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, lawn-like, 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.
But though Stevens forbore to commit himself openly in the cause which
he professed a desire to espouse, he was yet sufficiently heedful to
maintain all those externals of devotion which a serious believer would
be apt to exhibit. He could be a good actor of a part, and in this lay
his best talent. He had that saving wisdom of the worldling, which is
too often estimated beyond its worth, called cunning; and the frequent
successes of which produces that worst of all the diseases that ever
impaired the value of true greatness--conceit. Alfred Stevens fancied
that he could do everything, and this fancy produced in him the
appearance of a courage which his moral nature never possessed. He had
the audacity which results from presumption, not the wholesome strength
which comes from the conscious possession of a right purpose. But a
truce to our metaphysics.
Never did saint wear the aspect of such supernatural devotion. He knelt
with the first, groaned audibly at intervals, and when his face became
visible, his eyes were strained in upward glances, so that the spectator
could behold little more in their orbs than a sea of white.
“Oh! what a blessed young man!” said Mrs. Quackenbosh.
“How I wish it was he that was to preach for us to-day,” responded that
gem from the antique, Miss Polly Entwistle, who had joined every church
in Kentucky in turn, without having been made a spouse in either.
“How handsome he is!” simpered Miss Julia Evergreen--a damsel of
seventeen, upon whom the bilious eyes of Miss Entwistle were cast with
such an expression as the devil is said to put on when suddenly soused
in holy water.
“Handsome is that handsome does!” was the commentary of a venerable
cormorant to whom Brother Cross had always appeared the special and
accepted agent of heaven.
“I wish Brother Cross would get him to pray only. I wonder if he
believes in the new-light doctrine?” purred one of the ancient tabbies
of the conventicle.
“The new light is but the old darkness, Sister Widgeon,” responded an
old farmer of sixty four, who had divided his time so equally between
the plough and the prayer-book, that his body had grown as crooked as
the one, while his mind was bewildered with as many doctrines as ever
worried all sense out of the other.
We shall not suffer these to divert us, any more than Stevens permitted
their speculations upon his person and religion to affect his devotion.
He looked neither to the right nor to the left while entering the
church, or engaging in the ceremonies. No errant glances were permitted
to betray to the audience a mind wandering from the obvious duties
before it; and yet Alfred Stevens knew just as well that every eye in
the congregation was fixed upon him, as that he was himself there; and
among those eyes, his own keen glance had already discovered those of
that one for whom all these labors of hypocrisy were undertaken.
Margaret Cooper sat on the opposite side of the church, but the line
of vision was uninterrupted between them, and when--though very
unfrequently--Stevens suffered his gaze to rest upon her form, it was
with a sudden look of pleased abstraction, as if, in spite of himself,
his mind was irresistibly drawn away from all recollection, of its
immediate duties.
If a word is sufficient for the wise, a look answers an equal purpose
with the vain. Margaret Cooper left the church that morning with a
pleased conviction that the handsome stranger had already paid his
devotion to her charms. There was yet another passion to be gratified.
The restless ambition of her foolish heart whispered to her momently,
that if her person had done so much, what might she not hope to achieve
when the treasures of her mind were known. She had long since made the
comparison of her own intellect with that of every other maiden in the
village, and she flattered herself that before many days, the young
stranger should make it too. Her vain heart was rapidly preparing to
smooth the path of the enemy and make his conquests easy.
But it was not the women only, by whom the deportment of Alfred Stevens
was so closely watched. The eyes of suspicion and jealousy were upon
him. The two young men whose interview formed the conclusion of our last
chapter, scanned his conduct and carriage with sufficient keenness of
scrutiny.
“I'll tell you what, Bill Hinkley,” said his cousin, “this fellow, to my
thinking, is a very great rascal.”
“What makes you think so?” demanded the former, with slow, dissatisfied
accents; “he seems to pray very earnestly.”
“That's the very reason I think him a rascal. His praying seems to me
very unnatural. Here, he's a perfect stranger in the place, yet he never
shows any curiosity to see the people. He never once looks around him.
He walks to the church with his eye cast upon the ground, and sometimes
he squints to this side and sometimes to that, but he seems to do it
slyly, and seems to take pains that nobody should see him doing, it.
All this might answer for an old man, who--believes that everything is
vanity--as, indeed, everything must seem to old people; but to a young
fellow, full of blood, who eats well, drinks well, sleeps well, and
should naturally have a hankering after a young girl, all this is
against nature. Now, what's against nature is wrong, and there's wrong
at the bottom of it. Youth is the time to laugh, dance, sing, play on
the violin, and always have a sweetheart when it can find one. If you
can't get a beauty take a brown; and if Mary won't smile, Susan will.
But always have a sweetheart; always be ready for fun and frolic;
that's the way for the young, and when they don't take these ways, it's
unnatural--there's something wrong about it, and I'm suspicious of THAT
person. Now, I just have this notion of the young stranger. He's after
no good. I reckon he's like a hundred others; too lazy to go to work,
he goes to preaching, and learns in the first sermon to beg hard for the
missionaries. I'll lick him, Bill, to a certainty, if he gives me the
littlest end of an opportunity.”
“Pshaw, Ned, don't think of such a thing. You are quite too fond of
licking people.”
“Deuse a bit. It does 'em good. Look you, this chap is monstrous like
Joe Richards. I'll have to lick him on that account.”
“You're mad, Ned; talk of whipping a preacher.”
“He's no preacher yet,” said the other, “but if I lick him he may become
one.”
“No matter, he's never offended you.”
“Ay, but he will. I see it in the fellow's looks. I never was mistaken
in a fellow's looks in all my life.”
“Wait till he does offend you then.”
“Well, I'm willing to do that, for I know the time will come. I'm always
sure, when I first see a man, to know whether I'll have to flog him or
not. There's a something that tells me so. Isn't that very singular,
Bill?”
“No! you form a prejudice against a man, fancy that you ought to whip
him, and then never rest till you've done so. You'll find your match
some day.”
“What! you think some other chap will fancy he ought to whip me?
Well--maybe so. But this ain't the fellow to do that.”
“He's a stout man, and I reckon strong. Besides, Ned, he's very
handsome.”
“Handsome! Lord, Bill, what a taste you have? How can a man be called
handsome that never altogether opens his eyes, except when he turns up
the whites until you'd think he'd never be able to get the balls back to
their proper place? Then, what a chin he has--as sharp as a pitchfork,
and who but a girl child would fancy a man with his hair combed sleek
like a woman's on each side of his ears, with big whiskers at the
same time that looks for all the world like the brush of a seven years
running fox, Handsome! If my pup 'Dragon' was only half so much like a
beast, I'd plump him into the horsepond!”
It is probable that Ned Hinkley did not altogether think of the stranger
as he expressed himself. But he saw how deep a hold his appearance had
taken, in an adverse way, upon the mind and feelings of his relative and
friend, and his rude, but well-meant endeavors were intended to console
his companion, after his own fashion, by the exhibition of a certain
degree of sympathy.
His efforts, however well intended, did not produce any serious effect.
William Hinkley, though he forbore the subject, and every expression
which might indicate either soreness or apprehension, was still the
victim of that presentiment which had touched him on the very first
appearance of the stranger. He felt more than ever apprehensive on the
score of his misplaced affections. While his cousin had been watching
the stranger, HIS eyes had been fixed upon those of Margaret Cooper, and
his fears were increased and strengthened, as he perceived that she was
quite too much absorbed in other thoughts and objects to behold for an
instant the close espionage which he maintained upon her person. His
heart sunk within him, as he beheld how bold was her look, and how
undisguised the admiration which it expressed for the handsome stranger.
“You will go home with me, William?” said the cousin, The other
hesitated.
“I think,” said he, after a moment's pause, “I should rather go to my
own home. It is a sort of weakness to let a stranger drive a man off
from his own family, and though I somehow dislike this person's looks,
and am very sorry that John Cross brought him to our house, yet I
shouldn't let a prejudice which seems to have no good foundation take
such possession of my mind. I will go home, Ned, and see--perhaps I may
come to like the stranger more when I know him better.”
“You'll never like him. I see it in the fellow's eye; but just as you
please about going nome. You're right in one thing--never to give up
your own dunghill, so long as you can get room on it for a fair fling
with your enemy. Besides, you can see better, by going home, what the
chap's after. I don't see why he should come here to learn to preach. We
can't support a preacher. We don't want one. He could just as well have
learned his business, where he came from.”
With these words the cousins separated.
“Now,” said Ned Hinkley as he took his own way homeward, in a deeper
fit of abstraction than was altogether usual with him, “now will Bill
Hinkley beat about the bush without bouncing through it, until it's
too late to do anything. He's mealy-mouthed with the woman, and
mealy-mouthed with the man, and mealy-mouthed with everybody.--quite
too soft-hearted and too easy to get on. Here's a stranger nobody
knows, just like some crow from another corn-field, that'll pick up
his provisions from under his very nose, and he doing nothing to hinder
until there's no use in trying. If I don't push in and help him, he'll
not help himself. As for Margaret Cooper, dang it, I'll court her for
him myself. If he's afraid to pop the question, I ain't; though I'll
have to be mighty careful about the words I use, or she'll be thinking
I come on my own hook; and that would be a mighty scary sort of business
all round the house. Then this stranger. If anybody can look through
a stranger here in Charlemont, I reckon I'm that man. I suspect him
already. I think he's after no good with his great religioning; and I'll
tie such a pair of eyes to his heels, that his understanding will never
be entirely out of my sight. I'll find him out if anybody can. But I
won't lick him till I do. That wouldn't be altogether right, considering
he's to be a parson, though I doubt he'll never make one.”
And thus, with a head filled with cares of a fashion altogether new, the
sturdy young Kentuckian moved homeward with a degree of abstraction in
his countenance which was not among the smallest wonders of the day and
place in the estimation of his friends and neighbors.
Meanwhile, the work of mischief was in full progress. Everybody
knows the degree of familiarity which exists among all classes in a
country-village, particularly when the parties are brought together
under the social and stimulating influences of religion. It was natural
that the pastor, long known and well beloved, should be surrounded by
his flock as he descended from the pulpit. The old ladies always have
a saving interest in his presence, and they pave the way for the young
ones. Alfred Stevens, as the protege of John Cross, naturally attended
his footsteps, and was introduced by him to the little congregation,
which had mostly remained to do honor to the preacher. Of these, not
last, nor least, was the widow Cooper; and, unreluctant by her side,
though in silence, and not without a degree of emotion, which she yet
was able to conceal, stood her fair but proud-hearted daughter.
Margaret, alas! Margaret stood there with a heart more proud, yet more
humble, than ever. Proud in the consciousness of a new conquest--humble
in the feeling that this conquest had not been made, but at the expense
of some portion of her own independence. Hitherto, her suitors had
awakened no other feeling in her heart but vanity. Now, she felt no
longer able to sail on, “imperial arbitress,” smiling at woes which she
could inflict, but never share. That instinct, which, in the heart of
young Hinkley had produced fear, if not antipathy, had been as active in
her case, though with a very different result. The first glimpse which
she had of the handsome stranger, months before, had impressed her with
a singular emotion; and now that he was returned, she could not divest
herself of the thought that his return was a consequence of that one
glimpse.
With a keener judgment than belonged to her neighbors, she too had some
suspicions that religion was scarcely the prevailing motive which
had brought the youth back to their little village; for how could she
reconcile with his present demure gravity and devout profession, the
daring which he had shown in riding back to behold her a second
time? That such had been his motive she divined by her own feeling of
curiosity, and the instincts of vanity were prompt enough to believe
that this was motive sufficient to bring him back once more, and under
the guise of a character, which would the readiest secure an easy
entrance to society. Pleased with the fancy that she herself was
the object sought, she did not perceive how enormous was the sort of
deception which the stranger had employed to attain the end desired.
With all her intellect she had not the wisdom to suspect that he who
could so readily practise so bold an hypocrisy, was capable of the worst
performances; and when their names were mentioned, and his eyes were
permitted to meet and mingle their glances with hers, she was conscious
of nothing farther than a fluttering sentiment of pleasure, which was
amply declared to the stranger, in the flash of animation which spoke
openly in her countenance; eye speaking to lip and cheek, and these, in
turn, responding with a kindred sentiment to the already tell-tale eye.
William Hinkley, from a little distance, beheld this meeting. He had
lingered with the curiosity which belongs to the natural apprehension
of the lover. He saw them approach--nay, fancied he beheld the mutual
expression of their sympathizing eyes, and he turned away, and hurried
homeward, with the feeling of a heart already overborne, and defrauded
in all its hopes and expectations. The flowers were threatened with
blight in his Eden: but he did not conjecture, poor fellow, that a
serpent had indeed entered it!