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Colonel Dangerfield felt happier than he
had been for many a day, after concluding the
arrangement with Mactabb. He was relieved
from the load of debt,—the heaviest load, except
that of sin, that ever fell on the shoulders of mankind.
Besides this, the thing was settled; and
when that is the case noen but the weaker minded
shrink from the crisis, be it what it may. In the
true spirit of conjugal confidence, the colonel
sought his wife to communicate with her about
the best mode of settling the affair—after it was
all settled. Mrs. Dangerfield could not help smiling
at this complimentary appeal: “better late
than never,” she thought; and kindly expressed
her satisfaction that the thing was no worse.

“But we must leave this next spring, and whither
shall we go?” said she.

“O, there is time enough to think of that—no
use in troubling ourselves before it is necessary.
The spring will soon come, Cornelia.”

“Too soon,” thought Mrs. Dangerfield, and her
naturally sweet voice softened into the most
touching pathos. “The spring will soon come,
the birds in our copses will soon begin to sing,
the flowers in our garden soon begin to bloom, the
meadows will be green before we are aware, and—
and—we must be getting ready to go somewhere.”

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“Well, well, don't think of it, Cornelia,”—and
he came and took her hand, and squeezed it affectionately,
as we are living souls!—“don't think
of it, and forget what a brute I have been.”

Mrs. Dangerfield—we are almost afraid to record
it; it is so incredible that we are sure the
reader, if he or she hath the least experience in
the world, will refuse to credit the whole of this
veritable history, on the score of such an outrage
on probability—Mrs. Dangerfield threw her arms
about his neck, kissed him, and, though she did
not swear he was no brute, thought so from the
bottom of her heart; and yet the man was her
husband!

February now came, in this mellow clime the
herald of brighter days and warmer sunshine. The
little birds, that come from heaven knows where,
all at once appeared, and twittered among the
alders that skirted the silent rivulets, which, unseen
as they were unheard, were only betrayed in their
quiet course by the fresh green grass that marked
their meanderings; the frogs, whose music, harsh
as it is, is welcome at such a time, as the sure precursor
of the genial season, piped in the ponds
the violets just began to peer above the ground in
pale-blue clusters; the dark-brown of the woods
gradually changed to an almost imperceptible
purple; the wild geese were heard gabbling their
course invisible in the air, from the south to the
north; and all nature, animate and inanimate,
began to partake in the joyous influence of the
season;—all except the family of Colonel Dangerfield,
to whom the approach of spring was the
signal of exile.

“What can have become of Mactabb, I wonder?”
observed the colonel to his wife one mild

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evening, as they sat at the window watching the
quiet course of the river that flowed at a little distance;
“he ought to be here before this.”

“From what you have told me of Mr. Mactabb,
I am inclined to think he won't come till you
send for him. His visit would look as if he came
to hurry us away.”

“True; I had forgot that. I must write to
him.”

Accordingly he wrote to Mactabb to prepare all
the necessary documents, and bring them as early
as possible. He came in a few days, produced
his own discharge and those of all the creditors,
and the estate of Powhatan was consigned to him
for ever. The hand of Colonel Dangerfield trembled
a little as he signed his name; but that of
his wife, though white and delicate as a snowdrop,
was steady as the oak that defies the storm.
A dead silence succeeded this painful ceremony.
It was at length broken by Mactabb, who, after
fumbling in his pocket some time, produced a
paper which he handed to the colonel, saying,

“Here is the balance due on—plague take it,
what a cough I've got—somehow I always catch
cold in this confounded month of February.
Here is a draft for five thousand pounds, and—
and may heaven prosper you with it.”

The colonel received it with a silent bow, and
then another pause ensued. Again it was broken
by Mactabb.

“D—n it, I will—yes, I will—I have a right,
and I will,” mumbled he, as it were to himself;
“Colonel Dangerfield—hem—will you permit—
will you forgive me if I ask what are your plans
for the future?”

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“Good God! that's true; we have settled nothing
as yet.”

“Understand me, colonel, I do not wish to
hurry you, this house and this estate are yours,
to remain as long as you please, the longer the
better. But possibly I may aid you with my advice;
I am a man of business, you know, and
my experience is heartily at your service.”

“There is no occasion, sir,” replied Dangerfield,
coldly, and rather haughtily, for this was the first
time of being reminded that he was no longer in
his own house.

“But there is occasion, my dear,” said Mrs.
Dangerfield, good-humouredly, “and we shall be
thankful for Mr. Mactabb's advice.”

“Well, then, there are two ways of retrieving
our fortunes, one by industry and economy, the
other by enterprise and daring; which do you
prefer, Colonel Dangerfield?”

“The latter, undoubtedly. Long habits have
incapacitated me for the first, but I believe, I
trust, sir, I am still able to venture, to dare, and
to suffer, if necessary. That course, however, I
confess would be most agreeable to me, which led
to a distant sphere of action. I cannot live as I
and my fathers have been accustomed to live
here, and my intention is to go where I am not
known.”

“Would you like to go to Kentucky?” asked
Mactabb.

Mrs. Dangerfield started.

“What! the dark and bloody ground, as I have
heard it called?”

Colonel Dangerfield considered a few moments,
and seemed pleased with the suggestion of Mactabb.
The Scot then informed him that he had

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lately come into the possession of a large tract of
what was represented to be the richest land on
Kentucky River, which he had accepted in lieu
of a debt. That a company, with which he had
associated himself, was going to form a settlement
immediately, a number of emigrants having entered
into an agreement to “start” in the month
of March, and rendezvous at Pittsburg, whence
they were to descend the Ohio to the mouth of
the Kentucky; and finally, that if he would take
the direction of the adventure, the choice of as
much land as he wished was at his service.

During this detail, Colonel Dangerfield exchanged
glances with his wife, whose countenance,
like the limpid waters of Lake George,
reflected every thing that passed over it. She
was thinking of the tales of murder and massacre
which constitute the early history of the dark
and bloody ground; the dangers, the loneliness, the
privations, her husband, her offspring, and herself
must suffer and endure; the toils that must be
encountered ere they could reach their destined
home, and the exposures that would follow before
they could expect to dwell in safety under their
own vine and their own fig-tree. She shuddered
as she thought of the future destinies of her
children, who had been bred in all the luxurious
indulgence of southern habits, and whose every
want, and wish, and caprice had been gratified by
the willing assidnity of slaves, who never contradicted
or opposed their most unreasonable desires.
But in a few moments the cloud passed away.

Women, even the most delicately nurtured, and
the most apprehensive in their dispositions, love
adventure and excitement in their very hearts.
Distant journeys enchant them, and the

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anticipation of novelty is irresistible. Even danger has
its charms, and we have more than once seen
females whose vivacity was always quickened by
its approach. Travelling is much more delightful
to them than to the other sex, and the prospect
of change a thousand times more seductive, from
its contrast with their domestic habits, and the
uniformity of their occupations. The name of
the Ohio, La Belle Riviere, sounded so charmingly,
and the prospect of gliding down its smooth
and glassy stream, amid endless forests, and vast
solitudes of nature, came with a romantic seduction
across her imagination, and lighted up her
face with a willing smile of acquiescence in the
proposed plan. We have been sometimes led to
believe that the natives of this land of emigration
inherited from their ancestors that fearless wandering
disposition, which brought them to the
western world, and which, operating in a region
of boundless space, is, however it may be the
subject of ridicule or censure, the habit, or the
quality, which has made this country what it is,
and will make it what it is destined to become.
It is founded in the love of independence, associated
with, and supported by courage and enterprise.
Like the young partridge, the American
is scarcely hatched, ere he sets out, with the shell
still clinging to his downy wing, in search of a
new region where he will no longer be a burthen
to himself or others.

Assuredly the attachment to home, the ties of
kindred, the chains of custom, and the habits of
youth exercise a wholesome influence in softening
and humanizing mankind. Yet still they ought
never to be indulged at the sacrifice of the higher
qualities, and more inflexible duties, of the human

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race. To be a useless idler at the parental fireside,
a burthen on the shoulders of kindred, or a
dependant on the kindness or bounty of friends,
rather than burst these ties and attachments, however
amiable it may be, sinks us below, far below
the level of the generous manly spirit, which
scorns the indulgence of such a weakness at such
a price, and dashes forth into the stormy ocean of
life, trusting to himself and his Maker whether
he shall sink or swim.

“What say you, Cornelia?” asked the colonel,
who saw her answer in her speaking eye; “shall
we accept the offer, and become the founders of a
new empire?”

Mrs. Dangerfield replied in something like the
choice language of a Scripture matron.

“Wheresoever thou goest, there will I go;
wherever thou abidest, there will I also abide;
whatever thou endurest, I will bear my portion
of the chastening; thy hope shall be my hope,
thy disappointment my disappointment. I am
ready to go with thee, my husband, be it whither
it will.”

Mactabb, who had a physiognomy as rough as
the outside of an oystershell, took occasion to
wipe his spectacles, which had become rather dim
from their proximity to his eyes. And now they
proceeded to settle those little details, which however
indispensable both in the ordinary and extraordinary
affairs of life, are utterly unworthy the
dignity of romance, which we maintain, in the
very teeth of the musty bookworm critics, is the
most dignified, as well as useful of all kinds of
writing, if not to the reader, at least to the author.
What did Dan Homer get for his immortal
poems? Did he get a place at court, a pension,

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or a title? or did he get his pockets filled with
ready money? Verily, no,—he attained to the
honour of keeping a school on a rock, and afterwards,
when old and blind, was chosen king of
the beggars, the only dignity he ever arrived at
during his life. What did Will Shakspeare get
for Othello, Macbeth, Richard, and the Midsummer
Night's Dream? A benefit at the “Red
Bull,” or some such queer place. What did
Otway get for his Venice Preserved? A crust of
bread which choked him. What Milton, for one
of the very noblest efforts of human genius?
The price of a new suit, and liberty to stay in
England without being hanged. What did Locke
get for the only analysis of the human understanding
which the human understanding was
ever able to comprehend? Not a vice-chancellorship,
mastership, or wardenship, but a sentence
of expulsion from a most reverend rookery.

But to return from this digression into which
we have been incontinently allured, by the glo
rious vision of a mighty purse of golden eagles
(a species of bird now almost extinct in this
hemisphere) flitting before us, and making a
music to which that of Pasta and Paganini is a
horrible discord.