University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
SIMPLICITY AND THE SERPENT.

The mirth and music of Charlemont were enjoyed by
others, but not by Margaret Cooper. The resolution not
to share in the pleasures of the young around her, which
she showed to her rustic lover, was a resolution firmly
persevered in throughout the long summer which followed.
Her wayward mood shut out from her contemplation the
only sunshine of the place; and her heart, brooding over
the remote, if not the impossible, denied itself those joys
which were equally available and nigh. Her lonesome
walks became longer in the forests, and later each evening
grew the hour of her return to the village. Her solitude
daily increased, as the youth who really loved her with
all the ardency of a first passion, and who regarded her at
the same time with no little veneration for those superior
gifts of mind and education which, it was the general conviction
in Charlemont, that she possessed, became, at
length, discouraged in a pursuit which hitherto had found
nothing but coldness and repulse. Not that he ceased to
love — nay, he did not cease entirely to hope. What lover
cver did? He fondly ascribed to the object of his affections
a waywardness of humor, which he fancied would
pass away after a season, and leave her mind to the influence
of a more sober and wholesome judgment. Perhaps,
too, like many other youth in like circumstances, he did
not always see or feel the caprice of which he was the

victim. But for this fortunate blindness, many a fair damsel
would lose her conquest quite as suddenly as it was made.

But the summer passed away, and the forest put on the
sere and sombre robes of autumn, and yet no visible change
— none at least more favorable to the wishes of William
Hinkley — took place in the character and conduct of the
maiden. Her mind, on the contrary, seemed to take something
of its hue from the cold sad tones of the forest. The
serious depth of expression in her dark eyes seemed to
deepen yet more, and become yet more concentrated —
their glance acquired a yet keener intentness — an inflexibility
of direction — which suffered them seldom to turn
aside from those moody contemplations, which had made
her, for a long time, infinitely prefer to gaze upon the rocks,
and woods, and waters, than upon the warm and wooing
features of humanity.

At distance the youth watched and sometimes followed
her, and when, with occasional boldness, he would draw
nigh to her secret wanderings, a cold fear filled his heart,
and he shrunk back with all the doubt and dread of some
guilty trespasser. But his doubt, and we may add, his
dread also, was soon to cease entirely, in the complete conviction
of his hopelessness. The day and the fate were
approaching, in the person of one, to whom a natural instinct
had already taught him to look with apprehension,
and whose very first appearance had inspired him with
antipathy.

What a strange prescience, in some respects, has the
devoted and watchful heart that loves! William Hinkley,
had seen but for a single instant, the face of that young
traveller, who has already been introduced to us, and that
instant was enough to awaken his dislike — nay, more, his
hostility. Yet no villager in Charlemont but would have
told you, that, of all the village, William Hinkley was the
most gentle, the most generous — the very last to be moved
by bad passions, by jealousy or hate.

The youth whom we have seen going down with his
uncle to the great valley of the Mississippi, was now upon
his return. He was now unaccompanied by the benignant
senior with whom we first made his acquaintance. He had
simply attended the old bachelor, from whom he had considerable
expectations, to his plantation, in requital of the
spring visit which the latter had paid to his relatives in
Kentucky; and having spent the summer in the southwest,
was about to resume his residence, and the profession of
the law, in that state. We have seen that, however he
might have succeeded in disguising his true feelings from
his uncle, he was not unmoved by the encounter with Margaret
Cooper, on the edge of the village. He now remembered
the casual suggestion of the senior, which concluded
their discussion on the subject of her beauty; and he resolved
to go aside from his direct path, and take Charlemont
in the route of his return. Not that he himself needed
a second glance to convince him of that loveliness which,
in his wilfulness, he yet denied. He was free to acknowledge
to himself that Margaret Cooper was one of the noblest
and most impressive beauties he had ever seen. The
very scorn that spoke in all her features, the imperious fires
that kindled in her eyes, were better calculated than any
more gentle expressions, to impose upon one who was apt
to be skeptical on the subject of ordinary beauties. The
confidence and consciousness of superiority, which too
plainly spoke out in the features of Margaret, seemed to
deny to his mind the privilege of doubting or discussing
her charms — a privilege upon which no one could have
been more apt to insist than himself. This seeming denial,
while it suggested to him ideas of novelty, provoked his
curiosity and kindled his pride. The haughty glance with
which she encountered his second approach, aroused his
vanity, and a latent desire arose in his heart, to overcome
one who had shown herself so premature in her defiance.
We will not venture to assert that the young traveller had

formed any very deliberate designs of conquest, but, it may
be said, as well here as elsewhere, that his self-esteem was
great; and accustomed to easy conquests among the sex,
in the region where he dwelt, it was only necessary to inflame
his vanity, to stimulate him to the exercise of all his
arts.

It was about noon, on one of those bright, balmy days,
early in October, when “the bridal of the earth and sky,”
in the language of the good old Herbert, is going on —
when, the summer heats subdued, there is yet nothing
either cold, or repulsive in the atmosphere; and the soft
breathing from the southwest has just power enough to
stir the flowers and disperse their scents; that our young
traveller was joined in his progress towards Charlemont,
by a person mounted like himself and pursuing a similar
direction.

At the first glance the youth distinguished him as one
of the homely forest preachers of the methodist persuasion,
who are the chief agents and pioneers of religion in most
of the western woods. His plain, unstudied garments all
of black, rigid and unfashionable; his pale, demure features,
and the general humility of his air and gesture, left our
young skeptic little reason to doubt of this; and when the
other expressed his satisfaction at meeting with a companion
at last, after a long and weary ride without one, the
tone of his expressions, the use of biblical phraseology, and
the monotonous solemnity of his tones, reduced the doubts
of the youth to absolute certainty. At first, with the habitual
levity of the young and skeptical, he congratulated himself
upon an encounter which promised to afford him a good
subject for quizzing; but a moment's reflection counselled
him to a more worldly policy, and he restrained his natural
impulse in order that he might first sound the depths of the
preacher, and learn in what respect he might be made subservient
to his own purposes. He had already learned
from the latter that he was on his way to Charlemont,

of which place he seemed to have some knowledge; and
the youth, in an instant, conceived the possibility of making
him useful in procuring for himself a favorable introduction
to the place. With this thought, he assumed the grave
aspect and deliberate enunciation of his companion, expressed
himself equally gratified to meet with a person
who, if he did not much mistake, was a divine, and concluded
his address by the utterance of one of those pious commonplaces
which are of sufficiently easy acquisition, and
which at once secured him the unscrupulous confidence of
his companion.

“Truly, it gladdens me, sir,” said the holy man in reply,
“to meet with one, as a fellow-traveller in these lonesome
ways, who hath a knowledge of God's grace and the blessings
which he daily sheddeth, even as the falling of the
dews, upon a benighted land. It is my lot, and I repine
not that such it is, to be for ever a wayfarer, in the desert
where there are but few fountains to refresh the spirit.
When I say desert, young gentleman, I speak not in the
literal language of the world, for truly it were a most
sinful denial of God's bounty were I to say, looking round
upon the mighty forests through which I pass, and upon
the rich soil over which I travel, that my way lies not
through a country covered, thrice covered, with the best
worldly bounties of the Lord. But it is a moral desert
which my speech would signify. The soul of man is here
lacking the blessed fountains of the truth — the mind of
man here lacketh the holy and joy-shedding lights of the
spirit; and it rejoiceth me, therefore, when I meet with
one, like thyself, in whose language I find a proof that thou
hast neither heard the word with idle ears, nor treasured it
in thy memory with unapplying mind. May I ask of thee,
my young friend, who thou art, and by what name I shall
call thee? — not for the satisfaction of an idle curiosity, to
know either thy profession or thy private concerns, but that
I may the better speak to thee in our conference hereafter.

Thou hast rightly conjectured as to my calling — and my
own name, which is one unknown to most even in these forests,
is John Cross — I come of a family in North Carolina,
which still abide in that state, by the waters of the river
Haw. Perhaps, if thou hast ever travelled in those parts,
thou hast happened upon some of my kindred, which are
very numerous.”

“I have never, reverend sir, travelled in those parts,”
said the youth, with commendable gravity, “but I have
heard of the Cross family, which I believe, as you say, to
be very numerous — both male and female.”

“Yea, I have brothers and sisters an equal number; I
have aunts and uncles a store, and it has been the blessing
of God so to multiply and increase every member thereof,
that each of my brothers, in turn, hath a goodly flock, in
testimony of his favors. I, alone, of all my kindred, have
neither wife nor child, and I seem as one set apart for
other ties, and other purposes.”

“Ah, sir,” returned the other, quickly, and with a slyness
of expression which escaped the direct and unsuspecting
mind of the preacher, “but if you are denied the blessings
which are theirs, you have your part in the great
family of the world. If you have neither wife nor child of
your own loins, yet, I trust, you have an abiding interest
in the wives and children of all other men.”

“I were but an unworthy teacher of the blessed word,
had I not,” was the simple answer. “Verily, all that I
teach are my children; there is not one crying to me for
help, to whom I do not hasten with the speed of a father
flying to bring succor to his young. I trust in God, that I
have not made a difference between them; that I heed not
one to the forfeit or suffering of the other; and for this impartial
spirit toward the flock intrusted to my charge, do I
pray, as well as for the needful strength of body and soul,
through which my duties are to be done. But thou hast not
yet spoken thy name, or my ears have failed to receive it.”

There was some little hesitation on the part of the youth
before he answered this second application; and a less unheeding
observer than his fellow-traveller, might have noticed
an increasing warmth of hue upon his cheek, while he
was uttering his reply:—

“I am called Alfred Stevens,” he replied at length, the
color increasing upon his cheek even after the words were
spoken. But they were spoken. The falsehood was registered
against him beyond recall, though, of course, without
startling the doubts or suspicions of his companion.

“Alfred Stevens; there are many Stevenses: I have
known several and sundry. There is a worthy family of
that name by the waters of the Dan.”

“You will find them, I suspect, from Dan to Beersheba,”
responded the youth with a resumption of his former
levity.

“Truly, it may be so. The name is of good repute.
But what is thy calling, Alfred Stevens? Methinks at thy
age thou shouldst have one.”

“So I have, reverend sir,” replied the other; “my calling
heretofore has been that of the law. But it likes me
not, and I think soon to give it up.”

“Thou wilt take to some other then. What other hast
thou chosen; or art thou like those unhappy youths, by far
too many in our blessed country, whom fortune hath hurt by
her gifts, and beguiled into idleness and sloth?”

“Nay, not so, reverend sir; the gifts of fortune have been
somewhat sparing in my case, and I am even now conferring
with my own thoughts whether or not to take to school-keeping.
Nay, perhaps, I should incline to something better,
if I could succeed in persuading myself of my own
worthiness in a vocation which, more than all others, demands
a pure mind with a becoming zeal. The law consorts
not with my desires — it teaches selfishness, rather
than self-denial; and I have already found that some of its
duties demand the blindness and the silence of that best

teacher from within, the watchful and unsleeping conscience.”

“Thou hast said rightly, Alfred Stevens; I have long
thought that the profession of the law hardeneth the heart,
and blindeth the conscience. Thou wilt do well to leave
it, as a craft that leads to sin, and makes the exercise of
sin a duty; and if, as I rightly understand thee, thou lookest
to the gospel as that higher vocation for which thy spirit
yearneth, then would I say to thee, arise, and gird up thy
loins; advance and falter not; — the field is open, and
though the victory brings thee no worldly profit, and but
little worldly honor, yet the reward is eternal, and the interest
thereof, unlike the money which thou puttest out to
usury in the hands of men, never fails to be paid, at the very
hour of its due, from the unfailing treasury of Heaven.
Verily, I rejoice, Alfred Stevens, that I have met with thee
to-day. I had feared that the day had been lost to that
goodly labor, to which all my days have been given for
seventeen years, come the first sabbath in the next November.
But what thou hast said, awakens hope in my soul
that such will not be the case. Let not my counsels fail
thee, Alfred; — let thy zeal warm; let thy spirit work
within thee, and thy words kindle, in the service of the
Lord. How it will rejoice me to see thee taking up the
scrip and the staff and setting forth for the wildernesses of
the Mississippi, of Arkansas, and Texas, far beyond; —
bringing the wild man of the frontier, and the red savage,
into the blessed fold and constant company of the Lord
Jesus, to whom all praise!”

“It were indeed a glorious service,” responded the young
stranger — whom we shall proceed, hereafter, to designate
by the name by which he has called himself. He spoke
musingly, and with a gravity that was singularly inflexible
— “it were indeed a glorious service. Let me see, there
were thousands of miles to traverse before one might reach
the lower Arkansas; and I reckon, Mr. Cross, the roads

are mighty bad after you pass the Mississippi — nay, even
in the Mississippi, through a part of which territory I have
gone only this last summer, there is a sad want of causeways,
and the bridges are exceedingly out of repair. There
is one section of near a hundred miles, which lies between
the bluffs of Ashibiloxi, and the far creek of Catahoula, that
was a shame and reproach to the country and the people
thereof. What, then, must be the condition of the Texas
territory, beyond? and, if I err not, the Cumanchees are a
race rather given to destroy than to build up. The chance
is that the traveller in their country might have to swim
his horse over most of the watercourses, and where he found
a bridge, it were perhaps a perilous risk to cross it. Even
then he might ride fifty miles a day, before he should see
the smokes which would be a sign of supper that night.”

“The greater the glory — the greater the glory, Alfred
Stevens. The toil and the peril, the pain and the privation,
in a good cause, increase the merit of the performance in
the eyes of the Lord. What matters the roads and the
bridges, the length of the way, or the sometimes lack of
those comforts of the flesh, which are craved only at the
expense of the spirit, and to the great delay of our day of
conquest. These wants are the infirmities of the human,
which dissipate and disappear, the more few they become,
and the less pressing in their complaint. Shake thyself
loose from them, Alfred Stevens, and thy way henceforth
is perfect freedom.”

“Alas! this is my very weakness, Mr. Cross: — it was
because of these very infirmities, that I had doubt of my
own worthiness to take up the better vocation which is yet
my desire. I am sadly given to hunger and thirst toward
noon and evening; and the travel of a long day makes me
so weary at night, that I should say but a hurried grace before
meal, and make an even more hurried supper after it.
Nay, I have not yet been able to divest myself of a habit
which I acquired in my boyhood; and I need at times,

throughout the day, a mouthful of something stronger than
mere animal food, to sustain the fainting and feeble flesh,
and keep my frame from utter exhaustion. I dare not go
upon the road, even for the brief journey of a single day,
without providing myself beforehand with a supply of a
certain beverage, such as is even now contained within
this vessel, and which is infallible against sinking of the
the spirits, faintings of the frame, disordered nerves, and
even against flatulence and indigestion. If, at any time,
thou shouldst suffer from one or the other of these infirmities,
Mr. Cross, be sure there is no better medicine for their
cure than this.”

The speaker drew from his bosom a little flask, such as
is sufficiently well known to most western travellers, which
he held on high, and which, to the unsuspecting eyes of the
preacher, contained a couple of gills or more of a liquid of
very innocent complexion.

“Verily, Alfred Stevens, I do myself suffer from some
of the weaknesses of which thou hast spoken. The sinking
of the spirits, and the faintness of the frame, are but
too often the enemies that keep me back from the plough
when I would thereto set my hand; and that same flatulence
—”

“A most frequent disorder in a region where greens and
collards form the largest dishes on the tables of the people,”
interrupted Stevens, but without changing a muscle of his
countenance.

“I do believe as thou say'st, Alfred Stevens, that the
disorder comes in great part from that cause, though, still,
I have my doubts if it be not a sort of wind-melancholy,
to which people, who preach aloud are greatly subject. It
is in my case almost always associated with a sort of
hoarseness, and the nerves of my frame twitch grievously at
the same periods. If this medicine of thine be sovereign
against so cruel an affliction, I would crave of thee such
knowledge as would enable me to get a large supply of it,

that I may overcome a weakness, which, as I tell thee,
oftentimes impairs my ministry, and sometimes makes me
wholly incapable of fervent preaching. Let me smell of it,
I pray thee.”

“Nay, taste of it, sir — it is just about the time when I
find it beneficial to partake of it, as a medicine for my own
weakness, and I doubt not, it will have a powerful effect
also upon you. A single draught has been found to relieve
the worst case of flatulence and colic.”

“From colic too, I am also a great sufferer,” said the
preacher as he took the flask in his hand, and proceeded to
draw the stopper.

“That is also the child of collards,” said Stevens, as he
watched with a quiet and unmoved countenance the proceedings
of his simple companion, who finding some difficulty
in drawing the cork, handed it back to the youth. The
latter, more practised, was more successful, and now returned
the open bottle to the preacher.

“Take from it first, the dose which relieves thee, Alfred
Stevens, that I may know how much will avail in my own
case;” and he watched curiously, while Stevens, applying
the flask to his lips, drew from it a draught, which, in
western experience of benefits, would have been accounted
a very moderate potion. This done, he handed it back
to his companion, who, about to follow his example, asked
him:—

“And by what name, Alfred Stevens, do they call this
medicine, the goodly effect of which thou holdst to be so
great?”

Stevens did not immediately reply — not until the preacher
had applied the bottle to his mouth, and he could see
by the distension of his throat, that he had imbibed a taste,
at least, of the highly-lauded medicine. The utterance then,
of the single word — “Brandy” — was productive of an
effect no less ludicrous in the sight of the youth, than it
was distressing to the mind of his worthy companion. The

descending liquor was ejected with desperate effort from the
throat which it had fairly entered — the flask flung from
his hands — and with choking and gurgling accents, startling
eyes, and reddening visage, John Cross turned full
upon his fellow-traveller, vainly trying to repeat, with the
accompanying horror of expression which he felt, the single
spellword, which had produced an effect so powerful.

“Bran — bran — brandy! — Alfred Stevens! — thou hast
given me poison — the soul's poison — the devil's liquor —
liquor distilled in the vessels of eternal sin. Wherefore
hast thou done this? Dost thou not know” —

“Know — know what, Mr. Cross?” replied Stevens,
with all the astonishment which he could possibly throw
into his air, as he descended from his horse with all haste
to recover his flask, and save its remaining contents from
loss.

“Call me not mister — call me plain John Cross,” replied
the preacher — in the midst of a second fit of choking, the
result of his vain effort to disgorge that portion of the pernicious
liquid which had irretrievably descended into his
bowels. With a surprise admirably affected, Stevens approached
him.

“My dear sir — what troubles you? — what can be the
matter? What have I done? What is it you fear?”

“That infernal draught — that liquor — I have swallowed
of it a mouthful. I feel it in me. The sin be upon thy
head, Alfred Stevens — why did you not tell me, before I
drank, that it was the soul's poison? — the poison that slays
more than the sword or the pestilence; — the liquor of the
devil, distilled in the vessels of sin — and sent among men
for the destruction of the soul! I feel it now within me,
and it burns — it burns like the fires of damnation. Is there
no water nigh that I may quench my thirst? — Show me,
Alfred Stevens, show me where the cool waters lie, than I
may put out these raging flames.”

“There is a branch, if I mistake not, just above us on the

road — I think I see it glistening among the leaves. Let
us ride toward it, sir, and it will relieve you.”

“Ah, Alfred Stevens, why have you served me thus?
Why did you not tell me?”

Repeated groans accompanied this apostrophe, and marked
every step in the progress of the preacher to the little
rivulet which trickled across the road. John Cross, descended
with the rapidity of one whose hope hangs upon a
minute, and dreads its loss, as equal to the loss of life. He
straddled the stream and thrust his lips into the water,
drawing up a quantity sufficient, in the estimation of
Stevens, to have effectually neutralized the entire contents
of his flask.

“Blessed water! Blessed water! Holiest beverage!
Thou art the creation of the Lord, and, next to the waters
of eternal life, his best gift to undiscerning man. I drink
of thee, and I am faint no longer. I rise up, strong and
refreshed! Ah, my young friend, Alfred Stevens, I trust
thou didst not mean me harm in giving me that poisonous
liquor?”

“Far from it, sir, I rather thought to do you a great
benefit.”

“How couldst thou think to do me benefit by proffering
such poison to my lips? nay, wherefore dost thou thyself
carry it with thee, and why dost thou drink of it, as if it
were something not hurtful as well to the body as the soul?
Take my counsel, I pray thee, Alfred Stevens, and cast it
behind thee for ever. Look not after it when thou dost so,
with an eye of regret lest thou forfeit the merit of thy self-denial.
If thou wouldst pursue the higher vocation of the
brethren, thou must seek for the needful strength from a
better and purer spirit. But what unhappy teacher could
have persuaded thee to an indulgence which the good men
of all the churches agree to regard as so deadly?”

“Nay, Mr. Cross—”

“John Cross, I pray thee; do I not call thee Alfred

Stevens? — Mr. is a speech of worldly fashion, and becomes
not one who should put the world and its fashions
behind him.”

Stevens found it more difficult to comply with this one
requisition of the preacher, than to pursue a long game of
artful and complex scheming. He evaded the difficulty by
dropping the name entirely.

“You are too severe upon brandy, and upon those who
use it. Nay, I am not sure, but you do injustice to those
who make it. So far from its manufacturers being such as
you call them, we have unquestionable proof that they are
very worthy people of a distant but a Christian country;
and surely you will not deny that we should find a medicine
for our hurts, and a remedy for our complaints, in a
liquor which, perhaps, it might be sinful to use as an ordinary
beverage. Doctors, who have the care of human life,
and whose business and desire it is to preserve it, nevertheless
do sometimes administer poisons to their patients,
which poisons, though deadly at other times, will, in certain
diseases and certain conditions of disease, prove of
only and great good.”

“Impossible! I believe it not! I believe not in the good
of brandy. It is hurtful — it is deadly. It has slain its
thousands and its tens of thousands — it is worse than the
sword and the summer pestilence. Many a man have I
known to perish from strong drink. In my own parts, upon
the river Haw, in North Carolina state, I have known many.
Nay, wherefore should I spare the truth, Alfred Stevens?
— the very father of my own life, Ezekiel Cross, perished
miserably from this burning water of sin. I will not hear
thee speak of it again; and if thou wouldst have me think
of thee with favor, as one hopeful of the service of the
brethren, cast the accursed beverage of Satan from thy
hands.”

The youth, without a word, deliberately emptied the
contents of his vessel upon the sands, and the garrulous

lips of the preacher poured forth as great a flood of speech
in congratulation, as he had hitherto bestowed in homily.
The good, unsuspecting man, did not perceive that the
liquor thus thrown away, was very small in quantity, and
that his companion, when the flask was emptied, quietly
restored it to his bosom. John Cross had obtained a seeming
victory, and did not care to examine its details.