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Paulding, James Kirke, 1778-1860 [1830], Chronicles of the city of Gotham (G. & C. & H. Carvill, New York) [word count] [eaf307].
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CHRONICLES OF THE CITY OF GOTHAM, FROM THE PAPERS OF A RETIRED COMMON COUNCILMAN. CONTAINING THE AZURE HOSE. THE POLITICIAN. THE DUMB GIRL. THE AZURE HOSE.

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“Sure he has a drum in his mouth!”
“Clap an old drum head to his feet,
“And draw the thunder downwards.”
Beaumont and Fletcher.

There is reason in the boiling of eggs, as well as in roasting them.

It was one of those charming spring mornings, so
peculiar to our western clime, when the light, cheering
sunshine invites abroad to taste the balmy air,
but when, if you chance to accept the invitation, you
will be saluted by a killing, piercing, sea monster
of a breeze, which chills the genial current of the
soul, and drives you shivering to the fire-side to
warm your fingers, and complain for the hundredth
time of the backwardness of the season. In short,
it was a non-descript day, too hot for a great coat,
and too cool to go without one; when one side of
the street was broiling in the sun, the other freezing
in the shade.

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Mr. Lightfoot Lee was seated at the breakfast
table, with his only daughter, Miss Lucia Lightfoot
Lee, one of the prettiest alliterations ever seen.
She was making up her opinions for the day, from
the latest number of the London Literary Gazette,
and marking with a gold self-sharpening pencil a list
of books approved by that infallible oracle, for
the circulating library. Mr. Lee was occupied with
matters of more importance. He held his watch in
one hand, a newspaper in the other. By the way,
if I wished to identify a North American beyond all
question, I would exhibit him reading a newspaper.
But at present Mr. Lee seemed employed in studying
his watch, rather than the paper. He had good
reasons for it.

Mr. Lightfoot Lee was exceedingly particular in
boiling his eggs, which he was accustomed to say
required more discretion than any other branch of
the great art of cookery. The preparations for
this critical affair were always made with due solemnity.
First, Mr. Lee sat with his watch in his
hand, and the parlour door, as well as all the other
doors down to the kitchen, wide open. At the parlour
door stood Juba, his oldest, most confidential
servant. At the end of the hall leading to the
kitchen, stood Pomp, the coachman; at the foot of
the kitchen stairs stood Benjamin, the footman;
and Dolly, the cook, was watching the skillet. “It
boils,” cried Dolly: “It boils,” said Benjamin:
“It boils,” said Pompey the great: and “It boils,”

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echoed Juba, Prince of Numidia. “Put them in,”
said Mr. Lee: “Put them in,” said Juba: “Put
them in,” said Pomp; and “Put them in,” cries
Dolly, as she dropt the eggs into the skillet. Exactly
a minute and a half afterwards, by his stop
watch, Mr. Lee called out “Done;” and done was
repeated from mouth to mouth as before. The perfection
of the whole process consisted in Dolly's
whipping out the eggs in half a second, from the
last echo of the critical “done.”

The eggs were boiled to his satisfaction, and Mr.
Lee ate and pondered over the newspaper by turns.
At length, all at once he started up in a violent commotion,
and stumped about the room, exclaiming in
an under tone to himself, “Too bad; too bad.”

“What is the matter, father?” said Lucia; “is
your egg overdone, or are you suffering the excruciating
pangs of the gout, or enduring the deadly
infliction of a hepatic paroxysm?”

“Hepatic fiddlestick! I wish to heaven you
would talk English, Lucia.”

“My dear sir, you know English now is very
different from what it it was when you learned it.”

“I know it, I know it,” said he; “it is as different
as a quaker bonnet and a French hat. I see I mus
go to school again. You and Mr. Goshawk talk
Greek to me.”

“Mr. Goshawk is a poet, sir.”

“Well, there is no particular reason why a poet

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should not talk like other people, at least on common
subjects.”

“Ah! sir, the poet's eye is always in a fine frenzy
rolling. He sees differently from other people—to
him the sky is peopled with airy beings.”

“Ay; gnats, flies, and devil's darning-needles,”
said Mr. Lee, pettishly. Lucia was half angry, and
put up a lip as red as a cherry.

“Ah! too bad, too bad,” continued Mr. Lee,
stumping about again with his hands behind him.

“What is too bad, sir?” said Lucia, anxiously.

“What is too bad?” cried he, furiously advancing
towards her with his fist doubled; “that puppy, Highfield,
has not got the first honour after all, I see by
the paper. The blockhead! I had set my heart
upon it, and see here! he is at the tail of his class.”

“Is that all? why father I am glad to hear it,
Mr. Goshawk assures me that genius despises the
trammels of scholastic rust, and soars on wings of
polish'd”—

“Wings of a goose,” cried the old gentleman.
He had a provoking way of interrupting Lucia in
her flights; and, had she not been one of the best
natured of the azure tribe, she would have sometimes
lost her temper.

“He'll be home to-morrow—I've a great mind to
kick him out of doors.”

“Who, dear father?”

“Why, Highfield, to be sure.”

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“For what, sir?”

“For not getting the first honour; the puppy, I
wouldn't care a stiver, if I hadn't set my heart upon
it? And away the good man stumped, again ejaculating,
“Too bad, too bad, I shall certainly turn
him out of doors.”

“Ah! but if you do, sir, I shall certainly let him
in again. I shall be glad to see my dear, good natured
cousin Charles once more, though he has not
got the first honour,” said Lucia, smiling.

What more might have been said on this subject
was cut short, by the entrance, without ceremony,
of Mr. Diodorus Fairweather, a neighbour, and
most particular friend and associate of Mr. Lee.
These two gentlemen had a sincere regard for each
other, kept up in all its pristine vigour, by the force
of contrast. One took every thing seriously; the
other considered the world, and all things in it a
jest. One worshipped the ancients; the other maintained
they were not worthy of tying the shoe-strings
of the moderns. One insisted that the world was going
backwards; the other, that it was rolling onwards
in the path of improvement, beyond all former example.
One was a violent federalist; the other a
raging democrat. They never opened their mouths
without disagreeing, and this was the cement of
their friendship. The mind of Mr. Lee was not
fruitful, and that of Mr. Fairweather was somewhat
sluggish in suggesting topics of conversation.
Had they agreed in every thing they must have

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required a succession of subjects; but uniformly differing,
as they did on all occasions, it was only necesary
to say a single word, whether it conveyed a proposition
or not, and there was matter at once, for the
day.

“A glorious morning,” said Mr. Fairweather,
rubbing his hands.

“I differ with you,” said Mr. Lee.

“It is a beautiful sunshine.”

“But, my good sir, if you observe, there is a
cold, wet, damp, hazy, opake sky, through which
the sun cannot penetrate; 'tis as cold as December.”

“'Tis as warm as June,” said Mr. Fairweather,
laughing.

“Pish!” said Mr. Lee, taking up his hat mechanically,
and following his friend to the door. They
sallied forth without saying a word. At every
corner, however, they halted, to renew the discussion;
they disputed their way through a dozen different
streets, and finally returned home, the best
friends in the world, for they had assisted each other
in getting through the morning. Mr. Lee invited
Mr. Fairweather to return to dinner, and he accepted.

“Well, it does not signify,” said Mr. Lee, bobbing
his chin up and down, as was his custom when
uttering what he considered an infallible dictum. “It
does not signify, that Fairweather is enough to provoke
a saint. I never saw such an absurd, obstinate,
illnatured, passionate”—

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“O father” said Lucia, “every body says Mr.
Fairweather was never in a passion in his life.”

“Well, but he is the cause of passion in others,
and that is the worst kind of illnature.”

CHAPTER II. Necessary to understanding the first.

Lightfoot Lee, Esq. was a gentleman of an honourable
family; honourable, not only from its antiquity,
but from the talents, worth, and services of
its deceased members, and its present representative.
He possessed a large estate in one of the southern
states, but preferred living in the city during the
period in which his daughter Lucia, who was his
only child, was acquiring the accomplishments of a
fashionable education. He was a good scholar, and
had seen enough of the frippery of life to relish the
beauties of an unaffected simplicity in speech and
action. He could not endure to hear a person talking
for effect, or disturbing the pleasant, unstudied
chit-chat of a social party, by full mouthed declamations,
and inflated nothings, delivered with all
the pomp of an oracle. Grimace and affectation of
all kind, he despised; and among all the affectations
of the day, that which is vulgarly called a blue

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stocking made him the most impatient. Among the
admirers, which the beauty and fortune of Lucia attracted
around her, his most favourite aversion was
a Mr. Fitzgiles Goshawk, who wrote doggrel rhymes
almost equal to Lord Byron; and whose conversation
perpetually reminded him, as he said, of a falling
meteor, which, when handled, proves nothing
but a jelly—a cold, dull mass, that glitters only while
it is shooting.

Lucia, on the contrary, though naturally a fine,
sensible girl, full of artless simplicity, and free from
all pretence or affectation, admired Mr. Goshawk
excessively. He had written much, thought little,
and spoken a great deal. He had been admired by
unquestionable judges, as the best imitator extant;
and had passed the ordeal of the London Literary
Gazette. He was the greatest prodigal on earth—in
words; and it was impossible for him to say the
simplest thing without rising into a certain lofty enthusiasm,
flinging his metaphors about like sky rockets,
and serpentining around and around his subject,
like an enamoured cock pigeon.

Our heroine—for such is Lucia, was, we grieve
to say it, a little of the azure tint. She was not
exactly blue, but she certainly inhabited that circle
of the rainbow; and, when reflected on by the bright
rays of Mr. Fitzgiles Goshawk, was sometimes of
the deepest shade of indigo. Then her words were
mighty; her criticisms positive; her tones decisive;
and her enthusiasm, though it might not be without

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effect, was certainly without cause. At times, however,
when not excited by the immediate contact of
a congenial spirit, she would become simple, natural,
touching, affecting, and lovely. Instead of standing
on stilts, striving at wit, and challenging admiration,
she would remind one of Allworthy's description
of Sophia Western. “I never,” says that good
man, “heard any thing of pertness, or what is called
repartee, out of her mouth; no pretence to wit,
much less to that kind of wisdom which is the result
of great learning and experience, the affectation
of which, in a young woman, is as absurd as
any of the affectations of an ape.” Truth obliges us
to say, that Lucia only realized this fine sketch of a
young woman, when acting from the unstudied impulses
of nature, among her familiar domestic associates,
where she did not think it worth her while to
glitter. Among the azure hose of the fashionable
world, she strove to shine, the sun of the magic circle,
until, like the sun, the eye turned away, not in
admiration of its blurting mid-day splendours, but
to seek relief in the more inviting twilight of an ordinary
intellect. In short, our heroine was an
heiress, a belle, a beauty; and, would it were not so,
a blue stocking—or in the exalted phraseology of
the day, an azure hose.

The morning after the conversation recorded in
our first chapter, Highfield arrived. The old gentleman
did not kick him out of doors as he threatened;
and Lucia, though she did not therefore

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signalize herself by letting him in, received him with a
smile and a hand of gentle welcome—one as bright
as the sunbeam, the other as soft as a ray of the
moon. The old gentleman was stiff—very stiff;
Charles was his favourite nephew; he had brought
him up, and intended, as he said, to make a man
of him.

“Well, uncle,” said Charles, “I hope I did not
disappoint you. I promise you I studied night and
day.”

“Mischief, I suppose,” said the other, gruffly.

“A little sometimes, uncle; but I minded the
main chance. I hope you are satisfied.”

“No, sir—I'm not satisfied, sir—dammee, sir, if I
will be satisfied, and dammee if I ever forgive you!”
and the good gentleman stumped about according
to custom.

Charles looked at Lucia, as if to inquire the meaning
of this explosion; and Lucia looked most mischievously
mysterious, but said nothing.

“Pray, sir,” said Highfield, who on some occasions
was as proud as Lucifer, “pray, sir, how
have I merited this reception from my benefactor?”

“I've a great mind to turn you out of my
doors.”

“I can go without turning, sir.” And he took
up his hat.

“Answer me, sir—are you not a great blockhead?”

“If I am, uncle, nature made me so.”

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“I've a great mind to send you back to college,
and make you go all over your studies again.”

“What! the Greek alphabet—the Pons Asinorum—
the plus and the minus—the labour of all labours,
a composition upon nothing—and the worry
of all worries, the examination? Spare me, uncle,
this time.”

“You deserve it, you blockhead.”

“My excellent friend and benefactor,” said
Charles, approaching and taking his uncle's hand,
“if I have offended you, I most solemnly declare it
was without intention. If I have done any thing
unworthy of myself, or displeasing to you; or if I
have omitted any act of duty, gratitude, or affection,
tell me of it frankly, and frankly will I offer excuse
and make atonement. What have I done, or left undone?”

I declare, thought Lucia, that puts me in mind of
Mr. Goshawk—how eloquent!

The tears came into the old gentleman's eyes at
this appeal of his nephew.

“You've missed the first honour,” exclaimed he,
with a burst of indignation, mingled with affection;
“O Charles! Charles!”

“Indeed, uncle, I have not. I gained it honestly
and fairly, against one of the finest fellows in the
world, though I say it.”

“What! you did gain it?”

“Ay, uncle.”

“And you spoke the valedictory!”

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“I did, sir. The newspapers, I perceive, made
a mistake, owing to a similarity between my name
and that of the head dunce of the class. I should
have written to let you know, but I wanted to have
the pleasure of telling it myself.”

“My dear Charles!” cried the old gentleman,
“give me your hand; I ought to have known you
inherited the first honour from your mother. There
never was a Lee that did not carry away the first honour
every where. But these blundering newspapers.
The other day they put my name to an advertisement
of a three-story horse, with folding doors and marble
mantel-pieces. Lucia, come here, you baggage,
and wish me joy.”

“I can't, father, I'm jealous.”

“Pooh! you shall love him as well as I do, before
you are as old as I am.”

Hum, thought Lucia, that is more than you
know, father. When Lucia retired, she could not
help thinking of this prophecy of the old gentleman.
“He is certainly handsome; but then what is beauty
in a man? It is intellect, genius, enthusiasm—
mind, mind alone—bear witness earth and heaven!
that constitutes the divinity of man. Certainly his
eyes are as bright as—and his person tall, straight,
and elegant. But then what are these to the lofty
aspirations of Genius? I wonder if he can waltz.
He must be clever, for he gained the first honour.
But then Mr. Goshawk says that none but dull boys
make a figure at college. And then he talks just

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like a common person. I wonder if he can write
poetry; for I am determined never to marry a man
that is not inspired. He is certainly much handsomer
than Mr. Goshawk; but then Mr. Goshawk
uses such beautiful language! I declare I sometimes
hardly know what he is saying. My cousin
is certainly handsome, but his coat don't fit him half
so well as Mr. Goshawk's.”

How much longer this cogitation might have continued,
is a mystery, had not the young lady at this
moment been called away to accompany her relative,
Mrs. Coates, one of the smallest of small ladies, and
for that reason sometimes called by her mischievous
particular friends, in her absence, Mrs. Petticoats.
Mrs. Coates was educated in England, as was the
fashion of the better sort of colonists before the Revolution,
and is so still among ignorant upstart people,
who have not got over the colonial feeling. She
had in early life married an English officer, connected
with the skirts of one or two titled families, with whose
names the good lady was perfectly familiar. Her
conversation, when not literary, or liquorary as she
termed it, was all restrospective, and she talked wonderfully
of Sir Cloudesley Shovel, and Sir Richard
Gammon, together with divers lords and ladies of
the court calendar. Her toryism was invincible, and
if there was any body in the world she hated past
all human understanding, it was `that Bonaparte,'
as she called him. Her favourite topics were the
development, which she was pleased to call

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devil-opement—of the infant mind; the progress of the
age; the march of intellect, and the wonderful properties
of the steam engine, which she considered
altogether superior to any man machine of her acquaintance,
except Mr. Fitzgiles Goshawk. Though
in the main a well principled woman, there was a
cold, English selfishness in her character, and a minute
attention to her own comfort and accommodation,
to the neglect of other people, that effectually
prevented her ever being admired or beloved. It
was a favourite boast with her, that no nation understood
the meaning of the word comfort but the
English; to which her cousin, Mr. Lee, would
sometimes retort, by affirming “it was no wonder,
since no people were ever more remarkable for attending
to their own wants, at the expense of
others.”

Mrs. Coates sent to invite Lucia to go out with
her, to assist in the selection of a riband, which was
always a matter of great delicacy and circumspection
with Mrs. Petticoats. She admired Mr. Goshawk
beyond all other human beings, because he
wrote so like Lord Byron, and spoke like a whirlwind.
“Ah, Lucy,” would she say, “he will make
an extinguished man, will that Mr. Goosehawk.”

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CHAPTER III. An Azure Morning.

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After visiting three hundred and sixty-five
stores, Mrs. Coates at length selected a riband of
sixteen colours, and, finding the morning was not yet
altogether wasted, proposed a visit to Miss Appleby,
at whose house one was always sure of hearing all
the news of the literary world. They found that
lady surrounded by Mr. Goshawk and two or three
azures, all talking high matters. Mr. Goshawk was
not only a very `extinguished' but a very extraordinary
man: he was always either trotting up and
down the streets, or visiting ladies and talking at
corners. He never seemed to study, nor did it
appear how he got his knowledge; but certain it is,
he knew almost every thing. He could tell how
many rings Miss Edgeworth wore on the forefinger
of her left hand, and how many panes of glass there
were in the great Gothic window of Sir Walter's
study. He knew the name of the author of Pelham—
the writer of every article in the Edinburgh and
Quarterly—and the editor of the London Literary
Gazette was not a more infallible judge of the merit
of books. Indeed, as Mrs. Coates used to say,

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“His knowledge seemed absolutely inchewative, and
I wonder how he finds time to digest it.” Besides
Mr. Goshawk, there was Mr. Puddingham, a solid
gentleman, who had so overcultivated a thin-soiled
intellect, that he prematurely turned it into a pinebarren,
Mr. Paddleford, Mr. Prosser, Mr. Roth, a
grumbling sententiarian critic, and Miss Overend,
secretary to a charitable fund, and member of an
executive committee of Greek ladies.

I wish my dearly beloved readers could have
been present at this congeries of stars; for it is
impossible to do justice to the flights of fancy, the
vast, incomprehensible nothings, the arrogant common-places,
and the hard words, sported by our
azure coterie. Here was a dwarfish thought dressed
in vast, gigantic words, and there a little toad of an
idea swelled to the size of an ox, and ready to burst
with its own importance; here a deplorable mixture
of false metaphor and true nonsense, and there a
little embryo of meaning, gasping for life and groaning
under a heap of rubbish. No little sparks of
innocent, unstudied vivacity; no easy chit-chat,
such as relaxes and unbends the bow; no rambling
interchange of mind or meaning; no gentle whispers,
or musical, good humoured responses. All were
talking for effect, all striving for the palm of eloquent
declamation, and bending their little, stubborn
bows, as if, like Sagittarius, they were going to
bring down a constellation at the first shot.

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But though I feel the impossibility of doing justice
to this superfine palaver, yet will I attempt a sketch,
a shadow, a mere outline, of some portion, if it be
only for the benefit of the unlettered spinsters who
as yet, perchance, may not know what is meant by
`powerful talking.' I confess the task is appalling
as it is unpleasant; for I do honestly and openly
profess myself to have a holy horror of loud, contentious
discussions, affected enthusiasm, and ostentatious
display either of wealth or talents. It is
offensive in man; but in woman, dear woman, whose
office is to soothe, not irritate—whose voice should
be soft as an echo of the mountain vales—whose wit
should be accidental—whose enthusiasm, silent
expression, and whose empire, resides in her graces,
her smiles, her tears, her gentleness, and her virtues,
it makes me mad. It is laying down the cestus of
Venus, to brandish the club of Hercules.

“I insist upon it, Pelham is an immoral book,”
said Miss Appleby: “No man that cherishes the
sacred principle, the vestal fire on which depended
the existence of the Roman state, and all the social
affinities that bind man and man together, could
speak as the author does of his mother.”

“But my dear Miss Appleby,” said Mr. Goshawk,
“the author is not accountable for every
thing in his book, any more than a father can be
made to answer for the crimes of his children. The
argument I would superinduce upon this predication
is this,”—

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“But sir-r-r,” said the Johnsonian Puddingham,
cutting in—“sir, the author of a bad book is guilty
of a crime against society. Society, sir, is a congeries
of certain people, whose various inflections, deflections,
and”—

“My dear Puddingham,” roared Mr. Roth, “the
book is immoral in the perception, conception, execution,
and catastrophe; sir”—

“Sir Cloudesley Shovel,” said Mrs. Coates, but
what more she would have said is in the womb of
fate. Mr. Goshawk again took flight, and overshot
her.

“Sir Francis Bacon”—said he—

“Sir Richard Gammon” said Mrs. Coates—

“Dr. Johnson affirms”—

“The Edinburgh Review says”—

“The London Quarterly lays it down”—

“The London Literary Gazette”—screamed Lucia—

“Blackwood's Bombazine”—cried Mrs. Coates,
yet louder. Here Highfield happened to be passing
by, and Lucia called him in by tapping at the
window; for she was anxious to have a little display
before him. Highfield had known them all, having
visited with Lucia, during his vacations. He held
them, however, in so little respect, that he did not
mind quizzing them now and then. His entrance
put an end to the literary disscussion about Pelham,
and the torrent took another course.

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“What do you think of Goldsmith?” asked Miss
Appleby, after the compliments.

“Goldsmid?” said he, “why really I think he
was a great fool to shoot himself.”

“Shoot himself!” screamed Mrs. Coates, “what,
is he dead?”

“Yes, madam—his affairs fell into confusion, and
he shot himself; I thought you had seen it in the papers,
by your asking my opinion.”

It is my opinion Highfield did not think any such
thing; but of that no more.

“Lord!” said Miss Appleby, “I don't mean
Goldsmid, the broker, but Goldsmith, the poet and
novelist; what is your opinion of him?”

“Why really, the question comes upon me by surprise;
but I think him, upon the whole, one of the
most agreeable, tender, and sprightly writers in the
language.”

“He wants power, sir,” said Puddingham; “there
is not a powerful passage in all his writings.”

“He wants force, sir,” thundered Mr. Goshawk;
“there is nothing forcible in his works; no effort;
no struggle; no swelling of the tempest; no pelting
of the pitiless storm against the indurated feelings
of the heart; no fighting with the angry elements
of those deep buried passions, which, wakened
at the magic touch of the Byrons, and the great
unknowns of this precocious age; for my part, I
would not give a pinch of snuff for writings that did
not awaken the passions; Lord Byron is all passion.”

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“Lord Byron was a distant connexion of a relation
of my husband,” said Mrs. Coates.

“Oh all passion,” cried Miss Appleby.

“All passion,” cried Mrs. Overend.

“All passion,” cried Paddleford.

And “all passion,” echoed Lucia, Mr. Prosser,
and the rest of the party.

“Well, but,” said Highfield, “I don't see why a
writer should be always in a passion, any more than
another man. I, for my part, should not like to be
always in company with a fellow who was for ever
cursing his stars, beating his breast, and talking of
shooting himself; nor do I much relish books that
address themselves to nothing but our most turbulent
feelings. It is the best and purest office of
works of imagination, to soothe and mitigate those
malignant passions which the collisions of the world
blow into a flame;” and, added he with, a smile,
“it is the business of a young man, like me, to listen
rather than preach. I beg pardon for my long
speech.”

Goshawk shrugged his shoulders, and looked at
Lucia, as if to say, her cousin Charles was an every
day sort of person. Lucia thought his sentiments
tolerable enough; but what superior man ever talked
such plain, English? Goshawk was determined
to put down this new pretender at once.

“Sir,” said he, pompously, “do you mean to
deny that passion is the soul of eloquence; the marrow
of poetry; the rainbow which connects the

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overarching skies of fancy, feeling, and imagination;
the star that flashes conviction; sprinkles the
dews of heaven on the head of the thirsty traveller;
refines, delights, invigorates, and entrances; gives
to the scimitar of the poet its brightness; the dagger
of the orator its point; the ardour of love its purple
blossoms; and the fire of revenge its blushing
fruits?”

“Beautiful! beautiful!” sighed Lucia, what a
flow of language! What a torrent of redundant
ideas! what a congeries of metaphors!” and she
sighed again. The fact is, that Goshawk rolled out
these incomprehensible nothings with such an imposing
enthusiasm, such a rapidity of utterance, that
it is hardly a reflection on Lucia's good sense that
she admired them. It is only on paper that nonsense
never escapes detection.

“Goshawk,” said Highfield, “I hate argument;
It is as bad as fighting before ladies.”

“Hate argument!” cried they all together, and
little Lucia among the loudest—“hate argument!”

“I confess it; I'd rather talk nonsense by the
month, than argue by the hour.”

“Hate argument!” cried Mr. Goshawk, “why it
is the hone on which the imagination is brought to
its brightest edge.”

“What a beautiful figure,” said Lucia; “he
talks like a rainbow.”

“Hate argument!” cried the illustrious Puddingham;
“let me tell you, sir, the great Johnson

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considered argument as a cudgel, with which every man
should be furnished, to defend himself and knock
down his adversaries.”

“What a charming metaphor!” said Lucia, with
enthusiam.

“Metaphor!” said Mrs. Coates, “can you see
it in the daytime? Do show me where it is, I should
like to see its tail in the daytime.”

“My dear aunt,” said Lucia, excessively mortified,
“my dear aunt you mean the meteor.”

“Child,” said the other, “don't irrigate me. I
know the difference between a metaphor and a meteor,
as well as you do, `the Liquorary Gazette' could
tell me that.”

“Pray, sir,” said Goshawk to Highfield, pompously,
“what do they learn at college?”

“Why, a little logic, and”—

“And what is logic but argument?” said the
other.

“My good sir, no two things can be more distinct;
I have heard thousands of arguments in
which there was no more logic than in the couplet
of the primer—



“Xerxes the great did die,
“And so must you and I.”

“And do you mean to deny the conclusion,” said
the other, with his usual enthusiasm.

“Not I,” said Highfield, carelessly; “I have not
the least doubt of it. I only deny that you and I
shall die because Xerxes the great `did die.”'

-- 033 --

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

To an enthusiastic, declamatory person by profession,
there is nothing so difficult to parry, as a
little plain, direct common sense, conveyed in simple
and brief words. Mr. Goshawk was actually puzzled;
so he contented himsslf with asking, rather
contemptuously,

“And is this all they teach at college?”

“By no means; I learnt exactly how many nuts
and apples Tityrus had for his supper.”

Mr. Goshawk, it is believed, never heard of but
four poets—the Great Unknown, Lord Byron,
Mr. Moore, and himself. He neither understood
who Tityrus was, nor comprehended the sly rebuke
of the reply. The indispensable armour of affectation
is an absolute insensibility to ridicule.

“Oh! what a beautiful alliteration,” exclaimed
Lucia, who was dipping into Mr. Thomas Moore.

“A heart that was humble might hope for it here.”

“Charming! charming!” added she, repeating
it to Highfield, who insisted that he could make a
finer alliteration extempore.

“If you do, I'll net you a silk purse;” said Lucia.

“Done,” said Highfield:

“May mild meridian moonlight mantle me.”

“Only make a rhyme to it, and I will add a watch
chain,” said the young lady.

“Lovely, lively, lisping, laughing Lucia Lightfoot Lee.”

“Nonsense!” said Lucia, blushing a little.

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“You asked for rhyme, not reason. I insist upon
it I've won.” The company was called upon to decide.

“There's no sublimity,” said Goshawk.

“No powerful pathos,” said Miss Overend.

“No exquisite tenderness,” said Paddleford.

“No romantic feeling,” said Miss Appleby.

“No meaning,” said Mr. Roth, pompously.

“No connexion of sense,” said Puddingham.

“It finds no He Cow[1] in my feelings,” said Mrs.
Coates.

Highfield was proceeding to prove that his two
lines contained all the essentials of first rate
poetry, when, luckily for his fame, a young lady
came in with a new hat, of the latest Paris fashion.
The force of nature overcame the force of affectation;
and the ladies all flocked round the new bonnet;
leaving the reputation of our hero, as a bard
to its fate.

After this the conversation turned on more sublunary
things.

“Do you know,” said Miss Traddle, the young
lady in the fashionable bonnet, “Do you know that
the Briars have hired a splendid hotel, in Paris?”

“What!” said little Mrs. Coates, “do they keep
tavern? Well, for my part, I never thought them as
rich as some people did. I'm sorry for poor, dear
Mrs. Briar.”

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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

“They have been presented at court!” said Miss
Traddle. “What, tavern keepers presented at
court! O, but its only a French court,” quoth Mrs.
Coates, quite satisfied.

The information, however, stirred up, amongst
the azures, a violent degree of envy, at the good
fortune of the happy Briars.

“For my part,” said Miss Appleby, who had
been abroad, but was never presented; “for my
part, I always declined going to court. Every body
told me it was a stupid business;” and she sighed at
the good fortune of the Briars.

“What a delightful thing it must be to get into
the first society, abroad,” said Miss Traddle.

“Why so?” asked Highfield.

“Why, why because it is of such high rank—so
refined—so literary—so genteel—so much superior
to the society here.”

“Who told you so, Miss Traddle?”

“Why, Mrs. Vincent; you know she was at
court.”

“What, hin Hingland?” said Mrs. Coates, in astonishment.

“Yes indeed; and at the sheepshearing, at Holkham;
and the lord mayor's ball; and Almacks.”

“What, Almacks!” cried Miss Appleby, and
fainted.

“At Almanack's,” exclaimed Mrs. Coates; “I
dont believe a word of it. Why I could never get
there myself, though Sir Cloudesley Shovel, and Sir

-- 036 --

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

Richard Gammon both made interest for me. Mrs.
Vincent, indeed! the daughter of a shaver, and wife
of a—I don't believe a word on't.”

Poor Mrs. Vincent! how they all hated her for
being at Almacks.

“And why not?” said Highfield.

“Because,” said Mrs. Coates, “they would'nt
admit the goddess Dinah, if she was to rise from the
dead. Were you ever abroad, Mr. Highfield?”

“No, but I intend it one of these days. I wish
to go there to undeceive myself; and get rid of
those ignoble ideas of the superiority of every thing
abroad inculcated by books, and by every thing we
see and hear, from our youth upwards. 'Tis worth
while to go, if for no other purpose than getting rid
of this monstrous bugbear.”

“What,” said they all, with one voice, “you
don't believe in the superiority of foreign literature?”

“Not of the present day.”

“Nor foreign manners?”

“No, nor morals either.”

“Nor of French cookery?” quoth Puddingham.

“Nor of English poetry?” quoth Goshawk.

“Nor of Italian skies?” quoth Miss Overend,
enthusiastically.

“Nor of London Porter?” exclaimed Mrs.
Coates.

“No, no, no, no,” replied Highfield, good humouredly,
yet earnestly; “as to your Italian skies,
a friend of mine assured me he was three months in

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Italy, and never saw a clear sky. The truth is, we
take our ideas of Italian skies from English poets,
who, not having an opportunity of seeing the sun
at home, above once or twice a year, vault into raptures,
with the delight of sunshine on the continent.
Those of our countrymen, who judge for themselves,
have assured me, that in no part of Europe, have
they ever seen such beautiful blue skies, such starry
fiamaments, and such a pure transparent air, as our
summer and autumns present almost every day, and
every night. And as to their Venus de Medicis, I
need not go out of the room, to satisfy myself that
there is no necessity for a voyage to Europe, to
meet goddesses that shame all the beauties of antiquity;”
and he bowed all round, to the ladies, who
each took the compliment herself, and pardoned his
numerous heresies, on the score of his orthodoxy in
one particular.

“I am exactly the height of the Venus de Medicine,”
said little Mrs. Coates; and forgot the slander
on the English skies. “You mean to go to
Europe, and visit Almanacks.”

“For what, madam—to see a company of well
dressed men and women, who look exactly like ourselves;
only the ladies are not half so handsome;
nor do they dance half so well? No, if I go abroad
at all, it will be to learn properly to estimate the
happiness of my own country.”

The ladies, though they could not get over
the silly, and vulgar notion of the superiority of

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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

society abroad, all thought Highfield a very polite,
agreeable young fellow; and Lucia found herself
on the very threshold of relishing a little common
sense. The party soon after separated; having
spent a most improving morning.

eaf307.n1

[1] The intelligent reader need hardly be told, that he cow is the
fashionable pronunciation of echo, in England.

CHAPTER IV. Showing the great benefits arising from having a discreet friend.

Though years bring with them wisdom, yet there
is one lesson the aged seldom learn, namely, the
management of youthful feelings. Age is all head,
youth all heart; age reasons, youth feels; age acts
under the influence of disappointment, youth under
the dominion of hope. What wonder, then, that
they so seldom should agree? Mr. Lee had, for
more than half a score of years, been pondering on
the beautiful congruity of a match between his
daughter and his nephew. He had enough for both;
they were of a corresponding age; both handsome,
amiable, and intelligent; and they had been brought
up together, until within the last few years that
Highfield remained at college. It was the most
reasonable, the most likely, and the most natural,
that they should fall in love, marry, and be happy.

-- 039 --

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

Therefore, he had long since determined in his own
mind, that they should fall in love, marry, and be
happy. Alas! poor gentleman; even experience
had failed in teaching him, that the most likely
things in the world are the least likely to come to
pass! He communicated his plans to his friend, Mr.
Fairweather:

“I intend Highfield shall live with us,” said he,
“and thus he will have every opportunity to make
himself agreeable.”

“You had better forbid him the house,” said the
other.

“Forbid him the—I shall do no such thing,”
said Mr. Lee, somewhat nettled; “but you are not
serious?”

“Faith am I.”

“How so?”

Mr. Fairweather was of the Socratic school,
without knowing much of Socrates; for he held the
ancients in little respect.

“Have you not observed, my good friend,” said
he, “that matrimony does not in general answer the
great end of human happiness?”

“Now I tell you what, Mr. Fairweather, I know
what you are after; you want to catch me in your
confounded, crooked interrogatives; but it wont do,
I tell you it wont do, sir,” said Mr. Lee, chafing.

“No, no, upon honour, I have no such intention;
only answer me frankly. Have you not made the
observation?”

-- 040 --

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

“Well, then, I have,” answered Mr. Lee, with
some hesitation, and feeling exactly like a fly in the
anticipation of being caught in a cobweb.

“Very well: don't you think this arises from
their seeing too much of each other—becoming too
intimate—and thus losing the guard which the little,
salutary restraints of the constitution of society
interpose before marriage, giving way, in consequence,
to a display of temper and habits, that
weakens if not destroys affection?”

“Certainly—certainly—I do,” quoth the other.

“Very well: do not two young people, living
together in the same house, associating on terms of
the most perfect intimacy, also see a great deal of
each other, calculated to unveil the mysteries in
which love delights to shroud his glorious deceptions?
The young lady comes down to
breakfast, with her hair in papers—an old, faded,
black silk or calico frock—a shoe out at the sides,
and a hole in her stocking—she scolds the servant,
and gets into a passion; for it is impossible to be
always a hypocrite—and ten to one they become so
easy together, that they will not scruple at last to
contradict, quarrel, and at length care no more for
each other, than people generally do who have had
a free opportunity of seeing all their faults at full
length.

“All this is very true; but then—but go on, sir.”

“Very well—the case stands thus: Marriages
are seldom very happy—why? because the parties

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[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

are too much together—why? because they live in
the same house, and see all each other's faults.
Ergo, if you want two young persons to become
attached, and marry, you should take a course directly
opposite to that of matrimony. Instead of
shutting your daughter and nephew up together,
your best way will be, as I said before, to turn him
out of doors.”

“There! there! I knew you'd have me at last;
I felt you were all the time drawing your infernal
cobwebs round me. Sir, you're enough to provoke
a saint, with your Socratics.”

“I never meddle with Socrates, or Socratics, my
good friend; but Socrates, notwithstanding his
ignorance of steamboats, spinning jennies, railroads,
and chemistry, is upon the whole good authority in
cases of the kind we are discussing. He certainly
saw too much of his lady.”

“Then you seriously advise me to turn my nephew
out of doors, to bring about a union? Why
I did threaten it the other day, and Lucia told me
if I did, she would certainly let him in again.”

“Why, my dear friend, here you have the whole
secret of the matter. Only persuade the young lady
that you don't approve of the young gentleman for a
son-in-law, and the business is done.”

“Confound it; be serious, can't you? I want
your advice as a friend.”

“Well, I have given it, and you don't like it. I
think it best then that you try the other extreme,

-- 042 --

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

and shut them up together all day in the same room.
Don't you think, my good friend, that upon the
whole much of the misery of married life arises
from young people not being sufficiently acquainted
with the habits and tempers of each other beforehand?”

“Certainly, certainly.”

“Very well: and don't you think the best way of
obviating that evil, is to let them see as much of one
another as possible?”

Here Mr. Lee made his friend a most profound
and reverential bow. “I remember,” said he,
“having read, in Monsieur Rabelais, that the great
Panurge, being inclined to marry, consulted divers
philosophers without success, when the thought
came across him to ask the opinion of a fool, who
soon satisfied his doubts on the subject:—I shall
follow his example.” Whereupon he seized his hat
and stumped out of the room, followed by his friend.
But they did not separate; they stuck together like
a pair of wool-cards with the teeth standing opposite
ways, and finished the morning, the best friends in
the world.

-- 043 --

CHAPTER V. Pure Azure.

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

Mr. Lee, after troubling himself exceedingly in
concocting and maturing a plan to bring about a
speedy union between his daughter and nephew, at
length in despair hit upon the best in the world,
which was to let matters take their own course, and
leave the event to Providence. Had he persevered
in this, it had been all the better; but I profess to
have heard a vast many people talk of trusting to
Providence, who still would be meddling and putting
in their oar, and spoiling every thing. However,
it is necessary to the happiness of mankind, that they
should fancy themselves the spiders that weave the
web, instead of the flies that are caught in it.

In the meantime, Lucia and Highfield were much
together. Lucia liked him extremely; she liked
his good humour, his vivacity, his spirit, and his
generous forgetfulness of himself; she even thought
him rather handsome, and quite a sensible young
man. But her ideas of men had been formed from
the declamations of the azure club, with which she
had been intimately associated for the last few years.
It was here that she learned to consider words of

-- 044 --

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

much more consequence than actions, talents than
temper, enthusiasm than common sense, and an utter
incapacity for usefulness as the best test of genius.
She was often struck with the manly sense and
unpretending beauty of Highfield's sentiments; but
then they were expressed with such a nakedness,
such a poverty of words, such a natural simplicity,
that all the azures pronounced him a very common-place
sort of a person, that would never set the
world crying about nothing, or be himself miserable
without cause.

“For my part,” said Goshawk, “I like sublimity,
obscurity, grandeur, mistiness—I hate a
speech, or a passage, that I can comprehend at the
first glance. Give me, to grope in the whirlwind;
mount into the depths of the multitudinous ocean—
dive into the evanescent fleecy clouds, that gallop
on the midnight sunbeams, that sparkle in yon starspangled
attic story—and grapple with the chaos of
the mind.” And he sank on the sofa, overpowered
with his emotions.

“And I,” exclaimed Miss Appleby, holding a
smelling bottle to his inspired nose, “I delight to
fling—” here she flourished a pinch of snuff she
held between her thumb and finger right into the
expanded nostrils of the great Puddingham, who
began to sneeze like ten tom-cats; “I delight to
toss back the curtains of night and darkness—to
climb those unfathomable abysses where lurk the treasures
of inspired thought, glittering like the eternal

-- 045 --

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

snows of the inaccessible Andes. I love to rise on
the wings of the moonbeam—sink under the weight
of the zephyr—and lose myself in the impenetrable
brightness of transcendant genius, giving to the
winds their whistle, the waves their roar, the stars
their brightness, and the sun its fires.”

“And I,” cried little Mrs. Coates, “as Sir Richard
Gammon used to say, prefer those soul-infusing
alligators, that stir the mountain spirit up to
the dromedary of fever heat—”

“The dromedary of fever heat!” said Roth,—
“what sort of a dromedary is that?”

Lucia whispered Mrs. Coates, who replied in some
agitation,

“I mean allegory and thermometer. How could
I make such a mistake? But I was carried away
by the intensity of my feelings. I like—”

Each one of the party was now so anxious to tell
what they liked, that there was no one but Highfield
to listen. Even Lucia mingled her tuneful
nonsense with the incomprehensible olio. There was
not one of these good people that would not have made
a decent figure in life, in their proper sphere, as indeed
all persons do, had they only been content
to keep within it, and talk common sense on ordinary
occasions, refraining from affecting enthusiasm
when there was nothing to excite it. A pause
at length ensuing, Miss Appleby turned suddenly
to Highfield, and asked him,

-- 046 --

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

“O Mr. Highfield, I hope you admire those
beautiful historical romances, and romantic histories,
that come out every day now-a-days? What
a charming thing it is to read novels, and study
history at the same time!”

“Why in truth, madam,” said Highfield, “I don't
pretend to criticism, and hardly ever read reviews,
when I can find any thing else to read.”

“Not read reviews!”

“Not read the Edinburgh!” cried Mr. Roth,
who never uttered an opinion that he did not get
from that renowned Scottish oracle.

“Not read the Quarterly!” exclaimed Puddingham,
who was a believer in the infalliability of the
English oracle.

“Not read the Westminster!” screamed Miss
Overend, who worshipped at that shrine.

“Nor the Liquorary Gazette!” quoth little Mrs.
Coates.

“Well then, let us hear your opinion, sir,” at
length said Puddingham, with a supercilious air,
implying that it was not worth hearing.

“Such as it is, you are welcome to it. I confess
I do not agree with those who believe that a knowledge
of history may be obtained by studying romances.
The very name of romance presupposes
fiction; and how is the reader, unless already critically
versed in history, to distinguish between what
is fact and what is fiction? The probability is, that
he will jumble them together, and thus lose all

-- 047 --

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

perception of what is history, and what romance. He
may come in time to mistake one for the other, and
confound a Waverly novel with Hume, or the Tales
of my Landlord with Plutarch's Lives.”

“Ah! that Plutarch's Lives is a delightful romance,”
exclaimed Mrs. Coates.

“Romance!” said Highfield; “my dear madam,
I am afraid you are already in the state of
doubt I hinted at. Plutarch's Lives compose one
of the best authenticated memorials of history—
every word is true.”

“Well,” cried Mrs. Coates, “did ever any
body hear of such an imposition! Every thing
is so perfectly natural, I took it for a historical
romance. I am resolved never to read another word
of it.”

“Many besides yourself, madam,” said Highfield,
smiling, “have lost their relish for truth, by a habit
of reading little else than the daily succession of
half-truth, half-fiction productions, perpetually issuing
from the press. I think I could give a receipt,
which would enable any person of ordinary intellect
to concoct one of these at least twice a year, without
any extraordinary exertion.”

“Oh let us hear it by all means,” said Puddingham,
superciliously.

“Allons,” said the other. “Take a smattering
of history; a little knowledge of old costumes and
phraseology; a little superstition, consisting of a

-- 048 --

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

belief in clouds, dreams, and omens; a very little
invention, just enough to disguise the truth of history;
a very little vein of a story, with very little
connection; a mighty hero, and a very little heroine.
With these, compound a couple of volumes of actions
without motive, and motives with or without action;
adventures that have no agency in producing the
catastrophe, and a catastrophe without any connection
with the adventures. Put all these in a book,
cement them together, with plenty of high-sounding
declamations, and get a certificate from an English
review, or newspaper, and you have a romance, of
which more copies will be sold in a fortnight, than
of the best history in the world in a year.”

“By the by,” said Miss Appleby, “have you
read Moore's Life of Byron, and heard that Murray,
the great London bookseller, has purchased
the copy-right of his minor poems, for three thousand
seven hundred guineas?”

“What a proof of the prodigious superiority of
his genius!” cried Miss Overend. “I have read
that Milton sold his Paradise Lost for twelve
pounds.”

“What a noble testimony to the wonderful developement
of mind!” cried Puddingham. “But I
believe, Mr. Highfield, you don't believe in the vast
improvement of the age?” added he, in his usual
pompous vein.

“Not much,” replied the other; “I think the
age of Milton was quite as learned and wise as the

-- 049 --

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

present. If Milton were now living, an obscure
author, or obnoxious politician, I doubt whether
Murray would give him twelve pounds for his Paradise
Lost, at a venture, unless indeed he could
secure a favourable review.”

“What a divine misanthrope was Lord Byron?”
exclaimed Miss Appleby; “how I should glory in
being loved by a man that hated all the rest of the
world!”

“My dear madam,” said Highfield, “wouldn't
you be afraid he might kill you with kindness?”

“I wouldn't care to die such a glorious death.”

“And so uncommon too. You would be immortalized,
if only on account of its rarity.”

“Oh, he was a jewel of a man! Such an inspired
contempt for his fellow-creatures! Don't you think
this a certain sign of his superiority over the rest
of the world?”

“And don't you think his utter disregard of the
customs and prejudices of society a proof of his lofty
genius?” added Miss Overend.

“Why no, I can't say I do. But I have no disposition
to find fault with the dead—it is against an
old maxim I learned at college.”

“It is much easier to give an opinion than to support
it,” said the sententious Puddingham. “Pray
give us your reasons, Mr. Highfield.”

“I had rather not,” said he; “I am somewhat tired
of his Lordship, and heartily wish his cruel

-- 050 --

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

biographers would let his memory rest in peace.” But
they all insisted.

“Well then, since I can't get off with honour, I
must not disgrace myself before this good company.
In the first place, I don't believe his Lordship despised
the world, whose applause and admiration
he was continually seeking. His contempt was sheer
affectation. But if he had really despised it, I
should have a worse opinion of him.”

“As how, my good sir?” said Puddingham.

“Because I consider misanthropy a proof of either
weakness or wickedness. One may become justly
indifferent to this world, but to hate it seems to me
only a proof that a man is bad himself, and wants an
excuse for indulging his wicked propensities, by
robbing his fellow-creatures of all claim to the exercise
of justice and benevolence. He is like the pirate,
who throws away his allegiance, only that he
may make war on all the world. To divest mankind
of all the virtues, as does the misanthrope, is to
free ourselves virtually from all moral obligations
towards them.”

Here the great Puddingham took an emphatic
pinch of snuff; and after sneezing violently, said,
“Go on, sir; go on.”

“Neither do I believe that a disregard to the
common maxims of life, is proof of a superior
mind. Men of great genius, indeed, very often pay
little attention to mere fashions, and fashionable opinions,
because these have nothing to do with the

-- 051 --

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

settled principles of religion or morality. But so far
as respects my own reading, or experience, I never
met with a man of very extraordinary powers of
mind, who despised or disregarded those ordinary
maxims of life, which are essential to the very existence
of society; much less have I met one of this
class who prostituted his genius to the injury of morals
and religion, or devoted himself exclusively to
low, grovelling, mischievous attempts to weaken
their influence on mankind. I have never found such
men, for ever wallowing in the mire of sensuality, or
indulging a malicious misanthropy, by sarcasms and
reasonings against social ties and duties. Shall I
go on?” said Highfield, after a pause.

“Oh, by all means,” said Puddingham, condescendingly.

“The world of fashion has been pleased to place
Lord Byron by the side, if not on a level, with the great
names of ancient and modern literature; and whatever
may be my own opinion, I am to estimate him
by that standard—if I please. But I don't please
to do so. He will not bear a comparison with any
of these. A great genius always devotes himself to
great subjects; or if he sometimes condescends to
trifle, it is only by way of a little relaxation. We
do not find Homer, Virgil, Dante, Tasso, Milton,
and others of the great `heirs of immortality,' attempting
to reach the highest summit of fame
through the dirty, winding paths of ribaldry and
sensuality—converting their muse into a pander to

-- 052 --

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

vice, or tilting against society and morals, and,
both by example and precept, inciting to the
violation of the highest duties of man to man, and
man to woman. Their genius was nobly exercised
in celebrating the glories of their country—the triumphs
of their religion—the renown of virtuous heroes—
and the beauties of fortitude, disinterestedness,
magnanimity, justice, and patriotism. We never find
the highest gift of Heaven, coupled with the lowest
propensities to profligacy and vice. It is only your
second or third rate men, who are found pleading
an exemption from the duties and obligations of morality,
on the score of their superior genius. To
my taste, Lord Byron is, besides all this, infinitely
below the first rank of poets, in sublimity, invention,
pathos, and especially in the power of expressing
his ideas and feelings with that happy force and
richness, combined with that clearness and simplicity,
for which they are so pre-eminently distinguished.
There is, to my mind, more genius in Milton's
Comus, than in all his Lordship's poetry put together.
As a dramatic writer, he cannot compare
with—I put Shakspeare, Otway, Corneille, Racine,
and Voltaire, out of the question—but with Beaumont
and Fletcher, Southern, Dryden, and a dozen
others. Childe Harold, though containing many
passages of great beauty, is without plot or invention—
the mere unpurposed wanderings of a splenetic
misanthrope, kindled into occasional wrath, or enthusiasm,
by the sight of things at the road side,

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and apparently incapable of any other inspiration
but what is derived from sensible objects. The
Corsair, The Giaour, and Don Juan, are nothing
more than the abstracted, contemplative Childe Harold,
carrying his feelings and principles into practical
application. The Childe merely thinks as a
profligate—the others act the character; the two
first in heroics, the latter in doggrel and buffoonery.
They are the same person, in a different mask—and
that person seems to be Lord Byron himself. As a
satirist, he is far behind Dryden, Pope, and even
Churchill; and as a writer of quaint doggrel, he
is inferior to Peter Pindar, in humour, waggishness,
and satirical drollery. And now, after uttering
this shocking blasphemy, I humbly take my
leave.” So saying, he seized his hat, and retreated
with great precipitation.

This was the longest speech our hero ever uttered;
and if he should take it into his head to make
such another in the course of this history, he must
get one of the reporters to congress to record it, for
I demur to undertake the task in future. Never
man met with so little applause for attempting to enlighten
people against their will, as did our friend
Highfield on this occasion. The whole coterie, Lucia
among the rest, was scandalized at this atrocious
criticism, and separated in confusion. Mr. Fitzgiles
Goshawk escorted Lucia home, and discoursed
as seldom man in his senses, talking to a woman in
hers, ever discoursed before.

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He spoke of being sick of the world; disgusted
with the heartlessness of mankind; depressed and
worn out with the intensity of his feelings, and devoured
by a secret grief, which must never be known
until he had gained a refuge from care and sorrow,
in the quiet grave. All this he uttered in language
I confess myself inadequate to record; and with an
affectation that must have been apparent to any one
but an inexperienced girl. On going away he gave
into Lucia's hand a paper, accompanied by a look
that went straight to her heart. She retired to her
chamber, and unfolding it with trembling hands,
found the following exquisite effusion:



TO LUCIA.
I've seen the rose-bud glittering on its stalk,
And morning sunbeams blushing round its head,
And many a wild flower greeting my lone walk,
And many a wither'd wanderer lying dead;
And I have sigh'd, and yet I knew not why,
And listen'd to sweet nature's lulling lullaby.
And I have heard the woodman's mellow song,
And sober herds winding their pensive way,
And echoing cow bells, tinkling forth ding-dong,
And plowman whistling forth his roundelay—
And wept to think, ah! luckless, loveless I,
I could not die to live, nor live to die!
And I have dwelt on beauty's angel smile,
And smiling beauty in its winsome glee,
And ponder'd on my weary way the while;
And my heart sunk, and panted sore, ah me!
And my full breast did swell, and sorely sigh;
And shudder to its core, alas! I know not why.

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Ah! lady list thee to my pensive lays,
And give a sigh to my sad, sighing fate;
And ponder o'er life's wild mysterious maze;
And pity him who feels its stifling weight,
And sighs to think, and thinks to sigh again;
And finds pain pleasure, pleasure pining pain!

How delightful, thought Lucia, wiping her eyes;
how delightful it must be to be unhappy, without
knowing exactly why! To be able to gather the
honey of sweet melancholy, from the flowers, the
fruits, the smiles, and the beauties of nature! To
weep, where vulgar souls would sport and laugh!
To complain without reason; and to banquet on the
lonely musings of a heart overfraught with the exquisite
sensibilities of genius! And she sighed over
the fate of this interesting man, who was thus pining
away, under some secret grief. She put the inspired
morceau into her bosom; and that day, at least,
the genius of Goshawk triumphed over the good
sense, the manliness, and the wholesome, healthful
vivacity of Highfield.

I feel I ought, in justice, to apologize for my heroine,
who had sense enough from nature to have
detected the mawkish folly, incomprehensible nonsense,
and silly affectation of this poetical grief of
Mr. Fitzgiles Goshawk. All I can say in her defence
is, that she had been brought up in the midst
of the azure coterie, all the members of which, were
considerably older than herself; had been every day
accustomed to hear them praise Mr. Goshawk, and
to hear Mr. Goshawk's poetry. She had grown up

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in habitual veneration for them all; and even the notorious
blunders of her aunt, were hallowed, by
coming from the sister of her mother. Those who
know the spell, which wrong precepts and early bad
examples wind about the finest understanding, and
how slowly and with what labour it emancipates itself,
will, I hope, excuse my heroine. Such as she is, I
shall endeavour to exhibit her, hoping, that time and
experience will yet make her what she was intended
to be by nature.

CHAPTER VI. The story hastens slowly.

The father of Lucia, though he had not become
quite a sage had yet derived considerable benefit
from experience. Time is as much the friend, as the
enemy of man; and while he plants the wrinkles on
our foreheads, makes some amends, by sowing the
seeds of wisdom in the mind. Mr. Lee had come
to the conclusion, that the best way of bringing
about a union of hearts, was to keep the secret of
his wishes to himself; and let Lucia and Highfield
follow the guidance of dame nature. There is
something in the stubborn heart of man, and woman,

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that revolts at becoming the dupe of a plan, even if
it be one for bringing about exactly what it wishes
above all things. I have seen an over anxious mother
drive a young man from her house, only by discovering
a vehement desire to forward a match between
him, and the very daughter he would have selected,
if left to himself. In truth, we overdo things
in this world, quite as often as we neglect what is
necessary to be done. The parent, who is perpetually
watching the little child, and cautioning it
against harm, for the most part, only excites a curious
longing, to try the experiment, and judge for itself;
and so it is with grown-up children, who, like
infants, are only to be warned by their own experience;
and whom perpetual cautions, recommendations,
and supervision, too often only incite to mischiefs,
of which they might otherwise never have
dreamed. If there ever was a period of the world,
in which these maxims were exemplified, it is doubtless
the present; when, if the truth must be told, so
much pains have been taken, by well meaning people,
with better hearts than heads, to improve mankind,
that they have at length, become, as it were,
little better than good for nothing. But let us return
to our story.

Both Highfield and Lucia, it is believed, remained
quite unconscious of the intentions of the
old gentleman towards them. The former, was every
day hinting, in the most delicate manner, his wish
to enter upon some honourable pursuit, by which he

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might attain to independence, if not distinction.
But the old gentleman always put him off, with
“Time enough, Charles—time enough; look round
a little, and consider a good deal, before you make
your choice.” Highfield was in a situation of peculiar
delicacy, for a high spirited, honourable man; and he
refrained from further importunity. Yet still he did
not feel satisfied; he was dependent; and if I
were to mark out the dividing line, that separates
man from other men, it should be here. On one
side I would place those, whose manhood rises above
the degradation of a dependence on any thing but
their own heads, hands, and hearts; and on the
other, those inferior beings, who are content to be
a burthen upon their fathers, or their friends, rather
than launch into the ocean of life, and buffet the
billows.

Highfield belonged to the former class. He
longed to make himself a useful and honourable
citizen, by the exercise of his talents and industry.
He had also another motive. It is quite
impossible for two persons, especially of different
sexes, to live together, in the same house, and preserve
a perfect indifference towards each other.
They will either take a liking, or a decided dislike.
If they are very young, this will probably
ripen into love, or antipathy. Lucia was a little too
much of the azure; but I have seen the time, not
quite half a century ago, when such a woman, would
have wakened, in my heart a hundred sleeping

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cupids. There was that about her, which, for want of
some other phrase, we call attractive—a charm,
which, so far as I have ever analyzed it, consists in a
well made figure not tall; a face of mild gentleness
mingled with vivacity; not always laughing,
nor ever gloomy; always neat, yet never over-dressed,
for no woman can ever touch the heart, though
she may overpower the senses by her splendours; a
graceful quiet motion; a soft, melting, mellow
voice; and a heart, and an understanding, the one,
all nature, the other nature embellished not spoiled,
by culture and accomplishments. Such a woman,
though she may not dazzle or mislead the
imagination, carries with her, the true, moral, magnetic
influence, which lurks as it were unseen;
emits no gaudy splendours, but with a mysterious
inscrutable power attracts, and fixes every kindred
sympathy with which it comes in contact. Such, in
her natural state, was Lucia Lightfoot Lee, a lovely
maiden, but alas! a little too much of the azure.
Highfield had not been long an inmate of his uncle's
house, before he began to feel the force of that
magnetic influence I have just described; and, the
moment he became conscious of it, his anxiety to
leave his uncle, and pursue some mode of independent
existence, became stronger.

His sense of honour was not only nice, but punctilious.
He was poor and dependent; Lucia was
an heiress. Had he believed it in his power to gain
the affections of his cousin, he would have despised

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himself for the attempt. But he saw that her imagination,
if not her heart, was captivated by the
empty but showy accomplishments of Mr. Goshawk;
and the hope of success was not strong enough to
blind him to the meanness of the attempt. He
began to be much from home; and when at home,
absent and inattentive; though his natural spirits
kept him from being gloomy or unsocial. Lucia
was too much occupied with Mr. Fitzgiles Goshawk
and his mysterious sorrows, to notice this; but the
old gentleman began to be fidgety and impatient
at the unpromising prospect of his favourite plan.

“What is the matter with you and Lucia?” said
he one day.

“Nothing, sir,” replied Highfield, “we are very
good friends.”

“Friends! hum—ha—but you don't seem to like
each other as well as you did—hey?

“Like, sir—uncle—I am sure I have a great
friendship for Miss Lee.”

“Ah! hum—ha—friendship—but don't you think
her a d—d fine girl—hey, boy?”

“I do, indeed, sir. I think her a sensible, discreet,
well behaved, promising young lady as you
will see.”

“Ah! yes—sixteen hands high—star in the forehead—
trots well—canters easy—full blooded—and
three years old last grass—hey?—one would think
you were praising a horse, instead of my daughter,”
said the old gentleman, getting into a passion apace.

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“My dear uncle, excuse me. It does not become
me to speak of my cousin in such terms of admiration
as I would do under different circumstances.”

“Circumstances! sir—is there any circumstance
that ought to prevent your seeing like other young
men, and feeling and expressing yourself as they
do?”

“Pardon me, sir; but I am just now thinking of
quite a different matter.”

“You don't say so, sir! upon my word, my
daughter is very much obliged to you. But what
is the mighty affair?”

“My excellent friend, don't be angry. If you
knew all, perhaps you would pity me. But I must
leave you, and seek my fortune—indeed, I must. I
am wasting the best portion of my life in idleness.”

“And suppose you are, what is that to you, sir, if
it is my pleasure?”

“You have been a father to me, sir, and I owe
you both gratitude and obedience. But there are
duties to ourselves, which ought to be attended to.
I am but a dependent on your bounty, after all—a
beggar”—

“A beggar!—'tis false, sir, you're not a beggar.
But I see how it is; you want to be made independent;
you want me to make a settlement on
you; you are not content to wait till an old man
closes his eyes—you”—

“Uncle,” said Highfield, with his cheek burning

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and his eye glistening, “do you really believe me
such a despicable scoundrel?”

“Why—no—I believe you are only a fool, that
is all. But I'll never forgive you; you have deranged
all my plans; you have rejected the happiness
I had in store for you; you will bring my gray
hairs with sorrow to the grave. Yes, yes, yes, I
see it, I see it—I am doomed to be a miserable,
disappointed, heart-broken old man.”

“For Heaven's sake, uncle, what is the matter?”

“Matter! why the matter is, you are a blockhead;
you are dumb, deaf, blind; you haven't one
of the five senses in perfection, or you might have
known.”

“Known what, sir?”

“Why,” roared the old gentleman, in a transport
of rage, “you might have seen that I intended you
for my son-in-law—you blockhead; that I meant to
leave you and Lucia all my estate—you fool; that
I had set my heart on it—you—you ungrateful
villain. But I'll be even with—I'll disinherit you—
I'll disown you—I'll send you to the d—l,
sir, for your bare ingratitude—I will.”

Highfield stood a moment or two overpowered by
this unexpected disclosure of his uncle. He actually
trembled at the prospect it opened before him. At
length he exclaimed:

“My best of friends, I never dreamed that such
was your intention.”

“Why, sir, I have cherished it, lived upon it,

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ever since Lucia was born. Not know it? why
what a blind fool you must be!”

“But you never communicated it, sir, and how
could I know it?”

“Why, ay, that is true indeed. When I think of
it, there is some excuse for you, as I never hinted my
intention. But it is all over now; you want to
leave us; and you think Lucia `a sensible, discreet,
well behaved, promising young woman,'—sixteen
hands high;” mimicking poor Highfield, as he
repeated these panegyrics.

“I think her,” said Highfield, “for now I dare
speak what I think—I think her all that a father
could wish; all that a lover could desire, in his
moments of most glowing anticipation. I think her
the loveliest, the best, the most accomplished, the
most angelic, the most divine!”

“Ah! that will do, that will do, boy; you talk
like a hero—tol-de-rol-lol!” and the old gentleman
cut a most unprecedented caper. “Give me your
hand boy; it's a bargain—we'll have the wedding
next week.”

“Ah, sir!” said the young man, with a sigh, “I
doubt—you know there is another person to be consulted.”

“Another person! who do you mean, sir?”

“Your daughter, sir.”

“Bless me! that is true, indeed. I had forgot
that. But I'll soon bring the matter about. I'll
tell her it is the first wish of my heart: if she

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reuses, I'll talk reason to her. If she wont listen to
reason, I will talk to her like a father—I'll let her
know who is master in this house, I warrant you.
I'll go this instant, and settle the matter.” And the
old gentleman was proceeding to make good his
words.

“For Heaven's sake, sir, don't be in such a
hurry,” cried Highfield eagerly; “you will ruin me
and my hopes, if you proceed in such a hurry.
Alas! sir, I fear it is too late now.”

“What does the puppy mean?”

“I fear my cousin's affections are already engaged.”

“To whom, sir? tell me quick, quick, sir; to
whom? I'll engage her, the baggage; I'll let her
know who is who; I'll teach her to throw away her
affections without consulting me—I'll shut the door
in the scoundrel's face, and shut my daughter up in
her chamber—I'll—why the d—l, sir, don't you
answer me; what do you stand there for, playing
dummy? Tell me, sir, who is the villain that has
stolen my daughter's affections.?”

“I do not say positively, sir, and I have no right
to betray the young lady's secrets; but I fear Mr.
Goshawk has made a deep impression on her heart.”

Mr. Lee was never in so great a passion before:
not even with his man, Juba, of whom I could never
make up my mind to my satisfaction, whether he
was his master's master, or which was the better
man of the two. Juba was of the blood royal of
Monomotapa, a mighty African kingdom. He had

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been in the family long enough to outlive three
generations, and thus fairly acquired a right to be
as crusty as his master, who, if the truth must be
told, was terribly henpecked by the royal exile. The
old gentleman once had a dispute at his own table
with one of his neighbours at the south, and some
words passed between them.

“Massa,” said Juba, when the company had
retired, “massa, we can't put up wid dat—must call
um out.”

The good gentleman quietly submitted, and
called out his neighbour, who fortunately apologized.

“Icod, massa,” said Juba, “we brought um to
de bull-ring, didn't we?”

But to return from this commemoration of our old
friend, Juba.

Mr. Lee was in a towering passion. Of all the
men he had ever seen, known, or read of, Mr.
Goshawk was the one for whom he cherished the
most special and particular antipathy. He considered
him an empty, idle, shallow, affected coxcomb,
without heart or intellect; a pretender to literary
taste and acquirements; a contemner of useful
knowledge and pursuits, whose sole business was to
exhibit feelings to which he was a stranger; to excite
sympathy for affected sorrows; and to impose
upon the susceptible follies of ancient spinsters or
inexperienced girls. “The fellow carries a drum
in his head,” would he say, “and is for ever

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sounding false alarms. You think he is going to play a
grand march, but it is nothing but rub-a-dub rub-a-dub,
over and over again.”

“Goshawk!” at length he cried, “I'll disinherit
her, as sure as I am alive. What! that starved
epitome of a wind-dried rhymester; that shadow of
a shadow of a shadow of a stringer of doggrel;
that imitator of an imitator in the sixteenth degree
of consanguinity to an original; that blower of the
bellows to the last spark of an expiring fancy! Confound
me, if I had not rather have heard she had
fallen in love with the trumpeter to a puppet show.”

“My dear uncle, I don't say my cousin is actually
in love with Mr. Goshawk; but I think she has a
preference; a—a—at least, I am pretty sure, her
imagination is full of his genius, eloquence, and
beautiful poetry.”

“Genius, eloquence, poetry—pish! I could make
a better poem out of a confectioner's mottos, than
he will ever write. But she shall either renounce
him this minute, or I will renounce her.”

Highfield begged his uncle to pause, before he
proceeded to such extremities. He reasoned with
him on the bad policy of rousing into opposition, a
feeling, which was perhaps only latent, and giving
it the stimulus of anger, by assailing it too roughly.
He cautioned him against the common error of supposing,
that to forbid a thing, was the best possible
way of preventing its coming to pass; or that love
was to be quelled by a puff of opposition. He

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conjured him to say nothing on the subject; to look on
without interfering; to appear as if he neither saw,
or participated in any thing going forward.

“If,” said he, “I am not deceived in my lovely
and sensible cousin, it is only necessary to leave
her good sense and growing experience to operate,
and before long they will, of themselves, indicate
to her the error of her taste and imagination. But
if I should be deceived in this rational anticipation,”
added he, proudly and firmly; “if I find that her
heart is seriously and permanently attached, I give
you my honour, I pledge my unalterable determination,
that I will not permit myself to be either the
motive or the instrument, for forcing her inclinations.
If I cannot win her fairly, and against the
field, so help me Heaven, I will never wear her.”

“You talk like a professor, and a blockhead to
boot,” said Mr. Lee, half pleased and half offended—
“But hark ye, Mr. Highfield, if I take your advice,
and it turns out badly, I'll disinherit you both.”

“With all my heart, uncle, so far as respects myself.
Only say nothing; do nothing; and let matters
take their course. We often make things crooked
by taking too much pains to straighten them. `Let
us alone,' as the anti-tariff folks say.”

“Your most humble servant, sir,” quoth Mr.
Lee, with a profound bow—“I am to play Mr. Nobody
then, in this trifling affair of the disposal of
my only child?”

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“Only for a little while sir, when you shall resume
the sceptre again.”

“And with which, I shall certainly break thy
head, if thy wise plan should happen to fail.”

“Agreed, uncle. I shall then be broken headed,
as well as broken hearted. For, by heaven, I love
my cousin, well enough to”—

“To resign her to an empty, heartless, brainless
coxcomb. But come, I give up the reins to my wise
Phæton, who, if he don't burn up the world, I dare
swear will set the North river on fire. Here comes
Fairweather, I will consult him, though I know the
old blockhead will be of a contrary opinion, as he
always is. Go, and make a bow to Lucia; play
Mr. Goshawk, and talk as much like a madman as
possible.”

CHAPTER VII. More pure azure.

Highfield sought Lucia, and found her sitting at
a window, which looked out upon the beautiful bay,
where the fair and noble Hudson basks its beauties
for awhile in the sun, before it loses itself for ever
in the vast solitudes of the pathless sea. It was an

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April morning, such as sometimes appears in the disguise
of sunshine and zephyrs, to cheat us into a belief,
that laughing jolly spring is come again. The
bay was one wide waveless mirror, along whose
surface lay here and there a little lazy mist lolling
in the warm sunbeams, or sometimes scudding along
before a frolic breeeze that rose in playful vigour,
and then died away in a moment. In some places,
the vessels appeared as if becalmed among the
clouds, their proportions looming in imposing
magnitude through the deceptive mists; and in
others, you might see them exhaling the damps and
fogs condensed on their sails and decks, in clouds of
snow-white vapour. Here and there, you could
trace the course of a steamboat to the Kills, or the
Quarantine, by a long pennon of dark smoke, slowly
expanding in the dampness of the circumambient
air, and anon see her shoot, as if by magic from
the distant obscurity. The grass had just begun to
put forth its spires of tender green; the trees to assume
an almost imperceptible purple tint, from the
expansion of the buds; the noisy city lads were
spinning tops, flying kites, or shooting marbles, in
the walks; and now and then, a little feathered
stranger, cheated by the genial hour into a belief
that spring was come, chirped merrily among the
leafless branches.

Lucia was at the open window—her rosy cheek
leaning pensively on her snowy hand. She had just
finished reading, for the twentieth time, the pathetic

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and interesting effusion of Mr. Goshawk. All that
she could understand from it was, that he was very,
very miserable, about something, she knew not what;
and the very mystery of his sorrows invested them
with an indescribable indefinable interest. Not but
what our heroine had her suspicions, and those very
suspicions increased her sympathy a hundred fold.
“Unfortunate man!” would she say to herself, “he
is consuming in the secret fires kindled in his bosom
by the intense ardour of his genius, the acute sensibilities
of his heart!”

Highfield was one of the most amiable of lovers,
who I must be allowed to say, nine out of ten deserve
to be turned out of doors by the fair objects
of their persecutions, once a day at least. If they
are in doubt, they are either stupidly silent or perversely
disagreeable; if they are jealous, they look
and act just like fools; and if successful, there is
an insulting security, a triumphant self-conceit, that,
to a woman gifted with the becoming pride of the
sex is altogether insufferable. I can tell a successful
wooer as far off as I can see him. He does nothing
but admire his leg, as he trips along; and you would
fancy he saw his mistress in every looking-glass.
But Highfield was gay, good humoured, and sensible.
He did not think it worth while to make
himself hated because he was in love; nor to increase
the preference of his mistress for another, by
treating her with neglect or ill manners. True,
these things are considered the best evidence of

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sincere passion; but I would advise young women to
beware of a man whom love makes unamiable; as
I myself would beware of one, whom the intoxication
of wine made turbulent and quarrelsome. Both
love and wine draw forth the inmost nature of man.

“Well, Lucia,” said Highfield, with a familiar
frankness, which his intimacy and near relationship
warranted—“Well, Lucia, have you begun my
watch chain yet?”

“No,” said she, sighing.

“Well, my coz, when do you mean to begin it?”

“I don't know,” replied she languidly—“one of
these days I believe.”

“What ails you, Lucia—are you not well?”

“Not, not very—I have got a sort of oppression,
a heaviness, a disposition to sigh; something
here,” pressing her hand on her bosom, from whence
peeped forth a little corner of Goshawk's effusion.
Highfield saw it, and the blood rushed into his
cheeks; but he quelled the rising fiend of jealousy,
and asked, in a tone of deep interest, if she would
not take a walk with him on the Battery. She declined,
in a tone of a quiet indifference.

“Shall we go, and call on Miss Appleby?” Lucia
was all life and animation. She put on her hat,
her shawl, and the thousand et-ceteras, that go to
the constitution of a fashionable lady; and tripped
away like a little fairy. She expects to meet Goshawk
there, thought Highfield; but he neither pouted,
or was rude to his cousin on the way. Nay, he

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exerted all his wit and pleasantry, and before they
arrived, Lucia thought to herself she would begin
to net the watch chain that very evening. They
found all the azures, except Mr. Goshawk, assembled
at one of the drawing room windows, Mrs. Petticoats
and all, clamourously reading, and clamourously
applauding, some verses, written on a pane of
glass, with a diamond pencil. The reader shall not
miss them. They ran as follows:



Curs'd be the sun—'tis but a heavenly hell!
Curs'd be the moon, false woman's planet pale;
Curs'd the bright stars, that man's wild fortunes tell;
And curs'd the elements! Oh! I could rail
At power, and potentates, and paltry pelf,
And, most of all, at that vile wretch, myself!
What are the bonds of life, but halters tied?
What love, but luxury of bitter woe?
What man, but misery personified?
What woman, but an angel fall'n below?
What hell but heaven—what heav'n but hell above?
What love, but hate—what hate, but curdled love?
What's wedlock, but community of ill?
What single blessedness, but double pain?
What life's best sweets, but a vile doctor's pill?
What life itself, but dying, o'er and o'er again?
And what this earth, the vilest, and the last,
On which the planets, all their offals cast?
“Oh! doubly curs'd—

Here, it would seem, the bard stopped to take
breath; overcome, either by his own exertions, or
finding there was nothing left for him to curse.

-- 073 --

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“I never heard such delightful swearing,” cried
Miss Appleby.

“What charming curses!” cried Miss Overend.

“What touching misanthropy!” cried Mr. Paddleford.

“What powerful writing!” cried Puddingham.

“What glowing meteors!” cried Mrs. Coates,
determined not mistake meteors for metaphors, this
time.

Lucia said nothing; but the tumults of her bosom
told her nobody could write such heart-rending lines
but Mr. Goshawk.

“Don't you think them equal to Lord Byron?”
said Miss Appleby, to Highfield.

“Very likely, madam, Lord Byron wrote a vast
deal of heartless fustian.”

“Heartless fustian!” screamed Miss Appleby,
and “heartless fustian!” echoed the rest of the
azures, with the exception of Lucia, who determined
not to commence the watch-chain that evening, if
ever.

“Fustian! do you call such poetry fustian; so
full of powerful writing, and affording such delicious
excitement? For my part, I can't live without
excitement of some kind or other,” said Miss
Overend.

“What kind of excitement do you mean, madam,”
said Highfield, mischievously, “the Morgan
excitement or the Stephenson excitement?”

“Phsaw, Mr. Highfield, you are always

-- 074 --

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ridiculing sentiment. I mean the excitement of powerful
writing, powerful feeling, powerful passion,
grief, joy, rage, despair, madness, misanthropy,
pain, pleasure, anticipation, retrospection, disappointment,
hope, and—and—every thing that creates
excitement. By the by, they say the author of
Redwood is coming out with a new novel. I wonder
what it is about.”

“I don't know,” answered Highfield; “but I
will venture to predict it will be all that is becoming
in a sensible, well bred, well educated, delicate
woman, neither misled by a false taste nor affected
sentiment.”

“Pooh!” said the great Puddingham, “there is
no fire in her works.”

“Nor brimstone either,” said Highfield.

“Nor murder,” said Miss Appleby.

“Nor powerful writing,” said Miss Overend.

“Nothing to make the heart burst like a barrel
of gunpowder,” said little Mrs. Petticoats.

“Perhaps so,” replied Highfield, “but a book
may be worth something, without either fire, murder,
or gunpowder in it.”

Here the discussion was cut short by the entrance
of Mr. Goshawk, who bowed languidly to the company,
walked languidly to a sofa, and, flinging
himself listlessly down, leaned pensively upon his
head, and sighed most piteously. Mr. Goshawk
was one of the most extraordinary men living. He
hated the world, yet could not live a day without

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attracting its notice in some way or other; he sighed
for solitude, yet took every opportunity of being in
a crowd; and though confessedly the most miserable
of mortals, was never so happy as when every body
was admiring his secret sorrows. He had thrown
himself accidentally by the side of Lucia.

“Ah! Mr. Goshawk,” said she, “we've found
you out!”

Goshawk knew as well what she meant as she did
herself; but he looked at her with the most absent,
vacant, ignorant wonder it was possible for any man
to assume, as he answered.

“Found me out, Miss Lee?”

“Yes, yes; the verses—the beautiful verses, written
with a diamond pencil, on the pane of glass:
you need not deny it; nobody but yourself could
have written such powerful poetry.”

“No, no; you can't deny it, Mr. Goshawk;
the foot of Hercules is in it,” cried Miss Appleby;
and the opinion was echoed by all present. Whereupon
Mr. Goshawk acknowledged that, being that
morning depressed by a dead weight of insupportable
melancholy, he had walked forth into Miss
Appleby's drawing room, and, finding no one there,
had relieved his overfraught heart, in those unpremeditated
strains. The azures applied their cambric
handkerchiefs to their eyes, and pitied poor Mr.
Goshawk, for labouring under such a troublesome
excess of sentimental sadness.

The conversation then took a different turn;

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interrupted occasionally by the assurances of Mr.
Goshawk, that his verses were all written on the
spur, and under the impress, of the moment; though
we, as authors knowing the secrets of all our brethren,
are ready to make affidavit, that he never wrote
a line, without cudgelling his poor brains into
mummy, and spurring his Pegasus till his sides ran
blood.

“So there is a new Waverly coming out,”
quoth Puddingham, who was deep in booksellers'
secrets, “I am told, one of the principal characters
is Charles the fifth.”

“What he that was beheaded at Whitehall slip?”
asked Mrs. Coates.

“No, my dear madam,” said Highfield, “he that
resigned his crown before he lost his head.”

“How I delight to read novels in which there is
plenty of kings and queens; 'tis so refined and
genteel, to be in such good society,” said Miss
Overend.

“I never get tired of kings and queens, let them
be ever so stupid,” said Miss Appleby; “every
thing they say is so clever, and every thing they do,
so dignified.”

“Well, for my part,” said Highfield, “to me
nothing is so vulgar an expedient of authorship, as
that of introducing the reader into the society of
great names, and making them talk, not like themselves,
but like the author. In this manner, Rochester
becomes a dull debauchee; Bolingbroke, a prosing

-- 077 --

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blockhead; and the greatest wits of the age, as
stupid as the writer. For my part, I am tired of
seeing this vulgar parade of regal and titled realities
introduced as shadows to our acquaintance; and
have it in serious contemplation, unless I should
happen to fall into a cureless, causeless melancholy,
to write a novel, in which the principal actors shall
be gods, and the common people, kings and queens:
Queen Elizabeth shall lace Juno's corsets; Alexander
the great trim Jupiter's whiskers; Mary queen
of Scots enact a beautiful bar-maid; and Charlemagne,
a crier of Carolina potatoes.”

“Then you don't mean to recognise any distinctions
in mere mortal society?” asked Lucia, amused
in spite of herself with this banter.

“Why, I don't know. I have some thoughts of
a sort of geological, instead of genealogical arrangement,
to consist of the primitive, the secondary, and
the alluvial. The fashionable primitives shall be
those who carry their pedigrees back into oblivion;
whose origin is entirely unknown; the secondary
will consist of such as have not had time to forget
their honoured ancestors; and the alluvial, composed
of the rich washings of the other two, which
have so lately made their appearance above water,
that there has been no time for them to become barren
and good for nothing.” Highfield was now
called off by Miss Appleby.

Lucia appeared so much amused with this whimsical
arrangement, that Goshawk, who, though the

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most abstracted of human beings, never for a
moment forgot himself or his vanity, thought it high
time to interfere.

“A clever young man that—a very clever young
man,” drawled he, “quite pleasant, but superficial;
no energy, no pathos, no powerful passion, no
enthusiasm, without which there can be no such
thing as genius. Give me the man,” cried he, with
a fat and greasy flow of sonorous words, “give me
the man to whom the croaking of a cricket is the
signal for lofty meditation, and the fall of a leaf, a
text for lone and melancholy abstraction; one who
is alone in the midst of a crowd, and surrounded
when alone by myriads of sparkling imps of thought,
millions of beings without being, and thoughts
without outline or dimensions; one to whom shadows
are substances, and substances, shadows—
to whom the present is always absent, the future
always past—who lives, and moves, and has his
being, in an airy creation of his own, and circulates
in his own peculiar orb—who rejoices without joy,
and is wretched without wretchedness; one, in
short, who never laughs but in misery, or weeps
except for very excess of joy—who lives in the
world, a miserable yet splendid example of the
sufferings endured by a superior being, when condemned
to associate with an inferior race, and to
derive his enjoyments from the same, mean, miserable,
five senses.” Here he sunk back on the sofa,
overpowered by his emotions.

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“What a being!” thought Lucia, and fell into
a painful doubt, whether such a being would ever
condescend to think of her a moment, present or
absent. “He is above this world!” said she, and
sighed a hundred times, to think of a man being so
much superior to his fellow-creatures.

CHAPTER VIII. A great falling off.

Returning home, our heroine threw herself on
a sofa—be pleased to take notice she did not sit
down, for that would have been unworthy a heroine—
she threw herself on a sofa, and passed some time
in sympathizing with the sufferings of Mr. Goshawk.
She sighed for an opportunity of communing with
him on the fathomless abyss of his mysterious miseries,
and wished—Oh! how devoulty wished herself
the privileged being, destined at last to be the
soother of his sorrows, the sharer of his thoughts,
the companion of his reveries, and the better half
of his abstract, inexplicable mystifications. “Would
that I knew, that I could comprehend, what it is
that makes him so wretched,” thought Lucia, little
suspecting that the poor gentleman would have been
puzzled himself to tell her.

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She was roused from this painfully pleasing reverie,
by something which attracted her attention on
the sofa. She looked at it and rubbed her eyes—
and rubbed her eyes and looked at it again. The
thing was too plain, she could not possibly be deceived.
She started up and rang the bell furiously,
and the servant not coming sooner than it was possible
for him to come, she rang it again still more
emphatically. At length Juba made his appearance,
with his usual deliberation. An African gentleman
of colour seldom indulges himself by being in a
hurry.

“Who did that?” asked Lucia, pointing to the
sofa.

Juba advanced, looked at the spot, and began to
grin with that mortal display of ivory peculiar to his
race.

“Ah! Massa Fairwedder, Massa Fairwedder, he
droll man, he.”

“What! had Mr. Fairweather the impudence”—

“Ees, ees, he here dis morning,” replied Juba,
grinning more than ever.

Lucia immediately summoned the whole household,
consisting of a troop of coloured ladies and
gentlemen, whose principal business was to make
work for each other. Ever since Lucia became
azure, they had been pretty much suffered to do as
they pleased, and it was their pleasure to do nothing
but copy their young mistress in dress and behaviour
as much as possible. They had a dancing master

-- 081 --

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in the kitchen, to teach them waltzing, and talked
seriously of a masquerade, or a fancy ball at least.
The black cook was something of an azure herself,
read all those useful little tracts which teach servants
the duties of masters and mistresses, wore prunelle
shoes, and cooked dinner in an undress of black silk;
the coachman, almost as sentimentally miserable as
Mr. Goshawk; and Lucia's maid, a great admirer
of Miss Wright. The kitchen, as Dolly cook said,
was quite a literary emporium, and there was always
a greasy Waverly lying on the mantel-piece, with
which Dolly occasionally regaled herself, while
boning a turkey. The consequence of all this was,
that Mr. Lee's house was at sixes and sevens.
There was neither master nor mistress; the ceilings
of the parlour and drawing room were festooned
with cobwebs; the curtains got the jaundice; the
rats overrun the kitchen, and performed feats worthy
of rational beings, if you could believe Dolly; and
it was impossible to sit down on a chair or sofa,
without leaving the print of the body in the dust
which covered them. Poor Mr. Fairweather, who
knew the value of neatness, and prided himself on
his unspotted, unsullied black coat, had often carried
off a tribute from the parlour, and that morning
determined to give Lucia a broad hint. Accordingly
he took his forefinger in his hand, and wrote in the
dust that embellished the sofa, four large letters,
almost six inches long, that being put together constitute
an abominable word, than which there is none

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more horrible and unseemly to the ear and eye of
womanhood. It was the sight of this that interrupted
the deliciously perplexing reverie of our fair
heroine; that caused her to ring the bell with such
emphasis; to call up the men-servants and maidservants;
to set the brooms, brushes, mops, and
pope's heads going; and finally to declare war
against rats, spiders, dust, and cobwebs, and to turn
the whole house upside down. The servants wished
Mr. Fairweather in Guinea, as soon as they traced
the origin of this tremendous reform; the cook
talked about the black skin and white skin being
equal in the eyes of the blind; the coachman sighed
forth the unutterable agonies of a life of dependence;
and the little jet black waiting maid talked elegantly
about the rights of women. Old Juba insisted on
his massa calling out Mr. Fairweather; but on this
occasion, the old gentleman demurred.

“Mr. Fairweather is my best friend, you blockhead.”

“Guy, massa! dat any reason why you should'nt
blow he brain out?”

From that time forward, Mr. Lee's house became
exemplary for its neatness, such is the magic influence
of a word to the wise! There was such a reform
in the whole establishment, as hath never yet
been brought about in the state, by any change of
administration, since the establishment of the republic.

And here, I feel it incumbent on me to offer to
my azure and fashionable readers, something like an

-- 083 --

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

apology, for the falling off, in the high tone of my
narrative, they will not fail to observe in this chapter.
I feel I ought to solicit their pardon, for having
thus descended abruptly to such low and vulgar
matters as housekeeping; which ought to be
for ever beneath the attention of all true lovers of
literature and intellectual development. It is true,
the goddess of wisdom once disputed with Arachne
the management of the needle; but this was in
times long past, and never to return, before the preternatural
development of the mind, the invention
of flounces, or the supremacy of dancing-masters.
I am aware, also, of the happy influence of a neat,
well arranged, and well conducted household, in
rendering home agreeable, and luring us from a too
zealous pursuit of the pleasures of the world; and I
am not ignorant how important it is for the mistress
of a family to know when things are well done,
though it may not be necessary or becoming, to do
them herself. But I know, what is of far more consequence
than all this, that if I prose any longer,
on such low subjects, the young gentlemen professors
of nothing will inquire into my pedigree; and the
azure angels, who preside over the decisions of all
the gallant, fashionable critics, will pronounce me a
horrid bore—a bore! better were it to be convicted
of robbing a church, or swindling to the amount of
a few millions. I should then create a great public
excitement; and rally round me, not only all the anti-masons,
but an army of sympathetic pettifoggers
besides.

-- 084 --

CHAPTER IX. An adventure, being the only one in all our history.

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

As the spring advanced, and the flowers, zephyrs,
and warbling birds, invited out into the country for
air and exercise, our heroine was accustomed to ride
on horseback, than which there is nothing more
healthful, graceful, and becoming in a woman, provided
always she will only ride like a gentlewoman;
that is moderately. On the contrary, there is nothing
which gives me more heartfelt discomposure,
as a gallant bachelor, than to see a woman galloping
through the streets, like a trooper—her feathers
flying, her ribands streaming to the wind, her riding
habit disordered, and herself bouncing up and down,
as if she had a cork saddle under her. It is not
only unseemly and unfeminine, but dangerous, in our
crowded streets; and nothing has preserved them
from the most fatal accidents, but the sagacity of
their horses, which doubtless, knowing the precious
burthens they carry, are particularly careful neither
to be frightened, or to make a false step. Were I to
assume the office of mentor to the young fellows of
the day, I would strenuously advise them to beware
of a woman that always rides on a full gallop.
Depend upon it, she will have her way in every

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thing; and that though she may not actually lose
the bit, she will be apt to take it between her teeth;
which is almost as bad.

On these occasions Lucia was generally accompanied
by Miss Appleby, Miss Overend, or some
one of her female friends, and escorted by Highfield
and Goshawk, with the latter of whom our heroine
generally fell into a tete-a-tete in the course of
the ride. It was the third of May—I recollect it
perfectly—when the little party of equestrians set
forth on a morning ride, all gay and hopeful except
Mr. Goshawk, to whom the smiles of nature
were a disquiet, and the music of spring a discord.
He was more than commonly miserable that day,
having observed that Lucia began to sympathize
deeply in his sorrows.

They navigated their course safely through the
various perils of Broadway for some distance. They
met a company of militia with more drums than
privates, and commanded by three brigadier generals;
they encountered the great ox Columbus
dressed in ribbons; they stood the brunt of kites,
earts, bakers' wagons, Broadway accommodations,
charcoal merchants, orange-men and ash-men, and
beggar-women. In short, they escaped unhurt amid
the war of sights, the eternal clatter and confusion of
sounds, the unexampled concatenation of things, animate
and inanimate, natural and unnatural. The
horses, indeed, sometimes pricked up their ears, and
wondered, but displayed no decided symptoms of

-- 086 --

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

affright, until, as ill luck would have it, just as they
came to the corner of Chamber street, a little woman
about four feet high issued suddenly forth from a
shop, with a bonnet, of such alarming dimensions,
and singular incongruity of shape and decoration,
that Lucia's horse, who had never been at a fancy
ball, could stand it no longer. He wheeled suddenly
round, against Mr. Goshawk's steed, and reared.
Mr. Goshawk was partly in a brown study, and partly
so miserable that he did not, as he afterwards affirmed,
exactly recollect where he was, or what was
the matter. At length, he cried out, “Whoa!”
with such a lofty and poetical fervour that he frightened
the horse still more. He now reared worse than
ever, and Lucia, must have lost her seat in a few
moments, when Highfield who was a little in advance
with the other ladies, being roused by Goshawk's
exclamation, looked round, and was at the
horse's head, on foot, in an instant. “Keep your
seat if you can,” said he as he seized the bridle.
A desperate contest now commenced between him
and the horse, who continued rearing and plunging,
now galling Highfield's body and limbs with his
sharp hoofs, and wrenching him violently about from
side to side. Lucia still kept her seat though almost
insensible to where she was, or what was going
forward. It was a struggle between an enraged unruly
beast, and a cool determined man. Highfield
still clung to the bridle, close to the horse's head,
until watching his opportunity, he seized the animal

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by the nostrils, with so firm a gripe, as to arrest his
rearings for a moment, during which he seemed
tremblingly to own a master. At the same instant
a gentleman assisted Lucia to dismount, which she
had scarcely done, when the animal, as if recovered
from his astonishment made one plunge, struck his
hoofs into Highfield's breast, threw him on his back
insensible, and dashed away full speed. At the
same moment Mr. Goshawk, who had been exceedingly
active in protesting against the inhumanity of
the crowd, which stood looking on without being
able to render any assistance, was likewise so overcome
by his exertions that he lost his memory, for a
little while, after which he poured forth so eloquent
a felicitation on Lucia's escape from a danger, which,
however slight, had harrowed up his very soul, that
she remembered it long after, when she ought to
have been remembering something else.

Highfield was brought to himself, after some considerable
delay, and, with the young lady, conveyed
home, in a hackney coach. Goshawk did not accompany
them; his senses were so shattered, and his
feelings had so completely overpowered him, that he
was incapable of any thing, but the indulgence of
high wrought sentiment.

-- 088 --

CHAPTER X. The two Cupids.

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

The warm hearted Mr. Lee, when he came to
learn the particulars of the transaction recorded in
our last chapter, hugged Highfield in his arms, called
him his son; and came very near letting out the
secret of his long cherished intentions to his daughter.
He then fell upon the corporation, that unfortunate
pack-horse, on whose back is saddled all the
abominations which petulance conjures into existence,
or the itch for scribbling, lays before the
public.

“Confound the stupid blockheads!” exclaimed
he. “They make laws against flying kites, exploding
crackers, sticking up elephants over people's-heads
for signs, and cumbering the streets with empty
boxes and barrels; and yet, they allow the women
to wear bonnets that frighten horses out of their discretion!
For my part, I don't see the distinction,
not I.”

“But my good friend,” said Mr. Fairweather,
who had called in to make his friendly inquiries—
“I differ with you—I think there is a marked distinction
between a fine lady, and an empty barrel.”

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[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

“Oh well, if we differ, there is an end of the argument,”
quoth the other.

“An end of the argument! why it is generally
the beginning.”

“Very well—very well—I have no time to argue
the question now.”

Mr. Fairweather took up his hat, and went away
by himself, pondering in his mind, what could have
come over his old friend. It was the first time, since
he knew him, that he had declined an argument.

Lucia and Highfield met the next morning; the
former languid with her fright, the latter pale, and
stiff with his bruises. Lucia was netting a purse.
She thanked him, in simple, unaffected, heartfelt
terms; for it is only affectation that deals in pompous
phrases. The tears came into her eyes, as she
noticed his wounded hands, and perceived, by the
slight variations that passed over his countenance,
that every motion was acccompanied with acute
pain.

“I shall never forget,” said she, “that you saved
my life.”

“Nor I,” said Highfield, and these two simple
words were all he uttered on the subject.

Lucia was mortified that he should have missed so
good an opportunity of being eloquent. She had
been brought up with people who considered words of
more consequence than actions; and a fine speech,
in celebration of an exploit of heroism far superior
to the act itself. Lucia threw the purse carelessly

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into her work basket; and just then, Mr. Goshawk
entered, to inquire how she did, after the accident.
Then it was, that our heroine, was lifted off her feet,
by a flow of inspired eloquence, which cast into the
shade, the manly simplicity of poor Highfield's courage
and self-possession. He spoke of his horror
at her danger—the overpowering feelings that absolutely
bewildered his mind, and prevented his thinking
of any thing but himself, and his intense sufferings.
He detailed his waking thoughts on coming
home; and his terrible dreams, in which he saw her
struggle with indiscribable dangers, and performed
acts in her behalf, that no waking man ever dreamed
of. In short, he made himself out the hero of the
affair, and before he had finished, actually persuaded
Lucia, that honest Highfield was but a secondary
person in the business.

“Behold,” said he, “how I employed the melancholy,
soul subduing hours of the last night; for
you may suppose, I did not close my eyes.”

“Oh, then I suppose you dreamed with your eyes
open,” said Highfield, smiling.

“A man need not shut his eyes to dream, Mr.
Highfield,” quoth Goshawk, pompously. At the
same time presenting Lucia with a perfumed sheet
of paper. She opened it, and read, with sparkling
eyes—


“The wings of my heart are far o'er the blue sea”—
“If the wings of his heart are far o'er the blue sea,
“Permit me to ask where its legs ought to be.”

-- 091 --

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

hummed Highfield, as he sauntered out of the
room.

“He has no more sentiment, nor feeling, enthusiasm,
or genius, than—than”—Lucia could not hit
upon a comparison expressive of her indignation.

“Alas! the more happy he!” sighed Fitzgiles
Goshawk. “He knows not what it is to eat the bitter
aloes of disappointed hopes, to dream of impossible
attainments, to stand on tiptoe, catching at incomprehensible
chimeras; to place his heart on
what it dares not contemplate, except at an unapproachable
distance that mocks even the imagination
to despair; to die of disappointments, in what,
from first to last, he knew was out of his reach; to
pass from the sight of men, the light of the sun, and
the perplexities of the world, and leave nothing behind
him but an empty name. Oh! Lucia, pity
me,” cried he, taking her hand.

“I do, indeed I do,” cried Lucia, overpowered
by this picture of mysterious griefs. “I pity, and
would relieve you if I knew how. Only tell me
what is the matter?

“I love, and I despair!”

“Whom?” said Lucia, with a palpitating heart.

“One throned in yon galaxy of stars, brighter
than Venus, and purer than the milky way—one, of
whom I wake only to dream, and dream only to
awake in astonishment at my presumptuous visions.
One so far above the sphere of my aspiring hopes,
that like the glorious sun, I only live in the

-- 092 --

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

consuming rays of her beauty, without daring to look in
the full face of her brightness, lest I should be struck
blind.”

“Why this must be a queen at least,” said Lucia,
blushing with a whispering consciousness.

“The queen of love and beauty,” replied Goshawk,
delighted at his happy rejoinder. They
remained silent a few moments, it being impossible
to descend from the heights of sentimental twaddle
to the level of ordinary matters, without stopping to
take breath by the way.

“Tell me, Miss Lee, tell me what is love,” said
Goshawk at length, with a languishing air.

“I don't know,” replied Lucia, blushing.

“Shall I answer for you?” said Highfield, who
entered at that moment. Lucia started a little, and
Goshawk looked rather foolish.

“Love is a fantastic assemblage of the follies of
childhood and the passions of age. A little, scoundrel
hypocrite, who, while rolling his hoop or chasing
a butterfly, disguises under the innocent sports of a
boy, the most selfish and dishonourable intentions.
He is the deity of professions, disguises, affectation,
and selfishness; is never satisfied unless acting in
opposition to reason, propriety, and duty; and is
pictured a child, because he studies only his own
gratification, and never keeps his promises.”

Goshawk seemed not to admire this sketch, but
for some reason or other, he was not so ready with
a flight as usual. Lucia took up the defence of the
little godhead.

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“Oh, what a monster you have made of him!”
said she.

“But there is another and a nobler love,” resumed
Highfield, with more enthusiasm than he had
ever before displayed in the presence of his cousin,
“there is another and a nobler love, the divinity of
rational and virtuous man. A grown up, finished
being, that knows no other wish than the happiness
of its object; that neither lies, nor feigns, nor flatters,
nor deceives; that is neither degraded by
disappointment, nor presumptuous with success;
that, while it respects itself, still pays a willing homage,
and offers at the feet of its mistress what it
never sacrificed to fear or favour, to the claims of
man, the temptations of interest, or the tyranny of
the passions; its own free will and its power of
independent action.”

The tones of Highfield's voice were such as I
have sometimes, but rarely heard, in my pilgrimage
through this world of jarring discords; they were
those that give to nonsense the charm of music, and
to precept the magic of persuasion. He spoke with
a manly simplicity, a chastened feeling, a firm and
settled earnestness, which hypocrisy always overleaps,
and affectation only caricatures. Even childhood
comprehends it, and the votaries of bad taste
at once recognise it for truth. The exertion of
speaking, or it may be the glow of his smothered
feelings, had banished for a moment his ashy paleness,
and brought a fire into his cheek that added to

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his natural attractions. He stood with one arm in
a sling, partly leaning against the mantel-piece, and
there was in his whole appearance an evident struggle
between the weakness of his body and the
strength of his feelings.

Neither Mr. Goshawk nor Lucia made any reply.
The former was cowed by the majesty of honest,
unaffected manhood, giving utterance to its feelings
with the simple energy of deep conviction; the latter
felt as she had never felt while Mr. Goshawk was
pouring out his sentimental flummery. She knew
she was listening to one in earnest, who was either
describing what he felt at the moment or was capable
of feeling. “He certainly must be in love with
somebody. Some little red-cheeked, scrub-nosed,
country damsel, I dare say;” and she turned up her
pretty Grecian nose at the poor girl. The perplexity
of guessing who this somebody was, occupied her
some time, insomuch that she entirely forgot Mr.
Goshawk's piece of poetry and his beautiful language.

“I beg your pardon,” said Highfield, “for
coming here to interrupt you and make speeches.
Your father requested me to say he wishes to speak
with you, cousin.”

Goshawk took his leave; Lucia sought her
father, and Highfield his bed; for he was really
much indisposed with his bruises.

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CHAPTER XI. Sounding without bottom.

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Mr. Lee was a man of great courage and little
patience. He considered the heart of a woman like
one of his eggs, that could be boiled in a minute
and a half; and took it for granted, Lucia must be
deeply in love with Highfield since the adventure of
the fashionable bonnet. Accordingly he determined
to sound her forthwith, that no time might be lost.
He might as well have sounded the bottomless
abysses of lake Superior; for the heart of a city
belle in love is as unfathomable, if not as pure, as
they.

“Well, Lucia,” said he, as she entered his library,
“how do you feel after your fright?”

“Oh, quite well, sir.”

“Hem—I wish I could say as much for Highfield.
The doctor says he has some fever, and talks
of bleeding—the blockhead—why didn't he do it
before?”

“Bleeding!” cried Lucia, and her heart beat a
little, “I hope it will not be necessary.”

“Hem—yes. Ah! girl, you owe much to that
excellent young man—hey?”

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“I am sensible of it, sir, and feel it at the bottom
of my heart.”

“Do you?—do you? my dearest girl, at the
bottom of your heart?”

“Indeed I do, sir; I shall never cease to be
grateful, as long as I live.”

“Grateful!—pish—pooh—gratitude!”

“My father has often told me, gratitude was the
rarest of our feelings, and the most short-lived; but
I shall carry mine to my grave.”

“Ay—yes—yes; gratitude is a very good thing
in its way; but—but there are so many ways of
showing it. Now how will you show yours—hey?”

“Why, I haven't studied my part yet,” said she,
smiling; “I must trust to the honest dictates of my
heart, to time, and circumstance, to show me the
way.”

“Pshaw! time and circumstance! I believe the
d—l is in you this morning, Lucia.”

“I believe the deuce is in you this morning,
father,” said Lucia, smiling; “for I can't understand
you.”

“Very well, very well; but I want to know how
you will go about showing your gratitude—hey?”

“Why, father,” said Lucia, “if he is sad, I will
play him merry tunes; if he is cheerful, I will laugh
with him; if he is cross, I will bear with him. I
will sympathize in his misfortunes, rejoice in his
happiness, nurse him if he should be sick; if you
turn him out of doors, as you once threatened, I will

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certainly let him in again; and if he should ever
chance to want (what I trust in God he never will)
your favour and protection, I will try and be to him
your humble representative.” If Lucia meant to
say more, she was stopped by an unaccountable
huskiness in her throat, that took away her breath.

“Ah! that will do—that will do!” cried the old
gentleman, highly delighted, “and so you will love
him—hey, girl? none of your wishy-washy gratitude—
love him with all your heart—hey?”

“With all my heart, and as an only and beloved
brother.”

“Brother! did you say?—a fiddlestick; I—I
don't want you to love him as a brother, I tell you.”

“As a cousin then, sir.”

“No; nor as a cousin, nor a second cousin,
nor an uncle, nor grandfather, nor grandmother
either,” cried Mr. Lee, in wrath, and gradually
raising his voice till he came to the climax of a roar.

“Ah! is it so?” thought our heroine, as at length
she began to comprehend the drift of the impatient
old gentleman; and she drew the impenetrable
cloak of hypocrisy closely around her, at the same
time conjuring up to her aid the guardian pride of
female delicacy, which shrinks from the first avowal
of love, and more than shrinks from owning it without
the surety of answering love.

“May I go, sir?” said she, after a pause, “I
promised to walk out this morning, with my aunt
and Mr. Goshawk.”

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“Confound Mr. Goshawk! may ten thousand of
his bad verses fly away with him to chaos and old
night, where they came from!”

“Well, father, then I will make an apology and
stay at home.”

“No; go where you please, and do what you
please; I shall never be able to make any thing of
you.”

“Nothing, dear sir, but what I am—your dutiful
and affectionate daughter;” and she bowed, and left
Mr. Lee to congratulate himself on the progress he
had made.

The reader will doubtless have observed, that
during the whole of the foregoing dialogue, Lucia
spoke in simple, natural language, without a single
touch of azure. The reason is at hand. She felt
what she was saying; and true feeling never declaims.
What it has to say, it says with a simple,
brief directness; as a man who is earnest in the race
never stops to gather flowers by the way.

Our heroine retired to her chamber, to think. A
new futurity was opened before her; for until this
interview with her father, she never dreamed of his
wishes or intentions in favour of her cousin. The
truth is, her imagination was occupied with Goshawk.
But now it was necessary to determine on
some line of conduct, in her future intercourse with
Highfield. A very convenient, proper, family match!
thought she; I am rich, and he poor. I have no

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doubt he is very much in love with me; for I never
heard of a young gentleman that was deficient in
duty and affection on such occasions! And then
her heart smote her with a pang, for such a thought.
No, no; I will say that for my cousin, I do believe
he would not marry, if he did not love me, to gain
my fortune or please my father. But then every
body will say he only married me for my money;
and the mortification of such a suspicion would be
intolerable. I dare say this plan has been in agitation
ever since I was born; and what a business
kind of business! he is to open his mouth, and I
am to fall plump into it, like a great overripe apple,
without even being shaken a little. No, no, my
dainty cousin, that wont do. And besides, what
will Miss Appleby and all the rest say, if I throw
myself away on a man of no literary reputation;
who never figured in albums, or wrote verses on
Passaic falls; who does nothing common like an
uncommon man; and who, I confess, though he acts
sometimes like a hero, talks just like every body.
Ah! said she, sighing, I wish my money bags were
in the Red sea, and then I could tell whether I was
beloved for myself or them. This was a very foolish
wish of our heroine; for notwithstanding her beauty,
her charming temper, and her natural good sense,
if her money bags had been in the Red sea, ten to
one her admirers would have gone there to fish for
them, instead of adoring her beauty and good

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qualities. After a vast many pros and cons, Lucia
determined, in the true spirit of a woman with more
than one admirer, to play them off against each
other; to put to the test the ardour and stability of
their passion, by trying what the patience of mortal
man is capable of enduring. Mr. Goshawk was still
paramount in her imagination; though since the
adventure of the ride, her feelings were somewhat
enlisted on the side of Highfield. She was satisfied
in her own mind, that the former was deeply enamoured
of her, else, why should he be so eloquent
on all occasions, on the subject of hopeless affection?
With regard to the other, she was somewhat,
or rather indeed altogether, uncertain; for Highfield
had too much pride, as well as delicacy, to thrust his
feelings in the face of the world on all occasions.
I will try him, thought she. If he is only seeking
me for my fortune, there will be no harm in making
him a little miserable; and if he really loves me for
myself alone, I can always make him amends for his
sufferings. She had an appointment with Mr. Goshawk
for a walk, and was expecting him every
moment, when the servant came in with an apology,
that he was so indisposed as not to be able to wait
on her.

“Poor man,” thought Lucia, “his mind is preying
on his delicate frame! the light is too intense
for the lamp that contains it. What a misfortune it
is to be born with too much sensibility!

-- 101 --

CHAPTER XII. In which the history is perfectly becalmed.

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Our heroine remained in a state of mind requiring
motion. She felt a sort of fidgeting impatience of
repose which almost always accompanies the little
perplexities and uncertainties of life. She took out
the silk purse to net; but the thought struck her that
Highfield might be too much elated if he saw her
thus employed. She took up a book, and though
it was one of the very latest fashionable works, she
actually yawned over the first chapter. She then
as a last resort took up a new garment, that had
just been sent home by the mantua maker; which
fortunately gave a new turn to her ideas. The
sleeves were exactly the thing. She retired to her
mysterious boudoir, and arrayed herself like King
Solomon in all his glory. She put on a pink hat
with a black velvet lining, and a feather that swept
the ground; she put on her white satin cloak that
hid her pretty figure as effectually as a sack; and she
adorned her pretty ancles with spatterdashes. She
arrayed herself with the Foulard silk; the Foulard
damasce; the gros des Indes; the embroidered collar,
cape, Fichu, Alavielle and Fiorelle; the Blonde

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gauze, and the Decoupe gauze, the fancy ribands,
trimmings, &c. &c. &c.; in short she made herself
one of the most beautiful fancy articles ever imported,
before she had done. She then looked into a
full lengh mirror and saw that all was good; for
her hat was mighty to behold; her shoulders broader
than those of Sampson with the gates of Gaza on
his back; and not the African Venus herself—but
hush my muse nor meddle too deeply with mysteries
unknown to the sacred nine!

Highfield met her just as she was going forth into
the Aceldama, the field of blood, the Flanders of the
new world—Broadway—where more whiskered
dandies have been slain outright by stout broad
shouldered ladies, and the empire of more hearts
contested than in all the universe besides. He stood
in speechless admiration, for his cousin was really
so beautiful, that it was out of the power of milliner
or mantua maker to make her look ugly.

“Will you take me with you?” said he.

Lucia felt like the ox-eyed Juno, in her glorious
paraphernalia.

The most unpropitious moment for approaching
a belle is doubtless when she is full dressed for
Broadway. She treads on air; she sees herself reflected
in the mirror of her imagination at full
length; the rustling of silks whispers an alarum to
her vanity; and the waving of feathers is the signal
for conquering the world.

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“Will you take me with you?” repeated Highfield.

How handsome and interesting he is, thought our
heroine as she looked at herself in the glass. If he
only had whiskers he would be irresistible.

“I am afraid,” said she, “the weather is too keen
for you this morning; you look pale, and don't
seem well;” and nature forced her voice into a tuneful
sympathy.

“Oh, I never was better in my life.”

“Well, it is not my business,” said she, again assuming
the woman—“If you choose to risk it, 'tis
nothing to me.” And the father of hypocrisy himself
could not have put on a more freezing indifference.
“I am going to call on Miss Appleby; my
aunt promised to meet me there.”

“I'd rather go any where else with you.”

“Oh, yes, I know you don't like literary people.”

“I don't like pretenders to literature.”

“Then let me go by myself,” said she abruptly.

“No—I'll go, and take the mighty Goshawk by
the beard, e'en though he were a metaphor, as saith
our azure aunt.”

This sally made Lucia smile, and restored her
good humour, which indeed was never long away.
Her anger was never chronic, and so much the better.
An unforgiving woman is worse than a man
that forgives every body. Lucia put her arm within
Highfield's, and they went away as gay as boblincons
in a clover meadow. Lucia forgot for a

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moment her plan of making him jealous; but there
was a little imp of mischief at her elbow that soon
put her in mind of it again.

The gentle reader need not expect to find our little
history a Newgate chronicle of bloody, remorseless
crimes; or a chaotic congeries—as an azure
would call it—of accidents and incidents, piled one
upon the other with a profusion and confusion, mocking
both art and nature to arrange into order, propriety,
or probability. He will we hope take our
word, when we assure him upon our honour, that nothing
in the whole art and mystery of works of imagination,
is more vulgarly easy than to weave adventures
without probability; to paint characters without
nature or consistency; to elevate into astonishment
by incidents entirely unexpected because there
is nothing to render them credible; to delineate the
excesses of unbridled and ferocious depravity; the
crimes of unqualified wickedness; and the daring
pranks of lawless savages, as little restrained by the
behests of the law, as is the author by the canons of
taste and criticism. Such indeed is the utter recklessness
with which the truly fashionable and intellectual
writers and readers in this age of developement,
plunge into seas of blood, and revel in sights
and scenes that even the case hardened sympathies of
vulgar ignorance, would shrink from contemplating
in real life; such, in short, the rage for mere excitement
in the prevailing taste for literature, that it

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would give us little surprise to see a writer administering
to this ravenous appetite, by introducing a
sentimental Caliban, or a Sycorax dying for the love
of a well dressed dandy. Adventures and incidents,
unconnected and without motive, have taken place
of delineations of the windings of the human heart,
the intricacies and vagaries of passion, and the
nice and wary caution, with which the authors of a
better period, traced every effect to its cause, every
cause to its effects. They introduced no incident to
excite a mere vulgar surprise, nor any adventure,
but what was a spoke in the wheel of the story, accelerating
its progress, and rendering the denouement
more probable. They delighted not in the naked,
unadorned, unmitigated personification of crimes.
They found human nature a mixture of good and
evil; human actions springing from the like mixture
of motives, and so they endeavoured to delineate
them. Their design was to paint men, not monsters;
and such we confess at humble distance is
ours. The enlightened reader must therefore, not
expect to find in our story, either the excitement of
blood, murder, adultery, and crime, nor to detect us
wallowing in the very mire of sentimental sensuality.
Such feasts as these are not we confess to our taste,
and what we do not relish ourselves we disdain to
palm upon others, even though it might peradveture
be for our temporary advantage. We close these
remarks, by cautioning the reader against believing

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for a single instant that they have the most remote
reference to the excellent Sir Walter, whose genius
is almost sufficient to atone for the crying offences
of a thousand bad imitators.

CHAPTER XIII. More Azure.

Highfield and our heroine dropped in upon the
whole azure coterie, at Miss Appleby's, with the exception
of Mr. Fitzgiles Goshawk, whose absence
afforded an excellent subject for declamation; especially
when Lucia informed the company he was indisposed.

“Poor fellow, his sensibilities will be the death of
him at last,” cried Miss Appleby.

“Unfortunate youth,” said Miss Overend, “his
wretchedness is mysteriously affecting; by the by,
can any body tell what makes him so unhappy?”

“I dare say he is suffering the pangs of disappointment,”
said Puddingham.

“Disappointment in what?” said she briskly.

“Oh, why you know genius is always hoping impossible
things, and chasing the rainbows of imagination—
ever anticipating unreal joys, and reaping

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real sorrows. I knew a man of genius, once, a
great poet, who pined himself into a decline, because
he could not get his whiskers to grow.”

“La!” said Miss Overend, “I dare say that is
the cause of Mr. Goshawk's interesting melancholy,
you know he has no whiskers.”

“I dare say,” quoth Paddleford, a sighing, whining,
cork-hearted pretender to sentimental rouéism;
“I dare say the poor fellow is in love with a married
woman.”

“Has he been to Italy?” said Miss Overend,
“if he has, I could almost swear he had fallen in
love with a beautiful nun he saw through the grates
of a convent.”

“I shouldn't be surprised,” said Mrs. Coates, “If
he had committed murder.”

“Murder!” screamed the other ladies.

“I mean an innocent, disinterested, sentimental
murder, committed in a moment of irrigation, without
any intention—what do you think, nephew?”

“I rather think it must be the whiskers, as my
friend Puddingham suggested. I feel myself in the
same predicament, and am sentimentally dead, for
want of a muzzle a la mode de bison.”

Lucia privately resolved that Master Highfield
should pay for making sport of the hallowed and
mysterious sorrows of Mr. Goshawk. She knew
or thought she knew their origin; and to have the
perplexities of pining, speechless, inexpressible passion
associated with a bison's whiskers! It was too

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bad; and her cousin should pay for it dearly, if he
possessed the least spark of feeling. Highfield took
his leave soon after, excusing himself on the score of
some business. But the truth was, he felt himself
somewhat indisposed.

“Well, Lucia,” said Miss Appleby, “I suppose
you had a delightfully affecting interview with your
cousin, after the affair. What did he say?”

“Nothing,” said Lucia.

“Nothing; what a stupid man! Why Mr.
Goshawk talked of his excruciating feelings on the
occasion a whole hour, till he brought tears into my
eyes. Oh, such a beautiful flow of language, such
powerful delineations of passion! I wish you had
heard him.”

“Mr. Highfield is a very common-place man,”
said Puddingham, pompously. “You might stand
under a gateway a whole day in a shower, without
hearing him say any thing remarkable.”

“What is a chance act of gallantry and presence
of mind, compared with the genius that immortalizes
it in words that burn and thoughts that freeze? For
my part, give me the man that talks eloquently,”
said Mr. Paddleford.

“Yes,” said Miss Overend; “mere physical
courage and animal strength may do great things;
but to say great things, requires the aid of a lofty,
inaccessible genius, which nine times in ten is so
immersed in its own sublime chrysalis, that it can't
get out in time to do any thing in a case of emergency.”

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“To be sure,” said Mrs. Coates; “a great
action is often frustificated by a splendid chaotic
congeries of intellectual vapours, that produce a
deflection of the mind from the object before it.”

Lucia, though a little affronted with Highfield,
was too generous to suffer him to be undervalued in
this manner, especially in his absence.

“And so, my good friends,” said she, “you
would persuade me that I am more indebted to Mr.
Goshawk, for his elegant description of my danger,
than to my cousin, who rescued me from it. I
might have been in my grave by this time, but for
my cousin.”

“But then what a beautiful elegy Mr. Goshawk
would have written, my dear. You would have
been immortalized. Only think of that!” said Miss
Appleby.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Coates; “what is the trumpery
pain of anneeheelation to the eternal immortality
of living in immortal verse—of floating down
upon the stream of oblivion, into the regions of
never dying brightness!” Mrs. Coates waxed
more azure every day.

“My dear aunt,” cried Lucia, interrupting the
good lady, who was losing herself in a Dismal
Swamp of meteors, as she called them; “my dear
aunt, I am aware of the superiority of words over
deeds, in an age of development like the present,
and that he who performs a great action is but an
instrument in the hands of the man of genius who

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celebrates it in never dying verse. I know too that
it is mere selfishness on our part, to feel grateful for
an action done in our own behalf, instinctively perhaps,
and without one single good feeling on the
part of him who performs it; but still there is something
in the gift of life that seems to deserve at
least our gratitude.” This was the most azure
speech our heroine had made since her accident.

“The gift of life!” cried Paddleford; “what is
life, that we should be grateful for it? A scene of
disappointment without hope, and hope without
disappointment; a chapter whose beginning is tears,
whose last verse is written in blood; a mirror, which
presents to us every day a new wretch in the same
person; a spectral shadow, ever changing, yet still
the same; a long lane, whose windings end where
they began, and begin where they end; a rope
twisted with our heart-strings, embalmed in our tears,
and having at one end a slipping noose, with which
all mankind are at last tucked up!”

“Oh!” groaned the whole azure coterie, horrorstricken
at this soul-harrowing picture.

“What language!”

“What sentiment!”

“What feeling!”

“What soul-subjewing retrospections!” exclaimed
Mrs. Coates. “What a happy devil-opement
of mind!”

Lucia was overawed and silenced by the eloquence
of Paddleford, and the suffrages of all the

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company. She became doubtful, to say the least,
as to the propriety of feeling gratitude for such a
worthless gift as that of life, and relapsed into a
decided preference of the gift of speech over the
capacity for action. She looked on the great Paddleford
as a most sublime mortal; for such indeed
is the intrinsic dignity of that courage which defies
death in a good cause, that even the affectation of
contempt of life imposes a feeling of respect upon
the inexperienced. Lucia never dreamed that Paddleford
came near breaking his neck a few nights
before, by jumping out of a second story window on
a false alarm of fire; or that while he affected a
contempt for life, he never met a funeral or heard a
bell tolling, without a fit of the blue devils.

“What a beautiful dress you've got!” said Miss
Overend to Lucia.

The sublime contempt of this life now suddenly
gave place to an admiration of the things of this
life. The whole party gathered round our heroine;
and “where did you get this?” and “la! how
cheap!” and dissertations on the relative excellence
of gros de Naples, gros des Indes, cotepaly, foulard
Damasce, and Palmerienne, gradually restored them
to a proper feeling of resignation to the evils of this
world.

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CHAPTER XIV. A visit and its consequences.

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When Lucia came home, she found Highfield
had been obliged to lie down; and learned from Mr.
Lee, that the doctor was under great apprehension
that he had received some serious injury internally,
from the violence of his exertions or the kicks of
the horse, in the adventure of the ride.

“I am sorry to hear it,” said our heroine, and
her heart echoed the sentiment.

The old gentleman was of that order of human
beings whom sorrow always makes angry and fretful,
instead of gentle and submissive. He had a
most confirmed and obstinate impatience of grief.
He was angry with Highfield for being sick; he
was angry with the doctor for not having foreseen
he would be sick; and he was enraged with Mr.
Fairweather, first because he made light of the matter,
and then, to please his friend, hinted about a
rapid decline. Now, he could not scold Highfield
for being sick; nor the doctor, for he was absent;
nor Mr. Fairweather, because he was not present:
so he set to work, and scolded Lucia. Nine times
out of ten we are not angry at the thing we pretend

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to be; we attack the substance under covert of the
shadow.

“Oh yes!” said he in reply to Lucia's gentle yet
sincere expression of sorrow, “Oh yes! you are
very sorry, I dare say. You take him into a cold
northeast wind; you drag him about to milliners'
shops, from one end of the town to the other; and
then you are very sorry he is sick, when you yourself
have made him so.”

“Dear father, how cross you are to day! I am
sure I did not take him out. I wanted him to stay
at home; but he said he was perfectly well, and
would go with me. I am sure I couldn't help his
going.”

“Not help his going!”

“No, sir; how could I?”

“Why you might have knocked the puppy down.”

Lucia made it a point never to laugh at her father;
but it must be owned he sometimes put her to hard
trials.

“If my father had taught me to box, instead of
play the piano, I might have made the attempt,”
said she, smiling.

“Very well, very well; you have made him sick,
now try if you can't cure him. Go and make him
some barley-broth.”

“I? why, my dear father, I don't know how to
make barley-broth.”

“Well then, go and make him some caudle.”

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Lucia had never heard of caudle, except in association
with certain matters, and blushed like a rose.

“But I don't know how to make caudle, any
more than barley-broth.”

“Ay, yes; women know nothing worth knowing,
now-a-days. They can dance, and play the harp,
and criticise books, and talk about what they don't
understand; but if you want them to do a little
thing for the comfort of a man's life, or the assuaging
of his pains, oh! then it is, my dear sir, I don't know
how to do it. I wish I had sent you to a pastry
cook's, instead of a boarding school. I dare say, if
it was Mr. Goshawk, you could talk him well
directly. Go in then and talk to your cousin a
little.”

“My dear sir, you know”—and she stopped
short, in a flutter.

“What, you wont go and see the youth who is
lying perhaps on his death-bed, of wounds received
in your service?”

“The customs of society, sir,”—

“Ah! the customs of society—there is another
wooden god to bow down to! You can twine
your arms in a waltz with some bewhiskered foreign
puppy; you can go to a masquerade, or mix in
midnight revels, with a thousand promiscuous
sweepings of the universe, and yet—oh, the customs
of the world! they make it a crime to visit the sick
in their melancholy chambers, and pronounce it

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ungenteel to know how to administer relief to their
sufferings!”

“Dear father, I would do any thing for the relief
of my cousin; but”—

“Oh, ay—any thing. You can't do what the
customs of society permit, and you wont do what
they do not sanction. And yet it is but the other
day you made such a fine speech: `If he is sad, I
will play him merry tunes; I will sympathize in his
sorrows, and rejoice in his happiness; I will nurse
him when he is sick; and if, as you once threatened,
you should turn him out of doors, I will certainly
let him in again.”' And the old gentleman caricatured
her tone and manner most unmercifully.
“You know every thing but what you ought to
know,” said he, reproachingly.

“There is at least one thing I do know,” replied
the daughter; “that it is my duty to obey the wishes
of my father, when no positive duty forbids it. I
will go with you, sir.” And together they went
into the sick man's room.

My friend, Mr. Lee—for there once lived such
a man, and he was my friend—my friend, Mr. Lee,
knew no more how to manage a love affair than his
daughter did of the manufacturing of caudle. Had
the romance of Highfield and Lucia been in the
best possible progress, he would have gone nigh to
throw it back a hundred years. The old gentleman
had yet to learn, that to make a woman do a thing
against her will, is like shoving a boat against a

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strong current; she will move a foot or two slowly
while the impulse lasts, and come back like a racehorse,
a hundred yards beyond the starting pole.
And yet he ought to have known it; for his wife had
verified its truth often enough to impress it on his
memory.

Lucia entered the chamber of the invalid, somewhat
against her will, and consequently but little disposed
to sympathize with him. Indeed she felt extremely
awkward; and this was another reason why
she was not in the best possible humour. Not that
she wanted a proper feeling of the benefit conferred
by her cousin, but the truth is, the indiscreet disclosure
the old gentleman had made of his intentions,
caused her to shrink from an act, which might be
considered as amounting to a sanction of his wishes
on her part. Add to this, I believe if the truth
were known, she felt some little apprehension that
Mr. Goshawk might not approve of the procedure.

The conduct of Highfield contributed to render
her still more ungracious. He was no knight errant,
yet the sight of our heroine on this occasion
threw him into something of a paroxysm, not unworthy
of Amadis de Gaul. He ascribed the visit
in the first place to her own free will, and augured
the most favourable results, from the sympathy which
a sight of his weakness, would create. He was
wrong in both cases; for in love matters the imagination
is every thing; and seeing is not believing.
But his great error was in discovering so much

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gratitude for the visit, that Lucia became alarmed at her
own condescension, and determined to retrieve her
error by behaving as ungraciously as her conscience
would permit. In pursuance of this truly womanly
resolution, she conducted herself with a most admirable
indifference, inasmuch that the good gentleman
her father, who had hardly patience to wait the
boiling of an egg, became exceedingly restive. He
gave his daughter divers significant looks; favoured
her with abundance of frowns; and held up his finger
from time to time so emphatically, that Highfield
soon comprehended the whole affair. He perceived
that Lucia had come unwillingly, and from that moment
felt nothing but mortification at her having
come at all. The whole affair ended in making Lucia
dissatisfied with herself; Highfield worse than
before; and Mr. Lightfoot Lee most intolerably
angry. So much for obliging a young lady to do
what she has no inclination for. Our heroine, having
paid a short visit, retired, leaving the uncle and
nephew together.

The old gentleman sat with his nether lip petulantly
protruded over the upper one; his eyebrows
raised, and his forehead wrinkled. The young man
reclining on his bed supported by pillows.

“My dear uncle,” said he, “why did you bring
my cousin here against her will?”

“'Sblood sir,” cried the other in a fury—“I suppose
you mean to cut my throat for trying to do you
a favour.”

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“I am sensible of your kindness, but, my dear sir,
you don't go the right way to work to serve me.”

“O no, not I truly; I am an old blockhead; I am
always in the wrong; I do nothing but mischief,
and merit nothing but reproaches and ingratitude!”

“Ah! sir, if you only knew my heart!”

“Plague on your heart, I don't believe you have
any, with your infernal coolness and patience.
When I fell in love, I mounted my horse, rode one
night forty miles to visit your aunt; came to an understanding
the very first visit; and went home irrevocably
engaged. I hate suspense; I always did
hate it and always shall. But you, sir—damme, you
sir! you and Lucia will make a hard frost between
you. She is all affectation, and you all patience. A
patient lover—pooh!”

“But, my dear sir, why don't you let matters take
their course, as you promised?”

“O certainly, sir, certainly—wait patiently, until
I see my daughter run away with Mr. Fitzgiles Goshawk,
because he has such a flow of words, and uses
such beautiful language; or 'till I die of old age,
and Lucia becomes a pedantic old maid. I dare
say if I only have patience and live till I am fourscore
and upwards, I may have the particular satisfaction
of seeing either the world or your love affair
come to an end.”

“But my dear uncle—”

“Yes, yes—I am an old blockhead, that's certain.
'Tis true I was educated at the university; I

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travelled over half Europe; I have been a justice of the
peace; a common councilman; secretary to a literary
society; judge of a race-course; and chairman
of a committee in congress. I am not quite threescore,
to be sure; but I have had some little experience;
know a B from a bull's foot, and a hawk
from a handsaw. But I am an old blockhead for all
that, and must go to school to a conceited graduate
from a country college, and a sage young lady just
from the boarding school; yes, yes, yes—” and the
good gentleman walked about the room with his
head down and hands behind him.

“Oh, sir, I entreat you to spare me.”

“I wonder,” continued Mr. Lee communing with
himself, “I wonder how people managed to live sixty
years ago. No steamboats, nor spinning jennies,
nor railroads, nor canals, nor anthracite coal, nor
houses of refuge, nor societies for making the world
perfect in every thing, nor silver forks, nor self-sharpening
pencils, nor metallic corn cutters, nor
japan blacking, nor gros de Naples, nor gros des
Indes, nor Cotepaly, nor any of the indispensable
requisites to a comfortable existence. What a set of
miserable sinners they must have been! I don't wonder
for my part that children govern their parents;
the young the old; seeing the world is so much
wiser, better and happier than it was sixty years
ago.” Thus the good gentleman ran on, as was his
custom, until he finally lost sight of his subject and
cooled in the pursuit.

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“Well my dear uncle, if you wont listen to me—”

“But I will listen, who told you sir I would'nt
listen—I suppose you want me to do nothing else—
hey!”

“I wanted to tell you, sir, that I see plainly, myself
and my concerns are destined to give you great
and I fear unavailing trouble, and have come to a
resolution—”

“Well, sir, and what is it?”

“I intend as soon as I am well enough, to leave
you, my dear uncle.”

“Well, sir—”

“I have been too long a dependent on your kindness,
and I cannot but perceive my remaining here
will be a source of contention between you and my
cousin. I fear I shall never be able to touch her
heart, and without the free, uninfluenced gift of her
affections, I would not receive her as my wife,
were she descended from heaven and with an angel's
dower.”

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Lee, in breathless impatience
and anger.

“I have little more to say, uncle. When I am
well enough, I will endeavour to do justice to my
feelings of gratitude for all that I owe you.”

“And so—and so, sir, you mean to leave me, now
that you have got out of the egg-shell, and can walk
alone. If you do, by all that is sacred, I'll disinherit
you.”

“I have no claim to your inheritance, sir. I would

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consent to share it with my cousin, did her heart go
with your bounty; but I will starve sooner than rob
her of a shilling.”

“Will nothing move you to stay with me till I am
dead?” said Mr. Lee, overpowered by his feelings.

“One thing, and one only, sir—I will remain with
you and be to you as a son, if you will promise on
your honour, that my cousin shall neither be worried
or urged, or entreated in any way against her inclinations;
and that I myself may be left to the direction
of my own sense of honour and propriety in this
business. To make my cousin uneasy, is not the
way to win her heart, and even if it were, it is not
the mode to which I would descend.”

“Well then I do promise—I pledge my word,
that you shall do as you please in this affair, and
that Lucia shall have her own way in every thing but
in marrying that puppy sentimental, master Fitzgiles
Goshawk.”

“And I pledge myself, that living or dying, so far
as my actions are concerned, you shall never have
reason to repent your kindness to me.”

Here the conversation ended. Mr. Lee retired,
and Highfield stretched himself on his bed, overcome
with a weakness, and perplexity of heart.

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CHAPTER XV. Mutual mistakes and deceptions. Mr. Lee meditates a most daring exploit.

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The exertions and emotions of Highfield, encountering
with his pains and weakness of body, in the
preceding conversation, brought on a dangerous
fever, which confined him several weeks. During
this period Lucia entirely intermitted her intercourse
with the azure coterie, and saw Mr. Goshawk but
once, when he came in a long beard, dishevelled locks,
neglected costume, and various other insignia of a
despairing lover. He talked of himself, his depression
of mind, his distress at the danger in which he
saw her at the time her horse was rearing and plunging.
But Lucia just now was deeply touched with
the danger of Highfield, and remembered while
Goshawk had only felt, the other was suffering for
his exertions to preserve her life. True feeling, and
real sorrows, open our eyes to the full detection of
those that are the spurious product of ennui or affectation,
and enable us to see distinctly into the hypocrisy
of others' hearts, by putting them to the test
of a comparison with our own. What Lucia felt
now, satisfied her that her former feelings were rather

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reflected from the society to which she was accustomed,
and the false colouring in which their false
sentiment was enveloped, than from her own heart.
The subjection of her excellent understanding to a
long habit of associating with caricatures of literary
taste, and mawkish imitations of genius and sensibility,
was gradually undermined, by an estrangement
of some weeks, and a communion with those
who felt as nature dictated, and expressed their feelings
in the language of truth.

In addition to this, we hold it to be utterly impossible
for any woman, that ever claimed descent from
simple, tender hearted mother Eve, to behold a man
suffering pain and sickness, without feeling that sympathy
which renders woman, savage and civilized,
wherever and in whatever circumstances she may be
found, the assuager of sorrows; the nurse of calamity;
the angel spirit that watches over the dying
and the dead. If perchance it happens that this
heaven descended sympathy with suffering, is coupled
with a feeling of gratitude for some great benefit,
and a consciousness that their suffering is in consequence
of exertions made in her behalf, we confess
we can hardly believe it possible that this natural
tenderness of heart, and this feeling of gratitude,
should not in the end combine to produce a still
stronger sentiment, more especially in favour of a
young, handsome, and amiable man. We should
for these reasons, be inclined to discard our heroine
entirely and for ever from our good graces, had not

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the present crisis of affairs, awakened her better self,
and recalled her in some degree back to the destiny
for which nature had intended her.

It was more than four weeks before Highfield
was decidedly convalescent. During this period
he had endured much, and nature occasionally took
refuge in that blessed delirium which, however painful
to the observer, is a heaven of oblivion to the
weary sufferer. It was at these times, when he
knew nobody, and could interpret nothing which
he saw or heard, that the pride and delicacy of
Lucia would yield to the impulses of her heart, and
she would watch for hours at his bedside, moisten
his parched lips, smooth his pillow, dispose his aching
head in easy postures, and once, only once, she
kissed his damp cold forehead. There was nothing
violent in his delirium; his wanderings were low
and disjoined murmurs, connected as far as they
could be understood, with the recollections of his
cousin. Sometimes he would pause and fix his unsteady
wandering eyes upon her, as if some remote
consciousness crossed his mind; but it was only a
momentary effort of memory, and died away in the
wild wanderings of a diseased imagination.

The crisis of the fever passed over, leaving Highfield
a wreck, just without the gates of death. But
youth and a good constitution at length triumphed,
and he became convalescent. As he recovered possession
of his reason, Lucia discontinued her watchings
and confined herself within the limits of

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ordinary attentions. Highfield sometimes thought of a
confused dream, a vision of a distempered mind, representing
an angel hanging over his couch and
administering to his wants; but the impression gradually
passed away, and he remained ignorant of
the truth until long afterwards. Mr. Lee had been
in a passion during the whole period of Highfield's
danger, and the doctor had no peace day or night.
If he talked about bleeding or a warm bath, Mr.
Lee called him a Sangrado; if he suggested any of
the ordinary remedies, he was an empiric, and if he
thought of any experiment, he was a quack. In
short, the poor man led a terrible life, until his patient
got better, when the old gentleman grew into
vast good humour, and nothing could equal his conviction
of the Doctor's skill. Juba indeed insisted,
that he himself had a principal hand in the cure, by
concocting an African Obi of the most sovereign
virtue; but his master only called him an old block
head, and sent him about his business; whereupon
old Ebony went his way, muttering something that
sounded something like `calling massa out.'

It was now the beginning of June, when the
infamous easterly winds, that spoil the genial breath
of spring with chilling vapours, generally give place
to the southern airs of summer. Lucia and Highfield
had resumed their intercourse, but with no
great appearance of cordiality. Highfield remained
ignorant of the cares she had lavished and the tears
she had shed while he was unconscious of every

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thing, and Lucia, fearful that he might possibly
know it, shrunk with a timid consciousness from
all appearance or indication of that deep feeling
which late events had wakened in her bosom. He
resolved, in the recesses of his mind, to refrain in
future from every attention to his cousin, but such
as their relationship demanded; and she secretly
determined to hide the strong preference she now
felt, under the impenetrable mask of cool indifference.
I will not, said Highfield mentally, I will
not appeal to her gratitude or pity, for what her
love denies; and I, thought Lucia, scorn to repay
with love a debt of gratitude to one who seems to
think that alone sufficient. Neither of them suspected
the other's feelings, and pride stepped in to complete
their blindness.

The consequence was, that, finding each other's
society mutually irksome and unsatisfactory, they
avoided all intercourse but such as was indispensable.
Highfield sought every opportunity of being from
home; and Lucia was more than ever in the company
of Mr. Goshawk, who became every day more
miserable and incomprehensible. He talked of
smothered feelings in a voice of thunder, and sighed
with such emphasis, that he on one occasion dislodged
a geranium pot from a front window, and
came very near breaking the head of a little chimney-sweep
who was sunning himself below. But
Lucia, though she encouraged his affectations, from
a mysterious, indefinite desire to be revenged on

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Highfield for she knew not what, began to sicken a
little at his superlative azure. Of late she had
become too well acquainted with the substance of
feeling and passion to be deluded by the shadow,
and sometimes, amid the depression of her mind,
felt a great inclination to laugh at the mighty Goshawk
and his mighty verbosity. This heartless
intimacy contributed still more to estrange Highfield
from home and her society; for, unacquainted as
he was with her real feelings, he believed in his
heart that his cousin had a decided prepossession
for the empty sentimentalist. He had never altogether
recovered his strength or his colour; there
was a paleness in his face, a lassitude about his frame,
and a slow languor of motion, which gave to his
appearance a touching interest; and Lucia, as she
sometimes watched him without being seen, felt the
tears on her eyelashes, as she noticed the wreck of
his youth, and recalled to mind to what it was owing.
Thus matters remained; Highfield was only waiting
the return of his strength, to make a final effort to
disengage himself from the family and pursue his
fortune; Goshawk was daily meditating whether he
should sell the old gentleman's lands and buy stock
when he married Lucia and succeeded to the estate;
and Lucia was daily losing her vivacity in the desperate
attempt to be gay.

But what became of Mr. Lightfoot Lee all this
while? The old gentleman was in the finest quandary
imaginable. He grew so impatient there was

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no living with him, and quarrelled with Juba forty
times a day. There was nobody else he could quarrel
with. Mrs. Coates had gone to pay a visit to
Hold Hingland, and renew her acquaintance with
Sir Richard Gammon and Sir Cloudesley Shovel;
Mr. Fairweather had gone to see the Grand Canal;
and to Highfield, he was bound by a solemn promise
not to say any thing on the subject nearest his
heart. Never was man so encumbered to the very
throat with vexations, that almost choaked him for
want of a vent; notwithstanding he had a most ingenius
way of letting off a little high steam now and
then. If he happened to encounter a beggar woman
at the door, he sent her about her business, with
a most edifying lecture on idleness, unthrift and intemperance;
if a dog came in his way he was pretty
sure of a kick; if a door interposed it might fairly
calculate upon a slam; and if the weather was any
way deserving of reproof, it might not hope to
escape a phillippic. Unfortunately for Mr. Lee he
had no wife, to become the residuary legatee of his
splenetic humours; but then he made himself amends
by falling upon the corporation for suffering the
swine to follow their instinct of wallowing in the
mud, and for furnishing mud for them to wallow in;
for not taking up the beggars, and for taking up so
much time in passing laws instead of seeing to the
execution of those already passed; for allowing the
little boys to fly kites in the street; for spending
money in monuments and canal celebrations, and

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for every thing that ever occurred to the imagination
of a worthy old gentleman, who made amends
for his mouth being shut on one subject, by declaiming
upon a thousand others, about which he did not
care a fig.

He could not help seeing that his favourite project
was in a most backsliding condition, and that
every day Lucia was less with Highfield and more
with Goshawk. Whereupon he gathered himself together,
and uttered a tremendous libel upon literary
pretenders, rhyming fops, empty declaimers, and sentimental
puppies. Nay he spared not the azures themselves,
but pronounced their condemnation in words
of such horrible atrocity, that I will not dare the responsibility
even of putting them on record. I will
not deny, however, that in the midst of his blasphemies
he said some things carrying with them a remote
affinity with common sense. He affirmed that there
was among the women of the present fashionable
world, a hollow affectation of literature; an admiration
of affected sentiment and overstrained hyperbole;
that they placed too little value on morals,
and too much on manners; that an amiable disposition,
together with all the qualities essential to
honourable action, were held in little consideration,
while they paid their court to the most diminutive
dwarf of a genius, and listened with exclusive delight
to frothy declamations, the product of empty
heads and hollow hearts, alike devoid of manly
firmness or the capacity to be uselful in any

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honourable rank or situation. He reproached them in his
heart, with being the dupes of false sentiment and
affected sorrow; and finally concluded his blasphemies
by giving it as his settled opinion, that the present
system of female education was admirably calculated
to make daughters extravagant, wives ridiculous,
and mothers incapable of fulfilling their duties.
But I entreat my beloved female readers to recollect,
that all this was soliloquized in a passion by an elderly
gentleman, born long before the invention of
steam engines and spinning jennies, and that I only
place it on record for the purpose of showing what
a prodigious “developement of mind,” has taken
place in the world, since Mr. Lee received his early
impressions.

The good gentleman sat himself down in his library,
and fell into a deep contemplation on the
course proper to be pursued in this perplexing state
of his domestic affairs; which lasted at least half an
hour. At length he started up with almost youthful
alacrity and rung the bell. In due time, that is, in
no very great haste, king Juba made his appearance.

“Juba,” said Mr. Lee, “bring out my best blue
coat, buff waistcoat, and snuff coloured breeches. I
am going to dress.”

“No time yet, massa, to dress for dinner—” said
Juba.

“I tell you bring out my best suit, you obstinate
old snowball—I am going to pay a visit to a lady.”

“A lady sir, massa!”

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“Ay, a lady—is there any thing to grin at, in
my visiting a lady, you blockhead?”

“Juba,” quoth Mr. Lee while dressing himself,
“Juba, how old am I?”

“Massa, fifty-eight, last grass.”

“No such thing, sir, I'm just fifty-five, not a day
older. How should you know any thing about it?”

“Why I only saw massa, de berry day he born—
dat was—ay let me see, was twenty-second day
of—”

“Hold your peace, sir—you've lost your memory,
as well as all the five senses, I believe.”

“Well, well, no great matter if massa, two, tree
year older or younger—all de same a hundred years
hence.”

“But it is matter I tell you, sir—I'm going to be
married.”

“Married!” echoed Juba, his white eyes almost
starting out of his ebony head—“married!” He
saw at a glance such a resolution would be fatal to
his supremacy.

“Ay, married; is there any thing so extraordinary
in that?”

“But what Miss Lucy say to dat, massa?”

“I mean to disinherit her.”

Juba's eyes opened wider than ever, and he
thought to himself the debil was in his massa.

“What young massa Highfield say to dat?”

“I don't care what he says; I mean to disinherit
him too.”

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“Whew—whew!” was the reply of old ebony.
“Massa tell me what lady he hab in he eye?”

“Miss Appleby.”

“Miss Applepie too young for old massa.”

Juba had been long accustomed to call Mr. Lee
“old massa,” without giving offence, but now the
phrase was taken in high dudgeon.

“Old master—you blockhead, who gave you the
liberty of calling me old? I'm only fifty-five, and
Miss Appleby is twenty-two; the difference is not
great.”

“Yes, but when Miss Applepie fifty-five, where
old massa be den?” quoth Juba.

This was a home question. Mr. Lee dismissed
Juba, and sat down to calculate where he should be
when Miss Appleby attained to the age of fifty-five.
The result was altogether unsatisfactory. He again
rung for Juba, and directed him to put up his best
suit again.

“I have put off my visit till to-morrow.”

“Massa better put him off till doomday.” quoth
Juba to himself; and so massa did.

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CHAPTER XVI. Our hero determines on a voyage.

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There never was a man, or woman either, that
found such difficulty in keeping silence on what was
uppermost in their hearts, as Mr. Lee, or who had
more ingenious ways of giving side hits, and uttering
wicked inuendos. He never on any occasion
missed an opportunity of launching out against addle
pated rhymesters; boys that thought themselves
wiser than their betters; and girls who talked sentiment
and forgot their duty. If Goshawk uttered a
word of azure, he cried “Pish!” if Lucia talked
sentiment, he ejaculated some other epithet of mortal
contempt; and if Highfield said any thing about
honour or independence, he called him a puppy.

In the mean time matters were growing worse and
worse every day. Goshawk ventured to hint pretty
distinctly the nature and object of his mysterious
sorrows; Lucia treated her cousin with increasing
coolness and Highfield looked paler and paler.
Unable to bear his situation any longer, he one
morning—it was the day after Lucia had given the
watch chain, she had promised him, to Goshawk,
before his very eyes—he one morning took the

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opportunity of being left alone with his uncle, to announce
to him, that being now sufficiently recovered
from his indisposition, it was his intention to visit his
relatives in the south, and spend some time with them.
“Perhaps indeed I may not return at all,” said he.

Mr. Lee was struck dumb for a moment; but
whenever this happens to people, it is pretty certain
they will make themselves ample amends for their
silence, as soon after as possible.

“Not come back at all!” at length roared the
old gentleman; “did you say that, boy?”

“I did, sir,” said Highfield, firmly; “my situation
here is becoming intolerable. I am harassed
with anxieties; depressed by a sense of degrading
dependence; and cut to the soul by perceiving
every day new reasons to believe my cousin knows
and despises my presumption.”

“May I speak?” cried Mr. Lee, gasping for
breath.

“Hear me out first, my dear and honoured sir,”
said the other. “When you first proposed this
union to me, I considered the subject deeply. I
reflected that though poor and dependent on your
bounty, still, next to your daughter, I was your
nearest relative; my cousin was rich enough to
make it immaterial that I was poor; she was lovely,
amiable, and intelligent, such a being as, when held
up to the hopes and wishes of youth, could not but
prove irresistible. I therefore consented to try my
chance for this glorious prize by every means

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becoming a man of spirit and honour placed in such a
delicate situation. You see the result, sir. Lucia
not only feels indifferent to me, but there is every
appearance that she prefers another. I am too poor
and too proud to persecute or see her persecuted;
and, let me add, too much attached to my cousin to
remain and see her united to another man. It is
therefore my settled determination, to leave you the
day after to-morrow. My passage is taken.”

Mr. Lee was struck dumb again; but the fit did
not last long.

“May I speak now—do you release me from my
promise?” cried he, his eyes starting almost out of
his head.

As respects myself, sir, say what you will; but
for my cousin, I claim your promise that she shall
suffer no persecution on my account.”

“And so, sir, I must not speak to my own child?”

“I claim your promise, sir. Let her remain for
ever ignorant of my motives for leaving you.”

“Charles,” said the old man, taking his hand
with tears in his eyes, “are you determined to abandon
me in my old age?”

“My dear uncle, my benefactor, any thing but
this! I cannot stay to be murdered by inches, and
stand in the way of my cousin's happiness. I must
go. But wherever I do go, whatever my lot may
be, my last breath of life will be all gratitude for
your past kindness. I wish it were otherwise; but,
for some time at least, we must part.”

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“Charles! Charles! my boy!” cried the warm
hearted old man, as he put his arms about his neck
and wept on his shoulder. At this moment Lucia
entered, and inquired anxiously what was the matter?

“The matter! you, you are the matter,” exclaimed
Mr. Lee in a fury.

“Recollect your word of honour, sir,” whispered
Highfield to his uncle, as he left the room. The old
gentleman cast a most terrible look at his daughter,
and followed. Lucia remained pondering for some
time on the scene that had just passed; and it was
not till she learned that Highfield was on the point
of leaving home for a long while, that her perplexity
became absorbed in another and more powerful
feeling.

CHAPTER XVII. Highfield enters on a voyage.

Juba was assisting his young master, or rather
delaying him, in packing up his things, for the old
man made a sad business of it; Lucia was in her
chamber, netting a purse as fast as her eyes would
let her; and Mr. Lee was in his library, writing
with all his might.

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“Ah, Massa Highfield!” said Juba at length,
“what Miss Lucia say when you go away?”

“Miss Lucia say!” quoth the other, somewhat
surprised, “why nothing.”

“Ah, Massa Highfield! if you only know what I
know, icod! massa wouldn't stir a peg, I reckon.”

“What are you talking about, Juba, and what
are you doing? You've put my old boots up with
my clean cravats.”

“Ah, massa! I know what I say, but I don't
know what I do now, much; but if Massa Highfield
only know what I do—dat's all.”

“Well what do you know, Juba?” said Highfield,
hardly knowing what he was saying at the moment.

“I know Miss Lucia break her heart when you
gone.”

“Pooh! Miss Lucia don't care whether I go or
stay.”

“Ah, Massa Highfield! if you only see her set
by your bed-side when you light-headed, and cry
so, and say prayers, and wipe your forehead, and
kiss it”—

“What—what are you talking about, you old
fool?” cried Highfield, almost gasping for breath.
“If you say another word, I'll turn you out of the
room.”

“Ah, Juba always old fool—no young fools now--a-days;
all true dough, by jingo, I swear. I seed
her wid my own eyes—dat's all.” And he went on
with his packing slower than ever, while Highfield

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sunk into a deep reverie, the subject of which the
reader must know little of his own heart if he requires
me to unfold.

The next morning was the last they were to spend
together, and the little party met at breakfast.
Lucia at first had determined to have a headach,
and stay in her room; but her conscious heart whispered
her this might excite a suspicion that she
could not bear the parting with her cousin. Accordingly
she summoned all the allies of woman to
her assistance. She called up maidenly pride, and
womanly deceit, and love's hypocrisy, to her aid, and
they obeyed the summons. She entered the breakfast
room with a pale face, but with a self-possession
which I have never since reflected upon without
wonder. Little was said and less eaten by the party.
A summons arrived for Highfield's baggage, and a
message for him to be on board in half an hour. Mr.
Lee rose, and taking from his pocket a paper, gave
it to Highfield with a request not to look at it till he
was outside the hook. Highfield suspected its purport,
and replied:

“Excuse me, dear uncle, this once;” and he
opened the paper, which was nothing less than the
deed of a fine estate Mr. Lee held in one of the
southern states.

“I cannot accept this, sir,” said the young man.
“I cannot consent to rob my cousin of what is hers
by nature and the laws.” And his voice became
choked with emotion.

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“I insist,” said the old man; “it is all I can give
you now. Once I thought to give you all.”

“And I too,” said Lucia, but she could get no
farther.

“I declare, on my soul,” said Highfield, “I will
not, I cannot accept it, uncle. You at least know
my feelings and can comprehend my reasons, though
others may not. I had rather starve than rob my
cousin, and her—I have nothing to give either of
you in return.” He pulled out his watch; “I must
go now,” said he; and his voice sunk into nothing.
Lucia had been fumbling, with a trembling hand, in
her work-bag.

“My cousin is determined, I see,” said she, rallying
herself, “not to accept any favours from us;
but—but I hope he will not refuse this purse, empty
as it is. I have been a long while in keeping my
promise; but better late, they say, than never.”
And she burst into a torrent of uncontrollable emotion.
Highfield took it and put it in his bosom.

“And now, my dear uncle, farewell! may God
bless you.”

“Stop! one moment,” cried Mr. Lee earnestly,
and looking at Lucia, who was weeping in her
chair.

“Lucia,” said he solemnly, “my nephew loves
you, and is going from us that he may not see you
throw yourself away on a puppy with a heart as
hollow as his head.”

“Uncle!” said Highfield.

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“Nay, sir, I will speak; the truth shall out,
though I travel barefoot to Rome for absolution.
Yes, daughter, my nephew loves you, and with my
entire and perfect approbation. And now, madam,
I am going to ask you some questions, which I trust
at this parting hour you will answer, not as a foolish,
frivolous girl who thinks it proper to play the hypocrite
with her father, but as a reasonable woman
and an obedient child. Will you promise? The
happiness of more than one depends on your reply.”

Lucia uncovered her face, and, having mastered
her emotions, firmly replied,

“I will, father.”

“Have you given your affections to Mr. Goshawk?”

“I have not, sir.”

“Do you mean to bestow them on him?”

“Never, sir.”

“Are your affections engaged elsewhere?”

Lucia answered not; she could not speak for her
life.

“Yes, yes, I see how it is,” said Mr. Lee; “you
are deceiving your father again. You have given
away you heart to some whiskered puppy you
waltzed with at a fancy ball, who can write a string
of disjointed nonsense about nothing in jingling
rhyme, or criticise a book according to the latest
Edinburgh or Quarterly; and yet—look at me,
Lucia, and answer me too—did you not while your
cousin was delirious visit his bed-side?”

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“I did, sir.”

“And weep and wring your hands; and watch
his slumbers; and minister to his comforts; and
did I not once when I came into the room suddenly,
detect you hovering over him and kissing his forehead?
Answer me, as you hope for mine and Heaven's
forgiveness for playing the hypocrite at the price
of others health and hopes; is it not so?”

“It is, sir,” said the daughter faintly; and sinking
back on her chair she again covered her face
with her hands.

“What am I to understand from all that I saw?”

“For Heaven's sake sir; for my sake; for the
sake of your daughter, stop—” cried Highfield,
whose feelings on this occasion we will not attempt
to describe.

“Silence!” cried the old man; “too much has
been risked, too much is at stake, and too much may
be sacrificed by stopping short at this moment.
Answer me, daughter of my soul,” added he kindly
yet solemnly.

“You are to understand, sir, from all this, that—
that, though I would not shut my heart to—to gratitude,
I was too proud to force it on one who did not
value it when himself. He could not insult me with
indifference when unconscious of my presence.

“Oh Lucia, how unjust you have been to me!
You knew not my feelings, when I seemed most indifferent.”

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“There were two of us in the like error,” replied
she, with a heavy sigh.

“The pride of conscious dependence,” said Highfield.

“The pride of woman,” said Lucia.

“I loved you from the moment I felt the first impulses
of manhood. Oh Lucia, my dear cousin,
daughter of my benefactor, companion of my childhood,
will you, can you fulfil his wishes and my
hopes without forfeiting your own happiness? Do
you not despise my poverty and presumption? Do
you not hate me for being a party, at least in appearance,
in thus severely probing your feelings? Ah!
had I known of your kindness and attentions when
I was not myself, I should not when myself have forgot
the deep heart piercing obligation; I should
have been grateful—” Mr. Lee could not bear the
word—

“Grateful, pooh, nonsense—The lady is grateful
for past favours; and the gentleman is grateful
for past sympathy. Look ye, most grateful lady,
and most grateful gentleman, I have not quite so
many years to live and make a fool of myself as you
have, perhaps; now, Lucia, will you take your old
father's word when he tells you solemnly that Charles
has loved you ever since he came from college?”—

“Long before, sir!” cried Highfield, warmly.

“Hold your tongue, sir, if you please—Lucia, answer
for yourself.”

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“I will believe any thing my father says, even
were it ten times more improbable,” replied she, with
one of her long absent smiles.

“And how think you he ought to be rewarded?”

“My gratitude will”—

“Now Lucia you are at your old tricks again; I
tell you I wont hear a word about that infernal gratitude.”

“What shall I say, sir?”

“Say what your heart prompts, and do what
never mortal woman did before—speak the truth,
even though it make your old father happy.”

“Lucia,” said Charles.

“Daughter,” said Mr. Lee.

“Charles,” said Lucia, and gave him her hand—
“You shall know my feelings when it will be my
duty to disguise nothing from you.”

Highfield lost his passage; the ship sailed without
him, taking with her all his wardrobe.

Goshawk called that morning as early as fashionable
hours would permit, to take the first opportunity
of enforcing his attractions on Lucia, in Highfield's
absence.

“She no see any body,” said Juba.

Mr. Goshawk said he had particular business.
Juba demurred—

“She busy wid young Massa Highfield.”

“What, is not Mr. Highfield gone?”

“No sir, he going another voyage soon.”

“Not gone! why what prevented him?”

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Juba grinned mortally—“Miss Lucia prevent
him. Icod, Massa Goosehawk bill out of joint, I
reckon,” quoth Ebony, half aside.

Goshawk soon got to the bottom of the matter;
which he forthwith communicated to the azure coterie
at Miss Appleby's, each of whom made a famous
speech on the occasion, and voted Lucia a Goth.

“To fall in love with a man of no genius!” cried
Miss Overend.

“Who can't write a line of poetry!” cried Miss
Appleby.

“Who hates argument!” cried the great Puddigham.

“Who places actions before words!” cried Paddleford.

“Who never made a set speech in his life!” cried
Prosser.

“Who hates passion—”

“Despises criticism—”

“And never reads a review—” cried they all together.

Every member of the azure tribe, to whom Goshawk's
despairing passion had been long known,
took it for granted, that having so excellent an apology,
he would now certainly die of despair, or suddenly
make away with himself, after writing his own
elegy. He did neither; but he became if possible
ten times more miserable than ever. He railed at
this world, and the things of this world; he tied a
black riband round his neck, drank gin and water,

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and ate fish every day. One day he talked of joining
the Greeks, and the next the Cherokees; sometimes
he sighed away his very soul in wishes for
speedy annihilation, and then he sighed away
his soul again, in pining for the delights of Italy,
lamenting that he was not rich enough to go thither,
occupy a palace and hire a nobleman's wife to come
and be his housekeeper, like my Lord Byron. Man
delighted not him, or woman either; he sucked
melancholy as the bee sucks honey out of every
flower; the sunshine saddened, the clouds made him
melancholy, and the light of the moon threw him into
paroxysms of despair. Finally he announced
his determination to retire from this busy, noisy, heartless,
naughty, good for nothing world, and spend the
remainder of a life of disappointment and misery, in
the great mammoth cave in Kentucky. But what was
very remarkable, and shows the strange inconsistencies
of genius, there was no public place, no party,
no exhibition of any kind, at which this unhappy
gentleman did not make his appearance, notwithstanding
his contempt of the world, and its empty
pleasures.

In process of time, there was a great dispersion
from the tower of Babel at Miss Appleby's. That
azure and sublime lady, descended at last, as she
said, “to link her fate, chain down her destiny, and
trammel her genius, with an honest grocer from
Coenties slip, who, not being able to speak English
himself, had a great veneration for high and lofty

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declamation. Miss Overend got tired of the executive
Greek committee, and paired off with a little broker,
who had got rich by speculating in the bills of broken
banks, and drank champaigne instead of small
beer at dinner. Paddleford married an heiress from
somewhere near the Five Points; and the great
Puddingham became a member of the city corporation,
where he served on divers important committees,
drew up divers laws, that puzzled wiser men
than himself to expound, and became a sore persecutor
of mad dogs, and wallowing swine, insomuch
that if a dog in his sober senses, or a swine of ordinary
discretion, saw him coming afar off, he would
incontinently flee away like unto the wind. He became
moreover, a great philanthropist, and it was
observed that he never, in the capacity of assistant
justice at the quarter sessions, pronounced sentence
on an offender, without first making him a low bow,
and begging his pardon for the liberty he was about
to take.

Poor Mr. Goshawk, being thus as it were left
alone howling in the wilderness of the city, continued
to nourish his despair at all public places. He was
a constant attendant at the Italian opera, where he
kept himself awake by nodding and bobbing his admiration;
beating time with his chin upon his little
ivory headed switch, and now and then crying
“Bravo” to the Signorina. Every body said what
an enthusiast was Mr. Goshawk, and what a soul he
had for music, until one night he mistook Yankee

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Doodle for “Di Tanti,” which ruined his reputation
for ever as a connoiseur. By slow, imperceptible,
yet inevitable degrees, he at length sunk to his
proper level; for the most stupid at last will become
tired of affectation, and the most ignorant detect
their kindred ignorance. His loud pompous nothings;
his affected contempt of the world and distaste
for life; his disjointed, silly, and unpurposed
poetical effusions; and his mysterious sorrows, all
combined, failed in the end to sustain his claim to
genius. The admiration of his associates dwindled
into indifference, and even the young ladies tittered
at his approach. He tried the pretender's last stake—
the society of strangers. He went to the Springs,
where it was his good fortune to encounter the rich
and sentimental widow of a rich lumber merchant,
from the neighbourhood of the great Dismal Swamp.
She was simplicity itself; she adored poetry, idolized
genius, and the routine of her reading had
prepared her to mistake, high sounding words for
lofty ideas, and namby-pamby twaddle for genuine
feeling. Goshawk thundered away at the innocent
widow, and finally soon melted her heart, by declaiming
about the worthlessness of this world, and
the heartlessness of mankind. The poor lady came
to think it the greatest condescension possible, for
him to select her from this mighty mass of worthlessness.
Finally, he declared his enthusiastic love.

“La! Mr. Goshawk,” said the widow, “I

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thought you despised the world, and the people in
it.”

“Divine widow,” cried the poet, “you belong to
another world, and a higher order of beings.”

Goshawk is now the happy husband of the widow,
and lords it over a wide tract of the great Dismal.
He orders his gentleman of colour to cut down pine
trees like Cicero declaiming against Verres; reads
Lord Byron under the shade of a bark hut; and
makes poetry extempore riding to church over a log
causeway in a one horse wagon with wooden springs.
The widow has already discovered that her husband
is no witch, for nothing makes people more clear
sighted than marriage; and the man of genius has
found out that his lady has a will of her own.

Our heroine remains the happy, rational, lovely
wife of Highfield, and talks just like other wellbred
sensible people. She prefers Milton to Byron,
and the Vicar of Wakefield to an entire new Waverly.
She admires her husband, though he can't
write poetry; and is a sincere convert to the opinion,
that high moral principles, gentlemanly manners,
amiable dispositions, a well constituted intellect, and
the talents to be useful in society, are a thousand
times more important ingredients in the character of
a husband, than affected sensibility, or the capacity
to disguise empty nothings in pompous words, and
jingling rhymes.

My worthy friend Mr. Lightfoot Lee is so happy,
that he begins seriously to doubt whether the world

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is really going forwards or backwards. There is
reason to apprehend that he and Mr. Fairweather
will soon agree on this great question, and then there
will certainly be an end to their long friendship.

“Ah massa,” said King Juba one day to Mr. Lee,
who was apt to boast of his excellent management
in bringing about this happy state of things—“Ah
massa, icod, if I no tell massa Highfield about dem
dare visit to he bedside, when he light headed, he
no marry Miss Lucia arter all.”

“Pooh, you old blockhead, don't you know marriages
are made in heaven?”

“May be so, massa, but old nigger hab something
to do wid um for all dat—guy!”

“Get away you stupid old ninny!”

“Massa wouldn't dare call me ninny, if I was a
white man,” quoth Juba, as he strutted away with
the air of a descendent of a hundred ebony kings.

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THE POLITICIAN.

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—Toys called honours
Make men on whom they are bestowed no better
Than glorious slaves, the servants of the vulgar.
Men sweat at helm as well as at the oar.
Here is a glass within shall show you, sir,
The vanity of these silkworms that do think
They toil not, 'cause they spin their thread so fine.
Randolph.

One of the most dangerous characters in the
world is a man who habitually sacrifices the eternal,
immutable obligations of truth and justice, and the
charities of social life, at the shrine of an abstract
principle, about which one half of mankind differs
from the other half. Whether this abstract principle
is connected with religion or politics, is of little
consequence; since, after all, morals constitute the
essence of religion, and social duties, the foundation
of government. Whatever is essentially necessary
to the conduct of our lives, the performance of our
duties to our families, our neighbours, and our
country, is easy of comprehension; and it requires
neither argument nor metaphysics to teach us what
is right or what is wrong. These are great fundamental
principles, modified indeed by the state of

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society and the habits of different nations; but their
nature and obligations are every where the same,
inflexible and universal in their application. A
close examination of the history of the world in
every age, will go far to convince us that a vast
portion of the crimes, and miseries, and oppressions
of mankind, has originated in a difference, not in
morals, but in abstract ideas; not in fundamental
principles, but vague, indefinite abstractions, incomprehensible
to the great mass, and having not the
remotest connection with our moral and social duties.
When men come to assume these contested principles,
these metaphysical refinements, as indispensable
to the salvation of the soul or the preservation
of the state, and to substitute them in the place of
the everlasting pillars of truth and justice, they cast
themselves loose from their moorings, to drift at
random in the stream, the sport of every eddy, the
dupes of every bubble, the victims of every shoal and
quicksand. Instead of sailing by the bright star of
mariners, which sparkles for ever in the same pure
sphere, they shape their course by the fleeting vapour
which is never the same; which rises in the
morning, a fog; ascends a fantastic cloud; and
vanishes in the splendours of the noontide sun.

The following sketch of my own history will serve
to illustrate the preceding observations, by showing
how near an adherence to certain vague, contested,
abstract principles in politics, brought me to a breach
of all the cardinal virtues.

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I am a politician by inheritance. My guardian,
for I was early left an orphan, was the great man of
a little state that had more banks and great men
than any state of its inches in the universe. The
state was too small to accommodate more than one
great man at a time; and the consequence was an
incessant struggle to keep one another's heads under
water. Like the buckets of a well, as one rose the
other sunk; and the filling of one was the emptying
of the other. These struggles for the helm of the
little vessel of state kept up a perpetual excitement.
The puddle of our politics was ever in a mighty
storm, and like Pope's sylph, our illustrious great
men were continually in danger of perishing in the
foam of a cup of hot chocolate. Then, our political
barque was so small that the veriest zephyr was
enough to upset her, and Gulliver's frog would have
shipwrecked us outright.

From my earliest years I heard nothing but politics.
Our family circle were all politicians; men,
women, and children. The wife of my guardian
made it a point of faith, never to believe any thing
good of the females of the opposite party; and
though she was too conscientious to invent scandals
herself, she religiously believed the slanders of
others. Her candour never went beyond acknowledging
that she believed ignorance and not wickedness
was at the bottom of their want of political
principle. The only daughter, naturally an amiable
girl, publicly gave out she would never marry

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any one who did not believe her father to be a
greater man than the Honourable Dibble Dibblee,
innkeeper at Dibbleesville, his most formidable rival.
Love however proved at last too potent for politics,
and she relented in favour of a handsome and rich
Dibbleeite.

For my part, I was nurtured at the breast of
politics, and imbibed a nutriment gloriously concocted
of a hundred absurd, ridiculous, unneighbourly,
and unchristian prejudices and antipathies.
With me the world was divided, not into the good
and the bad, the wise and the foolish, but into the
adherents of the Honourable Dibble Dibblee, innkeeper
at Dibbleesville, and those of the Honourable
Peleg Peshell, cash-store keeper at Peshellville.
At school I signalized my devotion to principle, by
refusing to share my good will or my gingerbread
with boys of the opposite party; and many are the
battles I fought in vindication of the wisdom, purity,
and consistency of the Honourable Peleg, my worthy
guardian, who, I verily believe even to this day,
was an honest politician till the age of forty.
After that, I will not answer for any man, not even
my own guardian. The prime object of my antipathy
was a lad of the name of Redfield, a gay,
careless, sprightly, mercurial genius, who always professed
to belong to no party, and whom I for that
reason considered utterly destitute of all principle.
Several times I attempted to beat principle into him;
but he had the obstinacy of a puritan and the

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boldness of a lion. I always got worsted, but my consolation
was that I was the champion of principle, and
must not be discouraged.

At the time I am speaking of, parties were at the
height of contention, and the demons of discord, in
the disguise of two editors of party newspapers,
flapped their sooty wings over the little state. There
was a great contest of principle, on the decision of
which depended the very existence of the liberties,
not only of our little state, but of the whole union.
I never could find out what this principle was exactly;
but it turned on the question, whether a certain
bridge about to be built should be a free bridge
or a toll bridge. The whole state divided on this
great question of principle. The Honourable Peleg
Peshell was at the head of the free bridge, on
which depended the great arch of our political union;
and the Honourable Dibble Dibblee, whose principles
were always exactly opposite, forthwith took the
field as leader of the toll bridge party. The Honourable
Peleg declared it was against his principles
to pay toll; and the Honourable Dibble Dibblee
found it equally against his principles to apply any
part of his money to building a bridge which was to
bring him nothing in return. Both sides accused
the other of being governed by interested motives.
Such is the injustice of party feelings! There was
a Tertium quid party, growling in an undertone,
which was opposed to having any bridge at all, upon
the principle, that as it would be no advantage

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to them, and at the same time cost them money, it
was their interest to oppose the whole affair. The
leader of this party was the Honourable Tobias
Dob, a ruling elder of the principal church in
Dobsboroughvilleton.

The fate of a pending election rested on this
bridge, and the fate of the bridge rested on the
election. The principle to be decided was one on
which the liberties of the whole confederation depended.
Is it therefore to be wondered at, that the
good people of our patriotic state should consider
the destinies of the world and the future welfare of
all mankind as mainly depending on the decision of
this great question? or can we be surprised, if, in a
contest for such momentous principles, affecting not
only the present age but all posterity, the passions of
men should be excited, and all the charities of life
forgotten, in this vital struggle for the human race,
present and to come? Heavens! how our political
puddle did foam, and swell, and lash its sides, and
blow up bubbles, and disturb the sleepy serenity of
the worms inhabiting its precincts!

On the day of election, each party took the field,
under its own appropriate banner. The party of
the Honourable Peleg Peshell had for its motto,
“Principle not Interest;” that of the Honourable
Dibble Dibblee, “Interest not Principle;” and the
Honourable Tobias Dob paraded his Tertium quids
under that of “Principle and Interest.” Here was
room enough, and reason enough too, in all

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conscience, for the goddess of contention to act a most
splendid part; and, accordingly, had the ancestors
of the different parties been fighting from the
creation of the world, their posterity could not have
hated each other as did my worthy fellow-citizens,
for the time being. They abused each other by
word of mouth; they published handbills and caricatures;
and such was the disruption of the social
principle, that the adherents of the Honourable
Peleg Peshell passed a unanimous resolution to
abstain from visiting the tavern of the Honourable
Dibble Dibblee, from that time forward. The friends
of the Honourable Dibble retorted upon those of the
Honourable Peleg, by passing a unanimous resolution,
not to buy any thing at his cash-store; and
the Tertium quids also passed a resolution, that
“Whereas all men are born free and equal, and
whereas the liberty of speech and action is the unalienable
right of all men, therefore resolved unanimously,
that the Honourable Peleg Peshell is a fool;
the Honourable Dibble Dibblee, a rogue; and the
Honourable Tobias Dob a man to whom the age has
produced few equals and no superior.

(Signed) “Upright Primm, Moderator.”

The Honourable Peleg had unfortunately broken
the bridge of his nose in early life, and the
breach had never been properly repaired. His
adversary took advantage of him, by publishing a
caricature of a man in that unlucky predicament,

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crying out “No bridge; down with the bridges!”
Whereupon the other party retorted, by a figure
standing under an old fashioned sign-post, (which
every body knows marvellously resembles a gallows,)
with a label bearing the following posey: “Hang
all republicans! I'm for the publican party—huzza!
give us a sling.” The Honourable Tobias would
have inflicted a caricature also upon his adversaries,
but as ill luck would have it, the election fund gave
out just at the crisis. This incident gave rise to a
negotiation, in which the Honourable Dibble Dibblee
intimated an offer to treat the Tertium quids
during the remainder of the election gratis, provided
they would promise to drink moderately, and
vote for him. The Honourable Tobias found his
principles inclining a little to one side, on this occasion;
but the Honourable Peleg, having got notice
of this intrigue, took measures to bolster him up
again, by proposing a coalition. He offered to
make the Honourable Tobias a judge of the superior
court, with a salary of sixty dollars, if he would
bring over his Tertium quids. Tobias—I beg pardon—
the Honourable Tobias Dob balanced for a
moment between the vital principle of benefiting
his friends, and the vital principle of benefiting
himself. After a sore struggle, the latter prevailed,
and the Honourable Peleg Peshell was elected governor.
His friends pronounced it the greatest
triumph of principle that had ever been achieved
upon earth; but truth obliges me to say, the friends

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of the Honourable Dibble Dibblee slandered their
opponents with the opprobrium of a corrupt coalition.
To be even with them, the friends of the
Honourable Peleg denounced the others as a corrupt
combination. Thenceforward the question of
toll and no toll was swallowed up in the great principle
involved in the question of coalition and combination.
The Tertium quids, who still kept together
for the purpose of selling themselves again
to the highest bidder, insisted there was no difference
between a coalition and a combination, and
therefore they would join neither. “You are mistaken,”
said my old schoolmate and antagonist,
Redfield, “you are mistaken; there is all the difference
in the world. A coalition is a combination
of honest men, to get into office; and a combination
is a coalition of honest men, to get them out. They
are no more alike than a salamander and a bull-frog;
they inhabit the opposite elements.”

It was in this contest that I first brought the
principles I had imbibed from the conversation and
example of my worthy guardian, into practical operation.
Young and inexperienced as I was, I most
firmly believed that the Honourable Peleg Peshell
was the most honest as well as capable man in the
state; that it depended in a great measure on his
election, whether freedom or slavery should predominate
in the world; and consequently that those
who opposed him must be devoid of principle as well
as patriotism. It was one of the maxims of the

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Honourable Peleg, that all minor principles ought
to yield to one great principle, by which the life of
every great man should be governed. Once convinced
that the safety or welfare of a nation or a
community depended on the success of a party
struggle, it was not only justifiable, but an inflexible
duty, to sacrifice all other duties and obligations to
the attainment of the great object. If it happened
that our individual interest or advancement was
connected with, or dependent on, the triumph of the
great principle, so much the better; we could kill
two birds with one stone, and not only save our
country, but provide for our families at the same
time. The Honourable Peleg was a great man,
and my guardian; his opinions and example could
therefore hardly fail of having a vast influence on
mine.

When this vital struggle about toll or no toll,
which was to settle the great principle on which depended
the liberties of ourselves and our posterity,
commenced, my guardian hinted to me that now
was the time to gain immortal glory, by assisting in
the salvation of my country. I begged to be put in
the way of achieving this great service.

“There is my neighbour Brookfield, whose influence
is considerable. He supports my enemies
and the enemies of the great principle on which the
salvation of the country depends. I want to destroy
that influence.”

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“Very well, sir. Shall I attack his opinions in
the public papers?”

“Attack his opinions! attack a fiddlestick, Oakford.
You may as well fight with a shadow. No,
no; attack him personally, cut up his moral character;
that is the way, boy. Even people that
have no morals themselves are very tenacious of the
morals of others.”

“But, sir, I know nothing of the morals of Mr.
Brookfield, but what is greatly to his credit. I
can't in conscience publish or utter any thing against
his character. His opinions”—

“Pish! opinions! opinions are nothing, unless
they grow into actions. You must make him out to
be a great rogue, or I shall lose my election.”

“I can't, sir; it goes against my conscience.”

“Conscience! what has conscience to do with
principle? You would sacrifice the liberties of your
country and the happiness of unborn millions to a
scruple of conscience. Ah! George, you will never
make a politician.”

“But, sir, Mr. Brookfield is my friend; I have
visited at his house almost every day for the last two
years; and he and his family have treated me like
one of themselves. It would be ungrateful.”

“And so,” said the Honourable Peleg, with a
sneer, “and so you would place your own private,
and personal, and, let me say, selfish feelings in
opposition to a great principle, on which the salvation
of your country depends.”

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“But, sir, by attacking the moral character of
Mr. Brookfield, I should not only injure his own
feelings, but perhaps destroy the happiness of his
wife and daughter, who are innocent of all offence
against you.”

“Ah! George; I see how it is; you are smitten
with Miss Deliverance Brookfield, and would sacrifice
a great principle to a little selfish consideration
of your own. I must make a tailor of you; you'll
never do for a politician.”

The Honourable Peleg left me to consider of the
matter. It was a sore struggle, but at last principle
triumphed, and I determined most heroically to
sacrifice all petty, personal, and interested considerations
to the salvation of my country. My
guardian furnished me with certain hints, on which
I exercised my genius, in the composition of a most
atrocious libel.

“It wont do,” said the Honourable Peleg; “it
will lay you open to a prosecution for a libel.”

“Well, what of that, sir? I am willing to encounter
any peril for the salvation of my country.”

“Yes,” said my guardian, after some hesitation,
“yes; but there is no occasion to risk your fortune
for the purpose. The salvation of the country don't
depend on money, but principle. You are about to
become a patriot; and a rich patriot has always
more influence than a poor one: you must therefore
keep your money for the salvation of the country.”

My commerce with mankind has since taught me

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that the capacity of men for worldly affairs is almost
entirely founded on experience. Hence it is, that
so few men go right in the first affair they undertake.
It did not occur to me at the time, that, as I was
under age, the Honourable Peleg would have been
responsible for the libel, had it been published. Be
this as it may, I resigned my first literary offspring
into the hands of my guardian, who softened it down
into hints, inuendoes, and interrogations, and converted
it into one of the most mischievous yet legally
innocent instruments of torment ever seen in or out
of the Inquisition. The article appeared in the
Banner of Truth, our paper; and was followed up,
from time to time, with others still more cruelly
unintelligible, but at the same time calculated, by
their very mystery, to do the more mischief. There
was no direct charge; of course there could be no
refutation. My conscience goaded me day and
night. I had not the face to visit our neighbour
any more, after thus wounding his feelings; and
this squeamishness, as the Honourable Peleg told
me, was another proof that I would never make a
great politician. I sometimes ventured to look at
the family at church, where the grave depression of
Mr. Brookfield, and the paleness of his wife and
daughter, went to my heart. But this feeling of
compunction subsided at length into one of lofty
triumph, that I had sacrificed my early feelings and
associations, my selfish considerations, to principle.

One day I met Deliverance Brookfield, by

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chance, in a spot where we had often played together
in childhood, and walked together in youth.
She turned her head the other way, and was passing
me without notice. The sense of offending guilt
overcame for a moment the sublime theory of the
Honourable Peleg, and I involuntarily exclaimed,
“Miss Brookfield!”

She turned upon me a countenance at once pale
and beautiful, but tinged deeply with melancholy
reproach, as she looked steadily in my face without
speaking.

“Have you forgot me, Miss Brookfield?”

“I believe I have,” at length she replied in a sad
kind of languor. “I would never wish to remember
one who has repaid the friendship of my father,
and the kindness of my mother, by destroying our
happiness.”

I felt like a scoundrel, but mustered hypocrisy
enough to answer in a gay tone,

“My dear Miss Brookfield, nobody thinks any
thing of such trifles in politics; nothing but political
squibs—forgot in a day—they do no harm to any
one.”

“None,” she replied bitterly; “no harm except
murdering reputations and breaking hearts. My
father is dying.” And she burst into tears.

“Dying!” cried I, “Heaven forbid! of what?”

“Of the wounds you have given him. O George,
George! continued she, “you should come to our
house, and receive a lesson of what a few slanders

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can do in destroying the happiness of an innocent
family.”

She passed on, and I had not courage to stop, or
to follow her. I went to the honourable Peleg, and
gave him notice, that it was my intention to retract
all I had said or insinuated against Mr. Brookfield,
in the next day's Banner of Truth.

“And lose me my election—I mean sacrifice a great
principle, and jeopardize the happiness of millions to
a little private feeling of compunction?”

“I cannot bear the stings of conscience.”

“My dear George—you, and such inexperienced
young fellows as yourself, are for ever mistaking the
painful efforts which are necessary to the attainment
of a high degree of public virtue, for the stings of
conscience. If the practice of virtue was not attained
by great sacrifices of feeling and inclination,
there would be little merit in being virtuous. What
if you have destroyed the temporary happiness of
two or three people, provided you have ensured the
triumph of a great principle, and the salvation of
your country? It is the noble, the exalted, the disinterested
sacrifice of private inclinations, and social
feelings to public duty. Did not Brutus condemn
his only son?”

“Yes, but he did not calumniate his mother and
sisters.”

“The greater the sacrifice to public principles,
the greater the glory and reward. The election

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commences to-morrow, and you must strike one more
blow.”

As it is my design to make my story as useful to
the rising generation of politicians as possible, I
mean to disclose myself without disguise or reservation.
I did let slip another shaft against poor Brookfield,
which probably accelerated his progress to the
grave, and deprived my kind friend and my pretty
playmate of a husband and a father. I would not
confess this hateful fact, could I not lay my hand at
this moment on my heart, look in the face of Heaven
and man, and say, that at the moment of inflicting
a death wound on the happiness of those who had
been to me as a mother, a father, and sister, I had
convinced myself I was sacrificing a narrow, selfish
feeling to an enlarged and universal principle of
virtuous patriotism. Poor Brookfield died a few
days after the election; but the honourable Peleg
Peshell gained the victory; and a domestic calamity
was not, as he assured me, to be weighed for a
moment against the triumph of a great principle,
and the salvation of millions of people yet unborn.
Brookfield was no more; his family was destitute;
his widow heart broken; his daughter without a
protector; and his little son, of about ten years old,
left upon the world. But what of that? The great
principle had triumphed; the oppression of toll
bridges was prevented; and the honourable Peleg
Peshell was governor of a little state containing more
banks and more great men, than any state of its

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inches in the universe, with a salary of five hundred
dollars a year, and the power to do nothing, but consent
to the acts of other people.

From this time forward, I became the confidential
friend and adviser of the great governor of the little
state, commander of an army and admiral of a navy
that had no existence; who had five hundred dollars
a year, with the title of excellency, the privilege
of doing nothing of his own free will, and franking
letters. The Lord have mercy on a little man, who
becomes the confidential friend and adviser of a
great man. He will be obliged to do for him, what
he is ashamed to do for himself; to take all the blame
of giving bad, and relinquish all the credit of good
counsel; to fetch, and carry, and say, and gainsay,
and unsay; to prostitute his soul to unutterable meannesses,
and turn the divinity of conscience into a
crouching spaniel, obeying every look, wagging his
tail in gratitude for kicks, and licking the hand that
lugs the ears from his head. I speak from awful experience,
for never little man was rode and spurred,
over hill, dale, and common, through ditch, swamp,
and horsepond, as I was by that illustrious patriot
the Honourable Peleg Peshell—I beg pardon—his
Excellency, the Honourable Peleg Peshell, Esquire.

But I will do his Excellency the justice to say, that
he did every thing upon principle, and for the salvation
of unborn millions. Life, would he say, is a
warfare of conflicting duties, and opposing principles;
a choice of evils, or a choice of goods. It is

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the business of a wise man to decide, not between the
nearest and the most distant, but between the greater
and the lesser obligation.

“But,” said I modestly—for by this time, such is
the magic of dependence on great men, I had come
to look upon his Excellency as an oracle irrefragable;
“But,” said I,” suppose one man was holding a
red hot poker to your nose, while another was calling
upon you to establish a great principle, would
not you attend to the poker before the principle?”

“Certainly I would, sir—” His Excellency never
of late called me sir, but when he was a little out of
humour—“Certainly, sir; but it would be only in
compliment to the weakness of human nature; for
nothing is more certain than that it would be my
duty to let the poker burn up my nose, rather than
miss the opportunity of benefiting future ages, by
the establishment of a great political principle.”

“But will your Excellency permit me to ask how
you ascertain to a certainty that a great political
principle is right, when perhaps one half of mankind
think it wrong?”

“Why, sir, my own reason and experience teach
me.”

“But another's man reason and experience teach
him directly the contrary.”

“Then he must be either a great blockhead, or a
great knave,” replied the Honourable—I mean his
Excellency the Honourable Peleg Peshell, in a tone
that precluded farther questioning.

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It was many years afterwards that I perceived the
fallacy of thus raising up an idol, which while one man
worshipped another abhorred, and sacrificing to it
the eternal and immutable attributes of justice and
truth, about which there can be no difference of
opinion. It was only long experience and reflection
that convinced me at last, that the sacrifice of moral
and social duties, to mere opinions, elevated to the
dignity of great and established principles, about
which all mankind differ, must be fatal in the end,
not only to the morals of mankind, but to that freedom
whose only foundation is based upon them. I
received the responses of his Excellency with profound
submission, and continued to act upon them in
a long series of political servitude.

About a year after the great triumph of principle,
which resulted in the choice of his Excellency the
Honourable Peleg Peshell for Governor of the little
state, with such a plenty of banks and great men, I
came of age, and it was proper for his Excellency
to give an account of the administration of my affairs.
He put me off from day to day, month to
month, year to year, until my patience was quite
worn out. At length, finding it impossible any longer
to satisfy me with excuses, he one day addressed me
as follows:

“My dear young friend, it is not to be supposed,
that a man whose whole soul is taken up with his
public, can pay proper attention to his private duties.
Whenever these come in conflict with each other, it is

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his pride and glory to sacrifice all for his country, and
beggar himself, for the salvation of unborn millions.
I cannot tell exactly how it happened, but your fortune
is gone; either I have spent it myself, by mistake,
in the hurry of my public duties, or some one
else has spent it for me. However, this cannot be
of much consequence, since the great principle has
triumphed, and the salvation of the country is secured
beyond all future hazard. Remember how Brutus
the elder sacrificed his son, as an example to the Roman
militia, and console yourself with the certainty
that you have devoted your fortune to the establishment
of a great principle.”

This reasoning, though it had always proved satisfactory
when applied to the affairs of other people,
did not exactly relish to my understanding in the present
case. It occurred to me that though a man
might honestly sacrifice his own fortune to the establishment
of a great principle, he had no right to
take the same liberty with that of another, intrusted
to his management. I took the freedom to hint
something of this sort.

“Pshaw! George,” replied his Excellency, “you
will never make a great patriot I'm afraid. Is not
the major greater than the minor?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Is not a community greater than an individual?”

“Assuredly, sir.”

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“Is not the good of the whole, the good of all its
parts?”

“Clearly, sir.”

“Well sir! is not the establishment of a great
principle, on which depends the happiness of millions,
of far more moment than the temporary inconvenience
you will feel from the loss of your fortune?”

“Certainly, sir,” said I very faintly.

“Good—I believe I shall make something of you
at last. You are worthy of the confidence of your
fellow-citizens. Now listen to me. Another election
is coming on, which involves another great
principle, on which depends the salvation of the
country, and the happiness of unborn millions. A
great state road is to be laid out by the next legislature,
and I have it from the very best hand, that if we
do not exert ourselves, it will be carried over a part
of the country so distant from my property, and that
of my best friends, as to do us rather an injury than
a benefit. Now, though I am interested in this business,
that is my misfortune. It is the great principle
dependent upon the decision of the question that
I am solicitous to vindicate. My intention is to get
you into the legislature, provided you will pledge
yourself to stand in the breach, and prevent the destruction
of our liberties, which mainly depend upon
the great principle involved in this road bill. What say
you, will you pledge yourself to your constituents?”

“Why sir—if—”

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“O none of your ifs, George—you'll never make
a great politician if you stumble before an if.”

“But my conscience, sir.”

“Your conscience!” cried his Excellency the
Honourable Peleg—“Conscience! who ever heard
of a representative of the people having a conscience?
Why sir, his conscience belongs to his constituents,
who think for him, and decide for him.
One half the time it is his duty to act in the very
teeth of his conscience. He is only the whistle on
which the people blow any tune they please.”

“It appears to me, sir, that this doctrine is rather
immoral.”

“Immoral!” cried his Excellency, throwing himself
back in his chair, and laughing; “immoral!
what has morality to do with the establishment of a
great principle? I ought to have made a tailor of
you, I see.”

“Lookee, George,” continued his Excellency,
after he had laughed himself out, “every young
man who devotes himself to political life, must in
the outset, if he wishes to be successful, surrender
his opinions and feelings entirely to the establishment
of certain great radical principles. He must
have neither morals nor conscience. All he has to
do is to inquire whether a thing is necessary to the
establishment of these principles, and do it as a matter
of course, although abstractedly and in itself it
may be in the teeth of law and gospel. For instance,
George—why, you are looking at that pretty

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girl, Silent Parley, instead of listening to me. You
will never make a politician.”

I begged his Excellency's pardon, and he proceeded.

“For instance, suppose you were, like myself, in
a high official situation, and were solicited by two
persons to do two things directly opposite in their
nature and consequences; what would you do?

“I would inquire into the matter, ascertain, if
possible, which was right, and act accordingly.”

“You would! Then let me tell you, sir, you
would soon be sent to raise cabbages and pumpkins
on your farm. No, sir, your duty would be to inquire
and ascertain whether the great principle on
which depended your remaining in office, would be
best sustained by complying with the wishes of one
or other of the persons soliciting your interest.
Having found this out, there would be no further
difficulty in the matter. You would of course decide
upon principle.”

“Principle, sir! why really, excuse me, your Excellency,
but this is what the country farmers call
being governed by interest, not principle.”

“Pooh, George! your head is not longer than a
pin's; can you comprehend a syllogism?”

“I believe so, sir, if it has a sufficiency of legs.”

“Very well,” continued his Excellency, “certain
principles are essentially necessary to the salvation
of the state and the happiness of unborn millions.
I advocate these principles; ergo, it is necessary to

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the salvation of the state and the happiness of unborn
millions, that I should be chosen governor,
and reward those who chose me, as far as it may be
in my power. Now, sir, as to my own personal
interests; here is the point in which the talents of a
great man are most essentially tested; I mean in
making his interests and his principles harmonize
with each other. If he can do this he is fit to govern
the whole universe; if not, he is fit for nothing
but a mechanic; for how can it be supposed that a
man can take care of the interests of other people
who neglects his own?”

The logic of his Excellency the Honourable Peleg
Peshell, Esquire, was conclusive, and I agreed to
vote against my conscience, for the good of my
country, if necessary; after which, I sallied forth
and overtook the pretty Silence Parley. It was a
delightful summer afternoon, or rather evening, for
the twilight had put on its cloak of gray obscurity,
and we walked along the hard white sand of the
quiet bay, arm in arm, sometimes talking and sometimes
looking at one another in luscious meditation.
She was worth a description; but my story is one
of principle, and I shall dwell on such trifles as love
and woman, only so far as is necessary to my purpose.
After I had sacrificed my kind friend and
neighbour Brookfield and his family on the altar of
principle, I never could bear to look Deliverance in
the face again. Indeed the mother soon after carried
her family to her friends in a distant part of the

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country, and I saw them no more. Next to Deliverance
Brookfield, Miss Silence Parley was the
fairest of our maidens, who all were fair, if rosy
cheeks, round glowing figures, and sky clear eyes,
could make them so. She was likely to be an heiress
too; and the Honourable Peleg hinted to me
one day, that it would marvellously conduce to the
triumph of a great principle, if I could win and
wear her.

“For,” said he, “her father is a man of a good
deal of political influence, which he does not choose
to exert, being one of those selfish blockheads who
prefer peace and quiet to the salvation of unborn
millions. If you could marry his daughter, I dare
say he would come out in favour of the great principle.”

This time, for a great wonder, I think, for it is
the only time it ever happened to me in all my subsequent
career, this time my principles chimed in
with my interests, and I determined, if possible, to
charm the fair Silence into speaking to the purpose.
We were often together alone in the modest, humble
twilight, walking and talking, or sitting and silent.
We exchanged looks and little civilities, that spoke
expressive meanings; and, in short, it was not long
before I saw in the eyes of my pretty Silence the
signal of surrender. I had not actually offered myself,
but I had determined upon it; when the election
approached near at hand, on which depended the
great principle, whether the great state road should

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pass through the property of the Honourable Dibble
Dibblee, Esq. innkeeper of Dibbleeville, or of his
Excellency the Honourable Peleg Peshell, Esquire,
cash storekeeper at Peshellville, and consequently
the salvation of unborn millions.

His Excellency the Honourable Peleg one day
took occasion to hint to me, that it might be as well
to sound the Honourable Peabody Parley, Esquire,
the father of my pretty Silence, as to his using his
influence in my behalf in the coming struggle of
principle.

“I had better ask his consent to marry his daughter
first,” said I.

“No, sir, you had better ask for his support first,”
replied his Excellency, peremptorily.

Accordingly I went to the Honourable Peabody
Parley; there were as many Honourables in our little
state as hidalgos in Spain; I went and asked his
support in attaining the high honour of being elected
a member of the legislature in the coming contest
of principle. The Honourable Peabody told
me frankly he would do no such thing, unless
I pledged myself to vote and use all my influence
in getting the great state road laid out so as
to run through a part of his property, where he was
going to found a great city. This was in direct
opposition to the great principle of the Honourable
Peleg Peshell, whose property lay in the other extreme
of the state. I required time for

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consideration, and went to consult my guardian. He shook
his head and was angry.

“You must go and pay your addresses to Miss
Welcome Hussey Bashaba, daughter to the Honourable
Jupiter Ammon Deodatus Bumstead, of Bumsteadvilleton,
as soon as possible.”

“But, sir, Miss Hussey Bashaba is as ugly as a
stone fence, with a flounce and fashionable bonnet
on it.”

“No matter, the safety of the country and the
salvation of unborn millions depend on it.”

“But, I am all but engaged to Miss Silence Parley;
I have committed myself.”

“No matter, the triumph of principle will be the
greater.”

“How so, sir?” replied I, rather perplexed at this
mystery.

“How so; why the Honourable Mr. Bumstead
is the proprietor of a manufactory, which can turn
out votes enough to carry the election. You must
be off at once, for the great contest of principle approaches.”

I mounted my horse, after a sore struggle between
my heart and the great political principle, and proceeded
towards the stately shingle palace of my intended
father-in-law, to visit my intended, the redoubtable
Miss Welcome Hussey Bashaba Bumstead, the
daughter, the only daughter of the Honourable Jupiter
Ammon Deodatus Bumstead, of Bumsteadvilleton,
the best manufacturing seat in the state,

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with a great power of water. My horse, being no
politician, and withal a most unprincipled quadruped,
stopped stock still at the gate which led to the
abode of Miss Silence Parley. She was standing
on the piazza, looking like a rosy sylph, expecting
me, for she had seen me afar off. My horse was
obstinate, and though I confess I pricked him on violently
with my spurs, I held the rein so tight that he
could do nothing but rear. This frightened my pretty
Silence, who screamed, and ran to open the gate.

She begged me to dismount and lead my horse in.

“I cannot just now,” said I, in a sneaking, snivelling
tone; “I am going on to Bumsteadvilleton
just now.”

“To see Miss Hussey Bashaba?” said she, with
a mischievous smile of meaning, for Miss Hussey
was the reigning she-dragon of the whole county.

“No,” said I, with the face of a robber of a henroost;
“no, I'm going to buy some cotton shirting.”

I could stand it no longer; I clapped spurs to my
horse—she waved her lily hand, whiter than snow,
and I was out of sight in a minute. It was the greatest
triumph of principle I ever achieved.

The Honourable Jupiter Ammon Deodatus received
me as he would one of his best customers;
and Miss Hussey Bashaba smiled upon me like a
roaring lion. There is one great comfort in addressing
an exemplary ugly woman; she don't require
much wooing, provided she is a reasonable

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creature. Neither are parents very impracticable
in cases of this kind. The Honourable Jupiter
Ammon promised me his support, and I promised to
take his daughter. We were married in a week.
The Honourable Jupiter Ammon brought out his
two hundred ragamuffins, all men of clear estate, if
not freeholders. I was elected by a handsome majority;
and again the triumph of principle, on which
depended the salvation of unborn millions, was completed,
at the trifling expense of the mere sacrifice
of a few insignificant moralities, of no consequence
but to the owner.

The collected wisdom of the state, of which I
formed one twentieth part at least, met in good time.
His Excellency the Honourable Peleg Peshell delivered
a speech to both Houses, in which he took a
rapid view of the creation of the world; man in a
state of nature—the want of principle in the opposition—
the profligacy of certain leading politicians—
recommended a loan, six canals, nine rail roads,
and seventeen banks—and concluded with a touch
of piety, that brought tears into our eyes, as he
thanked Heaven for having achieved this last great
triumph of principle.

The whole Assembly was divided, as usual, on a
great principle different from that on which the famous
toll bridge rested. The great question on
which the great principle was based, on which the
salvation of unborn millions depended, was whether
the great state road was to diverge fifteen degrees

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thirty-seven minutes west, or fifteen degrees thirty-seven
minutes east northeast. Such is the influence
of propinquity in questions of this sort, that it exercised
complete sway on this occasion. In proportion
as a member had a propinquity towards the
west line, or the east, precisely in the same degree
did the great fundamental principle which governed
his actions incline in that direction; and so intimate
was the association between principle and interest,
that had I not actually known to the contrary by my
own experience, I should have supposed they were
one and the same thing. But there were little minor
principles operating in subordination to that of the
great state road. One member, for example, was
principled against voting for any state road at all,
unless the friends of the road would vote for his
canal. Another would not so far prostitute his principles
as to vote for the canal, unless the friends of
the canal would support his application for a bank.
In the end, finding the principles of the members to
be absolutely incompatible, we hit upon an arrangement,
which was perfectly satisfactory to the
most tender conscience, and came up to the great
principle by which every member was governed.
The proposition was moved by myself, at the suggestion
of his Excellency the Honourable Peleg
Peshell, Esquire, Governor and Captain General of
the little state with so many banks and great men.
My plan was no other than to jumble roads, canals,
and banks, all together in one bill, by which the

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principles of all would be perfectly satisfied, and all scruples
quieted for ever. After amending the proposition,
at the instance of a philanthropist, by a donation of
five hundred dollars to the society for the prevention
of tippling, the whole was rolled through triumphantly.
Every body's principles were quieted, and
every man had lent a hand to the salvation of unborn
millions. Such is the magic of public virtue! There
were scarcely half a dozen members agreeing in the
first instance, yet such was the spirit of friendly compromise,
that in the end every member without exception,
but one, voted for the bill solely on the
score of principle—of doing as he would be done
unto. The only dissentient was a member, who so
far forgot his duty to his country as to come there
without a project for her benefit. Having nothing
to ask, he was unwilling to give any thing away,
and voted against my proposition.

It was on this occasion I delivered my maiden
speech. Public expectation was on tiptoe; the boys
climbed up to the windows of the state house; the
ladies of the Honourable Abel Rooney, the Honourable
Peartree Brombush, and of the Honourable
Roger Pegg, with their twenty-seven blooming and
marriageable daughters, seated themselves in front
of the gallery; and the Speaker cried silence, and
rattled his hammer so that his tobacco box bounced
off the table. I was penetrated with the justice of
my cause, the great principle involved in the question,
and the dignity of my auditory. I began:

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“Sir-r-r!

“If I possessed the power to flash conviction,
as the lightning does upon the bosom of the
thunder cloud, redundant with fire and brimstone:
Sir-r-r, if I could wrest from the sceptre—I mean, if
I could wrest the sceptre from reason, and rob the
spheres of the music of their voices: Sir-r-r, if I
could, by any effort of this feeble hand and tremulous
body, pour the tremendous and overwhelming
flood of conviction like a wall of adamant over your
souls, until they melted in the red hot embers of conviction:
Sir-r-r, if I could freeze your hearts till
they offered an icy barrier to the intrusion of all
selfish considerations, and reared the massy column
of their waters up to the topmost pinnacle of the
arching skies: Sir-r-r, if I could swallow up at a
single effort of my imagination, the possibility of
believing it possible that the cries of the orphan,
the bewailings of reckless and wretched poverty—
the exhortations of the halt, the dumb, and the deaf—
the mother's groans—the weeping stones—the
orphan's moans”—

Here I was interrupted by a burst of hysterical
tears from the beautiful blue eyes of the widow of
the Honourable Roger Pegg, who was carried home
in a state of suppuration. This was the greatest
triumph of eloquence ever witnessed in our state. I
cannot go through the whole of my speech. It
lasted eight hours and three quarters, and I should

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have made it nine, had not all the candles gone out,
and left me and my subject in outer darkness. The
reader may judge of its length from the fact, that it
was ascertained by an industrious old person, who
could not bear to be idle, that the word “Sir,” occurred
three hundred, and the monosyllable “I,”
five hundred times—the word “principle,” six hundred
and thirty, and the word “interest,” not once.
Can there be any higher proof of the purity of my
motives? The next day the Banner of Truth published
my speech, of which I had given a copy
beforehand, pronouncing it at the same time superior
to the best efforts of the three great orators of
antiquity, Marcus, Tullius, and Cicero.

I was now fairly launched upon the billows of
immortal glory—so said the Banner of Truth. The
little state rung with my exploit, as if it had been a
second victory of New Orleans, and people began
to talk of me for Congress. The Honourable
George Gregory Oakford (for I too had become
Honourable) was the luminary of the age; and his
rising importance was indicated by divers worthy
persons, such as men out of employ, or who
had made a bad bankruptcy for themselves; and
young gentlemen, too idle for useful employment,
and too poor to figure without it, paying him most
particular devoirs, and hanging to his skirts, like so
many cockles. All these were impelled by an instinctive
perception, such as animates the canine

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race, to wag their tails and fawn, even upon the beggar
who hath a bone to throw away.

But though a great man myself, there were still
greater men than I in `our town.' I mean the
members of the general committees; the nominating
committees; and greatest of all, the gentlemen
who give the impulse, and govern the course of
the current by a certain mysterious influence, as inscrutable
as that which gives a direction to the
winds. Though the study and experience of a
whole life, has pretty well initiated me into the depths
of political alchymy, I confess I could never fathom
the obscurity of this part of the science. I
could never reach the head of the tide, though I
floated on its surface so long; nor have I ever to
this day had a clear perception of the means, by
which certain dull, stupid men, often without a tolerable
reputation, and destitute of wealth, contrive
to lead the people as they do, and keep the great
leaders themselves, in most abject subjection. It
may be, that the majority of mankind are wise
enough to know that those who are most on a
par with them, and mix the most familiarly in their
daily concerns, whose interests are in fact identified
with their own, are their best and safest counsellors,
and that thus, after all, the popularity of a great
man is derived not so much from the splendour of
his actions, as from the secret influence of very ordinary
men, over their friends and neighbours.

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As the triumph of a great principle and the salvation
of unborn millions depended so materially
upon the predominancy of the party to which I had
become attached, I did not consider myself above
courting these masters of the people by every means
in my power. I sought them out at their employments,
talked politics with them, or rather heard
them talk, which is by much the more infallible
mode, and agreed with them whenever I could find
out what they meant. I brought one of these, an
honest shoemaker, nearly to the brink of starvation,
by causing him to neglect his business from day to
day, in discussing the eternal, invariable principles,
which governed toll bridges and turnpike roads. I
invited these worthy men, for worthy and well meaning
men a great many of them were, to my house,
and hinted to Mrs. Hussey Bashaba Oakford the
propriety of drinking tea with their wives, socially,
and asking them in return. But Mrs. Hussey Bashaba
was one of those unreasonable women that
boast of being mistress of their own houses. She
was to be sure no beauty, but she was an heiress, in
perspective at least, though as yet her only dowry
had been the two hundred votes of the ragamuffin
freeholders, a dozen table and tea spoons, and a looking-glass.
But she had mighty expectations, and
acted accordingly.

My wife treated the committee men with sour
looks from one of the ugliest faces in the state, and
contrived so many ingenious ways to make them

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uneasy, that I was surprised at her talents. If one
of the honest gentlemen by accident spilled the ashes
from his pipe on the hearth, Mrs. Bashaba would
jump up extempore, seize the brush, and exercise it
with a most significant and irritable vivacity. If
another chanced to bring in a small tribute from
mother Earth, upon his independent and sovereign
shoes, she would forthwith ask me, with a peculiar
emphasis, whether the scraper had been stolen from the
door. But woe to the committee man who dared,
by any lapsus lingua, to expectorate on the floor!
Mrs. Hussey Bashaba would scream for the help to
come with a tub of water and a brush, and set her
scrubbing away before the good man's face. As to
the good wives of the committee, they came once,
and once only. Mrs. Bashaba talked all the time about
her papa's house, factory, work people, and all that,
and made such a display of importance that they never
came near us again. To one she said, “What a
pity it is you can't afford to put new panes of glass in
your broken windows!” To another, “How sorry I
am, my dear Mrs. Applepie, your husband is not
rich enough to build a new house! Are you not
afraid it will fall down one of these days? For my
part, I shouldn't be able to sleep a wink in it.”
And to a third, “La, my dear Mrs. Birdseye, when
did you lose those two front teeth? I declare it
makes you look twenty years older.” The committee
men and their wives went home all in a
huff with myself and my better half.

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“My dear,” said I, soothingly, “you have endangered
the success of a great principle, and the
salvation of unborn millions.”

“The salvation of a fiddlestick!” said Mrs. Bashaba,
“I can't bear such vulgar people. Why
they eat out of trenchers, and use wooden spoons,
like pigs.”

“I never heard that pigs used wooden spoons,”
said I, innocently.

“You never heard! Huh! of what consequence
is it what you have heard? People brought up
in a pigstye seldom have an ear for music,” said
Mrs. Bashaba, as she proceeded to blow the dust
off the chairs and tables with her aromatic breath.

My wife was certainly right in valuing herself on
her breeding.

The untoward behaviour of Mrs. Bashaba had
well nigh jeopardized the great principle, and destroyed
the hopes of posterity. A fortunate accident,
or perhaps a providential interposition, prevented
the woful catastrophe. This was the stoppage
of a bank in a remote corner of the state; but
which, distant as it was, exercised a vast influence
on the affairs of distant people. This moneyed institution,
having no capital, had borrowed the stock
of another moneyed institution, in the like predicament,
and secured the capital thus paid in by a similar
loan of its own stock. They then both fell to
issuing bills like wildfire, and lending money—

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paper money—to any person who could offer them
the ghost of a security. My worthy father-in-law,
the Honourable Jupiter Ammon Bumstead, was one
of these shadows, which became a substance by the
magic operation of modern financiering. He borrowed
money, built a manufactory of coarse cottons,
and a town, which he called Bumsteadvilleton, together
with a shingle palace of infinite dimensions.
The twin sister banks got on very well for a time,
by redeeming the notes of one of the sisters with the
notes of the other. The Cow and Grass Company
paid the notes of the Wool and Comb Company,
like a good sister, and thus they mutually supported
each other in the journey of life. At last, however,
some malicious and unreasonable person made a
demand of three hundred dollars in silver. The
Cow and Grass offered the notes of the Wool and
Comb, but it would not do; the Cow and Grass fell
against the Wool and Comb, the Wool and Comb
against the establishment of Bumsteadvilleton, and
the Honourable Mr. Bumstead returned to his original
shadow again. It was the old story of the
boy that bought the pig. `The butcher began to
kill the ox, the ox began to drink the water, the
water to quench the fire, the fire to burn the stick,
the stick to lick the pig,' and the pig at last went to
school, but without being a whit the wiser. The
President of the Cow and Grass, who was a member
of the legislature, in a paroxysm of indignation,
moved that the bills of both these moneyed institutions
should be burnt. Another member moved to

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strike out the word “bills,” and insert those of
“presidents, cashiers, and directors.” Among all
the members of our Honourable body, there was but
one man—the mover of the amendment—that was
not either president or director of some bank. The
amendment was voted down unanimously; the great
principle of banking triumphed, and the salvation of
unborn millions was placed upon the eternal basis of
paper money. On this occasion I made another
speech, which would have convinced every member
present, but one, had they not been convinced already.
If the reader is a tolerable politician he
will know that there are two kinds of speeches—one
for the people within, the other for the people without.
The latter are by far the most numerous.

This failure of the Cow and Grass, was the
luckiest incident of my life. Ninety-nine in a hundred
of the people of our state, were dependent on
the banks in some way or other, either as debtors or
stockholders. My speech in favour of the great
principle of banking, gained all their hearts. The
total ruin of my Honourable father-in-law, actually,
for a time, made a reasonable woman of my wife,
and caused her to treat the ladies of the committee
men with vast courtesy. The ladies of the committee
men, began to pity poor Mrs. Oakford—and
pity is akin to forgiveness—and finally the consummation
of all was, that the general committee nominated
me as their candidate for congress by a majority
of one—that is to say—not being able to agree,
the two parties at length settled the great principle

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by a throw of the dice. My opponents threw quatre,
my friends cinque, and the choice was announced as
a great triumph of principle over personal feelings
and private views.

Being thus triumphantly nominated by the general
committee, and endorsed by the sub-committees,
it became the duty of the people to vote for me
upon principle, though it might happen to be
against their conscience, thus magnanimously sacrificing
all private feelings and considerations to the
public good. In vain did the opposite party exclaim
against this attempt to dictate to the people;
the people turned out lustily in my favour, and
voted me in a member of congress, against their
consciences, for the sake of the great principle. His
Excellency the Honourable Peleg Peshell, Esquire,
supported me with all his influence, and I him with
all mine; not because it was our mutual interest to
do so, but because our interests were so dovetailed
into the great principle that it was next to impossible
to separate them. In the course of this contest, to
the best of my belief, I violated my conscience, and
forgot the obligations of truth, justice, honour, and
sincerity, more than a score of times; but the Honourable
Peleg, had convinced me it was my duty as
a patriot to sacrifice my duty as a man, on all occasions
when they came in conflict with each other.
“The first duty of a true patriot is to offer up his
conscience on the altar of the public good”—said
the Honourable Peleg, my mentor. I confess I winced
a little, for the idea sometimes came across me,

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that as both parties might possibly think themselves
equally right in the great principle, and one of them
must be in error, a large portion of the people were
offering up their consciences in the wrong place. I
once propounded this doubt to the Honourable Peleg—
“Pooh!” said he, “the opposite party has no
conscience; they are wrong in the great principle,
and can be right in nothing else. A person radically
wrong in political opinions, is like a man with
a broken back, he can't walk straight for the life of
him.” I was satisfied.

I departed for the seat of government, with six
long stall-fed speeches in my portmanteau, for I was
determined to convince my constituents at least, that
they had not chosen a dummy to represent them. I
wanted to leave Mrs. Hussey Bashaba behind, but
she was a little inclined to the green-eyed monster,
and determined to share my honours. I represented
only some thirty or forty thousand citizens;
but my wife represented the whole sex; it was therefore
but just that the majority should have its way,
and she accompanied me to the scene of my future
glories. People who know nothing of the value of
a single unit, or even a single cipher, when placed in
a particular situation, can hardly conceive the importance
of a member at the seat of government,
where a series of mutual dependence pervades the
whole social system. There is hardly a hack driver,
who is not in some measure dependent on some great
man; and even the poor horses, if they could speak,

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would undoubtedly proclaim their adherence to certain
great fundamental principles. The first time I
went with my Bashaba to visit one of the foreign
minister's ladies, the horses stuck in the mud, and refused
to proceed. I scolded the hackman—“Plase
your Honour,” he was an Irishman, and all Irishmen
are patriots—“Plase your Honour, they wont
stir upon principle.”

“What do you mean?” said I.

“Plase you, they have just found out that they
are going to visit the British minister, and have made
up their minds never to pay him that honour, till the
Catholic question is settled to their satisfaction.”

The horses stuck to their principles, and stuck in
the mud. There seemed some truth in what the
driver said, for the moment he turned their heads the
other way, they trotted off gallantly towards home.
The instinct of animals sometimes nearly approaches
to the reason of some men. I was obliged to send
for horses of a different party, or more accommodating
principles.

The first time we were invited to dinner, my wife
was delighted. She was the lady of a member, and
happened to take precedence of all the rest. She
was led into the dining room by a foreign minister,
with a gold laced coat; and consumed all the next
day in writing letters to the ladies of the general
committee. The next time she was not quite so well
pleased, for there was a senator's lady present, and
Mrs. Bashaba fell to the lot of an attaché. What

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made this the more provoking, was that the senator's
lady lived in the same hotel with us, and the propinquity
made the slight intolerable. The senator's
lady was the delighted one now, and declared the
seat of government was the most charming place in
the world. There was a great coolness for several
days, on the part of Mrs. Welcome Bashaba towards
the senator's lady. The third time matters were
still worse. There was a member of the cabinet's
lady present, to whom the ambassador was pledged
by the rules of etiquette; so that the senator's lady
fell to the attaché, and Mrs. Bashaba to the lot of a
gentleman with no claim to distinction, but talents
and character. The senator's lady and the lady
of the member came home the best friends in the
world. But the latter began to be disgusted with
the seat of government, and became quite homesick.
It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. Mrs.
Bashaba having been handed into the supper room,
at a grand gala, given by a foreign minister, in
honour of his august sovereign's birth-day, by a
clerk in the land office, insisted on going home forthwith.
Had it been a clerk in the office of the secretary
of state, or even any one of the departments, it
might have been borne. But a clerk in the land office!
it was impossible to get over the mortification. Fortunately
an old neighbour of mine, nearly fourscore,
who had come to the seat of government, with some
two or three hundred more of my constituents to get
an appointment, was going home the very next day.

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Accordingly I took Mrs. Bashaba in the vein, and
sent her off before she had another chance of being
handed to dinner by a foreign minister. Previous
to her departure she exacted of me a promise to oppose
the administration, and particularly the measures
of the secretary, whose wife had taken precedence
of her at the grand supper, on all occasions.
I promised—for I would have promised any thing to
get rid of Mrs. Bashaba for the season; and I have
the great consolation of knowing that both the honourable
senator and myself voted against the administration
all the winter, upon the great principle
of etiquette, which is in fact the corner-stone of tyranny.
Being now my own man, I commenced
gallant; flirted desperately with the married dames;
and still more desperately with the young ladies, who
were delighted with the attentions of a member.
Let me warn all my readers, who are, or expect to
be members, never to bring their wives to the seat of
government. If they are handsome, they will have
all the attaches, and all the widowers pro tem. among
the members, in their train; and if they are otherwise,
unless they happen to be angels outright, their
curtain lectures will be terrible. But it is time to
return to my political career.

The first day the House met, and before a Speaker
was chosen, being resolved to lose no time in convincing
the world I was somebody, I rose to make
a motion and a speech on the subject of reform.
“Mister Speaker—Sir-r-r”—“Order!” cried the

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clerk, rattling his wooden hammer. “Mister Speaker—
Sir-r-r, I rise to”—“Sit down—the honourable
member is out of order, the house is not yet organized.”
An old member on my left apprised me
that as there was yet no Speaker chosen, there could
be no question debated. When the persons were
nominated for that station, I rose again, for one
of my speeches I thought would come pat to the
purpose now. As soon as the Speaker was chosen
I rose again to make my great motion on the subject
of reform—“Mister Speaker—Sir-r-r-r, the republics
of Greece and Rome”—“Mr. Speaker,” said
an old grey headed member, I am sorry to interrupt
the honourable member from—from—somewhere—
but I beg to make a motion that we proceed to appoint
a committee to wait on the President, with
information that the House is now organized, and
ready to receive any communication from him.”

“Mister Speaker, sir-r-r, I feel myself under an
awful responsibility to myself, my constituents, my
country, and the world, to oppose that motion;”
for I was a little nettled at this interruption.

“The motion is not debateable,” replied the
Speaker, mildly.

I sat down, provoked and mortified beyond measure,
for I was ready to overflow in a torrent of
eloquence. The reading of the message, and other
formalities, took up the whole morning; and the
house adjourned without hearing my speech. Thus,
like Titus, I lost a day; but I made myself all the

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amends in my power, by speaking it that night in
my chamber to two chairs, a three-legged stool, and
a chalk bust of Cicero with a broken pedestal, which
at every gesticulation I made, nodded approbation.

My next attempt at a speech on reform was quite
unpremeditated. It happened that a party of ladies
came into the gallery of the house; among them
was one with whom I was engaged in a fashionable
flirtation for the season. I wished above all things
to dazzle her with a speech; for, at the seat of government,
a speech is equivalent to gaining a great
victory by sea or land.

The moment I saw my belle in the gallery, the
fervor of eloquence seized me. Luckily at that
blessed crisis a member sat down, after a speech
of three days, apologizing to the house that exhaustion
and fatigue prevented his going deeper into
the subject. In my haste, I unfortunately began
the one of my six stall-fed speeches which of all
others least applied to the question before the house,
which related to the Cumberland road, that would
be the very best road upon earth, if speeches could
keep it in repair. My speech, which was the first of
my budget I could lay hold on, was on the occupation
of the territory of Oregon.

I set out from the seat of government without
interruption, every now and then cocking my eye at
the divinity who inspired me in the gallery; and
was puffiing and blowing about half way up the

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Rocky Mountains, when a member called me to
order.

“The Honourable gentleman is not speaking to
the question. The Cumberland road does not cross
the Rocky Mountains.”

“Let the gentleman go on,” exclaimed a soft,
clear, high-toned voice, in a wicked Cervantic tone,
“let the gentleman alone; he is only making a
voyage round the world, and will certainly cross the
latitude or longitude of his subject, some time or
other.”

This sally occasioned a good deal of merriment,
and I saw the loadstar of my eloquence showing her
ivory teeth on the occasion. I became confused;
I struck in upon another of my six stall-fed speeches,
wandered from that into a third, and finally jumbled
them all together into a mass of incongruity, unutterable
and inextricable. Fortunately the Speaker,
not having above thrice the patience of Job, at
length called me to order, and I obeyed. Fortunately
too for me, the reporter, who had made more
great orations than all the orators of ancient or
modern times, not being able to take down my
speech in short hand, substituted one of his own,
which was read by my constituents with infinite
satisfaction and improvement. Shortly after this,
I made a motion to exclude the ladies from the gallery;
being convinced, from my own experience,
that they cause the effusion of more nonsense in the
house than nature ever intended men should utter.

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I was at first exceedingly discouraged with my
excursion to the Rocky Mountains; but finding it
made such a splendid figure in the newspapers, I
determined to take the earliest opportunity to get
rid of another of my six labours. The next torrent
of my eloquence was poured out from the summit-level
of a great canal, which, involving as it did a
great principle, excited a vast deal of interest in and
out of the house. Unfortunately for me, I did not
get a chance of speaking, until the subject had been
exhausted at least a score of times, in a score of
speeches. But for all this, I was resolved not to
lose my labours because others had forestalled them.
Accordingly, when every other orator had become
as exhausted as the summit-levels of some of our
canals, I rose in my might, and repeated, not only
all that had been said in the house, but all that had
been written out of it, for the last fifty years. I led
the house from the canal of the Red sea to the canal
of the Yellow river; from the canal of Languedoc
to the canal of Caledonia; from the canal of the
Duke of Bridgewater to that of Lake Erie: in
short I did what neither Sir Francis Drake, Ferdinand
Magellan, Christopher Columbus, nor Captain
Cook ever achieved; I sailed round the world on a
canal. Before I had finished one quarter of my
tour of inland navigation, more than three fourths
of the members were so fully convinced by my arguments,
that one after the other left the house,
having, as they afterwards assured me, made up

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their minds on the subject. This time I kept clear
of the Rocky Mountains, never quitting my canal
for a moment; and there being no law against
repeating the same thing over again a hundred
thousand times, I might have spoken till doomsday,
had not Mr. Speaker at length waked up, and observed
that he believed there was no quorum, and
proposed an adjournment.

“Never was there a more complete triumph of
argument and eloquence combined,” said the Banner
of Truth; “the friends of the canal were one and
all so convinced, that they did not think it worth
while to stay further argument; and its foes fell
away before the thunder of his eloquence as the
walls of Jericho did at the blowing of the rams
horns.” I was at first a little mortified at the idea
of my speech not appearing with an end to it in the
report; but the reporter comforted me with the
assurance, that so long as a speech had a beginning,
it was of little consequence whether it came to any
conclusion or not.

I now began to be talked of as a rising politician;
for any man who can get on the back of a canal or
a railroad, is sure of immortality. I became the
Neptune of inland seas, a very “Triton of the minnows;”
and already began to aspire to an embassy
to some one of the new republics without any government.
“He has made the canal,” said a great man.
“You are mistaken,” said the member with the
tuneful voice and Cervantic tones, “you are

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mistaken, the canal has made him.” To make an end
of my congressional register: I got rid of all my
speeches; besides offering thirty-six resolutions,
calling for information which the several heads of
departments assured me would require the united
labours of six hundred men, six hours in the day for
six years, to collect and arrange. In addition to
all this, I made about a hundred little extempores;
drafted a bill which was passed after all the sections
had been amended so as to mean exactly the contrary
of what I intended, and which afterwards
became the father of six volumes of commentaries;
and finally wound up triumphantly at the end of
the session, by striking out a “but,” and inserting
an “except,” in a bill for the relief of poor Amy
Dardin, after a long and animated debate, in which
great talents were displayed on both sides.

Towards the latter end of the last session of my
term, a great crisis happened. The whole confederation
was divided on a great question, which involved
a great fundamental principle, and it fell to
the lot of congress to decide by states, each state
having a vote. It was now indeed that I felt myself
a great man, since a great question, involving a great
principle, on which depended the salvation of unborn
millions, rested upon my single voice. I was the
sole representative of my state, and while others had
only the fractional part of a vote, I had a voice potential.
The other states were divided; my state
had the casting vote, and I, I alone, became a second

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Warwick, a king maker! Had Mrs. Welcome
Hussey Bashaba been now at the seat of government,
she would not have wanted great men to hand her
in to supper. It behooved me to reflect seriously,
and to delay my decision to the last moment, although
at this distant period, I feel no hesitation in
confessing that I had made up my mind from the
first, with a proviso however that I saw no occasion
to alter it afterwards. As it was, I kept my opinions
as secret as the sources of the Niger. In so
doing, I acted by the special advice of my master,
his Excellency the Honourable Peleg Peshell, Esquire.

“I hold,” said he, in one of his letters, marked
`private and confidential,' “I hold it a sound maxim
in politics as well as morals, that where a man is determined,
upon principle, to pursue a certain line
of conduct, there is no obligation which ought
to restrain him from uniting his interests with his
principles, and making the most of the position in
which circumstances have placed him For this
purpose, it will be wise and patriotic in you to keep
your determination a profound secret, or even affect
to lean a little to the opposite side from that you
intend to unite with at last. When a vessel is at
anchor, nobody feels much solicitude about her;
but a drifting boat always brings a reward for
securing it. A word to the wise, &c.”

In pursuance of this advice, I affected to be undecided.
I had not made up my mind; I must

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consult my constituents; I should delay as long as
possible, and be governed by circumstances. Both
sides beset me with arguments; but when a man
has made up his mind, mere arguments weigh nothing.
I preserved my incognito, and talked as
mysteriously as an oracle.

One day a confidential friend of one of the great
principles—the reader must not confound principles
with principals—came to me, to discuss the subject.

“My dear Mr. Oakford, there can be no comparison
between the two principles. You must support
our principle.”

“My dear sir,” said I, “I have not the least
hesitation in saying I should support your principle”—
Here my friend took my hand warmly,
and cried with fervor, “my dear-r-r sir-r-r”—
“But”—Here he dropped my hand suddenly—
“But really, my dear friend, the question depends
so little on my single vote or my insignificant influence,
that though I mean, if I remain here, to
vote on your side, my family affairs are so pressing
at home, and my wife in such a bad state of
health, that I rather think I shall ask leave of
absence for the rest of the session.” A confidential
conversation followed which I cannot disclose, being
under the most solemn pledge to the contrary. The
result was, that I agreed to remain and support the
great principle, being satisfied by the arguments of
my friend, that the salvation of the Union and the
welfare of unborn millions depended on my single

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vote. The triumph of principle was accordingly
achieved by my single arm, and I returned home to
await my reward.

In due time, I was invited to preside over a department
of the government, in consequence of
having so judiciously accommodated my principle
to my interest. It was now that I congratulated
myself on having sacrificed every thing to principle,
and that I expected to reap the reward of my patriotic
labours in the cause of unborn millions. I
proceeded to the seat of government, and took possession
of my honours. But alas! gentle reader,
from that time to the moment that I fell a sacrifice
to principle, I never knew a moment's ease. I was
a pillar of the state, and Samson with the gates of
Gaza on his back was but a type of me. It was not
long before I discovered that a statesman exercises
power as an ass does, by carrying burthens; and
that to be one of the highest of the rulers, is only to
become one of the lowest of slaves.

The labours and mortifications I underwent in
the course of my career of greatness, are beyond my
power to describe. In the morning when I came
down stairs, I found people waiting to speak with
me; I was stopped twenty times on the way to my
office, by people having important business; and
on my return to dinner, by other people, who
only wanted to say a few words, and kept me till
my dinner was cold, and my Bashaba out of all
patience. If I dined out, I found a dozen letters to

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read and answer before I went to bed, all on the
most important subjects; that is to say, on subjects
very important to others, and of not the least consequence
to myself. The whole mass of the good
people of my state applied in a body for offices.
One was a cousin of my wife; another had written
in my favour in the Banner of Truth; a third had
his eye put out at the polls, in advocating my cause;
a fourth was a grandson of a corporal of the revolution;
a fifth had once invited me to dinner; and
the remaining thirty-odd thousand brought the
warmest letters of recommendation from his Excellency
the Honourable Peleg Peshell, Esquire, who
was determined I should pay for his guardianship.
My whole official life furnished an exemplification of
the different light in which men view themselves, and
are viewed by others. I scarcely met with a man
who was not seeking an office for which he was
particularly disqualified, or which his situation ought
not to have placed him above soliciting, or accepting
when offered. A parson wanted a commission in
the army; a soldier, an appointment requiring special
knowledge of the civil law; a man who could
neither speak nor write his native language, a foreign
mission; an independent country gentleman begged
a situation unworthy a broken feather merchant,
thinking perhaps, with Epaminondas, that he would
confer honour on his office, though his office might
confer none on him; an honest gentleman from the
Emerald Isle, just naturalized, had great claims on

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a rale republican administration, on the score of
having fought at Vinegar Hill; another aspired to
a seat on the bench, having become exceedingly
well versed in criminal jurisprudence, by sustaining
several indictments with great gallantry, and coming
off with flying colours; and ten thousand at least
claimed the gratitude of the executive power, on the
ground of having been chairmen or secretaries of
ward meetings, and brawling at election polls.
There was one fine fellow whose claims were irresistible;
he had gained the election for an administration
constable, by managing to make one man
vote six times at the same poll. There was another
fine fellow that quite delighted me; he aspired to a
principal clerkship in one of the departments, and
his only disqualification was not being able to write.
“But then you know, sir, I can make my mark,
and the understrappers can do the writing for me.”

“Well, but,” said I, “what will you be doing all
the while others are performing your duties?”

“Oh, I can give advice to the secretary. I am a
capital hand at giving advice.”

Another still finer fellow, who had broke three
several times, never paid a debt in his life, and borrowed
money from every body that would lend,
demanded a situation in which millions of the public
money would pass through his hands; he brought
me recommendations from all his creditors, who saw
in his appointment to this office the only chance of
ever being paid. I ventured a delicate

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remonstrance. “My good sir,” said he, “you know
private character is not necessary in a public character.”

I believe the only time I laughed, except at the
jokes of a greater man than myself, during the period
I remained an object of envy to millions, was
on an occasion I shall never forget. I was called
out of my bed, early one cold winter morning, by a
person coming on business of the utmost consequence,
and dressed myself in great haste, supposing
it might be a summons to a cabinet council. When
I came into my private office, I found a queer,
long-sided man, at least six feet high, with a little
apple head, a long queue, and a face, critically
round, as rosy as a ripe cherry. He handed me a
letter from his Excellency the Honourable Peleg,
recommending him particularly to my patronage.
I was a little inclined to be rude, but checked myself,
remembering that I was the servant of such men
as my visiter, and that I might get the reputation of
an aristocrat, if I made any distinction between
man and man.

“Well, my friend, what situation do you wish?”

“Why-y-y I'm not very particular; but some
how or other, I think I should like to be a minister.
I don't mean of the gospel, but one of them ministers
to foreign parts.”

“I'm very sorry, very sorry indeed; there is no
vacancy just now. Would not something else suit
you?”

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“Why-y-y,” answered the apple-headed man, “I
wouldn't much care if I took a situation in one of
the departments. I wouldn't much mind being a
comptroller, or an auditor, or some such thing.”

“My dear sir, I'm sorry, very sorry, very sorry
indeed, but it happens unfortunately that all these
situations are at present filled. Would not you take
something else?”

“My friend stroked his chin, and seemed struggling
to bring down the soarings of his high ambition
to the present crisis. At last he answered,

“Why-y-y ye-s-s; I don't care if I get a good
collectorship, or inspectorship, or surveyorship, or
navy agency, or any thing of that sort.”

“Really, my good Mr. Phippenny,” said I, “I
regret exceedingly that not only all these places,
but every other place of consequence in the government,
is at present occupied. Pray think of something
else.”

He then, after some hesitation, asked for a clerkship,
and finally the place of messenger to one of
the public offices. Finding no vacancy here, he
seemed in vast perplexity, and looked all round the
room, fixing his eye at length on me, and measuring
my height from head to foot. At last, putting on
one of the drollest looks that ever adorned the face
of man, he said,

“Mister, you and I seem to be built pretty much
alike, haven't you some old clothes you can spare?”

“Oh, what a falling off was there!” from a

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foreign mission to a suit of old clothes, which the
reader may be assured I gave him with infinite pleasure,
in reward for the only honest laugh I enjoyed
for years afterwards.

Among others whose names were sent on to me
for office, was young Brookfield, son of the worthy
man whose hospitalities I had repaid by assisting at
least to lay him in his grave, a victim to the great
principle on which the salvation of unborn millions
depended. I had now an opportunity to atone for
an injury, and repay benefits; but I received at the
same time a letter from his Excellency the Honourable
Peleg, recommending another person, and
warning me against young Brookfield, who belonged
to the party in opposition to the great Peleg,
as well as the great principle. “The great political
commandment,” said the great Peleg, “is to reward
your friends and punish your enemies. There
is nothing selfish in this principle, since you do not
reward your friends and punish your enemies because
they are your friends and enemies, but because they
are the friends and enemies of the great principle on
which the safety of the Union and the salvation of
unborn millions depend.” What were the claims
of gratitude or the atonement of injuries to these
sublime considerations? Poor Brookfield was passed
over, in favour of an adherent of the great Peleg
and the great principle. Brookfield turned his
attention to a better object, and in good time rose to
respectability and independence; so that after all, I

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flatter myself I was the architect of his fortune. I
cannot say, however, that he ever evinced much
gratitude for my forbearance in his favour.

I speak as if I were acting in these cases without
control. But a man living in society cannot do as
he pleases at all times; a man in high station,
never. He is elbowed and restricted on all sides.
He has his equals, his superiors, his very dependents,
to influence and control his own wishes
and resolves; is sometimes the slave of his masters,
sometimes of his equals, and sometimes of
his slaves. There is but one greater slave than the
second man of a nation, and that is the first man of
a nation. I was no more master in my office than
in my own house, where Mrs. Bashaba managed the
home department entirely, and stood in the place of
the sovereign people.

My domestic affairs, and my domestic enjoyments
were, equally with my personal independence, sacrificed
to the intense labours and anxieties of my public
station. During the session of congress, I was
meted back some of my own measure, by certain
watchful and sagacious members, who moved resolution
after resolution, calling for information on certain
points, from the first organization of the government
to the present time. Some of these resolutions
took up the time of myself and my clerks, for
several weeks, and I took pride to myself for the
clear and able manner in which I drew up reports,
which were received, not read, laid on the table, and

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forgotten. The object of the honourable member
had been gained. He had made a motion; got his
name in the newspapers; and acquired among his
constituents, the reputation of a vigilant guardian of
the public interests.

I had various other mortifications which none can
feel or know unless, placed in my situation. Sometimes
a member would perhaps revenge the disappointment
of some object, or the refusal of some favour,
by attacking my official conduct. At another
time the editor of a newspaper, to whom I had perhaps
neglected to send an advertisement, would
launch a random charge, or a thundering witticism,
at my head, and though as an individual, his good
or bad report was of no sort of consequence, still
his fiat editorial consecrated the inspirations of ignorance
and folly. In short, I sometimes had the
pleasure of suspecting that nearly one half my
countrymen believed me to be a blockhead or a
rogue. To say the truth, had it not been for my
perpetual recurrence to the first principles of the
great Peleg, I should sometimes have suspected that
I deserved the latter distinction, for I confess I often
broke my promises, and passed over merit and services,
in favour of political influence, which the Honourable
Peleg considered synonymous with political
principle.

My domestic was still less satisfactory than my
public life. The morning was a regular, “never ending,
still beginning” routine of vexatious toil. I

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was condemned to listen to applications it was out of
my power to comply with; to express regrets which
I did not feel; and hold out expectations which I
knew would never be realized. I made abundance
of enemies, and gained no friends; I was condemned
to meet ingratitude from those on whom I conferred,
and enmity from those to whom I refused benefits.
In short I was a slave to official duties, that brought
neither the rewards of a good conscience, nor remuneration
for the reproaches of a wounded one.
From my office, where I sat in my chair five or six
hours, without any exercise but that of a perplexed
and irritated mind, I dragged myself home, to dress
for a dinner at six o'clock, to put on silk stockings,
sit in a cold room three or four hours, eat enormously,
and get the rheumatism or dyspepsy. From
thence it was my hard fate to go to a party with Mrs.
Bashaba, who entered furiously into the dissipations
of the capital, now that the station of her husband
ensured her being handed in to supper by a foreign
minister, or in default, by an attaché at least. During
the daytime that good lady was perpetually driving
through the solitudes of the streets, paying visits to
ladies of distinction, at taverns, or trundling to
Georgetown, to ravage the milliners' shops. In one
season, she disabled three pair of horses, and two
coachmen; one of whom became a cripple with
rheumatism, the other fell into a decline, with a cold
caught in driving her to a party five miles off, in a
snow storm.

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But this was not the worst. Mrs. Bashaba caught
the spirit of the place, and commenced the business
of flirtation, with an attaché, whose face resembled
that of a Newfoundland dog. He was the very personification
of whiskers, and was held to be very handsome,
for he marvellously resembled Peter the wild
boy. It was now that I thanked my stars, my wife
was not a beauty; for if she had been, I should have
become jealous, and she would have lost her reputation
to a certainty. As it was, I considered the devoirs
of Peter the wild boy, a homage paid to my
official dignity, rather than to the attractions of Mrs.
Bashaba; and as nobody envied the attaché, there
was no motive for taking away her reputation. The
happy result of these happy coincidences, was, that
I escaped the green eyed monster, and Mrs. Bashaba
scandal.

As I believe none of the writers on natural history
have described the race of whiskered animals,
called Attaché, it may be well to apprize my readers,
that they constitute the tail of the corps diplomatique.
They are the shadows of the minister, who is
the shadow of his august master, and are, of course,
the shadows of a shadow. They must be able to
cut up a dish at the ambassador's table; cut a
figure among the ladies; and cut a caper at balls.
It is their important duty to fill up cards of invitation;
answer notes not diplomatic; run about and
pick up news; get at every body's secrets and keep
their own; compliment the young ladies; talk

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scandal with the old ones; trumpet forth every donation
of the minister to charitable societies; and put on their
embroidered coats on all proper occasions. Above
all they must understand etiquette, and sacrifice
the whole decalogue to a point of precedence. Four
or five years practice in these profound mysteries
qualifies them for Secretary of Legation.

The unlearned reader must be careful not to confound
etiquette with good breeding, such as is practised
among private persons. No two things can
be more different, nay, opposite to each other.
Among ordinary people, for example, when a stranger,
entitled to notice and hospitality, comes into
the place, it is considered well bred, to call on him
first, and invite him to your house. Etiquette however,
prescribes a different course. The stranger
must call on the resident, indirectly solicit his notice,
and thrust himself, or herself, on the hospitalities
of the person of distinction. Among well bred
people, if two persons happen to be going into a
dining room together, there will be a little contest of
courtesy, not who shall get in first, but who shall give
precedence to the other. Among people of etiquette
it is exactly the reverse. The point of honour consists
in maintaining certain imaginary rights of going
first, if it be only at a funeral; and a gentleman
or lady, who should lose their proper place, would
not be able to sleep for a week, without an anodyne.
When I was a member of congress, I came very
near occasioning a long and bloody war, between

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the United States and a foreign nation, by insulting
the king of the country, in taking the hand of a lady
who happened to stand next me, to lead her into the
supper room. She had been assigned to the minister,
who immediately ordered his carriage, went
home without his supper, and penned a furious despatch
to his government, which he sent off express,
by an Attaché of three whiskers. The lady never
forgave my presumption. Had I been a senator, it
might have passed, but a member of the lower
House! it was too bad. Thus it will be perceived
that etiquette is the antipodes to good breeding. The
former consists in asserting, the latter in waiving, our
pretensions to precedence and superiority on all occasions.

It was curious to see the independent representatives
of a free people, paying homage to the superiority
of men they took every occasion to slight in
their public speeches, and complying with such docility
with the mandates of Monsieur Etiquette. The
first thing they did on arriving at the seat of government,
was to hire a hack, and drive furiously round
to all the givers of balls and dinners, to leave a card.
This entitled them to an invitation to all the balls
and dinners, provided they sent in their adhesion in
this manner, after every ball and dinner; otherwise
they only got an invitation to one ball and dinner,
for these things were too good to be had without
asking. For my part, while I was a member, I refused
this act of homage, which I then considered

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somewhat degrading, though when I became one of
the privileged few, I confess I did not find it altogether
so unreasonable. The consequence of my
refusal was, that I was cut by the whole corps diplomatique,
attachés and all; dined at home every day
by myself, and escaped dyspepsy for that session at
least.

At parties where I saw the same faces, and heard
the same speeches for a whole session, my great
amusement was to observe the various struggles of
all classes, to obtain that species of distinction which
is dependent not on ourselves, but other people. I could
always tell where the principal person, the lion of
rank, was stationed, by the tide which was tending
that way; and had I not known a single person in
the room, I could have pointed him or her out by
that infallible indication. Such struggles to get
near enough for a speech or smile, a nod, or a shake
of the hand! Such looks of triumph when the little
ones got side by side with the great; and such burstings
of self-importance when they had the honour of
walking arm in arm, with one on the next step of the
ladder above them! Every body seemed to live in
the sunshine of reflected honour, and none appeared
to found their claims to respect or consideration, on
the basis of conscious worth, or intrinsic merit. I
have seen the most insignificant beings on earth,
without character or talents, acquire a temporary
importance from the mere circumstance of having
by dint of a degrading perseverance acquired the

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privilege of being toad-eater to a person of distinction.
Nobody could eat their supper with an appetite
at the lower end of the table; and Mrs. Welcome
Bashaba always scolded the servants for a
fortnight, when she missed the glory of being handed
in and out by a qualified hand.

Such was the life I led year after year. By the
time summer came, I was completely run down, and
it took me all the rest of the year to wind myself up
again. If I went to the Springs, I was bored to
death by prosing politicians, giving their advice on
the conduct of public officers, or slily insinuating
claims to honour and office. If I visited a city where
there was no such nuisance as a seat of government,
for the purpose of relaxing a little in the midst of
its gaieties, there too I was beset by wise men and
wise women, talking nothing but eternal politics, and
reminding me that at such a time they had made application
for such an office, for sons, nephews, and
second cousins. If I returned to my poor little farm,
there it was ten times worse; every soul, far and near,
came to ask for something, for they all had assisted
in my elevation; and like poor Acteon, I was in danger
of being torn to pieces by my own hounds. I was
obliged to bow and smile, and play the courtier,
while my very soul was fretting itself to shreds and
tatters; for it is among the horrors of greatness, in
a free country at least, that it must be bought and
maintained at the awful, incalculable price of being
civil to all mankind. Yet still, such is the

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fascination of power, I clung to the glorious mischief,
though it was gnawing at my vitals, and destroying
me by inches. I was indeed fast declining, and it is
my firm belief that a very few years would have
brought me to that great inn, where all mankind
take up their last night's lodging, had not my life
been saved by a lucky change in the great fundamental
political principle, on which the salvation of
unborn millions depended.

The people have in all times been stigmatized
with unsteadiness and ingratitude. But to do them
justice, I believe this versatility is only the consequence
of their perpetual disappointments. They
are promised great things from new rulers, which
promises are never realized, and by a natural consequence,
they change from admiration to indifference,
from indifference to contempt or disgust. But,
however this may be—tempora mutanter—times
change, men change, and principles change, if I am
to judge from my own experience. Even the great
Peleg, my mentor, underwent a metamorphosis.
For some time a silent revolution had been preparing
and maturing in the public mind, turning on
certain great mechanical principles, connected with
rail roads, canals, locks, breakwaters, and cotton
machinery. Political principles now seemed fast
verging into mechanical principles, and the machinery
of state to be almost entirely governed by
spinning jennies, weaver's beams, and topographical
surveys. The revolution of principle in my

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native state was brought about by a great mill dam;
others turned on improving the navigation of rivers;
others on the auction system; others on coarse woollens;
and others on prohibiting the importation of
vermicelli; all fundamental political principles, on
which the existence of the union and the salvation of
unborn millions depended. But the most extraordinary
change of all, was that of a great state—an imperium
in imperio—whose fundamental principle turned
altogether on the question, whether freemasons took
their degrees on a red-hot gridiron or not. This
point divided the whole state, and threw the body
politic into convulsions. Committees were appointed;
inquisitors authorized to worry and harass whole
communities; and constitutional principles set at
nought in the discussion of the great fundamental
principle of the gridiron. But what most strikingly
proved the purity of the motives which governed
all these revolutionary bodies, in all their arguments,
contentions, and struggles, the word interest
was never once uttered. Nothing but conscience
and principle was appealed to, notwithstanding it
was the opinion of many honest people, that an appeal
to the conscience and principles of the opposite
party was like the lady Rosalind swearing by
her beard.

Somewhere about this period, the Honourable
Peleg, who watched the weathercock of politics as
a valetudinarian does the wind, all at once changed
his principles, having, as he wrote me, discovered

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that the great fundamental principle, on which depended
the existence of the union and the salvation
of unborn millions, was not what he took it to be.
He brought over the Banner of Truth to his side,
by sending the worthy editor a present of the largest
pumpkin that ever grew in the state; and the Banner
of Truth began forthwith to unsay all that it
had been saying for the last ten years. Never man
or woman either, unravelled an old stocking so dextrously,
and in as short a time, as the editor of the
Banner of Truth unravelled and turned inside out
all the arguments he had urged in support of the
old great fundamental principle. To be prepared
for the worst, however, he got a coat made, one half
homespun, the other half Regent's cloth, with a
jacket one side civil, the other military, which he
wore as occasion required.

For my part, though I saw the storm coming, I
determined to remain firm to my principles, knowing,
as I did full well, that it was now too late to
change to any good purpose, for my successor was
already designated. The denouement of the great
farce now approached; the whole country was convulsed—
in the newspapers. I went out, and another
came in; one great principle triumphed on
which depended the salvation of unborn millions;
and another great principle on which the salvation
of unborn millions, in the opinion of millions
of living persons, equally depended, went out of
fashion, at least for the time being. Will my

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readesr believe it? I left the seat of government, where
I had lost my health, sacrificed my domestic habits,
and laboured like a galley-slave at the oar, only to be
rewarded with abuse and obloquy, from at least one
half of my countrymen; I left it with a regret, which I
can only account for upon the principle that man is
born unto trouble, and that it is in his nature to delight
to fish in troubled waters. As the City of the Desert
passed away from my backward view, I could
not help reflecting, that I had peradventure been
all my life fighting shadows, for shadows; and that
I was now returning to the starting place, with
nothing saved from the wreck of departed years,
but a fund of experience, which I was now almost
too old to turn to advantage. As the great copper
kettle turned upside down, which deforms one of
the finest structures of the age, disappeared behind
the forests of the city, I cast a rueful glance at Mrs.
Bashaba, who sat at my side, and there met the
comfortable assurance, that my retirement from the
turmoils of public life was not destined to be followed
by the calm of domestic repose.

One of the great delights of the seat of government,
is the necessity a great man labours under of
spending his salary in treating the gentlemen, who
are every day finding fault with his official conduct,
to sumptuous dinners. The simplicity of our republican
institutions requires that these dinners should
be as splendid as possible, and the wines of the most
rare and expensive kind. Without these

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indispensable requisites, it would be almost impossible to
carry a measure, or do any thing for the benefit of
posterity. Every public functionary is expected to
come to the seat of government and go away, as we
come and go out of this world, without bringing
any thing with him or taking any thing away. I remember
once giving a vast dinner to twenty or thirty
members, one of whom was particularly devoted
to the wines and viands, and consumed nearly a
day's salary. The next day he made a famous
speech on republican simplicity, which he concluded
by moving to reduce the enormous salaries of the
great public functionaries, whose splendid dinners,
and silver forks, he described with most edifying
abhorrence. But notwithstanding the French wines,
the French cookery, and the silver forks, I had
saved a few solitary thousands, with which I intended
to improve my little box at home, and cultivate
a small farm I had purchased to please one of my
constituents, who had considerable political influence.

The first time I saw the Honourable Peleg after
my return, we had a hot argument on the question,
whether he or I had deserted the great principle.
It ended, as most political discussions do, in contention
and recrimination. We parted the worst
friends in the world. My farm was now my only
resource. At first the perfect ease, quiet, and selfcommand
I enjoyed was intolerable. I became melancholy
for want of something to trouble me, and

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had it not been for Mrs. Bashaba, should have
perished for lack of contradiction. But fate seemed
determined to persecute me with a life of perfect
ease. I lost Mrs. Bashaba a few months after my
retirement. The whiskered Attaché passed our door
without stopping, on his way to Boston, and she
never help up her head afterwards. Casting about
for something to do, it all at once occurred to me,
that I would call the Honourable Peleg to a reckoning
on the score of his guardianship. I had the
cruelty to put him in chancery; but I shared with
him the penalty of this unchristian act. I had now
enough to occupy my mind, and vex my very soul;
and I here record it as my firm opinion, that to be
in chancery is worse than to be the head of a department.
I several times saw the end of my suit,
but it was like a view of those high, snowy, perpendicular
summits we behold on approaching
the Andes, which the eye sees and the imagination
contemplates, but which are inaccessible to mortal
tread. When I began the suit, I was possessed of
three very good things; I had money, patience, and
a great veneration for equity. Before my suit was
ended, I had neither one nor the other. But time
does wonders; it can even bring a suit in chancery
to an end; and at length I got a decision in my
favour for a few thousands. But the Honourable
Peleg was prepared for me; he had assigned all his
property to a bank; the bank had hypotheticated it
to an insurance company; the insurance company

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had failed; the officers, directors, &c., had divided
the spoil, and I might as well have looked for an
honest man among them as for my property. Yet,
strange to say, the Honourable Peleg, by sticking
close to the great political principle, still managed
to preserve the confidence of the people. He had
never held a public office where he was intrusted
with the public money, without being a defaulter;
he had never been charged with the care of another's
property without there being a deficiency in the
end; and he had never been president of a bank
that did not break and defraud the community.
Yet still his political principles were sound, though
his moral principles were rotten; and he was at
length selected by the legislature to prepare a code
of criminal jurisprudence for the state, upon the
ground, I presume, that you set a thief to catch a
thief, and that no man can be better qualified to
make laws, than he who has been long in the habit
of breaking them.

There is a certain homely unobtrusive philosophy
which makes very little figure in the works of Bolingbroke,
Boethius, or any other unfortunate
statesman. It may be called philosophy perforce,
and is worth all other systems put together. I mean
the capacity of the human mind to accommodate itself
to inevitable circumstances; to endure what
cannot be cured, and to make the best of a bad bargain.
This was now my consolation. I had gradually
lost all hope of again coming forward in

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political life; for the moment one man steps out of the
shoes, another stands ready to step into them. If we
stop a moment in the great path, along which the
whole human race is pressing forward, we shall be
left behind, and can never again overtake the flood
that rolls on to success or ruin. By degrees, as this
conviction familiarized itself to my thoughts, I turned
from the past to the present, and gradually yielded
to the philosophy of necessity. I felt that my peace
of mind, my health, my subsistence, depended upon
exertion, and I began to exert myself. It was at first
loathsome and disagreeable for a man who had assisted
in swaying the destinies of an empire, to assist
a labourer in planting pumpkins. But I remembered
that Dioclesian planted cabbages; that Joseph
the second was a great maker of red sealing wax;
that Don Carlos of Naples employed his time in shooting
rabbits, and Don Ferdinand of Spain in embroidering
satin petticoats—above all, I remembered
the example of the great and perfect model of
Rulers, and his virtuous successors, who, one after
another retired from the cares of state, to cultivate
their farms; to give an example to the world, and
hear themselves every day blessed from afar off, by
the voices of millions.

I have now passed almost twenty years in my
humble retirement. The world has forgotten me,
and I am content to be forgotten. I can now look
calmly upon both worlds, that which I am leaving
behind, and that to which I am rapidly advancing.

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The last spark of vanity expired in writing my history,
that I might peradventure be remembered a
little after I am gone. But to do myself justice, I
had other and higher motives.

I have long seen, with fearful and melancholy anticipations,
the vast, and disproportioned space that
politics and party feelings occupy in the lives of my
fellow-citizens, to the exclusion of other, and let me
add, nobler pursuits. I have seen the country
thrown into a ferment; the charities of life, and the
bonds of benevolence, the obligations of truth, and
the ties of justice, all rent as burnt flax, and scattered
to the winds as nothing—an offering on the altar
of political strife. I have seen the most frivolous
objects, and the most contemptible offices, assuming
a vast and fallacious magnitude, and exciting the
most violent outrageous struggle for their attainment,
as if the parties were contending for the empire
of the world. In short, I have seen, as I think,
the finger of time pointing to that period, not far
distant I fear, when the choice of a chief magistrate
will be considered an object of greater moment, than
the precepts of morality, the obligations of religion,
or the preservation of our liberties. It cannot be
disguised that the spark which lights these political
conflagrations is struck out by the violent collision of
office-holders and office-seekers; and I am aware
that the experience of others weighs little with us in
balancing our own conduct and regulating our pursuits.
Still, perhaps a plain narrative of the

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unsatisfactory results of so many sacrifices of moral principles,
may serve to mitigate at least the violence of
those contests, which end at length in a momentary
triumph, followed by a lasting defeat. Men may
learn from my example, how mistaken is the idea,
that the possession of power leads to independence,
or enables them to pursue their own will. If there
is any station in life in which we can do as we please,
it will be found much nearer the extreme of the beggar,
than that of the king.

All the honourable pursuits of life are salutary,
provided they are not sought with too great avidity,
and at the price of integrity and happiness. It is
moreover the bounden duty of every citizen to take a
strong interest in the conduct of public affairs, and the
prosperity of his country. But even patriotism as
well as religion has its limits, beyond which both become
fanaticism. He who sacrifices those principles
of honour, justice, charity, and truth, which are
essential to the happiness of mankind here as well
as hereafter, which never change, and in which all
agree, to a political principle, which is ever varying,
and about which all mankind differ, must in the end
become a most mischievous and pernicious citizen.
Lastly; I have preferred to make my drama a farce
rather than a tragedy. I pretend not to any other
authority than that of experience; but I have seen
enough of the world, and of the people of the world,
to know by experience, that beautiful as wisdom is,
if she would only sometimes condescend to smile,
she would be irresistible.

-- --

THE DUMB GIRL.

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Speak thou fair words, I'll answer with my eyes;
Send thou sweet looks, I'll meet them with sweet looks;
Tell me thy sorrows, I'll reply with tears;
Thy joys, I'll sympathize with dallying smiles;
Thy love, and still I'll answer with mine eyes,
Using my lips only to kiss thee, love.

Some thirty years ago there resided on a little
corner of a farm belonging to my uncle, an aged
man of the name of Angevine, an “old continental,”
as he was called in the language of the times.
He had returned very poor, after having served
during the whole war, and bravely too, if his own
word might be taken for it, and was permitted by my
uncle to occupy a small tenement with a garden, on
a remote angle of his estate, rent free. Angevine
was a brave soldier, but rather an idle man. His
delight was to talk of the revolutionary war; and
who has a better right to talk, than a man who has
lent a hand in giving liberty to his country? I have
known Angevine stop on his way to mill, with a
bushel of corn on his shoulder, and talk a full hour
about the revolutionary war, without ever thinking
of putting down his bag. What was his origin I

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know not, it was probably French; but I remember
whenever he got offended with my good uncle, who
in truth was of the family of Melchesideck—he
used to be somewhat scurrilous on the subject of
ancestry. He held it as a maxim that a soldier was
always a gentleman; and his conduct verified his
maxim, for he never worked when he could help it,
and passed most of his time in telling stories of the
revolutionary war. His revenue was his good spirits,
which generally made him a welcome intruder in all
the neighbouring houses; and when they failed in
that, served to reconcile him to his disappointment.
I believe he was never serious except when he read
his Bible, which he did every day. He would walk
fifteen miles to a training, for fun; got his head frequently
broken, in fun; was run over by a wagon, in
fun; was pitched down a high bank, in wrestling,
for fun; had his hip put out of joint—and once
was put into jail, in fun. In short, it was said of
him that he talked more and worked less than any
man in the county; his maxim being that all the
good people worked for him, and it ran against his
conscience to work for the wicked. He died as he
lived, in fun; giving his pipe to one, his tobacco
box to another, his odd knee buckles to a third; and
bequeathing his testament, which he knew by heart,
to my uncle, in payment of his rent. He was a libel
on all who possess the means of being happy, yet
are wretched; for he enjoyed more pleasure, and
created more mirth, than any man I ever knew, at

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the very time that in the opinion of all reflecting
persons, he ought to have been miserable. In truth
he had enough to make him so, besides poverty.
He had but two children, a girl and a boy; the
former was dumb, and the latter an idiot.

At the time of the old man's death, Ellee, as he
was called—it was a contraction of some name I
have forgot—was about fourteen, his sister Phoebe,
about sixteen years of age. The poor boy had a
heart, though he had no head; his affections were
singularly strong; his reason but a little beyond
instinct. He loved his mother because she fed and
clothed him; he loved his sister, for she was his companion,
and he seemed to have a full perception that
she laboured under some privation, which resembled
his own; yet was not exactly the same. In all
times of danger, suffering, insult, or injury, he flew
to his sister for refuge, and she in time became a
young lioness in his defence. The boy was quite
tractable, and could do many little things, such as
bringing water, going of errands to the neighbours,
who understood his dumb show, and weeding the
garden; until one day, whether in mischief, or from
not knowing better, he plucked up a bed of radishes
for weeds. He had a singular, wild note, which he
sometimes uttered when in violent agitation, which
was not unlike the low, distant whoop of the owl,
though somewhat more plaintive. His chief delight
was to go every where with his sister.

Phoebe was not born dumb, but lost her speech

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about the age of fourteen, as was supposed at the
time by a shock of lightning, which paralyzed the
organs of speech without affecting her hearing.
Before this happened, she had learned to read and
write, and her mind had been considerably improved
at a school hard by, whither old Angevine
had sent her at his own cost, as he boasted; though
truth obliges me to confess he never paid a shilling
for her schooling. At the same time, he scouted
the offers which were made to bring up his children
at the expense of the town. When Phoebe lost her
speech in this unaccountable and melancholy way,
it was affecting to see her impatience at first, her
succeeding despair, and the steps by which by degrees
she regained her spirits and resumed her useful
occupations. Ellee exhibited indications of a vague,
indefinite wonder and anxiety at first; but in a few
days all traces of these wore away, and he seemed unconscious
that his sister had undergone any change.
Her mother, an honest, careful, industrious woman,
took it sadly to heart; but after a time, the only effect
it was observed to have upon the good woman was that
she talked twice as much as ever, I suppose to make
up for the silence of Phoebe. Angevine took to
his Bible for days and weeks afterwards. Indeed I
believe he never fairly recovered the shock, although
the force of habit and constitution still caused him
to exhibit the usual indications of hilarity. He died
about two years after the accident.

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At sixteen, Phoebe Angevine was the prettiest
girl in all the surrounding country, as well as the
most industrious. Indeed it was observed that Ellee
was better dressed, the garden in finer order, and
every thing about the house more tidy and comfortable,
since the death of the `old continental.' The
overseers of the poor offered to take charge of poor
Ellee; but both mother and daughter declared that
so long as they could maintain him, he should
never be a burthen to others. This was before the
poor were coaxed to become paupers, and lured into
idleness and unthrift, by the mistaken benevolence of
morbid sensibility. I thought it necessary to premise
this, in order to render the anecdote credible.
I don't remember ever to have seen exactly such a
face and figure as those of Phoebe. Her hair was
amazingly long, luxuriant, and silky; of a dark
brown colour, to match her eyes; and what is very
rare with our country girls, out of New England,
her skin was excessively white; but her face was all
lily; there was not the slighest tinge of the rose,
except when the impulse of her heart drove the
blood into her cheeks. It is impossible to give any
idea of her features and expression; the former
were rather sharp than oval, and the latter displayed
the character and impress of most intense passion, or
sensibility, or both. Never woman could better
afford to lose her tongue, for every feature of her
face supplied its place. The two poles are not
more distant than was the contrast between the

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lowly, subdued, and dewy eye with which she
curtsied to my good old uncle, and the flashing
intensity of its rage, when any one played tricks
upon the simplicity of her brother, or laughed at his
infirmity; her eyes then did the errand of her
tongue, and their language was terrible. Every
body wondered how she always kept herself so neat,
for she was neatness itself. It was partly innate delicacy,
and partly personal vanity. It was impossible to
see Phoebe, without discovering at once that she
knew she was handsome, and that this was seldom
absent from her thoughts. She never passed a
looking-glass without casting a glance; and doubtless
many are the crystal mirrors of the neighbourhood
that could murmur of her beauties, from the
frequent opportunities she afforded them for contemplation.
There was some excuse for her, since,
independently of the singular charms of her face,
her person was very remarkable. It had no pretensions
to resembling that of a fashionable lady,
for in my opinion she never wore corsets in her life;
but it possessed that singular trimness and natural
grace, which the connoiseur will not fail to discover
and admire in an Indian warrior, fresh from the
hand of nature. It was as much superior to the
caricatures fabricated by fashionable milliners, as
the virgin Miranda was to the monster Caliban.

Phoebe was fond of dress; it was her foible, nay
her fault; for it was the mischievous minister to a
vanity already become one of the master passions of

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her bosom. At church she was always the beauty,
and the best dressed of all the country girls; and he
knows little of a country church that does not know
how many hearts throb with envy, how many tongues
overflow with gall, when the owners are outdressed
and outshone by one they consider beneath them.
These sometimes rudely assailed her with sneers and
inuendoes. Phoebe could not answer but with a
look that no eye that ever I have seen but hers
could give. The poor girl indeed was sadly envied
and hated by the young females of her acquaintance,
because she was not only handsomer and better
dressed, but on account of her triumphs over the
rustic beaus, and the speaking, taunting glance of
her eye, when she carried off the schoolmaster or
heard some stranger ask who was that neat, pretty
girl. Then her ear drank the delicious sounds, and
almost made amends for the loss of the power of
answering but with her eyes. Phoebe was indeed
the belle of all the neighbourhood—a dangerous
pre-eminence! for her poverty, her idiot brother,
and her own misfortune, were so many bars to any
thing beyond the gratification of a passing hour.
She had many admirers; but none that passed the
usual bounds of rustic gallantry, none that sought
her for a wife. All they did was to administer to
her dangerous vanity, and awaken thoughts and
anticipations dangerous to her future peace of mind.

I went to school with Phoebe, during a period of
three or four years that I sojourned with my good

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uncle. The schoolmaster was a gallant old bachelor,
whose house and barn had been burned by the
British, during the revolutionary war. Having
petitioned congress seventeen years in succession,
and cost the nation ten times the amount of his
losses in speeches, he at last got out of patience
and out of bread, and turned to the useful as well
as honourable office of teaching the young idea how
to shoot. He was a lazy, easy-tempered man,
grievously inclined to gallantry, and novels, in the
purchase of which he spent much of his superfluities.
These he lent to the young girls of the country
round, and scarcely ever visited one of them without a
love tale in his pocket, to make him welcome. I cannot
say whether these useful works had any thing to do
with the matter, but certain it is, there were a number
of odd accidents happened to the young damsels
of the neighbourhood about this time. The prettiest
girl in the school was always the greatest favourite,
and the prettiest girl was Phoebe, who always had
the first reading of his novels. I recollect perfectly
that such was her appetite for these high-seasoned
dishes, that she would read them in walking home
from school, and often came near being run over in
the road, so completely was she occupied with the dangers
of some lone lover or imprisoned heroine. When
she lost her speech, of course she quitted school;
but the gallant teacher still continued to visit, and
bring her the newest novels. These indeed did not
make their appearance so frequently at that time as

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they do now, when, I am credibly informed, young
ladies take a new novel every Sunday to church, to
read during the sermon. Poor Ellee used to be
sometimes out of all patience with his sister, for sitting
thus whole hours without taking notice of him,
and once threw a whole set of Pamela into the fire, to
the irreparable loss of poor Phoebe and the schoolmaster.

At the age of eighteen, Phoebe had many admirers
besides the schoolmaster; her beauty attracted
the young men, but the misfortunes of herself and
family restrained them within the bounds of idle
admiration and homely gallantry. But even if this
had not been the case, Phoebe was too well read in
novels, to relish the devoirs of these rustical and
barbarous Corydons. Thus she grew up in the
beauty of finished womanhood, her imagination
inflated with unreal pictures, and her passions stimulated
by overwrought scenes of sentiment or
sensuality, for it is difficult to draw the line now.

About this time, the only son of a neighbouring
squire whose wealth outwent the modest means of
all his neighbours, not excepting my worthy uncle,
and was moreover enhanced by his official dignity,
returned home, like the prodigal son of holy writ,
poor and penitent. He had in early youth been
smitten with the romantic dangers of the seas, and,
being restrained in his inclinations by his parents,
especially his mother, had run away. He had been
absent six years without ever being heard of, and

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the disconsolate parents long mourned him as dead.
His return was therefore hailed with tears of joy and
welcome: the father fell on his neck and wept;
the mother first scolded him for running away, and
then kissed him, till he was ready to run away again.
All was joy, welcome, and curiosity; and for several
days the prodigal had nothing to do but relate his
adventures. He had been to the Northwest Coast,
to the West Indies, and to the East; he had harpooned
whales in the Frozen Ocean, and caught
seals in the South Sea; he had been shipwrecked
on the coast of Patagonia, where he saw giants
eight feet high; and stranded on the coast of Labrador,
where he dined on raw fish, with pigmies of
not more than three; he had gone overboard with
a broken yard, and was taken up ten days after
perfectly well, having lived all the while on ropeyarns
and canvass; and he was carried down to the
bottom in six fathoms, by the anchor, and could tell
better than the gentlemen who have lately taken up
the biographies of dead men come to life, exactly
how a man felt when he was drowned. In short, he
had seen the Peak of Teneriffe; Mount ætna in an
eruption; the Bay of Biscay in a storm; and the
sea serpent off Nahant. Of all the heroes in a country
circle, the greatest is he who can tell the most
stories of wonders of his own creation. Accordingly
our hero, for such he is, was the lion of
the day, the wonder of the men, and the admiration
of the ladies, old and young. One day, after our

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Sindbad had been telling of the wonders he had
seen, and the perils he had encountered, the old
squire suddenly asked,

“But have you brought home any money, Walter?”

“Not a sous, sir.”

“Hum!” quoth the squire.

The first Sunday after his arrival, our hero went to
church, whither the fame of his adventures had already
preceded him. Every body looked at him during
the whole sermon. The old people observed how
much he had grown since he was a boy; the young
ladies thought him very handsome; and the young
fellows all envied him to a man. Walter in his
turn looked about, with the air of a man unconscious
of the notice he excited, and after making the circuit
of the church with his eyes, at length rested
them in evident admiration on Phoebe Angevine,
who was that day dressed in her best style, and
looked as neat as a new pin. Phoebe blushed up
to the eyes, and her proud heart swelled in her bosom.
She continued to steal occasional looks at
him, and always found his eyes fixed upon her, not
insolently, but with an air of entreaty to be forgiven
the liberty they were taking. Poor Ellee had come
that day to church with her, and for the first time
perhaps in her life she felt ashamed of him, and
wished him away, although he always behaved himself
bettert han some people who think themselves
very wise.

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It was the custom of the country at the time I
speak of, and I believe is so still, for the congregation
to remain during the interval between the two
services, most of them living too far off to go home
and return again in time. This interval is usually
spent by the good pastor, in making kind inquiries
about the health and prosperity of the good people;
by the old men, in talking of their crops and their
prospects; by the old gossips, in talking scandal;
and by the young folks, in strolling about under the
trees, or rambling through the church yard, reading
the epitaphs, and looking unutterable things. It is
here, amidst the records and memorials of mortality,
the precepts of religion, and the mouldering remains
of the departed, that human passions, even among
the best of us, still will exercise their irrepressible
influence. Vanity contemplates her Sunday suit with
glances of glowing admiration; Love nourishes
his idle dreams; Revenge studies modes of gratification;
and Avarice plans schemes requiring years
to realize, in the midst of a thousand breathless
whispers, that remind him of the woful uncertainty
of life—that say to the aged, Your time is but a span;
to the young children, There are shorter graves than
thine in the church yard, and smaller skulls in Golgotha.

During these various occupations and amusements
of the simple folks, Phoebe was strolling
about among the rest, with the gallant schoolmaster,
and Ellee, of whom she felt more ashamed every

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moment; for she could not help observing, that is,
she could not help every now and then casting a sly
glance at our hero, and seeing that he was always
following her with his eyes. She wished poor
Ellee at home, and the schoolmaster in his school
teaching A, B, C.

“Well, what do you think of young Mr. Avery?”
asked the schoolmaster; “I don't admire him much
for my part.”

“Nor I,” said Phoebe, blushing to the eyes,
with that instinctive spirit of deception, which marks
the beginning, middle, end—no, not the end—of
love in the female bosom. There is not a greater
hypocrite in the world than a young and bashful
girl, learning the first rudiments of affection.

“Who is that beautiful girl, in the white muslin
gown?” asked our hero of a covey of rural belles,
with whom he had become acquainted; “she seems
very bashful, for I have not seen her open her
mouth.”

The young damsels began to giggle, and titter,
and exchange significant looks, which excited the
curiosity of Walter to ask an explanation.

“She's dumb,” at length said one, with another
suppressed giggle, in which the others joined. They
were by no means ill-natured girls, but I know not
how it was, they did not like the curiosity of our
hero. Women can't bear curiosity in others, except
it relates to their own particular affairs.

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“Dumb!” said Walter; “poor girl.” Dumb,
thought he, a few minutes afterwards; so much the
better; and sinking into thought, he asked no more
questions.

The good Mrs. Angevine staid from church that
sabbath, on account of a rheumatism. When Phoebe
came home, she asked her, according to custom,
where the text was, bidding her seek it out in the
Bible. Phoebe shook her head, and looked confused.

“What! you've forgot, you naughty girl?”

Phoebe nodded.

“I dare say you were asleep,” said the mother.

Phoebe shook her head again.

“Then I dare say you were gaping at the young
fellows,” said the mother, angrily.

Phoebe shook her head more emphatically, and
with a look of indignation. There was too much
truth in this last supposition.

“Well, well,” quoth the mother, “I'm sure something
is going to happen, for you never forgot the
text before.”

Dreams, clouds, gipseys, and ghosts, are all prophetic
now-a-days, at least in fashionable novels;
and why may not this remark of the good woman
have been prophetic too? Certain it is, that something
did happen before long.

It was two or three days after this memorable prediction,
that young Walter Avery, being out shooting,
and finding himself thirsty, stopped at the house

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of the widow Angevine for a drink of water. The
good dame asked him in to rest himself, which invitation
he accepted, and staid almost an hour, during
which time he talked to the mother, and looked at
the daughter. In going away, he shook poor Ellee
by the hand, as an excuse for doing the same to
Phoebe, which he did with a certain lingering, gentle,
yet emphatic pressure, that made her blood come
and go on errands from her heart to her face.
Phoebe thought of this gentle pressure, with throbbing
pulses, and poor Ellee was as proud as a peacock
at shaking hands with such a smart young gentleman.

From this time no one ever came to the house
without being obliged to shake hands with him half
a dozen times. With that strange sagacity and quickness
of observation which frequently accompanies
the absence of reason, he had marked the expression
of Phoebe's face, when Walter Avery looked
at and took her hand; and he made her blush often
afterwards by his grotesque imitation of his manner.
“Stop in again when you come this way,” cried the
old dame, highly pleased with his particular notice
of every thing she said. Walter was highly flattered,
and assured her he would come that way often.
At parting, he gave Phoebe a look that kept her
awake half that night.

“Didn't I say something was going to happen
last Sunday, when you forgot the text?” said Mrs.
Angevine. Phoebe was watching to see if Walter

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turned to look back as he wound round an angle of
the road, and took no notice of what the good woman
said; so she continued talking on to herself,
for want of somebody else to listen.

“Something has happened,” thought Phoebe,
with a sigh, as Walter in turning the angle kissed
his hand to her, and disappeared. The rest of the
day she was so idle that her mother scolded her
soundly. The inertness of new-born passion was
gradually crawling over her, and she more than
ever regretted the destruction of Pamela, by the sacrilegious
hand of Ellee. From this time Walter
was out every day shooting, and what the old woman
thought rather singular, he always grew thirsty
about the time of passing her door. “It is worth
while to go a mile out of the way to get a drink of
such water,” would he say, though it tasted a little
of iron, and was not the coolest in the world. While
the mother was attending to household affairs, Walter
talked to Phoebe, and she answered him with her eyes.
But as there are certain little promises and engagements,
requiring more specific replies than even the
brightest eyes can give, he one day made her a present
of a silver pencil and pocket-book, in which she
sometimes made her responses in writing. Many
opportunities occurred for nourishing the growing
passion of the poor girl, notwithstanding the perpetual
intrusions of Ellee, who had taken a great fancy
to Walter ever since he gave him the friendly
shake of the hand, which went directly to his heart;

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he seldom received such an attention except from
my kind-hearted old uncle. After this, he never
met Walter without going up, making a strange,
grotesque bow, and shaking him by the hand most
emphatically. Walter sometimes wished him in the
Red sea, for he interfered with his designs, and unknowingly
often proved the guardian genius of his
sister. If they sometimes stole a march upon him,
and wandered along the little river Byram, which
skirted the foot of the neighbouring hills, it was seldom
but Ellee found them out, with the instinct of
a pointer; when he would come running up, with a
chuckling laugh at his cleverness, and give master
Walter a cordial shake of the hand. Yet still they
had their moments of solitude and silence, such as
innocent lovers cherish as the brightest of their
lives, and deceivers seize upon for the attainment of
their objects. In the wicked twilight of the quiet
woods, the purest heart sometimes swells with the
boiling eddies of a youthful fancy; and it is there
that the purest person is won to the permission of
little freedoms and progressive endearments, which,
if not checked in time, are only atoned for by the
tears of a whole life. Phoebe became gradually
absorbed in the all-devouring passion. She could
not relieve her heart and express her feelings in
speech, and thus they preyed upon her almost to
suffocation. There is no reason to doubt her entire
conviction that Walter intended her marriage,
for he had told her so a thousand times.

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Rumour, which like echo loves to abide among
the rocks and dells, where she delights to blow her
horn, the signal of awakening to a thousand blabbing
tongues—rumours and scandals now began to
circulate among the neighbours, all to the disadvantage
of Phoebe. It was nonsense to suppose Walter
intended to marry a dumb girl, and one so poor as
her. His father was the richest man in the county,
and he was the only son. It was impossible.

“Nobody can believe it, in their right senses,”
cried Mrs. Toosy.

“The girl must be a fool!” cried Mrs. Ratsbane,
“or something worse.”

“I thought what would come of her fine clothes
and foolish books,” cried Mrs. Dolan.

“And then the silver pencil,” cried Mrs. Nolan.

“And the morocco pocket-book—people don't
give these things for nothing,” cried Mrs. Dollinger.

“The mother must be mad to think of such a
thing,” cried Mrs. Fadladdle.

“The girl is no better than she should be,” cried
Mrs. Doorise.

“She is certainly a good for nothing cretur,”
cried Mrs. Cackle.

“Lord have mercy upon us! what is this world
coming to?” cried Mrs. Skimpey, with upturned
eyes, “it puts me in mind of—I don't know what.”

“Heigho!” cried Mrs. Fubsy, taking a pinch of

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snuff, with a deep sigh, “it puts me in mind of
Joseph in Egypt.”

“Well, after all, let as hope for the best,” cried
Mrs. Daisy.

“Amen!” answered they all, and thereupon the
tea-party broke up, at five o'clock in the afternoon.
Women are in fact ill-natured toads, especially towards
each other, but they make it up in kindness
to us bachelors. There is good reason why they
should be intolerant to certain transgressions of the
sex. Vice thrives apace where it carries with it no
other penalty but that denounced by the laws. It
is the inquest, the censure, the terrible verdict of the
society in which we live and move and have our very
being, that constitutes the severest punishment; and
it behooves women to be inflexible in visiting sins,
that if they were to become common, would degrade
them from divinities into slaves—from the
chosen companions of man to the abject ministers
of his pleasures. As yet, however, the censures
of our tea-party were premature. Phoebe was innocent,
though on the brink of a precipice.

At length Mrs. Ratsbane thought it her duty, as
a neighbour and a Christian, to open the whole
matter to the mother of our hero, who forthwith reported
it to the Squire. Not that she thought or
meant he should take any steps in the affair;
she was a remarkable, a very remarkable woman,
such a woman as we doubt if the world ever
produced before or ever will again; for it was her

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maxim, that as women could have no wills when
they died, it was but fair they should have their wills
all the rest of their lives. Never woman stuck
closer to her favourite maxim, as the Justice, were
he living, could testify. The name of this puissant
justice was Hezekiah Lord Avery, but his neighbours
usually called him Lord Avery, a name which
I shall adopt in order to give dignity to my story.
It is very seldom one gets so good an opportunity of
ennobling one's pages. His lordship was a silent
man in the presence of his wife, but a great talker
every where else, especially when sitting as a magistrate,
at which times he would never suffer any
body to speak a word but himself; for such was his
astonishing sagacity that he always knew what a
client was going to say before he opened his mouth.
The only man that ever got the better of him, was a
little pestilent lawyer of the township, who once spoke
eight hours on a point of law, which, though it had
nothing to do with the case, involved a great principle;
whereupon the people sent him to Congress.
Lord Avery was a man of great substance; partly
derived from his father, and partly of his own acquisition;
for he was what is called a lucky man. If
there happened a drought all over the country that
raised the price of wheat, Lord Avery was sure to
have a redundant harvest; if apples were scarce, his
orchards groaned with their product; if he sold any
thing it was sure to fall in price, and if he bought
it was as certain to rise. In short, he was the Midas

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of modern times, and even his blunders turned to
gold. He had a neighbour his exact opposite; a
sensible, calculating man, who was always giving
his advice to his lordship, but without effect. This
worthy but unfortunate man never undertook any
thing without the most mature deliberation and consulting
every body. One year, observing all his
neighbours were planting a more than usual quantity
of corn, he sagely concluded that there would
be a glut in the market, and planted great fields of
potatoes. About harvest time the news of a failure
of crops in Europe came, and doubled the price of
corn, while the good man's potatoes stood stock
still. Lord Avery had gone on without caring a straw
about what his neighbours were doing, and reaped
a swinging harvest. The calculator was obliged
to buy corn of his lordship, who took occasion to
crack a joke on his foresight.

“An ounce of luck is worth a pound of understanding,”
replied the long-headed man.

It is well it was, for his lordship had plenty of one
and very little of the other.

Lord Avery loved his son Walter for two especial
reasons; he was his only son, and he told the
most entertaining stories in the world. Her ladyship
immediately, on receiving the information from
Mrs. Ratsbane, sought her lord, and poured it all
into his ear, with additions.

“I will”—quoth Lord Avery in a passion.

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You will!” cried her ladyship, contemptuously,
“your will is in the cherry-tree.”

“Well, well, it is my opinion,” said he, perfectly
cool.

“Your opinion! how often have I told you, you
have no opinion of your own?”

“No opinion of my own—a justice have no
opinion of his own!” thought he.

“Well, then, I think”—

“Think! how often have I told you there is no
use in your thinking?”

“Not much!” thought his lordship adding,

“Well then, my dear, I say—that is, I think—
that is, I am of opinion—my dear, what is your
opinion of the matter?”

“My opinion is, that you had better say nothing
on the subject.”

“What did you come and tell me of it for?”
asked his lordship, a little nettled.

There is a pleasant story, that the secret of Midas
having asses ears, was finally discovered by his barber,
who, unable to contain himself, at length communicated
it to the earth, whence soon after sprung
up certain reeds, that whispered it to the four winds,
which blabbed it all over the world. Her ladyship
had never heard this story, but told hers to his
lordship for the same reason the barber whispered
his to the earth. She wanted somebody to listen,
not talk to her.

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“What did I tell it to you for;” at length replied
her ladyship, after a puzzling pause, “are you not
his father?”

“I wish I was his mother!” quoth his lordship.

“If you were you'd be twice the man you are at
present,” retorted her ladyship. “But what do
you mean to do?” Her ladyship always asked his
advice, while she as invariably took by the rule of
contrary.

“Why, I mean to disinherit him, if”—said his
lordship, pompously.

“You disinherit him! you shall do no such
thing!”

“Why, then, I'll make him marry the girl.”

“Marry her!” screamed her ladyship, “why the
creature is dumb!”

“Hum!” said Lord Avery, “I don't think that
any mighty objection.”

“Her brother is an idiot.”

“Poor fellow, I'm sorry for him.”

“Her mother is a fool.”

“There are plenty to keep her in countenance.”

“You're enough to provoke a saint.”

“How should you know?” quoth Lord Avery,
whose mind was wandering a little from the subject.
Her ladyship insisted this was as much as telling
her she was no saint, and thereupon made her exit
in hysterics. And thus the consultation ended.

The next time Lord Avery saw his son, he questioned
him on the subject of Phoebe, and received

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his solemn assurance of her innocence. The good
man believed him, but the lady maintained its impossibility.

“Why, how do you know it is impossible?” said
his lordship.

“By experience,”—answered the lady.

“Hum,”—quoth his lordship.

Her ladyship finding herself in a dilemma, made
her retreat, as usual, and fell into hysterics.

“Walter,” said his lordship, who talked like an
orator, in the absence of his wife, “Walter, you must
not think of marrying this poor dumb girl.”

“I don't mean to,” said Walter, with a sly look.

“Ah! you wicked dog!” quoth his lordship—
“but mind you don't make a fool of yourself.”

“Never fear, I only mean to make a fool of the
girl.”

“Ah! Walter, you're a chip of the old block”—
said his lordship, complacently. “But I'm glad to
find you don't mean to disgrace your family.”

That worthy and gallant bachelor, the schoolmaster,
came to caution Phoebe, and spoke like an
oracle of the improbability that the only son of
Lord Avery, should marry, or be permitted to marry
the daughter of an `old continental,' in her situation.
He then went away, but being moved by
her tears, left with her a new novel, in which the
rustic heroine becomes a duchess. Phoebe wept
for an hour after he went away, at the end of which

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she took up the book, and soon lost herself in the
extravagancies of sentiment and fiction.

Matters went forward for some time after this in
the usual way; the lovers took long walks together,
and the neighbourhood held long talks. Her ladyship
scolded, and his lordship very discreetly held
his peace at home, consoling himself by making as
much noise as possible abroad. All of a sudden
however, Phoebe became very sad; and was observed
to weep bitterly whenever Walter came to see
her, which was not now as often as usual. She refused
any more to accompany him in walks through
the wood, or along the banks of the Byram, and he
would go away in a passion, threatening never to see
her more. Poor Ellee watched her, as a faithful
dog watches the looks of his master, and it was apparent
that he could see she was unhappy, though he
only remotely comprehended the cause. He no
longer however, shook hands with Walter, and when
he went away, leaving Phoebe in tears, would sit
down by her side, take hold of her hand, kiss it,
and utter his mournful music. He never shed tears,
for nature, though she had given him feelings, had
denied him the means of expressing them except by
gestures and moanings. It was an aching sight to
see these two poor bereaved beings, thus suffering
together, without the power of alleviating their sorrows,
except by the silent sympathy of expressive
actions and speaking looks. This sympathy was
not shared by the mother, whom age and toil had

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rendered callous to all the ills of life, except poverty
and sickness. If she took particular notice of
Phoebe, it was to flout her for her idleness, or sneer
at her grand lover; for the hints and tales of the
neighbours had soured her mind towards her daughter,
and infected her with strange suspicions.

One day Phoebe received a little billet, and shortly
afterwards, having contrived to evade the notice
of Ellee, was seen to bend her course towards a little
retired spot, distant from any habitation. It was
here she had often met Walter, and while leaning
on his bosom tasted the joys of an innocent love,
ripening into an all devouring flame. A high rock
gloomed over the river's bank as it whirled violently
round a sharp angle, deep and turbid. Within the
angle, and close under the side of the rock, was a
little greensward, shadowed by lofty sycamores, and
shut in on all sides by the perpendicular rock, the
mountain in the rear, and the deep brawling torrent
in front. It was a scene made for love, and it might
easily be consecrated to a more malignant passion.
Ellee followed his sister, as usual when he found she
was gone, and after an absence of perhaps two
hours, came home without her, in a state of terrible
agitation. He motioned with his hands; he ran to
and fro; pointed to the spot I have described, and
attempted to drag his mother violently towards it,
gnashing his teeth and actually foaming at the
mouth all the while. At length he sat down in a
corner, and commenced that strange melancholy

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moaning, which was the only sound he ever uttered.
Labour and poverty harden the heart. The mother
thought strange of this behaviour at first; but she
was busy at work, and her mind became gradually
drawn off from the poor boy.

My uncle and myself happened to come riding by
at this moment, and no sooner did Ellee perceive us,
than he darted out, seized my uncle's bridle, and
pointing first to the house, then to the river, with
convulsive rapidity, concluded his dumb show by
the customary moan. Assured that something uncommon
had taken place, we alighted, and went into
the house, where we found the old woman, so busily
at work that she had not been aware of our coming.
Ellee followed us in, hung upon our steps, watched
every movement, and fixed so intense an eye upon
the motion of our lips, that it seemed as if he intended
to translate their very movements. On inquiring
what was the matter the good woman related
all she knew; but did not seem to think any thing
extraordinary had happened. It was otherwise with
my uncle and myself, who determined to go under
the guidance of Ellee, and see what had become of
his sister. As soon as we mounted our horses, and
turned them towards the river, the idiot boy seemed
to understand our object. He again commenced his
furious gesticulations; gnashed his teeth, foamed at
the mouth, and sinking as usual into a low and plaintive
quaver, ran with all his might towards the river,

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only stopping at times to see if we were coming, and
beckoning us eagerly to follow.

It was now verging towards the sunset of a long
day in the month of June. Ellee led us to the
place where the river rolled rapidly around the sharp
angle of the rock, and there again began the most
violent course of gesticulation. He pointed to the
roots of an old branching sycamore, then twined his
arms about my body and kissed me, then wrung his
hands, and imitated weeping as well as he could,
and finally ran moaniug to the river's bank, and
making as if he would cast himself in, howled most
piteously, while he pointed to the deep current rolling
past. These significant actions naturally awakened
in our minds the most unpleasant suspicions.
We examined the spot with the most minute attention.
On the bark of the old tree appeared the initials
P. A. and W. A. apparently but just cut, and
at the root, the grass seemed to us to exhibit traces
of two persons having been sitting there very lately,
side by side. A little blood was sprinkled on one of
the projecting roots of the tree, and a piece of paper
was picked up crumpled together and stained with
blood. On examining it more particularly, there
were found upon it, written with a pencil, some
words in the handwriting as it afterwards appeared, of
Walter Avery, that seemed to form part of an invitation
to meet him somewhere or other. While this
scrutiny was going on, poor Ellee accompanied us
with the most intense interest, and watched our looks,

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apparently to learn the impression made on our
minds by these circumstances. By this time it was
growing dark, and we quitted the place, notwithstanding
the violent opposition of Ellee, with a determination
to pursue the investigation next morning,
if on inquiry it was found Phoebe had not returned.
She did not return that night, nor did she
make her appearance the next morning. We accordingly
again proceeded to the spot where Ellee
had before directed us, accompanied by several of
the neighbours, and continued our examination. Nothing
more was observed that could throw light on
the affair, though the river was closely and particularly
investigated for some miles below. The general
conclusion was that she had been made away
with in some way or other, and suspicion fell strongly
upon Walter Avery. The notoriety of his courtship
to Phoebe, the circumstance of the fragment of
the note, and the fact that he had been seen going
towards the spot where the fragment was found, all
combined, seemed to bring the fact of murder, if not
home to him, yet close to his door.

The conduct of Ellee corroborated these suspicions.
Whenever by any chance he encountered
Walter, his rage was ungovernable; he would assail
him violently with stones, or when occasion offered,
lay hold of him with all the violence of infuriate
madness, tearing his clothes, biting, scratching,
kicking, and foaming at the mouth, with a bitterness
of rage and antipathy he never exhibited

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towards any other person. Rumours gathered
strength every day; each one compared notes, and
each had some circumstance of his own to communicate,
that added to the mass of presumptions. A
legal inquiry was at length instituted, but the dumb
testimony of Ellee was so vague and unsatisfactory
that the grand jury, while in their hearts they believed
Walter guilty, declined to find an indictment.
Yet in the eyes of all the neighbourhood, Walter
stood convicted as a murderer and seducer. He
escaped the judgment of the law, but the verdict of
society condemned him. He stood a marked man,
avoided by all, feared and hated by all; in the midst
of society he was alone, and he sought to be alone.
It seemed as if he did not like to look in the face of
any human being, and the quick apprehension with
which he turned his eye, when it met the glance of
another appeared to indicate that he feared they might
behold the reflection of his crime in the mirror of
his soul.

Time passed on, carrying as usual on the bosom
of his mighty stream, the wrecks of men and things.

The old Lord, who never since the absence of
Phoebe, had once called Walter `a chip of the old
block,' disappeared from this world in the fullness
of years. His good fortune followed him to the last,
for he sent for a physician who could not come,
and thereby escaped the persecutions of the seven
sciences, and died of the disease instead of the doctor.
His wife soon followed; for it would seem that

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the lives of old people who have lived together a
long while, become intertwined with each other.
Too weak, as it were, for self-support, they lean
upon each other in the down-hill course, and like
Jack and Gill, when one falls, the other comes `tumbling
after.' About the same time, or shortly after,
for my memory is now grown somewhat indistinct,
the mother of Phoebe likewise departed this
life, and poor Ellee was taken to my uncle's house,
where he remained the rest of his days, exhibiting
in his profound devotion to his benefactor, a libel
on human reason, which ought to hide its head in
shame, when told that dogs and idiots transcend it
in gratitude. He died of a sort of premature old
age about three years subsequently.

Walter Avery, the worthy young squire, after
the lapse of several years of gloomy retirement,
married a woman, who thought his wealth a counterpoise
to all his other delinquencies. They both
lived to repent this union. He was a misanthrope,
and she a shrew. The days of Walter were days
of bitterness, his nights were nights of horror. It
seemed as if guilt had unmanned him entirely. He
was afraid to be alone in the dark; the rattling of
the shutters made him start; the howling of the
winds, the rolling of the thunder, every shooting
star, and every ordinary phenomenon of nature
seemed to him the menacings of heaven's wrath, the
forerunners of something dreadful. He became the
slave of conscience and superstition combined, and

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never knew the blessings of a night of balmy rest.
Awake, he lay perspiring in vague indefinite horrors;
and sleeping, he rolled from side to side, muttering
unintelligible words, and moans that seemed to rend
his very vitals. Guilt and remorse are the parents of
superstition. Walter became a believer in dreams;
as if the gracious Being, whose attribute is truth,
would condescend to convey his intimations through
what, ninety-nine times in a hundred, is only the
medium of irreconcilable falsehoods and contradictory
absurdities. The impression uppermost in his
mind, was his crime; the figure of Phoebe was ever
present to his waking hours; what wonder then if it
haunted his dreams? Some little coincidences
served to frighten him into a belief that they were
more than accidental; and he gradually became a
victim to the most abject superstition. In the gloom
and silence of night, a thousand fantastic illusions
preyed upon his guilty soul; and when he shut his
eyes, a perpetual phantasmagoria of shapeless monsters
danced before him, grinning in horrid deformity
unlike to any human form, or wearing the well
remembered visage of Phoebe, sometimes pale, sad,
and deathlike, at others distorted by the most malignant
and diabolical passions. By degrees, as his
mind and body became gradually weakened by
being thus perpetually assailed, a firm conviction
fastened itself on his imagination, that this besetting
phantasy was a malignant fiend, empowered by a
just Providence to assume the shape of his victim,

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to punish him for his crime. At length his wife
died; he never had any children by her; and that
night the figure of Phoebe appeared to him as usual,
pointing to a leaf in the pocket-book he had given
her, which bore these words: “You shall see me
once more.”

Not long after this event, he was sitting on his
piazza in the summer twilight, drinking the very
dregs of misery, when he was roused by a little
boy, about six or eight years old, who stood weeping
before him.

“What do you want, sir?” cried Walter, with
the impatience common to his state of mind.

“I want my mother,” answered the boy, weeping
bitterly.

“You fool! I am not your mother. She is not
here.”

“I know it, sir; but she sent me to you.”

“For what, boy?”

“To bring you a letter and some things, sir,”
said the boy, handing him at the same time a soiled
note.

Walter opened the note. It contained only two
words: “Your son.” And it was signed “Phoebe
Angevine.”

Walter was half insensible for a moment. At
length seizing the boy's hand, he asked eagerly,
when and where he got that letter.

“My mother gave it me this morning,” said the
child.

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“Oh God!” cried Walter; “I am not then a
murderer.” And his hard heart melted for once into
gratitude to Heaven. His next impulse was to catch
the boy's hand, and study his face, where he saw,
as he thought, the sparkling eye and glossy ringlets
of his ruined mother; and he hugged him in his
arms, and wept delicious tears. The boy did not
altogether decline these endearments, but seemed
hardly to understand them.

“I am thy father,” said Walter, at length.

“What is a father?” said the boy. “Is it any
thing like my mother?”

“Not much,” answered the other, and hid his
face with his hands.

“No,” said the boy, `I might have known that;
my mother never spoke to me—she only kissed me;
but I knew what she meant. Oh, I had almost forgot;
she told me with her fingers to give you these.”
And he handed a little bundle.

Walter opened it. It contained the silver pencilcase
and little pocket-book he had given to Phoebe.

“Enough,” said he, “come in to thy father's
home;” and he led him by the hand into his house.

That evening he questioned the boy closely as to
where and how he had lived, and where his mother
had left him in the morning; for now he was determined
to seek her, bring her to his home, and make
her all the amends in his power.

“You will find it all there,” answered the boy,
pointing to the pocket-book. On opening it, he

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found it was almost filled with writing, some of it
nearly illegible.

“I am hungry and sleepy,” said the boy.

Walter had his supper brought him, which he ate
voraciously; and being placed in Walter's bed, he
fell into such a sweet and balmy sleep as that bed
had not witnessed for many a year.

Walter then proceeded to make out, as well as he
could, the contents of the pocket-book. It was a
wretched scrawl, full of details of misery. Connected
together, and in our own words, it was as
follows:

It seems that on the day Phoebe disappeared, she
had arrived at the place he appointed to meet her
some time before him, and had passed the interval
in carving their initials on the bark of the old sycamore.
In doing this, she cut her finger, and wrapped
up the wound in a piece of the note he had sent
her, requesting a meeting. When he came, she had,
in every way she could make herself understood,
pressed him to make her amends for the shame he
had brought upon her. To all these he had replied
only by lascivious toyings, and attempts to obtain
new favours. Indignant at this, the poor girl was
running away, when he seized her, just on the borders
of the rapid river. A struggle ensued; and
Phoebe at length, through rage and despair, threw
herself into the stream, just as Ellee, who had as
usual followed her, came up, and forgetting in his
rage the situation of his sister, furiously assailed

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Walter, and prevented him from affording her any
assistance. She floated down the stream, kept up
by her clothes and the force of the current, till she
became entangled in the thick boughs of a tuft of
dwarf willows, that, as is usual with this kind of
tree, bent down and floated on the surface of the water.
Seizing upon these, she drew herself to the
bank, got out of the water, and darted into the thick
wood without being perceived. It was then that,
smarting under the recollection of Walter's insulting
behaviour, and the anticipation of certain disgrace
and exposure, she formed the resolution never to return
home again. Accordingly, she crossed the
mountain, which bordered the river, and became an
outcast and a wanderer.

Her infirmity of speech proved her best friend
among the strangers at a distance with whom
she sojourned. She was treated with kindness, as
one on whom the hand of Providence had inflicted
the sorest evils; and she made herself useful by her
habits of industry. At this time news did not travel
as fast as now; for there were few readers, and fewer
newspapers to trumpet forth murders and accidents
of flood and field. She remained here accordingly
without seeing or hearing any inquirers or inquiries
after her, and without knowing what was passing
at home. When her child was born, they wished
to take it away, and place it at nurse in a poorhouse;
but she would not consent. She nursed
it and brought it up, without being a burthen to any

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living soul. Thus she continued on, till one day,
as chance would have it, a person came that way,
who lived in her neighbourhood, and knew her at
once. From him she learned all I have been relating,
up to the period in which Walter's wife died.
She took her resolution at once, and departed from
her asylum with her child. On arriving in the vicinity
of Walter's habitation, she placed herself in a
situation where she would not be observed, and instructing
the boy what to do, embraced him with
tears, and forced him from her much against his
will. She waited to see her son received into his
father's arms, and taken to his home, and then disappeared
from the knowledge of all, completely
eluding the inquiries of Walter. On the last page
of the pocket-book was written, “You shall see me
once more.” Strange, thought Walter, the very
words of my dream! The coincidence was singular;
but where is the wonder that one dream out of
a whole life should present some resemblance to a
reality?

Walter Avery had paid the full penalty of his
crime, in the misery of seven long years. He now
enjoyed comparative ease, although he never, to the
latest period of his life, could cast off the terrors of
darkness and the leaden chains of superstition.
Time swept on, and the boy Walter grew up towards
manhood, giving promise of becoming as
handsome as his mother, and a better man than his
father. At length Walter took sick, and lay on his

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death-bed. It was just in the twilight of the evening,
when his son was alone with him in the room. A
female figure came quietly in, and sat down by the
bedside.

“Who's that?” asked Walter, in a weak whisper.

“It is my mother!” cried the boy, starting up
and kissing her affectionately.

“She said she would come and see me once
more,” thought Walter. “It is for the last time;
now I know that I shall die.” And he lay for a
while almost insensible. At length he requested his
son to raise him.

“Phoebe,” said he, “can you forgive me?”

Phoebe pointed to the boy; then placed her hand
on her heart; and raising her still beautiful eyes
towards heaven, leant down and kissed him.

Walter seemed endowed with new life.

“Send for Doctor Townley—quick—quick!”
said he.

“You mean Doctor Barley,” said his son.

“No, no; I mean Parson Townley,” answered
he; “run, run!”

“He wishes the doctor to pray with him,” thought
Phoebe, and motioned her son to obey. In the
course of half an hour the clergyman arrived.

“Doctor,” cried Walter, “I sent for you to marry
me.” “He is delirious, poor man,” observed the
clergyman; “he will be wedded to none but the
winding-sheet and the worm, poor soul.”

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“Come, come; there is no time to be lost.”

“Where is the bride?” said the clergyman, willing
to soothe him.

“There,” answered Walter; “the mother of
that boy.”

“Indeed!” cried the good man; “then he is not
mad. I am ready, Mr. Avery; come hither,
Phoebe; I did not know you; give me your hand.”

Phoebe hung back, and shook her head, with
determined opposition.

“For the sake of thy son.”

Still she refused her hand.

“For the sake of the father, then. Would you
refuse him the opportunity of making his peace with
Heaven, by atoning his injuries to thee?”

Phoebe bowed her head with reverence, and
gave the clergyman her hand. He placed it within
that of the sick man, and went through with the
ceremony.

“May God reward you for this act of justice,”
said the clergyman.

“May God forgive me,” replied Walter.

Two weeks afterwards Phoebe was a widow.

“Well, for my part,” said Mrs. Fubsy, “I sha'n't
visit her.”

“Nor I,” said Mrs. Cluckey.

“Nor I,” said Mrs. Skimpey.

“Nor I,” said Mrs. Ratsbane.

Yet they all went to see Phoebe in the course of a
fortnight, and all declared she was one of the most

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agreeable creatures in the world. The truth is, our
heroine was an excellent listener, which, in this
talking republic of ours, is better than the eloquence
of a Patrick Henry, a Randolph, or a Clay.

THE END.
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Paulding, James Kirke, 1778-1860 [1830], Chronicles of the city of Gotham (G. & C. & H. Carvill, New York) [word count] [eaf307].
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