PAUL REDDING: A Tale OF THE BRANDYWINE. BY T. B. READ. CHAPTER I.
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“Though truly some there are
Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid
This venerable tree; for when the wind
Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound
(Above the general roar of woods and crags)
Distinctly heard from far — a doleful note!
As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed,)
The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed
Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved,
By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost
Haunts this old trunk; lamenting deeds of which
The flowery ground is conscious.”
Wordsworth.
The Brandywine river may be observed, at one
time, winding slowly, in its silvery silence, through
richly-pastured farms; or running broad and rippling
over its beautiful bed of pearly shells and
golden pebbles, (with which it toys and sings as
merrily as an innocent-hearted child,) until its
waters contract and roll heavily and darkly beneath
the grove of giant oaks, elms and sycamores; but
soon, like the sullen flow of a dark heart, it breaks
angrily over the first obstruction. Thus you may
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see the Brandywine, at one point, boiling savagely
over a broken bed of rocks, until its thick sheets of
foam slide, like an avalanche of snow, into a deep
pool, where it sends up a whispering voice, like
that which pervades a rustling audience when the
drop-curtain has shed its folds upon a scene that,
like the “Ancient Mariner,” has held each ear and
eye as with a magic spell.
This place is bound in, on either side, by an
almost perpendicular precipice of dark rocks; at
the top of which, among the crevices, grow a few
small cedars; but farther back, as the soil increases
in depth, the trees are larger, and form, upon that
eminence, a beautiful grove, where the twilight,
even at high noon, is held a delicious captive.
From the limbs of the largest elms hang long
waving vines, wrought, as you might think, into the
fantastic splendors of the richest pile of ornamental
Gothic, and
“'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth,
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth
A call to prayer!”
Those natural arbors are entirely devoid of underbrush,
and so perfectly carpeted with that evergreen
moss, that bends and rises elastic as you step, you
could not but imagine that there Titania held her
moonlit revelries! and the voice of the waters,
borne on the air down through the chasm, when
softened by the distance into music, seemed, indeed,
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to be a melody furnished by invisible musicians
whilst nature held high festival.
It was to this place, one sunny afternoon in
September, that a pedestrian was attracted, by the
richness of the scene, from the main road that
wound around the side of the hill. He was not
more than eighteen years of age, and of a slender
constitution. For awhile his nervous dark eye
wandered from object to object; he saw the wild
fish-hawk circling high in heaven, and watched it
until at last it struck downwards at an acute angle
and disappeared beneath the waters; the youth
gazed at the spot until he beheld the bird rise again
and dash the flashing spray from his dusky wings.
It is a strange sensation to stand, as it were, a
sentinel on one of nature's own embattlements;—
to be the only human creature for the time that is
gazing on a scene of startling grandeur, — to be in
that situation when with one step we might plunge
our bodies into an eternal oblivion, where man
might never after dream of our destination! How
strange, too, is that dreadful impulse, which strives
in some under such circumstances, to gain the
ascendency over reason, and to draw them on to
fatal consequences! Such was the giddy feeling
with which the youth started back from the edge of
the precipice, almost trembling to think that one
moment more might have been too late! Let not
this be thought an evidence of cowardice; but
rather the effect of a most nervous imagination ever
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on the stretch and cultivated far beyond the other
faculties of the mind. Paul Redding, for such was
the name of the young man, hurried away from
the scene, feeling a pressure upon his brain, for the
moment, almost intolerable; and emerging into the
calm recesses of the grove, threw himself upon a
mossy mound. The loveliness of the place soon
stole upon his senses. Little flowers were smiling
beside him; squirrels were leaping from limb to
limb, as fearlessly as though man were the usual
inhabitant of the scene; and Paul's imagination
once more freely played with the beautiful things
about him. His fancy whispered that perchance
some brave Indian chieftain slept beneath that old
oak, that reared its head so majestically to heaven,
a monument raised by pitying nature over her
warrior son. And he could not but sigh to think
that some gentle maid might be there, even beneath
the very mound on which he rested, without a line
or mark to tell where rests the innocent; yet could
he read a divine epitaph written with modest violets
upon a mossy tablet; — yes, an epitaph that nature
each year will renew, even when the mightiest
monuments have ceased to tell their tales! As
Paul beheld the slanting bars of sunlight, that
pierced through the deep retreat, he was reminded
of the distance which he had yet to go, and turning
from the grove he pursued his way for a moment;
but the magic spirit of the place had thrown, as it
were, its flowery fetters about his feet, and he
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could not tear himself away. As he stood wrapped
in the hazy mantle, that the scene around and his
fancy had woven about him, he thought that those
grand old trees seemed with their broad brazen
faces to smile upon their smaller mates, while the
latter, covered with moving vines, appeared like
joyous maidens weaving garlands for their grim
lovers. But alas,
“ — The Dryad days were brief,
Whereof the poets talk,
When that, which breathes within the leaf,
Could slip its bark and walk.”
This scene induced Paul to strive and transcribe it
to paper. He sat down upon a stone, at a little
distance, beside an old apple-tree, whose blasted
trunk leant over almost to the earth. The youth
wondered how long it had been since that antiquated
fruit-bearer had been planted there. He saw down
by the road-side a large dilapidated square stone
building; but the great number of fruit-trees in the
vicinity of the house seemed to bear to fellowship
with this. Around him were the marks of old excavations,
with long grass growing over the stones
that filled them. Over one of these places evidently
had stood a house, that day after day had thrown
a time-marking shadow across the hill. Substance
and shadow, thought the youth, where are they?
The storms of many years have beaten one into
the earth, and the sun has picked up the other!
Those depressions in the sod seemed, indeed, like
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the footprints of a past generation. How long,
sighed Paul, has it been since happy, fair-haired
children played at the door of this lost dwelling?
or gathered the ruddy-cheeked apples from this
tree, their own faces as beautiful and glowing?
Where are they now? Time has pressed his
finger upon the cheeks of some, leaving an indelible
print, while he now stands with green sandals
on the graves of others. In the midst of this
meditation, Paul's eye again reverted to the paper
and pencil; but he had revelled too deeply in the
grandeur and beauty of the scene to trace out with
cool precision each particular feature. The loveliness
of the landscape had been melting into his
very soul, and the urn was not yet full to overflowing.
When the spirit, which administers the
power to write or to draw, impels, it is imperative,
and he who writes or draws without the promptings
of that spirit, is profane! As the eye of the youth
again fell upon the paper, and as his ear caught the
music of the river, scarcely aware of what he did,
he traced these lines, which were the real outbursting
of a heart full of strange melodies:
THE BRANDYWINE.
I.
Not Juniata's rocky tide
That bursts its mountain barriers wide,
Nor Susquehanna broad and fair,
Nor thou, sea-drinking Delaware,
May with that lovely stream compare
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That draws its winding silver line
Through Chester's storied vales and hills,
The bright, the laughing Brandywine,
That dallies with its hundred mills.
II.
It sings beneath its bridges gray
To cheer the dusty traveller's way;
Or courting for a time his glance,
It rests in glassy stillness there,
And soon gives back his countenance
Beguiled of half its care.
Or wide before some cottage door
It spreads to show its pebbled floor;
And there while little children meet
To gather shells at sunny noon,
Its ripples sparkle round their feet,
And weave a joyous tune.
III.
Yet I have seen it foam when pent
As wroth at the impediment;
For like our noble ancestry
It ever struggled to be free!
But soon along some shady bank
In conscious liberty it sank,
Then woke and sought the distant bay
With many a blessing on its way.
IV.
Oh when our life hath run its course,
Our billowy pulses lost their force,
Then may we know the heavenly ray
Of peace hath lit our useful way;
Yet feel assured that every ill
Hath sunk beneath a steadfast will.
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May we, when dying, leave behind
Somewhat to cheer a kindred mind;
That toil-worn souls may rather bless
Than curse us in their sore distress.
For O, his is a hateful lot
Who dies accursed, or dies forgot;
But sweet it is to know the brave
May conquer, with good deeds, the grave;
And leave a name that long may shine
Like that of memory divine,
The far-famed “Banks of Brandywine.”
Paul had proceeded thus far, when, suddenly, a
heavy shadow fell across the paper; he turned his
gaze hurriedly up, — there stood confronting him a
tall, gaunt figure, which, as it was situated exactly
between himself and the afternoon sun, seemed to
be at first but one dense shadow, with just sufficient
of the human form to make its appearance ghostly.
The young man started to his feet, and by so doing,
was enabled to discern the face and features of the
stranger, which were those of a tall, middle-aged
man, haggard and insane. His large, black eyes
flashed wildly from beneath dark, heavy brows;
his features were regular, and his complexion was
of that sombre hue, which is only seen on those
persons who are subject to all vicissitudes of wind
and sun. His locks were long and straggling, and
his cheeks deeply sunken. He wore a long, dark,
old-fashioned surtout; around his waist was tied a
large, parti-colored handkerchief, whilst another of
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a similar character was fastened around his neck
outside of the upright coat-collar. Paul surveyed
him with wonder; and the mysterious man stood
leaning on a tall staff, gazing wildly on the youth;
his lips moving inaudibly, as though devoid of all
power of articulation. His lank hands, as they
grasped the top of the stick, seemed like those of a
skeleton, encased in shrivelled gloves. At last he
muttered aloud,
“Did you see them pass this way?”
“See what pass this way?” replied Paul.
“Ay, ay, I thought so,” said the man, looking
vacantly on the distance. A silence of some
moments ensued; in the mean time, Paul strove to
invent some plan by which he could draw something
satisfactory from the stranger, and therefore
requested him to sit down, at the same time pointing
to the stone seat beneath the old apple-tree.
“No! no! not there! not there!” cried the
stranger. “I 've been scraping the spots from the
floor with this blade!” as he spoke, he produced
a large, broad-bladed, buck-handled knife. “Yes,
with this blade,” he continued; “they say, that
which gives may take away; but oak is hard wood,
and it holds a stain as tightly as the conscience!”
With a loud hysterical laugh, the maniac hurried
away toward the wood, leaving the young man to
pursue his course and to draw his own conclusions.
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CHAPTER II.
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Hominem pagina nostra sapit.
Martial.
Mynheer Gotlieb Speckuncrout was the proprietor
of the Half-way House, a place of “entertainment
for man and beast,” situated on the road
leading from Philadelphia to Lancaster. The host
was a very diminutive specimen of humanity, with
a very round head and a remarkably red nose.
Of a warm summer afternoon, he would take his
pipe and station himself beneath the old elm-tree
that shaded the front of the inn, and for hours
contemplate with intense interest the counterfeit
presentment of the “Half-way House,” on the
swinging sign-board. It was with great complacency
and secret admiration that he gazed upon
something in the shape of a man, very uniquely
enveloped in a long waistcoat and red night-cap,
represented as helping a stranger from the stage-coach.
With considerable curiosity, too, he compared
each particular button of his own vest with
those of the one on the sign; and with quiet determination,
each day resolved that his cap should
undergo a course of soap and water to restore its
primitive brightness, in order that the one on the
board might not outvie the original. Nor could
Mynheer Speckuncrout refrain at all times from
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speaking aloud his admiration of that wonderful
specimen of art. Every new guest must undergo
the infliction of hearing all the merits of the picture
explained and expatiated upon, and Mynheer never
finished an eulogy upon John Dobbs, the painter,
without repeating the exclamation of the frau
Speckuncrout, when she first beheld the portrait of
the Half-way House. He would take his pipe from
his mouth, and exclaim, “Der frau, when she saw
der pictur, put up her specs, den put 'em down,
den looked close at der pictur, den stood away, an'
she said, `Vell now, John Dobbs, vell I declare, if
I did n't know dat vasn't Gotlieb Speckuncrout, I
should say that it vas, for its just as much like
Gotlieb Speckuncront as I never see!' Ha, ha,
dat vas vot der frau said, yes.” Thereupon Mynheer
would replace his pipe, rub his hands briskly
together, and send them on an exploring expedition
into the depths of his pockets.
One warm afternoon in September, the host, as
usual, was sitting beneath the old elm tree, gazing
at his counterpart swinging gently to and fro, at
the same time very meditatively rubbing his hand
over the features of his face; but his proboscis was
the especial point of attraction. He had just exclaimed
to himself, as was his practice, when no
other audience happened to be at hand, “And der
frau said, vell now, John Dobbs —” Just at
that moment he was startled by the sound of the
stageman's horn. Mynheer left the exclamation of
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the frau Speckuncrout unfinished, for that was no
time to contemplate the fine arts. The driver
cracked his whip, and the horses dashed furiously
up to the door of the inn. A very tall gentleman
in a military suit, boasting remarkably red hair,
tremendous mustaches and imperial of the same
agreeable sunset hue, gave Mynheer Gotlieb his
hand; the little host very good-naturedly assisted
that savage-looking, warlike gentleman from the
coach, and the warlike gentleman, in a very commanding
voice, ordered the good-natured host to
bring in his baggage, give him the best room in the
house, and the best dinner that the place would
afford, in the shortest possible notice. To all of
which Gotlieb Speckuncrout answered, “Yaw,
Mynheer,” and proceeded to the business forthwith.
However, in a few moments he was summoned
very loudly by the warlike gentleman, and when
the host made his appearance, the aforesaid gentleman
looked Waterloo at him, and exclaimed, “I
say, fellow, where is the landlord?”
Mynheer was thunderstruck. He opened his
eyes to their fullest extent, partly with astonishment,
and partly to view more perfectly the first
person who had ever mistaken him for any one
else than the veritable host. But the warlike gentleman
repeated the inquiry with somewhat more
of fierceness, and Mynheer, in as mild a manner as
possible, replied,
“Vell, if so be as you never did see Gotlieb
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Speckuncrout, (here he turned his eyes to the ceiling,
to pray all the saints in his calendar to forgive
the warlike gentleman for the oversight,) “I say, if
so be as you never did see Gotlieb Speckuncrout,
vy just step this vay.” He walked towards the
door, and the gentleman followed rather hesitatingly,
looking all the time as though he would like
a brace of just such bipeds, with or without trimmings,
for dinner. Although Mynheer's feelings
were outraged, he, good-naturedly as possible,
directed the warlike gentleman to observe the sign-board.
The son of Mars drew an eye-glass from
his pocket, and gazed through it toward the abovenamed
object. He dropped his eyes several times
from the picture to the original, thereby acknowledging
the likeness. Mynheer's triumph was complete,
and he exclaimed, “Vell, you see that 's me,—
me! —Gotlieb Speckuncrout — yaw! And mine
frau, ven she first saw der pictur, she said —”
“Sir!” growled the warlike gentleman in a
voice of thunder, — “Sir! is this the only public
house in this place?” That last interrogation was
the very acmé of insults. Mynheer looked first
with amazement all around, then at himself up and
down, and then at the door very compassionately,
for he knew that it must feel bad. At last, shading
his eyes with his hand, he looked far down the
village, and with great determination he replied,
“There is another house down der village, —
but — Gotlieb Speckuncrout vas never the man to
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say any thing against his neighbors, no! But den
I have been told by dem as have slept there, that
they always vas troubled with some kind o' an'mals
ven they vent to bed; — but I never says any thing
against my neighbors, no! P'raps dem an'mal
vas the night-mare, and p'raps they vasn't — I
doesn't pretend to say — I never says nothing
against my neighbors, no!” Thereupon the warlike
gentleman walked into the Half-way House,
registered his name, and retired to await the coming
of his dinner.
On the tenth of September there was a stranger's
name registered at the Half-way House; — for, be
it known, that at a country inn every man and boy
in the town scrawls his autograph in the dirty book
that always occupies one end of the little counter at
the bar. There you may find the ostler's name,
looking for all the world like a very long animal,
with a great many straggling legs, running off of
the page, at an angle of forty-five degrees. There,
too, you may find a page where the writing-master
has displayed his immense skill in drawing eagles,
and very top-heavy goose quills, ready made into
pens, writing all of their own accord. Yes, on
the tenth of September, the warlike gentleman
turned to a new, clean place, and wrote in large
fierce letters, “Captain Courtly Cutlass, of the
king's service.” That autograph was a bright
ornament to the register, and, in the eyes of Mynheer,
the leaf that held that name was forever
afterward sacred.
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When the stage-coach arrives at a village, there
are always a number of persons ready to run and
see who gets out or who gets in; but there are
others, again, who will not mingle with what they
deem the vulgar people, (for the pettiest town has
its aristocracy,) but who, after common curiosity
is gratified, walk leisurely past the inn, call as they
return, as though it were the merest accident in
the world. Such a person was the Hon. Timothy
Littleworth, the only justice of the peace in the
village, and, for one term, a senator to the State
legislature from that place. This gentleman must
have been some fifty years of age; his person was
not over-comely to look upon; he affected a sort of
negligé in his dress, a very common custom with
men of genius. Was it because Mr. Littleworth's
gigantic intellect towered above all considerations
of dress, that he thus neglected his outward appearance?
To be sure it was! Think you that a
politician ever thought of wearing shabby clothes,
merely to gain votes with the poorer classes, at the
same time to insinuate himself into the favor of the
rich by appearing independent? The very thought
is slander! But the Hon. Timothy Littleworth,
member of the Harrisburg senate, and justice of the
peace, was often complimented by being told that
he was the very counterpart of Napoleon, and Mr.
Littleworth's conscience forbade him to commit the
unpardonable sin of denying truth, even when
modesty prompted him to the act. Who that ever
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saw Mr. Timothy Littleworth, standing by the fishpond
in his garden, with his arms folded over his
breast, his right foot protruded somewhat in advance
of his left, and his eyes fixed on the tiny
ocean, perhaps contemplating a frog, who, I say,
that ever beheld Mr. Littleworth in such a position,
but was strongly reminded of Napoleon Bonaparte
on the island of St. Helena? Such was the gentleman,
who, at four o'clock, P. M., stepped into the
bar-room of the Half-way House.
Mynheer Speckencrout was not a partizan of Mr.
Littleworth, and as he set a decanter, containing a
deeply-colored fluid, on the bar before that honorable
gentleman, he observed,
“Meister Leetlevort, my friend, I vill drink your
good health; yaw, I vill vish you may be guf'ner,
because you decided de case of de brindle cow in
my favor.” Mr. Littleworth's countenance lit up
amazingly. “But,” continued Mynheer, “I have
something just here, (Mr. Speckencrout placed his
hand as he spoke, about on the tenth button from
the top of his waistcoat,) I have something just
here as tells me I can 't fote for you, yaw!” Mr.
Littleworth looked at the host for a moment reproachfully;
but glancing at the glass in his hand,
his countenance relaxed into a smile of forgiveness,
he raised the liquor to his lips, and contemplated
Mynheer for several moments through the bottom
of the tumbler. “No!” ejaculated the host, as he
set his glass down on the counter with considerable
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emphasis; “No, Johannes Clitersnider is the man,
yaw!”
Mr. Littleworth no sooner heard the name of his
opponent than he poured the remains of the liquor
precipitously down his throat, and putting aside his
glass, thrust his hands with alarming determination
into the skirt pockets of his coat, and gave vent to
a groan that seemed to come from the very depths
of his shoes, accompanied with the exclamation of,
“A tailor!”
“Yaw!” reiterated Gotlieb, as he turned to fill
his pipe, “and vhat if Johannes Clitersnider is a
tailor? Der man as fits me mit a coat, can fit me
mit law — yaw, dats vat I tink.”
Mr. Littleworth's feelings as a man, as a citizen,
as a statesman, and as a patriot, were too much
outraged to permit him to make any reply. He
took a pinch of snuff from the box on the counter,
drew it up his proboscis in a most desperate manner,
coughed vehemently, and sneezed an indefinite
number of times. His eye caught the glaring name
of Captain Courtly Cutlass on the register; and,
putting on his glasses to satisfy himself in regard
to that remarkable autograph, he became convinced
that it was no ostentatious flourish of Samuel Spatter,
the writing-master. He left his card for the
warlike gentleman, and assuming an air as though
he had done one of the most condescending things
in the world, took his leave of Mynheer Gotlieb
Speckencrout, and the Half-way House, very much
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as though he considered it a painful but imperative
duty to carry away that vast amount of greatness
that had for the last half hour shed a lustre on the
most inanimate fixtures of the bar-room.
CHAPTER III.
His air was wild; and he did stare and talk
Of things uncouth to dream of.
We must return to our young traveller. The
day had been extremely sultry, such a one as is
usually the precursor of a thunder-storm. The
sun had not yet passed behind the blue hills in the
distance, when a big black cloud, like a wrathful
giant with flashing eyes, came heavily up the sky.
The winds, that had all day slumbered in the
vales, now leaped from their velvet couches, and,
as though suddenly awakened from the terrors
of a dream, ran wildly to and fro; now whirling
the dust from the road across the fields; and again
slamming the shutter in the very face of a roguish
girl, who stood laughing at a traveller that had the
misfortune to be forced to chase his hat the whole
length of the village; which hat ran with a hopskip-and-a-jump
along the road, and only came to
a halt when it was lodged in the water-trough in
front of the “Half-way House.” The unfortunate
traveller, (and we are loath to admit the fact, since
it was rather an unpoetical situation for the hero of
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a story,) proved to be Paul Redding. He stepped
into the bar-room, and dropping a bundle in the corner,
drew a chair to the window, and gazed silently
on the coming storm. A cloud as dense as that
which filled the heaven, had hung, and still continued
to hang, over the sky that should rather have
smiled than frowned upon a friendless youth. But
the heart of the young is like the slender stem that
bears the flower; though it may bend to the storm it
rises elastic again; it is only the stubborn or decayed
branches that break beneath the footsteps of misfortune;
“The flower, she touched on, dipt and rose,
And turned to look at her.”
What though Paul could look to no protecting
father, no sympathizing mother or sister? what
though there was no bright spot on earth that he
could call `home?' Still there was a light, one
bright object that cheered him through a life which
lowered so forbiddingly; and that bright spot was
within his own breast! What though he had been
cast among heartless people? still was he triumphant,
for he had a proud heart.
Paul sat musing, but not gloomy; though, perhaps,
somewhat sad, until Mynheer touched him on
the shoulder and asked him into supper. He was
seated at the table with some five or six others,
among whom was a tall man, who boasted a very
large Roman nose, very small eyes hid behind
a pair of green glasses, and a very cadaverous
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mouth; these features, when combined, wore an
expression of self-satisfaction mingled with a large
amount of sly cunning, and even the green glasses
seemed to sympathize with the changes of his countenance.
After looking very sharply at Paul for a
moment, he exclaimed, “Well, I guess, stranger,
we 're agoin' to have some rain;” at the same time
putting great emphasis on the adjective “some.”
Paul ventured to reply that there was every prospect
of a shower.
“Prospect of a shower!” repeated the gentleman
in green glasses, “I tell you what, my juvenile
friend, we shall have some rain;” putting the
emphasis now on the word “rain.” The landlord
looked at the youth, as much as to say, Is n't he
a wonderful man, to be sure? Paul betrayed no
astonishment in regard to the matter; but applied
himself to his toast and tea. The gentleman in
green glasses was evidently uneasy; he kept his
eyes on the pale face of the youth without even
winking, seeming lost in conjecture. He sat not
long, however, in that mute manner, but, as if
words had just rushed to his assistance, he exclaimed,
“Well, stranger, — you see I have to call
you `stranger,' seeing as I do n't know your name,
you know.” Here the gentleman took breath a
moment, evidently disappointed when the young
man merely nodded his head, indicating that he had
no objection to being called `stranger.' “I was
a goin' to say,” continued he, “that you came
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darned near being caught, for just see how like all
Jehu it 's rainin.' The clouds is pouring out their
everlastin' waters on the parched 'arth, while all
natur' stands with her mouth stretched from ear to
ear, ready to gulp it all down. Ah, my friend, this
is a beautiful world to contemplate; yes, sir, it 's
beautiful to hear the wind smashin' among the trees
and tearin' about as though it was taking its eternal
blow! It 's beautiful to see the lightnin' shootin'
from heaven to 'arth like a streak of wrath; and to
hear the thunder roarin' like — like — like — hem—
thunder! P'raps you 've walked some distance
to-day, stranger?” Paul answered that he had
travelled some miles.
“From Lancaster?” continued the gentleman
in green glasses.
“No,” was the reply, “I have not walked so far
as that;” and, much to the discomfort of the gentleman
who seemed indefatigable in his research into
other people's affairs, Paul finished his cup of tea
and left the table. The gentleman in green glasses
lost his appetite immediately, and as he arose from
the table whispered into the ear of the host, that
the person who had just stepped out was an original!
Mynheer opened his eyes to their fullest
extent, and exclaimed, “No!”
“Yes!” reiterated the other.
“Vell, I never!” said the host.
“Yes,” replied the gentleman in green glasses
again, giving Mynheer a very significant wink, as he
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made his way to the bar-room. For a few moments
he stood by the window contemplating the
storm; but as if the last flash of lightning had
struck him with a new idea, he exclaimed,
“I say, stranger, p'raps you hav'nt writ your
name in that ere book, have you?” pointing, as he
spoke, to the register. Paul answered in the negative.
“Well, I did n't say you had, you know;”
and the inquisitive gentleman opened the volume
that laid on the counter. His eye wandered rapidly
from page to page, until, at last, it fell upon the
name of Captain Courtly Cutlass, his first astonishment
found vent in a long-drawn whistle; but when
he had examined each particular flourish, he drew
himself up to his fullest height, and, assuming an
air of great severity and determination, requested
the landlord to pass him a glass of something, at
the same time to furnish pen and ink.
“If I can't beat,” he exclaimed, “all creation at
this 'ere business,” (meaning the business of inditing
autographs,) “my name 's not Sam Spatter,
that 's all!” He disposed of the liquor in the
shortest possible time, and observed that he never
made mince meat of trifles, he did n't! After trying
the quality of his pen some five or six times, he
made sundry flourishes in the air, and worked the
quill round and round until it converged to a particular
spot on the paper, when he branched off
into very heavy strokes for the capitals, and very
fine hair lines for the small letters. Mr. Spatter's
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whole body labored. His head turned slowly from
side to side; his mouth, too, kept in motion, as if
chewing the English language into the most convenient
shape for use.
“There!” cried Mr. Spatter, when he had
finished, bringing his hand on his knee with a tremendous
slap; “there, blast the brass buttons off
my great grandfather's old blue coat, if that 'ere
do n't take the shine off of `Captain Cutlass,' then I
do n't know molasses and water from the best of
brandy, and it 's my private opinion I could tell
either on 'em in the dark, and that 's a fact.”
“Yaw,” said Mynheer, (perfectly convinced of
the truth of the last part of the assertion,) as he
laid the book aside.
“Hallo!” cried Mr. Spatter, in a tone that
started both Mynheer and the youth. “Hallo!
what 's that?”
“Vat 's vat?” reiterated the landlord.
“The devil 's at that 'ere winder, or I 'm no
judge!” answered the other. The Dutchman
staggered into the farthest corner of the bar, perfectly
terrified; and Paul Redding, not wishing to
be quartered so near the “old gentleman,” retreated
across the room. “There he is!” contined Mr.
Spatter, “do n't you see his eyes? O dear, how
they do strike fire. Go way, you varmint! —
There — there, he 's coming in! why do n't you do
something, somebody? He 's getting in at the
winder!” The devil, as Mr. Spatter called the
stranger, proved to be the same wild person that
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Paul had encountered in the afternoon. His fierce
black eyes, for a moment, rested on the gentleman
in green glasses, and he exclaimed, “Bring me a
glass!”
“Sartin, sartin,” said Mr. Spatter, “it 's shockin'
dry weather down your way, I reckon! what 'll you
have?”
“A looking-glass!” said the stranger.
“What on 'arth do you want to see in a lookin'-glass?”
“The devil!” cried the fearful-looking man with
a shudder.
“I told you so, Mynheer! I told you so, young
man; he wants to see himself! There 's a glass
hanging there; but you aint so handsome as to be
vain in your old days! O, you need n't pull my
coat in that way, Speck, 'cause I aint afeared of the
old 'un, I aint! But I say do n't you smell something
like brimstone; kind of blue blazes like, eh?
But see the crittur! how he 's shakin' himself! and
now he 's talkin' to his shadow in the glass! Wait
a minute, till I speak to him, though. Hem, — the
brimstone kind of chokes one — hem — I say, my
good friend — O, he likes to be called good, the
devil does; there 's a tender spot on all kinds of
animals; tickle a bear and it won't eat you if it 's
never so hungry; so I 'll jest rub in a slice to kind
of civilize the old 'un. I say, my good friend, a
rain like this takes the curls out of one's hair
properly, does n't it? It melts a leetle o' the
stiffnin' out o' the best-lookin' on us, I guess.”
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“There he is, there, there! do n't you see him?”
exclaimed the mysterious man, pointing over his
left shoulder.
“Who?” cried Mr. Spatter.
“The devil! O, he 's an ugly devil! Do n't you
see him? look! Do drive him away! There he
is, there, at the other shoulder! Drive him away,
drive him away! Nobody drives him away!”
And the poor man ran backwards until he struck
the wall; and then he laughed loud and fearfully.
But his wild, terrible mirth, soon subsided into a
low “he, he,” and gazing on his hands, his black
eyes sparkled with delight. “There,” said he, as
if he were talking to some one at his side, “there,
see how the little fellows do caper, ho, ho! twenty
little devils play at leap frog, how they jump from
one hand to another! But see! ho, ho! the whole
twenty are but two! only two devils out of twenty,
he, he! stop, look at them, one is an old man,
and one is a young man; the old man lies down to
sleep — the young man draws a dagger — see, he
creeps up, look! he stabs him — robs him! avaunt,
avaunt! I 'll see no more!” The poor man
trembled, his countenance was distorted with terror;
he shook his hands wildly in the air, and
then thrust them into the breast of his coat.
“I 'll speak to him,” said Paul, “I 'll speak to
him kindly, poor man. Do n't be frightened, friend,
there is nothing here to hurt you; come sit down
and be calm, do!” The stranger's countenance,
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as his eye fell on the speaker, settled into an
expression of wonder, and his answer was a long-drawn
“e-h?” partly indicating that he had seen
the face before, and partly interrogatory.
“Come, sit down,” continued Paul.
“What is your name?” said the stranger, in a
low tone of voice. Paul hesitated until he saw the
big tears standing in the stranger's eyes, and he
answered, “Paul Redding.”
“I thought so, I thought so! come near — let
me look at you — yes, your name is Paul Redding!”
and the man hid his face in his hands
and wept. Paul turned away deeply affected. Mr.
Spatter and the host looked on in mute astonishment.
The mysterious stranger wiped his eyes
hurriedly, and casting a wild glance around the
room, rushed out of the door into the storm again,
which raged on with unabated fury. When Paul
retired to his room, that night, he sat down on the
side of the bed, in deep meditation. “How odd,”
thought he; “why did I feel so much interest in a
stranger? And why did he act so strangely in regard
to me? I am amazed that he should have
recognised me; I cannot remember of ever having
seen the man before; and yet, there was something
in his countenance that seemed familiar;
something that I have either dreamed of or seen
long, long ago. Poor man, how I pity him! something
may happen to him in such a dark, stormy
night as this. The river is swollen, I can hear it
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
roaring even from here. I wish that I knew where
to find — Hark! somebody's at the door! who 's
there?” “Paul, Paul,” said a low voice, “open
the door, do n't be afraid.” The young man at
once recognised the voice, and immediately admitted
the mysterious stranger. “I am glad that
you have come,” said Paul, “very glad; you shall
sleep in my bed to-night, and I will sit by and
watch you.” “Good boy, good boy! but I never
sleep at night — the devil won't let me. There,
I 'll lean against the wall; this is the only way that
I can rest at night. I do n't fear those ugly little
imps that dance before my eyes, no, no! but it 's
that ugly, ugly fellow that sits on my back looking
over my shoulder into my face. Sometimes an
old man stands behind me, his long, white locks
all matted with blood, and skinny finger pointing to
a deep gash in his throat! O!” The stranger hid
his face in his hands and groaned. “Do be calm!”
said Paul, imploringly, “do be calm; there is
nothing here at all like what you describe, indeed
there is not!”
“You can't see them,” said the poor man;
“no, you are innocent, young, and happy, and they
all fly into my brain when you come near! Yes,
they are in my brain, here, here, where, years ago,
they built a big fire that still keeps burning, burning,
burning! But I won't frighten you, no, no, I
won't. Your name is Paul Redding — I know it is.
I have the papers here; but, let me see; no, that
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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
must not be yet. The time has not yet come — we
shall meet again. Paul, forgive me — I forgot —
we shall meet again; then, perhaps, you will know.
No matter. They call me Fiery Fitful; remember
that. It is a nickname; perhaps I deserve it.
Well, no matter. Paul, farewell; give me your
hand — no, no! do n't! I forgot — farewell, Paul,
farewell.” The strange man hurried away, leaving
the youth perfectly bewildered.
CHAPTER IV.
“Seven daughters had Lord Archibald,
All children of one mother.”
Wordsworth.
On the following morning, the warlike gentleman
sallied forth to view the beautiful, though rather
muddy village, and to pay his respects to the important
personage, who had sent him his card on
the previous evening. Mr. Littleworth was at home
to the warlike gentleman, and was delighted to embrace
the opportunity of making the acquaintance
of so distinguished an individual, although he, to
speak truth, had never heard of the warlike gentleman
before. However, that was nothing; the
captain's name was a sufficient guarantee of his
nobility. Mr. Littleworth loved any thing that
smacked of aristocracy, notwithstanding his declarations
about his thorough democracy to his
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
constituents. He claimed some of the first men who
have ever lived as his ancestors, and should any
one require it, he could trace his genealogy back,
almost, if not quite, as far as to the greatest man of
his time, namely, Noah. Mrs. Timothy Littleworth
was, in every way, her husband's equal, not
even excepting in size of body. In fact, Mr. Littleworth
looked upon her as the most astonishing
woman in the country. He would frequently say
that Mrs. L.'s beauty was not alone comprised in
her face and form; but her intellect was equally
gigantic and beautiful. Besides, she was born in
France, and being a very distant relative to Napoleon,
he felt that he was not going too far, when
he acknowledged that he held her in divine admiration.
She conversed in English quite as well as in
French, and in Italian quite as well as either. In
truth, she spoke all of the useful languages beautifully,
giving the accent of each to perfection. And
his daughters, too; their mother had taught them
the different languages. He was happy to say that
they promised to equal, in every way, their more
than talented parent. Mr. Littleworth had no less
than seven daughters, averaging from two to sixteen
years of age. Mr. L. left the warlike gentleman
to amuse himself with the books and prints, while
he hurried to the nursery to inform his precocious
daughters, that a very great man was to dine there,
and they must each try and improve by his example—
they must watch him closely at table,
and imitate all of his graces.
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
“Remember, my daughters,” he said, “remember,
and be an ornament to your papa, and an
honor to your mamma. You, Napoleana, be very
proper; there 's no knowing what may grow out of
a very small circumstance. It has always been
your papa's saying, my dears, that great events
turn on remarkably small pivots. And you,
Josephine, Maria Louisa, Austerlitziana, Lodina,
Elbaena, and my sweet little Helena, you are to sit
at the table with a nobleman! Just think of it!
Do remember, and be very proper.”
“Oh yes, papa!”
“And remember, Napoleana, if he addresses
you in French, answer the gentleman promptly and
sweetly as possible, for, as your papa has said
before, there 's no knowing what may grow out of
a small circumstance.”
The daughter addressed replied “we, papa,” and
“we, papa” passed from mouth to mouth, like the
running of the upper octave of a flute, the last little
note winding off with a very sharp screech. Ah!
that was a proud time for Mr. Littleworth. “Captain,”
said he, as he entered the parlor again, “I
trust that you have been amused. Here are some
of the first engravings of the age; but it is needless,
however, that I should tell a gentleman of your
taste such a thing. These are all English prints.
There, sir, that is a likeness of George the Fourth,
if you have never seen his likeness. Oh! I ask
your pardon, you have seen it then, in London.
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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
Large city that London! I correspond with several
of the greatest men of that metropolis. Here is a
likeness of Scott — quite a clever man — English
I mean. Oh! ah! you 've seen that before. But
here, sir, here — this picture — did you observe
this? It is a picture of Napoleon crossing the
Alps, executed by David, pronounced Dah-vede in
French. Yes, I presumed you knew the fact, but
all do not! Ah! sir, I pray you think nothing of
my weakness, excuse it — but I never look upon
this picture of Bonaparte, on the island of St.
Helena, without dropping a tear to his memory.
You may think this weakness — yes, I knew you
would — well, then, sir, for your sake I will not
contemplate that picture at present. Here, sir, if
you are fond of wit, here are the works of the
greatest humorist of his age. There, take a seat,
you can't understand them in a moment, they are
so far in advance of the age! They are generally
political pieces, hits at the administration. You
will not understand them — allow me to explain.
Ah! here on the first page we have the likeness of
the artist himself, Christopher Scrapp, Esq.; fine
intellectual face that; the small twinkling eye indicative
of wit; how expressive the nose is, turned
slightly up, showing his sneering disposition to a
charm. Were it not for the hair, sir, you would
observe what a forehead he has. I advised Mr.
Scrapp to have it shaved, a thing frequently done.
He writes me in his last letter that he has followed
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
the suggestion, and thanks me for the advice. He
is a wonderful man. By the way, I will give you
his address; mention my name, that will be sufficient.
Observe that figure; you do n't understand it, I presume
not, but, sir, that picture produced an alarming
excitement. It represents a figure standing on
its head; there are the two legs up in the air; the
feet are rather large, but that is a part of Mr.
Scrapp's style, one of his peculiarities. The figure
is allegorical; it represents the present condition of
the administration; capital! is n't it? That book,
sir, has done more for my cause in this town than
you could imagine. Those spirited satires, sir,
when I held them up to the people, and gave them
the proper explanations, the effect was miraculous;
unlike other senseless satires, they were not laughed
at. No! there is too much truth, sir, and whenever
I presented them, a solemn silence pervaded the
spectators. I have the greatest admiration for the
genius of my friend Scrapp. His illustrations of
Mother Goose give general satisfaction among the
smaller members of my family. Ah! yes sir, I
look upon this artist as one of the greatest benefactors
of his age, if in nothing else than amusing les
enfans.”
In this manner did Mr. Timothy Littleworth
entertain his distinguished visiter until the dinnerhour,
when he conducted the captain into the
dining-room, where was presented a formidable
array of young Littleworths, each having her hair
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[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
done into two long stiff braids, tied over with any
quantity of blue ribbon, arranged into very systematic
bow-knots.
“Allow me to introduce my daughters. Miss
Napoleana, Captain Cutlass; Josephine, Maria
Louisa, Austerlitziana, Lodina, and these two are
the youngest, Elbaena and Helena. Be seated,
captain, there, if you please, opposite my eldest.
Ah! here comes madam. Madam Littleworth,
Captain Cutlass.” Now the lady L. was enormously
fat, and as she waddled into the room, her
appearance was almost too much for the rigid
risibilities of the warlike gentleman. She bowed,
for who ever saw a fat woman courtesy? No one,
I imagine — in fact, it would be hazardous.
“Bon apres — midi — Monsieur,” said the lady,
taking a seat next to her husband.
“I am vere mush glad to have ze pleasure, oui.
You are in ze — ze — armee?” The captain
bowed, and the young ladies bowed.
“You have been in ze battle, eh, Monsieur?”
The warlike gentleman coughed, and replied that it
was warm, oppressively so.
“Oui, oui, — you have been in oppressive warm
battle! Vere you ever shot?”
“Hem! no, not exactly shot, that is, slightly
wounded.”
“Indeed! Where?”
“Ah! hem! it happened in a — a — vessel,
madam — a sea engagement.”
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
“Oh! possible? in ze blood vessel?”
“Oh! ah! yes, rather a bloody vessel, just at
that time.”
“But where is ze wound? Do let me see ze
wound.”
The captain was confused, and could make no
reply for some time. At last he observed, that the
wound could not be discerned very easily.
“My daughters!” whispered Mr. Littleworth,
shaking his head and frowning forbiddingly, “hush!”
“The fact is, madam,” continued the warlike
gentleman — “The fact is, a confounded piece of
lead came very abruptly just across my chin, and
dislocated several individual members of my imperial;
a very serious loss, I assure you.”
“Ah! captain,” continued Mrs. Littleworth, as
she emptied a dish of chicken salad on her plate;
“Come, captain, tell some more about ze war, just
to amuse ze daughters, do.”
“Oh, do, do, do!” cried two or three of the
young Littleworths.
“My children, be silent!” said Mr. L., firmly.
“Elbaena, my daughter, take that soup dish off of
your head; papa will you send right away from the
table. Helena, dear, take her fingers out of the
butter-plate; she should n't do so, pet.”
“A battle is a very dreadful thing,” said the
captain, wiping the moisture from his mustaches.
“A very dreadful thing. You Americans know
nothing of the horrors of war, nothing. I hope you
will not. War is a dreadful thing.”
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
“Oui — oui — so I tink, so I have tell my husband
one, three, several times. He sall nevare go
to war. Eh, mon cher?”
“Yes, frequently, my dear. Ah! she is very
affectionate — always in this beautiful serene spirit
of tenderness that you now behold her in. Oh,
is n't it delightful?”
“Exceedingly.”
“Napoleon was a vere great war-man, captain,
eh?”
“Yes, clever.”
“A vere great war-man, I say!”
“Circumstances, you know, did every thing for
him.”
“I do n't know ze man Circumstanz, but I nevare
tink of Waterloo wizout saying, Mon Dieu —!”
“Oh, my dear,” said Mr. L.
“Yes, you know, husband, ve bot hate dem
Englishmen like ze —”
“Hush — sh — sh!”
“Vot for hush? Do n't tell me hush! I nevare
was told hush! — I love my country, and hate ze
English like, like —”
“Madam,” said the captain, “I look upon Napoleon
as the greatest curse that ever fell upon the
world!”
“Sare, you are not gentleman!” screamed Mrs.
Littleworth, coloring deeply up to the very edges
of her wig, and as much farther as you may choose
to imagine. “You are von grand coward!”
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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
“Was it to be insulted, madam, that I permitted
my person to grace your table?” exclaimed the
warlike gentleman, rising.
“Grace MY table! You are disgrace, sare!”
“I 'll not be insulted! Mr. Littleworth, you
shall answer for this. We gentlemen of standing
always go prepared to repel injury — remember
that!” roared the captain.
“Mrs. Littleworth, Oh! Mrs. Littleworth, you will
be my ruin!” exclaimed the trembling husband.
“Ha! such words to me!” screamed the lady
at the top of her voice, “Ha! ha!” The three
youngest Littleworths caught up the scream of the
infuriated mother, and clenching their little fists, at
arms' length, and shutting their eyes very tight,
prolonged it.
“I 'll do something dreadful, Mr. Littleworth!
I 'll be the death of you!” cried the warlike gentleman,
as he left the apartment. It was in vain
that Mr. Littleworth followed him to the door, and
implored his pardon; for the warlike gentleman
was neither butter nor sugar, and therefore would
not melt. When Mr. Littleworth returned to the
room, he found the young ladies undergoing certain
gymnastic exercises with their enraged mamma, not
altogether pleasant, which performance being over,
Mrs. Littleworth, with great determination, seated
herself upon the table, unmindful of cracking plates
and squashing contents, placed her arms akimbo,
and, gazing around on her husband and progeny,
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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
she felt, not for the first time either, that she was
“monarch of all she surveyed; her right there was
none to dispute.”
CHAPTER V.
The crowded streets are gay;
But with melancholy mood,
Amid the thronging solitude
The stranger wends his way.
There was a great bustle at the Half-way House;
the stage-coach had arrived, and was in readiness
to start again. The inside passengers, as usual,
were all impatience. Heads of various qualities of
beauty, were continuously popping in and out, as
though they were machines worked by so many
wires. One fat old lady concluded at first that it
was not worth while to get out of the coach, but
when it was about to start, she thought she would
get out; but just then the horses started a few paces
on, and the good lady was jolted back into a very
nervous old gentleman's lap; the old lady muttered
something about some people occupying all the
seat; and did wish that somebody would see to her
bandbox, for she was sure it had dropt off, ever so
many miles back on the road; she did wish that the
driver would look after it, he could n't help knowing
it, for it was tied up with a blue checkered
handkerchief, and contained her best bonnet,
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[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
beside a bundle of water-crackers, and a half pound of
good home-made cheese. But it was n't any use
of talking, she knew that, and always knew it!
Paul Redding had engaged a place on the outside
of the coach by the driver, and when he was about
mounting into his seat, Mynheer Speckuncrout
very slyly slipped something into the young man's
pocket, and, shaking him heartily by the hand, wished
him success. The ruddy-cheeked coachman
cracked his whip, and the horses started briskly off.
“Remember,” cried the good-natured host,
pointing to the sign, “when you come this way,
remember der Half-way House!” The young
man nodded his head, and would have replied
verbally, but they were already far down the road.
By five o'clock they were at the “Spread Eagle,”
by eight, they were crossing the Schuylkill bridge,
and by nine, Paul was traversing the very regular
streets of the Quaker city. He walked down
Market street and up Chestnut, gazing, as all
strangers are wont to do, at the curiosities in the
shop-windows. At one time he stood before a
jeweller's store, where were displayed more silver
plate, gold watches, and queer, fantastic clocks, than
he had ever dreamed of. Farther along was a
bookstore, where were emblazoned immense placards,
announcing the last new novel by Mr. Somebody,
Esq.; Madame What's-her-name's works on
political economy; Man as he is; Medicine in
general and anatomy in particular. Mr.
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
What-do-ye-call-him's advice to the young; advice to married
ladies, and directions for the nursery. Here
was spread, to a crowd of ragged admiring urchins,
the last great works of the renowned Christopher
Scrapp, Esq.! “Here,” thought Paul, “is to be
seen one of those revolutions which that quaint old
gentleman, Time, brings about. While Madame
What's-her-name's works on political economy, &c.,
are emblazoned forth, old Adam Smith lies neglected
on the shelves, enveloped in dust. Now Mr.
What-do-ye-call-him has dropped the badges of
manhood, turned the women out of the nursery, and
dandles the children on his knee to the tune of
`high diddle diddle!”' “Well,” continued Paul,
“if this state of things prevails in the city, I shall
fain wish myself back in the quiet simple country
again, where at least the women nurse their own
children, and the farmers pursue their occupation
without female direction.” The thought of the
country suggested again to the young man the consciousness
of his abject situation. “Here,” said
he, “I am in this large city, without friends and
without money! Here industry and knavery
flourish cheek by jowl. The frivolous and thoughtful,
rich and poor, honest and dishonest, hurry along
in one promiscuous crowd, all, perhaps, more comfortable
than I. The most abandoned wretch may
have one friend to speak kindly to him, and shield
him for the night; the most ragged urchin in the
street may have a kind-hearted mother who rejoices
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
at the return of her son, although he may come to
eat the only remaining crust! Heaven! gracious
heaven! why am I an orphan? I am here walled
in with houses, I pass an almost interminable row
of doors, yet all are closed to me; and many a bed
to-night will remain untouched, while I—but no
more of that; what right have I to expect any thing
of strangers? they know not me nor I them. If I
sleep in the street, the watchmen will surely not
murder me; if I am robbed, the thief will not be
much enriched nor I much impoverished.” Thus
ruminated Paul, as he stepped into a small restaurateur.
Among the promiscuous assemblage of
persons regaling themselves on various articles of
food and liquor, two persons in particular attracted
his attention. One was a little shrivelled-up Quaker;
and the other was a short, robust, ill-looking
individual, with very jagged features; an iron hook,
that was appended to his elbow, did service in the
place of his right hand; and with that he toyed
carelessly with the different articles before him, on
the table, the use of the hook seeming to have become
a second nature. Paul gazed at the man a
moment, and a shudder ran over him, for he felt
that he had seen that ugly countenance before; but
where, he could not at that moment recollect.
When a plate of oysters was set before the two
men, the little Quaker rolled his eyes up to the
ceiling and looked very devout, then turning them
down again, he gazed around on the company, as
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[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
if to take them to witness that he was a pious man
and thankful for the smallest favors!
Paul took a seat and looked over the morning
news. His eye met the lists of “wants,” and feeling
in his pocket for a scrap of paper to note down the
number of two or three of what seemed to be
desirable places, he found a queer wad stowed
away in one corner, and carefully opening it, discovered,
much to his astonishment, the self-same
money that he had paid to the host of the Half-way
House. Paul was at first delighted, and then
mortified, that he had been an object of charity;
yet he was grateful, for he felt how disinterested
were the motives of the benevolent giver. “This,”
thought Paul, “this, will I remember, that the most
needy stand not always with open mouths. The
ice-bound stream is noiseless; but the greedy
brooks, the more they are filled the more they cry
aloud.” Our hero was about rising from his seat,
when a gentleman, who was handling pencil and
paper on the opposite side of the room, begged him
to sit still, if it was but for a moment. “I have
something of interest to communicate to you presently,”
said the stranger, and in a few moments he
seated himself beside the astonished youth. “I
have been making a sketch of you. I hope you will
take no offence, none intended, I assure you; but as
you sat here with that bundle, your appearance struck
me as exceedingly picturesque. Here is the sketch,
very hastily done, yet there 's character in it, eh?”
-- 050 --
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Paul was evidently not pleased at first, but when he
examined the picture he saw nothing there that
might not have been drawn from any one else in
the establishment, and feeling assured that no one
could ever imagine him as the original, he replied
that he was quite happy if he had been of any
service to the artist. “Of service!” reiterated the
stranger, talking through his nose. “You have
been of vast service. I have been for the last fortnight
on the lookout for you; yes, sir, for you; I
saw you in my mind's eye. A place like this is
the best in the world for characters. I visit here
nightly, not to eat or drink, as my enemies have
insinuated, but to make sketches. Hogarth was in
the habit of doing the same; he used to draw
figures upon his thumb-nail. The smallness of the
space must have cramped his genius. I have tried
it, but I make so many drawings in an evening that
I found it impossible to follow the example of that
great man. This sketch, I will tell you in perfect
confidence, is to illustrate a book: yes, sir, a book.
You have heard of Inkleton, the poet? never heard
of Ichabod Inkleton, the poet! You amaze me!
Well, you see he is now engaged on a great work;
he undertook it by my advice; and that great work
I am illustrating. It will make a tremendous sensation,
you may depend. The book will be in six
volumes, entitled `A travesty on John Bunyan's
Pilgrim's Progress, by Ichabod Inkleton, with illustrations
by Christopher Scrapp, Esq.' Now, sir,
-- 051 --
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you will understand why I drew this figure. Do
you observe that short, fat gentleman sitting at yonder
table?” “The one with the very red nose?”
said Paul. “Well, yes, his nose is rather red; you
understand who I mean — that interesting-looking
individual, with the broad collar thrown open.”
“Oh yes, I see,” replied Paul, “the man with sore
eyes who is stirring his liquor with his finger.”
“I say, my boy, pass my friend Inkleton a spoon.
Well, my young friend, that gentleman as you
understand, is the poet; yes, sir, the first poet of our
country. I shall do you the honor of an introduction.
You will find his conversation not only instructive
but amusing. His thoughts are always
beautiful, and his language is always poetry. He
frequently couches his observations in verse; you
would be delighted to hear him at such times. I
thought that there was something of the vein about
him this evening; you may be fortunate enough to
hear him. Mr. Inkleton is always delighted to
make the acquaintance of any one whom I recommend
to him, because he feels and knows that he
owes much, if not all of his great popularity, to my
influence. Come, we will approach him. Inky,
my friend, here is a young man, the original of this
sketch; permit him to linger in the same air which
your greatness breathes.” “My dear Scrapp, let
me embrace you,” said Mr. Inkleton, attempting to
rise, which act Mr. S. prevented, and embraced
him where he sat. “My dear Scrapp,” continued
-- 052 --
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the poet — and he shook hands with Paul over the
artist's back — “my dear Scrapp, 't is thus I fain
would clasp your friend, your wife, or daughter;
hand me a glass, my boy, of gin, without the water.
Forgive me, Scrapp, you know my love is quite
Platonic. But let that pass, and take a glass of
inspiration, called Byronic. Join us, young man,
and — and —” “I never drink,” answered Paul.
“He is modest,” said Mr. Scrapp, “and never
drinks, I presume, unless he is permitted to call on
the liquor himself.” “I drink nothing intoxicating,
sir, under any circumstances,” replied the young
man, coloring. “I wish to know, Mr. Scrapp, if I
understood you rightly; you introduced this young
man as a friend of yours?” “No, sir, not as friend,
but as the original of this sketch.” “Ah, yes, that
explains it; otherwise, young man, that last observation
of yours would have been mysterious — fact; I
assure you, I am serious.” “The evening is far
advanced,” said Paul. “Accept my thanks for
your attentions; good night, gentlemen.” “Good
night,” said Inkleton, “we 'll excuse you, nor lose
much neither when we lose you.” Our hero took
lodging for the night at the sign of the “Bull's
Head,” a quiet inn, situated in Strawberry alley.
He had there, he thought, a bed very much more
agreeable than he could possibly bring himself to
think could be found in the softest stall in the whole
market-house.
-- 053 --
CHAPTER VI.
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
The eagle and the hawk may strive
Amid the upper air;
But wherefore, tell me, wherefore should
The tender dove be there?
On the evening of the following day, in an old
building, situated at the corner of Strawberry and
Trotter's alleys, there sat two of our principal characters;
one at least worthy of considerable attention,
as he proved to be no other than the mysterious
personage, that has already been described as Fiery
Fitful, so called. He was seated at a little square
table, over which he leaned with his brow resting on
his hand; his face was more pale and haggard
than it had yet appeared; his eyes were deep sunken,
but had lost none of the lustre of their piercing
blackness; and he only raised them at intervals to
gaze at his companion, but his look was that of one
who carried a broken heart, and as he turned his
eyes away, the language of inward agony was
given in a deep sigh — a sigh near akin to a groan.
Could we at all times comprehend the burden of a
sigh, what mysteries would be unfolded, what sad
thoughts, what heart-rending sorrow, what awful
deeds, appealing to our sympathies, our tears, and
our prayers! But no; the heart is a strange book,
only intelligible to the wakeful eye of the spirit,
that hidden priest who ever chants the psalms of
joy or sorrow in the sanctuary of the breast. At
-- 054 --
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times, however, some response of that chant rises
to the lips, like the distant sound of an organ peal,
conveying the feeling though in a mysterious language;
and the features answer to its changes, as
the stream gives back the clear sky, or the rumbling
thunder-cloud.
Heaven alone heard the slow, solemn, and sorrowful
psalm of the poor spirit that ministered in
the breast of Fitful's companion. A pale female,
the remnant of a once beautiful woman, but now
prematurely shadowed with the veil of age, sat on
the opposite side of the small room. She was
dressed in one of those old-fashioned drab cloaks,
the plain hood answering the place of a bonnet.
Her hair that had once been of a flaxen color
touched with gold, was now sadly mixed with gray,
and hung carelessly over her brow and temples.
Her hands were clasped listlessly together on her
lap, and as she leant forward her pale blue eyes
gazed vacantly on the walls, and her whole face
was so entirely blank, you could not but think
that some blighting sorrow had chilled the senses,
and thus swept every vestige of expression from
her countenance. Such, indeed, had been her
sorrow, and such the result.
“Poor woman!” thought Fitful, as he heaved a
bitter sigh, “poor woman, God knows what she has
suffered! Of what a lovely thing is she the wreck!
O, it drives me mad to think of it — could she but
wake up from that horrible lethargy, if it were but
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
for the space of an hour, that I might tell her of
the fires that are consuming me, and would bear it
all, how calmly. But now, it is as though I had
cursed my mother and she had died, while yet the
words were in the air, leaving me unforgiven, with
the unnatural crime forever recoiling upon my own
head. Nothing in man's great book of calamities
could be more terrible, except what I now see
before me! But I must speak to her — Mary, —
Mary, I say —” “Did you speak?” said the poor
woman, turning upon Fitful the same expressionless
face. “Yes, Mary, I was about to tell you
that the boy has arrived in the city.”
“I had a boy once,” replied she. “I remember
him yet.” Ah, yes, what force of circumstances
ever compelled a mother to forget her
child? Through the heaviest mist that wraps the
dulled senses, or the blackest clouds of adversity,
the mother's remembrance of her child come starlike;
yes, amid all this,
“A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.”
“But I was agoing to tell you,” resumed the
man, “I was agoing to tell you, that Paul is in
town.”
“Paul, — Paul,” — said she, slowly, “yes, I like
that name — my father's name was Paul; he was
an old man; his hair was quite white — very like
my own — yes, I think sometimes, that I look like
him — look as he did when he was dead — very
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
pale; but I did n't see him then — no, no, I did n't
see him then.”
“Gracious heaven!” groaned Fitful, covering
his face in his hands; at last he started, as if impelled
by some irresistible power, and gazing
wildly around, he was about to give vent to words
that seemed struggling for utterance, when a slight
knocking was heard at the door; Fitful in a moment
recoiled within himself, and assumed his
usual composure, if, indeed, at any time he might
be said to be composed. The manner in which a
person demands entrance by the common mode of
rapping on the door with the knuckle or any similar
instrument, is as good an index perhaps to the
character of an individual as almost any of their
other external actions; not only may you judge of
their usual peculiarities, but more especially of the
present mood by which they are actuated. Such
was the case in the present instance. Fitful involuntarily
contracted his brows and gazed for a
moment angrily towards the door, his fierce black
eyes seemed to penetrate the panels, and to survey
the stranger with an unwelcome look of recognition.
The sly, crafty knock, if such an epithet may be
applied to a sound, was repeated, and the person
was admitted. Nathaniel Munson, (for such was
the name of the intruder,) was a little shrivelled-up
old man, dressed in Quaker garb; his very small
gray eyes twinkled very sharply from beneath
jagged eyebrows, and his thin Roman nose came
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
into close proximity with his peaked chin, which
was half buried in the thick loose folds of his
white neck handkerchief, the latter being the only
article about him that wore the appearance of
amplitude or freedom.
“How does thee do, John?” exclaimed the
Quaker, rubbing his hard, bony hands together, as
if he enjoyed the feeling, since he knew that the
sharp knuckles and lank fingers betrayed no very
great extravagance in his mode of living. “Ah,”
thought he, as he hid a malicious grin by burying
his face deep in his neck-cloth, and gazed toward
the woman who was scarcely yet conscious of his
presence, “Ah, ha! she is here, eh! perhaps with
some complaint of ill usage, or something of that
sort, eh? Well, well, we 'll stop this communication
one of these days.” His thoughts, however,
were not deep enough to be concealed from the
searching gaze of Fitful, who read the Quaker's
mind in his countenance as easily as though it had
been a book. Munson quailed beneath the fiery
indignation of Fitful's eye, while the latter led the
woman to the door, and giving her to understand
that they must part for the present, bade her good
night. “Now, sir,” said he, turning to the old
man, who had betaken himself to a seat, “Now,
sir, may I be informed as to what circumstances I
am indebted for the honor of this call?”
“Law, bless me, John,” said the Quaker, smiling
sarcastically, “Law, thee is so polite!”
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
“Well, then,” answered the other, “to be less
polite and more to the purpose, what in the devil's
name brings your hideous skeleton here, to-night?”
Here Nathaniel Munson dropped his face
deeper than before into his neck-cloth, and gave
vent to a half-smothered “he, he.” “You well
know,” continued Fitful, “that I had rather see the
foulest ghost that ever troubled the perpetrator of
the blackest crime that man or demon could commit,
than stand for a moment in your loathsome
presence!” The Quaker made no other reply
to this speech than a mere nervous working of his
fingers, as if he were, in imagination, strangling
some hateful enemy.
“Like an evil vine, you wove your wily schemes
about me until my whole existence was poisoned
by them; and now you come to glut your odious
eyes upon me, blasted as I am in the very prime of
manhood!”
“It was your own willing act,” at last answered
Munson, emphatically, dropping the personal pronoun
“thee” for another more broad and expressive;
“you did it, and I have kept your secret.”
“Yes, you have kept the secret, and wisely,
since you know that the scaffold which the law
would build for me would be sufficiently ample to
accommodate two of us.”
“No, no, not my throat,” said the old man, as
he adjusted the handkerchief about his neck, “not
mine.”
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
Fitful smiled contemptuously, and seating himself
opposite to the Quaker, requested, very mildly,
that Nathaniel Munson would make known his
business without further delay; or, if his business
was of no particular importance, to at once take
his leave, and in future be careful and not cross his
(Fitful's) path too often.
“O, yes, I 'll take care of that,” replied Munson,
striving to appear very good-natured; and added,
again going back to the Quaker mode of expression,
which he invariably used when he engaged in
any dissimulation, “Thee seems somewhat vexed,
John; I trust thee is not angry with me?”
“Your business, I say, again,” answered Fitful,
impatiently.
“Very well, we will to business, then, if thee
will have it so,” replied the old man. “Thee
knows that thy strange behavior hath drawn many
eyes toward thee; many inquiries and unpleasant
conjectures are bandied from mouth to mouth even
now through the city; thee knows this, eh?”
“Well — well — go on.”
“Thee knows,” continued Munson, “that should
any clue be got to a certain transaction, thee knows
what foul disgrace would forever stigmatize certain
innocent persons nearly connected with thee, eh?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Fitful, “and I know, too,
that in that case certain persons who are not quite
so innocent would be placed in rather an unpleasant
situation; but go on.”
“Therefore it is desirous,” pursued the Quaker,
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
“that thy appearance here should no longer awake
the suspicions of these curious people.”
“And therefore it is desirous,” answered the
other, sneeringly, “that I should go and drown
myself.”
“O, no, by no means; thee mistakes my friendship,”
replied Munson, while a fiendish expression
of cunning played over his features. “Thee
knows, or ought to know, that I have always been
a friend to thee and thine.”
“Cease your hypocritical jargon,” said Fitful,
angrily, “but proceed with your business.”
“What I am about to propose,” continued the
other, “will in no way compromise thy own safety
or peace of mind, but rather add to it, and especially
secure the quietude of those so nearly connected
with thee; those whom thee cares most for,
I mean,” added he, as he saw a scowl gathering
over the face of his companion.
“A vessel of mine is in port, and will sail again
in three or four weeks, to make a voyage of a few
months; now I thought, perhaps, that thee might
like to take a trip in her, and, by so doing, thee
would be enabled to see new scenes in other countries
that would brighten thee up and make a new
man of thee, eh?”
“I 'll think of it,” answered Fitful, musingly;
“and, in the meantime, I desire to be left alone,
that is if you have finished your business; therefore
leave — no, stay; I forgot to say to you what I
know will give you great pleasure to hear — the
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
boy Paul is in town.” As Fitful said this, Munson
started as though he had suddenly encountered a
ghost; and then he contracted his brows heavily,
thrust his chin very deep into his neckcloth, and
stood gazing thoughtfully at the floor. At last he
murmured, half inaudibly, “He, then, is the first
incumbrance to be got rid of.”
“What are you muttering about?” exclaimed
Fitful.
“O, I was just thinking what employment we
could give him; we must do something for him,
thee knows.”
“Well, sir,” said the other, waving his hand for
Munson to leave, “I will send the boy to you,
to-morrow, since you are so solicituous about his
welfare. So, now that is settled for the present,
go!” As he said this, the door closed heavily at
the back of Nathaniel Munson, who pursued his
way moodily to his own dwelling.
CHAPTER VII.
“The departed! the departed!
They visit us in dreams,
And they glide above our memories,
Like shadows over streams.”
Park Benjamin.
The reader may imagine Paul Redding being
seated in the comfortable old-fashioned bar-room of
the “Bull's Head.” There are coats and hats of
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
every shape and quality decorating the walls;
here is the broad-brimmed, furless hat of the
Quaker; there the long whip and weather-beaten
overcoat of the wagoner. All of these bespeak the
character of the house, which is a sort of country
inn, for the accommodation of the good, homelyminded
market people, who make a weekly, monthly,
or half-yearly tour to the city with their produce,
from the rich old counties of Lancaster and Chester.
Many years ago, when but a child, we well
remember with what admiration, nay, almost awe,
we then gazed at the bull's head on the swinging
sign-board; the mad eye, the foam dropping from
the mouth, seemed to be the highest reach of art;
and the chain around his neck appeared to be a
very necessary appendage. But we must return
to the youth. The reader may now imagine what
was Paul's surprise to encounter the same strange
person, that but a day or two since, he had first
met in the neighborhood of an obscure village,
some thirty miles back in the country. The
stranger's air was now less terrific, his eyes less
wild, and his dress less peculiar, not to say fantastic;
but his face bore still that same haggard hue, and
there was something yet sufficiently strange in his
manner to make him attract the attention of most
persons, and elicit queer conjectures from the more
curious. Fitful was keenly sensible of this. The
glance of every eye annoyed him, and he interpreted
every whisper to be some surmise or
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
unpleasant suggestion of which he was the subject.
Therefore he gave Paul to understand, that he was
not altogether what he seemed, and persuaded the
young man to accompany him to his own private
lodgings. And Paul, actuated somewhat by
curiosity, and, perhaps, from a sense of his own
loneliness, but more from a deep sympathy for the
mysterious man, at last consented; and the two
strangers, followed by the inquiring gaze of twenty
eyes, glided out, and were soon lost amid the darkness
of the street. They entered a narrow alley-way,
and passing through the back room of an old
building, Fitful led the way cautiously up a dark
flight of stairs into the little apartment mentioned in
the last chapter. On one side there were two windows
that were tightly fastened up with old-fashioned
board shutters; in one corner of the room was
situated a small bed, and opposite to that was the
little fire-place, mounted with an old black mantle-piece,
over which hung two antique-looking pistols,
well coated with rust; and between these stood a
small quaintly-figured dingy clock, that ticked so
slow and mournfully, that you might have imagined
it was complaining over the loss of its better and
brighter days. On the base of the clock, which
was of brass, these mysterious lines were dimly
carved, or rather scratched:
“A pendulum bright is the heart of a youth,
That ever goes merrily on,
Till crime clings unto it, then horrible ruth
Like rust gnaws away, with unsatisfied tooth,
Nor stops when its brightness is gone.”
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The appearance of the place impressed Paul with
an irresistible feeling of awe, and served in no
way to solve the mystery, that hung around the
stranger; but notwithstanding all this, the young
man's curiosity was still more excited, and,
assuming an air of confidence, he accepted the
proffered chair, while Fitful drew up another and
seated himself familiarly by his side.
“I was somewhat surprised to find you in the
city,” said he.
“Yes, I was almost surprised at it myself,” answered
Paul; “but I arrived here last evening, in
hopes of finding some situation where I might better
my fortune; for I have had rather a hard lot of it
since being left an orphan, when a mere child.”
“An orphan,” sighed Fitful; “poor boy!”
“An orphan is to be pitied, to be sure,” replied
the young man, coloring slightly, “but not so much
pitied while he has health and strength, and hands
to work with.”
“Yes, yes,” answered the other, “the energy of
a determined, youthful, innocent mind — mark me,
I say a pure mind — can easily surmount every
barrier that misfortune may throw in its way.”
“I think that I have energy enough, if I may be
allowed to say so much in my own favor,” answered
Paul.
“And a pure mind to back it, I have no doubt,”
said Fitful.
“But,” continued he, changing the subject, “if I
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
was surprised to see you here, I may readily guess
that you were equally so to encounter me; that is,
if you recognise me again.” Paul answered that
it was not an easy thing to forget so soon, the face
that he had seen under such peculiar circumstances,
at the village inn but a short time before.
“Ah yes, indeed!” sighed Fitful, “that was
a dreadful black night — a most horrible night,
Paul!”
“It was, indeed!” answered the young man.
“I would tell you something of it,” continued
Fitful, casting a sly glance over his shoulder, “for
it relieves my mind, and drives away those dreadful
fancies, when I can talk with some friend familiarly
about them. But no, no, it would frighten you,
Paul, terrify you, if you could see, for one moment,
those hideous creatures at my shoulder. I 'll not
talk of them!” And the poor man passed his hands
nervously over his brow and head, as if to repel
the rising recollection.
“I pray you,” said Paul, “if it affords you but a
moment's ease of mind, I pray you, speak on.”
Fitful gazed cautiously around the room, and
remarked again in an undertone, “Oh, what a
fearful night that was, Paul, was n't it?”
“Very!” replied the young man, shuddering at
the recollection.
“How it stormed!” continued the other, “were
you not frightened at my sudden appearance?”
“I was somewhat surprised,” said Paul
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
mechanically, striving to avoid giving a pang to the feelings
of the poor man.
“Yes, you were surprised! and very reasonably
thought me mad, no doubt.”
“Indeed, sir,—”
“Make no apology, Paul,” interrupted the other,
“make no apology; you could n't have thought me
more mad than I really was; — yes, it was a burning
fit of the direst madness. But tell me, Paul,
what did I talk about?”
“Indeed, I can hardly recollect,” replied the
youth, “but you complained somewhat about evil
spirits that haunted you.”
“Was that all?” said Fitful, again cautiously
looking over his shoulder. “Did n't I speak any
thing of him: I mean of an old man, eh?” And
he gazed wildly in Paul's face, as the young man,
rather hesitatingly, replied, “yes.”
“What was it, Paul? what was it?” and he
grasped the young man tightly by the arm.
“You said something of an old man that stood
looking over your shoulder, I believe.”
“Was that all? — all?” asked Fitful, eagerly.
“Yes, all that I can remember,” replied Paul.
The poor man laughed hysterically for a moment,
but suddenly settled down into a gloomy, thoughtful
mood. At last he said in a low and melancholy
voice, “There are dangerous things that assail us
when our backs are turned — evils that meet us
face to face we can manfully combat; but slander
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
and the tiptoe assassin at our backs, are more to be
feared than a legion of foes standing before us. I
could boldly meet and grapple with flesh and blood
like myself; but my greatest and nearest enemy is
not tangible; it is here — here —” (he pressed his
finger on his forehead, as he spoke.) “Yes,
Paul, it is here. Imagination makes such cowards
of us all, that we fear the immaterial shadow which
the mind projects much more than the material.
Would it were not so. I would not have you think,
Paul, that I am usually the miserable thing that you
saw me a few evenings since. No! that was one
of my worst fits. How the evil fiends haunted me
that night! I strayed off to the woods and hills;
but still I was haunted. Every sound became
terrible! It seemed as though the heavens thundered
only to speak of me; the watch-dogs at the
farm-houses, far and near, seemed only to howl
and bark, because I was prowling through the
woods like a thief. Each rustling leaf whispered
something of the thing I least wished to hear.
Every branch that broke beneath my footstep gave
vent to a horrible tell-tale voice. As I sat trembling
on the ledges of rocks, I dared not to lift my
eyes upward, lest I should behold a ghastly demon
looking down into my face. The boughs, that
swayed back and forth in the storm, seemed to be
long arms and hands, that strove to grasp me. The
trees appeared to take fiendish shapes, and to link
their long, lank fingers together; they nodded their
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[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
heads, jeering at me as they danced around, and
their ragged beards floated wildly on the wind.
The solitude was more populous than the habitations
of man, and I fled from it; yes, Paul, from such
terrors as these was I striving to escape when I
rushed so wildly in the bar-room of the village inn.
Oh, Paul, Paul, as you cherish hopes for the bright
things of earth, and the brighter things of heaven,
never, never, let your passions direct your hand or
tongue to do aught that shall sow the nettle-seeds
of remorse in the fair bed of conscience!” Fitful's
descriptions of these fantasies were not without
their effect upon the nerves of the youth; nor was
the strange man so lost amid the recollections of
his past terrors as to escape observing this; but on
the contrary, he found it prudent to conceal as
much as possible the workings of his own imagination,
and change the conversation to some topic of
a less exciting nature.
“We will talk no more of these things,” said
Fitful, striving to appear as calm as possible.
“And now that I think of it,” continued he, “what
do you propose doing in this great city?”
“Indeed, I have not the faintest idea,” replied
Paul.
“You will excuse the liberty, my young friend,”
said Fitful, “but I judge, as a matter of course, that
the purse of a youth, who is seeking his fortune, is
not over-full, and I suppose that you would like
some employment immediately, if you could procure
it?”
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“You speak truly,” answered Paul, unhesitatingly;
“I should be glad of any situation that would
give me an honest living.”
“I think,” said Fitful, “that I can help you to a
place that may suit you for the present, until you
find some employment that will be more agreeable
to your inclination.”
“I would regard it as a great favor,” replied the
young man.
“There are those,” continued the other, as a
scowl gathered on his brow, “there are those who
are under obligations to me, that perhaps would be
glad of your services.”
“I wish it may prove so,” answered Paul.
“Prove so!” reiterated Fitful, with an angry
stare; “prove so! I tell you, Paul, they dare not
refuse me! — that is,” continued he, suddenly
checking his vehemence, “I think they will not —
I am quite certain they will not; or, if they do, no
matter, you can call to-morrow morning and ascertain
for yourself. In the mean time, allow me to
ask what are your plans for to-night?”
“How do you mean?” said Paul.
“What I mean, is this: do you stop at the tavern,
to-night?”
“I see no other alternative,” said Paul, hesitatingly;
“but to be plain with you, I have been driven
to my wit's end to know what I should do in my
present case. I was in hopes that one day's search
would procure me some employment; but I have
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been sorely disappointed; and to tell you the truth,
I have not the means to pay for my lodging at the
inn, should I go there.” As Paul stammered out
this, Fitful's face relaxed almost to a smile, as near
indeed as he ever came to smiling in his calmer
moments; and he said, “I am almost selfish enough
to be glad of it!”
“Indeed!” answered Paul, good-naturedly,
“why so?”
“Because I may have the pleasure of providing
for you to-night; my only regret is,” as he spoke
he cast a sad look around the room, “my only
regret is, that I have no better accommodations to
afford you.”
“Were that all,” answered the other, “you need
give yourself no uneasiness on that score.”
“That is all,” replied Fitful, “and believe me,
Paul, nothing now could give me greater happiness
than to do you a service.”
“Thank you,” said the youth, with heart-felt
gratitude; “I am exceedingly obliged to you, and I
would accept your kind offer, were it not but for
one thing.”
“What is that, pray?”
“You will excuse me for saying so; but if that
is your bed, as I suppose it is, it seems to be hardly
large enough to accommodate two of us.”
“Do n't trouble yourself about that, Paul,” said
Fitful, with a sigh; “if there is bed enough for
you, that is all that is necessary. I never lie down
at night — never sleep unless it be in the broad
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daylight, for reasons that you may one day know;
as it is, for the present — no matter; there is your
bed, when you are ready betake yourself to it, and
do n't mind me.” The strange man's manner was
so decisive, that Paul deemed it prudent to make
no farther remonstrance, but thanked him and talked
of other matters. Such was the young man's confidence
in his mysterious friend, that at an early
hour he made no hesitation to retire to rest; and
notwithstanding the strangeness of his companion,
or the singular appearance of the apartment, without
entertaining the slightest scruples, he permitted
himself to fall into that state of half-unconsciousness,
when the mind takes no cognizance of outward
things, but wanders almost as free as the disembodied
spirit, mingling in scenes, and calling up
incidents that otherwise seemed buried in oblivion.
In such a state it would seem that the claims of
mortality were, for the time, cast off, and the soul
was permitted to wander, for awhile, in that fair
country, where the past and the future are spread,
like pleasant fields, on either side of the present.
In the one, the spirit becomes a child again, and
rambles by familiar brooks and trees, while flowers,
birds, and butterflies, welcome it as their natural
playmate. In the other, it walks amid poetic
structures, through gorgeous temples, where
“— Music is the breath of thought, and flows
Like gold and silver light throughout all space —
Where buds and flowers are but the gems of love
And truth, a record of all holy things,
The language of the soul!”
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And who may say that such are not the realities of
the land of spirits?
From some cause or other, perhaps stung by
some cruel change in his dream, Paul suddenly
awoke; and casting his gaze to the opposite corner
of the room, he beheld Fitful sitting at a small
table, bending very intently over some manuscripts,
in which he seemed ever and anon to be making
corrections. The rattling of the straw mattress, as
the young man changed his position, betrayed the
movement to his strange companion, who, as if
caught in some criminal act, grasped the papers
hurriedly together, and thrust them into his bosom.
Then taking up the half-filled lamp, he approached
the bed, but seeing that Paul's eyes were closed,
he returned to the table, and again busied himself
with the papers. A second time did the youth fall
into that state of half-unconsciousness. A motley
dream of consistencies and inconsistencies now took
possession of his brain. At one time he thought
that his mother stood weeping over him, and he had
no power to speak to her — how young and beautiful
she looked! Yes, as beautiful and young as
when he, a fair-haired, happy child, ran laughing
to his fair-haired, happy mother. But soon there
came a melancholy scene, where his father appeared,
a tall, dark-browed man, who smoothed the
hair from the forehead of his son, and whispered
in his ear, “farewell!”
Again Paul started from his sleep, and he beheld
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Fitful standing over him, gazing in his face, and
smoothing aside the hair from the young man's
brow, as his father had done in the dream.
“I was only looking to see if you slept well,”
said Fitful, and he turned away.
CHAPTER VIII.
“With lips depressed as he were meek,
Himself unto himself he sold:
* * * * *
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold,
* * * * *
With chiseled features, clear and sleek.”
Tennyson.
On the following morning, our young hero sallied
forth to seek his fortune; but, first of all, by
the advice and directions of Fitful, to seek the
residence of Nathaniel Munson. He traversed
street after street, like all strangers, taking the
most circuitous route to find a place to which the
simplest straight forward course would have led
him. He had arrived, however, almost to his place
of destination, when he suddenly stumbled against
his friend, Mr. Christopher Scrapp, the caricaturist.
“Halloa!” said that gentleman, with a stare of
recognition, “you are a more perfect picture than
ever! Come, step into my studio a moment; you
shall have the privilege of examining my productions,
free of expense, unless, sir, (and as I look at
you again, you have an eye to appreciate the fine
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arts,) you may be inclined to become the possessor
of something in my line.”
Paul followed the artist, and they entered a dark
little room on the third floor of a very old, rusty
building. The sanctum where Mr. Scrapp gave
birth to his immense ideas, was a remarkably
sombre place, the light being only admitted through
a small oval aperture; and the air was strongly
scented with that pleasantest of all perfumes, the
stale smoke of a cigar. Around the walls hung
the productions of the renowned caricaturist. Here
was a figure, almost as tall as the spade he held,
standing in a pair of immense shoes; the artist informed
Paul that that picture was symbolical of the
true friends of their country, who, with their great
understandings, were about to dig the grave of the
administration. Paul suggested that he supposed
the adjoining sketch, a very squat figure, represented
as standing on his head, was symbolical of
the rise of great understandings. “No,” said the
artist; “I thought you would recognise that; not
to know that celebrated satire, sir, argues yourself—
hem — of course it does! That picture has
struck terror into the opposite party; yes, sir, they
grew pale with horror! It was quite terrible, I
assure you. The president offered me one of the
best offices in his control, if I would only consent
to withhold those withering productions, in future,
from the public. But, no, sir, I am not to be
bought; no, sir, I am true, true. I feel it here,
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here in my heart, that I am true, — not to be
bought.” Here Mr. Scrapp knocked at his breast
several times, as if he would have his heart speak
for itself, and establish its truth beyond the shadow
of a doubt; but the knocking only called up a
cough, and Mr. Scrapp changed the subject.
“Here are the productions of my pupils; but
none of them, you will observe, equal mine in
grace of outline, or beauty of execution. One man
only out of a hundred — yes, I might say out of a
thousand — has the capabilities to become an artist.
I flatter myself that I happen to be that lucky one!
Still, it is necessary for any man to study the art,
very necessary! My system of teaching is very
remarkable; it is simple, expeditious, yet complete.
You would be surprised to see with what facility
my instructions are given; perspective, architecture,
and the human figure are all taught at one lesson!
The young gentleman or lady, as the case may be—
I prefer the latter — sits down and takes a pencil.
I take his or her hand in mine; and, without the
least premeditation, make a spot in the middle of
the paper, thus; that is the point of sight; now I
draw two lines from the spot to the left corner,
then two to the right, thus; at this corner I make,
with a few hasty touches, a house, and there, in the
distance, another — a very small house — thus;
here I draw the figure of a man — the man is a
little too tall — add another story to the house, thus;
that makes it! There, sir, is a composition
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comprising all the elements of art, and executed without
the least premeditation! By this time, the
pupil is master of perspective, architecture, and the
human figure. Astonishing, is n't it?”
“Very!” replied Paul.
“Peculiar?”
“Quite so.”
“And original!”
“Undoubtedly!”
“Permit me to examine your head. Perceptive
organs, immense; constructiveness, large; destructiveness,
very large; mirthfulness, full; color,
ditto! Young man, you are an artist by nature!
fact, I assure you! Put yourself under my direction,
and you may yet astonish the world.” Paul
thanked Mr. Scrapp for his good opinion, and observed,
that if he could find sufficient leisure from
other employments, hereafter, nothing would give
him greater delight than to pursue the study of
art. “If I succeed,” said the young man, “in my
present mission to a gentleman that I am in search
of, perhaps I may call on you again. Can you tell
me where I may find the establishment of Nathaniel
Munson?”
“Old stingy Nat, I think you mean? O, yes,
he keeps just below here. Drop into the meanestlooking
shop that you can find; you can't mistake
the place.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Paul, as he took his
leave, not a little damped in his hopes, and bent his
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[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
steps to the place before mentioned. He found,
somewhat to his surprise, that Nathaniel Munson
was the same little shrivelled-up Quaker that had
attracted his attention, a few evenings before, in
the restaurateur. Paul handed him a note from
Fitful, and the old man, without taking any particular
notice of the youth, opened it, and glancing
hastily over the contents, ejaculated, in a dissatisfied
tone, “Humph, boy, art thou a great eater?”
and he peered with his mean little gray eyes very
sharply at the youth, as he waited for an answer.
“Indeed, sir, I cannot answer that question,”
replied Paul, with a smile, “for I am ignorant of
what your ideas of a great eater are.”
“How many meals does thee require per day?
how many?”
“Three, usually,” was the decisive answer.
“Three! what extravagance! two are plenty,
young man; and remember, the short days are
coming on; breakfast and supper will be quite
sufficient. Let me see — lodging, too! Does thee
not think that asking too much?”
“No, sir!” said Paul, very emphatically.
“Very well; what is thy Christian name?”
“Paul, sir.”
“Hem — a very good scripture name, that; no
doubt thee is honest. John, show this young man
his duty. There, get thee to work, boy; I shall
love thee, if thee is honest and industrious.”
From the expression of Mr. Munson's face, just
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
at that moment, you might have imagined that he
loved the boy already very much! and would, in
future, take care that the youth was provided for!
“So, so, Mr. Paul,” exclaimed the before-mentioned
John, “old Broad-Brim has found somebody
to come to his terms at last, has he? Well, I 'm
blessed glad o' that! But how on 'arth did you
strike a bargain with the old parchment?”
“Why?” asked Paul, affecting some surprise.
“Why! Lord bless you, you do n't know the
old 'un, then! I tell you what, my friend, that old
skin-flint used to belong to a society called the
`Penny Catcher Tight Grip Club.' The leanest,
meanest member was always entitled to the chair;
of course, old Munson always had it. But now —
and he grows very melancholy and lonely, sometimes,
to think of it — he is the only surviving member;
all the others died of starvation; but bless
you, they had n't such constitutions as our old
man 's got — there aint no die to him — he 's too
mean to pay the debt o' natur. What! old Split-fip
ever die? No, no! he 'll dwindle down to a
shadow, a very small, mean shadow, and then slip
into some rich gentleman's coffin, and enjoy the
luxury of a handsome burial, all at somebody else'
expense!
“But I reckon you haint seen little Edith, yet?
of course not. Well, to my thinking, there aint a
girl in town a touch to Edith Munson. Her hair is
light, her eyes blue; not a bright sky blue, nor
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dark blue, but a kind o' twilight blue. They do n't
bore right through one, as some eyes do, making
one wish they were dead, but they kind o' melt
right in so tenderly, that it makes a fellow feel so
happy he wants to kiss all creation. That 's what
I calls being in love.”
When Paul repaired to the residence of Nathaniel
Munson, that evening, he was conducted, by the
above-mentioned Edith, (who, in every particular,
fully came up to the glowing description that John
had given of her,) into a little room, which, although
meanly furnished, was extremely neat and
clean. The young man observed that preparations
had been made to receive him to tea, and he was
not displeased with the appearance which things
presented.
“Take a seat, if you please, sir. Father did not
tell me that you were coming, until a few moments
since, or perhaps we might have been a little better
prepared,” said the maiden, as she hurried away to
bring in the tea. “Well,” thought Paul, “this is
not so bad as I had anticipated.”
“I see,” said the same sweet voice of little
Edith, as she filled the young man's cup, “I see
that your attention is attracted by the strange appearance
of that poor woman who stands gazing in
at the window. You will please not to be astonished
at any thing which she may do. Poor creature!
she has had a deal of trouble; has been
deranged for many years, but is entirely harmless.
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We call her `good Mary.' She has a kind heart,
poor thing, notwithstanding that she acts somewhat
strangely at times; but you will soon get used to
that, and not mind her. She has lived with us ever
since my own mother died. Indeed, I believe I
should play the child and weep, if Mary should
leave us. She has always been so very kind to
me, that I think I love her quite as well as I could
my own mother.”
“Ah,” answered Paul, with a sigh; “is there,
then, any one in the world who can fill the place
of a mother?”
“Indeed,” replied Edith, while a tear trembled
in her eye, “I do n't know; I have scarcely any
recollections of my own mother; but I do n't think
I could have loved her much better than I love
poor Mary.”
CHAPTER IX.
Oh how he burned with fierce, poetic fire!
Himself a satyr, and his verse satire.
Anon.
The day following Paul Redding's installation at
Mr. Munson's, he entered as a student the sanctum
of Mr. Scrapp. He found that gentleman engaged
in transferring from his well-stored imagination a
human figure; for so he called it.
“Young gentleman,” said Mr. Scrapp, “give me
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your attention for a moment. Here is a human
figure. I am about to explain to you some of the
fundamental principles of the art. You observe
that I am not trammeled with any of those superfluous
rules in drawing which Sir Joshua and others
have laid down as the standard. No, sir, they were
all humbugs! What did they know more about
the human figure than I do? Was nature any
more nature then than it is now? Hang their
rules, they always put me out, as Fuseli once said;
a remark that in my opinion was sufficient of itself
to immortalize the author. So I say, hang their
rules; I have found a system of my own, in which
you will observe that I am neither a slave to nature
nor the old masters. In my rules for drawing a
figure, as in this case, the head forms one sixteenth
part of the body; the arms, when extended, are
half as long again as the whole length of the person;
while the hand is half the length of the arm;
and every foot is a foot and a half. You see that
my system is at once simple, striking, and original!”
“Very!” replied Paul.
“But, hark!” said Mr. Scrapp; “somebody is at
the door. Go and see who it is; remember, if it is
a suspicious-looking man, a collector, I mean, do n't
admit him; I 'm out!” And he slipped very
dexterously behind a screen, while Paul opened the
door.
“Is Scrapp in?” said an ill-looking man, with
very red whiskers and rank beard. Paul thought
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[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
that the stranger was rather suspicious-looking, but
would n't lie even to shield the renowned caricaturist;
therefore he replied, “Yes, sir, he is in, but
I believe is engaged.”
“What do I care,” said the man, walking boldly
into the room. “He is very suspicious-looking,”
thought Paul, “but it could n't be helped.”
“Ah, my dear Gall, I 'm rejoiced to see you!”
said Scrapp, stepping forth from the screen.
“I 've a job for you, Scrapp,” said Mr. Gall.
“I 'm delighted to hear it! what sort of a job?
Any thing in this way, eh?” as he spoke, he flourished
his pencil in the air, with great significance.
“You sometimes write satires, eh?”
“Oh, frequently.”
“Very well, sir, I want a few caustic lines embodying
the ideas that you will find on this scrap of
paper. Do it, sir, and five dollars shall be your
reward! Make that fellow who dares to write
poetry wish he had never been born! do it, and
five dollars will reward your labors!”
“Yes!” said Mr. Scrapp, making the late production
of his pencil fly across the room. “To-day
is Saturday. Let me see, say on Monday; yes, you
shall have it on Monday.”
“Very well, sir; only make the fellow wish that
he had never been born, that 's all!”
“Never fear; I 'll do it!”
“On Monday?”
“Yes, Monday!”
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“Good day, Scrapp.”
“Good bye, Gall.”
Mr. Scrapp lost no time in seating himself before
a piece of virgin paper; and he was soon plunged
in the most profound meditation. For a long time
did he remain in that situation, without giving any
signs of animation; at last, however, his lips began
to move, as if he communed inwardly, with spirits,
(very likely he did.) Paul was strongly reminded
of a line by Wordsworth,
“And Johnny's lips, they burr, burr, burr!”
In the course of time, the word poem escaped
from the mouth of the inspired satirist; faintly, at
first, but, as the storm thickened, it grew louder and
louder, until, at last, burst out, “Poem! poem!
poem! hide your works! Oh, never, never, nev—er—
blood and thunder!” cried he; at the same time,
striking his pencil on the table with great desperation,
he addressed Paul, saying, “Come, young
man, what rhymes with po?” The youth answered,
“flow, go, wo —”
“Stop! stop!” cried the other, eagerly; “not
so fast. I want time to think as you go along.
Now for it!” Paul continued, “Sow, row, throw—”
“There, now, hold up a minute, will you!”
Mr. Scrapp looked at the floor, scratched his head,
and bit his nails; then turning his inspired orbs
towards that little oval streak of daylight, he exclaimed,—
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[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
“Whene'er you undertake to do a poem,
Hide your works, Oh do n't you never throw 'em
Out — in — before —”
But it was no use! The enraged satirist caught
his hat, and rushed out of the room. He dashed
down Second street, and plunged headlong into a
coffee-house, where he was pretty certain of finding
his friend, Mr. Inkleton; he seized and dragged
that poetical gentleman precipitously away; nor
did he attempt any explanation, until he succeeded
in thrusting the poet, head first, into his studio.
After dismissing Paul, those two hopefuls sat in
solemn conclave for twenty-four hours, uninterrupted
by any one during the whole, if we except a boy,
that on Saturday afternoon delivered to them a wellfilled
demijohn. Mr. Inkleton, it is said, spoiled
several quires of paper with his immense labors;
and, on Monday morning, precisely at three o'clock,
kicked the empty jug across the room, with an
imprecation, and read, to the infinite delight of his
companion, some lines, which, in the course of a
few days, appeared in one of the leading papers,
and created a great sensation in the select circle of
three persons; namely, Mr. Gall and the co-authors.
-- --
CHAPTER X.
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
“My mother's form in dim outline
Is floating near me now,
I feel her fond arms round me twine,
Her breath upon my brow.”
Mary Mather.
Several weeks had already elapsed since Paul
had taken up his residence in the house of Nathaniel
Munson. One evening, as the twilight was
gathering fast, he and Edith sat together at the
casement of the little parlor, that looked out upon
the street. He had been making a sketch of her,
as she sat reading. The liquid blue eyes cast down
beneath their long flaxen fringes, the delicate oval
face, from which the hair was gathered simply
back, the small dimpled hand laid upon the white
page, and added to all this the plain Quaker attire,
formed a subject worthy of a more skilful pencil
than that which now attempted to transcribe it.
This, Paul was sensible of, and he no sooner finished
the drawing, than he destroyed it.
“Edith,” said he, “think you I shall ever be an
artist?”
“Certainly I do, Paul, otherwise I would advise
you to abandon all thoughts of art, and go immediately
to hard labor.”
“To hard labor, indeed! think you that the
artist lives the life of luxury and ease! Oh, no,
Edith. To pursue art, is to pursue early toil and
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[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
late watching, and too often obscurity, poverty and
want. The artist must grow pale over his pencil,
he must gird himself well for the long ordeal, if he
would be a great artist. But then how ennobling
the ambition, to pursue a great object through years
of perpetual darkness, to grapple even with the
lean hounds of poverty, and come out at last bright,
though worn down with the conflict! The thing is
achieved! and what is the sacrifice of this poor
mortality when compared with immortality! What
though Raffael's body fell away in early life, in his
works he still lives, and must live through all time.
How much shorter is the existence of the centenarian
that has lived without any exalted aim, who
dies, is buried and forgotten!”
“Is art, then, so difficult?” said Edith, with an
expression of terror.
“So indeed it would appear from the biography
of almost all that have ever excelled in it.”
“And so fatal?”
“Not always necessarily fatal; many have lived
to be quite aged, the fates, as it were, allowing
them more time wherein to achieve their greatness.
The brightest blaze is the soonest exhausted.”
“And you intend to endure all these things that
you have named for the sake of painting pictures?”
“Yes, Edith, such has always been my determination.”
“I have not the least doubt of your abilities,
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[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
Paul,” said Edith, with a sigh; “I think you capable
enough; but—”
“Well, proceed, I shall be glad to hear your
objections.”
“I think that you might be so comfortable and
happy in some simpler pursuit.”
“Pardon me, Edith, for differing with you on
that point. What is comfort or happiness? It is
to gratify the cravings of our highest nature, which
is the soul, and the commands of the soul are imperative;
disregard them and we must be unhappy;
obey them and we are rewarded even in the act.”
“That is very true, I did n't think of it before;
but then your enthusiasm is so strong, that you, I
fear, are in danger of becoming too early a prey to
it. Already I can see, or imagine that I see the
color leaving your cheeks; and every morning the
empty lamp tells a tale of studies protracted to a
very late hour.”
“It is an old custom of mine. Reading and
drawing have been to me, essentially a second life,
and to resign one, it seems would be to resign both.
Often, when a mere boy of ten or twelve, I have
wandered away to the hills, and amid haunts where
man seldom strayed, there would I pass the day in
making sketches, perchance, of some peculiar tree,
crag, waterfall, and mountain, and then amuse
myself by fantastically weaving them into one. I
have wandered abroad beneath the silent stars,
through dense woods, down by level meadows, and
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[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
sat on the rocks beside the river, to listen to the
thousand beautiful voices that darkness and wildness
only have. And none but those who have
done the same, know any thing of the bewitching
spell of night, or the enchantment of solitude.”
“But come, Paul,” said Edith, “you have never
told me any thing of your parents. Talk to me of
your mother. I am sure that you must still love
her memory.”
The young man leant his forehead on his hand,
and mused for some moments; not, however, to
conjure up some scene of his childhood where his
mother appeared prominent, for he remembered
but one wherein he could yet call up that loved
face to the eye of memory.
“There is but one incident that I can recollect,”
said Paul, at last, with a sigh, “in which I can yet
distinguish my mother, and that scene is too painful;
you would shudder to hear it.”
“Pray go on,” said Edith, eagerly.
“It was a dark, stormy night,” continued Paul.
“The winter winds were howling fearfully around
our country habitation; but a broad sheet of flame
went up the ample old-fashioned fireplace, and cast
a feverish glare over the room. My mother, I can
see her yet, passing to and fro with the little babe
in her arms, preparing the evening meal. She
was not tall, but yet was slender, and, as I recollect,
quite good-looking. On one side of the fire-place
sat my father, while, at the opposite side,
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stood a short, dark, ill-looking man, of whom all
seemed to hold a continual dread. An iron hook
supplied the place of his right arm, which had been
amputated at the elbow. The prominence of his
cheek-bones and jagged brows formed between
them deep valleys, wherein were situated two
fiendish eyes, that seemed to shrink from the light
as it were their deadliest enemy. Long, thin,
straggling locks of hair, sprinkled with gray, hung
down about his face; and, in short, he was such a
character as you would tremble to meet with in
any unfrequented place. How distinctly I can still
see my dear mother passing back and forth through
the apartment. And all of the furniture of that one
room, too, as it appeared on that night; the old
muskets, powder-horns, and many other similar
articles, hanging or leaning against the wall, all
glistening in the fire light, and projecting their long
shadows; it seems, in effect, like a picture by Rembrant.
“When the supper was spread upon the table,
Fin, (for such was the ill-looking man's name,) sat
himself greedily to work, and appropriated the
different articles of food to himself, at a most astonishing
rate. My father rested his elbow on the
back of the chair, his chin on his hand, and muttered
something inaudible between his teeth.
“Fin stopped for a moment, and fixed his fiendish
eye on my father, and with a sarcastic smile,
exclaimed, `What's the matter, eh? have you lost
your appetite?'
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“My father made no answer; but turned his
back to Fin, who, looking around at me, met the
indignant gaze of my mother. He smiled more
hideously than ever; and raising his ponderous eyebrows,
beckoned me to his side.
“`Come here, Paul,' said he, `come here!' his
evil eye was upon me, and I could not but obey.
Reaching forth the iron hook, he drew me close to
his side.
“`What is the matter, Paul?' ejaculated he, `are
you afraid of me, eh?' and he put his face close to
mine, repeating `are you afraid, Paul?' I turned
my head away, and answered, `yes.'
“`I thought so,' replied he, with a fiendish smile,
`afraid of Fin, afraid he 'll hurt you. Who taught
you to fear me, eh?' As he spoke, he cast his
malicious eyes back and forth, alternately, from my
father to my mother. `Yes,' continued he, `they
taught you to fear, and to hate Fin! They hate
Fin!' as he said this, he laughed through his clenched
teeth, and rubbed the iron hook, fiendishly,
across the table. `Oh, how they hate Fin!' cried
he again, in a voice that startled even my father,
who, with eyes flashing with anger, turned abruptly
around, and stared Fin full in the face.
“`He hates Fin,' screamed the ugly man, and,
at the same time, pointed the hook towards my
father, to designate who he meant. `Fin knows
too much! he has a secret! a dreadful secret!'
“`Fin!' cried my father, mounting to his feet,
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and grasping a chair, `Fin! you infernal dog, if you
do n't hold your tongue, I 'll —' `Murder me!'
screamed Fin, finishing the sentence. `Murder!
ha, ha, ha! I 've got a secret, mind you!' And
Fin leaned over the table, and leered up in my
father's face. `The old man, he was asleep, he
never woke after, did he? The money, too, the
chest! ha, ha, ha!' My father's eyes flashed, and
bursting with fury, he hurled the chair at the head
of Fin, who, stunned by the blow, rolled with a
fearful howl to the floor.
“`Oh, what have you done?' cried my mother.
`Done!' ejaculated my father, `killed a villain!”'
Just at this point of the story, Paul and Edith
were both startled by a heavy crash at their side;
and suddenly looking around, they beheld the poor
house-keeper, Mary, with her hands thrown up,
staring at them, seeming entirely unconscious of
the half a dozen broken dishes at her feet. “What
in the world's the matter?” cried Edith. Poor
Mary, as if struggling with her senses, at last made
out to exclaim, “Why! why! I was just thinking
what an ugly man that Fin was;” and continuing
to murmur strange words to herself, she began very
coolly to collect the fragments of Mr. Munson's
best tea-plates; and gathering up the very smallest
pieces, she went and deposited them carefully in
the closet, as if they were yet as valuable as ever.
-- --
CHAPTER XI.
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“So cunningly the miser plans his plot,
The de'il must smile upon his protege,
And leave him midst his own dark villainy,
Nor wish a meaner hypocrite to hold
The agency of hell!”
Dayton.
Poor Mary, as she was familiarly called, was
a most singular creature; her countenance invariably
wore a vacant expression, and all of her
movements were so uncertain, many of them unmeaning,
that they seemed to be directed rather by
a dim instinct, than by any gleams of reason.
Such had been her character for years; long, blank
years they must have been to that almost inanimate
creature. Let those who crushed the flower tell
how many dreary years it had been since they left
the leafless stalk to sway listlessly in the winds!
But of late, it seemed as though a light had been
struggling to break through the mists that shrouded
her poor mind; and she moved somewhat less
methodically, her actions appeared to be more the
effect of impulse, and her gaze grew less vacant.
This change, though but a slight one indeed,
escaped not the observation of little Edith; nor was
it unnoticed by Fitful, the melancholy state of
whose own mind but ill fitted him to discover the
wavering of another. But step aside, poor Mary,
for awhile; step aside, thou broken-hearted thing!
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while we usher upon the stage those who, with all
their quantum of reason, are far from being thy
peers! whose souls are bound to earth by a thousand
chains of selfishness and guilt, whilst thine
stands waiting, as it has done this many a day, to
depart (when the angel shall beckon) for its bright
home.
Some hours had elapsed after the recital of
Paul's story, when two men glided cautiously into
the residence of Nathaniel Munson, and ascending
a couple of dark flights of stairs, passed into a little
room, and carefully fastened the door behind them.
One of these persons was a short, stout man, of
about sixty years of age; his ill-shapen features
were dark and weatherbeaten; he wore a seaman's
jacket that had evidently been made for a much
taller individual; his broad checkered collar was
thrown open, displaying a short, muscular neck,
and his appearance altogether gave strong indications
that his vocation was that of a marine.
“There, stand still by the door till I strike a
light,” said his companion. When the stump of a
tallow candle, that was stuck in a little rusty candlestick,
was lighted, the dim blaze flickered on the
shrivelled features of the old Quaker, Nathaniel
Munson. There was a grim look of satisfaction on
his countenance as he passed a backless chair to
his companion and invited him to be seated, but
that expression gave place to another, a little less
satisfied, when the stranger, with a curse, kicked
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the chair aside, and mounted himself on the top of
an old, strongly-bound chest, and, with a malicious
grin, rapped on the lid with the iron hook that was
appended to his right arm in lieu of a hand, and
exclaimed, “No, no, my old comrade, rickety
crickets and chairs for land-lubbers, but give me a
seat on the old chest that looks rusty on the outside
but bright inside; it does one good to be near it,
you know, comrade; ah, ha, ha, ho, ho!” Here
the old sailor rapped so loud on the lid with the
hook, and glanced at the Quaker with so much
significance, that Munson trembled with terror, and
begged him to be quiet, lest he might alarm the
house.
“You 're afraid that I might disturb some of these
bright little fellows in here, too, aint you, eh?”
“O no, no, no!” exclaimed the Quaker, with
great earnestness; “there is n't any thing there,
nothing in the world but rubbish. Besides, thee
knows (and here he assumed a very meek face) I
am a poor man, not worth a cent when my debts
are paid — not a cent. Thee knows that my pursestrings
have always been too loose to keep money;
think what sums I have paid thee, and made myself
very poor to do it, very poor! Thee knows I
am thy only friend, and am willing to do a little
yet, a very little, for I am poor!”
At the conclusion of this speech, Munson puckered
his face up into the meanest expression possible,
dropped it into his neck-cloth, and peered at
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his companion through his straggling eyebrows,
while the other replied, “Curse your `thee's,' and
your meek Quaker face; drop 'em at once, for you
always mean some bloody rascality when you take
to 'em; so talk up like a man, and tell me what
your're a going to give to get rid of this boy?”
“Not so loud!” said Munson, imploringly.
“Well, then, how much?” exclaimed the other,
in the loudest whisper possible.
“Could n't thee do it for old acquaintance' sake,
eh?” said the Quaker, assuming a very affectionate
tone.
“O, certainly!” answered the sailor, with a
fiendish grin; “our acquaintance has been so very
pleasant, so bloody pleasant, and profitable to me
in particular, you know!”
“Yes, certainly,” said Munson, drawing his chair
nearer to the other; “thee knows we have been
like brothers!”
“Yes, comrade,” was the reply, “brothers in
bloody crimes! And I've had enough of 'em,
unless you can talk up to a lively tune with these
here musicians.” As he spoke, he brought a very
loud rap on the top of the box, plainly indicating
that he knew the nature of its contents.
“Well, how much?” inquired the Quaker.
“Why, let me see,” said the sailor; “to get him
off, and then lose him overboard —”
“Yes, yes,” ejaculated Munson, rubbing his
hands with delight.
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“To get him off—that's worth five hundred;
and to lose him overboard — not less than five hundred
more; so we 'll say one thousand dollars.”
“Impossible!” answered the Quaker, quite
crest-fallen.
“Very well!” exclaimed the other, with indifference,
“it 'd be a cheap bargain at that; but you
know best, do as you please; it 's nothing to me,
you know.”
“That's a great sum,” said Munson, contemplating
the old chest.
“Maybe the boy may call on you for a greater
sum, one o' these days, unless you take care of
him,” was the answer.
“Ay, ay, he must be taken care of!” ejaculated
the Quaker. “But then if I induce the boy to go
with the silly notion of visiting Italy, as I have
heard him say he would like to do when he became
able, I shall have to put a good round sum in his
pocket; and I could n't afford so much.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the sailor; “do you think
I'd let him go to Davy Jones with five hundred
dollars in his wallet? no, no; give him that amount,
and give me the balance, and call it a bargain.
Do ye see, I do n't want to cheat you, or I'd let
you buy him off the best way you could and make
so much the more out o' the speculation; but I'm
honest, and would n't do it with an old comrade!”
As he spoke he drew himself up as if perfectly
conscious of his superiority, and he must have
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looked, with that cut-throat face of his, the very
ideal of honesty; none could have doubted him;
even Nathaniel Munson himself must have suffered
in comparison.
“If I succeed in this plan,” said Munson, “I
have, then, but one more to take care of.”
“Yes, you have one more,” answered the other,
tapping the box rather lightly, this time.
“He will be your second victim,” continued the
Quaker.
“You might have said the fiftieth,” replied the
sailor, with a sneer.
“Well, well, fiftieth, if you please; but you will
help him out of the way for the sake of an old
grudge, eh?”
“Perhaps so.”
“You hate him?”
“I do; he isn't a friend of mine, as you are,
you know, Nat, eh?”
“And you would — ”
“Yes, murder him!” said the man with the iron
hook, finishing the sentence; “for a small consideration.”
“A very small one,” continued Munson, looking
wistfully in his companion's face.
“Yes, I said so,” was the reply. “And I suppose
you will rest contented, having only the blood
of three on your conscience.”
“No, no!” cried the Quaker, looking wildly at
his companion; “I did n't do it!”
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The other shrugged his shoulders significantly,
and gazed with a malicious smile into Munson's
face. And he added, “You are sure that you can
manage the girl?”
“Ay, ay, never fear; my son will help me do
that; and for that old idiot, the woman, she does n't
know enough to interfere.”
“Yes, comrade, you 're right; that son o' yours
'll help you to do any thing that smacks of villainy,
depend on 't; he 's been my mate long enough for
that.”
Munson peered up in the other's face with a look
of deep satisfaction and pride; and observed, “If
we succeed, the property — I mean the very little
that I have been looking to — will be secured to us,
and no one can ever come up to dispute it.”
“Unless they be bloody ghosts!” answered the
sailor.
“Don't, don't talk of such ugly things!” cried
the Quaker, with a shudder.
“As you please, comrade,” was the reply.
“Now that we understand each other, good night.
But look out for ghosts, he, he! look out for thieves,
ho, ho! lock it up tight, and cover your head close
under the blankets, to-night, for there be thieves
and ghosts about! he, he, ho, ho!”
“Did n't you hear a footstep on the stairs?” said
Munson, trembling from head to foot.
“Thieves and ghosts! ho, ho!” was the reply.
The Quaker followed his companion down stairs,
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who went tapping his iron hook on the balusters all
the way to the bottom, disregarding the nudging
and coaxing of the other. And when Munson
opened the door for him to depart, he observed a
cloaked female, pass quickly around the corner of
the street. That night, poor Mary arrived unexpectedly
at the apartment of Fiery Fitful.
CHAPTER XII.
“To thee, bright land, whose sunny skies
No wintry clouds e'er vail,
Away, away, my spirit flies
Before the spreading sail.
I see thy storied hills e'en now
With purple splendors teem;
Thy soft airs fan my spirit's brow, —
Land of the poet's dream!”
Mary Mather.
The boy, that Munson was thus laboring to get
rid of, as we have seen in the last chapter, was no
other than Paul Redding, as may have already
been surmised. And perhaps no scheme however
deeply laid, could have promised better success
than the one which the Quaker had hit upon. A
youth, romantic in all of his feelings, buoyant with
hopes which misfortune had failed to quell, alive to
every delicate sensibility, and ardent in all of his
passions, was an easy instrument for the wily
hypocrite to play upon. Munson knew this; he
knew the inexperience of his victim, in regard to
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the cunning world, and had heard some of his extravagant
notions of the enchantments of an artist's
life; he knew that the aspirant to art ever looked
with wistful eyes to Europe, and to Italy in particular,
as the artist's paradise. With this ground to
work upon, how easy to spread out the net that
would entangle the footsteps of the youth? And
Paul, flattered with a thousand dazzling dreams,
that only youth is heir to, how ready was he to
walk into the well-planned snare! He saw in
imagination all the splendors of Rome and Florence
rise before him! The works of Raphael, Titian,
and all the host of Italian masters were spread in
long splendid galleries before his eyes, and he
walked the storied streets of the “seven hill'd city,”
lost in admiration of her ruined temples; or wrapped
in the golden sunlight of his fancy, dreamed on
the banks of Arno. How enthusiastically did he
applaud the kindness of Nathaniel Munson, and
how deeply in his heart did he thank little Edith,
for he knew that her sweet voice must have had a
prominent part in persuading her father to this act
of generosity. Generosity indeed! ah, poor youth,
could he have known the pangs of untold grief that
were rending the bosoms of those who were bound
to him by the nearest ties of nature, how would he
have rather cursed than blest that shrivelled fiend,
the Quaker. Could he have seen poor little Edith,
sitting apart from all and weeping, those tears
might have dissolved the chain that was drawing
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him on to his dark destiny! Could he have seen
poor Mary, struggling with ejaculations of broken
sentences, and failing to disentangle her words and
thoughts from the web of her brain, gaze tearfully,
pityfully, and imploringly into the face of Fitful, as
if to tell him with her eyes what her brain could
not shape into language; could he have seen Fitful
bending affectionately, like a parent over a little
child, catching at her words, and combining them
with her tears, her actions and her countenance,
and when he had gathered the dreadful meaning
break into his most fearful state of madness, and
rush wildly he knew not whither! Then could he
have seen that poor woman, sitting with her hands
clasped on her knees, and her pale, sorrowful face,
turned to heaven, motionless as a statue! his fantastic
dream had vanished like frost-work in the
sun, and he would have questioned the motives of a
stranger's kindness more closely.
But what is to save him now? Fitful is gone!
The poor woman sits secluded in her little chamber,
a more melancholy-looking thing than ever. Little
Edith, with a swelling, but hopeful, unsuspecting
heart, has taken leave of Paul, and seen him for
the last time, as she thinks, for years. Mr. Christopher
Scrapp, after occupying the space of an
hour, in giving very sage advice about the manner
of proceeding in a country, of which he knew little
else than the name, and hinting darkly about certain
complimentary stanzas, written by the renowned
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Ichabod Inkleton, on the occasion of the departure
of a young friend to Europe, bade adieu to his
pupil.
Munson, with a sneaking leer on his countenance,
and his chin buried very deep in his neck-cloth,
walked arm in arm with Paul to the vessel, wishing
him all the way the greatest pleasure imaginable
in his voyage; and to Paul's heart-felt expressions
of gratitude, the Quaker humbly requested that he
would not “mention it.” The captain, who was
the old man with the iron hook introduced in the
last chapter, for some reason or other was not
about the vessel, and had left word that he would
not be there, until they should be ready to sail,
which would be on the following morning. Of
course Paul thought nothing of this, for the captain's
absence could be of no possible consequence to
him. He little guessed that the man with the iron
hook was fearful of awakening in the mind of the
youth some recollections of his childhood, and
possibly of being recognised as that not very amiable
character, “Fin.” He surmised wisely for
himself, since Paul had come to the conclusion that
the man whom he saw at the restaurateur, on the
evening of his first arrival in the city, was one and
the same with that individual of disagreeable memory.
But the first mate, Munson's hopeful son,
was there to play the part of captain; he, however,
was not over-officious in doing the honors. As
Paul scanned his coarse form from head to foot, he
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involuntarily exclaimed to himself, “And can this
fellow, then, really be the own brother of little
Edith! he has not even called to see her, or pay her
any of the attentions that a brother should! However,
it is enough that he is her brother, and the
son of my generous friend, to entitle him to my
respect.”
This soliloquy was soon cut short by certain
startling altercations held between Nathaniel Munson,
Sen., and Nathaniel Munson, Jr., in which the
latter seemed to have the best of it, as he made no
hesitation to tell the old gentleman that he was a
mean, stingy lubber, all of which made Nathaniel
Munson, Sen., survey his progeny with an air of
deep satisfaction and pride, as though he would
challenge the world of fathers to produce such
another promising son. Munson, Jr., paid no attention
whatever to Paul; but after telling his affectionate
parent that he might emigrate to regions
that would not sound polite in delicate ears to
name, and there be in the same unpleasant condition
of those who had gone before him, turned
suddenly into the cabin. In the event of which,
Munson, Sen., took a most heart-rending leave of
Paul, and retraced his steps to the city, whilst the
young man walked the deck, contemplating the
scenes in his own brain much more than those
around him. O, how bright the world appeared
before him! not a shadow swept across his mind to
mar his fair hopes! With five hundred dollars
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in his pocket, and the promise of a speedy remittance,
what had he now to fear? All the world
was wrapped in a golden halo, and the ocean over
which he had to cross, seemed but a path of
pleasure. He walked the deck slowly but proudly;
and you, who have achieved suddenly what for long
years of days and nights you have dreamed of,
hoping at one time, and at another deeming the
realization almost an impossibility, or at least far,
far before you, may appreciate the feelings of the
youth, how his heart swelled, and his brain throbbed
with pleasure! The evening was coming on,
and Paul was reminded that that was the last twilight
which would gather around him in his own
native land for months, if not for years, to come.
He stood gazing at the long row of houses, while
the tide of darkness filled up the little alley-ways
and recesses of whatever description, when he
observed, at a neighboring corner, a mysterious
hand beckoning ever and anon, and then the head
of a female was visible for a moment, but it dodged
quickly back again. While the arm was still extended
and beckoning, the head appeared three or
four times, and the hand moved unceasingly for
several minutes, before Paul could make up his
mind to answer the summons; but at last he stepped
ashore, and walked toward the woman, who, when
she saw him coming, retreated slowly, but still
beckoning him on, until she glided into a very small,
dark passge, and discovered to the youth, by her
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manner and tones of voice, that strange creature,
“poor Mary.” Paul knew not what to make of
this singulr interview; her words were incoherent,
and she seemed even excited, a state in which he
had never seen her before. He could understand,
however, that she said something of Fitful, and
gathered from her, words something like these:
“Fitful — home — go — see — must — must, now,
to-night!” The woman drew her cloak closely
around her, and passed swiftly on, and Paul, impelled
by his sympathies, not only for her, but for
the strange man, whose name she uttered, made
no hesitation to follow. Having arrived at Fitful's
apartment, they found the poor man in the greatest
state of agony. He was leaning against the wall
beating the air with his hands; but when he saw
the youth, he embraced him, and sobbed like a
child, and then grew gradually calm again, but he
was not yet what Paul had seen him in his better
moments. Mary gazed on the two with almost an
expression of gladness, if, indeed, her sorrowful face
could at any time assume a different look from its
habitual one. It was a melancholy sight to see
those two strange creatures striving to be glad. It
was a sadder sight as they tried to explain to the
youth a part of a dreadful secret. The poor
woman endeavored to communicate her thoughts
by the wild motions of her hands, and Fitful succeeded
but little better with the free use of language.
But, at last, he gave Paul to understand,
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that he must not return to the vessel, but stay where
he was for that night, at least. The youth, who
could see no possible reason for such a movement,
and considered what Fitful had told him about evil
designs and the like, but the wild fancies of a
fevered brain, remonstrated somewhat against this
arrangement, until the other, to satisfy him at once,
asked him, if he did not remember a dark, ugly
man, the enemy of his father.
Paul replied, with no little astonishment, that he
did remember such a man.
“And that man's name,” continued Fitful, “was
Fin!”
“In Heaven's name, how knew you that?” cried
Paul.
“No matter,” said Fitful, “no matter for the
present; but be satisfied, and stay where you are,
when I tell you that that dark man, Fin, is the
captain of that vessel! Thank this poor woman,
who has providentially saved you from the jaws of
a shark! Yes, literally a shark!”
“If such is the fact, I do indeed thank her!”
cried Paul, still lost in amazement.
“Well, well, sit down,” said Fitful, “sit down,
and I 'll explain as much as I can, conveniently, for
the present; at least, enough to satisfy you. Therefore,
sit down, and be calm.”
-- --
CHAPTER XIII.
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
“The night goes on.
Why in the shadow of the mast,
Stands that dark, thoughtful man alone?
Thy pledge, man; keep it fast!”
R. H. Dana.
Beneath the silent arch of midnight falls
The muffled sound of feet that print the dust
Along the winding highway.
It was late at night, before Nathaniel Munson
was informed of the disappearance of the young
man. He was evidently uneasy. Had the youth
have disappeared satisfactorily — that is to say,
forever, all would have been well; but as it was,
he had a prophetic feeling, which told him that
something was going on, not altogether according
to his wishes. Therefore, he drew his weather-beaten,
broad-brimmed hat very low over his forehead,
plunged into the street, and following his first
impulse, hurried along to the residence of Fitful.
Paul had already learnt enough of the villainy of
the Quaker, to turn the feelings of gratitude and
respect, that he had hitherto felt for Munson, into
deep hatred, if not indeed into a spirit of revenge;
but there was still a dark mystery involving all.
He had no reason to doubt the assertions of Fitful,
or the woman; nor yet could he understand why
he should be the object of such infernal plans, as
the one of which Munson was accused. But he
had promised Fitful to follow his injunctions for the
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present, in lieu of which, Fitful had agreed to disclose
to the youth, as soon as practicable, which,
perhaps would be in a few days, all the circumstances
of the case, and satisfactory evidences to prove
them. They had just arrived at this state of affairs,
when Munson, unceremoniously thrust himself into
the apartment. Paul felt, for a moment, an uneasy
twitching in his fingers to grasp the Quaker by the
white cravat, and give it a few smart twists, much
to the discomfort of that shrivelled, lying throat;
but he suppressed his feelings, and only gazed on
the old man with a look of stern defiance and contempt,
which so disconcerted the Quaker that Paul
felt doubly assured that what he had heard was
true. The poor woman recoiled with a shudder
into the farthest corner of the room; but Fitful,
with clenched fists and flashing eyes, confronted
the Quaker, and bade him, if he valued his head,
to depart. Nathaniel Munson endeavored to look
bland; he smiled a grim smile, and observed to the
young man, paying no attention to the threat, that
he had better take leave of those good people, and
without further delay, go on board the vessel, which
was about to be hauled out into the stream, ready to
sail early in the morning.
“I shall do no such thing!” cried Paul.
“Thee won't?” ejaculated the Quaker, with
astonishment.
“No, he won't!” thundered Fitful, grasping
Munson by the collar.
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“He do n't mean —”
“Yes, he does mean!” cried the other, “he
does mean to mar your infernal plot!” and with
that, Fitful dragged the Quaker, or rather lifted
him bodily to the door.
“But he 's got my money!” urged the little man.
“And will keep it!” was the answer.
“No, no, not keep my money!” screamed the
Quaker.
“I say he will keep it, and take that, as my acknowledgment
for the sum!” replied Fitful, as he
thrust Munson down stairs, with an accompanying
kick.
“But I will have my money!” cried he, from
the bottom of the stairs. “Help! murder! help!
thieves!” Fitful listened till the cry of “help!
murder! thieves!” &c., died away in the distance,
and then turning to Paul, exclaimed, “There is no
time to lose; I know this old hell-hound too well
to trust him; therefore, prepare to leave; and Mary,
for a little while longer, betake yourself to this old
scoundrel's house, only for a few days more, for
the girl's sake!” and saying this, he led her to the
door. Now hurriedly he grasped those two old
rusty pistols from above the mantel-piece, and
thrust them into the breast of his coat; but as he
was gathering some papers from a private drawer,
and stuffing them into his pockets, he heard the
sound of clumsy footsteps on the stairs; and without
farther delay threw open a window, and bidding
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Paul to follow, leapt out on to a shed, in the rear
of the house and disappeared, just as a couple of
coarsely cloaked figures, followed by Munson, rushed
into the apartment. But it was no use; Fitful and
Paul were nowhere to be found; and the Quaker,
bursting with rage and disappointment, bade his
myrmidons seize poor Mary, who had loitered at
the door, and now stood looking on in stupid amazement.
They laid their coarse hands upon the
woman and dragged her away. How meekly and
willingly did she go! Yes, poor thing, it mattered
little to her, whether they led her to a palace, or a
prison! But where was little Edith, all this time?
She was pacing a solitary apartment in the house
of Nathaniel Munson, altogether unconscious of
what had taken place. She little dreamed that
Paul was not ensconced on board the ship ready to
depart; no, she almost sighed to think that such
was the case, and then reproached herself for
having a wish that would deprive him of so much
pleasure. She wondered what could detain poor
Mary so long, it was past eleven o'clock, and she
was not accustomed to keep such late hours! Vex
not thy sweet brain, dear Edith, get thee to thy
quiet pillow, while yet it invites thee; let there be
one to-night who shall sleep untroubled! Let us
look for a moment to Fin; he is walking the deck
of his vessel, uttering strange words, and curses
mingled with fits of jeering laughter. But wherefore
should he curse? he is thinking that a
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beardless victim hath slipped from his hands, carrying in
his possession five hundred dollars! And the ironarmed
captain laughs, for he carries as great a
sum of the Quaker's money in his own pocket,
which he has not had the trouble of earning, and
which the Quaker may not again easily reclaim.
Thus the evil man may laugh and curse alternately!
Fitful and the youth threaded the quiet streets of
the Quaker city, and passed unmolestedly over the
long bridge that crosses the Schuylkill. Now,
having gained the open country, they could walk
more leisurely, and mature their plans. Fitful's
pace was quick and nervous, so much so, that Paul
with difficulty, at times, maintained his place at the
side of his companion. The night was clear and
still; it was just such an hour as suited well the
romantic feelings of the youth; but, under the
present circumstances, his brain whirling with the
excitement of surprises not yet explained, he saw
not, felt not, and cared not for surrounding objects,
so long as he felt assured of his companion's and
his own safety. The stars above him seemed
dizzy, and the shadowy hills rolled like the billows
of ocean away, and others rose to view as they
passed hurriedly over the uneven road. The milestones,
grim and ghostlike, one after one greeted
them through the long, silent night, and the pedestrians,
like two shadows moulded from the surrounding
darkness, passed unnoticed over the dusty
white turnpike. Daylight found them far on their
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way; and, at ten o'clock, the long line of white
houses that constitute the pleasant village mentioned
in the early part of our story, greeted their
sight, to the no little gratification of both parties.
They were fatigued, bodily, with their march, and
mentally, by anxiety and the late occurrences.
Therefore they gladly hailed the old swinging sign-board
of the “Half-way House.” Numerous
wagons of every description filled up the stable
yard, and occupied the space before the inn door.
A crowd of people were moving back and forth
from the bar-room to the porch, some laughing,
some swearing, others boasting and bargaining,
and not a few calling out in the most uproarious
manner for liquor. Dutch, Irish, and English, and
bad enough English at that, made a most unintelligible
and unharmonious compound of human voices.
Paul and his companion elbowed their way into the
bar-room, without much difficulty, since even the
bravest, (which means, when speaking of such
people, the strongest, as a matter of course,) even
the stoutest fell instinctively back to make a passage
for that strange man whom they all had seen
or heard of before, and who, they verily believed,
was the devil himself, or one nearly connected with
his sooty majesty.
Mr. Samuel Spatter, encircled by a crowd at
one end of the porch, related how he had seen that
same strange individual under very suspicious circumstances.
How he (the mysterious man) had
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walked one night, during a thunder storm, into that
same bar-room, filling the place with a strong smell
of sulphur; and how he (Mr. Spatter) saw something
very much resembling a horn sticking through
a hole in the old man's beaver; and he was not
quite certain, but thought that he saw the devil's
tail switching about from beneath the skirts of the
stranger's long overcoat. This dreadful intelligence
sent a thrill of awe through the gaping
crowd, and served not a little to make the distance
that they maintained between themselves and
Fitful, very respectful. The more superstitious
members of the company were suddenly reminded
of all the mysterious things they had seen and
heard of during their life, and, on comparing notes,
concluded that the stranger was the agent of them
all. One big, bony, half Dutchman, related how
he was sitting at his door one evening just at twilight,
and how all at once he saw a big black ball
roll round and round in the yard, and how he ran
and got his gun and shot at it, but at that very instant
it vanished in a cloud of dust; and how just
then he saw this same dark man dash wildly down
through the orchard and disappear behind a big
tree; and when he (the Dutchman) ran up to the
place he only found a dead 'possum; but concluding
that it was a bait left there by the devil, he
did n't dare to touch it, but went to the same place,
the next morning, and it was gone! The latter
circumstance placed his suspicions beyond a doubt!
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All this made a confusion that Paul could not
well understand; nor did the figure of the little
host, seated upon the top of an old rusty beerbarrel,
“beating time to nothing” with his heels
against the sides of the cask, serve to explain the
mystery. When he beheld the young man approaching,
he shook his head in a most melancholy
manner, as much as to say it could n't be helped,
then cast his eyes again to the floor, and heaved a
long sigh that ended with, “Ah, mine Got! mine
Got!”
“What's the matter, my good friend?” said
Paul, laying his hand on the Dutchman's shoulder.
“Go vay, go vay!” sighed the landlord; “der
aint no Half-way House no more — der aint no
Gotlieb Speckuncrout no more, der aint! No, no!
all going, going, gone! to der tivel!”
“But tell me,” cried the youth, “what does all
this mean?”
“Vell, vell, suppose it does n't mean notting!
All I got to say is, der Half-way House is going to
der tivel and pe—” he swallowed the last word,
but expressed his meaning by dealing a very severe
kick on the side of the cask.
Mr. Spatter, where he found that any information
was wanted, kindly tendered his services, and soon
explained to Paul the whole mystery. How that
Captain Cutlass, the warlike gentleman, had come
very near fighting a duel with the Hon. Timothy
Littleworth, and how that he was only appeased in
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his wrath by the loan of two hundred dollars from
the honorable gentleman, and how that Mynheer
Speckuncrout, like a darned fool, as he was, had,
at Mr. Littleworth's suggestion, gone security for
the amount. That the warlike gentleman turned
out to be a great rascal, just as he (Mr. Spatter)
had said he would, although he did n't remember
under what circumstances he made the remark;
but that was no matter; he knew that he had said
it somewhere to somebody, and his prophecy had
come true, as usual. He went on to say that when
some handbills appeared, offering a reward for a
certain notorious swindler, the captain very suddenly
disappeared, and emigrated to parts unknown.
Consequently, Mr. Littleworth, knowing
Mynheer to be a political opponent, pounced down
upon him for the money; which the landlord was
not able to pay just at the time, since he himself
had been fleeced of all of his ready cash by the
same military gentleman. The consequence of
which was, Mynheer Speckuncrout was about to be
sold out at vendue by the constable.
At the conclusion of this piece of intelligence,
Fitful and Paul held some conversation apart, in
which the latter seemed to make some proposals
that met with the approbation of the former; then
stepping up to the landlord, he whispered something
in the Dutchman's ear that made him open
his eyes and mouth very wide; and, on hearing the
same thing repeated, he jumped down from the top
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of the barrel, and snatching his little red cap from
off his little bald head, threw it with great disrespect
at the form of the Hon. Timothy Littleworth,
(who had just entered the bar-room and was standing
in Napoleon's battle attitude,) and then, in a
delirium of pleasure, threw his arms around Paul
and embraced him; then went through the same
operation with Mr. Spatter, and his joy knew no
bounds till he found that he was embracing Fitful!
The cause of this strange proceeding was only
explained when Paul drew from his pocket the
money that the Quaker had furnished him, and
passed the necessary sum, two hundred dollars,
into the hands of Gotlieb Speckuncrout, who, with
an air of unbounded triumph, paid the amount over
to the astonished prosecutor, and requested that the
company would call for what they pleased to
drink! That was a great day at the Half-way
House! When the landlord found that Fitful was
Paul's friend, he no longer held him in dread, but
placed him in estimation next to the youth. Every
delicacy that the place could afford was thrust
before these two wayworn travellers; and the best
bed in the house was at their disposal, which,
perhaps, was the most welcome of any thing that
the grateful host could have furnished.
-- --
CHAPTER XIV.
[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]
“Amen!
To the desolate mourner's prayer,
In the palace or prison-cell;
Let thine answering mercy tell,
Thou, God! art there!
Amen!”
Duganne.
Paul had enjoyed for several hours a refreshing
sleep, and he awoke in the afternoon feeling quite
renewed again. Fitful, strange to say, had not
slept, but had occupied the time in writing; and
now, just as the youth awoke, he was adding the
superscription to a long letter that he had just
finished. “Come, Paul,” said he, “we have yet
some miles to walk; it is time that we were on
our way.”
“To what place do you intend going to-night?”
inquired the youth.
“To one that you are already familiar with,”
was the answer. “A few hours hence, boy, and
you will know all that you may even wish to know
about this mystery; more, perhaps, than you ought
to know for your own happiness. But come, the
sun is yet two hours high; ere it sets, our destination
may be gained.”
In a few minutes the two travellers were again
on their way. They turned their course up the
banks of the Brandywine river, and passing under
the groves of old chestnut and sycamore trees,
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soon lost sight of the village, and were surrounded
by the murmuring of the water, the singing of
birds, and the oblique rays of golden sunlight, that
slid through the rustling leaves to light the woodland
path. Paul became not a little concerned to
find his companion relapsing into his wild state.
When a squirrel dropped his nut to the ground, and
leapt away among the tall branches, Fitful would
start aside with a shudder; and when a dead limb
fell beside them, crackling on the ground, he grasped
the arm of the youth and darted furiously from
the woods. But in a short time, they stood on the
spot where Paul first encountered the strange man;
and the sun was now just dropping behind the distant
blue hills.
“There!” cried Fitful, “you hear the river,
boiling and fretting, but cannot see it from here —
you see the long dark line of trees that cover its
banks — listen how it moans! Do you hear it?
Then let me tell you, Paul, there are streams of
guilt in the world, that, however they may lie
concealed beneath familiar things, and run through
hidden ways, still have a voice which cannot be
stifled! See yonder! how high yon fish-hawk
sails; a dim speck, it would almost emulate the
stars! but let me tell you, Paul, to-day that bird
has sunk lower, amid the turmoil of that dark
stream that flows yonder, than thousands of the
winged tribe that soar not so high! Remember
that, Paul, remember that!” Thus saying, he
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turned to the old apple-tree, described in our first
chapter, and exclaimed, “Here, Paul Redding, on
this spot will I deliver to you that which is your
own; and let the dead witness that no man is
wronged!” and he drew from the breast of his
coat a package of papers, and handed them to
the youth. “Here,” said he, taking the letter
that he had that day written, from his pocket,
“here, Paul, take this; when I am — no — that is,
I mean, to-morrow, send that to the place where it
is directed to — not before — not after; but to-morrow.
As to that package, it is yours; read it
when you please, sooner or later; all, all is there!
I have done all — done my best. God forgive me
for having once in my life, done my worst! You
will forgive me,” continued he, grasping the youth
by the hand, “you will forgive me, will you not?”
“Indeed,” answered Paul, “I know not of any
thing you have done that requires my forgiveness.”
“True, my dear boy, true! but you soon will
know, you soon must know, therefore, forgive me;
for the love of — of Heaven, let me have your
forgiveness!”
“Most heartily I give it!” cried Paul, “let it be
for what it may!” and tears dimmed the eyes of
both. “Come,” said Fitful, “it has grown quite
dark, follow me to yon old stone mansion. There
we may rest to-night. You will find a bed in an
upper chamber, although no living soul occupies
the dwelling; but that is no matter; it has been
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my place of retreat for years, no other has occupied
it for many a day; therefore it will be a fitting
place for us to-night.” When they arrived at the
house, Fitful took from his pocket a big rusty
key, and turning it with difficulty in the lock,
threw the heavy door back on its grating hinges.
As they passed into a large old-fashioned and
empty room, their footfalls ran echoing over the
building, as if they were messengers sent to the
remotest apartments to tell of the arrival of the two
guests. Fitful lighted an old, brass lamp, that stood
on the mantle-piece, and led the youth up the dusty,
creaking stairway. “There,” said he, as he stood
at the top of the first flight of stairs, “there, that
will be my room to-night, yours is one story higher;”
and they passed up into a small chamber,
furnished with a bed and a couple of old chairs.
There hung on the walls two portraits, in very antique-looking
frames. Paul was struck with the
pictures, and he stood before them for some time,
contemplating the countenances, which were those
of a young man and woman. Those quiet eyes, as
they looked down into his, seemed to read his very
soul, and the youth recalled in his mind, unconsciously,
scenes long since gone by. He turned to
inquire of his companion who they were the portraits
of, and for the first time, found he was alone!
He stood for awhile lost in amazement, but his
gaze rested again on those quiet familiar faces, until
overwhelmed with a flood of recollections, he
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reeled to the bed, and sunk upon its edge, whilst
the tears streamed from his burning eyes. Old
scenes swept through his brain, like the sunlight
and shadow that play over distant fields; scenes
wherein moved the forms of his father and mother,
and as he gazed on them with his “mind's eye,”
they seemed to be the originals of those two pictures!
Thus he laid wrapped in a dreamy maze
of the past, he knew not how long; but when he
looked up, the broad moon was looking in upon
him with a brilliancy that almost drowned the faint
glimmering of the lamp, and as its white rays
gleamed over the faces of the paintings, divesting
them of all color, Paul shrunk back with a shudder,
for he thought he saw “Poor Mary's” ghost! But
he soon upbraided himself for his timidity, and
drawing the package that Fitful had given him
from his pocket, laid it on the table by the lamp,
intending to seize the present opportunity to solve
the mystery that had thus gathered its strange web
about him. But feeling some misgivings in regard
to the safety of his companion, he passed cautiously
down stairs, and opening the chamber door as
softly as possible, looked in. He beheld Fitful
kneeling in the flood of white moonshine that
streamed across the floor, muttering most uncouth
words, while he scraped on the hard oak
floor with the blade of a knife. “This is a die for
the conscience,” he murmured; “purple is a royal
color, and the oak is monarch of the woods! who
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may divest the king of his robes?” Again he
scraped on in silence for a few minutes, but his
wild thoughts soon burst forth in utterance. “What!
shall I write a book that I cannot unwrite? O,
what a chronicle is here! Did the world understand
the alphabet to these hieroglyphics, what a
tale would here be unfolded!”
Paul, fearful of being observed by the wild man,
retreated again to his chamber, but sat hour after
hour listening to the sound of the scraping knife;
for while he could hear that, he felt, in a degree,
at ease, since the noise told him that Fitful was still
safe in his room. The moon was now no longer
looking in at the window; the lamp was burning
low; he was reminded that he had not yet examined
the package; and pricking up the wick of the
lamp with the point of a knife, he examined the
papers, and the first thing that attracted his particular
attention was a letter addressed to himself.
He opened it and read:
“My Dear Boy:
“You have been a wanderer in the world; so have
I. Wherever you have been, there have I been,
also. I have been near you a thousand times
when you little guessed it. But all that is passed.
The time has arrived. Enclosed among these
papers you will find that which will make you
independent of the world. The property is mostly
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yours; but you are not alone; there are those who
will be dependent upon you; fail not to do your
duty by them — love them as you should love those
nearest and dearest to you. This letter is only to
prepare you for the perusal of others of deeper
importance; you will find them all at your command,
and as you read them, O, curse me not!
but weep that humanity should fall so far; then
pray that God may cleanse the blood-stained soul,
and forgive, (yes, Paul, it is true!) your dying
father!
John Redding.”
This is a disclosure that the reader, as a matter
of course, has been prepared for; and, in fact, so
had Paul, at times, but not at that moment, when
his nerves were torn with excitement, and his brain
dizzy with fears and conjectures! He reeled and
staggered, but recovered himself, and his first impulse
was to rush down stairs and throw himself
into the arms of his father. The stairs were
passed, he knew not how; he burst into the
chamber, but it was vacant! Fitful was gone!
O, how wildly, how madly did Paul traverse every
apartment of that dark, dismal house, calling on
the name of his father! Now, rushing out into the
chill morning air, he hurried to the woods, ran up
and down by the river side; nor did he cease his
search until he had alarmed the neighbors, and
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called several of them to his assistance. The red
morn was already in the east, and the broad daylight
soon came up to the aid of the distracted son.
The company, after a vigilant search, met on the
brow of the hill not far from where Paul had first
seen Fitful; disappointment was on every countenance,
and Paul's heart sunk within him as they
shook their heads, indicating that their labor had
been in vain.
“Halloa!” cried one who had wandered somewhat
apart from the rest, “halloa! he's here!”
With a cry of “where? where?” the young man
darted in the direction which the other pointed,
and beheld his father kneeling, with his head resting
on the stone, beneath the old apple-tree! The
sun was just sending his first rays over the top of
the hill as they lifted the old man up; there was a
quiver on his lips, aud his glazed eye turned to
heaven, while he feebly cried, “God forgive me!”
and sunk lifeless into the arms of his son!
CHAPTER XV.
The grated jail wherein are pent,
The guilty and the innocent.
Anon.
Let us retrace our steps; let us walk again
amidst that sea of hearts, the city. It is midnight.
How solitary are the streets. The houses stand,
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like a certain class of mankind, with their souls
shut up in them, and their iron arms laid across
their breasts as if to say, “we have tender feelings,
we do sympathize with poor suffering mortals — yes—
we feel it here.” That is, they feel it safe within,
and there they mean to keep it. In traversing the
streets of a city at midnight, when the lamps are
burning very dim, the stars very clear, and the
watchmen are very scarce, what odd fancies crowd
upon the brain. At such an hour it seems as
though the houses had taken the town, devoured
the inhabitants, and now stood in the most perfect
regimental order, ready to “forward, march,” as
soon as their old commander, the State House,
should give the word. Did we say that odd fancies
came at such an hour? They are gone. Yonder
is the prison; fancy flies like a bird before such
dreadful realities as are suggested by yon ironbeaked
cormorant. There she stands watching by
the sea of misfortune, waiting impatiently to catch
whatsoever the waves may cast up. The darkest
billow of that ocean has burst at the prison foot,
and its burden is poor Mary. The keys are grating
in the iron locks, the doors swing heavily on their
hinges, and rude hands thrust the poor creature
forward — forward into the darkness. She reels
against the wall and sinks upon the hard oaken
seat; while her eyes, like those of a little child,
turn instinctively their steady gaze toward the
dim ray of light that flickers through the grating
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from a neighboring lamp. There she shall rest
to-night. Where is Edith? still is she pacing that
little apartment. She hears every approaching
footfall; stands breathless to listen; but the nightwalker
passes on. The watchman's cry startles
her with a shudder — “past one o'clock!” Again
and again has she put on her bonnet, and wrapped
a shawl about her shoulders; but the night is dark
and still, fearfully still, and she shrinks back afraid.
But soon she hears a noise at the street door; her
heart leaps for joy; perhaps 't is Mary returned!
The maiden grasps the lamp and hurries down,
to encounter the fierce, scowling countenance of
Munson.
“O, I'm so glad!” exclaimed Edith, scarcely
knowing what she said, “where is Mary?”
“Where she should be!” growled the Quaker,
between his teeth.
“Do tell me, where? where?” said the girl, in
the most supplicating manner.
“Out of my way,” cried Munson, lifting his
clenched fist; “out of my way, or I 'll strike thee!”
Edith in her terror, dropped the lamp to the floor,
and the miser and the maiden were both deluged
in darkness.
“What did thee do that for?” screamed the
Quaker, as he hurried up the stairway; she made
no answer, but stood paralyzed on the spot.
“Halloa!” cried the Quaker again, from the
top of the second flight of stairs. “Edith, thee jade,
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bring me a light!” The poor girl hurried away
for another lamp, but long before she found one,
Munson screamed out again,
“Bring me a light, I say, a light! I'll not stay
here in the dark!” But the fire was out, the
matches misplaced, and no light appeared.
“I'll not stay in the dark!” cried the old man
again, “to play with devils and ghosts! no! no!”
And rushing down stairs he fled through the entry,
and the front door slammed loudly at his back.
Edith sought her chamber again, and flinging
herself on the bed, wept all night. The morning
came and brought with it nothing welcome but the
light. Again she put on her bonnet and shawl, and
now hurried out into the streets. Hopes and fears
nerved her step; and with a loud beating heart she
sought Fitful's chamber; the door was open, she
passed in, but the room was vacant! There were
papers strewed over the floor, the little table and
chairs were upset, the brass clock that of late ticked
so mournfully on the mantel-piece now lay broken
on the hearth; all of which were marks of the
cowardly Quaker's malice. Poor little Edith stood
in the midst of this confusion, and covering her
face in her hands, wept afresh.
“What! must I encounter the fiends everywhere?”
screamed a shrill voice at her back;
Edith started with affright, and beheld again the
bloodshot eyes of Munson glaring upon her. His
eyebrows were clenched, a malicious smile was
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playing around his mouth, and his skinny fingers
were working nervously against his thumbs.
“O, my father!” cried Edith, falling upon her
knees and clasping her hands in the most imploring
manner, “Tell me! tell me! what is the matter?
where is Mary?” Old Munson dropped his chin
deep into his neck-cloth, and gazing down into the
sorrowful face of the maiden, laughed hideously.
“Please — father — father!” continued Edith,
whilst the tears streamed down her pale face.
“I'm not your father!” cried the Quaker,
laughing more maliciously than ever. “I'm not
your father, I never was! ha, ha! You're a
beggar, an outcast! You belong to the poor-house;
go home, go where you belong, to the
poor-house! he, he!”
At the end of this unfeeling speech, Edith hid
her face in her hands, and remained in that attitude
for a long time, overwhelmed with confusion, grief,
and disappointment. When, with timid eyes, she
ventured to look up, she found herself alone. Yes,
she thought, alone in every sense of the word —
poor Mary had disappeared in the most mysterious
manner, and her father would no longer acknowledge
her. Now cast off, whither should she go?
The last words of Munson still rung in her ear like a
funeral knell,—“the poor-house! the poor-house!”
and drawing a chair to the window, she sat gazing,
she knew not how long, upon the quiet sky.
Hour after hour swept away, but she knew it not,
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and she was only awakened from her melancholy
reverie by feeling the pressure of a hand upon her
shoulder. There was something sympathetic in
the touch; her heart leaped, and gladness thrilled
her frame ere she well knew why; but an instant
more found her arms encircling the neck of poor
Mary! The woman returned the impassioned
caress of the girl, and Edith felt once more that
she was not an outcast — that there was still one
heart that cherished her. Poor Mary, with a
dozen others, had been arraigned, that morning,
before the police court, but no accuser appearing
against her she was released, and her first impulse
was to return to Fitful's apartment, where she
happily discovered Edith, as we have just described.
When the latter had related, as well as she could
between sobs and tears, her father's cruel treatment,
the other heaved a heavy sigh, and kissing
Edith on the brow, drew the maiden's little hand
through her own arm and led her away. Their
steps were directed to the house of Munson, which,
fortunately for their own quietude, they found did
not contain its master.
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CHAPTER XVI.
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How rapidly they pass
To the grave!
The good, the bad, alas,
How thoughtlessly go all,
Like guests to a banquet-hall,
How rapidly they pass
To the grave!
After Paul's first burst of grief had in some
degree subsided, the neighbors held a conference
with him, in regard to the disposal of Fitful's body.
He determined to have it interred beneath the old
apple-tree, and to have a fence built about it for
protection, which was accordingly done; but in
removing the big stone, already mentioned, the
laborers were terrified at the appearance of a
skeleton! The circumstance was made known to
the young man, who, although somewhat astonished
at first, at last concluded that he could solve the
mystery, but without communicating any of his
surmises to those about him, ordered another coffin
to be made for the reception of the disinterred
bones. As he contemplated this circumstance, it
was evident to his mind, that the skeleton had
something to do with the mysteries explained in
the papers that Fitful had given him, and as he
remembered those dreadful disclosures, the injunctions
of his father, in regard to the letter which he
had written at the Half-way House, flashed upon
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him. Therefore he immediately sent it off in time
for the mail. This being done, he sat down, and
as calmly as possible perused again more carefully
the papers that Fitful had given him. His late
grief had so overwhelmed him, that a new disclosure
scarcely produced any visible change in his feelings
or countenance. He found that he was heir to a
large estate, which Nathaniel Munson had managed
thus far to keep from him; the Quaker's power to
trample a family down into the very dust, was thus
accounted for. John Redding, otherwise called
Fiery Fitful, and Nathaniel Munson, had married
two sisters, the only children of a rich old farmer,
who had occupied the mansion on the banks of the
Brandywine, a place already described.
Munson, for some reason or other, had incurred
the dislike of his father-in-law, and finding him not
only likely to live to a good old age, if left to die a
natural death, but also likely to cut him off in his
will, therefore he formed a plot, which was matured
and executed in the following manner.
Having bribed the cut-throat fellow, that has already
been presented to the reader in the character of a
sea captain, his next plan was to get his brother-in-law
under the influence of brandy, (a thing in those
anti-temperance days not hard to accomplish,) and
then excite him to rage against the old man, and in
that state couple him with Fin, and send the drunken
man and the villain to accomplish the designs
of a base coward. Thus were his plans matured,
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and thus were they accomplished! John Redding
was a murderer, and ever after that, not only was
he borne down by the weight on his conscience,
but was entangled in the web that that wily villain,
the Quaker, had thrown around him. He dared
not dispute whatever claims Munson was inclined
to present; thus all that had ever been his and his
family's, with the exception of the smallest possible
amount to subsist on, went into the coffers of the
miser. Paul read this part of the story calmly;
but with a deep determination that, not only Munson,
but Fin, his accomplice, should be brought to
answer for their share in the crime. Only once
did the mingled feelings of revenge, surprise, and
pleasure, gain any outward manifestations; it was
when he learnt that “poor Mary,” Munson's house-keeper,
was his own mother! and that little Edith
Munson, as he had been used to call her, was his
own sister! O, what a torrent of feelings had
torn his breast in the short space of three days!
In that time he had embarked, as he thought, for
Italy; had been saved, as Fitful said, literally from
the jaws of a shark; had walked many miles beneath
the silent stars; had saved his benefactor,
the landlord, from ruin; had no sooner found a
father than he lost him; had come into a large
fortune; and, what was best of all, had found a
mother and sister to enjoy it with him! As soon
as he saw his father interred with the proper ceremonies,
he hastened to the city to embrace those
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nearest and dearest to him, and to carry out his
plans in regard to Munson and Fin. But when he
arrived in town, he found to his no little surprise,
that the Quaker, and the sea captain with his crew,
had already been seized, through the instrumentality
of the letter which his father had written. With
what feelings of grief and pleasure did he fly to the
arms of his mother and sister! Edith wept for
sorrow at the news of the death of her father, and
wept for joy, as she clasped the neck of her only
brother, and for the first time embraced “poor
Mary,” as her real mother! By degrees, and
under the kind attentions of Edith and Paul, Mary
recovered so far as to be a comfort to those about
her, and enjoy the caresses of her two children,
who were ever anxious to administer to her wants
and enjoyments.
But let us look back a little; let us see how the
fiend and originator of the sorrow which we have
had occasion to witness, tottered to his fall. Munson
no sooner learned that the authorities had seized
Fin and his crew, than he suddenly disappeared
from the eyes of all. No one guessed of his whereabouts.
But we will penetrate his retreat. High up
in that dark, little room, where, but a few nights
since, we saw him closeted with his accomplice,
Fin, had he slunk unseen away, like the hunted
fox. Crouched up on the old iron-bound chest, he
sat with his feet under him, his elbows on his knees,
and his face resting in his skinny hands. Now
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swaying back and forth, as if to lull his growing
fears to rest; now starting convulsively, and glaring
wildly at the door, whenever a sound met his ear;
and again uttering the most fearful curses, he
would clutch his fingers madly together, until the
long sharp nails penetrated his own shrivelled
cheeks. Thus with his brain burning, his eyes dry
and hot, his mouth parched, did he sit crouched upon
that old chest from morning until night. But, O,
the night! The black night, that brought with it
all the terrors of imagination, together with the
fears of dreadful realities! O night! what a
scourge hast thou for the evil conscience! Daylight,
with her living, searching, acting officers of
justice, hath not the thousandth part of the horrors
of thy dark silence! Munson dared not crawl
forth from his retreat; he saw in imagination myrmidons
of the iron-handed law, waiting at every
turn and corner. The darkness came, and the
Quaker dared not look into it, he shut his eyes and
covered them with his hands. But closed eyelids
and hands were not enough; his fears saw through
all these; and he beheld the white ghost of his
father-in-law peering into his face. Again he saw
a figure swinging from a gallows, whirling and
swaying listlessly in the winds; cold lips whispered
in his ear, “Behold thyself!” And the Quaker,
bursting with terror, sprung forward, with his face
downwards, on to the floor. The night passed
away; and the morning found the officers searching
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the dwelling of Nathaniel Munson. Passing from
room to room as they ascended the stairs, they
were at last brought to the place of the Quaker's
concealment. Once, twice, and thrice did they
knock, but no answer came, and they burst the
door. The old man, trembling, pale and haggard,
sat in the middle of the floor, and gazed wildly at
the men as they entered. They approached him;
he gasped and gasped, as if for breath to scream,
but could not; then, being too exhausted to rise,
with his hands and feet, he crawled backwards into
the farthest and darkest corner of the room, his
whole frame shivering as with the ague, his fallen
underjaw quivering, his thin hair strewed wildly
about his face, and his red eyes starting from their
sockets! Such was the wreck of humanity which
on that day was incarcerated within cold stone
walls and iron gratings. Such was Nathaniel
Munson, the Quaker!
Fin and his crew had been seized as pirates, and
Munson as one who was concerned in getting the
spoils of the traffic without dipping his own hands
in blood; but believing that he was to be tried both
for the murder of his father-in-law, and as a speculator
in piracies, and hearing that his own son had
turned state's evidence, he resolved to anticipate
the law, and was found, one morning, suspended to
the grating of his cell by his neck handkerchief; he
was dead. Fin was executed on Bush hill, and the
most of his crew were sent to the State prison,
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many of them for life; where, in the course of time,
Captain Cutlass, the warlike gentleman, also was
lodged for safe keeping, notwithstanding he protested
that his preference was in favor of the king's
service. Mr. Ichabod Inkleton, in the course of a
few years, died with a severe fit of the “delirium
tremens,” which served as a timely warning to his
friend, Mr. Christopher Scrapp, who, we believe, is
to this day engaged in the innocent amusement of
drawing what he fondly considers very severe
satires on the “opposite party.” The Hon. Timothy
Littleworth, a very pussy old man, still persists
in the belief that he resembles Napoleon, and
when he has been engaged in a warfare with his
bigger half, and gets the worst of the bargain, and
is banished from the house, as is always sure to be
the case, he finds a sufficient revenge in calling his
wife “the Duke of Wellington,” and himself
Bonaparte, the great, but unfortunate emperor.
And now that we have gathered together the
loose threads of our story, in the poetic language
of Sands, we exclaim,
“Good-night to all the world! there's none
Beneath the overgoing sun,
To whom I feel or hate or spite,—
And so to all a fair good-night!”
