University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
EXILE.

The artist in the moral world must be very careful not
to suffer his nice sense of retributive justice, to get so
much the better of his judgment, as an artist, as to make
him forgetful of human probabilities, and the superior duty
of preparing the mind of the young reader by sterling examples
of patience and protracted reward, to bear up manfully
against injustice, and not to despond because his
rewards are slow. It would be very easy for an author to
make everybody good, or, if any were bad, to dismiss
them, out of hand, to purgatory and places even worse.
But it would be a thankless toil to read the writings of
such an author. His characters would fail in vraisemblance,
and his incidents would lack in interest. The
world is a sort of vast moral lazar-house, in which most
have sores, either of greater or less degree of virulence.
Some are nurses, and doctors, and guardians; and these
are necessarily free from the diseases to which they minister.
Some, though not many, are entirely incurable; many
labor for years in pain, and when dismissed, still hobble
along feebly, bearing the proofs of their trials in ugly
seams and blotches, contracted limbs, and pale, haggard
features. Others get off with a shorter and less severe
probation. None are free from taint, and those who are
the most free, are not always the greatest favorites with
fortune.

We are speaking of the moral world, good reader. We
simply borrow an illustration from the physical. Our interest
in one another is very much derived from our knowledge
of each other's infirmities; and it may be remarked,
passingly, that this interest is productive of very excellent
philosophical temper, since it enables us to bear the worst
misfortunes of our best friends with the most amazing fortitude.
It is a frequent error with the reader of a book —
losing sight of these facts — to expect that justice will
always be done on the instant. He will suffer no delay in
the book, though he sees that this delay of justice is one of
the most decided of all the moral certainties whether in life
or law. He does not wish to see the person in whom the
author makes him interested, perish in youth — die of
broken heart or more rapid disaster; and if he could be
permitted to interfere, the bullet or the knife of the assassin
would be arrested at the proper moment and always turned
against the bosom of the wrong-doer.

This is a very commendable state of feeling, and whenever
it occurs, it clearly shows that the author is going
right in his vocation. It proves him to be a human author,
which is something better than being a mere, dry, moral
one. But he would neither be a human nor a moral author
were he to comply with the desires of such gentle readers,
and, to satisfy their sympathies, arrest the progress of
events. The fates must have their way, in the book as in
the lazar-house; and the persons of his drama must endure
their sores and sufferings with what philosophy they may,
until, under the hands of that great physician, fortune, they
receive an honorable discharge or otherwise.

Were it with him, our young friend, William Hinkley,
who is really a clever fellow, should not only be received to
favor with all parties, but such should never have fallen from
favor in the minds of any. His father should become soon
repentant, and having convicted Stevens of his falsehood
and hypocrisy, he should be rewarded with the hand of the

woman to whom his young heart is so devoted. Such, perhaps,
would be the universal wish with our readers; but
would this be fortunate for William Hinkley? Our venerable
friend and his, Mr. Calvert, has a very different
opinion. He says:—

“This young man is not only a worthy young man, but
he is one, naturally of very vigorous intellect. He is of
earnest, impassioned temperament, full of enthusiasm and
imagination; fitted for work — great work — public work —
head work — the noblest kind of work. He will be a great
lawyer — perhaps a great statesman — if he addresses himself
at once, manfully, to his tasks; but he will not address
himself to these tasks while he pursues the rusting and
mind-destroying life of a country village. Give him the
object of his present desire and you deprive him of all
motive for exertion. Give him the woman he seeks and
you probably deprive him even of the degree of quiet which
the country village affords. He would forfeit happiness
without finding strength. Force him to the use of his tools
and he builds himself fame and fortune.”

Calvert was really not sorry that William Hinkley's
treatment had been so harsh. He sympathized, it is true,
in his sufferings, but he was not blind to their probable
advantages; and he positively rejoiced in his rejection by
Margaret Cooper.

It was some four or five days after the events with which
our last chapter was closed, that the old man and his young
friend were to be seen sitting together, under the shade of
the venerable tree where we have met them before. They
had conferred together seriously, and finally with agreeing
minds, on the several topics which have been adverted to
in the preceding paragraph. William Hinkley had become
convinced that it was equally the policy of his mind and
heart to leave Charlemont. He was not so well satisfied,
however, as was the case with Mr. Calvert, that the loss
of Margaret Cooper was his exceeding gain. When did

young lover come to such a conclusion? Not, certainly,
while he was young. But when was young lover wise?
Though a discontent, William Hinkley was not, however,
soured nor despairing from the denial of his hopes. He
had resources of thought and spirit never tested before, of
the possession of which he, himself, knew nothing. They
were to be brought into use and made valuable only by these
very denials; by the baffling of his hope; by the provocation
of his strength.

His resolution grew rapidly in consequence of his disappointments.
He was now prepared to meet the wishes of
his venerable and wise preceptor — to grapple stoutly with
the masters of the law; and, keeping his heart in restraint,
if not absolute abeyance, to do that justice to his head,
which, according to the opinion of Mr. Calvert, it well-deserved
if hitherto it had not demanded it. But to pursue
his studies as well as his practice, he was to leave Charlemont.
How was this to be done — where was he to go —
by what means? A horse, saddle, and bridle — a few
books and the ante-revolutionary pistols of his grandsire,
which recent circumstances seemed to have endeared to
him, were all his available property. His poverty was an
estoppel, at the outset, to his own reflections; and thinking
of this difficulty he returned with a blank visage to his
friend.

The old man seemed to enter into and imagine his
thoughts. He did not wait to be reminded, by the halting
speech of the youth, of the one subject from which the
latter shrunk to speak.

“The next thing, my son,” said he, “is the necessary
means. Happily, in the case of one so prudent and temperate
as yourself, you will not need much. Food and
clothing, and a small sum, annually, for contingencies, will
be your chief expense; and this, I am fortunately able to
provide. I am not a rich man, my son; but economy and
temperance, with industry, have given me enough, and to

spare. It is long since I had resolved that all I have
should be yours; and I had laid aside small sums from
time to time, intending them for an occasion like the present,
which I felt sure would at length arrive. I am rejoiced
that my foresight should have begun in time, since
it enables me to meet the necessity promptly, and to interpose
myself at the moment when you most need counsel
and assistance.”

“Oh, my friend, my kind generous friend, how it shames
me for my own father to hear you speak thus!”

The youth caught the hands of his benefactor, and the
hot tears fell from his eyes upon them, while he fervently
bent to kiss them.

“Your father is a good but rough man, William, who
will come to his senses in good time. Men of his education
— governed as he is by the mistake which so commonly
confounds God with his self-constituted representative, religion
with its professor — will err, and can not be reasoned
out of their errors. It is the unceasing operation of time
which can alone teach them a knowledge of the truth. You
must not think too hardly of your father, who does not
love you the less because he fancies you are his particular
property, with whom he may do what he pleases. As for
what I have done, and am disposed to do for you, let that
not become burdensome to your gratitude. In some respects
you have been a son to me, and I send you from me
with the same reluctance which a father would feel in the
like circumstances. You have been my companion, you
have helped to cheer my solitude; and I have learned to
look on the progress of your mind with the interest of the
philosopher who pursues a favorite experiment. In educating
you, I have attempted an experiment which I should
be sorry to see fail. I do not think now that it will fail.
I think you will do yourself and me ample justice. If I
have had my doubts, they were of your courage, not your
talent. If you have a weakness, it is because of a deficiency

of self-esteem — a tendency to self-disparagement.
A little more actual struggle with the world, and an utter
withdrawal from those helps and hands which in a youth's
own home are very apt to be constantly employed to keep
him from falling, and to save him from the consequences
of his fall, and I do not despair of seeing you acquire that
necessary moral hardihood which will enable you to think
freely, and to make your mind give a fair utterance to the
properties which are in it. When this is done, I have
every hope of you. You will rise to eminence in your profession.
I know, my son, that you will do me honor.”

“Ah, sir, I am afraid you overrate my abilities. I have
no consciousness of any such resources as you suppose me
to possess.”

“It is here that your deficiency speaks out. Be bold,
my son — be bold, bolder, boldest. I would not have you
presumptuous, but there is a courage, short of presumption,
which is only a just confidence in one's energies and moral
determination. This you will soon form, if, looking around
you and into the performances of others, you see how easy
they are, and how far inferior they are to your own ideas
of what excellence should be. Do not look into yourself
for your standards. I have perhaps erred in making these
too high. Look out from yourself — look into others —
analyze the properties of others; and, in attempting, seek
only to meet the exigencies of the occasion, without asking
what a great mind might effect beyond it. Your heart will
fail you always if your beau ideal is for ever present to
your mind.”

“I will try, sir. My tasks are before me, and I know it
is full time that I should discard my boyhood. I will go
to work with industry, and will endeavor not to disappoint
your confidence; but I must confess, sir, I have very little
in myself.”

“If you will work seriously, William, my faith is in this
very humility. A man knowing his own weakness, and working

to be strong, can not fail. He must achieve something
more than he strives for.”

“You make me strong as I hear you, sir. But I have
one request to make, sir. I have a favor to ask, sir, which
will make me almost happy if you grant it — which will at
least reconcile me to receive your favors, and to feel them
less oppressively.”

“What is that, William? You know, my son, there are
few things which I could refuse you.”

“It is that I may be your son; that I may call you father,
and bear henceforward your name. If you adopt me, rear
me, teach me, provide me with the means of education and
life, and do for me what a father should have done, you
are substantially more than my father to me. Let me bear
your name. I shall be proud of it, sir. I will not disgrace
it — nay, more, it will strengthen me in my desire
to do it and myself honor. When I hear it spoken, it
will remind me of my equal obligations to you and to
myself.”

“But this, my son, is a wrong done to your own father.”

“Alas! he will not feel it such.”

The old man shook his head.

“You speak now with a feeling of anger, William. The
treatment of your father rankles in your mind.”

“No, sir, no! I freely forgive him. I have no reference
to him in the prayer I make. My purpose is simply what
I declare. Your name will remind me of your counsels,
will increase my obligation to pursue them, will strengthen
me in my determination, will be to me a fond monitor in
your place. Oh, sir, do not deny me! You have shown
me the affections of a father — let me, I entreat you, bear
the name of your son!”

The youth flung his arms about the old man's neck, and
wept with a gush of fondness which the venerable sire could
not withstand. He was deeply touched: his lips quivered;

his eyes thrilled and throbbed. In vain did he strive to
resist the impulse. He gave him tear for tear.

“My son, you have unmanned me.”

“Ah, my father, I can not regret, since, in doing so, I
have strengthened my own manhood.”

“If it have this effect, William, I shall not regret my
own weakness. There is a bird, you are aware, of which
it is fabled that it nourishes its young by the blood of its
own bosom, which it wounds for this purpose. Believe me,
my dear boy, I am not unwilling to be this bird for your
sake. If to feel for you as the fondest of fathers can give
me the rights of one, then are you most certainly my son —
my son!”

Long, and fond, and sweet, was their embrace. For a
full hour, but few words, and those of a mournful tenderness,
were exchanged between the parties. But the scene
and the struggle were drawing nigh their close. This was
the day when they were to separate. It had been arranged
that William Hinkley, or as he now calls himself, William
Calvert, was to go into the world. The old man had recalled
for his sake, many of the memories and associations
of his youth. He had revived that period — in his case
one of equal bitterness and pleasure — when, a youth like
him he was about to send forth, he had been the ardent student
in a profession whose honors he had so sadly failed to
reap. In this profession he was then fortunate in having
many sterling friends. Some of these were still so. In
withdrawing from society, he had not withdrawn from all
commerce with a select and sacred few; and to the friendly
counsel and protection of these he now deputed the paternal
trusts which had been just so solemnly surrendered to
himself. There were long and earnest appeals written to
many noble associates — men who had won great names by
dint of honorable struggle in those fields into which the
feebler temper of Mr. Calvert did not permit him to penetrate.
Some of these letters bore for their superscriptions

such names as the Clays, the Crittendens, and the Metcalfs
— the strong men, not merely of Kentucky, but of the Union.
The good old man sighed as he read them over, separately,
to his young companion.

“Once I stood with them, and like them — not the meanest
among them — nay, beloved by them as an associate,
and recognised as a competitor. But they are here —
strong, high, glorious, in the eye of the nation — and I am
nothing — a poor white-headed pedagogue in the obscurest
regions of Kentucky. Oh, my son, remember this, and be
strong! Beware of that weakness, the offspring of a miserable
vanity, which, claiming too much for itself, can bestow
nothing upon others. Strive only to meet the exigency,
and you will do more — you will pass beyond it.
Ask not what your fame requires — the poor fame of a solitary
man struggling like an atom in the bosom of the great
struggling world — ask only what is due to the task which
you have assumed, and labor to do that. This is the simple,
small secret, but be sure it is the one which is of more
importance than all beside.”

The departure of William Hinkley from his native village
was kept a profound secret from all persons except his
adopted father and his bosom friend and cousin, Fisherman
Ned. We have lost sight of this young man for several
pages, and, in justice equally to the reader and himself, it
is necessary that we should hurriedly retrace our progress,
at least so far as concerns his. We left him, if we remember,
having driven Alfred Stevens from his purpose, riding
on alone, really with no other aim than to give circulation
to his limbs and fancies. His ride, if we are to believe his
random but significant words, and his very knowing looks,
was not without its results. He had certainly made some
discoveries — at least he thought and said so; but, in truth,
we believe these amounted to nothing more than some plausible
conjectures as to the route which Alfred Stevens was
in the habit of pursuing, on those excursions, in which the

neighbors were disposed to think that there was something
very mysterious. He certainly had jumped to the conclusion
that, on such occasions, the journey of Stevens
was prolonged to Ellisland; and, as such a ride was too
long for one of mere pleasure and exercise, the next conclusion
was, that such a journey had always some business
in it.

Now, a business that calls for so much secrecy, in a young
student of theology, was certainly one that could have very
little relation to the church. So far as Ned Hinkley knew
anything of the Decalogue it could not well relate to that.
There was nothing in St. Paul that required him to travel
post to Ellisland; though a voyage to Tarsus might be justified
by the authority of that apostle; and the whole proceeding,
therefore, appeared to be a mystery in which gospelling
had very little to do. Very naturally, having arrived
at this conclusion, Ned Hinkley jumped to another.
If the saints have nothing to do with this journey of Alfred
Stevens, the sinners must have. It meant mischief — it
was a device of Satan; and the matter seemed so clearly
made out to his own mind, that he returned home with the
further conviction, which was equally natural and far more
easily arrived at, that he was now bound by religion, as he
had previously been impelled by instinct, to give Stevens
“a regular licking the very first chance that offered.” Still,
though determined on this measure, he was not unmindful
of the necessity of making other discoveries; and he returned
to Charlemont with a countenance big with importance
and almost black with mystery.

But the events which had taken place in his absence, and
which we have already related, almost put his own peculiar
purposes out of his mind. That William Hinkley should
have cowskinned Stevens would have been much more gratifying
to him could he have been present; and he was almost
disposed to join with the rest in their outcry against
this sacrilegious proceeding, for the simple reason, that it

somewhat anticipated his own rigorous intentions to the
same effect. He was not less dissatisfied with the next
attempt for two reasons.

“You might have known, Bill, that a parson won't fight
with pistols. You might have persuaded him to fist or
cudgel, to a fair up and down, hand over, fight! That's
not so criminal, they think. I heard once of Brother John
Cross, himself trying a cudgel bout with another parson
down in Mississippi, because he took the same text out of
his mouth, and preached it over the very same day, with
contrary reason. Everybody said that John Cross served
him right, and nobody blamed either. But they would have
done so if pistols had been used. You can't expect parsons
or students of religion to fight with firearms. Swords,
now, they think justifiable, for St. Peter used them; but
we read nowhere in Old or New Testament of their using
guns, pistols, or rifles.”

“But he consented to fight, and brought his own pistols,
Ned?”

“Why, then, didn't you fight? That's the next thing I
blame you for — that, when you were both ready, and had
the puppies in your hands, you should have stood looking
at each other without taking a crack. By jingo, had there
been fifty fathers and mothers in the bush, I'd have had a
crack at him. No, I blame you, William — I can't help it.
You didn't do right. Oh! if you had only waited for me,
and let me have fixed it, how finely we would have managed.
What then, if your father had burst in, it was only
shifting the barkers from your hands to mine. I'd have
banged at him, though John Cross himself, and all his flock,
stood by and kneed it to prevent me. They might have
prayed to all eternity without stopping me, I tell you.”

William Hinkley muttered something about the more impressive
sort of procedure which his father had resorted to,
and a little soreness about the parietal bones just at that
moment giving a quick impatient air to his manner, had

the effect of putting an end to all further discussion of this
topic. Fisherman Ned concluded with a brief assurance,
meant as consolation, that, when he took up the cudgels,
his cousin need make himself perfectly easy with the conviction
that he would balance both accounts very effectually.
He had previously exhorted William to renew the attempt,
though with different weapons, to bring his enemy into the
field; but against this attempt Mr. Calvert had already
impressively enjoined him; exacting from him a promise
that he would not seek Stevens, and would simply abide
any call for satisfaction which the latter might make. The
worthy old man was well assured that in Stevens's situation
there was very little likelihood of a summons to the field
from him.

Still, William Hinkley did not deem it becoming in him
to leave the ground for several days, even after his preparations
for departure were complete. He loitered in the
neighborhood, showed himself frequently to his enemy, and,
on some of these occasions, was subjected to the mortification
of beholding the latter on his way to the house of Margaret
Cooper, with whom, a few moments after, he might
be seen in lonely rambles by the lake-side and in the wood.
William had conquered his hopes from this quarter, but he
vainly endeavored to suppress his pangs.

At length the morning came for his departure. He had
seen his mother for the last time the night before. They
had met at the house of the widow Hinkley, between which
and that of Calvert, his time had been chiefly spent, since
the day of his affair with Stevens. His determination to
depart was carefully concealed from his mother. He dreaded
to hear her entreaties, and he doubted his own strength
to endure them. His deportment, however, was sufficiently
fond and tender, full of pain and passion, to have convinced
her, had she been at all suspicious of the truth, of the design
he meditated. But, as it was, it simply satisfied her
affections; and the fond “good night” with which he addressed

her ears at parting, was followed by a gush of tears
which shocked the more sturdy courage of his cousin, and
aroused the suspicions of the widow.

“William Hinkley,” she said after the mother had gone
home — “you must be thinking to leave Charlemont. I'm
sure of it — I know it.”

“If you do, say nothing, dear cousin; it will do no good
— it can not prevent me now, and will only make our parting
more painful.”

“Oh, don't fear me,” said the widow — “I shan't speak
of it, till it's known to everybody, for I think you right to
go and do just as Gran'pa Calvert tells you; but you needn't
have made it such a secret with me. I've always been too
much of your friend to say a word.”

“Alas!” said the youth mournfully, “until lately,
dear cousin, I fancied that I had no friends — do not
blame me, therefore, if I still sometimes act as if I had
none.”

“You have many friends, William, already — I'm sure
you will find many more wherever you go; abler friends if
not fonder ones, than you leave behind you.”

The youth threw his arms round the widow's neck and
kissed her tenderly. Her words sounded in his ears like
some melodious prophecy.

“Say no more, cousin,” he exclaimed with sudden enthusiasm;
“I am so well pleased to believe what you promise
me of the future, that I am willing to believe all. God
bless you. I will never forget you.”

The parting with Calvert was more touching in reality,
but with fewer of the external signs of feeling. A few
words, a single embrace and squeeze of the hand, and they
separated; the old man hiding himself and his feelings in
the dimness of his secluded abode, while his adopted son,
with whom Ned Hinkley rode a brief distance on his way,
struck spurs into his steed, as if to lose, in the rapid motion
of the animal, the slow, sad feelings which were pressing

heavily upon his heart. He had left Charlemont for ever.
He had left it under circumstances of doubt, and despondency
— stung by injustice, and baffled in the first ardent
hopes of his youthful mind. “The world was all before
him, where to choose.” Let us not doubt that the benignant
Providence is still his guide.