Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1845], The chainbearer, or, The Littlepage manuscripts, volume 1 (Burgess, Stringer & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf076v1].
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CHAPTER I.
“The steady brain, the sinewy limb,
To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim:
The iron frame, inured to bear
Each dire inclemency of air;
Nor less confirmed to undergo
Fatigue's faint chill, and famine's throe.”
Rokeby.
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My father was Cornelius Littlepage, of Satanstoe, in the
county of West Chester, and State of New York; and my
mother was Anneke Mordaunt, of Lilacsbush, a place long
known by that name, which still stands near Kingsbridge,
but on the island of Manhattan, and consequently in one of
the wards of New York, though quite eleven miles from
town. I shall suppose that my readers know the difference
between the Island of Manhattan, and Manhattan Island;
though I have found soi-disant Manhattanese, of mature
years, but of alien birth, who had to be taught it. Lilacsbush,
I repeat therefore, was on the Island of Manhattan,
eleven miles from town, though in the city of New York,
and not on Manhattan Island.
Of my progenitors further back, I do not conceive it necessary
to say much. They were partly of English, and
partly of Low Dutch extraction; as is apt to be the case
with those who come of New York families of any standing
in the colony. I retain tolerably distinct impressions of
both of my grandfathers, and of one of my grandmothers;
my mother's mother having died long before my own parents
were married.
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Of my maternal grandfather I know very little, however,
he having died while I was quite young, and before I had
seen much of him. He paid the great debt of nature in
England, whither he had gone on a visit to a relative, a Sir
Something Bulstrode, who had been in the colonies himself,
and who was a great favourite with Herman Mordaunt,
as my mother's parent was universally called in New York.
My father often said, it was perhaps fortunate in one respect,
that his father-in-law died as he did, since he had no
doubt he would have certainly taken sides with the crown,
in the quarrel that so soon after occurred, in which case it
is probable his estates, or those which were my mother's,
and are now mine, would have shared the fate of those of
the de Lanceys, of the Philipses, of some of the Van Cortlandts,
of the Floyds, of the Joneses, and of various others
of the heavy families, who remained loyal, as it was called;
meaning loyalty to a prince, and not loyalty to the land of
their nativity. It is hard to say which were right, in such
a quarrel, if we look at the opinions and prejudices of the
times, though the Littlepages to a man, which means only
my father, and grandfather, and self, took sides with the
country. In the way of self-interest, it ought to be remarked,
however, that the wealthy American who opposed the
crown, showed much the most disinterestedness, inasmuch
as the chances of being subdued were for a long time very
serious, while the certainty of confiscation, not to say of
being hanged, was sufficiently well established, in the event
of failure. But, my paternal grandfather was what was
called a whig, of the high caste. He was made a brigadier
in the militia, in 1776, and was actively employed in the
great campaign of the succeeding year; that in which Burgoyne
was captured, as indeed was my father, who held the
rank of lieutenant-colonel in the New York line. There
was also a major Dirck Van Volkenburgh, or Follock, as
he was usually called, in the same regiment with my father,
who was a sworn friend. This major Follock was an old
bachelor, and he lived quite as much in my father's house
as he did in his own; his proper residence being across the
river, in Rockland. My mother had a friend, as well as
my father, in the person of Miss Mary Wallace; a single
lady, well turned of thirty at the commencement of the
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revolution. Miss Wallace was quite at ease in her circumstances,
but she lived altogether at Lilacsbush, never having
any other home, unless it might be at our house in town.
We were very proud of the brigadier, both on account of
his rank and on account of his services. He actually commanded
in one expedition against the Indians during the
revolution, a service in which he had some experience,
having been out on it, on various occasions, previously to
the great struggle for independence. It was in one of these
early expeditions of the latter war that he first distinguished
himself, being then under the orders of a colonel Brom
Follock, who was the father of major Dirck of the same
name, and who was almost as great a friend of my grandfather
as the son was of my own parent. This colonel
Brom loved a carouse, and I have heard it said that, getting
among the High Dutch on the Mohawk, he kept it up for a
week, with little or no intermission, under circumstances
that involved much military negligence. The result was
that a party of Canada Indians made an inroad on his command,
and the old colonel, who was as bold as a lion, and
as drunk as a lord, though why lords are supposed to be
particularly inclined to drink I never could tell, was both
shot down and scalped early one morning as he was returning
from an adjacent tavern to his quarters in the
“garrison,” where he was stationed. My grandfather nobly
revenged his death, scattering to the four winds the invading
party, and receiving the mutilated body of his friend, though
the scalp was irretrievably lost.
General Littlepage did not survive the war, though it was
not his good fortune to die on the field, thus identifying his
name with the history of his country. It happens in all
wars, and most especially did it often occur in our own
great national struggle, that more soldiers lay down their
lives in the hospitals than on the field of battle, though the
shedding of blood seems an indispensable requisite to glory
of this nature; an ungrateful posterity taking little heed of
the thousands who pass into another state of being, the
victims of exposure and camp diseases, to sound the praises
of the hundreds who are slain amid the din of battle. Yet,
it may be questioned if it do not require more true courage
to face death, when he approaches in the invisible form of
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disease, than to meet him when openly arrayed under the
armed hand. My grandfather's conduct in remaining in
camp, among hundreds of those who had the smallpox, the
loathsome malady of which he died, was occasionally alluded
to, it is true, but never in the manner the death of an officer
of his rank would have been mentioned, had he fallen in
battle. I could see that major Follock had an honourable
pride in the fate of his father, who was slain and scalped by
the enemy in returning from a drunken carouse, while my
worthy parent ever referred to the death of the brigadier as
an event to be deplored, rather than exulted in. For my
own part, I think my grandfather's end was much the most
creditable of the two; but, as such, it will never be viewed
by the historian, or the country. As for historians, it requires
a man to be singularly honest to write against a
prejudice; and it is so much easier to celebrate a deed as it
is imagined than as it actually occurred, that I question if
we know the truth of a tenth part of the exploits about which
we vapour, and in which we fancy we glory. Well! we
are taught to believe that the time will come when all things
are to be seen in their true colours, and when men and deeds
will be known as they actually were, rather than as they
have been recorded in the pages of history.
I was too young myself to take much part in the war of
the revolution, though accident made me an eye-witness of
some of its most important events, and that at the tender
age of fifteen. At twelve—the American intellect ever was
and continues to be singularly precocious — I was sent to
Nassau Hall, Princeton, to be educated, and I remained there
until I finally got a degree, though it was not without several
long and rude interruptions of my studies. Although
so early sent to college, I did not actually graduate until I
was nineteen, the troubled times requiring nearly twice as
long a servitude to make a Bachelor of Arts of me as would
have been necessary in the more haleyon days of peace.
Thus I made a fragment of a campaign when only a sophomore,
and another the first year I was junior. I say the
first year, because I was obliged to pass two years in each
of the two higher classes of the institution, in order to make
up for lost time. A youth cannot very well be campaigning
and studying Euclid in the academic bowers, at the same
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moment. Then I was so young, that a year, more or less,
was of no great moment.
My principal service in the war of the revolution was in
1777, or in the campaign in which Burgoyne was met and
captured. That important service was performed by a force
that was composed partly of regular troops, and partly of
militia. My grandfather commanded a brigade of the last,
or what was called a brigade, some six hundred men at
most; while my father led a regular battalion of one hundred
and sixty troops of the New York line, into the German
intrenchments, the memorable and bloody day the last
were stormed. How many he brought out I never heard
him say. The way in which I happened to be present in
these important scenes, is soon told.
Lilacsbush being on the Island of Manhattan, (not Manhattan
Island, be it always remembered), and our family
being whig, we were driven from both our town and country
houses, the moment Sir William Howe took possession of
New York. At first, my mother was content with going
merely to Satanstoe, which was only a short distance from
the enemy's lines; but the political character of the Littlepages
being too well established to render this a safe residence,
my grandmother and mother, always accompanied
by Miss Wallace, went up above the Highlands, where they
established themselves in the village of Fishkill, for the
remainder of the war, on a farm that belonged to Miss
Wallace, in fee. Here it was thought they were safe, being
seventy miles from the capital, and quite within the American
lines. As this removal took place at the close of the
year 1776, and after independence had been declared, it
was understood that our return to our proper homes at all
depended on the result of the war. At that time I was a
sophomore, and at home in the long vacation. It was in
this visit that I made my fragment of a campaign, accompanying
my father through all the closing movements of his
regiment, while Washington and Howe were manœuvring
in Westchester. My father's battalion happening to be
posted in such a manner as to be in the centre of battle at
White Plains, I had an opportunity of seeing some pretty
serious service on that occasion. Nor did I quit the army,
and return to my studies until after the brilliant affairs at
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Trenton and Princeton, in both of which our regiment participated.
This was a pretty early commencement with the things
of active life, for a boy of fourteen. But, in that war, lads
of my age often carried muskets, for the colonies covered a
great extent of country, and had but few people. They who
read of the war of the American revolution, and view its
campaigns and battles as they would regard the conflicts of
older and more advanced nations, can form no just notions
of the disadvantages with which our people had to contend,
or the great superiority of the enemy in all the usual elements
of military force. Without experienced officers, with
but few and indifferent arms, often in want of ammunition,
the rural and otherwise peaceful population of a thinly peopled
country were brought in conflict with the chosen warriors
of Europe; and this, too, with little or none of that
great sinew of war, money, to sustain them. Nevertheless,
the Americans, unaided by any foreign skill, or succour,
were about as often successful as the reverse. Bunker Hill,
Bennington, Saratoga, Bhemis' Heights, Trenton, Princeton,
Monmouth, were all purely American battles; to say nothing
of divers others that occurred further south; and,
though insignificant as to numbers, compared with the conflicts
of these later times, each is worthy of a place in history,
and one or two are almost without parallels; as is
seen when Bunker Hill be named. It sounds very well in a
despatch, to swell out the list of an enemy's ranks; but,
admitting the number itself not to be overrated, as so often
occurred, of what avail are men without arms or ammunition,
and frequently without any other military organization
than a muster-roll!
I have said I made nearly the whole of the campaign in
which Burgoyne was taken. It happened in this wise. The
service of the previous year had a good deal indisposed me
to study, and when again at home, in the autumn vacation,
my dear mother sent me with clothing and supplies to my
father, who was with the army at the north. I reached the
head-quarters of general Gates a week before the affair of
Bhemis' Heights, and was with my father until the capitulation
was completed. Owing to these circumstances, though
still a boy in years, I was an eye-witness, and in some
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measure, an actor in two or three of the most important events
of the whole war. Being well-grown for my years, and of
a somewhat manly appearance considering how young I
really was, I passed very well as a volunteer, being, I have
reason to think, somewhat of a favourite in the regiment.
In the last battle, I had the honour to act as a sort of aide-de-camp
to my grandfather, who sent me with orders and
messages, two or three times, into the midst of the fire. In
this manner I made myself a little known, and all so much
the more, from the circumstance of my being in fact nothing
but a college lad, away from his alma mater, during vacation.
It was but natural that a boy thus situated should attract
some little attention, and I was noticed by officers, who,
under other circumstances, would hardly have felt it necessary
to go out of their way to speak to me. The Littlepages
had stood well, I have reason to think, in the colony, and
their position in the new state was not likely to be at all
lowered by the part they were now playing in the revolution.
I am far from certain that general Littlepage was
considered a corner post in the Temple of Freedom that the
army was endeavouring to rear, but he was quite respectable
as a militia officer, while my father was very generally
admitted to be one of the best lieutenants-colonel in the
whole army.
I well remember to have been much struck with a captain
in my father's regiment, who certainly was a character, in
his way. His origin was Dutch, as was the case with a fair
proportion of the officers; and he bore the name of Andries
Coejemans, though he was universally known by the sobriquet
of the “Chainbearer.” It was fortunate for him it
was so, else would the Yankees in the camp, who seem to
have a mania to pronounce every word as it is spelled, and
having succeeded in this, to change the spelling of the whole
language to accommodate it to certain sounds of their own
inventing, would have given him a most unpronounceable
appellation. Heaven only knows what they would have
called captain Coejemans, but for this lucky nick-name; but
it may be as well to let the uninitiated understand at once,
that, in New York parlance, Coejemans is called Queemans.
The Chainbearer was of a respectable Dutch family, one
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that has even given its queer-looking name to a place of
some little note on the Hudson; but, as was very apt to be
the case with the cadets of such houses, in the good old
time of the colony, his education was no great matter. His
means had once been respectable, but, as he always maintained,
he was cheated out of his substance by a Yankee
before he was three-and-twenty, and he had had recourse to
surveying for a living from that time. But Andries had no
head for mathematics, and, after making one or two notable
blunders in the way of his new profession, he quietly sunk
to the station of a Chainbearer, in which capacity he was
known to all the leading men of his craft in the colony. It
is said that every man is suited to some pursuit or other, in
which he might acquire credit, would he only enter on it
and persevere. Thus it proved to be with Andries Coejemans.
As a Chainbearer he had an unrivalled reputation.
Humble as was the occupation, it admitted of excellence in
various particulars, as well as another. In the first place,
it required honesty, a quality in which this class of men
can fail, as well as all the rest of mankind. Neither colony
nor patentee, landlord nor tenant, buyer nor seller, need be
uneasy about being fairly dealt by, so long as Andries
Coejemans held the forward end of the chain; a duty on
which he was invariably placed, by one party or the other.
Then, a practical eye was a great aid to positive measurement;
and, while Andries never swerved to the right or to
the left of his course, having acquired a sort of instinct in
his calling, much time and labour were saved. In addition
to these advantages, the “Chainbearer” had acquired great
skill in all the subordinate matters of his calling. He was
a capital woodsman, generally; had become a good hunter,
and had acquired most of the habits that pursuits like those
in which he was engaged, for so many years previously to
entering the army, would be likely to give a man. In the
course of time, he took patents to survey, employing men
with heads better than his own to act as principals, while
he still carried the chain.
At the commencement of the revolution, Andries, like
most of those who sympathized with the colonies, took up
arms. When the regiment of which my father was the
lieutenant-colonel was raised, they who could bring to its
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colours so many men received commissions of a rank proportioned
to their services in this respect. Andries had
presented himself early with a considerable squad of chainbearers,
hunters, trappers, runners, guides, &c., numbering
in the whole something like five-and-twenty hardy, resolute
sharpshooters. Their leader was made a lieutenant in consequence,
and being the oldest of his rank in the corps, he
was shortly after promoted to a captaincy, the station he
was in when I made his acquaintance, and above which he
never rose.
Revolutions, more especially such as are of a popular
character, are not remarkable for bringing forward those
who are highly educated, or otherwise fitted for their new
stations, unless it may be on the score of zeal. It is true,
service generally classes men, bringing out their qualities,
and necessity soon compels the preferment of those who are
the best qualified. Our own great national struggle, however,
probably did less of this than any similar event of
modern times, a respectable mediocrity having accordingly
obtained an elevation that, as a rule, it was enabled to keep
to the close of the war. It is a singular fact that not a
solitary instance is to be found in our military annals of a
young soldier's rising to high command, by the force of his
talents, in all that struggle. This may have been, and in a
measure probably was owing to the opinions of the people,
and to the circumstance that the service itself was one that
demanded greater prudence and circumspection than qualities
of a more dazzling nature; or the qualifications of age
and experience, rather than those of youth and enterprise.
It is probable Andries Coejemans, on the score of original
station, was rather above than below the level of the social
positions of a majority of the subalterns of the different lines
of the more northern colonies, when he first joined the army.
It is true, his education was not equal to his birth; for, in
that day, except in isolated instances and particular families,
the Dutch of New York, even in cases in which money was
not wanting, were anything but scholars. In this particular,
our neighbours the Yankees had greatly the advantage of
us. They sent everybody to school, and, though their
educations were principally those of smatterers, it is an advantage
to be even a smatterer among the very ignorant.
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Andries had been no student either, and one may easily
imagine what indifferent cultivation will effect on a naturally
thin soil. He could read and write, it is true, but it was
the cyphering under which he broke down, as a surveyor.
I have often heard him say, that “if land could be measured
without figures, he would turn his back on no man in the
calling in all America, unless it might be `His Excellency,'
who, he made no doubt, was not only the best, but the honestest
surveyor mankind had ever enjoyed.”
The circumstance that Washington had practised the art
of a surveyor for a short time in his early youth, was a
source of great exultation with Andries Coejemans. He
felt that it was an honour to be even a subordinate in a pursuit
in which such a man was a principal. I remember,
that long after we were at Saratoga together, captain Coejemans,
while we were before Yorktown, pointed to the commander-in-chief
one day, as the latter rode past our encampment,
and cried out, with emphasis — “T'ere, Mortaunt,
my poy—t'ere goes His Excellency!—It woult be t'e happiest
tay of my life, coult I only carry chain while he
survey't a pit of a farm, in this neighbourpoot.”
Andries was more or less Dutch in his dialect, as he was
more or less interested. In general, he spoke English pretty
well—colony English I mean, not that of the schools; though
he had not a single Yankeeism in his vocabulary. On this
last point, he prided himself greatly, feeling an honest pride,
if he did occasionally use vulgarisms, a vicious pronunciation,
or make a mistake in the meaning of a word, a sin he
was a little apt to commit; and that his faults were all honest
New York mistakes, and no “New Englant gipperish.”
In the course of the various visits I paid to the camp, Andries
and myself became quite intimate, his peculiarities
seizing my fancy; and, doubtless, my obvious admiration
awakening his gratitude. In the course of our many conversations,
he gave me his whole history, commencing with
the emigration of the Coejemans from Holland, and ending
with our actual situation, in the camp at Saratoga. Andries
had been often engaged, and, before the war terminated, I
could boast of having been at his side in no less than six
affairs myself, viz: White Plains, Trenton, Princeton, Bhemis'
Heights, Monmouth, and Brandywine; for I had stolen
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away from college to be present at the last affair. The
circumstance that our regiment was both with Washington
and Gates was owing to the noble qualities of the former,
who sent off some of his best troops to reinforce his rival,
as things gathered to a head at the north. Then I was present
throughout, at the siege of Yorktown. But, it is not
my intention to enlarge on my own military services.
While at Saratoga, I was much struck with the air, position
and deportment of a gentleman who appeared to command
the respect, and to obtain the ears of all the leaders
in the American camp, while he held no apparent official
station. He wore no uniform, though he was addressed by
the title of general, and had much more of the character of
a real soldier than Gates, who commanded. He must have
been between forty and fifty at that time, and in the full
enjoyment of the vigour of his mind and body. This was
Philip Schuyler, so justly celebrated in our annals for his
wisdom, patriotism, integrity, and public services. His connection
with the great northern campaign is too well known
to require any explanations here. Its success, perhaps, was
more owing to his advice and preparations than to the influence
of any one other mind, and he is beginning already
to take a place in history, in connection with these great
events, that has a singular resemblance to that he occupied
during their actual occurrence: in other words, he is to be
seen in the back-ground of the great national picture, unobtrusive
and modest, but directing and controlling all, by the
power of his intellect, and the influence of his experience
and character. Gates[1] was but a secondary personage, in
the real events of that memorable period. Schuyler was the
presiding spirit, though forced by popular prejudice to retire
from the apparent command of the army. Our written accounts
ascribe the difficulty that worked this injustice to
Schuyler, to a prejudice which existed among the eastern
militia, and which is supposed to have had its origin in the
disasters of St. Clair; or the reverses which attended the
earlier movements of the campaign. My father, who had
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known general Schuyler in the war of '56, when he acted
as Bradstreet's right-hand man, attributed the feeling to a
different cause. According to his notion of the alienation,
it was owing to the difference in habits and opinions which
existed between Schuyler, as a New York gentleman, and
the yeomen of New England, who came out in 1777, imbued
with all the distinctive notions of their very peculiar
state of society. There may have been prejudices on both
sides, but it is easy to see which party exhibited most magnanimity
and self-sacrifice. Possibly, the last was inseparable
from the preponderance of numbers, it not being an easy
thing to persuade masses of men that they can be wrong,
and a single individual right. This is the great error of
democracy, which fancies truth is to be proved by counting
noses; while aristocracy commits the antagonist blunder of
believing that excellence is inherited, from male to male,
and that too in the order of primogeniture! It is not easy
to say where one is to look for truth, in this life.
As for general Schuyler, I have thought my father was
right in ascribing his unpopularity solely to the prejudices
of provinces. The Muse of History is the most ambitious
of the whole sisterhood, and never thinks she has done her
duty unless all she says and records is said and recorded
with an air of profound philosophy; whereas, more than
half of the greatest events which affect human interest, are
to be referred to causes that have little connection with our
boasted intelligence, in any shape. Men feel far more than
they reason, and a little feeling is very apt to upset a great
deal of philosophy.
It has been said that I passed six years at Princeton;
nominally, if not in fact; and that I graduated at nineteen.
This happened the year Cornwallis surrendered, and I actually
served at the siege as the youngest ensign in my
father's battalion. I had also the happiness, for such it was
to me, to be attached to the company of captain Coejemans;
a circumstance which clenched the friendship I had formed
for that singular old man. I say old, for by this time Andries
was every hour of sixty-seven, though as hale, and hearty,
and active, as any officer in the corps. As for hardships,
forty years of training, most of which had been passed in
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the woods, placed him quite at our head, in the way of endurance.
I loved my predecessors, grandfather and grandmother
included, not only as a matter of course, but with sincere
filial attachment; and I loved Miss Mary Wallace, or aunt
Mary, as I had been taught to call her, quite as much on
account of her quiet, gentle, affectionate manner, as from
habit; and I loved major Dirck Follock as a sort of hereditary
friend, as a distant relative, and a good and careful
guardian of my own youth and inexperience on a thousand
occasions; and I loved my father's negro man, Jaap, as we
all love faithful slaves, however unnurtured they may be;
but Andries was the man whom I loved without knowing
why. He was illiterate almost to greatness, having the
drollest notions imaginable of this earth and all it contained;
was anything but refined in deportment, though hearty and
frank; had prejudices so crammed into his moral system
that there did not seem to be room for anything else; and
was ever so little addicted, moreover, to that species of
Dutch jollification, which had cost old colonel Van Valkenburgh
his life, and a love for which was a good deal spread
throughout the colony. Nevertheless, I really loved this
man, and when we were all disbanded at the peace, or in
1783, by which time I had myself risen to the rank of captain,
I actually parted from old Andries with tears in my
eyes. My grandfather, general Littlepage, was then dead,
but government giving to most of us a step, by means of
brevet rank, at the final breaking up of the army, my father,
who had been the full colonel of the regiment for the last
year, bore the title of brigadier for the remainder of his
days. It was pretty much all he got for seven years of
dangers and arduous services. But the country was poor,
and we had fought more for principles than for the hope of
rewards. It must be admitted that America ought to be full
of philosophy, inasmuch as so much of her system of rewards,
and even of punishments, is purely theoretical, and
addressed to the imagination, or to the qualities of the mind.
Thus it is, that we contend with all our enemies on very
unequal grounds. The Englishman has his knighthood,
his baronetcies, his peerages, his orders, his higher ranks
in the professions, his batons, and all the other venial in
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ducements of our corrupt nature to make him fight, while
the American is goaded on to glory by the abstract considerations
of virtue and patriotism. After all, we flog quite
as often as we are flogged, which is the main interest affected.
While on this subject I will remark that Andries Coejemans
never assumed the empty title of major, which was
so graciously bestowed on him by the congress of 1783,
but left the army a captain in name, without half-pay, or
anything but his military lot, to find a niece whom he was
bringing up, and to pursue his old business of a “Chainbearer.”
eaf076v1.n1[1] It may not be amiss to remark, in passing, that Horace Walpole,
in one of his recently published letters, speaks of a Horatio Gates as
his godson. Walpole was born in 1718, and Gates in 1728.
CHAPTER II.
“A trusty villain, sir; that very oft,
When I am dull with care and melancholy,
Lightens my humours with his many jests.”
Domino of Syracuse.
It will be seen that, while I got a degree, and what is
called an education, the latter was obtained by studies of a
very desultory character. There is no question that learning
of all sorts fell off sadly among us during the revolution
and the twenty years that succeeded it. While colonies, we
possessed many excellent instructors who came from Europe;
but the supply ceased, in a great measure, as soon
as the troubles commenced; nor was it immediately renewed
at the peace. I think it will be admitted that the gentlemen
of the country began to be less well educated about
the time I was sent to college, than had been the case for
the previous half century, and that the defect has not yet
been repaired. What the country may do in the first half
of the nineteenth century remains to be seen.[2]
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My connection with the army aided materially in weaning
me from home, though few youths had as many temptations
to return to the paternal roof as myself. There were
my beloved mother and my grandmother, in the first place,
both of whom doted on me as on an only son. Then aunt
Mary almost equally shared in my affections. But, I had
two sisters, one of whom was older, and the other younger
than myself. The eldest, who was called Anneke, after our
dear mother, was even six years my senior, and was married
early in the war to a gentleman of the name of Kettletas.
Mr. Kettletas was a person of very good estate, and made
my sister perfectly happy. They had several children, and
resided in Dutchess, which was an additional reason for my
mother's choosing that county for her temporary residence.
I regarded Anneke, or Mrs. Kettletas, much as all youths
regard an elder sister, who is affectionate, feminine and respectable;
but little Katrinke, or Kate, was my pet. She,
again, was four years younger than myself; and as I was
just two-and-twenty when the army was disbanded, she of
course was only eighteen. This dear sister was a little,
jumping, laughing, never-quiet, merry thing, when I had
taken my leave of her, in 1781, to join the regiment as an
ensign, as handsome and sweet as a rose-bud, and quite as
full of promise. I remember that old Andries and I used
to pass much of our time in camp, in conversing about our
several pets; he of his niece, and I of my younger sister.
Of course, I never intended to marry, but Kate and I were
to live together; she as my housekeeper and companion,
and I as her elder brother and protector. The one great
good of life with us all was peace, with independence; which
obtained, no one, in our regiment at least, was so little of a
patriot as to doubt of the future. It was laughable to see
with how much gusto and simplicity the old Chainbearer
entered into all these boyish schemes. His niece was an
orphan, it would seem, the only child of an only but a half-sister,
and was absolutely dependent on him for the bread
she put into her mouth. It is true that this niece fared
somewhat better than such a support would seem to promise,
having been much cared for by a female friend of her
mother's, who, being reduced herself, kept a school, and
had thus bestowed on her ward a far better education than
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she could ever have got under her uncle's supervision, had
the last possessed the riches of the Van Rensselears, or of
the Van Cortlandts. As has been substantially stated, old
Andries' forte did not lie in education, and they who do not
enjoy the blessings of such a character, seldom duly appreciate
their advantages. It is with the acquisitions of the
mind, as with those of mere deportment and the tastes; we
are apt to undervalue them all, until made familiarly acquainted
with their power to elevate and to enlarge. But
the niece of Andries had been particularly fortunate in
falling into the hands she had; Mrs. Stratton having the
means and the inclination to do all for her, in the way of
instruction, that was then done for any young woman in
New York, as long as she lived. The death of this kind
friend occurring, however, in 1783, Andries was obliged to
resume the care of his niece, who was now thrown entirely
on himself for support. It is true, the girl wished to do
something for herself, but this neither the pride nor the
affection of the old Chainbearer would listen to.
“What can the gal do?” Andries said to me significantly,
one day that he was recounting all these particulars. “She
can't carry chain, though I do believe, Morty, the chilt
has head enough, and figures enough to survey! It would
do your heart good to read the account of her l'arnin' t'at
t'e olt woman used to send me; though she wrote so excellent
a hant herself, t'at it commonly took me a week to
read one of her letters; that is, from `Respected Friend' to
`Humble Sarvent,' as you know them 'ere t'ings go.”
“Excellent hand! Why, I should think, Andries, the
better the hand, the easier one could read a letter.”
“All a mistake. When a man writes a scrawl himself,
it's nat'ral he shoult read scrawls easiest, in his own case.
Now, Mrs. Stratton was home-taught, and would be likely
to get into ways t'at a plain man might find difficult to get
along wit'.”
“Do you think, then, of making a surveyor of your
niece?” I asked, a little pointedly.
“Why, she is hartly strong enough to travel t'rough
the woots, and the callin' is not suitaple to her sex, t'ough
I woult risk her against t'e oldest calculator in t'e province.”
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“We call New York a State, now, captain Andries, you
will be so good as to remember.”
“Ay, t'at's true, and I peg the State's parton. Well,
t'ere'll be scrampling enough for t'e land, as soon as the
war is fairly over, and chainbearing will be a sarviceable
callin', once more. Do you know, Morty, they talk of
gifin' all of our line a quantity of land, privates and officers,
which will make me a lantholter again, the very character
in which I started in life. You will inherit acres enough,
and may not care so much apout owning a few hundret,
more or less, but I own the idee is agreeaple enough to
me.”
“Do you propose to commence anew, as a husbandman?”
“Not I; the pusiness never agreet wit' me, or I wit' it.
Put a man may survey his own lot, I suppose, and no offence
to greater scholars. If I get t'e grant t'ey speak of, I shall
set to work and run it out, on my own account, and t'en
we shall see who understants figures, and who don't! If
other people won't trust me, it is no reason I shoult not
trust myself.”
I knew that his having broken down in the more intellectual
part of his calling was a sore point with old Andries,
and I avoided dwelling on this part of the subject. In order
to divert his mind to other objects, indeed, I began to question
him a little more closely than I had ever done before,
on the subject of his niece, in consequence of which expedient
I now learned many things that were new to me.
The name of the Chainbearer's niece was Duss Malbone,
or so he always pronounced it. In the end, I discovered
that Duss was a sort of Dutch diminutive for Ursula. Ursula
Malbone had none of the Coejemans blood in her, notwithstanding
she was Andries' sister's daughter. It seemed that
old Mrs. Coejemans was twice married, her second husband
being the father of Duss' mother. Bob Malbone, as the
Chainbearer always called the girl's father, was an eastern
man, of very good family, but was a reckless spendthrift,
who married Duss the senior, as well as I could learn, for
her property; all of which, as well as that he had inherited
himself, was cleverly gotten rid of within the first ten years
of their union, and a year or two after the girl was born.
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Both father and mother died within a few months of each
other, and in a very happy moment as regarded worldly
means, leaving poor little Duss with no one to care for her
but her half-uncle, who was then living in the forest, in his
regular pursuits, and the Mrs. Stratton I have mentioned.
There was a half-brother, Bob Malbone having married
twice, but he was in the army, and had some near female
relation to support out of his pay. Between the Chainbearer
and Mrs. Stratton, with an occasional offering from the brother,
the means of clothing, nourishing and educating the
young woman had been found, until she reached her eighteenth
year, when the death of her female protector threw
her nearly altogether on the care of her uncle. The brother
now did his share, Andries admitted; but it was not much
that he could do. A captain himself, his scanty pay barely
sufficed to meet his own wants.
I could easily see that old Andries loved Duss better than
anything else, or any other person. When he was a little
mellow, and that was usually the extent of his debaucheries,
he would prate about her to me, until the tears came into
his eyes, and once he actually proposed that I should marry
her.
“You woult just suit each other,” the old man added, in
a very quaint, but earnest manner, on that memorable occasion;
“and as for property, I know you care little for
money, and will have enough for half-a-tozen. I swear to
you, captain Littlepage,”—for this dialogue took place only
a few months before we were disbanded, and after I had
obtained a company,—“I swear to you, captain Littlepage,
t'e girl is laughing from morning till night, and would make
one of the merriest companions for an olt soltier that ever
promiset `to honour and opey.' Try her once, lad, and see
if I teceive you.”
“That may do well enough, friend Andries, for an old
soldier, whereas you will remember I am but a boy in
years—”
“Ay, in years; but olt as a soltier, Morty—olt as White
Plains, or '76; as I know from hafin' seen you unter
fire.”
“Well, be it so; but it is the man, and not the soldier,
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who is to do the marrying, and I am still a very young
man.”
“You might do worse, take my word for it, Mortaunt,
my dear poy; for Duss is fun itself, and I have often spoken
of you to her, in a way t'at will make the courtship as easy
as carrying a chain, on t'e Jermen Flatts.”
I assured my friend Andries that I did not think of a wife
yet, and that my taste ran for a sentimental and melancholy
young woman, rather than for a laughing girl. The old
Chainbearer took this repulse good-humouredly, though he
renewed the attack at least a dozen times, before the regiment
was disbanded, and we finally separated. I say finally
separated, though it was in reference to our companionship
as soldiers, rather than to our future lives; for I had determined
to give Andries employment myself, should nothing
better offer in his behalf.
Nor was I altogether without the means of thus serving a
friend, when the inclination existed. My grandfather, Herman
Mordaunt, had left me, to come into possession on
reaching the age of twenty-one, a considerable estate, in
what is now Washington county, a portion of our territory
that lies north-east from Albany, and at no great distance
from the Hampshire Grants. This property, of many thousands
of acres in extent, had been partially settled, under
leases, by himself, previously to my birth, and those leases
having mostly expired, the tenants were remaining at will,
waiting for more quiet times to renew their engagements.
As yet, Ravensnest, for so the estate was called, had given
the family little besides expense and trouble; but the land
being good, and the improvements considerable, it was time
to look for some returns for all our outlays. This estate
was now mine in fee, my father having formally relinquished
its possession in my favour the day I attained my majority.
Adjacent to this estate lay that of Mooseridge, which
was the joint property of my father and of his friend major,
or as he was styled in virtue of the brevet rank granted at
the peace, colonel Follock. Mooseridge had been originally
patented by my grandfather, the first general Littlepage,
and old colonel Follock, he who had been slain and scalped
early in the war; but, on the descent of his moiety of the
tenantry in common to Dirck Follock, my grandfather
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conveyed his interest to his own son, who, ere long, must become
its owner, agreeably to the laws of nature. This
property had once been surveyed into large lots, but owing
to some adverse circumstances, and the approach of the
troubles, it had never been settled, or surveyed into farms.
All that its owners ever got for it, therefore, was the privilege
of paying the crown its quit-rents; taxes, or reserved
payments of no great amount, it is true, though far more
than the estate had ever yet returned.
While on the subject of lands and tenements, I may as
well finish my opening explanations. My paternal grandfather
was by no means as rich as my father, though the senior,
and of so much higher military rank. His property, or
neck, of Satanstoe, nevertheless, was quite valuable; more
for the quality of the land and its position, than for its extent.
In addition to this, he had a few thousand pounds at
interest; stocks, banks, and monied corporations of all
kinds, being then nearly unknown among us. His means
were sufficient for his wants, however, and it was a joyful
day when he found himself enabled to take possession of
his own house again, in consequence of Sir Guy Carleton's
calling in all of his detachments from Westchester. The
Morrises, distinguished whigs as they were, did not get back
to Morrisania until after the evacuation, which took place
November 25, 1783; nor did my father return to Lilacsbush
until after that important event. The very year my
grandfather saw Satanstoe, he took the smallpox in camp,
and died.
To own the truth, the place found us all very poor, as
was the case with almost everybody in the country but a
few contractors. It was not the contractors for the American
army that were rich; they fared worse than most people;
but the few who furnished supplies to the French did
get silver in return for their advances. As for the army, it
was disbanded without any reward but promises, and payment
in a currency that depreciated so rapidly that men
were glad to spend recklessly their hard-earned stock lest
it should become perfectly valueless in their hands. I have
heard much, in later years, of the celebrated Newburgh
Letters, and of the want of patriotism that could lead to
their having been written. It may not have been wise,
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[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
considering the absolute want of the country, to have contemplated
the alternative towards which those letters certainly
cast an oblique glance, but there was nothing in either their
execution, or their drift, which was not perfectly natural for
the circumstances. It was quite right for Washington to
act as he did in that crisis, though it is highly probable that
even Washington would have felt and acted differently, had
he nothing but the keen sense of his neglected services,
poverty and forgetfulness, before him, in the perspective.
As for the young officer who actually wrote the letters, it is
probable that justice will never be done to any part of his
conduct, but that which is connected with the elegance of
his diction. It is very well for those who do not suffer to
prate about patriotism; but a country is bound to be just,
before it can lay a high moral claim to this exclusive devotedness
to the interests of the majority. Fine words cost
but little, and I acknowledge no great respect for those who
manifest their integrity principally in phrases. This is said
not in the way of personal apology, for our regiment did
not happen to be at Newburgh, at the disbandment; if it
had, I think my father's influence would have kept us from
joining the malcontents; but, at the same time, I fancy his
and my own patriotism would have been much strengthened
by the knowledge that there were such places as Satanstoe,
Lilacsbush, Mooseridge and Ravensnest. To return to the
account of our property.
My grandfather Mordaunt, notwithstanding his handsome
bequests to me, left the bulk of his estate to my mother.
This would have made the rest of the family rich, had it
not been for the dilapidations produced by the war. But
the houses and stores in town were without tenants who
paid, having been mainly occupied by the enemy; and interest
on bonds was hard to collect from those who lived
within the British lines.
In a word, it is not easy to impress on the mind of one
who witnesses the present state of the country, its actual
condition in that day. As an incident that occurred to myself,
after I had regularly joined the army for duty, will
afford a lively picture of the state of things, I will relate it,
and this the more willingly, as it will be the means of introducing
to the reader an old friend of the family, and one
who was intimately associated with divers events of my
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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
own life. I have spoken of Jaaf, a slave of my father's,
and one of about his own time of life. At the time to which
I allude, Jaaf was a middle-aged, grey-headed negro, with
most of the faults, and with all the peculiar virtues of the
beings of his condition and race. So much reliance had
my mother, in particular, on his fidelity, that she insisted
on his accompanying her husband to the wars, an order
that the black most willingly obeyed; not only because he
loved adventure, but because he especially hated an Indian,
and my father's earliest service was against that portion of
our foes. Although Jaaf acted as a body-servant, he carried
a musket, and even drilled with the men. Luckily, the
Littlepage livery was blue turned up with red, and of a very
modest character; a circumstance that almost put Jaaf in
uniform, the fellow obstinately refusing to wear the colours
of any power but that of the family to which he regularly
belonged. In this manner, Jaaf had got to be a queer mixture
of the servant and the soldier, sometimes acting in the
one capacity, and sometimes in the other, having at the
same time not a little of the husbandman about him; for
our slaves did all sorts of work.
My mother had made it a point that Jaaf should accompany
me, on all occasions when I was sent to any distance
from my father. She naturally enough supposed I had the
most need of the care of a faithful attendant, and the black
had consequently got to be about half transferred to me.
He evidently liked this change, both because it was always
accompanied by change of scene and the chances for new
adventures, and because it gave him an opportunity of re-lating
many of the events of his youth; events that had got
to be worn threadbare, as narratives, with his “ole masser,”
but which were still fresh with his “young.”
On the occasion to which there is allusion, Jaaf and I
were returning to camp, from an excursion of some length,
on which I had been sent by the general of division. This
was about the time the continental money made its final fall
to nothing, or next to nothing, it having long stood at about
a hundred dollars for one. I had provided myself with a
little silver, and very precious it was, and some thirty or
forty thousand dollars of “continental,” to defray my travelling
expenses; but, my silver was expended, and the
paper reduced to two or three thousand dollars, when it
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would require the whole stock of the latter to pay for Jaaf's
and my own dinner; nor were the innkeepers very willing
to give their time and food for it at any price. This vacuum
in my purse took place when I had still two long days' ride
before me, and in a part of the country where I had no acquaintances
whatever. Supper and rest were needed for
ourselves, and provender and stabling for our horses. Everything
of the sort was cheap enough to be sure, but absolute
want of means rendered the smallest charge impracticable
to persons in our situation. As for appealing to the patriotism
of those who lived by the way-side, it was too late
in the war; patriotism being a very evanescent quality of
the human heart, and particularly addicted to sneaking, like
compassion, behind some convenient cover, when it is to be
maintained at any pecuniary cost. It will do for a capital,
in a revolution, or a war for the first six months perhaps;
but gets to be as worthless as continental money itself, by
the end of that period. One militia draft has exhausted the
patriotism of thousands of as disinterested heroes as ever
shouldered muskets.
“Jaap”—I asked of my companion, as we drew near to
the hamlet where I intended to pass the night, and the comforts
of a warm supper on a sharp frosty evening, began to
haunt my imagination—“Jaap, how much money may you
have about you?”[3]
“I, Masser Mordaunt!—Golly! but dat a berry droll
question, sah!”
“I ask, because my own stock is reduced to just one
York shilling, which goes by the name of only a ninepence
in this part of the world.”
“Dat berry little, to tell 'e trut', sah, for two gentleum,
and two large, hungry hosses. Berry little, indeed, sah!
I wish he war' more.”
“Yet, I have not a copper more. I gave one thousand
two hundred dollars for the dinner and baiting and oats,
at noon.”
“Yes, sah — but, dat conternental, sah, I supposes — no
great t'ing, a'ter all.”
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“It 's a great thing in sound, Jaap, but not much when
it comes to the teeth, as you perceive. Nevertheless, we
must eat and drink, and our nags must eat too — I suppose
they may drink, without paying.”
“Yes, sah — dat true 'nough, yah — yah — yah”—how
easily that negro laughed! — “But 'e cider wonnerful good
in dis part of 'e country, young masser; just needer sweet
nor sour — den he strong as 'e jackass.”
“Well, Jaap, how are we to get any of this good cider,
of which you speak?”
“You t'ink, sah, dis part of 'e country been talk to much
lately 'bout Patty Rism and 'e country, sah?”
“I am afraid Patty has been overdone here, as well as in
most other counties.”
I may observe here, that Jaap always imagined the beautiful
creature he had heard so much extolled, and commended
for her comeliness and virtue, was a certain young
woman of this name, with whom all congress was unaccountably
in love at the same time.
“Well, den, sah, dere no hope, but our wits. Let me be
masser to-night, and you mind ole Jaap, if he want good
supper. Jest ride ahead, Masser Mordaunt, and give he
order like general Littlepage son, and leave it all to ole
Jaap.”
As there was not much to choose, I did ride on, and soon
ceased to hear the hoofs of the negro's horse at my heels.
I reached the inn an hour ere Jaap appeared, and was
actually seated at a capital supper before he rode up, as one
belonging only to himself. Jaap had taken off the Littlepage
emblems, and had altogether a most independent air.
His horse was stabled alongside of mine, and I soon found
that he himself was at work on the remnants of my supper,
as they retreated towards the kitchen.
A traveller of my appearance was accommodated with
the best parlour, as a matter of course; and, having appeased
my appetite, I sat down to read some documents
that were connected with the duty I was on. No one could
have imagined that I had only a York shilling, which is a
Pennsylvania “levy,” or a Connecticut “ninepence,” in
my purse; for my air was that of one who could pay for
all he wanted; the certainty that, in the long run, my host
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could not be a loser, giving me a proper degree of confidence.
I had just got through with the documents, and was thinking
how I should employ the hour or two that remained until
it would be time to go to bed, when I heard Jaap tuning his
fiddle in the bar-room. Like most negroes, the fellow had
an ear for music, and had been indulged in his taste, until
he played as well as half the country fiddlers that were to
be met.
The sound of a fiddle in a small hamlet, of a cool October
evening, was certain of its result. In half an hour, the
smiling landlady came to invite me to join the company,
with the grateful information I should not want for a partner,
the prettiest girl in the place having come in late, and
being still unprovided for. On entering the bar-room, I was
received with plenty of awkward bows and curtsies, but with
much simple and well-meaning hospitality. Jaap's own
salutations were very elaborate, and altogether of a character
to prevent the suspicion of our ever having met before.
The dancing continued for more than two hours with
spirit, when the time admonished the village maidens of the
necessity of retiring. Seeing an indication of the approaching
separation, Jaap held out his hat to me, in a respectful
manner, when I magnificently dropped my shilling into it,
in a way to attract attention, and passed it round among
the males of the party. One other gave a shilling, two
clubbed and actually produced a quarter, several threw in
sixpences, or fourpence-halfpennies, and coppers made up
the balance. By way of climax, the landlady, who was
good-looking and loved dancing, publicly announced that
the fiddler and his horse should go scot free, until he left
the place. By these ingenious means of Jaap's, I found in
my purse next morning seven-and-sixpence in silver, in addition
to my own shilling, besides coppers enough to keep a
negro in cider for a week.
I have often laughed over Jaap's management, though I
would not permit him to repeat it. Passing the house of a
man of better condition than common, I presented myself to
its owner, though an entire stranger to him, and told him
my story. Without asking any other confirmation than my
word, this gentleman lent me five silver dollars, which
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answered all my present purposes, and which, I trust, it is
scarcely necessary to say, were duly repaid.
It was a happy hour to me when I found myself a titular
major, but virtually a freeman, and at liberty to go where I
pleased. The war had offered so little of variety or adventure,
since the capture of Cornwallis and the pendency of
the negotiations for peace, that I began to tire of the army;
and now that the country had triumphed, was ready enough
to quit it. The family, that is to say, my grandmother,
mother, aunt Mary and my youngest sister, took possession
of Satanstoe in time to enjoy some of its delicious fruits, in
the autumn of 1782; and early in the following season,
after the treaty was signed, but while the British still remained
in town, my mother was enabled to return to Lilacsbush.
As consequences of these early movements, my
father and myself, when we joined the two families, found
things in a better state than might otherwise have been the
case. The Neck was planted, and had enjoyed the advantage
of a spring's husbandry, while the grounds of Lilacsbush
had been renovated and brought in good condition, by
the matured and practised taste of my admirable mother.
And she was admirable, in all the relations of life! A lady
in feeling and habits, whatever she touched or controlled
imbibed a portion of her delicacy and sentiment. Even the
inanimate things around her betrayed this feature of their
connection with one of her sex's best qualities. I remember
that colonel Dirck Follock remarked to me one day that we
had been examining the offices together, something that was
very applicable to this trait in my mother's character, while
it was perfectly just.
“No one can see Mrs. Littlepage's kitchen, even,” he
said, “alt'ough she never seems to enter it, without perceiving,”—
or `perceifing,' as he pronounced the word,—
“that it is governed by a lady. There are plenty of kitchens
that are as clean, and as large, and as well furnished, but it
is not common to see a kitchen that gives the same ideas
of a good taste in the table, and about the household.”
If this was true as to the more homely parts of the habitation,
how much truer was it when the distinction was
carried into the superior apartments! There, one saw my
mother in person, and surrounded by those appliances which
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denote refinement, without, however, any of that elaborate
luxury of which we read in older countries. In America,
we had much fine china, and a good deal of massive plate,
regular dinner-services excepted, previously to the revolution,
and my mother had inherited more than was usual of
both; but the country knew little of that degree of domestic
indulgence which is fast creeping in among us, by means
of its enormously increased commerce.
Although the fortunes of the country had undergone so
much waste, during seven years of internal warfare, the
elasticity of a young and vigorous nation soon began to repair
the evil. It is true that trade did not fully revive, nor
its connecting interests receive their great impulse, until
after the adoption of the Constitution, which brought the
States under a set of common custom-house regulations;
nevertheless, one year brought about a manifest and most
beneficent change. There was now some security in making
shipments, and the country immediately felt the consequences.
The year 1784 was a sort of breathing time for
the nation, though long ere it was past the bone and sinew
of the republic began to make themselves apparent and felt.
Then it was that, as a people, this community first learned
the immense advantage it had obtained by controlling its
own interests, and by treating them as secondary to those
of no other part of the world. This was the great gain of
all our labours.
eaf076v1.n2[2] The reader will recollect that Mr. Mordaunt Littlepage must
have written his account of himself and his times, about the close
of the last, or the beginning of this century. Since that time, education
has certainly advanced among us; sophomores pursuing branches
of learning to-day, that were sealed from seniors a few years since.
Learning, however, advances in this country, on the great American
principle of imparting a little to a great many, instead of teaching a
great deal to a few. — Editor.
eaf076v1.n3[3] This man is indiscriminately called Yaf, or Yop — York Dutch
being far from severe.
CHAPTER III.
“He tells her something,
That makes her blood look out; good sooth, she is
The queen of curds and cream.”
Winter's Tale.
Happy, happy Lilacsbush! Never can I forget the delight
with which I roamed over its heights and glens, and
how I rioted in the pleasure of feeling I was again a sort
of master in those scenes which had been the haunts of my
boyhood! It was in the spring of 1784 before I was folded
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to the arms of my mother; and this, too, after a separation
of near two years. Kate laughed, and wept, and hugged
me, just as she would have done five years earlier, though
she was now a lovely young woman, turned of nineteen.
As for aunt Mary, she shook hands, gave me a kind kiss or
two, and smiled on me affectionately, in her own quiet,
gentle manner. The house was in a tumult, for Jaap returned
with me, his wool well sprinkled with grey, and there
were lots of little Satanstoes (for such was his family name,
notwithstanding Mrs. Jaap called herself Miss Lilacsbush),
children and grandchildren to welcome him. To say the
truth, the house was not decently tranquil for the first
twenty-four hours.
At the end of that time, I ordered my horse to ride across
the country to Satanstoe, in order to visit my widowed
grandmother, who had resisted all attempts to persuade her
to give up the cares of housekeeping, and to come and live
at Lilacsbush. The general, for so everybody now called
my father, did not accompany me, having been at Satanstoe
a day or two before; but my sister did. As the roads had
been much neglected in the war, we went in the saddle,
Kate being one of the most spirited horsewomen of my acquaintance.
By this time, Jaap had got to be privileged,
doing just such work as suited his fancy; or, it might be
better to say, was not of much use except in the desultory
employments that had so long been his principal pursuits;
and he was sent off an hour or two before we started ourselves,
to let Mrs. Littlepage, or his “ole—ole missus,” as
the fellow always called my grandmother, know whom she
was to expect to dinner.
I have heard it said that there are portions of the world
in which people get to be so sophisticated, that the nearest
of kin cannot take such a liberty as this. The son will not
presume to take a plate at the table of the father without
observing the ceremony of asking, or of being asked! Heaven
be praised! we have not yet reached this pass in America.
What parent, or grandparent, to the remotest living
generation, would receive a descendant with anything but a
smile, or a welcome, let him come when and how he will.
If there be not room, or preparation, the deficiencies must
be made up in welcomes; or, when absolute impossibilities
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interpose, if they are not overcome by means of a quick invention,
as most such “impossibilities” are, the truth is
frankly told, and the pleasure is deferred to a more fortunate
moment. It is not my intention to throw a vulgar and
ignorant jibe into the face of an advanced civilization, as is
too apt to be the propensity of ignorance and provincial
habits; for I well know that most of the usages of those
highly improved conditions of society are founded in reason,
and have their justification in a cultivated common sense;
but, after all, mother nature has her rights, and they are
not to be invaded too boldly, without bringing with the acts
themselves their merited punishments.
It was just nine, on a fine May morning, when Kate
Littlepage and myself rode through the outer gate of Lilacsbush,
and issued upon the old, well-known, Kingsbridge
road. Kings-bridge! That name still remains, as do those
of the counties of Kings and Queens, and Duchess, to say
nothing of quantities of Princes this and that, in other States;
and I hope they always may remain, as so many landmarks
in our history. These names are all that now remain among
us of the monarchy; and yet have I heard my father say a
hundred times, that when a young man, his reverence for
the British throne was second only to his reverence for the
church. In how short a time has this feeling been changed
throughout an entire nation; or, if not absolutely changed,
for some still continue to reverence monarchy, how widely
and irremediably has it been impaired! Such are the things
of the world, perishable and temporary in their very natures;
and they would do well to remember the truth, who
have much at stake in such changes.
We stopped at the door of the inn at Kingsbridge to say
good morning to old Mrs. Light, the landlady, who had now
kept the house half a century, and who had known us, and
our parents before us, from childhood. This loquacious
housewife had her good and bad points, but habit had given
her a sort of claim on our attentions, and I could not pass
her door without drawing the rein, if it were only for a moment.
This was no sooner done, than the landlady, in
person, was on her threshold to greet us.
“Ay, I dreamt this, Mr. Mordaunt,” the old woman exclaimed,
the instant she saw me — “I dreamt this, no later
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than last week! It is nonsense to deny it; dreams do often
come true!”
“And what has been your dream this time, Mrs. Light?”
I asked, well knowing it was to come, and the sooner we
got it the better.
“I dreamt the general had come home last fall, and he
had come home! Now, the only idee I had to help out
that dream was a report that he was to be home that day;
but you know, Mr. Mordaunt, or major Littlepage they tell
me I ought now to call you—but, you know, Mr. Mordaunt,
how often reports turn out to be nothing. I count a report
as no great help to a dream. So last week, I dreamed you
would certainly be home this week; and here you are, sure
enough!”
“And all without any lying report to help you, my good
landlady?”
“Why, no great matter; a few flying rumours, perhaps;
but as I never believe them when awake, it 's onreasonable
to suppose a body would believe 'em when asleep. Yes,
Jaaf stopped a minute to water his horse this morning, and
I foresaw from that moment my dream would come to be
true, though I never exchanged a word with the nigger.”
“That is a little remarkable, Mrs. Light, as I supposed
you always exchanged a few words with your guests.”
“Not with the blacks, major; it is apt to make 'em sassy.
Sassiness in a nigger is a thing I can't abide, and therefore
I keep 'em all at a distance. Well, the times that I have
seen, major, since you went off to the wars! and the changes
we have had! Our clergyman don't pray any longer for
the king and queen—no more than if there wasn't sich people
living!”
“Not directly, perhaps, but as part of the church of God,
I trust. We all pray for congress, now.”
“Well, I hope good will come out of it! I must say,
major, that His Majesty's officers spent more freely, and
paid in better money, than the continental gentlemen. I 've
had 'em both here, by rijjiments, and that 's the character I
must give 'em, in honesty.”
“You will remember they were richer, and had more
money than our people. It is easy for the rich to appear
liberal.”
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“Yes, I know that, sir, and you ought, and do know it,
too. The Littlepages are rich, and always have been, and
they are liberal too. Lord bless your smiling, pretty faces!
I knowed your family long afore you knowed it yourselves.
I know'd old captain Hugh Roger, your great-grand'ther,
and the old general, your grand'ther, and now I know the
young general, and you! Well, this will not be the last of
you, I dares to say, and there 'll be light hearts, and happy
ones among the Bayards, I 'll answer for it, now the wars
are over, and young major Littlepage has got back!”
This terminated the discourse; for, by this time, I had
enough of it; and making my bow, Kate and I rode on.
Still, I could not but be struck with the last speech of the
old woman, and most of all with the manner in which it was
uttered. The name of Bayard was well known among us,
belonging to a family of which there were several branches
spread through the Middle States, as far south as Delaware;
but I did not happen to know a single individual of them all.
What, then, could my return have to do with the smiles or
frowns of any of the name of Bayard? It was natural
enough, after ruminating a minute or two on the subject,
that I should utter some of my ideas, on such a subject, to
my companion.
“What could the old woman mean, Kate,” I abruptly
commenced, “by saying there would now be light hearts
and happy ones among the Bayards?”
“Poor Mrs. Light is a great gossip, Mordaunt, and it
may be questioned if she know her own meaning half the
time. All the Bayards we know are the family at the
Hickories; and with them, you have doubtless heard, my
mother has long been intimate.”
“I have heard nothing about it, child. All I know is
that there is a place called the Hickories, up the river a few
miles, and that it belongs to some of the Bayards; but I
never heard of any intimacy. On the contrary, I remember
to have heard that there was a lawsuit once, between my
grandfather Mordaunt and some old Bayard or other; and
I thought we were a sort of hereditary strangers.”
“That is quite forgotten, and my mother says it all arose
from a mistake. We are decided friends now.”
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“I 'm sure I am very glad to hear it; for, since it is
peace, let us have peace; though old enemies are not apt to
make very decided friends.”
“But we never were—that is, my grandfather never was
an enemy of anybody; and the whole matter was amicably
settled just before he went to Europe, on his unfortunate
visit to Sir Harry Bulstrode. No—no—my mother will tell
you, Mordaunt, that the Littlepages and the Bayards now
regard each other as very decided friends.”
Kate spoke with so much earnestness that I was disposed
to take a look at her. The face of the girl was flushed, and
I fancy she had a secret consciousness of the fact; for she
turned it from me as if gazing at some object in the opposite
direction, thereby preventing me from seeing much of it.
“I am very glad to learn all this,” I answered, a little
drily. “As I am a Littlepage, it would have been awkward
not to have known it, had I accidentally met with one of
these Bayards. Does the peace include all of the name, or
only those of the Hickories?”
Kate laughed; then she was pleased to tell me that I was
to consider myself the friend of all of the name.
“And most especially of those of the name who dwell at
the Hickories?”
“How many may there be of this especially peaceful
breed?—six, a dozen, or twenty?”
“Only four; so your task will make no very heavy demand
on your affections. Your heart has room, I trust, for
four more friends?”
“For a thousand, if I can find them, my dear. I can
accept as many friends as you please, but have places for
none else. All the other niches are occupied.”
“Occupied! — I hope that is not true, Mordaunt. One
place, at least, is vacant.”
“True; I had forgotten a place must be reserved for the
brother you will, one day, give me. Well, name him, as
soon as you please; I shall be ready to love him, child.”
“I may never make so heavy a draft on your affections.
Anneke has given you a brother already, and a very excellent
one he is, and that ought to satisfy a reasonable
man.”
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“Ay, so all you young women say between fifteen and
twenty, but you usually change your mind in the end. The
sooner you tell me who the youth is, therefore, the sooner I
shall begin to like him — is he one of these Bayards? — un
chevalier sans peur et sans reproche?”
Kate had a brilliant complexion, in common; but, as I
now turned my eyes towards her inquiringly, more in mischief,
however, than with the expectation of learning anything
new, I saw the roses of her cheeks expand until they
covered her temples. The little beaver she wore, and which
became her amazingly, did not suffice to conceal these
blushes, and I now really began to suspect I had hit on a
vein that was sensitive. But, my sister was a girl of spirit,
and, though it was no difficult thing to make her change
colour, it was by no means easy to look her down.
“I trust your new brother, Mordaunt, should there ever
be such a person, will be a respectable man, if not absolutely
without reproach,” she answered. “But, if there be
a Tom Bayard, there is also a Pris. Bayard, his sister.”
“So — so — this is all news to me, indeed! As to Mr.
Thomas Bayard, I shall ask no questions, my interest in
him, if there is to be any, being altogether ex officio, as one
may say, and coming as a matter of course; but you will
excuse me if I am a little curious on the subject of Miss
Priscilla Bayard, a lady, you will remember, I never saw.”
My eye was on Kate the whole time, and I fancied she
looked gratified, though she still looked confused.
“Ask what you will, brother—Priscilla Bayard can bear
a very close examination.”
“In the first place, then, did that old gossip allude to
Miss Priscilla, by saying there would be light hearts and
happy ones among the Bayards?”
“Nay, I cannot answer for poor Mrs. Light's conceits.
Put your questions in some other form.”
“Is there much intimacy between the people of the 'Bush
and those of the Hickories?”
“Great — we like them exceedingly; and I think they
like us.”
“Does this intimacy extend to the young folk, or is it
confined to the old?”
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“That is somewhat personal,” said Kate, laughing, “as
I happen to be the only `young folk' at the 'Bush, to maintain
the said intimacy. As there is nothing to be ashamed
of, however, but, on the contrary, much of which one may
be proud, I shall answer that it includes `all ages and both
sexes;' everybody but yourself, in a word.”
“And you like old Mr. Bayard?”
“Amazingly.”
“And old Mrs. Bayard?”
“She is a very agreeable person, and an excellent wife
and mother.”
“And you love Pris. Bayard?”
“As the apple of mine eye,” the girl answered, with emphasis.
“And you like Tom Bayard, her brother?”
“As much as is decent and proper for one young woman
to like the brother of another young woman, whom she admits
that she loves as the apple of her eye.”
Although it was not easy, at least not easy for me, to
cause Kate Littlepage to hold her tongue, it was not easy
for her to cause the tell-tale blood always to remain stationary.
She was surprisingly beautiful in her blushes, and
as much like what I had often fancied my dear mother might
have been in her best days as possible, at the very moment
she was making these replies, as steadily as if they gave her
no trouble.
“How is all this, then, connected with rejoicings among
the people of the Hickories, at my return? Are you the
betrothed of Tom Bayard, and have you been waiting for
my return to give him your hand?”
“I am not the betrothed to Tom Bayard, and have not
been waiting for your return to give him my hand,” answered
Kate, steadily. “As for Mrs. Light's gossippings,
you cannot expect me to explain them. She gets her reports
from servants, and others of that class, and you know what
such reports are usually worth. But, as for my waiting for
your return, brother, in order to announce such an event,
you little know how much I love you, if you suppose I would
do any such thing.”
Kate said this with feeling, and I thanked her with my
eyes, but could not have spoken, and did not speak, until
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we had ridden some distance. After this pause, I renewed
the discourse with some of its original spirit.
“On that subject, Katrinke, dear,” I said, “I trust we
understand each other. Single, or married, you will ever
be very dear to me; and I own I should be hurt to be one
of the last to learn your engagement, whenever that may
happen. And, now for this Pris. Bayard — do you expect
me to like her?”
“Do I! It would be one of the happiest moments of my
life, Mordaunt, when I could hear you acknowledge that
you love her!”
This was uttered with great animation, and in a way to
show that my sister was very much in earnest. I felt some
surprise when I put this feeling in connection with the landlady's
remarks, and began to suspect there might be something
behind the curtain worthy of my knowledge. In order
to make discoveries, however, it was necessary to pursue the
discourse.
“Of what age is Miss Bayard?” I demanded.
“She is two months my senior — very suitable, is it
not?”
“I do not object to the difference, which will do very
well. Is she accomplished?”
“Not very. You know few of us girls who have been
educated during the revolution, can boast of much in that
way; though Priscilla is better than common.”
“Than of her class, you mean, of course?”
“Certainly — better than most young ladies of our best
families.”
“Is she amiable?”
“As Anneke, herself!”
This was saying a great deal, our eldest sister, as often
happens in families, being its paragon in the way of all the
virtues, and Anneke's temper being really serenity itself.
“You give her a high character, and one few girls could
sustain. Is she sensible and well-informed?”
“Enough so as often to make me feel ashamed of myself.
She has an excellent mother, Mordaunt; and I have heard
you say, often, that the mother would have great influence
with you in choosing a wife.”
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“That must have been when I was very young, child,
and before I went to the army, where we look more at the
young than at the old women. But, why a wife?—Is it all
settled between the old people, that I am to propose to this
Priscilla Bayard, and are you a party to the scheme?”
Kate laughed with all her heart, but I fancied she looked
conscious.
“You make no answer, young lady, and you must permit
me to remind you that there is an express compact between
you and me to treat each other frankly on all occasions.
This is one on which I especially desire to see the
conditions of the treaty rigidly enforced. Does any such
project exist?”
“Not as a project, discussed and planned—no—certainly
not. No, a thousand times, no. But, I shall run the risk
of frustrating one of my most cherished hopes, by saying,
honestly, that you could not gratify my dear mother, aunt
Mary, and myself, more than by falling in love with Pris.
Bayard. We all love her ourselves, and we wish you to be
of the party, knowing that your love would probably lead
to a connection we should all like, more than I can express.
There; you cannot complain of a want of frankness, for I
have heard it said, again and again, that the wishes of
friends, indiscreetly expressed, are very apt to set young
men against the very person it is desired to make them admire.”
“Quite likely to be true as a rule, though in my case no
effect, good or bad, will be produced. But, how do the
Bayards feel in this matter?”
“How should I know!—Of course, no allusion has ever
been made to any of the family on the subject; and, as none
of them know you, it is im—that is, no allusion—I mean—
certainly not to more than one of them. I believe some
vague remarks may have been ventured to one—but—”
“By yourself, and to your friend, Pris.?”
“Never”—said Kate, with emphasis. “Such a subject
could never be mentioned between us.”
“Then it must have been between the old ladies — the
two mothers, probably?”
“I should think not. Mrs. Bayard is a woman of reserve,
and mamma has an extreme sense of propriety, as you
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know yourself, that would not be likely to permit such a
thing.”
“Would the general think of contracting me, when my
back was turned!”
“Not he — papa troubles himself very little about such
things. Ever since his return home, he has been courting
mamma over again, he tells us.”
“Surely, aunt Mary has not found words for such an
allusion!”
“She, indeed! Poor, dear aunt Mary; it is little she
meddles with any one's concerns but her own. Do you
know, Mordaunt, that mamma has told me the whole of her
story lately, and the reason why she has refused so many
excellent offers. I dare say, if you ask her, she will tell
you.”
“I know the whole story already, from the general, child.
But, if this matter has been alluded to, to one of the Bayards,
and neither my father, mother, nor aunt Mary, has made
the allusion on our side, and neither Mr. Bayard, his wife
nor daughter, has been the party to whom the allusion has
been made on the other, there remains only yourself and
Tom to hold the discourse. I beg you to explain this point
with your customary frankness.”
Kate Littlepage's face was scarlet. She was fairly caught,
though I distrusted the truth from the moment she so stammered
and hesitated in correcting her first statement. I
will own I enjoyed the girl's confusion, it made her appear
so supremely lovely; and I was almost as proud of her, as
I tenderly loved her. Dear, dear Kate; from her childhood
I had my own amusement with her, though I do not remember
anything like a harsh expression, or an unkind feeling,
that has ever passed, or indeed existed, between us. A
finer study than the face of my sister offered for the next
minute, was never presented to the eye of man; and I enjoyed
it so much the more, from a strong conviction that,
while so deeply confused, she was not unhappy. Native
ingenuousness, maiden modesty, her habit of frank dealing
with me, and a wish to continue so to deal, were all struggling
together in her fine countenance, forming altogether
one of the most winning pictures of womanly feelings I had
ever witnessed. At length, the love of fair-dealing, and love
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of me, prevailed over a factitious shame; the colour settled
back to those cheeks whence it had appeared to flash, as it
might be, remaining just enough heightened to be remarked,
and Kate looked towards me in a way that denoted all the
sisterly confidence and regard that she actually felt.
“I did not intend to be the one to communicate to you a
fact, Mordaunt, in which I know you will feel a deep interest,
for I had supposed my mother would save me the
confusion of telling it to you; but, now, there is no choice
between resorting to equivocations that I do not like, and
using our old long-established frankness.”
“The long and short of which, my dear sister, is to say
that you are engaged to Mr. Bayard!”
“No; not as strong as that, brother. Mr. Bayard has
offered, and my answer is deferred until you have met him.
I would not engage myself, Mordaunt, until you approved
of my choice.”
“I feel the compliment, Katrinke, and will be certain to
repay it, in kind. Depend on it, you shall know, in proper
season, when it is my wish to marry, and shall be heard.”
“There is a difference between the claims of an elder
and an only brother, and of a mere girl, who ought to place
much dependence on the advice of friends, in making her
own selection.”
“You will not be a `mere girl' when that time comes,
but a married woman yourself, and competent to give good
counsel from your own experience. To return to Tom,
however; he is the member of his family to whom the allusion
was made?”
“He was, Mordaunt,” answered Kate, in a low voice.
“And you were the person who made it?”
“Very true — we were talking of you, one day; and I
expressed a strong hope that you would see Priscilla with
the eyes with which, I can assure you, all the rest of your
family see her. That was all.”
“And that was quite enough, child, to cause Tom Bayard
to hang himself, if he were a lover of the true temper.”
“Hang himself, brother! I am sure I do not understand
why?”
“Oh! merely at the palpable discouragement such a wish
would naturally convey to the brother of the young lady,
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since he must have seen you were willing to connect the
two families by means other than giving him your own
hand.”
Kate laughed; but, as she did not look much confused,
or at all alarmed, I was induced to believe that more important
encouragement than could be afforded by means of
her wish of marrying me to her suitor's sister, had been
given master Tom, and that my disapproval of the gentleman
would cause her more concern than she chose to avow.
We rode on, however, some little distance, without either's
offering to renew the discourse. At length, as became my
sex, I spoke.
“When am I to see this paragon young man, and paragon
young woman, Kate, since see both I must?”
“Not paragon young man, brother; I am certain I have
called him by no such name! Tom Bayard is a good fellow;
but I do not know he is, by any means, a paragon.”
“He is a good looking fellow, in the bargain, I take it for
granted?”
“Not as much so as you are yourself, if that will gratify
your vanity.”
“It ought to, coming from such a quarter. My question
is still unanswered, notwithstanding.”
“To own the truth to you, Mordaunt, I expect we shall
find Tom Bayard and Pris at Satanstoe, to dine with my
grandmother. She wrote me word, a day or two since, that
both are asked, and that she hoped both would accept.”
“The old lady is then in the plot, and intends to marry
me, will ye, nill ye? I had thought this visit altogether a
scheme of my own!”
Kate again laughed, and told me I might make my own
observations on that point, and judge for myself. As for
the visit, I had only accidentally favoured a project of other's.
The conversation now changed, and for several miles we
rode along, conversing of the scenes of the war, without
adverting to the Bayards, or to marriages.
We were within half a mile of the gate of the Neck, and
within a mile of the house, when we met Jaap returning to
Lilacsbush, and carrying some fruit to my mother, after
having discharged his commission of an avant courier.
From Kate's remark I had discovered we had been invited
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by letter to take this excursion, though the ceremony of
sending the negro across with his message had been observed
for reasons that were not very natural under the
circumstances. I made no remark, however, determining
to see and judge for myself.
As a matter of course, we drew our reins, and stopped to
exchange a few words with the black.
“Well, Jaap, how did the Neck look, after so long an
absence?” I inquired.
“It look, sah, no means as well as ole Missus, who do
look capital, for sich a lady! Dey do won'ers with 'e Neck,
sah, if you just b'lieve all young nigger say. But, what
you t'ink, Masser Mordy, I hear at 'e tavern, where I jist
stop, sah, to water ole Dick?”
“And to get a sup of cider for old Jaap” — hereupon the
negro laughed heartily, though he had the impudence neither
to own nor to deny the imputation, his weakness in
favour of wring-jaw being a well-established failing—“Well,
what did you hear, while taking down the usual mug?”
“I on'y get half a mug dis time, sah; ole, ole Missus
nebber forgettin' to gib me jist as much as I want. Well,
sah, while ole Dick drink, 'e new landlady, who come from
Connetick, you know, sah, she say to me, `Where you go,
ole colour' gentleum?' Dat war' civil, any how.”
“To which you answered—”
“I answer her, sah, and say I go to Satanstoe, whar' I
come from, long time 'go.”
“Whereupon, she made some observation or other —
Well, what was it?—You keep Miss Littlepage waiting.”
“Lor' bless her, sah — it my business to wait on Miss
Katrinke, not her business to wait on me—Why you speak
so droll, now, Masser Mordy?”
“Never mind all that, Jaap — what did the new Connecticut
lady say, when you told her you were going to Satanstoe,
the place where you had come from, a long time
ago?”
“What she say, Masser Mordy, sah? — She say great
foolishness, and make me mad. `What you call by dat awful
name?' she say, making face like as if she see a spook.
`You must mean Dibbleton,' she say — `dat 'e way all 'e
-- 047 --
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people as is genteel call 'e Neck!' Did you ebber hear 'e
like, sah?”
“Oh! yes; I heard the like of it, as soon as I was born;
the attempt to change the name of our old place having
existed, now, these thirty years. Why, some people call
Hellgate, Hurlgate; after that, one may expect anything.
Do you not know, Jaap, a Yankee is never satisfied, unless
he is effecting changes? One half his time, he is altering
the pronunciation of his own names, and the other half he
is altering ours. Let him call the place what he will, you
and I will stick to Satanstoe.”
“Dat we will, sah — gib 'e debbil his due, sah; dat an
ole sayin'. I'm sure anybody as has eyes, can see where
his toe hab turn up 'e sile, and shape it he own way — no
dibble dere, sah.”
Thus saying, Jaap rode on, my sister and myself doing
the same, pursuing the discourse that had thus accidentally
arisen among us.
“Is it not odd, brother, that strangers should have this
itching to alter the name of my grandmother's place?” said
Kate, after we had parted from the black. “It is a homely
name, certainly; but it has been used, now, a good deat
more than a century, and time, at least, should entitle it to
be let alone.”
“Ay, my dear; but you are not yet aware of the desires,
and longings, and efforts, and ambition of a `little
learning.' I have seen enough, in my short career, to know
there is a spirit up among us, that calls itself by the pretending
title of the `spirit of improvement,' which is likely
to overturn more important things than the name of our
poor Neck. It is a spirit that assumes the respectable character
of a love of liberty; and under that mask, it gives
play to malice, envy, covetousness, rapacity, and all the
lowest passions of our nature. Among other things, it takes
the provincial pretence of a mock-refinement, and flatters
an elegance of thought that is easiest attained by those who
have no perceptions of anything truly elevated, by substituting
squeamishness and affectations for the simplicity of
nature, and a good tone of manners.”
-- 048 --
CHAPTER IV.
Beat.
“Against my will, I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.”
Bene.
“Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.”
Beat.
“I took no more pains for these thanks, than
You take pains to thank me; if it had been painful,
I would not have come.”
Much Ado about Nothing.
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
In the porch of the house, at Satanstoe, stood my dear
grandmother, and the notable Tom Bayard, to receive us.
The first glance at the latter told me that he was a “proper
man;” and by the second, I got the pleasing assurance that
he had no eye, just then, but for Kate. This was pleasant
to know, as I never could have been happy in consenting to
yield that dear girl to any but a man who appreciated her
worth, and fully admired her beauty. As to my dear “ole
ole” grandmother, who was not so very old neither, being
still under seventy, her reception of us was just what I had
ever found it; warm, affectionate, and gentle. She called
my father, the general, Corny, even when she spoke to him
in a room full of company; though, for that matter, I have
heard my mother, who was much more of a woman of the
world, having lived a great deal in society, do the same
thing, when she thought herself alone. I have read some
priggish book or other, written no doubt by one who knew
men only through pages like his own, decry such familiarities;
but, I have generally found those the happiest
families, and, at the bottom, the best toned, where it was
Jack, and Tom, and Bob, and Dick, and Bess, and Di. As
for your Louisa Adelinas, and Robert Augustuses, and all
such elaborate respect, I frankly declare I have a contempt
for it. Those are the sort of people who would call Satanstoe,
Dibbleton; Hellgate, Hurlgate; and themselves accomplished.
Thank heaven, we had no such nonsense at
Lilacsbush, or at the Neck. My father, was Corny; my
mother, Anneke; Katrinke, Kate; and I was Mordy, or
Mord; or, when there was no hurry, Mordaunt.
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Tom Bayard met my salutations frankly, and with a gentlemanlike
ease, though there was a slight colour on his
cheek which said to me, “I mean to get your sister.” Yet
I liked the fellow's manner. There was no grasping of the
hand, and coming forward to rush into an intimacy at the
first moment we met; but he returned my bow graciously,
and gracefully, and his smile as he did so seemed to invite
father and better acquaintance.
Now, I have seen a man cross a whole room to shake
hands at an introduction with an utter stranger, and maintain
a countenance the whole time as sombre as if he were
condoling with him on the loss of his wife. This habit of
shaking hands dolefully is growing among us, and is imported
from some of our sister States; for, it is certainly not
a New York custom, except among intimates; and it is a
bad usage, in my opinion, as it destroys one of the best
means of graduating feelings, and is especially ungraceful
at an introduction. But, alas! there are so many such innovations,
that one cannot pretend to predict where they are
to stop. I never shook hands at an introduction, unless it
were under my own roof, and when I wished to denote a
decidedly hospitable feeling, until after I was forty. It was
thought vulgar in my younger days, and I am not quite
certain it is not thought so now.
In the little old-fashioned drawing-room, as of late years
my good grandmother had been persuaded to call what was
once only the best parlour, we found Miss Priscilla Bayard,
who, for some reason that was unexplained, did not come
to the porch to meet her friend. She was in truth a charming
girl, with fine dark eyes, glossy hair, a delicate and
lady-like form, and a grace of manner that denoted perfect
familiarity with the best company of the land. Kate and
Pris. embraced each other with a warmth and sincerity that
spoke in favour of each, and with perfect nature. An affected
American girl, by the way, is very uncommon; and
nothing strikes me sooner, when I see my own countrywomen
placed at the side of Europeans, than the difference in
this respect; the one seems so natural, while the other is
so artificial!
My own reception by Miss Bayard was gracious, though
I fancied it was not entirely free from the consciousness of
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having, on some idle occasion, heard her own name intimately
connected with mine. Perhaps Kate, in their confidential
moments, may have said something to this effect;
or, I may have been mistaken.
My grandmother soon announced that the whole party
was to pass the night at Satanstoe. As we were accustomed
to such plans, neither Kate nor myself raised the least objection,
while the Bayards submitted to orders which I soon
discovered even they were not unused to, with perfect good-will
and submission. Thus brought together, in the familiarity
of a quiet and small party, in a country house, we
made great progress in intimacy; and, by the time dinner
was over, or by four o'clock, I felt like an old acquaintance
with those who had so lately been strangers to me, even by
name. As for Bayard and my sister, they were in the best
of humours from the start, and I felt satisfied their affair
was a settled thing, in their own minds; but, Miss Priscilla
was a little under constraint for an hour or two, like a person
who felt a slight embarrassment. This wore off, however,
and long before we left the table she had become
entirely herself; and a very charming self it was, I was
forced to admit. I say forced; for, spite of all I had said,
and a certain amount of good sense I hope, it was impossible
to get rid of the distrust which accompanied the notion that
I was expected to fall in love with the young lady. My
poor grandmother contributed her share, too, to keep this
feeling alive. The manner in which she looked from one
to the other, and the satisfied smile that passed over her
countenance whenever she observed Pris. and myself conversing
freely, betrayed to me completely that she was in
the secret, and had a hand in what I chose to regard as a
sort of plot.
I had heard that my grandmother had set her heart on
the marriage of my parents a year or two before matters
came round, and that she always fancied she had been very
instrumental in forming a connection that had been as happy
as her own. The recollection, or the fancy of this success,
most probably encouraged her to take a share in the present
scheme; and I have always supposed that she got us all
together on that occasion, in order to help the great project
along.
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A walk on the Neck was proposed in the cool of the
evening; for Satanstoe had many a pleasant path, pretty
vista, and broad view. Away we went, then, the four of
us, Kate leading the way, as the person most familiar with
the “capabilities.” We were soon on the shore of the
Sound, and at a point where a firm, wide beach of sand had
been left by the receding waters, rocks fringing the inner
boundary, towards the main. Here one could walk without
confinement of any sort, there being room to go in pairs, or
all abreast, as we might choose. Miss Bayard seeming a
little coy, and manifesting a desire to keep near her friend,
I abandoned the intention of walking at her side, but fell
behind a little, and got into discourse with her brother.
Nor was I sorry to have this early opportunity of sounding
the party who was likely soon to become so nearly connected
with me. After a few minutes, the conversation
turned on the late revolution, and the manner in which it
was likely to influence the future fortunes of the country.
I knew that a portion of the family of my companion had
adhered to the crown, losing their estates by the act of confiscation;
but I also knew that a portion did not, and I was
left to infer that Tom's branch belonged to the latter division
of his name, inasmuch as his father was known to be
very easy in his circumstances, if not absolutely rich. It
was not long, however, before I ascertained that my new
friend was a mild tory, and that he would have been better
pleased had the rights we had sought, and which he was
willing enough to admit had been violated, been secured
without a separation of the two countries. As the Littlepages
had actually been in arms against the crown, three
generations of them, too, at the same time, and the fact
could be no secret, I was pleased with the candour with
which Tom Bayard expressed his opinions on these points;
for it spoke well of the truth and general sincerity of his
character.
“Does it not strike you as a necessary consequence of
the distance between the two countries,” I remarked, in the
course of the conversation, “that a separation must, sooner
or later, have occurred? It is impossible that two countries
should long have common rulers when they are divided by
an ocean. Admitting that our separation has been a little
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
premature, a circumstance I should deny in a particular
discussion, it is an evil that every hour has a tendency to
lessen.”
“Separations in families are always painful, major Littlepage;
when accompanied by dissensions, doubly so.”
“Quite true; yet they always happen. If not in this
generation, in the next.”
“I do think,” said Tom Bayard, looking at me a little
imploringly, “that we might have got along with our difficulties
without casting aside our allegiance to the king.”
“Ay, that has been the stumbling-block with thousands;
and yet it is, in truth, the very weakest part of the transatlantic
side of the question. Of what avail is allegiance to
the king, if parliament use its power in a way to make
American interests subservient to those of England? A
great deal may be said, that is reasonable, in favour of
kingly power; that I am ready enough to allow; but very
little that renders one people subject to another. This thing
called loyalty blinds men to facts, and substitutes a fancied
for a real power. The question has been, whether England,
by means of a parliament in which we have no representative,
is to make laws for us or not; and not whether George
III. is to be our sovereign, or whether we are to establish
the sovereignty of the people.”[4]
-- 053 --
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Bayard bowed, civilly enough, to my remark, and he
changed the subject. Sufficient had been said, however, to
satisfy me that there would be little political sympathy between
us, let the family tie be drawn as close as it might.
The girls joined us before we had got altogether into another
vein of discourse, and I was a little chagrined at finding
that Kate entered rather more into her admirer's views of
such subjects than comported with the true feelings, as I
fancied, of a Littlepage, after all that had passed. Still, as I
should have liked the woman I loved to agree with me in
opinion as much as possible in everything, I was not disposed
to judge harshly of my sister on that account. On
the other hand, to my surprise, I found Miss Priscilla a
zealous, and, to say the truth, a somewhat blind patriot;
condemning England, the king, and the efforts of parliament
with a warmth that was only equal to that with which
she defended every thing, act, measure, principle or policy,
that was purely American.
I cannot say I had as much tolerance for the patriotism
of Miss Bayard as I had for the petit treason of my sister.
It seemed natural enough that Kate should begin to look at
things of this nature with the eyes of the man she had made
up her mind to marry; but it looked far more like management
in her friend, who belonged to a tory family, to volunteer
so freely the sentiments of one she could not yet love,
inasmuch as until that day she had never even seen him.
“Is it not so, major Littlepage,” cried this lovely creature,
for very lovely she was, beyond all dispute; and feminine,
and delicate, and lady-like, and all I could have wished
her, had she only been a little less of a whig, and a good
deal more of a tory; her eyes sparkling and flashing, at the
same time, as if she felt all she was saying from the very
bottom of her heart — “Is it not so, major Littlepage? —
America has come out of this war with imperishable glory;
and her history, a thousand years hence, will be the wonder
and admiration of all who read it!”
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
“That will somewhat depend on what her history may
prove to be, between that day and this. The early history
of all great nations fills us with admiration and interest,
while mightier deeds effected by an insignificant people are
usually forgotten.”
“Still, this revolution has been one of which any nation
might have been proud!”
As it would not have been proper to deny this, I bowed
and strayed a little from the rest of the party, under the
pretence of looking for shells. My sister soon joined me,
when the following short conversation passed between us.
“You find Pris. Bayard a staunch whig, major Littlepage,”
commenced my warm-hearted sister.
“Very much so; but I had supposed the Bayards excessively
neutral, if not absolutely the other way.”
“Oh! that is true enough of most of them, but not with
Pris., who has long been a decided whig. There is Tom,
now, rather moderate in his opinions, while the father and
mother are what you call excessively neutral; but, Pris.
has been a whig almost as long as I have known her.”
“Almost as long! She was, then, a tory once?”
“Hardly; though certainly her opinions have undergone
a very gradual change. We are both young, you will remember;
and girls at their first coming out do very little
of their own thinking. For the last three years, certainly,
or since she was seventeen, Pris. has been getting to be
more and more of a whig, and less and less of a tory. Do
you not find her decidedly handsome, Mordaunt?”
“Very decidedly so, and very winning in all that belongs
to her sex — gentle, feminine, lady-like, lovely, and
withal a whig.”
“I knew you would admire her!” cried Kate, in triumph.
“I shall live to see my dearest wish accomplished!”
“I make no doubt you will, child; though it will not be
by the marriage of a Mr. Littlepage to a Miss Bayard.”
I got a laugh and a blush for this sally, but no sign of
submission. On the contrary, the positive girl shook her
head, until her rich curls were all in motion, and she laughed
none the less. We immediately joined our companions,
and by one of those crossings over and figurings in, that
are so familiar to the young of the two sexes, we were soon
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walking along the sands again, Tom at Kate's side, and I
at that of Priscilla Bayard's. What the other two talked
about I never knew, though I fancy one might guess; but, the
young lady with me pursued the subject of the revolution.
“You have probably been a little surprised, major Littlepage,”
she commenced, “to hear me express myself so
warmly in favour of this country, as some of the branches
of my family have been treated harshly by the new government?”
“You allude to the confiscations? I never justified them,
and wish they had not been made; for they fall heaviest on
those who were quite inoffensive, while most of our active
enemies have escaped. Still, it is no more than is usual in
civil wars, and what would surely have befallen us, had it
been our fortune to be the losing party.”
“So I have been told; but, as no loss has fallen on any
who are very near to me, my public virtue has been able to
resist private feeling. My brother, as you may have seen,
is less of an American than I am myself.”
“I have supposed he is one of the `extremely neutral;'
and they, I have thought, always incline a little in favour
of the losing party.”
“I hope, however, his political bias, which is very honest,
though very much in error, will not materially affect him
in your good opinion. Too much depends on that, for me
not to be anxious on the subject; and, being the only decided
whig in the family, I have thought I would venture to
speak in behalf of a very dearly beloved brother.”
`Well,' I said to myself, `this is being sufficiently managing;
but I am not quite so unpractised as to be the dupe
of an artifice so little concealed! The deuce is in the girl;
yet she seems in earnest, looks at me with the good faith
and simplicity of a sister who feels even more than she expresses,
and is certainly one of the loveliest creatures I ever
laid eyes on! I must not let her see how much I am on
my guard, but must meet management with management.
It will be singular, indeed, if I, who have commanded a
company of continentals with some credit, cannot get along
with a girl of twenty, though she were even handsomer,
and looked still more innocent than this Pris. Bayard, which
would be no easy matter, by the way.'
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The reader will understand this was what I said to myself,
and it was soon uttered, for one talks surprisingly fast
to himself; but, that which I said to my fair companion,
after a moment's hesitation, was very different in language
and import.
“I do not understand in what way Mr. Bayard can be
affected by my opinion, let it be for or against him,” I answered,
with just as much innocency of expression, according
to my notion of the matter, as the young lady herself
had thrown into her own pretty countenance, thereby doing
myself infinite credit, in my own conceit; “though I am
far from judging any man severely, because he happens to
differ from me in his judgment of public things. The question
was one of great delicacy, and the most honest men
have differed the widest on its merits.”
“You do not know how glad I am to hear you say this,
Mr. Littlepage,” returned my companion, with one of the
sweetest smiles woman ever bestowed on man. “It will
make Tom completely happy, for I know he has been sadly
afraid of you, on this very point.”
I did not answer instantly; for, I believe, I was watching
the traces of that bewitching smile, and speculating against
its influence with the pertinacity of a man who was determined
not to be taken in. That smile haunted me for a
week, and it was a long time before I fully comprehended
it. I decided, however, to come to the point at once, as respects
Bayard and my sister, and not be beating the bush
with indirect allusions.
“In what manner can my opinion influence your brother,
Miss Bayard?” I asked, as soon as I was ready to say anything.
“To prevent misconceptions, let me beg of you to
be a little more explicit.”
“You can hardly be ignorant of my meaning, I should
think!” answered Priscilla, with a little surprise. “One
has only to look at the couple before us, to comprehend
how your opinion of the gentleman might have an influence
on himself, at least.”
“The same might be said of us, Miss Bayard, so far as
my inexperienced eye can tell. They are a young couple,
walking together; the gentleman appearing to admire the
lady, I will confess; and we are a young couple walking
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[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
together, the gentleman appearing to admire the lady, or he
does no credit to his taste or sensibility.”
`There,' said I to myself, again, `that is giving her quite
as good as I receive; let me see how you take that.'
Pris. took it very well; laughing, and blushing just enough
to make her appear the loveliest creature I had ever laid
eyes on. She shook her head, very much as my sister had
done not long before, and disclaimed the analogy, first in
her manner, and next with her tongue.
“The cases are very different, sir,” she answered. “We
are strangers to each other, while Tom Bayard and Kate
Littlepage are acquaintances of years' standing. We do
not love each other in the least; not a bit, though we are
inclined to think very well of each other, on account of the
interest we take in the couple before us, and because I am
the intimate friend of your only sister, and because you are
the only brother of my intimate friend. There, however,”
and she now spoke with emphasis, “our interest ceases,
never to be increased beyond a friendly regard, that I trust
will grow up out of our respective merits, and respective
discernment. It is very, very different with the couple before
us;” here, again, the flexible girl spoke with extreme
feeling; every tone and cadency of her voice denoting lively
sensibility. “They have been long attached, not admirers
of each other, as you call it, major Littlepage, but attached;
and your opinion of my brother, just at this moment, is of
the last importance to him. I hope I have, at last, made
myself understood?”
“Perfectly; and I intend to be just as explicit. In the
first place, I enter a solemn protest against all that you have
said about the `other couple,' with the exception of the interest
we each feel in the brother, or sister. Next, I proclaim
Kate Littlepage to be her own mistress, so far as her
brother Mordaunt is concerned; and lastly, I announce that
I see or know nothing in the character, connections, fortune,
person, or position of her suitor, Thomas Bayard, of the
Hickories, Esquire, that is in the least below her pretensions
or merits. I hope that is sufficiently satisfactory?”
“Entirely so; and from the bottom of my heart I thank
you for it. I will own I have had some little apprehensions
on the subject of Tom's political opinions; but, those
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[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
removed, nothing else can remain to create the smallest uneasiness.”
“How is it possible that any of you could consider my
notions of so much importance, when Kate has a father, a
mother, and a grandmother living, all of whom, as I understand
things, approve of her choice?”
“Ah! Mr. Littlepage, you are not conscious of your importance
in your own family, I see. I know it better than
you appear to know it yourself. Father, mother, grandmother
and sister, all think and speak of Mordaunt, alike.
To hear the general converse of the war, you would suppose
that he had commanded a company, and captain Littlepage
the regiment. Mrs. Littlepage defers to Mordaunt's
taste, and Mordaunt's opinions, and Mordaunt's judgment,
even in housekeeping and hem-stitching. Kate is for ever
saying `my brother says this,' `my brother writes that,'
`my brother does t'other;' and, as for the old lady here, at
the `Toe,' she would hardly think her peaches and cherries
could ripen, unless Mordaunt Littlepage, the son of her son
Corny Littlepage — by no accident does she ever call him
`general' — were on the face of the earth, to create an eternal
sunshine!”
Was there ever a girl like this! That speech was made
too, in the quietest, most gentle, lady-like manner, possible.
That the young lady had spirit and humour enough, was
very apparent; and for a moment I doubted whether both
were not accompanied by the most perfect simplicity of
character, and the most perfect good faith. Subsequent remarks
and occurrences, however, soon revived all my
original distrusts.
“This is a vivid picture of family weaknesses, that you
have so graphically drawn, Miss Bayard,” I answered;
“and I shall not easily forget it. What renders it the more
lively and pointed, and the more likely to be relished by the
world, is the fact that Mordaunt so little deserves the extreme
partiality of the friends you have mentioned.”
“The last feature forms no part of my picture, major
Littlepage, and I disown it. As for the world, it will never
know anything about it. You and I are not the world, nor
are we at all likely ever to be the world to each other; I
wish you particularly to understand that, which is the
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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
reason I am so frank with you, on so short an acquaintance.
I tell you, your opinion is of the last importance to Tom;
as your sister would not marry him, did she believe you
thought, in the least, ill of him.”
“And she would, did I think well of him?”
“That is a question a lady must answer for herself.
And, now, we will say no more on the subject; for my
mind is easy since I find you entertain no political hostility
to Tom.”
“Men are much less apt to entertain such feelings, I
fancy, after they have fairly fought out a quarrel, than when
they only talk over its heads. Besides, the winning party
is commonly the least rancorous, and success will make us
whigs forgiving. I give you my honour, no objection will
be raised against your brother, by me, on account of his
opinions of the revolution. My dear mother, herself, has
been half a tory the whole war; and Kate, I find, has imbibed
all her charity.”
A singular, and, as I thought, a painful smile, crossed the
sweet face of Priscilla Bayard, as I made this remark; but
she did not answer it. It seemed to me she was now desirous
of quitting the subject entirely, and I immediately led
the discourse to other things.
Kate and I remained at Satanstoe several days, and Tom
Bayard was a daily visitor; the distance between the Neck
and the Hickories being no great matter. I saw the young
lady twice during that interval; once, by riding over to her
father's residence with that express object; and once when
she came across on horseback to see her friend. I confess
I was never more at a loss to understand a character than I
was that of this young woman. She was either profoundly
managing, or as innocent and simple as a child. It was
easy to see that her brother, my sister, my grandmother,
and, as I fancied, the parents of the young lady herself,
were anxious that I should be on as good terms as possible
with Pris., as they all called her; though I could not fathom
her own feelings on the subject. It would have been unnatural
not to have loved to gaze on her exceeding beauty, or
not to have admired her extremely graceful and feminine
manner, which was precisely all that one could wish it to
be in the way of ease and self-possession, without being in
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[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
the least free or forward; and I did gaze on the one, and
admire the other, at the very moment I was most disposed
to distrust her sincerity, and to believe her nature the very
perfection of art. There were times when I was disposed
to fancy this Pris. Bayard as profound and skilful an actor
as one of her sex, years, and condition in life could well
become, without falling altogether; and there were moments,
too, when she seemed to be instinct with all the sensitive
and best qualities of her sex.
It is scarcely necessary to say I remained heart-whole,
under such circumstances, notwithstanding the obvious
wishes of my friends, and the young lady's great advantages!
A man no more falls blindly in love when he distrusts
anything amiss, than he sees anything amiss when
he is blindly in love. It has often been a matter of surprise
to me, how often and how completely the wisest of the
earthly races conspire to deceive themselves. When suspicions
are once excited, testimony is not needed; condemnation
following much as a logical induction, though founded
on nothing better than plausible distrusts; while, on the
other hand, where confidence exists, testimony is only too
apt to be disregarded. Women, in particular, are peculiarly
apt to follow the bias of their affections, rather than of their
reasons, in all cases connected with guilt. They are hard
to be convinced of the unworthiness of those who belong to
them, through the affections, because the affections are
usually stronger with them than their reasoning powers.
How they cling to their priests, for instance, when the cooler
heads and greater experience of men condemn, and that
merely because their imaginations choose to adorn the
offenders with the graces of that religion which they venerate,
and on which they rely! He is a shrewd man who can
draw the line between the real and the false in these matters;
but he is truly a weak one who disregards evidence,
when evidence is complete and clear. That we all have our
sins and our failings is true, but there are certain marks of
unworthiness which are infallible, and which ought never
to be disregarded, since they denote the existence of the
want of principle that taints a whole character.
eaf076v1.n4[4] [This short dialogue is given in the text, because it is found in
Mr. Mordaunt Littlepage's manuscript, and not because the state of
feeling in this country to-day has any connection with the opinions
expressed. The American nation, as a whole, is now as completely
emancipated from English political influence, as if the latter never
had an existence. The emancipation is too complete, indeed, the
effect having brought with it a reaction that is, on many points,
running into error in a contrary direction; the third of our manuscripts
having something to do with these excesses of opinion. But,
Mr. Mordaunt Littlepage appears to have some near glimmerings of
the principles which lay at the root of the American revolution,
though the principle itself does not appear to have been openly recognised
anywhere at the time. The king of England was originally
king of America, as he was king of Ireland, and king of Scotland.
It is true, there was no American flag, the system excluding the
colonies from any power on the ocean; then, each colony existed as
independent of the others, except through their common allegiance.
The revolution of 1688 slowly brought parliament into the ascendant;
and, by the time George III. ascended the throne, that ascendancy
had got to be almost undisputed. Now, America had no proper connection
with parliament, which, in that day, represented England
and Wales only; and this was a state of things which made one
country dependent on the other, a subserviency of interests that clearly
could last only so long as the party governed was too weak to take
care of itself.]
-- 061 --
CHAPTER V.
“He were an excellent man, that were made just in the mid-way between
him and Benedick: the one is too like an image, and says
nothing; and the other, too like my lady's eldest son, evermore
tattling.”
Beatrice.
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
The very day my sister and I left Satanstoe, there was
an interesting interview between my grandmother and myself,
that it may be well to relate. It took place in the cool
of the morning, before breakfast, indeed, and previously to
the appearance of any of the rest of the party; for Tom
Bayard and his sister had again ridden across the country
to pass the night, and see us off. My grandmother had requested
me to meet her thus early, in a sort of little piazza,
that modern improvements had annexed to one end of the
old buildings, and in which we both appeared accordingly
with the utmost punctuality. I saw by a certain sort of
importance that my good grandmother wore in her countenance,
that she had weighty matters on her mind, and took
the chair she had set for me with some little curiosity to
learn what was to follow. The chairs were placed side by
side, or nearly so, but looking different ways, and so close
together that, when seated, we were quite face to face. My
grandmother had on her spectacles, and she gazed wistfully
through them at me, parting the curls on my forehead, as
had been her wont when I was a boy. I saw tears rolling
out from behind the glasses, and felt apprehensive I might
have said or done something to have wounded the spirit of
that excellent and indulgent parent.
“For heaven's sake, grandmother, what can this mean?”
I cried. “Have I done anything amiss?”
“No, my child, no; but much to the contrary. You
are, and ever have been, a good and dutiful son, not only
to your real parents, but to me. But your name ought to
have been Hugh — that I will maintain, long as I live. I
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told your father as much when you were born; but he was
Mordaunt-mad then, as, indeed, he has remained pretty
much ever since. Not that Mordaunt is not a good name,
and a respectable name, and they say it is a noble name in
England; but it is a family name, and family names are
not fit for christian names, at the best. Hugh should have
been your name, if I could have had my way; and, if not
Hugh, Corny. Well, it is too late for that now, as Mordaunt
you are, and Mordaunt you must live and die. Did any one
ever tell you, my child, how very, very like you are to your
honoured grandfather?”
“My mother, frequently—I have seen the tears start into
her eyes as she gazed at me, and she has often told me my
family name ought to have been Mordaunt, so much do I
resemble her father.”
“Her father! — Well, Anneke does get some of the
strangest conceits into her head! A better woman, or a
dearer, does not breathe — I love your mother, my child,
quite as much as if she had been born my own daughter;
but I must say she does get some of the strangest notions
into her head that mortal ever imagined. You like Herman
Mordaunt! You are the very image of your grandfather
Littlepage, and no more like Herman Mordaunt than you
are like the king!”
The revolution was then, and is now still too recent to
prevent these constant allusions to royalty, notwithstanding
my grandfather had been as warm a whig as there was in
the colonies, from the commencement of the struggle. As
for the resemblance spoken of, I have always understood I
was a mingled repetition of the two families, as so often
happens, a circumstance that enables my different relatives
to trace such resemblances as best suit their respective
fancies. This was quite convenient, and may have been a
reason, in addition to the fact of my being an only son, that
I was so great a favourite with the females of my family.
My dear old grandmother, who was then in her sixty-ninth
year, was so persuaded of my likeness to her late husband,
the “old general,” as he was now called, that she would not
proceed in her communications until she had wiped her eyes,
and gratified her affections with another long and wistful
gaze.
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“Oh! those eyes!” she murmured — “and that forehead!—
The mouth too, and the nose, to say nothing of the
smile, which is as much alike as one pea is like another!”
This left very little for the Mordaunts, it must be owned;
the chin and ears being pretty much all that were not claimed
for the direct line. It is true, my eyes were blue, and
the “old general's” had been as black as coals; my nose
was Grecian, and his a most obtrusive Roman; and, as for
the mouth, I can only say mine was as like that of my mother's
as a man's could well be like a woman's. The last,
I had heard my father say, a thousand times. But, no
matter; age, and affection, and the longings of the parent,
caused my grandmother to see things differently.
“Well, Mordaunt,” the good old lady at length continued,
“how do you like this choice of your sister Kate's? Mr.
Bayard is a charming young man, is he not?”
“Is it then a choice, grandmother? Has Kate actually
made up her mind?”
“Pshaw!” answered my grandmother, smiling as archly
as if she were sixteen herself—“that was done long ago—
and papa approved, and mamma was anxious, and I consented,
and sister Anneke was delighted, and everything
was as smooth as the beach at the end of the Neck, but
waiting for your approbation. `It would not be right, grandmother,
for me to engage myself, while Mordaunt is away,
and without his even knowing the gentleman; so I will not
answer until I get his approbation too,' said Kate. That
was very pretty in her, was it not, my child? All your
father's children have a sense of propriety!”
“Indeed it was, and I shall not forget it soon. But, suppose
I had disapproved, what would have followed, grandmother?”
“You should never ask unpleasant questions, saucy
fellow; though I dare to say Kate would, at least, have
asked Mr. Bayard to wait until you had changed your mind.
Giving him up altogether would be out of the question, and
unreasonable; but she might have waited a few months or
so, until you changed your mind; and I would have advised
her so to do. But, all that is unnecessary, as matters
are; for you have expressed your approbation, and Kate is
perfectly happy. The last letter from Lilacsbush, which
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Jaap brought, gives the formal consent of your dear parents—
and what parents you have, my child! — so Kate wrote
an acceptance yesterday, and it was as prettily expressed a
note as I have seen in many a day. Your own mother
could not have done it better in her young days; and Anneke
Mordaunt worded a note as genteelly as any young
woman I ever knew.”
“I am glad everything has gone right, and am sure no
one can wish the young couple more happiness than I do
myself. Kate is a dear, good girl, and I love her as much
as a brother can love a sister.”
“Is she not? and as thorough a Littlepage as ever was
born! I do hope she will be happy. All the marriages in
our family have proved so hitherto, and it would be strange
if this should turn out differently. Well, now, Mordaunt,
when Kate is married, you will be the only one left.”
“That is true, grandmother; and you must be glad to find
there will be one of us left to come and see you, without
bringing nurses and children at his heels.”
“I! — I glad of anything of the sort! No, indeed, my
child; I should be sorry enough did I think, for a moment,
you would not marry as soon as is prudent, now the war is
over. As for children, I dote on them; and I have ever
thought it a misfortune that the Littlepages have had so
few, especially sons. Your grandfather, my general, was
an only son; your father was an only son; and you are an
only son; that is, so far as coming to men's estates are, or
were concerned. No, Mordaunt, my child, it is the warmest
wish of my heart to see you properly married, and to hold
the Littlepages of the next generation in my arms. Two
of you I have had there already, and I shall have lived the
life of the blessed to be able to hold the third.”
“My dear, good grandmother! — What am I to understand
by all this?”
“That I wish you to marry, my child, now that the war
is ended; that your father wishes you to marry; that your
mother wishes you to marry; and that your sister wishes
you to marry.”
“And all of you wish me to marry the same person? Is
it not so?”
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My grandmother smiled, but she fidgeted; fancying, as
I suspected, that she had been pushing matters a little too
fast. It was not easy, however, for one of her truth and
simplicity of character to recede after having gone so far;
and she wisely determined to have no reserves with me on
the subject.
“I believe you are right, Mordaunt,” she answered, after
a short pause. “We do all wish you to fall in love as soon
as you can; to propose as soon as you are in love; and to
marry Priscilla Bayard, the instant she will consent to have
you.”
“This is honest, and like yourself, my dear grandmother;
and now we both know what is intended, and can
speak plainly. In the first place, do you not think one connection
of this sort, between families, quite sufficient? If
Kate marry the brother, may I not be excused for overlooking
the attractions of the sister?”
“Priscilla Bayard is one of the loveliest girls in York
Colony, Mordaunt Littlepage!”
“We call this part of the world York State, now, dearest
grandmother. I am far from denying the truth of what you
say;—Priscilla Bayard is very lovely.”
“I do not know what more you can wish, than to get
such a girl.”
“I shall not say that the time will not come when I may
be glad to obtain the consent of the young lady to become
my wife; but that time has not yet arrived. Then, I question
the expediency, when friends greatly desire any particular
match, of saying too much about it.”
My poor grandmother looked quite astounded, like one
who felt she had innocently done mischief; and she sat
gazing fondly at me, with the expression of a penitent child
painted in her venerated countenance.
“Nevertheless, Mordaunt, I had a great share in bringing
about the union between your own dear parents,” she
at length answered; “and that has been one of the happiest
marriages I have ever known!”
I had often heard allusions of this nature, and I had several
times observed the quiet smile of my mother, as she
listened to them; smiles that seemed to contradict the opinion
-- 066 --
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to which my grandmother's mistaken notions of her own
influence had given birth. On one occasion (I was still
quite a boy), I remember to have asked my mother how the
fact was, when the answer was, “I married your father
through the influence of a butcher's boy;” a reply that had
some reference to a very early passage in the lives of my
parents. But, I well know that neither Cornelius Littlepage,
nor Anneke Mordaunt, was a person to be coaxed into
matrimony; and I resolved on the spot, their only son
should manifest an equal independence. I might have answered
my grandmother to this effect, and in language
stronger than was my practice when addressing that reverend
parent, had not the two girls appeared on the piazza
at that moment, and broke up our private conference.
Sooth to say, Priscilla Bayard came forth upon me, that
morning, with something like the radiance of the rising sun.
Both the girls had that fresh, attractive look, that is apt to
belong to the toilettes of early risers of their sex, and which
probably renders them handsomer at that hour, than at any
other part of the day. My own sister was a very charming
girl, as any one would allow; but her friend was decidedly
beautiful. I confess I found it a little difficult not to give in
on the spot, and to whisper my anxious grandmother that I
would pay proper attention to the young lady, and make an
offer at the suitable time, as she advanced towards us, exchanging
the morning salutations, with just enough of ease
to render her perfectly graceful, and yet with a modesty
and retenue that were infinitely winning.
“Mordaunt is about to quit me, for the whole summer,
Miss Bayard,” said my grandmother, who would be doing
while there was a chance; “and I have had him out here,
to converse a little together, before we part. Kate I shall
see often during the pleasant season, I trust; but this is to
be the last of Mordaunt, until the cold weather return.”
“Is Mr. Littlepage going to travel?” inquired the young
lady, with just as much interest as good breeding demanded,
and not a particle more; “for Lilacsbush is not so distant
but he might ride over once a week, at least, to inquire
how you do.”
“Oh! He is going a great, great distance, and to a part
of the world I dread to think of!”
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Miss Bayard now looked really startled, and a good deal
astonished, questioning me with her very fine eyes, though
she said nothing with her tongue.
“It is time I explain, lest Miss Bayard fancy my destination
to be China; whither all American adventurers now
seem bent on going. I shall not quit the State, however.”
“As the State is of some size,” answered Priscilla, “a
grandmother may think an only grandson far enough distant
who is at the other end of it. Perhaps you visit Niagara,
major Littlepage? I have heard of several gentlemen
who have such an excursion in view; and glad enough shall
I be when the roads are in such a state that ladies can be
of the party.”
“And you would have the spirit to be of such a party?”
asked my grandmother, seizing with avidity everything, even
to the least, that might encourage her wishes.
Pris. Bayard seemed fearful she had gone too far; for
she blushed very charmingly, ere she answered.
“I am not aware, Mrs. Littlepage, that any very great
spirit would be required,” she said. “It is true, there are
Indians by the way, and a vast wilderness between us and
the end of the journey; but ladies have made it, I have been
told, and in safety. One hears such wonders of the Falls,
that it would be a strong temptation to hazard something,
in order to see them.”
I look back with wonder over the short interval of time
that interposes, when I remember how we used to regard
the Falls of Niagara in my youth. A voyage to Europe
seemed little less hazardous and serious; and voyages to
Europe were not then what they are to-day.[5]
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“Nothing would make me happier,” I cried, gallantly,
to my poor grandmother's ill-concealed delight, “than to be
the protector of Miss Bayard on the excursion.”
“You really think, then, of undertaking the journey,
major Littlepage?”
“Not this season, though I hold the hope in reserve, for
some future day. My destination, at present, is Ravensnest,
a place less than fifty miles distant from Albany.”
“Ravensnest!—That is a pretty name, though one might
like it better, I think, Kate, were it Dovesnest, or Robinsnest,
or Wrensnest. What is this Ravensnest, Mr. Littlepage?”
“An estate of a good deal of land, but of no great value
as yet, whatever it may turn out to be hereafter, that was
once the property of my grandfather Mordaunt, and which
he bequeathed to me. My father and colonel Dirck have
also an estate adjoining it, which is called Mooseridge. I
am to visit both; as the owner of one, and as the agent of
the owners of the other. It is time the several properties
were looked to, the late troubles having almost thrown them
out of our view.”
“They tell me that a great deal is doing in the way of
settling the wild lands of the interior this summer,” continued
Priscilla, with an interest in the subject that was
much more obvious to me, than explicable — “and that a
great many settlers are pouring in upon us from the adjoining
New England States. I have heard, also, that the vast
possessions of the Patroon are fast filling up, and that the
heart of the State will soon be peopled.”
“You are more conversant with such matters than it is
usual to find young ladies, Miss Bayard. I ascribe this to
your being so good a whig, which is but another name for a
patriot.”
Pris. blushed again, and she now seemed disposed to be
silent; though I could still detect an interest in the subject
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[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
that to me was quite unaccountable. Kate probably saw
this too, for she continued to converse about my journey,
even after her friend had drawn a little on one side; and
that, too, in a manner which seemed to say she was done.
“Who is the queer old man of whom I have heard you
speak, Mordaunt,” my sister demanded, “and with whom
you have lately had some correspondence about these
lands?”
“I suppose you mean my former comrade, the `Chainbearer.
' There was a captain in our regiment of the name
of Coejemans, who bears this appellation, and who has contracted
to get the necessary surveys made, though he fills
the humble post of a `Chainbearer' himself, not being competent
to make the calculations.”
“How can a mere Chainbearer contract for a full survey?”
asked Tom Bayard, who had joined the party, and
had been listening to the discourse. “The Chainbearers,
in general, are but common labourers, and are perfectly
irresponsible.”
“That is true, as a rule; but my old friend forms an
exception. He set out for a surveyor, but having no head
for sines, and co-sines, and tangents, he was obliged to
lower his pretensions to the humbler duty he now discharges.
Still, he has long contracted for jobs of this nature,
and gets as much as he can do, hiring surveyors
himself, the owners of property having the utmost confidence
in his measurements. Let me tell you, the man who
carries chain is not the least important member of a surveying
party in the woods. Old Andries is as honest as
noon-day, and everybody has faith in him.”
“His true name is Coejemans, I think you said, major
Littlepage?” asked Priscilla, as it struck me assuming an
air of indifference.
“It is, Andries Coejemans; and his family is reputable,
if not absolutely of a high caste. But the old man is so inveterate
a woodsman, that nothing but patriotism, and his
whig propensities, could have drawn him out into the open
country. After serving most gallantly through the whole
war, he has gone back to his chains; and many is the joke
he has about remaining still in chains, after fighting so long
and so often in the cause of liberty.”
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Priscilla appeared to hesitate — I thought her colour increased
a little — then she asked the question that was apparently
uppermost in her thoughts, with surprising steadiness.
“Did you ever see the `Chainbearer's' niece, Dus Malbone?”
This question not a little surprised me; for, though I had
never seen Ursula, the uncle had talked so much to me of
his ward, that I almost fancied she was an intimate acquaintance.
It often happens that we hear so much of certain
persons, that we think and speak of them as of those we
know; and had Miss Bayard questioned me of one of my
late comrades in the service, I should not have been a whit
more startled than I was at hearing her pronounce the familiar
name of Dus Malbone.
“Where, in the name of all that is curious, did you ever
hear of such a person!” I exclaimed, a little inconsiderately,
since the world was certainly wide enough to admit of two
young women's being acquainted, without my consent; more
especially as one of them I had never seen, and the other I
had met, for the first time, only a fortnight before. “Old
Andries was always speaking to me of his niece; but I could
not suppose she was an acquaintance of one of your position
in life!”
“Notwithstanding, we were something more than school-fellows;—
for we were, and I trust are still, very, very good
friends. I like Dus exceedingly, though she is quite as
singular, in her way, as I have heard her uncle described to
be, in his.”
“This is odd!—Will you allow me to ask one question?—
You will think it singular, perhaps, after what you have
just told me — but curiosity will get the better of my manners—
is Dus Malbone a lady—the equal and companion of
such a person as Miss Priscilla Bayard?”
“That is a question not so easily answered, perhaps;
since, in some respects, she is greatly the superior of any
young woman I know. Her family, I have always heard,
was very good on both sides; she is poor, poor even to
poverty, I fear, now” — Here Pris. paused; there was a tremour
in her voice, even, and I detected tears starting to her
eyes. “Poor Dus!” she continued — “she had much to
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support, in the way of poverty, even while at school; where
she was, indeed, as a dependant, rather than as a boarder;
but no one, among us all, could presume to offer her favours.
I was afraid even to ask her to accept a ribbon, as I should
not hesitate to do to Kate here, or any other young lady
with whom I was intimate. I never knew a nobler-minded
girl than Ursula Malbone, though few persons understand
her, I think.”
“This is old Andries over again! He was poor enough,
heaven knows; and I have known him actually suffer, in
order to do his duty by this girl, and to make a proper appearance
at the same time, as a captain in the New York
line; yet none of us, not even my father, could ever induce
him to borrow a single dollar. He would give, but he would
not receive.”
“I can believe this readily, it is so like Dus! If she has
her peculiarities, she has noble qualities enough to redeem
a thousand foibles. Still, I would not have you think Ursula
Malbone is not an excellent creature in all respects, though
she certainly has her peculiarities.”
“Which, doubtless, she has inherited from the Coejemans,
as her uncle, the Chainbearer, has his peculiarities too.”
“The Malbones have none of the blood of the Coejemans,”
answered the lady, quickly; “though it is respectable,
and not to be ashamed of. Dus Malbone's mother was
only half-sister to captain Coejemans, and they had different
fathers.”
I thought Pris. looked a little confused, and as if she were
sorry she had said so much on the subject at all, the instant
she had betrayed so much intimacy with the Malbone
genealogy; for she shrunk back, plucked a rose, and walked
away smelling the flower, like one who was indisposed to
say any more on the subject. A summons to breakfast,
however, would otherwise have interrupted us, and no more
was said about the Chainbearer, and his marvellous niece,
Dus Malbone. As soon as the meal was ended, our horses
were brought round, and Kate and I took our leave, Jaap
having preceded us as usual, an hour or more, with our
luggage. The reader is not to suppose that we always
moved in the saddle, in that day; on the contrary, my mother
had a very neat chaise, in which she used to drive
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about the country, with a mounted position; my father had
a phaeton, and in town we actually kept a chariot; for the
union of the Mordaunt and Littlepage properties had made
us very comfortable, and comfortably we lived. But young
ladies liked the saddle twenty-five years ago, more than they
do to-day; and Kate, being a capital horsewoman, like her
mother before her, we were often out together. It was
choice, then, and not necessity, a little aided by bad roads,
perhaps, that induced us to ride across to Satanstoe so often,
when we wished to visit our grandmother.
I kissed my dear old parent very affectionately at parting,
for I was to see her no more that summer; and I got
her blessing in return. As for Tom Bayard, a warm, brotherly
shake of the hand sufficed, inasmuch as it was pretty
certain I should see him at Lilacsbush before I left home.
Approaching his sister, who held out her hand to me, in a
friendly manner, I said as I took it—
“I hope this is not the last time I am to see you, before
I start for the new countries, Miss Bayard. You owe my
sister a visit, I believe, and I shall trust to that debt for another
opportunity of saying the unpleasant word `farewell.”
'
“This is not the way to win a lady's heart, Mordaunt,”
cried Kate, gaily. “It is only fifteen miles from your
father's door to the Hickories, you ought to know, sir; and
you have a standing invitation to darken its door with your
military form.”
“From both my father and brother”—put in Priscilla, a
little hastily. “They will always be happy to see major
Littlepage, most certainly.”
“And why not from yourself, Miss Prude,” added Kate,
who seemed bent on causing her friend some confusion.
“We are not, now, such total strangers to each other, as to
render that little grace improper.”
“When I am mistress of a house of my own, should that
day ever arrive, I shall take care not to lose my reputation
for hospitality,” answered Pris., determined not to be caught,
“by neglecting to include all the Littlepage family in my
invitations. Until then, Tom's and papa's welcomes must
suffice.”
The girl looked amazingly lovely all this time, and stood
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the smiles of those around her with a self-possession that
showed me she knew perfectly well what she was about. I
was never more at a loss how to understand a young woman,
and it is very possible, had I remained near her for a
month longer, the interest such uncertainty is apt to awaken
might have sent me away desperately in love. But Providence
had determined otherwise.
During our ride towards the 'Bush, my sister, with proper
blushes and a becoming hesitation, let me into the secret
of her having accepted Tom Bayard. They were not to be
married until after my return from the north, an event that
was expected to take place in the ensuing autumn.
“Then I am to lose you, Kate, almost as soon as I find
you,” I said, a little despondingly.
“Not lose me, brother; no, no, not lose me, but find me,
more than ever. I am to be transplanted into a family
whither you will soon be coming to seek a wife, yourself.”
“Were I to come, what reason have I for supposing it
would be successful?”
“That is a question you have no right to ask. Did I
even know of any particular reason for believing your reception
would be favourable, you cannot believe me sufficiently
treacherous to betray my friend. Young ladies are
not of the facility of character you seem to suppose, sir;
and no method but the direct one will succeed. I have no
other reason for believing you would succeed, than the facts
that you are an agreeable, good-looking youth, however,
of unexceptionable family and fortune, living quite near the
Hickories, and of a suitable age, temper, habits, character,
&c. &c. &c. Are not these reasons sufficient to encourage
you to persevere, my brave major?”
“Perseverance implies commencement, and I have not
yet commenced. I scarcely know what to make of your
friend, child; she is either the perfection of nature and simplicity,
or the perfection of art.”
“Art! Pris. Bayard artful! Mordaunt, you never did a
human being greater injustice; a child cannot have greater
truth and sincerity than Tom's sister.”
“Ay, that 's just it; Tom's sister is ex officio perfect;
but, you will please to remember that some children are
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[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
very artful. All I can say on the subject at present is, that
I like Tom, and I like his parents; but I do not know what
to think of your friend.”
Kate was a little offended, so she made me no answer.
Her good-humour returned, however, before we had gone
far, and the rest of our ride passed pleasantly enough, no
allusions being made to any of the name of Bayard; though,
I dare say, my companion thought a great deal of a certain
Tom, of that name, as I certainly did of his handsome and
inexplicable sister.
At the Kingsbridge Inn, we had another short brush with
that untiring gossip, its landlady.
“A pleasant time it has been over at the 'Toe, I dares to
say,” exclaimed Mrs. Light, the instant she thrust her head
out of the door; “a most agreeable and amusing time both
for the young gentleman and for the young lady. Mr.
Thomas Bayard and Miss Pris. Bayard have been with you,
days and days, and old Madam Littlepage is delighted. Oh!
the 'Toe has always been a happy house, and happy faces
have I long been used to see come out of it, and happy faces
do I see to-day! Yes, yes; the 'Toe has always sent happy,
contented faces down the road; and a happy roof it has
been, by all accounts, these hundred years.”
I dare say this was all true enough. I have always heard
that the old place contained contented hearts; and contented
hearts make happy faces. Kate's face was happiness itself,
as she sat in the saddle listening to the crone; and my countenance
is not one of ill-nature. The “'Toe was ever a
happy house!” It recalls old times, to hear a house thus
familiarly spoken of; for a set is rising up among us which
is vastly too genteel to admit that any one, man, woman,
child, or Satan, ever had a member so homely as a 'Toe.
eaf076v1.n5[5] The reader, of course, will always recollect that this manuscript
was written nearly, if not quite forty years ago. Even then, a journey
to Niagara was a serious undertaking. Now (1845), it can be made
by steam the entire distance from the town of New York, or between
450 and 500 miles, in less than thirty-six hours! This is one of the
prodigies of a giant in his infancy, and should render foreign politicians
cautious how they talk of regulating the boundaries of this
republic, for its citizens. If the past can be any pledge for the future
in American history, they are now living who will see steam extended
across the continent, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and the stars
and stripes flying at each end! More than a thousand of the four
thousand miles necessary to achieve such an object have been overcome;
and that which remains to be done, comparing ends with
means, is not one-half as great an effort as that which has been done.
This may be a proper place to add, that nothing has so much strengthened
the present administration, in its annexation projects, as the
threatened interference of European governments in the affairs of this
continent. At some critical moment, when it is least wanted, America
may pay them in kind. — Editor.
-- 075 --
CHAPTER VI.
“They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why;
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his majesty;
A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none,
Such are they nurtured, such they live and die:
All, but a few apostates, who are meddling
With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling.”
Halleck.
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
A day or two after my return to Lilacsbush, was presented
one of those family scenes which are so common in
the genial month of June, on the shores of the glorious old
Hudson. I call the river the old Hudson, for it is quite as
old as the Tiber, though the world has not talked of it as
much, or as long. A thousand years hence, this stream
will be known over the whole earth; and men will speak
of it as they now speak of the Danube and the Rhine. As
good wine may not be made on its banks as is made on the
acclivities of the latter river; but, even to-day, better, both
as to quality and variety, is actually drunk. On this last
point, all intelligent travellers agree.
There stands a noble linden on the lawn of Lilacsbush,
at no great distance from the house, and necessarily within
a short distance of the water. The tree had been planted
there by my grandmother Mordaunt's father, to whom the
place once belonged; and it was admirably placed for the
purposes of an afternoon's lounge. Beneath its shade we
often took our dessert and wine, in the warm months; and
thither, since their return from the army, general Littlepage
and colonel Dirck Follock used to carry their pipes, and
smoke over a campaign, or a bottle, as chance directed the
discourse. For that matter, no battle-field had ever been so
veiled in smoke, as would have been the case with the linden
in question, could there have been a concentration of all
the vapour it had seen.
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The afternoon of the day just mentioned, the whole family
were seated beneath the tree, scattered round, as shade and
inclination tempted; though a small table, holding fruits
and wine, showed that the usual business of the hour had
not been neglected. The wines were Madeira and claret,
those common beverages in the country; and the fruits were
strawberries, cherries, oranges and figs; the two last imported,
of course. It was a little too early for us to get
pines from the islands, a fruit which is so common in its
season as to be readily purchased in town at the rate of four
of a good size for a dollar. But, the abundance, and even
luxury, of a better sort of the common American tables, is
no news; viands, liquors and fruits appearing on them, that
are only known to the very rich and very luxurious in the
countries of Europe. If the service were only as tasteful,
and the cooking as good with us, as both are in France, for
instance, America would be the very paradise of the epicure,
let superficial travellers say what they please to the contrary.
I have been abroad in these later times, and speak
of what I know.
No one sat at the table, though my father, colonel Dirck,
and I were near enough to reach our glasses, at need. My
mother was next to me, and reasonably close; for I did not
not smoke while aunt Mary and Kate had taken post, just
without the influence of the tobacco. On the shore was a
large skiff, that contained a tolerably sized trunk or two,
and a sort of clothes-bag. In the first were a portion of
my clothes, while those of Jaap filled the bag. The negro
himself was stretched on the grass, about half-way between
the tree and the shore, with two or three of his grandchildren
rolling about, at his feet. In the skiff was his son,
seated in readiness to use the sculls, as soon as ordered.
All this arrangement denoted my approaching departure
for the north. The wind was at the south, and sloops of
various degrees of promise and speed were appearing round
the points, coming on one in the wake of another, as each
had been able to quit the wharves to profit by the breeze.
In that day, the river had not a tenth part of the craft it
now possesses; but still, it had enough to make a little fleet,
so near town, and at a moment when wind and tide both
became favourable. At that time, most of the craft on the
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Hudson belonged up the river, and they partook largely of
the taste of our Dutch ancestors. Notable travellers before
the gales, they did very little with foul winds, generally
requiring from a week to a fortnight to tide it down from
Albany, with the wind at all from the south. Nevertheless,
few persons thought of making the journey between the two
largest towns of the State (York and Albany), without
having recourse to one of these sloops. I was at that moment
in waiting for the appearance of a certain “Eagle, of
Albany, captain Bogert,” which was to run in close to
Lilacsbush, and receive me on board, agreeably to an arrangement
previously made in town. I was induced to take
a passage in this vessel from the circumstance that she had
a sort of after-cabin that was screened by an ample green
curtain, an advantage that all the vessels which then plied
on the river did not possess; though great improvements
have been making ever since the period of which I am now
writing.
Of course, the interval thus passed in waiting for the appearance
of the Eagle was filled up, more or less, by discourse.
Jaap, who was to accompany me in my journey to
Ravensnest, knew every vessel on the river, as soon as he
could see her, and we depended on him to let us know when
I was to embark, though the movements of the sloop herself
could not fail to give us timely notice of the necessity
of taking leave.
“I should like exceedingly to pay a visit to old Mrs.
Vander Heyden, at Kinderhook, Mordaunt,” said my mother,
after one of the frequent pauses that occurred in the
discourse. “She is a relation, and I feel a great regard for
her; so much the more, from the circumstance of her being
associated in my mind with that frightful night on the river,
of which you have heard me speak.”
As my mother ceased speaking, she glanced affectionately
towards the general, who returned the look, as he returned
all my mother's looks, with one filled with manly tenderness.
A more united couple than my parents never existed.
They seemed to me ordinarily to have but one mind between
them; and when there did occur any slight difference of
opinion, the question was not which should prevail, but
which should yield. Of the two, my mother may have had
-- 078 --
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the most native intellect, though the general was a fine,
manly, sensible person, and was very universally respected.
“It might be well, Anneke,” said my father, “if the
major were to pay a visit to poor Guert's grave, and see if
the stones are up, and that the place is kept as it should be.
I have not been there since the year '68, when it looked as
if a friendly eye might do some good at no distant day.”
This was said in a low voice, purposely to prevent aunt
Mary from hearing it; and, as she was a little deaf, it is
probable the intention was successful. Not so, however,
with colonel Dirck, who drew the pipe from his mouth, and
sat attentively listening, in the manner of one who felt great
interest in the subject. Another pause succeeded.
“T'en t'ere ist my Lort Howe, Corny,” observed the
colonel; “how is it wit' his grave?”
“Oh! the colony took good care of that. They buried
him in the main aisle of St. Peter's, I believe; and, no doubt,
all is right with him. As for the other, major, it might be
well to look at it.”
“Great changes have taken place at Albany, since we
were there as young people!” observed my mother, thoughtfully.
“The Cuylers are much broken up by the revolution,
while the Schuylers have grown greater than ever.
Poor aunt Schuyler, she is no longer living to welcome a
son of ours!”
“Time will bring about such changes, my love; and we
can only be thankful that so many of us remain, after so
long and bloody a war.”
I saw my mother's lips move, and I knew she was murmuring
a thanksgiving to the power which had preserved
her husband and son, through the late struggle.
“You will write as often as opportunities occur, Mordaunt,”
said that dear parent, after a longer pause than
usual. “Now there is peace, I can hope to get your letters
with some little regularity.”
“They tell me, cousin Anneke” — for so the colonel always
called my mother, when we were alone — “They tell
me, cousin Anneke,” said colonel Dirck, “t'at t'ey actually
mean to have a mail t'ree times a week petween Alpany
and York! T'ere ist no knowing, general, what t'is glorious
revolution will not do for us!”
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
“If it bring me letters three times a week from those I
love,” rejoined my mother, “I am sure my patriotism will
be greatly increased. How will letters get out from Ravensnest
to the older parts of the colony — I should say, State,
Mordaunt?”
“I must trust to the settlers for that. Hundreds of Yankees,
they tell me, are out looking for farms this summer.
I may use some of them for messengers.”
“Don't trust 'em too much, or too many” — growled
colonel Dirck, who had the old Dutch grudge against our
eastern brethren. “See how they behav't to Schuyler.”
“Yes,” said my father, replenishing his pipe, “they
might have manifested more justice and less prejudice to
wise Philip; but prejudices will exist, all over the world.
Even Washington has had his share.”
“T'at is a great man!” exclaimed colonel Dirck, with
emphasis, and in the manner of one who felt certain of his
point. “A ferry great man!”
“No one will dispute with you, colonel, on that subject;
but, have you no message to send to our old comrade, Andries
Coejemans? He must have been at Mooseridge, with
his party of surveyors, now, near a twelvemonth, and I 'll
warrant you has thoroughly looked up the old boundaries,
so as to be ready for Mordaunt to start afresh, as soon as
the boy reaches the Patent.”
“I hope he hast not hiret a Yankee surveyor, Corny,”
put in the colonel, in some little alarm. “If one of t 'em
animals gets upon the tract, he will manage to carry off
half of the lant in his compass-box! I hope olt Andries
knows petter.”
“I dare say he 'll manage to keep all the land, as well as
to survey it. It is a thousand pities the captain has no head
for figures; for his honesty would have made his fortune.
But, I have seen him tried, and know it will not do. He
was a week once making up an account of some stores received
from head-quarters, and the nearest he could get to
the result was twenty-five per cent. out of the way.”
“I would sooner trust Andries Coejemans to survey my
property, figures or no figures,” cried colonel Dirck, positively,
“than any dominie in New England.”
“Well, that is as one thinks,” returned my father, tasting
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
the Madeira. “For my part, I shall be satisfied with the
surveyor he may happen to select, even though he should
be a Yankee. Andries is shrewd, if he be no calculator;
and I dare to say he has engaged a suitable man. Having
taken the job at a liberal price, he is too honest a fellow not
to hire a proper person to do the head-work. As for all the
rest, I would trust him as soon as I would trust any man in
America.”
“T'at is gospel. Mordaunt will haf an eye on matters
too, seein' he has so great an interest in the estate. T'ere
is one t'ing, major, you must not forget. Five hundred goot
acres must be surveyed off for sister Anneke, and five hundred
for pretty Kate, here. As soon as t'at is done, the
general and I will give each of the gals a deet.”
“Thank you, Dirck,” said my father, with feeling. “I'll
not refuse the land for the girls, who may be glad enough
to own it some time or other.”
“It 's no great matter now, Corny; put, as you say, it
may be of use one day. Suppose we make old Andries a
present of a farm, in his pargain.”
“With all my heart,” cried my father, quickly. “A
couple of hundred acres might make him comfortable for
the rest of his days. I thank you for the hint, Dirck, and
we will let Mordaunt choose the lot, and send us the description,
that we may prepare the deed.”
“You forget, general, that the Chainbearer has, or will
have his military lot, as a captain,” I ventured to remark.
“Besides, land will be of little use to him, unless it might
be to measure it. I doubt if the old man would not prefer
going without his dinner, to hoeing a hill of potatoes.”
“Andries had three slaves while he was with us; a man,
a woman, and their daughter,” returned my father. “He
would not sell them, he said, on any consideration; and I
have known him actually suffering for money when he was
too proud to accept it from his friends, and too benevolent
to part with family slaves, in order to raise it. `They were
born Coejemans,' he always said, `as much as I was born
one myself, and they shall die Coejemans.' He doubtless
has these people with him, at the Ridge, where you will
find them all encamped, near some spring, with gardenstuff
and other small things growing around him, if he can
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[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
find open land enough for such a purpose. He has permission
to cut and till at pleasure.”
“This is agreeable news to me, general,” I answered,
“since it promises a sort of home. If the Chainbearer has
really these blacks with him, and has hutted judiciously, I
dare say we shall have quite as comfortable a time as many
of those we passed together in camp. Then, I shall carry
my flute with me; for Miss Priscilla Bayard has given me
reason to expect a very wonderful creature in Dus, the
niece, of which old Andries used to talk so much. You
remember to have heard the Chainbearer speak of such a
person, I dare say, sir; for he was quite fond of mentioning
her.”
“Perfectly well; Dus Malbone was a sort of toast among
the young men of the regiment at one time, though no one
of them all ever could get a sight of her, by hook or by
crook.”
Happening to turn my head at that moment, I found my
dear mother's eyes turned curiously on me; brought there,
I fancy, by the allusion to Tom's sister.
“What does Priscilla Bayard know of this Chainbearer's
niece?” that beloved parent asked, as soon as she perceived
that her look had attracted my attention.
“A great deal, it would seem; since she tells me they
are fast friends: quite as great, I should judge from Miss
Bayard's language and manner, as Kate and herself.”
“That can scarcely be,” returned my mother, slightly
smiling, “since there the principal reason must be wanting.
Then, this Dus can hardly be Priscilla Bayard's equal.”
“One never knows such a thing, mother, until he has
had an opportunity of making comparisons; though Miss
Bayard, herself, says Dus is much her superior in many
things. I am sure her uncle is my superior in some respects;
in carrying chain, particularly so.”
“Ay, but scarcely in station, Mordaunt.”
“He was the senior captain of the regiment.”
“True; but revolutions are revolutions. What I mean
is, that your Chainbearer can hardly be a gentleman.”
“That is a point not to be decided in a breath. He is,
and he is not. Old Andries is of a respectable family,
though but indifferently educated. Men vastly his inferiors
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[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
in birth, in habits, in the general notions of the easte, in the
New England States, are greatly his superiors in knowledge.
Nevertheless, while we must all admit how necessary
a certain amount of education has become, at the present
time, to make a gentleman, I think every gentleman will
allow hundreds among us have degrees in their pockets with
small claims to belong to the class. Three or four centuries
ago, I should have answered that old Andries was a gentleman,
though he had to bite the wax with his teeth and make
a cross, for want of a better signature.”
“And he, what you call a chainbearer, Mordaunt!” exclaimed
my sister.
“As well as late senior captain in your father's regiment,
Miss Littlepage. But, no matter, Andries and Dus are such
as they are, and I shall be glad to have them for companions
this summer. Jaap is making signals, and I must quit you
all. Heigho! It is very pleasant here, under this linden,
and home begins to entwine its fibres around my heart.
Never mind; it will soon be autumn, and I shall see the
whole of you, I trust, as I leave you, well and happy in
town.”
My dear, dear mother had tears in her eyes, when she
embraced me; so had Kate, who, though she did love Tom
Bayard most, loved me very warmly too. Aunt Mary
kissed me, in her quiet but affectionate way; and I shook
hands with the gentlemen, who accompanied me down to
the boat. I could see that my father was affected. Had
the war still continued, he would have thought nothing of
the separation; but in that piping time of peace, it seemed
to come unseasonably.
“Now, don't forget the great lots for Anneke and Katrinke,”
said colonel Dirck, as we descended to the shore.
“Let Andries pick out some of the best of the lant, t'at is
well watered and timbered, and we 'll call the lots after the
gals; that is a goot idea, Corny.”
“Excellent, my friend. Mordaunt, my son, if you come
across any places that look like graves, I wish you would
set up marks by which they may be known. It is true, a
quarter of a century or more makes many changes in the
woods; and it is quite likely no such remains will be
found.”
-- 083 --
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“A quarter of a century in the American forest, sir,” I
answered, “is somewhat like the same period in the wanderings
of a comet; lost, in the numberless years of its
growth. A single tree will sometimes outlast the generations
of an entire nation.”
“You wilt rememper, Mordaunt, that I wilt haf no Yankee
tenants on my estate. Your father may lease 'em one-half
of a lot, if he please; but I will not lease t'other.”
“As you are tenants in common, gentlemen,” I answered,
smiling, “it will not be easy to separate the interests in this
manner. I believe I understand you, however; I am to sell
the lands of Mooseridge, or covenant to sell, as your attorney,
while I follow out my grandfather Mordaunt's ideas,
and lease those that are not yet leased, on my own estate.
This will at least give the settlers a choice, and those who
do not like one plan of obtaining their farms, may adopt the
other.”
I now shook hands again with the gentlemen, and stepping
into the skiff, we pulled away from the shore. Jaap
had made this movement in good season, and we were compelled
to row a quarter of a mile down the river to meet the
sloop. Although the wind was perfectly fair, it was not so
fresh as to induce Mr. Bogert to round-to; but throwing us
a rope, it was caught, when we were safely transferred, bag
and baggage, to the decks of the Eagle.
Captain Bogert was smoking at the helm, when he returned
my salute. Removing the pipe, after a puff or two,
he pointed with the stem towards the group on the shore,
and inquired if I wished to say “good-bye.”
“Allponny”—so the Dutch were wont to pronounce the
name of their town in the last century, “is a long way off,”
he said, “and maype you woult like to see the frients ag'in.”
This business of waving hats and handkerchiefs is a regular
thing on the Hudson, and I expressed my willingness
to comply with the usage, as a matter of course.[6] In
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consequence, Mr. Bogert deliberately sheared in towards the
shore, and I saw the whole family collecting on a low rock,
near the water, to take the final look. In the back-ground
stood the Satanstoes, a dark, woolly group, including Mrs.
Jaap, and two generations of descendants. The whites were
weeping; that is to say, my dear mother and Kate; and the
blacks were laughing, though the old lady kept her teeth to
herself about as much as she exposed them. A sensation
almost invariably produces laughter with a negro, the only
exceptions being on occasions of singular gravity.
I believe, if the truth were known, Mr. Bogert greatly
exulted in the stately movement of his sloop, as she brushed
along the shore, at no great distance from the rocks, with
her main-boom guyed out to starboard, and studdingsailboom
to port. The flying-topsail, too, was set; and the Eagle
might be said to be moving in all her glory. She went so
near the rocks, too, as if she despised danger! Those were
not the days of close calculations that have succeeded.
Then, an Albany skipper did not mind losing a hundred or
two feet of distance in making his run; whereas, now, it
would not be an easy matter to persuade a Liverpool trader
to turn as much aside in order to speak a stranger in the
centre of the Atlantic; unless, indeed, he happened to want
to get the other's longitude.
As the sloop swept past the rocks, I got bows, waving of
hats and handkerchiefs, and good wishes enough to last the
whole voyage. Even Jaap had his share; and “good-bye,
Jaap,” came to my ears, from even the sweet voice of Kate.
Away we went, in stately Dutch movement, slow but sure.
In ten minutes Lilacsbush was behind us, and I was once
more alone in the world, for months to come.
There was now time to look about me, and to ascertain
who were my companions in this voyage. The skipper and
crew were as usual the masters; and the pilots, both whites,
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[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
and both of Dutch extraction, an old wrinkled negro, who
had passed his life on the Hudson as a foremast-hand, and
two younger blacks, one of whom was what was dignified
with the name of cabin-steward. Then, there were numerous
passengers; some of whom appeared to belong to the
upper classes. They were of both sexes, but all were
strangers to me. On the main-deck were six or eight sturdy,
decent, quiet, respectable-looking labourers, who were evidently
of the class of husbandmen. Their packs were lying
in a pile, near the foot of the mast, and I did not fail to observe
that there were as many axes as there were packs.
The American axe! It has made more real and lasting
conquests than the sword of any warlike people that ever
lived; but, they have been conquests that have left civilization
in their train, instead of havoc and desolation. More
than a million of square miles of territory[7] have been opened
up from the shades of the virgin forest, to admit the
warmth of the sun; and culture and abundance have been
spread where the beast of the forest so lately roamed, hunted
by the savage. Most of this, too, has been effected between
the day when I went on board the Eagle, and that on which
I am now writing. A brief quarter of a century has seen
these wonderful changes wrought; and at the bottom of
them all lies this beautiful, well-prized, ready, and efficient
implement, the American axe!
It would not be easy to give the reader a clear notion of
the manner in which the young men and men of all ages of
the older portions of the new republic poured into the woods
to commence the business of felling the forests, and laying
bare the secrets of nature, as soon as the nation rose from
beneath the pressure of war, to enjoy the freedom of peace.
The history of that day in New York, which State led the
van in the righteous strife of improvement, and has ever
since so nobly maintained its vantage-ground, has not yet
been written. When it is properly recorded, names will be
rescued from oblivion that better deserve statues and niches
in the temple of national glory, than those of many who have
merely got the start of them by means of the greater facility
with which the public mind is led away in the train of
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
brilliant exploits, than it is made sensible of the merits of
those that are humane and useful.
It was not usual for settlers, as it has become the practice
to term those who first take up and establish themselves on
new lands, to make their journeys from the neighbourhood
of the sea to the interior, other than by land; but a few
passed out of Connecticut, by the way of New York, and
thence up the river in the sloops. Of this character were
those I found on board the Eagle. In all, we had seven of
these men, who got into discourse with me the first day of
our passage, and I was a little surprised at discovering how
much they already knew of me, and of my movements.
Jaap, however, soon suggested himself to my mind, as the
probable means of the intelligence they had gleaned; and,
on inquiry, such I ascertained was the fact.
The curiosity and the questioning propensities of the people
of New England, have been so generally admitted by
writers and commentators on American character, that I
suppose one has a right to assume the truth of the characteristics.
I have heard various ways of accounting for
them; and, among others, the circumstance of their disposition
to emigrate, which brings with it the necessity of inquiring
after the welfare of friends at a distance. It appears
to me, however, this is taking a very narrow view of the
cause, which I attribute to the general activity of mind
among a people little restrained by the conventional usages
of more sophisticated conditions of society. The practice
of referring so much to the common mind, too, has a great
influence on all the opinions of this peculiar portion of the
American population, seeming to confer the right to inquire
into matters that are elsewhere protected by the sacred feeling
of individual privacy.
Let this be as it might, my axe-men had contrived to get
out of Jaap all he knew about Ravensnest and Mooseridge,
as well as my motives in making the present journey. This
information obtained, they were not slow in introducing
themselves to me, and of asking the questions that were
uppermost in their minds. Of course, I made such answers
as were called for by the case, and we established a sort
of business acquaintance between us, the very first day.
The voyage lasting several days, by the time we reached
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Albany, pretty much all that could be said on such a subject
had been uttered by one side or the other.
As respected Ravensnest, my own property, my grandfather
had requested in his will that the farms might be
leased, having an eye to my children's profit, rather than
to mine. His request was a law to me, and I had fully determined
to offer the unoccupied lands of that estate, or
quite three-fourths of the whole patent, on leases similar in
their conditions to those which had already been granted.
On the other hand, it was the intention to part with the lots
of Mooseridge, in fee. These conditions were made known
to the axe-men, as my first essay in settling a new country;
and contrary to what had been my expectation, I soon discovered
that these adventurers inclined more to the leases
than to the deeds. It is true, I expected a small payment
down, in the case of each absolute sale, while I was prepared
to grant leases, for three lives, at very low rents at
the best; and in the cases of a large proportion of the lots,
those that were the least eligible by situation, or through
their quality, to grant them leases without any rent at all,
for the few first years of their occupation. These last advantages,
and the opportunity of possessing lands a goodly
term of years, for rents that were put as low as a shilling
an acre, were strong inducements, as I soon discovered,
with those who carried all they were worth in their packs,
and who thus reserved the little money they possessed to
supply the wants of their future husbandry.
We talked these matters over during the week we were
on board the sloop; and by the time we came in sight of the
steeples of Albany, my men's minds were made up to follow
me to the Nest. These steeples were then two in number,
viz: that of the English church, that stood near the margin
of the town, against the hill; and that of the Dutch church,
which occupied an humbler site, on the low land, and could
scarcely be seen rising above the pointed roofs of the adjacent
houses; though these last, themselves, were neither
particularly high, nor particularly imposing.
eaf076v1.n6[6] Such were the notions of Mr. Mordaunt Littlepage, at the commencement
of this century, and such his feeling shortly after the
peace of 1783. Nothing of the sort more completely illustrates the
general change that has come over the land, in habits and material
things, than the difference between the movements of that day and
those of our own. Then, the departure of a sloop, or the embarkation
of a passenger along the shore, brought parties to the wharves, and
wavings of handkerchiefs, as if those who were left behind felt a
lingering wish to see the last of their friends. Now, literally thousands
come and go daily, passing about as many hours on the Hudson
as their grandfathers passed days; and the shaking of hands and
leave-takings are usually done at home. It would be a hold woman
who would think now of waving a handkerchief to a Hudson river
steam-boat! — Editor.
eaf076v1.n7[7] More than two millions at the present day.
-- 088 --
CHAPTER VII.
“Who is that graceful female here
With yon red hunter of the deer?
Of gentle mien and shape, she seems
For civil halls design'd;
Yet with the stately savage walks,
As she were of his kind.”
Pinckney.
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
I made little stay in Albany, but, giving the direction to
the Patent to the axe-men, left it the very day of our arrival.
There were very few public conveyances in that early day,
and I was obliged to hire a wagon to transport Jaap and
myself, with our effects, to Ravensnest. A sort of dull calm
had come over the country, after the struggles of the late
war; but one interest in it appearing to be alive and very
active. That interest, fortunately for me, appeared to be
the business of “land-hunting” and “settling.” Of this, I
had sufficient proof in Albany itself; it being difficult to
enter the principal street of that town, and not find in it
more or less of these adventurers, the emblems of whose
pursuit were the pack and the axe. Nine out of ten came
from the eastern or New England States; then the most
peopled, while they were not very fortunate in either soil or
climate.
We were two days in reaching Ravensnest, a property
which I had owned for several years, but which I now saw
for the first time. My grandfather had left a sort of an agent
on the spot, a person of the name of Jason Newcome, who
was of my father, the general's age, and who had once been
a schoolmaster in the neighbourhood of Satanstoe. This
agent had leased extensively himself, and was said to be the
occupant of the only mills, of any moment, on the property.
With him a correspondence had been maintained; and once
or twice during the war my father had managed to have an
interview with this representative of his and my interests.
As for myself, I was now to see him for the first time. We
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knew each other by reputation only; and certain passages
in the agency had induced me to give Mr. Newcome notice
that it was my intention to make a change in the management
of the property.
Any one who is familiar with the aspect of things in what
is called a “new country” in America, must be well aware
it is not very inviting. The lovers of the picturesque can
have little satisfaction in looking at even the finest natural
scenery at such moments; the labour that has been effected
usually having done so much to mar the beauties of nature,
without having yet had time to supply the deficiencies by
those of art. Piles of charred or half-burned logs; fields
covered with stumps, or ragged with stubs; fences of the
rudest sorts, and filled with brambles; buildings of the
meanest character; deserted clearings; and all the other
signs of a state of things in which there is a manifest and
constant struggle between immediate necessity and future
expediency, are not calculated to satisfy either the hopes or
the tastes. Occasionally a different state of things, however,
under circumstances peculiarly favourable, does exist;
and it may be well to allude to it, lest the reader form but a
single picture of this transition state of American life. When
the commerce of the country is active, and there is a demand
for the products of the new lands, a settlement often
presents a scene of activity in which the elements of a
thriving prosperity make themselves apparent amid the
smoke of fallows, and the rudeness of border life. Neither,
however, was the case at Ravensnest, when I first visited
the place; though the last was, to a certain extent, its condition
two or three years later, or after the great European
war brought its wheat and ashes into active demand.
I found but few more signs of cultivation between the
point where I left the great northern road and the bounds
of the patent, than had been found by my father, as he has
described them to me in his first visit, which took place a
quarter of a century earlier than this of mine. There was
one log tavern, it is true, in the space mentioned; but it
afforded nothing to drink but rum, and nothing to eat but
salted pork and potatoes, the day I stopped there to dine.
But there were times and seasons when, by means of venison,
wild fowl and fish, a luxurious board might have been
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spread. That this was not the opinion of my landlady,
nevertheless, was apparent from the remarks she made
while I was at table.
“You are lucky, major Littlepage,” she said, “in not
having come among us in one of what I call our `starving
times' — and awful times they be, if a body may say what
she thinks on 'em.”
“Starvation is a serious matter at any time,” I answered,
“though I did not know you ever were reduced to such
difficulties in a country as rich and abundant as this.”
“Of what use is riches and abundance if a man will do
nothing but fish and shoot? I've seen the day when there
wasn't a mouthful to eat, in this very house, but a dozen or
two of squabs, a string of brook-trout, and maybe a deer,
or a salmon from one of the lakes.”
“A little bread would have been a welcome addition to
such a meal.”
“Oh! as for bread, I count that for nothin'. We always
have bread and potatoes enough; but I hold a family to be
in a desperate way, when the mother can see the bottom of
the pork-barrel. Give me children that's raised on good
sound pork, afore all the game in the country. Game's
good as a relish, and so's bread; but pork is the staff of
life! To have good pork, a body must have good corn;
and good corn needs hoeing; and a hoe isn't a fish-pole, or
a gun. No, my children I calkerlate to bring up on pork,
with just as much bread and butter as they may want!”
This was American poverty as it existed in 1784. Bread,
butter and potatoes, ad libitum; but little pork, and no tea.
Game in abundance in its season; but the poor man who
lived on game was supposed to be keeping just as poor an
establishment as the epicure in town who gives a dinner to
his brethren, and is compelled to apologize for there being
no game in the market. Curious to learn more from this
woman, I pursued the discourse.
“There are countries, I have read,” I continued, “in
which the poor do not taste meat of any sort, not even game,
from the beginning of the year to its end; and, sometimes,
not even bread.”
“Well, I'm no great hand for bread, as I said afore,
and should eat no great matter of it, so long as I could get
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pork,” the woman answered, evidently interested in what I
had said; “but, I shouldn't like to be without it altogether;
and the children, especially, do love to have it with their
butter. Living on potatoes alone must be a wild animal
sort of life!”
“Very tame animals do it, and that from dire necessity.”
“Is there any law ag'in their using bread and meat?”
“No other law than the one which forbids their using
that which is the property of another.”
“Good land!” This is a very common American expression
among the women—“Good land! Why don't they
go to work and get in crops, so they might live a little?”
“Simply because they have no land to till. The land
belongs to others, too.”
“I should think they might hire, if they couldn't buy.
It's about as good to hire as it is to buy—some folks (folk)
think it's better. Why don't they take land on shares, and
live?”
“Because land, itself, is not to be had. With us, land is
abundant; we have more of it than is necessary, or than
will be necessary, for ages to come; perhaps it would be
better for our civilization were there less of it; but, in the
countries of which I speak, there are more people than there
is land.”
“Well, land is a good thing, I admit, and it's right there
should be an owner to it; yet, there are folks who would
rather squat than buy or hire, any day. Squatting comes
nat'ral to 'em.”
“Are there many squatters in this part of the country?”
The woman looked a little confused, and she did not answer
me, until she had taken time to reflect on what she
should say.
“Some folks call us squatters, I s'pose,” was the reluctant
answer, “but I do not. We have bought the betterments
of a man who hadn't much of a title, I think likely; but, as
we bought his betterments fairly, Mr. Tinkum,”—that was
the husband's name, —“is of opinion that we live under
title, as it is called. What do you say to it, major Littlepage?”
“I can only say that nought will produce nought; nothing,
nothing. If the man of whom you purchased owned
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[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
nothing, he could sell nothing. The betterments he called
his, were not his; and in purchasing them, you purchased
what he did not own.”
“Well, it's no great shakes, if he had'nt any right, sin'
Tinkum only gi'n an old saddle, that warn't worth two dollars,
and part of a set of single harness, that I'd defy a
conjurer to make fit any mule, for the whull right. One
year's rent of this house is worth all put together, and that
twice over, if the truth must be said; and we've been in it,
now, seven years. My four youngest were all born under
this blessed roof, such as it is!”
“In that case, you will not have much reason to complain,
when the real owner of the soil appears to claim it.
The betterments came cheap, and they will go as cheap.”
“That's just it; though I don't call ourselves much of
squatters, a'ter all, seein' we have paid suthin' for the betterments.
They say an old nail, paid in due form, will make
a sort of title in the highest court of the State. I'm sure
the laws should be considerate of the poor.”
“Not more so than of the rich. The laws should be equal
and just; and the poor are the last people who ought to
wish them otherwise, since they are certain to be the losers
when any other principle governs. Rely on it, my good
woman, the man who is for ever preaching the rights of the
poor is at bottom a rogue, and means to make that cry a
stalking-horse for his own benefit; since nothing can serve
the poor but severe justice. No class suffers so much by a
departure from the rule, as the rich have a thousand other
means of attaining their ends, when the way is left clear to
them, by setting up any other master than the right.”
“I don't know but it may be so; but I don't call ourselves
squatters. There is dreadful squatters about here,
though, and on your lands too, by the tell.”
“On my lands! I am sorry to hear it, for I shall feel it
a duty to get rid of them. I very well know that the great
abundance of land that we have in the country, its little
comparative value, and the distance at which the owners
generally reside from their estates, have united to render the
people careless of the rights of those who possess real property;
and I am prepared to view things as they are among
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
ourselves, rather than as they exist in older countries; but
I shall not tolerate squatters.”
“Well, by all I hear, I think you'll call old Andries, the
Chainbearer, a squatter of the first class. They tell me the
old chap has come back from the army as fierce as a catamount,
and that there is no speaking to him, as one used to
could, in old times.”
“You are, then, an old acquaintance of the Chainbearer?”
“I should think I was! Tinkum and I have lived about,
a good deal, in our day; and old Andries is a desp'ate
hand for the woods. He surveyed out for us, once, or halfsurveyed,
another betterment; but he proved to be a spiteful
rogue afore he got through with the business; and we have
not set much store by him ever sin' that time.”
“The Chainbearer a rogue! Andries Coejemans anything
but an honest man! You are the first person, Mrs.
Tinkum, I have ever heard call in question his sterling integrity.”
“Sterling money doesn't pass now, I conclude, sin' it's
revolution times. We all know which side your family was
on in the war, major Littlepage; so it's no offence to you.
A proper sharp look-out they had of it here, when you quit
college; for some said old Herman Mordaunt had ordered
in his will that you should uphold the king; and then, most
of the tenants concluded they would get the lands altogether.
It is a sweet thing, major, for a tenant to get his farm without
paying for it, as you may judge! Some folks was desp'ate
sorry when they heern tell that the Littlepages went
with the colonies.”
“I hope there are few such knaves on the Ravensnest
estate as to wish anything of the sort. But, let me hear an
explanation of your charge against the Chainbearer. I
have no great concern for my own rights in the patent that
I claim.”
The woman had the audacity, or the frankness, to draw
a long, regretful sigh, as it might be, in my very face. That
sigh expressed her regrets that I had not taken part with the
crown in the last struggle; in which case, I do suppose she
and Tinkum would have contrived to squat on one of the
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[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
farms of Ravensnest. Having sighed, however, the landlady
did not disdain to answer.
“As for the Chainbearer, the simple truth is this,” she
said. “Tinkum hired him to run a line between some
betterments we had bought, and some that had been bought
by a neighbour of our'n. This was long afore the war, and
when titles were scarcer than they're gettin' to be now;
some of the landlords living across the water. Well, what
do you think the old fellow did, major? He first asked for
our deeds, and we showed them to him; as good and lawful
warrantees as was ever printed, and filled up by a 'squire.
He then set to work, all by himself, jobbing the whull survey,
as it might be, and a prettier line was never run, as far
as he went, which was about half-way. I thought it would
make etarnel peace atween us and our neighbour, for it had
been etarnel war afore that, for three whull years; sometimes
with clubs, and sometimes with axes, and once with
scythes. But, somehow—I never know'd how—but somehow,
old Andries found out that the man who deed to us had
no deed to himself, or no mortal right to the land, any more
than that sucking pig you see at the door there; when he
gi'n right up, refusing to carry out another link, or p'int
another needle, he did! Warn't that being cross-grained
and wilful! No, there's no dependence to be put on the
Chainbearer.”
“Wilful in the cause of right, as glorious old Andries
always is! I love and honour him all the better for it.”
“La! — Do you love and honour sich a one as him!
Well, I should have expected suthin' else from sich a
gentleman as you! I'd no idee major Littlepage could
honour an old, worn-out Chainbearer, and he a man that
couldn't get up in the world, too, when he had hands and
feet, all on 'em together, on some of the very best rounds
of the ladder! Why, I judge that even Tinkum would have
gone ahead, if he had been born with sich a chance.”
“Andries has been a captain in my own regiment, it is
true, and was once my superior officer; but he served for
his country's sake, and not for his own. Have you seen
him lately?”
“That have we! He passed here about a twelvemonth
ago, with his whull party, on their way to squat on your
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[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
own land, or I'm mistaken. There was the Chainbearer
himself, two helpers, Dus and young Malbone.”
“Young who?” I asked, with an interest that induced the
woman to turn her keen, sunken, but sharp grey eyes, intently
on me.
“Young Malbone, I said; Dus' brother, and the youngster
who does all old Andries' 'rithmetic. I suppose you
know as well as I do, that the Chainbearer can't calkerlate
any more than a wild goose, and not half as well as a crow.
For that matter, I've known crows that, in plantin' time,
would measure a field in half the number of minutes that
the State surveyor would be hours at.”
“This young Malbone, then, is the Chainbearer's nephew?—
And he it is who does the surveying?”
“He does the 'rithmetic part, and he is a brother of old
Andries' niece. I know'd the Coejemans when I was a gal,
and I've known the Malbones longer than I want to know
them.”
“Have you any fault to find with the family, that you
speak thus of them?”
“Nothin' but their desperate pride, which makes them
think themselves so much better than everybody else; yet,
they tell me, Dus and all on 'em are just as poor as I am
myself.”
“Perhaps you mistake their feeling, good woman; a
thing I think the more probable, as you seem to fancy money
the source of their pride, at the very moment you deny
their having any. Money is a thing on which few persons
of cultivated minds pride themselves. The purse-proud are,
almost invariably, the vulgar and ignorant.”
No doubt this was a moral thrown away with such an
auditor; but I was provoked; and when a man is provoked,
he is not always wise. The answer showed the effect it had
produced.
“I don't pretend to know how that is; but, if it isn't
pride, what is it that makes Dus Malbone so different from
my da'ters? She 'd no more think of being like one on 'em,
scouring about the lots, riding bare-backed, and scampering
through the neighbourhood, than you 'd think of cooking
my dinner—that she wouldn't.”
Poor Mrs. Tinkum — or, as she would have been apt to
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call herself, Miss Tinkum! She had betrayed one of the
commonest weaknesses of human nature, in thus imputing
pride to the Chainbearer's niece because the latter behaved
differently from her and her's. How many persons in this
good republic of ours judge their neighbours on precisely
the same principle; inferring something unsuitable, because
it seems to reflect on their own behaviour! But, by this
time, I had got to hear the name of Dus with some interest,
and I felt disposed to push the subject further.
“Miss Malbone, then,” I said, “does not ride bare-backed?”
“La! major, what in natur' puts it into your head to call
the gal Miss Malbone! — There's no Miss Malbone living
sin' her own mother died.”
“Well, Dus Malbone, I mean; she is above riding bare-backed?”
“That she is; even a pillion would be hardly grand
enough for her, allowing her own brother to use the
saddle.”
“Her own brother? — This young surveyor, then, is
Dus's brother?”
“Sort o', and sort o' not, like. They had the same father,
but different mothers.”
“That explains it; I never heard the Chainbearer speak
of any nephew, and it seems the young man is not related
to him at all—he is the half-brother of his niece.”
“Why can't that niece behave like other young women?
that's the question I ask. My gals hasn't as much pride as
would be good for 'em, not they! If a body wants to borrow
an article over at the Nest, and that's seven miles off,
the whull way in the woods, just name it to Poll, and she'd
jump on an ox, if there warn't a hoss, and away she'd go
a'ter it, with no more bit of a saddle, and maybe nothin' but
a halter, like a deer! Give me Poll, afore all the gals I
know, for ar'nds!”
By this time, disrelish for vulgarity was getting the better
of curiosity; and my dinner of fried pork being done, I was
willing to drop the discourse. I had learned enough of Andries
and his party to satisfy my curiosity, and Jaap was
patiently waiting to succeed me at table. Throwing down
the amount of the bill, I took a fowling-piece with which we
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always travelled in those days, bade Mrs. Tinkum good-day,
ordered the black and the wagoner to follow with the team
as soon as ready, and went on towards my own property
on foot.
In a very few minutes I was quite beyond the Tinkum
betterments, and fairly in the forest again. It happened that
the title to a large tract of land adjoining Ravensnest was in
dispute, and no attempt at a serious settlement had ever been
made on it. Some one had “squatted” at this spot, to enjoy
the advantage of selling rum to those who went and came
between my own people and the inner country; and the
place had changed hands half a dozen times, by fraudulent,
or at least by worthless sales, from one squatter to another.
Around the house, by this time a decaying pile of logs, time
had done a part of the work of the settler, and aided by that
powerful servant but fearful master, fire, had given to the
small clearing somewhat of the air of civilized cultivation.
The moment these narrow limits were passed, however, the
traveller entered the virgin forest, with no other sign of man
around him than what was offered in the little-worked and
little-travelled road. The highway was not much indebted
to the labours of man for any facilities it afforded the traveller.
The trees had been cut out of it, it is true, but their
roots had not been extracted, and time had done more towards
destroying them than the axe or the pick. Time had
done a good deal, however, and the inequalities were getting
to be smooth under the hoof and the wheel. A tolerably
good bridle-path had long been made, and I found no difficulty
in walking in it, since that answered equally well for
man or beast.
The virgin forest of America is usually no place for the
ordinary sportsman. The birds that are called game are
but rarely found in it, one or two excepted; and it is a well-known
fact, that while the frontier-man is certain death with
a rifle-bullet, knocking the head off a squirrel or a wildturkey
at his sixty or eighty yards, it is necessary to go into
the older parts of the country, and principally among sportsmen
of the better classes, in order to find those who knock
over the woodcock, snipe, quail, grouse and plover, on the
wing. I was thought a good shot on the “plains,” and over
the heaths or commons of the island of Manhattan, and
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[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
among the necks of Westchester; but I saw nothing to do
up there, where I then was, surrounded by trees that had
stood their centuries. It would certainly have been easy
enough for me to kill a blue-jay, now and then, or a crow,
or even a raven, and perhaps an eagle, had I the proper
shot; but, as for anything that ordinarily is thought to adorn
a game-bag, not a feather could I see. For the want of
something better to do, then, if a young man of three or fourand-twenty
ought thus to express himself, I began to ruminate
on the charms of Pris. Bayard, and on the singularities
of Dus Malbone. In this mood I proceeded, getting over the
grounds at a rapid rate, leaving Miss Tinkum, the clearing
with its betterments, and the wagon, far behind me.
I had walked an hour alone, when the silence of the woods
was suddenly interrupted by the words of a song that came
not from any of the feathered race, though the nightingale
itself could hardly have equalled the sweetness of the notes,
which were those of a female voice. The low notes struck
me as the fullest, richest, and most plaintive I had ever
heard; and I fancied they could not be equalled, until the
strain carried the singer's voice into a higher key, where it
seemed equally at home. I thought I knew the air, but the
words were guttural, and in an unknown tongue. French
and Dutch were the only two foreign languages in which
one usually heard any music in our part of the woods at that
day; and even the first was by no means common. But,
with both these languages I had a little acquaintance, and I
was soon satisfied that the words I heard belonged to neither.
At length, it flashed on my mind that the song was
Indian; not the music, but the words. The music was certainly
Scotch, or that altered Italian that time has attributed
to the Scotch; and there was a moment when I fancied
some Highland girl was singing near me one of the Celtic
songs of the country of her childhood. But, closer attention
satisfied me that the words were really Indian; probably
belonging to the Mohawk, or some other language that I had
often heard spoken.
The reader may be curious to know whence these sounds
proceeded, and why I did not see the being who gave birth
to such delicious harmony. It was owing to the fact that
the song came from out of a thicket of young pines, that
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grew on an ancient opening at a little distance from the
road, and which I supposed contained a hut of some sort or
other. These pines, however, completely concealed all
within them. So long as the song lasted, no tree of the
forest was more stationary than myself; but, when it ended,
I was about to advance towards the thicket, in order to pry
into its mysteries, when I heard a laugh that had scarcely
less of melody in it than the strains of the music itself. It
was not a vulgar, clamorous burst of girlish impulses, nor
was it even loud; but it was light-hearted, mirthful, indicating
humour, if a mere laugh can do so much; and, in a
sense, it was contagious. It arrested my movement, in
order to listen; and, before any new impulse led me forward,
the branches of the pines opened, and a man passed
out of the thicket into the road. A single glance sufficed to
let me know that the stranger was an Indian.
Notwithstanding I was apprised of the near vicinity of
others, I was a little started with this sudden apparition.
Not so with him who was approaching: he could not have
known of my being anywhere near him; yet he manifested
no emotion as his cold, undisturbed glance fell on my form.
Steadily advancing, he came to the centre of the road; and,
as I had turned involuntarily to pursue my own way, not
sure it was prudent to remain in that neighbourhood alone,
the red man fell in, with his moccasined foot, at my elbow;
and I found that we were thus strangely pursuing our journey,
in the same direction, side by side.
The Indian and myself walked in this manner, within a
yard of each other, in the midst of that forest, for two or
three minutes without speaking. I forbore to say anything,
because I had heard that an Indian respected those most
who knew best how to repress their curiosity; which habit,
most probably, had its effect on my companion. At length,
the red man uttered, in the deep, guttural manner of his
people, the common conventional salutation of the frontier—
“Sa-a-go?”
This word, which has belonged to some Indian language
once, passes everywhere for Indian with the white man;
and, quite likely for English, with the Indian. A set of such
terms has grown up between the two races, including such
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words as “moccasin,” “pappoose,” “tomahawk,” “squaw,”
and many others. “Sa-a-go,” means “how d'ye do?”
“Sa-a-go?” — I answered to my neighbour's civil salutation.
After this we walked along for a few minutes more, neither
party speaking. I took this opportunity to examine my
red brother, an employment that was all the easier from the
circumstance that he did not once look at me; the single
glance sufficing to tell him all he wanted to know. In the
first place, I was soon satisfied that my companion did not
drink, a rare merit in a red man who lived near the whites.
This was evident from his countenance, gait, and general
bearing, as I thought, in addition to the fact that he possessed
no bottle, or anything else that would hold liquor. What I
liked the least was the circumstance of his being completely
armed; carrying knife, tomahawk and rifle, and each seemingly
excellent of its kind. He was not painted, however,
and he wore an ordinary calico shirt, as was then the usual
garb of his people, in the warm season. The countenance
had the stern severity that is so common to a red warrior;
and, as this man was turned of fifty, his features began to
show the usual signs of exposure and service. Still, he was
a vigorous, respectable-looking red-man, and one who was
evidently accustomed to live much among civilized men. I
had no serious uneasiness, of course, at meeting such a person,
although we were so completely buried in the forest;
but, as a soldier, I could not help reflecting how inferior
my fowling-piece would necessarily prove to be to his rifle,
should he see fit to turn aside, and pull upon me from behind
a tree, for the sake of plunder. Tradition said such
things had happened; though, on the whole, the red-man
of America has perhaps proved to be the most honest of the
two, as compared with those who have supplanted him.
“How ole chief?” the Indian suddenly asked, without
even raising his eyes from the road.
“Old chief! Do you mean Washington, my friend?”
“Not so — mean ole chief, out here, at Nest. Mean
fader.”
“My father! Do you know general Littlepage?”
“Be sure, know him. You fader — see” — holding up
his two fore-fingers — “just like — dat him; dis you.”
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“This is singular enough! And were you told that I
was coming to this place?”
“Hear dat, too. Always talk about chief.”
“Is it long since you saw my father?”
“See him in war-time—nebber hear of ole Sureflint?”
I had heard the officers of our regiment speak of such an
Indian, who had served a good deal with the corps, and
been exceedingly useful, in the two great northern campaigns
especially. He never happened to be with the regiment
after I joined it, though his name and services were a
good deal mixed up with the adventures of 1776 and 1777.
“Certainly,” I answered, shaking the red-man cordially
by the hand. “Certainly, have I heard of you, and something
that is connected with times before the war. Did you
never meet my father before the war?”
“Sartain; meet in ole war. Gin'ral young man, den—
just like son.”
“By what name were you then known, Oneida?”
“No Oneida—Onondago—sober tribe. Hab plenty name.
Sometime one, sometime anoder. Pale face say `Trackless,'
cause he can't find his trail — warrior call him `Susquesus.”
'
CHAPTER VIII.
“With what free growth the elm and plane
Fling their huge arm across my way;
Grey, old, and cumber'd with a train
Of vines, as huge, and old, and grey!
Free stray the lucid streams, and find
No taint in these fresh lawns and shades;
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind,
Where never scythe has swept the glades.”
Bryant.
I had heard enough of my father's early adventures to
know that the man mentioned in the last chapter had been a
conspicuous actor in them, and remembered that the latter
enjoyed the fullest confidence of the former. It was news
to me, however, that Sureflint and the Trackless were the
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same person; though, when I came to reflect on the past, I
had some faint recollection of having once before heard
something of the sort. At any rate, I was now with a friend,
and no longer thought it necessary to be on my guard. This
was a great relief, in every point of view, as one does not
like to travel at the side of a stranger, with an impression,
however faint, that the latter may blow his brains out, the
first time he ventures to turn his own head aside.
Susquesus was drawing near to the decline of life. Had
he been a white man, I might have said he was in a “green
old age;” but the term of “red old age” would suit him
much better. His features were still singularly fine; while
the cheeks, without being very full, had that indurated, solid
look, that flesh and muscles get from use and exposure. His
form was as erect as in his best days, a red-man's frame
rarely yielding in this way to any pressure but that of exceeding
old age, and that of rum. Susquesus never admitted
the enemy into his mouth, and consequently the citadel of
his physical man was secure against every invader but time.
In-toed and yielding in his gait, the old warrior and runner
still passed over the ground with an easy movement; and,
when I had occasion to see him increase his speed, as soon
after occurred, I did not fail to perceive that his sinews
seemed strung to their utmost force, and that every movement
was free.
For a time, the Indian and I talked of the late war, and
of the scenes in which each of us had been an actor. If my
own modesty was as obvious as that of Sureflint, I had no
reason to be dissatisfied with myself; for, the manner in
which he alluded to events in which I knew he had been
somewhat prominent, was simple and entirely free from
that boasting in which the red-man is prone to indulge;
more especially when he wishes to provoke his enemies.
At length I changed the current of the discourse, by saying
abruptly—
“You were not alone in that pine thicket, Susquesus;
that from which you came, when you joined me?”
“No—sartain; wasn't alone. Plenty people dere.”
“Is there an encampment of your tribe among those
bushes?”
A shade passed over the dark countenance of my
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companion, and I saw a question had been asked that gave him
pain. He paused some little time before he answered; and,
when he did, it was in a way that seemed sad.
“Susquesus got tribe no longer. Quit Onondagos t'irty
summer, now; don't like Mohawk.”
“I remember to have heard something of this from my
father, who told me at the same time, that the reason why
you left your people was to your credit. But, you had music
in the thicket?”
“Yes; gal sing—gal love sing; warrior like listen.”
“And the song?—In what language were the words?”
“Onondago”—answered the Indian, in a low tone.
“I had no idea the music of the red people was so sweet.
It is many a day since I have heard a song that went so
near to my heart, though I could not understand what was
said.”
“Bird, pretty bird—sing like wren.”
“And is there much of this music in your family, Susquesus?
If so, I shall come often to listen.”
“Why not come? Path got no briar; short path, too.
Gal sing, when you want.”
“Then I shall certainly be your guest, some day, soon.
Where do you live, now? Are you Sureflint, or Trackless,
to-day? I see you are armed, but not painted.”
“Hatchet buried berry deep, dis time. No dig him up,
in great many year. Mohawk make peace; Oneida make
peace; Onondago make peace—all bury 'e hatchet.”
“Well, so much the better for us landholders. I have
come to sell and lease my lands; perhaps you can tell me
if many young men are out hunting for farms this summer?”
“Wood full. Plenty as pigeon. How you sell land?”
“That will depend on where it is, and how good it is.
Do you wish to buy, Trackless?”
“Injin own all land, for what he want, now. I make
wigwam where I want; make him, too, when I want.”
“I know very well that you Indians do claim such a
right; and, so long as the country remains in its present
wild state, no one will be apt to refuse it to you. But, you
cannot plant and gather, as most of your people do in their
own country.”
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“Got no squaw — got no pappoose — little corn do for
Susquesus. No tribe — no squaw — no pappoose!”
This was said in a low, deliberate voice, and with a species
of manly melancholy that I found very touching. Complaining
men create very little sympathy, and those who
whine are apt to lose our respect; but, I know no spectacle
more imposing than that of one of stern nature smothering
his sorrows beneath the mantle of manliness and self-command.
“You have friends, Susquesus,” I answered, “if you
have no wife nor children.”
“Fader, good friend; hope son friend, too. Grandfader
great friend, once; but he gone far away, and nebber come
back. Know moder, know fader—all good.”
“Take what land you want, Trackless — till it, sell it —
do what you wish with it.”
The Indian eyed me keenly, and I detected a slight smile
of pleasure stealing over his weather-worn face. It was not
easy to throw him off his habitual guard over his emotions,
however; and the gleam of illumination passed away, like a
ray of sunshine in mid-winter. The sternest white man
might have grasped my hand, and something like a sign of
gratitude would probably have escaped him; but, the little
trace of emotion I have mentioned having disappeared, nothing
remained on the dark visage of my companion that,
in the least, resembled an evidence of yielding to any of the
gentler feelings. Nevertheless, he was too courteous, and
had too much of the innate sentiment of a gentleman, not to
make some return for an offer that had so evidently and
spontaneously come from the heart.
“Good” — he said, after a long pause. “Berry good,
dat; good, to come from young warrior to ole warrior.
Tankee — bird plenty; fish plenty; message plenty, now;
and don't want land. Time come, maybe—s'pose he must
come — come to all ole red-men, hereabout; so s'pose must
come.”
“What time do you mean, Trackless? Let it come when
it may, you have a friend in me. What time do you mean,
my brave old Sureflint?”
The Trackless stopped, dropped the breech of his rifle on
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the ground, and stood meditating a minute, motionless, and
as grand as some fine statue.
“Yes; time come, do s'pose,” he continued. “One time,
ole warrior live in wigwam, and tell young warrior of scalp,
and council-fire, and hunt, and war-path; now, make broom
and basket.”
It was not easy to mistake this; and I do not remember
ever to have felt so lively an interest, on so short an acquaintance,
as I began to feel in this Onondago. Priscilla
Bayard herself, however lovely, graceful, winning and
feminine, had not created a feeling so strong and animated,
as that which was awakened within me in behalf of old
Sureflint. But, I fully understood that this was to be shown
in acts, and not in words. Contenting myself for the present,
after the fashion of the pale-faces, by grasping and squeezing
the sinewy hand of the warrior, we walked on together,
making no farther allusion to a subject that, I can truly say,
was as painful to me as it was to my companion.
“I have heard your name mentioned as one of those who
were at the Nest with my father, when he was a young
man, Susquesus,” I resumed, “and when the Canada Indians
attempted to burn the house.”
“Good — Susquesus dere — young Dutch chief kill dat
time.”
“Very true — his name was Guert Ten Eyck; and my
father and mother, and your old friend colonel Follock,
who was afterwards major of our regiment, you will remember,
they love his memory to this day, as that of a very
dear friend.”
“Dat all, love memory, now?” asked the Indian, throwing
one of his keenest glances at me.
I understood the allusion, which was to aunt Mary, whom
I had heard spoken of as the betrothed, or, at least, as the
beloved, of the young Albanian.
“Not all; for there is a lady, who still mourns his loss,
as if she had been his widow.”
“Good — do' squaw don't mourn fery long time. Sometime;
not always.”
“Pray, Trueflint, do you happen to know anything of a
man called the Chainbearer? He was in the regiment, too,
and you must have seen him in the war.”
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“Sartain—know Chainbearer—know him on war-path—
know him when hatchet buried. Know Chainbearer afore
ole French war. Live in wood wid him—one of us. Chainbearer
my friend.”
“I rejoice to hear this, for he is also mine; and I shall be
glad to come into the compact, as a friend of both.”
“Good—Susquesus and young landlord friend of Chainbearer—
good.”
“It is good, and a league that shall not be forgotten
easily by me. The Chainbearer is as honest as light, and
as certain as his own compass, Trueflint — true, as yourself.”
“'Fraid he make broom 'fore great while, too,” said the
Indian, expressing the regret I have no doubt he felt, very
obviously in his countenance.
Poor old Andries! But for the warm and true friends he
had in my father, colonel Dirck and myself, there was some
danger this might be the case, indeed. The fact that he had
served his country in a revolution would prove of little avail,
that country being too poor to provide for its old servants,
and possibly indisposed, had she the means.[8] I say this
without intending to reflect on either the people or the government;
for, it is not easy to make the men of the present
day understand the deep depression, in a pecuniary sense,
that rested on the land for a year or two after peace was
made. It recovered, as the child recovers from indisposition,
by the vigour of its constitution and the power of its vitality;
and one of the means by which it recovered, was by turning
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to the soil, and wielding the sickle instead of the sword. To
continue the discourse.
“The Chainbearer is an honest man, and, like too many
of his class, poor,” I answered; “but, he has friends; and
neither he, nor you, Sureflint, shall be reduced to that woman's
work without your own consent, so long as I have
an unoccupied house, or a farm, at Ravensnest.”
Again the Indian manifested his sense of my friendship
for him, by that passing gleam on his dark face; and again
all signs of emotion passed slowly away.
“How long since see him?” he asked me, suddenly.
“See him — the Chainbearer do you mean? I have not
seen him, now, for more than a twelvemonth; not since we
parted when the regiment was disbanded.”
“Don't mean Chainbearer — mean him,” pointing ahead—
“house, tree, farm, land, Nest.”
“Oh! How long is it since I saw the patent. I never
saw it, Sureflint;—this is my first visit.”
“Dat queer! How you own land, when nebber see
him?”
“Among the pale-faces we have such laws, that property
passes from parent to child; and I inherit mine, in this
neighbourhood, from my grandfather, Herman Mordaunt.”
“What dat mean, 'herit? How man haf land, when he
don't keep him?”
“We do keep it, if not by actually remaining on the spot,
by means of our laws and our titles. The pale-faces regulate
all these things on paper, Sureflint.”
“T'ink dat good? Why no let man take land where he
want him, when he want him? Plenty land. Got more
land dan got people. 'Nough for ebbery body.”
“That fact makes our laws just; if there were not land
enough for everybody, these restrictions and divisions might
possibly seem to be, and in fact be, unjust. Now, any man
can have a farm who will pay a very moderate price for it.
The State sells, and landlords sell; and those who don't
choose to buy of one, can buy of the other.”
“Dat true 'nough; but don't see need of dat paper.
When he want to stay on land, let him stay; when he want
to go somewhere let 'noder man come. What good pay for
betterment?”
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“So as to have betterments. These are what we call the
rights of property, without which no man would aim at being
anything more than clad and fed. Who would hunt,
if anybody that came along had a right to pick up and skin
his game?”
“See dat, well 'nough — nebber do; no, nebber. Don't
see why land go like skin, when skin go wid warrior and
hunter, and land stay where he be.”
“That is because the riches of you red-men are confined
to movable property, and to your wigwams, so long as you
choose to live in them. Thus far, you respect the rights
of property as well as the pale-faces; but you must see a
great difference between your people and mine! — Between
the red-man and the white man?”
“Be sure, differ: one strong, t'oder weak — one rich,
t'oder poor—one great, t'oder little—one drive 'way, t'oder
haf to go—one get all, t'oder keep nuttin'—one march large
army, t'oder go Injin file, fifty warrior, p'rhaps—dat reason,
t'ing so.”
“And why can the pale-faces march in large armies, with
cannon, and horses, and bayonets, and the red-man not do
the same?”
“'Cause he no got 'em—no got warrior—no got gun—
no got baggonet—no got nuttin.”
“You have given the effect for the cause, Sureflint, or
the consequences of the reason, for the reason itself. I
hope I make you understand me. Listen, and I will explain.
You have lived much with the white men, Susquesus,
and can believe what I say. There are good, and there are
bad, among all people. Colour makes no difference, in this
respect. Still, all people are not alike. The white man is
stronger than the red-man, and has taken away his country,
because he knows most.”
“He most, too. Count army, den count war-trail; you
see.”
“It is true, the pale-faces are the most numerous now;
but once they were not. Do not your traditions tell you
how few the Yengeese were, when they first came across
the salt lake?”
“Come in big canoe—two, t'ree full—no more.”
“Why then did two or three ship's-full of white men
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become so strong as to drive back from the sea all the red
warriors, and become masters of the land? Can you give
a reason for that?”
“'Cause he bring fire-water wid him, and red-man big
fool to drink.”
“Even that fire-water, which doubtless has proved a
cruel gift to the Indians, is one of the fruits of the white
man's knowledge. No, Susquesus; the red-skin is as brave
as the pale-face; as willing to defend his rights, and as able-bodied;
but he does not know as much. He had no gunpowder
until the white man gave it to him — no rifle — no
hoe, no knife, no tomahawk, but such as he made himself
from stones. Now, all the knowledge, and all the arts of
life that the white man enjoys and turns to his profit, come
from the rights of property. No man would build a wigwam
to make rifles in, if he thought he could not keep it as long
as he wished, sell it when he pleased, and leave it to his son
when he went to the land of spirits. It is by encouraging
man's love of himself, in this manner, that he is got to do so
much. Thus it is, too, that the father gives to the son what
he has learned, as well as what he has built or bought; and
so, in time, nations get to be powerful, as they get to be what
we call civilized. Without these rights of property, no people
could be civilized; for no people would do their utmost, unless
each man were permitted to be master of what he can
acquire, subject to the great and common laws that are necessary
to regulate such matters. I hope you understand
my meaning, Trackless.”
“Sartain — no like Trackless' moccasin — my young
friend's tongue leave trail. But, you t'ink Great Spirit say
who shall haf land; who no haf him?”
“The Great Spirit has created man as he is, and the
earth as it is; and he has left the one to be master of the
other. If it were not his pleasure that man should not do
as he has done, it would not be done. Different laws and
different feelings would then bring about different ends.
When the law places all men on a level, as to rights, it does
as much as can be expected of it. Now, this level does
not consist in pulling everything to pieces periodically, but
in respecting certain great principles that are just in themselves;
but which, once started, must be left to follow their
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own course. When the rights of property are first established,
they must be established fairly, on some admitted rule;
after which, they are to remain inviolable — that is to say,
sacred.”
“Understand—no live in clearin' for nuttin'. Mean, haf
no head widout haf farm.”
“That is the meaning, substantially, Sureflint; though I
might have explained it a little differently. I wish to say
pale-faces would be like the red-man without civilization;
and without civilization if they had no rights in their land.
No one will work for another as he will work for himself.
We see that every day, in the simplest manner, when we
see that the desire to get good wages will not make the
common labourer do as much by the day as he will do by
the job.”
“Dat true,” answered the Indian, smiling; for he seldom
laughed; and repeating a common saying of the country—
“By—de—day—by—de—day—By de job, job, job! Dat
pale-face religion, young chief.”
“I don't know that our religion has much to do with it;
but I will own it is our practice. I fancy it is the same with
all races and colours. A man must work for himself to do
his most; and he cannot work for himself unless he enjoy
the fruits of his labour. Thus it is, that he must have a
right of property in land, either bought or hired, in order to
make him cause that land to produce all that nature intended
it should produce. On this necessity is founded the rights
of property; the gain being civilization; the loss ignorance,
and poverty, and weakness. It is for this reason, then, that
we buy and sell land, as well as clothes and arms, and
beads.”
“T'ink, understand. Great Spirit, den, say must have
farm?”
“The Great Spirit has said we must have wants and
wishes, that can be met, or gratified only, by having farms.
To have farms we must have owners; and owners cannot
exist unless their rights in their lands are protected. As
soon as these are gone, the whole building would tumble
down about our ears, Susquesus.”
“Well, s'pose him so. We see, some time. Young chief
know where he is?”
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“Not exactly; but I suppose we are drawing near to the
lands of Ravensnest.”
“Well, queer 'nough, too! Own land, but don't know
him. See—marked tree—dat sign your land begin.”
“Thank you, Sureflint — a parent would not know his
own child, when he saw him for the first time. If I am
owner here, you will remember that this is my first visit to
the spot.”
While conversing, the Trackless had led me from the
highway into a foot-path, which, as I afterwards discovered,
made a short cut across some hills, and saved us near two
miles in the distance. In consequence of this change in our
course, Jaap could not have overtaken me, had he moved
faster than he did; but, owing to the badness of the road,
our gait on foot was somewhat faster than that of the jaded
beasts who dragged the wagon. My guide knew the way
perfectly; and, as we ascended a hill, he pointed out the
remains of an old fire, near a spring, as a spot where he
was accustomed to “'camp,” when he wished to remain
near, but not in the 'Nest.
“Too much rum in tavern”—he said. “No good stay
near rum.”
This was extraordinary forbearance for an Indian; but
Susquesus, I had ever understood, was an extraordinary
Indian. Even for an Onondago, he was temperate and selfdenying.
The reason why he lived away from his tribe
was a secret from most persons; though I subsequently
ascertained it was known to the Chainbearer, as well as my
father. Old Andries always affirmed it was creditable to
his friend; but he would never betray the secret. Indeed,
I found that the sympathy which existed between these two
men, each of whom was so singular in his way, was
cemented by some occurrences of their early lives, to which
occasional, but vague allusions were made, but which neither
ever revealed to me, or to any other person, so far as I
could ascertain.
Soon after passing the spring, Sureffint led me out to a
cleared spot on the eminence, which commanded an extensive
view of most of that part of my possessions which was
under lease and occupied. Here we halted, seating ourselves
on a fallen tree, for which one could never go amiss
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in that region, and at that day; and I examined the view
with the interest which ownership is apt to create in us all.
The earth is very beautiful in itself; but it is most beautiful
in the eyes of those who have the largest stake in it, I fear.
Although the property of Ravensnest had been settled
fully thirty years when I first saw it, none of those signs
of rapid and energetic improvement were visible that we
have witnessed in the efforts of similar undertakings since
the revolution. Previously to that great event, the country
filled up very slowly, and each colony seemed to regard
itself, in some measure, as a distinct country. Thus it was
that we in New York obtained very few immigrants from
New England, that great hive which has so often swarmed
since, and the bees of which have carried their industry and
ingenuity over so much of the republic in our own time.
We of New York have our prejudices against the Yankees,
and have long looked upon them with eyes of distrust and
disfavour. They have repaid us in kind, perhaps; but their
dislikes have not been strong enough to prevent them from
coming to take possession of our lands. For my own part,
while I certainly see much in the New England character
that I do not like, (more in their manners and minor ways,
perhaps, than in essentials), I as certainly see a great deal
to command my respect. If the civilization that they carry
with them is not of a very high order, as is connected with
the tastes, sentiments, and nicer feelings, it is superior to
that of any other country I have visited, in its commonsense
provisions, and in its care over the intellectual being,
considered in reference to the foundations of learning. More
persons are dragged from out the mire of profound ignorance
under their system, than under that of any other people;
and a greater number of candidates are brought forward for
intellectual advancement. That so few of these candidates
rise very high on the scale of knowledge, is in part owing
to the circumstance that their lives are so purely practical;
and, possibly, in part to the fact that while so much attention
has been paid to the foundations of the social edifice,
that little art or care has as yet been expended on the superstructure.
Nevertheless, the millions of Yankees that are
spreading themselves over the land, are producing, and have
already produced, a most salutary influence on its practical
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knowledge, on its enterprise, on its improvements, and consequently
on its happiness. If they have not done much for
its tastes, its manners, and its higher principles, it is because
no portion of the earth is perfect. I am fully aware that this
is conceding more than my own father would have conceded
in their favour, and twice as much as could have been extracted
from either of my grandfathers. But, prejudice is
wearing away, and the Dutchman and the Yankee, in particular,
find it possible to live in proximity and charity. It
is possible that my son may be willing to concede even more.
Our immigrant friends should remember one thing, however,
and it would render them much more agreeable as companions
and neighbours, which is this: — He who migrates is
bound to respect the habits and opinions of those whom he
joins; it not being sufficient for the perfection of everything
under the canopy of heaven, that it should come from our
own little corner of the earth. Even the pumpkin-pies of
the Middle States are vastly better than those usually found
in New England. To return to Ravensnest.
The thirty years of the settlement of my patent, then, had
not done much for it, in the way of works of art. Time, it
is true, had effected something, and it was something in a
manner that was a little peculiar, and which might be oftener
discovered in the country at the time of which I am writing,
than at the present day. The timber of the 'Nest, with the
exception of some mountain-land, was principally what, in
American parlance, is termed “hard wood.” In other words,
the trees were not perennial, but deciduous; and the merest
tyro in the woods knows that the roots of the last decay in
a fourth of the time that the roots of the first endure, after
the trunk is severed. As a consequence, the stumps had
nearly all disappeared from the fields; a fact that, of itself,
gave to the place the appearance of an old country, according
to our American notions. It is true, the virgin forest
still flourished in immediate contact with those fields, shorn,
tilled and smoothed as they were, giving a wild and solemn
setting to the rural picture the latter presented. The contrast
was sufficiently bold and striking, but it was not without
its soft and pleasant points. From the height whither
the Indian had led me, I had a foreground of open land,
dotted with cottages and barns, mostly of logs, beautified
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by flourishing orchards, and garnished with broad meadows,
or enriched by fields, in which the corn was waving under
the currents of a light summer air. Two or three roads
wound along the settlement, turning aside with friendly interest,
to visit every door; and at the southern termination of
the open country, there was a hamlet, built of wood framed,
which contained one house that had little taste, but a good
deal more of pretension than any of its neighbours; another,
that was an inn; a store, a blacksmith's-shop, a school-house,
and three or four other buildings, besides barns,
sheds and hog-pens. Near the hamlet, or the “Nest Village,”
as the place was called, were the mills of the region. These
were a grist-mill, a saw-mill, a fulling-mill, and an oil-mill.
All were of moderate dimensions, and, most probably, of
moderate receipts. Even the best house was not painted,
though it had some very ambitious attempts at architecture,
and enjoyed the benefits of no less than four exterior doors,
the uses of one of which, as it opened into the air from the
second story, it was not very easy to imagine. Doubtless
some great but unfinished project of the owner lay at the
root of this invention. But living out of doors, as it were,
is rather a characteristic of a portion of our people.
The back-ground of this picture, to which a certain degree
of rural beauty was not wanting, was the “boundless
woods.” Woods stretched away, north, and south, and east,
far as eye could reach; woods crowned the sides and summits
of all the mountains in view; and woods rose up, with
their leafy carpeting, from out the ravines and dells. The
war had prevented any very recent attempts at clearing,
and all the open ground wore the same aspect of homely
cultivation, while the dark shades of an interminable forest
were spread around, forming a sort of mysterious void, that
lay between this obscure and remote people, and the rest of
their kind. That forest, however, was not entirely savage.
There were other settlements springing up in its bosom; a
few roads wound their way through its depths; and, here
and there, the hunter, the squatter, or the red-man, had
raised his cabin, and dwelt amid the sullen but not unpleasant
abundance and magnificence of the wilderness.
eaf076v1.n8[8] This must pass for one of the hits the republic is exposed to,
partly because it deserves them, and partly because it is a republic.
One hears a great deal of this ingratitude of republics, but few take
the trouble of examining into the truth of the charge, or its reason,
if true. I suppose the charge to be true, in part, and for the obvious
reason that a government founded on the popular will is necessarily
impulsive in such matters, and feels no necessity to be just, in order
to be secure. Then, a democracy is always subject to the influence
of the cant of economy, which is next thing to the evil of being exposed
to the waste and cupidity of those who take because they have
the power. As respects the soldiers of the revolution, however, America,
under the impulsive feeling, rather than in obedience to a calm,
deliberate desire to be just, has, since the time of Mr. Mordaunt Littlepage,
made such a liberal provision for pensioning them, as to include
a good many of her enemies, as well as all her friends. — Editor.
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CHAPTER IX.
“O masters! if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men:
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.”
Shakspeare.
[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]
“This, then, is Ravensnest!” I exclaimed, after gazing
on the scene for several minutes in silence; “the estate
left me by my grandfather, and where events once occurred
that are still spoken of in my family as some of the most
momentous in its history; events, Susquesus, in which you
were an actor.”
The Indian made a low interjection, but it is not probable
he fully understood me. What was there so remarkable in
a savage inroad, a house besieged, men slain and scalps
taken, that he should remember such things for a quarter
of a century!
“I do not see the 'Nest, itself, Trueflint,” I added; “the
house in which my grandfather once lived.”
The Onondago did not speak, but he pointed with a finger
in a north-easterly direction, making the action distinct and
impressive, as is usual with his people. I knew the place
by the descriptions I had heard, though it was now mouldering,
and had gone far into decay. Logs piled up green, and
confined in such a structure, will last some thirty or forty
years, according to the nature of the trees from which they
come, and the manner in which they have been covered.
At that distance, I could not well distinguish how far, or
how much, time had done its work; but I fancied I knew
enough of such matters to understand I was not to expect
in the Nest a very comfortable home. A family dwelt in
the old place, and I had seen some cheeses that had been
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made on the very fine farm that was attached to it. There
was a large and seemingly a flourishing orchard, and the
fields looked well; but, as for the house, at that distance it
appeared sombre, dark, and was barely to be distinguished
by its form and chimneys, from any other pile of logs.
I was struck with the silent, dreamy, sabbath-like air of
the fields, far and near. With the exception of a few halfnaked
children who were visible around the dwellings to
which we were the closest, not a human being could I discover.
The fields were tenantless, so far as men were concerned,
though a good many horned cattle were to be seen
grazing.
“My tenants are not without stock, I find, Trueflint,” I
remarked. “There are plenty of cattle in the pastures.”
“You see, all young;” answered the Onondago. “War
do dat. Kill ole one for soldier.”
“By the way, as this settlement escaped plunder, I should
think its people may have done something by selling supplies
to the army. Provisions of all kinds were very high and
scarce, I remember, when we met Burgoyne.”
“Sartain. Your people sell both side—good trade, den.
Feed Yankees—feed Yengeese.”
“Well, I make no doubt it was so; for the husbandman
is not very apt to hesitate when he can get a good price;
and if he were, the conscience of the drover would stand
between him and treason. But, where are all the men of
this country? I do not see a single man, far or near.”
“No see him?—Dere,” answered the Indian, pointing in
the direction of the hamlet. “Squire light Council-Fire to-day,
s'pose, and make speech.”
“True enough—there they are, gathered about the school-house.
But, whom do you mean by the 'squire, who is so
fond of making speeches?”
“Ole schoolmaster. Come from salt lake—great friend
of grandfather.”
“Oh! Mr. Newcome, my agent — true; I might have
known that he was king of the settlement. Well, Trueflint,
let us go on; and when we reach the tavern, we shall be
able to learn what the Great Council is about. Say nothing
of my business; for it will be pleasant to look on a little,
before I speak myself.”
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The Indian arose, and led the way down the height, following
a foot-path with which he appeared to be familiar.
In a few minutes we were in a highway, and at no great
distance from the hamlet. I had laid aside most of the dress
that it was the fashion of gentlemen to wear in 1784, and
put on a hunting-shirt and leggings, as more fitting attire
for the woods; consequently it would not have been easy
for one who was not in the secret to imagine that he who
arrived on foot, in such a garb, carrying his fowling-piece,
and accompanied by an Indian, was the owner of the estate.
I had sent no recent notice of my intended arrival; and, as
we went along, I took a fancy to get a faint glimpse of things
incognito. In order to do this, it might be necessary to say
a word more to the Indian.
“Susquesus,” I added, as we drew near the school-house,
which stood betwen us and the tavern, “I hope you have
understood me — there is no need of telling any one who I
am. If asked, you can answer I am your friend. That
will be true, as you will find as long as you live.”
“Good — young chief got eyes; want to look wid 'em,
himself. Good — Susquesus know.”
In another minute we stopped in the crowd, before the
door of the school-house. The Indian was so well known,
and so often at the 'Nest, that his appearance excited no
attention. Some important business appeared on the carpet,
for there was much caucusing, much private conversation,
many eager faces, and much putting together of heads.
While the public mind was thus agitated, few were disposed
to take any particular notice of me, though I had not stood
long in the outer edge of the crowd, which may have contained
sixty or seventy men, besides quite as many well-grown
lads, before I overheard an interrogatory put, as to who I
was, and whether I had “a right to a vote.” My curiosity
was a good deal excited, and I was on the point of asking
some explanation, when a man appeared in the door of the
school-house, who laid the whole matter bare, in a speech.
This person had a shrivelled, care-worn, but keen look, and
was somewhat better dressed than most around him, though
not particularly elegant, or even very neat, in his toilette.
He was grey-headed, of a small, thin figure, and might have
been drawing hard upon sixty. He spoke in a deliberate,
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self-possessed manner, as if long accustomed to the sort of
business in which he was engaged, but in a very decided
Connecticut accent. I say Connecticut, in contradistinction
to that of New England generally; for while the eastern
States have many common peculiarities in this way, a nice
and practised ear can tell a Rhode-Islander from a Massachusetts
man, and a Connecticut man from either. As the
orator opened his mouth to remove a chew of tobacco previously
to opening it to speak, a murmur near me said —
“hist! there's the squire; now, we shall get suthin'.” This,
then, was Mr. Jason Newcome. my agent, and the principal
resident in the settlement.
“Fellow-citizens” — Mr. Newcome commenced — “you
are assembled this day, on a most important, and I may
say, trying occasion; an occasion calculated to exercise all
our spirits. Your business is to decide on the denomination
of the church-building, that you are about to erect; and the
futur' welfare of your souls may, in one sense, be said to be
interested in your decision. Your deliberations have already
been opened by prayer; and now you are about to come to
a final vote. Differences of opinion have, and do exist
among you; but differences of opinion exist everywhere.
They belong to liberty, the blessings of which are not to be
enj'yed without full and free differences of opinion. Religious
liberty demands differences of opinion, as a body
might say; and without them, there would be no religious
liberty. You all know the weighty reason there is for
coming to some conclusion speedily. The owner of the sile
will make his appearance this summer, and his family are
all of a desperate tendency towards an idolatrous church,
which is unpleasant to most of you. To prevent any consequences,
therefore, from his interference, we ought to decide
at once, and not only have the house raised, but ruffed in
afore he arrives. Among ourselves, however, we have been
somewhat divided, and that is a different matter. On the
former votes, it has stood twenty-six for congregational to
twenty-five presbytery, fourteen methodist, nine baptist,
three universal, and one episcopal. Now, nothin' is clearer
than that the majority ought to rule, and that it is the duty
of the minority to submit. My first decision, as moderator,
was that the congregationals have it by a majority of one;
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but some being dissatisfied with that opinion, I have been
ready to hear reason, and to take the view that twenty-six
is not a majority, but a plurality, as it is called. As twenty-six,
or twenty-five, however, is a majority over nine, and
over three, and over one, taking their numbers singly or
together, your committee report that the baptists, universals
and episcopals ought to be dropped, and that the next vote,
now to be taken, shall be confined to the three highest
numbers; that is to say, to the congregationals, the presbyterians
and the methodists. Everybody has a right to vote
for which he pleases, provided he vote for one of them three.
I suppose I am understood, and shall now put the question,
unless some gentleman has any remarks to make.”
“Mr. Moderator,” cried out a burly, hearty-looking yeoman,
from the crowd—“is it in order now, to speak?”
“Quite so, sir—order, gentlemen, order—major Hosmer
is up.”
Up we all were, if standing on one's feet be up; but the
word was parliamentary, and it appeared to be understood.
“Mr. Moderator, I am of the Baptist order, and I do not
think the decision just; sin' it compels us Baptists to vote
for a denomination we don't like, or not to vote at all.”
“But, you will allow that the majority ought to rule?”
interrupted the chair.
“Sartain — I agree to that; for that is part of my religion,
too,” returned the old yeoman, heartily, and with an
air of perfect good faith — “the majority ought to rule; but
I do not see that a majority is in favour of the Congregationals
any more than it is of the Baptists.”
“We will put it to vote ag'in, major, just for your satisfaction,”
returned Mr. Newcome, with an air of great candour
and moderation. “Gentlemen; those of you who are
in favour of the Baptists not being included in the next vote
for denomination, will please to hold up your hands.”
As every man present who was not a Baptist voted “ay,”
there were sixty-nine hands shown. The “no's” were then
demanded in the same way, and the Baptists got their nine
own votes, as before. Major Hosmer admitted he was satisfied,
though he looked as if there might be something wrong
in the procedure, after all. As the Baptists were the strongest
of the three excluded sects, the other two made a merit of
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necessity, and said nothing. It was understood they were
in a minority; and a minority, as it too often happens in
America, has very few rights.
“It now remains, gentlemen,” resumed the moderator,
who was a model of submission to the public voice, “to put
the vote, as between the Congregationals, the Presbyterians
and the Methodists. I shall first put the Congregationalists.
Those who are in favour of that sect, the old Connecticut
standing order, will please to hold up their hands.”
The tone of voice, the coaxing expression of the eye, and
the words “old Connecticut standing order,” let me at once
into the secret of the moderator's wishes. At first, but thirty-four
hands appeared; but the moderator having counted
these, he looked round the crowd until he fairly looked up
three more; after which he, honestly enough, announced
the vote to be thirty-seven for the Congregationalists. So
eleven of the thirteen of silenced sects had, most probably,
voted with the moderator. The Presbyterians came next,
and they got their own people, and two of the Baptists,
making twenty-seven in all, on a trial in their behalf. The
Methodists got only their own fourteen.
“It evidently appearing, gentlemen,” said the moderator,
“that the Methodists gain no strength, and being less than
half the Congregational vote, and much lower than the
Presbyterian, I put it to their own well-known Christian
humility, whether they ought not to withdraw!”
“Put it openly to vote, as you did ag'in us,” came out
a Baptist.
“Is that your pleasure, gentlemen? Seeing that it is, I
will now try the vote. Those who are in favour of the
Methodists withdrawing, will hold up their hands.”
Sixty-four hands were raised for, and fourteen against
the withdrawal.
“It is impossible for any religion to flourish ag'in sich a
majority,” said the moderator, with great apparent candour;
“and, though I regret it, for I sincerely wish we were strong
enough to build meetin'-houses for every denomination in
the world; but, as we are not, we must take things as they
are, and so the Methodists must withdraw. Gentlemen, the
question is now narrowed down to the Congregationals and
the Presbyterians. There is not much difference between
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them, and it is a thousand pities there should be any. Are
you ready for the question, gentlemen? No answer being
given, I shall put the vote.”
And the vote was put, the result being thirty-nine to
thirty-nine, or a tie. I could see that the moderator was
disappointed, and supposed he would claim a casting vote,
in addition to the one he had already given; but I did not
know my man. Mr. Newcome avoided all appearances of
personal authority; majorities were his cardinal rule, and
to majorities alone he would defer. Whenever he chose to
govern, it was by means of majorities. The exercise of a
power as accidentally bestowed as that of presiding officer,
might excite heart-burnings and envy; but he who went
with a majority was certain of having the weight of public
sympathies of his side. No — no — Mr. Newcombe never
had an opinion, as against numbers.
I am sorry to say that very mistaken notions of the power
of majorities are beginning to take root among us. It is
common to hear it asserted, as a political axiom, that the
majority must rule! This axiom may be innocent enough,
when its application is properly made, which is simply to
say that in the control of those interests of which the decision
is referred to majorities, majorities must rule; but, God
forbid that majorities should ever rule in all things, in this
republic or anywhere else! Such a state of things would
soon become intolerable, rendering the government that admitted
of its existence the most odious tyranny that has
been known in christendom in modern times. The government
of this country is the sway of certain great and incontestable
principles, that are just in themselves, and which
are set forth in the several constitutions, and under which
certain minor questions are periodically referred to local
majorities, as of necessity, out of the frequency of which
appeals has arisen a mistake that is getting to be dangerously
general. God forbid, I repeat, that a mere personal
majority should assume the power which alone belongs to
principles.
Mr. Newcome avoided a decision, as from the chair; but
three several times did he take the vote, and each time was
there a tie. I could now perceive that he was seriously
uneasy. Such steadiness denoted that men had made up
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their minds, and that they would be apt to adhere to them;
since one side was apparently as strong as the other. The
circumstances called for a display of democratical tactics;
and Mr. Newcome being very expert in such matters, he
could have little difficulty in getting along with the simple
people with whom he had to deal.
“You see how it is, fellow-citizens. The public has taken
sides, and formed itself into two parties. From this moment
the affair must be treated as a party question, and be decided
on party principles; though the majority must rule.
Oh! here, neighbour Willis; will you just step over to my
house, and ask Miss Newcome (Anglice, Mrs. Newcome)
to hand you the last volume of the State Laws? Perhaps
they have a word to say in the matter.” Here neighbour
Willis did as desired, and moved out of the crowd. As I
afterwards discovered, he was a warm presbyterian, who
happened, unfortunately for his sect, to stand so directly
before the moderator, as unavoidably to catch his eye. I
suspected that 'squire Newcome would now call a vote on
the main question. But I did not know my man. This
would have been too palpably a trick, and he carefully
avoided committing the blunder. There was plenty of time,
since the moderator knew his wife could not very readily
find a book he had lent to a magistrate in another settlement
twenty miles off; so that he did not hesitate to have a little
private conversation with one or two of his friends.
“Not to be losing time, Mr. Moderator,” said one of
'squire Newcome's confidants, “I will move you that it is
the sense of this meeting, that the government of churches
by means of a presbytery is anti-republican, opposed to our
glorious institutions, and at variance with the best interests
of the human family. I submit the question to the public
without debate, being content to know the unbiassed sentiments
of my fellow-citizens on the subject.”
The question was duly seconded and put, the result being
thirty-nine for, and thirty-eight against; or a majority of
one, that Presbyterian rule was anti-republican. This was
a great coup de maitre. Having settled that it was opposed
to the institutions to have a presbytery, a great deal was
gained towards establishing another denomination in the
settlement. No religion can maintain itself against political
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sentiment in this country, politics coming home daily to
men's minds and pockets.
It is odd enough that, while all sects agree in saying that
the Christian religion comes from God, and that its dogmas
are to be received as the laws of Infinite Wisdom, men
should be found sufficiently illogical, or sufficiently presumptuous,
to imagine that any, the least of its rules, are to
be impaired or strengthened by their dissemblance or their
conformity to any provisions of human institutions. As well
might it be admitted at once, that Christianity is not of divine
origin, or the still more extravagant position be assumed,
that the polity which God himself has established can be
amended by any of the narrow and short-sighted devices
of man. Nevertheless, it is not to be concealed, that here,
as elsewhere, churches are fashioned to suit the institutions,
and not the institutions to suit the church.
Having achieved so much success, the moderator's confidant
pushed his advantage.
“Mr. Moderator,” he continued, “as this question has
altogether assumed a party character, it is manifestly proper
that the party which has the majority should not be encumbered
in its proceedings by the movements of the minority.
Presbytery has been denounced by this meeting, and its
friends stand in the light of a defeated party at a State
election. They can have nothin' to do with the government.
I move, therefore, that those who are opposed to presbytery
go into caucus, in order to appoint a committee to recommend
to the majority a denomination which will be acceptable
to the people of Ravensnest. I hope the motion will be
put without debate. The subject is a religious one, and it is
unwise to awaken strife on anything at all connected with
religion.”
Alas! alas! How much injury has been done to the cause
of Christianity, how much wrong to the laws of God, and
even to good morals, by appeals of this nature, that are intended
to smother inquiry, and force down on the timid, the
schemes of the designing and fraudulent! Integrity is ever
simple and frank; while the devil resorts to these plans of
plausible forbearance and seeming concessions, in order to
veil his nefarious devices.
The thing took, however; for popular bodies, once under
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control, are as easily managed as the vessel that obeys her
helm; the strength of the current always giving additional
power to that material portion of the ship. The motion was
accordingly seconded and put. As there was no debate,
which had been made to appear anti-religious, the result
was precisely the same as on the last question. In other
words, there was one majority for disfranchising just one-half
the meeting, counting the above man; and this, too, on
the principle that the majority ought to rule. After this, the
caucus-people went into the school-house, where it was understood
a committee of twenty-six was appointed, to recommend
a denomination to the majority. This committee, so
respectable in its character, and of so much influence by its
numbers, was not slow in acting. As became its moral
weight, it unanimously reported that the congregational
polity was the one most acceptable to the people of Ravensnest.
This report was accepted by acclamation, and the
caucus adjourned sine die.
The moderator now called the whole meeting to order,
again.
“Mr. Moderator,” said the confidant, “it is time that this
community should come to some conclusion, in the premises.
It has been agitated long enough, in its religious
feelings, and further delay might lead to unpleasant and
lasting divisions. I therefore move that it is the sense of
this meetin' that the people of Ravensnest ardently wish to
see the new meetin'-us, which is about to be raised, devoted
and set apart for the services of the Congregational church,
and that a Congregational church be organized, and a Congregational
pastor duly called. I trust this question, like
all the others, will be passed in perfect harmony, and without
debate, as becomes the solemn business we are on.”
The question was taken, and the old majority of one was
found to be in its favour. Just as Mr. Moderator meekly
announced the result, his messenger appeared in the crowd,
bawling out, “'Squire, Miss Newcome says she can't noway
find the volum', which she kind o' thinks you 've lent.”
“Bless me! so I have!” exclaimed the surprised magistrate.
“It 's not in the settlement, I declare; but it 's of no
importance now, as a majority has fairly decided. Fellow-citizens,
we have been dealing with the most important
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interest that consarns man; his religious state, government,
and well-being. Unanimity is very desirable on such a
question; and, as it is to be presumed no one will oppose
the pop'lar will, I shall now put the question to vote for the
purpose of obtaining that unanimity. Those who are in
favour of the Congregationals, or who ardently wish that
denomination, will hold up their hands.”
About three-fourths of the hands went up, at once. Cries
of “unanimity—unanimity”—followed, until one hand after
another went up, and I counted seventy-three. The remaining
voters continued recusant; but as no question was
taken on the other side, the vote may be said to have been
a very decided one, if not positively unanimous. The moderator
and two or three of his friends made short speeches,
commending the liberality of a part of the citizens, and
congratulating all, when the meeting was adjourned.
Such were the facts attending the establishment of the
Congregational church, in the settlement of Ravensnest, on
purely republican principles; the question having been
carried unanimously in favour of that denomination, although
fifty-two votes out of seventy-eight were pretty evidently
opposed to it! But republican principles were properly
maintained, and the matter was settled; the people having
solemnly decided that they ardently wished for a church
that, in truth, they did not desire at all.
No complaints were made, on the spot at least. The
crowd dispersed, and as Mr. Newcome walked through it,
with the air of a beaten, rather than of a successful man, I
came under his observation for the first time. He examined
me keenly, and I saw a certain air of doubt and misgiving
in his manner. Just at that moment, however, and before
he had time to put a question, Jaap drove up in the wagon,
and the negro was an old acquaintance, having often been
at the 'Nest, and knowing the 'squire for more than a quarter
of a century. This explained the whole affair, a certain
mixed resemblance to both father and mother which I am
said to bear, probably aiding in making the truth more apparent.
Mr. Newcome was startled — that was apparent in his
countenance—but he was, nevertheless, self-possessed.
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Approaching, he saluted me, and at once let me know he understood
who I was.
“This is major Littlepage, I s'pose,” he said. “I can
see a good deal of the gin'ral in you, as I know'd your
father, when a young man; and something of Herman Mordaunt,
your mother's father. How long is it sin' your arrival,
major Littlepage?”
“But a few minutes,” I answered, evasively. “You see
my wagon and servant, there, and we are fresh from Albany.
My arrival has been opportune, as all my tenants must be
collected here, at this moment.”
“Why, yes sir, yes; here are pretty much the whull of
them. We have had a little meetin' to-day, to decide on the
natur' of our religion, as one might say. I s'pose the major
didn't get here until matters were coming to a head?”
“You are quite right, Mr. Newcome — matters were
coming to a head, as you say, before I got on the ground.”
The 'squire was a good deal relieved at this, for his conscience
doubtless pricked him a little on the subject of the
allusion he had made to me, and my own denomination.
As for myself, I was not sorry to have got so early behind
the curtain, as to the character of my agent. It was pretty
clear he was playing his own game, as to some things, and
it might be necessary for me to see that this propensity did
not extend itself into other concerns. It is true, my mind
was made up to change him, but there were long and intricate
accounts to settle.
“Yes, sir, religion is an interest of the greatest importance
to man's welfare, and it has b'en (Anglice, been) too
long neglected among us,” continued the late moderator.
“You see, yonder, the frame for a meetin'-us, the first that
was ever commenced in this settlement, and it is our intention
to put it up this a'ternoon. The bents are all ready.
The pike poles are placed, and all is waiting for the word
to `heave.' You 'll perceive, 'squire, it was judicious to go
to a sartain p'int, afore we concluded on the denomination.
Up to that p'int every man would nat'rally work as if he
was workin' for his own order; and we 've seen the benefit
of such policy, as there you can see the clap-boards planed,
the sash made and glazed, stuff cut for pews, and everything
ready to put together. The very nails and paints are bought
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and paid for. In a word, nothin' remains to be done, but to
put together and finish off, and preach.”
“Why did you not erect the edifice, and `finish off,' as
you call it, before you came to the test-vote, that I perceive
you have just taken?”
“That would have been goin' a le-e-e-tle too far, major—
a very le-e-e-tle. If you give a man too tight a hold, he
doesn't like to let go, sometimes. We talked the matter
over among us, and concluded to put the question before we
went any further. All has turned out happily, and we have
unanimously resolved to be Congregational. Unanimity in
religion is a blessed thing!”
“Do you apprehend no falling off in zeal, in consequence
of this work? no refusing to help pay the carpenters, and
painters, and priest?”
“Not much — a little, perhaps; but no great matter, I
should judge. Your own liberal example, major, has had
its influence, and I make no doubt will produce an effect.”
“My example, sir!—I do not understand you, Mr. Newcome,
never having heard of the church, until I heard your
own allusions to it, as chairman of this very meeting.”
'Squire Newcome hemmed, cleared his throat, took an
extra-sized chew of tobacco, and then felt himself equal to
attempting an answer.
“I call it your example, sir; though the authority for
what I have done came from your honoured father, general
Littlepage, as long ago as before the revolution. War-time,
you know, major, is no time for buildin' meetin'-uses; so we
concluded to defer the matter until peace. Peace we have,
and our own eends are fast approaching; and I thought if
the work was ever to be done, so that this generation should
get the benefit of it, it should be done now. I was in hopes
we should have had preachin' in the house afore your arrival,
and surprised you with the cheerin' sight of a worshipping
people on your lands. Here is your father's letter,
from which I read a paragraph to the people, half an hour
sin'.”
“I trust the people have always been worshippers, though
it may not have been in a house built expressly for the purpose.
With your permission, I will read the letter.”
This document bore the date of 1770, or fourteen years
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before the time the building was erected, and five years before
the battle of Lexington was fought. I was a little surprised
at this, but read on. Among other things, I found
that my father had given a general consent to credit his
tenants with $500 to aid in the erection of a place of worship;
reserving to himself, as my guardian, a voice in the
choice of the denomination. I may add, here, that on examining
the leases, I found credits had been given, in 1770,
for the full amount; and that the money, or what passed
for money, the proceeds of work, produce, cattle, butter,
cheese, &c., had been in Mr. Newcome's hands the whole
of the intervening time, no doubt to his great advantage.
Thus, by a tardy appropriation of my father's bounty, the
agent was pretty certain of being able to finish the job in
hand, even admitting that some of the people should prove
restive under the recent decision.
“And the money thus appropriated has gone to its destination?”
I asked, on returning the letter.
“Every copper has thus gone, major, or will soon go.
When the First Congregational, of Ravensnest, is up, you
can contemplate the house with the satisfaction of knowing
that your own money has largely aided in the good work
of its erection. What a delightful sentiment that must
awaken! It must be a great blessin' to landlords, to be
able to remember how much of their money goes for the
good of their fellow-mortals.”
“In my case, it certainly should, as I understand my
father, and indeed have myself seen, by the accounts rendered
to me, that not one dollar of rent has ever yet left the
settlement, to go into the pocket of the owner of the estate—
nay, that the direct outlays of my grandfather were considerable,
in addition to the first cost of the patent.”
“I do not deny it, major; I do not deny it. It is quite
probable. But, you will consider what the spirit of Public
Improvement demands; and you gentlemen-proprietors
nat'rally look forward to futur' generations for your reward—
yes, sir, to futur' generations. Then will come the time
when these leased lands will turn to account, and you will
enj'y the fruits of your liberality.”
I bowed, but made no answer. By this time, the wagon
had reached the inn, and Jaap was getting out the trunk
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and other luggage. A rumour had gone forth among the
people that their landlord had arrived, and some of the older
tenants, those who had known “Herman Mordaunt,” as
they all called my grandfather, crowded around me in a
frank, hearty manner, in which good feeling was blended
with respect. They desired to take my hand. I shook
hands with all who came, and can truly say that I took no
man's palm into my own that day, without a sentiment that
the relation of landlord and tenant was one that should induce
kind and confidential feelings. The Ravensnest property
was by no means necessary to my comfortable subsistence;
and I was really well enough disposed to look
forward, if not to “future generations,” at least to a future
day, for the advantages that were to be reaped from it. I
asked the crowd in, ordered a tub of punch made, for, in
that day, liquor was a necessary accompaniment of every
welcome, and endeavoured to make myself acceptable to
my new friends. A throng of women, of whom I have not
yet spoken, were also in attendance; and I had to go through
the ceremony of being introduced to many of the wives and
daughters of Ravensnest. On the whole, the meeting was
friendly, and my reception warm.
CHAPTER X.
“Bear, through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.”
Longfellow.
The ceremony of the introductions was not half through,
when there was a noisy summons to the pike-poles. This
called away the crowd in a body; a raising in the country
being an incident of too much interest to be overlooked. I
profited by the occasion to issue a few orders that related to
my own comfort, when I went, myself, to the scene of present
toil and future Congregationalism.
Everybody in America, a few inveterate cockneys
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excepted, have seen a “raising.” Most people have seen
hundreds; and, as for myself, I believe I should be safe in
saying I had, even at that day, seen a thousand. In this
particular instance, there were great felicitations among the
yeomen, because the frame “had come together well.” I
was congratulated on this score, the hearty old Rhode
Islander, my brother major, assuring me that “he couldn't
get the blade of his knife, and it 's no great matter of a knife
either, into a single j'int. And, what is more, 'squire”—
As the sturdy yeoman was a major himself, though only in
the militia, that title would not have been honourable enough
for his landlord—“And, what is more, 'squire, they tell me
not a piece was ever tried, until we put the bents together,
this a'ternoon, ourselves! Now, down country, I never
see'd sich a thing; but, up here, the carpenters go by what
they call the “square-rule;” and quick work they make
on 't!” This speech contained the substance of one of the
contrivances by which the “new countries” were endeavouring
to catch up with the “old,” as I learned on farther
inquiries.
It may be well to describe the appearance of the place,
when I reached the site of the new “meetin'-us.” The great
body of the “people” had just taken their stands at the first
bent, ready for a lift, while trusty men stood at the feet of
the posts, armed with crow-bars, broad-axes, or such other
suitable implements as offered, in readiness to keep those
essential uprights in their places; for, on the steadiness of
these persons, depended the limbs and lives of those who
raised the bent. As this structure was larger than common,
the danger was increased, and the necessity of having men
that could be relied on was obviously so much the greater.
Of one post, in particular, for some reason that I do not
know, all the trusty men seemed shy; each declaring that
he thought some one else better suited to take charge of it,
than he was himself. The “boss”—that Manhattanese word
having travelled up to Ravensnest—called out for some one
to take the delicate station, as nothing detained the work
but the want of a hand there; and one looked at another,
to see who would step forward, when a sudden cry arose
of “the Chainbearer! — the Chainbearer! — Here 's your
man!”
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Sure enough, there came old Andries Coejemans, hale,
upright, vigorous, and firm-treading, though he had actually
seen his three-score years and ten. My ancient comrade
had thrown aside nearly every trace of his late military
profession, though the marchings and drillings of eight
years were not to be worked out of a man's air and manner
in a twelvemonth. The only sign of the soldier, other than
in his bearing, I could trace about my brother captain, was
the manner in which his queue was clubbed. Andries wore
his own hair; this his early pursuits in the forest rendered
necessary; but it had long been clubbed in a sort of military
fashion, and to that fashion he now adhered. In other respects,
he had transformed himself entirely into a woodsman.
He wore a hunting-shirt, like myself; leggings,
moccasins, and a cap of skins that had been deprived of
their furs. So far from lessening, in any degree, the fine
effect of his green old age, however, this attire served to
increase it. Andries Coejemans stood six feet, at seventy;
was still as erect as he had been at twenty; and so far from
betraying the inroads of age on his frame, the last appeared
to be indurated and developed by what it had borne. His
head was as white as snow, while his face had the ruddy,
weather-beaten colour of health and exposure. The face
had always been handsome, having a very unusual expression
of candour and benevolence impressed on features that
were bold and manly.
The Chainbearer could not have seen me, until he stepped
upon the frame. Then, indeed, there was no mistaking the
expression of his countenance, which denoted pleasure and
friendly interest. Striding over the timber, with the step of
a man long accustomed to tread among dangers of all sorts,
he grasped my hand, and gave it such a squeeze as denoted
the good condition of his own muscles and sinews. I saw
a tear twinkling in his eye; for had I been his own son, I
do not think that he could have loved me more.
“Mortaunt, my poy, you 're heartily welcome,” said my
old comrade. “You haf come upon t'ese people, I fancy,
as t'e cat steals upon t'e mice; but I had titings of your
march, and have peen a few miles town t'e roat to meet
you. How, or where you got past me, is more t'an I know;
for I haf seen nuttin' of you or of your wagon.”
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“Yet here we both are, my excellent old friend, and most
happy am I to meet you again. If you will go with me to
the tavern, we can talk more at our ease.”
“Enough, enough, for t'e present, young comrate. Pusiness
is stanting still a little, for t'e want of my hant; step
off the frame, lat, and let us get up t'ese pents, when I am
your man for a week or a year.”
Exchanging looks, and renewing the warm and friendly
pressure of the hand, we parted for the moment; I quitting
the frame, while the Chainbearer went at once to the foot
of the important post, or to that station no one else would
assume. Then commenced, without further delay, the serious
toil of raising a bent. This work is seldom entirely
free from hazard; and, on this particular occasion, when
the force in men was a little disproportioned to the weight
of the timber, it was doubly incumbent on every man to be
true and steady. My attention was at once attracted to the
business in hand; and, for several minutes, I thought of
little else. The females had drawn as near the spot where
their husbands, brothers and lovers were exerting every
muscle and nerve, as comported with prudence; and a profound
and anxious quiet pervaded the whole of a crowd that
was gay with rustic finery, if not very remarkable for taste
or refinement. Still, that cluster of females had little in it
that was coarse or even unfeminine, if it had not much that
would be so apt to meet the eye, in the way of the attractive,
in a similar crowd of the present day. The improvement in
the appearance and dress of the wives and daughters of
husbandmen, has been very marked among us within the
last five-and-twenty years. Fully one-half of those collected
on this occasion were in short-gowns, as they were called,
a garb that has almost entirely disappeared; and the pillions
that were to be seen on the bodies of nearly all the horses
that were fastened to the adjacent fences, showed the manner
in which they had reached the ground. The calicoes
of that day were both dear and homely; and it required
money to enable a woman to appear in a dress that would
be thought attractive to the least practised eye. Nevertheless,
there were many pretty girls in that row of anxious
faces, with black eyes and blue, light, black and brown
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hair, and of the various forms and hues in which female
beauty appears in the youthful.
I flatter myself that I was as comely as the generality of
young men of my age and class, and that, on ordinary occasions,
I could not have shown myself before that cluster
of girls, without drawing to myself some of their glances.
Such was not the case, however, when I left the frame,
which now attracted all eyes. On that, and on those
who surrounded it, every eye and every anxious face was
turned, my own included. It was a moment of deep interest
to all; and most so to those who could only feel,
and not act.
At the word, the men made a simultaneous effort; and
they raised the upper part of the bent from the timber on
which it lay. It was easy to see that the labourers, stout
and willing as they were, had as much as they could lift.
Boys stood ready, however, with short pieces of scantling
to place upright beneath the bent; and the men had time to
breathe. I felt a little ashamed of having nothing to do at
such a moment; but, fearful of doing harm instead of good,
I kept aloof, and remained a mere spectator.
“Now, men,” said the `boss,' who had taken his stand
where he could overlook the work, “we will make ready
for another lift. All at once, makes light work — are you
ready?—He-e-a-ve.”
Heave, or lift, the stout fellows did; and with so much
intelligence and readiness, that the massive timber was carried
up as high as their heads. There it stopped, supported
as before, by short pieces of scantling.
The pike-poles next came in play. This is always the
heaviest moment of a lift of that sort, and the men made
their dispositions accordingly. Short poles were first got
under the bent, by thrusting the unarmed ends into the
cavity of the foundation; and a few of the stoutest of the
men stood on blocks, prepared to apply their strength
directly.
“Are you ready, men?” called out the boss. “This is
our heaviest bent, and we come to it fresh. Look out well
to the foot of each post — Chainbearer, I count on you —
your post is the king-post of the whole frame; if that goes,
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all goes. Make ready, men; heave altogether — that 's a
lift! Heave again, men — he-e-a-ve — altogether now —
he-e-a-ve! — Up she goes; he-e-a-ve — more pike-poles —
stand to the frame, boys—get along some studs — he-e-a-ve—
in with your props — so, catch a little breath, men.”
It was time to take breath, of a certainty; for the effort
had been tremendously severe. The bent had risen, however,
and now stood, supported as before by props, at an
angle of some fifteen degrees with the plane of the building,
which carried all but the posts beyond the reach of hands.
The pike-pole was to do the rest; and the next ten degrees
to be overcome would probably cause the greatest expenditure
of force. As yet, all had gone well, the only drawback
being the certainty which had been obtained, that the
strength present was hardly sufficient to get up so heavy a
bent. Nevertheless, there was no remedy, every person on
the ground who could be of use, but myself, having his station.
A well-looking, semi-genteel young man, whose dress
was two-thirds forest and one-third town, had come from
behind the row of females, stepped upon the frame, and
taken his post at a pike-pole. The uninitiated reader will
understand that those who raise a building necessarily stand
directly under the timber they are lifting; and, that a downfall
would bring them beneath a fearful trap. Bents do
sometimes come down on the labourers; and the result is
almost certain destruction to those who are caught beneath
the timber. Notwithstanding the danger and the difficulty in
the present case, good-humour prevailed, and a few jokes
were let off at the expense of the Congregationalists and
the late moderator.
“Agree, 'squire,” called out the hearty old Rhode Islander,
“to let in some of the other denominations occasionally, and
see how the bent will go up. Presbytery is holding back
desperately!”
“I hope no one supposes,” answered Mr. Moderator,
“that religious liberty doosn't exist in this settlement.
Sartainly—sartainly—other denominations can always use
this house, when it isn't wanted by the right owners.”
Those words “right owners” were unfortunate; the
stronger the right, the less the losing party liking to hear
of it. Notwithstanding, there was no disposition to skulk,
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or to abandon the work; and two or three of the dissentients
took their revenge on the spot, by hits at the moderator.
Fearful that there might be too much talk, the boss now
renewed his call, for attention to the work.
“Let us all go together, men,” he added. “We 've got
to the pinch, and must stand to the work like well-broke
cattle. If every man at the frame will do his best for just
one minute, the hardest will be over. You see that upright
stud there, with that boy, Tim Trimmer at it; just raise
the bent so that Timmy can get the eend of that stud under
it, and all will be safe. Look to the lower eend of the stud,
Tim; is it firm and well stopped?”
Tim declared it was; but two or three of the men went
and examined it, and after making a few alterations, they
too assured the boss it could not get away. A short speech
was then made, in which everybody was exhorted to do his
best; and everybody, in particular, was reminded of the
necessity of standing to his work. After that speech, the
men raised the pike-poles, and placed themselves at their
stations. Silent expectation succeeded.
As yet, not a sign, look, or word, had intimated either
wish or expectation that I was to place myself in the ranks.
I will confess to an impulse to that effect; for who can look
on, and see their fellow-creatures straining every muscle,
and not submit to human sympathy? But, the recollections
of military rank, and private position, had not only their
claims, but their feelings. I did go a step or two nearer to
the frame, but I did not put my foot on it.
“Get ready, men” — called the boss, “for a last time.
Altogether, at the word — now 's your time — he-e-a-ve —
he-e-e-a-ve — he-e-e-e-ave!”
The poor fellows did heave, and it was only too evident
that they were staggering under the enormous pressure of
the massive timber. I stepped on the frame, at the very
centre, or at the most dangerous spot, and applied all my
strength to a pike-pole.
“Hurrah!” shouted the boss — “there comes the young
landlord! — he-e-ave, every man his best! — he-e-e-e-ave!”
We did heave our best, and we raised the bent several
feet above its former props, but not near enough to reach
the new ones, by an inch or two. Twenty voices now called
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on every man to stand to his work; for everybody felt the
importance of even a boy's strength. The boss rushed
forward like a man to our aid; and then Tim, fancying his
stud would stand without his support, left it and flew to a
pike-pole. At this mistake the stud fell a little on one side,
where it could be of no use. My face was so placed that I
saw this dangerous circumstance; and I felt that the weight
I upheld, individually, grew more like lead at each instant.
I knew by this that our force was tottering under the downward
pressure of the enormous bent.
“He-e-e-ave, men — for your lives, he-eave!” exclaimed
the boss, like one in the agony.
The tones of his voice sounded to me like those of despair.
Had a single boy deserted us then, and we had
twenty of them on the frame, the whole mass of timber must
have come down upon us. Talk of charging into a battery!
What is there in that to try men's nerves, like the situation
in which we were placed? The yielding of a muscle, in all
that straining, lifting body, might have ruined us. A most
fearful, frightful twenty seconds followed; and just as I had
abandoned hope, a young female darted out of the anxious,
pale-faced crowd, that was looking on in a terror and agony
that may be better conceived that described, and seizing the
stud, she placed it alongside of the post. But an inch was
wanted to gain its support; but how to obtain that inch! I
now raised my voice, and called on the fainting men to
heave. They obeyed; and I saw that spirited, true-eyed,
firm-handed girl place the prop precisely where it was wanted.
All at that end of the bent felt the relief instantly, and
man after man cautiously withdrew from under the frame,
until none remained but those who upheld the other side.
We flew to the relief of these, and soon had a number of
props in their places, when all drew back, and looked on
the danger from which they had escaped, breathless and
silent. For myself, I felt a deep sense of gratitude to God
for the escape.
This occurrence made a profound impression. Everybody
was sensible of the risk that had been run, and of the
ruin that might have befallen the settlement. I had caught
a glimpse of the rare creature, whose decision, intelligence
and presence of mind had done so much for us all; and to
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me she seemed to be the loveliest being of her sex my eyes
had ever lighted on! Her form, in particular, was perfection;
being the just medium between feminine delicacy and
rude health; or just so much of the last as could exist without
a shade of coarseness; and the little I saw of a countenance
that was nearly concealed by a maze of curls that
might well be termed golden, appeared to me to correspond
admirably with that form. Nor was there anything masculine
or unseemly in the deed she had performed, to subtract
in any manner from the feminine character of her appearance.
It was decided, useful, and in one sense benevolent;
but a boy might have executed it, so far as physical force
was concerned. The act required coolness, intelligence and
courage, rather than any masculine power of body.
It is possible that, aware as I was of the jeopardy in which
we were all placed, my imagination may have heightened
the effect of the fair apparition that had come to save us, as
it might be, like a messenger from above. But, even there,
where I stood panting from the effect of exertions that I
have never equalled in my own case most certainly, exhausted,
nearly breathless, and almost unable to stand, my
mind's-eye saw nothing but the flexible form, the elastic,
ready step, the golden tresses, the cheek suffused by excitement,
the charming lips compressed with resolution, and
the whole air, attitude and action, characterized, as was
each and all, by the devotion, readiness and loveliness of
her sex. When my pulses beat more regularly, and my
heart ceased to throb, I looked around in quest of that
strange vision, but saw no one who could, in the least, claim
to be connected with it. The females had huddled together,
like a covey that was frightened, and were exclaiming, holding
up their hands, and indulging in the signs of alarm that
are customary with their sex and class. The “vision” was
certainly not in that group, but had vanished, as suddenly
as it had appeared.
At this juncture, the Chainbearer came forward, and took
the command. I could see he was agitated—affected might
be a better word — but he was, nevertheless, steady and
authoritative. He was obeyed, too, in a manner I was delighted
to see. The orders of the “boss” had produced no
such impressions as those which old Andries now issued;
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and I really felt an impulse to obey them myself, as I would
have done eighteen months before, when he stood on the
right of our regiment, as its oldest captain.
The carpenter yielded his command to the Chainbearer
without a murmur. Even 'squire Newcome evidently felt
that Andries was one who, in a certain way, could influence
the minds of the settlers more than he could do it himself.
In short, everybody listened, everybody seemed pleased, and
everybody obeyed. Nor did my old friend resort to any of
the coaxing that is so common in America, when men are
to be controlled in the country. In the towns, and wherever
men are to be commanded in bodies, authority is as well
understood as it is in any other quarter of the world; but,
in the interior, and especially among the people of New
England habits, very few men carry sufficient command
with them to say “John do this,” or “John do that;” but
it is “Johnny why won't you do this?” or “Johnny don't
you think you'd better do that?” The Chainbearer had
none of this mystified nonsense about him. He called things
by their right names; and when he wanted a spade, he did
not ask for a hoe. As a consequence, he was obeyed, command
being just as indispensable to men, on a thousand occasions,
as any other quality.
Everything was soon ready again, with the men stationed
a little differently from what they had previously been. This
change was the Chainbearer's, who understood mechanics
practically; better, perhaps, than if he had been a first-rate
mathematician. The word was given to heave, all of us
being at the pike-poles; when up went the bent, as if borne
upon by a force that was irresistible. Such was the effect
of old Andries' habits of command, which not only caused
every man to lift with all his might, but the whole to lift
together. A bent that is perpendicular is easily secured;
and then it was announced that the heaviest of the work
was over. The other bents were much lighter; and one up,
there were means of aiding in raising the rest, that were at
first wanting.
“The Congregationals has got the best on't,” cried out
the old Rhode Islander, laughing, as soon as the bent was
stay-lathed, “by the help of the Chainbearer and somebody
else I wunt name! Well, our turn will come, some day;
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for Ravensnest is a place in which the people wont be satisfied
with one religion. A country is badly on't, that has
but one religion in't; priests getting lazy, and professors
dull!”
“You may be sure of t'at,” answered the Chainbearer,
who was evidently making preparations to quit the frame.
“Ravensnest will get as many religions, in time, as t'ere
are discontented spirits in it; and t'ey will need many
raisings, and more priests.”
“Do you intend to leave us, Chainbearer? There 's more
posts to hold, and more bents to lift?”
“The worst is over, and you 've force enough wit'out
me, for what remains to be tone. I haf t'e lantlort to
take care of. Go to your work, men; and, if you can, rememper
you haf a peing to worship in t'is house, t'at is
neit'er Congregational, nor Presbyterian, nor anything else
of the nature of your disputes and self-conceit. 'Squire
Newcome wilt gif you a leat in t'e way of l'arning, and
t'e carpenter can act boss well enough for t'e rest of t'e
tay.”
I was surprised at the coolness with which my old friend
delivered himself of sentiments that were not very likely to
find favour in such a company, and the deference that he
received, while thus ungraciously employed. But, I afterwards
ascertained Andries commanded respect by means
of his known integrity; and his opinions carried weight
because he was a man who usually said “come boys,” and
not one who issued his orders in the words “go boys.”
This had been his character in the army, where, in his own
little circle, he was known as one ever ready to lead in
person. Then Andries was a man of sterling truth; and
such a man, when he has the moral courage to act up to
his native impulses, mingled with discretion enough to keep
him within the boundaries of common prudence, insensibly
acquires great influence over those with whom he is brought
in contact. Men never fail to respect such qualities, however
little they put them in practice in their own cases.
“Come, Morty, my poy,” said the Chainbearer, as soon
as we were clear of the crowd, “I will pe your guite, ant
take you to a roof unter which you will pe master.”
“You surely do not mean the 'Nest?”
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“T'at, and no ot'er. T'e olt place looks, like us olt
soltiers, a little rusty, and t'e worse for sarvice; put it is
comfortaple, and I haf had it put in order for you, poy.
Your grandfat'er's furniture is still t'ere; and Frank Malpone,
Dus and I, haf mate it heat-quarters, since we haf
peen in t'is part of t'e country. You know I haf your
orters for t'at.”
“Certainly, and to use anything else that is mine. But
I had supposed you fairly hutted in the woods of Mooseridge!”
“T'at hast peen tone, too; sometimes we are at one place,
and sometimes at anot'er. My niggers are at t'e hut; put
Frank, and Dus and I haf come ofer to welcome you to
t'e country.”
“I have a wagoner here, and my own black — let me step
to the inn, and order them to get ready for us.”
“Mortaunt, you and I haf peen uset to our feet. The
soltier marches, and countermarches, wit' no wagon to carry
him; he leafs t'em to t'e paggage, and t'e paggage-guart.”
“Come on, old Andries; I will be your comrade, on foot
or on horseback. It can only be some three or four miles,
and Jaap can follow with the trunks at his leisure.”
A word spoken to the negro was all that was necessary;
though the meeting between him and the Chainbearer was
that of old friends. Jaap had gone through the whole war
with the regiment, sometimes acting as my father's servant,
sometimes carrying a musket, sometimes driving a team;
and, at the close of his career, as my particular attendant.
He consequently regarded himself as a sort of soldier, and
a very good one had he proved himself to be, on a great
many occasions.
“One word before we start, Chainbearer,” I said, as old
Andries and Jaap concluded their greetings; “I fell in with
the Indian you used to call Sureflint, in the woods, and I
wish to take him with us.”
“He hast gone aheat, to let your visit pe known,” answered
my friend. “I saw him going up t'e roat, at a
quick trot, half an hour since. He is at t'e 'Nest py t'is
time.”
No more remained to be said or done, and we went our
way, leaving the people busily engaged in getting up the
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remainder of the frame. I had occasion to observe that my
arrival produced much less sensation in the settlement than
it might have done, had not the “meeting-house” been my
competitor in attracting attention. One was just as much of
a novelty as the other; just as much of a stranger. Although
born in a Christian land, and educated in Christian dogmas,
very few of those who dwelt on the estate of Ravensnest,
and who were under the age of five-and-twenty, had ever
seen an edifice that was constructed for the purposes of
Christian worship at all. Such structures were rare indeed,
in the year 1784, and in the interior of New York. Albany
had but two, I believe; the capital may have had a dozen;
and most of the larger villages possessed at least one; but,
with the exception of the old counties, and here and there
one on the Mohawk, the new State could not boast of many
of “those silent fingers pointing to the sky,” rising among
its trees, so many monitors of a future world, and of the
great end of life. As a matter of course, all those who had
never seen a church, felt the liveliest desire to judge of the
form and proportions of this; and as the Chainbearer and I
passed the crowd of females, I heard several good-looking
girls expressing their impatience to see something of the
anticipated steeple, while scarce a glance was bestowed on
myself.
“Well, my old friend, here we are together again, marching
on a public highway,” I remarked, “but with no intention
of encamping in front of an enemy.”
“I hope not,” returned Andries, drily; “t'ough all is
not golt t'at glitters. We have fought a hart battle, major
Littlepage; I hope it will turn out for a goot end.”
I was a little surprised at this remark; but Andries was
never very sanguine in his anticipations of good. Like a
true Dutchman, he particularly distrusted the immigration
from the eastern States, which I had heard him often say
could bring about no happy results.
“All will come round in the end, Chainbearer,” I answered,
“and we shall get the benefits of our toil and dangers.
But, how do you come on at the Ridge, and who is
this surveyor of your's!”
“T'ings do well enough at t'e Ritge, Mortaunt; for t'ere,
t'ere is not a soul yet to make trouple. We have prought
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you a map of ten t'ousant acres, lait off in hundret-acre
lots, which I will venture to say haf peen as honestly ant
carefully measuret as any ot'er ten t'ousant acres in t'e
State. We pegan next to t'is property, ant you may pegin
to lease, on your fat'er's lant, just as soon as you please.”
“And the Frank Malbone, you have written about, did
the surveying?”
“He worket up my measurements, lat, and closely tone
t'ey are, I 'll answer for it. T'is Frank Malpone is t'e
brot'er of Dus — t'at is to say, her half-brot'er; peing no
nephew of mine. Dus, you know, is only a half-niece in
bloot; but she ist a full da'ter in lofe. As for Frank, he is
a goot fellow; and, t'ough t'is is his first jop at surfeying,
he may be dependet on wit' as much confitence as any ot'er
man going.”
“No matter if a few mistakes are made, Andries; land
is not diamonds in this country; there is plenty for us all,
and a great deal to spare. It would be a different matter
if there was a scarcity; but, as it is, give good measure to
the tenant or the purchaser. A first survey can only produce
a little loss or gain; whereas, surveys between old
farms are full of trouble.”
“Ant lawsuits” — put in the Chainbearer, nodding his
head. “To tell you my mint, Mortaunt, I would rat'er take
a jop in a Dutch settlement, at half-price, t'an run a line
petween two Yankees for twice the money. Among the
Dutch, the owners light t'eir pipes, and smoke whilst you
are at work; but the Yankees are the whole time trying to
cut off a little here, and to gain a little t'ere; so t'at it is as
much as a man's conscience is wort' to carry a chain fairly
petween 'em.”
As I knew his prejudice on this subject formed the weak
point in the Chainbearer, I gave the discourse a new turn,
by leading it to political events, of which I knew him to be
fond. We walked on, conversing on various topics connected
with this theme, for near an hour, when I found myself
rather suddenly quite near to my own particular house.
Near by, the building had more of shape and substance
than it had seemed to possess when seen from the height;
and I found the orchards and meadows around it free from
stumps and other eye-sores, and in good order. Still, the
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place, on its exterior, had a sort of gaol-look, there being
no windows, nor any other outlet than the door. On reaching
the latter, which was a gate, rather than an ordinary
entrance, we paused a moment to look about us. While we
stood there, gazing at the fields, a form glided through the
opening, and Sureflint stood by my side. He had hardly
got there, when there arose the strains of the same full, rich
female voice, singing Indian words to a civilized melody, as
I had heard issuing from the thicket of pines, among the
second growth of the forest. From that moment I forgot
my fields and orchards, forgot the Chainbearer and Sureflint,
and could think of nothing but of the extraordinary
circumstance of a native girl's possessing such a knowledge
of our music. The Indian himself seemed entranced; never
moving until the song or verses were ended. Old Andries
smiled, waited until the last strain was finished, pronounced
the word “Dus” with emphasis, and beckoned for me to
follow him into the building.
CHAPTER XI.
“The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not woo'd in
good time: if the prince be too important, tell him there is measure
for everything, and so dance out the answer.”
Beatrice.
“Dus!” I repeated to myself—“This, then, is Dus, and
no Indian girl; the Chainbearer's `Dus;' Priscilla Bayard's
`Dus;' and Sureflint's `wren!”'
Andries must have overheard me, in part; for he stopped
just within the court on which the gate opened, and said—
“Yes, t'at is Dus, my niece. The girl is like a mockingpird,
and catches the songs of all languages and people.
She is goot at Dutch, and quite melts my heart, Mortaunt,
when she opens her throat to sing one of our melancholy
Dutch songs; and she gives the English too, as if she knowet
no ot'er tongue.”
“But that song was Indian — the words, at least, were
Mohawk or Oneida.”
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“Onondago—t'ere is little or no tifference. Yes, you 're
right enough; the worts are Indian, and they tell me t'e
music is Scotch. Come from where it will, it goes straight
to the heart, poy.”
“How came Dus—how came Miss Ursula—that is, your
niece, to understand an Indian dialect?”
“Didn't I tell you she is a perfect mocking-bird, and that
she imitates all she hears? Yes, Dus would make as goot
a surveyor as her brot'er, after a week's trial. You 've
heart me say how much I livet among the tripes before t'e
war, and Dus was t'en wit' me. In that manner she has
caught the language; and what she has once l'arnet she
nefer forgets. Dus is half wilt from living so much in the
woots, and you must make allowances for her; put she is
a capital gal, and t'e very prite of my heart!”
“Tell me one thing before we enter the house; — does
any one else sing Indian about here? — has Sureflint any
women with him?”
“Not he! — t'e creatur' hast not'ing to do wit' squaws.
As for any one else's singing Intian, I can only tell you I
never heart of such a person.”
“But, you told me you were down the road to meet me
this morning—were you alone?”
“Not at all—we all went; Sureflint, Frank, Dus and I.
I t'ought it due to a lantlort, Mortaunt, to gif him a hearty
welcome; t'ough Dus did mutiny a little, and sait t'at
lantlort or no lantlort, it was not proper for a young gal
to go forth to meet a young man. I might have t'ought so
too, if it hadn't peen yourself, my poy; but, with you, I
couldn't play stranger, as one woult wit' a straggling Yankee.
I wishet to welcome you wit' the whole family; put
I 'll not conceal Dus's unwillingness to pe of t'e party.”
“But Dus was of your party! It is very odd we did not
meet!”
“Now, you speak of it, I do pelief it wast all owin' to a
scheme of t'at cunnin' gal! You must know, Mortaunt, a'ter
we had got a pit down t'e roat, she persuatet us to enter a
t'icket of pines, in order to eat a mout'ful; and I do pelief
the cunnin' hussey just dit it t'at you might slip past, and
she safe her female dignity!”
“And from those pines Sureflint came, just after Dus, as
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you call her, but Miss Ursula Malbone as I ought to style
her, had been singing this very song?”
“Wast you near enough to know all t'is, poy, and we
miss you! The gal dit sing t'at ferry song; yes, I rememper
it; and a sweet, goot song it is. Call her Miss Ursula
Malbone? — Why shouldn't you call her Dus, as well as
Frank and I?”
“For the simple reason that you are her uncle, and
Frank her brother, while I am a total stranger.”
“Poh—poh—Morty; t'is is peing partic'lar. I am only
a half-uncle, in the first place; and Frank is only a half-brot'er;
and I dares to say you wilt pe her whole frient.
T'en, you are not a stranger to any of t'e family, I can
tell you, lat; for I haf talket enough apout you to make bot'
t'e poy and t'e gal lofe you almost as much as I do myself.”
Poor, simple-hearted, upright old Andries! What an
unpleasant feeling did he give me, by letting me into the
secret that I was about to meet persons who had been listening
to his partial accounts for the last twelve months. It is
so difficult to equal expectations thus awakened; and I will
own that I had begun to be a little sensitive on the subject
of this Dus. The song had been ringing in my ears from
the moment I first heard it; and, now that it became associated
with Priscilla Bayard's Ursula Malbone, the latter
had really become a very formidable person to my imagination.
There was no retreating, however, had I wished it;
and a sign induced the Chainbearer to proceed. Face the
young woman I must, and the sooner it was done the
better.
The Nest-house, as my homely residence was termed,
had been a sort of fortress, or “garrison,” in its day, having
been built around three sides of a parallelogram, with all its
windows and doors opening on the court. On the fourth
side were the remains of pickets, or palisades, but they were
mostly rotted away, being useless as a fence, from the circumstance
that the buildings stood on the verge of a low
cliff that, of itself, formed a complete barrier against the invasions
of cattle, and no insignificant defence against those
of man.
The interior of the Nest-house was far more inviting than
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its exterior. The windows gave the court an appearance
of life and gaiety, at once converting that which was otherwise
a pile of logs, thrown together in the form of a building,
into a habitable and inhabited dwelling. One side of
this court, however, was much neater, and had much more
the air of comfort than the other; and towards the first
Andries led the way. I was aware that my grandfather
Mordaunt had caused a few rooms in this building to be
furnished for his own particular purposes, and that no orders
had ever been given to remove or to dispose of the articles
thus provided. I was not surprised, therefore, on entering
the house, to find myself in apartments which, while they
could not be called in any manner gaily or richly furnished,
were nevertheless quite respectably supplied with most of
the articles that are thought necessary to a certain manner
of living.
“We shall fint Dus in here, I dare say,” observed the
Chainbearer, throwing open a door, and signing for me to
precede him. “Go in, and shake t'e gal's hand, Mortaunt;
she knows you well enough, name and natur', as a poty
may say.”
I did go in, and found myself within a few feet of the fair,
golden-haired girl of the raising; she who had saved the
frame from falling on us all, by a decision of mind and
readiness of exertion that partook equally of courage and
dexterity. She was in the same dress as when first seen by
me, though the difference in attitude and employment certainly
gave her air and expression a very different character.
Ursula Malbone was now quietly occupied in hemming one
of those coarse checked handkerchiefs that the poverty of
her uncle compelled him, or at least induced him to use,
and of which I had seen one in his hands only a minute
before. On my entrance she rose, gravely but not discourteously
answering my bow with a profound curtsey. Neither
spoke, though the salutes were exchanged as between
persons who felt no necessity for an introduction in order to
know each other.
“Well, now,” put in Andries, in his strongest Dutch accent,
“t'is wilt never do, ast petween two such olt frients.
Come hit'er, Dus, gal, and gif your hant to Mortaunt Littlepage,
who ist a sort of son of my own.”
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Dus obeyed, and I had the pleasure of holding her soft
velvet-like hand in mine for one moment. I felt a gratification
I cannot describe in finding the hand was so soft,
since the fact gave me the assurance that necessity had not
yet reduced her to any of the toil that is unsuited to a gentlewoman.
I knew that Andries had slaves, his only possession,
indeed, besides his compass, chains and sword, unless
a few arms and some rude articles of the household were
excepted; and these slaves, old and worn out as they must
be by this time, were probably the means of saving the
niece from the performance of offices that were menial.
Although I got the hand of Ursula Malbone, I could not
catch her eye. She did not avert her face, neither did she
affect coldness; but she was not at her ease. I could readily
perceive that she would have been better pleased had her
uncle permitted the salutations to be limited to the bows and
curtsies. As I had never seen this girl before, and could
not have done anything to offend her, I ascribed the whole
to mauvaise honte, and the embarrassment that was natural
enough to one who found herself placed in a situation so
different from that in which she had so lately been. I
bowed on the hand, possibly gave it a gentle pressure in
order to reassure its owner, and we separated.
“Well, now, Dus, haf you a cup of tea for the lantlort—
to welcome him to his own house wit'?” demanded Andries,
perfectly satisfied with the seemingly amicable relations he
had established between us. “T'e major hast hat a long
march, for peaceable times, and woult peglat to get a little
refreshment.”
“You call me major, Chainbearer, while you refuse to
accept the same title for yourself.”
“Ay, t'ere ist reason enough for t'at. You may lif to be
a general; wilt probably be one before you 're t'irty; but I
am an olt man, now, and shall never wear any ot'er uniform
than this I have on again. I pegan t'e worlt in this
corps, Morty, and shall end it in the rank in which I began.”
“I thought you had been a surveyor originally, and that
you fell back on the chain because you had no taste for
figures. I think I have heard as much from yourself.”
“Yes, t'at is t'e fact. Figures and I didn't agree; nor
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do I like 'em any petter at seventy t'an I liket 'em at seventeen.
Frank Malbone, now, Dus' brother, t'ere, ist a lat
that takes to 'em nat'rally, and he works t'rough a sum
ast your fat'er would carry a battalion t'rough a ravine.
Carrying chain I like; it gives sufficient occupation to t'e
mind; put honesty is the great quality for the chainbearer.
They say figures can't lie, Mortaunt; but t'is is not true
wit' chains; sometimes they do lie, desperately.”
“Where is Mr. Francis Malbone? I should be pleased
to make his acquaintance.”
“Frank remainet pehint to help 'em up with their timber.
He is a stout chap, like yourself, and can lent a hant;
while, poor fellow! he has no lantlort-tignity to maintain.”
I heard a gentle sigh from Dus, and involuntarily turned
my head; for she was occupied directly behind my chair.
As if ashamed of the weakness, the spirited girl coloured,
and for the first time in my life I heard her voice, the two
instances of the Indian songs excepted. I say heard her
voice; for it was an event to record. A pleasant voice, in
either sex, is a most pleasant gift from nature. But the
sweet tones of Ursula Malbone were all that the most fastidious
ear could have desired; being full, rich, melodious,
yet on the precise key that best satisfies the taste, bringing
with it assurances of a feminine disposition and regulated
habits. I detest a shrill, high-keyed female voice, more than
that of a bawling man, while one feels a contempt for those
who mumble their words in order to appear to possess a
refinement that the very act itself contradicts. Plain, direct,
but regulated utterance, is indispensable to a man or woman
of the world; anything else rendering him or her mean or
affected.
“I was in hopes,” said Dus, “that evil-disposed frame was
up and secured, and that I should see Frank in a minute or
two. I was surprised to see you working so stoutly for the
Presbyterians, uncle Chainbearer!”
“I might return t'e compliment, and say I wast surpriset
to see you doing the same t'ing, Miss Dus! Pesides, the
tenomination is Congregational, and not Prespyterian; and
one is apout as much to your taste as t'e ot'er.”
“The little I did was for you, and Frank, and — Mr.
Littlepage, with all the rest who stood under the frame.”
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“I am sure, Miss Ursula,” I now put in, “we all ought,
and I trust we all do feel truly grateful for your timely aid.
Had that timber come down, many of us must have been
killed, and more maimed.”
“It was not a very feminine exploit,” answered the girl,
smiling, as I thought, a little bitterly. “But one gets accustomed
to being useful in the woods.”
“Do you dislike living in the forest, then?” I ventured
to ask.
“Certainly not. I like living anywhere that keeps me
near uncle Chainbearer, and Frank. They are all to me,
now my excellent protectress and adviser is no more; and
their home is my home, their pleasure my pleasure, their
happiness mine.”
This might have been said in a way to render it suspicious
and sentimental; but it was not. On the contrary, it
was impulsive, and came from the heart. I saw by the
gratified look of Andries that he understood his niece, and
was fully aware how much he might rely on the truthful
character of the speaker. As for the girl herself, the moment
she had given utterance to what she felt, she shrunk
back, like one abashed at having laid bare feelings that
ought to have been kept in the privacy of her own bosom.
Unwilling to distress her, I turned the conversation in a
way to leave her to herself.
“Mr. Newcome seems a skilful manager of the multitude,”
I remarked. “He contrived very dexterously to give
to the twenty-six Congregationalists he had with him the
air of being a majority of the whole assembly; while, in
truth, they were barely a third of those present.”
“Let Jason Newcome alone for t'at!” exclaimed Andries.
“He unterstants mankint, he says, and sartainly he hast a
way of marching and countermarching just where he pleases
wit' t'ese people, makin' 'em t'ink t'e whole time t'ey are
doing just what t'ey want to do. It ist an art! major—it ist
an art!”
“I should think it must be, and one worth possessing; if,
indeed, it can be exercised with credit.”
“Ay, t'ere's the rub! Exerciset it is; but as for t'e credit,
t'at I will not answer for. It sometimes makes me
angry, and sometimes it makes me laugh, when I look on,
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and see t'e manner in which Jason makes t'e people rule
t'emselves, and how he wheels 'em apout, and faces 'em,
and t'rows 'em into line, and out of line, at t'eir own wort of
commant! His Excellency coult hartly do more wit' us,
a'ter t'e Baron[9] had given us his drill.”
“There must be some talent necessary, in order to possess
so much influence over one's fellow-creatures.”
“It is a talent you woult be ashamet to exercise, Mortaunt
Littlepage, t'ough you hat it in cart-loats. No man
can use such a talent wit'out peginning wit' lying and deceifing;
and you must be greatly changet, major, if you
are at the he't of your class, in such a school.”
“I am sorry to see, Chainbearer, that you have no better
opinion of my agent; I must look into the matter a little,
when this is the case.”
“You wilt fint him law-honest enough; for he swears
py t'e law, and lifs py t'e law. No fear for your tollars,
poy; t'ey pe all safe, unless inteet, t'ey haf all vanishet in
t'e law.”
As Andries was getting more and more Dutch, I knew he
was growing more and more warm, and I thought it might
be well to defer the necessary inquiries to a cooler moment.
This peculiarity I have often observed in most of those who
speak English imperfectly, or with the accent of some other
tongue. They fall back, as respects language, to that nearest
to nature, at those moments when natural feeling is asserting
its power over them, the least equivocally.
I now began to question the Chainbearer concerning the
condition in which he found the Nest-house and farm, over
which I had given him full authority, when he came to
the place, by a special letter to the agent. The people in
possession were of very humble pretensions, and had been
content to occupy the kitchen and servants' rooms, ever
since my grandfather's death, as indeed they had done long
before that event. It was owing to this moderation, as well
as to their perfect honesty, that I found nothing embezzled,
and most of the articles in good condition. As for the farm,
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it had flourished, on the “let alone” principle. The orchards
had grown, as a matter of course; and if the fields had not
been improved by judicious culture, neither had they been
exhausted by covetous croppings. In these particulars there
was nothing of which to complain. Things might have been
better, Andries thought; but, he also thought it was exceedingly
fortunate they were no worse. While we were conversing
on this theme, Dus moved about the room silently,
but with collected activity, having arranged the tea-table
with her own hands. When invited to take our seats at it—
everybody drew near to a tea-table in that day, unless when
there was too large a party to be accommodated — I was
surprised to find everything so perfectly neat, and some
things rich. The plates, knives, &c., were of good quality,
but the tray was actually garnished with a set of old-fashioned
silver, such as was made when tea was first used, of
small size, but very highly chased. The handles of the
spoons represented the stem of the tea-plant, and there was
a crest on each of them; while a full coat of arms was
engraved on the different vessels of the service, which were
four in all. I looked at the crest, in a vague but surprised
expectation of finding my own. It was entirely new to me.
Taking the cream-jug in my hand, I could recall no arms
resembling those that were engraved on it.
“I was surprised to find this plate here,” I observed;
“for, though my grandfather possessed a great deal of it,
for one of his means, I did not think he had enough to be
as prodigal of it as leaving it here would infer. This is
family plate, too; but those arms are neither Mordaunt nor
Littlepage. May I ask to whom they do belong?”
“The Malpones,” answered the Chainbearer. “T'e t'ings
are t'e property of Dus.”
“And you may add, uncle Chainbearer, that they are all
her property”—added the girl, quickly.
“I feel much honoured in being permitted to use them,
Miss Ursula,” I remarked; “for a very pretty set they
make.”
“Necessity, and not vanity, has brought them out to-day.
I broke the only tea-pot of yours there was in the house this
morning, and was in hopes Frank would have brought up
one from the store to supply its place, before it would be
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wanted; but he does not come. As for spoons, I can find
none belonging to the house, and we use these constantly.
As the tea-pot was indispensable, I thought I might as well
display all my wealth at once. But, this is the first time
the things have been used in many, many years!”
There was a plaintive melody in Dus's voice, spite of her
desire and her effort to speak with unconcern, that I found
exceedingly touching. While few of us enter into the exultation
of successful vulgarity, as it rejoices in its too often
random prosperity, it is in nature to sympathize with a
downward progress, and with the sentiments it leaves, when
it is connected with the fates of the innocent, the virtuous,
and the educated. That set of silver was all that remained
to Ursula Malbone of a physical character and which
marked the former condition of her family; and doubtless
she cherished it with no low feeling of morbid pride, but as
a melancholy monument of a condition to which all her
opinions, tastes and early habits constantly reminded her
she properly belonged. In this last point of view, the sentiment
was as respectable, and as much entitled to reverence,
as in the other case it would have been unworthy, and
meriting contempt.
There is a great deal of low misconception, as well as a
good deal of cant, beginning to prevail among us, on the
subject of the qualities that mark a gentleman, or a lady.
The day has gone by, and I trust for ever, when the mere
accidents of birth are to govern such a claim; though the
accidents of birth are very apt to supply the qualities that
really form the caste. For my own part, I believe in the
exaggerations of neither of the two extremes that so stubbornly
maintain their theories on this subject; or, that a
gentleman may not be formed exclusively by birth on the
one hand, and that the severe morality of the bible on the
other is by no means indispensable to the character. A
man may be a very perfect gentleman, though by no means
a perfect man, or a Christian; and he may be a very good
Christian, and very little of a gentleman. It is true, there
is a connection in manners, as a result, between the Christian
and the gentleman; but it is in the result, and not in
the motive. That Christianity has little necessary connection
with the character of a gentleman, may be seen in the
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fact that the dogmas of the first teach us to turn another
cheek to him who smites; while the promptings of the gentleman
are—not to wipe out the indignity in the blood of the
offender, but — to show that rather than submit to it, he is
ready to risk his own life.[10]
But, I repeat, there is no necessary connection between
the Christian and the gentleman, though the last who is the
first attains the highest condition of humanity. Christians,
under the influence of their educations and habits, often do
things that the code of the gentleman rejects; while it is
certain that gentlemen constantly commit unequivocal sins.
The morality of the gentleman repudiates meannesses and
low vices, rather than it rigidly respects the laws of God;
while the morality of the Christian is unavoidably raised or
depressed by the influence of the received opinions of his
social caste. I am not maintaining that “the ten commandments
were not given for the obedience of people of quality,”
for their obligations are universal; but, simply, that the
qualities of a gentleman are the best qualities of man unaided
by God, while the graces of the Christian come directly
from his mercy.
Nevertheless, there is that in the true character of a gentleman
that is very much to be respected. In addition to the
great indispensables of tastes, manners and opinions, based
on intelligence and cultivation, and all those liberal qualities
that mark his caste, he cannot and does not stoop to meannesses
of any sort. He is truthful out of self-respect, and
not in obedience to the will of God; free with his money,
because liberality is an essential feature of his habits, and
not in imitation of the self-sacrifice of Christ; superior to
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scandal and the vices of the busy-body, inasmuch as they
are low and impair his pride of character, rather than because
he has been commanded not to bear false witness
against his neighbour. It is a great mistake to confound
these two characters, one of which is a mere human embellishment
of the ways of a wicked world, while the other
draws near to the great end of human existence. The last
is a character I revere; while I am willing to confess that
I never meet with the first without feeling how vacant and
repulsive society would become without it; unless, indeed,
the vacuum could be filled by the great substance, of which,
after all, the gentleman is but the shadow.
Ursula Malbone lost nothing in my respect by betraying
the emotion she did, while thus speaking of this relic of old
family plate. I was glad to find, however, that she could
retain it; for, though dressed in no degree in a style unbecoming
her homely position as her uncle's housekeeper,
there were a neatness and taste in her attire that are not
often seen in remote parts of this country. On this subject,
the reader will indulge my weaknesses a little, if I pause to
say a word. Ursula had neither preserved in her dress the
style of one of her sex and condition in the world, nor yet
entirely adopted that common to girls of the class to which
she now seemingly belonged. It struck me that some of
those former garments that were the simplest in fashion,
and the most appropriate in material, had been especially
arranged for present use; and sweetly becoming were they,
to one of her style of countenance and perfection of form.
In that day, as every one knows, the different classes of
society — and, kingdom or republic, classes do, and ever
will exist in this country, as an incident of civilization; a
truth every one can see as respects those below, though his
vision may be less perfect as respects those above him —
but, every one knows that great distinctions in dress existed,
as between classes, all over the Christian world, at the close
of the American war, that are fast disappearing, or have
altogether disappeared. Now, Ursula had preserved just
enough of the peculiar attire of her own class, to let one
understand that she, in truth, belonged to it, without rendering
the distinction obtrusive. Indeed, the very character
of that which she did preserve, sufficiently told the story of
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her origin, since it was a subdued, rather than an exaggerated
imitation of that to which she had been accustomed,
as would have been the case with a mere copyist. I can
only add, that the effect was to render her sufficiently
charming.
“Taste t'ese cakes,” said old Andries, who, without the
slightest design, did love to exhibit the various merits of his
niece—“Dus mate t'em, and I 'll engage Matam Washington,
herself, couldn't make pleasanter!”
“If Mrs. Washington was ever thus employed,” I answered,
“she might turn pale with envy here. Better cakes
of the sort I never ate.”
“Of the sort is well added, Mr. Littlepage,” the girl
quietly observed; “my protectress and friend made me
rather skilful in this way, but the ingredients are not to be
had here as they were in her family.”
“Which, being a boarding-school for young ladies, was
doubtless better supplied than common, with the materials
and knowledge necessary for good cakes.”
Dus laughed, and it startled me, so full of a wild but
subsued melody did that laugh seem to be.
“Young ladies have many foibles imputed to them, of
which they are altogether innocent,” was her answer.
“Cakes were almost forbidden fruit in the school, and we
were taught to make them in pity to the palates of the
men.”
“Your future huspants, gal,” cried the Chainbearer, rising
to quit the room.
“Our fathers, brothers and uncles,” returned his niece,
laying an emphasis on the last word.
“I believe, Miss Ursula,” I resumed, as soon as Andries
had left us alone, “that I have been let behind the curtain
as respects your late school, having an acquaintance, of a
somewhat particular nature, with one of your old schoolfellows.”
My companion did not answer, but she fastened those
fascinating blue eyes of her's on me, in a way that asked a
hundred questions in a moment. I could not but see that
they were suffused with tears; allusions to her school often
producing that effect.
“I mean Miss Priscilla Bayard, who would seem to be,
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or to have been, a very good friend of your's.” I added, observing
that my companion was not disposed to say any
thing.
“Pris. Bayard!” Ursula now suffered to escape her, in
her surprise — “and she an acquaintance of a somewhat
particular nature!”
“My language has been incautious; not to say that of a
coxcomb. Certainly, I am not authorized to say more than
that our families are very intimate, and that there are some
particular reasons for that intimacy. I beg you to read
only as I have corrected the error.”
“I do not see that the correction changes things much;
and you will let me say I am grieved, sadly grieved, to
learn so much.”
This was odd! That Dus really meant what she said,
was plain enough by a face that had actually lost nearly all
of its colour, and which expressed an emotion that was most
extraordinary. Shall I own what a miserably conceited
coxcomb I was for a single moment? The truth must be
said, and I will confess it. The thought that crossed my
mind was this: — Ursula Malbone is pained at the idea that
the only man whom she had seen for a year, and who could,
by possibility, make any impression on one of her education
and tastes, was betrothed to another! Under ordinary circumstances,
this precocious preference might have caused
me to revolt at its exhibition; but there was far too much
of nature in all of Dus's emotions, acts and language, to produce
any other impression on me than that of intense interest.
I have always dated the powerful hold that this girl
so soon obtained on my heart, to the tumult of feeling
awakened in me, at that singular moment. Love at first
sight may be ridiculous, but it is sometimes true. That a
passion may be aroused by a glance, or a smile, or any
other of those secret means of conveying sympathy with
which nature has supplied us, I fully believe; though its
duration must depend on qualities of a higher and more
permanent influence. It is the imagination that is first excited;
the heart coming in for its share by later and less
perceptible degrees.
My delusion, however, did not last long. Whether Ursula
Malbone was conscious of the misconstruction to which
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she was liable, I cannot say; but I rather think not, as she
was much too innocent to dread evil; or whether she saw
some other necessity for explaining herself remains a secret
with me to this hour; but explain she did. How judiciously
this was done, and with how much of that female tact that
taught her to conceal the secrets of her friend, will appear
to those who are sufficiently interested in the subject to pursue
it.
eaf076v1.n9[9] This allusion is evidently to a German officer, who introduced
the Prussian drill into the American army, Baron Steuben—or Stuy
ben, as I think he must have been called in Germany—Steuben, as
he is universally termed in this country. — Editor.
eaf076v1.n10[10] Mr. Mordaunt Littlepage would seem to have got hold of the only
plausible palliative for a custom that originated in those times when
abuses could only be corrected by the strong arm; and which, in our
own days, is degenerating into the merest system of chicanery and
trick. The duellist who, in his “practice,” gets to be “certain death
to a shingle,” and then misses his man, instead of illustrating his
chivalry, merely lets the world into the secret that his nerves are not
equal to his drill! There was something as respectable as anything
can be in connection with a custom so silly, in the conduct of the
Englishman who called out to his adversary, a near-sighted man,
“that if he wished to shoot at him, he must turn his pistol in another
direction.” — Editor.
CHAPTER XII.
“Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.—
Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love
Accompany your hearts!”
Midsummer-Night's Dream.
“I ought not to leave you in any doubts as to my meaning,
Mr. Littlepage,” resumed Ursula, after a short pause.
“Priscilla Bayard is very dear to me, and is well worthy
of all your love and admiration—”
“Admiration if you please, and as much as you please,
Miss Ursula; but there is no such feeling as love, as yet
certainly, between Miss Bayard and myself.”
The countenance of Dus brightened sensibly. Truth herself,
she gave immediate credit to what I said; and I could
not but see that she was greatly relieved from some unaccountable
apprehension. Still, she smiled a little archly,
and perhaps a little sadly, as she continued,—
“`As yet, certainly,' is very equivocal on your side, when
a young woman like Priscilla Bayard is concerned. It may
at any moment be converted into `now, certainly,' with that
certainty the other way.”
“I will not deny it. Miss Bayard is a charming creature—
yet, I do not know how it is—there seems to be a fate
in these things. The peculiar relation to which I alluded,
and alluded so awkwardly, is nothing more than the engagement
of my youngest sister to her brother. There is no
secret in that engagement, so I shall not affect to conceal
it.”
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“And it is just such an engagement as might lead to one
between yourself and Priscilla!” exclaimed Dus, certainly
not without alarm.
“It might, or it might not, as the parties happen to view
such things. With certain temperaments it might prove an
inducement; while, with others, it would not.”
“My interest in the subject,” continued Dus, “proceeds
altogether from the knowledge I have that another has
sought Miss Bayard; and I will own with my hearty good
wishes for his success. You struck me as a most formidable
rival; nor do you seem any the less so, now I know that
your families are to be connected.”
“Have no fears on my account, for I am as heart-whole
as the day I first saw the lady.”
A flash of intelligence — a most meaning flash it was —
gleamed on the handsome face of my companion; and it
was followed by a mournful, though I still thought not an
entirely dissatisfied smile.
“These are matters about which one had better not say
much,” Dus added, after a pause. “My sex has its `peculiar
rights,' and no woman should disregard them. You
have been fortunate in finding all your tenants collected together,
Mr. Littlepage, in a way to let you see them at a
single glance.”
“I was fortunate in one sense, and a most delightful introduction
I had to the settlement — such an introduction as
I would travel another hundred miles to have repeated.”
“Are you, then, so fond of raising? — or, do you really
love excitement to such a degree as to wish to get under a
trap, like one of the poor rabbits my uncle sometimes
takes?”
“I am not thinking of the raising, or of the frame; although
your courage and presence of mind might well indelibly
impress both on my mind” — Dus looked down, and
the colour mounted to her temples — “but, I was thinking
of a certain song, an Indian song, sung to Scotch music,
that I heard a few miles from the clearings, and which was
my real introduction to the pleasant things one may both
hear and see, in this retired part of the world.”
“Which is not so retired after all, that flattery cannot
penetrate it, I find. It is pleasant to hear one's songs
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extolled, even though they may be Indian; but, it is not half
so pleasant as to hear tidings of Priscilla Bayard. If you
wish truly to charm my ear, talk of her!”
“The attachment seems mutual, for I can assure you
Miss Bayard manifested just the same interest in you.”
“In me! Priscilla then remembers a poor creature like
me, in her banishment from the world! Perhaps she remembers
me so much the more, because I am banished. I
hope she does not, cannot think I regret my condition —
that, I could hardly forgive her.”
“I rather think she does not; I know she gives you
credit for more than common excellencies.”
“It is strange that Priscilla Bayard should speak of me
to you! I have been a little unguarded myself, Mr. Littlepage,
and have said so much, that I begin to feel the necessity
of saying something more. There is some excuse for
my not feeling in your presence as in that of a stranger;
since uncle Chainbearer has your name in his mouth at
least one hundred times each day. Twelve different times
in one hour did he speak of you yesterday.”
“Excellent old Andries! It is the pride of my life that
so honest a man loves me; and now for the explanation I
am entitled to receive as his friend, by your own acknowledgment.”
Dus smiled, a little saucily I thought—but saucily or not,
that smile made her look extremely lovely. She reflected a
moment, like one who thinks intensely, even bending her
head under the painful mental effort; then she drew her
form to its usual attitude, and spoke.
“It is always best to be frank,” she said, “and it can do
no harm, while it may do good, to be explicit with you.
You will not forget, Mr. Littlepage, that I believe myself to
be conversing with my uncle's very best friend?”
“I am too proud of the distinction to forget it, under any
circumstances; and least of all in your presence.”
“Well, then, I will be frank. Priscilla Bayard was, for
eight years, my associate and closest friend. Our affection
for each other commenced when we were mere children,
and increased with time and knowledge. About a year before
the close of the war, my brother Frank, who is now
here as my uncle's surveyor, found opportunities to quit his
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regiment, and to come to visit me quite frequently—indeed,
his company was sent to Albany, where he could see me as
often as he desired. To see me, was to see Priscilla; for
we were inseparable; and to see Priscilla was, for poor
Frank at least, to love her. He made me his confidant, and
my alarm was nothing but natural concern lest he might
have a rival as formidable as you.”
A flood of light was let in upon me by this brief explanation,
though I could not but wonder at the simplicity, or
strength of character, that induced so strange a confidence.
When I got to know Dus better, the whole became clear
enough; but, at the moment, I was a little surprised.
“Be at ease on my account, Miss Malbone—”
“Why not call me Dus at once? — You will do it in a
week, like every one else here; and it is better to begin our
acquaintance as I am sure it will end. Uncle Chainbearer
calls me Dus; Frank calls me Dus; most of your settlers
call me Dus, to my very face; and even our blacks call me
Miss Dus. You cannot wish to be singular.”
“I will gladly venture so far as to call you Ursula; but
Dus does not please me.”
“No! — I have become so accustomed to be called Dus
by all my friends, that it sounds distant to be called by any
other name. Do you not think Dus a pretty diminutive?”
“I did not, most certainly; though all these things depend
on the associations. Dus Malbone sounded sweetly
enough in Priscilla Bayard's mouth; but I fear it will not
be so pleasant in mine.”
“Do as you please—but do not call me Miss Ursula, or
Miss Malbone. It would have displeased me once, not to
have been so addressed by any man; but it has an air of
mockery, now that I know myself to be only the companion
and housekeeper of a poor chainbearer.”
“And yet, the owner of that silver, the lady I see seated
at this table, in this room, is not so very inappropriately
addressed as Miss Ursula!”
“You know the history of the silver, and the table and
room are your own. No — Mr. Littlepage, we are poor —
very, very poor — uncle Chainbearer, Frank and I — all
alike, have nothing.”
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This was not said despairingly, but with a sincerity that
I found exceedingly touching.
“Frank, at least, should have something” — I answered.
“You tell me he was in the army?”
“He was a captain at the last, but what did he receive
for that? We do not complain of the country, any of us;
neither my uncle, my brother, nor myself; for we know it
is poor, like ourselves, and that its poverty even is like our
own, that of persons reduced. I was long a charge on my
friends, and there have been debts to pay. Could I have
known it, such a thing should not have happened. Now I
can only repay those who have discharged these obligations
by coming into the wilderness with them. It is a terrible
thing for a woman to be in debt.”
“But, you have remained in this house; you surely have
not been in the hut, at Mooseridge!”
“I have gone wherever uncle Chainbearer has gone, and
shall go with him, so long as we both live. Nothing shall
ever separate us again. His years demand this, and gratitude
is added to my love. Frank might possibly do better
than work for the little he receives; but he will not quit us.
The poor love each other intensely!”
“But I have desired your uncle to use this house, and
for your sake I should think he would accept the offer.”
“How could he, and carry chain twenty miles distant?
We have been here, occasionally, a few days at a time;
but the work was to be done, and it must be done on the
land itself.”
“Of course, you merely gave your friends the pleasure
of your company, and looked a little to their comforts, on
their return from a hard day's work?”
Dus raised her eyes to mine; smiled; then she looked
sad, her under-lip quivering slightly; after which a smile
that was not altogether without humour succeeded. I watched
these signs of varying feeling with an interest I cannot
describe; for the play of virtuous and ingenuous emotion on
a lovely female countenance is one of the rarest sights in
nature.
“I can carry chain” — said the girl, at the close of this
exhibition of feeling.
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“You can carry chain, Ursula — Dus, or whatever I am
to call you—”
“Call me Dus—I love that name best.”
“You can carry chain, I suppose is true enough — but,
you do not mean that you have?”
The face of Dus flushed; but she looked me full in the
eye, as she nodded her head to express an affirmative; and
she smiled as sweetly as ever woman smiled.
“For amusement—to say you have done it—in jest!”
“To help my uncle and brother, who had not the means
to hire a second man.”
“Good God! Miss Malbone—Ursula—Dus—”
“The last is the most proper name for a Chainbearess,”
rejoined the girl, smiling; and actually taking my hand by
an involuntary movement of her sympathy in the shock I so
evidently felt — “But, why should you look upon that little
toil as so shocking, when it is healthful and honest? You
are thinking of a sister reduced to what strikes you as man's
proper work.”
Dus relinquished my hand almost as soon as she had
touched it; and she did it with a slight start, as if shocked
at her own temerity.
“What is man's work, and man's work, only.”
“Yet, woman can perform it; and, as uncle Chainbearer
will tell you, perform it well. I had no other concern, the
month I was at work, than the fear that my strength would
not enable me to do as much as my uncle and brother, and
thus lessen the service they could render you each day.
They kept me on the dry land, so there were no wet feet,
and your woods are as clear of underbrush as an orchard.
There is no use in attempting to conceal the fact, for it is
known to many, and would have reached your ears sooner
or later. Then concealment is always painful to me, and
never more so than when I hear you, and see you treating
your hired servant as an equal.”
“Miss Malbone!—For God's sake, let me hear no more
of this — old Andries judged rightly of me, in wishing to
conceal this; for I should never have allowed it to go on for
a moment.”
“And in what manner could you have prevented it, major
Littlepage? My uncle has taken the business of you at so
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much the day, finding surveyor and labourers — poor dear
Frank! He, at least, does not rank with the labourers;
and as for my uncle, he has long had an honest pride in
being the best chainbearer in the country — why need his
niece scruple about sharing in his well-earned reputation?”
“But you, Miss Malbone—dearest Dus—who have been
so educated, who are born a lady, who are loved by Priscilla
Bayard, the sister of Frank, are not in your proper
sphere, while thus occupied.”
“It is not so easy to say what is the proper sphere of a
woman. I admit it ought to be, in general, in the domestic
circle, and under the domestic roof; but circumstances must
control that. We hear of wives who follow their husbands
to the camp, and we hear of nuns who come out of their
convents to attend the sick and wounded in hospitals. It
does not strike me, then, as so bad in a girl who offers to
aid her parent, as I have aided mine, when the alternative
was to suffer by want.”
“Gracious Providence! And Andries has kept me in
ignorance of all this! He knew my purse would have been
his, and how could you have been in want in the midst of
the abundance that reigns in this settlement, which is only
fifteen or twenty miles from your hut, as I know from the
Chainbearer's letters.”
“Food is plenty, I allow, but we had no money; and
when the question was between beggary or exertion, we
merely chose the last. My uncle did try old Killian, the
black, for a day; but you know how hard it is to make one
of those people understand anything that is a little intricate;
and then I offered my services. I am intelligent enough, I
trust” — the girl smiled a little proudly as she said this —
“and you can have no notion how active and strong I am,
for light work like this, and on my feet, until you put me to
the proof. Remember, carrying chain is neither chopping
wood nor piling logs; nor is it absolutely unfeminine.”
“Nor raising churches” — I answered, smiling; for it
was not easy to resist the contagion of the girl's spirit—“at
which business I have been an eye-witness of your dexterity.
However, there will now be an end of this. It is fortunately
in my power to offer such a situation and such emoluments
to Mr. Malbone, as will at once enable him to place his sister
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in this house as its mistress, and under a roof that is at least
respectable.”
“Bless you for that!” cried Dus, making a movement
towards catching my hand again; but checking it in time
to render the deep blush that instantly suffused her face,
almost unnecessary. “Bless you for that! Frank is willing
to do anything that is honest, and capable of doing anything
that a gentleman should do. I am the great encumbrance
on the poor fellow; for, could he leave me, many situations
must be open to him in the towns. But, I cannot quit my
uncle, and Frank will not quit me. He does not understand
uncle Chainbearer.”
“Frank must be a noble fellow, and I honour him for his
attachment to such a sister. This makes me only the more
anxious to carry out my intentions.”
“Which are such, I hope, that there is no impropriety in
his sister's knowing them?”
This was said with such an expression of interest in the
sweet, blue eyes, and with so little of the air of common
curiosity, that it completely charmed me.
“Certainly there is none,” I answered, promptly enough
even for a young man who was acting under the influence
of so much ingenuous and strong native feeling; “and I
shall have great pleasure in telling you. We have long been
dissatisfied with our agent on this estate, and I had determined
to offer it to your uncle. The same difficulty would
have to be overcome in this case as there was in making
him a safe surveyor—the want of skill in figures; now, this
difficulty will not exist in the instance of your brother; and
the whole family, Chainbearer as well as the rest, will be
benefited by giving the situation to Frank.”
“You call him Frank!” cried Dus, laughing, and evidently
delighted with what she heard. “That is a good
omen; but, if you raise me to the station of an agent's sister,
I do not know but I shall insist on being called Ursula, at
least, if not Miss Ursula.”
I scarce knew what to make of this girl; there was so
much of gaiety, and even fun, blended with a mine of as
deep feeling as I ever saw throwing up its signs to the
human countenance. Her brother's prospects had made
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her even gay; though she still looked as if anxious to hear
more.
“You may claim which you please, for Frank shall have
his name put into the new power of attorney within the hour.
Mr. Newcome has had a hint, by letter, of what is to come,
and professes great happiness in getting rid of a vast deal
of unrequited trouble.”
“I am afraid there is little emolument, if he is glad to be
rid of the office.”
“I do not say he is glad; I only say he professes to be
so. These are different things with certain persons. As
for the emolument, it will not be much certainly; though it
will be enough to prevent Frank's sister from carrying chain,
and leave her to exercise her talents and industry in their
proper sphere. In the first place, every lease on the estate
is to be renewed; and, there being a hundred, and the tenant
bearing the expense, it will at once put a considerable sum
at your brother's disposition. I cannot say that the annual
commissions will amount to a very great deal, though they
will exceed a hundred a year by the terms on which the
lands will be re-let. The use of this house and farm, however,
I did intend to offer to your uncle; and, for the same
reason, I shall offer them to Frank.”
“With this house and farm we shall be rich!” exclaimed
Dus, clasping her hands in delight. “I can gather a school
of the better class of girls, and no one will be useless — no
one idle. If I teach your tenants' daughters some of the
ideas of their sex and station, Mr. Littlepage, you will reap
the benefit in the end. That will be some slight return for
all your kindness.”
“I wish all of your sex, and of the proper age, who are
connected with me, no better instructress. Teach them your
own warmth of heart, your own devotedness of feeling, your
own truth, and your own frankness, and I will come and
dwell on my own estate, as the spot nearest to paradise.”
Dus looked a little alarmed, I thought, as if she feared
she might have uttered too much; or, perhaps, that I was
uttering too much. She rose, thanked me hurriedly, but in
a very lady-like manner, and set about removing the breakfast
service, with as much diligence as if she had been a
mere menial.
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Such was my very first conversation with Ursula Malbone;
her, with whom I have since held so many, and those
that have been very different! When I rose to seek the
Chainbearer, it was with a feeling of interest in my late
companion that was as strong as it was sudden. I shall
not deny that her beauty had its influence—it would be unnatural
that it should not — but it was less her exceeding
beauty, and Ursula Malbone would have passed for one of
the fairest of her sex — but it was less her beauty that attracted
me than her directness, truth, and ingenuousness,
so closely blended as all were with the feelings and delicacy
of her sex. She had certainly done things which, had I
merely heard of them, would have struck me unpleasantly,
as even bold and forward, and which may now so strike the
reader; but this would be doing Dus injustice. No act, no
word of her's, not even the taking of my hand, seemed to
me, at the time, as in the least forward; the whole movement
being so completely qualified by that intensity of feeling
which caused her to think only of her brother. Nature
and circumstances had combined to make her precisely the
character she was; and I will confess I did not wish her to
be, in a single particular, different from what I found her.
Talk of Pris. Bayard in comparison with Ursula Malbone!
Both had beauty, it is true, though the last was far the handsomest;
both had delicacy, and sentiment, and virtue, and
all that pertains to a well-educated young woman, if you
will; but, Dus had a character of her own, and principles,
and an energy, and a decision, that made her the girl of ten
thousand. I do not think I could be said to be actually in
love when I left that room, for I do not wish to appear so
very easy to receive impressions as all that would come to;
but I will own no female had ever before interested me a
tenth part as much, though I had known, and possibly admired
her, a twelvemonth.
In the court I found Andries measuring his chains. This
he did periodically; and it was as conscientiously as if he
were weighing gold. The old man manifested no consciousness
of the length of the tête-à-tête I had held with his niece;
but, on the contrary, the first words he uttered were to an
effect that proved he fancied I had been alone.
“I peg your parton, lat,” he said, holding his
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measuringrod in his mouth while he spoke. “I peg your parton, put
this is very necessary work. I do not wish to haf any of
your Yankee settlers crying out hereafter against the chainpearer's
surveys. Let 'em come a huntret or a t'ousant
years hence, if t'ey will, and measure t'e lant; I want olt
Andries' survey to stant.”
“The variation of the compass will make some difference
in the two surveys, my good friend, unless the surveyors
are better than one commonly finds.”
The old man dropped his rod and his chain, and looked
despondingly at me.
“True,” he said, with emphasis. “You haf hit t'e nail
on t'e heat, Mortaunt—t'at fariation is t'e ferry teffil to get
along wit'! I haf triet it t'is-a-way, and I haf triet it t'at-a-way,
and never coult I make heat or tail of it! I can see
no goot of a fariation at all.”
“What does your pretty assistant Dus, think of it? Dus,
the pretty Chainbearer? You will lose your old, hard-earned
appellation, which will be borne off by Miss Malbone.”
“T'en Dus hast peen telling you all apout it! A woman
never can keep a secret. No, natur' hast mate 'em talkatif,
and t'e parrot will chatter.”
“A woman likes variation, notwithstanding — did you
consult Dus on that difficulty?”
“No, no, poy; I sait not'ing to Dus, ant I am sorry she
hast sait anyt'ing to you apout t'is little matter of t'e chain.
It was sorely against my will, Mortaunt, t'at t'e gal ever
carriet it a rot; and was it to do over ag'in, she shoult not
carry it a rot—yet it woult have tone your heart goot to see
how prettily she did her work; and how quick she wast;
and how true; and how accurate she put down t'e marker;
and how sartain was her eye. Natur' made t'at fery gal
for a chainpearer!”
“And a chainbearer she has been, and a chainbearer she
ever will be, until she throws her chains on some poor fellow,
and binds him down for life. Andries, you have an angel
with you here, and not a woman!”
Most men in the situation of the Chainbearer might have
been alarmed at hearing such language coming from a young
man, and under all the circumstances of the case. But
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Andries Coejemans never had any distrust of mortal who
possessed his ordinary confidence; and I question if he ever
entertained a doubt about myself on any point, the result of
his own, rather than of my character. Instead of manifesting
uneasiness or displeasure, he turned to me, his whole
countenance illuminated with the affection he felt for his
niece, and said—
“T'e gal ist an excellent gal, Mortaunt; a capital creature!
It woult haf tone your heart goot, I tell you, to see
her carry chain! Your pocket is none t'e worse for t'e
mont' she worked, t'ough I woult not haf you t'ink I charget
for her ast for a man—no—she is town at only half-price,
woman's work peing woman's work; yet I do pelieve, on
my conscience, t'at we went over more grount in t'at mont',
t'an we coult haf tone wit' any man t'at wast to pe hiret in
t'is part of t'e worlt—I do, inteet!”
How strange all this sounded to me! Charged for work
done by Ursula Malbone, and charged at half-price! We
are the creatures of convention, and the slaves of opinions
that come we know not whence. I had got the notions of
my caste, obtained in the silent, insinuating manner in
which all our characters are formed; and nothing short of
absolute want could have induced me to accept pecuniary
compensation from an individual for any personal service
rendered. I had no profession, and it did not comport with
our usages for a gentleman to receive money for personal
service out of the line of a profession; an arbitrary rule,
but one to which most of us submit with implicit obedience.
The idea that Dus had been paid by myself for positive toil,
therefore, was extremely repugnant to me; and it was only
after reflection that I came to view the whole affair as I
ought, and to pass to the credit of the noble-minded girl,
and this without any drawback, an act that did her so much
honour. I wish to represent myself as no better, or wiser,
or more rational than I was; and, I fancy few young men
of my age and habits would hear with much delight, at first,
that the girl he felt himself impelled to love had been thus
employed; while, on the other hand, few would fail to arrive
at the same conclusions, on reflection, as those I reached
myself.
The discourse with Andries Coejemans was interrupted
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by the sudden entrance of Frank Malbone into the court.
This was my first meeting with my young surveyor, and
Chainbearer introduced us to each other in his usual hearty
and frank manner. In a minute we were acquainted; the
old man inquiring as to the success of the settlers in getting
up their “meetin'-us.”
“I staid until they had begun to place the rafters,” answered
young Malbone, cheerfully, “and then I left them.
The festivities are to end with a ball, I hear; but I was too
anxious to learn how my sister reached home — I ought to
say reached the 'Nest — to remain. We have little other
home now, Mr. Littlepage, than the hut in the woods, and
the roof your hospitality offers.”
“Brother soldiers, sir, and brother soldiers in such a
cause, ought to have no more scruples about accepting such
hospitalities, as you call them, than in offering them. I am
glad, however, that you have adverted to the subject, inasmuch
as it opens the way to a proposition I have intended
to make; which, if accepted, will make me your guest, and
which may as well be made now as a week later.”
Both Andries and Frank looked surprised; but I led them
to a bench on the open side of the court, and invited them
to be seated, while I explained myself. It may be well to
say a word of that seat, in passing. It stood on the verge of
a low cliff of rocks, on the side of the court which had been
defended by palisades, when the French held the Canadas,
and the remains of which were still to be seen. Here, as I
was told before we left the spot, Dus, my pretty chainbearer,
with a woman's instinct for the graceful and beautiful, had
erected an arbour, principally with her own hands, planted
one of the swift-growing vines of our climate, and caused a
seat to be placed within. The spot commanded a pleasing
view of a wide expanse of meadows, and of a distant hillside,
that still lay in the virgin forest. Andries told me that
his niece had passed much of her leisure time in that arbour,
since the growth of the plant, with the advance of the season,
had brought the seat into the shade.
Placing myself between the Chainbearer and Malbone, I
communicated the intention I had formed of making the
latter my agent. As an inducement to accept the situation,
I offered the use of the Nest-house and Nest-farm, reserving
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to myself the room or two that had been my grandfather's,
and that only at the times of my annual visits to the property.
As the farm was large, and of an excellent quality
of land, it would abundantly supply the wants of a family
of modest habits, and even admit of sales to produce the
means of purchasing such articles of foreign growth as might
be necessary. In a word, I laid before the listeners the whole
of my plan, which was a good deal enlarged by a secret wish
to render Ursula comfortable, without saying anything about
the motive.
The render is not to suppose I was exhibiting any extraordinary
liberality in doing that which I have related. It
must not be forgotten that land was a drug in the State of
New York in the year 1784, as it is to-day on the Miami,
Ohio, Mississippi, and other inland streams. The proprietors
thought but little of their possessions as the means of present
support, but rather maintained their settlements than their
settlements maintained them; looking forward to another
age, and to their posterity, for the rewards of all their trouble
and investments.[11]
It is scarcely necessary to say my proposals were gladly
accepted. Old Andries squeezed my hand, and I understood
the pressure as fully as if he had spoken with the eloquence
of Patrick Henry. Frank Malbone was touched; and all
parties were perfectly satisfied. The surveyor had his fieldinkstand
with him, as a matter of course, and I had the
Power-of-Attorney in my pocket ready for the insertion of
the Chainbearer's name, would he accept the office of agent.
That of Malbone was written in its stead; I signed; Andries
witnessed; and we left the seat together; Frank Malbone,
in effect, temporarily master of the house in which we were,
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and his charming sister, as a necessary consequence, its
mistress. It was a delicious moment to me, when I saw
Dus throw herself into her brother's arms, and weep on his
bosom, as he communicated to her the joyful intelligence.
eaf076v1.n11[11] The Manor of Rensselaerwick virtually extends forty-eight miles
east and west, and twenty-four north and south. It is situated in the
very heart of New York, with three incorporated cities within its
limits, built, in part, on small, older grants. Albany is a town of near,
if not of quite 40,000 souls; and Troy must now contain near 28,000.
Yet, the late Patroon, in the last conversation he ever held with the
writer, only a few months before he died, stated that his grandfather
was the first proprietor who ever reaped any material advantage from
the estate, and his father the first who received any income of considerable
amount. The home property, farms and mills, furnished the
income of the family for more than a century. — Editor.
CHAPTER XIII.
“A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies
your text?”
Twelfth Night; or What You Will.
A month glided swiftly by. During that interval, Frank
Malbone was fully installed, and Andries consented to suspend
operations with his chain, until this necessary work
was completed. Work it was; for every lease granted by
my grandfather having run out, the tenants had remained
on their farms by sufferance, or as occupants at will, holding
from year to year under parole agreements made with
Mr. Newcome, who had authority to go that far, but no
farther.
It was seldom that a landlord, in that day, as I have
already said, got any income from his lands during the first
few years of their occupation. The great thing was to induce
settlers to come; for, where there was so much competition,
sacrifices had to be made in order to effect this preliminary
object. In compliance with this policy, my grandfather
had let his wild lands for nominal rents in nearly
every instance, with here and there a farm of particular
advantages excepted; and, in most cases, the settler had
enjoyed the use of the farm for several years, for no rent at
all. He paid the taxes, which were merely nominal, and
principally to support objects that were useful to the immediate
neighbourhood; such as the construction of roads,
bridges, pounds, with other similar works, and the administration
of justice. At the expiration of this period of nonpayment
of rents, a small sum per acre was agreed to be
paid, rather than actually paid, not a dollar of which had
ever left the settlement. The landlord was expected to head
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all subscriptions for everything that was beneficial, or which
professed to be beneficial to the estate; and the few hundreds
a year, two or three at most, that my rent-roll actually exhibited,
were consumed among the farms of the Nest. It
was matter of record that not one shilling had the owner of
this property, as yet, been able to carry away with him for
his own private purposes. It is true, it had been in his
power to glean a little each year for such a purpose; but it
was not considered politic, and consequently it was not the
practice of the country, in regard to estates so situated and
before the revolution; though isolated cases to the contrary,
in which the landlord was particularly avaricious, or particularly
necessitous, may have existed. Our New York
proprietors, in that day, were seldom of the class that needed
money. Extravagance had been little known to the province,
and could not yet be known to the State; consequently, few
lost their property from their expenditures, though some did
from mismanagement. The trade of “puss in the corner,”
or of shoving a man out of his property, in order to place
oneself in it, was little practised previously to the revolution;
and the community always looked upon the intruder into
family property with a cold eye, unless he came into possession
by fair purchase, and for a sufficient price. Legal
speculations were then nearly unknown; and he who got
rich was expected to do so by manly exertions, openly exercised,
and not by the dark machinations of a sinister practice
of the law.
In our case, not a shilling had we, as yet, been benefited
by the property of Ravensnest. All that had ever been received,
and more too, had been expended on the spot; but a
time had now arrived when it was just and reasonable that
the farms should make some returns for all our care and
outlays.
Eleven thousand acres were under lease, divided among
somewhat less than a hundred tenants. Until the first day
of the succeeding April, these persons could hold their lands
under the verbal contracts; but, after that day, new leases
became necessary. It is not usual for the American landlord
to be exacting. It is out of his power, indeed, for the
simple reason that land is so much more abundant than
men; but, it is not the practice of the country, a careless
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indulgence being usually the sin of the caste; an indulgence
that admits of an accumulation of arrears which, when payday
does arrive, is apt to bring with it ill-blood and discontent.
It is an undeniable truth in morals, that, whatever
may be the feeling at the time, men are rarely grateful for
a government that allows their vices to have a free exercise.
They invariably endeavour to throw a portion of the odium
of their own misdeeds on the shoulders of those who should
have controlled them. It is the same with debt; for, however
much we may beg for lenity at the time, accumulations
of interest wear a very hostile aspect when they present
themselves in a sum-total, at a moment it is inconvenient to
balance the account. If those who have been thus placed
would only remember that there is a last great account that
every man must be called on to settle, arrearages and all,
the experience of their worldly affairs might suggest a lesson
that would be infinitely useful. It is fortunate for us, without
exception, that there is a Mediator to aid us in the task.
The time had come when Ravensnest might be expected
to produce something. Guided by the surveys, and our own
local knowledge, and greatly aided by the Chainbearer's
experience, Frank Malbone and I passed one entire fortnight
in classifying the farms; putting the lowest into the shilling
category; others into the eighteen pence; and a dozen farms
or so into the two shillings. The result was, that we placed
six thousand acres at a shilling a year rent; three thousand
eight hundred at eighteen pence the acre; and twelve hundred
acres at two shillings. The whole made a rental of
fourteen thousand one hundred shillings, or a fraction more
than seventeen hundred and forty-two dollars per annum.
This sounded pretty well for the year 1784, and it was exclusively
of the Nest farm, of Jason Newcome's mills and
timber-land, which he had hitherto enjoyed for nothing, or
for a mere nominal rent, and all the wild lands.
I will confess I exulted greatly in the result of our calculations.
Previously to that day, I had placed no dependence
on Revensnest for income, finding my support in the other
property I had inherited from my grandfather. On paper,
my income was more than doubled, for I received then only
some eleven hundred a year (I speak of dollars, not pounds)
from my other property. It is true, the last included a great
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many town-lots that were totally unproductive, but which
promised to be very valuable, like Ravensnest itself, at some
future day. Most things in America looked to the future,
then as now; though I trust the hour of fruition is eventually
to arrive. My town property has long since become very
valuable, and tolerably productive.
As soon as our scheme for re-letting was matured, Frank
summoned the occupants of the farms, in bodies of ten, to
present themselves at the Nest, in order to take their new
leases. We had ridden round the estate, and conversed with
the tenantry, and had let my intentions be known previously,
so that little remained to be discussed. The farms were all
re-let for three lives, and on my own plan, no one objecting
to the rent, which, it was admitted all round, was not only
reasonable, but low. Circumstances were then too recent
to admit of the past's being forgotten; and the day when the
last lease was signed was one of general satisfaction. I did
think of giving a landlord's dinner, and of collecting the
whole settlement in a body, for the purposes of jovial and
friendly communion; but old Andries threw cold water on
the project.
“T'at would do, Mortaunt,” he said, “if you hat only
raal New Yorkers, or Middle States' men to teal wit'; but
more t'an half of t'ese people are from t'e Eastern States,
where t'ere are no such t'ings as lantlorts and tenants, on a
large scale you unterstant; and t'ere isn't a man among 'em
all t'at isn't looking forwart to own his farm one tay, by
hook or by crook. T'ey 're as jealous of t'eir tignities as if
each man wast a full colonel, and will not t'ank you for a
tinner at which t'ey will seem to play secont fittle.”
Although I knew the Chainbearer had his ancient Dutch
prejudices against our eastern brethren, I also knew that
there was a good deal of truth in what he said. Frank
Malbone, who was Rhode Island born, had the same notions,
I found on inquiry; and I was disposed to defer to
his opinions. Frank Malbone was a gentleman himself, and
men of that class are always superior to low jealousies; but
Frank must know better how to appreciate the feelings of
those among whom he had been bred and born than I could
possibly know how to do it myself. The project of the dinner
was accordingly abandoned.
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It remained to make a new arrangement and a final settlement
with Mr. Jason Newcome, who was much the most
thriving man at Ravensnest; appearing to engross in his
single person all the business of the settlement. He was
magistrate, supervisor, deacon, according to the Congregational
plan, or whatever he is called, miller, store-keeper,
will-drawer, tavern-keeper by deputy, and adviser-general,
for the entire region. Everything seemed to pass through
his hands; or, it would be better to say, everything entered
them, though little indeed came out again. This man was
one of those moneyed gluttons, on a small scale, who live
solely to accumulate; in my view, the most odious character
on earth; the accumulations having none of the legitimate
objects of proper industry and enterprise in view. So long
as there was a man near him whom he supposed to be richer
than himself, Mr. Newcome would have been unhappy;
though he did not know what to do with the property he
had already acquired. One does not know whether to detest
or to pity such characters the most; since, while they are
and must be repugnant to every man of right feelings and
generous mind, they carry in their own bosoms the worm
that never dies, to devour their own vitals.
Mr. Newcome had taken his removal from the agency in
seeming good part, affecting a wish to give it up from the
moment he had reason to think it was to be taken from him.
On this score, therefore, all was amicable, not a complaint
being made on his side. On the contrary, he met Frank
Malbone with the most seeming cordiality, and we proceeded
to business with as much apparent good-will as had been
manifested in any of the previous bargains. Mr. Newcome
did nothing directly; a circuitous path being the one he had
been accustomed to travel from childhood.
“You took the mill-lot and the use of five hundred acres
of wood-land from my grandfather for three lives; or failing
these, for a full term of one-and-twenty years, I find, Mr.
Newcome,” I remarked, as soon as we were seated at business,
“and for a nominal rent; the mills to be kept in repair,
and to revert to the landlord at the termination of the
lease.”
“Yes, major Littlepage, that was the bargain I will allow,
though a hard one has it proved to me. The war come
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on”—this man was what was called liberally educated, but
he habitually used bad grammar—“The war come on, and
with it hard times, and I didn't know but the major would
be willing to consider the circumstances, if we make a new
bargain.”
“The war cannot have had much effect to your prejudice,
as grain of all sorts bore a high price; and I should think
the fact that large armies were near by, to consume everything
you had to sell, and that at high prices, more than
compensated for any disadvantage it might have induced.
You had the benefits of two wars, Mr. Newcome; that of
1775, and a part of that of 1756.”
My tenant made no answer to this, finding I had reflected
on the subject, and was prepared to answer him. After a
pause, he turned to more positive things.
“I suppose the major goes on the principle of supposing
a legal right in an old tenant to enj'y a new lease? I 'm
told he has admitted this much in all his dealin's.”
“Then you have been misinformed, sir. I am not weak
enough to admit a right that the lease itself, which, in the
nature of things, must and does form the tenant's only title,
contradicts in terms. Your legal interest in the property
ceases altogether in a few days from this time.”
“Y-a-a-s—y-a-a-s—sir, I conclude it doose,” said the
'squire, leaning back in his chair, until his body was at an
angle of some sixty or seventy degrees with the floor—“I
conclude it doose accordin' to the covenants; but, between
man and man, there ought to be suthin' more bindin'.”
“I know of nothing more binding in a lease than its covenants,
Mr. Newcome.”
“Wa-a-l” — how that man would `wa-a-a-l' when he
wished to circumvent a fellow-creature; and with what a
Jesuitical accent he did pronounce the word!—“Wa-a-l—
that's accordin' to folk's idees. A covenant may be hard;
and then, in my judgment, it ought to go for nothin'. I'm
ag'in all hard covenants.”
“Harkee, frient Jason,” put in the Chainbearer, who was
an old acquaintance of Mr. Newcome's, and appeared thoroughly
to understand his character—“Harkee, frient Jason;
do you gif pack unexpected profits, ven it so happens t'at
more are mate on your own pargains t'an were looket for?”
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“It's not of much use to convarse with you, Chainbearer,
on such subjects, for we 'll never think alike,” answered the
'squire, leaning still farther back in his chair; “you 're
what I call a partic'lar man, in your notions, and we should
never agree.”
“Still, there is good sense in Chainbearer's question,” I
added. “Unless prepared to answer `yes,' I do not see how
you can apply your own principle with any justice. But,
let this pass as it will, why are covenants made, if they are
not to be regarded?”
“Wa-a-l, now, accordin' to my notion, a covenant in a
lease is pretty much like a water-course in a map; not a
thing to be partic'lar at all about; but, as water-courses look
well on a map, so covenants read well in a lease. Landlords
like to have 'em, and tenants a'n't partic'lar.”
“You can hardly be serious in either case, I should hope,
Mr. Newcome, but are pleased to exercise your ingenuity
on us for your own amusement. There is nothing so particular
in the covenants of your lease as to require any case
of conscience to decide on its points.”
“There 's this in it, major, that you get the whull property
back ag'in, if you choose to claim it.”
“Claim it!—The whole property has been mine, or my
predecessors', ever since it was granted to us by the crown.
All your rights come from your lease; and when that terminates,
your rights terminate.”
“Not accordin' to my judgment, major; not accordin' to
my judgment. I built the mills, at my own cost, you 'll remember.”
“I certainly know, sir, that you built the mills, at what
you call your own cost; that is, you availed yourself of a
natural mill-seat, used our timber and other materials, and
constructed the mills, such as they are, looking for your
reward in their use for the term of a quarter of a century,
for a mere nominal rent — having saw-logs at command as
you wanted them, and otherwise enjoying privileges under
one of the most liberal leases that was ever granted.”
“Yes, sir, but that was in the bargain I made with your
grand'ther. It was agreed between us, at the time I took the
place, that I was to cut logs at will, and of course use the
materials on the ground for buildin'. You see, major, your
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grand'ther wanted mills built desperately; and so he gave
them conditions accordin'ly. You 'll find every syllable on't
in the lease.”
“No doubt, Mr. Newcome; and you will also find a covenant
in the same lease, by which your interest in the property
is to cease in a few days.”
“Wa-a-ll, now, I don't understand leases in that way.
Surely it was never intended a man should erect mills, to
lose all right in 'em at the end of five-and-twenty years!”
“That will depend on the bargain made at the time.
Some persons erect mills and houses that have no rights in
them at all. They are paid for their work as they build.”
“Yes, yes—carpenters and mill-wrights, you mean. But
I 'm speakin' of no such persons; I 'm speakin' of honest,
hard-workin', industrious folks, that give their labour and
time to build up a settlement; and not of your mechanics
who work for hire. Of course, they 're to be paid for what
they do, and there 's an eend on 't.”
“I am not aware that all honest persons are hard-working,
and more than that all hard-working persons are honest. I
wish to be understood that, in the first place, Mr. Newcome.
Phrases will procure no concession from me. I agree with
you, however, perfectly, in saying that when a man is paid
for his work, there will be what you call `an end of it.'
Now, twenty-three days from this moment, you will have
been paid for all you have done on my property according
to your own agreement; and, by your own reasoning, there
must be an end of your connection with that property.”
“The major doosn't ra-a-lly mean to rob me of all my
hard earnin's!”
“Mr. Newcome, rob is a hard word, and one I beg that
may not be again used between you and me. I have no
intention to rob you, or to let you rob me. The pretence
that you are not, and were not acquainted with the conditions
of this lease, comes rather late in the day, after a possession
of a quarter of a century. You know very well that my
grandfather would not sell, and that he would do no more
than lease; if it were your wish to purchase, why did you
not go elsewhere, and get land in fee? There were, and
are still, thousands of acres to be sold, all around you. I
have lands to sell, myself, at Mooseridge, as the agent of
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my father and colonel Follock, within twenty miles of you,
and they tell me capital mill-seats in the bargain.”
“Yes, major, but not so much to my notion as this—I
kind o' wanted this!”
“But, I kind o' want this, too; and, as it is mine, I think,
in common equity, I have the best claim to enjoy it.”
“It 's on equity I want to put this very matter, major —
I know the law is ag'in me—that is, some people say it is;
but, some think not, now we 've had a revolution — but, let
the law go as it may, there 's such a thing as what I call
right between man and man.”
“Certainly; and law is an invention to enforce it. It is
right I should do exactly what my grandfather agreed to do
for me, five-and-twenty years ago, in relation to these mills;
and it is right you should do what you agreed to do, for
yourself.”
“I have done so. I agreed to build the mills, in a sartain
form and mode, and I done it. I 'll defy mortal man to say
otherwise. The saw-mill was smashing away at the logs
within two months a'ter I got the lease, and we began to
grind in four!”
“No doubt, sir, you were active and industrious—though
to be frank with you, I will say that competent judges tell
me neither mill is worth much now.”
“That 's on account of the lease”—cried Mr. Newcome,
a little too hastily, possibly, for the credit of his discretion—
“how did I know when it would run out. Your gran'ther
granted it for three lives, and twenty-one years afterwards,
and I did all a man could to make it last as long as I should
myself; but, here I am, in the prime of life, and in danger
of losing my property!”
I knew all the facts of the case perfectly, and had intended
to deal liberally with Mr. Newcome from the first. In
his greediness for gain he had placed his lives on three infants,
although my grandfather had advised him to place at
least one on himself; but, no — Mr. Newcome had fancied
the life of an infant better than that of a man; and in three
or four years after the signature of the lease, his twenty-one
years had begun to run, and were now near expiring. Even
under this certainly unlooked-for state of things, the lease
had been a very advantageous one for the tenant; and, had
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one of his lives lasted a century, the landlord would have
looked in vain for any concession on that account; landlords
never asking for, or expecting favours of that sort;
indeed most landlords would be ashamed to receive them;
nevertheless, I was disposed to consider the circumstances,
to overlook the fact that the mills and all the other buildings
on the property were indifferently built, and to re-let for an
additional term of twenty-one years, wood-lands, farms,
buildings and other privileges, for about one-third of the
money that Mr. Newcome himself would have been apt to
ask, had he the letting instead of myself. Unwilling to prolong
a discussion with a man who, by his very nature, was
unequal to seeing more than one side of a subject, I cut the
matter short, by telling him my terms without further delay.
Notwithstanding all his acting and false feeling, the
'squire was so rejoiced to learn my moderation, that he
could not but openly express his feelings; a thing he would
not have done, did he not possess the moral certainty I
would not depart from my word. I felt it necessary, however,
to explain myself.
“Before I give you this new lease, Mr. Newcome,” I
added, holding the instrument signed in my hand, “I wish
to be understood. It is not granted under the notion that
you have any right to ask it, beyond the allowance that is
always made by a liberal landlord to a reasonably good
tenant; which is simply a preference over others on the
same terms. As for the early loss of your lives, it was
your own fault. Had the infants you named, or had one
of them passed the state of childhood, it might have lived to
be eighty, in which case my timber-land would have been
stripped without any return to its true owner; but, your
children died, and the lease was brought within reasonable
limits. Now, the only inducement I have for offering the
terms I do, is the liberality that is usual with landlords;
what is conceded is conceded as no right, but as an act of
liberality.”
This was presenting to my tenant the most incomprehensible
of all reasons for doing anything. A close and
sordid calculator himself, he was not accustomed to give
any man credit for generosity; and, from the doubting, distrustful
manner in which he received the paper, I suspected
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at the moment that he was afraid there was some project
for taking him in. A rogue is always distrustful, and as
often betrays his character to honest men by that as by any
other failing. I was not to regulate my own conduct, however,
by the weaknesses of Jason Newcome, and the lease
was granted.
I could wish here to make one remark. There ought
certainly to be the same principle of good fellowship existing
between the relations of landlord and tenant that exist
in the other relations of life, and which creates a moral tie
between parties that have much connection in their ordinary
interests, and that to a degree to produce preferences and
various privileges of a similar character. This I am far
from calling in question; and, on the whole, I think of all
that class of relations, the one in question is to be set down
as among the most binding and sacred. Still, the mere
moral rights of the tenant must depend on the rigid maintenance
of all the rights of the landlord; the legal and moral
united; and the man who calls in question either of the
latter, surely violates every claim to have his own pretensions
allowed, beyond those which the strict letter of the
law will yield to him. The landlord who will grant a new
lease to the individual who is endeavouring to undermine
his rights, by either direct or indirect means, commits the
weakness of arming an enemy with the knife by which he
is himself to be assaulted, in addition to the error of granting
power to a man who, under the character of a spurious
liberty, is endeavouring to unsettle the only conditions on
which civilized society can exist. If landlords will exhibit
this weakness, they must blame themselves for the consequences.
I got rid of Mr. Newcome by the grant of the lease, his
whole manœuvring having been attempted solely to lower
the rent; for he was much too shrewd to believe in the truth
of his own doctrines on the subject of right and wrong.
That same day my axe-men appeared at the 'Nest, having
passed the intermediate time in looking at various tracts of
land that were in the market, and which they had not found
so eligible, in the way of situation, quality, or terms, as
those I offered. By this time, the surveyed lots of Mooseridge
were ready, and I offered to sell them to these emi
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grants. The price was only a dollar an acre, with a credit
of ten years; the interest to be paid annually. One would
have thought that the lowness of the price would have induced
men to prefer lands in fee to lands on lease; but these
persons, to a man, found it more to their interests to take
farms on three-lives leases, being rent-free for the first five
years, and at nominal rents for the remainder of the term,
than to pay seven dollars a year of interest, and a hundred
dollars in money, at the expiration of the credit.[12] This fact,
of itself, goes to show how closely these men calculated
their means, and the effect their decisions might have on
their interests. Nor were their decisions always wrong.
Those who can remember the start the country took shortly
after the peace of '83, the prices that the settlers on new
lands obtained for their wheat, ashes and pork; three dollars
a bushel often for the first, three hundred dollars a ton
for the second, and eight or ten dollars a hundred for the
last, will at once understand that the occupant of new lands
at that period obtained enormous wages for a labourer by
means of the rich unexhausted lands he was thus permitted
to occupy. No doubt he would have been in a better situation
had he owned his farm in fee at the end of his lease;
so would the merchant who builds a ship and clears her cost
by her first freight, have been a richer man had he cleared
the cost of two ships instead of one; but he has done well, notwithstanding;
and it is not to be forgotten that the man who
commences life with an axe and a little household furniture,
is in the situation of a mere day-labourer. The addit on to
his means of the use of land is the very circumstance that
enables him to rise above his humble position, and to profit
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by the cultivation of the soil. At the close of the last century,
and at the commencement of the present, the country
was so placed as to render every stroke of the axe directly
profitable, the very labour that was expended in clearing
away the trees meeting with a return so liberal by the sale
of the ashes manufactured, as to induce even speculators to
engage in the occupation. It may one day be a subject of
curious inquiry to ascertain how so much was done as is
known to have been done at that period, towards converting
the wilderness into a garden; and I will here record, for
the benefit of posterity, a brief sketch of one of the processes
of getting to be comfortable, if not rich, that was
much used in that day.
It was a season's work for a skilful axe-man to chop, log,
burn, clear and sow ten acres of forest-land. The ashes he
manufactured. For the heavier portions of the work, such
as the logging, he called on his neighbours for aid, rendering
similar assistance by way of payment. One yoke of oxen
frequently sufficed for two or three farms, and “logging-bees”
have given rise to a familiar expression among us, that is
known as legislative “log-rolling;” a process by which as
is well known, one set of members supports the project of
another set, on the principle of reciprocity.
Now, ten acres of land, cropped for the first time, might
very well yield a hundred and fifty bushels of merchantable
wheat, which would bring three hundred dollars in the Albany
market. They would also make a ton of pot-ashes,
which would sell for at least two hundred dollars. This is
giving five hundred dollars for a single year's work. Allowing
for all the drawbacks of building, tools, chains, transportation,
provisions, &c., and one-half of this money might
very fairly be set down as clear profit; very large returns
to one who, before he got his farm, was in the situation of
a mere day-labourer, content to toil for eight or ten dollars
the month.
That such was the history, in its outlines, of the rise of
thousands of the yeomen who now dwell in New York, is
undeniable; and it goes to show that if the settler in a new
country has to encounter toil and privations, they are not
always without their quick rewards. In these later times,
men go on the open prairies, and apply the plough to an
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ancient sward; but I question if they would not rather encounter
the virgin forests of 1790, with the prices of that
day, that run over the present park-like fields, in order to
raise wheat for 37½ cents per bushel, have no ashes at any
price, and sell their pork at two dollars the hundred!
eaf076v1.n12[12] The fact here stated by Mr. Littlepage should never be forgotten;
inasmuch as it colours the entire nature of the pretension now set up
as to the exactions of leases. No man in New York need ever have
leased a farm for the want of an opportunity of purchasing, there
never having been a time when land for farms in fee has not been
openly on sale within the bounds of the State; and land every way
as eligible as that leased. In few cases have two adjoining estates
been leased; and, where such has been the fact, the husbandman
might always have found a farm in fee, at the cost of half a day's
travelling. The benefits to the landlord have usually been so remote
on the estate leased, that by far the greater proportion of the proprietors
have preferred selling at once, to waiting for the tardy operations
of time. — Editor.
CHAPTER XIV.
“Intent to blend her with his lot,
Fate form'd her all that he was not;
And, as by mere unlikeness, thought—
Associate we see,
Their hearts, from very difference, caught
A perfect sympathy.”
Pinckney.
All this time, I saw Ursula Malbone daily, and at all
hours of the day. Inmates of the same dwelling, we met
constantly, and many were the interviews and conversations
which took place between us. Had Dus been the most
finished coquette in existence, her practised ingenuity could
not have devised more happy expedients to awaken interest
in me than those which were really put in use by this singular
girl, without the slightest intention of bringing about
any such result. Indeed, it was the nature, the total absence
of art, that formed one of the brightest attractions of
her character, and gave so keen a zest to her cleverness
and beauty. In that day, females, while busied in the affairs
of their household, appeared in “short-gown and petticoat,”
as it was termed, a species of livery that even ladies often
assumed of a morning. The toilette was of far wider
range in 1784 than it is now, the distinctions between morning
and evening dress being much broader then than at present.
As soon as she was placed really at the head of her
brother's house, Ursula Malbone set about the duties of her
new station quietly and without the slightest fuss, but actively
and with interest. She seemed to me to possess, in a
high degree, that particular merit of carrying on the details
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of her office in a silent, unobtrusive manner, while they
were performed most effectually and entirely to the comfort
of those for whose benefit her care was exercised. I am not
one of those domestic canters who fancy a woman, in order
to make a good wife, needs be a drudge and possess the
knowledge of a cook or a laundress; but it is certainly of
great importance that she have the faculty of presiding
over her family with intelligence, and an attention that is
suited to her means of expenditure. Most of all is it important
that she knows how to govern without being seen
or heard.
The wife of an educated man should be an educated woman;
one fit to be his associate, qualified to mingle her
tastes with his own, to exchange ideas, and otherwise to be
his companion, in an intellectual sense. These are the
higher requisites; a gentleman accepting the minor qualifications
as so many extra advantages, if kept within their
proper limits; but as positive disadvantages if they interfere
with, or in any manner mar the manners, temper, or mental
improvement of the woman whom he has chosen as his wife,
and not as his domestic. Some sacrifices may be necessary
in those cases in which cultivation exists without a sufficiency
of means; but, even then, it is seldom indeed that a woman
of the proper qualities may not be prevented from sinking
to the level of a menial. As for the cant of the newspapers
on such subjects, it usually comes from those whose homes
are merely places for “board and lodging.”
The address with which Dus discharged all the functions
of her new station, while she avoided those that were unseemly
and out of place, charmed me almost as much as
her spirit, character and beauty. The negroes removed all
necessity for her descending to absolute toil; and with what
pretty, feminine dexterity did she perform the duties that
properly belonged to her station! Always cheerful, frequently
singing, not in a noisy milk-maid mood, but at
those moments when she might fancy herself unheard, and
in sweet, plaintive songs that seemed to recall the scenes of
other days. Always cheerful, however, is saying a little
too much; for, occasionally, Dus was sad. I found her in
tears three or four times, but did not dare inquire into their
cause. There was scarce time, indeed; for, the instant
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I appeared, she dried her eyes, and received me with
smiles.
It is scarcely necessary to say that to me the time passed
pleasantly, and amazingly fast. Chainbearer remained at
the Nest by my orders, for he would not yield to requests;
and I do not remember a more delightful month than that
proved to be. I made a very general acquaintance with my
tenants, and found many of them as straight-forward, honest,
hard-working yeomen, as one could wish to meet. My brother
major, in particular, was a hearty old fellow, and often
came to see me, living on the farm that adjoined my own.
He growled a little about the sect that had got possession of
the new `meetin'-us,” but did it in a way to show there was
not much gall in his own temperament.
“I don't rightly understand these majority-matters,” said
the old fellow, one day that we were talking the matter over,
“though I very well know Newcome always manages to
get one, let the folks think as they will. I've known the
'squire contrive to cut a majority out of about a fourth of
all present, and he does it in a way that is desp'ret ingen'ous,
I will allow, though I 'm afeard it 's neither law nor gospel.”
“He certainly managed, in the affair of the denomination,
to make a plurality of one appear in the end to be a very
handsome majority over all!”
“Ay, there's twists and turns in these things, that's beyond
my l'arnin', though I s'pose all's right. It don't matter
much in the long run, a'ter all, where a man worships,
provided he worships; or who preaches, so that he listens.”
I think this liberality—if that be the proper word—in religious
matters, is fast increasing among us; though liberality
may be but another term for indifference. As for us Episcopalians,
I wonder there are any left in the country, though
we are largely on the increase. There we were, a church
that insisted on Episcopal ministrations—on confirmation in
particular—left for a century without a bishop, and unable
to conform to practices that it was insisted on were essential,
and this solely because it did not suit the policy of the mother-country
to grant us prelates of our own, or to send us,
occasionally even, one of her's! How miserable do human
expedients often appear when they are tried by the tests of
common sense! A church of God, insisting on certain spi
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ritual essentials that it denies to a portion of its people, in
order to conciliate worldly interests! It is not the church
of England alone, however, nor the government of England,
that is justly obnoxious to such an accusation; something
equally bad and just as inconsistent, attaching itself to the
ecclesiastical influence of every other system in christendom
under which the state is tied to religion by means of human
provisions. The mistake is in connecting the things of the
world with the things that are of God.
Alas!—alas! When you sever that pernicious tie, is the
matter much benefited? How is it among ourselves? Are
not sects, and shades of sects, springing up among us on
every side, until the struggle between parsons is getting to
be not who shall aid in making most Christians, but who
shall gather into his fold most sectarians? As for the people
themselves, instead of regarding churches, even after they
have established them, and that too very much on their own
authority, they first consider their own tastes, enmities and
predilections, respecting the priest far more than the altar,
and set themselves up as a sort of religious constituencies,
who are to be represented directly in the government of
Christ's followers on earth. Half of a parish will fly off in a
passion to another denomination if they happen to fall into
a minority. Truly, a large portion of our people is beginning
to act in this matter, as if they had a sense of “giving
their support” to the Deity, patronising him in this temple
or the other, as may suit the feeling or the interest of the
moment.[13]
But, I am not writing homilies, and will return to the
Nest and my friends. A day or two after Mr. Newcome
received his new lease, Chainbearer, Frank, Dus and I were
in the little arbour that overlooked the meadows, when we
saw Sureflint, moving at an Indian's pace, along a path that
came out of the forest, and which was known to lead
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towards Mooseridge. The Onondago carried his rifle as usual,
and bore on his back a large bunch of something that we
supposed to be game, though the distance prevented our discerning
its precise character. In half a minute he disappeared
behind a projection of the cliffs, trotting towards the
buildings.
“My friend, the Trackless, has been absent from us now
a longer time than usual,” Ursula remarked, as she turned
her head from following the Indian's movements, as long as
he remained in sight; “but he re-appears loaded with something
for our benefit.”
“He has passed most of his time of late with your uncle,
I believe,” I answered, following Dus's fine eyes with my
own, the pleasantest pursuit I could discover in that remote
quarter of the world. “I have written this to my father,
who will be glad to hear tidings of his old friend.”
“He is much with my uncle, as you say, being greatly
attached to him. Ah! here he comes, with such a load on
his shoulders as an Indian does not love to bear; though
even a chief will condescend to carry game.”
As Dus ceased speaking, Sureflint threw a large bunch
of pigeons, some two or three dozen birds, at her feet, turning
away quietly, like one who had done his part of the
work, and who left the remainder to be managed by the
squaws.
“Thank you, Trackless,” said the pretty housekeeper—
“thank'ee kindly. These are beautiful birds, and as fat as
butter. We shall have them cleaned, and cooked in all
manner of ways.”
“All squab — just go to fly — take him ebbery one in
nest,” answered the Indian.
“Nests must be plenty, then, and I should like to visit
them,” I cried, remembering to have heard strange marvels
of the multitudes of pigeons that were frequently found in
their `roosts,' as the encampments they made in the woods
were often termed in the parlance of the country. “Can
we not go in a body and visit this roost?”
“It might pe tone,” answered the Chainbearer; “it might
pe tone, and it is time we wast moving in t'eir tirection, if
more lant is to pe surveyet, ant t'ese pirts came from t'e
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hill I suppose t'ey do. Mooseridge promiset to have plenty
of pigeons t'is season.”
“Just so”—answered Sureflint. “Million, t'ousan', hundred—
more too. Nebber see more; nebber see so many.
Great Spirit don't forget poor Injin; sometime give him
deer — sometime salmon — sometime pigeon — plenty for
ebbery body; only t'ink so.”
“Ay, Sureflint; only t'ink so, inteet, and t'ere is enough
for us all, and plenty to spare. Got is pountiful to us, put
we ton't often know how to use his pounty,” answered
Chainbearer, who had been examining the birds — “Finer
squaps arn't often met wit'; and I too shoult like amazingly
to see one more roost, pefore I go to roost myself.”
“As for the visit to the roost,” cried I, “that is settled for
to-morrow. But a man who has just come out of a war like
the last, into peaceable times, has no occasion to speak of
his end, Chainbearer. You are old in years, but young in
mind, as well as body.”
“Bot' nearly wore out—bot' nearly wore out! It is well
to tell an olt fool t'e contrary, put I know petter. T'ree
score and ten is man's time, and I haf fillet up t'e numper
of my tays. Got knows pest, when it wilt pe his own pleasure
to call me away; put, let it come when it will, I shall
now tie happy, comparet wit' what I shoult haf tone a mont'
ago.”
“You surprise me, my dear friend! What has happened
to make this difference in your feelings?—It cannot be that
you are changed in any essential!”
“'T'e tifference is in Dus's prospects. Now Frank has a
goot place, my gal will not pe forsaken.”
“Forsaken! Dus — Ursula — Miss Malbone forsaken!
That could never happen, Andries, Frank or no Frank.”
“I hope not—I hope not, lat—put t'e gal pegins to weep,
and we'll talk no more apout it. Harkee, Susquesus; my
olt frient, can you guite us to t'is roost?”
“Why no do it, eh? — Path wide — open whole way.
Plain as river.”
“Well, t'en, we wilt all pe off for t'e place in t'e mornin'.
My new assistant is near, and it is high time Frank and I
hat gone into t'e woots ag'in.”
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I heard this arrangement made, though my eyes were
following Dus, who had started from her seat, and rushed
into the house, endeavouring to hide emotions that were
not to be hushed. A minute later I saw her at the window
of her own room, smiling, though the cloud had not yet entirely
dispersed.
Next morning early our whole party left the Nest for the
hut at Mooseridge, and the pigeon-roosts. Dus and the
black female servant travelled on horseback, there being no
want of cattle at the Nest, where, as I now learned, my
grandfather had left a quarter of a century before, among a
variety of other articles, several side-saddles. The rest of
us proceeded on foot, though we had no less than three
sumpter beasts to carry our food, instruments, clothes, &c.
Each man was armed, almost as a matter of course in that
day, though I carried a double-barrelled fowling-piece myself,
instead of a rifle. Susquesus acted as our guide.
We were quite an hour before we reached the limits of
the settled farms on my own property; after which, we entered
the virgin forest. In consequence of the late war,
which had brought everything like the settlement of the
country to a dead stand, a new district had then little of the
straggling, suburb-like clearings, which are apt now to encircle
the older portions of a region that is in the state of
transition. On the contrary, the last well-fenced and reasonably
well-cultivated farm passed, we plunged into the boundless
woods, and took a complete leave of nearly every vestige
of civilized life, as one enters the fields on quitting a town
in France. There was a path, it is true, following the line
of blazed trees; but it was scarcely beaten, and was almost
as illegible as a bad hand. Still, one accustomed to the
forest had little difficulty in following it; and Susquesus
would have had none in finding his way, had there been no
path at all. As for the Chainbearer, he moved forward too,
with the utmost precision and confidence, the habit of running
straight lines amid trees having given his eye an accuracy
that almost equalled the species of instinct that was
manifested by the Trackless himself, on such subjects.
This was a pleasant little journey, the depths of the forest
rendering the heats of the season as agreeable as was possible.
We were four hours in reaching the foot of the little
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mountain on which the birds had built their nests, where we
halted to take some refreshments.
Little time is lost at meals in the forest, and we were soon
ready to ascend the hill. The horses were left with the
blacks, Dus accompanying us on foot. As we left the spring
where we had halted, I offered her an arm to aid in the
ascent; but she declined it, apparently much amused that it
should have been offered.
“What I, a chainbearess!” she cried, laughing—“I, who
have fairly wearied out Frank, and even made my uncle feel
tired, though he would never own it — I accept an arm to
help me up a hill! You forget, major Littlepage, that the
first ten years of my life were passed in a forest, and that a
year's practice has brought back all my old habits, and
made me a girl of the woods again.”
“I scarce know what to make of you, for you seem fitted
for any situation in which you may happen to be thrown,”
I answered, profiting by the circumstance that we were out
of the hearing of our companions, who had all moved ahead,
to utter more than I otherwise might venture to say — “at
one time I fancy you the daughter of one of my own tenants;
at another, the heiress of some ancient patroon.”
Dus laughed again; then she blushed; and, for the remainder
of the short ascent, she remained silent. Short the
ascent was, and we were soon on the summit of the hill.
So far from needing my assistance, Dus actually left me
behind, exerting herself in a way that brought her up at the
side of the Trackless, who led our van. Whether this was
done in order to prove how completely she was a forest girl,
or whether my words had aroused those feelings that are
apt to render a female impulsive, is more than I can say
even now; though I suspected at the time that the latter
sensations had quite as much to do with this extraordinary
activity as the former. I was not far behind, however, and
when our party came fairly upon the roost, the Trackless,
Dus and myself, were all close together.
I scarce know how to describe that remarkable scene.
As we drew near to the summit of the hill, pigeons began to
be seen fluttering among the branches over our heads, as
individuals are met along the roads that lead into the suburbs
of a large town. We had probably seen a thousand birds
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glancing around among the trees, before we came in view
of the roost itself. The numbers increased as we drew
nearer, and presently the forest was alive with them. The
fluttering was incessant, and often startling as we passed
ahead, our march producing a movement in the living crowd,
that really became confounding. Every tree was literally
covered with nests, many having at least a thousand of
these frail tenements on their branches, and shaded by the
leaves. They often touched each other, a wonderful degree
of order prevailing among the hundreds of thousands of
families that were here assembled. The place had the odour
of a fowl-house, and squabs just fledged sufficiently to trust
themselves in short flights, were fluttering around us in all
directions, in tens of thousands. To these were to be added
the parents of the young race endeavouring to protect them,
and guide them in a way to escape harm. Although the
birds rose as we approached, and the woods just around us
seemed fairly alive with pigeons, our presence produced no
general commotion; every one of the feathered throng appearing
to be so much occupied with its own concerns, as
to take little heed of the visit of a party of strangers, though
of a race usually so formidable to their own. The masses
moved before us precisely as a crowd of human beings yields
to a pressure or a danger on any given point; the vacuum
created by its passage filling in its rear, as the water of the
ocean flows into the track of the keel.
The effect on most of us was confounding, and I can only
compare the sensation produced on myself by the extraordinary
tumult to that a man experiences at finding himself
suddenly placed in the midst of an excited throng of human
beings. The unnatural disregard of our persons manifested
by the birds greatly heightened the effect, and caused me to
feel as if some unearthly influence reigned in the place. It
was strange, indeed, to be in a mob of the feathered race,
that scarce exhibited a consciousness of one's presence. The
pigeons seemed a world of themselves, and too much occupied
with their own concerns to take heed of matters that
lay beyond them.
Not one of our party spoke for several minutes. Astonishment
seemed to hold us all tongue-tied, and we moved slowly
forward into the fluttering throng, silent, absorbed, and full
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of admiration of the works of the Creator. It was not easy
to hear each other's voices when we did speak, the incessant
fluttering of wings filling the air. Nor were the birds silent
in other respects. The pigeon is not a noisy creature, but
a million crowded together on the summit of one hill, occupying
a space of less than a mile square, did not leave the
forest in its ordinary impressive stillness. As we advanced,
I offered my arm, almost unconsciously, again to Dus, and
she took it with the same abstracted manner as that in which
it had been held forth for her acceptance. In this relation to
each other, we continued to follow the grave-looking Onondago,
as he moved, still deeper and deeper, into the midst
of the fluttering tumult.
At this instant there occurred an interruption that, I am
ready enough to confess, caused the blood to rush towards
my own heart in a flood. As for Dus, she clung to me, as
woman will cling to man, when he possesses her confidence,
and she feels that she is insufficient for her own support.
Both hands were on my arm, and I felt that, unconsciously,
her form was pressing closer to mine, in a manner she
would have carefully avoided in a moment of perfect self-possession.
Nevertheless, I cannot say that Dus was afraid.
Her colour was heightened, her charming eyes were filled
with a wonder that was not unmixed with curiosity, but
her air was spirited in spite of a scene that might try
the nerves of the boldest man. Sureflint and Chainbearer
were alone totally unmoved; for they had been at pigeon's
roosts before, and knew what to expect. To them the wonders
of the woods were no longer novel. Each stood leaning
on his rifle, and smiling at our evident astonishment. I am
wrong; the Indian did not even smile; for that would have
been an unusual indication of feeling for him to manifest;
but he did betray a sort of covert consciousness that the
scene must be astounding to us. But, I will endeavour to
explain what it was that so largely increased the first effect
of our visit.
While standing wondering at the extraordinary scene
around us, a noise was heard rising above that of the incessant
fluttering, which I can only liken to that of the
trampling of thousands of horses on a beaten road. This
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noise at first sounded distant, but it increased rapidly in
proximity and power, until it came rolling in upon us,
among the tree-tops, like a crash of thunder. The air was
suddenly darkened, and the place where we stood as sombre
as a dusky twilight. At the same instant, all the pigeons
near us, that had been on their nests, appeared to fall out
of them, and the space immediately above our heads was
at once filled with birds. Chaos itself could hardly have
represented greater confusion, or a greater uproar. As for
the birds, they now seemed to disregard our presence entirely;
possibly they could not see us on account of their
own numbers; for they fluttered in between Dus and myself,
hitting us with their wings, and at times appearing as
if about to bury us in avalanches of pigeons. Each of us
caught one at least in our hands, while Chainbearer and the
Indian took them in some numbers, letting one prisoner go
as another was taken. In a word, we seemed to be in a
world of pigeons. This part of the scene may have lasted
a minute, when the space around us was suddenly cleared,
the birds glancing upwards among the branches of the trees,
disappearing among the foliage. All this was the effect produced
by the return of the female birds, which had been off
at a distance, some twenty miles at least, to feed on beechnuts,
and which now assumed the places of the males on
the nests; the latter taking a flight to get their meal in their
turn.
I have since had the curiosity to make a sort of an estimate
of the number of the birds that must have come in
upon the roost, in that, to us, memorable minute. Such a
calculation, as a matter of course, must be very vague,
though one may get certain principles by estimating the size
of a flock by the known rapidity of the flight, and other
similar means; and I remember that Frank Malbone and
myself supposed that a million of birds must have come in
on that return, and as many departed! As the pigeon is a
very voracious bird, the question is apt to present itself,
where food is obtained for so many mouths; but, when we
remember the vast extent of the American forests, this difficulty
is at once met. Admitting that the colony we visited
contained many millions of birds, and, counting old and
young, I have no doubt it did, there was probably a
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fruitbearing tree for each, within an hour's flight from that very
spot!
Such is the scale on which nature labours in the wilderness!
I have seen insects fluttering in the air at particular
seasons, and at particular places, until they formed little
clouds; a sight every one must have witnessed on many
occasions; and as those insects appeared, on their diminished
scale, so did the pigeons appear to us at the roost of
Mooseridge. We passed an hour in the town of the birds,
finding our tongues and our other faculties as we became
accustomed to our situation. In a short time, even Dus
grew as composed as at all comported with the excitement
natural to one in such a place; and we studied the habits
of the pretty animals with a zest that I found so much the
greater for studying them in her company. At the end of
the hour we left the hill, our departure producing no more
sensation in that countless tribe of pigeons than our arrival.
“It is a proof that numbers can change our natures,”
said Dus, as we descended the little mountain. “Here have
we been almost in contact with pigeons which would not
have suffered us to come within a hundred feet of them had
they been in ordinary flocks, or as single birds. Is it that
numbers give them courage?”
“Confidence, rather. It is just so with men; who will
exhibit an indifference in crowds that they rarely possess
when alone. The sights, interruptions, and even dangers
that will draw all our attention when with a few, often seem
indifferent to us when in the tumult of a throng of fellow-creatures.”
“What is meant by a panic in an army, then?”
“It is following the same law, making man subject to
the impulses of those around him. If the impulse be onward,
onward we go; if for retreat, we run like sheep. If
occupied with ourselves as a body, we disregard trifling interruptions,
as these pigeons have just done in our own case.
Large bodies of animals, whether human or not, seem to
become subject to certain general laws that increase the
power of the whole over the acts and feelings of any one or
any few of their number.”
“According to that rule, our new republican form of government
ought to be a very strong one; though I have
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heard many express their fears it will be no government
at all.”
“Unless a miracle be wrought in our behalf, it will be
the strongest government in the world for certain purposes,
and the weakest for others. It professes a principle of selfpreservation
that is not enjoyed by other systems, since the
people must revolt against themselves to overturn it; but,
on the other hand, it will want the active, living principle
of steady, consistent justice, since there will be no independent
power whose duty and whose interest it will be to see
it administered. The wisest man I ever knew has prophesied
to me that this is the point on which our system will
break down; rendering the character, the person and the
property of the citizen insecure, and consequently the institutions
odious to those who once have loved them.”
“I trust there is no danger of that!” said Dus, quickly.
“There is danger from everything that man controls.
We have those among us who preach the possible perfection
of the human race, maintaining the gross delusion that men
are what they are known to be, merely because they have
been ill-governed; and a more dangerous theory, in my
poor judgment, cannot be broached.”
“You think, then, that the theory is false?”
“Beyond a question—governments are oftener spoiled by
men than men by governments; though the last certainly
have a marked influence on character. The best government
of which we know anything, is that of the universe;
and it is so, merely because it proceeds from a single will,
that will being without blemish.”
“Your despotic governments are said to be the very worst
in the world.”
“They are good or bad as they happen to be administered.
The necessity of maintaining such governments by
force renders them often oppressive; but a government of
numbers may become even more despotic than that of an
individual; since the people will, in some mode or other,
always sustain the oppressed as against the despot, but
rarely, or never, as against themselves. You saw that those
pigeons lost their instinct, under the impulse given by numbers.
God for ever protect me against the tyranny of numbers!”
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“But everybody says our system is admirable, and the
best in the world; and even a despot's government is the
government of a man.”
“It is one of the effects of numbers that men shrink from
speaking the truth, when they find themselves opposed to
large majorities. As respects self-rule, the colonies were
ever freer than the mother country; and we are, as yet,
merely pursuing our ancient practices, substituting allegiance
to the confederation for allegiance to the king. The difference
is not sufficiently material to produce early changes.
We are to wait until that which there is of new principles in
our present system shall have time to work radical changes,
when we shall begin to ascertain how much better we really
are than our neighbours.”[14]
Dus and I continued to converse on this subject until she
got again into the saddle. I was delighted with her good
sense and intelligence, which were made apparent more in
the pertinacity of her questions than by any positive knowledge
she had on such subjects, which usually have very
few attractions for young women. Nevertheless, Dus had
an activity of mind and a readiness of perception that supplied
many of the deficiencies of education on these points;
and I do not remember to have ever been engaged in a political
discussion from which I derived so much satisfaction.
I must own, however, it is possible that the golden hair
flying about a face that was just as ruddy as comported
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with the delicacy of the sex, the rich mouth, the brilliant
teeth, and the spirited and yet tender blue eyes, may have
increased a wisdom that I found so remarkable.
eaf076v1.n13[13] [If Mr. Littlepage wrote thus, thirty or forty years since, how
would he have written to-day, when we have had loud protestations
flourishing around us in the public journals, that this or that sectarian
polity was most in unison with a republican form of government!
What renders this assumption as absurd as it is presuming, is the
well-known fact that it comes from those who have ever been loudest
in their declamations of a union between church and state!]
eaf076v1.n14[14] At the time of which Mr. Mordaunt Littlepage is here speaking,
it was far less the fashion to extol the institutions than it is to-day.
Men then openly wrote and spoke against them, while few dare, at
the present time, point out faults that every person of intelligence
knows and feels to be defects. A few years since, when Jackson was
placed in the White House, it was the fashion of Europe to predict
that we had elevated a soldier to power, and that the government of
the bayonet was at hand. This every intelligent American knew to
be rank nonsense. The approach of the government of the bayonet
among us, if it is ever to come, may be foreseen by the magnitude of
popular abuses, against which force is the only remedy. Every wellwisher
of the freedom this country has hitherto enjoyed, should now
look upon the popular tendencies with distrust, as, whenever it is
taken away, it will go as their direct consequence; it being an inherent
principle in the corrupt nature of man to misuse all his privileges;
even those connected with religion itself. If history proves
anything, it proves this. — Editor.
CHAPTER XV.
“Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear,
As one with treasure laden, hemmed with thieves;
Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.”
Venus and Adonis.
The hut, or huts of Chainbearer, had far more comfort
in and around them, than I was prepared to find. They
were three in number, one having been erected as a kitchen,
and a place to contain the male slaves; another for the special
accommodation of Ursula and the female black; and
the third to receive men. The eating-room was attached to
the kitchen; and all these buildings, which had now stood
an entire year, were constructed of logs, and were covered
with bark. They were roughly made, as usual; but that
appropriated to Dus was so much superior to the others in
its arrangements, internal and external, as at once to denote
the presence and the influence of woman. It may have
some interest with the reader briefly to describe the place.
Quite as a matter of course, a spring had been found, as
the first consideration in “locating,” as it is called by that
portion of our people who get upon their conversational
stilts. The spring burst out of the side of a declivity, the
land stretching away, for more than a mile from its foot, in
an inclined plane that was densely covered with some of the
noblest elms, beeches, maples and black birches, I have
ever seen. This spot, the Chainbearer early assured me,
was the most valuable of all the lands of Mooseridge. He
had selected it because it was central, and particularly clear
from underbrush; besides having no stagnant water near it.
In other respects, it was like any other point in that vast
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forest; being dark, shaded, and surrounded by the magnificence
of a bountiful vegetation.
Here Chainbearer had erected his hut, a low, solid structure
of pine logs, that were picturesque in appearance, and
not without their rude comforts, in their several ways. These
buildings were irregularly placed, though the spring was in
their control. The kitchen and eating-room was nearest the
water; at no great distance from these was the habitation
of the men; while the smaller structure, which Frank Malbone
laughingly termed the “harem,” stood a little apart,
on a slight spur of land, but within fifty yards of Andries'
own lodgings. Boards had been cut by hand, for the floors
and doors of these huts, though no building but the “harem”
had any window that was glazed. This last had two such
windows, and Frank had even taken care to provide for his
sister's dwelling, rude but strong window-shutters.
As for defences against an enemy, they were no longer
thought of within the limits of New York. Block-houses,
and otherwise fortified dwellings, had been necessary, so
long as the French possessed Canada; but, after the capture
of that colony, few had deemed any such precautions called
for, until the war of the revolution brought a savage foe
once more among the frontier settlements; frontier, as to
civilization, if not as to territory. With the termination of
that war had ceased this, the latest demand for provisions
of that nature; and the Chainbearer had not thought of
using any care to meet the emergencies of violence, in
“making his pitch.”
Nevertheless, each hut would have been a reasonably
strong post, on an emergency; the logs being bullet-proof,
and still remaining undecayed and compact. Palisades were
not thought of now, nor was there any covered means of
communicating between one hut and another. In a word,
whatever there might be in the way of security in these
structures, was the result of the solidity of their material,
and of the fashion of building that was then, and is still
customary everywhere in the forest. As against wild beasts
there was entire protection, and other enemies were no
longer dreaded. Around the huts there were no enclosures
of any sort, nor any other cleared land, than a spot of about
half an acre in extent, off of which had been cut the small
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pines that furnished the logs of which they were built. A
few vegetables had been put into the ground at the most
open point; but a fence being unnecessary, none had been
built. As for the huts, they stood completely shaded by the
forest, the pines having been cut on an eminence a hundred
yards distant. This spot, however, small as it was, brought
enough of the commoner sort of plants to furnish a frugal
table.
Such was the spot that was then known in all that region
by the name of the “Chainbearer's Huts.” This name has
been retained, and the huts are still standing, circumstances
having rendered them memorable in my personal history,
and caused me to direct their preservation, at least as long
as I shall live. As the place had been inhabited a considerable
time that spring and summer, it bore some of the other
signs of the presence of man; but, on the whole, its character
as a residence was that of deep forest seclusion. In
point of fact, it stood buried in the woods, distant fully fifteen
miles from the nearest known habitation, and in so much
removed from the comfort, succour and outward communications
of civilized life. These isolated abodes, however,
are by no means uncommon in the State, even at the present
hour; and it is probable that some of them will be to
be found during the whole of this century. It is true, that
the western, middle, southern, south-western, north-western
and north-eastern counties of New York, all of which were
wild, or nearly so, at the time of which I am writing, are
already well settled, or are fast filling up; but, there is a
high, mountainous region, in middle-northern New York,
which will remain virtually a wilderness, I should think,
for quite a century, if not longer. I have travelled through
this district of wilderness very lately, and have found it
picturesque and well suited for the sportsman, abounding in
deer, fish and forest-birds, but not so much suited to the
commoner wants of man, as to bring it very soon into demand
for the ordinary purposes of the husbandman. If this
quarter of the country do not fall into the hands of lawless
squatters and plunderers of one sort and another, of which
there is always some danger in a country of so great extent,
it will become a very pleasant resort of the sportsman, who
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is likely to soon lose his haunts in the other quarters of the
State.
Jaap had brought over some horses of mine from the
Nest as sumpter-beasts, and these being sent back for want
of provender, the negro himself remained at the “Huts” as
a general assistant, and as a sort of hunter. A Westchester
negro is pretty certain to be a shot, especially if he happen
to belong to the proprietor of a Neck; for there is no jealousy
of trusting arms in the hands of our New York slaves.
But, Jaap having served, in a manner, was entitled to burn
as much gunpowder as he pleased. By means of one of his
warlike exploits, the old fellow had become possessed of a
very capital fowling-piece, plunder obtained from some slain
English officer, I always supposed; and this arm he invariably
kept near his person, as a trophy of his own success.
The shooting of Westchester, however, and that of the forest,
were very different branches of the same art. Jaap belonged
to the school of the former, in which the pointer and setter
were used. The game was “put up” and “marked down,”
and the bird was invariably shot on the wing. My attention
was early called to this distinction, by overhearing a conversation
between the negro and the Indian, that took place
within a few minutes after our arrival, and a portion of
which I shall now proceed to relate.
Jaap and Sureflint were, in point of fact, very old acquaintances,
and fast friends. They had been actors in
certain memorable scenes, on those very lands of Mooseridge,
some time before my birth, and had often met and
served as comrades during the last war. The known antipathy
between the races of the red and black man did not
exist as between them, though the negro regarded the Indian
with some of that self-sufficiency which the domestic
servant would be apt to entertain for a savage roamer of the
forest; while the Onondago could not but look on my fellow
as one of the freest of the free would naturally feel disposed
to look on one who was content to live in bondage. These
feelings were rather mitigated than extinguished by their
friendship, and often made themselves manifest in the course
of their daily communions with each other.
A bag filled with squabs had been brought from the roost,
and Jaap had emptied it of its contents on the ground near
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the kitchen, to commence the necessary operations of picking
and cleaning, preparatory to handing the birds over to
the cook. As for the Onondago, he took his seat near by
on a log very coolly, a spectator of his companion's labours,
but disdaining to enter in person on such woman's work,
now that he was neither on a message nor on a war-path.
Necessity alone could induce him to submit to any menial
labour, nor do I believe he would have offered to assist, had
he seen the fair hands of Dus herself plucking these pigeons.
To him it would have appeared perfectly suitable that a
“squaw” should do the work of a “squaw,” while a warrior
maintained his dignified idleness. Systematic and intelligent
industry are the attendants of civilization, the wants created
by which can only be supplied by the unremitted care of
those who live by their existence.
“Dere, ole Sus,” exclaimed the negro, shaking the last
of the dead birds from the bag—“dere, now, Injin; I s'pose
you t'inks 'em ere's game!”
“What you call him, eh?” demanded the Onondago,
eyeing the negro sharply.
“I doesn't call 'em game a bit, red-skin. Dem's not
varmint, n'oder; but den, dem isn't game. Game's game,
I s'pose you does know, Sus?”
“Game, game—good. T'at true—who say no?”
“Yes, it's easy enough to say a t'ing, but it not so berry
easy to understan'. Can any Injin in York State, now, tell
me why pigeon isn't game?”
“Pigeon game—good game, too. Eat sweet—many time
want more.”
“Now, I do s'pose, Trackless”—Jaap loved to run through
the whole vocabulary of the Onondago's names—“Now, I
do s'pose, Trackless, you t'ink tame pigeon just as good as
wild?”
“Don't know—nebber eat tame—s'pose him good, too.”
“Well, den, you s'poses berry wrong. Tame pigeon poor
stuff; but no pigeon be game. Nuttin' game, Sureflint, dat
a dog won't p'int, or set. Masser Mordaunt h'an't got no
dog at de Bush or de Toe, and he keeps dogs enough at bot',
dat would p'int a pigeon.”
“P'int deer, eh?”
“Well, I doesn't know. P'raps he will, p'raps he wont.
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Dere isn't no deer in Westchester for us to try de dogs on,
so a body can't tell. You remem'er 'e day, Sus, when we
fit your red-skins out here, 'long time ago, wit' Masser
Corny and Masser Ten Eyck, and ole Masser Herman
Mordaunt, and Miss Anneke, and Miss Mary, an' your
frien' Jumper?—You remem'er dat, ha! Onondago?”
“Sartain—no forget—Injin nebber forget. Don't forget
friend—don't forget enemy.”
Here Jaap raised one of his shouting negro laughs, in
which all the joyousness of his nature seemed to enter with
as much zest as if he were subjected to a sort of mental
tickling; then he let the character of his merriment be seen
by his answer.
“Sartain 'nough—you remem'er dat feller, Muss, Trackless?
He get heself in a muss by habbing too much mem'ry.
Good to hab mem'ry when you told to do work; but sometime
mem'ry bad 'nough. Berry bad to hab so much mem'ry
dat he can't forget small floggin.”
“No true,” answered the Onondago, a little sternly,
though a very little; for, while he and Jaap disputed daily,
they never quarrelled—“No true, so. Flog bad for back.”
“Well, dat because you red-skin — a colour' man don't
mind him as much as dis squab. Get use to him in little
while; den he nuttin' to speak of.”
Sureflint made no answer, but he looked as if he pitied
the ignorance, humility and condition of his friend.
“What you t'ink of dis worl', Susquesus?” suddenly demanded
the negro, tossing a squab that he had cleaned into
a pail, and taking another. “How you t'ink white man
come? — how you t'ink red man come? — how you t'ink
colour' gentl'em come, eh?”
“Great Spirit say so — t'en all come. Fill Injin full of
blood — t'at make him red—fill nigger wit' ink — t'at make
him black — pale-face pale 'cause he live in sun, and colour
dry out.”
Here Jaap laughed so loud, that he drew all three of
Chainbearer's blacks to the door, who joined in the fun out
of pure sympathy, though they could not have known its
cause. Those blacks! They may be very miserable as
slaves; but it is certain no other class in America laugh so
often, or so easily, or one-half as heartily.
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“Harkee, Injin” — resumed Jaap, as soon as he had laughed
as much as he wished to do at that particular moment—
“Harkee, Injin—you t'ink 'arth round, or 'arth flat?”
“How you mean? — 'arth up and down — no round — no
flat.”
“Dat not what I mean. Bot' up and down in one sens',
but no up and down in 'noder. Masser Mordaunt, now, and
Masser Corny too, bot' say 'arth round like an apple, and
dat he 'd stand one way in day-time, an' 'noder way in nighttime.
Now, what you t'ink of dat, Injin?”
The Trackless listened gravely, but he expressed neither
assent nor dissent. I knew he had a respect for both my
father and myself; but it was asking a great deal of him to
credit that the world was round; nor did he understand how
one could be turned over in the manner Jaap pretended.
“S'pose it so,” he remarked, after a pause of reflection—“S'pose it so, den man stand upside down? Man stand
on foot; no stand on head.”
“Worl' turn round, Injin; dat a reason why you stand
on he head one time; on he foot 'noder.”
“Who tell t'at tradition, Jaap? Nebber heard him afore.”
“Masser Corny tell me dat, long time ago; when I war'
little boy. Ask Masser Mordaunt one day, and he tell you
a same story. Ebberybody say dat but Masser Dirck Follock;
and he say to me, one time, `it true, Jaap, t'e book
do say so—and your Masser Corny believe him; but I want
to see t'e worl' turn round, afore I b'lieve it.' Dat what
colonel Follock say, Trackless; you know he berry honest.”
“Good — honest man, colonel — brave warrior — true
friend — b'lieve all he tell, when he know; but don't know
ebbery t'ing. Gen'ral know more—major young, but know
more.”
Perhaps my modesty ought to cause me to hesitate about
recording that which the partiality of so good a friend as
Susquesus might induce him to say; but it is my wish to
be particular, and to relate all that passed on this occasion.
Jaap could not object to the Indian's proposition, for he had
too much love and attachment for his two masters not to
admit at once that they knew more than colonel Follock;
no very extravagant assumption, by the way.
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“Yes, he good 'nough,” answered the black, “but he
don't know half as much as Masser Corny, or Masser Mordaunt.
He say worl' isn't round; now, I t'ink he look
round.”
“What Chainbearer say?” asked the Indian, suddenly,
as if he had determined that his own opinion should be governed
by that of a man whom he so well loved. “Chainbearer
nebber lie.”
“Nor do Masser Corny, nor Masser Mordaunt!” exclaimed
Jaap, a little indignantly. “You t'ink, Trackless,
'eder of my massers lie!”
That was an accusation that Susquesus never intended to
make; though his greater intimacy with, and greater reliance
on old Andries had, naturally enough, induced him to
ask the question he had put.
“No say eeder lie,” answered the Onondago; “but many
forked tongue about, and maybe hear so, and t'ink so.
Chainbearer stop ear; nebber listen to crooked tongue.”
“Well, here come Chainbearer heself, Sus; so, jist for
graterfercashun, you shall hear what 'e ole man say. It
berry true, Chainbearer honest man, and I like to know he
opinion myself, sin' it isn't easy, Trackless, to understan'
how a mortal being can stan' up, head down!”
“What `mortal being' mean, eh?”
“Why, it mean mortality, Injin—you, mortality—I, mortality—
Masser Corny, mortality — Masser Mordaunt, mortality—
Miss Anneke, mortality — ebberybody, mortality;
but ebberybody not 'e same sort of mortality! — Understan'
now, Sus?”
The Indian shook his head, and looked perplexed; but
the Chainbearer coming up at that moment, that branch of
the matter in discussion was pursued no farther. After exchanging
a few remarks about the pigeons, Jaap did not
scruple to redeem the pledge he had given his red friend,
by plunging at once into the main subject with the Chainbearer.
“You know how it be wid Injin, Masser Chainbearer,”
said Jaap — “'Ey is always poor missedercated creatur's,
and knows nuttin' but what come by chance — now here be
Sureflint; he can no way t'ink dis worl' round; and dat it
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turn round, too; and so he want me to ask what you got to
say about dat matter?”
Chainbearer was no scholar. Whatever may be said of
Leyden, and of the many, very many learned Dutchmen it
had sent forth into the world, few of them ever reached
America. Our brethren of the eastern colonies, now States,
had long been remarkable, as a whole, for that “dangerous
thing,” a “little learning;” but I cannot say that the Dutch
of New York, also viewed as a whole, incurred any of those
risks. To own the truth, it was not a very easy matter to
be more profoundly ignorant, on all things connected with
science, than were the mass of the uneducated Dutch of New
York, in the year of our Lord, one thousand seven hundred
and eighty-four. It made little difference as to condition in
life, unless one rose as high as the old colonial aristocracy
of that stock, and an occasional exception in favour of a
family that intended to rear, or had reared in its bosom a
minister of the gospel. Such was the strength of the prejudice
among these people, that they distrusted the English
schools, and few permitted their children to enter them;
while those they possessed of their own were ordinarily of a
very low character. These feelings were giving way before
the influence of time, it is true, but it was very slowly; and
it was pretty safe to infer that every man of low Dutch extraction
in the colony was virtually uneducated, with the
exception of here and there an individual of the higher social
castes, or one that had been especially favoured by association
and circumstances. As for that flippant knowledge, of
which our eastern neighbours possessed so large an amount,
the New York Dutch appeared to view it with peculiar dislike,
disdaining to know anything, if it were not of the very
best quality. Still, there were a few to whom this quality
was by no means a stranger. In these isolated cases, the
unwearied application, pains-taking industry, cautious appreciation
of facts, and solid judgment of the parties, had
produced a few men, who only required a theatre for its
exhibition, in order to cause their information to command
the profound respect of the learned, let them live where they
might. What they did acquire was thoroughly got, though
seldom paraded for the purposes of mere show.
Old Andries, however, was not of the class just named.
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He belonged to the rule, and not to its exception. Beyond
a question, he had heard all the more familiar truths of
science alluded to in discourse, or had seen them in the
pages of books; but they entered into no part of his real
opinions; for he was not sufficiently familiar with the different
subjects to feel their truths in a way to incorporate
them with his mind.
“You know 'tis sait, Jaap,” Chainbearer answered, “t'at
bot' are true. Efery poty wilt tell you so; ant all t'e folks
I haf seen holt t'e same opinions.”
“T'ink him true, Chainbearer?” the Onondago somewhat
abruptly demanded.
“I s'pose I must, Sureflint, since all say it. T'e pale-faces,
you know, reat a great many pooks, ant get to pe
much wiser t'an ret-men.”
“How you make man stan' on head, eh?”
Chainbearer now looked over one shoulder, then over the
other; and fancying no one was near but the two in his
front, he was probably a little more communicative than
might otherwise have been the case. Drawing a little nearer,
like one who is about to deal with a secret, the honest old
man made his reply.
“To pe frank wit' you, Sureflint,” he answered, “t'at ist
a question not easily answeret. Eferypoty says 'tis so, ant,
t'erefore, I s'pose it must pe so; put I haf often asket myself,
if t'is worlt pe truly turnet upsite town at night, how is
it, olt Chainpearer, t'at you ton't roll out of pet? T'ere's
t'ings in natur' t'at are incomprehensiple, Trackless; quite
incomprehensiple!”
The Indian listened gravely, and it seemed to satisfy his
longings on the subject, to know that they were things in
nature that are incomprehensible. As for the Chainbearer,
I thought that he changed the discourse a little suddenly on
account of these very incomprehensible things in nature;
for it is certain he broke off on another theme, in a way to
alter all the ideas of his companions, let them be on their
heads or their heels.
“Is it not true, Jaap, t'at you ant t'e Onondago, here,
wast pot' present at t'e Injin massacre t'at took place in
t'ese parts, pefore t'e revolution, in t'e olt French war? I
mean t'e time when one Traverse, a surveyor, ant a fery
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goot surveyor he was, was kil't, wit' all his chainpearers
ant axe-men?”
“True as gospel, Masser Andries,” returned the negro,
looking up seriously, and shaking his head — “I was here,
and so was Sus. Dat wast de fuss time we smell gunpowder
togedder. De French Injins was out in droves, and dey cut
off Masser Traverse and all his party, no leaving half a
scalp on a single head. Yes, sah; I remembers dat, as if
t'was last night.”
“Ant what was tone wit' t'e poties? You puriet t'e poties,
surely?”
“Sartain — Pete, Masser Ten Eyck's man, was put into
a hole, near Masser Corny's hut, which must be out here,
four or five mile off; while Masser surveyor and his men
were buried by a spring, somewhere off yonder. Am I
right, Injin?”
The Onondago shook his head; then he pointed to the true
direction to each spot that had been mentioned, showing that
Jaap was very much out of the way. I had heard of certain
adventures in which my father had been concerned when a
young man, and in which, indeed, my mother had been in a
degree an actor, but I did not know enough of the events
fully to comprehend the discourse which succeeded. It
seemed that the Chainbearer knew the occurrences by report
only, not having been present at the scenes connected
with them; but he felt a strong desire to visit the graves of
the sufferers. As yet, he had not even visited the hut of
Mr. Traverse, the surveyor who had been killed; for, the
work on which he had been employed, being one of detail,
or that of subdividing the great lots laid down before the
revolution, into smaller lots, for present sale, it had not
taken him as yet from the central point where it had commenced.
His new assistant chainbearer was not expected
to join us for a day or two; and, after talking the matter
over with his two companions for a few minutes, he announced
a determination to go in quest of all the graves the
succeeding morning, with the intention of having suitable
memorials of their existence placed over them.
The evening of that day was calm and delightful. As
the sun was setting I paid Dus a visit, and found her alone in
what she playfully called the drawing-room of her “harem.”
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Luckily there were no mutes to prevent my entrance, the
usual black guardian, of whom there was one, being still in
her kitchen at work. I was received without embarrassment,
and taking a seat on the threshold of the door, I sat
conversing, while the mistress of the place plied her needle
on a low chair within. For a time we talked of the pigeons
and of our little journey in the woods; after which the conversation
insensibly took a direction towards our present
situation, the past, and the future. I had adverted to the
Chainbearer's resolution to scarch for the graves; and, at
this point, I shall begin to record what was said, as it was
said.
“I have heard allusions to those melancholy events,
rather than their history,” I added. “For some cause,
neither of my parents likes to speak of them; though I know
not the reason.”
“Their history is well known at Ravensnest,” answered
Dus; “and it is often related there; at least, as marvels
are usually related in country settlements. I suppose there
is a grain of truth mixed up with a pound of error.”
“I see no reason for misrepresenting in an affair of that
sort.”
“There is no other than the universal love of the marvellous,
which causes most people to insist on having it introduced
into a story, if it do not happen to come in legitimately.
Your true country gossip is never satisfied with
fact. He (or she would be the better word) insists on exercising
a dull imagination at invention. In this case, however,
from all I can learn, more fact and less invention has
been used than common.”
We then spoke of the outlines of the story each had
heard, and we found that, in the main, our tales agreed. In
making the comparison, however, I found that I was disposed
to dwell most on the horrible features of the incidents,
while Dus, gently and almost insensibly, yet infallibly, inclined
to those that were gentler, and which had more connection
with the affections.
“Your account is much as mine, and both must be true
in the main, as you got your's from the principal actors,”
she said; “but our gossips relate certain points connected
with love and marriage, about which you have been silent.
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“Let me hear them, then,” I cried; “for I never was
in a better mood to converse of love and marriage,” laying
a strong emphasis on the last word, “than at this moment!”
The girl started, blushed, compressed her lips, and continued
silent for half a minute. I could see that her hand
trembled, but she was too much accustomed to extraordinary
situations easily to lose her self-command. It was nearly
dusk, too, and the obscurity in which she sat within the
hut, which was itself beneath the shade of tall trees, most
probably aided her efforts to seem unconscious. Yet, I had
spoken warmly, and, as I soon saw, in a manner that demanded
explanation, though at the moment quite without
plan; and scarcely with the consciousness of what I was
doing. I decided not to retreat, but to go on, in doing which
I should merely obey an impulse that was getting to be too
strong for much further restraint; that was not the precise
moment, nevertheless, in which I was resolved to speak, but
I waited rather for the natural course of things. In the
mean time, after the short silence mentioned, the discourse
continued.
“All I meant,” resumed Dus, “was the tradition which
is related among your tenants, that your parents were
united in consequence of the manner in which your father
defended Herman Mordaunt's dwelling, his daughter included—
though Herman Mordaunt himself preferred some
English lord for his son-in-law, and — but I ought to repeat
no more of this silly tale.”
“Let me hear it all, though it be the loves of my own
parents.”
“I dare say it is not true; for what vulgar report of private
feelings and private acts ever is so? My tradition
added, that Miss Mordaunt was, at first, captivated by the
brilliant qualities of the young lord, though she much preferred
general Littlepage in the end; and that her marriage
has been most happy.”
“Your tradition, then, has not done my mother justice,
but is faulty in many things. Your young lord was merely
a baronet's heir; and I know from my dear grandmother
that my mother's attachment to my father commenced when
she was a mere child, and was the consequence of his
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resenting an insult she received at the time from some other
boy.”
“I am glad of that!” exclaimed Dus, with an emphasis
so marked, that I was surprised at the earnestness of her
manner. “Second attachments in women to me always
seem misplaced. There was another vein to my tradition,
which tells of a lady who lost her betrothed the night the
Nest was assailed, and who has ever since lived unmarried,
true to his memory. That is a part of the story I have ever
loved!”
“Was her name Wallace?” I asked, eagerly.
“It was; Mary Wallace—and I have honoured the name
ever since I heard the circumstances. In my eyes, Mr.
Littlepage, there can be no picture more respectable than
that of a female remaining true to her first attachments,
under all circumstances; in death, as well as in life.”
“Or in mine, beloved Ursula!” I cried — but, I will not
make a fool of myself, by attempting to record what I said
next. The fact was, that Dus had been winding herself
round my heart for the last few weeks in a way that would
have defied any attempts of mine to extricate it from the
net into which it had fallen, had I the wish to do so. But,
I had considered the matter, and saw no reason to desire
freedom from the dominion of Ursula Malbone. To me,
she appeared all that man could wish, and I saw no impediment
to a union in the circumstance of her poverty. Her
family and education were quite equal to my own; and
these very important considerations admitted, I had fortune
enough for both. It was material that we should have the
habits, opinions, prejudices if you will, of the same social
caste; but beyond this, worldly considerations, in my view
of the matter, ought to have no influence.
Under such notions, therefore, and guided by the strong
impulse of a generous and manly passion, I poured out my
whole soul to Dus. I dare say I spoke a quarter of an
hour without once being interrupted. I did not wish to hear
my companion's voice; for I had the humility which is said
to be the inseparable attendant of a true love, and was fearful
that the answer might not be such as I could wish to
hear. I could perceive, spite of the increasing obscurity,
that Dus was strongly agitated; and will confess a lively
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hope was created within me by this circumstance. Thus
encouraged, it was natural to lose my fears in the wish to
be more assured; and I now pressed for a reply. After a
brief pause, I obtained it in the following words, which were
uttered with a tremor and sensibility that gave them tenfold
weight.
“For this unexpected, and I believe sincere declaration,
Mr. Littlepage, I thank you from the bottom of my heart,”
the precious creature commenced. “There are a frankness,
an honourable sincerity and a noble generosity in such a
declaration, coming from you to me, that can never be forgotten.
But, I am not my own mistress — my faith is
plighted to another—my affections are with my faith; and
I cannot accept offers which, so truly generous, so truly
noble, demand the most explicit reply—”
I heard no more; for, springing from the floor, and an
attitude that was very nearly that of being on my knees, I
rushed from the hut and plunged into the forest.
END OF VOL. I.
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