[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

“I do not know how you can say so, sir.”

“Is it not true, Madam Henrietta? Come now, say, is it
not?”

“No, sir; why should `ladies in general prefer a fop to any
other species of admirer?' You perceive, sir, that I repeat
your own words.”

“Yes; and I maintain that they are dooms correct. I
set up my rest upon that proposition, and defend it as becomes
a soldier, and one long cognizant of the humors and
peculiarities of the divine sex,” continued the Captain, gently
caressing his long black moustache, and bending forward
with great earnestness in his chair.

While the Captain and Henrietta converse upon one side
of the room, Mr. Effingham sits languidly looking out of the
window near Miss Alethea upon the other: Kate and Will
are holding an animated dialogue by the harpsichord; and the
squire is in the distance exchanging compliments with the
parson of the parish, who made his appearance at the Hall
soon after the entrance of the party. Mr. Christian is a quiet,
benevolent-looking gentleman of about forty, with an open,
pleasant eye, a mild manner: and he wears the clerical suit
of black, and white neckcloth. Dark colored leggings reach
to his knees, and in his hand he carries the shovel hat worn
by the clergy.

And now that the reader has these different groups before
him, in the old portrait-decorated, carved-wainscoted
drawing-room, let us return for a brief space to Miss Henrietta
Lee and her admirer:—for by this time Captain Ralph
has come to assume that position, having fought the battle of
Glatz for her own and Mrs. Lee's amusement, and having found
in Miss Henrietta—whether from interest or a disposition to
redeem the character of her sex—an attentive and silent listener.
This circumstance has pleased the Captain, and sure
of his auditor, he now branches forth into a discussion of the
interesting peculiarities of her sex.

“Nothing could be truer than the proposition I have had

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

the honor to lay down, my dear Ma'm'selle Henrietta,” he
continues, “let me hear you deny that the adorable sex—
the French term, that—is not better pleased with the gay
fops who adorn this wicked world, than with the more unpretending
individuals of the masculine gender. There is
no earthly doubt of the fact, and I feel convinced that a lady
of your discrimination, upon a calm view of the facts of the
matter, will not venture to deny the truth of the aforesaid
proposition.”

“I do deny it,” says Henrietta, with a toss of her brilliant
head, which diffused a light cloud of perfumed powder
through the air; “I deny it wholly, sir!”

“For the sake of argument, doubtless,” replies the Captain
coolly, and exhibiting very little emotion at the lady's
manner.

“I never argue, sir!” said Henrietta.

“Yes, yes: logic is not the failing of your admirable
sex, madam.”

“Indeed, sir!”

“Verily, as our chaplain used to say. But come, let me
say a word on this subject: you know how much we masculine
animals love to hear ourselves talk—morbleu! almost
as much as the ladies: though not quite.”

Henrietta preserves a disdainful silence:—but her manner
is not so cold. She begins to regard Captain Waters as
an amusing as well as audacious gentleman.

“Instead of combating the proposition, I will explain
the reason thereof,” says the soldier, laughing. “And pray
what is a fop? Why a gentleman that wears drop curls,
carries a muff of leopard skin, pardy! and ambles elegantly
on his high-heeled shoes through the minuet, or other agreeable
divertisement. His hands are as soft as a woman's, and
are covered with rings: his cheeks are delicately vermilioned
with the new French thing called rouge, which being
translated is, as you are probably aware, red;—his lace is
redolent of perfume, and his sword is an inch or something
of that sort in length, and covered with knots of ribbon.
He takes snuff: he minces his words: he is exquisite:—
behold the picture of an elegant gentleman—called by some
a fop, by others a dandy.”

“Hum!” says Henrietta.

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

“Now what comparison can there be, my dearest Miss
Lee, between one of these noble seigneurs all glittering with
embroidery and covered with perfume, and an ordinary fellow—
a man of the law, a planter, or a soldier? Their hands are
respectably large:—their garments are plain—their swords
very lengthy and fit for honest blows—they are guiltless of
perfume, and never mince their words or amble. They are
much more apt to whip you out a pardy! or morbleu! and
their manner of walking is decidedly of the stride description.
Behold all. See here the difference! at my French idiom
again you perceive.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well now, can any thing be more natural, more reasonable
than the preference your sex have for the former class,
madam? The elegant gentleman fascinates you with his
drop curls and lovely red cheeks: his muff is ready for your
little hands, and should they encounter his own there, they
are soft and white:—you admire his grace in the ambling
minuet: you are fond of perfumes such as he uses, and his
nice little ribbon-decorated sword does not frighten your
feminine hearts. How could you ever look at a brown
face, a stalwart hand, a plain cavalier, after this enchanting
picture? Impossible!”

And the Captain twirls his moustache with a delicious
expression of self-appreciation.

“I suppose you mean,” says Henrietta, satirically, “that
ladies judge wholly by the exterior, and do not like you,
sir.”

“Me? not like me? No, no, I am an exception!”

“An exception, sir?”

“Yes indeed!”

“Pray, how?”

“I unite, my dear madam, in my own person, the graces
of both classes.”

“Sir!” says Henrietta, completely astonished at this
climax of audacious conceit.

“I know it is in bad taste to say it,” replies the Captain,
liberally and gracefully; “but I am anxious to disabuse
your mind of the impression that in this matter I am actuated
by any feeling beyond a philosophical interest in the
question, calmly considered. No, no, I have never had

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

the misfortune to be defeated in a fair fight by any man
living.”

“Then the ladies every where have admired you, am I to
understand, sir?” says Henrietta, with her satirical curl of
the lip.

“Well now—really—you embarrass me extremely!” replies
her cavalier, affecting an innocent and confused expression.
“Morbleu! I have no right to reply to that question.”

And the Captain looks mysterious.

Really the vainest creature I have ever met with—
odiously vain!—is Henrietta's inward comment.

“Ah, you think me very vain!” says the Captain.

Henrietta starts: this acuteness of the soldier is beginning
to surprise and annoy her.

The Captain observes the movement she makes.

“Come now: confess I am insupportably vain!” he
says; “and quarrel with me for answering your own question.
By heaven! I feel as if I had been guilty of something
horrible—the bare idea of which causes my hair to
stand on end!”

And the Captain assumes an expression of such terror,
that Henrietta's sense of the comic overcomes her, and she
laughs in spite of herself. Conscious however that this will
flatter the soldier, she assumes again her habitual expression
of satirical indifference, and says:

“Well, sir, having proved, to your own satisfaction at
least, that our sex prefer fops to rational men; pray now
proceed to inform me why I especially prefer them. You
observe, sir, that I use your own words again.”

The Captain sees that he has advanced one step: he is
called upon to speak.

“Why you prefer them?” he asked, desirous of gaining
time.

“Yes, sir.”

`You wish to know, my dear madam, why I ventured to
say that you were likely to appreciate this class very highly—
the reason—”

“Yes, sir: I believe I speak plainly.”

“Very plainly, morbleu! and with the most charming
voice!”

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

This evasion of the point piques Henrietta's curiosity,
and annoys her at the same time.

“You seem to wish to dismiss the subject, sir,” she
says.

“Dismiss the subject?”

“Yes, sir!” replies the young girl, with a satirical flash
of her proud brilliant eye, “you are not fond of logic, it
seems, though your sex, you say, monopolize it to the exclusion
of my own.”

An idea strikes the Captain, and his face beams; all at
once he finds himself extricated from his dilemma.

“I do not reply to your insinuation, my dear Miss Lee,”
he says, “it would take up time. I proceed to tell you
why I think you, of all others, would prefer these soft, amiable,
delightfully tranquil, word-mincing gentlemen; and I
think that if you would cast your eye upon that mirror yonder,
you would require nothing more.”

“How, sir?” says Henrietta, gazing at her brilliant
image in the mirror.

“Why, it would show you a pair of bright flashing eyes,
lips full of animation and brilliancy,—in a word, you would
see a young lady full of fire and spirit. See here, morbleu!
the whole matter in a nutshell.”

Henrietta's lip curls.

“Really you must aspire to rival the Sphinx, sir,” she
says.

“I, madam? Oh, no! I have no desire to match myself
against that wonder of antiquity; and I think my point
quite plain.”

“How plain, sir?”

“You see brilliant eyes there; at least bright eyes: do
you not?”

“Well, sir?”

“Animated lips?”

“Proceed, sir.”

“Life, quickness, animation?”

“Well, what next?”

“Nothing, my dear madam, all is explained. You prefer
the aforesaid quiet, amiable, unoffending fops, because
they are so completely contrasted with yourself. Like seeks
unlike—you know the proverb.”

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

“Then, sir, I am not `quiet'—”

The Captain finds that his anxiety to escape from one
dilemma has plunged him into another, and he utters a sonorous
`hum!'

“Nor amiable—?”

“Really, madam—”

“Nor unoffending?”

“What an unfortunate man I am,” says the Captain, with
well-counterfeited contrition. “I do not understand the
English tongue, owing to my long sojourn in foreign lands.
I foresee, Ma'm'selle, that we shall not get on in English.
High Dutch, Prussian or the French, for heaven's sake, or I
am ruined, totally, completely—ayez pitie!”

Henrietta again feels a violent desire to laugh, so profound
is the Captain's chagrin—or rather the affectation of
chagrin. Feeling unwilling to encourage him, however, she
plays with a diamond necklace round her neck, and tugs at
it indifferently.

“Take care!” says the Captain, “I observe a portion
of your necklace loose, and—”

The caution comes too late: the unfortunate necklace
parts asunder and drops upon the carpet.

The Captain picks it up gallantly.

“There, now!” says Henrietta, with an expression of
annoyance, “you have made me break my necklace, sir!”

“I, my dear madam?”

“Yes, sir: if I had not—”

But finding the explanation likely to turn out somewhat
embarrassing, she pauses.

“Your explanation is perfectly satisfactory,” says the
soldier, laughing.

“What explanation, sir?” says Henrietta, more piqued
than she cares to show.

“Why, the explanation you gave of my agency in the
destruction of the unfortunate necklace.'

Henrietta tosses her head.

“I gave none, sir,” she said.

“Really, madam—”

“Well, sir?”

“Permit me to observe, that you undoubtedly did explain.”

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

“I was not conscious of it, sir.”

“Perhaps not: but I heard it; and I am so profoundly
convinced of my criminality by the aforesaid explanation,
that I hold myself the real author of this unhappy circumstance.”

“Well, sir, as you please.”

But this does not satisfy the Captain, who with the art
of a consummate soldier has already graven out the plan of
his campaign.”

“Am I not guilty?” he persists.

“If you choose, sir.”

“Yes, or no?”

“Yes, then, sir.”

The Captain exhibits great delight at this avowal, and
with his white teeth shining merrily under his black moustache,
returns the broken necklace to its owner, and continues
conversing with the utmost sang-froid and good humor;
as if indeed he had just rendered a service, instead of causing
an annoying accident.

Let us now turn to the other groups, which are as busily
engaged in conversing as the Captain and his friend—or
enemy—Miss Henrietta.

“It may surprise you, sir,” says Mr. Christian to the
squire, in his mild quiet voice, “but I do not consider the
present Church system so perfect as you seem to, though I
am a member of that system. I think that there are many
and great abuses in it; and I can understand how these
abuses have attracted so much attention from the new reformers
of the age.”

“We have too many reformers, parson,” says the bluff
squire; “they'll reform and reform, until no form is left in
any thing.”

“I thought, sir, that the legislation of parliament upon
matters connected with this colony found in you a determined
enemy. I am, as you know, a stranger here, but
still—”

“They do, sir!” interrupted the squire, “I am opposed
to the death to the whole policy of the present ministry—
meddling with our affairs here, and presuming to speak of a
stamp duty! It is abominable! But that does not blind

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

me so far as to make me hate the good old established
Church.”

“I would be much grieved to hear that you hated it,
sir,” says Mr. Christian mildly, “but we may cherish a system
and yet not be blind to its abuses.”

“What abuses under heaven are there in our Church,
sir?—the good old system under which my forefathers lived
and died? It is a queer question to ask you, sir—but you
have thrown down the gauntlet!”

Mr. Christian smiles.

“It is not customary for persons of my profession, Mr.
Effingham, to throw down defiances. Believe me, such was
not my intention: I meant only to express, in a Christian
and moderate spirit, my fears of the operation of our present
system. You ask what are the abuses in it: I think I can
reply in very few words. The presentation to parishes, in
the first place, is very unjust in its operation—that privilege
being often granted to noblemen and gentlemen who do not
care how parishes are governed. I have known instances,
sir, where persons were named for this sacred duty—and
who were called to it, in truth too, sir—persons, I say, whose
lives had been more scandalous than I can describe, and who
carried the vices of this world into the bosom of the holy
Church.”

“Well, sir—there is something in that, and I have heard
that the worthy who preceded you, parson, was no better
than he should be. I'm glad we are rid of him, and I send
Will to his school from pure charity.”

“I did not wish to make allusion to any one, sir—God
forbid: that is not my place.”

“A good exchange! I'll say that much, parson,” says
the honest squire, “but the other abuses?”

“I will mention but one, sir: and perhaps what I say
may surprise you. I think the union of Church and State
impolitic.”

“The union of Church and State impolitic!—impolitic!”

“Wrong, then, sir,” Mr. Christian replies mildly to
these impassioned words, “I think it a great injustice.”

“How, in heaven's name?”

“Thus, sir. The sentiment of religion is so high and
pure, depends so completely upon the untrammelled operation

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

of the human heart, that any legislation which tends to circumscribe
and reduce it to rule must eternally fail, and operate
wofully for the great interest of mankind. This sentiment,
sir, must be permitted to be a law unto itself; nothing
can direct it; nothing should interfere with it. Especially
and terribly unjust are those laws which say to the follower
of Christ, `you shall not worship at any shrine but one, and
that shrine you must support.' You perceive, sir, that I am
as far advanced in my reform ideas as the most zealous new
light, as I believe those who dissent from our Church call
themselves. I cannot help myself, I cannot say what I do
not think, and, after much prayer to God to enlighten me,
and give me just and true understanding, I am compelled
to say that I believe religious toleration the first and most
important duty of a state.”

Mr. Christian ceases speaking, and gazes thoughtfully
and earnestly into the lawn. The squire clears his throat,
marshals his logic, and with a preparatory “hem!” commences
his refutation of the parson's views. Let us, however,
leave the worthy gentlemen, and pass on to the harpsichord,
not pausing to hear Miss Alethea inform Mr. Effingham
that Clare had a headache, and could not come, or to
listen to her companion's weary and languid discourse. Let
us pass on, and hear what Will and Kate are saying to each
other.

Comedy goes out of its proper field when it deals with
fiery passions, or grand personages or events; but, if it cannot
usurp the function of tragedy, it has this to recommend
it, that it may safely deal with every species of character, of
every class and every age; and when in this pursuit it finds
a peculiarity, it may paint it and vindicate itself, however
humble and apparently insignificant the personage or the
trait may be. The reader must have been convinced, before
this, that the second portion of our history is destined to
deal with comedy more than the former portion, though that
boasted a company of comedians,—and in this he has not
been mistaken.

Will and Kate are persons of the comedy, and we must
not neglect them now or at any future time.

They are holding an animated conversation, as we have
said, by the harpsichord, and Will seems to be in

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

possession of something which Kate desires to see very much.—
She leans forward on the cricket she occupies, and with her
bright eyes fixed upon Master Will, is plainly desirous that he
shall unroll something which he holds in his hand. This
something is in the shape of a roll of parchment, and Will
hesitates, and hesitating, rubs the side of his nose with the
scroll.

“Now Willie,” says Kate, “I think you might show it to
me.”

Will rubs the other side of his nose.

“What is it?” continues Kate; “you say it is nice, and
pretty, and will make me happy—my goodness! what is
it?”

Will assumes a meditative attitude, and smooths that
portion of his face upon which he hopes hereafter to have
whiskers.

“Guess, Kate.”

“I can't.”

“Well, try.”

“Is it poetry?”

“No.”

“A picture?”

Will hesitates, and then says:

“No: not exactly.”

“Let's see,” says Kate, “what can it be? You said it
was `nice' and `pretty,' and I would like it—didn't you?”

Will, finding his description cast in his teeth, and apparently
dubious whether it is wholly correct, satisfies himself
with a doubtful nod.

“Is it a nosegay?—but I see it isn't,” says Kate, in
despair.

“No, it is not,” Will replies.

“What is it? O, my goodness gracious! what can it
be?” says Kate, laughing and perplexed.

Willie looks a little sheepish.

“I don't think I can show it to you,” he says, stuffing the
roll in his breast.

“And not tell me?”

“I think not.

“Now, Willie!”

Will is obdurate.

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

“O, Willie, what is it?”

“Really, Kate, you are very curious.”

“Women always are, you know—always. Now Will!”

And Kate laughs merrily, and attempts to gain possession
of the scroll.

“What will you give me to show it to you?”

“Any thing.”

“Hold up your mouth!”

And Will, with the gravity of a judge, fixes his lips for
a kiss.

“I won't,” says Kate.

“Not kiss me!” cries Will, in despair: and shaking his
head he adds, mournfully, “then I needn't have got Sam
Baskerville to write this.”

“Oh, it's writing,” says Kate, clapping her hands, “now
I know.”

Willie remains silent.

“It's a love letter, please let me see it,” adds his lady love.

“You will not so much as give me one kiss,” says Willie,
showing a strong disposition to put his knuckle in his eye,
and prize out a tear.

“Ladies of my age must preserve the dignity of their
position,” Kate says, with delightful gravity.

“Not kiss me!” repeats Willie, with a look to which his
former piteous glance was jolly merriment; “then I needn't
have got Bill Lane and Ellen Fellows to make the Roman
letters, and paint the wreath of flowers, and hearts, and
arrow.”

And Will looks the picture of patience on a monument
smiling at grief, or another deeply chagrined figure, which
the reader may imagine.

Kate bursts out laughing:

“Oh there's a wreath of flowers, and a heart—two hearts
you said—and an arrow, may be two arrows—”

“Only one,” murmurs Will, in a heart-broken tone, and
gazing piteously through the window, “wouldn't give me a
kiss—me!”

“Well, may be—who knows—but I won't promise.”—
Kate says,—“let me see it first.”

Will, with averted head and nerveless grip, resigns the
parchment, and Kate, seizing it, unrolls it quickly. At the

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

top of the page is painted a wreath of flowers, in the middle
of which two deeply crimson hearts are pierced by an intensely
silver arrow. Above flutters a bow of ribbon, and beneath,
in the most ornamental letters possible, Kate reads, half
aloud, the following:

“This indenture, made in the month of March, of the
year of grace one thousand seven hundred and ninety-five,
in the Colony of Virginia, Continent of North America,—”

“Sam Baskerville's father was Sheriff, and he knows all
about it,” says Willie, regarding the parchment with forlorn
interest.

“—between William Effingham, Esq.,” continues Kate,
“of Effingham Hall, and Miss Kate Effingham, of ditto,
spinster,—”

“Me!” cries Kate.

“There! that's the way it is,” says Will, with forlorn
resignation.

“— Witnesseth,” continues Kate, mastered by her curiosity
and reading without stopping, “that for and in consideration
of his, the said William Effingham, Esq's., profound
affection and unutterable love, and liking for her the
said Kate Effingham, spinster as aforesaid, he the said William
Effingham, Esq., doth hereby endow the said Kate
Effingham, spinster as aforesaid, with all that property, lying
and being in the county of Gloucester, and known as the
Cove, with all and several, each and every, singular and
plural, the fields, tenements, messuages, hereditaments, tenures,
and remainder, to say nothing of the reversion and
contingent remainder, neither to mention the executory devise
thereof—and all this property, he the said William
Effingham, Esq., gives to the said Kate Effingham, spinster,
because his father gave it to him last Christmas Only provided,
and on the condition specified, well understood and
no mistake, that she the said Kate Effingham, spinster, who
is one of the nicest girls in the Colony—”

“I gave him that part!” murmurs Will.

Kate continues shaking with laughter, and curiosity.

“— shall on the execution hereof according to the style
and meaning, intent and signification of it, the said indenture—
that she the aforesaid spinster, shall agree to espouse

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

in the bonds of wedlock, for richer, for poorer, in sickness
and in health, him the aforesaid William Effingham, Esquire.”

“Oh!” cries Kate; but goes on.

“—And to the better understanding of this indenture,
it is hereby stated that he the said William Effingham, Esquire,
has not at this time, nor ever hath had during any
previous time, whereof the memory of man runneth not to
the contrary, any affection, love, or desire to enter into matrimonial
engagements with Donsy Smith, spinster, who is a
nice girl, but not equal to the aforesaid Kate Effingham,
spinster. And to the end that all shall be done in the premises
the commonwealth's writ of subpœna shall issue, summoning
the parties to this indenture, to affix their names to
the same: and your petitioner will ever pray.

“Given under our hands and seals, the day and year
aforesaid.

“William Effingham, Esq., [Seal.]

[Seal.”

Kate finishes the paper and drops it, laughing loud.

“What are you laughing at, Kate?” says Will, mournfully.

“It nearly took my breath away!” cries Kate. “Oh,
goodness!”

“Won't you sign it?” pleads Willie, “say, dearest
Kate?”

The young lady observes for the first time the profoundly
mournful tone of her admirer, and feels the tender sentiment
of pity invading her heart. She sighs. Will hears
this sigh, and seizes her hand with impassioned expeetation.

“No—I don't think—” says Kate, bending her head,
with the air of a lady overwhelmed by confusion.

“Now, Kate—do sign! We'll have such a delightful
time playing down at the Cove—!”

Kate sees the splendid vision, but endeavors to resist.
She loves Will devotedly; why not make him happy, when
a flirt of the pen can compass that end?

Will throws upon her an affectionate glance, and endeavors
to put a pencil in her hand. As he bends down, a little
pincushion falls from his waistcoat pocket.

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

“What is that?” says Kate.

Willie looks the picture of guilt.

“A pincushion!” he murmurs.

“The one I gave you, Willie?”

“N—o,” says Will.

“Who gave you this?”

Will looks desperate.

“Donsy!” he murmurs, in an expiring voice.

“And where is mine, pray sir!” says Kate.

Will turns pale, but answers like a man—though a very
much frightened man:

“I gave it to Donsy, for this!”

“Then I won't marry you, Willie!” cries Kate, putting
her handkerchief to her eyes, “no! that I won't, sir!”

“Oh, Kate! I didn't mean—”

“I won't hear any excuses, sir—I don't want them. To
give my pincushion away! Oh! Willie!”

And putting down the true-love indenture, Kate turns
from her desperate admirer and pouts beautifully.

“Ah! petite Mademoiselle, you are annoyed,” says the
Captain, “I am sure that gallant little Monsieur has not
done it.”

Kate's face clears up, and a smile like a sunbeam drives
away her mortification.

“Yes, sir,” says Willie, “I am guilty.”

And having made this manly confession, he hastily rolls
up the true-love indenture, and stuffs it in his pocket. Then
he links arms with the not unwilling Kate, whose ill-humor
has nearly vanished, and they run out on the lawn to catch
the last rays of twilight, and in child phrase, “make up.”

We need not return to the groups whose conversation we
have listened to. Our history does not require that we
should listen to more:—and as far as one party went, this
was even rendered impossible. Captain Ralph rose to take
his departure. The squire of course pressed him to remain
and sup, but this the worthy soldier declined. He must be
at home before the night had set in. Would he then honor
them by coming on Thursday next to dinner? If possible.

And so with a consolatory assurance to Miss Henrietta,
that he would visit her soon again, the Captain went away.

p520-453 [figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

On the portico he met and bade farewell to the “little
Ma'mselle and Monsieur;” and then the twilight swallowed
Selim and his rider.