While the moon was hanging almost perpendicularly over this spot,two figures appeared on the summit of the hill, and came withnoiseless footsteps down towards the spring. They were then inthe first freshness of youth; nor is there a wrinkle now oneither of their brows, and yet they wore a strange, old-fashionedgarb. One, a young man with ruddy cheeks, walked beneath thecanopy of a broad-brimmed gray hat; he seemed to have inheritedhis great-grandsire's square-skirted coat, and a waistcoat thatextended its immense flaps to his knees; his brown locks, also,hung down behind, in a mode unknown to our times. By his side wasa sweet young damsel, her fair features sheltered by a primlittle bonnet, within which appeared the vestal muslin of a cap;her close, long-waisted gown, and indeed her whole attire, mighthave been worn by some rustic beauty who had faded half a centurybefore. But that there was something too warm and life-like inthem, I would here have compared this couple to the ghosts of twoyoung lovers who had died long since in the glow of passion, andnow were straying out of their graves, to renew the old vows, andshadow forth the unforgotten kiss of their earthly lips, besidethe moonlit spring.
"Thee and I will rest here a moment, Miriam," said the young man,as they drew near the stone cistern, "for there is no fear thatthe elders know what we have done; and this may be the last timewe shall ever taste this water."
Thus speaking, with a little sadness in his face, which was alsovisible in that of his companion, he made her sit down on astone, and was about to place himself very close to her side;she, however, repelled him, though not unkindly.
"Nay, Josiah," said she, giving him a timid push with her maidenhand, "thee must sit farther off, on that other stone, with thespring between us. What would the sisters say, if thee were tosit so close to me?"
"But we are of the world's people now, Miriam," answered Josiah.
The girl persisted in her prudery, nor did the youth, in fact,seem altogether free from a similar sort of shyness; so they satapart from each other, gazing up the hill, where the moonlightdiscovered the tops of a group of buildings. While theirattention was thus occupied, a party of travellers, who had comewearily up the long ascent, made a halt to refresh themselves atthe spring. There were three men, a woman, and a little girl andboy. Their attire was mean, covered with the dust of the summer'sday, and damp with the night-dew; they all looked woebegone, asif the cares and sorrows of the world had made their stepsheavier as they climbed the hill; even the two little childrenappeared older in evil days than the young man and maiden who hadfirst approached the spring.
"Good evening to you, young folks," was the salutation of thetravellers; and "Good evening, friends," replied the youth anddamsel.
"Is that white building the Shaker meeting-house?" asked one ofthe strangers. "And are those the red roofs of the Shakervillage?"
"Friend, it is the Shaker village," answered Josiah, after somehesitation.
The travellers, who, from the first, had looked suspiciously atthe garb of these young people, now taxed them with an intentionwhich all the circumstances, indeed, rendered too obvious to bemistaken.
"It is true, friends," replied the young man, summoning up hiscourage. "Miriam and I have a gift to love each other, and we aregoing among the world's people, to live after their fashion. Andye know that we do not transgress the law of the land; andneither ye, nor the elders themselves, have a right to hinderus."
"Yet you think it expedient to depart without leave-taking,"remarked one of the travellers.
"Yea, ye-a," said Josiah, reluctantly, "because father Job is avery awful man to speak with; and being aged himself, he has butlittle charity for what he calls the iniquities of the flesh."
"Well," said the stranger, "we will neither use force to bringyou back to the village, nor will we betray you to the elders.But sit you here awhile, and when you have heard what we shalltell you of the world which we have left, and into which you aregoing, perhaps you will turn back with us of your own accord.What say you?" added he, turning to his companions. "We havetravelled thus far without becoming known to each other. Shall wetell our stories, here by this pleasant spring, for our ownpastime, and the benefit of these misguided young lovers?"
In accordance with this proposal, the whole party stationedthemselves round the stone cistern; the two children, being veryweary, fell asleep upon the damp earth, and the pretty Shakergirl, whose feelings were those of a nun or a Turkish lady, creptas close as possible to the female traveller, and as far as shewell could from the unknown men. The same person who had hithertobeen the chief spokesman now stood up, waving his hat in hishand, and suffered the moonlight to fall full upon his front.
"In me," said he, with a certain majesty of utterance,--"in me,you behold a poet."
Though a lithographic print of this gentleman is extant, it maybe well to notice that he was now nearly forty, a thin andstooping figure, in a black coat, out at elbows; notwithstandingthe ill condition of his attire, there were about him severaltokens of a peculiar sort of foppery, unworthy of a mature man,particularly in the arrangement of his hair which was so disposedas to give all possible loftiness and breadth to his forehead.However, he had an intelligent eye, and, on the whole, a markedcountenance.
"A poet!" repeated the young Shaker, a little puzzled how tounderstand such a designation, seldom heard in the utilitariancommunity where he had spent his life. "Oh, ay, Miriam, he meansa varse-maker, thee must know."
This remark jarred upon the susceptible nerves of the poet; norcould he help wondering what strange fatality had put into thisyoung man's mouth an epithet, which ill-natured people hadaffirmed to be more proper to his merit than the one assumed byhimself.
"True, I am a verse-maker," he resumed, "but my verse is no morethan the material body into which I breathe the celestial soul ofthought. Alas! how many a pang has it cost me, this sameinsensibility to the ethereal essence of poetry, with which youhave here tortured me again, at the moment when I am torelinquish my profession forever! O Fate! why hast thou warredwith Nature, turning all her higher and more perfect gifts to theruin of me, their possessor? What is the voice of song, when theworld lacks the ear of taste? How can I rejoice in my strengthand delicacy of feeling, when they have but made great sorrowsout of little ones? Have I dreaded scorn like death, and yearnedfor fame as others pant for vital air, only to find myself in amiddle state between obscurity and infamy? But I have my revenge!I could have given existence to a thousand bright creations. Icrush them into my heart, and there let them putrefy! I shake offthe dust of my feet against my countrymen! But posterity, tracingmy footsteps up this weary hill, will cry shame upon the unworthyage that drove one of the fathers of American song to end hisdays in a Shaker village! "
During this harangue, the speaker gesticulated with great energy,and, as poetry is the natural language of passion, there appearedreason to apprehend his final explosion into an ode extempore.The reader must understand that, for all these bitter words, hewas a kind, gentle, harmless, poor fellow enough, whom Nature,tossing her ingredients together without looking at her recipe,had sent into the world with too much of one sort of brain, andhardly any of another.
"Friend," said the young Shaker, in some perplexity, "theeseemest to have met with great troubles; and, doubtless, I shouldpity them, if--if I could but understand what they were."
"Happy in your ignorance!" replied the poet, with an air ofsublime superiority. "To your coarser mind, perhaps, I may seemto speak of more important griefs when I add, what I had well-nigh forgotten, that I am out at elbows, and almost starved todeath. At any rate, you have the advice and example of oneindividual to warn you back; for I am come hither, a disappointedman, flinging aside the fragments of my hopes, and seekingshelter in the calm retreat which you are so anxious to leave."
"I thank thee, friend," rejoined the youth, "but I do not mean tobe a poet, nor, Heaven be praised! do I think Miriam ever made avarse in her life. So we need not fear thy disappointments. But,Miriam," he added, with real concern, "thee knowest that theelders admit nobody that has not a gift to be useful. Now, whatunder the sun can they do with this poor varse-maker?"
"Nay, Josiah, do not thee discourage the poor man," said thegirl, in all simplicity and kindness. "Our hymns are very rough,and perhaps they may trust him to smooth them."
Without noticing this hint of professional employment, the poetturned away, and gave himself up to a sort of vague reverie,which he called thought. Sometimes he watched the moon, pouring asilvery liquid on the clouds, through which it slowly melted tillthey became all bright; then he saw the same sweet radiancedancing on the leafy trees which rustled as if to shake it off,or sleeping on the high tops of hills, or hovering down indistant valleys, like the material of unshaped dreams; lastly, helooked into the spring, and there the light was mingling with thewater. In its crystal bosom, too, beholding all heaven reflectedthere, he found an emblem of a pure and tranquil breast. Helistened to that most ethereal of all sounds, the song ofcrickets, coming in full choir upon the wind, and fancied that,if moonlight could be heard, it would sound just like that.Finally, he took a draught at the Shaker spring, and, as if itwere the true Castalia, was forthwith moved to compose a lyric, aFarewell to his Harp, which he swore should be its closingstrain, the last verse that an ungrateful world should have fromhim. This effusion, with two or three other little pieces,subsequently written, he took the first opportunity to send, byone of the Shaker brethren, to Concord, where they were publishedin the New Hampshire Patriot.
Meantime, another of the Canterbury pilgrims, one so differentfrom the poet that the delicate fancy of the latter could hardlyhave conceived of him, began to relate his sad experience. He wasa small man, of quick and unquiet gestures, about fifty yearsold, with a narrow forehead, all wrinkled and drawn together. Heheld in his hand a pencil, and a card of some commission-merchantin foreign parts, on the back of which, for there was lightenough to read or write by, he seemed ready to figure out acalculation.
"Young man," said he, abruptly, "what quantity of land do theShakers own here, in Canterbury?"
"That is more than I can tell thee, friend," answered Josiah,"but it is a very rich establishment, and for a long way by theroadside thee may guess the land to be ours, by the neatness ofthe fences."
"And what may be the value of the whole," continued the stranger,"with all the buildings and improvements, pretty nearly, in roundnumbers?"
"Oh, a monstrous sum,--more than I can reckon," replied the youngShaker.
"Well, sir," said the pilgrim, "there was a day, and not verylong ago, neither, when I stood at my counting-room window, andwatched the signal flags of three of my own ships entering theharbor, from the East Indies, from Liverpool, and from up theStraits, and I would not have given the invoice of the least ofthem for the title-deeds of this whole Shaker settlement. Youstare. Perhaps, now, you won't believe that I could have put morevalue on a little piece of paper, no bigger than the palm of yourhand, than all these solid acres of grain, grass, andpasture-land would sell for?"
"I won't dispute it, friend," answered Josiah, "but I know I hadrather have fifty acres of this good land than a whole sheet ofthy paper."
"You may say so now," said the ruined merchant, bitterly, "for myname would not be worth the paper I should write it on. Ofcourse, you must have heard of my failure?"
And the stranger mentioned his name, which, however mighty itmight have been in the commercial world, the young Shaker hadnever heard of among the Canterbury hills.
"Not heard of my failure!" exclaimed the merchant, considerablypiqued. "Why, it was spoken of on 'Change in London, and fromBoston to New Orleans men trembled in their shoes. At all events,I did fail, and you see me here on my road to the Shaker village,where, doubtless (for the Shakers are a shrewd sect), they willhave a due respect for my experience, and give me the managementof the trading part of the concern, in which case I think I canpledge myself to double their capital in four or five years. Turnback with me, young man; for though you will never meet with mygood luck, you can hardly escape my bad."
"I will not turn back for this," replied Josiah. calmly, "anymore than for the advice of the varse-maker, between whom andthee, friend, I see a sort of likeness, though I can't justly saywhere it lies. But Miriam and I can earn our daily bread amongthe world's people as well as in the Shaker village. And do wewant anything more, Miriam?"
"Nothing more, Josiah," said the girl, quietly.
"Yea, Miriam, and daily bread for some other little mouths, ifGod send them," observed the simple Shaker lad.
Miriam did not reply, but looked down into the spring, where sheencountered the image of her own pretty face, blushing within theprim little bonnet. The third pilgrim now took up theconversation. He was a sunburnt countryman, of tall frame andbony strength, on whose rude and manly face there appeared adarker, more sullen and obstinate despondency, than on those ofeither the poet or the merchant.
"Well, now, youngster," he began, "these folks have had theirsay, so I'll take my turn. My story will cut but a poor figure bythe side of theirs; for I never supposed that I could have aright to meat and drink, and great praise besides, only fortagging rhymes together, as it seems this man does; nor evertried to get the substance of hundreds into my own hands, likethe trader there. When I was about of your years, I married me awife,--just such a neat and pretty young woman as Miriam, ifthat's her name,--and all I asked of Providence was an ordinaryblessing on the sweat of my brow, so that we might be decent andcomfortable, and have daily bread for ourselves, and for someother little mouths that we soon had to feed. We had no verygreat prospects before us; but I never wanted to be idle; and Ithought it a matter of course that the Lord would help me,because I was willing to help myself."
"And didn't He help thee, friend?" demanded Josiah, with someeagerness.
"No," said the yeoman, sullenly; "for then you would not haveseen me here. I have labored hard for years; and my means havebeen growing narrower, and my living poorer, and my heart colderand heavier, all the time; till at last I could bear it nolonger. I set myself down to calculate whether I had best go onthe Oregon expedition, or come here to the Shaker village; but Ihad not hope enough left in me to begin the world over again;and, to make my story short, here I am. And now, youngster, takemy advice, and turn back; or else, some few years hence, you'llhave to climb this hill, with as heavy a heart as mine."
This simple story had a strong effect on the young fugitives. Themisfortunes of the poet and merchant had won little sympathy fromtheir plain good sense and unworldly feelings, qualities whichmade them such unprejudiced and inflexible judges, that few menwould have chosen to take the opinion of this youth and maiden asto the wisdom or folly of their pursuits. But here was one whosesimple wishes had resembled their own, and who, after effortswhich almost gave him a right to claim success from fate, hadfailed in accomplishing them.
"But thy wife, friend?" exclaimed the younger man. "What becameof the pretty girl, like Miriam? Oh, I am afraid she is dead!"
"Yea, poor man, she must be dead,--she and the children, too,"sobbed Miriam.
The female pilgrim had been leaning over the spring, whereinlatterly a tear or two might have been seen to fall, and form itslittle circle on the surface of the water. She now looked up,disclosing features still comely, but which had acquired anexpression of fretfulness, in the same long course of evilfortune that had thrown a sullen gloom over the temper of theunprosperous yeoman.
"I am his wife," said she, a shade of irritability justperceptible in the sadness of her tone. "These poor littlethings, asleep on the ground, are two of our children. We had twomore, but God has provided better for them than we could, bytaking them to Himself."
"And what would thee advise Josiah and me to do?" asked Miriam,this being the first question which she had put to either of thestrangers.
" 'Tis a thing almost against nature for a woman to try to parttrue lovers," answered the yeoman's wife, after a pause; "butI'll speak as truly to you as if these were my dying words.Though my husband told you some of our troubles, he didn'tmention the greatest, and that which makes all the rest so hardto bear. If you and your sweetheart marry, you'll be kind andpleasant to each other for a year or two, and while that's thecase, you never will repent; but, by and by, he'll grow gloomy,rough, and hard to please, and you'll be peevish, and full oflittle angry fits, and apt to be complaining by the fireside,when he comes to rest himself from his troubles out of doors; soyour love will wear away by little and little, and leave youmiserable at last. It has been so with us; and yet my husband andI were true lovers once, if ever two young folks were ."
As she ceased, the yeoman and his wife exchanged a glance, inwhich there was more and warmer affection than they had supposedto have escaped the frost of a wintry fate, in either of theirbreasts. At that moment, when they stood on the utmost verge ofmarried life, one word fitly spoken, or perhaps one peculiarlook, had they had mutual confidence enough to reciprocate it,might have renewed all their old feelings, and sent them back,resolved to sustain each other amid the struggles of the world.But the crisis passed and never came again. Just then, also, thechildren, roused by their mother's voice, looked up, and addedtheir wailing accents to the testimony borne by all theCanterbury pilgrims against the world from which they fled.
"We are tired and hungry!" cried they. "Is it far to the Shakervillage?"
The Shaker youth and maiden looked mournfully into each other'seyes. They had but stepped across the threshold of their homes,when lo! the dark array of cares and sorrows that rose up to warnthem back. The varied narratives of the strangers had arrangedthemselves into a parable; they seemed not merely instances ofwoful fate that had befallen others, but shadowy omens ofdisappointed hope and unavailing toil, domestic grief andestranged affection, that would cloud the onward path of thesepoor fugitives. But after one instant's hesitation, they openedtheir arms, and sealed their resolve with as pure and fond anembrace as ever youthful love had hallowed.
"We will not go back," said they. "The world never can be dark tous, for we will always love one another."
Then the Canterbury pilgrims went up the hill, while the poetchanted a drear and desperate stanza of the Farewell to his Harp,fitting music for that melancholy band. They sought a home whereall former ties of nature or society would be sundered, and allold distinctions levelled, and a cold and passionless security besubstituted for mortal hope and fear, as in that other refuge ofthe world's weary outcasts, the grave. The lovers drank at theShaker spring, and then, with chastened hopes, but more confidingaffections, went on to mingle in an untried life.
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