 | CHAPTER XXX.
THE YOUNG POET AND THE NOVELIST. Freaks of fortune, or, The history and
adventures of Ned Lorn |  |
30. CHAPTER XXX.
THE YOUNG POET AND THE NOVELIST.
Mr. Persever and Ned, accompanied by the two Tims,
returned from the grove to Camden. As they passed
along the streets they could not avoid obsereving that
many curious eyes were bent upon them. But as the main
party of pursuers had not yet returned, those who were
informed of the unlawful purpose of the parties very naturally
supposed that the hostile meeting had been prevented,
and hence they permitted our hero and his friend
(it being understood that the former was to have been a
principal) to pass without molestation.
Persever, however, thought that inasmuch as the affair
had obtained such great publicity, it might be different in
whom he chanced to meet at one of the hotels, to be delivered
to his wife, he declared his intention to return with
Ned to Summerton. The proposition was gladly received;
and Tim, when it was explained to him that both Ned and
Persever were particularly liable to be arrested in the state
where the challenge had been accepted, offered his house
as a secure asylum. Timothy likewise volunteered his
assistance in enabling Tim's friends to elude the officers
of justice, should they track them into his neighbourhood.
Persever thanked them both very heartily, and intimated
that he might have need of their services. He was determined
to remain away from the city at all events for a
few days, until the excitement should subside. He had
bitter enemies in his own profession, men who had not met
with the same degree of success which had rewarded his
exertions, and he entertained apprehensions that they
might be incited by their envy to avail themselves of an
opportunity to aim a destructive blow at him.
They arrived at Summerton just in time for tea, and
made Susan very happy to see Ned alive and well, for
simultaneously with their arrival came the news of the
duel. It had been spoken of by the conductors, and thence
expanded through the village; and our hero might have
been irretrievably disgraced in the community, had not
some of the inhabitants been natives of the sunny South,
and bravely defended his conduct on the ground of great
provocation and exasperating injury. Among those who
desired at least a suspension of opinion until all the circumstances
were made known, were some high-toned ladies
who had daughters at the Hall. They did not justify
Ned—all still supposing it to be our hero who had fought,
and who had wounded Mallex, for so the rumour ran—
and they did not hesitate to condemn the practice of
duelling; but still they desired that everything which might
be said in his favour should be heard.
Susan had no reproaches to utter, being all joy that the
affair was over, and Ned had escaped. Ned and Persever
had agreed to answer no questions on the subject, and requested
Susan not to ask them any. The Tims were enjoined
to pursue the same line of policy. But groups of
and as the excitement seemed to increase, Mr. Persever
accepted Tim's invitation at once, and accompanied
him to the farm-house, about a mile beyond the limits of
the ancient town.
It was a joyful occasion for Tim and Timothy, who occupied
adjoining farms, and from one to the other it was the
purpose of the lawyer to alternate. They had never entertained
so distinguished a guest before, and would have
defended him with their lives against all the requisitions
that all the governors in the Union might have issued for
his apprehension.
Ned resolved to find an asylum with his friend Charles
Montague, at the lowly dwelling of Mrs. Kale. No entreaties
could induce him to seek a shelter elsewhere; and Persever
acquiesced in the separation from his friend the more
readily, because it was his intention to send Tim for his
family and remain a few weeks in the country, where many
of the voluminous documents incident to his profession could
be prepared as well as in his own office.
The stars were blinking merrily in the western sky when
Ned approached the humble dwelling of the widow Kale.
The night-hawk darted down to the path before him in
quest of the fire-fly. On the chimney-top was perched the
whipporwill, which the widow said had been his haunt at
that season for many years.
It was with a heartfelt alacrity that Charles sprang forward
to welcome his friend into the little white-washed
parlour embowered with honeysuckles and roses, and there
they were left alone by the poor widow, who toiled night
and day to make everything about the premises wear so
charming an appearance.
But although Montague evinced so much unaffected delight
in his salutations, a single moment sufficed for him to
discover the cast of sadness on the brow of his friend.
Charles gazed in pain and wonder. He had not heard of
the attempted duel, having, as usual, purposely avoided
learning the subject of the last rumours. The topics which
interested the multitude generally had no charms for him.
His was a separate and loftier existence.
“Ned,” said Montague, “you left me abruptly, or rather
result of a sudden necessity. But still I supposed your
friend was entitled to a note—a short one—previous to
your departure. Remember, we were to have two hearts,
but only one breast. Every palpitation of the one was to
be felt by the other, and thus we were to be rendered mutually
happy. Yes, happy, even in pain, in misfortune, in
hopeless disaster itself—for such is the power of sympathizing
hearts, even when all the woes of earth are heaped in
accumulation upon them!”
“True, Charles. Forgive your friend! Pardon my
weakness. The chord you have touched has vibrated through
my soul, and expelled these tears. Oh, how soothing it is
to melt in tears when the heart, however much it may be
oppressed by the inflictions of the world, is yet conscious
of never having harbored an unworthy motive, of never
having meditated a cruel wrong! Yes, we will have but
one bosom. We will confide everything to each other.
We will dwell together. We will work together, if you will
permit me to assist you with my pen. We will hope together,
and suffer, if such must be our lot, in sympathy.
Charles! since I saw you last, I have learned from her own
lips—from Alice's own lips—that it would be incompatible
—injurious to her position and prospects—yea, a violation
of filial duty—any longer to encourage—”
“Oh, Ned! say no more! Spare yourself the painful
utterance! I know what you would say, and I know the
cause. Fashion and riches—the vain pomps of the world—
have in this instance, as in millions of others, triumphed
over a weak and tender heart. The butterflies may perish
at the end of a brief season—the anxieties and triumphs
of a few fleeting years may be, will be forgotten forever;
and then sombre regret will brood in solemn gloom over
the hours wasted, the opportunities neglected, until the
tomb shall ingulf all that remains of poor, silly humanity!
Then the same career will be run by the succeeding generation
of the devotees of the hour, with the same dismal
result. It has been so, and will continue to be so, with the
rich and fashionable. They are forgotten the moment they
vanish from the stage. Their tombs are not visited, their
names are not repeated, and they sink into eternal oblivion.
oppressed. Yes, Ned, God has implanted the immortal
spark in our bosoms. Our songs may be contemned by
those who determine not to listen to them and appreciate
them, because they are swayed by envious motives; but
they will reverberate after we are gone, and like Eolian
strains, find utterance in every generous heart, over which
shall sigh the gentle gales of heavenly passion! Yes, Ned!
isolated by fortune from the tumults of the world, let us
resolve to labour in the seclusion we have chosen, for the
achievement of a distinction which no wealth can purchase,
and no capricious smiles of beauty can destroy.”
“Charles, I came hither for comfort, and have found it.
No one else could have so completely soothed my wounded
spirit. Yes, let us not put our trust in women! We may
adore them at a distance, as we worship the stars: but unless
we have equal fortune, as many friends, and as much
influence as the enchantress we bow to, let us never attempt
to establish intimate relations with them. Let us not listen
to the music of their voices, gaze upon their siren smiles,
or mark the delusive palpitations of their ensnaring hearts;
and, above all, never build upon the fleeting foundations
of their promises and pledges! I did intend to propose
accompanying you to Mr. Bloomville's mansion, for the
purpose of introducing you to Elgiva. But perhaps it
would be best to gaze at a distance, to converse with her
in your dreams. She is rich, and surrounded by so many
powerful admirers, it is not to be presumed that her heart
might be won by a poor poet—poor in purse, rich in
genius—”
“Not so, Ned,” said Charles, “but with sufficient of the
Castalian afflatus, I hope, to make a successful effort to
achieve something worthy of being preserved. Be it as
you propose, with Elgiva. I have not supposed I could
love her as others love who merely marry. I have dreamed
of her as a bright spirit crowning me with the bays I had
striven to win, and not as the drudging house-wife companion.
No! I am indissolubly wedded to the bright object
which has so long haunted my visions by day and by night,
and which has guided my pen, and inspired my thoughts.
But such a subsidiary has ever been needful in the rugged
vulgar love of the worldly-minded, nor yet the Platonic
affection of the merely sentimental; but the passion to see
a goddess in the object of my adoration, whose smile would
roll away the dark storms of life, and make an eternal
sunshine illumine my path—the path to Fame.”
“And your imagination can endue her with such attributes.
She will not regard you with any the less favour,
if I should fail to comply with her request.”
“Her request? Did she request it, Ned?”
“She did; merely, as she intimated, to enlarge still more
the circle of her acquaintance.”
“Her slaves, perhaps!”
“No; I think not. Fortified as you are, and forewarned
by my fate, there might be no danger. I will, after all,
the first opportunity, if you do not object, comply with her
request. A closer inspection will not annihilate the deity
of your dreams. I can conceive what a dark void must be
in the breast of one who has no such bright object to cheer
him in his reveries. Alas! henceforth such must be my
condition. But, Charles, I have not yet listened to the
brief sketch of your life which you promised me.”
It was not a singular tale in the annals of genius. His
father, a rich planter, had been ruined by a rash speculation,
and by becoming security for a friend, and soon after
died. His mother had married again, and his stepfather,
a merchant, refusing to defray the expenses of a collegiate
education for his wife's son, then about half completed,
offered him a situation in his store. Such employment being
repugnant to one of his temperament, he refused, and
was then unceremoniously turned adrift. The small sum
his mother gave him at parting, and a hundred dollars in
gold, the legacy of a deceased aunt, comprised his capital
with which to begin the world. He arrived in Philadelphia,
a perfect stranger. After engaging cheap boarding
and lodging with a relative of Mrs. Kale, likewise in an indigent
condition, he had set to work and completed a poem,
on the subject of rural delights, upon which he had been
long engaged in the south. This he fondly hoped would
prove the first stepping-stone on the highway to fame and
fortune. He had dreamed that treasure and honourable
sanguine was he of achieving success, when he had placed
the finishing touch to his production, that he was even
tempted to depart slightly from the rule of economy he
had previously adopted. Every one of the friends he had
acquired who read the poem, praised it—and among these
was a distinguished clergyman and Mrs. M—, a talented
actress. And he was perfectly happy up to the time that
he had his first interview with a publisher. The first one he
waited upon declined peremptorily to have anything to
do with poetry. The second would not undertake to publish
the best poetry that ever was written, provided the
author's name were unknown. The third was merely a
bookseller, and not a publisher; but he was willing to have
his imprint on the title-page, and to sell the volume, if the
author would have it printed at his own expense. But none
of the three desired to see more of the manuscript than the
title.
“When I returned to my lodgings,” continued Montague,
“with my manuscript in my hand, and reflected
that the product of so many months of mingled labour,
pain, anxiety, and hope, had not received even the poor
compliment of a perusal by a publisher, my disappointment
and mortification were sufficient to overwhelm any
one not determined to persist in a career of literature.
But I was resolved that my poem should be published;
and so, after a restless night, I agreed to defray the expense,
and take all the risk myself.
“It was done; my purse was exhausted; and still some
demands were not satisfied. There were a few kind and
encouraging notices of the volume in the papers; and I
hoped, while I absented myself from the bookseller's store,
that it was selling briskly. It was more than a month before
I inquired how many copies had been sold. Judge of
my consternation, when I learned that only three of my
books had been called for! But, Ned, that poem will be
read! and I confidently bide my time.
“I had, however, attracted the attention of the publisher
of a weekly literary paper, with whom I soon became
acquainted, and for whom I am at present engaged
writing his brief reviews of new books. You are now in
the events of my life up to the present time. The
occurrences hereafter you will, I hope, witness as they
transpire.”
Charles had perused only Ned's sonnets, and other brief
poetic effusions; and our hero, in return for the confidence
reposed in him, related how he had attempted to negotiate
for the publication of his romance; how he had failed in
the attempt; and then, almost despairing, had sent the
manuscript to the publisher of a hebdomadal sheet.
The reading of the young men had made them familiar
with the struggles and difficulties of authors, and they were
not only enabled to soothe and comfort each other under
the disappointments they had experienced, but to form
fresh resolutions for the future, under the tacit pledge of
mutual co-operation, inspired by a consciousness of the
possession of genius, such as might surmount every obstacle.
The young friends lingered long after Mrs. Kale had
retired to her humble couch. The recent brief separation
seemed like an age to them, and they were reluctant to
part, even for a few hours, and when they were to occupy
contiguous chambers.
Their arms interlocked, they promenaded to and fro across
the diminutive yard in front of the cottage, and gazed with
throbbing hearts at the distant stars. If it occurred to
them that the consummation of their cherished hopes must
be in the distant future, yet they felt an inspiring conviction,
that whenever attained, the prize would be as
unfading as the glittering orbs they gazed upon.
“They tell me,” said Ned, “that I have genius, the
creative faculty, and that I should employ it on some
useful work, in contradistinction to poetry and romance.
Several subjects have been proposed to me—science, history,
travels. But, Charles, what are the works that have
lived the longest, and afforded the most benefit to mankind?
Every new history supersedes an old one, every
new discovery or improvement in science annihilates previous
theories, and each successive traveller goes beyond
his predecessors!”
“Human nature, alone, remains the same!” said Charles.
ever were; and he who describes them truly, under all the
circumstances in which his characters may be placed, will
touch responsive chords in the breasts of all readers, of all
generations.”
“True, Charles. The oldest uninspired book known to
exist, is the Iliad. The name which has survived the
longest, is that of a poet. And in every nation, while the
poet and the novelist may be regarded by the savans as
entitled merely to a secondary consideration, it so happens
that their productions in almost every library are the most
frequently consulted, and their thoughts and expressions
the most highly valued. Shakspeare has afforded more delight
and instruction to mankind than any author that ever
existed. Scott has been read more than all the philosophers,
historians, economists, and statesmen en masse of
his generation.”
“Yes, Ned. And I venture to say that any intelligent
man being desired to name twenty authors as they may
occur to his mind, it will be found that three-fourths of
them are poets and novelists. Bacon and Newton were
not technically authors—they were discoverers, inventors,
and philosophers, like our Franklins, Fultons, and Morses.
They were very great men, and deserved the immortality
they achieved. So was Alexander great, and Marlborough,
Wellington, our Washington, Hamilton, Clay—but none
of them were authors.”
In this manner did the young poets commingle their
thoughts until midnight, when they reluctantly separated
until morning. The katy-did and the cricket chirped on
the vine-clad and rose-scented walls, and the notes of the
whipporwill, perched on the chimney-top, were the last
sounds that greeted their ears.
| CHAPTER XXX.
THE YOUNG POET AND THE NOVELIST. Freaks of fortune, or, The history and
adventures of Ned Lorn | |