Beauchampe; or, The Kentucky tragedy

Front matter

OR

The Kentucky Tragedy

BY

Chapter I. The Ruined Hamlet

Time does not move with the less rapidity because His progress is so insensible. His wings may be compared to those of the owl and other birds who fly by night. Their feathers are fined off to such exquisitely-delicate points, that they steal silently through the air, as swiftly as stealthily, and strike their object without alarming it. So with that “ subtle thief” whom men personify as Time. He moves like the pestilence, without beat of drum, without pomp of banners, with no pageantry of state or terror. ' which might warn the victim to prepare his defences. He # fans us to sleep as the fabled vampire, with dark wing slowly waving over our slumbers, wdiile his sharp tooth is penetrating the vital places in our bosoms.

Five years have elapsed since the period of those melancholy events, which furnished us with the materials for our village-chronicle of “ Charlemont.” The reader of that legend will not require that we should remind him of its sorrowful details. Enough that we tell him that its iuhab itants are all dispersed — scattered variously in remote regions — some silent in the grave — all changed; all undergoing change ; and that the village itself is a ruin ! The

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vicissitudes of life have told in various ways upon all the parties to our former story. Some of them have been kept wretched ; others, made so ; while others again, have held a sensible progress — onward, upward — to prosperity and honorable distinction. Perhaps, we shall gather something more definite on this head from the discourse of the two travellers, whom we behold alighting from their horses, and seating themselves upon one of the hills by which the valley of Charlemont is overlooked.

Here, on this very spot, more than five years before, two other travellers had paused to survey the natural beauties of the village, and to feast their eyes upon the rural aspect of its innocent society. At that period, it was comparatively innocent. There was peace within its borders, and Plenty sat beside its winter fires, fully solaced by Content. But the gaze of those two travellers brought blight upon several of its sweetest homes. One of the two, a good old man, went on his way, dreaming with delight upon the simple beauties and felicities of the little liamlpt. He little dreamed that the other, his favorite nephew, had surveyed it with far less loving, yet more rapacious eyes — that hewould steal back,- alone, in disguise, and penetrate the little sanctuary of peace, hiding among its flowers, as a serpent, and leaving taint in the place of innocence. The reptile’s mission was successful. The home was polluted, the hope destroyed, and the little village was no longer the abode of peace or happiness. Now we see that it is in ruins— that it is deserted of its people — that its old familiar homes are solitary, and sinking fast into decay. We may not say that all this melancholy change was the fruit of this serpent’s visit, but who shall say that it was not ? Who shall measure the suffering and loss to a little rustic hamlet from the shame and sorrow which defile and degrade one of its favorite families. The shadow upon one sweet cottagehome casts a darkening atmosphere, in some degree over all around it, and lessens the charm which was once enjoyed

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by all in common, and takes from the beauty of the general landscape. Where the resources of society are drawn from natural and simple causes, we all share in the loss which proves fatal only to the single individual.

But, in place of the two former travellers, whose inauspicious gaze was thus full of mischief to the universal beauties of Charlemont, we see two very different persons. They occupy the same point of survey ; they both gaze from the same eminence which ere while unfolded the charm of a most lovely landscape. One of these strangers, as in the former instance, is a tall, finely-built, noble-looking old gentleman, whose white head declares him to be fast approaching the ordinary limits of the natural life. He was between sixty and seventy years of age, though you would arrive at this conclusion chiefly from the snowy whiteness of his hair, and the serene benevolence of his countenance, showing that the more violent passions were now wholly overcome, and not from any appearance of decrepitude. On the contrary, his bearing is that of a man still vigorous in bone and muscle. He carries himself erectly, alights promptly from his steed, with the freedom and ease of the practised hunter, and there is still, in his movement, the evidence of very considerable physical power, if not of energy. His eye is still of a bright and earnest blue ; his cheeks are but little wrinkled, nowhere much seared by either suffering or time, and the ruddy hue which clothes them declare equally for health and vigor.

His companion is a young man who might be twenty-five or thereabouts. In respect to frame, size, bearing, he might be the son of the former. He is of noble figure and stature, of firm, dignified, and easy carriage, and wears a fine, frank expression of countenance. The face, though without one feature like that of the senior, is also quite a handsome one, marked with great serenity, though of a gravity which seemed to declare the presence of emotions of a nature much more serious than any of those which are

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caused by thought and study. Though full of intelligence and a fine spirit, the expression is shadowed by a look of sadness approaching to melancholy. There is a fixedness and depth in his eyes — an intensity of gaze — which penetrates you with a sense of suffering and mystery ; suffering which has been overcome, but which has left its traces, as the fire which has been extinguished, yet leaves the scorching proofs of its wing upon the roof and sides of the bright dwelling over which it once has swept. His mouth, in its rather close compression, confirms the story of his eyes, and the beauty of the well-cut lips is somewhat impaired by the sternness resulting from this additional evidence of trial, and vexing passions. The mystery which you see written in the young man’s visage is one that invites to the study of that character, which a single glance persuades you must be worthy of examination. His movements are deliberate, his voice is low in tone, quiet, gentle, musical, yet capable of great and sonorous utterance. There is no sign of feebleness or indecision of purpose in the movements which are yet slow. On the contrary, every step which he takes is significant of strength — of powers that only wait the proper motive, or the sufficient provocation, to declare themselves with commanding, and even startling effect. As he stands awhile, after fastening the two horses in the thicket, and leaning slightly forward, gazes down intently upon the valley slope, dotted with the decaying cottages, you read in his look and action a further secret in which you conjecture a something, which links the fate of the lonely hamlet with his own fortunes, and confirms, with a deeper meaning, the sorrowful thought, and saddening memories, which loom out, darkly bright, in all the lines of his strongly-expressive countenance.

The old man is already seated upon the cliff and looking forth in silence. The young one joins him with quiet movement, and takes his seat beside him. And thus they sat together, for sonic time, without speaking. It would seem tttE RUINED HAMLe 1 !.

if they enjoyed a communion of thought and sympathy — that neither needed to speak of reminiscences which were cherished in equal degree by both, and that, whatever uie cause of melancholy reflection, it was shared between them.

A considerable interval of time, speaking comparatively, wa j thus yielded up in silence, to sad if not bitter thought. At length the old man said : —

44 We arc here, again, William. It is the same, yet not the same. Nature is ever young. Trees, rocks, hills, valleys — these rarely change. Here, without a single companion, as of old! yet how many of our old companions are about us. I feel the former life, if not the ancient feelings. Yet what a change. And five years have done it all! What a brief period ! Yet, what an eternity !”

The other did not immediately answer. When he did, he said musingly : —

44 1 sec no sign of human life. I doubt if there be a single inhabitant left.”

44 Indeed, it looks as if there were none. How strange is it, that, feeling with the place as we both did,, and do, we should have so entirely forborne to keep up any communication with it. We know not a syllable of the occasion of these changes. How strange that they should have been so altered ! Can there have been any epidemic here ? I have heard of none. The village was always healthy. The place is sweet and beautiful. The people were mostly in good circumstances, had few wants which they could not satisfy, and seemed happy enough and contented enough in these abodes. What was the sad necessity, what the vexing appetite which prompted their abandonment. Shall we descend into the valley and inquire further ? It may be that we shall find some lingering occupant in some one of the farther cottages. These are evidently abandoned. What say you, William ? Shall we feel our way once more along the old familiar places ?”

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“ All ! sir, vvitl. what reason ? Shall we behold anything more grateful in a nearer approach. Here, it seems to me, we can behold enough for melancholy thought ; and none other can we borrow from the associations with this place. You see yonder the ruins of my father’s house. It has evidently been destroyed by fire — the work, no doubt, of some passing incendiary. Yet, among these ruins, I first drew the breath of life ; there, I first enjoyed delicious hopes, which the same house saw blasted. My father and mother are wanderers in the far south, and — I had abandoned them. I would see no more. I wonder at the strange anxiety which has prompted me to seek thus much ; to come hither, after so long an interval, merely to behold a ruin ! I might have known that I should gain nothing from such a survey, but the resurrection of mocking dreams, and delusive fancies, and foolish hopes — upon which, as upon this little hamlet — we may write nothing but the one ,vord — ruin !”

A big tear stood in the young man’s eye — a single drop --the outburst of emotions that even manhood, filled with noble ardor, and moved by great energies, could not utterly repress. And again a deep silence, for a while, succeeded to this brief dialogue. At length, the old man laughed with a subdued chuckle — mixed mirth and melancholy.

“ Strange, William, that the hovel should so frequently outlast the stately hall and tower. Such is the process by which Time mocks at pride. Look, where my old school hcusc stands as it did five years ago. There you see the roof, almost black with age, glooming out beneath the shelter of green trees. My favorite oaks, William, still stride about, like ancient patriarchs, spreading great arms as in benediction. Ah ! I could embrace them, every one, with the feeling of a son or brother ! How much do they recall ! It was under their shade that we brooded over the chronicles of old Yertot and Froissart together. They have g^own together in my mind with these old chronicles, and

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I could fancy the knights of the temple and the hospital all pleasantly encamped beneath their friendly shelter.”

“ How strange, sir, that the imagination should thus speak out with you, rather than with me. The sight of that wild retreat for our rustic muses brings me other images and aspects, which appeal only to the affections. My fancies, at the sight, bring me glimpses of boyish forms, that leap and run along beneath the shadows. Instead </f the trumpets of chivalry, I hear only the merry shouts of boyhood, such as made this little valley ring with the genuine music of the heart in those happy, happy days.”

“ Music ! ah ! my dear boy, I little thought it so, when they made my ears ring too, with clamors, which made me pray, a thousand times, for the dreamy and sad silence, such as the scene affords us now. That I should now feel this silence so painfully oppressive, is more profoundly in proof than any other sign, of the terrible character of the human change which the passing time has brought. Where are all these merry children now ? The memory of those clamorous shouts, and that happy uproar of boyhood, comes now with a sensible pleasure to my heart, and arouses it with a delicious thrill. And I, who bemoaned the fate which fettered me so long in this obscure hamlet — dead to the world, and wholly unfruitful — even I could be persuaded to entreat of Heaven that the season might return once more. I was not sufficiently grateful, my son, for the peace — with all its boy-clamors — of that rustic solitude. Now, that all is gone, and all is ruin which I see, I feel, for the first time, how very precious and beautiful was it all.”

“ You have made all this sacrifice for me, my father !” said the young man, while his hand rested fondly upon the arm of the other.

“ It was fit I should, William ; and you have more than requited me, my son. But, in truth, there was no sacrifice-. There was need of change — for mo an for ycu. My owr

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heart required it. I had grown a discontent. This unpeP* forming life of simple peace and rustic content, is not to be allowed to those who have burning thoughts in their brains, and earnest desires in their hearts. It is for such, only to snatch moments of this sort of life, as it were, for rest and refreshment after toils, and that they may recover strength for new fields of wrestle, and trial, and performance. I had lived in it too long. I vms rapidly sinking into all sorts of unbecoming dotages. 1 have grown stronger, and wiser, and better, from the change. I do not deplore it, though I may look with sorrow over the mournful ruins of the once familiar and favorite retreat. It is, indeed, a melancholy spectacle.”

“ And how rery strange that so short a period should destroy every vestige of the life and pleasure of the place !”

“ Shall we wonder, when we see how brief a term is needed here to substitute desolation for life, that the great cities of the past should leave so few vestiges — that the very sites of so many should be forgotten ? Were we now to descend among the old thoroughfares, we should possibly lose our way, familiar as was once the path — we should find ourselves wondering at the decreased or increased length of distances, at the great size or the smallness of places, the measure of which seems to have been taken on our very hearts. We never think of the change in ourselves !”

“ But the fate of the place is still so very curious a mystery. One would think, from what we knew, that every day would only contribute to its utility, and growth, and beauty. Here were health, security, sweetness, innocence — every possible charm — all that should make a village dear to its inhabitants.”

“Ah! my son, but its inhabitants lacked the all-in-all, content. You, for example, to whom this peaceful dell was so beautiful, you were one of the first to leave it.”

“Yes! But not willingly. I was expelled from it by

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IT cruel necessities, by a harsh and brutal fate. It was with no exulting desire that I left its sacred abodes. They refused any longer to entertain me. I was driven ruthlessly from the sanctuary which denied me refuge any longer.”

“ And I am one of those who rejoice that you were so driven. The necessity which expelled you from the sanctuary was the mother of a glorious future. It brought out the manhood that was in you. It taught you to know yonr strength and muscle — forced you to their exercise, and will crown your name with honor !”

“ And yet, sir, I would gladly exchange all that I am — all that I. hope to be — for the restoration of that hope and home of boyhood, which I was thus driven to abandon.”

“ No, Willie, you would not. This is only the sentiment of a passing mood, which you will not rationally seek to encourage. It is better as it is ! You are better as you are ; and, to-morrow, when you return to your duties, your performances — the toils you have grappled with so manfully — the field into which you have so nobly sunk the shaft — you will feel how idle is the sentiment which seems so natural to you now. If this was the scene of your boyish sports and hopes, my son, you are not to forget that it was also the scene of your disappointments — your sorrows —your first strifes — your bitter humiliations ! Would you go over that period of doubt, and strife, and scorn, and ehame? Would you feel anew the pang of denial — tin defeat and disappointment of every youthful hope ?”

“ Do not — do not remind me ! It is as you Say ! And yet, sir, returning to the subject with which we began, how strange that all should have abandoned the village. I was the only involuntary exile. I was the only one whom the lates seemed resolute to expel. Why should they fly also, and so soon after me ? Where should my poor old father, John Hinkley, a::d my mother, for example* fiild the motive for leaving lb> .1 - where they li^d so long dwelt happily,

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and, in tlic decline of life, why seek an abode upon the Choctaw borders ? It could not be the love of gain ; they had enough !”

u You forget that your father had become something of a monomaniac. He followed the ministry of John Cross. Your departure, too, my son, had probably something to do with it. His stubborn pride of heart naturally kept him from making any admissions ; but I have no doubt he felt keenly the wrong that he had done you. The discovery of the true character of Alfred Stevens must have done a great deal toward disabusing him of his superstitions — for they were superstitions really — in respect to both of you. What does your mother say in her last letter ?”

“ They are well ; but she mentions, particularly, that my father never mentions my name, and avoids the subject.”

“ A proof that he broods upon it, and with no self-satisfaction. Your departure, his, and that of the Coopers, are easily accounted for ; and did we know the secret history of all the other villagers — their small, sweet, deceptive hopes ; each man’s petty calculations, and petty projects — all grounded in some vexing little discontent ; there would be no difficulty, I fancy, in finding sufficient reasons, or at least motives, for the flight of all.”

“ Still, sir, there seems to be a fate in it !”

“ Why, yes ; if by this word, Fate, you mean a Providence. I have no doubt that these sparrows are all, in some degree, the care of Providence ; and, whether they fall or fly, the omniscient eye sees, and the omnipresent finger points. Your error, perhaps, lies in the very natural assumption that mere place, itself, becomes an essential of humanity. These wandering hearts do not cease to beat with hope, because they no longer beat in the cottage of their boyhood. Their limbs do *iot cease to labor, nor their minds to think, because they break ground and plant stakes in remote forests of the south and west. Mere locality is, after all, a very small consideration, in any question of tho interests of humanity. It is the man tha, makes the place what it is or should be !”

“ I am inclined to think, sir, thai wo sbmething undervalue the social importance of place. A population loses something of its moral when it wanders. It substitutes a ravage wildness for domestic virtues.”

“ Granted ! For a time this is certainly the case. But, on the other hand, an old locality is liable to suffer from the worse evil of moral stagnation ; and the cure of this demands the thunder-storm. The extreme conditions usually work out precisely the same consequences in the end ; and, in the case of society, the locality is altogether a subordinate condition. My old trees, there, were very grateful to both of us ; but I became an imbecile under them, in the enjoyment of the dolce far niente — that luxury which, has destroyed the very nation from whom we borrow the phrase ! And the same delightful condition of won-performance, continued for five years, would have ruined you , also, for any career of usefulness and manhood. And this would have been a crime, my son, as well as a shame. Neither you nor I, believe me, were designed for the slavish employment — however sweet —

“ To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair.”

a I know not, sir, I know not! Fame is something — something charming and fascinating — having its uses no doubt ; and designed for the natural and gradual elevation of the race as well as individual. But the heart ought not to be sacrificed for the brain — the sensibilities and affections for the genius. There should be a life for each, for all ; and to surrender the one up entirely to the other, works dismay in the soul, and decay in the sympathies, and leaves ashes only upon the hearth of home !”

“ But why the sacrifice of either, my son ? Who says surrender the affections to the genius — sacrifice the heart

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to the brain ! It is not the counsel of Milton. It is far from my wish that you should do so. Nourish both. The heart, in fact, the sensibilities, are the absolute necessities of genius. The brain, so far from demanding the annihilation of the affections and sympathies, actually draws constant food from their abundant sources, by which its own strength and vitality are cherished for performance. No intellect is in perfect symmetry unless it maintains a con stant intercourse with the warmest human affections. It is altogether a mistake to suppose that they can maintain a separate existence, or that one can preserve its integrity without due co-operation with the other. The most healthy genius is that which never surrenders its humanity. It may suffer disappointment — nay, agony — but it is in the very moment of the heart’s worst sufferings that the intellect is most needed, and it furnishes adequate help for support and relief, provided the training of both has been commensurate to their mutual wants and ‘necessities.”

“ Ah ! my dear sir,” said the younger shaking his head mournfully — “you forget my fortunes.”

“ Do I ? No, indeed ! I repeat, my son, that your fortunes have been equally beneficial to your head and your heart. You mistake, altogether, when you confound a disappointment — the defeat and denial of a boyish hope — with the annihilation of the heart. A hope and fancy are repeatedly crushed out of existence ; but we should err very greatly to suppose that the life of the affections — the heart — had suffered serious hurt. No! no! Believe me, your heart is quite as sound as ever. What are the proofs ? In my sight, they are hourly present, if not in yours. You’ disappointments have saddened your fancies, but have the ? impaired your strength ? They have rendered your thoughts graver in hue than is usual with your years, but have they not acquired in vigor what they may have lost in brightness l You do riot play now with thought, but you can work With it* as you never did before. You do not sport and ti ;ffe fllli RUINED HAMLET.

tiow with life, but you feel it as a circle spreading everywhere, connecting you with all the links of existence, making you sympathize with all its pulses and vibrations, and sensibly lifting your mood to the contemplation of ali ita higher offices and duties. In short, you have made a sudden spring from the dreaming, uncaring, unheeding, nature of the boy — as it were in a single night — into the active consciousness of all the responsibilities, glorious though saddening, which belongs to a proper manhood. Mow men possess real manhood only in degree with their capacity to perform. Had you been still a dweller in Chariemont — had you gained the objects of your boy desires in that place, you would have sunk into the habitual torpor of the place. You would never have found out what is in you — would have been nothing and done nothing.”

44 1 might have been happy !” answered the other gloom-

44 No ! my son. You would have gratified a youthful fancy, and, would have survived it ! This is a common history of what is vulgarly called youthful happiness. What would have remained to you then ? Misanthropy. The graver necessities of the mind take the place very soon of its boyish fancies, and demand stronger food. Fancy is but the food of a thought just beginning to develop. It requires strong meat very soon after, and this can be afforded only by earnest grappling with care and toil, and trial and pain — those angel overseers, whom God appoints, to goad the truant and the idle nature to its proper tasks. I repeat that your loss in Charlemont is the most fortunate of all your gains.”

44 Would I could think so, my father. Yet her image passes before me ever with so pleading a face. I see her now, as I have seen her a thousand times among those old groves; treading those crags ; gliding, with eager and fearless step down those precipices which conduct to the silent, sad, and beautiful tarn, where we were once so fond to

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brood. In my mind’s eye I shall never cease to behold that beautiful yet mournful memory — two images, so unlike each other, of the same being ; one proud, and brave, and noble, like the eagle soaring up in the sunshine ; the other gloomy, dispirited, made ashamed, like the same braye bird, with wing broken, the film over his eyes, close fettered in a cage of iron, and with curious fingers pointing to the earth-spots cn breast and pinion.”

“ A pitiful contrast, in sooth, my son, and such as it is very natural that your imagination should frequently deoict before your eyes. But both of these images will gradually fade from sight. A newer world will supersede your past ; new forms and aspects will take the places of the old ; new affections will spring up in your soul ; nay, fresh fancies will wing their way to your heart, and a nobler idea of love itself will possess your affections. The heart has resources not less fertile than the fancy. God has not decreed it to isolation. You will see and feel new plants of verdure suddenly appearing upon the waste places ; nay, the very heat and ashes of former passions prepare the ground for superior plants of more verdure, strength, and beauty. The time will come when you will wonder that you ever felt the pang and privation which trouble you now. Five years hence you will be unwilling to believe me when I describe, as I hope playfully to do, the fierce troubles of your soul at present.”

The youth shook his head negatively, as he said —

“ Impossible !”

“ One thing is certain, William. You are now confea sedly one of the first lawyers in Kentucky. Our little world acknowledges your power. If politics were your aim, the field is open to you, and it invites you. Yet, five years ago, you were desponding on the subject of your capacity. Then, you had misgivings of your strength, and fancied that your powers but imperfectly seconded your wish. Your ambition was then regarded as the dream of a foolish van-

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ity, which was destined only to rebuke and disappointment. Look at your position now — behold your own performances. It was but the other day, when Harry Clay said to me: 1 He is the most promising of our young men. 1 would not counsel him to politics ; yet, if he should desire that field, he will conquer in it. He has the steadfastness, the enlarged view, the industry, and the endowment, which will give him rank among the highest whenever he shall be disposed to fling off the mere lawyer, and embark on the troubled sea of politics.’ ”