The $30,000 Bequest, Mark Twain [best book club books for discussion TXT] 📗

cheek beginning to droop and fade,

her intelligent eye no longer sparkles with the starry light of heaven,

her vibrating pulse long since changed its regular motion, and her

palpitating bosom beats once more for the midday of her glory.

Anxiety and care ultimately throw her into the arms of the haggard

and grim monster death. But, oh, how patient, under every

pining influence! Let us view the matter in bolder colors;

see her when the dearest object of her affections recklessly seeks

every bacchanalian pleasure, contents himself with the last rubbish

of creation. With what solicitude she awaits his return! Sleep fails

to perform its office—she weeps while the nocturnal shades of the

night triumph in the stillness. Bending over some favorite book,

whilst the author throws before her mind the most beautiful imagery,

she startles at every sound. The midnight silence is broken

by the solemn announcement of the return of another morning.

He is still absent; she listens for that voice which has so often

been greeted by the melodies of her own; but, alas! stern silence

is all that she receives for her vigilance.

 

Mark her unwearied watchfulness, as the night passes away.

At last, brutalized by the accursed thing, he staggers along

with rage, and, shivering with cold, he makes his appearance.

Not a murmur is heard from her lips. On the contrary, she meets him

with a smile—she caresses him with tender arms, with all the gentleness

and softness of her sex. Here, then, is seen her disposition,

beautifully arrayed. Woman, thou art more to be admired than the spicy

gales of Arabia, and more sought for than the gold of Golconda.

We believe that Woman should associate freely with man, and we believe

that it is for the preservation of her rights. She should become

acquainted with the metaphysical designs of those who condescended

to sing the siren song of flattery. This, we think, should be

according to the unwritten law of decorum, which is stamped upon

every innocent heart. The precepts of prudery are often steeped

in the guilt of contamination, which blasts the expectations of

better moments. Truth, and beautiful dreams—loveliness, and delicacy

of character, with cherished affections of the ideal woman—

gentle hopes and aspirations, are enough to uphold her in the storms

of darkness, without the transferred colorings of a stained sufferer.

How often have we seen it in our public prints, that woman occupies

a false station in the world! and some have gone so far as to say it

was an unnatural one. So long has she been regarded a weak creature,

by the rabble and illiterate—they have looked upon her as an

insufficient actress on the great stage of human life—a mere puppet,

to fill up the drama of human existence—a thoughtless, inactive being—

that she has too often come to the same conclusion herself, and has

sometimes forgotten her high destination, in the meridian of her glory.

We have but little sympathy or patience for those who treat her as

a mere Rosy Melindi—who are always fishing for pretty complements—

who are satisfied by the gossamer of Romance, and who can be

allured by the verbosity of high-flown words, rich in language,

but poor and barren in sentiment. Beset, as she has been, by the

intellectual vulgar, the selfish, the designing, the cunning, the hidden,

and the artful—no wonder she has sometimes folded her wings in despair,

and forgotten her HEAVENLY mission in the delirium of imagination;

no wonder she searches out some wild desert, to find a peaceful home.

But this cannot always continue. A new era is moving gently onward,

old things are rapidly passing away; old superstitions, old prejudices,

and old notions are now bidding farewell to their old associates

and companions, and giving way to one whose wings are plumed

with the light of heaven and tinged by the dews of the morning.

There is a remnant of blessedness that clings to her in spite of all

evil influence, there is enough of the Divine Master left to accomplish

the noblest work ever achieved under the canopy of the vaulted skies;

and that time is fast approaching, when the picture of the true

woman will shine from its frame of glory, to captivate, to win back,

to restore, and to call into being once more, THE OBJECT OF HER MISSION.

 

Star of the brave! thy glory shed,

 

O’er all the earth, thy army led—

 

Bold meteor of immortal birth!

 

Why come from Heaven to dwell on Earth?

 

Mighty and glorious are the days of youth; happy the moments

of the LOVER, mingled with smiles and tears of his devoted,

and long to be remembered are the achievements which he gains with a

palpitating heart and a trembling hand. A bright and lovely dawn,

the harbinger of a fair and prosperous day, had arisen over the

beautiful little village of Cumming, which is surrounded by the

most romantic scenery in the Cherokee country. Brightening clouds

seemed to rise from the mist of the fair Chattahoochee, to spread

their beauty over the the thick forest, to guide the hero whose

bosom beats with aspirations to conquer the enemy that would tarnish

his name, and to win back the admiration of his long-tried friend.

He endeavored to make his way through Sawney’s Mountain, where many meet

to catch the gales that are continually blowing for the refreshment

of the stranger and the traveler. Surrounded as he was by hills

on every side, naked rocks dared the efforts of his energies.

Soon the sky became overcast, the sun buried itself in the clouds,

and the fair day gave place to gloomy twilight, which lay heavily

on the Indian Plains. He remembered an old Indian Castle,

that once stood at the foot of the mountain. He thought if he could

make his way to this, he would rest contented for a short time.

The mountain air breathed fragrance—a rosy tinge rested on the glassy

waters that murmured at its base. His resolution soon brought him

to the remains of the red man’s hut: he surveyed with wonder and

astonishment the decayed building, which time had buried in the dust,

and thought to himself, his happiness was not yet complete.

Beside the shore of the brook sat a young man, about eighteen or twenty,

who seemed to be reading some favorite book, and who had a remarkably

noble countenance—eyes which betrayed more than a common mind.

This of course made the youth a welcome guest, and gained him

friends in whatever condition of life he might be placed.

The traveler observed that he was a well-built figure, which showed

strength and grace in every movement. He accordingly addressed

him in quite a gentlemanly manner, and inquired of him the way

to the village. After he had received the desired information,

and was about taking his leave, the youth said, “Are you not

Major Elfonzo, the great musician—the champion of a noble cause—

the modern Achilles, who gained so many victories in the Florida War?”

“I bear that name,” said the Major, “and those titles,

trusting at the same time that the ministers of grace will carry

me triumphantly through all my laudable undertakings, and if,”

continued the Major, “you, sir, are the patronizer of noble deeds,

I should like to make you my confidant and learn your address.”

The youth looked somewhat amazed, bowed low, mused for a moment,

and began: “My name is Roswell. I have been recently admitted

to the bar, and can only give a faint outline of my future success

in that honorable profession; but I trust, sir, like the Eagle,

I shall look down from lofty rocks upon the dwellings of man, and shall

ever be ready to give you any assistance in my official capacity,

and whatever this muscular arm of mine can do, whenever it shall be

called from its buried GREATNESS.” The Major grasped him by the hand,

and exclaimed: “O! thou exalted spirit of inspiration—thou flame

of burning prosperity, may the Heaven-directed blaze be the glare

of thy soul, and battle down every rampart that seems to impede

your progress!”

 

The road which led to the town presented many attractions.

Elfonzo had bid farewell to the youth of deep feeling, and was

not wending his way to the dreaming spot of his fondness.

The south winds whistled through the woods, as the waters dashed

against the banks, as rapid fire in the pent furnace roars.

This brought him to remember while alone, that he quietly left behind

the hospitality of a father’s house, and gladly entered the world,

with higher hopes than are often realized. But as he journeyed onward,

he was mindful of the advice of his father, who had often looked

sadly on the ground when tears of cruelly deceived hope moistened

his eye. Elfonzo had been somewhat of a dutiful son; yet fond

of the amusements of life—had been in distant lands—had enjoyed

the pleasure of the world and had frequently returned to the scenes

of his boyhood, almost destitute of many of the comforts of life.

In this condition, he would frequently say to his father, “Have I

offended you, that you look upon me as a stranger, and frown upon

me with stinging looks? Will you not favor me with the sound of

your voice? If I have trampled upon your veneration, or have spread

a humid veil of darkness around your expectations, send me back into

the world where no heart beats for me—where the foot of man has

never yet trod; but give me at least one kind word—allow me to come

into the presence sometimes of thy winter-worn locks.” “Forbid it,

Heaven, that I should be angry with thee,” answered the father,

“my son, and yet I send thee back to the children of the world—

to the cold charity of the combat, and to a land of victory. I read

another destiny in thy countenance—I learn thy inclinations from

the flame that has already kindled in my soul a stranger sensation.

It will seek thee, my dear ELFONZO, it will find thee—thou canst

not escape that lighted torch, which shall blot out from the

remembrance of men a long train of prophecies which they have

foretold against thee. I once thought not so. Once, I was blind;

but now the path of life is plain before me, and my sight is clear;

yet Elfonzo, return to thy worldly occupation—take again in thy

hand that chord of sweet sounds—struggle with the civilized world,

and with your own heart; fly swiftly to the enchanted ground—

let the night-OWL send forth its screams from the stubborn oak—

let the sea sport upon the beach, and the stars sing together;

but learn of these, Elfonzo, thy doom, and thy hiding-place. Our most

innocent as well as our most lawful DESIRES must often be denied us,

that we may learn to sacrifice them to a Higher will.”

 

Remembering such admonitions with gratitude, Elfonzo was immediately

urged by the recollection of his father’s family to keep moving.

His steps became quicker and quicker—he hastened through the PINY woods,

dark as the forest was, and with joy he very soon reached the little

village or repose, in whose bosom rested the boldest chivalry.

His close attention to every important object—his modest questions

about whatever was new to him—his reverence for wise old age,

and his ardent desire to learn many of the fine arts, soon brought him

into respectable notice.

 

One mild winter day as he walked along the streets toward the Academy,

which stood upon a small eminence, surrounded by native growth—

some venerable in its appearance, others young and prosperous—

all seemed inviting, and seemed to be the very place for learning as

well as for genius to spend its research beneath its spreading shades.

He entered its classic walls in the usual mode of