The military college of West Point is the finest school in the world.
Princes and priests have there no power; true knowledge is taught, and
must be learned, under penalty of banishment from the place. The
graduate comes forth a scholar, not, as from Oxford and Cambridge, the
pert parrot of a dead language, smooth prosodian, mechanic rhymster of
Idyllic verse; but a linguist of living tongues--one who has studied
science, and not neglected art--a botanist, draughtsman, geologist,
astronomer, engineer, soldier--all; in short, a man fitted for the
higher duties of social life--capable of supervision and command--
equally so of obedience and execution.
Had I been ever so much disinclined to books, in this institution I
could not have indulged in idleness. There is no "dunce" in West Point.
There is no favour to family and fortune: the son of the President
would be ejected, if not able to dress up with the rank; and under the
dread of disgrace, I became, perforce, a diligent student--in time a
creditable scholar.
The details of a cadet's experience possess but little interest--a
routine of monotonous duties--only at West Point a little harder than
elsewhere--at times but slightly differing from the slave-life of a
common soldier. I bore them bravely--not that I was inspired by any
great military ambition, but simply from a feeling of rivalry: I scorned
to be the laggard of my class.
There were times, however, when I felt weariness from so much restraint.
It contrasted unfavourably with the free life I had been accustomed to;
and often did I feel a longing for home--for the forest and the
savanna--and far more, for the associates I had left behind.
Long lingered in my heart the love of Maumee--long time unaffected by
absence. I thought the void caused by that sad parting would never be
filled up. No other object could replace in my mind, or banish from my
memory the sweet souvenirs of my youthful love. Morning, noon, and
night, was that image of picturesque beauty outlined upon the retina of
my mental eye--by day in thoughts, by night in dreams.
Thus was it for a long while--I thought it would never be otherwise! No
other could ever interest me, as she had done. No new joy could win me
to wander--no Lethe could bring oblivion. Had I been told so by an
angel, I would not, I could not, have believed it.
Ah! it was a misconception of human nature. I was but sharing it in
common with others, for most mortals have, at some period of life,
laboured under a similar mistake. Alas! it is too true--love _is_
affected by time and absence. It will not live upon memory alone. The
capricious soul, however delighting in the ideal, prefers the real and
positive. Though there are but few _lovely_ women in the world, there
is no one lovelier than all the rest--no man handsomer than all his
fellows. Of two pictures equally beautiful, that is the more beautiful
upon which the eye is gazing. It is not without reason that lovers
dread the parting hour.
Was it books that spoke of lines and angles, of bastions and
embrasures--was it drill, drill, drill by day, or the hard couch and
harder guard _tour_ by night--was it any or all of these that began to
infringe upon the exclusivism of that one idea, and at intervals drive
it from my thoughts? Or was it the pretty faces that now and then made
their appearance at the "Point"--the excursionary belles from Saratoga
and Ballston, who came to visit us--or the blonde daughters of the
patroons, our nearer neighbours--who came more frequently, and who saw
in each coarse-clad cadet the chrysalis of a hero--the embryo of a
general?
Which of all these was driving Maumee out of my mind?
It imports little what cause--such was the effect. The impression of my
young love became less vivid on the page of memory. Each day it grew
fainter and fainter, until it was attenuated to a slim retrospect.
Ah! Maumee! in truth it was long before this came to pass. Those
bright smiling faces danced long before my eyes ere thine became
eclipsed. Long while withstood I the flattery of those siren tongues;
but my nature was human, and my heart yielded too easily to the
seduction of sweet blandishments.
It would not be true to say that my first love was altogether gone: it
was cold, but not dead. Despite the fashionable flirtations of the
hour, it had its seasons of remembrance and return. Oft upon the still
night's guard, home-scenes came flitting before me; and then the
brightest object in the vision-picture was Maumee. My love for her was
cold, not dead. Her presence would have re-kindled it--I am sure it
would. Even to have heard from her--of her--would have produced a
certain effect. To have heard that she had forgotten me, and given her
heart to another, would have restored my boyish passion in its full
vigour and entirety; I am sure it would.
I could not have been indifferent then? I must still have been in love
with Maumee.
One key pushes out the other; but the fair daughters of the north had
not yet obliterated from my heart this dark-skinned damsel of the south.
During all my cadetship, I never saw her--never even heard of her. For
five years I was an exile from home--and so was my sister. At intervals
during that time we were visited by our father and mother, who made an
annual trip to the fashionable resorts of the north--Ballston Spa,
Saratoga, and Newport. There, during our holidays, we joined them; and
though I longed to spend a vacation at home--I believe so did Virginia--
the "mother was steel and the father was stone," and our desires were
not gratified.
I suspected the cause of this stern denial. Our proud parents dreaded
the danger of a _mesalliance_. They had not forgotten the tableau on
the island.
The Ringgolds met us at the watering-places; and Arens was still
assiduous in his attentions to Virginia. He had become a fashionable
exquisite, and spent his gold freely--not to be outdone by the
_ci-devant_ tailors and stock-brokers, who constitute the "upper ten" of
New York. I liked him no better than ever, though my mother was still
his backer.
How he sped with Virginia, I could not tell. My sister was now quite a
woman--a fashionable dame, a belle--and had learnt much of the world,
among other things, how to conceal her emotions--one of the
distinguished accomplishments of the day. She was at times merry to an
extreme degree; though her mirth appeared to me a little artificial, and
often ended abruptly. Sometimes she was thoughtful--not unfrequently
cold and disdainful. I fancied that in gaining so many graces, she had
lost much of what was in my eyes more valuable than all, her gentleness
of heart. Perhaps I was wronging her.
There were many questions I would have asked her, but our childish
confidence was at an end, and delicacy forbade me to probe her heart.
Of the past we never spoke: I mean of _that_ past--those wild wanderings
in the woods, the sailings over the lake, the scenes in the palm-shaded
island.
I often wondered whether she had cause to remember them, whether her
souvenirs bore any resemblance to mine!
On these points, I had never felt a definite conviction. Though
suspicious, at one time even apprehensive--I had been but a blind
watcher, a too careless guardian.
Surely my conjectures had been just, else why was she now silent upon
themes and scenes that had so delighted us both? was her tongue tied by
the after-knowledge that we had been doing wrong--only known to us by
the disapproval of our parents? Or, was it that in her present sphere
of fashion, she disdained to remember the humble associates of earlier
days?
Often did I conjecture whether there had ever existed such a sentiment
in her bosom; and, if so, whether it still lingered there? These were
points about which I might never be satisfied. The time for such
confidences had gone past.
"It is not likely," reasoned I; "or, if there ever was a feeling of
tender regard for the young Indian, it is now forgotten--obliterated
from her heart, perhaps from her memory. It is not likely it should
survive in the midst of her present associations--in the midst of that
_entourage_ of perfumed beaux who are hourly pouring into her ears the
incense of flattery. Far less probable _she_ would remember than I; and
have not I forgotten?"
Strange, that of the four hearts I knew only my own. Whether young
Powell had ever looked upon my sister with admiring eyes, or she on him,
I was still ignorant, or rather unconvinced. All I knew was by mere
conjecture--suspicion--apprehension. What may appear stranger, I never
knew the sentiment of that other heart, the one which interested me more
than all. It is true, I had chosen to fancy it in my own favour.
Trusting to glances, to gestures, to slight actions, never to words, I
had hoped fondly; but often too had I been the victim of doubt.
Perhaps, after all, Maumee had never loved me!
Many a sore heart had I suffered from this reflection. I could now bear
it with more complacency; and yet, singular to say, it was this very
reflection that awakened the memory of Maumee; and, whenever I dwelt
upon it, produced the strongest revulsions of my own spasmodic love!
Wounded vanity! powerful as passion itself! thy throes are as strong as
love. Under their influence, the chandeliers grow dim, and the fair
forms flitting beneath lose half their brilliant beauty. My thoughts go
back to the flowery land--to the lake--to the island--to Maumee.
Five years soon flitted past, and the period of my cadetship was
fulfilled. With some credit, I went through the ordeal of the final
examination. A high number rewarded my application, and gave me the
choice of whatever arm of the service was most to my liking. I had a
penchant for the rifles, though I might have pitched higher into the
artillery, the cavalry, or engineers. I chose the first, however, and
was gazetted brevet-lieutenant, and appointed to a rifle regiment, with
leave of absence to revisit my native home.
At this time, my sister had also "graduated" at the Ladies' Academy, and
carried off her "diploma" with credit; and together we journeyed home.
There was no father to greet us on our return: a weeping and widowed
mother alone spoke the melancholy welcome.