"Our court shall be a little Academe."
—SHAKESPEARE.
In an ancient though not very populous settlement, in a retired
corner of one of the New England States, arise the walls of a
seminary of learning, which, for the convenience of a name, shall
be entitled "Harley College." This institution, though the number
of its years is inconsiderable compared with the hoar antiquity of
its European sisters, is not without some claims to reverence on
the score of age; for an almost countless multitude of rivals, by
many of which its reputation has been eclipsed, have sprung up
since its foundation. At no time, indeed, during an existence of
nearly a century, has it acquired a very extensive fame; and
circumstances, which need not be particularized, have, of late
years, involved it in a deeper obscurity. There are now few
candidates for the degrees that the college is authorized to
bestow. On two of its annual "Commencement Days," there has been a
total deficiency of baccalaureates; and the lawyers and divines, on
whom doctorates in their respective professions are gratuitously
inflicted, are not accustomed to consider the distinction as an
honor. Yet the sons of this seminary have always maintained their
full share of reputation, in whatever paths of life they trod. Few
of them, perhaps, have been deep and finished scholars; but the
college has supplied—what the emergencies of the country demanded—a
set of men more useful in its present state, and whose deficiency
in theoretical knowledge has not been found to imply a want of
practical ability.
The local situation of the college, so far secluded from the
sight and sound of the busy world, is peculiarly favorable to the
moral, if not to the literary, habits of its students; and this
advantage probably caused the founders to overlook the
inconveniences that were inseparably connected with it. The humble
edifices rear themselves almost at the farthest extremity of a
narrow vale, which, winding through a long extent of hill-country,
is wellnigh as inaccessible, except at one point, as the Happy
Valley of Abyssinia. A stream, that farther on becomes a
considerable river, takes its rise at, a short distance above the
college, and affords, along its wood-fringed banks, many shady
retreats, where even study is pleasant, and idleness delicious. The
neighborhood of the institution is not quite a solitude, though the
few habitations scarcely constitute a village. These consist
principally of farm-houses, of rather an ancient date (for the
settlement is much older than the college), and of a little inn,
which even in that secluded spot does not fail of a moderate
support. Other dwellings are scattered up and down the valley; but
the difficulties of the soil will long avert the evils of a too
dense population. The character of the inhabitants does not seem—as
there was, perhaps, room to anticipate—to be in any degree
influenced by the atmosphere of Harley College. They are a set of
rough and hardy yeomen, much inferior, as respects refinement, to
the corresponding classes in most other parts of our country. This
is the more remarkable, as there is scarcely a family in the
vicinity that has not provided, for at least one of its sons, the
advantages of a "liberal education."
Having thus described the present state of Harley College, we
must proceed to speak of it as it existed about eighty years since,
when its foundation was recent, and its prospects flattering. At
the head of the institution, at this period, was a learned and
Orthodox divine, whose fame was in all the churches. He was the
author of several works which evinced much erudition and depth of
research; and the public, perhaps, thought the more highly of his
abilities from a singularity in the purposes to which he applied
them, that added much to the curiosity of his labors, though little
to their usefulness. But, however fanciful might be his private
pursuits, Dr. Melmoth, it was universally allowed, was diligent and
successful in the arts of instruction. The young men of his charge
prospered beneath his eye, and regarded him with an affection that
was strengthened by the little foibles which occasionally excited
their ridicule. The president was assisted in the discharge of his
duties by two inferior officers, chosen from the alumni of the
college, who, while they imparted to others the knowledge they had
already imbibed, pursued the study of divinity under the direction
of their principal. Under such auspices the institution grew and
flourished. Having at that time but two rivals in the country
(neither of them within a considerable distance), it became the
general resort of the youth of the Province in which it was
situated. For several years in succession, its students amounted to
nearly fifty,—a number which, relatively to the circumstances of
the country, was very considerable.
From the exterior of the collegians, an accurate observer might
pretty safely judge how long they had been inmates of those classic
walls. The brown cheeks and the rustic dress of some would inform
him that they had but recently left the plough to labor in a not
less toilsome field; the grave look, and the intermingling of
garments of a more classic cut, would distinguish those who had
begun to acquire the polish of their new residence; and the air of
superiority, the paler cheek, the less robust form, the spectacles
of green, and the dress, in general of threadbare black, would
designate the highest class, who were understood to have acquired
nearly all the science their Alma Mater could bestow, and to be on
the point of assuming their stations in the world. There were, it
is true, exceptions to this general description. A few young men
had found their way hither from the distant seaports; and these
were the models of fashion to their rustic companions, over whom
they asserted a superiority in exterior accomplishments, which the
fresh though unpolished intellect of the sons of the forest denied
them in their literary competitions. A third class, differing
widely from both the former, consisted of a few young descendants
of the aborigines, to whom an impracticable philanthropy was
endeavoring to impart the benefits of civilization.
If this institution did not offer all the advantages of elder
and prouder seminaries, its deficiencies were compensated to its
students by the inculcation of regular habits, and of a deep and
awful sense of religion, which seldom deserted them in their course
through life. The mild and gentle rule of Dr. Melmoth, like that of
a father over his children, was more destructive to vice than a
sterner sway; and though youth is never without its follies, they
have seldom been more harmless than they were here. The students,
indeed, ignorant of their own bliss, sometimes wished to hasten the
time of their entrance on the business of life; but they found, in
after-years, that many of their happiest remembrances, many of the
scenes which they would with least reluctance live over again,
referred to the seat of their early studies. The exceptions to this
remark were chiefly those whose vices had drawn down, even from
that paternal government, a weighty retribution.
Dr. Melmoth, at the time when he is to be introduced to the
reader, had borne the matrimonial yoke (and in his case it was no
light burden) nearly twenty years. The blessing of children,
however, had been denied him,—a circumstance which he was
accustomed to consider as one of the sorest trials that checkered
his pathway; for he was a man of a kind and affectionate heart,
that was continually seeking objects to rest itself upon. He was
inclined to believe, also, that a common offspring would have
exerted a meliorating influence on the temper of Mrs. Melmoth, the
character of whose domestic government often compelled him to call
to mind such portions of the wisdom of antiquity as relate to the
proper endurance of the shrewishness of woman. But domestic
comforts, as well as comforts of every other kind, have their
drawbacks; and, so long as the balance is on the side of happiness,
a wise man will not murmur. Such was the opinion of Dr. Melmoth;
and with a little aid from philosophy, and more from religion, he
journeyed on contentedly through life. When the storm was loud by
the parlor hearth, he had always a sure and quiet retreat in his
study; and there, in his deep though not always useful labors, he
soon forgot whatever of disagreeable nature pertained to his
situation. This small and dark apartment was the only portion of
the house to which, since one firmly repelled invasion, Mrs.
Melmoth's omnipotence did not extend. Here (to reverse the words of
Queen Elizabeth) there was "but one master and no mistress"; and
that man has little right to complain who possesses so much as one
corner in the world where he may be happy or miserable, as best
suits him. In his study, then, the doctor was accustomed to spend
most of the hours that were unoccupied by the duties of his
station. The flight of time was here as swift as the wind, and
noiseless as the snow- flake; and it was a sure proof of real
happiness that night often came upon the student before he knew it
was midday.
Dr. Melmoth was wearing towards age (having lived nearly sixty
years), when he was called upon to assume a character to which he
had as yet been a stranger. He had possessed in his youth a very
dear friend, with whom his education had associated him, and who in
his early manhood had been his chief intimate. Circumstances,
however, had separated them for nearly thirty years, half of which
had been spent by his friend, who was engaged in mercantile
pursuits, in a foreign country. The doctor had, nevertheless,
retained a warm interest in the welfare of his old associate,
though the different nature of their thoughts and occupations had
prevented them from corresponding. After a silence of so long
continuance, therefore, he was surprised by the receipt of a letter
from his friend, containing a request of a most unexpected
nature.
Mr. Langton had married rather late in life; and his wedded
bliss had been but of short continuance. Certain misfortunes in
trade, when he was a Benedict of three years' standing, had
deprived him of a large portion of his property, and compelled him,
in order to save the remainder, to leave his own country for what
he hoped would be but a brief residence in another. But, though he
was successful in the immediate objects of his voyage,
circumstances occurred to lengthen his stay far beyond the period
which he had assigned to it. It was difficult so to arrange his
extensive concerns that they could be safely trusted to the
management of others; and, when this was effected, there was
another not less powerful obstacle to his return. His affairs,
under his own inspection, were so prosperous, and his gains so
considerable, that, in the words of the old ballad, "He set his
heart to gather gold"; and to this absorbing passion he sacrificed
his domestic happiness. The death of his wife, about four years
after his departure, undoubtedly contributed to give him a sort of
dread of returning, which it required a strong effort to overcome.
The welfare of his only child he knew would be little affected by
this event; for she was under the protection of his sister, of
whose tenderness he was well assured. But, after a few more years,
this sister, also, was taken away by death; and then the father
felt that duty imperatively called upon him to return. He realized,
on a sudden, how much of life he had thrown away in the acquisition
of what is only valuable as it contributes to the happiness of
life, and how short a tune was left him for life's true enjoyments.
Still, however, his mercantile habits were too deeply seated to
allow him to hazard his present prosperity by any hasty measures;
nor was Mr. Langton, though capable of strong affections, naturally
liable to manifest them violently. It was probable, therefore, that
many months might yet elapse before he would again tread the shores
of his native country.
But the distant relative, in whose family, since the death of
her aunt, Ellen Langton had remained, had been long at variance
with her father, and had unwillingly assumed the office of her
protector. Mr. Langton's request, therefore, to Dr. Melmoth, was,
that his ancient friend (one of the few friends that time had left
him) would be as a father to his daughter till he could himself
relieve him of the charge.
The doctor, after perusing the epistle of his friend, lost no
time in laying it before Mrs. Melmoth, though this was, in truth,
one of the very few occasions on which he had determined that his
will should be absolute law. The lady was quick to perceive the
firmness of his purpose, and would not (even had she been
particularly averse to the proposed measure) hazard her usual
authority by a fruitless opposition. But, by long disuse, she had
lost the power of consenting graciously to any wish of her
husband's.
"I see your heart is set upon this matter," she observed; "and,
in truth, I fear we cannot decently refuse Mr. Langton's request. I
see little good of such a friend, doctor, who never lets one know
he is alive till he has a favor to ask."
"Nay; but I have received much good at his hand," replied Dr.
Melmoth; "and, if he asked more of me, it should be done with a
willing heart. I remember in my youth, when my worldly goods were
few and ill managed (I was a bachelor, then, dearest Sarah, with
none to look after my household), how many times I have been
beholden to him. And see—in his letter he speaks of presents, of
the produce of the country, which he has sent both to you and
me."
"If the girl were country-bred," continued the lady, "we might
give her house-room, and no harm done. Nay, she might even be a
help to me; for Esther, our maid-servant, leaves us at the mouth's
end. But I warrant she knows as little of household matters as you
do yourself, doctor."
"My friend's sister was well grounded in the re
familiari" answered her husband; "and doubtless she hath
imparted somewhat of her skill to this damsel. Besides, the child
is of tender years, and will profit much by your instruction and
mine."
"The child is eighteen years of age, doctor," observed Mrs.
Melmoth, "and she has cause to be thankful that she will have
better instruction than yours."
This was a proposition that Dr. Melmoth did not choose to
dispute; though he perhaps thought that his long and successful
experience in the education of the other sex might make him an able
coadjutor to his wife in the care of Ellen Langton. He determined
to journey in person to the seaport where his young charge resided,
leaving the concerns of Harley College to the direction of the two
tutors. Mrs. Melmoth, who, indeed, anticipated with pleasure the
arrival of a new subject to her authority, threw no difficulties in
the way of his intention. To do her justice, her preparations for
his journey, and the minute instructions with which she favored
him, were such as only a woman's true affection could have
suggested. The traveller met with no incidents important to this
tale; and, after an absence of about a fortnight, he and Ellen
alighted from their steeds (for on horseback had the journey been
performed) in safety at his own door.
If pen could give an adequate idea of Ellen Langton's
loveliness, it would achieve what pencil (the pencils, at least, of
the colonial artists who attempted it) never could; for, though the
dark eyes might be painted, the pure and pleasant thoughts that
peeped through them could only be seen and felt. But descriptions
of beauty are never satisfactory. It must, therefore, be left to
the imagination of the reader to conceive of something not more
than mortal, nor, indeed, quite the perfection of mortality, but
charming men the more, because they felt, that, lovely as she was,
she was of like nature to themselves.
From the time that Ellen entered Dr. Melmoth's habitation, the
sunny days seemed brighter and the cloudy ones less gloomy, than he
had ever before known them. He naturally delighted in children; and
Ellen, though her years approached to womanhood, had yet much of
the gayety and simple happiness, because the innocence, of a child.
She consequently became the very blessing of his life,—the rich
recreation that he promised himself for hours of literary toil. On
one occasion, indeed, he even made her his companion in the sacred
retreat of his study, with the purpose of entering upon a course of
instruction in the learned languages. This measure, however, he
found inexpedient to repeat; for Ellen, having discovered an old
romance among his heavy folios, contrived, by the charm of her
sweet voice, to engage his attention therein till all more
important concerns were forgotten.
With Mrs. Melmoth, Ellen was not, of course, so great a favorite
as with her husband; for women cannot so readily as men, bestow
upon the offspring of others those affections that nature intended
for their own; and the doctor's extraordinary partiality was
anything rather than a pledge of his wife's. But Ellen differed so
far from the idea she had previously formed of her, as a daughter
of one of the principal merchants, who were then, as now, like
nobles in the land, that the stock of dislike which Mrs. Melmoth
had provided was found to be totally inapplicable. The young
stranger strove so hard, too (and undoubtedly it was a pleasant
labor), to win her love, that she was successful to a degree of
which the lady herself was not, perhaps, aware. It was soon seen
that her education had not been neglected in those points which
Mrs. Melmoth deemed most important. The nicer departments of
cookery, after sufficient proof of her skill, were committed to her
care; and the doctor's table was now covered with delicacies,
simple indeed, but as tempting on account of their intrinsic
excellence as of the small white hands that made them. By such arts
as these,—which in her were no arts, but the dictates of an
affectionate disposition,—by making herself useful where it was
possible, and agreeable on all occasions, Ellen gained the love of
everyone within the sphere of her influence.
But the maiden's conquests were not confined to the members of
Dr. Melmoth's family. She had numerous admirers among those whose
situation compelled them to stand afar off, and gaze upon her
loveliness, as if she were a star, whose brightness they saw, but
whose warmth they could not feel. These were the young men of
Harley College, whose chief opportunities of beholding Ellen were
upon the Sabbaths, when she worshipped with them in the little
chapel, which served the purposes of a church to all the families
of the vicinity. There was, about this period (and the fact was
undoubtedly attributable to Ellen's influence,) a general and very
evident decline in the scholarship of the college, especially in
regard to the severer studies. The intellectual powers of the young
men seemed to be directed chiefly to the construction of Latin and
Greek verse, many copies of which, with a characteristic and
classic gallantry, were strewn in the path where Ellen Langton was
accustomed to walk. They, however, produced no perceptible effect;
nor were the aspirations of another ambitious youth, who celebrated
her perfections in Hebrew, attended with their merited success.
But there was one young man, to whom circumstances, independent
of his personal advantages, afforded a superior opportunity of
gaining Ellen's favor. He was nearly related to Dr. Melmoth, on
which account he received his education at Harley College, rather
than at one of the English universities, to the expenses of which
his fortune would have been adequate. This connection entitled him
to a frequent and familiar access to the domestic hearth of the
dignitary,—an advantage of which, since Ellen Langton became a
member of the family, he very constantly availed himself.
Edward Walcott was certainly much superior, in most of the
particulars of which a lady takes cognizance, to those of his
fellow-students who had come under Ellen's notice. He was tall; and
the natural grace of his manners had been improved (an advantage
which few of his associates could boast) by early intercourse with
polished society. His features, also, were handsome, and promised
to be manly and dignified when they should cease to be youthful.
His character as a scholar was more than respectable, though many
youthful follies, sometimes, perhaps, approaching near to vices,
were laid to his charge. But his occasional derelictions from
discipline were not such as to create any very serious
apprehensions respecting his future welfare; nor were they greater
than, perhaps, might be expected from a young man who possessed a
considerable command of money, and who was, besides, the fine
gentleman of the little community of which he was a member,—a
character which generally leads its possessor into follies that he
would otherwise have avoided.
With this youth Ellen Langton became familiar, and even
intimate; for he was her only companion, of an age suited to her
own, and the difference of sex did not occur to her as an
objection. He was her constant companion on all necessary and
allowable occasions, and drew upon himself, in consequence, the
envy of the college.