While the moon was hanging almost perpendicularly13 over this spot, two figures appeared on the summit of the hill, and came with noiseless footsteps down towards the spring. They were then in the first freshness of youth; nor is there a wrinkle now on either of their brows, and yet they wore a strange, old-fashioned garb14. One, a young man with ruddy cheeks, walked beneath the canopy15 of a broad-brimmed gray hat; he seemed to have inherited his great-grandsire’s square-skirted coat, and a waistcoat that extended its immense flaps to his knees; his brown locks, also, hung down behind, in a mode unknown to our times. By his side was a sweet young damsel, her fair features sheltered by a prim16 little bonnet17, within which appeared the vestal muslin of a cap; her close, long-waisted gown, and indeed her whole attire18, might have been worn by some rustic19 beauty who had faded half a century before. But that there was something too warm and life-like in them, I would here have compared this couple to the ghosts of two young lovers who had died long since in the glow of passion, and now were straying out of their graves, to renew the old vows20, and shadow forth21 the unforgotten kiss of their earthly lips, beside the 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 that the elders know what we have done; and this may be the last time we shall ever taste this water.”
Thus speaking, with a little sadness in his face, which was also visible in that of his companion, he made her sit down on a stone, and was about to place himself very close to her side; she, however, repelled22 him, though not unkindly.
“Nay, Josiah,” said she, giving him a timid push with her maiden23 hand, “thee must sit farther off, on that other stone, with the spring between us. What would the sisters say, if thee were to sit 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 sat apart from each other, gazing up the hill, where the moonlight discovered the tops of a group of buildings. While their attention was thus occupied, a party of travellers, who had come wearily up the long ascent24, made a halt to refresh themselves at the spring. There were three men, a woman, and a little girl and boy. Their attire was mean, covered with the dust of the summer’s day, and damp with the night-dew; they all looked woebegone, as if the cares and sorrows of the world had made their steps heavier as they climbed the hill; even the two little children appeared older in evil days than the young man and maiden who had first approached the spring.
“Good evening to you, young folks,” was the salutation of the travellers; and “Good evening, friends,” replied the youth and damsel.
“Is that white building the Shaker meeting-house?” asked one of the strangers. “And are those the red roofs of the Shaker village?”
“Friend, it is the Shaker village,” answered Josiah, after some hesitation25.
The travellers, who, from the first, had looked suspiciously at the garb of these young people, now taxed them with an intention which all the circumstances, indeed, rendered too obvious to be mistaken.
“It is true, friends,” replied the young man, summoning up his courage. “Miriam and I have a gift to love each other, and we are going among the world’s people, to live after their fashion. And ye know that we do not transgress26 the law of the land; and neither ye, nor the elders themselves, have a right to hinder us.”
“Yet you think it expedient27 to depart without leave-taking,” remarked one of the travellers.
“Yea, ye-a,” said Josiah, reluctantly, “because father Job is a very awful man to speak with; and being aged28 himself, he has but little charity for what he calls the iniquities29 of the flesh.”
“Well,” said the stranger, “we will neither use force to bring you back to the village, nor will we betray you to the elders. But sit you here awhile, and when you have heard what we shall tell you of the world which we have left, and into which you are going, perhaps you will turn back with us of your own accord. What say you?” added he, turning to his companions. “We have travelled thus far without becoming known to each other. Shall we tell our stories, here by this pleasant spring, for our own pastime, and the benefit of these misguided young lovers?”
In accordance with this proposal, the whole party stationed themselves round the stone cistern; the two children, being very weary, fell asleep upon the damp earth, and the pretty Shaker girl, whose feelings were those of a nun30 or a Turkish lady, crept as close as possible to the female traveller, and as far as she well could from the unknown men. The same person who had hitherto been the chief spokesman now stood up, waving his hat in his hand, and suffered the moonlight to fall full upon his front.
“In me,” said he, with a certain majesty31 of utterance32 — “in me, you behold33 a poet.”
Though a lithographic print of this gentleman is extant, it may be well to notice that he was now nearly forty, a thin and stooping figure, in a black coat, out at elbows; notwithstanding the ill condition of his attire, there were about him several tokens of a peculiar34 sort of foppery, unworthy of a mature man, particularly in the arrangement of his hair which was so disposed as to give all possible loftiness and breadth to his forehead. However, he had an intelligent eye, and, on the whole, a marked countenance35.
“A poet!” repeated the young Shaker, a little puzzled how to understand such a designation, seldom heard in the utilitarian36 community where he had spent his life. “Oh, ay, Miriam, he means a varse-maker, thee must know.”
This remark jarred upon the susceptible37 nerves of the poet; nor could he help wondering what strange fatality38 had put into this young man’s mouth an epithet39, which ill-natured people had affirmed to be more proper to his merit than the one assumed by himself.
“True, I am a verse-maker,” he resumed, “but my verse is no more than the material body into which I breathe the celestial40 soul of thought. Alas41! how many a pang42 has it cost me, this same insensibility to the ethereal essence of poetry, with which you have here tortured me again, at the moment when I am to relinquish43 my profession forever! O Fate! why hast thou warred with Nature, turning all her higher and more perfect gifts to the ruin of me, their possessor? What is the voice of song, when the world lacks the ear of taste? How can I rejoice in my strength and delicacy44 of feeling, when they have but made great sorrows out of little ones? Have I dreaded45 scorn like death, and yearned46 for fame as others pant for vital air, only to find myself in a middle state between obscurity and infamy47? But I have my revenge! I could have given existence to a thousand bright creations. I crush them into my heart, and there let them putrefy! I shake off the dust of my feet against my countrymen! But posterity48, tracing my footsteps up this weary hill, will cry shame upon the unworthy age that drove one of the fathers of American song to end his days in a Shaker village! ”
During this harangue49, the speaker gesticulated with great energy, and, as poetry is the natural language of passion, there appeared reason to apprehend50 his final explosion into an ode extempore. The reader must understand that, for all these bitter words, he was 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, and hardly any of another.
“Friend,” said the young Shaker, in some perplexity, “thee seemest to have met with great troubles; and, doubtless, I should pity them, if — if I could but understand what they were.”
“Happy in your ignorance!” replied the poet, with an air of sublime51 superiority. “To your coarser mind, perhaps, I may seem to speak of more important griefs when I add, what I had well-nigh forgotten, that I am out at elbows, and almost starved to death. At any rate, you have the advice and example of one individual to warn you back; for I am come hither, a disappointed man, flinging aside the fragments of my hopes, and seeking shelter in the calm retreat which you are so anxious to leave.”
“I thank thee, friend,” rejoined the youth, “but I do not mean to be a poet, nor, Heaven be praised! do I think Miriam ever made a varse in her life. So we need not fear thy disappointments. But, Miriam,” he added, with real concern, “thee knowest that the elders admit nobody that has not a gift to be useful. Now, what under the sun can they do with this poor varse-maker?”
“Nay, Josiah, do not thee discourage the poor man,” said the girl, in all simplicity52 and kindness. “Our hymns53 are very rough, and perhaps they may trust him to smooth them.”
Without noticing this hint of professional employment, the poet turned away, and gave himself up to a sort of vague reverie, which he called thought. Sometimes he watched the moon, pouring a silvery liquid on the clouds, through which it slowly melted till they became all bright; then he saw the same sweet radiance dancing on the leafy trees which rustled54 as if to shake it off, or sleeping on the high tops of hills, or hovering55 down in distant valleys, like the material of unshaped dreams; lastly, he looked into the spring, and there the light was mingling56 with the water. In its crystal bosom57, too, beholding58 all heaven reflected there, he found an emblem59 of a pure and tranquil60 breast. He listened to that most ethereal of all sounds, the song of crickets, coming in full choir61 upon the wind, and fancied that, if moonlight could be heard, it would sound just like that. Finally, he took a draught62 at the Shaker spring, and, as if it were the true Castalia, was forthwith moved to compose a lyric63, a Farewell to his Harp64, which he swore should be its closing strain, the last verse that an ungrateful world should have from him. This effusion, with two or three other little pieces, subsequently written, he took the first opportunity to send, by one of the Shaker brethren, to Concord65, where they were published in the New Hampshire Patriot66.
Meantime, another of the Canterbury pilgrims, one so different from the poet that the delicate fancy of the latter could hardly have conceived of him, began to relate his sad experience. He was a small man, of quick and unquiet gestures, about fifty years old, with a narrow forehead, all wrinkled and drawn67 together. He held in his hand a pencil, and a card of some commission-merchant in foreign parts, on the back of which, for there was light enough to read or write by, he seemed ready to figure out a calculation.
“Young man,” said he, abruptly68, “what quantity of land do the Shakers 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 the roadside thee may guess the land to be ours, by the neatness of the fences.”
“And what may be the value of the whole,” continued the stranger, “with all the buildings and improvements, pretty nearly, in round numbers?”
“Oh, a monstrous69 sum — more than I can reckon,” replied the young Shaker.
“Well, sir,” said the pilgrim, “there was a day, and not very long ago, neither, when I stood at my counting-room window, and watched the signal flags of three of my own ships entering the harbor, from the East Indies, from Liverpool, and from up the Straits, and I would not have given the invoice70 of the least of them for the title-deeds of this whole Shaker settlement. You stare. Perhaps, now, you won’t believe that I could have put more value on a little piece of paper, no bigger than the palm of your hand, than all these solid acres of grain, grass, and pasture-land would sell for?”
“I won’t dispute it, friend,” answered Josiah, “but I know I had rather have fifty acres of this good land than a whole sheet of thy paper.”
“You may say so now,” said the ruined merchant, bitterly, “for my name would not be worth the paper I should write it on. Of course, you must have heard of my failure?”
And the stranger mentioned his name, which, however mighty71 it might have been in the commercial world, the young Shaker had never heard of among the Canterbury hills.
“Not heard of my failure!” exclaimed the merchant, considerably72 piqued73. “Why, it was spoken of on ‘Change in London, and from Boston 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 will have a due respect for my experience, and give me the management of the trading part of the concern, in which case I think I can pledge myself to double their capital in four or five years. Turn back with me, young man; for though you will never meet with my good luck, you can hardly escape my bad.”
“I will not turn back for this,” replied Josiah. calmly, “any more than for the advice of the varse-maker, between whom and thee, friend, I see a sort of likeness74, though I can’t justly say where it lies. But Miriam and I can earn our daily bread among the world’s people as well as in the Shaker village. And do we want anything more, Miriam?”
“Nothing more, Josiah,” said the girl, quietly.
“Yea, Miriam, and daily bread for some other little mouths, if God send them,” observed the simple Shaker lad.
Miriam did not reply, but looked down into the spring, where she encountered the image of her own pretty face, blushing within the prim little bonnet. The third pilgrim now took up the conversation. He was a sunburnt countryman, of tall frame and bony strength, on whose rude and manly75 face there appeared a darker, more sullen76 and obstinate77 despondency, than on those of either the poet or the merchant.
“Well, now, youngster,” he began, “these folks have had their say, so I’ll take my turn. My story will cut but a poor figure by the side of theirs; for I never supposed that I could have a right to meat and drink, and great praise besides, only for tagging rhymes together, as it seems this man does; nor ever tried to get the substance of hundreds into my own hands, like the trader there. When I was about of your years, I married me a wife — just such a neat and pretty young woman as Miriam, if that’s her name — and all I asked of Providence78 was an ordinary blessing79 on the sweat of my brow, so that we might be decent and comfortable, and have daily bread for ourselves, and for some other little mouths that we soon had to feed. We had no very great prospects80 before us; but I never wanted to be idle; and I thought 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 some eagerness.
“No,” said the yeoman, sullenly81; “for then you would not have seen me here. I have labored82 hard for years; and my means have been growing narrower, and my living poorer, and my heart colder and heavier, all the time; till at last I could bear it no longer. I set myself down to calculate whether I had best go on the Oregon expedition, or come here to the Shaker village; but I had not hope enough left in me to begin the world over again; and, to make my story short, here I am. And now, youngster, take my advice, and turn back; or else, some few years hence, you’ll have to climb this hill, with as heavy a heart as mine.”
This simple story had a strong effect on the young fugitives83. The misfortunes of the poet and merchant had won little sympathy from their plain good sense and unworldly feelings, qualities which made them such unprejudiced and inflexible84 judges, that few men would have chosen to take the opinion of this youth and maiden as to the wisdom or folly85 of their pursuits. But here was one whose simple wishes had resembled their own, and who, after efforts which almost gave him a right to claim success from fate, had failed in accomplishing them.
“But thy wife, friend?” exclaimed the younger man. “What became of the pretty girl, like Miriam? Oh, I am afraid she is dead!”
“Yea, poor man, she must be dead — she and the children, too,” sobbed86 Miriam.
The female pilgrim had been leaning over the spring, wherein latterly a tear or two might have been seen to fall, and form its little circle on the surface of the water. She now looked up, disclosing features still comely87, but which had acquired an expression of fretfulness, in the same long course of evil fortune that had thrown a sullen gloom over the temper of the unprosperous yeoman.
“I am his wife,” said she, a shade of irritability88 just perceptible in the sadness of her tone. “These poor little things, asleep on the ground, are two of our children. We had two more, but God has provided better for them than we could, by taking 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 the strangers.
“ ’Tis a thing almost against nature for a woman to try to part true lovers,” answered the yeoman’s wife, after a pause; “but I’ll speak as truly to you as if these were my dying words. Though my husband told you some of our troubles, he didn’t mention the greatest, and that which makes all the rest so hard to bear. If you and your sweetheart marry, you’ll be kind and pleasant to each other for a year or two, and while that’s the case, you never will repent89; but, by and by, he’ll grow gloomy, rough, and hard to please, and you’ll be peevish90, and full of little angry fits, and apt to be complaining by the fireside, when he comes to rest himself from his troubles out of doors; so your love will wear away by little and little, and leave you miserable91 at last. It has been so with us; and yet my husband and I were true lovers once, if ever two young folks were .”
As she ceased, the yeoman and his wife exchanged a glance, in which there was more and warmer affection than they had supposed to have escaped the frost of a wintry fate, in either of their breasts. At that moment, when they stood on the utmost verge92 of married life, one word fitly spoken, or perhaps one peculiar look, had they had mutual93 confidence enough to reciprocate94 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, the children, roused by their mother’s voice, looked up, and added their wailing95 accents to the testimony96 borne by all the Canterbury pilgrims against the world from which they fled.
“We are tired and hungry!” cried they. “Is it far to the Shaker village?”
The Shaker youth and maiden looked mournfully into each other’s eyes. They had but stepped across the threshold of their homes, when lo! the dark array of cares and sorrows that rose up to warn them back. The varied97 narratives98 of the strangers had arranged themselves into a parable99; they seemed not merely instances of woful fate that had befallen others, but shadowy omens100 of disappointed hope and unavailing toil2, domestic grief and estranged101 affection, that would cloud the onward102 path of these poor fugitives. But after one instant’s hesitation, they opened their arms, and sealed their resolve with as pure and fond an embrace as ever youthful love had hallowed.
“We will not go back,” said they. “The world never can be dark to us, for we will always love one another.”
Then the Canterbury pilgrims went up the hill, while the poet chanted a drear and desperate stanza103 of the Farewell to his Harp, fitting music for that melancholy104 band. They sought a home where all former ties of nature or society would be sundered105, and all old distinctions levelled, and a cold and passionless security be substituted for mortal hope and fear, as in that other refuge of the world’s weary outcasts, the grave. The lovers drank at the Shaker spring, and then, with chastened hopes, but more confiding106 affections, went on to mingle107 in an untried life.
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1
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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2
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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3
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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4
gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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slaked
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| v.满足( slake的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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49
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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51
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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52
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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invoice
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| vt.开发票；n.发票，装货清单 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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98
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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100
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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101
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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102
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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103
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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104
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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105
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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107
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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