FALL.
We should speak unprofitably and with little prospect of being
understood, did our readers require to be told, that there is a certain
impatient and gnawing restlessness in the heart of love, which keeps it
for ever feverish and anxious. Where this passion is associated with a
warm, enthusiastic genius, owning the poetic temperament, the anxiety
is proportionatly greater. The ideal of the mind is a sort of classical
image of perfect loveliness, chaste, sweet, commanding, but, how cold!
But love gives life to this image, even as the warm rays of the sun
falling upon the sullen lips of the Memnon, compel its utterance in
music. It not only looks beauty--it breathes it. It is not only the
aspect of the Apollo, it is the god himself; his full lyre strung, his
golden bow quivering at his back with the majesty of his motion; and his
lips parting with the song which shall make the ravished spheres stoop,
and gather round to listen.
Hitherto Margaret Cooper had been a girl of strong will; will nursed
in solitude, and by the wrong-headed indulgence of a vain and foolish
mother. She was conscious of that bounding, bursting soul of genius
which possessed her bosom; that strange, moody, and capricious god;
pent-up, denied, crying evermore for utterance, with a breath more
painful to endure, because of the suppression. This consciousness, with
the feeling of denial which attended it, had cast a gloomy intensity
over her features not less than her mind. The belief that she was
possessed of treasures which were unvalued--that she had powers which
were never to be exercised--that with a song such as might startle an
empire, she was yet doomed to a silent and senseless auditory of rocks
and trees; this belief had brought with it a moody arrogance of temper
which had made itself felt by all around her. In one hour this mood had
departed. Ambition and love became united for a common purpose; for the
object of the latter, was also the profound admirer of the former.
The anxious restlessness which her newly-acquired sensations occasioned
in her bosom, was not diminished by a renewal of those tender interviews
with her lover, which we have endeavored, though so faultily, already to
describe. Evening after evening found them together; the wily hypocrite
still stimulating, by his glozing artifices, the ruling passion for
fame, which, in her bosom, was only temporarily subservient to
love, while he drank his precious reward from her warm, lovely, and
still-blushing lips and cheeks. The very isolation in which she had
previously dwelt in Charlemont, rendered the society of Stevens still
more dear to her heart. She was no longer alone--no longer unknown--not
now unappreciated in that respect in which hitherto she felt her great
denial. “Here is one--himself a genius--who can do justice to mine.”
The young poet who finds an auditor, where he has never had one before,
may be likened to a blind man suddenly put in possession of his sight.
He sees sun and moon and stars, the forms of beauty, the images of
grace; and his soul grows intoxicated with the wonders of its new
empire. What does he owe to him who puts him in possession of these
treasures? who has given him his sight? Love, devotion, all that his
full heart has to pay of homage and affection.
Such was very much the relation which Margaret Cooper bore to Alfred
Stevens; and when, by his professions of love, he left the shows of his
admiration no longer doubtful, she was at once and entirely his. She was
no longer the self-willed, imperious damsel, full of defiance, dreaming
of admiration only, scornful of the inferior, and challenging the
regards of equals. She was now a timid, trembling girl--a dependant,
such as the devoted heart must ever be, waiting for the sign to speak,
looking eagerly for the smile to reward her sweetest utterance. If now
she walked with Stevens, she no longer led the way; she hung a little
backward, though she grasped his arm--nay, even when her hand was
covered with a gentle pressure in the folds of his. If she sung, she did
not venture to meet his eyes, which she FELT must be upon hers, and now
it was no longer her desire that the village damsels should behold them
as they went forth together on their rambles. She no longer met their
cunning and significant smiles with confidence and pride, but with
faltering looks, and with cheeks covered with blushes. Great, indeed,
was the change which had come over that once proud spirit--change
surprising to all, but as natural as any other of the thousand changes
which are produced in the progress of moments by the arch-magician,
Love. Heretofore, her song had disdained the ordinary topics of the
youthful ballad-monger. She had uttered her apostrophes to the eagle,
soaring through the black, billowy masses of the coming thunder-storm;
to the lonely but lofty rock, lonely in its loftiness, which no foot
travelled but her own; to the silent glooms of the forest--to the
majesty of white-bearded and majestic trees. The dove and the zephyr
now shared her song, and a deep sigh commonly closed it. She was changed
from what she was. The affections had suddenly bounded into being,
trampling the petty vanities underfoot; and those first lessons of
humility which are taught by love, had subdued a spirit which, hitherto,
had never known control.
Alfred Stevens soon perceived how complete was his victory. He soon
saw the extent of that sudden change which had come over her character.
Hitherto, she had been the orator. When they stood together by the
lake-side, or upon the rock, it was her finger which had pointed out the
objects for contemplation; it was her voice whose eloquence had charmed
the ear, dilating upon the beauties or the wonders which they surveyed.
She was now no longer eloquent in words. But she looked a deeper
eloquence by far than any words could embody. He was now the speaker;
and regarding him through the favoring media of kindled affections, it
seemed to her ear, that there was no eloquence so sweet as his. He spoke
briefly of the natural beauties by which they were surrounded.
“Trees, rocks, the valley and the hill, all realms of solitude and
shade, inspire enthusiasm and ardor in the imaginative spirit. They are
beneficial for this purpose. For the training of a great poet they are
necessary. They have the effect of lifting the mind to the contemplation
of vastness, depth, height, profundity. This produces an intensity of
mood--the natural result of any association between our own feelings and
such objects as are lofty and noble in the external world. The feelings
and passions as they are influenced by the petty play of society,
which diffuses their power and breaks their lights into little, become
concentrated on the noble and the grand. Serious earnestness of nature
becomes habitual--the heart flings itself into all the subjects of its
interest--it trifles with none--all its labors become sacred in its
eyes, and the latest object of study and analysis is that which is
always most important. The effect of this training in youth on the
poetic mind, is to the last degree beneficial; since, without a degree
of seriousness amounting to intensity--without a hearty faith in the
importance of what is to be done--without a passionate fullness of
soul which drives one to his task--there will be no truthfulness, no
eloquence, no concentrated thought and permanent achievement. With, you,
dear Margaret, such has already been the effect. You shrink from the
ordinary enjoyments of society. Their bald chat distresses you, as the
chatter of so many jays. You prefer the solitude which feeds the serious
mood which you love, and enables your imagination, unrepressed by
the presence of shallow witlings, to evoke its agents from storm and
shadow--from deep forest and lonesome lake--to minister to the cravings
of an excited heart, and a soaring and ambitious fancy.”
“Oh, how truly, Alfred, do you speak it,” she murmured as he closed.
“So far, so good; but, dear Margaret--there are other subjects of study
which are equally necessary for the great poet. The wild aspects of
nature are such as are of use in the first years of his probation. To
grow up in the woods and among the rocks, so that a hearty simplicity,
an earnest directness, with a constant habit of contemplation should be
permanently formed, is a first and necessary object. But it is in this
training as in every other. There are successive steps. There is a law
of progressive advance. You must not stop there. The greatest moral
study for the poet must follow. This is the study of man in society--in
the great world--where he puts on a thousand various aspects--far other
than those which are seen in the country--in correspondence with the
thousand shapes of fortune, necessity, or caprice, which attend him
there. Indeed, it may safely be said, that he never knows one half of
the responsibility of his tasks who toils without the presence of those
for whom he toils. It is in the neighborhood of man that we feel his and
our importance. It is while we are watching his strifes and struggles
that we see the awful importance of his destiny; and the great trusts of
self, and truth, and the future, which have been delivered to his hands.
Here you do not see man. You see certain shapes, which are employed in
raising hay, turnips, and potatoes; which eat and drink very much as man
does; but which, as they suffer to sleep and rest most of those latent
faculties, the exercise of which can alone establish the superiority of
the intellectual over the animal nature, so they have no more right
to the name of man than any other of those animals who eat as
industriously, and sleep as profoundly, as themselves. The contemplation
of the superior being, engaged in superior toils, awakens superior
faculties in the observer. He who sees nothing but the gathering of
turnips will think of nothing but turnips. As we enlarge the sphere
of our observation, the faculty of thought becomes expanded. You will
discover this wonderful change when you go into the world. Hitherto,
your inspirers have been these groves, these rocks, lakes, trees,
and silent places. But, when you sit amid crowds of bright-eyed,
full-minded, and admiring people; when you see the eyes of thousands
looking for the light to shine from yours; hanging, with a delight that
still hungers, on the words of truth and beauty which fall from your
lips--then, then only, dearest Margaret, will you discover the true
sources of inspiration and of fame.”
“Ah!” she murmured despondingly--“you daunt me when you speak of these
crowds--crowds of the intellectual and the wise. What should I be--how
would I appear among them?”
“As you appear to me, Margaret--their queen, their idol, their divinity,
not less a beauty than a muse?”
The raptures which Stevens expressed seemed to justify the embrace which
followed it; and it was some moments before she again spoke. When she
did the same subject was running in her mind.
“Ah! Alfred, still I fear!”
“Fear nothing, Margaret. It will be as I tell you--as I promise! If I
deceive you, I deceive myself. Is it not for the wife of my bosom that I
expect this homage?”
Her murmurs were unheard. They strolled on--still deeper into the
mazes of the forest, and the broad disk of the moon, suddenly gleaming,
yellow, through the tops of the trees, surprised them in their
wanderings.
“How beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Let us sit here, dearest Margaret.
The rock here is smooth and covered with the softest lichen. A perfect
carpet of it is at our feet, and the brooklet makes the sweetest
murmuring as it glides onward through the grove, telling all the while,
like some silly schoolgirl, where you may look for it. See the little
drops of moonlight falling here--and there in the small openings of the
forest, and lying upon the greensward like so many scattered bits of
silver. One might take it for fairy coin. And, do you note the soft
breeze that seems to rise with the moon as from some Cytherean isle,
breathing of love, love only--love never perishing!”
“Ah! were it so, Alfred!”
“Is it not, Margaret? If I could fancy that you would cease to love me
or I you--could I think that these dear joys were to end--but no! no!
let us not think of it. It is too sweet to believe, and the distrust
seems as unholy as it is unwholesome. That bright soft planet seems to
persuade to confidence as it inspires love. Do you not feel your heart
soften in the moonlight, Margaret? your eye glistens, dearest--and
your heart, I know, must be touched. It is--I feel its beating! What a
tumult, dear Margaret, is here!”
“Do not, do not!” she murmured, gently striving to disengage herself
from his grasp.
“No! no!--move not, dearest,” he replied in a subdued tone--a murmur
most like hers. “Are we not happy? Is there anything, dear Margaret,
which we could wish for?”
“Nothing! nothing!”
“Ah! what a blessed chance it was that brought me to these hills. I
never lived till now. I had my joys, Margaret--my triumphs! I freely
yield them to the past! I care for them no more! They are no longer joys
or triumphs! Yes, Margaret you have changed my heart within me. Even
fame which I so much worshipped is forgotten.”
“Say not that; oh, say not that!” she exclaimed, but still in subdued
accents.
“I must--it is too far true. I could give up the shout of applause--the
honor of popular favor--the voice of a people's approbation--the shining
display and the golden honor--all, dear Margaret, sooner than part with
you.”
“But you need not give them up, Alfred.”
“Ah, dearest, but I have no soul for them now. You are alone my soul, my
saint--the one dear object, desire, and pride, and conquest.”
“Alas! and have you not conquered, Alfred?”
“Sweet! do I not say that I am content to forfeit all honors, triumphs,
applauses--all that was so dear to me before--and only in the fond
faith that I had conquered? You are mine--you tell me so with your dear
lips--I have you in my fond embrace--ah! do not talk to me again of
fame.”
“I were untrue to you as to myself, dear Alfred, did I not. No! with
your talents, to forego their uses--to deliver yourself up to love
wholly, were as criminal as it would be unwise.”
“You shall be my inspiration then, dear Margaret. These lips shall send
me to the forum--these eyes shall reward me with smiles when I return.
Your applause shall be to me a dearer triumph than all the clamors of
the populace.”
“Let us return home--it is late.”
“Not so!--and why should we go? What is sleep to us but loss? What the
dull hours, spent after the ordinary fashion, among ordinary people.
Could any scene be more beautiful than this--ah! can any feeling be more
sweet? Is it not so to you, dearest? tell me--nay, do not tell me--if
you love as I do, you can not leave me--not now--not thus--while such is
the beauty of earth and heaven--while such are the rich joys clustering
in our hearts. Nay, while, in that hallowing moonlight, I gaze upon thy
dark eyes, and streaming hair, thy fair, beautiful cheeks, and those
dear rosy lips!”
“Oh! Alfred, do not speak so--do not clasp me thus. Let us go. It is
late--very late, and what will they say?”
“Let them say! Are we not blessed? Can all their words take from us
these blessings--these sacred, sweet, moments--such joys, such delights?
Let them dream of such, with their dull souls if they can. No! no!
Margaret--we are one! and thus one, our world is as free from their
control as it is superior to their dreams and hopes. Here is our heaven,
Margaret--ah! how long shall it be ours! at what moment may we lose it,
by death, by storm, by what various mischance! What profligacy to fly
before the time! No! no! but a little while longer--but a little while!”
And there they lingered! He, fond, artful, persuasive; she, trembling
with the dangerous sweetness of wild, unbidden emotions. Ah! why did she
not go? Why was the strength withheld which would have carried out her
safer purpose? The moon rose until she hung in the zenith, seeming to
linger there in a sad, sweet watch, like themselves--the rivulet ran
along, still prattling through the groves; the breeze, which had been a
soft murmur among the trees at the first rising of the moon, now blew
a shrill whistle among the craggy hills; but they no longer heard the
prattle of the rivulet--even the louder strains of the breeze were
unnoticed, and it was only when they were about to depart, that poor
Margaret discovered that the moon had all the while been looking down
upon them.