University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
NED'S EBULLITION OF PASSION—A NEW ACQUAINTANCE—
A LETTER.

In an hour Ned was across the river, and in three or four
more he was in Summerton. He entered Susan's cottage
with rather a dejected countenance.

“Well, Ned,” said Susan, “I hope you have succeeded
according to your utmost wishes. I have been imagining
great things for you, and had become confident that fame
and fortune would reward your genius and labours, when the
wise and good president of the college came in and almost
frightened me with the picture he drew of a life of authorship.”

“What sort of a picture did he draw, Susan? He is
an author himself, and an able one, too.”

“He said it was a miserable pursuit. That an author
might succeed in entertaining and enlightening the world,
but was rarely compensated for his labour. That it was a
lottery; a thousand blanks to one prize. That thousands
would pay fifty cents to hear the old jokes of a clown repeated
in the ring, during an hour's performance, while
twenty, or perhaps ten only, would pay the same amount
for a book that would amuse them for many days. And he
said, moreover, that any foreign vocalist of merit was more
praised by the press, and more respected by the people,
than a native author of genius; and that our citizens will

bestow more money on the former during a single evening,
than the latter can expect to receive during his whole
life.”

“Rather an awful sketch, Susan, and no doubt a true
one. I accomplished nothing in New York, and have
brought back my poor manuscript, which I have toiled
over for so many months. Once I felt an inclination
rising within me to burn it; but I resisted it for three reasons.
I was fearful it might set the chimney on fire;
next, I really felt an affection for some of the creations of
my imagination; and disliked the idea of destroying them
forever; and finally, I thought it might be acceptable to the
editor of the —, who, you know, has spoken a friendly
word for my sonnets. If it should be suitable for his columns,
and contribute to his prosperity, I would be happy thus to
evince my gratitude for his unsolicited kindness. And why
not be acceptable, Susan? Do not other publishers offer
premiums for such productions? I say such productions,
Susan. Yes, to you, who have read it, and approved it,
I may say so. I have read many of their prize tales, and
I am sure mine will compare very well with some of them.
And why should it not? I have education, which some of
the writers have not. I have done nothing but read all my
life. I have studied every model that ever was admired,
in ancient and modern times, both in poetry and prose.
And I have felt as deeply the vicissitudes of life as any
one. Why, why should I not be qualified to write as well
as others?”

“You will be, Ned, when you are older.”

“Older! True, I want age. But it will come, Susan.
Yes, it will come. It seems to me that the anxieties I
feel, the disappointments I meet with, the wrongs I have
endured, and the uncertainties of the future, will make me
old before my time. But they say that the spirit never
grows old. My God, Susan!—”

“Oh, Ned! What moves you so?” cried Susan, in
alarm, as she beheld the young man striding rapidly to
and fro across the room with arms uplifted, and his eyes
glittering with excitement.

The spirit, Susan. Fear it not. I can control it. But
it exists. It is here within my breast. It has slumbered

long, and may be doomed to slumber yet a little longer.
But God endowed me with it for some purpose. It has
gigantic powers, and some day they must be exerted—but
for good, Susan, not for evil. You and the good president
have extracted the venom, and I shall never cease to thank
you both. For had you not done so, I might have been
possessed of a demon to tear mankind. But now my spirit
is obedient to my will—to my reason—to my principles
****I will walk out in the fresh air.” Saying this the
young poet-lover abruptly left the cottage and strolled
along the margin of the river, followed by the eyes of his
friend and protector.

He trod again the peaceful paths familiar to his youth.
Incidents of former years flitted across his memory. There
he had his adventure with the vicious butcher's boy, who
was now in the penitentiary. That was a lesson. Here
he had triumphed over his classmates, in feats of agility,
as he had done in efforts of intellect within the walls of the
college. And then he paused beneath the branches of the
tree where Alice had so often been his companion. How
cheerless now! The leaves were tossing in commotion, and
the wind was howling dirge-like around him. And why
should he be standing there alone, lamenting the absence
of the one he loved, the one who loved him in turn? Had
she not confessed it within the last few days? Why not
have her at his side again? But he was an outcast and
a beggar! He, who was born to inherit an ample fortune!
Such thoughts, such recollections as these, almost distracted
him. He stood pale and motionless as marble, his eyes
raised to heaven, while burning thoughts traversed his
mind, like the pronged lightning darting through a sullen
cloud in the west. He held the mad spirit chained within
him. The evil tempter strove in vain to loose it.

He then strode to and fro along the green bank of the
river during the subsidence of his paroxysm of passion.
The dark cloud had reached the zenith, and now thundered
overhead. He bared his throbbing temples to the cooling
breeze, unheeding the light shower which followed it. The
glittering lightning that flashed along the heavens, and the
deep-toned thunder pealing through the sky, seemed to
have a tranquilizing effect upon his spirit. His quick fancy

contrasted the angry elements in violent commotion with
the futile turbulence of impotent man; and a sense of humiliation
and shame succeeded the tempest that had raged
in his breast. Of what avail would be angry discontent?
What could be accomplished by violence? They could not
change the circumstances of which he had so long been the
victim, nor merit an increase of sympathy or affection in
the bosom of Alice. Such were the rational thoughts
which succeeded his ebullition of passion.

At length, grown quite calm, though pale, and with a
sense of exhaustion, he sat down upon the root of a large
willow tree, whose clustering branches afforded an effectual
shelter from the passing shower. For a few moments he
covered his face with his hands, and meditated mournfully
upon the sad vicissitudes of his life. Tears trickled down
between his fingers. Completely humbled, he at last petitioned
the only Power whence relief and comfort, under
the most hopeless of calamities, might proceed. He repeated
a prayer which Susan had composed for him, when he was
but a small lad, and he felt a species of relief. In the
darkest hour of misfortune, and when it seemed that no
glimmering ray of earthly hope was ever destined to penetrate
the gloom that encompassed his existence, that little
prayer, simple in phraseology and humble in spirit, had
always soothed his aching heart. If the great and good
Being to whom it was addressed, did not respond in hopeful
terms, as regards the desirable objects of this life, there
never failed to be imparted to the poor boy a comforting
sensation, which at least made him cheerful, and still kept
at bay the grim monster—despair.

And now, when he raised his head and gazed forth upon
the landscape, a great change greeted his vision, and a
placid smile sported on his lip. The dark cloud had
been rent asunder and dispersed by the wind, and all was
bright and calm again. Transparent rain drops hung from
the leaves and sparkled in the sun. The fishes leaped from
the water in their diversions, and the birds sang merrily.

For a long time Ned enjoyed in silence the inspiring
influence of the scene; and in his meditations upon the
future, it occurred to him that the dark vapour of mystery
and wrong which had so long enveloped him, might likewise

be providentially removed, and be finally succeeded
by years of prosperity and happiness, as the storm had
been succeeded by sunshine.

When the sun had descended to the verge of the horizon,
and the birds had ceased their tuneful lays, Ned drew forth
a flute from his pocket, an instrument he was in the habit
of amusing himself with in his solitary rambles, and
warbled several plaintive airs. Once or twice during his
pauses, he thought he heard something resembling a low
breathed sigh behind him. He sat with his face towards
the river, and reclined against the trunk of the tree. No
one could be seen on either side, and supposing it might
have been merely a groundless fancy, he did not cast his
eyes in any other direction. But when he replaced the
flute in his pocket, and rose upon his feet, the sigh was repeated
very distinctly, and he beheld, standing a few paces
in the rear, his arms folded on his breast, a tall, pale youth,
whom he had seen several times recently at church, but had
not learned his name, nor where he sojourned. He had
been much interested by the sad expression of the beautiful
features of the young man, and had enquired of several
of his acquaintances if they knew him, or knew anything
in relation to him. He had been answered by all in the
negative. Subsequently he had been interrogated himself
on the same subject by several young ladies with whom he
was on terms of intimacy, and he was chagrined at being
unable to afford them any information.

“I hope you will not be displeased with me,” said the
stranger youth, “for being a listener to the exquisite music
which proceeded from your instrument.”

“Not at all,” said Ned, with the utmost frankness.
“Only I trust you do not mean to flatter me by terming
my simple tunes `exquisite music.”'

“I never mean to flatter any one. I am always candid.
Your execution might not, for what I know to the contrary,
have pleased a more cultivated ear; but to my simple
taste, it was exquisite.”

“Such tunes, I believe,” continued Ned, “are not often
practiced by the professors. They were taught me by no
master. Indeed, I doubt if they would be held in any
estimation by the musical parties of the present day. I

practice them because they please myself. They soothe
my spirit when it has been troubled, and seem to touch the
heart more readily than the prevailing fashionable airs.”

“It is the same in poetry,” replied the stranger, his
dark eyes flashing with enthusiasm. “He who writes that
which the most readily touches his own heart, and which affords
himself the greatest delight, adopts the surest plan of
reaching the hearts of others, and is almost certain to
have his execution considered `exquisite' by sympathizing
readers. Nature has endowed most of the human family
with capabilities to appreciate all that is pleasant to the
eye, the ear, and the heart.”

“And,” said Ned, catching the enthusiasm, “that which
so much absorbs the attention and commands the admiration
of many of the fashionable teachers, critics and connoisseurs,
is not nature, and hence is not comprehended or
appreciated by the uninitiated millions.”

“Therefore but few really enjoy such productions, although
it might be hazardous for any one to avow so much
in the saloons. But they do not last like the old heartfelt
airs I have just heard. Nor will the classic poetry of Addison
and Johnson be so often read or so fully enjoyed as
the simple untutored numbers of Burns.”

“True, true, sir; I agree with you entirely. And I
should like to make your acquaintance. I have seen
you several times, but never learned your name. Mine
is—”

“I know it. I likewise know something of your history,”
replied the stranger.

“Indeed!”

“Yes. The little I have learned in relation to you has
made me anxious to be numbered among your friends.
My name is Montague, Charles Montague. I, too, have
lived without fortune. If I have had no enemies, I have
not had many friends. I earn the small pittance upon
which I subsist, with my pen. I have no relatives near;
and hence I have taken lodgings at yonder humble farm-house,
inhabited by a poor widow, Mrs. Kale. My health
was not good, and the physician advised me to abandon
the garret in the city, and take up my abode in the country.
I have selected this place because of its beauty, its

quietude, and its church. So much of my history for the
present. If we should become more intimately acquainted,
as I hope we will, I may be more particular in my confessions.”

“We must be friends!” said Ned, grasping the young
man's hand. “Ever since I first beheld your face I have
not ceased to desire to know you; and I feel already as if
we were old acquaintances. There is nothing in my history
or my heart I would not confide to you; and I hope
you will ever be as unreserved with me.”

“I will strive to merit your esteem. Oh! it cannot
fail to be a source of rare enjoyment, mutual, I hope, but
certainly to me, to have one of my own age, of my own
tastes, and perhaps of similar impulses and aspirations,
with whom I may converse in the unrestrained language
which only sympathizing hearts may employ, and which
alone can express one's feelings, one's sentiments and
hopes.”

“True, Charles!” said Ned, still holding his new friend
by the hand. “There are a thousand things, hitherto
suppressed, I would have gladly spoken, and which to have
uttered would have made me very happy, if I had met
with such a friend before. And now, may I not ask who
it was imparted to you the information you have in relation
to my history?”

“Oh, yes. And were it not that the shades of evening
have imperceptibly enveloped us, the name I am about to
mention, if I mistake not, would reveal to my vision symptoms
in your face of not unpleasant emotions. It was related
to me by Miss Alice Dimple.”

“Indeed! You are acquainted with her, then?”

“Not intimately. It so happened that I was in the
habit of spending a few hours each day for a few weeks
with Mr. Lonsdale in his library. My visits, I might say,
were of a business character. His eyes were temporarily
affected, and I was employed to read the papers for him.
But I had frequent conversations with Mrs. L., and was
several times detained till after dinner. Thus, without
any formal introduction I became acquainted with Alice;
and during the conversation at the table, she related what
I know concerning you. But I made a discovery one day,

in relation to her, which I am sure must still be quite
unknown to her step-father, and perhaps even to her
mother.”

“I cannot imagine what that was,” said Ned, with
interest.

“It was an ingenious device in her flower-bed. I should
not have perceived it if I had not seen her smile several
times when walking along and regarding the border of
flowers. They had been planted by her own fair hand,
and so drilled as to form certain letters of the alphabet in
the midst of other prettily fantastic shapes—”

“Charles!” cried Ned, “What letters did you find
there?”

“E. L. P.”

“You make me very happy! But—but I am fearful
that with the flowers the name may fade in her remembrance.
Yet she does think of me! Montague, did you
ever love?”

“I fear so.”

“Fear?”

“Yes. I fear I have received one of Cupid's darts
since I have been sojourning in this neighbourhood. Oh,
yes—I fear it. Hopeless love! what is it but misery?
But I will not hope, and shall not be disappointed. I may,
however, worship her—in the sense not forbidden—as a
star that sheds its brightness upon all, but adored by me
more than the rest. She may not know it—she shall not
hear my voice—for I will only gaze at a distance—”

“But suppose some favoured one should win her heart
and hand?”

“That would break the spell indeed. And it might
likewise occur if I presumed to disclose my humble passion.
Oh, she is beyond my attainment—so I shall regard
her—like the most brilliant star in the firmament.”

“Who is she, Charles? You know the image I bow to,
and you may safely confide in me.”

“She is rich and beautiful, accomplished and good, joyful,
but sympathizing and charitable. She has often conferred
benefits on the poor widow, and indeed has a smile for
every unhappy child of mortality. Her eyes are like the
pure blue of heaven, her brow as fair as the alabaster
portals of the blessed—'

“Enough; I know her. She sits on the left of the aisle
some half a dozen pews from the altar. I have seen your
eyes wander thither. Well, let me tell you that the fair
Elgiva has inquired of me if I knew anything in relation
to the pale young stranger; had heard his name; could
tell his occupation, and so forth.”

“Is it possible? But what boots it? Perhaps I should
not have known this. It may cause too bright a dream
to-night for the leaden reality of to-morrow! But let us
seek our homes. I hear some one calling your name.
Farewell, Ned. Let us meet as often as possible.”

“Oh, yes. Let us be as brothers, and know no ceremony
in our intercourse. Good night.”

They parted, as old friends. Companions in adversity,
their hearts were perfectly congenial. Mutually the meeting
was regarded as a happy occurrence, and each determined
to do all in his power to merit the esteem of his newfound
friend.

“Ned! Ned! Where are you? Oh, Ned!” cried Tim
Trudge, running with all his might along the river bank,
and calling for our hero at every leap.

“Here I am, Tim,” said Ned, meeting him. “What is
the matter, Tim? Why do you cry after me in this manner?”

“Susan was oneasy, and told me to hunt for you. And
I was a little flustered too, when she told me you was so
pale and stared so hard when you walked out.”

“And was that all?”

“Oh no. Here's a letter from Mr. Perseverance. I
was down to the city selling wegitables, and came up on
the Nopoly boat, dang it!”

“What can he be writing about, think you, Tim;” said
Ned, taking the letter.

“Bless you, how can I tell? If it was ever so light I
couldn't spell out a lawyer's scratches!”

“True, we'll return to the house and see. I hope you
did well with your vegetables, Tim?”

“Not so very well, and particular with the shangys.
The butter brought only a quarter at the Girard, and the
other truck I sold in a lump to the hucksters.”

“Indeed! I supposed you had one regular customer,
who—”

“So I had. But things are always changing. I don't
guess what's the matter. Mrs. Lonsdale seemed flurried,
and Mr. Lonsdale said they were going to travel, and be
away some weeks, maybe months.”

“And, Tim—”

“Oh yes, I saw her, I winked, and blinked, all for nothing.
Miss Alice never spoke a word. She only came
into the hall and stood a single moment.”

“And said nothing?”

“Not a solitary word. But her lips were wery pale, and
I saw, jest as plainly as I see the face of that moon coming
up over there—”

“What?”

“A great big tear jump out of her eye and roll down
her cheek!”

“Is it possible! That might express more than
words—”

“Indeed it mought so. It mought say, as it were, `Oh,
I am moughty sorry for something or other'—and it would
be sure to be the truth. Often when the tongue says `I'm
so sorry,' it tells a pine-blank lie.”

“True, Tim! But here we are. Come in and hear
what the letter is about before you go home.”

They entered, and Ned hastened to break the seal,
while Susan and Tim stood at a distance, hoping to hear
some good news. It ran thus:

Dropping the letter on the table, Ned remained for
many minutes the mute victim of painful conjecture. The
silence of Alice, when Tim was present, and when she
knew he would faithfully report every expression of tongue
or feature, as he had been in the habit of doing with her
cordial sanction — the turn of Bainton — the hostility of
Mallex—all these clearly indicated that a change had
truly occurred in his prospects. It was in vain he sought
an elucidation of the mystery in his own mind; and although
he was conscious of a presentiment of new troubles
and prolonged misery, yet there was one subject his
thoughts reverted to with delight—the congeniality of his
new friend, Montague. It would at least be a consolation
to relate his grievances to one who would truly sympathize
with him; and whatever might happen, he felt a conviction
amounting to certainty, that nothing in his conduct or
destiny would ever be likely to estrange their uncontaminated
hearts.

“If anything wery terrible should ever happen, Susan,”
said poor Tim, quite loud enough to be heard by Ned,
“I'm glad I've made money. The farm has paid first rate.
Two dollars for turkies; one and a quarter a pair for chickens;
fifteen dollars for calves, which are Betty's—Betty
does the milking—Oh, Mr. Ned,” he continued, seeing a
faint smile on Ned's lip, “I mean to take you to see Betty's
calves—they are the fattest and the largest in the country, for
their age. Well—potatoes are a dollar—wheat two dollars,

and corn eighty-eight cents. We farmers are in clover,
and yet everybody is abusing the Emperor of Russia. If
he hadn't attacked the Turkies, everything would 've been
as it was. And as I was saying, Betty and me have plenty
of house room and enough of everything to eat for at least
two more grown up folks.”

“Thank you, Tim,” said Susan. “But you need not be
uneasy on our account. We do not spend more than our
income. Ned will not suffer for food or clothes, even if he
never recovers a particle of his fortune.”

“My dear friends,” said Ned, “I understand you both,
God will not permit such generosity to go unrewarded.
You suppose I have bad news. It is not cheering. But
nothing is decided. I will go to the city to-morrow, as
Mr. Persever desires, and may then learn something more
definite. I shall not, however, make any calculations in
future upon receiving the fortune so unjustly held from
me. If it comes to me, well; if not, I must not repine.
Good night.”

Ned retired to his room, and wrote a brief note of explanation
and apology to Mr. Lonsdale, and despatched it
by the cars that evening. He had been grievously mortified
at his precipitate conduct upon reading the remarks
of Mr. Persever, and hastened to atone for his imprudence
at the expense of an acknowledgment of his error.