Charlemont; Or, The Pride of the Village. a Tale of KentuckySimms, William Gilmore
General
Charlemont; Or, The Pride of the Village. a Tale of Kentucky
Simms, William Gilmore
Kentucky -- Fiction
William Hinkley was all impatience until, his little messenger returned,
which she did with a speed which might deserve commendation in the
case of our professional Mercuries--stage-drivers and mail contractors,
hight! He did not withhold it from the little maid, but taking her in
his arms, and kissing her fondly, he despatched her to her mother, while
he wrapped up his pistols and concealing them in the folds of his coat,
hurried from the house with the anxious haste of one who is going to
seek his prey. He felt somewhat like that broad-winged eagle which
broods on the projecting pinnacle of yonder rocky peak in waiting for
the sea-hawk who is stooping far below him, watching when the sun's rays
shall glisten from the uprising fins of his favorite fish. But it was
not a selfish desire to secure the prey which the terror of the other
might cause him to drop. It was simply to punish the prowler. Poor
William could not exactly tell indeed why he wished to shoot Alfred
Stevens; but his cause of hostility was not less cogent because it had
no name. The thousand little details which induce our prejudices in
regard to persons, are, singly, worth no one's thought, and would
possibly provoke the contempt of all; but like the myriad threads which
secured the huge frame of Gulliver in his descent upon Lilliput, they
are, when united, able to bind the biggest giant of us all.
The prejudices of William Hinkley, though very natural in such a case
as his, seemed to him very much like instincts. It seemed to him, if
he once reasoned on the matter, that, as he had good cause to hate the
intruder, so there must be justification for shooting him. Were this
not so, the policy of hating would be very questionable, and surely very
unprofitable. It would be a great waste of a very laudable quantity
of feeling--something like omitting one's bullet in discharging one's
piece--a profligacy only justifiable in a feu de joie after victory,
where the bullets have already done all necessary mischief, and will
warrant a small subsequent waste of the more harmless material.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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