that conversation. She, alone, 
 knew its terrible signification. She knew that Ned Hink- 
 ley was honest was to be believed that he was too sim 
 ple, and too sincere, for any such invention ; and, sitting 
 with hands clasped upon that chair the only attitude 
 which expressed the intense emotion which she felt she 
 gazed with unembarrassed eye upon the face of the speaker, 
 while every word which he spoke went like some keen, 
 death-giving instrument into her heart. 
 
 The whole dreadful history of the villany of Stevens, her 
 irreparable ruin was now clearly intelligible. The mock 
 ing devil at her elbow had spoken nothing but the truth. 
 She was indeed the poor victim of a crafty villain. In the 
 day of her strength and glory she had fallen fallen, fal 
 len, fallen ! 
 
 " Why am I called to hear this?" she demanded with 
 singular composure. 
 
 The old man and the mother explained in the same 
 breath that she might reveal the degree of intercourse 
 which had taken place between them, and, if possible, ac 
 count for the absence of her lover. That, in short, she 
 might refute the malice of enemies and establish the false 
 hood of their suggestions. 
 
 " You wish to know if I believe this story of Ned 
 llinkley ?" 
 
 u Even so, my daughter." 
 
STORM A XI) CONVULSION. 895 
 
 "Then, 1 do!" 
 
 " Ha ! what is it you say, Margaret ?" 
 
 " The truth." 
 
 " What?" demanded the preacher, "you can not surely 
 mean that Brother Stevens hath been a wolf in sheep s 
 clothing that he hath been a hypocrite." 
 
 "Alas!" thought Margaret Cooper " have I not Jjeen 
 my own worst enemy did I not know him to be this from 
 the first?" 
 
 Her secret reflection remained, however, unspoken. She 
 answered the demand of John Cross without a moment s 
 hesitation. 
 
 " I believe that Alfred Stevens is all that he is charged 
 to be a hypocrite. a wolf in sheep s clothing! I see 
 no reason to doubt the story of Ned Hinkley. He is an 
 honest youth." 
 
 The old lady was in consternation. The preacher aghast 
 and confounded. 
 
 " Tell me, Margaret," said the former, " hath he not 
 engaged himself to you? Did he not promise is he not 
 sworn to be your husband ?" 
 
 " I have already given you my belief. I see no reason 
 to say anything more. What more do you need ? Is he 
 not gone fled has he not failed " 
 
 She paused abruptly, while a purple flush went over hor 
 face. She rose to retire. 
 
 "Margaret!" exclaimed the mother. 
 
 " My daughter !" said John Cross. 
 
 " Speak out what you know tell us all " 
 
 " No ! I will say no more. You know enough already. 
 I tell you, I believe Alfred Stevens to be a hypocrite and a 
 villain. Is not that enough ? What is it to you whether 
 he is so or not ? What is it to me, at least ? You do not 
 suppose that it is anything to me ? Why should you ? 
 What should he be? I tell you lie is nothing to me 
 nothing nothing nothing! Villain or hypocrite, or 
 
CHARLEMONT. 
 
 what not lie is no more to me than the earth on which 1 
 tread. Let me hear no more about him, I pray you. I 
 would not hear his name ! Are there not villains enough 
 in the world, that you should think and speak of one 
 only?" 
 
 With these vehement words she left the room, and 
 hurled to her chamber. She stopped suddenly before the 
 mirror. 
 
 " And is it thus !" she exclaimed " and I am " 
 
 The mother by this time had followed her into the 
 room. , 
 
 "What is the meaning of this, Margaret? tell me!" 
 cried the old woman in the wildest agitation. 
 
 "What should it be, mother? Look at me! in my 
 eyes do they not tell you ? Can you not read ?" 
 
 "I see nothing I do not understand you, Marga 
 ret." 
 
 "Indeed! but you shall understand me! I thought my 
 face would tell you without my words. I see it there, 
 legible enough, to myself. Look again ! spare me if you 
 can spare your own cars the necessity of hearing mo 
 speak !" 
 
 " You terrify me, Margaret I fear you are out of your 
 mind. 
 
 " No ! no ! that need not be your fear ; nor, were it true, 
 would it be a fear of mine. It might be something to hope 
 to pray for. It might bring relief. Hear me, since you 
 will not see. You ask me why I believe Stevens to be a 
 villain. I know it." 
 
 " Ha ! how know it !" 
 
 " How ! How should I know it ? Well, I see that I 
 must speak. Listen then. You bade me seek and make a 
 conquest of him, did you not? Do not deny it, mother 
 you did." 
 
 " Well, if I did ?" 
 
 " I succeeded ! Without trying, I succeeded ! He de- 
 
STORM AND CONVULSION. 397 
 
 clarcd to me his love he did! he promised to marry 
 me. He was to have married me yesterday to have met 
 me in church and married me. John Cross was to have 
 performed the ceremony. Well! you saw me there you 
 saw me in white the dress of a bride ! Did he come r 
 Did you see him there ? Did you see the ceremony per 
 formed ?" 
 
 " No, surely not you know without asjdng." 
 
 "I know without asking! surely I do! but look 
 you, mother do you think that conquests are to be made, 
 hearts won, loves confessed, pledges given, marriage-day 
 fixed do these things take place, as matters of pure form ? 
 Is there no sensation no agitation no beating and vio 
 lence about the heart. in the blood in the brain! I tell 
 you there is a blinding violence, a wild, stormy, sensa 
 tion fondness, forgetfulness, madness ! I say, madness ! 
 madness ! madness !" 
 
 " Oli, my daughter, what can all this mean ? Speak 
 calmly, bo deliberate !" 
 
 " Calm ! deliberate ! What a monster if I could be ! 
 But I am not mad now. I will tell you what it means. 
 It means that, in taking captive Alfred Stevens in win 
 ning a lover securing that pious young man there 
 was some difficulty, some peril. Would you believe it? 
 there were some privileges which he claimed. He 
 took me in his arms. Ha ! ha ! He held me panting to 
 his 1) roast. His mouth filled mine with kisses " 
 
 " No more, do not say more, my child !" 
 
 " Ay, more ! more ! much more ! I tell you then came 
 blindness and madness, and I was dishonored made a 
 woman before I was made a wife ! Ruined, lost, abused, 
 despised, abandoned ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! no marriage cere 
 mony. Though I went to the church. No bridegroom 
 there, though he promised to come. Preacher, church, 
 bride, all present, yet no wedding. Ha ! ha ! ha ! How 
 
398 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 do I know! Good reason for it, good reason Ha! ha! 
 -ah!" 
 
 The paroxysn. terminated in a convulsion. The un 
 happy girl fell to the floor as if stricken in the forehead. 
 The blood gushed from her mouth and nostrils, and sho 
 lay insensible in the presence of the terrified and misera 
 ble mother. 
 
THE FATES FIND THK DAGGKtt AND THE BOWL. 09 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE FATES FIND THE DAGGER AND THE BOWL. 
 
 FOR a long time she lay without showing any signs o f 
 life. Her passions rebelled against the restraint which her 
 mind had endeavored to put upon them. Their concen 
 trated force breaking all bonds, so suddenly, was like the 
 terrific outburst of the boiling lava from the gorges of the 
 frozen mountain. Believing her dead, the mother rushed 
 headlong into the highway, rending the village with her 
 screams. She was for the time a perfect madwoman. 
 The neighbors gathered to her assistance. That much- 
 abused woman, the widow Thackeray, was the first to come. 
 Never was woman s tenderness more remarkable than hers 
 never was woman s watch by the bed of sickness and 
 suffering that watch which woman alone knows so well 
 how to keep more rigidly maintained than by her ! From 
 the first hour of that agony under which Margaret Cooper 
 fell to earth insensible, to the last moment ^n which her 
 recovery was doubtful, that widow Thackeray whose pas 
 sion for a husband had been described by Mrs. Cooper as 
 so very decided and evident maintained her place by the 
 sick bed of the stricken girl with all the affection of a 
 mother. Widow Thackeray was a woman who could laugh 
 merrily, but "she could shed tears with equal readiness. 
 These were equally the signs of prompt feeling and nice 
 susceptibility ; and the proud Margaret, and her invidious 
 mother, were both humbled by that spontaneous kindness 
 
FJU CIIARLKMONT. 
 
 for which, Hitherto, they had given the possessor so very 
 little credit, and to which they were now equally so greatly 
 indebted. 
 
 Medical attendance was promptly secured. Charlemont 
 had a very clever physician of the old school. He combined, 
 as was requisite in the forest region of our country, the 
 distinct offices of the surgeon and mediciner. He was tol 
 erably skilful in both departments. He found his patient 
 in a condition of considerable peril. She had broken a 
 blood-vessel ; and the nicest care and closest attendance 
 were necessary to her preservation. It will not need that 
 we .should go through the long and weary details which 
 followed to her final cure. Enough, that she did recover. 
 But for weeks her chance was doubtful. She lay for that 
 space of time, equally in the arms of life and death. For 
 a long period, she herself was unconscious of her situa 
 tion. 
 
 When she carne to know, the skill of her attendants de 
 rived very little aid from her consciousness. Her mind 
 was unfavorable to her cure ; and this, by the way, is a 
 very important particular in the fortunes of the sick. To 
 despond, to have a weariness of life, to forbear hope as well 
 as exertion, is, a hundred to one, to determine against the 
 skill of the physician. Margaret Cooper felt a willingness 
 to die. She felt her overthrow in the keenest pangs of its 
 shame ; and, unhappily, the mother, in her madness, had 
 declared it. 
 
 The story of her fall of the triumph of the serpent was 
 now the village property, and of course put an end to all 
 further doubts on the score of the piety of Brother Stevens ; 
 though, by way of qualification of his offence, old Hinkley 
 insisted that it was the fault of the poor damsel. 
 
 " She," ho said, " had tempted him had thrown her 
 self in his way had been brazen," and all that, of which 
 so much is commonly said in all similar cases. We, who 
 know the character of the parties, and have traced events 
 
THE FATES FIND THE DAGCJKU AND THE BOWL. 401 
 
 from the beginning, very well know how little of this is 
 true. Poor Margaret was a victim before she was well 
 aware of those passions which made her so. She was the 
 victim not of lust but of ambition. Never was woman more 
 unsophisticated less moved by unworthy and sinister 
 design. She had her weaknesses her pride, her vanity ; 
 and her passions, which were tremendous, worked upon 
 through these, very soon effected her undoing. But, for 
 deliberate purpose of evil of any evil of which her own 
 intellect was conscious the angels were not more inno 
 cent. 
 
 But mere innocence of evil design, in any one particular 
 condition, is not enough for security. We arc not only to 
 forbear evil ; virtue requires that we should be exercised 
 for the purposes of good. She lacked the moral strength 
 which such exercises, constantly pursued, would have as 
 sured her. She was a creature of impulse only, not of re 
 flection. Besides, she was ignorant of her particular weak 
 nesses. She was weak where she thought herself strong. 
 This is always the error of a person having a very decided 
 will. The will is constantly mistaken for the power. She 
 could not humble herself, and in her own personal capacities 
 capacities which had never before been subjected to any 
 ordeal-trial she relied for the force which was to sustain 
 her in every situation. Fancy a confident country-girl 
 supreme in her own district over the Hobs and Hinnies 
 thereabouts in conflict with the adroit man of the world, 
 and you have the whole history of Margaret Cooper, and 
 the secret of her misfortune. Let the girl have what nat 
 ural talent you please, and the case is by no means altered. 
 She must fall if she seeks or permits the conflict. She can 
 only escape by flight. It is in consideration of this human 
 weakness, that we pray God, nightly, not to suffer us to be 
 exposed to temptation. 
 
 When the personal resources of her own experience and 
 mind failed Margaret Cooper, ns at some time or other 
 
CHARLEMON1. 
 
 they must fail all who trust only in them, site hud no furthei 
 reliance. She had never learned to draw equal strength 
 and consolation from the sweet counsels of the sacred vol 
 nine. Regarding the wild raving and the senseless insan 
 ity, which are but too frequently the language of the vulgar 
 preacher, as gross ignorance and debasing folly, she com 
 mitted the unhappy error of confounding the preacher with 
 his cause. She had never been taught to make an habitual 
 reference to religion ; and her own experience of life, had 
 never forced upon her those sage reflections which would 
 have shown her that true religion is the very all of life, and 
 without it life has nothing. The humility of the psalmist, 
 which was the real source of all the strength allotted to the 
 monarch minstrel, was an unread lesson with her ; and never 
 having been tutored to refer to God, and relying upon her 
 own proud mind and daring imagination, what wonder that 
 these frail reeds should pierce her side while giving way 
 beneath her. 
 
 It was this very confidence in her own strength this 
 fearlessness of danger (and we repeat the lesson here, em 
 phatically, by way of warning) a confidence which the 
 possession of a quick and powerful mind naturally enough 
 inspires that effected her undoing. It was not by the 
 force of her affections that she fell. The affections are not 
 apt to be strong" in a woman whose mind leads her out from 
 her sex ! 
 
 The seducer triumphed through the medium of her vanity. 
 Her feeling of self-assurance had been thus active from 
 childhood, and conspicuous in all her sports and employ 
 ments. She had never been a child herself. She fed always 
 in the pastimes of her playmates, many of whom were older 
 herself. 
 
 She had no fears when others trembled ; and, if she did 
 not, at any time, so far transcend the bounds of filial duty 
 as to defy the counsels of her parents, it was certainly no 
 less true that she never sought for, and seldom seemed to 
 
THE FATES FIND THE DAGKJHIl AND THE BOWL. 403 
 
 need them. It is dangerous when the woman, through sheet 
 confidence in her own strength, ventures upon the verge of 
 the moral precipice. The very experiment, where the pas 
 sions are concerned, proves her to be lost. 
 
 Margaret Cooper, confident in her own footsteps, soon 
 learned to despise every sort of guardianship. The vanity 
 of her mother had not only counselled and stimulated her 
 own, but was of that gross and silly order, as to make itself 
 offensive to the judgment of the girl herself. This had the 
 effect of losing her all the authority of a parent ; and we 
 have already seen, in the few instances where this author 
 ity took the shape of counsel, that its tendency was to evil 
 rather than to good. 
 
 The arts of Alfred Stevens had, in reality, been very few. 
 It was only necessary that he should read the character of 
 his victim. This, as an experienced worldling expe 
 rienced in such a volume he was soon very able to do. 
 lie saw enough to discover, that, while Margaret Cooper 
 was endowed by nature with an extraordinary measure of 
 intellect, she was really weak because of its possession. In 
 due proportion to the degree of exercise to which she sub 
 jected her mere mind making that busy and restless 
 was the neglect of her sensibilities those nice antennceof 
 the heart. 
 
 " Whose instant touches, slightest pause," 
 
 teack the approach of the smallest forms of danger, however 
 inoffensive their shapes, however unobtrusive their advance. 
 When the sensibilities are neglected and suffered to fall into 
 disrepute, they grow idle first, and finally obtuse! even as 
 the limb which you forbear to exercise loses its muscle, and 
 withers into worthlessness. 
 
 When Alfred Stevens discovered this condition, his plan 
 was simple enough. lie had only to stimulate her mind 
 into bolder exercise to conduct it to topics of the utmost 
 hardihood to inspire that sort of moral recklessness which 
 
4:04 CIIAIiUvMUNT. 
 
 some people call courage -which delights to sport along 
 the edge of the precipice, and to summon audacious spirits 
 from the great yawning gulfs which lie below. This prac 
 tice is always pursued at the expense of those guardian 
 feelings which keep watch over the virtues of the tender 
 heart. 
 
 The analysis of subjects commonly forbidden to the sex, 
 necessarily tends to make dull those habitual sentinels 
 over the female conduct. These sentinels are instincts 
 rather than principles. Education can take them away, 
 but does not often confer them. When, through the arts 
 of Alfred Stevens, Margaret Cooper was led to discuss, 
 perhaps to despise, those nice and seemingly purposeless 
 barriers which society having the experience of ages 
 for its authority has wisely set up between the sexes 
 she had already taken a large stride toward passing 
 them. But of this, which a judicious education would 
 have taught her, she was wholly ignorant. Her mind was 
 too bold to be scrupulous ; too adventurous to be watchful ; 
 and if, at any moment, a pause in her progress permitted 
 her to think of the probable danger to her sex of such ad 
 venturous freedom, she certainly never apprehended it in 
 her own case. Such restraints she conceived to be essen 
 tial only for the protection of the weak among her sex. 
 Her vanity led her to believe that she was strong ; and the 
 approaches of the sapper were conducted with too much 
 caution, with a progress too stealthy and insensible, to" 
 startle the ear or attract the eye of the unobservant, yet 
 keen-eyed guardian of her citadel. An eagle perched upon 
 a rock, with wing outspread for flight, and an eye fixed 
 upon the rolling clouds through which it means to dart, is 
 thus heedless of the coiled serpent which lies beneath its 
 feet. 
 
 The bold eye of Margaret Cooper was thus heedless. 
 Gazing upon the sun, she saw not the serpent at her feet. 
 It was not because she slept : never was eye brighter, more 
 
THE FATES FiND THE DAGGER AND THE BOWL. 405 
 
 far-stretching ; never was mind more busy, more active, 
 than that of the victim at the very moment when she fell. 
 It was because she watched the remote, not the near the 
 region in which there was no enemy, nothing but glory 
 and neglected that post which is always in danger. Her 
 error is that of the general who expends his army upon 
 some distant province, leaving his chief city to the assault 
 and sack of the invader. 
 
 We have dwelt somewhat longer upon the moral causes 
 which, in our story, have produced such cruel results, than 
 the mere story itself demands ; but no story is perfectly 
 moral unless the author, with a wholesome commentary, 
 directs the attention of the reader to the true weaknesses 
 of his hero, to the point where his character fails ; to the 
 causes of this failure, and the modes in which it may be 
 repaired or prevented. In this way alone may the details 
 of life and society be properly welded together into con 
 sistent doctrine, so that instruction may keep pace with 
 delight, and the heart and mind be informed without being 
 conscious of any of those tasks which accompany the les 
 sons of experience. 
 
 To return now to our narrative. 
 
 Margaret Cooper lived ! She might as well have died. 
 This was her thought, at least. She prayed for death. 
 Was it in mercy that her prayer was denied ? We shall 
 sec ! Youth and a vigorous constitution successfully re 
 sisted the attacks of the assailant. They finally obtained 
 the victory. After a weary spell of bondage and suffering, 
 she recovered. But she recovered only to the conscious 
 ness of a new affliction. All the consequences of her 
 fatal lapse from virtue have not yet been told. She bore 
 within her an indelible witness of her shame. She was 
 destined to be a mother without having been a wife ! 
 
 This, to her mother at least, was a more terrible discov 
 ery than the former. She literally cowered and crouched 
 oei>eath it. It was the written shame, rather than tho 
 
406 CMAULEMONT. 
 
 actual, which the old woman dreaded. She had been so 
 vain, so criminally vain, of her daughter she had made 
 her so constantly the subject of her brag that, unwitting 
 of having declared the whole melancholy truth, in the first 
 moment of her madness, she shrunk, with an unspeakable 
 horror, from the idea that the little world in which she 
 lived should become familiar with the whole cruel history 
 of her overthrow. She could scarcely believe it herself, 
 though the daughter, with an anguish in her eyes that left 
 little to be told, had herself revealed the truth. Her pride, 
 as well as her life, was linked with the pride and the beauty 
 of her child. She had shared in her constant triumphs over 
 all around her ; and overlooking, as a fond, foolish mother 
 is apt to do, all her faults of temper or of judgment, she 
 had learned to behold nothing but her superiority. And 
 now to see her fallen ! a thing of scorn, which was lately a 
 tiling of beauty ! the despised, which was lately the wor 
 shipped and the wondered at ! No wonder that her weak, 
 vain heart was crushed and humbled, and her head bowed 
 in sorrow to the earth. She threw herself upon the floor, 
 and wept bitter and scalding tears. 
 
 The daughter had none. Without sob or sigh, she stooped 
 down and tenderly assisted the old woman to rise. Why 
 had she no tears ? She asked herself this question, but in 
 vain. Her external emotions promised none. Indeed, she 
 seemed to be without emotions. A weariness and general 
 indifference to all things was now the expression of her fea 
 tures. But this was the deceitful aspect of the mountain, 
 on whose breast contemplation sits with silence, unconscious 
 of the tossing flame which within is secretly fusing the stub 
 born metal and the rock. Anger was in her breast feel 
 ings of hate mingled up with shame scorn of herself, 
 scorn of all feelings of defiance and terror,- striving at 
 mastery; and, in one corner, a brooding image of despair, 
 kept from the brink of the precipice only by the entreaties 
 of some fiercer principle of hate. She felt life to be insup 
 
THE FATES FIND THE DAGGER AND THE BOWL. 407 
 
 portable. Why did she live ? This question came to her 
 repeatedly. The demon was again at work beside her. 
 
 u Die !" said he. " It is but a blow a moment s pang 
 the driving a needle into an artery the prick of a pin 
 upon the heart. Die ! it will save you from exposure the 
 shame of bringing into the world an heir of shame ! What 
 would you live for ? The doors of love, and fame, even of 
 society, are shut against you for ever. What is life to you 
 now ? a long denial a protracted draught of bitterness- 
 tlie feeling of a death-spasm carried on through sleepless 
 years ; perhaps, under a curse of peculiar bitterness, carried 
 on even into age ! Die ! you can not be so base as to wish 
 for longer life !" 
 
 The arguments of the demon were imposing. His sug 
 gestions seemed to promise the relief she sought. Hers 
 Deemed the particular case where the prayer is justified 
 which invokes the mountains and the rocks upon the head 
 of the guilty. But the rock refused to fall, the mountain 
 to cover her shame, and its exposure became daily more 
 and more certain. Death was the only mode of escape 
 from the mountain of pain which seemed to rest upon her 
 heart. The means of self-destruction were easy. With a 
 spirit so impetuous as hers, to imagine was to determine 
 She did determine. Yet, even while making so terrible a 
 resolve, a singular calm seemed to overspread her soul. 
 She complained of nothing wished for nothing sought 
 for nothing trembled at nothing. A dreadful lethargy, 
 which made the old mother declaim as against a singular 
 proof of hardihood, possessed her spirit. Little did the 
 still-idolizing mother conjecture how much that lethargy 
 concealed ! 
 
 The moment that Margaret Cooper conceived the idea of 
 suicide, it possessed all her mind. It became the one only 
 thought. There were few arguments against it, and these 
 she rapidly dismissed or overcame. To leave her mother 
 in her old age was the first which offered itself; but tbia 
 
408 CHARLEMONT 
 
 became a small consideration when she reflected that the 
 latter could not, under any circumstances, require her as 
 sistance very long ; and to spare her the shame of public 
 exposure was another consideration. The evils of the act 
 to herself were reduced with equal readiness to the transi 
 tion from one state to another by a small process, which, 
 whether by the name of stab or shot, was productive only 
 of a momentary spasm ; for, though as fully persuaded of 
 the soul s immortality as the best of us, the unhappy girl, 
 like all young free-thinkers, had persuaded herself that, in 
 dying by her own hands, she was simply exercising a dis 
 cretionary power under the conviction that her act in doing 
 so was rendered by circumstances a judicious one. The 
 arguments by which she deceived herself are sufficiently 
 commonplace, and too easy of refutation, to render neces 
 sary any discussion of them here. Enough to state the 
 fact. She deliberately resolved upon the fatal deed which 
 was to end her life and agony together, and save her from 
 that more notorious exposure which must follow the birth 
 of that child of sin whom she deemed it no more than a 
 charity to destroy. 
 
 There was an old pair of pistols in the house, which had 
 been the property of her father. She had often, with a 
 boldness not common to the sex, examined these pistols. 
 They were of brass, well made, of English manufacture, 
 with common muzzles, and a groove for a sight instead of 
 the usual drop. They were not large, but, in a practised 
 hand, were good travelling-pistols, being capable of bring 
 ing down a man at twelve paces, provided there was any 
 thing like deliberation in the holder. Often and again had 
 she handled these weapons, poising them and addressing 
 them at objects as she had seen her father do. On one oc 
 casion she had been made to discharge them, under his own 
 instructions ; she had done so without terror. She recalled 
 these events. She had seen the pistols loaded. She did 
 not exactly know what quantity of powder was necessary 
 
THE FATES FIND THE DAGGER AND THE BOWL. 409 
 
 for a charge, but she was in no mood to calculate the value 
 of a thimbleful. 
 
 Availing herself of the temporary absence of her mother, 
 she possessed herself of these weapons. Along with them / 
 in the same drawer, she found a horn which still contained 
 a certain quantity of powder. There were bullets in the 
 bag with the pistols which precisely fitted them. There, 
 too, was the mould there were flints the stock was suf 
 ficiently ample for all her desires ; and she surveyed the 
 prize, in her own room, with the look of one who congratu 
 lates himself in the conviction that he holds in his hand 
 the great medicine which is to cure his disease. In her 
 chamber she loaded the weapons, and, with such resigna 
 tion as belonged to her philosophy, she waited for the pro 
 pitious moment when she might complete the deed. 
 
 18 
 
HO CHARLEMONT 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 FOLDING THE ROBES ABOUT HER. 
 
 IT was the sabbath and a very lovely day. The sun 
 never shone more brightly in the heavens ; and as Margaret 
 Cooper surveyed its mellow orange light, lying, like some 
 blessed spirit, at sleep upon the hills around her, and re 
 flected that she was about to behold it for the last time, her 
 sense of its exceeding beauty became more strong than 
 ever. Now that she was about to lose it for ever, it seemed 
 more beautiful than it had ever been before. 
 
 This is a natural effect, which the affections confer upon 
 the objects which delight and employ them. Even a tem 
 porary privation increases the loveliness of the external 
 nature. How we linger and look. That shade seems so 
 inviting; that old oak so venerable! That rock how 
 often have we sat upon it, evening and morning, and mused 
 strange, wild, sweet fancies ! It is an effort to tear one s 
 self away it is almost like tearing away from life itself; 
 so many living affections feel the rending and the straining 
 so many fibres that have their roots in the heart, are torn 
 and lacerated by the separation. 
 
 Poor Margaret! she looked from her window upon the 
 bright and beautiful world around her. Strange that sor 
 row should dwell in a world so bright and beautiful ! 
 Stranger still, that, dwelling in such a world, it should not 
 dwell there by sufferance only and constraint ! that it should 
 have such sway such privilege. That it should invade 
 
FOLDING TIIK ItOIiKS ABOUT HKR. 411 
 
 e^ery sanctuary and leave no home secure. Ah! but the 
 difference between mere sorrow and guilt ! Poor Margaret 
 could not well understand that! If she could but no! 
 She was yet to learn that the sorrows of the innocent have 
 a healing effect. That they produce a holy and ennobling 
 strength, and a juster appreciation of those evening shades 
 of life which render the lights valuable and make their 
 uses pure. It is only guilt which finds life loathsome. It 
 is only guilt that sorrow weakens and enslaves. Virtue 
 grows strong beneath the pressure of her enemies, and 
 with such a power as was fabled of the king of Pontus, 
 turns the most poisonous fruits of earth into the most whole 
 some food. 
 
 But, even in the heart of Margaret Cooper, where the 
 sense of the beautiful was strong, the loveliness of the 
 scene was felt. She drank in, with strange satisfaction 
 a satisfaction to which she had long been a stranger 
 its soft and inviting beauties. They did not lessen 
 her sense of suffering, perhaps, but they were not with 
 out their effect in producing other moods, which, once 
 taken in company with the darker ones of the soul, may, 
 in time, succeed in alleviating them. Never, indeed, had 
 the prospect been more calm and wooing. Silence, bending 
 from the hills, seemed to brood above the valley even as 
 some mighty spirit, at whose bidding strife was hushed, 
 and peace became the acknowledged divinity of all. The 
 humming voices of trade and merriment were all hushed in 
 homage to the holy day ; and if the fitful song of a truant 
 bird, that presumed beside the window of Margaret Cooper, 
 did break the silence of the scene, it certainly did not dis 
 turb its calm. The forest minstrel sung in a neighboring 
 tree, and she half listened to his lay. The strain seemed to 
 sympathize with her sadness. She thought upon her own 
 songs, which had been of such a proud spirit ; and how 
 strange and startling seemed the idea that with her, song 
 would soon cease for ever. The song of the bird would be 
 
412 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 silent in her ears, and her own song! What song would 
 be. hers ? What strain would she take up ? In what abode 
 before what altars ? 
 
 This train of thought, which was not entirely lost, how 
 ever, was broken, for the time, by a very natural circum 
 stance. A troop of the village damsels came in sight, on 
 their way to church. She forgot the song of birds, as her 
 morbid spirit suggested to her the probable subject of their 
 meditations. 
 
 "They have seen me," she muttered to herself as she 
 hastily darted from the window. " Ay, they exult. They 
 point to me me, the abandoned the desolate soon to 
 bo the disgraced ! But, no ! no ! that shall never be. 
 They shall never have that triumph, which is always so 
 grateful a subject of regale to the mean and envious !" 
 
 The voice of her mother from below disturbed these 
 unhappy meditations. The old lady was prepared for 
 church, and was surprised to find that Margaret had not 
 made her toilet. 
 
 u What! don t you mean to go, Margaret?" . 
 
 " Not to-day, mother." 
 
 " What, arid the new preacher too, that takes the place 
 of John Cross ! They say he makes a most heavenly 
 prayer." 
 
 But the inducement of the heavenly prayer of the new 
 preacher was not enough for Margaret. The very sugges 
 tion of a new preacher would have been conclusive against 
 her compliance. The good old lady was too eager herself 
 to get under way to waste much time in exhortation, and 
 hurrying off, she scarcely gave herself time to answer the 
 inquiry of the widow Thackeray, at her own door, after the 
 daughter s health. 
 
 u I will go in and see her," said the lighthearted but 
 truehearted woman. 
 
 " Do, do, ma am- -if you please ! She ll be glad to see 
 yo.i. I ll hurry on, as 1 see Mrs. Hinkley just ahead." 
 
FOLDING THE ROBES ABOUT HER. 413 
 
 The widow Thackeray looked after her with a smile, 
 which was exchanged far another of different character 
 when she found herself in the chamber of Margaret. She 
 put her arms about the waist of the sufferer ; kissed her 
 cheeks, and with the tendcrest solicitude spoke of her 
 health and comfort. To her, alone, with the exception of 
 her mother according to the belief of Margaret her 
 true situation had been made known. 
 
 "Alas!" said she, " how should I feel how should I 
 be! You should know. I am as one cursed doomed, 
 hopeless of anything but death." 
 
 " Ah ! do not speak of death, Margaret," said the other 
 kindly. " We must all die, I know, but that does not 
 reconcile me any more to the thought. It brings always a 
 creeping horror through my veins. Think of life talk of 
 life only." 
 
 " They say that death is life." 
 
 " So it is, 1 believe, Margaret ; and now I think of it, 
 dress yourself and go to church where we may hear some 
 thing on this subject to make us wiser and better. Come, 
 my dear let us go to God." 
 
 " I can not not to-day, dear Mrs. Thackeray." 
 
 "Ah, Margaret, why not? It is to the church,. of all 
 places, you should now go." 
 
 " What ! to be stared at ? To see the finger of scorn 
 pointing at me wherever I turn ? To hear the whispered 
 insinuation ? To be conscious only of sneer and sarcasm 
 on every hand ? No. no, dear Mrs. Thackeray, I can not 
 go for this. Feeling this, I should neither pray for myself, 
 nor find benefit from the prayers of others. Nay, they 
 would not pray. They would only mock." 
 
 " Margaret, these thoughts are very sinful." 
 
 " So they are, but I can not think of any better. They 
 can not but be sinful since they are mine." 
 
 But you aie not wedded to sin, dearest. Such thoughts 
 
414 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 can give you no pleasure. Come with me to church! 
 Come and pray ! Prayer will do you good." 
 
 " I would rather pray here. Let me remain. I will try 
 to go out among the hills when you arc all engaged in 
 church, and will pray there. Indeed I must. I must pray 
 then and pray there, if prayer is ever to do me good." 
 
 " The church is the better place, Margaret. One prays 
 better where one sees that all are praying." 
 
 " But when I know that they are not. praying ! When 1 
 know that envy is in their hearts, and malice, and jealousy 
 and suspicion that God is not in their hearts, but their 
 fellow ; and not him with friendly and fond, but with spite 
 ful and deceitful thoughts !" 
 
 " Ah ! Margaret, how can you know this ? Judge not 
 lest ye be judged." 
 
 " it matters not, dear Mrs. Thackeray. God is here, or 
 there. He will be among the hills if anywhere. I will 
 seek him there. If I can command my thoughts anywhere, 
 it will be in the woods alone. In the church I can not. 
 Those who hate me are there and their look" of hate 
 would only move my scorn and defiance." 
 
 " Margaret, you do our people wrong. You do yourself 
 wrong. None hate you none will point to you, or think 
 of your misfortune ; and if they did, it is only what you 
 might expect, and what you must learn patiently to bear, 
 as a part of the punishment which God inflicts on sin. 
 You must submit, Margaret, to the shame as you have sub 
 mitted to the sin. It is by submission only that you can 
 1)0 made strong. The burden which you are prepared to 
 bear meekly, becomes light to the willing spirit. Come, 
 dear Margaret, 1 will keep with you, sit by you show you, 
 and all, that I forget your sin and remember only your 
 Buffering." 
 
 The good widow spoke with the kindest tones. She 
 threw her arms around the neck of the desolate one, and 
 kissed her with the affection of a sister. But the demon 
 
FOLDING THE ROHKS AIJOUT HER. 415 
 
 of pride was uppermost. She withstood entreaty and ein 
 brace. 
 
 " I can not go with you. I thank you, truly thank you, 
 dear Mrs. Thackeray, but I can not go. I have neither the 
 courage nor the strength." 
 
 "They will come the courage and the strength only 
 try. God is watchful to give us help the moment he sees 
 iliat we really seek his assistance. By prayer, Marga 
 ret" 
 
 " 1 will pray, but I must pray alone. Among the hills 1 
 will pray. My prayer will not be less acceptable offered 
 among his hills. My voice will not remain unheard, though 
 no chorus swells its appeal." 
 
 " Margaret, this is pride." 
 
 " Perhaps !" 
 
 " Ah ! go with me, and pray for humility." 
 
 " My prayer would rather be for death." 
 
 " Say not so, Margaret this is impiety." 
 
 u Ay, death ! the peace, the quiet of the grave ot a 
 long sleep an endless sleep where the vulture may no 
 longer gnaw the heart, nor the fire burn within the brain ! 
 For these I must pray." 
 
 And, thus speaking, the unhappy woman smote her throb 
 bing head with violent hand. 
 
 " Shocking thought ! But you do not believe in such a 
 sleep ? Surely, Margaret, you believe in life eternal ?" 
 
 " Would I did not !" 
 
 "0 Margaret! but you are sick; you are very fevei 
 isli. Your eyeballs glare like coals of fire ; your face seem? 
 charged with blood. I am afraid you are going to have 
 another attack, like the last." 
 
 " Be not afraid. I have no such fear." 
 "I will sit with you, at least," said the kind-hearted 
 woman. 
 
 "Nay, that I must positively forbid, Mrs. Thackeray; J 
 will not suffer it. 1 will not sit with you. Go you to 
 
41 G CITATILKMONT. 
 
 church.. You will be late. Do not waste your time on 
 me. I mean to ramble among- the hill? this morning. That, 
 I think, will do me more good than anything else. There, 
 T aai sure there only I will find peace." 
 
 The worthy widow shook her head doubtfully. 
 
 " But T am sure of it, 1 said Margaret. " You will see. 
 Peace, peace the repose of the heart the slumber of the 
 brain ! I shall find all there !" 
 
 Mrs. Thackeray, finding her inflexible, rose to depart, 
 but with some irresoluteness. 
 
 u If you would let me walk with you, Margaret" 
 
 "No! no! dear Mrs. Thackeray I thank you very 
 much ; but, with a mood such as mine, I shall be much bet- 
 ter alone." 
 
 " Well, if you are resolved " 
 
 " I am resolved ! never more so." 
 
 These words were spoken in tones which might have 
 startled a suspicious mind. But the widow was none. 
 
 <% God bless you !" she said, kissing her at parting. " I 
 will see you when I come from church." 
 
 " Will you ?" said Margaret, with a significant but sad 
 smile. Then, suddenly rising, she exclaimed: 
 
 " Let me kiss you, dear Mrs. Thackeray, and thank you 
 again, before you go. You have been very kind to me, 
 very kind, and you have my thanks and gratitude." 
 
 Mrs. Thackeray was touched by her manner. This was 
 the first time that the proud spirit of Margaret Cooper had 
 ever offered such an acknowledgment. It was one that the 
 gencic and unremitting kindnesses of the widow* amply de 
 served. After renewing her promise to call on her return 
 from church, Mrs. Thackeray took her departure. 
 
 Margaret Cooper was once more alone. When she heard 
 the outer door shut, she then threw herself upon the bed, 
 and gave way to the utterance of those emotions which, 
 long restrained, had rendered her mind a terrible anarchy. 
 A few tears, but very few, were wrung from her eyes ; but 
 
FOLDING Ili.L-: KOBKS ABOUT HER. 4V 
 
 she groaned audibly, and a rapid succession of shivering- 
 fits passed through her frame, racking the whole nervous 
 system, until she scarcely found herself able to rise from 
 the couch where she had thrown herself. A strong, deter 
 mined will alone moved her, and she ros-c, after a lapse of 
 half an hour, to the further prosecution of her purpose. 
 Her temporary weakness and suffering of frame had no 
 effect upon her resolves. She rather seemed to be strength 
 ened in them. This strength enabled her to sit down and 
 dictate a letter to her mother, declaring her intention, and 
 justifying it by such arguments as were presented by the 
 ingenious demon who assists always in the councils of the 
 erring heart. 
 
 She placed this letter in her boson, that it might be 
 found upon her person. It was curie us to observe, next, 
 that she proceeded to tasks which were scarcely in unison 
 with the dreadful deed she meditated. She put her cham 
 ber in nice order. Her books, of which she had a tolera 
 bly handsome collection for a private library in our forest- 
 country, she arranged and properly classed upon their 
 shelves. Then she made her toilet with unusual care. It 
 was for the last time. She gazed upon the mirror, and 
 beheld her own beauties with a shudder. 
 
 " Ah !" she thought, though she gave no expression to 
 the thought, " to be so beautiful, yet fail !" 
 
 It was a reflection to touch any heart with sorrow. Her 
 dress was of plain white ; she wore no ornament not even 
 a riband. Her hair, which was beautifully long and thick, 
 was disposed in a clubbed mass upon her head, very simply 
 but with particular neatness ; and, when all was done, con 
 cealing the weapon of death beneath a shawl which she 
 wrapped around her, she left the house, and stole away un 
 observed along the hills, in the seclusion and sacred silence 
 of which she sought to avoid the evil consequences of 
 srimo by the commission of another far more heinous. 
 
 18* 
 
CHAKLKMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 SUSPENSE AND AGONY. 
 
 AT the risk of seeming monotonous, we must repeat the 
 reflection made in our last chapter, that the things we aro 
 about to lose for ever seem always more valuable in the 
 moment of their loss. They acquire a newer interest in 
 our eyes at such a time, possibly under the direction of 
 some governing instinct which is intended to render us te 
 nacious of life to the very last. Privation teaches us much 
 more effectually than possession the value of all human en- 
 jOyments ; and the moralist has more than once drawn his 
 sweetest portraits of liberty from the gloom and the denials 
 of a dungeon. How eloquent of freedom is he who yearns 
 for it in vain ! How glowing is that passion which laments 
 the lost ! 
 
 To one dying, as we suppose few die, in the perfect pos 
 session of their senses, how beautiful must seem the fading 
 hues of the sunlight, flickering along the walls of a cham 
 ber ! how heavenly the brief glimpses of the blue sky through 
 the half-opened window ! how charming the green bit of 
 foliage that swings against the pane ! how cheering and un 
 wontedly sweet and balmy the soft, sudden gust of the sweet 
 south, breathing up from the flowers, and stirring the loose 
 drapery around the couch ! How can we part with these 
 without tears ? how reflect, without horror, upon the close 
 coffin, the damp clod, the deep hollows of the earth in which 
 we are to be cabined ? Oh, with what earnestness, at such 
 
SUSPENSE AND AGONY. 419 
 
 i moment, must the wholly conscious spirit pray for life 1 
 iio\v greedily will he drink the nauseous draught in the hope 
 to secure its boon ! how fondly will he seize upon every 
 chimera, whether of his own or of another s fancy, in order 
 to gain a little respite in order still to keep within the 
 grasp of mind and sight, these lovely agents of earth and 
 its Master, which, in our day of strength and exultation, 
 we do not value at one half their worth ! And how full 
 of dread and horror must be that first awful conviction 
 which assures him that the struggle is in vain that the 
 last remedy is tried that nothing is left him now but 
 despair despair and death! Then it is that Christianity 
 comes to his relief. If he believes, he gains by his loss. Its 
 godlike promise assures him then that the things which his 
 desires make dear, his faith has rendered immortal. 
 
 The truth of many of these reflections made their way 
 into the mind of Margaret Cooper, as she pursued the well- 
 known path along the hills. She observed the objects 
 along the route more narrowly than ever. She was taking 
 that path for the last time. Her eyes would behold these 
 objects no more. How often had she pursued the same 
 route with Alfred Stevens ! .. But then she had not seen 
 these things ; she had not observed these thousand graces 
 and beauties of form and shadow which now seemed to 
 crowd around, challenging her regard and demanding her 
 sympathies. Then she had seen nothing but him. The 
 bitterness which this reflection occasioned made her hurry 
 her footsteps ; but there was an involuntary shudder that 
 passed through her frame, when, in noting the strange 
 beauty of the path, she reflected that it would be trodden 
 by her for the last time. Her breathing became quickened 
 by the reflection. She pressed forward up the hills. The 
 forests grew thick around her deep, dim, solemn, and in 
 viting. The skies above looked down in little blessed blue 
 tufts, through the crowdir g tree-tops. The long vista of 
 the woods led her onward in wandering thoughts. 
 
420 CHAIILEMONT. 
 
 To fix these thoughts to keep them from wandering 1 
 This was a difficulty. Margaret Cooper strove to do so, 
 but she could not. Never did her mind seem such a per 
 fect chaos so full of confused and confusing objects and 
 images. Her whole life seemed to pass in review before 
 her. All her dreams of ambition, all the struggles of her 
 genius ! Were these to be thrown away ? Were these all 
 to be wasted ? Was her song to be unheard ? Was her 
 passionate and proud soul to have no voice ? If death is 
 terrible to man, it is terrible, not as a pang, but as an ob 
 livion ; and to the soul of genius, oblivion is a soul-death, 
 and its thought is a source of tenfold terror. 
 
 " But cf what avail were life to me now ? Even should 
 I live," said the wretched woman, " would it matter more 
 to the ambition which I have had, and to the soul which 
 flames and fevers within me ? Who would hearken to the 
 song of the degraded ? Who, that heard the story of my 
 shame, would listen to the strains of my genius ? Say that 
 its utterance is even as proud as my own vanity of hcari 
 would esteem it say that no plaint like mine had evei 
 touched the ear or lifted the heart of humanity ! Alas ! of 
 what avail ! The finger of scopi would be uplifted long be 
 fore the voice of applause. The sneer and sarcasm of the 
 worldling would anticipate the favoring judgment of the in 
 dulgent and the wise. Who would do justice to my cause ? 
 Who listen ? Alas ! the voice of genius would be of little 
 avail speaking from the lips of the dishonored. 
 
 " To the talent which I have, and the ambition which 
 still burns within me, life then can bring nothing no ex 
 ercise no fruition. Suppose, then, that the talent is left 
 to slumber the ambition stifled till it has no further 
 longings ! Will life yield anything to the mere creature of 
 society to my youth to my beauty to my sense of de 
 light if still there be any sucli sense left to me ? Shall I 
 be less the creature of social scorn, because I have yielded 
 my ambition because I have forborne the employment of 
 
SUSPENSE AND AGONY. 421 
 
 those glorious gifts which Heaven in its bounty has allotted 
 me? 
 
 " Alas ! no ! am I not a woman, one of that frail, feeble 
 sex, whose name is weakness ? of whom, having no 
 strength, man yet expects the proofs of the most unyielding 
 of a firmness which he himself can not exercise of a 
 power of self-denial and endurance of which he exhibits no 
 example. If I weep, he smiles at my weakness. If I stifle 
 my tears, he denounces my unnatural hardihood. If I am 
 cold and unyielding, I am masculine and neglected if I 
 am gentle and pliant, my confidence is abused and my per 
 son dishonored. What can society, which is thus exacting, 
 accord to me, then, as a mere woman ? What shame will 
 it not thrust upon me a woman and as I am ? 
 
 " Life then promises me nothing. The talent which 1 
 have, lies within me idle and without hope of use. The 
 pure name of the woman is lost to me for ever. Shame 
 dogs my footsteps. Scorn points its finger. Life, and all 
 that it brings to others love, friends, fame, fortune 
 which are the soul of life these are lost to me for ever. 
 The moral death is here already. The mere act of dying, 
 is simply the end of a strife, and a breathing and an agony. 
 That is all !" 
 
 The day became overcast. A cloud obscured the sun 
 light. The blue tufts of sky no longer looked downward 
 through the openings of the trees. The scene, dim and 
 silent before, became unusually dark. The aspect of nature 
 seemed congenial with the meditated deed. She had rea 
 soned herself into its commission, and she reproached her- 
 9Ql~ mentally with her delay. Any self-suggestion of an 
 infirmity of purpose, with a nature such as hers, would have 
 produced precipitation. She turned down a slight gorge 
 among the hills where the forest was more close. She 
 knelt beneath a tree and laid down her pistol at its foot. 
 
 She knelt strange contradiction! she knelt for the 
 purposes of prayer. But she could not pray. It would 
 
422 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 seem that she attributed this efibrt to the sight of the pis 
 tols, and she put them behind her without changing her 
 position. The prayer, if she made any, was internal ; and. 
 at all events it did not seem to be satisfactory. Yet, before 
 it was ended, she started with an expression of painful 
 thought upon her face. The voice of her reason had ceased 
 its utterance. The voice of her conscience, perhaps, hnd 
 been unheard ; but there was yet another voice to be heard 
 which was more potent than all. 
 
 It was the mother s voice ! 
 
 She placed her hand upon her side with a spasmodic 
 efibrt. The quickening of a new life within her, made that 
 new voice effectual. She threw herself on the ground and 
 wept freely. For the first time she wept freely. The tears 
 were those of the mother. The true fountain of tears had 
 been touched. That first throb of the innocent pledge of 
 guilty passion subdued the fiend. She could have taken 
 her own life, but dared not lift the deadly weapon against 
 that. The arm of the suicide was arrested. She groaned, 
 she wept, bitterly and freely. She was at once feebler and 
 more strong. Feebler, as regarded her late resolution ; 
 stronger as regarded the force of her affections, the sweet 
 humanities, not altogether subdued within her heart. The 
 slight pulsation of that infant in her womb had been more 
 effectual than the voice of reason, or conscience, or femi 
 nine dread. The maternal feeling is, perhaps, the most im 
 perious of all those which gather in the heart of woman. 
 
 Margaret Cooper, however, had not altogether resolved 
 against the deed. She only could not do it there and then. 
 Her wretched determination was not wholly surrendered, 
 but it was touched, enfeebled ; and witli the increasing 
 powers of reflection, the impetuosity of the will became 
 naturally lessened. Those few glimpses along the road 
 side which had made her sensible to the beauties she was 
 about to lose, had prepared her mind to act in counterac 
 tion of her impulse ; and the event which had brought into 
 
SUSPENSE AND AGONY. 423 
 
 play the maternal instinct, naturally helped the cause of 
 ruason in her soul. 
 
 Still, with the erring pride of youth she reproached her 
 self with her infirmity of purpose. She resolved to change 
 her ground, as if the instinct which had been awakened in 
 one spot would not everywhere pursue her. Time was 
 gained, and in such cases, to gain time is everything. Per- 
 naps no suicide would ever take place if the individual 
 would wait ten minutes. The soul takes its color from the 
 cloud, and changes its moods as often. It is one of the best 
 lessons to the young, to wait ! wait ! wait ! One of the 
 surest signs of strength is where the individual waits patiently 
 and makes no complaint. 
 
 Margaret Cooper changed her ground. The spot was a 
 wild one. A broken ledge of rock was at her feet, and 
 just below it ran a dark, narrow winding footpath half- 
 obscured by the undergrowth. Here she once more pro 
 ceeded to nerve her rnind for the commission of the deed, 
 but she had not been there an instant when she was sur 
 prised to hear the sound of voices. 
 
 This was unusual. Who could they be ? The villagers 
 were not apt to stray from church-service whenever a 
 preacher was to be found, and there was a new one, and 
 consequently a new attraction, that day, for the spiritual 
 hungry of Charlemont. The path below was seldom trod 
 den except by herself and an occasional sportsman. The 
 idea that entered her mind was, that her purpose had been 
 suspected, and that she was pursued. 
 
 With this idea, she placed the pistol to her breast. She 
 had already cocked the weapon. Her finger was on tho 
 trigger. But the tones of another voice reached her ears 
 from below. They were those of a woman sweet, musi- 
 *al, and tender. 
 
 A new light broke in upon her mind. This was the lan 
 guage of love. And who were these new lovers in Charle 
 mont ? Could it be that the voice of the male speaker wai 
 
424 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 that of Stevens? Something in the tone sounded like it 
 Involuntarily, with this impression, the weapon was turned 
 from her own bosom, and addressed in the direction in 
 which the persons below were approaching. A sudden, 
 joyous feeling touched her soul. The thought to destroy 
 the criminal by whom she had been destroyed was a source 
 of exultation. She felt that she could do it. Both pistols 
 were in her hand. The pathway was not more than twenty 
 paces distant ; and her nerves, for the first time, braced to 
 an unusual tension, trembled with the new excitement in 
 her soul. 
 
 The intruders continued to approach. Their voices be 
 came more distinct, and Margaret Cooper was soon unde 
 ceived as to one of them being that of Alfred Stevens. She 
 was compelled to lie close, that she might not betray her 
 position and purpose. The male speaker was very urgent ; 
 the voice seemed that of a stranger. That of the female 
 was not so clearly distinguishable, yet it seemed more fa 
 miliar to the unintentional listener. 
 
 Something of feminine curiosity now entered the bosom 
 of Margaret Cooper. Crouching where she was, she depos 
 ited the pistols at her feet. She remained breathlessly, for 
 the slightest movement would have revealed her to the per 
 sons who were now just below. They passed close beneath 
 the place of her concealment, and she soon discovered that 
 they were lovers ; and what their language was, even if she 
 had not heard it, might have been conjectured. 
 
 The girl was a very pretty brunette of Charlemont a 
 sweet, retiring damsel of her own age, named Rivers 
 whom she knew only slightly. She was a shy, gentle, un- 
 presuming girl, whom, for this reason, perhaps, Margaret 
 had learned to look upon without dislike or scorn. Her 
 companion was a youth whom Margaret had known when 
 a lad, but who had been absent on the Mississippi for two 
 years. His tall and masculine but well-made and graceful 
 person sufficiently accounted for, while it justified, the taste 
 
SUSPENSE AND AGONY. 426 
 
 of the maiden. He was a youth of fine, frank, manly coun* 
 tenance. His garb was picturesque, that of a bold border- 
 hunter, with hunting-frock of yellow buckskin, and Indian 
 leggings. 
 
 The girl looked up to him with an expression at once of 
 eagerness and timidity. Confidence and maiden bashful 
 ness spoke equally in the delight which glowed upon hei 
 features. The bright eyes and sun-burned features of the 
 youth were flushed with the feeling of happy triumph and 
 assuring love. The relation of the two was sufficiently evi 
 dent from their looks, even had they no other language. 
 
 What were the emotions of Margaret Cooper as she 
 looked down upon this pair ? At first she thought, as will 
 most persons : " Surely there is nothing in nature so lovely 
 as the union of two fond, devoted hearts. The picture is 
 one equally of moral and physical beauty. The slight, 
 fragile, depending damsel, hanging in perfect confidence on 
 the arm of the manly, lofty, and exulting youth looking 
 up into his eyes in hope, while he returns the gaze with 
 pride and fondness ! Unconscious of all things but the love 
 which to them is life and all tilings besides, they move along 
 the forest way and know not its solitude ; they linger and 
 loiter along its protracted paths, and see not their length ; 
 they cling together through the lengthened hours, and fancy 
 they have lost no time ; they hear each other s voices, and 
 believe that life is all music and delight." 
 
 While Margaret Cooper looked down and heard the 
 pleadings and promises of the youth, and beheld the sweet 
 emotions of his companion, engaged in a pleasant struggle 
 between her hopes and misgivings, she scarcely restrained 
 herself from rising where she was and crying aloud like 
 another Cassandra, not to be believed : " Beware ! beware !" 
 
 But the warning of Margaret Cooper would have been 
 unnecessary. The girl was not only free from danger, but 
 she was superior to it. She had the wholesome fear of 
 doing wrong too strongly impressed upon her by education 
 
426 CIIARLKMONT. 
 
 she had too little confidence in herself was too well 
 assured of her own weakness to suffer herself, even for a 
 moment, to depart, in either thought or deed, from those 
 quiet but stern proprieties of conduct which are among the 
 best securities of the young. While she looked in her lov 
 er s face with confidence, and held his arm with the grasp 
 of one who is sure of a right to do so, there was an air of 
 childish simplicity in her manner which was wholly at va 
 riance with wild passions and improper fancies. While the 
 hunter maintained her on his arm, and looked down into her 
 eyes with love, his glance was yet as respectful, as unex- 
 pressive of presumption, as her own. Had the eyes of all 
 Chaiiemont been looking on, they would have beheld noth 
 ing in the conduct of either which could have incurred the 
 censure of the most becoming delicacy. 
 
 Keen was the emotion and bitter was the thought which 
 worked in the mind of Margaret Cooper. She looked on 
 the deportment of that young maiden, whose intellect at 
 another day she would have despised, with envy and regret. 
 Truer thoughts and feelings came to her as she listened to 
 the innocent but fond dialogue between the unconscious 
 pair. The hunter was pursuing an erratic life of enterprise 
 and industry, then very common among the western youth. 
 lie had been down upon the Mississippi, seeking his for 
 tune in such adventures as make border-life in our country 
 something like the more civilized life of the middle ages, 
 lie had returned after o long absence, to claim the bride 
 whose affections he had won long before he had departed. 
 
 Never had knight-errant been more true to his mistress. 
 Her image had been his talisman as well against danger 
 iVom without, as against the demon within. It had never 
 left his mind, and he now returned for his reward. HP 
 had returned to Charlemont just before the churcli service 
 had begun, and, being unprepared to go thither, had found 
 no difficulty in persuading his sweetheart to give the hour 
 of morning service to himself. 
 
SUSPENSE AXD AGONY. 427 
 
 Mixed up with his professions of love was the story of 
 jis wanderings. Never were adventures more interesting 
 to any auditor. Never was auditor more easily moved by 
 the transitions of the tale from tears to smiles, and from 
 smiles again to tears. His risks and rewards ; his defeats 
 and successes ; his wild adventures by fell and flood not 
 perhaps so perilous as those of Othello, but such as proved 
 he had the soul to encounter the worst in Othello s experi 
 ence, and maintain himself as well drew largely on the 
 maiden s wonder and delight, increased her tenderness and 
 tremors, and made her quite as devoted to her hero as 
 ever was Desdemona to her dusky chief. As they went 
 from hearing below, the manner in which the hunter con 
 cluded his narrative provided a sufficient test for the faith 
 of his companion. 
 
 " And now, Selina, you see all the risks and the dangers. 
 There s work and perhaps trouble for you to go down with 
 me along the Choctaw borders. But if there s work, I am 
 the man to do my own share, and help you out in yours ; 
 and, if there s trouble, here s the breast to stand it first, 
 and here s the arm to drive it back, so that it ll never 
 trouble yours. No danger shall come to you, so long as I 
 can stand up between it and you. If so be that you love 
 me as you say, there s one way to show it : you ll soon 
 make up your mind to go with me. If yon don t, why " 
 
 " But you know I do love you, John " murmured the 
 girl. 
 
 " Don t I believe it ? Well, if what you say means what 
 it should, you re ready. Here s my hand, and all that it s 
 good for. It can work for you and fight for you, Selina, 
 and it s yours etarnally, with all that I have." 
 
 The hand of the girl was silently put into that of the 
 speaker. The tears were in her eyes ; but, if she made any 
 other answer, it was unheard by Margaret Cooper. Tho 
 rustic pair moved from sight even as they spoke, and the 
 iesolate woman once more remained alone ! 
 
128 CHARLEMOKT, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 SHAME AND DEATH THE OATH. 
 
 MARGARET COOPER was at length permitted to emerge 
 from the place of her concealment. The voices of the lov 
 ers were lost, as well as their forms, in the wooded distance. 
 Dreaming, like children as they were, of life and happiness, 
 they had wandered off, too happy to fancy for a moment 
 that the world contained, in its wide, vast bosom, one crea 
 ture half so wretched as she who hung above them, brood 
 ing, like some wild bird of the cliff, over the storm which 
 had robbed her of her richest plumage. 
 
 She sank back into the woods. She no longer had the 
 heart to commit the meditated crime. This purpose had 
 left her mind. It had given place to another, however, 
 scarcely less criminal. We have seen her, under the first 
 impression that the stranger whose voice she heard was 
 Alfred Stevens, turning the muzzle of the pistol from her 
 breast to the path on which he was approaching. Though 
 she discovered her error, and laid the weapon down, the 
 sudden suggestion of her mind, at that moment, gave a new 
 direction to her mood. 
 
 Why should she not seek to avenge her wrong ? Was 
 he to escape without penalty ? was she to be a quiescent 
 victim ? True, she was a woman, destined it would seem 
 to suffer perhaps with a more than ordinary share of that 
 suffering which falls to her sex. But she had also a pecu 
 liar strength the strength of a man in some respects ; and 
 
SHAME AND DEATH THE OATH. 429 
 
 in her bosom she now felt the sudden gk>w of one of his 
 fiercest passions Revenge might be in her power. She 
 might redress her wrong by her own hand. It was a 
 weapon of death which she grasped. In her grasp it might 
 be made a weapon of power. The suggestion seemed to be 
 that of justice only. It was one that filled her whole soul 
 with a triumphant and a wild enthusiasm. 
 
 " I shall not be stricken down without danger to mine 
 enemy. For this this, at least strength is allotted me. 
 Let him tremble ! In his place of seeming security let him 
 tremble ! I shall pursue his steps. I will find him out. 
 There shall be a day of retribution ! Alfred Stevens, there 
 is a power within me which tells me you are no longer 
 safe! 
 
 "And why may I not secure this justice this ven 
 geance? Why? Because I am a woman. Ha! We shall 
 see. If I am a woman, I can be an enemy and such an 
 enemy ! An enemy not to be appeased, not to be over 
 come. War always with my foe war to the knife war 
 to the last !" 
 
 Such a nature as that of Margaret Cooper needed some 
 such object to give it the passionate employment without 
 which it must recoil upon itself and end either in suicide 
 or madness. She brooded upon this new thought. She 
 found in it a grateful exercise. From the moment when 
 she conceived the idea of being the avenger of her own 
 wrong, her spirit became more elastic she became less 
 sensible to the possible opinions upon her condition which 
 might be entertained by others. She found consolation, 
 in retreating to this one thought, from all the rest. Of the 
 difficulties in the way of her design, it was not in her im 
 petuous character to think. She never once suspected that 
 the name of Alfred Stevens had been an assumed one. She 
 never once asked how she was to pursue and hunt him up. 
 She thought of a male disguise for herself, it is true ; but 
 of the means and modes of travel in what direction to go 
 
ISO CHARLEMONT. 
 
 and after what plan to conduct her pursuit, she had not the 
 most distant idea. 
 
 She addressed herself to her new design, however, in 
 one respect, with amazing perseverance. It diverted her 
 from other and more oppressive thoughts. Her pistols 
 she carried secretly to a very distant wood, where she 
 concealed them in the hollow of a tree. To this wood sho 
 repaired secretly and daily. Here she selected a tree as 
 a mark. A small section of the bark, which she tore 
 away, at a given height, she learned to regard as the breast 
 of her seducer. This was the object of her aim. With 
 out any woman fears, she began her practice and continued 
 it, day by day, until, as we are told by one of the chroni 
 clers of her melancholy story, " she could place a ball with 
 an accuracy, which, were it universally equalled by modern 
 duellists, would render duelling much more fatal than it 
 commonly is." 
 
 In secret she procured gunpowder and lead, by arts so 
 ingenious as to baffle detection. At midnight when her 
 mother slept she moulded her bullets. Well might the 
 thoughts and feelings which possessed her mind, while en 
 gaged in this gloomy labor, have endowed every bullet 
 with a wizard spell to make it do its bidding truly. Bitter, 
 indeed, were the hours so appropriated ; but they had their 
 consolations. Dark and terrible were the excited moods 
 in which she retired from her toils to that slumber which 
 she could not always secure. And when it did come, what 
 were its images ! The tree, the mark, the weapon, the 
 deep, dim forest, all the scenes and trials of the day, were 
 renewed in her sleep. A gloomy wood filled her eyes 
 a victim dabbled in blood lay before her ; and, more than 
 once, her own fearful cry of vengeance and exultation 
 awakened her from those dreams of sleep, which strength 
 ened her in the terrible pursuit of the object which occa 
 sioned them. 
 
 Such thoughts and practices, continued with religious 
 
EffAMR AND PKATH---THK OATH. 431 
 
 pertinacuy, from day to day, necessarily liad their effect 
 upon her appearance as well as her character. Her beauty 
 assumed a wilder aspect. Her eye shot forth a supernat 
 ural fire. She never smiled. Her mouth was rigid and 
 compressed as if her heart was busy in an endless conflict. 
 Her gloom, thus nurtured by solitude and the continual 
 presence of a brooding imagination of revenge, darkened 
 into something like ferocity. Her utterance became brief 
 and quick her tones sharp, sudden, and piercing. She 
 had but one thought which never seemed to desert her, yet 
 of this thought no ear ever had cognizance. It was of the 
 time when she should exercise the skill which she had now 
 acquired upon that destroyer of herself, whom, she now felt 
 herself destined to destroy. 
 
 Of course we are. describing a madness one of thoso 
 peculiar forms of the disease which seems to have its origin 
 in natural and justifiable suggestions of reason. Not the 
 less a madness for all that. 
 
 Succeeding in her practice at one distance, Margaret 
 Cooper changed it. From one point to another she con 
 stantly varied her practice, until her aim grew certain at 
 almost any distance within the ordinary influence of the 
 weapon. To strike her mark at thirty feet became, in a 
 little while, quite as easy as to do so at five ; and, secure 
 now of her weapon, her next object though there was no 
 cessation of her practice was how to seek and where to 
 find the victim. 
 
 In this new object she meditated to disguise herself in 
 the apparel of a man. She actually commenced the making 
 up of the several garments of one. This was also the 
 secret labor of the midnight hour, when her feeble-minded 
 mother slept. She began to feel some of the difficulties 
 lying in the way of this pursuit, and her mind grew troubled 
 to consider them, without however, relaxing in its determi 
 nation. That seemed a settled matter. 
 
 While she brooded over this new feature of her purpose 
 
432 CHARLEMONT. 
 
 as if fortunately to arrest the mad design her mother 
 fell seriously sick, and was for some time in danger. The 
 duty of attending upon her, put a temporary stop to her 
 thoughts and exercises ; though without having the effect 
 of expelling them from her mind. 
 
 But another event, upon her mother s recovery, tended 
 to produce a considerable alteration in her thoughts. A 
 new care filled her heart and rendered her a different being, 
 in several respects. She was soon to become u mother. 
 The sickness of soul which oppressed her under this con 
 viction, gave a new direction to her mood without lessen 
 ing its bitterness ; and, in proportion as she found her ven 
 geance delayed, FO was the gratification which it promised, 
 a. heightened desire in her mind. 
 
 For the humiliating and trying event which was at hand, 
 Margaret Cooper prepared with a degree of silent firmness 
 which denoted quite as strongly the resignation of despair 
 as any other feeling. 
 
 The child is born. 
 
 Margaret Cooper has at length become a mother. She 
 has suffered the agony, without being able to feel the com 
 pensating pride\ and pleasure of one. It was the witness 
 of her shame could she receive it with any assurances of 
 love ? It is doubtful if she did. 
 
 For some time after its birth, the hapless woman seemed 
 to be unconscious, or half-conscious only, of her charge. 
 A stupor weighed upon her senses. When she did awaken, 
 and her eyes fell upon the face and form of the infant with 
 looks of recognition, one long, long piercing shriek burst 
 from her lips. She closed her eyes she turned away from 
 the little unoffending, yet offensive object with a feeling of 
 horror. 
 
 Its features were those of Alfred Stevens. The likeness 
 was indelible ; and this identity drew upon the child a 
 share of that loathing hatred with which she now remem 
 bered the guilty father. 
 
SHAME AND DEATH THE OATH. 
 
 It may very well be supposed that the innocent babe 
 suffered under these circumstances. The milk which it 
 drew from the mother s breast, was the milk of bitterness, 
 and it did not thrive. It imbibed gall Instead of nutriment. 
 Day after day it pined in hopeless misery ; and though 
 the wretched mother strove to supply its wants and soothe 
 its little sorrows, with a gradually increasing interest which 
 overcame her first loathing, there was yet that want of 
 sweetest sympathy which nothing merely physical could 
 well supply. 
 
 Debility was succeeded by disease fever preyed upon its 
 little frame, which was now reduced to a skeleton. One 
 short month only had elapsed from its birth, and it lay, 
 in the silence of exhaustion upon the arm of its mother. 
 Its eyes, whence the flickering light was escaping fast, 
 looked up into hers, as she fancied, with an expression of 
 reproach. She felt, on the instant, the pang of the mater 
 nal conscience. She forgot tho unworthy father, as she 
 thought of the neglectful mother. She bent down, and, 
 for the first time, imprinted on its little lips the maternal 
 kiss. 
 
 A smile seemed to glimmer on its tiny features ; and, 
 (Venn that moment, Margaret Cooper resolved to iorget her 
 injuries, for the time, at least, in the consideration of her 
 proper duties. But her resolution came too late. Even 
 while her nipple was within its boneless gums, a change 
 came over the innocent. She did not heed it. Her eyes 
 and thoughts were elsewhere ; and thus she mused, gazing 
 vacantly upon the wall of her chamber until her mother 
 entered the room. Mrs. Cooper gave but a single glance 
 at the infant when she saw that its little cares were over. 
 
 " Oh, Margaret !" she exclaimed, u the child is dead." 
 
 The mother looked down with a start and shudder. A 
 big tear fell from her eyes upon the cold cheek of the inno 
 cent. She released it to her mother, turned her face upoc 
 the couch, and uttered her thanks to Heaven that had 8f 
 
 19 
 
434 ClIAKLKMONT. 
 
 decreed it that hud left hoi- again Tree for that darker 
 purpose which had so long filled her mind. 
 
 "Better so," she murmured to her mother. "It is ak 
 peace. It will neither know its own nor its mother s griefs 
 It is free from that shame for which I must live !" 
 
 " Come now, Margaret, no more of that," said the mother 
 sharply. " There s no need of shame. There are other 
 things to live for besides shame." 
 
 " There are there are !" exclaimed the daughter, with 
 spasmodic energy. " Were there not, I should, indeed, bo 
 desperate." 
 
 " To be sure you would, my child. You have a great 
 deal to live for yet ; and let a little time blow over, and 
 when everything s forgotten, you will get as good a hus 
 band as any girl in the country." 
 
 " For Heaven s sake, mother, none of this ?" 
 
 " But why not ! Though you are looking a little bad just 
 now quite pale and broken yet it s only because you 
 have been so ill ; and this nursing of babies, and having 
 cm too, is a sort of business to make any young woman 
 look bad ; but in spite of all, there s not a girl in the vil 
 lage, no matter how fresh she may be looking, that can hold 
 a candle to yau." 
 
 " For mercy, mother ! 
 
 " Let me speak, I tell you ! Don t I know ? You re 
 young, and you ll get over it. You will get all your beauty 
 and good looks back, now that the baby s out of the way, 
 and there s no more nursing to be done. And what with 
 your beauty and your talents, Margaret 
 
 "Peace! mother! Peace peace! You will drive mo 
 to madness if you continue to speak thus." 
 
 " Well, I m sure there s no knowing what to say to please 
 you. I m sure, I only want to cheer you up, and to con 
 virice you that tilings arc not so bad as you think them now 
 The cloud will blow over soon, and everything will be for 
 gotten, and then, you see " 
 
SIIAMK AND DKATI! TI1K OATH. 435 
 
 T.ic girl waved her hand impatiently. 
 
 "Death death !" slie exclaimed. "Oh! child of 
 shame, and bitterness, and wrath !" she murmured, kneel 
 ing down beside the infant, " tliou art the witness that I 
 have no future but storm, and cloud, and wrath, and 
 Vengeance !" 
 
 The last word was inaudible to her mother s ears. 
 
 " It is an oath !" she cried ; " an oath !" And her hand*) 
 were uplifted in solemn adjuration. 
 
 " Come come, Ma rgaret! none of this swearing. You 
 frighten me with your swearing. There s nothing that you 
 need to swear about ! What s done can t be helped now. 
 by taking it so seriously. You must only be patient, and 
 give yourself time. Time s the word for us now ; after a 
 little while you ll see the sky become brighter. It s a bad 
 business, it s true ; but it needn t break a body s heart. 
 I low many young girls I ve known in my time, that s been 
 in the same fix. There was Janet Bonner, and Emma 
 Loring, and Mary Peters 1 knew em all, very well. 
 Well, they all made a slip once in their lives, and they never 
 broke their hearts about it, and didn t look very pale and 
 ead in the face either; but they just kept quiet and behaved 
 iccciit for awhile, and every one of cm got good husbands. 
 Janet Bonner, she married Dick Fyatt, who came from 
 Massachusetts, and kept the school down by Clayton s 
 Meadow ; Emma Loring married a baptist-preacher from 
 Virginia, named Stokes. I never saw him to know him ; 
 and as for Mary Peters, there never was a girl that had a 
 slip that was ever so fortunate, for she s been married no 
 less than three times since, and as she s a widow again, 
 there s no telling what may happen to her yet. So don t 
 you be so downcast. You re chance is pretty nigh as good 
 as ever, if you will only hold up your head, and put the 
 best face on it." 
 
 u Oh ! torture torture ! Mother, will you riot oe silent 1 
 
436 CHARLKMOM. 
 
 Let tlic dead speak to me only. 1 would hoar but the voice 
 of tliis one witness 
 
 And she communed only with the dead infant, sitting or 
 kneeling beside it. But the communion was not one of 
 contrition or tears not of humility and repentance not 
 pf self-reproach and a broken spirit. Pride and other pas 
 sions had summoned up deities and angels of terror and 
 of crime, before the eyes and thoughts of the wretched 
 mourner, and the demon who had watched with her and 
 waited on her, and had haunted her with taunt and bitter 
 mockeries, night and day, was again busy with terrible sug 
 gestions, which gradually grew to be divine laws to her 
 diseased imagination. 
 
 " Yes !" she exclaimed unconsciously. 
 
 " I hear ! I obey ! Yet speak again. Repeat the lesson. 
 I must learn it every syllable, so that 1 shall not mistake 
 so that I can not fail !" 
 
 " Who arc you talking to, Margaret ?" asked the mother 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Do you not see them, where they go ? There through 
 the doors ; the open windows wrapped in shadows, with 
 great wings at their shoulders, each carrying a dart in his 
 bony grasp. 
 
 " Lord, have mercy ! She s losing her senses again !" 
 and the mother was about to rush from the apartment to 
 seek assistance ; but with the action, the daughter suddenly 
 arose, wearing a look of singular calmness, and motioning 
 to the child, she said : 
 
 " Will you not dress it for the grave ?" 
 
 " I m going about it now. The poor lovely little crea 
 ture. The innocent little blossom. We must put it in 
 white. Margaret virgin white and put white flowers in 
 its little hands and on its breast, and under its head. Oh! 
 it will look so sweet in its little coffin !" 
 
 " God ! I should go mad with all this !" exclaimed the 
 daughter. " were it not for that work which is before me 
 
SHAME AND DEATH THE OATH. 
 
 1 must bo calm for that calm and stern ! I must not 
 hear I must not think not feel lest I forget myself, 
 and the deed which I have to do. That oath that oath! 
 It is sworn ! It is registered in heaven, by the fatal angel 
 of remorse, and wrath, and vengeance !" 
 
 And again, a whisper at her ears repeated : 
 " For this, Margaret, and for this only, must thou live I 
 " I must ! I will !" she muttered, as it were in reply, 
 and her eye glared upon the opened door, as she heard a 
 voice and footsteps without ; and the thought smote her : - 
 " Should it be now ! Come for the sacrifice ! Ha !" 
 
CHAltLKMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE PALL UPON THE COFFIN. 
 
 THE noise which arrested the attention of Margaret 
 Cooper, and kindled her features into an expression of wild 
 and tiery ferocity, was of innocent origin. The widow 
 Thackeray was the intruder. Her kindness, sympathy, 
 and unweared attentions, so utterly in conflict with the esti 
 mates hitherto made of her heart and character, by Mrs 
 Cooper, had, in some degree, disarmed the censures of that 
 excellent mother, if they had not wholly changed her senti 
 ments. She professed to be very grateful to Thackeray s 
 attentions, and, without making any profession, Margaret 
 certainly showed her that she felt them. She now only 
 pointed the widow to the corpse of the child, in that one 
 action telling to the other all that was yet unknown. Then 
 she seated herself composedly, folded her hands, and, be 
 side the corpse, forgot its presence, forgot the presence of 
 all heard no voice, save that of the assiduous demon 
 whom nothing could expel from her companionship. 
 
 " Poor little thing !" murmured the widow Thackeray, 
 as she proceeded to assist Mrs. Cooper in decking it for the 
 grave. 
 
 The duty was finally done. Its burial was appointed for 
 the morrow. 
 
 A village funeral is necessarily an event of some iinpor 
 tancc. The lack of excitements in small communities, in 
 
THE PALL UPON THE COFFIN. 439 
 
 vests even sorrow and grief and death with a peculiar inter 
 est in the eyes of curiosity. On the present occasion, all 
 the villagers attended. The funeral itself might have suf 
 ficed to collect them with few exceptions ; but now there 
 was a more eager influence still, working upon the gos- 
 sippy moods of the population. To see Margaret Cooper 
 in her affliction to see that haughty spirit humbled and 
 made ashamed was, we fear, a motive, in the minds of 
 many, much stronger than the ostensible occasion might 
 have awakened. Had Margaret been a fashionable woman, 
 in a great city, she might have disappointed the vulgar de 
 sire, by keeping to her chamber. Nay, even according to 
 the free-and-easy standards prevailing at Charlemont, she 
 might have done the same thing, and incurred no additional 
 scandal. 
 
 It was, indeed, to the surprise of a great many, that she 
 made her appearance. It was still more a matter of sur 
 prise nay, pious and virgin horror that she seemed to 
 betray neither grief nor shame, surrounded as she was by 
 all whom she knew, and all, in particular, whom, in the 
 day of her pride, she had kept at a distance. 
 
 " What a brazen creature !" whispered Miss Jemima 
 Parkinson, an interesting spinster of thirty-six, to Miss* 
 Ellen Broadhurst, who was only thirty-four ; and Miss El 
 len whispered back, in reply: 
 
 " She hasn t the slightest bit of shaine !" 
 
 Interesting virgins ! they had come to gloat over the 
 spectacle of shame. To behold the agonizing sense of de 
 gradation declare itself under the finger-pointing scorn of 
 those who, perhaps, were only innocent from necessity, and 
 virtuous because of the lack of the necessary attractions in 
 the eyes of lust. 
 
 But Margaret Cooper seemed quite as insensible to their 
 presence as to their scorn and her own shame. She, in 
 truth, saw none of them. She heard not their voices. She 
 conjectured non nts. She had anticipated 
 
440 CIIARLEMONT. 
 
 all of them; and having, in consequence, readied a poim 
 o r intensity in her agony which could hear no addition, she 
 had been relieved only by a still more intense passion, by 
 which the enfeebling one, of mere society, stood rebuked 
 and almost forgotten. 
 
 They little dreamed the terrible thoughts which were 
 working, beneath that stolid face, in that always eager- 
 working brain. They never fancied what a terrible demon 
 now occupied that fiery heart which they supposed was 
 wholly surrendered to the consciousness of shame. Could 
 they have heard that voice of the fiend whispering in her 
 ears, while they whispered to one another heard his ter 
 rible exhortations heard her no less terrible replies 
 they would have shrunk away in horror, and felt fear rather 
 than exultation. 
 
 Margaret Cooper was insensible to all that they could 
 aay or do. She knew them well knew what they would 
 say, and feel, and do ; but the very extremity of her suffer 
 ing had placed it out of their power any longer to mortify 
 or shame. 
 
 Some few of the villagers remained away. Ned Ilinkloy 
 and his widowed sister were absent from the house, though 
 they occupied obscure places in the church when the fu 
 neral-procession took place. An honorable pity kept them 
 from meeting the eyes of the poor shame-stricken but not 
 shame-showing woman. 
 
 And Margaret followed the little corpse to its quiet nook 
 in the village graveyard. In that simple region the pro 
 cession was wholly on foot ; and she walked behind the 
 coffin as firmly as if she knew not what it held. There 
 was a single shiver that passed over her frame, as the 
 heavy clods fell upon the coffin-lid but that was all ; and 
 when her mother and the widow Thackeray took each of 
 them one of her arms, and led her away from the grave, 
 and home, she went quietly, calmly, it would seem, and 
 with as firm a stcu as ever ! 
 
THE PALL UPON THE COFFIN. 441 
 
 " She has not a bit oi feeling !" said Miss Jemima to Miss 
 Ellen. 
 
 " That s always the case with your very smart women," 
 was the reply. " It s all head with em ; there s no heart 
 They can talk fine things about death, and sorrow, and 
 affliction, but it s talk only. They don t feel what they 
 say." 
 
 Ned Ilinkley had a juster notion of the state of the poor 
 victim of her failings and her sensibilities, her equal 
 strength and weakness. 
 
 " Now," said he to his sister, " there s a burning volcano 
 in that woman s heart, that will tear her some day to pieces. 
 For all that coldness, and calmness, and stateliness, her 
 brain is on fire, and her heart ready for a convulsion. Her 
 thoughts now, if she thinks at all, are all desperate. She s 
 going through a very hell upon earth! When you think 
 of her pride and she s just as proud now as the devil 
 himself her misfortune hasn t let her down only made 
 her more fierce you wonder that she lets herself be seen ; 
 you wonder that she lives at all. I only wonder that she 
 hasn t thrown herself from the rocks and into the lake. 
 She ll do it yet, I m a-thinking. 
 
 " And just so she always was. I knew her long ago. 
 She once told me she was afraid of nothing would do as 
 she pleased she could dare anything! From that mo 
 ment I saw she wasn t the girl for Bill Hinkley. I told 
 him so, but he was so crazy after her, he d hear to nothing. 
 A woman a young woman a mere girl of fifteen boast 
 ing that she can dare and do things that would set any 
 woman in a shiver ! I tell you what, sis. the woman that s 
 bolder than her sex is always in danger of falling from the 
 rocks. She gets such a conceit of her mind, that the devil 
 is always welcome. Her heart, after that, stands no sort 
 of chance ! 
 
 " Protect me, say I, from all that class of women that 
 pride themselves on their strongmindedness ! They get 
 
 m* 
 
442 CIIARLKMONT. 
 
 insolent upon it. They think that mind can do everything. 
 They re so vain, that they never can sec the danger, even 
 when it s yawning at their feet. A woman s never safe un 
 less she s scary of herself, and mistrusts herself, and never 
 lets her thoughts and fancies get from under a tight rein 
 of prudence. For, after all, the passions will have their 
 way some day, and then what s the use of the mind ? I 
 tell you, sis, that the passions are born deaf they never 
 listen to any argument. 
 
 " But I m sorry for her God knows I m sorry for her ! 
 I d give all I m worth to have a fair shot or clip at that 
 rascal Stevens. Brother Stevens ! Ain t it monstrous, now, 
 that a sheep s cover should be all that s sufficient to give 
 the wolf freedom in the flock? that you ve only to say, 
 4 This is a brother a man of God and no proof is asked ! 
 nobody questions ! The blind, beastly, bigoted, blathering 
 blockheads ! I feel very much like setting off straight, and 
 licking John Ilinkley, though he s my own uncle, within an 
 inch of his life! lie and John Cross the old fools who 
 are so eager to impose their notions of religion upon every 
 body, that anybody may impose upon them they two have 
 destroyed this poor young creature. It s at their door, in 
 part, this crime, and this ruin ! I feel it in my heart to 
 I lick em both out of their breeches ! 
 
 " Yet, as I m a living sinner, they ll stand up in the con 
 gregation, &]id exhort about this poor girl s misfortune, just 
 as if they were not to blame at all who brought the wolf 
 into the farmyard ! They ll talk about her sins, and not a 
 word, to themselves or anybody else, about their own stu 
 pidities ! I feel it in my heart to lather both of them right 
 away !" 
 
 The sister said little, and sorrowfully walked on in si 
 lence homeward, listening to the fierce denunciations of 
 Ned Ilinkley. Ned was affected, or, rather, he showed his 
 sympathies, in a manner entirely his own. lie was so much 
 for fight, that he totally forgot his fiddle that night, and 
 
THK PALL UPON THE COFFIN. 443 
 
 amused himself by putting his two " barking-pups" in order 
 t getting them ready, as ho said, "in case he ever should 
 get a crack at Brother Stevens !" 
 
 The cares of the child s burial over, and the crowd dis 
 persed, the cottage of the widow Cooper was once more 
 abandoned to the cheerlessnoss and wo within. Very dis 
 mal was the night of that day to the two, the foolish mother 
 and wretched daughter, as they sat brooding together, in 
 deep silence, by the light of a feeble candle. The mother 
 rocked a while >in her easy-chair. The daughter, hands 
 clasped in her lap, sat watching the candlelight in almost 
 idiotic vacancy of gaze. At length she stood up and spoke 
 slowly, deliberately, and apparently in as calm a mood 
 as she had ever felt in all her life : 
 
 " We must leave this place, mother. We must go hence 
 to-morrow if we can." 
 
 " Go ? leave this place ? I want to know why ! I m 
 sure we re very comfortable here. I can t be going just 
 when you please, and leaving all my company and friends." 
 
 "Friends!" 
 
 " Yes, friends ! There s the widow Thackeray and 
 there s" 
 
 " And how long is it since Mrs. Thackeray was such a 
 dear friend, mother ?" asked the daughter, with ill-sup 
 pressed scorn. 
 
 " No matter how long : she s a good friend now. She s 
 not so foolish as she used to be. She s grown good ; she s 
 got religion ; and I don t consider what she was. No! 
 I m willing " 
 
 " Pshaw, mother ! tell me nothing of your friendships. 
 You ll find, wherever you go, as many friends as you please, 
 valued quite as much as Mrs. Thackeray." 
 
 " Well, I do say, Margaret, it s very ungrateful of you 
 to speak so disrespectfully of Mrs. Thackeray, after all her 
 kindness and attention." 
 
444 
 
 " I do not speak disrespectfully of Mrs. Thackeray. 1 
 never did speak ill of her, even when it was your favorite? 
 practice to do so. I only speak of your newly-acquired 
 appreciation of her. But this is nothing to the purpose. 
 I repeat, mother, we can not remain here. I will depart, 
 whether you resolve to go or not. I can not, I will not, 
 exist another week in Charlemont." 
 
 " And where would you go ?" 
 
 " Back back to that old farm, from which you brought 
 me in evil hour ! It is poor, obscure, profitless, unsought, 
 unseen: it will give me a shelter it may bring me peace. 
 I must have solitude for a season ; I must sleep for months." 
 
 " Sleep for months ! La me, child, what a notion s that !" 
 
 " No matter thither let us go. I seem to see it, stretch 
 ing out its hands, and imploring us to come." 
 
 " Bless me, Margaret ! a farm stretching out its hands ! 
 Why, you re in a dream !" 
 
 "Don t wake me, then! Better I should so dream! 
 Thither 1 go. It is fortunate that you have not been able 
 to sell it. It is a mercy that it still remains ;o us. It was 
 my childhood s home. Would it could again receive me as 
 a child ! It will cover my head for a while, at least, and 
 that is something. We must leave this place. Here every 
 thing offends me every spot, every face, every look, eve~y 
 gesture." 
 
 u It s impossible, Margaret ! " 
 
 " What ! you suppose it an honorable distinction, do you, 
 when the folks here point to your daughter, and say ha! 
 ha! listen what they say! It is the language of compli 
 ment! They are doing me honor, with tongue and finger! 
 Repeat, mother ; tell me what they say for it evidently 
 gives you great pleasure." 
 
 " Margaret ! Margaret ! " 
 
 " You understand, do you ? Well, then, we go. Wo 
 can not depart too soon. If I stay here, I madden ! And I 
 must not madden. I have something which needs be dona 
 
THE TALL UPON THE COFFIN. 445 
 
 which niu^L be done. It is an oath ! an oath in heaven! 
 The child was a witness. She heard all every syllable !" 
 
 " What all ? what did you hear ?" 
 
 " No matter ! I m sworn to be secret. But you shall 
 hear in time. We have no time for it now. It is a very 
 long story. And we must now be packing. Yes, we must 
 go. /must go, at least. Shall I go alone ?" 
 
 " But you will not leave your mother, Margaret!" 
 
 "Father and mother all will I leave, in obedience to 
 that oath. Believe me or not, mother go with me or not 
 
 still I go. Perhaps it is better that I should go alone." 
 The strong will naturally swayed the feebler, as it had 
 
 ever done before. The mother submitted to an arrangement 
 which she had not the resolution to oppose. A few days 
 were devoted to necessary arrangements, and then they left 
 CharLemont for ever. Margaret Cooper looked not once 
 behind them us they traversed the lonely hills looking down 
 upon the village those very hills from which, at the open 
 ing of this story, the treacherous Alfred Stevens and his 
 simple uncle beheld the"*lovely little settlement. She rec 
 ognised the very spot, as they drove over it, where Stevens 
 first encountered her, and the busy demon at her ears whis 
 pered : 
 
 " It was here ! You remember !" 
 
 And she clinched her teeth firmly together, even though 
 ejhe shuddered at her memories ; and she renewed her oath 
 to the demon, who, thereupon, kept her company the rest of 
 the journey, till she reached the ancient and obscure farm 
 stead in which she was born. 
 
 " She retired, says the rude chronicle from which wo 
 have borrowed many of the materials for this sombre his 
 tory, "to a romantic little farm in , there to spend in 
 
 seclusion, with her aged mother and a few servants, the 
 remainder of her days." 
 
 Our simple chronicler takes too much for granted. Mar 
 garet Cooper retired with no sucli purpose. She had pur- 
 
44G CHARLEMONT. 
 
 poses entirely at conHict with any idea of repose or quiet 
 She thought nothing of the remainder of her days. Her moth 
 er was not so aged but that she could still think, six months 
 afterward, of the reported marriage of the widow Thack- 
 eraj with repining, and with the feeling of one who thinks 
 that she lias suffered neglect and injustice at the hands of 
 the world. Touching the romance of the ancient farmstead, 
 we are more modestly content to describe it as sterile, lone 
 ly, and unattractive ; its obscurity offering, for the present, 
 its chief attractions to our desolate heroine, and the true 
 occasion for that deep disgust with which her amiable 
 mother beheld it 
 
 Our chronicle of Charlemont is ended. We have no 
 further object or interest within its precincts. William 
 Hinkley is gone, no one knows whither, followed by hi? 
 adopted father, the retired lawyer, whose sensibilities wert 
 fatal to his success. It was not long before Ned IJinklej 
 and his widowed sister found it their policy to depart also, 
 seeking superior objects in an o the* county ; and at this mo 
 ment Charlemont is an abandoned and deserted region. 
 It seemed to decline from the moment when the cruel catas 
 trophe occurred which precipitated Margaret Cooper from 
 her pride of place. Beautiful as the village appeared at 
 the opening of our legend, it was doomed to as rapid a decay 
 as growth. " Something ails it now the spot is cursed ! 1? 
 
 But our history does not finally conclude with the fate 
 of Charlemont. That chronicle is required now to give 
 place to another, in which we propose to take up the sun 
 dered clues, and reunite, them in a fresh progress. We 
 shall meet some of the old parties once more, in new situa 
 tions. We shall again meet with Margaret Cooper, in a 
 new guise, under other aspects, but still accompanied by 
 her demon still inspired by her secret oath still glow 
 ing with all the terrible memories of the past still labor- 
 
THK PALL CPO.V TI1K L OI-TIN. 447 
 
 lug with unhallowed pride; and still destined tor a lark 
 catastrophe. Our scene, however, lies in another region, to 
 which the reader, who has thus far kept pace with our prog 
 ress, is entreated still to accompany us. The chronicle of 
 " CHARLEMONT" will find its fitting sequel in that of " BEAU- 
 CHAMPE" known proverbially as . THE KENTUCKY TBA- 
 
 ftND OF CHARLBMOHl, 
 
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