University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
FALL.

We should speak unprofitably and with little prospect of
being understood, did our readers require to be told, that
there is a certain impatient and gnawing restlessness in the
heart of love, which keeps it for ever feverish and anxious.
Where this passion is associated with a warm, enthusiastic
genius, owning the poetic temperament, the anxiety is proportionably
greater. The ideal of the mind is a sort of
classical image of perfect loveliness, chaste, sweet, commanding,
but, how cold! But love gives life to this image,
even as the warm rays of the sun falling upon the sullen
lips of the Memnon, compel its utterance in music. It not
only looks beauty — it breathes it. It is not only the aspect
of the Apollo, it is the god himself; his full lyre strung, his
golden bow quivering at his back with the majesty of his
motion; and his lips parting with the song which shall
make the ravished spheres stoop, and gather round to
listen.

Hitherto Margaret Cooper had been a girl of strong will;
will nursed in solitude, and by the wrong-headed indulgence
of a vain and foolish mother. She was conscious of that
bounding, bursting soul of genius which possessed her
bosom; that strange, moody, and capricious god; pent-up,
denied, crying evermore for utterance, with a breath more
painful to endure, because of the suppression. This consciousness,
with the feeling of denial which attended it, had

cast a gloomy intensity over her features not less than her
mind. The belief that she was possessed of treasures which
were unvalued — that she had powers which were never to
be exercised — that with a song such as might startle an
empire, she was yet doomed to a silent and senseless auditory
of rocks and trees; this belief had brought with it a
moody arrogance of temper which had made itself felt by
all around her. In one hour this mood had departed.
Ambition and love became united for a common purpose;
for the object of the latter, was also the profound admirer
of the former.

The anxious restlessness which her newly-acquired sensations
occasioned in her bosom, was not diminished by a
renewal of those tender interviews with her lover, which
we have endeavored, though so faultily, already to describe.
Evening after evening found them together; the wily hypocrite
still stimulating, by his glozing artifices, the ruling
passion for fame, which, in her bosom, was only temporarily
subservient to love, while he drank his precious reward
from her warm, lovely, and still-blushing lips and cheeks.
The very isolation in which she had previously dwelt in
Charlemont, rendered the society of Stevens still more dear
to her heart. She was no longer alone — no longer unknown
— not now unappreciated in that respect in which
hitherto she felt her great denial. “Here is one — himself
a genius — who can do justice to mine.”

The young poet who finds an auditor, where he has never
had one before, may be likened to a blind man suddenly
put in possession of his sight. He sees sun and moon and
stars, the forms of beauty, the images of grace; and his soul
grows intoxicated with the wonders of its new empire.
What does he owe to him who puts him in possession of
these treasures? Who has given him his sight? Love, devotion,
all that his full heart has to pay of homage and affection.

Such was very much the relation which Margaret Cooper

bore to Alfred Stevens; and when, by his professions of
love, he left the shows of his admiration no longer doubtful,
she was at once and entirely his. She was no longer
the self-willed, imperious damsel, full of defiance, dreaming
of admiration only, scornful of the inferior, and challenging
the regards of equals. She was now a timid, trembling
girl — a dependant, such as the devoted heart must ever
be, waiting for the sign to speak, looking eagerly for the
smile to reward her sweetest utterance. If now she walked
with Stevens, she no longer led the way; she hung a little
backward, though she grasped his arm — nay, even when
her hand was covered with a gentle pressure in the folds of
his. If she sung, she did not venture to meet his eyes,
which she felt must be upon hers, and now it was no longer
her desire that the village damsels should behold them as
they went forth together on their rambles. She no longer
met their cunning and significant smiles with confidence and
pride, but with faltering looks, and with cheeks covered
with blushes. Great, indeed, was the change which had
come over that once proud spirit — change surprising to all,
but as natural as any other of the thousand changes which
are produced in the progress of moments by the arch-magician,
Love. Heretofore, her song had disdained the ordinary
topics of the youthful ballad-monger. She had uttered
her apostrophes to the eagle, soaring through the black,
billowy masses of the coming thunder-storm; to the lonely
but lofty rock, lonely in its loftiness, which no foot travelled
but her own; to the silent glooms of the forest — to the
majesty of white-bearded and majestic trees. The dove and
the zephyr now shared her song, and a deep sigh commonly
closed it. She was changed from what she was. The
affections had suddenly bounded into being, trampling the
petty vanities under foot; and those first lessons of humility
which are taught by love, had subdued a spirit which,
hitherto, had never known control.

Alfred Stevens soon perceived how complete was his victory.

He soon saw the extent of that sudden change which
had come over her character. Hitherto, she had been the
orator. When they stood together by the lake-side, or
upon the rock, it was her finger which had pointed out the
objects for contemplation; it was her voice whose eloquence
had charmed the ear, dilating upon the beauties or the
wonders which they surveyed. She was now no longer
eloquent in words. But she looked a deeper eloquence by
far than any words could embody. He was now the
speaker; and regarding him through the favoring media of
kindled affections, it seemed to her ear, that there was no
eloquence so sweet as his. He spoke briefly of the natural
beauties by which they were surrounded.

“Trees, rocks, the valley and the hill, all realms of solitude
and shade, inspire enthusiasm and ardor in the imaginative
spirit. They are beneficial for this purpose. For the
training of a great poet they are necessary. They have the
effect of lifting the mind to the contemplation of vastness,
depth, height, profundity. This produces an intensity of
mood — the natural result of any association between our
own feelings and such objects as are lofty and noble in the
external world. The feelings and passions as they are influenced
by the petty play of society, which diffuses their
power and breaks their lights into little, become concentrated
on the noble and the grand. Serious earnestness of
nature becomes habitual — the heart flings itself into all the
subjects of its interest — it trifles with none — all its labors
become sacred in its eyes, and the latest object of study
and analysis is that which is always most important. The
effect of this training in youth on the poetic mind, is to the
last degree beneficial; since, without a degree of seriousness
amounting to intensity — without a hearty faith in the
importance of what is to be done — without a passionate
fullness of soul which drives one to his task — there will be
no truthfulness, no eloquence, no concentrated thought and
permanent achievement. With you, dear Margaret, such

has already been the effect. You shrink from the ordinary
enjoyments of society. Their bald chat distresses you, as
the chatter of so many jays. You prefer the solitude which
feeds the serious mood which you love, and enables your
imagination, unrepressed by the presence of shallow witlings,
to evoke its agents from storm and shadow — from
deep forest and lonesome lake — to minister to the cravings
of an excited heart, and a soaring and ambitious fancy.”

“Oh, how truly, Alfred, do you speak it,” she murmured
as he closed.

“So far, so good; but, dear Margaret — there are other
subjects of study which are equally necessary for the great
poet. The wild aspects of nature are such as are of use in
the first years of his probation. To grow up in the woods
and among the rocks, so that a hearty simplicity, an earnest
directness, with a constant habit of contemplation
should be permanently formed, is a first and necessary
object. But it is in this training as in every other. There
are successive steps. There is a law of progressive advance.
You must not stop there. The greatest moral
study for the poet must follow. This is the study of man
in society — in the great world — where he puts on a thousand
various aspects — far other than those which are seen
in the country — in correspondence with the thousand
shapes of fortune, necessity, or caprice, which attend him
there. Indeed, it may safely be said, that he never knows
one half of the responsibility of his tasks who toils without
the presence of those for whom he toils. It is in the neighborhood
of man that we feel his and our importance. It is
while we are watching his strifes and struggles that we see
the awful importance of his destiny; and the great trusts
of self, and truth, and the future, which have been delivered
to his hands. Here you do not see man. You see certain
shapes, which are employed in raising hay, turnips, and
potatoes; which eat and drink very much as man does;
but which, as they suffer to sleep and rest most of those

latent faculties, the exercise of which can alone establish
the superiority of the intellectual over the animal nature,
so they have no more right to the name of man than any
other of those animals who eat as industriously, and sleep
as profoundly, as themselves. The contemplation of the
superior being, engaged in superior toils, awakens superior
faculties in the observer. He who sees nothing but the
gathering of turnips will think of nothing but turnips. As
we enlarge the sphere of our observation, the faculty of
thought becomes expanded. You will discover this wonderful
change when you go into the world. Hitherto, your
inspirers have been these groves, these rocks, lakes, trees,
and silent places. But, when you sit amid crowds of bright-eyed,
full-minded, and admiring people; when you see the
eyes of thousands looking for the light to shine from yours;
hanging, with a delight that still hungers, on the words of
truth and beauty which fall from your lips — then, then
only, dearest Margaret, will you discover the true sources
of inspiration and of fame.”

“Ah!” she murmured despondingly — “you daunt me
when you speak of these crowds — crowds of the intellectual
and the wise. What should I be — how would I appear
among them?”

“As you appear to me, Margaret — their queen, their
idol, their divinity, not less a beauty than a muse?”

The raptures which Stevens expressed seemed to justify
the embrace which followed it; and it was some moments
before she again spoke. When she did the same subject
was running in her mind.

“Ah! Alfred, still I fear!”

“Fear nothing, Margaret. It will be as I tell you — as
I promise! If I deceive you, I deceive myself. Is it not
for the wife of my bosom that I expect this homage?”

Her murmurs were unheard. They strolled on — still
deeper into the mazes of the forest, and the broad disk of

the moon, suddenly gleaming, yellow, through the tops of
the trees, surprised them in their wanderings.

“How beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Let us sit here,
dearest Margaret. The rock here is smooth and covered
with the softest lichen. A perfect carpet of it is at our
feet, and the brooklet makes the sweetest murmuring as it
glides onward through the grove, telling all the while, like
some silly schoolgirl, where you may look for it. See the
little drops of moonlight falling here and there in the small
openings of the forest, and lying upon the greensward like
so many scattered bits of silver. One might take it for
fairy coin. And, do you note the soft breeze that seems to
rise with the moon as from some Cytherean isle, breathing
of love, love only — love never perishing!”

“Ah! were it so, Alfred!”

“Is it not, Margaret? If I could fancy that you would
cease to love me or I you — could I think that these dear
joys were to end — but no! no! let us not think of it. It
is too sweet to believe, and the distrust seems as unholy as
it is unwholesome. That bright soft planet seems to persuade
to confidence as it inspires love. Do you not feel
your heart soften in the moonlight, Margaret? your eye
glistens, dearest — and your heart, I know, must be touched.
It is — I feel its beating! What a tumult, dear Margaret,
is here!”

“Do not, do not!” she murmured, gently striving to disengage
herself from his grasp.

“No! no! — move not, dearest,” he replied in a subdued
tone — a murmur most like hers. “Are we not happy?
Is there anything, dear Margaret, which we could
wish for?”

“Nothing! nothing!”

“Ah! what a blessed chance it was that brought me to
these hills. I never lived till now. I had my joys, Margaret
— my triumphs! I freely yield them to the past! I
care for them no more! They are no longer joys or triumphs!

Yes, Margaret you have changed my heart within
me. Even fame which I so much worshipped is forgotten.”

“Say not that; oh, say not that!” she exclaimed, but
still in subdued accents.

“I must — it is too far true. I could give up the shout
of applause — the honor of popular favor — the voice of a
people's approbation — the shining display and the golden
honor — all, dear Margaret, sooner than part with you.”

“But you need not give them up, Alfred.”

“Ah, dearest, but I have no soul for them now. You
are alone my soul, my saint — the one dear object, desire,
and pride, and conquest.”

“Alas! and have you not conquered, Alfred?”

“Sweet! do I not say that I am content to forfeit all
honors, triumphs, applauses — all that was so dear to me
before — and only in the fond faith that I had conquered?
You are mine — you tell me so with your dear lips — I
have you in my fond embrace — ah! do not talk to me again
of fame.”

“I were untrue to you as to myself, dear Alfred, did I
not. No! with your talents, to forego their uses — to de
liver yourself up to love wholly, were as criminal as it
would be unwise.”

“You shall be my inspiration then, dear Margaret.
These lips shall send me to the forum — these eyes shall
reward me with smiles when I return. Your applause
shall be to me a dearer triumph than all the clamors of the
populace.”

“Let us return home — it is late.”

“Not so! — and why should we go? What is sleep to
us but loss? What the dull hours, spent after the ordinary
fashion, among ordinary people. Could any scene be more
beautiful than this — ah! can any feeling be more sweet?
Is it not so to you, dearest? tell me — nay, do not tell me
— if you love as I do, you can not leave me — not now —

not thus — while such is the beauty of earth and heaven —
while such are the rich joys clustering in our hearts. Nay,
while, in that hallowing moonlight, I gaze upon thy dark
eyes, and streaming hair, thy fair, beautiful cheeks, and
those dear rosy lips!”

“Oh! Alfred, do not speak so — do not clasp me thus.
Let us go. It is late — very late, and what will they say?”

“Let them say! Are we not blessed? Can all their
words take from us these blessings — these sacred, sweet,
moments — such joys, such delights? Let them dream of
such, with their dull souls if they can. No! no! Margaret
— we are one! and thus one, our world is as free from
their control as it is superior to their dreams and hopes.
Here is our heaven, Margaret — ah! how long shall it be
ours! at what moment may we lose it, by death, by storm,
by what various mischance! What profligacy to fly before
the time! No! no! but a little while longer — but a little
while!”

And there they lingered! He, fond, artful, persuasive;
she, trembling with the dangerous sweetness of wild, unbidden
emotions. Ah! why did she not go? Why was the
strength withheld which would have carried out her safer
purpose? The moon rose until she hung in the zenith,
seeming to linger there in a sad, sweet watch, like themselves
— the rivulet ran along, still prattling through the
groves; the breeze, which had been a soft murmur among
the trees at the first rising of the moon, now blew a shrill
whistle among the craggy hills; but they no longer heard
the prattle of the rivulet — even the louder strains of the
breeze were unnoticed, and it was only when they were
about to depart, that poor Margaret discovered that the
moon had all the while been looking down upon them.