WOLFERT'S ROOST.
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About five-and-twenty miles from the ancient and renowned city
of Manhattan, formerly called New-Amsterdam, and vulgarly
called New-York, on the eastern bank of that expansion of the
Hudson, known among Dutch mariners of yore, as the Tappan
Zee, being in fact the great Mediterranean Sea of the New-Netherlands,
stands a little old-fashioned stone mansion, all made
up of gable-ends, and as full of angles and corners as an old
cocked hat. It is said, in fact, to have been modelled after the
cocked hat of Peter the Headstrong, as the Escurial was modelled
after the gridiron of the blessed St. Lawrence. Though but of
small dimensions, yet, like many small people, it is of mighty
spirit, and values itself greatly on its antiquity, being one of the
oldest edifices, for its size, in the whole country. It claims to be
an ancient seat of empire, I may rather say an empire in itself,
and like all empires, great and small, has had its grand historical
epochs. In speaking of this doughty and valorous little pile, I
shall call it by its usual appellation of “The Roost;” though
that is a name given to it in modern days, since it became the
abode of the white man.
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Its origin, in truth, dates far back in that remote region commonly
called the fabulous age, in which vulgar fact becomes mystified,
and tinted up with delectable fiction. The eastern shore
of the Tappan Sea was inhabited in those days by an unsophisticated
race, existing in all the simplicity of nature; that is to say,
they lived by hunting and fishing, and recreated themselves occasionally
with a little tomahawking and scalping. Each stream
that flows down from the hills into the Hudson, had its petty
sachem, who ruled over a hand's breadth of forest on either side,
and had his seat of government at its mouth. The chieftain who
ruled at the Roost, was not merely a great warrior, but a medicine-man,
or prophet, or conjurer, for they all mean the same
thing in Indian parlance. Of his fighting propensities, evidences
still remain, in various arrow-heads of flint, and stone battle-axes,
occasionally digged up about the Roost: of his wizard powers,
we have a token in a spring which wells up at the foot of the bank,
on the very margin of the river, which, it is said, was gifted by
him with rejuvenating powers, something like the renowned Fountain
of Youth in the Floridas, so anxiously but vainly sought after
by the veteran Ponce de Leon. This story, however, is stoutly
contradicted by an old Dutch matter-of-fact tradition, which declares
that the spring in question was smuggled over from Holland
in a churn, by Femmetie Van Blarcom, wife of Goosen Garret
Van Blarcom, one of the first settlers, and that she took it up by
night, unknown to her husband, from beside their farm-house near
Rotterdam; being sure she should find no water equal to it in
the new country—and she was right.
The wizard sachem had a great passion for discussing territorial
questions, and settling boundary lines, in other words, he had
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the spirit of annexation; this kept him in continual feud with the
neighboring sachems, each of whom stood up stoutly for his hand-breadth
of territory; so that there is not a petty stream nor
rugged hill in the neighborhood, that has not been the subject of
long talks and hard battles. The sachem, however, as has been
observed, was a medicine-man, as well as warrior, and vindicated
his claims by arts as well as arms; so that, by dint of a little
hard fighting here, and hocus pocus (or diplomacy) there, he managed
to extend his boundary line from field to field and stream to
stream, until it brought him into collision with the powerful
sachem of Sing Sing.* Many were the sharp conflicts between
these rival chieftains for the sovereignty of a winding valley, a
favorite hunting ground watered by a beautiful stream called the
Pocantico. Many were the ambuscades, surprisals, and deadly
onslaughts that took place among its fastnesses, of which it grieves
me much that I cannot pursue the details, for the gratification of
those gentle but bloody-minded readers, of both sexes, who
delight in the romance of the tomahawk and scalping-knife. Suffice
it to say, that the wizard chieftain was at length victorious,
though his victory is attributed, in Indian tradition, to a great
medicine, or charm, by which he laid the sachem of Sing-Sing
and his warriors asleep among the rocks and recesses of the valley,
where they remain asleep to the present day, with their bows
and war-clubs beside them. This was the origin of that potent
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and drowsy spell, which still prevails over the valley of the Pocantico,
and which has gained it the well-merited appellation of Sleepy
Hollow. Often, in secluded and quiet parts of that valley, where
the stream is overhung by dark woods and rocks, the ploughman,
on some calm and sunny day, as he shouts to his oxen, is surprised
at hearing faint shouts from the hill-sides in reply; being,
it is said, the spell-bound warriors, who half start from their
rocky couches and grasp their weapons, but sink to sleep again.
The conquest of the Pocantico was the last triumph of the
wizard sachem. Notwithstanding all his medicines and charms,
he fell in battle, in attempting to extend his boundary line to the
east, so as to take in the little wild valley of the Sprain, and his
grave is still shown, near the banks of that pastoral stream. He
left, however, a great empire to his successors, extending along
the Tappan Sea, from Yonkers quite to Sleepy Hollow, and known
in old records and maps by the Indian name of Wicquaes-Keck.
The wizard Sachem was succeeded by a line of chiefs of whom
nothing remarkable remains on record. One of them was the
very individual on whom master Hendrick Hudson and his mate
Robert Juet made that sage experiment gravely recorded by the
latter, in the narrative of the discovery.
“Our master and his mate determined to try some of the
cheefe men of the country, whether they had any treacherie in
them. So they took them down into the cabin, and gave them
so much wine and aqua vitæ, that they were all very merrie; one
of them had his wife with him, which sate so modestly as any of
our countrywomen would do in a strange place. In the end, one
of them was drunke; and that was strange to them, for they
could not tell how to take it.”*
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How far master Hendrick Hudson and his worthy mate carried
their experiment with the sachem's wife, is not recorded, neither
does the curious Robert Juet make any mention of the after
consequences of this grand moral test; tradition, however, affirms
that the sachem, on landing, gave his modest spouse a hearty rib-roasting,
according to the connubial discipline of the aboriginals;
it farther affirms, that he remained a hard drinker to the day of
his death, trading away all his lands, acre by acre, for aqua vitæ;
by which means the Roost and all its domains, from Yonkers to
Sleepy Hollow, came, in the regular course of trade, and by right
of purchase, into the possession of the Dutchmen.
The worthy government of the New Netherlands was not suffered
to enjoy this grand acquisition unmolested. In the year
1654, the losel Yankees of Connecticut, those swapping, bargaining,
squatting enemies of the Manhattoes, made a daring inroad
into this neighborhood, and founded a colony called Westchester,
or, as the ancient Dutch records term it, Vest Dorp, in the right
of one Thomas Pell, who pretended to have purchased the whole
surrounding country of the Indians; and stood ready to argue
their claims before any tribunal of Christendom.
This happened during the chivalrous reign of Peter Stuyvesant,
and roused the ire of that gunpowder old hero. Without
waiting to discuss claims and titles, he pounced at once upon the
nest of nefarious squatters, carried off twenty-five of them in
chains to the Manhattoes, nor did he stay his hand, nor give rest
to his wooden leg, until he had driven the rest of the Yankees
back into Connecticut, or obliged them to acknowledge allegiance
to their High Mightinesses. In revenge, however, they introduced
the plague of witchcraft into the province. This doleful
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malady broke out at Vest Dorp, and would have spread throughout
the country had not the Dutch farmers nailed horse-shoes to
the doors of their houses and barns, sure protections against
witchcraft, many of which remain to the present day.
The seat of empire of the wizard sachem now came into the
possession of Wolfert Acker, one of the privy counsellors of
Peter Stuyvesant. He was a worthy, but ill-starred man, whose
aim through life had been to live in peace and quiet. For this he
had emigrated from Holland, driven abroad by family feuds and
wrangling neighbors. He had warred for quiet through the fidgetting
reign of William the Testy, and the fighting reign of Peter
the Headstrong, sharing in every brawl and rib-roasting, in his
eagerness to keep the peace and promote public tranquillity. It
was his doom, in fact, to meet a head wind at every turn, and be
kept in a constant fume and fret by the perverseness of mankind.
Had he served on a modern jury he would have been sure to have
eleven unreasonable men opposed to him.
At the time when the province of the New Netherlands was
wrested from the domination of their High Mightinesses by the
combined forces of Old and New England, Wolfert retired in
high dudgeon to this fastness in the wilderness, with the bitter determination
to bury himself from the world, and live here for the
rest of his days in peace and quiet. In token of that fixed purpose
he inscribed over his door (his teeth clenched at the time)
his favorite Dutch motto, “Lust in Rust,” (pleasure in quiet). The
mansion was thence called Wolfert's Rust—(Wolfert's Rest), but
by the uneducated, who did not understand Dutch, Wolfert's
Roost; probably from its quaint cock-loft look, and from its having
a weather-cock perched on every gable.
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Wolfert's luck followed him into retirement. He had shut
himself up from the world, but he had brought with him a wife,
and it soon passed into a proverb throughout the neighborhood
that the cock of the Roost was the most henpecked bird in the
country. His house too was reputed to be harassed by Yankee
witchcraft. When the weather was quiet every where else, the
wind, it was said, would howl and whistle about the gables; witches
and warlocks would whirl about upon the weather-cocks, and
scream down the chimneys; nay it was even hinted that Wolfert's
wife was in league with the enemy, and used to ride on a
broomstick to a witches' sabbath in Sleepy Hollow. This, however,
was all mere scandal, founded perhaps on her occasionally
flourishing a broomstick in the course of a curtain lecture, or raising
a storm within doors, as termagant wives are apt to do,
and against which sorcery horse shoes are of no avail.
Wolfert Acker died and was buried, but found no quiet even
in the grave: for if popular gossip be true, his ghost has occasionally
been seen walking by moonlight among the old gray moss-grown
trees of his apple orchard.
eaf615n1* A corruption of the Old Indian name, O-sin-sing. Some have rendered
it, O-sin-song, or O-sing-song; in token of its being a great market town;
where any thing may be had for a mere song. Its present melodious alteration
to Sing Sing is said to have been made in compliment to a Yankee singing-master,
who taught the inhabitants the art of singing through the nose.
eaf615n2* See Juet's Journal, Purchas' Pilgrims.
The next period at which we find this venerable and eventful
pile rising into importance, was during the dark and troublous
time of the revolutionary war. It was the keep or stronghold of
Jacob Van Tassel, a valiant Dutchman of the old stock of Van
Tassels, who abound in Westchester County. The name, as
originally written, was Van Texel, being derived from the Texel
in Holland, which gave birth to that heroic line.
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The Roost stood in the very heart of what at that time was
called the debatable ground, lying between the British and American
lines. The British held possession of the city and island of
New York; while the Americans drew up towards the Highlands,
holding their head-quarters at Peekskill. The intervening country
from Croton River to Spiting Devil Creek was the debatable
ground in question, liable to be harried by friend and foe, like
the Scottish borders of yore.
It is a rugged region; full of fastnesses. A line of rocky
hills extends through it like a backbone, sending out ribs on
either side; but these rude hills are for the most part richly
wooded, and inclose little fresh pastoral valleys watered by the
Neperan, the Pocantico,* and other beautiful streams, along which
the Indians built their wigwams in the olden time.
In the fastnesses of these hills, and along these valleys existed,
in the time of which I am treating, and indeed exist to the
present day, a race of hard-headed, hard-handed, stout-hearted yeomen,
descendants of the primitive Nederlanders. Men obstinately
attached to the soil, and neither to be fought nor bought out of
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their paternal acres. Most of them were strong Whigs throughout
the war; some, however, were Tories, or adherents to the old
kingly rule; who considered the revolution a mere rebellion, soon
to be put down by his majesty's forces. A number of these took
refuge within the British lines, joined the military bands of refugees,
and became pioneers or leaders to foraging parties sent out
from New York to scour the country and sweep off supplies for
the British army.
In a little while the debatable ground became infested by
roving bands, claiming from either side, and all pretending to
redress wrongs and punish political offences; but all prone in the
exercise of their high functions, to sack hen-roosts, drive off cattle,
and lay farm-houses under contribution: such was the origin of
two great orders of border chivalry, the Skinners and the Cow
Boys, famous in revolutionary story; the former fought, or rather
marauded under the American, the latter under the British
banner. In the zeal of service, both were apt to make blunders,
and confound the property of friend and foe. Neither of them in
the heat and hurry of a foray had time to ascertain the politics
of a horse or cow, which they were driving off into captivity; nor,
when they wrung the neck of a rooster, did they trouble their
heads whether he crowed for Congress or King George.
To check these enormities, a confederacy was formed among
the yeomanry who had suffered from these maraudings. It was
composed for the most part of farmers' sons, bold, hard-riding
lads, well armed, and well mounted, and undertook to clear the
country round of Skinner and Cow Boy, and all other border vermin;
as the Holy Brotherhood in old times cleared Spain of the
banditti which infested her highways.
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Wolfert's Roost was one of the rallying places of this confederacy,
and Jacob Van Tassel one of its members. He was eminently
fitted for the service: stout of frame, bold of heart, and like
his predecessor, the warrior sachem of yore, delighting in daring
enterprises. He had an Indian's sagacity in discovering when the
enemy was on the maraud, and in hearing the distant tramp of
cattle. It seemed as if he had a scout on every hill, and an ear
as quick as that of Fine Ear in the fairy tale.
The foraging parties of tories and refugees had now to be secret
and sudden in their forays into Westchester County; to make
a hasty maraud among the farms, sweep the cattle into a drove,
and hurry down to the lines along the river road, or the valley of
the Neperan. Before they were half way down, Jacob Van Tassel,
with the holy brotherhood of Tarrytown, Petticoat Lane, and
Sleepy Hollow, would be clattering at their heels. And now
there would be a general scamper for King's Bridge, the pass
over Spiting Devil Creek into the British lines. Sometimes the
moss-troopers would be overtaken, and eased of part of their
booty. Sometimes the whole cavalgada would urge its headlong
course across the bridge with thundering tramp and dusty whirlwind.
At such times their pursuers would rein up their steeds,
survey that perilous pass with wary eye and, wheeling about, indemnify
themselves by foraging the refugee region of Morrisania.
While the debatable land was liable to be thus harried, the
great Tappan Sea, along which it extends, was likewise domineered
over by the foe. British ships of war were anchored here and
there in the wide expanses of the river, mere floating castles to
hold it in subjection. Stout galleys armed with eighteen pounders,
and navigated with sails and oars, cruised about like hawks;
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while row-boats made descents upon the land, and foraged the
country along shore.
It was a sore grievance to the yeomanry along the Tappan Sea
to behold that little Mediterranean ploughed by hostile prows,
and the noble river of which they were so proud, reduced to a
state of thraldom. Councils of war were held by captains of
market-boats and other river craft, to devise ways and means of
dislodging the enemy. Here and there on a point of land extending
into the Tappan Sea, a mud work would be thrown up,
and an old field-piece mounted, with which a knot of rustic artillerymen
would fire away for a long summer's day at some frigate
dozing at anchor far out of reach; and reliques of such works
may still be seen overgrown with weeds and brambles, with peradventure
the half-buried fragment of a cannon which may have
burst.
Jacob Van Tassel was a prominent man in these belligerent
operations; but he was prone moroever, to carry on a petty warfare
of his own for his individual recreation and refreshment. On
a row of hooks above the fireplace of the Roost, reposed his great
piece of ordnance; a duck, or rather goose gun of unparalleled
longitude, with which it was said he could kill a wild goose half
way across the Tappan Sea. Indeed there are as many wonders
told of this renowned gun, as of the enchanted weapons of classic
story. When the belligerent feeling was strong upon Jacob,
he would take down his gun, sally forth alone, and prowl along
shore, dodging behind rocks and trees, watching for hours together
any ship or galley at anchor or becalmed; as a valorous mouser
will watch a rat hole. So sure as a boat approached the shore,
bang! went the great goose gun, sending on board a shower of
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slugs and buck shot; and away scuttled Jacob Van Tassel through
some woody ravine. As the Roost stood in a lonely situation,
and might be attacked, he guarded against surprise by making
loop-holes in the stone walls, through which to fire upon an assailant.
His wife was stout-hearted as himself, and could load
as fast as he could fire, and his sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, a redoubtable
widow, was a match, as he said, for the stoutest man in
the country. Thus garrisoned, his little castle was fitted to stand
a siege, and Jacob was the man to defend it to the last charge of
powder.
In the process of time the Roost became one of the secret
stations, or lurking places, of the Water Guard. This was an
aquatic corps in the pay of government, organized to range the
waters of the Hudson, and keep watch upon the movements of the
enemy. It was composed of nautical men of the river and hardy
youngsters of the adjacent country, expert at pulling an oar or
handling a musket. They were provided with whale-boats, long
and sharp, shaped like canoes, and formed to lie lightly on the
water, and be rowed with great rapidity. In these they would
lurk out of sight by day, in nooks and bays, and behind points of
land; keeping a sharp look-out upon the British ships, and giving
intelligence to head quarters of any extraordinary movement. At
night they rowed about in pairs, pulling quietly along with muffled
oars, under shadow of the land, or gliding like spectres
about frigates and guard ships to cut off any boat that might be
sent to shore. In this way they were a source of constant uneasiness
and alarm to the enemy.
The Roost, as has been observed, was one of their lurking
places; having a cove in front where their whale-boats could be
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drawn up out of sight, and Jacob Van Tassel being a vigilant ally
ready to take a part in any “scout or scrummage” by land or
water. At this little warrior nest the hard-riding lads from the
hills would hold consultations with the chivalry of the river, and
here were concerted divers of those daring enterprises which resounded
from Spiting Devil Creek even unto Anthony's Nose.
Here was concocted the midnight invasion of New York Island,
and the conflagration of Delancy's Tory mansion, which makes
such a blaze in revolutionary history. Nay more, if the traditions
of the Roost may be credited, here was meditated by Jacob
Van Tassel and his compeers, a nocturnal foray into New York itself,
to surprise and carry off the British commanders Howe and
Clinton, and put a triumphant close to the war.
There is no knowing whether this notable scheme might not have
been carried into effect, had not one of Jacob Van Tassel's egregious
exploits along shore with his goose-gun, with which he thought
himself a match for any thing, brought vengeance on his house.
It so happened, that in the course of one of his solitary prowls
he descried a British transport aground; the stern swung toward
shore within point-blank shot. The temptation was too great to
be resisted. Bang! went the great goose-gun, from the covert
of the trees, shivering the cabin windows and driving all hands
forward. Bang! bang! the shots were repeated. The reports
brought other of Jacob's fellow bush-fighters to the spot.
Before the transport could bring a gun to bear, or land a boat
to take revenge, she was soundly peppered, and the coast evacuated.
This was the last of Jacob's triumphs. He fared like some
heroic spider that has unwittingly ensnared a hornet to the utter
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ruin of his web. It was not long after the above exploit that he
fell into the hands of the enemy in the course of one of his forays,
and was carried away prisoner to New York. The Roost itself,
as a pestilent rebel nest, was marked out for signal punishment.
The cock of the Roost being captive, there was none to garrison
it but his stout-hearted spouse, his redoubtable sister, Nochie
Van Wurmer, and Dinah, a strapping negro wench. An armed
vessel came to anchor in front; a boat full of men pulled to
shore. The garrison flew to arms; that is to say, to mops, broom-sticks,
shovels, tongs, and all kinds of domestic weapons; for unluckily,
the great piece of ordnance, the goose-gun, was absent
with its owner. Above all, a vigorous defence was made with
that most potent of female weapons, the tongue. Never did
invaded hen-roost make a more vociferous outcry. It was all
in vain. The house was sacked and plundered, fire was set to
each corner, and in a few moments its blaze shed a baleful light
far over the Tappan Sea. The invaders then pounced upon the
blooming Laney Van Tassel, the beauty of the Roost, and endeavored
to bear her off to the boat. But here was the real tug of
war. The mother, the aunt, and the strapping negro wench, all
flew to the rescue. The struggle continued down to the very
water's edge; when a voice from the armed vessel at anchor, ordered
the spoilers to desist; they relinquished their prize,
jumped into their boats, and pulled off, and the heroine of the
Roost escaped with a mere rumpling of the feathers.
As to the stout Jacob himself, he was detained a prisoner in
New York for the greater part of the war; in the mean time the
Roost remained a melancholy ruin, its stone walls and brick chimneys
alone standing, the resorts of bats and owls. Superstitious
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notions prevailed about it. None of the country people would venture
alone at night down the rambling lane which led to it, overhung
with trees and crossed here and there by a wild wandering
brook. The story went that one of the victims of Jacob Van Tassel's
great goose-gun had been buried there in unconsecrated
ground.
Even the Tappan Sea in front was said to be haunted. Often
in the still twilight of a summer evening, when the Sea would be
as glass, and the opposite hills would throw their purple shadows
half across it, a low sound would be heard as of the steady vigorous
pull of oars, though not a boat was to be descried. Some
might have supposed that a boat was rowed along unseen under
the deep shadows of the opposite shores; but the ancient traditionists
of the neighborhood knew better. Some said it was one
of the whale-boats of the old water-guard, sunk by the British
ships during the war, but now permitted to haunt its old cruising
grounds; but the prevalent opinion connected it with the awful
fate of Rambout Van Dam of graceless memory. He was a roystering
Dutchman of Spiting Devil, who in times long past had
navigated his boat alone one Saturday the whole length of the
Tappan Sea, to attend a quilting frolic at Kakiat, on the western
shore. Here he had danced, and drunk, until midnight, when he
entered his boat to return home. He was warned that he was on
the verge of Sunday morning; but he pulled off nevertheless,
swearing he would not land until he reached Spiting Devil, if it
took him a month of Sundays. He was never seen afterwards;
but may be heard plying his oars, as above mentioned, being the
Flying Dutchman of the Tappan Sea, doomed to ply between Kakiat
and Spiting Devil until the day of judgment.
eaf615n3* The Neperan, vulgarly called the Saw-Mill River, winds for many
miles through a lovely valley, shrouded by groves, and dotted by Dutch
farm-houses, and empties itself into the Hudson, at the ancient Dorp
of Yonkers. The Pocantico, rising among woody hills, winds in many a
wizard maze, through the sequestered haunts of Sleepy Hollow. We owe
it to the indefatigable researches of Mr. Knickerbocker, that those beautiful
streams are rescued from modern common-place, and reinvested with
their ancient Indian names. The correctness of the venerable historian
may be ascertained by reference to the records of the original Indian grants
to the Herr Frederick Philipsen, preserved in the county clerk's office, at
White Plains.
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The revolutionary war was over. The debatable ground had
once more become a quiet agricultural region; the border chivalry
had turned their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into
pruning hooks, and hung up their guns, only to be taken down
occasionally in a campaign against wild pigeons on the hills, or wild
ducks upon the Hudson. Jacob Van Tassel, whilome carried
captive to New York, a flagitious rebel, had come forth from captivity
a “hero of seventy-six.” In a little while he sought the
scenes of his former triumphs and mishaps, rebuilt the Roost, restored
his goose-gun to the hooks over the fireplace, and reared
once more on high the glittering weathercocks.
Years and years passed over the time-honored little mansion.
The honeysuckle and the sweetbrier crept up its walls; the wren
and the phœbe bird built under the eaves; it gradually became
almost hidden among trees, through which it looked forth, as with
half-shut eyes, upon the Tappan Sea. The Indian spring, famous in
the days of the wizard sachem, still welled up at the bottom of
the green bank; and the wild brook, wild as ever, came babbling
down the ravine, and threw itself into the little cove where of
yore the water-guard harbored their whaleboats.
Such was the state of the Roost many years since, at the
time when Diedrich Knickerbocker came into this neighborhood,
in the course of his researches among the Dutch families for materials
for his immortal history. The exterior of the eventful
little pile seemed to him full of promise. The crow-step gables
were of the primitive architecture of the province. The weather-cocks
which surmounted them had crowed in the glorious days of
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the New Netherlands. The one above the porch had actually
glittered of yore on the great Vander Heyden palace at Albany!
The interior of the mansion fulfilled its external promise.
Here were records of old times; documents of the Dutch dynasty,
rescued from the profane hands of the English, by Wolfert
Acker, when he retreated from New Amsterdam. Here he had
treasured them up like buried gold, and here they had been miraculously
preserved by St. Nicholas, at the time of the conflagration
of the Roost.
Here then did old Diedrich Knickerbocker take up his abode
for a time, and set to work with antiquarian zeal to decipher these
precious documents, which, like the lost books of Livy, had baffled
the research of former historians; and it is the facts drawn
from these sources which give his work the preference, in point
of accuracy, over every other history.
It was during his sojourn in this eventful neighborhood, that
the historian is supposed to have picked up many of those legends,
which have since been given by him to the world, or found
among his papers. Such was the legend connected with the old
Dutch church of Sleepy Hollow. The church itself was a monument
of bygone days. It had been built in the early times of
the province. A tablet over the portal bore the names of its
founders: Frederick Filipson, a mighty man of yore, patroon
of Yonkers, and his wife Katrina Van Courtland, of the Van
Courtlands of Croton; a powerful family connexion, with one foot
resting on Spiting Devil Creek, and the other on the Croton River.
Two weathercocks, with the initials of these illustrious personages,
graced each end of the church, one perched over the belfry,
the other over the chancel. As usual with ecclesiastical
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weathercocks, each pointed a different way; and there was a perpetual
contradiction between them on all points of windy doctrine;
emblematic, alas! of the Christian propensity to schism
and controversy.
In the burying-ground adjacent to the church, reposed the
earliest fathers of a wide rural neighborhood. Here families
were garnered together, side by side, in long platoons, in this last
gathering place of kindred. With pious hand would Diedrich
Knickerbocker turn down the weeds and brambles which had
overgrown the tombstones, to decipher inscriptions in Dutch and
English, of the names and virtues of succeeding generations of
Van Tassels, Van Warts, and other historical worthies, with
their portraitures faithfully carved, all bearing the family likeness
to cherubs.
The congregation in those days was of a truly rural character.
City fashions had not as yet stole up to Sleepy Hollow. Dutch
sun-bonnets and honest homespun still prevailed. Every thing
was in primitive style, even to the bucket of water and tin cup
near the door in summer, to assuage the thirst caused by the heat
of the weather or the drouth of the sermon.
The pulpit, with its wide-spreading sounding board, and the
communion table, curiously carved, had each come from Holland
in the olden time, before the arts had sufficiently advanced in the
colony for such achievements. Around these on Sundays would
be gathered the elders of the church, gray-headed men who led
the psalmody, and in whom it would be difficult to recognize the
hard-riding lads of yore, who scoured the debatable land in the
time of the revolution.
The drowsy influence of Sleepy Hollow was apt to breathe
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into this sacred edifice; and now and then an elder might be
seen with his handkerchief over his face to keep off the flies, and
apparently listening to the dominie; but really sunk into a summer
slumber, lulled by the sultry notes of the locust from the
neighboring trees.
And now a word or two about Sleepy Hollow, which many
have rashly deemed a fanciful creation, like the Lubberland of
mariners. It was probably the mystic and dreamy sound of the
name which first tempted the historian of the Manhattoes into its
spellbound mazes. As he entered, all nature seemed for the
moment to awake from its slumbers and break forth in gratulations.
The quail whistled a welcome from the corn field; the
loquacious cat-bird flew from bush to bush with restless wing proclaiming
his approach, or perked inquisitively into his face, as if
to get a knowledge of his physiognomy. The woodpecker tapped
a tattoo on the hollow apple tree, and then peered round the
trunk, as if asking how he relished the salutation; while the
squirrel scampered along the fence, whisking his tail over his head
by way of a huzza.
Here reigned the golden mean extolled by poets, in which no
gold was to be found and very little silver. The inhabitants of
the Hollow were of the primitive stock, and had intermarried and
bred in and in, from the earliest time of the province, never
swarming far from the parent hive, but dividing and subdividing
their paternal acres as they swarmed.
Here were small farms, each having its little portion of meadow
and corn field; its orchard of gnarled and sprawling apple
trees; its garden in which the rose, the marigold and hollyhock,
grew sociably with the cabbage, the pea, and the pumpkin: each
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had its low-eaved mansion redundant with white-headed children;
with an old hat nailed against the wall for the housekeeping wren;
the coop on the grass-plot, where the motherly hen clucked round
with her vagrant brood: each had its stone well, with a moss-covered
bucket suspended to the long balancing pole, according to
antediluvian hydraulics; while within doors resounded the eternal
hum of the spinning wheel.
Many were the great historical facts which the worthy Diedrich
collected in these lowly mansions, and patiently would he sit
by the old Dutch housewives with a child on his knee, or a purring
grimalkin on his lap, listing to endless ghost stories spun
forth to the humming accompaniment of the wheel.
The delighted historian pursued his explorations far into the
foldings of the hills where the Pocantico winds its wizard stream
among the mazes of its old Indian haunts; sometimes running
darkly in pieces of woodland beneath balancing sprays of beech
and chestnut: sometimes sparkling between grassy borders in
fresh green intervals; here and there receiving the tributes of
silver rills which came whimpering down the hill sides from their
parent springs.
In a remote part of the Hollow, where the Pocantico forced
its way down rugged rocks, stood Carl's mill, the haunted house
of the neighborhood. It was indeed a goblin-looking pile; shattered
and time-worn; dismal with clanking wheels and rushing
streams, and all kinds of uncouth noises. A horse shoe
nailed to the door to keep off witches, seemed to have lost its
power; for as Diedrich approached, an old negro thrust his head
all dabbled with flour, out of a hole above the water wheel, and
grinned and rolled his eyes, and appeared to be the very
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hobgoblin of the place. Yet this proved to be the great historic genius
of the Hollow, abounding in that valuable information never to
be acquired from books. Diedrich Knickerbocker soon discovered
his merit. They had long talks together seated on a broken
millstone, heedless of the water and the clatter of the mill; and
to his conference with that African sage, many attribute the surprising,
though true story of Ichabod Crane, and the Headless
Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. We refrain, however, from giving
farther researches of the historian of the Manhattoes, during his
sojourn at the Roost; but may return to them in future pages.
Reader, the Roost still exists. Time, which changes all
things, is slow in its operations on a Dutchman's dwelling. The
stout Jacob Van Tassel, it is true, sleeps with his fathers; and
his great goose-gun with him: yet his strong-hold still bears the
impress of its Dutch origin. Odd rumors have gathered about
it, as they are apt to do about old mansions, like moss and weather
stains. The shade of Wolfert Acker still walks his unquiet
rounds at night in the orchard; and a white figure has now and
then been seen seated at a window and gazing at the moon,
from a room in which a young lady is said to have died of love
and green apples.
Mementoes of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker are
still cherished at the Roost. His elbow chair and antique writing-desk
maintain their place in the room he occupied, and his
old cocked hat still hangs on a peg against the wall.
-- -- p615-037
THE BIRDS OF SPRING.
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My quiet residence in the country, aloof from fashion, politics,
and the money market, leaves me rather at a loss for occupation,
and drives me occasionally to the study of nature, and other low
pursuits. Having few neighbors, also, on whom to keep a watch,
and exercise my habits of observation, I am fain to amuse myself
with prying into the domestic concerns and peculiarities of the
animals around me; and, during the present season, have derived
considerable entertainment from certain sociable little birds, almost
the only visitors we have, during this early part of the year.
Those who have passed the winter in the country, are sensible
of the delightful influences that accompany the earliest indications
of spring; and of these, none are more delightful than the first
notes of the birds. There is one modest little sad-colored bird,
much resembling a wren, which came about the house just on the
skirts of winter, when not a blade of grass was to be seen, and
when a few prematurely warm days had given a flattering foretaste
of soft weather. He sang early in the dawning, long before sunrise,
and late in the evening, just before the closing in of night,
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his matin and his vesper hymns. It is true, he sang occasionally
throughout the day; but at these still hours, his song was more
remarked. He sat on a leafless tree, just before the window, and
warbled forth his notes, few and simple, but singularly sweet, with
something of a plaintive tone, that heightened their effect.
The first morning that he was heard, was a joyous one among
the young folks of my household. The long, death-like sleep of
winter was at an end; nature was once more awakening; they now
promised themselves the immediate appearance of buds and blossoms.
I was reminded of the tempest-tossed crew of Columbus,
when, after their long dubious voyage, the field birds came singing
round the ship, though still far at sea, rejoicing them with the belief
of the immediate proximity of land. A sharp return of winter
almost silenced my little songster, and dashed the hilarity of the
household; yet still he poured forth, now and then, a few plaintive
notes, between the frosty pipings of the breeze, like gleams of sunshine
between wintry clouds.
I have consulted my book of ornithology in vain, to find out
the name of this kindly little bird, who certainly deserves honor
and favor far beyond his modest pretensions. He comes like the
lowly violet, the most unpretending, but welcomest of flowers,
breathing the sweet promise of the early year.
Another of our feathered visitors, who follow close upon the
steps of winter, is the Pe-wit, or Pe-wee, or Phœbe-bird; for he
is called by each of these names, from a fancied resemblance to
the sound of his monotonous note. He is a sociable little being,
and seeks the habitation of man. A pair of them have built beneath
my porch, and have reared several broods there, for two
years past, their nest being never disturbed. They arrive early
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in the spring, just when the crocus and the snow-drop begin to
peep forth. Their first chirp spreads gladness through the house.
“The Phœbe birds have come!” is heard on all sides; they are
welcomed back like members of the family; and speculations are
made upon where they have been, and what countries they have
seen, during their long absence. Their arrival is the more cheering,
as it is pronounced, by the old weather-wise people of the
country, the sure sign that the severe frosts are at an end, and
that the gardener may resume his labors with confidence.
About this time, too, arrives the blue-bird, so poetically yet
truly described by Wilson. His appearance gladdens the whole
landscape. You hear his soft warble in every field. He sociably
approaches your habitation, and takes up his residence in your
vicinity. But why should I attempt to describe him, when I have
Wilson's own graphic verses, to place him before the reader?
When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more,
Green meadows and brown furrowed fields rëappearing,
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,
When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,
O then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring,
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.
The loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;
Then warm glows the sunshine, and warm grows the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spice-wood and sassafras budding together;
O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair,
Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;
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The blue-bird will chant from his box such an air,
That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure!
He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers, wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;
He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,
The worms from the webs where they riot and welter;
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks is, in summer a shelter.
The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;
The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him.
The slow lingering school-boys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent, as he warbles before them,
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals
the European lark in my estimation, is the Boblincon, or Boblink,
as he is commonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of
our year, which, in this latitude, answers to the description of the
month of May, so often given by the poets. With us, it begins
about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly the middle of June.
Earlier than this, winter is apt to return on its traces, and to
blight the opening beauties of the year; and later than this, begin
the parching, and panting, and dissolving heats of summer. But
in this genial interval, nature is in all her freshness and fragrance:
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“the rains are over and gone, the flowers appear upon the earth,
the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle
is heard in the land.” The trees are now in their fullest
foliage and brightest verdure; the woods are gay with the clustered
flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed by the sweet-brier
and the wild rose; the meadows are enamelled with clover-blossoms;
while the young apple, the peach, and the plum, begin to
swell, and the cherry to glow, among the green leaves.
This is the chosen season of revelry of the Boblink. He
comes amidst the pomp and fragrance of the season; his life
seems all sensibility and enjoyment, all song and sunshine. He
is to be found in the soft bosoms of the freshest and sweetest
meadows; and is most in song, when the clover is in blossom.
He perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or on some long flaunting
weed, and as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours forth a
succession of rich tinkling notes; crowding one upon another,
like the outpouring melody of the skylark, and possessing the
same rapturous character. Sometimes he pitches from the summit
of a tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing,
and flutters tremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with
ecstasy at his own music. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his
paramour; always in full song, as if he would win her by his
melody; and always with the same appearance of intoxication and
delight.
Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Boblink was
the envy of my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest
weather, and the sweetest season of the year, when all nature
called to the fields, and the rural feeling throbbed in every bosom;
but when I, luckless urchin! was doomed to be mewed up, during
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the livelong day, in that purgatory of boyhood, a school-room. It
seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me, as he flew by in full
song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. Oh, how I
envied him! No lessons, no task, no hateful school; nothing but
holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had I been then
more versed in poetry, I might have addressed him in the words
of Logan to the cuckoo:
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy note,
No winter in thy year.
Oh! could I fly, I'd fly with thee;
We'd make, on joyful wing,
Our annual visit round the globe,
Companions of the spring!
Further observation and experience have given me a different
idea of this little feathered voluptuary, which I will venture to
impart, for the benefit of my schoolboy readers, who may regard
him with the same unqualified envy and admiration which I once
indulged. I have shown him only as I saw him at first, in what
I may call the poetical part of his career, when he in a manner
devoted himself to elegant pursuits and enjoyments, and was a
bird of music, and song, and taste, and sensibility, and refinement.
While this lasted, he was sacred from injury; the very schoolboy
would not fling a stone at him, and the merest rustic would pause
to listen to his strain. But mark the difference. As the year
advances, as the clover blossoms disappear, and the spring fades
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into summer, he gradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits;
doffs his poetical suit of black, assumes a russet dusty garb, and
sinks to the gross enjoyments of common vulgar birds. His
notes no longer vibrate on the ear; he is stuffing himself with the
seeds of the tall weeds on which he lately swung and chanted so
melodiously. He has become a “bon vivant,” a “gourmand;”
with him now there is nothing like the “joys of the table.” In a
little while he grows tired of plain homely fare, and is off on a
gastronomical tour in quest of foreign luxuries. We next hear
of him with myriads of his kind, banqueting among the reeds of
the Delaware; and grown corpulent with good feeding. He has
changed his name in travelling. Boblincon no more—he is the
Reed-bird now, the much sought for titbit of Pennsylvania epicures;
the rival in unlucky fame of the ortolan! Wherever he
goes, pop! pop! pop! every rusty firelock in the country is blazing
away. He sees his companions falling by thousands around
him.
Does he take warning and reform?—Alas not he! Incorrigible
epicure! again he wings his flight. The rice swamps of
the south invite him. He gorges himself among them almost to
bursting; he can scarcely fly for corpulency. He has once more
changed his name, and is now the famous Rice-bird of the Carolinas.
Last stage of his career; behold him spitted with dozens of
his corpulent companions, and served up, a vaunted dish, on the
table of some Southern gastronome.
Such is the story of the Boblink; once spiritual, musical,
admired, the joy of the meadows, and the favorite bird of spring;
finally, a gross little sensualist who expiates his sensuality in the
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larder. His story contains a moral, worthy the attention of all
little birds and little boys; warning them to keep to those refined
and intellectual pursuits, which raised him to so high a pitch of
popularity during the early part of his career; but to eschew
all tendency to that gross and dissipated indulgence, which brought
this mistaken little bird to an untimely end.
Which is all at present, from the well-wisher of little boys and
little birds,
Geoffrey Crayon.
-- -- p615-045
THE CREOLE VILLAGE. A SKETCH FROM A STEAMBOAT.
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First published in 1837.
In travelling about our motley country, I am often reminded of
Ariosto's account of the moon, in which the good paladin Astolpho
found every thing garnered up that had been lost on earth. So
I am apt to imagine, that many things lost in the old world, are
treasured up in the new; having been handed down from generation
to generation, since the early days of the colonies. A
European antiquary, therefore, curious in his researches after the
ancient and almost obliterated customs and usages of his country,
would do well to put himself upon the track of some early
band of emigrants, follow them across the Atlantic, and rummage
among their descendants on our shores.
In the phraseology of New England might be found many an
old English provincial phrase, long since obsolete in the parent
country; with some quaint relics of the roundheads; while Virginia
cherishes peculiarities characteristic of the days of Elizabeth
and Sir Walter Raleigh.
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In the same way, the sturdy yeomanry of New Jersey and
Pennsylvania keep up many usages fading away in ancient Germany;
while many an honest, broad-bottomed custom, nearly extinct
in venerable Holland, may be found flourishing in pristine
vigor and luxuriance in Dutch villages, on the banks of the Mohawk
and the Hudson.
In no part of our country, however, are the customs and peculiarities,
imported from the old world by the earlier settlers,
kept up with more fidelity than in the little, poverty-stricken villages
of Spanish and French origin, which border the rivers of
ancient Louisiana. Their population is generally made up of the
descendants of those nations, married and interwoven together,
and occasionally crossed with a slight dash of the Indian. The
French character, however, floats on top, as, from its buoyant
qualities, it is sure to do, whenever it forms a particle, however
small, of an intermixture.
In these serene and dilapidated villages, art and nature stand
still, and the world forgets to turn round. The revolutions that distract
other parts of this mutable planet, reach not here, or pass over
without leaving any trace. The fortunate inhabitants have none
of that public spirit which extends its cares beyond its horizon,
and imports trouble and perplexity from all quarters in newspapers.
In fact, newspapers are almost unknown in these villages, and as
French is the current language, the inhabitants have little community
of opinion with their republican neighbors. They retain,
therefore, their old habits of passive obedience to the decrees of
government, as though they still lived under the absolute sway of
colonial commandants, instead of being part and parcel of the
sovereign people, and having a voice in public legislation.
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A few aged men, who have grown gray on their hereditary
acres, and are of the good old colonial stock, exert a patriarchal
sway in all matters of public and private import; their opinions
are considered oracular, and their word is law.
The inhabitants, moreover, have none of that eagerness for
gain, and rage for improvement, which keep our people continually
on the move, and our country towns incessantly in a state of transition.
There the magic phrases, “town lots,” “water privileges,”
“railroads,” and other comprehensive and soul-stirring words,
from the speculator's vocabulary, are never heard. The residents
dwell in the houses built by their forefathers, without thinking
of enlarging or modernizing them, or pulling them down and turning
them into granite stores. The trees, under which they have
been born, and have played in infancy, flourish undisturbed;
though, by cutting them down, they might open new streets, and
put money in their pockets. In a word, the almighty dollar, that
great object of universal devotion throughout our land, seems to
have no genuine devotees in these peculiar villages; and unless
some of its missionaries penetrate there, and erect banking houses
and other pious shrines, there is no knowing how long the inhabitants
may remain in their present state of contented poverty.
In descending one of our great western rivers in a steamboat,
I met with two worthies from one of these villages, who had been
on a distant excursion, the longest they had ever made, as they
seldom ventured far from home. One was the great man, or Grand
Seigneur of the village; not that he enjoyed any legal privileges
or power there, every thing of the kind having been done away
when the province was ceded by France to the United States.
His sway over his neighbors was merely one of custom and
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convention, out of deference to his family. Beside, he was worth full
fifty thousand dollars, an amount almost equal, in the imaginations
of the villagers, to the treasures of King Solomon.
This very substantial old gentleman, though of the fourth or
fifth generation in this country, retained the true Gallic feature
and deportment, and reminded me of one of those provincial potentates,
that are to be met with in the remote parts of France.
He was of a large frame, a ginger-bread complexion, strong features,
eyes that stood out like glass knobs, and a prominent nose,
which he frequently regaled from a gold snuff-box, and occasionally
blew with a colored handkerchief, until it sounded like a trumpet.
He was attended by an old negro, as black as ebony, with a
huge mouth, in a continual grin; evidently a privileged and
favorite servant, who had grown up and grown old with him.
He was dressed in creole style—with white jacket and trousers,
a stiff shirt collar, that threatened to cut off his ears, a
bright madras handkerchief tied round his head, and large gold
ear-rings. He was the politest negro I met with in a western
tour; and that is saying a great deal, for, excepting the
Indians, the negroes are the most gentlemanlike personages to be
met with in those parts. It is true, they differ from the Indians in
being a little extra polite and complimentary. He was also one
of the merriest; and here, too, the negroes, however we may deplore
their unhappy condition, have the advantage of their masters.
The whites are, in general, too free and prosperous to be
merry. The cares of maintaining their rights and liberties,
adding to their wealth, and making presidents, engross all their
thoughts, and dry up all the moisture of their souls. If you hear
a broad, hearty, devil-may-care laugh, be assured it is a negro's.
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Beside this African domestic, the seigneur of the village had
another no less cherished and privileged attendant. This was a
huge dog, of the mastiff breed, with a deep, hanging mouth, and
a look of surly gravity. He walked about the cabin with the air
of a dog perfectly at home, and who had paid for his passage. At
dinner time he took his seat beside his master, giving him a
glance now and then out of a corner of his eye, which bespoke
perfect confidence that he would not be forgotten. Nor was he—
every now and then a huge morsel would be thrown to him, peradventure
the half-picked leg of a fowl, which he would receive with
a snap like the springing of a steel-trap—one gulp, and all was
down; and a glance of the eye told his master that he was ready
for another consignment.
The other village worthy, travelling in company with the seigneur,
was of a totally different stamp. Small, thin, and weazen-faced,
as Frenchmen are apt to be represented in caricature, with
a bright, squirrel-like eye, and a gold ring in his ear. His dress
was flimsy, and sat loosely on his frame, and he had altogether the
look of one with but little coin in his pocket. Yet, though one of
the poorest, I was assured he was one of the merriest and most
popular personages in his native village.
Compere Martin, as he was commonly called, was the factotum
of the place—sportsman, schoolmaster, and land-surveyor.
He could sing, dance, and, above all, play on the fiddle, an invaluable
accomplishment in an old French creole village, for the inhabitants
have a hereditary love for balls and fètes; if they work
but little, they dance a great deal, and a fiddle is the joy of their
heart.
What had sent Compere Martin travelling with the Grand
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Seigneur I could not learn; he evidently looked up to him with
great deference, and was assiduous in rendering him petty attentions;
from which I concluded that he lived at home upon the
crumbs which fell from his table. He was gayest when out of
his sight; and had his song and his joke when forward, among the
deck passengers; but altogether Compere Martin was out of his
element on board of a steamboat. He was quite another being,
I am told, when at home, in his own village.
Like his opulent fellow-traveller, he too had his canine follower
and retainer—and one suited to his different fortunes—one of the
civilest, most unoffending little dogs in the world. Unlike the
lordly mastiff, he seemed to think he had no right on board of
the steamboat; if you did but look hard at him, he would throw
himself upon his back, and lift up his legs, as if imploring
mercy.
At table he took his seat a little distance from his master;
not with the bluff, confident air of the mastiff, but quietly and
diffidently; his head on one side, with one ear dubiously slouched,
the other hopefully cocked up; his under teeth projecting beyond
his black nose, and his eye wistfully following each morsel that
went into his master's mouth.
If Compere Martin now and then should venture to abstract
a morsel from his plate, to give to his humble companion, it was
edifying to see with what diffidence the exemplary little animal
would take hold of it, with the very tip of his teeth, as if he
would almost rather not, or was fearful of taking too great a liberty.
And then with what decorum would he eat it! How many
efforts would he make in swallowing it, as if it stuck in his throat;
with what daintiness would he lick his lips; and then with what
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an air of thankfulness would he resume his seat, with his teeth
once more projecting beyond his nose, and an eye of humble expectation
fixed upon his master.
It was late in the afternoon when the steamboat stopped at the
village which was the residence of these worthies. It stood on the
high bank of the river, and bore traces of having been a frontier
trading post. There were the remains of stockades that once
protected it from the Indians, and the houses were in the ancient
Spanish and French colonial taste, the place having been successively
under the domination of both those nations prior to the cession
of Louisiana to the United States.
The arrival of the seigneur of fifty thousand dollars, and his
humble companion, Compere Martin, had evidently been looked
forward to as an event in the village. Numbers of men, women,
and children, white, yellow, and black, were collected on the river
bank; most of them clad in old-fashioned French garments, and
their heads decorated with colored handkerchiefs, or white night-caps.
The moment the steamboat came within sight and hearing,
there was a waving of handkerchiefs, and a screaming and
bawling of salutations, and felicitations, that baffle all description.
The old gentleman of fifty thousand dollars was received by a
train of relatives, and friends, and children, and grandchildren,
whom he kissed on each cheek, and who formed a procession in
his rear, with a legion of domestics, of all ages, following him
to a large, old-fashioned French house, that domineered over the
village.
His black valet de chambre, in white jacket and trousers, and
gold ear-rings, was met on the shore by a boon, though rustic
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companion, a tall negro fellow, with a long, good-humored face, and
the profile of a horse, which stood out from beneath a narrow-rimmed
straw hat, stuck on the back of his head. The explosions
of laughter of these two varlets on meeting and exchanging
compliments, were enough to electrify the country
round.
The most hearty reception, however, was that given to Compere
Martin. Every body, young and old, hailed him before he
got to land. Every body had a joke for Compere Martin, and
Compere Martin had a joke for every body. Even his little dog
appeared, to partake of his popularity, and to be caressed by
every hand. Indeed, he was quite a different animal the moment
he touched the land. Here he was at home; here he was of consequence.
He barked, he leaped, he frisked about his old friends,
and then would skim round the place in a wide circle, as if
mad.
I traced Compere Martin and his little dog to their home. It
was an old ruinous Spanish house, of large dimensions, with verandas
overshadowed by ancient elms. The house had probably
been the residence, in old times, of the Spanish commandant.
In one wing of this crazy, but aristocratical abode, was nestled the
family of my fellow-traveller; for poor devils are apt to be magnificently
clad and lodged, in the cast-off clothes and abandoned palaces
of the great and wealthy.
The arrival of Compere Martin was welcomed by a legion of
women, children, and mongrel curs; and, as poverty and gayety
generally go hand in hand among the French and their descendants,
the crazy mansion soon resounded with loud gossip and light-hearted
laughter.
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As the steamboat paused a short time at the village, I took
occasion to stroll about the place. Most of the houses were in
the French taste, with casements and rickety verandas, but most
of them in flimsy and ruinous condition. All the waggons, ploughs,
and other utensils about the place were of ancient and inconvenient
Gallic construction, such as had been brought from France in
the primitive days of the colony. The very looks of the people
reminded me of the villages of France.
From one of the houses came the hum of a spinning wheel, accompanied
by a scrap of an old French chanson, which I have heard
many a time among the peasantry of Languedoc, doubtless a traditional
song, brought over by the first French emigrants, and
handed down from generation to generation.
Half a dozen young lasses emerged from the adjacent dwellings,
reminding me, by their light step and gay costume, of scenes in
ancient France, where taste in dress comes natural to every class
of females. The trim bodice and colored petticoat, and little
apron, with its pockets to receive the hands when in an attitude
for conversation; the colored kerchief wound tastefully round the
head, with a coquettish knot perking above one ear; and the
neat slipper and tight drawn stocking, with its braid of narrow
ribbon embracing the ancle where it peeps from its mysterious
curtain. It is from this ambush that Cupid sends his most inciting
arrows.
While I was musing upon the recollections thus accidentally
summoned up, I heard the sound of a fiddle from the mansion of
Compere Martin, the signal, no doubt, for a joyous gathering. I
was disposed to turn my steps thither, and witness the festivities
of one of the very few villages I had met with in my wide tour,
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that was yet poor enough to be merry; but the bell of the steamboat
summoned me to re-embark.
As we swept away from the shore, I cast back a wistful eye
upon the moss-grown roofs and ancient elms of the village, and
prayed that the inhabitants might long retain their happy ignorance,
their absence of all enterprise and improvement, their respect for
the fiddle, and their contempt for the almighty dollar.* I fear,
however, my prayer is doomed to be of no avail. In a little while,
the steamboat whirled me to an American town, just springing
into bustling and prosperous existence.
The surrounding forest had been laid out in town lots; frames
of wooden buildings were rising from among stumps and burnt
trees. The place already boasted a court-house, a jail, and two
banks, all built of pine boards, on the model of Grecian temples.
There were rival hotels, rival churches, and rival newspapers; together
with the usual number of judges, and generals, and governors;
not to speak of doctors by the dozen, and lawyers by the
score.
The place, I was told, was in an astonishing career of improvement,
with a canal and two railroads in embryo. Lots doubled
in price every week; every body was speculating in land; every
body was rich; and every body was growing richer. The community,
however, was torn to pieces by new doctrines in religion
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and in political economy; there were camp meetings, and agrarian
meetings; and an election was at hand, which, it was expected,
would throw the whole country into a paroxysm.
Alas! with such an enterprising neighbor, what is to become
of the poor little creole village!
eaf615n4* This phrase used for the first time, in this sketch, has since passed into
current circulation, and by some has been questioned as savoring of irreverence.
The author, therefore, owes it to his orthodoxy to declare that
no irreverence was intended even to the dollar itself; which he is aware
is daily becoming more and more an object of worship.
-- -- p615-056
MOUNTJOY: OR SOME PASSAGES OUT OF THE LIFE OF A CASTLE-BUILDER.
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
I was born among romantic scenery, in one of the wildest parts
of the Hudson, which at that time was not so thickly settled as
at present. My father was descended from one of the old Huguenot
families, that came over to this country on the revocation
of the Edict of Nantz. He lived in a style of easy, rural independence,
on a patrimonial estate that had been for two or three generations
in the family. He was an indolent, good-natured man,
took the world as it went, and had a kind of laughing philosophy,
that parried all rubs and mishaps, and served him in the
place of wisdom. This was the part of his character least to my
taste; for I was of an enthusiastic, excitable temperament, prone
to kindle up with new schemes and projects, and he was apt to
dash my sallying enthusiasm by some unlucky joke; so that
whenever I was in a glow with any sudden excitement, I stood in
mortal dread of his good-humor.
Yet he indulged me in every vagary; for I was an only son,
and of course a personage of importance in the household. I had
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two sisters older than myself, and one younger. The former were
educated at New York, under the eye of a maiden aunt; the latter
remained at home, and was my cherished playmate, the companion
of my thoughts. We were two imaginative little beings,
of quick susceptibility, and prone to see wonders and mysteries in
every thing around us. Scarce had we learned to read, when our
mother made us holiday presents of all the nursery literature of
the day; which at that time consisted of little books covered with
gilt paper, adorned with “cuts,” and filled with tales of fairies,
giants, and enchanters. What draughts of delightful fiction did
we then inhale! My sister Sophy was of a soft and tender nature.
She would weep over the woes of the Children in the Wood,
or quake at the dark romance of Blue-Beard, and the terrible
mysteries of the blue chamber. But I was all for enterprise and
adventure. I burned to emulate the deeds of that heroic prince,
who delivered the white cat from her enchantment; or he of no
less royal blood, and doughty emprise, who broke the charmed
slumber of the Beauty in the Wood!
The house in which we lived, was just the kind of place to
foster such propensities. It was a venerable mansion, half villa,
half farm-house. The oldest part was of stone, with loopholes for
musketry, having served as a family fortress, in the time of the
Indians. To this there had been made various additions, some
of brick, some of wood, according to the exigencies of the moment;
so that it was full of nooks and crooks, and chambers of
all sorts and sizes. It was buried among willows, elms, and cherry
trees, and surrounded with roses and hollyhocks, with honey-suckle
and sweetbrier clambering about every window. A brood
of hereditary pigeons sunned themselves upon the roof; hereditary
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swallows and martins built about the eaves and chimneys; and
hereditary bees hummed about the flower-beds.
Under the influence of our story-books, every object around us
now assumed a new character, and a charmed interest. The wild
flowers were no longer the mere ornaments of the fields, or the
resorts of the toilful bee; they were the lurking-places of fairies.
We would watch the humming-bird, as it hovered around the
trumpet creeper at our porch, and the butterfly as it flitted up
into the blue air, above the sunny tree tops, and fancy them some
of the tiny beings from fairy land. I would call to mind all that
I had read of Robin Goodfellow, and his power of transformation.
O how I envied him that power! How I longed to be able to
compress my form into utter littleness; to ride the bold dragonfly;
swing on the tall bearded grass; follow the ant into his subterraneous
habitation, or dive into the cavernous depths of the
honeysuckle!
While I was yet a mere child, I was sent to a daily school,
about two miles distant. The school-house was on the edge of a
wood, close by a brook overhung with birches, alders, and dwarf
willows. We of the school who lived at some distance, came with
our dinners put up in little baskets. In the intervals of school
hours, we would gather round a spring, under a tuft of hazelbushes,
and have a kind of picnic; interchanging the rustic
dainties with which our provident mothers had fitted us out.
Then, when our joyous repast was over, and my companions were
disposed for play, I would draw forth one of my cherished story-books,
stretch myself on the greensward, and soon lose myself in
its bewitching contents.
I became an oracle among my school-mates, on account of my
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superior erudition, and soon imparted to them the contagion of my
infected fancy. Often in the evening, after school hours, we
would sit on the trunk of some fallen tree in the woods, and vie
with each other in telling extravagant stories, until the whip-poor-will
began his nightly moaning, and the fire-flies sparkled in the
gloom. Then came the perilous journey homeward. What delight
we would take in getting up wanton panics, in some dusky
part of the wood; seampering like frightened deer; pausing to
take breath; renewing the panic, and scampering off again, wild
with fictitious terror!
Our greatest trial was to pass a dark, lonely pool, covered
with pond-lilies, peopled with bull-frogs and water snakes, and
haunted by two white cranes. Oh! the terrors of that pond!
How our little hearts would beat, as we approached it; what
fearful glances we would throw around! And if by chance a
plash of a wild duck, or the guttural twang of a bull-frog, struck
our ears, as we stole quietly by—away we sped, nor paused until
completely out of the woods. Then, when I reached home, what
a world of adventures, and imaginary terrors, would I have to relate
to my sister Sophy!
As I advanced in years, this turn of mind increased upon me,
and became more confirmed. I abandoned myself to the impulses
of a romantic imagination, which controlled my studies, and gave
a bias to all my habits. My father observed me continually with
a book in my hand, and satisfied himself that I was a profound
student; but what were my studies? Works of fiction; tales of
chivalry; voyages of discovery; travels in the east; every thing,
in short, that partook of adventure and romance. I well remember
with what zest I entered upon that part of my studies which
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treated of the heathen mythology, and particularly of the sylvan
deities. Then indeed my school-books became dear to me. The
neighborhood was well calculated to foster the reveries of a mind
like mine. It abounded with solitary retreats, wild streams,
solemn forests, and silent valleys. I would ramble about for a whole
day, with a volume of Ovid's Metamorphoses in my pocket, and
work myself into a kind of self-delusion, so as to identify the surrounding
scenes with those of which I had just been reading. I
would loiter about a brook that glided through the shadowy depths
of the forest, picturing it to myself the haunt of Naiades. I would
steal round some bushy copse that opened upon a glade, as if I
expected to come suddenly upon Diana and her nymphs; or to
behold Pan and his satyrs bounding, with whoop and halloo,
through the woodland. I would throw myself, during the panting
heats of a summer noon, under the shade of some wide-spreading
tree, and muse and dream away the hours, in a state of mental
intoxication. I drank in the very light of day, as nectar, and my
soul seemed to bathe with ecstasy in the deep blue of a summer
sky.
In these wanderings, nothing occurred to jar my feelings, or
bring me back to the realities of life. There is a repose in our
mighty forests, that gives full scope to the imagination. Now
and then I would hear the distant sound of the wood-cutter's axe,
or the crash of some tree which he had laid low; but these noises,
echoing along the quiet landscape, could easily be wrought by fancy
into harmony with its illusions. In general, however, the woody
recesses of the neighborhood were peculiarly wild and unfrequented.
I could ramble for a whole day, without coming upon
any traces of cultivation. The partridge of the wood scarcely
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seemed to shun my path, and the squirrel, from his nut-tree,
would gaze at me for an instant, with sparkling eye, as if wondering
at the unwonted intrusion.
I cannot help dwelling on this delicious period of my life;
when as yet I had known no sorrow, nor experienced any worldly
care. I have since studied much, both of books and men, and of
course have grown too wise to be so easily pleased; yet with all
my wisdom, I must confess I look back with a secret feeling of
regret to the days of happy ignorance, before I had begun to be a
philosopher.
It must be evident that I was in a hopeful training, for one
who was to descend into the arena of life, and wrestle with the
world. The tutor, also, who superintended my studies, in the
more advanced stage of my education, was just fitted to complete
the fata morgana which was forming in my mind. His name
was Glencoe. He was a pale, melancholy-looking man, about
forty years of age; a native of Scotland, liberally educated, and
who had devoted himself to the instruction of youth, from taste
rather than necessity; for, as he said, he loved the human heart,
and delighted to study it in its earlier impulses. My two elder
sisters, having returned home from a city boarding-school, were
likewise placed under his care, to direct their reading in history
and belles-lettres.
We all soon became attached to Glencoe. It is true, we were
at first somewhat prepossessed against him. His meagre, pallid
countenance, his broad pronunciation, his inattention to the little
forms of society, and an awkward and embarrassed manner, on
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
first acquaintance, were much against him; but we soon discovered
that under this unpromising exterior existed the kindest urbanity;
the warmest sympathies; the most enthusiastic benevolence.
His mind was ingenious and acute. His reading had
been various, but more abstruse than profound: his memory was
stored, on all subjects, with facts, theories, and quotations, and
crowded with crude materials for thinking. These, in a moment
of excitement, would be, as it were, melted down, and poured
forth in the lava of a heated imagination. At such moments, the
change in the whole man was wonderful. His meagre form would
acquire a dignity and grace; his long, pale visage would flash
with a hectic glow; his eyes would beam with intense speculation;
and there would be pathetic tones and deep modulations in his
voice, that delighted the ear, and spoke movingly to the heart.
But what most endeared him to us, was the kindness and
sympathy with which he entered into all our interests and wishes.
Instead of curbing and checking our young imaginations with the
reins of sober reason, he was a little too apt to catch the impulse,
and be hurried away with us. He could not withstand the excitement
of any sally of feeling or fancy; and was prone to lend
heightening tints to the illusive coloring of youthful anticipation.
Under his guidance, my sisters and myself soon entered upon
a more extended range of studies; but while they wandered, with
delighted minds, through the wide field of history and belles-lettres,
a nobler walk was opened to my superior intellect.
The mind of Glencoe presented a singular mixture of philosophy
and poetry. He was fond of metaphysics, and prone to indulge
in abstract speculations, though his metaphysics were somewhat
fine spun and fanciful, and his speculations were apt to
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partake of what my father most irreverently termed “humbug.” For
my part, I delighted in them, and the more especially, because
they set my father to sleep, and completely confounded my sisters.
I entered, with my accustomed eagerness, into this new
branch of study. Metaphysics were now my passion. My sisters
attempted to accompany me, but they soon faltered, and gave out
before they had got half way through Smith's Theory of Moral
Sentiments. I, however, went on, exulting in my strength.
Glencoe supplied me with books, and I devoured them with appetite,
if not digestion. We walked and talked together under the
trees before the house, or sat apart, like Milton's angels, and
held high converse upon themes beyond the grasp of ordinary intellects.
Glencoe possessed a kind of philosophic chivalry, in imitation
of the old peripatetic sages, and was continually dreaming
of romantic enterprises in morals, and splendid systems for the
improvement of society. He had a fanciful mode of illustrating
abstract subjects, peculiarly to my taste; clothing them with the
language of poetry, and throwing round them almost the magic
hues of fiction. “How charming,” thought I, “is divine philosophy;”
not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,
But a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets,
Where no crude surfeit reigns.”
I felt a wonderful self-complacency at being on such excellent
terms with a man whom I considered on a parallel with the sages
of antiquity, and looked down with a sentiment of pity on the
feebler intellects of my sisters, who could comprehend nothing of
metaphysics. It is true, when I attempted to study them by myself
I was apt to get in a fog; but when Glencoe came to my aid,
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every thing was soon as clear to me as day. My ear drank in the
beauty of his words; my imagination was dazzled with the splendor
of his illustrations. It caught up the sparkling sands of poetry
that glittered through his speculations, and mistook them for
the golden ore of wisdom. Struck with the facility with which I
seemed to imbibe and relish the most abstract doctrines, I conceived
a still higher opinion of my mental powers, and was convinced
that I also was a philospher.
I was now verging toward man's estate, and though my education
had been extremely irregular—following the caprices of my
humor, which I mistook for the impulses of my genius—yet I was
regarded with wonder and delight by my mother and sisters, who
considered me almost as wise and infallible as I considered myself.
This high opinion of me was strengthened by a declamatory habit,
which made me an oracle and orator at the domestic board.
The time was now at hand, however, that was to put my philosophy
to the test.
We had passed through a long winter, and the spring at length
opened upon us, with unusual sweetness. The soft serenity of the
weather; the beauty of the surrounding country; the joyous notes
of the birds; the balmy breath of flower and blossom, all combined
to fill my bosom with indistinct sensations, and nameless
wishes. Amid the soft seductions of the season, I lapsed into a
state of utter indolence, both of body and mind.
Philosophy had lost its charms for me. Metaphysics—faugh!
I tried to study; took down volume after volume, ran my eye vacantly
over a few pages, and threw them by with distaste. I
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loitered about the house, with my hands in my pockets, and an air
of complete vacancy. Something was necessary to make me happy;
but what was that something! I sauntered to the apartments
of my sisters, hoping their conversation might amuse me.
They had walked out, and the room was vacant. On the table
lay a volume which they had been reading. It was a novel. I
had never read a novel, having conceived a contempt for works of
the kind, from hearing them universally condemned. It is true,
I had remarked they were universally read; but I considered
them beneath the attention of a philosopher, and never would
venture to read them, lest I should lessen my mental superiority
in the eyes of my sisters. Nay, I had taken up a work of the
kind, now and then, when I knew my sisters were observing me,
looked into it for a moment, and then laid it down, with a slight
supercilious smile. On the present occasion, out of mere listlessness,
I took up the volume, and turned over a few of the first
pages. I thought I heard some one coming, and laid it down. I
was mistaken; no one was near, and what I had read, tempted my
curiosity to read a little farther. I leaned against a window-frame,
and in a few minutes was completely lost in the story. How
long I stood there reading, I know not, but I believe for nearly
two hours. Suddenly I heard my sisters on the stairs, when I
thrust the book into my bosom, and the two other volumes, which
lay near, into my pockets, and hurried out of the house to my
beloved woods. Here I remained all day beneath the trees, bewildered,
bewitched; devouring the contents of these delicious
volumes; and only returned to the house when it was too dark to
peruse their pages.
This novel finished, I replaced it in my sister's apartment, and
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looked for others. Their stock was ample, for they had brought
home all that were current in the city; but my appetite demanded
an immense supply. All this course of reading was carried on
clandestinely, for I was a little ashamed of it, and fearful that my
wisdom might be called in question; but this very privacy gave it
additional zest. It was “bread eaten in secret;” it had the charm
of a private amour.
But think what must have been the effect of such a course of
reading on a youth of my temperament and turn of mind; indulged,
too, amidst romantic scenery, and in the romantic season of
the year. It seemed as if I had entered upon a new scene of existence.
A train of combustible feelings were lighted up in me,
and my soul was all tenderness and passion. Never was youth
more completely love-sick, though as yet it was a mere general
sentiment, and wanted a definite object. Unfortunately, our
neighborhood was particularly deficient in female society, and I
languished in vain for some divinity, to whom I might offer up
this most uneasy burthen of affections. I was at one time seriously
enamored of a lady whom I saw occasionally in my rides,
reading at the window of a country-seat; and actually serenaded
her with my flute; when, to my confusion, I discovered that she
was old enough to be my mother. It was a sad damper to my
romance; especially as my father heard of it, and made it the
subject of one of those household jokes, which he was apt to serve
up at every meal-time.
I soon recovered from this check, however, but it was only to
relapse into a state of amorous excitement. I passed whole days
in the fields, and along the brooks; for there is something in the
tender passion that makes us alive to the beauties of nature. A
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soft sunshine morning infused a sort of rapture into my breast.
I flung open my arms, like the Grecian youth in Ovid, as if I
would take in and embrace the balmy atmosphere.* The song
of the birds melted me to tenderness. I would lie by the side of
some rivulet, for hours, and form garlands of the flowers on its
banks, and muse on ideal beauties, and sigh from the crowd of
undefined emotions that swelled my bosom.
In this state of amorous delirium, I was strolling one morning
along a beautiful wild brook which I had discovered in a glen.
There was one place where a small water-fall, leaping from among
rocks into a natural basin, made a scene such as a poet might
have chosen as the haunt of some shy Naiad. It was here I
usually retired to banquet on my novels. In visiting the place
this morning, I traced distinctly, on the margin of the basin,
which was of fine clear sand, the prints of a female foot, of the
most slender and delicate proportions. This was sufficient for an
imagination like mine. Robinson Crusoe himself, when he discovered
the print of a savage foot on the beach of his lonely
island, could not have been more suddenly assailed with thick-coming
fancies.
I endeavored to track the steps, but they only passed for a
few paces along the fine sand, and then were lost among the herbage.
I remained gazing in reverie upon this passing trace of
loveliness. It evidently was not made by any of my sisters, for
they knew nothing of this haunt; besides, the foot was smaller
than theirs; it was remarkable for its beautiful delicacy.
My eye accidentally caught two or three half-withered wild
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flowers, lying on the ground. The unknown nymph had doubtless
dropped them from her bosom! Here was a new document of
taste and sentiment. I treasured them up as invaluable relies.
The place, too, where I found them, was remarkably picturesque,
and the most beautiful part of the brook. It was overhung with
a fine elm, entwined with grape-vines. She who could select such
a spot, who could delight in wild brooks, and wild flowers, and
silent solitudes, must have fancy, and feeling, and tenderness;
and with all these qualities, she must be beautiful!
But who could be this Unknown, that had thus passed by, as
in a morning dream, leaving merely flowers and fairy footsteps, to
tell of her loveliness! There was a mystery in it that bewildered
me. It was so vague and disembodied, like those “airy tongues
that syllable men's names” in solitude. Every attempt to solve
the mystery was vain. I could hear of no being in the neighborhood
to whom this trace could be ascribed. I haunted the spot,
and became more and more enamored. Never, surely, was passion
more pure and spiritual, and never lover in more dubious
situation. My case could only be compared with that of the
amorous prince, in the fairy tale of Cinderella; but he had a
glass slipper on which to lavish his tenderness. I, alas! was in
love with a footstep!
The imagination is alternately a cheat and a dupe; nay more,
it is the most subtle of cheats, for it cheats itself, and becomes
the dupe of its own delusions. It conjures up “airy nothings,”
gives to them a “local habitation and a name,” and then bows to
their control as implicitly as if they were realities. Such was
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now my case. The good Numa could not more thoroughly have
persuaded himself that the nymph Egeria hovered about her
sacred fountain, and communed with him in spirit, than I had
deceived myself into a kind of visionary intercourse with the airy
phantom fabricated in my brain. I constructed a rustic seat at
the foot of the tree where I had discovered the footsteps. I made
a kind of bower there, where I used to pass my mornings, reading
poetry and romances. I carved hearts and darts on the tree,
and hung it with garlands. My heart was full to overflowing,
and wanted some faithful bosom into which it might relieve itself.
What is a lover without a confidante? I thought at once of my
sister Sophy, my early playmate, the sister of my affections. She
was so reasonable, too, and of such correct feelings, always listening
to my words as oracular sayings, and admiring my scraps of
poetry, as the very inspirations of the muse. From such a devoted,
such a rational being, what secrets could I have?
I accordingly took her, one morning, to my favorite retreat.
She looked around, with delighted surprise, upon the rustic seat,
the bower, the tree carved with emblems of the tender passion.
She turned her eyes upon me to inquire the meaning.
“Oh, Sophy,” exclaimed I, clasping both her hands in mine,
and looking earnestly in her face, “I am in love!”
She started with surprise.
“Sit down,” said I, “and I will tell you all.”
She seated herself upon the rustic bench, and I went into a
full history of the footstep, with all the associations of idea that
had been conjured up by my imagination.
Sophy was enchanted; it was like a fairy tale: She had read
of such mysterious visitations in books, and the loves thus
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conceived were always for beings of superior order, and were always
happy. She caught the illusion, in all its force; her cheek glowed;
her eye brightened.
“I dare say she's pretty,” said Sophy.
“Pretty!” echoed I, “she is beautiful!” I went through all
the reasoning by which I had logically proved the fact to my own
satisfaction. I dwelt upon the evidences of her taste, her sensibility
to the beauties of nature; her soft meditative habit, that
delighted in solitude; “oh,” said I, clasping my hands “to have
such a companion to wander through these scenes; to sit with her
by this murmuring stream; to wreathe garlands round her brows;
to hear the music of her voice mingling with the whisperings of
these groves; —”
“Delightful! delightful!” cried Sophy; “what a sweet creature
she must be! She is just the friend I want. How I shall dote
upon her! Oh, my dear brother! you must not keep her all to
yourself. You must let me have some share of her!”
I caught her to my bosom: “You shall—you shall!” cried I,
“my dear Sophy; we will all live for each other!”
The conversation with Sophy heightened the illusions of my
mind; and the manner in which she had treated my day-dream,
identified it with facts and persons, and gave it still more the
stamp of reality. I walked about as one in a trance, heedless of
the world around, and lapped in an elysium of the fancy.
In this mood I met, one morning, with Glencoe. He accosted
me with his usual smile, and was proceeding with some general observations,
but paused and fixed on me an inquiring eye.
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“What is the matter with you?” said he; “you seem agitated;
has any thing in particular happened?”
“Nothing,” said I, hesitating; “at least nothing worth communicating
to you.”
“Nay, my dear young friend,” said he, “whatever is of sufficient
importance to agitate you, is worthy of being communicated to me.”
“Well; but my thoughts are running on what you would
think a frivolous subject.”
“No subject is frivolous, that has the power to awaken strong
feelings.”
“What think you,” said I, hesitating, “what think you of love?”
Glencoe almost started at the question. “Do you call that a
frivolous subject?” replied he. “Believe me, there is none fraught
with such deep, such vital interest. If you talk, indeed, of the
capricious inclination awakened by the mere charm of perishable
beauty, I grant it to be idle in the extreme; but that love which
springs from the concordant sympathies of virtuous hearts; that
love which is awakened by the perception of moral excellence, and
fed by meditation on intellectual as well as personal beauty; that
is a passion which refines and ennobles the human heart. Oh,
where is there a sight more nearly approaching to the intercourse
of angels, than that of two young beings, free from the sins and
follies of the world, mingling pure thoughts, and looks, and feelings,
and becoming as it were soul of one soul, and heart of one
heart! How exquisite the silent converse that they hold; the
soft devotion of the eye, that needs no words to make it eloquent!
Yes, my friend, if there be any thing in this weary world worthy
of heaven, it is the pure bliss of such a mutual affection!”
The words of my worthy tutor overcame all farther reserve.
“Mr. Glencoe,” cried I, blushing still deeper, “I am in love!”
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“And is that what you were ashamed to tell me? Oh, never
seek to conceal from your friend so important a secret. If your
passion be unworthy, it is for the steady hand of friendship to
pluck it forth; if honorable, none but an enemy would seek to
stifle it. On nothing does the character and happiness so much
depend, as on the first affection of the heart. Were you caught
by some fleeting and superficial charm—a bright eye, a blooming
cheek, a soft voice, or a voluptuous form—I would warn you to
beware; I would tell you that beauty is but a passing gleam of
the morning, a perishable flower; that accident may becloud
and blight it, and that at best it must soon pass away. But were
you in love with such a one as I could describe; young in years,
but still younger in feelings; lovely in person, but as a type of
the mind's beauty; soft in voice, in token of gentleness of spirit;
blooming in countenance, like the rosy tints of morning kindling
with the promise of a genial day; an eye beaming with the benignity
of a happy heart; a cheerful temper, alive to all kind impulses,
and frankly diffusing its own felicity; a self-poised mind,
that needs not lean on others for support; an elegant taste, that
can embellish solitude, and furnish out its own enjoyments—”
“My dear sir,” cried I, for I could contain myself no longer,
“you have described the very person!”
“Why then, my dear young friend,” said he, affectionately
pressing my hand, “in God's name, love on!”
For the remainder of the day, I was in some such state of
dreamy beatitude as a Turk is said to enjoy, when under the influence
of opium. It must be already manifest, how prone I was
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to bewilder myself with picturings of the fancy, so as to confound
them with existing realities. In the present instance, Sophy and
Glencoe had contributed to promote the transient delusion. Sophy,
dear girl, had as usual joined with me in my castle-building,
and indulged in the same train of imaginings, while Glencoe, duped
by my enthusiasm, firmly believed that I spoke of a being I had
seen and known. By their sympathy with my feelings, they in a
manner became associated with the Unknown in my mind, and
thus linked her with the circle of my intimacy.
In the evening, our family party was assembled in the hall, to
enjoy the refreshing breeze. Sophy was playing some favorite
Scotch airs on the piano, while Glencoe, seated apart, with his
forehead resting on his hand, was buried in one of those pensive
reveries, that made him so interesting to me.
“What a fortunate being I am!” thought I, “blessed with
such a sister and such a friend! I have only to find out this
amiable Unknown, to wed her, and be happy! What a paradise
will be my home, graced with a partner of such exquisite refinement!
It will be a perfect fairy bower, buried among sweets
and roses. Sophy shall live with us, and be the companion of all
our enjoyments. Glencoe, too, shall no more be the solitary being
that he now appears. He shall have a home with us. He shall
have his study, where, when he pleases, he may shut himself up
from the world, and bury himself in his own reflections. His retreat
shall be held sacred; no one shall intrude there; no one
but myself, who will visit him now and then, in his seclusion,
where we will devise grand schemes together for the improvement
of mankind. How delightfully our days will pass, in a round of
rational pleasures and elegant employments! Sometimes we will
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have music; sometimes we will read; sometimes we will wander
through the flower-garden, when I will smile with complacency on
every flower my wife has planted; while in the long winter evenings,
the ladies will sit at their work and listen, with hushed attention,
to Glencoe and myself, as we discuss the abstruse doctrines
of metaphysics.”
From this delectable reverie, I was startled by my father's
slapping me on the shoulder: “What possesses the lad?” cried
he: “here have I been speaking to you half a dozen times, without
receiving an answer.”
“Pardon me, sir,” replied I; “I was so completely lost in
thought, that I did not hear you.”
“Lost in thought! And pray what were you thinking of?
Some of your philosophy, I suppose.”
“Upon my word,” said my sister Charlotte, with an arch laugh,
“I suspect Harry's in love again.”
“And if I were in love, Charlotte,” said I, somewhat nettled,
and recollecting Glencoe's enthusiastic eulogy of the passion, “if
I were in love, is that a matter of jest and laughter? Is the tenderest
and most fervid affection that can animate the human
breast, to be made a matter of cold-hearted ridicule?”
My sister colored. “Certainly not, brother!—nor did I mean
to make it so, nor to say any thing that should wound your feelings.
Had I really suspected that you had formed some genuine
attachment, it would have been sacred in my eyes; but—but,”
said she, smiling, as if at some whimsical recollection, “I thought
that you—you might be indulging in another little freak of the
imagination.”
“I'll wager any money,” cried my father, “he has fallen in love
again with some old lady at a window!”
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“Oh no!” cried my dear sister Sophy, with the most gracious
warmth; “she is young and beautiful.”
“From what I understand,” said Glencoe, rousing himself,
“she must be lovely in mind as in person.”
I found my friends were getting me into a fine scrape. I began
to perspire at every pore, and felt my ears tingle.
“Well, but,” cried my father, “who is she?—what is she?
Let us hear something about her.”
This was no time to explain so delicate a matter. I caught
up my hat, and vanished out of the house.
The moment I was in the open air, and alone, my heart upbraided
me. Was this respectful treatment to my father—to such
a father too—who had always regarded me as the pride of his
age—the staff of his hopes? It is true, he was apt, sometimes,
to laugh at my enthusiastic flights, and did not treat my philosophy
with due respect; but when had he ever thwarted a wish of
my heart? Was I then to act with reserve toward him, in a
matter which might affect the whole current of my future life?
“I have done wrong,” thought I; “but it is not too late to
remedy it. I will hasten back, and open my whole heart to my
father!”
I returned accordingly, and was just on the point of entering
the house, with my heart full of filial piety, and a contrite speech
upon my lips, when I heard a burst of obstreperous laughter from
my father, and a loud titter from my two elder sisters.
“A footstep!” shouted he, as soon as he could recover himself;
“in love with a footstep! why, this beats the old lady at
the window!” And then there was another appalling burst of
laughter. Had it been a clap of thunder, it could hardly have
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astounded me more completely. Sophy, in the simplicity of her
heart, had told all, and had set my father's risible propensities in
full action.
Never was poor mortal so thoroughly crest-fallen as myself.
The whole delusion was at an end. I drew off silently from the
house, shrinking smaller and smaller at every fresh peal of laughter;
and wandering about until the family had retired, stole
quietly to my bed. Scarce any sleep, however, visited my eyes
that night! I lay overwhelmed with mortification, and meditating
how I might meet the family in the morning. The idea of ridicule
was always intolerable to me; but to endure it on a subject
by which my feelings had been so much excited, seemed worse
than death. I almost determined, at one time, to get up, saddle
my horse, and ride off, I knew not whither.
At length I came to a resolution. Before going down to
breakfast, I sent for Sophy, and employed her as ambassador to
treat formally in the matter. I insisted that the subject should
be buried in oblivion; otherwise, I would not show my face at
table. It was readily agreed to; for not one of the family would
have given me pain for the world. They faithfully kept their
promise. Not a word was said of the matter; but there were
wry faces, and suppressed titters, that went to my soul; and
whenever my father looked me in the face, it was with such a tragic-comical
leer—such an attempt to pull down a serious brow
upon a whimsical mouth—that I had a thousand times rather he
had laughed outright.
For a day or two after the mortifying occurrence mentioned, I
kept as much as possible out of the way of the family, and
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wandered about the fields and woods by myself. I was sadly out of
tune: my feelings were all jarred and unstrung. The birds sang
from every grove, but I took no pleasure in their melody; and
the flowers of the field bloomed unheeded around me. To be
crossed in love, is bad enough; but then one can fly to poetry for
relief; and turn one's woes to account in soul-subduing stanzas.
But to have one's whole passion, object and all, annihilated, dispelled,
proved to be such stuff as dreams are made of—or, worse
than all, to be turned into a proverb and a jest—what consolation
is there in such a case?
I avoided the fatal brook where I had seen the footstep. My
favorite resort was now the banks of the Hudson, where I sat
upon the rocks, and mused upon the current that dimpled by, or
the waves that laved the shore; or watched the bright mutations
of the clouds, and the shifting lights and shadows of the distant
mountain. By degrees, a returning serenity stole over my feelings;
and a sigh now and then, gentle and easy, and unattended
by pain, showed that my heart was recovering its susceptibility.
As I was sitting in this musing mood, my eye became gradually
fixed upon an object that was borne along by the tide. It
proved to be a little pinnace, beautifully modelled, and gaily
painted and decorated. It was an unusual sight in this neighborhood,
which was rather lonely: indeed, it was rare to see any
pleasure-barks in this part of the river. As it drew nearer, I
perceived that there was no one on board; it had apparently
drifted from its anchorage. There was not a breath of air: the
little bark came floating along on the glassy stream, wheeling
about with the eddies. At length it ran aground, almost at the
foot of the rock on which I was seated. I descended to the
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margin of the river, and drawing the bark to shore, admired its light
and elegant proportions, and the taste with which it was fitted
up. The benches were covered with cushions, and its long
streamer was of silk. On one of the cushions lay a lady's glove,
of delicate size and shape, with beautifully tapered fingers. I
instantly seized it and thrust it in my bosom: it seemed a match
for the fairy footstep that had so fascinated me.
In a moment, all the romance of my bosom was again in a
glow. Here was one of the very incidents of fairy tale: a bark
sent by some invisible power, some good genius, or benevolent
fairy, to waft me to some delectable adventure. I recollected
something of an enchanted bark, drawn by white swans, that conveyed
a knight down the current of the Rhine, on some enterprise
connected with love and beauty. The glove, too, showed that
there was a lady fair concerned in the present adventure. It
might be a gauntlet of defiance, to dare me to the enterprise.
In the spirit of romance, and the whim of the moment, I
sprang on board, hoisted the light sail, and pushed from shore.
As if breathed by some presiding power, a light breeze at that
moment sprang up, swelled out the sail, and dallied with the silken
streamer. For a time I glided along under steep umbrageous
banks, or across deep sequestered bays; and then stood out over
a wide expansion of the river, toward a high rocky promontory.
It was a lovely evening: the sun was setting in a congregation of
clouds that threw the whole heavens in a glow, and were reflected
in the river. I delighted myself with all kinds of fantastic fancies,
as to what enchanted island, or mystic bower, or necromantic
palace, I was to be conveyed by the fairy bark.
In the revel of my fancy, I had not noticed that the gorgeous
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congregation of clouds which had so much delighted me, was in
fact a gathering thunder-gust. I perceived the truth too late.
The clouds came hurrying on, darkening as they advanced. The
whole face of nature was suddenly changed, and assumed that baleful
and livid tint, predictive of a storm. I tried to gain the shore,
but before I could reach it, a blast of wind struck the water, and
lashed it at once into foam. The next moment it overtook the
boat. Alas! I was nothing of a sailor; and my protecting fairy
forsook me in the moment of peril. I endeavored to lower the
sail: but in so doing, I had to quit the helm; the bark was over-turned
in an instant, and I was thrown into the water. I endeavored
to cling to the wreck, but missed my hold: being a
poor swimmer, I soon found myself sinking, but grasped a light
oar that was floating by me. It was not sufficient for my support:
I again sank beneath the surface; there was a rushing and
bubbling sound in my ears, and all sense forsook me.
How long I remained insensible, I know not. I had a confused
notion of being moved and tossed about, and of hearing
strange beings and strange voices around me; but all was like a
hideous dream. When I at length recovered full consciousness
and perception, I found myself in bed, in a spacious chamber,
furnished with more taste than I had been accustomed to. The
bright rays of a morning sun were intercepted by curtains of a
delicate rose color, that gave a soft, voluptuous tinge to every
object. Not far from my bed, on a classic tripod, was a basket
of beautiful exotic flowers, breathing the sweetest fragrance.
“Where am I? How came I here?”
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I tasked my mind to catch at some previous event, from which
I might trace up the thread of existence to the present moment.
By degrees I called to mind the fairy pinnace, my daring embarcation,
my adventurous voyage, and my disastrous shipwreck.
Beyond that, all was chaos. How came I here? What unknown
region had I landed upon? The people that inhabited it must be
gentle and amiable, and of elegant tastes, for they loved downy
beds, fragrant flowers, and rose-colored curtains.
While I lay thus musing, the tones of a harp reached my ear.
Presently, they were accompanied by a female voice. It came
from the room below; but in the profound stillness of my chamber,
not a modulation was lost. My sisters were all considered good
musicians, and sang very tolerably; but I had never heard a voice
like this. There was no attempt at difficult execution, or striking
effect; but there were exquisite inflexions, and tender turns, which
art could not reach. Nothing but feeling and sentiment could
produce them. It was soul breathed forth in sound. I was always
alive to the influence of music: indeed, I was susceptible of voluptuous
influences of every kind—sounds, colors, shapes, and
fragrant odors. I was the very slave of sensation.
I lay mute and breathless, and drank in every note of this
siren strain. It thrilled through my whole frame, and filled my
soul with melody and love. I pictured to myself, with curious
logic, the form of the unseen musician. Such melodious sounds
and exquisite inflexions could only be produced by organs of the
most delicate flexibility. Such organs do not belong to coarse,
vulgar forms; they are the harmonious results of fair proportions
and admirable symmetry. A being so organized, must be
lovely.
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Again my busy imagination was at work. I called to mind
the Arabian story of a prince, borne away during sleep by a good
genius, to the distant abode of a princess, of ravishing beauty. I
do not pretend to say that I believed in having experienced a similar
transportation; but it was my inveterate habit to cheat myself
with fancies of the kind, and to give the tinge of illusion to surrounding
realities.
The witching sound had ceased, but its vibrations still played
round my heart, and filled it with a tumult of soft emotions. At
this moment, a self-upbraiding pang shot through my bosom.
“Ah, recreant!” a voice seemed to exclaim, “is this the stability
of thine affections? What! hast thou so soon forgotten the
nymph of the fountain? Has one song, idly piped in thine ear,
been sufficient to charm away the cherished tenderness of a whole
summer?”
The wise may smile—but I am in a confiding mood, and must
confess my weakness. I felt a degree of compunction at this
sudden infidelity, yet I could not resist the power of present fascination.
My peace of mind was destroyed by conflicting claims.
The nymph of the fountain came over my memory, with all the
associations of fairy footsteps, shady groves, soft echoes, and wild
streamlets; but this new passion was produced by a strain of
soul-subduing melody, still lingering in my ear, aided by a downy
bed, fragrant flowers, and rose-colored curtains. “Unhappy
youth!” sighed I to myself, “distracted by such rival passions,
and the empire of thy heart thus violently contested by the sound
of a voice, and the print of a footstep!”
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I had not remained long in this mood, when I heard the door
of the room gently opened. I turned my head to see what inhabitant
of this enchanted palace should appear; whether page in
green, hideous dwarf, or haggard fairy. It was my own man
Scipio. He advanced with cautious step, and was delighted, as
he said, to find me so much myself again. My first questions
were as to where I was, and how I came there? Scipio told me a
long story of his having been fishing in a canoe, at the time of my
hare-brained cruise; of his noticing the gathering squall, and my
impending danger; of his hastening to join me, but arriving just
in time to snatch me from a watery grave; of the great difficulty
in restoring me to animation; and of my being subsequently conveyed,
in a state of insensibility, to this mansion.
“But where am I?” was the reiterated demand.
“In the house of Mr. Somerville.”
“Somerville—Somerville!” I recollected to have heard that
a gentleman of that name had recently taken up his residence at
some distance from my father's abode, on the opposite side of the
Hudson. He was commonly known by the name of “French
Somerville,” from having passed part of his early life in France,
and from his exhibiting traces of French taste in his mode of
living, and the arrangements of his house. In fact, it was in
his pleasure-boat, which had got adrift, that I had made my fanciful
and disastrous cruise. All this was simple straight-forward
matter of fact, and threatened to demolish all the cobweb romance
I had been spinning, when fortunately I again heard the tinkling
of a harp. I raised myself in bed, and listened.
“Scipio,” said I, with some little hesitation, “I heard some one
singing just now. Who was it?”
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“Oh, that was Miss Julia.”
“Julia! Julia! Delightful! what a name! And, Scipio—is
she—is she pretty?”
Scipio grinned from ear to ear. “Except Miss Sophy, she was
the most beautiful young lady he had ever seen.”
I should observe, that my sister Sophia was considered by all
the servants a paragon of perfection.
Scipio now offered to remove the basket of flowers; he was
afraid their odor might be too powerful; but Miss Julia had given
them that morning to be placed in my room.
These flowers, then, had been gathered by the fairy fingers of
my unseen beauty; that sweet breath which had filled my ear with
melody, had passed over them. I made Scipio hand them to me,
culled several of the most delicate, and laid them on my bosom.
Mr. Somerville paid me a visit not long afterward. He was
an interesting study for me, for he was the father of my unseen
beauty, and probably resembled her. I scanned him closely. He
was a tall and elegant man, with an open, affable manner, and
an erect and graceful carriage. His eyes were bluish-gray, and,
though not dark, yet at times were sparkling and expressive.
His hair was dressed and powdered, and being lightly combed up
from his forehead, added to the loftiness of his aspect. He was
fluent in discourse, but his conversation had the quiet tone of polished
society, without any of those bold flights of thought, and
picturings of fancy, which I so much admired.
My imagination was a little puzzled, at first, to make out of this
assemblage of personal and mental qualities, a picture that should
harmonize with my previous idea of the fair unseen. By dint,
however, of selecting what it liked, and rejecting what it did not
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like, and giving a touch here and a touch there, it soon finished
out a satisfactory portrait.
“Julia must be tall,” thought I, “and of exquisite grace and
dignity. She is not quite so courtly as her father, for she has
been brought up in the retirement of the country. Neither is
she of such vivacious deportment; for the tones of her voice are
soft and plaintive, and she loves pathetic music. She is rather pensive—
yet not too pensive; just what is called interesting. Her
eyes are like her father's, except that they are of a purer blue,
and more tender and languishing. She has light hair—not exactly
flaxen, for I do not not like flaxen hair, but between that and
auburn. In a word, she is a tall, elegant, imposing, languishing,
blue-eyed, romantic-looking beauty.” And having thus finished
her picture, I felt ten times more in love with her than ever.
I felt so much recovered, that I would at once have left my
room, but Mr. Somerville objected to it. He had sent early word
to my family of my safety; and my father arrived in the course
of the morning. He was shocked at learning the risk I had run,
but rejoiced to find me so much restored, and was warm in his
thanks to Mr. Somerville for his kindness. The other only required,
in return, that I might remain two or three days as his
guest, to give time for my recovery, and for our forming a closer
acquaintance; a request which my father readily granted. Scipio
accordingly accompanied my father home, and returned with a supply
of clothes, and with affectionate letters from my mother and
sisters.
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The next morning, aided by Scipio, I made my toilet with
rather more care than usual, and descended the stairs, with some
trepidation, eager to see the original of the portrait which had
been so completely pictured in my imagination.
On entering the parlor, I found it deserted. Like the rest of
the house, it was furnished in a foreign style. The curtains were
of French silk; there were Grecian couches, marble tables, pierglasses,
and chandeliers. What chiefly attracted my eye, were
documents of female taste that I saw around me; a piano, with
an ample stock of Italian music; a book of poetry lying on the
sofa; a vase of fresh flowers on a table, and a portfolio open with
a skilful and half-finished sketch of them. In the window was a
Canary bird, in a gilt cage, and near by, the harp that had been
in Julia's arms. Happy harp! But where was the being that
reigned in this little empire of delicacies?—that breathed poetry
and song, and dwelt among birds and flowers, and rose-colored
curtains?
Suddenly I heard the hall door fly open, the quick pattering
of light steps, a wild, capricious strain of music, and the shrill
barking of a dog. A light frolic nymph of fifteen came tripping
into the room, playing on a flageolet, with a little spaniel ramping
after her. Her gypsy hat had fallen back upon her shoulders;
a profusion of glossy brown hair was blown in rich ringlets about
her face, which beamed through them with the brightness of smiles
and dimples.
At sight of me, she stopped short, in the most beautiful confusion,
stammered out a word or two about looking for her father,
glided out of the door, and I heard her bounding up the stair-case,
like a frightened fawn, with the little dog barking after her.
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When Miss Somerville returned to the parlor, she was quite a
different being. She entered, stealing along by her mother's side
with noiseless step, and sweet timidity: her hair was prettily adjusted,
and a soft blush mantled on her damask cheek. Mr. Somerville
accompanied the ladies, and introduced me regularly to
them. There were many kind inquiries, and much sympathy expressed
on the subject of my nautical accident, and some remarks
upon the wild scenery of the neighborhood, with which the ladies
seemed perfectly acquainted.
“You must know,” said Mr. Somerville, “that we are great
navigators, and delight in exploring every nook and corner of the
river. My daughter, too, is a great hunter of the picturesque,
and transfers every rock and glen to her portfolio. By the way,
my dear, show Mr. Mountjoy that pretty scene you have lately
sketched.” Julia complied, blushing, and drew from her portfolio
a colored sketch. I almost started at the sight. It was my
favorite brook. A sudden thought darted across my mind. I
glanced down my eye, and beheld the divinest little foot in the
world. Oh, blissful conviction! The struggle of my affections
was at an end. The voice and the footstep were no longer at variance.
Julia Somerville was the nymph of the fountain!
What conversation passed during breakfast, I do not recollect,
and hardly was conscious of at the time, for my thoughts
were in complete confusion. I wished to gaze on Miss Somerville,
but did not dare. Once, indeed, I ventured a glance. She was
at that moment darting a similar one from under a covert of
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ringlets. Our eyes seemed shocked by the rencontre, and fell; hers
through the natural modesty of her sex, mine through a bashfulness
produced by the previous workings of my imagination. That
glance, however, went like a sunbeam to my heart.
A convenient mirror favored my diffidence, and gave me the
reflection of Miss Somerville's form. It is true it only presented
the back of her head, but she had the merit of an ancient statue;
contemplate her from any point of view, she was beautiful. And yet
she was totally different from every thing I had before conceived
of beauty. She was not the serene, meditative maid that I had pictured
the nymph of the fountain; nor the tall, soft, languishing,
blue-eyed, dignified being, that I had fancied the minstrel of the
harp. There was nothing of dignity about her: she was girlish
in her appearance, and scarcely of the middle size; but then there
was the tenderness of budding youth; the sweetness of the half-blown
rose, when not a tint or perfume has been withered or exhaled;
there were smiles and dimples, and all the soft witcheries
of ever-varying expression. I wondered that I could ever have
admired any other style of beauty.
After breakfast, Mr. Somerville departed to attend to the concerns
of his estate, and gave me in charge of the ladies. Mrs.
Somerville also was called away by household cares, and I was
left alone with Julia! Here then was the situation which of all
others I had most coveted. I was in the presence of the lovely
being that had so long been the desire of my heart. We were
alone; propitious opportunity for a lover! Did I sieze upon it?
Did I break out in one of my accustomed rhapsodies? No such
thing! Never was being more awkwardly embarrassed.
“What can be the cause of this?” thought I. “Surely I
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cannot stand in awe of this young girl. I am of course her superior
in intellect, and am never embarrassed in company with my tutor
notwithstanding all his wisdom.”
It was passing strange. I felt that if she were an old woman,
I should be quite at my ease; if she were even an ugly woman, I
should make out very well; it was her beauty that overpowered
me. How little do lovely women know what awful beings they
are, in the eyes of inexperienced youth! Young men brought up
in the fashionable circles of our cities will smile at all this. Accustomed
to mingle incessantly in female society, and to have the
romance of the heart deadened by a thousand frivolous flirtations,
women are nothing but women in their eyes; but to a susceptible
youth like myself, brought up in the country, they are perfect
divinities.
Miss Somerville was at first a little embarrassed herself; but,
somehow or other, women have a natural adroitness in recovering
their self-possession; they are more alert in their minds, and
graceful in their manners. Besides, I was but an ordinary personage
in Miss Somerville's eyes; she was not under the influence
of such a singular course of imaginings as had surrounded her,
in my eyes, with the illusions of romance. Perhaps, too, she saw
the confusion in the opposite camp, and gained courage from the
discovery. At any rate, she was the first to take the field.
Her conversation, however, was only on common-place topics,
and in an easy, well-bred style. I endeavored to respond in the
same manner; but I was strangely incompetent to the task. My
ideas were frozen up; even words seemed to fail me. I was excessively
vexed at myself, for I wished to be uncommonly elegant.
I tried two or three times to turn a pretty thought, or to utter a
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fine sentiment; but it would come forth so trite, so forced, so
mawkish, that I was ashamed of it. My very voice sounded discordantly,
though I sought to modulate it into the softest tones.
“The truth is,” thought I to myself, “I cannot bring my mind
down to the small talk necessary for young girls; it is too masculine
and rebust for the mincing measure of parlor gossip. I am
a philosopher—and that accounts for it.”
The entrance of Mrs. Somerville at length gave me relief. I
at once breathed freely, and felt a vast deal of confidence come
over me. “This is strange,” thought I, “that the appearance of
another woman should revive my courage; that I should be a
better match for two women than one. However, since it is so, I
will take advantage of the circumstance, and let this young lady
see that I am not so great a simpleton as she probably thinks me.”
I accordingly took up the book of poetry which lay upon the
sofa. It was Milton's Paradise Lost. Nothing could have been
more fortunate; it afforded a fine scope for my favorite vein of
grandiloquence. I went largely into a discussion of its merits, or
rather an enthusiastic eulogy of them. My observations were addressed
to Mrs. Somerville, for I found I could talk to her with
more ease than to her daughter. She appeared perfectly alive to
the beauties of the poet, and disposed to meet me in the discussion;
but it was not my object to hear her talk; it was to talk
myself. I anticipated all she had to say, overpowered her with
the copiousness of my ideas, and supported and illustrated them
by long citations from the author.
While thus holding forth, I cast a side glance to see how Miss
Somerville was affected. She had some embroidery stretched on
a frame before her, but had paused in her labor, and was looking
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down as if lost in mute attention. I felt a glow of self-satisfaction,
but I recollected, at the same time, with a kind of pique, the advantage
she had enjoyed over me in our tête-à-tête. I determined to
push my triumph, and accordingly kept on with redoubled ardor,
until I had fairly exhausted my subject, or rather my thoughts.
I had scarce come to a full stop, when Miss Somerville raised
her eyes from the work on which they had been fixed, and turning
to her mother, observed: “I have been considering, mamma,
whether to work these flowers plain, or in colors.”
Had an ice-bolt been shot to my heart, it could not have chilled
me more effectually. “What a fool,” thought I, “have I been
making myself—squandering away fine thoughts, and fine language,
upon a light mind, and an ignorant ear! This girl knows nothing
of poetry. She has no soul, I fear, for its beauties. Can any one
have real sensibility of heart, and not be alive to poetry? However,
she is young: this part of her education has been neglected:
there is time enough to remedy it. I will be her preceptor. I
will kindle in her mind the sacred flame, and lead her through the
fairy land of song. But after all, it is rather unfortunate that I
should have fallen in love with a woman who knows nothing of
poetry.”
I passed a day not altogether satisfactory. I was a little disappointed
that Miss Somerville did not show more poetical feeling.
“I am afraid, after all,” said I to myself, “she is light and girlish,
and more fitted to pluck wild flowers, play on the flageolet,
and romp with little dogs, than to converse with a man of my turn.”
I believe, however, to tell the truth, I was more out of humor
with myself. I thought I had made the worst first appearance
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that ever hero made, either in novel or fairy tale. I was out of
all patience, when I called to mind my awkward attempts at ease
and elegance, in the tête-á-tête. And then my intolerable long
lecture about poetry, to catch the applause of a heedless auditor!
But there I was not to blame. I had certainly been eloquent; it
was her fault that the eloquence was wasted. To meditate upon
the embroidery of a flower, when I was expatiating on the beauties
of Milton! She might at least have admired the poetry, if she
did not relish the manner in which it was delivered; though that
was not despicable, for I had recited passages in my best style,
which my mother and sisters had always considered equal to a
play. “Oh, it is evident,” thought I, “Miss Somerville has very
little soul!”
Such were my fancies and cogitations, during the day, the
greater part of which was spent in my chamber, for I was still
languid. My evening was passed in the drawing-room, where I
overlooked Miss Somerville's portfolio of sketches. They were
executed with great taste, and showed a nice observation of the
peculiarities of nature. They were all her own, and free from
those cunning tints and touches of the drawing-master, by which
young ladies' drawings, like their heads, are dressed up for company.
There was no garish and vulgar trick of colors, either; all
was executed with singular truth and simplicity.
“And yet,” thought I, “this little being, who has so pure an
eye to take in, as in a limpid brook, all the graceful forms and
magic tints of nature, has no soul for poetry!”
Mr. Somerville toward the latter part of the evening, observing
my eye to wander occasionally to the harp, interpreted and
met my wishes with his accustomed civility.
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“Julia, my dear,” said he, “Mr. Mountjoy would like to hear
a little music from your harp; let us hear, too, the sound of your
voice.”
Julia immediately complied, without any of that hesitation
and difficulty, by which young ladies are apt to make the company
pay dear for bad music. She sang a sprightly strain, in a
brilliant style, that came trilling playfully over the ear; and the
bright eye and dimpling smile showed that her little heart danced
with the song. Her pet Canary bird, who hung close by, was
wakened by the music, and burst forth into an emulating strain.
Julia smiled with a pretty air of defiance, and played louder.
After some time, the music changed, and ran into a plaintive
strain, in a minor key. Then it was, that all the former witchery
of her voice came over me; then it was, that she seemed to sing
from the heart and to the heart. Her fingers moved about the
chords as if they scarcely touched them. Her whole manner and
appearance changed; her eyes beamed with the softest expression;
her countenance, her frame, all seemed subdued into tenderness.
She rose from the harp, leaving it still vibrating, with
sweet sounds, and moved toward her father, to bid him good night.
His eyes had been fixed on her intently, during her performance.
As she came before him, he parted her shining ringlets with
both his hands, and looked down with the fondness of a father
on her innocent face. The music seemed still lingering in its lineaments,
and the action of her father brought a moist gleam in
her eye. He kissed her fair forehead, after the French mode of
parental caressing: “Good night, and God bless you,” said he,
“my good little girl!”
Julia tripped away, with a tear in her eye, a dimple in her
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cheek, and a light heart in her bosom. I thought it the prettiest
picture of paternal and filial affection I had ever seen.
When I retired to bed, a new train of thoughts crowded into
my brain. “After all,” said I to myself, “it is clear this girl
has a soul, though she was not moved by my eloquence. She has
all the outward signs and evidences of poetic feeling. She paints
well, and has an eye for nature. She is a fine musician, and
enters into the very soul of song. What a pity that she knows
nothing of poetry! But we will see what is to be done. I am
irretrievably in love with her; what then am I to do? Come
down to the level of her mind, or endeavor to raise her to some
kind of intellectual equality with myself? That is the most generous
course. She will look up to me as a benefactor. I shall
become associated in her mind with the lofty thoughts and harmonious
graces of poetry. She is apparently docile: besides, the
difference of our ages will give me an ascendency over her. She
cannot be above sixteen years of age, and I am full turned of
twenty.” So, having built this most delectable of air-castles, I
fell asleep.
The next morning, I was quite a different being. I no longer
felt fearful of stealing a glance at Julia; on the contrary, I contemplated
her steadily, with the benignant eye of a benefactor.
Shortly after breakfast, I found myself alone with her, as I had
on the preceding morning; but I felt nothing of the awkwardness
of our previous tête-à-tête. I was elevated by the consciousness
of my intellectual superiority, and should almost have felt a sentiment
of pity for the ignorance of the lovely little being, if I had
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not felt also the assurance that I should be able to dispel it.
“But it is time,” thought I, “to open school.”
Julia, was occupied in arranging some music on her piano.
I looked over two or three songs; they were Moore's Irish
melodies.
“These are pretty things,” said I, flirting the leaves over
lightly, and giving a slight shrug, by way of qualifying the opinion.
“Oh, I love them of all things!” said Julia, “they 're so
touching!”
“Then you like them for the poetry,” said I, with an encouraging
smile.
“Oh yes; she thought them charmingly written.”
Now was my time. “Poetry,” said I, assuming a didactic
attitude and air, “poetry is one of the most pleasing studies that
can occupy a youthful mind. It renders us susceptible of the
gentle impulses of humanity, and cherishes a delicate perception
of all that is virtuous and elevated in morals, and graceful and
beautiful in physics. It—”
I was going on in a style that would have graced a professor
of rhetoric, when I saw a light smile playing about Miss Somerville's
mouth, and that she began to turn over the leaves of a
music book. I recollected her inattention to my discourse of the
preceding morning. “There is no fixing her light mind,” thought
I, “by abstract theory; we will proceed practically.” As it happened,
the identical volume of Milton's Paradise Lost was lying
at hand.
“Let me recommend to you, my young friend,” said I, in one
of those tones of persuasive admonition, which I had so often
loved in Glencoe—“let me recommend to you this admirable
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poem: you will find in it sources of intellectual enjoyment far
superior to those songs which have delighted you.” Julia looked
at the book, and then at me, with a whimsically dubious air.
“Milton's Paradise Lost?” said she; “oh, I know the greater
part of that by heart.”
I had not expected to find my pupil so far advanced; however,
the Paradise Lost is a kind of school book, and its finest passages
are given to young ladies as tasks.
“I find,” said I to myself, “I must not treat her as so complete
a novice; her inattention, yesterday, could not have proceeded
from absolute ignorance, but merely from a want of poetic
feeling. I'll try her again.”
I now determined to dazzle her with my own erudition, and
launched into a harangue that would have done honor to an institute.
Pope, Spenser, Chaucer, and the old dramatic writers, were
all dipped into, with the excursive flight of a swallow. I did not
confine myself to English poets, but gave a glance at the French
and Italian schools: I passed over Ariosto in full wing, but
paused on Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered. I dwelt on the character
of Clorinda: “There's a character,” said I, “that you will find
well worthy a woman's study. It shows to what exalted heights
of heroism the sex can rise; how gloriously they may share even
in the stern concerns of men.”
“For my part,” said Julia, gently taking advantage of a
pause—“for my part, I prefer the character of Sophronia.”
I was thunderstruck. She then had read Tasso! This girl
that I had been treating as an ignoramus in poetry! She proceeded,
with a slight glow of the cheek, summoned up perhaps by
a casual glow of feeling:
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“I do not admire those masculine heroines,” said she, “who
aim at the bold qualities of the opposite sex. Now Sophronia
only exhibits the real qualities of a woman, wrought up to their
highest excitement. She is modest, gentle, and retiring, as it
becomes a woman to be; but she has all the strength of affection
proper to a woman. She cannot fight for her people, as Clorinda
does, but she can offer herself up, and die, to serve them. You
may admire Clorinda, but you surely would be more apt to love
Sophronia; at least,” added she, suddenly appearing to recollect
herself, and blushing at having launched into such a discussion,
“at least, that is what papa observed, when we read the poem
together.”
“Indeed,” said I, dryly, for I felt disconcerted and nettled at
being unexpectedly lectured by my pupil—“indeed, I do not exactly
recollect the passage.”
“Oh,” said Julia, “I can repeat it to you;” and she immediately
gave it in Italian.
Heavens and earth!—here was a situation! I knew no more
of Italian than I did of the language of Psalmanazar. What a
dilemma for a would-be-wise man to be placed in! I saw Julia
waited for my opinion.
“In fact,” said I, hesitating, “I—I do not exactly understand
Italian.”
“Oh,” said Julia, with the utmost naïveté, “I have no doubt
it is very beautiful in the translation.”
I was glad to break up school, and get back to my chamber,
full of the mortification which a wise man in love experiences on
finding his mistress wiser than himself. “Translation! translation!”
muttered I to myself, as I jerked the door shut behind
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me: “I am surprised my father has never had me instructed in
the modern languages. They are all-important. What is the use
of Latin and Greek? No one speaks them; but here, the moment
I make my appearauce in the world, a little girl slaps Italian in
my face. However, thank Heaven, a language is easily learned.
The moment I return home, I'll set about studying Italian; and to
prevent future surprise, I will study Spanish and German at the
same time; and if any young lady attempts to quote Italian upon
me again, I'll bury her under a heap of High Dutch poetry!”
I felt now like some mighty chieftain, who has carried the war
into a weak country, with full confidence of success, and been repulsed
and obliged to draw off his forces from before some inconsiderable
fortress.
“However,” thought I, “I have as yet brought only my light
artillery into action; we shall see what is to be done with my
heavy ordnance. Julia is evidently well versed in poetry; but
it is natural she should be so; it is allied to painting and music,
and is congenial to the light graces of the female character. We
will try her on graver themes.”
I felt all my pride awakened; it even for a time swelled higher
than my love. I was determined completely to establish my
mental superiority, and subdue the intellect of this little being:
it would then be time to sway the sceptre of gentle empire, and
win the affections of her heart.
Accordingly, at dinner I again took the field, en potence. I
now addressed myself to Mr. Somerville, for I was about to enter
upon topics in which a young girl like her could not be well versed.
I led, or rather forced, the conversation into a vein of historical
erudition, discussing several of the most prominent facts of ancient
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history, and accompanying them with sound, indisputable apothegms.
Mr. Somerville listened to me with the air of a man receiving
imformation. I was encouraged, and went on gloriously from
theme to theme of school declamation. I sat with Marius on the
ruins of Carthage; I defended the bridge with Horatius Cocles;
thrust my hand into the flame with Martius Scævola, and plunged
with Curtius into the yawning gulf; I fought side by side with
Leonidas, at the straits of Thermopylæ; and was going full drive
into the battle of Platæa, when my memory, which is the worst in
the world, failed me, just as I wanted the name of the Lacedemonian
commander.
“Julia, my dear,” said Mr. Somerville, “perhaps you may
recollect the name of which Mr. Mountjoy is in quest?”
Julia colored slightly: “I believe,” said she, in a low voice,—
“I believe it was Pausanias.”
This unexpected sally, instead of reinforcing me, threw my
whole scheme of battle into confusion, and the Athenians remained
unmolested in the field.
I am half inclined, since, to think Mr. Somerville meant this
as a sly hit at my school-boy pedantry; but he was too well bred
not to seek to relieve me from my mortification. “Oh!” said he,
“Julia is our family book of reference for names, dates, and distances,
and has an excellent memory for history and geography.”
I now became desperate; as a last resource, I turned to metaphysics.
“If she is a philosopher in petticoats,” thought I, “it
is all over with me.”
Here, however, I had the field to myself. I gave chapter and
verse of my tutor's lectures, heightened by all his poetical
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illustrations: I even went farther than he had ever ventured, and
plunged into such depths of metaphysics, that I was in danger of
sticking in the mire at the bottom. Fortunately, I had auditors
who apparently could not detect my flounderings. Neither Mr.
Somerville nor his daughter offered the least interruption.
When the ladies had retired, Mr. Somerville sat some time
with me; and as I was no longer anxious to astonish, I permitted
myself to listen, and found that he was really agreeable. He was
quite communicative, and from his conversation I was enabled to
form a juster idea of his daughter's character, and the mode in
which she had been brought up. Mr. Somerville had mingled
much with the world, and with what is termed fashionable society.
He had experienced its cold elegancies, and gay insincerities; its
dissipation of the spirits, and squanderings of the heart. Like
many men of the world, though he had wandered too far from
nature ever to return to it, yet he had the good taste and good
feeling to look back fondly to its simple delights, and to determine
that his child, if possible, should never leave them. He had superintended
her education with scrupulous care, storing her mind
with the graces of polite literature, and with such knowledge as
would enable it to furnish its own amusement and occupation,
and giving her all the accomplishments that sweeten and enliven
the circle of domestic life. He had been particularly sedulous to
exclude all fashionable affectations; all false sentiment, false sensibility,
and false romance. “Whatever advantages she may possess,”
said he, “she is quite unconscious of them. She is a capricious
little being, in every thing but her affections; she is,
however, free from art: simple, ingenuous, innocent, amiable, and,
I thank God! happy.”
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Such was the eulogy of a fond father, delivered with a tenderness
that touched me. I could not help making a casual inquiry,
whether, among the graces of polite literature, he had included a
slight tincture of metaphysics. He smiled, and told me he had
not.
On the whole, when, as usual, that night, I summed up the
day's observations on my pillow, I was not altogether dissatisfied.
“Miss Somerville,” said I, “loves poetry, and I like her the better
for it. She has the advantage of me in Italian: agreed; what
is it know a variety of languages, but merely to have a variety
of sounds to express the same idea? Original thought is the ore
of the mind; language is but the accidental stamp and coinage,
by which it is put into circulation. If I can furnish an original
idea, what care I how many languages she can translate it into?
She may be able, also, to quote names, and dates, and latitudes,
better than I; but that is a mere effort of the memory. I admit
she is more accurate in history and geography than I; but then
she knows nothing of metaphysics.”
I had now sufficiently recovered, to return home; yet I
could not think of leaving Mr. Somerville's, without having a
little farther conversation with him on the subject of his daughter's
education.
“This Mr. Somerville,” thought I, “is a very accomplished,
elegant man; he has seen a good deal of the world, and, upon the
whole, has profited by what he has seen. He is not without information,
and, as far as he thinks, appears to think correctly;
but after all, he is rather superficial, and does not think profoundly.
He seems to take no delight in those metaphysical
abstractions, that are the proper aliment of masculine minds. I
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called to mind various occasions in which I had indulged largely
in metaphysical discussions, but could recollect no instance where
I had been able to draw him out. He had listened, it is true,
with attention, and smiled as if in acquiescence, but had always
appeared to avoid reply. Besides, I had made several sad blunders
in the glow of eloquent declamation; but he had never interrupted
me, to notice and correct them, as he would have done had he
been versed in the theme.
“Now it is really a great pity,” resumed I, “that he should
have the entire management of Miss Somerville's education.
What a vast advantage it would be, if she could be put for a little
time under the superintendence of Glencoe. He would throw
some deeper shades of thought into her mind, which at present is
all sunshine; not but that Mr. Somerville has done very well, as
far as he has gone; but then he has merely prepared the soil for
the strong plants of useful knowledge. She is well versed in the
leading facts of history, and the general course of belles-lettres,”
said I; “a little more philosophy would do wonders.”
I accordingly took occasion to ask Mr. Somerville for a few
moments' conversation in his study, the morning I was to depart.
When we were alone, I opened the matter fully to him. I commenced
with the warmest eulogium of Glencoe's powers of mind,
and vast acquirements, and ascribed to him all my proficiency in
the higher branches of knowledge. I begged, therefore, to recommend
him as a friend calculated to direct the studies of Miss
Somerville; to lead her mind, by degrees to the contemplation of
abstract principles, and to produce habits of philosophical analysis;
“which,” added I, gently smiling, “are not often cultivated
by young ladies.” I ventured to hint, in addition, that he would
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find Mr. Glencoe a most valuable and interesting acquaintance for
himself; one who would stimulate and evolve the powers of his
mind; and who might open to him tracts of inquiry and speculation,
to which perhaps he had hitherto been a stranger.
Mr. Somerville listened with grave attention. When I had
finished, he thanked me in the politest manner for the interest I
took in the welfare of his daughter and himself. He observed
that, as regarded himself, he was afraid he was too old to
benefit by the instructions of Mr. Glencoe, and that as to his
daughter, he was afraid her mind was but little fitted for the
study of metaphysics. “I do not wish,” continued he, “to strain
her intellects with subjects they cannot grasp, but to make her
familiarly acquainted with those that are within the limits of her
capacity. I do not pretend to prescribe the boundaries of female
genius, and am far from indulging the vulgar opinion, that women
are unfitted by nature for the highest intellectual pursuits. I speak
only with reference to my daughter's taste and talents. She will
never make a learned woman; nor in truth do I desire it; for
such is the jealousy of our sex, as to mental as well as physical
ascendency, that a learned woman is not always the happiest. I
do not wish my daughter to excite envy, nor to battle with the
prejudices of the world; but to glide peaceably through life, on
the good will and kind opinion of her friends. She has ample
employment for her little head, in the course I have marked out
for her; and is busy at present with some branches of natural
history, calculated to awaken her perceptions to the beauties and
wonders of nature, and to the inexhaustible volume of wisdom
constantly spread open before her eyes. I consider that woman
most likely to make an agreeable companion, who can draw topics
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of pleasing remark from every natural object; and most likely to
be cheerful and contented, who is continually sensible of the order,
the harmony, and the invariable beneficence, that reign throughout
the beautiful world we inhabit.”
“But,” added he, smiling, “I am betraying myself into a
lecture, instead of merely giving a reply to your kind offer. Permit
me to take the liberty, in return, of inquiring a little about
your own pursuits. You speak of having finished your education;
but of course you have a line of private study and mental occupation
marked out; for you must know the importance, both in
point of interest and happiness, of keeping the mind employed.
May I ask what system you observe in your intellectual exercises?”
“Oh, as to system,” I observed, “I could never bring myself
into any thing of the kind. I thought it best to let my genius
take its own course, as it always acted the most vigorously when
stimulated by inclination.”
Mr. Somerville shook his head. “This same genius,” said he,
“is a wild quality, that runs away with our most promising young
men. It has become so much the fashion, too, to give it the
reins, that it is now thought an animal of too noble and generous
a nature to be brought to the harness. But it is all a mistake.
Nature never designed these high endowments to run riot through
society, and throw the whole system into confusion. No, my dear
sir: genius, unless it acts upon system, is very apt to be a useless
quality to society; sometimes an injurious, and certainly a very
uncomfortable one, to its possessor. I have had many opportunities
of seeing the progress through life of young men who were
accounted geniuses, and have found it too often end in early
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exhaustion and bitter disappointment; and have as often noticed
that these effects might be traced to a total want of system.
There were no habits of business, of steady purpose, and regular
application, superinduced upon the mind; every thing was left to
chance and impulse, and native luxuriance, and every thing of
course ran to waste and wild entanglement. Excuse me, if I am
tedious on this point, for I feel solicitous to impress it upon
you, being an error extremely prevalent in our country, and one
into which too many of our youth have fallen. I am happy, however,
to observe the zeal which still appears to actuate you for
the acquisition of knowledge, and augur every good from the elevated
bent of your ambition. May I ask what has been your
course of study for the last six months?”
Never was question more unluckily timed. For the last six
months I had been absolutely buried in novels and romances.
Mr. Somerville perceived that the question was embarrassing,
and with his invariable good breeding, immediately resumed the
conversation, without waiting for a reply. He took care, however,
to turn it in such a way as to draw from me an account of the
whole manner in which I had been educated, and the various currents
of reading into which my mind had run. He then went on
to discuss briefly, but impressively, the different branches of
knowledge most important to a young man in my situation; and
to my surprise I found him a complete master of those studies on
which I had supposed him ignorant, and on which I had been descanting
so confidently.
He complimented me, however, very graciously, upon the progress
I had made, but advised me for the present to turn my attention
to the physical rather than the moral sciences. “These
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studies,” said he, “store a man's mind with valuable facts, and at
the same time repress self-confidence, by letting him know how
boundless are the realms of knowledge, and how little we can possibly
know. Whereas metaphysical studies, though of an ingenious
order of intellectual employment, are apt to bewilder some
minds with vague speculations. They never know how far they
have advanced, or what may be the correctness of their favorite
theory. They render many of our young men verbose and declamatory,
and prone to mistake the aberrations of their fancy for
the inspirations of divine philosophy.”
I could not but interrupt him, to assent to the truth of these
remarks, and to say that it had been my lot, in the course of my
limited experience, to encounter young men of the kind, who had
overwhelmed me by their verbosity.
Mr. Somerville smiled. “I trust,” said he, kindly, “that you
will guard against these errors. Avoid the eagerness with which
a young man is apt to hurry into conversation, and to utter the
crude and ill-digested notions which he has picked up in his recent
studies. Be assured that extensive and accurate knowledge
is the slow acquisition of a studious lifetime; that a young man,
however pregnant his wit, and prompt his talent, can have mastered
but the rudiments of learning, and, in a manner, attained the
implements of study. Whatever may have been your past assiduity,
you must be sensible that as yet you have but reached the
threshold of true knowledge; but at the same time, you have the
advantage that you are still very young, and have ample time to
learn.”
Here our conference ended. I walked out of the study, a very
different being from what I was on entering it. I had gone in
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with the air of a professor about to deliver a lecture; I came out
like a student, who had failed in his examination, and been degraded
in his class.
“Very young,” and “on the threshold of knowledge!” This
was extremely flattering, to one who had considered himself an
accomplished scholar, and profound philosopher!
“It is singular,” thought I; “there seems to have been a spell
upon my faculties, ever since I have been in this house. I certainly
have not been able to do myself justice. Whenever I
have undertaken to advise, I have had the tables turned upon me.
It must be that I am strange and diffident among people I am
not accustomed to. I wish they could hear me talk at home!”
“After all,” added I, on farther reflection,—“after all, there is
a great deal of force in what Mr. Somerville has said. Some
how or other, these men of the world do now and then hit upon
remarks that would do credit to a philosopher. Some of his
general observations came so home, that I almost thought they
were meant for myself. His advice about adopting a system of
study, is very judicious. I will immediately put it in practice.
My mind shall operate henceforward with the regularity of clock-work.”
How far I succeeded in adopting this plan, how I fared in the
farther pursuit of knowledge, and how I succeeded in my suit to
Julia Somerville, may afford matter for a farther communication
to the public, if this simple record of my early life is fortunate
enough to excite any curiosity.
eaf615n5* Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book vii.
-- -- p615-107
THE BERMUDAS. A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH
“Who did not think, till within these foure yeares, but that these islands had been rather
a habitation for Divells, than fit for men to dwell in? Who did not hate the name, when
hee was on land, and shun the place when he was on the seas? But behold the misprision
and conceits of the world! For true and large experience hath now told us, it is one of the
sweetest paradises that be upon earth.”
“A Plaine Descript. of the Barmudas:” 1613.
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In the course of a voyage home from England, our ship had
been struggling, for two or three weeks, with perverse head-winds,
and a stormy sea. It was in the month of May, yet the weather
had at times a wintry sharpness, and it was apprehended that we
were in the neighborhood of floating islands of ice, which at that
season of the year drift out of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, and
sometimes occasion the wreck of noble ships.
Wearied out by the continued opposition of the elements, our
captain bore away to the south, in hopes of catching the expiring
breath of the trade-winds, and making what is called the southern
passage. A few days wrought, as it were, a magical “sea change”
in every thing around us. We seemed to emerge into a different
world. The late dark and angry sea, lashed up into roaring and
swashing surges, became calm and sunny; the rude winds died
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away; and gradually a light breeze sprang up directly aft, filling
out every sail, and wafting us smoothly along on an even keel.
The air softened into a bland and delightful temperature. Dolphins
began to play about us; the nautilus came floating by, like
a fairy ship, with its mimic sail and rainbow tints; and flying-fish,
from time to time, made their short excursive flights, and
occasionally fell upon the deck. The cloaks and overcoats in
which we had hitherto wrapped ourselves, and moped about the
vessel, were thrown aside; for a summer warmth had succeeded
to the late wintry chills. Sails were stretched as awnings over
the quarter-deck, to protect us from the mid-day sun. Under
these we lounged away the day, in luxurious indolence, musing,
with half-shut eyes, upon the quiet ocean. The night was scarcely
less beautiful than the day. The rising moon sent a quivering
column of silver along the undulating surface of the deep, and,
gradually climbing the heaven, lit up our towering topsails and
swelling mainsails, and spread a pale, mysterious light around.
As our ship made her whispering way through this dreamy world
of waters, every boisterous sound on board was charmed to
silence; and the low whistle, or drowsy song, of a sailor from the
forecastle, or the tinkling of a guitar, and the soft warbling of a
female voice from the quarter-deck, seemed to derive a witching
melody from the scene and hour. I was reminded of Oberon's
exquisite description of music and moonlight on the ocean:
—“Thou rememberest
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back,
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,
That the rude sea grew civil at her song;
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And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
To hear the sea-maid's music.”
Indeed, I was in the very mood to conjure up all the imaginary
beings with which poetry has peopled old ocean, and almost
ready to fancy I heard the distant song of the mermaid, or the
mellow shell of the triton, and to picture to myself Neptune and
Amphitrite with all their pageant sweeping along the dim horizon.
A day or two of such fanciful voyaging, brought us in sight
of the Bermudas, which first looked like mere summer clouds,
peering above the quiet ocean. All day we glided along in sight
of them, with just wind enough to fill our sails; and never did
land appear more lovely. They were clad in emerald verdure, beneath
the serenest of skies: not an angry wave broke upon their
quiet shores, and small fishing craft, riding on the crystal waves,
seemed as if hung in air. It was such a scene that Fletcher pictured
to himself, when he extolled the halcyon lot of the fisherman:
Ah! would thou knewest how much it better were
To bide among the simple fisher-swains:
No shrieking owl, no night-crow lodgeth here,
Nor is our simple pleasure mixed with pains.
Our sports begin with the beginning year;
In calms, to pull the leaping fish to land,
In roughs, to sing and dance along the yellow sand.
In contemplating these beautiful islands, and the peaceful sea
around them, I could hardly realize that these were the “still
vexed Bermoothes” of Shakspeare, once the dread of mariners,
and infamous in the narratives of the early discoverers, for the
dangers and disasters which beset them. Such, however, was the
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case; and the islands derived additional interest in my eyes, from
fancying that I could trace in their early history, and in the superstitious
notions connected with them, some of the elements of
Shakspeare's wild and beautiful drama of the Tempest. I shall
take the liberty of citing a few historical facts, in support of this
idea, which may claim some additional attention from the American
reader, as being connected with the first settlement of Virginia.
At the time when Shakspeare was in the fulness of his talent,
and seizing upon every thing that could furnish aliment to his imagination,
the colonization of Virginia was a favorite object of
enterprise among people of condition in England, and several of
the courtiers of the court of Queen Elizabeth were personally engaged
in it. In the year 1609, a noble armament of nine ships
and five hundred men sailed for the relief of the colony. It was
commanded by Sir George Somers, as admiral, a gallant and generous
gentleman, above sixty years of age, and possessed of an
ample fortune, yet still bent upon hardy enterprise, and ambitious
of signalizing himself in the service of his country.
On board of his flag-ship, the Sea-Vulture, sailed also Sir
Thomas Gates, lieutenant-general of the colony. The voyage was
long and boisterous. On the twenty-fifth of July, the admiral's
ship was separated from the rest in a hurricane. For several
days she was driven about at the mercy of the elements, and so
strained and racked, that her seams yawned open, and her hold
was half filled with water. The storm subsided, but left her a
mere foundering wreck. The crew stood in the hold to their
waists in water, vainly endeavoring to bail her with kettles,
buckets, and other vessels. The leaks rapidly gained on them,
while their strength was as rapidly declining. They lost all hope
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of keeping the ship afloat, until they should reach the American
coast; and wearied with fruitless toil, determined, in their despair,
to give up all farther attempt, shut down the hatches, and abandon
themselves to Providence. Some, who had spirituous liquors, or
“comfortable waters,” as the old record quaintly terms them,
brought them forth, and shared them with their comrades, and
they all drank a sad farewell to one another, as men who were
soon to part company in this world.
In this moment of extremity, the worthy admiral, who kept
sleepless watch from the high stern of the vessel, gave the thrilling
cry of “land!” All rushed on deck, in a frenzy of joy, and
nothing now was to be seen or heard on board, but the transports
of men who felt as if rescued from the grave. It is true the land
in sight would not, in ordinary circumstances, have inspired much
self-gratulation. It could be nothing else but the group of islands
called after their discoverer, one Juan Bermudas, a Spaniard,
but stigmatized among the mariners of those days as “the
islands of devils!” “For the islands of the Bermudas,” says
the old narrative of this voyage, “as every man knoweth that
hath heard or read of them, were never inhabited by any christian
or heathen people, but were ever esteemed and reputed a
most prodigious and inchanted place, affording nothing but gusts,
stormes, and foul weather, which made every navigator and mariner
to avoide them as Scylla and Charybdis, or as they would
shun the Divell himself.”*
Sir George Somers and his tempest-tossed comrades, however,
hailed them with rapture, as if they had been a terrestrial paradise.
Every sail was spread, and every exertion made to urge
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the foundering ship to land. Before long, she struck upon a rock.
Fortunately, the late stormy winds had subsided, and there was
no surf. A swelling wave lifted her from off the rock, and bore
her to another; and thus she was borne on from rock to rock,
until she remained wedged between two, as firmly as if set upon
the stocks. The boats were immediately lowered, and, though
the shore was above a mile distant, the whole crew were landed
in safety.
Every one had now his task assigned him. Some made all
haste to unload the ship, before she should go to pieces; some
constructed wigwams of palmetto leaves, and others ranged the
island in quest of wood and water. To their surprise and joy,
they found it far different from the desolate and frightful place
they had been taught by seamen's stories to expect. It was well
wooded and fertile; there were birds of various kinds, and herds
of swine roaming about, the progeny of a number that had swum
ashore, in former years, from a Spanish wreck. The island
abounded with turtle, and great quantities of their eggs were to
be found among the rocks. The bays and inlets were full of fish;
so tame, that if any one stepped into the water, they would
throng around him. Sir George Somers, in a little while, caught
enough with hook and line to furnish a meal to his whole ship's
company. Some of them were so large, that two were as much
as a man could carry. Craw-fish, also, were taken in abundance.
The air was soft and salubrious, and the sky beautifully serene.
Waller, in his “Summer Islands,' has given us a faithful picture
of the climate:
“For the kind spring, (which but salutes us here,)
Inhabits these, and courts them all the year:
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Ripe fruits and blossoms on the same trees live;
At once they promise, and at once they give:
So sweet the air, so moderate the clime,
None sickly lives, or dies before his time.
Heaven sure has kept this spot of earth uncursed,
To show how all things were created first.”
We may imagine the feelings of the shipwrecked mariners, on
finding themselves cast by stormy seas upon so happy a coast;
where abundance was to be had without labor; where what in
other climes constituted the costly luxuries of the rich, were within
every man's reach; and where life promised to be a mere holiday.
Many of the common sailors, especially, declared they desired
no better lot than to pass the rest of their lives on this favored
island.
The commanders, however, were not so ready to console themselves
with mere physical comforts, for the severance from the
enjoyment of cultivated life, and all the objects of honorable ambition.
Despairing of the arrival of any chance ship on these
shunned and dreaded islands, they fitted out the long-boat, making
a deck of the ship's hatches, and having manned her with
eight picked men, despatched her, under the command of an able
and hardy mariner, named Raven, to proceed to Virginia, and
procure shipping to be sent to their relief.
While waiting in anxious idleness for the arrival of the looked-for
aid, dissensions arose between Sir George Somers and Sir
Thomas Gates, originating, very probably, in jealousy of the lead
which the nautical experience and professional station of the admiral
gave him in the present emergency. Each commander of
course had his adherents: these dissensions ripened into a
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complete schism; and this handful of shipwrecked men, thus thrown
together on an uninhabited island, separated into two parties, and
lived asunder in bitter feud, as men rendered fickle by prosperity,
instead of being brought into brotherhood by a common calamity.
Weeks and months elapsed, without bringing the looked-for
aid from Virginia, though that colony was within but a few days'
sail. Fears were now entertained that the long-boat had been
either swallowed up in the sea, or wrecked on some savage coast;
one or other of which most probably was the case, as nothing was
ever heard of Raven and his comrades.
Each party now set to work to build a vessel for itself out of
the cedar with which the island abounded. The wreck of the
Sea-Vulture furnished rigging, and various other articles; but
they had no iron for bolts, and other fastenings; and for want of
pitch and tar, they payed the seams of their vessels with lime and
turtle's oil, which soon dried, and became as hard as stone.
On the tenth of may, 1610, they set sail, having been about
nine months on the island. They reached Virginia without farther
accident, but found the colony in great distress for provisions.
The account that they gave of the abundance that reigned in the
Bermudas, and especially of the herds of swine that roamed the
island, determined Lord Delaware, the governor of Virginia, to
send thither for supplies. Sir George Somers, with his wonted
promptness and generosity, offered to undertake what was still
considered a dangerous voyage. Accordingly on the nineteenth
of June, he set sail, in his own cedar vessel of thirty tons, accompanied
by another small vessel, commanded by Captain Argall.
The gallant Somers was doomed again to be tempest-tossed.
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His companion vessel was soon driven back to port, but he kept
the sea; and, as usual, remained at his post on deck, in all weathers.
His voyage was long and boisterous, and the fatigues and
exposures which he underwent, were too much for a frame impaired
by age, and by previous hardships. He arrived at Bermudas
completely exhausted and broken down.
His nephew, Captain Matthew Somers, attended him in his
illness with affectionate assiduity. Finding his end approaching,
the veteran called his men together, and exhorted them to be true
to the interests of Virginia; to procure provisions, with all possible
despatch, and hasten back to the relief of the colony.
With this dying charge, he gave up the ghost, leaving his nephew
and crew overwhelmed with grief and consternation. Their
first thought was to pay honor to his remains. Opening the body,
they took out the heart and entrails, and buried them, erecting a
cross over the grave. They then embalmed the body, and set sail
with it for England; thus, while paying empty honors to their
deceased commander, neglecting his earnest wish and dying injunction,
that they should return with relief to Virginia.
The little bark arrived safely at Whitechurch in Dorsetshire,
with its melancholy freight. The body of the worthy Somers
was interred with the military honors due to a brave soldier, and
many volleys fired over his grave. The Bermudas have since received
the name of the Somer Islands, as a tribute to his memory.
The accounts given by Captain Matthew Somers and his crew
of the delightful climate, and the great beauty, fertility, and
abundance of these islands, excited the zeal of enthusiasts, and
the cupidity of speculators, and a plan was set on foot to colonize
-- 109 -- p615-116
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them. The Virginia company sold their right to the islands to
one hundred and twenty of their own members, who erected
themselves into a distinct corporation, under the name of the “Somer
Island Society;” and Mr. Richard More was sent out, in
1612, as governor, with sixty men, to found a colony: and this
leads me to the second branch of this research.
At the time that Sir George Somers was preparing to launch
his cedar-built bark, and sail for Virginia, there were three culprits
among his men, who had been guilty of capital offences.
One of them was shot; the others, named Christopher Carter
and Edward Waters, escaped. Waters, indeed, made a very narrow
escape, for he had actually been tied to a tree to be executed,
but cut the rope with a knife, which he had concealed about his
person, and fled to the woods, where he was joined by Carter.
These two worthies kept themselves concealed in the secret parts
of the island, until the departure of the two vessels. When Sir
George Somers revisited the island, in quest of supplies for the
Virginia colony, these culprits hovered about the landing-place,
and succeeded in persuading another seaman, named Edward
Chard, to join them, giving him the most seductive picture of the
ease and abundance in which they revelled.
When the bark that bore Sir George's body to England had
faded from the watery horizon, these three vagabonds walked
forth in their majesty and might, the lords and sole inhabitants
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of these islands. For a time their little commonwealth went on
prosperously and happily. They built a house, sowed corn, and
the seeds of various fruits; and having plenty of hogs, wild fowl,
and fish of all kinds, with turtle in abundance, carried on their
tripartite sovereignty with great harmony and much feasting. All
kingdoms, however, are doomed to revolution, convulsion, or decay;
and so it fared with the empire of the three kings of Bermuda,
albeit they were monarchs without subjects. In an evil
hour, in their search after turtle, among the fissures of the rocks,
they came upon a great treasure of ambergris, which had been
cast on shore by the ocean. Besides a number of pieces of
smaller dimensions, there was one great mass, the largest that
had ever been known, weighing eighty pounds, and which of itself,
according to the market value of ambergris in those days, was
worth about nine or ten thousand pounds.
From that moment the happiness and harmony of the three
kings of Bermuda were gone for ever. While poor devils, with
nothing to share but the common blessings of the island, which
administered to present enjoyment, but had nothing of convertible
value, they were loving and united; but here was actual wealth,
which would make them rich men, whenever they could transport
it to market.
Adieu the delights of the island! They now became flat and
insipid. Each pictured to himself the consequence he might now
aspire to, in civilized life, could he once get there with this mass
of ambergris. No longer a poor Jack Tar, frolicking in the low
taverns of Wapping, he might roll through London in his coach,
and perchance arrive, like Whittington, at the dignity of Lord
Mayor.
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With riches came envy and covetousness. Each was now for
assuming the supreme power, and getting the monopoly of the
ambergris. A civil war at length broke out: Chard and Waters
defied each other to mortal combat, and the kingdom of the Bermudas
was on the point of being deluged with royal blood. Fortunately,
Carter took no part in the bloody feud. Ambition might have
made him view it with secret exultation; for if either or both of
his brother potentates were slain in the conflict, he would be a
gainer in purse and ambergris. But he dreaded to be left alone
in this uninhabited island, and to find himself the monarch of a
solitude: so he secretly purloined and hid the weapons of the
belligerent rivals, who, having no means of carrying on the war,
gradually cooled down into a sullen armistice.
The arrival of Governor More, with an overpowering force of
sixty men, put an end to the empire. He took possession of the
kingdom, in the name of the Somer Island Company, and forthwith
proceeded to make a settlement. The three kings tacitly relinquished
their sway, but stood up stoutly for their treasure. It
was determined, however, that they had been fitted out at the expense,
and employed in the service, of the Virginia Company;
that they had found the ambergris while in the service of that
company, and on that company's land; that the ambergris therefore
belonged to that company, or rather to the Somer Island
Company, in consequence of their recent purchase of the island,
and all their appurtenances. Having thus legally established
their right, and being moreover able to back it by might, the
company laid the lion's paw upon the spoil; and nothing more
remains on historic record of the Three Kings of Bermuda, and
their treasure of ambergris.
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The reader will now determine whether I am more extravagant
than most of the commentators on Shakespeare, in my surmise
that the story of Sir George Somers' shipwreck, and the subsequent
occurrences that took place on the uninhabited island
may have furnished the bard with some of the elements of his
drama of the Tempest. The tidings of the shipwreck, and of
the incidents connected with it, reached England not long before
the production of this drama, and made a great sensation there.
A narrative of the whole matter, from which most of the foregoing
particulars are extracted, was published at the time in London,
in a pamphlet form, and could not fail to be eagarly perused
by Shakespeare, and to make a vivid impression on his fancy.
His expression, in the Tempest, of “the still vext Bermoothes,”
accords exactly with the storm-beaten character of those islands.
The enchantments, too, with which he has clothed the island of
Prospero, may they not be traced to the wild and superstitious
notions entertained about the Bermudas? I have already cited
two passages from a pamphlet published at the time, showing
that they were esteemed “a most prodigious and inchanted place,”
and the “habitation of divells;” and another pamphlet, published
shortly afterward, observes: “And whereas it is reported that
this land of the Barmudas, with the islands about, (which are
many, at least an hundred), are inchanted, and kept with evil and
wicked spirits, it is a most idle false report.”*
The description, too, given in the same pamphlets, of the real
beauty and fertility of the Bermudas, and of their serene and
-- 113 --
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happy climate, so opposite to the dangerous and inhospitable character
with which they had been stigmatized, accords with the eulogium
of Sebastian on the island of Prospero.
“Though this island seem to be desert, uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,
it must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate temperance. The
air breathes upon us here most sweetly. Here is every thing advantageous
to life. How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!”
I think too, in the exulting consciousness of ease, security,
and abundance, felt by the late tempest-tossed mariners, while
revelling in the plenteousness of the island, and their inclination
to remain there, released from the labors, the cares, and the artificial
restraints of civilized life, I can see something of the golden
commonwealth of honest Gonzalo:
“Had I a plantation of this isle, my lord,
And were the king of it, what would I do?
I' the commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things: for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate:
Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,
And use of service, none; contract, succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none:
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil:
No occupation; all men idle, all.
All things in common, nature should produce,
Without sweat or endeavor: Treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,
Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,
Of its own kind all foizon, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people.”
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But above all, in the three fugitive vagabonds who remained
in possession of the island of Bermuda, on the departure of their
comrades, and in their squabbles about supremacy, on the finding
of their treasure, I see typified Sebastian, Trinculo, and their
worthy companion Caliban:
“Trinculo, the king and all our company being drowned, we will inherit
here.”
“Monster, I will kill this man; his daughter and I will be king and
queen, (save our graces!) and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys.”
I do not mean to hold up the incidents and characters in the
narrative and in the play as parallel, or as being strikingly similar:
neither would I insinuate that the narrative suggested the
play; I would only suppose that Shakespeare, being occupied
about that time on the drama of the Tempest, the main story of
which, I believe, is of Italian origin, had many of the fanciful
ideas of it suggested to his mind by the shipwreck of Sir George
Somers on the “still vext Bermoothes,” and by the popular superstitions
connected with these islands, and suddenly put in circulation
by that event.
eaf615n7* “Newes from the Barmudas:” 1612.
eaf615n6* “A Plaine Description of the Barmudas.”
-- -- p615-122
THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL, OR A JUDICIAL TRIAL BY COMBAT.
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The world is daily growing older and wiser. Its institutions
vary with its years, and mark its growing wisdom; and none
more so than its modes of investigating truth, and ascertaining
guilt or innocence. In its nonage, when man was yet a fallible
being, and doubted the accuracy of his own intellect, appeals
were made to heaven in dark and doubtful cases of atrocious accusation.
The accused was required to plunge his hand in boiling oil, or
to walk across red-hot ploughshares, or to maintain his innocence
in armed fight and listed field, in person or by champion. If he
passed these ordeals unscathed, he stood acquitted, and the result
was regarded as a verdict from on high.
It is somewhat remarkable that, in the gallant age of chivalry,
the gentler sex should have been most frequently the subjects
of these rude trials and perilous ordeals; and that, too, when assailed
in their most delicate and vulnerable part—their honor.
In the present very old and enlightened age of the world,
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when the human intellect is perfectly competent to the management
of its own concerns, and needs no special interposition of
heaven in its affairs, the trial by jury has superseded these superhuman
ordeals; and the unanimity of twelve discordant minds is
necessary to constitute a verdict. Such a unanimity would, at
first sight, appear also to require a miracle from heaven; but
it is produced by a simple device of human ingenuity. The
twelve jurors are locked up in their box, there to fast until abstinence
shall have so clarified their intellects that the whole jarring
panel can discern the truth, and concur in a unanimous decision.
One point is certain, that truth is one, and is immutable—
until the jurors all agree, they cannot all be right.
It is not our intention, however, to discuss this great judicial
point, or to question the avowed superiority of the mode of investigating
truth, adopted in this antiquated and very sagacious
era. It is our object merely to exhibit to the curious reader, one
of the most memorable cases of judicial combat we find in the annals
of Spain. It occurred at the bright commencement of the
reign, and in the youthful, and, as yet, glorious days, of Roderick
the Goth; who subsequently tarnished his fame at home by his
misdeeds, and, finally, lost his kingdom and his life on the banks
of the Guadalete, in that disastrous battle which gave up Spain a
conquest to the Moors. The following is the story:—
There was once upon a time a certain duke of Lorraine, who
was acknowledged throughout his domains to be one of the wisest
princes that ever lived. In fact, there was no one measure adopted
by him that did not astonish his privy counsellors and gentlemen
in attendance; and he said such witty things, and made such
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sensible speeches, that the jaws of his high chamberlain were
well nigh dislocated from laughing with delight at one, and gaping
with wonderat the other.
This very witty and exceedingly wise potentate lived for half
a century in single-blessedness; at length his courtiers began to
think it a great pity so wise and wealthy a prince should not have
a child after his own likeness, to inherit his talents and domains;
so they urged him most respectfully to marry, for the good of his
estate, and the welfare of his subjects.
He turned their advice over in his mind some four or five
years, and then sent forth emissaries to summon to his court all
the beautiful maidens in the land, who were ambitious of sharing a
ducal crown. The court was soon crowded with beauties of all
styles and complexions, from among whom he chose one in the
earliest budding of her charms, and acknowledged by all the
gentlemen to be unparalleled for grace and loveliness. The courtiers
extolled the duke to the skies for making such a choice, and
considered it another proof of his great wisdom. “The duke,”
said they, “is waxing a little too old, the damsel, on the other
hand, is a little too young; if one is lacking in years, the other
has a superabundance; thus a want on one side, is balanced by an
excess on the other, and the result is a well-assorted marriage.”
The duke, as is often the case with wise men who marry
rather late, and take damsels rather youthful to their bosoms, became
dotingly fond of his wife, and very properly indulged her in
all things. He was, consequently, cried up by his subjects in
general, and by the ladies in particular, as a pattern for husbands;
and, in the end, from the wonderful docility with which
he submitted to be reined and checked, acquired the amiable and
enviable appellation of Duke Philibert the wife-ridden.
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There was only one thing that disturbed the conjugal felicity
of this paragon of husbands—though a considerable time elapsed
after his marriage, there was still no prospect of an heir. The good
duke left no means untried to propitiate Heaven. He made vows
and pilgrimages, he fasted and he prayed, but all to no purpose.
The courtiers were all astonished at the circumstance. They
could not account for it. While the meanest peasant in the
country had sturdy brats by dozens, without putting up a prayer,
the duke wore himself to skin and bone with penances and fastings,
yet seemed farther off from his object than ever.
At length, the worthy prince fell dangerously ill, and felt his
end approaching. He looked sorrowfully and dubiously upon his
young and tender spouse, who hung over him with tears and sobbings.
“Alas!” said he, “tears are soon dried from youthful
eyes, and sorrow lies lightly on a youthful heart. In a little
while thou wilt forget in the arms of another husband him who
has loved thee so tenderly.”
“Never! never!” cried the duchess. “Never will I cleave
to another! Alas, that my lord should think me capable of such
inconstancy!”
The worthy and wife-ridden duke was soothed by her assurances;
for he could not brook the thought of giving her up even
after he should be dead. Still he wished to have some pledge of
her enduring constancy:
“Far be it from me, my dearest wife,” said he, “to control
thee through a long life. A year and a day of strict fidelity will
appease my troubled spirit. Promise to remain faithful to my
memory for a year and a day, and I will die in peace.”
The duchess made a solemn vow to that effect, but the
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uxorious feelings of the duke were not yet satisfied. “Safe bind, safe
find,” thought he; so he made a will, bequeathing to her all his
domains, on condition of her remaining true to him for a year and
a day after his decease; but, should it appear that, within that
time, she had in anywise lapsed from her fidelity, the inheritance
should go to his nephew, the lord of a neighboring territory.
Having made his will, the good duke died and was buried.
Scarcely was he in his tomb, when his nephew came to take possession,
thinking, as his uncle had died without issue, the domains
would be devised to him of course. He was in a furious
passion, when the will was produced, and the young widow declared
inheritor of the dukedom. As he was a violent, highhanded
man, and one of the sturdiest knights in the land, fears
were entertained that he might attempt to seize on the territories
by force. He had, however, two bachelor uncles for bosom counsellors,—
swaggering rakehelly old cavaliers, who, having led loose
and riotous lives, prided themselves upon knowing the world, and
being deeply experienced in human nature. “Prithee, man, be
of good cheer,” said they, “the duchess is a young and buxom
widow. She has just buried our brother, who, God rest his soul!
was somewhat too much given to praying and fasting, and kept
his pretty wife always tied to his girdle. She is now like a bird
from a cage. Think you she will keep her vow? Pooh, pooh—
impossible!—Take our words for it—we know mankind, and,
ahove all, womankind. She cannot hold out for such a length of
time; it is not in womanhood—it is not in widowhood—we
know it, and that's enough. Keep a sharp look-out upon the
widow, therefore, and within the twelvemonth you will catch her
tripping—and then the dukedom is your own.”
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The nephew was pleased with this counsel, and immediately
placed spies round the duchess, and bribed several of her servants
to keep watch upon her, so that she could not take a single step,
even from one apartment of her palace to another, without being
observed. Never was young and beautiful widow exposed to so
terrible an ordeal.
The duchess was aware of the watch thus kept upon her.
Though confident of her own rectitude, she knew that it is not
enough for a woman to be virtuous—she must be above the reach
of slander. For the whole term of her probation, therefore, she
proclaimed a strict non-intercourse with the other sex. She had
females for cabinet ministers and chamberlains, through whom she
transacted all her public and private concerns; and it is said that
never were the affairs of the dukedom so adroitly administered.
All males were rigorously excluded from the palace; she
never went out of its precincts, and whenever she moved about its
courts and gardens, she surrounded herself with a body-guard of
young maids of honor, commanded by dames renowned for discretion.
She slept in a bed without curtains, placed in the centre
of a room illuminated by innumerable wax tapers. Four ancient
spinsters, virtuous as Virginia, perfect dragons of watchfulness,
who only slept during the daytime, kept vigils throughout the
night, seated in the four corners of the room on stools without
backs or arms, and with seats cut in checkers of the hardest
wood, to keep them from dozing.
Thus wisely and warily did the young duchess conduct herself
for twelve long months, and slander almost bit her tongue off
in despair, at finding no room even for a surmise. Never was
ordeal more burdensome, or more enduringly sustained.
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The year passed away. The last, odd day arrived, and a long,
long day it was. It was the twenty-first of June, the longest day
in the year. It seemed as if it would never come to an end. A
thousand times did the duchess and her ladies watch the sun from
the windows of the palace, as he slowly climbed the vault of
heaven, and seemed still more slowly to roll down. They could
not help expressing their wonder, now and then, why the duke
should have tagged this supernumerary day to the end of the
year, as if three hundred and sixty-five days were not sufficient to
try and task the fidelity of any woman. It is the last grain that
turns the scale—the last drop that overflows the goblet—and the
last moment of delay that exhausts the patience. By the time
the sun sank below the horizon, the duchess was in a fidget that
passed all bounds, and, though several hours were yet to pass
before the day regularly expired, she could not have remained
those hours in durance to gain a royal crown, much less a ducal
coronet. So she gave orders, and her palfrey, magnificently
caparisoned, was brought into the court-yard of the castle, with
palfreys for all her ladies in attendance. In this way she sallied
forth, just as the sun had gone down. It was a mission of piety—
a pilgrim cavalcade to a convent at the foot of a neighboring
mountain—to return thanks to the blessed Virgin, for having
sustained her through this fearful ordeal.
The orisons performed, the duchess and her ladies returned,
ambling gently along the border of a forest. It was about that
mellow hour of twilight when night and day are mingled, and
all objects are indistinct. Suddenly, some monstrous animal
sprang from out a thicket, with fearful howlings. The female
body-guard was thrown into confusion, and fled different ways.
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It was some time before they recovered from their panic, and
gathered once more together; but the duchess was not to be
found. The greatest anxiety was felt for her safety. The hazy
mist of twilight had prevented their distinguishing perfectly the
animal which had affrighted them. Some thought it a wolf,
others a bear, others a wild man of the woods. For upwards of
an hour did they beleaguer the forest, without daring to venture
in, and were on the point of giving up the duchess as torn to
pieces and devoured, when, to their great joy, they beheld her
advancing in the gloom, supported by a stately cavalier.
He was a stranger knight, whom nobody knew. It was impossible
to distinguish his countenance in the dark; but all the
ladies agreed that he was of noble presence and captivating
address. He had rescued the duchess from the very fangs of the
monster, which, he assured the ladies, was neither a wolf, nor a
bear, nor yet a wild man of the woods, but a veritable fiery dragon,
a species of monster peculiarly hostile to beautiful females in the
days of chivalry, and which all the efforts of knight-errantry had
not been able to extirpate.
The ladies crossed themselves when they heard of the danger
from which they had escaped, and could not enough admire the gallantry
of the cavalier. The duchess would fain have prevailed on
her deliverer to accompany her to her court; but he had no time
to spare, being a knight-errant, who had many adventures on hand,
and many distressed damsels and afflicted widows to rescue and
relieve in various parts of the country. Taking a respectful leave,
therefore, he pursued his wayfaring, and the duchess and her train
returned to the palace. Throughout the whole way, the ladies
were unwearied in chanting the praises of the stranger knight;
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nay, many of them would willingly have incurred the danger of
the dragon to have enjoyed the happy deliverance of the duchess.
As to the latter, she rode pensively along, but said nothing.
No sooner was the adventure of the wood made public,
than a whirlwind was raised about the ears of the beautiful duchess.
The blustering nephew of the deceased duke went about, armed to
the teeth, with a swaggering uncle at each shoulder, ready to back
him, and swore the duchess had forfeited her domain. It was in
vain that she called all the saints, and angels, and her ladies in
attendance into the bargain, to witness that she had passed a year
and a day of immaculate fidelity. One fatal hour remained to be
accounted for; and into the space of one little hour sins enough
may be conjured up by evil tongues, to blast the fame of a whole
life of virtue.
The two graceless uncles, who had seen the world, were ever
ready to bolster the matter through, and as they were brawny,
broad-shouldered warriors, and veterans in brawl as well as
debauch, they had great sway with the multitude. If any one
pretended to assert the innocence of the duchess, they interrupted
him with a loud ha! ha! of derision. “A pretty story, truly,”
would they cry, “about a wolf and a dragon, and a young widow
rescued in the dark by a sturdy varlet, who dares not show his face
in the daylight. You may tell that to those who do not know
human nature; for our parts, we know the sex, and that's enough.”
If, however, the other repeated his assertion, they would suddenly
knit their brows, swell, look big, and put their hands upon
their swords. As few people like to fight in a cause that does
not touch their own interests, the nephew and the uncles were
suffered to have their way, and swagger uncontradicted.
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The matter was at length referred to a tribunal composed of
all the dignitaries of the dukedom, and many and repeated consultations
were held. The character of the duchess, throughout
the year was as bright and spotless as the moon in a cloudless
night; one fatal hour of darkness alone intervened to eclipse its
brightness. Finding human sagacity incapable of dispelling the
mystery, it was determined to leave the question to Heaven; or
in other words, to decide it by the ordeal of the sword—a sage
tribunal in the age of chivalry. The nephew and two bully uncles
were to maintain their accusation in listed combat, and six months
were allowed to the duchess to provide herself with three champions,
to meet them in the field. Should she fail in this, or should
her champions be vanquished, her honor would be considered as
attainted, her fidelity as forfeit, and her dukedom would go to the
nephew, as a matter of right.
With this determination the duchess was fain to comply. Proclamations
were accordingly made, and heralds sent to various
parts; but day after day, week after week, and month after month,
elapsed, without any champion appearing to assert her loyalty
throughout that darksome hour. The fair widow was reduced to
despair, when tidings reached her of grand tournaments to be
held at Toledo, in celebration of the nuptials of Don Roderick,
the last of the Gothic kings, with the Morisco princess Exilona.
As a last resort, the duchess repaired to the Spanish court, to implore
the gallantry of its assembled chivalry.
The ancient city of Toledo was a scene of gorgeous revelry
on the event of the royal nuptials. The youthful king, brave,
ardent, and magnificent, and his lovely bride, beaming with all
the radiant beauty of the east, were hailed with shouts and
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acclamations whenever they appeared. Their nobles vied with each
other in the luxury of their attire, their prancing steeds, and
splendid retinues; and the haughty dames of the court appeared
in a blaze of jewels.
In the midst of all this pageantry, the beautiful, but afflicted
Duchess of Lorraine made her approach to the throne. She was
dressed in black, and closely veiled; four duennas of the most
staid and severe aspect, and six beautiful demoiselles, formed her
female attendants. She was guarded by several very ancient,
withered, and grayheaded cavaliers; and her train was borne by
one of the most deformed and diminutive dwarfs in existence.
Advancing to the foot of the throne, she knelt down, and,
throwing up her veil, revealed a countenance so beautiful that
half the courtiers present were ready to renounce wives and mistresses,
and devote themselves to her service; but when she made
known that she came in quest of champions to defend her fame,
every cavalier pressed forward to offer his arm and sword, without
inquiring into the merits of the case; for it seemed clear that so
beauteous a lady could have done nothing but what was right; and
that, at any rate, she ought to be championed in following the
bent of her humors, whether right or wrong.
Encouraged by such gallant zeal, the duchess suffered herself
to be raised from the ground, and related the whole story of
her distress. When she concluded, the king remained for some
time silent, charmed by the music of her voice. At length: “As
I hope for salvation, most beautiful duchess,” said he, “were I
not a sovereign king, and bound in duty to my kingdom, I myself
would put lance in rest to vindicate your cause; as it is, I here
give full permission to my knights, and promise lists and a fair
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field, and that the contest shall take place before the walls of
Toledo, in presence of my assembled court.”
As soon as the pleasure of the king was known, there was a
strife among the cavaliers present, for the honor of the contest.
It was decided by lot, and the successful candidates were objects
of great envy, for every one was ambitious of finding favor in the
eyes of the beautiful widow.
Missives were sent, summoning the nephew and his two
uncles to Toledo, to maintain their accusation, and a day was appointed
for the combat. When the day arrived, all Toledo was
in commotion at an early hour. The lists had been prepared in
the usual place, just without the walls, at the foot of the rugged
rocks on which the city is built, and on that beautiful meadow
along the Tagus, known by the name of the king's garden. The
populace had already assembled, each one eager to secure a favorable
place; the balconies were filled with the ladies of the
court, clad in their richest attire, and bands of youthful knights,
splendidly armed and decorated with their ladies' devices, were managing
their superbly caparisoned steeds about the field. The king
at length came forth in state, accompanied by the queen Exilona.
They took their seats in a raised balcony, under a canopy of rich
damask; and, at sight of them, the people rent the air with acclamations.
The nephew and his uncles now rode into the field, armed
cap-a-pie, and followed by a train of cavaliers of their own
roystering cast, great swearers and carousers, arrant swashbucklers,
with clanking armor and jingling spurs. When the people of
Toledo beheld the vaunting and discourteous appearance of these
knights, they were more anxious than ever for the success of the
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gentle duchess; but, at the same time, the sturdy and stalwart
frames of these warriors, showed that whoever won the victory
from them, must do it at the cost of many a bitter blow.
As the nephew and his riotous crew rode in at one side of the
field, the fair widow appeared at the other, with her suite of grave
grayheaded courtiers, her ancient duennas and dainty demoiselles,
and the little dwarf toiling along under the weight of her train.
Every one made way for her as she passed, and blessed her beautiful
face, and prayed for success to her cause. She took her seat
in a lower balcony, not far from the sovereigns; and her pale face,
set off by her mourning weeds, was as the moon, shining forth
from among the clouds of night.
The trumpets sounded for the combat. The warriors were
just entering the lists, when a stranger knight, armed in panoply,
and followed by two pages and an esquire, came galloping into the
field, and, riding up to the royal balcony, claimed the combat as a
matter of right.
“In me,” cried he, “behold the cavalier who had the happiness
to rescue the beautiful duchess from the peril of the forest,
and the misfortune to bring on her this grievous calumny. It
was but recently, in the course of my errantry, that tidings of her
wrongs have reached my ears, and I have urged hither at all
speed, to stand forth in her vindication.”
No sooner did the duchess hear the accents of the knight than
she recognized his voice, and joined her prayers with his that he
might enter the lists. The difficulty was, to determine which of
the three champions already appointed should yield his place,
each insisting on the honor of the combat. The stranger knight
would have settled the point, by taking the whole contest upon
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himself; but this the other knights would not permit. It was at
length determined, as before, by lot, and the cavalier who lost the
chance retired murmuring and disconsolate.
The trumpets again sounded — the lists were opened. The
arrogant nephew and his two drawcansir uncles appeared so completely
cased in steel, that they and their steeds were like moving
masses of iron. When they understood the stranger knight to be
the same that had rescued the duchess from her peril, they greeted
him with the most boisterous derision:
“O ho! sir Knight of the Dragon,” said they, “you who pretend
to champion fair widows in the dark, come on, and vindicate
your deeds of darkness in the open day.”
The only reply of the cavalier was, to put lance in rest, and
brace himself for the encounter. Needless is it to relate the particulars
of a battle, which was like so many hundred combats that
have been said and sung in prose and verse. Who is there but
must have foreseen the event of a contest, where Heaven had to
decide on the guilt or innocence of the most beautiful and immaculate
of widows?
The sagacious reader, deeply read in this kind of judicial combats,
can imagine the encounter of the graceless nephew and the
stranger knight. He sees their concussion, man to man, and horse
to horse, in mid career, and sir Graceless hurled to the ground,
and slain. He will not wonder that the assailants of the brawny
uncles were less successful in their rude encounter; but he will
picture to himself the stout stranger spurring to their rescue, in
the very critical moment; he will see him transfixing one with his
lance, and cleaving the other to the chine with a back stroke of
his sword, thus leaving the trio of accusers dead upon the field,
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and establishing the immaculate fidelity of the duchess, and her
title to the dukedom, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
The air rang with acclamations; nothing was heard but
praises of the beauty and virtue of the duchess, and of the prowess
of the stranger knight; but the public joy was still more increased
when the champion raised his visor, and revealed the countenance
of one of the bravest cavaliers of Spain, renowned for his gallantry
in the service of the sex, and who had been round the world in
quest of similar adventures.
That worthy knight, however, was severely wounded, and remained
for a long time ill of his wounds. The lovely duchess,
grateful for having twice owed her protection to his arm, attended
him daily during his illness; and finally rewarded his gallantry
with her hand.
The king would fain have had the knight establish his title to
such high advancement by farther deeds of arms; but his courtiers
declared that he already merited the lady, by thus vindicating
her fame and fortune in a deadly combat to outrance; and
the lady herself hinted that she was perfectly satisfied of his
prowess in arms, from the proofs she had received in his achievement
in the forest.
Their nuptials were celebrated with great magnificence. The
present husband of the duchess did not pray and fast like his predecessor,
Philibert the wife-ridden; yet he found greater favor in
the eyes of Heaven, for their union was blessed with a numerous
progeny—the daughters chaste and beauteous as their mother;
the sons stout and valiant as their sire, and renowned, like him,
for relieving disconsolate damsels and desolated widows.
-- -- p615-137
THE KNIGHT OF MALTA.
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In the course of a tour in Sicily, in the days of my juvenility,
I passed some little time at the ancient city of Catania, at the
foot of Mount Ætna. Here I became acquainted with the Chevalier
L—, an old knight of Malta. It was not many years
after the time that Napoleon had dislodged the knights from
their island, and he still wore the insignia of his order. He was
not, however, one of those reliques of that once chivalrous body,
who have been described as “a few worn-out old men, creeping
about certain parts of Europe, with the Maltese cross on their
breasts;” on the contrary, though advanced in life, his form was
still light and vigorous: he had a pale, thin, intellectual visage,
with a high forehead, and a bright, visionary eye. He seemed
to take a fancy to me, as I certainly did to him, and we soon became
intimate. I visited him occasionally, at his apartments, in
the wing of an old palace, looking toward Mount Ætna. He was
an antiquary, a virtuoso, and a connoisseur. His rooms were
decorated with mutilated statues, dug up from Grecian and Roman
ruins; old vases, lachrymals, and sepulchral lamps. He had
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astronomical and chemical instruments, and black-letter books, in
various languages. I found that he had dipped a little in chimerical
studies, and had a hankering after astrology and alchemy. He
affected to believe in dreams and visions, and delighted in the fanciful
Rosicrucian doctrines. I cannot persuade myself, however,
that he really believed in all these; I rather think he loved to let
his imagination carry him away into the boundless fairy land
which they unfolded.
In company with the chevalier, I made several excursions on
horseback about the environs of Catania, and the picturesque
skirts of Mount Ætna. One of these led through a village, which
had sprung up on the very track of an ancient eruption, the houses
being built of lava. At one time we passed, for some distance,
along a narrow lane, between two high dead convent walls. It
was a cut-throat looking place, in a country where assassinations
are frequent; and just about midway through it, we observed
blood upon the pavement and the walls, as if a murder had actually
been committed there.
The chevalier spurred on his horse, until he had extricated
himself completely from this suspicious neighborhood. He then
observed, that it reminded him of a similar blind alley in Malta,
infamous on account of the many assassinations that had taken
place there; concerning one of which, he related a long and tragical
story, that lasted until we reached Catania. It involved
various circumstances of a wild and supernatural character, but
which he assured me were handed down in tradition, and generally
credited by the old inhabitants of Malta.
As I like to pick up strange stories, and as I was particularly
struck with several parts of this, I made a minute of it, on my
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return to my lodgings. The memorandum was lost, with several
of my travelling papers, and the story had faded from my mind,
when recently, on perusing a French memoir, I came suddenly
upon it, dressed up, it is true, in a very different manner, but
agreeing in the leading facts, and given upon the word of that
famous adventurer, the Count Cagliostro.
I have amused myself, during a snowy day in the country, by
rendering it roughly into English, for the entertainment of a
youthful circle round the Christmas fire. It was well received by
my auditors, who, however, are rather easily pleased. One proof
of its merits is, that it sent some of the youngest of them quaking
to their beds, and gave them very fearful dreams. Hoping that
it may have the same effect upon the ghost-hunting reader, I
subjoin it. I would observe, that wherever I have modified the
French version of the story, it has been in conformity to some recollection
of the narrative of my friend, the Knight of Malta.
“Keep my wits, heaven! They say spirits appear
To melancholy minds, and the graves open!”
Fletcher.
About the middle of the last century, while the Knights of
Saint John of Jerusalem still maintained something of their ancient
state and sway in the island of Malta, a tragical event took place
there, which is the groundwork of the following narrative.
It may be as well to premise, that at the time we are treating
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of, the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, grown excessively
wealthy, had degenerated from its originally devout and warlike
character. Instead of being a hardy body of “monk-knights,”
sworn soldiers of the cross, fighting the Paynim in the Holy
Land, or scouring the Mediterranean, and scourging the Barbary
coasts with their galleys, or feeding the poor, and attending upon
the sick at their hospitals, they led a life of luxury and libertinism,
and were to be found in the most voluptuous courts of
Europe. The order, in fact, had become a mode of providing
for the needy branches of the Catholic aristocracy of Europe.
“A commandery,” we are told, was a splendid provision for a
younger brother; and men of rank, however dissolute, provided
they belonged to the highest aristocracy, became Knights of
Malta, just as they did bishops, or colonels of regiments, or court
chamberlains. After a brief residence at Malta, the knights
passed the rest of their time in their own countries, or only
made a visit now and then to the island. While there, having
but little military duty to perform, they beguiled their idleness
by paying attentions to the fair.
There was one circle of society, however, into which they
could not obtain currency. This was composed of a few families
of the old Maltese nobility, natives of the island. These families,
not being permitted to enroll any of their members in the order,
affected to hold no intercourse with its chevaliers; admitting
none into their exclusive coteries, but the Grand Master, whom
they acknowledged as their sovereign, and the members of the
chapter which composed his council.
To indemnify themselves for this exclusion, the chevaliers
carried their gallantries into the next class of society, composed
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of those who held civil, administrative, and judicial situations.
The ladies of this class were called honorate, or honorables, to
distinguish them from the inferior orders; and among them were
many of superior grace, beauty and fascination.
Even in this more hospitable class, the chevaliers were not all
equally favored. Those of Germany had the decided preference,
owing to their fair and fresh complexions, and the kindliness of
their manners: next to these, came the Spanish cavaliers, on
account of their profound and courteous devotion, and most discreet
secrecy. Singular as it may seem, the chevaliers of France
fared the worst. The Maltese ladies dreaded their volatility,
and their proneness to boast of their amours, and shunned all
entanglement with them. They were forced, therefore, to content
themselves with conquests among females of the lower orders.
They revenged themselves, after the gay French manner, by making
the “honorate” the objects of all kinds of jests and mystifications;
by prying into their tender affairs with the more favored
chevaliers and making them the theme of song and epigram.
About this time, a French vessel arrived at Malta, bringing
out a distinguished personage of the Order of Saint John of
Jerusalem, the Commander de Foulquerre, who came to solicit
the post of commander-in-chief of the galleys. He was descended
from an old and warrior line of French nobility, his ancestors
having long been seneschals of Poitou, and claiming descent from
the first Counts of Angouleme.
The arrival of the commander caused a little uneasiness
among the peaceably inclined, for he bore the character, in the
island, of being fiery, arrogant, and quarrelsome. He had
already been three times at Malta, and on each visit had
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signalized himself by some rash and deadly affray. As he was now
thirty-five years of age, however, it was hoped that time might
have taken off the fiery edge of his spirit, and that he might
prove more quiet and sedate than formerly. The commander set
up an establishment befitting his rank and pretensions; for he
arrogated to himself an importance greater even than that of
the Grand Master. His house immediately became the rallying
place of all the young French chevaliers. They informed him of
all the slights they had experienced or imagined, and indulged
their petulant and satirical vein at the expense of the honorate
and their admirers. The chevaliers of other nations soon found
the topics and tone of conversation at the commander's irksome
and offensive, and gradually ceased to visit there. The commander
remained at the head of a national clique, who looked up
to him as their model. If he was not as boisterous and quarrelsome
as formerly, he had become haughty and overbearing. He
was fond of talking over his past affairs of punctilio and bloody
duel. When walking the streets, he was generally attended by
a ruffling train of young French chevaliers, who caught his own
air of assumption and bravado. These he would conduct to the
scenes of his deadly encounters, point out the very spot where
each fatal lunge had been given, and dwell vaingloriously on
every particular.
Under his tuition, the young French chevaliers began to add
bluster and arrogance to their former petulance and levity; they
fired up on the most trivial occasions, particularly with those who
had been most successful with the fair; and would put on the
most intolerable drawcansir airs. The other chevaliers conducted
themselves with all possible forbearance and reserve; but they
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saw it would be impossible to keep on long, in this manner, without
coming to an open rupture.
Among the Spanish cavaliers, was one named Don Luis de
Lima Vasconcellos. He was distantly related to the Grand
Master; and had been enrolled at an early age among his pages,
but had been rapidly promoted by him, until, at the age of twenty-six,
he had been given the richest Spanish commandery in the
order. He had, moreover, been fortunate with the fair, with one
of whom, the most beautiful honorata of Malta, he had long
maintained the most tender correspondence.
The character, rank, and connections of Don Luis put him on
a par with the imperious Commander de Foulquerre, and pointed
him out as a leader and champion to his countrymen. The Spanish
cavaliers repaired to him, therefore, in a body; represented
all the grievances they had sustained, and the evils they apprehended,
and urged him to use his influence with the commander
and his adherents to put a stop to the growing abuses.
Don Luis was gratified by this mark of confidence and esteem,
on the part of his countrymen, and promised to have an interview
with the Commander de Foulquerre on the subject. He resolved
to conduct himself with the utmost caution and delicacy on the
occasion; to represent to the commander the evil consequences
which might result from the inconsiderate conduct of the young
French chevaliers, and to entreat him to exert the great influence
he so deservedly possessed over them, to restrain their excesses.
Don Luis was aware, however, of the peril that attended any interview
of the kind with this imperious and fractious man, and
apprehended, however it might commence, that it would terminate
in a duel. Still, it was an affair of honor, in which Castilian
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dignity was concerned; beside, he had a lurking disgust at the
overbearing manners of De Foulquerre, and perhaps had been
somewhat offended by certain intrusive attentions which he had
presumed to pay to the beautiful honorata.
It was now Holy Week; a time too sacred for worldly feuds
and passions, especially in a community under the dominion of a
religious order: it was agreed, therefore, that the dangerous
interview in question should not take place until after the Easter
holydays. It is probable, from subsequent circumstances, that
the Commander de Foulquerre had some information of this arrangement
among the Spanish cavaliers, and was determined to
be beforehand, and to mortify the pride of their champion, who
was thus preparing to read him a lecture. He chose Good Friday
for his purpose. On this sacred day, it is customary in Catholic
countries to make a tour of all the churches, offering up prayers
in each. In every Catholic church, as is well known, there is a
vessel of holy water near the door. In this, every one, on entering,
dips his fingers, and makes therewith the sign of the cross on
his forehead and breast. An office of gallantry, among the young
Spaniards, is to stand near the door, dip their hands in the holy
vessel, and extend them courteously and respectfully to any lady
of their acquaintance who may enter; who thus receives the
sacred water at second hand, on the tips of her fingers, and proceeds
to cross herself, with all due decorum. The Spaniards, who
are the most jealous of lovers, are impatient when this piece of
devotional gallantry is proffered to the object of their affections by
any other hand: on Good Friday, therefore, when a lady makes a
tour of the churches, it is the usage among them for the inamorato
to follow her from church to church, so as to present her the holy
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water at the door of each; thus testifying his own devotion, and
at the same time preventing the officious services of a rival.
On the day in question, Don Luis followed the beautiful
honorata, to whom, as has already been observed, he had long
been devoted. At the very first church she visited, the Commander
de Foulquerre was stationed at the portal, with several of
the young French chevaliers about him. Before Don Luis could
offer her the holy water, he was anticipated by the commander,
who thrust himself between them, and, while he performed the
gallant office to the lady, rudely turned his back upon her admirer,
and trod upon his feet. The insult was enjoyed by the
young Frenchmen who were present: it was too deep and grave
to be forgiven by Spanish pride; and at once put an end to all
Don Luis's plans of caution and forbearance. He repressed his
passion for the moment, however, and waited until all the parties
left the church: then, accosting the commander with an air of
coolness and unconcern, he inquired after his health, and asked to
what church he proposed making his second visit. “To the
Magisterial Church of Saint John.” Don Luis offered to conduct
him thither, by the shortest route. His offer was accepted, apparently
without suspicion, and they proceeded together. After
walking some distance, they entered a long, narrow lane, without
door or window opening upon it, called the “Strada Stretta,” or
narrow street. It was a street in which duels were tacitly permitted,
or connived at, in Malta, and were suffered to pass as
accidental encounters. Every where else, they were prohibited.
This restriction had been instituted to diminish the number of
duels formerly so frequent in Malta. As a farther precaution to
render these encounters less fatal, it was an offence, punishable
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with death, for any one to enter this street armed with either
poniard or pistol. It was a lonely, dismal street, just wide
enough for two men to stand upon their guard, and cross their
swords; few persons ever traversed it, unless with some sinister
design; and on any preconcerted duello, the seconds posted themselves
at each end, to stop all passengers, and prevent interruption.
In the present instance, the parties had scarce entered the
street, when Don Luis drew his sword, and called upon the commander
to defend himself.
De Foulquerre was evidently taken by surprise: he drew
back, and attempted to expostulate; but Don Luis persisted in
defying him to the combat.
After a second or two, he likewise drew his sword, but immediately
lowered the point.
“Good Friday!” ejaculated he, shaking his head: “one word
with you; it is full six years since I have been in a confessional:
I am shocked at the state of my conscience; but within three
days—that is to say, on Monday next—”
Don Luis would listen to nothing. Though naturally of a
peaceable disposition he had been stung to fury, and people of
that character when once incensed, are deaf to reason. He compelled
the commander to put himself on his guard. The latter,
though a man accustomed to brawl and battle, was singularly dismayed.
Terror was visible in all his features. He placed himself
with his back to the wall, and the weapons were crossed. The
contest was brief and fatal. At the very first thrust, the sword
of Don Luis passed through the body of his antagonist. The
commander staggered to the wall, and leaned against it.
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“On Good Friday!” ejaculated he again, with a failing voice,
and despairing accents. “Heaven pardon you!” added he; “take
my sword to Têtefoulques, and have a hundred masses performed
in the chapel of the castle, for the repose of my soul!” With
these words he expired.
The fury of Don Luis was at an end. He stood aghast, gazing
at the bleeding body of the commander. He called to mind
the prayer of the deceased for three days' respite, to make his
peace with heaven; he had refused it; had sent him to the grave,
with all his sins upon his head! His conscience smote him to the
core; he gathered up the sword of the commander, which he had
been enjoined to take to Têtefoulques, and hurried from the fatal
Strada Stretta.
The duel of course made a great noise in Malta, but had no
injurious effect on the worldly fortunes of Don Luis. He made a
full declaration of the whole matter, before the proper authorities;
the chapter of the order considered it one of those casual encounters
of the Strada Stretta, which were mourned over, but tolerated;
the public by whom the late commander had been generally
detested, declared that he deserved his fate. It was but
three days after the event, that Don Luis was advanced to one of
the highest dignities of the order, being invested by the Grand
Master with the Priorship of the kingdom of Minorca.
From that time forward, however, the whole character and
conduct of Don Luis underwent a change. He became a prey to
a dark melancholy, which nothing could assuage. The most austere
piety, the severest penances, had no effect in allaying the
horror which preyed upon his mind. He was absent for a long
time from Malta; having gone, it was said, on remote
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pilgrimages: when he returned, he was more haggard than ever. There
seemed something mysterious and inexplicable in this disorder of
his mind. The following is the revelation made by himself, of
the horrible visions or chimeras by which he was haunted:
“When I had made my declaration before the chapter,” said
he, “my provocations were publicly known, I had made my peace
with man; but it was not so with God, nor with my confessor,
nor with my own conscience. My act was doubly criminal, from
the day on which it was committed, and from my refusal to a delay
of three days, for the victim of my resentment to receive the
sacraments. His despairing ejaculation, `Good Friday! Good
Friday!' continually rang in my ears. `Why did I not grant the
respite!' cried I to myself; `was it not enough to kill the body,
but must I seek to kill the soul!'
“On the night following Friday, I started suddenly from my
sleep. An unaccountable horror was upon me. I looked wildly
around. It seemed as if I were not in my apartment, nor in my
bed, but in the fatal Strada Stretta, lying on the pavement. I
again saw the commander leaning against the wall; I again heard
his dying words: `Take my sword to Têtefoulques, and have a
hundred masses performed in the chapel of the castle, for the repose
of my soul!'
“On the following night, I caused one of my servants to sleep
in the same room with me. I saw and heard nothing, either on
that night or any of the nights following, until the next
Friday; when I had again the same vision, with this difference,
that my valet seemed to be lying some distance from me
on the pavement of the Strada Stretta. The vision continued to
be repeated on every Friday night, the commander always
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appearing in the same manner, and uttering the same words: `Take
my sword to Têtefoulques, and have a hundred masses performed
in the chapel of the castle, for the repose of my soul!'
“On questioning my servant on the subject, he stated, that
on these occasions he dreamed that he was lying in a very narrow
street, but he neither saw nor heard any thing of the commander.
“I knew nothing of this Têtefoulques, whither the defunct
was so urgent I should carry his sword. I made inquiries, therefore,
concerning it, among the French chevaliers. They informed
me that it was an old castle, situated about four leagues from
Poitiers, in the midst of a forest. It had been built in old times,
several centuries since by Foulques Taillefer, (or Fulke Hack-iron,)
a redoubtable hard-fighting Count of Angouleme, who gave it
to an illegitimate son, afterwards created Grand Seneschal of
Poiton, which son became the progenitor of the Foulquerres of
Têtefoulques, hereditary seneschals of Poitou. They farther informed
me, that strange stories were told of this old castle, in the
surrounding country, and that it contained many curious reliques.
Among these, were the arms of Foulques Taillefer, together with
those of the warriors he had slain; and that it was an immemorial
usage with the Foulquerres to have the weapons deposited
there which they had yielded either in war or single combat.
This, then, was the reason of the dying injunction of the commander
respecting his sword. I carried this weapon with me,
wherever I went, but still I neglected to comply with his request.
“The vision still continued to harass me with undiminished
horror. I repaired to Rome, where I confessed myself to the
Grand Cardinal penitentiary, and informed him of the terrors
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with which I was haunted. He promised me absolution, after I
should have performed certain acts of penance, the principal of
which was to execute the dying request of the commander, by
carrying his sword to Têtefoulques, and having the hundred masses
performed in the chapel of the castle for the repose of his soul.
“I set out for France as speedily as possible, and made no delay
in my journey. On arriving at Poitiers, I found that the
tidings of the death of the commander had reached there, but had
caused no more affliction than among the people of Malta. Leaving
my equipage in the town, I put on the garb of a pilgrim, and
taking a guide, set out on foot for Têtefoulques. Indeed the
roads in this part of the country were impracticable for carriages.
“I found the castle of Têtefoulques a grand but gloomy and
dilapidated pile. All the gates were closed, and there reigned
over the whole place an air of almost savage loneliness and desertion.
I had understood that its only inhabitants were the
concierge, or warder, and a kind of hermit who had charge of the
chapel. After ringing for some time at the gate, I at length succeeded
in bringing forth the warder, who bowed with reverence to
my pilgrim's garb. I begged him to conduct me to the chapel,
that being the end of my pilgrimage. We found the hermit there,
chanting the funeral service; a dismal sound to one who came to
perform a penance for the death of a member of the family.
When he had ceased to chant, I informed him that I came to accomplish
an obligation of conscience, and that I wished him to
perform a hundred masses for the repose of the soul of the commander.
He replied that, not being in orders, he was not authorized
to perform mass, but that he would willingly undertake to
see that my debt of conscience was discharged. I laid my
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offering on the altar, and would have placed the sword of the commander
there, likewise. `Hold!' said the hermit, with a melancholy
shake of the head, `this is no place for so deadly a
weapon, that has so often been bathed in Christian blood. Take
it to the armory; you will find there trophies enough of like character.
It is a place into which I never enter.'
“The warder here took up the theme abandoned by the
peaceful man of God. He assured me that I would see in the
armory the swords of all the warrior race of Foulquerres, together
with those of the enemies over whom they had triumphed. This,
he observed, had been a usage kept up since the time of Mellusine,
and of her husband, Geoffrey à la Grand-dent, or Geoffrey
with the Great-tooth.
“I followed the gossiping warder to the armory. It was a
great dusty hall, hung round with Gothic-looking portraits, of a
stark line of warriors, each with his weapon, and the weapons of
those he had slain in battle, hung beside his picture. The most
conspicuous portrait was that of Foulques Taillefer, (Fulke Hack-iron,)
Count of Angouleme, and founder of the castle. He was
represented at full length, armed cap-à-pie, and grasping a huge
buckler, on which were emblazoned three lions passant. The
figure was so striking, that it seemed ready to start from the
canvas: and I observed beneath this picture, a trophy composed
of many weapons, proofs of the numerous triumphs of this hard-fighting
old cavalier. Beside the weapons connected with the
portraits, there were swords of all shapes, sizes, and centuries,
hung round the hall; with piles of armor, placed as it were in
effigy.
“On each side of an immense chimney, were suspended the
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portraits of the first seneschal of Poitou (the illegitimate son of
Foulques Taillefer) and his wife Isabella de Lusignan; the progenitors
of the grim race of Foulquerres that frowned around.
They had the look of being perfect likenesses; and as I gazed on
them, I fancied I could trace in their antiquated features some
family resemblance to their unfortunate descendant, whom I had
slain! This was a dismal neighborhood, yet the armory was the only
part of the castle that had a habitable air; so I asked the warder
whether he could not make a fire, and give me something for supper
there, and prepare me a bed in one corner.
“`A fire and a supper you shall have, and that cheerfully,
most worthy pilgrim,' said he; `but as to a bed, I advise you to
come and sleep in my chamber.'
“`Why so?' inquired I; `why shall I not sleep in this
hall?'
“`I have my reasons; I will make a bed for you close to
mine.'
“I made no objections, for I recollected that it was Friday,
and I dreaded the return of my vision. He brought in billets
of wood, kindled a fire in the great overhanging chimney, and
then went forth to prepare my supper. I drew a heavy chair before
the fire, and seating myself in it, gazed musingly round upon
the portraits of the Foulquerres, and the antiquated armor and
weapons, the mementos of many a bloody deed. As the day declined,
the smoky draperies of the hall gradually became confounded
with the dark ground of the paintings, and the lurid
gleams from the chimney only enabled me to see visages staring
at me from the gathering darkness. All this was dismal in the
extreme, and somewhat appalling: perhaps it was the state of my
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conscience that rendered me peculiarly sensitive, and prone to
fearful imaginings.
“At length the warder brought in my supper. It consisted
of a dish of trout, and some crawfish taken in the fosse of the
castle. He procured also a bottle of wine, which he informed
me was wine of Poitou. I requested him to invite the hermit to
join me in my repast; but the holy man sent back word that he
allowed himself nothing but roots and herbs, cooked with water.
I took my meal, therefore, alone, but prolonged it as much as
possible, and sought to cheer my drooping spirits by the wine of
Poitou, which I found very tolerable.
“When supper was over, I prepared for my evening devotions.
I have always been very punctual in reciting my breviary; it is
the prescribed and bounden duty of all cavaliers of the religious
orders; and I can answer for it, is faithfully performed by those
of Spain. I accordingly drew forth from my pocket a small missal
and a rosary, and told the warder he need only designate to
me the way to his chamber, where I could come and rejoin him,
when I had finished my prayers.
“He accordingly pointed out a winding stair-case, opening
from the hall. `You will descend this stair-case,' said he, `until you
come to the fourth landing-place, where you enter a vaulted passage,
terminated by an arcade, with a statue of the blessed
Jeanne of France: you cannot help finding my room, the door of
which I will leave open; it is the sixth door from the landing-place.
I advise you not to remain in this hall after midnight.
Before that hour, you will hear the hermit ring the bell, in
going the rounds of the corridors. Do not linger here after that
signal.'
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“The warder retired, and I commenced my devotions. I continued
at them earnestly; pausing from time to time to put wood
upon the fire. I did not dare to look much around me, for I felt
myself becoming a prey to fearful fancies. The pictures appeared
to become animated. If I regarded one attentively, for any
length of time, it seemed to move the eyes and lips. Above all,
the portraits of the Grand Seneschal and his lady, which hung on
each side of the great chimney, the progenitors of the Foulquerres of
Têtefoulques, regarded me, I thought, with angry and baleful
eyes: I even fancied they exchanged significant glances with each
other. Just then a terrible blast of wind shook all the casements,
and, rushing through the hall, made a fearful rattling and
clashing among the armor. To my startled fancy, it seemed
something supernatural.
“At length I heard the bell of the hermit, and hastened to
quit the hall. Taking a solitary light, which stood on the upper
table, I descended the winding stair-case; but before I had
reached the vaulted passage, leading to the statue of the blessed
Jeanne of France, a blast of wind extinguished my taper. I
hastily remounted the stairs, to light it again at the chimney; but
judge of my feelings, when, on arriving at the entrance to the armory,
I beheld the Seneschal and his lady, who had descended
from their frames, and seated themselves on each side of the
fire-place!
“`Madam, my love,' said the Seneschal, with great formality,
and in antiquated phrase, `what think you of the presumption
of this Castilian, who comes to harbor himself and make wassail
in this our castle, after having slain our descendant, the commander,
and that without granting him time for confession?'
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“`Truly, my lord,' answered the female spectre, with no less
stateliness of manner, and with great asperity of tone—`truly,
my lord, I opine that this Castilian did a grievous wrong in this
encounter; and he should never be suffered to depart hence, without
your throwing him the gauntlet.' I paused to hear no
more, but rushed again down stairs, to seek the chamber of the
warder. It was impossible to find it in the darkness, and in the
perturbation of my mind. After an hour and a half of fruitless
search, and mortal horror and anxieties, I endeavored to persuade
myself that the day was about to break, and listened impatiently
for the crowing of the cock; for I thought if I could hear his
cheerful note, I should be reassured; catching, in the disordered
state of my nerves, at the popular notion that ghosts never appear
after the first crowing of the cock.
“At length I rallied myself, and endeavored to shake off the
vague terrors which haunted me. I tried to persuade myself that
the two figures which I had seemed to see and hear, had existed
only in my troubled imagination. I still had the end of a candle
in my hand, and determined to make another effort to re-light it,
and find my way to bed; for I was ready to sink with fatigue.
I accordingly sprang up the stair-case, three steps at a time, stopped
at the door of the armory, and peeped cautiously in. The
two Gothic figures were no longer in the chimney corners, but I
neglected to notice whether they had re-ascended to their frames.
I entered, and made desperately for the fire-place, but scarce had
I advanced three strides, when Messire Foulques Taillefer stood
before me, in the centre of the hall, armed cap-à-pie, and standing
in guard, with the point of his sword silently presented to
me. I would have retreated to the stair-case, but the door of it
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was occupied by the phantom figure of an esquire, who rudely
flung a gauntlet in my face. Driven to fury, I snatched down a
sword from the wall: by chance, it was that of the commander
which I had placed there. I rushed upon my fantastic adversary,
and seemed to pierce him through and through; but at the same
time I felt as if something pierced my heart, burning like a red-hot
iron. My blood inundated the hall, and I fell senseless.
“When I recovered consciousness, it was broad day, and I
found myself in a small chamber, attended by the warder and the
hermit. The former told me that on the previous night, he had
awakened long after the midnight hour, and perceiving that I had
not come to his chamber, he had furnished himself with a vase of
holy water, and set out to seek me. He found me stretched
senseless on the pavement of the armory, and bore me to his
room. I spoke of my wound; and of the quantity of blood that I had
lost. He shook his head, and knew nothing about it; and to my
surprise, on examination, I found myself perfectly sound and unharmed.
The wound and blood, therefore, had been all delusion.
Neither the warder nor the hermit put any questions to me, but
advised me to leave the castle as soon as possible. I lost no
time in complying with their counsel, and felt my heart relieved
from an oppressive weight, as I left the gloomy and fate-bound
battlements of Têtefoulques behind me.
“I arrived at Bayonne, on my way to Spain, on the following
Friday. At midnight I was startled from my sleep, as I had
formerly been; but it was no longer by the vision of the dying
commander. It was old Foulques Taillefer who stood before me,
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armed cap-à-pie, and presenting the point of his sword. I made
the sign of the cross, and the spectre vanished, but I received
the same red-hot thrust in the heart which I had felt in the armory,
and I seemed to be bathed in blood. I would have called
out, or have risen from my bed and gone in quest of succor, but
I could neither speak nor stir. This agony endured until the
crowing of the cock, when I fell asleep again; but the next day
I was ill, and in a most pitiable state. I have continued to be
harassed by the same vision every Friday night; no acts of penitence
and devotion have been able to relieve me from it; and it
is only a lingering hope in divine mercy that sustains me, and
enables me to support so lamentable a visitation.”
The Grand Prior of Minorca wasted gradually away under this
constant remorse of conscience, and this horrible incubus. He
died some time after having revealed the preceding particulars of
his case, evidently the victim of a diseased imagination.
The above relation has been rendered, in many parts literally,
from the French memoir, in which it is given as a true story: if
so, it is one of those instances in which truth is more romantic
than fiction.
-- -- p615-158
“A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. ”
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In the course of a voyage from England, I once fell in with a
convoy of merchant ships, bound for the West Indies. The
weather was uncommonly bland; and the ships vied with each
other in spreading sail to catch a light, favoring breeze, until
their hulls were almost hidden beneath a cloud of canvas. The
breeze went down with the sun, and his last yellow rays shone
upon a thousand sails, idly flapping against the masts.
I exulted in the beauty of the scene, and augured a prosperous
voyage; but the veteran master of the ship shook his head,
and pronounced this halcyon calm a “weather-breeder.” And so
it proved. A storm burst forth in the night; the sea roared and
raged; and when the day broke, I beheld the late gallant convoy
scattered in every direction; some dismasted, others scudding
under bare poles, and many firing signals of distress.
I have since been occasionally reminded of this scene, by those
calm, sunny seasons in the commercial world, which are known
by the name of “times of unexampled prosperity.” They are
the sure weather-breeders of traffic. Every now and then the
world is visited by one of these delusive seasons, when “the credit
system,” as it is called, expands to full luxuriance: every
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body trusts every body; a bad debt is a thing unheard of; the
broad way to certain and sudden wealth lies plain and open; and
men are tempted to dash forward boldly, from the facility of borrowing.
Promissory notes, interchanged between scheming individuals,
are liberally discounted at the banks, which become so many mints
to coin words into cash; and as the supply of words is inexhaustible,
it may readily be supposed what a vast amount of promissory
capital is soon in circulation. Every one now talks in thousands;
nothing is heard but gigantic operations in trade; great
purchases and sales of real property, and immense sums made at
every transfer. All, to be sure, as yet exists in promise; but the
believer in promises calculates the aggregate as solid capital, and
falls back in amazement at the amount of public wealth, the “unexampled
state of public prosperity!”
Now is the time for speculative and dreaming or designing
men. They relate their dreams and projects to the ignorant and
credulous, dazzle them with golden visions, and set them maddening
after shadows. The example of one stimulates another;
speculation rises on speculation; bubble rises on bubble; every one
helps with his breath to swell the windy superstructure, and admires
and wonders at the magnitude of the inflation he has contributed
to produce.
Speculation is the romance of trade, and casts contempt upon
all its sober realities. It renders the stock-jobber a magician, and
the exchange a region of enchantment. It elevates the merchant
into a kind of knight-errant, or rather a commercial Quixote.
The slow but sure gains of snug percentage become despicable in
his eyes: no “operation” is thought worthy of attention, that does
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not double or treble the investment. No business is worth following,
that does not promise an immediate fortune. As he sits
musing over his ledger, with pen behind his ear, he is like La
Mancha's hero in his study, dreaming over his books of chivalry.
His dusty counting-house fades before his eyes, or changes into a
Spanish mine: he gropes after diamonds, or dives after pearls.
The subterranean garden of Aladdin is nothing to the realms of
wealth that break upon his imagination.
Could this delusion always last, the life of a merchant would
indeed be a golden dream; but it is as short as it is brilliant.
Let but a doubt enter, and the “season of unexampled prosperity”
is at end. The coinage of words is suddenly curtailed; the promissory
capital begins to vanish into smoke; a panic succeeds,
and the whole superstructure, built upon credit, and reared by
speculation, crumbles to the ground, leaving scarce a wreck behind:
“It is such stuff as dreams are made of.”
When a man of business, therefore, hears on every side rumors
of fortunes suddenly acquired; when he finds banks liberal, and
brokers busy; when he sees adventurers flush of paper capital,
and full of scheme and enterprise; when he perceives a greater
disposition to buy than to sell; when trade overflows its accustomed
channels, and deluges the country; when he hears of
new regions of commercial adventure; of distant marts and distant
mines, swallowing merchandise and disgorging gold; when
he finds joint stock companies of all kinds forming; railroads,
canals, and locomotive engines, springing up on every side;
when idlers suddenly become men of business, and dash into the
game of commerce as they would into the hazards of the faro
-- 154 -- p615-161
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table; when he beholds the streets glittering with new equipages,
palaces conjured up by the magic of speculation; tradesmen flushed
with sudden success, and vying with each other in ostentatious
expense; in a word, when he hears the whole community joining
in the theme of “unexampled prosperity,” let him look upon the
whole as a “weather-breeder,” and prepare for the impending
storm.
The foregoing remarks are intended merely as a prelude to
a narrative I am about to lay before the public, of one of the
most memorable instances of the infatuation of gain, to be found
in the whole history of commerce. I allude to the famous Mississippi
bubble. It is a matter that has passed into a proverb,
and become a phrase in every one's mouth, yet of which not one
merchant in ten has probably a distinct idea. I have therefore
thought that an authentic account of it would be interesting and
salutary, at the present moment, when we are suffering under
the effects of a severe access of the credit system, and just recovering
from one of its ruinous delusions.
Before entering into the story of this famous chimera, it is proper
to give a few particulars concerning the individual who engendered
it. John Law was born in Edinburgh, in 1671. His
father, William Law, was a rich goldsmith, and left his son an
estate of considerable value, called Lauriston, situated about four
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miles from Edinburgh. Goldsmiths, in those days, acted occasionally
as bankers, and his father's operations, under this character,
may have originally turned the thoughts of the youth to the
science of calculation, in which he became an adept; so that at an
early age he excelled in playing at all games of combination.
In 1694, he appeared in London, where a handsome person,
and an easy and insinuating address, gained him currency in the
first circles, and the nickname of “Beau Law.” The same personal
advantages gave him success in the world of gallantry, until
he became involved in a quarrel with Beau Wilson, his rival in
fashion, whom he killed in a duel, and then fled to France to avoid
prosecution.
He returned to Edinburgh in 1700, and remained there several
years; during which time he first broached his great credit system,
offering to supply the deficiency of coin by the establishment
of a bank, which, according to his views, might emit a paper currency
equivalent to the whole landed estate of the kingdom.
His scheme excited great astonishment in Edinburgh; but,
though the government was not sufficiently advanced in financial
knowledge to detect the fallacies upon which it was founded,
Scottish caution and suspicion served in place of wisdom, and the
project was rejected. Law met with no better success with the
English parliament; and the fatal affair of the death of Wilson
still hanging over him, for which he had never been able to procure
a pardon, he again went to France.
The financial affairs of France were at this time in a deplorable
condition. The wars, the pomp, and profusion, of Louis XIV.,
and his religious persecutions of whole classes of the most industrious
of his subjects, had exhausted his treasury, and
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overwhelmed the nation with debt. The old monarch clung to his selfish
magnificence, and could not be induced to diminish his enormous
expenditure; and his minister of finance was driven to his wits'
end to devise all kinds of disastrous expedients to keep up the
royal state, and to extricate the nation from its embarrassments.
In this state of things, Law ventured to bring forward his financial
project. It was founded on the plan of the Bank of
England, which had already been in successful operation several
years. He met with immediate patronage, and a congenial spirit,
in the Duke of Orleans, who had married a natural daughter of
the king. The duke had been astonished at the facility with
which England had supported the burden of a public debt, created
by the wars of Anne and William, and which exceeded in
amount that under which France was groaning. The whole matter
was soon explained by Law to his satisfaction. The latter
maintained that England had stopped at the mere threshold of
an art capable of creating unlimited sources of national wealth.
The duke was dazzled with his splended views and specious reasonings,
and thought he clearly comprehended his system. Demarets,
the Comptroller General of Finance, was not so easily deceived.
He pronounced the plan of Law more pernicious than
any of the disastrous expedients that the government had yet
been driven to. The old king also, Louis XIV., detested all innovations,
especially those which came from a rival nation: the
project of a bank, therefore, was utterly rejected.
Law remained for a while in Paris, leading a gay and affluent
existence, owing to his handsome person, easy manners, flexible
temper, and a faro-bank which he had set up. His agreeable career
was interrupted by a message from D'Argenson, Lieutenant
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General of Police, ordering him to quit Paris, alleging that he
was “rather too skilful at the game which he had introduced!”
For several succeeding years, he shifted his residence from
state to state of Italy and Germany; offering his scheme of finance
to every court that he visited, but without success. The
Duke of Savoy, Victor Amadeas, afterward King of Sardinia,
was much struck with his project; but after considering it for a
time, replied; “I am not sufficiently powerful to ruin myself.”
The shifting, adventurous life of Law, and the equivocal
means by which he appeared to live, playing high, and always
with great success, threw a cloud of suspicion over him, wherever
he went, and caused him to be expelled by the magistracy
from the semi-commercial, semi-aristocratical cities of Venice and
Genoa.
The events of 1715, brought Law back again to Paris.
Louis XIV. was dead. Lous XV. was a mere child, and during
his minority the Duke of Orleans held the reins of government
as Regent. Law had at length found his man.
The Duke of Orleans has been differently represented by different
contemporaries. He appears to have had excellent natural
qualities, perverted by a bad education. He was of the middle
size, easy and graceful, with an agreeable countenance, and open,
affable demeanor. His mind was quick and sagacious, rather
than profound; and his quickness of intellect and excellence of
memory, supplied the lack of studious application. His wit was
prompt and pungent; he expressed himself with vivacity and precision;
his imagination was vivid, his temperament sanguine and
joyous; his courage daring. His mother, the Duchess of Orleans,
expressed his character in a jeu d'esprit. “The fairies,' said she,
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“were invited to be present at his birth, and each one conferring a
talent on my son, he possesses them all. Unfortunately, we had
forgotten to invite an old fairy, who, arriving after all the others,
exclaimed, `He shall have all the talents, excepting that to
make good use of them.”
Under proper tuition, the duke might have risen to real
greatness; but in his early years, he was put under the tutelage
of the Abbé Dubois, one of the subtlest and basest spirits that
ever intrigued its way into eminent place and power. The Abbé
was of low origin and despicable exterior, totally destitute of
morals, and perfidious in the extreme; but with a supple, insinuating
address, and an accommodating spirit, tolerant of all kinds
of profligacy in others. Conscious of his own inherent baseness, he
sought to secure an influence over his pupil, by corrupting his
principles, and fostering his vices: he debased him, to keep himself
from being despised. Unfortunately he succeeded. To the
early precepts of this infamous pander have been attributed
those excesses that disgraced the manhood of the Regent, and
gave a licentious character to his whole course of government.
His love of pleasure, quickened and indulged by those who should
have restrained it, led him into all kinds of sensual indulgence.
He had been taught to think lightly of the most serious duties
and sacred ties, to turn virtue into a jest, and consider religion
mere hypocrisy. He was a gay misanthrope, that had a sovereign
but sportive contempt for mankind; believed that his most
devoted servant would be his enemy, if interest prompted; and
maintained that an honest man was he who had the art to conceal
that he was the contrary.
He surrounded himself with a set of dissolute men like himself,
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who, let loose from the restraint under which they had been
held, during the latter hypocritical days of Louis XIV., now gave
way to every kind of debauchery. With these men the Regent
used to shut himself up, after the hours of business, and excluding
all graver persons and graver concerns, celebrate the most
drunken and disgusting orgies, where obscenity and blasphemy
formed the seasoning of conversation. For the profligate companions
of these revels he invented the appellation of his roués,
the literal meaning of which is, men broken on the wheel; intended,
no doubt, to express their broken-down characters and
dislocated fortunes; although a contemporary asserts that it
designated the punishment that most of them merited. Madame
de Labran, who was present at one of the Regent's suppers, was
disgusted by the conduct and conversation of the host and his
guests, and observed at table, that God, after he had created
man, took the refuse clay that was left, and made of it the souls
of lackeys and princes.
Such was the man that now ruled the destinies of France.
Law found him full of perplexities, from the disastrous state of
the finances. He had already tampered with the coinage, calling
in the coin of the nation, re-stamping it, and issuing it at a nominal
increase of one fifth; thus defrauding the nation out of twenty
per cent. of its capital. He was not likely, therefore, to be scrupulous
about any means likely to relieve him from financial difficulties:
he had even been led to listen to the cruel alternative
of a national bankruptcy.
Under these circumstances, Law confidently brought forward
his scheme of a bank, that was to pay off the national debt, increase
the revenue, and at the same time diminish the taxes.
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The following is stated as the theory by which he recommended
his system to the Regent. The credit enjoyed by a banker or a
merchant, he observed, increases his capital tenfold; that is to
say, he who has a capital of one hundred thousand livres, may, if he possess sufficient credit, extend his operations to a million,
and reap profits to that amount. In like manner, a state that
can collect into a bank all the current coin of the kingdom, would
be as powerful as if its capital were increased tenfold. The
specie must be drawn into the bank, not by way of loan, or by
taxations, but in the way of deposit. This might be effected in
different modes, either by inspiring confidence, or by exerting
authority. One mode, he observed, had already been in use.
Each time that a state makes a re-coinage, it becomes momentarily
the depository of all the money called in, belonging to the
subjects of that state. His bank was to effect the same purpose;
that is to say, to receive in deposit all the coin of the kingdom,
but to give in exchange its bills, which, being of an invariable
value, bearing an interest, and being payable on demand, would
not only supply the place of coin, but prove a better and more
profitable currency.
The Regent caught with avidity at the scheme. It suited his
bold, reckless spirit, and his grasping extravagance. Not that he
was altogether the dupe of Law's specious projects: still he was
apt, like many other men, unskilled in the arcana of finance, to
mistake the multiplication of money, for the multiplication of
wealth; not understanding that it was a mere agent or instrument
in the interchange of traffic, to represent the value of the
various productions of industry; and that an increased circulation
of coin or bank-bills, in the shape of currency, only adds a
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proportionably increased and fictitious value to such productions. Law
enlisted the vanity of the Regent in his cause. He persuaded
him that he saw more clearly than others into sublime theories
of finance, which were quite above the ordinary apprehension. He
used to declare that, excepting the Regent and the Duke of Savoy,
no one had thoroughly comprehended his system.
It is certain that it met with strong opposition from the
Regent's ministers, the Duke de Noailles and the Chancellor
d'Anguesseau; and it was no less strenuously opposed by the
parliament of Paris. Law, however, had a potent though secret
coadjutor in the Abbé Dubois, now rising, during the regency,
into great political power, and who retained a baneful influence
over the mind of the Regent. This wily priest, as avaricious as
he was ambitious, drew large sums from Law as subsidies, and
aided him greatly in many of his most pernicious operations. He
aided him, in the present instance, to fortify the mind of the
Regent against all the remonstrances of his ministers and the
parliament.
Accordingly, on the 2d of May, 1716, letters patent were
granted to Law, to establish a bank of deposit, discount, and circulation,
under the firm of “Law and Company,” to continue for
twenty years. The capital was fixed at six millions of livres, divided
into shares of five hundred livres each, which were to be
sold for twenty-five per cent. of the regent's debased coin, and
seventy-five per cent. of the public securities, which were then at
a great reduction from their nominal value, and which then
amounted to nineteen hundred millions. The ostensible object
of the bank, as set forth in the patent, was to encourage the commerce
and manufactures of France. The louis-d'ors, and crowns
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of the bank were always to retain the same standard of value, and
its bills to be payable in them on demand.
At the outset, while the bank was limited in its operations,
and while its paper really represented the specie in its vaults, it
seemed to realize all that had been promised from it. It rapidly
acquired public confidence, and an extended circulation, and produced
an activity in commerce, unknown under the baneful
government of Louis XIV. As the bills of the bank bore an
interest, and as it was stipulated they would be of invariable
value, and as hints had been artfully circulated that the coin
would experience successive diminution, every body hastened to
the bank to exchange gold and silver for paper. So great became
the throng of depositors, and so intense their eagerness, that
there was quite a press and struggle at the back door, and a
ludicrous panic was awakened, as if there was danger of their
not being admitted. An anecdote of the time relates, that one
of the clerks, with an ominous smile, called out to the struggling
multitude, “Have a little patience, my friends; we mean to take
all your money;” an assertion disastrously verified in the sequel.
Thus by the simple establishment of a bank, Law and the
Regent obtained pledges of confidence for the consummation of
farther and more complicated schemes, as yet hidden from the
public. In a little while the bank shares rose enormously, and the
amount of its notes in circulation exceeded one hundred and ten
millions of livres. A subtle stroke of policy had rendered it popular
with the aristocracy. Louis XIV. had several years previously
imposed an income tax of a tenth, giving his royal word that it
should cease in 1717. This tax had been exceedingly irksome to
the privileged orders; and, in the present disastrous times, they
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had dreaded an augmentation of it. In consequence of the successful
operation of Law's scheme, however, the tax was abolished,
and now nothing was to be heard among the nobility and clergy
but praises of the Regent and the bank.
Hitherto all had gone well, and all might have continued to go
well, had not the paper system been farther expanded. But Law
had yet the grandest part of his scheme to develope. He had to
open his ideal world of speculation, his El Dorado of unbounded
wealth. The English had brought the vast imaginary commerce
of the South Seas in aid of their banking operations. Law
sought to bring, as an immense auxiliary of his bank, the whole
trade of the Mississippi. Under this name was included not
merely the river so called, but the vast region known as Louisiana,
extending from north latitude 29° up to Canada in north
latitude 40°. This country had been granted by Louis XIV. to
the Sieur Crozat, but he had been induced to resign his patent.
In conformity to the plea of Mr. Law, letters patent were granted
in August, 1717, for the creation of a commercial company, which
was to have the colonizing of this country, and the monopoly of
its trade and resources, and of the beaver or fur trade with
Canada. It was called the Western, but became better known
as the Mississippi Company. The capital was fixed at one hundred
millions of livres, divided into shares, bearing an interest of
four per cent., which were subscribed for in the public securities.
As the bank was to cooperate with the company, the Regent
ordered that its bills should be received the same as coin, in all
payments of the public revenue. Law was appointed chief
director of this company, which was an exact copy of the Earl of
Oxford's South Sea Company, set on foot in 1711, and which
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distracted all England with the frenzy of speculation. In like manner
with the delusive picturings given in that memorable scheme
of the sources of rich trade to be opened in the South Sea
countries, Law held forth magnificent prospects of the fortunes
to be made in colonizing Louisiana, which was represented as a
veritable land of promise, capable of yielding every variety of the
most precious produce. Reports, too, were artfully circulated, with
great mystery, as if to the “chosen few,” of mines of gold and
silver recently discovered in Louisiana, and which would insure
instant wealth to the early purchasers. These confidential whispers
of course soon became public; and were confirmed by travellers
fresh from the Mississippi, and doubtless bribed, who had
seen the mines in question, and declared them superior in richness
to those of Mexico and Peru. Nay more, ocular proof was furnished
to public credulity, in ingots of gold, conveyed to the
mint, as if just brought from the mines of Louisiana.
Extraordinary measures were adopted to force a colonization.
An edict was issued to collect and transport settlers to the Mississippi.
The police lent its aid. The streets and prisons of
Paris, and of the provincial cities, were swept of mendicants and
vagabonds of all kinds, who were conveyed to Havre de Grace.
About six thousand were crowded into ships, where no precautions
had been taken for their health or accommodation. Instruments
of all kinds proper for the working of mines were ostentatiously
paraded in public, and put on board the vessels; and the whole
set sail for this fabled El Dorado, which was to prove the grave
of the greater part of its wretched colonists.
D'Anguesseau, the chancellor, a man of probity and integrity,
still lifted his voice against the paper system of Law, and his
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project of colonization, and was eloquent and prophetic in picturing
the evils they were calculated to produce; the private distress and
public degradation; the corruption of morals and manners; the
triumph of knaves and schemers; the ruin of fortunes, and downfall
of families. He was incited more and more to this opposition
by the Duke de Noailles, the Minister of Finance, who was jealous
of the growing ascendency of Law over the mind of the regent,
but was less honest than the chancellor in his opposition. The
Regent was excessively annoyed by the difficulties they conjured
up in the way of his darling schemes of finance, and the countenance
they gave to the opposition of parliament; which body, disgusted
more and more with the abuses of the regency, and the
system of Law, had gone so far as to carry its remonstrances to
the very foot of the throne.
He determined to relieve himself from these two ministers,
who, either through honesty or policy, interfered with all his
plans. Accordingly, on the 28th of January, 1718, he dismissed
the chancellor from office, and exiled him to his estate in the
country; and shortly afterward removed the Duke de Noailles
from the administration of the finance.
The opposition of parliament to the Regent and his measures
was carried on with increasing violence. That body aspired to an
equal authority with the Regent in the administration of affairs,
and pretended, by its decree, to suspend an edict of the regency
ordering a new coinage, and altering the value of the currency.
But its chief hostility was levelled against Law, a foreigner and
a heretic, and one who was considered by a majority of the members
in the light of a malefactor. In fact, so far was this hostility
carried, that secret measures were taken to investigate his
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malversations, and to collect evidence against him; and it was resolved
in parliament that, should the testimony collected justify their
suspicious, they would have him seized and brought before them;
would give him a brief trial, and if convicted, would hang him
in the court-yard of the palace, and throw open the gates after the
execution, that the public might behold his corpse!
Law received intimation of the danger hanging over him, and
was in terrible trepidation. He took refuge in the Palais Royal,
the residence of the Regent, and implored his protection. The
Regent himself was embarrassed by the sturdy opposition of parliament,
which contemplated nothing less than a decree reversing
most of his public measures, especially those of finance. His indecision
kept Law for a time in an agony of terror and suspense.
Finally, by assembling a board of justice, and bringing to his aid
the absolute authority of the king, he triumphed over parliament,
and relieved Law from his dread of being hanged.
The system now went on with flowing sail. The Western, or
Mississippi Company, being identified with the bank, rapidly increased
in power and privileges. One monopoly after another
was granted to it; the trade of the Indian Seas; the slave trade
with Senegal and Guinea; the farming of tobacco; the national
coinage, etc. Each new privilege was made a pretext for issuing
more bills, and caused an immense advance in the price of stock.
At length, on the 4th of December, 1718, the Regent gave the establishment
the imposing title of The Royal Bank, and proclaimed
that he had effected the purchase of all the shares, the proceeds
of which he had added to its capital. This measure seemed
to shock the public feeling more than any other connected with
the system, and roused the indignation of parliament. The French
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nation had been so accustomed to attach an idea of every thing
noble, lofty, and magnificent, to the royal name and person, especially
during the stately and sumptuous reign of Louis XIV.,
that they could not at first tolerate the idea of royalty being in any
degree mingled with matters of traffic and finance, and the king
being in a manner a banker. It was one of the downward steps,
however, by which royalty lost its illusive splendor in France and
became gradually cheapened in the public mind.
Arbitrary measures now began to be taken to force the bills
of the bank into artificial currency. On the 27th of December, appeared
an order in council, forbidding, under severe penalties, the
payment of any sum above six hundred livres in gold or silver.
This decree rendered bank bills necessary in all transactions of
purchase and sale, and called for a new emission. The prohibition
was occasionally evaded or opposed; confiscations were the
consequence; informers were rewarded, and spies and traitors began
to spring up in all the domestic walks of life.
The worst effect of this illusive system was the mania for
gain, or rather for gambling in stocks, that now seized upon the
whole nation. Under the exciting effects of lying reports, and
the forcing effects of government decrees, the shares of the company
went on rising in value, until they reached thirteen hundred
per cent. Nothing was now spoken of but the price of shares,
and the immense fortunes suddenly made by lucky speculators.
Those whom Law had deluded used every means to delude others.
The most extravagant dreams were indulged, concerning the wealth
to flow in upon the company, from its colonies, its trade, and its
various monopolies. It is true, nothing as yet had been realized,
nor could in some time be realized, from these distant sources,
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even if productive; but the imaginations of speculators are ever
in the advance, and their conjectures are immediately converted
into facts. Lying reports now flew from mouth to mouth, of sure
avenues to fortune suddenly thrown open. The more extravagant
the fable, the more readily was it believed. To doubt, was
to awaken anger, or incur ridicule. In a time of public infatuation,
it requires no small exercise of courage to doubt a popular
fallacy.
Paris now became the centre of attraction for the adventurous
and the avaricious, who flocked to it not merely from the provinces,
but from neighboring countries. A stock exchange was established
in a house in the Rue Quincampoix, and became immediately
the gathering place of stock-jobbers. The exchange opened
at seven o'clock with the beat of drum and sound of bell, and
closed at night with the same signals. Guards were stationed at
each end of the street, to maintain order and exclude carriages
and horses. The whole street swarmed throughout the day like a
bee-hive. Bargains of all kinds were seized upon with avidity.
Shares of stock passed from hand to hand, mounting in value, one
knew not why. Fortunes were made in a moment as if by magic;
and every lucky bargain prompted those around to a more desperate
throw of the die. The fever went on, increasing in intensity
as the day declined; and when the drum beat, and the bell rang, at
night, to close the exchange, there were exclamations of impatience
and despair, as if the wheel of fortune had suddenly been stopped,
when about to make its luckiest evolution.
To ingulf all classes in this ruinous vortex, Law now split the
shares of fifty millions of stock each into one hundred shares;
thus, as in the splitting of lottery tickets, accommodating the
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venture to the humblest purse. Society was thus stirred up to its
very dregs, and adventurers of the lowest order hurried to the
stock market. All honest, industrious pursuits, and modest
gains, were now despised. Wealth was to be obtained instantly,
without labor, and without stint. The upper classes were as base
in their venality as the lower. The highest and most powerful
nobles, abandoning all generous pursuits and lofty aims, engaged
in the vile scuffle for gain. They were even baser than the lower
classes; for some of them, who were members of the council of
the regency, abused their station and their influence, and promoted
measures by which shares arose while in their hands, and
they made immense profits.
The Duke de Bourbon, the Prince of Conti, the Dukes de la
Force and D'Antin, were among the foremost of these illustrious
stock-jobbers. They were nicknamed the Mississippi Lords, and
they smiled at the sneering title. In fact, the usual distinctions
of society had lost their consequence, under the reign of this new
passion. Rank, talent, military fame, no longer inspired deference.
All respect for others, all self-respect, were forgotten in
the mercenary struggle of the stock-market. Even prelates and
ecclesiastical corporations, forgetting their true objects of devotion,
mingled among the votaries of mammon. They were not
behind those who wielded the civil power in fabricating ordinances
suited to their avaricious purposes. Theological decisions forthwith
appeared, in which the anathema launched by the church
against usury, was conveniently construed as not extending to the
traffic in bank shares!
The Abbé Dubois entered into the mysteries of stock-jobbing
with all the zeal of an apostle, and enriched himself by the spoils
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of the credulous; and he continually drew large sums from Law,
as considerations for his political influence. Faithless to his
country, in the course of his gambling speculations he transferred
to England a great amount of specie, which had been paid into
the royal treasury; thus contributing to the subsequent dearth
of the precious metals.
The female sex participated in this sordid frenzy. Princesses
of the blood, and ladies of the highest nobility, were among the
most rapacious of stock-jobbers. The Regent seemed to have the
riches of Crœsus at his command, and lavished money by hundreds
of thousands upon his female relatives and favorites, as well
as upon his roués, the dissolute companions of his debauches.
“My son,” writes the Regent's mother, in her correspondence,
“gave me shares to the amount of two millions, which I distributed
among my household. The king also took several millions
for his own household. All the royal family have had them; all
the children and grandchildren of France, and the princes of the
blood.”
Luxury and extravagance kept pace with this sudden inflation
of fancied wealth. The hereditary palaces of nobles were pulled
down, and rebuilt on a scale of augmented splendor. Entertainments
were given, of incredible cost and magnificence. Never
before had been such display in houses, furniture, equipages, and
amusements. This was particularly the case among persons of
the lower ranks, who had suddenly become possessed of millions.
Ludicrous anecdotes are related of some of these upstarts. One,
who had just launched a splendid carriage, when about to use it
for the first time, instead of getting in at the door, mounted,
through habitude, to his accustomed place behind. Some ladies
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of quality, seeing a well-dressed woman covered with diamonds,
but whom nobody knew, alight from a very handsome carriage,
inquired who she was, of the footman. He replied, with a sneer:
“It is a lady who has recently tumbled from a garret into this
carriage.” Mr. Law's domestics were said to become in like manner
suddenly enriched by the crumbs that fell from his table.
His coachman, having made a fortune, retired from his service.
Mr. Law requested him to procure a coachman in his place. He
appeared the next day with two, whom he pronounced equally
good, and told Mr. Law: “Take which of them you choose, and
I will take the other!”
Nor were these novi homini treated with the distance and
disdain they would formerly have experienced from the haughty
aristocracy of France. The pride of the old noblesse had been
stifled by the stronger instinct of avarice. They rather sought
the intimacy and confidence of these lucky upstarts; and it has
been observed that a nobleman would gladly take his seat at the
table of the fortunate lackey of yesterday, in hopes of learning
from him the secret of growing rich!
Law now went about with a countenance radiant with success,
and apparently dispensing wealth on every side. “He is admirably
skilled in all that relates to finance,” writes the Duchess of
Orleans, the Regent's mother, “and has put the affairs of the
state in such good order, that all the king's debts have been
paid. He is so much run after, that he has no repose night or
day. A duchess even kissed his hand publicly. If a duchess can
do this, what will other ladies do!”
Wherever he went, his path, we are told, was beset by a sordid
throng, who waited to see him pass, and sought to obtain the
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favor of a word, a nod, or smile, as if a mere glance from him
would bestow fortune. When at home, his house was absolutely
besieged by furious candidates for fortune. “They forced the
doors,” says the Duke de St. Simon; “they scaled his windows
from the garden; they made their way into his cabinet down the
chimney!”
The same venal court was paid by all classes to his family.
The highest ladies of the court vied with each other in meannesses,
to purchase the lucrative friendship of Mrs. Law and her
daughter. They waited upon them with as much assiduity and
adulation as if they had been princesses of the blood. The Regent
one day expressed a desire that some duchess should accompany
his daughter to Genoa. “My Lord,” said some one present,
“if you would have a choice from among the duchesses, you need
but send to Mrs. Law's; you will find them all assembled there.”
The wealth of Law rapidly increased with the expansion of
the bubble. In the course of a few months, he purchased fourteen
titled estates, paying for them in paper; and the public
hailed these sudden and vast acquisitions of landed property, as
so many proofs of the soundness of his system. In one instance,
he met with a shrewd bargainer, who had not the general faith in
his paper money. The President de Novion insisted on being
paid for an estate in hard coin. Law accordingly brought the
amount, four hundred thousand livres, in species, saying, with a
sarcastic smile, that he preferred paying in money, as its weight
rendered it a mere incumbrance. As it happened, the President
could give no clear title to the land, and the money had to be refunded.
He paid it back in paper, which Law dared not refuse,
lest he should depreciate it in the market!
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The course of illusory credit went on triumphantly for eighteen
months. Law had nearly fulfilled one of his promises, for the
greater part of the public debt had been paid off; but how paid?
In bank shares, which had been trumped up several hundred per
cent. above their value, and which were to vanish like smoke in
the hands of the holders.
One of the most striking attributes of Law, was the imperturbable
assurance and self-possession with which he replied to
every objection, and found a solution for every problem. He had
the dexterity of a juggler in evading difficulties; and what was
peculiar, made figures themselves, which are the very elements of
exact demonstration, the means to dazzle and bewilder.
Toward the latter end of 1719, the Mississippi scheme had
reached its highest point of glory. Half a million of strangers
had crowded into Paris, in quest of fortune. The hotels and
lodging-houses were overflowing; lodgings were procured with
excessive difficulty; granaries were turned into bedrooms; provisions
had risen enormously in price; splendid houses were multiplying
on every side; the streets were crowded with carriages;
above a thousand new equipages had been launched.
On the eleventh of December, Law obtained another prohibitory
decree, for the purpose of sweeping all the remaining specie
in circulation into the bank. By this it was forbidden to make
any payments in silver above ten livres, or in gold above three
hundred.
The repeated decrees of this nature, the object of which was
to depreciate the value of gold, and increase the illusive credit of
paper, began to awaken doubts of a system which required such
bolstering. Capitalists gradually awoke from their bewilderment.
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Sound and able financiers consulted together, and agreed to make
common cause against this continual expansion of a paper system.
The shares of the bank and of the company began to decline in
value. Wary men took the alarm, and began to realize, a word
now first brought into use, to express the conversion of ideal property
into something real.
The Prince of Conti, one of the most prominent and grasping
of the Mississippi lords, was the first to give a blow to the credit
of the bank. There was a mixture of ingratitude in his conduct,
that characterized the venal baseness of the times. He had received,
from time to time, enormous sums from Law, as the price
of his influence and patronage. His avarice had increased with
every acquisition, until Law was compelled to refuse one of his
exactions. In revenge, the prince immediately sent such an
amount of paper to the bank to be cashed, that it required four
waggons to bring away the silver, and he had the meanness to loll
out of the window of his hotel, and jest and exult, as it was trundled
into his port cochère.
This was the signal for other drains of like nature. The English
and Dutch merchants, who had purchased a great amount of
bank paper at low prices, cashed them at the bank, and carried the
money out of the country. Other strangers did the like, thus
draining the kingdom of its specie, and leaving paper in its place.
The Regent, perceiving these symptoms of decay in the system,
sought to restore it to public confidence, by conferring marks
of confidence upon its author. He accordingly resolved to make
Law Comptroller General of the Finances of France. There was
a material obstacle in the way. Law was a protestant, and the
Regent, unscrupulous as he was himself, did not dare publicly to
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outrage the severe edicts which Lous XIV., in his bigot days,
had fulminated against all heretics. Law soon let him know that
there would be no difficulty on that head. He was ready at any
moment to abjure his religion in the way of business. For decency's
sake, however, it was judged proper he should previously be
convinced and converted. A ghostly instructor was soon found,
ready to accomplish his conversion in the shortest possible time.
This was the Abbé Tencin, a profligate creature of the profligate
Dubois, and like him working his way to ecclesiastical promotion
and temporal wealth, by the basest means.
Under the instructions of the Abbé Tencin, Law soon mastered
the mysteries and dogmas of the Catholic doctrine; and, after a
brief course of ghostly training, declared himself thoroughly convinced
and converted. To avoid the sneers and jests of the
Parisian public, the ceremony of abjuration took place at Melun.
Law made a pious present of one hundred thousand livres to the
Church of St. Roque, and the Abbé Tencin was rewarded for his
edifying labors, by sundry shares and bank-bills, which he
shrewdly took care to convert into cash, having as little faith in
the system, as in the piety of his new convert. A more grave
and moral community might have been outraged by this scandalous
farce; but the Parisians laughed at it with their usual levity,
and contented themselves with making it the subject of a number
of songs and epigrams.
Law being now orthodox in his faith, took out letters of naturalization,
and having thus surmounted the intervening obstacles,
was elevated by the Regent to the post of Comptroller General.
So accustomed had the community become to all juggles and
transmutations in this hero of finance, that no one seemed shocked
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or astonished at his sudden elevation. On the contrary, being
now considered perfectly established in place and power, he became
more than ever the object of venal adoration. Men of rank
and dignity thronged his antechamber, waiting patiently their turn
for an audience; and titled dames demeaned themselves to take
the front seats of the carriages of his wife and daughter, as if they
had been riding with princesses of the blood royal. Law's head
grew giddy with his elevation, and he began to aspire after aristocratical
distinction. There was to be a court ball, at which
several of the young noblemen were to dance in a ballet with the
youthful king. Law requested that his son might be admitted
into the ballet, and the Regent consented. The young scions of
nobility, however, were indignant, and scouted the “intruding upstart.”
Their more worldly parents, fearful of displeasing the
modern Midas, reprimanded them in vain. The striplings had not
yet imbibed the passion for gain, and still held to their high blood.
The son of the banker received slights and annoyances on all
sides, and the public applauded them for their spirit. A fit of
illness came opportunely to relieve the youth from an honor which
would have cost him a world of vexations and affronts.
In February, 1720, shortly after Law's instalment in office, a
decree came out, uniting the bank to the India Company, by
which last name the whole establishment was now known. The
decree stated, that as the bank was royal, the king was bound to
make good the value of its bills; that he committed to the company
the government of the bank for fifty years, and sold to it
fifty millions of stock belonging to him, for nine hundred millions;
a simple advance of eighteen hundred per cent. The decree farther
declared, in the king's name, that he would never draw on
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the bank, until the value of his drafts had first been lodged in it
by his receivers general.
The bank, it was said, had by this time issued notes to the
amount of one thousand millions; being more paper than all the
banks of Europe were able to circulate. To aid its credit, the
receivers of the revenue were directed to take bank-notes of the
sub-receivers. All payments, also, of one hundred livres and upward,
were ordered to be made in bank-notes. These compulsory
measures for a short time gave a false credit to the bank,
which proceeded to discount merchants' notes, to lend money on
jewels, plate, and other valuables, as well as on mortgages.
Still farther to force on the system, an edict next appeared,
forbidding any individual, or any corporate body, civil or religious,
to hold in possession more than five hundred livres in current
coin; that is to say, about seven louis-d'ors; the value of the
louis-d'or in paper being, at the time, seventy-two livres. All
the gold and silver they might have, above this pittance, was to
be brought to the royal bank, and exchanged either for shares
or bills.
As confiscation was the penalty of disobedience to this decree,
and informers were assured a share of the forfeitures, a bounty
was in a manner held out to domestic spies and traitors; and
the most odious scrutiny was awakened into the pecuniary affairs
of families and individuals. The very confidence between friends
and relatives was impaired, and all the domestic ties and virtues
of society were threatened, until a general sentiment of indignation
broke forth, that compelled the Regent to rescind the odious
decree. Lord Stairs, the British ambassador, speaking of the
system of espionage encouraged by this edict, observed that it
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was impossible to doubt that Law was a thorough Catholic, since
he had thus established the inquisition, after having already
proved transubstantiation, by changing specie into paper.
Equal abuses had taken place under the colonizing project.
In his thousand expedients to amass capital, Law had sold parcels
of land in Mississippi, at the rate of three thousand livres
for a league square. Many capitalists had purchased estates
large enough to constitute almost a principality; the only evil
was, Law had sold a property which he could not deliver. The
agents of police, who aided in recruiting the ranks of the colonists,
had been guilty of scandalous impositions. Under pretence of
taking up mendicants and vagabonds, they had scoured the streets
at night, seizing upon honest mechanics, or their sons, and hurrying
them to their crimping-houses, for the sole purpose of extorting
money from them as a ransom. The populace was roused
to indignation by these abuses. The officers of police were mobbed
in the exercise of their odious functions, and several of them
were killed, which put an end to this flagrant abuse of power.
In March, a most extraordinary decree of the council fixed
the price of shares of the India Company at nine thousand livres
each. All ecclesiastical communities and hospitals were now prohibited
from investing money at interest, in any thing but India
stock. With all these props and stays, the system continued to
totter. How could it be otherwise, under a despotic government,
that could alter the value of property at every moment? The
very compulsory measures that were adopted to establish the
credit of the bank, hastened its fall; plainly showing there was
a want of solid security. Law caused pamphlets to be published,
setting forth, in eloquent language, the vast profits that must
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accrue to holders of the stock, and the impossibility of the king's ever
doing it any harm. On the very back of these assertions, came
forth an edict of the king, dated the 22d of May, wherein, under
pretence of having reduced the value of his coin, it was declared
necessary to reduce the value of his bank-notes one half, and of
the India shares from nine thousand to five thousand livres!
This decree came like a clap of thunder upon shareholders.
They found one half of the pretended value of the paper in their
hands annihilated in an instant: and what certainty had they
with respect to the other half? The rich considered themselves
ruined; those in humbler circumstances looked forward to abject
beggary.
The parliament seized the occasion to stand forth as the protector
of the public, and refused to register the decree. It
gained the credit of compelling the Regent to retrace his step,
though it is more probable he yielded to the universal burst of
public astonishment and reprobation. On the 27th of May, the
edict was revoked, and bank-bills were restored to their previous
value. But the fatal blow had been struck; the delusion was at
an end. Government itself had lost all public confidence, equally
with the bank it had engendered, and which its own arbitrary
acts had brought into discredit. “All Paris,” says the Regent's
mother, in her letters, “has been mourning at the cursed decree
which Law has persuaded my son to make. I have received anonymous
letters, stating that I have nothing to fear on my own account,
but that my son shall be pursued with fire and sword.”
The Regent now endeavored to avert the odium of his ruinous
schemes from himself. He affected to have suddenly lost
confidence in Law, and on the 29th of May, discharged him from
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his employ, as Comptroller General, and stationed a Swiss guard
of sixteen men in his house. He even refused to see him, when,
on the following day, he applied at the portal of the Palais Royal
for admission: but having played off this farce before the public,
he admitted him secretly the same night, by a private door, and
continued as before to co-operate with him in his financial
schemes.
On the first of June, the Regent issued a decree, permitting
persons to have as much money as they pleased in their possession.
Few, however, were in a state to benefit by this permission.
There was a run upon the bank, but a royal ordinance
immediately suspended payment, until farther orders. To relieve
the public mind, a city stock was created, of twenty-five millions,
bearing an interest of two and a half per cent., for which bank-notes
were taken in exchange. The bank-notes thus withdrawn
from circulation, were publicly burnt before the Hotel de Ville.
The public, however, had lost confidence in every thing and every
body, and suspected fraud and collusion in those who pretended
to burn the bills.
A general confusion now took place in the financial world.
Families who had lived in opulence, found themselves suddenly
reduced to indigence. Schemers who had been revelling in the
delusion of princely fortunes, found their estates vanishing into
thin air. Those who had any property remaining, sought to secure
it against reverses. Cautious persons found there was no
safety for property in a country where the coin was continually
shifting in value, and where a despotism was exercised over public
securities, and even over the private purses of individuals. They
began to send their effects into other countries; when lo! on the
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20th of June, a royal edict commanded them to bring back their
effects, under penalty of forfeiting twice their value; and forbade
them, under like penalty, from investing their money in foreign
stocks. This was soon followed by an another decree, forbidding
any one to retain precious stones in his possession, or to sell them
to foreigners: all must be deposited in the bank, in exchange
for depreciating paper!
Execrations were now poured out, on all sides, against Law,
and menaces of vengeance. What a contrast, in a short time, to
the venal incense once offered up to him! “This person,” writes
the Regent's mother, “who was formerly worshipped as a god,
is now not sure of his life. It is astonishing how greatly
terrified he is. He is as a dead man; he is pale as a sheet, and
it is said he can never get over it. My son is not dismayed,
though he is threatened on all sides, and is very much amused
with Law's terrors.”
About the middle of July, the last grand attempt was made
by Law and the Regent, to keep up the system, and provide for
the immense emission of paper. A decree was fabricated, giving
the India Company the entire monopoly of commerce, on condition
that it would, in the course of a year, reimburse six hundred
millions of livres of its bills, at the rate of fifty millions per
month.
On the 17th, this decree was sent to parliament to be registered.
It at once raised a storm of opposition in that assembly;
and a vehement discussion took place. While that was going on,
a disastrous scene was passing out of doors.
The calamitous effects of the system had reached the humblest
concerns of human life. Provisions had risen to an
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enormous price; paper money was refused at all the shops; the people
had not wherewithal to buy bread. It had been found absolutely
indispensable to relax a little from the suspension of specie payments,
and to allow small sums to be scantily exchanged for paper.
The doors of the bank and the neighboring street were immediately
thronged with a famishing multitude, seeking cash for bank-notes
of ten livres. So great was the press and struggle, that
several persons were stifled and crushed to death. The mob carried
three of the bodies to the court-yard of the Palais Royal.
Some cried for the Regent to come forth, and behold the effect
of his system; others demanded the death of Law, the impostor,
who had brought this misery and ruin upon the nation.
The moment was critical: the popular fury was rising to a
tempest, when Le Blanc, the Secretary of State, stepped forth.
He had previously sent for the military, and now only sought to
gain time. Singling out six or seven stout fellows, who seemed
to be the ringleaders of the mob; “My good fellows,” said he,
calmly, “carry away these bodies, and place them in some church,
and then come back quickly to me for your pay.” They immediately
obeyed; a kind of funeral procession was formed; the
arrival of troops dispersed those who lingered behind; and Paris
was probably saved from an insurrection.
About ten o'clock in the morning, all being quiet, Law ventured
to go in his carriage to the Palais Royal. He was saluted
with cries and curses, as he passed along the streets; and he
reached the Palais Royal in a terrible fright. The Regent
amused himself with his fears, but retained him with him, and
sent off his carriage, which was assailed by the mob, pelted with
stones, and the glasses shivered. The news of this outrage was
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communicated to parliament in the midst of a furious discussion
of the decree for the commercial monopoly. The first president,
who had been absent for a short time, re-entered, and communicated
the tidings in a whimsical couplet:
“Messieurs, Messieurs! bonne nouvelle!
Le carrosse de Law est reduite en carrelle!”
“Gentlemen, Gentlemen! good news!
The carriage of Law is shivered to atoms!”
The members sprang up with joy; “And Law!” exclaimed
they, “has he been torn to pieces?” The president was ignorant
of the result of the tumult; whereupon the debate was cut
short, the decree rejected, and the house adjourned; the members
hurrying to learn the particulars. Such was the levity with which
public affairs were treated, at that dissolute and disastrous period.
On the following day, there was an ordinance from the king,
prohibiting all popular assemblages; and troops were stationed at
various points, and in all public places. The regiment of guards
was ordered to hold itself in readiness; and the musketeers to
be at their hotels, with their horses ready saddled. A number of
small offices were opened, where people might cash small notes,
though with great delay and difficulty. An edict was also issued,
declaring that whoever should refuse to take bank-notes in the
course of trade, should forfeit double the amount!
The continued and vehement opposition of parliament to the
whole delusive system of finance, had been a constant source of
annoyance to the Regent; but this obstinate rejection of his last
grand expedient of a commercial monopoly, was not to be tolerated.
He determined to punish that intractable body. The Abbé
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Dubois and Law suggested a simple mode; it was to suppress the
parliament altogether, being, as they observed, so far from useful,
that it was a constant impediment to the march of public affairs.
The Regent was half inclined to listen to their advice; but upon
calmer consideration, and the advice of friends, he adopted a more
moderate course. On the 20th of July, early in the morning, all
the doors of the parliament-house were taken possession of by the
troops. Others were sent to surround the house of the first president,
and others to the houses of the various members; who were
all at first in great alarm, until an order from the king was put
into their hands, to render themselves at Pontoise, in the course
of two days, to which place the parliament was thus suddenly and
arbitrarily transferred.
This despotic act, says Voltaire, would at any other time have
caused an insurrection; but one half of the Parisians were occupied
by their ruin, and the other half by their fancied riches, which
were soon to vanish. The president and members of parliament
acquiesced in the mandate without a murmur; they even went as
if on a party of pleasure, and made every preparation to lead a
joyous life in their exile. The musketeers, who held possession
of the vacated parliament-house, a gay corps of fashionable young
fellows, amused themselves with making songs and pasquinades, at
the expense of the exiled legislators; and at length, to pass away
time, formed themselves into a mock parliament; elected their
presidents, kings, ministers, and advocates; took their seats in
due form; arraigned a cat at their bar, in place of the Sieur Law,
and after giving it a “fair trial,” condemned it to be hanged. In
this manner, public affairs and public institutions were lightly
turned to jest.
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As to the exiled parliament, it lived gaily and luxuriously at
Pontoise, at the public expense; for the Regent had furnished
funds, as usual, with a lavish hand. The first president had the
mansion of the Duke de Bouillon put at his disposal, all ready
furnished, with a vast and delightful garden on the borders of a
river. There he kept open house to all the members of parliament.
Several tables were spread every day, all furnished luxuriously
and splendidly; the most exquisite wines and liquors,
the choicest fruits and refreshments of all kinds, abounded. A
number of small chariots for one and two horses were always at
hand, for such ladies and old gentlemen as wished to take an airing
after dinner, and card and billiard tables for such as chose
to amuse themselves in that way until supper. The sister and
the daughter of the first president did the honors of his house,
and he himself presided there with an air of great case, hospitality,
and magnificence. It became a party of pleasure to drive
from Paris to Pontoise, which was six leagues distant, and partake
of the amusements and festivities of the place. Business was
openly slighted; nothing was thought of but amusement. The
Regent and his government were laughed at, and made the subjects
of continual pleasantries; while the enormous expenses incurred
by this idle and lavish course of life, more than doubled
the liberal sums provided. This was the way in which the parliament
resented their exile.
During all this time, the system was getting more and more
involved. The stock exchange had some time previously been removed
to the Place Vendome; but the tumult and noise becoming
intolerable to the residents of that polite quarter, and especially
to the chancellor, whose hotel was there, the Prince and
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Princess Carignan, both deep gamblers in Mississippi stock, offered
the extensive garden of their Hotel de Soissons as a rallying-place
for the worshippers of mammon. The offer was accepted.
A number of barracks were immediately erected in the
garden, as offices for the stock-brokers, and an order was obtained
from the Regent, under pretext of police regulations, that no
bargain should be valid, unless concluded in these barracks.
The rent of them immediately mounted to a hundred livres a
month for each, and the whole yielded these noble proprietors
an ignoble revenue of half a million of livres.
The mania for gain, however, was now at an end. A universal
panic succeeded. “Sauve qui peut!” was the watchword.
Every one was anxious to exchange falling paper for something
of intrinsic and permanent value. Since money was not to be
had, jewels, precious stones, plate, porcelain, trinkets of gold and
silver, all commanded any price, in paper. Land was bought at
fifty years' purchase, and he esteemed himself happy, who could
get it even at this price. Monopolies now became the rage
among the noble holders of paper. The Duke de la Force bought
up nearly all the tallow, grease, and soap; others the coffee and
spices; others hay and oats. Foreign exchanges were almost impracticable.
The debts of Dutch and English merchants were paid
in this fictitious money, all the coin of the realm having disappeared.
All the relations of debtor and creditor were confounded.
With one thousand crowns one might pay a debt of eighteen
thousand livres.
The Regent's mother, who once exulted in the affluence of
bank paper, now wrote in a very different tone: “I have often
wished,” said she, in her letters, “that these bank-notes were in
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the depths of the infernal regions. They have given my son more
trouble than relief. Nobody in France has a penny. * * * My
son was once popular, but since the arrival of this cursed Law,
he is hated more and more. Not a week passes, without my receiving
letters filled with frightful threats, and speaking of him
as a tyrant. I have just received one, threatening him with poison.
When I showed it to him, he did nothing but laugh.”
In the mean time, Law was dismayed by the increasing
troubles, and terrified at the tempest he had raised. He was
not a man of real courage; and fearing for his personal safety,
from popular tumult, or the despair of ruined individuals, he
again took refuge in the palace of the Regent. The latter, as
usual, amused himself with his terrors, and turned every new disaster
into a jest; but he, too, began to think of his own security.
In pursuing the schemes of Law, he had no doubt calculated
to carry through his term of government with ease and splendor;
and to enrich himself, his connections, and his favorites; and had
hoped that the catastrophe of the system would not take place until
after the expiration of the regency.
He now saw his mistake; that it was impossible much longer
to prevent an explosion; and he determined at once to get Law
out of the way, and then to charge him with the whole tissue of
delusions of this paper alchemy. He accordingly took occasion
of the recall of parliament in December, 1720, to suggest to Law
the policy of his avoiding an encounter with that hostile and exasperated
body. Law needed no urging to the measure. His
only desire was to escape from Paris and its tempestuous populace.
Two days before the return of parliament, he took his sudden
and secret departure. He travelled in a chaise bearing the
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arms of the Regent, and was escorted by a kind of safe-guard of
servants, in the duke's livery. His first place of refuge was an
estate of the Regent's, about six leagues from Paris, from whence
he pushed forward to Bruxelles.
As soon as Law was fairly out of the way, the Duke of Orleans
summoned a council of the regency, and informed them that they
were assembled to deliberate on the state of the finances, and the
affairs of the India Company. Accordingly La Houssaye, Comptroller-General,
rendered a perfectly clear statement, by which it
appeared that there were bank-bills in circulation to the amount
of two milliards, seven hundred millions of livres, without any
evidence that this enormous sum had been emitted in virtue of
any ordinance from the general assembly of the India Company,
which alone had the right to authorize such emissions.
The council was astonished at this disclosure, and looked to the
Regent for explanation. Pushed to the extreme, the Regent
avowed that Law had emitted bills to the amount of twelve
hundred millions beyond what had been fixed by ordinances, and
in contradiction to express prohibitions; that the thing being done,
he, the Regent, had legalized or rather covered the transaction,
by decrees ordering such emissions, which decrees he had antedated.
A stormy scene ensued between the Regent and the Duke de
Bourbon, little to the credit of either, both having been deeply
implicated in the cabalistic operations of the system. In fact,
the several members of the council had been among the most venal
“beneficiaries” of the scheme, and had interests at stake which
they were anxious to secure. From all the circumstances of the
case, I am inclined to think that others were more to blame than
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Law, for the disastrous effects of his financial projects. His
bank, had it been confined to its original limits, and left to the
control of its own internal regulations, might have gone on prosperously,
and been of great benefit to the nation. It was an institution
fitted for a free country; but unfortunately, it was subject
to the control of a despotic government, that could, at its
pleasure, alter the value of the specie within its vaults, and compel
the most extravagant expansions of its paper circulation.
The vital principle of a bank is security in the regularity of its
operations, and the immediate convertibility of its paper into
coin; and what confidence could be reposed in an institution, or
its paper promises, when the sovereign could at any moment
centuple those promises in the market, and seize upon all the
money in the bank? The compulsory measures used, likewise,
to force bank-notes into currency, against the judgment of the
public, was fatal to the system; for credit must be free and uncontrolled
as the common air. The Regent was the evil spirit of
the system, that forced Law on to an expansion of his paper currency
far beyond what he had ever dreamed of. He it was that
in a manner compelled the unlucky projector to devise all kinds
of collateral companies and monopolies, by which to raise funds
to meet the constantly and enormously increasing emissions of
shares and notes. Law was but like a poor conjuror in the hands
of a potent spirit that he has evoked, and that obliges him to go
on, desperately and ruinously, with his conjurations. He only
thought at the outset to raise the wind, but the Regent compelled
him to raise the whirlwind.
The investigation of the affairs of the company by the council,
resulted in nothing beneficial to the public. The princes and
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nobles who had enriched themselves by all kinds of juggles and extortions,
escaped unpunished, and retained the greater part of
their spoils. Many of the “suddenly rich,” who had risen from
obscurity to a giddy height of imaginary prosperity, and had indulged
in all kinds of vulgar and ridiculous excesses, awoke as
out of a dream, in their original poverty, now made more galling
and humiliating by their transient elevation.
The weight of the evil, however, fell on more valuable classes
of society; honest tradesmen and artisans, who had been seduced
away from the slow accumulations of industry, to the specious
chances of speculation. Thousands of meritorious families, also,
once opulent, had been reduced to indigence, by a too great confidence
in government. There was a general derangement in the finances,
that long exerted a baneful influence over the national prosperity;
but the most disastrous effects of the system were upon
the morals and manners of the nation. The faith of engagements,
the sanctity of promises in affairs of business, were at an
end. Every expedient to grasp present profit, or to evade present
difficulty, was tolerated. While such deplorable laxity of principle
was generated in the busy classes, the chivalry of France had
soiled their pennons; and honor and glory, so long the idols of
the Gallic nobility, had been tumbled to the earth, and trampled
in the dirt of the stock-market.
As to Law, the originator of the system, he appears eventually
to have profited but little by his schemes. “He was a
quack,” says Voltaire, “to whom the state was given to be cured,
but who poisoned it with his drugs, and who poisoned himself.”
The effects which he left behind in France, were sold at a low
price, and the proceeds dissipated. His landed estates were
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confiscated. He carried away with him barely enough to maintain
himself, his wife, and daughter, with decency. The chief relic
of his immense fortune was a great diamond, which he was often
obliged to pawn. He was in England in 1721, and was presented
to George the First. He returned, shortly afterward, to the
continent; shifting about from place to place, and died in Venice,
in 1729. His wife and daughter, accustomed to live with the prodigality
of princesses, could not conform to their altered fortunes,
but dissipated the scanty means left to them, and sank into abject
poverty. “I saw his wife,” says Voltaire, “at Bruxelles, as
much humiliated as she had been haughty and triumphant at
Paris.” An elder brother of Law remained in France, and was protected
by the Duchess of Bourbon. His descendants acquitted
themselves honorably, in various public employments; and one of
them was the Marquis Lauriston, sometime Lieutenant General
and Peer of France.
-- -- p615-199
SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 1825: FROM THE TRAVELLING NOTE-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. THE PARISIAN HOTEL.
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A great hotel in Paris is a street set on end: the grand stair-case
is the highway, and every floor or apartment a separate habitation.
The one in which I am lodged may serve as a specimen.
It is a large quadrangular pile, built round a spacious paved
court. The ground floor is occupied by shops, magazines, and domestic
offices. Then comes the entre-sol, with low ceilings, short
windows, and dwarf chambers; then succeed a succession of
floors, or stories, rising one above the other, to the number of
Mahomet's heavens. Each floor is a mansion, complete within
itself, with ante-chamber, saloons, dining and sleeping rooms, kitchen
and other conveniences. Some floors are divided into two
or more suites of apartments. Each apartment has its main door
of entrance, opening upon the staircase, or landing-places, and
locked like a street door. Thus several families and numerous
single persons live under the same roof, totally independent of
each other, and may live so for years, without holding more
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intercourse than is kept up in other cities by residents in the same
street.
Like the great world, this little microcosm has its gradations
of rank and style and importance. The Premier, or first floor
with its grand saloons, lofty ceilings, and splendid furniture, is
decidedly the aristocratical part of the establishment. The second
floor is scarcely less aristocratical and magnificent; the other
floors go on lessening in splendor as they gain in altitude, and
end with the attics, the region of petty tailors, clerks, and sewing
girls. To make the filling up of the mansion complete, every odd
nook and corner is fitted up as a joli petit appartement à garcon,
(a pretty little bachelor's apartment,) that is to say, some little
dark inconvenient nestling-place for a poor devil of a bachelor.
The whole domain is shut up from the street by a great porte-coch
ère, or portal, calculated for the admission of carriages. This
consists of two massy folding doors, that swing heavily open upon
a spacious entrance, passing under the front of the edifice into the
court-yard. On one side is a grand staircase leading to the
upper apartments. Immediately without the portal, is the porter's
lodge, a small room with one or two bedrooms adjacent, for
the accommodation of the concierge, or porter, and his family.
This is one of the most important functionaries of the hotel. He
is, in fact, the Cerberus of the establishment, and no one can pass
in or out without his knowledge and consent. The porte-cochère
in general is fastened by a sliding bolt, from which a cord or wire
passes into the porter's lodge. Whoever wishes to go out must
speak to the porter, who draws the bolt. A visitor from without
gives a single rap with the massive knocker; the bolt is immediately
drawn, as if by an invisible hand; the door stands ajar,
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the visitor pushes it open, and enters. A face presents itself at
the glass door of the porter's little chamber: the stranger pronounces
the name of the person he comes to seek. If the person
or family is of importance, occupying the first or second floor, the
porter sounds a bell once or twice, to give notice that a visitor is
at hand. The stranger in the mean time ascends the great stair-case,
the highway common to all, and arrives at the outer door,
equivalent to a street door, of the suite of rooms inhabited by
his friends. Beside this hangs a bell-cord, with which he rings
for admittance.
When the family or person inquired for is of less importance,
or lives in some remote part of the mansion less easy to be apprised,
no signal is given. The applicant pronounces the name
at the porter's door, and is told, “Montez au troisième, au quatri
ème; sonnez à la porte à droite, ou à gauche;” (“Ascend
to the third or fourth story; ring the bell on the right or left
hand door,”) as the case may be.
The porter and his wife act as domestics to such of the inmates
of the mansion as do not keep servants; making their beds,
arranging their rooms, lighting their fires, and doing other menial
offices, for which they receive a monthly stipend. They are also
in confidential intercourse with the servants of the other inmates,
and, having an eye on all the incomers and outgoers, are thus
enabled, by hook and by crook, to learn the secrets and the domestic
history of every member of the little territory within the
porte-cochère.
The porter's lodge is accordingly a great scene of gossip,
where all the private affairs of this interior neighborhood are discussed.
The court-yard, also, is an assembling place in the evenings
for the servants of the different families, and a sisterhood of
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sewing girls from the entre-sols and the attics, to play at various
games, and dance to the music of their own songs, and the echoes
of their feet; at which assemblages the porter's daughter takes
the lead; a fresh, pretty, buxom girl, generally called “La Petite,”
though almost as tall as a grenadier. These little evening
gatherings, so characteristic of this gay country, are countenanced
by the various families of the mansion, who often look down
from their windows and balconies, on moonlight evenings, and
enjoy the simple revels of their domestics. I must observe, however,
that the hotel I am describing is rather a quiet, retired one,
where most of the inmates are permanent residents from year to
year, so that there is more of the spirit of neighborhood, than in
the bustling, fashionable hotels in the gay parts of Paris, which
are continually changing their inhabitants.
I often amuse myself by watching from my window (which by
the by is tolerably elevated) the movements of the teeming little
world below me; and as I am on sociable terms with the porter
and his wife, I gather from them, as they light my fire, or serve
my breakfast, anecdotes of all my fellow-lodgers. I have been
somewhat curious in studying a little antique Frenchman, who occupies
one of the jolie chambres à garçon already mentioned. He
is one of those superannuated veterans who flourished before the
revolution, and have weathered all the storms of Paris, in consequence,
very probably, of being fortunately too insignificant to attract
attention. He has a small income, which he manages with
the skill of a French economist: appropriating so much for his
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lodgings, so much for his meals, so much for his visits to St.
Cloud and Versailles, and so much for his seat at the theatre. He
has resided at the hotel for years, and always in the same chamber,
which he furnishes at his own expense. The decorations of
the room mark his various ages. There are some gallant pictures,
which he hung up in his younger days, with a portrait of a
lady of rank, whom he speaks tenderly of, dressed in the old
French taste, and a pretty opera dancer, pirouetting in a hoop
petticoat, who lately died at a good old age. In a corner of this
picture is stuck a prescription for rheumatism, and below it stands
an easy-chair. He has a small parrot at the window, to amuse
him when within doors, and a pug-dog to accompany him in his
daily peregrinations. While I am writing, he is crossing the
court to go out. He is attired in his best coat, of sky-blue, and
is doubtless bound for the Tuileries. His hair is dressed in the
old style, with powdered ear-locks and a pigtail. His little dog
trips after him, sometimes on four legs, sometimes on three, and
looking as if his leather small-clothes were too tight for him.
Now the old gentleman stops to have a word with an old crony
who lives in the entre-sol, and is just returning from his promenade.
Now they take a pinch of snuff together; now they pull
out huge red cotton handkerchiefs, (those “flags of abomination,”
as they have well been called,) and blow their noses most sonorously.
Now they turn to make remarks upon their two little
dogs, who are exchanging the morning's salutation; now they
part, and my old gentleman stops to have a passing word with
the porter's wife: and now he sallies forth, and is fairly launched
upon the town for the day.
No man is so methodical as a complete idler, and none so
scrupulous in measuring and portioning out his time as he whose
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time is worth nothing. The old gentleman in question has his
exact hour for rising, and for shaving himself by a small mirror
hung against his casement. He sallies forth at a certain hour
every morning, to take his cup of coffee and his roll at a certain
café, where he reads the papers. He has been a regular admirer
of the lady who presides at the bar, and always stops to have a
little badinage with her, en passant. He has his regular walks
on the Boulevards and in the Palais Royal, where he sets his
watch by the petard fired off by the sun at mid-day. He has his
daily resort in the Garden of the Tuileries, to meet with a knot
of veteran idlers like himself, who talk on pretty much the same
subjects whenever they meet. He has been present at all the
sights and shows and rejoicings of Paris for the last fifty years;
has witnessed the great events of the revolution; the guillotining
of the king and queen; the coronation of Bonaparte; the capture
of Paris, and the restoration of the Bourbons. All these he speaks
of with the coolness of a theatrical critic; and I question whether
he has not been gratified by each in its turn; not from any inherent
love of tumult, but from that insatiable appetite for spectacle,
which prevails among the inhabitants of this metropolis. I
have been amused with a farce, in which one of these systematic
old triflers is represented. He sings a song detailing his whole
day's round of insignificant occupations, and goes to bed delighted
with the idea that his next day will be an exact repetition
of the same routine:
“Je me couche le soir,
Enchanté de pouvoir
Recommencer mon train
Le lendemain
Matin.”
-- 198 -- p615-205
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In another part of the hotel, a handsome suite of rooms is occupied
by an old English gentleman, of great probity, some understanding,
and very considerable crustiness, who has come to
France to live economically. He has a very fair property, but
his wife, being of that blessed kind compared in Scripture to the
fruitful vine, has overwhelmed him with a family of buxom
daughters, who hang clustering about him, ready to be gathered
by any hand. He is seldom to be seen in public, without one
hanging on each arm, and smiling on all the world, while his own
mouth is drawn down at each corner like a mastiff's, with internal
growling at every thing about him. He adheres rigidly to English
fashion in dress, and trudges about in long gaiters and broad-brimmed
hat; while his daughters almost overshadow him with
feathers, flowers, and French bonnets.
He contrives to keep up an atmosphere of English habits,
opinions, and prejudices, and to carry a semblance of London into
the very heart of Paris. His mornings are spent at Galignani's
newsroom, where he forms one of a knot of inveterate quid-nuncs,
who read the same articles over a dozen times in a dozen different
papers. He generally dines in company with some of his own countrymen,
and they have what is called a “comfortable sitting,” after
dinner, in the English fashion, drinking wine, discussing the news
of the London papers, and canvassing the French character, the
French metropolis, and the French revolution, ending with a unanimous
admission of English courage, English morality, English
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cookery, English wealth, the magnitude of London, and the
ingratitude of the French.
His evenings are chiefly spent at a club of his countrymen,
where the London papers are taken. Sometimes his daughters
entice him to the theatres, but not often. He abuses French
tragedy, as all fustian and bombast, Talma as a ranter, and Duchesnois
as a mere termagant. It is true his ear is not sufficiently
familiar with the language to understand French verse, and he
generally goes to sleep during the performance. The wit of the
French comedy is flat and pointless to him. He would not give
one of Munden's wry faces, or Liston's inexpressible looks, for
the whole of it.
He will not admit that Paris has any advantage over London.
The Seine is a muddy rivulet in comparison with the Thames;
the West End of London surpasses the finest parts of the French
capital; and on some one's observing that there was a very thick
fog out of doors: “Pish!” said he, crustily, “it's nothing to the
fogs we have in London!”
He has infinite trouble in bringing his table into any thing
like conformity to English rule. With his liquors, it is true, he
is tolerably successful. He procures London porter, and a stock
of port and sherry, at considerable expense; for he observes that
he cannot stand those cursed thin French wines: they dilute his
blood so much as to give him the rheumatism. As to their white
wines, he stigmatizes them as mere substitutes for cider; and as
to claret, why “it would be port if it could.” He has continual
quarrels with his French cook, whom he renders wretched by insisting
on his conforming to Mrs. Glass; for it is easier to convert
a Frenchman from his religion than his cookery. The poor
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fellow, by dint of repeated efforts, once brought himself to
serve up ros bif sufficiently raw to suit what he considered the
cannibal taste of his master; but then he could not refrain, at the
last moment, adding some exquisite sauce, that put the old
gentleman in a fury.
He detests wood-fires, and has procured a quantity of coal;
but not having a grate, he is obliged to burn it on the hearth.
Here he sits poking and stirring the fire with one end of a tongs,
while the room is as murky as a smithy; railing at French chimneys,
French masons, and French architects; giving a poke, at
the end of every sentence, as though he were stirring up the very
bowels of the delinquents he is anathematizing. He lives in a
state militant with inanimate objects around him; gets into high
dudgeon with doors and casements, because they will not come
under English law, and has implacable feuds with sundry refractory
pieces of furniture. Among these is one in particular with
which he is sure to have a high quarrel every time he goes to
dress. It is a commode, one of those smooth, polished, plausible
pieces of French furniture, that have the perversity of five hundred
devils. Each drawer has a will of its own; will open or not,
just as the whim takes it, and sets lock and key at defiance.
Sometimes a drawer will refuse to yield to either persuasion or
force, and will part with both handles rather than yield; another
will come out in the most coy and coquettish manner imaginable;
elbowing along, zigzag; one corner retreating as the other advances,
making a thousand difficulties and objections at every
move; until the old gentleman, out of all patience, gives a sudden
jerk, and brings drawer and contents into the middle of the floor.
His hostility to this unlucky piece of furniture increases every
-- 201 -- p615-208
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day, as if incensed that it does not grow better. He is like the
fretful invalid, who cursed his bed, that the longer he lay, the
harder it grew. The only benefit he has derived from the quarrel
is, that it has furnished him with a crusty joke, which he utters
on all occasions. He swears that a French commode is the most
incommodious thing in existence, and that although the nation
cannot make a joint-stool that will stand steady, yet they are
always talking of every thing's being perfectionée.
His servants understand his humor, and avail themselves of
it. He was one day disturbed by a pertinacious rattling and
shaking at one of the doors, and bawled out in an angry tone to
know the cause of the disturbance. “Sir,” said the footman,
testily, “it's this confounded French lock!” “Ah!” said the old
gentleman, pacified by this hit at the nation, “I thought there
was something French at the bottom of it!”
As I am a mere looker-on in Europe, and hold myself as much
as possible aloof from its quarrels and prejudices, I feel something
like one overlooking a game, who, without any great skill of his
own, can occasionally perceive the blunders of much abler players.
This neutrality of feeling enables me to enjoy the contrasts of
character presented in this time of general peace; when the various
people of Europe, who have so long been sundered by wars, are
brought together, and placed side by side in this great gathering
place of nations. No greater contrast, however, is exhibited, than
that of the French and English. The peace has deluged this gay
capital with English visitors, of all ranks and conditions. They
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throng every place of curiosity and amusement; fill the public
gardens, the galleries, the cafés, saloons, theatres; always herding
together, never associating with the French. The two nations
are like two threads of different colors, tangled together, but
never blended.
In fact, they present a continual antithesis, and seem to value
themselves upon being unlike each other; yet each have their
peculiar merits, which should entitle them to each other's esteem.
The French intellect is quick and active, It flashes its way into
a subject with the rapidity of lightning; seizes upon remote conclusions
with a sudden bound, and its deductions are almost intuitive.
The English intellect is less rapid, but more persevering;
less sudden, but more sure in its deductions. The quickness and
mobility of the French enable them to find enjoyment in the multiplicity
of sensations. They speak and act more from immediate
impressions than from reflection and meditation. They are therefore
more social and communicative; more fond of society, and of
places of public resort and amusement. An Englishman is more
reflective in his habits. He lives in the world of his own thoughts,
and seems more self-existent and self-dependent. He loves the
quiet of his own apartment; even when abroad, he in a manner
makes a little solitude around him, by his silence and reserve:
he moves about shy and solitary, and as it were, buttoned up,
body and soul.
The French are great optimists: they seize upon every good
as it flies, and revel in the passing pleasure. The Englishman is
too apt to neglect the present good, in preparing against the possible
evil. However adversities may lower, let the sun shine but
for a moment, and forth sallies the mercurial Frenchman, in
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holiday dress and holiday spirits, gay as a butterfly, as though his
sunshine were perpetual; but let the sun beam never so brightly,
so there be but a cloud in the horizon, the wary Englishman ventures
forth distrustfully, with his umbrella in his hand.
The Frenchman has a wonderful facility at turning small
things to advantage. No one can be gay and luxurious on smaller
means; no one requires less expense to be happy. He practises
a kind of gilding in his style of living, and hammers out
every guinea into gold leaf. The Englishman, on the contrary,
is expensive in his habits, and expensive in his enjoyments. He
values every thing, whether useful or ornamental, by what it
costs. He has no satisfaction in show, unless it be solid and complete.
Every thing goes with him by the square foot. Whatever
display he makes, the depth is sure to equal the surface.
The Frenchman's habitation, like himself, is open, cheerful,
bustling, and noisy. He lives in a part of a great hotel, with wide
portal, paved court, a spacious dirty stone staircase, and a family
on every floor. All is clatter and chatter. He is good-humored
and talkative with his servants, sociable with his neighbors, and
complaisant to all the world. Any body has access to himself
and his apartments; his very bedroom is open to visitors, whatever
may be its state of confusion; and all this not from any peculiarly
hospitable feeling, but from that communicative habit
which predominates over his character.
The Englishman, on the contrary, ensconces himself in a snug
brick mansion, which he has all to himself; locks the front door;
puts broken bottles along his walls, and spring-guns and man-traps
in his gardens; shrouds himself with trees and window-curtains;
exults in his quiet and privacy, and seems disposed to keep out
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noise, daylight, and company. His house, like himself, has a
reserved, inhospitable exterior; yet whoever gains admittance, is
apt to find a warm heart and warm fireside within.
The French excel in wit; the English in humor: the French
have gayer fancy, the English richer imaginations. The former
are full of sensibility; easily moved, and prone to sudden and
great excitement; but their excitement is not durable: the English
are more phlegmatic; not so readily affected; but capable of
being aroused to great enthusiasm. The faults of these opposite
temperaments are, that the vivacity of the French is apt to sparkle
up and be frothy, the gravity of the English to settle down and
grow muddy. When the two characters can be fixed in a medium,
the French kept from effervescence and the English from stagnation,
both will be found excellent.
This contrast of character may also be noticed in the great
concerns of the two nations. The ardent Frenchman is all for
military renown: he fights for glory, that is to say, for success
in arms. For, provided the national flag be victorious, he cares
little about the expense, the injustice, or the inutility of the war.
It is wonderful how the poorest Frenchman will revel on a triumphant
bulletin; a great victory is meat and drink to him; and at
the sight of a military sovereign, bringing home captured cannon
and captured standards, he throws up his greasy cap in the air,
and is ready to jump out of his wooden shoes for joy.
John Bull, on the contrary, is a reasoning, considerate person.
If he does wrong, it is in the most rational way imaginable. He
fights because the good of the world requires it. He is a moral
person, and makes war upon his neighbor for the maintenance
of peace and good order, and sound principles. He is a
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money-making personage, and fights for the prosperity of commerce and
manufactures. Thus the two nations have been fighting, time
out of mind, for glory and good. The French, in pursuit of glory,
have had their capital twice taken; and John, in pursuit of
good, has run himself over head and cars in debt.
I have sometimes fancied I could discover national characteristics
in national edifices. In the Chateau of the Tuileries, for
instance, I perceive the same jumble of contrarictics that marks
the French character; the same whimsical mixture of the great
and the little; the splendid and the paltry, the sublime and the
grotesque. On visiting this famous pile, the first thing that
strikes both eye and ear, is military display. The courts glitter
with steel-clad soldiery, and resound with tramp of horse, the roll
of drum, and the bray of trumpet. Dismounted guardsmen patrol
its arcades, with loaded carbines, jingling spurs, and clanking
sabres. Gigantic grenadiers are posted about its staircases;
young officers of the guards loll from the balconies, or lounge in
groups upon the terraces: and the gleam of bayonet from window
to window, shows that sentinels are pacing up and down the corridors
and ante-chambers. The first floor is brilliant with the
splendors of a court. French taste has tasked itself in adorning
the sumptuous suites of apartments; nor are the gilded chapel and
splendid theatre forgotten, where Piety and Pleasure are next-door
neighbors, and harmonize together with perfect French bienseance.
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Mingled up with all this regal and military magnificence, is a
world of whimsical and make-shift detail. A great part of the
huge edifice is cut up into little chambers and nestling-places for
retainers of the court, dependants on retainers, and hangers-on of
dependants. Some are squeezed into narrow entre-sols, those
low, dark, intermediate slices of apartments between floors, the inhabitants
of which seem shoved in edgeways, like books between
narrow shelves; others are perched, like swallows, under the
eaves; the high roofs, too, which are as tall and steep as a
French cocked hat, have rows of little dormer windows, tier
above tier, just large enough to admit light and air for some dormitory,
and to enable its occupant to peep out at the sky. Even
to the very ridge of the roof, may be seen, here and there, one of
these air-holes, with a stove-pipe beside it, to carry off the smoke
from the handful of fuel with which its weasen-faced tenant simmers
his demi-tasse of coffee.
On approaching the palace from the Pont Royal, you take in
at a glance all the various strata of inhabitants; the garreteer
in the roof; the retainer in the entre-sol; the courtiers at the
casements of the royal apartments; while on the ground-floor a
steam of savory odors, and a score or two of cooks, in white caps,
bobbing their heads about the windows, betray that scientific and
all-important laboratory, the royal kitchen.
Go into the grand ante-chamber of the royal apartments on
Sunday, and see the mixture of Old and New France: the old emigr
és, returned with the Bourbons; little withered, spindle-shanked
old noblemen, clad in court dresses, that figured in these
saloons before the revolution, and have been carefully treasured
up during their exile; with the solitaires and ailes de pigeon of
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former days: and the court swords strutting out behind, like
pins stuck through dry beetles. See them haunting the scenes
of their former splendor, in hopes of a restitution of estates, like
ghosts haunting the vicinity of buried treasure: while around
them you see Young France, grown up in the fighting school of
Napoleon; equipped an militaire: tall, hardy, frank, vigorous,
sunburnt, fierce-whiskered; with tramping boots, towering crests,
and glittering breastplates.
It is incredible the number of ancient and hereditary feeders
on royalty said to be housed in this establishment. Indeed all
the royal palaces abound with noble families returned from exile,
and who have nestling-places allotted them while they await the
restoration of their estates, or the much-talked-of law, indemnity.
Some of them have fine quarters, but poor living. Some families
have but five or six hundred francs a year, and all their retinue
consists of a servant woman. With all this, they maintain their
old aristocratical hauteur, look down with vast contempt upon the
opulent families which have risen since the revolution; stigmatize
them all as parvenus, or upstarts, and refuse to visit them.
In regarding the exterior of the Tuileries, with all its outward
signs of internal populousness, I have often thought what a
rare sight it would be to see it suddenly unroofed, and all its
nooks and corners laid open to the day. It would be like turning
up the stump of an old tree, and dislodging the world of
grubs, and ants, and beetles lodged beneath. Indeed there is a
scandalous anecdote current, that in the time of one of the petty
plots, when petards were exploded under the windows of the Tuileries,
the police made a sudden investigation of the palace at
four o'clock in the morning, when a scene of the most whimsical
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confusion ensued. Hosts of supernumerary inhabitants were
found foisted into the huge edifice: every rat-hole had its occupant;
and places which had been considered as tenanted only by
spiders, were found crowded with a surreptitious population. It
is added, that many ludicrous accidents occurred; great scampering
and slamming of doors, and whisking away in night-gowns
and slippers; and several persons, who were found by accident
in their neighbors' chambers, evinced indubitable astonishment at
the circumstance.
As I have fancied I could read the French character in the
national palace of the Tuileries, so I have pictured to myself
some of the traits of John Bull in his royal abode of Windsor
Castle. The Tuileries, outwardly a peaceful palace, is in
effect a swaggering military hold; while the old castle, on the
contrary, in spite of its bullying look, is completely under petticoat
government. Every corner and nook is built up into some
snug, cosy nestling-place, some “procreant cradle,” not tenanted
by meagre expectants or whiskered warriors, but by sleek placemen;
knowing realizers of present pay and present pudding; who
seem placed there not to kill and destroy, but to breed and multiply.
Nursery maids and children shine with rosy faces at the windows,
and swarm about the courts and terraces. The very soldiery
have a pacific look, and when off duty, may be seen loitering about
the place with the nursery-maids; not making love to them in
the gay gallant style of the French soldiery, but with infinite bonhommie
aiding them to take care of the broods of children.
Though the old castle is in decay, every thing about it
thrives; the very crevices of the walls are tenanted by swallows,
rooks, and pigeons, all sure of quiet lodgment: the ivy strikes
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its roots deep in the fissures, and flourishes about the mouldering
tower.* Thus it is with honest John: according to his own
account, he is ever going to ruin, yet every thing that lives on
him, thrives and waxes fat. He would fain be a soldier, and
swagger like his neighbors; but his domestic, quiet-loving, uxorious
nature continually gets the upper hand; and though he
may mount his helmet and gird on his sword, yet he is apt to
sink into the plodding, painstaking father of a family; with a
troop of children at his heels, and his womenkind hanging on
each arm.
eaf615n8* The above sketch was written before the thorough repairs and magnificent
additions made of late years to Windsor Castle.
I have spoken heretofore with some levity of the contrast
that exists between the English and French character; but it
deserves more serious consideration. They are the two great
nations of modern times most diametrically opposed, and most
worthy of each other's rivalry; essentially distinct in their characters,
excelling in opposite qualities, and reflecting lustre on
each other by their very opposition. In nothing is this contrast
more strikingly evinced than in their military conduct. For
ages have they been contending, and for ages have they crowded
each other's history with acts of splendid heroism. Take the
Battle of Waterloo, for instance, the last and most memorable
trial of their rival prowess. Nothing could surpass the brilliant
daring on the one side, and the steadfast enduring on the other.
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The French cavalry broke like waves on the compact squares of
English infantry. They were seen galloping round those serried
walls of men, seeking in vain for an entrance; tossing their arms
in the air, in the heat of their enthusiasm, and braving the whole
front of battle. The British troops, on the other hand, forbidden
to move or fire, stood firm and enduring. Their columns
were ripped up by cannonry; whole rows were swept down at a
shot: the survivors closed their ranks, and stood firm. In this
way many columns stood through the pelting of the iron tempest
without firing a shot; without any action to stir their blood, or
excite their spirits. Death thinned their ranks, but could not
shake their souls.
A beautiful instance of the quick and generous impulses to
which the French are prone, is given in the case of a French
cavalier, in the hottest of the action, charging furiously upon a
British officer, but perceiving in the moment of assault that his
adversary had lost his sword-arm, dropping the point of his sabre,
and courteously riding on. Peace be with that generous
warrior, whatever were his fate! If he went down in the storm
of battle, with the foundering fortunes of his chieftain, may the
turf of Waterloo grow green above his grave!—and happier far
would be the fate of such a spirit, to sink amidst the tempest,
unconscious of defeat, than to survive, and mourn over the
blighted laurels of his country.
In this way the two armies fought through a long and bloody
day. The French with enthusiastic valor, the English with cool,
inflexible courage, until Fate, as if to leave the question of superiority
still undecided between two such adversaries, brought up
the Prussians to decide the fortunes of the field.
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It was several years afterward, that I visited the field of
Waterloo. The ploughshare had been busy with its oblivious
labors, and the frequent harvest had nearly obliterated the vestiges
of war. Still the blackened ruins of Hoguemont stood, a
monumental pile, to mark the violence of this vehement struggle.
Its broken walls, pierced by bullets, and shattered by explosions,
showed the deadly strife that had taken place within;
when Gaul and Briton, hemmed in between narrow walls, hand
to hand and foot to foot, fought from garden to court-yard, from
court-yard to chamber, with intense and concentrated rivalship.
Columns of smoke towered from this vortex of battle as from a
volcano: “it was,” said my guide, “like a little hell upon earth.”
Not far off, two or three broad spots of rank, unwholesome green
still marked the places where these rival warriors, after their
fierce and fitful struggle, slept quietly together in the lap of their
common mother earth. Over all the rest of the field, peace had
resumed its sway. The thoughtless whistle of the peasant
floated on the air, instead of the trumpet's clangor; the team
slowly labored up the hill-side, once shaken by the hoofs of rushing
squadrons; and wide fields of corn waved peacefully over the
soldiers' grave, as summer seas dimple over the place where
the tall ship lies buried.
To the foregoing desultory notes on the French military
character, let me append a few traits which I picked up verbally
in one of the French provinces. They may have already appeared
in print, but I have never met with them.
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At the breaking out of the revolution, when so many of the
old families emigrated, a descendant of the great Turenne, by
the name of De Latour D'Auvergne, refused to accompany his
relations, and entered into the republican army. He served in
all the campaigns of the revolution, distinguished himself by his
valor, his accomplishments, and his generous spirit, and might
have risen to fortune and to the highest honors. He refused,
however, all rank in the army, above that of captain, and would
receive no recompense for his achievements but a sword of honor.
Napoleon, in testimony of his merits, gave him the title of Premier
Grenadier de France (First Grenadier of France), which
was the only title he would ever bear. He was killed in Germany,
at the battle of Neuburg. To honor his memory, his
place was always retained in his regiment, as if he still occupied
it; and whenever the regiment was mustered, and the name of
De Latour D'Auvergne was called out, the reply was: “Dead
on the field of honor!”
Paris presented a singular aspect just after the downfall of
Napoleon, and the restoration of the Bourbons. It was filled
with a restless, roaming population; a dark, sallow race, with
fierce moustaches, black cravats, and feverish, menacing looks;
men suddenly thrown out of employ by the return of peace;
officers cut short in their career, and cast loose with scanty
means, many of them in utter indigence, upon the world; the
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broken elements of armies. They haunted the places of public
resort, like restless, unhappy spirits, taking no pleasure; hanging
about, like lowering clouds that linger after a storm, and
giving a singular air of gloom to this otherwise gay metropolis.
The vaunted courtesy of the old school, the smooth urbanity
that prevailed in former days of settled government and long-established
aristocracy, had disappeared amidst the savage republicanism
of the revolution and the military furor of the empire:
recent reverses had stung the national vanity to the quick;
and English travellers, who crowded to Paris on the return of
peace, expecting to meet with a gay, good-humored, complaisant
populace, such as existed in the time of the “Sentimental Journey,”
were surprised at finding them irritable and fractious,
quick at fancying affronts, and not unapt to offer insults. They
accordingly inveighed with heat and bitterness at the rudeness
they experienced in the French metropolis: yet what better had
they to expect? Had Charles II. been reinstated in his kingdom
by the valor of French troops; had he been wheeled triumphantly
to London over the trampled bodies and trampled standards
of England's bravest sons; had a French general dictated
to the English capital, and a French army been quartered in
Hyde-Park; had Paris poured forth its motley population, and
the wealthy bourgeoisie of every French trading town swarmed to
London; crowding its squares; filling its streets with their
equipages; thronging its fashionable hotels, and places of amusements;
elbowing its impoverished nobility out of their palaces
and opera boxes, and looking down on the humiliated inhabitants
as a conquered people; in such a reverse of the case, what de
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gree of courtesy would the populace of London have been apt to
exercise toward their visitors?*
On the contrary, I have always admired the degree of magnanimity
exhibited by the French on the occupation of their
capital by the English. When we consider the military ambition
of this nation, its love of glory, the splendid height to
which its renown in arms had recently been carried, and with
these, the tremendous reverses it had just undergone, its armies
shattered, annihilated, its capital captured, garrisoned, and overrun,
and that too by its ancient rival, the English, toward whom
it had cherished for centuries a jealous and almost religious hostility;
could we have wondered, if the tiger spirit of this fiery
people had broken out in bloody feuds and deadly quarrels; and
that they had sought to rid themselves in any way, of their invaders?
But it is cowardly nations only, those who dare not
wield the sword, that revenge themselves with the lurking dagger.
There were no assassinations in Paris. The French had
fought valiantly, desperately, in the field; but, when valor was
no longer of avail, they submitted like gallant men to a fate
they could not withstand. Some instances of insult from the
populace were experienced by their English visitors; some personal
rencontres, which led to duels, did take place; but these
smacked of open and honorable hostility. No instances of lurking
and perfidious revenge occurred, and the British soldier patrolled
the streets of Paris safe from treacherous assault.
If the English met with harshness and repulse in social
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intercourse, it was in some degree a proof that the people are more
sincere than has been represented. The emigrants who had just
returned, were not yet reinstated. Society was constituted of
those who had flourished under the late régime; the newly ennobled,
the recently enriched, who felt their prosperity and their
consequence endangered by this change of things. The broken-down
officer, who saw his glory tarnished, his fortune ruined, his
occupation gone, could not be expected to look with complacency
upon the authors of his downfall. The English visitor, flushed
with health, and wealth, and victory, could little enter into the
feelings of the blighted warrior, scarred with a hundred battles,
an exile from the camp, broken in constitution by the wars, impoverished
by the peace, and cast back, a needy stranger in the
splendid but captured metropolis of his country.
“Oh! who can tell what heroes feel
When all but life and honor's lost!”
And here let me notice the conduct of the French soldiery
on the dismemberment of the Army of the Loire, when two hundred
thousand men were suddenly thrown out of employ; men
who had been brought up to the camp, and scarce knew any other
home. Few in civil, peaceful life, are aware of the severe trial
to the feelings that takes place on the dissolution of a regiment.
There is a fraternity in arms. The community of dangers, hard-ships,
enjoyments; the participation in battles and victories;
the companionship in adventures, at a time of life when men's
feelings are most fresh, susceptible, and ardent, all these bind
the members of a regiment strongly together. To them the regiment
is friends, family, home. They identify themselves with
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its fortunes, its glories, its disgraces. Imagine this romantic tie
suddenly dissolved; the regiment broken up; the occupation of
its members gone; their military pride mortified; the career of
glory closed behind them; that of obscurity, dependence, want,
neglect, perhaps beggary, before them. Such was the case with
the soldiers of the Army of the Loire. They were sent off in
squads, with officers, to the principal towns where they were to
be disarmed and discharged. In this way they passed through
the country with arms in their hands, often exposed to slights
and scoffs, to hunger and various hardships and privations; but
they conducted themselves magnanimously, without any of those
outbreaks of violence and wrong that so often attend the dismemberment
of armies.
The few years that have elapsed since the time above alluded
to, have already had their effect. The proud and angry spirits
which then roamed about Paris unemployed, have cooled down,
and found occupation. The national character begins to recover
its old channels, though worn deeper by recent torrents. The
natural urbanity of the French begins to find its way, like oil, to
the surface, though there still remains a degree of roughness and
bluntness of manner, partly real, and partly affected, by such as
imagine it to indicate force and frankness. The events of the last
thirty years have rendered the French a more reflecting people.
They have acquired greater independence of mind and strength
of judgment, together with a portion of that prudence which results
from experiencing the dangerous consequences of excesses.
However that period may have been stained by crimes, and filled
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with extravagances, the French have certainly come out of it a
greater nation than before. One of their own philosophers observes,
that in one or two generations the nation will probably combine
the ease and elegance of the old character with force and
solidity. They were light, he says, before the revolution; then
wild and savage; they have become more thoughtful and reflective.
It is only old Frenchmen, now-a-days, that are gay and trivial;
the young are very serious personages.
P.S. In the course of a morning's walk, about the time the
above remarks were written, I observed the Duke of Wellington,
who was on a brief visit to Paris. He was alone, simply attired
in a blue frock; with an umbrella under his arm, and his hat
drawn over his eyes, and sauntering across the Place Vendome,
close by the column of Napoleon. He gave a glance up at the
column as he passed, and continued his loitering way up the Rue
de la Paix; stopping occasionally to gaze in at the shop-windows;
elbowed now and then by other gazers, who little suspected that
the quiet, lounging individual they were jostling so unceremoniously,
was the conqueror who had twice entered their capital
victoriously; had controlled the destinies of the nation, and
eclipsed the glory of the military idol, at the base of whose column
he was thus negligently sauntering.
Some years afterwards I was at an evening's entertainment
given by the Duke at Apsley House, to William IV. The Duke
had manifested his admiration of his great adversary, by having
portraits of him in different parts of the house. At the bottom
of the grand staircase, stood the colossal statue of the Emperor,
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by Canova. It was of marble, in the antique style, with one arm
partly extended, holding a figure of victory. Over this arm the
ladies, in tripping up stairs to the ball, had thrown their shawls.
It was a singular office for the statue of Napoleon to perform in
the mansion of the Duke of Wellington!
“Imperial Cæsar dead, and turned to clay,” etc., etc.
eaf615n9* The above remarks were suggested by a conversation with the late
Mr. Cauning, whom the author met in Paris, and who expressed himself in
the most liberal way concerning the magnanimity of the French on the
occupation of their capital by strangers.
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A CONTENTED MAN.
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In the garden of the Tuileries there is a sunny corner under the
wall of a terrace which fronts the south. Along the wall is a
range of benches commanding a view of the walks and avenues of
the garden. This genial nook is a place of great resort in the
latter part of autumn, and in fine days in winter, as it seems to
retain the flavor of departed summer. On a calm, bright morning
it is quite alive with nursery-maids and their playful little
charges. Hither also resort a number of ancient ladies and gentlemen,
who, with laudable thrift in small pleasures and small expenses,
for which the French are to be noted, come here to enjoy
sunshine and save firewood. Here may often be seen some cavalier
of the old school, when the sunbeams have warmed his blood
into something like a glow, fluttering about like a frostbitten
moth thawed before the fire, putting forth a feeble show of gallantry
among the antiquated dames, and now and then eyeing the
buxom nursery-maids with what might almost be mistaken for an
air of libertinism.
Among the habitual frequenters of this place, I had often
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remarked an old gentleman, whose dress was decidedly anti-revolutional.
He wore the three-cornered cocked hat of the ancien regime;
his hair was frizzed over each ear into ailes de pigeon, a
style strongly savoring of Bourbonism; and a queue stuck out behind,
the loyalty of which was not to be disputed. His dress,
though ancient, had an air of decayed gentility, and I observed that
he took his snuff out of an elegant though old-fashioned gold box.
He appeared to be the most popular man on the walk. He had
a compliment for every old lady, he kissed every child, and he patted
every little dog on the head; for children and little dogs are
very important members of society in France. I must observe,
however, that he seldom kissed a child without, at the same time,
pinching the nursery-maid's cheek; a Frenchman of the old school
never forgets his devoirs to the sex.
I had taken a liking to this old gentleman. There was an habitual
expression of benevolence in his face, which I have very
frequently remarked in these relics of the politer days of France.
The constant interchange of those thousand little courtesies which
imperceptibly sweeten life, have a happy effect upon the features,
and spread a mellow evening charm over the wrinkles of old age.
Where there is a favorable predisposition, one soon forms a
kind of tacit intimacy by often meeting on the same walks. Once
or twice I accommodated him with a bench, after which we touched
hats on passing each other; at length we got so far as to take a
pinch of snuff together out of his box, which is equivalent to eating
salt together in the East; from that time our acquaintance was
established.
I now became his frequent companion in his morning promenades,
and derived much amusement from his good-humored
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remarks on men and manners. One morning, as we were strolling
through an alley of the Tuileries, with the autumnal breeze whirling
the yellow leaves about our path, my companion fell into a
peculiarly communicative vein, and gave me several particulars
of his history. He had once been wealthy, and possessed of a
fine estate in the country, and a noble hotel in Paris; but the
revolution, which effected so many disastrous changes, stripped
him of every thing. He was secretly denounced by his own steward
during a sanguinary period of the revolution, and a number
of the bloodhounds of the Convention were sent to arrest him.
He received private intelligence of their approach in time to effect
his escape. He landed in England without money or friends, but
considered himself singularly fortunate in having his head upon
his shoulders; several of his neighbors having been guillotined
as a punishment for being rich.
When he reached London he had but a louis in his pocket,
and no prospect of getting another. He ate a solitary dinner on
beefsteak, and was almost poisoned by port wine, which from its
color he had mistaken for claret. The dingy look of the chop-house,
and of the little mahogany-colored box in which he ate his dinner,
contrasted sadly with the gay saloons of Paris. Every thing
looked gloomy and disheartening. Poverty stared him in the
face; he turned over the few shillings he had of change; did
not know what was to become of him; and—went to the theatre!
He took his seat in the pit, listened attentively to a tragedy
of which he did not understand a word, and which seemed made
up of fighting, and stabbing, and scene-shifting, and began to feel
his spirits sinking within him; when, casting his eyes into the
orchestra, what was his surprise to recognize an old friend and
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neighbor in the very act of extorting music from a huge violoncello.
As soon as the evening's performance was over he tapped his
friend on the shoulder; they kissed each other on each cheek,
and the musician took him home, and shared his lodgings with
him. He had learned music as an accomplishment; by his friend's
advice he now turned to it as a mean of support. He procured a
violin, offered himself for the orchestra, was received, and again
considered himself one of the most fortunate men upon earth.
Here therefore he lived for many years during the ascendency
of the terrible Napoleon. He found several emigrants living like
himself, by the exercise of their talents. They associated together,
talked of France and of old times, and endeavored to keep up a
semblance of Parisian life in the centre of London.
They dined at a miserable cheap French restaurateur in the
neighborhood of Leicester-square, where they were served with a
caricature of French cookery. They took their promenade in St.
James's Park, and endeavored to fancy it the Tuileries; in short,
they made shift to accommodate themselves to every thing but an
English Sunday. Indeed the old gentleman seemed to have
nothing to say against the English, whom he affirmed to be braves
gens; and he mingled so much among them, that at the end of
twenty years he could speak their language almost well enough to
be understood.
The downfall of Napoleon was another epoch in his life. He
had considered himself a fortunate man to make his escape penniless
out of France, and he considered himself fortunate to be able
to return penniless into it. It is true that he found his Parisian
hotel had passed through several hands during the
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vicissitudes of the times, so as to be beyond the reach of recovery; but
then he had been noticed benignantly by government, and had a
pension of several hundred francs, upon which, with careful management,
he lived independently, and, as far as I could judge,
happily.
As his once splendid hotel was now occupied as a hôtel garni,
he hired a small chamber in the attic; it was but, as he said,
changing his bedroom up two pair of stairs—he was still in his
own house. His room was decorated with pictures of several
beauties of former times, with whom he professed to have been on
favorable terms: among them was a favorite opera-dancer, who
had been the admiration of Paris at the breaking out of the revolution.
She had been a protegée of my friend, and one of the
few of his youthful favorites who had survived the lapse of time
and its various vicissitudes. They had renewed their acquaintance,
and she now and then visited him; but the beautiful
Psyche, once the fashion of the day and the idol of the parterre,
was now a shrivelled, little old woman, warped in the back, and
with a hooked nose.
The old gentleman was a devout attendant upon levees: he
was most zealous in his loyalty, and could not speak of the royal
family without a burst of enthusiasm, for he still felt towards
them as his companions in exile. As to his poverty he made
light of it, and indeed had a good-humored way of consoling himself
for every cross and privation. If he had lost his chateau in
the country, he had half a dozen royal palaces, as it were, at his
command. He had Versailles and St. Cloud for his country resorts,
and the shady alleys of the Tuileries and the Luxembourg
for his town recreation. Thus all his promenades and relaxations
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were magnificent, yet cost nothing. When I walk through these
fine gardens, said he, I have only to fancy myself the owner of
them, and they are mine. All these gay crowds are my visitors,
and I defy the grand seignior himself to display a greater variety
of beauty. Nay, what is better, I have not the trouble of entertaining
them. My estate is a perfect Sans Souci, where every
one does as he pleases, and no one troubles the owner. All Paris
is my theatre, and presents me with a continual spectacle. I have
a table spread for me in every street, and thousands of waiters
ready to fly at my bidding. When my servants have waited upon
me I pay them, discharge them, and there's an end: I have no
fears of their wronging or pilfering me when my back is turned.
Upon the whole, said the old gentleman, with a smile of infinite
good humor, when I think upon the various risks I have run, and
the manner in which I have escaped them; when I recollect all
that I have suffered, and consider all that I at present enjoy, I
cannot but look upon myself as a man of singular good fortune.
Such was the brief history of this practical philosopher, and it
is a picture of many a Frenchman ruined by the revolution. The
French appear to have a greater facility than most men in accommodating
themselves to the reverses of life, and of extracting
honey out of the bitter things of this world. The first shock of
calamity is apt to overwhelm them, but when it is once past, their
natural buoyancy of feeling soon brings them to the surface.
This may be called the result of levity of character, but it answers
the end of reconciling us to misfortune, and if it be not true philosophy,
it is something almost as efficacious. Ever since I have
heard the story of my little Frenchman, I have treasured it up in
my heart; and I thank my stars I have at length found, what I
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had long considered as not to be found on earth—a contented
man.
P. S. There is no calculating on human happiness. Since
writing the foregoing, the law of indemnity has been passed, and
my friend restored to a great part of his fortune. I was absent
from Paris at the time, but on my return hastened to congratulate
him. I found him magnificently lodged on the first floor of his
hotel. I was ushered, by a servant in livery, through splendid
saloons, to a cabinet richly furnished, where I found my little
Frenchman reclining on a couch. He received me with his usual
cordiality; but I saw the gayety and benevolence of his countenance
had fled; he had an eye full of care and anxiety.
I congratulated him on his good fortune. “Good fortune?”
echoed he; “bah! I have been plundered of a princely fortune,
and they give me a pittance as an indemnity.”
Alas! I found my late poor and contented friend one of the
richest and most miserable men in Paris. Instead of rejoicing in
the ample competency restored to him, he is daily repining at the
superfluity withheld. He no longer wanders in happy idleness
about Paris, but is a repining attendant in the ante-chambers of
ministers. His loyality has evaporated with his gayety; he
screws his mouth when the Bourbons are mentioned, and even
shrugs his shoulders when he hears the praises of the king. In
a word, he is one of the many philosophers undone by the law of
indemnity, and his case is desperate, for I doubt whether even
another reverse of fortune, which should restore him to poverty,
could make him again a happy man.
-- -- p615-233
BROEK: THE DUTCH PARADISE.
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It has long been a matter of discussion and controversy among
the pious and the learned, as to the situation of the terrestrial
paradise whence our first parents were exiled. This question
has been put to rest by certain of the faithful in Holland, who
have decided in favor of the vilage of Broek, about six miles
from Amsterdam. It may not, they observe, correspond in all
respects to the description of the garden of Eden, handed down
from days of yore, but it comes nearer to their ideas of a perfect
paradise than any other place on earth.
This eulogium induced me to make some inquiries as to this
favored spot, in the course of a sojourn at the city of Amsterdam,
and the information I procured fully justified the enthusiastic
praises I had heard. The village of Broek is situated in Waterland,
in the midst of the greenest and richest pastures of Holland,
I may say, of Europe. These pastures are the source of its
wealth, for it is famous for its dairies, and for those oval cheeses
which regale and perfume the whole civilized world. The population
consists of about six hundred persons, comprising several
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families which have inhabited the place since time immemorial,
and have waxed rich on the products of their meadows. They
keep all their wealth among themselves; intermarrying, and keeping
all strangers at a wary distance. They are a “hard money”
people, and remarkable for turning the penny the right way. It
is said to have been an old rule, established by one of the primitive
financiers and legislators of Broek, that no one should leave
the village with more than six guilders in his pocket, or return
with less than ten; a shrewd regulation, well worthy the attention
of modern political economists, who are so anxious to fix the balance
of trade.
What, however, renders Broek so perfect an elysium, in the
eyes of all true Hollanders, is the matchless height to which the
spirit of cleanliness is carried there. It amounts almost to a religion
among the inhabitants, who pass the greater part of their
time rubbing and scrubbing, and painting and varnishing: each
housewife vies with her neighbor in her devotion to the scrubbing
brush, as zealous Catholics do in their devotion to the cross; and
it is said, a notable housewife of the place in days of yore, is held
in pious remembrance, and almost canonized as a saint, for having
died of pure exhaustion and chagrin, in an ineffectual attempt
to scour a black man white.
These particulars awakened my ardent curiosity to see a place
which I pictured to myself the very fountain-head of certain hereditary
habits and customs prevalent among the descendants of the
original Dutch settlers of my native state. I accordingly lost no
time in performing a pilgrimage to Broek.
Before I reached the place, I beheld symptoms of the tranquil
character of its inhabitants. A little clump-built boat was in full
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sail along the lazy bosom of a canal, but its sail consisted of the
blades of two paddles stood on end, while the navigator sat steering
with a third paddle in the stern, crouched down like a toad,
with a slouched hat drawn over his eyes. I presumed him to be
some nautical lover, on the way to his mistress. After proceeding
a little farther, I came in sight of the harbor or port of destination
of this drowsy navigator. This was the Brocken-Meer, an
artificial basin, or sheet of olive-green water, tranquil as a millpond.
On this the village of Broek is situated, and the borders
are laboriously decorated with flower-beds, box-trees clipped into
all kinds of ingenious shapes and fancies, and little “lust” houses
or pavilions.
I alighted outside of the village, for no horse nor vehicle is
permitted to enter its precincts, lest it should cause defilement of
the well-scoured pavements. Shaking the dust off my feet, therefore,
I prepared to enter, with due reverence and circumspection,
this sanctum sanctorum of Dutch cleanliness. I entered by a
narrow street, paved with yellow bricks, laid edgewise, and so
clean that one might eat from them Indeed, they were actually
worn deep, not by the tread of feet, but by the friction of the
scrubbing-brush.
The houses were built of wood, and all appeared to have been
freshly painted, of green, yellow, and other bright colors. They
were separated from each other by gardens and orchards, and stood
at some little distance from the street, with wide areas or courtyards,
paved in mosaic, with variegated stones, polished by frequent
rubbing. The areas were divided from the street by curiously-wrought
railings, or balustrades, of iron, surmounted with
brass and copper balls, scoured into dazzling effulgence. The
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very trunks of the trees in front of the houses were by the same
process made to look as if they had been varnished. The porches,
doors, and window-frames of the houses were of exotic woods,
curiously carved, and polished like costly furniture. The front
doors are never opened, excepting on christenings, marriages, or
funerals: on all ordinary occasions, visitors enter by the back
door. In former times, persons when admitted had to put on
slippers, but this oriental ceremony is no longer insisted upon.
A poor devil Frenchman, who attended upon me as cicerone,
boasted with some degree of exultation, of a triumph of his countrymen
over the stern regulations of the place. During the time
that Holland was overrun by the armies of the French republic,
a French general, surrounded by his whole état major, who had
come from Amsterdam to view the wonders of Brock, applied for
admission at one of these taboo'd portals. The reply was, that
the owner never received any one who did not come introduced by
some friend. “Very well,” said the general; “take my compliments
to your master, and tell him I will return here to-morrow
with a company of soldiers, pour parler raison avec mon ami
Hollandais.” Terrified at the idea of having a company of soldiers
billeted upon him, the owner threw open his house, entertained
the general and his retinue with unwonted hospitality;
though it is said it cost the family a month's scrubbing and scouring,
to restore all things to exact order, after this military invasion.
My vagabond informant seemed to consider this one of the greatest
victories of the republic.
I walked about the place in mute wonder and admiration. A
dead stillness prevailed around, like that in the deserted streets
of Pompeii. No sign of life was to be seen, excepting now and
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then a hand, and a long pipe, and an occasional puff of smoke, out
of the window of some “lust-haus” overhanging a miniature
canal; and on approaching a little nearer, the periphery in profile
of some robustious burgher.
Among the grand houses pointed out to me, were those of
Claes Bakker, and Cornelius Bakker, richly carved and gilded,
with flower-gardens and clipped shrubberies; and that of the
Great Ditmus, who, my poor devil cicerone imformed me, in a
whisper, was worth two millions; all these were mansions shut
up from the world, and only kept to be cleaned. After having
been conducted from one wonder to another of the village, I was
ushered by my guide into the grounds and gardens of Mynheer
Broekker, another mighty cheese-manufacturer, worth eighty
thousand guilders a year. I had repeatedly been struck with the
similarity of all that I had seen in this amphibious little village,
to the buildings and landscapes on Chinese platters and tea-pots;
but here I found the similarity complete; for I was told that
these gardens were modelled upon Van Bramm's description of
those of Yuen min Yuen, in China. Here were serpentine walks,
with trellised borders; winding canals, with fanciful Chinese
bridges; flower beds resembling huge baskets, with the flower of
“love lies bleeding” falling over to the ground. But mostly had
the fancy of Mynheer Broekker been displayed about a stagnant
little lake, on which a corpulent like pinnace lay at anchor. On
the border was a cottage, within which were a wooden man and
woman seated at table, and a wooden dog beneath, all the size of
life: on pressing a spring, the woman commenced spinning, and
the dog barked furiously. On the lake were wooden swans,
painted to the life: some floating, others on the nest among the
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rushes; while a wooden sportsman, crouched among the bushes,
was preparing his gun to take deadly aim. In another part of
the garden was a dominie in his clerical robes, with wig, pipe,
and cocked hat; and mandarins with nodding heads, amid red
lions, green tigers, and blue hares. Last of all, the heathen deities,
in wood and plaster, male and female, naked and barefaced
as usual, and seeming to stare with wonder at finding themselves
in such strange company.
My shabby French guide, while he pointed out all these mechanical
marvels of the garden, was anxious to let me see that he
had too polite a taste to be pleased by them. At every new nicknack
he would screw down his mouth, shrug up his shoulders,
take a pinch of snuff, and exclaim: “Ma foi, Monsieur, ces Hollandais
sont forts pour ces betises la!”
To attempt to gain admission to any of these stately abodes
was out of the question, having no company of soldiers to enforce
a solicitation. I was fortunate enough, however, through the aid
of my guide, to make my way into the kitchen of the illustrious
Ditmus, and I question whether the parlor would have proved
more worthy of observation. The cook, a little wiry, hook-nosed
woman, worn thin by incessant action and friction, was bustling
about among her kettles and sauce-pans, with the scullion at her
heels, both clattering in wooden shoes, which were as clean and
white as the milk-pails; rows of vessels, of brass and copper, regiments
of pewter dishes, and portly porringers, gave resplendent
evidence of the intensity of their cleanliness; the very trammels
and hangers in the fire-place were highly scoured, and the burnished
face of the good Saint Nicholas shone forth from the iron
plate of the chimney-back.
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Among the decorations of the kitchen, was a printed sheet of
wood-cuts, representing the various holiday customs of Holland,
with explanatory rhymes. Here I was delighted to recognize the
jollities of New-Year's day; the festivities of Paäs and Pinkster,
and all the other merrymakings handed down in my native place
from the earliest times of New-Amsterdam, and which had been
such bright spots in the year, in my childhood. I eagerly made
myself master of this precious document, for a trifling consideration,
and bore it off as a memento of the place; though I question
if, in so doing, I did not carry off with me the whole current
literature of Broek.
I must not omit to mention, that this village is the paradise
of cows as well as men: indeed you would almost suppose the cow
to be as much an object of worship here, as the bull was among
the ancient Egyptians; and well does she merit it, for she is in
fact the patroness of the place. The same scrupulous cleanliness,
however, which pervades every thing else, is manifested in the
treatment of this venerated animal. She is not permitted to perambulate
the place, but in winter, when she forsakes the rich pasture,
a well-built house is provided for her, well painted, and maintained
in the most perfect order. Her stall is of ample dimensions;
the floor is scrubbed and polished; her hide is daily curried and
brushed, and sponged to her heart's content, and her tail is
daintily tucked up to the ceiling, and decorated with a ribbon!
On my way back through the village, I passed the house of
the prediger, or preacher; a very comfortable mansion, which led
me to augur well of the state of religion in the village. On inquiry,
I was told that for a long time the inhabitants lived in a
great state of indifference as to religious matters: it was in vain
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that their preachers endeavored to arouse their thoughts as to a
future state: the joys of heaven, as commonly depicted, were but
little to their taste. At length a dominie appeared among them,
who struck out in a different vein. He depicted the New Jerusalem
as a place all smooth and level; with beautiful dykes, and
ditches, and canals; and houses all shining with paint and varnish,
and glazed tiles; and where there should never come horse, nor
ass, nor cat, nor dog, nor any thing that could make noise or dirt;
but there should be nothing but rubbing and scrubbing, and washing
and painting, and gilding and varnishing, for ever and ever,
amen! Since that time, the good housewives of Broek have all
turned their faces Zionward.
-- -- p615-241
GUESTS FROM GIBBET-ISLAND. A Legend of Communípaw. FOUND AMONG THE KNICKERBOCKER PAPERS AT WOLFERT'S ROOST.
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Whoever has visited the ancient and renowned village of Communipaw,
may have noticed an old stone building, of most ruinous
and sinister appearance. The doors and window-shutters are
ready to drop from their hinges; old clothes are stuffed in the
broken panes of glass, while legions of half-starved dogs prowl
about the premises, and rush out and bark at every passer by;
for your beggarly house in a village is most apt to swarm with
profligate and ill-conditioned dogs. What adds to the sinister appearance
of this mansion, is a tall frame in front, not a little resembling
a gallows, and which looks as if waiting to accommodate
some of the inhabitants with a well-merited airing. It is not a
gallows, however, but an ancient sign-post; for this dwelling
in the golden days of Communipaw, was one of the most orderly
and peaceful of village taverns, where public affairs were
talked and smoked over. In fact, it was in this very building
that Oloffe the Dreamer, and his companions, concerted that
great voyage of discovery and colonization, in which they
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explored Buttermilk Channel, were nearly shipwrecked in the strait of
Hell-gate, and finally landed on the island of Manhattan, and
founded the great city of New-Amsterdam.
Even after the province had been cruelly wrested from the
sway of their High Mightinesses, by the combined forces of the
British and the Yankees, this tavern continued its ancient loyalty.
It is true, the head of the Prince of Orange disappeared from the
sign, a strange bird being painted over it, with the explanatory
legend of “Die Wilde Gans,” or, The Wild Goose; but this all
the world knew to be a sly riddle of the landlord, the worthy
Teunis Van Gieson, a knowing man, in a small way, who laid his
finger beside his nose and winked, when any one studied the signification
of his sign, and observed that his goose was hatching,
but would join the flock whenever they flew over the water; an
enigma which was the perpetual recreation and delight of the
loyal but fat-headed burghers of Communipaw.
Under the sway of this patriotic, though discreet and quiet
publican, the tavern continued to flourish in primeval tranquillity,
and was the resort of true-hearted Nederlanders, from
all parts of Pavonia; who met here quietly and secretly, to
smoke and drink the downfall of Briton and Yankee, and success
to Admiral Van Tromp.
The only drawback on the comfort of the establishment, was
a nephew of mine host, a sister's son, Yan Yost Vanderscamp
by name, and a real scamp by nature. This unlucky whipster
showed an early propensity to mischief, which he gratified in a
small way, by playing tricks upon the frequenters of the Wild
Goose; putting gunpowder in their pipes, or squibs in their
pockets, and astonishing them with an explosion, while they sat
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nodding round the fireplace in the bar-room; and if perchance a
worthy burgher from some distant part of Pavonia lingered until
dark over his potation, it was odds but young Vanderscamp
would slip a brier under his horse's tail, as he mounted, and send
him clattering along the road, in neck-or-nothing style, to the infinite
astonishment and discomfiture of the rider.
It may be wondered at, that mine host of the Wild Goose
did not turn such a graceless varlet out of doors; but Teunis
Van Gieson was an easy-tempered man, and having no child of
his own, looked upon his nephew with almost parental indulgence.
His patience and good nature were doomed to be tried
by another inmate of his mansion. This was a cross-grained
curmudgeon of a negro, named Pluto, who was a kind of enigma
in Communipaw. Where he came from, nobody knew. He was
found one morning, after a storm, cast like a sea-monster on the
strand, in front of the Wild Goose, and lay there, more dead than
alive. The neighbors gathered round, and speculated on this
production of the deep; whether it were fish or flesh, or a compound
of both, commonly yclept a merman. The kind-hearted
Teunis Van Gieson, seeing that he wore the human form, took
him into his house, and warmed him into life. By degrees, he
showed signs of intelligence, and even uttered sounds very much
like language, but which no one in Communipaw could understand.
Some thought him a negro just from Guinea, who had
either fallen overboard, or escaped from a slave-ship. Nothing,
however, could ever draw from him any account of his origin.
When questioned on the subject, he merely pointed to Gibbet-Island,
a small rocky islet, which lies in the open bay, just opposite
Communipaw, as if that were his native place, though
every body knew it had never been inhabited.
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In the process of time, he acquired something of the Dutch
language, that is to say, he learnt all its vocabulary of oaths and
maledictions, with just words sufficient to string them together.
“Donder en blicksem!” (thunder and lightning), was the gentlest
of his ejaculations. For years he kept about the Wild
Goose, more like one of those familiar spirits, or household goblins,
we read of, than like a human being. He acknowledged
allegiance to no one, but performed various domestic offices,
when it suited his humor; waiting occasionally on the guests;
grooming the horses, cutting wood, drawing water; and all
this without being ordered. Lay any command on him, and
the stubborn sea-urchin was sure to rebel. He was never so
much at home, however, as when on the water, plying about in
skiff or canoe, entirely alone, fishing, crabbing, or grabbing for
oysters, and would bring home quantities for the larder of the
Wild Goose, which he would throw down at the kitchen door,
with a growl. No wind nor weather deterred him from launching
forth on his favorite element: indeed, the wilder the weather,
the more he seemed to enjoy it. If a storm was brewing, he
was sure to put off from shore; and would be seen far out in
the bay, his light skiff dancing like a feather on the waves, when
sea and sky were in a turmoil, and the stoutest ships were fain
to lower their sails. Sometimes on such occasions he would
be absent for days together. How he weathered the tempest,
and how and where he subsisted, no one could divine, nor did
any one venture to ask, for all had an almost superstitious
awe of him. Some of the Communipaw oystermen declared
they had more than once seen him suddenly disappear, canoe and
all, as if plunged beneath the waves, and after a while come up
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again, in quite a different part of the bay; whence they concluded
that he could live under water like that notable species
of wild duck, commonly called the hell-diver. All began to
consider him in the light of a foul-weather bird, like the Mother
Carey's Chicken, or stormy petrel; and whenever they saw him
putting far out in his skiff, in cloudy weather, made up their
minds for a storm.
The only being for whom he seemed to have any liking, was
Yan Yost Vanderscamp, and him he liked for his very wickedness.
He in a manner took the boy under his tutelage, prompted
him to all kinds of mischief, aided him in every wild harumscarum
freak, until the lad became the complete scape-grace of
the village; a pest to his uncle, and to every one else. Nor
were his pranks confined to the land; he soon learned to accompany
old Pluto on the water. Together these worthies would
cruise about the broad bay, and all the neighboring straits and
rivers; poking around in skiffs and canoes; robbing the set nets
of the fishermen; landing on remote coasts, and laying waste
orchards and water-melon patches; in short, carrying on a complete
system of piracy, on a small scale. Piloted by Pluto, the
youthful Vanderscamp soon became acquainted with all the
bays, rivers, creeks, and inlets of the watery world around him;
could navigate from the Hook to Spiting-devil on the darkest
night, and learned to set even the terrors of Hell-gate at defiance.
At length, negro and boy suddenly disappeared, and days
and weeks elapsed, but without tidings of them. Some said
they must have run away and gone to sea; others jocosely hinted,
that old Pluto, being no other than his namesake in disguise,
had spirited away the boy to the nether regions. All,
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however, agreed in one thing, that the village was well rid of
them.
In the process of time, the good Teunis Van Gieson slept
with his fathers, and the tavern remained shut up, waiting for a
claimant, for the next heir was Yan Yost Vanderscamp, and he
had not been heard of for years. At length, one day, a boat
was seen pulling for shore, from a long, black, rakish-looking
schooner, that lay at anchor in the bay. The boat's crew seemed
worthy of the craft from which they debarked. Never had such
a set of noisy, roistering, swaggering varlets landed in peaceful
Communipaw. They were outlandish in garb and demeanor,
and were headed by a rough, burly, bully ruffian, with fiery whiskers,
a copper nose, a scar across his face, and a great Flaunderish
beaver slouched on one side of his head, in whom, to their
dismay, the quiet inhabitants were made to recognise their early
pest, Yan Yost Vanderscamp. The rear of this hopeful gang
was brought up by old Pluto, who had lost an eye, grown grizzly-headed,
and looked more like a devil than ever. Vanderscamp
renewed his acquaintance with the old burghers, much against
their will, and in a manner not at all to their taste. He slapped
them familiarly on the back, gave them an iron grip of the hand,
and was hail fellow well met. According to his own account,
he had been all the world over; had made money by bags full;
had ships in every sea, and now meant to turn the Wild Goose
into a country-seat, where he and his comrades, all rich merchants
from foreign parts, might enjoy themselves in the interval
of their voyages.
Sure enough, in a little while there was a complete metamorphose
of the Wild Goose. From being a quiet, peaceful Dutch
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public house, it became a most riotous, uproarious private dwelling;
a complete rendezvous for boisterous men of the seas, who
came here to have what they called a “blow out” on dry land,
and might be seen at all hours, lounging about the door, or lolling
out of the windows; swearing among themselves, and cracking
rough jokes on every passer by. The house was fitted up,
too, in so strange a manner: hammocks slung to the walls, instead
of bedsteads; odd kinds of furniture, of foreign fashion;
bamboo couches, Spanish chairs; pistols, cutlasses, and blunderbusses,
suspended on every peg; silver crucifixes on the mantel-pieces,
silver candlesticks and porringers on the tables, contrasting
oddly with the pewter and Delf ware of the original establishment.
And then the strange amusements of these sea-monsters!
Pitching Spanish dollars, instead of quoits; firing blunderbusses
out of the window; shooting at a mark, or at any unhappy
dog, or cat, or pig, or barn-door fowl, that might happen
to come within reach.
The only being who seemed to relish their rough waggery,
was old Pluto; and yet he led but a dog's life of it; for they
practised all kinds of manual jokes upon him; kicked him about
like a football; shook him by his grizzly mop of wool, and never
spoke to him without coupling a curse by way of adjective to his
name, and consigning him to the infernal regions. The old fellow,
however, seemed to like them the better, the more they
cursed him, though his utmost expression of pleasure never
amounted to more than the growl of a petted bear, when his ears
are rubbed.
Old Pluto was the ministering spirit at the orgies of the
Wild Goose; and such orgies as took place there! Such
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drinking, singing, whooping, swearing; with an occasional interlude
of quarrelling and fighting. The noisier grew the revel, the
more old Pluto plied the potations, until the guests would become
frantic in their merriment, smashing every thing to pieces,
and throwing the house out of the windows. Sometimes, after a
drinking bout, they sallied forth and scoured the village, to the
dismay of the worthy burghers, who gathered their women within
doors, and would have shut up the house. Vanderscamp,
however, was not to be rebuffed. He insisted on renewing acquaintance
with his old neighbors, and on introducing his friends,
the merchants, to their families; swore he was on the look-out
for a wife, and meant, before he stopped, to find husbands for all
their daughters. So, will-ye, nill-ye, sociable he was; swaggered
about their best parlors, with his hat on one side of his head;
sat on the good wife's nicely-waxed mahogany table, kicking his
heels against the carved and polished legs; kissed and tousled
the young vrouws; and, if they frowned and pouted, gave them
a gold rosary, or a sparkling cross, to put them in good humor
again.
Sometimes nothing would satisfy him, but he must have
some of his old neighbors to dinner at the Wild Goose. There
was no refusing him, for he had the complete upper hand of
the community, and the peaceful burghers all stood in awe of
him. But what a time would the quiet, worthy men have,
among these rake-hells, who would delight to astound them with
the most extravagant gunpowder tales, embroidered with all
kinds of foreign oaths; clink the can with them; pledge them in
deep potations; bawl drinking songs in their ears; and occasionally
fire pistols over their heads, or under the table, and then
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laugh in their faces, and ask them how they liked the smell of
gunpowder.
Thus was the little village of Communipaw for a time like
the unfortunate wight possessed with devils; until Vanderscamp
and his brother merchants would sail on another trading voyage,
when the Wild Goose would be shut up, and every thing relapse
into quiet, only to be disturbed by his next visitation.
The mystery of all these proceedings gradually dawned upon
the tardy intellects of Communipaw. These were the times of
the notorious Captain Kidd, when the American harbors were
the resorts of piratical adventurers of all kinds, who, under pretext
of mercantile voyages, scoured the West Indies, made plundering
descents upon the Spanish Main, visited even the remote
Indian Seas, and then came to dispose of their booty, have their
revels, and fit out new expeditions, in the English colonies.
Vanderscamp had served in this hopeful school, and having
risen to importance among the buccaneers, had pitched upon his
native village and early home, as a quiet, out-of-the way, unsuspected
place, where he and his comrades, while anchored at New
York, might have their feasts, and concert their plans, without
molestation.
At length the attention of the British government was called
to these piratical enterprises, that were becoming so frequent
and outrageous. Vigorous measures were taken to check and
punish them. Several of the most noted freebooters were caught
and executed, and three of Vanderscamp's chosen comrades, the
most riotous swashbucklers of the Wild Goose, were hanged in
chains on Gibbet-Island, in full sight of their favorite resort.
As to Vanderscamp himself, he and his man Pluto again
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disappeared, and it was hoped by the people of Communipaw that he
had fallen in some foreign brawl, or been swung on some foreign
gallows.
For a time, therefore, the tranquillity of the village was restored;
the worthy Dutchmen once more smoked their pipes in
peace, eyeing, with peculiar complacency, their old pests and terrors,
the pirates, dangling and drying in the sun, on Gibbet-Island.
This perfect calm was doomed at length to be ruffled. The
fiery persecution of the pirates gradually subsided. Justice was
satisfied with the examples that had been made, and there was no
more talk of Kidd, and the other heroes of like kidney. On a
calm summer evening, a boat, somewhat heavily laden, was seen
pulling into Communipaw. What was the surprise and disquiet
of the inhabitants, to see Yan Yost Vanderscamp seated at the
helm, and his man Pluto tugging at the oar! Vanderscamp,
however, was apparently an altered man. He brought home with
him a wife, who seemed to be a shrew, and to have the upper
hand of him. He no longer was the swaggering, bully ruffian, but
affected the regular merchant, and talked of retiring from business,
and settling down quietly, to pass the rest of his days in his native
place.
The Wild Goose mansion was again opened, but with diminished
splendor, and no riot. It is true, Vanderscamp had frequent
nautical visitors, and the sound of revelry was occasionally overheard
in his house; but every thing seemed to be done under the
rose; and old Pluto was the only servant that officiated at these
orgies. The visitors, indeed, were by no means of the turbulent
stamp of their predecessors; but quiet, mysterious traders, full
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of nods, and winks, and hieroglyphic signs, with whom, to use their
cant phrase, “every thing was smug.” Their ships came to anchor
at night, in the lower bay; and, on a private signal, Vanderscamp
would launch his boat, and accompanied solely by his man
Pluto, would make them mysterious visits. Sometimes boats
pulled in at night, in front of the Wild Goose, and various articles
of merchandise were landed in the dark, and spirited away, nobody
knew whither. One of the more curious of the inhabitants kept
watch, and caught a glimpse of the features of some of these night
visitors, by the casual glance of a lantern, and declared that he
recognized more than one of the freebooting frequenters of the
Wild Goose, in former times; whence he concluded that Vanderscamp
was at his old game, and that this mysterious merchandise
was nothing more nor less than piratical plunder. The
more charitable opinion, however, was, that Vanderscamp and his
comrades, having been driven from their old line of business, by
the “oppressions of government,” had resorted to smuggling to
make both ends meet.
Be that as it may: I come now to the extraordinary fact,
which is the butt-end of this story. It happened late one night,
that Yan Yost Vanderscamp was returning across the broad bay,
in his light skiff, rowed by his man Pluto. He had been carousing
on board of a vessel, newly arrived, and was somewhat obfuscated
in intellect, by the liquor he had imbibed. It was a still,
sultry night; a heavy mass of lurid clouds was rising in the west,
with the low muttering of distant thunder. Vanderscamp called
on Pluto to pull lustily, that they might get home before the
gathering storm. The old negro made no reply, but shaped his
course so as to skirt the rocky shores of Gibbet-Island. A faint
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creaking overhead caused Vanderscamp to cast up his eyes, when
to his horror, he beheld the bodies of his three pot companions
and brothers in iniquity dangling in the moonlight, their rags
fluttering, and their chains creaking, as they were slowly swung
backward and forward by the rising breeze.
“What do you mean, you blockhead!” cried Vanderscamp,
“by pulling so close to the island?”
“I thought you'd be glad to see your old friends once more,”
growled the negro: “you were never afraid of a living man, what
do you fear from the dead?”
“Who's afraid?” hiccupped Vanderscamp, partly heated by
liquor, partly nettled by the jeer of the negro; “who's afraid!
Hang me, but I would be glad to see them once more, alive or
dead, at the Wild Goose. Come, my lads in the wind!” continued
he, taking a draught, and flourishing the bottle above his
head, “here's fair weather to you in the other world; and if you
should be walking the rounds to-night, odds fish! but I'll be happy
if you will drop in to supper.”
A dismal creaking was the only reply. The wind blew loud
and shrill, and as it whistled round the gallows, and among the
bones, sounded as if they were laughing and gibbering in the air.
Old Pluto chuckled to himself, and now pulled for home. The
storm burst over the voyagers, while they were yet far from shore.
The rain fell in torrents, the thunder crashed and pealed, and the
lightning kept up an incessant blaze. It was stark midnight before
they landed at Communipaw.
Dripping and shivering, Vanderscamp crawled homeward. He
was completely sobered by the storm; the water soaked from
without, having diluted and cooled the liquor within. Arrived
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at the Wild Goose, he knocked timidly and dubiously at the door,
for he dreaded the reception he was to experience from his wife.
He had reason to do so. She met him at the threshold, in a
precious ill-humor.
“Is this a time,” said she, “to keep people out of their beds,
and to bring home company, to turn the house upside down?”
“Company?” said Vanderscamp, meekly; “I have brought
no company with me, wife.”
“No indeed! they have got here before you, but by your invitation;
and blessed-looking company they are, truly!”
Vanderscamp's knees smote together. “For the love of
heaven, where are they, wife?”
“Where?—why in the blue room up stairs, making themselves
as much at home as if the house were their own.”
Vanderscamp made a desperate effort, scrambled up to the
room, and threw open the door. Sure enough, there at a table,
on which burned a light as blue as brimstone, sat the three guests
from Gibbet-Island, with halters round their necks, and bobbing
their cups together, as if they were hob-or-nobbing, and trolling
the old Dutch freebooter's glee, since translated into English:
“For three merry lads be we,
And three merry lads be we;
I on the land, and thou on the sand,
And Jack on the gallows-tree.”
Vanderscamp saw and heard no more. Starting back with
horror, he missed his footing on the landing place, and fell from
the top of the stairs to the bottom. He was taken up speechless,
and, either from the fall or the fright, was buried in the yard of
the little Dutch church at Bergen, on the following Sunday.
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From that day forward, the fate of the Wild Goose was sealed.
It was pronounced a haunted house, and avoided accordingly.
No one inhabited it but Vanderscamp's shrew of a widow, and
old Pluto, and they were considered but little better than its hobgoblin
visitors. Pluto grew more and more haggard and morose,
and looked more like an imp of darkness than a human being.
He spoke to no one, but went about muttering to himself; or, as
some hinted, talking with the devil, who, though unseen, was ever
at his elbow. Now and then he was seen pulling about the bay
alone, in his skiff, in dark weather, or at the approach of nightfall;
nobody could tell why, unless on an errand to invite more
guests from the gallows. Indeed it was affirmed that the Wild
Goose still continued to be a house of entertainment for such
guests, and that on stormy nights, the blue chamber was occasionally
illuminated, and sounds of diabolical merriment were overheard,
mingling with the howling of the tempest. Some treated
these as idle stories, until on one such night, it was about
the time of the equinox, there was a horrible uproar in the Wild
Goose, that could not be mistaken. It was not so much the
sound of revelry, however, as strife, with two or three piercing
shrieks, that pervaded every part of the village. Nevertheless, no
one thought of hastening to the spot. On the contrary, the honest
burghers of Communipaw drew their nightcaps over their ears,
and buried their heads under the bed-clothes, at the thoughts of
Vanderscamp and his gallows companions.
The next morning, some of the bolder and more curious undertook
to-reconnoitre. All was quiet and lifeless at the Wild
Goose. The door yawned wide open, and had evidently been open
all night, for the storm had beaten into the house. Gathering
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more courage from the silence and apparent desertion, they gradually
ventured over the threshold. The house had indeed the air
of having been possessed by devils. Every thing was topsy-turvy;
trunks had been broken open, and chests of drawers and corner cupboards
turned inside out, as in a time of general sack and pillage;
but the most woeful sight was the widow of Yan Yost Vanderscamp,
extended a corpse on the floor of the blue chamber,
with the marks of a deadly gripe on the windpipe.
All now was conjecture and dismay at Communipaw; and the
disappearance of old Pluto, who was nowhere to be found, gave
rise to all kinds of wild surmises. Some suggested that the negro
had betrayed the house to some of Vanderscamp's buccaneering
associates, and that they had decamped together with the booty;
others surmised that the negro was nothing more nor less than
a devil incarnate, who had now accomplished his ends, and made
off with his dues.
Events, however, vindicated the negro from this last imputation.
His skiff was picked up, drifting about the bay, bottom upward,
as if wrecked in a tempest; and his body was found, shortly
afterward, by some Communipaw fishermen, stranded among the
rocks of Gibbet-Island, near the foot of the pirates' gallows. The
fishermen shook their heads, and observed that old Pluto had
ventured once too often to invite Guests from Gibbet-Island.
-- -- p615-256
THE EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD.
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NOTED DOWN FROM HIS CONVERSATIONS:
BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.*
“I am a Kentuckian by residence and choice, but a Virginian by
birth. The cause of my first leaving the `Ancient Dominion,'
and emigrating to Kentucky, was a jackass! You stare, but
have a little patience, and I'll soon show you how it came to pass.
My father, who was of one of the old Virginian families, resided in
Richmond. He was a widower, and his domestic affairs were
managed by a housekeeper of the old school, such as used to administer
the concerns of opulent Virginian households. She was
a dignitary that almost rivalled my father in importance, and
seemed to think every thing belonged to her; in fact she was so
considerate in her economy, and so careful of expense, as sometimes
to vex my father; who would swear she was disgracing
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him by her meanness. She always appeared with that ancient
insignia of housekeeping trust and authority, a great bunch
of keys jingling at her girdle. She superintended the arrangements
of the table at every meal, and saw that the dishes were all
placed according to her primitive notions of symmetry. In the
evening she took her stand and served out tea with a mingled respectfulness
and pride of station, truly exemplary. Her great
ambition was to have every thing in order, and that the establishment
under her sway should be cited as a model of good housekeeping.
If any thing went wrong, poor old Barbara would take
it to heart, and sit in her room and cry; until a few chapters in
the Bible would quiet her spirits, and make all calm again. The
Bible, in fact, was her constant resort in time of trouble. She
opened it indiscriminately, and whether she chanced among the
Lamentations of Jeremiah, the Canticles of Solomon, or the
rough enumeration of the tribes in Deuteronomy, a chapter was
a chapter, and operated like balm to her soul. Such was our
good old housekeeper Barbara; who was destined, unwittingly,
to have a most important effect upon my destiny.
“It came to pass, during the days of my juvenility, while I
was yet what is termed `an unlucky boy,' that a gentleman of our
neighborhood, a great advocate for experiments and improvements
of all kinds, took it into his head that it would be an immense
public advantage to introduce a breed of mules, and accordingly
imported three jacks to stock the neighborhood. This in a
part of the country where the people cared for nothing but
blood horses! Why, sir! they would have considered their
mares disgraced, and their whole stud dishonored, by such a misalliance.
The whole matter was a town-talk, and a town scandal.
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The worthy amalgamator of quadrupeds found himself in a dismal
scrape; so he backed out in time, abjured the whole doctrine
of amalgamation, and turned his jacks loose to shift for themselves
upon the town common. There they used to run about and lead
an idle, good-for-nothing, holiday life, the happiest animals in the
country.
“It so happened, that my way to school lay across the common.
The first time that I saw one of these animals, it set up a
braying and frightened me confoundedly. However, I soon got
over my fright, and seeing that it had something of a horse look,
my Virginian love for any thing of the equestrian species predominated,
and I determined to back it. I accordingly applied at a
grocer's shop, procured a cord that had been round a loaf of sugar,
and made a kind of halter; then summoning some of my school-fellows,
we drove master Jack about the common until we hemmed
him in an angle of a `worm fence.' After some difficulty, we
fixed the halter round his muzzle, and I mounted. Up flew his
heels, away I went over his head, and off he scampered. However,
I was on my legs in a twinkling, gave chase, caught him,
and remounted. By dint of repeated tumbles I soon learned
to stick to his back, so that he could no more cast me than he
could his own skin. From that time, master Jack and his companions
had a scampering life of it, for we all rode them between
school hours, and on holiday afternoons; and you may be sure
school-boys' nags are never permitted to suffer the grass to grow
under their feet. They soon became so knowing, that they
took to their heels at sight of a school-boy; and we were generally
much longer in chasing than we were in riding them.
“Sunday approached, on which I projected an equestrian
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excursion on one of these long-eared steeds. As I knew the jacks
would be in great demand on Sunday morning, I secured one
over night, and conducted him home, to be ready for an early
outset. But where was I to quarter him for the night? I could not
put him in the stable; our old black groom George was as absolute
in that domain as Barbara was within doors, and would have thought
his stable, his horses, and himself disgraced, by the introduction
of a jackass. I recollected the smoke-house; an out-building
appended to all Virginian establishments for the smoking of hams,
and other kinds of meat. So I got the key, put master Jack in,
locked the door, returned the key to its place, and went to bed,
intending to release my prisoner at an early hour, before any of
the family were awake. I was so tired, however, by the exertions
I had made in catching the donkey, that I fell into a sound sleep,
and the morning broke without my waking.
“Not so with dame Barbara, the housekeeper. As usual, to
use her own phrase, `she was up before the crow put his shoes on,'
and bustled about to get things in order for breakfast. Her first
resort was to the smoke-house. Scarce had she opened the door,
when master Jack, tired of his confinement, and glad to be released
from darkness, gave a loud bray, and rushed forth. Down dropped
old Barbara; the animal trampled over her, and made off for
the common. Poor Barbara! She had never before seen a donkey,
and having read in the Bible that the Devil went about like
a roaring lion, seeking whom he might devour, she took it for
granted that this was Beelzebub himself. The kitchen was soon
in a hubbub; the servants hurried to the spot. There lay old
Barbara in fits; as fast as she got out of one, the thoughts of the
Devil came over her, and she fell into another, for the good soul
was devoutly superstitious.
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“As ill luck would have it, among those attracted by the
noise, was a little cursed fidgetty, crabbed uncle of mine; one of
those uneasy spirits that cannot rest quietly in their beds in the
morning, but must be up early, to bother the household. He was
only a kind of half uncle, after all, for he had married my father's
sister: yet he assumed great authority on the strength of this lefthanded
relationship, and was a universal intermeddler, and family
pest. This prying little busy-body soon ferreted out the truth of
the story, and discovered, by hook and by crook, that I was at
the bottom of the affair, and had locked up the donkey in the
smoke-house. He stopped to inquire no farther, for he was one of
those testy curmudgeons, with whom unlucky boys are always in
the wrong. Leaving old Barbara to wrestle in imagination with
the Devil, he made for my bed-chamber, where I still lay wrapped
in rosy slumbers, little dreaming of the mischief I had done,
and the storm about to break over me.
“In an instant, I was awakened by a shower of thwacks, and
started up in wild amazement. I demanded the meaning of this
attack, but received no other reply than that I had murdered the
housekeeper; while my uncle continued whacking away during my
confusion. I seized a poker, and put myself on the defensive. I
was a stout boy for my years, while my uncle was a little wiffet of
a man; one that in Kentucky we would not call even an `individual;
' nothing more than a `remote circumstance.' I soon,
therefore, brought him to a parley, and learned the whole extent
of the charge brought against me. I confessed to the donkey and
the smoke-house, but pleaded not guilty of the murder of the housekeeper.
I soon found out that old Barbara was still alive. She
continued under the doctor's hands, however, for several days;
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and whenever she had an ill turn, my uncle would seek to give me
another flogging. I appealed to my father, but got no redress. I
was considered an `unlucky boy,' prone to all kinds of mischief;
so that prepossessions were against me, in all cases of appeal.
“I felt stung to the soul at all this. I had been beaten, degraded,
and treated with slighting when I complained. I lost my
usual good spirits and good humor; and, being out of temper with
every body, fancied every body out of temper with me. A certain
wild, roving spirit of freedom, which I believe is as inherent in me
as it is in the partridge, was brought into sudden activity by the
checks and restraints I suffered. `I'll go from home,' thought I,
`and shift for myself.' Perhaps this notion was quickened by the
rage for emigrating to Kentucky, which was at that time prevalent
in Virginia. I had heard such stories of the romantic
beauties of the country; of the abundance of game of all kinds,
and of the glorious independent life of the hunters who ranged its
noble forests, and lived by the rifle, that I was as much agog to
get there, as boys who live in sea-ports are to launch themselves
among the wonders and adventures of the ocean.
“After a time, old Barbara got better in mind and body, and
matters were explained to her; and she became gradually convinced
that it was not the Devil she had encountered. When she
heard how harshly I had been treated on her account, the good
old soul was extremely grieved, and spoke warmly to my father
in my behalf. He had himself remarked the change in my behavior,
and thought punishment might have been carried too far.
He sought, therefore, to have some conversation with me, and to
soothe my feelings; but it was too late. I frankly told him the
course of mortification that I had experienced, and the fixed determination
I had made to go from home.
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“`And where do you mean to go?'
“`To Kentucky.'
“`To Kentucky! Why, you know nobody there.'
“`No matter: I can soon make acquaintances.'
“`And what will you do when you get there?'
“`Hunt!'
“My father gave a long, low whistle, and looked in my face
with a serio-comic expression. I was not far in my teens, and to
talk of setting off alone for Kentucky, to turn hunter, seemed
doubtless the idle prattle of a boy. He was little aware of the
dogged resolution of my character; and his smile of incredulity
but fixed me more obstinately in my purpose. I assured him I
was serious in what I said, and would certainly set off for Kentucky
in the spring.
“Month after month passed away. My father now and then
adverted slightly to what had passed between us; doubtless for
the purpose of sounding me. I always expressed the same grave
and fixed determination. By degrees he spoke to me more directly
on the subject; endeavoring earnestly but kindly to dissuade me.
My only reply was, `I had made up my mind.'
“Accordingly, as soon as the spring had fairly opened, I
sought him one day in his study, and informed him I was about
to set out for Kentucky, and had come to take my leave. He
made no objection, for he had exhausted persuasion and remonstrance,
and doubtless thought it best to give way to my humor,
trusting that a little rough experience would soon bring me home
again. I asked money for my journey. He went to a chest, took
out a long green silk purse, well filled, and laid it on the table.
I now asked for a horse and servant.
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“`A horse!' said my father, sneeringly: `why, you would
not go a mile without racing him, and breaking your neck; and
as to a servant, you cannot take care of yourself, much less of him.'
“`How am I to travel, then?'
“`Why, I suppose you are man enough to travel on foot.'
“He spoke jestingly, little thinking I would take him at his
word; but I was thoroughly piqued in respect to my enterprise;
so I pocketed the purse; went to my room, tied up three or four
shirts in a pocket-handkerchief, put a dirk in my bosom, girt a
couple of pistols round my waist, and felt like a knight-errant
armed cap-à-pie, and ready to rove the world in quest of adventures.
“My sister (I had but one) hung round me and wept, and entreated
me to stay. I felt my heart swell in my throat: but I
gulped it back to its place, and straightened myself up: I would
not suffer myself to cry. I at length disengaged myself from her,
and got to the door.
“`When will you come back?' cried she.
“`Never, by heavens!' cried I, `until I come back a member
of Congress from Kentucky. I am determined to show that
I am not the tail-end of the family.'
“Such was my first outset from home. You may suppose
what a green-horn I was, and how little I knew of the world I
was launching into.
“I do not recollect any incident of importance, until I reached
the borders of Pennsylvania. I had stopped at an inn to get some
refreshment; as I was eating in a back-room, I overheard two
men in the bar-room conjecture who and what I could be. One
determined, at length, that I was a runaway apprentice, and
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ought to be stopped, to which the other assented. When I had
finished my meal, and paid for it, I went out at the back door,
lest I should be stopped by my supervisors. Scorning, however,
to steal off like a culprit, I walked round to the front of the house.
One of the men advanced to the front door. He wore his hat on
one side, and had a consequential air that nettled me.
“`Where are you going, youngster?' demanded he.
“`That's none of your business!' replied I, rather pertly.
“`Yes, but it is though! You have run away from home,
and must give an account of yourself.'
“He advanced to seize me, when I drew forth a pistol. `If
you advance another step, I'll shoot you!'
“He sprang back as if he had trodden upon a rattlesnake, and
his hat fell off in the movement.
“`Let him alone!' cried his companion; `he's a foolish,
mad-headed boy, and don't know what he's about. He'll shoot
you, you may rely on it.'
“He did not need any caution in the matter; he was afraid
even to pick up his hat: so I pushed forward on my way, without
molestation. This incident, however, had its effect upon me. I
became fearful of sleeping in any house at night, lest I should be
stopped. I took my meals in the houses, in the course of the day,
but would turn aside at night, into some wood or ravine, make a
fire, and sleep before it. This I considered was true hunter's
style, and I wished to inure myself to it.
“At length I arrived at Brownsville, leg-weary and way-worn,
and in a shabby plight, as you may suppose, having been `camping
out' for some nights past. I applied at some of the inferior
inns, but could gain no admission. I was regarded for a moment
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with a dubious eye, and then informed they did not receive foot-passengers.
At last I went boldly to the principal inn. The
landlord appeared as unwilling as the rest to receive a vagrant
boy beneath his roof; but his wife interfered, in the midst of his
excuses, and half elbowing him aside:
“`Where are you going, my lad?' said she.
“`To Kentucky.'
“`What are you going there for?'
“`To hunt.'
“She looked earnestly at me for a moment or two. `Have
you a mother living?' said she, at length.
“`No, madam: she has been dead for some time.'
“`I thought so!' cried she, warmly. `I knew if you had a
mother living, you would not be here.' From that moment the
good woman treated me with a mother's kindness.
I remained several days beneath her roof, recovering from
the fatigue of my journey. While here, I purchased a rifle, and
practised daily at a mark, to prepare myself for a hunter's life.
When sufficiently recruited in strength, I took leave of my kind
host and hostess, and resumed my journey.
“At Wheeling I embarked in a flat-bottomed family boat,
technically called a broad-horn, a prime river conveyance in those
days. In this ark for two weeks I floated down the Ohio. The
river was as yet in all its wild beauty. Its loftiest trees had not
been thinned out. The forest overhung the water's edge, and
was occasionally skirted by immense canebrakes. Wild animals
of all kinds abounded. We heard them rushing through the
thickets, and plashing in the water. Deer and bears would frequently
swim across the river; others would come down to the
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bank, and gaze at the boat as it passed. I was incessantly on
the alert with my rifle; but somehow or other, the game was
never within shot. Sometimes I got a chance to land and try my
skill on shore. I shot squirrels, and small birds, and even wild
turkeys; but though I caught glimpses of deer bounding away
through the woods, I never could get a fair shot at them.
“In this way we glided in our broad-horn past Cincinnati,
the `Queen of the West,' as she is now called; then a mere group
of log cabins; and the site of the bustling city of Louisville, then
designated by a solitary house. As I said before, the Ohio
was as yet a wild river; all was forest, forest, forest! Near the
confluence of Green River with the Ohio, I landed, bade adieu to
the broad-horn, and struck for the interior of Kentucky. I had
no precise plan; my only idea was to make for one of the wildest
parts of the country. I had relatives in Lexington, and other
settled places, to whom I thought it probable my father would
write concerning me: so as I was full of manhood and independence,
and resolutely bent on making my way in the world without
assistance or control, I resolved to keep clear of them all.
“In the course of my first day's trudge, I shot a wild turkey,
and slung it on my back for provisions. The forest was open and
clear from underwood. I saw deer in abundance, but always running,
running. It seemed to me as if these animals never stood still.
“At length I came to where a gang of half-starved wolves
were feasting on the carcass of a deer which they had run down;
and snarling and snapping, and fighting like so many dogs. They
were all so ravenous and intent upon their prey, that they did not
notice me, and I had time to make my observations. One, larger
and fiercer than the rest, seemed to claim the larger share, and
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to keep the others in awe. If any one came too near him while
eating, he would fly off, seize and shake him, and then return to
his repast. `This,' thought I, `must be the captain; if I can
kill him, I shall defeat the whole army.' I accordingly took aim,
fired, and down dropped the old fellow. He might be only shamming
dead; so I loaded and put a second ball through him. He
never budged; all the rest ran off, and my victory was complete.
“It would not be easy to describe my triumphant feelings on
this great achievement. I marched on with renovated spirit; regarding
myself as absolute lord of the forest. As night drew
near, I prepared for camping. My first care was to collect dry
wood and make a roaring fire to cook and sleep by, and to frighten
off wolves, and bears, and panthers. I then began to pluck my
turkey for supper. I had camped out several times in the early
part of my expedition; but that was in comparatively more settled
and civilized regions; where there were no wild animals of
consequence in the forest. This was my first camping out in the
real wilderness; and I was soon made sensible of the loneliness
and wildness of my situation.
“In a little while, a concert of wolves commenced: there
might have been a dozen or two, but it seemed to me as if there
were thousands. I never heard such howling and whining.
Having prepared my turkey, I divided it into two parts, thrust
two sticks into one of the halves, and planted them on end before
the fire, the hunter's mode of roasting. The smell of roast meat
quickened the appetites of the wolves, and their concert became
truly infernal. They seemed to be all around me, but I could
only now and then get a glimpse of one of them, as he came within
the glare of the light.
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“I did not much care for the wolves, who I knew to be a
cowardly race, but I had heard terrible stories of panthers, and
began to fear their stealthy prowlings in the surrounding darkness.
I was thirsty, and heard a brook bubbling and tinkling
along at no great distance, but absolutely dared not go there, lest
some panther might lie in wait, and spring upon me. By and by
a deer whistled. I had never heard one before, and thought it
must be a panther. I now felt uneasy lest he might climb the
trees, crawl along the branches over head, and plump down upon
me; so I kept my eyes fixed on the branches, until my head
ached. I more than once thought I saw fiery eyes glaring down
from among the leaves. At length I thought of my supper, and
turned to see if my half turkey was cooked. In crowding so
near the fire, I had pressed the meat into the flames, and it was
consumed. I had nothing to do but toast the other half, and
take better care of it. On that half I made my supper, without
salt or bread. I was still so possessed with the dread of panthers,
that I could not close my eyes all night, but lay watching
the trees until daybreak, when all my fears were dispelled with
the darkness; and as I saw the morning sun sparkling down
through the branches of the trees, I smiled to think how I suffered
myself to be dismayed by sounds and shadows: but I was
a young woodsman, and a stranger in Kentucky.
“Having breakfasted on the remainder of my turkey, and
slaked my thirst at the bubbling stream, without farther dread
of panthers, I resumed my wayfaring with buoyant feelings. I
again saw deer, but as usual running, running! I tried in vain
to get a shot at them, and began to fear I never should. I was
gazing with vexation after a herd in full scamper, when I was
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startled by a human voice. Turning round, I saw a man at a
short distance from me, in a hunting-dress.
“`What are you after, my lad?' cried he.
“`Those deer;' replied I, pettishly; `but it seems as if they
never stand still.'
“Upon that he burst out laughing. `Where are you from?'
said he.
“`From Richmond.'
“`What! In old Virginny?'
“`The same.'
“`And how on earth did you get here?'
“`I landed at Green River from a broad-horn.'
“`And where are your companions?'
“`I have none.'
“`What?—all alone!'
“`Yes.'
“`Where are you going?'
“`Any where.'
“`And what have you come here for?'
“`To hunt.'
“`Well,' said he, laughingly, `you'll make a real hunter;
there's no mistaking that!'
“`Have you killed any thing?'
“`Nothing but a turkey; I can't get within shot of a deer:
they are always running.'
“`Oh, I'll tell you the secret of that. You're always pushing
forward, and starting the deer at a distance, and gazing at
those that are scampering; but you must step as slow, and silent,
and cautious as a cat, and keep your eyes close around you, and
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lurk from tree to tree, if you wish to get a chance at deer. But
come, go home with me. My name is Bill Smithers; I live not
far off: stay with me a little while, and I'll teach you how to
hunt.'
“I gladly accepted the invitation of honest Bill Smithers.
We soon reached his habitation; a mere log hut, with a square
hole for a window, and a chimney made of sticks and clay. Here
he lived, with a wife and child. He had `girdled' the trees for
an acre or two around, preparatory to clearing a space for corn
and potatoes. In the mean time he maintained his family entirely
by his rifle, and I soon found him to be a first-rate huntsman.
Under his tutelage I received my first effective lessons in `woodcraft.
'
“The more I knew of a hunter's life, the more I relished it.
The country, too, which had been the promised land of my boyhood,
did not, like most promised lands, disappoint me. No
wilderness could be more beautiful than this part of Kentucky,
in those times. The forests were open and spacious, with noble
trees, some of which looked as if they had stood for centuries.
There were beautiful prairies, too, diversified with groves and
clumps of trees, which looked like vast parks, and in which you
could see the deer running, at a great distance. In the proper
season, these prairies would be covered in many places with wild
strawberries, where your horse's hoofs would be dyed to the fetlock.
I thought there could not be another place in the world
equal to Kentucky—and I think so still.
“After I had passed ten or twelve days with Bill Smithers,
I thought it time to shift my quarters, for his house was scarce
large enough for his own family, and I had no idea of being an
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encumbrance to any one. I accordingly made up my bundle,
shouldered my rifle, took a friendly leave of Smithers and his
wife, and set out in quest of a Nimrod of the wilderness, one John
Miller, who lived alone, nearly forty miles off, and who I hoped
would be well pleased to have a hunting companion.
“I soon found out that one of the most important items in
woodcraft, in a new country, was the skill to find one's way in the
wilderness. There were no regular roads in the forests, but they
were cut up and perplexed by paths leading in all directions.
Some of these were made by the cattle of the settlers, and were
called `stock-tracks,' but others had been made by the immense
droves of buffaloes which roamed about the country, from the flood
until recent times. These were called buffalo-tracks, and traversed
Kentucky from end to end, like highways. Traces of them may
still be seen in uncultivated parts, or deeply worn in the rocks
where they crossed the mountains. I was a young woodsman, and
sorely puzzled to distinguish one kind of track from the other, or
to make out my course through this tangled labyrinth. While
thus perplexed, I heard a distant roaring and rushing sound; a
gloom stole over the forest: on looking up, when I could catch a
stray glimpse of the sky, I beheld the clouds rolled up like balls,
the lower part as black as ink. There was now and then an explosion,
like a burst of cannonry afar off, and the crash of a falling
tree. I had heard of hurricanes in the woods, and surmised
that one was at hand. It soon came crashing its way; the forest
writhing, and twisting, and groaning before it. The hurricane
did not extend far on either side, but in a manner ploughed a furrow
through the woodland; snapping off or uprooting trees that
had stood for centuries, and filling the air with whirling branches.
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I was directly in its course, and took my stand behind an immense
poplar, six feet in diameter. It bore for a time the full fury of
the blast, but at length began to yield. Seeing it falling, I
scrambled nimbly round the trunk like a squirrel. Down it went,
bearing down another tree with it. I crept under the trunk as a
shelter, and was protected from other trees which fell around me,
but was sore all over, from the twigs and branches driven against
me by the blast.
“This was the only incident of consequence that occurred on
my way to John Miller's, where I arrived on the following day,
and was received by the veteran with the rough kindness of a back-woodsman.
He was a grayhaired man, hardy and weather-beaten,
with a blue wart, like a great bead, over one eye, whence he was
nicknamed by the hunters, `Blue-bead Miller.' He had been in
these parts from the earliest settlements, and had signalized himself
in the hard conflicts with the Indians, which gained Kentucky
the appellation of `the Bloody Ground.' In one of these fights
he had had an arm broken; in another he had narrowly escaped,
when hotly pursued, by jumping from a precipice thirty feet high
into a river.
“Miller willingly received me into his house as an inmate,
and seemed pleased with the idea of making a hunter of me. His
dwelling was a small log-house, with a loft or garret of boards, so
that there was ample room for both of us. Under his instruction,
I soon made a tolerable proficiency in hunting. My first
exploit of any consequence was killing a bear. I was hunting in
company with two brothers, when we came upon the track of
Bruin, in a wood where there was an undergrowth of canes and
grape-vines. He was scrambling up a tree, when I shot him
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through the breast: he fell to the ground, and lay motionless.
The brothers sent in their dog, who seized the bear by the throat.
Bruin raised one arm, and gave the dog a hug that crushed his
ribs. One yell, and all was over. I don't know which was first
dead, the dog or the bear. The two brothers sat down and cried
like children over their unfortunate dog. Yet they were mere
rough huntsmen almost as wild and untamable as Indians: but
they were fine fellows.
“By degrees I became known, and somewhat of a favorite
among the hunters of the neighborhood; that is to say, men who
lived within a circle of thirty or forty miles, and came occasionally
to see John Miller, who was a patriarch among them. They
lived widely apart, in log-huts and wigwams, almost with the
simplicity of Indians, and well-nigh as destitute of the comforts
and inventions of civilized life. They seldom saw each other;
weeks, and even months would elapse, without their visiting. When
they did meet, it was very much after the manner of Indians;
loitering about all day, without having much to say, but becoming
communicative as evening advanced, and sitting up half the night
before the fire, telling hunting stories, and terrible tales of the
fights of the Bloody Ground.
“Sometimes several would join in a distant hunting expedition,
or rather campaign. Expeditions of this kind lasted from
November until April; during which we laid up our stock of summer
provisions. We shifted our hunting camps from place to
place, according as we found the game. They were generally
pitched near a run of water, and close by a canebrake, to screen us
from the wind. One side of our lodge was open towards the fire.
Our horses were hoppled and turned loose in the canebrakes, with
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bells round their necks. One of the party staid at home to watch
the camp, prepare the meals, and keep off the wolves; the others
hunted. When a hunter killed a deer at a distance from the camp,
he would open it and take out the entrails; then climbing a sapling,
he would bend it down, tie the deer to the top, and let it
spring up again so as to suspend the carcass out of reach of the
wolves. At night he would return to the camp, and give an account
of his luck. The next morning early he would get a horse
out of the canebrake and bring home his game. That day he
would stay at home to cut up the carcass, while the others hunted.
“Our days were thus spent in silent and lonely occupations.
It was only at night that we would gather together before the
fire, and be sociable. I was a novice, and used to listen with
open eyes and ears to the strange and wild stories told by the old
hunters, and believed every thing I heard. Some of their stories
bordered upon the supernatural. They believed that their rifles
might be spellbound, so as not to be able to kill a buffalo, even
at arm's length. This superstition they had derived from the Indians,
who often think the white hunters have laid a spell upon
their rifles. Miller partook of this superstition, and used to tell
of his rifle's having a spell upon it; but it often seemed to me to
be a shuffling way of accounting for a bad shot. If a hunter
grossly missed his aim, he would ask, `Who shot last with his
rifle?'—and hint that he must have charmed it. The sure mode to
disenchant the gun was to shoot a silver bullet out of it.
“By the opening of spring we would generally have quantities
of bear's meat and venison salted, dried, and smoked, and numerous
packs of skins. We would then make the best of our way
home from our distant hunting-grounds; transporting our spoils,
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sometimes in canoes along the rivers, sometimes on horseback
over land, and our return would often be celebrated by feasting
and dancing, in true backwoods style. I have given you some
idea of our hunting; let me now give you a sketch of our
frolicking.
“It was on our return from a winter's hunting in the neighborhood
of Green River, when we received notice that there was
to be a grand frolic at Bob Mosely's, to greet the hunters. This
Bob Mosely was a prime fellow throughout the country. He was
an indifferent hunter, it is true, and rather lazy, to boot; but
then he could play the fiddle, and that was enough to make him
of consequence. There was no other man within a hundred miles
that could play the fiddle, so there was no having a regular frolic
without Bob Mosely. The hunters, therefore, were always ready
to give him a share of their game in exchange for his music, and
Bob was always ready to get up a carousal, whenever there was a
party returning from a hunting expedition. The present frolic
was to take place at Bob Mosely's own house, which was on the
Pigeon-Roost Fork of the Muddy, which is a branch of Rough
Creek, which is a branch of Green River.
“Every body was agog for the revel at Bob Mosely's; and as
all the fashion of the neighborhood was to be there, I thought I
must brush up for the occasion. My leathern hunting-dress, which
was the only one I had, was somewhat the worse for wear, it is
true, and considerably japanned with blood and grease; but I was
up to hunting expedients. Getting into a periogue, I paddled
off to a part of the Green River where there was sand and clay,
that might serve for soap; then taking off my dress, I scrubbed
and scoured it, until I thought it looked very well. I then put
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it on the end of a stick, and hung it out of the periogue to dry,
while I stretched myself very comfortably on the green bank of
the river. Unluckily a flaw struck the periogue, and tipped over
the stick: down went my dress to the bottom of the river, and I
never saw it more. Here was I, left almost in a state of nature.
I managed to make a kind of Robinson Crusoe garb of undressed
skins, with the hair on, which enabled me to get home with decency;
but my dream of gayety and fashion was at an end; for
how could I think of figuring in high life at the Pigeon-Roost,
equipped like a mere Orson?
“Old Miller, who really began to take some pride in me, was
confounded when he understood that I did not intend to go to
Bob Mosely's; but when I told him my misfortune, and that I
had no dress: `By the powers,' cried he, `but you shall go,
and you shall be the best dressed and the best mounted lad there!'
“He immediately set to work to cut out and make up a
hunting-shirt, of dressed deer-skin, gaily fringed at the shoulders,
and leggins of the same, fringed from hip to heel. He
then made me a rakish raccoon-cap, with a flaunting tail to it;
mounted me on his best horse; and I may say, without vanity,
that I was one of the smartest fellows that figured on that occasion,
at the Pigeon-Roost Fork of the Muddy.
“It was no small occasion, either, let me tell you. Bob
Mosely's house was a tolerably large bark shanty, with a clapboard
roof; and there were assembled all the young hunters and
pretty girls of the country, for many a mile round. The young
men were in their best hunting-dresses, but not one could compare
with mine; and my raccoon-cap, with its flowing tail, was
the admiration of every body. The girls were mostly in
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doeskin dresses; for there was no spinning and weaving as yet in
the woods; nor any need of it. I never saw girls that seemed
to me better dressed; and I was somewhat of a judge, having
seen fashions at Richmond. We had a hearty dinner, and a
merry one; for there was Jemmy Kiel, famous for raccoon-hunting,
and Bob Tarleton, and Wesley Pigman, and Joe Taylor,
and several other prime fellows for a frolic, that made all ring
again, and laughed that you might have heard them a mile.
“After dinner, we began dancing, and were hard at it, when,
about three o'clock in the afternoon, there was a new arrival—
the two daughters of old Simon Schultz; two young ladies that
affected fashion and late hours. Their arrival had nearly put an
end to all our merriment. I must go a little round about in my
story, to explain to you how that happened.
“As old Schultz, the father, was one day looking in the canebrakes
for his cattle, he came upon the track of horses. He
knew they were none of his, and that none of his neighbors had
horses about that place. They must be stray horses; or must belong
to some traveller who had lost his way, as the track led nowhere.
He accordingly followed it up, until he came to an unlucky
peddler, with two or three packhorses, who had been bewildered
among the cattle-tracks, and had wandered for two or three days
among woods and canebrakes, until he was almost famished.
“Old Schultz brought him to his house; fed him on venison,
bear's meat, and hominy, and at the end of a week put him
in prime condition. The peddler could not sufficiently express
his thankfulness; and when about to depart, inquired what he
had to pay? Old Schultz stepped back, with surprise. `Stranger,
' said he, `you have been welcome under my roof. I've
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given you nothing but wild meat and hominy, because I had no
better, but have been glad of your company. You are welcome
to stay as long as you please; but by Zounds! if any one offers
to pay Simon Schultz for food, he affronts him!' So saying, he
walked out in a huff.
“The peddler admired the hospitality of his host, but could
not reconcile it to his conscience to go away without making
some recompense. There were honest Simon's two daughters,
two strapping, red-haired girls. He opened his packs and displayed
riches before them of which they had no conception; for
in those days there were no country stores in those parts, with
their artificial finery and trinketry; and this was the first peddler
that had wandered into that part of the wilderness. The girls
were for a time completely dazzled, and knew not what to choose:
but what caught their eyes most, were two looking-glasses, about
the size of a dollar, set in gilt tin. They had never seen the
like before, having used no other mirror than a pail of water.
The peddler presented them these jewels, without the least hesitation:
nay, he gallantly hung them round their necks by red
ribbons, almost as fine as the glasses themselves. This done,
he took his departure, leaving them as much astonished as two
princesses in a fairy tale, that have received a magic gift from
an enchanter.
“It was with these looking-glasses, hung round their necks
as lockets, by red ribbons, that old Schultz's daughters made
their appearance at three o'clock in the afternoon, at the frolic
at Bob Mosely's, on the Pigeon-Roost Fork of the Muddy.
“By the powers, but it was an event! Such a thing had
never before been seen in Kentucky. Bob Tarleton, a strapping
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fellow, with a head like a chestnut-burr, and a look like a boar in
an apple orchard, stepped up, caught hold of the looking-glass
of one of the girls, and gazing at it for a moment, cried out:
`Joe Taylor, come here! come here! I'll be darn'd if Patty
Schultz aint got a locket that you can see your face in, as clear
as in a spring of water!'
“In a twinkling all the young hunters gathered round old
Schultz's daughters. I, who knew what looking-glasses were,
did not budge. Some of the girls who sat near me were excessively
mortified at finding themselves thus deserted. I heard
Peggy Pugh say to Sally Pigman, `Goodness knows, it's well
Schultz's daughters is got them things round their necks, for
it's the first time the young men crowded round them!'
“I saw immediately the danger of the case. We were a
small community, and could not afford to be split up by feuds.
So I stepped up to the girls, and whispered to them: `Polly,'
said I, `those lockets are powerful fine, and become you amazingly;
but you don't consider that the country is not advanced
enough in these parts for such things. You and I understand
these matters, but these people don't. Fine things like these
may do very well in the old settlements, but they won't answer
at the Pigeon-Roost Fork of the Muddy. You had better lay
them aside for the present, or we shall have no peace.'
“Polly and her sister luckily saw their error; they took off
the lockets, laid them aside, and harmony was restored: otherwise,
I verily believe there would have been an end of our community.
Indeed, notwithstanding the great sacrifice they made
on this occasion, I do not think old Schultz's daughters were ever
much liked afterwards among the young women.
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“This was the first time that looking-glasses were ever seen
in the Green River part of Kentucky.
“I had now lived some time with old Miller, and had become
a tolerably expert hunter. Game, however, began to grow scarce.
The buffalo had gathered together, as if by universal understanding,
and had crossed the Mississippi never to return. Strangers
kept pouring into the country, clearing away the forests, and
building in all directions. The hunters began to grow restive.
Jemmy Kiel, the same of whom I have already spoken, for his
skill in raccoon catching, came to me one day: `I can't stand
this any longer,' said he; `we're getting too thick here. Simon
Schultz crowds me so, that I have no comfort of my life.'
“`Why, how you talk!' said I; `Simon Schultz lives twelve
miles off.'
“`No matter; his cattle run with mine, and I've no idea of
living where another man's cattle can run with mine. That's too
close neighborhood; I want elbow-room. This country, too, is
growing too poor to live in; there's no game: so two or three of
us have made up our minds to follow the buffalo to the Missouri,
and we should like to have you of the party.' Other hunters of
my acquaintance talked in the same manner. This set me thinking:
but the more I thought, the more I was perplexed. I had
no one to advise with: old Miller and his associates knew of but
one mode of life, and I had no experience in any other: but I had
a wider scope of thought. When out hunting alone, I used to
forget the sport, and sit for hours together on the trunk of a tree,
with rifle in hand, buried in thought, and debating with myself:
`Shall I go with Jemmy Kiel and his company, or shall I remain
here? If I remain here, there will soon be nothing left to hunt.
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But am I to be a hunter all my life? Have not I something
more in me, than to be carrying a rifle on my shoulder, day after
day, and dodging about after bears, and deer, and other brute
beasts?' My vanity told me I had; and I called to mind my
boyish boast to my sister, that I would never return home, until
I returned a member of Congress from Kentucky; but was this
the way to fit myself for such a station?
“Various plans passed through my mind, but they were abandoned
almost as soon as formed. At length I determined on becoming
a lawyer. True it is, I knew almost nothing. I had left
school before I had learnt beyond the `rule of three.' `Never
mind,' said I to myself, resolutely; `I am a terrible fellow for
hanging on to any thing, when I've once made up my mind; and
if a man has but ordinary capacity, and will set to work with
heart and soul, and stick to it, he can do almost any thing.' With
this maxim, which has been pretty much my main stay throughout
life, I fortified myself in my determination to attempt the
law. But how was I to set about it? I must quit this forest
life, and go to one or other of the towns, where I might be able
to study, and to attend the courts. This too required funds. I
examined into the state of my finances. The purse given me by
my father had remained untouched, in the bottom of an old chest
up in the loft, for money was scarcely needed in these parts. I
had bargained away the skins acquired in hunting, for a horse and
various other matters, on which, in case of need, I could raise
funds. I therefore thought I could make shift to maintain myself
until I was fitted for the bar.
“I informed my worthy host and patron, old Miller, of my
plan. He shook his head at my turning my back upon the
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woods, when I was in a fair way of making a first-rate hunter;
but he made no effort to dissuade me. I accordingly set off in
September, on horseback, intending to visit Lexington, Frankfort,
and other of the principal towns, in search of a favorable
place to prosecute my studies. My choice was made sooner than
I expected. I had put up one night at Bardstown, and found,
on inquiry that I could get comfortable board and accommodation
in a private family for a dollar and a half a week. I liked
the place, and resolved to look no farther. So the next morning
I prepared to turn my face homeward, and take my final
leave of forest life.
“I had taken my breakfast, and was waiting for my horse,
when, in pacing up and down the piazza, I saw a young girl
seated near a window, evidently a visitor. She was very pretty;
with auburn hair, and blue eyes, and was dressed in white. I
had seen nothing of the kind since I had left Richmond; and at
that time I was too much of a boy to be much struck by female
charms. She was so delicate and dainty-looking, so different
from the hale, buxom, brown girls of the woods; and then her
white dress!—it was perfectly dazzling! Never was poor youth
more taken by surprise, and suddenly bewitched. My heart
yearned to know her; but how was I to accost her? I had
grown wild in the woods, and had none of the habitudes of polite
life. Had she been like Peggy Pugh, or Sally Pigman, or any
other of my leathern-dressed belles of the Pigeon-Roost, I should
have approached her without dread; nay, had she been as fair
as Schultz's daughters, with their looking-glass lockets, I should
not have hesitated: but that white dress, and those auburn ringlets,
and blue eyes, and delicate looks, quite daunted, while they
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fascinated me. I don't know what put it into my head, but I
thought, all at once, that I would kiss her! It would take a
long acquaintance to arrive at such a boon, but I might seize
upon it by sheer robbery. Nobody knew me here. I would
just step in, snatch a kiss, mount my horse, and ride off. She
would not be the worse for it; and that kiss—oh! I should die
if I did not get it!
“I gave no time for the thought to cool, but entered the
house, and stepped lightly into the room. She was seated with
her back to the door, looking out at the window, and did not
hear my approach. I tapped her chair, and as she turned and
looked up, I snatched as sweet a kiss as ever was stolen, and
vanished in a twinkling. The next moment I was on horseback,
galloping homeward; my very ears tingling at what I had done.
“On my return home, I sold my horse, and turned every
thing to cash, and found, with the remains of the paternal
purse, that I had nearly four hundred dollars; a little capital,
which I resolved to manage with the strictest economy.
“It was hard parting with old Miller, who had been like a
father to me: it cost me, too, something of a struggle to give up
the free, independent wild-wood life I had hitherto led; but I
had marked out my course, and have never been one to flinch or
turn back.
“I footed it sturdily to Bardstown; took possession of the
quarters for which I had bargained, shut myself up, and set to
work with might and main, to study. But what a task I had
before me! I had every thing to learn; not merely law, but all
the elementary branches of knowledge. I read and read, for
sixteen hours out of the four-and-twenty; but the more I read,
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the more I became aware of my own ignorance, and shed bitter
tears over my deficiency. It seemed as if the wilderness of knowledge
expanded and grew more perplexed as I advanced. Every
height gained, only revealed a wider region to be traversed, and
nearly filled me with despair. I grew moody, silent, and unsocial,
but studied on doggedly and incessantly. The only person
with whom I held any conversation, was the worthy man in
whose house I was quartered. He was honest and well-meaning,
but perfectly ignorant, and I believe would have liked me much
better, if I had not been so much addicted to reading. He considered
all books filled with lies and impositions, and seldom
could look into one, without finding something to rouse his
spleen. Nothing put him into a greater passion, than the assertion
that the world turned on its own axis every four-and-twenty
hours. He swore it was an outrage upon common sense. `Why,
if it did,' said he, `there would not be a drop of water in the
well, by morning, and all the milk and cream in the dairy would
be turned topsy-turvy!' And then to talk of the earth going
round the sun! `How do they know it? I've seen the sun
rise every morning, and set every evening for more than thirty
years. They must not talk to me about the earth's going round
the sun!'
“At another time he was in a perfect fret at being told the
distance between the sun and moon. `How can any one tell the
distance?' cried he. `Who surveyed it? who carried the chain?
By Jupiter! they only talk this way before me to annoy me.
But then there's some people of sense who give in to this cursed
humbug! There's Judge Broadnax, now, one of the best lawyers
we have; isn't it surprising he should believe in such stuff?
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Why, sir, the other day I heard him talk of the distance from a
star he called Mars to the sun! He must have got it out of one
or other of those confounded books he's so fond of reading; a
book some impudent fellow has written, who knew nobody could
swear the distance was more or less.'
“For my own part, feeling my own deficiency in scientific
lore, I never ventured to unsettle his conviction that the sun
made his daily circuit round the earth; and for aught I said to
the contrary, he lived and died in that belief.
“I had been about a year at Bardstown, living thus studiously
and reclusely, when, as I was one day walking the street,
I met two young girls, in one of whom I immediately recalled
the little beauty whom I had kissed so impudently. She blushed
up to the eyes, and so did I; but we both passed on without farther
sign of recognition. This second glimpse of her, however,
caused an odd fluttering about my heart. I could not get her
out of my thoughts for days. She quite interfered with my
studies. I tried to think of her as a mere child, but it would
not do: she had improved in beauty, and was tending toward
womanhood; and then I myself was but little better than a
stripling. However, I did not attempt to seek after her, or even
to find out who she was, but returned doggedly to my books.
By degrees she faded from my thoughts, or if she did cross them
occasionally, it was only to increase my despondency; for I
feared that with all my exertions, I should never be able to fit
myself for the bar, or enable myself to support a wife.
“One cold stormy evening I was seated, in dumpish mood,
in the bar-room of the inn, looking into the fire, and turning
over uncomfortable thoughts, when I was accosted by some one
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who had entered the room without my perceiving it. I looked
up, and saw before me a tall and, as I thought, pompous-looking
man, arrayed in small-clothes and knee-buckles, with powdered
head, and shoes nicely blacked and polished; a style of dress
unparalleled in those days, in that rough country. I took a
pique against him from the very portliness of his appearance, and
stateliness of his manner, and bristled up as he accosted me.
He demanded if my name was not Ringwood.
“I was startled, for I supposed myself perfectly incog.; but
I answered in the affirmative.
“`Your family, I believe, lives in Richmond.'
“My gorge began to rise. `Yes, sir,' replied I, sulkily,
`my family does live in Richmond.'
“`And what, may I ask, has brought you into this part of
the country?'
“`Zounds, sir!' cried I, starting on my feet, `what business
is it of yours? How dare you to question me in this manner?'
“The entrance of some persons prevented a reply; but I
walked up and down the bar-room, fuming with conscious independence
and insulted dignity, while the pompous-looking personage,
who had thus trespassed upon my spleen, retired without
proffering another word.
“The next day, while seated in my room, some one tapped
at the door, and, on being bid to enter, the stranger in the powdered
head, small-clothes, and shining shoes and buckles, walked
in with ceremonious courtesy.
“My boyish pride was again in arms; but he subdued me.
He was formal, but kind and friendly. He knew my family,
and understood my situation, and the dogged struggle I was
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making. A little conversation, when my jealous pride was once
put to rest, drew every thing from me. He was a lawyer of experience,
and of extensive practice, and offered at once to take
me with him, and direct my studies. The offer was too advantageous
and gratifying not to be immediately accepted. From
that time I began to look up. I was put into a proper track,
and was enabled to study to a proper purpose. I made acquaintance,
too, with some of the young men of the place, who
were in the same pursuit, and was encouraged at finding that I
could `hold my own' in argument with them. We instituted a
debating club, in which I soon became prominent and popular.
Men of talents, engaged in other pursuits, joined it, and this
diversified our subjects, and put me on various tracks of inquiry.
Ladies, too, attended some of our discussions, and this gave
them a polite tone, and had an influence on the manners of the
debaters. My legal patron also may have had a favorable effect
in correcting any roughness contracted in my hunter's life. He
was calculated to bend me in an opposite direction, for he was of
the old school; quoted Chesterfield on all occasions, and talked
of Sir Charles Grandison, who was his beau-ideal. It was Sir
Charles Grandison, however, Kentuckyized.
“I had always been fond of female society. My experience,
however, had hitherto been among the rough daughters of the backwoodsmen;
and I felt an awe of young ladies in `store clothes,'
and delicately brought up. Two or three of the married ladies
of Bardstown, who had heard me at the debating club, determined
that I was a genius, and undertook to bring me out.
I believe I really improved under their hands; became quiet where
I had been shy or sulky, and easy where I had been impudent.
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“I called to take tea one evening with one of these ladies,
when to my surprise, and somewhat to my confusion, I found
with her the identical blue-eyed little beauty whom I had so
audaciously kissed. I was formally introduced to her, but
neither of us betrayed any sign of previous acquaintance, except
by blushing to the eyes. While tea was getting ready, the lady
of the house went out of the room to give some directions, and
left us alone.
“Heavens and earth, what a situation! I would have given
all the pittance I was worth, to have been in the deepest dell of
the forest. I felt the necessity of saying something in excuse
of my former rudeness, but I could not conjure up an idea, nor
utter a word. Every moment matters were growing worse I
felt at one time tempted to do as I had done when I robbed her
of the kiss: bolt from the room, and take to flight; but I was
chained to the spot, for I really longed to gain her good will.
“At length I plucked up courage, on seeing that she was
equally confused with myself, and walking desperately up to her,
I exclaimed:
“`I have been trying to muster up something to say to you,
but I cannot. I feel that I am in a horrible scrape. Do have
pity on me, and help me out of it!'
“A smile dimpled about her mouth, and played among the
blushes of her cheek. She looked up with a shy but arch glance
of the eye, that expressed a volume of comic recollection; we
both broke into a laugh, and from that moment all went on well.
“A few evenings afterward, I met her at a dance, and prosecuted
the acquaintance. I soon became deeply attached to her;
paid my court regularly; and before I was nineteen years of
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age, had engaged myself to marry her. I spoke to her mother,
a widow lady, to ask her consent. She seemed to demur; upon
which, with my customary haste, I told her there would be no
use in opposing the match, for if her daughter chose to have me,
I would take her, in defiance of her family, and the whole world.
“She laughed, and told me I need not give myself any uneasiness;
there would be no unreasonable opposition. She knew
my family, and all about me. The only obstacle was, that I had
no means of supporting a wife, and she had nothing to give with
her daughter.
“No matter; at that moment every thing was bright before
me. I was in one of my sanguine moods. I feared nothing,
doubted nothing. So it was agreed that I should prosecute my
studies, obtain a license, and as soon as I should be fairly
launched in business, we would be married.
“I now prosecuted my studies with redoubled ardor, and was
up to my ears in law, when I received a letter from my father,
who had heard of me and my whereabouts. He applauded the
course I had taken, but advised me to lay a foundation of general
knowledge, and offered to defray my expenses, if I would go to
college. I felt the want of a general education, and was staggered
with this offer. It militated somewhat against the self-dependent
course I had so proudly, or rather conceitedly, marked out for
myself, but it would enable me to enter more advantageously upon
my legal career. I talked over the matter with the lovely girl to
whom I was engaged. She sided in opinion with my father, and
talked so disinterestedly, yet tenderly, that if possible, I loved her
more than ever. I reluctantly, therefore, agreed to go to college
for a couple of years, though it must necessarily postpone our union.
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“Scarcely had I formed this resolution, when her mother was
taken ill, and died, leaving her without a protector. This again
altered all my plans. I felt as if I could protect her. I gave up
all idea of collegiate studies; persuaded myself that by dint of
industry and application I might overcome the deficiencies of
education, and resolved to take out a license as soon as possible.
“That very autumn I was admitted to the bar, and within a
month afterward, was married. We were a young couple; she
not much above sixteen, I not quite twenty; and both almost without
a dollar in the world. The establishment which we set up was
suited to our circumstances: a log-house, with two small rooms;
a bed, a table, a half dozen chairs, a half dozen knives and forks,
a half dozen spoons; every thing by half dozens; a little delft
ware; every thing in a small way: we were so poor, but then so
happy!
“We had not been married many days, when court was held
at a county town, about twenty-five miles distant. It was necessary
for me to go there, and put myself in the way of business:
but how was I to go? I had expended all my means on our
establishment; and then, it was hard parting with my wife so
soon after marriage. However, go I must. Money must be made,
or we should soon have the wolf at the door. I accordingly borrowed
a horse, and borrowed a little cash, and rode off from my
door, leaving my wife standing at it, and waving her hand after
me. Her last look, so sweet and beaming, went to my heart. I
felt as if I could go through fire and water for her.
“I arrived at the county town, on a cool October evening.
The inn was crowded, for the court was to commence on the following
day. I knew no one, and wondered how I, a stranger, and
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a mere youngster, was to make my way in such a crowd, and to
get business. The public room was thronged with the idlers of
the country, who gather together on such occasions. There was
some drinking going forward, with much noise, and a little altercation.
Just as I entered the room, I saw a rough bully of a fellow,
who was partly intoxicated, strike an old man. He came
swaggering by me, and elbowed me as he passed. I immediately
knocked him down, and kicked him into the street. I needed no
better introduction. In a moment I had a dozen rough shakes
of the hand, and invitations to drink, and found myself quite a
personage in this rough assembly.
“The next morning the court opened. I took my seat among
the lawyers, but felt as a mere spectator, not having a suit in progress
or prospect, nor having any idea where business was to come
from. In the course of the morning, a man was put at the bar
charged with passing counterfeit money, and was asked if he was
ready for trial. He answered in the negative. He had been
confined in a place where there were no lawyers, and had not had
an opportunity of consulting any. He was told to choose counsel
from the lawyers present, and to be ready for trial on the following
day. He looked round the court, and selected me. I was
thunderstruck. I could not tell why he should make such a
choice. I, a beardless youngster; unpractised at the bar; perfectly
unknown. I felt diffident yet delighted, and could have
hugged the rascal.
“Before leaving the court, he gave me one hundred dollars
in a bag, as a retaining fee. I could scarcely believe my senses;
it seemed like a dream. The heaviness of the fee spoke but
lightly in favor of his innocence, but that was no affair of mine.
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I was to be advocate, not judge, nor jury. I followed him to
jail, and learned from him all the particulars of his case:
thence I went to the clerk's office, and took minutes of the indictment.
I then examined the law on the subject, and prepared
my brief in my room. All this occupied me until mid-night,
when I went to bed, and tried to sleep. It was all in
vain. Never in my life was I more wide awake. A host of
thoughts and fancies kept rushing through my mind: the shower
of gold that had so unexpectedly fallen into my lap; the idea
of my poor little wife at home, that I was to astonish with my
good fortune! But then the awful responsibility I had undertaken!—
to speak for the first time in a strange court; the expectations
the culprit had evidently formed of my talents; all
these, and a crowd of similar notions, kept whirling through my
mind. I tossed about all night, fearing the morning would find
me exhausted and incompetent; in a word, the day dawned on
me, a miserable fellow!
“I got up feverish and nervous. I walked out before breakfast,
striving to collect my thoughts, and tranquillize my feelings.
It was a bright morning; the air was pure and frosty. I bathed
my forehead and my hands in a beautiful running stream; but I
could not allay the fever heat that raged within. I returned to
breakfast, but could not eat. A single cup of coffee formed my
repast. It was time to go to court, and I went there with a
throbbing heart. I believe if it had not been for the thoughts
of my little wife, in her lonely log-house, I should have given
back to the man his hundred dollars, and relinquished the cause.
I took my seat, looking, I am convinced, more like a culprit
than the rogue I was to defend.
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“When the time came for me to speak, my heart died within
me. I rose embarrassed and dismayed, and stammered in opening
my cause. I went on from bad to worse, and felt as if I was
going down hill. Just then the public prosecutor, a man of talents,
but somewhat rough in his practice, made a sarcastic remark
on something I had said. It was like an electric spark,
and ran tingling through every vein in my body. In an instant
my diffidence was gone. My whole spirit was in arms. I answered
with promptness and bitterness, for I felt the cruelty of
such an attack upon a novice in my situation. The public prosecutor
made a kind of apology; this, from a man of his redoubted
powers, was a vast concession. I renewed my argument with a
fearless glow; carried the case through triumphantly, and the
man was acquitted.
“This was the making of me. Every body was curious to
know who this new lawyer was, that had thus suddenly risen among
them, and bearded the attorney-general at the very outset. The
story of my début at the inn, on the preceding evening, when I
had knocked down a bully, and kicked him out of doors, for
striking an old man, was circulated, with favorable exaggerations.
Even my very beardless chin and juvenile countenance were in my
favor, for people gave me far more credit than I really deserved.
The chance business which occurs in our country courts came
thronging upon me. I was repeatedly employed in other causes;
and by Saturday night, when the court closed, and I had paid my
bill at the inn, I found myself with a hundred and fifty dollars
in silver, three hundred dollars in notes, and a horse that I afterward
sold for two hundred dollars more.
“Never did miser gloat on his money with more delight. I
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locked the door of my room; piled the money in a heap upon the
table; walked round it; sat with my elbows on the table, and my
chin upon my hands, and gazed upon it. Was I thinking of the
money? No! I was thinking of my little wife at home.
Another sleepless night ensued; but what a night of golden fancies,
and splendid air castles! As soon as morning dawned, I
was up, mounted the borrowed horse with which I had come to
court, and led the other, which I had received as a fee. All the
way I was delighting myself with the thoughts of the surprise I
had in store for my little wife; for both of us had expected
nothing but that I should spend all the money I had borrowed,
and should return in debt.
“Our meeting was joyous, as you may suppose: but I played
the part of the Indian hunter, who, when he returns from the
chase, never for a time speaks of his success. She had prepared
a snug little rustic meal for me, and while it was getting ready, I
seated myself at an old-fashioned desk in one corner, and began
to count over my money, and put it away. She came to me
before I had finished, and asked who I had collected the money
for.
“`For myself, to be sure,' replied I, with affected coolness;
`I made it at court.'
“She looked me for a moment in the face, incredulously.
I tried to keep my countenance, and to play Indian, but it would
not do. My muscles began to twitch; my feelings all at once
gave way. I caught her in my arms; laughed, cried, and danced
about the room, like a crazy man. From that time forward, we
never wanted for money.
“I had not been long in successful practice, when I was
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surprised one day by a visit from my woodland patron, old Miller.
The tidings of my prosperity had reached him in the wilderness,
and he had walked one hundred and fifty miles on foot to see me.
By that time I had improved my domestic establishment, and had
all things comfortable about me. He looked around him with a
wondering eye, at what he considered luxuries and superfluities;
but supposed they were all right, in my altered circumstances.
He said he did not know, upon the whole, but that I had acted
for the best. It is true, if game had continued plenty, it would
have been a folly for me to quit a hunter's life; but hunting was
pretty nigh done up in Kentucky. The buffalo had gone to Missouri;
the elk were nearly gone also; deer, too, were growing
scarce; they might last out his time, as he was growing old, but
they were not worth setting up life upon. He had once lived on
the borders of Virginia. Game grew scarce there; he followed
it up across Kentucky, and now it was again giving him the slip;
but he was too old to follow it farther.
“He remained with us three days. My wife did every thing
in her power to make him comfortable; but at the end of that
time, he said he must be off again to the woods. He was tired
of the village, and of having so many people about him. He accordingly
returned to the wilderness, and to hunting life. But I
fear he did not make a good end of it; for I understand that a
few years before his death, he married Sukey Thomas, who lived
at the White Oak Run.”
eaf615n10* Ralph Ringwood, though a fictitious name, is a real personage—the
late Governor Duval of Florida. I have given some anecdotes of his early
and eccentric career in, as nearly as I can recollect, the very words in
which he related them. They certainly afford strong temptations to the
embellishments of fiction; but I thought them so strikingly characteristic
of the individual, and of the scenes and society into which his peculiar
humors carried him, that I preferred giving them in their original simplicity.
G. C.
-- -- p615-296
THE SEMINOLES.
[figure description] Page 289.[end figure description]
From the time of the chimerical cruisings of Old Ponce de Leon in
search of the Fountain of Youth; the avaricious expedition of
Pamphilo de Narvaez in quest of gold; and the chivalrous enterprise
of Hernando de Soto, to discover and conquer a second Mexico,
the natives of Florida have been continually subjected to the invasions
and encroachments of white men. They have resisted them
perseveringly but fruitlessly, and are now battling amidst swamps
and morasses, for the last foothold of their native soil, with all
the ferocity of despair. Can we wonder at the bitterness of a
hostility that has been handed down from father to son, for upward
of three centuries, and exasperated by the wrongs and miseries
of each succeeding generation! The very name of the
savages with whom we are fighting, betokens their fallen and
homeless condition. Formed of the wrecks of once powerful
tribes, and driven from their ancient seats of prosperity and dominion,
they are known by the name of the Seminoles, or “Wanderers.”
Bartram, who travelled through Florida in the latter part of
the last century, speaks of passing through a great extent of
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ancient Indian fields, now silent and deserted, overgrown with
forests, orange groves, and rank vegetation, the site of the ancient
Alachua, the capital of a famous and powerful tribe, who in days
of old could assemble thousands at bull-play and other athletic
exercises “over these then happy fields and green plains.” “Almost
every step we take,” adds he, “over these fertile heights, discovers
the remains and traces of ancient human habitations and
cultivation.”
We are told that about the year 1763, when Florida was ceded
by the Spaniards to the English, the Indians generally retired
from the towns and the neighborhood of the whites, and
burying themselves in the deep forests, intricate swamps and
hommocks, and vast savannahs of the interior, devoted themselves
to a pastoral life, and the rearing of horses and cattle. These
are the people that received the name of the Seminoles, or Wanderers,
which they still retain.
Bartram gives a pleasing picture of them at the time he visited
them in their wilderness; where their distance from the
abodes of the white man gave them a transient quiet and security.
“This handful of people,” says he, “possesses a vast territory,
all East and the greatest part of West Florida, which being naturally
cut and divided into thousands of islets, knolls, and eminences,
by the innumerable rivers, lakes, swamps, vast savannahs,
and ponds, form so many secure retreats and temporary dwelling-places
that effectually guard them from any sudden invasions or
attacks from their enemies; and being such a swampy, hommocky
country, furnishes such a plenty and variety of supplies for the
nourishment of varieties of animals, that I can venture to assert,
that no part of the globe so abounds with wild game, or creatures
fit for the food of man.
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“Thus they enjoy a superabundance of the necessaries and
conveniences of life, with the security of person and property,
the two great concerns of mankind. The hides of deer, bears,
tigers, and wolves, together with honey, wax, and other productions
of the country, purchase their clothing equipage, and domestic
utensils from the whites. They seem to be free from want or
desires. No cruel enemy to dread; nothing to give them disquietude,
but the gradual encroachments of the white people.
Thus contented and undisturbed, they appear as blithe and free as
the birds of the air, and like them as volatile and active, tuneful
and vociferous. The visage, action, and deportment of the Seminoles
form the most striking picture of happiness in this life;
joy, contentment, love, and friendship, without guile or affectation,
seem inherent in them, or predominant in their vital principle,
for it leaves them with but the last breath of life.... They
are fond of games and gambling, and amuse themselves like
children, in relating extravagant stories, to cause surprise and
mirth.”*
The same writer gives an engaging picture of his treatment
by these savages:
“Soon after entering the forests, we were met in the path by
a small company of Indians, smiling and beckoning to us long
before we joined them. This was a family of Talahasochte, who
had been out on a hunt and were returning home loaded with
barbacued meat, hides, and honey. Their company consisted of
the man, his wife and children, well mounted on fine horses, with a
number of pack-horses. The man offered us a fawn skin of honey,
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[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]
which I accepted, and at parting presented him with some fishhooks,
sewing-needles, etc.
“On our return to camp in the evening, we were saluted by a
party of young Indian warriors, who had pitched their tents on a
green eminence near the lake, at a small distance from our camp,
under a little grove of oaks and palms. This company consisted
of seven young Seminoles, under the conduct of a young prince
or chief of Talahasochte, a town southward in the Isthmus.
They were all dressed and painted with singular elegance, and
richly ornamented with silver plates, chains, etc., after the Seminole
mode, with waving plumes of feathers on their crests. On
our coming up to them, they arose and shook hands; we alighted
and sat a while with them by their cheerful fire.
“The young prince informed our chief that he was in pursuit
of a young fellow who had fled from the town, carrying off with
him one of his favorite young wives. He said, merrily, he would
have the ears of both of them before he returned. He was rather
above the middle stature, and the most perfect human figure I
ever saw; of an amiable, engaging countenance, air, and deportment;
free and familiar in conversation, yet retaining a becoming
gracefulness and dignity. We arose, took leave of them, and
crossed a little vale, covered with a charming green turf, already
illuminated by the soft light of the full moon.
“Soon after joining our companions at camp, our neighbors,
the prince and his associates, paid us a visit. We treated them
with the best fare we had, having till this time preserved our
spirituous liquors. They left us with perfect cordiality and cheerfulness,
wishing us a good repose, and retired to their own camp.
Having a band of music with them, consisting of a drum, flutes,
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and a rattle-gourd, they entertained us during the night with
their music, vocal and instrumental.
“There is a languishing softness and melancholy air in the Indian
convivial songs, especially of the amorous class, irresistibly
moving attention, and exquisitely pleasing, especially in their
solitary recesses, when all nature is silent.”
Travellers who have been among them, in more recent times,
before they had embarked in their present desperate struggle,
represent them in much the same light; as leading a pleasant,
indolent life, in a climate that required little shelter or clothing,
and where the spontaneous fruits of the earth furnished subsistence
without toil. A cleanly race, delighting in bathing, passing
much of their time under the shade of their trees, with heaps
of oranges and other fine fruits for their refreshment; talking,
laughing, dancing and sleeping. Every chief had a fan hanging
to his side, made of feathers of the wild turkey, the beautiful
pink-colored crane, or the scarlet flamingo. With this he would
sit and fan himself with great stateliness, while the young people
danced before him. The women joined in the dances with
the men, excepting the war-dances. They wore strings of tortoise-shells
and pebbles round their legs, which rattled in cadence
to the music. They were treated with more attention
among the Seminoles than among most Indian tribes.
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When the Floridas were erected into a territory of the United
States, one of the earliest cares of the Governor, William
P. Duval, was directed to the instruction and civilization of
the natives. For this purpose he called a meeting of the chiefs,
in which he informed them of the wish of their Great Father at
Washington that they should have schools and teachers among
them, and that their children should be instructed like the children
of white men. The chiefs listened with their customary
silence and decorum to a long speech, setting forth the advantages
that would accrue to them from this measure, and when he
had concluded, begged the interval of a day to deliberate on it.
On the following day, a solemn convocation was held, at
which one of the chiefs addressed the governor in the name of
all the rest. “My brother,” said he, “we have been thinking
over the proposition of our Great Father at Washington, to
send teachers and set up schools among us. We are very thankful
for the interest he takes in our welfare; but after much deliberation,
have concluded to decline his offer. What will do
very well for white men, will not do for red men. I know you
white men say we all come from the same father and mother, but
you are mistaken. We have a tradition handed down from our
forefathers, and we believe it, that the Great Spirit, when he undertook
to make men, made the black man; it was his first attempt,
and pretty well for a beginning; but he soon saw he had
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bungled; so he determined to try his hand again. He did so,
and made the red man. He liked him much better than the
black man, but still he was not exactly what he wanted. So he
tried once more, and made the white man; and then he was satisfied.
You see, therefore, that you were made last, and that is
the reason I call you my youngest brother.
“When the Great Spirit had made the three men, he called
them together and showed them three boxes. The first was
filled with books, and maps, and papers; the second with bows
and arrows, knives and tomahawks; the third with spades, axes,
hoes, and hammers. `These, my sons,' said he, `are the means
by which you are to live; choose among them according to your
fancy.'
“The white man, being the favorite, had the first choice.
He passed by the box of working-tools without notice; but when
he came to the weapons for war and hunting, he stopped and
looked hard at them. The red man trembled, for he had set his
heart upon that box. The white man, however, after looking
upon it for a moment, passed on, and chose the box of books and
papers. The red man's turn came next; and you may be sure
he seized with joy upon the bows and arrows, and tomahawks.
As to the black man, he had no choice left, but to put up with
the box of tools.
“From this it is clear that the Great Spirit intended the
white man should learn to read and write; to understand all
about the moon and stars; and to make every thing, even rum
and whiskey. That the red man should be a first-rate hunter,
and a mighty warrior, but he was not to learn any thing from
books, as the Great Spirit had not given him any: nor was he to
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make rum and whiskey, lest he should kill himself with drinking.
As to the black man, as he had nothing but working-tools,
it was clear he was to work for the white and red man, which he
has continued to do.
“We must go according to the wishes of the Great Spirit,
or we shall get into trouble. To know how to read and write,
is very good for white men, but very bad for red men. It makes
white men better, but red men worse. Some of the Creeks and
Cherokees learnt to read and write, and they are the greatest rascals
among all the Indians. They went on to Washington, and
said they were going to see their Great Father, to talk about the
good of the nation. And when they got there, they all wrote
upon a little piece of paper, without the nation at home knowing
any thing about it. And the first thing the nation at home
knew of the matter, they were called together by the Indian
agent, who showed them a little piece of paper, which he told
them was a treaty, which their brethren had made in their name,
with their Great Father at Washington. And as they knew not
what a treaty was, he held up the little piece of paper, and they
looked under it, and lo! it covered a great extent of country,
and they found that their brethren, by knowing how to read and
write, had sold their houses, and their lands, and the graves of
their fathers; and that the white man, by knowing how to read
and write, had gained them. Tell our Great Father at Washington,
therefore, that we are very sorry we cannot receive teachers
among us; for reading and writing, though very good for
white men, is very bad for Indians.”
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In the autumn of 1823, Governor Duval, and other commissioners
on the part of the United States, concluded a treaty with
the chiefs and warriors of the Florida Indians, by which the latter,
for certain considerations, ceded all claims to the whole territory,
excepting a district in the eastern part, to which they
were to remove, and within which they were to reside for twenty
years. Several of the chiefs signed the treaty with great reluctance;
but none opposed it more strongly than Neamathla, principal
chief of the Mickasookies, a fierce and warlike people,
many of them Creeks by origin, who lived about the Mickasookie
lake. Neamathla had always been active in those depredations
on the frontiers of Georgia, which had brought vengeance and
ruin on the Seminoles. He was a remarkable man; upward of
sixty years of age, about six feet high, with a fine eye, and a
strongly-marked countenance, over which he possessed great
command. His hatred of the white men appeared to be mixed
with contempt: on the common people he looked down with infinite
scorn. He seemed unwilling to acknowledge any superiority
of rank or dignity in Governor Duval, claiming to associate with
him on terms of equality, as two great chieftains. Though he
had been prevailed upon to sign the treaty, his heart revolted at
it. In one of his frank conversations with Governor Duval, he
observed: “This country belongs to the red man; and if I had
the number of warriors at my command that this nation once
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had, I would not leave a white man on my lands. I would exterminate
the whole. I can say this to you, for you can understand
me: you are a man; but I would not say it to your people.
They'd cry out I was a savage, and would take my life.
They cannot appreciate the feelings of a man that loves his
country.”
As Florida had but recently been erected into a territory,
every thing as yet was in rude and simple style. The Governor,
to make himself acquainted with the Indians, and to be near at
hand to keep an eye upon them, fixed his residence at Tallahassee,
near the Fowel towns, inhabited by the Mickasookies. His government
palace for a time was a mere log-house, and he lived on
hunters' fare. The village of Neamathla was but about three
miles off, and thither the governor occasionally rode, to visit the
old chieftain. In one of these visits, he found Neamathla seated
in his wigwam, in the centre of the village, surrounded by his
warriors. The governor had brought him some liquor as a present,
but it mounted quickly into his brain, and rendered him
quite boastful and belligerent. The theme ever uppermost in
his mind, was the treaty with the whites. “It was true,” he
said, “the red men had made such a treaty, but the white men
had not acted up to it. The red men had received none of the
money and the cattle that had been promised them; the treaty,
therefore, was at an end, and they did not mean to be bound by
it.”
Governor Duval calmly represented to him that the time appointed
in the treaty for the payment and delivery of the money
and the cattle had not yet arrived. This the old chieftain knew
full well, but he chose, for the moment, to pretend ignorance.
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He kept on drinking and talking, his voice growing louder and
louder, until it resounded all over the village. He held in his
hand a long knife, with which he had been rasping tobacco; this
he kept flourishing backward and forward, as he talked, by way
of giving effect to his words, brandishing it at times within an
inch of the governor's throat. He concluded his tirade by repeating,
that the country belonged to the red men, and that sooner
than give it up, his bones and the bones of his people should
bleach upon its soil.
Duval knew that the object of all this bluster was to see
whether he could be intimidated. He kept his eye, therefore,
fixed steadily on the chief, and the moment he concluded with
his menace, seized him by the bosom of his hunting-shirt, and
clinching his other fist:
“I've heard what you have said,” replied he. “You have
made a treaty, yet you say your bones shall bleach before you
comply with it. As sure as there is a sun in heaven, your bones
shall bleach, if you do not fulfil every article of that treaty!
I'll let you know that I am first here, and will see that you do
your duty!”
Upon this the old chieftain threw himself back, burst into a
fit of laughing, and declared that all he had said was in joke.
The governor suspected, however, that there was a grave meaning
at the bottom of this jocularity.
For two months, every thing went on smoothly: the Indians
repaired daily to the log-cabin palace of the governor, at Tallahassee,
and appeared perfectly contented. All at once they
ceased their visits, and for three or four days not one was to be
seen. Governor Duval began to apprehend that some mischief
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was brewing. On the evening of the fourth day, a chief named
Yellow-Hair, a resolute, intelligent fellow, who had always
evinced an attachment for the governor, entered his cabin about
twelve o'clock at night, and informed him, that between four and
five hundred warriors, painted and decorated, were assembled to
hold a secret war-talk at Neamathla's town. He had slipped off
to give intelligence, at the risk of his life, and hastened back
lest his absence should be discovered.
Governor Duval passed an anxious night after this intelligence.
He knew the talent and the daring character of Neamathla;
he recollected the threats he had thrown out; he reflected
that about eighty white families were scattered widely apart,
over a great extent of country, and might be swept away at once,
should the Indians, as he feared, determine to clear the country.
That he did not exaggerate the dangers of the case, has been
proved by the horrid scenes of Indian warfare which have since
desolated that devoted region. After a night of sleepless cogitation
Duval determined on a measure suited to his prompt and
resolute character. Knowing the admiration of the savages for
personal courage, he determined, by a sudden surprise, to endeavor
to overawe and check them. It was hazarding much;
but where so many lives were in jeopardy, he felt bound to incur
the hazard.
Accordingly, on the next morning, he set off on horseback,
attended merely by a white man, who had been reared among
the Seminoles, and understood their language and manners, and
who acted as interpreter. They struck into an Indian “trail,”
leading to Neamathla's vilage. After proceeding about half a
mile, Governor Duval informed the interpreter of the object of
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his expedition. The latter, though a bold man, paused and remonstrated.
The Indians among whom they were going were
among the most desperate and discontented of the nation. Many
of them were veteran warriors, impoverished and exasperated by
defeat, and ready to set their lives at any hazard. He said that
if they were holding a war council, it must be with desperate
intent, and it would be certain death to intrude among them.
Duval made light of his apprehensions: he said he was perfectly
well acquainted with the Indian character, and should
certainly proceed. So saying, he rode on. When within half a
mile of the village, the interpreter addressed him again, in such
a tremulous tone, that Duval turned and looked him in the face.
He was deadly pale, and once more urged the governor to return,
as they would certainly be massacred if they proceeded.
Duval repeated his determination to go on, but advised the
other to return, lest his pale face should betray fear to the Indians,
and they might take advantage of it. The interpreter
replied that he would rather die a thousand deaths, than have it
said he had deserted his leader when in peril.
Duval then told him he must translate faithfully all he should
say to the Indians, without softening a word. The interpreter
promised faithfully to do so, adding that he well knew, when
they were once in the town, nothing but boldness could save
them.
They now rode into the village and advanced to the council-house.
This was rather a group of four houses, forming a square,
in the centre of which was a great council-fire. The houses were
open in front, toward the fire, and closed in the rear. At each
corner of the square, there was an interval between the houses,
for ingress and egress. In these houses sat the old men and the
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chiefs; the young men were gathered round the fire. Neamathla
presided at the council, elevated on a higher seat than the rest.
Governor Duval entered by one of the corner intervals, and
rode boldly into the centre of the square. The young men made
way for him; an old man who was speaking, paused in the midst
of his harangue. In an instant thirty or forty rifles were cocked
and levelled. Never had Duval heard so loud a click of triggers;
it seemed to strike to his heart. He gave one glance at the Indians,
and turned off with an air of contempt. He did not dare,
he says, to look again, lest it might affect his nerves, and on the
firmness of his nerves every thing depended.
The chief threw up his arm. The rifles were lowered. Duval
breathed more freely; he felt disposed to leap from his horse, but
restrained himself, and dismounted leisurely. He then walked
deliberately up to Neamathla, and demanded, in an authoritative
tone, what were his motives for holding that conncil. The
moment he made this demand, the orator sat down. The chief
made no reply, but hung his head in apparent confusion. After
a moment's pause, Duval proceeded:
“I am well aware of the meaning of this war-council; and
deem it my duty to warn you against prosecuting the schemes
you have been devising. If a single hair of a white man in this
country falls to the ground, I will hang you and your chiefs on
the trees around your council-house! You cannot pretend to
withstand the power of the white men. You are in the palm of
the hand of your Great Father at Washington, who can crush
you like an egg-shell! You may kill me; I am but one man;
but recollect, white men are numerous as the leaves on the trees.
Remember the fate of your warriors whose bones are whitening
in battle-fields. Remember your wives and children who perished
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in swamps. Do you want to provoke more hostilities? Another
war with the white men, and there will not be a Seminole left to
tell the story of his race.”
Seeing the effect of his words, he concluded by appointing a
day for the Indians to meet him at St. Marks, and give an account
of their conduct. He then rode off, without giving them
time to recover from their surprise. That night he rode forty
miles to Apalachicola River, to the tribe of the same name, who
were in feud with the Seminoles. They promptly put two hundred
and fifty warriors at his disposal, whom he ordered to be at
St. Marks at the appointed day. He sent out runners, also, and
mustered one hundred of the militia to repair to the same place,
together with a number of regulars from the army. All his arrangements
were successful.
Having taken these measures, he returned to Tallahassee, to
the neighborhood of the conspirators, to show them that he was
not afraid. Here he ascertained, through Yellow-Hair, that
nine towns were disaffected, and had been concerned in the conspiracy.
He was careful to inform himself, from the same
source, of the names of the warriors in each of those towns who
were most popular, though poor, and destitute of rank and
command.
When the appointed day was at hand for the meeting at St.
Marks, Governor Duval set off with Neamathla, who was at the
head of eight or nine hundred warriors, but who feared to venture
into the fort without him. As they entered the fort, and saw
troops and militia drawn up there, and a force of Apalachicola
soldiers stationed on the opposite bank of the river, they thought
they were betrayed, and were about to fly; but Duval assured
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them they were safe, and that when the talk was over, they might
go home unmolested.
A grand talk was now held, in which the late conspiracy
was discussed. As he had foreseen, Neamathla and the other
old chiefs threw all the blame upon the young men. “Well,”
replied Duval, “with us white men, when we find a man incompetent
to govern those under him, we put him down, and appoint
another in his place. Now, as you all acknowledge you cannot
manage your young men, we must put chiefs over them who can.”
So saying, he deposed Neamathla first; appointing another
in his place; and so on with all the rest; taking care to substitute
the warriors who had been pointed out to him as poor
and popular; putting medals round their necks, and investing
them with great ceremony. The Indians were surprised and
delighted at finding the appointments fall upon the very men
they would themselves have chosen, and hailed them with acclamations.
The warriors thus unexpectedly elevated to command,
and clothed with dignity, were secured to the interests of
the governor, and sure to keep an eye on the disaffected. As to
the great chief Neamathla, he left the country in disgust, and
returned to the Creek Nation, who elected him a chief of one of
their towns. Thus by the resolute spirit and prompt sagacity
of one man, a dangerous conspiracy was completely defeated.
Governor Duval was afterwards enabled to remove the whole
nation, through his own personal influence, without the aid of
the General Government.
Note.—The foregoing ancedotes concerning the Seminoles,
were gathered in conversation with Governor Duval (the original
of Ralph Ringwood).
eaf615n11* Bartram's Travels in North America.
-- -- p615-312
THE COUNT VAN HORN.
[figure description] Page 305.[end figure description]
During the minority of Louis XV., while the Duke of Orleans
was Regent of France, a young Flemish nobleman, the Count
Antoine Joseph Van Horn, made his sudden appearance in
Paris, and by his character, conduct, and the subsequent disasters
in which he became involved, created a great sensation in
the high circles of the proud aristocracy. He was about twenty-two
years of age, tall, finely formed, with a pale, romantic countenance,
and eyes of remarkable brilliancy and wildness.
He was one of the most ancient and highly-esteemed families
of European nobility, being of the line of the Princes of Horn
and Overique, sovereign Counts of Hautekerke, and hereditary
Grand Veneurs of the empire.
The family took its name from the little town and seigneurie
of Horn, in Brabant; and was known as early as the eleventh
century among the little dynasties of the Netherlands, and since
that time, by a long line of illustrious generations. At the
peace of Utrecht, when the Netherlands passed under subjection
to Austria, the house of Van Horn came under the domination
of the emperor. At the time we treat of, two of the branches
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of this ancient house were extinct; the third and only surviving
branch was represented by the reigning prince, Maximilian
Emanuel Van Horn, twenty-four years of age, who resided in
honorable and courtly style on his hereditary domains at Baussigny,
in the Netherlands, and his brother the Count Antoine
Joseph, who is the subject of this memoir.
The ancient house of Van Horn, by the intermarriage of its
various branches with the noble families of the continent, had
become widely connected and interwoven with the high aristocracy
of Europe. The Count Antoine, therefore, could claim relationship
to many of the proudest names in Paris. In fact, he
was grandson, by the mother's side, of the Prince de Ligne, and
even might boast of affinity to the Regent (the Duke of Orleans)
himself. There were circumstances, however, connected with
his sudden appearance in Paris, and his previous story, that
placed him in what is termed “a false position;” a word of baleful
significance in the fashionable vocabulary of France.
The young Count had been a captain in the service of Austria,
but had been cashiered for irregular conduct, and for disrespect
to Prince Louis of Baden, commander-in-chief. To check
him in his wild career, and bring him to sober reflection, his
brother the Prince caused him to be arrested, and sent to the
old castle of Van Wert, in the domains of Horn. This was the
same castle in which, in former times, John Van Horn, Stadt-holder
of Gueldres, had imprisoned his father; a circumstance
which has furnished Rembrandt with the subject of an admirable
painting. The governor of the castle was one Van Wert, grandson
of the famous John Van Wert, the hero of many a popular
song and legend. It was the intention of the Prince that his
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brother should be held in honorable durance, for his object was
to sober and improve, not to punish and afflict him. Van Wert,
however, was a stern, harsh man, of violent passions. He
treated the youth in a manner that prisoners and offenders were
treated in the strongholds of the robber counts of Germany, in
old times; confined him in a dungeon, and inflicted on him such
hardships and indignities, that the irritable temperament of the
young count was roused to continual fury, which ended in insanity.
For six months was the unfortunate youth kept in this
horrible state, without his brother the Prince being informed of
his melancholy condition, or of the cruel treatment to which he
was subjected. At length, one day, in a paroxysm of frenzy,
the Count knocked down two of his gaolers with a beetle, escaped
from the castle of Van Wert, and eluded all pursuit; and after
roving about in a state of distraction, made his way to Baussigny,
and appeared like a spectre before his brother.
The Prince was shocked at his wretched, emaciated appearance,
and his lamentable state of mental alienation. He received
him with the most compassionate tenderness; lodged him
in his own room; appointed three servants to attend and watch
over him day and night; and endeavored, by the most soothing
and affectionate assiduity, to atone for the past act of rigor with
which he reproached himself. When he learned, however, the
manner in which his unfortunate brother had been treated in
confinement, and the course of brutalities that had led to his
mental malady, he was aroused to indignation. His first step
was to cashier Van Wert from his command. That violent man
set the Prince at defiance, and attempted to maintain himself in
his government and his castle, by instigating the peasants, for
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several leagues round, to revolt. His insurrection might have
been formidable against the power of a petty prince; but he was
put under the ban of the empire, and seized as a state prisoner.
The memory of his grandfather, the oft-sung John Van Wert,
alone saved him from a gibbet; but he was imprisoned in the
strong tower of Horn-op-Zee. There he remained until he was
eighty-two years of age, savage, violent, and unconquered to the
last; for we are told that he never ceased fighting and thumping,
as long as he could close a fist or wield a cudgel.
In the mean time, a course of kind and gentle treatment and
wholesome regimen, and above all, the tender and affectionate
assiduity of his brother, the Prince, produced the most salutary
effects upon Count Antoine. He gradually recovered his reason;
but a degree of violence seemed always lurking at the bottom
of his character, and he required to be treated with the
greatest caution and mildness, for the least contradiction exasperated
him.
In this state of mental convalescence, he began to find the
supervision and restraints of brotherly affection insupportable;
so he left the Netherlands furtively, and repaired to Paris,
whither, in fact, it is said he was called by motives of interest,
to make arrangements concerning a valuable estate which he inherited
from his relative the Princess d'Epinay.
On his arrival in Paris, he called upon the Marquis of Crequi,
and other of the high nobility with whom he was connected.
He was received with great courtesy; but, as he brought no letters
from his elder brother, the Prince, and as various circumstances
of his previous history had transpired, they did not receive
him into their families, nor introduce him to their ladies.
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Still they fèted him in bachelor style, gave him gay and elegant
suppers at their separate apartments, and took him to their
boxes at the theatres. He was often noticed, too, at the doors
of the most fashionable churches, taking his stand among the
young men of fashion; and at such times, his tall, elegant figure,
his pale but handsome countenance, and his flashing eyes, distinguished
him from among the crowd; and the ladies declared
that it was almost impossible to support his ardent gaze.
The Count did not afflict himself much at his limited circulation
in the fastidious circles of the high aristocracy. He
relished society of a wilder and less ceremonious cast; and
meeting with loose companions to his taste, soon ran into all the
excesses of the capital, in that most licentious period. It is
said that, in the course of his wild career, he had an intrigue
with a lady of quality, a favorite of the Regent; that he was
surprised by that prince in one of his interviews; that sharp
words passed between them; and that the jealousy and vengeance
thus awakened, ended only with his life.
About this time, the famous Mississippi scheme of Law was
at its height, or rather it began to threaten that disastrous catastrophe
which convulsed the whole financial world. Every
effort was making to keep the bubble inflated. The vagrant
population of France was swept off from the streets at night,
and conveyed to Havre de Grace, to be shipped to the projected
colonies; even laboring people and mechanics were thus crimped
and spirited away. As Count Antoine was in the habit of sallying
forth at night, in disguise, in pursuit of his pleasures, he
came near being carried off by a gang of crimps; it seemed, in
fact, as if they had been lying in wait for him, as he had
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experienced very rough treatment at their hands. Complaint was
made of his case by his relation, the Marquis de Créqui, who
took much interest in the youth; but the Marquis received mysterious
intimations not to interfere in the matter, but to advise
the Count to quit Paris immediately: “If he lingers, he is
lost!” This has been cited as a proof that vengeance was dogging
at the heels of the unfortunate youth, and only watching
for an opportunity to destroy him.
Such opportunity occurred but too soon. Among the loose
companions with whom the Count had become intimate, were
two who lodged in the same hotel with him. One was a youth
only twenty years of age, who passed himself off as the Chevalier
d'Etampes, but whose real name was Lestang, the prodigal
son of a Flemish banker. The other, named Laurent de Mille,
a Piedmontese, was a cashiered captain, and at the time an
esquire in the service of the dissolute Princess de Carignan, who
kept gambling-tables in her palace. It is probable that gambling
propensities had brought these young men together, and
that their losses had driven them to desperate measures; certain
it is, that all Paris was suddenly astounded by a murder
which they were said to have committed. What made the crime
more startling, was, that it seemed connected with the great
Mississippi scheme, at that time the fruitful source of all kinds
of panics and agitations. A Jew, a stock-broker, who dealt
largely in shares of the bank of Law, founded on the Mississippi
scheme, was the victim. The story of his death is variously related.
The darkest account states, that the Jew was decoyed
by these young men into an obscure tavern, under pretext of negotiating
with him for bank shares, to the amount of one hundred
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thousand crowns, which he had with him in his pocket-book.
Lestang kept watch upon the stairs. The Count and De Mille
entered with the Jew into a chamber. In a little while there
were heard cries and struggles from within. A waiter passing
by the room, looked in, and seeing the Jew weltering in his
blood, shut the door again, double-locked it, and alarmed the
house. Lestang rushed down stairs, made his way to the hotel,
secured his most portable effects, and fled the country. The
Count and De Mille endeavored to escape by the window, but
were both taken, and conducted to prison.
A circumstance which occurs in this part of the Count's
story, seems to point him out as a fated man. His mother, and
his brother, the Prince Van Horn, had received intelligence
some time before at Baussigny, of the dissolute life the Count
was leading at Paris, and of his losses at play. They despatched
a gentleman of the Prince's household to Paris, to pay the debts
of the Count, and persuade him to return to Flanders; or, if he
should refuse, to obtain an order from the Regent for him to
quit the capital. Unfortunately the gentleman did not arrive at
Paris until the day after the murder.
The news of the Count's arrest and imprisonment, on a
charge of murder, caused a violent sensation among the high
aristocracy. All those connected with him, who had treated
him hitherto with indifference, found their dignity deeply involved
in the question of his guilt or innocence. A general convocation
was held at the hotel of the Marquis de Créqui, of all
the relatives and allies of the house of Horn. It was an assemblage
of the most proud and aristocratic personages of Paris.
Inquiries were made into the circumstances of the affair. It
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was ascertained, beyond a doubt, that the Jew was dead, and
that he had been killed by several stabs of a poniard. In escaping
by the window, it was said that the Count had fallen, and
been immediately taken; but that De Mille had fled through
the streets, pursued by the populace, and had been arrested at
some distance from the scene of the murder; that the Count had
declared himself innocent of the death of the Jew, and that he
had risked his own life in endeavoring to protect him; but that
De Mille on being brought back to the tavern, confessed to a
plot to murder the broker, and rob him of his pocket-book, and
inculpated the Count in the crime.
Another version of the story was, that the Count Van Horn
had deposited with the broker bank shares to the amount of
eighty-eight thousand livres; that he had sought him in this
tavern, which was one of his resorts, and had demanded the
shares; that the Jew had denied the deposit; that a quarrel had
ensued, in the course of which the Jew struck the Count in the
face; that the latter, transported with rage, had snatched up a
knife from a table, and wounded the Jew in the shoulder; and
that thereupon De Mille, who was present, and who had likewise
been defrauded by the broker, fell on him, and despatched him
with blows of a poniard, and seized upon his pocket-book: that
he had offered to divide the contents of the latter with the Count,
pro rata, of what the usurer had defrauded them; that the latter
had refused the proposition with disdain, and that, at a noise of
persons approaching, both had attempted to escape from the premises,
but had been taken.
Regard the story in any way they might, appearances were
terribly against the Count, and the noble assemblage was in great
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consternation. What was to be done to ward off so foul a disgrace
and to save their illustrious escutcheons from this murderous
stain of blood? Their first attempt was to prevent the affair
from going to trial, and their relative from being dragged before
a criminal tribunal, on so horrible and degrading a charge. They
applied, therefore, to the Regent, to intervene his power; to treat
the Count as having acted under an access of his mental malady;
and to shut him up in a madhouse. The Regent was deaf to
their solicitations. He replied, coldly, that if the Count was a
madman, one could not get rid too quickly of madmen who were
furious in their insanity. The crime was too public and atrocious
to be hushed up, or slurred over; justice must take its
course.
Seeing there was no avoiding the humiliating scene of a public
trial, the noble relatives of the Count endeavored to predispose
the minds of the magistrates before whom he was to be arraigned.
They accordingly made urgent and eloquent representations of
the high descent, and noble and powerful connections of the Count;
set forth the circumstances of his early history; his mental malady;
the nervous irritability to which he was subject, and his extreme
sensitiveness to insult or contradiction. By these means,
they sought to prepare the judges to interpret every thing in favor
of the Count, and, even if it should prove that he had inflicted the
mortal blow on the usurer, to attribute it to access of insanity,
provoked by insult.
To give full effect to these representations, the noble conclave
determined to bring upon the judges the dazzling rays of the whole
assembled aristocracy. Accordingly, on the day that the trial took
place, the relations of the Count, to the number of fifty-seven
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persons, of both sexes, and of the highest rank, repaired in a body to
the Palace of Justice, and took their stations in a long corridor
which led to the court-room. Here, as the judges entered, they
had to pass in review this array of lofty and noble personages,
who saluted them mournfully and significantly, as they passed.
Any one conversant with the stately pride and jealous dignity of
the French noblesse of that day, may imagine the extreme state
of sensitiveness that produced this self-abasement. It was confidently
presumed, however, by the noble suppliants, that having
once brought themselves to this measure, their influence over the
tribunal would be irresistible. There was one lady present, however,
Madame de Beauffremont, who was affected with the Scottish
gift of second sight, and related such dismal and sinister apparitions
as passing before her eyes, that many of her female
companions were filled with doleful presentiments.
Unfortunately for the Count, there was another interest at
work, more powerful even than the high aristocracy. The infamous
but all-potent Abbé Dubois, the grand favorite and bosom
counsellor of the Regent, was deeply interested in the scheme of
Law, and the prosperity of his bank, and of course in the security
of the stock-brokers. Indeed, the Regent himself is said to have
dipped deep in the Mississippi scheme. Dubois and Law, therefore,
exerted their influence to the utmost to have the tragic affair
pushed to the extremity of the law, and the murder of the broker
punished in the most signal and appalling manner. Certain it is,
the trial was neither long nor intricate. The Count and his fellow-prisoner
were equally inculpated in the crime, and both were
condemned to a death the most horrible and ignominious—to be
broken alive on the wheel!
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As soon as the sentence of the court was made public, all the
nobility, in any degree related to the house of Van Horn, went
into mourning. Another grand aristocratical assemblage was
held, and a petition to the Regent, on behalf of the Count, was
drawn out and left with the Marquis de Créqui for signature.
This petition set forth the previous insanity of the Count, and
showed that it was an hereditary malady in his family. It stated
various circumstances in mitigation of his offence, and implored
that his sentence might be commuted to perpetual imprisonment.
Upward of fifty names of the highest nobility, beginning with
the Prince de Ligne, and including cardinals, archbishops, dukes,
marquises, etc. together with ladies of equal rank, were signed to
this petition. By one of the caprices of human pride and vanity,
it became an object of ambition to get enrolled among the illustrious
suppliants; a kind of testimonial of noble blood, to prove
relationship to a murderer! The Marquis de Créqui was absolutely
besieged by applicants to sign, and had to refer their
claims to this singular honor, to the Prince de Ligne, the grandfather
of the Count. Many who were excluded were highly incensed,
and numerous feuds took place. Nay, the affronts thus
given to the morbid pride of some aristocratical families, passed
from generation to generation; for, fifty years afterward, the
Duchess of Mazarin complained of a slight which her father had
received from the Marquis de Créqui; which proved to be something
connected with the signature of this petition.
This important document being completed, the illustrious body
of petitioners, male and female, on Saturday evening, the eve of
Palm Sunday, repaired to the Palais Royal, the residence of the
Regent, and were ushered, with great ceremony, but profound
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silence, into his hall of council. They had appointed four of their
number as deputies, to present the petition, viz.: the Cardinal de
Rohan, the Duke de Havré, the Prince de Ligne, and the Marquis
de Créqui. After a little while, the deputies were summoned to
the cabinet of the Regent. They entered, leaving the assembled
petitioners in a state of the greatest anxiety. As time slowly
wore away, and the evening advanced, the gloom of the company
increased. Several of the ladies prayed devoutly; the good Princess
of Armagnac told her beads.
The petition was received by the Regent with a most unpropitious
aspect. “In asking the pardon of the criminal,” said he,
“you display more zeal for the house of Van Horn, than for the
service of the king.” The noble deputies enforced the petition
by every argument in their power. They supplicated the Regent
to consider that the infamous punishment in question would reach
not merely the person of the condemned, not merely the house of
Van Horn, but also the genealogies of princely and illustrious
families, in whose armorial bearings might be found quarterings
of this dishonored name.
“Gentlemen,” replied the Regent, “it appears to me the disgrace
consists in the crime, rather than in the punishment.”
The Prince de Ligne spoke with warmth: “I have in my
genealogical standard,” said he, “four escutcheons of Van Horn,
and of course have four ancestors of that house. I must have them
erased and effaced, and there would be so many blank spaces, like
holes, in my heraldic ensigns. There is not a sovereign family
which would not suffer, through the rigor of your Royal Highness;
nay, all the world knows, that in the thirty-two quarterings of
Madame, your Mother, there is an escutcheon of Van Horn.”
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“Very well,” replied the Regent, “I will share the disgrace
with you, gentlemen.”
Seeing that a pardon could not be obtained, the Cardinal de
Rohan and the Marquis de Créqui left the cabinet; but the
Prince de Ligne and the Duke de Havré remained behind. The
honor of their houses, more than the life of the unhappy Count,
was the great object of their solicitude. They now endeavored
to obtain a minor grace. They represented, that in the Netherlands,
and in Germany, there was an important difference in the
public mind as to the mode of inflicting the punishment of death
upon persons of quality. That decapitation had no influence on
the fortunes of the family of the executed, but that the punishment
of the wheel was such an infamy, that the uncles, aunts,
brothers, and sisters, of the criminal, and his whole family, for
three succeeding generations, were excluded from all noble chapters,
princely abbeys, sovereign bishopries, and even Teutonic
commanderies of the Order of Malta. They showed how this
would operate immediately upon the fortunes of a sister of the
Count, who was on the point of being received as a canoness into
one of the noble chapters.
While this scene was going on in the cabinet of the Regent,
the illustrious assemblage of petitioners remained in the hall of
council, in the most gloomy state of suspense. The reentrance
from the cabinet of the Cardinal de Rohan and the Marquis de
Créqui, with pale downcast countenances, had struck a chill into
every heart. Still they lingered until near midnight, to learn the
result of the after application. At length the cabinet conference
was at an end. The Regent came forth, and saluted the high
personages of the assemblage in a courtly manner. One old lady
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of quality, Madame de Guyon, whom he had known in his infancy,
he kissed on the cheek, calling her his “good aunt.” He made a
most ceremonious salutation to the stately Marchioness de Créqui,
telling her he was charmed to see her at the Palais Royal; “a
compliment very ill-timed,” said the Marchioness, “considering
the circumstance which brought me there.” He then conducted
the ladies to the door of the second saloon, and there dismissed
them, with the most ceremonious politeness.
The application of the Prince de Ligne and the Duke de
Havré, for a change of the mode of punishment, had, after much
difficulty, been successful. The Regent had promised solemnly
to send a letter of commutation to the attorney-general on Holy
Monday the 25th of March, at five o'clock in the morning. According
to the same promise, a scaffold would be arranged in the
cloister of the Conciergerie, or prison, where the Count would be
beheaded on the same morning, immediately after having received
absolution. This mitigation of the form of punishment gave but
little consolation to the great body of petitioners, who had been
anxious for the pardon of the youth: it was looked upon as all-important,
however, by the Prince de Ligne, who, as has been
before observed, was exquisitely alive to the dignity of his family.
The Bishop of Bayeux and the Marquis de Créqui visited the
unfortunate youth in prison. He had just received the communion
in the chapel of the Conciergerie, and was kneeling before the
altar, listening to a mass for the dead, which was performed at
his request. He protested his innocence of any intention to murder
the Jew, but did not deign to allude to the accusation of robbery.
He made the Bishop and the Marquis promise to see his
brother the Prince, and inform him of this his dying asseveration.
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Two other of his relations, the Prince Rebecq-Montmorency and
the Marshal Van Isenghien, visited him secretly, and offered him
poison, as a means of evading the disgrace of a public execution.
On his refusing to take it, they left him with high indignation.
“Miserable man!” said they, “you are fit only to perish by the
hand of the executioner!”
The Marquis de Créqui sought the executioner of Paris, to
bespeak an easy and decent death for the unfortunate youth.
“Do not make him suffer,” said he; “uncover no part of him but
the neck; and have his body placed in a coffin before you deliver
it to his family.” The executioner promised all that was requested,
but declined a rouleau of a hundred louis-d'ors which the
Marquis would have put into his hand. “I am paid by the King
for fulfilling my office,” said he; and added, that he had already
refused a like sum, offered by another relation of the Marquis.
The Marquis de Créqui returned home in a state of deep affliction.
There he found a letter from the Duke de St. Simon,
the familiar friend of the Regent, repeating the promise of that
Prince, that the punishment of the wheel should be commuted to
decapitation.
“Imagine,” says the Marchioness de Créqui, who in her
memoirs gives a detailed account of this affair, “imagine what we
experienced, and what was our astonishment, our grief, and indignation,
when, on Tuesday the 26th of March, an hour after mid-day,
word was brought us that the Count Van Horn had been
exposed on the wheel, in the Place de Grève, since half-past six
in the morning, on the same scaffold with the Piedmontese, De
Mille, and that he had been tortured previous to execution!”
One more scene of aristocratic pride closed this tragic story.
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The Marquis de Créqui, on receiving this astounding news, immediately
arrayed himself in the uniform of a general officer, with
his cordon of nobility on the coat. He ordered six valets to attend
him in grand livery, and two of his carriages, each with six
horses, to be brought forth. In this sumptuous state, he set off
for the Palace de Gréve, where he had been preceded by the
Princes de Ligne, de Rohan, de Croüy, and the Duke de Havré.
The Count Van Horn was already dead, and it was believed
that the executioner had had the charity to give him the coup de
grace, or “death blow,” at eight o'clock in the morning. At five
o'clock in the evening, when the Judge Commissary left his post
at the Hotel de Ville, these noblemen, with their own hands, aided
to detach the mutilated remains of their relation; the Marquis
de Créqui placed them in one of his carriages, and bore them off
to his hotel, to receive the last sad obsequies.
The conduct of the Regent in this affair excited general indignation.
His needless severity was attributed by some to vindictive
jealousy; by others to the persevering machinations of Law
and the Abbé Dubois. The house of Van Horn, and the high
nobility of Flanders and Germany, considered themselves flagrantly
outraged: many schemes of vengeance were talked of, and a
hatred engendered against the Regent, that followed him through
life, and was wreaked with bitterness upon his memory after his
death.
The following letter is said to have been written to the Regent
by the Prince Van Horn, to whom the former had adjudged
the confiscated effects of the Count:
“I do not complain, sir, of the death of my brother, but I
complain that your Royal Highness has violated in his person the
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rights of the kingdom, the nobility, and the nation. I thank you
for the confiscation of his effects; but I should think myself as
much disgraced as he, should I accept any favor at your hands.
I hope that God and the King may render to you as strict
justice as you have rendered to my unfortunate brother.”
-- -- p615-329
DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH.
“I have heard of spirits walking with aërial bodies, and have been wondered at by
others; but I must only wonder at myself, for, if they be not mad, I'me come to my own
buriall.”
Shirley's “Witty Fairie One.”
[figure description] Page 322.[end figure description]
Every body has heard of the fate of Don Juan, the famous libertine
of Seville, who for his sins against the fair sex, and other
minor peccadilloes, was hurried away to the infernal regions.
His story has been illustrated in play, in pantomime, and farce,
on every stage in Christendom, until at length it has been rendered
the theme of the opera of operas, and embalmed to endless
duration in the glorious music of Mozart. I well recollect the
effect of this story upon my feelings in my boyish days, though
represented in grotesque pantomime; the awe with which I contemplated
the monumental statue on horseback of the murdered
commander, gleaming by pale moonlight in the convent cemetery:
how my heart quaked as he bowed his marble head, and accepted
the impious invitation of Don Juan: how each foot-fall of the
statue smote upon my heart, as I heard it approach, step by step,
through the echoing corridor, and beheld it enter, and advance,
a moving figure of stone, to the supper table! But then the convivial
scene in the charnel house, where Don Juan returned the
visit of the statue; was offered a banquet of sculls and bones,
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and on refusing to partake, was hurled into a yawning gulf, under
a tremendous shower of fire! These were accumulated horrors
enough to shake the nerves of the most pantomime-loving school-boy.
Many have supposed the story of Don Juan a mere fable.
I myself thought so once; but “seeing is believing.” I have
since beheld the very scene where it took place, and now to indulge
any doubt on the subject, would be preposterous.
I was one night perambulating the streets of Seville, in company
with a Spanish friend, a curious investigator of the popular
traditions and other good-for-nothing lore of the city, and who
was kind enough to imagine he had met, in me, with a congenial
spirit. In the course of our rambles, we were passing by a heavy
dark gateway, opening into the court-yard of a convent, when he
laid his hand upon my arm: “Stop!” said he; “this is the convent
of San Francisco; there is a story connected with it, which
I am sure must be known to you. You cannot but have heard
of Don Juan and the marble statue.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied I; “it has been familiar to me from
childhood.”
“Well, then, it was in the cemetery of this very convent that
the events took place.”
“Why, you do not mean to say that the story is founded on
fact?”
“Undoubtedly it is. The circumstances of the case are said
to have occurred during the reign of Alfonso XI. Don Juan
was of the noble family of Tenorio, one of the most illustrious
houses of Andalusia. His father, Don Diégo Tenorio, was a
favorite of the king, and his family ranked among the veintecuatros,
or magistrates, of the city. Presuming on his high descent
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and powerful connections, Don Juan set no bounds to his excesses:
no female, high or low, was sacred from his pursuit; and he
soon became the scandal of Seville. One of his most daring outrages
was, to penetrate by night into the palace of Don Gonzalo
de Ulloa, Commander of the Order of Calatrava, and attempt to carry
off his daughter. The household was alarmed; a scuffle in the
dark took place; Don Juan escaped, but the unfortunate commander
was found weltering in his blood, and expired without being able
to name his murderer. Suspicions attached to Don Juan; he
did not stop to meet the investigations of justice and the vengeance
of the powerful family of Ulloa, but fled from Seville, and
took refuge with his uncle, Don Pedro Tenorio, at that time ambassador
at the court of Naples. Here he remained until the
agitation occasioned by the murder of Don Gonzalo had time to
subside; and the scandal which the affair might cause to both
the families of Ulloa and Tenorio had induced them to hush it
up. Don Juan, however, continued his libertine career at Naples,
until at length his excesses forfeited the protection of his uncle
the ambassador, and obliged him again to flee. He had made
his way back to Seville, trusting that his past misdeeds were forgotten,
or rather trusting to his dare-devil spirit and the power
of his family, to carry him through all difficulties.
“It was shortly after his return, and while in the height of
his arrogance, that on visiting this very convent of Francisco, he
beheld on a monument the equestrian statue of the murdered
commander, who had been buried within the walls of this sacred
edifice, where the family of Ulloa had a chapel. It was on this
occasion that Don Juan, in a moment of impious levity, invited
the statue to the banquet, the awful catastrophe of which has
given such celebrity to his story.”
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“And pray how much of this story,” said I, “is believed in
Seville?”
“The whole of it by the populace; with whom it has been
a favorite tradition since time immemorial, and who crowd to the
theatres to see it represented in dramas written long since by
Tyrso de Molina, and another of our popular writers. Many in
our higher ranks also, accustomed from childhood to this story,
would feel somewhat indignant at hearing it treated with contempt.
An attempt has been made to explain the whole, by asserting
that, to put an end to the extravagances of Don Juan,
and to pacify the family of Ulloa, without exposing the delinquent
to the degrading penalties of justice, he was decoyed into
this convent under false pretext, and either plunged into a perpetual
dungeon, or privately hurried out of existence; while the
story of the statue was circulated by the monks, to account for
his sudden disappearance. The populace, however, are not to be
cajoled out of a ghost story by any of these plausible explanations;
and the marble statue still strides the stage, and Don
Juan is still plunged into the infernal regions, as an awful warning
to all rake-helly youngsters, in like case offending.”
While my companion was relating these anecdotes, we
had traversed the exterior court-yard of the convent, and
made our way into a great interior court; partly surrounded
by cloisters and dormitories, partly by chapels, and having a
large fountain in the centre. The pile had evidently once been
extensive and magnificent; but it was for the greater part in
ruins. By the light of the stars, and of twinkling lamps placed
here and there in the chapels and corridors, I could see that
many of the columns and arches were broken; the walls were
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rent and riven; while burnt beams and rafters showed the destructive
effects of fire. The whole place had a desolate air; the
night breeze rustled through grass and weeds flaunting out of the
crevices of the walls, or from the shattered columns; the bat
flitted about the vaulted passages, and the owl hooted from the
ruined belfry. Never was any scene more completely fitted
for a ghost story.
While I was indulging in picturings of the fancy, proper to
such a place, the deep chant of the monks from the convent
church came swelling upon the ear. “It is the vesper service,”
said my companion; “follow me.”
Leading the way across the court of the cloisters, and
through one or two ruined passages, he reached the portal of the
church, and pushing open a wicket, cut in the folding-doors, we
found ourselves in the deep arched vestibule of the sacred edifice.
To our left was the choir, forming one end of the church, and
having a low vaulted ceiling, which gave it the look of a cavern.
About this were ranged the monks, seated on stools, and chanting
from immense books placed on music stands, and having the notes
scored in such gigantic characters as to be legible from every part
of the choir. A few lights on these music stands dimly illumined
the choir, gleamed on the shaven heads of the monks, and threw
their shadows on the walls. They were gross, blue-bearded, bullet-headed
men, with bass voices, of deep metallic tone, that reverberated
out of the cavernous choir.
To our right extended the great body of the church. It was
spacious and lofty; some of the side chapels had gilded grates,
and were decorated with images and paintings, representing the
sufferings of our Saviour. Aloft was a great painting by Murillo,
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but too much in the dark to be distinguished. The gloom of the
whole church was but faintly relieved by the reflected light from
the choir, and the glimmering here and there of a votive lamp
before the shrine of the saint.
As my eye roamed about the shadowy pile, it was struck with
the dimly seen figure of a man on horseback, near a distant altar.
I touched my companion, and pointed to it: “The spectre statue!”
said I.
“No,” replied he; “it is the statue of the blessed St. Iago;
the statue of the commander was in the cemetery of the convent,
and was destroyed at the time of the conflagration. But,” added
he, “as I see you take a proper interest in these kind of stories,
come with me to the other end of the church, where our whisperings
will not disturb these holy fathers at their devotions, and I
will tell you another story, that has been current for some generations
in our city, by which you will find that Don Juan is not
the only libertine that has been the object of supernatural castigation
in Seville.”
I accordingly followed him with noiseless tread to the farther
part of the church, where we took our seats on the steps of an
altar opposite to the suspicious-looking figure on horseback, and
there, in a low mysterious voice, he related to me the following
narrative:—
“There was once in Seville a gay young fellow, Don Manuel
de Manara by name, who having come to a great estate by the
death of his father, gave the reins to his passions, and plunged into
all kinds of dissipation. Like Don Juan, whom he seemed to
have taken for a model, he became famous for his enterprises
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among the fair sex, and was the cause of doors being barred and
windows grated with more than usual strictness. All in vain.
No balcony was too high for him to scale: no bolt nor bar was
proof against his efforts: and his very name was a word of terror
to all the jealous husbands and cautious fathers of Seville. His
exploits extended to country as well as city; and in the village
dependent on his castle, scarce a rural beauty was safe from his
arts and enterprises.
“As he was one day ranging the streets of Seville, with several
of his dissolute companions, he beheld a procession, about to
enter the gate of a convent. In the centre was a young female,
arrayed in the dress of a bride; it was a novice, who, having accomplished
her year of probation, was about to take the black veil,
and consecrate herself to heaven. The companions of Don Manuel
drew back, out of respect to the sacred pageant; but he pressed
forward, with his usual impetuosity, to gain a near view of the
novice. He almost jostled her, in passing through the portal of
the church, when, on her turning round, he beheld the countenance
of a beautiful village girl, who had been the object of his
ardent pursuit, but who had been spirited secretly out of his reach
by her relatives. She recognized him at the same moment, and
fainted: but was borne within the grate of the chapel. It was
supposed the agitation of the ceremony and the heat of the throng
had overcome her. After some time, the curtain which hung
within the grate was drawn up: there stood the novice, pale and
trembling, surrounded by the abbess and the nuns. The ceremony
proceeded; the crown of flowers was taken from her head; she
was shorn of her silken tresses, received the black veil, and went
passively through the remainder of the ceremony.
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“Don Manuel de Manara, on the contrary, was roused to fury
at the sight of this sacrifice. His passion, which had almost faded
away in the absence of the object, now glowed with tenfold ardor,
being inflamed by the difficulties placed in his way, and piqued by
the measures which had been taken to defeat him. Never had the
object of his pursuit appeared so lovely and desirable as when
within the grate of the convent; and he swore to have her, in defiance
of heaven and earth. By dint of bribing a female servant
of the convent, he contrived to convey letters to her, pleading his
passion in the most eloquent and seductive terms. How successful
they were, is only matter of conjecture; certain it is, he undertook
one night to scale the garden wall of the convent, either to
carry off the nun, or gain admission to her cell. Just as he was
mounting the wall, he was suddenly plucked back, and a stranger,
muffled in a cloak, stood before him.
“`Rash man, forbear!' cried he: `is it not enough to have
violated all human ties? Wouldst thou steal a bride from
heaven!'
“The sword of Don Manuel had been drawn on the instant,
and furious at this interruption, he passed it through the body of
the stranger, who fell dead at his feet. Hearing approaching footsteps,
he fled the fatal spot, and mounting his horse, which was at
hand, retreated to his estate in the country, at no great distance
from Seville. Here he remained throughout the next day, full
of horror and remorse; dreading lest he should be known as the
murderer of the deceased, and fearing each moment the arrival of
the officers of justice.
“The day passed, however, without molestation; and, as the
evening advanced, unable any longer to endure this state of
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uncertainty and apprehension, he ventured back to Seville. Irresistibly
his footsteps took the direction of the convent; but he paused
and hovered at a distance from the scene of blood. Several persons
were gathered round the place, one of whom was busy nailing
something against the convent wall. After a while they dispersed,
and one passed near to Don Manuel. The latter addressed
him, with hesitating voice.
“`Señor,' said he, `may I ask the reason of yonder throng?'
“`A cavalier,' replied the other, `has been murdered.'
“`Murdered!' echoed Don Manuel; `and can you tell me
his name?'
“`Don Manuel de Manara,' replied the stranger, and passed on.
“Don Manuel was startled at this mention of his own name;
especially when applied to the murdered man. He ventured, when
it was entirely deserted, to approach the fatal spot. A small cross
had been nailed against the wall, as is customary in Spain, to mark
the place where a murder has been committed; and just below it
he read, by the twinkling light of a lamp; `Here was murdered
Don Manuel de Manara. Pray to God for his soul!'
“Still more confounded and perplexed by this inscription, he
wandered about the streets until the night was far advanced, and
all was still and lonely. As he entered the principal square, the
light of torches suddenly broke on him, and he beheld a grand
funeral procession moving across it. There was a great train of
priests, and many persons of dignified appearance, in ancient
Spanish dresses, attending as mourners, none of whom he knew.
Accosting a servant who followed in the train, he demanded the
name of the defunct.
“`Don Manuel de Manara,' was the reply; and it went cold
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to his heart. He looked, and indeed beheld the armorial bearings
of his family emblazoned on the funeral escutcheons. Yet not one
of his family was to be seen among the mourners. The mystery
was more and more incomprehensible.
“He followed the procession as it moved on to the cathedral.
The bier was deposited before the high altar; the funeral service
was commenced, and the grand organ began to peal through the
vaulted aisles.
“Again the youth ventured to question this awful pageant.
`Father,' said he, with trembling voice, to one of the priests,
`who is this you are about to inter?'
“`Don Manuel de Manara!' replied the priest.
“`Father,' cried Don Manuel, impatiently, `you are deceived.
This is some imposture. Know that Don Manuel de Manara is alive
and well, and now stands before you I am Don Manuel de Manara!'
“`Avaunt, rash youth!' cried the priest; `know that Don
Manuel de Manara is dead!—is dead!—is dead! — and we are
all souls from purgatory, his deceased relatives and ancestors,
and others that have been aided by masses from his family, who
are permitted to come here and pray for the repose of his soul!'
“Don Manuel cast round a fearful glance upon the assemblage,
in antiquated Spanish garbs, and recognized in their pale and
ghastly countenances the portraits of many an ancestor that hung
in the family picture-gallery. He now lost all self-command,
rushed up to the bier, and beheld the counterpart of himself, but
in the fixed and livid lineaments of death. Just at that moment
the whole choir burst forth with a `Requiescat in pace,' that
shook the vaults of the cathedral. Don Manuel sank senseless on
the pavement. He was found there early the next morning by the
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sacristan, and conveyed to his home. When sufficiently recovered,
he sent for a friar, and made a full confession of all that had
happened.
“`My son,' said the friar, `all this is a miracle and a mystery,
intended for thy conversion and salvation. The corpse thou hast
seen was a token that thou hadst died to sin and the world; take
warning by it, and henceforth live to righteousness and heaven!'
“Don Manuel did take warning by it. Guided by the councils
of the worthy friar, he disposed of all his temporal affairs; dedicated
the greater part of his wealth to pious uses, especially to the
performance of masses for souls in purgatory; and finally, entering
a convent, became one of the most zealous and exemplary
monks in Seville.
While my companion was relating this story, my eyes wandered,
from time to time, about the dusky church. Methought the
burly countenances of the monks in the distant choir assumed a
pallid, ghastly hue, and their deep metallic voices a sepulchral
sound. By the time the story was ended, they had ended their
chant; and, extinguishing their lights, glided one by one, like
shadows, through a small door in the side of the choir. A deeper
gloom prevailed over the church; the figure opposite me on horse-back
grew more and more spectral; and I almost expected to see
it bow its head.
“It is time to be off,” said my companion, “unless we intend
to sup with the statue.”
“I have no relish for such fare nor such company,” replied I;
and following my companion, we groped our way through the
mouldering cloisters. As we passed by the ruined cemetary,
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keeping up a casual conversation, by way of dispelling the loneliness
of the scene, I called to mind the words of the poet:
—“The tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart!
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, speak—and let me hear thy voice;
Mine own affrights me with its echoes.”
There wanted nothing but the marble statue of the commander,
striding along the echoing cloisters, to complete the haunted scene.
Since that time, I never fail to attend the theatre whenever
the story of Don Juan is represented, whether in pantomime or
opera. In the sepulchral scene, I feel myself quite at home; and
when the statue makes his appearance, I greet him as an old
acquaintance. When the audience applaud, I look round upon
them with a degree of compassion; “Poor souls!” I say to myself,
“they think they are pleased; they think they enjoy this piece,
and yet they consider the whole as a fiction! How much more
would they enjoy it, if, like me, they knew it to be true—and
had seen the very place!”
-- -- p615-341
LEGEND OF THE ENGULPHED CONVENT.
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At the dark and melancholy period when Don Roderick the
Goth and his chivalry were overthrown on the banks of the Guadalete,
and all Spain was overrun by the Moors, great was the
devastation of churches and convents throughout that pious kingdom.
The miraculous fate of one of those holy piles is thus recorded
in an authentic legend of those days.
On the summit of a hill, not very distant from the capital city
of Toledo, stood an ancient convent and chapel, dedicated to the
invocation of Saint Benedict, and inhabited by a sisterhood of
Benedictine nuns. This holy asylum was confined to females of
noble lineage. The younger sisters of the highest families were
here given in religious marriage to their Saviour, in order that
the portions of their elder sisters might be increased, and they
enabled to make suitable matches on earth; or that the family
wealth might go undivided to elder brothers, and the dignity of
their ancient houses be protected from decay. The convent was
renowned, therefore, for enshrining within its walls a sisterhood
of the purest blood, the most immaculate virtue, and most resplendent
beauty, of all Gothic Spain.
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When the Moors overran the kingdom, there was nothing that
more excited their hostility, than these virgin asylums. The
very sight of a convent-spire was sufficient to set their Moslem
blood in a foment, and they sacked it with as fierce a zeal as
though the sacking of a nunnery were a sure passport to Elysium.
Tidings of such outrages, committed in various parts of the
kingdom, reached this noble sanctuary, and filled it with dismay.
The danger came nearer and nearer; the infidel hosts were spreading
all over the country; Toledo itself was captured; there was
no flying from the convent, and no security within its walls.
In the midst of this agitation, the alarm was given one day,
that a great band of Saracens were spurring across the plain. In
an instant the whole convent was a scene of confusion. Some of
the nuns wrung their fair hands at the windows; others waved
their veils, and uttered shrieks, from the tops of the towers, vainly
hoping to draw relief from a country overrun by the foe. The
sight of these innocent doves thus fluttering about their dove-cote,
but increased the zealot fury of the whiskered Moors. They thundered
at the portal, and at every blow the ponderous gates trembled
on their hinges.
The nuns now crowded round the abbess. They had been accustomed
to look up to her as all-powerful, and they now implored
her protection. The mother abbess looked with a rueful eye upon
the treasures of beauty and vestal virtue exposed to such imminent
peril. Alas! how was she to protect them from the spoiler!
She had, it is true, experienced many signal interpositions of
Providence in her individual favor. Her early days had been
passed amid the temptations of a court, where her virtue had
been purified by repeated trials, from none of which had she
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escaped but by miracle. But were miracles never to cease? Could
she hope that the marvellous protection shown to herself, would
be extended to a whole sisterhood? There was no other resource.
The Moors were at the threshold; a few moments more, and the
convent would be at their mercy. Summoning her nuns to follow
her, she hurried into the chapel, and throwing herself on her
knees before the image of the blessed Mary, “Oh, holy Lady!”
exclaimed she, “oh, most pure and immaculate of virgins! thou
seest our extremity. The ravager is at the gate, and there is none
on earth to help us! Look down with pity, and grant that
the earth may gape and swallow us, rather than that our cloister
vows should suffer violation!”
The Moors redoubled their assault upon the portal; the gates
gave way, with a tremendous crash; a savage yell of exultation
arose; when of a sudden the earth yawned; down sank the convent,
with its cloisters, its dormitories, and all its nuns. The
chapel tower was the last that sank, the bell ringing forth a peal
of triumph in the very teeth of the infidels.
Forty years had passed and gone, since the period of this
miracle. The subjugation of Spain was complete. The Moors
lorded it over city and country; and such of the Christian population
as remained, and were permitted to exercise their religion,
did it in humble resignation to the Moslem sway.
At this time, a Christian cavalier, of Cordova, hearing that
a patriotic band of his countrymen had raised the standard of
the cross in the mountains of the Asturias, resolved to join
them, and unite in breaking the yoke of bondage. Secretly
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arming himself, and caparisoning his steed, he set forth from
Cordova, and pursued his course by unfrequented mule-paths,
and along the dry channels made by winter torrents. His spirit
burned with indignation, whenever, on commanding a view over
a long sweeping plain, he beheld the mosque swelling in the distance,
and the Arab horsemen careering about, as if the rightful
lords of the soil. Many a deep-drawn sigh, and heavy groan,
also, did the good cavalier utter, on passing the ruins of churches
and convents desolated by the conquerors.
It was on a sultry midsummer evening, that this wandering
cavalier, in skirting a hill thickly covered with forest, heard the
faint tones of a vesper bell sounding melodiously in the air, and
seeming to come from the summit of the hill. The cavalier
crossed himself with wonder, at this unwonted and Christian
sound. He supposed it to proceed from one of those humble
chapels and hermitages permitted to exist through the indulgence
of the Moslem conquerors. Turning his steed up a narrow
path of the forest, he sought this sanctuary, in hopes of
finding a hospitable shelter for the night. As he advanced, the
trees threw a deep gloom around him, and the bat flitted across
his path. The bell ceased to toll, and all was silence.
Presently a choir of female voices came stealing sweetly
through the forest, chanting the evening service, to the solemn
accompaniment of an organ. The heart of the good cavalier
melted at the sound, for it recalled the happier days of his country.
Urging forward his weary steed, he at length arrived at a
broad grassy area, on the summit of the hill, surrounded by the
forest. Here the melodious voices rose in full chorus, like the
swelling of the breeze; but whence they came, he could not tell.
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Sometimes they were before, sometimes behind him; sometimes
in the air, sometimes as if from within the bosom of the earth.
At length they died away, and a holy stillness settled on the
place.
The cavalier gazed around with bewildered eye. There was
neither chapel nor convent, nor humble hermitage, to be seen;
nothing but a moss-grown stone pinnacle, rising out of the centre
of the area, surmounted by a cross. The green sward appeared
to have been sacred from the tread of man or beast, and
the surrounding trees bent toward the cross, as if in adoration.
The cavalier felt a sensation of holy awe. He alighted, and
tethered his steed on the skirts of the forest, where he might
crop the tender herbage; then approaching the cross, he knelt
and poured forth his evening prayers before this relic of the
Christian days of Spain. His orisons being concluded, he laid
himself down at the foot of the pinnacle, and reclining his head
against one of its stones, fell into a deep sleep.
About midnight, he was awakened by the tolling of a bell,
and found himself lying before the gate of an ancient convent.
A train of nuns passed by, each bearing a taper. He rose and
followed them into the chapel; in the centre was a bier, on which
lay the corpse of an aged nun. The organ performed a solemn
requiem: the nuns joining in chorus. When the funeral service
was finished, a melodious voice chanted, “Requiescat in pace!”—
“May she rest in peace!” The lights immediately vanished;
the whole passed away as a dream; and the cavalier found himself
at the foot of the cross, and beheld, by the faint rays of the
rising moon, his steed quietly grazing near him.
When the day dawned, he descended the hill, and following
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the course of a small brook, came to a cave, at the entrance of
which was seated an ancient man, in hermit's garb, with rosary
and cross, and a beard that descended to his girdle. He was
one of those holy anchorites permitted by the Moors to live unmolested
in the dens and caves, and humble hermitages, and even
to practise the rites of their religion. The cavalier, dismounting,
knelt and craved a benediction. He then related all that
had befallen him in the night, and besought the hermit to explain
the mystery.
“What thou hast heard and seen, my son,” replied the other,
“is but a type and shadow of the woes of Spain.”
He then related the foregoing story of the miraculous deliverance
of the convent.
“Forty years,” added the holy man, “have elapsed since this
event, yet the bells of that sacred edifice are still heard, from
time to time, sounding from underground, together with the
pealing of the organ, and the chanting of the choir. The Moors
avoid this neighborhood, as haunted ground, and the whole place,
as thou mayest perceive, has become covered with a thick and
lonely forest.”
The cavalier listened with wonder to the story. For three
days and nights did he keep vigils with the holy man beside the
cross; but nothing more was to be seen of nun or convent. It
is supposed that, forty years having elapsed, the natural lives of
all the nuns were finished, and the cavalier had beheld the obsequies
of the last. Certain it is, that from that time, bell, and
organ, and choral chant, have never more been heard.
The mouldering pinnacle, surmounted by the cross, remains
an object of pious pilgrimage. Some say that it anciently stood
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in front of the convent, but others that it was the spire which
remained above ground, when the main body of the building sank,
like the topmast of some tall ship that has foundered. These
pious believers maintain, that the convent is miraculously preserved
entire in the centre of the mountain, where, if proper excavations
were made, it would be found, with all its treasures,
and monuments, and shrines, and relics, and the tombs of its
virgin nuns.
Should any one doubt the truth of this marvellous interposition
of the Virgin, to protect the vestal purity of her votaries,
let him read the excellent work entitled “España Triumphante,”
written by Fray Antonio de Sancta Maria, a barefoot friar of
the Carmelite order, and he will doubt no longer.
-- -- p615-348
THE PHANTOM ISLAND.
Break, Phantsie, from thy cave of cloud,
And wave thy purple wings,
Now all thy figures are allowed,
And various shapes of things.
Create of airy forms a stream;
It must have blood and naught of phlegm;
And though it be a walking dream,
Yet let it like an odor rise
To all the senses here,
And fall like sleep upon their eyes,
Or music on their ear.—Ben Jonson.
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“There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed
of in our philosophy,” and among these may be placed that marvel
and mystery of the seas, the Island of St. Brandan. Those
who have read the history of the Canaries, the fortunate islands
of the ancients, may remember the wonders told of this enigmatical
island. Occasionally it would be visible from their shores,
stretching away in the clear bright west, to all appearance substantial
like themselves, and still more beautiful. Expeditions
would launch forth from the Canaries to explore this land of
promise. For a time its sun-gilt peaks and long, shadowy promontories
would remain distinctly visible, but in proportion as the
voyagers approached, peak and promontory would gradually fade
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away until nothing would remain but blue sky above, and deep
blue water below. Hence this mysterious isle was stigmatized
by ancient cosmographers with the name of Aprositus or the Inaccessible.
The failure of numerous expeditions sent in quest
of it, both in ancient and modern days, have at length caused its
very existence to be called in question, and it has been rashly
pronounced a mere optical illusion, like the Fata Morgana of the
Straits of Messina, or has been classed with those unsubstantial
regions known to mariners as Cape Fly Away and the coast of
Cloud Land.
Let us not permit, however, the doubts of worldly-wise skeptics
to rob us of all the glorious realms owned by happy credulity
in days of yore. Be assured, O reader of easy faith!—thou
for whom it is my delight to labor—be assured that such an
island actually exists, and has from time to time, been revealed
to the gaze, and trodden by the feet, of favored mortals. Historians
and philosophers may have their doubts, but its existence
has been fully attested by that inspired race, the poets; who,
being gifted with a kind of second sight, are enabled to discern
those mysteries of nature hidden from the eyes of ordinary men.
To this gifted race it has ever been a kind of wonder-land.
Here once bloomed, and perhaps still blooms, the famous garden
of the Hesperides, with its golden fruit. Here, too, the
sorceress Armida had her enchanted garden, in which she held
the Christian paladin, Rinaldo, in delicious but inglorious thraldom,
as set forth in the immortal lay of Tasso. It was in this
island that Sycorax the witch held sway, when the good Prospero
and his infant daughter Miranda, were wafted to its shores.
Who does not know the tale as told in the magic page of Shakespeare?
The isle was then
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— “full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.”
The island, in fact at different times, has been under the sway
of different powers, genii of earth, and air, and ocean, who have
made it their shadowy abode. Hither have retired many classic
but broken-down deities, shorn of almost all their attributes, but
who once ruled the poetic world. Here Neptune and Amphitrite
hold a diminished court; sovereigns in exile. Their ocean
chariot, almost a wreck, lies bottom upward in some sea-beaten
cavern; their pursy Tritons and haggard Nereids bask listlessly
like seals about the rocks. Sometimes those deities assume, it is
said, a shadow of their ancient pomp, and glide in state about a
summer sea; and then, as some tall Indiaman lies becalmed with
idly flapping sail, her drowsy crew may hear the mellow note of
the Triton's shell swelling upon the ear as the invisible pageant
sweeps by.
On the shores of this wondrous isle the kraken heaves its
unwieldy bulk and wallows many a rood. Here the sea-serpent,
that mighty but much contested reptile, lies coiled up during
the intervals of its revelations to the eyes of true believers. Here
even the Flying Dutchman finds a port, and casts his anchor, and
furls his shadowy sail, and takes a brief repose from his eternal
cruisings.
In the deep bays and harbors of the island lies many a spell-bound
ship, long since given up as lost by the ruined merchant,
Here too its crew, long, long bewailed in vain, lie sleeping from age
to age, in mossy grottoes, or wander about in pleasing oblivion of
all things. Here in caverns are garnered up the priceless
-- 344 -- p615-351
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treasures lost in the ocean. Here sparkles in vain the diamond and
flames the carbuncle. Here are piled up rich bales of Oriental
silks, boxes of pearls, and piles of golden ingots.
Such are some of the marvels related of this island, which
may serve to throw light upon the following legend, of unquestionable
truth, which I recommend to the implicit belief of the
reader.
In the early part of the fifteenth century, when Prince Henry
of Portugal, of worthy memory, was pushing the career of discovery
along the western coast of Africa, and the world was
resounding with reports of golden regions on the mainland, and
new-found islands in the ocean, there arrived at Lisbon an old
bewildered pilot of the seas, who had been driven by tempests,
he knew not whither, and raved about an island far in the deep,
upon which he had landed, and which he had found peopled with
Christians, and adorned with noble cities.
The inhabitants, he said, having never before been visited by
a ship, gathered round, and regarded him with surprise. They
told him they were descendants of a band of Christians, who fled
from Spain when that country was conquered by the Moslems.
They were curious about the state of their fatherland, and
grieved to hear that the Moslems still held possession of the
kingdom of Granada. They would have taken the old navigator
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to church, to convince him of their orthodoxy; but, either
through lack of devotion, or lack of faith in their words, he, declined
their invitation, and preferred to return on board of his
ship. He was properly punished. A furious storm arose, drove
him from his anchorage, hurried him out to sea, and he saw no
more of the unknown island.
This strange story caused great marvel in Lisbon and elsewhere.
Those versed in history, remembered to have read, in
an ancient chronicle, that, at the time of the conquest of Spain,
in the eighth century, when the blessed cross was cast down, and
the crescent erected in its place, and when Christian churches
were turned into Moslem mosques, seven bishops, at the head of
seven bands of pious exiles, had fled from the peninsula, and
embarked in quest of some ocean island, or distant land, where
they might found seven Christian cities, and enjoy their faith
unmolested.
The fate of these saints errant had hitherto remained a mystery,
and their story had faded from memory; the report of the
old tempest-tossed pilot, however, revived this long-forgotten
theme; and it was determined by the pious and enthusiastic,
that the island thus accidentally discovered, was the identical
place of refuge, whither the wandering bishops had been guided
by a protecting Providence, and where they had folded their
flocks.
This most excitable of worlds has always some darling object
of chimerical enterprise; the “Island of the Seven Cities” now
awakened as much interest and longing among zealous Christians,
as has the renowned city of Timbuctoo among adventurous travellers,
or the Northeast passage among hardy navigators; and it
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was a frequent prayer of the devout, that these scattered and lost
portions of the Christian family might be discovered, and rëunited
to the great body of Christendom.
No one, however, entered into the matter with half the zeal
of Don Fernando de Ulmo, a young cavalier, of high standing in
the Portuguese court, and of most sanguine and romantic temperament.
He had recently come to his estate, and had run the
round of all kinds of pleasures and excitements, when this new
theme of popular talk and wonder presented itself. The Island of
the Seven Cities became now the constant subject of his thoughts
by day, and his dreams by night: it even rivalled his passion for
a beautiful girl, one of the greatest belles of Lisbon, to whom he
was betrothed. At length, his imagination became so inflamed
on the subject, that he determined to fit out an expedition, at his
own expense, and set sail in quest of this sainted island. It
could not be a cruise of any great extent; for, according to the
calculations of the tempest-tossed pilot, it must be somewhere in
the latitude of the Canaries; which at that time, when the new
world was as yet undiscovered, formed the frontier of ocean enterprise.
Don Fernando applied to the crown for countenance
and protection. As he was a favorite at court, the usual patronage
was readily extended to him; that is to say, he received a
commission from the king, Don Ioam II., constituting him Adalantado,
or military governor, of any country he might discover,
with the single proviso, that he should bear all the expenses of
the discovery, and pay a tenth of the profits to the crown.
Don Fernando now set to work in the true spirit of a projector.
He sold acre after acre of solid land, and invested the
proceeds in ships, guns, ammunition, and sea-stores. Even his
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old family mansion, in Lisbon, was mortgaged without scruple,
for he looked forward to a palace in one of the Seven Cities, of
which he was to be Adalantado. This was the age of nautical
romance, when the thoughts of all speculative dreamers were
turned to the ocean. The scheme of Don Fernando, therefore,
drew adventurers of every kind. The merchant promised himself
new marts of opulent traffic; the soldier hoped to sack and
plunder some one or other of those Seven Cities; even the fat
monk shook off the sleep and sloth of the cloister, to join in a
crusade which promised such increase to the possessions of the
church.
One person alone regarded the whole project with sovereign
contempt and growling hostility. This was Don Ramiro Alvarez,
the father of the beautiful Serafina, to whom Don Fernando was
betrothed. He was one of those perverse, matter-of-fact old
men, who are prone to oppose every thing speculative and romantic.
He had no faith in the Island of the Seven Cities;
regarded the projected cruise as a crack-brained freak; looked
with angry eye and internal heart-burning on the conduct of his
intended son-in-law, chaffering away solid lands for lands in the
moon; and scoffingly dubbed him Adalantado of Cloud Land.
In fact, he had never really relished the intended match, to which
his consent had been slowly extorted, by the tears and entreaties of
his daughter. It is true he could have no reasonable objections
to the youth, for Don Fernando was the very flower of Portuguese
chivalry. No one could excel him at the tilting match, or
the riding at the ring; none was more bold and dexterous in the
bull fight; none composed more gallant madigrals in praise of
his lady's charms, or sang them with sweeter tones to the
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accompaniment of her guitar; nor could any one handle the castanets
and dance the bolero with more captivating grace. All these
admirable qualities and endowments, however, though they had
been sufficient to win the heart of Serafina, were nothing in the
eyes of her unreasonable father. Oh Cupid, god of Love! why
will fathers always be so unreasonable?
The engagement to Serafina had threatened at first to throw
an obstacle in the way of the expedition of Don Fernando, and
for a time perplexed him in the extreme. He was passionately
attached to the young lady; but he was also passionately bent
on this romantic enterprise. How should he reconcile the two
passionate inclinations? A simple and obvious arrangement at
length presented itself: marry Serafina, enjoy a portion of the
honeymoon at once, and defer the rest until his return from the
discovery of the Seven Cities!
He hastened to make known this most excellent arrangement
to Don Ramiro, when the long-smothered wrath of the old cavalier
burst forth. He reproached him with being the dupe of wandering
vagabonds and wild schemers, and with squandering all
his real possessions, in pursuit of empty bubbles. Don Fernando
was too sanguine a projector, and too young a man, to listen
tamely to such language. He acted with what is technically
called “becoming spirit.” A high quarrel ensued; Don Ramiro
pronounced him a madman, and forbade all farther intercourse
with his daughter, until he should give proof of returning sanity,
by abandoning this madcap enterprise; while Don Fernando
flung out of the house, more bent than ever on the expedition,
from the idea of triumphing over the incredulity of the graybeard,
when he should return successful. Don Ramiro's heart
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misgave him. Who knows, thought he, but this crack-brained
visionary may persuade my daughter to elope with him, and
share his throne in this unknown paradise of fools? If I could
only keep her safe until his ships are fairly out at sea!
He repaired to her apartment, represented to her the sanguine,
unsteady character of her lover and the chimerical value
of his schemes, and urged the propriety of suspending all intercourse
with him until he should recover from his present hallucination.
She bowed her head as if in filial acquiescence, whereupon
he folded her to his bosom with parental fondness and kissed away
a tear that was stealing over her cheek, but as he left the chamber
quietly turned the key on the lock; for though he was a fond father
and had a high opinion of the submissive temper of his child,
he had a still higher opinion of the conservative virtues of lock
and key, and determined to trust to them until the caravels
should sail. Whether the damsel had been in any wise shaken in
her faith as to the schemes of her lover by her father's eloquence,
tradition does not say; but certain it is, that, the moment she
heard the key turn in the lock, she became a firm believer in the
Island of the Seven Cities.
The door was locked; but her will was unconfined. A window
of the chamber opened into one of those stone balconies, secured
by iron bars, which project like huge cages from Portuguese and
Spanish houses. Within this balcony the beautiful Serafina had
her birds and flowers, and here she was accustomed to sit on moonlight
nights as in a bower, and touch her guitar and sing like a
wakeful nightingale. From this balcony an intercourse was now
maintained between the lovers, against which the lock and key of
Don Ramiro were of no avail. All day would Fernando be
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occupied hurrying the equipments of his ships, but evening found him
in sweet discourse beneath his lady's window.
At length the preparations were completed. Two gallant caravels
lay at anchor in the Tagus ready to sail at sunrise. Late
at night by the pale light of a waning moon the lover had his
last interview. The beautiful Serafina was sad at heart and full
of dark forebodings; her lover full of hope and confidence “A
few short months,” said he, “and I shall return in triumph. Thy
father will then blush at his incredulity, and hasten to welcome to
his house the Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
The gentle lady shook her head. It was not on this point she
felt distrust. She was a thorough believer in the Island of the
Seven Cities, and so sure of the success of the enterprise that she
might have been tempted to join it had not the balcony been
high and the grating strong. Other considerations induced that
dubious shaking of the head. She had heard of the inconstancy
of the seas, and the inconstancy of those who roam them. Might
not Fernando meet with other loves in foreign ports? Might not
some peerless beauty in one or other of those Seven Cities efface the
image of Serafina from his mind? Now let the truth be spoken,
the beautiful Serafina had reason for her disquiet. If Don Fernando
had any fault in the world, it was that of being rather inflammable
and apt to take fire from every sparkling eye. He had been
somewhat of a rover among the sex on shore, what might he be on
sea?
She ventured to express her doubt, but he spurned at the
very idea. “What! he false to Serafina! He bow at the shrine
of another beauty? Never! never!” Repeatedly did he bend
his knee, and smite his breast, and call upon the silver moon to
witness his sincerity and truth.
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He retorted the doubt, “Might not Serafina herself forget
her plighted faith? Might not some wealthier rival present himself
while he was tossing on the sea; and, backed by her father's
wishes, win the treasure of her hand!”
The beautiful Serafina raised her white arms between the iron
bars of the balcony, and, like her lover, invoked the moon to
testify her vows. Alas! how little did Fernando know her
heart. The more her father should oppose, the more would she
be fixed in faith. Though years should intervene, Fernando on
his return would find her true. Even should the salt sea swallow
him up (and her eyes shed salt tears at the very thought),
never would she be the wife of another! Never, never, NEVER!
She drew from her finger a ring gemmed with a ruby heart, and
dropped it from the balcony, a parting pledge of constancy.
Thus the lovers parted with many a tender word and plighted
vow. But will they keep those vows? Perish the doubt!
Have they not called the constant moon to witness?
With the morning dawn the caravels dropped down the Tagus,
and put to sea. They steered for the Canaries, in those
days the regions of nautical discovery and romance, and the out-posts
of the known world, for as yet Columbus had not steered
his daring barks across the ocean. Scarce had they reached
those latitudes when they were separated by a violent tempest.
For many days was the caravel of Don Fernando driven about
at the mercy of the elements; all seamanship was baffled, destruction
seemed inevitable and the crew were in despair. All
at once the storm subsided; the ocean sank into a calm; the
clouds which had veiled the face of heaven were suddenly withdrawn,
and the tempest-tossed mariners beheld a fair and
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mountainous island, emerging as if by enchantment from the murky
gloom. They rubbed their eyes and gazed for a time almost incredulously,
yet there lay the island spread out in lovely landscapes,
with the late stormy sea laving its shores with peaceful
billows.
The pilot of the caravel consulted his maps and charts; no
island like the one before him was laid down as existing in those
parts; it is true he had lost his reckoning in the late storm,
but, according to his calculations, he could not be far from the
Canaries; and this was not one of that group of islands. The
caravel now lay perfectly becalmed off the mouth of a river, on
the banks of which, about a league from the sea, was described a
noble city, with lofty walls and towers, and a protecting castle.
After a time, a stately barge with sixteen oars was seen
emerging from the river, and approaching the caravel. It was
quaintly carved and gilt; the oarsmen were clad in antique garb,
their oars painted of a bright crimson, and they came slowly and
solemnly, keeping time as they rowed to the cadence of an old
Spanish ditty. Under a silken canopy in the stern, sat a cavalier
richly clad, and over his head was a banner bearing the sacred
emblem of the cross.
When the barge reached the caravel, the cavalier stepped on
board. He was tall and gaunt; with a long Spanish visage,
moustaches that curled up to his eyes, and a forked beard. He
wore gauntlets reaching to his elbows, a Toledo blade strutting
out behind, with a basket hilt, in which he carried his handkerchief.
His air was lofty and precise, and bespoke indisputably
the hidalgo. Thrusting out a long spindle leg, he took off a
huge sombrero, and swaying it until the feather swept the
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ground, accosted Don Fernando in the old Castilian language
and with the old Castilian courtesy, welcoming him to the Island
of the Seven Cities.
Don Fernando was overwhelmed with astonishment. Could
this be true? Had he really been tempest-driven to the very
land of which he was in quest?
It was even so. That very day the inhabitants were holding
high festival in commemoration of the escape of their ancestors
from the Moors. The arrival of the caravel at such a juncture
was considered a good omen, the accomplishment of an ancient
prophecy through which the island was to be restored to the
great community of Christendom. The cavalier before him was
grand-chamberlain, sent by the alcayde to invite him to the festivities
of the capital.
Don Fernando could scarce believe that this was not all a
dream. He made known his name, and the object of his voyage.
The grand chamberlain declared that all was in perfect accordance
with the ancient prophecy, and that the moment his
credentials were presented, he would be acknowledged as the
Adalantado of the Seven Cities. In the mean time the day was
waning; the barge was ready to convey him to the land, and
would as assuredly bring him back.
Don Fernando's pilot, a veteran of the seas, drew him aside
and expostulated against his venturing, on the mere word of a
stranger, to land in a strange barge on an unknown shore.
“Who knows, Señor, what land this is, or what people inhabit
it?”
Don Fernando was not to be dissuaded. Had he not believed
in this island when all the world doubted? Had he not
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sought it in defiance of storm and tempest, and was he now to
shrink from its shores when they lay before him in calm
weather? In a word, was not faith the very corner-stone of
his enterprise?
Having arrayed himself, therefore, in gala dress befitting the
occasion, he took his seat in the barge. The grand chamberlain
seated himself opposite. The rowers plied their oars, and renewed
the mournful old ditty, and the gorgeous but unwieldy
barge moved slowly through the water.
The night closed in before they entered the river, and swept
along past rock and promontory, each guarded by its tower. At
every post they were challenged by the sentinel.
“Who goes there?”
“The Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adalantado. Pass on.”
Entering the harbor they rowed close by an armed galley of
ancient form. Soldiers with crossbows patrolled the deck.
“Who goes there?”
“The Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adalantado. Pass on.”
They landed at a broad flight of stone steps, leading up between
two massive towers, and knocked at the water-gate. A
sentinel, in ancient steel casque, looked from the barbecan.
“Who is there?”
“The Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adalantado.”
The gate swung open, grating upon rusty hinges. They entered
between two row sof warriors in Gothic armor, with crossbows,
maces, battle-axes, and faces old-fashioned as their armor.
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There were processions through the streets, in commemoration
of the landing of the seven Bishops and their followers, and bonfires,
at which effigies of losel Moors expiated their invasion of
Christendom by a kind of auto-da-fé. The groups round the
fires, uncouth in their attire, looked like the fantastic figures
that roam the streets in Carnival time. Even the dames who
gazed down from Gothic balconies hung with antique tapestry, resembled
effigies dressed up in Christmas mummeries. Every
thing, in short, bore the stamp of former ages, as if the world had
suddenly rolled back for several centuries. Nor was this to be
wondered at. Had not the Island of the Seven Cities been cut
off from the rest of the world for several hundred years; and
were not these the modes and customs of Gothic Spain before it
was conquered by the Moors?
Arrived at the palace of the alcayde, the grand chamberlain
knocked at the portal. The porter looked through a wicket, and
demanded who was there.
“The Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
The portal was thrown wide open. The grand chamberlain
led the way up a vast, heavily-moulded, marble staircase, and
into a hall of ceremony, where was the alcayde with several of
the principal dignitaries of the city, who had a marvellous resemblance,
in form and feature, to the quaint figures in old illuminated
manuscripts.
The grand chamberlain stepped forward and announced the
name and title of the stranger guest, and the extraordinary
nature of his mission. The announcement appeared to create no
extraordinary emotion or surprise, but to be received as the anticipated
fulfilment of a prophecy.
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The reception of Don Fernando, however, was profoundly
gracious, though in the same style of stately courtesy which
every where prevailed. He would have produced his credentials,
but this was courteously declined. The evening was devoted to
high festivity; the following day, when he should enter the port
with his caravel, would be devoted to business, when the credentials
would be received in due form, and he inducted into office
as Adalantado of the Seven Cities.
Don Fernando was now conducted through one of those interminable
suites of apartments, the pride of Spanish palaces, all
furnished in a style of obsolete magnificence. In a vast saloon
blazing with tapers was assembled all the aristocracy and fashion
of the city; stately dames and cavaliers, the very counterpart of
the figures in the tapestry which decorated the walls. Fernando
gazed in silent marvel. It was a reflex of the proud aristocracy
of Spain in the time of Roderick the Goth.
The festivities of the evening were all in the style of solemn
and antiquated ceremonial. There was a dance, but it was as if
the old tapestry were put in motion, and all the figures moving
in stately measure about the floor. There was one exception,
and one that told powerfully upon the susceptible Adalantado.
The alcayde's daughter—such a ripe, melting beauty! Her
dress, it is true, like the dresses of her neighbors, might have
been worn before the flood, but she had the black Andalusian eye,
a glance of which, through its long dark lashes, is irresistible.
Her voice, too, her manner, her undulating movements, all smacked
of Andalusia, and showed how female charms may be transmitted
from age to age, and clime to clime, without ever going out of fashion.
Those who know the witchery of the sex, in that most
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amorous part of amorous old spain, may judge of the fascination
to which Don Fernando was exposed, as he joined in the dance
with one of its most captivating descendants.
He sat beside her at the banquet! such an old world feast!
such obsolete dainties! At the head of the table the peacock,
that bird of state and ceremony, was served up in full plumage
on a golden dish. As Don Fernando cast his eyes down the
glittering board, what a vista presented itself of odd heads and
head-dresses; of formal bearded dignitaries and stately dames,
with castellated locks and towering plumes! Is it to be wondered
at that he should turn with delight from these antiquated
figures to the alcayde's daughter, all smiles and dimples, and
melting looks and melting accents? Beside, for I wish to give
him every excuse in my power, he was in a particularly excitable
mood from the novelty of the scene before him, from this realization
of all his hopes and fancies, and from frequent draughts of
the wine cup presented to him at every moment by officious pages
during the banquet.
In a word—there is no concealing the matter—before the evening
was over, Don Fernando was making love outright to the
alcayde's daughter. They had wandered together to a moon-lit
balcony of the palace, and he was charming her ear with one of
those love ditties with which, in a like balcony, he had serenaded
the beautiful Serafina.
The damsel hung her head coyly. “Ah! Señor, these are
flattering words; but you cavaliers, who roam the seas, are unsteady
as its waves. To-morrow you will be throned in state,
Adalantado of the Seven Cities; and will think no more of the
alcayde's daughter.”
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Don Fernando in the intoxication of the moment called the
moon to witness his sincerity. As he raised his hand in adjuration,
the chaste moon cast a ray upon the ring that sparkled on
his finger. It caught the damsel's eye. “Signor Adalantado,”
said she archly, “I have no great faith in the moon, but give me
that ring upon your finger in pledge of the truth of what you
profess.”
The gallant Adalantado was taken by surprise; there was no
parrying this sudden appeal: before he had time to reflect, the
ring of the beautiful Serafina glittered on the finger of the
alcayde's daughter.
At this eventful moment the chamberlain approached with
lofty demeanor, and announced that the barge was waiting to bear
him back to the caravel. I forbear to relate the ceremonious
partings with the alcayde and his dignitaries, and the tender
farewell of the alcayde's daughter. He took his seat in the
barge opposite the grand chamberlain. The rowers plied their
crimson oars in the same slow and stately manner to the cadence
of the same mournful old ditty. His brain was in a whirl with
all that he had seen, and his heart now and then gave him a
twinge as he thought of his temporary infidelity to the beautiful
Serafina. The barge sallied out into the sea, but no caravel
was to be seen; doubtless she had been carried to a distance by
the current of the river. The oarsmen rowed on; their monotonous
chant had a lulling effect. A drowsy influence crept over
Don Fernando. Objects swam before his eyes. The oarsmen
assumed odd shapes as in a dream. The grand chamberlain grew
larger and larger, and taller and taller. He took off his huge
sombrero, and held it over the head of Don Fernando, like an
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extinguisher over a candle. The latter cowered beneath it; he felt
himself sinking in the socket.
“Good night! Señor Adalantado of the Seven Cities!” said
the grand chamberlain.
The sombrero slowly descended—Don Fernando was extinguished!
How long he remained extinct no mortal man can tell. When
he returned to consciousness, he found himself in a strange cabin,
surrounded by strangers. He rubbed his eyes, and looked round
him wildly. Where was he?—On board of a Portuguese ship,
bound to Lisbon. How came he there?—He had been taken
senseless from a wreck drifting about the ocean.
Don Fernando was more and more confounded and perplexed.
He recalled, one by one, every thing that had happened to him
in the Island of the Seven Cities, until he had been extinguished
by the sombrero of the grand chamberlain. But what
had happened to him since? What had become of his caravel?
Was it the wreck of her on which he had been found floating?
The people about him could give no information on the
subject. He entreated them to take him to the Island of the
Seven Cities, which could not be far off. Told them all that
had befallen him there. That he had but to land to be received
as Adalantado; when he would reward them magnificently for
their services.
They regarded his words as the ravings of delirium, and in
their honest solicitude for the restoration of his reason, administered
such rough remedies that he was fain to drop the subject
and observe a cautious taciturnity.
At length they arrived in the Tagus, and anchored before
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the famous city of Lisbon. Don Fernando sprang joyfully on
shore, and hastened to his ancestral mansion. A strange porter
opened the door, who knew nothing of him or of his family; no
people of the name had inhabited the house for many a year.
He sought the mansion of Don Ramiro. He approached the
balcony beneath which he had bidden farewell to Serafina. Did
his eyes deceive him? No! There was Serafina herself among
the flowers in the balcony. He raised his arms toward her with
an exclamation of rapture. She cast upon him a look of indignation,
and, hastily retiring, closed the casement with a slam
that testified her displeasure.
Could she have heard of his flirtation with the alcayde's
daughter? But that was mere transient gallantry. A moment's
interview would dispel every doubt of his constancy.
He rang at the door; as it was opened by the porter he
rushed up stairs; sought the well-known chamber, and threw
himself at the feet of Serafina. She started back with affright,
and took refuge in the arms of a youthful cavalier.
“What mean you, Señor,” cried the latter, “by this intrusion?”
“What right have you to ask the question?” demanded Don
Fernando fiercely.
“The right of an affianced suitor!”
Don Fernando started and turned pale. “Oh, Serafina!
Serafina!” cried he, in a tone of agony; “is this thy plighted
constancy?”
“Serafina? What mean you by Serafina, Señor? If this
be the lady you intend, her name is Maria.”
“May I not believe my senses? May I not believe my
heart?” cried Don Fernando. “Is not this Serafina Alvarez,
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the original of yon portrait, which, less fickle than herself, still
smiles on me from the wall?”
“Holy Virgin!” cried the young lady, casting her eyes upon
the portrait. “He is talking of my great-grandmother!”
An explanation ensued, if that could be called an explanation,
which plunged the unfortunate Fernando into tenfold perplexity.
If he might believe his eyes, he saw before him his
beloved Serafina; if he might believe his ears, it was merely her
hereditary form and features, perpetuated in the person of her
great-granddaughter.
His brain began to spin. He sought the office of the Minister
of Marine, and made a report of his expedition, and of the
Island of the Seven Cities, which he had so fortunately discovered.
Nobody knew any thing of such an expedition, or such
an island. He declared that he had undertaken the enterprise
under a formal contract with the crown, and had received a regular
commission, constituting him Adalantado. This must be
matter of record, and he insisted loudly, that the books of the
department should be consulted. The wordy strife at length
attracted the attention of an old gray-headed clerk, who sat
perched on a high stool, at a high desk, with iron-rimmed spectacles
on the top of a thin, pinched nose, copying records into an
enormous folio. He had wintered and summered in the department
for a great part of a century, until he had almost grown to
be a piece of the desk at which he sat; his memory was a mere
index of official facts and documents, and his brain was little
better than red tape and parchment. After peering down for a
time from his lofty perch, and ascertaining the matter in controversy,
he put his pen behind his ear, and descended. He
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remembered to have heard something from his predecessor about
an expedition of the kind in question, but then it had sailed during
the reign of Dom Ioam II., and he had been dead at least a
hundred years. To put the matter beyond dispute, however, the
archives of the Torre do Tombo, that sepulchre of old Portuguese
documents, were diligently searched, and a record was
found of a contract between the crown and one Fernando de
Ulmo, for the discovery of the Island of the Seven Cities, and
of a commission secured to him as Adalantado of the country he
might discover.
“There!” cried Don Fernando, triumphantly, “there you
have proof, before your own eyes, of what I have said. I am the
Fernando de Ulmo specified in that record. I have discovered
the Island of the Seven Cities, and am entitled to be Adalantado,
according to contract.”
The story of Don Fernando had certainly, what is pronounced
the best of historical foundation, documentary evidence; but
when a man, in the bloom of youth, talked of events that had
taken place above a century previously, as having happened to
himself, it is no wonder that he was set down for a madman.
The old clerk looked at him from above and below his spectacles,
shrugged his shoulders, stroked his chin, reascended his
lofty stool, took the pen from behind his ears, and resumed his
daily and eternal task, copying records into the fiftieth volume
of a series of gigantic folios. The other clerks winked at each
other shrewdly, and dispersed to their several places, and poor
Don Fernando, thus left to himself, flung out of the office, almost
driven wild by these repeated perplexities.
In the confusion of his mind, he instinctively repaired to the
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mansion of Alvarez, but it was barred against him. To break
the delusion under which the youth apparently labored, and to
convince him that the Serafina about whom he raved was really
dead, he was conducted to her tomb. There she lay, a stately
matron, cut out in alabaster; and there lay her husband beside
her; a portly cavalier, in armor; and there knelt, on each side,
the effigies of a numerous progeny, proving that she had been a
fruitful vine. Even the very monument gave evidence of the
lapse of time; the hands of her husband, folded as if in prayer,
had lost their fingers, and the face of the once lovely Serafina
was without a nose.
Don Fernando felt a transient glow of indignation at beholding
this monumental proof of the inconstancy of his mistress; but
who could expect a mistress to remain constant during a whole
century of absence? And what right had he to rail about constancy,
after what had passed between himself and the alcayde's
daughter? The unfortunate cavalier performed one pious act
of tender devotion; he had the alabaster nose of Serafina restored
by a skilful statuary, and then tore himself from the
tomb.
He could now no longer doubt the fact that, somehow or
other, he had skipped over a whole century, during the night he
had spent at the Island of the Seven Cities; and he was now as
complete a stranger in his native city, as if he had never been
there. A thousand times did he wish himself back to that wonderful
island, with its antiquated banquet halls, where he had
been so courteously received; and now that the once young and
beautiful Serafina was nothing but a great-grandmother in marble,
with generations of descendants, a thousand times would he
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recall the melting black eyes of the alcayde's daughter, who
doubtless, like himself, was still flourishing in fresh juvenility,
and breathe a secret wish that he were seated by her side.
He would at once have set on foot another expedition, at his
own expense, to cruise in search of the sainted island, but his
means were exhausted. He endeavored to rouse others to the
enterprise, setting forth the certainty of profitable results, of
which his own experience furnished such unquestionable proof.
Alas! no one would give faith to his tale; but looked upon it as
the feverish dream of a shipwrecked man. He persisted in his
efforts; holding forth in all places and all companies, until he
became an object of jest and jeer to the light-minded, who mistook
his earnest enthusiasm for a proof of insanity; and the
very children in the streets bantered him with the title of “The
Adalantado of the Seven Cities.”
Finding all efforts in vain, in his native city of Lisbon, he
took shipping for the Canaries, as being nearer the latitude of
his former cruise, and inhabited by people given to nautical adventure.
Here he found ready listeners to his story; for the
old pilots and mariners of those parts were notorious islandhunters,
and devout believers in all the wonders of the seas.
Indeed, one and all treated his adventure as a common occurrence,
and turning to each other, with a sagacious nod of the
head, observed, “He has been at the Island of St. Brandan.”
They then went on to inform him of that great marvel and
enigma of the ocean; of its repeated appearance to the inhabitants
of their islands; and of the many but ineffectual expeditions
that had been made in search of it. They took him to a promontory
of the island of Palma, whence the shadowy St. Brandan
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had oftenest been descried, and they pointed out the very tract
in the west where its mountains had been seen.
Don Fernando listened with rapt attention. He had no longer
a doubt that this mysterious and fugacious island must be
the same with that of the Seven Cities; and that some supernatural
influence connected with it had operated upon himself,
and made the events of a night occupy the space of a century.
He endeavored, but in vain, to rouse the islanders to another
attempt at discovery; they had given up the phantom island as
indeed inaccessible. Fernando, however, was not to be discouraged.
The idea wore itself deeper and deeper in his mind, until
it became the engrossing subject of his thoughts and object of
his being. Every morning he would repair to the promontory
of Palma, and sit there throughout the livelong day, in hopes
of seeing the fairy mountains of St. Brandan peering above the
horizon; every evening he returned to his home, a disappointed
man, but ready to resume his post on the following morning.
His assiduity was all in vain. He grew gray in his ineffectual
attempt: and was at length found dead at his post. His
grave is still shown in the island of Palma, and a cross is erected
on the spot where he used to sit and look out upon the sea, in
hopes of the reappearance of the phantom island.
Note.—For various particulars concerning the Island of St.
Brandan and the Island of the Seven Cities, those ancient
problems of the ocean, the curious reader is referred to articles
under those heads in the Appendix to the Life of Columbus.
-- -- p615-373
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA.
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I have already given to the world some anecdotes of a summer's
residence in the old Moorish palace of the Alhambra. It was a
dreamy sojourn, during which I lived, as it were, in the midst of
an Arabian tale, and shut my eyes as much as possible to every
thing that should call me back to every day life. If there is
any country in Europe where one can do so, it is among these
magnificent but semi-barbaric ruins of poor, wild, legendary, romantic
Spain. In the silent and deserted halls of the Alhambra,
surrounded with the insignia of regal sway, and the vivid,
though dilapidated traces of Oriental luxury, I was in the strong-hold
of Moorish story, where every thing spoke of the palmy
days of Granada when under the dominion of the crescent.
Much of the literature of Spain turns upon the wars of the
Moors and Christians, and consists of traditional ballads and
tales or romances, about the “buenas andanzas,” and “grandes
hechos,” the “Jucky adventures,” and “great exploits” of the
warriors of yore. It is worthy of remark, that many of these
lays which sing of prowess and magnanimity in war, and tenderness
and fidelity in love, relate as well to Moorish as to Spanish
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cavaliers. The lapse of peaceful centuries has extinguished the
rancor of ancient hostility; and the warriors of Granada, once
the objects of bigot detestation, are now often held up by Spanish
poets as mirrors of chivalric virtue.
None have been the theme of higher eulogy than the illustrious
line of the Abencerrages, who in the proud days of Moslem
domination were the soul of every thing noble and chivalric.
The veterans of the family sat in the royal council, and
were foremost in devising heroic enterprises to carry dismay
into the Christian territories; and what the veterans devised the
young men of the name were foremost to execute. In all adventures,
enterprises, and hair-breadth hazards, the Abencerrages
were sure to win the brightest laurels. In the tilt and tourney,
in the riding at the ring, the daring bull fight, and all other recreations
which bore an affinity to war, the Abencerrages carried
off the palm. None equalled them for splendor of array, for
noble bearing, and glorious horsemanship. Their open-handed
munificence made them the idols of the people; their magnanimity
and perfect faith gained the admiration of the high-minded.
Never did they decry the merits of a rival, nor betray
the confidings of a friend; and the word of an Abencerrage was
a guarantee never to be doubted.
And then their devotion to the fair! Never did Moorish
beauty consider the fame of her charms established, until she
had an Abencerrage for a lover; and never did an Abencerrage
prove recreant to his vows. Lovely Granada! City of delights!
Who ever bore the favors of thy dames more proudly on their
casques, or championed them more gallantly in the chivalrous
tilts of the Vivarambla? Or who ever made thy moon-lit
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balconies, thy gardens of myrtles and roses, of oranges, citrons, and
pomegranates, respond to more tender serenades?
Such were the fancies I used to conjure up as I sat in the
beautiful hall of the Abencerrages, celebrated in the tragic story
of that devoted race, where thirty-six of its bravest cavaliers
were treacherously sacrificed to appease the jealous fears of a
tyrant. The fountain which once ran red with their blood,
throws up a sparkling jet, and spreads a dewy freshness through
the hall; but a deep stain on the marble pavement is still pointed
out as a sanguinary record of the massacre. The truth of the
record has been called in question, but I regarded it with the
same determined faith with which I contemplated the stains of
Rizzio's blood on the floor of the palace of Holyrood. I thank
no one for enlightening my credulity on points of poetical belief.
It is like robbing the statue of Memnon of its mysterious music.
Dispel historical illusions, and there is an end to half the charms
of travelling.
The hall of the Abencerrages is connected moreover with the
recollection of one of the sweetest evenings and sweetest scenes
I ever enjoyed in Spain. It was a beautiful summer evening,
when the moon shone down into the Court of Lions, lighting up
its sparkling fountain. I was seated with a few companions
in the hall in question, listening to those traditional ballads
and romances in which the Spaniards delight. They were sung
to the accompaniment of the guitar, by one of the most gifted
and fascinating beings that I ever met with even among the fascinating
daughters of Spain. She was young and beautiful; and
light and ethereal; full of fire, and spirit, and pure enthusiasm.
She wore the fanciful Andalusian dress; touched the guitar with
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speaking eloquence; improvised with wonderful facility; and,
as she became excited by her theme, or by the rapt attention of
her auditors, would pour forth, in the richest and most melodious
strains, a succession of couplets, full of striking description, or
stirring narrative, and composed, as I was assured, at the moment.
Most of these were suggested by the place, and related
to the ancient glories of Granada, and the prowess of her chivalry.
The Abencerrages were her favorite heroes; she felt a
woman's admiration of their gallant courtesy, and high-souled
honor; and it was touching and inspiring to hear the praises of
that generous but devoted race, chanted in this fated hall of their
calamity, by the lips of Spanish beauty.
Among the subjects of which she treated, was a tale of Moslem
honor, and old-fashioned Spanish courtesy, which made a
strong impression on me. She disclaimed all merit of invention,
however, and said she had merely dilated into verse a popular
tradition; and, indeed, I have since found the main facts inscrted
at the end of Conde's History of the Domination of the
Arabs, and the story itself embodied in the form of an episode
in the Diana of Montemayor. From these sources I have drawn
it forth, and endeavored to shape it according to my recollection
of the version of the beautiful minstrel; but alas! what can
supply the want of that voice, that look, that form, that action,
which gave magical effect to her chant, and held every one rapt
in breathless admiration! Should this mere travestie of her inspired
numbers ever meet her eye, in her stately abode at Granada,
may it meet with that indulgence which belongs to her benignant
nature. Happy should I be, if it could awaken in her
bosom one kind recollection of the stranger, for whose
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gratification she did not think it beneath her to exert those fascinating
powers, in the moon-lit halls of the Alhambra.
On the summit of a craggy hill, a spur of the mountains of
Ronda, stands the castle of Allora; now a mere ruin, infested
by bats and owlets; but in old times, a strong border-hold which
kept watch upon the warlike kingdom of Granada, and held the
Moors in check. It was a post always confided to some well-tried
commander, and at the time of which we treat, was held by
Roderigo de Narvaez, alcayde, or military governor of Antiquera.
It was a frontier post of his command; but he passed
most of his time there, because its situation on the borders gave
frequent opportunity for those adventurous exploits in which the
Spanish chivalry delighted.
He was a veteran, famed among both Moors and Christians,
not only for deeds of arms, but for that magnanimous courtesy
which should ever be entwined with the stern virtues of the
soldier.
His garrison consisted of fifty chosen men, well appointed and
well-mounted, with which he maintained such vigilant watch that
nothing could escape his eye. While some remained on guard in the
castle, he would sally forth with others, prowling about the highways,
the paths and defiles of the mountains by day and night,
and now and then making a daring foray into the very Vega of
Granada.
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On a fair and beautiful night in summer, when the moon was
in the full, and the freshness of the evening breeze had tempered
the heat of day, the alcayde, with nine of his cavaliers, was going
the rounds of the mountains in quest of adventures. They rode
silently and cautiously, for it was a night to tempt others abroad,
and they might be overheard by Moorish scout or traveller; they
kept along ravines and hollow ways, moreover, lest they should
be betrayed by the glittering of the moon upon their armor.
Coming to a fork in the road, the alcayde ordered five of his
cavaliers to take one of the branches, while he, with the remaining
four, would take the other. Should either party be in danger,
the blast of a horn was to be the signal for succor. The party
of five had not proceeded far, when, in passing through a defile,
they heard the voice of a man singing. Concealing themselves
among trees, they awaited his approach. The moon, which left
the grove in shadow, shone full upon his person, as he slowly advanced,
mounted on a dapple gray steed of powerful frame and
generous spirit, and magnificently caparisoned. He was a Moorish
cavalier of noble demeanor and graceful carriage, arrayed in a
marlota, or tunic, and an albornoz of crimson damask fringed
with gold. His Tunisian turban, of many folds, was of striped
silk and cotton, bordered with a golden fringe; at his girdle hung
a Damascus scimitar, with loops and tassels of silk and gold. On
his left arm he bore an ample target, and his right hand grasped
a long double-pointed lance. Apparently dreaming of no danger,
he sat negligently on his steed, gazing on the moon, and singing,
with a sweet and manly voice, a Moorish love ditty.
Just opposite the grove where the cavaliers were concealed,
the horse turned aside to drink at a small fountain in a rock
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beside the road. His rider threw the reins on his neck to let him
drink at his ease, and continued his song.
The cavaliers whispered with each other. Charmed with the
gallant and gentle appearance of the Moor, they determined not to
harm, but capture him; an easy task, as they supposed, in his
negligent mood. Rushing forth, therefore, they thought to surround,
and take him by surprise. Never were men more mistaken.
To gather up his reins, wheel round his steed, brace his
buckler, and couch his lance, was the work of an instant, and there
he sat, fixed like a castle in his saddle.
The cavaliers checked their steeds, and reconnoitred him
warily, loth to come to an encounter which must prove fatal to
him.
The Moor now held a parley. “If ye be true knights, and
seek for honorable fame, come on singly, and I will meet each in
succession; if ye be mere lurkers of the road, intent on spoil,
come all at once, and do your worst.”
The cavaliers communed together for a moment, when one
parting from the others, advanced. “Although no law of chivalry,”
said he, “obliges us to risk the loss of a prize, when fairly in our
power, yet we willingly grant as a courtesy what we might refuse
as a right. Valiant Moor, defend thyself!”
So saying, he wheeled, took proper distance, couched his lance
and putting spurs to his horse, made at the stranger. The latter
met him in mid career, transpierced him with his lance, and threw
him from his saddle. A second and a third succeeded, but were
unhorsed with equal facility, and thrown to the earth, severely
wounded. The remaining two, seeing their comrades thus roughly
treated, forgot all compact of courtesy, and charged both at
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once upon the Moor. He parried the thrust of one, but was
wounded by the other in the thigh, and in the shock and confusion
dropped his lance. Thus disarmed, and closely pressed, he pretended
to fly, and was hotly pursued. Having drawn the two
cavaliers some distance from the spot, he wheeled short about,
with one of those dexterous movements for which the Moorish
horsemen were renowned; passed swiftly between them, swung
himself down from his saddle, so as to catch up his lance, then,
lightly replacing himself, turned to renew the combat.
Seeing him thus fresh for the encounter, as if just issued
from his tent, one of the cavaliers put his lips to his horn, and
blew a blast, that soon brought the Alcayde and his four companions
to the spot.
Narvaez, seeing three of his cavaliers extended on the earth,
and two others hotly engaged with the Moor, was struck with admiration,
and coveted a contest with so accomplished a warrior.
Interfering in the fight, he called upon his followers to desist, and
with courteous words invited the Moor to a more equal combat.
The challenge was readily accepted. For some time the contest was
doubtful, and the Alcayde had need of all his skill and strength
to ward off the blows of his antagonist. The Moor, however, exhausted
by previous fighting, and by loss of blood, no longer sat
his horse firmly, nor managed him with his wonted skill. Collecting
all his strength for a last assault, he rose in his stirrups, and
made a violent thrust with his lance; the Alcayde received it upon
his shield, and at the same time wounded the Moor in the right arm;
then closing, in the shock, grasped him in his arms, dragged him
from his saddle, and fell with him to the earth: when putting his
knee upon his breast, and his dagger to his throat, “Cavalier,”
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exclaimed he, “render thyself my prisoner, for thy life is in my
hands!”
“Kill me, rather,” replied the Moor, “for death would be less
grievous than loss of liberty.”
The Alcayde, however, with the clemency of the truly brave,
assisted him to rise, ministered to his wounds with his own hands,
and had him conveyed with great care to the castle of Allora.
His wounds in a few days were nearly cured; but the deepest had
been inflicted on his spirit. He was constantly buried in a profound
melancholy.
The Alcayde, who had conceived a great regard for him, treated
him more as a friend than a captive, and tried in every way to
cheer him, but in vain; he was always sad and moody, and, when
on the battlements of the castle, would keep his eyes turned to the
south, with a fixed and wistful gaze.
“How is this?” exclaimed the Alcayde, reproachfully, “that
you, who were so hardy and fearless in the field, should lose all
spirit when a captive. If any secret grief preys on your heart,
confide it to me, as to a friend, and I promise on the faith of a
cavalier, that you shall have no cause to repent the disclosure.”
The Moorish knight kissed the hand of the Alcayde. “Noble
cavalier,” said he, “that I am cast down in spirit, is not from my
wounds, which are slight, nor from my captivity, for your kindness
has robbed it of all gloom; nor from my defeat, for to be
conquered by so accomplished and renowned a cavalier, is no disgrace.
But to explain the cause of my grief, it is necessary to
give some particulars of my story; and this I am moved to do,
by the sympathy you have manifested toward me, and the magnanimity
that shines through all your actions.
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“Know, then, that my name is Abendaraez, and that I am
of the noble but unfortunate line of the Abencerrages. You
have doubtless heard of the destruction that fell upon our race.
Charged with treasonable designs, of which they were entirely innocent,
many of them were beheaded, the rest banished; so that
not an Abencerrage was permitted to remain in Granada, excepting
my father and my uncle, whose innocence was proved, even to the
satisfaction of their persecutors. It was decreed, however, that,
should they have children, the sons should be educated at a distance
from Granada, and the daughters should be married out of
the kingdom.
“Conformably to this decree, I was sent, while yet an infant,
to be reared in the fortress of Cartama, the Alcayde of which was
an ancient friend of my father. He had no children, and received
me into his family as his own child, treating me with the kindness
and affection of a father; and I grew up in the belief that he
really was such. A few years afterward, his wife gave birth to a
daughter, but his tenderness toward me continued undiminished.
I thus grew up with Xarisa, for so the infant daughter of the
Alcayde was called, as her own brother. I beheld her charms
unfolding, as it were, leaf by leaf, like the morning rose, each
moment disclosing fresh sweetness and beauty, and thought the
growing passion which I felt for her was mere fraternal affection.
“At length one day I accidentally overheard a conversation
between the Alcayde and his confidential domestic, of which I
found myself the subject.
“In this I learnt the secret of my real parentage, which the Alcayde
had withheld from me as long as possible, through reluctance
to inform me of my being of a proscribed and unlucky race.
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It was time now, he thought, to apprise me of the truth, that I
might adopt a career in life.
“I retired without, letting it be perceived that I had overheard
the conversation. The intelligence it conveyed, would
have overwhelmed me at an earlier period; but now the intimation
that Xarisa was not my sister, operated like magic. In an
instant the brotherly affection with which my heart at times had
throbbed almost to excess, was transformed into ardent love.
“I sought Xarisa in the garden, where I found her in a bower
of jessamines, arranging her beautiful hair in the mirror of a
crystal fountain. I ran to her with open arms, and was received
with a sister's embraces; upbraiding me for leaving her so long
alone.
“We seated ourselves by the fountain, and I hastened to reveal
the secret conversation I had overheard.
“`Alas!” cried she, `then our happiness is at an end!'
“`How!' cried I, `wilt thou cease to love me because I am
not thy brother?'
“`Alas, no!' replied she, gently withdrawing from my embrace,
`but when it is once made known we are not brother and
sister, we shall no longer be permitted to be thus always together.
'
“In fact, from that moment our intercourse took a new character.
We met often at the fountain among the jessamines, but
Xarisa no longer advanced with open arms to meet me. She
became reserved and silent, and would blush, and cast down her
eyes, when I seated myself beside her. My heart became a prey
to the thousand doubts and fears that ever attend upon true love.
Restless and uneasy, I looked back with regret to our unreserved
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intercourse when we supposed ourselves brother and sister; yet
I would not have had the relationship true, for the world.
“While matters were in this state between us, an order came
from the King of Granada for the Alcayde to take command of
the fortress of Coyn, on the Christian frontier. He prepared to
remove, with all his family, but signified that I should remain at
Cartama. I declared that I could not be parted from Xarisa.
`That is the very cause,' said he, `why I leave thee behind. It
is time, Abendaraez, thou shouldst know the secret of thy birth.
Thou art no son of mine, neither is Xarisa thy sister.' `I know
it all,' exclaimed I, `and I love her with tenfold the affection of a
brother. You have brought us up together; you have made us
necessary to each other's happiness; our hearts have entwined
themselves with our growth; do not now tear them asunder. Fill
up the measure of your kindness; be indeed a father to me, by
giving me Xarisa for my wife.'
“The brow of the Alcayde darkened as I spoke. `Have I
then been deceived?' said he. `Have those nurtured in my very
bosom, been conspiring against me? Is this your return for my
paternal tenderness?—to beguile the affections of my child, and
teach her to deceive her father? It would have been cause enough
to refuse thee the hand of my daughter, that thou wert of a proscribed
race, who can never approach the walls of Granada; this,
however, I might have passed over; but never will I give my
daughter to a man who has endeavored to win her from me by deception.
'
“All my attempts to vindicate myself and Xarisa were unavailing.
I retired in anguish from his presence, and seeking Xarisa,
told her of this blow, which was worse than death to me.
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`Xarisa,' said I, `we part for ever! I shall never see thee more!
Thy father will guard thee rigidly. Thy beauty and his wealth
will soon attract some happier rival, and I shall be forgotten!'
“Xarisa reproached my want of faith, and promised eternal
constancy. I still doubted and desponded, until, moved by my
anguish and despair, she agreed to a secret union. Our espousals
made, we parted, with a promise on her part to send me word
from Coyn, should her father absent himself from the fortress.
The very day after our secret nuptials, I beheld the whole train
of the Alcayde depart from Cartama, nor would he admit me to
his presence, nor permit me to bid farewell to Xarisa. I remained
at Cartama, somewhat pacified in spirit by our secret bond of
union; but every thing around fed my passion, and reminded me
of Xarisa. I saw the window at which I had so often beheld her.
I wandered through the apartment she had inhabited; the chamber
in which she had slept. I visited the bower of jessamines,
and lingered beside the fountain in which she had delighted.
Every thing recalled her to my imagination, and filled my heart
with melancholy.
“At length, a confidential servant arrived with a letter from
her, informing me, that her father was to depart that day for
Granada, on a short absence, inviting me to hasten to Coyn, describing
a secret portal at which I should apply, and the signal
by which I would obtain admittance.
“If ever you have loved, most valiant Alcayde, you may
judge of my trransport. That very night I arrayed myself in
gallant attire, to pay due honor to my bride; and arming myself
against any casual attack, issued forth privately from Cartama.
You know the rest, and by what sad fortune of war I find myself,
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instead of a happy bridegroom in the nuptial bower of Coyn, vanquished,
wounded, and a prisoner within the walls of Allora. The
term of absence of the father of Xarisa is nearly expired. Within
three days he will return to Coyn, and our meeting will no
longer be possible. Judge, then, whether I grieve without cause,
and whether I may not well be excused for showing impatience
under confinement.”
Don Rodrigo was greatly moved by this recital; for, though
more used to rugged war than scenes of amorous softness, he was
of a kind and generous nature.
“Abendaraez,” said he, “I did not seek thy confidence to gratify
an idle curiosity. It grieves me much that the good fortune
which delivered thee into my hands, should have marred so fair
an enterprise. Give me thy faith, as a true knight, to return prisoner
to my castle, within three days, and I will grant thee permission
to accomplish thy nuptials.”
The Abencerrage, in a transport of gratitude, would have
thrown himself at his feet, but the Alcayde prevented him. Calling
in his cavaliers, he took Abendaraez by the right hand,
in their presence, exclaiming solemnly, “You promise, on the
faith of a cavalier, to return to my castle of Allora within three
days, and render yourself my prisoner?” And the Abencerrage
said, “I promise.”
Then said the Alcayde, “Go! and may good fortune attend
you. If you require any safeguard, I and my cavaliers are
ready to be your companions.”
The Abencerrage kissed the hand of the Alcayde, in grateful
acknowledgment. “Give me,” said he, “my own armor, and
my steed, and I require no guard. It is not likely that I shall
again meet with so valorous a foe.”
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The shades of night had fallen, when the tramp of the dapple
gray steed resounded over the drawbridge, and immediately afterwards,
the light clatter of hoofs along the road bespoke the fleetness
with which the youthful lover hastened to his bride. It was
deep night when the Moor arrived at the castle of Coyn. He
silently and cautiously walked his panting steed under its dark
walls, and having nearly passed round them, came to the portal
denoted by Xarisa. He paused, looked round to see that he was
not observed, and knocked three times with the butt of his lance.
In a little while the portal was timidly unclosed by the duenna of
Xarisa. “Alas! Señor,” said she, “what has detained you thus
long? Every night have I watched for you; and my lady is sick
at heart with doubt and anxiety.”
The Abencerrage hung his lance, and shield, and scimitar
against the wall, and followed the duenna, with silent steps, up a
winding staircase, to the apartment of Xarisa. Vain would be
the attempt to describe the raptures of that meeting. Time flew
too swiftly, and the Abencerrage had nearly forgotten, until too
late, his promise to return a prisoner to the Alcayde of Allora.
The recollection of it came to him with a pang, and woke him
from his dream of bliss. Xarisa saw his altered looks, and heard
with alarm his stifled sighs; but her countenance brightened when
she heard the cause. “Let not thy spirit be cast down,” said
she, throwing her white arms around him. “I have the keys of
my father's treasures; send ransom more than enough to satisfy
the Christian, and remain with me.”
“No,” said Abendaraez, “I have given my word to return in
person, and like a true knight, must fulfil my promise. After
that, fortune must do with me as it pleases.”
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“Then,” said Xarisa, “I will accompany thee. Never shalt
thou return a prisoner, and I remain at liberty.”
The Abencerrage was transported with joy at this new proof
of devotion in his beautiful bride. All preparations were speedily
made for their departure. Xarisa mounted behind the Moor,
on his powerful steed; they left the castle walls before day-break,
nor did they pause, until they arrived at the gate of the
castle of Allora.
Alighting in the court, the Abencerrage supported the steps
of his trembling bride, who remained closely veiled, into the
presence of Rodrigo de Narvaez. “Behold, valiant Alcayde!”
said he, “the way in which an Abencerrage keeps his word. I
promised to return to thee a prisoner, but I deliver two captives
into thy power. Behold Xarisa, and judge whether I grieved
without reason, over the loss of such a treasure. Receive us as
thine own, for I confide my life and her honor to thy hands.”
The Alcayde was lost in admiration of the beauty of the
lady, and the noble spirit of the Moor. “I know not,” said he,
“which of you surpasses the other; but I know that my castle is
graced and honored by your presence. Consider it your own,
while you deign to reside with me.”
For several days, the lovers remained at Allora, happy in
each other's love, and in the friendship of the Alcayde. The
latter wrote a letter to the Moorish king of Granada, relating
the whole event, extolling the valor and good faith of the Abencerrage,
and craving for him the royal countenance.
The king was moved by the story, and pleased with an opportunity
of showing attention to the wishes of a gallant and chivalrous
enemy; for though he had often suffered from the prowess
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of Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, he admired his heroic character.
Calling the Alcayde of Coyn into his presence, he gave him the
letter to read. The Alcayde turned pale, and trembled with
rage, on the perusal. “Restrain thine anger,” said the king;
“there is nothing that the Alcayde of Allora could ask, that I
would not grant, if in my power. Go thou to Allora; pardon
thy children; take them to thy home. I receive this Abencer
rage into my favor, and it will be my delight to heap benefits
upon you all.”
The kindling ire of the Alcayde was suddenly appeased. He
hastened to Allora; and folded his children to his bosom, who
would have fallen at his feet. Rodrigo de Narvaez gave liberty
to his prisoner without ransom, demanding merely a promise of
his friendship. He accompanied the youthful couple and their
father to Coyn, where their nuptials were celebrated with great
rejoicings. When the festivities were over, Don Rodrigo returned
to his fortress of Allora.
After his departure, the Alcayde of Coyn addressed his children:
“To your hands,” said he, “I confide the disposition of
my wealth. One of the first things I charge you, is not to forget
the ransom you owe to the Alcayde of Allora. His magnanimity
you can never repay, but you can prevent it from
wronging him of his just dues. Give him, moreover, your entire
friendship, for he merits it fully, though of a different faith.”
The Abencerrage thanked him for his proposition, which so
truly accorded with his own wishes. He took a large sum of
gold, and inclosed it in a rich coffer; and, on his own part, sent
six beautiful horses, superbly caparisoned; with six shields and
lances, mounted and embossed with gold. The beautiful Xarisa,
-- 383 --
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at the same time, wrote a letter to the Alcayde, filled with expressions
of gratitude and friendship, and sent him a box of fragrant
cypress wood, containing linen, of the finest quality, for his
person. The Alcayde disposed of the present in a characteristic
manner. The horses and armor he shared among the cavaliers
who had accompanied him on the night of the skirmish.
The box of cypress wood and its contents he retained, for the
sake of the beautiful Xarisa; and sent her, by the hands of the
messenger, the sum of gold paid as a ransom, entreating her to
receive it as a wedding present. This courtesy and magnanimity
raised the character of the Alcayde Rodrigo de Narvaez still
higher in the estimation of the Moors, who extolled him as a
perfect mirror of chivalric virtue; and from that time forward,
there was a continual exchange of good offices between them.
Those who would read tho foregoing story decked out with
poetic grace in the pure Castilian, let them seek it in the Diana
of Montemayor.
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Irving, Washington, 1783-1859 [1855], Wolfert's roost, and other papers, now first collected. (G.P. Putnam & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf615T].
