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If we do not mistake it was Cardinal Richelieu
who once boasted that he could make treason or
heresy out of any three words in any language;
such is the uncertainty of speech, and the ingenuity
of man in misinterpreting it! One might
suppose that the simple line placed at the head of
this chapter could not possibly have afforded any
sport to the commentators; and yet it is not so.
Some of these have interpreted it as having allusion
to a kingly crown, which in these troubled
days is in truth little else than a crown of thorns.
Others, who doubtless belonged to the ancient, if
not very honourable order of old bachelors, have
ignorantly presumed that the crown here meant
is that piece of silver coin bearing on its face the
hooked nose of Louis of France, and formerly
passing current in these States at eight and tenpence,
and thus attempted to degrade the dignity
of the sex down to that ignoble standard. But
beshrew their hearts, we say,—meaning thereby,
may they marry a shrew, and repent this atrocious
blasphemy, in smoky chimneys, and curtain
lectures. Who that hath ever known the blessing
of a modest, tender, cheerful, sensible helpmate
and companion, amid the flowers of youth, the
fruits of manhood, and the yellow leaves of declining
age, but will recognise that the crown
alluded to by the inspired writer is the crown of
happiness, and not the thorny bauble for which

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men wade through oceans of blood, nor the shining
temptation which is so often the price of
honour, integrity, and a quiet conscience.

The rumour of the defeat and discomfiture of
Barebones reached Mrs. Dangerfield the evening
of the day on which it happened. Nobody
knew how it came, or who brought the news, for
it may be said of Rumour, that, like the pestilence,
she walketh in darkness with the speed of
thought or anticipation, outstrips the swiftest locomotive,
and leaves all human conveyances behind.
We have sometimes been almost tempted
to believe she possessed the spirit of prophecy,
and foretold the future, rather than recorded the
past.

Be this as it may, when Colonel Dangerfield,
with all the coolness of desperation, apprized his
wife of the loss of the race and the ruin of his
fortune, she received the information without surprise
or emotion. The preceding night she had
given to her two children the tears and sorrows
of a tender mother; this morning she gave her
husband the advice and consolation of a faithful
wife. She neither complained nor reproached,
but looking the present calmly in the face, asked
of the colonel a full and fair statement of his
affairs.

“I am a ruined man,” said he, firmly, “it is
utterly impossible to keep up the establishment
any longer.”

“Well, then we must retrench, my dear.”

“Retrenchment will not do; it is too late now.
I would I had taken your advice in time.”

“Well, never mind that now. If we cannot
live in our accustomed home, we must find one
elsewhere. There is plenty of room in this new

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world of ours, and wherever we are together there
will be our home.”

“For God's sake, Cornelia, scold me a little,
can't you?” exclaimed Dangerfield, quite overcome.
“I have beggared you and the children,
and yet you forgive me! Call me fool, idiot,
madman, any thing but villain, and I shall feel
somewhat relieved. Come, scold, scold, I say;
curse me for destroying your happiness and that
of our children.”

“You have not destroyed our happiness,” replied
Mrs. Dangerfield; “this is the talk of custom,
the folly of inexperience, which thinks it cannot
exist except in one round of the same modes and
enjoyments. I, sir, as you well know, passed the
early part of my life in poverty, with a parent
whose estate was confiscated and name dishonoured
for his attachment to a worthless master.
From this situation you chose me, and placed me
in the lap of affluence, where every wish has been
gratified. Yet I cannot but confess that, saving
the enjoyments of a wife and a mother, I am not,
I never was, happier than in the midst of poverty.
My dear Cuthbert, this change of fortune
will soon teach you how little, how very little,
the blessings of life depend on mere situation.
Guilt and remorse are the only lasting sources of
misery.”

“And am I not guilty? and will not my future
life be one of bitter compunction?”

“No, not guilty, only imprudent—the imprudence
of inexperience and want of thought. Do
not quarrel with the lessons of experience,” added
she, with a smile; “you will be wiser in future.”

“Yes, I shall shut the door when the steed is
stolen.”

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“I wish, my dear, Barebones had been stolen
six months ago.”

“Nay, now, Cornelia, don't blame poor Barebones,—
now, don't, I beg of you. Damme if he
isn't the finest creature in Virginia, and I have a
great mind to match him against Allen of Claremont
for the next spring meeting.”

“O, colonel! colonel! what's bred in the bone—
but I don't abuse Barebones, and I am sure he
is the best horse in Virginia; but I hope you
won't match him against Molly Magpie again.”

“What a fool I am!—what an egregious ass!”
cried the colonel, smiting his forehead, and striding
about the room.

By degrees Mrs. Dangerfield drew her husband
into a detail of the state of his affairs, at least so
far as he understood them. The truth is, however,
he knew no more about the matter than
that paragon of ignorance, “the man in the moon.”
He made himself out to be over head and ears in
debt, and that if he turned his plantation and
slaves into gold, they would not pay half of what
he owed. Mrs. Dangerfield was astonished, and
almost lost her self-possession. She maintained
it to be impossible; the colonel insisted it was
possible; and the result of the argument was a
determination to send for the Scotch merchant to
elucidate the matter.

The conference had scarcely ended when a horrible
outcry and commotion was heard in the direction
of the stables, which were at the distance of
about a furlong from the house, and Mrs. Dangerfield
begged the colonel to go and see what was the
matter. Some husbands would have declined,
merely because they consider obliging their wives
as a proof of being henpecked; but the colonel was

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a little crestfallen at the catastrophe of Barebones
and the state of his affairs, and obeyed like a discreet
person. Arriving on the premises, he beheld
Pompey the Little tied incontinently to a beam,
and Pompey the Great (otherwise called Pompey
Ducklegs) belabouring him with a cowskin so lustily,
that if ever man or boy had a good excuse
for roaring like ten thousand bulls of Bashan, it
was that luckless composition of ebony. Between
every stroke, which was followed by a roar, the
indignant Ducklegs would exclaim:—

“You young racksal—you lose he race, eh!—
(whack!)—You no beat Molly Magpie, eh!—
(whack!)—You no be free nigger, eh!—(whack!)—
You no get hundred a year, eh!—(whack!)—
You disgrace you family, you young racksal, eh!—
(whack! whack! whack!)”

“Pomp,” cried the colonel, “how dare you
strike any of my slaves without my permission?”

“He disgrace he family, massa.”

“Pshaw! untie the poor fellow; he did his
best—it was not his fault that Barebones lost.
Untie him, I say, and never take such a liberty
again, sir.”

“Huh!—libbety!” grumbled Pompey Ducklegs,
as he obeyed his master, “debbil! an't he old nigger's
own flesh and blood, dough he be a disgrace
to he family?”

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