Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1838], Home as found, volume 2 (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf065v2].
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CHAPTER I.
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“There shall be, in England, seven half-penny loaves sold for a penny;
the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make it felony to
drink small beer: all the realm shall be in common, and, in Cheapside shall
my palfrey go to grass.”
—Jack Cade.
Though the affair of the Point continued to agitate
the village of Templeton next day, and for many days,
it was little remembered in the Wigwam. Confident
of his right, Mr. Effingham, though naturally indignant
at the abuse of his long liberality, through which
alone the public had been permitted to frequent the
place, and this too, quite often, to his own discomfort
and disappointment, had dismissed the subject temporarily
from his mind, and was already engaged in his
ordinary pursuits. Not so, however, with Mr. Bragg.
Agreeably to promise, he had attended the meeting;
and now he seemed to regulate all his movements by
a sort of mysterious self-importance, as if the repository
of some secret of unusual consequence. No one
regarded his manner, however; for Aristabulus, and
his secrets, and opinions, were all of too little value,
in the eyes of most of the party, to attract peculiar
attention. He found a sympathetic listener in Mr.
Dodge, happily; that person having been invited,
through the courtesy of Mr. Effingham, to pass the
day with those in whose company, though very
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unwillingly on the editor's part certainly, he had gone
through so many dangerous trials. These two, then,
soon became intimate, and to have seen their shrugs,
significant whisperings, and frequent conferences in
corners, one who did not know them, might have fancied
their shoulders burthened with the weight of the
state.
But all this pantomime, which was intended to
awaken curiosity, was lost on the company in general.
The ladies, attended by Paul and the Baronet, proceeded
into the forest on foot, for a morning's walk, while
the two Messrs. Effinghams continued to read the daily
journals, that were received from town each morning,
with a most provoking indifference. Neither Aristabulus,
nor Mr. Dodge, could resist any longer; and,
after exhausting their ingenuity, in the vain effort to
induce one of the two gentlemen to question them in
relation to the meeting of the previous night, the desire
to be doing fairly overcame their affected mysteriousness,
and a formal request was made to Mr. Effingham
to give them an audience in the library. As the
latter, who suspected the nature of the interview, requested
his kinsman to make one in it, the four were
soon alone, in the apartment so often named.
Even now, that his own request for the interview
was granted, Aristabulus hesitated about proceeding,
until a mild intimation from Mr. Effingham that he was
ready to hear his communication, told the agent that
it was too late to change his determination.
“I attended the meeting last night, Mr. Effingham,”
Aristabulus commenced, “agreeably to our arrangement,
and I feel the utmost regret at being compelled
to lay the result before a gentleman for whom I entertain
so profound a respect.”
“There was then a meeting?” said Mr. Effingham,
inclining his body slightly, by way of acknowledgment
for the other's compliment.
“There was, sir; and I think, Mr. Dodge, we may
say an overflowing one.”
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“The public was fairly represented,” returned the
editor, “as many as fifty or sixty having been present.”
“The public has a perfect right to meet, and to consult
on its claims to anything it may conceive itself entitled
to enjoy,” observed Mr. Effingham; “I can have
no possible objection to such a course, though I think
it would have consulted its own dignity more, had it
insisted on being convoked by more respectable persons
than those who, I understand, were foremost in
this affair, and in terms better suited to its own sense
of propriety.”
Aristabulus glanced at Mr. Dodge, and Mr. Dodge
glanced back at Mr. Bragg, for neither of these political
mushrooms could conceive of the dignity and fairmindedness
with which a gentleman could view an
affair of this nature.
“They passed a set of resolutions, Mr. Effingham;”
Aristabulus resumed, with the gravity with which he
ever spoke of things of this nature. “A set of resolutions,
sir!”
“That was to be expected,” returned his employer,
smiling; “the Americans are a set-of-resolutions-passing
people. Three cannot get together, without naming
a chairman and secretary, and a resolution is as much
a consequence of such an `organization,'—I believe
that is the approved word,—as an egg is the accompaniment
of the cackling of a hen.”
“But, sir, you do not yet know the nature of those
resolutions!”
“Very true, Mr. Bragg; that is a piece of knowledge
I am to have the pleasure of obtaining from
you.”
Again Aristabulus glanced at Steadfast, and Steadfast
threw back the look of surprise, for, to both it was
matter of real astonishment that any man should be so
indifferent to the resolutions of a meeting that had been
regularly organized, with a chairman and secretary
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at its head, and which so unequivocally professed to
be the public.
“I am reluctant to discharge this duty, Mr. Effingham,
but as you insist on its performance it must be
done. In the first place, they resolved that your father
meant to give them the Point.”
“A decision that must clearly settle the matter, and
which will destroy all my father's own resolutions on the
same subject. Did they stop at the Point, Mr. Bragg,
or did they resolve that my father also gave them his
wife and children?”
“No, sir, nothing was said concerning the latter.”
“I cannot properly express my gratitude for the forbearance,
as they had just as good a right to pass this
resolution, as to pass the other.”
“The public's is an awful power, Mr. Effingham!”
“Indeed it is, sir, but fortunately, that of the re-public
is still more awful, and I shall look to the latter for
support, in this `crisis'—that is the word, too, is it not,
Mr. John Effingham?”
“If you mean a change of administration, the upsetting
of a stage, or the death of a cart-horse; they are
all equally crisises, in the American vocabulary.”
“Well, Mr. Bragg, having resolved that it knew my
late father's intentions better than he knew them himself,
as is apparent from the mistake he made in his
will, what next did the public dispose of, in the plenitude
of its power?”
“It resolved, sir, that it was your duty to carry out
the intentions of your father.”
“In that, then, we are perfectly of a mind; as the
public will most probably discover, before we get
through with this matter. This is one of the most
pious resolutions I ever knew the public to pass. Did
it proceed any farther?”
Mr. Bragg, notwithstanding the long-encouraged
truckling to the sets of men, whom he was accustomed
to dignify with the name of the public, had a profound
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deference for the principles, character, and station of
Mr. Effingham, that no sophistry, or self-encouragement
in the practices of social confusion, could overcome;
and he paused before he communicated the next
resolution to his employers. But perceiving that both
the latter and his cousin were quietly waiting to hear
it, he was fain to overcome his scruples.
“They have openly libelled you, by passing resolutions
declaring you to be odious.”
“That, indeed, is a strong measure, and, in the interest
of good manners and of good morals, it may
call for a rebuke. No one can care less than myself,
Mr. Bragg, for the opinions of those who have sufficiently
demonstrated that their opinions are of no value,
by the heedless manner in which they have permitted
themselves to fall into this error; but it is proceeding
too far, when a few members of the community presume
to take these liberties with a private individual,
and that, moreover, in a case affecting a pretended
claim of their own; and I desire you to tell those concerned,
that if they dare to publish their resolution declaring
me to be odious, I will teach them what they
now do not appear to know, that we live in a country
of laws. I shall not prosecute them, but I shall indict
them for the offence, and I hope this is plainly expressed.”
Aristabulus stood aghast! To indict the public was
a step he had never heard of before, and he began to
perceive that the question actually had two sides. Still,
his awe of public meetings, and his habitual regard for
popularity, induced him not to give up the matter, without
another struggle.
“They have already ordered their proceedings to be
published, Mr. Effingham!” he said, as if such an order
were not to be countermanded.
“I fancy, sir, that when it comes to the issue, and
the penalties of a prosecution present themselves, their
leaders will begin to recollect their individuality, and
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to think less of their public character. They who
hunt in droves, like wolves, are seldom very valiant
when singled out from their pack. The end will show.”
“I heartily wish this unpleasant affair might be amicably
settled,” added Aristabulus.
“One might, indeed, fancy so,” observed John Effingham,
“since no one likes to be persecuted.”
“But, Mr. John, the public thinks itself persecuted,
in this affair.”
“The term, as applied to a body that not only makes,
but which executes, the law, is so palpably absurd,
that I am surprised any man can presume to use it. But,
Mr. Bragg, you have seen documents that cannot err,
and know that the public has not the smallest right to
this bit of land.”
“All very true, sir; but you will please to remember,
that the people do not know what I now know.”
“And you will please to remember, sir, that when
people choose to act affirmatively, in so high-handed a
manner as this, they are bound to know what they are
about. Ignorance in such a matter, is like the drunkard's
plea of intoxication; it merely makes the offence
worse.”
“Do you not think, Mr. John, that Mr. Effingham
might have acquainted these citizens with the real state
of the case? Are the people so very wrong that they
have fallen into a mistake?”
“Since you ask this question plainly, Mr. Bragg, it
shall be answered with equal sincerity. Mr. Effingham
is a man of mature years; the known child, executor,
and heir of one who, it is admitted all round,
was the master of the controverted property. Knowing
his own business, this Mr. Effingham, in sight of the
grave of his fathers, beneath the paternal roof, has the
intolerable impudence—”
“Arrogance is the word, Jack,” said Mr. Effingham,
smiling.
“Ay, the intolerable arrogance to suppose that his
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own is his own; and this he dares to affirm, without
having had the politeness to send his title-deeds, and
private papers, round to those who have been so short
a time in the place, that they might well know every
thing that has occurred in it for the last half century
Oh thou naughty, arrogant fellow, Ned!”
“Mr. John, you appear to forget that the public has
more claims to be treated with attention, than a single
individual. If it has fallen into error, it ought to be
undeceived.”
“No doubt, sir; and I advise Mr. Effingham to send
you, his agent, to every man, woman and child in the
county, with the Patent of the King, all the mesne conveyances
and wills, in your pocket, in order that you
may read them at length to each individual, with a
view that every man, woman and child, may be satisfied
that he or she is not the owner of Edward Effingham's
lands!”
“Nay, sir, a shorter process might be adopted.”
“It might, indeed, sir, and such a process has been
adopted by my cousin, in giving the usual notice, in
the news-paper, against trespassing. But, Mr. Bragg,
you must know that I took great pains, three years
since, when repairing this house, to correct the mistake
on this very point, into which I found that your
immaculate public had fallen, through its disposition to
know more of other people's affairs, than those concerned
knew of themselves.”
Aristabulus said no more, but gave the matter up
in despair. On quitting the house, he proceeded forthwith,
to inform those most interested of the determination
of Mr. Effingham, not to be trampled on by any
pretended meeting of the public. Common sense, not
to say common honesty, began to resume its sway, and
prudence put in its plea, by way of applying the corrective.
Both he and Mr. Dodge, however, agreed
that there was an unheard-of temerity in thus resisting
the people, and this too without a commensurate
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object, as the pecuniary value of the disputed point
was of no material consequence to either party.
The reader is not, by any means, to suppose that
Aristabulus Bragg and Steadfast Dodge belonged to
the same variety of the human species, in consequence
of their unity of sentiment in this affair, and certain
other general points of resemblance in their manner
and modes of thinking. As a matter of necessity,
each partook of those features of caste, condition, origin,
and association that characterize their particular
set; but when it came to the nicer distinctions that
mark true individuality, it would not have been easy
to find two men more essentially different in character.
The first was bold, morally and physically, aspiring,
self-possessed, shrewd, singularly adapted to succeed
in his schemes where he knew the parties, intelligent,
after his tastes, and apt. Had it been his fortune to
be thrown earlier into a better sphere, the same natural
qualities that rendered him so expert in his present
situation, would have conduced to his improvement,
and most probably would have formed a gentleman, a
scholar, and one who could have contributed largely
to the welfare and tastes of his fellow-creatures. That
such was not his fate, was more his misfortune than
his fault, for his plastic character had readily taken
the impression of those things that from propinquity
alone, pressed hardest on it. On the other hand Steadfast
was a hypocrite by nature, cowardly, envious, and
malignant; and circumstances had only lent their aid
to the natural tendencies of his disposition. That two
men so differently constituted at their births, should
meet, as it might be in a common centre, in so many
of their habits and opinions, was merely the result of
accident and education.
Among the other points of resemblance between
these two persons, was that fault of confounding the
cause with the effects of the peculiar institutions under
which they had been educated and lived. Because
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the law gave to the public, that authority which, under
other systems, is entrusted either to one, or to the few,
they believed the public was invested with far more
power than a right understanding of their own principles
would have shown. In a word, both these persons
made a mistake which is getting to be too common
in America, that of supposing the institutions of
the country were all means and no end. Under this
erroneous impression they saw only the machinery of
the government, becoming entirely forgetful that the
power which was given to the people collectively, was
only so given to secure to them as perfect a liberty as
possible, in their characters of individuals. Neither
had risen sufficiently above vulgar notions, to understand
that public opinion, in order to be omnipotent, or
even formidable beyond the inflictions of the moment,
must be right; and that, if a solitary man renders himself
contemptible by taking up false notions inconsiderately
and unjustly, bodies of men, falling into the
same error, incur the same penalties, with the additional
stigma of having acted as cowards.
There was also another common mistake into which
Messrs. Bragg and Dodge had permitted themselves
to fall, through the want of a proper distinction between
principles. Resisting the popular will, on the
part of an individual, they considered arrogance and
aristocracy, per se, without at all entering into the
question of the right, or the wrong. The people, rightly
enough in the general signification of the term, they
deemed to be sovereign; and they belonged to a numerous
class, who view disobedience to the sovereign in
a democracy, although it be in his illegal caprices, very
much as the subject of a despot views disobedience to
his prince.
It is scarcely necessary to say, that Mr. Effingham
and his cousin viewed these matters differently. Clearheaded,
just-minded, and liberal in all his practices, the
former, in particular, was greatly pained by the recent
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occurrence; and he paced his library in silence, for several
minutes after Mr. Bragg and his companion had
withdrawn, really too much grieved to speak.
“This is, altogether, a most extraordinary procedure,
John,” he at length observed, “and, it strikes me,
that it is but an indifferent reward for the liberality
with which I have permitted others to use my property,
these thirty years; often, very often, as you well
know, to my own discomfort, and to that of my
friends.”
“I have told you, Ned, that you were not to expect
the America on your return, that you left behind you
on your departure for Europe. I insist that no country
has so much altered for the worse, in so short a
time.”
“That unequalled pecuniary prosperity should sensibly
impair the manners of what is termed the world,
by introducing suddenly large bodies of uninstructed
and untrained men and women into society, is a natural
consequence of obvious causes; that it should corrupt
morals, even, we have a right to expect, for we
are taught to believe it the most corrupting influence
under which men can live; but, I confess, I did not
expect to see the day, when a body of strangers, birds
of passage, creatures of an hour, should assume a right
to call on the old and long-established inhabitants of a
country, to prove their claims to their possessions, and
this, too, in an unusual and unheard-of manner, under
the penalty of being violently deprived of them!”
“Long established!” repeated John Effingham,
laughing; “what do you term long established? Have
you not been absent a dozen years, and do not these
people reduce everything to the level of their own habits.
I suppose, now, you fancy you can go to Rome,
or Jerusalem, or Constantinople, and remain four or
five lustres, and then come coolly back to Templeton,
and, on taking possession of this house again, call your
self an old resident.”
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“I certainly do suppose I have that right. How
many English, Russians, and Germans, did we meet
in Italy, the residents of years, who still retained all
their natural and local right and feelings!”
“Ay, that is in countries where society is permanent,
and men get accustomed to look on the same
objects, hear the same names, and see the same faces,
for their entire lives. I have had the curiosity to inquire,
and have ascertained that none of the old, permanent
families have been active in this affair of the
Point, but that all the clamour has been made by those
you call the birds of passage. But what of that?
These people fancy everything reduced to the legal
six months required to vote; and that rotation in persons
is as necessary to republicanism as rotation in
office.”
“Is it not extraordinary that persons who can know
so little on the subject, should be thus indiscreet and
positive?”
“It is not extraordinary in America. Look about you,
Ned, and you will see adventurers uppermost everywhere;
in the government, in your towns, in your villages,
in the country, even. We are a nation of changes.
Much of this, I admit, is the fair consequence of legitimate
causes, as an immense region, in forest, cannot
be peopled on any other conditions. But this
necessity has infected the entire national character,
and men get to be impatient of any sameness, even
though it be useful. Everything goes to confirm this
feeling, instead of opposing it. The constant recurrences
of the elections accustom men to changes in
their public functionaries; the great increase in the
population brings new faces; and the sudden accumulations
of property place new men in conspicuous stations.
The architecture of the country is barely becoming
sufficiently respectable to render it desirable
to preserve the buildings, without which we shall have
no monuments to revere. In short, everything
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contributes to produce such a state of things, painful as it
may be to all of any feeling, and little to oppose it.”
“You colour highly, Jack; and no picture loses in
tints, in being retouched by you.”
“Look into the first paper that offers, and you will
see the young men of the country hardily invited to
meet by themselves, to consult concerning public affairs,
as if they were impatient of the counsels and experience
of their fathers. No country can prosper,
where the ordinary mode of transacting the business
connected with the root of the government, commences
with this impiety.”
“This is a disagreeable feature in the national character,
certainly; but we must remember the arts employed
by the designing to practise on the inexperienced.”
“Had I a son, who presumed to denounce the wisdom
and experience of his father, in this disrespectful
manner, I would disinherit the rascal!”
“Ah, Jack, bachelor's children are notoriously well
educated, and well mannered. We will hope, however,
that time will bring its changes also, and that
one of them will be a greater constancy in persons,
things, and the affections.”
“Time will bring its changes, Ned; but all of them
that are connected with individual rights, as opposed
to popular caprice, or popular interests, are likely to
be in the wrong direction.”
“The tendency is certainly to substitute popularity
for the right, but we must take the good with the bad.
Even you, Jack, would not exchange this popular oppression
for any other system under which you have
lived.”
“I don't know that—I don't know that. Of all tyranny,
a vulgar tyranny is to me the most odious.”
“You used to admire the English system, but I think
observation has lessened your particular admiration in
that quarter;” said Mr. Effingham, smiling in a way
that his cousin perfectly understood.
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“Harkee, Ned; we all take up false notions in
youth, and this was one of mine; but, of the two, I
should prefer the cold, dogged domination of English
law, with its fruits, the heartlessness of a sophistication
without parallel, to being trampled on by every arrant
blackguard that may happen to traverse this valley, in
his wanderings after dollars. There is one thing you
yourself must admit; the public is a little too apt to
neglect the duties it ought to discharge, and to assume
duties it has no right to fulfil.”
This remark ended the discourse.
CHAPTER II.
Her breast was a brave palace, a broad street,
Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet,
Where nature such a tenement had ta'en,
That other souls, to hers, dwelt in a lane.
John Norton.
The village of Templeton, it has been already intimated,
was a miniature town. Although it contained
within the circle of its houses, half-a-dozen residences
with grounds, and which were dignified with names,
as has been also said, it did not cover a surface of
more than a mile square; that disposition to concentration,
which is as peculiar to an American town, as
the disposition to diffusion is peculiar to the country
population, and which seems almost to prescribe that
a private dwelling shall have but three windows in
front, and a façade of twenty-five feet, having presided
at the birth of this spot, as well as at the birth of so
many of its predecessors and contemporaries. In one
of its more retired streets (for Templeton had its publicity
and retirement, the latter after a very
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villagefashion, however,) dwelt a widow-bewitched of small
worldly means, five children, and of great capacity for
circulating intelligence. Mrs. Abbott, for so was this
demi-relict called, was just on the verge of what is
termed the “good society” of the village, the most uneasy
of all positions for an ambitious and ci-devant
pretty woman to be placed in. She had not yet abandoned
the hope of obtaining a divorce and its suites;
was singularly, nay, rabidly devout, if we may coin
the adverb; in her own eyes she was perfection, in
those of her neighbours slightly objectionable; and she
was altogether a droll, and by no means an unusual
compound of piety, censoriousness, charity, proscription,
gossip, kindness, meddling, ill-nature, and decency.
The establishment of Mrs. Abbott, like her house,
was necessarily very small, and she kept no servant
but a girl she called her help, a very suitable appellation,
by the way, as they did most of the work of the
mènage in common. This girl, in addition to cooking
and washing, was the confidant of all her employer's
wandering notions of mankind in general, and of her
neighbours in particular; as often helping her mistress
in circulating her comments on the latter, as in anything
else.
Mrs. Abbott knew nothing of the Effinghams, except
by a hearsay that got its intelligence from her own
school, being herself a late arrival in the place. She
had selected Templeton as a residence on account of
its cheapness, and, having neglected to comply with
the forms of the world, by hesitating about making the
customary visit to the Wigwam, she began to resent, in
her spirit at least, Eve's delicate forbearance from obtruding
herself, where, agreeably to all usage, she had
a perfect right to suppose she was not desired. It was
in this spirit, then, that she sat, conversing with Jenny,
as the maid of all work was called, the morning after
the conversation related in the last chapter, in her
snug little parlour, sometimes plying her needle, and
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oftener thrusting her head out of a window which commanded
a view of the principal street of the place, in
order to see what her neighbours might be about.
“This is a most extraordinary course Mr. Effingham
has taken concerning the Point,” said Mrs. Abbott,
“and I do hope the people will bring him to his senses.
Why, Jenny, the public has used that place ever since
I can remember, and I have now lived in Templeton
quite fifteen months.—What can induce Mr. Howel to
go so often to that barber's shop, which stands directly
opposite the parlour windows of Mrs. Bennett—one
would think the man was all beard.”
“I suppose Mr. Howel gets shaved sometimes,” said
the logical Jenny.
“Not he; or if he does, no decent man would think
of posting himself before a lady's window to do such a
thing.—Orlando Furioso,” calling to her eldest son, a
boy of eleven, “run over to Mr. Jones's store, and
listen to what the people are talking about, and bring
me back the news, as soon as any thing worth hearing
drops from any body; and stop as you come back, my
son, and borrow neighbour Brown's gridiron. Jenny,
it is most time to think of putting over the potatoes.”
“Ma'—” cried Orlando Furioso, from the front door,
Mrs. Abbott being very rigid in requiring that all her
children should call her `ma',' being so much behind
the age as actually not to know that `mother' had got
to be much the genteeler term of the two; “Ma',” roared
Orlando Furioso, “suppose there is no news at Mr.
Jones's store?”
“Then go to the nearest tavern; something must be
stirring this fine morning, and I'm dying to know what
it can possibly be. Mind you bring something besides
the gridiron back with you. Hurry, or never come
home again as long as you live! As I was saying,
Jenny, the right of the public, which is our right, for
we are a part of the public, to this Point, is as clear as
day, and I am only astonished at the impudence of Mr.
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Effingham in pretending to deny it. I dare say his
French daughter has put him up to it. They say she
is monstrous arrogant!”
“Is Eve Effingham, French,” said Jenny, studiously
avoiding any of the usual terms of civility and propriety,
by way of showing her breeding—“well, I had
always thought her nothing but Templeton born!”
“What signifies where a person was born? where
they live, is the essential thing; and Eve Effingham has
lived so long in France, that she speaks nothing but
broken English; and Miss Debby told me last week,
that in drawing up a subscription paper for a new
cushion to the reading-desk of her people, she actually
spelt `charity' `carrotty.”'
“Is that French, Miss Abbott?”
“I rather think it is, Jenny; the French are very
niggardly, and give their poor carrots to live on, and
so they have adopted the word, I suppose. You, Byansy-Alzumy-Ann,
(Bianca-Alzuma-Ann!”)
“Marm!”
“Byansy-Alzumy-Ann! who taught you to call me
marm! Is this the way you have learned your catechism?
Say, ma', this instant.”
“Ma'.”
“Take your bonnet, my child, and run down to Mrs.
Wheaton's, and ask her if any thing new has turned
up about the Point, this morning; and, do you hear,
Byansy-Alzumy-Ann Abbott — how the child starts
away, as if she were sent on a matter of life and
death!”
“Why, ma', I want to hear the news, too.”
“Very likely, my dear, but, by stopping to get your
errand, you may learn more than by being in such a
hurry. Stop in at Mrs. Green's, and ask how the people
liked the lecture of the strange parson, last evening—
and ask her if she can lend me a watering-pot.
Now, run, and be back as soon as possible. Never
loiter when you carry news, child.”
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“No one has a right to stop the mail, I believe, Miss
Abbott,” put in Jenny, very appositely.
“That, indeed, have they not, or else we could not
calculate the consequences. You may remember,
Jenny, the pious, even, had to give up that point, public
convenience being too strong for them. RogerDemetrius-Benjamin!”—
calling to a second boy, two
years younger than his brother—“your eyes are better
than mine—who are all those people collected together
in the street. Is not Mr. Howel among them?”
“I do not know, ma'!” answered Roger-DemetriusBenjamin,
gaping.
“Then run, this minute, and see, and don't stop to
look for your hat. As you come back, step into the
tailor's shop and ask if your new jacket is most done,
and what the news is? I rather think, Jenny, we shall
find out something worth hearing, in the course of the
day. By the way, they do say that Grace Van Cortlandt,
Eve Effingham's cousin, is under concern.”
“Well, she is the last person I should think would
be troubled about any thing, for every body says she
is so desperate rich she might eat off of silver, if she
liked; and she is sure of being married, some time or
other.”
“That ought to lighten her concern, you think. Oh!
it does my heart good when I see any of those flaunty
people right well exercised! Nothing would make me
happier than to see Eve Effingham groaning fairly in
the spirit! That would teach her to take away the people's
Points.”
“But, Miss Abbott, then she would become almost
as good a woman as you are yourself.”
“I am a miserable, graceless, awfully wicked sinner!
Twenty times a day do I doubt whether I am
actually converted or not. Sin has got such a hold
of my very heart-strings, that I sometimes think they
will crack before it lets go. Rinaldo-RinaldiniTimothy,
my child, do you toddle across the way, and
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give my compliments to Mrs. Hulbert, and inquire
if it be true that young Dickson, the lawyer, is
really engaged to Aspasia Tubbs or not? and borrow
a skimmer, or a tin pot, or any thing you can carry,
for we may want something of the sort in the course
of the day. I do believe, Jenny, that a worse creature
than myself is hardly to be found in Templeton.”
“Why, Miss Abbott,” returned Jenny, who had
heard too much of this self-abasement to be much
alarmed at it, “this is giving almost as bad an account
of yourself, as I heard somebody, that I won't name,
give of you last week.”
“And who is your somebody, I should like to
know? I dare say, one no better than a formalist,
who thinks that reading prayers out of a book, kneeling,
bowing, and changing gowns, is religion! Thank
Heaven, I'm pretty indifferent to the opinions of such
people. Harkee, Jenny; if I thought I was no better
than some persons I could name, I'd give the point
of salvation up, in despair!”
“Miss Abbott,” roared a rugged, dirty-faced, barefooted
boy, who entered without knocking, and stood
in the middle of the room, with his hat on, with a suddenness
that denoted great readiness in entering other
people's possessions; “Miss Abbott, ma' wants to
know if you are likely to go from home this week?”
“Why, what in nature can she want to know that
for, Ordeal Bumgrum?” Mrs. Abbott pronounced
this singular name, however, “Ordeel.”
“Oh! she warnts to know.”
“So do I warnt to know; and know I will. Run
home this instant, and ask your mother why she has
sent you here with this message. Jenny, I am much
exercised to find out the reason Mrs. Bumgrum should
have sent Ordeal over with such a question.”
“I did hear that Miss Bumgrum intended to make
a journey herself, and she may want your company.”
“Here comes Ordeal back, and we shall soon be
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out of the clouds. What a boy that is for errands!
He is worth all my sons put together. You never see
him losing time by going round by the streets, but
away he goes over the garden fences like a cat, or he
will whip through a house, if standing in his way, as
if he were its owner, should the door happen to be
open. Well, Ordeal?”
But Ordeal was out of breath, and although Jenny
shook him, as if to shake the news out of him, and
Mrs. Abbott actually shook her fist, in her impatience
to be enlightened, nothing could induce the child to
speak, until he had recovered his wind.
“I believe he does it on purpose,” said the provoked
maid.
“It's just like him!” cried the mistress; “the very
best news-carrier in the village is actually spoilt,
because he is thick-winded.”
“I wish folks wouldn't make their fences so high,”
Ordeal exclaimed, the instant he found breath. “I
can't see of what use it is to make a fence people
can't climb!”
“What does your mother say?” cried Jenny,
repeating her shake, con amore.
“Ma, wants to know, Miss Abbott, if you don't
intend to use it yourself, if you will lend her your name
for a few days, to go to Utica with? She says folks
don't treat her half as well when she is called Bumgrum,
as when she has another name, and she thinks
she'd like to try yours, this time.”
“Is that all!—You need n't have been so hurried
about such a trifle, Ordeal. Give my compliments to
your mother, and tell her she is quite welcome to my
name, and I hope it will be serviceable to her.”
“She says she is willing to pay for the use of it, if
you will tell her what the damage will be.”
“Oh! it's not worth while to speak of such a trifle;
I dare say she will bring it back quite as good as when
she took it away. I am no such unneighbourly or
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[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
aristocratical person as to wish to keep my name all to
myself. Tell your mother she is welcome to mine,
and to keep it as long as she likes, and not to say any
thing about pay; I may want to borrow hers, or something
else, one of these days, though, to say the truth,
my neighbours are apt to complain of me as unfriendly
and proud for not borrowing as much as a good neighbour
ought.”
Ordeal departed, leaving Mrs. Abbot in some such
condition as that of the man who had no shadow. A
rap at the door interrupted the further discussion of the
old subject, and Mr. Steadfast Dodge appeared in answer
to the permission to enter. Mr. Dodge and Mrs.
Abbott were congenial spirits, in the way of news, he
living by it, and she living on it.
“You are very welcome, Mr. Dodge,” the mistress
of the house commenced; “I hear you passed the day,
yesterday, up at the Effinghamses.”
“Why, yes, Mrs. Abbott, the Effinghams insisted on
it, and I could not well get over the sacrifice, after
having been their shipmate so long. Besides it is a
little relief to talk French, when one has been so long
in the daily practice of it.”
“I hear there is company at the house?”
“Two of our fellow-travellers, merely. An English
baronet, and a young man of whom less is known than
one could wish. He is a mysterious person, and I hate
mystery, Mrs. Abbott.”
“In that, then, Mr. Dodge, you and I are alike. I
think every thing should be known. Indeed, that is not
a free country in which there are any secrets. I keep
nothing from my neighbours, and, to own the truth, I
do not like my neighbours to keep any thing from me.”
“Then you'll hardly like the Effinghams, for I never
yet met with a more close-mouthed family. Although
I was so long in the ship with Miss Eve, I never heard
her once speak of her want of appetite, of sea-sickness,
or of any thing relating to her ailings even; nor
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[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
can you imagine how close she is on the subject of the
beaux; I do not think I ever heard her use the word,
or so much as allude to any walk or ride she ever took
with a single man. I set her down, Mrs. Abbott, as
unqualifiedly artful!”
“That you may with certainty, sir, for there is no
more sure sign that a young woman is all the while
thinking of the beaux, than her never mentioning
them.”
“That I believe to be human nature; no ingenuous
person ever thinks much of the particular subject of
conversation. What is your opinion, Mrs. Abbott, of
the contemplated match at the Wigwam?”
“Match!” exclaimed Mrs. Abbott.—“What, already!
It is the most indecent thing I ever heard of!
Why, Mr. Dodge, the family has not been home a fortnight,
and to think so soon of getting married! It is
quite as bad as a widower's marrying within the
month.”
Mrs. Abbott made a distinction, habitually, between
the cases of widowers and widows, as the first, she
maintained, might get married whenever they pleased,
and the latter only when they got offers; and she felt
just that sort of horror of a man's thinking of marrying
too soon after the death of his wife, as might be
expected in one who actually thought of a second husband
before the first was dead.
“Why, yes,” returned Steadfast, “it is a little premature,
perhaps, though they have been long acquainted.
Still, as you say, it would be more decent to wait and
see what may turn up in a country, that, to them, may
be said to be a foreign land.”
“But, who are the parties, Mr. Dodge.”
“Miss Eve Effingham, and Mr. John Effingham.”
“Mr. John Effingham!” exclaimed the lady, who
had lent her name to a neighbour, aghast, for this was
knocking one of her own day-dreams in the head;
“well this is too much! But he shall not marry her,
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
sir; the law will prevent it, and we live in a country
of laws. A man cannot marry his own niece.”
“It is excessively improper, and ought to be put a
stop to. And yet these Effinghams do very much as
they please.”
“I am very sorry to hear that; they are extremely
disagreeable,” said Mrs. Abbott, with a look of eager
inquiry, as if afraid the answer might be in the negative.
“As much so as possible; they have hardly a way
that you would like, my dear ma'am; and are as closemouthed
as if they were afraid of committing themselves.”
“Desperate bad news-carriers, I am told, Mr. Dodge.
There is Dorindy (Dorinda) Mudge, who was employed
there by Eve and Grace one day; she tells me she
tried all she could to get them to talk, by speaking of
the most common things; things that one of my children
knew all about; such as the affairs of the neighbourhood,
and how people are getting on; and, though
they would listen a little, and that is something, I admit,
not a syllable could she get in the way of answer,
or remark. She tells me that, several times, she had
a mind to quit, for it is monstrous unpleasant to associate
with your tongue-tied folks.”
“I dare say Miss Effingham could throw out a hint
now and then, concerning the voyage and her late fellow-travellers,”
said Steadfast, casting an uneasy
glance at his companion.
“Not she. Dorindy maintains that it is impossible
to get a sentiment out of her concerning a single fellow-creature.
When she talked of the late unpleasant
affair of poor neighbour Bronson's family—a melancholy
transaction that, Mr. Dodge, and I shouldn't wonder
if it went to nigh break Mrs. Bronson's heart—but
when Dorindy mentioned this, which is bad enough to
stir the sensibility of a frog, neither of my young ladies
replied, or put a single question. In this respect Grace
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[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
is as bad as Eve, and Eve is as bad as Grace, they
say. Instead of so much as seeming to wish to know
any more, what does my Miss Eve do, but turn to some
daubs of paintings, and point out to her cousin what
she was pleased to term peculiarities in Swiss usages.
Then the two hussies would talk of nature, “our beautiful
nature” Dorindy says Eve had the impudence to
call it, and, as if human nature and its failings and
backsliding were not a fitter subject for a young woman's
discourse, than a silly conversation about lakes,
and rocks, and trees, and as if she owned the nature
about Templeton. It is my opinion, Mr. Dodge, that
downright ignorance is at the bottom of it all, for Dorindy
says that they actually know no more of the
intricacies of the neighbourhood than if they lived in
Japan.”
“All pride, Mrs. Abbott; rank pride. They feel
themselves too great to enter into the minutiæ of common
folks' concerns. I often tried Miss Effingham,
coming from England; and things touching private
interests, that I know she did and must understand, she
always disdainfully refused to enter into. Oh! she is
a real Tartar, in her way; and what she does not wish
to do, you never can make her do!”
“Have you heard that Grace is under concern?”
“Not a breath of it; under whose preaching was
she sitting, Mrs. Abbott?”
“That is more than I can tell you; not under the
church parson's, I'll engage; no one ever heard of a
real, active, regenerating, soul-reviving, spirit-groaning,
and fruit-yielding conversion under his ministry.”
“No, there is very little unction in that persuasion
generally. How cold and apathetic they are, in these
soul-stirring times! Not a sinner has been writhing on
their floor, I'll engage, nor a wretch transferred into a
saint, in the twinkling of an eye, by that parson. Well,
we have every reason to be grateful, Mrs. Abbott.”
“That we have, for most glorious have been our
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
privileges! To be sure that is a sinful pride that can
puff up a wretched, sinful being like Eve Effingham
to such a pass of conceit, as to induce her to think she
is raised above thinking of, and taking an interest in
the affairs of her neighbours. Now, for my part, conversion
has so far opened my heart, that I do actually
feel as if I wanted to know all about the meanest creature
in Templeton.”
“That's the true spirit, Mrs. Abbott; stick to that, and
your redemption is secure. I only edit a newspaper,
by way of showing an interest in mankind.”
“I hope, Mr. Dodge, the press does not mean to let
this matter of the Point sleep; the press is the true
guardian of the public rights, and I can tell you the
whole community looks to it for support, in this
crisis.”
“We shall not fail to do our duty,” said Mr. Dodge,
looking over his shoulder, and speaking lower.” “What!
shall one insignificant individual, who has not a single
right above that of the meanest citizen in the county,
oppress this great and powerful community! What if
Mr. Effingham does own this point of land—”
“But he does not own it,” interrupted Mrs. Abbott.
“Ever since I have known Templeton, the public has
owned it. The public, moreover, says it owns it, and
what the public says, in this happy country, is law.”
“But, allowing that the public does not own—”
“It does own it, Mr. Dodge,” the nameless repeated,
positively.
“Well, ma'am, own or no own, this is not a country
in which the press ought to be silent, when a solitary
individual undertakes to trample on the public. Leave
that matter to us, Mrs. Abbott; it is in good hands, and
shall be well taken care of.”
“I'm piously glad of it!”
“I mention this to you, as to a friend,” continued
Mr. Dodge, cautiously drawing from his pocket a manuscript,
which he prepared to read to his companion,
who sat with a devouring curiosity, ready to listen.
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
The manuscript of Mr. Dodge contained a professed
account of the affair of the Point. It was written obscurely,
and was not without its contradictions, but the
imagination of Mrs. Abbott supplied all the vacuums,
and reconciled all the contradictions. The article was
so liberal of its professions of contempt for Mr. Effingham,
that every rational man was compelled to wonder,
why a quality, that is usually so passive, should,
in this particular instance, be aroused to so sudden and
violent activity. In the way of facts, not one was
faithfully stated; and there were several deliberate, unmitigated
falsehoods, which went essentially to colour
the whole account.
“I think this will answer the purpose,” said Steadfast,
“and we have taken means to see that it shall be
well circulated.”
“This will do them good,” cried Mrs. Abbott;
almost breathless with delight. “I hope folks will
believe it.”
“No fear of that. If it were a party thing, now,
one half would believe it, as a matter of course, and
the other half would not believe it, as a matter of
course; but, in a private matter, lord bless you, ma'am,
people are always ready to believe any thing that will
give them something to talk about.”
Here the tête à tête was interrupted by the return of
Mrs. Abbott's different messengers, all of whom, unlike
the dove sent forth from the ark, brought back something
in the way of hopes. The Point was a general
theme, and, though the several accounts flatly contradicted
each other, Mrs. Abbott, in the general benevolence
of her pious heart, found the means to extract
corroboration of her wishes from each.
Mr. Dodge was as good as his word, and the
account appeared. The press throughout the country
seized with avidity on any thing that helped to fill its
columns. No one appeared disposed to inquire into
the truth of the account, or after the character of the
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
original authority. It was in print, and that struck the
great majority of the editors and their readers, as a
sufficient sanction. Few, indeed, were they, who lived
so much under a proper self-control, as to hesitate; and
this rank injustice was done a private citizen, as much
without moral restraint, as without remorse, by those,
who, to take their own accounts of the matter, were
the regular and habitual champions of human rights!
John Effingham pointed out this extraordinary scene
of reckless wrong, to his wondering cousin, with the
cool sarcasm, with which he was apt to assail the
weaknesses and crimes of the country. His firmness,
united to that of his cousin, however, put a stop to the
publication of the resolutions of Aristabulus's meeting,
and when a sufficient time had elapsed to prove that
these prurient denouncers of their fellow-citizens had
taken wit in their anger, he procured them, and had
them published himself, as the most effectual means of
exposing the real character of the senseless mob, that
had thus disgraced liberty, by assuming its professions
and its usages.
To an observer of men, the end of this affair presented
several strong points for comment. As soon as
the truth became generally known, in reference to the
real ownership, and the public came to ascertain that
instead of hitherto possessing a right, it had, in fact,
been merely enjoying a favour, those who had committed
themselves by their arrogant assumptions of facts,
and their indecent outrages, fell back on their self-love,
and began to find excuses for their conduct in that of
the other party. Mr. Effingham was loudly condemned
for not having done the very thing, he, in truth, had
done, viz: telling the public it did not own his property;
and when this was shown to be an absurdity,
the complaint followed that what he had done, had
been done in precisely such a mode, although it was
the mode constantly used by every one else. From
these vague and indefinite accusations, those most
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
implicated in the wrong, began to deny all their own
original assertions, by insisting that they had known
all along, that Mr. Effingham owned the property, but
that they did not choose he, or any other man, should
presume to tell them what they knew already. In
short, the end of this affair exhibited human nature in
its usual aspects of prevarication, untruth, contradiction,
and inconsistency, notwithstanding the high profession
of liberty made by those implicated; and they
who had been the most guilty of wrong, were loudest
in their complaints, as if they alone had suffered.
“This is not exhibiting the country to us, certainly,
after so long an absence, in its best appearance,” said
Mr. Effingham, “I must admit, John; but error belongs
to all regions, and to all classes of institutions.”
“Ay, Ned, make the best of it, as usual; but, if you
do not come round to my way of thinking, before you
are a twelvemonth older, I shall renounce prophesying.
I wish we could get at the bottom of Miss Effingham's
thoughts, on this occasion.”
“Miss Effingham has been grieved, disappointed,
nay, shocked,” said Eve, “but, still she will not despair
of the republic. None of our respectable neighbours,
in the first place, have shared in this transaction,
and that is something; though I confess I feel
some surprise that any considerable portion of a community,
that respects itself, should quietly allow an ignorant
fragment of its own numbers, to misrepresent
it so grossly, in an affair that so nearly touches its own
character for common sense and justice.”
“You have yet to learn, Miss Effingham, that men
can get to be so saturated with liberty, that they become
insensible to the nicer feelings. The grossest
enormities are constantly committed in this good republic
of ours, under the pretence of being done by
the public, and for the public. The public have got to
bow to that bugbear, quite as submissively as Gesler
could have wished the Swiss to bow to his own cap,
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
as to the cap of Rodolph's substitute. Men will have
idols, and the Americans have merely set up themselves.”
“And yet, cousin Jack, you would be wretched
were you doomed to live under a system less free. I
fear you have the affectation of sometimes saying that
which you do not exactly feel.”
CHAPTER III.
“Come, these are no times to think of dreams—
We'll talk of dreams hereafter.”
Shakspeare.
The day succeeding that in which the conversation
just mentioned occurred, was one of great expectation
and delight in the Wigwam. Mrs. Hawker and
the Bloomfields were expected, and the morning passed
away rapidly, under the gay buoyancy of the feelings
that usually accompany such anticipations in a
country-house. The travellers were to leave town the
previous evening, and, though the distance was near
two hundred and thirty miles, they were engaged to
arrive by the usual dinner hour. In speed, the Americans,
so long as they follow the great routes, are
unsurpassed; and even Sir George Templemore,
coming, as he did, from a country of MacAdamized
roads and excellent posting, expressed his surprise,
when given to understand that a journey of this
length, near a hundred miles of which were by land,
moreover, was to be performed in twenty-four hours,
the stops included.
“One particularly likes this rapid travelling,” he
remarked, “when it is to bring us such friends as Mrs.
Hawker.”
“And Mrs. Bloomfield,” added Eve, quickly. “I
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
rest the credit of the American females on Mrs. Bloomfield.”
“More so, than on Mrs. Hawker, Miss Effingham?”
“Not in all that is amiable, respectable, feminine,
and lady-like; but certainly more so, in the way of
mind. I know, Sir George Templemore, as a European,
what your opinion is of our sex in this country.”
“Good heaven, my dear Miss Effingham! — My
opinion of your sex, in America! It is impossible for
any one to entertain a higher opinion of your countrywomen—
as I hope to show—as, I trust, my respect
and admiration have always proved—nay, Powis, you,
as an American, will exonerate me from this want of
taste—judgment—feeling—”
Paul laughed, but told the embarrassed and really
distressed baronet, that he should leave him in the very
excellent hands into which he had fallen.
“You see that bird, that is sailing so prettily above
the roofs of the village,” said Eve, pointing with her
parasol in the direction she meant; for the three were
walking together on the little lawn, in waiting for the
appearance of the expected guests; “and I dare say
you are ornithologist enough to tell its vulgar name.”
“You are in the humour to be severe this morning—
the bird is but a common swallow.”
“One of which will not make a summer, as every
one knows. Our cosmopolitism is already forgotten,
and with it, I fear, our frankness.”
“Since Powis has hoisted his national colours, I do
not feel as free on such subjects as formerly,” returned
Sir George, smiling. “When I thought I had a secret
ally in him, I was not afraid to concede a little in such
things, but his avowal of his country has put me on
my guard. In no case, however, shall I admit my insensibility
to the qualities of your countrywomen. Powis,
as a native, may take that liberty; but, as for myself,
I shall insist they are, at least, the equals of any
females I know.”
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
“In naivete, prettiness, delicacy of appearance, simplicity,
and sincerity—”
“In sincerity, think you, dear Miss Effingham?”
“In sincerity, above all things, dear Sir George
Templemore. Sincerity—nay, frankness is the last
quality I should think of denying them.”
“But to return to Mrs. Bloomfield—she is clever,
exceedingly clever, I allow; in what is her cleverness
to be distinguished from that of one of her sex,
on the other side of the ocean?”
“In nothing, perhaps, did there exist no differences
in national characteristics. Naples and New-York are
in the same latitude, and yet, I think you will agree
with me, that there is little resemblance in their populations.”
“I confess I do not understand the allusion—are
you quicker witted, Powis?”
“I will not say that,” answered Paul; “but I think
I do comprehend Miss Effingham's meaning. You
have travelled enough to know, that, as a rule, there
is more aptitude in a southern, than in a northern people.
They receive impressions more readily, and are
quicker in all their perceptions.”
“I believe this to be true; but, then, you will allow
that they are less constant, and have less perseverance?”
“In that we are agreed, Sir George Templemore,”
resumed Eve, “though we might differ as to the cause.
The inconstancy of which you speak, is more connected
with moral than physical causes, perhaps, and
we, of this region, might claim an exemption from some
of them. But, Mrs. Bloomfield is to be distinguished
from her European rivals, by a frame so singularly
feminine as to appear fragile, a delicacy of exterior,
that, were it not for that illumined face of hers, might
indicate a general feebleness, a sensitiveness and quickness
of intellect that amount almost to inspiration; and,
yet all is balanced by a practical common sense, that
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
renders her as safe a counsellor as she is a warm
friend. This latter quality causes you sometimes to
doubt her genius, it is so very homely and available.
Now it is in this, that I think the American woman,
when she does rise above mediocrity, is particularly
to be distinguished from the European. The latter,
as a genius, is almost always in the clouds, whereas,
Mrs. Bloomfield, in her highest flights, is either all
heart, or all good sense. The nation is practical, and
the practical qualities get to be imparted even to its
highest order of talents.”
“The English women are thought to be less excitable,
and not so much under the influence of sentimentalism,
as some of their continental neighbours.”
“And very justly—but—”
“But, what, Miss Effingham—there is, in all this, a
slight return to the cosmopolitism, that reminds me of
our days of peril and adventure. Do not conceal a
thought, if you wish to preserve that character.”
“Well, to be sincere, I shall say that your women
live under a system too sophisticated and factitious to
give fair play to common sense, at all times. What,
for instance, can be the habitual notions of one, who,
professing the doctrines of Christianity, is accustomed
to find money placed so very much in the ascendant,
as to see it daily exacted in payment for the very first
of the sacred offices of the church? It would be as rational
to contend that a mirror which had been cracked
into radii, by a bullet, like those we have so often seen
in Paris, would reflect faithfully, as to suppose a mind
familiarized to such abuses would be sensitive on practical
and common sense things.”
“But, my dear Miss Effingham, this is all habit.”
“I know it is all habit, Sir George Templemore,
and a very bad habit it is. Even your devoutest clergymen
get so accustomed to it, as not to see the capital
mistake they make. I do not say it is absolutely
sinful, where there is no compulsion; but, I hope you
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
agree with me, Mr. Powis, when I say I think a clergyman
ought to be so sensitive on such a subject, as
to refuse even the little offerings for baptisms, that it
is the practice of the wealthy of this country to make.”
“I agree with you entirely, for it would denote a
more just perception of the nature of the office they
are performing; and they who wish to give can always
make occasions.”
“A hint might be taken from Franklin, who is said
to have desired his father to ask a blessing on the pork-barrel,
by way of condensation,” put in John Effingham,
who joined them as he spoke, and who had heard
a part of the conversation. “In this instance, an average
might be struck in the marriage fee, that should
embrace all future baptisms. But here comes neighbour
Howel to favour us with his opinion. Do you
like the usages of the English church, as respects baptisms,
Howel?”
“Excellent, the best in the world, John Effingham.”
“Mr. Howel is so true an Englishman,” said Eve,
shaking hands cordially with their well-meaning neighbour,
“that he would give a certificate in favour of
polygamy, if it had a British origin.”
“And is not this a more natural sentiment for an
American than that which distrusts so much, merely
because it comes from the little island?” asked Sir
George, reproachfully.
“That is a question I shall leave Mr. Howel himself
to answer.”
“Why, Sir George,” observed the gentleman alluded
to, “I do not attribute my respect for your country,
in the least, to origin. I endeavour to keep myself
free from all sorts of prejudices. My admiration of
England arises from conviction, and I watch all her
movements with the utmost jealousy, in order to see
if I cannot find her tripping, though I feel bound to say
I have never yet detected her in a single error. What
a very different picture, France—I hope your
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
governess is not within hearing, Miss Eve; it is not her fault;
she was born a French woman, and we would not
wish to hurt her feelings—but what a different picture
France presents! I have watched her narrowly too,
these forty years, I may say, and I have never yet
found her right; and this, you must allow, is a great
deal to be said by one who is thoroughly impartial.”
“This is a terrible picture, indeed, Howel, to come
from an unprejudiced man,” said John Effingham;
“and I make no doubt Sir George Templemore will
have a better opinion of himself for ever after—he for
a valiant lion, and you for a true prince. But yonder
is the `exclusive extra,' which contains our party.”
The elevated bit of lawn on which they were walking
commanded a view of the road that led into the
village, and the travelling vehicle engaged by Mrs.
Hawker and her friends, was now seen moving along
it at a rapid pace. Eve expressed her satisfaction,
and then all resumed their walk, as some minutes must
still elapse previously to the arrival.
“Exclusive extra!” repeated Sir George; “that is
a peculiar phrase, and one that denotes any thing but
democracy.”
“In any other part of the world a thing would be
sufficiently marked, by being `extra,' but here it requires
the addition of `exclusive,' in order to give it the
`tower stamp,”' said John Effingham, with a curl of
his handsome lip. “Any thing may be as exclusive as
it please, provided it bear the public impress. A stage-coach
being intended for every body, why, the more
exclusive it is, the better. The next thing we shall
hear of will be exclusive steamboats, exclusive rail-roads,
and both for the uses of the exclusive people.”
Sir George now seriously asked an explanation of
the meaning of the term, when Mr. Howel informed
him that an `extra' in America meant a supernumerary
coach, to carry any excess of the ordinary number
of passengers; whereas an `exclusive extra' meant a
coach expressly engaged by a particular individual.
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
“The latter, then, is American posting,” observed
Sir George.
“You have got the best idea of it that can be given,”
said Paul. “It is virtually posting with a coachman,
instead of postillions, few persons in this country,
where so much of the greater distances is done by
steam, using their own travelling carriages. The
American `exclusive extra' is not only posting, but, in
many of the older parts of the country, it is posting
of a very good quality.”
“I dare say, now, this is all wrong, if we only knew
it,” said the simple-minded Mr. Howel. “There is
nothing exclusive in England, ha, Sir George?”
Every body laughed except the person who put this
question, but the rattling of wheels and the tramping
of horses on the village bridge, announced the near
approach of the travellers. By the time the party had
reached the great door in front of the house, the carriage
was already in the grounds, and at the next moment,
Eve was in the arms of Mrs. Bloomfield. It
was apparent, at a glance, that more than the expected
number of guests was in the vehicle; and as its contents
were slowly discharged, the spectators stood around
it, with curiosity, to observe who would appear.
The first person that descended, after the exit of
Mrs. Bloomfield, was Captain Truck, who, however,
instead of saluting his friends, turned assiduously to
the door he had just passed through, to assist Mrs.
Hawker to alight. Not until this office had been done,
did he even look for Eve; for, so profound was the
worthy captain's admiration and respect for this venerable
lady, that she actually had got to supplant our
heroine, in some measure, in his heart. Mr. Bloomfield
appeared next, and an exclamation of surprise
and pleasure proceeded from both Paul and the baronet,
as they caught a glimpse of the face of the last
of the travellers that got out.
“Ducie!” cried Sir George. “This is even better
than we expected.”
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
“Ducie!” added Paul, “you are several days before
the expected time, and in excellent company.”
The explanation, however, was very simple. Captain
Ducie had found the facilities for rapid motion
much greater than he had expected, and he reached
Fort Plain, in the eastward cars, as the remainder of
the party arrived in the westward. Captain Truck,
who had met Mrs. Hawker's party in the river boat,
had been intrusted with the duty of making the arrangements,
and recognizing Captain Ducie, to their
mutual surprise, while engaged in this employment,
and ascertaining his destination, the latter was very
cordially received into the “exclusive extra.”
Mr. Effingham welcomed all his guests with the
hospitality and kindness for which he was distinguished.
We are no great admirers of the pretension to peculiar
national virtues, having ascertained, to our own satisfaction,
by tolerably extensive observation, that the
moral difference between men is of no great amount;
but we are almost tempted to say, on this occasion,
that Mr. Effingham received his guests with American
hospitality; for if there be one quality that this people
can claim to possess in a higher degree than that of
most other christian nations, it is that of a simple, sincere,
confiding hospitality. For Mrs. Hawker, in common
with all who knew her, the owner of the Wigwam
entertained a profound respect; and though his
less active mind did not take as much pleasure as that
of his daughter, in the almost intuitive intelligence of
Mrs. Bloomfield, he also felt for this lady a very friendly
regard. It gave him pleasure to see Eve surrounded
by persons of her own sex, of so high a tone of thought
and breeding; a tone of thought and breeding, moreover,
that was as far removed as possible from any
thing strained or artificial: and his welcomes were
cordial in proportion. Mr. Bloomfield was a quiet,
sensible, gentleman-like man, whom his wife fervently
loved, without making any parade of her attachment;
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
and he was also one who had the good sense to make
himself agreeable wherever he went. Captain Ducie,
who, Englishman-like, had required some urging to be
induced to present himself before the precise hour
named in his own letter, and who had seriously contemplated
passing several days in a tavern, previously
to showing himself at the Wigwam, was agreeably disappointed
at a reception, that would have been just as
frank and warm, had he come without any notice at
all: for the Effinghams knew that the usages which sophistication
and a crowded population perhaps render
necessary in older countries, were not needed in their
own; and then the circumstance that their quondam
pursuer was so near a kinsman of Paul Powis', did not
fail to act essentially in his favour.
“We can offer but little, in these retired mountains,
to interest a traveller and a man of the world, Captain
Ducie, “said Mr. Effingham, when he went to pay his
compliments more particularly, after the whole party
was in the house; “but there is a common interest in
our past adventures to talk about, after all other topics
fail. When we met on the ocean, and you deprived us
so unexpectedly of our friend Powis, we did not know
that you had the better claim of affinity to his company.”
Captain Ducie coloured slightly, but he made his answer
with a proper degree of courtesy and gratitude.
“It is very true,” he added, “Powis and myself are
relatives, and I shall place all my claims to your hospitality
to his account; for I feel that I have been
the unwilling cause of too much suffering to your party,
to bring with me any very pleasant recollections, notwithstanding
your kindness in including me as a friend,
in the adventures of which you speak.”
“Dangers that are happily past, seldom bring very
unpleasant recollections, more especially when they
were connected with scenes of excitement. I understand,
sir, that the unhappy young man, who was the
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
principal cause of all that passed, anticipated the sentence
of the law, by destroying himself.”
“He was his own executioner, and the victim of a
silly weakness that, I should think, your state of society
was yet too young and simple to encourage. The idle
vanity of making an appearance, a vanity, by the way,
that seldom besets gentlemen, or the class to which it
may be thought more properly to belong, ruins hundreds
of young men in England, and this poor creature was
of the number. I never was more rejoiced than when
he quitted my ship, for the sight of so much weakness
sickened one of human nature. Miserable as his fate
proved to be, and pitiable as his condition really was,
while in my charge, his case has the alleviating circumstance
with me, of having made me acquainted
with those whom it might not otherwise have been
my good fortune to meet!”
This civil speech was properly acknowledged, and
Mr. Effingham addressed himself to Captain Truck, to
whom, in the hurry of the moment, he had not yet said
half that his feelings dictated.
“I am rejoiced to see you under my roof, my worthy
friend,” taking the rough hand of the old seaman
between his own whiter and more delicate fingers, and
shaking it with cordiality, “for this is being under my
roof, while those town residences have less the air of
domestication and familiarity. You will spend many
of your holidays here, I trust; and when we get a few
years older, we will begin to prattle about the marvels
we have seen in company.”
The eye of Captain Truck glistened, and, as he returned
the shake by another of twice the energy, and the
gentle pressure of Mr. Effingham by a squeeze like
that of a vice, he said in his honest off-hand manner—
“The happiest hour I ever knew was that in which
I discharged the pilot, the first time out, as a ship-master;
the next great event of my life, in the way of happiness,
was the moment I found myself on the deck of
the Montauk, after we had given those greasy Arabs a
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
hint that their room was better than their company; and
I really think this very instant must be set down as the
third. I never knew, my dear sir, how much I truly loved
you and your daughter, until both were out of sight.”
“That is so kind and gallant a speech, that it ought
not to be lost on the person most concerned. Eve, my
love, our worthy friend has just made a declaration
which will be a novelty to you, who have not been
much in the way of listening to speeches of this nature.”
Mr. Effingham then acquainted his daughter with
what Captain Truck had just said.
“This is certainly the first declaration of the sort
I ever heard, and with the simplicity of an unpractised
young woman, I here avow that the attachment
is reciprocal,” said the smiling Eve. “If there is an
indiscretion in this hasty acknowledgement, it must be
ascribed to surprise, and to the suddenness with which
I have learned my power, for your parvenues are not
always perfectly regulated.”
“I hope Mamselle V. A. V. is well,” returned the
Captain, cordially shaking the hand the young lady had
given him, “and that she enjoys herself to her liking
in this outlandish country?”
“Mademoiselle Viefville will return you her thanks
in person, at dinner; and I believe she does not yet
regret la belle France unreasonably; as I regret it myself,
in many particulars, it would be unjust not to permit
a native of the country some liberty in that way.”
“I perceive a strange face in the room—one of the
family, my dear young lady?”
“Not a relative, but a very old friend.—Shall I have
the pleasure of introducing you, Captain?”
“I hardly dared to ask it, for I know you must have
been overworked in this way, lately, but I confess I
should like an introduction; I have neither introduced,
nor been introduced since I left New-York, with the
exception of the case of Captain Ducie, whom I made
properly acquainted with Mrs. Hawker and her party,
as you may suppose. They know each other
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
regularly now, and you are saved the trouble of going
through the ceremony yourself.”
“And how is it with you and the Bloomfields? Did
Mrs. Hawker name you to them properly?”
“That is the most extraordinary thing of the sort I
ever knew! Not a word was said in the way of introduction,
and yet I slid into an acquaintance with Mrs.
Bloomfield so easily, that I could not tell how it was
done, if my life depended on it. But this very old
friend of yours, my dear young lady—”
“Captain Truck, Mr. Howel; Mr. Howel, Captain
Truck;” said Eve, imitating the most approved manner
of the introductory spirit of the day with admirable
self-possession and gravity. “I am fortunate in
having it in my power to make two persons whom I
so much esteem acquainted.”
“Captain Truck is the gentleman who commands
the Montauk?” said Mr. Howel, glancing at Eve, as
much as to say, “am I right?”
“The very same, and the brave seaman to whom
we are all indebted for the happiness of standing here
at this moment.”
“You are to be envied, Captain Truck; of all the
men in your calling, you are exactly the one I should
most wish to supplant. I understand you actually go
to England twice every year!”
“Three times, sir, when the winds permit. I have
even seen the old island four times, between January
and January.”
“What a pleasure! It must be the very acme of
navigation to sail between America and England!”
“It is not unpleasant, sir, from April to November,
but the long nights, thick weather, and heavy winds
knock off a good deal of the satisfaction for the rest
of the year.”
“But I speak of the country; of old England itself;
not of the passages.”
“Well, England has what I call a pretty fair coast.
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
It is high, and great attention is paid to the lights; but
of what account is either coast or lights, if the weather
is so thick, you cannot see the end of your flying-jib-boom!”
“Mr. Howel alludes more particularly to the country,
inland,” said Eve; “to the towns, the civilization,
and the other proofs of cultivation and refinement. To
the government, especially.”
“In my judgment, sir, the government is much too
particular about tobacco, and some other trifling things
I could name. Then it restricts pennants to King's
ships, whereas, to my notion, my dear young lady, a
New-York packet is as worthy of wearing a pennant
as any vessel that floats. I mean, of course, ships of
the regular European lines, and not the Southern
traders.”
“But these are merely spots on the sun, my good
sir,” returned Mr. Howel; “putting a few such trifles
out of the question, I think you will allow that England
is the most delightful country in the world?”
“To be frank with you, Mr. Howel, there is a good
deal of hang-dog weather, along in October, November
and December. I have known March any thing
but agreeable, and then April is just like a young girl
with one of your melancholy novels, now smiling, and
now blubbering.”
“But the morals of the country, my dear sir; the
moral features of England must be a source of never-dying
delight to a true philanthropist,” resumed Mr.
Howel, as Eve, who perceived that the discourse was
likely to be long, went to join the ladies. “An
Englishman has most reason to be proud of the moral
excellencies of his country!”
“Why, to be frank with you, Mr. Howel, there are
some of the moral features of London, that are any
thing but very beautiful. If you could pass twenty-four
hours in the neighbourhood of St. Catharine's,
you would see sights that would throw Templeton
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
into fits. The English are a handsome people, I
allow; but their morality is none of the best-featured.”
“Let us be seated, sir; I am afraid we are not
exactly agreed on our terms, and, in order that we
may continue this subject, I beg you will let me take
a seat next you, at table.”
To this Captain Truck very cheerfully assented,
and then the two took chairs, continuing the discourse
very much in the blind and ambiguous manner in
which it had been commenced; the one party insisting
on seeing every thing through the medium of an imagination
that had got to be diseased on such subjects,
or with a species of monomania; while the other
seemed obstinately determined to consider the entire
country as things had been presented to his limited
and peculiar experience, in the vicinity of the docks.
“We have had a very unexpected, and a very
agreeable attendant in Captain Truck,” said Mrs.
Hawker, when Eve had placed herself by her side,
and respectfully taken one of her hands. “I really
think if I were to suffer shipwreck, or to run the hazard
of captivity, I should choose to have both occur
in his good company.”
“Mrs. Hawker makes so many conquests,” observed
Mrs. Bloomfield, “that we are to think nothing of her
success with this mer-man; but what will you say,
Miss Effingham, when you learn that I am also in
favour, in the same high quarter. I shall think the
better of masters, and boatswains, and Trinculos and
Stephanos, as long as I live, for this specimen of their
craft.”
“Not Trinculos and Stephanos, dear Mrs. Bloomfield;
for, à l' exception pres de Saturday-nights, and
sweet-hearts and wives, a more exemplary person in
the way of libations does not exist than our excellent
Captain Truck. He is much too religious and moral
for so vulgar an excess as drinking.”
“Religious!” exclaimed Mrs. Bloomfield, in
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
surprise. “This is a merit to which I did not know he
possessed the smallest claims. One might imagine a
little superstition, and some short-lived repentances in
gales of wind; but scarcely any thing as much like a
trade wind, as religion!”
“Then you do not know him; for a more sincerely
devout man, though I acknowledge it is after a fashion
that is perhaps peculiar to the ocean, is not often met
with. At any rate, you found him attentive to our
sex?”
“The pink of politeness, and, not to embellish, there is
a manly deference about him, that is singularly agreeable
to our frail vanity. This comes of his packet-training,
I suppose, and we may thank you for some
portion of his merit. His tongue never tires in your
praises, and did I not feel persuaded that your mind is
made up never to be the wife of any republican American,
I should fear this visit exceedingly. Notwithstanding
the remark I made concerning my being in
favour, the affair lies between Mrs. Hawker and yourself.
I know it is not your habit to trifle even on that
very popular subject with young ladies, matrimony;
but this case forms so complete an exception to the
vulgar passion, that I trust you will overlook the indiscretion.
Our golden captain, for copper he is not,
protests that Mrs. Hawker is the most delightful old
lady he ever knew, and that Miss Eve Effingham is
the most delightful young lady he ever knew. Here,
then, each may see the ground she occupies, and play
her cards accordingly. I hope to be forgiven for
touching on a subject so delicate.”
“In the first place,” said Eve, smiling, “I should
wish to hear Mrs. Hawker's reply.”
“I have no more to say, than to express my perfect
gratitude,” answered that lady, “to announce a
determination not to change my condition, on account
of extreme youth, and a disposition to abandon the
field to my younger, if not fairer, rival.”
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
“Well, then,” resumed Eve, anxious to change the
subject, for she saw that Paul was approaching their
group, “I believe it will be wisest in me to suspend
a decision, circumstances leaving so much at
my disposal. Time must show what that decision
will be.”
“Nay,” said Mrs. Bloomfield, who saw no feeling
involved in the trifling, “this is unjustifiable coquetry,
and I feel bound to ascertain how the land lies. You
will remember I am the Captain's confidant, and you
know the fearful responsibility of a friend in an affair
of this sort; that of a friend in the duello being insignificant
in comparison. That I may have testimony
at need, Mr. Powis shall be made acquainted with the
leading facts. Captain Truck is a devout admirer of
this young lady, sir, and I am endeavouring to discover
whether he ought to hang himself on her father's
lawn, this evening, as soon as the moon rises, or live
another week. In order to do this, I shall pursue the
categorical and inquisitorial method—and so defend
yourself Miss Effingham. Do you object to the country
of your admirer?”
Eve, though inwardly vexed at the turn this pleasantry
had taken, maintained a perfectly composed
manner, for she knew that Mrs. Bloomfield had too
much feminine propriety to say any thing improper, or
any thing that might seriously embarrass her.
“It would, indeed, be extraordinary, should I object
to a country which is not only my own, but which has
so long been that of my ancestors,” she answered
steadily. “On this score, my knight has nothing to
fear.”
“I rejoice to hear this,” returned Mrs. Bloomfield,
glancing her eyes, unconsciously to herself, however,
towards Sir George Templemore, “and, Mr. Powis,
you, who I believe are a European, will learn humility
in the avowal. Do you object to your swain that he
is a seaman?”
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
Eve blushed, notwithstanding a strong effort to appear
composed, and, for the first time since their acquaintance,
she felt provoked with Mrs. Bloomfield.
She hesitated before she answered in the negative,
and this too in a way to give more meaning to her
reply, although nothing could be farther from her intentions.
“The happy man may then be an American and a
seaman! Here is great encouragement. Do you
object to sixty?”
“In any other man I should certainly consider it a
blemish, as my own dear father is but fifty.”
Mrs. Bloomfield was struck with the tremor in the
voice, and with the air of embarrassment, in one who
usually was so easy and collected; and with feminine
sensitiveness she adroitly abandoned the subject, though
she often recurred to this stifled emotion in the course
of the day, and from that moment she became a silent
observer of Eve's deportment with all her father's
guests.
“This is hope enough for one day,” she said, rising;
“the profession and the flag must counterbalance the
years as best they may, and the Truck lives another
revolution of the sun! Mrs. Hawker, we shall be late
at dinner, I see by that clock, unless we retire soon.”
Both the ladies now went to their rooms; Eve, who
was already dressed for dinner, remaining in the drawing-room.
Paul still stood before her, and, like herself,
he seemed embarrassed.
“There are men who would be delighted to hear
even the little that has fallen from your lips in this trifling,”
he said, as soon as Mrs. Bloomfield was out of
hearing. “To be an American and a seaman, then,
are not serious defects in your eyes?”
“Am I to be made responsible for Mrs. Bloomfield's
caprices and pleasantries?”
“By no means; but I do think you hold yourself
responsible for Miss Effingham's truth and sincerity.
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
I can conceive of your silence, when questioned too
far, but scarcely of any direct declaration, that shall
not possess both these high qualities.”
Eve looked up gratefully, for she saw that profound
respect for her character dictated the remark; but
rising, she observed—
“This is making a little badinage about our honest,
lion-hearted, old captain, a very serious affair. And
now, to show you that I am conscious of, and thankful
for, your own compliment, I shall place you on the
footing of a friend to both the parties, and request
you will take Captain Truck into your especial care,
while he remains here. My father and cousin are
both sincerely his friends, but their habits are not so
much those of their guests, as yours will probably be;
and to you, then, I commit him, with a request that
he may miss his ship and the ocean as little as possible.”
“I would I knew how to take this charge, Miss
Effingham!—To be a seaman is not always a recommendation
with the polished, intelligent, and refined.”
“But when one is polished, intelligent, and refined,
to be a seaman is to add one other particular and useful
branch of knowledge to those which are more familiar.
I feel certain Captain Truck will be in good
hands, and now I will go and do my devoirs to my
own especial charges, the ladies.”
Eve bowed as she passed the young man, and she
left the room with as much haste as at all became
her. Paul stood motionless quite a minute after she
had vanished, nor did he awaken from his reverie, until
aroused by an appeal from Captain Truck, to sustain
him, in some of his matter-of-fact opinions concerning
England, against the visionary and bookish notions of
Mr. Howel.
“Who is this Mr. Powis?” asked Mrs. Bloomfield
of Eve, when the latter appeared in her dressing-room,
with an unusual impatience of manner.
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
“You know, my dear Mrs. Bloomfield, that he was
our fellow-passenger in the Montauk, and that he was
of infinite service to us, in escaping from the Arabs.”
“All this I know, certainly; but he is a European,
is he not?”
Eve scarcely ever felt more embarrassed than in
answering this simple question.
“I believe not; at least, I think not; we thought so
when we met him in Europe, and even until quite
lately; but he has avowed himself a countryman of
our own, since his arrival at Templeton.”
“Has he been here long?”
“We found him in the village on reaching home.
He was from Canada, and has been in waiting for
his cousin, Captain Ducie, who came with you.”
“His cousin!—He has English cousins, then! Mr.
Ducie kept this to himself, with true English reserve.
Captain Truck whispered something of the latter's
having taken out one of his passengers, the Mr. Powis,
the hero of the rocks, but I did not know of his having
found his way back to our—to his country. Is he
as agreeable as Sir George Templemore?”
“Nay, Mrs. Bloomfield, I must leave you to judge
of that for yourself. I think them both agreeable men;
but there is so much caprice in a woman's tastes, that
I decline thinking for others.”
“He is a seaman, I believe,” observed Mrs. Bloomfield,
with an abstracted manner—“he must have been,
to have manœuvred and managed as I have been told
he did. Powis—Powis—that is not one of our names,
neither—I should think he must be from the south.”
Here Eve's habitual truth and dignity of mind did
her good service, and prevented any further betrayal
of embarrassment.
“We do not know his family,” she steadily answered.
“That he is a gentleman, we see; but of his
origin and connections he never speaks.”
“His profession would have given him the notions
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
of a gentleman, for he was in the navy I have heard,
although I had thought it the British navy. I do not
know of any Powises in Philadelphia, or Baltimore, or
Richmond, or Charleston; he must surely be from
the interior.”
Eve could scarcely condemn her friend for a curiosity
that had not a little tormented herself, though she
would gladly change the discourse.
“Mr. Powis would be much gratified, did he know
what a subject of interest he has suddenly become
with Mrs. Bloomfield,” she said, smiling.
“I confess it all; to be very sincere, I think him the
most distinguished young man, in air, appearance, and
expression of countenance, I ever saw. When this is
coupled with what I have heard of his gallantry and
coolness, my dear, I should not be woman to feel no
interest in him. I would give the world to know of
what State he is a native, if native, in truth, he be.”
“For that we have his own word. He was born in
this country, and was educated in our own marine.”
“And yet from the little that fell from him, in our
first short conversation, he struck me as being educated
above his profession.”
“Mr. Powis has seen much as a traveller; when
we met him in Europe, it was in a circle particularly
qualified to improve both his mind and his manners.”
“Europe! Your acquaintance did not then commence,
like that with Sir George Templemore, in the
packet?”
“Our acquaintance with neither, commenced in the
packet. My father had often seen both these gentlemen,
during our residences in different parts of Europe.”
“And your father's daughter?”
“My father's daughter, too,” said Eve, laughing.
“With Mr. Powis, in particular, we were acquainted
under circumstances that left a vivid recollection of
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
his manliness and professional skill. He was of almost
as much service to us on one of the Swiss lakes, as
he has subsequently been on the ocean.”
All this was news to Mrs. Bloomfield, and she looked
as if she thought the intelligence interesting. At this
moment the dinner-bell rang, and all the ladies descended
to the drawing-room. The gentlemen were already
assembled, and as Mr. Effingham led Mrs. Hawker
to the table, Mrs. Bloomfield gaily took Eve by the
arm, protesting that she felt herself privileged, the first
day, to take a seat near the young mistress of the
Wigwam.
“Mr. Powis and Sir George Templemore will not
quarrel about the honour,” she said, in a low voice, as
they proceeded towards the table.
“Indeed you are in error, Mrs. Bloomfield; Sir
George Templemore is much better pleased with being
at liberty to sit next my cousin Grace.”
“Can this be so!” returned the other, looking intently
at her young friend.
“Indeed it is so, and I am very glad to be able to
affirm it. How far Miss Van Cortlandt is pleased that
it is so, time must show; but the baronet betrays every
day, and all day, how much he is pleased with her.”
“He is then a man of less taste, and judgment, and
intelligence, than I had thought him.”
“Nay, dearest Mrs. Bloomfield, this is not necessarily
true; or, if true, need it be so openly said?”
“Se non e vero, e ben trovato.”
-- 051 --
CHAPTER IV.
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
“Thine for a space are they—
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;
Thy gates shall yet give way,
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past.”
Bryant.
Captain Ducie had retired for the night, and was
sitting reading, when a low tap at the door roused him
from a brown study. He gave the necessary permission,
and the door opened.
“I hope, Ducie, you have not forgotten the secretary
I left among your effects,” said Paul entering the room,
“and concerning which I wrote you when you were
still at Quebec.”
Captain Ducie pointed to the case, which was standing
among his other luggage, on the floor of the room.
“Thank you for this care,” said Paul, taking the
secretary under his arm, and retiring towards the door;
“it contains papers of much importance to myself, and
some that I have reason to think are of importance to
others.”
“Stop, Powis — a word before you quit me. Is
Templemore de trop?”
“Not at all; I have a sincere regard for Templemore,
and should be sorry to see him leave us.”
“And yet I think it singular a man of his habits
should be rusticating among these hills, when I know
that he is expected to look at the Canadas, with a view
to report their actual condition at home.”
“Is Sir George really entrusted with a commission
of that sort?” inquired Paul, with interest.
“Not with any positive commission, perhaps, for
none was necessary. Templemore is a rich fellow, and
has no need of appointments; but, it is hoped and
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
understood, that he will look at the provinces, and
report their condition to the government. I dare say
he will not be impeached for his negligence, though it
may occasion surprise.”
“Good night, Ducie; Templemore prefers a wigwam
to your walled Quebec, and natives to colonists; that
is all.”
In a minute, Paul was at the door of John Effingham's
room, where he again tapped, and was again told to
enter.
“Ducie has not forgotten my request, and this is the
secretary that contains poor Mr. Monday's papers,” he
remarked, as he laid his load on a toilet-table, speaking
in a way to show that the visit was expected.
“We have, indeed, neglected this duty too long, and
it is to be hoped no injustice, or wrong to any, will be
the consequence.”
“Is that the package?” demanded John Effingham,
extending a hand to receive a bundle of papers that
Paul had taken from the secretary. “We will break the
seals this moment, and ascertain what ought to be done,
before we sleep.”
“These are papers of my own, and very precious
are they,” returned the young man, regarding them a
moment, with interest, before he laid them on the toilet.
“Here are the papers of Mr. Monday.”
John Effingham received the package from his young
friend, placed the lights conveniently on the table, put
on his spectacles, and invited Paul to be seated. The
gentlemen were placed opposite each other, the duty
of breaking the seals, and first casting an eye at the
contents of the different documents, devolving, as a
matter of course, on the senior of the two, who, in
truth, had alone been entrusted with it.
“Here is something signed by poor Monday himself,
in the way of a general certificate,” observed John
Effingham, who first read the paper, and then
handed it to Paul. It was, in form, an unsealed letter;
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
and it was addressed “to all whom it may concern.”
The certificate itself was in the following words:
“I, John Monday, do declare and certify, that all the
accompanying letters and documents are genuine and
authentic. Jane Dowse, to whom and from whom,
are so many letters, was my late mother, she having
intermarried with Peter Dowse, the man so often
named, and who led her into acts for which I know she
has since been deeply repentant. In committing these
papers to me, my poor mother left me the sole judge
of the course I was to take, and I have put them in
this form, in order that they may yet do good, should
I be called suddenly away. All depends on discovering
who the person called Bright actually is, for he was
never known to my mother, by any other name. She
knows him to have been an Englishman, however, and
thinks he was, or had been, an upper servant in a gentleman's
family. John Monday.”
This paper was dated several years back, a sign that
the disposition to do right had existed some time in Mr.
Monday; and all the letters and other papers had been
carefully preserved. The latter also appeared to be regularly
numbered, a precaution that much aided the investigations
of the two gentlemen. The original letters
spoke for themselves, and the copies had been made
in a clear, strong, mercantile hand, and with the method
of one accustomed to business. In short, so far
as the contents of the different papers would allow,
nothing was wanting to render the whole distinct and
intelligible.
John Effingham read the paper No. 1, with deliberation,
though not aloud; and when he had done, he
handed it to his young friend, coolly remarking—
“That is the production of a deliberate villain.”
Paul glanced his eye over the document, which was
an original letter signed, `David Bright,' and addressed
to `Mrs. Jane Dowse.' It was written with exceeding
art, made many professions of friendship, spoke of the
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
writer's knowledge of the woman's friends in England,
and of her first husband in particular, and freely professed
the writer's desire to serve her, while it also contained
several ambiguous allusions to certain means
of doing so, which should be revealed whenever the
person to whom the letter was addressed should discover
a willingness to embark in the undertaking.
This letter was dated Philadelphia, was addressed to
one in New-York, and it was old.
“This is, indeed, a rare specimen of villany,” said
Paul, as he laid down the paper, “and has been written
in some such spirit as that employed by the devil
when he tempted our common mother. I think I never
read a better specimen of low, wily, cunning.”
“And, judging by all that we already know, it
would seem to have succeeded. In this letter you will
find the gentleman a little more explicit; and but a
little; though he is evidently encouraged by the interest
and curiosity betrayed by the woman in this copy
of the answer to his first epistle.”
Paul read the letter just named, and then he laid
it down to wait for the next, which was still in the
hands of his companion.
“This is likely to prove a history of unlawful love,
and of its miserable consequences,” said John Effingham
in his cool manner, as he handed the answers to
letter No. 1, and letter No. 2, to Paul. “The world is
full of such unfortunate adventures, and I should think
the parties English, by a hint or two you will find in
this very honest and conscientious communication.
Strongly artificial, social and political distinctions render
expedients of this nature more frequent, perhaps,
in Great Britain, than in any other country. Youth is
the season of the passions, and many a man in the
thoughtlessness of that period lays the foundation of
bitter regret in after life.”
As John Effingham raised his eyes, in the act of extending
his hand towards his companion, he perceived
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
that the fresh ruddy hue of his embrowned cheek deepened,
until the colour diffused itself over the whole of
his fine brow. At first an unpleasant suspicion flashed
on John Effingham, and he admitted it with regret, for
Eve and her future happiness had got to be closely
associated, in his mind, with the character and conduct
of the young man; but when Paul took the papers,
steadily, and by an effort seemed to subdue all unpleasant
feelings, the calm dignity with which he read
them completely effaced the disagreeable distrust. It
was then John Effingham remembered that he had
once believed Paul himself might be the fruits of the
heartless indiscretion he condemned. Commiseration
and sympathy instantly took the place of the first impression,
and he was so much absorbed with these feelings
that he had not taken up the letter which was to
follow, when Paul laid down the paper he had last
been required to read.
“This does, indeed, sir, seem to foretell one of those
painful histories of unbridled passion, with the still more
painful consequences,” said the young man with the
steadiness of one who was unconscious of having a
personal connexion with any events of a nature so
unpleasant. “Let us examine farther.”
John Effingham felt emboldened by these encouraging
signs of unconcern, and he read the succeeding
letters aloud, so that they learned their contents simultaneously.
The next six or eight communications
betrayed nothing distinctly, beyond the fact that the
child which formed the subject of the whole correspondence,
was to be received by Peter Dowse and his
wife, and to be retained as their own offspring, for the
consideration of a considerable sum, with an additional
engagement to pay an annuity. It appeared by these
letters also, that the child, which was hypocritically
alluded to under the name of the `pet,' had been actually
transferred to the keeping of Jane Dowse, and
that several years passed, after this arrangement,
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
before the correspondence terminated. Most of the
later letters referred to the payment of the annuity,
although they all contained cold inquiries after the
`pet,' and answers so vague and general, as sufficiently
to prove that the term was singularly misapplied. In
the whole, there were some thirty or forty letters, each
of which had been punctually answered, and their dates
covered a space of near twelve years. The perusal
of all these papers consumed more than an hour, and
when John Effingham laid his spectacles on the table,
the village clock had struck the hour of midnight.
“As yet,” he observed, “we have learned little more
than the fact, that a child was made to take a false
character, without possessing any other clue to the
circumstances than is given in the names of the parties,
all of whom are evidently obscure, and one of
the most material of whom, we are plainly told, must
have borne a fictitious name. Even poor Monday, in
possession of so much collateral testimony that we
want, could not have known what was the precise
injustice done, if any, or, certainly, with the intentions
he manifests, he would not have left that important
particular in the dark.”
“This is likely to prove a complicated affair,” returned
Paul, “and it is not very clear that we can be
of any immediate service. As you are probably fatigued,
we may without impropriety defer the further
examination to another time.”
To this John Effingham assented, and Paul, during
the short conversation that followed, brought the secretary
from the toilet to the table, along with the bundle
of important papers that belonged to himself, to which
he had alluded, and busied himself in replacing the
whole in the drawer from which they had been taken.
“All the formalities about the seals, that we observed
when poor Monday gave us the packet, would seem
to be unnecessary,” he remarked, while thus occupied,
“and it will probably be sufficient if I leave the secretary
in your room, and keep the keys myself.”
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
“One never knows,” returned John Effingham, with
the greater caution of experience and age. “We
have not read all the papers, and there are wax and
lights before you; each has his watch and seal, and it
will be the work of a minute only, to replace every
thing as we left the package, originally. When this
is done, you may leave the secretary, or remove it, at
your own pleasure.”
“I will leave it; for, though it contains so much
that I prize, and which is really of great importance
to myself, it contains nothing for which I shall have
immediate occasion.”
“In that case, it were better that I place the package
in which we have a common interest in an armoire,
or in my secretary, and that you keep your
precious effects more immediately under your own
eye.”
“It is immaterial, unless the case will inconvenience
you, for I do not know that I am not happier
when it is out of my sight, so long as I feel certain of
its security, than when it is constantly before my eyes.”
Paul said this with a forced smile, and there
was a sadness in his countenance that excited the
sympathy of his companion. The latter, however,
merely bowed his assent, and the papers were replaced,
and the secretary was locked and deposited
in an armoire, in silence. Paul was then about to wish
the other good night, when John Effingham seized his
hand, and by a gentle effort induced him to resume
his seat. An embarrassing, but short pause succeeded,
when the latter spoke.
“We have suffered enough in company, and have
seen each other in situations of sufficient trial to be
friends,” he said. “I should feel mortified, did I believe
you could think me influenced by an improper curiosity,
in wishing to share more of your confidence
than you are perhaps willing to bestow; I trust
you will attribute to its right motive the liberty I am
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
now taking. Age makes some difference between us,
and the sincere and strong interest I feel in your welfare,
ought to give me a small claim not to be treated
as a total stranger. So jealous and watchful has this
interest been, I might with great truth call it affection,
that I have discovered you are not situated exactly as
other men in your condition of life are situated, and I
feel persuaded that the sympathy, perhaps the advice,
of one so many years older than yourself, might be
useful. You have already said so much to me, on the
subject of your personal situation, that I almost feel a
right to ask for more.”
John Effingham uttered this in his mildest and most
winning manner; and few men could carry with them,
on such an occasion, more of persuasion in their voices
and looks. Paul's features worked, and it was evident
to his companion that he was moved, while, at the same
time, he was not displeased.
“I am grateful, deeply grateful, sir, for this interest
in my happiness,” Paul answered, “and if I knew the
particular points on which you feel any curiosity,
there is nothing that I can desire to conceal. Have
the further kindness to question me, Mr. Effingham,
that I need not touch on things you do not care to
hear.”
“All that really concerns your welfare, would have
interest with me. You have been the agent of rescuing
not only myself, but those whom I most love,
from a fate worse than death; and, a childless bachelor
myself, I have more than once thought of attempting
to supply the places of those natural friends that I
fear you have lost. Your parents—”
“Are both dead. I never knew either,” said Paul,
who spoke huskily, “and will most cheerfully accept
your generous offer, if you will allow me to attach
to it a single condition.”
“Beggars must not be choosers,” returned John
Effingham, “and if you will allow me to feel this
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
interest in you, and occasionally to share in the confidence
of a father; I shall not insist on any unreasonable
terms. What is your condition?”
“That the word money may be struck out of our
vocabulary, and that you leave your will unaltered.
Were the world to be examined, you could not find a
worthier or a lovelier heiress, than the one you have
already selected, and whom Providence itself has
given you. Compared with yourself, I am not rich;
but I have a gentleman's income, and as I shall probably
never marry, it will suffice for all my wants.”
John Effingham was more pleased than he cared to
express with this frankness, and with the secret sympathy
that had existed between them; but he smiled
at the injunction; for, with Eve's knowledge, and her
father's entire approbation, he had actually made a
codicil to his will, in which their young protector
was left one half of his large fortune.
“The will may remain untouched, if you desire it,”
he answered, evasively, “and that condition is disposed
of. I am glad to learn so directly from yourself, what
your manner of living and the reports of others had
prepared me to hear, that you are independent. This
fact, alone, will place us solely on our mutual esteem,
and render the friendship that I hope is now brought
within a covenant, if not now first established, more
equal and frank. You have seen much of the world,
Powis, for your years and profession?”
“It is usual to think that men of my profession see
much of the world, as a consequence of their pursuits;
though I agree with you, sir, that this is seeing
the world only in a very limited circle. It is now
several years since circumstances, I might almost say
the imperative order of one whom I was bound to obey,
induced me to resign, and since that time I have done
little else but travel. Owing to certain adventitious
causes, I have enjoyed an access to European society
that few of our countrymen possess, and I hope the
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
advantage has not been entirely thrown away. It was
as a traveller on the continent of Europe, that I had
the pleasure of first meeting with Mr. and Miss Effingham.
I was much abroad, even as a child, and owe
some little skill in foreign languages to that circumstance.”
“So my cousin has informed me. You have set the
question of country at rest, by declaring that you are
an American, and yet I find you have English relatives.
Captain Ducie, I believe, is a kinsman?”
“He is; we are sister's children, though our friendship
has not always been such as the connexion would
infer. When Ducie and myself met at sea, there was
an awkwardness, if not a coolness, in the interview,
that, coupled with my sudden return to England, I fear
did not make the most favourable impression, on those
who witnessed what passed.”
“We had confidence in your principles,” said John
Effingham, with a frank simplicity, “and, though the
first surmises were not pleasant, perhaps, a little reflection
told us that there was no just ground for suspicion.”
“Ducie is a fine, manly fellow, and has a seaman's
generosity and sincerity. I had last parted from him
on the field, where we met as enemies; and the circumstance
rendered the unexpected meeting awkward.
Our wounds no longer smarted, it is true; but, perhaps,
we both felt shame and sorrow that they had ever
been inflicted.”
“It should be a very serious quarrel that could arm
sister's children against each other,” said John Effingham,
gravely.
“I admit as much. But, at that time, Captain Ducie
was not disposed to admit the consanguinity, and the
offence grew out of an intemperate resentment of some
imputations on my birth; between two military men,
the issue could scarcely be avoided. Ducie challenged,
and I was not then in the humour to balk him.
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
A couple of flesh-wounds happily terminated the affair.
But an interval of three years had enabled my enemy
to discover that he had not done me justice; that I had
been causelessly provoked to the quarrel, and that we
ought to be firm friends. The generous desire to make
suitable expiation, urged him to seize the first occasion
of coming to America that offered; and when ordered
to chase the Montauk, by a telegraphic communication
from London, he was hourly expecting to sail
for our seas, where he wished to come, expressly that
we might meet. You will judge, therefore, how happy
he was to find me unexpectedly in the vessel that contained
his principal object of pursuit, thus killing, as it
might be, two birds with one stone.”
“And did he carry you away with him, with any
such murderous intention?” demanded John Effingham,
smiling.
“By no means; nothing could be more amicable
than Ducie and myself got to be, when we had been
a few hours together in his cabin. As often happens,
when there have been violent antipathies and unreasonable
prejudices, a nearer view of each other's character
and motives removed every obstacle; and long before
we reached England, two warmer friends could not
be found, or a more frank intercourse between relatives
could not be desired. You are aware, sir, that
our English cousins do not often view their cis-atlantic
relatives with the most lenient eyes.”
“This is but too true,” said John Effingham proudly,
though his lip quivered as he spoke, “and it is, in a
great measure, the fault of that miserable mental bondage
which has left this country, after sixty years of
nominal independence, so much at the mercy of a hostile
opinion. It is necessary that we respect ourselves
in order that others respect us.”
“I agree with you, sir, entirely. In my case, however,
previous injustice disposed my relatives to receive
me better, perhaps, than might otherwise have
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
been the case. I had little to ask in the way of fortune,
and feeling no disposition to raise a question that
might disturb the peerage of the Ducies, I became a
favourite.”
“A peerage!—Both your parents, then, were English?”
“Neither, I believe; but the connection between
the two countries was so close, that it can occasion
no surprise a right of this nature should have passed
into the colonies. My mother's mother became the
heiress of one of those ancient baronies, that pass to
the heirs-general, and, in consequence of the deaths
of two brothers, these rights, which however were
never actually possessed by any of the previous generation,
centered in my mother and my aunt. The former
being dead, as was contended, without issue—”
“You forget yourself!”
“Lawful issue,” added Paul, reddening to the temples,
“I should have added—Mrs. Ducie, who was
married to the younger son of an English nobleman,
claimed and obtained the rank. My pretension would
have left the peerage in abeyance, and I probably owe
some little of the opposition I found, to that circumstance.
But, after Ducie's generous conduct, I could
not hesitate about joining in the application to the
crown, that, by its decision, the abeyance might be determined
in favour of the person who was in possession;
and Lady Dunluce is now quietly confirmed in
her claim.”
“There are many young men in this country, who
would cling to the hopes of a British peerage with
greater tenacity!”
“It is probable there are; but my self-denial is not
of a very high order, for, it could scarcely be expected
the English ministers would consent to give the rank
to a foreigner who did not hesitate about avowing his
principles and national feelings. I shall not say I did
not covet this peerage, for it would be supererogatory;
but I am born an American, and will die an American;
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
and an American who swaggers about such a claim,
is like the daw among the peacocks. The less that is
said about it, the better.”
“You are fortunate to have escaped the journals,
which, most probably, would have begraced you, by
elevating you at once to the rank of a duke.”
“Instead of which, I had no other station than that
of a dog in the manger. If it makes my aunt happy
to be called Lady Dunluce, I am sure she is welcome
to the privilege; and when Ducie succeeds her, as will
one day be the case, an excellent fellow will be a peer
of England. Voila tout! You are the only countryman,
sir, to whom I have ever spoken of the circumstance,
and with you I trust it will remain a secret.”
“What! am I precluded from mentioning the facts in
my own family? I am not the only sincere, the only
warm friend, you have in this house, Powis.”
“In that respect, I leave you to act your pleasure,
my dear sir. If Mr. Effingham feel sufficient interest
in my fortunes, to wish to hear what I have told you,
let there be no silly mysteries,—or—or Mademoiselle
Viefville—”
“Or Nanny Sidley, or Annette,” interrupted John
Effingham, with a kind smile. “Well, trust to me for
that; but, before we separate for the night, I wish to
ascertain beyond question one other fact, although the
circumstances you have stated scarce leave a doubt of
the reply.”
“I understand you, sir, and did not intend to leave
you in any uncertainty on that important particular. If
there can be a feeling, more painful than all others, with
a man of any pride, it is to distrust the purity of his
mother. Mine was beyond reproach, thank God, and
so it was most clearly established, or I could certainly
have had no legal claim to the peerage.”
“Or your fortune—” added John Effingham, drawing
a long breath, like one suddenly relieved from an
unpleasant suspicion.
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
“My fortune comes from neither parent, but from
one of those generous dispositions, or caprices, if you
will, that sometimes induce men to adopt those who
are alien to their blood. My guardian adopted me,
took me abroad with him, placed me, quite young, in
the navy, and dying, he finally left me all he possessed.
As he was a bachelor, with no near relative, and had
been the artisan of his own fortune, I could have no
hesitation about accepting the gift he so liberally bequeathed.
It was coupled with the condition that I
should retire from the service, travel for five years,
return home, and marry. There is no silly forfeiture
exacted in either case, but such is the general course
solemnly advised by a man who showed himself my
true friend for so many years.”
“I envy him the opportunity he enjoyed of serving
you. I hope he would have approved of your national
pride, for I believe we must put that at the bottom of
your disinterestedness, in the affair of the peerage.”
“He would, indeed, although he never knew any
thing of the claim which arose out of the death of the
two lords who preceded my aunt, and who were the
brothers of my grandmother. My guardian was in all
respects a man, and, in nothing more, than in a manly
national pride. While abroad a decoration was offered
him, and he declined it with the character and dignity
of one who felt that distinctions which his country repudiated,
every gentleman belonging to that country
ought to reject; and yet he did it with a respectful
gratitude for the compliment, that was due to the government
from which the offer came.”
“I almost envy that man,” said John Effingham,
with warmth. “To have appreciated you, Powis, was
a mark of a high judgment; but it seems he properly
appreciated himself, his country, and human nature.”
“And yet he was little appreciated in his turn. That
man passed years in one of our largest towns, of no
more apparent account among its population than any
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
one of its commoner spirits, and of not half as much
as one of its bustling brokers, or jobbers.”
“In that there is nothing surprising. The class of
the chosen few is too small every where, to be very
numerous at any given point, in a scattered population
like that of America. The broker will as naturally
appreciate the broker, as the dog appreciates the dog,
or the wolf the wolf. Least of all is the manliness
you have named, likely to be valued among a people
who have been put into men's clothes before they are
out of leading-strings. I am older than you, my dear
Paul,” it was the first time John Effingham ever
used so familiar an appellation, and the young man
thought it sounded kindly—“I am older than you, my
dear Paul, and will venture to tell you an important
fact that may hereafter lessen some of your own mortifications.
In most nations there is a high standard
to which man at least affects to look; and acts are extolled
and seemingly appreciated, for their naked
merits. Little of this exists in America, where no
man is much praised for himself, but for the purposes
of party, or to feed national vanity. In the country
in which, of all others, political opinion ought to be the
freest, it is the most persecuted, and the community-character
of the nation induces every man to think he
has a right of property in all its fame. England exhibits
a great deal of this weakness and injustice, which,
it is to be feared, is a vicious fruit of liberty; for it is
certain that the sacred nature of opinion is most appreciated
in those countries in which it has the least
efficiency. We are constantly deriding those governments
which fetter opinion, and yet I know of no nation
in which the expression of opinion is so certain to
attract persecution and hostility as our own, though it
may be, and is, in one sense, free.”
“This arises from its potency. Men quarrel about
opinion here, because opinion rules. It is but one mode
of struggling for power. But to return to my
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
guardian; he was a man to think and act for himself, and
as far from the magazine and newspaper existence that
most Americans, in a moral sense, pass, as any man
could be.”
“It is indeed a newspaper and magazine existence,”
said John Effingham, smiling at Paul's terms, “to
know life only through such mediums! It is as bad as
the condition of those English who form their notions
of society from novels written by men and women
who have no access to it, and from the records of the
court journal. I thank you sincerely, Mr. Powis, for
this confidence, which has not been idly solicited on
my part, and which shall not be abused. At no distant
day we will break the seals again, and renew
our investigations into this affair of the unfortunate
Monday, which is not yet, certainly, very promising
in the way of revelations.”
The gentlemen shook hands cordially, and Paul,
lighted by his companion, withdrew. When the young
man was at the door of his own room, he turned, and
saw John Effingham following him with his eye. The
latter then renewed the good night, with one of those
winning smiles that rendered his face so brilliantly
handsome, and each retired.
CHAPTER V.
“Item, a capon, 2s. 2d.
Item, sauce, 4d.
Item, sack, two gallons, 5s. 8d.
Item, bread, a half-penny.”
Shakspeare.
The next day John Effingham made no allusion to
the conversation of the previous night, though the
squeeze of the hand he gave Paul, when they met, was
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an assurance that nothing was forgotten. As he had
a secret pleasure in obeying any injunction of Eve's,
the young man himself sought Captain Truck, even
before they had breakfasted, and, as he had made an
acquaintance with `the commodore,' on the lake, previously
to the arrival of the Effinghams, that worthy
was summoned, and regularly introduced to the honest
ship-master. The meeting between these two distinguished
men was grave, ceremonious and dignified,
each probably feeling that he was temporarily the
guardian of a particular portion of an element that
was equally dear to both. After a few minutes passed,
as it might be, in the preliminary points of etiquette,
a better feeling and more confidence was established,
and it was soon settled that they should fish in company,
the rest of the day; Paul promising to row the
ladies out on the lake, and to join them in the course
of the afternoon.
As the party quitted the breakfast-table, Eve took
an occasion to thank the young man for his attention
to their common friend, who, it was reported, had
taken his morning's repast at an early hour, and was
already on the lake, the day by this time having advanced
within two hours of noon.
“I have dared even to exceed your instructions,
Miss Effingham,” said Paul, “for I have promised the
Captain to endeavour to persuade you, and as many
of the ladies as possible, to trust yourselves to my seamanship,
and to submit to be rowed out to the spot
where we shall find him and his friend the commodore
riding at anchor.”
“An engagement that my influence shall be used to
see fulfilled. Mrs. Bloomfield has already expressed
a desire to go on the Otsego-Water, and I make no
doubt I shall find other companions. Once more let
me thank you for this little attention, for I too well
know your tastes, not to understand that you might
find a more agreeable ward.”
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“Upon my word, I feel a sincere regard for our old
Captain, and could often wish for no better companion.
Were he, however, as disagreeable as I find him, in
truth, pleasant and frank, your wishes would conceal
all his faults.”
“You have learned, Mr. Powis, that small attentions
are as much remembered as important services,
and after having saved our lives, wish to prove that
you can discharge les petits devoirs socials, as well as
perform great deeds. I trust you will persuade Sir
George Templemore to be of our party, and at four
we shall be ready to accompany you; until then I am
contracted to a gossip with Mrs. Bloomfield in her
dressing-room.”
We shall now leave the party on the land, and follow
those who have already taken boat, or the fishermen.
The beginning of the intercourse between the
salt-water navigator and his fresh-water companion
was again a little constrained and critical. Their professional
terms agreed as ill as possible, for when the
Captain used the expression `ship the oars,' the commodore
understood just the reverse of what it had been
intended to express; and, once, when he told his companion
to `give way,' the latter took the hint so literally
as actually to cease rowing. All these professional
niceties induced the worthy ship-master to undervalue
his companion, who, in the main, was very skilful in
his particular pursuit, though it was a skill that he
exerted after the fashions of his own lake, and not
after the fashions of the ocean. Owing to several
contre-tems of this nature, by the time they reached
the fishing-ground the Captain began to entertain a
feeling for the commodore, that ill comported with the
deference due to his titular rank.
“I have come out with you, commodore,” said Captain
Truck, when they had got to their station, and
laying a peculiar emphasis on the appellation he used,
“in order to enjoy myself, and you will confer an
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especial favour on me by not using such phrases as
`cable-rope,' `casting anchor,' and `titivating.' As
for the two first, no seaman ever uses them; and I
never heard such a word on board a ship, as the last.
D—e, sir, if I believe it is to be found in the dictionary,
even.”
“You amaze me, sir! `Casting anchor,' and `cable-rope'
are both Bible phrases, and they must be right.”
“That follows by no means, commodore, as I have
some reason to know; for my father having been a
parson, and I being a seaman, we may be said to have
the whole subject, as it were, in the family. St. Paul—
you have heard of such a man as St. Paul, commodore?—”
“I know him almost by heart, Captain Truck; but
St. Peter and St. Andrew were the men most after my
heart. Ours is an ancient calling, sir, and in those two
instances you see to what a fisherman can rise. I do
not remember to have ever heard of a sea-captain who
was converted into a saint.”
“Ay, ay, there is always too much to do on board
ship to have time to be much more than a beginner in
religion. There was my mate, v'y'ge before last, Tom
Leach, who is now master of a ship of his own, had
he been brought up to it properly, he would have made
as conscientious a parson as did his grandfather before
him. Such a man would have been a seaman, as
well as a parson. I have little to say against St. Peter
or St. Andrew, but, in my judgment, they were none
the better saints for having been fishermen; and, if the
truth were known, I dare say they were at the bottom
of introducing such lubberly phrases into the Bible, as
casting-anchor,' and `cable-rope.”
“Pray, sir,” asked the commodore, with dignity,
“what are you in the practice of saying, when you
speak of such matters; for, to be frank with you, we
always use these terms on these lakes.”
“Ay, ay, there is a fresh-water smell about them.
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We say `anchor,' or `let go the anchor,' or `dropped
the anchor,' or some such reasonable expression, and
not `cast anchor,' as if a bit of iron, weighing two or
three tons, is to be jerked about like a stone big
enough to kill a bird with. As for the `cable-rope,' as
you call it, we say the `cable,' or `the chain,' or `the
ground tackle,' according to reason and circumstances.
You never hear a real `salt' flourishing his
`cable-ropes,' and his `casting-anchors,' which are
altogether too sentimental and particular for his manner
of speaking. As for `ropes,' I suppose you have
not got to be a commodore, and need being told how
many there are in a ship.”
“I do not pretend to have counted them, but I have
seen a ship, sir, and one under full sail, too, and I
know there were as many ropes about her as there
are pines on the Vision.”
“Are there more than seven of these trees on your
mountain? for that is just the number of ropes in a
merchant-man; though a man-of-war's-man counts
one or two more.”
“You astonish me, sir! But seven ropes in a ship?—
I should have said there are seven hundred!”
“I dare say, I dare say; that is just the way in
which a landsman pretends to criticise a vessel. As
for the ropes, I will now give you their names, and
then you can lay athwart hawse of these canoe
gentry, by the hour, and teach them rigging and
modesty, both at the same time. In the first place,”
continued the captain, jerking at his line, and then
beginning to count on his fingers — “There is the
`man-rope;' then come the `bucket-rope,' the `tiller-rope,
' the `bolt-rope,' the `foot-rope,' the `top-rope,'
and the `limber-rope.' I have followed the seas, now,
more than half a century, and never yet heard of a
`cable-rope,' from any one who could hand, reef, and
steer.”
“Well, sir, every man to his trade,” said the
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commodore, who just then pulled in a fine pickerel, which
was the third he had taken, while his companion
rejoiced in no more than a few fruitless bites. “You
are more expert in ropes than in lines, it would
seem. I shall not deny your experience and knowledge;
but in the way of fishing, you will at least
allow that the sea is no great school. I dare say,
now, if you were to hook the `sogdollager,' we should
nave you jumping into the lake to get rid of him.
Quite probably, sir, you never before heard of that
celebrated fish?”
Notwithstanding the many excellent qualities of
Captain Truck, he had a weakness that is rather
peculiar to a class of men, who, having seen so much
of this earth, are unwilling to admit they have not seen
it all. The little brush in which he was now engaged
with the commodore, he conceived due to his own dignity,
and his motive was duly to impress his companion
with his superiority, which being fairly admitted,
he would have been ready enough to acknowledge
that the other understood pike-fishing much
better than himself. But it was quite too early in the
discussion to make any such avowal, and the supercilious
remark of the commodore's putting him on his
mettle, he was ready to affirm that he had eaten `sogdollagers'
for breakfast, a month at a time, had it
been necessary.
“Pooh! pooh! man,” returned the captain, with an
air of cool indifference, “you do not surely fancy that
you have any thing in a lake like this, that is not to be
found in the ocean! If you were to see a whale's
flukes thrashing your puddle, every cruiser among you
would run for a port; and as for `sogdollagers,' we
think little of them in salt-water; the flying-fish, or
even the dry dolphin, being much the best eating.”
“Sir,” said the commodore, with some heat, and a
great deal of emphasis, “there is but one `sogdollager'
in the world, and he is in this lake. No man has ever
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seen him, but my predecessor, the `Admiral,' and myself.”
“Bah!” ejaculated the captain, “they are as plenty
as soft clams, in the Mediterranean, and the Egyptians
use them as a pan-fish. In the East, they catch them
to bait with, for hallibut, and other middling sized
creatures, that are particular about their diet. It is a
good fish, I own, as is seen in this very circumstance.”
“Sir,” repeated the commodore, flourishing his hand,
and waxing warm with earnestness, “there is but
one `sogdollager' in the universe, and that is in Lake
Otsego. A `sogdollager' is a salmon trout, and not a
species; a sort of father to all the salmon trout in this
part of the world; a scaly patriarch.”
“I make no doubt your `sogdollager' is scaly enough;
but what is the use in wasting words about such a
trifle? A whale is the only fish fit to occupy a gentleman's
thoughts. As long as I have been at sea, I
have never witnessed the taking of more than three
whales.”
This allusion happily preserved the peace; for, if
there were any thing in the world for which the commodore
entertained a profound, but obscure reverence,
it was for a whale. He even thought better of a man
for having actually seen one, gambolling in the freedom
of the ocean; and his mind became suddenly
oppressed by the glory of a mariner, who had passed
his life among such gigantic animals. Shoving back
his cap, the old man gazed steadily at the captain a
minute, and all his displeasure about the `sogdollagers'
vanished, though, in his inmost mind, he set down all
that the other had told him on that particular subject,
as so many parts of a regular `fish story.'
“Captain Truck,” he said, with solemnity, “I acknowledge
myself to be but an ignorant and inexperienced
man, one who has passed his life on this lake,
which, broad and beautiful as it is, must seem a pond
in the eyes of a seaman like yourself, who have passed
your days on the Atlantic—”
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“Atlantic!” interrupted the captain contemptuously,
“I should have but a poor opinion of myself, had I
seen nothing but the Atlantic! Indeed, I never can
believe I am at sea at all, on the Atlantic, the passages
between New-York and Portsmouth being little
more than so much canalling along a tow-path. If
you wish to say any thing about oceans, talk of the
Pacific, or of the Great South Sea, where a man may
run a month with a fair wind, and hardly go from
island to island. Indeed, that is an ocean in which
there is a manufactory of islands, for they turn them
off in lots to supply the market, and of a size to suit
customers.”
“A manufactory of islands!” repeated the commodore,
who began to entertain an awe of his companion,
that he never expected to feel for any human being
on Lake Otsego; “are you certain, sir, there is no
mistake in this?”
“None in the least; not only islands, but whole
Archipelagos are made annually, by the sea insects in
that quarter of the world; but, then, you are not to
form your notions of an insect in such an ocean, by
the insects you see in such a bit of water as this.”
“As big as our pickerel, or salmon trout, I dare
say?” returned the commodore, in the simplicity of his
heart, for by this time his local and exclusive conceit
was thoroughly humbled, and he was almost ready to
believe any thing.
“I say nothing of their size, for it is to their numbers
and industry that I principally allude now. A solitary
shark, I dare say, would set your whole Lake in
commotion?”
“I think we might manage a shark, sir. I once saw
one of those animals, and I do really believe the sogdollager
would outweigh him. I do think we might
manage a shark, sir.”
“Ay, you mean an in-shore, high-latitude fellow.
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But what would you say to a shark as long as one of
those pines on the mountain?”
“Such a monster would take in a man, whole?”
“A man! He would take in a platoon, Indian file.
I dare say one of those pines, now, may be thirty or
forty feet high!”
A gleam of intelligence and of exultation shot across
the weather-beaten face of the old fisherman, for he
detected a weak spot in the other's knowledge. The
worthy Captain, with that species of exclusiveness
which accompanies excellence in any one thing, was
quite ignorant of most matters that pertain to the
land. That there should be a tree, so far inland, that
was larger than his main-yard, he did not think probable,
although that yard itself was made of part of a
tree; and, in the laudable intention of duly impressing
his companion with the superiority of a real seaman
over a mere fresh-water navigator, he had inadvertently
laid bare a weak spot in his estimate of heights
and distances, that the Commodore seized upon, with
some such avidity as the pike seizes the hook. This
accidental mistake alone saved the latter from an abject
submission, for the cool superiority of the Captain
had so far deprived him of his conceit, that he was almost
ready to acknowledge himself no better than a
dog, when he caught a glimpse of light through this
opening.
“There is not a pine, that can be called of age, on
all the mountain, which is not more than a hundred
feet high, and many are nearer two,” he cried in exultation,
flourishing his hand. “The sea may have its
big monsters, Captain, but our hills have their big trees.
Did you ever see a shark of half that length?”
Now, Captain Truck was a man of truth, although
so much given to occasional humorous violations of
its laws, and, withal, a little disposed to dwell upon the
marvels of the great deep, in the spirit of exaggeration,
and he could not, in conscience, affirm any thing so
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extravagant as this. He was accordingly obliged to admit
his mistake, and from this moment, the conversation
was carried on with a greater regard to equality.
They talked, as they fished, of politics, religion, philosophy,
human nature, the useful arts, abolition, and
most other subjects that would be likely to interest a
couple of Americans who had nothing to do but to
twitch, from time to time, at two lines dangling in the
water. Although few people possess less of the art of
conversation than our own countrymen, no other nation
takes as wide a range in its discussions. He is
but a very indifferent American that does not know, or
thinks he knows, a little of every thing, and neither of
our worthies was in the least backward in supporting
the claims of the national character in this respect.
This general discussion completely restored amity between
the parties; for, to confess the truth, our old
friend the Captain was a little rebuked about the affair
of the tree. The only peculiarity worthy of notice, that
occurred in the course of their various digressions, was
the fact, that the commodore insensibly began to style
his companion “General;” the courtesy of the country,
in his eyes, appearing to require that a man who had
seen so much more than himself, should, at least, enjoy a
title equal to his own in rank, and that of Admiral being
proscribed by the sensitiveness of republican principles.
After fishing a few hours, the old laker pulled
the skiff up to the Point so often mentioned, where he
lighted a fire on the grass, and prepared a dinner.
When every thing was ready, the two seated themselves,
and began to enjoy the fruits of their labours
in a way that will be understood by all sportsmen.
“I have never thought of asking you, general,” said
the commodore, as he began to masticate a perch,
“whether you are an aristocrat or a democrat. We
have had the government pretty much upside-down,
too, this morning, but this question has escaped me.”
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“As we are here by ourselves under these venerable
oaks, and talking like two old messmates,” returned the
general, “I shall just own the truth, and make no bones
of it. I have been captain of my own ship so long,
that I have a most thorough contempt for all equality.
It is a vice that I deprecate, and, whatever may be the
laws of this country, I am of opinion, that equality is
no where borne out by the Law of Nations; which,
after all, commodore, is the only true law for a gentleman
to live under.”
“That is the law of the strongest, if I understand
the matter, general.”
“Only reduced to rules. The Law of Nations, to
own the truth to you, is full of categories, and this will
give an enterprising man an opportunity to make use
of his knowledge. Would you believe, commodore,
that there are countries, in which they lay taxes on
tobacco?”
“Taxes on tobacco! Sir, I never heard of such an
act of oppression under the forms of law! What has
tobacco done, that any one should think of taxing it?”
“I believe, commodore, that its greatest offence is
being so general a favourite. Taxation, I have found,
differs from most other things, generally attacking that
which men most prize.”
“This is quite new to me, general; a tax on tobacco!
The law-makers in those countries cannot chew. I
drink to your good health, sir, and to many happy returns
of such banquets as this.”
Here the commodore raised a large silver punch-bowl,
which Pierre had furnished, to his lips, and fastening
his eyes on the boughs of a knarled oak, he
looked like a man who was taking an observation, for
near a minute. All this time, the captain regarded him
with a sympathetic pleasure, and when the bowl was
free, he imitated the example, levelling his own eye at
a cloud, that seemed floating at an angle of forty-five
degrees above him, expressly for that purpose.
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“There is a lazy cloud!” exclaimed the general, as
he let go his hold to catch breath; “I have been
watching it some time, and it has not moved an inch.”
“Tobacco!” repeated the commodore, drawing a long
breath, as if he was just recovering the play of his
lungs, “I should as soon think of laying a tax on punch.
The country that pursues such a policy must, sooner
or later, meet with a downfall. I never knew good
come of persecution.”
“I find you are a sensible man, commodore, and
regret I did not make your acquaintance earlier in life.
Have you yet made up your mind on the subject of
religious faith?”
“Why, my dear general, not to be nibbling like a
sucker with a sore mouth, with a person of your liberality,
I shall give you a plain history of my adventures,
in the way of experiences, that you may judge for
yourself. I was born an Episcopalian, if one can say
so, but was converted to Presbyterianism at twenty. I
stuck to this denomination about five years, when I
thought I would try the Baptists, having got to be fond
of the water, by this time. At thirty-two I fished a
while with the Methodists; since which conversion, I
have chosen to worship God pretty much by myself,
out here on the lake.”
“Do you consider it any harm, to hook a fish of a
Sunday?”
“No more than it is to eat a fish of a Sunday. I go
altogether by faith, in my religion, general, for they
talked so much to me of the uselessness of works, that
I've got to be very unparticular as to what I do. Your
people who have been converted four or five times, are
like so many pickerel, which strike at every hook.”
“This is very much my case. Now, on the river—
of course you know where the river is?”
“Certain,” said the commodore; “it is at the foot
of the lake.”
“My dear commodore, when we say `the river,'
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we always mean the Connecticut; and I am surprised
a man of your sagacity should require to be told this.
There are people on the river who contend that a ship
should heave-to of a Sunday. They did talk of getting
up an Anti-Sunday-Sailing-Society, but the ship-masters
were too many for them, since they threatened
to start a society to put down the growing of inyens,
(the captain would sometimes use this pronunciation)
except of week-days. Well, I started in life, on the platform
tack, in the way of religion, and I believe I shall
stand on the same course till orders come to `cast anchor,
' as you call it. With you, I hold out for faith, as
the one thing needful. Pray, my good friend, what
are your real sentiments concerning `Old Hickory.'
“Tough, sir;—Tough as a day in February on this
lake. All fins, and gills, and bones.”
“That is the justest character I have yet heard of
the old gentleman; and then it says so much in a few
words; no category about it. I hope the punch is to
your liking?”
On this hint the old fisherman raised the bowl a
second time to his lips, and renewed the agreeable
duty of letting its contents flow down his throat, in a
pleasant stream. This time, he took aim at a gull that
was sailing over his head, only relinquishing the draught
as the bird settled into the water. The `general' was
more particular; for selecting a stationary object, in
the top of an oak, that grew on the mountain near
him, he studied it with an admirable abstruseness of
attention, until the last drop was drained. As soon as
this startling fact was mentioned, however, both the
convives set about repairing the accident, by squeezing
lemons, sweetening water, and mixing liquors, secundem
artem. At the same time, each lighted a cigar,
and the conversation, for some time, was carried on
between their teeth.
“We have been so frank with each other to-day, my
excellent commodore,” said Captain Truck, “that did
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I know your true sentiments concerning Temperance
Societies, I should look on your inmost soul as a part
of myself. By these free communications men get
really to know each other.”
“If liquor is not made to be drunk, for what is it
made? Any one may see that this lake was made for
skiffs and fishing; it has a length, breadth, and depth,
suited to such purposes. Now, here is liquor distilled,
bottled, and corked, and I ask if all does not show that
it was made to be drunk. I dare say your temperance
men are ingenious, but let them answer that if they
can.”
“I wish, from my heart, my dear sir, we had known
each other fifty years since. That would have brought
you acquainted with salt-water, and left nothing to be
desired in your character. We think alike, I believe,
in every thing but on the virtues of fresh-water. If
these temperance people had their way, we should
all be turned into so many Turks, who never taste
wine, and yet marry a dozen wives.”
“One of the great merits of fresh-water, general, is
what I call its mixable quality.”
“There would be an end to Saturday nights, too,
which are the seamen's tea-parties.”
“I question if many of them fish in the rain, from
sunrise to sunset.”
“Or, stand their watches in wet pee-jackets, from
sunset to sunrise. Splicing the main brace at such
times, is the very quintessence of human enjoyments.”
“If liquors were not made to be drunk,” put in the
commodore, logically, “I would again ask for what
are they made? Let the temperance men get over that
difficulty if they can.”
“Commodore, I wish you twenty more good hearty
years of fishing in this lake, which grows, each instant,
more beautiful in my eyes, as I confess does the
whole earth; and to show you that I say no more than
I think, I will clench it with a draught.”
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Captain Truck now brought his right eye to bear on
the new moon, which happened to be at a convenient
height, closed the left one, and continued in that attitude
until the commodore began seriously to think he
was to get nothing besides the lemon-seeds for his
share. This apprehension, however, could only arise
from ignorance of his companion's character, than
whom a juster man, according to the notions of shipmasters,
did not live; and had one measured the punch
that was left in the bowl when this draught was ended,
he would have found that precisely one half of it was
still untouched, to a thimblefull. The commodore now
had his turn; and before he got through, the bottom of
the vessel was as much uppermost as the butt of a clubbed
firelock. When the honest fisherman took breath
after this exploit, and lowered his cup from the vault
of heaven to the surface of the earth, he caught a view
of a boat crossing the lake, coming from the Silent
Pine, to that Point on which they were enjoying so
many agreeable hallucinations on the subject of temperance.
“Yonder is the party from the Wigwam,” he said,
“and they will be just in time to become converts to
our opinions, if they have any doubts on the subjects
we have discussed. Shall we give up the ground to
them, by taking to the skiff, or do you feel disposed to
face the women?”
“Under ordinary circumstances, commodore, I
should prefer your society to all the petticoats in the
State, but there are two ladies in that party, either of
whom I would marry, any day, at a minute's warning.”
“Sir,” said the commodore with a tone of warning,
“we, who have lived bachelors so long, and are wedded
to the water, ought never to speak lightly on so
grave a subject.”
“Nor do I. Two women, one of whom is twenty,
and the other seventy—and hang me if I know which
I prefer.”
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“You would soonest be rid of the last, my dear general,
and my advice is to take her.”
“Old as she is, sir, a king would have to plead hard
to get her consent. We will make them some punch,
that they may see we were mindful of them in their
absence.”
To work these worthies now went in earnest, in
order to anticipate the arrival of the party, and as the
different compounds were in the course of mingling,
the conversation did not flag. By this time both the
salt-water and the fresh-water sailor were in that condition
when men are apt to think aloud, and the commodore
had lost all his awe of his companion.
“My dear sir,” said the former, “I am a thousand
times sorry you came from that river, for, to tell
you my mind without any concealment, my only objection
to you is that you are not of the middle states.
I admit the good qualities of the Yankees, in a general
way, and yet they are the very worst neighbours that
a man can have.”
“This is a new character of them, commodore, as
they generally pass for the best, in their own eyes. I
should like to hear you explain your meaning.”
“I call him a bad neighbour who never remains
long enough in a place to love any thing but himself.
Now, sir, I have a feeling for every pebble on the shore
of this lake, a sympathy with every wave,”—here the
commodore began to twirl his hand about, with the
fingers standing apart, like so many spikes in a chevaux-de-frise—
“and each hour, as I row across it, I
find I like it better; and yet, sir, would you believe me,
I often go away of a morning to pass the day on the
water, and, on returning home at night, find half the
houses filled with new faces.”
“What becomes of the old ones?” demanded Captain
Truck; for this, it struck him, was getting the better
of him with his own weapons. “Do you mean
that the people come and go like the tides?”
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“Exactly so, sir; just as it used to be with the herrings
in the Otsego, before the Susquehannah was
dammed, and is still, with the swallows.”
“Well, well, my good friend, take consolation.
You'll meet all the faces you ever saw here, one day,
in heaven.”
“Never; not a man of them will stay there, if there
be such a thing as moving. Depend on it, sir,” added
the commodore, in the simplicity of his heart, “heaven
is no place for a Yankee, if he can get farther west,
by hook or by crook. They are all too uneasy for any
steady occupation. You, who are a navigator, must
know something concerning the stars; is there such a
thing as another world, that lies west of this?”
“That can hardly be, commodore, since the points
of the compass only refer to objects on this earth.
You know, I suppose, that a man starting from this
spot, and travelling due west, would arrive, in time, at
this very point, coming in from the east; so that what
is west to us, in the heavens, on this side of the world,
is east to those on the other.”
“This I confess I did not know, general. I have
understood that what is good in one man's eyes, will
be bad in another's; but never before have I heard that
what is west to one man, lies east to another. I am
afraid, general, that there is a little of the sogdollager
bait in this?”
“Not enough, sir, to catch the merest fresh-water
gudgeon that swims. No, no; there is neither east nor
west off the earth, nor any up and down; and so we
Yankees must try and content ourselves with heaven.
Now, commodore, hand me the bowl, and we will get
it ready down to the shore, and offer the ladies our
homage. And so you have become a laker in your
religion, my dear commodore,” continued the general,
between his teeth, while he smoked and squeezed a
lemon at the same time, “and do your worshipping on
the water?”
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“Altogether of late, and more especially since my
dream.”
“Dream! My dear sir, I should think you altogether
too innocent a man to dream.”
“The best of us have our failings, general. I do
sometimes dream, I own, as well as the greatest sinner
of them all.”
“And of what did you dream—the sogdollager?”
“I dreamt of death.”
“Of slipping the cable!” cried the general, looking
up suddenly. “Well, what was the drift?”
“Why, sir, having no wings, I went down below,
and soon found myself in the presence of the old gentleman
himself.”
“That was pleasant—had he a tail? I have always
been curious to know whether he really has a tail or
not.”
“I saw none, sir, but then we stood face to face, like
gentlemen, and I cannot describe what I did not see.”
“Was he glad to see you, commodore?”
“Why, sir, he was civilly spoken, but his occupation
prevented many compliments.”
“Occupation!”
“Certainly, sir; he was cutting out shoes, for his
imps to travel about in, in order to stir up mischief.”
“And did he set you to work?—This is a sort of
State-Prison affair, after all!”
“No sir, he was too much of a gentleman to set me
at making shoes as soon as I arrived. He first inquired
what part of the country I was from, and when I told
him, he was curious to know what most of the people
were about in our neighbourhood.”
“You told him, of course, commodore?”
“Certainly, sir, I told him their chief occupation
was quarrelling about religion; making saints of themselves,
and sinners of their neighbours. `Hollo!' says
the Devil, calling out to one of his imps, `boy, run and
catch my horse—I must be off, and have a finger in
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that pie. What denominations have you in that quarter,
commodore?' So I told him, general, that we
had Baptists, and Quakers, and Universalists, and
Episcopalians, and Presbyterians, old-lights, new-lights,
and blue-lights; and Methodists—. `Stop,' said the
Devil, `that's enough; you imp, be nimble with that
horse.—Let me see, commodore, what part of the
country did you say you came from?' I told him the
name more distinctly this time —”
“The very spot?”
“Town and county.”
“And what did the Devil say to that?”
“He called out to the imp, again—`Hollo, you boy,
never mind that horse; these people will all be here
before I can get there.' ”
Here the commodore and the general began to
laugh, until the arches of the forest rang with their
merriment. Three times they stopped, and as often
did they return to their glee, until, the punch being
ready, each took a fresh draught, in order to ascertain
if it were fit to be offered to the ladies.
CHAPTER VI.
“O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?”
Romeo and Juliet.
The usual effect of punch is to cause people to see
double; but, on this occasion, the mistake was the other
way, for two boats had touched the strand, instead of
the one announced by the commodore, and they brought
with them the whole party from the Wigwam, Steadfast
and Aristabulus included. A domestic or two had
also been brought to prepare the customary repast.
Captain Truck was as good as his word, as respects
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the punch, and the beverage was offered to each of the
ladies in form, as soon as her feet had touched the
green sward which covers that beautiful spot. Mrs.
Hawker declined drinking, in a way to delight the gallant
seaman; for so completely had she got the better
of all his habits and prejudices, that every thing she
did seemed right and gracious in his eyes.
The party soon separated into groups, or pairs, some
being seated on the margin of the limpid water, enjoying
the light cool airs, by which it was fanned, others
lay off in the boats fishing, while the remainder plunged
into the woods, that, in their native wildness, bounded
the little spot of verdure, which, canopied by old oaks,
formed the arena so lately in controversy. In this manner,
an hour or two soon slipped away, when a summons
was given for all to assemble around the viands.
The repast was laid on the grass, notwithstanding
Aristabulus more than hinted that the public, his beloved
public, usually saw fit to introduce rude tables
for that purpose. The Messrs. Effinghams, however,
were not to be taught by a mere bird of passage, how
a rustic fête so peculiarly their own, ought to be conducted,
and the attendants were directed to spread the
dishes on the turf. Around this spot, rustic seats were
improvisés, and the business of restauration proceeded.
Of all there assembled, the Parisian feelings of Mademoiselle
Viefville were the most excited; for to her,
the scene was one of pure delights, with the noble
panorama of forest-clad mountains, the mirror-like
lake, the overshadowing oaks, and the tangled brakes
of the adjoining woods.
“Mais, vraiment ceci surpasse les Tuileries, même
dans leur propre genre!” she exclaimed, with energy.
“On passerait volontiers par les dangers du désert pour
y parvenir.”
Those who understood her, smiled at this characteristic
remark, and most felt disposed to join in the
enthusiasm. Still, the manner in which their
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companions expressed the happiness they felt, appeared
tame and unsatisfactory to Mr. Bragg and Mr. Dodge,
these two persons being accustomed to see the young
of the two sexes indulge in broader exhibitions of
merry-making than those in which it comported with
the tastes and habits of the present party to indulge.
In vain Mrs. Hawker, in her quiet dignified way,
enjoyed the ready wit and masculine thoughts of Mrs.
Bloomfield, appearing to renew her youth; or, Eve,
with her sweet simplicity, and highly cultivated mind
and improved tastes, seemed like a highly-polished
mirror, to throw back the flashes of thought and
memory, that so constantly gleamed before both; it
was all lost on these thoroughly matter-of-fact utilitarians.
Mr. Effingham, all courtesy and mild refinement,
was seldom happier; and John Effingham was
never more pleasant, for he had laid aside the severity
of his character, to appear, what he ought always to
have been, a man in whom intelligence and quickness
of thought could be made to seem secondary to the
gentler qualities. The young men were not behind
their companions, either, each, in his particular way,
appearing to advantage, gay, regulated, and full
of a humour that was rendered so much the more
agreeable, by drawing its images from a knowledge
of the world, that was tempered by observation and
practice.
Poor Grace, alone, was the only one of the whole
party, always excepting Aristabulus and Steadfast,
who, for those fleeting but gay hours, was not thoroughly
happy. For the first time in her life, she felt
her own deficiencies, that ready and available knowledge,
so exquisitely feminine in its nature and exhibition,
which escaped Mrs. Bloomfield and Eve, as it
might be from its own excess; which the former possessed
almost intuitively, a gift of Heaven, and which
the latter enjoyed, not only from the same source, but
as a just consequence of her long and steady
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selfdenial, application, and a proper appreciation of her
duty to herself, was denied one who, in ill-judged
compliance with the customs of a society that has no
other apparent aim than the love of display, had precluded
herself from enjoyments that none but the intellectual
can feel. Still Grace was beautiful and attractive;
and though she wondered where her cousin, in
general so simple and unpretending, had acquired all
those stores of thought, that, in the abandon and freedom
of such a fête, escaped her in rich profusion,
embellished with ready allusions and a brilliant though
chastened wit, her generous and affectionate heart
could permit her to wonder without envying. She
perceived, for the first time, on this occasion, that if
Eve were indeed a Hajji, it was not a Hajji of a common
school; and, while her modesty and self-abasement
led her bitterly to regret the hours irretrievably
wasted in the frivolous levities so common to those of
her sex with whom she had been most accustomed to
mingle, her sincere regret did not lessen her admiration
for one she began tenderly to love.
As for Messrs. Dodge and Bragg, they both determined,
in their own minds, that this was much the
most stupid entertainment they had ever seen on that
spot, for it was entirely destitute of loud laughing,
noisy merriment, coarse witticisms, and practical
jokes. To them it appeared the height of arrogance,
for any particular set of persons to presume to come
to a spot, rendered sacred by the public suffrage in its
favour, in order to indulge in these outlandish dog-in-the-mangerisms.
Towards the close of this gay repast, and when the
party were about to yield their places to the attendants,
who were ready to re-ship the utensils, John
Effingham observed—
“I trust, Mrs. Hawker, you have been duly warned
of the catastrophe-character of this point, on which
woman is said never to have been wooed in vain.
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Here are Captain Truck and myself, ready at any
moment to use these carving knives, faute des Bowies,
in order to show our desperate devotion; and I deem it
no more than prudent in you, not to smile again this
day, lest the cross-eyed readings of jealousy should
impute a wrong motive.”
“Had the injunction been against laughing, sir, I
might have resisted, but smiles are far too feeble to
express one's approbation, on such a day as this; you
may, therefore, trust to my discretion. Is it then true,
however, that Hymen haunts these shades?”
“A bachelor's history of the progress of love, may
be, like the education of his children, distrusted; but so
sayeth tradition; and I never put my foot in the place,
without making fresh vows of constancy to myself.
After this announcement of the danger, dare you accept
an arm, for I perceive signs that life cannot be entirely
wasted in these pleasures, great as they may prove.”
The whole party arose, and separating naturally,
they strolled in groups or pairs again, along the pebbly
strand, or beneath the trees, while the attendants made
the preparations to depart. Accident, as much as
design, left Sir George and Grace alone, for neither
perceived the circumstance until they had both passed
a little rise in the formation of the ground, and were
beyond the view of their companions. The baronet
was the first to perceive how much he had been
favoured by fortune, and his feelings were touched by
the air of gentle melancholy, that shaded the usually
bright and brilliant countenance of the beautiful girl.
“I should have thrice enjoyed this pleasant day,” he
said, with an interest in his manner, that caused the
heart of Grace to beat quicker, “had I not seen that to
you it has been less productive of satisfaction, than to
most of those around you. I fear you may not be as
well, as usual?”
“In health, never better, though not in spirits, perhaps.”
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“I could wish I had a right to inquire why you,
who have so few causes in general to be out of spirits,
should have chosen a moment so little in accordance
with the common feeling.”
“I have chosen no moment; the moment has chosen
me, I fear. Not until this day, Sir George Templemore,
have I ever been truly sensible of my great
inferiority to my cousin, Eve.”
“An inferiority that no one but yourself would observe
or mention.”
“No, I am neither vain enough, nor ignorant enough,
to be the dupe of this flattery,” returned Grace, shaking
her hands and head, while she forced a smile; for even
the delusions those we love pour into our ears, are
not without their charms. “When I first met my
cousin, after her return, my own imperfections rendered
me blind to her superiority; but she herself has
gradually taught me to respect her mind, her womanly
character, her tact, her delicacy, principles, breeding,
every thing that can make a woman estimable, or
worthy to be loved! Oh! how have I wasted in
childish amusements, and frivolous vanities, the precious
moments of that girlhood which can never be recalled,
and left myself scarcely worthy to be an associate of
Eve Effingham!”
The first feelings of Grace had so far gotten the
control, that she scarce knew what she said, or to
whom she was speaking; she even wrung her hands,
in the momentary bitterness of her regrets, and in a
way to arouse all the sympathy of a lover.
“No one but yourself would say this, Miss Van
Cortlandt, and least of all your admirable cousin.”
“She is, indeed, my admirable cousin! But what
are we, in comparison with such a woman. Simple
and unaffected as a child, with the intelligence of a
scholar; with all the graces of a woman, she has the
learning and mind of a man. Mistress of so many
languages—”
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“But you, too, speak several, my dear Miss Van
Cortlandt.”
“Yes,” said Grace, bitterly, “I speak them, as the
parrot repeats words that he does not understand. But
Eve Effingham has used these languages as means,
and she does not tell you merely what such a phrase
or idiom signifies, but what the greatest writers have
thought and written.”
“No one has a more profound respect for your cousin
than myself, Miss Van Cortlandt, but justice to you
requires that I should say her great superiority over
yourself has escaped me.”
“This may be true, Sir George Templemore, and
for a long time it escaped me too. I have only learned
to prize her as she ought to be prized by an intimate
acquaintance; hour by hour, as it might be. But even
you must have observed how quick and intuitively my
cousin and Mrs. Bloomfield have understood each other
to-day; how much extensive reading, and what polished
tastes they have both shown, and all so truly
feminine! Mrs. Bloomfield is a remarkable woman,
but she loves these exhibitions, for she knows she excels
in them. Not so with Eve Effingham, who, while
she so thoroughly enjoys every thing intellectual, is content,
always, to seem so simple. Now, it happens, that
the conversation turned once to-day on a subject that
my cousin, no later than yesterday, fully explained to
me, at my own earnest request; and I observed that,
while she joined so naturally with Mrs. Bloomfield in
adding to our pleasure, she kept back half what she
knew, lest she might seem to surpass her friend. No—
no—no—there is not such another woman as Eve
Effingham in this world!”
“So keen a perception of excellence in others, denotes
an equal excellence in yourself.”
“I know my own great inferiority now, and no kindness
of yours, Sir George Templemore, can ever persuade
me into a better opinion of myself. Eve has
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travelled, seen much in Europe that does not exist here,
and, instead of passing her youth in girlish trifling, has
treated the minutes as if they were all precious, as she
well knew them to be.”
“If Europe, then, does indeed possess these advantages,
why not yourself visit it, dearest Miss Van
Cortlandt?”
“I—I a Hajji!” cried Grace with childish pleasure,
though her colour heightened, and, for a moment, Eve
and her superiority was forgotten.
Certainly Sir George Templemore did not come out
on the lake that day with any expectation of offering
his baronetcy, his fair estate, with his hand, to this artless,
half-educated, provincial, but beautiful girl. For
a long time he had been debating with himself the propriety
of such a step, and it is probable that, at some
later period, he would have sought an occasion, had
not one now so opportunely offered, notwithstanding
all his doubts and reasonings with himself. If the
“woman who hesitates is lost,” it is equally true that
the man who pretends to set up his reason alone against
beauty, is certain to find that sense is less powerful
than the senses. Had Grace Van Cortlandt been more
sophisticated, less natural, her beauty might have failed
to make this conquest; but the baronet found a charm
in her naiveté, that was singularly winning to the feelings
of a man of the world. Eve had first attracted
him by the same quality; the early education of American
females being less constrained and artificial than
that of the English; but in Eve he found a mental training
and acquisitions that left the quality less conspicuous,
perhaps, than in her scarcely less beautiful cousin;
though, had Eve met his admiration with any thing
like sympathy, her power over him would not have
been easily weakened. As it was, Grace had been
gradually winding herself around his affections, and
he now poured out his love, in a language that her unpractised
and already favourably disposed feelings had
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no means of withstanding. A very few minutes were
allowed to them, before the summons to the boat; but
when this summons came, Grace rejoined the party,
elevated in her own good opinion, as happy as a cloudless
future could make her, and without another
thought of the immeasurable superiority of her cousin.
By a singular coincidence, while the baronet and
Grace were thus engaged on one part of the shore,
Eve was the subject of a similar proffer of connecting
herself for life, on another. She had left the circle,
attended by Paul, her father, and Aristabulus; but no
sooner had they reached the margin of the water, than
the two former were called away by Captain Truck,
to settle some controverted point between the latter
and the commodore. By this unlooked-for desertion,
Eve found herself alone with Mr. Bragg.
“That was a funny and comprehensive remark Mr.
John made about the `Point,' Miss Eve,” Aristabulus
commenced, as soon as he found himself in possession
of the ground. “I should like to know if it be really
true that no woman was ever unsuccessfully wooed
beneath these oaks? If such be the case, we gentlemen
ought to be cautious how we come here.”
Here Aristabulus simpered, and looked, if possible,
more amiable than ever; though the quiet composure
and womanly dignity of Eve, who respected herself
too much, and too well knew what was due to her sex,
even to enter into, or, so far as it depended on her will,
to permit any of that common-place and vulgar trifling
about love and matrimony, which formed a never-failing
theme between the youthful of the two sexes, in
Mr. Bragg's particular circle, sensibly curbed his ambitious
hopes. Still he thought he had made too good
an opening, not to pursue the subject.
“Mr. John Effingham sometimes indulges in pleasantries,”
Eve answered, “that would lead one astray
who might attempt to follow.”
“Love is a jack-o'-lantern,” rejoined Aristabulus,
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sentimentally. “That I admit; and it is no wonder
so many get swamped in following his lights. Have
you ever felt the tender passion, Miss Eve?”
Now, Aristabulus had heard this question put at the
soirée of Mrs. Houston, more than once, and he believed
himself to be in the most polite road for a
regular declaration. An ordinary woman, who felt
herself offended by this question, would, most probably,
have stepped back, and, raising her form to its utmost
elevation, answered by an emphatic “sir!” Not so
with Eve. She felt the distance between Mr. Bragg
and herself to be so great, that by no probable means
could he even offend her by any assumption of equality.
This distance was the result of opinions, habits, and
education, rather than of condition, however; for,
though Eve Effingham could become the wife of a
gentleman only, she was entirely superior to those prejudices
of the world that depend on purely factitious
causes. Instead of discovering surprise, indignation,
or dramatic dignity, therefore, at this extraordinary
question, she barely permitted a smile to curl her handsome
mouth; and this so slightly, as to escape her
companion's eye.
“I believe we are to be favoured with as smooth
water, in returning to the village, as we had in the
morning, while coming to this place,” she simply said.
“You row sometimes, I think, Mr. Bragg?”
“Ah! Miss Eve, such another opportunity may
never occur again, for you foreign ladies are so difficult
of access! Let me, then, seize this happy moment,
here, beneath the hymeneal oaks, to offer you
this faithful hand and this willing heart. Of fortune
you will have enough for both, and I say nothing about
the miserable dross. Reflect, Miss Eve, how happy
we might be, protecting and soothing the old age of
your father, and in going down the hill of life in company;
or, as the song says, `and hand in hand we'll
go, and sleep the'gither at the foot, John Anderson,
my Joe.' ”
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“You draw very agreeable pictures, Mr. Bragg,
and with the touches of a master!”
“However agreeable you find them, Miss Eve,
they fall infinitely short of the truth. The tie of wedlock,
besides being the most sacred, is also the dearest;
and happy, indeed, are they who enter into the
solemn engagement with such cheerful prospects as
ourselves. Our ages are perfectly suitable, our disposition
entirely consonant, our habits so similar as to
obviate all unpleasant changes, and our fortunes precisely
what they ought to be to render a marriage happy,
with confidence on one side, and gratitude on the
other. As to the day, Miss Eve, I could wish to leave
you altogether the mistress of that, and shall not be
urgent.”
Eve had often heard John Effingham comment on
the cool impudence of a particular portion of the American
population, with great amusement to herself; but
never did she expect to be the subject of an attack like
this in her own person. By way of rendering the
scene perfect, Aristabulus had taken out his penknife,
cut a twig from a bush, and he now rendered himself
doubly interesting by commencing the favourite occupation
of whittling. A cooler picture of passion could
not well have been drawn.
“You are bashfully silent, Miss Eve! I make all
due allowances for natural timidity, and shall say no
more at present—though, as silence universally `gives
consent—' ”
“If you please, sir,” interrupted Eve, with a slight
motion of her parasol, that implied a check. “I presume
our habits and opinions, notwithstanding you
seem to think them so consonant with each other,
are sufficiently different to cause you not to see the
impropriety of one, who is situated like yourself,
abusing the confidence of a parent, by making such a
proposal to a daughter without her father's knowledge;
and, on that point, I shall say nothing. But as you
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have done me the honour of making me a very unequivocal
offer of your hand, I wish that the answer
may be as distinct as the proposal. I decline the advantage
and happiness of becoming your wife, sir—”
“Time flies, Miss Eve!”
“Time does fly, Mr. Bragg; and, if you remain
much longer in the employment of Mr. Effingham, you
may lose an opportunity of advancing your fortunes at
the west, whither I understand it has long been your
intention to emigrate—”
“I will readily relinquish all my hopes at the west,
for your sake.”
“No, sir, I cannot be a party to such a sacrifice. I
will not say forget me, but forget your hopes here, and
renew those you have so unreflectingly abandoned beyond
the Mississippi. I shall not represent this conversation
to Mr. Effingham in a manner to create any
unnecessary prejudices against you; and while I thank
you, as every woman should, for an offer that must infer
some portion, at least, of your good opinion, you
will permit me again to wish you all lawful success in
your western enterprises.”
Eve gave Mr. Bragg no farther opportunity to
renew his suit; for, she curtsied and left him, as she
ceased speaking. Mr. Dodge, who had been a distant
observer of the interview, now hastened to join his
friend, curious to know the result, for it had been privately
arranged between these modest youths, that
each should try his fortune in turn, with the heiress,
did she not accept the first proposal. To the chagrin
of Steadfast, and probably to the reader's surprise,
Aristabulus informed his friend that Eve's manner and
language had been full of encouragement.
“She thanked me for the offer, Mr. Dodge,” he
said, “and her wishes for my future prosperity at the
west, were warm and repeated. Eve Effingham is,
indeed, a charming creature!”
“At the west! Perhaps she meant differently from
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what you imagine. I know her well; the girl is full
of art.”
“Art, sir! she spoke as plainly as woman could
speak, and I repeat that I feel considerably encouraged.
It is something, to have had so plain a conversation
with Eve Effingham.”
Mr. Dodge swallowed his discontent, and the whole
party soon embarked, to return to the village; the
commodore and general taking a boat by themselves,
in order to bring their discussion on human affairs in
general, to a suitable close.
That night, Sir George Templemore, asked an
interview with Mr. Effingham, when the latter was
alone in his library.
“I sincerely hope this request is not the forerunner
of a departure,” said the host kindly, as the young
man entered, “in which case I shall regard you as one
unmindful of the hopes he has raised. You stand
pledged by implication, if not in words, to pass another
month with us.”
“So far from entertaining an intention so faithless,
my dear sir, I am fearful that you may think I trespass
too far on your hospitality.”
He then communicated his wish to be allowed to
make Grace Van Cortlandt his wife. Mr. Effingham
heard him with a smile, that showed he was not altogether
unprepared for such a demand, and his eye
glistened as he squeezed the other's hand.
“Take her with all my heart, Sir George,” he said,
“but remember you are transferring a tender plant into
a strange soil. There are not many of your countrymen
to whom I would confide such a trust, for I know
the risk they run who make ill-assorted unions—”
“Ill-assorted unions, Mr. Effingham!”
“Yours will not be one, in the ordinary acceptation
of the term, I know; for in years, birth and fortune, you
and my dear niece are as much on an equality as can
be desired: but it is too often an ill-assorted union for
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an American woman to become an English wife. So
much depends on the man, that with one in whom I
have less confidence than I have in you, I might justly
hesitate. I shall take a guardian's privilege, though
Grace be her own mistress, and give you one solemn
piece of advice—always respect the country of the
woman you have thought worthy to bear your name.”
“I hope always to respect every thing that is hers;
but, why this particular caution?—Miss Van Cortlandt
is almost English in her heart.”
“An affectionate wife will take her bias in such matters,
generally from her husband. Your country will
be her country, your God her God. Still, Sir George
Templemore, a woman of spirit and sentiment can
never wholly forget the land of her birth. You love
us not in England, and one who settles there will often
have occasion to hear gibes and sneers on the land from
which she came—”
“Good God, Mr. Effingham, you do not think I shall
take my wife into society where—”
“Bear with a proser's doubts, Templemore. You
will do all that is well-intentioned and proper, I dare
say, in the usual acceptation of the words; but I wish
you to do more; that which is wise. Grace has now
a sincere reverence and respect for England, feelings
that in many particulars are sustained by the facts,
and will be permanent; but, in some things, observation,
as it usually happens with the young and sanguine,
will expose the mistakes into which she has been
led by enthusiasm and the imagination. As she knows
other countries better, she will come to regard her
own with more favourable and discriminating eyes,
losing her sensitiveness on account of peculiarities she
now esteems, and taking new views of things. Perhaps
you will think me selfish, but I shall add, also,
that if you wish to cure your wife of any homesickness,
the surest mode will be to bring her back to
her native land.”
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“Nay, my dear sir,” said Sir George, laughing,
“this is very much like acknowledging its blemishes.”
“I am aware it has that appearance, and yet the
fact is otherwise. The cure is as certain with the
Englishman as with the American; and with the German
as with either. It depends on a general law,
which causes us all to over-estimate by-gone pleasures
and distant scenes, and to undervalue those of
the present moment. You know I have always maintained
there is no real philosopher short of fifty, nor
any taste worth possessing that is a dozen years old.”
Here Mr. Effingham rang the bell, and desired
Pierre to request Miss Van Cortlandt to join him in
the library. Grace entered blushing and shy, but with
a countenance beaming with inward peace. Her
uncle regarded her a moment intently, and a tear glistened
in his eye, again, as he tenderly kissed her burning
cheek.
“God bless you, love,” he said—“'tis a fearful
change for your sex, and yet you all enter into it radiant
with hope, and noble in your confidence. Take her,
Templemore,” giving her hand to the baronet, “and
deal kindly by her. You will not desert us entirely.
I trust I shall see you both once more in the Wigwam
before I die.”
“Uncle—uncle—” burst from Grace, as, drowned
in tears, she threw herself into Mr. Effingham's arms;
“I am an ungrateful girl, thus to abandon all my
natural friends. I have acted wrong—”
“Wrong, dearest Miss Van Cortlandt!”
“Selfishly, then, Sir George Templemore,” the simple-hearted
girl ingenuously added, scarcely knowing
how much her words implied—“Perhaps this matter
might be reconsidered.”
“I am afraid little would be gained by that, my
love,” returned the smiling uncle, wiping his eyes at
the same instant. “The second thoughts of ladies
usually confirm the first, in such matters. God bless
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you, Grace;—Templemore, may Heaven have you,
too, in its holy keeping. Remember what I have said,
and to-morrow we will converse further on the subject.
Does Eve know of this, my niece?”
The colour went and came rapidly in Grace's
cheek, and she looked to the floor, abashed.
“We ought then to send for her,” resumed Mr.
Effingham, again reaching towards the bell.
“Uncle—” and Grace hurriedly interposed, in time
to save the string from being pulled. “Could I keep
such an important secret from my dearest cousin!”
“I find that I am the last in the secret, as is generally
the case with old fellows, and I believe I am even
now de trop.”
Mr. Effingham kissed Grace again affectionately,
and, although she strenuously endeavoured to detain
him, he left the room.
“We must follow,” said Grace, hastily wiping her
eyes, and rubbing the traces of tears from her cheeks—
“Excuse me, Sir George Templemore; will you
open—”
He did, though it was not the door, but his arms.
Grace seemed like one that was rendered giddy by
standing on a precipice, but when she fell, the young
baronet was at hand to receive her. Instead of quitting
the library that instant, the bell had announced the
appearance of the supper-tray, before she remembered
that she had so earnestly intended to do so.
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CHAPTER VII.
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“This day, no man thinks
He has business at his house.”
King Henry VIII.
The warm weather, which was always a little behind
that of the lower counties, had now set in among
the mountains, and the season had advanced into the
first week in July. “Independence Day,” as the fourth
of that month is termed by the Americans, arrived;
and the wits of Templeton were taxed, as usual, in
order that the festival might be celebrated with the
customary intellectual and moral treat. The morning
commenced with a parade of the two or three uniformed
companies of the vicinity, much gingerbread
and spruce-beer were consumed in the streets, no light
potations of whiskey were swallowed in the groceries,
and a great variety of drinks, some of which bore
very ambitious names, shared the same fate in the
taverns.
Mademoiselle Viefville had been told that this was
the great American fête; the festival of the nation; and
she appeared that morning in gay ribands, and with
her bright, animated face, covered with smiles for the
occasion. To her surprise, however, no one seemed
to respond to her feelings; and as the party rose from
the breakfast-table, she took an opportunity to ask an
explanation of Eve, in a little `aside.'
“Est-ce que je me suis trompée, ma chere?” demanded
the lively Frenchwoman. “Is not this la célebration
de votre indépendance?”
“You are not mistaken, my dear Mademoiselle
Viefville, and great preparations are made to do it
honour. I understand there is to be a military parade,
an oration, a dinner, and fire-works.”
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“Monsieur votre père—?”
“Monsieur mon père is not much given to rejoicings,
and he takes this annual joy, much as a valetudinarian
takes his morning draught.”
“Et Monsieur Jean Effingham—?”
“Is always a philosopher; you are to expect no antics
from him.”
“Mais ces jeunes gens, Monsieur Bragg, Monsieur
Dodge, et Monsieur Powis, même!”
“Se réjouissent en Américains. I presume you are
aware that Mr. Powis has declared himself to be an
American?”
Mademoiselle Viefville looked towards the streets,
along which divers tall, sombre-looking countrymen,
with faces more lugubrious than those of the mutes
of a funeral, were sauntering, with a desperate air of
enjoyment; and she shrugged her shoulders, as she
muttered to herself, “que ces Americains sont drôles!”
At a later hour, however, Eve surprised her father,
and indeed most of the Americans of the party, by
proposing that the ladies should walk out into the
street, and witness the fête.
“My child, this is a strange proposition to come
from a young lady of twenty,” said her father.
“Why strange, dear sir?—We always mingled in
the village fêtes in Europe.”
“Certainement,” cried the delighted Mademoiselle
Viefville; “c'est de rigueur, même.”
“And it is de rigueur, here, Mademoiselle, for
young ladies to keep out of them,” put in John Effingham.
“I should be very sorry to see either of you
three ladies in the streets of Templeton to-day.”
“Why so, cousin Jack? Have we any thing to fear
from the rudeness of our countrymen? I have always
understood, on the countrary, that in no other part of
the world is woman so uniformly treated with respect
and kindness, as in this very republic of ours; and
yet, by all these ominous faces, I perceive that it will
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not do for her to trust herself in the streets of a village
on a festa.”
“You are not altogether wrong, in what you now
say, Miss Effingham, nor are you wholly right. Woman,
as a whole, is well treated in America; and yet
it will not do for a lady to mingle in scenes like these,
as ladies may and do mingle with them in Europe.”
“I have heard this difference accounted for,” said
Paul Powis, “by the fact that women have no legal
rank in this country. In those nations where the station
of a lady is protected by legal ordinances, it is
said she may descend with impunity; but, in this,
where all are equal before the law, so many misunderstand
the real merits of their position, that she is obliged
to keep aloof from any collisions with those who might
be disposed to mistake their own claims.”
“But I wish for no collisions, no associations, Mr.
Powis, but simply to pass through the streets, with my
cousin and Mademoiselle Viefville, to enjoy the sight
of the rustic sports, as one would do in France, or
Italy, or even in republican Switzerland, if you insist
on a republican example.”
“Rustic sports!” repeated Aristabulus with a frightened
look—“the people will not bear to hear their
sports called rustic, Miss Effingham.”
“Surely, sir,”—Eve never spoke to Mr. Bragg, now,
without using a repelling politeness—“surely, sir, the
people of these mountains will hardly pretend that
their sports are those of a capital.”
“I merely mean, ma'am, that the term would be
monstrously unpopular; nor do I see why the sports
in a city”—Aristabulus was much too peculiar in his
notions, to call any place that had a mayor and aldermen
a town,—“should not be just as rustic as those
of a village. The countrary supposition violates the
principle of equality.”
“And do you decide against us, dear sir?” Eve added,
looking at Mr. Effingham.
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“Without stopping to examine causes, my child, I
shall say that I think you had better all remain at
home.”
“Voilà, Mademoiselle Viefville, une fête Americaine!”
A shrug of the shoulders was the significant reply.
“Nay, my daughter, you are not entirely excluded
from the festivities; all gallantry has not quite deserted
the land.”
“A young lady shall walk alone with a young gentleman—
shall ride alone with him—shall drive out
alone with him—shall not move without him, dans le
monde, mais, she shall not walk in the crowd, to look
at une fête avec son père!” exclaimed Mademoiselle
Viefville, in her imperfect English. “Je désespère,
vraiment, to understand some habitudes Americaines!”
“Well, Mademoiselle, that you may not think us altogether
barbarians, you shall, at least, have the benefit
of the oration.”
“You may well call it the oration, Ned; for, I believe
one, or, certainly one skeleton, has served some thousand
orators annually, any time these sixty years.”
“Of this skeleton, then, the ladies shall have the
benefit. The procession is about to form, I hear; and
by getting ready immediately, we shall be just in time
to obtain good seats.”
Mademoiselle Viefville was delighted; for, after trying
the theatres, the churches, sundry balls, the opera,
and all the admirable gaieties of New-York, she had
reluctantly come to the conclusion that America was a
very good country pour s'ennuyer, and for very little
else; but here was the promise of a novelty. The
ladies completed their preparations, and, accordingly,
attended by all the gentlemen, made their appearance
in the assembly, at the appointed hour.
The orator, who, as usual, was a lawyer, was already
in possession of the pulpit, for one of the village
churches had been selected as the scene of the ceremonies.
He was a young man, who had recently been
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called to the bar, it being as much in rule for the legal
tyro to take off the wire-edge of his wit in a Fourth
of July oration, as it was formerly for a Mousquetaire
to prove his spirit in a duel. The academy which,
formerly, was a servant of all work to the public, being
equally used for education, balls, preaching, town-meetings,
and caucuses, had shared the fate of most
American edifices in wood, having lived its hour and
been burned; and the collection of people, whom we
have formerly had occasion to describe, appeared to
have also vanished from the earth, for nothing could
be less alike in exterior, at least, than those who had
assembled under the ministry of Mr. Grant, and their
successors, who were now collected to listen to the
wisdom of Mr. Writ. Such a thing as a coat of two
generations was no longer to be seen; the latest fashion,
or what was thought to be the latest fashion, being
as rigidly respected by the young farmer, or the
young mechanic, as by the more admitted bucks, the
law student, and the village shop-boy. All the red
cloaks had long since been laid aside to give place to
imitation merino shawls, or, in cases of unusual moderation
and sobriety, to mantles of silk. As Eve glanced
her eye around her, she perceived Tuscan hats, bonnets
of gay colours and flowers, and dresses of French
chintzes, where fifty years ago would have been seen
even men's woollen hats, and homely English calicoes.
It is true that the change among the men was not quite
as striking, for their attire admits of less variety; but
the black stock had superseded the check handkerchief
and the bandanna; gloves had taken the places of mittens;
and the coarse and clownish shoe of “cow-hide”
was supplanted by the calf-skin boot.
“Where are your peasants, your rustics, your milk
and dairy maids—the people, in short”—whispered Sir
George Templemore to Mrs. Bloomfield, as they took
their seats; “or is this occasion thought to be too intellectual
for them, and the present assembly composed
only of the élite?”
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“These are the people, and a pretty fair sample, too,
of their appearance and deportment. Most of these men
are what you in England would call operatives, and
the women are their wives, daughters, and sisters.”
The baronet said nothing at the moment, but he sat
looking around him with a curious eye for some time,
when he again addressed his companion.
“I see the truth of what you say, as regards the
men, for a critical eye can discover the proofs of their
occupations; but, surely, you must be mistaken as respects
your own sex; there is too much delicacy of
form and feature for the class you mean.”
“Nevertheless, I have said naught but truth.”
“But look at the hands and the feet, dear Mrs. Bloomfield.
Those are French gloves, too, or I am mistaken.”
“I will not positively affirm that the French gloves
actually belong to the dairy-maids, though I have
known even this prodigy; but, rely on it, you see here
the proper female counterparts of the men, and singularly
delicate and pretty females are they, for persons
of their class. This is what you call democratic
coarseness and vulgarity, Miss Effingham tells me, in
England.”
Sir George smiled, but, as what it is the fashion of
the country to call `the exercises,' just then began, he
made no other answer.
These exercises commenced with instrumental music,
certainly the weakest side of American civilization.
That of the occasion of which we write, had
three essential faults, all of which are sufficiently general
to be termed characteristic, in a national point of
view. In the first place, the instruments themselves
were bad; in the next place, they were assorted without
any regard to harmony; and, in the last place,
their owners did not know how to use them. As in
certain American cities—the word is well applied here—
she is esteemed the greatest belle who can contrive
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to utter her nursery sentiments in the loudest voice, so
in Templeton, was he considered the ablest musician
who could give the greatest éclat to a false note. In
a word, clamour was the one thing needful, and as
regards time, that great regulator of all harmonies,
Paul Powis whispered to the captain that the air they
had just been listening to, resembled what the sailors
call a `round robin;' or a particular mode of signing
complaints practised by seamen, in which the nicest
observer cannot tell which is the beginning, or which
the end.
It required all the Parisian breeding of Mademoiselle
Viefville to preserve her gravity during this overture,
though she kept her bright animated, Frenchlooking
eyes, roaming over the assembly, with an air
of delight that, as Mr. Bragg would say, made her
very popular. No one else in the party from the Wigwam,
Captain Truck excepted, dared look up, but each
kept his or her eyes riveted on the floor, as if in silent
enjoyment of the harmonies. As for the honest old
seaman, there was as much melody in the howling of
a gale to his unsophisticated ears, as in any thing else,
and he saw no difference between this feat of the Templeton
band and the sighings of old Boreas; and, to say
the truth, our nautical critic was not so much out of
the way.
Of the oration it is scarcely necessary to say much,
for if human nature is the same in all ages, and under
all circumstances, so is a fourth of July oration. There
were the usual allusions to Greece and Rome, between
the republics of which and that of this country there
exists some such affinity as is to be found between a
horse-chestnut and a chestnut-horse; or that of mere
words; and a long catalogue of national glories that
might very well have sufficed for all the republics, both
of antiquity and of our own time. But when the orator
came to speak of the American character, and particularly
of the intelligence of the nation, he was most
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felicitous, and made the largest investments in popularity.
According to his account of the matter, no
other people possessed a tithe of the knowledge, or a
hundredth part of the honesty and virtue of the very
community he was addressing; and after labouring for
ten minutes to convince his hearers that they already
knew every thing, he wasted several more in trying to
persuade them to undertake further acquisitions of the
same nature.
“How much better all this might be made,” said
Paul Powis, as the party returned towards the Wigwam,
when the `exercises' were ended, “by substituting
a little plain instruction on the real nature and
obligations of the institutions, for so much unmeaning
rhapsody. Nothing has struck me with more surprise
and pain, than to find how far, or it might be better to
say, how high, ignorance reaches on such subjects,
and how few men, in a country where all depends on
the institutions, have clear notions concerning their
own condition.”
“Certainly this is not the opinion we usually entertain
of ourselves,” observed John Effingham. “And
yet it ought to be. I am far from underrating
the ordinary information of the country, which, as an
average information, is superior to that of almost
every other people; nor am I one of those who, according
to the popular European notion, fancy the
Americans less gifted than common in intellect; there
can be but one truth in any thing, however, and it falls
to the lot of very few, any where, to master it. The
Americans, moreover, are a people of facts and practices,
paying but little attention to principles, and
giving themselves the very minimum of time for investigations
that lie beyond the reach of the common
mind; and it follows that they know little of that which
does not present itself in their every-day transactions.
As regards the practice of the institutions, it is
regulated here, as elsewhere, by party, and party is
never an honest or a disinterested expounder.”
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“Are you, then, more than in the common dilemma,”
asked Sir George, “or worse off than your
neighbours?”
“We are worse off than our neighbours, for the
simple reason that it is the intention of the American
system, which has been deliberately framed, and which
is moreover the result of a bargain, to carry out its
theory in practice; whereas, in countries where the
institutions are the results of time and accidents, improvement
is only obtained by innovations. Party
invariably assails and weakens power. When power
is the possession of a few, the many gain by party;
but when power is the legal right of the many, the
few gain by party. Now, as party has no ally as
strong as ignorance and prejudice, a right understanding
of the principles of a government is of far more
importance in a popular government, than in any
other. In place of the eternal eulogies on facts, that
one hears on all public occasions in this country, I
would substitute some plain and clear expositions of
principles; or, indeed, I might say, of facts as they
are connected with principles.”
“Mais, la musique, Monsieur,” interrupted Mademoiselle
Viefville, in a way so droll as to raise a general
smile, “qu'en pensez-vous?”
“That it is music, my dear Mademoiselle, in neither
fact nor principle.”
“It only proves that a people can be free, Mademoiselle,”
observed Mrs. Bloomfield, “and enjoy fourth
of July orations, without having very correct notions
of harmony or time. But do our rejoicings end here,
Miss Effingham?”
“Not at all—there is still something in reserve for
the day, and all who honour it. I am told the evening,
which promises to be sufficiently sombre, is to
terminate with a fête that is peculiar to Templeton,
and which is called `The Fun of Fire.' ”
“It is an ominous name, and ought to be a brilliant
ceremony.”
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As this was uttered, the whole party entered the
Wigwam.
“The Fun of Fire” took place, as a matter of course,
at a later hour. When night had set in, every body
appeared in the main street of the village, a part of
which, from its width and form, was particularly
adapted to the sports of the evening. The females
were mostly at the windows, or on such elevated stands
as favoured their view, and the party from the Wigwam
occupied a large balcony that topped the piazza of one
of the principal inns of the place.
The sports of the night commenced with rockets, of
which a few, that did as much credit to the climate as
to the state of the pyrotechnics of the village, were
thrown up, as soon as the darkness had become sufficiently
dense to lend them brilliancy. Then followed
wheels, crackers and serpents, all of the most primitive
kind, if, indeed, there be any thing primitive in such
amusements. The “Fun of Fire” was to close the
rejoicings, and it was certainly worth all the other
sports of that day, united, the gingerbread and spruce
beer included.
A blazing ball cast from a shop-door, was the signal
for the commencement of the Fun. It was merely a
ball of rope-yarn, or of some other similar material,
saturated with turpentine, and it burned with a bright,
fierce flame until consumed. As the first of these fiery
meteors sailed into the street, a common shout from the
boys, apprentices, and young men, proclaimed that the
fun was at hand. It was followed by several more,
and in a few minutes the entire area was gleaming
with glancing light. The whole of the amusement
consisted in tossing the fire-balls with boldness,
and in avoiding them with dexterity, something
like competition soon entering into the business of the
scene.
The effect was singularly beautiful. Groups of dark
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objects became suddenly illuminated, and here a portion
of the throng might be seen beneath a brightness like
that produced by a bonfire, while all the back-ground
of persons and faces were gliding about in a darkness
that almost swallowed up a human figure. Suddenly
all this would be changed; the brightness would pass
away, and a ball alighting in a spot that had seemed
abandoned to gloom, it would be found peopled with
merry countenances, and active forms. The constant
changes from brightness to deep darkness, with all the
varying gleams of light and shadow, made the beauty
of the scene, which soon extorted admiration from all
in the balcony.
“Mais, c'est charmant!” exclaimed Mademoiselle
Viefville, who was enchanted at discovering something
like gaiety and pleasure among the “tristes Amêricains,”
and who had never even suspected them of being
capable of so much apparent enjoyment.
“These are the prettiest village sports I have ever
witnessed,” said Eve, “though a little dangerous, one
would think. There is something refreshing, as the
magazine writers term it, to find one of these miniature
towns of ours condescending to be gay and happy in
a village fashion. If I were to bring my strongest
objection to American country life, it would be its ambitious
desire to ape the towns, converting the ease
and abandon of a village, into the formality and stiffness
that render children in the clothes of grown people
so absurdly ludicrous.”
“What!” exclaimed John Effingham; “do you
fancy it possible to reduce a free-man so low, as to
deprive him of his stilts! No, no, young lady; you
are now in a country where if you have two rows of
flounces on your frock, your maid will make it a point
to have three, by way of maintaining the equilibrium.
This is the noble ambition of liberty.”
“Annette's foible is a love of flounces, cousin Jack,
and you have drawn that image from your eye, instead
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of your imagination. It is a French, as well as an
American ambition, if ambition it be.”
“Let it be drawn whence it may, it is true. Have
you not remarked, Sir George Templemore, that the
Americans will not even bear the ascendency of a
capital? Formerly, Philadelphia, then the largest town
in the country, was the political capital; but it was too
much for any one community to enjoy the united consideration
that belongs to extent and politics; and so
the honest public went to work to make a capital, that
should have nothing else in its favour, but the naked
fact that it was the seat of government, and I think it
will be generally allowed, that they have succeeded to
admiration. I fancy Mr. Dodge will admit that it
would be quite intolerable, that country should not be
town, and town country.”
“This is a land of equal rights, Mr. John Effingham,
and I confess that I see no claims that New-York
possesses, which does not equally belong to Templeton.”
“Do you hold, sir,” inquired Captain Truck, “that
a ship is a brig, and a brig a ship.”
“The case is different; Templeton is a town, is it
not, Mr. John Effingham?”
“A town, Mr. Dodge, but not town. The difference
is essential.”
“I do not see it, sir. Now, New-York, to my
notion is not a town, but a city.”
“Ah! This is the critical acumen of the editor!
But you should be indulgent, Mr. Dodge, to us laymen,
who pick up our phrases by merely wandering about
the world; or in the nursery perhaps, while you, of the
favoured few, by living in the condensation of a province,
obtain a precision and accuracy to which we
can lay no claim.”
The darkness prevented the editor of the Active Inquirer
from detecting the general smile, and he remained
in happy ignorance of the feeling that produced
it. To say the truth, not the smallest of the besetting
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vices of Mr. Dodge had their foundation in a provincial
education, and in provincial notions; the invariable
tendency of both being to persuade their subject that
he is always right, while all opposed to him in opinion
are wrong. That well-known line of Pope, in which
the poet asks, “what can we reason, but from what
we know?” contains the principle of half our foibles
and faults, and perhaps explains fully that proportion
of those of Mr. Dodge, to say nothing of those of no
small number of his countrymen. There are limits to
the knowledge, and tastes, and habits of every man,
and, as each is regulated by the opportunities of the
individual, it follows of necessity, that no one can have
a standard much above his own experience. That
an isolated and remote people should be a provincial
people, or, in other words, a people of narrow and
peculiar practices and opinions, is as unavoidable as
that study should make a scholar; though in the case
of America, the great motive for surprise is to be found
in the fact that causes so very obvious should produce
so little effect. When compared with the bulk of
other nations, the Americans, though so remote and
insulated, are scarcely provincial, for it is only when
the highest standard of this nation is compared with
the highest standard of other nations, that we detect
the great deficiency that actually exists. That a moral
foundation so broad should uphold a moral superstructure
so narrow, is owing to the circumstance that the
popular sentiment rules, and as every thing is referred
to a body of judges that, in the nature of things, must
be of very limited and superficial attainments, it cannot
be a matter of wonder to the reflecting, that the
decision shares in the qualities of the tribunal. In
America, the gross mistake has been made of supposing,
that, because the mass rules in a political sense,
it has a right to be listened to and obeyed in all other
matters, a practical deduction that can only lead, under
the most favourable exercise of power, to a very
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humble mediocrity. It is to be hoped, that time, and a
greater concentration of taste, liberality, and knowledge
than can well distinguish a young and scattered
population, will repair this evil, and that our children
will reap the harvest of the broad fields of intelligence
that have been sowed by ourselves. In the mean
time, the present generation must endure that which
cannot easily be cured; and, among its other evils, it
will have to submit to a great deal of very questionable
information, not a few false principles, and an unpleasant
degree of intolerant and narrow bigotry,
that are propagated by such apostles of liberty and
learning as Steadfast Dodge, Esquire.
We have written in vain, if it now be necessary to
point out a multitude of things in which that professed
instructor and Mentor of the public, the editor of the
Active Inquirer, had made a false estimate of himself,
as well as of his fellow-creatures. That such a man
should be ignorant, is to be expected, as he had never
been instructed; that he was self-sufficient was owing
to his ignorance, which oftener induces vanity than
modesty; that he was intolerant and bigoted, follows
as a legitimate effect of his provincial and contracted
habits; that he was a hypocrite, came from his homage
of the people; and that one thus constituted,
should be permitted, periodically, to pour out his vapidity,
folly, malice, envy, and ignorance, on his fellow-creatures,
in the columns of a newspaper, was owing
to a state of society in which the truth of the wholesome
adage “that what is every man's business is nobody's
business,” is exemplified not only daily, but
hourly, in a hundred other interests of equal magnitude,
as well as to a capital mistake, that leads the
community to fancy that whatever is done in their
name, is done for their good.
As the “Fun of Fire” had, by this time, exhibited
most of its beauties, the party belonging to the Wigwam
left the balcony, and, the evening proving mild,
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they walked into the grounds of the building, where
they naturally broke into groups, conversing on the
incidents of the day, or of such other matters as came
uppermost. Occasionally, gleams of light were thrown
across them from a fire-ball; or a rocket's starry train
was still seen drawn in the air, resembling the wake
of a ship at night, as it wades through the ocean.
CHAPTER VIII.
Gentle Octavia,
Let your best love draw to that point, which seeks
But to preserve it.
Antony and Cleopatra.
We shall not say it was an accident that brought
Paul and Eve side by side, and a little separated from
the others; for a secret sympathy had certainly exercised
its influence over both, and probably contributed
as much as any thing else towards bringing about the
circumstance. Although the Wigwam stood in the
centre of the village, its grounds covered several acres,
and were intersected with winding walks, and ornamented
with shrubbery, in the well-known English
style, improvements also of John Effingham; for, while
the climate and forests of America offer so many inducements
to encourage landscape gardening, it is the
branch of art that, of all the other ornamental arts, is
perhaps the least known in this country. It is true,
time had not yet brought the labours of the projector to
perfection, in this instance; but enough had been done
to afford very extensive, varied, and pleasing walks.
The grounds were broken, and John Effingham had
turned the irregularities to good account, by planting
and leading paths among them, to the great amusement
of the lookers-on, however, who, like true
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disciples of the Manhattanese economy, had already begun
to calculate the cost of what they termed grading the
lawns, it being with them as much a matter of course
to bring pleasure grounds down to a mathematical surface,
as to bring a rail-road route down to the proper
level.
Through these paths, and among the irregularities,
groves, and shrubberies, just mentioned, the party began
to stroll; one group taking a direction eastward,
another south, and a third westward, in a way soon to
break them up into five or six different divisions.
These several portions of the company ere long got
to move in opposite directions, by taking the various
paths, and while they frequently met, they did not
often re-unite. As has been already intimated, Eve
and Paul were alone, for the first time in their lives,
under circumstances that admitted of an uninterrupted
confidential conversation. Instead of profiting immediately,
however, by this unusual occurrence, as many
of our readers may anticipate, the young man continued
the discourse, in which the whole party had
been engaged when they entered the gate that communicated
with the street.
“I know not whether you felt the same embarrassment
as myself, to-day, Miss Effingham,” he said,
“when the orator was dilating on the glories of the republic,
and on the high honours that accompany the
American name. Certainly, though a pretty extensive
traveller, I have never yet been able to discover that
it is any advantage abroad to be one of the `fourteen
millions of freemen.”'
“Are we to attribute the mystery that so long hung
over your birth-place, to this fact,” Eve asked, a little
pointedly.
“If I have made any seeming mystery, as to the
place of my birth, it has been involuntary on my part,
Miss Effingham, so far as you, at least, have been
concerned. I may not have thought myself authorized
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to introduce my own history into our little discussions,
but I am not conscious of aiming at any unusual concealments.
At Vienna, and in Switzerland, we met
as travellers; and now that you appear disposed to accuse
me of concealment, I may retort, and say that,
neither you nor your father ever expressly stated in
my presence that you were Americans.”
“Was that necessary, Mr. Powis?”
“Perhaps not; and I am wrong to draw a comparison
between my own insignificance, and the éclat
that attended you and your movements.”
“Nay,” interrupted Eve, “do not misconceive me.
My father felt an interest in you, quite naturally, after
what had occurred on the lake of Lucerne, and I believe
he was desirous of making you out a countryman,—
a pleasure that he has at length received.”
“To own the truth, I was never quite certain, until
my last visit to England, on which side of the Atlantic
I was actually born, and to this uncertainty,
perhaps, may be attributed some of that cosmopolitism
to which I made so many high pretensions in our late
passage.”
“Not know where you were born!” exclaimed Eve,
with an involuntary haste, that she immediately repented.
“This, no doubt, sounds odd to you, Miss Effingham,
who have always been the pride and solace of a
most affectionate father, but it has never been my good
fortune to know either parent. My mother, who was
the sister of Ducie's mother, died at my birth, and the
loss of my father even preceded hers. I may be said
to have been born an orphan.”
Eve, for the first time in her life, had taken his arm,
and the young man felt the gentle pressure of her
little hand, as she permitted this expression of sympathy
to escape her, at a moment she found so intensely
interesting to herself.
“It was, indeed, a misfortune, Mr. Powis, and I fear
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you were put into the navy through the want of those
who would feel a natural concern in your welfare.”
“The navy was my own choice; partly, I think,
from a certain love of adventure, and quite as much,
perhaps, with a wish to settle the question of my birth-place,
practically at least, by enlisting in the service
of the one that I first knew, and certainly best loved.”
“But of that birth-place, I understand there is now
no doubt?” said Eve, with more interest than she was
herself conscious of betraying.
“None whatever; I am a native of Philadelphia;
that point was conclusively settled in my late visit to
my aunt, Lady Dunluce, who was present at my birth.”
“Is Lady Dunluce also an American?”
“She is; never having quitted the country until after
her marriage to Colonel Ducie. She was a younger
sister of my mother's, and, notwithstanding some jealousies
and a little coldness that I trust have now disappeared,
I am of opinion she loved her; though one
can hardly answer for the durability of the family ties
in a country where the institutions and habits are as
artificial as in England.”
“Do you think there is less family affection, then, in
England than in America?”
“I will not exactly say as much, though I am of
opinion that neither country is remarkable in that way.
In England, among the higher classes, it is impossible
that the feelings should not be weakened by so many
adverse interests. When a brother knows that nothing
stands between himself and rank and wealth, but the
claims of one who was born a twelvemonth earlier
than himself, he gets to feel more like a rival than a
kinsman, and the temptation to envy or dislike, or even
hatred, sometimes becomes stronger than the duty to
love.”
“And yet the English, themselves, say that the services
rendered by the elder to the younger brother,
and the gratitude of the younger to the elder, are so
many additional ties.”
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“It would be contrary to all the known laws of feeling,
and all experience, if this were so. The younger
applies to the elder for aid in preference to a stranger,
because he thinks he has a claim; and what man who
fancies he has a claim, is disposed to believe justice is
fully done him; or who that is required to discharge a
duty, imagines he has not done more than could be
properly asked?”
“I fear your opinion of men is none of the best, Mr.
Powis!”
“There may be exceptions, but such I believe to be
the common fate of humanity. The moment a duty
is created, a disposition to think it easily discharged
follows; and of all sentiments, that of a continued and
exacting gratitude is the most oppressive. I fear more
brothers are aided, through family pride, than through
natural affection.”
“What, then, loosens the tie among ourselves, where
no law of primogeniture exists?”
“That which loosens every thing. A love of change
that has grown up with the migratory habits of the
people; and which, perhaps, is, in some measure, fostered
by the institutions. Here is Mr. Bragg to confirm
what I say, and we may hear his sentiments on
this subject.”
As Aristabulus, with whom walked Mr. Dodge, just
at that moment came out of the shrubbery, and took
the same direction with themselves, Powis put the
question, as one addresses an acquaintance in a room.
“Rotation in feelings, sir,” returned Mr. Bragg, “is
human nature, as rotation in office is natural justice.
Some of our people are of opinion that it might be
useful could the whole of society be made periodically
to change places, in order that every one might know
how his neighbour lives.”
“You are, then, an Agrarian, Mr. Bragg?”
“As far from it as possible; nor do I believe you
will find such an animal in this county. Where
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property is concerned, we are a people that never let
go, as long as we can hold on, sir; but, beyond this,
we like lively changes. Now, Miss Effingham, every
body thinks frequent changes of religious instructors,
in particular, necessary. There can be no vital piety
without keeping the flame alive with excitement.”
“I confess, sir, that my own reasoning would lead
to a directly contrary conclusion, and that there can
be no vital piety, as you term it, with excitement.”
Mr. Bragg looked at Mr. Dodge, and Mr. Dodge
looked at Mr. Bragg. Then each shrugged his shoulders,
and the former continued the discourse.
“That may be the case in France, Miss Effingham,”
he said, “but, in America, we look to excitement as
the great purifier. We should as soon expect the air
in the bottom of a well to be elastic, as that the moral
atmosphere shall be clear and salutary, without the
breezes of excitement. For my part, Mr. Dodge, I
think no man should be a judge, in the same court,
more than ten years at a time, and a priest gets to be
rather common-place and flat after five. There are
men that may hold out a little longer, I acknowledge;
but to keep real, vital, soul-saving regeneration stirring,
a change should take place as often as once in
five years, in a parish; that is my opinion, at least.”
“But, sir,” rejoined Eve, “as the laws of religion
are immutable, the modes by which it is known universal,
and the promises, mediation, and obligations
are every where the same, I do not see what you propose
to gain by so many changes.”
“Why, Miss Effingham, we change the dishes at
table, and no family of my acquaintance, more than
this of your honourable father's; and I am surprised
to find you opposed to the system.”
“Our religion, sir,” answered Eve, gravely, “is a
duty, and rests on revelation and obedience; while our
diet may, very innocently, be a matter of mere taste,
or even of caprice, if you will.”
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“Well, I confess I see no great difference, the main
object in this life being to stir people up, and to go
ahead. I presume you know, Miss Eve, that many
people think that we ought to change our own parson,
if we expect a blessing on the congregation.”
“I should sooner expect a curse would follow an
act of so much heartlessness, sir. Our clergyman has
been with us since his entrance into the duties of his
holy office, and it will be difficult to suppose that the
Divine favour would follow the commission of so selfish
and capricious a step, with a motive no better than
the desire for novelty.”
“You quite mistake the object, Miss Eve, which is
to stir the people up; a hopeless thing, I fear, so long
as they always sit under the same preaching.”
“I have been taught to believe that piety is increased,
Mr. Bragg, by the aid of the Holy Spirit's sustaining
and supporting us in our good desires; and I cannot
persuade myself that the Deity finds it necessary to
save a soul, by the means of any of those human
agencies by which men sack towns, turn an election,
or incite a mob. I hear that extraordinary scenes are
witnessed in this country, in some of the other sects;
but I trust never to see the day, when the apostolic,
reverend, and sober church, in which I have been nurtured,
shall attempt to advance the workings of that
Divine power, by a profane, human hurrah.”
All this was Greek to Messrs. Dodge and Bragg,
who, in furthering their objects, were so accustomed
to “stirring people up,” that they had quite forgotten
that the more a man was in “an excitement,” the less
he had to do with reason. The exaggerated religious
sects, which first peopled America, have had a strong
influence in transmitting to their posterity false notions
on such subjects; for while the old world is accustomed
to see Christianity used as an ally of government, and
perverted from its one great end to be the instrument
of ambition, cupidity, and selfishness, the new world
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has been fated to witness the reaction of such abuses,
and to run into nearly as many errors in the opposite
extreme. The two persons just mentioned, had been
educated in the provincial school of religious notions,
that is so much in favour, in a portion of this country;
and they were striking examples of the truth of the
adage, that “what is bred in the bone will be seen in
the flesh,” for their common character, common in this
particular at least, was a queer mixture of the most
narrow superstitions and prejudices, that existed under
the garb of religious training, and of unjustifiable
frauds, meannesses, and even vices. Mr. Bragg was
a better man than Mr. Dodge, for he had more self-reliance,
and was more manly; but, on the score of religion,
he had the same contradictory excesses, and
there was a common point, in the way of vulgar vice,
towards which each tended, simply for the want of
breeding and tastes, as infallibly as the needle points
to the pole. Cards were often introduced in Mr.
Effingham's drawing-room, and there was one apartment
expressly devoted to a billiard-table; and many
was the secret fling, and biting gibe, that these pious
devotees passed between themselves, on the subject of
so flagrant an instance of immorality, in a family of
so high moral pretensions; the two worthies not unfrequently
concluding their comments by repairing to
some secret room in a tavern, where, after carefully
locking the door, and drawing the curtains, they would
order brandy, and pass a refreshing hour in endeavouring
to relieve each other of the labour of carrying
their odd sixpences, by means of little shoemaker's
loo.
On the present occasion, however, the earnestness
of Eve produced a pacifying effect on their consciences,
for, as our heroine never raised her sweet voice above
the tones of a gentlewoman, its very mildness and softness
gave force to her expressions. Had John Effingham
uttered the sentiments to which they had just listened,
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it is probable Mr. Bragg would have attempted an answer;
but, under the circumstances, he preferred making
his bow, and diverging into the first path that
offered, followed by his companion. Eve and Paul
continued their circuit of the grounds, as if no interruption
had taken place.
“This disposition to change is getting to be universal
in the country,” remarked the latter, as soon as
Aristabulus and his friend had left them, “and I consider
it one of the worst signs of the times; more especially
since it has become so common to connect it
with what it is the fashion to call excitement.”
“To return to the subject which these gentlemen
interrupted,” said Eve, “that of the family ties; I have
always heard England quoted as one of the strongest
instances of a nation in which this tie is slight, beyond
its aristocratical influence; and I should be sorry to
suppose that we are following in the footsteps of our
good-mother, in this respect at least.”
“Has Mademoiselle Viefville never made any remark
on this subject?”
“Mademoiselle Viefville, though observant, is discreet.
That she believes the standard of the affections
as high in this as in her own country, I do not think;
for, like most Europeans, she believes the Americans
to be a passionless people, who are more bound up in
the interests of gain, than in any other of the concerns
of life.”
“She does not know us!” said Paul so earnestly as
to cause Eve to start at the deep energy with which
he spoke. “The passions lie as deep, and run in currents
as strong here, as in any other part of the world,
though, there not being as many factitious causes to
dam them, they less seldom break through the bounds
of propriety.”
For near a minute the two paced the walk in silence,
and Eve began to wish that some one of the party
would again join them, that a conversation which she
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felt was getting to be awkward, might be interrupted.
But no one crossed their path again, and without rudeness,
or affectation, she saw no means of effecting her
object. Paul was too much occupied with his own
feelings to observe his companion's embarrassment,
and, after the short pause mentioned, he naturally pursued
the subject, though in a less emphatic manner
than before.
“It was an old, and a favourite theory, with the Europeans,”
he said, with a sort of bitter irony, “that all
the animals of this hemisphere have less gifted natures
than those of the other; nor is it a theory of which
they are yet entirely rid. The Indian was supposed
to be passionless, because he had self-command; and
what in the European would be thought exhibiting the
feelings of a noble nature, in him has been represented
as ferocity and revenge. Miss Effingham, you and I
have seen Europe, have stood in the presence of its
wisest, its noblest and its best; and what have they to
boast beyond the immediate results of their factitious
and laboured political systems, that is denied to the
American—or rather would be denied to the American,
had the latter the manliness and mental independence,
to be equal to his fortunes?”
“Which, you think he is not.”
“How can a people be even independent that imports
its thoughts, as it does its wares,—that has not
the spirit to invent even its own prejudices?”
“Something should be allowed to habit, and to the
influence of time. England, herself, probably has inherited
some of her false notions, from the Saxons and
Normans.”
“That is not only possible, but probable; but England,
in thinking of Russia, France, Turkey, or Egypt,
when induced to think wrong, yields to an English,
and not to an American interest. Her errors are at
least requited, in a degree, by serving her own ends,
whereas ours are made, too often, to oppose our most
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obvious interests. We are never independent unless
when stimulated by some strong and pressing moneyed
concern, and not often then beyond the plainest of its
effects.—Here is one, apparently, who does not belong
to our party.”
Paul interrupted himself, in consequence of their
meeting a stranger in the walk, who moved with the
indecision of one uncertain whether to advance or to
recede. Rockets frequently fell into the grounds, and
there had been one or two inroads of boys, which had
been tolerated on account of the occasion; but this
intruder was a man in the decline of life, of the condition
of a warm tradesman seemingly, and he clearly
had no connection with sky-rockets, as his eyes were
turned inquiringly on the persons of those who passed
him, from time to time, none of whom had he stopped,
however, until he now placed himself before Paul and
Eve, in a way to denote a desire to speak.
“The young people are making a merry night of it,”
he said, keeping a hand in each coat-pocket, while he
unceremoniously occupied the centre of the narrow
walk, as if determined to compel a parley.
Although sufficiently acquainted with the unceremonious
habits of the people of the country to feel no
surprise at this intrusion, Paul was vexed at having
his tête à tête with Eve so rudely broken; and he answered
with more of the hauteur of the quarter-deck,
than he might otherwise have done, by saying coldly—
“Perhaps, sir, it is your wish to see Mr. Effingham—
or—” hesitating an instant, as he scanned the stranger's
appearance—“some of his people. The first
will soon pass this spot, and you will find most of the
latter on the lawn, watching the rockets.”
The man regarded Paul a moment, and then he removed
his hat respectfully.
“Please, sir, can you inform me if a gentleman
called Captain Truck—one that sails the packets between
New-York and England, is staying at the Wigwam
at present.”
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Paul told him that the captain was walking with
Mr. Effingham, and that the next pair that approached
would be they. The stranger fell back,
keeping his hat respectfully in his hand, and the two
passed.
“That man has been an English servant, but has
been a little spoiled by the reaction of an excessive
liberty to do as he pleases. The “please, sir,” and the
attitude can hardly be mistaken, while the nonchalance
of his manner “à nous aborder” sufficiently betrays
the second edition of his education.”
“I am curious to know what this person can want
with our excellent captain—it can scarcely be one of
the Montauk's crew!”
“I will answer for it, that the fellow has not enough
seamanship about him to whip a rope,” said Paul,
laughing; “for if there be two temporal pursuits that
have less affinity than any two others, they are those
of the pantry and the tar-bucket. I think it will be
seen that this man has been an English servant, and
he has probably been a passenger on board some ship
commanded by our honest old friend.”
Eve and Paul now turned, and they met Mr. Effingham
and the captain just as the two latter reached the
spot where the stranger still stood.
“This is Captain Truck, the gentleman for whom
you inquired,” said Paul.
The stranger looked hard at the captain, and the
captain looked hard at the stranger, the obscurity
rendering a pretty close scrutiny necessary, to enable
either to distinguish features. The examination seemed
to be mutually unsatisfactory, for each retired a little,
like a man who had not found a face that he knew.
“There must be two Captain Trucks, then, in the
trade,” said the stranger; “this is not the gentleman
I used to know.”
“I think you are as right in the latter part of your
remark, friend, as you are wrong in the first,” returned
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the captain. “Know you, I do not, and yet there are
no more two Captain Trucks in the English trade, than
there are two Miss Eve Effinghams, or two Mrs. Hawkers
in the universe. I am John Truck, and no other
man of that name ever sailed a ship between New-York
and England, in my day, at least.”
“Did you ever command the Dawn, sir?”
“The Dawn! That I did; and the Regulus, and the
Manhattan, and the Wilful Girl, and the Deborah-Angelina,
and the Sukey and Katy, which, my dear
young lady, I may say, was my first love. She was
only a fore-and-after, carrying no standing topsail,
even, and we named her after two of the river girls,
who were flyers, in their way; at least, I thought so
then; though a man by sailing a packet comes to alter
his notions about men and things, or, for that matter,
about women and things, too. I got into a category,
in that schooner, that I never expect to see equalled;
for I was driven ashore to windward in her, which is
gibberish to you, my dear young lady, but which Mr.
Powis will very well understand, though he may not
be able to explain it.”
“I certainly know what you mean,” said Paul,
“though I confess I am in a category, as well as the
schooner, so far as knowing how it could have happened.”
“The Sukey and Katy ran away with me, that's
the upshot of it. Since that time I have never consented
to command a vessel that was called after two
of our river young women, for I do believe that one
of them is as much as a common mariner can manage.
You see, Mr. Effingham, we were running along a weather-shore,
as close in as we could get, to be in the
eddy, when a squall struck her a-beam, and she luffed
right on to the beach. No helping it. Helm hard up,
peak down, head sheets to windward, and main sheet
flying, but it was all too late; away she went plump
ashore to windward. But for that accident, I think I
might have married.”
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“And what connexion could you find between matrimony
and this accident, captain?” demanded the
laughing Eve.
“There was an admonition in it, my dear young
lady, that I thought was not to be disregarded. I
tried the Wilful Girl next, and she was thrown on her
beam-ends with me; after which I renounced all female
names, and took to the Egyptian.”
“The Egyptian!”
“Certainly, Regulus, who was a great snake-killer,
they tell me, in that part of the world. But I never
saw my way quite clear as bachelor, until I got the
Dawn. Did you know that ship, friend?”
“I believe, sir, I made two passages in her while
you commanded her.”
“Nothing more likely; we carried lots of your
countrymen, though mostly forward of the gangways.
I commanded the Dawn more than twenty years ago.”
“It is all of that time since I crossed with you, sir;
you may remember that we fell in with a wreck, ten
days after we sailed, and took off her crew and two
passengers. Three or four of the latter had died with
their sufferings, and several of the people.”
“All this seems but as yesterday! The wreck was
a Charleston ship, that had started a butt.”
“Yes, sir—yes, sir—that is just it—she had started,
but could not get in. That is just what they said at
the time. I am David, sir—I should think you cannot
have forgotten David.”
The honest captain was very willing to gratify the
other's harmless self-importance, though, to tell the
truth, he retained no more personal knowledge of
the David of the Dawn, than he had of David, King
of the Jews.
“Oh, David!” he cried, cordially—“are you David?
Well, I did not expect to see you again in this world,
though I never doubted where we should be, hereafter.
I hope you are very well, David; what sort of
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weather have you made of it since we parted? If I recollect
aright, you worked your passage;—never at
sea before.”
“I beg your pardon, sir; I never was at sea before
the first time, it is true; but I did not belong to the
crew. I was a passenger.”
“I remember, now, you were in the steerage,”
returned the captain, who saw daylight ahead.
“Not at all, sir, but in the cabin.”
“Cabin!” echoed the captain, who perceived none
of the requisites of a cabin-passenger in the other—
“Oh! I understand, in the pantry?”
“Exactly so, sir. You may remember my master—
he had the left-hand state-room to himself, and I slept
next to the scuttle-butt. You recollect master, sir?”
“Out of doubt, and a very good fellow he was. I
hope you live with him still?”
“Lord bless you, sir, he is dead!”
“Oh! I recollect hearing of it, at the time. Well,
David, I hope if ever we cross again, we shall be
ship-mates once more. We were beginners, then, but
we have ships worth living in, now.—Good night.”
“Do you remember Dowse, sir, that we got from
the wreck?” continued the other, unwilling to give up
his gossip so soon. “He was a dark man, that had
had the small-pox badly. I think, sir, you will recollect
him, for he was a hard man in other particulars,
besides his countenance.”
“Somewhat flinty about the soul; I remember the
man well; and so, David, good night; you will come and
see me, if you are ever in town. Good night, David.”
David was now compelled to leave the place, for
Captain Truck, who perceived that the whole party
was getting together again, in consequence of the halt,
felt the propriety of dismissing his visiter, of whom,
his master, and Dowse, he retained just as much recollection
as one retains of a common stage-coach companion
after twenty years. The appearance of Mr.
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Howel, who just at that moment approached them,
aided the manœuvre, and, in a few minutes the different
groups were again in motion, though some slight
changes had taken place in the distribution of the parties.
CHAPTER IX.
“How silver sweet sound lovers' tongues at night,
Like softest music to attending ears!”
Romeo and Juliet.
“A POOR matter, this of the fire-works,” said Mr.
Howel, who, with an old bachelor's want of tact, had
joined Eve and Paul in their walk. “The English
would laught at them famously, I dare say. Have you
heard Sir George allude to them at all, Miss Eve?”
“It would be great affectation for an Englishman to
deride the fire-works of any dry climate,” said Eve
laughing; “and I dare say, if Sir George Templemore
has been silent on the subject, it is because he is conscious
he knows little about it.”
“Well, that is odd! I should think England the very
first country in the world for fire-works. I hear, Miss
Eve, that, on the whole, the baronet is rather pleased
with us; and I must say that he is getting to be very
popular in Templeton.”
“Nothing is easier than for an Englishman to become
popular in America,” observed Paul, “especially if his
condition in life be above that of the vulgar. He has
only to declare himself pleased with America; or, to
be sincerely hated, to declare himself displeased.”
“And in what does America differ from any other
country, in this respect?” asked Eve, quickly.
“Not much, certainly; love induces love, and
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dislike, dislike. There is nothing new in all this; but the
people of other countries, having more confidence in
themselves, do not so sensitively inquire what others
think of them. I believe this contains the whole difference.”
“But Sir George does rather like us?” inquired Mr.
Howel, with interest.
“He likes some of us particularly well,” returned
Eve. “Do you not know that my cousin Grace is to
become Mrs.—I beg her pardon—Lady Templemore,
very shortly?”
“Good God!—Is that possible—Lady Templemore!—
Lady Grace Templemore!”
“Not Lady Grace Templemore, but Grace, Lady
Templemore, and graceful Lady Templemore in the
bargain.”
“And this honour, my dear Miss Eve, they tell me
you refused!”
“They tell you wrong then, sir,” answered the young
lady, a little startled with the suddenness and brusquerie
of the remark, and yet prompt to do justice to all
concerned. “Sir George Templemore never did me
the honour to propose to me, or for me, and consequently
he could not be refused.”
“It is very extraordinary!—I hear you were actually
acquainted in Europe?”
“We were, Mr. Howel, actually acquainted in Europe,
but I knew hundreds of persons in Europe, who
have never dreamed of asking me to marry them.”
“This is very strange — quite unlooked for — to
marry Miss Van Cortlandt! Is Mr. John Effingham
in the grounds?”
Eve made no answer, but Paul hurriedly observed—
“You will find him in the next walk, I think, by
returning a short distance, and taking the first path
to the left.”
Mr. Howel did as told, and was soon out of sight.
“That is a most earnest believer in English
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superiority, and, one may say, by his strong desire to give
you an English husband, Miss Effingham, in English
merit.”
“It is the weak spot in the character of a very honest
man. They tell me such instances were much
more frequent in this country thirty years since, than
they are to-day.”
“I can easily believe it, for I think I remember some
characters of the sort, myself. I have heard those who
are older than I am, draw a distinction like this between
the state of feeling that prevailed forty years
ago, and that which prevails to-day; they say that,
formerly, England absolutely and despotically thought
for America, in all but those cases in which the interests
of the two nations conflicted; and I have even
heard competent judges affirm, that so powerful was
the influence of habit, and so successful the schemes
of the political managers of the mother country, that
even many of those who fought for the independence of
America, actually doubted of the propriety of their
acts, as Luther is known to have had fits of despondency
concerning the justness of the reformation he was
producing; while, latterly, the leaning towards England
is less the result of a simple mental dependence,—
though of that there still remains a disgraceful amount—
than of calculation, and a desire in a certain class to
defeat the dominion of the mass, and to establish that
of a few in its stead.”
“It would, indeed, be a strange consummation of
the history of this country, to find it becoming monarchical!”
“There are a few monarchists no doubt springing
up in the country, though almost entirely in a class
that only knows the world through the imagination and
by means of books; but the disposition, in our time, is
to aristocracy, and not to monarchy. Most men that
get to be rich, discover that they are no happier for
their possessions; perhaps every man who has not been
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trained and prepared to use his means properly, is in
this category, as our friend the captain would call it,
and then they begin to long for some other untried advantages.
The example of the rest of the world is
before our own wealthy, and, faute d'imagination,
they imitate because they cannot invent. Exclusive
political power is also a great ally in the accumulation
of money, and a portion have the sagacity to see it;
though I suspect more pine for the vanities of the exclusive
classes, than for the substance. Your sex, Miss
Effingham, as a whole, is not above this latter weakness,
as I think you must have observed in your intercourse
with those you met abroad.”
“I met with some instances of weakness, in this
way,” said Eve, with reserve, and with the pride of a
woman, “though not more, I think, than among the
men; and seldom, in either case, among those whom
we are accustomed to consider people of condition at
home. The self-respect and the habits of the latter,
generally preserved them from betraying this feebleness
of character, if indeed they felt it.”
“The Americans abroad may be divided into two
great classes; those who go for improvement in
the sciences or the arts, and those who go for mere
amusement. As a whole, the former have struck me
as being singularly respectable, equally removed from
an apish servility and a swaggering pretension of superiority;
while, I fear, a majority of the latter have a
disagreeable direction towards the vanities.”
“I will not affirm the contrary,” said Eve, “for frivolity
and pleasure are only too closely associated in
ordinary minds. The number of those who prize the
elegancies of life, for their intrinsic value, is every
where small, I should think; and I question if Europe
is much better off than ourselves, in this respect.”
“This may be true, and yet one can only regret
that, in a case where so much depends on example,
the tone of our people was not more assimilated
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to their facts. I do not know whether you were struck
with the same peculiarity, but, whenever I felt in the
mood to hear high monarchical and aristocratical doctrines
blindly promulgated, I used to go to the nearest
American Legation.”
“I have heard, this fact commented on,” Eve
answered, “and even by foreigners, and I confess it
has always struck me as singular. Why should the
agent of a republic make a parade of his anti-republican
sentiments?”
“That there are exceptions, I will allow; but, after
the experience of many years, I honestly think that
such is the rule. I might distrust my own opinion, or
my own knowledge; but others, with opportunities
equal to my own, have come to the same conclusion.
I have just received a letter from Europe, complaining
that an American Envoy Extraordinary, who would
as soon think of denouncing himself, as utter the same
sentiments openly at home, has given an opinion
against the utility of the vote by ballot; and this, too,
under circumstances that might naturally be thought
to produce a practical effect.”
“Tant pis. To me all this is inexplicable!”
“It has its solution, Miss Effingham, like any other
problem. In ordinary times, extraordinary men seldom
become prominent, power passing into the hands
of clever managers. Now, the very vanity, and the
petty desires, that betray themselves in glittering uniforms,
puerile affectations, and feeble imitations of
other systems, probably induce more than half of those
who fill the foreign missions to apply for them, and it
is no more than we ought to expect that the real disposition
should betray itself, when there was no longer
any necessity for hypocrisy.”
“But I should think this necessity for hypocrisy
would never cease! Can it be possible that a people,
as much attached to their institutions as the great
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mass of the American nation is known to be, will tolerate
such a base abandonment of all they cherish!”
“How are they to know any thing about it? It is
a startling fact, that there is a man at this instant, who
has not a single claim to such a confidence, either in
the way of mind, principles, manners, or attainments,
filling a public trust abroad, who, on all occasions,
except those which he thinks will come directly before
the American people, not only proclaims himself
opposed to the great principles of the institutions,
but who, in a recent controversy with a foreign nation,
actually took sides against his own country,
informing that of the opposing nation, that the administration
at home would not be supported by the
legislative part of the government!”
“And why is not this publicly exposed?”
“Cui bono! The presses that have no direct interest
in the matter, would treat the affair with indifference
or levity, while a few would mystify the
truth. It is quite impossible for any man in a private
station to make the truth available in any country, in
a matter of public interest; and those in public stations
seldom or never attempt it, unless they see a direct
party end to be obtained. This is the reason that we
see so much infidelity to the principles of the institutions,
among the public agents abroad, for they very
well know that no one will be able to expose them.
In addition to this motive, there is so strong a desire
in that portion of the community which is considered
the highest, to effect a radical change in these very
institutions, that infidelity to them, in their eyes, would
be a merit, rather than an offence.”
“Surely, surely, other nations are not treated in this
cavalier manner!”
“Certainly not. The foreign agent of a prince, who
should whisper a syllable against his master, would be
recalled with disgrace; but the servant of the people
is differently situated, since there are so many to be
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persuaded of his guilt. I could always get along with
all the attacks that the Europeans are so fond of
making on the American system, but those which they
quoted from the mouths of our own diplomatic agents.”
“Why do not our travellers expose this?”
“Most of them see too little to know any thing of
it. They dine at a diplomatic table, see a star or two,
fancy themselves obliged, and puff elegancies that have
no existence, except in their own brains. Some think
with the unfaithful, and see no harm in the infidelity.
Others calculate the injury to themselves, and no small
portion would fancy it a greater proof of patriotism to
turn a sentence in favour of the comparative `energies'
and `superior intelligence' of their own people,
than to point out this or any other disgraceful fact, did
they even possess the opportunities to discover it.
Though no one thinks more highly of these qualities in
the Americans, considered in connexion with practical
things, than myself, no one probably gives them less
credit for their ability to distinguish between appearances
and reality, in matters of principle.”
“It is probable that were we nearer to the rest of
the world, these abuses would not exist, for it is certain
they are not so openly practised at home. I am
glad, however, to find that, even while you felt some
uncertainty concerning your own birth-place, you took
so much interest in us, as to identify yourself in feeling,
at least, with the nation.”
“There was one moment when I was really afraid
that the truth would show I was actually born an Englishman—”
“Afraid!” interrupted Eve; “that is a strong word
to apply to so great and glorious a people.”
“We cannot always account for our prejudices, and
perhaps this was one of mine; and, now that I know
that to be an Englishman is not the greatest possible
merit in your eyes, Miss Effingham, it is in no manner
lessened.”
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“In my eyes, Mr. Powis! I do not remember to
have expressed any partiality for, or any prejudice
against the English: so far as I can speak of my own
feelings, I regard the English the same as any other
foreign people.”
“In words you have not certainly; but acts speak
louder than words.”
“You are disposed to be mysterious to-night. What
act of mine has declared pro or con in this important
affair.”
“You have at least done what, I fear, few of your
countrywomen would have the moral courage and
self-denial to do, and especially those who are accustomed
to living abroad—refused to be the wife of an
English baronet of a good estate and respectable
family.”
“Mr. Powis,” said Eve, gravely, “this is an injustice
to Sir George Templemore, that my sense of right
will not permit to go uncontradicted, as well as an
injustice to my sex and me. As I told Mr. Howel,
in your presence, that gentleman has never proposed
for me, and of course cannot have been refused. Nor
can I suppose that any American gentlewoman can
deem so paltry a thing as a baronetcy, an inducement
to forget her self-respect.”
“I fully appreciate your generous modesty, Miss
Effingham; but you cannot expect that I, to whom
Templemore's admiration gave so much uneasiness,
not to say pain, am to understand you, as Mr. Howel
has probably done, too broadly. Although Sir George
may not have positively proposed, his readiness to do
so, on the least encouragement, was too obvious to be
overlooked by a near observer.”
Eve was ready to gasp for breath, so completely by
surprise was she taken, by the calm, earnest, and yet
respectful manner, in which Paul confessed his jealousy.
There was a tremor in his voice, too, usually so clear
and even, that touched her heart, for feeling responds
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to feeling, as the echo answers sound, when there exists
a real sympathy between the sexes. She felt the
necessity of saying something, and yet they had
walked some distance, ere it was in her power to utter
a syllable.
“I fear my presumption has offended you, Miss Effingham,”
said Paul, speaking more like a corrected
child, than the lion-hearted young man he had proved
himself.
There was deep homage in the emotion he betrayed,
and Eve, although she could barely distinguish his
features, was not slow in discovering this proof of the
extent of her power over his feelings.
“Do not call it presumption,” she said; “for, one
who has done so much for us all, can surely claim
some right to take an interest in those he has so well
served. As for Sir George Templemore, you have
probably mistaken the feeling created by our common
adventures for one of more importance. He is warmly
and sincerely attached to my cousin, Grace Van Cortlandt.”
“That he is so now, I fully believe; but that a very
different magnet first kept him from the Canadas, I am
sure.—We treated each other generously, Miss Effingham,
and had no concealments, during that long and
anxious night, when all expected that the day would
dawn on our captivity. Templemore is too manly and
honest to deny his former desire to obtain you for a
wife, and I think even he would admit that it depended
entirely on yourself to be so, or not.”
“This is an act of self-humiliation that he is not
called on to perform,” Eve hurriedly replied; “such
allusions, now, are worse than useless, and they might
pain my cousin, were she to hear them.”
“I am mistaken in my friend's character, if he leave
his betrothed in any doubt, on this subject. Five
minutes of perfect frankness now, might obviate years
of distrust, hereafter.”
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“And would you, Mr. Powis, avow a former weakness
of this sort, to the woman you had finally selected
for your wife?”
“I ought not to quote myself for authority, for or
against such a course, since I have never loved but
one, and her with a passion too single and too ardent
ever to admit of competition. Miss Effingham, there
would be something worse than affectation—it would
be trifling with one who is sacred in my eyes, were I
now to refrain from speaking explicitly, although what
I am about to say is forced from me by circumstances,
rather than voluntary, and is almost uttered without
a definite object. Have I your permission to proceed?”
“You can scarcely need a permission, being the
master of your own secrets, Mr. Powis.”
Paul, like all men agitated by strong passion, was
inconsistent, and far from just; and Eve felt the truth
of this, even while her mind was ingeniously framing
excuses for his weaknesses. Still, the impression that
she was about to listen to a declaration that possibly
ought never to be made, weighed upon her, and caused
her to speak with more coldness than she actually felt.
As she continued silent, however, the young man saw
that it had become indispensably necessary to be explicit.
“I shall not detain you, Miss Effingham, perhaps
vex you,” he said, “with the history of those early
impressions, which have gradually grown upon me,
until they have become interwoven with my very existence.
We met, as you know, at Vienna, for the
first time. An Austrian of rank, to whom I had become
known through some fortunate circumstances,
introduced me into the best society of that capital, in
which I found you the admiration of all who knew
you. My first feeling was that of exultation, at seeing
a young country woman—you were then almost a child,
Miss Effingham—the greatest attraction of a capital
celebrated for the beauty and grace of its women—”
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“Your national partialities have made you an unjust
judge towards others, Mr. Powis,” Eve interrupted him
by saying, though the earnestness and passion with
which the young man uttered his feelings, made music
to her ears: “what had a young, frightened, half-educated
American girl to boast of, when put in competition
with the finished women of Austria?”
“Her surpassing beauty, her unconscious superiority,
her attainments, her trembling simplicity and modesty,
and her meek purity of mind. All these did you possess,
not only in my eyes, but in those of others; for
these are subjects on which I dwelt too fondly to be
mistaken.”
A rocket passed near them at the moment, and,
while both were too much occupied by the discourse
to heed the interruption, its transient light enabled
Paul to see the flushed cheeks and tearful eyes of Eve,
as the latter were turned on him, in a grateful pleasure,
that his ardent praises extorted from her, in despite
of all her struggles for self-command.
“We will leave to others this comparison, Mr.
Powis,” she said, “and confine ourselves to less doubtful
subjects.”
“If I am then to speak only of that which is beyond
all question, I shall speak chiefly of my long cherished,
devoted, unceasing love. I adored you at Vienna,
Miss Effingham, though it was at a distance, as one
might worship the sun; for, while your excellent father
admitted me to his society, and I even think honoured
me with some portion of his esteem, I had but little
opportunity to ascertain the value of the jewel that
was contained in so beautiful a casket; but when we
met the following summer in Switzerland, I first began
truly to love. Then I learned the justness of thought,
the beautiful candour, the perfectly feminine delicacy
of your mind; and, although I will not say that these
qualities were not enhanced in the eyes of so young a
man, by the extreme beauty of their possessor, I will
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say that, as weighed against each other, I could a
thousand times prefer the former to the latter, unequalled
as the latter almost is, even among your own beautiful
sex.”
“This is presenting flattery in its most seductive
form, Powis.”
“Perhaps my incoherent and abrupt manner of explaining
myself deserves a rebuke; though nothing can
be farther from my intentions than to seem to flatter,
or in any manner to exaggerate. I intend merely to
give a faithful history of the state of my feelings, and
of the progress of my love.”
Eve smiled faintly, but very sweetly, as Paul would
have thought, had the obscurity permitted more than
a dim view of her lovely countenance.
“Ought I to listen to such praises, Mr. Powis,” she
asked; “praises which only contribute to a self-esteem
that is too great already?”
“No one but yourself would say this; but your question
does, indeed, remind me of the indiscretion that I
have fallen into, by losing that command of my feelings,
in which I have so long exulted. No man should
make a woman the confidant of his attachment, until
he is fully prepared to accompany the declaration with
an offer of his hand;—and such is not my condition.”
Eve made no dramatic start, assumed no look of
affected surprise, or of wounded dignity; but she turned
on her lover, her serene eyes, with an expression of
concern so eloquent, and of a wonder so natural, that,
could he have seen it, it would probably have overcome
every difficulty on the spot, and produced the
usual offer, notwithstanding the difficulty that he seemed
to think insurmountable.
“And yet,” he continued, “I have now said so much,
involuntarily as it has been, that I feel it not only due
to you, but in some measure to myself, to add that the
fondest wish of my heart, the end and aim of all my
day-dreams, as well as of my most sober thoughts for the
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future, centre in the common wish to obtain you for a
wife.”
The eye of Eve fell, and the expression of her countenance
changed, while a slight but uncontrollable tremor
ran through her frame. After a short pause, she
summoned all her resolution, and in a voice, the firmness
of which surprised even herself, she asked—
“Powis, to what does all this tend?”
“Well may you ask that question, Miss Effingham!
You have every right to put it, and the answer, at
least, shall add no further cause of self-reproach. Give
me, I entreat you, but a minute to collect my thoughts,
and I will endeavour to acquit myself of an imperious
duty, in a manner more manly and coherent, than I
fear has been observed for the last ten minutes.”
They walked a short distance in profound silence,
Eve still under the influence of astonishment, in which
an uncertain and indefinite dread of, she scarce knew
what, began to mingle; and Paul, endeavouring to
quiet the tumult that had been so suddenly aroused
within him. The latter then spoke:
“Circumstances have always deprived me of the
happiness of experiencing the tenderness and sympathy
of your sex, Miss Effingham, and have thrown me
more exclusively among the colder and ruder spirits
of my own. My mother died at the time of my birth,
thus cutting me off, at once, from one of the dearest
of earthly ties. I am not certain that I do not exaggerate
the loss in consequence of the privations I
have suffered; but, from the hour when I first learned
to feel, I have had a yearning for the tender, patient,
endearing, disinterested love of a mother. You, too,
suffered a similar loss, at an early period, if I have
been correctly informed—”
A sob—a stifled, but painful sob, escaped Eve; and,
inexpressibly shocked, Paul ceased dwelling on his own
sources of sorrow, to attend to those he had so unintentionally
disturbed.
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“I have been selfish, dearest Miss Effingham,” he
exclaimed—“have overtaxed your patience—have
annoyed you with griefs and losses that have no interest
for you, which can have no interest, with one happy
and blessed as yourself.”
“No, no, no, Powis—you are unjust to both. I, too,
lost my mother when a mere child, and never knew
her love and tenderness. Proceed; I am calmer, and
earnestly intreat you to forget my weakness, and to
proceed.”
Paul did proceed, but this brief interruption in which
they had mingled their sorrows for a common misfortune,
struck a new chord of feeling, and removed a
mountain of reserve and distance, that might otherwise
have obstructed their growing confidence.
“Cut off in this manner, from my nearest and dearest
natural friend,” Paul continued, “I was thrown,
an infant, into the care of hirelings; and, in this at
least, my fortune was still more cruel than your
own; for the excellent woman who has been so happy
as to have had the charge of your infancy, had nearly
the love of a natural mother, however she may have
been wanting in the attainments of one of your own
condition in life.”
“But we had both of us, our fathers, Mr. Powis.
To me, my excellent, high principled, affectionate—nay
tender father, has been every thing. Without him, I
should have been truly miserable; and with him, notwithstanding
these rebellious tears, tears that I must
ascribe to the infection of your own grief, I have been
truly blest.”
“Mr. Effingham deserves this from you, but I never
knew my father, you will remember.”
“I am an unworthy confidant, to have forgotten
this so soon. Poor Powis, you were, indeed, unhappy!”
“He had parted from my mother before my birth,
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and either died soon after, or has never deemed his
child of sufficient worth to make him the subject of interest
sufficient to excite a single inquiry into his fate.”
“Then he never knew that child!” burst from Eve,
with a fervour and frankness, that set all reserves,
whether of womanly training, or of natural timidity,
at defiance.
“Miss Effingham!—dearest Miss Effingham—Eve,
my own Eve, what am I to infer from this generous
warmth! Do not mislead me! I can bear my solitary
misery, can brave the sufferings of an isolated existence;
but I could not live under the disappointments of
such a hope, a hope fairly quickened by a clear expression
from your lips.”
“You teach me the importance of caution, Powis,
and we will now return to your history, and to that
confidence of which I shall not again prove a faithless
repository. For the present at least, I beg that you
will forget all else.”
“A command so kindly—so encouragingly given—
do I offend, dearest Miss Effingham?” Eve, for the second
time in her life, placed her own light arm and beautiful
hand, through the arm of Paul, discovering a bewitching
but modest reliance on his worth and truth,
by the very manner in which she did this simple and
every-day act, while she said more cheerfully—
“You forget the substance of the command, at the
very moment you would have me suppose you most
disposed to obey it.”
“Well, then, Miss Effingham, you shall be more implicitly
minded. Why my father left my mother so
soon after their union, I never knew. It would seem
that they lived together but a few months, though I
have the proud consolation of knowing that my mother
was blameless. For years I suffered the misery of
doubt on a point that is ever the most tender with man,
a distrust of his own mother; but all this has been
happily, blessedly, cleared up, during my late visit to
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England. It is true that Lady Dunluce was my mother's
sister, and as such might have been lenient to her failings;
but a letter from my father, that was written only
a month before my mother's death, leaves no doubt not
only of her blamelessness as a wife, but bears ample
testimony to the sweetness of her disposition. This
letter is a precious document for a son to possess, Miss
Effingham!”
Eve made no answer; but Paul fancied that he felt
another gentle pressure of the hand, which, until then,
had rested so lightly on his own arm, that he scarcely
dared to move the latter, lest he might lose the precious
consciousness of its presence.
“I have other letters from my father to my mother,”
the young man continued, “but none that are so cheering
to my heart as this. From their general tone, I
cannot persuade myself that he ever truly loved her.
It is a cruel thing, Miss Effingham, for a man to deceive
a woman on a point like that!”
“Cruel, indeed,” said Eve, firmly. “Death itself
were preferable to such a delusion.”
“I think my father deceived himself as well as my
mother; for there is a strange incoherence and a want
of distinctness in some of his letters, that caused feelings,
keen as mine naturally were on such a subject, to
distrust his affection from the first.”
“Was your mother rich?” Eve asked innocently;
for, an heiress herself, her vigilance had early been
directed to that great motive of deception and dishonesty.
“Not in the least. She had little besides her high
lineage, and her beauty. I have her picture, which
sufficiently proves the latter; had, I ought rather to
say, for it was her miniature, of which I was robbed
by the Arabs, as you may remember, and I have not
seen it since. In the way of money, my mother had
barely the competency of a gentlewoman; nothing
more.”
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The pressure on Paul was more palpable, as he
spoke of the miniature; and he ventured to touch
his companion's arm, in order to give it a surer hold
of his own.
“Mr. Powis was not mercenary, then, and it is a
great deal,” said Eve, speaking as if she were scarcely
conscious that she spoke at all.
“Mr. Powis!—He was every thing that was noble
and disinterested. A more generous, or a less selfish
man, never existed than Francis Powis.”
“I thought you never knew your father personally!”
exclaimed Eve in surprise.
“Nor did I. But, you are in an error, in supposing
that my father's name was Powis, when it was Assheton.”
Paul then explained the manner in which he had
been adopted while still a child, by a gentleman called
Powis, whose name he had taken, on finding himself
deserted by his own natural parent, and to whose fortune
he had succeeded, on the death of his voluntary protector.
“I bore the name of Assheton until Mr. Powis took
me to France, when he advised me to assume his own,
which I did the more readily, as he thought he had
ascertained that my father was dead, and that he had
bequeathed the whole of a very considerable estate to
his nephews and nieces, making no allusion to me in
his will, and seemingly anxious even to deny his marriage;
at least, he passed among his acquaintances for
a bachelor to his dying day.”
“There is something so unusual and inexplicable in
all this, Mr. Powis, that it strikes me you have been
to blame, in not inquiring more closely into the circumstances
than, by your own account, I should think had
been done.”
“For a long time, for many bitter years, I was afraid
to inquire, lest I should learn something injurious to a mother's
name. Then there was the arduous and confined
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service of my profession, which kept me in distant seas;
and the last journey and painful indisposition of my
excellent benefactor, prevented even the wish to inquire
after my own family. The offended pride of Mr. Powis,
who was justly hurt at the cavalier manner in which
my father's relatives met his advances, aided in alienating
me from that portion of my relatives, and put
a stop to all additional proffers of intercourse from me.
They even affected to doubt the fact that my father
had ever married.”
“But of that you had proof?” Eve earnestly asked.
“Unanswerable. My aunt Dunluce was present at
the ceremony, and I possess the certificate given to my
mother by the clergyman who officiated. Is it not
strange, Miss Effingham, that with all these circumstances
in favour of my legitimacy, even Lady Dunluce
and her family, until lately, had doubts of the fact.”
“That is indeed unaccountable, your aunt having
witnessed the ceremony.”
“Very true; but some circumstances, a little aided
perhaps by the strong desire of her husband, General
Ducie, to obtain the revival of a barony that was in
abeyance, and of which she would be the only heir,
assuming that my rights were invalid, inclined her to
believe that my father was already married, when he
entered into the solemn contract with my mother. But
from that curse too, I have been happily relieved.”
“Poor Powis!” said Eve, with a sympathy that her
voice expressed more clearly even than her words;
“you have, indeed, suffered cruelly, for one so young.”
“I have learned to bear it, dearest Miss Effingham,
and have stood so long a solitary and isolated being,
one in whom none have taken any interest—”
“Nay, say not that—we, at least, have always felt
an interest in you—have always esteemed you, and
now have learned to—”
“Learned to—?”
“Love you,” said Eve, with a steadiness that
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afterwards astonished herself; but she felt that a being so
placed, was entitled to be treated with a frankness different
from the reserve that it is usual for her sex to
observe on similar occasions.
“Love!” cried Paul, dropping her arm. “Miss
Effingham!—Eve—but that we!”
“I mean my dear father—cousin Jack—myself.”
“Such a feeling will not heal a wound like mine.
A love that is shared with even such men as your excellent
father, and your worthy cousin, will not make
me happy. But, why should I, unowned, bearing a
name to which I have no legal title, and virtually without
relatives, aspire to one like you!”
The windings of the path had brought them near a
window of the house, whence a stream of strong light
gleamed upon the sweet countenance of Eve, as raising
her eyes to those of her companion, with a face
bathed in tears, and flushed with natural feeling and
modesty, the struggle between which even heightened
her loveliness, she smiled an encouragement that it
was impossible to misconstrue.
“Can I believe my senses! Will you—do you—can
you listen to the suit of one like me?” the young man
exclaimed, as he hurried his companion past the window,
lest some interruption might destroy his hopes.
“Is there any sufficient reason why I should not,
Powis?”
“Nothing but my unfortunate situation in respect to
my family, my comparative poverty, and my general
unworthiness.”
“Your unfortunate situation in respect to your relatives
would, if any thing, be a new and dearer tie with
us; your comparative poverty is merely comparative,
and can be of no account, where there is sufficient
already; and as for your general unworthiness, I fear
it will find more than an offset, in that of the girl you
have so rashly chosen from the rest of the world.”
“Eve—dearest Eve—” said Paul, seizing both her
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hands, and stopping her at the entrance of some shrubbery,
that densely shaded the path, and where the
little light that fell from the stars enabled him still to
trace her features—“you will not leave me in doubt
on a subject of this nature—am I really so blessed?”
“If accepting the faith and affection of a heart that
is wholly yours, Powis, can make you happy, your
sorrows will be at an end—”
“But your father?” said the young man, almost
breathless in his eagerness to know all.
“Is here to confirm what his daughter has just
declared,” said Mr. Effingham, coming out of the
shrubbery beyond them, and laying a hand kindly on
Paul's shoulder. “To find that you so well understand
each other, Powis, removes from my mind one
of the greatest anxieties I have ever experienced.
My cousin John, as he was bound to do, has made me
acquainted with all you have told him of your past
life, and there remains nothing further to be revealed.
We have known you for years, and receive you into
our family with as free a welcome as we could receive
any precious boon from Providence.”
“Mr. Effingham! — dear sir,” said Paul, almost
gasping between surprise and rapture—“this is indeed
beyond all my hopes—and this generous frankness,
too, in your lovely daughter—”
Paul's hands had been transferred to those of the
father, he knew not how; but releasing them hurriedly,
he now turned in quest of Eve again, and found she had
fled. In the short interval between the address of her
father and the words of Paul, she had found means to
disappear, leaving the gentlemen together. The young
man would have followed, but the cooler head of Mr.
Effingham perceiving that the occasion was favourable
to a private conversation with his accepted sonin-law,
and quite as unfavourable to one, or at
least to a very rational one, between the lovers, he
quietly took the young man's arm, and led him
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towards a more private walk. There half an hour of
confidential discourse calmed the feelings of both, and
rendered Paul Powis one of the happiest of human
beings.
CHAPTER X.
“You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo,
Before you visit him, to make inquiry
Of his behaviour.”
Hamlet.
Ann Sidley was engaged among the dresses of
Eve, as she loved to be, although Annette held her taste
in too low estimation ever to permit her to apply a
needle, or even to fit a robe to the beautiful form that
was to wear it, when our heroine glided into the room
and sunk upon a sofa. Eve was too much absorbed
with her own feelings to observe the presence of her
quiet unobtrusive old nurse, and too much accustomed
to her care and sympathy to heed it, had it been seen.
For a moment she remained, her face still suffused
with blushes, her hands lying before her folded, her
eyes fixed on the ceiling, and then the pent emotions
found an outlet in a flood of tears.
Poor Ann could not have felt more shocked, had
she heard of any unexpected calamity, than she was
at this sudden outbreaking of feeling in her child.
She went to her, and bent over her with the solicitude
of a mother, as she inquired into the causes of her
apparent sorrow.
“Tell me, Miss Eve, and it will relieve your mind,”
said the faithful woman; “your dear mother had such
feelings sometimes, and I never dared to question her
about them; but you are my own child, and nothing
can grieve you without grieving me.”
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The eyes of Eve were brilliant, her face continued
to be suffused, and the smile which she gave through
her tears was so bright, as to leave her poor attendant
in deep perplexity as to the cause of a gush of feeling
that was very unusual in one of the other's regulated
mind.
“It is not grief, dear Nanny,”—Eve at length murmured—
“any thing but that! I am not unhappy. Oh!
no; as far from unhappiness as possible.”
“God be praised it is so, ma'am! I was afraid that
this affair of the English gentleman and Miss Grace
might not prove agreeable to you, for he has not behaved
as handsomely as he might, in that transaction.”
“And why not, my poor Nanny?—I have neither
claim, nor the wish to possess a claim, on Sir George
Templemore. His selection of my cousin has given
me sincere satisfaction, rather than pain; were he a
countryman of our own, I should say unalloyed satisfaction,
for I firmly believe he will strive to make her
happy.”
Nanny now looked at her young mistress, then at
the floor; at her young mistress again, and afterwards
at a rocket that was sailing athwart the sky. Her
eyes, however, returned to those of Eve, and encouraged
by the bright beam of happiness that was glowing
in the countenance she so much loved, she ventured to
say—
“If Mr. Powis were a more presuming gentleman
than he is, ma'am—”
“You mean a less modest, Nanny,” said Eve, perceiving
that her nurse paused.
“Yes, ma'am—one that thought more of himself,
and less of other people, is what I wish to say.”
“And were this the case?”
“I might think he would find the heart to say what
I know he feels.”
“And did he find the heart to say what you know
he feels, what does Ann Sidley think should be my
answer?”
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“Oh, ma'am, I know it would be just as it ought to
be. I cannot repeat what ladies say on such occasions,
but I know that it is what makes the hearts of the gentlemen
leap for joy.”
There are occasions in which woman can hardly
dispense with the sympathy of woman. Eve loved
her father most tenderly, had more than the usual confidence
in him, for she had never known a mother; but
had the present conversation been with him, notwithstanding
all her reliance on his affection, her nature
would have shrunk from pouring out her feelings as
freely as she might have done with her other parent,
had not death deprived her of such a blessing. Between
our heroine and Ann Sidley, on the other hand,
there existed a confidence of a nature so peculiar, as
to require a word of explanation before we exhibit its
effects. In all that related to physical wants, Ann
had been a mother, or even more than a mother to
Eve, and this alone had induced great personal dependence
in the one, and a sort of supervisory care in the
other, that had brought her to fancy she was responsible
for the bodily health and well-doing of her charge.
But this was not all. Nanny had been the repository
of Eve's childish griefs, the confidant of her girlish secrets;
and though the years of the latter soon caused
her to be placed under the management of those who
were better qualified to store her mind, this communication
never ceased; the high-toned and educated young
woman reverting with unabated affection, and a reliance
that nothing could shake, to the long-tried tenderness
of the being who had watched over her infancy.
The effect of such an intimacy was often amusing; the
one party bringing to the conferences, a mind filled
with the knowledge suited to her sex and station, habits
that had been formed in the best circles of christendom,
and tastes that had been acquired in schools of high
reputation; and the other, little more than her singlehearted
love, a fidelity that ennobled her nature, and a
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simplicity that betokened perfect purity of thought.
Nor was this extraordinary confidence without its advantages
to Eve; for, thrown so early among the artificial
and calculating, it served to keep her own ingenuousness
of character active, and prevented that
cold, selfish, and unattractive sophistication, that mere
women of fashion are apt to fall into, from their isolated
and factitious mode of existence. When Eve,
therefore, put the questions to her nurse, that have already
been mentioned, it was more with a real wish
to know how the latter would view a choice on which
her own mind was so fully made up, than any silly trifling
on a subject that engrossed so much of her best
affections.
“But you have not told me, dear Nanny,” she continued,
“what you would have that answer be.
Ought I, for instance, ever to quit my beloved father?”
“What necessity would there be for that, ma'am?
Mr. Powis has no home of his own; and, for that matter,
scarcely any country—”
“How can you know this, Nanny?” demanded Eve,
with the jealous sensitiveness of a young love.
“Why, Miss Eve, his man says this much, and he
has lived with him long enough to know it, if he had
a home. Now, I seldom sleep without looking back
at the day, and often have my thoughts turned to Sir
George Templemore and Mr. Powis; and when I have
remembered that the first had a house and a home,
and that the last had neither, it has always seemed to
me that he ought to be the one.”
“And then, in all this matter, you have thought of
convenience, and what might be agreeable to others,
rather than of me.”
“Miss Eve!”
“Nay, dearest Nanny, forgive me; I know your
last thought, in every thing, is for yourself. But,
surely, the mere circumstance that he had no home,
ought not to be a sufficient reason for selecting any
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man, for a husband. With most women it would be
an objection.”
“I pretend to know very little of these feelings, Miss
Eve. I have been wooed, I acknowledge; and once I
do think I might have been tempted to marry, had it
not been for a particular circumstance.”
“You! You marry, Ann Sidley!” exclaimed Eve,
to whom the bare idea seemed as odd and unnatural,
as that her own father should forget her mother, and
take a second wife. “This is altogether new, and I
should be glad to know what the lucky circumstance
was, which prevented what, to me, might have proved
so great a calamity.”
“Why, ma'am, I said to myself, what does a woman
do, who marries? She vows to quit all else to go with
her husband, and to love him before father and mother,
and all other living beings on earth—is it not so, Miss
Eve?”
“I believe it is so, indeed, Nanny—nay, I am quite
certain it is so,” Eve answered, the colour deepening
on her cheek, as she gave this opinion to her old nurse,
with the inward consciousness that she had just experienced
some of the happiest moments of her life,
through the admission of a passion that thus overshadowed
all the natural affections. “It is, truly, as
you say.”
“Well, ma'am, I investigated my feelings, I believe
they call it, and after a proper trial, I found that I loved
you so much better than any one else, that I could not,
in conscience, make the vows.”
“Dearest Nanny! my kind, good, faithful old nurse!
let me hold you in my arms; and, I, selfish, thoughtless,
heartless girl, would forget the circumstance that
would be most likely to keep us together, for the remainder
of our lives! Hist! there is a tap at the door.
It is Mrs. Bloomfield; I know her light step. Admit
her, my kind Ann, and leave us together.”
The bright searching eye of Mrs. Bloomfield was
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riveted on her young friend, as she advanced into the
room; and her smile, usually so gay and sometimes
ironical, was now thoughtful and kind.
“Well, Miss Effingham,” she cried, in a manner
that her looks contradicted, “am I to condole with
you, or to congratulate?—For a more sudden, or
miraculous change did I never before witness in a
young lady, though whether it be for the better or the
worse—These are ominous words, too—for `better
or worse, for richer or poorer'—”
“You are in fine spirits this evening, my dear Mrs.
Bloomfield, and appear to have entered into the gaieties
of the Fun of Fire, with all your—”
“Might, will be a homely, but an expressive word.
Your Templeton Fun of Fire is fiery fun, for it has
cost us something like a general conflagration. Mrs.
Hawker has been near a downfall, like your great
namesake, by a serpent's coming too near her dress;
one barn, I hear, has actually been in a blaze, and Sir
George Templemore's heart is in cinders. Mr. John
Effingham has been telling me that he should not have
been a bachelor, had there been two Mrs. Bloomfields
in the world, and Mr. Powis looks like a rafter dug out
of Herculaneum, nothing but coal.”
“And what occasions this pleasantry?” asked Eve,
so composed in manner that her friend was momentarily
deceived.
Mrs. Bloomfield took a seat on the sofa, by the
side of our heroine, and regarding her steadily for
near a minute, she continued—
“Hypocrisy and Eve Effingham can have little in
common, and my ears must have deceived me.”
“Your ears, dear Mrs. Bloomfield!”
“My ears, dear Miss Effingham. I very well
know the character of an eaves-dropper, but if gentlemen
will make passionate declarations in the walks
of a garden, with nothing but a little shrubbery between
his ardent declarations and the curiosity of those
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who may happen to be passing, they must expect to be
overheard.”
Eve's colour had gradually increased as her friend
proceeded; and when the other ceased speaking, as
bright a bloom glowed on her countenance, as had
shone there when she first entered the room.
“May I ask the meaning of all this?” she said, with
an effort to appear calm.
“Certainly, my dear; and you shall also know the
feelings that prompt it, as well as the meaning,” returned
Mrs. Bloomfield, kindly taking Eve's hand in a
way to show that she did not mean to trifle further on
a subject that was of so much moment to her young
friend. “Mr. John Effingham and myself were stargazing
at a point where two walks approach each other,
just as you and Mr. Powis were passing in the adjoining
path. Without absolutely stopping our ears, it was
quite impossible not to hear a portion of your conversation.
We both tried to behave honourably; for I
coughed, and your kinsman actually hemmed, but we
were unheeded.”
“Coughed and hemmed!” repeated Eve, in greater
confusion than ever. “There must be some mistake,
dear Mrs. Bloomfield, as I remember to have heard no
such signals.”
“Quite likely, my love, for there was a time when
I too had ears for only one voice; but you can have
affidavits to the fact, à la mode de New England, if you
require them. Do not mistake my motive, nevertheless,
Miss Effingham, which is any thing but vulgar
curiosity”—here Mrs. Bloomfield looked so kind and
friendly, that Eve took both her hands and pressed
them to her heart—“you are motherless; without even
a single female connexion of a suitable age to consult
with on such an occasion, and fathers after all are but
men—”
“Mine is as kind, and delicate, and tender, as any
woman can be, Mrs. Bloomfield.”
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“I believe it all, though he may not be quite as
quick-sighted, in an affair of this nature.—Am I at
liberty to speak to you as if I were an elder sister?”
“Speak, Mrs. Bloomfield, as frankly as you please,
but leave me the mistress of my answers.”
“It is, then, as I suspected,” said Mrs. Bloomfield,
in a sort of musing manner; “the men have been
won over, and this young creature has absolutely been
left without a protector in the most important moment
of her life!”
“Mrs. Bloomfield!—What does this mean?—What
can it mean?”
“It means merely general principles, child; that
your father and cousin have been parties concerned,
instead of vigilant sentinels; and, with all their pretended
care, that you have been left to grope your
way in the darkness of female uncertainty, with one
of the most pleasing young men in the country constantly
before you, to help the obscurity.”
It is a dreadful moment, when we are taught to
doubt the worth of those we love; and Eve became
pale as death, as she listened to the words of her friend.
Once before, on the occasion of Paul's return to England,
she had felt a pang of that sort, though reflection,
and a calm revision of all his acts and words since
they first met in Germany, had enabled her to get the
better of indecision, and when she first saw him on the
mountain, nearly every unpleasant apprehension and
distrust had been dissipated by an effort of pure reason.
His own explanations had cleared up the unpleasant
affair, and, from that moment, she had regarded him altogether
with the eyes of a confiding partiality. The speech
of Mrs. Bloomfield now sounded like words of doom to
her, and, for an instant, her friend was frightened with
the effects of her own imperfect communication. Until
that moment Mrs. Bloomfield had formed no just idea
of the extent to which the feelings of Eve were interested
in Paul, for she had but an imperfect knowledge
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of their early association in Europe, and she sincerely
repented having introduced the subject at all. It was
too late to retreat, however, and, first folding Eve in
her arms, and kissing her cold forehead, she hastened
to repair a part, at least, of the mischief she had done.
“My words have been too strong, I fear,” she said,
“but such is my general horror of the manner in which
the young of our sex, in this country, are abandoned
to the schemes of the designing and selfish of the other,
that I am, perhaps, too sensitive when I see any one
that I love thus exposed. You are known, my dear, to
be one of the richest heiresses of the country; and, I
blush to say that no accounts of European society that
we have, make fortune-hunting a more regular occupation
there, than it has got to be here.”
The paleness left Eve's face, and a look of slight
displeasure succeeded.
“Mr. Powis is no fortune-hunter, Mrs. Bloomfield,”
she said, steadily; “his whole conduct for three years
has been opposed to such a character; and, then, though
not absolutely rich, perhaps, he has a gentleman's income,
and is removed from the necessity of being
reduced to such an act of baseness.”
“I perceive my error, but it is now too late to retreat.
I do not say that Mr. Powis is a fortune-hunter,
but there are circumstances connected with his history,
that you ought at least to know, and that immediately.
I have chosen to speak to you, rather than to speak to
your father, because I thought you might like a female
confidant on such occasion, in preference even to your
excellent natural protector. The idea of Mrs. Hawker
occurred to me, on account of her age; but I did
not feel authorised to communicate to her a secret of
which I had myself become so accidentally possessed.”
“I appreciate your motive fully, dearest Mrs. Bloomfield,”
said Eve, smiling with all her native sweetness,
and greatly relieved, for she now began to think that
too keen a sensitiveness on the subject of Paul had
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unnecessarily alarmed her, “and beg there may be no
reserves between us. If you know a reason why Mr.
Powis should not be received as a suitor, I entreat you
to mention it.”
“Is he Mr. Powis at all?”
Again Eve smiled, to Mrs. Bloomfield's great surprise,
for, as the latter had put the question with sincere
reluctance, she was astonished at the coolness
with which it was received.
“He is not Mr. Powis, legally perhaps, though he
might be, but that he dislikes the publicity of an application
to the legislature. His paternal name is Assheton.”
“You know his history, then!”
“There has been no reserve on the part of Mr.
Powis; least of all, any deception.”
Mrs. Bloomfield appeared perplexed, even distressed;
and there was a brief space, during which her mind
was undecided as to the course she ought to take.
That she had committed an error by attempting a consultation,
in a matter of the heart, with one of her own
sex, after the affections were engaged, she discovered
when it was too late; but she prized Eve's friendship
too much, and had too just a sense of what was due
to herself, to leave the affair where it was, or without
clearing up her own unasked agency in it.
“I rejoice to learn this,” she said, as soon as her
doubts had ended, “for frankness, while it is one of the
safest, is one of the most beautiful traits in human character;
but beautiful though it be, it is one that the
other sex uses least to our own.”
“Is our own too ready to use it to the other?”
“Perhaps not: it might be better for both parties,
were there less deception practised during the period
of courtship, generally: but as this is hopeless, and
might destroy some of the most pleasing illusions of
life, we will not enter into a treatise on the frauds of
Cupid. Now to my own confessions, which I make
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all the more willingly, because I know they are uttered
to the ear of one of a forgiving temperament,
and who is disposed to view even my follies favourably.”
The kind but painful smile of Eve, assured the
speaker she was not mistaken, and she continued, after
taking time to read the expression of the countenance
of her young friend—
“In common with all of New-York, that town of
babbling misses, who prattle as water flows, without
consciousness or effort, and of whiskered masters, who
fancy Broadway the world, and the flirtations of miniature
drawing-rooms, human nature, I believed, on
your return from Europe, that an accepted suitor followed
in your train, in the person of Sir George Templemore.”
“Nothing in my deportment, or in that of Sir George,
or in that of any of my family, could justly have given
rise to such a notion,” said Eve, quickly.
“Justly! What has justice, or truth, or even probability,
to do with a report, of which love and matrimony
are the themes? Do you not know society better
than to fancy this improbability, child?”
“I know that our own sex would better consult their
own dignity and respectability, my dear Mrs. Bloomfield,
if they talked less of such matters; and that
they would be more apt to acquire the habits of good
taste, not to say of good principles, if they confined
their strictures more to things and sentiments than they
do, and meddled less with persons.”
“And pray, is there no tittle-tattle, no scandal, no
commenting on one's neighbours, in other civilized nations
besides this?”
“Unquestionably; though I believe, as a rule, it is
every where thought to be inherently vulgar, and a
proof of low associations.”
“In that, we are perfectly of a mind; for, if there
be any thing that betrays a consciousness of inferiority,
it is our rendering others of so much obvious
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importance to ourselves, as to make them the subjects
of our constant conversation. We may speak of virtues,
for therein we pay an homage to that which is
good; but when we come to dwell on personal faults,
it is rather a proof that we have a silent conviction of
the superiority of the subject of our comments to ourselves,
either in character, talents, social position, or
something else that is deemed essential, than of our
distaste for his failings. Who, for instance, talks scandal
of his grocer, or of his shoemaker? No, no, our
pride forbids this; we always make our betters the
subject of our strictures by preference, taking up with
our equals only when we can get none of a higher
class.”
“This quite reconciles me to having been given to
Sir George Templemore, by the world of New-York,”
said Eve, smiling.
“And well it may, for they who have prattled of
your engagement, have done so principally because
they are incapable of maintaining a conversation on
any thing else. But, all this time, I fear I stand accused
in your mind, of having given advice unasked,
and of feeling an alarm in an affair that affected others,
instead of myself, which is the very sin that we lay at
the door of our worthy Manhattanese. In common
with all around me, then, I fancied Sir George Templemore
an accepted lover, and, by habit, had gotten
to associate you together in my pictures. On my
arrival here, however, I will confess that Mr. Powis,
whom, you will remember, I had never seen before,
struck me as much the most dangerous man.—Shall
I own all my absurdity?”
“Even to the smallest shade.”
“Well, then, I confess to having supposed that,
while the excellent father believed you were in a fair
way to become Lady Templemore, the equally excellent
daughter thought the other suitor, infinitely the
most agreeable person.”
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“What! in contempt of a betrothal?”
“Of course I, at once, ascribed that part of the
report to the usual embellishments. We do not like to
be deceived in our calculations, or to discover that
even our gossip has misled us. In pure resentment at
my own previous delusion, I began to criticise this
Mr. Powis—”
“Criticise, Mrs. Bloomfield!”
“To find fault with him, my dear; to try to think
he was not just the handsomest and most engaging
young man I had ever seen; to imagine what he ought
to be, in place of what he was; and among other
things, to inquire who he was?”
“You did not think proper to ask that question of
any of us,” said Eve, gravely.
“I did not; for I discovered by instinct, or intuition,
or conjecture—they mean pretty much the same thing,
I believe—that there was a mystery about him; something
that even his Templeton friends did not quite
understand, and a lucky thought occurred of making
my inquiries of another person.”
“They were answered satisfactorily,” said Eve,
looking up at her friend, with the artless confidence
that marks her sex, when the affections have gotten
the mastery of reason.
“Cosi, cosi. Bloomfield has a brother who is in the
Navy, as you know, and I happened to remember that
he had once spoken of an officer of the name of
Powis, who had performed a clever thing in the West
Indies, when they were employed together against the
pirates. I wrote to him one of my usual letters, that
are compounded of all things in nature and art, and
took an occasion to allude to a certain Mr. Paul
Powis, with a general remark that he had formerly
served, together with a particular inquiry if he knew
any thing about him. All this, no doubt, you think
very officious; but believe me, dear Eve, where there
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was as much interest as I felt and feel in you, it was
very natural.”
“So far from entertaining resentment, I am grateful
for your concern, especially as I know it was manifested
cautiously, and without any unpleasant allusions
to third persons.”
“In that respect I believe I did pretty well. Tom
Bloomfield—I beg his pardon, Captain Bloomfield, for
so he calls himself, at present—knows Mr. Powis well;
or, rather did know him, for they have not met for
years, and he speaks of his personal qualities and professional
merit highly, but takes occasion to remark
that there was some mystery connected with his birth,
as, before he joined the service he understood he was
called Assheton, and at a later day, Powis, and this
without any public law, or public avowal of a motive.
Now, it struck me that Eve Effingham ought not to be
permitted to form a connection with a man so unpleasantly
situated, without being apprised of the fact.
I was waiting for a proper occasion to do this ungrateful
office myself, when accident made me acquainted
with what has passed this evening, and perceiving that
there was no time to lose, I came hither, more led by
interest in you, my dear, perhaps, than by discretion.”
“I thank you sincerely for this kind concern in my
welfare, dear Mrs. Bloomfield, and give you full credit
for the motive. Will you permit me to inquire how
much you know of that which passed this evening?”
“Simply that Mr. Powis is desperately in love, a
declaration that I take it is always dangerous to the
peace of mind of a young woman, when it comes
from a very engaging young man.”
“And my part of the dialogue—” Eve blushed to
the eyes as she asked this question, though she made
a great effort to appear calm—“my answer?”
“There was too much of woman in me—of true,
genuine, loyal, native woman, Miss Effingham, to listen
to that, had there been an opportunity. We were but
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a moment near enough to hear any thing, though that
moment sufficed to let us know the state of feelings of
the gentleman. I ask no confidences, my dear Eve,
and now that I have made my explanations, lame
though they be, I will kiss you and repair to the drawing-room,
where we shall both be soon missed. Forgive
me, if I have seemed impertinent in my interference,
and continue to ascribe it to its true motive.”
“Stop, Mrs. Bloomfield, I entreat, for a single moment;
I wish to say a word before we part. As you
have been accidentally made acquainted with Mr.
Powis's sentiments towards me, it is no more than just
that you should know the nature of mine towards
him—”
Eve paused involuntarily, for, though she had commenced
her explanation, with a firm intention to do
justice to Paul, the bashfulness of her sex held her
tongue tied, at the very moment her desire to speak
was the strongest. An effort conquered the weakness,
and the warm-hearted, generous-minded girl succeeded
in commanding her voice.
“I cannot allow you to go away with the impression,
that there is a shade of any sort on the conduct
of Mr. Powis,” she said. “So far from desiring to
profit by the accidents that have placed it in his power
to render us such essential service, he has never spoken
of his love until this evening, and then under circumstances
in which feeling, naturally, perhaps I might
say uncontrollably, got the ascendency.”
“I believe it all, for I feel certain Eve Effingham
would not bestow her heart heedlessly.”
“Heart!—Mrs. Bloomfield!”
“Heart, my dear; and now I insist on the subject's
being dropped, at least, for the present. Your decision
is probably not yet made—you are not yet an
hour in possession of your suitor's secret, and prudence
demands deliberation. I shall hope to see you in the
drawing-room, and until then, adieu.”
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Mrs. Bloomfield signed for silence, and quitted the
room with the same light tread as that with which she
had entered it.
CHAPTER XI.
“To show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very
age and body of the time, his form and pressure.”
Shakspeare.
When Mrs. Bloomfield entered the drawing-room,
she found nearly the whole party assembled. The
Fun of Fire had ceased, and the rockets no longer
gleamed athwart the sky; but the blaze of artificial
light within, was more than a substitute for that which
had so lately existed without.
Mr. Effingham and Paul were conversing by themselves,
in a window-seat, while John Effingham, Mrs.
Hawker, and Mr. Howel were in an animated discussion
on a sofa; Mr. Wenham had also joined the party,
and was occupied with Captain Ducie, though not so
much so as to prevent occasional glances at the trio
just mentioned. Sir George Templemore and Grace
Van Cortlandt were walking together in the great hall,
and were visible through the open door, as they passed
and repassed.
“I am glad of your appearance among us, Mrs.
Bloomfield,” said John Effingham, “for, certainly more
Anglo-mania never existed than that which my good
friend Howel manifests this evening, and I have hopes
that your eloquence may persuade him out of some of
those notions, on which my logic has fallen like seed
scattered by the way-side.”
“I can have little hopes of success where Mr. John
Effingham has failed.”
“I am far from being certain of that; for, somehow,
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Howel has taken up the notion that I have gotten a
grudge against England, and he listens to all I say
with distrust and distaste.”
“Mr. John uses strong language habitually, ma'am,”
cried Mr. Howel, “and you will make some allowances
for a vocabulary that has no very mild terms in it;
though, to be frank, I do confess that he seems prejudiced
on the subject of that great nation.”
“What is the point in immediate controversy, gentlemen?”
asked Mrs. Bloomfield, taking a seat.
“Why here is a review of a late American work,
ma'am, and I insist that the author is skinned alive,
whereas, Mr. John insists that the reviewer exposes
only his own rage, the work having a national character,
and running counter to the reviewer's feelings and
interests.”
“Nay, I protest against this statement of the case,
for I affirm that the reviewer exposes a great deal
more than his rage, since his imbecility, ignorance,
and dishonesty are quite as apparent as any thing
else.”
“I have read the article,” said Mrs. Bloomfield, after
glancing her eye at the periodical, “and I must say
that I take sides with Mr. John Effingham in his opinion
of its character.”
“But do you not perceive, ma'am, that this is the
idol of the nobility and gentry; the work that is more
in favour with people of consequence in England than
any other. Bishops are said to write for it!”
“I know it is a work expressly established to sustain
one of the most factitious political systems that ever
existed, and that it sacrifices every high quality to
attain its end.”
“Mrs. Bloomfield, you amaze me! The first writers
of Great Britain figure in its pages.”
“That I much question, in the first place; but even
if it were so, it would be but a shallow mystification.
Although a man of character might write one article
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in a work of this nature, it does not follow that a man
of no character does not write the next. The principles
of the communications of a periodical are as different
as their talents.”
“But the editor is a pledge for all.—The editor of
this review is an eminent writer himself.”
“An eminent writer may be a very great knave, in
the first place, and one fact is worth a thousand conjectures
in such a matter. But we do not know that
there is any responsible editor to works of this nature
at all, for there is no name given in the title-page, and
nothing is more common than vague declarations of a
want of this very responsibility. But if I can prove
to you that this article cannot have been written by a
man of common honesty, Mr. Howel, what will you
then say to the responsibility of your editor?”
“In that case I shall be compelled to admit that he
had no connexion with it.”
“Any thing in preference to giving up the beloved
idol!” said John Effingham laughing. “Why not add
at once, that he is as great a knave as the writer himself?
I am glad, however, that Tom Howel has
fallen into such good hands, Mrs. Bloomfield, and I
devoutly pray you may not spare him.”
We have said that Mrs. Bloomfield had a rapid perception
of things and principles, that amounted almost
to intuition. She had read the article in question, and,
as she glanced her eyes through its pages, had detected
its fallacies and falsehoods, in almost every sentence.
Indeed, they had not been put together with ordinary
skill, the writer having evidently presumed on the easiness
of the class of readers who generally swallowed
his round assertions, and were so clumsily done that
any one who had not the faith to move mountains
would have seen through most of them without difficulty.
But Mr. Howel belonged to another school,
and he was so much accustomed to shut his eyes to
the palpable mystification mentioned by Mrs.
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Bloomfield, that a lie, which, advanced in most works, would
have carried no weight with it, advanced in this particular
periodical became elevated to the dignity of
truth.
Mrs. Bloomfield turned to an article on America, in
the periodical in question, and read from it several disparaging
expressions concerning Mr. Howel's native
country, one of which was, “The American's first
plaything is the rattle-snake's tail.”
“Now, what do you think of this assertion in particular,
Mr. Howel?” she asked, reading the words we
have just quoted.
“Oh! that is said in mere pleasantry—it is only
wit.”
“Well, then, what do you think of it as wit?”
“Well, well, it may not be of a very pure water,
but the best of men are unequal at all times, and more
especially in their wit.”
“Here,” continued Mrs. Bloomfield, pointing to
another paragraph, “is a positive statement or misstatement,
which makes the cost of the `civil department of
the United States Government,' about six times more
than it really is.”
“Our government is so extremely mean, that I ascribe
that error to generosity.”
“Well,” continued the lady, smiling, “here the reviewer
asserts that Congress passed a law limiting the
size of certain ships, in order to please the democracy;
and that the Executive privately evaded this law, and
built vessels of a much greater size; whereas the provision
of the law is just the contrary, or that the ships
should not be less than of seventy-four guns; a piece
of information, by the way, that I obtained from Mr.
Powis.”
“Ignorance, ma'am; a stranger cannot be supposed
to know all the laws of a foreign country.”
“Then why make bold and false assertions about
them, that are intended to discredit the country? Here
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is another assertion—“ten thousand of the men that
fought at Waterloo would have marched through
North America?' Do you believe that, Mr. Howel?”
“But that is merely an opinion, Mrs. Bloomfield;
any man may be wrong in his opinion.”
“Very true, but it is an opinion uttered in the year
of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and twenty-eight;
and after the battles of Bunker Hill, Cowpens,
Plattsburg, Saratoga, and New-Orleans! And, moreover,
after it had been proved that something very like
ten thousand of the identical men who fought at Waterloo,
could not march even ten miles into the country.”
“Well, well, all this shows that the reviewer is sometimes
mistaken.”
“Your pardon Mr. Howel; I think it shows, according
to your own admission, that his wit, or rather
its wit, for there is no his about it—that its wit is of a
very indifferent quality as witticisms even; that it is
ignorant of what it pretends to know; and that its opinions
are no better than its knowledge: all of which,
when fairly established against one who, by his very
pursuit, professes to know more than other people, is
very much like making it appear contemptible.”
“This is going back eight or ten years—let us look
more particularly at the article about which the discussion
commences.”
“Volontiers.”
Mrs. Bloomfield now sent to the library for the work
reviewed, and opening the review she read some of
its strictures; and then turning to the corresponding
passages in the work itself, she pointed out the unfairness
of the quotations, the omissions of the context,
and, in several flagrant instances, witticisms of the reviewer,
that were purchased at the expense of the English
language. She next showed several of those
audacious assertions, for which the particular periodical
was so remarkable, leaving no doubt with any
candid person, that they were purchased at the expense
of truth.
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“But here is an instance that will scarce admit of cavilling
or objection on your part, Mr. Howel,” she continued;
“do me the favour to read the passage in the review.”
Mr. Howel complied, and when he had done, he
looked expectingly at the lady.
“The effect of the reviewer's statement is to make it
appear that the author has contradicted himself, is it not?”
“Certainly, nothing can be plainer.”
“According to your favourite reviewer, who accuses
him of it, in terms. Now let us look at the fact. Here
is the passage in the work itself. In the first place you
will remark that this sentence, which contains the
alleged contradiction, is mutilated; the part which is
omitted, giving a directly contrary meaning to it, from
that it bears under the reviewer's scissors.”
“It has some such appearance, I do confess.”
“Here you perceive that the closing sentence of the
same paragraph, and which refers directly to the point
at issue, is displaced, made to appear as belonging to
a separate paragraph, and as conveying a different
meaning from what the author has actually expressed.”
“Upon my word, I do not know but you are right!”
“Well, Mr. Howel, we have had wit of no very
pure water, ignorance as relates to facts, and mistakes
as regards very positive assertions. In what category,
as Captain Truck would say, do you place this?”
“Why does not the author reviewed expose this?”
“Why does not a gentleman wrangle with a detected
pick-pocket?”
“It is literary swindling,” said John Effingham,
“and the man who did it, is inherently a knave.”
“I think both these facts quite beyond dispute,” observed
Mrs. Bloomfield, laying down Mr. Howel's
favourite review with an air of cool contempt; “and I
must say I did not think it necessary to prove the
general character of the work, at this late date, to any
American of ordinary intelligence; much less to a
sensible man, like Mr. Howel.”
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“But, ma'am, there may be much truth and justice
in the rest of its remarks,” returned the pertinacious
Mr. Howel, “although it has fallen into these mistakes.”
“Were you ever on a jury, Howel?” asked John
Effingham, in his caustic manner.
“Often; and on grand juries, too.”
“Well, did the judge never tell you, when a witness
is detected in lying on one point, that his testimony
is valueless on all others?”
“Very true; but this is a review, and not testimony.”
“The distinction is certainly a very good one,”
resumed Mrs. Bloomfield, laughing, “as nothing, in
general, can be less like honest testimony than a
review!”
“But I think, my dear ma'am, you will allow that
all this is excessively biting and severe—I can't say I
ever read any thing sharper in my life.”
“It strikes me, Mr. Howel, as being nothing but
epithets, the cheapest and most contemptible of all
species of abuse. Were two men, in your presence, to
call each other such names, I think it would excite
nothing but disgust in your mind. When the thought
is clear and poignant, there is little need to have
recourse to mere epithets; indeed, men never use the
latter, except when there is a deficiency of the first.”
“Well, well, my friends,” cried Mr. Howel, as he
walked away towards Grace and Sir George, “this
is a different thing from what I at first thought it, but
still I think you undervalue the periodical.”
“I hope this little lesson will cool some of Mr. Howel's
faith in foreign morality,” observed Mrs. Bloomfield,
as soon as the gentleman named was out of hearing;
“a more credulous and devout worshipper of the
idol, I have never before met.”
“The school is diminishing, but it is still large. Men
like Tom Howel, who have thought in one direction
all their lives, are not easily brought to change their
notions, especially when the admiration which proceeds
from distance, distance `that lends enchantment
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to the view,' is at the bottom of their faith. Had this
very article been written and printed round the corner
of the street in which he lives, Howel would be the
first to say that it was the production of a fellow without
talents or principles, and was unworthy of a second
thought.”
“I still think he will be a wiser, if not a better man,
by the exposure of its frauds.”
“Not he. If you will excuse a homely and a coarse
simile, `he will return like a dog to his vomit, or the
sow to its wallowing in the mire.' I never knew one
of that school thoroughly cured, until he became himself
the subject of attack, or, by a close personal communication,
was made to feel the superciliousness of
European superiority. It is only a week since I had
a discussion with him on the subject of the humanity
and the relish for liberty in his beloved model; and
when I cited the instance, of the employment of the
tomahawk, in the wars between England and this country,
he actually affirmed that the Indian savages killed
no women and children, but the wives and offspring
of their enemies; and when I told him that the English,
like most other people, cared very little for any
liberty but their own, he coolly affirmed that their own
was the only liberty worth caring for!”
“Oh yes,” put in young Mr. Wenham, who had
overheard the latter portion of the conversation, “Mr.
Howel is so thoroughly English, that he actually denies
that America is the most civilized country in the world,
or that we speak our language better than any nation
was ever before known to speak its own language.”
“This is so manifest an act of treason,” said Mrs.
Bloomfield, endeavouring to look grave, for Mr. Wenham
was any thing but accurate in the use of words
himself, commonly pronouncing “been,” “ben,”
“does,” “dooze,” “nothing,” “nawthing,” “few,”
“foo,” &c. &c. &c., “that, certainly, Mr. Howel
should be arraigned at the bar of public opinion for
the outrage.”
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“It is commonly admitted, even by our enemies,
that our mode of speaking is the very best in the world,
which, I suppose, is the real reason why our literature
has so rapidly reached the top of the ladder.”
“And is that the fact?” asked Mrs. Bloomfield, with
a curiosity that was not in the least feigned.
“I believe no one denies that. You will sustain me
in this, I fancy, Mr. Dodge?”
The editor of the Active Inquirer had approached,
and was just in time to catch the subject in discussion.
Now the modes of speech of these two persons, while
they had a great deal in common, had also a great
deal that was not in common. Mr. Wenham was a
native of New-York, and his dialect was a mixture
that is getting to be sufficiently general, partaking
equally of the Doric of New England, the Dutch cross,
and the old English root; whereas, Mr. Dodge spoke
the pure, unalloyed Tuscan of his province, rigidly adhering
to all its sounds and significations. “Dissipation,”
he contended, meant “drunkenness;” “ugly,”
“vicious;” “clever,” “good-natured;” and “humbly,”
(homely) “ugly.” In addition to this finesse in significations,
he had a variety of pronunciations that often
put strangers at fault, and to which he adhered with
a pertinacity that obtained some of its force from the
fact, that it exceeded his power to get rid of them.
Notwithstanding all these little peculiarities, peculiarities
as respects every one but those who dwelt in his
own province, Mr. Dodge had also taken up the notion
of his superiority on the subject of language, and
always treated the matter as one that was placed quite
beyond dispute, by its publicity and truth.
“The progress of American Literature,” returned
the editor, “is really astonishing the four quarters of
the world. I believe it is very generally admitted, now,
that our pulpit and bar are at the very summit of these
two professions. Then we have much the best poets
of the age, while eleven of our novelists surpass any
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of all other countries. The American Philosophical
Society is, I believe, generally considered the most
acute learned body now extant, unless, indeed, the
New-York Historical Society may compete with it,
for that honour. Some persons give the palm to one,
and some to the other; though I myself think it would
be difficult to decide between them. Then to what a
pass has the drama risen of late years! Genius is
getting to be quite a drug in America!”
“You have forgotten to speak of the press, in particular,”
put in the complacent Mr. Wenham. “I
think we may more safely pride ourselves on the high
character of the press, than any thing else.”
“Why, to tell you the truth, sir,” answered Steadfast,
taking the other by the arm, and leading him so
slowly away, that a part of what followed was heard
by the two amused listeners, “modesty is so infallibly
the companion of merit, that we who are engaged in
that high pursuit do not like to say any thing in our
own favour. You never detect a newspaper in the
weakness of extolling itself; but, between ourselves, I
may say, after a close examination of the condition of
the press in other countries, I have come to the conclusion,
that, for talents, taste, candour, philosophy,
genius, honesty, and truth, the press of the United
States stands at the very—”
Here Mr. Dodge passed so far from the listeners,
that the rest of the speech became inaudible, though
from the well-established modesty of the man and the
editor, there can be little doubt of the manner in which
he concluded the sentence.
“It is said in Europe,” observed John Effingham,
his fine face expressing the cool sarcasm in which he
was so apt to indulge, “that there are la vieille and la
Jeune France. I think we have now had pretty fair
specimens of old and young America; the first distrusting
every thing native, even to a potatoe; and the
second distrusting nothing, and least of all, itself.”
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“There appears to be a sort of pendulum-uneasiness
in mankind,” said Mrs. Bloomfield, “that keeps opinion
always vibrating around the centre of truth, for I think
it the rarest thing in the world to find man or woman
who has not a disposition, as soon as an error is abandoned,
to fly off into its opposite extreme. From believing
we had nothing worthy of a thought, there is
a set springing up who appear to have jumped to the
conclusion that we have every thing.”
“Ay, this is one of the reasons that all the rest of
the world laugh at us.”
“Laugh at us, Mr. Effingham! Even I had supposed
the American name had, at last, got to be in
good credit in other parts of the world.”
“Then even you, my dear Mrs. Bloomfield, are notably
mistaken. Europe, it is true, is beginning to
give us credit for not being quite as bad as she once
thought us; but we are far, very far, from being yet
admitted to the ordinary level of nations, as respects
goodness.”
“Surely they give us credit for energy, enterprize,
activity—”
“Qualities that they prettily term, rapacity, cunning,
and swindling! I am far, very far, however, from
giving credit to all that it suits the interests and prejudices
of Europe, especially of our venerable kinswoman,
Old England, to circulate and think to the pre
judice of this country, which, in my poor judgment,
has as much substantial merit to boast of as any nation
on earth; though, in getting rid of a set of ancient
vices and follies, it has not had the sagacity to discover
that it is fast falling into pretty tolerable—or if
you like it better—intolerable substitutes.”
“What then do you deem our greatest error—our
weakest point?”
“Provincialisms, with their train of narrow prejudices,
and a disposition to set up mediocrity as perfection,
under the double influence of an ignorance that
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unavoidably arises from a want of models, and of the
irresistible tendency to mediocrity, in a nation where
the common mind so imperiously rules.”
“But does not the common mind rule every where?
Is not public opinion always stronger than law?”
“In a certain sense, both these positions may be
true. But in a nation like this, without a capital, one
that is all provinces, in which intelligence and tastes
are scattered, this common mind wants the usual
direction, and derives its impulses from the force of
numbers, rather than from the force of knowledge.
Hence the fact, that the public opinion never or seldom
rises to absolute truth. I grant you that as a mediocrity,
it is well; much better than common even; but
it is still a mediocrity.”
“I see the justice of your remark, and I suppose we
are to ascribe the general use of superlatives, which is
so very obvious, to these causes.”
“Unquestionably; men have gotten to be afraid to
speak the truth, when that truth is a little beyond the
common comprehension; and thus it is that you see
the fulsome flattery that all the public servants, as they
call themselves, resort to, in order to increase their
popularity, instead of telling the wholesome facts that
are needed.”
“And what is to be the result?”
“Heaven knows. While America is so much in
advance of other nations, in a freedom from prejudices
of the old school, it is fast substituting a set of prejudices
of its own, that are not without serious dangers.
We may live through it, and the ills of society may
correct themselves, though there is one fact that menaces
more evil than any thing I could have feared.”
“You mean the political struggle between money
and numbers, that has so seriously manifested itself of
late!” exclaimed the quick-minded and intelligent Mrs.
Bloomfield.
“That has its dangers; but there is still another evil
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of greater magnitude. I allude to the very general
disposition to confine political discussions to political
men. Thus, the private citizen, who should presume
to discuss a political question, would be deemed fair
game for all who thought differently from himself. He
would be injured in his pocket, reputation, domestic
happiness, if possible; for, in this respect, America is
much the most intolerant nation I have ever visited.
In all other countries, in which discussion is permitted
at all, there is at least the appearance of fair play,
whatever may be done covertly; but here, it seems to
be sufficient to justify falsehood, frauds, nay, barefaced
rascality, to establish that the injured party has had
the audacity to meddle with public questions, not being
what the public chooses to call a public man. It is
scarcely necessary to say that, when such an opinion
gets to be effective, it must entirely defeat the real
intentions of a popular government.”
“Now you mention it,” said Mrs. Bloomfield, “I
think I have witnessed instances of what you mean.”
“Witnessed, dear Mrs. Bloomfield! Instances are
to be seen as often as a man is found freeman enough
to have an opinion independent of party. It is not for
connecting himself with party that a man is denounced
in this country, but for daring to connect himself with
truth. Party will bear with party, but party will not
bear with truth. It is in politics as in war, regiments
or individuals may desert, and they will be received
by their late enemies with open arms, the honour of a
soldier seldom reaching to the pass of refusing succour
of any sort; but both sides will turn and fire on the
countrymen who wish merely to defend their homes
and firesides.”
“You draw disagreeable pictures of human nature,
Mr. Effingham.”
“Merely because they are true, Mrs. Bloomfield.
Man is worse than the beasts, merely because he has
a code of right and wrong, which he never respects.
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They talk of the variation of the compass, and even
pretend to calculate its changes, though no one can
explain the principle that causes the attraction or its
vagaries at all. So it is with men; they pretend to
look always at the right, though their eyes are constantly
directed obliquely; and it is a certain calculation
to allow of a pretty wide variation — but here
comes Miss Effingham, singularly well attired, and
more beautiful than I have ever before seen her!”
The two exchanged quick glances, and then, as if
fearful of betraying to each other their thoughts, they
moved towards our heroine, to do the honours of the
reception.
CHAPTER XII.
“Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care and duty.”
Cordelia.
As no man could be more gracefully or delicately
polite than John Effingham, when the humour seized
him, Mrs. Bloomfield was struck with the kind and
gentlemanlike manner with which he met his young
kinswoman on this trying occasion, and the affectionate
tones of his voice, and the winning expression of
his eye, as he addressed her. Eve herself was not
unobservant of these peculiarities, nor was she slow in
comprehending the reason. She perceived at once
that he was acquainted with the state of things between
her and Paul. As she well knew the womanly fidelity
of Mrs. Bloomfield, she rightly enough conjectured
that the long observation of her cousin, coupled with
the few words accidentally overheard that evening,
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had even made him better acquainted with the true
condition of her feelings, than was the case with the
friend with whom she had so lately been conversing
on the subject.
Still Eve was not embarrassed by the conviction
that her secret was betrayed to so many persons. Her
attachment to Paul was not the impulse of girlish caprice,
but the warm affection of a woman, that had
grown with time, was sanctioned by her reason, and
which, if it was tinctured with the more glowing imagination
and ample faith of youth, was also sustained
by her principles and her sense of right. She knew
that both her father and cousin esteemed the man of
her own choice, nor did she believe the little cloud that
hung over his birth could do more than have a temporary
influence on his own sensitive feelings. She met
John Effingham, therefore, with a frank composure,
returned the kind pressure of his hand, with a smile
such as a daughter might bestow on an affectionate
parent, and turned to salute the remainder of the party,
with that lady-like ease which had got to be a part of
her nature.
“There goes one of the most attractive pictures that
humanity can offer,” said John Effingham to Mrs.
Bloomfield, as Eve walked away; “a young, timid,
modest, sensitive girl, so strong in her principles, so
conscious of rectitude, so pure of thought, and so warm
in her affections, that she views her selection of a husband,
as others view their acts of duty and religious
faith. With her love has no shame, as it has no weakness.”
“Eve Effingham is as faultless as comports with
womanhood; and yet I confess ignorance of my own
sex, if she receive Mr. Powis as calmly as she received
her cousin.”
“Perhaps not, for in that case, she could scarcely
feel the passion. You perceive that he avoids oppressing
her with his notice, and that the meeting passes
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off without embarrassment. I do believe there is an
elevating principle in love, that, by causing us to wish
to be worthy of the object most prized, produces the
desired effects by stimulating exertion. There, now,
are two as perfect beings as one ordinarily meets with,
each oppressed by a sense of his or her unworthiness
to be the choice of the other.”
“Does love, then, teach humility; successful love,
too?”
“Does it not? It would be hardly fair to press this
matter on you, a married woman; for, by the pandects
of American society, a man may philosophize on love,
prattle about it, trifle on the subject, and even analyze
the passion with a miss in her teens, and yet he shall
not allude to it, in a discourse with a matron. Well,
chacun à son goût; we are, indeed, a little peculiar in
our usages, and have promoted a good deal of village
coquetry, and the flirtations of the may-pole, to the
drawing-room.”
“Is it not better that such follies should be confined
to youth, than that they should invade the sanctity of
married life, as I understand is too much the case elsewhere?”
“Perhaps so; though I confess it is easier to dispose
of a straight-forward proposition from a mother, a
father, or a commissioned friend, than to get rid of a
young lady, who, propriâ personâ, angles on her own
account. While abroad, I had a dozen proposals—”
“Proposals!” exclaimed Mrs. Bloomfield, holding
up both hands, and shaking her head incredulously.
“Proposals! Why not, ma'am?—am I more than
fifty? am I not reasonably youthful for that period of
life, and have I not six or eight thousand a year—”
“Eighteen, or you are much scandalized.”
“Well, eighteen, if you will,” coolly returned the
other, in whose eyes money was no merit, for he was
born to a fortune, and always treated it as a means,
and not as the end of life; “every dollar is a
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magnet, after one has turned forty. Do you suppose that
a single man, of tolerable person, well-born, and with
a hundred thousand francs of rentes, could entirely
escape proposals from the ladies in Europe?”
“This is so revolting to all our American notions,
that, though I have often heard of such things, I have
always found it difficult to believe them!”
“And is it more revolting for the friends of young
ladies to look out for them, on such occasions, than
that the young ladies should take the affair into their
own hands, as is practised quite as openly, here?”
“It is well you are a confirmed bachelor, or declarations
like these would mar your fortunes. I will
admit that the school is not as retiring and diffident as
formerly; for we are all ready enough to say that no
times are equal to our own times; but I shall strenuously
protest against your interpretation of the nature
and artlessness of an American girl.”
“Artlessness!” repeated John Effingham, with a
slight lifting of the eye-brows; “we live in an age
when new dictionaries and vocabularies are necessary
to understand each other's meaning. It is artlessness,
with a vengeance, to beset an old fellow of fifty, as
one would besiege a town. Hist!—Ned is retiring
with his daughter, my dear Mrs. Bloomfield, and it will
not be long before I shall be summoned to a family
council. Well, we will keep the secret until it is publicly
proclaimed.”
John Effingham was right, for his two cousins left
the room together, and retired to the library, but in
a way to attract no particular attention, except in
those who were enlightened on the subject of what
had already passed that evening. When they were
alone, Mr. Effingham turned the key, and then he gave
a free vent to his paternal feelings.
Between Eve and her parent, there had always existed
a confidence exceeding that which it is common
to find between father and daughter. In one sense,
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they had been all in all to each other, and Eve had
never hesitated about pouring those feelings into his
breast, which, had she possessed another parent, would
more naturally have been confided to the affection of
a mother. When their eyes first met, therefore,
they were mutually beaming with an expression of
confidence and love, such as might, in a measure, have
been expected between two of the gentler sex. Mr.
Effingham folded his child to his heart, pressed her
there tenderly for near a minute in silence, and then
kissing her burning cheek he permitted her to look up.
“This answers all my fondest hopes, Eve”—he exclaimed;
“fulfils my most cherished wishes for thy
sake.”
“Dearest sir!”
“Yes, my love, I have long secretly prayed that
such might be your good fortune; for, of all the youths
we have met, at home or abroad, Paul Powis is the
one to whom I can consign you with the most confidence
that he will cherish and love you as you deserve
to be cherished and loved!”
“Dearest father, nothing but this was wanting to
complete my perfect happiness.”
Mr. Effingham kissed his daughter again, and he
was then enabled to pursue the conversation with
greater composure.
“Powis and I have had a full explanation,” he said,
“though in order to obtain it, I have been obliged to
give him strong encouragement—”
“Father!”
“Nay, my love, your delicacy and feelings have
been sufficiently respected, but he has so much diffidence
of himself, and permits the unpleasant circumstances
connected with his birth to weigh so much on
his mind, that I have been compelled to tell him, what
I am sure you will approve, that we disregard family
connections, and look only to the merit of the individual.”
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“I hope, father, nothing was said to give Mr. Powis
reason to suppose we did not deem him every way our
equal.”
“Certainly not. He is a gentleman, and I can claim
to be no more. There is but one thing in which connections
ought to influence an American marriage,
where the parties are suited to each other in the main
requisites, and that is to ascertain that neither should be
carried, necessarily, into associations for which their
habits have given them too much and too good tastes
to enter into. A woman, especially, ought never to be
transplanted from a polished to an unpolished circle;
for, when this is the case, if really a lady, there will
be a dangerous clog on her affection for her husband.
This one great point assured, I see no other about
which a parent need feel concern.”
“Powis, unhappily, has no connections in this country;
or none with whom he has any communications;
and those he has in England are of a class to do him
credit.”
“We have been conversing of this, and he has manifested
so much proper feeling that it has even raised
him in my esteem. I knew his father's family, and
must have known his father, I think, though there were
two or three Asshetons of the name of John. It is a
highly respectable family of the middle states, and belonged
formerly to the colonial aristocracy. Jack Effingham's
mother was an Assheton.”
“Of the same blood, do you think, sir? I remembered
this when Mr. Powis mentioned his father's name,
and intended to question cousin Jack on the subject.”
“Now you speak of it, Eve, there must be a relationship
between them. Do you suppose that our kinsman
is acquainted with the fact that Paul is, in truth,
an Assheton?”
Eve told her father that she had never spoken with
their relative on the subject, at all.
“Then ring the bell, and we will ascertain at once
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how far my conjecture is true. You can have no
false delicacy, my child, about letting your engagement
be known to one as near and as dear to us, as
John.”
“Engagement, father!”
“Yes, engagement,” returned the smiling parent,
“for such I already deem it. I have ventured, in your
behalf, to plight your troth to Paul Powis, or what is
almost equal to it; and in return I can give you back
as many protestations of unequalled fidelity, and eternal
constancy, as any reasonable girl can ask.”
Eve gazed at her father in a way to show that reproach
was mingled with fondness, for she felt that, in
this instance, too much of the precipitation of the other
sex had been manifested in her affairs; still, superior
to coquetry and affectation, and much too warm in
her attachments to be seriously hurt, she kissed the
hand she held, shook her head reproachfully, even
while she smiled, and did as had been desired.
“You have, indeed, rendered it important to us to
know more of Mr. Powis, my beloved father,” she
said, as she returned to her seat, “though I could wish
matters had not proceeded quite so fast.”
“Nay, all I promised was conditional, and dependent
on yourself. You have nothing to do, if I have
said too much, but to refuse to ratify the treaty made
by your negotiator.”
“You propose an impossibility,” said Eve, taking
the hand, again, that she had so lately relinquished,
and pressing it warmly between her own; “the negotiator
is too much revered, has too strong a right to
command, and is too much confided in to be thus dishonoured.
Father, I will, I do, ratify all you have, all
you can promise in my behalf.”
“Even, if I annul the treaty, darling?”
“Even, in that case, father. I will marry none without
your consent, and have so absolute a confidence in
your tender care of me, that I do not even hesitate to
say, I will marry him to whom you contract me.”
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“Bless you, bless you, Eve; I do believe you, for
such have I ever found you, since thought has had any
control over your actions. Desire Mr. John Effingham
to come hither”—then, as the servant closed
the door, he continued,—“and such I believe you will
continue to be until your dying day.”
“Nay, reckless, careless father, you forget that you
yourself have been instrumental in transferring my
duty and obedience to another. What if this sea-monster
should prove a tyrant, throw off the mask, and
show himself in his real colours? Are you prepared,
then, thoughtless, precipitate, parent”—Eve kissed Mr.
Effingham's cheek with childish playfulness, as she
spoke, her heart swelling with happiness the whole
time, “to preach obedience where obedience would
then be due?”
“Hush, precious—I hear the step of Jack; he must
not catch us fooling in this manner.”
Eve rose; and when her kinsman entered the room,
she held out her hand kindly to him, though it was
with an averted face and a tearful eye.
“It is time I was summoned,” said John Effingham,
after he had drawn the blushing girl to him and kissed
her forehead, “for what between tête à têtes with
young fellows, and tête à têtes with old fellows, this
evening, I began to think myself neglected. I hope I
am still in time to render my decided disapprobation
available?”
“Cousin Jack!” exclaimed Eve, with a look of reproachful
mockery, “you are the last person who
ought to speak of disapprobation, for you have done
little else but sing the praises of the applicant, since
you first met him.”
“Is it even so? then, like others, I must submit to
the consequences of my own precipitation and false
conclusions. Am I summoned to inquire how many
thousands a year I shall add to the establishment of the
new couple? As I hate business, say five at once;
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and when the papers are ready, I will sign them, without
reading.”
“Most generous cynic,” cried Eve, “I would I
dared, now, to ask a single question!”
“Ask it without scruple, young lady, for this is the
day of your independence and power. I am mistaken
in the man, if Powis do not prove to be the captain
of his own ship, in the end.”
“Well, then, in whose behalf is this liberality really
meant; mine, or that of the gentleman?”
“Fairly enough put,” said John Effingham, laughing,
again drawing Eve towards him and saluting her
cheek; “for if I were on the rack, I could scarcely say
which I love best, although you have the consolation
of knowing, pert one, that you get the most kisses.”
“I am almost in the same state of feeling myself,
John, for a son of my own could scarcely be dearer
to me than Paul.”
“I see, indeed, that I must marry,” said Eve hastily,
dashing the tears of delight from her eyes, for what
could give more delight than to hear the praises of her
beloved, “if I wish to retain my place in your affections.
But, father, we forget the question you were to
put to cousin Jack.”
“True, love. John, your mother was an Assheton?”
“Assuredly, Ned; you are not to learn my pedigree
at this time of day, I trust.”
“We are anxious to make out a relationship between
you and Paul; can it not be done?”
“I would give half my fortune, Eve consenting,
were it so!—What reason is there for supposing it
probable, or even possible?”
“You know that he bears the name of his friend,
and adopted parent, while that of his family is really
Assheton.”
“Assheton!” exclaimed the other, in a way to show
that this was the first he had ever heard of the fact.
“Cortainly; and as there is but one family of this
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name, which is a little peculiar in the spelling—for
here it is spelt by Paul himself, on this card—we have
thought that he must be a relation of yours. I hope
we are not to be disappointed.”
“Assheton!—It is, as you say, an unusual name;
nor is there more than one family that bears it in this
country, to my knowledge. Can it be possible that
Powis is truly an Assheton?”
“Out of all doubt,” Eve eagerly exclaimed; “we
have it from his own mouth. His father was an
Assheton, and his mother was—”
“Who?” demanded John Effingham, with a vehemence
that startled his companions.
“Nay, that is more than I can tell you, for he did
not mention the family name of his mother; as she
was a sister of Lady Dunluce, however, who is the
wife of General Ducie, the father of our guest, it is
probable her name was Dunluce.”
“I remember no relative that has made such a marriage,
or who can have made such a marriage; and
yet do I personally and intimately know every Assheton
in the country.”
Mr. Effingham and his daughter looked at each
other, for it at once struck them all painfully, that there
must be Asshetons of another family.
“Were it not for the peculiar manner in which this
name is spelled,” said Mr. Effingham, “I could suppose
that there are Asshetons of whom we know nothing,
but it is difficult to believe that there can be such persons
of a respectable family of whom we never heard,
for Powis said his relatives were of the Middle
States—”
“And that his mother was called Dunluce?” demanded
John Effingham earnestly, for he too appeared
to wish to discover an affinity between himself and
Paul.
“Nay, father, this I think he did not say; though it
is quite probable; for the title of his aunt is an ancient
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barony, and those ancient baronies usually became the
family name.”
“In this you must be mistaken, Eve, since he mentioned
that the right was derived through his mother's
mother, who was an Englishwoman.”
“Why not send for him at once, and put the question?”
said the simple-minded Mr. Effingham; “next
to having him for my own son, it would give me pleasure,
John, to learn that he was lawfully entitled to that
which I know you have done in his behalf.”
“That is impossible,” returned John Effingham. “I
am an only child, and as for cousins through my mother,
there are so many who stand in an equal degree
of affinity to me, that no one in particular can be my
heir-at-law. If there were, I am an Effingham; my
estate came from Effinghams, and to an Effingham it
should descend in despite of all the Asshetons in America.”
“Paul Powis included!” exclaimed Eve, raising a
finger reproachfully.
“True, to him I have left a legacy; but it was to a
Powis, and not to an Assheton.”
“And yet he declares himself legally an Assheton,
and not a Powis.”
“Say no more of this, Eve; it is unpleasant to me.
I hate the name of Assheton, though it was my mother's,
and could wish never to hear it again.”
Eve and her father were mute, for their kinsman,
usually so proud and self-restrained, spoke with suppressed
emotion, and it was plain that, for some hidden
cause, he felt even more than he expressed. The idea
that there should be any thing about Paul that could
render him an object of dislike to one as dear to her
as her cousin, was inexpressibly painful to the former,
and she regretted that the subject had ever been introduced.
Not so with her father. Simple, direct, and
full of truth, Mr. Effingham rightly enough believed
that mysteries in a family could lead to no good, and
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he repeated his proposal of sending for Paul, and having
the matter cleared up at once.
“You are too reasonable, Jack,” he concluded, “to
let an antipathy against a name that was your mother's,
interfere with your sense of right. I know that some
unpleasant questions arose concerning your succession
to my aunt's fortune, but that was all settled in your
favour twenty years ago, and I had thought to your
entire satisfaction.”
“Unhappily, family quarrels are ever the most bitter,
and usually they are the least reconcileable,” returned
John Effingham, evasively.—“I would that this young
man's name were any thing but Assheton! I do not
wish to see Eve plighting her faith at the altar, to any
one bearing that accursed name!”
“I shall plight my faith, if ever it be done, dear cousin
John, to the man, and not to his name.”
“No, no—he must keep the appellation of Powis,
by which we have all learned to love him, and to
which he has done so much credit.”
“This is very strange, Jack, for a man who is usually
as discreet and as well regulated as yourself. I
again propose that we send for Paul, and ascertain
precisely to what branch of this so-much-disliked
family he really belongs.”
“No, father, if you love me, not now!” cried Eve,
arresting Mr. Effingham's hand as it touched the bell-cord;
“it would appear distrustful, and even cruel,
were we to enter into such an inquiry so soon. Powis
might think we valued his family, more than we do
himself.”
“Eve is right, Ned; but I will not sleep without
learning all. There is an unfinished examination of
the papers left by poor Monday, and I will take an
occasion to summon Paul to its completion, when an
opportunity will offer to renew the subject of his own
history; for it was at the other investigation that he
first spoke frankly to me, concerning himself.”
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“Do so, cousin Jack, and let it be at once,” said Eve,
earnestly. “I can trust you with Powis alone, for I
know how much you respect and esteem him in your
heart. See, it is already ten.”
“But, he will naturally wish to spend the close of
an evening like this engaged in investigating something
very different from Mr. Monday's tale,” returned her
cousin; the smile with which he spoke chasing away
the look of chilled aversion that had so lately darkened
his noble features.
“No, not to-night,” answered the blushing Eve. “I
have confessed weakness enough for one day. Tomorrow,
if you will—if he will,—but not to-night. I
shall retire with Mrs. Hawker, who already complains
of fatigue; and you will send for Powis, to meet you
in your own room, without unnecessary delay.”
Eve kissed John Effingham coaxingly, and as they
walked together out of the library, she pointed towards
the door that led to the chambers. Her cousin laughingly
complied, and when in his own room, he sent a
message to Paul to join him.
“Now, indeed, may I call you a kinsman,” said
John Effingham, rising to receive the young man,
towards whom he advanced, with extended hands, in
his most winning manner. “Eve's frankness and your
own discernment have made us a happy family!”
“If any thing could add to the felicity of being acceptable
to Miss Effingham,” returned Paul, struggling
to command his feelings, “it is the manner in which
her father and yourself have received my poor offers.”
“Well, we will now speak of it no more. I saw
from the first which way things were tending, and it
was my plain-dealing that opened the eyes of Templemore
to the impossibility of his ever succeeding, by
which means his heart has been kept from breaking.”
“Oh! Mr. Effingham, Templemore never loved Eve
Effingham! I thought so once, and he thought so,
too; but it could not have been a love like mine.”
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“It certainly differed in the essential circumstance
of reciprocity, which, in itself, singularly qualifies the
passion, so far as duration is concerned. Templemore
did not exactly know the reason why he preferred
Eve; but, having seen so much of the society in
which he lived, I was enabled to detect the cause.
Accustomed to an elaborate sophistication, the singular
union of refinement and nature caught his fancy;
for the English seldom see the last separated from vulgarity;
and when it is found, softened by a high intelligence
and polished manners, it has usually great
attractions for the blasés.”
“He is fortunate in having so readily found a substitute
for Eve Effingham!”
“This change is not unnatural, neither. In the first
place, I, with this truth-telling tongue, destroyed all
hope, before he had committed himself by a declaration;
and then Grace Van Cortlandt possesses the
great attraction of nature, in a degree quite equal to
that of her cousin. Besides, Templemore, though a
gentleman, and a brave man, and a worthy one, is not
remarkable for qualities of a very extraordinary kind.
He will be as happy as is usual for an Englishman of
his class to be, and he has no particular right to expect
more. I sent for you, however, less to talk of love,
than to trace its unhappy consequences in this affair,
revealed by the papers of poor Monday. It is time
we acquitted ourselves of that trust. Do me the
favour to open the dressing-case that stands on the
toilet-table; you will find in it the key that belongs to
the bureau, where I have placed the secretary that
contains the papers.”
Paul did as desired. The dressing-case was complicated
and large, having several compartments, none
of which were fastened. In the first opened, he saw a
miniature of a female so beautiful, that his eye rested on
it, as it might be, by a fascination. Notwithstanding
some difference produced by the fashions of different
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periods, the resemblance to the object of his love, was
obvious at a glance. Borne away by the pleasure of
the discovery, and actually believing that he saw a picture
of Eve, drawn in a dress that did not in a great
degree vary from the present attire, fashion having
undergone no very striking revolution in the last twenty
years, he exclaimed—
“This is indeed a treasure, Mr. Effingham, and
most sincerely do I envy you its possession. It is like,
and yet, in some particulars, it is unlike—it scarcely
does Miss Effingham justice about the nose and forehead!”
John Effingham started when he saw the miniature
in Paul's hand, but recovering himself, he smiled at the
eager delusion of his young friend, and said with perfect
composure—
“It is not Eve, but her mother. The two features
you have named in the former came from my family;
but in all the others, the likeness is almost identical.”
“This then is Mrs. Effingham!” murmured Paul,
gazing on the face of the mother of his love, with a
respectful melancholy, and an interest that was rather
heightened than lessened by a knowledge of the truth.
“She died young, sir?”
“Quite; she can scarcely be said to have become
an angel too soon, for she was always one.”
This was said with a feeling that did not escape
Paul, though it surprised him. There were six or seven
miniature-cases in the compartment of the dressing-box,
and supposing that the one which lay uppermost
belonged to the miniature in his hand, he raised it, and
opened the lid with a view to replace the picture of
Eve's mother, with a species of pious reverence. Instead
of finding an empty case, however, another
miniature met his eye. The exclamation that now
escaped the young man was one of delight and surprise.
“That must be my grandmother, with whom you
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are in such raptures, at present,” said John Effingham,
laughing—“I was comparing it yesterday with the
picture of Eve, which is in the Russia-leather case, that
you will find somewhere there. I do not wonder,
however, at your admiration, for she was a beauty in
her day, and no woman is fool enough to be painted
after she grows ugly.”
“Not so—not so—Mr. Effingham! This is the miniature
I lost in the Montauk, and which I had given up
as booty to the Arabs. It has, doubtless, found its way
into your state-room, and has been put among your
effects by your man, through mistake. It is very precious
to me, for it is nearly every memorial I possess
of my own mother!”
“Your mother!” exclaimed John Effingham rising.
“I think there must be some mistake, for I examined
all those pictures this very morning, and it is the first
time they have been opened since our arrival from
Europe. It cannot be the missing picture.”
“Mine it is certainly; in that I cannot be mistaken!”
“It would be odd indeed, if one of my grandmothers,
for both are there, should prove to be your
mother.—Powis, will you have the goodness to let me
see the picture you mean.”
Paul brought the miniature and a light, placing both
before the eyes of his friend.
“That!” exclaimed John Effingham, his voice sounding
harsh and unnatural to the listener,—“that picture
like your mother!”
“It is her miniature—the miniature that was transmitted
to me, from those who had charge of my childhood.
I cannot be mistaken as to the countenance, or
the dress.”
“And your father's name was Assheton?”
“Certainly—John Assheton, of the Asshetons of
Pennsylvania.”
John Effingham groaned aloud; when Paul stepped
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back equally shocked and surprised, he saw that the
face of his friend was almost livid, and that the hand
which held the picture shook like the aspen.
“Are you unwell, dear Mr. Effingham?”
“No—no—'tis impossible! This lady never had a
child. Powis, you have been deceived by some fancied,
or some real resemblance. This picture is mine, and
has not been out of my possession these five and twenty
years.”
“Pardon me, sir, it is the picture of my mother, and
no other; the very picture lost in the Montauk.”
The gaze that John Effingham cast upon the young
man was ghastly; and Paul was about to ring the bell,
but a gesture of denial prevented him.
“See,” said John Effingham, hoarsely, as he touched
a spring in the setting, and exposed to view the initials
of two names interwoven with hair—“is this, too,
yours?”
Paul looked surprised and disappointed.
“That certainly settles the question; my miniature
had no such addition; and yet I believe that sweet and
pensive countenance to be the face of my own beloved
mother, and of no one else.”
John Effingham struggled to appear calm; and, replacing
the pictures, he took the key from the dressing
case, and, opening the bureau, he took out the secretary.
This he signed for Powis, who had the key, to open;
throwing himself into a chair, though every thing was
done mechanically, as if his mind and body had little
or no connection with each other.
“Some accidental resemblance has deceived you as
to the miniature,” he said, while Paul was looking for
the proper number among the letters of Mr. Monday.
“No—no—that cannot be the picture of your mother.
She left no child. Assheton did you say, was the name
of your father?”
“Assheton—John Assheton—about that, at least,
there can have been no mistake. This is the
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number at which we left off—will you, sir, or shall I,
read?”
The other made a sign for Paul to read; looking, at
the same time, as if it were impossible for him to discharge
that duty himself.
“This is a letter from the woman who appears to
have been entrusted with the child, to the man Dowse,”
said Paul, first glancing his eyes over the page,—“it
appears to be little else but gossip—ha!—what is this,
I see?”
John Effingham raised himself in his chair, and he
sat gazing at Paul, as one gazes who expects some
extraordinary developement, though of what nature he
knew not.
“This is a singular passage,” Paul continued—“so
much so as to need elucidation. `I have taken the
child with me to get the picture from the jeweller, who
has mended the ring, and the little urchin knew it at a
glance.' ”
“What is there remarkable in that? Others beside
ourselves have had pictures; and this child knows its
own better than you.”
“Mr. Effingham, such a thing occurred to myself!
It is one of those early events of which I still retain,
have ever retained, a vivid recollection. Though little
more than an infant at the time, well do I recollect to
have been taken in this manner to a jeweller's, and
the delight I felt at recovering my mother's picture,
that which is now lost, after it had not been seen for a
month or two.”
“Paul Blunt—Powis—Assheton”—said John Effingham,
speaking so hoarsely as to be nearly unintelligible,
“remain here a few minutes—I will rejoin
you.”
John Effingham arose, and, notwithstanding he rallied
all his powers, it was with extreme difficulty he
succeeded in reaching the door, steadily rejecting the
offered assistance of Paul, who was at a loss what to
think of so much agitation in a man usually so
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self-possessed and tranquil. When out of the room, John Effingham
did better, and he proceeded to the library,
followed by his own man, whom he had ordered to accompany
him with a light.
“Desire Captain Ducie to give me the favour of his
company for a moment,” he then said, motioning to
the servant to withdraw. “You will not be needed
any longer.”
It was but a minute before Captain Ducie stood before
him. This gentleman was instantly struck with
the pallid look, and general agitation of the person he
had come to meet, and he expressed an apprehension
that he was suddenly taken ill. But a motion of the
hand forbade his touching the bell-cord, and he waited
in silent wonder at the scene which he had been so unexpectedly
called to witness.
“A glass of that water, if you please, Captain Ducie,”
said John Effingham, endeavouring to smile with
gentlemanlike courtesy, as he made the request, though
the effort caused his countenance to appear ghastly
again. A little recovered by this beverage, he said
more steadily—
“You are the cousin of Powis, Captain Ducie.”
“We are sisters' children, sir.”
“And your mother is—”
“Lady Dunluce—a peeress in her own right.”
“But, what—her family name?”
“Her own family name has been sunk in that of my
father, the Ducies claiming to be as old and as honourable
a family, as that from which my mother inherits
her rank. Indeed the Dunluce barony has gone through
so many names, by means of females, that I believe
there is no intention to revive the original appellation
of the family which was first summoned.”
“You mistake me—your mother—when she married—
was—”
“Miss Warrender.”
“I thank you, sir, and will trouble you no longer,”
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returned John Effingham, rising and struggling to make
his manner second the courtesy of his words—“I have
troubled you, abruptly — incoherently I fear — your
arm—”
Captain Ducie stepped hastily forward, and was just
in time to prevent the other from falling senseless on
the floor, by receiving him in his own arms.
CHAPTER XIII.
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her.”
Hamlet.
The next morning, Paul and Eve were alone in that
library which had long been the scene of the confidential
communications of the Effingham family. Eve
had been weeping, nor were Paul's eyes entirely free
from the signs of his having given way to strong sensations.
Still happiness beamed in the countenance of
each, and the timid but affectionate glances with which
our heroine returned the fond, admiring look of her
lover, were any thing but distrustful of their future felicity.
Her hand was in his, and it was often raised to
his lips, as they pursued the conversation.
“This is so wonderful,” exclaimed Eve, after one of
the frequent musing pauses in which both indulged,
“that I can scarcely believe myself awake. That you,
Blunt, Powis, Assheton, should, after all, prove an
Effingham!”
“And that I, who have so long thought myself an
orphan, should find a living father, and he a man like
Mr. John Effingham!”
“I have long thought that something heavy lay at the
honest heart of cousin Jack—you will excuse me, Powis,
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but I shall need time to learn to call him by a name
of greater respect.”
“Call him always so, love, for I am certain it would
pain him to meet with any change in you. He is your
cousin Jack.”
“Nay, he may some day unexpectedly become my
father too, as he has so wonderfully become yours,”
rejoined Eve, glancing archly at the glowing face of
the delighted young man; “and then cousin Jack might
prove too familiar and disrespectful a term.”
“So much stronger does your claim to him appear
than mine, that I think, when that blessed day shall
arrive, Eve, it will convert him into my cousin Jack,
instead of your father. But call him as you may, why
do you still insist on calling me Powis?”
“That name will ever be precious in my eyes! You
abridge me of my rights, in denying me a change of
name. Half the young ladies of the country marry
for the novelty of being called Mrs. Somebody else,
instead of the Misses they were, while I am condemned
to remain Eve Effingham for life.”
“If you object to the appellation, I can continue to
call myself Powis. This has been done so long now
as almost to legalize the act.”
“Indeed, no—you are an Effingham, and as an
Effingham ought you to be known. What a happy
lot is mine! Spared even the pain of parting with my
old friends, at the great occurrence of my life, and
finding my married home the same as the home of my
childhood!”
“I owe every thing to you, Eve, name, happiness,
and even a home.”
“I know not that. Now that it is known that you
are the great-grandson of Edward Effingham, I think
your chance of possessing the Wigwam would be quite
equal to my own, even were we to look different ways
in quest of married happiness. An arrangement of
that nature would not be difficult to make, as John
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Effingham might easily compensate a daughter for the
loss of her house and lands by means of those money-yielding
stocks and bonds, of which he possesses so
many.”
“I view it differently. You were Mr. — my father's
heir—how strangely the word father sounds in unaccustomed
ears!—But you were my father's chosen
heir, and I shall owe to you, dearest, in addition to the
treasures of your heart and faith, my fortune.”
“Are you so very certain of this, ingrate?—Did not
Mr. John Effingham—cousin Jack—adopt you as his
son even before he knew of the natural tie that actually
exists between you?”
“True, for I perceive that you have been made acquainted
with most of that which has passed. But I
hope, that in telling you his own offer, Mr.—that my
father did not forget to tell you of the terms on which
it was accepted?”
“He did you ample justice, for he informed me that
you stipulated there should be no altering of wills, but
that the unworthy heir already chosen, should still
remain the heir.”
“And to this Mr—”
“Cousin Jack,” said Eve, laughing, for the laugh
comes easy to the supremely happy.
“To this cousin Jack assented?”
“Most true, again. The will would not have been
altered, for your interests were already cared for.”
“And at the expense of yours, dearest Eve!”
“It would have been at the expense of my better
feelings, Paul, had it not been so. However, that will
can never do either harm or good to any, now.”
“I trust it will remain unchanged, beloved, that I
may owe as much to you as possible.”
Eve looked kindly at her betrothed, blushed even
deeper than the bloom which happiness had left on her
cheek, and smiled like one who knew more than she
cared to express.
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“What secret meaning is concealed behind that
look of portentous signification?”
“It means, Powis, that I have done a deed that is
almost criminal. I have destroyed a will.”
“Not my father's!”
“Even so—but it was done in his presence, and if
not absolutely with his consent, with his knowledge.
When he informed me of your superior rights, I insisted
on its being done, at once, so, should any accident
occur, you will be heir at law, as a matter of course.
Cousin Jack affected reluctance, but I believe he slept
more sweetly, for the consciousness that this act of
justice had been done.”
“I fear he slept little, as it was; it was long past
midnight before I left him, and the agitation of his
spirits was such as to appear awful in the eyes of a
son!”
“And the promised explanation is to come, to renew
his distress! Why make it at all? is it not enough
that we are certain that you are his child? and for
that, have we not the solemn assurance, the declaration
of almost a dying man!”
“There should be no shade left over my mother's
fame. Faults there have been, somewhere, but it is
painful, oh! how painful! for a child to think evil of a
mother.”
“On this head you are already assured. Your own
previous knowledge, and John Effingham's distinct
declarations, make your mother blameless.”
“Beyond question; but this sacrifice must be made
to my mother's spirit. It is now nine; the breakfast-bell
will soon ring, and then we are promised the whole
of the melancholy tale. Pray with me, Eve, that it
may be such as will not wound the ear of a son!”
Eve took the hand of Paul within both of hers, and
kissed it with a sort of holy hope, that in its exhibition
caused neither blush nor shame. Indeed so bound
together were these young hearts, so ample and
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confiding had been the confessions of both, and so pure
was their love, that neither regarded such a manifestation
of feeling, differently from what an acknowledgement
of a dependence on any other sacred principle
would have been esteemed. The bell now summoned
them to the breakfast-table, and Eve, yielding
to her sex's timidity, desired Paul to precede her a few
minutes, that the sanctity of their confidence might not
be weakened by the observation of profane eyes.
The meal was silent; the discovery of the previous
night, which had been made known to all in the house,
by the declarations of John Effingham as soon as he
was restored to his senses, Captain Ducie having innocently
collected those within hearing to his succour,
causing a sort of moral suspense that weighed on the
vivacity if not on the comforts of the whole party,
the lovers alone excepted.
As profound happiness is seldom talkative, the meal
was a silent one, then; and when it was ended, they
who had no tie of blood with the parties most concerned
with the revelations of the approaching interview,
delicately separated, making employments and
engagements that left the family at perfect liberty;
while those who had been previously notified that
their presence would be acceptable, silently repaired
to the dressing-room of John Effingham. The latter
party was composed of Mr. Effingham, Paul, and Eve,
only. The first passed into his cousin's bed-room,
where he had a private conference that lasted half an
hour. At the end of that time, the two others were
summoned to join him.
John Effingham was a strong-minded and a proud
man, his governing fault being the self-reliance that
indisposed him to throw himself on a greater power,
for the support, guidance, and counsel, that all need.
To humiliation before God, however, he was not unused,
and of late years it had got to be frequent with
him, and it was only in connexion with his
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fellow-creatures that his repugnance to admitting even of an
equality existed. He felt how much more just, intuitive,
conscientious even, were his own views than
those of mankind, in general; and he seldom deigned
to consult with any as to the opinions he ought to entertain,
or as to the conduct he ought to pursue. It is
scarcely necessary to say, that such a being was one
of strong and engrossing passions, the impulses frequently
proving too imperious for the affections, or even
for principles. The scene that he was now compelled
to go through, was consequently one of sore mortification
and self-abasement; and yet, feeling its justice no
less than its necessity, and having made up his mind
to discharge what had now become a duty, his very
pride of character led him to do it manfully, and with
no uncalled-for reserves. It was a painful and humiliating
task, notwithstanding; and it required all the
self-command, all the sense of right, and all the clear
perception of consequences, that one so quick to discriminate
could not avoid perceiving, to enable him to
go through it with the required steadiness and connexion.
John Effingham received Paul and Eve, seated in
an easy chair; for, while he could not be said to be
ill, it was evident that his very frame had been shaken
by the events and emotions of the few preceding hours.
He gave a hand to each, and, drawing Eve affectionately
to him, he imprinted a kiss on a cheek that was
burning, though it paled and reddened in quick succession,
the heralds of the tumultuous thoughts within. The
look he gave Paul was kind and welcome, while a
hectic spot glowed on each cheek, betraying that his
presence excited pain as well as pleasure. A long
pause succeeded this meeting, when John Effingham
broke the silence.
“There can now be no manner of question, my
dear Paul,” he said, smiling affectionately but sadly,
as he looked at the young man, “about your being my
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son. The letter written by John Assheton to your
mother, after the separation of your parents, would
settle that important point, had not the names, and the
other facts that have come to our knowledge, already
convinced me of the precious truth; for precious and
very dear to me is the knowledge that I am the father
of so worthy a child. You must prepare yourself to
hear things that it will not be pleasant for a son to
listen—”
“No, no—cousin Jack—dear cousin Jack!” cried
Eve, throwing herself precipitately into her kinsman's
arms, “we will hear nothing of the sort. It is sufficient
that you are Paul's father, and we wish to know
no more—will hear no more.”
“This is like yourself, Eve, but it will not answer
what I conceive to be the dictates of duty. Paul had
two parents; and not the slightest suspicion ought to
rest on one of them, in order to spare the feelings of
the other. In showing me this kindness you are treating
Paul inconsiderately.”
“I beg, dear sir, you will not think too much of me,
but entirely consult your own judgment—your own
sense of—in short, dear father, that you will consider
yourself before your son.”
“I thank you, my children—what a word, and what
a novel sensation is this, for me, Ned!—I feel all your
kindness, but if you would consult my peace of mind,
and wish me to regain my self-respect, you will allow
me to disburthen my soul of the weight that oppresses
it. This is strong language; but, while I have no confessions
of deliberate criminality, or of positive vice to
make, I feel it to be hardly too strong for the facts.
My tale will be very short, and I crave your patience,
Ned, while I expose my former weakness to these
young people.” Here John Effingham paused, as if
to recollect himself; then he proceeded with a seriousness
of manner that caused every syllable he uttered
to tell on the ears of his listeners. “It is well
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known to your father, Eve, though it will probably be
new to you,” he said, “that I felt a passion for your
sainted mother, such as few men ever experience for
any of your sex. Your father and myself were suitors
for her favour at the same time, though I can scarcely
say, Edward, that any feeling of rivalry entered into
the competition.”
“You do me no more than justice, John, for if the
affection of my beloved Eve could cause me grief, it
was because it brought you pain.”
“I had the additional mortification of approving of
the choice she made; for, certainly, as respected her
own happiness, your mother did more wisely in confiding
it to the regulated, mild, and manly virtues of
your father, than in placing her hopes on one as eccentric
and violent as myself.”
“This is injustice, John. You may have been positive,
and a little stern, at times, but never violent, and
least of all with a woman.”
“Call it what you will, it unfitted me to make one
so meek, gentle, and yet high-souled, as entirely happy
as she deserved to be, and as you did make her, while
she remained on earth. I had the courage to stay and
learn that your father was accepted, (though the marriage
was deferred two years in consideration for my
feelings,) and then with a heart, in which mortified
pride, wounded love, a resentment that was aimed rather
against myself than against your parents, I quitted
home, with a desperate determination never to rejoin
my family again. This resolution I did not own
to myself, even, but it lurked in my intentions unowned,
festering like a mortal disease; and it caused me, when
I burst away from the scene of happiness of which I
had been a compelled witness, to change my name,
and to make several inconsistent and extravagant arrangements
to abandon my native country even.”
“Poor John!” exclaimed his cousin, involuntarily,
“this would have been a sad blot on our felicity, had
we known it!”
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“I was certain of that, even when most writhing
under the blow you had so unintentionally inflicted,
Ned; but the passions are tyrannical and inconsistent
masters. I took my mother's name, changed my servant,
and avoided those parts of the country where I
was known. At this time, I feared for my own reason,
and the thought crossed my mind, that by making
a sudden marriage I might supplant the old passion,
which was so near destroying me, by some of that
gentler affection which seemed to render you so blest,
Edward.”
“Nay, John, this was, itself, a temporary tottering
of the reasoning faculties.”
“It was simply the effect of passions, over which
reason had never been taught to exercise a sufficient
influence. Chance brought me acquainted with Miss
Warrender, in one of the southern states, and she promised,
as I fancied, to realize all my wild schemes of
happiness and resentment.”
“Resentment, John?”
“I fear I must confess it, Edward, though it were
anger against myself. I first made Miss Warrender's
acquaintance as John Assheton, and some months had
passed before I determined to try the fearful experiment
I have mentioned. She was young, beautiful,
well-born, virtuous and good; if she had a fault, it
was her high spirit—not high temper, but she was
high-souled and proud.”
“Thank God, for this!” burst from the inmost soul
of Paul, with unrestrainable feeling.
“You have little to apprehend, my son, on the subject
of your mother's character; if not perfect, she
was wanting in no womanly virtue, and might, nay
ought to have made any reasonable man happy. My
offer was accepted, for I found her heart disengaged.
Miss Warrender was not affluent, and, in addition to
the other unjustifiable motives that influenced me, I
thought there would be a satisfaction in believing that
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I had been chosen for myself, rather than for my
wealth. Indeed, I had got to be distrustful and ungenerous,
and then I disliked the confession of the weakness
that had induced me to change my name. The
simple, I might almost say, loose laws of this country,
on the subject of marriage, removed all necessity for
explanations, there being no bans nor license necessary,
and the christian name only being used in the ceremony.
We were married, therefore, but I was not so
unmindful of the rights of others, as to neglect to procure
a certificate, under a promise of secrecy, in my
own name. By going to the place where the ceremony
was performed, you will also find the marriage
of John Effingham and Mildred Warrender duly registered
in the books of the church to which the officiating
clergyman belonged. So far, I did what justice
required, though, with a motiveless infatuation for
which I can now hardly account, which cannot be
accounted for, except by ascribing it to the inconsistent
cruelty of passion, I concealed my real name from her
with whom there should have been no concealment.
I fancied, I tried to fancy I was no impostor, as I was
of the family I represented myself to be, by the mother's
side; and I wished to believe that my peace
would easily be made when I avowed myself to be the
man I really was. I had found Miss Warrender and
her sister living with a well-intentioned but weak aunt,
and with no male relative to make those inquiries which
would so naturally have suggested themselves to persons
of ordinary worldly prudence. It is true, I had
become known to them under favourable circumstances,
and they had good reason to believe me an
Assheton from some accidental evidence that I possessed,
which unanswerably proved my affinity to that
family, without betraying my true name. But there is
so little distrust in this country, that, by keeping at a
distance from the places in which I was personally
known, a life might have passed without exposure.”
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“This was all wrong, dear cousin Jack,” said Eve,
taking his hand and affectionately kissing it, while her
face kindled with a sense of her sex's rights, “and I
should be unfaithful to my womanhood were I to say
otherwise. You had entered into the most solemn of
all human contracts, and evil is the omen when such
an engagement is veiled by any untruth. But, still, one
would think you might have been happy with a vrituous
and affectionate wife!”
“Alas! it is but a hopeless experiment to marry one,
while the heart is still yearning towards another. Confidence
came too late; for, discovering my unhappiness,
Mildred extorted a tardy confession from me; a confession
of all but the concealment of the true name;
and justly wounded at the deception of which she had
been the dupe, and yielding to the impulses of a high
and generous spirit, she announced to me that she was
unwilling to continue the wife of any man on such
terms. We parted, and I hastened into the south-western
states, where I passed the next twelvemonth
in travelling, hurrying from place to place, in the vain
hope of obtaining peace of mind. I plunged into the
prairies, and most of the time mentioned was lost to
me as respects the world, in the company of hunters
and trappers.”
“This, then, explains your knowledge of that section
of the country,” exclaimed Mr. Effingham, “for
which I have never been able to account! We thought
you among your old friends in Carolina, all that time.”
“No one knew where I had secreted myself, for I
passed under another feigned name, and had no servant,
even. I had, however, sent an address to Mildred,
where a letter would find me; for, I had begun
to feel a sincere affection for her, though it might
not have amounted to passion, and looked forward
to being reunited, when her wounded feelings had
time to regain their tranquillity. The obligations of
wedlock are too serious to be lightly thrown aside, and
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I felt persuaded that neither of us would be satisfied
in the end, without discharging the duties of the state
into which we had entered.”
“And why did you not hasten to your poor wife,
cousin Jack,” Eve innocently demanded, “as soon as
you returned to the settlements?”
“Alas! my dear girl, I found letters at St. Louis
announcing her death. Nothing was said of any child,
nor did I in the least suspect that I was about to become
a father. When Mildred died, I thought all the
ties, all the obligations, all the traces of my ill-judged
marriage were extinct; and the course taken by her
relations, of whom, in this country, there remained
very few, left me no inclination to proclaim it. By
observing silence, I continued to pass as a bachelor,
of course; though had there been any apparent reason
for avowing what had occurred, I think no one who
knows me, can suppose I would have shrunk from
doing so.”
“May I inquire, my dear sir,” Paul asked, with a
timidity of manner that betrayed how tenderly he felt
it necessary to touch on the subject at all—“may I
inquire, my dear sir, what course was taken by my
mother's relatives?”
“I never knew Mr. Warrender, my wife's brother,
but he had the reputation of being a haughty and exacting
man. His letters were not friendly; scarcely
tolerable; for he affected to believe I had given a
false address at the west, when I was residing in the
middle states, and he threw out hints that to me were
then inexplicable, but which the letters left with me,
by Paul, have sufficiently explained. I thought him
cruel and unfeeling at the time, but he had an excuse
for his conduct.”
“Which was, sir—?” Paul eagerly inquired.
“I perceive by the letters you have given me, my
son, that your mother's family had imbibed the opinion,
that I was John Assheton, of Lancaster, a man
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of singular humours, who had made an unfortunate
marriage in Spain, and whose wife, I believe, is still
living in Paris, though lost to herself and her friends.
My kinsman lived retired, and never recovered the
blow. As he was one of the only persons of the name,
who could have married your mother, her relatives
appear to have taken up the idea that he had been
guilty of bigamy, and of course that Paul was illegitimate.
Mr. Warrender, by his letters, appears even to
have had an interview with this person, and, on mentioning
his wife, was rudely repulsed from the house.
It was a proud family, and Mildred being dead, the
concealment of the birth of her child was resorted to,
as a means of averting a fancied disgrace. As for
myself, I call the all-seeing eye of God to witness, that
the thought of my being a parent never crossed my
mind, until I learned that a John Assheton was the
father of Paul, and that the miniature of Mildred
Warrender, that I received at the period of our engagement,
was the likeness of his mother. The simple
declaration of Captain Ducie concerning the family
name of his mother, removed all doubt.”
“But, cousin Jack, did not the mention of Lady
Dunluce, of the Ducies, and of Paul's connections,
excite curiosity?”
“Concerning what, dear? I could have no curiosity
about a child of whose existence I was ignorant.
I did know that the Warrenders had pretensions to
both rank and fortune in England, but never heard the
title, and cared nothing about money that would not,
probably, be Mildred's. Of General Ducie I never
even heard, as he married after my separation, and
subsequently to the receipt of my brother-in-law's letters,
I wished to forget the existence of the family. I
went to Europe, and remained abroad seven years,
and as this was at a time when the continent was
closed against the English, I was not in a way to hear
any thing on the subject. On my return, my wife's
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aunt was dead; the last of my wife's brothers was
dead; her sister must then have been Mrs. Ducie; no
one mentioned the Warrenders, all traces of whom
were nearly lost in this country, and to me the subject
was too painful to be either sought or dwelt on. It is
a curious fact, that, in 1829, during our late visit to the
old world, I ascended the Nile with General Ducie
for a travelling companion. We met at Alexandria,
and went to the cataracts and returned in company.
He knew me as John Effingham, an American traveller
of fortune, if of no particular merit, and I knew
him as an agreeable English general officer. He had
the reserve of an Englishman of rank, and seldom
spoke of his family, and it was only on our return, that
I found he had letters from his wife, Lady Dunluce;
but little did I dream that Lady Dunluce was Mabel
Warrender. How often are we on the very verge of
important information, and yet live on in ignorance
and obscurity! The Ducies appear finally to have
arrived at the opinion that the marriage was legal, and
that no reproach rests on the birth of Paul, by the inquiries
made concerning the eccentric John Assheton.”
“They fancied, in common with my uncle Warrender,
for a long time, that the John Assheton whom you
have mentioned, sir,” said Paul, “was my father. But
some accidental information, at a late day, convinced
them of their error, and then they naturally enough
supposed that it was the only other John Assheton that
could be heard of, who passes, and probably with sufficient
reason, for a bachelor. This latter gentleman
I have myself always supposed to be my father, though
he has treated two or three letters I have written to
him, with the indifference with which one would be
apt to treat the pretensions of an impostor. Pride has
prevented me from attempting to renew the correspondence
lately.”
“It is John Assheton of Bristol, my mother's brother's
son, as inveterate a bachelor as is to be found in
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the Union!” said John Effingham, smiling, in spite of
the grave subject and deep emotions that had so lately
been uppermost in his thoughts. “He must have supposed
your letters were an attempt at mystification on
the part of some of his jocular associates, and I am
surprised that he thought it necessary to answer them
at all.”
“He did answer but one, and that reply certainly
had something of the character you suggest, sir. I
freely forgive him, now I understand the truth, though
his apparent contempt gave me many a bitter pang
at the time. I saw Mr. Assheton once in public, and
observed him well, for, strange as it is, I have been
thought to resemble him.”
“Why strange? Jack Assheton and myself have,
or rather had a strong family likeness to each other,
and, though the thought is new to me, I can now easily
trace this resemblance to myself. It is rather an
Assheton than an Effingham look, though the latter is
not wanting.”
“These explanations are very clear and satisfactory,”
observed Mr. Effingham, “and leave little doubt that
Paul is the child of John Effingham and Mildred Warrender;
but they would be beyond all cavil, were the
infancy of the boy placed in an equally plain point of
view, and could the reasons be known why the Warranders
abandoned him to the care of those who
yielded him up to Mr. Powis.”
“I see but little obscurity in that,” returned John
Effingham. “Paul is unquestionably the child referred
to in the papers left by poor Monday, to the care of
whose mother he was intrusted, until, in his fourth
year, she yielded him to Mr. Powis, to get rid of trouble
and expense, while she kept the annuity granted by
Lady Dunluce. The names appear in the concluding
letters; and had we read the the latter through at first,
we should earlier have arrived at the same conclusion.
Could we find the man called Dowse, who appears to
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have instigated the fraud, and who married Mrs. Monday,
the whole thing would be explained.”
“Of this I am aware,” said Paul, for he and John
Effingham had perused the remainder of the Monday
papers together, after the fainting fit of the latter, as
soon as his strength would admit; “and Captain Truck
is now searching for an old passenger of his, who I
think will furnish the clue. Should we get this evidence,
it would settle all legal questions.”
“Such questions will never be raised,” said John
Effingham, holding out his hand affectionately to his
son; “you possess the marriage certificate given to
your mother, and I avow myself to have been the person
therein styled John Assheton. This fact I have
endorsed on the back of the certificate; while here is
another given to me in my proper name, with the endorsement
made by the clergyman that I passed by
another name, at the ceremony.”
“Such a man, cousin Jack, was unworthy of his
cloth!” said Eve with energy.
“I do not think so, my child. He was innocent of the
original deception; this certificate was given after the
death of my wife, and might do good, whereas it could
do no harm. The clergyman in question is now a
bishop, and is still living. He may give evidence if
necessary, to the legality of the marriage.”
“And the clergyman by whom I was baptized is also
alive,” cried Paul, “and has never lost sight of me.
He was, in part, in the confidence of my mother's
family, and even after I was adopted by Mr. Powis,
he kept me in view as one of his little Christians as he
termed me. It was no less a person than Dr. —.”
“This alone would make out the connection and
identity,” said Mr. Effingham, “without the aid of the
Monday witnesses. The whole obscurity has arisen
from John's change of name, and his ignorance of the
fact that his wife had a child. The Ducies appear to
have had plausible reasons, too, for distrusting the
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legality of the marriage; but all is now clear, and as
a large estate is concerned, we will take care that no
further obscurity shall rest over the affair.”
“The part connected with the estate is already
secured,” said John Effingham, looking at Eve with
a smile. “An American can always make a will, and
one that contains but a single bequest is soon written.
Mine is executed, and Paul Effingham, my son by my
marriage with Mildred Warrender, and lately known
in the United States' Navy as Paul Powis, is duly declared
my heir. This will suffice for all legal purposes,
though we shall have large draughts of gossip
to swallow.”
“Cousin Jack!”
“Daughter Eve!”
“Who has given cause for it?”
“He who commenced one of the most sacred of
his earthly duties, with an unjustifiable deception. The
wisest way to meet it, will be to make our avowals
of the relationship as open as possible.”
“I see no necessity, John, of entering into details,”
said Mr. Effingham; “you were married young, and
lost your wife within a year of your marriage. She
was a Miss Warrender, and the sister of Lady Dunluce;
Paul and Ducie are declared cousins, and the
former proves to be your son, of whose existence you
were ignorant. No one will presume to question any
of us, and it really strikes me that all rational people
ought to be satisfied with this simple account of the
matter.”
“Father!” exclaimed Eve, with her pretty little
hands raised in the attitude of surprise, “in what capital
even, in what part of the world, would such a
naked account appease curiosity? Much less will it
suffice here, where every human being, gentle or simple,
learned or ignorant, refined or vulgar, fancies
himself a constitutional judge of all the acts of all his
fellow-creatures?”
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“We have at least the consolation of knowing that
no revelations will make the matter any worse, or any
better,” said Paul, “as the gossips would tell their own
tale, in every case, though its falsehood were as apparent
as the noon-day sun. A gossip is essentially a liar,
and truth is the last ingredient that is deemed necessary
to his other qualifications; indeed, a well authenticated
fact is a death-blow to a gossip. I hope, my
dear sir, you will say no more than that I am your
son, a circumstance much too precious to me to be
omitted.”
John Effingham looked affectionately at the noble
young man, whom he had so long esteemed and admired;
and the tears forced themselves to his eyes, as
he felt the supreme happiness that can alone gladden
a parent's heart.
CHAPTER XIV.
“For my part, I care not: I say little; but when the time comes, there
shall be smiles.”
—Nym.
Although Paul Effingham was right, and Eve
Effingham was also right, in their opinions of the art
of gossiping, they both forgot one qualifying circumstance,
that, arising from different causes, produces
the same effect, equally in a capital and in a province.
In the first, marvels form a nine days' wonder from
the hurry of events; in the latter, from the hurry
of talking. When it was announced in Templeton
that Mr. John Effingham had discovered a son in Mr.
Powis, as that son had conjectured, every thing but
the truth was rumoured and believed, in connection
with the circumstance. Of course it excited a good
deal of a natural and justifiable curiosity and surprise
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in the trained and intelligent, for John Effingham had
passed for a confirmed bachelor; but they were generally
content to suffer a family to have feelings and
incidents that were not to be paraded before a neighbourhood.
Having some notions themselves of the
delicacy and sanctity of the domestic affections, they
were willing to respect the same sentiments in others.
But these few excepted, the village was in a tumult
of surmises, reports, contradictions, confirmations,
rebutters, and sur-rebutters, for a fortnight. Several
village élégants, whose notions of life were obtained
in the valley in which they were born, and who had
turned up their noses at the quiet, reserved, gentleman-like
Paul, because he did not happen to suit their tastes,
were disposed to resent his claim to be his father's son,
as if it were an injustice done to their rights; such commentators
on men and things uniformly bringing
every thing down to the standard of self. Then the
approaching marriages at the Wigwam had to run the
gauntlet, not only of village and county criticisms, but
that of the mighty Emporium itself, as it is the fashion
to call the confused and tasteless collection of flaring
red brick houses, marten-box churches, and colossal
taverns, that stands on the island of Manhattan; the
discussion of marriages being a topic of never-ending
interest in that well regulated social organization,
after the subjects of dollars, lots, and wines, have been
duly exhausted. Sir George Templemore was transformed
into the Honourable Lord George Templemore,
and Paul's relationship to Lady Dunluce was converted,
as usual, into his being the heir apparent of a Duchy
of that name; Eve's preference for a nobleman, as a
matter of course, to the aristocratical tastes imbibed
during a residence in foreign countries; Eve, the intellectual,
feminine, instructed Eve, whose European
associations, while they had taught her to prize the
refinement, grace, retenue, and tone of an advanced
condition of society, had also taught her to despise its
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mere covering and glitter! But, as there is no protection
against falsehood, so is there no reasoning with
ignorance.
A sacred few, at the head of whom were Mr. Steadfast
Dodge and Mrs. Widow-Bewitched Abbott, treated
the matter as one of greater gravity, and as possessing
an engrossing interest for the entire community.
“For my part, Mr. Dodge,” said Mrs. Abbott, in
one of their frequent conferences, about a fortnight
after the éclaircissement of the last chapter, “I do not
believe that Paul Powis is Paul Effingham at all. You
say that you knew him by the name of Blunt when he
was a younger man?”
“Certainly, ma'am. He passed universally by that
name formerly, and it may be considered as at least
extraordinary that he should have had so many aliases.
The truth of the matter is, Mrs. Abbott, if truth could
be come at, which I always contend is very difficult in
the present state of the world—”
“You never said a juster thing, Mr. Dodge!” interrupted
the lady, feelings impetuous as hers seldom
waiting for the completion of a sentence, “I never can
get hold of the truth of any thing now; you may
remember you insinuated that Mr. John Effingham
himself was to be married to Eve, and, lo and behold!
it turns out to be his son!”
“The lady may have changed her mind, Mrs. Abbott;
she gets the same estate with a younger man.”
“She's monstrous disagreeable, and I'm sure it will
be a relief to the whole village when she is married,
let it be to the father, or to the son. Now, do you
know, Mr. Dodge, I have been in a desperate taking
about one thing, and that is to find that, bony fie-dy,
the two old Effinghams are not actually brothers! I
knew that they called each other cousin Jack and cousin
Ned, and that Eve affected to call her uncle cousin
Jack, but then she has so many affectations, and the
old people are so foreign, that I looked upon all
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that as mere pretence; I said to myself a neighbourhood
ought to know better about a man's family than
he can know himself, and the neighbourhood all declared
they were brothers; and yet it turns out, after
all, that they are only cousins!”
“Yes, I do believe that, for once, the family was
right in that matter, and the public mistaken.”
“Well, I should like to know who has a better right
to be mistaken than the public, Mr. Dodge. This is a
free country, and if the people can't sometimes be
wrong, what is the mighty use of their freedom? We
are all sinful wretches, at the best, and it is vain to
look for any thing but vice from sinners.”
“Nay, my dear Mrs. Abbott, you are too hard on
yourself, for every body allows that you are as exemplary
as you are devoted to your religious duties.”
“Oh! I was not speaking particularly of myself,
sir; I am no egotist in such things, and wish to leave
my own imperfections to the charity of my friends and
neighbours. But, do you think, Mr. Dodge, that a
marriage between Paul Effingham, for so I suppose he
must be called, and Eve Effingham, will be legal?
Can't it be set aside, and if that should be the case,
wouldn't the fortune go to the public?”
“It ought to be so, my dear ma'am, and I trust the
day is not distant when it will be so. The people are
beginning to understand their rights, and another century
will not pass, before they will enforce them by
the necessary penal statutes. We have got matters
so now, that a man can no longer indulge in the aristocratic
and selfish desire to make a will, and, take my
word for it, we shall not stop until we bring every thing
to the proper standard.”
The reader is not to suppose from his language that
Mr. Dodge was an agrarian, or that he looked forward
to a division of property, at some future day; for, possessing
in his own person already, more than what
could possibly fall to an individual share, he had not
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the smallest desire to lessen its amount by a general division.
In point of fact he did not know his own
meaning, except as he felt envy of all above him, in
which, in truth, was to be found the whole secret of
his principles, his impulses, and his doctrines. Any
thing that would pull down those whom education,
habits, fortune, or tastes, had placed in positions more
conspicuous than his own, was, in his eyes, reasonable
and just—as any thing that would serve him, in person,
the same ill turn, would have been tyranny and oppresssion.
The institutions of America, like every thing
human, have their bad as well as their good side; and
while we firmly believe in the relative superiority of
the latter, as compared with other systems, we should
fail of accomplishing the end set before us in this
work, did we not exhibit, in strong colours, one of the
most prominent consequences that has attended the
entire destruction of factitious personal distinctions in
the country, which has certainly aided in bringing out
in bolder relief than common, the prevalent disposition
in man to covet that which is the possession of another,
and to decry merits that are unattainable.
“Well, I rejoice to hear this,” returned Mrs. Abbott,
whose principles were of the same loose school as
those of her companion, “for I think no one should
have rights but those who have experienced religion,
if you would keep vital religion in a country. There
goes that old sea-lion, Truck, and his fishing associate,
the commodore, with their lines and poles, as usual,
Mr. Dodge; I beg you will call to them, for I long to
hear what the first can have to say about his beloved
Effinghams, now?”
Mr. Dodge complied, and the navigator of the ocean
and the navigator of the lake, were soon seated in Mrs.
Abbott's little parlour, which might be styled the focus
of gossip, near those who were so lately its sole occupants.
“This is wonderful news, gentlemen,” commenced
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Mrs. Abbott, as soon as the bustle of the entrance
had subsided. “Mr. Powis is Mr. Effingham, and it
seems that Miss Effingham is to become Mrs. Effingham.
Miracles will never cease, and I look upon this
as one of the most surprising of my time.”
“Just so, ma'am,” said the commodore, winking his
eye, and giving the usual flourish with a hand; “your
time has not been that of a day neither, and Mr. Powis
has reason to rejoice that he is the hero of such a history.
For my part, I could not have been more astonished,
were I to bring up the sogdollager with a
trout-hook, having a cheese paring for the bait.”
“I understand,” continued the lady, “that there are
doubts after all, whether this miracle be really a true
miracle. It is hinted that Mr. Powis is neither Mr.
Effingham nor Mr. Powis, but that he is actually a
Mr. Blunt. Do you happen to know any thing of the
matter, Captain Truck?”
“I have been introduced to him, ma'am, by all
three names, and I consider him as an acquaintance
in each character. I can assure you, moreover, that
he is A, No. 1, on whichever tack you take him; a man
who carries a weather helm in the midst of his enemies.”
“Well, I do not consider it a very great recommendation
for one to have enemies, at all. Now, I dare
say, Mr. Dodge, you have not an enemy on earth?”
“I should be sorry to think that I had, Mrs. Abbott.
I am every man's friend, particularly the poor man's
friend, and I should suppose that every man ought to
be my friend. I hold the whole human family to be
brethren, and that they ought to live together as
such.”
“Very true, sir; quite true—we are all sinners, and
ought to look favourably on each other's failings. It
is no business of mine—I say it is no business of ours,
Mr. Dodge, who Miss Eve Effingham marries; but
were she my daughter, I do think I should not like her
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to have three family names, and to keep her own in
the bargain!”
“The Effinghams hold their heads very much up,
though it is not easy to see why; but so they do, and
the more names the better, perhaps, for such people,”
returned the editor. “For my part, I treat them with
condescension, just as I do every body else; for it is a
rule with me, Captain Truck, to make use of the same
deportment to a king on his throne, as I would to a
beggar in the street.”
“Merely to show that you do not feel yourself to be
above your betters. We have many such philosophers
in this country.”
“Just so,” said the commodore.
“I wish I knew,” resumed Mrs. Abbott; for there
existed in her head, as well as in that of Mr. Dodge,
such a total confusion on the subject of deportment,
that neither saw nor felt the cool sarcasm of the old
sailor; “I wish I knew, now, whether Eve Effingham
has really been regenerated! What is your opinion,
commodore?”
“Re-what, ma'am,” said the commodore, who was
not conscious of ever having heard the word before;
for, in his Sabbaths on the water, where he often
worshipped God devoutly in his heart, the language
of the professedly pious was never heard; “I can only
say she is as pretty a skiff as floats, but I can tell you
nothing about resuscitation—indeed, I never heard of
her having been drowned.”
“Ah, Mrs. Abbott, the very best friends of the
Effinghams will not maintain that they are pious. I
do not wish to be invidious, or to say unneighbourly
things; but were I upon oath, I could testify to a great
many things, which would unqualifiedly show, that
none of them have ever experienced.”
“Now, Mr. Dodge, you know how much I dislike
scandal,” the widow-bewitched cried affectedly, “and
I cannot tolerate such a sweeping charge. I insist on
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the proofs of what you say, in which, no doubt, these
gentlemen will join me.”
By proofs, Mrs. Abbott meant allegations.
“Well, ma'am, since you insist on my proving what
I have said, you shall not be disappointed. In the first
place, then, they read their family prayers out of a
book.”
“Ay, ay,” put in the captain; “but that merely shows
they have some education; it is done every where.”
“Your pardon, sir; no people but the Catholics and
the church people commit this impiety. The idea of
reading to the Deity, Mrs. Abbott, is particularly
shocking to a pious soul.”
“As if the Lord stood in need of letters! That
is very bad, I allow; for at family prayers, a form
becomes mockery.”
“Yes, ma'am; but what do you think of cards?”
“Cards!” exclaimed Mrs. Abbott, holding up her
pious hands, in holy horror.
“Even so; foul paste-board, marked with kings and
queens,” said the captain. “Why this is worse than a
common sin, being unqualifiedly anti-republican.”
“I confess I did not expect this! I had heard that
Eve Effingham was guilty of indiscretions, but I did
not think she was so lost to virtue, as to touch a card.
Oh! Eve Effingham; Eve Effingham, for what is your
poor diseased soul destined!”
“She dances, too, I suppose you know that,” continued
Mr. Dodge, who finding his popularity a little
on the wane, had joined the meeting himself, a few
weeks before, and who did not fail to manifest the zeal
of a new convert.
“Dances!” repeated Mrs. Abbott, in holy horror.
“Real fi diddle de di!” echoed Captain Truck.
“Just so,” put in the commodore; “I have seen it
with my own eyes. But, Mrs. Abbott, I feel bound to
tell you that your own daughter—”
“Biansy-Alzumy-Anne!” exclaimed the mother in
alarm.
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“Just so; my-aunty-all-suit-me-anne, if that is her
name. Do you know, ma'am, that I have seen your
own blessed daughter, my-aunty-Anne, do a worse
thing, even, than dancing!”
“Commodore, you are awful! What could a child
of mine do that is worse than dancing?”
“Why, ma'am, if you will hear all, it is my duty to
tell you. I saw aunty-Anne (the commodore was
really ignorant of the girl's name) jump a skipping-rope,
yesterday morning, between the hours of seven
and eight. As I hope ever to see the sogdollager,
again, ma'am, I did!”
“And do you call this as bad as dancing?”
“Much worse, ma'am, to my notion. It is jumping
about without music, and without any grace, either,
particularly as it was performed by my-aunty-Anne.”
“You are given to light jokes. Jumping the skipping-rope
is not forbidden in the bible.”
“Just so; nor is dancing, if I know any thing about
it; nor, for that matter, cards.”
“But waste of time is; a sinful waste of time; and
evil passions, and all unrighteousness.”
“Just so. My-aunty-Anne was going to the pump
for water—I dare say you sent her—and she was
misspending her time; and as for evil passions, she did
not enjoy the hop, until she and your neighbour's
daughter had pulled each other's hair for the rope, as
if they had been two she-dragons. Take my word for
it, ma'am, it wanted for nothing to make it sin of the
purest water, but a cracked fiddle.”
While the commodore was holding Mrs. Abbott at
bay, in this manner, Captain Truck, who had given him
a wink to that effect, was employed in playing off a
practical joke at the expense of the widow. It was
one of the standing amusements of these worthies, who
had gotten to be sworn friends and constant associates,
after they had caught as many fish as they wished, to
retire to the favourite spring, light, the one his cigar,
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the other his pipe, mix their grog, and then relieve
their ennui, when tired of discussing men and things,
by playing cards on a particular stump. Now, it
happens that the captain had the identical pack which
had been used on all such occasions in his pocket, as
was evident in the fact that the cards were nearly as
distinctly marked on their backs, as on their faces.
These cards he showed secretly to his companion, and
when the attention of Mrs. Abbott was altogether engaged
in expecting the terrible announcement of her
daughter's errors, the captain slipped them, kings,
queens and knaves, high, low, jack and the game, without
regard to rank, into the lady's work-basket. As soon
as this feat was successfully performed, a sign was given
to the commodore that the conspiracy was effected,
and that disputant in theology gradually began to give
ground, while he continued to maintain that jumping
the rope was a sin, though it might be one of a
nominal class. There is little doubt, had he possessed
a smattering of phrases, a greater command of
biblical learning, and more zeal, that the fisherman
might have established a new shade of the Christian
faith; for, while manking still persevere in disregarding
the plainest mandates of God, as respects humility, the
charities, and obedience, nothing seems to afford them
more delight than to add to the catalogue of the
offences against his divine supremacy. It was perhaps
lucky for the commodore, who was capital at casting
a pickerel line, but who usually settled his polemics
with the fist, when hard pushed, that Captain Truck
found leisure to come to the rescue.
“I'm amazed, ma'am,” said the honest packet-master,
“that a woman of your sanctity should deny that
jumping the rope is a sin, for I hold that point to have
been settled by all our people, these fifty years. You
will admit that the rope cannot be well-jumped without
levity.”
“Levity, Captain Truck! I hope you do not insinuate
that a daughter of mine discovers levity?”
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“Certainly, ma'am; she is called the best rope-jumper
in the village, I hear; and levity, or lightness
of carriage, is the great requisite for skill in the art.
Then there are `vain repetitions' in doing the same
thing over and over so often, and `vain repetitions'
are forbidden even in our prayers. I can call both
father and mother to testify to that fact.”
“Well, this is news to me! I must speak to the minister
about it.”
“Of the two, the skipping-rope is rather more sinful
than dancing, for the music makes the latter easy;
whereas, one has to force the spirit to enter into the
other. Commodore, our hour has come, and we must
make sail. May I ask the favour, Mrs. Abbott, of a
bit of thread to fasten this hook afresh?”
The widow-bewitched turned to her basket, and
raising a piece of calico, to look for the thread “high,
low, jack and the game,” stared her in the face.
When she bent her eyes towards her guests, she perceived
all three gazing at the cards, with as much apparent
surprise and curiosity, as if two of them knew
nothing of their history.
“Awful!” exclaimed Mrs. Abbott, shaking both
hands,—“awful — awful — awful! The powers of
darkness have been at work here!”
“They seem to have been pretty much occupied,
too,” observed the captain, “for a better thumbed pack
I never yet found in the forecastle of a ship.”
“Awful—awful—awful!—This is equal to the forty
days in the wilderness, Mr. Dodge.”
“It is a trying cross, ma'am.”
“To my notion, now,” said the captain, “those cards
are not worse than the skipping-rope, though I allow
that they might have been cleaner.”
But Mrs. Abbott was not disposed to view the matter
so lightly. She saw the hand of the devil in the
affair, and fancied it was a new trial offered to her
widowed condition.
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“Are these actually cards!” she cried, like one who
distrusted the evidence of her senses.
“Just so, ma'am,” kindly answered the commodore;
“This is the ace of spades, a famous fellow to hold
when you have the lead; and this is the Jack, which
counts one, you know, when spades are trumps. I
never saw a more thorough-working pack in my
life.”
“Or a more thoroughly worked pack,” added the
captain, in a condoling manner. “Well, we are not
all perfect, and I hope Mrs. Abbott will cheer up and
look at this matter in a gayer point of view. For
myself I hold that a skipping-rope is worse than the
Jack of spades, sundays or week days. Commodore,
we shall see no pickerel to-day, unless we tear ourselves
from this good company.”
Here the two wags took their leave, and retreated
to the skiff; the captain, who foresaw an occasion to
use them, considerately offering to relieve Mrs. Abbott
from the presence of the odious cards, intimating that
he would conscientiously see them fairly sunk in the
deepest part of the lake.
When the two worthies were at a reasonable distance
from the shore, the commodore suddenly ceased rowing,
made a flourish with his hand, and incontinently began
to laugh, as if his mirth had suddenly broken through
all restraint. Captain Truck, who had been lighting a
cigar, commenced smoking, and, seldom indulging in
boisterous merriment, he responded with his eyes,
shaking his head from time to time, with great satisfaction,
as thoughts more ludicrous than common came
over his imagination.
“Harkee, commodore,” he said, blowing the smoke
upward, and watching it with his eye until it floated
away in a little cloud, “neither of us is a chicken.
You have studied life on the fresh water, and I have
studied life on the salt. I do not say which produces
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the best scholars, but I know that both make better
Christians than the jack-screw system.”
“Just so. I tell them in the village that little is
gained in the end by following the blind; that is my
doctrine, sir.”
“And a very good doctrine it would prove, I make
no doubt, were you to enter into it a little more
fully—”
“Well, sir, I can explain—”
“Not another syllable is necessary. I know what
you mean as well as if I said it myself, and, moreover,
short sermons are always the best. You mean that a
pilot ought to know where he is steering, which is perfectly
sound doctrine. My own experience tells me,
that if you press a sturgeon's nose with your foot, it
will spring up as soon as it is loosened. Now the
jack-screw will heave a great strain, no doubt; but the
moment it is let up, down comes all that rests on it,
again. This Mr. Dodge, I suppose you know, has been
a passenger with me once or twice?”
“I have heard as much—they say he was tigerish
in the fight with the niggers—quite an out-and-outer.”
“Ay, I hear he tells some such story himself; but
harkee, commodore, I wish to do justice to all men,
and I find there is very little of it inland, hereaway.
The hero of that day is about to marry your beautiful
Miss Effingham; other men did their duty too, as, for
instance, was the case with Mr. John Effingham; but
Paul Blunt-Powis-Effingham finished the job. As for
Mr. Steadfast Dodge, sir, I say nothing, unless it be to
add that he was nowhere near me in that transaction;
and if any man felt like an alligator in Lent, on that
occasion, it was your humble servant.”
“Which means that he was not nigh the enemy, I'll
swear before a magistrate.”
“And no fear of perjury. Any one who saw Mr.
John Effingham and Mr. Powis on that day, might
have sworn that they were father and son; and any
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one who did not see Mr. Dodge might have said at
once, that he did not belong to their family. That is
all, sir; I never disparage a passenger, and, therefore,
shall say no more than merely to add, that Mr. Dodge
is no warrior.”
“They say he has experienced religion, lately, as
they call it.”
“It is high time, sir, for he had experienced sin quite
long enough, according to my notion. I hear that the
man goes up and down the country disparaging those
whose shoe-ties he is unworthy to unloose, and that he
has published some letters in his journal, that are as
false as his heart; but let him beware, lest the world
should see, some rainy day, an extract from a certain
log-book belonging to a ship called the Montauk. I
am rejoiced at this marriage after all, commodore, or
marriages rather, for I understand that Mr. Paul
Effingham and Sir George Templemore intend to make
a double bowline of it to-morrow morning. All is
arranged, and as soon as my eyes have witnessed that
blessed sight, I shall trip for New-York again.”
“It is clearly made out then, that the young gentleman
is Mr. John Effingham's son?”
“As clear as the north-star in a bright night. The
fellow who spoke to me at the Fun of Fire has put us
in a way to remove the last doubt, if there were any
doubt. Mr. Effingham himself, who is so cool-headed
and cautious, says there is now sufficient proof to
make it good in any court in America. That point
may be set down as settled, and, for my part, I rejoice
it is so, since Mr. John Effingham has so long passed
for an old bachelor, that it is a credit to the corps to
find one of them the father of so noble a son.”
Here the commodore dropped his anchor, and the
two friends began to fish. For an hour neither talked
much, but having obtained the necessary stock of
perch, they landed at the favourite spring, and prepared
a fry. While seated on the grass, alternating
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between the potations of punch, and the mastication of
fish, these worthies again renewed the dialogue in
their usual discursive, philosophical, and sentimental
manner.
“We are citizens of a surprisingly great country,
commodore,” commenced Mr. Truck, after one of his
heaviest draughts; “every body says it, from Maine
to Florida, and what every body says must be true.”
“Just so, sir. I sometimes wonder how so great a
country ever came to produce so little a man as myself.”
“A good cow may have a bad calf, and that explains
the matter. Have you many as virtuous and
pious women in this part of the world, as Mrs. Abbott?”
“The hills and valleys are filled with them. You
mean persons who have got so much religion that they
have no room for any thing else?”
“I shall mourn to my dying day, that you were not
brought up to the sea! If you discover so much of the
right material on fresh-water, what would you have
been on salt? The people who suck in nutriment from
a brain and a conscience like those of Mr. Dodge, too,
commodore, must get, in time, to be surprisingly clearsighted.”
“Just so; his readers soon overreach themselves.
But it's of no great consequence, sir; the people of this
part of the world keep nothing long enough to do
much good, or much harm.”
“Fond of change, ha?”
“Like unlucky fishermen, always ready to shift the
ground. I don't believe, sir, that in all this region you
can find a dozen graves of sons, that lie near their
fathers. Every body seems to have a mortal aversion
to stability.”
“It is hard to love such a country, commodore!”
“Sir, I never try to love it. God has given me a
pretty sheet of water, that suits my fancy and wants,
a beautiful sky, fine green mountains, and I am
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satisfied. One may love God, in such a temple, though he
love nothing else.”
“Well, I suppose if you love nothing, nothing loves
you, and no injustice is done.”
“Just so, sir. Self has got to be the idol, though in
the general scramble a man is sometimes puzzled to
know whether he is himself, or one of the neighbours.”
“I wish I knew your political sentiments, commodore;
you have been communicative on all subjects but
that, and I have taken up the notion that you are a
true philosopher.”
“I hold myself to be but a babe in swaddling-clothes
compared to yourself, sir; but such as my poor opinions
are, you are welcome to them. In the first place,
then, sir, I have lived long enough on this water to
know that every man is a lover of liberty in his own
person, and that he has a secret distaste for it in the
persons of other people. Then, sir, I have got to understand
that patriotism means bread and cheese, and
that opposition is every man for himself.”
“If the truth were known, I believe, commodore, you
have buoyed out the channel!”
“Just so. After being pulled about by the salt of
the land, and using my freeman's privileges at their
command, until I got tired of so much liberty, sir, I
have resigned, and retired to private life, doing most
of my own thinking out here on the Otsego-Water, like
a poor slave as I am.”
“You ought to be chosen the next President!”
“I owe my present emancipation, sir, to the sogdollager.
I first began to reason about such a man as
this Mr. Dodge, who has thrust himself and his ignorance
together into the village, lately, as an expounder
of truth, and a ray of light to the blind. Well, sir,
I said to myself, if this man be the man I know him
to be as a man, can he be any thing better as an
editor?”
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“That was a home question put to yourself, commodore;
how did you answer it?”
“The answer was satisfactory, sir, to myself, whatever
it might be to other people. I stopped his paper,
and set up for myself. Just about that time the sogdollager
nibbled, and instead of trying to be a great man,
over the shoulders of the patriots and sages of the
land, I endeavoured to immortalize myself by hooking
him. I go to the elections now, for that I feel to be a
duty, but instead of allowing a man like this Mr. Dodge
to tell me how to vote, I vote for the man in public
that I would trust in private.”
“Excellent! I honour you more and more every
minute I pass in your society. We will now drink to
the future happiness of those who will become brides
and bridegrooms to-morrow. If all men were as philosophical
and as learned as you, commodore, the human
race would be in a fairer way than they are today.”
“Just so; I drink to them with all my heart. Is it
not surprising, sir, that people like Mrs. Abbott and
Mr. Dodge should have it in their power to injure such
as those whose happiness we have just had the honour
of commemorating in advance?”
“Why, commodore, a fly may bite an elephant, if
he can find a weak spot in his hide. I do not altogether
understand the history of the marriage of John Effingham,
myself; but we see the issue of it has been a fine
son. Now I hold that when a man fairly marries, he
is bound to own it, the same as any other crime; for
he owes it to those who have not been as guilty as
himself, to show the world that he no longer belongs
to them.”
“Just so; but we have flies in this part of the world
that will bite through the toughest hide.”
“That comes from there being no quarter-deck in
your social ship, commodore. Now aboard of a wellregulated
packet, all the thinking is done aft; they who
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are desirous of knowing whereabouts the vessel is,
being compelled to wait till the observations are taken,
or to sit down in their ignorance. The whole difficulty
comes from the fact that sensible people live so far
apart in this quarter of the world, that fools have more
room than should fall to their share. You understand
me, commodore?”
“Just so,” said the commodore, laughing, and winking.
“Well, it is fortunate that there are some people
who are not quite as weak-minded as some other people.
I take it, Captain Truck, that you will be present
at the wedding?”
The captain now winked in his turn, looked around
him to make sure no one was listening, and laying a
finger on his nose, he answered, in a much lower key
than was usual for him—
“You can keep a secret, I know, commodore. Now
what I have to say is not to be told to Mrs. Abbott, in
order that it may be repeated and multiplied, but is to
be kept as snug as your bait, in the bait-box.”
“You know your man, sir.”
“Well then, about ten minutes before the clock
strikes nine, to-morrow morning, do you slip into the
gallery of New St. Paul's, and you shall see beauty
and modesty, when `unadorned, adorned the most.'
You comprehend?”
“Just so,” and the hand was flourished even more
than usual.
“It does not become us bachelors to be too lenient
to matrimony, but I should be an unhappy man, were
I not to witness the marriage of Paul Powis to Eve
Effingham.”
Here both the worthies, “freshened the nip,” as Captain
Truck called it, and then the conversation soon
got to be too philosophical and contemplative for this
unpretending record of events and ideas.
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CHAPTER XV.
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“Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is set
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet;
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
And all combined, save what thou must confine
By holy marriage.”
Romeo and Juliet.
The morning chosen for the nuptials of Eve and
Grace arrived, and all the inmates of the Wigwam
were early afoot, though the utmost care had been
taken to prevent the intelligence of the approaching
ceremony from getting into the village. They little
knew, however, how closely they were watched; the
mean artifices that were resorted to by some who
called themselves their neighbours, to tamper with servants,
to obtain food for conjecture, and to justify to
themselves their exaggerations, falsehoods, and frauds.
The news did leak out, as will presently be seen, and
through a channel that may cause the reader, who is
unacquainted with some of the peculiarities of American
life, a little surprise.
We have frequently alluded to Annette, the femme
de chambre that had followed Eve from Europe, although
we have had no occasion to dwell on her character,
which was that of a woman of her class, as
they are well known to exist in France. Annette was
young, had bright, sparkling black eyes, was well
made, and had the usual tournure and manner of a
Parisian grisette. As it is the besetting weakness of
all provincial habits to mistake graces for grace,
flourishes for elegance, and exaggeration for merit,
Annette soon acquired a reputation in her circle, as
a woman of more than usual claims to distinction.
Her attire was in the height of the fashion, being of
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Eve's cast-off clothes, and of the best materials, and attire
is also a point that is not without its influence on
those who are unaccustomed to the world.
As the double ceremony was to take place before
breakfast, Annette was early employed about the person
of her young mistress, adorning it in the bridal
robes. While she worked at her usual employment, the
attendant appeared unusually agitated, and several
times pins were badly pointed, and new arrangements
had to supersede or to supply the deficiencies of her mistakes.
Eve was always a model of patience, and she
bore with these little oversights with a quiet that would
have given Paul an additional pledge of her admirable
self-command, as well as of a sweetness of temper that,
in truth, raised her almost above the commoner feelings
of mortality.
“Vous êtes un peu agitée, ce matin, ma bonne Annette,”
she merely observed, when her maid had committed
a blunder more material than common.
“J'espère que Mademoiselle a été contente de moi,
jusqu' à present,” returned Annette, vexed with her
own awkwardness, and speaking in the manner in
which it is usual to announce an intention to quit a
service.
“Certainly, Annette, you have conducted yourself
well, and are very expert in your métier. But why
do you ask this question, just at this moment?”
“Parceque—because—with mademoiselle's permission,
I intended to ask for my congé.”
“Congé! Do you think of quitting me, Annette?”
“It would make me happier than any thing else to
die in the service of mademoiselle, but we are all subject
to our destiny”—the conversation was in French—
“and mine compels me to cease my services as a
femme de chambre.”
“This is a sudden, and for one in a strange country,
an extraordinary resolution. May I ask, Annette, what
you propose to do?”
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Here, the woman gave herself certain airs, endeavoured
to blush, did look at the carpet with a studied
modesty that might have deceived one who did not
know the genus, and announced her intention to get
married, too, at the end of the present month.
“Married!” repeated Eve — “surely not to old
Pierre, Annette?”
“Pierre, Mademoiselle! I shall not condescend to
look at Pierre. Je vais me marier avec un avocat.”
“Un avocat!”
“Oui Mademoiselle. I will marry myself with
Monsieur Aristabule Bragg, if Mademoiselle shall permit.”
Eve was perfectly mute with astonishment, notwithstanding
the proofs she had often seen of the wide
range that the ambition of an American of a certain
class allows itself. Of course, she remembered the
conversation on the Point, and it would not have been
in nature, had not a mistress who had been so lately
wooed, felt some surprise at finding her discarded
suitor so soon seeking consolation in the smiles of her
own maid. Still her surprise was less than that which
the reader will probably experience at this announcement;
for, as has just been said, she had seen too much
of the active and pliant enterprise of the lover, to feel
much wonder at any of his moral tours de force.
Even Eve, however, was not perfectly acquainted with
the views and policy that had led Aristabulus to seek
this consummation to his matrimonial schemes, which
must be explained explicitly, in order that they may
be properly understood.
Mr. Bragg had no notion of any distinctions in the
world, beyond those which came from money, and
political success. For the first he had a practical
deference that was as profound as his wishes for its
enjoyments; and for the last he felt precisely the sort
of reverence, that one educated under a feudal system,
would feel for a feudal lord. The first, after several
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unsuccessful efforts, he had found unattainable by
means of matrimony, and he turned his thoughts
towards Annette, whom he had for some months held
in reserve, in the event of his failing with Eve and
Grace, for on both these heiresses had he entertained
designs, as a pis aller. Annette was a dress-maker
of approved taste, her person was sufficiently attractive,
her broken English gave piquancy to thoughts of
no great depth, she was of a suitable age, and he had
made her proposals and been accepted, as soon as it
was ascertained that Eve and Grace were irretrievably
lost to him. Of course, the Parisienne did not hesitate
an instant about becoming the wife of un avocat;
for, agreeably to her habits, matrimony was a legitimate
means of bettering her condition in life. The
plan was soon arranged. They were to be married as
soon as Annette's month's notice had expired, and then
they were to emigrate to the far west, where Mr.
Bragg proposed to practise law or keep school, or to
go to Congress, or to turn trader, or to saw lumber,
or, in short, to turn his hand to any thing that offered;
while Annette was to help along with the ménage, by
making dresses, and teaching French; the latter occupation
promising to be somewhat peripatetic, the population
being scattered, and few of the dwellers in the
interior deeming it necessary to take more than a
quarter's instruction in any of the higher branches of
education; the object being to study, as it is called,
and not to know. Aristabulus, who was filled with goaheadism,
would have shortened the delay, but this
Annette positively resisted; her esprit de corps as a
servant, and all her notions of justice, repudiating the
notion that the connexion which had existed so long
between Eve and herself, was to be cut off at a moment's
warning. So diametrically were the ideas of
the fiancés opposed to each other, on this point, that
at one time it threatened a rupture, Mr. Bragg asserting
the natural independence of man to a degree that
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would have rendered him independent of all obligations
that were not effectually enacted by the law, and Annette
maintaining the dignity of a European femme de
chambre, whose sense of propriety demanded that she
should not quit her place without giving a month's
warning. The affair was happily decided by Aristabulus's
receiving a commission to tend a store, in the
absence of its owner; Mr. Effingham, on a hint from
his daughter, having profited by the annual expiration
of the engagement, to bring their connexion to an end.
This termination to the passion of Mr. Bragg would
have afforded Eve a good deal of amusement at any
other moment; but a bride cannot be expected to give
too much of her attention to the felicity and prospects
of those who have no natural or acquired claims to
her affection. The cousins met, attired for the ceremony,
in Mr. Effingham's room, where he soon
came in person, to lead them to the drawing-room.
It is seldom that two more lovely young women
are brought together on similar occasions. As Mr.
Effingham stood between them, holding a hand of
each, his moistened eyes turned from one to the other
in honest pride, and in an admiration that even his
tenderness could not restrain. The toilettes were as
simple as the marriage ceremony will permit; for it
was intended that there should be no unnecessary
parade; and, perhaps, the delicate beauty of each of
the brides was rendered the more attractive by this
simplicity, as it has often been justly remarked, that
the fair of this country are more winning in dress of a
less conventional character, than when in the elaborate
and regulated attire of ceremonies. As might have
been expected, there was most of soul and feeling in
Eve's countenance, though Grace wore an air of
charming modesty and nature. Both were unaffected,
simple and graceful, and we may add that both trembled
as Mr. Effingham took their hands.
“This is a pleasing and yet a painful hour,” said
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that kind and excellent man; “one in which I gain a
son, and lose a daughter.”
“And I, dearest uncle,” exclaimed Grace, whose
feelings trembled on her eye-lids, like the dew ready
to drop from the leaf, “have I no connexion with your
feelings?”
“You are the daughter that I lose, my child, for
Eve will still remain with me. But Templemore has
promised to be grateful, and I will trust his word.”
Mr. Effingham then embraced with fervour both
the charming young women, who stood apparelled
for the most important event of their lives, lovely in
their youth, beauty, innocence, and modesty; and taking
an arm of each, he led them below. John Effingham,
the two bridegrooms, Captain Ducie, Mr. and
Mrs. Bloomfield, Mrs. Hawker, Captain Truck, Mademoiselle
Viefville, Annette, and Ann Sidley, were all
assembled in the drawing-room, ready to receive them;
and as soon as shawls were thrown around Eve and
Grace, in order to conceal the wedding dresses, the
whole party proceeded to the church.
The distance between the Wigwam and New St.
Paul's was very trifling, the solemn pines of the churchyard
blending, from many points, with the gayer trees
in the grounds of the former; and as the buildings in
this part of the village were few, the whole of the bridal
train entered the tower, unobserved by the eyes
of the curious. The clergyman was waiting in the
chancel, and as each of the young men led the object
of his choice immediately to the altar, the double
ceremony began without delay. At this instant
Mr. Aristabulus Dodge and Mrs Abbot advanced
from the rear of the gallery, and coolly took their
seats in its front. Neither belonged to this particular
church, though, having discovered that the marriages
were to take place that morning by means of Annette,
they had no scruples on the score of delicacy about
thrusting themselves forward on the occasion; for, to
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the latest moment, that publicity-principle which appeared
to be interwoven with their very natures, induced
them to think that nothing was so sacred as to
be placed beyond the reach of curiosity. They entered
the church, because the church they held to be
a public place, precisely on the principle that others
of their class conceive if a gate be blown open by accident,
it removes all the moral defences against trespassers,
as it removes the physical.
The solemn language of the prayers and vows proceeded
none the less for the presence of these unwelcome
intruders; for, at that grave moment, all other
thoughts were hushed in those that more properly belonged
to the scene. When the clergyman made the
usual appeal to know if any man could give a reason
why those who stood before him should not be united
in holy wedlock, Mrs. Abbott nudged Mr. Dodge, and,
in the fulness of her discontent, eagerly inquired in a
whisper, if it were not possible to raise some valid
objection. Could she have had her pious wish, the
simple, unpretending, meek, and church-going Eve,
should never be married. But the editor was not a
man to act openly in any thing, his particular province
lying in insinuations and innuendoes. As a hint would
not now be available, he determined to postpone his
revenge to a future day. We say revenge, for Steadfast
was of the class that consider any happiness, or
advantage, in which they are not ample participators,
wrongs done to themselves.
That is a wise regulation of the church, which
makes the marriage ceremony brief, for the intensity
of the feelings it often creates would frequently become
too powerful to be suppressed, were it unnecessarily
prolonged. Mr. Effingham gave away both the
brides, the one in the quality of parent, the other in
that of guardian, and neither of the bridegrooms got
the ring on the wrong finger. This is all we have to
say of the immediate scene at the altar. As soon as
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the benediction was pronounced, and the brides were
released from the first embraces of their husbands,
Mr. Effingham, without even kissing Eve, threw the
shawls over their shoulders, and, taking an arm of
each, he led them rapidly from the church, for
he felt reluctant to suffer the holy feelings that were
uppermost in his heart to be the spectacle of rude and
obtrusive observers. At the door, he relinquished Eve
to Paul, and Grace to Sir George, with a silent pressure
of the hand of each, and signed for them to proceed
towards the Wigwam. He was obeyed, and in
less than half an hour from the time they had left the
drawing-room, the whole party was again assembled
in it.
What a change had been produced in the situation
of so many, in that brief interval!
“Father!” Eve whispered, while Mr. Effingham
folded her to his heart, the unbidden tears falling from
both their eyes—“I am still thine!”
“It would break my heart to think otherwise, darling.
No, no—I have not lost a daughter, but have gained
a son.”
“And what place am I to occupy in this scene of
fondness?” inquired John Effingham, who had considerately
paid his compliments to Grace first, that she
might not feel forgotten at such a moment, and who
had so managed that she was now receiving the congratulations
of the rest of the party; “am I to lose
both son and daughter?”
Eve, smiling sweetly through her tears, raised herself
from her own father's arms, and was received in
those of her husband's parent. After he had fondly
kissed her forehead several times, without withdrawing
from his bosom, she parted the rich hair on his
forehead, passing her hand down his face, like an infant,
and said softly—
“Cousin Jack!”
“I believe this must be my rank and estimation still!
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Paul shall make no difference in our feeling; we will
love each other as we have ever done.”
“Paul can be nothing new between you and me.
You have always been a second father in my eyes,
and in my heart, too, dear—dear cousin Jack.”
John Effingham pressed the beautiful, ardent, blushing
girl to his bosom again; and as he did so, both
felt, notwithstanding their language, that a new and
dearer tie than ever bound them together. Eve now
received the compliments of the rest of the party,
when the two brides retired to change the dresses in
which they had appeared at the altar, for their more
ordinary attire.
In her own dressing-room, Eve found Ann Sidley,
waiting with impatience to pour out her feelings, the
honest and affectionate creature being much too sensitive
to open the floodgates of her emotions in the presence
of third parties.
“Ma'am — Miss Eve — Mrs. Effingham!” she exclaimed
as soon as her young mistress entered, afraid
of saying too much, now that her nursling had become
a married woman.
“My kind and good Nanny!” said Eve, taking her
old nurse in her arms, their tears mingling in silence
for near a minute. “You have seen your child enter
on the last of her great earthly engagements, Nanny,
and I know you pray that they may prove happy.”
“I do—I do—I do—ma'am — madam — Miss Eve—
what am I to call you in future, ma'am?”
“Call me Miss Eve, as you have done since my
childhood, dearest Nanny.”
Nanny received this permission with delight, and
twenty times that morning she availed herself of the
permission; and she continued to use the term until,
two years later, she danced a miniature Eve on her
knee, as she had done its mother before her, when matronly
rank began silently to assert its rights, and our
present bride became Mrs. Effingham.
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“I shall not quit you, ma'am, now that you are married?”
Ann Sidley timidly asked; for, although she
could scarcely think such an event within the bounds
of probability, and Eve had already more than once
assured her of the contrary with her own tongue, still
did she love to have assurance made doubly sure. “I
hope nothing will ever happen to make me quit you,
ma'am?”
“Nothing of that sort, with my consent, ever shall
happen, my excellent Nanny. And now that Annette
is about to get married, I shall have more than the
usual necessity for your services.”
“And Mamerzelle, ma'am?” inquired Nanny, with
sparkling eyes; “I suppose she, too, will return to her
own country, now you know every thing, and have no
farther occasion for her?”
“Mademoiselle Viefville will return to France in the
autumn, but it will be with us all; for my dear father,
cousin Jack, my husband—” Eve blushed as she pronounced
the novel word—“and myself, not forgetting
you my old nurse, will all sail for England, with Sir
George and Lady Templemore, on our way to Italy,
the first week in October.”
“I care not, ma'am, so that I go with you. I would
rather we did not live in a country where I cannot understand
all that the people say to you, but wherever
you are will be my earthly paradise.”
Eve kissed the true-hearted woman, and, Annette
entering, she changed her dress.
The two brides met at the head of the great stairs,
on their way back to the drawing-room. Eve was a
little in advance, but, with a half-concealed smile, she
gave way to Grace, curtsying gravely, and saying—
“It does not become me to precede Lady Templemore—
I, who am only Mrs. Paul Effingham.”
“Nay, dear Eve, I am not so weak as you imagine.
Do you not think I should have married him had he
not been a baronet?”
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“Templemore, my dear coz, is a man any woman
might love, and I believe, as firmly as I hope it sincerely,
that he will make you happy.”
“And yet there is one woman who would not love
him, Eve!”
Eve looked steadily at her cousin for a moment, was
startled, and then she felt gratified that Sir George had
been so honest, for the frankness and manliness of his
avowal was a pledge of the good faith and sincerity
of his character. She took her cousin affectionately
by the hand, and said—
“Grace, this confidence is the highest compliment
you can pay me, and it merits a return. That Sir
George Templemore may have had a passing inclination
for one who so little deserved it, is possibly true—but
my affections were another's before I knew him.”
“You never would have married Templemore, Eve;
he says himself, now, that you are quite too continental,
as he calls it, to like an Englishman.”
“Then I shall take the first good occasion to undeceive
him; for I do like an Englishman, and he is the
identical man.”
As few women are jealous on their wedding-day,
Grace took this in good part, and they descended the
stairs together, side by side, reflecting each other's
happiness, in their timid but conscious smiles. In the
great hall, they were met by the bridegrooms, and
each taking the arm of him who had now become of
so vast importance to her, they paced the room to and
fro, until summoned to the déjéuner à la fourchette,
which had been prepared under the especial superintendence
of Mademoiselle Viefville, after the manner
of her country.
Wedding-days, like all formally prepared festivals,
are apt to go off a little heavily. Such, however, was
not the case with this, for every appearance of premeditation
and preparation vanished with this meal. It
is true the family did not quit the grounds, but, with
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this exception, ease and tranquil happiness reigned
throughout. Captain Truck was alone disposed to be
sentimental, and, more than once, as he looked about
him, he expressed his doubts whether he had pursued
the right course to attain happiness.
“I find myself in a solitary category,” he said, at
the dinner-table, in the evening. “Mrs. Hawker, and
both the Messrs. Effinghams, have been married; every
body else is married, and I believe I must take refuge
in saying that I will be married, if I can now persuade
any one to have me. Even Mr. Powis, my right-hand
man, in all that African affair, has deserted me, and
left me like a single dead pine in one of your clearings,
or a jewel-block dangling at a yard-arm, without a
sheave. Mrs. Bride—” the captain styled Eve thus,
throughout the day, to the utter neglect of the claims
of Lady Templemore—“Mrs. Bride, we will consider
my forlorn condition more philosophically, when I
shall have the honour to take you, and so many of this
blessed party, back again to Europe, where I found you.
Under your advice I think I might even yet venture.”
“And I am overlooked entirely,” cried Mr. Howel,
who had been invited to make one at the wedding-feast;
“what is to become of me, Captain Truck, if
this marrying mania go any further?”
“I have long had a plan for your welfare, my dear
sir, that I will take this opportunity to divulge; I propose,
ladies and gentlemen, that we enlist Mr. Howel
in our project for this autumn, and that we carry him
with us to Europe. I shall be proud to have the honour
of introducing him to his old friend, the island of Great
Britain.”
“Ah! that is a happiness, I fear, that is not in
reserve for me!” said Mr. Howel, shaking his head.
“I have thought of these things, in my time, but age
will now defeat any such hopes.”
“Age, Tom Howel!” said John Effingham; “you
are but fifty, like Ned and myself. We were all boys
together, forty years ago, and yet you find us, who
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have so lately returned, ready to take a fresh departure.
Pluck up heart; there may be a steam-boat ready to
bring you back, by the time you wish to return.”
“Never,” said Captain Truck, positively. “Ladies
and gentlemen, it is morally impossible that the Atlantic
should ever be navigated by steamers. That doctrine
I shall maintain to my dying day; but what need
of a steamer, when we have packets like palaces?”
“I did not know, captain, that you entertained so
hearty a respect for Great Britain—it is encouraging,
really, to find so generous a feeling toward the old
island in one of her descendants. Sir George and
Lady Templemore, permit me to drink to your lasting
felicity.”
“Ay—ay—I entertain no ill-will to England, though
her tobacco laws are none of the genteelest. But my
wish to export you, Mr. Howel, is less from a desire
to show you England, than to let you perceive that
there are other countries in Europe—”
“Other countries!—Surely you do not suppose I am
so ignorant of geography, as to believe that there are
no other countries in Europe—no such places as Hanover,
Brunswick, and Brunswick Lunenberg, and Denmark;
the sister of old George the Third married the
king of that country; and Wurtemberg, the king of
which married the Princess Royal—”
“And Mecklenburg-Strelitz,” added John Effingham,
gravely, “a princess of which actually married George
the Third propriâ personâ, as well as by proxy. Nothing
can be plainer than your geography, Howel;
but, in addition to these particular regions, our worthy
friend the captain wishes you to know also, that there
are such places as France, and Austria, and Russia,
and Italy; though the latter can scarcely repay a man
for the trouble of visiting it.”
“You have guessed my motive, Mr. John Effingham,
and expressed it much more discreetly than I
could possibly have done,” cried the captain. “If Mr.
Howel will do me the honour to take passage with me,
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going and coming, I shall consider the pleasure of his
remarks on men and things, as one of the greatest advantages
I ever possessed.”
“I do not know but I might be induced to venture
as far as England, but not a foot farther.”
“Pas à Paris!” exclaimed Mademoiselle Viefville,
who wondered why any rational being would take the
trouble to cross the Atlantic, merely to see Ce melancolique
Londres; “you will go to Paris, for my sake,
Monsieur Howel?”
“For your sake, indeed, Mam'selle, I would do any
thing, but hardly for my own. I confess I have thought
of this, and I will think of it farther. I should like to
see the King of England and the House of Lords, I
confess, before I die.”
“Ay, and the Tower, and the Boar's-Head at East-Cheap,
and the statue of the Duke of Wellington, and
London Bridge, and Richmond Hill, and Bow Street,
and Somerset House, and Oxford Road, and Bartlemy
Fair, and Hungerford Market, and Charing-Cross—
old Charing-Cross, Tom Howel!”—added John Effingham,
with a good-natured nod of the head.
“A wonderful nation!” cried Mr. Howel, whose eyes
sparkled as the other proceeded in his enumeration of
wonders. “I do not think, after all, that I can die in
peace, without seeing some of these things—all would
be too much for me. How far is the Isle of Dogs,
now, from St. Catherine's Docks, captain?”
“Oh! but a few cables' lengths. If you will only
stick to the ship until she is fairly docked, I will promise
you a sight of the Isle of Dogs before you land,
even. But then you must promise me to carry out no
tobacco!”
“No fear of me; I neither smoke nor chew, and it
does not surprise me that a nation as polished as the
English should have this antipathy to tobacco. And
one might really see the Isle of Dogs before landing?
It is a wonderful country! Mrs. Bloomfield, will you
ever be able to die tranquilly without seeing England?”
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“I hope, sir, whenever that event shall arrive, that
it may be met tranquilly, let what may happen previously.
I do confess, in common with Mrs. Effingham,
a longing desire to see Italy; a wish that I believe she
entertains from her actual knowledge, and which I entertain
from my anticipations.”
“Now, this really surprises me. What can Italy
possess to repay one for the trouble of travelling so
far?”
“I trust, cousin Jack,” said Eve, colouring at the
sound of her own voice, for on that day of supreme
happiness and intense emotions, she had got to be so
sensitive as to be less self-possessed than common,
“that our friend Mr. Wenham will not be forgotten,
but that he may be invited to join the party.”
This representative of la jeune Amérique was also
present at the dinner, out of regard to his deceased
father, who was a very old friend of Mr. Effingham's,
and, being so favourably noticed by the bride, he did
not fail to reply.
“I believe an American has little to learn from any
nation but his own,” observed Mr. Wenham, with the
complacency of the school to which he belonged, “although
one might wish that all of this country should
travel, in order that the rest of the world might have
the benefit of the intercourse.”
“It is a thousand pities,” said John Effingham, “that
one of our universities, for instance, was not ambulant.
Old Yale was so, in its infancy; but unlike most other
creatures, it went about with greater ease to itself
when a child, than it can move in manhood.”
“Mr. John Effingham loves to be facetious,” said
Mr. Wenham with dignity; for, while he was as credulous
as could be wished, on the subject of American
superiority, he was not quite as blind as the votaries of
the Anglo-American school, who usually yield the
control of all their faculties and common sense to their
masters, on the points connected with their besetting
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weaknesses. “Every body is agreed, I believe, that
the American imparts more than he receives, in his intercourse
with Europeans.”
The smiles of the more experienced of this young
man's listeners were well-bred and concealed, and the
conversation turned to other subjects. It was easy to
raise the laugh on such an occasion, and contrary to
the usage of the Wigwam, where the men usually left
the table with the other sex, Captain Truck, John Effingham,
Mr. Bloomfield, and Mr. Howel, made what
is called a night of it. Much delicious claret was consumed,
and the honest captain was permitted to enjoy
his cigar. About midnight he swore he had half a
mind to write a letter to Mrs. Hawker, with an offer of
his hand; as for his heart, that she well knew she had
possessed for a long time.
The next day, about the hour when the house was
tranquil, from the circumstance that most of its inmates
were abroad on their several avocations of boating,
riding, shopping, or walking, Eve was in the library,
her father having left it, a few minutes before, to
mount his horse. She was seated at a table, writing
a letter to an aged relative of her own sex, to communicate
the circumstance of her marriage. The door
was half open, and Paul appeared at it unexpectedly,
coming in search of his young bride. His step had
been so light, and so intently was our heroine engaged
with her letter, that his approach was unnoticed, though
it had now been a long time that the ear of Eve had
learned to know his tread, and her heart to beat at its
welcome sound. Perhaps a beautiful woman is never
so winningly lovely as when, in her neat morning attire,
she seems fresh and sweet as the new-born day.
Eve had paid a little more attention to her toilette than
usual even, admitting just enough of a properly selected
jewelry, a style of ornament that so singularly
denotes the refinement of a gentlewoman, when used
understandingly, and which so infallibly betrays vulgarity
under other circumstances, while her attire
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had rather more than its customary finish, though it
was impossible not to perceive, at a glance, that she
was in an undress. The Parisian skill of Annette,
on which Mr. Bragg based so many of his hopes of
future fortune, had cut and fitted the robe to her faultlessly
beautiful person, with a tact, or it might be truer
to say a contact, so perfect, that it even left more
charms to be imagined than it displayed, though the
outline of the whole figure was that of the most lovely
womanhood. But, notwithstanding the exquisite
modelling of the whole form, the almost fairy lightness
of the full, swelling, but small foot, about which nothing
seemed lean and attenuated, the exquisite hand that
appeared from among the ruffles of the dress, Paul
stood longest in nearly breathless admiration of the
countenance of his “bright and blooming bride.” Perhaps
there is no sentiment so touchingly endearing to
a man, as that which comes over him as he contemplates
the beauty, confiding faith, holy purity and truth
that shine in the countenance of a young, unpractised,
innocent woman, when she has so far overcome her
natural timidity as to pour out her tenderness in his behalf,
and to submit to the strongest impulses of her nature.
Such was now the fact with Eve. She was
writing of her husband, and, though her expressions
were restrained by taste and education, they partook
of her unutterable fondness and devotion. The tears
stood in her eyes, the pen trembled in her hand, and
she shaded her face as if to conceal the weakness from
herself. Paul was alarmed, he knew not why, but Eve
in tears was a sight painful to him. In a moment he
was at her side, with an arm placed gently around her
waist, and he drew her fondly towards his bosom.
“Eve—dearest Eve!” he said—“what mean these
tears?”
The serene eye, the radiant blush, and the meek
tenderness that rewarded his own burst of feeling, reassured
the young husband, and, deferring to the
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sensitive modesty of so young a bride, he released his
hold, retaining only a hand.
“It is happiness, Powis—nothing but excess of happiness,
which makes us women weaker, I fear, than
even sorrow.”
Paul kissed her hands, regarded her with an intensity
of admiration, before which the eyes of
Eve rose and fell, as if dazzled while meeting his
looks, and yet unwilling to lose them; and then he
reverted to the motive which had brought him to the
library.
“My father—your father, that is now—”
“Cousin Jack!”
“Cousin Jack, if you will, has just made me a present,
which is second only to the greater gift I received
from your own excellent parent, yesterday, at the
altar. See, dearest Eve, he has bestowed this lovely
image of yourself on me; lovely, though still so far
from the truth. And here is the miniature of my poor
mother, also, to supply the place of the one carried
away by the Arabs.”
Eve gazed long and wistfully at the beautiful features
of this image of her husband's mother. She
traced in them that pensive thought, that winning kindness,
that had first softened her heart towards Paul,
and her lips trembled as she pressed the insensible glass
against them.
“She must have been very handsome, Eve, and
there is a look of melancholy tenderness in the face,
that would seem almost to predict an unhappy blighting
of the affections.”
“And yet this young, ingenuous, faithful woman entered
on the solemn engagement we have just made,
Paul, with as many reasonable hopes of a bright future
as we ourselves!”
“Not so, Eve — confidence and holy truth were
wanting at the nuptials of my parents. When there is
deception at the commencement of such a contract, it
is not difficult to predict the end.”
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“I do not think, Paul, you ever deceived; that noble
heart of yours is too generous!”
“If any thing can make a man worthy of such a
love, dearest, it is the perfect and absorbing confidence
with which your sex throw themselves on the justice
and faith of ours. Did that spotless heart ever entertain
a doubt of the worth of any living being on which
it had set its affections?”
“Of itself, often, and they say self-love lies at the
bottom of all our actions.”
“You are the last person to hold this doctrine, beloved,
for those who live most in your confidence,
declare that all traces of self are lost in your very
nature.”
“Most in my confidence! My father—my dear,
kind father, has then been betraying his besetting
weakness, by extolling the gift he has made.”
“Your kind, excellent father, knows too well the total
want of necessity for any such thing. If the truth
must be confessed, I have been passing a quarter of
an hour with worthy Ann Sidley.”
“Nanny—dear old Nanny!—and you have been
weak enough, traitor, to listen to the eulogiums of a
nurse on her child!”
“All praise of thee, my blessed Eve, is grateful to
my ears, and who can speak more understandingly of
those domestic qualities which lie at the root of domestic
bliss, than those who have seen you in your
most intimate life, from childhood down to the moment
when you have assumed the duties of a wife?”
“Paul, Paul, thou art beside thyself; too much learning
hath made thee mad!”
“I am not mad, most beloved and beautiful Eve, but
blessed to a degree that might indeed upset a stronger
reason.”
“We will now talk of other things,” said Eve, raising
his hand to her lips in respectful affection, and
looking gratefully up into his fond and eloquent eyes;
“I hope the feeling of which you so lately spoke has
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subsided, and that you no longer feel yourself a stranger
in the dwelling of your own family.”
“Now that I can claim a right through you, I confess
that my conscience is getting to be easier on this
point. Have you been yet told of the arrangement
that the older heads meditate in reference to our future
means?”
“I would not listen to my dear father when he
wished to introduce the subject, for I found that it was
a project that made distinctions between Paul Effingham
and Eve Effingham, two that I wish, henceforth,
to consider as one in all things.”
“In this, darling, you may do yourself injustice as
well as me. But perhaps you may not wish me to
speak on the subject, neither.”
“What would my lord?”
“Then listen, and the tale is soon told. We are
each other's natural heirs. Of the name and blood of
Effingham, neither has a relative nearer than the other,
for, though but cousins in the third degree, our family
is so small as to render the husband, in this case, the
natural heir of the wife, and the wife the natural heir
of the husband. Now your father proposes that his
estates be valued, and that my father settle on you a
sum of equal amount, which his wealth will fully enable
him to do, and that I become the possessor in reversion,
of the lands that would otherwise have been
yours.”
“You possess me, my heart, my affections, my duty;
of what account is money after this!”
“I perceive that you are so much and so truly woman,
Eve, that we must arrange all this without consulting
you at all.”
“Can I be in safer hands? A father that has always
been too indulgent of my unreasonable wishes—a second
parent that has only contributed too much to
spoil me in the same thoughtless manner—and a—”
“Husband,” added Paul, perceiving that Eve hesitated
at pronouncing to his face a name so novel
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“My faithful Ann,” said Paul, smiling, and taking
the hand of the nurse, “you have been all that is good
and true to my best beloved, as a child, and as a young
lady; and now I earnestly entreat you to continue to
wait on her, and to serve her as my wife, to your dying
day.”
Nanny clapped her hands with a scream of delight,
and bursting into tears, she exclaimed, as she hurried
from the room,
“It has all come true—it has all come true!”
A pause of several minutes succeeded this burst of
superstitious but natural feeling.
“All who live near you appear to think you the
common centre of their affections,” Paul resumed,
when his swelling heart permitted him to speak.
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“We have hitherto been a family of love—God
grant it may always continue so.”
Another delicious silence, which lasted still longer
than the other, followed. Eve then looked up into her
husband's face with a gentle curiosity, and observed—
“You have told me a great deal, Powis—explained
all but one little thing, that, at the time, caused me
great pain. Why did Ducie, when you were about to
quit the Montauk together, so unceremoniously stop
you, as you were about to get into the boat first; is
the etiquette of a man-of-war so rigid as to justify so
much rudeness, I had almost called it—?”
“The etiquette of a vessel of war is rigid certainly,
and wisely so. But what you fancied rudeness, was
in truth a compliment. Among us sailors, it is the inferior
who goes first into a boat, and who quits it last.”
“So much, then, for forming a judgment, ignorantly!
I believe it is always safer to have no opinion, than to
form one without a perfect knowledge of all the accompanying
circumstances.”
“Let us adhere to this safe rule through life, dearest,
and we may find its benefits. An absolute confidence,
caution in drawing conclusions, and a just reliance on
each other, may keep us as happy to the end of our
married life, as we are at this blessed moment, when it
is commencing under auspices so favourable as to
seem almost providential.”
THE END
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