CHAPTER VIII.
Eulogium on the Divine Tobacco Pipe—A Discussion and a Catastrophe—
The Cavalier grows Peremptory—A Soliloquy—The Cavalier
for once Agrees in Opinion with the Roundhead—Miriam Talks
like a Simpleton, and Thinks not a whit more Wisely—Falls Asleep
in a Profound Doubt.
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“Moth,” said Master Hugh Tyringham to his trusty
squire, who was philosophically solacing himself with
the truly republican relaxation of the fragrant pipe.
We call it republican—not to say democratic—because
it is emphatically the poor man's luxury, innocent,
cheap, and refreshing; one that he can enjoy at home in
summer on his porch, in winter by his fireside, without
seeking abroad for vagrant pleasures; one that, while
it produces a gentle, harmless excitement, leads to no
excesses, like the mischievous inspiration of wine, and
whiles away the time in the intervals of exhausting
labor. Well have the wise red men of the woods
selected the pipe as the seal of reconciliation, the
token that the bloody hatchet has been buried, for it
is the very emblem of peace and repose. Would any
man wish to calm his troubled spirit, ruffled by the
rude elbowings of the busy world, or wasting away
with disappointed hopes, or never-ending toil; would
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the philosopher wish to explore the depths of some
unfathomable doubt, or metaphysical mystery; would
the poet aspire to reach the highest haven of inspiration,
or the lover seek to indulge himself in weaving a
web of fancied bliss, let him light his pipe, and, like
the fabled wand of the magician, it will conjure up
before him such a host of happy ideas, that he will no
longer seek the fruition of dull reality.
Were we to attempt to exhibit a picture of content—
the only real happiness this earth affords—one that
would attract the envy of mankind, we would set
before them yonder grey-headed Dutch farmer, not fat,
but round and portly, with his brown, ruddy face,
calm as the noble river that flows along his verdant
meadows. He is seated under his porch, one of the
last remaining types of the little cocked hat, erewhile
worn by the great Frederick of Prussia, and other
celebrated warriors. He has finished his hay and
harvest, his barns are full, and generous plenty laughs
him in the face. It is a delightful summer evening,
and it is not yet time to go to rest. No wind but the
sweet southwestern zephyr, which the Indians say
comes from the abode of the Great Spirit, ruffles the
leaves or the waters; no noise but that of the rural
concert of tinkling bells and lowing herds, nothing to
awaken the wickedness of man, or afford his great
enemy a bait to lead him astray.
He has lighted his pipe, and the eddies of smoke
ascend in spiral volumes, gradually fading away in
boundless space. Beside him sits a wholesome, portly
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dame plying her knitting needles, and now and then
it is clear, from the old man taking the pipe from his
mouth, that they are exchanging a few words. On
the lower step of the porch, and at a respectful distance,
sits honest Coony O`Brien, of the Emerald Isle,
a hired man, who, saving that he sometimes makes a
respectable blunder, is as honest and well spoken a
person as one would wish to meet with. He has saved
from his wages enough to pay his brother's passage to
the land where labor meets its due reward, and
plenty sits laughing in the lap of liberty. Coony, too,
is modestly smoking the stump of a pipe, black as
ebony, and counting the days till the coming of his
brother. Notwithstanding all the loyal and orthodox
writers of England say of Irish ignorance, barbarity,
and that sort of thing, they certainly have strong
natural feelings and affections, and if they are impatient
of the process of starvation, we must expect the
apple to sputter a little while roasting. The honest
fellow looks so comfortable that we could almost find
in our heart to wish we were Coony O`Brien.
A plague on those musty moralists who would feed
the world with crab apples; who rail against the
majesty of tobacco, and seek to deprive the poor and
lowly of their cheap, as well as harmless, solace in the
few short hours of cessation from labor. And most
especially a plague on those pestilent rulers who leave
the expensive luxuries of the rich unburdened, only to
lay the load on the poor man's enjoyments. Smoke
away, honest, portly Dutchman, and smoke away,
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Coony; if this is the worst thing you do would we
were in your old shoes
“Gregory—Gregory Moth!” exclaimed Master Tyringham
somewhat impatiently, though the reader must
not imagine Gregory was quite as long in answering
his master's summons as we have been in weaving
the foregoing train of philosophical speculation.
“Coming, sir,” answered the squire, “I am just
knocking the ashes out of my pipe. Dust to dust, is
the moral of smoking.”
“Have you seen Langley lately? I wish to speak
with him. I hear more about the Indians, to-day.
The Governor has sent us an express to put us on our
guard.”
“For the love of mince pies, I beseech you, sir, not
to mention those disagreeable heretics. It benumbs
my faculties at once, and I have no use of myself for
hours afterwards.”
“Will you be pleased, Master Gregory, for once in
your life, to answer directly and categorically? Have
you seen Langley lately?”
“Why, sir, I can't say directly, categorically, or
positively, for there is no trusting one's eyes, to believe
what we see, unless it conforms to the deductions of
science, and can be demonstrated on principles of philosophy.
But if I might trust any of my five senses
I saw him a little time ago walking along shore
yonder.”
“Along shore? Why, what has come over the
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young blockhead to be rambling about alone by himself.
Has he fallen in love, or grown poetical?”
“Why, sir, if, as I before remarked, my eyes did not
deceive me, I think I saw something walking beside
him very like a woman.”
“A woman! impossible; why they are so scarce in
these parts they are worth a hogshead of tobacco,
inspection and all. Are you quite sure?”
“I again aver that I can't say positively, seeing, as
I before premised, there is no trusting the villanous
five senses. The other night I thought I heard some
one crying murder, but it turned out to be only a
screech owl, and not long ago, sir—”
“Gregory Moth, let me ask you one question:
Have you any inclination to get your head broke?
which will certainly happen if you don't answer me
directly, and in as few words as possible.”
“Honored sir,” quoth Gregory, “you doubtless know
I am a man of few ideas, and consequently a great
multiplicity of words. Allow me, by way of illustration—
a prudent man, with only one guinea in his
purse, will—primo, divide it into shillings—secundo,
into pence—and tertio, into farthings, before he ventures
to expend the least modicum. I, sir, taking
example from this judicious arithmetician, having,
figuratively speaking, but one idea, essay to make the
most of it by sub-dividing it grievously.”
“The fiend take you, and your one idea to boot.
Was it a real bona-fide woman or not? Speak, villain,
or die!”
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“Patience, honored sir, you will drive my one idea
to distraction. I opine it was a woman, howbeit, she
certainly wore a petticoat; and, as we used to argue
at Oxford, the man is only a remote circumstance of
his dress, so may it be logically inferred that a two-legged
animal wearing a petticoat is a woman.”
“Well, sirrah, having settled the species, can you
tell who was the individual? Was she old, young, or
middle-aged—black, white, or copper-colored?”
“I am inclined to believe she was not old, as my
young master stuck pretty close to her side. I draw
the logical conclusion that she was not of a middle
age, for she tripped along like a little zephyr, and I
pronounce her most emphatically young, because Master
Langley, like unto his father, has too much discretion
to consort at evening walks with any other than
a fair, blooming damsel, not more than eighteen at
farthest.”
“Did you see her face—do you think you can
identify the hussy?”
“I was not watching them, sir. I scorn it. But I
think I may say, without injury to my reputation for
veracity, that it was the little Crop-eared damsel.”
“Impossible, Gregory, quite impossible. I have
forbid him all communication with any of the family.”
“Hem,” quoth Gregory, “now I am certain of it.”
At this critical moment Langley returning from his
evening stroll, in what some unlettered people aptly
call a fit of distraction, stumbled against Gregory
Moth, whose pipe he shivered into countless pieces,
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and as usual, when people are themselves in fault
gave him a broadside for standing in his way. The
loss of a pipe was thought more of in those times than
taking the benefit of “The Act” is now-a-days, as it
could not be repaired within less than a score or two
of miles. But Gregory was a philosopher, and proceeded
to pick up the pieces with great deliberation.
After which, like a wise man, he took his departure to
see if he could not mend the matter.”
“Where have you been, sir,” asked the father,
rather sharply.
“Taking a walk, sir,” replied Langley.
“Where?”
“Along the river side, sir.”
“With whom?”
“With Miriam Habingdon, sir.”
“Why, didn't I forbid your entering the door of that
confounded Crop-ear again?”
“I have not entered his door, sir. Our meeting was
quite accidental, though I acknowledge we walked
together afterwards. I accompanied her to the gate
of her father's lawn, but did not go in.”
“Well—well—I believe every word you say. But
did it not occur to you, that you were breaking your
promise—at least the spirit of your promise, if not the
word of my command?”
“Why, sir”—replied Langley, smiling—“I confess
it did come across me, after our walk was ended, that
such might be the case. But really, I can't think
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there was any great harm in availing myself of a mere
accident.”
“Perhaps so—you may be of that opinion, sir—but
I have my reasons, which as they are no concern of
yours, I shall not trouble you with. I have my reasons,
sir, for prohibiting not only your going to the
Crop-ear's house, but associating either by accident or
design with any of the family, most especially his
daughter. I must beg of you then, sir, to understand
this in future, accident or no accident; if you see
Miriam Habingdon coming towards you, turn about
and make tracks as if the old Harry himself were coming.
If you see her going another way, you must
turn short about.”
“And follow her?”—said Langley, laughing rather
irreverently.
“No, sir—I tell you, no—you must—you must—go
to the d—l.” And the indignant Cavalier turned into
the house and sought his bed, it being his custom to
retire early to roost, except when he had a few boon
companions from the other side of the river to keep
him awake.
The reader will recollect it had been voluntarily
settled between the two young people, that they should
meet no more. Langley was content to accede to the
arrangement, since he cherished no feeling towards
Miriam strong enough to prompt him to resist the
will of his father. “Why then,”—thought he, as he
lay that night on his pillow, “why should my father
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so peremptorily forbid what I had no intention of
doing? There must be some special reason for this
unwonted exercise of his authority, and now I recollect
he said something about secret motives. What
can they be? It is not possible that a mere difference
in politics and religion can estrange two families
residing so near each other, and having no neighbors
within a distance of many miles. In this remote
region surely the bitter feelings of hostility which
were awakened in the old world, by mutual rivalry
and bloodshed, cannot exist in such rank maturity as
to produce fruits like these. What can it mean?” he
again asked himself, and again the thought came over
him that his father was apprehensive of an attachment
between himself and Miriam. This set him musing
on the probability of such an event; and in order to
weigh the subject dispassionately, he recalled to mind
the simple dress and unstudied gracefulness of
Miriam; he dwelt on her piety, which had something
poetical in its mode of expression; her love of
flowers, so indicative of a pure taste and delicate sensibility,
and her perception of the grandeur and beauty
of nature, characteristic of a pious, elevated soul.
From these, by a very natural transition, his memory
and his fancy together, conjured up a vivid and exaggerated
picture of her exuberant chestnut hair, which
curled about the snow-white cheek, which never
glowed, save when her heart beat rapidly, and her
large, pensive, penetrating eyes, sometimes in despite
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of themselves, sparkled of other joys than those of
Heaven.
The end of all this was, that Master Langley began
to think there might be some reason for his father's
apprehensions, and entered on a rigid self-examination
which resulted in the conclusion that the thing was
possible. In the midst of these cogitations, it cannot
be denied, that a rising spirit of opposition, a feeling
so often conjured up by what are deemed unreasonable
exactions of parental authority—was awakened in the
bosom of the son.
“How can those,”—continued Langley, resuming
his silent soliloquy—“How can those, that like my
father, who, though loyal to his sovereign, has learned
in this new world of unrestricted reason to scorn the
slavish doctrine of passive obedience and non-resistance—
how can they deny the application of this principle
to a tyrant king, and apply it to a tyrant father!
I am a man—I reason, and I draw conclusions. If
left to myself, I can take care of myself, in danger
and difficulty. I am past the age of correction, I
should no longer be commanded. When rational
beings differ in tastes, opinions, and principles, are
they to break each other's heads, if strangers; or if
they stand in the relation of parent and child—the
latter arrived at years of discretion—is it for the father
to command at will, and the son to obey against the
impulses of his heart, and the convictions of his understanding?
Where then is the authority of the parent
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to cease, and the freedom of the child to commence?
The law says at one-and-twenty—but I am not mooting
a question of law—hum—um—um.” Here he
began to grow sleepy. “The difference between what
is reasonable, and what is not, is assuredly very plain
if one could only see it; but like black and white, the
edges may be so blended together that it is impossible
to tell where one begins and the other ends.” So
Langley fell asleep, and again dreamed of the little
Crop-ear.
Precisely at the same moment the Cavalier was
haranguing his son, the Roundhead was questioning
his daughter, in a different style, but in the same
spirit, and on the same subject; another proof that
the destinies of these young people were spun from
the same distaff. He inquired where she had been
walking, with a cold gravity that savored of unkindness,
a feeling far from his heart, for he loved his
daughter almost as dearly as his own stubborn will.
Miriam stated the simple truth, without hesitation,
and without a single tell-tale blush to impeach her
veracity, or betray a latent feeling. The mother, who
was present, saw with the unerring instinct of woman,
that it was a mere common-place affair; but the
father, who was rather too much given to holding a
tight rein, when the steed had no disposition to run
away, took occasion to express his disapprobation of
her rambling forth alone.
“Do you think there is any danger, father?” said
Miriam. “If you do I will not go out alone again,
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though I own I love the quiet summer twilight along
the river. It makes me feel so calm, and awakens so
many agreeable fancies.”
“Miriam,” replied Harold, “knowest thou not that
the indulgence of the imagination is dangerous to
youth! It lures us astray from the path we are destined
to tread in this weary pilgrimage, rough as it is,
and leads to a worse, among thorns and briars.”
“But father, does it not sometimes lead us among
the roses, as well as the thorns?”
“Yea, daughter, to inhale their fragrance for a
moment, and suffer for years from the wounds they
inflict. The pilgrims of this world are destined to
cope with that which is real, not that which has no
existence; and they who, according to profane language,
build castles in the air, will peradventure be
crushed by their fall.”
“Ah! father, it may be so. But when I am rambling
alone amid the delights of nature, breathing of
sweets—seeing naught but what is pleasing in my
eyes, and grateful to my heart, I cannot keep my
mind within the narrow limits of reality. Methinks,
I dream rather than feel; I seem to live in some other
world, more beautiful even than this, and fancy a happiness
I never felt, and never expect to feel. Yet is it
delicious to my heart, and like the reflected glories of
the sky at summer twilight, is far more soothing and
gentle, than the real presence of that sun, from
whence they derive their lustre.”
Harold gazed on her awhile in silence. He wondered
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where she learned to feel thus, and to express herself
in such glowing terms. He forgot she was young,
and that her teacher was that same Nature, which
inspires the glorious love of song, gives magic to the
strains of the musician, and teaches the artist almost
to outdo his teacher. For a moment or two, he contemplated
her with all the proud affection of a parent,
but again relapsed into his usual frame of mind. He
had sacrificed all for religion, and religion was all to
him. Though he partook in moderation of the enjoyments
of life, he persuaded himself it was because
they were essential to existence, and not for the gratification
of the senses. He grudged himself and his
household any pleasure or relaxation that had not
reference, in some way or other, to what he called the
one thing needful. Thus his home was gloomy, his
face gloomy, and all around him partook in the infectious
gloom. His presence was a restraint, and his
absence a relief.
“Dost thou not know, Miriam,” at length he said,
“that such thoughts and feelings are carnal and
wicked, seeing they lead astray from those higher purposes
which should be perpetually before our eyes and
in our hearts? But this is not what I wished to say
just now. My object was to warn you against consorting
with that profane and unbelieving youth, Master
Langley Tyringham.”
“Unbelieving, father!” exclaimed Miriam, then
suddenly checking herself, “I do not consort with
him. Our meeting, as I told thee, was accidental,
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and will not be repeated. His father had forbidden
him to come here.”
This information grated harshly on the feelings of
Harold. His besetting sin of spiritual pride reared its
head aloft, and the serpent hissed in his ear. “What
an insult, in one of the imps of ungodliness to forbid
the intercourse of a sinner with one of the saints! It
is as if the spirit of darkness should turn his back in
disdain on the spirit of light.” True, it was calculated
to bring about the very thing he was himself aiming
at. Yet he was deeply mortified that the first movement
had not come from him. He had long since
persuaded himself that his temper was entirely subdued;
a dangerous delusion, since it throws us off our
guard, and induces us to drop the reins when they
should be most firmly grasped. It is true he was able
to repress all outward expression of passion; but the
spirit of forgiveness was not within him. He swallowed
his anger and it turned to gall. On this occasion
he answered Miriam in his usual measured tone
without any appearance of passion:
“Thou shalt see the young man no more. If not
an unbeliever he is one of those who have perverted the
precepts of the only true faith. His sect, his family,
and his father, have been the persecutors and revilers
of thy father, thy mother, and thy whole race. They
scourged and mutilated thy grandfather, who died in
my arms on the field of Naseby, a martyr to his faith;
they drove thy mother and grandmother from their
homes, and made them outcasts; and they and their
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friends have banished me and mine, from that peaceful
home which had sheltered my forefathers for eight
hundred years, to this howling wilderness, to murder
or be murdered by the savage Indians. Yet here, even
here in the boundless solitudes of nature, the whip is
brandished over our heads, the viper spits his venom,
and the scorner continues to scorn. We are not, I
find, permitted the free enjoyment of our consciences
even here, for I have this day been apprised that we
must attend at the church which has persecuted us to
death, and hear ourselves and our faith contemned, or
ridiculed, or pay a fine for liberty to stay away.
Miriam, my daughter, wouldst thou mingle thy
thoughts, or hold communion with one who has neither
sympathy for our wrongs, respect for our faith, or
feeling for our sufferings? Surely the grand-daughter
of Isaac Baneswright, the martyr, will not even wish
to do this; and here I declare that never while I live—
unless some dire necessity should occur—if I can
prevent it, shalt thou see or speak to him more.”
“I do not wish it, father,” answered Miriam somewhat
sadly—“thy wishes shall be mine. I have
never disobeyed thy will, and trust I never may.”
Harold, stern as he was, at least outwardly, was
softened by the passive obedience of his daughter, and
said to her kindly,
“Now go to thy rest, my child, and shut thine eyes
like yonder flower that closes its leaves against the
dew of night. Commend thyself to Heaven, and sleep
in peace.”
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Miriam did not sleep in peace. The quiet current
of her innocent thoughts, which had hitherto flowed
along almost without a ripple, or a murmur, was disturbed.
She thought to herself—“Surely the spirit of
our faith cannot be that of mercy and forgiveness, or
my father would not be so bitter against poor Langley.
He never persecuted or slandered us, I am sure; he
is too noble and generous for that; though, I confess,
I never thought much of him, till I heard he was forbidden
to see me. What can my father mean by my
marrying Langley?” The attentive reader will recollect
that Harold had not said a word about matrimony.
“I am sure I have never dreamed of such a thing, but
now he has put it into my head, I dare say I shall
think of nothing else, can it be possible that Langley
wishes to—to—what nonsense! But if he don't, how
strange that my father should forbid what is never
likely to happen.” Thus she lay for hours, ruminating
on love and marriage, mixed up with Langley Tyringham—
a most dangerous concatenation. At length she
fell asleep, with a weight on her heart, without being
able to tell exactly to what cause it was owing;
whether to the sternness of her father, or his antipathy
to such a harmless young man.
-- -- p316-217
Paulding, James Kirke, 1778-1860 [1849], The puritan and his daughter, volume 1 (Baker & Scribner, New York) [word count] [eaf316v1].
