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THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
A MAGAZINE OF
_Literature, Science, Art, and Politics._
VOLUME XX.
[Illustration]
BOSTON: TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 124 TREMONT STREET.
1867.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO., CAMBRIDGE.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note: Minor typos have been corrected. Footnotes have been
moved to the end of the article.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
Page
Artist's Dream, An _T. W. Higginson_ 100
Autobiography of a Quack, The. I., II. 466, 586
Bornoo, A Native of 485
Bowery at Night, The _Charles Dawson Shanly_ 602
By-Ways of Europe. From Perpignan to Montserrat.
_Bayard Taylor_ 495
" " A Visit to the Balearic Islands. I.
_Bayard Taylor_ 680
Busy Brains _Austin Abbott_ 570
Canadian Woods and Waters _Charles Dawson Shanly_ 311
Cincinnati _James Parton_ 229
Conspiracy at Washington, The 633
Cretan Days _Wm. J. Stillman_ 533
Dinner Speaking _Edward Everett Hale_ 507
Doctor Molke _Dr. I. I. Hayes_ 43
Edisto, Up the _T. W. Higginson_ 157
Foster, Stephen C., and Negro Minstrelsy
_Robert P. Nevin_ 608
Fugitives from Labor _F. Sheldon_ 370
Grandmother's Story: The Great Snow 716
Gray Goth, In the _Miss E. Stuart Phelps_ 559
Great Public Character, A _James Russell Lowell_ 618
Growth, Limitations, and Toleration of Shakespeare's Genius
_E. P. Whipple_ 178
Guardian Angel, The. VII., VIII., IX., X., XI., XII.
_Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 1, 129, 257, 385, 513, 641
Hospital Memories. I., II.
_Miss Eudora Clark_ 144, 324
International Copyright _James Parton_ 430
Jesuits in North America, The _George E. Ellis_ 362
Jonson, Ben _E. P. Whipple_ 403
Longfellow's Translation of Dante's Divina Commedia 188
Liliput Province, A _W. Winwood Reade_ 247
Literature as an Art _T. W. Higginson_ 745
Little Land of Appenzell, The _Bayard Taylor_ 213
Minor Elizabethan Dramatists _E. P. Whipple_ 692
Minor Italian Travels _W. D. Howells_ 337
Mysterious Personage, A _John Neal_ 658
Opinions of the late Dr. Nott, respecting Books, Studies and Orators
_E. D. Sanborn_ 527
Pacific Railroads, Our _J. K. Medbery_ 704
Padua, At _W. D. Howells_ 25
Passage from Hawthorne's English Note-Books, A 15
Piano in the United States, The _James Parton_ 82
Poor Richard. II., III. _Henry James, Jr._ 32, 166
Prophetic Voices about America. A Monograph
_Charles Sumner_ 275
Religious Side of the Italian Question, The
_Joseph Mazzini_ 108
Rose Rollins, The. I., II. _Alice Cary_ 420, 545
Sunshine and Petrarch _T. W. Higginson_ 307
Struggle for Life, A _T. B. Aldrich_ 56
"The Lie" _C. J. Sprague_ 598
Throne of the Golden Foot, The _J. W. Palmer_ 453
T. Adolphus Trollope, Writings of
_H. T. Tuckerman_ 476
Tour in the Dark, A 670
Uncharitableness 415
Visit to Sybaris, My _Edward Everett Hale_ 63
Week's Riding, A 200
What we Feel _C. J. Sprague_ 740
Wife by Wager, A _E. H. House_ 350
Workers in Silver, Among the _James Parton_ 729
Young Desperado, A _T. B. Aldrich_ 755
POETRY.
Are the Children at Home? _Mrs. M. E. M. Sangster_ 557
Autumn Song, An _Edgar Fawcett_ 679
Blue and the Gray, The _F. M. Finch_ 369
Chanson without Music _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 543
Dirge for a Sailor _George H. Boker_ 157
Ember-Picture, An _James Russell Lowell_ 99
Feast of Harvest, The _E. C. Stedman_ 616
Flight of the Goddess, The _T. B. Aldrich_ 452
Freedom in Brazil _John G. Whittier_ 62
Lost Genius, The _J. J. Piatt_ 228
Mona's Mother _Alice Cary_ 22
Mystery of Nature, The _Theodore Tilton_ 349
Nightingale in the Study, The
_James Russell Lowell_ 323
Sonnet _George H. Boker_ 744
Themistocles _William Everett_ 398
The Old Story _Alice Cary_ 199
Toujours Amour _E. C. Stedman_ 728
REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.
Browne's Land of Thor 256
Charlevoix's History of New France 125
Codman's Ten Months in Brazil 383
Cozzens's Sayings of Doctor Bushwhacker
and other Learned Men 512
Critical and Social Essays, from the New York "Nation" 384
Dall's (Mrs.) The College, the Market, and the Court 255
Du Chaillu's Journey to Ashango-Land 122
Emerson's May-Day and Other Pieces 376
Half-Tints 256
Holland's Kathrina 762
Hoppin's Old England 127
Hymns by Harriet McEwen Kimball 128
Jean Ingelow's Story of Doom, and other Poems 383
Lea's Historical Sketch of Sacerdotal Celibacy
in the Christian Church 378
Literary Life of James K. Paulding, The 124
Memoirs and Correspondence of Madame Récamier 127
Miss Ravenel's Conversion from Secession to Loyalty 120
Morris's Life and Death of Jason 640
Morse on the Poem "Rock me to Sleep, Mother" 252
Norton's Translation of The New Life of Dante 638
Parsons's Deus Homo 512
Parsons's Translation of the Inferno 759
Paulding's The Bulls and the Jonathans 639
Purnell's Literature and its Professors 254
Richmond during the War 762
Ritter's Comparative Geography of Palestine 125
Samuels's Ornithology and Oölogy of New England 761
Thackeray's Early and Late Papers 252
Tomes's Champagne Country 511
Webb's Liffith Lank, or Lunacy, and St. Twel'mo 123
THE
ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
_A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics._
VOL. XX.--JULY, 1867.--NO. CXVII.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by TICKNOR AND
FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.
CHAPTER XIX.
SUSAN'S YOUNG MAN.
There seems no reasonable doubt that Myrtle Hazard might have made a
safe thing of it with Gifted Hopkins, (if so inclined,) provided that
she had only been secured against interference. But the constant habit
of reading his verses to Susan Posey was not without its risk to so
excitable a nature as that of the young poet. Poets always were capable
of divided affections, and Cowley's "Chronicle" is a confession that
would fit the whole tribe of them. It is true that Gifted had no right
to regard Susan's heart as open to the wiles of any new-comer. He knew
that she considered herself, and was considered by another, as pledged
and plighted. Yet she was such a devoted listener, her sympathies were
so easily roused, her blue eyes glistened so tenderly at the least
poetical hint, such as "Never, O never," "My aching heart," "Go, let me
weep,"--any of those touching phrases out of the long catalogue which
readily suggests itself,--that her influence was getting to be such that
Myrtle (if really anxious to secure him) might look upon it with
apprehension, and the owner of Susan's heart (if of a jealous
disposition) might have thought it worth while to make a visit to Oxbow
Village to see after his property.
It may seem not impossible that some friend had suggested as much as
this to the young lady's lover. The caution would have been unnecessary,
or at least premature. Susan was loyal as ever to her absent friend.
Gifted Hopkins had never yet presumed upon the familiar relations
existing between them to attempt to shake her allegiance. It is quite as
likely, after all, that the young gentleman about to make his appearance
in Oxbow Village visited the place of his own accord, without a hint
from anybody. But the fact concerns us more than the reason of it, just
now.
"Who do you think is coming, Mr. Gridley? Who _do_ you think is coming?"
said Susan Posey, her face covered with a carnation such as the first
season may see in a city belle, but not the second.
"Well, Susan Posey, I suppose I must guess, though I am rather slow at
that business. Perhaps the Governor. No, I don't think it can be the
Governor, for you wouldn't look so happy if it was only his Excellency.
It must be the President, Susan Posey,--President James Buchanan.
Haven't I guessed right, now, tell me, my dear?"
"O Mr. Gridley, you are too bad,--what do I care for governors and
presidents? I know somebody that's worth fifty million thousand
presidents,--and _he_'s coming,--my Clement is coming," said Susan, who
had by this time learned to consider the awful Byles Gridley as her next
friend and faithful counsellor.
Susan could not stay long in the house after she got her note informing
her that her friend was soon to be with her. Everybody told everything
to Olive Eveleth, and Susan must run over to the Parsonage to tell her
that there was a young gentleman coming to Oxbow Village; upon which
Olive asked who it was, exactly as if she did not know; whereupon Susan
dropped her eyes and said, "Clement,--I mean Mr. Lindsay."
That was a fair piece of news now, and Olive had her bonnet on five
minutes after Susan was gone, and was on her way to Bathsheba's,--it was
too bad that the poor girl who lived so out of the world shouldn't know
anything of what was going on in it. Bathsheba had been in all the
morning, and the Doctor had said she must take the air every day; so
Bathsheba had on _her_ bonnet a little after Olive had gone, and walked
straight up to The Poplars to tell Myrtle Hazard that a certain young
gentleman, Clement Lindsay, was coming to Oxbow Village.
It was perhaps fortunate that there was no special significance to
Myrtle in the name of Clement Lindsay. Since the adventure which had
brought these two young persons together, and, after coming so near a
disaster, had ended in a mere humiliation and disappointment, and but
for Master Gridley's discreet kindness might have led to foolish
scandal, Myrtle had never referred to it in any way. Nobody really knew
what her plans had been except Olive and Cyprian, who had observed a
very kind silence about the whole matter. The common version of the
story was harmless, and near enough to the truth,--down the river,--boat
upset,--pulled out,--taken care of by some women in a house farther
down,--sick, brain fever,--pretty near it, anyhow,--old Dr. Hurlbut
called in,--had her hair cut,--hystericky, etc., etc.
Myrtle was contented with this statement, and asked no questions, and it
was a perfectly understood thing that nobody alluded to the subject in
her presence. It followed from all this that the name of Clement Lindsay
had no peculiar meaning for her. Nor was she like to recognize him as
the youth in whose company she had gone through her mortal peril, for
all her recollections were confused and dream-like from the moment when
she awoke and found herself in the foaming rapids just above the fall,
until that when her senses returned, and she saw Master Byles Gridley
standing over her with that look of tenderness in his square features
which had lingered in her recollection, and made her feel towards him as
if she were his daughter.
Now this had its advantage; for as Clement was Susan's young man, and
had been so for two or three years, it would have been a great pity to
have any such curious relations established between him and Myrtle
Hazard as a consciousness on both sides of what had happened would
naturally suggest.
"Who is this Clement Lindsay, Bathsheba?" Myrtle asked.
"Why, Myrtle, don't you remember about Susan Posey's is-to-be,--the
young man that has been--well, I don't know, but I suppose engaged to
her ever since they were children almost?"
"Yes, yes, I remember now. O dear! I have forgotten so many things I
should think I had been dead and was coming back to life again. Do you
know anything about him, Bathsheba? Didn't somebody say he was very
handsome? I wonder if he is really in love with Susan Posey. Such a
simple thing! I want to see him. I have seen so few young men."
As Myrtle said these words, she lifted the sleeve a little on her left
arm, by a half-instinctive and half-voluntary movement. The glimmering
gold of Judith Pride's bracelet flashed out the yellow gleam which has
been the reddening of so many hands and the blackening of so many souls
since that innocent sin-breeder was first picked up in the land of
Havilah. There came a sudden light into her eye, such as Bathsheba had
never seen there before. It looked to her as if Myrtle were saying
unconsciously to herself that she had the power of beauty, and would
like to try its influence on the handsome young man whom she was soon to
meet, even at the risk of unseating poor little Susan in his affections.
This pained the gentle and humble-minded girl, who, without having
tasted the world's pleasures, had meekly consecrated herself to the
lowly duties which lay nearest to her. For Bathsheba's phrasing of life
was in the monosyllables of a rigid faith. Her conceptions of the human
soul were all simplicity and purity, but elementary. She could not
conceive the vast license the creative energy allows itself in mingling
the instincts which, after long conflict, may come into harmonious
adjustment. The flash which Myrtle's eye had caught from the gleam of
the golden bracelet filled Bathsheba with a sudden fear that she was
like to be led away by the vanities of that world lying in wickedness of
which the minister's daughter had heard so much and seen so little.
Not that Bathsheba made any fine moral speeches to herself. She only
felt a slight shock, such as a word or a look from one we love too often
gives us,--such as a child's trivial gesture or movement makes a parent
feel,--that impalpable something which in the slightest possible
inflection of a syllable or gradation of a tone will sometimes leave a
sting behind it, even in a trusting heart. This was all. But it was
true that what she saw meant a great deal. It meant the dawning in
Myrtle Hazard of one of her as yet unlived _secondary lives_.
Bathsheba's virgin perceptions had caught a faint early ray of its
glimmering twilight.
She answered, after a very slight pause, which this explanation has made
seem so long, that she had never seen the young gentleman, and that she
did not know about Susan's sentiments. Only, as they had kept so long to
each other, she supposed there must be love between them.
Myrtle fell into a revery, with certain _tableaux_ glowing along its
perspectives which poor little Susan Posey would have shivered to look
upon, if they could have been transferred from the purple clouds of
Myrtle's imagination to the pale silvery mists of Susan's pretty
fancies. She sat in her day-dream long after Bathsheba had left her, her
eyes fixed, not on the faded portrait of her beautiful ancestress, but
on that other canvas where the dead Beauty seemed to live in all the
splendors of her full-blown womanhood.
* * * * *
The young man whose name had set her thoughts roving _was_ handsome, as
the glance at him already given might have foreshadowed. But his
features had a graver impress than his age seemed to account for, and
the sober tone of his letter to Susan implied that something had given
him a maturity beyond his years. The story was not an uncommon one. At
sixteen he had dreamed--and told his dream. At eighteen he had awoke,
and found, as he believed, that a young heart had grown to his so that
its life was dependent on his own. Whether it would have perished if its
filaments had been gently disentangled from the object to which they had
attached themselves, experienced judges of such matters may perhaps
question. To justify Clement in his estimate of the danger of such an
experiment, we must remember that to young people in their teens a first
passion is a portentous and unprecedented phenomenon. The young man may
have been mistaken in thinking that Susan would die if he left her, and
may have done more than his duty in sacrificing himself; but if so, it
was the mistake of a generous youth, who estimated the depth of
another's feelings by his own. He measured the depth of his own rather
by what he felt they might be, than by that of any abysses they had yet
sounded.
Clement was called a "genius" by those who knew him, and was
consequently in danger of being spoiled early. The risk is great enough
anywhere, but greatest in a new country, where there is an almost
universal want of fixed standards of excellence.
He was by nature an artist; a shaper with the pencil or the chisel, a
planner, a contriver capable of turning his hand to almost any work of
eye and hand. It would not have been strange if he thought he could do
everything, having gifts which were capable of various application,--and
being an American citizen. But though he was a good draughtsman, and had
made some reliefs and modelled some figures, he called himself only an
architect. He had given himself up to his art, not merely from a love of
it and talent for it, but with a kind of heroic devotion, because he
thought his country wanted a race of builders to clothe the new forms of
religious, social, and national life afresh from the forest, the quarry,
and the mine. Some thought he would succeed, others that he would be a
brilliant failure.
"Grand notions,--grand notions," the master with whom he studied said.
"Large ground plan of life,--splendid elevation. A little wild in some
of his fancies, perhaps, but he's only a boy, and he's the kind of boy
that sometimes grows to be a pretty big man. Wait and see,--wait and
see. He works days, and we can let him dream nights. There's a good deal
of him, anyhow." His fellow-students were puzzled. Those who thought of
their calling as a trade, and looked forward to the time when they
should be embodying the ideals of municipal authorities in brick and
stone, or making contracts with wealthy citizens, doubted whether
Clement would have a sharp eye enough for business. "Too many whims, you
know. All sorts of queer ideas in his head,--as if a boy like him was
going to make things all over again!"
No doubt there was something of youthful extravagance in his plans and
expectations. But it was the untamed enthusiasm which is the source of
all great thoughts and deeds,--a beautiful delirium which age commonly
tames down, and for which the cold shower-bath the world furnishes
_gratis_ proves a pretty certain cure.
Creation is always preceded by chaos. The youthful architect's mind was
confused by the multitude of suggestions which were crowding in upon it,
and which he had not yet had time or developed mature strength
sufficient to reduce to order. The young American of any freshness of
intellect is stimulated to dangerous excess by the conditions of life
into which he is born. There is a double proportion of oxygen in the
New-World air. The chemists have not found it out yet, but human brains
and breathing organs have long since made the discovery.
Clement knew that his hasty entanglement had limited his possibilities
of happiness in one direction, and he felt that there was a certain
grandeur in the recompense of working out his defeated instincts through
the ambitious medium of his noble art. Had not Pharaohs chosen it to
proclaim their longings for immortality, Cæsars their passion for pomp
and luxury, and the priesthood to symbolize their conceptions of the
heavenly mansions? His dreams were on a grand scale; such, after all,
are the best possessions of youth. Had he but been free, or mated with a
nature akin to his own, he would have felt himself as truly the heir of
creation as any young man that lived. But his lot was cast, and his
youth had all the serious aspect to himself of thoughtful manhood. In
the region of his art alone he hoped always to find freedom and a
companionship which his home life could never give him.
Clement meant to have visited his beloved before he left Alderbank, but
was called unexpectedly back to the city. Happily Susan was not
exacting; she looked up to him with too great a feeling of distance
between them to dare to question his actions. Perhaps she found a
partial consolation in the company of Mr. Gifted Hopkins, who tried his
new poems on her, which was the next best thing to addressing them to
her. "Would that you were with us at this delightful season," she wrote
in the autumn; "but no, your Susan must not repine. Yet, in the
beautiful words of our native poet,
'O would, O would that thou wast here,
For absence makes thee doubly dear;
Ah! what is life while thou'rt away?
'Tis night without the orb of day!'"
The poet referred to, it need hardly be said, was our young and
promising friend G. H., as he sometimes modestly signed himself. The
letter, it is unnecessary to state, was voluminous,--for a woman can
tell her love, or other matter of interest, over and over again in as
many forms as another poet, not G. H., found for his grief in ringing
the musical changes of "In Memoriam."
The answers to Susan's letters were kind, but not very long. They
convinced her that it was a simple impossibility that Clement could come
to Oxbow Village, on account of the great pressure of the work he had to
keep him in the city, and the plans he _must_ finish at any rate. But at
last the work was partially got rid of, and Clement was coming; yes, it
was so nice, and, O dear! shouldn't she be real happy to see him?
To Susan he appeared as a kind of divinity,--almost too grand for human
nature's daily food. Yet, if the simple-hearted girl could have told
herself the whole truth in plain words, she would have confessed to
certain doubts which from time to time, and oftener of late, cast a
shadow on her seemingly bright future. With all the pleasure that the
thought of meeting Clement gave her, she felt a little tremor, a
certain degree of awe, in contemplating his visit. If she could have
clothed her self-humiliation in the gold and purple of the "Portuguese
Sonnets," it would have been another matter; but the trouble with the
most common sources of disquiet is that they have no wardrobe of flaming
phraseology to air themselves in; the inward burning goes on without the
relief and gratifying display of the crater.
"A _friend_ of mine is coming to the village," she said to Mr. Gifted
Hopkins. "I want you to see him. He is a genius,--as some other young
men are." (This was obviously personal, and the youthful poet blushed
with ingenuous delight.) "I have known him for ever so many years. He
and I are _very good friends_." The poet knew that this meant an
exclusive relation between them; and though the fact was no surprise to
him, his countenance fell a little. The truth was, that his admiration
was divided between Myrtle, who seemed to him divine and adorable, but
distant, and Susan, who listened to his frequent poems, whom he was in
the habit of seeing in artless domestic costumes, and whose attractions
had been gaining upon him of late in the enforced absence of his
divinity.
He retired pensive from this interview, and, flinging himself at his
desk, attempted wreaking his thoughts upon expression, to borrow the
language of one of his brother bards, in a passionate lyric which he
began thus:--
"ANOTHER'S!
"Another's! O the pang, the smart!
Fate owes to Love a deathless grudge,--
The barbéd fang has rent a heart
Which--which--
"judge--judge,--no, not judge. Budge, drudge, fudge--What a disgusting
language English is! Nothing fit to couple with such a word as
grudge! And the gush of an impassioned moment arrested in full
flow, stopped short, corked up, for want of a paltry rhyme!
Judge,--budge,--drudge,--nudge,--oh!--smudge,--misery!--fudge. In
vain,--futile,--no use,--all up for to-night!"
While the poet, headed off in this way by the poverty of his native
tongue, sought inspiration by retiring into the world of dreams,--went
to bed, in short,--his more fortunate rival was just entering the
village, where he was to make his brief residence at the house of Deacon
Rumrill, who, having been a loser by the devouring element, was glad to
receive a stray boarder when any such were looking about for quarters.
For some reason or other he was restless that evening, and took out a
volume he had brought with him to beguile the earlier hours of the
night. It was too late when he arrived to disturb the quiet of Mrs.
Hopkins's household; and whatever may have been Clement's impatience, he
held it in check, and sat tranquilly until midnight over the pages of
the book with which he had prudently provided himself.
"Hope you slept well last night," said the old Deacon, when Mr. Clement
came down to breakfast the next morning.
"Very well, thank you,--that is, after I got to bed. But I sat up pretty
late reading my favorite Scott. I am apt to forget how the hours pass
when I have one of his books in my hand."
The worthy Deacon looked at Mr. Clement with a sudden accession of
interest.
"You couldn't find better reading, young man. Scott is _my_ favorite
author. A great man. I have got his likeness in a gilt frame hanging up
in the other room. I have read him all through three times."
The young man's countenance brightened. He had not expected to find so
much taste for elegant literature in an old village deacon.
"What are your favorites among his writings, Deacon? I suppose you have
your particular likings, as the rest of us have."
The Deacon was flattered by the question. "Well," he answered, "I can
hardly tell you. I like pretty much everything Scott ever wrote.
Sometimes I think it is one thing, and sometimes another. Great on
Paul's Epistles,--don't you think so?"
The honest fact was, that Clement remembered very little about "Paul's
Letters to his Kinsfolk,"--a book of Sir Walter's less famous than many
of his others; but he signified his polite assent to the Deacon's
statement, rather wondering at his choice of a favorite, and smiling at
his queer way of talking about the Letters as Epistles.
"I am afraid Scott is not so much read now-a-days as he once was, and as
he ought to be," said Mr. Clement. "Such character, such nature and so
much grace--"
"That's it,--that's it, young man," the Deacon broke in,--"Natur' and
Grace,--Natur' and Grace. Nobody ever knew better what those two words
meant than Scott did, and I'm very glad to see you've chosen such good
wholesome reading. You can't set up too late, young man, to read Scott.
If I had twenty children, they should all begin reading Scott as soon as
they were old enough to spell 'sin,'--and that's the first word my
little ones learned, next to 'pa' and 'ma.' Nothing like beginning the
lessons of life in good season."
"What a grim old satirist!" Clement said to himself. "I wonder if the
old man reads other novelists.--Do tell me, Deacon, if you have read
Thackeray's last story?"
"Thackery's story? Published by the American Tract Society?"
"Not exactly," Clement answered, smiling, and quite delighted to find
such an unexpected vein of grave pleasantry about the demure-looking
church-dignitary; for the Deacon asked his question without moving a
muscle, and took no cognizance whatever of the young man's tone and
smile. First-class humorists are, as is well known, remarkable for the
immovable solemnity of their features. Clement promised himself not a
little amusement from the curiously sedate drollery of the venerable
Deacon, who, it was plain from his conversation, had cultivated a
literary taste which would make him a more agreeable companion than the
common ecclesiastics of his grade in country villages.
After breakfast, Mr. Clement walked forth in the direction of Mrs.
Hopkins's house, thinking as he went of the pleasant surprise his visit
would bring to his longing and doubtless pensive Susan; for though she
knew he was coming, she did not know that he was at that moment in Oxbow
Village.
As he drew near the house, the first thing he saw was Susan Posey,
almost running against her just as he turned a corner. She looked
wonderfully lively and rosy, for the weather was getting keen and the
frosts had begun to bite. A young gentleman was walking at her side, and
reading to her from a paper he held in his hand. Both looked deeply
interested,--so much so that Clement felt half ashamed of himself for
intruding upon them so abruptly.
But lovers are lovers, and Clement could not help joining them. The
first thing, of course, was the utterance of two simultaneous
exclamations, "Why, Clement!" "Why, Susan!" What might have come next in
the programme, but for the presence of a third party, is matter of
conjecture; but what did come next was a mighty awkward look on the part
of Susan Posey, and the following short speech:--
"Mr. Lindsay, let me introduce Mr. Hopkins, my friend, the poet I've
written to you about. He was just reading two of his poems to me. Some
other time, Gifted--Mr. Hopkins."
"O no, Mr. Hopkins,--pray go on," said Clement. "I'm very fond of
poetry."
The poet did not require much urging, and began at once reciting over
again the stanzas which were afterwards so much admired in the "Banner
and Oracle,"--the first verse being, as the readers of that paper will
remember,--
"She moves in splendor, like the ray
That flashes from unclouded skies,
And all the charms of night and day
Are mingled in her hair and eyes."
Clement, who must have been in an agony of impatience to be alone with
his beloved, commanded his feelings admirably. He signified his
approbation of the poem by saying that the lines were smooth and the
rhymes absolutely without blemish. The stanzas reminded him forcibly of
one of the greatest poets of the century.
Gifted flushed hot with pleasure. He had tasted the blood of his own
rhymes; and when a poet gets as far as that, it is like wringing the bag
of exhilarating gas from the lips of a fellow sucking at it, to drag his
piece away from him.
"Perhaps you will like these lines still better," he said; "the style is
more modern:--
'O daughter of the spicéd South,
Her bubbly grapes have spilled the wine
That staineth with its hue divine
The red flower of thy perfect mouth.'"
And so on, through a series of stanzas like these, with the pulp of two
rhymes between the upper and lower crust of two others.
Clement was cornered. It was necessary to say something for the poet's
sake,--perhaps for Susan's; for she was in a certain sense responsible
for the poems of a youth of genius, of whom she had spoken so often and
so enthusiastically.
"Very good, Mr. Hopkins, and a form of verse little used, I should
think, until of late years. You modelled this piece on the style of a
famous living English poet, did you not?"
"Indeed I did not, Mr. Lindsay,--I never imitate. Originality is, if I
may be allowed to say so much for myself, my peculiar _forte_. Why, the
critics allow as much as that. See here, Mr. Lindsay."
Mr. Gifted Hopkins pulled out his pocket-book, and, taking therefrom a
cutting from a newspaper,--which dropped helplessly open of itself, as
if tired of the process, being very tender in the joints or creases, by
reason of having been often folded and unfolded,--read aloud as
follows:--
"The bard of Oxbow Village--our valued correspondent who writes
over the signature of G. H.--is, in our opinion, more
remarkable for his _originality_ than for any other of his
numerous gifts."
Clement was apparently silenced by this, and the poet a little elated
with a sense of triumph. Susan could not help sharing his feeling of
satisfaction, and without meaning it in the least, nay, without knowing
it, for she was as simple and pure as new milk, edged a little bit--the
merest infinitesimal atom--nearer to Gifted Hopkins, who was on one side
of her, while Clement walked on the other. Women love the conquering
party,--it is the way of their sex. And poets, as we have seen, are
wellnigh irresistible when they exert their dangerous power of
fascination upon the female heart. But Clement was above jealousy; and,
if he perceived anything of this movement, took no notice of it.
He saw a good deal of his pretty Susan that day. She was tender in her
expressions and manners as usual, but there was a little something in
her looks and language from time to time that Clement did not know
exactly what to make of. She colored once or twice when the young poet's
name was mentioned. She was not so full of her little plans for the
future as she had sometimes been, "everything was so uncertain," she
said. Clement asked himself whether she felt quite as sure that her
attachment would last as she once did. But there were no reproaches, not
even any explanations, which are about as bad between lovers. There was
nothing but an undefined feeling on his side that she did not cling
quite so closely to him, perhaps, as he had once thought, and that, if
he had happened to have been drowned that day when he went down with the
beautiful young woman, it was just conceivable that Susan, who would
have cried dreadfully, no doubt, would in time have listened to
consolation from some other young man,--possibly from the young poet
whose verses he had been admiring. Easy-crying widows take new husbands
soonest; there is nothing like wet weather for transplanting, as Master
Gridley used to say. Susan had a fluent natural gift for tears, as
Clement well knew, after the exercise of which she used to brighten up
like the rose which had been washed, just washed in a shower, mentioned
by Cowper.
As for the poet, he learned more of his own sentiments during this visit
of Clement's than he had ever before known. He wandered about with a
dreadfully disconsolate look upon his countenance. He showed a
falling-off in his appetite at tea-time, which surprised and disturbed
his mother, for she had filled the house with fragrant suggestions of
good things coming, in honor of Mr. Lindsay, who was to be her guest at
tea. And chiefly the genteel form of doughnut called in the native
dialect _cymbal_ (_Qu._ Symbol? B. G.) which graced the board with its
plastic forms, suggestive of the most pleasing objects,--the spiral
ringlets pendent from the brow of beauty,--the magic circlet, which is
the pledge of plighted affection,--the indissoluble knot, which typifies
the union of hearts, which organs were also largely represented; this
exceptional delicacy would at any other time have claimed his special
notice. But his mother remarked that he paid little attention to these,
and his "No, I thank you," when it came to the preserved "damsels" as
some call them, carried a pang with it to the maternal bosom. The most
touching evidence of his unhappiness--whether intentional or the result
of accident was not evident--was a _broken heart_, which he left upon
his plate, the meaning of which was as plain as anything in the language
of flowers. His thoughts were gloomy during that day, running a good
deal on the more picturesque and impressive methods of bidding a
voluntary farewell to a world which had allured him with visions of
beauty only to snatch them from his impassioned gaze. His mother saw
something of this, and got from him a few disjointed words, which led
her to lock up the clothes-line and hide her late husband's razors,--an
affectionate, yet perhaps unnecessary precaution, for self-elimination
contemplated from this point of view by those who have the natural
outlet of verse to relieve them is rarely followed by a casualty. It may
rather be considered as implying a more than average chance for
longevity; as those who meditate an imposing finish naturally save
themselves for it, and are therefore careful of their health until the
time comes, and this is apt to be indefinitely postponed so long as
there is a poem to write or a proof to be corrected.