THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE.
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“Oh! love! love! laddie,
Love's like a dizziness,
It winna let a puir boddy
Gang about his business.”
A few years ago, that part of the state of New
York which lies along the main route from the
Hudson to the western lakes, presented an agreeable,
but eccentric, diversity of scenic beauty,
combining the wildest traits of nature with the
cheerful indications of enlightened civility and rural
comfort. The desert smiled—but it smiled in its
native beauty. The foot of science had not yet
wandered thither; nor had the ample coffers of a
state been opened, to diffuse, with unexampled
munificence, over a widely spread domain the
blessings of industry and commerce. The beautiful
villages scattered throughout this extensive region,
exhibited a neatness, taste, and order, which would
have been honourable to older communities. Between
these little towns lay extensive tracts of
wilderness, still tenanted by the deer, and enlivened
by the notes of the feathered tribes. Farms, newly
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opened, were thinly dispersed at convenient distances.
The traveller, as he held his solitary way
among the shadows of the forest, acknowledged the
sovereignty of the sylvan deities, whose sway seemed
undisputed; but from these silent shades he emerged
at once into the light and life of civilised society.
Such were the effects produced by an industrious
and somewhat refined population, thrown among
the romantic lakes, the fertile vallies, and the boundless
forests of the West.
The war of 1812, while it exposed the feeble
settlements of the frontier to the danger of hostile
incursions, produced life and bustle, where, before,
all had been silence and repose. Multitudes of men
penetrated the quiet recesses of the forest, and
pitched their tents by the peaceful waters, whose
murmurs had heretofore mingled harmoniously with
the songs of the native melodists. The drum, the
trumpet, and the fife—the clash of arms, and the
heavy reverberations of artillery—the rumbling of
wheels, and the voices of men—all that is discordant,
and all that is inspiring, in the sounds of war,
burst upon the repose of the wilderness. In these
regions, however, such terrific indications lasted
but for a moment,—the gust of war, like the summer
cloud sporting its forked lightnings as it swept
along, rolled onward, to develop all its awful splendour,
and destructive energy, on the distant field of
battle.
In the spring of the year 1814, a company of
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American soldiers, destined for the shores of lake
Erie, marched through this sequestered country.
Upon a delightful evening, late in the month of May,
they arrived at one of those pretty villages to which
I have alluded, upon the borders of a small lake.
This little band consisted of about ninety newly
enlisted men, commanded by a single officer, whose
youthful appearance indicated that his military
career had as yet been brief. The vicinity of a
comfortable hamlet, and the signs of civility and
plenty, were peculiarly grateful to the weary soldiers,
who had toiled on their march from the dawn,
until near the close of an unusually sultry day. If
not “tired of war's alarms,” they were oppressed
with its fatigues. Emerging from the bosom of the
monotonous forest, whose loneliness and silence had
become tiresome, they halted on a small eminence,
and gazed upon the scene before them. There
were groups of cottages embowered in shrubbery,
and a few edifices of higher pretensions, but less
picturesque; and there was the village church,
white as the driven snow, pure and spotless as the
purpose to which it was devoted—with its pointed
spire directing the soul to another world. The beams
of the evening sun glittered over the blue waters
of the lake, and the surrounding objects threw
their long shadows upon its tranquil mirror. The
lake itself, buried among the hills and woods, indented
with bays and promontories, was so beautifully
romantic, that even the rugged soldiers seemed
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to inhale refreshment as they passed along its
delightful shores.
Their own appearance was far less imposing.
Fatigued with toil, covered with sweat and dust,
their clothes soiled, their shoes worn with travel—
they seemed to bend beneath the weight of their
knapsacks, as they stood leaning upon their arms.
Upon such occasions, however, the military rule
is to put the best foot foremost—particularly if
there be any fair ladies in the case—and the officer
prepared to march through the village with all
convenient eclat.
An unpractised observer would have smiled to
see how much importance was given to the arrangement
of a little band of jaded recruits, previous to
their exhibition in a secluded hamlet. But what
soldier triumphs not in the conquest of a female
heart?—where is the martial spirit that is not
elated with the smile of beauty? Churlish indeed
would be the leader, who should fail in the observance
of a customary homage to the fair, even of a
village. Not so our officer—he determined that
every heart in the hamlet should beat to the music
of his drum—and cheerily issued his orders. The
stragglers are called in, and the ranks closed. The
systematic order of parade takes place of the looseness
of the march. The soldier, whose weary
limbs seemed incapable of further exertion, now
appears to inhale new life; his nerves are braced,
his form erected, and his arms grasped with vigour.
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The drum strikes up a lively march—the little fifer
sends forth his shrillest notes—the word is given,
and the body moves forward with a firm and rapid
step. The piercing sounds, wafted over the lake,
announce the approach of the military strangers.
The villager quits his work to stare—the enraptured
children rush to join the cavalcade—the ladies
forsake the tea-table, and fly to the windows to admire
“the handsome fellows”—and the soldier is
rewarded for his momentary exertion; conscious
that he has excited a vivid interest which will not
be forgotten—at least within the next twenty-four
hours. In the rear comes the baggage-wagon loaded,
followed, and preceded, by men, women, and children—
the sick, the weary, and the lame. But
even these are not without their pride. The poor
soldier with his knapsack at his back—his child on
one arm, and his wife leaning upon the other, feels
himself as much
“—his country's stay,
In the day and hour of danger,”
as the stoutest comrade in the ranks.
The young officer led his command proudly
through the village, and selected a retired spot on
the margin of the lake for his encampment.
Arrived at the welcome place of rest, a new scene
of bustle ensues. The officer marks off the ground
for his camp, and surrounds it by a line of sentinels.
The pleas of fatigue are not allowed to interfere
with the established rules of discipline, and all are
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actively engaged in erecting the frail tenements of
canvass, which are to protect them during the
night. The wagons discharge their multifarious
burthens, and each reclaims his own. The tents
are pitched in a regular line, with technical accuracy.
Parties are despatched to procure water,
and wood, and straw. The fires are kindled in the
rear of the encampment; the business of cooking
commences, and cheerfulness reigns throughout.
The sly jest, the loud laugh, and the martial song,
resound. Satisfied with the present enjoyment,
the careless soldiers soon forgot their past fatigues,
and took little thought of the toils that awaited them.
There was one who regarded this scene with
intense interest. Mr. Pendleton, the commanding
officer, was a young gentleman of sense and feeling.
Ardent, romantic, and ambitious, the path of life
was bright before him. The world to him was, as
yet, a world of novelty; he gazed with delight upon
nature and on man, and dreamed of still greater
enjoyments to be gathered in the bright career imprinted
upon his young and glowing fancy. He
had thrown his limbs on the grass, and reclining at
full length, watched the unruffled still waters of the
lake, and the sun-beams trembling among the tops
of the tall trees. As he dwelt upon the quiet landscape,
contrasting it with the tumult and the dangers
which beset the path of ambition, certain hopes
arose unconsciously in his bosom, picturing the
scenes of bliss and repose that might reward a youth
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of toil and peril. In his fancy he beheld a fairy
lake, like the one before him, a cottage embowered
with roses and honey-suckles, and a pair of soft
blue eyes, beaming love and gladness over all.
Then turning to observe the careless mortals who
acknowledged his command, a sense of the responsibility
of his station recalled his fleeting ideas.
The encampment was now surrounded by the
villagers, who had eagerly collected to behold a
spectacle, which, in our peaceful country, is happily
of rare occurrence. The old and young of
either sex were there, decked in the flaunting hues
of rustic finery; and there were belles and beaux,
and all the beauty and fashion of the hamlet.
“Good day, Mr. Corporal,” said the village
blacksmith to a non-commissioned officer, who was
leading out a watering party. The corporal considered
himself on detachment, and being fond of
the dignity of a separate command, returned the
salutation with an air of awkward condescension.
“Bound for Canada, eh! corporal?” continued
the blacksmith, “Well, that's your sort—but where
do you strike first? Quebec or Montreal?”
“Can't tell; we hav'n't determined yet.”
“Close as a vice, eh!—that's the way with you
military men—well, well, keep your own counsel,
only mind you hammer the rust off them are British.”
“Let us alone for that,” said the corporal, “we
shall give a good account of them before long.”
“That's your sort, corporal,—strike while the
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iron's hot—give me you yet. You're none of them
tories and fellows that won't fight;—but I say, Mr.
Corporal, can't you jist give us a small idee, a bit
of a hint like, where you are going?”
“Can't indeed—don't know, 'till we take a peep
at the red coast—but you'll hear of us somewhere
along the lakes.”
“Ah! that's your sort, corporal! Kingston, York,
Fort George.—I see you know how to hit the right
nail on the head—I guess I know what's what!
Now my advice to you is—”
“After we dispose of them there small places,”
said the corporal, “we shall take Quebec.”
“Right, right,” said the sable politician, “that's
jist my way—knock off all my small jobs first, and
keep the heavy ones to the last; but I say, corporal,
don't let them outwit you, as they did old
Hull.”
“They'll not catch old birds with chaff; we shall
be wide awake, and duly sober—” “And 'live as a
coal, eh! well, that's your sort,—jist my way, I'm
always—”
Here the corporal marched off with his party, to
the infinite chagrin of the loquacious smith, who,
turning to an old woman who had put on her spectacles
to see the soldiers, and had listened, with
ears and mouth open, to the preceding dialogue—
“You see how it is, Mrs. Chatterglib,” said he,
“we pay these fellows our money, and can't get a
word out of them; they've no more gratitude than
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a bellows-handle—but they're fine looking young
fellows, howsomever.”
“Nice young men, indeed!” said the old woman,
“more 's the pity—poor souls, they'll all be murdered!”
“Oh, bless you, no! they'll bear as much hammering
as my anvil, and never mind it.”
The villagers had nearly all retired, when Mr.
Pendleton observed a young female lingering
beyond the line of sentinels; and believing that
neither solitude nor silence is ever voluntarily
chosen by the fair sex, he thought that it would be
a praiseworthy act of gallantry, to relieve her from
both by his presence and conversation. Approaching
with that easy air of familiarity which soldiers
feel at liberty to assume towards rustic beauties,
he discovered her to be a beautiful blue eyed girl
of sixteen, whose neat person and agreeable features
at once conciliated kindness. She wore a
plain dress of domestic cotton, and the office of a
bonnet was performed by one of those homely
combinations of pasteboard and muslin, commonly
called a sun-bonnet, which shelters head, face, neck,
and shoulders, from sunbeams and admiring glances—
unless a lady happens to have a very pretty face,
in which case it is commonly thrown back. The
garb of the fair stranger was coarse and plain, but
there was an air of unstudied neatness throughout
the whole economy of her person, that added a
charm to her beauty, which mere finery could not
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have given. She leaned against a small tree, resting
her innocent and unsophisticated face on her hand
in an attitude of deep abstraction, and gazing at
the camp with that earnestness of curiosity, which
is excited in inexperienced minds by the first sight
of an unusually interesting object. Hers was not
that idle glance attracted by gaudy colours, which
the poet meant when he said
“the sex loves wicked fellows,”
but the childish wonder of an artless heart, throbbing
with delight at the actual presence of a spectacle
which had mingled in her dreams, and warmed
her fancy. The unexpected approach of the young
officer covered her face with blushes, but an instant
restored her to self-possession, and she replied to
his salutation with a frankness which taught him to
respect her confiding simplicity. Pendleton became
interested, and entered upon the business of entertaining
the lovely stranger, with a singleness of
purpose that soon banished restraint; and ere the
young enthusiasts had time to reflect that they were
strangers, they were unconsciously strolling around
the camp in easy conversation.
The youthful maiden gazed with delight upon all
she saw. The tents were wonderful! the uniforms
beautiful! the drum delightful! and the soldiers,
sweet fellows, were, no doubt, every man of them
an Adonis in the eyes of the romantic girl. Sweet
are the dreams of youth, when fancy gilds with her
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brightest hues all that is graceful, and veils every
deformity under an imaginary charm! Such were
the visions of the pretty rustic as she beheld, for
the first time, a display, however humble, of “the
pomp, pride, and circumstance of glorious war,”—
a display against which no female heart has ever
yet been proof. Every sentinel was, in her eyes,
a knightly hero, glowing with patriotism, and courage,
and honour; and their commander, of course,
a very Washington. Her eye rested, with an
admiration truly feminine, upon the gaudy ornaments
of the young chieftain; the glittering epaulet,
the gilded sword-knot, and the scarlet sash, were
gayer and richer toys than her unpractised eye had
been accustomed to behold; but they assumed a
nobler value in her estimation, as the undisputed
insignia of rank and merit, and as she gazed upon
that young officer, her admiration was mingled
with a softer sensation, which thrilled every nerve
and artery with a new and undefinable delight.
The officer marked the delirium of the sensitive
girl, but was not coxcomb enough to be vain of the
homage which he was conscious he owed to his
profession, his dress, and his command, and shared
with the humblest comrade in the ranks; and which
even his little bandy-legged bugler, who was breathing
forth his choicest holiday notes in an adjacent
thicket, had contributed to inspire. His own emotions
were of a varied, but not unpleasant character.
Here was a young and beautiful girl, evidently of
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the humblest parentage, venturing to indulge her
curiosity by visiting a camp, with no other protector
than her own innocence. Her entire
ignorance of the impropriety of the step she had
taken, was in itself interesting—so artless! so fearless!
She seemed really to believe, in downright
earnest, that men were her fellow creatures and
brethren, and not wicked knaves lying in wait to
devour helpless women; and that the plumed warriors
of the nation were bound to be good soldiers
to a lady, as well as to a lord. But what struck
him most, was the native intelligence, vivacity, and
romantic turn of mind, which gave energy and ease
to the language and manners of a peasant girl, who
had received nothing from the hand of art. She
said little, but her soft eye was lighted up with
intelligence, and there was eloquence in every
expression of her delighted features. That she was
uneducated, and unaccustomed to society, was very
evident; but her manners were neither bashful nor
vulgar—neither polished nor forward,—they had a
certain natural ease, which was the result of innocence
and self-respect. Perhaps the excited feelings
of that evening, banishing ordinary associations,
and giving a higher tone to the spirit, added an air
of elevation to manners naturally chaste and simple.
Be all this as it may, a handsomer or happier couple
than this, has seldom been seen on the green sward;
and never did two hearts mingle more artlessly
together.
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Passing at length in the rear of the camp, they
came in front of the guard-tent, near which a prisoner,
in chains, lay extended on the ground guarded
by a sentinel. The maiden gazed a moment upon
the unfortunate man, and then, in a tone of horror,
exclaimed, “Oh William! William! it is he! it is
he!” The prisoner, whose eyes had been cast to
the ground as his officer approached, raised them
on hearing this exclamation, and displayed a youthful
countenance, pale with disease, and deeply
marked with grief and shame. An expression of
anguish sat upon his face; his eyes were sunk, his
dark locks, long and tangled, hung over his woworn
features, his person was clad in miserable
rags—and his whole appearance was haggard, and
forlorn. Without moving from his reclining posture,
he extended one hand to the weeping girl, and
with the other shaded his pallid features. The
maiden had dropped on one knee beside him, and
as the tear rolled down her cheek, she seemed like
virtue bending to intercede for crime. For a few
minutes both were silent; and the officer, respecting
the sacredness of their feelings, ordered the sentinel
to remove a short distance, and was himself retiring
when he was overtaken by the distracted girl.
In a few words she had learned the crime and the
fate of the hapless youth. He had forfeited his life
by desertion! “Save him! Pardon him!” she exclaimed
in frantic accents, as she threw herself at
the feet of the officer, “Oh! pardon him for mercy's
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sake,—for the sake of his poor old mother!” It
was some time before Pendleton could command
himself sufficiently to attempt a reply, while the
agitated girl continued to reiterate with all the
heart-rending energy of grief. “Oh! do—do—pardon
him, pardon my brother!” At last he succeeded
in explaining to her, that he possessed no
discretionary power over the fate of the unhappy
youth, who must be tried by a court-martial, and if
convicted could only be rescued from death, by the
mercy of the commanding general.
“Then,” said the girl, with the calmness of determined
resolution, “I will go to him!”
“Impossible!” said Pendleton, “the head-quarters
of the army are at Buffalo the distance is
more than a hundred miles—too far for an unprotected
girl to venture.”
“What have I to fear?”
“Every thing—fatigue, danger, insult—evils
which you are too young, too innocent, to dream
of—too weak to repel.”
“An orphan girl, seeking to save a brother's life,
and to rescue the gray hairs of an aged widow from
sorrow, will find support;—heaven will protect
me!”
“It cannot be—it must not be,” said Pendleton,
“you have neither strength to endure the toils of
the journey, nor courage to surmount the difficulties
which would beset your path.”
“Oh, I can endure a great deal, for those I love.”
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“Your love must be great, and your faith strong,
if they could bear your spirit up through all the
perils of a lonesome road, and a licentious camp.
Let me beseech you not to think of such an adventure.”
“Ah! sir,” replied the ardent girl, “if you knew
the pious mother of that young man—if you could
hear the fervent prayers which she puts up daily
and almost hourly for her only son, the darling and
stay of her old age, you would not think any peril
too great that could bring her peace and comfort.
Oh! I will do any thing—risk any thing to soothe
the bitterness of her affliction!”
“After all,” continued the officer, “your success
will be doubtful. It is uncertain when a court-martial
will sit; it may be in a few days, or it may
not be for many months; the general will not interpose
his authority until the evidence has been examined,—
and at last he may not grant your petition.”
“Oh, he must grant it, he surely will—if he is a
merciful man, if he is a father, he cannot refuse it.”
“He is a father, and a merciful man, and I think
he will pardon your brother; but he is a soldier,
true to his duty, and rigid in his discipline, and
may think it improper to do so. You must remain
with your mother to comfort her; trust to me the
care of your brother's interest; I will be his advocate,
and, if possible, procure his pardon.”
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“Will you promise that?” demanded the girl
eagerly.
“I promise it most solemnly.”
“Thank you—thank you; I knew you could not
be so hard-hearted as to see my brother perish.”
Pendleton smiled as he repressed the obvious
compliment, which would have told her how little
generosity it required to become the advocate of
one who was dear to her. But he took her hand
and pressed it, as she added,
“As you hope for mercy, remember your promise.”
“I will both remember, and perform it religiously.”
“Then I will trust you,” said she, “farewell!”
She returned to the forlorn youth, and after a
few minutes' conversation, retired. Pendleton would
have accompanied her home, as the evening shades
were now closing in, but bounding away with the
fleetness of a deer, she was soon lost in the surrounding
shades.
Long before the first gray streak illumined the
horizon on the following morning, our little camp
was awakened by the inspiring notes of the reveillé.
Every soldier has felt the charm of this inspiring
music. Whether it be that the tunes adapted to
this purpose are remarkably sweet, or that the hour,
when all else is still, is peculiarly propitious, or
that hearts soothed by sleep, and minds unoccupied
by thought, are more open to the reception of
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agreeable sensations, it is certain that he who has
once heard the melodious strains which usher in
the military day, never forgets their delightful impression.
Now the gladsome notes floated over
the quiet waters, and the cheerful echoes enlivened
the surrounding shores. The events of the preceding
evening, had added another link to the chain
of romantic associations in the mind of Pendleton;
and as he stood with his arms folded, leaning against
a tree, upon the spot where he had parted with the
fair stranger, he felt his heart softened by new and
peculiar emotions.
Another interesting feature in this scene was the
assembling of the troops, to the morning roll-call.
As the music played they were seen creeping unwillingly
from their tents, a various group, some
half-clad, and some in uniform. Gradually disposing
themselves, they formed a line in front of the encampment,
the non-commissioned officers passing
about, or posted at intervals, with lights, which shed
a glare over this little band, while every surrounding
object was involved in gloom. As the music
ceased, the officer advanced to superintend the
calling of the roll; a deep silence prevailed during
the performance of this duty, and at its conclusion
the orderly sergeant announced that the men were
“all present.” Then the camp fires were kindled,
and the morning meal was despatched while daylight
yet lingered beyond the distant hills.
Orders were now given to prepare for the march.
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The musicians, traversing the encampment with a
rapid step, cheerily played “the general;” a merry
march to which a yankee poet has adapted the
homely strain,
“Don't you hear the gen'ral say,
Strike your tents and march away;
All the way to Hackensack,
Each with knapsack at his back?”
Activity and bustle now prevailed. The soldiers
were seen packing their knapsacks and loading the
wagons. Then the pins which distend the tents,
and confine them to the ground, are drawn up, the
tent-poles are supported by the hands of men stationed
in the front and rear, the music concludes
with a long ruffle, and as the last stroke falls upon
the drum, every tent sinks at the same instant, and
the whole encampment disappears. The tents and
camp equipage are loaded in the wagons, and the
soldiers, now in full uniform, parade with arms.
The column is formed, a lively march strikes up,
and the party moves off cheerfully, to commence
the toils of a new day.
Arrived at the head-quarters of the army, Pendleton
did not forget his promise. William Benson
was soon brought before a court-martial, arraigned
for desertion, and pleaded guilty. In vain
Pendleton advised and entreated him to recall the
honest confession—in vain the president of the
court humanely admonished him that by this plea
he abandoned all defence, and sealed his own doom.
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Sullen and silent, he noticed their arguments no
further than to repeat the fatal plea. But his generous
officer did not abandon him to his fate. Presenting
himself before the commanding general, he
proved by incontestible evidence that the unhappy
youth was a minor, who had been entrapped at an
unguarded moment, by the devices of an artful recruiting
sergeant; and then frankly related the manner
in which he had become interested in his fate.
This eloquent appeal came home to the bosom of
the brave commander in chief, who not only pardoned
the culprit, but directed his immediate discharge
from the service.
Language is too feeble to describe the change
produced on the unhappy youth by this intelligence.
He had wholly resigned himself to despair; grief
and shame had worn him down to a mere skeleton,
and the almost certain decree, which doomed him
to an ignominious death, had plunged him into a sullen
apathy. To part with life was painful, but its
possession had become a burthen; and he had viewed
all the proceedings against him with stupid indifference.
The rapidity with which his fate was hurrying
to a crisis, left no time for that gradual process by
which the mind is inured to guilt, and hardened
against punishment and shame. With a heart still
tenderly awake to the ardent emotions of generous
youth, and glowing with the lively hopes and fears
of that sanguine age, the rapid transition from innocence
to sin, from sin to death, filled his
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imagination with horror; and his mind dwelled upon vivid
images of pain until it became stupified with anguish.
He had nothing to sustain him in his
affliction—neither the soldier's pride, nor the Christian's
fortitude. He could not feel the former, for
he had deserted his country; nor the latter, for he
had forsaken his God. His young heart clung to
the world whose pleasures it had just begun to
taste—but the world seemed all to have abandoned
or condemned him. Of the friends of his youth,
not one was here—the lips that used to pray for
him seemed silent—few pitied and none consoled
him; he was surrounded by those whose profession
taught them to consider his crime unpardonable,
and himself a degraded poltroon, part traitor and
part coward, whose very presence was pollution.
He had no consolation in his own reflections, for
these pictured the agony of a widowed mother,
whom he had abandoned—the vices of a brief but
wicked life—the pangs of a public and shameful execution.
But when the news came that the forfeit of his
crime was paid, that he was no longer a disgraced,
forsaken man, no longer a condemned malefactor,
but was freed at once from guilt, and bondage, and
death, his heart leaped with joy, his whole frame
swelled with gladness, and all his benumbed faculties
sprung at once into vigour. The world was
again bright and glowing—his crimes and his misfortunes
were forgotten—his latent virtues came
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into action—and the fountains of joy were opened in
his bosom, pouring streams of bliss around his newly
awakened senses. Gratitude was not the least
vivid of his pleasurable sensations. He refused to
quit his benefactor; and having sent the glad tidings
of his release to his aged parent, remained with
Pendleton as a volunteer, determined to wipe the
stains from his character on the field of battle.
He fought by the side of his young commander
on the field of Chippewa. The battle took place
on the margin of the Niagara river, on an extensive
plain, which had once been covered with fine
farms, but now, forsaken by its inhabitants, and desolated
by war, it exhibited only a barren waste.
The river at that place begins to acquire some of
that terrific velocity, with which it rushes over the
awful precipice three miles below, creating one of
the greatest natural curiosities in existence; the
noise of the cataract is heard, and the column of
foam distinctly seen from the battle ground. On
the other side the field is bounded by a thick forest,
but the plain itself presented a level smooth surface,
unbroken by ravines, and without a tree or bush to
intercept the view, or an obstacle to impede the
movements of the hostile bodies, or to afford to
either party an advantage. From this plain the
American camp was separated by a small creek.
In the full glare of a summer sun, on the morning
of the fifth of July, the British troops were seen advancing
towards our camp, across the destined field
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of strife, their waving plumes, their scarlet uniforms,
and gilded ornaments, exhibiting a gay and gorgeous
appearance—their martial music, their firm and
rapid step, indicating elastic hopes and high courage.
The Americans, inferior in number, were
hastily put in motion to meet the advancing foe;
they crossed a small rude bridge, the only outlet
from the camp under a heavy fire of the enemy's
artillery; and moved steadily to the spot selected
for the hot engagement. The scene at this moment
was beautiful and imposing. The British line,
glowing with golden and crimson hues, was stretched
across the plain, flanked by pieces of brass ordnance,
whose rapid discharge spread death over the
field, and filled the air with thunder; while the
clouds of smoke enveloping each extremity of the
line, left the centre only exposed to the eye, and extending
off to the river on the one hand, and the
forest on the other, filled the whole back ground of
the landscape. The Americans were advancing in
column. They were new recruits, now led for the
first time into action, and except a few of the officers,
none of all that heroic band had ever before
seen the banner of a foe. But they moved steadily
to their ground, unbroken by the galling fire: and
platoon after platoon wheeled into line with the
same graceful accuracy of movement which marks
the evolutions of the holiday parade, until the whole
column was deployed into one extended front; the
officers carefully dressing the line with technical
-- 035 --
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skill, and the whole brigade evincing by its deep silence,
and the faithful precision of its movements,
the subordination of strict discipline, and the steady
coolness of determined courage. Now the musketry
of the enemy began to rattle, pouring bullets
thick as hail upon our ranks. Still not a trigger
was drawn, not a voice was heard on our side, save
the quick peremptory tones of command. General
Scott rode along the line, cheering and restraining
his troops:—then passing from flank to flank to see
that all was as he wished, he wheeled his steed into
the rear of the troops and gave the command to
“fire!” A voice was immediately heard in the
British ranks,—supposed to be that of their commander,—
exclaiming, “charge the d—d Yankees!
charge the d—d Buffalo militia! charge! charge!”
The American general ordered his men to “support
arms!” The British rushed forward with bayonets
charged; but they were struck with amazement
when they beheld those whom their commander had
tauntingly called militia, standing motionless as statues:
their muskets erect, their arms folded across
their breasts, gazing calmly at the hostile ranks advancing
furiously with levelled bayonets! It was a
refinement of discipline rarely exhibited, and here
altogether unexpected. The Americans stood until
the enemy approached within a few paces:—until
the foemen could see the fire flashing from each
other's eyes—and each could read the expression
of his adversary's face; then, deliberately, as the
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word was given, the Americans levelled their pieces,
and fired,—and the whole line of the enemy
seemed annihilated! Many were killed, many
wounded, and some, rushing madly forward with a
powerful momentum, fell over their prostrate companions,
or were thrown down by the weight of succeeding
combatants. In one instant the ground
lately occupied by that gallant line, was covered
with flying Britons; in another, a second line had
advanced to sustain the contest, while the broken
fragments of the first were rallied behind it. The
“Buffalo militia” were now the assailants, advancing
with charged bayonets. Then it was that the
young American chiefs, who led that gallant host,
displayed the skill of veterans, and the names of
Scott, Jessup, Leavenworth, M`Niel, and Hindman,
were given to their country to adorn the proudest
page of its history. Five-and-thirty minutes decided
the contest, and the retiring foe was pursued,
and driven to his fortress. None who saw, will forget
the terrific beauty of that scene—the noble appearance
of the troops—the dreadful precision of
every movement—the awful fury of the battle—its
fatal severity—its brief continuance—its triumphant
close!
As the victors returned from the pursuit of the
retreating enemy, a scene of intense interest was
presented. They traversed the field which a few
minutes before had sparkled with the proud equipage
of war. There had been gallant men and gay
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uniforms and waving banners; and there had been
drums, and trumpets, and the wild notes of the
bugle, stirring the soul to action. There had been
nodding plumes and beating hearts, and eyes that
gleamed with valour and ambition. There too had
been impetuous chiefs emulous of fame, dashing
their fiery steeds along the hostile ranks; and there
had been all the spirit-stirring sounds and sights,
that fill the eye, and the ear, and the heart of the
young warrior, giving more than the poet's fire to
his entranced imagination. What a change had a
few brief moments produced! Now the field was
strewn with ghastly heaps of bloody and disfigured
forms; with the wounded, the mutilated, and the
dying. The ear was filled with strange, and melancholy,
and terrific sounds; the shouts of victory had
given place to groans of anguish, the complaints of
the vanquished, the prayers or the imprecations of
the dying. Here was one who called on heaven to
protect his children; another raved of a bereaved
wife; a third tenderly aspirated some beloved name,
consecrated only by that tie;—while others deprecated
their own sufferings, or pleaded piteously for
the pardon of their sins. Here were those who
prayed ardently for death, and some who implored
a few moments more of life. Complaints of bodily
pain, and confessions of unrepented crime burst
from the souls of many in heart-rending accents;
while some, as they gazed upon the fast flowing
crimson torrent, wasted the brief remains of breath
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in moralising upon the shortness of life, and man's
careless prodigality of existence. Many gallant
spirits there were, on that ensanguined plain, who
prayed silently; and some who dared not pray, and
yet scorned to murmur. Their compressed lips
bespoke their firmness; their eyes wandered wildly
and wistfully over the bright scene that was fading
before them, and they grasped fervently the hands
of those who mournfully bade them farewell. Last
of all were seen those, in whom the soldier's enthusiasm
overpowered every other sensation, who
smiled at pain, and welcomed victory even in death.
The actors in this scene seem to have multiplied;
for those who had occupied but a small space,
when marshalled in compact bodies, were now
scattered widely over the plain. At one spot was
a group of men, at another a heap of mutilated bodies;
all around were broken carriages, and the
carcasses of men and horses. The distinctions of
rank and country had ceased with many. The
British grenadier and the American rifleman slept
in death together; the limbs of the common sentinel
were thrown across the body of his officer. The
soldier, slightly hurt, supported his desperately
wounded enemy; the dying Englishman reclined
his head upon the lap of the bleeding American;
and the American threw his exhausted frame into
the arms of the vanquished Briton. Every one demanded
help from the nearest hand, or afforded it
where it seemed most necessary. The sullen pride
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of the vanquished, and the ready courtesy of the
victors, alone distinguished their deportment.
“What wonderful infatuation! What a paradox
in human nature!” exclaimed Pendleton, as he
surveyed this scene. “Strange, that men with
common feelings, with humane and generous propensities,
without any personal animosity, should be
arrayed in deadly hostility! Equally strange, that
in a moment they should forget their enmity, in the
kindly interchange of friendship and benevolence!
Such are the effects of national ambition, such the
fatal consequences of war!”
Proud as our young soldier felt of his own exertions
he viewed the field of battle with the most
painful emotions. His were the generous sensations
of a noble mind, which could not gaze unmoved
at human misery; time could never have
familiarized his heart to these bloody scenes of
death.
But it was his fate to witness again, and again,
the awful splendour of the battle. He was present
on that eventful night, when the thunders of war
mingled with the roar of the mighty cataract. The
battle was long doubtful, and bloody. The Americans,
opposed to superior numbers, fought with
desperate perseverance; leader after leader was
carried wounded from the field, or fell at his post;
and our little army, triumphant at last, purchased
victory with the loss of half its force.
Pendleton shared the glory of the siege at Fort
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Erie, when the brave garrisons repelled for many
weeks the unceasing assaults of a potent army;
when every day was employed in warfare, and the
repose of every night broken by the roar of artillery.
He witnessed the horrors of that night, when
the foe, with imprecations of vengeance and vows
of extermination, rushed upon our ramparts, determined
to destroy or perish. He saw the effects of
that tremendous explosion which filled the air with
fragments of human forms, with lightning glare
illuming the lake, the ramparts, the forest, and the
plain:—and in short he shared the dangers and the
honour of the brilliant campaign of 1814, in which
four successful battles were fought with a foe of
superior force, and not a single reverse experienced.
Our young soldier had now seen the world, and
he had gained distinction. At the conclusion of the
war he resigned his commission, and returned to
his friends, bearing with him a severe wound, the
witness of his services. He was received with open
arms. Banquets were made in honour of his arrival.
The gentlemen were prodigal of their welcome
and their wine; the ladies were equally
generous in tea and compliments. Many a lovely
cheek glowed in his presence. True, the church
bells did not ring—no splendid sword solicited his
acceptance—nor did any public body notice the
prowess of a subaltern; but in that little circle
dearer to him than all the world, his laurels bloomed
as freshly as those which decked his general's
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[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
brow; and the young ladies who had paraded the
streets for weeks to catch a glimpse of Brown or
Scott, were satisfied with having seen Captain Pendleton,
who, though not so celebrated, was younger
and handsomer, and withal, had fought as desperately
as either of those distinguished chieftains.
Invited, flattered, and admired, the heart of the
young soldier swelled with pleasure, and he felt
that he had not lived in vain.
But this could not last for ever. It soon became
necessary for Pendleton to choose another profession;
for happily, in our country, few men are willing,
and still fewer are able, to live in idleness. He
chose the law; but it was long before his military
habits could be changed for the labour of severe study,
and the quiet of civil pursuits. The martial life is
full of interest: its changes are numerous and abrupt;
it affords many pleasures, it excites proud and
lofty emotions; it enlivens, ennobles, and awakens
the soul with generous feelings and novel associations;
its honours, its dangers, its hardships, its privations,
arouse the highest energies of manhood,
and elevate the mind with the consciousness of
meritorious achievement. Even its hours of repose
are filled with engagements that refine, and hopes
that elevate. It has little to do with what we call
the business of life; the affections are not blunted,
nor the mind degraded, with the selfish views, the
servile employments, the sordid speculations, of
worldly men. The heart and the imagination enter
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
into all the occupations of the soldier. It is a
career full of interest to the young mind; and they
who have entered into the magic circle of its enchantments,
imbibed its ardour, felt its vicissitudes,
and achieved its laurels, return with an almost invincible
reluctance to the sober pursuits of common
life. Pendleton felt continually the absence of
those inspiring emotions, those high hopes, and gay
dreams, that had kept his soul continually soaring
above mortality. His delicacy shrunk from the
collision of grovelling ideas and gross employments;
and his thoughts often revelled in visions of “the
plumed troop and the big wars.” Among these
day-dreams, the adventure of the peasant girl was
not forgotten. It was a green spot upon his memory—
a delightful subject of reflection. The beauty,
the innocence, the courage of that lovely maiden,
were deeply imprinted on his heart, and he often
wished she had been born in a higher station.
Three years had now rolled away since the occurrence
of the events described in the commencement
of this tale. Pendleton's wound, which had
but lately healed, and his confinement at a sedentary
occupation, had produced a delicate state of
health, which rendered his studies irksome and injurious;
and he resolved to try the fashionable
remedy for all complaints, fresh air and exercise.
His dissipated senses had scarcely recovered from
the exhilarating effects of the scenes and feelings
which I have described, and his mind became
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
again filled with romantic reflections, as he proceeded
on his journey. Blackstone and Coke
were in his head; but his heart was occupied with
banners and bugles, and lakes and hills, and blue
eyes and rosy lips. With these sensations he retraced
his former steps. His eye wandered with
new delight over the precipitous shores of the
Hudson, he participated in the amusements of
Ballston and Saratoga, and lingered with mournful
pleasure along the banks of the Ontario. He revisited
the scenes of warlike contention, and the
graves of his former companions. He gazed with
fresh emotion on the stupendous cataract, and
strolled over the dilapidated ramparts of Fort Erie,
mingling with the gay and fashionable tourists who
now lounged in safety over the spots which he had
seen peopled with a military array. He beheld
industrious husbandmen, smiling cottages, and rich
harvests, where he had seen a depopulated waste,
and desolating armies. The change from smoking
ruins, and deserted fields, to the delightful scenes
of rural industry, was too enchanting not to produce
a deep impression, and he turned his steps
homeward with chastened feelings, and a mind
glowing with virtuous resolutions. Convinced that
true glory may be attained in the bosom of a
peaceful community, and that true happiness exists
only in the domestic circle, he resolved to seek
tranquillity in the practice of usefulness and virtue.
Why was it that Pendleton, during a few days
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
that he spent in New York, at the commencement
of his tour, had eagerly solicited his friends to procure
him letters to persons residing at B— although
he took no other letters, and in his wanderings
rather avoided than sought society? Why, having
procured these important credentials, did he take
a different route, loitering at various points of interest,
and only touching at B— on his return?
And why did he then keep those letters in his pocket,
and shrink from society more sedulously than
before? “The young gentleman was in love,” says
a fair reader. Perhaps so, but remember, madam,
I do not assert it. As a faithful historian, I
am bound only to relate facts, leaving it to philosophers
and young ladies, who are versed in such
matters, to reconcile these seeming contradictions.
B— was the same village in whose vicinity Pendleton
had met the blue-eyed sister of William
Benson. Established at the inn, he wandered
about the neighbourhood, without any settled purpose,
and with feelings which were, perhaps, imperfectly
developed to himself. The villagers
wondered who this silent stranger could be, who
did nothing but draw pictures, and play on the
flute, and stroll over the hills. Some thought he
was an engineer, sent to trace the route of the new
canal; others believed him to be a British spy, and
a few insisted that he was an emissary, employed
in some mighty political conspiracy. Their curiosity
and suspicion became troublesome, and it was
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
to quiet these, that Pendleton one day presented a
letter of introduction to Mr. Sandford, an opulent
gentleman in the neighbourhood, who accidentally
dined, on some public occasion, at the inn where
he lodged. Mr. Sandford received him with great
cordiality, kindly reproached him for having so
long concealed himself, and insisted on Pendleton's
becoming his guest, during the remainder of his
stay in that country. This our young officer declined,
but accepted an invitation to dinner on the
ensuing day.
One of Pendleton's amusements had been to row
a light skiff over the beautiful lake which I have
described. Its waters were clear as crystal, and
the smooth sheet, though narrow, was several miles
in length—shaded with forests, and encircled with
hills, which sometimes pushed their bold promontories
far into the limpid tide, and then receding,
allowed the water to extend its bays deep into the
forest. Pendleton became enamoured of these
solitudes, where he roved unseen and undisturbed;
and every day saw his little bark gliding over the
glassy surface. Sometimes he caught fish and
threw them back into the water, and often, in the
secluded recess of a bay or inlet, he played upon
his flute, and listened to its echoes. There was
one spot which particularly attracted his attention.
It was a place where the towering hill seemed to
have been reft asunder by some convulsion of nature,
opening a deep gulf through which the
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[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
waters flowed into an irregular basin surrounded
with rocks, and overhung with precipices. Trees
and bushes springing from the crevices covered the
rocks with verdure, partly concealing their abrupt
projections, and casting on the silent water below
a deep shade.
One afternoon Pendleton drew out his pencil,
and attempted to sketch the features of this lonely
spot. He sat in his boat, which was moored near
the entrance of the recess, and was looking earnestly
on the precipice opposite to him, when a
female form issued from behind a projecting rock,
and stood for a moment on the verge. Soon as
her eye fell on the enraptured artist, whose gaze
was rivetted ardently upon her, she fled. Pendleton
remained immoveable with surprise, his fascinated
glance fixed upon the spot from which the
apparition had disappeared;—for in that fleeting
vision he recognised the long lost, long cherished
form of Benson's sister! He soon recovered his
self-possession, and pursued the lovely fugitive, but
after diligently exploring the rocks and bushes for
hours, returned without having found the least
trace of a footstep. Pendleton began to inquire
seriously whether his fancy had not deceived him.
The features of that lovely girl were deeply engraven
on his heart; her form was often present in
his sleeping and his waking dreams, and now, when
his imagination was heated in the attempt to portray
a wild landscape, and the “poet's eye in a fine
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[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
frenzy rolling” over an enchanted scene, the imaginary
image of one fondly recollected might indeed
have intruded into the picture. Such was Pendleton's
conclusion as he resumed his oars and returned
homeward over the silent waters.
This incident occurred a few days previous to
his introduction to Mr. Sandford, and might have
strengthened the desire he now felt to mingle in
society. More than once he had remarked the
romantic beauty of Mr. Sandford's residence on the
shore of the lake. The house was small, but elegant,
surrounded by a lawn, which extended to the
water's edge, shaded with tall trees, and embowered
in shrubbery. The gardens and all the grounds displayed
a refined taste. Once or twice, when his
little voyages had been delayed until a later hour
than ordinary in the enjoyment of a moonlight scene,
he had poised his oars to listen to the tones of a
piano, and the dulcet strains of a female voice, issuing
from that lonely dwelling. All these circumstances
were so much in unison with the feelings of
Pendleton, that he went to Mr. Sandford's, elated
with pleasing anticipation. This will be the more
readily believed when it is added that the mansion
of Sandford was near to that fairy alcove where
he had seen the apparition of the fair rustic.
His reception was quite as agreeable as he had
expected. The house, the furniture, and the library,
with every appearance of opulence, afforded evidence
also of taste and liberality; Sandford was
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
sensible and polite, and his fair daughter was a
beautiful and accomplished woman. The beauty
of this interesting female formed but a small part of
her loveliness; her manners were engaging, her
voice musical, her conversation sensible and easy—
but when she sung there was a fascination in the
soft fire of her eye, a melody in her voice, a feeling
gracefulness in her expression, which added new
charms to the poet's happiest thought. Pendleton
gazed upon the bright vision with a pleasure so intense
that it became almost painful. It was not
alone because this lovely woman was young, and
fair, and blooming—that her voice was music, and
her eye poetry, and her step grace,—nor because
she was surrounded by roses and honeysuckles, and
all “the blest charms of nature”—nor yet, that his
own heart was softened into the proper mood to
receive the tender impression: all these things conspired
to entrance the senses of our hero—but there
was a cause paramount to all these which fixed his
enchanted gaze, and made his heart palpitate with
tremulous delight. In this accomplished woman he
discovered a striking likeness to the peasant girl
whose image he had so long treasured in his bosom!
Perplexed with a coincidence so wonderful, he returned
to his lodgings that night, with a heart burthened
with anxious thought.
Scarcely a day now passed which did not find
our hero at the house of Mr. Sandford, and his visits
seemed to be as acceptable as they were frequent.
-- 049 --
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Louisa's smiles continued as bright, and Sandford's
welcome as cordial as at first. Young hearts soon
mingle together; youth has none of that repulsive
coldness which makes confidence the growth of
long acquaintance. There are certain affinities in
human bosoms, certain influences which seem to
operate imperceptibly by attraction, as the magnet
impels the metal, and draws kindred spirits into
contact and communion. The hearts of Pendleton
and Louisa mingled as kindly as portions of the
same element. They sang and played together, or
strolled about the green lawn, or sat under a large
elm which threw its branches over the surface of
the lake. Sandford often joined them, and if he
saw, he did not disapprove, their growing predilection.
Whatever might have been formerly the case,
Pendleton was now certainly in love; and he enjoyed
the emotions of that delightful passion without
alloy. Still the likeness which he had observed
at his first visit, haunted his imagination, and as he
studied every accent and movement of Louisa Sandford,
the peasant girl often recurred to him. Sometimes
a tone of her voice would strike some chord
of his heart, and awaken a thrilling sensation, and
sometimes a gesture recalled so vividly the graceful
attitudes of Benson's sister, that Pendleton could
scarcely contain his emotions.
“And pray why did not the love-sick gentleman
make some enquiry after the fair incognita?
Here he has been lounging about a village inn, or
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
sauntering over the country for weeks, without
using any exertions to discover his lady love—and
now he is hanging over Miss Sandford's piano, distracted
with doubt, when, by putting a simple question
to her, he might at once remove his uncertainty?”
My dear madam, I could give you a score of good
substantial reasons, in support of the conduct of my
young friend; but I am happily relieved from the
necessity of offering any by the fact which has just
been developed, that he was in love, which accounts
for all inconsistencies. Had Captain Pendleton
pursued the course which you have suggested,
he would have acted with what the law
calls “ordinary prudence;” but then, madam, he
would have behaved very unlike a lover, whose
duty it is to arrive at the knowledge of his heroine's
character and circumstances by the most circuitous
methods, remaining long ignorant of what is known
to all the rest of the world, and opening his eyes
to full conviction only in the blessed state of
matrimony. Besides, had he gone soberly in pursuit
of his love as a gentleman seeks a lost spaniel,
or sought information at every door, as a yankee
pedlar hunts for old iron—he should never have
been hero of mine; for not only would his conduct
have been most un-heroical, but his search would
in all probability have been successful, and this
tale would never have been written. But moreover
the very consummation which I have just
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
hinted at, success, startled the sensitive mind of
Pendleton. His fancy had so long cherished a delightful
vision, that he shrunk instinctively from a
developement which might dissolve the airy fabric.
Three years might have made a vast change in the
fate of this fair girl. She might be dead, or, dreadful
thought! she might be married! He might find
her digging potatoes, or driving a cart, or rocking a
cradle! Some great clodhopper might have sipped
the nectar from those rosy lips, which would have
charmed an anchorite; he might find her blowing
the bellows of a grim blacksmith, or waxing the
ends of a jolly shoemaker's thread! Besides, he was
not only a modest man, but possessed a mind of
refined delicacy, which suggested that Benson's
mother might think he came to claim her thanks, or
his sister might imagine he sought a reward, for the
service he had rendered the friendless youth. In
short, I could recount a thousand ingenuous feelings
which operated to produce indecision; but as nine
tenths of my readers would pronounce them nonsensical,
and they will readily suggest themselves to
the other tenth, I shall pass them over.
But more than all was he perplexed by the likeness
between the sister of Benson, and the daughter
of Sandford. His heart often whispered that they
were the same. But how could that be? The one
a poor girl, clad in homespun, the daughter of a
widow, the sister of a common soldier; the other
an elegant woman, the only and the darling child of
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
a man of fortune and education. He felt reluctant
to dissolve an illusion which identified these two
dearly cherished objects; but he became satisfied
at last, though the one had long animated his fancy,
it was the other who now warmed his heart.
One day as they sat together, Pendleton, resolving
to solve the riddle which perplexed him, took
from his pocket-book a miniature of the fair rustic
which he had drawn from memory, and presented
it to Louisa. A beam of joy suffused her face, as
she caught a first glimpse of the features of the portrait,
which was changed to astonishment as her eye
fell upon the dress. She cast an embarrassed
glance at Pendleton, and again viewed the picture
with tremulous confusion. For a few minutes
both were silent—it was an interval such as many
lovers have known, in which a single glance speaks
volumes in a single moment—and the secret thoughts
of the heart bursting forth from the eyes, the cheeks,
and the lips, are eloquent in every feature—when
the most interesting of all questions is asked and
answered in timid looks, the doubts of years removed,
and the blissful arrangements made for a
life of happiness, by the silent language of the eye.
That moment has fled with the rapidity of thought,
and the lovers remain abashed with the delightful
truth which has flashed upon them, the maiden
covered with conscious blushes, and the youth
gazing with unrestrained rapture at his bright conquest!
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
At length, to dispel an embarrassment which was
becoming irksome, Pendleton said, “I will relate
the history of that portrait—it is the memorial of a
firstlove, and displays the features of one who has
long possessed my affections.” Then assuming a
mock heroic air, and a gay tone, he proceeded:
“You must know that once upon a time, when I was
a young officer, and wore a fine uniform, and had a
tall white feather in my hat, I marched at the head
of my company, one fine summer's evening, through
a pretty little village like that beyond the water,
and encamped by a beautiful lake like that before
us, and a lovely little girl in a homespun cotton
frock and a white muslin sun-bonnet, with the
sweetest blue eyes in the world, exactly like—yours—
came to the camp to see me—”
“Oh no! no!—not to see you!”
“Well, well—I took the visit to myself, escorted
her round my camp, fell in love with her,—and—
drew her picture; or rather she left her own picture
on my heart, from whence I took this copy.”
“And what then?” enquired Louisa, timidly assuming
a little of the archness of her lover.
“Why then, like a silly swain, I dreamed of her
for three years.”
“And then like an inconstant swain, forgot her!”
“No! no! forget her I shall never—I came to
B— to seek her, and I trust I have found her here;
my eyes have long been deceived, but my heart cannot
be mistaken; you are—you must be she!”
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
“Nay—” said Louisa, as he would have taken her
hand, “if this portrait exhibits the likeness of your
beloved, you must seek her in the cottage of Mrs.
Benson.”
“Mrs. Benson! surely I did not mention that
name!”
“Then I have betrayed myself!” said Louisa;
and she turned to fly, when the tete-a-tete was interrupted
by the approach of Mr. Sandford.
The embarrassed maid soon retired, leaving the
gentlemen together, and Pendleton, full of the subject,
opened his whole heart to Mr. Sandford disclosing
all the particulars which I have narrated.
That gentleman listened with emotion, and then
replied, “Your confidence demands equal frankness
from me. I will at once explain the riddle which
has perplexed you. After the death of Louisa's
mother, I unguardedly contracted another marriage
which proved unfortunate. Louisa, then a mere
child, was treated unkindly by her step-mother, who
prevailed upon me to remove to the city of New
York, leaving my daughter to the care of Mrs.
Benson, who had long been a domestic in my
family, and whose husband was the manager of my
farm. To them I entrusted this mansion and all
my affairs here. I engaged in commercial speculations,
and in the dissipations of a city life, I am
mortified to acknowledge that I neglected and almost
forgot my daughter. My only excuse is, that
I was confident she was in the hands of kind and
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
worthy people; but I did not know that she was
clad like a rustic, and permitted to run wild over
the country. Mrs. Benson, however, though too indulgent,
was a pious and sensible woman, and
reared Louisa with sound principles, upon which I
have since been able to engraft an excellent education.
When I became a widower a second time, I
returned to my farm, and found Louisa, shortly
after you saw her, a wild rustic. She had originally
a fine mind, and having had access to my library, it
was not altogether unimproved, and since that time
I have spared neither pains or expense in her education.
During the war Benson died, and his son
ran off and enlisted. Mrs. Benson was deeply
afflicted by this event, and Louisa, who felt a filial
tenderness for her, and regarded William as a brother,
strove all in her power to comfort the wretched
parent. She happened to be in the village when
your company passed through, and was impelled by
strong love for her old nurse, to visit the camp
under the vague hope that William might be there.
You know the rest—and you will not think it
strange, considering her extreme youth, that her
ardent feelings prompted her to be forward in the
service of those who were justly so dear to her.
Your name was of course known to us, from having
heard it often mentioned by William Benson, who
rents a small farm from me, and at your first visit
we more than suspected that you were the same
person of whom we had heard so much; Louisa
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
was quite abashed with the recollection of her visit
to your camp, but believing that you did not recognise
her, she begged me to keep the secret.”
“There is no reason,” exclaimed Pendleton,
“why Miss Sandford should wish to conceal a circumstance
which does her so much honour.”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” said Mr. Sandford,
smiling, “that both of you have acted up to the
most approved canon of romance, and that you deserve
the credit of having done what few others
would do in the same situations.”
“There are few,” replied the lover, “who are
capable of imitating the example of Miss Sandford;
my highest ambition is to possess the hand of one so
highly gifted.”
“You will have to ask her for it, then,” said the
gratified parent, “you have had my consent for
some time, and I know you are too good a soldier to
ask any assistance in gaining hers.”
I need not draw the veil from the happy scene
that ensued. They were seen that evening gliding
arm in arm among Louisa's jessamine bowers, their
cheeks shaming the rose, and their eyes dancing
with pleasure; but as they never told me what
passed, I must leave the reader in the same ignorance
in which I find myself. They were married. Among
the happy faces which appeared at their wedding,
none were decked with brighter smiles than those
of William Benson and his widowed mother; and
among the joyful hearts, none were more truly
happy than the gallant officer and his lovely bride.
-- 057 -- p115-054
MY COUSIN LUCY AND THE VILLAGE TEACHER.
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
It has been well said, that memory never loses
an impression that has once been made upon it.
The lines may be obscured for a time, as an inscription
is defaced by rust, but they are never
obliterated; they may be buried under a crowd of
other recollections, but there are times when these
roll away, as the mist rises from the valley, and the
whole picture stands disclosed, in its original integrity.
Impressions made in childhood are the most
vivid: years may pass, and other remembrances be
gathered in, but those that lie deepest are longest
retained, and most fondly cherished. Other events
touch the heart and pass off without leaving a trace,
but these strike in, engraft themselves, and become
a part of our nature. Such, at least, has been my
experience. I have lived a busy, and I trust not an
useless life; I have seen much of the world; my
feelings and passions have been excited, and my attention
powerfully fixed, by events of deep interest;
but none stand recorded in the same bold, indelible
-- 058 --
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characters which mark some of the remembrances
of my childhood.
Not far from my father's residence there was a
schoolhouse. It was a small log building, such as
we often see in new countries, and stood in a grove,
on an eminence near the road. Whether chance,
or taste, or convenience dictated the choice of the
spot, I cannot tell; but it always struck me as being
not only well adapted to its purpose, but remarkably
picturesque. The grove contained not
more than an acre or two of ground, but the trees
were large spreading oaks that I have seldom seen
surpassed in size or beauty; for every observer of
nature will agree with me, that trees, even of the
same species, differ in appearance as widely as
human beings. In every grove the vegetation has
some distinguishing characteristic, just as all the inhabitants
of a village have some trait in common.
The trees are stinted or luxuriant, spreading or tall,
majestic or beautiful; or else they are vulgar, common-place
trees, as devoid of interest as the unmeaning
people whom we meet with every day. I
never see a great oak standing by the road side,
without observing its peculiarities. Some are round
and portly, some tall and spindling; some aspire,
and others grovel; one has a gracefully rounded
outline, and another a rugged, irregular shape. Here
you may behold one waving its head with a courtly
bend, and there you may see another tossing its great
arms up and down like some angular, long limbed,
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
gigantic booby. Trees, too, have their diseases,
their accidents, and their adventures. They are
torn by the wind, shattered by the lightning, and
nipped by the frost; and while some of them have
in their youth the aspect of sallow and dyspeptic
invalids, others flourish in a green old age; and
whether standing singly in the field, or crowded together
in the forest, whether embraced by ivy,
clothed with moss, or hung with mistletoe, they always
attract attention, by the peculiarities which
they derive from these and other incidents.
Our schoolhouse oaks were of the majestic kind.
They had braved the elements for at least a century,
and seemed to be still in the vigour of life.
Their great dark trunks were covered with moss,
and their immense branches, interlocking far above
the ground, shadowed it with a canopy that not a
sunbeam could penetrate. The soil was trodden
hard and smooth by the school boys, and covered
with a short, green sward, over which the wind
swept so freely as to carry away all the fallen
leaves.
Here we played, and wrestled, and ran races;
here, in hot weather, the master, forsaking the
schoolhouse, disposed his noisy pupils in groups
among the trees; here the rustic orator harangued
his patriotic fellow citizens on the anniversary of
independence; and here the itinerant preacher addressed
the neighbours on the Sabbath. On occasions
like the latter, our grove became as gay as a
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
parterre. The bonnets, and ribbons, and calicoes
were as numerous and many coloured as the flowers
of the field. The farmers and their families generally
came to the preaching on horseback; and it
was a fortunate animal that bore a lighter burden
than two adults and a brace of children. The
young women rode behind their brothers or sweethearts,
or in default of such attendants, mounted
sociably in pairs, the best rider taking the saddle
and holding the reins, as smart girls are always
willing enough to do. It was a goodly sight to see
the horses hitched to the trees in every direction,
showing off their sleek hides and well combed
manes to the best advantage; and decked with
new saddles, and gaudy saddle cloths, and fine
riding skirts, that were never exposed to the weather
or the eye except on Sundays and holidays. Then
the people, before the sermon began, sitting in
groups, or strolling in little companies, looked so
gay and so happy, that Sunday seemed to be to
them not merely a day of rest, but of thanksgiving
and enjoyment. When they collected round the
preacher, sitting silent and motionless, with their
heads uncovered and thrown back in devout attention,
the scene acquired a graver and deeper interest.
I have never witnessed that spectacle on a
calm, sunny day, without a sensation of thrilling
pleasure; and often as I have seen it, the impression
that it made continued ever fresh and beautiful.
There was a mingled cheerfulness and solemnity in
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
this sight, that attached itself to the spot, and I have
afterwards felt in the midst of my studies or sports
on school days, a soothing calmness creeping over
me, a feeling that the place was hallowed, like that
which we experience when strolling in a graveyard,
or lingering in the aisle of a church.
My memory clings to this spot, as the scene of
the most vivid pains and pleasures of my childhood.
I pass over the detail of all the sufferings that I endured
from the brutality of ignorant and tyrannical
teachers; perhaps I was more sensitive than other
children; but be that as it may, it is certain that
although I was fond of learning, and docile in my
disposition, I imbibed, very early in life, a cordial
hatred for the whole race of schoolmasters. But I
loved my books and my companions; I loved to
play at ball and run races; and I loved the schoolhouse
grove, with its tall oaks and verdant lawn. I
used to linger on a neighbouring hill, to look on
that graceful swell, and those fine trees, and to
wonder why I thought the landscape so attractive.
Those who recollect their sensations on first entering
a theatre, or reading a novel, can form some
idea of my feelings. That first play and first novel
remain through life impressed upon the imagination,
as standards with which all similar objects are
compared; and it was thus that the most interesting
spot that attracted my young fancy, became to
me the beau ideal of rural and romantic beauty.
There was another charm connected with this
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
spot, the secret of which I will now disclose to the
reader, although for many years I hardly dared acknowledge
it to myself. My cousin Lucy was my
school companion, and I never think of that green
hill without seeing her slender form gliding among
its shades, with the same calm blue eye, and meek
countenance, and soft smile, that she wore when
we were children. I hardly know why I loved
Lucy better than any body else, for she was several
years my senior, and never was my playfellow.
I romped and laughed with the other girls, and
played them all sorts of tricks; but I never hid her
bonnet, or pinned her sleeve to that of her next
neighbour. From her childhood she was sedate
and womanly; her deportment was always delicate
and dignified; there was a something about her
that repelled familiarity, while the winning softness
of her manner invited love and respect. When I
came near to Lucy I was no longer a wild, mischievous
boy, but was elevated into a better and
more rational being by the desire that I felt to
please and serve her.
We had a succession of schoolmasters, the most
of whom were illiterate men, who remained with
us but a few months. At last there came one of
higher pretensions than the rest. He was a young
man of liberal education, who brought with him
the highest testimonials of his character and attainments.
He strolled into the neighbourhood on
foot, and so great was his modesty that it was
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
some time before any body discovered his acquirements,
or suspected the object of his visit. At
length he proposed, with some diffidence, to fill the
vacant situation of teacher; and, having produced
his credentials, was readily admitted to that thankless
office. He was altogether a different man
from any of his predecessors. His temper was
even, his heart kind, his manners easy, and he had
the rare talent of commanding respect, and communicating
knowledge, without the appearance of
an effort. He was as bashful as a girl, and as artless
a being as ever lived. Every body liked him;
his good sense, his cheerfulness, his inoffensive
manners, and industrious habits, made him the favourite
of young and old.
It was customary in those days for the schoolmaster
to board with his patrons, each one entertaining
him for a week at a time, in rotation; an
arrangement which, while it divided the burden of
his subsistence equally, enabled the whole neighbourhood
to become personally acquainted with
the pedagogue. When the latter happened to be
a dull, prosing dog, scantily supplied with good
manners and good fellowship, the week of his reception
wore heavily away, the table was less plentifully
spread than usual, and the whiskey jug was
sure to have suffered some disaster on the day previous
to his arrival. The head of the family indulged
himself on such occasions in liberal remarks
upon the idleness and effeminacy of learning; and
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
the good wife, by frequent allusions to the scarcity
of provisions, and the high price of schooling, gave
the unfortunate teacher to understand that he was
considered as a mere incubus upon the body politic—
a Mr. Nobody, who was only tolerated, and
fed, and allowed to sit in the chimney-corner, for
the purpose of keeping the children out of mischief.
But if the schoolmaster was a pleasant fellow,
one who read the newspapers, and played the
fiddle, and told a good story, the week of his visitation
brought holiday times and high doings to the
farmer's hospitable fireside. Then the good man
heard the news, the girls heard the violin, and the
mistress of the house found a patient auditor to the
recital of all the misadventures which had befallen
the family within the scope of her memory. Then
the boys wore their holiday clothes every day, the
hospitable board groaned under a load of good
things, and the cheerful family enjoyed seven long
days of good humour and good eating.
Of all schoolmasters, Mr. Alexis, the gentleman
above alluded to, was the most popular one that
ever darkened the door of a farm-house. In his
time, the “schoolmaster's week” was a week of
festival. He not only read the news, and played
the fiddle, but could sing a good song, and recite
the veracious biography of a hundred real ghosts.
He could explain all the hard words in the Testament,
all the outlandish names in the newspapers,
and all the strange hieroglyphics which are
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
mischievously set down in the almanac, to puzzle the
brains of simple country folks. Then he was affable
and talkative; with all this he was good-humoured,
and, what perhaps was more effective
than all the rest, he was good-looking. With
such qualifications he was always a welcome
visiter, and I can well remember the stir that his
coming occasioned in my father's house. On the
preceding Saturday there was an universal scrubbing;
the floors, the windows, the chairs, the pewter
plates, the milk pails, and the children, were all
scrubbed. The dimity curtains, that lay snugly
packed away in the great press, sprinkled with
lavender and rose leaves, were now brought forth
and hung over the parlour windows; and the
snow-white counterpanes, that were kept for great
occasions, were ostentatiously spread upon the
beds. The yard was swept, and the great weeds
that had been suffered to grow unmolested, were
plucked up; and the whole messuage, out-houses,
tenements, and appurtenances, made to look as fine
and as smart as the nature of the case would
admit. Then such baking, and brewing, and
cooking! The great oven teemed with huge
loaves and rich pastry; yielding forth from its vast
mouth puddings, and pies, and tarts, enough to
have foundered a whole board of aldermen. The
fatted calf was killed, the brightest ornaments of
the pig-stye and poultry-yard were devoted to the
knife, and the best blood of the farm was freely
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
spilled to furnish forth delicate viands, with which
to pamper the appetite of that important and
popular character, the schoolmaster.
I am often singular in my opinions, for I do not
consider myself bound to believe any thing, merely
because every body else believes it. As to the
schoolmaster, I disliked him from the very first;
and when every body else praised him, I was
silent. I had an inherent antipathy against all pedagogues.
I viewed them as our natural enemies,
a race created to scourge and terrify children; and
for the person in question I entertained a special
and particular aversion. This was the more singular,
as I was by nature confiding and placable, and
never indulged a malignant feeling towards any
other human being. He treated me with kindness,
instructed me with unwearied patience, and I verily
believe would have found the road to my heart,
had I not suspected that he was searching out the
way that led to my cousin Lucy's. I was always
jealous of her, because the disparity of our ages
placed her at a distance which almost extinguished
hope, and because she always treated me as a boy
and a relation, and either never did, or never
would see that I cherished feelings towards her infinitely
more tender than any that the mere ties of
consanguinity could have awakened. A boy in
love becomes cunning beyond his years. Unable
to enter the lists as a candidate, and obliged to
look on in silence, he becomes the secret and
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
vigilant enemy of his unconscious rival. I was continually
watching the schoolmaster and my cousin
Lucy; and not a glance, nor a blush, nor a touch
of the hand, escaped my jealous eye. An indifferent
observer would have seen nothing in their intercourse
to excite the slightest suspicion; an enamoured
boy, who had loved devotedly from the
first dawn of intelligence, read volumes of meaning
in every act and look. The conduct of both of
them was perfectly delicate and unexceptionable.
There was not the least approach to gallantry on
his part, nor an inviting or an encouraging glance
on hers; but I could mark the softened tone of his
voice, and the involuntary reverence of his manner,
when he addressed her. I could detect the
brightening of his eye when she spoke, and the
courteous bow with which he replied to any question
from her, so different from the common-place
civility with which he treated his other female pupils.
He often walked home with her, but never
without other company, for she was always surrounded
by children, one or two of whom she held
by the hand, as if to prevent the possibility of a
tete-a-tete. Perhaps she never had a thought that
there was any particular meaning in his attentions;
but there is an instinct in female delicacy; and although
it might never have occurred to Lucy that
her teacher had opportunities beyond other men,
which required that she should place a careful
watch over her affections, nature regulated her
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
conduct. I was often with them; they conversed
without constraint, and never spoke of love, or
courtship, or marriage. But he pointed out to her
the finest traits of the landscape, gathered for her
the choicest flowers, and discoursed of poetry;
sometimes reciting the most beautiful passages, in
so eloquent a tone that I could have knocked him
down, and was ready to quarrel with Lucy for the
apparent interest with which she listened. Often
did I wish that he was a thousand miles off, or that
I was a schoolmaster.
It would be too tedious to set down all the mischievous
pranks that I played our teacher, in revenge
for his supposed attachment to my cousin.
Though fond of learning, I obstinately persisted in
a resolution to owe nothing to his teaching; and
more than once disgraced him and myself by wilful
blunders, at our public examinations. I incited
the biggest boys into conspiracies against his peace
and dignity. Once when he was going to a teaparty
at my uncle's, a little better dressed than
usual, a troop of us scampered past him, as he was
crossing a miry brook, and, pretending not to observe
him, splashed a shower of mud and water
over his holiday suit. We sent him one day into
a large company with a grotesque figure chalked
on his back; and on another occasion scorched off
his eyebrows by exploding gunpowder under his
nose, while he was intently engaged in working a
problem in algebra. None of these persecutions
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
ever ruffled his temper; and when my mother,
who could not believe that the fault was mine, reproached
him with the slowness of my progress,
he mildly told her that the greatest geniuses were
often dull boys at school, and that I would no
doubt make a shining man.
At length the term of the schoolmaster's engagement
expired, and my heart bounded with joy
when I heard that he was going to quit the country.
I was at my uncle's on the morning of his departure,
when he called to take leave of the family. Lucy
was in the garden, and Alexis went there to look
for her. Young as I was, I could readily comprehend
that a latent passion would be most apt to
betray itself in a parting interview; and that of all
places in the world, a garden is the fittest to excite
tender feelings in the bosom of young lovers. In
a moment a thousand thoughts flashed through my
mind—in another moment love and jealousy
prompted me to observe a meeting, which my foreboding
heart told we would be fraught with more
than usual interest. It was a mean act, but jealousy
is always mean. I was too young, too much in
love, and too angry to reflect; and if I had reflected,
who could have thought it improper to witness
any thing which could possibly take place between
two such perfect beings as my cousin Lucy and the
schoolmaster?
I crept secretly to the garden, and from the covert
of a thick hedge saw Alexis approach my
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
cousin. He took her hand, and told her that he
had come to bid her farewell; that he had bade
adieu to all his other friends, and had deferred calling
upon her until the last, because to part with
her was more painful than all the rest. There was
a touching softness in his voice, and a corresponding
melancholy clouded his features. “What a
canting rascal,” said I to myself; “I am afraid
Lucy will never be able to stand it.”
He then dropt her hand, and began to pluck
twigs from a peach tree, while Lucy was industriously
engaged in demolishing a great rose. At last
he said, “There is one subject—” Lucy stooped
down, and began to pull the weeds from a tulip
bud. The schoolmaster stopped and looked embarrassed.
“Silly fellow!” said I, exultingly, “why does
he not kneel down, and lay his hand upon his
heart?” I took courage when I saw his trepidation,
believing that he would never be able to tell his
love, or that Lucy would discard so clumsy a
lover.
“Miss Lucy”—said the schoolmaster.
“Sir!” said Miss Lucy.
“What a canting villain!” said I.
Mr. Alexis looked around, as if fearful of observation.
“He looks as if he were stealing,” said I; “and
well he may, the vile pedagogue!”
Alexis sighed, threw down his eyes, and resumed,
-- 071 --
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“There is one subject, Miss Lucy, upon which I
have long wished—” He looked up, but Lucy
was several paces off, twining the delicate vines of
a honeysuckle through the lattice of the summer-house.
“She will never have him,” said I, in an ecstasy;
“I know she would never have a whining, canting,
pitiful schoolmaster!”
Alexis followed Lucy to the summer-house, and
remarked that “the honeysuckles were very fragrant.”
“Very!” said my cousin.
“He has dropped the subject,” thought I; “dear
Lucy! how well she managed him! Ah! these
schoolmasters know not how to make love; if I
were there, I could show him how!” I breathed
freely, and thought it was all over.
Alexis stood by the side of Lucy; he leaned towards
her, and spoke in a low voice. What he
said I know not, but the words were potent, for
Lucy turned her head from him, and I saw that her
face was covered with blushes, redder than the
coral flowers that hung around her.
I thought she was angry. “If he has dared to
insult my cousin,” said I, “how proudly will I
avenge her quarrel!” I looked again, and could
scarcely believe my eyes! Lucy's head was
reclining upon the shoulder of Alexis, and one
arm was thrown gently around her! I thought their
lips met!
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
I could stay no longer. I fled from the hateful
scene, burning with rage and jealousy, and deeply
mortified at my own meanness in having become
the voluntary and secret witness of that which
should have been sacred from every eye.
In a few days after this occurrence I left my native
country. I had long been destined for the sea,
and having now received a midshipman's warrant
in the navy, set out for the sea-board. After I had
bade adieu to all my other friends, I went to take
leave of Lucy; for I, too, felt that this was the
most painful of my separations; the parting with
her seemed like breaking the last and tenderest tie
that bound me to the land of my birth. She had
always treated me with the affection of a sister, and
never did her manner seem so tender as at this moment.
When I left her father's house, she followed
me across the little lawn before the door, and as I
threw the reins over my horse's neck, and lingered
to repeat my adieu, she put a paper into my hand.
Her eyes were filled with tears, and my own were
not dry.
I was some miles on my way from home before
my emotion subsided sufficiently to permit me to
read Lucy's note. In this she disclosed to me her
engagement with Alexis; she said it had been approved
by her parents, and that the marriage would
take place whenever he should be established in a
profession, for which he was preparing himself. She
spoke of the fair prospects that smiled before her,
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
in an union with one so amiable and highly gifted.
She said that she made this disclosure, because I was
her nearest and dearest relative, after her parents,
and was on the eve of so long an absence, that the
separation seemed to be almost final. More she said,
which I need not repeat; it was all kind and sisterly,
and I vowed that I would always love my cousin
Lucy, whether she married the schoolmaster or not.
Her note had one good effect, which harsher
measures would have failed to produce. Her
generous confidence subdued me; and as I reflected
upon it in my cooler moments, I determined to
smother my ill-fated passion, and to love Lucy
only in manner and form as her cousin lawfully
might. I resolved, moreover, to forego all my
vengeance against Alexis, and to think of him with
kindness.
In a few days I embarked. We had a brilliant
cruise. The war with Great Britain was just declared,
and the ocean swarmed with our enemies.
We were frequently engaged, and generally successful.
The novelty and excitement of this life
soon caused a wonderful revolution in my feelings.
I was no longer a romantic boy, brooding over a
hopeless passion, with the single object of my
adoration continually before my eyes. My heart
had set up other idols; it had now ample sea-room,
and, like our gallant vessel, rode gaily over the
sparkling ocean of life. I learned to think of Lucy
as the destined bride of another; yet I thought of
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
her as a lovely and a hallowed being, and sometimes
pronounced her name with the reverence
with which a devout catholic utters that of his tutelary
saint. Often when our ship lay becalmed,
when the clear moonlight was spread over the
ocean, when the waves were at rest, and every
thing was still, I would lie for hours upon the deck,
thinking of the schoolhouse, and its beautiful grove,
and my fair cousin. Then I would think of the
honours that awaited me—of the time when I
should be numbered among the heroes of my country;
and would sigh to reflect, that the lovely
flower, which so proudly I would have twined
among my laurels, would be blushing unseen in the
lowly cottage of a country schoolmaster.
During my first cruise, which lasted nearly two
years, I was so fortunate as to distinguish myself on
several occasions. But I panted for higher honours;
and on our return to port, finding a fine frigate
on the point of sailing, I solicited permission
to join her, and being considered as an efficient
officer, my request was granted, and I sailed on
another cruise, without setting my foot on shore.
This act of devotedness to my profession raised me
in the eyes of my commander, who afforded me
every opportunity of acquiring distinction. I now
rose rapidly. When at sea I was engaged in every
hazardous enterprise, and when in foreign ports
my superior introduced me into the best society.
Among the exotic beauties whom I beheld, I saw
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
none so beautiful as Lucy, but many who were
more polished; perhaps my taste became vitiated,
for although I still cherished the memory of her
unpretending graces, I learned to admire the more
dazzling charms of others, and to indulge the
thought that I might at some future day adore another
in her stead.
After a long cruise, in which many dangerous
exploits were attempted, and some of them brilliantly
accomplished, we were homeward bound,
when we fell in with a fine frigate of the enemy.
Both ships were soon cleared for action, and after
a bloody engagement we succeeded in capturing
our foe. I was now acting as a lieutenant, and
having the good fortune to be stationed on the
spar-deck, immediately under the eye of my commander,
received his compliments for my conduct.
We came into port triumphantly. Public honours
of the highest character were awarded to us.
Dinners and balls were given, and the population
of a great city vied in the expression of their patriotic
gratitude; while the newspapers throughout
the whole continent were filled with our praises.
I was promoted to a lieutenancy, and had the gratification
of seeing my name emblazoned in the
public prints, with those of my distinguished superiors.
In these proud moments I did not forget my
fair cousin; entirely as I had resigned her, and cordially
as I wished her happiness, I sighed to think
of her obscure and lonely fate. With a partner so
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
bright, so gentle, and so dear, to share my laurels,
I should have been supremely happy; and I could
not but marvel at the capricious decree of fortune,
which had doomed one, who might have shone as
the bride of a naval hero, to drag out her existence
in the vulgar lot of wife to a country pedagogue.
I had written to my parents on my arrival; but
a round of entertainments, given in honour of our
victory, prevented me from visiting them. One
evening, as I strolled through the streets with a
friend, we passed a spacious church, into which
crowds of fashionable people were hurrying with
apparent eagerness.
“Let us go in here,” said my companion, “and
hear the the fashionable preacher, one who has
turned the heads of the whole town, and is more
talked of than Commodore Perry or General Scott.
He is a new man, who has eclipsed all his contemporaries
by his eloquence, while his learning and
modesty win universal esteem.”
We entered the church, and I looked round
upon the novel exhibition, as upon some fairy
scene. It was long since I had sat in the bosom of
a worshipping congregation; and how different
was this from the rustic assemblage that I had
been accustomed to see, gathered in pious silence
under the schoolhouse oaks! Here was a splendid
edifice, ornamented with gilding, decorated with
rich hangings, and lighted with brilliant chandeliers,
whose intense effulgence awakened in my
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
unpractised heart a thrilling sensation of excitement.
But the audience, how gay, how gorgeous,
how beautiful! Those to whom such scenes are
familiar, can form but a faint idea of the impression
made by a fair and fashionable crowd upon
the mind of one accustomed only to rustic assemblages,
or to the hardy multitudes who fill the
camp or crowd the quarter-deck. Here were
gems, and plumes, and silks, and glowing cheeks,
and sparkling eyes; but there was also a simple
elegance in the attire, a sedateness in the demeanour,
and above all, a devout humility, reigning
throughout this thrilling scene, that added to it a
solemn grandeur, which exceeds my powers of description.
My heart was elevated as I gazed on
that rich, and silent, and motionless picture; and I
felt how the omnipotent influence of religion can
quell the happy, and soothe the wretched, and win
the gay, and calm down all the tumultuous passions
of human nature, as oil poured upon the
waves reduces them to a placid surface.
At length the preacher arose, and every eye was
turned towards him. I looked up, and what was
my surprise at beholding Alexis! I could not be
mistaken, for there he stood in the same simple attire,
with the same humble aspect, and the same
benignant smile, that were so familiarly impressed
upon my recollection. His manner had all its former
mildness, and his voice its accustomed melody;
there was only a little more of fulness and
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
compass in the one, and a slight tinge of self-confidence
added to the other. His sermon was eloquent
and able; the language was clear, classical, and simple;
the manner of its delivery calm and unassuming.
His voice was never strained, and seldom elevated
above its ordinary pitch; it swelled and softened
upon the ear, without the slightest effort on the
part of the speaker, without the least violence to
the sense of the hearer. There was no labour of
the body; the arm was never extended, the hand
only was raised occasionally from the cushion.
The whole manner of the speaker was mild and
persuasive; his argument was acute, close, and
powerful, without any attempt to adorn it with the
graces of composition, or to win applause by the
arts of oratory; yet such was the effect produced
by the delicate choice of harmonious words, their
symmetrical arrangement and chaste delivery,
together with the apostolic earnestness, and an air
of pious conviction that breathed throughout, that
all felt and acknowledged that the speaker had
opened a new vein of genuine eloquence.
The deep silence that prevailed during the sermon,
and the subdued murmur of applause that
ran in whispers through the congregation when the
service was over, attested the powerful effect of
the discourse. As the people dispersed, I endeavoured
to make my way to Mr. Alexis, but the
crowd was so great as to prevent me from reaching
the pulpit until he had disappeared; and as it
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
was late, I returned to my lodgings, determined to
seek him on the following day. I now saw that
Lucy was not wedded to obscurity and indigence,
and gave her full credit for having discovered a
man of genius and feeling in the despised schoolmaster,
who had so long been the object of my
contempt and aversion. I took shame to myself
for having presumed to institute comparisons between
Alexis and myself; and felt humble in acknowledging
that my ephemeral honours would
soon be forgotten, while his useful career and
splendid powers would sustain for him a brilliant
reputation during his existence, and earn a name,
which his countrymen would cherish with gratitude
when he should be no more. One thing flattered
my pride and consoled my prejudices; I
learned that Mr. Alexis had long since abandoned
his former vocation, and that my cousin had not,
after all, married a schoolmaster.
On the following morning early, Mr. Alexis anticipated
my visit, by calling to see me. We met
cordially; and on the day after were jogging sociably
together towards my native place. I found
Lucy a proud and happy wife. They had built a
neat cottage on the schoolhouse hill, in the midst
of that beautiful grove, which they carefully preserved
in memory of former days; and I now found
that I had not been singular in my admiration of
its sylvan graces. The schoolhouse had been removed;
and a large, plain meeting-house, on a
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
neighbouring eminence, is occupied by a numerous
congregation, under the ministry of Alexis. Loved
and honoured by his former pupils, the worthy
pastor is surrounded by them, who look up to him
with gratitude as the teacher of their youth, and
with reverence as the guide of their maturity;
while the happy Lucy, in the society of her early
friends and chosen partner, enjoys the sweetest
fruits of innocence and virtue. Here they live in
contentment and honour; and when I witnessed
their placid lives, their pious labours, their active
benevolence and simple virtues, I scarcely knew
which to love and admire most, my fair and gentle
cousin Lucy, or my ancient rival, but now my very
reverend and much honoured cousin, “the schoolmaster.”
-- 081 -- p115-078
EMPTY POCKETS.
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
I would not have my fair readers to suppose, that
I have dreamed away my life in a “Bachelor's Elysium”
or a “Paradise of Coquettes,” or that all my
days have been devoted to “Love in a village.” I
have done the state some service, in the days that
tried men's soles, and have had my own blistered
with many a weary march. This explanation will
no doubt dispel any surprise which may have arisen
in the reader's mind when the title of this paper
first caught his eye; for if there is any class of citizens
in this vast republic, who are peculiarly fitted
and prepared by experience to expatiate with accuracy
and feeling on the subject of empty pockets, it
is composed of those gentlemen who follow to the
field a warlike chief. It is not necessary to state to
what corps I belonged, nor will I be called upon, I
trust, to exhibit my commission, or give a
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
countersign: It will be sufficient for my present purpose to
assure my fair readers that although I now languish
at the feet of beauty, or listen to the inspirations of
the muse, I have in verity earned the right to
“shoulder my crutch and show how fields were
won.”
I shall now proceed to relate an adventure which
happened to me when I was a young man and a soldier.
It was about nine years ago. I was then
about twenty-one years old, but nobody would have
taken me for more than eighteen. I was returning
home from a severe tour of duty upon the frontiers,
and wore in my features and habiliments the aspect
of a “poor gentleman.” My face was sallow and
sunburnt—my cash low—my coat threadbare and
my epaulet tarnished;—as for my laurels, they were
not yet in bloom.
It was about sunrise in the morning—a delightful
morning in October—when a waiter at the City Hotel
in New York roused me from a sound slumber
to announce that the steamboat was about to depart,
and that a porter waited for my trunk. Having
discharged my bill and made all the necessary arrangements
on the preceding evening, I had only to
throw on my clothes and follow the bearer of my
baggage, who paced Broadway with rapid strides.
The street was filled with truant passengers like
myself, some yawning from their broken slumbers,
some grumbling from a half finished breakfast, some
fretting about their baggage, and some were in high
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
spirits. All was commotion in the street and on the
wharf. The bell was ringing, and the captain of
the steamboat bellowing like a madman—“I'll
swear I wont wait for nara man, woman or child
breathen—cast off that cable there forard—stand by
to clap on the steam! If people wont come in time
I wont wait—If I do”—“Nobody wants you to
wait,” thought I, for I was now on board; and the
boat was soon paddling her way through the water.
It was indeed a delightful morning, and the passengers
crowded to the deck. Bright eyes and dull
ones, drowsy heads and all, seemed to feel the vivifying
effect of the beauteous scene and the calm
hour. The soldiers were on drill at Governor's
Island, the fatigue parties were at work, the drums
were beating—all was bustle. But the water, and
the surrounding shores, how serene, how lovely! As
the eye wandered over the blue expanse—but perhaps
my fair reader has never been at New York—
has never seen the North river, nor the East river,
nor the Battery, nor Governor's Island, nor the Narrows—
if so, my poor dear unfortunate reader, it is
utterly impossible to convey to thee any adequate
idea of the picturesque beauties of New York Harbour,
and the highest point of my success would be
to make thy mouth water like that of Tantalus. I
could indeed, if I had not long since disposed of my
instruments, and almost forgotten their use, put my
little knowledge of military topography in requisition,
and sketch the commanding points of the
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
landscape. I could exhibit the labours of “the patriotic
diggers,” display the last scene of Decatur's glory,
and designate the spot where Hamilton fell, and the
monument erected to his memory. But I beg to be
excused—and to assure the reader that although I
cannot enable him to participate in the pleasure, all
these scenes, and the incidents attached to them,
were glowing richly upon my fancy as the steamboat
cleft her rapid way through the silent waters.
But my attention was soon drawn to the busy,
the smiling and the contented faces—the gay, the
respectable, and the decent appearance of my fellow
passengers. Fresh from scenes of tumult and
danger—from the daily contemplation of hardy soldiers,
lurking borderers, and sturdy woodsmen—
from camps which, though containing the bravest of
men, were surrounded by the worst of women,—
with a heart sickened among the gloomy scenes of
the hospital, and yearning after repose, I gazed with
delight upon my countrymen. I marked the elegance
of one, the neatness of another, and the suavity
of a third—and contrasting this placid and
cheerful display of national happiness, with the
vice, dejection, and disease which I had left behind,
my heart was filled with delight. Cheerful greetings,
and friendly interchanges of civility were circulating
round me; I only was unknown and solitary—
but I reflected that I too should soon be surrounded
by warm hearts and long remembered faces, and
should feel a parent's embrace and a sister's kiss.
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
Strolling towards the cabin door, I now observed
a large handbill, the “Rules and Regulations of this
Boat,” perspicuously set forth in legible characters.
It was announced in this document, that shortly
after the boat should get under weigh, a bell should
be rung to summon the passengers to the clerk's
room, where they were to pay for their passages,
and be entitled to a seat at the breakfast table. A
gentleman who stood near me perusing this important
information, now turned to the captain, whose
impatience had by this time subsided into a tolerable
degree of calmness, and observed, “Would it not
be better, captain, to make your passengers discharge
their fare before they get on board? You
must sometimes be imposed upon under your present
regulations.” “Not at all,” said the captain:
“very few persons travel in this way, who have not
honour enough to pay—and as for the slippery chaps,
I watch them, and I know one of them as soon as I
see him.”
The bell now sounded, and I hastened towards
the clerk's desk, when, feeling for my pocket-book,
what was my consternation to find it gone! I felt
all my pockets, but found it not—I hastened to my
trunk, but it was not there—the pocket-book was
lost. Most people would on such an occasion have
made an immediate and loud outcry, but I had
learned from the rules and articles of war the danger
of giving false alarms, and by my General, who
though nicknamed old Jake, was a wise man and a
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
good soldier, I had been taught that we should not
discover our weakness to the enemy. I had learned
too in travelling, that nothing is considered as a
surer sign of a slippery chap, than an empty pocket.
I therefore assumed as much composure as possible,
and returning to the deck strolled up and
down, like a sentry upon post, revolving what was
best to be done. Perhaps there might be a bank-note
lurking in some of my pockets. I was aware
that this was the worst place in the world to look
for a bank-note—but still, I was a careless fellow,
and sometimes stowed my cash in odd places. Upon
this suggestion, my pockets were searched anew,
and a thorough inquisition had through every hole
and corner of my trunk—a bank-note in my pocket,
indeed! I might as well have expected to find the
Sea Serpent there! However, my commissariat
had not been deficient the day before—I will not
name the sum in deposit, but it was sufficient. I
had given all the loose change in my pocket to the
servants at the tavern, and the porter who carried
my trunk—the rest was in my pocket-book, and the
pocket-book was—where? I had arrived at New-York
the preceding day, had gone to the theatre at
night, and recollected having had it while there. I
had returned to the hotel late at night, and had discharged
my bill, but whether from the contents of
the said-pocket book, or from the loose change in
my pocket, I could not tell. My heart and head
had been too full of the sorrows of Juliet to dwell
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
on such trash as bank-bills and dollars—but now, I
thought,
“How happy could I be with either!”
I was, inded, weary of conjecture:—one thing was
certain, my money was gone!—and locking my trunk
I walked to the side of the vessel, and leaned over,
gazing at the water in deep reverie!
The surface of the water was unruffled, and as I
looked upon it in painful thought, my agitated mind
began to acquire a congenial serenity. Where now,
I thought,—
“Where now, ye lying vanities of life,
Ye ever tempting, ever cheating train,
Where are ye now!”
I stretched my eyes to the shore, and measured the
distance—“Oh such a night as this, Leander swam
the Hellespont;” and why should not Lieutenant—
immortalise himself by swimming the East
River? I had but to leap in, a few minutes would
bring me to the shore, and I could march to Philadelphia—
but Leander swam by moonlight, and there
was a lady in the case, besides I had had marching
enough, I had no provisions, and could not carry off
my baggage—I was in the enemy's country, it was
true, without the means of carrying on the war—
but to retreat and leave my baggage!—“Old Jake”
never taught me that!
The more I thought upon my situation, the more
complicated, the more painful were my reflections.
I was among total strangers—there was not a face
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
around me that I had ever seen, not an eye that
would recognise me. I could not boast that genteel
outside which is the common passport to civility—
my tarnished vestments presented no very inviting
appearance—my face was red and blistered by the
sun—these might be taken as the indications of intemperance.
I fancied that I exhibited the counterfeit
presentiment of one of those slippery chaps
alluded to by the captain. When my inability to
comply with their lawful requisitions should be announced,
what ungenerous surmises would be formed
by this rough sailor and his hawk-eyed clerk!
If my feelings should not be assailed by rude remarks,
they would be equally galled by supercilious
looks and silent suspicions.
Something must be done. I might appeal to the
generosity of the captain; but I was to be his passenger
only to Brunswick—how should I get thence
to Philadelphia? Besides, I did not like his looks.
I paced the deck with rapid strides, and with a sensation
of real pain at my heart. My profession had
led me through innumerable dangers; I had faced
men in honourable fight, but I could not cope the
redoubted commander of a steamboat, and challenge
the inquisitive glances of a crowd of strangers.
The passengers were now crowding to the clerk's
room with open pocket-books, or returning from it
securing their purses, and buttoning their pocket
flaps. Many of those gentlemen were doubtless
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
going to Philadelphia; I might frankly acknowledge
to one of them my situation, and solicit a loan, to
be repaid on my arrival.—But he might doubt my
word. I thought of Jeremy Diddler a thousand
times, and wished for his easy knack of making useful
acquaintances. I began to scrutinize the faces
of my fellow-travellers—and endeavoured to find
among them a generous, confiding physiognomy. I
found some cold polite faces—some foppish faces—
some miserly faces—and a great many common
place faces which said nothing. There was one
gentlemen whose countenance pleased me. He
was a middle-aged, fine looking man—easy and
genteel in his deportment—with a noble eye and
thoughtful features. I approached him, but at that
moment a couple of fine girls who had been lounging
over the deck addressed him as their father, and I
shrunk back. They were beautiful—the rays of
beneficence beamed from their eyes; but a young
gentleman does not like to disclose his poverty to
the ladies, who of all things have a particular antipathy
to empty pockets.
There was a young gentlemen of an open pleasing
countenance, with whom I now entered into
conversation. He was quite accessible, communicative,
and even voluble, and I was about to open
my heart to him—but he ran on—became familiar,
vulgar, and disagreeable. I turned from him in
disgust.
“Come, gentlemen, be expeditious if you please,'
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
bawled the captain, “breakfast is on the table.” I
turned immediately towards a gentleman of respectable
apearance, whose sun-browned features announced
him to have been a traveller. I addressed
him, learned that we were destined to the same city,
and told him my story. The old gentleman looked
at me for a moment with an inquisitive glance, then
drawing forth his pocket-book presented it, and desired
me to take what I wanted. I did so—presented
him with my address, received his, and hastening
to the clerk discharged his claim in time to
take my seat at the breakfast table.
This was one of the petty incidents of life, but
caused me more pain than I have sometimes experienced
under real affliction; so true is it that we
can bear any evils with greater composure than
those which touch our pride, and that of all misfortunes
there is none to be dreaded more than an
Empty Pocket.
-- 091 -- p115-088
THE CAPTAIN'S LADY.
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
After an absence of several years from my native
city, I had lately the pleasure of paying it a visit;
and, having spent a few days with my friends, was
about to bid adieu, once more, to the goodly and
quiet streets of Philadelphia. The day had not yet
dawned, and I stood trembling at the door of the
stage-office, muffled in a great coat, while the driver
was securing my baggage. The streets were still
and tenantless, and not a foot seemed to be travelling
but my own. Every body slept, gentle and simple;
for sleep is a gentle and simple thing. The watchmen
slumbered; and the very lamps seemed to
have caught the infectious drowsiness. I felt that I
possessed at that moment a lordly pre-eminence
among my fellow citizens; for they were all torpid,
as dead to consciousness as swallows in the winter,
or mummies in a catacomb. I alone had sense,
knowledge, power, energy. The rest were all
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
perdu—shut up, like the imprisoned genii, who
were bottled away by Solomon, and cast into the
sea. I could release them from durance, in an instant;
I could discharge either of them from imprisonment,
or I could suffer the whole to remain
spell-bound until the appointed time for their enlargement.
Every thing slept; mayor, aldermen,
and councils, the civil and the military, learning,
and beauty, and eloquence, porters, dogs, and drays,
steam engines and patent machines, even the elements
reposed.
If it had not been so cold, I could have moralized
upon the death-like torpor that reigned over the
city. As it was, I could not help admiring that
wonderful regulation of nature, which thus periodically
suspends the vital powers of a whole
people. There is nothing so cheering as the bustle
of a crowd, nothing more awful than its repose.
When we behold the first, when we notice the vast
aggregate of human life so variously occupied, so
widely diffused, so powerful, and so buoyant, a
sensation is produced like that with which we gaze
at the ocean when agitated by a storm; a sense of
the utter inadequateness of human power to still
such a mass of troubled particles; but when sleep
strews her poppies, it is like the pouring of oil upon
the waves.
I had barely time to make this remark, when
two figures rapidly approached—two of Solomon's
genii escaped from duresse. Had not their
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
outward forms been peaceable and worldly, I could
have fancied them a pair of malignant spirits, coming
to invite me to a meeting of conspirators, or a dance
of witches. It was a Quaker gentleman, with a
lady hanging on one arm, and a lantern on the
other, so that, although he carried double, his burthens
were both light. As soon as they reached
the spot where I stood, the pedestrian raised his
lantern to my face, and inspected it earnestly for a
moment. I began to fear that he was a police
officer, who, having picked up one candidate for the
treadmill, was seeking to find her a companion.
It was an unjust suspicion; for worthy Obadiah was
only taking a lecture on physiognomy, and, being
satisfied with the honesty of my lineaments, he
said; “Pray, friend, would it suit thee to take charge
of a lady?”
What a question! Seldom have my nerves received
so great a shock. Not that there is any thing
alarming or disagreeable in the proposition; but the
address was so sudden, the interrogatory so direet,
the subject matter so unexpected! “Take charge
of a lady,” quoth he! I had been for years a candidate
for this very honour. Never was there a
more willing soul on the round world. I had always
been ready to “take charge of a lady,” but had
never been happy enough to find one who was
willing to place herself under my protection; and
now, when I least expected it, came a fair volunteer,
with the sanction of a parent, to throw herself, as
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
it were, into my arms! I thought of the country
where the pigs run about ready roasted, crying,
“Who'll eat me?” I thought, too, of Aladdin and
his wonderful lamp, and almost doubted whether I
had not touched some talisman, whose virtues had
called into my presence a substantial personification
of one of my day dreams. But there was
Obadiah, of whose mortality there could be no
mistake; and there was the lady's trunk—not an
imaginary trunk, but a most copious and ponderous
receptacle, ready to take its station socially beside
my own. What a prize for a travelling bachelor!
a lady ready booked, and bundled up, with her
trunk packed, and her passage paid! Alas! it is for
a season—after that, some happier wight will “take
charge of the lady,” and I may jog on in single
loneliness.
These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind,
during a pause in the Quaker's speech, and, before
I could frame a reply, he continued: “My daughter
has just heard of the illness of her husband, Captain
Johnson of the Riflemen, and wishes to get to
Baltimore to-day to join him. The ice has stopped
the steamboats, and she is obliged to go by land.”
I had the grace to recover from my fit of abstraction,
so far as to say, in good time, that “it would
afford me pleasure to render any service in my
power to Mrs. Johnson;” and I did so with great
sincerity, for every chivalrous feeling of my bosom
was enlisted in favour of a lady, young, sensitive,
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
and no doubt beautiful, who was flying on the wings
of love to the chamber of an afflicted husband. I
felt proud of extending my protection to such a
pattern of connubial tenderness; and, offering my
hand to worthy Obadiah, I added, “I am obliged
to you, sir, for this mark of your confidence, and
will endeavour to render Mrs. Johnson's journey
safe, if not agreeable.”
A hearty “thank thee, friend, I judged as much
from thy appearance,” was all the reply, and the
stage being now ready, we stepped in, and drove off.
As the carriage rattled over the pavement, my
thoughts naturally reverted to my fair charge. Ah!
thought I, what a happy fellow is Captain Johnson
of the Rifle! What a prize has he drawn in the lottery
of life! How charming it must be to have such
a devoted wife! Here was I, a solitary bachelor,
doomed perhaps to eternal celibacy. Cheerless
indeed was my fate compared with his. Should I
fall sick, there was no delicate female to fly to my
beside; no, I might die, before a ministering angel
would come to me in such a shape. But, fortunate
Captain Johnson! no sooner is he placed on the
sick list, by the regimental surgeon, than his amiable
partner quits her paternal mansion, accepts the
protection of a stranger, risks her neck in a stage-coach,
and her health in the night air, and flies to
the relief of the invalid.
I wonder what is the matter with Captain Johnson,
continued I. Got the dengue perhaps, or the
-- 096 --
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dyspepsia; they are both very fashionable complaints.
Sickness is generally unwelcome, and
often an alarming visiter. It always brings the
doctor, with his long bill and loathsome drugs, and
it sometimes opens the door to the doctor's successor
in office, Death. But sickness, when it
calls home an affectionate wife, when it proves her
love and her courage, when its pangs are soothed
by the tender and skilful assiduity of a loving and
beloved friend, even sickness, under such circumstances,
must be welcome to that happy man,
Captain Johnson of the Rifle.
Poor fellow! perhaps he is very sick—dying, for
aught we know. Then the lady will be a widow,
and there will be a vacant captaincy in the Rifle
Regiment. Strange, that I should never have heard
of him before—I thought I knew all the officers.
What kind of a man can he be? The Rifle is a fine
regiment. They were dashing fellows in the last
war; chiefly from the West—all marksmen, who
could cut off a squirrel's head, or pick out the pupil
of a grenadier's eye. He was a backwoodsman, no
doubt; six feet six, with red whiskers, and an eagle
eye. His regimentals had caught the lady's fancy;
the sex loves any thing in uniform, perhaps because
they are the reverse of every thing that is uniform
themselves. The lady did well to get into the
Rifle Regiment; for she was evidently a sharpshooter,
and could pick off an officer, when so disposed.
What an eye she must have! A plague on
-- 097 --
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Captain Johnson! What evil genius sent him
poaching here? Why sport his gray and black
among the pretty Quaker girls of Philadelphia?
Why could not the Rifle officers enlist their wives
elsewhere? Or why, if Philadelphia must be rifled
of its beauty—why had not I been Captain Johnson?
When a man begins to think upon a subject of
which he knows nothing, there is no end of it; for
his thoughts not having a plain road to travel, will
shoot off into every by path. Thus it was, that
my conjectures wandered from the captain to his
lady, and from the lady to her father. What an
honest, confiding soul, must worthy Obadiah be,
continued I, to myself, to place a daughter, so estimable,
perhaps his only child, under the protection
of an entire stranger! He is doubtless a
physiognomist. I carry that best of all letters of
introduction, a good appearance. Perhaps he is a
phrenologist; but that cannot be, for my bumps,
be they good or evil, are all muffled up. After all,
the worthy man might have made a woful mistake.
For all that he knew, I might be a sharper or a
senator, a plenipotentiary or a pickpocket. I might
be Rowland Stevenson or Washington Irving—I
might be Morgan, or Sir Humphrey Davy, or the
Wandering Jew. I might be a vampyre or a ventriloquist.
I might be Cooper the novelist, for he
is sometimes “a travelling bachelor,” or I might be
our other Cooper, for he is a regular occupant of
the stage. I might be Captain Symmes going to
-- 098 --
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the inside of the world, or Mr. Owen going—according
to circumstances. I might be Miss Wright—
no, I couldn't be Miss Wright—nor if I was, would
any body be guilty of such a solecism as to ask
Miss Wright to take charge of a lady, for she believes
that ladies can take charge of themselves.
After all, how does Obadiah know that I am not
the President of the United States? What a mistake
would that have been! How would the chief magistrate
of twenty-four sovereign republics have
been startled by the question, “Pray, friend, would
it suit thee to take charge of a lady?”
It is not to be supposed that I indulged in this
soliloquy at the expense of politeness. Not at all;
it was too soon to intrude on the sacredness of the
lady's quiet. Besides, however voluminous these
reflections may seem in the recital, but a few
minutes were occupied in their production; for
Perkins never made a steam generator half so potent
as the human brain. But day began to break, and
I thought it proper to break silence.
“It is a raw morning, madam,” said I.
“Very raw,” said she, and the conversation made
a full stop.
“The roads appear to be rough,” said I, returning to the charge.
“Very rough,” replied the lady.
Another full stop.
“Have you ever travelled in a stage before?” I
enquired.
-- 099 --
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“Yes, sir.”
“But never so great a distance, perhaps?”
“No, never.”
Another dead halt.
I see how it is, thought I. The lady is a blue—
she cannot talk of these common place matters, and
is laughing in her sleeve at my simplicity. I must
rise to a higher theme; and then, as the stage rolled
off the Schuylkill bridge, I said, “We have passed
the Rubicon, and I hope we shall not, like the
Roman conqueror, have cause to repent our temerity.
The day promises to be fair, and the
omens are all auspicious.”
“What did you say about Mr. Rubicam?” inquired
Mrs. Johnson.
I repeated; and the lady replied, “Oh! yes, very
likely,” and then resumed her former taciturnity.
Thinks I to myself, Captain Johnson and his lady
belong to the peace establishment. Well, if the
lady does not choose to talk, politeness requires of
me to be silent; and for the next hour not a word
was spoken.
I had now obtained a glimpse of my fair companion's
visage, and candour compels me to admit
that it was not quite so beautiful as I had anticipated.
Her complexion was less fair than I could have
wished, her eye was not mild, her nose was not
such as a statuary would have admired, and her lips
were white and thin. I made these few observations
with fear and trembling, for the lady repelled
-- 100 --
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my enquiring glance with a look of defiance; a
frown lowered upon her haughty brow, and I could
almost fancy I saw a cockade growing to her bonnet,
and a pair of whiskers bristling on her cheeks.
There, thought I, looked Captain Johnson of the
Rifle—fortunate man! whose wife, imbibing the
pride and courage of a soldier, can punish with a
look of scorn the glance of impertinent curiosity.
At breakfast her character was more fully developed.
If her tongue had been out of commission
before, it had now received orders for active
service. She was convinced that nothing fit to eat
could be had at the sign of the “Black Horse,” and
was shocked to find that the landlord was a Dutchman.
“What's your name?” said she to the landlady.
“Redheiffer, ma'am.”
“Oh! dreadful! was it you that made the perpetual
motion?”
“No, ma'am.”
Then she sat down to the table, and turned up
her pretty nose at every thing that came within its
cognizance. The butter was too strong, and the
tea too weak; the bread was too stale, and the
bacon fresh; the rolls were heavy, and the lady's
appetite light.
“Will you try an egg?” said I.
“I don't like eggs.”
“Allow me to help you to a wing of this fowl.”
“I can't say that I'm partial to the wing.”
-- 101 --
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“A piece of the breast, then, madam.”
“It is very tough, isn't it?”
“No, it seems quite tender.”
“It is done to rags I'm afraid.”
“Quite the reverse—the gravy follows the knife.”
“Oh! horrible! it is raw!”
“On the contrary, I think it is done to a turn;
permit me to give you this piece.”
“I seldom eat fowl, except when cold.”
“Then, madam, here is a nice cold pullet—let
me give you a merry-thought; nothing is better to
travel on than a merry thought.”
“Thank you, I never touch meat at breakfast.”
And my merry thought flashed in the pan.
“Perhaps, sir, your lady would like some chipped
beef, or some—.”
“This is not my lady, Mrs. Redheiffer,” interrupted
I, fearing the appellation might be resented
more directly from another quarter.
“Oh la! I beg pardon; but how could a body
tell, you know—when a lady and gentleman travels
together, you know, it's so nateral.”
“Quite natural, Mrs. Redheiffer—.”
“May be, ma'am, you'd fancy a bit of cheese, or
a slice of apple-pie, or some pumpkin sauce, or a
sausage, or—”
I know not how the touchy gentlewoman would
have taken all this—I do not mean all these good
things, but the offer of them; for luckily before any
reply could be made, the stage driver called us off
-- 102 --
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with his horn. As I handed the lady into the stage,
I ventured to take another peep, and fancied she
looked vulgar; but how could I tell? Napoleon has
said, there is but a step between the sublime and
the ridiculous; and we all know that between very
high fashion and vulgarity there is often less than a
step. Good sense, grace, and true breeding lie
between. The lady occupied one of those extremes,
I knew not which; nor would it have been
polite to enquire too closely, as that was a matter
which more nearly concerned Captain Johnson of
the Rifle, who, no doubt, was excellently well
qualified to judge of fashion and fine women.
By this time the lady had wearied of her former
taciturnity, and grown loquacious. She talked incessantly,
chiefly about herself and her “Pa.”
“Her Pa was a Quaker, but she was not a Quaker.
They had turned her out of meeting for marrying
Captain Johnson. Her Pa was a merchant—he
was in the shingle and board line.”
Alas! I was in the bored line myself just then.
Gentle reader, I spare you the recital of all I suffered
during that day. The lady's temper was none
of the best, and travelling agreed with it but indifferently.
When we stopped she was always in
a fever to go; when going she fretted continually
to stop. At meal times she had no appetite; at all
other times she wanted to eat. As one of the
drivers expressed it, she was in a solid pet the whole
day. I had to alight a hundred times to pick up
-- 103 --
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her handkerchief, or to look after her baggage; and
a hundred times I wished her in the arms of Captain
Johnson of the Rifle. I bore it all amazingly,
however, and take to myself no small credit for
having discharged my duty, without losing my patience,
or omitting any attention which politeness
required. My companion would hardly seem to
have deserved this; yet still she was a female, and
I had no right to find fault with those little peculiarities
of disposition, which I certainly did not
admire. Besides, her husband was a captain in
the army; and the wife of a gallant officer who
serves his country by land or sea, has high claims
upon the chivalry of her countrymen.
At last we arrived at Baltimore, and I immediately
called a hack, and desired to know where I
should have the pleasure of setting down my fair
companion.
“At the sign of the Anchor, — Street, Fell's
Point,” was the reply.
Surprised at nothing after all I had seen, I gave
the order, and stepped into the carriage. “Is any
part of the Rifle regiment quartered on Fell's
Point?” said I.
“I don't know,” replied the lady.
“Does not your husband belong to that regiment?”
“La! bless you, no; Captain Johnson is'nt a
soldier?”
“I have been under a mistake, then. I understood
that he was a captain in the Rifle.”
-- 104 --
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“The Rifleman, Sir; he is captain of the Rifleman,
a sloop that runs from Baltimore to North
Carolina, and brings tar and turpentine, and such
matters. That's the house,” continued she, “And,
as I live, there's Mr. Johnson up and well!”
The person pointed out was a low, stout built,
vulgar man, half intoxicated, with a glazed hat on
his head, and a huge quid in his cheek. “How
are you, Polly?” said he, as he handed his wife out,
and gave her a smack which might have been heard
over the street. “Who's that gentleman? eh! a
messmate of yours?”
“That's the gentleman that took care of me on
the road?”
“The supercargo, eh? Come Mister, light and
take something to drink.”
I thanked the captain, and ordered the carriage
to drive off, fully determined, that whatever other
imprudence I might hereafter be guilty of, I would
never again, if I could avoid it, “take charge of a
lady.”
-- 105 -- p115-102
THE PHILADELPHIA DUN.
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
One day, no matter when, a stranger was seen
riding slowly through the streets of a flourishing
town in Tennessee. He was a well dressed good
looking young man, mounted upon what in this
country would be called, “the best kind of a nag.”
His appearance, altogether, was respectable
enough; it was even, as respects exteriors, a touch
above what is common; and he would have passed
along unnoticed, had it not been for one thing,
which excited universal attention. Although the
streets were crowded with people, and the fronts of
the stores adorned with fine goods, and such fancy
articles as usually attract the eye—the stranger's
gaze was fixed on vacancy; he turned his head
neither to the right nor the left; he moved not lip
nor eye-lid; but rode forward, as if apparently unconscious,
as well of his own existence, as of the
presence of his fellow creatures.
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
It was court week, and an usual concourse of
people was collected. Here was the judge, with a
long train of lawyers. The candidates for office
were here, distributing smiles and kindnesses, and
practising all those popular arts, which are so well
understood in every republican country. Here was
the farmer, clad in his neatest homespun, and
mounted on his best horse. Here was the hunter
with his rifle. Here, in short, were the people; collected,
some for pleasure, and some for business,
exhibiting that excitement of feeling which crowds
always produce, with a good humour which is only
found in countries where all are free and equal.
The public square exhibited a scene which would
have been amusing to one unaccustomed to such
displays of character. At one spot were two
neighbours driving a bargain. Unlike the people
of other countries, who transact such business in
private, they were surrounded by a host of people,
who all occasionally threw in their comments. A
stranger, judging from the sly jokes, the loud bantering,
and the vociferous laughter which passed
round the circle, would not have supposed that any
serious business was in hand; a resident only would
infer, that before this little circle parted, a horse would
be swapped, a crop of tobacco sold, or a tract of land
conveyed. Not far off, was a set of politicians,
settling the affairs of the nation. But the most
amusing individuals, were some two or three, who
were cavorting. Now, if any lady or gentleman is
-- 107 --
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
so ignorant of the American language as not to
know what cavorting is, and if Webster's celebrated
quarto does not furnish the definition, it is necessary
that we explain, that it expresses the conduct
of an individual who fancies himself the smartest
and best man in the world. On the present
occasion, a fellow might be seen, dressed in a hunting
shirt, with a rifle on his shoulder, mounted, half
tipsy, upon a spirited horse, and dashing through
the crowd. Now he would force his spurs into his
horse's sides, and put him at full speed, or rein him
up until he reared on his hinder feet; and now he
would command him to stop, and the obedient animal
would stand and tremble. All the time he
was ranting and roaring in praise of himself, his
horse, and the United States of America. He
boasted that he was born in the woods, rocked in a
sugar trough, and suckled by a buffalo; that he
could tote a steamboat, and outrun a streak of
lightning; that his wife was as handsome as a pet
fawn, and his children real roarers. He bestowed
similar encomiums on his horse; and finally avowed
himself to be a friend to the United States of America—
and then he commenced again and went over
the same round, flourishing his rifle all the time,
and exerting his lungs to their utmost. Although
he often declared that he could whip any man in
the round world, except Col. C. that he fit under
at New Orleans, nobody accepted the challenge, or
took offence; the whole being considered as a
-- 108 --
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
matter of course, and as the natural effect of stimulant
potations upon an illiterate man of ardent temperament,
who, when duly sober, was an honest, quiet,
and inoffensive citizen.
While the people were amused at the vagaries of
this wild hunter, or engaged in conversation, the
sun had gone down, and it was nearly dusk when
the moving automaton, described in the commencement
of this story, rode solemnly into the town. It
is customary in this country for persons who meet,
although unacquainted, to salute each other, and
this courtesy is especially practised towards strangers;
and although the new comer, on this occasion,
would not have been expected to address each
individual in a crowded street, yet, when those who
were nearest nodded or spoke, as they civilly opened
the way, they were surprised to see the horseman's
gaze fixed on vacancy, and his body remaining
as erect as if tied to a stake.
“That man's asleep,” said one;
“He's as blind as a bat,” said another;
“I reckon he's sort o' dead,” exclaimed a third:
“He rides an elegant nag,” remarked a fourth; and
all were surprised that a man, who was apparently
so good a judge of a horse, had not wit enough to
see where he was going, or to know who were
around him.
In the mean while our traveller moved proudly
on, until he reached the best inn; a fine brick
building, presenting every indication of neatness,
-- 109 --
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
comfort, and even luxury. As he rode up, two
well fed athletic negroes, with visages like polished
ebony, and teeth as white as snow, rushed forth,
and while one seized his bridle, the other held his
stirrup as he dismounted. Still the automaton relaxed
not a muscle; but drawing up his body, moved
majestically towards the house. At the door he was
met by the landlord, a portly welldressed man, with a
fine open countenance, who had been honoured by
his fellow citizens with several civil appointments,
and had even commanded some of them in the
field, in times of peril. He touched his hat as he
welcomed the stranger, and invited him into his
house with an air of dignity and hospitality. A
servant took his surtout, and several gentlemen
who were seated round the fire, pushed back their
chairs to make way for the stranger. But all these
things moved not the automaton; the glazed eye
and compressed lip were still fixed, and the chin
remained in the cushion of an immense cravat.
After a momentary pause, the gentlemen in the
room resumed their conversation, the landlord applied
himself to the business of his house, and the
silent traveller was consigned to the oblivion which
he seemed to covet; and excited no more attention
except from an honest backwoodsman, who strolled
in to take a peep, and after gazing at him for a
quarter of an hour, suddenly clapped his hands,
and exclaimed to his companion, “It moves, Bill!
-- 110 --
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
if it a'nt alive, I'll agree to go a-foot as long as I
live.”
By this time candles were lighted, and the silent
gentleman seemed to grow weary of silence. He
now rose and strutted across the apartment with a
very important stride. He was a young man of
about two and twenty; of ordinary height, and less
than ordinary thickness. His person seemed to be
compressed with corsets, and his head was supported
by the ears upon a semicircle of stiffened linen,
which occupied the place of a shirt collar; and all
his habiliments announced him to the eyes of the
curious, as a genuine specimen of that singular
genus, the dandy. After taking several turns
through the apartment, he drew forth his gold repeater,
and opening his mouth for the first time,
exclaimed in a peremptory tone, “Landlord! I want
supper!” “You shall have it, sir,” said the landlord,
with a bow, and winking at the same time at
the other guests, “we had supped when you arrived,
but will not detain you many minutes.”
In a short time, supper was announced, and the
stranger was shown into a back room, handsomely
furnished, where a neat elderly matron presided at
the head of a table, spread with tea, coffee, bread,
cakes, beef, pork, bacon, venison, fowls, and all that
profusion of eatables with which western ladies delight
to entertain their guests. Near her sat a
young lady, modestly attired, in the bloom of youth
and beauty, whose easy manners and engaging
-- 111 --
[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]
appearance, might have warmed any heart not callous
to the charms of native elegance. Now, indeed,
our dandy opened both mouth and eyes to some
purpose. Scarcely deigning to return the salutation
of his hostess, he commenced the work of
havoc—fish, flesh, and fowl vanished before him;
his eye roved from dish to dish, and then wandered
off to the young lady; now he gazed at a broiled
chicken, and now at the fair niece of the landlord—
but which he liked best, I am unable to say—
the chicken seemed to go off very well, but on the
subject of the damsel he never opened his mouth.
Returning again to the sitting apartment, he
found the same set of gentlemen whom he had left
there, still engaged in conversation. They were
the judge, the lawyers, and other intelligent men of
the country, who were not a little amused at the
airs of our dandy. Again they opened their circle
to receive him, but his eyes, his mouth, and his
heart, if he had one, were closed against every
thing but the contemplation of his own important
self. After drawing his boots, picking his teeth,
and puffing a segar, he again opened his mouth,
with, “Landlord! I want to go to bed!”
“Whenever you please, sir.”
“I want a room to myself, sir!”
“I do not know how that will be,” replied the
landlord, “my house is full, and I shall be compelled
to put you in the room with some of these
gentlemen.”
-- 112 --
[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
“I can't go it, sir!” replied the dandy, strutting
up and down; “never slept in a room with any
body in my life, sir! and never will! must have a
room, sir!”
The landlord now laughed outright at the airs of
the coxcomb, and then said, very good humouredly,
“Well, well, I'll go and talk with my wife, and see
what we can do.”
“My dear,” said the landlord, as he entered the
supper room, “here's a man who says he must have
a room to himself.”
“What, that greedy little man, in corsets?”
“The same.”
“Set him up with a room!” exclaimed the landlady.
“He is a trifling fellow,” said the landlord, “but
if we can accommodate the poor little man, we
had better do so.”
The lady professed her readiness to discharge
the rights of hospitality, but declared that there was
not a vacant apartment in the house.
“Give him my room, aunt,” said the pretty
niece, “I will sleep with the children, or any
where you please.” The young lady was a visitor, and
a great favourite; and the elder lady was altogether
opposed to putting her to any discomfort, particularly
on account of such a rude man. But the
niece carried her point, and arrangements were
made accordingly.
In a few minutes, the silent man was conducted
by the landlord to a very handsomely furnished
-- 113 --
[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
apartment in the back part of the house. Every
thing here was of the best and neatest kind. A
suit of curtains hung round the bed, the counterpane
was white as snow, and the bed linen was
fresh and fragrant. The dandy walked round the
room, examining every thing with the air of a man
who fancied his life in danger from some contagious
disease, or venomous reptile. He then threw open
the bed clothes, and after inspecting them, exclaimed,
“I can't sleep in that bed!”
“Why not, sir?” enquired the astonished landlord.
“It's not clean! I can't sleep in it!” repeated
the dandy, strutting up and down with the most
amusing air of self importance, “I wouldn't sleep
there for a thousand dollars!”
“Take care what you say,” said the landlord;
“you are not aware that I keep the best house in
all this country, and that my wife is famed for the
cleanliness of her house and beds!”
“Can't help it,” replied the dandy, very deliberately
surveying himself in a mirror, “very sorry,
sir—awkward business to be sure—but to be plain
with you, I wont sleep in a dirty bed to please any
man.”
“You won't, won't you?”
“No, sir, I will not.”
“Then I will make you,” said the landlord, and
seizing the astonished dandy by the back of the
neck, he led him to the bed, and forced his face
down upon it—“look at it,” continued the enraged
-- 114 --
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
Tennessean, “examine it—smell it—do you call
that bed dirty, you puppy!” Then going to the
door, he called to a servant to bring a horsewhip;
and informed the terrified dandy, that unless he
undressed and went to bed instantly, he should
order his negro to horsewhip him. In vain the
mortified youngster promised to do all that was required
of him; the landlord would trust nothing to
his word, but remained until his guest was disrobed,
corsets and all, and snugly nestled under the
snow-white counterpane.
It was nearly breakfast time when the crest fallen
stranger made his appearance in the morning.
To his surprise, his steed, who had evidently fared
as well as himself, stood ready saddled at the door.
“Pray, sir,” said he to his host, in a very humble
tone, and in a manner which showed him at a loss
how to begin the conversation, “pray, sir, at what
hour do you breakfast?”
“We breakfast at eight,” was the reply, “but
the question is one in which you can have little
interest; for you must seek a meal elsewhere.”
“Surely, my dear sir, you would not treat a gentleman
with such indignity—.”
“March!” said the landlord.
“My bill—.”
“You owe me nothing; I should think myself degraded
by receiving your money.”
In another moment, the self important mortal,
who, the evening before, had ridden through the
-- 115 --
[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]
town with such a consciousness of his own dignity,
was galloping away, degraded, vexed, and humbled.
As he passed along, the same backwoodsman, who
had gone to ascertain the fact of his vitality on his
first arrival, met him, and pulling off his hat, said,
very civilly, “Stranger, your girth is under your
horse!” The dandy reined up his steed, jumped
off, and found that his girth was indeed under his
horse—where it ought to be.
“Do you mean to insult me?” exclaimed he,
turning fiercely upon the backwoodsman; but the
latter, instead of replying, coolly remarked to his
companions, “If it an't alive, I'll agree to be shot;”
and walked on.
“Who is that young man?” enquired the judge
of the circuit court, as the stranger rode off.
“He is a Philadelphia dun,” replied the landlord.
“I am no wiser than before,” said his honour.
“Have you lived in our country so long, and not
know this race of men? Sir, they are the collectors,
sent out by eastern merchants, to collect their
debts. Although they come from different cities,
they all go under one general denomination; some
of them are fine young men, but too many are like
yonder chap.”
“But how do you know this to be one of them?”
“Oh, bless you, I know them well. I read the history
of that youth, in his motions, before he was in
my house five minutes. One year ago he could
-- 116 --
[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]
bow and smile like a French dancing master, skip
over a counter, and play as many tricks as a pet
monkey. He is just out of his apprenticeship, promoted
to the dignity of a dun, and mounted on a
fine horse, and you know the old proverb, “set a
beggar on horseback—”
“I understand the whole matter,” replied the
judge, and very gravely walked into the house,
while the younger members of the bar were roaring
with laughter at this odd adventure of the Philadelphia
dun.
-- 117 -- p115-114
THE BEARER OF DESPATCHES.
[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]
Shortly after the defeat of the British army at
Fort Erie, in the brilliant sortie planned and executed
by General Brown, that officer received intelligence
that General Izard was on his way to join
him with a large force. A few weeks sooner, this
intelligence would have been highly gratifying. The
American army, hemmed in by a foe whose numbers
more than quadrupled their own, had been
placed in an embarrassing situation. The fort was
situated on low flat ground, and the season being
very wet, the constant tramping of so many men had
converted the whole place into one great mud puddle;
the garrison who were lodged in tents, were
exposed to continual rains; there was no spot secure
from the elements, and a dry vestment, bed,
or blanket, was, at times, not to be found within
our line of sentinels; while the frequent alarms, and
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the necessary “watch and ward” left only intervals
for that broken slumber which refreshes not.
But little pay, if any, had been received during the
campaign—money there was absolutely none—and
our diet was necessarily confined to the ration of
meat and bread, which was not of the best kind.
The perpetual shower of cannon balls and bursting
of bomb-shells was not a matter of complaint, for
this was soldier's luck; to be shot at was our vocation;
and as we failed not to amuse ourselves at the
batteries during a part of every day, we had, at least,
the satisfaction of believing that our fallen companions
would not, like Scipio's ghost, “stalk unrevenged
among us.” But nestling in the mire, and
starving and coughing our lungs away, were matters
which had not entered into our contract with the
government, and on which our commissions, as well
as the “rules and articles,” were silent. It was not
so “nominated in the bond.” Why could not Uncle
Sam send us food, and physic, and a few lusty
fellows to help us fight? Where there are no superfluous
men, every one who falls leaves a niche; and
while we beheld our little force gradually wasting
away, it was provoking enough to reflect that our
country was full of men, some of whom abused us,
some laughed at us, a few praised and none assisted.
I may add, that the foe had vowed our extermination,
and on one occasion had marched up to our
batteries, filling the air with the dreadful war cry—
“no quarter—no quarter to the d—d Yankees!!”
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and that noble spirit of emulation, that generous
contention, and courteous interchange of kindly
offices upon proper occasions, which should exist
among civilized armies, were all swallowed up in
the deep hate excited by the cold-blooded cruelty
of the enemy. As war, disease, and the doctor,
daily thinned our ranks, it seemed evident, that unless
supplies should arrive, we must become the
victims of that unrelenting barbarity, of which our
fellow citizens, on various occasions, have had sufficient
experience. Our country, however, still forgot
us, and I know not what would have become of
us, had it not been for one kind-hearted gentleman.
He was a Quaker gentleman; and the Quakers, you
know, are famed for benevolence. Slipping out of
the Fort one day, about noon, when John Bull never
dreamed of such a matter, he dexterously cut off
about a third of their army, and by that “free use of
the bayonet,” which the British commander had
recommended upon a recent occasion, he saved his
own credit, and the throats and scalps of his men,
who filled the air with acclamations. The enemy,
completely defeated, retired; and General Brown,
not having force enough to pursue, could only make
his bow, and wish them good bye.
At this juncture a despatch arrived, announcing
that General Izard had left Plattsburg; was to embark
at Sackett's Harbour, and passing up the lake,
touch at the mouth of the Eighteen Mile Creek,
whence his course would be directed, in a great
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measure, by the intelligence he might receive from
General Brown. It was desirable, therefore, that
he should be met at that point by an officer from
Fort Erie, who could advise him of the exact situation
of the garrison, and the relative positions and
srength of the two contending armies, and convey
the communications of General Brown. A young
artillery officer was accordingly summoned to the
general's quarters, and after receiving the necessary
instructions, he was ordered to get himself in
readiness to set out immediately. “General Izard
must be met,” said the commander, “at the hour he
has appointed: can you reach the place by that
time?” “Oh, yes, certainly, sir,” replied the young
artillerist, “though I must confess that I neither
know the route nor the distance.” The General
smiled, named the distance, hastily indicated the
route, and reminding his envoy that there was barely
time left to accomplish the journey by the most rapid
riding, wished him a pleasant jaunt.
The Bearer of Despatches crossing an arm of the
lake, which separates Fort Erie from Buffalo, repaired
to the quarter master to procure a horse,
and being well mounted, departed early in the afternoon
of the same day. Two routes were presented
to his choice; the one was the main road which led
by Batavia, and was too circuitous to be travelled
within the allotted time; the other was an unfrequented,
but more direct path, which, leading in the
neighbourhood of Fort Niagara, then in possession of
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the enemy, was fraught with danger: but it was necessarily
chosen. A large cloak disguised the person
of our soldier, concealing his arms and military
insignia; and he hoped under the cover of night, to
pass the vicinity of the Fort unobserved. By rapid
riding he reached the neighbourhood of Schlosser a
little before sunset, and being unwilling to approach
Queenstown early in the evening, he checked his
horse and rode leisurely along. Cooped up, as he
had been, he now enjoyed with an exquisite relish
the luxuries of pure air, exercise, and liberty. His
route lay along the margin of the Niagara river,
which now separated him from those glorious fields
which had been so recently drenched in gore, and
in which American valour had been so conspicuously
displayed. A few weeks before, he had passed
along the opposite shore in all the fervour of youthful
hope and military pride, surrounded by the pomp
and circumstance of glorious war, by the tumult
and glitter of an army with flying colours, and drums
and hearts beating. Now the solitary horseman
rode alone; the breeze bore not the accents of men,
nor did the distant echo whisper danger in his ear,
but his eye dwelt upon scenes of interest; well
known spots occasionally glanced upon his vision:
here an army had been encamped, there a battle
fought, and under those trees slept many a companion!
The last rays of the sun fell upon his back,
and the trees threw their gigantic shadows along the
path before him. At such an hour the eye is most
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delighted with the beauties of a wild landscape,
when the nooks, and glens, and secluded places begin
to darken into the gloom of twilight, while the
sun-beams still glitter on the hills and tree-tops, or
sleep upon the waves. The Niagara was rippling
along its rocky channel, murmuring and fretting as
it rushed towards the precipice, over which its descent
causes one of the sublimest objects in nature.
These circumstances all combined to wrap the heart
of the traveller in sweet and pleasing meditation;
and he rode on, enjoying those dreams, which, creeping
imperceptibly into young hearts, hold the imagination
entranced in delight; in irresistible delusions,
full of rapture, variety, and beauty. The
hour was witching, the scene picturesque, the very
air melodious; and the realities around him became
mellowed, and softened, and spiritualised into airy
creations of the fancy. The mind, warmed into romantic
feeling, gave its own hue to the surrounding
objects; rude and familiar things took to themselves
wings and flew away; vulgar associations were banished;
the scenery disposed itself into shapes and
shades of beauty; bright and varied colours fell
upon the landscape; creatures of fancy peopled the
shade, and the breeze murmured in numbers.
Our officer halted a moment at Schlosser to make
some enquiries relative to his route, and learning
that a countryman had just passed along, whose
homeward path led in the very direction desired,
he determined to profit by his company and
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guidance. Spurring his steed, therefore, he rode
rapidly on. Near the Falls, he overtook the boor,
plodding heavily along. He was a man whose
general outline announced him to be of the middle
age; but his visage placed him in the decline of
life. Dissipation had probably anticipated the palsying
touch of time, had wrinkled his face, and slightly
tinged his hair with the frosty hue of winter. His
bloodshot eyes gave proof of habitual intemperance;
but there was speculation in them, and a vile speculation
it was; it was the keen, cunning, steady
glance of one who in his time had cut, shuffled, and
dealt, who could slip a card, and knew where the
trumps lay. With this was mingled the dulness of
an illiterate man, and the good humour of one who
was willing to be amused, and meant no harm to
others. Saving the besetting sin above alluded to,
and perhaps the occasional passing of a counterfeit
bill upon strong temptation, a small matter for a
frontier man, he might have been a right honest fellow;
one who knew the courtesies and good feelings
of life, passed the cup merrily, would do a
neighbourly act when it came in his way, never beat
his wife when he was sober, nor troubled his children
when they kept out of his way. Such at least
was the estimate which our young soldier formed
of his companion, during their subsequent ride together,
to which it is only necessary to add, that he
seemed to have recently parted from good liquor,
and to have attained that precise point of elation,
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which is well understood in every polite circle by
the phrase, a little high.
When the two riders encountered, they scrutinised
each other with that jealous caution which commonly
passed between strangers who met in those
dangerous times, in the vicinity of the hostile armies.
The cautious question and the guarded answer
passed mutually, until each had learnt as much
as he could, and disclosed as much as he pleased.
Our officer announced himself as a storekeeper,
who had been to the army to make a traffic with
the suttlers, having failed in which, he was now returning
home in haste, by a route which he was
told was nearer than the main road, and wished to
get that night to a place called—. The countryman
lived at that very place, was now going home,
although it was still upwards of sixteen miles distant,
and he said he would be glad of our traveller's
company.
They reached the Falls while daylight yet lingered
over the awful abyss, and the officer, who had
beheld this wonderful sight from the opposite shore,
proposed to his companion to halt, that he might
survey it under a new aspect. The latter, who
seemed in no haste, cheerfully complied, and even
seemed pleased with the opportunity of acting the
Cicerone, and detailing all the wonderful tales extant,
in relation to the great cataract. He did not,
it is true, relate that surprising fact which Goldsmith
has recorded, and Morse has copied from him, i. e.
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that the Indians descend these rapids in their
canoes, in safety; because, notwithstanding this circumstance
is vouched for by two celebrated doctors,
great amateurs in rivers, winds, and mountains,
the vulgar give it no credit, and the natives deny it.
Strange infatuation, that the assertions of philosophers
should not be believed, in preference to our
own erring senses and crude notions of probability!
When our officer mentioned this story to his guide,
he exclaimed, “Impossible! the man's sartainly
cracked!” And had he told the same individual
that Dr. Mitchel had said that a whale was not a
fish, he would have expressed a similar astonishment;
so incredulous is ignorance, so unwillingly does it
bow to science and research. For my part, I make
it a rule never to quarrel with a philosopher, and
am therefore willing to admit that it is not only a
safe but a remarkably salubrious and amusing recreation
to paddle a canoe down the Falls and back
again.
Leaving this spot, the officer was conducted by
his guide to another object of admiration. A short
distance below the cataract, the river, rushing along
with the immense velocity acquired by being precipitated
from so great a height, suddenly strikes a
perpendicular precipice, which juts boldly into the
stream from the American side, and the current thus
thrown abruptly to the left, creates a whirlpool,
which is not the least among the curiosities of this
region. The officer advanced to the edge of the
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cliff, and gazed in silence on the foaming current
and its overhanging banks, now dimly discovered
through the gray twilight. His reveries were broken
by his companion, who narrated a melancholy
tale connected with the scene of their contemplation.
Many years ago, when all of this country
was in possession of the British, a detachment of
troops, having under their convoy a number of families
with their furniture and baggage, were overtaken
by night in this vicinity. They still proceeded,
however, in hopes of reaching the forts below. But
the French and Indians had formed an ambuscade
at this very spot, and just as the devoted party were
passing along the brink of the precipice, the savage
foe rushed on them with hideous yells. Those
alone who have heard the soul-thrilling cry of the
Indian warrior, who have heard it breaking through
the gloom of the night, with all its horrible accompaniments,
with the wail of infants, and the shrieks
of women, with the groans of the dying, the prayers
and curses of the living, those only can conceive the
horror of such a moment. In vain the troops endeavoured
to resist—the tomahawk was drenched
in blood—the European heard the dreadful warcry,
and felt that it was his knell; he received the
fatal blow from an unseen hand, and had not the
stern pleasure of beholding his antagonist, but fell
without the gratification of avenging his death, or
the honour of defending his life. Still the foe
pressed on; with the war-whoop were mingled loud
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shouts of triumph and the laugh of demoniac exultation;
the soldiers gave back, the horses, panicstruck,
fled from the din of battle, and in a moment
were precipitated into the yawning gulf; men, women,
and children followed, and the whole of this
unhappy party slept that night under the wave. “It
is said,” continued the informer, “that their spirits
may still be seen of a moonlight night, dancing in
circles in yonder whirling place, where the water
goes round so rapidly—and now, see there! what is
that?” The officer looked in the direction designated
by the finger of his companion, and beheld a
black object in the whirlpool, rising a foot or two
above the surface of the water, circulating rapidly
with it, and gradually approaching the centre, until
it was swallowed in the vortex. He could easily
imagine that the trunks and boughs of trees, floating
down the current, might be drawn into the pool,
and whirling round with the velocity of the water,
might assume an upright position, and present the
appearance which alarmed the inhabitants, and gave
probability to their conjectures. I have never been
altogether satisfied with this sophism of my friend.
It is not possible at this time to ascertain the true
character of the apparition which he beheld, nor is
it my business, as a faithful historian, to risk my
reputation by giving a positive opinion upon the
subject: yet I must remark, that I have no reason,
nor had my military friend any, to induce a belief
that this was not as genuine and as honest a ghost as
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ever was beheld by mortal eyes. The fact is, that
this young gentleman had lately seen so many of
his fellow mortals despatched prematurely to their
graves, that his mind had become familiarised with
death, and in his dealings with substantial dangers
he had acquired a contempt for unreal shadows. I
am glad, however, to be able to add that he had the
discretion to conceal his scepticism from his fellow
traveller, to whose remark he gravely replied, “that
human bodies when not decently buried seldom
rested in peace, but that he had never heard of their
doing any harm.” His companion assented to the
truth of this sagacious remark, and they pursued
their journey.
These conversations having banished reserve,
and the companions beginning to grow into confidence
with each other, the officer ventured to enquire
how near their route would lead to Fort Niagara,
and learnt that they must pass within a short
distance of that fortress. Concealing his sense of
the danger which this information implied to his
person and mission, he said carelessly, “Well, I suppose
they will not disturb peaceable travellers?”
“Sometimes they do, and sometimes they don't,”
was the reply. “Do they ever get out as far as
your little village?” “Oh, yes, often.” “And how
do they behave there?” “Bad enough, bad enough,”
and he then proceeded to narrate a number of particulars,
showing how these petty marauders destroyed
their property, insulted their women, and
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bullied their men, adding to the most monstrous acts
of cruelty and oppression, the meanness of picking
locks and pilfering trifles. It was by no means a
matter of pleasing reflection to the Bearer of Despatches,
that he must rest that night, if he rested at
all, under a roof subject to these domiciliary visits:
but he had other causes of uneasiness. It is well
known that all the inhabitants within reach of an
English garrison, who are capable of corruption, become
corrupt. English gold, which is but a bugbear
among the virtuous, presents a tempting lure
to the loose and unprincipled inhabitants of a frontier,
who can scarcely be said to belong to any
country; and our armies sometimes encountered
spies and traitors, where they had fondly hoped to
find friends. On this occasion, our officer, who had
incautiously placed himself under the guidance of a
stranger, began to feel, as darkness gathered around
him, that he had acted imprudently, as the latter
could as easily conduct him to Fort Niagara as to a
place of safety. He concealed his suspicions, and
determined to act warily.
It was dark when they reached Lewistown, a
little village which had been entirely reduced to
ashes by the enemy. The moon, which now shone
brightly, disclosed the solitary chimneys standing
amidst the ruins, the fruit-trees surrounded by briars,
the remains of enclosures, and all the marks of
desolation. A more beautiful situation could scarcely
be imagined, but it was now a wilderness. Here
they took a path which led them from the river. A
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thick forest now overshadowed them, and they proceeded
in silence and wrapped in impenetrable
darkness, except at intervals, when they reached
the summit of a hill, and the moon shot her beams
through the branches. It was only by seizing such
opportunities to watch the progress, and mark the
exact position of this friendly luminary, that our
officer, by forming some estimate of the course he
was pursuing, could judge of the fidelity of his guide.
They passed an encampment of the Tuscarora Indians,
where all was dark and silent; and about midnight
arrived at the place of destination, which,
though characterised as a village, was composed of
only two or three log cabins. To one of these,
which was dignified with the name of a public
house, our traveller was conducted by his companion,
who apologized for not inviting him to his own
house, owing to the lateness of the hour, and the
want of accommodations.
Mine host, though called from his bed, cheerfully
assisted his guest in putting away his tired horse,
and then led him through a room where three or four
rough two-fisted fellows lay snoring with their feet
to the fire, to a chamber on the upper floor. Supper
he declined, as well from policy, as from want
of appetite; and having secured the door, and laid
his pistols under his pillow, he gathered his cloak
around him, and threw himself on the bed. From
a light slumber he was waked by a low murmur of
voices in the apartment below, to which the precariousness
of his situation induced him to listen with
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an intense and thrilling interest. Then a footstep
was heard upon the stairs ascending slowly towards
his apartment, and in a moment afterwards the latch
was cautiously raised. He rose, seized his arms,
and walked across the floor; the footstep retired,
the voices ceased below, and all was silent. Our
officer loved his life as dearly as other men, but it
will only be attributing to him on this occasion the
feelings of his profession, to suppose that he felt
more anxiety for his honour, and the success of his
enterprise. His broken slumbers yielded but little
refreshment during the remainder of the night; and
before the first gray streak illumined the eastern horizon,
he arose, and stole forth with noiseless steps,
passed the snoring borderers, and in a moment
breathed the free fresh air. His horse was soon
equipped, and mounting, he rode to the door,
summoned his host, who was the first to hear his
loud halloo. Surprised to find his guest in the
saddle, he made no reply to his repeated demand to
know his fare; but stepping forward, laid his hand
upon the bridle. “Hands off, my friend,” said the
soldier, “my horse is ticklish about the head.”
“Light, sir, light!” said the host, “and take a dram
before you go, it's a raw morning,”—and still held
the rein. At this moment other faces appeared at
the door; the officer liked neither their company
nor their looks, and dropping a piece of money at
the landlord's feet, he struck the spurs into the side
of his steed, and dashed off in a gallop, leaving all
danger behind.
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THE VILLAGE MUSICIAN.
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The reader who has ever been in the pleasant
town of Herkimer in New York, may know something
of Johnny Vanderbocker, a neat, square built
Dutch lad, who was a great favourite among the
ladies of that place, a few years back. The reason
of his popularity with the fair, I could never exactly
learn; for he was the most uncomely youth that a
traveller could meet between Albany and Buffalo.
Perhaps it might have been in consequence of his
expectations; for his father, who was a baker, was
said to have several hundreds of silver dollars,
locked up in an oaken chest which stood by his bed-side;
and as he had always permitted John to roam
about the village, without paying the least attention
to his education or conduct, it seemed very evident
that he intended to make him his heir. Perhaps it
might have been owing to his good nature; for to
tell the truth, there was not a better tempered lad
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in the whole country. Whatever else might be
said in disparagement of John, all admitted that he
was a well conditioned creature, and had not the
least harm in him. He would lie for hours, under
the shade of a great willow which stood before his
father's door, looking at the sky, or crawl about the
grass, hunting for four-leafed clover; and no change
in the weather, nor other cross accident, was ever
known to disturb his serenity. In this respect he
was a fair example of the influence of circumstances;
for, having been raised—as we say in the
west—by a baker, it was naturally to be expected
that his heart should be light.
After all, he might owe his favour with the female
public to his musical abilities, which were
certainly remarkable. When quite small, he was
an adept at playing on the Jews-harp, and the boys
and girls would crowd around him to listen to his
melody, as if he had been another Orpheus. As
he grew older, he took to the violin, and his services
began to be in request. A man may always
fiddle his way through this world; no matter whether
he play for love or money, whether he is a
hired musician, or an amateur; fiddling is a genteel,
popular, and profitable employment. Johnny
was now a regular and an acceptable visiter at all
the tea parties, quiltings, and house raisings, in and
around the town, and never did any human being
fill a station with more propriety, than he did the
responsible post of fiddler. By nature he was
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taciturn, a lover of sleep, a healthy eater, and fond
of an inspiring beverage; qualifications which, if
they be not proofs of musical genius, may at least
be set down as the appropriate accomplishments of
a connoisseur in the science of sweet sounds.
Seated in an easy chair, for he loved a comfortable
position, he would throw back his head, close his
eyes, open his huge mouth, and fiddle away for a
whole night, without exhibiting the least sign of
vitality, except in his elbow and his fingers. Often
when a dance was ended, he would continue to
play on until admonished that his labours were unnecessary;
but when a new set took the floor, it
was only requisite to give Johnny a smart jog, and
off he went again like a machine set in motion.
When refreshments were brought him, he poured
into the vast crater which performed the functions
of a mouth, whatever was offered; and more than
once has he swallowed the contents of an inkstand,
smacked his lips over a dose of Peruvian bark, or
pronounced a glass of sharp vinegar “humming
stuff.”
Thus passed the halcyon days of Johnny Vanderbocker,
until the completion of his twenty-first
year, when an event occurred which entirely
changed the tenor of his life. This was no other
than the decease of his worthy parent the baker,
who was suddenly gathered to his fathers, on a
cold winter evening while Johnny was fiddling at a
neighbouring fair. The news startled our hero
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like the snapping of a fiddle-string. He returned
with a heavy heart to his paternal mansion, and
retired to rest somewhat consoled by the reflection,
that although he had lost a parent, he had become
master of the rolls. He laid aside his amusements
to follow the remains of the honest baker to their
last receptacle. For a wonder, he remained wide
awake the whole day, and slept quietly in his bed
the whole of the ensuing night. On the following
morning he unlocked the oaken chest, emptied the
contents of several greasy bags on the floor, counted
them over eagerly, and then determined—to
buy a new violin.
In his new situation, many cares pressed upon
the attention of our hero. Letters of administration
had to be taken out, the stock in trade and
the implements of his ancestor to be sold, debts to
be collected, and debts to be paid; and before a
week elapsed, the heir at law acknowledged that
the gifts of fortune are not worth the trouble they
bring. His new suit of black imposed an unwonted
constraint upon him. He could no longer
roll upon the grass, for fear of soiling his clothes,
and he was told it would be wrong to fiddle at the
dances while he was in mourning.
When an old man gets into trouble, he is apt to
betake himself to the bottle; when a young one
becomes perplexed, he generally turns his attention
to matrimony. Thus it was with Johnny,
who, in those golden and joyous days, when he
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had nothing to do but to sleep and eat and play the
fiddle, never dreamed of the silken fetter. But
when care and trouble, and leather bags, and silver
dollars, and black broadcloth, came upon him, he
thought it high time to shift a portion of the burthen
of his existence upon some other shoulders.
I must now apprise the reader, that although my
hero had never thought of marriage, it was only
because he was too single-minded to think of two
things at once. He had not reached the mature
age of one and twenty, untouched by the arrows
of the gentle god. In love he had been, and at the
precise point of time to which we have brought
this veracious history, the tender passion was blazing
in his bosom, as kindly and as cheerfully as a
Christmas fire. Its object was a beautiful girl of
nineteen, who really did great credit to the taste of
the enamoured musician. She was the daughter
of a widow lady of respectable connections, but
decayed fortune—the damaged relic of a fashionable
spendthrift. Lucy Atherton, the young lady in
question, had beauty enough to compensate for the
absence of wealth, and a sufficient portion of the
family inheritance of pride to enable her to hold
her head quite as high as any belle in the village.
Indeed, she made it a point to take precedence
wherever she went, and as she did this without the
least appearance of ill nature, and without displaying
any self-important airs, but rather as a
matter of course, it seemed to be
-- 137 --
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universally conceded to her. She was the reigning
beauty of the village—the prettiest, the gayest, and
the most graceful of the maiden train who danced
to the music of Johnny Vanderbocker's violin. In
the dance she was grace personified. It was a
treat to behold her laughing face, her lovely form,
and her light step, as she flew with joyous heart
and noiseless foot through the mazes of the contra-dance.
Now it happened to Johnny occasionally
to shut his mouth and open his eyes, just at the
dangerous moment when Miss Atherton was engaged
in these captivating performances, and he must
have been the most churlish of all Dutchmen, not
to have been fascinated. She was in the habit,
too, of leading off the sets, and the choice of the
air was generally dictated by her taste. On such
occasions she would address our hero with the
most winning grace, and in tones of the sweetest
euphony, ask Mr. Vanderbocker for “that delightful
tune which he played so charmingly.” Accustomed
to the appellation of plain “Johnny” from
every other tongue, the title of Mister, conveyed in
such honeyed accents, fell pleasantly upon his ear,
and whether the fair lady was actuated by self-respect,
or by a respect for Johnny, the effect was
to make him her fast friend. The fact was, that
Miss Atherton had an art, which some ladies exercise
as skilfully as some gentlemen, and which is
found among distinguished belles as often as among
ambitious men;—I mean that universal courtesy
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which gains for its possessor the good will of all
ranks—that ready smile, and pleasant phrase, and
convenient bow, which, like a panacea, suits all occasions.
In statesmen this desirable accomplishment
is the result of judicious training; in handsome
women it is an instinct, connected with that
love of applause, which is almost inseparable from
beauty.
Often would Johnny surprise the company, by
keeping his eyes open for whole minutes together,
as the lovely vision of Lucy Atherton flitted before
him. The fire would flash from his eye, and the
blood rush from his heart to his elbow, as he gazed
in ecstasy at the loveliest dancer in the village—
his fingers fell with renewed vivacity upon the
tuneful strings, and the very violin itself seemed to
melt in sympathy, and gave forth softer, and mellower,
and gayer tones. Then would he close his
eyes, and having laid in an agreeable idea, feed
upon it in secrecy, as a stingy boy devours a dainty
morsel in some hidden corner. With his stringed
instrument rattling away like a locomotive
engine, apparently unconscious of any animal propulsion,
his mouth wide open, his visage devoid of
expression, and the whole outward man reposing
in death-like torpidity, he was dreaming of Lucy
Atherton—his heart was beating time to the imaginary
motion of her feet, as her form floated and
whirled, up the sides and down the middle, cross
over, and right and left, through every nook and
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corner of his bosom. But either because this
image was too dearly cherished to be shared with
another, or too faintly shadowed out to be altogether
intelligible to himself, he kept his own counsel
so closely, that none could have suspected the object
of his thoughts, or have pronounced with the
slightest shadow of reason, that he had any
thoughts at all—except upon one occasion, when
Miss Lucy Atherton having gone through a scamper
down with uncommon spirit, he exclaimed
with great emotion, that she was “a dreadful nice
dancer.”
Yet with all this devotion of heart, and with
feelings that vibrated to every echo of Lucy's feet,
there was not a single chord of association in the
mind of Johnny Vanderbocker, which connected
the image of Miss Atherton with the idea of wedlock.
On the contrary, having seldom seen her
except on high days and holidays, when she shone
as a bright peculiar star in the constellation of village
beauty, her name was engraven on the same
tablet on which was recorded his agreeable recollections
of in-fairs, quiltings, fiddle-strings, minced
pies, egg-flip, and hot spiced gingerbread. All
these good things came together, and with them always
came—Lucy Atherton. When therefore the
notion of a wife came into his head, it was like the
intrusion of a comet into the solar system, disturbing
the regular economy of nature, and eclipsing
the other orbs by its brilliancy. It entirely
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unsettled the well-ordered succession of his thoughts,
which commonly moved on from point to point as
regularly as the hands of a watch. “A wife!”—
quoth he, casting a look of silly bashfulness all
around, as if afraid of detection—“A wife!”—exclaimed
he a second time, laughing aloud as at the
absurdity of such a proposition—“A wife!”—muttered
he again,—and then the image of Lucy
Atherton came dancing before him. The greatest
discoveries have been the result of accident, the
happiest invention is but the felicitous application
of a known power to a novel purpose; and equally
fortuitous was that train of thought in the mind of
our hero, which united his own destiny with that
of the fashionable and admired Lucy Atherton.
The thought was ecstatic; it brought a glow to the
heart of Johnny, such as seldom beams upon the
high latitude of a Dutchman's breast, and he resolved
to become, forthwith, a candidate for the
hand of the village belle.
Great designs give unwonted energy to the character.
Idle and timid as our hero usually was,
the idea of marrying Lucy Atherton awakened him
to a new being. His conceptions were enlarged,
his resolution quickened, and all his senses strung
anew, and he was as different a man from what he
was an hour before, as a stringless violin is, from the
same instrument properly attired and screwed into
tune. He felt his importance increased, his notions
of happiness expanded, and his whole sphere
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of existence extended and beautified. He considered
the matter settled. “Me and Lucy will just
suit,” said he to himself. “She dances prime, and
I take it, I can outfiddle the world.” It never occurred
to him that the lady would make any objection
to the arrangement.
How could she? for Johnny was possessed of
the only two things which he considered absolutely
necessary to enjoyment; music and money. What
more could a lady want? “And then,” thought
he, “I'm not the worst-looking fellow in the country,
and this is not such a bad house neither, and
three hundred dollars, and the bake-shop, is no
trifle.” Johnny capered round the room in great
glee, and one of his companions coming in at this
moment, he embraced him, and said, “Don't you
wish me joy?”
“For what?” enquired his friend.
“O I'm so happy!”
“Is it your father's death that pleases you so
much?”
“O no! I'm going to be married.”
“Indeed! Who to?”
“Ah, that's a secret; I ha n't told her about it
yet, but I know she'll have no objection.”
The next morning found our hero at a neighbouring
shop, purchasing a variety of trinkets and
clothing, for the decoration of his ungainly person.
A purple watch ribbon, a pink silk neckcloth, and
a huge breastpin which struck him as peculiarly
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tasty and appropriate, were borne off in triumph
and these, together with a scarlet velvet waistcoat,
of the proper goods and chattels of the late Herman
Vanderbocker deceased, which came to the
hands of the said John to be administered, were
severally arranged in their respective stations; and
the worthy amateur, adorned with a dazzling elegance,
to which he had until that time been a
stranger, placed his fiddle triumphantly under his
arm, and marched boldly to the dwelling of the
widow Atherton.
It is necessary to explain in this place, that in
calling our hero a fiddler, we have never meant to
insinuate that he played for money. He was as
much above such mercenary considerations, as any
other lover of the fine arts. He was an amateur.
That delicate discrimination of sounds, which enables
its happy possessor to arrange the vibrations
of coarse strings and fine ones into harmony, and
that love of melodious tones and skilful combinations,
which distinguish the musician, and of which
the writer of this history has not the faintest conception,
all belonged to Johnny. He was a welcome
visiter at all the parties in the village, because
he played cotillions and contra-dances with
“accuracy and despatch,” and moreover not only
rendered such services gratuitously, but with the
utmost good humour. Whoever else was omitted,
on any such occasion, Mr. Vanderbocker was sure
to receive a formal card, or a hearty invitation, as
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the case might require. Of course he was received
as an equal in every circle, and had access to
the best society in the village; a privilege which
he seldom used, but which permitted him on the
present occasion to tap at the door of Mrs. Atherton
with the air of a familiar friend.
“Good morning, Mrs. Atherton,” said our hero,
as he entered the widow's parlour, “Good morning.
How's Lucy?”
The lady, surprised at this unwonted familiarity
in the son of the village baker, raised her spectacles,
and having gazed at him for a moment in
mute astonishment, haughtily replied that Miss
Atherton was well. Johnny was glad to hear it;
but before he could express his joy, the offended
parent stalked out, and the young lady herself glided
in. “She don't know what I came for, or
she'd be more civil,” thought Johnny, as he looked
after the proud widow—but the entrance of the
daughter changed the current of his reflections.
“How d' ye do, Lucy?” said the amateur.
Lucy was thunderstruck. The young man had
never before addressed her in such a strain; but
she had too much self-possession to betray the least
embarrassment; for a reigning belle can generally
command her feelings with as much success as a
veteran politician. She returned his salutation,
therefore, with the utmost sweetness and ease of
manner, and took her seat, inwardly resolving to
penetrate into the cause of the strange revolution
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which a few hours had made in the dress and address
of her visiter. Arrayed in the simple elegance
of a morning dress, and adorned with youth,
health, and beauty, she bent gracefully over her
work, and never looked prettier than at this moment,
when an inquisitive archness was added to
the usually intelligent expression of her countenance.
For the present, however, her curiosity
was balked; for Johnny, who really meant only to
show his tenderness, and had already advanced to
the utmost bounds of his assurance, began to falter.
The courage, which had sustained him thus far,
and which some have insinuated was borrowed
from a source that our temperance societies would
hardly approve, was fast evaporating; and after
sitting some time in silence, playing with his purple
watch-ribbon, he drew his violin from its green bag,
and enquired whether Miss Atherton would “fancy
a tune.”
The young lady declared that it always afforded
her infinite pleasure to listen to Mr. Vanderbocker's
delightful music; and in an instant the musical
machine started into action—the head fell
back, the mouth yawned, the eye-lids closed, and
Johnny, the best and drowsiest of fiddlers, added
a new proof, that even the tender passion is not
sufficiently powerful to overcome inveterate habit.
But love did not entirely quit the field, or abandon
his votary, who opened his eyes at intervals, and
bowed and smirked upon his fair auditress in a
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manner not to be mistaken, while between the different
airs he would enquire if the last tune was
not “cruel purty,” or “desparate fine,” or “eleganter
than all the rest.”
Music, which has charms to “soothe the savage
breast,” seems to have operated differently on that
of the young lady on this occasion; for the antique
velvet vest, the pink neckcloth, the smirking, the
bowing, and above all, the short naps which her
visiter seemed to enjoy with such complacency,
were altogether so irresistibly ludicrous, that in
spite of her endeavours to suppress it, she was
compelled to burst into a fit of laughter. Johnny,
who very properly considered this as an unequivocal
expression of delight, was overjoyed at his success,
and adding his own bass to the melodious
tenor of his fair companion, shook the room with
peals of obstreperous mirth.
Thus ended the first act of this comedy. The
second commences with a sprightly dialogue.
Johnny, who had now found his tongue, opened
the conversation by asking “Lucy” if she did not
think he ought to be married.
“Undoubtedly, Mr. Vanderbocker,” was the reply;
“nothing could be more proper; provided you
believe that marriage would conduce to your happiness.”
“I do n't know as I should be any happier, but
somehow I think I should be better contented.”
“Then you ought certainly to marry, for
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contentment is the chief ingredient in the cup of happiness.”
“I shall quit drinking entirely,” continued the
lover, who misunderstood the last position of the
lady.
“I am glad to hear it. Sobriety is very becoming;
particularly in married men.”
“And who do you think I ought to have.”
“O dear! I cannot tell, indeed. That is a delicate
question; and perhaps it might be necessary
to determine first who would have you.”
“I guess, a'most any of 'em would be glad to
catch at me,” replied the swain; “for father 's left
me a snug house, and three hundred dollars in silver,
besides the bake-shop.”
“Quite a fortune, I declare!” exclaimed Lucy.
“To be sure there 's some that 's richer than
me, and some better looking,” continued Johnny,
glancing at the mirror which hung opposite to him;
“but then you know, Miss Lucy—”
—“That half a loaf is better than no bread,”
added the young lady, ironically.
“Yes—just so—that 's my idee to a notch, a half
bread, as you say, is better than no loaf, and so—
three hundred dollars and a house and lot—”
“And gentle Mr. Vanderbocker into the bargain,
would be a comfortable lot for any lady. Surely
the girls in Herkimer ought not to hesitate, for the
temptation is very great!”
“An't it?” exclaimed Johnny, in a tone of
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exultation. “I guess it is!” he added, answering his
own question. “It is n't every gal that gets such
a chance. Now I 'll tell you a secret,” continued
he, lowering his voice—“if you 'll have me, it 's
all your own, me and the fiddle, the three hundred
dollars, the bake-shop, and all!”
“The impudent fellow!” thought Lucy; but she
had the politeness and good sense to suppress that
thought. A lady is never seriously offended with
the swain who offers to marry her; for however
humble may be the source from which the proposition
emanates, it is still a compliment. Lucy's
list of conquests was tolerably long for blooming
nineteen, and the name of Johnny would add but
little dignity to the train; yet truth obliges me to
record that a slight blush, and a very slight toss of
the head, with a glance at the mirror, showed that
the tribute of admiration was not unwelcome even
from our hero. She civilly, but peremptorily declined
the honour which he had intended for her,
and adding, “You must excuse me now, sir, I have
other engagements,” left the room.
“Other engagements!” thought Johnny, “that
means that she is going to be married to somebody
else. What a dunce was I not to speak first!”
And he retired, deeply chagrined, and not a little
puzzled, that a young lady of marriageable age and
sound discretion, who was not worth a cent, should
refuse a neat cottage, a bake-shop, and three hundred
dollars, with the slight incumbrance of himself
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and a violin, for no better reason than that she had
made a previous engagement with another gentleman!
Had there been a mill-pond at Mrs. Atherton's
front door, our hero would undoubtedly have
drowned himself; and it is altogether probable that
he would even have gone out of his way to seek
the means of self-destruction, had he not prudently
reflected that the estate of Herman Vanderbocker,
deceased, was not yet fully administered, nor the
leather bags emptied. To leave this treasure vacant,
and the bake-shop unoccupied, would have
been rashness. But he felt unhappy. His heart,
which had been as light as a hot roll, was now as
heavy as dough; and being little disposed to mingle
in company, he determined to mount his horse, and
take a short ride. How far he went, or what he
thought of, I am unable to say, as I dined that day
with Mrs. Atherton, and spent the afternoon in assisting
her lovely daughter to draw patterns, a fact
which will account for my intimate knowledge of
the events of the morning.
It was nearly night, when Johnny, who was trotting
briskly homewards, overtook a stranger within
a mile or two of the village. He was a tall, slim
man, mounted on a high, strong, bony horse; but
he was so muffled up, from top to toe, that our
hero could not tell whether he was old or young,
gentle or simple. His hat was covered with an
oil-cloth, his legs were enveloped in ample
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wrappers of coarse cloth, he was booted and spurred,
and over all he wore one of those uncouth but
comfortable coats, fabricated out of a green Mackinaw
blanket, which are so common on the Mississippi.
His horse was covered with mud, aud evidently
tired. His own appearance was way-worn,
and weather-beaten. He seemed to have travelled
far, and faced many a storm. Before him were a
pair of large holster pistols; behind him, a roll containing
his surtout and umbrella; and across the
saddle, a pair of immense saddle bags, fastened with
a brass padlock.
Johnny, who had all the fiddler's wonted love of
company, and was particularly averse to riding
alone in the dark, trotted up along side of the stranger,
and accosted him with a cheerful “Good evening.”
The traveller nodded stiffly, without deigning to
turn his head.
Johnny gazed wistfully at the jaded rider, the
tired nag, the Mackinaw blanket, the leggins, and
other fixens, as we say in the West, and wondered
who this could be, that was so strangely accoutred,
and was too proud to return a civil salutation. Determined
to satisfy his curiosity, he tried to commence
a conversation, by making some common-place
remark about the weather; but, as this elicited
no other reply than a cold monosyllable, he resolved
to make a bold push, and come to the point at once.
“You seem to be travelling, mister,” said he.
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“You have guessed right,” replied the traveller.
“Have you travelled far, if it's a fair question?”
“Tolerably.”
Now this reply seemed to our hero most perplexingly
inexplicit. “Tolerably” might comprise ten
miles, or twenty, or a hundred, but it could not
apply to a long journey. He took another look at
the leggins, the pistols, and the green blanket coat,
and, edging up to the stranger, thought he would try
it again.
“Well, mister,” said he, “if I mought make so
bold, where did you come from?”
“Just back here,” was the laconic reply.
“From Oneida?”
“No; further back.”
“From Cataraugus?”
“No; further back.”
Johnny considered a moment—for his stock of
geographical knowledge was but slender—and again
pushed his enquiries.
“I guess, may be, you came all the way from
Buffalo?”
“No; further back.”
Johnny scratched his head, in some amazement,
and edged off from the stranger, as if fearful he had
fallen into bad company; but his curiosity over-coming
every other feeling, he continued;—“Why
I don't know as any body lives any further off than
that. If I mought make so free, what's back of
Buffalo?”
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“Ohio.”
“O—o—h! yes! sure enough! So you live in
Ohio?”
“No; further back.”
“Well, what's back of that?”
“Indiana.”
“And do you live there?”
“No; further back.”
“And what's back of that?”
“Illinois.”
“Oh! you live in Illinois.”
“No I don't.”
“Where do you live?”
“Further back.”
“I guess you don't live at all!” exclaimed Johnny
trembling all over, for it was now growing dark,
and the tall stranger, who seemed to have ridden so
hard and so far, appeared to deny being an inhabitant
of this world. But Johnny thought he would
try another question.
“Well, mister, if it's no harm, what's back of
Illinois?”
“Missouri.”
“Do you live there?”
“Yes.”
Johnny absolutely started, and stood up in his
stirrups, and a cold chill ran over him; for the
conversation was brought to a dead stand by this
reply, with a shock resembling that with which a
steamboat, under rapid way, is checked by a snag.
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But he had located the stranger; and, after drawing
a long breath, he exclaimed—
“Well, I'm glad on't. I am almost out of breath
in finding it out. I don't know how you stood it to
travel so far; it must be a long way off. How far
is it, sir, if it's a fair question?”
“Something over a thousand miles. And now,”
said the stranger, “as I have answered all your
enquiries, I hope you will allow me to put a few
questions to you.”
“O certainly.”
“Do you live in this village?”
“Yes—I was born here.”
“What's your business?”
“I'm a gentleman.”
“What does your father do for a living?”
“Nothing.”
“What is he?”
“He is a dead man.”
“Do you know Mrs. Atherton?”
“Yes—do you?”
“Is her daughter married?”
“No, indeed, far from it.”
“Why far from it?”
“She refused an excellent offer this morning.”
“From whom?”
“That's a secret.”
“How do you know this if it is a secret?”
“I had it from herself. But here is the hotel, I'll
bid you a good evening.”
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“Stay. Have you any objection to carry a note
to Miss Atherton?”
“I can't say as I have.”
“Well, then, as she seems to have made you her
confidant, I will entrust you with one.” So saying,
he stepped into the tavern, and in a few minutes
returned with a neat billet, which he put into the
hands of Johnny, requesting him to be particularly
careful to deliver it to Lucy herself.
Proud of an office which would introduce him into
the presence of her who had occupied so large a
share of his thoughts, he departed with alacrity, but
meeting with some of his companions, who detained
him, sorely against his will, more than an hour
elapsed before he reached the dwelling of Mrs.
Atherton. That lady and her fair daughter were
seated, tête á tête, at their work-stand, when a modest
knock was heard at the door, and in a few moments
the crest fallen Johnny Vanderbocker stood
before them. Bowing reverently to both ladies, he
advanced in silence, and laid the note before Lucy,
who at first took it up with hesitation, supposing
that it contained an effusion of the bearer's own
hopeless passion; but no sooner had the superscription
caught her eye, than she tore it open, and exclaimed,
“He is come, he is come! Mother, mother!
he is come!”
“Who is come?” enquired Johnny, whose feelings
were too much excited to permit him to remain
silent. But Lucy's head had fallen upon her
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mother's shoulder, and the tears were rolling down
her cheeks, while the good lady's eyes were also
filled.
“Never mind,” said Johnny, in a soothing tone;
don't be scared, ladies. If he does carry horse
pistols, he is not a going to do as he pleases in
Herkimer. Don't, don't cry, Miss Lucy—I'll fight
for you as long as I can stand.” At this juncture,
the door again opened, and the stranger stood before
them. The blanket-coat fell from his shoulders,
and Lucy Atherton rushed into his arms. “Dear
Lucy!” “Dear Charles!” was all they could utter.
Mrs. Atherton glided out of the room. “The old
lady does not like you either,” thought Johnny;
“she served me just so.”
“Three are poor company,” continued Johnny
to himself, and he too retired; but he had the consolation
of believing that he had found a complete
solution of the mystery of the young lady's conduct
in the morning. “She would never,” he argued,
“have refused me, and three hundred dollars, and
the bake-shop, if she had n't been engaged already.
She was sorry about it, no doubt, though she did
pretend not to mind it. Dear me, what a pity! the
poor thing laughed so, and was so overjoyed when
I went there a-courting to-day, and now this great
backwoodsman has come from nobody knows where,
to carry her off. Well she knows her own business
best. Three hundred dollars won't go a begging
long in Herkimer. So good-bye to Lucy Atherton.”
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But manfully as our hero strove against his disappointment,
it preyed upon him, and for two days he
remained in his own house quite disconsolate, moping
about like a hypochondriac, and poking the fire with
the petulance of a bachelor who is past hope, or—
past forty. At the end of that time he received an
unexpected visit from the stranger. Stripped of his
blanket-coat and leggins, and disarmed of those
ferocious weapons which had excited our hero's
curiosity so strongly, he seemed another person.
Although somewhat above the ordinary stature, his
person was slender and genteel, his face, which was
browned by exposure to the weather, was remarkably
handsome, and his address frank and easy. His
age might have been two or three and twenty, but
having already mixed with the world, and felt the
touch of care, he had the manners of an older man.
“Mr. Vanderbocker,” said he, “you guided me into
the village the other evening, when I was tired and
perhaps less sociable than I ought to have been, and
I have called to thank you for your civility, and to
request the pleasure of your company on to-morrow
evening at Mrs. Atherton's.” Johnny pleaded his
black coat, and tried to beg off; for he had heard it
whispered that Lucy was to give her hand to the
handsome stranger, and felt but little inclination to
be present at the wedding. His visiter, however,
pressed him, adding, “Miss Atherton esteems you
as one of her earliest friends, and will have it so.”
“I will go then,” said Johnny, greatly soothed by
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this compliment. “And now, Mr. Wilkinson,” for
such he had learned was the stranger's name, “will
you be kind enough to tell me how you managed to
court one of our Herkimer ladies, without ever setting
your foot in the village—our belle, too, that has
had so many good offers at home?” Mr. Wilkinson
smiled, and replied, “Lucy and myself met at
Schenectady, where we were both going to shcool,
and were well enough pleased with each other to
agree to unite our destinies. Her father was but
recently deceased, and she was supposed to have
inherited a fortune, while my own circumstances
were such that it was with difficulty I completed
my education. Mrs. Atherton might possibly have
taken these things into consideration; at all events,
her views differed from ours, and she no sooner
heard of our attachment than she took Lucy home,
and, rather haughtily as I thought, forbade my
visiting at her house. Poor Lucy! her fortune
turned out to be illusory. Her father had died a
bankrupt, and left his family so destitute, that Mrs.
Atherton had to struggle with many difficulties.
Though they have kept up a genteel appearance, I
fear they have sometimes wanted even the necessaries
of life. But Lucy lived through it all with a
gay heart, and a noble spirit, and refused, as you
remark, many a good offer. As for me, I went to
the West, mortified at having been spurned from
the door of a proud woman, and determined to
earn that wealth and distinction, which I saw could
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alone procure my admittance into the bosom of
Lucy's family. I went, friendless and pennyless,
to the shores of the Mississippi, where not a heart
beat responsive to my own, and where I was exposed
to many hardships and dangers. But I was
so eminently successful in business, that I am already
independent, and able to claim the fulfilment
of her promise. There is no objection now on the
part of either mother or daughter, and, to-morrow
evening, I shall become the happy possessor of
Lucy's hand.”
“You deserve it,” said Johnny, sobbing, “indeed
you do—for, simple as I seem, and simple as
I be, I'm not the lad to envy a true lover and a
generous-hearted girl their happiness. But do you
intend to take her `further back?' ” added he,
pointing significantly to the West.
“Yes, that is my home now.”
“Good luck to you both, then. I will certainly
attend the wedding; and if father had been dead a
little longer, I would play for you, that I might see
Miss Lucy dance for the last time. Yes, it would
be the last time. Never will I see such another
figure on the floor. And never shall any other
woman dance to music of mine. I'll hang up my
fiddle. There will be nobody in the village fit to
play for when she is gone. I have played my last
tune, and I shall now do as my father did—bake
bread, and lock up my dollars in the old oak
chest.”
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Johnny kept his word. Several years have
passed, and he may now be seen any summer's
day, seated at the door of his cottage, with a red
night-cap on his head, and a short black pipe in his
mouth, chuckling over the idea that he has more
hard dollars under lock and key than any man in
the village. He bakes excellent bread, gives good
weight, and drinks nothing but his own beer, while
the sound of a violin, or the smile of a woman,
never gladdens his roof, and
“The harp that once in Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled.”
-- 159 -- p115-156
FASHIONABLE WATERING PLACES.
[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
A person of taste may spend a few days very
pleasantly at a genteel Watering Place. The continual
succession of new faces, the interesting
variety of character, and the harmonious intermixture
of grades exhibited here, are such, that the
mind of desultory man, however studious of change,
cannot fail to be amused. I say nothing of the
beauties of the landscape, the invigorating breeze
of the country, or the medicinal virtues of the
mineral fountain—because the last may be imitated
in perfection by a bungling apothecary, and the
others are easily purchased by the fatigue of a
morning ride from the most crowded metropolis.
Those vulgar enjoyments which are within the
reach of the whole human race, are very properly
disdained by persons of fashion. Much has also
been said of the keen appetites which are found at
these healthful places of resort. Portly gentlemen,
-- 160 --
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
and pale-faced ladies, exult equally in the quantity
of fish, flesh, and fowl, which the talismanic effects
of the sea breeze or the chalybeate draught enable
them to consume. But this is surely false taste.
What can be more ungenteel than eating, or rather
devouring, flesh and vegetables like the locusts of
Egypt, or the lean kine of Pharaoh? Can that be
styled a polite employment which is common to
the philosopher and the savage, the belle and the
washerwoman? Eating is certainly a vulgar occupation—
and I cannot but marvel that wits and
beauties—“the curled darlings of the nation”—
should hie to Long Branch or Ballston, for the
purpose of gratifying that voracious propensity
which gives celebrity to the boa constrictor, and
the man who swallows tallow candles for a wager!
The preacher condemns the epicure who “fares
sumptuously every day;” and the physician lives
by repairing the inroads of the cook. Besides, we
certainly know, that the literati of every age have
deplored the appetite for food as the most impertinent
and vexatious of the human propensities.
That it has caused many an honest gentleman to
turn author, cannot be disputed; and that it has
peopled Parnassus with gaunt forms and hungry
aspects, is equally unquestionable. Gentlemen,
therefore, who write for bread, should not go to
Watering Places. For my part, I have always
viewed this subject with the eye of a philosopher,
and have never ceased to deplore the inflexibility
-- 161 --
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of that ordinance of our nature, which bestows the
best appetites upon those who are least able to
supply them. Physicians display a most unfeeling
apathy to the sufferings of their fellow creatures,
when they inconsiderately administer provocatives
to the palate of every one who fancies himself deficient
in voracity, without enquiring into the ability
of the patient to sustain and cherish the newly
awakened sense. If I was a practitioner of the
healing art, I would ask my patient if he was a poet,
and if he answered in the affirmative, I should congratulate
him upon the delicacy of his appetite, and
positively forbid the “exhibition” of tonics. I
would conscientiously regulate the appetites of
those who had the good fortune to be placed under
my care, by the dimensions of their purses. Thus
my patients would be rated, like ships of war, by
their weight of metal; he who could compass three
full meals a-day, with a lunch at noon and a hot
supper at midnight, should ruralise at Bedford or
Saratoga, and have bark and wine to his heart's
content; a less plethoric purse should be placed on
allowance; and where the income was in a low
state of debility, meagre diet and nauseating draughts
should be prescribed. But as it seems natural that
the force of reason should forbid men from pursuing
that which, when obtained, would be burthensome,
I am in the habit of believing all the visiters whom
I meet at Watering Places to be persons of fortune,
who purchase pleasure with their superfluous
-- 162 --
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wealth, or seek appetites because they have where-withal
to gratify them.
But a watering place has other uses and attractions.
Dashing blades may lawfully resort thither
to sport their equipages, and beauties to display
their charms. Southern gentlemen find the flavour
of a mint julep greatly enhanced by the refreshing
coolness of the mountain spring, and city ladies
bloom like wild flowers in these salubrious retreats.
Your watering place is, moreover, a notable school
for good manners; for, as the parties are for the
most part strangers to each other, all are free and
equal; and thence results that absence of constraint
and ease of manner, which is so much admired in
high life. There is no herald's office kept here.
Here is no balancing of straws, and weighing of
feathers—no tossing of heads, and winking, and
whispering, to find out who is who. One gentleman
may wear blue, and another black, but “a man's a
man for a' that”—and as every man may place his
own name on the books with whatever title or
addition he pleases, he has only to choose his own
rank, and he passes current accordingly. “Misery,”
it is said, “brings us into strange company”—so
does misery's opposite, pleasure. Here are singular
combinations, not to be explained by any of the
established rules of affinity, attraction, or cohesion.
To the lover this is a congenial climate. Is it
not strange that a sympathy should exist between
the palate and the heart? Will my fair and gentle
-- 163 --
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readers believe that love and hunger—the one a
gross vulgar appetite, the other a genteel, delicate,
sentimental passion—may be awakened and invigorated
by the same stimulants? It is even so. The
air of the country is alike salubrious to a feeble
frame, or a debilitated attachment. The sight of
haystacks, and waving corn, and flowery meads,
creates a sweet delusion around the intoxicated
senses of the lover, and peoples the fairy scene with
nymphs and swains, and all the delightful paraphernalia
of pastoral love. Mineral water is as nutritious
to the heart, as it is invigorating to the body.
Why is it that the young lady
Whose soul blithe Cupid never taught to stray
Beyond the coxcombs who infest Broadway,
no sooner gets to Ballston, than her ambition soars
to nobler objects; and she, who a few days before
submitted patiently to the addresses of a dandy,
now aims at the subjugation of a manly heart? No
wizard ever invented a love-inspiring potion so
potent as the medicated fountain; but to which of
the elements that enter into the composition of the
chalybeate draught this effect is to be attributed, I
am at a loss to determine. If I were a chemist, I
could account for the phenomenon, because a chemical
genius is never at a loss for a theory, and
dives into causes with an expertness which, by no
means, depends upon any previous or present
knowledge of the subject. He who deals in retorts
can solve any question—though not always by the
-- 164 --
[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
retort courteous. I once, indeed, attempted to philosophise
upon this matter myself, and achieved a
moral analysis after the manner used and approved
by the chemical professors. I carefully examined
the various properties of a celebrated spring, and
in a few minutes arrived at a conclusion quite as
satisfactory as the results of ordinary experiments.
“Here is magnesia,” said I, “which corrects acidity,
and which by a sympathetic influence upon the
mind converts a sour old maid into a well conditioned
miss, and neutralising the acerbities of the
bachelor's temper, leaves his mental system in a
healthful state, well suited to the reception of soft
and agreeable impressions. And here is sulphur,
which, combined with `villanous saltpetre,' commits
such havoc in the world under the name of
gunpowder. Can ladies who imbibe sulphur water
and gunpowder tea, be otherwise than inflammable?
Is it any wonder that maidens who take
in such combustible materials should `go off' with
any spark with whom she comes in contact?
Then here is iron—mercy preserve the dear girls!
what a collection of mortal engines! what fatal implements
of destruction are here assembled!—an
artillery officer would be quite at home in such a
magazine of ordnance stores. We have only to
convert this iron into steel—let it act mechanically
upon the flinty heart of the lady, and is it any wonder
that Cupid should strike fire, or Hymen light a
match?” Such was my theory, and I will vouch
-- 165 --
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it to be as correct as many of the systems in
which the scientific repose implicit faith. If it has
not more good sense than the theory of specific
gravity, I will forfeit my ears—provided a future
generation be allowed to decide the question. But
whether I am right or wrong, I shall still exclaim,
“if mineral water be the food of love, drink on!”
and that it is, will, I think, be satisfactorily proved
by the following little history. I have suppressed
the real names of the parties, but the facts will be
instantly recollected by those of my readers, who
have been in the habit of visiting the celebrated
spot where they occurred.
Miss Simper appeared at Saratoga in an elegant
suit of sable. She was said to be in mourning for
her father, an opulent broker in Baltimore, recently
deceased. Grief had wasted her health, and
weeping had washed away her roses, and she was
come to recover her appetite, and re-animate her
blushes. Miss Simper, of course, was an heiress,
and attracted great attention. The gentlemen
called her a beauty, and talked a great deal of her
real estate, bank stock, and securities. Some of
the ladies thought her complexion too sallow,
and some objected to the style of her dress. Mrs.
Highflyer said she had not the air of a woman of
fashion, while Captain Halliard pronounced her a
suspicious sail, and declared his belief that she was
a privateer in disguise. The fair stranger, however,
walked daily to the fountain, modestly cast
-- 166 --
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down her eyes when gazed at, and seemed unconscious
of all but her own honours.
About this time Major Fitzconnel appeared upon
the busy scene. He was a tall, handsome man, of
easy address, and polished manners, who seemed
to regard all around him with an air of very polite
unconcern. He was announced as an officer in his
Britannic Majesty's service, and brother to Earl
Somebody in England. It was reported that he
had large landed possessions in the west. He did
not appear to seek society, but was too well bred
to repel any civilities which were offered to him.
The gentlemen were well pleased with his good
sense, his knowledge of the world, and the suavity
of his manners; but as he seemed to avoid the
ladies, they had little opportunity of estimating his
qualities.
Major Fitzconnel and Miss Simper met by accident
at the fountain. The officer, who had just
filled his glass at her approach, presented it to the
lady, who, in sipping the transparent element,
dropped her handkerchief. The gentleman very
gallantly picked up the cambric, and restored it to
the fair hand of its owner—but the blushing damsel,
abashed by the easy attentions of an elegant
stranger, in her confusion lost her reticule, which
the soldier gracefully replaced upon her wrist, with
a most respectful bow. A curtesy on the one side,
and another bow on the other, terminated the civilities
of this meeting. The gentleman pursued his
-- 167 --
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walk, and the lady returned to her chamber.
That Miss Simper felt duly sensible of the honour
of having elicited three graceful congees from the
brother of an English earl, cannot be doubted; nor
can we suppose, without injustice to that gentleman's
taste, that he saw with indifference the
mantling blushes which those attentions had drawn
forth; certain it is, however, that as they separated
in opposite directions, neither of them was seen to
cast “one longing lingering look behind.” As I
had not the privilege of intruding into either of
their chambers, I cannot say what fairy forms
might have flitted around the magic pillow,
nor whether the fair one dreamed of coronets,
coats of arms, kettle drums, and epaulets.
In short, I am not able to inform the inquisitive
reader, whether the parties thought of each other
at all; but from the extreme difficulty of again
bringing two such diffident persons in contact, I am
inclined to think the adventure would have ended
here, had not “chance, which oft decides the fates
of mighty monarchs,” decided theirs.
Miss Simper's health required her attendance at
the fountain on the following morning at an unusually
early hour; and the major, while others were
snoring, had sallied forth to enjoy the invigorating
freshness of the early breeze. They met again by
accident at the propitious well; and as the attendant,
who is usually posted there to fill the glasses of
the invalids, had not yet taken his station, the
-- 168 --
[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
major had not only the happiness of performing
that office, but of replenishing the exhausted vessel,
until the lady had quaffed the full measure prescribed
by the medical dictator of this little community.
I am not able to say how often they
pledged each other in the salubrious beverage; but
when the reader is informed that the quantum prescribed
to a delicate female varies from four to
eight glasses, according to the nature of her complaint,
and that a lady cannot decorously sip more
than one mouthful without drawing breath, it will
be seen that ample time was afforded on this occasion
for a tete-a-tete. The ice being thus broken,
and the water duly quaffed, the gentleman proposed
a promenade, to which the lady after some
little hesitation acceded; and when the great bell
summoned them to breakfast, they repaired to the
table with excellent appetites, and cheeks glowing
with healthful hues, produced by the exercise of
the morning.
At ten o'clock the lady issued forth from her
chamber, adorned with new charms, by the recent
labours of the toilet, and strolling pensively, book
in hand, to the farthest corner of the great piazza,
commenced her studies. It happened, at the same
moment, that the major, fresh from his valet's
hands, hied himself to the same cool retreat, to
breathe forth the melancholy musings of his soul,
upon his flute. Seeing the lady, he hesitated, begged
pardon for his intrusion, and was about to
-- 169 --
[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
retire—but the lady assured him it was “no intrusion
at all,” and laid aside her book. The gentleman
was soon seated beside her. He begged to
know the subject of her researches, and was delighted
with the taste displayed in the choice of her
author; she earnestly solicited a display of his musical
talents, and was enraptured with every note;—
and when the same impertinent bell which had
curtailed their morning walk, again sounded in
their ears, they were surprised to find how swiftly
time had flown, and chagrined that the common-place
operation of eating was so often allowed to
interrupt the feast of reason and the flow of soul.
At four o'clock the military stranger handed
Miss Simper into an elegant gig, and drove to the
neighbouring village;—where rumour soon proclaimed
that this interesting pair were united in
the holy bands of matrimony. For once the many
tongues of fame spoke truly—and when the happy
major returned with his blushing bride, all could
see that the embarrassment of the lover was exchanged
for the triumphant smile of the delighted
bridegroom. It is hardly necessary to add that
such was the salutary effect of this pleasing event,
that the “young couple” found themselves restored
instantaneously to perfect health; and on the following
morning they bade adieu to Saratoga
springs.
“This is a very ungenteel affair!” said Mrs.
Highflyer. “I never heard the beat of it in my
-- 170 --
[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
born days!” said a fat shopkeeper's lady. “How
funny!” cried one young lady. “How shocking!”
exclaimed another. “Egad, that 's a keen smart
girl!” said one gentleman. “She 's a tickler, I
warrant her!” said a second. “She 's a pirate,
by thunder!” roared Captain Halliard.
In the mean while, the new-married pair were
pursuing their journey by easy stages towards the
city of New York. We all know “how the blest
charms of nature improve, when we see them reflected,”
and so on; and we can readily imagine
“how happily the days of Thalaba past by” on this
occasion. Uninterrupted by ceremonious visits,
unrestrained by the presence of third parties, surrounded
by all the blandishments which give enchantment
to the rural scene, it is not surprising
that our lovers should often digress from the
beaten road, and as often linger at a romantic spot,
or a secluded cottage.
Several days had now elapsed, and neither party
had made any disclosure to the other upon the important
subject of finance. As they were drawing
near the end of their journey, the major thought it
advisable to broach this delicate matter to his
bride. It was upon a fine summer evening, as they
sat by a window, at an inn, enjoying the beauties
of an extensive landscape, that this memorable
conversation occurred. They had been amusing
themselves with that kind of small talk which new
married folks find so vastly pleasant: as how much
-- 171 --
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they love one another; and how happy they intend
to be, and what a fine thing it is for two fond
hearts to be dissolved and melted down into one,
&c. Many examples of love and murder were related—
the lady told of several distressed swains
who had incontinently hanged themselves for their
mistresses, and the gentleman as often asseverated
that not one of those martyred lovers adored the
object of his passion with half the fervour which
he felt for his own, dear, sweet, darling, precious
little Anne! At last, throwing his arm over his
wife's chair, he said carelessly,
“Who has the management of your property,
my dear?”
“You have, my darling,” replied she.
“I shall have, when I get it,” said the husband—
“I meant to enquire, in whose possession it was
at present?”
“It is all in your own possession,” said the lady.
“Do not trifle with me,” said the gentleman,
patting her cheek—“you have made me the happy
master of your person, and it is time to give me
the disposal of your fortune.”
“My face is my fortune, kind sir,” said she, laying
her head on his shoulder.
“To be plain with you, madam,” said the impassioned
bridegroom—“I have need of money
immediately—the hired gig in which we came to
this place has been returned, and I have not the
means to procure another conveyance.”
-- 172 --
[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
“To be equally candid with you, sir,” replied
the happy bride, “I have nothing in the world but
what you see.”
“Have you no real estate?” said the major,
starting on his feet.
“Not an acre.”
“No bank stock?”
“None.”
“No securities,—no jewels,—no money?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“Are you not the daughter and heiress of a rich
broker?”
“Not I, indeed.”
“Who the devil are you, then?”
“I am your wife, sir, and the daughter of a very
honest blacksmith.”
“Bless me!” exclaimed the major, starting back
with astonishment—then covering his face with
both his hands, he remained for a moment, absorbed
in thought. Resuming his serenity, he said, in
a sneering tone, “I congratulate you, madam, on
being the wife of a beggar like yourself. I am a
ruined man, and know not whence to supply my
immediate wants.”
“Can you not draw upon the earl, your brother?”
said the lady.
“I have not the honour of being allied to the
nobility.”
“Perhaps you can have recourse to the paymaster
of your regiment?”
-- 173 --
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“I do not happen to belong to any regiment.”
“And have you no lands in Arkansas?”
“Not an acre.”
“Pray, then, sir, may I take the liberty of asking
who you are?”
“I am your husband, madam, at your service,
and only son to a famous gambler, who left me
heir to his principles and profession.
“My father gave me a good education,” said the
lady.
“So did mine,” said the gentleman—“but it has
not prevented me from trumping the wrong trick
this time.”
So saying, Major Fitzconnell bounced out of the
chamber, hastened to the bar, and called the landlord.
His interesting bride followed on tiptoe, and
listened unobserved. The major enquired “at
what hour the mail stage would pass for New
York.” “About midnight,” was the reply. “Please
to secure me a seat,” said the major, “and let me
be waked at the proper hour.” “Only one
seat?” enquired the host. “One seat only!” was
the reply. The landlord remarked that it was
customary for gentlemen who set off in the night to
pay their fare in advance, upon which the major
paid for the seat.
The major and his bride retired to separate
chambers; the former was soon locked in the arms
of sleep, but the latter repelled the drowsy god
from her eye-lids. When she heard the stage drive
-- 174 --
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up to the door of the inn, she hastily rose, and having
previously made up her bundle, without which
a lady never steals a march, hastened down stairs.
Upon the way she met the landlord, who enquired
if her husband was awake.
“He is not,” said the lady, “and need not be
disturbed.”
“The seat was taken for you, then,” enquired
the innkeeper.
“Certainly.”
“Oh, very well—we'll not disturb the gentleman—
the stage is ready, madam,—jump in.” Mrs.
Fitzconnell jumped in accordingly, and was soon
on her way to New York, leaving the gallant and
ingenious major to provide another conveyance,
and a new wife, at his leisure.
-- 175 -- p115-172
THE USEFUL MAN.
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
Jemmy Gossamer was the only son of a reputable
tradesman, who grew rich by his skill and industry
in his business, and who might, with propriety, be
said to have been a man of most excellent habits, for
he was an eminent tailor. Perhaps I should have
said a men's mercer, for it is a curious trait of human
nature, that even those who are not too proud to
labour, are often too vain to be called by their right
names. In our republican country, and in an age
when the operative classes are really achieving the
proudest triumphs which adorn the page of history,
it is singular to see the ambitious artifices, by which
common occupations are attempted to be concealed
under dignified names. Formerly, a shoemaker
was content to be called cobbler, but now he is
elevated into a cordwainer; a tinker is a tin-plate
worker; and one half the blacksmiths in the country
-- 176 --
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have the title of engineer. So let it be: a name
costs nothing, and does nobody any harm. But old
Gossamer was one of those who cared very little
what people called him, provided they called often,
and were punctual in the payment of their bills.
He sat on his shop-board from morning till night,
and worked like a man—or, more properly speaking,
like the ninth part of a man,—from the expiration
of his apprenticeship, to the age of sixty-five.
He grew rich apace; and with wealth came a train
of honours. He was made a bank director, a
member of the city councils, and president of a fire
company; but so far from being seduced by these
distinguished marks of public favour, he continued
to flourish his scissors to the last, with unwearied
assiduity, and with a humility which the brightest
smiles of fortune never for a moment subdued. He
seemed to have taken the measure of his own mind,
and to have cut his coat according to his cloth.
It is a curious law of nature, or of society, that a
father who reaps an abundant harvest of this world's
prosperity, by means of his own honest exertions,
is most usually very careful to prevent his son from
following his example. It is not uncommon to see
men spending long lives of usefulness and virtue,
to no other end than that of rearing their offspring
in the opposite vices. In the management of his
business, Mr. Gossamer never showed any want of
prudence or judgment; but was always as sharp as
a needle. The training of his son was another
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affair. He could never bring himself to the belief,
that his hopeful heir was cut out for a tailor; and as
the youth showed no genius for any other calling, he
wisely determined to breed him up a gentleman.
There is no character more eagerly coveted in our
simple republican land, than that of a gentleman.
An honest farmer, or a mechanic, will work harder
than a slave all his life, and deny himself a thousand
enjoyments, in order to have the gratification of
seeing his only son a gentleman. And what is a
gentleman? In this country, if he is not less, he is
certainly not more, than another. Gentility does
not endow any man with a new faculty, or an
exclusive privilege. A gentleman has all the wants,
frailties, appetites, vices, and passions of other men,
suffers under the same diseases, endures the same
misfortunes, and dies the same death. He has but
one life, but one vote; and cannot lawfully have but
one wife. He must eat and sleep, wear clothes, cut
off his beard, and take physic, as well as a clod-hopper.
In other countries a gentleman is supposed to
inherit, and transmit, a purer blood than that which
flows in the veins of his fellow creatures; and he
enjoys some privileges which amount to substantial
advantages. But, alas! where is the man in our
land—yea, even the proudest and most aristocratic,
who can look back upon his ancestry, without stumbling
upon a dingy blacksmith, a tricky pedlar,
or a fœtid apothecary; or can look forward to the
career of his offspring, without, in his brightest
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dreams, being forced to see some of them humbled
to the most plebeian occupations? To be a gentleman,
then, in the sense that we now use the word,
amounts to nothing more than to be idle, and the
title is a convenient one, to distinguish those who
have no occupation, from the useful classes of society.
It was so that Mr. Gossamer understood it.
Having laboured hard all his life, he imagined that
it would be a great privilege to live without work;
and as his son would have an ample fortune, he
determined that he should spend it as he pleased.
Jemmy was accordingly the best dressed youth
in the town. He soon became a leader of the fashions;
for whenever the old gentleman wished to
introduce a coat of a new cut, or to astonish the
sober natives with a flashy vest, he displayed the
first pattern upon the neatly turned person of his
favourite son, who was thus made to answer the
purpose of a walking advertisement. By this sagacious
process, two birds were killed with one stone;
the skill of the father was made manifest to the
public, while the son became the envy of all his
companions.
Mr. Gossamer was not unmindful of the advantages
of education, and was determined to procure
for the hopeful youth who was to inherit his fortune,
all the learning that money could buy. But that
sprightly young gentleman soon discovered that
schools and colleges were no places for him. Among
modern innovations, that of writing the word “
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
usefulness” over all the doors of science and literature,
is one of the most conspicuous. Our hero soon
discovered that learning was not considered as a
polite accomplishment, but as an acquisition which
was to qualify a man for the business of life. He was
continually reminded of the practical value of
different branches of knowledge, and of their connection
with the occupations of men. The truth
of course flashed upon his mind, with all the force
of a syllogism—or, as his worthy progenitor would
have expressed it, it was just as plain as the button
on a man's coat—that learning was not necessary
for a gentleman. The words “practical,” “business,”
“usefulness,” and the like, were associated
in his mind with yard-sticks, paper measures, lumps
of wax, dirty fingers, and other concomitants of the
shop; and as he had wisely kept aloof from the
latter, he was not aware of having any interest in
the former. It followed that useful knowledge
would be superfluous to him, who was not intended
for an useful man, but a gentleman. The schools
were abandoned, or only attended occasionally as
a matter of form; his chief occupations were dressing,
lounging in Chesnut street, playing billiards,
and going to the theatre; and his studies were confined
to newspapers, play-bills, Byron's poems, and
Miss Fanny Wright's philosophy. Thus he grew
in years and in gentility, and at the age of twenty-one,
was thoroughly convinced that the highest dignity
of man consisted in being fashionably clad, and
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the highest enjoyment of life in spending money.
About this time, the elder Mr. Gossamer, having
snapped the thread of life, was gathered to his
fathers, leaving his remnants to our hero.
The propitious hour was now arrived, when our
hero was to reap the harvest he had so long anticipated,
and for which his father had toiled through
half a century. He was now lord of himself, and
master of an ample fortune, and he expected forthwith
to take his station among the A—'s and the
B—s, and the C—s who were considered as
tip-top people. But the A—s, the B—s, and
the C—s had never heard of him, and to Jemmy's
perfect astonishment, his father's death neither
increased his dignity, nor enlarged the circle of his
acquaintance. He tried to force his way into that
society in which he longed to move, but was
repulsed with the gentle hint, that he was not consiered
as a gentleman! Highly indignant at what he
considered an unmerited aspersion upon his birth
and breeding, he resolved upon the usual expedient
in such cases—that of purchasing, by dint of wealth,
admission into those circles from which he was
excluded by his manners and education. He determined
to marry, and set up a fine establishment.
But, alas! what varied disappointments lie in wait
for the aspirants after worldly honours! One lady
refused him because he was a fop, another because
he was illiterate and vulgar, a third sneeringly
offered him the ninth part of her heart, and all
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agreed that he was not a gentleman. “Not a gentleman!”
exclaimed Jemmy, “that's a good one!
I wonder what I am, if I'm not a gentleman? I'm
not a practical man, nor a mechanic, nor an operative,
nor one of those useful men that they make
such a fuss about. I am not a philosopher, nor a
scholar; no, nor a doctor, nor a lawyer—of course,
I must be a gentleman. I have plenty of money,
and nothing to do; and I take it I dress as well as
any body. I must be something, and I dont know
what I can be, unless I am a gentleman!” He
applied to a friend for advice as to the best method
of asserting his gentility.
“Write a book,” said his friend, “authorship has
got to be a very genteel calling.”
“I can't go that—my genius doesn't lie that way.”
“My dear fellow, that is all a mistake; it requires
no genius to make a book, as books are now made.
It only requires industry, a steady hand, and a sharp
pair of scissors.”
“That may be very true,” replied our hero,
“but industry is not a gentlemanly virtue; and as
for a pair of scissors, I am surprised that you would
mention so vulgar an instrument; I abominate the
very name.”
“Oh! I beg pardon; well, there is another plan;
suppose you fight a duel.”
“Don't mention it, my dear fellow. I have not
nerves for that. Besides, I might be killed, and
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then I should not be a gentleman, but only an
`unhandsome corpse.' No, I can't go that.”
“You must travel, then.”
“Travel! eh! where?”
“Any where you please; to the West, for instance.”
“West; what, out Chesnut street? over Schuylkill?”
“Aye, over Schuylkill and Susquehanna, over the
Ohio and Mississippi.”
“Well, I like that! agreed! will you go? Come,
let's be off; I want to be back by Monday, to Cooper's
benefit.”
His friend walked off, laughing; but our hero
was not to be balked in his newly awakened ambition,
and having made up his mind to travel West,
and learnt that he could not possibly “be back by
Monday,” he very considerately determined to
wait until after that day. Having made all the necessary
enquiries and preparations, he resolutely
took his seat in the stage, and commenced his
journey.
Had it been a dozen years ago, he would have
found few turnpikes, and those wretchedly bad; for
nobody had yet found out that it was unlawful to
make them. Every rock in the Alleghany ridge
might have been broken to atoms, and every prominent
feature in the face of the country amputated,
without the slightest injury to the Constitution.
Indeed, most people would have thought it a
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wholesome operation. Be that as it may, the roads were
not made, nor, until very recently, did any body
seem to care about them. The politicians, after
all, are the men to do business; they are the “great
magicians” who set every thing going. No sooner
did they take the matter up, than not only all the
land, and the rivers, but even public sentiment,
began to be McAdamised; and while one side
denounced turnpikes as the roads to national ruin,
and another extolled the making of them as the
greatest of virtues, the people proceeded vehemently
to that proof of the pudding, which the good old
maxim pronounces the best. Notwithstanding all
this, our hero soon discovered, that, even in these
days of improvement, a journey from the Atlantic
to the western country, is an adventure of no small
magnitude. As there is ever something in the way,
to retard our most innocent undertakings, so here
are piles of hideous mountains, heaped up one upon
another, until the highest not only intercepts the
poor earthly traveller, but forces even the clouds,
as they roll through the air, to turn aside, or to
crawl heavily up the mountain to its summit. There
is something sublime, and even consoling, in this
idea; and as the traveller winds his toilsome way
up the mountain path, it is quite comfortable to
reflect that thunder-gusts, as well as stage-coaches,
must submit to be impeded by these tremendous
barriers. As for Jemmy Gossamer, he thought
nothing about it, but drew his travelling cap over
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his eyes, and slept the more soundly as the carriage
proceeded with less rapidity. One fact, however,
in natural philosophy, he learned among the cliffs
of the Alleghany ridge, as it was too obvious to
escape even the notice of a gentleman, namely,
that the world is not round like an apple, as he had
been taught to believe, but as angular as a brickbat.
From Pittsburgh our traveller proceeded very
comfortably, in a fine steamboat, to St. Louis,
meeting with no adventures worthy of particular
notice. He had previously sent to this place, by
way of New Orleans, a very elegant dearborn carriage,
which he properly imagined would carry his
trunks, wardrobe, &c. and enable him at all times
to appear like a gentleman. To this he now prefixed
a fine horse, by means of a dashing set of plated
harness, and thus equipped, he set forth one fine
summer morning upon his travels in Illinois. He
preferred this State, because he was told that the
prairies were level, and destitute of trees. “I like
that,” said he—“bad things, these trees—don't have
them in Chesnut street—city council had them all
cut down on account of the catterpillars—wonder
congress don't have the whole concern exterminated.”
Our traveller was now driving over beautiful
plains, in a thinly settled country, where his fine
dearborn and dandy coat begat no small degree of
wonderment among the natives. To the latter he
had resolved to be very civil and condescending,
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because he had heard that General Jackson, Mr.
Clay, and other great men, were remarkable for
their affable courtesy to the common people. As
he rode leisurely along, he met a countryman, with
a rïfle on his shoulder, who hailed him with, “How
are you, stranger?” at the same time stopping short,
as if to invite a tete-a-tete.
“I hope I see you well, sir,” returned Jemmy,
reining up his horse, smiling his prettiest smile, and
bowing his best bow.
“Travelling, stranger?” was the next question.
“Yes, sir, rusticating a little, as you may perceive.”
“Which way are you going? if it's a fair question.”
“Very fair—I'm bound north.”
“Going to settle?”
“Can't say that I am. Just taking a tour of pleasure
to recreate the body, and expand the mental
faculties.”
“What parts did you come from?”
“From Philadelphia.”
“How do you like that country?”
“Philadelphia is not a country, my good friend, it
is a city.”
“Oh! it is a city! Is it a good place to live?”
“Better than this, a plaguy sight.”
“Well, you don't say so! are the land thar, as
good as this here?”
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“Can't tell you—never saw any land in my life
till I left home.”
“Did you live in the water, if I mought be so
bold as to ax?”
“No, I lived in town.”
“Oh! you lived in town! likely, likely. What
do you follow for a living?”
“Sir, I follow my own inclinations—I'm a gentleman.”
“What might your name be?”
By this time Jemmy was growing impatient. He
gave his whip a flourish, and replied with a sneer,
“Why, it might be Julius Cæsar.
“Scissor!” exclaimed the hunter, slowly shouldering
his rifle and turning away, “mighty poor scissors,
too!” Jemmy cracked his whip, and dashed off
in a passion, while the backwoodsman, looking
drolly after him, muttered to himself, “Well if you
aint the poorest chance, for a live man, that ever I
saw, I'll agree to shoot nothing but a shot gun as
long as I live!”
Mr. Jemmy Gossamer had not proceeded very
far, when a jolly farmer, mounted on a sleek nag,
overtook him, and very pleasantly saluted him.
Jemmy bowed stiffly.
“Peddling, sir?” enquired the farmer.
“Do I look like a pedler?” exclaimed our hero,
in high dudgeon.
“I meant no offence, stranger; I thought, from
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the way you are fixed off, that you must have goods
to sell.”
“I would thank you, sir, to tell me what part of
my equipage resembles that of a pedler.”
“Well, stranger, I'd no notion of making you mad,
for a pedler's just as good as another man; but that
little carry-all that you ride in, favours the Yankee
wagons they drive, mightily. And then you tote
such a powerful heap of plunder, that I thought you
must have goods to sell.”
Our traveller drove along in no enviable state of
feelings, vexed at having his fine carriage denominated
a carry-all, mortally offended at hearing it compared
with a pedler's vehicle, and dreadful indignant
that he himself should be mistaken for a travelling
merchant. “Was it for this,” thought he, “that I
came all the way to Illinois? Shall I never be duly
appreciated? Has the whole world conspired to
deny me the homage due to my great wealth? Will
nobody recognise me as a gentleman?” Engaged
in such reflections, he jogged along for an hour or
two, when a young countryman, who was trudging
along, with a bundle at his back, very civilly asked
him to be kind enough to tell him the time of day.
Soothed by the respectful manner of this address,
he stopped, and drew forth his elegant gold repeater—
“just twelve.”
“Well, that are an elegant watch, I'll be consarned
if it aint! Would you trade her, stranger?”
“I don't trade in watches, my friend.”
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“Oh you don't! Have you any powder?”
“What sort of powder do you mean?”
“Well I'm not partic'lar what sort; either glazed
or rough will suit me, so it will shoot quick.”
“I don't carry gunpowder in my carriage.”
“That's a pity; you could trade a right smart of
it in these parts. Have you tobacco?”
“How do you dare to ask me such a question?”
roared our dandy, in violent indignation.
The young man looked at him in astonishment,
and calmly replied, “I'm as white a man as you
are. I'll ask what questions I please; if you don't
like it, you can go ahead with your little go-cart.”
Mr. Gossamer gave his horse a violent cut with
his long lash, and dashed off at a gallop, determined
to answer no more questions. But he was obliged
to stop at a cabin, to get a drink of water, and had
no sooner entered, than the good woman of the
house informed him that her “youngest datur was
powerful bad with the misery in her tooth,” and
enquired if “he had any camfire.”
“I am no physician, my good woman.”
“I did'nt reckon you was; you look too young
for a doctor. Do you carry the mail, young man?”
From this eventful day forward, he gave up all
hope of ever being received as a gentleman. He
turned his horse's head eastward, and never stopped
until he reached home,
“It won't all do,” said he to his friend, “I have
been taken for a pedler, for a travelling doctor, and
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for a mail carrier. I could not pass for a gentleman
in the wilds of the West, any more than in the circles
of Philadelphia. There is some secret in it
that I have not learned. One thing is certain, that
money will not make a gentleman.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“Oh, I cut the whole concern. I shall open the
old man's shop to-morrow, take in a partner who
can handle the shears, and become an operative.”
“What! not a tailor!”
“Yes I will—I will so—I'll be hanged if I don't!
I cannot be a gentleman—I must be something—I'll
be A USEFUL MAN.”
-- 190 -- p115-187
THE DENTIST.
[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]
I am not aware whether the following story has
been told before; nor is it any matter—if it has, my
relation of it will have the effect of corroborating
evidence, and if it has not, it will possess the merit
of novelty. The circumstance which led to a developement
of the whole affair, occurred in the
shop of a respectable milliner in the village of
R—. The worthy proprietor of this rural
emporium of fashions, a maiden lady of fifty, stood
behind the counter, as gay as a May morning, and
as neat as if she had just stepped out of one of her
own bandboxes. On the opposite side was a grave,
middle-aged gentleman, who might have been buying
a bonnet for his wife, or paying for finery for
his daughters. His countenance was shrewd,
though benevolent, and his appearance that of a
professional man who was thriving in his business.
-- 191 --
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He was about to leave the shop, when a young girl
who stepped in attracted his attention, and without
seeming to notice her, he lingered, leaning upon
the counter, and apparently absorbed in reading a
newspaper. She was delivering some beautiful
specimens of needle-work. While the milliner examined
the patterns, the gentleman stood in a
situation to have a full view of the face of the fair
stranger, and was struck with its extraordinary
beauty. Not only were the features and expression
pleasing, and the complexion fine, but the rich glow
of the cheek, the softness and intelligence of the
clear blue eye, and the youthful brilliancy of the
whole countenance, pointed out this young female
as the possessor of more than ordinary attractions.
But he was most surprised at the evidence of extreme
poverty exhibited in the transaction before
him. She was disposing of work, for a mere pittance,
which must have cost her immense labour,
and which showed accomplishments, such as the
“labouring poor” do not ordinarily possess. Her
own dress, though perfectly neat, and managed with
care, was worn and faded, and entirely destitute
of ornament. Every indication, except such as her
face and form afforded, announced her to belong
to the humblest rank of life, and to be then enduring
the extreme of poverty. But what most particularly
attracted his attention were her fine teeth,
the most beautiful he had ever seen; her coral lips,
and a smile so engaging as even to give dignity and
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sweetness to the petty transaction, in which she
seemed to be so unsuitably employed.
The stranger, who evidently had some purpose
in view in thus watching the motions of the young
girl, seemed to be much embarrassed, and as she
lightly tripped away, after disposing of her wares, it
was with an air of respect, and some hesitation,
that he followed her to the door and gently laid his
finger on her shoulder. She turned hastily, and
slightly curtesied; a blush suffused her cheek, but
her calm eye met that of the stranger, with a glance
that announced the self-possession of one accustomed
to the world. He paused, as if uncertain whether
to proceed; but he was a man not easily to be
baulked, and assuming a familiar tone, which his
own age, and the youth, as well as the extreme
indigence, of the person before him, seemed to
justify, said,
“My pretty girl, have you nothing more to sell?”
“Nothing more, sir.”
“You do not know how rich you are,” continued
the stranger, “let me make your fortune by purchasing
some of your teeth.”
The young female recollected that her dress was
of the coarsest kind; yet she felt offended at the
familiarity of the stranger's manner, as well as at a
proposition which seemed to be intended as an unfeeling
jest, and was about to pass on, when the
stranger added,—
-- 193 --
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“I am quite in earnest, and would most gladly
be the purchaser.”
“Indeed!” replied the girl, “I cannot imagine,
sir, why you should wish to purchase my teeth.”
“If I am willing to give you your own price,”
said the stranger, very good humouredly, “it is not
important for you to know my reasons.”
The girl looked in the man's face, astonished at
the oddness of his proposal. He was a person of
respectable appearance, whose prepossessing countenance
seemed to assure her, that he would not
sport with the feelings of the unfortunate.
“I am in very serious earnest,” he repeated, “for
two of your lower fore-teeth, I will give you a price
far beyond their actual value.”
“That you are not jesting I am bound to believe,”
replied the girl, “since you say so; I am
only surprised at the novelty of the offer.”
“Perhaps you think it would be more natural to
dispose of the whole set together, with yourself in
the bargain,” said the stranger, jokingly.
To his surprise, the young female made no reply;
her unaltered features and calm eye seemed to say
that she did not consider herself the fit subject of a
jest, and had no reply to make to such ill-timed
pleasantry.
The stranger saw his mistake, and regretted his
unintentional rudeness. He had touched the feelings
of a sensitive heart. “Pardon me,” said he,
“I meant no offence. To convince you of my
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sincerity, I will tell you why I wish to make this purchase.
I am a dentist, and reside in a neighbouring
town. A patient of mine, a lady who is wealthy
and handsome, but not quite so young as you are,
has had the misfortune to lose two of her fore-teeth.
She is inconsolable, and will not agree to
have them replaced, except from the mouth of a
young, healthy, handsome girl. Such are my instructions.
None but the most beautiful teeth will
be accepted. Yours are just the thing, and I am
authorised to offer you five hundred dollars for two
such as I shall select.” The young female's surprise
had kept her silent when she first heard this
singular proposal; she smiled when it was seriously
persisted in; but at last, when the possibility that
she might accept it occurred to her, a cold chill ran
through her frame, and pointing out her door to the
dentist, she requested him to call upon her in half an
hour, and hastily retired.
As the reader feels, no doubt, a laudable curiosity
to be introduced to all the persons concerned in
the interesting catastrophe which is to follow, I
shall now present them separately to his notice.
The first in point of importance, is a certain Mrs.
Flowerby, who, when I can first recollect her, was
a middle-aged widow lady, but who would have been
very much offended to have had that description
applied to her, even twenty years afterwards. She
had been—some time or other, but I know not when—
thought very handsome; and she thought herself
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quite as beautiful as ever. She had a fine walk, a
stately air, and dressed in the extreme of every
fashion. We used to call her Madame Flowerby,
and the boys sometimes nicknamed her “my lady”—
epithets which incensed her greatly, inasmuch as
she supposed that they had some allusion to her
age, when in fact they were given in reference to
her pride. Had she known this, it would have
satisfied her; because, although people are ashamed
of being old, few think it a disgrace to be proud
or childish. The fact is, that Mrs. Flowerby was
really a very genteel, and a very respectable woman,
to look at—but not for any other purpose; for she
was not overstocked with either good sense or good
nature, nor do I know of a single valuable quality
that she had, except to dress remarkably well, and
to give famous parties. I shall never forget how
she used to toss her head when she came in contact
with vulgar people, by which she meant every
body that did not visit at her house; nor how
sweetly she smiled upon those who approached her
with proper respect, and under a due sense of her
superior perfections. One of the best things she
had was a fine set of teeth, and of all her possessions
there was nothing upon which she placed so
proper an estimate; every body admired her teeth,
and she not only admired them herself, but, with a
laudable public spirit, displayed them to the world
upon all occasions. It is not to be wondered at,
therefore, that when two of those teeth, occupying
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a conspicuous post in the front, just between Mrs.
Flowerby's ruby lips, and in the very centre of her
smile, were accidentally destroyed, she was inconsolable.
After mourning over her misfortune for
several days, she bethought herself of an expert
dentist in the neighbourhood, who had recently
acquired celebrity by his success in his vocation.
The dentist displayed before her a number of the
best shaped and whitest substitutes in his possession.
“There, madam, is a beautiful one; it is ivory,
but I cannot vouch that it will retain its colour.”
“That will never do, then; the colour must be
exact. I would not be detected in this matter for
the world.”
“It would certainly be very unpleasant.”
“Oh, shocking! I had rather have any thing else
said of me, than that I showed false teeth. My poor
dear teeth! they were so beautiful!”
“There are some handsome ones, ma'am, and
their brilliancy will stand the touch of time. Nothing
can be more natural.”
“Oh! these are beauties! what are they made of?”
“Of the tooth of a hippopotamus.”
“Of a hippo—what did you say, sir!”
“The hippopotamus, ma'am; a great sea monster.”
“Oh, horrible! do you suppose, sir, that I would
ever have in my mouth the fang of a terrible sea
monster, that had crushed shoals of raw, live fish,
in his voracious jaw!”
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“Here, ma'am,” continued the dentist, very coolly
handing over another pair, “are two of the handsomest
I have ever seen. Your own were scarcely
more beautiful.”
“These are darlings, indeed! so delicate! of such
exquisite whiteness! What are these made of?”
“They are real; I took them from the mouth of
a negro boy.”
“Oh, you inhuman creature! to think of putting
the teeth of a negro into the mouth of a lady—that
is worse than the hippo—the dreadful sea monster
you spoke of.”
“Then, ma'am, I know not how to please you.”
“Sir, I must be pleased! I ask no favours. I am
able to pay for what I set my heart upon.”
So they went on; until the conference ended in
the lady's issuing the instructions, which we have
already heard announced from the lips of the dentist.
Our next portrait shall be that of the heroine.
But a few months had passed away, since the
brightest star in our constellation of village beauty
was Louisa Hutchinson. Her form was fine, and
no one ever beheld her face without being struck
with its beauty. The grace and loveliness of her
appearance were exquisite. The blended dignity
and sweetness of her manner were unrivalled. Her
mind was vigorous and sprightly, her wit playful,
and her conversation highly attractive. Above all
there was a joyousness, an air of chaste hilarity,
that was particularly engaging, and won the
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[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
involuntary homage of all who approached her. She
was joy personified. To behold her smile, and not
to feel its power, was impossible. Her eye, her
cheek, her lip, all smiled in unison, as if the stream
of intellectual gladness overflowed its fountain, and
beamed from every feature. Do I dream when I
paint her thus? Far from it. Such was Louisa
when I knew her first; when her voice was music,
and her touch enchantment; when she was the luminary
about whom all lesser lights revolved; when
she warmed and animated all. She was the Belle.
To admire her was the criterion of taste; to follow,
to love, to pay her homage, was the common fate of
the village youth; and no one was properly graduated
in the school of fashion, who had not duly
enrolled himself among the number who were
vanquished by her fascinations. If such was the
beautiful reality, as pictured to the eye of an unim-passioned
observer, who shall describe the lovely
vision that was imprinted on the heart of a devoted
and favoured lover? No tongue can speak, nor
does it enter into the heart of man to conceive—
unless he be an accepted lover—how the soul
clings, and doats, and revels in such a passion, for so
bright an object! Not every heart has the capacity
to enjoy such a fulness of bliss. There was one who
did feel, and was worthy to enjoy it, and of him we
shall speak hereafter.
Louisa had lost her mother, and her father was
old. He had been in good circumstances; but age
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and misfortune had combined to reduce him to the
most hopeless poverty. His exact situation was for
a long while concealed from the public. Few were
acquainted with the true situation of his affairs. He
had retired from business, had no visible income,
and was too infirm to make any personal exertions
to support his family. Yet there was a decent appearance
of comfort about his little mansion, which
precluded the idea of absolute want. Louisa was
always plainly, but neatly attired; and so much did
the simple style of her dress add to her native
graces, that many who knew the delicacy of her
taste supposed that she had adopted this mode of
dress from choice, and even from a refinement of
coquetry. Her little parlour was the scene of cheerfulness.
By and by things began to change; one
article of furniture after another disappeared;
Louisa joined the parties of her companions less
frequently; and those who called, were often refused
admittance, under the pleas that Miss Hutchinson
was engaged, or indisposed. At last, her only
servant was dismissed, and the truth was no longer
dissembled, that Louisa was not only the nurse of
her aged parent, but laboured night and day to procure
for him the common necessaries of life. She
was not ashamed of these employments, nor did
any think them disgraceful; on the contrary, the
number of her friends and admirers increased with
this new display of the loveliness of her character.
She continued to be the queen of hearts, the
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[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
ornament and pride of the village. Happily there is, as
yet, in our country, but little of the miserable pride
of aristocracy; and an accomplished woman is not
spurned from society, because necessity obliges her
to become an active agent in the business of life,
and the pride and stay of those who depend on her
exertions. Many of Louisa's friends kindly offered
their assistance; and her young companions would
often aid her in the needle work by which she
gained a livelihood. It is even asserted, by those
who pretend to know all about such matters, that
her opportunities for entering into the blessed state
of matrimony increased with her misfortunes, and
that there was no day in her life, in which the
proudest youth in the town would not have been
happy to lead her to the altar. But her heart was
pledged, and she was of too noble a nature to purchase
affluence by the sacrifice of its best affections.
The supplies of friendship were scanty, and soon
exhausted. Charity, in its best form, affords but a
miserable relief. Its fountains are meagre and unsteady.
Under its kindest aspect it brings a distressing
sense of dependence. Louisa's father was
a weak and a proud man, in whose mind the decrepitude
of age had destroyed all the firmness of
manhood, while its foibles remained unchanged.
She refused, therefore, the assistance of some from
delicacy, and of others from the fear of offending her
father; some of her friends married, and left the
village; others became reduced like herself, until at
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[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
last her solitary hours were spent alone, and her
table supported solely by the labour of her own
hands. She had one friend, who forsook her not:
she had a conscience void of offence, a meek and
firm reliance in the Redeemer, and an unshaken
faith, that He who tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb, would not forsake the orphan girl who
watched over the bed of a dying parent.
Louisa had an accepted lover, who was worthy
of her affection; but he knew little of the real state
of her affairs. He was aware that her father was
poor, but not that he was in want. He well knew
that she had nothing to bestow but herself. He
had been absent from the village for several years,
in the service of a merchant, at a distant city, and
only saw Louisa in the short visits that he was occasionally
allowed to make. He, too, was indigent,
and their marriage depended on the contingency of
his becoming established in business. This was
another motive inducing Louisa to withdraw from
public notice, to conceal her extreme penury, and
to reject, rather than solicit, assistance. She was
unwilling that her lover should know that she was
labouring for a subsistence; not because she feared
that it would degrade her in his eyes, for she knew
that he had too much good sense to indulge such
feelings; but she could not consent to wound his
sensibility, or to place him and herself in so awkward
a situation as a knowledge of these facts would
have imposed.
-- 202 --
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Mr. Hutchinson became seriously ill. So long as
he had laboured only under the ordinary weakness
of old age, she could sit by him and work; but now
he was confined to bed, and her whole time was
consumed in the necessary care of the invalid. A
physician was called in; wine and other expensive
articles had to be purchased; poor Louisa found
herself surrounded by wants and difficulties too
great for all her exertions; and her courage began
to sink, when her parent asked for refreshments
which she could not give him, and, in the petulance
of dotage, reproached her for negligence of his wants.
Still, although a tear sometimes stole down her
cheek, her step was firm, and her face serene; she
uttered no complaint, but bent her knee in prayer,
bowed her heart in submission, and felt that peace
which the world cannot give nor take away.
Such was her situation, when she had gone to
the milliner, as she feared, for the last time; for
she knew not how to get materials, or to find time,
for a new effort. When she returned home, she
retired to her own room, and sunk down in an agony
of grief. The gradual but heavy pressure of poverty,
the long days of labour and the long nights of
watching, the solicitude of filial affection, the pang
of “hope deferred,” and all her other afflictions,
she had borne with a woman's fortitude, for they
were woman's peculiar trials, and thousands of her
sex have borne them without a murmur. But when
relief, and even affluence, appeared within her
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grasp, on the one hand, and the sacrifice by which
that relief was to be purchased, presented itself on
the other, all her sensibilities were at once awakened.
Her beauty had been that possession which
the world had most admired; it had procured her
homage and adulation, and given her the sway of all
the hearts around her. Had she not prized it herself,
she would have been more, or less, than human.
She thought of him who had garnered up his hopes
in her affection; she knew not what portion of
the devoted and faithful love of Edward Linton she
owed to her personal charms, nor how that affection
might change, could he behold her disfigured, and
shorn of her beauty. She thought of her suffering
parent, and, with that courage which had heretofore
marked all her conduct, determined on the
sacrifice.
At the expiration of the half hour, the dentist
repaired to the miserable abode of the unhappy
girl. It was small, but had once been a comfortable
residence; it was now dilapidated and disfurnished.
Louisa received him with calm politeness,
and directed him to proceed at once to the operation.
He paused, and then slowly counted down
the stipulated sum. Finding that no objection was
made, he proceeded to extract two of her finest
teeth, and then withdrew. Louia's first emotion
was thankfulness for the seasonable relief, and joy
and pride that she could now soothe the dying pillow
of a parent. For the present, her cares admitted
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no other thought. Her father was rapidly declining.
As he summoned his strength for the last struggle,
he seemed to be favoured with that strong gleam
of intellectual light, which sometimes glows over
the departing soul, as the beams of the setting sun
burst forth before the evening closes. He felt and
acknowledged the sacrifices and cares of his daughter,
thanked and blessed her for all her kindness,
and breathed his last in peace of mind.
We have explained how Louisa became gradually
estranged from her friends, and left to struggle
alone against her afflictions. The news of her father's
death drew her former acquaintances to the
house of sorrow, and they were shocked at the full
discovery of her situation and sufferings. Every
office of kindness was cheerfully performed; Louisa
was taken to the house of a friend, where, sustained
no longer by those feelings which had heretofore
supported her, she sunk under a violent attack of
fever. In her dreams of delirium she thought only
of Edward Linton, her impassionate admirer, whose
love had been her pride, and whose constancy had
formed one of her greatest consolations. Her diseased
imagination pictured him ripened into maturer
manhood, risen from indigence to prosperity,
and grown callous to the love of his youth. As she
slowly regained her health, and vigour of mind, this
fearful dream still preyed upon her spirits; and when
she contemplated her faded features, and the sad
ravages made in her beauty, by the sacrifice she
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had so nobly made to filial duty, her pride induced
her to determine to release him from his engagements.
She wrote him a feeling and delicate letter,
in which, after alluding to the recent loss of
her parent, she assured him that her own circumstances
were so changed as to render their union
impossible, conjuring him neither to answer her
letter, nor to seek an interview which could only
be painful to both. Thus was a noble minded girl,
whose whole life had been a continual sacrifice of
feeling to duty, misled, by the pride of beauty, into
an act which she believed to be disinterested, but
which in truth was unjust.
Edward was a man of strong mind, and generous
feelings. His first impulse was to hasten to
Louisa, for his heart was wrung, and his long cheished
hopes blasted, by her letter. But he, too, was
proud and acted on the same principle which had
governed her. He was poor, and she was, as he
supposed, still the pride of the village. He had
nothing to offer but himself, while her charms might
enable her to match herself with the wealthiest, or
the most honourable. Had he been rich, he would
have eagerly sought an explanation, but poor as he
was, he only wept over Louisa's letter, and determined
to submit. In another week he was on his
way to Europe, as supercargo of a fine ship. His
voyage was quick and prosperous. The war between
Great Britain and the United States, which
-- 206 --
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broke out after he sailed, enabled him to sell his
cargo at an advance far beyond the most sanguine
hopes of his owners. His homeward voyage was
short, and already the shores of his native land were
in sight, when he was captured by a British cruiser.
A prize master was placed on board, and the ship
ordered to Halifax. Three days after, by a bold
and well-concerted plan, he rose with his own men
upon the prize crew, obtained the mastery over
them, and carried the ship safely into New York.
His good conduct was munificently rewarded by
the owners, and he found himself in easy circumstances.
Two years after wards, as Dr. Nippers, the dentist,
sat one pleasant evening at his door, patting the
curly head of a little urchin who climbed on his
knee, a handsome carriage drove up, and a lady,
richly, but not gaudily dressed, alighted. She was
shown in due form into the doctor's study, the operating
chair was wheeled out into the middle of
the floor, and the worthy dentist stood ready to obey
the commands of his fair visiter, whose surpassing
beauty and graceful carriage struck him with the
same awe which would have been produced by the
advent of a supernatural being.
“Have I the pleasure of seeing Dr. Nippers?”
enquired the lady.
“That is my name, ma'am, at your service,” replied
the dentist, bowing obsequiously, but so awkwardly
as to upset a half a dozen phials.
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“I have heard much of your great skill as a dentist.”
“My fame, ma'am,” rejoined the dentist, modestly,
“is perhaps greater than my merits; though I
flatter myself that I have been of some service to
the afflicted, in my line.”
“Do you recollect having purchased a pair of
teeth from a poor girl, a few years ago, for a large
sum of money?”
“Oh, very well, very well—that affair has been
on my conscience ever since. The poor girl was
suffering under some strange affliction, and I have a
thousand times reflected on myself, for not giving
her the money, and putting a couple of shark's fangs
in old Madame Flowerby's mouth. Poor thing!
I fear the loss of her teeth unsettled her intellects.”
“Why do you think so?”
“She shortly after left the village very suddenly,
and I then learned to my sorrow, that instead of
practising upon an humble girl, to whom the money
would have been a sufficient compensation, I had
by mistake robbed an accomplished young lady of
one of her chief ornaments. Some time after, I heard
that she was teaching a school in —; there I
followed her determined to make all the reparation
in my power. But the very day before I arrived
there, a young gentleman came and carried her
off—”
“And married her in spite of her teeth?” enquired
the lady, archly.
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“I suppose so,” replied the good dentist, too unsuspicious
in his nature to recognise the victim of
his pullikens in the lady before him.
“I am that lady,” rejoined his visiter, “and I
have come to restore your money, and to beg you
to replace my teeth.”
“Most cheerfully! here they are, the identical
teeth. Madame Flowerby changed her mind about
them ten times in one week—in the next week she
died. I kept them as models, and beautiful ones
they are.”
The lady then rose, and after informing him
where she lodged, desired him to call the next day
and inquire for Mrs. Linton.
-- 209 -- p115-206
THE BACHELORS' ELYSIUM.
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I passed an evening lately in company with a
number of young persons, who had met together for
the laudable purpose of spending a merry Christmas;
and as mirth exercises a prescriptive right of sovereignty
at this good old festival, every one came
prepared to pay due homage to that pleasant deity.
The party was opened with all the usual ceremonies;
the tea was sipped, the cakes praised, and Sir
Walter Scott's last novel criticised; and such was
the good humour which prevailed, that although
our fair hostess threw an extra portion of bohea
into her tea-pot, not a breath of scandal floated
among the vapours of that delightful beverage. An
aged gentleman who happened to drop in, at first
claimed the privilege, as “an old Revolutioner,” of
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monopolizing the conversation, and entertained us
with facetious tales, told the fiftieth time, of Tarleton's
trumpeter, General Washington's white horse,
and Governor Mifflin's cocked hat, with occasional
pathetic digressions relating to bear-fights and Indian
massacres. The honest veteran, however, who was
accustomed to retire after smoking one pipe, soon
grew drowsy, and a similar affection, by sympathy
I suppose, began to circulate among his audience,
when our spirits received a new impulse from an
accidental turn of the conversation from three cornered
hats and horses, to courtship and marriage.
The relative advantages of married life and celibacy
were discussed with great vivacity, and as there
were a number of old bachelors and antiquated
maidens present, who had thought deeply and feelingly
on the subject, and were, therefore, able to
discuss it with singular felicity, the ladies' side of the
question had greatly the advantage. A gentleman,
who had reluctantly left the card-table to join the
ladies, gave his opinion that life was like a game of
cards—a good player was often eucred by a bad
partner—he thought it wise, therefore, to play alone.
“Perhaps,” said a fair miss, “a good partner might
assist you.” “Thank you, madam,” said he “courting
a wife is nothing more than cutting for partners;
no one knows what card he may turn.” My friend
Absolom Squaretoes gravely assured us that he had
pondered on this subject long and deeply, and it
had caused him more perplexity than the banking
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system, or the Missouri question; that there were
several ladies whom he might have had, and whom,
at one time or another, he had determined to marry,
“but,” continued he, arching his eyebrows with a
dignity which the great Fadladeen might have
envied, “the more I hesitated, the less inclination I
felt to try the experiment, and I am now convinced
that marriage is not the thing it is cracked up to be!”
Miss Tabitha Scruple, a blooming maid of three
score, confessed that for her part, she was very
much of Mr. Squaretoes' opinion—it was well
enough for honest pains-taking people to get married,
but she could not see how persons of sentiment
could submit to it—“unless indeed,” she admitted,
“congenial souls could meet, and, without mercenary
views, join in the tender bond—but men are
so deceitful, one runs a great risk, you know!”
Mr. Smoothtongue, the lawyer, who had waited
to hear every other opinion before he gave his own,
now rose, and informed the company that he would
conclude the case, by stating a few points, which
had occurred to him in the course of the argument.
He began by informing us the question was one of
great importance, and that much might be said on
both sides—(“Twig the lawyer,” said Squaretoes.)
He said that so great a man as Lord Burleigh, treasurer
to Queen Elizabeth, had written ten rules of
conduct, which he charged his son to observe and
keep next to the ten laws of Moses, and that the
very first of them related to the choice of a wife.
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He pointed out all the unfortunate husbands mentioned
in history, from Adam down to George the
Fourth, and after detailing the relative duties of
baron and feme, as laid down in Blackstone, concluded
with sundry extracts from Pope, whose
works he declared he set more store to than those of
any writer in the English language, except Mr.
Chitty. He was interrupted by a young lady, who
declared that Pope was a nasty censorious old
bachelor—so he was. The lawyer replied, that as
Mr. Pope's general character was not implicated in
the present question, it could not be properly
attacked, nor was he called on to defend it—and
that, as long as his veracity was unimpeached, his
testimony must be believed, which he offered to
prove from “Peake's Evidence,” if the lady desired
him to produce authority. The lady assured him
that she was greatly edified by his exposition of the
law, and had no desire to see the books—but confessed
that though she admired his speech very
much, she was still at a loss to know which side he
was on. “Madam,” said he, with great gravity, “I
admire marriage as a most excellent civil institution,
but have no inclination to engage in it, as I can
never consent to tie a knot with my tongue which I
cannot untie with my teeth.”
These opinions coming from such high authority,
seemed to settle the controversy, and the question
was about to be carried nem. con. in favour of celibacy,
when an unlucky miss, whose cheeks, and
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lips, and teeth, reminded one of pearls, and cherries,
and peaches, while all the loves and graces laughed
in her eyes, uttered something in a loud whisper
about “sour grapes,” which created a sensation
among a certain part of the company, of which you
can form no adequate idea, unless you have witnessed
the commotions of a bee hive. I now began
to be seriously afraid that our Christmas gambols
would eventuate in a tragical catastrophe—and
anticipating nothing less than a general pulling of
caps, was meditating on the propriety of saving my
own curly locks, by a precipitate retreat. Fortunately,
however, another speaker had taken the
floor, and before any open hostilities were committed,
drew the attention of the belligerents, by a
vivid description of Fiddler's Green. This, he assured
us, was a residence prepared in the other
world for maids and bachelors, where they were
condemned as a punishment for their lack of good
fellowship in this world, to dance together to all
eternity. Here was a new field for speculation. A
variety of opinions were hazarded; but as the
ladies all talked together, I was unable to collect
the half of them. Some appeared to regard such a
place as a paradise, while others seemed to consider
it as a pandemonium. The ladies desired to know
whether they would be provided with good music
and good partners; and I could overhear some of
the gentlemen calculating the chances of a snug
loo-party, in a back room. On these points our
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informant was unable to throw any light. The
general impression seemed to be that the managers
of this everlasting ball would couple off the company
by lot, and that no appeal could be had from
their decision. Miss Scruple declared that she
had a mortal aversion to dancing, though she would
not object to leading off a set occasionally with
particular persons, and that she would rather be
married half a dozen times, than be forced to jig
it with any body and every body. Mr. Skinflint
thought so long a siege of capering would be rather
expensive on pumps, and wished to know who was
to suffer. Mr. Squaretoes had no notion of using
pumps, he thought moccasins would do; he was
for cheap fixings and strong. Miss Fanny Flirt was
delighted with the whole plan, provided they could
change partners; for she could imagine no punishment
more cruel than to be confined for ever to a
single beau. Mr. Goosy thought it would be expedient
for to secure partners in time, and begged
Miss Demure to favour him with her hand for an
etarnal reel. Little Sophy Sparkle, the cherry-lipped
belle, who had nearly been the instrument of
kindling a war as implacable as that of the Greeks
and Trojans, seemed to be afraid of again giving
offence; but, on being asked her opinion, declared
that it was the most charming scheme she ever
heard, and that she would dance as long as she
could stand, with any body or nobody, rather than
not dance at all.
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During all this time I was lolling over the back
of a chair,—a lazy habit which with many others I
have caught since my third sweetheart turned me
off—and was rolling and twisting the pretty Sophy's
handkerchief—for I can't be idle—into every possible
form and shape. I was startled into consciousness
by the dulcet voice of my fair companion,
as she exclaimed, “La! Mr. Drywit, how melancholy
you are! how can you look so cross when every
body else is laughing? pray what do you think of
the grand ball at Fiddler's Green?” “I never
trouble myself, madam, to think about things which
do not concern me.” “Oh dear! then you have no
idea of going there?” “Not I indeed,—I go to no
such places.” “And not expecting to inhabit the
paradise of bachelors, it is a matter of indifference
to you how your friends enjoy themselves?” “No,
indeed: I sincerely hope that you may caper into
each other's good graces, and romp yourselves into
the best humour imaginable with the pains and
pleasures of `single blessedness;' as for my single
self I intend, unless some lady shall think proper to
stand in her own light, to alter my condition.”
Having uttered this heroic resolution, I made my
bow and retired. But the conversation of the evening
still haunted my imagination, and as I sunk to
sleep, General Washington's white horse, Sophy
Sparkle, and Fiddler's Green, alternately occupied
my brain, until the confused images settling into a
regular train of thought, produced the following
vision.
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I thought that the hour of my dissolution had
arrived, and I was about to take my departure to
the world of spirits. The solemnity of the event
which was taking place did not affect me however,
as it would have done, had the same circumstance
occurred in reality; for my mind was entirely filled
with the conversation of the previous evening, and
I thought, felt, and died like a true bachelor. As I
left the clay tenement which I had inhabited so
long, I could not avoid hovering over it for a moment,
to take a parting view of the temple which
had confined my restless spirit, and for which, I
must confess, I had a high respect. I could now
perceive that time had made ravages in the features
which had lately been mine, that I had not been
aware of while living, and that the frame which had
carried me through a stormy world, was somewhat
the worse for the wear, and I really felt a joy in
escaping from it, similar to the emotions with which
the mariner quits the shattered bark that has braved
the billows through a long voyage. Still, however,
I felt something like regret in quitting my ancient
habitation, and was beginning to recall to memory
the conquests I had made in it, and the sieges it had
withstood, when I was obliged to take my departure.
I had always thought that spirits flew out of
a window, or up the chimney, but I now found that
whatever might have been the practice of others,
mine was a ghost of too much politeness to withdraw
in this manner from a house in which I had
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[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
been only a boarder; and accordingly I walked deliberately
down stairs, and passed through the parlour,
where several of my female acquaintances
were talking of me. The curiosity which we have
all inherited from our first mother, would have induced
me to stop, had I not recollected that it
would be very ill bred in me to listen to the discourse
of those who were not aware of my presence,
and that, according to the old saw, “listeners
never hear any good of themselves.” I therefore
passed on, but could not avoid observing that the
current of opinion was rather in my favour, and that
those who allowed me no good quality while living,
now confessed that at least I had no harm in me.
As soon as I reached the open air, my spirit began
to ascend for some distance, and then floated rapidly
towards the north. It was a brilliant evening, and
as the stars shone with uncommon lustre, I could
not help fancying them the eyes of millions of beauties,
who, having made it their business to teaze the
beaux in this world, were doomed to light them to
the next.
I do not know how long I had been journeying,
when I discovered the sea beneath me, filled with
mountains of ice, and I perceived that I was rapidly
aproaching the north pole. I now congratulated
myself upon being able to determine, by actual observation,
whether the poles are flattened as some
philosophers imagine, together with other questions
of like importance to the happiness of mankind.
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But how great was my surprise when on arriving
at the place, I found that all the philosophers in
the world were mistaken, except Captain Symmes,
and discovered only a yawning cavern, into which
I was suddenly precipitated!
I now travelled for some distance in utter darkness,
and began to be very fearful of losing my way,
when I suddenly emerged into a new world, full of
beauty, melody, and brightness. I stood on the
brink of a small rivulet, and beheld before me an
extensive lawn, of the richest green, spangled with
millions of beautiful flowers. Clusters of trees and
vines were scattered in every direction, loaded with
delicious fruit. Birds of the loveliest plumage
floated in the air, and filled the groves with melody.
The garden of Eden, or the paradise of Mahomet,
could not be arrayed by a poetic fancy with half
the charms of this elysium.
While I stood enchanted with delight, a strain of
music stole along the air, resembling that which
proceeds from a number of violins, tambourines,
and triangles, and I was not a little surprised to recognise
the well known air of “O dear what can
the matter be!” At the same moment I perceived
a female figure advancing with a rapid motion, resembling
a hop, step and jump. I now cast a glance
over my own person, as a genteel spirit would naturally
do at the approach of a female, and discovered
for the first time, that although I had left my substance
in the other world, I was possessed of an
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airy form precisely similar to the one I had left
behind me, and was clad in the ghost of a suit of
clothes made after the newest fashion, which I had
purchased a few days before my death. I mechanically
raised my hand to adjust my cravat, but felt
nothing, and sighed to think that I was but the shadow
of a gentleman. As the figure came near, she
slackened her pace, and struck into a graceful
chasse forward, at the same time motioning me
to cross the rivulet, which I no sooner did than I
involuntarily fell to dancing with incredible agility.
The fair stranger was by this time close to me, and
we were setting to each other, as partners would do
in a cotillion, when she presented her right hand,
and turned me, as she welcomed me to Fiddler's
Green. I was now more astonished than ever, for
although when I took the lady's hand, I grasped nothing
but air—“thin air,” yet she spoke and acted
with precisely the grace, manner, and tone of a
modern fair belle. She was exceedingly happy to
see me at the Green—hoped I had left my friends
well—and desired to know how I had been for the
last twenty years—since she had seen me. I
assured the lady that she had the advantage of me—
that I was really so unfortunate as not to recollect
my having had the honour of her acquaintance, and
that I was totally ignorant of any thing that had occurred
twenty years ago, as that was before my time.
She told me that it was useless to attempt to conceal
my age, which was well known at the Green,
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[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
and equally unpolite to deny my old acquaintance.
Upon her mentioning her name, I recognised her
as a famous belle, who had died of a consumption
at the introduction of the fashion of short sleeves and
bare elbows. Having thus passed the compliments
of the morning, my fair companion desired to conduct
me to the principal manager of the Green, by
whom my right of admittance must be decided, and
offering both of her hands, whirled away in a waltz.
We soon came to a part of the lawn which was
crowded with company, all of whom were dancing,
and I was about to advise my conductress to take a
circuitous course, to avoid the throng, when she directed
me to cast off, and right and left through it,
a manœuvre which we performed with admirable
success. On our arrival at the bower of the principal
manager, the sentinels danced three times forward
and back, then crossed over, and admitted us
into the enclosure. My conductress now presented
me to an officer of the court, who, after cutting
a pigeon wing higher than my head, led me to his
superior. The manager was a tall, graceful person,
dressed in a full suit of black, with silk stockings,
shoes and buckles; an elegant dress sword glittered
by his side, but he wore his own hair, and carried a
chapeau de bras gracefully under his arm. He is
the only person in these regions who is permitted to
exercise his own taste in the ornaments of his person.
He was beating time with one foot, not being obliged,
like the others, to dance; I was informed,
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however, that he sometimes amused himself with a
minuet, that step being appropriated solely to the
managers, as the pigeon wing is to the officers of
inferior dignity. On such occasions, an appropriate
air is played, and the whole company are obliged to
dance minuets, to the great perplexity of those
ladies and gentlemen who have not studied the
graces in the upper world. He received me with a
polite bow, and desired me to amuse myself on the
Green for a few moments, as he was not then at
leisure to attend to me; by which I perceived that
dancing gentlemen are every where equally fond of
putting off business.
On my return to the plain, I was attracted by
the delicious appearance of the fine clusters of fruit
that hung from the trees, and reached my hand to
pluck a peach—but I grasped nothing! My fair
companion was again at my side, and condescended
to explain the mystery. “Every thing you see
here,” said she, “surprises you. You have yet to
learn that marriage is man's chief good, and they
who neglect it are sent here to be punished. In the
other world we had the substantial and virtuous enjoyments
of life before us, but we disregarded them,
and pursued phantoms of our own creation. One
sought wealth, and another honour; but the greater
number luxuriated in idle visions of fancy. We
were never happy but in imagining scenes of delight
too perfect for mortals to enjoy. The heart
and mind were left unoccupied, while we were
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taken up with frivolities which pleased the eye and
ear. In the affairs of love, we were particularly
remiss. Its fruits and flowers hung within our
reach, but we refused to pluck them. Ladies have
danced off their most tender lovers, and many a
gentleman has gambled away his mistress. The
flurry of dissipation and the soft emotions of affection
will not inhabit the same breast. We were to
choose between them, and we chose amiss—and
now behold the consequence! We are here surrounded
by fruits and flowers that we cannot touch—we
have listened to the same melody until it has become
tedious—we are confined to partners not of
our own choice—and the amusement which was
once our greatest delight is now a toil. When alive,
our fancies were busy in creating Elysian fields—
here we have an Elysium,—and we lead that life
which maids and bachelors delight in—a life of fiddling,
dancing, coquetry, and squabbling. We now
learn that they only are happy who are usefully
and virtuously employed.” This account of the
place which I was probably destined to inhabit,
was rather discouraging; but my attention was
soon drawn by fresh novelties. I was particularly
amused with the grotesque appearance of the various
groups around me. AS the persons who composed
them were from every age and nation, their
costumes exhibited every variety of fashion. The
Grecian robe, and the Roman toga, the monkish
cowl, and the monastic veil, and the blanket and
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feathers of the Indian, were mingled in ludicrous
contrast. Nor was the allotment of partners less
diverting. A gentleman in an embroidered suit led
off a beggar girl, while a broad-shoulderd mynheer
flirted with an Italian countess. But I was most
amused at seeing Queen Elizabeth dancing a jig
with a jolly cobbler, a person of great bonhommie,
but who failed not to apply the strap when his stately
partner moved with less agility than comported
with his notions. When she complained of his
cruelty, he reminded the hard-hearted Queen of her
cousin Mary, and Lord Essex. Several of her
maids of honour were dancing near her with catholic
priests, and I could perceive that the latter took
great delight in jostling the royal lady, whenever an
opportunity offered. My attention was withdrawn
from the dancers by the approach of a newly deceased
bachelor, whose appearance excited universal
attention. He was a tall, gaunt, hard featured
personage, whose beard had evidently not known
the discipline of a razor for a month before his decease.
His feet were cased in moccasins, and his
limbs in rude vestments of buckskin; a powderhorn
and pouch were suspended from his shoulders,
and a huge knife rested in his girdle. I knew him
at once to be a hunter who had been chasing deer in
the woods, when he ought to have been pursuing
dears of another description. I determined to have
a little chat with him; and approaching, asked him
how he liked Fiddler's Green. “I don't know,
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stranger,” said he, scratching his head. “I'm rather
jubus that I have got into a sort of a priminary
here.” I expressed my surprise at his not admiring
a place where they were so many fine ladies.
“Why as to the matter of that,” said he, “there's a
wonderful smart chance of women here—that are a
fact—and female society are elegant—for them that
likes it—but, for my part, I'd a heap rather camp
out by the side of a cane-brake, where there was a
good chance of bears and turkeys.” “But you forget,”
said I, “that you have left your flesh and blood
behind you.” “That are a fact,” said he, “I feel
powerful weak—but I dont like the fixens here,
no how—I'm a 'bominable bad hand among women—
so I'd thank 'em not to be cutting their shines
about me.” “But, my friend, you will have to turn
in directly, and dance with some of them. “I reckon
not,” said he,—“if I do, I'll agree to give up
my judgment,—but if any of 'em have a mind to
run or jump for a half pint, I'd as leave go it as not.”
This gentleman was followed by another, who came
in a still more “questionable shape.” The polite
ghosts could not suppress a smile, at the sight of
this moiety of a man, while the ill-bred burst into
peals of obstreperous laughter. I easily recognised
him to be a Dandy; and as he, with several other
newly arrived spirits, were hastening to the manager's
court, I repaired thither also, in hopes of obtaining
an audience.
As we passed along, my conductress pointed out
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to me a most commodious arm charm, in the shade
of a delightful bower, near which was suspended a
richly ornamented tobacco pipe—while a huge tabby-cat
sat purring on the cushion. It had an inviting
air of comfortable indolence. On my enquiring
whose limbs were destined to repose in this convenient
receptacle, my companion replied:—“It is
called the Chair of Celibacy,—the happy maid or
bachelor, whose singleness shall not be imputed to
any blameable cause; who spends a good humoured
life, and dies at a respectable age, in charity with
all the world, shall be seated in that commodious
chair, enjoy the company of this social quadruped,
and, while pleasantly puffing away the placid hours,
may indulge in any remarks whatever upon the surrounding
company, and thus enjoy all the luxuries
of unmarried life. Its cushion, however, has not
as yet found an occupant.” “But this,” said I,
“can be the reward of only one meritorious individual—
what is to become of the remainder of those
who shall not be sentenced to dance?” “I cannot
answer your question,” said she, “for as yet no one
has appeared who could claim an exemption from
the common fate. I suppose, however, that if this
chair should ever be filled, others will be provided,
should any future members of the fraternity establish
their claims to the same felicity.”
We soon arrived at the dread tribunal, which was
to decide our future destiny; but before the anticipated
investigation commenced, the court was
-- 226 --
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thrown into confusion by an altercation between
the Dandy and my friend from the back woods.
The former, it seems, had indulged himself in some
imprudent jests upon the dress of the latter, which
so irritated the gentleman in buckskin, that he
threatened to flirt him sky-high.” The Dandy upon
this swelled very large, and assuming an air of vast
importance, declared, that “if a gentleman had used
such language to him, he would know what to do.”
“I tell you what, stranger,” said the woodsman,
“you mus'nt imitate any thing of that sort to me,—I
don't want to strike such a mean while man as you,
but if you come over them words agin, drot my skin
if I don't try you a cool dig or two, any how. An
officer here interposed, and with some difficulty restored
peace, as the bachelor in buckskin continued
to assert, that the other had hopped on him without
provocation, and that he wouldn't knock under to
no man. He was at length in some degree pacified,
and strolled off muttering that he wasn't going for
to trouble nobody—but that they musn't go fooling
about him. I joined the rough son of the forest as
he retired, and endeavoured to appease him by expressing
a hope that upon a more intimate acquaintance
with this place and its inhabitants, he would
find them more agreeable, than he seemed to anticipate
from his late experience. “Well, stranger,”
said he, “I want to be agreeable with every one—
but to speak my mind sentimentally, on the occasion
of this ruckery that's been kicked up, I do verbatimly
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think that there little man is not in his right head,
and for that reason, I dont vally what he says, no
how—and most of the folks here seems to be sort o'
crazy—but I dont like to be bantered, no how—and
if there's any man, that's rightly at himself, that has
any thing agin me, let him step out, and I'll give
him a fair fight—I'm always ready to offishuate in
that point of view!” I replied, that I hoped there
would be no occasion for a further display of his
prowess, and repeated my conviction, that all would
go well with him. “Well, well,” said he, “we'll
see—but somehow I dont like the signs—I dont feel
like I was at home here—I feel sort o' queer, like I
was out of my range,—but when I get right well
haunted to the place, maybe I'll like it better.”
The manager had now ascended the justice-seat,
and was prepared to examine the newly arrived
spirits. The first who presented herself, was an
unseemly maiden of forty, who stated her case with
great fluency. She assured the court, that it was
not her own fault that she was here, as she had always
conducted herself with great decorum, and
had never evinced any dislike to matrimony. Indeed
she had once been duly engaged to marry—
but her lover coming in unexpectedly upon her one
day, when she was only just spanking her youngest
sister a little, for breaking a bottle of perfume—“and
do you think,” continued she, “the ungrateful wretch
didn't march off, swearing he had caught a tartar—
and from that blessed day to this, I never set eyes
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on him, so”—“You may stand aside,” said the
manager, “until we can find a suitable partner for
you.”
The next lady was rather younger, and more
comely. She declared, modestly enough, that she
had never been particularly anxious to marry, although
she had never evinced any particular reluctance.
She had remained unnoticed and unwooed
until the age of twenty-four, “wasting her fragrance
on the desert air,” when she captivated the affections
of a very amiable young man. His affairs
calling him abroad, they separated under a solemn
pledge that their union should be solemnised on
his return. His absence was protracted to above
a year, and in the mean while another lover appeared.
She remained constant until the approach
of her twenty-fifth birth-day, on the night of which
it was customary, as she understood, for the old
boy, to make his appearance to unmarried ladies.
The dreaded night arrived, and the maid was unwed—
“and I was lying in bed wide awake,” continued
she, “and the room was as dark as pitch,
when the old boy appeared, sure enough, and walking
on tip-toe to my bed-side (I could hear him, but
could not see him) he whispered in my ear
“Take the man,
While you can,
Silly old maid!”
After this awful warning my mind was so troubled,
that I determined to find relief by obeying the
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nocturnal mandate, and accordingly I agreed to marry
my new lover. But on the very day fixed for the
ceremony, my first beau returned, and heard the
news; the gentlemen quarrelled, and then—made
up,—and I lost them both, which I am sure was
not my fault, for with the greatest sincerity I could
have sung—`How happy could I be with either:'—
but you know, sir, I could not oblige them both.”
The dandy now made his appearance, and was
about to commence his story with a bow as low as
his corsets would permit, when the manager suppressing
a smile, said, “Be pleased, sir, to pair off
with the obliging lady who stands at the bar,—your
appearance precludes the necessity of a hearing.”
A languishing beauty now approached, and gently
raising her downcast eyes, ogled the judge with a
most bewitchingly pensive smile, which seemed to
say, “Oh! take me to your arms, my love.” “My
history,” said she, “is short and melancholy. My
heart was formed for the soft impulses of affection,
and was rendered still more sensitive by a diligent
perusal of the most exquisite fictions in our language;
I devoured those productions, which describe
amiable and unfortunate susceptibilities of my sex,
and endeavoured to regulate my conduct by the
most approved rules of romance. I doted on manly
beauty; and knowing that gentlemen admire the
softer virtues, I endeavoured, while in their presence,
to be all that was soft and sweet. I selected
several handsome men, on whom I conferred my
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particular regard and friendship, in the hope that out
of many I could fix one. To each of these I gave
my entire confidence, consulted as to my studies,
and entrusted him with the feelings and the sorrows
of a too susceptible heart—leaving each to believe
that he was the only individual who enjoyed this
distinguished honour. To all other gentlemen, and
to my own sex, I evinced a polite indifference. My
friends treated me with great kindness, but, alas!
what is mere kindness! Some of them pressed my
hand, and said a great many soft things without coming
to the point, and some would even snatch a kiss,
for which, not being followed by a declaration of
love, I thought I ought to have dismissed them, but I
had not sufficient resolution. And thus, with a heart
feelingly alive to the delights of connubial affection,
and after a miserable life, devoted to its pursuits, I
died without enjoying its blisses.”
“A little less solicitude to attain the object, might
perhaps have been attended with more success,”
said the manager. “We will endeavour to provide
you with a friend of whose constancy you shall have
no reason to complain. For the present be pleased
to stand aside.”
This lady was succeeded by my acquaintance
in buckskin, who declared that he never had any use
for a wife, no how—but that once in his life he felt sort
o' lonesome, and it seemed like he ought to get married.
“I don't think,” said he, “that it would make me
any happier, but though somehow, I'd feel better
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contented, so I went to see a young woman in the
neighbourhood—she was a right likely gal too, and
her father was well off—but somehow I didn't like
the signs, and so I quit the track—and that's all the
courten that ever I did, to my knowledge.”
“There is a lady in waiting,” said the manager,
“who has been as unsuccessful as yourself—perhaps
you may like the signs better in that quarter.”
“I reckon its as good luck as any,” rejoined the
gentleman, “I wouldn't give a 'coon-skin[1] to boot
between her and any of the rest;” and seizing the
hands of the pensive beauty, he whirled her off
with a swing, which kept her dancing in the air
until they were out of sight.
Many other persons of both sexes were examined;
but their loves were common place, and their pleas
frivolous or unfounded. Pride and avarice appeared
to be the greatest foes to matrimony. It
would be tedious to detail the numberless instances,
in which young persons, otherwise estimable, had,
in obedience to these unruly passions, done violence
to the best affections of their hearts. The fear
of marrying beneath themselves, on the one hand,
and the ambition to acquire wealth on the other,
constituted prolific sources of celibacy.
Parental authority was frequently alleged by the
ladies to have been exerted in opposition to their
matrimonial views—but it appeared to have been
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used successfully only where the lover was poor,
and where the lady's passion was not sufficiently
strong to contend against the parent's prudence.
Many suitable matches had been broken off by
manœuvering. This seemed to be equally effectual,
whether used in friendship or in hostility. We
heard of many old ladies, who having sons or daughters,
or nephews, or nieces, to provide for, resolutely
set their faces against all matrimonial alliances
whatever, by which a fortune or a beauty could be
taken out of the market; and many others who,
without such interest, opposed all matches which
were not made by themselves.
I observed, moreover, that every gentleman
averred that he could have married, if he had been
so disposed; and that not a single lady alleged that
she had been prevented by the want of offers.
The last lady who was put to the ordeal, was the
daughter of a rich confectioner, who fancied herself
a fine lady, because she had fed upon jellies and
conserves. It seemed as if all the sweetmeats and
sugar plums, which she had swallowed, in the course
of her life, had turned to vinegar, and converted
her into a mass of acidity. She forgot that sweet
things—such as girls and plum cakes—grow stale
by keeping; and turned up her nose at lovers of
all sorts and sizes, until she became unsaleable.
On hearing her doom, she cast a glance of indignation
at the judge, and throwing her eyes
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superciliously over the assembly, fixed them on me, and
darting towards me, with the rapidity of a tigress,
seemed determined to make me her partner or her
prey. Alarmed at the prospect of a fate, which
appeared more terrible than any thing I had ever
fancied, I sprang aside, and rushing towards the
judge, was about to claim his protection, when I
awoke.
eaf115.n1[1] Raccoon.
-- 234 -- p115-231
PETE FEATHERTON.
[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]
Every country has its superstitions, and will
continue to have them, so long as men are blessed
with lively imaginations, and while any portion of
mankind remain ignorant of the causes of natural
phenomena. That which cannot be reconciled
with experience, will always be attributed to supernatural
influence; and those who know little,
will imagine much more to exist than has ever
been witnessed by their own senses. I am not displeased
with this state of things, for the journey of
life would be dull indeed, if those who travel it
were confined for ever to the beaten highway,
worn smooth by the sober feet of experience. To
turnpikes, for our beasts of burden, I have no objection;
but I cannot consent to the erection of
railways for the mind, even though the architect
be “wisdom, whose ways are pleasant, and whose
-- 235 --
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paths are peace.” It is sometimes agreeable to
stray off into the wilderness which fancy creates,
to recline in fairy bowers, and to listen to the murmurs
of imaginary fountains. When the beaten
road becomes tiresome, there are many sunny
spots where the pilgrim may loiter with advantage—
many shady paths, whose labyrinths may be
traced with delight. The mountain, and the vale,
on whose scenery we gaze enchanted, derive new
charms, when their deep caverns and gloomy recesses
are peopled with imaginary beings.
But above all, the enlivening influenee of fancy
is felt, when it illumines our firesides, giving to the
wings of time, when they grow heavy, a brighter
plumage, and a more sprightly motion. There are
seasons, when the spark of life within us seems to
burn with less than its wonted vigour; the blood
crawls heavily through the veins; the contagious
dullness seizes on our companions, and the sluggish
hours roll painfully along. Something more than a
common impulse is then required to awaken the
indolent mind, and give a new tone to the flagging
spirits. If necromancy draws her magic circle, we
cheerfully enter the ring; if folly shakes her cap
and bells, we are amused; a witch becomes an interesting
personage, and we are even agreeably
surprised by the companionable qualities of a
ghost.
We, who live on the frontier, have little acquaintance
with imaginary beings. These gentry
-- 236 --
[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]
never emigrate; they seem to have strong local attachments,
which not even the charms of a new
country can overcome. A few witches, indeed,
were imported into New England by the fathers;
but were so badly used, that the whole race seems
to have been disgusted with new settlements.
With them, the spirit of adventure expired, and the
weird women of the present day wisely cling to
the soil of the old countries. That we have but
few ghosts will not be deemed a matter of surprise
by those who have observed how miserably destitute
we are of accommodations for such inhabitants.
We have no baronial castles, nor ruined
mansions;—no turrets crowned with ivy, nor ancient
abbeys crumbling into decay; and it would be
a paltry spirit, who would be content to wander in
the forest, by silent rivers and solitary swamps.
It is even imputed to us as a reproach by enlightened
foreigners, that our land is altogether populated
with the living descendants of Adam—
creatures with thews and sinews, who eat when
they are hungry, laugh when they are tickled, and
die when they are done living. The creatures of
romance, say they, exist not in our territory. A
witch, a ghost, or a brownie, perishes in America,
as a serpent is said to die the instant it touches the
uncongenial soil of Ireland. This is true, only in
part. If we have no ghosts, we are not without
miracles. Wonders have happened in these
United States. Mysteries have occurred in the
-- 237 --
[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
valley of the Mississippi. Supernatural events
have transpired on the borders of “the beautiful
stream;” and in order to rescue my country from
undeserved reproach, I shall proceed to narrate an
authentic history, which I received from the lips of
the party principally concerned.
A clear morning had succeeded a stormy night
in December; the snow laid ankle-deep upon the
ground, and glittered on the boughs, while the
bracing air, and the cheerful sunbeams, invigorated
the animal creation, and called forth the tenants of
the forest from their warm lairs and hidden lurking
places.
The inmates of a small cabin on the margin of
the Ohio, were commencing with the sun the business
of the day. A stout, raw-boned forester plied
his keen axe, and, lugging log after log, erected a
pile in the ample hearth, sufficiently large to have
rendered the last honours to the stateliest ox. A
female was paying her morning visit to the cowyard,
where a numerous herd of cattle claimed her
attention. The plentiful breakfast followed; cornbread,
milk, and venison, crowned the oaken
board, while a tin coffee-pot of ample dimensions
supplied the beverage which is seldom wanting at
the morning repast of the substantial American
peasant.
The breakfast over, Mr. Featherton reached down
a long rifle from the rafters, and commenced certain
preparations, fraught with danger to the brute
-- 238 --
[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
inhabitants of the forest. The lock was carefully
examined, the screws tightened, the pan wiped, the
flint renewed, and the springs oiled; and the keen
eye of the backwoodsman glittered with an ominous
lustre, as its glance rested on the destructive
engine. His blue-eyed partner, leaning fondly on
her husband's shoulder, essayed those coaxing and
captivating blandishments, which every young wife
so well understands, to detain her husband from
the contemplated sport. Every pretext which her
ingenuity supplied, was urged with affectionate
pertinacity;—the wind whistled bleakly over the
hills, the snow lay deep in the valleys, the deer
would surely not venture abroad in such bitter
cold weather, his toes might be frost-bitten, and
her own hours would be sadly lonesome in his absence.
The young hunter smiled in silence at the
arguments of his bride, for such she was, and continued
his preparations.
He was indeed a person with whom such arguments,
except the last, would not be very likely to
prevail. Pete Featherton, as he was familiarly
called by his acquaintances, was a bold rattling
Kentuckian, of twenty-five, who possessed the characteristic
peculiarities of his countrymen—good
and evil—in a striking degree. His red hair and
sanguine complexion announced an ardent temperament;
his tall form, and bony limbs, indicated an
active frame inured to hardships; his piercing eye
and tall cheek-bones, evinced the keenness and
-- 239 --
[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
resolution of his mind. He was adventurous, frank,
and social—boastful, credulous, illiterate, and at
times, wonderfully addicted to the marvellous.
He loved his wife, was true to his friends, never
allowed a bottle to pass untasted, nor turned his
back upon a frolic.
He believed that the best qualities of all countries
were centered in Kentucky; but had a whimsical
manner of expressing his national attachment.
He was firmly convinced that the battle of the
Thames was the most sanguinary conflict of the
age, and extolled Colonel J—n as “a severe
colt.” He would admit that Napoleon was a
great genius; but insisted that he was “no part of
a priming” to Henry Clay. When entirely “at
himself,”—to use his own language,—that is to
say, when duly sober, Pete was friendly and rational,
and a better tempered soul never shouldered
a rifle. But let him get a dram too much, and
there was no end to his extravagance. It was then
that he would slap his hands together, spring perpendicularly
into the air with the activity of a
rope dancer, and after uttering a yell, which the
most accomplished Winnebago might be proud to
own, swear that he was the “best man in the country,
and could whip his weight in wild cats!”
and after many other extravagances, conclude that
he could “ride through a crab-apple orchard
on a streak of lightning.”
In addition to this, which one would think was
-- 240 --
[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
enough for any reasonable man, Pete would brag,
that he had the best rifle, the prettiest wife, and
the fastest nag in all Kentuck; and that no man
dare say to the contrary. It is but justice to remark,
that there was more truth in this last boast
than is usually found on such occasions, and that
Pete had no small reason to be proud of his horse,
his gun, and his rosy-cheeked companion.
These, however, were the happy moments
which are few and far between; for every poet will
bear us witness from his own experience, that the
human intellect is seldom indulged with those brilliant
inspirations, which gleam over the turbid
stream of existence, as the meteor flashes through
the gloom of the night. When the fit was off,
Pete was as listless a soul as one would see of a
summer's day—strolling about with a grave aspect,
a drawling speech, and a deliberate gait, a stoop of
the shoulders, and a kind of general relaxation of
the whole inward and outward man—in a state of
entire freedom from restraint, reflection, and want,
and without any impulse strong enough to call
forth his manhood—as the panther, with whom he
so often compared himself, when his appetite for
food is sated, sleeps calmly in his lair, or wanders
harmlessly through his native thickets.
It will be readily perceived, that our hunter was
not one who could be turned from his purpose by
the prospect of danger or fatigue; and a few minutes
sufficed to complete his preparations. His
-- 341 --
[figure description] Page 341.[end figure description]
feet were cased in moccasins and wrappers of buckskin:
and he was soon accoutred with his quaintly
carved powder horn, pouch, flints, patches, balls
and long knife;—and throwing “Brown Bess,”—
for so he called his rifle—over his shoulder, he
sallied forth.
But in passing a store hard by, which supplied
the country with gunpowder, whiskey and other
necessaries, he was hailed by some of his neighbours,
one of whom challenged him to swap rifles.
Pete was one of those, who would not receive a
challenge without throwing it back. Without the
least intention, therefore, of parting with his favourite
rifle, he continued to banter back—making
offers like a skilful diplomatist, which he knew
would not be accepted, and feigning great eagerness
to accede to any reasonable proposition, while inwardly
resolved to reject all, he magnified the
perfections of Brown Bess.
“She can do any thing but talk,” said he—“If
she had legs, she could hunt by herself. It is a
pleasure to tote her—and I na-ter-ally believe, there
is not a rifle south of Green river, that can throw a
a ball so far, or so true.”
These discussions consumed much time, and
much whiskey—for the rule on such occasions is,
that he who rejects an offer to trade, must treat the
company, and thus every point in the negotiation
costs a pint of spirits.
At length, bidding adieu to his companions, Pete
-- 242 --
[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
struck into the forest. Lightly crushing the snow
beneath his active feet, he beat up the coverts, and
traversed all the accustomed haunts of the deer.
He mounted every hill and descended into every
valley—not a thicket escaping the penetrating
glance of his practised eye. Fruitless labour! Not
a deer was to be seen. Pete marvelled at this unusual
circumstance, and was the more surprised
when he began to find, that the woods were less
familiar to him than formerly. He thought he knew
every tree within ten miles of his cabin; but, now,
although he certainly had not wandered so far,
some of the objects around him seemed strange,
while others again were easily recognised; and
there was, altogether, a singular confusion of character
in the scenery, which was partly familiar, and
partly new; or rather, in which the component
parts were separately well known, but were so
mixed up, and changed in relation to each other, as
to baffle even the knowledge of an expert woodsman.
The more he looked, the more he was
bewildered. He came to a stream which had heretofore
rolled to the west; but now its course pointed
to the east; and the shadows of the tall trees,
which, according to Pete's philosophy, ought, at
noon, to fall to the north, all pointed to the south.
He cast his eye upon his own shadow, which had
never deceived him—when, lo! a still more extraordinary
phenomenon presented itself. It was
travelling round him like the shade on a dial,—only
-- 243 --
[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
a thousand times faster, as it veered round the
whole compass in the course of a single minute.
It was very evident, too, from the dryness of the
snow, and the brittleness of the twigs, which snapped
off as he brushed his way through the thickets,
that the weather was intensely cold; and yet the
perspiration was rolling in large drops from his
brow. He stopped at a clear spring, and thrusting
his hands into the cold water, attempted to carry a
portion of it to his lips; but the element recoiled
and hissed, as if his hands and lips had been composed
of red hot iron. Pete felt quite puzzled
when he reflected on all these contradictions in
the aspect of nature; and he began to consider
what act of wickedness he had been guilty of, which
could have rendered him so hateful, that the deer
fled, the streams turned back, and the shadows
danced round their centre at his approach.
He began to grow alarmed, and would have
turned back, but was ashamed to betray such weakness,
even to himself; and being naturally bold, he
resolutely kept his way. At last, to his great joy,
he espied the tracks of deer imprinted in the snow—
and, dashing into the trail, with the alacrity of a
well trained hound, he pursued in hopes of overtaking
the game. Presently, he discovered the tracks
of a man, who had struck the same trail in advance
of him, and supposing it to be one of his neighbours,
he quickened his pace, as well to gain a companion
in sport, as to share the spoil of his fellow hunter.
-- 244 --
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Indeed, in his present situation and feelings, Pete
thought he would be willing to give half of what
he was worth, for the bare sight of a human face.
“I don't like the signs, no how,” said he, casting
a rapid glance around him; and then throwing his
eyes downwards at his own shadow, which had
ceased its rotatory motion, and was now swinging
from right to left like a pendulum—“I dont like the
signs, I feel sort o' jubus. But I'll soon see, whether
other people's shadows act the fool like mine.”
Upon further observation, there appeared to be
something peculiar in the human tracks before him,
which were evidently made by a pair of feet, of
which one was larger than the other. As there
was no person in the settlement who was thus deformed,
Pete began to doubt whether it might not
be the Devil, who, in borrowing shoes to conceal
his cloven hoofs, might have got those that were not
fellows. He stopped and scratched his head, as
many a learned philosopher has done, when placed
between the horns of a dilemma less perplexing
than that which now vexed the spirit of our hunter.
It was said long ago—that there is a tide in the
affairs of men, and although our friend Pete had
never seen this sentiment in black and white, yet it
is one of those truths, which are written in the
heart of every reasonable being, and was only copied
by the poet from the great book of nature. It
readily occurred to Pete on this occasion. And as
he had enjoyed through life a tide of success, he
-- 245 --
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reflected whether the stream of fortune might not
have changed its course, like the brooks he had
crossed, whose waters, for some sinister reason,
seemed to be crawling up-hill. But, again, it occurred
to him, that to turn back, would argue a
want of that courage, which he had been taught to
consider as the chief of the cardinal virtues.
“I can't back out,” said he. “I never was
raised to it, no how;—and if so-be the Devil's
a mind to hunt in this range, he shan't have all the
game.”
He soon overtook the person in advance of him,
who, as he had suspected, was a perfect stranger.
He had halted, and was quietly seated on a log, gazing
at the sun, when Pete approached, and saluted
him with the usual—“How are you, stranger?”
The latter made no reply, but continued to gaze at
the sun, as if totally unconscious that any other
person was present. He was a small, thin, old man,
with a grey beard of about a month's growth, and a
long, sallow, melancholy visage, while a tarnished
suit of snuff-coloured clothes, cut after the quaint
fashion of some religious sect, hung loosely about
his shrivelled person.
Our hunter, somewhat awed, now coughed—
threw the butt end of the gun heavily upon the
ground—and, still failing to elicit any attention,
quietly seated himself on the other end of the same
log, which the stranger occupied. Both remained
silent for some minutes—Pete with open mouth, and
-- 246 --
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glaring eye-balls, observing his companion in mute
astonishment, and the latter looking at the sun.
“It's a warm day, this,” said Pete, at length;
passing his hand across his brow, as he spoke, and
sweeping off the heavy drops of perspiration that
hung there. But receiving no answer, he began to
get nettled. His native assurance, which had been
damped by the mysterious deportment of the person
who sat before him, revived; and screwing his courage
to the sticking point, he arose, approached the
silent man, and slapping him on the back, exclaimed—
“Well, stranger! don't the sun look mighty droll,
away out there in the north?”
As the heavy hand fell on his shoulder, the stranger
slowly turned his face towards Pete, who recoiled
several paces;—then rising, without paying
our hunter any further attention, he began to pursue
the trail of the deer. Pete prepared to follow,
when the other, turning upon him with a stern
glance, enquired—
“Who are you tracking?”
“Not you,” replied the hunter, whose alarm had
subsided, when the enemy began to retreat; and
whose pride piqued by the abruptness with which
he had been treated, enabled him to assume his
usual boldness of manner.
“What do you trail then?”
“I trail deer.”
-- 247 --
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“You must not pursue them further, they are
mine.”
The sound of the stranger's voice broke the
spell, which had hung over Pete's natural impudence,
and he now shouted—
“Your deer! That's droll too! Who ever
heard of a man claiming the deer in the woods?”
“Provoke me not,—I tell you they are mine.”
“Well, now,—you're a comical chap! Why,
man! the deer are wild! Thy're jist nateral to the
woods here, the same as the timber. You might
as well say the wolves, and the painters are yours,
and all the rest of the wild varmants.”
“The tracks, you behold here, are those of wild
deer, undoubtedly; but they are mine. I roused
them from their bed, and am driving them to my
home, which is not of this country.”
“Couldn't you take a pack or two of wolves
along?” said Pete, sneeringly. “We can spare
you a small gang. It's mighty wolfy about here.”
“If you follow me any further, it is at your peril!”
said the stranger.
“You don't suppose I'm to be skeered, do you?
You musn't come over them words agin. There's
no back out in none of my breed.”
“I repeat—”
“You had best not repeat,—I allow no man to
repeat in my presence,”—interrupted the irritated
woodsman. “I'm Virginia born, and Kentucky
-- 248 --
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raised, and, drot my skin! if I take the like of that
from any man that ever wore shoe leather.”
“Desist! rash man, from altercation. I despise
your threats.”
“I tell you what, stranger!” said Pete, endeavouring
to imitate the coolness of the other, “as to
the matter of a deer or two—I don't vally them to
the tantamount of this here cud of tobacco; but I'm
not to be backed out of my tracks. So, keep off,
stranger! Don't come fooling about me. I feel
mighty wolfy about the head and shoulders. Keep
off! I say, or you might get hurt.”
With this, the hunter, to use his own language,
“squared himself, and sot his triggers,”—fully determined,
either to hunt the disputed game, or to
be vanquished in combat. To his surprise, the
stranger without appearing to notice his prepararations,
advanced, and blew with his breath upon
his rifle.
“Your gun is charmed!” said he. “From this
time forward, you will kill no deer.” And so saying,
he deliberately resumed his journey.
Pete Featherton remained a moment or two, lost
in confusion. He then thought he would pursue
the stranger, and punish him as well for his threats,
as for the insult intended to his gun; but a little reflection
induced him to change his decision. The
confident manner, in which that mysterious being
had spoken, together with a kind of vague assurance
within his own mind, that the spell had really
-- 249 --
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taken effect, so unmanned and stupified him, that he
quietly “took the back track,” and sauntered homewards.
He had not gone far, before he saw a fine
buck, half concealed among the hazel bushes which
beset his path, and resolving to know at once how
matters stood between Brown Bess and the pretended
conjurer, he took a deliberate aim, fired, and—
away bounded the buck unharmed!
With a heavy heart, our mortified forester re-entered
his dwelling, and replaced his degraded weapon
in its accustomed berth under the rafters.
“You have been long gone,” said his wife;—
“but where is the venison you promised me?”
Pete was constrained to confess he had shot nothing.
“That is strange!” said the lady. “I never
knew you fail before.”
Pete framed twenty excuses. He had felt unwell;
his rifle was out of fix—and there were not many
deer stirring.
Had not Pete been a very young husband, he
would have known, that the vigilant eye of a wife
is not to be deceived by feigned apologies. Mrs.
Featherton saw, that something had happened to
her helpmate, more than he was willing to confess;
and being quite as tenacious as himself, in her reluctance
against being “backed out of her tracks,” she
advanced firmly to her object, and Pete was compelled
to own, “That he believed Brown Bess was
somehow—sort o'—charmed.”
-- 250 --
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“Now, Mr. Featherton!” said his sprightly bride,
“are you not ashamed to tell me such a tale as that!
Ah, well! I know how it is. You have been down
at the store, shooting at a mark for half pints!”
“No, indeed!” replied the husband emphatically,
“I wish I may be kissed to death, if I've pulled a
trigger for a drop of liquor this day.”
“Well, do now—that's a good dear!—tell me
where you have been, and what has happened? For
never did Pete Featherton, and Brown Bess, fail to
get a venison any day in the year.”
Soothed by this well-timed compliment, and willing,
perhaps, to have the aid of counsel in this trying
emergency, Pete narrated minutely to his wife,
all the particulars of his meeting with the mysterious
stranger. Unfortunately, the good lady was as wonder-struck
as himself, and unable to give any advice.
She simply prescribed bathing his feet, and going to
bed; and Pete, though he could not perceive how
this was to affect his gun, passively submitted.
On the following day, when Pete awoke, the
events which we have described, appeared to him
as a dream; and resolving to know the truth, he
seized his gun, and hastened to the woods. But,
alas! every experiment produced the same vexatious
result. The gun was charmed! and the
hunter stalked harmlessly through the forest. Day
after day, he went forth and returned, with no better
success. The very deer themselves became
sensible of his inoffensiveness, and would raise
-- 251 --
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their heads, and gaze mildly at him as he passed;
or throw back their horns, and bound carelessly
across his path! Day after day, and week after
week, passed without bringing any change; and
Pete began to feel very ridiculously. He could
imagine no situation more miserable than his own.
To walk through the woods, to see the game, to
come within gun-shot of it, and yet to be unable to
kill a deer, seemed to be the ne plus ultra of
human wretchedness. There was a littleness, an
insignificance, attached to the idea of not being
able to kill a deer, which to Pete's mind was
downright disgrace. More than once he was
tempted to throw his gun into the river; but the
excellence of the weapon, and the recollection of
former exploits, as often restrained him; and he
continued to stroll through the woods, firing now
and then at a fat buck, under the hope that the
charm would some time or other expire by its own
limitation; but the fat bucks continued to frisk
fearlessly in his path.
At length, Pete bethought himself of a celebrated
Indian doctor, who lived at no great distance.
An Indian doctor, be it known, is not necessarily
a descendant of the aborigines. The title, it is
true, originates in the confidence which many of
our countrymen repose in the medical skill of the
Indian tribes. But to make an Indian doctor, a
red skin is by no means indispensable. To have
been taught by a savage, to have seen one, or, at
-- 252 --
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all events, to have heard of one, is all that is necessary
to enable an individual to practise this lucrative
and popular branch of the healing art.
Your Indian doctor is one who practises without a
diploma and without physic; who neither nauseates
the stomach with odious drugs, nor mars the
fair proportions of nature with the sanguinary lancet.
He believes in the sympathy which is supposed
to exist between the body and the mind,
which, like the two arms of a Syphon, always
preserve a corresponding relation to each other;
and the difference between him and the regular
physician is, that they operate at different
points of the same figure—the one practising on
the immaterial spirit, while the other boldly grapples
with the bones and muscle. I cannot determine
which is in the right; but must award to the
Indian doctor at least this advantage, that his art is
the most widely beneficial; for while your doctor
of medicine restores a lost appetite, his rival can,
in addition, recover a strayed or stolen horse. If
the former can bring back the faded lustre of a fair
maiden's cheek, the latter can remove the spell
from a churn, or a rifle.
To a sage of this order, did Pete disclose his
misfortune; and apply for relief. The doctor examined
the gun; and having measured the calibre of
the bore, with the same solemnity with which he
would have felt the pulse of a patient, directed the
applicant to call again. At the appointed time the
-- 253 -- p115-250
[figure description] Page 253.[end figure description]
hunter returned, and received two balls—one of
pink, the other of a silver hue. The doctor instructed
him to load his piece with one of these
bullets, which he pointed out, and proceed through
the woods to a certain hollow, at the head of
which was a spring. Here he would find a white
fawn, at which he was to shoot. It would be
wounded, but would escape; and he was to pursue
its trail, until he found a buck, which he was to
kill with the other ball. If he accomplished all
this accurately, the charm would be broken.
Pete, who was well acquainted with all the localities,
carefully pursued the route which had
been indicated, treading lightly along, sometimes
elated with the prospect of speedily breaking the
spell—sometimes doubting the skill of the doctor—
and ashamed alternately of his doubts and of his
belief. At length he reached the lonely glen; and
his heart bounded as he beheld the white fawn
quietly grazing by the fountain. The ground was
open; and he was unable to get within his usual
distance, before the fawn raised her head, looked
mournfully around, and snuffed the breeze, as if
conscious of the approach of danger. His heart
palpitated. It was a long shot, and a bad chance;
but he dared not advance from his concealment.
“Luck's a lord,” said he, as he drew up
his gun, and pulled the trigger. The fawn bounded
aloft at the report, and then darted away
through the brush, while the hunter hastened to
-- 254 --
[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]
examine the signs. To his great joy, he found the
blood profusely scattered; and now flushed with
the confidence of success, he stoutly rammed down
the other ball, and pursued the trail of the wounded
fawn. Long did he trace the crimson drops
upon the snow, without beholding the promised
victim. Hill after hill he climbed, vale after vale
he passed—searching every thicket with penetrating
eyes; and he was about to renounce the chase,
the wizard, and the gun, when, lo!—directly in his
path stood a noble buck, with numerous antlers
branching over his fine head!
“Ah, ha! my jolly fellow! I 've found you out
at last!” said the delighted hunter, “you 're the
very chap I 've been looking after. Your blood
shall wipe off the disgrace from my charming Bess,
that never missed fire, burned priming, nor cleared
the mark in her born days, till that vile Yankee
witch cursed her!—Here goes!—”
He shot the buck. His rifle was restored to
favour, and he never again wanted venison.
-- 255 --
THE BILLIARD TABLE.
[figure description] Page 255.[end figure description]
On one of those clear nights in December, when
the cloudless, blue sky is studded with millions of
brilliant luminaries, shining with more than ordinary
lustre, a young gentleman was seen rapidly pacing
one of the principal streets of Pittsburgh. Had he
been a lover of nature, the beauty of the heavens
must have attracted his observation; but he was
too much wrapt up in his thoughts—or in his cloak—
to throw a single glance towards the silent orbs,
that glowed so beauteously in the firmament. A
piercing wind swept through the streets, moaning
and sighing, as if it felt the pain that it inflicted. The
intense coldness of the weather had driven the usual
loiterers of the night from their accustomed lounging
places. Every door and shutter was closed
against the common enemy, save where the
“Blue spirits and red,
Black spirits and grey,”
-- 256 --
[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]
which adorn the shelves of the druggist, mingled
their hues with the shadows of the night; or where
the window of the confectioner, redolent of light,
and fruit, and sugar plumbs, shed its refulgence upon
the half petrified wanderer. The streets were
forsaken, except by a fearless, or necessitous few,
who glided rapidly and silently along, as the spectres
of the night. Aught else than love or murder
would scarcely have ventured to stalk abroad on
such a night; and yet it would be hardly fair to set
down the few, unfortunate stragglers, who faced the
blast on this eventful evening, as lovers or assassins.
Pleasure sends forth her thousands, and necessity
her millions, into all the dangers and troubles of
this boisterous world.
On reaching the outlet of an obscure alley, the
young gentleman paused, cast a suspicious glance
around, as if fearful of observation, and then darted
into the gloomy passage. A few rapid steps brought
him to the front of a wretched frame building, apparently
untenanted, or occupied only as a warehouse,
through whose broken panes the wind whistled,
while the locked doors seemed to bid defiance
to any ingress, but that of the piercing element. It
was in truth a lonely back building, in the heart of
the town; but so concealed by the surrounding
houses, that it might as well have been in the silent
bosom of the forest. A narrow flight of stairs, ascending
the outside of the edifice, led to an upper
story. Ascending these, the youth, opening the
-- 257 --
[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]
door with the familiarity of an accustomed visiter,
emerged from the gloom of the night, into the light
and life of the Billiard Room.
It was a large apartment, indifferently lighted,
and meanly furnished. In the centre stood the
billiard table, whose allurements had enticed so
many on this evening to forsake the quiet and virtuous
comforts of social life, and to brave the biting
blast, and the not less “pitiless peltings” of parental
or conjugal admonition. Its polished mahogany
frame, and neatly brushed cover of green cloth,
its silken pockets, and party-coloured ivory balls,
presenting a striking constrast to the rude negligence
of the rest of the furniture; while a large
canopy suspended over the table, and intended to
collect and refract the rays of a number of well
trimmed lamps, which hung within its circumference,
shed an intense brilliance over that little spot,
and threw a corresponding gloom upon the surrounding
scene. Indeed if that gay altar of dissipation
had been withdrawn, the temple of pleasure
would have presented rather the desolate appearance
of the house of mourning.
The stained and dirty floor was strewed with
fragments of segars, play-bills, and nut shells; the
walls blackened with smoke, seemed to have witnessed
the orgies of many a midnight revel. A
few candles, destined to illumine the distant recesses
of the room, hung neglected against the walls—
bowing their long wicks, and marking their stations
-- 258 --
[figure description] Page 258.[end figure description]
by streams of tallow, which had been suffered to
accumulate through many a long winter night. The
ceiling was hung with cobwebs, curiously intermingled
with dense clouds of tobacco smoke, and
tinged by the straggling rays of light, which occasionally
shot from the sickly tapers. A set of
benches, attached to the walls, and raised sufficiently
high to overlook the table, accommodated
the loungers, who were not engaged at play, and
who sat or reclined—solemnly puffing their segars,
idly sipping their brandy and water—or industriously
counting the chances of the game; but all
observing a profound silence, which would have
done honour to a turbaned divan, and and was well
suited to the important subjects of their contemplation.
Little coteries of gayer spirits laughed and
chatted aside, or made their criticisms on the players
in subdued accents;—any remarks on that subject
being forbiden to all but the parties engaged;
while the marker announced the state of the game,
trimmed the lamps, and supplied refreshments to
the guests.
Mr. St. Clair, the gentleman whom we have
taken the liberty of tracing to this varied scene,
was cordially greeted on his entrance by the
party at the table, who had been denouncing the
adverse elements which had caused the absence
of several of their choicest spirits. The game at
which they were then playing being one which admitted
of an indefinite number of players, St. Clair
-- 259 --
[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]
was readily permitted to take a ball; and, engaging
with ardour in the fascinating amusement, was soon
lost to all that occurred beyond the little circle of
its witchery.
The intense coldness of the night was so severely
felt in the badly warmed apartment which we
have attempted to describe, that the party broke
up earlier than usual. One by one they dropped
off, until St. Clair and another of the players were
left alone. These, being both skilful, engaged
each other single-handed, and became so deeply
interested, as scarcely to observe the defection of
their companions, until they found the room entirely
deserted. The night was far spent. The marker,
whose services were no longer required, was
nodding over the grate; the candles were wasting
in their sockets, and although a steady brilliance
still fell upon the table, the back ground was as
dark as it was solitary.
The most careless observer might have remarked
the great disparity of character exhibited in the
two players, who now matched their skill in this
graceful and fascinating game. St. Clair was a
genteel young man of about five and twenty. His
manners had all the ease of one accustomed to the
best society; his countenance was open and prepossessing;
his whole demeanour frank and manly.
There was a careless gaiety in his air, happily
blended with an habitual politeness and dignity of
carriage, which added much to the ordinary graces
-- 260 --
[figure description] Page 260.[end figure description]
of youth and amiability. His features displayed
no trace of thought or genius; for Mr. St. Clair
was one of that large class, who please without design
and without talent, and who, by dint of light
hearts, and graceful exteriors, thrive better in this
world, than those who think and feel more acutely.
Feeling he had, but it was rather amiable than
deep; and his understanding, though solid, was of
that plain and practical kind, which, though adapted
to the ordinary business of life, seldom expands
itself to grasp at any object beyond that narrow
sphere. It was very evident that he had known
neither guile nor sorrow. In his brief journey
through life, he had as yet trod only in flowery
paths; and having passed joyously along, was not
aware that the snares which catch the feet of the
unwary, lie ambushed in the sunniest spots of our
existence. He was a man of small fortune, and
was happily married to a lovely young woman, to
whom he was devotedly attached; and who, when
she bestowed her hand, had given him the entire
possession of a warm and spotless heart. They
had lately arrived at Pittsburg, and being about to
settle in some part of the western country, had determined
to spend the ensuing spring and summer
in this city, where Mrs. St. Clair might enjoy the
comforts of good society until her husband prepared
their future residence for her reception.
His opponent was some ten years older than
himself; a short, thin, straight man—with a keen
-- 261 --
[figure description] Page 261.[end figure description]
eye and sallow complexion. He was one of those
persons who may be seen in shoals at the taverns
and gambling houses of a large town, and who
mingle with better people in stage coaches and
steam boats. He had knocked about the world, as
his own expression was, until, like an old coin
whose original impression has been worn off, he
had few marks left by which his birth or country
could be traced. But, like that same coin, the surface
only was altered, the base metal was unchanged.
He aped the gentility which he did not possess,
and was ambitious of shining both in dress and
manners;—but nature, when she placed him in a
low condition, had never intended he should rise
above it.
It is unfortunate for such people, that, like hypocrites
in religion, demagogues in politics, and empirics
of all sorts, they always overact their parts,
and by an excessive zeal betray their ignorance or
knavery. Thus the person in question, by misapplying
the language of his superiors in education,
betrayed his ignorance, and by going to the extreme
of every fashion, was always too well dressed
for a gentleman. In short, he was a gambler—
who roamed from town to town, preying upon
young libertines, and old debauchees; and employing
as much ingenuity in his vocation, as would set
up half a dozen lawyers, and as much industry as
would make the fortunes of half a dozen mechanics.
-- 262 --
[figure description] Page 262.[end figure description]
Such were the players who were left together,
like the last champions at a tournament—who,
after vanquishing all their competitors, now turned
their arms against each other. For a while they
displayed a courtesy, which seemed to be the effect
of a respect for each other's skill. It was natural
to St. Clair; in the gambler it was assumed. The
latter having found the opportunity he had long eagerly
sought, soon began to practise the arts of his
profession. The game of billiards, requiring great
precision of eye, and steadiness of hand, can only
be played well by one who is completely master of
his temper; and the experienced opponent of St.
Clair essayed to touch a string, on which he had
often worked with success.
“You are a married man, I believe?” said he.
“Yes, sir,—”
“That was bad play—you had nearly missed the
ball.”
“You spoke to me just as I was striking,” said
St. Clair good humouredly.
“Oh! I beg pardon. Where did you learn to
play billiards?”
“In Philadelphia.”
“Do they understand the game?”
“I have seen some fine players there.”
“Very likely. But I doubt whether they play
the scientific game. New Orleans is the only place.
There they go it in style. See there now! That
-- 263 --
[figure description] Page 263.[end figure description]
was a very bad play of yours. You played on the
wrong ball.”
“No, sir, I was right.”
“Pardon me, sir. I profess to understand this
game. There was an easy cannon on the table,
when you aimed to pocket the white ball.”
“You are mistaken,” said St. Clair.
“Oh, very well! I meant no offence. Now mark
how I shall count off these balls. Do you see that?
There's play for you! You say you are a married
man?”
“I said so. What then?”
“I thought as much by your play.”
“What has that to do with it?”
“Why, you married men are accustomed to early
hours, and get sleepy earlier than we do.”
“I did not think I had shown any symptoms of
drowsiness.”
“Oh, no! I meant no allusion. There's another
bad play of yours.”
“You will find, I play sufficiently well, before
we are done.”
“Oh! no doubt. I meant nothing. You play an
elegant game. But then, you married men get
scared, when it grows late. No man can play billiards,
when he is in a hurry to go home. A married
gentleman can't help thinking of the sour looks,
and cross answers, he is apt to get, when he goes
home after midnight.”
“I will thank you to make no such allusions to
-- 264 --
[figure description] Page 264.[end figure description]
me,” said St. Clair, “I am neither scared nor sleepy,
but able to beat you as long as you please.”
“Oh, very well! I don't value myself on my
playing. Shall we double the bet? and have another
bottle of wine?”
“If you please.”
“Agreed. Now do your best—or I shall beat
you.”
Pestered by this impertinence, St. Clair lost several
games. His want of success added to his impatience;
and his tormenter continued to vex him
with taunting remarks until his agitation became
uncontrollable. He drank to steady his nerves; but
drink only inflamed his passion. He doubled, trebled,
quadrupled the bet to change his luck; but in
vain. Every desperate attempt urged him towards
his ruin; and it was happy for him, that his natural
good sense enabled him to stop, before his fate was
consummated—though not until he had lost a large
sum.
Vexed with his bad fortune, St. Clair left the
house of dissipation, and turned his reluctant steps
towards his own dwelling. His slow and thoughtful
pace was now far different, from the usual lightness
of his graceful carriage. It was not, that he
feared the frown of his lovely wife; for to him her
brow had always been unclouded, and her lips had
only breathed affection. She was one of those
gentle beings, whose sweetness withers not with the
hour or the season; but endures through all vicissitudes.
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It was the recollection of that fervent and forbearing
love, that now pressed like a leaden weight
upon the conscience of the gambler, when he reflected
upon the many little luxuries, and innocent
enjoyments, of which that lovely woman had deprived
herself, while he had squandered vast sums
in selfish dissipation. Having never before lost so
much at play, this view of the case had not occurred
to him; and it now came home to his bosom
with full force—bringing pangs of the keenest self-reproach.
He recalled the many projects of domestic
comfort they had planned together, some of
which must now be delayed by his imprudence.
That very evening they had spoken of the rural
dwelling they intended to inhabit; and Louisa's
taste had suggested a variety of improvements, with
which it should be embellished. When he left her,
he promised to return soon;—and now, after a long
absence, he came, the messenger—if not of ruin—
at least of disappointment. The influence of wine,
and the agitation of his mind, had wrought up the
usually placid feelings of St. Clair, into a state of
high excitement. His imagination wandered to the
past and to the future; and every picture, that he
contemplated, added to his pain.
“I will go to Louisa,” said he. “I will confess
all. Late as it is, she is still watching for me. Poor
girl! She little thinks, that while she has been counting
the heavy hours of my absence, I have been
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madly courting wretchedness for myself, and preparing
the bitter cup of affliction for her.”
In this frame of mind, he reached his own door,
and tapped gently for admittance. He was surprised
that his summons was not immediately answered;
for the watchful solicitude of his wife had
always kept her from retiring in his absence. He
knocked again and again—and at last, when his
patience was nearly exhausted, a slip-shod house-maid
came shivering to the door. He snatched the
candle from her hand, and ascended to his chamber.
It was deserted!
“Where is Mrs. St. Clair?” said he to the maid
who had followed him.
“Gone”—“Gone! Where?”
“Why, sir, she went away with a gentleman.”
“Away with a gentleman! Impossible!”
“Yes, sir, indeed she went off with a gentleman
in a carriage.”
“When?—Where did she go?”
“I don't know where she went, sir. She never
intimated a word to me. She started just after you
left home.”
“Did she leave no message?
“No, sir, not any. She was in a great hurry.”
St. Clair motioned the girl to retire, and sunk
into a chair.
“She has left me,” he exclaimed, “cruel, faithless
Louisa! Never did I believe you would have
forsaken me! No, no—it can not be. Louisa
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eloped! The best, the kindest, the sincerest of
human beings? Impossible!”
He rose, and paced the room—tortured with
pangs of unutterable anguish. He gazed round the
apartment, and his dwelling, once so happy, seemed
desolate as a tomb. He murmured the name of
Louisa, and a thousand joys rose to his recollection.
All—all were blasted! For she, in whose love he had
confided, that pure, angelic being, whose very existence
seemed to be entwined with his own, had
never loved him! She preferred another! He
endeavoured to calm his passions, and to reason deliberately;—
but in vain. Who could have reasoned
at such a moment? He mechanically drew out his
watch;—it was past two o'clock. Where could
Louisa be at such an hour? she had no intimates,
and few acquaintances, in the city. Could any one
have carried her away by force? No, no—the truth
was too plain! Louisa was a faithless woman—
and he a forsaken, wretched, broken-hearted man!
In an agony of grief, he left his house, and wandered
distractedly through the streets, until, chance directed,
he reached the confluence of the rivers. To
this spot he had strolled with his Louisa in their
last walk. There they had stood, gazing at the
Monongahela and the Alleghany uniting their streams
and losing their own names in that of the Ohio; and
Louisa had compared this “meeting of the waters”
to the mingling of two kindred souls, joining to part
no more—until both shall be plunged in the vast
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ocean of eternity. To the lover—and St. Clair
was still a fervent lover—there is no remembrance
so dear, as the recollection of a tender and poetic
sentiment, breathed from the eloquent lips of affection;
and the afflicted husband, when he recalled
the deep and animated tone of feeling, with which
this natural image was uttered by his wife, could
not doubt but that it was the language of her heart.
All his tenderness and confidence revived; and he
turned mournfully, with a full but softened heart,
determined to seek his dwelling, and wait, as patiently
as he could, until the return of day should
bring some explanation of Louisa's conduct.
At this moment, a light appeared, passing rapidly
from the bank of the Alleghany towards the town.
In an instant it was lost—and again it glimmered
among the ancient ramparts of Fort du Quesne—
and then disappeared. He advanced cautiously
towards the ruined fort, and, clambering over the
remains of the breast-work, entered the area—carefully
examining the whole ground by the clear moonlight.
But no animate object was to be seen. A
confused mass of misshapen ridges, and broken
rocks were alone to be discovered—the vestiges of
a powerful bulwark, which had once breasted the
storm of war.
“It is deserted,” said the bereaved husband, “like
my once happy dwelling. The flag is gone—the
music is silent—the strong towers have fallen, and
all is desolate!”
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Perplexed by the sudden disappearance of the
light, and indulging a vague suspicion that it was in
some way connected with his own misfortune, he
continued to explore the ruins. A faint ray of light
now caught his eye, and he silently approached it.
He soon reached the entrance of an arched vault,
formerly a powder magazine, from which the light
emanated. The doorway was closed by a few
loose boards, leaned carefully against it, and evidently
intended only to afford a brief concealment; but
a crevice, which had been inadvertently left, permitted
the escape of that straggling beam of light,
which had attracted his attention, and which proceeded
from a small taper placed in a dark lantern.
Two persons sat before it, in one of whom, the astonished
St. Clair recognised his late companion,
the gambler! The other was a coarse, ill-dressed
ruffian, with a ferocious and sinister expression of
countenance, which, at once, bespoke his character.
They were busily examining a number of large keys,
which seemed newly made.
“Bad, awkward, clumsy work!” said the gambler;
“but no odds about that, if they do but fit.”
“It's ill working in the night, and with bad tools,”
rejoined the other. “Me and Dick has been at 'em
for a week, steady—and if them keys won't do, I'll
be hanged, If I can make any better.”
“Hav'n't I been working in the night too, my
boy?” said the gambler. “I have made more
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money for us since dark, than a clumsy rascal like you
could earn in a month.”
“Clumsy or no, you put us into the danger always,
and play gentleman yourself.”
“Well, that's right. Don't I always plan every
thing? And don't I always give you a full share?
Come, don't get out of heart. That key will do—
and so will that.—”
St. Clair could listen no longer. Under any
other circumstances, the scene before him would
have excited his curiosity;—but the discovery, that
he had been duped by a sharper—a mere grovelling
felon—added to the sorrows that already filled his
bosom, stung him so keenly, that he had not patience
nor spirits to push his discoveries any further.
“It was for the company of such a wretch,” said
he, as he again mournfully bent his steps homeward,
“that I left my Louisa! Perhaps she may have
guessed the truth. Some eaves-droppers may have
whispered to her, that I was the associates of gamblers
and house-breakers! Shocked at my duplicity
and guilt, she has fled from contamination!—No,
no! She would not have believed it. She would
have told me. She would have heard my explanation.
Her kind heart would have pitied and forgiven
me. Perhaps my neglect has alienated her affection.
I have left her too often alone, and in doubt.
She has suffered what I have felt to-night, the pangs
of suspense and jealousy. She could bear it no
longer, my cruelty has driven her for ever from me!”
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He again entered his habitation. How changed!
No hand was extended to receive him; no smile to
welcome him. All was cheerless, cold, and silent.
A candle, nearly exhausted to the socket, was burning
in the parlour, shedding a pale light over the
gloom of the apartment: but that bright, peculiar
orb, that had given warmth and lustre to this little
world, was extinguished! St. Clair shuddered, as
he looked round. Every object reminded him of
the happiness he had destroyed; and he felt himself
a moral suicide. Half dead with cold, fatigue,
and distress, he approached the fire—when a note,
which had fallen from the card-rack to the floor,
caught his eye. The address was to himself, and in
Louisa's hand writing. He tore it open and read as
follows:—
“That agreeable woman, Mrs. B. who has paid
us so many kind attentions, has just sent for me.
She is very ill, and fancies that no one can nurse
her so well as myself. Of course, I can not refuse,
and only regret, that I must part with my dear
Charles for a few hours. Good night.
Your devoted
Louisa.”
The feelings of St. Clair can be better imagined
than described, as he thus suddenly passed from a
state of doubt and despair, to the full tide of joy.
He kissed the charming billet, and enacted several
other extravagances, which our readers will excuse
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from relating. He retired, at length, to his couch—
where his exhausted frame soon sunk to repose.
He rose early the next morning. Louisa was
already in the parlour to welcome him with smiles.
He frankly related to her all that had happened on
the preceding night. Louisa's affectionate heart
sympathised in the pain he had suffered, and tears
stole down her cheek which was pale with watching.
“Do not tell me,” said St. Clair, “that I have
only suffered that which you have often endured.
No—you will not reproach me—but I know it, I
feel it; and I here renounce gaming for ever! Never
again shall you have cause to complain of my dissipation
or neglect.”
He kept his word; and acknowledged that the
peace and joy of his after days were cheaply purchased
with the miseries of that eventful night.
THE END.
Back matter
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Hall, James, 1793-1868 [1833], The soldier's bride and other tales (Key & Biddle, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf115].
