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MY LODGINGS, AN INTRODUCTION TO THE READER.
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I am a bachelor, dear reader! This I deem necessary
to premise, lest, peradventure, regarding me as
one of that class whose fate is sealed,
— “As if the genius of their stars had writ it,”
you should deem me traitor to my sworn alliance.
For what has a Benedict to do with things out of the
window, when his gentle wife—(what sweet phraseology
this last! How prettily it looks printed!) his
“gentle wife” with her quiet eye, her sewing and
rocking chair on one side, and his duplicates or triplicates,
in the shape of a round chunk of a baby, fat as
a butter-ball; two or three roguish urchins with tops
and wooden horses, and a fawn-like, pretty daughter
of some nine years, with her tresses adown her neck,
and a volume of Miss Edgworth's “Harry and Lucy”
in her hand, which she is reading by the fading
twilight—demand and invite his attention on the
other.
No, my dear reader, I am not married! If I were,
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I should have brief leisure to gaze by the hour from
my dormant window. Dormant window! Thereby
hangs a tale! Not one only, but many tales; vide
the “Lives of the Poets.” If I had hinted in the
beginning, that my dormitory was lighted by a dormant
window, it would sufficiently have indicated to
the sagacious reader my peculiar state. To him or
her not initiated in all the mysteries appertaining to
localities in great cities, and the “ways and means”
whereby single gentlemen manage to keep the grim
enemy at bay, I will merely hint that dormant windows
are sacred to us single gentlemen, particularly to
poets and certain fundless members of the literati.
They are situate on the roof, protruding above it like
the rampant nasal organ of the Knight of La Mancha,
from the plane of his grave physiognomy, himself
recumbent, and the barber's brazen basin upon his
sconce. The apartment to which they admit the light
of heaven is called the attick—certainly a most classical
appellation—but in vulgar parlance it is degradingly
ycleped “a garret.” I always hold a preference
for atticks and dormant windows. I do not thereby
mean to challenge the inference naturally deducible
from this confession, that considerations unworthy of
the minds of Crœsus, Girard, or Astor, had aught to
do with my choice. No, courteous loiterer—whether
of needle or cigar—over this page, I beg you will
not for a moment harbor such an uncharitable suspicion.
That a room in an attick draws more tenderly
and considerately upon the purses of single lodgers,
cannot be denied. I prefer an attick for many good
and weighty reasons. A basement is too low—too
low, literally and figuratively. It is base both nominally
and literally. It is, nevertheless, convenient to
the street and to the kitchen! But I eschew this domiciliary
subdivision altogether. Four feet lower than
the pavé! It is associated too intimately with our
last abiding-place. I cannot abide the basement.
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The attick is cheaper! The first floor, as it is called
by way of fashionable misnomer, is, of course, unattainable.
In all the dwellings in Gotham, this “flat,”
as it is likewise denominated, is appropriated to drawing-room
and parlour. Couch or laver never desecrates
its precincts; for here stand the long, polished
dining-table, the eighteen chairs, the carpet, piano,
centre-rable, looking-glasses, and sideboard of the establishment.
Reader, this floor of two rooms, separate
or made one by folding doors intervening, is
sacred to the god who presides over eating. His name,
if there be such a heathenish deity set down in Tooke's
Pantheon, has slipped from my memory, or I would
give it you.
The second floor, so called, which is properly the
third, (but modern language is not used to express, but
merely to suggest ideas,) is still more sacred than the
last. It contains sleeping-rooms—and withal, sleeping-rooms
containing double beds. You can see, compassionate
reader, with “half an eye,” (as the speculators
in Wall street say, in pointing out natural beauties,
invisible to two whole ones, when they would sell
estates on paper,)—with half an eye, my dear reader,
you can see that this floor, thus qualified, is no caravansary
for a single gentleman. I yet aspire to such
a room! The third floor is the legitimate dormitory
of the “single-hearted,” provided always a fourth
floor intervene not between this and the gar— attick,
I would say. But this floor hath this objection; it is
habitually and pertinaciously, in all houses in Manhattan,
honey-combed; desperately cut up and partitioned
off in the merest slips, that fit a man almost as
closely as his coffin. They contain, by actual appraisement,
a narrow laver-stand, one chair, and a cot-bed,
so narrow that one would apprehend a fall if he
moved in his sleep, were he not comfortably assured
of the impossibility of such an adventure, after taking
a second glance at the friendly proximity of the two
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sides of the room. I like a roomy room. Such boxes
are not rooms; there is no room in them. Perversion
of language thus to term them, seven by nines as they
are! It was in May I sought rooms. We changed
our lodgings every May morning in this city, distant
reader, as regularly as our grandsires did their ruffled
bosoms, which, in those tidy days, was every other
morning. Now, Heaven save the mark! if we change
once in a week, we do, we think, sufficient homage to
the spirit of Brummel! Dickies obtain, as the lawyers
phrase it, in these degenerate days! But I am
becoming digressive, and episodical, for which I crave
your indulgence, kind reader. I was seeking lodgings
of a fine May morning in a “genteel private boarding-house.”
I had completed my survey of the third story.
“Have you another floor above this?” I inquired
of the pretty—(I am very susceptible of pretty faces)—
fille de chambre.
She looked at me steadily and anxiously for a moment,
inspecting me from the apex of my cranium to
the slightly, very slightly, worn toes of my boots.
My habiliments, constituted of a black satin hat, ironed
that very morning, for the ninth time, and all the
whitish places, renewed with ink, so that it shone like
silk. It was presentable, or at least I felt myself to
be so in it. Her eyes lingered over it for an instant,
and, as I thought, approvingly, before she replied,
and then, dropped to my stock, vest, and bosom. The
first bore the scrutiny with confidence; it was of silk
velvet, and only slightly defaced. The vest was of
valencia, and worn a trifle about the pockets, from the
protrusion of sundry pennies, and a penknife. These
dilapidations were, however, invisible. My black
broadcloth coat, very opportunely buttoned by the
second button, concealed it. My shirt bosom passed
well; yet she cast her eye down to see if I had wristbands.
I put my hands gravely behind me. Her inventory
of the coat seemed less satisfactory; at least
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so said her eye. Woman's eye is a natural telltale;
he that runs may read it. I flatter myself in possessing
peculiar tact at reading this pretty picture-book
with wonderful accuracy. Her eye expressed, though
with scarce perceptible shade, dissatisfaction. My
coat was undoubtedly a perfect coat; it fitted me well.
I had had it upon my back only a twelvemonth from
the tailor's, when I made my search the May preceding
for lodgings. It was now colourless; that is, black.
Possibly it might have acknowledged a slight modification
of black—an inclination to a delicate shade of
gray. I was also lintless. It had been well brushed
that morning; and by dint of brushing, it could not be
told, I verily believe, a short distance off, from the
finest bombazine. It once had been graced by lappels,
but when the late fashions came round, I had taken
them off. There was economy in that. I have since
found use for them! I consider my coat altogether
comme il faut. But woman's tact and penetration!
Oh, woman!
“In our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please!”
Fortune favor the wretch who has to pass the ordeal
of your inquisitive and searching glance! I foresaw
the result!
My nether teguments next passed muster. I trembled
for them. One can preserve a coat longer than
pantaloons. He can take it off when he enters his
room, and be almost ever without it, except in Broadway.
It is not so with the pantaloons. One would
not like to write or read in drawers, if he had such
useless and expensive under garments. A coat, reader—
this for your private ear—will last twenty-seven
months, where pantaloons will dilapidate at nineteen.
I know this to be the case, my friend, for I proved it
experimentally. My pantaloons called forth a glance
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of decided disapproval. They were only a little
whitish about the angles of my limbs—(my ink had
been getting pale for several days, or I should not
have been so betrayed)—and although I “kind o'
dropped”—(bless Jack Downing for this morceau of
expressive phraseology)—my handkerchief before me
when I saw what I had to pass through, I could not
conceal it. But I had done better to let it remain perdu
in my coat pocket. It did not benefit me; but rather
coming itself in such questionable shape to the aid of
its friend, the trousers, it operated materially, I could
see by the lurking devil in her eye, to my disadvantage.
The fashion of my trousers—(for I used carefully
to have them “taken in” when the tights came
about, and “let out” when the fulls had the ascendant)—
their fashion was indisputable. My boots were
highly polished; the heels were worn a little one sided,
but, thank heaven! as she stood in front of me, she
could not discern this contingent feature; and also
there had been a rip—merely a rip, sir—on one side
of the left boot, which had been carefully closed with
a neat patch. Her eye rested—(how much these
women understand! how faithfully they discriminate!
verily, I stand in fear of the whole sex)—for full
twenty seconds upon that little, very little patch,
which a man with his obtuser organs, would never,
upon my honor, certainly never would have detected—
(oh, woman, woman is—young and pretty ones I
mean—the d—l!)—and then glanced to a pair of kid
gloves, somewhat soiled, held, for certain obvious reasons,
folded together in my hand.
This whole survey and inventory of my personal
habiliments, consumed about twenty-eight seconds by
the watch. I wear a watch! It is of massive silver,
with a single case and a double case. It had been my
great uncle's. It was now and still is mine. Inter
nos; the pawnbrokers wouldn't take it!
“Yes, sir,” came at last the reply to my query,
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“there is a large room in the garret,” and her pretty
lip curled as she said it. Cupid befriend me! I saw
she took my cloth at once.
Sympathising reader, that “large room in the attick”
became, after certain necessary preliminaries
between the landlady and myself—interesting only to
the parties concerned, but which finally were amicably
adjusted—became my domicilium; my drawing-room,
parlor, library, dormitory, and study. It became,
emphatically my home! It was square in shape,
the ceiling descending obliquely from the top of the
back side of the room to the floor on the front side.
This surface was pierced about midway, and in the
cavity, and jutting far out of the roof, was inserted a
dormant window. This window was accessible by a
flight of three steps, springing from the centre of the
apartment. The upper one was broad and could contain
a chair. I am now seated in it, and at the window.
It is a comfortable nook; and the fresh wind
from the sound and Long Island comes gratefully in
as I sit here in the evening, and watch the moving
spectacle from the streets below. I love an attick!
You are nearer heaven, and beyond the reach of
kitchen odors and scolding housewives; above the
dust and noise of the streets, with a glorious prospect
of the verdant country outspread beyond a thousand
roofs, unknown by, and denied to, the cooped up cits
on the first and second floors. What an invigorating
breeze! Not the tainted current, circulating stagnant
and slow through the close streets, but the sweet
breath of summer, laden with a thousand fragrant
spices, stolen from the hills, meadows, and gardens
over which it has passed. For these blessings the cits
go to the country, with much expenditure of time and
money and patience. I can have them all by going
two pair of stairs higher than fashion will allow them
to mount.
From my attick window, then, courteous reader,
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we will look forth for subjects that shall both benefit
our philosophies, and withal contribute to our divertisement.
This paper is only introductory thereto. If
prolix, attribute it, patient reader, to the excellency of
thy companionship; for when a man findeth good
company he is loth to take leave soon, and his hand
lingers long in the friendly grasp, ere the tongue can
reluctantly repeat “farewell.”
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THE ROMANCE OF BROADWAY.
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“I have earned three shillings, York, this blessed
afternoon!” I exclaimed with ill-suppressed exultation,
as I threw down my pen, which I had been diligently
using for four hours—(I was penning “an article”
for a certain “monthly,” dear reader)—pushed
my closely written manuscripts from me, and complacently
took a yellow cigar from my hat, which I have
made my chief pocket since my fifth year, the time, I
believe, when my discriminating parents exchanged
my infant cap for the manly castor. Three York
shillings have I made this blessed day, heaven be
thanked! and now I can conscientiously take a little
“ease in mine inn!” Whereupon, I ignited my cigar
with a self-enkindling apparatus, a gift from my considerate
landlady—pray heaven she charge it not
in her bill—to save her candles, and ascending the
three steps to my window I seated myself in my
accustomed chair, and forthwith began to speculate
on things external. It was that calm, lovely time,
which is wont to usher in the twilight of a summer
evening. The roll of wheels in Broadway beneath
me was ceaseless. Bright forms flashed by in gay
carriages! The happy, the gallant, and the beautiful,
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were all forth to take the air on the fashionable evening
drive! Why was I not with the cavalcade! Where
was my Rosinante? Where was my “establishment?”
Echo answered, “where?” I puffed away silently
and vigorously for a few seconds, as these mental
queries assailed me; and, blessed soother of the
troubled, oh, incomparable cigar! my philosophy returned.
Diagonally opposite to my window, stands one of
the proudest structures on Broadway. It is costly
with stone and marble, lofty porticoes and colonnades.
This edifice first attracted my attention by its architectural
beauty, and eventually fixed it by a mystery,
that seemed, to my curious eye, surrounding one of its
inmates! But I will throw into the story-vein what I
have to relate, for it is a nouvellette in itself. I can
unveil you the mystery, lady!
A lady of dazzling beauty was an inmate of that
mansion! and, for aught I know to the contrary, its
only inmate. Every afternoon, arrayed in simple
white, with a flower or two in her hair, she was seated
at the drawing-room window, gazing out upon the
gay spectacle Broadway exhibits of a pleasant afternoon.
I saw her the first moment I took possession
of my dormant nook, and was struck with her surprising
lovliness. Every evening I paid distant homage
to her beauty. Dare a poor scribbler, a mere
penny-a-liner, aspire to a nearer approach to such a
divinity, enshrined in dollars and cents? No! I worshipped
like the publican, afar off. “'Tis distance
lends enchantment to the view.” But she was not
destined to be so worshipped by all. One afternoon
she was at her window, with a gilt leaved volume in
her hand, when a gentleman of the most graceful
bearing rode past my window. He was well mounted,
and sat his horse like an Arabian! He was what
the boarding school misses would call an elegant fellow!
a well bred woman of the world, a remarkably
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handsome man! Tall, with a fine oval face, a black
penetrating eye, and a moustache upon his lip, together
with a fine figure, and the most perfect address, he
was, what I should term, a captivating and dangerous
man. His air, and a certain indescribable comme il
faut, bespoke him a gentleman. As he came opposite
her window, his eye, as he turned it thither, became
fascinated with her beauty! How much lovelier
a really lovely creature appears, seen through “plate
glass!” Involuntarily he drew in his spirited horse
and raised his hat! The action, the manner, and the
grace, were inimitable. At this unguarded moment,
the 'hind wheel of a rumbling omnibus struck his
horse in the chest. The animal reared high, and
would have fallen backward upon his rider, had he
not, with remarkable presence of mind, stepped quietly
and gracefully from the stirrup to the pavement, as
the horse, losing his balance, fell violently upon his
side. The lady, who had witnessed with surprise the
involuntary homage of the stranger, for such, from
her manner of receiving it, he evidently was to her,
started from her chair and screamed convulsively.
The next moment he had secured and remounted his
horse, who was only slightly stunned with the fall,
acknowledged the interest taken in his mischance by
the fair being who had been its innocent cause (unless
beauty were a crime) by another bow, and rode
slowly and composedly onward, as if nothing unusual
had occurred. The next evening the carriage was at
the door of the mansion. The liveried footman was
standing with the steps down, and the handle of the
door in his hand. The coachman was seated upon
his box. I was, as usual, at my window. The street-door
opened, and, with a light step, the graceful form
of my heroine came forth and descended to the carriage.
At that moment—(some men surely are born
under the auspices of more indulgent stars than others)—
the stranger rode up, bowed with ineffable grace
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and—(blessed encounter that, with the omnibus
wheel!)—his bow was acknowledged by an inclination
of her superb head, and a smile that would make
a man of any soul seek accidents even in the “cannon's
mouth.” He rode slowly forward, and, in a
few seconds, the carriage took the same direction.
There are no inferences to be drawn from this, reader!
All the other carriages passed the same route. It was
the customary one! At the melting of twilight into
night, the throng of riders and drivers repassed. The
“lady's” carriage—(it was a landau, and the top was
thrown back)—came last of all! The cavalier was
riding beside it! He dismounted as it drew up before
the door, assisted her to the pavé, and took his leave!
For several afternoons, successively, the gentleman's
appearance, mounted on his noble animal, was simultaneous
with that of the lady at her carriage. One
evening they were unusually late on their return.
Finally the landau drew up before the door. It was
too dark to see faces, but I could have sworn the
equestrian was not the stranger! No! he dismounted,
opened the door of the carriage, and the gentleman
and lady descended! The footman had rode his horse,
while he, happy man! occupied a seat by the side of
the fair one! I watched the progress of this amour
for several days, and still the stranger had never entered
the house. One day, however, about three
o'clock, P. M., I saw him lounging past, with that
ease and self-possession which characterized him. He
passed and repassed the house two or three times, and
then rather hastily ascending the steps of the portico—
pulled at the bell. The next moment he was admitted,
and disappeared out of my sight. But only for a
moment, reader! An attick hath its advantages! The
blinds of the drawing-room were drawn, and impervious
to any glance from the street; but the leaves
were turned so as to let in the light of heaven and my
own gaze! I could see through the spaces, directly
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down into the room, as distinctly as if there was no
obstruction! This I give as a hint to all concerned,
who have revolving leaves to their venetian blinds.
Attick gentlemen are much edified thereby! The
next moment he was in the room, his hand upon his
heart—another, and I saw him at her feet! Sir—
would that I had language to paint you the scene!
Lady—I then learned the “art of love!” I shall have
confidence, I have so good a pattern, when I go to
make my declaration! The declaration, the confession,
the acceptation, all passed beneath me, most edifyingly.
Then came the labial seal that made his
bliss secure. By his animated gestures, I could see
he was urging her to some sudden step. She, at first,
appeared reluctant, but gradually becoming more placable,
yielded. In ten minutes the landau was at the
door. They came out arm in arm, and entered it! I
could hear the order to the coachman, “drive to St.
John's Church.” “An elopement!” thought I. “Having
been in at breaking cover, I will be in at the
death!” and taking my hat and gloves, I descended,
as if I carried a policy of insurance upon my life in
my pocket, the long flights of stairs to the street, bolted
out of the front door, and followed the landau,
which I discerned just turning the corner of Canal
street! I followed full fast on foot. I eschew omnibuses.
They are vulgar! When I arrived at the
church, the carriage was before it, and the “happy
pair,” already joined together, were just crossing the
trottoir to re-enter it! The grinning footman, who
had legally witnessed the ceremony, followed them!
The next day, about noon, a capacious family carriage
rolled up to the door of the mansion, followed
by a barouche with servants and baggage. First descended
an elderly gentleman, who cast his eyes over
the building, to see if it stood where it did when he
left it for the Springs. Then came, one after another,
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two beautiful girls; then a bandsome young man.
“How glad I am that I have got home again,” exclaimed
one of the young ladies, running up the steps
to the door. “I wonder where Jane is, that she does
not meet us?”
The sylph rang the bell as she spoke. I could see
down through the blinds into the drawing-room.
There was a scene!
The gentleman was for going to the door, and the
lady, his bride, was striving to prevent him! “You
sha'n't!”—“I will!”—“I say you sha'n't!”—“I say
I will!”—were interchanged as certainly between the
parties, as if I had heard the words. The gentleman,
or rather husband, prevailed. I saw him leave the
room, and the next moment open the street door. The
young ladies started back at the presence of the new
footman. The old gentleman, who was now at the
door, inquired as he saw him, loud enough for me to
hear, “Who in the devil's name are you, sir?”
“I have the honor to be your son-in-law!”
“The devil you have! and who may you have the
honor to be?”
“The Count L—y!” with a bow of ineffable
condescension.
“You are an impostor, sir!”
“Here is your eldest daughter, my wife,” replied
the newly-made husband, taking by the hand, his lovely
bride, who had come imploringly forward as the
disturbance reached her ears. “Here is my wife,
your daughter!”
“You are mistaken, sir, she is my housekeeper!”
A scene followed that cannot be described. The
nobleman had married the gentleman's housekeeper.
She had spread the snare, and like many a wiser fool,
he had fallen into it.
Half an hour afterward, a hack drove to the servants'
hall door, and my heroine came forth, closely
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veiled, with bag and baggage, and drove away. The
Count, for such he was, I saw no more! I saw his
name gazetted as a passenger in a packet ship that
sailed a day or two after for Havre. How he escaped
from the mansion, remaineth yet a mystery! Henceforth,
dear reader, I most conscientiously eschew matrimony.
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SIGHTS FROM MY WINDOW.
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It is my custom, dear reader, to mount the three
steps leading from the centre of my quadrangular attick
to its only window, every evening, just before
twilight steals upon the streets. The city is then all
abroad. Carriages are then plentier than pedestrians!
With a brown Havanna, elastic and fragrant, between
my lips, I mechanically take my seat in the little
dormant nook, and, while the blue wreaths of
smoke curl idly above my head, floating along the
sloping ceiling, and perfuming, with its delicious narcotic
odors, the whole room, to the utter discomfiture
of my foes, the moschetoes, I observe, with a philosophic
and speculative eye, the passing multitude. This
has been my habit since the evening of the first of
May last, when I was formally inducted into my elevated
domicil, which, for the moderate charge of two
dollars and one shilling per week—(I only room and
lodge here, dear reader, preferring to take my meals
in quiet independence, at the restaurateur's. One's
hours are his own, then, you know! Besides—but I
have other reasons of my own which I need not mention)—
I am privileged to call my home, my castle!
My window looks down on Broadway—that part of
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Broadway near Bleecker street.—A quiet, and withal,
the “court-end” of the town, reader! A slight projection
of the roof and its gutter conceals from me
the side-walk on this side; but the middle of this great
thoroughfare—the grand artery of the city—and the
opposite trottoir, are exposed, like a map, to my visual
espionage.
Look with me forth from the window, complaisant
reader! Take my chair there in the nook, and I will
stand (for there is room only for one) on this step beside
you. You need not first cast your eyes about
my apartment. It contains only a single cot-bed—the
birthright of bachelors—two chairs, one of which you
now honor me by occupying in the window, a small,
drawerless, pine table, covered with loose manuscripts,
poems, a well thumbed novel, “Clinton Bradshaw,”
a Dictionary of Quotations, and a Bible. It is also
adorned by a bowl and pitcher, a drinking glass, with
a slight flaw on its rim, and a napkin of no particular
hue. A circular mirror, the size of a hat-crown, a
strip of old carpet, stretched from the bed to the window,
and a leathern trunk much worn by dint of
travel, and containing my wardrobe, complete the tale
of my personal goods, chattels and appurtenances.
Turn your back, sir, upon these uninteresting domestic
items, and let us together survey the living drama
beneath.
The evening is most delightful. The tree-tops are
waving and rustling with a cool wind which comes
fresh from the sea. The sun is near the horizon, and
flings his yellow beams aslant the city, gilding, as if
they were touched with a pencil dipped in gold, the
outlines of the spires and towers. See how the red
glow lingers upon the woods of Long Island, as if
they were indeed on fire, and with what dazzling
splendor the windows of the houses on the heights
send back the sun-beams! How such an evening
gladdens the heart! One feels at peace with himself
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and all around him. See how the city has poured
forth its beauty and fashion to do homage to the beauty
of the hour. Bend forward a little, a very little,
and you may see down Broadway a mile, till the
street terminates in a point. The summits of the
trees on the Battery rise still beyond, here and there
relieved by an intervening spire, pointing, like the
finger of faith, to heaven. What a confused spectacle,
the whole! What a labyrinth of carriages, moving
in every possible direction, threatening every instant
to come in dangerous contact, and yet passing
each other safely! And the side walk—you can follow
it with your eye till it is lost beneath the projecting
shade from the stores in the distance—for your
gaze penetrates the business section of Broadway.
How the people pour along both pavés! more on the
west one, for it is the most fashionable and pleasant.
How, in a long, dark line, like trains of emmets, passing
different ways, to and from their habitations of
sand, they seem to move along. You can watch them
till you can contemplate them only as long lines of
these busy insects, passing and repassing. To the eye
where is the distinction? Which is the immortal? The
emmet performs its allotted destiny, so does man.
Both alike spring from and return to the earth. In
this world, the one appears as useful as the other, its
pursuits as earnest and as dignified. It is in the next
world where man shall stand forth in his destined
greatness, either for good or evil. Here he is as the
brutes that perish!
Having given utterance to this brief morceau of a
moral, let us survey more particularly the crowd flowing
past like a human river.
Do you observe that barouche with claret-colored
pannels and lining, drawn by two large bays, with an
elderly gentleman on the back seat, clothed in deep
mourning? As he turns his face this way, it wears a
cast of sadness. Two months ago, that carriage
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contained one of the lovliest girls ever whirled along
Broadway on an evening drive. She was always
arrayed in simple white, with a neat cottage and green
veil. (What a pity the ladies should have given up
the pretty, fascinating cottage! nothing was ever so
becoming to a pretty face!) She sat upon the forward
seat, with her face to her father. Such a face as hers
angels must wear! It was lovely beyond description.
Raphael would have thrown aside his pencil before
her in despair. Her eyes were large, black, and lustrous.
All her soul beamed in them when she spoke
to her parent. Tenderness, passion, love, devotion,
and each and every gentle quality, that makes woman
ethereal and heavenly above men, dwelt in them, and
played in a brilliant smile upon her lips. Every evening,
for three weeks, she rode past; and every evening
she was the same brilliant and beautiful creation.
The sound of her carriage-wheels were at length
looked for by me with habitual expectation. One
evening I sought in vain for her lovely face among
the throng of carriages. Twilight was lost in night,
and I had seen neither the claret barouche nor the object
of my solicitude. Two weeks passed away, and,
with slower motion, the long-looked for barouche
came in sight. The father and daughter were in it.
She sat upon the back seat; but oh, how changed!
Her pale and sunken cheek leaned upon his shoulder,
while with tender parental anxiety, he supported her
drooping form. She had been ill, and, no doubt, was
now taking the air for the first time. Poor girl, she
was but the shadow of her former self. Two more
evenings she passed, and she seemed weaker each day.
The third, the fourth, and the fifth evenings, the claret-colored
barouche was withdrawn from the gay cavalcade.
The sixth, there appeared a long line of carriages,
proceeding at that slow pace which indicates
a funeral procession. A hearse, covered with a pall,
and decorated with black plumes, came first; then
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slowly behind it, the claret-coloured carriage, lined
with crape. He was in deep mourning, his face buried
in a white kerchief. He was alone in the barouche.
His daughter was beneath that pall. He
was following her to the grave! There is a sad tale,
and full of strange interest, I have since learned of
her. I may tell it you in some still, twilight hour.
There rolls a carriage more splendid than any we
have yet seen, and we have seen many gorgeous
ones.—A black footman in a sort of half-livery—(for
cis-atlantic aristocrats ape, but do not copy, the aristocracy
of Europe)—is behind; and there is a black
coachman, with the same fancy-colored hat-band and
button on his cape, pompously mounted upon the
coach-seat. Observe his air. He feels himself a greater
gentleman than his master. There is a lady within,
both graceful and pretty, yet she sits mopingly beside
that noble-looking gentleman. Two months ago they
rode out together in a landau. She was then all
smiles and animation. Shortly after, a wedding party
passed beneath my window; this lady and gentleman
were sitting side by side, the happiest of the
happy. They now ride out as you have just seen.
They are married! I rather think I shall not aspire
to the room with a double bed!
There go two “middies,” in a sulkey. One of them
is “larking” it on shore with much grace. See the
air with which he reins in his noble animal! Mark
his position—turning his side partly to the horse, and
as erect as the mizzen-top-gallant-mast of his frigate!
He is evidently creating a sensation; at least he thinks
so, which is virtually the same thing. His shipmate
beside him is equally as gay in navy blue and buttons;
but he is visibly raw. He is not at home. His hands
are sadly troublesome. The sulkey is open all round,
and he is much embarrassed by his exposure to all
eyes. He wishes himself in the cook's coppers, rather
than where he is. The self-possession and ease of
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his more graceful and knowing companion, contrasts
admirably with his bashful awkwardness. Yet he
will go aboard to-night and swear bravely what a glorious
drive he had up Broadway.
There trots a magnificent creature! See, he scarce
touches the pavement. But see what a gawk is
mounted on him! That fellow has been learning to
ride every evening for the last two months; and look
at him—I could mount a pair of crutches on a horse
more gracefully. His spurs are too long, and he carries
his legs as if he had neither knee nor ankle joint.
I will find you a pair of compasses will do better.
Here is a hack trundling by loaded with “loafers.”
Heaven bless the inventor of this most expressive term!
Two Irish women and three children on the front seat,
and two men in white roundabouts behind. The chests,
and bags, and boxes, are piled like a catacomb around
the driver and behind his coach. The children are
bawling, yet the women are laughing and chattering,
and the men lovingly sharing a bottle of whiskey between
them. There they turn down a cross street, as
happy, no doubt, in their own way, as any who have
rode by this evening. There rolls a carriage, containing
but a single lady. She always wears that same
sweet smile. She is now alone, but I have seen her
carriage full of noisy, beautiful children. She takes
them out with her twice a week. She is arrayed in
half mourning; for so I should read that black riband,
passed with such elegant simplicity about her hat.
She must be a widow, for I have never known her to
be accompanied by a husband-looking man. These
husbands are marked men! There are signs by which
I know them!
There is a grave looking gentleman, walking with
a stout orange stick. He never rides. He takes his
airings on foot. He knows how to preserve his health.
That miserable little boy has risen from the steps of
that marble portico to solicit his charity. See! he
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looks at the lad and then at the crowd. Mark the
struggle between pity for the wretched beggar-boy,
and reluctance at giving in so public a manner. His
amiable sensitiveness prevails. He takes another look
at the crowded pavé, and turns hastily and passes on.
Observe him! He looks back—his step falters—his
hand seeks his pocket. He has turned back and placed
a quarter of a dollar in the child's hand. Now see
how he withdraws from the public eye, as if he
thought all had seen him give what he would rather
should have been given in secret. How elastic his
step! He will sleep soundly to-night, that good man!
and with a clear conscience!
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YANKEE ARISTOCRACY.
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“He that hath a trade hath an estate.”
Poor Richard.
Edward Belden was the son of a New England
country merchant. He had ten brothers and sisters,
the majority of whom were younger than himself.
The head and front of these offences was a merchant;
that is, he kept a grocery, next door to the principal
tavern, at the corner of the stage road and Main street
of a certain village in the State of Maine.—All persons
who buy goods to sell again across a counter, are
in New England, styled “Merchants,” not tradesmen
or storekeepers, but emphatically and aristocratically—
merchants. Merchants are gentlemen; therefore
Mr. Belden was a gentleman. In the land of steady
habits, a gentleman is one who is not a mechanic or
operative. Mr. Belden had never soiled his hands
with tools, although he sold eggs and fish-hooks, nuts
and raisins, tea and sugar by the pound, and retailed
at one end of his dark crowded store, rum at three
cents per glass. He would sell oats by the peck and
“strike” the measure himself, whiten his coat by
shoveling flour and meal from the barrel or “bin”
into the scales, and grease his gentlemanly fingers with
the weighing of butter, cheese, and lard. Yet, Mr.
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Belden was a gentleman! he knew no vulgar occupations!
Mrs. Belden was, of course, a lady—her husband
was a merchant! She gave parties, and her entertainments
were the envious gossip of the village.
“Oh,” says Mrs. Belden, confidentially to the lawyer's
lady, who had hinted in a very neighborly way,
that she thought Mrs. Belden was becoming somewhat
extravagant, “oh, my dear Mrs. Edgerton, they don't
cost us nothing at all, hardly—we get 'em all out o'
the store!”
Mrs. Belden never visited mechanics' wives, nor
allowed her children to associate with mechanics' children.
“Marm; what do you think Ned did, comin' home
from school?” shouted a little Belden, bolting into the
door, with his eyes and mouth wide open, his mother's
injunctions fresh in his memory; “he spoke to Bill
Webster, he did, for I seed him!” and the little aristocrat's
eyes were popped two inches further from his
head as he delivered the astounding information.
“Edward! did you speak to that Bill Webster?” inquired
his mother, in a tone of offended dignity, as she
scraped the dough which she was kneading from her
lady-like fingers; “didn't you know his father was a
cabinetmaker, and hasn't I and your pa repeatedly
told you not to speak to such boys?”
“Well, ma, I only asked him about my lesson,”
pleaded the culprit in defence.
“About your lesson!” exclaimed the angry parent;
“and what had Bill Webster to do either with you or
your lesson?”
“Because he's the best scholar in the academy, and
at the head of the class, and even Judge Perkins's
son is glad to get Bill to help him when he's got
stuck.”
“I guess if his father knew it, he'd soon stick him,”
exclaimed the injured parent, “and I shall go right
over after dinner and tell Mrs. Judge Perkins directly.
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—It's a shame that those mechanics' children should
be allowed to go to the academy and associate with
gentlemen's sons. Here's your father! now we'll see
what he says about it.”
Mr. Belden, a short, stout man, inclined to corpulency,
with half whiskers, bluish gray eyes, and rather
pleasing physiognomy, entered from the store,
which was situated but a few yards distant from his
two story white house, with green blinds, and a front
yard with stone steps, as Mrs. Belden was wont to
describe it. His coat was dusted with flour, and greasy
by contact with various unguinous articles which
his store contained.
“What's the matter, what's the matter, my dear?”
he inquired, in a quick, good-humored tone, seeing the
children grouped around their mother, listening in
timid silence, while the placidity of her features was
considerably disturbed.
“Have the boys been at any of their capers?”
“Capers!” repeated his offended lady; “all I can
do and say, I can't get these children to mind me—I
wish you would take them in hand, Mr. Belden, for
they have tried my patience, till I can't stand it no
longer.” And she looked as if she was the most
aggrieved woman in the world.
“Why, why, what have they done?” inquired the
perplexed husband, still holding the handle of the door
by which he had entered.
“Done! Here's Edward been speaking to that
Bill Webster, when I have told him over and over
again, not to have any thing to say to any such boys,
and expressly told him and all the children, to speak
to no boys nor girls whose fathers an't merchants, like
their'n, nor lawyers, or doctors, or ministers, and they
know it well, too.”
“Well, well, wife, I'll settle it,” replied Mr. Belden,
soothingly and good humoredly, for he had just made
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a good bargain with a country customer—“Edward,
come here to me.”
The culprit came forward and placed himself by his
father, who had taken a chair near the fire, conscious
that reproof or advice comes clothed with more dignity
from one seated than standing.
“Edward, you are now in your fifteenth year,” said
the parent gravely. “In two or three years more you
will enter college, and you should now learn to choose
your associates.”
“Children, listen to your father,” commanded Mrs.
Belden, seeing the turn her husband's remarks were
likely to take; “he speaks to you as well as to Edward.”
“In the first place, my son, you must remember
that your parents are respectable—that is, move in the
first circles, and are not mechanics. Now, in America,
where there is no nobility or titles, to say what is or
what is not `respectable,' why we must have certain
rules by which we can tell who are and who are not
so. Now the only way you, who are a boy, can tell
what boys are `respectable' and what are not, is by
knowing what profession their parents are of. Now,
a mechanic of no kind is respectable; they all belong
to the `lower class.”'
Here his youngest daughter interrupted, “Isn't milliners
and manty-makers `respectable,' pa?”
“No, my child, they are female mechanics, and are
therefore not `respectable.”'
“Well, then, I spoke to Miss (Mrs., generally in
New England, is pronounced Miss,) Miller's little
Jane, and walked most home from school with her to-day.
Oh, I'm so sorry!” The penitent criminal, after
receiving a severe reproof from her mother, retreated
behind a chair, and the father continued.
“The question is, my son, when you wish to select
your companions at school, or at college, first to learn
whether their fathers are rich! for rich men cannot, of
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course, be mechanics. The next place, whether they
are lawyers, merchants, doctors, or ministers; for in
these four `professions' are included all American gentlemen,
except senators, state officers, and such like,
who are respectable by their office. With no other
families should you associate, for you should at all
times endeavor to keep up the dignity of your family.
Now, my son, you may sit down to your dinner.”
Here the merchant concluded with an emphatic
“ahem,” and was about to turn his chair to take his
seat at the table, when one of his younger boys hesitatingly
inquired, “if a watch maker wath respectable?”
“Why so, my child?” rejoined the self-complacent
parent.
“Coth, if ta'nt no thpectable people ought to thpeak
to you.”
“Come to your dinner, children, and you, you lisping
chit, shall wait, for your forwardness,” exclaimed
the now justly provoked mother, (for Mr. Belden, reader,
was unfortunately the son of a watch-maker!) Edward
laughed in his sleeve; Mr. Belden carved the
joint in silence, and in silence Mrs. Belden helped
round the vegetables. During the recess of that very
afternoon, the aristocratical scion, Edward Belden,
played at catch and toss with that young democrat,
Bill Webster. This brief family scene is not introduced
as affecting, materially, the general interest of
our tale, but to disclose a state of manners and mode
of thinking, by no means uncommon, in New England;
presenting a strange anomaly in the society of
American material that hereafter may afford materials
for a pair of volumes.—Yet it is to such principles
as those we have just heard dictated by a parent to
his child, that the adverse fortunes of that child and a
thousand others of New England's children are to be
referred. The income Mr. Belden derived from his
store, was from eight hundred to two thousand dollars
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per annum. His domestic expenses, which could not
possibly be very great, as every thing, from the children's
shoes to their spelling books, from the “kitchen
girl's” calico and handkerchief to Mrs. Belden's silks
and laces, besides all the provisions, “came out of the
store.”—How they came into the store never entered
into the brain of Mrs. Belden. She was satisfied her
housekeeping could cost nothing; “never mind, it
came out of the store,” was the coup de grace, by
which she silenced every qualm of conscience or
friendly hint from envious neighbors, upon her own
extravagance in household matters. For Mrs. Belden
sought to keep up appearances, and there were
other merchants' ladies in the neighboring town she
must rival. What with Mrs. Belden's expensive
habits, and Mr. Belden's moderate profits, he seldom
laid by more than two or three hundred dollars a year.
Yet on this small income, without the prospect of having
a dollar to give them when they became of age,
his children must be educated!—gentlemen and ladies!
as if heirs to principalities. Let us see what gentlemen
and ladies he made of them. It will serve briefly
to develope a system of gentility and genteel education,
lamentably prevalent throughout the villages
and small towns of New England.
Amelia, the eldest daughter, grew up tall and well
formed, pale and romantic. She had attended the village
female academy from her youth upward. At
eighteen she left school tolerably well educated. That
is, she was versed in geography, and could tell you
the capitals of every European state more readily
than those of the various States of her own country;
and knew, (so deeply learned was she,) more about
the lives of the kings of England and of Egypt, than
of the Presidents of the United States. She could
paint fruit pieces and mourning pieces, which still
hung over her mantle in testimony of her skill: write
a neat hand, cypher tolerably, and play a little on the
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piano. Yet, with all these accomplishments, she
found herself at the age of twenty-seven unmarried,
and, at last, to escape her mother's tongue, which
grew sharper as she grew older, and wagged particularly
against “old maids,” and to find the wherewithal
to purchase dresses, for she had inherited her mother's
love of finery, she accepted an offer to keep the
school (this not being mechanical, except in cases of
flagellation, is therefore “respectable,” and conferring
no disgrace) in a neighboring village, in which delightful
task, peradventure, she is still engaged.
The second child, who was a son, having a natural
mathematical turn, and much mechanical ingenuity,
at the age of seventeen, when his father proposed
taking him into the “store,” pleaded hard to become a
machinist, or go to sea—any thing but to be tied to
the counter of a country grocery. His parents were
shocked at his vulgar tastes. The young man, after
staying behind the counter, three months, during
which time he was placed at the station at the further
end, where rum was retailed, because his careful parent
could trust no one else there, and, after hearing
more oaths and seeing more intemperance than would
have corrupted a Samuel, yielded, disgusted with
his employment, to the offers of an intelligent sea captain,
and amid the tears, groans, and prophecies of his
mother, (for the caste of sea captains is not exactly
comme il faut,) went to sea with him. He is now,
though young, the first officer of a packet ship from
New York, and a gentleman, in spite of his father.
The third son, a fine spirited boy, who wished to
become a jeweler rather than succeed his sea-struck
brother in the store, eventually followed his brother's
example, by eloping, and after various adventures,
during which he lost both health and reputation, became
one of the lowest supernumeraries on the New
York stage. The cholera of 1832 put an end to his
misery, his dissipation and pecuniary wretchedness,
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and the Potter's field has become his last resting place.
The fourth was apprenticed to a respectable wholesale
dry goods merchant in Boston. When he became
of age, and desired to enter into business on his own
responsibility, his employer, to whom he looked for
assistance, “failed,” and he was at once thrown upon
the world with but a few hundred dollars in his possession.
He again became a clerk to another house,
on a scanty salary, for, although a man of business,
integrity, and industry, he was not a man of capital.
He knows no trade—he is fit for nothing but a merchant's
clerk. He is still clerking, although nearly
thirty years of age, while he finds about him men of
wealth and independence, although mechanics, like
their fathers before them, whom, when at school he was
taught to despise. With what bitter curses upon the
foolish system to which he was a victim, did he contrast
their situations, happy in the bosom of their family,
with his own, a lonely salaried bachelor. “How
much it costs to be a gentleman!” thought he.
The fifth, and next youngest child, who was a
daughter, married a young merchant of her native
village, who failed the following year, died intemperate
the next ensuing, leaving his wife and two children
to the tender mercies of her parents or the
world.
The sixth child, a less intelligent and active boy
than his brothers, his father succeeded in retaining in
the store; this being the portal through which all of
them made their debut into active life. He soon acquired
the habits and tastes of the loungers in the
store; to their language and beastly intoxication he
soon became familiarised; and imperceptibly by commencing
with cordials and sherbets, he acquired a
taste for ardent spirits; and at the age of twenty-five,
after having been for three years a common drunkard,
he died in his father's house of mania a potu.
This, reader, is no fiction. Name and localities are
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only requisite to identify those facts in the memories
of many, with the history of a family now almost extinct.
Yet, even without this key, too ready an application
of it may be made to numerous families, within
the observation of every New England reader.
Besides Edward, there were two brothers and a sister,
who fortunately, did not survive long enough to
become either lady or gentleman!
Three years after the conversation recorded above,
Edward entered the sophomore class at Cambridge.
His manners were polished, his address winning, his
talents of a high order. After six weeks he was the
most popular of his class, both with the faculty and
his class-mates; while many young gentlemen of the
upper class sought his acquaintance. His associates
were among the wealthiest in college; his good nature,
gentlemanly air, irresistible wit, and high standing in
his class, rendered his society universally sought after.
The first year, his bills were paid by his father, and
he was allowed fifty dollars during the year for spending
money. This he laid out in books, for he neither
gambled, nor indulged in the expensive habits which
could be afforded by others. When in the height of
his prosperity and scholastic fame, a letter came in
reply to one he had written to his father for a remittance,
to purchase a few necessary books, stating that
“business was dull, his profits small, and that it was
more expensive at college than he supposed it would
be!” After two pages of advice in relation to the
necessity of preserving his standing as a gentleman,
he wound up with the suggestion, “that as he could
not afford to pay such large bills any longer, he had
best work the rest of his way through college by
keeping school during the vacations.” A bank note
for twenty dollars was enclosed, with the intimation
“that he must expect but little more assistance from
him, as he had his two brothers and sisters to educate;
that he was getting old, and times were hard.”
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It would be difficult to picture the mortification of
a sensitive, high-minded young man, at such an announcement.
Minor accounts usually liquidated at
the same time, were also unpaid. But these difficulties,
though instantly occurring to his mind, did not
so much affect him as the sudden change this conduct
of his father must produce in his situation. Educated
like a gentleman, his most intimate associates had been
with those young aristocrats of the college who had
wealth to support their pretensions. With the “beneficiaries,”
these noble-minded young men, who seek
science through her most thorny parts, those of poverty
and contumely, he had never associated—they
were a species of literary operatives, whom he had
not yet decided whether to class as mechanics or gentlemen.
He groaned bitterly as he felt he was degraded
to their caste. It was late at night when he
received the letter, and after pacing the room a long
time in mental agitation, he seized his hat and hastened
to the president's room. The usual lamp shone in
the window; he tapped lightly at the door and entered.
The venerable Doctor Kirken, who was engaged
over his desk, raised his head and politely invited
him to be seated.
Edward laid his father's letter upon the desk, saying
hastily, “A letter from my father, sir.”
The president read it, and shook his head, as if displeased
at its contents.
“I sympathise with you, Belden. This is not the
first case of the kind I have met with since my connection
with this institution. This infatuation among
the class to which your father belongs, of making gentlemen
of their sons, when they cannot allow them the
means to sustain the rank of such, has been the ruin
of many promising young men. It is a mistaken notion,
and one fruitful with the most baneful consequences,
that a youth to be made a gentleman of, must
become a member of one of the learned professions;
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and that to be a member of one of these, he must
first pass through college. It is a mischievous error,
and must be eradicated. It is daily doing incalculable
injury to society. Experience must soon teach
such persons the unsoundness of the position they
have assumed, and convince them, that an independent
farmer or mechanic (which all may become who
will) is intrinsically a better gentleman and a far more
useful member of society, than an impoverished lawyer
or doctor, or a minister who has become such that
he may be one in the ranks of (to use an English
term, for which, in America, we neither have or should
have a corresponding word) the `gentry.”'
The president concluded by giving him much judicious
advice for his future conduct in life, and the
young man took his leave and went forth into the
world, alone, friendless, and almost moneyless.
We briefly pass over his short and unhappy career.
He went to New York, where he remained several
weeks, seeking some genteel employment, (for of any
mechanical trade or art, he was totally ignorant.) At
length, a situation offered, after he had spent his last
dollar in paying for an advertisement applying for a
clerkship or tutorship.
The subsequent events in the life of Edward Belden,
(save the mystery that still hangs over the place
of his exile,) are familiar to all who have not forgotten
the tragedy which a short time ago agitated our
great commercial metropolis, and filled the minds of
all men with horror.
This brief outline of what could easily be extended
to volumes, is written to expose the rottenness of a
mischievous custom, founded in vanity and perpetuated
in injustice to its juvenile victims, which reigns all
over New England. Alas, that men should think that
because they give their sons an education, they must of
necessity, make professional men of them, or suppose,
if they wish to make them gentlemen without the
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trouble and expense of education, that they must make
merchants of them!
Let every parent, whether farmer or country merchants,
country doctor, country lawyer, or country parson,
if he have five sons, educate them all well if he
will, but make four of them tillers of the soil or masters
of a trade. He will then be certain of having
four independent sons about him. If he have seven
daughters, let him make seven good milliners and mantua
makers of them, and they will then be independent
of the ordinary vicissitudes of life. Let him do
this, that is, provided he has no fortunes to leave them.
But even if he have, still it would be better for them
that he should do this, than if he should leave it undone.
It is the opposite plan to this, the reaching after
gentility or respectability, as it is termed, for their
children, that throngs our metropolitan streets with
courtezans and inundates all cities from New York to
New Orleans with pennyless adventures.
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THE KELPIE ROCK, OR UNDERCLIFF; A LEGEND OF THE HUDSON HIGHLANDS.
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“Fairy, Fairy, list and mark!
Thou hast broken thine elfin chain;
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,
And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain—
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity
In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye!”
The Culprit Fay, Canto, VII.
Thus happily did they pursue their course, until they entered upon those
awful defiles, denominated the Highlands, where it would seem that the gigantic
Titans had erst waged their impious war with heaven, piling up cliffs
on cliffs, and hurling vast masses of rocks in wild confusion.
—The History of
New York, by Dedrick Knickerbocker.
So long as we have the inspired poet who first
struck his woodland harp among the Hudson Highlands,
and sung of fairy land and the two vast labors
of the Culprit Fay — so long as we have that veritable
historian and authentic chronicler of great sublunary
events, the profound and erudite Deidrick Knickerbocker—
be his memory thrice honored!—to stand
by us in support of our legend, which is not a jot less
true than his own veracious history, we do not care a
whiff of tobacco-smoke, if the incredulous and the
critics believe not one word of it. We have fortified
ourself in the outset, like one when he putteth on his
armor for the battle, with a quotation from this sweet
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poet of fairy land, and another from the pen, dipped
in Hybla, of this great man and learned historian, and
feel that confidence within, which inspireth courage,
and that will enable us to hold out stoutly to the last.
It was late one August day, after a fruitless hunt
for game through the wild ravines and along the
heights of “Bull Hill,” that emerging from a forest of
oak and larch, I found myself upon the summit of the
lofty cliff, which, with a sheer fall of a thousand feet
to the verdant plateau beneath, terminates the range
of eastern highlands above West Point, to the south.
The wide and glorious scenes that burst upon my
sight, fixed me like a statue. The Hudson lay at my
feet, completely land-locked—a lake sleeping among
mountains—looking like a mirror of polished steel.
Old Cro'nest lifted his “shaggy breast” from its
bosom, and hid his hoary head in a cloud which had
lazily rolled half-way down his sides. West Point,
with its lovely plain, its snowy tents, its charming
villas, seemed like a picture done by a lady's fingers,
so delicate was the pencilling of each outline, so exquisite
the play of lights and shadows. From the
height above, “Old Put,” looked down with a protecting
air—with his hoary front and war-worn look—
a fine feature in the far and varied scene. At my
feet lay the quiet and picturesque village of Cold
Spring. Its dusty streets, with a group of children at
play, a goodwife with an apron over her head, crossing
to a neighbor's; a wagon, with a solitary occupant
slowly wending toward his farm; a cow, lounging
homeward at her leisure, whisking her long tail,
and doubtless chewing her cud in peace and contentment;
its little cove sprinkled with boats; a single sloop
unloading at the wharf, where one or two little urchins
are fishing for cat-fish; its chapel, romantically
perched on a rock overhanging the water, all presenting
a lively contrast to the dark, solemn majesty of
the surrounding highlands.
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At the very base of the cliff, and seemingly so near
that I could have dropped a St. Nicholas' bon bon
adown its chimneys, in the centre of a wide verdant
plateau, sloping to the water, lay, like a map open
upon my palm, Undercliff, the romantic seat o
General —, with its noble villa, its gardens, its
fountains, its pleasant groves and its winding avenues,
all exposed, as they would be to the eye of a bird in
its empyrean flight.
There was not a breath of air to fan a lady's cheek,
or stir a child's ringlets. The lake-like Hudson was
a mirror, and old Cro'nest threw his “huge, gray
form,”
“in a dark-blue cone on the wave below.”
A far-extended fleet of vessels was dispersed upon the
water—their idle sails furled to the slender yards, or
drooping gracefully from the masts—waiting the evening
breeze. So clear was the element on which they
were suspended, that beneath each, another was seen,
its ropes, spars, even the sailors moving about, so accurately
copied, that it could not be told from its fellows,
save that the wrong end was upwards. Occasionally,
a light skiff, with a single oarsman, would
shoot from the shore and dart along this mirror, leaving
a widening wake of tiny waves to sport and
glance their little minute in the sun-light. Just before
me, in a romantic inlet, called Kelpie Cove, with a
vast rock lying solitary on its curving beach, a family
of geese, whiter than snow, sailed gracefully along,
wheeling about at times, now facing the land, now the
open river, as if expecting an attack, and were prepared
to meet it.
On looking again toward old Cro'nest, I observed
the fleecy cloud which I had seen sluggishly rolling
down its sides, gradually to assume a darker hue, and
to shoot off from the mountain; and then it slowly
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sailed through the air towards the cliff on which I
stood, and nearly on a level with my eye. Soon other
clouds from the hills to the north and west, also came
sweeping majestically along, at the same level, and in
a few moments the summit of the cliff was enveloped,
and the river, with the rich pictures painted on it, gradually
disappeared in a veil of mist, as the scenes on
a magic mirror fade before the waving wand of the
magician.
For a moment I was as bewildered as if sudden
blindness had come upon me. The union of the several
masses, which came trooping along as if to a stormgathering,
momentarily increased the density of the
cloud, which at first was so rare, that I could see twice
the length of my gun, whereas I now could touch a
tree and not see it. The heavy moisture saturated my
garments, and run off the barrel off my fowling piece
in a trickling stream.
It occurred to me that I must be in the lowest stratum
of the clouds, which, on approaching, did not appear
to hang six feet lower than my position. I remembered
that, not far off, there was a cleft which
with a bold descent, obliquely approached a lower
shelf of the cliff. With some difficulty I found it, and
cautiously descended. I had advanced thirty feet,
and was still within the cloud, which, on touching the
mountain, had settled heavily about its summit, when,
all at once, it rolled up like a curtain, and the scene
below once more burst upon my sight. The under
surface of the clouds stretched away to the opposite
mountain, discolored with a dark, murky hue, and
were rolling and heaving like an inverted sea. They
cast over the landscape a sombre shade, giving a wild
and cheerless aspect to the face of Nature before so
smiling. Through an opening in their dark bosom,
there suddenly shot a bright, glorious beam of golden
sunshine. It fell upon the water where a vessel was
furling her canvass to encounter the brewing tempest,
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and gave to the white sails, contrasted with the surrounding
gloom, a lustre as if overlaid with burnished
gold. Slowly passing off from this solitary object,
leaving it, to the eye, almost black from the sudden
contrast, it travelled across the water, gilded the roof
of the Chapel of the Rock, “Our Lady of Cold Spring,”
and then the envious clouds closing up, shut it in, and
it disappeared.
The spot on which I now stood was a shelf, about
thirty feet lower than the highest part of the cliff, and
had the appearance of an excavation made by the
falling of a detached fragment. There remained beneath,
however, no traces of a fragment one twentieth
part large enough to have filled the space. After giving
the subject a moment's thought, and saying, half
aloud, “By St. Nicholas, I should like to know how
this cavity was formed!” I turned to retrace my steps,
and gain the delightful shelter of Undercliff, which,
although it seemed as if I could lay my hand upon its
balconies, it would take a good mile's stout walking
to reach. The thunder already muttered audibly in
the distance, and the clouds threatened every moment
to break out into rain. My situation was one of sublimity,
and I was at one time tempted to remain and
outbreast the storm—companion of the lightning and
thunder; but there was no sublimity in a wet jacket,
and so I shouldered my gun, and turned to go. My
retreat was unexpectedly and strangely intercepted.
On a projecting lap of the rock, and directly in
the narrow path by which I had descended, was seated
a singular looking being, but evidently of flesh and
blood, from the rosy hue of his ample cheeks, and the
energy with which he ejected currents of tobacco-smoke,
now through either orifice of his carbuncled
nose, now through both, now from between his lips,
which quietly closed over the stem of a fair long
pipe, of the days of Peter the Headstrong. Voluminous
brown trunk-hose encased his capacious ribs, and
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Flemish boots were rolled around his ample calves. A
green jerkin, of a queer, old-fashioned cut, covered his
upper man, and studiously left open in front, displayed
a broad Flemish ruff, soiled with tobacco-smoke. A
high, peaked hat, briskly cocked in front, and surmounted
by a rusty plume, he wore jauntly on one side of
his head. One hand rested upon an antiquated spy-glass,
which lay across his knees, and he had a cock
in his left eye, as if he was still spying. I should have
mentioned, also, that a brace of enormous pistols,
with rusty locks, and barrels, were stuck in his belt,
and a whinyard, half a fathom in length, hung by his
left thigh. Altogether he was a very formidable and
truculent-looking personage, especially, to be encountered
in so wild a spot.
He permitted me to survey him from head to foot;
while, shutting one eye, he deliberately, with the
other, took the same liberty with me. He then distended
his cheeks with smoke till they were as round
and sleek as a pippin, then emitted it from either corner
of his mouth and both nostrils, and, as it seemed
to me, also from his ears and eye, so multitudinous
were the currents—so dense the volume of smoke that
rolled from him. It soon hid his head, and all but
the tip of his rusty plume, which I could see nodding
at me above it, the twinkling of his gray eye, and the
gleam of his fiery proboscis, which I could discern
glowing through it like the end of a stout, red-hot
poker. He at length spoke, and his voice seemed to
come from the mouth of a speaking-trumpet, though
it had a tone that was meant to be courteous.
“You vas vish, mynheer, how in der duyvil von
rock pe proke vrom de kliff, here, an no pe to de pottom,
dere?”
He then puffed away within his cloud, and seemed
to await my remarks. I was not altogether at my
ease, and was doubtful of my company; I nevertheless
spoke confidently:
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“I merely expressed a passing wish,” I said, carelessly;
“but, nevertheless, should be glad to have my
curiosity gratified. You have the advantage of me
with your telescope,” I added, wishing to draw him
out, and to show him that I was nothing dashed at
his sudden appearance and fierce aspect. “I see you
are a judicious rambler. Distant scenery, after the
surprise of the first coup-d-œil, should always be
viewed in detail. For this a spy-glass is most essential.
A happy thought in you, sir.”
“By St. Nicholas, mynheer, I know every shtone
in de Highlants petter nor mine pipe. I hash not put
dish shpy-klass to mine eyes vor more dan two huntret
ant vivteen years.”
“Two hundred and fifteen years!” I repeated with
unmingled astonishment, and a slight degree of alarm,
casting, as I took a step backward, a suspicious glance
at each of his feet, which, much to my relief and gratification,
were, I observed, both well-shaped, and, save
being rather broad and large across the toes, as we
often see those of fat gentlemen, unexceptionable.
He made no reply to my exclamation, but puffed
away in composure and in silence. The sunset gun
from the military post, at this instant reverberated
among the Highlands, starting a thousand echoes,
which grew fainter and fainter as one answered to
the other, till they died away far to the north, like the
distant growling of thunder. Then the hoarse voice
of my companion was heard from the cloud of blue
vapor in which his upper man was enveloped.
“Tunder and blickzens! ven I vaked dese echoesh
de first time two huntret and venty years ago, mit de
guns of de Halve Mane, more nor ten tousant eaglish
vas scared vrom de kliffs! Dere is only dat one left
now!” he said, pointing with a jerk of his spy-glass
to a noble, white-headed eagle, sailing through the air
a hundred feet below us. “Dis gap vas not here den
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neider. Dat creat rock dere vas den on dis kliff vere
ve stant.”
He extended the end of his telescope through the
smoke, in the direction of an inlet of the river, which
gracefully curved towards the foot of the cliff, in the
shape of a crescent. Its northern horn terminated in a
bold, rocky headland, extending far into the water; its
southern boundary was a low, verdant tongue of land,
with a shelving, sandy beach, and terminating in a
rude pier-head, crowned by the white parsonage of
the village pastor. On the smooth beach, conspicuous
and alone, reposed a vast rock, or boulder, of many
tons weight, the same I had before noticed. At lowtides
it was many yards from the water, at high-tide
the waves flowed around it. Its shape was irregular.
It lay far from any other rocks, and a third of a mile
from the cliff. Past it wound the road to Fishkill, and
the plateau, which here gently inclined to the beach,
was verdant. Its position there was evidently accidental.
I gazed upon the rocks several seconds, took
its shape in my eye, and turned to apply it mentally
to the cavity in which we stood, yet I could arrive at
no satisfactory result. He saw my perplexity, and
said, coolly:—
“Dat rock was vonce in dis place, mynheer. Ash
you vish to know, I vill tell you de storish.”
“By all means,” I said, forgetting the gathering
storm, the thickening twilight, and the mystery hanging
about my companion, in my curiosity to hear a
veritable legend, from a source seemingly so well entitled
to do it justice. Moreover, if I had desired to
beat a retreat, the antiquated stranger had so completely
monopolised the only avenue of escape with
his bulky form, and seemed so quietly to enjoy his
seat, that I doubt, if I had made the attempt, it would
have succeeded, even if it had been safe, of which I
also have my own opinion. I therefore seated myself
opposite to him, on a fragment of the rock, and
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prepared to listen. The elements favored a story of diablerie,
as I anticipated this to be. The lightning
vividly illuminated the vast fields of clouds, and the
thunder bellowed among the opposite mountains, and
rumbled through the long ranges of hills in ceaseless
reverberations. After one or two prefatory whiffs, he
took his pipe from his lips, whereupon the cloud of
smoke slowly ascended from below his face, and mingled
with the cloud a few feet above our heads, displaying
a good-humored physiognomy, with the roysterring,
devil-me-care look of a merry Dutch skipper,
who loves to smoke his pipe, drink schiedam, and tell
a long story. Settling himself more at ease on his
seat, he then commenced his narration, which I give
word for word as he related it, saving here and there
the substitution of the king's English for his peculiar
phraseology.
“That vast and rugged boulder you see in Kelpie
Cove, looking so lonely and so out of place, the fair,
smooth beach, and springing grass around it, goes by
the name of KELPIE ROCK, and, within my memory
was a portion of this cliff. You doubtless may
have heard that from the oldest time, these highlands
were the abode of ogres, kelpies, and other superhuman,
yet earthly beings;—that when they dwelt among
these mountains, a lake, and not, as now, a river,
reflected their huge sides. The lake and highlands,
which shut it in, were also the prison-house of evil
demons, and the dark spirits, who, from time to time,
had rebelled against their master. Here were they
penned up until the time approached that this new
world was to become the inheritance of the children
of the old. Then were they all unbound, for the good
spirit had designed their vast abodes for mortals; but
they murmuring and rebelling at this decree, he bound
them in eternal chains, and confined them in horrid
dungeons, in that adamantine prison, now called the
Palisadoes. They are there walled up to the light of
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heaven, and although above the earth are unable to
behold it. There are they doomed to pass their painful
years in hideous clamors and howl and yell away
their dreadful bondage. The giants, ogres, gnomes,
and kelpies, he suffered to remain, yet bound them by
certain laws; then opening the hills that walled it in
toward the south, he let the waters of the lake seek
the distant sea. Fearful was the roar, and loud the
clamor of the imprisoned demons, when, from their
gloomy cells, they heard the roar of its wild waters,
as in one vast flood the unchained lake rolled thundering
past their dark abodes, washing their foundations
for many a league. Now it was that the titans,
the gnomes, the kelpies, the giants, and the ogres, became
greatly enraged at the destruction of their secluded
lake, and this opening of their fearful haunts to
the intrusion of daring mortals. Besides, these malevolent
and awful beings, perhaps you may have
heard that in the mountain opposite, the queen of fairies
holds her elfin court. Fairies, who are beings of
a gentle nature, and favor mortals, and the genii, who
are stern, implacable, and fierce, and hate mankind,
are always hostile toward one another, and let no
chance escape of showing their ill-will. Now, it was,
that after the lake was changed into a river, wide and
vast, as now it rolls, the Europeans had laid their
hands upon this continent as a new and bounteous
gift from nature, and their ships had entered this
river's mouth, that a young fay, called Erlin, a favorite
page of the fairy queen, was swiftly flying through
the air, his wings glittering like silver, for it was a
moonlight night, when he espied a little vessel gliding
along between the river shores, with all its canvass
spread to the favoring breeze. His curiosity at the
novel sight was instantly aroused, for he had never
seen a vessel, and thought, at first, it was a large white
bird. After surveying it curiously for a time, he
folded up his purple wings, and descended like an
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arrow. He hovered long above it, with mingled wonder,
fear, and admiration. At length, having gratified
his curiosity, he was about to mount again to the
upper regions of the air, when there appeared upon
the deck a beauteous virgin, her fair head rich with
clustering ringlets of glossy brown; a mouth, dimpled
over with the play of merry smiles; a cheek, in which
the lily and the rose exquisitely were blended; and a
form, for sylph-like symmetry and female grace, he
thought was every whit as perfect as that of fairy
queen. Altogether, he was convinced that she was
the most radiant being he had ever seen, and forthwith
became enamored of her. He hovered around
her, invisible, till he began to fear he should be called
to answer for his prolonged stay, for he was bound on
diplomatic business to an elfin court, far distant, when
the barque of Hendrick Hudson arrested him in his
arrowy flight.”
“Hendrick Hudson!” I exclaimed; “it was then
the vessel of this great navigator?”
“It vas, mynheer,” he answered complacently, and
nodding with the gratified air of a man who has received
a flattering compliment, putting the long stem
of his pipe in his mouth, and taking half a dozen
quick, short whiffs, to keep the fire in the bowl from
going out, “ant te young laty vas hish taughter.”
“I have often heard of Henry Hudson's lovely
daughter,” said I.
“When the Fay Erlin returned to his mistress,” he
continued, after having slowly emitted from one corner
of his mouth a slender thread of smoke, which
curled gracefully upward like a wreath of mist, and
mingled with the cloud, “the queen sharply inquired
why he had lingered on the way. He invented a
ready lie, as pages are used to do, and so for the present,
escaped; for you must know either fay or fairy
who glances on mortal with an eye of love, breaks its
elfin bond, and is, in a manner, guilty of high treason
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The penalty of an offence so dire is weighty, and proportioned
to its enormity; the culprit's lamp is extinguished,
which is the same thing as the breaking of
the criminal's sword by a mortal king; and its purple
and silver wings are stained with dark unsightly hues,
which is equivalent to the blotting out of the escutcheon
of an attainted noble. Besides these marks of
degradation, they are also punished by the imposition
of severe and ponderous tasks.
“The little vessel continued slowly to ascend, anchoring
each night with cautious fear, for it was entering
a gloomy region, wild and vast, and all unknown.
The Fay Erlin, impatient to behold once more the fair
and beauteous mortal, who from his faith and sworn
allegiance to his queen, had seduced him, stole from
the court, spread his purple wings, and glancing
through the moonlight like an arrow shot by Dian,
lighted in an instant after on this cliff. From it, as
you can see, the eye in looking south, takes in the
river for many a mile. The white sails of the approaching
vessel glimmering in the distance as the
moon shone down upon them, caught his eager sight.
His little heart bounded wildly with the joy he felt, and
opening wide his plumes, he was about to fly towards
it, when a low, deep muttering, mingled with horrid
sounds, fell upon his ears. He balanced himself on
his half-spread wings and listened to the uproar, which
seemed to come from the bowels of the cliff. This
cliff is hollow, and was then the council chamber
where the fearful beings I have before made mention
of, held their dark and direful consultations, and planned
and plotted mischief against the human race.
Erlin bent his ear an instant to the ground, and boding
danger from their secret councils to the lovely mortal,
he stole softly along, and entering the cave with
noiseless step and wing, beheld them to his wonder, all
in full assembly.
“There was an ogre with a flaming eye, a horrid
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aspect, and hideous form, who, in a vast, black cavern
under Old Cro'nest made his abode, growling and
grumbling if the thunder chanced to break his after-dinner
nap, and shake his house. There was a gnome,
to mortal eyes invisible, but whom Erlin saw in all
her fearful power; in whose awful form beauty and
hideousness were strangely blended, whose eyes were
lamps, whose limbs were writhing serpents, whose
wings were like a bat's, whose face and bosom surpassed
in loveliness the loveliest of mortals. There
is a single grotto beneath the cliff in Kosciusco's garden,
now hid from human eye; that was her abode.
There was a kelpie, with a human head, and breast,
shaggy and hideous, and clothed with hair; in size he
was a leviathan. He haunted the rocks and beach of
Kelpie Cove, and lived in caves beneath the water.
“There was a giant, of enormous stature; a long
black beard and a fierce mustache, made his wild aspect
still more fierce. He leaned upon a sapling, torn
up by the roots, which served him both for staff and
weapon. There were besides, whom also Erlin saw,
beings still more wonderful and monstrous both in
shape and size. He gathered from their speech and
clamors, that the rumor of the coming ship had reached
their ears, and that they now were met in council to
devise some present means of averting from their
heads the impending evil.
“`If,' said the ogre, rolling as he spoke, his only
eye, which, set in the middle of his forehead, glared
strangely, all over the assembly, and making most hideous
grimaces, while his voice rumbled like an earth-quake,
`if we permit these blue-eyed mortals to enter
our abodes, our power is gone. The fairies opposite
are troublesome enough to us. I cannot sleep of
moonlight nights for their dancing and capering over
my head. There is the queen's page, Erlin, a mere
hop-o-my-thumb, who loves mischief as he does moon-shine,
shoots his sharp steel arrows into my eye when
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I sleep after sun-up, as if he could find no better
mark.'
“`So, ho! grim ogre!' said Erlin to himself; `I owe
you one for that!'
“The gnome then rose, and gleaming with her
lamp-like eyes round upon each one, rested them
upon the ogre as he took his seat, and then spoke in
tones half hissing, like a serpent, and half articulate,
like a sweet female voice.
“`The ogre is right. These mortals must not pass
the old barrier which confined the river when a lake.
The ogre is again right. The fairies are troublesome;
they are always fickle. They may aid the mortals to
spite us whom they hate. There is also an old tradition,
Ogres, giants, kelpies, gnomes!
Fly—fly your ancient homes!
When an elf shall thrice defend
A maid 'gainst whom ye all contend,
Then, then your power shall end!'
“The giant then rose, shook himself, and in a voice
of thunder delivered the following speech:
“`It is my opinion we destroy these mortals without
delay, lest the fairies put their finger in, and spoil
the pie.'
“The kelpie, in a shrill voice, which sounded like a
horse's neigh, save that it was shriller, also rose to say
that he acquiesced in the general sentiments of his
friends, the honorable members of the council. Just
at this moment, a huge, lazy titan, lounging in the entrance
of the cavern, said that a strange white bird
had lit upon the water. `The Mortals! the mortals!'
was the cry. The council broke up in hurry and confusion,
and the members made for the outlet, so hastily,
that Erlin just escaped, through his great alertness,
from being drawn into the vortex of the ogre's mouth
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as he inhaled an immense draught of fresh air, while
rushing from the cave.
“When they gained the summit of the cliff, the adventurous
vessel appeared in open view, bravely
rounding the west point of yonder headland, It was
a fair and novel sight to these gaping, wondering monsters,
to see her glide along like a living creature with
snow-white wings, flinging the foam about her prow,
and leaving a boiling wake stretching far behind.
Erlin, impatient to light upon her deck, did nevertheless
restrain the impulse, and waited unobserved the
motions of the group, himself concealed in the velvet
folds of a mullen leaf.
“The gnome proposed flying from the cliff, lifting
the vessel in mid-air, and dashing it on the rocks.
This was approved unanimously. Erlin gained the
bark before her and balanced himself upon the truck.
The gnome could not raise it an inch, and defeated
flew back again enraged. The ogre was for creating
a storm. The waves began to roar and the winds to
whistle around the lonely bark; but it sailed on unharmed,
for the elf was there perched upon the yard, protecting
his lovely mistress. The giant tore up a vast tree to
hurl at it, but could not lift it from the earth, for Erlin
sat upon it. Great was their rage at these repeated defeats.
They knew their foes, the fairies were at work;
and the prophetic rhymes the gnome had spoken, made
them quake with fear that their time had come. The
kelpie, in his fierce and boundless wrath, struck the
cliff with a violent blow of his hoof and loosened a
huge fragment covered with earth and trees. It was
falling, to be dashed in atoms at the base, when the
titan seized it with both his hands, whirled it round
about his head, with a roar like a hurricane, and hurled
it through the air with deadliest aim toward the
fated vessel now abreast the cliff. Erlin was not prepared
for this, and as he saw the missile fly, roaring
through the air, he uttered a cry of agony. The next
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moment, ere it had flown one-half the distance between
the cliff and vessel, he lighted upon it. Instantly
it was arrested in its onward course, and with the
swiftness of a lightning-bolt it descended to the earth,
and buried itself deep in the sand, just on the water's
edge.
“Loud bellowings and wailings filled the air.
Hurled back into their cave by some power invisible,
the hideous monsters who had met in council, were
bound down in chains of adamant and shut up for
ever in the cliff's dark womb. Their howlings are
distinctly heard when the storm against their prison
loudly beats. The thunder never fails to stir their
fierce wrath up, and long and direful are their yells
and groans when thus disturbed in the eternal dungeons
to which the victiories of the fay have doomed
their monstrous race.”
Having finished this wild legend of diablerie, the
narrator rose to his feet, placed his spy-glass beneath
his arm, refilled his waning pipe, from an antiquated
silver tobacco-box, which he drew from a deep pouch
by his left hip, and seemed about to go from whence
he came. I thanked him for his narrative, warmly
expressing my gratification, and then courteously asked
him to whom I was so greatly indebted. He took
his pipe, which he had resumed, from his mouth, and
thus answered me:
“Mortals, after death, do hover over these terrestrial
scenes, pursue those pleasures or those labors, and
mingle in with all those affairs which occupied them
while alive. Departed poets have a region of their
own, inhabiting romantic solitudes, wandering by the
banks of rivulets, and roaming amid sublime scenery,
delighting their souls with the essence of that beauty,
the grosser parts of which were only enjoyed by them
as mortals. Philosophers, statesmen, authors, and all
others have each his own spiritual region, which is, in
a manner, the soul of the sublunary, for it is to the
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globe what the soul of man is to his body. It is in
this vast soul, which envelopes the earth, that they pass
their spiritual existence. Nothing is now dark or obscure
to their intellects, nothing beyond the grasp of
their comprehension. All things before hid in mystery
are now clear as the sun, to their spiritual vision.
Navigators, who discover continents, islands, lakes,
and rivers, do, in an especial manner, haunt the scenes
of their earthly fame, and are more immediately their
presiding and protecting genii. All these essences or
spirits, whatever the variety of their several pursuits,
however elevated their rank, are bound to obey the
call of mortals, appear before them in their earthly
form, and answer to all questions when rightly and
sincerely applied to. I am the presiding spirit of this
vast river. You wished for me, and I am here.”
“You are then —”
“Hendrick Hudson.”
A loud clap of thunder at this instant broke above
our heads, while the lightning, which accompanied
rather than preceded it, blinded me for several seconds.
When I recovered the use of my eyes, I looked around
and found myself alone.
Twilight was rapidly breaking into night, the clouds
began to hang down the sides of the mountain as if
heavy with water. Embracing the little of daylight
that yet remained, I succeeded in regaining the villa
of Undercliff, amid tempest of wind and rain, accompanied
by wild flashes of lightning, and appalling
thunder, which rattled among the hills, awakening, as
I now understood the apparent echoes, the howlings
of the troubled spirits confined in their cavernous
bowels.
The next morning the sky being without a cloud,
the atmosphere soft and transparent, the sun bright
and cheerful, and all nature smiling and gay, I sought
the Kelpie Rock. On the south side I discovered to
my entire satisfaction, the deep points of a gigantic
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hoof six times the size of a horse's and as plainly to
be seen as the nose on a man's face, which at once
testified to the veracity of the ancient Schipper, and
the genuineness of his wonderful legend.[1]
eaf159.n1[1] For the trial of Fay Erlin for loving a mortal—the catastrophe
of the council of monsters having led to the detection—the curious
dipper and believer in legendary lore, and lover of fairy tales is referred
to Drake's inimitable poem, entitled “The Culprit Fay,” to
which, as well as to the history from the pen of that enlightened historian
and profound scholar, Mr. Knickerbocker, the writer acknowedges
his indebtedness.
-- --
THE MYSTERIOUS LEAPER; OR, THE COURTSHIP OF MINE HOST'S DAUGHTER.
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In one of the loveliest villages in old Virginia, there
lived in the year 175- and odd, an old man, whose
daughter was declared by universal consent, to be the
loveliest maiden in all the country round. The veteran,
in his youth, had been athletic and muscular
above all his fellows; and his breast, where he always
wore them, could show the ornament of three medals,
received for his victory in gymnastic feats, when a
young man. His daughter was now eighteen, and had
been sought in marriage by many suitors. One brought
wealth—another a fine person—another industry—another
military talents—another this, and another that.
But they were all refused by the old man, who became
at last a by-word for his obstinacy among the young
men of the village and neighborhood. At length, the
nineteenth birthday of Annette, his charming daughter,
who was as amiable and modest as she was beautiful
arrived. The morning of that day her father invited
all the youth of the country to a hay-making frolic.
Seventeen handsome and industrious young men assembled.
They came not only to make hay, but also
to make love to the fair Annette. In three hours they
had filled the father's barns with the newly dried
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grass, and their own hearts with love. Annette, by
her father's command, had brought them malt liquor
of her own brewing, which she presented to each enamored
swain with her own fair hands.
“Now my boys,” said the old keeper of the jewel
they all coveted, as leaning on their pitchforks they
assembled round his door in the cool of the evening—
“Now my lads, you have nearly all of you made
proposals for my Annette. Now, you see, I don't care
anything about money nor talents, book larning nor
soldier larning—I can do as well by my gal as any
man in the county, But I want her to marry a man
of my own grit. Now, you know, or ought to know,
when I was a youngster, I could beat any thing in all
Virginny in the way o'leaping. I got my old woman
by beating the smartest man on the Eastern shore,
and I have took the oath and sworn it, that no man
shall marry my daughter without jumping for it. You
understand me, my boys. There's the green, and here's
Annette,” he added, taking his daughter, who stood
timidly by him, by the hand. “Now the one that
jumps the furthest on a' dead-level' shall marry Annette
this very night.
This unique address was received by the young men
with applause. And many a youth as he bounded
gaily forward to the arena of trial, cast a glance of
anticipated victory upon the lovely object of village
chivalry. The maidens left their looms and quilting
frames, the children their noisy sports, the slaves their
labors, and the old men their arm-chairs and long
pipes, to witness and triumph in the success of the
victor. All prophesied and many wished that it
would be young Carroll. He was the handsomest
and best humored youth in the county, and all knew
that a strong and mutual attachment existed between
him and the fair Annette. Carroll had won the reputation
of being the “best leaper,” and in a country
where such atheletic achievements were the sine quanon
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of a man's cleverness, this was no ordinary honor.
In a contest like the present he had therefore
every advantage over his fellow athletæ.
The arena allotted for this hymeneal contest, was a
level space in front of the village-inn, and near the
centre of a grass-plat, reserved in the midst of the village
denominated “the green.” The verdure was
quite worn off at this place by previous exercises of a
similar kind, and a hard surface of sand more befitting
for the purpose to which it was to be used, supplied
its place.
The father of the lovely, blushing, and withal happy
prize, (for she well knew who would win,) with three
other patriarchal villagers were the judges appointed
to decide upon the claims of the several competitors.
The last time Carroll tried his skill in this exercise, he
“cleared”—to use the leaper's phraseology—twenty-one
feet and one inch.
The signal was given, and by lot the young men
stepped into the arena.
“Edward Grayson, seventeen feet,” cried one of
the judges. The youth had done his utmost. He
was a pale intellectual student. But what had intellect
to do in such an arena? Without looking at the
maiden he slowly left the ground.
“Dick Boulden, nineteen feet.” Dick with a laugh,
turned away, and replaced his coat.
“Harry Preston, nineteen feet and three inches.”
“Well done, Harry Preston,” shouted the spectators,
“you have tried hard for the acres and homestead.”
Harry also laughed and swore he only “jumped for
the fun of the thing.” Harry was a rattle-brained fellow,
but never thought of matrimony. He loved to
walk and talk, and laugh and romp with Annette, but
sober marriage never came into his head. He only
jumped for “the fun of the thing.” He would not
have said so, if sure of winning.
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“Charley Simms, fifteen feet and a half.” “Hurrah
for Charley! Charley'll win!” cried the crowd
good-humoredly. Charley Simms was the cleverest
fellow in the world. His mother had advised him to
stay at home, and told him if he ever won a wife, she
would fall in love with his good temper, rather than
his legs. Charley, however, made the trial of the latter's
capabilities and lost. Many refused to enter the
lists altogether. Others made the trial, and only one
of the leapers had yet cleared twenty feet.
“Now,” cried the villagers, “let's see Henry Carroll.
He ought to beat this,” and every one appeared,
as they called to mind the mutual love of the last competitor
and the sweet Annette, as if they heartily
wished his success.
Henry stepped to his post with a firm tread. His
eye glanced with confidence around upon the villagers
and rested, before he bounded forward, upon the face
of Annette, as if to catch therefrom that spirit and assurance
which the occassion called for. Returning
the encouraging glance with which she met his own,
with a proud smile upon his lips, he bounded forward.
“Twenty-one feet and a half!” shouted the multitude,
repeating the announcement of one of the
judges, “twenty-one feet and a half. Harry Carroll
forever. Annette and Harry.” Hands, caps, and
kerchiefs waved over the heads of the spectators, and
the eyes of the delighted Annette sparkled with joy.
When Henry Carroll moved to his station to strive
for the prize, a tall gentlemanly young man in a military
undress frock-coat, who had rode up to the inn,
dismounted and joined the spectators, unperceived,
while the contest was going on, stepped suddenly forward,
and with a “knowing eye,” measured deliberately
the space accomplished by the last leaper. He
was a stranger in the village. His handsome face and
easy address attracted the eyes of the village maidens,
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and his manly and sinewy frame, in which symmetry
and strength were happily united, called forth the admiration
of the young men.
“Mayhap, sir stranger, you think you can beat
that,” said one of the by-standers, remarking the manner
in which the eye of the stranger scanned the area.
“If you can leap beyond Harry Carroll, you'll beat
the best man in the colonies.” The truth of this observation
was assented to by a general murmur.
“Is it for mere amusement you are pursuing this
pastime?” inquired the youthful stranger, “or is there
a prize for the winner?”
“Annette, the loveliest and wealthiest of our village
maidens, is to be the reward of the victor,” cried
one of the judges.
“Are the lists open to all?”
“All, young sir!” replied the father of Annette with
interest—his youthful ardor rising as he surveyed the
proportions of the straight-limbed young stranger.
“She is the bride of him who outleaps Henry Carroll.
If you will try you are free to do so. But let me tell
you, Harry Carroll has no rival in Virginny. Here
is my daughter, sir, look at her and make your trial.”
The young officer glanced upon the trembling
maiden about to be offered on the altar of her father's
unconquerable monomania, with an admiring eye.
The poor girl looked at Harry, who stood near with a
troubled brow and angry eye, and then cast upon
the new competitor an imploring glance.
Placing his coat in the hands of one of the judges,
he drew a sash he wore beneath it tighter around his
waist, and taking the appointed stand, made, apparently
without effort, the bound that was to decide the
happiness or misery of Henry and Annette.
“Twenty-two feet one inch!” shouted the judge!
The announcement was repeated with surprise by the
spectators, who crowded around the victor, filling the
air with congratulations, not unmingled, however, with
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loud murmurs from those who were more nearly interested
in the happiness of the lovers.
The old man approached, and grasping his hand
exultingly, called him his son, and said he felt prouder
of him than if he were a prince. Physical activity
and strength were the old leaper's true patents of nobility.
Resuming his coat, the victor sought with his eye
the fair prize he had, although nameless and unknown,
so fairly won. She leaned upon her father's arm,
pale and distressed.
Her lover stood aloof, gloomy and mortified, admiring
the superiority of the stranger in an exercise
in which he prided himself as unrivalled, while he
hated him for his success.
“Annette, my pretty prize,” said the victor, taking
her passive hand—“I have won you fairly.” Annette's
cheek became paler than marble; she trembled
like an aspen-leaf, and clung closer to her father, while
her drooping eye sought the form of her lover.—His
brow grew dark at the stranger's language.
“I have won you, my pretty flower, to make you
a bride!—tremble not so violently—I mean not for
myself, however proud I might be,” he added with
gallantry, “to wear so fair a gem next my heart. Perhaps,”
and he cast his eyes around inquiringly, while
the current of life leaped joyfully to her brow, and a
murmur of surprise run through the crowd: “perhaps
there is some favored youth among the competitors
who has a higher claim to this jewel. Young Sir,”
he continued, turning to the surprised Henry, “methinks
you were victor in the lists before me—I strove
not for the maiden, though one could not well strive
for a fairer, but from love for the manly sport in which
I saw you engaged. You are the victor, and as such,
with the permission of this worthy assembly, receive
from my hands the prize you have so well and honorably
won.”
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The youth sprung forward, and grasped his hand
with gratitude; and the next moment Annette was
weeping from pure joy upon his shoulders. The welkin
rung with the acclamations of the delighted villagers;
and, amid the temporary excitement produced
by this act, the stranger withdrew from the crowd,
mounted his horse, and spurred at a brisk trot through
the village.
That night Henry and Annette were married, and
the health of the mysterious and noble-hearted stranger
was drunk in over-flowing bumpers of rustic beverage.
In process of time, there were born unto the married
pair sons and daughters, and Henry Carroll had
become Colonel Henry Carroll, of the Revolutionary
army.
One evening, having just returned home after a
hard campaign, he was sitting with his family on the
gallery of his handsome country-house, when an advance
courier rode up, and announced the approach
of General Washington and suite, informing him that
he should crave his hospitality for the night. The necessary
directions were given in reference to the household
preparations, and Colonel Carroll, ordering his
horse, rode forward to meet and escort to his house
the distinguished guest, whom he had never yet seen,
although serving in the same widely-extended army.
That evening at the table, Annette, now become
the dignified, matronly and still handsome Mrs. Carroll,
could not keep her eyes from the face of their
illustrious visitor. Every moment or two she would
steal a glance at his commanding features, and half-doubtingly,
half-assuredly, shake her head, and look
again and again, to be still more puzzled. Her absence
of mind and embarrassment at length became
evident to her husband, who inquired, affectionately,
if she were ill.
“I suspect, Colonel,” said the General, who had
been for some time, with a quiet, meaning, smile,
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observing the lady's curious and puzzled survey of his
features, “that Mrs. Carroll thinks she recognises in
me an old acquaintance.” And he smiled with a
mysterious air, as he gazed on both alternately.
The Colonel stared, and a faint memory of the past
seemed to be revived, as he gazed, while the lady rose
impulsively from her chair, and bending eagerly forward
over the tea-urn, with clapsed hands and an eye
of intense, eager inquiry, fixed full upon him, stood
for a moment with her lips parted as if she would
speak.
“Pardon me, my dear madam—pardon me, Colonel—
I must put an end to this scene. I have become,
by dint of camp-fare and hard usage, too unwieldy
to leap again twenty-two feet one inch, even for so
fair a bride as one I wot of.”
The recognition, with the delight, surprise and happiness
that followed, are left to the imagination of the
reader.
General Washington was, indeed, the handsome
young “leaper,” whose mysterious appearance and
disappearance in the native village of the lovers is
still so traditionary, and whose claim to a substantial
body of bonâ fide flesh and blood, was stoutly contested
by the village story-tellers, until the happy denouement
which took place at the hospitable mansion
of Colonel Carroll.
-- --
THE LAST OF THE WHIPS; OR, FOUR-IN-HAND versus LOCOMOTIVE. IN TWO PARTS.
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“All in!” cried the stage agent, as he turned the handle
of the door. The coachman or “driver,” as he
is denominated in the parlance of New-England, till
this announcement had been listlessly seated upon his
box, with a half-smoked long-nine projecting from his
lips. He now gathered up the ribands in the palm of
his left hand, shook them slightly, and with an air professional,
settling himself the while with a forward inclination
of his body more firmly upon his seat. Drawing
them through his fingers, till he ascertained to his
satisfaction that they “pulled” upon the bits of his
four-in-hand equally and uniformly, he took his long
whip, constructed of an oaken staff, some five feet in
length, to which appertained a lash nearly twice as
long, flourished this “baton,” of his station scientifically,
and with the grace of a professeur three or
four times around his head, winding up with a loud
report of the snapper close to the ears of the leaders.
“T—t—t! cam! accompanied this startling salutation
to his favorite barbs, and away they sprung, tossing
their slender heads into the air, and flinging out
their fore legs wide, their hoofs clattering upon the
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round pavements of the streets of Providence. The
rattling of the wheels, the loud crack of the lash,
which, with reiterated reports, still played skilfully
about their heads and flanks, and the encouraging interjections
of the coachman, momently infusing additional
fire into the spirited animals. In a few moments
we had left the town, (for Providence, in 1832,
dear reader, was under the good old-fashioned patriarchal
government of select men, modest and unassuming
the honors of mayor and corporation,) and
were flying over the smooth turnpike, which was the
only line of communication either for the mail or travellers
between that place and Boston. This route in
the day of improvement is superseded by the railroad,
on which travellers are transported in two hours over
a section of country, which, three years ago, consumed
from six to seven. The day was delightful. The sun
was warm, but not oppressive. It was late in the
month of July, and nature was arrayed in her loveliest
apparel. I had taken my seat by the side of the
“driver,” to obtain a prospect of the finely cultivated
country through which our route lay, and draw upon
him for information respecting objects we passed. No
man should ever ride inside when he can ride outside!
This should be an axiom for all travellers. Preserve
me from immolation in a stage-coach on a dusty road
of a summer's day, nine passengers inside, with children
and bandboxes to fill up the interstices. If sins
are ever expiated in this life, such a mode of travelling
must speedily produce the complete absolution of
the most hardened transgressors.
My companion, the coachman, was a finely-formed,
athletic man, about five-and-twenty, with a handsome,
good-humored and benevolent countenance, a
merry twinkle in his clear blue eye and florid complexion,
with light-brown hair, curling about his forehead
and neck. He was dressed in light-green pantaloons
of corduroy velvet, and a short drab coat,
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adorned with pearl buttons, the size of a Spanish dollar;
and wore, a little depressed over his eyes, a white hat,
with a broad brim, encircled by a straw-colored riband.
On the seat lay his blue dreadnaught, or box-coat,
which served him as a cushion when fair, but in
which in cold or wet weather he comfortably enveloped
himself. We were rolling along through a finelytilled
country, with farm-houses, black and moss-covered
with age, lining the road, the rich farms appertaining
to them spreading around in all the opulence
of waving grain, green pastures, with flocks and herds—
complete pictures of comfort and independence.
Rural happiness seemed to have made this her abiding-place,
with peace, plenty and repose dwelling
around her.
Invited by the good-natured physiognomy of the
coachman, I entered into conversation with him. He
was intelligent and communicative, and, like all New-Englanders,
in his station in society, with a good common
education. His information relating to the objects
on the way, was valuable. He was au fait respecting
any historical, or otherwise interesting event
associated with the surrounding scenery, through
which we were passing. In alluding to the subject
of the projected railroad, then in agitation, between
Boston and Providence, he remarked that it might be
beneficial to many, but it would inevitably ruin all
engaged in “staging.”
“For my part,” said he, “I don't know what I
should do if this line should be broken up. I have
been, some eight years next September, driving on this
route, and this is my only means of supporting my
family.”
“You are then married!”
“Yes, sir; I have been married five years and little
better, and have a little curly-headed rogue that knows
now almost as much as his father; and one of the
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prettiest little babies perhaps you ever laid your eyes on,
sir.”
I smiled at the naiveté with which he said this. He
detected the expression of my eye; and, coloring, he
shook the lines and cracked his whip—although his
team were doing their best over a level road—with a
report like a pistol in the ears of his bay leaders, and,
after a momentary pause, continued apologetically—
“Why, I didn't mean to flatter myself when I said
it was pretty, sir; although the neighbors do say it favors
its father.”
“I have no doubt that it is as lovely as you represent,”
I replied, “and that, nevertheless, it resembles
yourself.” I said this sincerely as I watched the
changes of his handsome, but sun-browned face, as
the pride of the father and husband, called up there-upon,
the finest expression of which the human face
divine is susceptible.
The shades of evening were falling around us, and
we had just commenced the ascent of a long hill
clothed with forest trees, which often overhung the
road, enveloping it in gloom.
The “driver” dropped his reins upon the back of
his team, permitting it to toil slowly and laboriously
to the summit. He was silent and musing, and his
thoughts were evidently with his wife and little ones;
for his features wore that mingled expression of sadness
and joy, which at twilight, will steal over the
face of the absent wanderer when the heart is present
with loved ones. The spell of twilight had fallen upon
my companion, and, in imagination, he was beside
his young wife, with his “little rogue” and lovely
babe upon his knee! Suddenly he turned, and looking
me full in the face, said respectfully and with interest—
“Are you married, sir, if I may be so bold?”
Poor fellow! he sought for sympathy! Alas, forlorn
biped that I was then, I had none to bestow!
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“I am not,” I answered; “but I can picture the
bliss of nuptial life.”
“Allow me to say, sir, that you can never judge
rightly unless you do so from experience,” he interrupted
with some energy. “I have been married
about five years. I never knew what it was to be
happy and enjoy life till then. I have had more real
comfort in these five years, than in all my life before.
Oh, sir, if you could see how nicely I live; there's my
little cottage, just back from the road, almost hid in
the trees, its little flower-yard in front, which Mary—
that's my wife's name, sir—tends herself: and the garden
behind, which I cultivate myself when I am not
on the road. Oh, sir, if you could but see the sweet
smile with which Mary meets me when I get to the
house, the nice supper she sets for me, and hear her
tell how much she has missed me, and how often the
little prattlers have talked about `Pa.”'
The coachman became eloquent as he proceeded to
detail the individual features which conduced to the
perfection of his matrimonial felicity. The picture he
presented to my imagination, was glowing. The
goodness of heart and native nobility of character he
displayed in the recital, filled me with admiration,
while my heart warmed toward him. He spoke of
his early courtship—how Mary had refused wealtheir
suitors for him, her “dear Henry.” He discoursed of
her maternal and conjugal love: how she would weep
at a tale of sadness: mourn with the sorrowful and
rejoice with the mirthful. How she loved her children—
nightly kneeled by their bedside, and commended
them to the protection of her Heavenly Parent.
Of her piety he spoke long and ardently.
“Mary!” I mentally exclaimed, “thou art well
called MARY!”
The night had set in dark, and we were near the
end of the stage or route where we were to change
horses and driver. A little village was before us,
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with a light twinkling here and there from a dwelling
on the roadside. The horses flew forward with increased
speed; the wheels whirled rapidly along the
smooth pike, and loud and frequent were the reports
of the long lash in the air over the heads of the leaders.
We were entering the native village of my sentimental
and happy companion upon the coach box!
“Do you see that light, sir?” he inquired, with a
tone of pleasure. I looked in the direction indicated
with his whip. One light burned higher, brighter, and
more cheerfully than all the rest.
“That bright light is in Mary's window,” he said;
“she always sits there waiting for my return. Now,
sir, I will gladden her heart.”
As he spoke he drew his stage-horn from a “becket”
in which it hung, and placing it to his lips, blew
a long and cheerful blast. The horses, as if catching
inspiration from the sound, darted ahead with renewed
swiftness, and the next moment the coach
wheels were rattling merrily over the paved street of
the quiet village.
The stage rolled along through the avenue-like
street, and stopped before the principal hotel. The
driver dismounted, and surrendered his box to another,
a hard-featured stranger, with a harsh voice and
vulgar manners. I disliked him at once, and determined
to go no farther that night, for my curiosity was
roused to see more of my new friend.
“Coachman,” I said to him, “you have created an
interest in me; I wish to go with you to your house;
I should be gratified in witnessing your domestic
bliss.”
“Nothing would make me happier,” he replied; “I
was wishing to ask the honor of you, but was afraid
it would be too bold in me.”
“All ready, gentlemen!” cried the new coachman,
ascending to his box. “We are waiting for you, sir.”
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“Pitch me my valise, driver; I shall go no farther
to-night!”
The valise, with a heavy sound, accompanied by
an oath from the driver, struck the gallery, and with a
flourish and crack of the whip, the stage rolled away
from the inn, leaving me standing beside my Benedict.
After having engaged a room for the night at the
inn, I was, in a few minutes, on my way to the cottage
of the happy husband; a quarter of a mile from
the inn we turned into a narrow and crooked lane, at the
termination of which a light gleamed steadily; a beacon
of love, guiding the married lover to his young
bride!
We had walked half way to the house when the
gate of the flower-garden was thrown open, and a
graceful female figure hastily advanced towards us.
Her white dress glanced in the moon, which was just
rising above the trees; our figures, at that moment,
were partly concealed, mine wholly so, in the shadow
of a venerable tree which overspread the path.
“Henry, is it you? Oh, I have been waiting for
you so long,” and she darted forward and threw herself
into his arms. “Two long days you have been
away, and I have been so lonely!” As she spoke she
drew back from his arms, which had encircled her; to
gaze into his face, her eyes full of love, when the form
of a stranger caught her eye. I was gazing upon her
fair face in undisguised admiration. Her beauty, softened
by the moonlight seemed angelic!
“Sir, I beg your pardon,” she said, while her blushing
brow was visible even in the moonlight. “Henry,
why didn't you tell me some one was with you?” she
added with playful reproof, half ashamed that a stranger's
eye should mark the fervor of her devotion to her
husband and lover.
We passed through the neat white gate along a
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pebbled walk bordered with flowers, and entered the
cottage, a simple, snow-white dwelling, adorned with
a humble portico, half hidden in honey-suckle and
woodbine. With courtesy, I was ushered into their
happy abode. A room on the right of the little hall
served the young and frugal housewife as sitting-room
and kitchen. The floors were snowy-white, the furniture
plain and neat. Simplicity and taste reigned
over every domestic arrangement. Under a small
mirror placed against the wall, stood a side-table spread
with a white cloth, on which was laid the evening
meal. There were two plates—for the wife had delayed
her meal. She would not partake without her
husband! The little ones had long before taken their
bread and milk, and were sweetly and soundly sleeping—
“the rogue” in a crib by the side of a bed visible
in an adjoining room—the infant in a cradle by the
table.
I partook with the happy pair of their evening
meal, which remained religiously untouched, after we
were seated, until the lovely wife sweetly and devotionally
sought the divine blessing upon it. After
supper the sleeping infant was placed in my arms by
the fond father. It was, indeed, a lovely child—a
sleeping cherub! The eldest, a chubby, rosy-cheeked
urchin of some four years' growth in mischief, was
also taken from the inner room and shown to me. It
was a beautiful curly-locked fellow, the miniature of
its father. I told him so, and he smiled delightedly;
while his charming wife's face beamed more happily
than if the compliment had been paid to herself. That
night, after kneeling with them around the family altar,
and listening to a petition from the lips of the
young husband, which, for its spirit of devotion and
humble faith, I have seldom known equalled, I returned
to my hotel, and laid my head upon my pillow a
happier and better man!
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Alas! that my story must end as it will! If the
reader will be content with but one side of the shield,
let him glance only at the first part of this tale of real
life. The second is for him who will weigh human
life in a balance—who seeks for the knowledge both
of good and evil.
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On one of the loveliest afternoons of June last, I
stepped from the dusty pier upon the deck of the
steamer Benjamin Franklin, bound for Providence.
Of this fine boat I need not speak. Every one who
knows the patriarch of the “line” Captain Bunker,
knows the Benjamin Franklin, and all who have
“travelled” know him, and how very comfortable he
makes his large family of passengers. His kind consideration
for their comfort is characterised by quite a
paternal sort of feeling.
“Go ahead!” shouted the first officer, as the clocks
of the city were striking near and afar off, the hour of
five; and amid the ringing of bells from surrounding
and rival steamboats, the loud and repeated adieus interchanged
between friends on deck and those they
were leaving behind on the pier—this noble packet,
shot swiftly out from the dock, and in a few minutes
under the highest pressure of her immense power,
was gliding past an hundred craft anchored and on
the wing, passing the fleetest among them as if it
were stationary, so imperceptible was its really swift
motion compared with the bird-like velocity of the
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steamer. A few minutes after leaving the pier, the
Battery, with its green carpet, broad avenues, noble
trees, and gay crowds, appeared in sight; but the
next moment, like a scene of a brilliant and a fleeting
panorama, it disappeared, as making a majestic
sweep the boat doubled the Castle Garden—the lively
evening rendezvous of tired and cooped-up cits.
Rounding Whitehall, once more we were involved in
an anchored fleet of merchantmen, through which
our boat skilfully threaded its intricate way, passing
on one side crowded piers and long lines of stores; on
the other the bluffs, trees, green slopes, colonnaded
mansions, and Navy Yard of Brooklyn. Onward we
sped at the rate of seventeen miles to the hour, yet
the long line of brick buildings seemed interminable.
The city appeared to stretch away to the north to infinity,
while on the eastern side the shores of Long
Island, studded with villages and dotted with villas,
surrounded with highly-cultivated grounds, relieved
the eye when turned thither, fatigued with surveying
the brick and mortar scenery of Manhattan.
Six miles from the Battery we passed a charming
recess of the sound, or “East River,” as it is strangely
denominated, called “Hallet's Cove.” It is an amphitheatre
of country seats, embowered in the greenest
and densest foliage. On an elevated esplanade or
bluff, overhanging the water, the site of a delightful
village—that is to be—called Ravenswood, was pointed
out to me. It is to be laid out with the most accurate
adherence to symmetry in the arrangement and
architecture of the houses and the disposition of the
grounds and foliage. Grant Thorburn, celebrated for
his flowers and eccentricities, and withal his hospitality
(?) has a plain economical-looking mansion in the
vicinity, behind which appeared the glazed roof of an
extensive hot-house. His dwelling is utterly destitute
of foliage. Singular it is, that one who has passed
his life amid flowers and verdure, should choose a
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dwelling in which to spend the decline of his days
unadorned or unblessed by sheltering tree or shrub.
But, dear reader, all this is digressive. It is the
story of “The Stage Coachman,” to which I would
invite your sympathy. Farther, to your imagination
I leave our eventful passage of the “Hurl Gate,”
honored by traditionary veracity as the boiling cauldron
of Sathanas—and how, as the sun went down,
we entered the gradually-widening sound—how, far
in the noon of night we accomplished the perilous
passage of the “Race.” How, the deep sea rolled
landward its majestic waves, unbroken and unimpeded,
till they burst with a noise like thunder upon the
shores of Connecticut. How the “inner man” of the
major portion of my follow-passengers rebelled at this
unwelcome demonstration of Neptune's power over
mortals. How “Point Judith”—that region of horror
to all who adventure between Manhattan and Providence—
“tried men's souls;” and how the smooth
waters of the quiet basin of Newport, like the pool of
Siloam, cured most miraculously all the wilom sea-sick.
(Newport—your indulgence, dear reader, for a brief
digression) Newport is a lovely spot! The air is elastic;
its scenery rural; its daughters fairer than you see
in dreams! It abounds in rural beauties, and is rich
in historical associations. What a charm of romance
has the pen of Cooper thrown around it! The society,
in the summer season, is refined and southern—
for Newport is the Nahant of the southerners—I mean
the Carolinians and Georgians! Cooper's tower alone
invites a pilgrimage. An ex-governor, by-the-by, is
its keeper. The Tower of London has a “keeper,”
and why, forsooth, should not the romantic pile of
Newport? The curious tourist should be careful to
be provided with the “needful,” to obtain a sight of
it; for it is carefully fenced round about, and, in the
opinion of his excellency, who forbids all to approach
it who come not with proper credentials in their
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pockets, is too sacred ground for the feet of plebeians to desecrate.
Such spots are the property of the civilised
world—shrines to do pilgrimage to! In two hours
after leaving Newport, we arrived at Providence. The
steamer came slowly and majestically to the wharf,
and the cars could be discerned from the deck, standing
in a long line upon the track awaiting their occupants.
Who may faithfully describe the hurry and
confusion attendant on the debarkation of passengers
from a steamer to take their seats in the cars! The
ugly deity, Self, rules over the multitude then without
a rival. Trunks, bandboxes, and carpet-bags—how
they take to themselves wings and fly then! The
wrangling—the jostling—the crowding and squeezing—
the smashing of hats, and utter annihilation of corns—
who but Madame Trollope can find pen or language
to paint the scene?
My portmanteau was among the missing! On inquiring,
I learned, little to the benefit of my philosophy,
that, placed accidentally on the right or starboard
guard, under an ominous sign lettered “Newport
Baggage,” which, alas, met my eye too late, it had
suffered the fate of Newport baggage—videlicet—tumbled
ashore at Newport, some two hours before Somnus
released me, reluctantly, from his lethean embrace.
In silence I watched the rapidly loading cars, and saw
the well-filled train, each man (the more blest he who
owned none) in confident possession of his baggage.
After finding there was no remedy, I resolved to bear
my detention with suitable patience, until I could return
in the evening boat, for the truant valise; and
turning to enter my state-room, the only occupant of
the deserted steamer, I was accosted by one who inquired,
if “I had baggage to take to town.” I turned
quickly to annihilate the untimely joker upon my
misfortunes with a look, when my ocular anathema
was converted into an ejaculation of pity. A more
pitiful object has seldom met my gaze. His
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pantaloons, which scarce served to conceal his limbs, were
a strange medley of shreds of cloth, more strangely
put together; jacket or vest, he had neither; his feet
were thrust into shoes almost abridged, by long and
hard service, to sandals. He wore upon his neglected
locks an old straw hat, much shorn of its original
honors. His face was rubicund and bloated—his eyes
red, wild and sunken; and, together, his whole appearance
indicated the drunkard in the last stages of
his fatal and unnatural insanity. His face had, certainly,
once been handsome, and still bore traces of
manly beauty. With a quivering lip, hollow voice,
and palsied hand, he stood beside me, and solicited the
means of earning a pittance, evidently to be applied
to the fatal object for which he had already sold his
constitution, if not also his life and soul.
“I have no baggage,” I replied, and turned away
from a sight so degrading to humanity. He followed
me to the door of my state-room; his unequal gait,
even at that early hour, telling of that morning's immolation
of his human nature upon the altar of the
drunkard's god.
“Stop, sir! I'll brush your boots or coat for you.”
Unfortunately for the applicant, both were unexceptionable.
Half an hour afterward I stepped from my cabin,
where the delightful pages of my gifted countrywoman,
Mrs. Sigourney, had served to soothe me into
forgetfulness of my travelling mischance, and the
bloated features and ragged person of the drunkard
confronted me.
“If I give you money, will you not use it to madden
your brain?” I inquired, balancing a shilliug on
my finger.
“I shall do that, you may depend upon it!” he answered
gruffly.
“Then I ought not to give this piece of money to
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you. Wretched as you appear, you do not deserve
it.”
“Who does deserve it, then?” he inquired.
“The man it will render happier.”
“Then I am your man,” he said, quickly, while his
eye lighted with a strange expression of drunken ferocity.
“Give it me!” and, as he spoke, he caught
my hand and clasped the coin in his fingers with a
frenzied clutch upon it. “Now, sir, I am happy for
to-day!” and he laughed in his throat as he staggered
away, his voice and manner subdued to their former
mere animal apathy, muttering, “Happy! happy! yes!
this will make me happy, indeed!”
There was something, aside from the strange language
and deportment of the man, which singularly
interested me in him. His features seemed familiar; and
disguised as his voice evidently was by the corrosive
poison with which he was daily lacerating his lungs, I
was confident I had heard it before, and under peculiarly
interesting circumstances. I searched the records
of memory, but they gave no clue, and finally, I determined
to follow and question him. But when I cast my
eyes over the pier for him, he had disappeared. I stepped
on shore, turned my steps toward a small “grogery”
situated near the water, and found him there! The
already emptied glass was in his hand, and he was replacing
it upon the counter when I caught his eye.
With a light step and sparkling eyes, he approached me.
“I feel happy now!” he said, striking his hand emphatically
upon his breast, and coming close to me.
“Click! if I was on my box now how I would make
my four little four-in handers walk!” and he placed
himself upon a barrel which stood behind him, extending
his left hand, advancing his body, and elevating
his right hand, in which he held a switch, precisely in
the attitude of the most practised “whip.”
“Good heaven! my friend,” I exclaimed, as this
accidental position became, at once, the key to unlock
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the mystery which had enveloped the reminiscence of
him, “can you be Henry, the stage-coachman?”
He started and looked me, for a moment, fixedly in
the face, and then grasped my hand with much emotion—
“Ha, sir, you are the stranger I took home to see
Mary and the little ones!” and his eyes filled with
tears.
Poor fellow! my presence, as he recognised me, unlocked
the buried and happier past. The last time,
four years before, I knew him a happy and enviable
man; blessed with a lovely and virtuous wife, and the
delighted parent of two beautiful babes. My heart
swelled and my heart sympathised with his own, as I
contrasted his situation then, with his present wretched
condition.
“Where is your wife, Henry!” I inquired with
commiseration. He released my hand, and clenching
his fist, struck his temples with sudden violence, and
then hid his face in his hands.
“Dead! dead!” he answered after a moment's
pause. “I killed her, sir!” he said this in the extremity
of abandonment.
“How? what mean you?”
“I broke her heart, sir!”
“And your children?”
“In the work-house.”
I sat by him upon the rude seat he had chosen, and
he told me (for he was now sober, the mental excitement
having mastered the artificial,) the sad tale of
the last four years of his life.
The morning on which the rail-road cars were to
proceed on their first trip, the line of stages, painted in
their gayest colors and drawn by fleet horses, assembled
as usual, at the head of the pier, to receive their
passengers, as the long expected steamer came ploughing
her way up the bay. Crowds collected to witness
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the spectacle of the opening of this new and novel
mode of transporting travellers, surveying, alternately,
the singular-looking cars, with their small iron wheels,
standing in a long train, upon the yet untrodden path,
the empty stages, more numerous than the cars, with
their anxious drivers mounted, each upon his elevated
box, and the approaching boat, whose arrival was
about to decide which of the two mediums of conveyance—
the good old standard line of stages, or the new-fangled,
whizzing, fly-away and wicked-looking cars—
was to hold the ascendency.
The steamer came gallantly up to the pier, amid a
shout from the assembled multitude on the shore. In
a few minutes all had disembarked. The “drivers,”
in their white hats and coats, and with their long
whips, were flying about among the passengers with
additional activity and perseverance, none of them
exerting more than my friend Henry. But, to every
hasty, anxious inquiry, “Coach, gentlemen?—Boston
and Providence line?” The reply immediately was,
“I take the rail-road,” or “I take the cars.”
After some little delay, attendant on the first trial
of a new means of locomotion, the bells rung, the cannon
roared, and amid the shouts of the multitude the
long train of cars moved off, propelled by an unseen
power, from the pier. At first slowly, as if to try her
powers, the train rolled over the first section of the
track; but gradually, as if confident in itself, its speed
increased, and darting rapidly forward, in a few moments
it was lost to the sight of the wondering crowd.
Alas! the poor coachmen! they had assembled at
their usual post, near the head of the pier, confident of
their usual “fare,” and never dreaming that men, who
had a suitable regard for the weal of their own souls
and bodies, would intrust them to the tender mercies
of such a fiery-winged monster as the black, puffing
engine, which all the country round had journeyed to
gaze at as an eighth wonder in the world. Their laugh
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was merry as ever, and their jokes as numerous, when
the boat, her decks crowded with passengers, hove in
sight. But when they saw, one after another, their
legitimate fare preferring the new mode of locomotion,
the joke died unuttered on their lips, their faces
grew long, and their hearts sunk, and, some with
curses upon “all new-fangled inventions, to steal honest
people's bread out of their mouths,” and others
with depressed bosoms, gathering up their now useless
ribands, they moved slowly and silently back to
town.
About two months from that day three individuals,
thus thrown out of employment, bound themselves by
a solemn oath, to give all possible hindrance to rail-road
travelling. The next day after this conspiracy
was formed, by some means unaccountable to the public,
the train was thrown from the track, but fortunately
without injury. The next day a similar “accident,”
as it was heralded, occurred, and one person
nearly lost his life by the violence with which he was
thrown from the cars. The next day the cars were
only saved from total demolition by the presence of
mind of the engineer. It was now sufficiently clear
that some enemy was abroad who was busy at this
mischief. A watch was set, and one of the perpetrators
was detected. I grieve to say it—but the guilty
man was Henry! In his defence he pleaded that he
had stuck to the line till it was broken up and his
“vocation” gone; then he had sought fruitlessly, and
in vain, for employment on other lines, but that “no
man would hire him,” and that his money was all
expended, and his family calling upon him for the
reward of a husband and a father's toil. “What could
I do?” he said; “I could not see them suffer. The
short and long of it is, sir, that I took to drink and
treated Mary cruelly. One night several of my old
mates met me at the tavern close by my house, and,
in an unlucky moment when the liquor was in, I
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agreed to join 'em in breaking up the rail-road. I was
arrested.” His punishment was light, but he never
recovered from the degradation consequent on the
public exposure of his crime; nor did his wife, the gentle
Mary, long survive the shock thus given to her refined
and virtuous sensibility. In a few months afterward
she died of a broken heart—thus ever, it appears
to me, die the fairest of earth's flowers—and was laid
by her friends in a lonely and tearless grave in the
village churchyard. Her husband knew not of her
death till the earth had closed over her form. For
many days previous he knew no other home than the
grog-shop, no other nutriment than the contents of his
bottle.
When, during a lucid (sober) interval, he returned
and found his hearth deserted, and his child taken
away by the charitable, (for there are a few such even
in this world,) a new possessor of his once happy cottage
told him the sad tale. From that hour he had
been descending till I met him, the low and abject
thing I have described him in another page, outcast
from his fellows, an alien from society, striving, in
vain, to bury the recollection of the past.
“Sir, will you give me another shilling?” he asked,
as he concluded his sad recital. “I cannot bear to
think of these things. I must drink and forget!”
On my return from Boston, a few weeks afterwards,
I was informed that Henry Salford, “the last of the
stage-coachmen,” had ended his miserable existence
by a suicidal death.
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THE ILLEGITIMATE; OR, PROPHECY OF UIQUERA.
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“A curse be ever on thy race—
Down to a well-earned doom they go—
Thankless and dishonored slaves.”'
The life and times of Charles of England, the gayest
and most gallant monarch, since the days of that
oriental potentate, so famous for wisdom and architecture,
have been prolific themes, not only for the elegant
pens of the elegant courtiers of the period, and
the graver historian, but for the exercise of the genius
and talents of graceful female biographers of the present
age.
It is at the close of this era of gallantry, beauty and
wit, an era in which the warlike knight began to
merge into the pacific gentleman of hound and horn,
and tournaments gave place to contests in the political
arena, and when the memory of this erring but amiable
prince lived only in the hearts of his subjects—
his vices forgotten, his virtuesalone remembered—that
we open the first scene of our tale.
“Nay, sweet Lady Mary—your eyes betray your
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heart! That diamond trembling upon their rich fringes
contradicts your words;” and the speaker spurred
the high-blooded animal upon which he was mounted,
closer by the side of the ambling palfrey, ridden by
the lovely girl he addressed. “Say not I must forget
you, Mary! On the morrow, my uncle sends me to
Eton. May not your love bless me, absent from you?
Oh, recall, dear cousin, that chilling word! Say not
there is no hope!”
A moment's embarrassing silence ensued, when,
crushing a tear which glittered beneath her dark eyelashes,
the maiden drew her veil closely over her face,
and shaking her silken bridle, bounded forward with
velocity, as if in the fleetness of her movements, she
would annihilate the feelings which tortured her young
bosom. With equal speed the youth galloped by her
side down the solemn glades of the old forest, until
they came in sight of the towers of an ancient castle,
lifting themselves with gothic grandeur above the majestic
oaks, which for centuries had encircled them.
The maiden was the daughter of its noble earl; and
the honors, titles and wealth she inherited, were only
equalled by her surpassing loveliness. Her complexion
was like the purest ocean-pearl, which a mellow sunset
cloud has delicately tinted with its own roseate
hue. Her dark chesnut hair escaped from beneath her
riding hat, and floated around her shoulders in a cloud
of natural tresses. Her eyes were large, and eloquent
in their expression, and of the same rich brown shade
as her hair. She had not yet numbered fifteen summers—
a gay, wild, fascinating child, yet all the woman
in the depth and fervor of her feelings.
Her form was moulded with the symmetry of a
sylph's; and as she bounded on her fleet courser
through the wood, imagination might have deified her
as the queen of the sylvan empire, through which she
rode, and leader of its train of fairy nymphs.
The youth who accompanied her, was also
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surpassingly fair; a fitting mate for so sweet a dove. His
hair was black as the raven's plume which danced
over his riding hood, and flowed in thick curls about
his neck. His brows were arched and dark, and his
forehead wore that lofty and noble air, said to be the
birthright of England's nobles. His eyes were
exceedingly black, and a voluptuous languor dwelt
about his mouth. The upper lip was curved slightly,
evincing a native haughtiness of spirit. The contour
of his face was a faultless oval. He counted perhaps
seventeen winters and summers.
They were lovers.
As they came in sight of the distant turrets, the
maiden reined in her spirited animal, and putting aside
her veil, turned with a smile, like an April sunshine,
whilst tears danced in her brilliant eyes, towards her
companion:
“Charles—you well know I love you. It is useless
for me to attempt to disguise it. But, but—” and as
she paused and hesitated, the rich blood mounted to
her cheek and brow, whilst she dropped her eyes in
painful embarrassment.
“But what? sweet Mary! Why, cousin, this silence
and emotion?” he inquired with animation—his brow
paling with the presentiment of evil; and he laid his
hand emphatically upon her arm as he spoke.
“Charles! They tell me—that—that—”
“Nay—torture me not with suspense,” he cried, as
she hesitated to proceed; and springing from his horse
he grasped with eager and inquiring anxiety both of
her hands.
“They tell me, my dear Charles—but oh, I will not
believe it,” she added, bending her head till it rested
upon his shoulder, to conceal her emotion—“they tell
me—you are the late king's son!”
The poor youth relaxed his hold upon her bridle,
which he had suddenly seized—the hand locked in the
maiden's, convulsively unclasped, and with a brow
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changed to the hue of death, he fell without a word,
or sign of life to the earth.
A gay anniversary was announced for celebration
in the halls of Eton. The princes, and nobles, and
the beauty of the land were assembled there to honor
the fete.
The venerable religious pile in which the concluding
ceremonies of the day were held was living with
beauty, and gorgeous with the display of diamonds
and jewels, and the magnificent dresses of knights and
gentlemen.
A youth, whose striking figure and handsome features
created a murmur of surprise throughout the assembly,
whilst one or two dowager countesses were
seen to draw forth miniatures, and whispering, compare
them amid many signs of intelligence, with his
appearance, advanced with grace and modesty to receive,
above all competitors, the highest collegiate honor
of that day, to be conferred by the royal hands of
James himself.
As he bent on one knee, and inclined his head to
receive the golden chain and medal, a youth, near his
own age, his unsuccessful rival for the distinction, with
a lowering brow, and small, deep set eyes, his hair,
and such portions of his dress as were not concealed by
his gown, cut after the popular fashion of the times of
the Long Parliament, rose boldly from his chair and
cried in a loud harsh tone:—
“Hold! He whom you would thus honor, is the
illegitimate son of Charles!”
All eyes turned in the direction of the audacious
speaker, and the brow of the monarch grew black
with indignation.
“Young Cromwell! It is young Cromwell!” passed
from mouth to mouth, while surprise at this sudden
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and singular announcement, fixed every eye, alternately
upon the malicious interrupter of the ceremonies,
and upon the ill-fated Charles.
With a cry of despair that filled every bosom, and
burying his face in the folds of his robe, the sensitive
and disgraced youth rushed forth from the Chapel.
Many days afterwards, the rumor was rife among
the Etonians, and in the higher circles of the kingdom,
through which this strange tale was circulated,
that the victim of young Cromwell's malignity and
revenge, who with the true spirit of his grandsire, had
expressed his bitterness against all associated with royalty
and THE CHARLES, had fled an exile over
sea to the “New World,” as the continent of America
was denominated, even at that comparatively late
period.
The province, formerly, and now state, of Maine,
where we transfer the scenes of this tale, is constituted
of lands, originally possessed by several tribes of warlike
Indians. The most powerful of these were the
Kennebec and Penobscot tribes—names harsh and
uneuphonious in the ear of an European.[2] The
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former dwelt on the banks of the beautiful river, to
which they have left their name. Their hunting
grounds extended west and south to the river Saco.
Their eastern boundary was the Damariscotta river,
which also formed the western limits of the Penobscots.
This tribe possessed the lands watered by the
river bearing its name. Their eastern limits were undefined,
but constantly enlarging with the progress
of their conquests over their less powerful neighbors.
Between this tribe and the Kennebecs, an hereditary
war had existed, to use the emphatic figure of a late
chief, “since the oldest oak of the forest was an
acorn.”
They were also of different religions. The Kennebecs
worshipped a spirit who they imagined presided
over their rivers and lakes, whom they denominated
Kenlascasca, or, The Angel of the Waters. In the
limpid bosom of their divinity, they buried their dead,
worshipped him in the descending rain, and propitiated
him by human sacrifices, which they immolated in
deep waters, when, in his anger, he suffered them to
swell above their banks.
The Penobscots worshipped the great mountain,
Coalacas,[3] which lifted its blue head to the skies in
the midst of their hunting grounds. When the stormclouds
gathered about his summit, and he veiled his
face from them in displeasure, when his voice was
heard in the loud thunder, and the glance of his angry
eye seen in the lightnings, they trembled; and as a sacrifice,
which should at the same time avert his wrath,
and manifest their obedience and submission, they
sacrificed by fire, a fawn of one spring.
Upon the summit of this mountain dwelt the priest
of their religion, who administered in a rude temple,
to which the whole tribe once a year performed pilgrimage,
the sacred duties of his office. At this shrine,
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the young warrior sought success in battle—the maiden,
in love, the injured, in justice or revenge.
The sage and prophet of his people, and visible presence
of their divinity was denominated Uiquera, or
The priest of the Mountain. He was aged, and gray
hairs thinly sprinkled his bronzed and time-worn
temples.
It was evening—an evening of that mild and hazy
time, when autumn, is losing itself in winter, termed
the Indian Summer, and peculiar to New England—
when the aged patriarch stood upon a rock in front of
his hut, gazing upon the vast landscape beneath him,
mellowed by the peculiar atmosphere of the season, to
the soft, dreamy features of an Italian scene.
To the north, forests, tinged with mingled gold and
purple, orange and vermillion, and dyed with a thousand
intermediate hues—a gorgeousnes of scenery
found only in America—and yet untrodden by others
than the beast of prey, or of the chase, and his Indian
hunter, stretched away, league added to league, till
they met the horizon. Still farther north, breaking
with unequal lines this meeting of sky and woods,
towered the summits of a chain of mountains, constituting
the dividing ridge, between the waters flowing
into the great river of the north, and the less majestic
streams, that, coursing southward, seek the Atlantic
sea. To the east and west, forests alone bounded the
view. On the south, bays penetrated far inland nearly
to the base of the mountain, and beyond was the deep,
restless sea, extending far away, until sky and ocean
alone met the eye.
The aged man gazed upon the vast prospect thus
spread out, like a map beneath him, and wondered as
he gazed, at the greatness and power of the Great
Spirit who created it.
“Father!” spoke tremulously a sweet and child-like
voice.
“My child!” he said calmly turning, and placing his
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hand upon the head of a lovely maiden kneeling at
his feet, the only daughter of the chief of her tribe.
“Father—they teach me that you are favored by the
good Manitoula. His aid I have come to seek, through
you, his minister!”
“It is thine, daughter—speak!” he replied with dignity,
and in a mild and encouraging tone.
“Anasca, the young chief of the Kennebecs, with
many gifts and promises of land, and offers of peace
and amity, demands me of my father in marriage!”
and the Indian maid bowed her head to the earth in
silence, a waiting his reply.
“Does this please the chief, thy father?”
“Oh, I know not—the offer is tempting; and yet he
should love me better than thus to sacrifice me!”
“Will it be a sacrifice, if it is to obey thy father's
will, my daughter?”
“Oh, yes—yes—”
“Lina, dost thou cherish hatred against the young
warrior?”
“No, oh no! but I love him not. I fear him!” she
added with energy.
“Whom then dost thou love, child, that thou canst
not love this youth? They tell me he is a brave young
chief, and of noble bearing, though, perhaps, hasty and
passionate withal.”
“Love? love? oh, none but you and my father!”
she replied with the undisguised artlessness of her simple
nature.
“Daughter,” said the seer solemnly, “it becomes us
to make peace. If friendship may ensue between
those so long at enmity, by this proposed union, it
should be sought, but not at the sacrifice of thy happiness.
Wilt thou wed him maiden?” he added abruptly,
taking her hand and looking steadily into her
face.
“Oh no, no, no, father! I would rather the lightning
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of the Great Spirit in his anger, should consume me,
than wed him! Oh save!—save me—my father!” she
cried, imploringly clinging to his robe.
“Fear not, thou shalt not wed him, Lina,” he said,
smiling, raising her from her suppliant posture.
“Where is this youth?” he inquired, affectionately and
soothingly, parting the dark hair from her face as he
gazed down into it.
“I left him three mornings since, with many of his
warriors, encamped opposite the council island. When
I learned for what he came, with the swiftness of the
brood-bird, when she seeks her nestling from the coming
storm, I fled to the holy mountain, and thee, for
shelter! Oh, wilt thou not give it me, holy father?” she
added clasping his arm, and looking up into his face
beseechingly.
“Daughter—thou hast it already!” he replied with
emotion; “thou shalt not wed this stranger.”
“False priest—thou liest!” shouted a voice behind
them; and a spear, thrown by an unseen and unerring
hand, simultaneously pierced the bosom of the patriarch.
He fell to the earth with a deep groan, and the
maiden uttering a shriek of terror and dismay, cast
herself upon his bleeding body.
“Welcome, my gentle fawn of the lakes! thou hast
found thy holy mountain will not protect thee, and
thy priest is mortal—” said the young Anasca, tauntingly,
approaching and raising her from the form of
his victim. “Old man, I would not have slain thee,
but thou wert poisoning this little bird's talons and
turning them against thy own breast.”
“Sacrilegious murderer!” suddenly exclaimed the
seer, raising upon one arm—his white hair sprinkled
with blood, that in a warm current oozed from a
wound in his breast, where the spear which inflicted
it, still vibrated,—“Scorner of religion and the Great
Spirit of earth and sky! Thy doom and that of thy
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race is sealed!” and his eye dilated and became radiant
with prophetic inspiration as he continued: “Here!
on the holy altar thou hast desecrated, do I anathematize
thee! Every drop of this gurgling blood shall
beget a curse upon thee and thine! Accursed be thy
impious race! A people greater than thine—more
numerous than the stars of heaven—shall take thy
lands, thy power, and thy name! Another century
shall roll by and thou shalt be remembered no more!
Last chieftain of thy tribe!” he continued with additional
energy, “on thee, come all evil and all woe!
Cursed of sky and sea—cursed of air and earth—be
thou accursed forever!”
“Daughter!” he continued with supernatural excitement,
whilst the young chief stood appalled and transfixed
with horror, before the wild air and prophetic
language of the dying priest—“daughter, blessed art
thou above all the maidens of thy tribe! Thou shalt
become a Saviour of thy people and thy name. For
every curse that follows this unholy assassin, shall a
blessing come upon thee and thine. The people who
shall bring woe to him, shall bring joy to thee! Thou—
thyself—art destined to become the preserver of thy
father's tribe—and when all the nations of this land
shall have dwindled like the mountain dews before
the morning, at the approach of a race from the East,
with faces white like the moon, and arms brighter
than the sun, and more terrible than thunder, thy name
shall exist—thy people be yet numbered among their
nations. And, whilst the tribe of this impious assassin
shall expire in their ignorance, a new and purer
religion, revealed from the heavens, shall be taught
thee by this new race, who with eyes like the deep
blue of the noon-day sky, and faces white like a summer
cloud, are to rule our land—and in the bosom of
their great empire, thine own tribe shall dwell forever!”
Thus speaking, the last prophet of his religion and
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people, sunk back to the ground, and upwards, from
the mountain altar of his religion and worship, his
spirit took its flight to the world of mysteries.
Podiac, is a romantic, rocky promontory projecting
into the sea, and forming the southern shore of the
bay of Casco, which, with its three hundred and sixty-five
islands, penetrates the heart of Maine.
It is on this promontory, now called Cape Elizabeth,
in honor of the Maiden Queen, that the scenes of our
fifth chapter are laid, a few days after the death of
the venerable seer, Uiquera.
One of the wild storms, peculiar to that coast, had for
three days poured its fury upon the sea, lashing it into
foam. The fourth morning broke with cloudless brilliancy,
and discovered the wreck of a ship, dismasted,
and in pieces, lying in a crevice on the extremity of
the southern cape of the promontory—which, here
dividing, form two points projecting farther into the
sea than the main head-land. At the present day,
both of these points are crowned by light-houses, the
upper one of which is a favorite resort for the gay
citizens of an adjacent sea-port,[4] situated on a peninsula
a few miles farther inland. But at the period of
our tale, it was the abode only of the sea-gull, who
nested in the crevices of the cliffs, and bears, and
wolves, who mingled their howlings with the roaring
of the tempests.
The storm had subsided, yet the waves rolled landward
with violence, dashing against the cliffs with a
loud noise, flinging the spray high over their summits
and reverberating in hollow sounds through its deep
caverns.
The rising sun shone cheerfully upon the scene,
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dissipating the hurrying clouds, and shedding an enlivening
radiance over nature.
Firmly wedged between two rocks, at the extremity
of the southern point of the cape, lay the wreck,
its masts broken off, a jury-mast, upon which a sail
was brailed up, and only a portion of the hull visible
above the waves, which rolling continually over it,
surged against the overhanging rocks.
The only living being upon which the sun shone,
was a young man, the sole survivor of the ill-fated
bark, who, pale from fatigue—his dark hair and garments
heavy and dripping with brine—was laboriously
ascending from the wreck, the sides of the rock, to
escape the surge, which, several times, nearly washed
him off into the sea.
With a bold eye and a strong arm, although nearly
exhausted, he still clung to such projections as the face
of the cliff afforded; and soon gained a secure footing
upon the summit of a flat rock, beyond the reach of
the waves. Here, he bent devoutly on one knee, and
lifted his eyes and hands in a prayer of thankfulness
for his deliverance.
Whilst in this attitude, a female figure, flying, rather
than running, along the verge of the cliff above
him, intercepted his vision. Surprised, he followed it
a moment with his eyes, when it disappeared in a
crevice of the promontory. The next moment, another
form clad like an Indian hunter, with equal speed,
as if in pursuit, bounded along the cliff and was also
lost to his sight in the gorge.
An instant of surprise and expectation elapsed,
when the airy and graceful figure he had first seen—a
young and beautiful Indian maiden, issued from the
gap which for a few seconds had concealed her, and
with the fleetness of a dove pursued by a hawk, approached
the spot where he still kneeled. Her raven
hair flew wildly about her head, and her robe of variegated
feathers fluttered like wings around her person.
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Over the sharp-pointed rocks and slippery sea-weed
she bounded safely, and was darting past him with
the air of one who would plunge headlong into the
sea, when her eye caught the form of the youth.
She suddenly checked her flight, and gazed upon
him for a moment with a look of timidity and indecision—
one foot advanced as if she would still fly,
and a hand extended towards him entreatingly. For
an instant, like a beautiful statue, she stood in this attitude,
and then, with strange confidence advanced towards
him—rested one hand upon the rock by which
he kneeled—gazed steadily into his face for a second,
and then with the unsuspecting confidence of a child
who fears no danger, softly and timidly placed her
hand upon his arm, while her dark eyes full of eloquent
pleading, silently sought his protection.
The youth, at once, understood this language, more
eloquent than that of the tongue or pen. Scarcely had
they interchanged this mutual understanding and confidence,
when the young warrior, Anasca, who had torn
her from the corpse of the prophet, and borne her to his
tribe, who were then hunting on the south shore of
the Casco, from whom she had just escaped, preferring
death to a union with one she loved not—appeared in
sight, his eye flashing with rage, and his arm extended
in the act of launching his hunting-spear.
The stranger drew from his breast a small Genoese
stiletto, sprung to his feet, and met him face to face.
The surprise of the Indian was unlimited! The sudden
appearance of one of a race he had never before
seen—his hostile attitude—his manifest design to protect
the lovely and trembling fugitive, combined with
a recollection of the prophecy of the dying seer, paralysed
and fixed him to the spot, with astonishment and
dismay.
As he stood thus under the influence of these emotions,
the youth sprang upon him and seized his spear. The
act restored him to his self-possession. He became
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once more the warrior, whose name—Anasca, The
fearless—he had won by his prowess and deeds of
arms, by which he had already signalised himself
above the warriors and preceding chieftains of his
tribe.
For a few moments the two young combatants contended,
with all their skill and bravery, when with
a well-aimed blow of his stiletto the youth laid the
young chief dead at his feet.
With a cry of joy, Lina rushed into the arms of her
preserver.
The warriors of the Penobscot tribe had assembled
upon the island in the river which bears their name,
where their chief resided, and the national councils
convened—to consult upon the expediency of making
an excursion upon the Kennebecs, for the recovery
of their chief's daughter, and to avenge the insult
they had received. In the midst of their deliberations
a birch canoe was discovered ascending the
river, with a small white sail, such as the oldest warrior
had never before seen, spread to the south wind
and containing two persons. As no danger was to be
apprehended from so small a party, the chief and his
warriors awaited its approach in silence.
As the boat came nearer, a visible emotion was
manifest among the spectators.
“It is the chief's daughter!”
“It is Lina!”
“My child! my daughter!” cried the old chief,
rushing to the strand, where he embraced his child,
as she bounded from the canoe into his extended
arms.
Her companion who had been concealed by the canvass
sail he had taken from the wreck, to forward their
escape, after, with Lina's guidance he had secured one
of the boats of Anasca's tribe, now stepped upon the
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beach; and baring his head, he placed his hand upon
his heart, in token of amity.
The chief started back with an exclamation of surprise
at his strange beauty and attire, and in the first
emotion of his feelings, fell with his face to the ground,
followed in this act of reverence, by all the warriors
surrounding him, who shared his astonishment and
superstition.
“It is the Good Spirit of the Mountain!” at length
exclaimed the chief arising from his posture of
adoration. “It is he, to whom the holy prophet many
moons ago, bade me resign my authority, my daughter
and my religion, if I would preserve them all!”
And as he ceased speaking, he placed his bow and
quiver, spear and coronet of feathers at the feet of the
young Englishman. Then taking the hand of his
daughter, he placed it in that of the youth, and commanding
his warriors to yield them obedience and allegiance,
he, slowly, and with his hands clasped over
his breast, retired through the crowd, who silently and
with reverence gazed wonderingly after his retreating
form. Secluding himself on the holy mountain, he
there passed a life of devotion, having, after the abdication
of his power, been converted to the Christian
faith, by his daughter, who became a convert to the
religion of her husband.
The aboriginal tribes of New-England, with but
one exception are now nearly extinct. The warlike
and ambitious Kennebecs have melted away like snow.
The Penobscots still exist, inhabitants and possesors
of the river-island, originally and still the seat of their
national councils, and the abode of their chief. Their
existence and independence are acknowledged by the
state which includes their territory, and the delegates
have represented them in her legislative conventions.
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They are devout Catholics, and in a neat chapel
erected upon their island, worship the God of the
Christians.
They are governed by a young Chieftainess, whose
personal charms bear testimony to those of Lina, her
lovely ancestress, the bride of the exiled Charles, and
which if tradition says truly, are transmitted to her descendant.
The graves of the two lovers, who died—in the
spirit of that love which will bear no separation—
within a few hours of one another, are still pointed
out by the aged warriors of the tribe, in a grove of
dark pines, on the site of the sacred fane of their ancestors,
and near the entrance to the cave where dwelt
the venerable Prophet of the Holy Mountain.
eaf159.n2[2] The languages of the tribes once occupying the territory of the
United States, follow the same laws characteristic of the languages of
Europe.
The dialects of Europe become softer or harsher as they are spoken
more northerly or southerly; so in Italy we find a language which has
become but another term for poetry and melody.
Harsh consonants, gutturals, and abrupt monosyllables, are peculiar
to the northern tribes of America; and Penobscot, Androscoggin, Norridgwock,
Saccarapac, Schohegan, Monadnock, Cochreah, and Kennebunk,
are sounds as characteristic of the languages of those tribes once
inhabiting New England, as, Chitalusa, Homachitta, Alabama, Atchafalaya,
Altamaha, Natches, Natchitoches, Mississippi, (whose original
name is Mesachébé,) of the tribes of the South.
eaf159.n3[3] Blue Hill, Campden, Maine.
eaf159.n4[4] Portland, Maine.
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THE SNOW PILE.
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Young Spring, with her opening buds, her springing
grass, her soft south wind, and singing birds, was
fast subduing stern old Winter. His icy bosom, all
unused to the melting mood, dissolved beneath her
warm glances and showers of April tears. I had been
confined to my chamber through the long winter by
a tedious illness; but when the sun with summery
warmth, shone through my window, I grew rapidly
better. How grateful to the convalescent is the mild
hue of the spring sky, the tender green of the grass
and young leaves, and the smiling face of nature
awaking from its wintry sleep!
When my chair was first drawn to the window, and
I looked up and down the streets thronged with passengers
and gay equipages, I felt as if I had come into
a new world. How happy every thing and every
body looked! All seemed gladness, and my own heart
thrilled with a new and strange delight.
I am, or rather was at the period to which I allude,
a bachelor, on the verge of thirty-five. My abode was
in the heart of the city, at a corner where four streets
met. Opposite my window was a row of stately elms
and young locusts, the brown of their myriad buds
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just tipped with green, so that the branches of the
trees looked as if studded with emeralds. Along the
outer edge of the opposite side walk, Spring had just
commenced working a border of new grass; ladies had
laid aside, or rather chrysalis-like, come out of their
unsightly cloaks, and tripped along the pavé in light
dresses and sylphide forms. How odd to see slender
waists in the streets after they have been so long concealed!
It seems, when we first view the fair creatures,
as if there was something improper in their appearing
out in such undress, as if some modest article
of apparel was forgotten; and it is some days before
one is quite reconciled to the propriety of the thing.
Notwithstanding these signs of Spring that every
where met my eyes as I gazed out of my window,
there was one object amid all the sunny cheerfulness
that chilled my heart, and cast a wintry veil over all.
This was a huge bank of snow lying against the curb-stone
directly beneath my window. The winter had
been severe, and in the middle of April, there was a
heavy fall of snow. My man John, in shovelling it
from the walk, had formed a pile four feet in depth
before the door; and after the snow had disappeared
from the streets, from the fields, and from the distant
hills, and the trees had put forth their leaves, that pile
obstinately resisted the warmth of the sun and the softening
influences of the rain. From my bed, I had seen
through the upper lights of my window the mild deep
blue of the sky, and felt the cheering presence of the
April sun as it shone in a bright glowing beam through
the half-opened shutter, and lay like a golden belt
along the carpet. How different the sunlight of summer
and winter even to the eye! How readily does
the invalid recognise and welcome the first smile of
Spring in the warm glow of the returning sun! I
should not have known winter had departed, if I had
not seen the green tops of the budding trees, and had
not been told that Spring had come—Spring, that
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haven of hope for the suffering valetudinarian! They
had told me, too, that the snow was gone from the
earth.
I was wheeled up to the window, and the bound of
the heart with which I looked forth on the gay and
moving scene, was suddenly stopped as my eyes
rested on that bank of snow. I sighed, and threw myself
backwards in my chair in the bitterness of disappointment.
In that heap, to my excited imagination
lay buried the body of the dead Winter! Although I
soon became in some degree accustomed to it, I nervously
watched its gradual disappearance. I marked
the scarcely perceptible melting away of its edges, the
slow diminution of its height. It seemed to me that
it would never dissolve. I at length became so interested
in its disappearance, that I sat for hours together
with my eyes intensely fixed upon it, and forgetful
of every thing else. It lay like an incubus on my
thoughts. It was a walking nightmare to my mind's
repose. If a passing wheel bore a portion of it away
clinging to its spokes, I involuntarily clapped my
hands. If a vagrant school-boy abstracted a handful
to make up into a snow-ball, I blessed him in my
heart. If a cloud passed over the sun, I impatiently
watched its slow passage across its disk, and with jealous
impatience noted every shadow that obstructed,
for a moment his melting beams. Three days passed
in this manner, and the snow pile had diminished but
one third. Its shape, I remember, was an irregular
oval about nine feet in length, five in breadth, and
two deep in the centre, the depth gradually lessening
to the edges, which were thin and icy.
The fourth morning came, and the buds of the locust
trees had burst into leaves; a robin had begun his nest
on the branch of an elm, and the almanac told me it
was the first day of May. Yet there lay Winter in the
lap of Spring. I formed an instant resolution. The
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tassel of the bell-rope was within my reach, I leaned
forward and pulled it with an emphasis.
John entered in haste, with alarm depicted on his
rubicund visage.
“John!”
“Sir.”
“Take a shovel and remove that eternal snow bank
from the street.”
“Bank?”
“Yes, bank. Snow bank! A more hideous monster
than the great Hydra-Bank to my eyes. Remove
it, I say.”
“Yes, Sir.”
John departed, and I gazed from the window on
the pile of snow with a sort of savage triumph and
relief of mind I had not experienced for some days.
While I was anticipating its demolition by the muscular
arm of my man John, two school-boys, of unequal
size and years, came in sight. As they got beneath
my window, the stouter began to bully the smaller
boy. I am naturally humane; a lover of justice and
hater of tyranny. My feelings forthwith became enlisted
for the weaker lad, who showed proper spirit;
and so long as tongues continued to be the only weapons,
he rather had the better of his adversary. At
length the big boy stung by a biting sarcasm, gave
him a rude push, and sent him spinning across the
trottoir into the snow. It broke his fall which else
would have been violent, and I blessed the snow pile
for his sake. But so far as my sympathies with the little
fellow were concerned, I soon had additional cause to
bless it.
No sooner did the brave little lad touch the snow
than he grasped both hands full, and hastily and skilfully
patted it into a hard round ball the size of a three
pounder; then taking sure aim at his lubberly tormentor,
who stood haw-hawing at his victory, he threw,
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and hit him fairly in the left eye. His tune was now
changed to a yell of pain, and clapping both of his
huge dirty paws to his extinguished orb, he went off
limping as if the hurt had been in his heel instead of
his head. The victorious little fellow compressed his
lips with a decided air, gave an emphatic nod, and
glanced at my window with a sort of apologetic look
that meant “he deserves it, sir, if it does put his eye
out!” “So he does, my brave lad,” said I, in a look
that he understood to mean as much; “that snow pile
has done thee good service.” At this moment John,
who is somewhat deliberate in his movements, made
his appearance from the basement front, shovel in hand
and devastation in his eye. I rapped at the window
as he prepared to attack the bank, and for that gallant
boy's sake, the snow pile remained inviolate for
that day.
With the ensuing morning I had well nigh forgotten
the incident of the snow-ball, and the summary punishment
of tyranny that I had witnessed, and which
had afforded me so much gratification. The first thing
that met my eyes after I took my usual place at the
window, was the snow-bank, giving the lie-direct to
gentle Spring, who each day laid the flecks of green
thicker and darker on the tree-tops, and I resolutely
determined to demolish without delay that last vestige
of winter, and banish a sight so full of December associations.
With hasty zeal I laid a hand on each arm of my
easy-chair, and half rose to reach the bell rope, when
I saw a very pretty boarding-school girl, in cottage
bonnet and pantalets, and neat white apron, with the
roses of fifteen summers in her cheeks, in crossing the
street, driven by a rude equestrian from the flags into
the mud. My ire was roused, (for my feelings are
readily enlisted for the gentler sex,) and I forgot the
bell to turn, and anathemise the careless horseman.
Although in two or three light steps she safely gained
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the side-walk, I saw that she had grievously mudded
one of her nicely-fitting Cinderillas. She stopped on the
curb-stone, looked down at her soiled slipper, shook
her head, and seemed to be very much distressed. She
was neatly and tidily dressed after that simple and becoming
manner peculiar to school-girls. It was Saturday,
and she was doubtless going a visiting; and to be
made such a figure of by a lubberly tyro in horsemanship,
was not a little annoying. I sympathised
with her from the bottom of my heart. She was very
young, very pretty, and in very great trouble. I could
have taken my cambric handkerchief, and, on bended
knee, with it removed the offensive soil. She
surveyed her little foot all about. The mud came
within a quarter of an inch of the top of her shoe, and
she was (as by her perplexed looks she evidently herself
thought) in too sad a plight to walk the street. She
essayed to scrape off the tenacious earth on the outer
angle of the curb-stone, but this operation only left it
in frightful streaks.
“Dear me! What shall I do?” I could almost hear
her say to herself; and then with a very prolonged
and mortified air, she looked up the street and down
the street; glanced over at the opposite windows, and
those above her head, and at last caught my eye. I
had been waiting for this, and eagerly pointed to the
snow-pile.
She glanced up her dark eyes full of thanks; and in
two minutes, with the aid of a lump of snow, and by
rubbing her foot on the pile, now on this side, and
now on that, she cleaned her snug little slipper till it
outshone its unsoiled fellow. Then looking me a
heart full of gratitude, she tripped on her way rejoicing.
For her sake the snow-pile remained inviolate
another day.
Forgetfulness of the yesterday's courtesy came with
the next morning, and there remained, as I gazed from
the window, only the consciousness of my annoyance.
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The voice of Spring came to my ears in every sound,
and the winds murmured by laden with the odors of
May flowers. But the snow-pile fixed my eyes like
a spell. There is a kind of fascination in hideous objects,
which, while the heart revolts, irresistibly draws
the eye. In vain I resolutely turned my eyes away
from it, and strove to forget it in the contemplation of
the fleecy cloud, which Winter has not; of the summer
blue of the sky; of the umbrageous foliage; the
bright streets, and their lively pageants; but scarcely
were they averted, before they flew back again as if
moved by a watch-spring.
“That eternal snow bank!” I exclaimed, as my
eyes, for the fiftieth time averted, again rested on it;
“will it never melt?”
I reached the bell rope, and rung a quarter of an
hour without ceasing. I had just regained my chair,
when John came into the room as if he had been ejected
from a catapult.
“Good Lord, sir! I am here, sir.”
“That pile of snow, John!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I shall have no peace till it is scattered to the four
winds.”
“The shovel is below, sir, shall I —”
“Do, John, do. Spread it on the street. If the sun
won't melt it, then carry it in baskets to the kitchen,
and boil it. It might as well be winter all the time
for what I see,” grumbled I, as John departed.
I had hardly issued, for the third time, this mandate,
and turned to the window to take a farewell look at
the glistening object of my annoyance, when half a
dozen seamen, on a shore cruise, came sailing along
with that independent and inimitable swagger characteristic
of the genuine tar. In their wake followed a
little foreign sailor boy, whom, by his olive skin, black,
glossy hair, glittering eyes, and slight, flexile figure, I
knew to be a West Indian. His restless gaze rested
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on the snow, and he uttered a loud exclamation of surprise
and delight.
“Halloo, manikin! what's in sight astern there?”
sung out an old tar just ahead of him, hitching up his
trousers, and coming to an anchor in the middle of the
side walk.
“Soogare! soogare!” shouted the little imp, pointing
to the pile of snow, and dancing up and down as
if the sunny pavement had become red-hot to his naked
feet.
“Sugar, be —” said the old sailor, with a look
and tone of supreme contempt; “try it and see!”
The boy bounded toward the delusive pile, grasped
both hands full of the deceitful substance, and was in
the act of conveying one portion of his treasure to his
jacket pocket and to cram his mouth with the other,
when a shrill cry of pain escaped him; and, dropping
the snow, he capered about, snapping his fingers, and
working his flexible features into the most ludicrous
grimaces.
His shipmates hove to at his signal of distress, and
roared, one and all, with lusty laughter, catching off
their tarpaulins, and swinging them aloft, and slapping
each other on the broad of the back in the excess of
their merriment.
“Avast there, my little hop-o-my-thumb,” said one
of the sailors, as their mirth gradually subsided; and
steering up to the boy, who continued to yell with undiminished
vigor, “dontee set up such a caterwauling
in a calm.”
“Burnee! burnee!”
“Burnee my eye! Ho! shipmates, all hands to put
fire out. Little Carlo's scorched his fingers with a
snow-ball.”
All hands now gathered round the young West Indian,
and made themselves merry at his expense, with
quip and joke, cutting the while many a boyish prank.
“Come, Jack,” said one, making up a large lump
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of snow into a ball, “lets take aboard a two pounder
apiece, and pepper some o' these land lubbers that
come athwart our hawser.”
“Aye, aye!” was the unanimous response.
Forthwith, indifferent to the gaping passers-by, each
went to work to make snow-balls, and soon, with two
apiece stowed away in either jacket pocket, they got
the little West Indian in their midst, and moved off, a
jolly troop, in full glee, and ripe for a lark.
John, who had been kept in the back ground by the
belligerent preparations of these sons of Neptune,
having ascertained by a cautious survey through the
iron railing of the basement—his head protruded just
above the level of the side-walk—that they were quite
hull-down, now made his appearance beneath the
window, shovel in hand. Influenced by the whim of
the moment, I rapped on the window, and made a
sign for him to come in, resolved, for the amusement
it had afforded me, to spare the snow-pile another
day.
The following morning, the sight of the scarce diminished
snow-heap rendered me oblivious of the merriment
I had received from the little West Indian the
day before, and mindful only of the present. My philanthropy
deserted me, and with a round oath I asseverated
that for sailor nor saint, woman nor angel,
would I let that snow remain another moment longer.
Ho! Ding a ling, a ling ling! Ho, John, John, ho!
Ding, ling, ling! Ding, ling, ding! Ho, John, John!
Ding ling, ling ding, l—” and the bell-rope parted
at the ceiling, and came down in my hand. My
crutch stood beside my chair. “Thump, hump, ump!
Ump! ump!! Thump!!!
The door burst open; the bolt head flew across the
room, and half-buried itself in the opposite wall, and
John pitched headlong in, and landed on his face
in the centre of the apartment. “C-c-c-comin', sir!”
was ejected from his mouth as his head struck the
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floor; “C-c-c-comin', sir!” scarce articulated he as he
rolled over and over towards my chair; “C-c-c-comin',
sir,” he gasped as he got to one knee and pulled at
his forelock, as he was wont to do when he addressed
me. The next movement brought him to his legs.
“Here I am, sir. Bless the mercies, sir! what is the
matter, sir?”
“John!”
“Yes, sir.”
I pointed silently to the snow-pile.
John vanished.
I looked forth from the window (I need not here
apologise to those who have been invalids; such will
readily sympathise with the interest I took in this matter,)
and enjoyed in anticipation the devastation about
to be made. In less than a minute John made his
appearance beneath the window, laden with two baskets,
a large and a small one, a bucket and coal-hod,
and lastly, his broad wooden shovel. He ranged these
various receptacles along the outer verge of the side-walk;
moistened the palms of his hands after a summary
mode, well known to the school-boy, when about
to handle his bat-stick; seized hold of, and struck his
instrument deep into the snow; placed his right foot
firmly on one of the projecting sides thereof, and bent
his shoulders to raise the gelid load.
I watched each motion with eager gratification. I
noted the muscular shoulders of John as he essayed
his task, with emotions of delight. I marked the
opening chasms in the pile as he stirred the bulk, and
felt a thrill of joy as I beheld a huge mass yield before
his well-applied sinews. He stooped to life the severed
fragment to place it in one of his baskets, when
there arose a sudden shouting, followed by the quick
rattling of wheels, and cries of warning and alarm.
I had scarcely drawn a breath, when two blooded
horses, wild with terror, harnessed to a landan, containing,
I could see, a young and beautiful lady, and
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an elderly gentleman, came dashing furiously up the
street. The fore wheel struck and locked with the
wheel of a doctor's chaise standing before the third
door from mine; and the landau dragging the chaise
with it, was drawn a few yards further on two side
wheels, then upset and pitched its contents out upon
the pile of snow beneath my window.
The gentleman was thrown upon his shoulder, and
lay senseless. The lady's fall was arrested by John,
who caught her ere she reached the ground; but she
had fainted, and her fair brow was like marble as I
looked down upon it. I broke two panes of glass
knocking with my crutch, and shouted through the
opening to have them both conveyed into my front
parlor. John, assisted by a gentleman, carried the
lady in, while two or three others took up the old gentleman.
I had not left my room for three months, and the
rheumatism had made me a cripple. I seized my
crutch snatched a cane, and was down stairs and in
the parlor just as the lady was being laid on the sofa.
She was still senseless. How beautiful her alabaster
features! the veined lid! the polished and rounded
neck! Her hat was removed. Her abundant hair
fell in waves of gold about her shoulders. I gazed,
entranced with the bright vision. A rude hand dashed
a glass of water in her face. It roused me, and I
lent my aid to effect her restoration. After repeated
ablutions—animation continuing suspended—the Doctor,
who was out lamenting over the fragments of his
gig, was called in. But no blood followed the insertion
of his lancet in the exquisitely veined arm. The
old gentleman, in the meanwhile, (thanks to the snow-pile
for saving his collar bone,) had recovered his
senses, and was bending sorrowfully over his daughter.
A happy thought struck me. I had heard in my
boyhood, among the snow-covered hills of Maine, that
snow was an unfailing restorative in cases like the
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present. I despatched John from the room, and he
instantly returned with a cubic foot of snow in his
arms. I assiduously laid a large piece on her forehead;
a fragment, the size of an almond, on each eyelid;
placed a piece on the back of the neck, and hinted
to the father to lay one on her swan-like throat,
and, taking her two hands, I placed a lump between
them, and clasped them in mine, till it melted and
trickled in drops upon the carpet. What a delicious
moment of my existence was that!
In a few seconds she began to revive, and in half
an hour afterwards thanked me with her own lips and
eyes for saving her life as she chose to believe. The
father thanked me also, I made a very pretty disclamatory
speech in return, and begged they would say no
more about it.
I had them to dine with me that day. I went to
bed without any rheumatism. In the morning I bade
John to keep watch, and see that no one removed a
flake from that sacred snow-pile—he having previously,
by my order, filled my ornamental cologne bottle
with a portion of it, and placed it on my toilet.
The time of this sketch is six years ago. I was
then a bachelor. I am now married. That lovely
young matron sitting sewing opposite me, while I am
writing, in whose person simplicity and elegance are
charmingly united, is my wife. That old gentleman,
sitting by the fire reading a newspaper, is her father.
There is a slight scar on his left brow, which he received
when he was thrown from his carriage before
my door. If a blot could be printed, you would just
here find a sad one, made by a chubby little blue
eyed girl of two years, in her exertions to climb on
my knee after her black-eyed brother Bob—who has
playfully stolen her doll, and is climbing up my back
to get it out of her way.
-- --
AN ESSAY ON CANES.
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-- -- p159-142
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Leonardi.
Wilt go up Vesuvius, my lord duke?
Duke of F.
What's ho, Leonardi? [starting from his couch.]
Leonardi.
The countess Cervi with her Florentines—
The noble ladies that came up from Rome,
And the gentlemen that do attend them,
Are all afoot with expectation;
And Greitz, the trav'ler, as I hither came,
Bade me, with its suppressed impatience, say
They wait for thee.
Duke of F.
Got thee gone, Leonardi! I must sleep.
Leonardi.
The sun hath climb'd the mountain's side, and now
Rides high above the headmost pinnacles.
Duke of F.
Let him get down and walk, an he will, so
He let me lie and sleep.
Leonardi.
Compass not Vesuvius, noble sir—
A feat that trav'lers most do covet,
And achieving, boast of through a life after—
And men will cry out “shame,” when we return
To Florence.
Duke of F.
Leonardi!
Leonardi.
My lord Duke.
Duke of F.
My staff.
Leonardi.
'Tis here, my Lord.
Duke of F.
I cut it from Leb'non in th' Holy Land—
He who hath gone up Lebanon need not
To climb Vesuvius—Take it! 'T has been
My comrade, friend, and fellow traveller
Full thirty years. My long, close grasp
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Has warm'd life into't, till it has ta'en
My nature, and of myself become a part—
A new limb, a leg, an arm additional
With fellow-feeling animate throughout.
Bear it to the mountain's topmost peak!
When thou com'st down bring't to me again
And I shall have gone up Vesuvius.
Fragment Unwritten MS.
Canes timidi vehentissime latrant.
Lat: Dis: Sic:
Canes make the timid dogs to bark vehemently.
Translation.
The origin of canes is of very remote antiquity.
The earliest mention of them is in the thirty-eighth
chapter of Genesis, where it is recorded that Judah
gave his “Staff, signet, and bracelets,” in pledge for
the payment of a kid he had promised to Tamar, his
daughter-in-law. Certain antiquaries there are, however,
that contend it has a still earlier origin. Such
assert on the doubtful authority of some unauthenticated
Jewish pandects, that Cain slew his brother with
his staff, which, for protection against wild beasts, was
doubtless, say they, a much heavier and more warlike
weapon than the modern walking stick, and therefore
easily convertible into an instrument of death. This
assertion is without a shadow of proof, and they who
have advanced it omit the very first step to the substantiality
of their theory, by neglecting to prove in
the premises that Cain carried a staff at all. If, in reply,
they refer us, as their authority, to the picture
books, where he is always represented with a club or
staff, we have only to say that the picture-makers
ought to know; but until they can satisfy us by pointing
to creditable authorities, we shall remain in our
present opinion. On the authority of a well known
passage in Horne Tooke, wherein he has satisfactorily
as well as ingeniously proven the English tongue to
have been antecedent to all other languages, and the
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identical speech spoken by Adam and Eve in Eden,
these unreasonable antiquarians asseverate that the
name “Cain” was given to the fratricide from the fact
of his having caned Abel to death; and they reconcile
the variation in the orthography of the word on the
plea that at that rude age of the world there existed
neither district-schools nor dictionaries, whereby the
just method of spelling words might be learned and
preserved.
Without entering into the discussion of the mooted
question whether Cain be derived from “cane” or
cane from “Cain,” we will only say, in reference to it
that in our opinion, in which we are sustained by
many German, Jewish, and Arabian antiquaries, neither
is correct. The learned Belibus, Dioces, the Arabian
scholar, Hosea Meles the erudite Jew, besides
Fra. Quirinus the Latin scribe, are of opinion, with
which our own accords, that cane is plainly an anglicism
of the Latin word CANIS, a dog; that this is the
true and original derivation of the word we shall proceed
to show.
It is well known to classical readers, that from the
time of Romulus and Remus, dogs in great numbers
have infested the streets of Roman or Italian cities:
vide, in attestation of this, T. Pomp. Atticus; the epistles
of Democritus the Greek; the letters of Cadmus;
and Annibal's commentaries on the battle of Apulia,
wherein he asserts, that from the adjacent village of
Cannæ, so called from the multitude of its dogs (canes)
there did issue after the battle from the gates of the
town, thirty thousand of these animals, which, being
attracted hither by the dead, did cover with their vast
numbers all the plain, and appal the very gods with
their howls.
This being the condition of things in an obscure
Roman town, how great must have been the multitudes
of these brutes in Rome itself! That their number
was so large as to defy census, and remain alto
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gether unknown, may be gathered from Cæsar in his
letter to Tullius Brutus, informing him of the death of
his sister Appicia by hydrophobia, and also, by inference,
from the third oration of Cicero against Cataline:
further, Junius Brutus is recorded by C. Lælius
to have been pursued on horseback by a pack of hungry
dogs from the quarter of the Jews to Mons Palatine,
and barely escaped with life by seeking shelter in
the temple of the Muses. Such being the danger in
the streets of Rome, it became customary for pedestrians
to go provided with stout birchen cudgels, armed
at one extremity with a short, sharp pikey for the
purpose of defending themselves against these demisavage
animals.[5] This cudgel, by a natural substitution
of cause for effect, was called cani, the dative singular
for canis, which means literally, “for a dog,”
a more significant and befitting term than which could
not have been chosen. The plural of canis is canes,
and this is the precise appellation by which they are
now known. We hold this to be the only and true
origin both of the cane and its name the “staff,” of the
Old Testament, which certain visionary antiquaries
would make us believe the primitive cane, with their
jargon about Cain and Abel, being unworthy of notice;
inasmuch as it is plain to every one at all conversant
with the subject, that it was neither more nor
less than a shepherd's crook, or, at the best, a knotted
club carried across the shoulder.
The introduction of the cani into Rome, we learn
from Nævius Metellus, was in the year 67 B.C.
Within the two weeks immediately preceding the ides
of August the same year, we are told by the same author,
no less than eighty thousand dogs were killed
with this instrument alone, besides nine thousand supposed
to have been torn in pieces by their species in
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fighting over the carcasses of the slain. But a sweeping
pestilence succeeding this exposure of so vast a
quantity of animal matter to the sun of the dog days,
and on account of the alarming increase of murders
among the common people with this weapon, with
which all the men went armed and readily used in
the slightest quarrel, the emperor was forced to promulge
an edict prohibiting any one beneath the patrician
rank from carrying the cani.[6] This imperial edict
at once made it a privileged thing, and forthwith it
was taken into high favor by the aristocracy of Rome.
Within a few days subsequently, the Tiber was
choked with drowned puppies; and theatres, baths,
and forum were thronged with young nobles, each
ostentatiously armed with the privileged cani.
In the hands of the patricians it for a while retained
its original shape—a round staff, three feet in length,
terminating in a sharp triedged pike. But the taste
of individuals soon made important innovations on the
usual form. The first change was suggested by a
wreath of flowers that Hortensia, the beautiful daughter
of the distinguished orator Hortensius, entwined
around the cani of her lover, Julius Curtius, the handsomest
gallant in Rome, for protecting her with it from
a pack of ferocious dogs while she was returning along
the Appian way from her villa to the city. Julius
made his appearance in the baths with it thus adorned,
and the following day the enwreathed cani was
adopted by all the exquisites of Rome. In a few days,
natural gave way to artificial flowers, and these to
wreaths of sprigs of diamonds and precious stones; so
“that,” observes M. Cellius, “the canes of the patricians
were more valuable than their estates, which
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they impoverished to adorn them.” This fashion
of the wreathed cani continued until L. Octavius, nephew
of the emperor, openly appeared in the forum
with a cane in the form of an elegantly twisted serpent,
enamelled with green and gold, and having two
large diamonds glittering in its head for eyes. This
idea was doubtless taken from the “Hortensian garland”
as the wreath was termed, which in a few days,
with its straight staff, gave place to rhe Octavian serpent.
This, in its turn was displaced by some tasteful
innovator, who came out with a straight, highly burnished
ebony stick without a pike, but containing in
the handle a short dagger, and with a gold head, in
which was exquisitely set the miniature of his mistress.
The novelty of the idea at once commended it
to the gallants of the day, and it was universally received
into favor. This was succeeded by other fashions,
each still more unique and elegant than its predecessor;
till, observes Cellius, to such a pitch did this
canine[7] madness reach, that half Rome thought and
dreamt of nothing besides the shape and fashion of the
cani. The custom extended to the ladies, who carried
with them on all occasions, costly and elegant
baubles of this kind, made of pearl, ivory, and even
gold and silver rods, with which, when in angry mood,
they struck their slaves, and peradventure, also, their
lovers.
At first, the cane was worn beneath the left arm,
the ornamental head protruding from the folds of the
toga: but when Julius Curtius made his appearance
openly with his garlanded staff, to avoid crushing the
flowers he ostentatiously but gracefully displayed it in
his right hand. After this, canes got to be universally
carried in this manner.
From Rome, the cane was introduced into Britain
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somewhere about the time of the division of the empire,
or early in the fifth century; and until, and for
several years after, the conquest, it retained its exclusive
patrician rank. But the Roman laws, limiting its
use to the nobles, not affecting England, it got at
length to be adopted here by all classes. In the hands
of the populace, however, it went through many modifications,
till finally it lost its original form and character,
and became fairly fixed in the plebeian shape of
the “quarter-staff,” the boasted weapon of English
yeomanry, and, as at first in Rome, was carried beneath
the arm. Cavaliers who had laid aside the cane
when it came into popular use, seeing that, in its various
modifications, it retained in the hands of the common
people no part of its original shape or purpose,
chose to recognise no resemblance to it in the quarter-staff,
and once more resumed it in its primitive elegance.
It soon became an indispensable article
of luxury and ornament; and we are told by Philip
Balfour that the gallants of Henry the Third's
court vied with each other “in ye fantastick
shaipe, beautie, and costlinesse of their caines, whilk
dyd haue wounde about ye haundles thereof braides
of sylken and goolde corde, withe twain tassells appended
thereunto.” From a tract written in the third
year of the reign of the first Edward by a Franciscan
monk, we learn, that besides the tassels, which are
worn similarly about modern canes, some of the gayer
nobles had little bells attached to them. “Wherefore,”
reads the tract, “ye Kinge his excellente royall
majestie dyd pass a statute forbyding all knyghtes
under ye estate of a lorde, esquyer or gentylmanne,
from wearying lytell belles of golde or sylvere, or
other metalls, on theyr caynes, under ye forfeyture of
fyftie pence.”
According to a manuscript written a few years
later, we find that canes were constructed with lutes,
shepherds' pipes, and “an instrument of manye keyes,
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cunnynglie devysed, on whilk, bye breathyinge thereon,
these gallantes dyscoursed ryghte pleasaunte musyke
to fayre ladyes underneath their balconie.”
The original intention of the cane no longer existed;
for, in London, dogs were comparatively few in
number, and these less ferocious, and better provided
with food, than their species in Italian cities: the pike,
therefore, fell into disuse, and its place was supplied
by the ferrule in its present form. Besides this, there
are two additional reasons for their abandonment,
given by historians of the period. The venerable
Gregory, in his Memoirs of the Confessor says, somewhat
obscurely, however, that in “Hys daie gentles
dyd carrye a pyke fyve ynches yn lengthe, verie
sharpe, and oftyn foughte ye duello therewyth yn
cyvick broyls; wherefore dyd Kynge Edouard ye
Fyrste comande that they delyver them to his royall
armourer, who dyd breake therefrom three ynches,
leavynge yt pointlesse; and bye statute ye Kynge forbyde
such to ben usen more wythin ye walles of Londonne.”
Duncan Grime, who is nearly cotemporary with
Gregory, says, that by an edict of the last year of
Henry III, “alle knyghtes and noblesse,” were forbidden
to wear any “stycke staffe or caine, or anny
kynde of wepon save their goode swoorde, mace of
stele, or other knyghtlie armes, yn as moche yt ys unsemelie
in knyghtes to go swyngeing toe and froe a
tynklynge baubell yn their fyngeres.”
In an ancient poem still extant, written by a certain
John Loufkin entitled “Ye Dedes of ye Lord Rychard
of Potrelles,” who lived in the reign of Edward
III, we find that the pike was not only restored to the
cane, but this lengthened to five feet, and in this form
resembling a light spear, was frequently used in tournaments,
and sometimes even in battle. John Loufkin
has given at some length an account of jousts held
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near Salisbury, where the combatants were armed
alone with the “spere-caine.”
“The partyes were sonder set,
Togyder they ranne without let.
Lorde Rychard gan hym dysgyse
In a ful strange queyntyse.
He bare a schafte that was grete and stronge,
It was ful five footen longe,
And it was both grete and stout,
Four and a halfen ynches about.
Of oaken wood it was, and cole blacke,
Of sylver bells yt had no lack.
From the valaye he forthe strode,
And in the lists ful bravely stode.
The Kynge came out of a valaye,
For to see of their playe—
A goode Knyghte he was of valour and main,
And well dyght in ye spere-caine,
And hymself toke a caine grete and stronge,
That was hevy and longe,
With wilk, yf he stroke a man's gorgere,
Hym repented that he cam there.”
After telling us that these jousts were fought on
foot and without mail, and that the “atyre” of the
combatants was “orgulous, and altogedyr cole black,”
the poem says:
The trumpettes began for to blowe:
Lord Rychard then did runne for to mette,
And ful egyrly hys foe hym grette,
With a dente on the forehede delde
He bare hym down in the felde,
And the youth fell to the grounde,
Ful nigh ded in that stound.
The next that he met thare
A grete stroke he hym bare,
Thrust his gorgette with his cane thro';
-- 154 --
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Hys necke he breake there atwo.
The kynge behelde this from hys stede,
And was grieved for that, the man was dede,
And swore on his sworde good blood again
Shoulde not be shede wythe a spere cane.”
On account of the fatal termination of this joust,
King Edward confirmed the oath he had made in the
lists, and passed a law prohibiting the “spere cane,
mace cane, pyke cane, or any manner of cane whatsoever;”
declaring it henceforward an “unknyghtlie
appendance.”
In the subsequent reign, during the crusades, the
cane was revived among knights, in undress, by one
John Lord Montacute, who, being wounded in an assault
of Jerusalem, and his sword being broken off,
sustained himself back to his tent by a branch plucked
from a tree on the mount of olives; which branch,
on account of its sacredness, his pious armorer subsequently
adorned with “fine steele, golde, and precious
stones sette aboute ye handle,” which was cut in the
form of a cross. On his recovery, the knight continued
to retain this cane, and bear it, when not in battle.
From what can be learned of him, at this period he
was a gay and youthful cavalier, of great personal accomplishments;
and forth with, his example was followed
by both French and English Knights, who, emulous
to combine piety with fashion, had well nigh stripped
the groves about Jerusalem of every branch, ere the
commanders of the Christian hosts interposed to save
the hallowed trees. The knights, on their return to
Europe, brought with them their sacred staffs, and until
the close of the crusades the cane was once more in
vogue in all the European cities.
At first, it was confined exclusively to such as had
done pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and made only of
wood that grew in Palestine; so that, like the scallopshell,
it was recognised as an authentic badge of
-- 155 --
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pilgrimage. By and by, however, impostors assumed
the badge, and substituted ordinary wood from unhallowed
soil, and the cane lost much of its sacred character:
but what it parted with in sanctity, it gained
in elegance. At the close of the last crusade, it was
worn by all of gentle birth; and for many years run
a brilliant career, exhausting, in the invention of its
myriad forms, the purses and tastes of its votaries.
At the close of the seventeenth century it got to be
worn by schoolboys almost exclusively, and finally
became a portion of the necessary wardrobe of the London
chimney-sweep. When boys began to wear them,
gentlemen gradually laid them aside and substituted
the small sword. This was originally worn suspended
from a belt at the left side; but it soon got to be the
fashion to carry it without sash or belt beneath the
arm: a few years later it was used sheathed, exclusively
as a walking-stick. With trifling modifications
it continued in vogue till near the close of the last
century, when it again became the fashion to wear it
at the side: the neglected cane, in the meanwhile, after
being cast off by the sweeps, adopted by the students
of Oxford and Cambridge, and by them resigned
to the apprentices of London, seemed to have a
legitimate abiding-place in the hands of powdered
footmen, valets, and lackeys generally, consigned to a
degradation from which it appeared destined never to
rise.
Shortly after the American Revolution, at which
period all the Christian world was more or less belligerent,
the side-arm was laid by, (for all men were
tired of war and its insignia,) and the popularity of
the cane began to revive. It made its way into favor,
at first, but slowly; elderly and middle aged gentlemen,
lawyers, and officers of the army, alone adopting
it. Its form was also exceedingly simple, resembling
strikingly, the original Roman cani. Its material
was usually the limb of an Indian tree, stout,
-- 156 --
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straight, and of a bright brown color, having a steel
ferrule and a plain gold head, with an eye, through
which was passed a black silk cord terminating in two
tassels. This form of the cane, and its limitation
to the personages above mentioned, prevailed until
the commencement of the present century, when this
exclusiveness gradually disappeared; younger gentlemen
beginning to make their appearance with it on
the Sabbath, and by and by some few, who were gentlemen
of leisure, wearing it all times. It was not
long before it got to be worn by aspiring youths of all
classes, but rather as a portion of holyday attire than
an article of ordinary convenience and ornament. It
has been growing steadily into favor ever since; and
men now wear canes, not, as twenty-five years ago,
as the badge of a gentleman or the indication of dandyism,
but, with certain exceptions to be mentioned
hereafter, as a useful, convenient, and agreeable companion,
a friend to stand by in the hour of danger,
and to him who is worthy of wearing it, wife, horse,
dog, friend, all in one.
eaf159.n5[5] That triumph of modern jurisprudence the “Dog Law,” was unknown
to ancient Rome,
eaf159.n6[6] In lieu of the cani, Scipio the Blind tells us how it was promulgated
by Julius Cæsar, that, whosoever could prove that he had thrown
into the Tiber a pup eight days old, should receive one twentieth of a
silver sesterce.
eaf159.n7[7] One of the few Latin puns that can successfully be rendered into
the English tongue.
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THE BLACK PATCH; OR, A YEAR AND A DAY
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THE BLACK PATCH;
OR,
A YEAR AND A DAY.[8]
One Christmas eve, not many years ago, the long,
paved room of an old and renowned café, near the
cathedral in Charles street, New Orleans, was brilliant
with lights and gay with the sound of many voices.
Nearly every one of its little marble tables, arranged
at regular intervals around the wall, was occupied by
one or more individuals, either sipping strong Arabian
coffee, (for which this house was famous,) from cups
the size of half an egg shell; playing at the everlasting
game of “domino,” smoking, reading the gazette, or,
by the loud and energetic conversation, adding to the
confusion characteristic of a well frequented restaurateur.
Waiters in white jackets, white aprons, and red
caps, were flying, jostling to and fro, bearing on little
salvers, coffee, in pots and cups, in size and appearance
like children's tea-sets; liquors of every name
and hue; cigars, and multitudinous glasses of brandy
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and water, a favorite New Orleans beverage. A canopy
of tobacco smoke, the density of which, all were
contributing to increase with commendable industry,
(for nearly every one smoked either cigar, pipe, or
segarillo,) concealed the upper half of the columns
supporting the ceiling, and hung low above the heads
of the crowd, which, judging from costume, speech,
and complexion, represented every christianised nation
on the globe.
Apart, at the upper extremity of the room, sat a
young gentleman, who, from his dress and air, was
evidently a Parisian. He was not more than twenty-five
years of age with a slight, almost feminine figure,
of strikingly elegant proportions. His eyes were of a
clear gray color, with an eagle-like expression. In his
small beautiful shaped mouth, softness, I may say
sweetness and manly decision, were equally blended.
His dress was rich and in the fashion of 1830, the
period of our story. He had been taking coffee with
a companion who had just departed and was now
seated facing the room, with one arm on the table and
a foot upon a chair, and with his hat off, leaving exposed
his fine head and temples, over which rich
brown curls fell with natural grace. He was smoking
and surveying the motley assembly, occasionally,
as it seemed, by a slight smile, or a humorous twinkle
of his eyes, amusing himself with the ludicrous features
which an apt and observing mind will always
detect in such a scene. He had finished his third Havanna,
the hour waxed late, and by degrees the tenants
of the tables took their departure. The comparative
stillness of the room first appeared to rouse him
to a consciousness of the lateness of the hour. Hastily
rising, he threw a crown upon the table, and was
about also to depart, when two persons who had
entered as he rose from his chair, advanced up
the room. One of them was a tall, handsome Englishman,
with a large muscular frame, his fine
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features were bloated by dissipation, and his whole air
was that of a fashionable roué. His companion, by
the brown cheek, full, black eye, light and symmetrical
form, small hand, profusion of jewels and general
indolence of action, betrayed the wealthy Mexican
exile, many of whom were at this period in New Orleans.
He threw himself into the seat vacated by the
young Frenchman, and ordered the officious “garçon”
to bring a glass of absente. The Englishman was
about to take the opposite chair, calling at the same
time refreshments in a boisterous voice, as if he was
partly intoxicated, when fragments of cigars, little
heaps of ashes, empty cups, and other signs of the
recent occupancy of the table, met his eye.
“What the deuce, Garcia! Take another table.
Some cursed Frenchman has just left this. Faugh! It
smells of garlick. Come, señor, take the table opposite.
These Frenchmen! with their frogs and onions!
Pah! come along.”
As the speaker turned, his eyes encountered those
of the young Frenchman, sparkling with fierce resentment.
For a moment he bore his steady gaze, and
then looked away, as if ashamed, but the next instant,
as if to show that he meant what he had said, and
would abide by it, (for the Frenchman's eyes conveyed
a menace,) he doggedly added, as men sometimes
will do in such cases, “yes, frogs and garlick soup, I
say—ay and all Frenchmen to boot!”
He fixed his eyes for an instant after he had spoken,
with a brow-beaten look upon the young man, and
then sitting down, carelessly repeated his order to the
“garçon.” The Frenchman gazed on him fixedly for
a few seconds longer, and then advanced a step and
spoke, while his eagle eye sparkled with angry excitement.
“Was that remark meant for me?”
“As you please,” replied the Englishman, coolly.
“Garçon, a sardine with my brandy and water.”
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“I must consider your words as personally aimed,
monsieur, and shall expect satisfaction.”
“Lest you should be in doubt as to its personality
take that! and be careful how you interfere with my
remarks a second time.”
With the word, the Englishman gave the Frenchman
a blow in the face, which staggered him. For a
moment he stood as if bewildered between surprise
and pain, surveying his antagonist with a burning
cheek and a heaving breast. He thrust his hand into
his bosom as if to grasp a weapon, but instantly withdrew
it, and placed it upon his cheek, where he had
received the disgraceful blow. Then, as if governed
by some new feeling, he approached the Englishman
with a look and manner from which all excitement
was banished, and bending to his ear, as he sat by the
table, whispered, so as to be heard only by him, “your
blood, sir, shall wash out this disgrace. I bide my
time. If it be a year hence, I will be revenged.”
“I will give you a year and a day to win back your
honor.”
“A year and a day.”
The next moment the young Frenchman disappeared.
Eugène Berthoud was the only son of a wealthy
Parisian banker. His grandfather lost his head on the
guillotine for the crime of being noble. His father had
been bred a merchant, to which pursuit he educated
Eugène; and when he became of age, gave him a copartnership
in his extensive house, of which there
were three branches, in the cities of Liverpool, Cadiz,
and New Orleans. Once a year Eugène made the
tour of these marts, to supervise the immense business
which flowed through these channels from the parent
fountain. He had arrived in New Orleans but ten
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days before we met him in the café, and had not yet
contemplated the object of his visit. He had withdrawn
to the restaurateur with one of the partners of
his house, after a laborious day, to take coffee; and, as
we have seen, was about to retire, when the language
of the Englishman arrested his ear. A Frenchman is,
perhaps, above other men, keenly sensitive in all that
concerns national honor. His country—“la belle
France”—is his idol. To praise or censure it, is to
praise or censure him individually. They are one,
and indivisible. Eugène Berthoud felt like a Frenchman;
and like a Frenchman resented as personal the
insult cast upon his countrymen. Who would not
have done the same?
When he received the blow, his first impulse was
to take the life of the aggressor upon the spot. But
he was unarmed. Next, the physical power of the
tall, muscular Englishman left him no chance in an
encounter, where success would depend wholly upon
physical superiority; and defeat, he knew, would only
add to his disgrace. His mind rapidly surveyed these
features of his position, and grasped them in all their
bearings. There was yet another argument which had
its weight upon a mind so honorably balanced as his,
and which alone prevented him from making the certain
sacrifice of his life to wipe out his disgrace. This
was the consequences of his death to others. This
reflection is too apt to be disregarded by honorable
minds. A man's honor is as much bound for the interests
of others as for its own reputation; and there
can be no greater absurdity than for a man rashly to
stake his life to uphold his honor, when the loss of his
life would bring ruin upon those to whom he is bound
by some one of the ties of life. It is with honor to
purchase dishonor. The reflection of the injury his
father's commercial affairs, of which he had almost
the sole management, would receive by any fatal rashness
on his part, checked his hand, as he was about to
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throw the Englishman his card preparatory to a meeting
the ensuing morning. And feeling that it was his
duty before he acted for himself, to be able to do so
without involving the interests of those with whom he
was connected, he instantly decided on the course he
should pursue; and signifying to his foe that he should
hold him accountable for the insult he had received,
he left the apartment. We leave the most finical of
our readers to decide whether Eugène Berthoud acted
in this instance as a gentleman and merchant should
have done, or whether it would have been more honorable
for the gratification of personal hostility, to
have sacrificed the fortunes of his commercial partners.
“Have I been struck?” he groaned in mental anguish,
giving vent to his emotion as he gained the
street. “Struck! and the man is free who gave the
blow! That Eugène Berthoud should have lived to
suffer such disgrace!”
He hurried along Rue des Chartres with his hand
to his cheek, which he had not uncovered since the
blow, as if he would hide the spot from every human
eye. Arrived at his hotel, and answering no question,
returning no nod of recognition from friends who
passed him in the halls, he sought his room, shut and
locked the door behind him, and cast himself upon his
bed.
“A blow!” he cried, as he buried his face in the
pillow, “and revenge is forbidden me!”
The feelings of a high-minded man, under the circumstances
in which he was placed—injured honor
pointing to instant revenge—but a more sacred and
legitimate honor, withholding, for a time, the expression
of his resentment, are better left to the imagination
than to the pen.
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The following day, and, indeed, for several days
afterwards, a young man might have been seen in the
streets of New Orleans, apparently absorbed in business,
wearing a large black patch covering one side of
his face. He answered no questions from inquisitive
friends, and left strangers to wonder. It was Eugène
Berthoud. In a few days it was known that the
“stranger with the black patch,” as he was designated,
had left the city. Men shrugged their shoulders, wondered,
guessed, and grew no wiser. A few months
afterwards, “the stranger with the black patch” excited
successively the curiosity of the citizens of Liverpool
and Cadiz. At length one evening, about the
first of November, 1831, the diligence rumbled up to
the door of one of the principal hotels in Paris. A
gentleman, wrapped to the eyes in a cloak, descended
from it, and walked away at a rapid pace. Hastily
traversing the Rue de Richelieu, he entered a narrow
alley, and soon emerged in an open square, surrounded
by stately dwellings. He crossed the area to one
of them, ascended the steps, and without ringing applied
a master-key, entered, and closed the door. He
passed through the hall with familiar footsteps, and
opened a door at its extremity, and entered what might
be either a library or a counting-room. Before a table
covered with check and account books, bills of lading,
receipts, and all the abstract signs and appendages of
commerce, sat a fine-looking gentleman, about sixty
years of age, poring over an invoice. He raised his
eyes; the stranger dropped his cloak, and Eugène
Berthoud stood before his father.
The parent rose to embrace him.
“Forbear, sir! I am unworthy of your embrace.”
“Wounded, Eugène?” he exclaimed, his eyes having
been arrested by the black patch.
“To the heart's core. I have been struck!”
“Ha!” cried the chivalrous old Frenchman, with a
sparkling eye. “But you gave back the blow?”
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“I did not.”
“A Berthoud struck, and the man unscathed who
did it!”
“Lives, and untouched.”
“Then, Eugène Berthoud, you are not my son,”
said the old Frenchman, turning from him with indignant
contempt.
“Sir!—”
“Not a word. In your person the blood of a chivalrous
race has been attainted.”
In a few words, Eugène, with a burning cheek, related
the scene in the café, and his motives in delaying
his revenge.
M. Berthoud commended his nice sense of honor,
and restored him to his affection.
“My affairs,” concluded Eugène, “and those of
our house are all settled. I have devoted the last ten
months to it. You will find by these papers that
every thing is correct. I had no right to expose my
life to the injury of others. Adieu, sir! when we meet
again, the son shall not be ashamed to encounter the
eye of his parent.”
Placing a packet on the table, he wrapped himself
in his cloak, left the house, and hastened to the hotel.
The next evening but one, the hills of “sunny France”
were just sinking beneath the horizon, as the eyes of
the young Frenchmen surveyed from the deck of a
packet ship, perhaps for the last time, the shores of
his native land.
On Christmas eve, one year after the events related
in the commencement of this sketch, the café St. Louis
presented a scene very similar to that we have before
described. There stood the same little marble tables
arranged along the sides—there sat what appeared to
be the same domino-players—the same smokers—the
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same brandy and water and liqueur bibbers—the same
newspaper porers, and the same garçons in white
jackets and red caps, with little salvers in their hands,
running the same endless round: and as usual, there
was a constant coming and going of hungry and
thirsty bipeds. By and by their number decreased,
till not more than twenty individuals remained in the
room. No one had entered for some time, when the
door swung open, and Eugène Berthoud, with the
black patch upon his cheek came in. He passed up
the apartment, attracting all eyes, but indifferent to
observation. His piercing glance rested an instant on
every countenance, as he traversed the apartment, but
the face he sought was not among them. He had
been ten days in New Orleans, and night and day had
been seeking the Englishman, whom he knew to be a
resident of the city, in all his haunts. For the tenth
night had he entered the café St. Louis, and waited
till midnight, if perchance he might make his appearance.
“The year expires to-night,” he thought, as
he leaned against a column, and with folded arms
fixed his eyes steadfastly on the distant door, with the
intenseness of a tiger lying in wait for his prey. Who,
in the slight, elegant figure and youthful face of the
young Frenchman, would have looked for that deep,
settled determination of spirit which he possessed—for
the least trace of that fearful vengeance which he was
about to exhibit?
Nine—ten—eleven o'clock passed, and he continued
to lean against the column with his gaze concentrated
on the door. At length it opened, and a party
of young gentlemen entered in high spirits. From
their conversation, they evidently had just come from
the theatre. One after the other he examined their
features till six had entered. The door was still ajar—
there was a moment's delay, and a seventh came
in. It was “the Englishman!”
Reader! you should have witnessed the expression
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of Eugène Berthoud's face at that moment! The
party walked up the length of the room; and all had
passed him but the Englishman. He came opposite
the column, and Eugène stepped out and confronted
him.
“The time has come!” he said, in a low and calm,
but strangely impressive voice.
“Who are you, sir?”
“Your foe!”
“I never saw you before.”
“Do you not remember that just one year ago this
night, on this spot, you struck a Frenchman in the
face?”
“Yes.”
“I am he. This patch has ever since hid the spot.”
This was said in the even, quiet tones of familiar
conversation. There was no sign of passion visible
in his countenance. The companions of the Englishman
had gathered round and listened with surprise.
“But it is so long ago—there is no cause for quarrel,”
said the Englishman.
“That you may have cause, I will strike you,” said
Berthoud, quietly.
Instantly the Englishman received a blow on the
face, from his open hand, which made the apartment
ring again. Eugène then took a step backward and
coolly folded his arms. The Englishman would have
returned the blow, had not his friends held him back,
with cries of “No, no! all fair. He is right! blow for
blow! you must meet in the morning!”
After a few moments of excitement and loud talking,
during which Eugène remained calmly standing
before them, as if an unconcerned spectator, cards
were exchanged, and the parties separated.
The ensuing morning witnessed a scene by no
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means rare in the metropolis of the south-west. In a
sheltered field, in the suburbs of the lower Faubourg,
on what is termed the “Gentilly road,” two hostile
parties were discovered preparing to engage in mortal
combat. They were the Englishman and Eugène
Berthoud. They have taken their stand at ten paces,
with pistols in their hands.
“Are you ready?” asked Berthoud's second.
“All ready,” was the reply of the second of the opposite
party.
“One—two—three—fire!”
The two pistols went off with one report. The
Englishman leaped half his height into the air and fell
dead, pierced through the heart. Berthoud at the
same time clapped his hand to his side and staggered
backward. Recovering himself, he walked steadily
toward his antagonist and sunk down by his side.
Then, as the warm stream spouted from his breast, he
tore the black patch from his cheek, bathed his hand
in it, and washed the place it had covered.
“Now has his blood wiped out the foul blot his
hand placed there. The honor of Berthoud is without
stain. I am satisfied!”
Eugène Berthoud, then, with a smile on his lip,
breathed out his spirit, and the aggressor and avenger
lay side by side in death.
eaf159.n8[8] This is a simple relation of facts which actually occurred. It is
one of a series of sketches under the title of “Ultra Montaine;” the
scenes and incidents of which are laid beyond the Alleghanies, which
the author has written for publication at some future time in a pair of
volumes.
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THE STUDENT; OR, LOCKET RING.
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Hostess.
Prove me this rogue a villain, good Jicol.
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Jicol.
That will I, and on the book too, fair hostess!
He is most damnably in debt! Is't not a rogue?
Hostess.
By the mass is he! a double-dyed villain!
In debt, say'st thou? I would have sworn 'fore God,
Thou couldst not have proved him such a rogue.
“A letter, 'Bel,” said Colonel Willis, without lifting
his eyes from the morning gazette, in which he
was reading an account of Perry's victory—for at that
period of the late war our story opens, “it is from
Charlotte, no doubt. Pray Heaven that scape-grace,
her husband, may have run away from her.”
'Bel, who had entered the breakfast room, brilliant
with health and beauty, turned pale, and with an eager
yet trembling hand, took the letter from the table, and
retiring to a recess of one of the windows, hastily tore
the seal, and earnestly perused its contents.
“My dearly beloved Isabel:
“How I yearn to be once more folded in your sisterly
embrace, to lean my aching head upon your bosom,
and pour my heart into yours. It is near midnight.
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Edward has gone out to seek some means of earning
the pittance which is now our daily support. Poor
Edward! How he exists under such an accumulation
of misery, I know not. His trials have nearly broken
his proud and sensitive spirit. Since his cruel arrest,
his heart is crushed. He will never hold up his head
again. He sits with me all day long, gloomy and desponding,
and never speaks. Oh how thankful I feel
that he has never yet been tempted to embrace the
dreadful alternative to which young men in his circumstances
too often fly! May he never fly to the
oblivious wine cup to fly from himself. In this, dear
Isabel, God has been, indeed, merciful to me. Last
night Edward came home, after offering himself even
as a day laborer, and yet no man would hire him, and
threw himself upon the floor and wept long and bitterly.
When he became calmer, he spoke of my sufferings
and his own, in the most hopeless manner, and
prayed that he might be taken from the world, for Pa
would then forgive me. But this will never be. One
grave will hold us both. I have not a great while to
live, Isabel! But I do not fear to die! Edward! 'tis
for Edward my heart is wrung. Alas his heart is hardened
to every religious impression—the Bible he
never opens, family prayers are neglected, and affliction
has so changed him altogether, that you can no
longer recognise the handsome, agreeable and fascinating
Edward you once knew. Oh, if pa would relent,
how happy we might all be again. If dear Edward's
debts were paid, and they do not amount to
nine hundred dollars altogether, accumulated during
the three years of our marriage, he might become an
ornament to society, which none are better fitted to
adorn. Do, dearest Isabel, use your influence with pa,
for we are really very wretched, and Edward has been
so often defeated in the most mortifying efforts to obtain
employment—for no one would assist him because
he is in debt—(the very reason why they should) that
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he has not the resolution to subject himself again to
refusals, not unfrequently accompanied with insult,
and always with contempt. My situation at this time,
dearest sister, is one also of peculiar delicacy, and I
need your sisterly support and sympathy. Come and
see me, if only for one day. Do not refuse me this,
perhaps the last request I shall ever make of you.
Plead eloquently with pa, perhaps he will not persevere
longer in his cruel system of severity. Edward
is not guilty—he is unfortunate. But alas, in this
world, there is little distinction between guilt and misery!
Come, dearest Isabel—I cannot be said “No.”
I hear Edward's footstep on the stair. God bless and
make you happier than your wretched sister,
“Charlotte.”
With her eyes overflowing with tears, Isabel folded
the letter, and buried her face in the drapery of the
window to hide her emotion. Colonel Willis, still intent
upon the gazette, was at length startled by a suppressed
sobbing, as if the mourner's heart would break.
Hastily crushing the paper in his hand, and laying
aside his spectacles, he approached the window: 'Bel,
my love, what has caused this violent agitation?” he
said, passing his arm around her waist, and gently
drawing her to his bosom.
She threw her arms about his neck exclaiming,
“Poor, poor Charlotte!” and the tears fell faster.
“What, what of Charlotte? no worse news I hope?”
“Oh, pa, you must do something for them,” and she
looked up into his face with her liquid eyes, which
pleaded with all the eloquence of sisterly affection.
“Isabel,” said Colonel Willis, sternly, “have I not
sworn that I never will forgive them? Why will you,
my child” he continued in a milder tone, “incur my
displeasure by a request so often made, and so repeatedly
refused!”
“Yes, but pa, consider that poor Charlotte —”
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“Charlotte is only receiving the reward of her own
folly,” interrupted the parent impatiently; “when she
eloped with this fortune hunter of a poor student, she
knew the consequences. As she has sown, so let her
reap. I forbid you, Isabel, on pain of my severest displeasure,
to name the subject to me again.”
“Oh, no, no! hear me this once, my dear, dear pa,”
continued the lovely pleader, following him to his arm-chair,
in which he had reseated himself and resumed
the paper, “I have just received such a letter from
Charlotte!”
“And haven't I been pestered to death with letters,
till I have ordered the post master to direct back all
letters, addressed to me bearing the Covington post
mark? Isabel, it is useless for you to say any thing
more. My mind is made up—The laws of the Medes
and Persians were not more unchangeable than my
determination. I would not aid them to keep him
from the gallows, and her from—”
“Pa, pa!” cried Isabel, placing her hand upon his
mouth, “Oh, my dear father, why will you be so rigid?”
and the distressed maiden burst into tears.
Colonel Willis was moved by the depth and energy
of her emotion. “Forgive me, my child,” he said affectionately
embracing her, “you, at least, have never
disobeyed me, and I would not intentionally wound
your feelings. You are now my only child,” he added
with tenderness, yet with better emphasis; and he pressed
for a moment his hand to his forehead, as if painful
thoughts were passing through his mind.
“Pa,” said Isabel, in a low, sweet, coaxing tone,
seizing a mood so favorable to her wishes, determined
not to be defeated in her benevolent object, “now
wont you read poor Charlotte's letter?”
“I am very busily reading,” he said in a gruff, decided
tone, rattling the paper and bringing it closer to
his eyes emphatically, as if to silence importunity.
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“But, pa, sister Charlotte writes me to visit her for
a few days!”
The whole attention of Colonel Willis was directed
still more perseveringly to the columns of the gazette,
notwithstanding his spectacles, without the assistance
of which he could not see a letter, were lying behind
him on the table.
“She writes me,” continued the persevering girl,
“that she is very ill.”
“Ill! ill, did you say, Isabel?” he cried, thrown off
his guard, all the father struggling in his bosom for the
mastery.
“N—no, not exactly ill—just now, pa—but—
but—” and the confused and blushing girl hesitated.
Turning sharply round at her embarrassment, her father
repeated—“`N—no, not exactly ill—but—but—
but—' What is the meaning of this hesitancy, Isabel?
I have never known you to deceive me, and I
cannot think you would fabricate an untruth even to
see your worthless sister. Give me the letter!” he
added, sternly. Isabel gave it to him in silence. He
adjusted his spectacles and commenced perusing it;
uttering a “pshaw” at every few lines; but when he
came to the sentence in which his daughter alluded to
her approaching illness, earnestly beseeching her sister
to be with her at that time, Isabel, who had
watched every movement of his features, observed a
softened expression pass over them, and a tear which
he in vain strove to crush with his eye lid, steal down
his browned cheek. Nature, true to herself, at such
a moment, would assert her empire. “Poor Charlotte
indeed!” he said, half aloud, closing the letter, as the
tear dropped upon it and blotted her name, “Isabel,
you may go to her.”
The next moment she was weeping for joy in her
father's arms.
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Edward Carrington had been two years a student
of divinity, when his health, impaired by incessant
toil beside the midnight lamp, exiled him to a
more genial clime than that of New England. A graduate
of Dartmouth college, he had supported himself
through his collegiate course on the scanty pittance
realised by keeping a village school during the winter
vacations, for he was the only son of his mother, and
she was a widow, pious, humble and poor. Through
his triennial course of Theology, to his individual exertions
alone he also looked for support. He chose
the ministry, not to promote his worldly interests, to
have a “profession” or from any other improper motives:
but from a sense of duty, and because, as a minister
of the gospel, he felt that he would be most useful
to his fellow men. Answering the apostle's
directions for this sacred office, he was vigilant, patient,
sober, apt to teach, and withal conscientiously
and sincerely pious. He therefore chose the ministry.
There remained but one year to complete his course
of study, when that last hope, and often, ultimately,
the grave of the northern consumption—a southern
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climate—wooed him to health. He left home with
bright hopes, a light purse, and his mother's blessing.
On board the packet carrying him from Boston to
Charleston, was the president of a southern University,
returning home from a tour among the lakes of
New England. The unassuming manners and agreeable
conversation of Edward, united with his fine
talents and high scholastic attainments, ripened, in the
space of a few days, from a mere traveller's acquaintance,
into an intimacy which promised to promote
materially the interests of our young adventurer. On
his arrival at the port of their destination, the President
proposed to him that he should accept a tutorship
in his university, until he could obtain a private situation
in a planter's family, when his duties would be
less laborious, and more time could be found for study.
In a few days, Edward was busily engaged in fulfilling
the duties of his new station.
The officers of the college were occasionally invited
to the dinner parties given by the neighboring planters.
On one of these occasions, six months after his arrival
in the south, at Laurel Hill, the residence of her father,
Colonel Willis, a surviving revolutionary soldier,
Edward saw for the first time the lovely and accomplished
Charlotte Willis, the eldest of two daughters,
the only children of this gentleman. Charlotte was at
this period, just entering her nineteenth year. Her
figure was faultless. Her hair was jetty as the raven's
plumage, her eyes large, black, and full of intellectual
expression. She was altogether a graceful and fascinating
creature, with an excellent but susceptible
heart, an amiable disposition, and an accurately cultivated
mind. Her beauty—for she was surpassingly
fair—like chef d'œuvres of painting or sculpture,
would not at first strike you, but won upon you as you
gazed. She could not be termed “beautiful” exactly,
nor “handsome,” nor, indeed, “pretty:” none of these
terms, which have their own proper applications,
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however perverted, would suit her style of beauty. She
was lovely—a Rose Bradwardine, rather than a Flora
MacIvor. Her manner was gentle, and in conversation,
her eyes were oftener concealed behind their
drooping lids, and long silky fringes, than lifted to the
faces of those with whom she spoke. She was a
woman for poets to deify—for men to love.
Edward Carrington saw Charlotte Willis as he
entered the drawing room at Laurel Hill, and from
that moment the destinies of the two became forever
united. Edward, at this period was a strikingly handsome
young man. Health had returned to his cheek
and animation to his eye. His features were noble,
and his person manly and elegant. His general manner
was grave, or rather quiet; but when he strove to
please, few men have displayed higher powers of conversation
than he exhibited—his wit flashed, but was
harmless, while his humor was irresistible. Although
college professors, or “teachers,” as they are commonly
termed in the south, are not there recognised of
the “caste” which entitles them to free admission into
the best southern society (for teaching is a sort of
mechanical employment, and therefore, not exactly
comme il faut.) Edward Carrington, on account of his
pleasing address, soon became a frequent and welcome
visiter at the mansion of Colonel Willis. What
with mingling voices in the same air, bending till
cheek touched cheek, over the same drawing—for
Edward drew and sung delightfully—riding out
nearly every evening, and other opportunities placed
in their way by Cupid, and to which Isabel was particeps
criminis, Edward and Charlotte became within
two months after their first meeting, as deeply in love
as any author of moderate ambition would wish his
hero and heroine to be. Charlotte loved with her
whole heart. Her love was deep, pure, and unchangeable.
For Edward she lived, moved, and had
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her being. Love had changed her whole character.
It was to her a new existence of the purest bliss,
which she would not exchange for any other. In the
heart of Edward, this new passion which he had introduced
there, assumed an alarming aspect. None of
the officers of the institution were professors of
religion.
Among the surrounding planters, its forms were
loosely observed. Gaiety and pleasure, and the
amusements and business of life seemed to absorb all
minds around him. None were congenial with his
own. His opportunities of private devotion, when he
first attached himself to the University were few and
interrupted, as the rulers of the institution required
that the tutors should room with the most troublesome
students. That privacy necessary to devotion, not
being always attainable, occasional omission of closet
devotions, finally ripened into a total neglect of them.
The lively society he met with at “Laurel Hill” was
not calculated to foster religious feeling, and at length,
like a plant that withers for want of nourishment and
care, his religious impressions gradually faded from
his heart, and Edward Carrington became a gay and
worldly young man. When love took possession of
his heart, the image of Charlotte Willis wholly displaced
that of the Savior, and the closet and the Bible
were altogether given up for the drawing room and
works of fiction.
Four months had expired, each day closer binding
the lovers in those pleasing chains, which, it is said,
no doubt slanderously, that only Hymen can unloose,
when the eyes of Colonel Willis were opened. The
lovers had never thought of “Pa.” They loved each
other, and looked not beyond themselves or the present
moment. One afternoon Colonel Willis suddenly
entered the parlor, and the lovers did not recover
themselves soon enough to prevent him from
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observing that Edward had been seated by Charlotte, with
his arm enfolding her waist, and that she was just
placing a large agate upon his finger.
Edward was sternly but politely forbidden the
house—for Edward Carrington was a poor student,
and Charlotte Willis was an heiress! The third morning
after this event, the carriage of Colonel Willis
rolled down the avenue to the high road, followed by
an open barouche, containing servants and baggage,
and by the evening of the next day, it was known
generally throughout the neighborhod, that the family
at Laurel Hill had departed on a tour to the Virginia
Springs.
Before his departure, Colonel Willis had so far exerted
his influence with the board of Trustees, of
which he was a prominent member, that he received
the promise that Mr. Carrington should be removed
so soon as one could be found to supply his place. In
the course of three weeks, therefore, Edward was
displaced from his tutorship. The president, his friend
and patron, had previously resigned his office on account
of ill health, and, notwithstanding he was one
of the most efficient officers in the institution, Edward
was sacrificed to the vindictive displeasure of Colonel
Willis. Ill news will fly, while good tidings move at
a snail's pace. In a few days, it was known to all,
who had known Edward, that he had been removed
from his tutorship. There were a hundred causes devised,
but no one was the true one. The victim himself
well knew the author of his disgrace, and bore
up against the adverse tide of his fortunes with manly
fortitude. His efforts to obtain a private tutorship
were unsuccessful, for busy rumor had begotten prejudice
and suspicion, and all his applications were coldly
received. At length, mortified at his disappointment,
he determined to try his fortune where his ill-fame
had not yet preceded him, and with the balance due
him of his small salary, he set forth on foot, for he was
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too poor to ride. The wanderer proceeded to a neighboring
village, where he passed the night, and in the
morning made a detour through the adjacent plantations
to seek a private tutorship in some family, but
his exertions were unsuccessful. He passed several
days, going from village to village, and from plantation
to plantation, in a fruitless search for a situation, until
his money was exhausted, he entered a remote village
and threw himself upon the benevolence of the Methodist
clergyman of the place—for he felt that if human
sympathy still lingered on earth, it must have its home
in the hearts of the followers of Christ. Through the
kind assistance of this good man, he obtained a small
school in the village, and was once more comparatively
happy. But when he thought of Charlotte, melancholy
and despondency reigned in his bosom.
One evening he was leaning over the railing of a
rural bridge on the skirts of the village, thinking of
Charlotte, and brooding over his poverty and blighted
hopes. His disposition had become soured by his
misfortunes, and he dared not fly for consolation to
that religion, which in prosperity he had neglected.
He had grown misanthropic; and at times, during his
greatest destitution, had even dared to question the
existence of an overruling Providence. So rapid is
the descent from belief to infidelity, when once the
hold is loosed! As he gazed into the dark flood gliding
stilly beneath, tempted to plunge into it, and terminate
at once his life and sufferings, the sound of
distant wheels and the clatter of horse's hoofs roused
him from his guilty meditations, and turning round,
he saw a carriage descending the hill to the bridge, and
the next moment, with the speed which benighted
travellers are wont to exert, it rolled past him across
the bridge and drove into the village. In a country,
where every planter keeps his carriage, there was
nothing extraordinary in the appearance of a handsome
travelling equipage entering an obscure hamlet,
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in a remote district. Yet an undefinable sensation
that he was in some way interested in the appearance
of this carriage, induced him to retrace his steps to the
village inn. When he arrived there, he saw the carriage,
with a barouche which had passed him just
after he had left the bridge, standing in the yard of
the hostlery, and, in reply to his inquiries, was informed
by a communicative slave, that “a gemman and two
young misusses had come to stay all night.” On entering
the inn, the landlady told him that she had given
his room to the two young ladies, as it opened into
the gentleman's, who was their father, and that “she
had spoken to neighbor Bryan, across the way, to
give him a bed at her house. As Edward was only
the “teacher,” he could be stowed away any where,
as well as be ejected from his room. He quietly
acquiesced, and occupied, in common with four little
chubby urchins, his scholars, a bed at “neighbor
Bryan's.”
“Oh dear!” exclaimed one of the young ladies, on
entering the student's bed room, “we might as well
sleep in the coach as here, for this bit of a box isn't
much bigger.”
“It will do, Isabel; any accommodations will be
good enough for me—if you can only put up with
them. I am wearied of this journey:” and the speaker
leaned her head upon her beautiful hand, sighed, and
gazed with an absent air into a small mirror before
her, which reflected a face pale but strikingly interesting.
“If pa thinks this driving about here, there, and
everywhere,” said the other, “is to drive Edward out
of your head, or mine either, for that matter, Charlotte—
for I love him almost as much as you do—I can tell
him he is sadly mistaken. Heavens! Charlotte, look
at this ring!” she exclaimed, taking from one of the
little toilet drawers of the bureau, into one after another
of which, with true female curiosity, she had
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been peeping, and holding before her sister a ring set
with a very large agate, of peculiar form; “It is the
very ring you gave Edward.”
Charlotte sprung forward with a faint, but joyful
exclamation, seized the ring, gazed on it eagerly for
an instant, then with trembling fingers pressed a concealed
spring. The agate flew open, displaying a
miniature locket, within which was enclosed a lock
of her own brown hair. She could not be mistaken!
It was the self same ring she was placing on Edward's
finger, at the fatal moment her father entered the room,
a moment of mingled joy and bitterness to both lovers,
and from which all their subsequent and future misery
was dated. She kissed the recovered treasure,
over and over again, until Isabel, who thought she
never would have done, proposed the very sensible
query, “I wonder how it came here?”
Poor Charlotte! she was too happy in the possession
of such a memento of her lover, to think of any
thing else but the joy of possessing it. “I wonder
how it did?” she at length repeated, thoughtfully and
looking into Isabella's face for an explanation. They
began to puzzle their heads by a good many possible
and impossible ways, by which it might have come
there. The idea never occurred to them that Edward
himself might have brought it there. Of his dismission
they had not heard, nor indeed received any intelligence
of Edward since they had left Laurel Hill
three months before, and supposing that he was still
in the University, the hope of soon meeting with him,
as they were now travelling homeward, alone supported
Charlotte, whose health and spirits were hourly
passing away, during the fatigues of the journey.
That he should be, therefore, one hundred miles from
home during term-time, was not probable.
In the midst of their perplexities, a little female
slave entered the room.
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“Can you tell me, you little chit,” eagerly inquired
Isabel, “whose ring this is?”
The slave looked for a short time closely at the ring
with her large, round eyes, as if decyphering hieroglyphics,
and then replied with great confidence:
“Yes, missis, I'se seen him on um massa teacher's
fing'r.”
“The teacher!” repeated Isabel, looking archly at
her sister; “what teacher?”
“Him what's got dis room, missis.”
“Does he keep a school in the village?”
“Yes, missis, he do, dis five, six week.”
“Six weeks! It can't be, Charlotte. Where is he now?”
“Gone over to massa Bryan's.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Massa teacher, missis.”
“No, no, but his name?” interrogated Isabel impatiently.
“I don't know, missis; dey al'ays call him massa
teacher.”
This information not being very satisfactory, and
despairing of further intelligence from such a source,
they retired for the night—not, however, without
coming to the determination to take possession of the
ring, arguing that he who left it there had no honest
title to it.
The ensuing morning at dawn, they resumed their
journey, and on the evening of the fourth day arrived
at Laurel Hill. Here they soon learned the fate of
Edward.
“Charlotte,” said Isabel entering her sister's room,
the morning after their return, and a few minutes
after they had learned the fatal news, “dry your eyes—
Edward is not lost to you, after all pa's persecution.”
The weeping girl raised her tearful eyes, and fixed
them with a hopeless gaze upon the animated face of
her gayer sister.
“Now don't look so like a monument of wo,
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Charlotte,” continued Isabel, smiling and embracing her,
“and I will tell you something that will make your
heart jump. Do you remember the little inn at which
we slept four nights ago?”
Charlotte pressed the agate which was upon her
finger to her lips, in reply.
“Well, then, it is my belief that Edward left the
ring there—that it was his room we occupied—and
in fine that he himself, and none other, was `massa
teacher.”'
Charlotte hung upon her sister's words, trembling
between hope and fear, and then threw herself with a
cry of joy upon her neck.
That night Charlotte Willis mysteriously disappeared
from the mansion at Laurel Hill, leaving the
following note on her father's dressing table:
“My dear Father:—
“I have learned the extremity of your anger against
Edward. Your vindictive cruelty has cast him friendless
upon the world, and I fly to share his fortune. I
must ask your forgiveness for the step I am about to
take. I am betrothed to Edward by vows that are
registered in Heaven.—Alas! it is his poverty alone that
renders him so hateful to you—for once you thought
there was no one like Edward. God bless you, my
dear father, and make you happy here and hereafter.
“Your still affectionate daughter,
“Charlotte.”
When Colonel Willis read this note, the morning
after her departure, the violence of his rage was unbounded.
Isabel was calm, and so far from being disturbed
or surprised at her sister's absence, she wore a
smile of peculiar meaning, as one after another the
servants rode into the court, bringing no tidings of the
fugitive, that betrayed more knowledge of Charlotte's
movements than she would have been willing her father
should know.
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The tenth morning after the mysterious disappearance
of his ring, which the little slave informed him
she had seen one of the strange young ladies place
upon her finger, Edward was sitting in his room,
brooding over the shipwreck of both his temporal and
spiritual hopes, without the moral power to retrieve
either, when he heard the stage, which three times a
week passed through the village, stop at the door of
the inn. In a few seconds the landlady's voice reached
his ears.
“Yes, my pretty lad, he is. That's the room at the
top o' the stairs, right side of the bannisters.” A light
footstep on the stairs, and a faint tap at his door, followed
this very audible direction.
“Come in,” said Edward, mechanically, without
raising his eyes, for domiciliary visits from his scholars
were not unusual.
The door slowly opened, as if the intruder wanted
confidence; and a youth, enveloped in a cloak, with a
cloth travelling cap, such as is worn by female equestrians,
but without the plume, upon his head, entered
the room. Love penetrates the cunningest disguises.
One glance from the student was sufficient. The recognition
was mutual.
“Charlotte!”
“Edward!” And the lovers were in each other's
arms.
The natural consequence, when true lovers will
not be twain, followed in this instance. They were
made one the same morning, by Edward's friend, the
benevolent Methodist clergyman. Edward now felt
that his privations and sufferings were terminated,
“For,” he said, folding her to his heart, “there can be
no suffering with so sweet a sharer of my vicissitudes.”
Happy as this marriage made Edward Carrington,
as a lover, it involved him in greater difficulties as a
member of society. Until now, he had, by strict economy,
just lived within the limits of the small income
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derived from his school. By his marriage his expenses
were doubled, while the number of his scholars remained
the same. Although the gentle Charlotte, in
uniting her fate with Edward's, had acted with an
energy and decision contrary to her native character,
(for what metamorphoses will not love effect?) she had
not acted without reflection. By the legacy of a deceased
aunt, she possessed in her own right five thousand
dollars, which was placed in the bank of Charleston,
subject either to her own or, until she was eighteen
years of age, her father's check. For this sum
she drew a check the day after her marriage. But
the first act of her father, on recovering from the burst
of rage to which he gave way on discovering his
daughter's elopement, was, as its trustee, to withdraw
this legacy from the bank.
This source so unexpectedly dried up, the youthful
pair, wretched in their fortunes, but happy in their
loves, exerted every means in their power to meet the
exigences of their situation, still continuing to occupy
the little study which Edward had originally tenanted.
It would be painful to recount the various vicissitudes,
which they had to encounter the first year, during
which period the pittance from Edward's school
scarcely supplied them with the necessaries, and none
of the comforts of life. At length Charlotte was taken
ill, and he was compelled to incur debts with a physician,
and the stores in the village; and for some time
he continued to struggle through debt and poverty,
when the landlord of the humble inn, which they had
so long made their home, finding, that on account of
Mrs. Carrington's illness, her husband's debts and expenses
increased, and that bills from others were presented
against him, which he could not meet, began
to look out for his own interests, which were in danger
on account of six months' arrears due him for
their board. He, therefore, entered his room one
morning, and very politely requested Edward to settle
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his bill, or find rooms elsewhere. He could not
do the former, and chose the latter.
Over his school-house was a vacant room, sometimes
used by the erudite school committee as a place
of meeting. This he was permitted to occupy, and with
the scanty furniture he had from time to time accumulated,
he furnished it, and moved there amid the abusive
language of his landlord, and the sneers of the
villagers, many of whom that day took their children
from school because “the master was such a bad character,
always having constables after him,” Edward
indeed experienced the fate of most debtors, particularly
those who are professional men or students.
A merchant may owe his thousands, and if unable to
meet his notes at maturity, he “breaks,” and at one
fell swoop settles with his creditors, perhaps at ten
cents on the dollar. His character stands as fair as
before. He has only failed! But a literary or professional
man, whose small and uncertain income may
render the contraction of small debts necessary, alas!
cannot “fail.” His accounts, presented one after another,
are put by in hopes of better times: these never
arrive, and constables, armed with writs, besiege his
door, and he soon gains the reputation, worse than
that of the thief, or gambler, of “not paying his debts.”
A gentleman, of sterling integrity, with a narrow income,
may contract, with the most upright intentions,
several small debts, whose aggregate, like Edward's
shall not exceed nine hundred dollars, by which he
will suffer more annoyance and lose far more in
reputation, if he is not able to pay them when due,
than the bold gambling speculator, who suddenly
“breaks,” and leaves his protested name on paper to
the amount of one hundred thousand dollars. Truly,
it would seem less venial to be a delinquent on a
large scale, than suffer the obloquy consequent of
petty offences!
Edward Carrington finally became a shunned man
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—for he was in debt! His school was gradually
dwindling away, and he in vain sought to obtain some
additional or a more lucrative employment. Day after
day he traversed the vicinity on foot, seeking the
means of livelihood.—Once he was absent nearly two
days, when a report flew through the village that the
unhappy young man had “run off,” leaving his wife
on the charity (Heaven save the mark!) of the town.”—
But when at length he returned, dispirited and
broken-hearted, and cast himself in despair upon
the floor of his wretched abode, unable to meet the
eyes of the patient and suffering Charlotte, the villagers
changed their gossip to surmises, “that these frequent
absences could be for no good.” And a highway
robbery having been perpetrated about that
period, he was generally suspected of being its author.
This latter rumor had not got well whispered over
the town, before all Edward's creditors sent in their
bills, each anxious to get the first share of the windfall.
Alas, for the reputation of the poor debtor! No
crime is so enormous that he is not capable of committing
it! Let me be a pirate—a bandit—a highway
robber—a gambler—a drunkard—anything but
a poor debtor!
Edward's afflictions, aided by the patient example
and quiet influence of Charlotte, gradually drew him
back to his religion. On her gentle nature, deep sorrow
exercised a heavenly influence, and unable to find happiness
on earth, she looked forward with the strong hope
of the christian, for a resting place in Heaven. Affliction
had made her a Christian! Her sweet influence drew
Edward back to the altars he had deserted, and as he
kneeled beside her in morning and evening worship,
he felt that chastisement had been indeed a blessing.
His religious exercises at length became weapons for
his neighbors.—They very reasonably thought, that
for a man to pray in his family, morning and night,
and not pay his debts, must be the very height of
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hypocrisy. Therefore, his unassuming piety became rather
his own enemy. During all these severe trials,
the gentle Charlotte was his guardian angel. She
checked his murmurings, soothed his wounded spirit,
and poured the balm of consolation into his broken
heart. While he was going from place to place seeking
a situation—for his little school was now entirely
broken up—she was on her knees in her closet, praying
for his success. When he returned wearied and
disappointed, ready to lie down and die with the accumulation
of his sorrows, for their last dollar, (the
remnant of a remittance from Isabel, who knew their
situation, and who sent them every dollar she could
command,) was gone, she exerted all those little tendernesses
of voice and manner which a young affectionate
wife knows so well how to avail herself of, to
encourage him to stem the adverse current. The
last sum they had received from the noble Isabel,
was parted with before night, to an inexorable,
lynx-eyed creditor, who kept up a system of espionage
upon the post office, (for he knew Edward
had received money by letter,) the good natured post
master's lady having sent him the information, that
“a letter containing money had just arrived for `the
teacher.”'
A month after this, a traveller was knocked down
and robbed near the school-house. The same day a
small donation from Isabel arrived, and Edward paid
a small bill with all that his necessities could spare of
it, to save himself from the degradation—worse than
death to his sensitive spirit—of a jail. The bank note,
which he gave in payment chanced to be on the bank
of the United States, and the money of which the traveller
was robbed was in notes on the same national
institution. There was ample proof of guilt where a
poor and friendless man, and withal in debt, was the
suspected person. Edward was arrested on suspicion,
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by the very creditor to whom he paid the money, and
no doubt would have fallen a victim to popular prejudice,
had not a negro, while his examination was going
on before the village magistrate, ignorant of its value,
offered a one hundred dollar note on the same bank at
a grocery. He was dragged before the magistrate—
and on the appearance of this more probable criminal,
the justice discharged Edward, unable to prove anything
against him, advising him “to pay his debts and
become an honest man.”
There are men who censure, pity, nay, shun their
neighbors in distress, when by the offer of a fraction
of their means, their countenance or advice, they might
advance him to a situation where he would command
their respect, instead of exciting their contempt or commiseration.
The magistrate was wealthy and a bachelor,
and might have enabled Edward to follow his insulting
advice, without the diminution of a single
bottle of wine a year, or a less quantum of sleep. But
Edward was poor and in debt—two very excellent
and sufficient reasons why he should not receive assistance.
Through the hands of this magistrate, who
was a member of the church, and ate and drank at the
communion table, had passed all the demands against
Edward. He consequently was aware of his circumstances,
his resources, and his inabiltty to liquidate his
debts, nevertheless took no steps to relieve him. Yet
this man was a Christian, made long prayers at
monthly concerts, and professed to love his neighbor
as himself! How little there is to distinguish the professor
from the non-professor, in the daily transactions
of life!
From the moment of his arrest, Edward abandoned
himself to his fate, and sat for hours, without speaking,
beside his patient and dying wife, for unexpressed
grief was silently, like the worm in the bud, feeding
upon her damask cheek, and sapping at the germ of
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life. At this period of their melancholy existence,
when she began to look forward to the hopes and pleasures
of a mother; Charlotte addressed the letter to
her sister, with which we commenced this tale of real
life.
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On a pleasant afternoon in June, six days after
Charlotte had written the letter the reception of which
formed the introduction to our tale, the arrival of a
handsome close carriage, with dark bay horses, and a
footman, its pause at the stairs, leading on the outside
of the school house to Edward's room above, and the
descent from it of a beautiful young lady, created
quite a sensation throughout the gossiping village of
Covington. Before sunset, there was not a soul, from
the bedridden grandam to the squalling infant, that
did not know that the “elegant fine lady” was Isabel
Willis, sister of “that Mrs. Carrington” who had
come to pass a few days with her.
We pass over Isabel's sensations at witnessing
Charlotte's wretchedness, the half of which had not
been told her. She lost not a moment in looking for
a better house, and easily obtained, for she wore the
exterior of opulence, a neat white cottage, in a pleasant
situation. Paying the first quarter in advance,
and purchasing several necessary articles of furniture,
the next day she saw them take possession of it, both
far happier than they had been for a long period. The
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little cottage was ornamented with a portico, honey-suckles
wound around the columns, and climbed up
the windows, there was a white paling before it, enclosing
a little green front yard, and altogether their
new abode wore an air of comfort and seclusion that
was soothing to the senses. The first evening under
their new roof was sanctified by the erection of the
family altar. Edward's heart was touched by this
change in his condition, and he gave utterance to his
overloaded bosom, in grateful and humble thanksgivings.
They kneeled together there—a holy family;
the beautiful Isabel beside the bedside of her sister,
who lay with her transparent eyelids closed, her emaciated
fingers clasped and her lips parted—pale and
ethereal in her fading loveliness; while Edward, his
haggard, yet intellectual face lifted upward, his eyes
streaming with tears of penitence and gratitude poured
forth his soul in prayer. It was a scene for angels to
linger over, as they passed on their celestial messages.
But Isabel, although with the limited means her
father had allowed her, for her own expenses, she had
done so much to promote their comfort, could not release
Edward from the incubus—debt, which weighed
down his spirits, and continued to spread a blight
upon his reputation. Early, the morning after they
had taken possession of the cottage, Isabel settled a
small bill presented to her by a Shylock to whom her
brother was indebted. This soon got wind, and in
the course of the day nearly every debt he had incurred,
with interest added, was presented for settlement
to the “rich young Miss.” What could poor
Isabel do? Her only resources were from her father,
who limited them. She finally rid herself of the flock
of greedy cormorants, by promising on her return, to
state her brother's circumstances, and their claims, to
her father, and take measures for satisfying them.
This had the effect of a temporary cessation of hostilities,
and Edward, when he went into the village
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street, which he had so long shunned, was accosted
as if he were a fellow being, instead of being pointed
at with the finger of rudeness and contempt, or dunned
and insulted.
Isabel had been nearly two weeks with her sister,
whose health and spirits daily improved, when one
morning Edward, once more wearing a cheerful countenance,
brought her a letter from the post office. It
was from her father, who was confined to his bed by
the gout, and earnestly requested, or rather commanded,
her immediate return. She entered Charlotte's
room to communicate its contents, and found her in
tears, her eyes wild, and her whole manner expressive
of the intensest alarm. “Dearest Charlotte, what
has distressed you?” she exclaimed throwing her
arms about her neck.
Charlotte, nervous from the state of her health, and
sensitive as the delicate plant that shrinks from the
touch, wept for a moment upon her sister's neck before
she spoke. “Oh, Isabel! such a dream! God
grant it may never be reality!”
“Only a dream, Charlotte! Why should a foolish
dream so distress you?”
“Oh, that it were only a dream, sister—but it was
a vision—so vivid—so real! And yet I thought I
was dead, too.”
“Dead! dearest Charlotte! Now banish such idle
fancies from your head. You are a little nervous, and
imagination magnifies trifles. Lie down, and I will
finish the tale of Eloise and Abelard.”
“No, no, Isabel,” replied the invalid, grasping her
sister's hand and looking very serious—“I must tell
you my dream, for it weighs heavy upon my mind.
Sit by my pillow, Isabel—nay, do not smile, dear sister—
there is something prophetic in what I have had
revealed. Poor dear Edward! has he not real trials
enough, that even dreams should arm themselves
against him?”
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Charlotte's voice and manner were very solemn
and impressive, and it was with feelings allied to superstition
that Isabel took her sister's hand within her
own, and placed herself by her pillow.
“After Edward rose,” said Charlotte, shuddering
at the recollection of what she was about to relate,
“I slept and dreamed that I was dead—that I had
died by night in my bed, and that Edward was arrested
as my murderer. I thought I saw him tried,
condemned and borne to the gallows! I beheld the
rope placed about his neck, and saw the clergyman
leave him! The drop was just about to fall when you
entered and awoke me. Oh, God! how vividly real
it all is!” she said, pressing her fingers upon her eyes
as if she would shut out some appalling vision, while
her whole frame shook with intense agitation. Isabel
was not unmoved, yet tried every means to soothe
her sister, and divert her thoughts, in vain. But Charlotte
was not to be turned from the subject. “Sister,”
she said, “I feel your kindness, but you exert it in
vain. You may think me foolish—but I must make
one request of you. This ring,” she continued, with
increasing solemnity, taking the agate locket from her
finger, “was a gift from me to Edward, in happier
days. Write the particulars of my dream, the date
and circumstances, on a piece of tissue paper, enclose
it in the locket, and drive to Judge Ellice's and place
it on his finger, telling him that I desire him not to
remove it until you or I ask him for it. This request
may appear foolish to you, Isabel, but I entreat you
to comply with it, as my last and dying request.”
Isabel was awed by the solemn earnestness of her
manner, and promised to obey. Charlotte smiled and
kissed her affectionately, and her face once more assumed
a cheerfulness to which it had long been a
stranger. Isabel religiously fulfilled her promise. She
drove that morning to Judge Ellice's mansion, nine
miles distant, in the country. The Judge had formerly
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been a frequent visiter at Laurel Hill, and received
the daughter of his friend, Colonel Willis, with cordial
hospitality, and accepted the bequest of her sister, although
surprised at its singularity, and promised not
to remove it from his finger until requested to do so
by one of them. Isabel did not make him acquainted
with the contents of the locket, nor indeed that the
ring contained a concealed spring.
“I regret I did know your sister was residing so
near me, my dear Miss Willis,” he said, as he attended
Isabel to her carriage; “it is strange she should not
have let me know it. Good morning—I will keep
the ring safe—for my head is rather freely sprinkled
with snow, for me to hope for a repetition of such a
gift from fair hands. 'Tis odd enough,” he said to
himself, as the carriage drove down the avenue, “but
ladies at times will have strange whims in their
heads.”
The ensuing morning, Isabel left her sister, apparently
much improved in health and spirits, and travelling
rapidly homewards, arrived at Laurel Hill on
the evening of the third day, and found Colonel Willis
lying dangerously ill. Her presence and kind nursing
contributed, at first, to his convalescence; but the promise
of returning health was delusive. In a few days
after her return, he became so much worse, that he
made his will in favor of Isabel, to which, a few hours
before he expired, he voluntarily added a codicil, in
which he bequeathed “to the child or children of Edward
and Charlotte Carrington, the sum of ten thousand
dollars, to be placed in bank for their use, the interest
of which, until the children were of age, to be
drawn quarterly by Edward and Charlotte Carrington,
for their own proper use.” It further stated, that in
case the child or children should die before they were
of age, then the principal should be vested in Charlotte
Carrington, wife of Edward Carrington, in her own
right, but at her death, without further issue, the said
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Edward Carrington should become sole heir to the
bequest.” The testator also expressed his entire forgiveness
of Charlotte, and shortly after expired.
Death, with his icy fingers upon the heart, is a wonderful
humanizer! The approach of death had softened
Colonel Willis's heart. When men feel that
they are soon to appear before the bar of God as
pleaders for pardon and mercy for themselves, they
then willingly forgive, as they hope to be forgiven!
After the funeral ceremonies were over, some days
were consumed by the executors in fulfilling the will
of the deceased. They immediately wrote to Edward,
informing him of the bequest in his favor. It was,
however, necessary for three months to elapse before,
by the accumulation of interest, he could derive any
benefit from it. Isabel, after the first deep passion of
filial grief had moderated, determined to invite her
brother and sister to make Laurel Hill their future
home. Circumstances prevented her writing for this
purpose, until three weeks after her father's death.
She had just completed a letter on the subject to Edward,
when Dr. Morton, one of the Executors of Colonel
Willis, unannounced, entered the library where she
was writing, and said hastily, without noticing her
invitation to be seated, “is not your brother-in-law's
name Carrington—Edward Carrington?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Isabel, agitated and foreboding
evil.
“A school teacher, or has been such?” he continued,
drawing a country newspaper from his pocket, and
loking steadfastly at a paragraph, “God forbid that it
should be him! Read that, my poor girl!” he said
with emotion, giving her the newspaper, and pointing
to a paragraph headed “Unparalleled Murder.” Isabel
grasped the paper convulsively, and read with a pale
cheek and glazed eye, the following characteristic
newspaper notice to its close.
“One of the most cold-blooded, deliberate, and
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atrocious murders, it has ever been our province to record,
was perpetrated on the night of the 10th instant, in
the neighboring village of Covington. The victim,
was a lovely woman, the daughter of a distinguished
planter of this state, but recently deceased—the criminal,
her own husband, late a school-teacher in that
place. It appears, that by a long course of dissipation
and idleness, he had squandered away both his own
fortune and hers, which was large, and has for some
months past been notorious in that village, as a worthless
fellow—although a man of education and superior
talents—deeply in debt, and altogether unworthy
of confidence. For one or two highway robberies,
committed in the vicinity of his dwelling, he has been
before arrested, but for want of sufficient evidence he
was acquitted. While, from his occasionally having
sums of money in his possession, which he had no ostensible
means of coming honestly by, the presumption
is, that he is an old offender. The present crime, however,
leaves all others behind, and what adds to its
atrocity, is, it appears from subsequent information,
that his wife's father, the late Colonel W—, who
had disinherited her for making such an imprudent
match, in his will bequeathed her and her husband
the interest of twenty thousand dollars, the principal
being placed in bank, until the child, of which the lady
was then enceinte, should become of age. But if the
child should not live to that period, the principal was
vested in the mother, secure from the husband's control,
and in case of her death, without further issue,
the husband himself was to become sole inheritor of
this noble bequest. This was a will too favorable to
an unprincipled man, to be suffered to go unimproved
for his immediate personal benefit. On Tuesday
morning last, therefore, when the lady's confinement
was daily expected, she was found dead in her bed!
Suspicion was immediately directed to the husband,
which his character and the circumstances
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strengthened. He was seized by the infuriated villagers, and
carried before a magistrate, who committed him to
prison, where he now lies awaiting his trial, which
will take place next Monday, the court being now in
session. The name of the murderer is Edward Carrington.”
Isabel, by a supernatural effort, read the paragraph
through, and then fell lifeless to the floor. For nearly
four weeks she was confined to her bed, a maniac.
When she recovered her reason, her first act was to
order her carriage, command the attention of Doctor
Morton, and proceed with all speed to Covington.
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We will return to the humble cottage occupied by
Edward and Charlotte, and present to the reader the
lovely scene it exhibited one evening about three
weeks after Isabel's departure, and a few days after
they had learned of Colonel Willis's death and bequest.
Edward's religious feelings had returned in their full
power, with his improved circumstances and more
softened feelings—but he first past through a penitential
ordeal of agonising and mental suffering. He was
seated by her bedside, reading the twenty-fifth psalm,
selected as being peculiarly appropriated to his present
circumstances. Charlotte lay with her hands clasped
in his, listening to the sublime language of inspiration,
her eyes lifted prayerfully, or now turned fondly, and
beaming with happiness, upon him. Her face was
very pale, and illness had given her features the delicacy
of chiselling. Occasionally, she would draw a
long breath as if in pain, but not a murmur of impatience
escaped her lips. Edward, at length, reverently
closed the book, and kneeled by the couch of the invalid,
and addressed the throne of grace, his countenance
as he proceeded, becoming eloquent with sorrow,
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love, gratitude, and devotion; his words burned, and
his language was impressive for its fervor and strength,
and for its unaffected humility, such as became a returning
wanderer to the fold, from which he had so
long strayed. Affliction softens or hardens the human
heart—it either leads man to cast himself humbly
upon the mercy of the chastener, or to murmur against
his dispensations and accuse him of injustice. In the
Christian, their dispositories are more remarkable, and
elevate his spirited character, or steel him to insensibility.
The Christian who cannot profit by chastisements,
is the most deplorably wretched of all men.
Edward Carrington, during the height of his temporal
wretchedness was one of these. But he had now
learned to bless the hand that chastened him.
Rising from his evening devotions, he kissed Charlotte's
blue-veined temples and retired.
In the morning Edward awoke to find Charlotte
cold and dead beside him, buried in that sleep that
“knows no waking.” She was indeed dead and
lovely even in death!
The first sensation Edward experienced, was that
of horror. The next, when the awful conviction of
the dreadful reality pressed upon his senses—of unbounded
grief. We will briefly pass over the scenes
that followed the publicity of that event. Edward's
creditors had waited several days after Isabel's departure,
but hearing nothing further from her, they again
became more clamorous than ever, and Edward again
found himself the object of suspicion, hatred and contempt.
During the brief suspension of their siege,
which Isabel's influence had effected, his creditors
seemed to have gathered fresh vigor.—There are some
men of naturally tyrannical dispositions, and who love
the exercise of power if their dog is only the object,
who, when they have a debtor in their power, love to
make him feel it, and the more worthy the individual,
the higher he is above them in the moral or social scale,
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the more tyrannical they are in using the power with
which the misfortunes of a fellow being may have
given them. Of this character were the majority of
Edward's creditors, and we regret to state, that he
found no difference between those of them who professed
religion, and were members of the church, and
those who made no profession; indeed in one instance,
his bitterest persecution was from an elder who had
sold him, from his store, certain articles of clothing.
The feelings of the prejudiced community of the village,
therefore, were easily aroused against so ripe a
victim. Edward was seized by the infuriated mob,
and borne to the office of the magistrate, who, as he
beheld him, humanely said, “I prophecied you'd come
to the gallows, young sir!” Lynching, that praise-worthy
substitute for trial by jury, and which leaves
the magna charta in the shade, was not then in vogue,
or our tale would soon end. He was fully committed
for trial. Alas, how fatal to be poor and friendless!
How criminal to be in debt! If a wealthy individual
had awoke in the morning and found his wife a corpse
by his side, he would have been permitted to follow
her in peace to the grave. Charlotte was buried by
strangers, who, slandering her while living, commiserated
her, dead! She was lowered in her lonely
grave, at the moment that Edward, overwhelmed by
the accumulation of his sorrows, cast himself upon
the floor of his dungeon in sleepless despair.
The day of trial came. Public excitement was immense—
its prejudices strongly against the prisoner.
Edward had fortified his soul with prayer, and bowed
with resignation to the divine will. He was happy!
for he soon expected to rejoin Charlotte in heaven!
The judge, and the officers of the court assisting him
in his solemn duties, had taken their usual places upon
the bench, the court was opened, and the Attorney General
announced in the customary manner to the court
that he was ready to proceed with the trial. After
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the jury were empannelled, and the usual preliminaries
of a trial were completed, there was a simultaneous
movement of heads throughout the thronged court,
and “The prisoner—the prisoner!” was repeated in a
hundred whispers.
Edward entered the court with a firm step and collected
manner; his face was very pale, but its expression
was that of settled resignation. As he entered,
he cast his eye over the pavement of human heads,
and as a thousand curious eyes encountered his own,
his cheek glowed, and dropping his eye lids, he raised
them afterwards only to his counsel, the jury, or the
bench. The clerk rising, informed him of his right to
a peremptory challenge of the jury; and although he
observed three or four of his most unrelenting creditors
among them he remained silent. The prisoner
having already been indicted, the indictment was read
to the jury, the cause was opened, and the trial proceeded.
The details of the trial can only be very
briefly noticed. The circumstantial evidence was so
conclusive, combined with “the well-known character
of the prisoner,” that the testimony on both sides
closed. The judge then charged the jury, recapitulating
the most important features of the testimony, and
explaining at some length, the law for their guidance
on so solemn an occasion. He finally charged them,
that “if they entertained any doubts as to the guilt of
the prisoner, they should be thrown in the scale for
his benefit, and they would be bound to acquit him:
but, if they had no doubt of his guilt, it was their
duty to find him guilty.”
After an absence of ten minutes, the jury returned
into court with a verdict of “Guilty.
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The morning of Edward's execution arrived, and
the sun shone brightly through the bars of his cell.
A clergyman, his friend the Methodist minister, who
had been the past year on a distant circuit, and hearing
of Edward's fate, hastened to give him spiritual
consolation, was seated beside him. Edward's face
was as placid as a child's. His pulse throbbed evenly,
and his whole manner was composed, for Edward was
prepared to die! The clergyman who came to administer
hope and consolation, in his last hours, felt that
he could sit at his feet, and learn of him!
The turning of keys, and the grating of bolts, at
length disturbed their heavenly communion. The
chaplain, in tears pressed Edward's hand, as the cell
door opened and the officer of justice entered. Politely
accosting the prisoner, he said with a faltering voice,
“I am ready to attend you, Mr. Carrington.”
Edward heard the summons without any other
emotion than a heightened color and slight tremor
of the lip. This tribute due to nature, passed,
and all was again serenity and peace. Taking the
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arm of the sheriff, he was conducted by him to a carriage
in waiting at the door. The clergyman and
Judge Ellice, who had manifested a deep interest in
the prisoner, accompanied them in the carriage. They
then slowly moved through the dense multitude towards
the gallows, which was erected on a common
near the town. The prisoner descended from the carriage,
and leaning upon the sheriff and chaplain,
walked with a firm step to the foot of the scaffold,
which he ascended unsupported. His head was bared,
his neck-cloth removed, and his collar turned back
from his neck. His youthful appearance and resigned
air, created in his favor a general sensation of sympathy.
After the chaplain had addressed the throne
of grace, and embraced him, Edward, by the direction
of the sheriff, placed himself upon the “drop.” He
then cast his eyes over the blue heavens, the green
earth, the vast multitude, as if he were bidding adieu
to all, then exchanging last adieus with the judge, the
chaplain, and the sheriff, he raised his eyes, and gazed
steadfastly up to heaven, as if he had bid farewell
to all earthly scenes.
The sheriff was adjusting the fatal knot with professional
dexterity, when a loud shriek mingled with
the shouting of men's voices, and the rattling of distant
wheels, broke the awful silence reigning over the
dense multitude, and drew the eyes of every one from
the scaffold towards the southern extremity of the common,
over which, in the direction of the place of execution,
a carriage was whirled with the speed of the
wind. Out of one of the windows leaned a young
lady, waving a handkerchief, and uttering shriek on
shriek, while a gentleman on the coach-box wildly
waved his hat, and added his voice to hers, “Stop!
stop! Hold! for mercy hold! He is innocent! Hold!”
The next moment the carriage dashed into the crowd,
which retired on all sides in confusion at its reckless
approach. It drew up suddenly, within a few feet of
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the gallows, when Isabel sprung out, and fell senseless
into the arms of Judge Ellice, who had recognised, and
flown to open the door for her.
“For God's sake, Mr. Sheriff, stay the execution
for a moment! There is certain proof of this young
gentleman's innocence,” cried Dr. Morton, springing
from the coach-box to the ground.
The sheriff was a man of humanity: and as there
were yet several minutes to expire before the time
would elapse for his prisoner's execution, he waited
in surprise the result of this extraordinary interruption.
In a few minutes Isabel revived, and gazing round
upon the fearful apparatus of death, cried, with a
shudder, as she covered her eyes with her hand, “He
is innocent! Oh God, he is innocent! The ring! the
ring! Oh, bring me to Judge Ellice!”
“He is here! by your side, Miss Willis,” said the
judge, with sympathy.
She looked up into his face steadily for a moment,
as if not fully recognising him, and then exclaimed
with thrilling energy, “Yes! it is you—you I want!
Oh give me the ring!” and seeing it upon his finger,
as he hastily drew off his glove, she seized it and tore
it from his finger, touched the concealed spring, and
tremblingly drew forth the concealed paper, which she
herself had placed there, and faintly articulating,
“Read!—read!” again fainted away. Judge Ellice
unfolded the paper and read its contents, with which
the reader is already acquainted, in speechless amazement.
The next moment springing upon the scaffold,
he placed it in the hands of the sheriff, briefly explained
the manner in which he had received the ring.
This gentleman read it with no less surprise, and as
he finished it, he threw the rope from his hand, exclaiming,
“He is innocent!”
“There is no doubt of it,” said the judge; “what
a wonderful interposition of Providence!”
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They both embraced the prisoner, expressing their
firm belief in his innocence. The multitude shouted,
“A pardon!—a pardon!” though subsequently the
facts were made public.
The sheriff, on his own responsibility, suspended the
execution, and Edward was reconveyed to prison, to
await a pardon from the governor, to whom communicating
all the particulars, both the judge and sheriff
immediately wrote. The judge informing him that
he was wholly ignorant that the ring was a locket—
that it had never been removed from his finger from
the moment it was placed there by Miss Willis, by the
direction of the deceased Mrs. Carrington—and that
the ring was on his finger four weeks before her supposed
murder. “I confess,” he concluded, “that there
are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamed
of in my philosophy. So remarkable an interposition
of Divine Providence, to term it nothing else,
should not, by short-sighted mortals, be treated with
neglect. In such cases it becomes us to wonder and
obey.”
The governor granted Edward a reprieve for a
second trial, or a full pardon, as he chose. He accepted
the pardon, and was conveyed in Isabel's carriage
to Laurel Hill. He lingered here a few weeks, and
then his spirit departed to join that of his beloved
Charlotte, in that world where there is neither sorrow
nor sighing, and where all tears shall be wiped away
from our eyes.
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SPHEEKSPHOBIA; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ABEL STINGFLIER, A. M. A TRAGIC TALE.
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A hundred mouths, a hundred tongues,
A throat of brass inspired with iron lungs.
Dryden.
One sultry summer afternoon, in eighteen hundred
and thirty-five, I was riding with my umbrella held
perpendicularly above my head, and at an easy amble—
for the sun was fiery hot, and I had travelled far—
through the principal street of Port Gibson, one of the
pleasantest villages in the state of Mississippi. As I
was about to cross a long and venerable looking
bridge, on the northern outskirts of the town, I was
startled by a loud and prolonged outcry behind me, as
if its utterer was in imminent peril and great bodily
fear. I turned my head, at the same time reining up, and
beheld a strange figure swiftly approaching me, sending
forth at the same time the most lamentable cries,
the last still louder than the preceding. But his voice
did not so much surprise me, as the eccentricity of his
locomotion and the oddity of his appearance. He was
a tall and gaunt man, without hat or shoes, and a calico
scholar's gown streamed behind him in the wind,
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created by his rapid motion. His advance was not
direct, but zig-zag: now he would dart with velocity
to the right, and now as swiftly to the left, anon plunging
under the bushes lining the road-side, and then
diving down, and scrambling on all-fours in the middle
of the road, kicking his heels into the air, and tossing
the dust about him in clouds, so as to render him
for the time invisible: he would then rise again with
a fearful yell, and bolt forward in a right line, as if
charging at me, filling the air with his cries all the
while, and waving his arms wildly above his head,
which at intervals received blows from his desperate
fists, each one sufficient to fell an ox. I gazed in admiration
on this singular spectacle, it may be, not without
some misgivings of personal damage, to qualify
which, in some degree, I turned the head of my horse,
so as to interpose it between my person and the
threatened danger. Onward he came, enveloped in a
cloud of dust, and the best speed human legs
could bestow; and disdaining to fly, I prepared to
meet the charge as firmly as the valiant knight of La
Mancha would have done in the same circumstances.
My steed, however, showed the better part of valor,
and, notwithstanding much coaxing and soothing, began
to wax skittish, and as the danger grew more imminent,
he suddenly made a demi-volte across the
bridge, and turned broadside to the enemy, which was
close aboard of us, thereby effectually blockading the
highway. Hardly had he effected this change in his
position, before the madman or apparition, for I deemed
it to be one or the other, coming in “such a questionable
shape,” instead of leaping upon me like a hyena,
as I anticipated, drove, and with a mortal yell passed
clean under my horse's belly, and, before he could diminish
his momentum, disappeared over the parapetless
bridge into the river beneath. On hearing the
plunge I alighted from my horse, who was not a little
terrified at the unceremonious use the strange being
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had made of his body, hastily descended the precipitous
bank of the stream, and as the diver rose to the
surface, which he did after a brief immersion, a few
yards below the bridge, seizing him by the skirts of his
long gown, I dragged him on shore. Gathering himself
up slowly, he at length, after much spluttering and
blowing, and catching of his breath, stood upright on
his legs; then grasping my hand by dint of a great
deal of gulping and sobbing—for the poor man could
barely articulate for want of wind—he essayed to express
his thanks for my timely aid, without which, he
asseverated, he should assuredly “have died in the
flood of great waters which passed over his soul; but
that he had been saved from the great deep, and also
from the barbed arrow of the pursuer, from which latter
danger, by the help of the Lord and my horse, and
peradventure through his sudden ablution, he had marvellously
been delivered.”
The speaker was a tall, spare man, with thin flanks,
broad shoulders, and high cheek bones, having a Scottish
physiognomy, with an homely expression of Yankee
shrewdness and intelligence. His long, sharp nose,
flanked by hollow cheeks, his peaked chin, and lantern
jaws, made up a configuration, which has not been inaptly
been denominated a “hatchet face.” His mouth
was of formidable width, garnished with very firm,
white teeth, generously displayed by the flexibility of
his loose lips, which, whenever he spoke, retired as it
were from before them. His eyes were of a pale
blue color, round and prominent, hereby promising, to
speak phrenologically, the organ of language large,
which promise his lingual attainments, as subsequently
ascertained by me, did not belie. A pair of red,
shaggy brows, projected over them, like a well wooded
crag; they were rather darker than his hair, which,
if owned by a lady, I should term auburn; but growing
as it did on a male pow, which for ruggedness of
outline, might have been hewn into its present shape
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with a broad-axe, I shall call it red, unqualifiedly. His
age might have been forty; and in his stockings as he
now was, he stood no less than six feet one inch in height—
of which goodly length of limb and body, a pair of
white drilling trowsers, woollen short hose, a cotton
shirt, with a broad ruffle, and his long calico gown
aforesaid, constituted the only outward teguments.
From all points, including the points of his chin and
nose, and every available corner of his strait and matted
hair, here, in continuous streams—there, in large
drops, chasing one another in quick succession, the
water descended towards the earth from the person of
this dripping Nereus, while the woful expression his
physiognomy, which judging from the combination of
features it exhibited, was naturally sufficiently lugubrious,
was now enhanced ten-fold. His first act on
getting to his feet, and after gazing wildly about in the
air, and minutely surveying his person, as if in search
of something which he dreaded to encounter, was to
grasp my hand, and gasping for breath, at intervals
strive to articulate his thanks for the service I had rendered
him. Although I could not but smile at his
ludicrous figure and aspect, I felt disposed to commiserate
and serve one whom I believed not to be in his
right mind, in which opinion I was confirmed when
he alluded to an “armed pursuer,” whom he seemed
every now and then to seek in the air, there having
been none yet visible to my eyes.
At my suggestion, and with my assistance, he stripped
off his gown, and by dint of twisting it into a sort
of a rope—a process well understood by the washer-woman—
we expelled the water, visibly to the comfort
of its unfortunate owner, who thrust his lengthy
arms into its sleeves again, with an ejaculation or grunt
of satisfaction. The once gentleman-like ruffle, shorn
of its honors of starch and plaiting, hung saturated
and melancholy upon his broad breast: this we saw
was a damage irremediable: and altogether passing
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the shirt by, and also his nether tegument, which adhered
to the cuticle like a super-hide, the aqueous gentleman
gravely and silently seated himself upon the
bank, and pulled off his short hose (whose brevity, it
should have been before remarked, in conjunction with
the brevity of his pantaloons, left at all times an inch
of his brawny shins visible in the interstices,) and having
rung them vigorously, drew them on again with
much labor, ejaculating at intervals, “hic labor est,
hic labor est, quidem,” being now shrunk to one third
of their original size, before covering the ancle, whereas,
now, only aspiring to that altitude with full two inches
of interval. Then rising and rubbing the water
out of his thick hair, with the skirt of his gown, he
addressed me, as I was about to re-ascend the bank to
my horse, seeing that my Samaritan-like services were
no longer in requisition. His face was now dry, and
he had recovered both his voice and self-possession—
and so collected was the expression of his eyes, and so
sedate his demeanor, that I changed my opinion as to
his sanity, and believed that he must have been under
the influence of some inexplicable terror, when he accomplished
those gymnics I have described, which
were so foreign to his present respectable appearance
and discreet deportment. I therefore listened with
some curiosity to what he was about to utter, anticipating
a strange éclaircissement.
“Certes, my friend, I should feel inclinated to be
facetious at this expose, as it may be termed, of my
natural infirmity, but I never was more sorely
pressed. Verily, the danger was imminent that beset
me! Periissem ni periissem: by ablution was I
saved from greater detriment. That I should have
passed beneath the stomach of your equus, or steed,
is a rudeness that calleth for an or apology,
which herewith I formally tender, as is befitting one,
whose vocation lieth in instilling the humane letters
into the minds of the rising generation. Verily I could
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laugh with thee, were I not sorely vexed that my
fears should have betrayed me into such unseemly
and indiscreet skipping and prancing, like one non
compos mentis, rather than grave senior and instructor
of youth. Surely, experience hath long shown me,
that in these flights, cursus non est levare, which
being interpreted, signifieth—the swift of foot fleeth
in vain. Reascend thy steed, my friend, and I will
accompany thee to yonder hostelry or inn, where,
peradventure, through the agency of mine host's
kitchen fire, I may restore my garments to their pristine
condition, and there will I unfold the causes of
these effects, to which thou hast but now borne witness.”
Remounting my horse, the stranger gravely strode
along by the bridle, until we came to the tavern he
had pointed out, when inviting me in, he led the way
into a little parlor adjoining the bar-room, and closing
the door behind him mysteriously, he placed a vacant
chair for me on one side of a small stand, while he
occupied another opposite. After a short and rather
awkward silence, during which he leaned his arms
upon the table, and manifested much embarrassment,
while the blood mounted to his forehead, as if he felt
that he was about to make a humiliating explanation—
an inkling of humor, nevertheless, lurking the while
about his mouth and in the corner of his eye, as if he
felt a disposition to smile at what really gave him
pain. I therefore remarked that, although I felt a
certain degree of curiosity to learn the causes which
led to his catastrophe, I did not wish him to feel that
the circumstances of our meeting called in the least for
the extension of his confidence towards me, and that
if it gave him pain to make the explanation he had
volunteered, I should insist upon his withholding it;
and thus speaking, I rose to leave the room, and pursue
my journey.
“Of a surety, friend,” he said, laying his hand
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lightly upon my arm, “rightly hast thou interpreted my
inward emotions. It is true I possess not the moral
virtus, or courage, needful to the laying open of my
weakness. But thou shalt not be disappointed; that
which I have spoken, I will do; leave me thy name
and place of abode, and by course of post I will transmit
in writing that, which from malus pudor, or foolish
shamefacedness, I have not the tongue to give thee
orally, and so shalt thou be informed of the vis-a-tergo,
which is to say, the rearward propelling force,
which urged me so discourteously beneath your
steed, and into the deep waters; and moreover, of that
which hath been the cause of all my terrestrial trials,
yea, even an arrow under my fifth rib.”
This was uttered like his former language, with a
nasal twang, and in a slow and peculiar manner, with
a distinct articulation of every syllable, and accenting
the participial termination, ed, and the adverbial, ly,
with an emphatic drawl.
Leaving my address with this singular character,
with my curiosity no ways abated, I resumed my
journey. Three weeks afterwards, I received the following
manuscript, inclosed in a stout envelope of
brown paper, superscribed in handsome and clear chirography,
which was evidently penned with elaborate
care, and post marked Paid: besides the address to
the superscription were appended the following words:
“Covering seven sheets of Foolscap, with an Epistle.
These with speed and carefulness,” which were
written in somewhat smaller character than the superscription,
and near the left hand corner.
Omitting the writer's learned epistle, addressed to
myself confidentially—slightly revising the style,
which was cumbrous, somewhat prolix, and pedantic,
and extracting about one-half of the Greek, Latin, and
French quotations and phrases, unsuited to the present
prevailing taste, with which it was interlarded—
like the lemons, cloves and raisins generously
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sprinkled through a Christmas pie—I faithfully impart the
manuscript as I received it from the author.
“I am an unfortunate victim of Entomology: not of
the science, but of every species of insect of which the
science treateth; more especially the bee, wasp, and
hornet, and all and singular of the irritabile genus,
besides the horn-bug, dragon-fly, and each and every
of those loud-humming insects that buzz about at
night—yea verily the whole tribe of or insects,
are my aversion, from which I stand in bodily terror,
the comparatively harmless house, or domestic fly,
herein not even excepted. My life has been a period
of discomfort and torture on account thereof—more
especially in the seasons when Sirius or the Dog star
rageth. This or fear, I sucked in with my
mother's milk, herself an insect-fearing woman, who
stepped into a nest of wasps two months before my
birth, the whole ireful population of which pursued
her half a mile—whereby, on my being brought into
the world, the mark of a wasp of vast dimensions,
truncus, thorax, proboscis and sternum, not to forget
alæ and pedes, was plainly visible to the eyes of the
admiring midwife and her cronies, in the small of my
back: hinc illæ luchrymæ! This fear, therefore, is
maternal, originating in the ros vetulis, as Virgil expresseth
it; and therefore being natural, cannot be
combatted with effectually, and overcome. The first
time of which my memory is authentic, that I gave
symptoms of possessing this hereditary horror of
winged and stinging insects, a horror which has
drugged with bitterness the cup of my sublunary existence,
was at the tender age of three years, I being
then a stout, well-grown boy to be in petticoats, as I
remember that I was. I was sitting in the back-door
sunning myself, for it was summer, and quietly sucking
a lump of molasses candy, when I heard all at once
a fierce buzzing in the vicinage of my left ear, whereupon,
without knowing or understanding its cause, I
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instinctively shut my eyes, and opening my mouth,
sent forth a loud cry. The buzzing continued to grow
louder and approach nearer, and my cries increased
proportionably. At length the object of my terror
and the instigator of my cries, in the shape of a formidable
honey-bee, ubi mel, ibi apes, saith M. Plautus,
which is no doubt equally true of molasses, lit upon
the tip of my nose, lavishly besmeared with the candy,
which I had been diligently conveying to my mouth.
Clinging there, he balanced himself with his wings,
and staring me in the face with his great glaring eyes,
for my infant fears marvellously magnified his oculi,
he proceeded with the greatest sang froid, as the
French tongue happily expresseth it, briskly to convey
with his proboscis the candy from my nose to his stomach—
brandishing his antennæ, or horns, all the
while to and fro before my eyes, in a manner dreadful
to witness, to hold me as it were in terrorem. I
was paralysed with fear, and lost the command of
every bodily member, save my tongue—which, for
the time, I may truthfully asseverate, did duty for all
the rest. There chanced to be no soul in the house at
this crisis; and although any one, even half a mile distant,
could have heard my piteous voice uplifted in
the notes of unlimited terror, yet my mother, whose
name rose loudest upon my tongue, did not come to
my relief, until I had been allowed, for full five minutes,
to ring a gamut upon her monosyllabic maternal
appellation, with every possible variation familiar
to infant lungs. At length she entered at the top of
her speed, and with her voice pitched to a scolding
key, when she espied my condition, and the extent of
my misfortnnes. Her tongue then struck up a treble
to my tenor, and snatching up a broom, she advanced
it like a pike, edging round until she got in front of
me, and then made a desperate charge against the
rear of our mutual foe, who had thus taken me in the
van, and with her whole force thrust the end of the
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broom bodily into my face and eyes, laying me at the
same time flat on my back, while she followed up her
success by standing over me and imprisoning the
enemy, by pressing the broom firmly down on my
face. As the spiculæ of this female weapon assailed
the bee on the tergum, he sounded a sharp note of
alarm, and inserting his aculeus, or sting, into my unoffending
nose, therein instilled a sufficient modicum
of poison; and then deliberately depressing the barbs
of his sting, he drew it forth and secreted himself
among the straws of the broom, (for my mother, good
woman, by holding stoutly against my face, twisting
and working it, in the attempt to immolate the monster,
gave him ample time for this,) from which, when
she finally removed it, he effected his escape, by darting
through the door, with a quick trumpet-like sound,
no doubt a pæan in honor of his victory. What with
the broom and the sting, one of which pricked and
nearly suffocated me, while the other penetrated to
the quick, I now began to yell to a pitch, in comparison
with which, my previous roaring forsooth, was
but the wailing of a new-born infant. I rolled over
the floor with my nose in my fist, and would not be
comforted. But I will not dwell upon this early reminiscence;
it is but the first of a series of misfortunes—
the memorabilia of my life—such as few men have
lived to experience.
“Although not a summer's day passed that I did not
endure corporeal fear from the approach of insecta,
there are five important periods or crises of my life,
when my evil star reigned especially malignant. One
of these, which I have just recorded, is, peradventure,
of small moment, but the subject of it was but small
at that time. Each, however, thou wilt observe, increased
in importance as my shoulders expanded for
its burden, verily greater at seasons than I could well
bear. My second crisis was at the puerile age of
eleven.
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“I was seated in school, near an open window, when
a little girl on the outside offered to barter a basket of
blackberries with me, for two large red cheeked apples,
balancing each other in my jacket pockets. I
slyly effected the exchange, `the master' (as New
England instructors are very improperly termed—Instructor
being the proper and more respectable appellative,)
having his back turned, and poured the berries
into my hat, which I placed in my lap beneath
the bench, and forth with began eating them one by
one with my forefinger and thumb, my eyes the while
immoveably fixed on my open book, (alas! how early
do we begin to practise deceit!) when, at length, in
the midst of my delectable feast, I was conscious of a
strange, portentous titillation upon my forefinger,
which sensation gradually extended along the member
towards the hand. I trembled from a sort of presentiment
of the cause, and fearfully looked down,
when, monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens! as
Maro hath it, I beheld a tight-laced, long-legged, yellow-streaked
wasp, with a sticky, sluggish motion,
dragging his slow length along the back of my hand,
his wings and feet, clotted with the juice of the berries,
among which he had till now been secreted,
whether designedly or not, I will not be so uncharitable
as to determine, albeit, my playmates, aware of
my weakness did not refrain when occasion offered,
from putting upon me unpleasant jests of this nature.
When I beheld the wasp (it was an individual of the
species called the yellow-jacket, exceedingly venomous
and ferocious of aspect,) I incontinently uplifted
my voice in such a cry—Scotticé a skirl, as birch nor
ferule never expelled from the lungs of luckless urchin
within those walls—long, loud, and territic, subsiding
only, to be renewed on a higher key. At the same
time stretching forth my hand, upon which clung the
dreaded object which I had not the power to touch,
fearing lest the attempt to dislodge him, would be the
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signal for the insertion of his sting into my hand, I
leaped from the window with a loud yell, which was
echoed sympathetically by the whole school, and with
my hand waving in the air, which I filled with my
cries, directed my course for home, a third of a mile
distant, with all the boys of the school let loose, and
shouting like a pack of devils born, at my heels. In
my career, I remember leaping over two cows lying
and quietly ruminating in my path, and that I run full
tilt against the deacon, sending hat, wig and deacon
in three diverse directions. After running a muck, as
Mr. Pope useth the word, through the village, I attained
my father's house, into which I broke without
lifting latch, so impetuous was my course—and crying
in a loud voice, “a wasp! a wasp!” thrust my
arm (for the insect had now crawled up to my elbow)
before my mother's eyes. It chanced that, as I entered
she was lifting from the fire a pot of boiling
water, in which she intended to scald a couple of barn
door fowls, for the meridian meal. Alarmed at my
cries and sudden appearance, and terrified beyond
measure at beholding the terrible insect thrust so near
her face, and at the same time trembling on account
of my own danger, with something between a yell
and a shriek, she grappled the handle of the pot with
one hand and its bottom with the other, and dashed
the scalding contents over my arm and body. With
a yell finale, I again darted out through the door,
leaving the wasp scalded to death on the floor. Encountering
on the outside the host of my schoolmates,
who were running towards the house, I passed
through their midst like a rocket, giving blows to the
right and left, and leaving, as I was afterwards told,
five prostrate upon the earth. At length, exhausted
through fatigue and suffering, I fell in the street in a
swoon, and was carried home and put to bed, from
whence I rose not until two painful months had expired.
The two periods I have recorded, involved
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merely physical suffering. The third, and remaining
two, record distresses both mental and physical. The
third period, which may, with reverence, be denominated
the third plague of insects, happened at college
in my twenty-first year. I have enjoyed the benefit
of collegiate erudition, although my mother had in
her maidenly estate been of the sect called Quakers,
and my father was a preacher after the Methodist
persuasion—neither sect, in that day, distinguished
patrons of the humane letters. My mother had seceded
from the Society of Friends, yet retained their
simplicity of language and manners, at least so far, as
a naturally sharp temper would allow; Certes, it may
not be concealed that the neighboring gossips averred
that she was too fond of that spousely privilege of
scolding, to be a Quaker, and therefore had come
over to a more liberal faith. However this may be,
she exhibited in her person the opposite characters of
a scolding wife and demure Quaker, as the thermometer
rose or fell, tempered nevertheless, with a little
of the leaven of Methodism. My father was a sturdy
apostle, morose and gloomy, given to antique phraseology
in his speech, after the manner of my grandfather,
who was a staunch old Presbyterian. Therefore,
between the three, my domestic education and
habits, were like Joseph's coat of many colors, and
when I arrived to the years of discretion, it would
have been a hard matter to determine, which preponderated
most in my character, the Methodist,
the Quaker, or Scotch Presbyterian. The second
person thou, and its objective singular thee, I nevertheless
always use colloquially; firstly, from maternal
induction, and secondly, that it is classical, and
moreover well approved by scriptural and ancient
usage, and I am somewhat given to philological antiquarianism—
a lover, or as the Gallic hath it, an amateur
of antique customs of phraseology.
“I had assumed the toga virilis, and passed through
my quadrennial course, how I might here mention,
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but it becometh me not to speak in mine own praise;
suffice it to say, that I was appointed to a thesis on the
day of commencement, that I ascended the rostrum,
or stage, made my obeisance to the audience, and forthwith
began to declaim with sonorous enunciation. I
had got in the midst of my thesis, and, flattered by the
attentive silence with which I was listened to, I grew
warm with my theme; my right arm was stretched
forth with a rhetorical flourish, my eyes were illuminated
and sparkling with excitement, and my brows
were flushed as I threw my whole soul into the rush
of eloquence (verily the reminiscence maketh me eloquent
even now,) and I was altogether on what may
be termed the high horse of success and public admiration,
when, mirabile dictu, as Virgil hath it on a
less occasion, suddenly an ominous and well-known
buzzing above my head fell like a knell on my ears.
Be it premised, that the meeting-house in which the
commencement exercises were held, was decorated
with evergreens, and adorned with numerous sweet-scented
flowers, with one of which, I had, in my
youthful vanity, graced the button-hole of my white
waistcoat. I lifted my eyes at the sound, more dreadful
to my tympanum than the horn of the hunter to the
timid deer, and beheld my hereditary foe, in the shape
of a long, slender, yellow-ringed wasp, darting in wild
gyrations above my head, and at each revolution, approaching
nearer and more near to my ill-fated person.
Vox faucibus hæsit, as Virgil again expresseth it, my
voice clung to my jaws, my extended arm remained
motionless, and with my eyes fastened, as if fascinated,
upon the intruder, I lost all presence of mind, every
other consideration being swallowed up in the consideration
of my great peril. I stood nearly the space
of one minute, the audience being all the while silent as
the grave, as if transfixed and petrified, exhibiting no
signs of life save in my eyes, which followed the eccentric
circles of my foe as he wheeled around my
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head, which he had chosen as the conspicuous centre
of his aerial corkscrew, the pillar of salt into which the
wife of Lot was converted, did not stand firmer or
more motionless. Gradually contracting his spiral
circles he came close to my head, and then with a sudden
movement roared past my ear and settled upon
the fragrant flower adorning, vanitas vanitatis, my
waistcoat. The roar of his passage past my ear, augmented
in my imagination to that of a dragon (provided
always there be such creatures, and being such
if they do roar, which are points controverted by the
learned) and his fearful attack upon my person, was a
consummation which restored me to the use of my
paralyzed faculties. My first act was to leap from the
rostrum with a suppressed cry, and seize a branch of
hemlock, thrust it towards the nearest person, who
happened to be a lady, and make signs for her to brush
it off. I never had dared to snap them off or disturb
them. My mother, whose conversation (as those
who fear ghosts, most love to hold midnight converse
about them) was prolific on this theme, had early inducted
me into the most approved plans of conduct,
when one of the irritabile genus approached or lit on
the person. One of her rules was, `never to snap it
off, for it is sure to sting before it fly; but run and let the
wind blow it off.' Another was, `if it will still stay on,
then get some other person to brush it off and its anger
will be turned from you to that obliging person.”
These rules of action, and many others, were fresh in
my memory, and I was at all times religiously governed
by them.
“The branch of hemlock chanced to be attached to
a festoon connecting a succession of others around the
pulpit, where sate the President in all the dignity
which an austere air, a corpulent person, a broad brim
could confer, presiding over the exercises of the hour.
Immediately behind him rose to some height a young
eradicated pine tree, whose pyramidal summit formed
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the central support and apex of the chain of festoons,
answering in relation thereto, to the stake which upholds
the drooping centre of a clothes-line. At my
attack the whole paraphernalia gave way, pine tree
and all, with a tremendous rustling and crashing, carrying
away in its headlong rush the President's broad
brim and one of the capacious sleeves of his black silk
gown or surplice, his reverend dignity alone saving
himself from sharing the same fate by ducking beneath
the balustrade of the pulpit and permitting the danger
to pass over him, which it did, descending upon the
respected heads and sacred persons of the honorable
Board of Trustees sitting beneath. The uproar and
confusion—laughter mingled with exclamations, was
without limit, and while every soul seemed to be absorbed
in the crash and its consequences, I, the luckless
author of the whole demolition, saw, heard, felt
and was conscious of nothing but the presence of the
dreaded insect, that had fastened on me, who was now,
having evacuated the flower, hastily effecting a retreat
within the gaping bosom of my shirt. My tremendous
pull at the twig, left it however in my hands, and
while the wreck of matter was going on above and
around me, oblivious of all else save my own peculiar
misery, I darted, as I have before said, toward an
elderly maiden lady, and thrusting the branch in her
unwilling hand, cried in a loud voice, `brush it off!
oh brush it off!' So impetuously did I thrust it towards
her, that I lost my equilibrium and fell into her
lap, entangling as I fell, the branch of hemlock in her
red curls, which, as is the fashion among women, were
only attached to her head, and as I rolled from her profaned
lap to the floor, I carried with me on the branch
waving like pennons, the elderly maiden lady's false
and fiery tresses appended thereto. She lifted up her
voice and screamed with combined affright, rage and
mortification, and jumping up she stamped upon me
as I lay at her feet in ungovernable ire. `But there
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is no evil unattended with good.' (I give the Saxon
or English words of the proverb, the original Latin
having slipped my memory.) The wasp, the direct
cause of all the mischief, who had adhered to me like
my evil angel, received the full weight of her heel on
the tergum and was crushed to atoms, upon the snow
white bosom of my shirt. I heard every section of
his body crack, and as I listened I felt a savage joy fill
my breast, tempered, however, as I now remember, by
an incipient apprehension, lest even in death, he might
avenge his fall by penetrating my linen and cuticle
with his sting.
Now that the danger was over, I had time to reflect
for an instant and feel the ridiculous peculiarity of my
situation, and at once decided upon taking to flight, to
escape facing the audience. The next moment I was
on my feet, and forcing my way to the door fled towards
the college, as if a whole nest of hornets was
in full cry in pursuit, followed by a motley crowd,
who are comprised in the French word canaille, some
shouting “there goes dragon-fly—there goes bumblebee!
Stop thief! murder!” and all the various cries the
populace are used to utter, when they pursue, without
knowing why or wherefore, the wretch who fleeth.
The next day I departed from the scene of my disgrace
and disaster, and in course of time found myself
in the pleasant village of Geneva in the western part
of the state of New York, teacher of a respectable
school. I may say here in passing, that from inclination
I have adopted teaching as a profession—for
although not ranked among the learned professions it
verily should be. This profession or vocation I still
pursue, even here, far off in Mississippi, whither my
wanderings have at length driven me.
The fourth plague of stings was when I had attained
the discreet age of thirty-one years, I being then a
resident and schoolmaster of the then infant town of
Rochester, having taught with divers degrees of
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success in many othes villages after I left Geneva, which
I departed from after a sojourn there of twelve calendar
months. Having laid by a small store of worldly
coin, and being held generally in good repute among
my neighbors, I began to bethink me that it was best
to take unto myself a wife, according to the commandment.
When I came to this resolve I, the next Sunday,
cast my eyes about the church to see on whom
my choice should light, revolving in my mind, as my
eyes wandered from one bonnet to another, the capabilities
of each for the dignity of mater-familias to
Instructer Stingflyer (for such is my patronymic, my
given name being Abel) when I decided propounding
the question of matrimony to Miss Deborah, or as she
was called among her acquaintance and kinsfolk, Miss
Debby Primruff, an excellent maiden lady, only a few
years my senior, tall, straight, comely, and withal fairhaired.
Turning the subject over in my mind during
the week while the scholars were engaged at their
tasks, and seeing no cause to change my mind, I arranged
myself on Saturday evening in my Sunday suit
of black broadcloth, took my walking-stick and gloves,
and with a bold step and confident demeanor, sought
the mansion of the fair maiden, whom I intended
should be the future Mrs. Stingflyer. I was received
very graciously, for I had met Miss Deborah before at
a quilting-party at the dwelling of a worthy gentleman,
one Mr. Lawrie Todd, one of the select men of the
town, and an active member of the school committee.
Yet, Cupid nor Hymen never entered my thoughts in
connection with Miss Deborah until now. Whatever
courage I had mustered for the occasion, proved to be,
when I stood in her maidenly presence, a mere flash
in the pan. After beating about the bush fruitlessly a
long time, and appearing more awkward than I could
have desired before my lady-love, after much pulling
on and off of gloves, tracing, as it were musingly, cabalistic
figures on the floor with my walking-stick,
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twirling my well brushed hat in my fingers, rising and
going to the open window many times, and as often
returning to my chair, while Miss Debby, oblivious of
her knitting, followed my movements with wondering
eyes, I at length desperably determined to come to
the point.
“`Miss Debby, that is, I mean to say, Miss Deborah,
' I said, drawing my chair near to her own, and
taking the strand of yarn between my forefinger and
thumb, and giving it a nervous, yet affectedly careless
twist, while the perspiration exuded from my forehead,
for it was a warm July evening, `Dost thou
ever read the Bible?'
“`The Bible, Mr. Stingflyer?' she fairly vociferated,
laying her knitting on her lap, and turning round and
staring me full in the face; `why, what can you mean
by asking me such a question? Do you take me for a
'homadown—and my uncle a deacon too?'
“`Nay, Miss Deborah,' said I, hastening to interpose
between her anger and my love; `nay, I pray
thee, be not wroth with me. I well know the savor
of thy sanctity. I did intend to ask of thee if thou
retainedst in thy excellent memory, verse 18th, chapter
the 2d of Genesis.'
“`Why, I don't know if I do rightly, but I can easily
find it,' she answered complacently, soothed by my
grain of flattery, for herein Ovid had taught me the
sex is accessible; and laying her knitting upon my
knees, she hastened to bring the family Bible, which
she spread open on a small light stand discreetly placed
between us, and began diligently to turn over the
leaves of the quarto, but rather as if she were seeking
the book of Revelations than that of Genesis. I made
bold to hint that it might be better to begin at the commencement
of the book, when, turning thither, much
to her delight, and as her manner betrayed, much to
her surprise, she found the book named, and soon
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after, the chapter and verse, and forthwith commenced
reading aloud:
“—`It is not good that man should be alone;
I will make a help meet for him.' Why, what is
there in this verse so very remarkable, Mr. Stingflyer?”
she interrogated, neverthless blushing consciously, and
without looking up.
“Although I felt my courage oozing, as it were, from
beneath my finger nails, and exudating from every
pore in my body, I nevertheless felt that I had broken
the ice—and already placed my foot on the pons asinorum
of lovers, and that it was easier to advance
than to retreat; I therefore determined to persevere in
my suit and leave the rest to the gods.
“`Dost thou not apprehend the application thereof,
Miss Debby?' I said, in my most insinuating tones,
edging my chair a few inches closer to her own, and
taking her slightly resisting hand in mine.
“`Not in the least, Mr. Stingflyer,' she replied with
that perverse blindness which at such times is wont to
characterise the sex; while I am well assured in my
own mind, she knew full as well what I would be at
(for the sex have much acumen in these matters) as I
did myself.
“`Then,' I said, borne irresistibly onward by the
fates, which direct the passion amor, `may it please
thee to turn for an illustration thereof, and for further
light thereupon, to chapter ix. verse the 1st of the same
book?' and after I had ceased speaking, I assumed an
aspect of much gravity. She sought and found the
passage designated; but this time, after casting her
eyes upon it, her color increased, and without reading
it aloud as before, she shut the book quickly, saying,
`I do declare! what can you mean, Mr. Stingflyer?'
and she looked both pleased and offended; although I
opine, the latter was assumed as a sort of vanguard to
her maidenly discretion.
“`I mean, my dear Miss Debby,' I exclaimed,
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seizing both her hands, and dropping on both my knees
before her, impelled by the amoris stimuli, for amare
et sapere is hard for man to do, `that it is not good
for me to be alone—that my soul yearneth, yea, verily,
crieth aloud for a help meet—therefore, oh Deborah,
I fain would obey the commandment, Genesis 9th, 1st,
if thou wilt take part and lot with me in this matter;
for Debby,' and here my voice, which had been lifted
up in the eloquence of my passion, fell to a more tender
key, `Debby, light of my eyes, I love thee!' here
I laid my hand upon my waistcoat, over the region of
the heart, and continued vehemently, `and from this
posture will I not rise until thou hast blessed me.'
“Miss Deborah turned pale, then became red, and
then became pale again, giggled, simpered, and looked
every way but towards me, but made no answer.
Emboldened by her silence, which I interpreted favorably,
remembering the Latin proverb, qui non negat
fatetur, whose English parallel is “Silence giveth assent,”
I leaned forward, drawing her gently towards
me, for the purpose of placing the sigillum or seal
upon her lips, when an enormous door-bug, or hedge-chafer,
a clumsy, uncouth species of the black beetle,
bounced with a loud hum into the room through the
open window, aiming point blank for the candle,
which chanced to stand in a line between me and the
aforesaid window, and with the force of a cross-bolt,
struck me between the eyes, as I continued to remain
in my attitude of genuflection, and partly from terror,
and in part from the force of the blow, with a loud
exclamation, I fell backwards upon the floor like one
who had been wounded even unto the death. The
next moment, alive to the ludicrousness of my situation,
I recovered myself—which recovery was not a
little expedited by the undisguised laughter of the
merry maiden, on whose lips I was about to place the
seal of requited affection: experience having not then
instructed my youth, omnium mulierum fugianturoscula.
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But my sufferings were not terminated. I
fain would have laughed my disaster off, pretending
that it was only a conceit of my own, to fall as if shot
with a bullet, had not my ears been assailed, as I rose
again to my feet, by the appalling burring and whizzing
of the enemy, darting fiercely about the room,
now thumping violently against the opposite wall,
now buzzing by my head with a hum like a hundred
tops, the whole more dreadful on account of the darkness
of the extremities of the apartment, which rendered
it exceedingly difficult to follow, with any certainty,
the motions of the insect, and thereby guard
against his approach. My first impulse was to leap
from the window, to the utter demolition of Miss Deborah's
flower-beds. But, guessing my desperate resolve,
by the frenzied roll of my eyes in that direction,
and the preparatory movements of my limbs, she
closed it, oh fæmina, semper mutabile! with a sudden
jerk, and a loud laugh, as if delectating herself
with my terrors. Certes, since that period, my sentiments
in relation to the softness and charity of womankind
have been revised! Thwarted in this point, my
next impulse was to endeavor to gain the door—which
purpose I at length effected, after dodging the transverse
course of the bettle as he traversed the room;
and throwing it open, I sprang through it, not into the
passage, but into Miss Deborah's china closet, and
striking my foot against a jar of preserves, upset it,
and pitched irresistibly against the lower shelf laden
with her choicest domestic wares, and amid a jangling,
crashing, crackling, and rattling, sufficient to make
even the deaf hear, I fell to the floor, receiving in my
fall, by way of corollary, divers contusions from the
falling ruins, and lay, like Samson, buried in the wreck
I had myself created.
“The laughter of Miss Debby was hereupon suddenly
changed to a loud key of mingled surprise, anger
and grief, in which she attacked me with a volley of
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undeserved vituperation and abuse, considering that
the hedge-chafer, and not I, was the author of the mischief.
Bruised, mortified and exceedingly chop-fallen,
I at length dragged my unlucky body forth, notwithstanding
I still heard the buzz-wzz-z-z, of the formidable
bug in his flight about the room, but between his
whizzing and the clamor of Miss Deborah's tongue,
I was left to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.
But I will dwell no longer upon this event. I effected
my escape as well as I could, and the next Monday
morning made up the loss of earthen vessels in coin,
to the mother of Miss Deborah. And verily here
ended my first and last attempt to secure a mater
familias, to perpetuate the ill-fated patronymic of
Stingflyer to posterity.
“Four woes have passed, and yet another woe cometh.
My adventure in the china-closet having been
bruited about the village, my pupils, (such being ever
ready to fasten a nickname upon their instructors,)
conferring upon me the unseemly appellation of
`Hedge-chafer,' determined me to change my place
of habitation I next, after divers wanderings, pitched
my tent in the state of Ohio, which hath been called
`the paradise of schoolmasters,' drawn thither by the
reports that reached mine ears, of the richness of the
land; and in a town a few miles from Cincinnati, I
resumed my occupation of instilling knowledge into
the minds of the rising generation. It came to pass
after I had sojourned here nearly the space of two
years, I was appointed the orator for the Fourth of
July, A. D. 1825. My thesis, or oration, prepared for
this occasion, was previously read by me to two or
three village oracles, with much applause, which, in
justice to myself, and more especially to the judgment
of the committee, by whom I had the honor of being
appointed, I must confess my composition fully
merited.
The procession was formed opposite the Masonic
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Hall, I being appointed to an honorable rank therein,
even the foremost of the van, save the musicians and
marshal; the music struck up, and with martial pace
it proceeded through the principal streets of the town,
towards the church, which I flattered myself I was
about to fill with Demosthenean eloquence. As I
moved forward, a blue ribbon waving its pennons at
the button hole of my coat, my bosom swelled with
a due consciousness of the conspicuousness of my
situation, and I felt that every eye was fixed upon me
in admiration, if not envy: my step was firm, as it
rose and fell to the strains of music—my chest expanded,
and my head was elevated—and gracefully did
I carry in my hand, the manuscript, also garnished
with a gay knot of blue ribbon, whose written eloquence
was that day to enchain men's minds, and fill
their souls with patriotism. No Roman, entering the
imperial city after a victory, on a triumphal car, ever
bore a prouder heart than I did that day—alas, dies
infaustus! In our circumambulatory progress
through the village, traversing its every lane and
alley, that all might witness the pageant of which I
was `the head and front,' we passed through a
straggling angle of the town—a sort of detached suburb,
when the music was all at once drowned by a
loud and discordant din, caused by the beating of tinkettles,
the clattering of warming-pans, the jingling of
sleigh-bells, the tooting of horns, and clamor of women
and children, saluting the tympana with a Babelion
confusion not unworthy of the precincts of the infernal
regions, while at the same time, a wretched alley just
in advance of us, poured out a motley crowd of slattern
wives and breechless urchins, armed with a thousand
tongues, and beating every instrument whereof
the chronicles of discord have made mention. But a
sight more dreadful, a sound more horrible, alone
filled my ears, and concentrated my optics. Over the
heads of this clamorous multitude hung a dark cloud
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of bees, whose million wings sent forth a sound like
the roaring of the sea. Appalling vision! each particular
hair of my head stood on end, and my heart
leaped into my throat.
“At the sight of the procession the clamor ceased,
and the women, duces facti, retreated from view,
while the vacillating swarm, attracted by the music,
now alone heard, wheeled towards the head of our
column, and darkened the air above my head. There
are, it hath verily been asserted, some persons whom
bees will not sting, (an asservation which I am inclined
to controvert,) and reversely, that there are
others, whom they will take pains to sting, of whom
I am one especially honored. From childhood to
manhood, whether a boy in a crowd of boys, or a man
in a throng of men, a bee never chanced to hover in
the air, who did not single me out, and descend upon
my ill-fated person, whether from a sympathetic attraction
towards the honey-bee imprinted in the small
of my back or not, is a question whose solution I leave
to metaphysicians. Knowing, however, from experience,
how powerfully I was magnetised, and seeing
these myriads of attractive atoms so near my person,
I felt that I should not long stand my ground. At the
moment the swarm approached, the whole band
chanced to strike up with a loud clang, in a sort of
chorus, and simultaneously the bees descended close
to our heads, and as they swept round like an army
wheeling, two or three stragglers or flank-riders
brushed past my cheeks, while amid the dreadful roar
of their passage I had nearly lost my wits, and should
no doubt have lost them altogether, if they had not
quickly reascended; and as the music ceased, by the
command of the marshal, settled to my great relief, on
an umbrageous tree in the vicinity.
“I congratulated myself on retaining my self-possession
in so large an assemblage of witnesses—philosophy
with my advance in life, having enabled me in some
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degree to control my emotions on these occasions,
although no mental effort can effectually overcome an
inherited nervous infirmity. Prouder than if I had
been the victor of Waterloo, I lifted my foot to the
time of the music to proceed in my march, when I felt
a sensation as if something was crawling on the back
of my neck. I trembled, and my blood run cold to my
finger ends. I was afraid to reach my hand to the spot
for fear it should be stung; for I foreboded a stray bee
from the swarm had lighted on my collar, and I dared
not ask those behind me to brush it off, lest it should
sting me in revenge. Moreover, the very consciousness
of this dangerous vicinage of my hereditary foe,
caused in my mind too much terror to articulate such
a request, or to yield to any other impulse, than my
customary one of flight, in obedience to my mother's
laws, in such cases made and provided. Therefore,
as I felt the tittillation of his progress along the junction
of my cravat and cuticle, I shouted involuntarily aloud
and broke from the procession, and with wonderful
speed darted up the street, my flight not a little accelerated
by discovering a second bee, clinging to the
blue ribbon which fluttered at my button-hole. This
last invader, however, the wind of my motion soon
dislodged, but instantly recovering his wings, he turned
and pursued in full cry. Of a surety, this was an unpleasant
strait for a man of my consequence on that
day to be placed in—an enemy in pursuit, and another
equally ferocious in possession of my unlucky body.
The faster I fled, and the stronger became the wind,
which fairly whistled past my ears, the closer the insect
stuck to my skin, having now achieved, by creeping
with much circumspection, half the circumference
of my neck, and entangled his antennæ among my
half-whiskers, which I am accustomed to wear, in
order that my hebdomadal labor of shaving may be
more of a sinecure. But I will not linger over the
details of my flight, the wonder of the procession, the
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hootings of the boys, the dispersion of the pageant,
and the consternation of the musicians, whose vocation
fled with me—I will only as a faithful recorder of my
woes, say that I run half a mile straight into the country,
was grievously stung by the enemy who had lodged
on my cheek, before I had effected half that distance,
that the pain added wings to my flight, and that my
pursuer came up with me as I desperately plunged at
risk of life and limb, into a hedge at the termination
of the half a mile, hoping to leave the hedge between
us, and thus baffle him, and how, instead of clearing
the hedge, oh, accumulation of woes! I leaped into
the middle of it, and sunk into the midst of a nest
of hornets.
“Whether I should lie down and die like a martyr,
or rise up and fly, was the debate of a moment in my
mind. I chose the latter, for verily, life is sweet, and
scrambled back into the road, malgré the bee on the
other side of the hedge (but greater dangers swallowed
up the lesser,) I fled back to the town at greater speed
than I had left it, a score of angry hornets singing in
my ears. When I arrived once more in the village, to
use the words of a pleasing poet, in facetiously describing
a less memorable race—
`The dogs did bark, the children scream'd,
Up flew the windows all;
And every soul cried out, “well done!”
As loud as they could bawl.'
I fell upon the threshold of my landlady's door, almost
lifeless, my body having, as was ascertained by subsequent
enumeration, been perforated by the aculei of
the hornets in the thirty-seven different places. After
being confined with my wounds and a consequent
fever for the space of four weeks, I once more became
a wanderer, being too sensitive upon my disaster to
remain where my adventure afforded too much
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merriment with my friends and gossips, for me to share in
it with any especial grace. I would observe, however,
in passing, that my oration, which I had thrown
down in my flight, was picked up by the Marshal of
the day, who got the procession once more into marching
order, and that it was read from the pulpit, by a
young lawyer, with much taste and execution, vastly
to the delight and edification of the audience, who
bore testimony that such a gem of Fourth of July
oratory had never been listened to—nay, that it even
surpassed the homilies of the minister himself—who
was, allow me to remark, a scholar of great erudition.
This sugared news was breathed into my ear by my
sympathetic landlady, while I lay bedridden afterwards,
and verily it was a salvo both to my wounded
flesh and spirit.
“My next place of abode, after divers journeyings,
was in the beautiful city of Natchez, which verily for
Arcadian attractiveness of aspect, hath not its equal
among the cities of the West. Here, for there was
no want of instructors of youth, I foregathered with
an elderly and worthy gentleman, a God-fearing and
coin-getting man, who agreed with me for my daily
bread, and the sum of eight shillings per week, to sum
up his accompts. This labor I faithfully executed, and
at length, learning by the public print, that a teacher
of the humane letters was needed in this village, from
which I address you, on foot I came thither, bearing
my recommendation in my countenance, God, I trust,
having given me an honest one, and forthwith entered
on my occupation, which I still delightedly pursue—
for, though southern boys are not so studious as northern
lads, they nevertheless possess a natural quickness
of parts, which I may denominate intuition, whereby
with little diligence they learn much, arriving at conclusions
per saltum by a leap as it were, which rendereth
it a pleasing task to instruct them.
“The day I had the felicity of meeting with thee, my
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friend, being a Saturday, and therefore, by prescription,
a holiday, I had doffed and laid aside my outward
garment, and enveloped in my wrapper or summer
gown, was seated in the little room which I occupy as
my sanctum sanctorum, perusing my favorite Maro,
(for Virgil hath ever been my favorite, saving the
Georgic which treateth of the nurture of bees,) when
I heard the well-known sound of a wasp singing about
the room. I immediately sprung from my chair, with
so sudden a movement, that the sagacious insect no
doubt mistook it for a hostile one, though, Dii immortales!
I had not the most distant idea of assuming a
belligerent attitude—and with a sharp note darted
towards me. I evaded the charge, by dodging my
head, and fled forth into the street en dishabille, my
terrible enemy in close pursuit. Thou didst witness,
my worthy friend, the result, and to thee am I indebted
for aid in mine affliction, saving me, peradventure,
from a watery grave. In part liquidation of this my
debt of gratitude, I pen and transmit to thee these
brief records of my eventful life, believing that after
the perusal of them thou wilt not withhold thy sympathy
from him, to whom the sound of a flying insect
is more terrible than the whizzing of a bullet: and who
feareth less the thrust of a javelin than the barbed
sting of the irritabile genus, a race he verily believeth
created to torment him, and himself created to be their
miserable victim.
“Your servant, faithfully to command,
“Abel Stingflyer, A. M.”
[Note by the Author of “Lafitte.”]
Being in the village of Port Gibson a few weeks
ago, I learned that the unfortunate hero of the above
memoirs, had left that rural village and returned to
the city of Natchez, where, in copartnership with a
man from the land of Connecticut, he dealt in
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merchandise, having exchanged the honorable occupation
of “teaching the humane letters,” for the less intellectual
one of heaping together riches through the
buying and selling of goods.
When I was last in Natchez, I therefore sought
him out and found him, although his name in the
firm is modestly and unassumingly concealed under
the abbreviation, CO., and was pleased to learn from
his own lips that he was prosperous. Although his
stock in trade is multifarious, he took pains to inform
me that the leading stipulation in his agreement of
copartnership was, that neither sugar, nor molasses,
nor any thing dulcis naturæ holding out temptations
to the irritabile genus, should be allowed admittance
into the store as part of their stock of merchandise.
It was in this interview with him I obtained the permission
to make such disposition of his manuscript as
I should deem most fit. Therefore in giving it this
present publicity no confidence hath been betrayed.
Rose Cottage, Adams' County, Miss.
January 17, 1838.
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THE QUADROON OF ORLEANS. A TALE.
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The last solemn peal of the organ ceased; the worshippers
rose from the pavement; the priest descended
from the altar; the candles were extinguished, and the
mass for that day was over. Slowly the dense cloud
passed out, and silence and solitude took the place of
the murmur of the late worshipping assembly.
Two persons yet remained. One of these, a female,
was prostrate before an image of the virgin, her forehead
laid against the marble floor. She was in deep
black, and a rich veil fell in thick folds and hid her
face, which, if in harmony with the exquisite symmetry
of her figure, could not be less than beautiful. A
lovely woman kneeling in prayer, is, at all times, an
interesting sight; but when she is clothed in mourning,
(which gives to women that kind of effect, which
in a temple is produced by “dim, religious light,”)
the sight is peculiarly touching, and not unfrequently
is vested with the power to awaken the finest emotions
of our hearts, and make even the sceptic ask of
himself, if a religion, that numbers among its votaries
such grace and beauty, may not have its foundation
in truth?
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Such at least were the thoughts passing through the
mind of a handsome young man who leaned against
a pillar not far off, with his eyes fixed on the kneeling
devotee. His head was uncovered, leaving free
masses of rich brown hair, that fell to his shoulders. A
slight mustache curved above his well-shaped mouth.
His figure was tall; his brow fair and open; his dress
in the latest foreign fashion; and an air of high breeding,
combined with a certain haughtiness of carriage,
and his foreign appearance, marked him as one of the
French nobles who had fled from their country to
escape the guillotine, which was daily drunk with the
best blood of France.
Our story is laid in New Orleans at the close of the
year 1793. The city, during the ascendancy of Robespierre,
became the refuge of many of the oldest
families of the ancien régime. The young Baron
Championet left Paris in disguise, just five minutes
before the myrmidons of Robespierre entered his
hotel. The ship in which he took passage at Havre,
arrived at the levee in New Orleans as the bell was
ringing for mass. Stepping on shore, he fell gradually
into the moving current of people, and was borne towards
the Cathedral. He entered it with the rest—for
he bethought him, as its venerable towers met his
eye, that he would return thanks for his safe passage.
Eugenie Championet was a Roman Catholic; and like
all of his sect, he never neglected the outward signs of his
faith, whether his heart was religiously disposed or not.
In company with half a dozen others of every hue
and degree, the young baron dipped the tip of his
fingers in the marble vase of holy water by the staircase;
reverently made the sign of the cross on his forehead
and breast; and kneeling among slaves and artisans,
maidens and matrons, he bowed to the earth as
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the Host was elevated, and mingling his own with
thousand tongues, worshipped this visible presence of
the Redeemer. Having disburthened his heart of its
weight of gratitude, he rose to his feet and gazed
about him. Presently an object nearer the altar arrested
and fixed his eye. With his chapeau bras beneath
his arm, and pressing his sword close to his side
to avoid entangling it among the throng of scarfs,
veils, and roquelaures, he slowly edged his way to the
upper extremity of the cathedral, and stopped with
his eyes resting on the most faultless female figure he
thought he had ever beheld. His practised glance had
singled her out from her station near the door, and
although he passed a score of houris, that opened their
large black eyes, and were ready to fall in love with
him, he took not his eyes from her he sought till he
came where she stood. Her face was turned from
him, and her fingers clasped a prayer book on which
she seemed too intent to look up. She stood so close
to the altar, that, without subjecting his movements
to particular observation, if not remark, he was unable
to get a sight of her features. That she must be
very lovely, the faultless proportions of her truly
feminine figure gave him no room to doubt.
The services closed and the congregation departed.
The lady lingered to pray. Doubtless she felt more
than usually penitent that morning. As the echo of the
last footstep died away, apparently unconscious of observation,
she closed her missal, and crossing to the
shrine of Madonna, fell upon her knees before it. The
young foreigner softly approached, and leaning against
a pillar within a few feet of her, with his soul in his
eyes, and his eyes full of devotion, continued to gaze
upon her. Impatient at length to obtain a glimpse of
her face, he noiselessly approached the shrine and
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lingered over a crypt, under a pretence of deciphering
the letters cut into the marble slab laid over it. The
echo of his step, light as it was, reverberated through
the vaulted pile, and caught her ear. She lifted her
head from the stone floor, the veil fell back from her
face, and the eyes of the two met. She rose in confused
surprise. The young man uttered an exclamation
of admiration at her strange and extraordinary
beauty.
She was very little above the middle height, with a
strikingly elegant figure, a lofty carriage, a superb
neck and bust, and surpassing symmetry of arm and
foot. Her age could not have been more than eighteen.
The soft olive of her complexion was just tinged with
the rich blood beneath. Her profile was accurately
Grecian, her lips a little too full, perhaps, but her finely
shaped mouth lost nothing of its beauty by their richness.
They were just parted in her surprise, and displayed
small white teeth; not that glaring ivory white,
which is so much admired by those who have not seen
such as here described, but of the liquid lustre of pearls.
Her silken eye-brows were penciled in perfect arches
over large-orbed, jet-black eyes, that seemed to float
in lakes of liquid languor. They were exceedingly
fine. Human eyes could not be finer. But there was
an expression in them, strange and indefinable; beautiful
yet unpleasing, as if a serpent had been looking
through the eye of a gazelle. Dark fires burned deeply
within, and the intensest passion there slumbered.
The singular expression of her eyes did not weaken
their effect on the susceptible temperament of the
young man, although he gazed into them with sensations
such as woman's eye had never before created
in his bosom. Her raven hair was gathered behind,
and fell in rich tresses about her finely shaped head.
She wore no bonnet, but instead, a black veil, that fell
from a gold comb set with precious stones, down to
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her feet, which were remarkable for their small size,
high instep, and symmetrical shape.
As she encountered the ardent gaze of the young
man, the rich brown hue of her cheek, became richer
with the mounting blood. Hastily wrapping her veil
about her head, she passed him with a stately, undulating
motion, and by a side door, hitherto concealed
by a curtain, left the Cathedral, though not without
glancing over her shoulder ere she disappeared. The
baron did not hesitate to follow her. With a peculiar
ease of motion, in which grace and dignity were femininely
blended, she slowly moved along the thronged
trottoir of Chartres street. The style of her face; the
perfection of her person; the harmonious concord of
every movement; the queenly carriage; the uncovered
head; the basilisk fascination of her eyes, were all
unlike any thing he had ever seen, and altogether allured,
bewildered, and captivated him. His own elegant
person attracted the eyes of many a lovely woman
as he passed along, but he had no eye or thought for
any one but the devotee of the Cathedral. He lost
not sight of her, until he saw her enter, in one of the
most aristocratic districts of the city, a cottage-like residence,
like the most of those in New Orleans at that
time, adorned with verandahs, half buried in orange
and lemon trees, with glass doors and windows to the
ground; the whole thrown open, displaying within
apartments furnished with oriental magnificence. The
lady glanced one of her fine eyes towards him from
behind her fan, as she stepped up the verandah; he
laid his hand, between gallantry and sincerity, upon
his heart, in acknowledgment, impressed the dwelling
on his memory, and with a sigh turned away to seek
a hotel and deliver his letters.
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An old French exile, M. Beranger, to whom one of
his letters was addressed, could not call on the Baron
Championet, but sent his son, a gay young Creole, to
welcome him to New Orleans. They dined together,
were soon fast friends. Over their wine, they began
to converse, as young men will do, of beautiful women.
The baron related his inkling of adventure in the Cathedral,
and ended with declaring himself irrevocably
in love, and hinted at matrimony.
His friend heard him through with composure, and
when he had ended, gave way to uncontrollable laughter.
The baron looked both surprised and offended,
when young Beranger, composing his features, said:
“Dark eyes, arched brows like satin, olive complexion,
slightly tainted with the rose, and a veil
thrown over her head.”
“You repeat my words, monsieur,” said the baron,
coldly.
“A veil only you are sure?”
“A black lace veil, that dropped to her feet. A becoming
mode, and one I wish to see take the place of
the unsightly bonnet with which the European women
choose to disfigure their heads.”
“You have fallen in love with a quadroon, Championet.”
“If `quadroon' be American for angel, by the mass!
you say truly!”
“Ha, ha, ha! Pardon me, my dear baron! I see I
must initiate you, or you will be getting into more of
these Cathedral adventures with dark-eyed devotees
veiled to the feet. First let us fill a bumper to your
olive-browned divinity.”
The toast was drunk with mock sentiment by the
one, and with genuine gallantry by the other.
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“Now, my dear baron,” began the gay Creole,[9]
“you must know that there is among us a class of
citizens called quadroons. They are one-fourth part
African blood.”
“Saint Marie! You do not mean to say that—”
“Peace, my dear Championet. I will explain this
thing, so that you will thank me for the Mahomedan
paradise my words shall unfold to you. The descent
and blood of a quadroon is as follows: The offspring
of a white man and a pure negress, is what we call a
mulatto, or mulatress, according to the sex. The offspring
of the mulatto and pure white is a mustizoe,
pronounced mustife, and in this class I have seen blue
eyes and light hair, albeit the complexion might have
been somewhat objectionable. The offspring of the
mestizoe and a pure white, is termed a quadroon, or
quatreune, being four parts white, with one part (the
blood of the original African progenitor) black. By
these four removes the African blood has become
nearly extinct, and the quadroon shares the characteristic
traits common to the European race. The fifth
and sixth removes are also called quadroons; indeed
the term is applied so long as there remains the least
trace of the slavish blood. By the sixth generation,
however, it entirely disappears. I know some beautiful
quadroons in the fifth descent, who, save a certain
indescribable expression in the centre of the pupils of
their fine eyes, have the appearance of lovely Italian
women.”
“This singular expression,” interrupted the baron,
“struck me in the eyes of this superb creature.—What
it was I could not tell, but it had a strange effect upon
me.”
“It is the mark of the quadroon even to the sixth
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generation, when all other signs of her African descent
are lost. I have tried to analyze it, but like the
peculiar and undefinable expression that stamps the
Jewish physiognomy, it defies all explanation or analysis.
We often speak of the fine eye of a spirited
woman, as having a little devil in it. In the eye of
the quadroon there lurks the devil, but it is a wicked
one. I do not mean in the playful sense of the term,
but in its worst. Yet they show none of it in their dispositions.
They are warm hearted and full of passion,
and fire, but it is difficult to rouse them to anger. They
are, on the contrary, universally affectionate, good-natured,
and remarkable for a child-like simplicity of
manners, in which much of their fascination lies.
These quadroons of both sexes present, perhaps, the
finest specimens of the human race. The young men
are perfect Apollos. The females—but you have seen
one of them, and can judge for yourself. Notwithstanding
all this, such is the prejudice where Africans
are held as slaves, against admitting any of the blood
of this degraded race to an equality with ourselves,
that, however accomplished they may be, they are not
only interdicted from society, but the law against the
intermarriages of the white with the blacks, extends
equally to these. Many of them are the daughters
of gentleman of fortune, who lavish money on them,
rear them in the lap of luxury, and sometimes send
them to Paris to be educated. Abroad, some of them
have married rank and wealth. Last summer I met,
driving on the Prater of Vienna, the Countess—,
whom I knew as a quadroon in this city, till her thirteenth
year, when her father sent her to Paris, where
she completed her education, and as his legitimate
daughter married the Count—present husband.
She is called the most handsome woman in Austria.
“Prohibited from society here, and debarred marriage,
(for reared and educated as they are, of course
they will not marry the young quadroons, who are
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lower in the social circles than even themselves, whose
own equivocal elevation is owing to causes easily to be
divined,) their maternal education consists in adorning
their persons; and, by their still lovely mothers they
are taught to regard beauty of person and the arts of
blandishment, as the highest qualifications of their
sex, and to look forward to the station of a mistress
with the same hopes, fears and sensations that a virtuously
educated maiden contemplates that of wife.
In fact, to their perverted minds, illicit love is divested
of guilt, and is connected neither with shame nor
moral degradation.”
“But the fathers? Have they no voice in this matter?”
“In this climate sixteen or seventeen years, when
their daughters are in market, (I speak plainly,) make
great changes in regard to most of these.—Death,
travel, or matrimony, gives the quadroon mother,
while yet young, to choose another protector and educate
her daughter as she pleases. When at the age I
have mentioned, the mother, who has kept her till
now in great seclusion, begins to cast about for a protector
for her. She allows her with this object in view,
to attend balls and masquerades, frequent public
walks, and go to mass, but always attended by a confidential
slave, or herself in person; while her eye is
ever watchful, and the reins of maternal vigilance are
drawn with careful hand, lest the daughter, from feeling,
should form an unprofitable liaison. It will
not be long before she attracts several admirers, and
proposals are made in due form to the quadroon mother—
for the system, as you will discover, is as regularly
organised and understood here, as that for the
buying and selling Circassian girls. In the choice of
suitors, three things are especially considered, viz: the
wealth, the respectability of the individual, and the
inclinations of the daughter. If there are possessions
on her side, that are not incompatible with the other
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two considerations, her wishes decide the choice; for
it is the managing mother's desire, not only to get her
daughter well established, but established happily also.
When the suitor is fixed upon, the others are notified
that Mademoiselle is not at liberty to form engagements.
Then come the preliminary settlements, previously
agreed upon, between buyer and seller. Some
of these scenes, were it not for the moral degradation
with which they are associated, I doubt not, would be
extremely amusing. The two are closeted together
with pen, ink and paper. The mother, who has the
conditions drawn upon a piece of paper she holds in
her hand, insists on a house containing a certain number
of rooms, richly furnished, particularises each article
of their furniture, demands a certain number of
servants; bargains for a specific sum to be paid quarterly
to her daughter for pin-money, and insists that
she shall be indulged in all the expensive luxuries of
her class; many other things besides are agreed upon,
depending mostly on the taste, ambition and high
notions of the quadroon mother. In her care for
her daughter, she does not neglect her own interests,
but bargains for a present in hand for her own part,
such as an expensive shawl, a costly veil, a set of
jewels, or something of that sort. The suitor agreeing
to all this, pays a certain sum down, often so high as
two thousand dollars, and seldom less than one thousand,
and receives his unmarried but virgin bride.
From that time he openly lives with her, if unmarried,
save dining at the hotels.—If he is a married man, he
is more cautious. The quadroon mothers usually prefer
the latter class, as promising, their daughters a more
stable and permanent life, than it would be likely to
be, dependent on the roving caprice of a young bachelor.
Hundreds of young gentlemen, and I know not
how many with hymenial ties, live in this way in this
city.”
“A singular state of society.”
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“Yes; and this facility of things is why we are such
a community of bachelors.”
“Are these quadroons faithful?”
“There has never been known among them a single
instance to the contrary. Indeed, their attachment in
these cases is proverbial.”
The young man balanced his wine glass on his forefinger,
and mused awhile; then abruptly speaking he
said.”
“Do you think the lovely creature I saw this morning
is one of this class?”
His countenance was so expressive of mingled doubt
and hope as he waited for a reply, that the lively creole
smiled as he answered.
“Yes. Her veil marks her, if nothing more.—Quadroons
alone wear veils. Why, I know not, unless bonnets
are prohibited to this class as well as to the slaves,
which I believe is the case, but whether by the municipal
law, or the stronger one of public opinion,
I am not prepared to say. The extraordinary beauty
of many of these women has been noised abroad, and
if common fame speaks the truth, has been the subject
of convivial conversation even with one or two
of the princes of the royal family who have been
here. Apropos, I could tell a tale here if I would.
But another time.”
“It is strange,” said the baron, thoughtfully, “that
a trait scarcely discernible, except to the initiated,
should shut them out of society.”
“The cause, if we look closely into the subject, does
not lie so much in the drop of African blood in their
veins, as the fact that they are descended, at least on
one side, from slaves. Indeed, many quadroons are
really slaves, whose maternal ancestors have been for
generations in the same family. If the mother be a
slave, say our laws, so is the offspring, no matter what
its hue may be. A prejudice so deeply founded as
that against slavish blood, will forever resist reason.
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It is true the quadroons are its victims. Its tendency,
doubtless, is to preserve the purity of society, but I do
not know if its effects are not more than balanced by
the laxity of morals it originates and fosters. But a
truce to this prosing. It is now near sunset, and the
population is all out of doors to enjoy the cool of the
evening. If we walk in the direction of the dwelling
of your inamorata, we shall find her no doubt in the
verandah. I think, from your glowing description of
her, I can divine who she is. If it is Emilie, as I believe,
she is a prize worth winning and wearing.”
eaf159.n9[9] Creole, as used in Louisiana, has no other meaning than the word
“native.” In this acceptation, one is a Creole of Pennsylvania, or of
Maine, who is a native of either of those States.
The young gentlemen sallied forth together, and arm
in arm lounged carelessly along the street towards the
abode of the devotee. It was near sunset, and the
doors, balconies and verandahs of that gay city were
animated with cheerful people, and brilliant with
beauty. Families were gathered in their own doors
or about a neighbor's, standing or sitting in groups
gossiping and taking the air. Young, bonnetless girls
laughed and talked with one another across the street,
or smiled at passing beaux. Children every where
played up and down the side walks; the artisan, his
apron thrown aside, sat in his open shop window and
smoked his cigar, or chatted with a neighbor: all was
cheerfulness, hilarity and content. One would have
thought there was not in the whole town a sad heart.
Beranger bowed to nearly every other pretty woman
he saw in the overhanging balconies, while his elegant
companion drew after him many a dark eye, and
caused many an inquiry to be passed along the galaxy
of beauty, of who might be the handsome cavalier.
They arrived at Rue de —, and Championet
pointed to the residence of the devotee.
“'Tis Emilie!” cried the other. “She is scarcely
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seventeen, and though 'tis not two months since she
made her first appearance in public, she has already
had half New-Orleans at her feet. But her mother,
deviating from the usual mode, has left her to her own
choice, of course subject to her sanction. So the lovely
quadroon will not sell her person save to the bold
cavalier who shall first steal her heart. Courage, mon
ami! From what you have told me, you have already
made an impression. You are a stranger here, and
women, if you have noticed, always like strangers.”
The young gentlemen approached the elegant residence
of the fair quadroon, and in one month afterwards
the gay baron Championet boasted the finest
establishment and the lovliest mistress in New-Orleans.
The death of Robespierre, by the guillotine, July
28, 1794, was the signal for the return of the French
exiles. The Baron Championet, settling upon Emilie
a noble income, took passage for France, promising,
so soon as he should arrange his effects, to send for
her. Absence is like the waters of Lethe, to most
men. The stirring times he encountered on his return
to France, left him little time for love and dalliance.
He recovered his confiscated estates, entered the army,
rose rapidly to distinction, and in twelve months
Emilie was forgotten. He became suitor for the hand
of the only daughter of a neighboring noble, whose
broad lands seemed only wanting to make his own
patrimony a princely domain, and, as in New-Orleans
he had loved for love's sake, so in France he married
for mammon's sake. A son was the fruit of the politic
union. The baron, now General Championet, followed
Bonaparte in most of his wars, and his thoughts
never wandered to the lovely quadroon, save when
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some dark eyed Italian in his southern campaigns,
forcibly recalled her to his mind.
A few months after the departure of the baron,
Emilie gave birth to a daughter. During the long
period of his intimacy with the beautiful quadroon,
he had taken pleasure in storing her mind with the
nobler branches of literature, and elevating the standard
of her intellect. He taught her to reason and to
reflect. After his departure, reason and reflection became
to her the tree of the knowledge of good and
evil. For the first time she began to view in its true
light her moral and social degradation. She loathed
herself, and passed hours in unavailing tears. She
was proud, and her pride was humbled, her spirit
broken. One evening she veiled herself, and went to
the Cathedral. Kneeling on the spot where she had
first seen the young foreigner, she made a solemn vow
to the Virgin, “that her daughter should never know
her mother's degradation nor the race from which she
herself had sprung.” She rose and returned home
with a lighter heart and a firm purpose.
When the little Louisa was in her fifth year, she
left New Orleans, where the fulfilment of her vow
would have been impossible, and went to the Havanna;
from whence she took passage to Marseilles, and
then proceeded to Paris. Here as Madame D'Avigny,
and representing herself as the widow of a West
India planter, she took up her abode, and pursued the
education of her daughter. Her income was great,
and the style of her establishment had scarcely a rival
in Paris. She gave soirées, was courted, and when,
at the age of nineteen, Louise came out, a new star in
the constellation of fashion, the saloons of Madame
D'Avigny were among the most thronged and
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celebrated in Paris. The beauty of Louise now became
the universal theme, and in all public places she was
the “cynosure of all eyes.”
One morning shortly after the introduction of the
lovely quadroon into the fashionable world of Paris, a
noble looking and extremely handsome young man,
not more than twenty one years of age, was idly promenading
one of the less frequented streets of Paris,
when his attention was drawn to an elegant and well
appointed equipage that stopped just before him,
not far from the door of the cathedral.—Two ladies
descended from it and approached the church, to
which the obstruction of a line of carriages lining the
pavé prevented the coachman from coming closer.
One of them was an elegant shaped woman, who
moved with the slow and stately measure becoming
a queen. By her side moved a less stately figure, but
what was lost in dignity was made up in grace and
feminine delicacy. Her undulating movement, as she
gently stepped along, was the poetry of motion. Her
feet were the neatest, and prettiest, and smallest in
the world, and they left the pavement and lighted
upon it again with the lightness of a bird. The young
man quickened his pace and passed them. The face
that met his gaze, as he turned round at the door of
the church, was wonderfully fair. He thought he had
not seen its equal for that soft and dreamy loveliness
which is usually found in the climes of the south.
Her large black eyes, as she lifted them to the face of
the elegant young man, seemed to him like fountains
of love, with which her heart, like a deep well, was
full. The moulded bust, the rounded waist, the superbly
feminine figure, the shapely foot and hand, the
faultless neck and stag-like carriage of the fine head;
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the indolent grace of every motion from the gliding
curve of each swimming step, to the fall of the fringed
lid, filled his soul with those delightful but indescribable
sensations which are the incipient workings of
youthful love. Aside from the charms of her person,
there was about her a something which strangely
drew his heart to hers. The emotion was mutual;
for, as she passed him to enter the cathedral, her eye
lingered on his face with singular interest.
The appearance of her companion was very little
less striking, though she must have been thirty-five
years of age. The full-blown rose was the emblem
of the one; the half-open bud of the other. From
their surprising resemblance to each other, they were
mother and daughter.
They advanced to a distant part of the cathedral,
and kneeled at different shrines. The young man,
who followed them into the church, approached the
shrine where the younger kneeled, and with a singular
union of boldness and timidity, and assuming a
look of playful submission that disarmed reproof ere
it rose to the lip, he knelt beside her. She started,
turned, and would have risen to move away from the
daring intruder, but the respectful yet tender expression
of his fine eyes, the elegance of his person, his
becoming humility, all pleaded in his favor. With his
hand laid on his heart, he awaited her decision. The
silent eloquence of his manner prevailed. She smiled,
dropped her eyes, and opened her missal. Her transparent
fingers trembled with agitation; the gilt leaves
fluttered, and the book fell from her hands. The
young stranger arrested it ere it reached the pavement;
and, opening it, returned it to her with his finger on
this passage:—
“Give ear unto me; my soul hangeth upon thee.
I will love thee all the days of my life. Incline thine
ear unto my calling.”
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The maiden read it; raised her full dark eyes, and
smiled, while, with a mantling cheek, she placed a
finger carelessly on a passage. He caught it from her
hand, and read, with eyes that sparkled with delight,
the following verse:—
“I will dwell in thy tabernacle for ever; and my
trust shall be under the shadow of thy wings.”
He seized and pressed her hand to his heart, then to
his lips, and thus in one minute was consummated an
affection which contained all the elements of genuine
love; which some people think takes a year to grow,
when every body knows it is a plant that, like Jonah's
gourd, springs up in one night.
With the material before one, enough to fill two
volumes, it is difficult to write a mere sketch. We
must therefore, to keep within any bound, leave a
great deal of the filling up of our story to the imaginations
of our readers; to which, to begin with, we
shall leave the remainder of the scene in the Cathedral,
telling them, however, what doubtless they have
already guessed, that the elder lady was Emilie, the
quadroon, or as she was known in Paris, Madame
D'Avigny, and the younger daughter, the lovely and
widely famed Louise.
Two months had not passed after the love passage
in the Cathedral, when all Paris knew that the West
India beauty, Louise D'Avigny, was to be led to the
altar by a scion of one of the oldest houses in France,
the young Baron Caronde.
The day of the nuptials arrived, and before the altar
of the same Cathedral which had witnessed the first
meeting, the lovers stood surrounded by their friends,
prepared to enter into the marriage covenant.
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The father of the bridegroom had been expected
from the army, where he was in command, to honor
the ceremony with his presence; but the rites could
not longer be delayed, and the priest opened his book,
and, after the imposing forms of the Romish church,
the marriage was solemnized.
Emilie embraced her daughter. Her vow had been
fulfilled. Her triumph was complete. At this moment
an officer of high rank entered the Cathedral,
and hastily approached the star. It was the Baron
Championet, now Marquis of Caronde. He embraced
his son, and was presented to the bride. He started
with an exclamation of surprise. But as he directly
recovered himself, and tenderly embraced her, his emotion
was supposed by the bystanders to have been
caused by her extreme beauty. His son next presented
Madame D'Avigny, or, as we better know her,
Emilie, who had been surveying his features between
doubt and eager curiosity. He advanced to take her
hand, when, fixing his eyes on her still beautiful face,
he recognized her.
“Emilie!”
“Championet!”
“Speak,” he cried, looking at Louise, “is she —”
“Your daughter. But, tell me! he! is he —”
“My son!”
A wild shriek filled the temple, and Emilie fell on
the marble floor, and the blood gushed from her temples
at the feet of the Baron Championet.
The surprise and horror of those around was raised
to a feverish degree of excitement and curiosity. But
Emilie never spoke again, and the baron kept the secret
locked up in his own breast.
Louise was removed to a convent, and in a few
months died of a broken heart. Her husband and
brother threw his life away shortly after in battle.
Such is the end of characters who really existed,
-- 273 --
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and the sad conclusion of a story founded on actual
occurrence. It has been written to illustrate, in some
degree, a state of society which once existed in New
Orleans, many of the most prominent features of
which are still retained.
THE END.
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Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1839], The American lounger, or, Tales, sketches, and legends, gathered in sundry journeyings (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf159].
