SMALL | MEDIUM
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, compels 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
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 endeavoured, 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 pre-
cious 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 rela-
tion 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 en-
tirely his. She was no longer the self-willed, imperious
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 point-
ed 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.
"Trees, rocks, the valley and the hill, all realms of
solitude and shade, inspire enthusiasm and ardour 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 uninfluenced by the petty play of society, which
diffuses their power and breaks their lights into little, be-
come 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 labours become sacred in its eyes, and the
latest object of study and analysis is that which is always
most important. The effects 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 fulness 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 mur-
mured 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
"Ah!" she murmured despondingly -- "you daunt me
when you speak of these crowds, -- crowds of the intel-
"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 disc 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 opening of the forest, and lying upon the green-
sward 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 per-
suade 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 sub-
dued tone -- a murmur most like hers. "Are we not
"Nothing! nothing!"
"Ah! what a blessed chance it was that brought me to
these hills. I never lived till now. I had my joys, Mar-
garet, -- my triumphs! I freely yield them to the past! I
care for them no more! They are no longer joys or tri-
umphs! Yes, Margaret you have changed my heart within
me. Even fame which I so much worshipped is for-
gotten."
"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 honour of popular favour, -- the voice of
a people's approbation, the shining display and the golden
honour -- 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
honours, 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 clamours 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 cannot leave me -- not
"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! Mar-
garet -- 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, un-
bidden 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.