It was impossible for Myrtle to be frequently at Olive's without often
meeting Olive's brother, and her reappearance with the bloom on her
cheek was a signal which her other admirers were not likely to overlook
as a hint to recommence their flattering demonstrations; and so it was
that she found herself all at once the centre of attraction to three
young men with whom we have made some acquaintance, namely, Cyprian
Eveleth, Gifted Hopkins, and Murray Bradshaw.
When the three girls were together at the house of Olive, it gave
Cyprian a chance to see something of Myrtle in the most natural way.
Indeed, they all became used to meeting him in a brotherly sort of
relation; only, as he was not the brother of two of them, it gave him
the inside track, as the sporting men say, with reference to any rivals
for the good-will of either of these. Of course neither Bathsheba nor
Myrtle thought of him in any other light than as Olive's brother, and
would have been surprised with the manifestation on his part of any
other feeling, if it existed. So he became very nearly as intimate with
them as Olive was, and hardly thought of his intimacy as anything more
than friendship, until one day Myrtle sang some hymns so sweetly that
Cyprian dreamed about her that night; and what young person does not
know that the woman or the man once idealized and glorified in the
exalted state of the imagination belonging to sleep becomes dangerous
to the sensibilities in the waking hours that follow? Yet something drew
Cyprian to the gentler and more subdued nature of Bathsheba, so that
he often thought, like a gayer personage than himself, whose divided
affections are famous in song, that he could have been blessed to share
her faithful heart, if Myrtle had not bewitched him with her unconscious
and innocent sorceries. As for poor, modest Bathsheba, she thought
nothing of herself, but was almost as much fascinated by Myrtle as if
she had been one of the sex she was born to make in love with her.
The first rival Cyprian was to encounter in his admiration of Myrtle
Hazard was Mr. Gifted Hopkins. This young gentleman had the enormous
advantage of that all-subduing accomplishment, the poetical endowment.
No woman, it is pretty generally understood, can resist the youth or
man who addresses her in verse. The thought that she is the object of a
poet's love is one which fills a woman's ambition more completely than
all that wealth or office or social eminence can offer. Do the young
millionnaires and the members of the General Court get letters from
unknown ladies, every day, asking for their autographs and photographs?
Well, then!
Mr. Gifted Hopkins, being a poet, felt that it was so, to the very depth
of his soul. Could he not confer that immortality so dear to the human
heart? Not quite yet, perhaps,--though the “Banner and Oracle” gave
him already “an elevated niche in the Temple of Fame,” to quote its own
words,--but in that glorious summer of his genius, of which these spring
blossoms were the promise. It was a most formidable battery, then, which
Cyprian's first rival opened upon the fortress of Myrtle's affections.
His second rival, Mr. William Murray Bradshaw, had made a half-playful
bet with his fair relative, Mrs. Clymer Ketchum, that he would bag
a girl within twelve months of date who should unite three desirable
qualities, specified in the bet, in a higher degree than any one of the
five who were on the matrimonial programme which she had laid out for
him,--and Myrtle was the girl with whom he meant to win the bet. When a
young fellow like him, cool and clever, makes up his mind to bring down
his bird, it is no joke, but a very serious and a tolerably
certain piece of business. Not being made a fool of by any boyish
nonsense,--passion and all that,--he has a great advantage. Many a
woman rejects a man because he is in love with her, and accepts another
because he is not. The first is thinking too much of himself and his
emotions,--the other makes a study of her and her friends, and learns
what ropes to pull. But then it must be remembered that Murray Bradshaw
had a poet for his rival, to say nothing of the brother of a bosom
friend.
The qualities of a young poet are so exceptional, and such interesting
objects of study, that a narrative like this can well afford to linger
awhile in the delineation of this most envied of all the forms of
genius. And by contrasting the powers and limitations of two such young
persons as Gifted Hopkins and Cyprian Eveleth, we may better appreciate
the nature of that divine inspiration which gives to poetry the
superiority it claims over every other form of human expression.
Gifted Hopkins had shown an ear for rhythm, and for the simpler forms of
music, from his earliest childhood. He began beating with his heels
the accents of the psalm tunes sung at meeting at a very tender age,--a
habit, indeed, of which he had afterwards to correct himself, as,
though it shows a sensibility to rhythmical impulses like that which
is beautifully illustrated when a circle join hands and emphasize by
vigorous downward movements the leading syllables in the tune of Auld
Lang Syne, yet it is apt to be too expressive when a large number of
boots join in the performance. He showed a remarkable talent for playing
on one of the less complex musical instruments, too limited in compass
to satisfy exacting ears, but affording excellent discipline to those
who wish to write in the simpler metrical forms,--the same which summons
the hero from his repose and stirs his blood in battle.
By the time he was twelve years old he was struck with the pleasing
resemblance of certain vocal sounds which, without being the same,
yet had a curious relation which made them agree marvellously well
in couples; as eyes with skies; as heart with art, also with part and
smart; and so of numerous others, twenty or thirty pairs, perhaps, which
number he considerably increased as he grew older, until he may have had
fifty or more such pairs at his command.
The union of so extensive a catalogue of words which matched each other,
and of an ear so nice that it could tell if there were nine or eleven
syllables in an heroic line, instead of the legitimate ten, constituted
a rare combination of talents in the opinion of those upon whose
judgment he relied. He was naturally led to try his powers in the
expression of some just thought or natural sentiment in the shape of
verse, that wonderful medium of imparting thought and feeling to his
fellow-creatures which a bountiful Providence had made his rare and
inestimable endowment.
It was at about this period of his life, that is to say, when he was of
the age of thirteen, or we may perhaps say fourteen years, for we do
not wish to overstate his precocity, that he experienced a sensation so
entirely novel, that, to the best of his belief, it was such as no other
young person had ever known, at least in anything like the same degree.
This extraordinary emotion was brought on by the sight of Myrtle Hazard,
with whom he had never before had any near relations, as they had been
at different schools, and Myrtle was too reserved to be very generally
known among the young people of his age.
Then it was that he broke forth in his virgin effort, “Lines to M----e,”
which were published in the village paper, and were claimed by all
possible girls but the right one; namely, by two Mary Annes, one
Minnie, one Mehitable, and one Marthie, as she saw fit to spell the name
borrowed from her who was troubled about many things.
The success of these lines, which were in that form of verse known to
the hymn-books as “common metre,” was such as to convince the youth
that, whatever occupation he might be compelled to follow for a time to
obtain a livelihood or to assist his worthy parent, his true destiny was
the glorious career of a poet. It was a most pleasing circumstance,
that his mother, while she fully recognized the propriety of his being
diligent in the prosaic line of business to which circumstances had
called him, was yet as much convinced as he himself that he was destined
to achieve literary fame. She had read Watts and Select Hymns all
through, she said, and she did n't see but what Gifted could make the
verses come out jest as slick, and the sound of the rhymes jest as
pooty, as Izik Watts or the Selectmen, whoever they was,--she was sure
they couldn't be the selectmen of this town, wherever they belonged.
It is pleasant to say that the young man, though favored by nature with
this rarest of talents, did not forget the humbler duties that Heaven,
which dresses few singing-birds in the golden plumes of fortune, had
laid upon him. After having received a moderate amount of instruction
at one of the less ambitious educational institutions of the town,
supplemented, it is true, by the judicious and gratuitous hints of
Master Gridley, the young poet, in obedience to a feeling which did him
the highest credit, relinquished, at least for the time, the Groves of
Academus, and offered his youth at the shrine of Plutus, that is, left
off studying and took to business. He became what they call a “clerk” in
what they call a “store” up in the huckleberry districts, and kept such
accounts as were required by the business of the establishment. His
principal occupation was, however, to attend to the details of commerce
as it was transacted over the counter. This industry enabled him, to
his great praise be it spoken, to assist his excellent parent, to clothe
himself in a becoming manner, so that he made a really handsome figure
on Sundays and was always of presentable aspect, likewise to purchase
a book now and then, and to subscribe for that leading periodical which
furnishes the best models to the youth of the country in the various
modes of composition.
Though Master Gridley was very kind to the young man, he was rather
disposed to check the exuberance of his poetical aspirations. The truth
was, that the old classical scholar did not care a great deal for modern
English poetry. Give him an Ode of Horace, or a scrap from the Greek
Anthology, and he would recite it with great inflation of spirits; but
he did not think very much of “your Keatses, and your Tennysons, and the
whole Hasheesh crazy lot,” as he called the dreamily sensuous idealists
who belong to the same century that brought in ether and chloroform.
He rather shook his head at Gifted Hopkins for indulging so largely in
metrical composition.
“Better stick to your ciphering, my young friend,” he said to him, one
day. “Figures of speech are all very well, in their way; but if you
undertake to deal much in them, you'll figure down your prospects into
a mighty small sum. There's some danger that it will take all the
sense out of you, if you keep writing verses at this rate. You young
scribblers think any kind of nonsense will do for the public, if it
only has a string of rhymes tacked to it. Cut off the bobs of your kite,
Gifted Hopkins, and see if it does n't pitch, and stagger, and come down
head-foremost. Don't write any stuff with rhyming tails to it that won't
make a decent show for itself after you've chopped all the rhyming tails
off. That's my advice, Gifted Hopkins. Is there any book you would like
to have out of my library? Have you ever read Spenser's Faery Queen?”
He had tried, the young man answered, on the recommendation of Cyprian
Eveleth, but had found it rather hard reading.
Master Gridley lifted his eyebrows very slightly, remembering that some
had called Spenser the poet's poet. “What a pity,” he said to himself,
“that this Gifted Hopkins has n't got the brains of that William Murray
Bradshaw! What's the reason, I wonder, that all the little earthen pots
blow their covers off and froth over in rhymes at such a great rate,
while the big iron pots keep their lids on, and do all their simmering
inside?”
That is the way these old pedants will talk, after all their youth and
all their poetry, if they ever had any, are gone. The smiles of woman,
in the mean time, encouraged the young poet to smite the lyre. Fame
beckoned him upward from her templed steep. The rhymes which rose before
him unbidden were as the rounds of Jacob's ladder, on which he would
climb to a heaven of-glory.
Master Gridley threw cold water on the young man's too sanguine
anticipations of success. “All up with the boy, if he's going to take to
rhyming when he ought to be doing up papers of brown sugar and weighing
out pounds of tea. Poor-house,--that 's what it'll end in. Poets, to be
sure! Sausage-makers! Empty skins of old phrases,--stuff 'em with odds
and ends of old thoughts that never were good for anything,--cut 'em up
in lengths and sell'em to fools! “And if they ain't big fools enough to
buy 'em, give'em away; and if you can't do that, pay folks to take'em.
Bah! what a fine style of genius common-sense is! There's a passage in
the book that would fit half these addle-headed rhymesters. What is
that saying of mine about “squinting brains?”
He took down “Thoughts on the Universe,” and read:--
“Of Squinting Brains.
“Where there is one man who squints with his eyes, there are a dozen who
squint with their brains. It is an infirmity in one of the eyes, making
the two unequal in power, that makes men squint. Just so it is an
inequality in the two halves of the brain that makes some men idiots and
others rascals. I knows a fellow whose right half is a genius, but his
other hemisphere belongs to a fool; and I had a friend perfectly
honest on one side, but who was sent to jail because the other had
an inveterate tendency in the direction of picking pockets and
appropriating aes alienum.”
All this, talking and reading to himself in his usual fashion.
The poetical faculty which was so freely developed in Gifted Hopkins had
never manifested itself in Cyprian Eveleth, whose look and voice might,
to a stranger, have seemed more likely to imply an imaginative nature.
Cyprian was dark, slender, sensitive, contemplative, a lover of lonely
walks,--one who listened for the whispers of Nature and watched her
shadows, and was alive to the symbolisms she writes over everything.
But Cyprian had never shown the talent or the inclination for writing in
verse.
He was on the pleasantest terms with the young poet, and being somewhat
older, and having had the advantage of academic and college culture,
often gave him useful hints as to the cultivation of his powers, such
as genius frequently requires at the hands of humbler intelligences.
Cyprian was incapable of jealousy; and although the name of Gifted
Hopkins was getting to be known beyond the immediate neighborhood, and
his autograph had been requested by more than one young lady living in
another county, he never thought of envying the young poet's spreading
popularity.
That the poet himself was flattered by these marks of public favor may
be inferred from the growing confidence with which he expressed himself
in his conversations with Cyprian, more especially in one which was held
at the “store” where he officiated as “clerk.”
“I become more and more assured, Cyprian,” he said, leaning over the
counter, “that I was born to be a poet. I feel it in my marrow. I must
succeed. I must win the laurel of fame. I must taste the sweets of”--
“Molasses,” said a bareheaded girl of ten who entered at that moment,
bearing in her hand a cracked pitcher, “ma wants three gills of
molasses.”
Gifted Hopkins dropped his subject and took up a tin measure. He served
the little maid with a benignity quite charming to witness, made an
entry on a slate of .08, and resumed the conversation.
“Yes, I am sure of it, Cyprian. The very last piece I wrote was copied
in two papers. It was 'Contemplations in Autumn,' and--don't think I am
too vain--one young lady has told me that it reminded her of Pollok. You
never wrote in verse, did you, Cyprian?”
“I never wrote at all, Gifted, except school and college exercises, and
a letter now and then. Do you find it an easy and pleasant exercise to
make rhymes?”
Pleasant! Poetry is to me a delight and a passion. I never know what
I am going to write when I sit down. And presently the rhymes begin
pounding in my brain,--it seems as if there were a hundred couples of
them, paired like so many dancers,--and then these rhymes seem to take
possession of me, like a surprise party, and bring in all sorts of
beautiful thoughts, and I write and write, and the verses run measuring
themselves out like”--
“Ribbins,--any narrer blue ribbins, Mr. Hopkins? Five eighths of a yard,
if you please, Mr. Hopkins. How's your folks?” Then, in a lower tone,
“Those last verses of yours in the Bannernoracle were sweet pooty.”
Gifted Hopkins meted out the five eighths of blue ribbon by the aid of
certain brass nails on the counter. He gave good measure, not prodigal,
for he was loyal to his employer, but putting a very moderate strain
on the ribbon, and letting the thumb-nail slide with a contempt of
infinitesimals which betokened a large soul in its genial mood.
The young lady departed, after casting upon him one of those bewitching
glances which the young poet--let us rather say the poet, without making
odious distinctions--is in the confirmed habit of receiving from dear
woman.
Mr. Gifted Hopkins resumed: “I do not know where this talent, as my
friends call it, of mine, comes from. My father used to carry a chain
for a surveyor sometimes, and there is a ten-foot pole in the house he
used to measure land with. I don't see why that should make me a poet.
My mother was always fond of Dr. Watts's hymns; but so are other young
men's mothers, and yet they don't show poetical genius. But wherever I
got it, it comes as easy to me to write in verse as to write in prose,
almost. Don't you ever feel a longing to send your thoughts forth in
verse, Cyprian?”
“I wish I had a greater facility of expression very often,” Cyprian
answered; “but when I have my best thoughts I do not find that I have
words that seem fitting to clothe them. I have imagined a great many
poems, Gifted, but I never wrote a rhyming verse, or verse of any kind.
Did you ever hear Olive play 'Songs without Words'? If you have ever
heard her, you will know what I mean by unrhymed and unversed poetry.”
“I am sure I don't know what you mean, Cyprian, by poetry without rhyme
or verse, any more than I should if you talked about pictures that were
painted on nothing, or statues that were made out of nothing. How can
you tell that anything is poetry, I should like to know, if there is
neither a regular line with just so many syllables, nor a rhyme? Of
course you can't. I never have any thoughts too beautiful to put in
verse: nothing can be too beautiful for it.”
Cyprian left the conversation at this point. It was getting more
suggestive than interpenetrating, and he thought he might talk the
matter over better with Olive. Just then a little boy came in, and
bargained with Gifted for a Jews-harp, which, having obtained, he placed
against his teeth, and began playing upon it with a pleasure almost
equal to that of the young poet reciting his own verses.
“A little too much like my friend Gifted Hopkins's poetry,” Cyprian
said, as he left the “store.” “All in one note, pretty much. Not a great
many tunes, 'Hi Betty Martin,' 'Yankee Doodle,' and one or two more
like them. But many people seem to like them, and I don't doubt it is as
exciting to Gifted to write them as it is to a great genius to express
itself in a poem.”
Cyprian was, perhaps, too exacting. He loved too well the sweet
intricacies of Spenser, the majestic and subtly interwoven harmonies
of Milton. These made him impatient of the simpler strains of Gifted
Hopkins.
Though he himself never wrote verses, he had some qualities which his
friend the poet may have undervalued in comparison with the talent of
modelling the symmetries of verse and adjusting the correspondences
of rhyme. He had kept in a singular degree all the sensibilities of
childhood, its simplicity, its reverence. It seemed as if nothing of all
that he met in his daily life was common or unclean to him, for there
was no mordant in his nature for what was coarse or vile, and all else
he could not help idealizing into its own conception of itself, so to
speak. He loved the leaf after its kind as well as the flower, and the
root as well as the leaf, and did not exhaust his capacity of affection
or admiration on the blossom or bud upon which his friend the poet
lavished the wealth of his verse. Thus Nature took him into her
confidence. She loves the men of science well, and tells them all her
family secrets,--who is the father of this or that member of the group,
who is brother, sister, cousin, and so on, through all the circle of
relationship. But there are others to whom she tells her dreams; not
what species or genus her lily belongs to, but what vague thought it has
when it dresses in white, or what memory of its birthplace that is
which we call its fragrance. Cyprian was one of these. Yet he was not
a complete nature. He required another and a wholly different one to
be the complement of his own. Olive came as near it as a sister could,
but--we must borrow an old image--moonlight is no more than a cold and
vacant glimmer on the sun-dial, which only answers to the great flaming
orb of day. If Cyprian could but find some true, sweet-tempered,
well-balanced woman, richer in feeling than in those special imaginative
gifts which made the outward world at times unreal to him in the
intense reality of his own inner life, how he could enrich and adorn her
existence,--how she could direct and chasten and elevate the character
of all his thoughts and actions!
“Bathsheba,” said Olive, “it seems to me that Cyprian is getting more
and more fascinated with Myrtle Hazard. He has never got over the fancy
he took to her when he first saw her in her red jacket, and called
her the fire-hang-bird. Wouldn't they suit each other by and by, after
Myrtle has come to herself and grown into a beautiful and noble woman,
as I feel sure she will in due time?”
“Myrtle is very lovely,” Bathsheba answered, “but is n't she a little
too--flighty--for one like your brother? Cyprian isn't more like
other young men than Myrtle is like other young girls. I have thought
sometimes--I wondered whether out-of-the-way people and common ones do
not get along best together. Does n't Cyprian want some more
every-day kind of girl to keep him straight? Myrtle is beautiful,
beautiful,--fascinates everybody. Has Mr. Bradshaw been following after
her lately? He is taken with her too. Didn't you ever think she would
have to give in to Murray Bradshaw at last? He looks to me like a man
that would hold on desperately as a lover.”
If Myrtle Hazard, instead of being a half-finished school-girl, hardly
sixteen years old, had been a young woman of eighteen or nineteen, it
would have been plain sailing enough for Murray Bradshaw. But he knew
what a distance their ages seemed just now to put between them,--a
distance which would grow practically less and less with every year,
and he did not wish to risk anything so long as there was no danger of
interference. He rather encouraged Gifted Hopkins to write poetry to
Myrtle. “Go in, Gifted,” he said, “there's no telling what may come of
it,” and Gifted did go in at a great rate.
Murray Bradshaw did not write poetry himself, but he read poetry with
a good deal of effect, and he would sometimes take a hint from one of
Gifted Hopkins's last productions to recite a passionate lyric of Byron
or Moore, into which he would artfully throw so much meaning that Myrtle
was almost as much puzzled, in her simplicity, to know what it meant, as
she had been by the religious fervors of the Rev. Mr. Stoker.
He spoke well of Cyprian Eveleth. A good young man,--limited, but
exemplary. Would succeed well as rector of a small parish. That required
little talent, but a good deal of the humbler sort of virtue. As for
himself, he confessed to ambition,--yes, a great deal of ambition.
A failing, he supposed, but not the worst of failings. He felt the
instinct to handle the larger interests of society. The village would
perhaps lose sight of him for a time; but he meant to emerge sooner or
later in the higher spheres of government or diplomacy. Myrtle must keep
his secret. Nobody else knew it. He could not help making a confidant of
her,--a thing he had never done before with any other person as to his
plans in life. Perhaps she might watch his career with more interest
from her acquaintance with him. He loved to think that there was
one woman at least who would be pleased to hear of his success if
he succeeded, as with life and health he would,--who would share his
disappointment if fate should not favor him.--So he wound and wreathed
himself into her thoughts.
It was not very long before Myrtle began to accept the idea that she
was the one person in the world whose peculiar duty it was to sympathize
with the aspiring young man whose humble beginnings she had the honor
of witnessing. And it is not very far from being the solitary confidant,
and the single source of inspiration, to the growth of a livelier
interest, where a young man and a young woman are in question.
Myrtle was at this time her own mistress as never before. The three
young men had access to her as she walked to and from meeting and in her
frequent rambles, besides the opportunities Cyprian had of meeting her
in his sister's company, and the convenient visits which, in connection
with the great lawsuit, Murray Bradshaw could make, without question, at
The Poplars.
It was not long before Cyprian perceived that he could never pass a
certain boundary of intimacy with Myrtle. Very pleasant and sisterly
always she was with him; but she never looked as if she might mean more
than she said, and cherished a little spark of sensibility which might
be fanned into the flame of love. Cyprian felt this so certainly that he
was on the point of telling his grief to Bathsheba, who looked to him
as if she would sympathize as heartily with him as his own sister, and
whose sympathy would have a certain flavor in it,--something which one
cannot find in the heart of the dearest sister that ever lived. But
Bathsheba was herself sensitive, and changed color when Cyprian ventured
a hint or two in the direction of his thought, so that he never got so
fax as to unburden his heart to her about Myrtle, whom she admired so
sincerely that she could not have helped feeling a great interest in his
passion towards her.
As for Gifted Hopkins, the roses that were beginning to bloom fresher
and fresher every day in Myrtle's cheeks unfolded themselves more and
more freely, to speak metaphorically, in his song. Every week she would
receive a delicately tinted note with lines to “Myrtle awaking,” or to
“Myrtle retiring,” (one string of verses a little too Musidora-ish, and
which soon found itself in the condition of a cinder, perhaps reduced
to that state by spontaneous combustion,) or to “The Flower of the
Tropics,” or to the “Nymph of the River-side,” or other poetical alias,
such as bards affect in their sieges of the female heart.
Gifted Hopkins was of a sanguine temperament. As he read and re-read his
verses it certainly seemed to him that they must reach the heart of
the angelic being to whom they were addressed. That she was slow in
confessing the impression they made upon her, was a favorable sign; so
many girls called his poems “sweet pooty,” that those charming words,
though soothing, no longer stirred him deeply. Myrtle's silence showed
that the impression his verses had made was deep. Time would develop her
sentiments; they were both young; his position was humble as yet; but
when he had become famous through the land-oh blissful thought!--the
bard of Oxbow Village would bear a name that any woman would be proud
to assume, and the M. H. which her delicate hands had wrought on the
kerchiefs she wore would yet perhaps be read, not Myrtle Hazard, but
Myrtle Hopkins.