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Horace Walpole - "The Castle of Otranto"

Frederich Schiller - "The Revolt of The Netherlands, Book I."

Austin Hall and Homer Eon Flint - "The Blind Spot"

Thomas Guthrie Marquis - "The Jesuit Missions:"

Charlemont

W >> W. Gilmore Simms >> Charlemont




"But love, sir--is not love a proper sensibility?"

"In its place, it is. But you are a boy only. Do you suppose that
it was ever intended that you should entertain this passion before
you had learned the art of providing your own food? Not so; and the
proof of this is to be found in the fact that the loves of boyhood
are never of a permanent character. No such passion can promote
happiness if it is indulged before the character of the parties is
formed. I now tell you that in five years from this time you will
probably forget Miss Cooper."

"Never! never!"

"Well, well--I go farther in my prophecy. Allow me to suppose you
successful in your suit, which I fancy can never be the case--"

"Why, sir, why?"

"Because she is not the girl for you; or rather, she does not think
you the man for her!"

"But why do you think so, sir?"

"Because I know you both. There are circumstances of discrepancy
between you which will prevent it, and even were you to be successful
in your suit, which I am very sure will never be the case, you
would be the most miserably-matched couple under the sun."

"Oh, sir, do not say so--do not. I can not think so, sir."

"You WILL not think so, I am certain. I am equally certain from
what I know of you both, that you are secure from any such danger.
It is not my object to pursue this reference, but let me ask you,
William, looking at things in the most favorable light, has Margaret
Cooper ever given you any encouragement?"

"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 not mistake the signs. She seeks other
qualities than such as you possess. She seeks meretricious qualities,
and yours are substantial. She seeks the pomps of mind, rather
than its subdued performances. She sees not, and 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."

"I wish I could think so, sir."

"And you would not wish that you could think so, if you were not
already persuaded that your first wish is hopeless."

"But I am not hopeless, sir."

"Your cause is. But, promise me that you will not press your suit
at present."

The young man was silent.

"You hesitate."

"I dare not promise."

"Ah, you are a foolish boy. Do you not see the rock on which you are
about to split. You have never learned how to submit. This lesson
of submission was that which made the Spartan boy famous. Here,
you persist in your purpose, though your own secret convictions,
as well as your friend's counsel, tell you that you strive against
hope. You could not patiently submit to the counsel of this stranger,
though he came directly from your parents, armed with authority to
examine and to counsel."

"Submit to him! I would sooner perish!" exclaimed the indignant
youth.

"You will perish unless you learn this one lesson. But where now
is your ambition, and what does it aim at?"

The youth was silent.

"The idea of an ambitious youth, at twenty, giving up book and
candle, leaving his studies, and abandoning himself to despair,
because his sweetheart won't be his sweetheart any longer, gives us
a very queer idea of the sort of ambition which works in his breast."

"Don't, sir, don't, I pray you, speak any more in this manner."

"Nay, but, William, ask yourself. Is it not a queer idea?"

"Spare me, sir, if you love me."

"I do love you, and to show you that I do, I now recommend to you
to propose to Margaret Cooper."

"What, sir, you do not think it utterly hopeless then?"

"Yes, I do."

"And you would have me expose myself to rejection?"

"Exactly so!"

"Really, sir, I do not understand you."

"Well, I will explain. Nothing short of rejection will possibly
cure you of this malady; and it is of the last importance to your
future career, that you should be freed as soon as possible from
this sickly condition of thought and feeling--a condition in which
your mind will do nothing, and in which your best days will be
wasted. Blackstone can only hope to be taken up when you have done
with her."

"Stay, sir--that is she below."

"Who?"

"Margaret----"

"Who is with her?"

"The stranger--this man, Stevens."

"Ha! your counsellor, that would be? Ah! William, you did not tell
me all."






CHAPTER XIV.

THE ENTHUSIAST.





The cheeks of the youth glowed. He felt how much he had suppressed
in his conference with his venerable counsellor. Mr. Calvert did
not press the topic, and the two remained silent, looking down,
from the shaded spot where they lay, upon the progress of Margaret
Cooper and her present attendant, Stevens. The eminence on which
they rested was sufficiently lofty, as we have seen, to enable
them, though themselves almost concealed from sight, to take in
the entire scene, not only below but around them; and the old man,
sharing now in the interest of his young companion, surveyed the
progress of the new-comers with a keen sense of curiosity which, for
a time, kept him silent. The emotions of William Hinkley were such
as to deprive him of all desire for speech; and each, accordingly,
found sufficient employment in brooding over his own awakened fancies.
Even had they spoken in the ordinary tone of their voices, the
sounds could not have reached the persons approaching on the opposite
side. They drew nigh, evidently unconscious that the scene was
occupied by any other than themselves. Ned Hinkley was half-shrouded
in the shrubbery that environed the jutting crag upon which his
form was crouched, and they were not yet sufficiently nigh to the
tarn to perceive his projecting rod, and the gaudy fly which he
kept skipping about upon the surface. The walk which they pursued
was an ancient Indian footpath, which had without doubt conducted
the red warriors, a thousand times before, to a spot of seclusion
and refreshment after their long day's conflict on the "DARK AND
BLOODY GROUND." It was narrow and very winding, and had been made so
in order to lessen the fatigue of an ascent which, though gradual
enough, was yet considerable, and would have produced great weariness,
finally, had the pathway been more direct.

The circuitousness of this route, which lay clear enough before
the eyes of our two friends upon the eminence--crawling, as it did,
up the woodland slopes with the sinuous course of a serpent--was
yet visible to Ned Hinkley, on his lowlier perch, only at its
starting-point, upon the very margin of the lake. He, accordingly,
saw as little of the approaching persons as they had seen of him.
They advanced slowly, and seemed to be mutually interested in
their subject of conversation. The action of Stevens was animated;
The air and attitude of Margaret Cooper was that of interest and
attention. It was with something little short of agony that William
Hinkley beheld them pause upon occasion, and confront each other
as if the topic was of a nature to arrest the feet and demand the
whole fixed attention of the hearer.

It will be conjectured that Alfred Stevens had pressed his opportunities
with no little industry. Enough has been shown to account for the
readiness of that reception which Margaret Cooper was prepared to
give him. Her intelligence was keen, quick, and penetrating. She
discovered at a glance, not his hypocrisy, but that his religious
enthusiasm was not of a sort to become very tyrannical. The air of
mischief which was expressed upon his face when the venerable John
Cross proposed to purge her library of its obnoxious contents,
commended him to her as a sort of ally; and the sympathy with
herself, which such a conjecture promised, made her forgetful of
the disingenuousness of his conduct if her suspicions were true.
But there were some other particulars which, in her mind, tended to
dissipate the distance between them. She recognised the individual.
She remembered the bold, dashing youth, who, a few months before,
had encountered her on the edge of the village, and, after they
had parted, had ridden back to the spot where she still loitered,
for a second look. To that very spot had she conducted him on their
ramble that afternoon.

"Do you know this place, Mr. Stevens?" she demanded with an arch
smile, sufficiently good-humored to convince the adventurer that,
if she had any suspicions, they were not of a nature to endanger
his hopes.

"Do I not!" he said, with an air of EMPRESSMENT which caused her
to look down.

"I thought I recollected you," she said, a moment after.

"Ah! may I hope that I did not then offend you with my impertinence?
But the truth is, I was so struck--pardon me if I say it--with
the singular and striking difference between the group of damsels
I had seen and THE ONE--the surprise was so great--the pleasure so
unlooked for--that--"

The eye of Margaret Cooper brightened, her cheek glowed, and her
form rose somewhat proudly. The arch-hypocrite paused judiciously,
and she spoke:--

"Nay, nay, Mr. Stevens, these fine speeches do not pass current.
You would make the same upon occasion to any one of the said group
of damsels, were you to be her escort."

"But I would scarcely ride back for a second look," he responded,
in a subdued tone of voice, while looking with sad expressiveness
into her eyes. These were cast down upon the instant, and the color
upon her cheeks was heightened.

"Come," said she, making an effort, "there is nothing here to
interest us."

"Except memory," he replied; "I shall never forget the spot."

She hurried forward, and he joined her. She had received the impression
which he intended to convey, without declaring as much--namely,
that his return to Charlemont had been prompted by that one glimpse
which he had then had of her person. Still, that nothing should
be left in doubt, he proceeded to confirm the impression by other
suggestions:--

"You promise to show me a scene of strange beauty, but your whole
village is beautiful, Miss Cooper. I remember how forcibly it struck
me as I gained the ascent of the opposite hills coming in from the
east. It was late in the day, the sun was almost setting, and his
faintest but loveliest beams fell upon the cottages in the valley,
and lay with a strange, quiet beauty among the 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 abrupt, the steeps not sufficiently
great; there are no chasms, no waterfalls--only purling brooks and
quiet walks."

"I have felt this already," he replied; "but there is yet a deficiency
which you have not expressed, Miss Cooper."

"What is that?" she demanded.

"It is the moral want. You have no life here; and that which
would least content me would be this very repose--the absence of
provocation--the strife--the triumph! These, I take it, are the
deficiencies which you really feel when you speak of the want of
crag, and chasm, and waterfall."

"You, too, are ambitious, then!" she said quickly; "but how do you
reconcile this feeling with your profession?"

She looked up, and caught his eye tenderly fixed upon her.

"Ah!" said he, "Miss Cooper, there are some situations in which we
find it easy to reconcile all discrepancies."

If the language lacked explicitness, the look did not. He proceeded:--

"If I mistake not, Miss Cooper, you will be the last one to blame
me for not having stifled my ambition, even at the calls of duty
and profession."

"Blame you, sir? Far from it. I should think you very unfortunate
indeed, if you could succeed in stifling ambition at any calls,
nor do I exactly see how duty should require it."

"If I pursue the profession of the divine?" he answered hesitatingly.

"Yes--perhaps--but that is not certain?" There was some timidity
in the utterance of this inquiry. He evaded it.

"I know not yet what I shall be," he replied with an air of
self-reproach; "I fear I have too much of this fiery ardor which
we call ambition to settle down into the passive character of the
preacher."

"Oh, do not, do not!" she exclaimed impetuously; then, as if
conscious of the impropriety, she stopped short in the sentence,
while increasing her forward pace.

"What!" said he, "you think that would effectually stifle it?"

"Would it not--does it not in most men?"

"Perhaps; but this depends upon the individual. Churchmen have a
great power--the greatest in any country."

"Over babes and sucklings!" she said scornfully.

"And, through these; over the hearts of men and women."

"But these, too, are babes and sucklings--people to be scared by
shadows--the victims of their own miserable fears and superstitions!"

"Nevertheless, these confer power. Where there is power, there is
room for ambition. You recollect that churchmen have put their feet
upon the necks of princes."

"Yes, but that was when there was one church only in Christendom.
It was a monopoly, and consequently a tyranny. Now there are
a thousand, always in conflict, and serving very happily to keep
each other from mischief. They no longer put their feet on princes'
necks, though I believe that the princes are no better off for this
forbearance--there are others who do. But only fancy that this time
was again, and think of the comical figure our worthy brother John
Cross would make, mounting from such a noble horse-block!"

The idea was sufficiently pleasant to make Stevens laugh.

"I am afraid I shall have greater trouble in converting you, Miss
Cooper, than any other of the flock in Charlemont. I doubt that
your heart is stubborn--that you are an insensible!"

"I insensible!" she exclaimed, and with such a look! The expression
of sarcasm had passed, as with the rapidity of a lightning-flash,
from her beautiful lips; and a silent tear rose, tremulous
and large, with the same instantaneous emotion, beneath her long,
dark eyelashes. She said nothing more, but, with eyes cast down,
went forward. Stevens was startled with the suddenness of these
transitions. They proved, at least, how completely her mind was at
the control of her blood. Hitherto, he had never met with a creature
so liberally endowed by nature, who was, at the same time, so
perfectly unsophisticated. The subject was gratifying as a study
alone, even if it conferred no pleasure, and awakened no hopes.

"Do not mistake me," he exclaimed, hurrying after, "I had no purpose
to impute to you any other insensibility except to that of the holy
truths of religion."

She looked up and smiled archly. There was another transition from
cloud to sunlight.

"What! are you so doubtful of your own ministry?"

"In your case, I am."

"Why?"

"You will force me to betake myself to studies more severe than
any I have yet attempted."

She was flattered but she uttered a natural disclaimer.

"No, no! I am presumptuous. I trust you will teach me. Begin--do
not hesitate--I will listen."

"To move you I must not come in the garments of methodism. That
faith will never be yours."

"What faith shall it be?"

"That of Catholicism. I must come armed with authority. I must
carry the sword and keys of St. Peter. I must be sustained by all
the pomps of that church of pomps and triumphs. My divine mission
must speak through signs and symbols, through stately stole,
pontifical ornaments, the tiara of religious state on the day of
its most solemn ceremonial; and with these I must bring the word
of power, born equally of intellect and soul, and my utterance must
be in the language of divinest poesy!"

"Ah! you mistake! That last will be enough. Speak to me in poesy--let
me hear that--and you will subdue me, I believe, to any faith that
you teach. For I 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 divine utterance.
Would I had it for your sake."

"Oh! you must have it. I fancy I see it in some things that you
have said. You read poetry, I am sure--I am sure you love it."

"I do! I know not anything that I love half so well."

"Then you write it?" she asked eagerly.

"No! the gift has been denied me."

She looked at him with eyes of regret.

"How unfortunate," she said.

"Doubly so, as the deficiency seems to disappoint you."

She did not seem to heed the flattery of this remark, nor did she
appear to note the expression of face with which it was accompanied.
Her feelings took the ascendency. She spoke out her uncommissioned
thoughts and fancies musingly, as if without the knowledge of her
will.

"I fancy that I could kneel down and worship the poet, and feel
no shame, no humility. It is the only voice that enchants me--that
leads me out from myself; that carries me where it pleases and finds
for me companions in the solitude; songs in the storm; affections in
the barren desert! Even here, it brings me friends and fellowships.
How voiceless would be all these woods to me had it no voice speaking
to, and in, my soul. Hoping nothing, and performing nothing here,
it is my only consolation. It reconciles me to this wretched spot.
It makes endurance tolerable. If it were not for this companionship--if
I heard not this voice in my sorrows, soothing my desolation,
I could freely die!--die here, beside this rock, without making a
struggle to go forward, even to reach the stream that flows quietly
beyond!"

She had stopped in her progress while this stream of enthusiasm
poured from her lips. Her action was suited to her utterance.
Unaccustomed to restraint--nay, accustomed only to pour herself
forth to woods, and trees, and waters, she was scarcely conscious
of the presence of any other companion, yet she looked even while
she spoke, in the eyes of Stevens. He gazed on her with glances of
unconcealed admiration. The unsophisticated nature which led her
to express that enthusiasm which a state of conventional existence
prompts us, through fear of ridicule, industriously to conceal,
struck him with the sense of a new pleasure. The novelty alone
had its charm; but there were other sources of delight. The natural
grace and dignity of the enthusiastic girl, adapting to such
words the appropriate action, gave to her beauty, which was now in
its first bloom, all the glow which is derived from intellectual
inspiration. Her whole person spoke. All was vital, spiritual,
expressive, animated; and when the last word lingered on her lips,
Stevens could scarcely repress the impulse which prompted him to
clasp her in his embrace.

"Margaret!" he exclaimed--"Miss Cooper!--you are yourself a poet!"

"No, no!" she murmured, rather than spoke;--"would I 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, untrimmed,
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 unconsciously, which the familiarity
of country life is sometimes found to tolerate. "Such is not your
destiny, Margaret. The flame will not go out--it will be loved and
worshipped!"

"Ah! never! what is here to justify such a hope--such a dream?"

"Nothing HERE; but it was not of Charlemont I spoke. The destiny which
has endowed you with genius will not leave it to be extinguished
here. There will come a worshipper, Margaret. There will come
one, equally capable to 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, oppressive, social forms, your genius has ripened--your
enthusiasm has been kindled into proper glow--your heart, and
mind, and imagination, have kept equal pace to an equal maturity!
Perhaps this was fortunate. Had you grown up in more polished and
worldly circles, you would have been compelled to subdue the feelings
and fancies which now make your ordinary language the language of
a muse."

"Oh! speak not so, I implore you. I am afraid you mock me."

"No! on my soul, I do not. I think all that I say. More than that,
I feel it, Margaret. Trust to me--confide in me--make me your
friend! Believe me, I am not altogether what I seem."

An arch smile once more possessed her eyes.

"Ah!" I could guess that! But sit you here. Here is a flower--a
beautiful, small flower, with a dark blue eye. See it--how humbly
it hides amid the grass. It is the last flower 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.'"

"Nay, sing me something of your own, Margaret."

"No, no! Don't speak of me, and mine, in the same breath with
Moore. You will make me repent of having seen you. Sit down and be
content with Moore, or go without your song altogether."

He obeyed her, and the romantic and enthusiastic girl, seating
herself upon a fragment of rock beside the path, sang the delicate
and sweet verses of the Irish poet, with a natural felicity of
execution, which amply compensated for the absence of those Italian
arts, which so frequently elevate the music at the expense of the
sentiment. Stevens looked and listened, and half forgot himself in
the breathlessness of his attention--his eye fastened with a gaze
of absolute devotion on her features, until, having finished her
song, she detected the expression of his face, and started, with
blushing cheeks, to her feet.

"Oh! sweet!" he murmured as he offered to take her hand, but she
darted forward, and following her, he found himself a few moments
after, standing by her side, and looking down upon one of the
loveliest lakes that ever slept in the embrace of jealous hills.






CHAPTER XV.

A CATASTROPHE.





"You disparage these scenes," said Stevens, after several moments
had been given to the survey of that before him, "and yet you have
drawn your inspiration from them--the fresh food which stimulates poetry
and strengthens enthusiasm. Here you learned to be contemplative;
and here, in solitude, was your genius nursed. Do not be ungrateful,
Margaret--you owe to these very scenes all that you are, and all
that you may become."

"Stay! before I answer. Do you see yon bird?"

"Where?"

"In the west--there!" she pointed with her fingers, catching his
wrist unconsciously, at the same time, with the other hand, as if
more certainly to direct his gaze.

"I see it--what bird is it?"

"An eagle! See how it soars and swings; effortless, as if supported
by some external power!"

"Indeed--it seems small for an eagle."

"It is one nevertheless! There are thousands of them that roost
among the hills in that quarter. I know the place thoroughly. The
heights are the greatest that we have in the surrounding country.
The distance from this spot is about five miles. He, no doubt,
has some fish, or bird now within his talons, with which to feed
his young. He will feed them, and they will grow strong, and will
finally use their own wings. Shall he continue to feed them after
that? Must they never seek their own food?"

"Surely they must."

"If these solitudes have nursed me, must they continue to nurse me
always? Must I never use the wings to which they have given 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, tributary to my wing and eye? Alas! I am a woman!--and
her name is weakness! You tell me of what I am, and of what I may
become. But what am I? I mock myself too often with this question
to believe all your fine speeches. And what may I become? Alas! who
can tell me that? I know my strength, but I also know my weakness.
I feel the burning thoughts of my brain; I feel the yearning impulses
in my heart; but they bring nothing--they promise nothing--I feel
the pang of constant denial. I feel that I can be nothing!"

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