The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844

I had hardly become acquainted with my relatives, uncle, aunt, and their three children, when I entered my office, shut the door, and immersed myself in books and my own thoughts. That those thoughts were not of the most joyous nature, I need hardly say. Still, looking back to that period, from where I stand now, I cannot say they were misanthropic. If I did not love all my species, it was because I saw nothing lovely in any body; but I did not hate them. I felt that I was an insignificant, an unnoticeable drop in the great world; that it was my misfortune to be so constituted as to be incapable of uniting closely and mingling with other drops; and that, without offending my neighbors, it would be my duty and pleasure to keep myself distinct from the rest, and hidden in some obscure corner. In one word, the prevailing feeling was, that nobody cared for me, and I cared for nobody.

And yet, strange as it may appear, I was far from being unhappy. Sometimes, it is true, my in-turned thoughts became weary, and pined for human fellowship; and I grew sick at heart, as I contemplated the future, a vast, dry, waste, desolate desert of parched sand, over which I must toil and thirst, without one single being to speak a word of kindness, or give me a drop of water. But these were fits, fits of wildness, I called them, and seldom lasted long. And when they came over me, one attempt to link my sympathies with others was always sufficient to throw me back into a state of mind harder and colder than before. For it was so fated, that all my overtures, and they were not many, were met with open repulse or wary suspicion. It is true, suspicion is a necessary ingredient in human character; but I did not think of this then, and so it had the same effect as though I had found, indeed I thought I had found, that coldness and insensibility were the prominent characteristics of the race.

And yet, as I said before, I was not unhappy. If there was no happiness, there was at least no unhappiness, in sitting down for hours, and brooding over my own idiosyncrasies. It made me proud, to see and despise the weakness of others; and it gave me stern joy, to walk about and feel that there was a kind of armed neutrality between them and me. By degrees there arose, also, a gloomy pleasure in dwelling on, and picturing in deeper colors, the failings and baseness of my neighbors. Humble and weak as I knew myself to be, I exulted in my strength, because there were some still more weak and humble. Far back as my recollection ran, there had never been any thing in the world that seemed to me worthy of very much exertion or toil to obtain; but now I first learned to despise others for possessing feeble energies, as well as for directing them to the attainment of little objects. I am afraid, if left to myself, I should have hardened into a genuine hater; but I was not left to myself.

I have mentioned my uncle’s kindness; his whole family were not less kind. My cousin Jane, especially, saw that I was silent, and fancied that I was unhappy, and tried, by a thousand little devices and arts, to lull me into forgetfulness of myself, and entice me into a more sociable frame of mind. I will not say that I was insensible to her enticements; I rather liked her, she was so gentle and mild and considerate. There was an air of truth and simplicity about her; she would sit herself down so cheerfully to amuse me, and there was such a sparkle in her blue eyes when, as she said, I condescended to interest myself in her little affairs, that I began, at length, to love to be with her. But proud as I was, when I viewed mankind at a distance, I no sooner came in contact with any one, who was not immeasurably beneath me, than I felt myself sinking immeasurably beneath him; and so, like a fool as I was, I fancied that all my cousin’s kindness was the result of her sense of duty to her relation; or, what was worse, of pity for his moroseness. This faint suspicion became, in a little while, a strong certainty; and I confined myself more closely to my books, and looked into my cousin’s guileless, enthusiastic face, with coldness.

I had known her now a year, and yet I hardly knew her at all; for I had seen her scarcely ever, except when it was impossible to avoid it, and those occasions were not frequent or long enough to enable me to learn perfectly her mind and character. From every such meeting, I went away resolved to see her no more in future; which resolution was sure to be overruled by second and more bitter thoughts. How I lived during that year, I scarcely know; or how it was that I grew uneasy away from her, and frequently surprised myself courting her society. But as time rolled on, so it was. There was a fascination about her, the magic of which was, that it charmed to sleep my vigilant suspicion. I did not perceive any change in myself, when night after night I was with her, talking to her about poetry, beauty, love, and the thousand themes that interest the unrestrained youthful heart; or that I was different from what I used to be, when I listened to her, with a gush of pleasure, as she spoke at once with lips and eyes, and in speaking, disclosed the unimagined riches of her mind and heart. So gradual was the change, that I was wholly unaware of it.

But of one thing I was aware; the face of nature and of man underwent a strange and sudden change in appearance. I looked into the face of my neighbor, and lo, he was my brother! The fire of benevolence and sympathy warmed every vein, and a new life animated every nerve within me. I felt no longer that I was alone, but that indissoluble cords bound me to the whole human family, to every being in whose nostrils was the breath of life; and that for his good, as well as for my own, it was my business to labor. New motives of action, (or rather motives of action, for there were none before,) were set before me; and I felt light of heart and wing; eager to bound forward and lend the strength of my arm to the cause of the race. The face of nature too was altered. Every part that came within the range of my vision, her seasons, her vestments in winter and summer, her sunshine and clouds, each one was a melody, and all together made harmony. Still, I was scarcely sensible that I was different from what I was a year ago; for at each period I felt that I was in my natural and proper state of mind. So slight are the influences necessary to turn the young heart into the permanent channel of selfishness, hatred and unhappiness, or into that of love and peace!

It was not long before I found out that I loved my cousin Jane. How I first discovered it I do not remember; but I do remember a firm and abiding resolution, even then, that I would not love her. I sat down by her side, I listened to her music, with that distinct impression. I would not for the world have had any body suspect my feelings, because I was ashamed of the weakness. I had persuaded myself, and could not convince myself to the contrary, that there was no hope of her returning my passion. And yet, with the words on my lips, ‘This is folly—I will not!’ I yielded myself to the delicious current, forgot all the world and myself, and in the intoxication of the hour, saw visions and dreamed dreams.

But there came a shock; one which awoke me from a trance like that of the Opium-eater. It was when I saw that my cousin’s smiles and attentions were not all devoted to me. There was another, a young man of promise and expectations, a year or two my senior, and far beyond me in the graces and polish of society, who had lately become intimate in my uncle’s family. Engaged in the same pursuits, and being much with him, I had rather liked him; in fact I liked him very much. He had seen, admired, and in less than six months, loved my Cousin Jane: this I knew, for jealousy is keen-eyed. You will not wonder then that I hated him; not on his own account—alter his feelings toward her, and I should have felt toward him as before; but on account of his love—hated him with a deadly hatred.

It would be useless to tell how often I have sat down and watched them, when my cousin’s sensitive countenance would brighten at his bright thoughts, or burst forth into a merry laugh at his brilliant wit and ready repartee; or how often the iron has entered into my soul when I have seen her hang on his arm, and listen in breathless attention to his lightest word, and testify in a thousand ways her pleasure at his coming, and in his presence. And he, he looked on me with the most immovable indifference. He did not seem to consider me worthy of his attention; even as a rival. He went straight forward, calmly and quietly, as though I had not existed; and if he ever glanced at my pretensions, it was perhaps with a smile of confident success. I knew he loved her; I fancied that she loved him, and I hated them both for it.

I went into my office one day—if it were not part of the dream I would not tell it—in a state of partial insanity. I knew, saw, heard, felt nothing but one unalterable purpose of revenge. There happened to be a small pistol lying in the back room; I took it up, and carefully loaded it; loaded it without the tremor of a single muscle, for my heart was lead. I put it into my pocket, and walked the streets up and down, an hour or two, or it may have been four hours. I did not take count of the time. The heavens reeled above me, and the earth reeled beneath. At last he came. A thrill, the first that day, a thrill of triumph ran through my whole frame. When we met I stopped and took hold of the pistol in my pocket, but had not power to draw my hand out again; the strings of volition seemed broken. He stopped also; looked at me in some surprise; made a remark that I ‘did not appear to be well,’ and passed on. I looked after him, sick at heart with revenge deferred, and cursed my own pusillanimity.

Well, well, we will let that pass. I had yielded my soul to the Author of Hatred for a time; but we will let it pass, and strive to forget it; I have been trying to ever since; I hope I shall succeed better in future. It is pleasant if we can think that the results of our evil passions do not extend beyond ourselves; and to me, it is pleasant to think that I did not break my gentle cousin’s heart, by letting her know that she had nearly driven me mad.

It was a month after this. How the intervening time had been spent, in what thoughts, and hopes, and fears, it would not be profitable to tell, or to recollect. I was sitting one evening by my cousin’s side; it was growing late, and we were alone. I had been heated, as though with wine, and had probably talked incoherently. The conversation turned on that never-failing theme, love. She delighted to hear me speak on that subject; she said I spoke eloquently. If eloquence consists in earnestness, no doubt I did. It began in sportiveness, but before long became deeply serious and interesting.

‘And you do not believe, my grave cousin,’ said she, in her own half-jesting, wholly earnest way, ‘that a woman can love as deeply and long as the man who loves her?’

‘Bah!’ said I, bitterly, ‘women sometimes, like men, are revengeful, proud, or ambitious, but it is on a smaller scale. Every thing about them, every feeling and impulse is on a small scale. Very good objects they make for men to love; because, when one will be such a fool, it doesn’t much matter where he places his affection.’

The poor girl looked grieved, but responded with a semblance of gaiety nevertheless: ‘Ah, you think so now, but you will be just such a fool yourself, one of these days; and then you will find out that it is necessary for a woman to have a soul; and more than that—that she has one.’

‘Much obliged for your flattering opinion,’ said I. ‘But see here, my bonny Jane, did it never enter into your innocent little heart to think how you would love?’

‘Oh yes,’ she answered quickly; ‘but that is all guess-work. I don’t know, because I haven’t yet found a man to my taste.’

Of course I knew that I could not be to her taste; but a plain man does not like to be told that he is ugly, though he may be perfectly conscious of the fact. And so this avowal, which was made with the most unthinking honesty and simplicity, while it added weight to my despair, by a very usual consequence, made me desperate.

‘You are certain,’ I asked, after a pause, ‘that you do not know what love is by experience?’

‘Perfectly,’ she answered, half laughing.

‘And that you mean to know, some time?’

‘To be sure,’ said she, ‘when the right man and the right time come.’

‘I do not know,’ said I, beginning slowly and calmly; but before the sentence was half completed, my voice and thoughts had escaped from under my control; ‘I do not know who the right man for you may be, but I—I love you—love you—love you!’

She looked at me for a few seconds, with a countenance filled with astonishment, not unmingled with alarm. She would have thought it a jest; but my manner probably convinced her that I was far from jesting. She tried to smile, but it was a painful effort, and she found it much easier to conceal her face in her hands and weep.

My recollection of the subsequent events of that evening is extremely dim. There was a confused crowd of flying thoughts; many tears and much friendship on one side, and much love on the other. She had received me as I knew she would, and though by the confession there was a great weight removed from my breast, the anguish was not less intense. One thing, however, among the hurried occurrences of that hour, I did not lose sight of, and that was pride. She did not suspect at the time how much of my heart, not to say existence, was bound up in her, or how greatly both were affected by her answer.

The closing scene of the interview is the one which I most love to remember. We were standing at the door, her hand in mine, a mournful smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. That bright, gentle face was pale with sorrow, and pity, and pain, and above all with fear. I gazed on it a moment, but in that moment the picture was graven indelibly on my memory. The ‘good night’ was spoken; and that is the last time I ever saw my cousin Jane.

The next morning I sat down at an inn by the way-side, several miles distant from home, and sent back a few lines of farewell:

‘My only beloved! You must pardon me for this note. The adieu of last evening was only for the night; I wish to say good bye this morning, for a longer time. Your answer to my suit was not unexpected; in fact, I knew it would be as it was; and it was only a fatality, a blind impulse, that drove me to make that disclosure. I fear that it has given you pain, and I beg you to forgive my thoughtlessness. And in turn, you may rest assured that I forgive you for all the anguish and sickness of spirit that I have suffered on your account. There is nothing to be forgiven; I know that you would not cause unhappiness to any one, and it has been my own folly and madness. But I promise not to lay it up in my heart against you. I promise that in future years, wherever my lot may be cast, you shall be in my memory, only my pure, sweet, innocent cousin. And so, blessings be on your head! I go forth a vagabond and a wanderer on the face of the earth. It is probable that you will never hear from me again; and I pray you to forget our last interview, that your thoughts may be only peace. I would live in your remembrance as I was when we first met. And do not think, because long years of silence and wide lands and many mountains divide us, that your cousin has forgotten you. Your image lives in his heart and can never die!’

STANZAS WRITTEN IN INDISPOSITION

BY THE LATE WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK

I

The Spring is fair, when early flowers
Unfold them to the golden sun;
When, singing to the gladsome hours,
Blue streams through vernal meadows run;
When from the woods and from the sky
The birds their joyous anthems pour;
And Ocean, filled with melody,
Sends his glad billows to the shore.

II

The Spring is sweet: its balmy breath
Is rapture to the wearied breast,
When vines with roses fondly wreathe,
Fann’d by soft breezes from the West;
When, opening by the cottage eave,
The earliest buds invite the bee;
And brooks their icy bondage leave,
To dance in music toward the sea.

III

The Spring is gay: but to my heart
The glorious hues she used to wear,
As sunset clouds in gloom depart,
Have vanish’d in the empty air:
They move not now my spirit’s wing,
As in the stainless days of yore:
The happy dreams they used to bring
Have pass’d—and they will come no more.

IV

Not that those dreams have lost their sway—
Not that my heart hath lost its chords;
Still with affection tuned, they play,
And leap at friendship’s kindly words;
But ’tis that to my languid eye