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Charles Egbert Craddock (real name: Murfree, Mary Noailles) - "Down the Ravine"

Bram Stoker - "Dracula"

George Gissing - "By the Ionian Sea"

Archimedes - "Geometrical Solutions Derived from Mechanics"

Charlemont

W >> W. Gilmore Simms >> Charlemont




Brother Stevens, it may be said here, found no difficulty in
maintaining the character he had assumed. He had, in high degree,
the great art of the selfish man, and could, when his game required
it, subdue with little effort, those emotions and impulses, which
the frank and ardent spirit must speak out or die. He went into the
house of the hospitable old man, and into the village of Charlemont,
as if he had gone into the camp of an enemy. He was, indeed, a
spy, seeking to discover, not the poverty, but the richness of the
land. His mind, therefore, was like one who has clothed himself
in armor, placed himself in waiting for the foe, and set all his
sentinels on the watch. His caution measured every word ere it was
spoken, every look ere it was shown, every movement ere he suffered
his limbs to make it. The muscles of his face, were each put under
curb and chain--the smiles of the lip and the glances of the eyes,
were all subdued to precision, and permitted to go forth, only
under special guard and restriction. In tone, look, and manner, he
strove as nearly as he might to resemble the worthy but simple-minded
man, who had so readily found a worthy adherent and pupil in him;
and his efforts at deception might be held to be sufficiently
successful, if the frank confiding faith of the aged heads of the
Hinkley family be the fitting test of his experiment.

With them he was soon perfectly at home--his own carriage seemed
to them wondrously becoming, and the approbation of John Cross was
of itself conclusive. The preacher was the oracle of the family,
all of whom were only too happy of his 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 recognised in the person
of Brother Stevens, the handsome stranger, his antipathy to whom,
at a first glance, months before, seemed almost to have the character
of a warning instinct. A nearer glance did not serve to lessen his
hostility.

Our traveller was to the eye of a lover, one, indeed, who promised
dangerous rivalship, and an intrepid air of confidence which, even
his assumed character could not enable him to disguise from the
searching eyes of jealousy, contributed to strengthen the dislike
of the youth for a person who seemed so perfectly sure of his
ground. Still, William Hinkley behaved as a civil and well-bred
youth might be expected to behave. He did not suffer his antipathy
to put on the aspect of rudeness; he was grave and cold, but
respectful; and though he did not "be-brother" the stranger, he yet
studiously subdued his tones to mildness, when it became necessary,
in the course of the evening meal, that he should address him.
Few words, however, were exchanged between the parties. If Hinkley
beheld an enemy to his heart's hopes in Stevens, the latter was
sufficiently well-read in the human heart to discover quite as
soon, that the rustic was prepared to see in himself any character
but that of a friend. The unwillingness with which Hinkley heard his
suggestions--the absence of all freedom and ease in his deportment,
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, and the utter lack
of all enthusiasm and warmth in his tones while he spoke to him,
satisfied Stevens, that he, of all the household of his hospitable
entertainers, if not actually suspicious of his true character,
was the one whose suspicions were those most easily to be awakened,
and who of all others, needed most to be guarded against. It will
not increase our estimate of the wisdom of the stranger, to learn
that, with this conviction, he should yet arrogate to himself a
tone of superiority, while speaking in hearing of the youth.

This was shown in a manner that was particularly galling to a
high-spirited youth, and one whose prejudices were already 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 conviction 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 conjectured that opportunity was
not long wanting, or might soon be made, for giving utterance to
the suppressed fires of anger which were struggling in his heart.
Days and weeks may elapse, but the antipathy will declare itself
at last. It would be easier to lock up the mountain torrent after
the breath of the tornado has torn away its rocky seals, than to
stifle in the heart that hates, because of its love, the fierce
fury which these united passions enkindle within it.

In the first hour of their first interview, William Hinkley and
Alfred Stevens felt that they were mutual foes. In that little space
of time, the former had but one thought, which, though it changed
its aspect with each progressive moment, never for an instant changed
its character. He panted with the hope of redressing himself for
wrongs which he could not name; for injuries and indignities which
he knew not how to describe. Stevens had neither done nor said
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
manner already adverted to, be looked upon himself as particularly
favored of Heaven, in falling upon a youth, as a pupil, of such
unctuous moral delivery.

"Surely," he mused internally, "this is a becoming instrument which
I have found, for the prosecution of the good work. He will bear
the word like one sent forth to conquer. He will bind and loose
with a strong hand. He will work wondrous things!"

Not unlike these were the calculations of old Hinkley, as he
hearkened to the reverend reasonings and the solemn commonplaces
of the stranger. Stevens, like most recent converts, was the most
uncompromising enemy of those sins from which he professed to have
achieved with difficulty his own narrow escape; and finding, from
the attentive ear of his audience, that he had made a favorable
impression, he proceeded to manufacture for them his religious
experience; an art which his general information, and knowledge of
the world enabled him to perform without much difficulty.

But the puritan declamation which pleased all the rest, disgusted
young Hinkley, and increased his dislike for the declaimer. There
was too much of the worldling in the looks, dress, air, and manner
of Stevens, to satisfy the rustic of his sincerity. Something of
his doubts had their source, without question, in the antipathy
which he had formed against him; but William Hinkley was not without
keen, quick, observing, and justly discriminating faculties, and much
of his conclusions were the due 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 acquisition 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 supper was finished, which
was spent by the jealous youth in utter silence, and he then rose
abruptly and hurried from the apartment, leaving the field entirely
to his opponent. He proceeded to the house of his neighbor and
cousin, Ned Hinkley, but without any hope of receiving comfort
from his communion. Ned was a lively, thoughtless, light-hearted
son of the soil, who was very slow to understand sorrows of any
kind; and least of all, those which lie in the fancy of a dreaming
and a doubtful lover. At this moment, when the possession of a new
violin absorbed all his thoughts, his mind was particularly obtuse
on the subject of sentimental grievances, and the almost voluptuous
delight which filled his eyes when William entered his chamber,
entirely prevented him from seeing the heavy shadow which overhung
the brows of the latter.

"What, back again, William? Why, you're as changeable as the last
suit of a green lizard. When I asked you to stop, and hear me play
'Cross-possum,' and 'Criss-cross,' off you went without giving me
a civil answer. I've a mind now to put up the fiddle and send your
ears to bed supperless. How would you like that, old fellow? but
I'll be good-natured. You shall have it, though you don't deserve
it; she's in prime tune, and the tones--only hear that, Bill--there.
Isn't she delicious?"

And as the inconsiderate cousin poured out his warmest eulogy of the
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 noise."

"Noise! Did you say noise, Bill Hinkley--noise?"

"Yes. noise," answered the other with some peevishness in his accents.
The violinist looked at him incredulously, while he suffered the
point of the fiddle-bow to sink on a line with the floor; then,
after a moment's pause, he approached his companion, wearing in his
face the while, an appearance of the most grave inquiry, and when
sufficiently nigh, he suddenly brought the bow over the strings
of the instrument, immediately in William's ears, with a sharp and
emphatic movement, producing an effect to which the former annoying
crash, might well have been thought a very gentle effusion. This
was followed by an uncontrollable burst of laughter from the merry
lips of the musician.

"There--that's what I call a noise, Bill. Sweet Sall CAN make a
noise when I worry her into it; she's just like other women in that
respect; she'll be sure to squall out if you don't touch her just
in the right quarter. But the first time she did NOT go amiss, and
as for stunning you--but what's the matter? Where's the wind now?"

"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 son, with the cork out, and ready to
boil over. As for Sall making a noise the first time, that's all
a notion, and a very strange one. She was as sweet-spoken then as
she was when you left me before supper. The last time, I confess,
I made her squall out on purpose. But what of that? you are not
the man to get angry with a little fun!"

"No, I'm not angry with you, Ned--I am not angry with 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 case in the corner. "There; and now
Bill, untie the pack, and let's see the sort of wolf-cubs you've
got to carry; for there's no two horns to a wild bull, if something
hasn't gored you to-night."

"You're mistaken, Ned--quite mistaken--quite!"

"Deuse a bit! I know you too well, Bill Hinkley, so it's no use
to hush up now. Out with it, and don't be sparing, and if there's
any harm to come, I'm here, just as ready to risk a cracked crown
for you, as if the trouble was my own. I'd rather fiddle than fight,
it's true; but when there's any need for it, you know I can do one
just as well as the other; and can go to it with just as much good
humor. So show us the quarrel."

"There's no quarrel. Ned," said the other, softened by the frank
and ready feeling which his companion showed; "but I'm very foolish
in some things, and don't know how it is. I'm not apt to take
dislikes, but there's a man come to our house with John Cross, this
evening, that I somehow dislike very much."

"A man! What's he like? Anything like Joe Richards? That was a
fellow that I hated mightily. I never longed to lick any man but Joe
Richards, and him I longed to lick three times, though you know I
never got at him more than twice. It's a great pity he got drowned,
for I owe him a third licking, and don't feel altogether right,
since I know no sort of way to pay it. But if this man's 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 him for?" said
the single-minded musician, with a surprise in his manner, which
was mingled with something like rebuke.

"I have expressed no such wish, Ned; you are too hasty; and if
I did wish to whip him, I don't think I should trouble you or any
man to help me. If I could not do it myself, I should give it up
as a bad job, without calling in assistants."

"Oh, you're a spunky follow--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 fellow, how comes it you dislike him?
It seems to me if a chap behaved so as to make me dislike him, it
wouldn't be an easy matter to keep my hands off him. I'd teach him
how to put me into a bad 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, and sing, like other people. Many's the time he's asked
me, of his own mouth, to play the violin; and I've seen his little
eyes caper again, when sweet Sall talked out her funniest. If it
was not so late, I'd go over now and give him a reel or two, and
then I could take a look at this strange chap, that's set your
grinders against each other."

The fiddler looked earnestly at the instrument in the corner, his
features plainly denoting his anxiety to resume the occupation
which his 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 Sall 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 carte blanche, our enthusiastic performer, without
weariness, went through his whole collection, without once perceiving
that his comical and merry tunes had entirely failed to change the
grave, and even gloomy expression which still mantled the face of
his companion. It was only when in his exhaustion he set down the
instrument, that he became conscious of William Hinkley's continued
discomposure.

"Why, Bill, the trouble has given you a bigger bite than I thought
for. What words did you have with the preacher?"

"None: I don't know that he is a preacher. He speaks only as if he
was trying to become one."

"What, you hadn't any difference--no quarrel?"

"None."

"And it's only to-night that you've seen him for the first time?"

A flush passed over the grave features of William Hinkley as he heard
this question, and it was with a hesitating manner and faltering
accents, that he contrived to tell his cousin of the brief glimpse
which he had of the same stranger several months before, on that
occasion, when, in the emotion of Margaret Cooper, replying to
a similar question, he first felt the incipient seed of jealousy
planted within his bosom. But this latter incident he forbore to
reveal to the inquirer; and Ned Hinkley, though certainly endowed
by nature with sufficient skill to draw forth the very soul of music
from the instrument on which he played, had no similar power upon
the secret soul of the person whom he partially examined.

"But 'tis very strange how you should take offence at a man you've
seen so little; though I have heard before this of people taking
dislikes at other people the first moment they set eyes on 'em.
Now, I'm not a person of that sort, unless it was in the case of
Joe Richards; and him I took a sort of grudge at from the first
beginning. But even then there was a sort of reason for it; for,
at the beginning, when Joe came down upon us here in Charlemont,
he was for riding over people's necks, without so much as asking,
'by your leave.' He had a way about him that vexed me, though we
did not change a word."

"And it's that very way that this person has that I don't like,"
said William Hinkley. "He talks as if he made you, and when you
talk, he smiles as if he thought you were the very worst work that
ever went out of his hands. Then, if he has to say 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 wonder if he
preaches; for John Cross was at him about it before I came away.
What's worse, the old man's been asking him to live with us."

"What, here in Charlemont?"

"Yes."

"I'll be sure to lick him then, if he's 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
he stays there I shall not. I shall leave home, for I really dislike
to meet him."

"You shall stay with me, Bill, and we'll have Sall at all hours,"
was the hearty speech of the cousin, as he threw his arms around
the neck of his morose companion, and dragged him gently toward
the adjoining apartment, which formed his chamber. "To-morrow," he
continued, "as you say, we'll see this chap, and if he's anything
like Joe Richards--" The doubled fist of the speaker, and his
threatening visage, completed the sentence with which this present
conference and chapter may very well conclude.






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, and after a minute
calculation of days and distances, so that his spiritual manna might
be distributed in equal proportions among his hungering flock. His
arrival made itself felt accordingly, not simply in Charlemont,
but throughout the surrounding country for a circuit of ten miles
or more. There was a large and hopeful gathering of all sorts
and sexes, white and black, old and young. Charlemont had a very
pretty little church of its own; but one, and that, with more true
Christianity than is found commonly in this world of pretence and
little tolerance, was open to preachers of all denominations. The
word of God, among these simple folks, was quite too important to
make them scruple at receiving it from the lips of either Geneva,
Rome, or Canterbury. The church stood out among the hills at a
little distance from, but in sight of the village; a small, neat
Grecian-like temple, glimmering white and saintlike through solemn
visaged groves, and gaudy green foliage. The old trees about it
were all kept neatly trimmed, the brush pruned away and cleared up,
and a smooth sweet sward, lawnlike, surrounded it, such as children
love to skip and scramble over, and older children rest at length
upon, in pairs, talking over their sweet silly affections.

Surrounded by an admiring crowd, each of whom had his respectful
salutation, 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 benevolent 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 earnestness
constitute, with the necessary degree of talent, the grand secrets
for making successful teachers in every department.

Though a simple, unsophisticated, unsuspecting creature, John Cross
was a man of very excellent natural endowments. He chose for his
text a passage of the Scriptures which admitted of a direct practical
application to the concerns of the people, their daily wants, their
pressing interests, moral, human, and social. He was thus enabled
to preach a discourse which sent home many of his congregation much
wiser than they came, if only in reference to their homely duties
of farmstead and family. John Cross was none of those sorry and
self-constituted representatives of our eternal interests, who
deluge us with a vain, worthless declamation, proving that virtue
is a very good thing, religion a very commendable virtue, and a
liberal contribution to the church-box at the close of the sermon one
of the most decided proofs that we have this virtue in perfection.
Nay, it is somewhat doubtful, indeed, if he ever once alluded to the
state of his own scrip and the treasury of the church. His faith,
sincere, spontaneous, ardent, left him in very little doubt that
the Lord will provide, for is he not called "Jehovah-Jireh?"--and
his faith was strengthened and confirmed by the experience of his
whole life. But then John Cross had few wants--few, almost none!
In this respect he resembled the first apostles. The necessities
of life once cared for, never was mortal man more thoroughly
independent of the world. He was not one of those fine preachers
who, dealing out counsels of self-denial, in grave saws and solemn
maxims, with wondrous grim visage and a most slow, lugubrious
shaking of the head--are yet always religiously careful to secure
the warmest seat by the fireside, and the best buttered bun
on table. He taught no doctrine which he did not practise; and as
for consideration--that test at once of the religionist and the
gentleman--he was as humbly solicitous of the claims and feelings
of others, as the lovely and lowly child to whom reverence has
been well taught as the true beginning, equally of politeness 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. Perhaps, his refusal was dictated by a policy
like that which had governed him so far already; which made him
reluctant to commit himself to a degree which might increase very
much the hazards of detection. He feared, indeed, the restraints
which the unequivocal adoption of the profession would impose
upon him, fettering somewhat the freedom of his intercourse with
the young of both sexes, and, consequently, opposing an almost
insurmountable barrier to the prevailing object which had brought
him to the village. Whatever may have been the feelings or motives
which governed him, they, at least, saved him from an act which
would have grievously aggravated his already large offence against
truth and propriety. He declined, in language of the old hypocrisy.
He did not feel justified in taking up the cross--he felt that he
was not yet worthy; and, among the members of a church, which takes
largely into account the momentary impulses and impressions of the
professor, the plea was considered a sufficiently legitimate one.

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