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Benjamin Franklin - "The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin"

Gilbert Parker - "The Trail of the Sword, Volume 2."

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Unknown - "The Bible, Douay Rheims, Book 62: 2 Timothy"

Charlemont

W >> W. Gilmore Simms >> Charlemont




They had reached the table land of the heights which looked down
upon Charlemont, at a moment when the beauty of the scene could
scarcely fail to impress itself upon the most indifferent observer.
The elder of the travellers, who happened to be in 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 the 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
between, which led through the valley, and in front of every cottage
which it contained. The elder of the cottagers sat upon the huge
trunk of a tree, which had been felled beside the road, for the
greater convenience of the traveller; and with eyes turned in the
direction of the hill on which the sunlight had sunk and appeared
to slumber, seemed to enjoy the vision with no less pleasure than
our senior traveller. Two tall damsels of sixteen, accompanied by
a young man something older, were strolling off in the direction
of the woods; while five or six chubby girls and boys were making
the echoes leap and dance along the hills, in the clamorous delight
which they felt in their innocent but stirring exercises. The whole
scene was warmed with the equal brightness of the natural and the
human sun. Beauty was in the sky, and its semblance, at least, was
on the earth. God was in the heavens, and in his presence could
there be other than peace and harmony among men!

"How beautiful!" exclaimed the elder of our travellers--"could
anything be more so! How pure, how peaceful! See, Warham, how
soft, how spirit-like, that light lies along the hill-side, and
how distinct, yet how delicate, is the train which glides from it
down the valley, even to the white dwellings at its bottom, from which
it seems to shrink and 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 contemplate with mingled feelings of
pride and pleasure, the vigorous growth of their children. They
behold in them their own immortality, even upon earth. The young
will preserve their memories, and transmit their names to other
children yet unborn; and how must such a reflection reconcile them
to their own time of departure, not unfitly shown in the last smiles
of that sunlight, which they are so soon about to lose. Like him,
they look with benevolence and love upon the world from which they
will soon depart."

"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 with any such notions as those you dwell upon with
such poetical raptures, they will infinitely prefer transmitting
for themselves their names and qualities to the very end of the
chapter. Ask any one of them the question now, and he will tell you
that an immortality, each, in his own 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 does not
envy his own son the excellence of his limbs, and the long time of
exercise and enjoyment which they seemingly assure him."

"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 mankind."

"The most fortunate, rather. I have but few burdens of credulity
to carry. The stars be blessed, my articles of faith are neither
very many nor very cumbrous. I should be sorry if my clients were
so few."

"I should be sorry, Warham, if I had so little feeling as yourself."

"And I should be still more sorry, uncle, if I had half so much.
Why, sir, yours is in such excess, that you continually mistake the
joys and sorrows of other people for your own. You laugh and weep
with them alternately; and, until all's done and over, you never
seem to discover that the business was none of yours;--that you
had none of the pleasure which made you laugh, and might have been
spared all the unnecessary suffering which moved your tears. 'Pon
my soul, sir, you pass a most unprofitable life."

"You mistake, Warham, I have shared both; and my profits have been
equally great from both sources. My susceptibility has been an
exceeding great gain to me, and has quickened all my senses. There
is a joy of grief, you know, according to Ossian."

"Nay, if you quote Ossian, uncle. I give you up. I don't believe
in Ossian, and his raving stuff always sickens me."

"I sometimes think, Warham," said the uncle, good naturedly, "that
Providence has denied you some of the more human faculties. Nay,
I fear that you are partially deficient in some of the senses. Do
you see that sunlight to which I point--there, on the hill-side,
a sort of rosy haze, which seems to me eminently beautiful?"

"Yes, sir; and, if you will suffer me, I will get out of its reach
as quickly as possible. I have been half blinded by it ever since
you found it so beautiful. Sunlight is, I think, of very little
importance to professional men, unless as a substitute for candles,
and then it should come over the left shoulder, if you would not
have it endanger the sight. Nay, I will go farther, and confess that
it is better than candlelight, and certainly far less expensive.
Shall we go forward, sir?"

"Warham," said the uncle, with increasing gravity, "I should be
sorry to believe that a habit of speech so irreverential, 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 for all proper
purposes, when the proper time comes for their employment; but
I can't flame up at every sunbeam, and grow enthusiastic in the
contemplation of Bill Johnson's cottage, and Richard Higgins's
hedgerow. A turnip-patch never yet could waken my enthusiasm,
and I do believe, sir--I confess it with some shame and a slight
misgiving, lest my admissions should give you pain--that my fancy
has never been half so greatly enkindled by Carthula, of the bending
spear, or Morven of the winds, as by the sedate and homely aspect
of an ordinary dish of eggs and bacon, hot from the flaming frying-pan
of some worthy housewife."

The uncle simply looked upon the speaker, but without answering.
He was probably quite too much accustomed to his modes of thought
and speech to be so much surprised as annoyed by what he said.
Perhaps, too, his own benevolence of spirit interfered to save the
nephew from that harsher rebuke which his judgment might yet have
very well disposed him to bestow.

Following the course of the latter in silence, he descended into
the valley, and soon made his way among the sweet little cottages
at its foot. An interchange of courtsies between the travellers and
the villagers whose presence had given occasion to some portion of
the previous dialogue, in which the manner of the younger traveller
was civil, and that of the elder kind; and the two continued on
their journey, though not without being compelled to refuse sundry
invitations, given with true patriarchal hospitality, to remain
among the quiet abodes through which they passed.

As cottage after cottage unfolded itself to their eyes, along the
winding avenue, the proprietors appeared at door and window, and,
with the simple freedoms of rural life, welcomed the strangers with
a smile, a nod, and sometimes, when sufficiently nigh, a friendly
word of salutation, but without having the effect of arresting
their onward progress. Yet many a backward glance was sent by the
elder of the travellers, whose eyes, beaming with satisfaction,
sufficiently declared the delight which he received from the
contemplation of so many of the mingled graces of physical and
moral nature. His loitering steps drew from his young companion an
occasional remark, which, to ears less benevolent and unsuspecting
than 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 before them; but they started to their feet at the
sound of strange steps, and the look of strange faces. Charlemont,
it must be remembered, was not in the thoroughfare of common travel.
If visited at all by strangers, it was most usually by those only
who came with a single purpose. Nothing, therefore could have been
more calculated to surprise a community so insulated, than that they
should attract, but not arrest the traveller. The natural surprise
which the young people felt, when unexpectedly encountered in their
rustic sports, was naturally increased by this unusual circumstance,
and they looked after the departing forms of the wayfarers with a
wonder and curiosity that kept them for some time silent. The elder
of the two, meanwhile--one of whose habits of mind was always to give
instantaneous utterance to the feeling which was upper-most--dilated,
without heeding the sneers of his nephew, upon the apparent happiness
which they witnessed.

"Here, you see, Warham, is a pleasure which the great city never
knows:--the free intercourse of the sexes in all those natural
exercises which give health to the body, grace to the movement,
and vivacity to the manners."

"The health will do well enough," replied the 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 potatoe-hills were between their legs."

"Did you note the young woman in the crimson body Warham? Was she
not majestically made?"

"It struck me she would weigh against any two of the company."

"She is rather heavy, I grant you, but her carriage, Warham!"

"Would carry weight--nothing more."

"There was one little girl, just rising into womanhood:--you must
admit that she had a very lovely face, and her form--"

"My dear uncle, what is it that you will not desire me to believe?
You are sadly given to proselytism, and take infinite pains to
compel me to see with eyes that never do their owner so much wrong,
as when they reject the aid of spectacles. How much would Charlemont
and its inhabitants differ to your sight, were you only to take
your green spectacles from the shagreen 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 privileges of twenty-five.
When, like you, my hairs whiten, and my eyes grow feeble, ten to
one, I shall think with you that every third woodman is an Apollo,
and every other peasant-girl is a Venus, whom--"

The words of the speaker ceased--cut short by the sudden appearance
of a form and face, the beauty and dignity of which silenced the
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 exultingly.

"A Diana, in truth; but, uncle, we find her not among the rest.
SHE is none of your cottagers. SHE is of another world and element.
She is no Charlemonter."

And, as he spoke, the younger traveller looked back with straining
eyes to catch another glanco of the vanished object, but in vain.

"You deserve never to see a lovely woman again, Warham, 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 reached the desired point, when he suddenly recoiled
to find the object of his pursuit standing motionless just beyond,
with eyes averted to the backward path--her glance consequently
encountering his own, the very moment when he discovered her. A deep
crimson, visible even where he stood, suffused her cheeks when she
beheld him; and without acknowledging the second bow which the
traveller made, she somewhat haughtily averted her head with a
suddenness which shook her long and raven tresses entirely 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.

"I am right after all, uncle:--the wench is no better than the
rest. A heavy bulk that seemed dignified only because she is too
fat for levity. She walks like a blind plough-horse in a broken
pasture, up and down, over and over; with a gait as rigid and
deliberate as if she trod among the hot cinders, and had corns on
all her toes. She took us so by surprise that if we had not thought
her beautiful we must have thought her ugly, and the chances are
equal, that, on a second meeting, we shall both think her so. I
shall, I'm certain, and you must, provided you give your eyes the
benefit, and your nose the burden of your green specs."

"Impossible! I can scarce believe it, Warham," replied the senior.
"I thought her very beautiful."

"I shall never rely on your judgment again;--nay, uncle, I am almost
inclined to suspect your taste."

"Well, let them be beautiful or ugly, still I should think the same
of the beauty of this village."

"While the sun shines it may be tolerable; but, uncle, in wet bad
weather--it must become a mere pond, it lies so completely in the
hollow of the hills."

"There is reason in that, Warham."

"And yet, even as a pond, it would have its advantages--it would
be famous for duck-raising."

"Pshaw! you are worse than a Mahometan."

"Something of a just comparison, uncle, though scarcely aimed,"
said the other; "like Mahomet, you know, I doubt the possession of
souls by women."

"Yet if these of Charlemont have not souls, they have no small
share of happiness on earth. I never heard more happy laughter from
human lips than from theirs. They must be happy."

"I doubt that also," was the reply. "See you not, uncle, that to
nine or ten women there are but three lads? Where the disproportion
is so great among the sexes, and where it is so unfavorable to the
weaker, women never can be happy. Their whole lives will be lives
of turmoil, jealousy, and pulling of caps. Nay, eyes shall not
be secure under such circumstances; and Nan's fingers shall be in
Doll's hair, and Doll's claws in Nanny's cheeks, whenever it shall
so happen, that Tom Jenkins shall incline to Nan, or John Dobbins
to Doll. Such a disparity between the sexes is one of the most
fruitful causes of domestic war."

"Warham, where do you think to go when you die?"

"Where there shall be no great inequality in the population. Believe
me, uncle, though I am sometimes disposed to think with Mahomet,
and deny the possession of souls to the sex, I also incline to
believe, with other more charitable teachers--however difficult
it may be to reconcile the two philosophies--that there will be no
lack of them in either world."

"Hush, hush, Warham," was the mild rebuke of the senior; "you go
too far--you are irreverent. As for this maiden, I still think her
very beautiful--of a high and noble kind of beauty. My eyes may be
bad;--indeed I am willing to admit they are none of the best; but
I feel certain that they cannot so far deceive me, when we consider
how nigh we were to her."

"The matter deserves inquiry, uncle, if it were only to satisfy
your faith;--suppose we ride back, both of us, and see for
ourselves--closely, and with the aid of the green spectacles? Not
that I care to see farther--not that I have any doubts--but I wish
you to be convinced in this case, if only to make you sensible of
the frequent injustice to which your indulgence of judgment, subjects
the critical fastidiousness of mine. What say you; shall we wheel
about?"

"Why, you are mad, surely. It is now sunset, and we have a good
eight miles before we get to Holme's Station."

"But we can sleep in Charlemont to-night. A night in this earthly
Eden--"

"And run the risk of losing our company? Oh, no, most worthy nephew.
They will start at dawn to-morrow."

"We can soon come up with 'em."

"Perhaps not, and the risk is considerable. Travelling to the
Mississippi is no such small matter at any time, and, in these times
it is only with a multitude, that there is safety. The murder of
old Whiteford, is a sufficient warning not to go alone with more
gold than lead in one's pocket. We are two, it is true, but better
ten than two. You are a brave fellow enough, Warham, I doubt not;
but a shot will dispose of you, and after that I should be an easy
victim. I could wink and hold out 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, however,
escaped the eyes of the senior, sent his horse forward by a sharp
application of his spur, though looking back the while, with a
glance of reluctance, which strongly disagreed with the sentiments
which he expressed. Indeed, with both the travellers, the impression
made by the little village of Charlemont was such that the subject
seemed nowise displeasing to either, and furnished the chief staple
of conversation between them, as they rode the remaining eight miles
of their journey. The old man's heart had been subdued and won by
the sweet air of peace which seemed to overspread and hallow the
soft landscape, and the smiling cottages which made it human. The
laughing maidens with their bright eyes and cheering accents, gave
vivacity to its milder charms. We have heard from the lips of the
younger traveller, that these attractions had failed to captivate
his fancy. We may believe 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 circumstances of higher conventional attraction.
He had no feeling 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 subject of conversation, when it happened to
flag, with obvious eagerness; and, though his language was still
studiedly disparaging, a more deeply penetrating judgment than that
of his uncle, would have seen that the little village, slightly as
he professed to esteem it, was yet an object of thought and interest
in his eyes. Of the sources of this new interest time must inform
us.

"Well, well, Warham," at length exclaimed the uncle, in a tone that
seemed meant to close the discussion of a topic which his nephew now
appeared mischievously bent to thrust upon him, "you will return
to Kentucky in the fall. Take Charlemont in your route. Stop a
week there. It will do you no harm. Possibly you may procure some
clients--may, indeed, include it in your tour of practice--at all
events, you will not be unprofitably employed if you come to see
the village and the people with MY eyes, which, I doubt not, you
will in time."

"In time, perhaps, I may. It is well that you do not insist upon
any hurried convictions. Were I at your years uncle mine," continued
the other irreverently, "I should no doubt see with your eyes, and
possibly feel with your desires. Then, no doubt, I shall acquire
a taste for warmingpans 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 off.
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--attractions
which seem resolute to cling to you to the last--could not have found
much difficulty in procuring the damsel he desired! And when, too,
your enthusiasm for the sex is known, one would think it only
necessary that you should fling your handkerchief, to have it
greedily grappled by the fairest of the herd. How is it, uncle--how
have you escaped from them--from yourself?"

"Pshaw, Warham, you are a fool!" exclaimed the senior, riding forward
with increasing speed. The words were spoken good naturedly, but
the youth had touched a spot, scarcely yet thoroughly scarred over,
in the old man's bosom; and memories, not less painful because
they had been bidden so long, were instantly wakened into fresh
and cruel activity.

It will not diminish the offence of the nephew in the mind of the
reader, when he is told that the youth was not ignorant of the
particular tenderness of his relative in this respect. The gentle
nature of the latter, alone, rescued him from the well-merited reproach
of suffering his habitual levity of mood to prevail in reference
to one whom even he himself was disposed to honor. But few words
passed between the two, ere they reached the place of appointment.
The careless reference of the youth had made the thoughts of the
senior active at the expense of his observation. His eyes were
now turned 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 evening gathered
around his path. Twilight is the cherished season for sad memories,
even as the midnight is supposed to be that of guilty ghosts; and
nothing, surely, can be more fitting than that the shadows of former
hopes should revisit us in those hours when the face of nature
itself seems darkening into gloom.

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